Clutching a stack of linen and her sewing kit, Mae joined a dozen women in the parlor already busily employed in shirt making while others knitted stockings and hats, even blankets.
“A robust beginning,” Mae exclaimed, still exhilarated from her ride.
“I’m about to make some independence tea for our ladies.” Hanna moved toward the kitchen. “And I baked your favorite jumbles too.”
Widow Watt looked up from her knitting as Mae took an empty chair beside her longtime friend Samantha Heath. “Won’t Coralie be joining us?”
Mae schooled her reaction. Coralie adamantly refused to sew for the Continental Army, but how could she communicate that? Rather, how long would she make excuses for her? Her sister seemed the only Loyalist left in Chatham. “My sister is overcoming a cold.”
“Dreadful.” The widow fixed her with an appraising eye. “You’re looking quite robust yourself.”
Robust?Were her cheeks still ruddy from her ride? Without aword, Mae dug in her sewing basket for needle and thread, continuing the shirt she’d begun. Outfitting men who sorely needed it filled her with renewed purpose. She’d even begun embroidering her initials in the hem of the garments she made. A small embellishment with much meaning, at least to her.
“Your cheeksarequite rosy,” Samantha whispered. “Mightn’t that have to do with the Continental company you’re keeping?”
Mae’s smile was sheepish. “I don’t deny it.” Word had quickly flown round the village about which officers were lodging where. Samantha and her pastor brother billeted soldiers too. “This morning I went to overlook the winter encampment. What a sight!”
“So much soldiery, many of them unwell.” Samantha’s knitting continued apace. “Half starved, even.”
“Not only the men but a large following of women. James said many are wives who cook and launder for each mess of twelve soldiers.”
“I can’t imagine living in such dire conditions, though Chatham has become a military encampment all its own.”
“I scarcely recognize our village,” another woman murmured as she finished a pair of stockings. “Fifes and drums seem our continual music. Soldiers come and go, the alarm gun is continually firing, and the beacon light is burning atop Prospect Hill.”
“I’m more afraid of smallpox than the British,” said another.
Hanna soon returned and began serving tea. “As for the pox, my husband is helping inoculate the army, given General Washington’s recent mandate.”
“Unprecedented for a commander in chief to enforce such an order, is it not?” Widow Watt seemed to wear a perpetual frown, though she was a Patriot, at least.
“’Tis for our benefit as well as his troops,” Hanna said quickly. “Winter camps are harsh places, and disease is sure to spread if not countered quickly.”
A small hubbub ensued as each woman expressed her opinion about the matter.
“I never thought I’d be glad of smallpox scars, but I am.” Samantha took out more yarn dyed a pleasing blue. “I’m quite concerned about you not having had the pox,” she said to Mae.
“Both Coralie and I need to brave the inoculation.” Mae continued stitching, a sleeve taking shape. “I recently read in the papers that Mrs. Washington was inoculated in Philadelphia not long ago. She weathered it well, and I hope and pray we do the same.”
“The sooner the better.” Samantha took a sip of tea, her knitting in her lap. She could fashion a scarf or sock faster than any other woman in the room.
Mae’s thoughts veered another direction. Had General Harlow survived the pox? She’d not detected any scars. Yet another unknown that added to his intrigue.
“I miss seeing you at Sabbath service, Mae, given the church has become an army hospital.”
“Father would have welcomed the chance to house sick and wounded soldiers in his tenure as pastor. That’s akin to preaching a daily sermon right where you are.” Mae studied her stitches in the window’s light. “Providential too, being so near the apothecary.”
“Once the weather warms, Sabbath services will be held on the village green,” Samantha said. “Why don’t you and Coralie join us for dinner in future? You always bring such cheer. The officers we’re billeting are often away in Morristown. Besides”—she darted a glance at Mae—“Phineas has been asking about you.”
Had he? She’d sensed Pastor Heath’s interest, though he’d never stated his intentions. But he was a busy pastor, and never busier than now.
“Of course we’ll come,” Mae replied, trying to rein in her thoughts lest they gallop toward General Harlow again. “James and his fellow officers are headed to Morristown too. They have army chaplains they speak highly of.”
“I sometimes think my brother might become one of them.” She sighed and smiled all at once. “But perhaps he’s most needed right here.”
six
I luckily escap’d with’t a wound, tho’ I had four Bullets through my Coat, and two Horses shot under me.
