“I’m thankful for the army’s safe passage but rather disappointed he’s passed us by,” Mae told her, resuming knitting in the shade of an oak tree. “I’ve not seen the general on horseback, just in a ballroom.”
Lucy’s snort turned into a sneeze. “If he rides as well as he dances, he’s nothing short of a king.”
“Yet another King George.” Mae chuckled, finishing the toe of a sock. “Fancy that.”
“Speaking of fancy, a high-and-mighty Frenchman’s arrived to join the fight.” Lucy’s voice rose in mimicry of the French. “Some young marquis called Lafayette. He’s on his way to Philadelphia to meet up with Washington in future.”
“I’d rather talk about ballrooms than battles—and the general does dance divinely.”
“He’s not dancing now.” Lucy scowled, the range of her expressions astonishing. “Not since Continental supplies got wrecked in Danbury. There’s been a shortage ever since.”
“Danbury?” Somehow Mae had missed this bit of news.
“The American army’s stores in Connecticut. Isham’s drum major told him redcoats ruined three thousand barrels of pork, a thousand of flour, several hundred barrels of beef, countless bushels of grain, rice, rum—all set on fire by raiders. The melted pork fat even ruined good folks’ shoes in the street.” Her needles flew fiercely. “Makes my hungry belly burn with ire.”
“Are you hungry, Lucy?”
“I’m always hungry here lately.”
“But the fort’s bake ovens churn out bread continually.”
“Sutler’s Row doesn’t see much of it.”
“Then I shall do something about that. Talk to the fort’s quartermaster or commissary officer. Or visit the baker himself.”
“Losh, I don’t want to cause trouble.” Lucy’s eyes rounded. “We get a ration of salted beef and such. And me and Petey forage what we can from the woods. Berries and nuts and the like.”
“But that’s hardly a meal. You must keep up your strength, even Petey, and especially Isham when he’s on his feet again.”
“Petey gets a steady supply of bones from the officers’ mess. As for Isham, I’ve hoarded some to make broth.”
“I’m hungry for fresh bread myself.” Mae stood and gathered up her knitting. “I’ll return shortly.”
The clay and brick bake ovens near the fort kitchens were a source of wonder. They were stoked continually, the aroma of bread as prevalent as gunpowder. Night and day army bakers prepared dough and maintained the immense ovens, which required an endless supply of wood brought in by soldiers on fatigue duty.
Mae stood by, sewing kit in arms, and watched the head baker thrust a peel into the oven and remove loaves of crusty bread in rapid succession onto cooling racks. Memories of their Chatham kitchen rushed in, tantalizing if slightly hazy.
Oh, for a taste of Mrs. Hurst’s blackberry jam.
The German baker, one of several from the Palatinate, grinnedat her. “Hungrig, Frau Harlow? I can spare a loaf or two if you like.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Helmer.” She thanked him as his son, looking no older than Jon’s Alex, bundled up two crusty loaves in a square of linen.
Mae felt she’d achieved some sort of coup. A fresh loaf would be a fine addition to Lucy’s bone broth.
Head down, she skirted the parade ground past drilling, milling soldiers and nearly bumped into General Harlow himself.
“And what brings my bride begging bread?” he teased when she stopped right in front of him. “Let me guess. For Lucy?”
“And Private Hawkes and Petey.”
“Petey?”
“Their dog.”
“Ah.” He ran a hand over his shadowed jaw. “Now I remember. What else do they need?”
“I’ll find out. Lucy’s promised to help me sew those indigo coats once more thread arrives.”
