Journey to Victory, page 16
Soberly she reviewed the stations of her life: pampered child, Indian captive, fur trader’s wife, tavern wench, farmer’s wife, Lady Washington’s companion, and now what? Her present position had been given no real title since Mrs. Washington had left. At that time Christiane had agreed to stay and supervise the staff that took care of the General. She had not been certain why.
As the months had passed, her motivation had become more evident to herself. The years, starting with her fleeing Paris until her association with Mrs. Washington, had so separated her from her original life that she had simply suppressed her true identity. From birth, she had been raised to live the life of the wellborn. She could understand now why Tildy had remarked on her gentility. She could not be other than what birth and childhood training had ordained her to be, but she still stood on shaky ground. Memories of begging for food the year before tormented her. She shivered suddenly, as if dragged back to the tent she and Tildy had shared in December.
To fend off these thoughts, she allowed her mind to drift back instead to the spring, to the farewell ball in honor of Mrs. Washington. Lady Stirling had been the hostess. And she had not been pleased that Christiane had been a guest that was necessary to gain Mrs. Washington’s favor. Lady Stirling had also been unhappy with her niece Dolly for loaning Christiane a party dress. A lovely dress of deep blue, it had been the most stylish dress Christiane had worn since leaving Paris. Christiane had ignored the noble lady’s dismay—and her own guilt over shedding her widow’s black—and had been the belle of the evening. Officer had vied with officer to gain her hand for each dance. She had grasped the opportunity, reveling in the attention, the laughter, the music, the elegance—as if starved for these things.
And Captain Henry Lee, the most popular young man with the other ladies, had been so attentive. She saw the scene before her again—the candlelight, the pale, shimmering gowns, the officers in their blue-and-white uniforms, the moonlight on the balcony, the musicians. She had shown Lady Stirling that she knew how to behave as a gentlewoman that evening. Though she’d been raised to move among aristocrats, , her devotion to freedom was sincere. She’d lost Jakob to it. Sleep was numbing her now.
In this private moment she admitted that throwing in her lot with this revolution also served her personal motives. She must continue to form associations with those who would be leaders of the new order. In the back of her mind lay the possibility of an advantageous marriage in the future, much in the future. This idea she kept vague even to herself. The sorrow of being widowed twice haunted her solitary moments and the specter of being widowed three times before achieving twenty years was a very real prospect for her in this time of war.
Sleep nearly had her in its grasp. Was she tired enough not to dream, to wake with her heart pounding and her palms wet with fear?
Marriage could wait. Now she would continue to stay close to the seat of power and influence, the Washingtons, and do whatever service she could for them. And when the Revolution was won and she married some promising, young officer, then she would be able to bring Jean Claude to be part of her new life. With these comforting thoughts, sleep conquered her.
***
A soft moan filtered into Christiane’s half-conscious mind. Another. Then lightning charge shot through her body. Her patient. She leapt out of bed and hurried to his side. “Major?” she said softly.
“Water,” he croaked. Christiane poured a glass of water from the bedside pitcher and carefully lifted his head from the damp pillow cover.
“Here, mon Seigneur,” she murmured in French. He drank thirstily till the glass was empty. Christiane lowered his head back to the pillow. Thinking that he would sink back into sleep, she turned to the window. The sun by now was streaming in. She pulled the cord by the window to summon the maid to order breakfast.
“Madame?” his voice summoned her. “Where am I?”
“A wealthy patriot here has taken in the doctors and the wounded officers.” Coming to his side, she laid a soft, white hand across his forehead.
“And you?”
“General Washington sent me to look after you.”
“I am most grateful.”
“Mrs. Washington often visits the camp hospitals to assist in nursing the wounded. She taught me a great deal.” She forbore telling him that on occasion the General had pressed the camp prostitutes into service as nurses as well.
“Then when I recover I will thank her as well as you, madame.”
“Really you must thank the General and Dr. Craik,” Christiane replied briskly. “He is an excellent doctor. I know well. He was—” She broke off. She did not want to mention her own wounding. The young officer looked up at her questioningly. Just then the breakfast tray arrived. Christiane gladly turned to the mundane task of feeding her patient. Then the doctor came to check him and Christiane escaped to her own room to freshen herself and begin her daily routine.
***
A week passed and thanks to Christiane and his own natural vitality, the Frenchman improved daily. It was late morning and Christiane stood anxiously by her window. Captain Lee had sent a note, requesting a meeting with her on this glorious autumn day. She had agreed to go for another walk. They did this as often as their duties allowed them some free time. Each time, however, she had to overcome her hesitation. Jakob still filled her mind and she felt the constraint of honoring the memory of such a fine man. But Jakob was lost to her now.
Still, a natural friendship had been growing between her and the young captain. It had crossed Christiane’s mind that Lee might be the man she would marry some time in the future. His unfailing kindness and gallantry impressed her and she knew that he came from an extremely prominent Virginian family.
Christiane’s wardrobe had grown to four dresses now. Today she was wearing her black satin. It would have been quite severe except for the emerald green satin fichu, cuffs, and belt. The black maid entered unobtrusively. “Mrs. Kruger, a gentleman is downstairs for you.”
“Thank you. I will be down directly.” Methodically, Christiane donned her small black bonnet and gloves and picked up her parasol. Her suntanned skin had finally faded to creamy white and she was always careful about exposing it to the elements. She paused by the mirror and examined her reflection. Maman and even grandmere would be pleased. She did not want to remember how she had lived in rags and vermin just a year ago.
She joined Captain Lee at the bottom of the curved staircase. They smiled at each other. He took her right hand and pressed it into the crook of his left arm. Out they went into the golden sun. They strolled around the still green lawns and pleasant garden of the large home. The marigolds were yellow and in full flower. Christiane fought the sensation that someone else was living her life, that she was not this woman in a pretty dress, clean and well fed.
“Mrs. Kruger, I regret not being able to see you till now,” Lee said.
Christiane looked down. “We have both been busy with our duties.”
“How is the Major General?”
“Better.” They returned to peaceful silence as they walked. Then it seemed to Christiane that she was having trouble matching her partner’s lengthening strides. Finally she spoke, “You are worried?”
He stopped. “What?”
“We seem to be having a race,” she said with a small smile.
“I am sorry. I came to see you and I am ignoring you.”
She looked up at him. “Tell me what is bothering you.” Her concern was sincere.
He tilted his head, as if asking a question. “I should not trouble you.”
“What is it? Please tell me.” Her hand touched his sleeve again and his hand pressed it there.
“The battle plagues me. I can’t get the mistakes out of my mind.”
“I’ve heard some talk. I can be discreet.”
He pressed her hand again. “The carelessness of some officers made the engagement a disastrous defeat. Especially militia officers.” His voice was suddenly thick with feeling. “People want to be important, so they say things without being sure! In the end they look like fools and men die because of their folly. And we needed a victory now. It has been so long that we have endured without another…” His tone quieted. “I should not burden you with this. It’s just that I keep seeing glimpses of the battle.”
Christiane touched his cheek. “You do not burden me with your confidence. I understand. You know I do.” Yes, I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.
Taking her hand in his, he kissed it softly. He looked at her full in the face. “You do more than most women. You see day by day what happens. I’m glad you are here.”
Christiane looked down. “I am glad also.” Her tone changed to a more business-like one. “What misinformation was given exactly?” Information always came in handy for her. They began to walk again, back in the direction of the house.
“Some of the Pennsylvania militia officers told the general that there were no river fords for twelve miles north of the village of Buffington. I cannot fathom why they would say this. Only inexperience or boasting could explain it. On the strength of their assurances, Washington put us behind Brandywine Creek. The creek should have acted as a natural defense. We did not know the truth till a local farmer rushed into headquarters, claiming that he had seen the British crossing the Brandywine near his farm. Without his report we would have faced total disaster. Good Lord. As it was, we suffered a costly defeat and for no good reason or gain.”
She squeezed his arm and they continued walking in silence. How she wished to comfort him, but no phrases came to her. How could they hold on, experiencing defeat after defeat? She was not only concerned about independence for herself; so many were giving everything to the cause.
“I am sorry I am such bad company,” he said. “I thought seeing you would lighten my spirits.”
“I am sorry to be such little comfort.”
“Oh, please you should not be blamed. I apologize for even intimating such an idea.”
A thought came to Christiane. Perhaps she could cheer him and strengthen their connection as well. She would use Jakob’s way. Quickly she rushed all thoughts of Jakob from her mind. She would not marry again for a long, long time. Now she only wished to make a start.
Her palms became moist and her heart beat faster. She spoke to stop the thoughts that raced through her mind. “Captain Lee, we have been acquaintances—friends, I hope—for some time now. I was wondering if you would grant me a favor.” She was pleased that her voice did not betray the trembling she felt inside.
“Anything in my power, madame.”
“I was wondering if you would mind very much if I called you by your given name?” He stopped. “I hope,” she rushed on, “you do not think me forward for asking.”
He bent over, took her hand, and kissed it lightly. “You do me a great honor, madame.”
“Please, Christiane.”
“Christiane,” he repeated solemnly. She held onto his hand and they stood some moments, looking into each other’s eyes. She wanted to look away; fear surged inside her like cold water, but she couldn’t give in to it. Finally, she turned, gripped his arm again. They walked closer to the house.
“At least the weather has not turned against us,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. Her heart still beat fast over her forwardness, her movement away from Jakob. “It is difficult to contemplate going into winter quarters again in just a few months.” They came upon a wooden bench and sat down. “I hope we will move farther south this year. Winter at Morristown was so severe.”
“That will depend on Howe.”
“I suppose you are correct.”
“Christiane,” he began. “Christiane, I wish you could be well away from all this. A woman, a lady, of your quality should not have to be so closely involved—”
“Henry, you know my feelings in regard to the Revolution.” Panic rushed through her, nearly pushing her to run.
“Christiane, your patriotism is admirable, more than admirable. You have given so much. But I feel that this time, if Lady Washington invites you to return to Mt. Vernon next spring, that you should go.”
Christiane was shocked at the turmoil that this suggestion evoked. She looked at her lap, trying to cover her feelings. His attention she desired, but hidden away at Mt. Vernon, her plans to make social connections among American gentry would not flourish. How can I be thinking these things? But I can’t go back. I can’t.
A voice intruded, “Captain Lee!” A corporal loped into view. “Sir, I am glad I finally found you. The general wants you right away. There is some argument—I mean, dispute—between two officers. And he needs you to clear up something.”
Lee visibly fought down his irritation; he turned to Christiane. “I am sorry, Christiane. I must cut our visit short.”
“Why don’t I join you instead, Henry? I would like to report to the general on Major General Lafayette’s recovery myself.”
Lee smiled and offered his arm. They hurried, trailed by the tired and rumpled corporal.
Soon they were at the general’s side. Christiane briefly reported to him and then stood idly at the edge of the group of officers, taking little notice of the dispute.
In time, however, she became aware that someone was staring at her. She turned to see a tall, spare woman, shabbily dressed, holding an infant. Christiane was about to turn away again when recognition shot through her. Tildy? Carefully, Christiane examined the woman. Yes, it was Tildy Main and her new baby.
Christiane nonchalantly turned her back as though she had not noticed. Even as she did so, guilt rose and almost choked her. All summer she had made excuses to avoid finding out if the Mains were back in family camp. She had wanted to see Tildy, but she could not force herself to go back there, back to the place where she’d suffered and lost Jakob. So now she stood stiffly, willing herself to forget. She would find Tildy sometime and make everything right. Soon.
***
Two weeks later at midnight after yet another defeat at Germantown, Christiane stood just outside the general’s tent, clutching a shawl. She knew that they would change position again as soon as the officers who were meeting inside decided what their next move should be. Shivering, she waited to supervise the midnight supper she had ordered for them.
The form of a tall soldier came out of the darkness into the dim firelight. “Christiane?”
Recognition of the voice shocked her. Glancing around, she replied, “Yes, Michael, it is I. What do you want?”
He stopped in front of her and turned his hat nervously in his hands. “Christiane, it’s Tom.”
“Tom?”
“He’s bad—real bad.”
“He’s wounded?” she asked, sincerely concerned.
“He…the doctor says—”
“What?” One hand went to her heart. Tom, the only other survivor of Rumsveld. She quailed at what might come.
“The doctor says he probably won’t last the night. He lost most of his left leg and he was wounded in the stomach. He’s asking for you.”
Christiane felt sick. Tom belonged on his farm in the wilderness, not in a war. Two soldiers arrived with covered trays. Christiane directed them, “Take it in right away, Sergeant Hill, and tell the general I am going to one of the hospitals.” Then she turned to Michael. “Let’s go.”
They hurried over the uneven ground in the almost complete blackness. The moon was only a thin fingernail, surrounded by a wispy veil. Where were the stars? Michael lifted Christiane over rough farm fences and caught her as she stumbled over the half-harvested fields. Finally they reached the “hospital,” a large cattle barn. They could hear the moans and cries and smell the stale sweat of the dying men.
Michael led her up to the loft. Tom lay quietly on a scattered pile of hay. When Christiane knelt beside him and took his hand, he opened his eyes drowsily.
“The surgeon gave him some laudanum to ease the pain. He is still a little sleepy,” Michael explained.
“Christiane,” Tom whispered. “Are you real?”
“Yes, Tom, I’m here with you.” Christiane squeezed his hand and leaned forward. The barn was almost as dark as the night outside. She could barely see his face.
“I knew you’d come, Christiane. I knew you’d come,” he repeated weakly. She pressed her palm on his hot forehead.
“It will be right, Tom,” she said soothingly.
“It won’t be, Christiane. The doc thinks I don’t know, but I know I won’t make it through the night.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
“It ain’t no good, Christiane. I know. My leg is too broke up to be any good to me anymore, and the doc wouldn’t even amputate. He just give me that laudanum. That means it ain’t even worth the trouble to cut. I seen enough. I know.”
His logic was irrefutable. There was a long silence. Then with sinking dread, Christiane asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just stay with me, Christiane.”
She replied by squeezing his hand. The remainder of that hellish night Michael hovered in the background, intruding only when bringing Christiane fresh water for Tom’s thirst. His laudanum wore off and there was no more to be had. As Tom’s pain increased, Christiane tried to distract him with pleasant memories of Rumsveld, but finally he asked her to stop. He was too weak to concentrate on her voice. Finally blood frothed on his lips.
“Christiane!” he gasped, clinging to her hands. “It’s Jakob! He’s—” His eyes opened very wide and then he loosened his grasp and was still. Christiane felt for a pulse and found none. She reached up and gently closed his eyes.
“Oh, Tom,” she breathed.
