Forge Read online

  FORGE

  ALSO BY

  Laurie Halse Anderson

  Chains

  Fever 1793

  Independent Dames:

  What You Never Knew About the Women

  and Girls of the American Revolution

  Thank You, Sarah:

  The Woman Who Saved Thanksgiving

  When

  ABIGAIL ADAMS

  was mourning the deaths of her parents,

  she quoted a popular paraphrase of a Psalm

  in her letters to her husband, JOHN:

  “The sweet remembrance of the just

  Shall flourish when they sleep in Dust.”

  And thus,

  this book is dedicated to the memory of my mother,

  JOYCE HOLCOMB HALSE,

  and my father-in-law,

  WILLIAM ROBERT LARRABEE SR.

  Part I

  PRELUDE

  Sunday, January 19, 1777

  WE HAVE IT IN OUR POWER TO BEGIN THE WORLD OVER AGAIN. . . . THE BIRTH - DAY OF A NEW WORLD IS AT HAND.

  —THOMAS PAINE, COMMON SENSE

  CAN YOU WALK?” SOMEONE ASKED ME. I blinked against the bright light and squinted.

  I was sitting in a rowboat half pulled onto a snowy riverbank. The cold was a beast gnawing at my fingers and toes. I closed my eyes and struggled to think past the ice cluttering my head.

  This is a fantastical dream created by my fever. In truth, I am still a prisoner of the war in the Bridewell.

  I sniffed. The air here was cold but clean, without the stink of jailed men and death.

  No matter. ’Tis still a dream.

  I drifted back toward sleep.

  “Curzon!” Someone twisted my ear. “I beg you!”

  I flinched.

  “Open your eyes!” the voice commanded. “We must hurry away from here!”

  I blinked again. Before me sat a girl, her right cheek scarred by a branding iron, her eyes swollen with fatigue.

  ’Twas Isabel, who was my friend.

  I blinked for the third time and took a deep breath. Isabel’s hands lay in her lap, bleeding from torn blisters. The handles of both oars were bloodstained where she had gripped them.

  Like a flint hitting steel, a memory sparked, then flared.

  Isabel had freed me from the Bridewell Prison. She’d rowed a boat, this ancient boat, all night long. Rowed us away from Manhattan, the British army, and those who owned us.

  The memory exploded.

  We are free!

  I stood, legs quivering, head pounding, heart leaping. “You did it! How? Don’t matter. Country, you did it!”

  She shook her head violently and pulled me back down to my seat, a shaky finger on her lips to quiet me. “Hush!”

  “But it’s wondrous,” I said, voice low. “Is it not?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “No.” The wind swirled a veil of snow between us. “Perhaps.”

  “Do you know of a safe house hereabouts?” I asked. “The name of folks who would help us?”

  “We have to help ourselves.” She looked over her shoulder at the field beyond the riverbank. “We have a handful of silver coins, some meat, and a map. I forged a pass too, but the river ruined it.” She wrung out the water from the bottom of her skirt. “We have to walk to Charleston.”

  “Charleston? Why?”

  “That’s where Ruth is.”

  I knew then that her mind had been addled by the exertions of our escape. Isabel’s little sister had been sold away to the islands. The child was likely dead, but I could not say this to Isabel. Not right then.

  The river gurgled and tugged, trying to pull the boat back into the current. I clutched at the sides of the unsteady craft and shivered. Isabel had brought us this far. Now it was up to me.

  But how?

  We were escaped slaves, half froze and exhausted. We needed to warm ourselves, sleep, and eat. But above all, we had to stay hidden. The business of returning or selling runaways was profitable for both redcoats and rebels.

  I tallied our advantages: A few coins. Food enough for a few meals. Disadvantages: No horse. No gun. No one to trust.

  A large piece of ice floated down the river as the second truth crackled in me.

  This freedom could kill us.

  CHAPTER I

  Tuesday, October 7, 1777

  “BEGIN THE GAME.”

  —GENERAL HORATIO GATES’S ORDER TO START THE SECOND BATTLE OF SARATOGA

  THE MEMORY OF OUR ESCAPE STILL tormented me nine months later.

  It did not matter that I’d found us shelter and work in Jersey or that I’d kept us safe. Isabel was ungrateful, peevish, and vexatious. We argued about going after Ruth, then we fought about it, and finally, in May, she ran away from me, taking all of our money.

  I twisted my ear so hard, it was near torn from my head.

  No thoughts of Isabel, I reminded myself. Find that blasted road.

  I’d been looking for the back road to Albany since dawn on account of my former boss, Trumbull, was a cabbagehead and a cheat. The Patriot army had hired him and his two wagons (one of them driven by myself) to help move supplies up to the mountains near Saratoga. Thousands of British soldiers waited there, preparing to swoop down the Hudson, cut off New England from the other states, and end the rebellion.

  Trumbull cared not for beating the British or freeing the country from the King. He cared only for the sound of coins clinking together. With my own eyes, I saw him steal gunpowder and rum and salt from the barrels we hauled. He’d filch anything he could sell for his own profit.

  ’Twas not his thieving from the army that bothered me. ‘Twas his thieving from me. I’d been working for him for three months and had no coin to show for it. He charged me for the loan of a ragged blanket and for anything else he could think of so he never had to hand over my wages.

  The night before, I’d finally stood up to him and demanded my money. He fired me.

  Of course, I robbed him. You would have done the very same.

  I stole an assortment of spoons and four shoe buckles from his trunk after he fell asleep muddy in drink and snoring loud as a blasting bellows. I put my treasures in the leather bag that held Isabel’s collection of seeds and her blue ribbon (both left behind in her haste to flee from my noxious self). The leather bag went into my empty haversack, which I slipped over my shoulder as I crawled out of Trumbull’s tent.

  I had walked for hours in the dark, quite certain that I’d stumble upon the road within moments. The rising sun burned through the fog but did not illuminate any road for me, not even a path well worn by deer or porcupines.

  I climbed up a long hill, stopping at the top to retie the twine that held my shoes together. (Should have stolen Trumbull’s boots, too.) I turned in a full circle. Most of the forest had leafed yellow, with a few trees bold-cloaked in scarlet or orange. No road. Had I been in my natural environment—the cobbled streets of Boston or New York—I could have easily found my way by asking a cartman or an oyster seller.

  Not so in this forest.

  I headed down into a deep ravine, swatting at the hornets that buzzed round my hat. The ravine might lead to the river, and a river was as good as a road, only wetter. Because I was the master of my own mind, I did not allow myself to believe that I might be lost. Nor did I worry about prowling redcoats or rebel soldiers eager to shoot. But the wolves haunted me. They’d dug up the graves of the fellows killed in last month’s battle at Freeman’s Farm and eaten the bodies. They’d eat a living man, too. A skinny lad like myself wouldn’t last a minute if they attacked.

  I picked my way through the brush at the bottom of the ravine, keeping my eyes on the ground for any sight of paw prints.

  Crrr-ack.

  I stopped.

  Gunfire?


  Not possible. I was almost certain that I was well south of the dangerous bit of ground that lay between the two armies.

  Crrr-ack.

  Heavy boots crashed through the forest. Voices shouted.

  Crrr-ack BOOM!

  An angry hornet hissed past my ear and smacked into the tree trunk behind me with a low thuuump.

  I froze. That was no hornet. ‘Twas a musketball that near tore off my head.

  The voices grew louder. There was no time to run. I dropped to the ground and hid myself behind a log.

  A British redcoat appeared out of a tangle of underbrush a dozen paces ahead of me and scrambled up the far side of the ravine. Three more British soldiers followed close on his heels, hands on their tall hats to keep them from flying off, canteens and cartridge boxes bouncing hard against their backsides.

  There was a flash and another Crrr-ack BOOM.

  A dozen rebel soldiers appeared, half in hunting shirts, the rest looking like they just stepped away from their plows. Smoke still poured from the barrel of the gun held by a red-haired fellow with an officer’s black ribbon pinned to his hat.

  There was a loud shuffling above. A line of redcoats took their position at the edge of the ravine and aimed down at the rebels.

  “Present!” the British officer screamed to his men.

  “Present!” yelled the American officer. His men brought the butts of their muskets up to their shoulders and sighted down the long barrels, ready to shoot and kill.

  I pressed my face into the earth, unable to plan a course of escape. My mind would not be mastered and thought only of the wretched, lying, foul, silly girl who was the cause of everything.

  I thought of Isabel and I missed her.

  “FIRE!”

  CHAPTER II

  Tuesday, October 7, 1777

  I HEARD BULLETS WHISTLE AND BELIEVE ME, THERE IS SOMETHING CHARMING IN THE SOUND.

  —LETTER FROM THE TWENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD GEORGE WASHINGTON DESCRIBING HIS FIRST TASTE OF BATTLE

  THE MUSKETS ON BOTH SIDES FIRED; lightning flew from their barrels. The ravine darkened with gunpowder smoke and the curses of soldiers.

  I moved my toes in my sorry shoes, my fingers in the mud. I was still one shaking piece of Curzon. I peered at the two lines of soldiers. None were bleeding. Not a one had been hit.

  “Half cock your firelocks,” a redcoat called, ordering the men to begin loading for the next shot.

  The rebels would not give them the time they needed. “Advance!” bellowed the American officer. He charged across the bottom of the ravine and his men followed, all pulling hunting knives or hatchets from their belts. In two heartbeats they were halfway up the slope.

  “Fall back!” the British yelled. “To the redoubt!”

  They turned on their heels and ran, only a few steps ahead of the screaming rebels.

  After they disappeared, I counted two score, and then two score more, without moving. Gunfire crackled in the distance, then faded. I forced myself to stay hidden and listen for the sound of cannon fire.

  The British and Americans had been skirmishing for weeks since September’s battle ended in a draw. The Americans were desperate to push the British back into Canada before the winter hit. Some fellows said there would be one last battle and that it would be signaled by the firing of the cannons. The two armies would fight until blood soaked the ground.

  I listened. Geese honked high overhead. The wind shook the trees, sending leaves twirling to the ground. There was another crackle of faraway muskets, but no cannon. The great battle had not begun.

  I stood, brushed the leaves and dirt from my hat, and set it on my head. I was well and truly lost. The only way out was to retrace my steps, past the shadows and the wolves. Just as I prepared to set out the way I came, I heard the sound of more boots crashing toward me.

  I hid behind the log again.

  “I said halt,” shouted a voice.

  A short British soldier stumbled into the ravine, chased by a gap-toothed rebel boy near my age, white-skinned, uncommonly tall, and armed with an ancient musket.

  “Stop there!” the boy yelled.

  The redcoat glanced behind him, caught his foot on a half-buried root, and fell hard. His musket flew from his hand, but he quickly crawled to it.

  “You are my prisoner, sir,” the boy declared in a shaky voice. “Lay down your musket.”

  The redcoat had no intention of becoming a prisoner. He pulled out a gunpowder cartridge, ripped it open with his teeth, and poured powder into his firing pan. His hands were shaking so violently that most of the powder fell to the ground. He pulled out a second cartridge and poured with care. When the pan was primed, he shut it and poured the rest of the powder down the barrel.

  “Stop!” The boy brought his musket up to fire. “I swear I’ll shoot.” He wiped his right hand on his breeches, then cocked the firelock and slipped his finger into the trigger guard.

  The redcoat fumbled in his shot bag for a lead musketball.

  The boy squeezed the trigger. His flint hit the empty firing pan with a dull click. The musket did not fire. He’d forgotten to prime his pan.

  The redcoat pulled out his ramrod.

  The boy grabbed the cork out of his powder horn.

  My palms were sweating, my eyes going back and forth trying to figger who would win the race to load and shoot. A year earlier I’d been a Patriot soldier, enlisted as a substitute for the man who owned me. When the British attacked us at Fort Washington, I spent the entire day loading muskets for other fellows to shoot with. I could prepare a musket for firing in my sleep.

  The redcoat rammed the musketball the length of the barrel.

  The boy fumbled his powder horn. It dropped to the leaves.

  The redcoat pulled out his ramrod and threw it aside. He raised the barrel without a word.

  The gap-toothed boy was about to be slaughtered.

  I had to help.

  My fingers curled around a muddy rock. The boy filled his firing pan and shut it. The redcoat cocked his firelock and reached for the trigger. I rose up from my hiding place and threw the rock hard as I could. It hit the redcoat square in the shoulder and threw off his aim just as he squeezed his trigger.

  The redcoat stared in disbelief at the hole he’d shot in the dirt.

  Then the boy fired his gun. This time the flint sparked the powder in the pan, which set off the powder in the barrel that exploded the bullet across the ravine and into the body of his enemy.

  The British soldier fell backward—screaming, screaming, screaming—his hands clutched at his belly. He’d been gut-shot. The musketball had ripped his middle right open. He rolled back and forth—screaming, screaming—as the blood welled up, covering his hands, rushing out of him to flood the fallen leaves and the dirt. His boots twitched, his entire form shook, shuddered, and then he choked, for the blood filled his throat, and his red-washed fingers clawed at his neck. Broken leaves flew into the air from the violence of his thrashing, and the gore and blood kept pouring from the black hole in his belly and from his mouth—surely enough blood for ten men, a sight horrid enough to make God Himself weep—and suddenly, his boots stopped running and his form stilled and then . . .

  . . . Death caught him.

  CHAPTER III

  Tuesday, October 7, 1777

  SAW SEV’ RAL DEAD & NAKED MEN LYING DEAD IN YE WOODS CLOSE BY, OR EVEN WHERE YE BATTLE WAS FOUGHT.

  —JOURNAL OF PRIVATE EZRA TILDEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF SARATOGA

  THE REBEL BOY DROPPED HIS MUSKET, bent over with a mighty groan, and puked. My belly went sour too, but I choked back the bile. I’d seen dead men before.

  I rose up from my hiding place with caution. The birds had gone quiet. My footsteps snapped twigs. I was sure every wolf in the forest could hear me, smell me.

  The boy puked his last, coughed and spit, then sat on the ground, his skin as pale as the dead man’s. He did not look in my direction as I walked toward him.

&nb
sp; “Do you have any water?” I asked.

  He stared at the crumpled form of the redcoat.

  I removed his canteen from his shoulder, uncorked it, and placed it in his hand. “Drink.”

  He looked up at me then, blue eyes red from the crying. He had a shadow of whiskers growing under his nose, but I did not think he’d begun to shave yet.

  I held the canteen to his mouth. “If you don’t drink, the shock will burn through you till you’re as dead as he is.”

  He nodded like a small child and sipped.

  “Again,” I urged.

  He took a second swig, a longer one, then wiped his mouth and his eyes on his dirty sleeve. “Are you certain he’s—”

  “Yes.” I drank from his canteen, for the shock was burning through me, too.

  Out of the stillness came the ripping noise of a large volley of musket fire. The boy blinked, roused by the sound. He scrambled to his feet.

  “We must join them,” he said urgently. “Oh, dear God, make haste!”

  “Was that your patrol?”

  “Not a patrol,” he said. “The entire army is marching. Uncle says if we win today, it could end the war.” He looked at my hands, then at the ground near my feet. “Where’s your gun?”

  “I don’t—”

  I paused. If he thought me a soldier, then a soldier I would pretend to be. The truth was dangerous.

  “My barrel cracked,” I lied.

  The rolling thunder of cannon fire shook the earth.

  “Take his,” the boy said.

  “What?”

  “Take his gun.” He pointed at the dead redcoat, sprawled atop his musket. “He won’t mind.”

  “But how?” There was very little of the man that was not soaked in his blood.

  “I’ll lift him.” He walked to the body and took a deep, shaky breath.

  “You gonna puke again?” I asked as I followed him.

  “Don’t have time.” He bent down, grabbed the redcoat’s jacket at the shoulders, and turned his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut. “Ready?”