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La Belle Christiane

Copyrigth 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Six Scene 1

The early December wind whipped the ends of Christiane’s wool scarf as she held Nancy’s reins in one hand and young Michael’s hand in the other. The wooden wheels of the baggage train creaked and groaned and bumped over the bridge which spanned the Delaware River. It was nearly evening, but it had been a dark, glowering day since dawn. Everything–the sky, the water, the people–was gray or dirty white.

“Is this really the last river, Mrs. Kruger?” the boy shouted to be heard.

Christiane could only manage a nod of her head. Yes, thank God, it was the last river. After evacuating Manhattan Island in October, they had ferried across the Hudson. Then after the Battle at White Plains, they had crossed the Hackensack, Passaic, and now finally the Delaware. Tonight they would tent in Pennsylvania.

This forced march had begun with Howe’s attack at Throg’s Neck on Manhattan. General Washington had ordered the families and most troops moved off the island, so he wouldn’t be cut off by the British general’s brother, Admiral “Black Dick” Howe, who controlled the waters, surrounding Manhattan. Then Fort Washington on the Manhattan fell to the British–three thousand Americans taken prisoner.

Now what was left of the Continental Army hurried behind them. An army running for its life! Hadn’t she warned Jakob that the English kept whatever ever they took?

Finally the wagon directly in front of them, the one Tildy and William were on, was allowed to venture onto the bridge. The quartermaster sergeant motioned Christiane and Michael to follow it. Christiane could see Tildy was white-faced and nearly unconscious. Little William was asleep on her lap and his small weight was holding his mother onto the wagon. An icy needle of fear pierced Christiane again. The jolting of the wagon and the severe weather had taken a toll on Tildy. She could hardly keep down whatever food Christiane could find. Then Tildy succumbed to a fever. Her hacking cough kept them all awake at night. What if Tildy began to miscarry? What if she couldn’t survive this living in tents in the middle of winter?

“Mrs. Kruger, will they burn this one, too? Will they?”

Christiane looked down into Michael’s eyes, the only part of his face that was visible. She nodded once.

“Will we be able to stay and see it this time? I mean close up?”

“No, we will have to keep moving. The soldiers are right behind us. Remember they must all cross the bridge, too. By then we will be far ahead.” She watched his eyebrows pull together. She wished she could say some comforting word, but there was no comfort for any of them.

“I never get any fun.” The child spoke the words, facing away from her. Because of the noise of the wind, wagons, and drums behind them, he probably thought that she wouldn’t hear him. Oh, Michael. Even after days of freezing rain and constant retreat, a boy could still think of fun. A knot clogged her throat and she tried to fight the tears.

She was wearing every shred of clothing she owned, including Jon’s buckskin breeches under her two dresses. She and Tildy had wrapped the boys’ and their own legs with rag strips for extra warmth. She realized by now that she had become infested with lice and fleas. Wasn’t it bad enough to be part of a forced march in the winter without suffering lice and fleas? And Jakob, where are you in the troops behind us?

None of this made sense. She couldn’t remember what it was like to be warm or even dry. Had she ever really slept in a bed–a bed with ruffled, muslin sheets and a pink satin comforter? What kind of life was this?

This phrase suddenly took her back, back to her grandmother’s chateau. “It is the tradition of our family. You are the fourth generation. You will fulfill your birthright!” Christiane could still hear her grandmother’s querulous exclamation when Christiane had faintly questioned her mother and grandmother as they had been musing about her “possibilities. ” Her mother had just laughed and said, “She is but a girl, mother. When she is a woman, she will be glad of our tradition. What a life you will have, my Christiane!” What a life indeed.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Stepping from the bridge to Pennsylvania soil, she stumbled slightly. Nancy shied, but Christiane stopped herself from falling. She felt as though she were walking on stumps not feet.

“Can I ride again?” Michael whined. “My brother doesn’t have to walk all the time.”

Wordlessly Christiane lifted Michael onto Nancy. Oh, when would they be permitted to stop now that they had crossed the final river? Slap, slap–she struck her mittened hands together to make them tingle. A burning sensation on her finger tips warned her of frostbite. Slap. Slap. Then she hugged herself, folding her arms across her breast and tucking each hand under an elbow. In a few weeks on Christmas Day, she would be eighteen years old. Four years since she fled her grandmother and her “possibilites.” Would she be able to endure much more?

Finally all the Americans must have crossed over to Pennsylvania. The sky behind billowing with black, charry smoke made them all witnesses of the destruction of their final connection with New Jersey and New York.

The final connection with her son, Jean Claude. She’d wanted to go to him, but how could she leave Tildy so weak? And Jakob in danger? What if either or both of them fell ill? No, her son was safe and warm with the Richardson’s and she would not take him from that safe haven.

At last the four of them were huddled by a small fire, too numb to speak or move. In this state they did not notice the furtive figure until he spoke to them.”Christiane, Tildy, is that you?”

Christiane surfaced first. “Jakob!” She hurled herself into his outstretched arms.

“Michael?” Tildy implored weakly.

“He and Tom are both well. Michael send me on to help you and the other women of our squad.”

The sight of Jakob oddly drained the last of Christiane’s energy. She began to cry. “Liebschein.” Jakob held her to him and kissed the top of her forehead, the only spot that was not swathed in scarves and rags. Then he turned to young Michael. “You come with me and we get the tent up.”

The women watched him bustle about setting up their camp. He raised the Main’s tent and then converted the Kruger’s tent into a windbreak around the fire. Christiane stood up to put the tea kettle on the three-legged trivet. There would be no tea, just hot water, but that would warm them all.

Then Jakob went about helping any woman he could. His presence and his word that all the men of Main’s squad were alive and unwounded cheered them all. When he finished, he came back and accepted a steaming mug. Christiane had tucked Tildy and the two boys into their tent. Christiane could not resist questioning Jakob though softly. If his news were bad, she did not want to alarm Tildy and the other women nearby. “We have no news, Jakob. What has happened?” She was afraid to ask: what will happen next?

“We retreat to here. We try to keep the redcoats from Philadelphia and the Congress there. If we hold them back long enough, maybe they go into winter quarters.”

“Are we staying here or will we be moving on soon?”

“It depends on the British. If they come, we retreat again. Michael says the general hopes the terrible weather and the Delaware River will stop them.”

Her tears began again. He took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “I am so sorry, Christiane. I should have sent you to be with Jean Claude for the winter. As soon as I can, I will take you there. Do you think the Richardsons would keep us for the winter? In the spring I must re-enlist for the next campaign, but maybe they let me work for them till then.”

She nodded against him.

“Good. Then you will be safe when I have to be away again. I do not want you to stay here in this camp ever again. I cannot leave now though. The war is going bad. The general kept us from redcoats, but now he waits to see where the Englisher Howe attacks next. The fighting could start again at any time. I must go now.”

In the dim light from the fire, Christiane rubbed her face against his buckskin jacket. The leather was stiff with the cold. She pressed herself against him, trying the draw his strength into her own defeated heart.

Tilting back her head, he kissed her, the kiss a plea from one tortured heart to another. She clung to him, pouring all her love, her devotion and, yearning into her kiss. He released her lips. She gasped a sob, then his name.  “I love you, Jakob. I love you. Please be careful. Please.”

“I love you, mein Liebschein. Forever. I love you always.” He kissed her again and then tore himself from her.

Clutching her empty arms around her, she sat back down within scorching distance to the fire. Jakob had gathered them enough wood to last the night. In the morning, Michael and William would have to search for more. She nibbled the dry bread. She knew she should save some for morning, but she was so hungry she could not stop herself. Their rations were ever more inconsistent and poorer in quality. If things did not improve soon, she would go back to begging for food as she had on her journey to join Jakob. Inwardly she cringed. Which was worse–begging or starving? If only Jakob could stay here, she would not be so cold and so lonely. A shiver tore through her. How could they winter in tents?