Cannons at Dawn by Kristiana Gregory6/3/2023 He has asked for the pleasure of her company in the hospital while his wounds heal, but Philadelphia is eighteen miles by snowy road. Elisabeth is opposite me, writing another letter to Ben Valentine. It is so bright, this table by the window needs no candle. Her eye is on me, but she is smiling.Ī full moon has broken through the clouds. She has picked up Johnny from his cradle and is drying his bottom with the hem of her skirt. You are twelve and should know this by the good smell of butter and onions in the pan.” “Abigail, dear,” Mama said, right on schedule. We both know that any moment our mother will turn from the fire and see that I am not frying the pork as I should be. She smiles to see me writing in my journal. Snow covers her cap and even the strings tied under her chin. Gusts of wind rattle our windows.Įlisabeth just came in from the barn, eggs in her apron. It is freezing from last night and snowing again. I sit by the hearth so my little ink jug will keep thawing. “Papa will come home when General Washington says so,” I answered. She is poking the coals for breakfast and holding back her long apron, careful that it doesn’t catch fire like last winter. Though she is seven, she understands naught about war and she asks this question every morning. “Abby, when will Papa come back home?” Sally asked again. Mom’s love for writing, reading,Īnd research inspired me as a young child
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