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By Root 1373 0

ground, their small fire protected from the wind by a fat bank of hard snow. Their replacements would soon arrive, and the men would not wait to eat, one man securing a small sack of flour. They watched hungrily as he prepared their meal, the raw flour mixed with melted snow, kneaded to a thick paste, flattened on a flat piece of iron. It was a highlight of their day, but it would not go uninterrupted, and they rose from their shelter to the sound of horses, a carriage, then a wagon, packed high with bundles and crates, rocking precariously on its grinding springs. The caravan was led by two horsemen, men with short sabers and pistols in their belts. One of the guards moved into the road, halting the strange procession, and an officer suddenly emerged from the carriage, said, “Who might be in command here?”

The guard looked toward the fire, and another man stepped up over the mound of snow, his hands black with ash, smeared with the paste of the flour.

“That would be myself, sir. Captain Roe. What is your pleasure, sir? A bit of dinner perhaps? We have firecake and water, and, if that’s not to your liking, we have water and firecake.”

There were small chuckles from the men, and the officer said nothing, allowed the men their moment of fun.

“Captain, I am Colonel Meade. These men are courtesy of General Smallwood’s brigade, from his camp at Wilmington. On the authority of General Washington, you will allow us to pass.”

Roe seemed unimpressed with the man’s bluster, said, “I will, eh? Possible. You don’t appear to be a spy. Are you?”

Meade was growing impatient.

“See here, Captain. We have important business.”

“Everybody does, Colonel.”

More of his men were emerging from the snowbank, curiosity giving way to annoyance, their meal delayed. Roe moved closer to the carriage, said, “Best take a look at what you got there. Any spies inside here?”

Roe leaned into the window of the carriage, then seemed to jump back, made a small surprised grunt, and now his men could see the face of a woman, peering out at them.

“Captain Roe, thank you for your courtesy. Colonel Meade, do be polite. These men are only performing their duty. Perhaps you should make an introduction.”

Meade made a short bow toward the woman, said, “Captain, will you please allow us to pass? I assure you, there are no spies here. This is . . . the wife of General Washington.”

SHE MOVED TO THE HOUSE ON MEADE’S ARM, HER COAT BRUSHING THE snowbanks that lined the deep path. The sentries had been alerted, stood in line on both sides of the door, and as she reached the steps, Meade stepped aside, the guard opening the door with a crisp turn. She stepped inside the house, the unmistakable aroma of the kitchen, could see the hall now lined with men, all standing straight, their backs against the wall. She felt her hands shaking, was already nervous, would never insist on such a formal display. She recognized some of the faces, could not just allow them to stare blankly ahead, said, “Mr. Tilghman, how wonderful to see you again! And, Mr. Harrison. Mr. Hamilton. How nice.” She stopped in front of another, very young, handsome.

“I’m afraid I do not know you, young man.”

The officer responded with a whisper, “No, ma’am. Major John Laurens, ma’am.”

“Mr. Laurens, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She moved past the last of the staff, small greetings, quiet introductions, could see now they had served as a reception line, leading her toward a parlor, to the right of the hall. She turned, could not help a small gasp, saw the tall man standing alone in the center of the room, waiting for her. She could hear the movement of soft footsteps in the hall behind her, the staff slipping away, and she said a silent thank-you for their discretion. He smiled now, and she tried to smile as well, fought the tears. For a long moment, they stood in silence, neither one moving, as though neither one knew what to do. She studied his face, saw the deep lines, the blue eyes soft with weariness, his cheeks thin, pale. His broad shoulders were rounded, seemed to sag, his whole