The majestic golden sun was setting against the Appalachian Mountains. The silhouette of a small, thin figure marked the rugged peaks. I stood in front of my small, cozy house, praying silently for my father. Let him be all right. Let him live. Let him come home to me. I turned back towards the house, before murmuring one last word of prayer. Please.

                                         * * *

The bone-chilling winter breeze crept up on me, penetrating my sheer glass windows. In all my thirteen years, I could not remember a winter as cold as this one. Nimbly, I leaped out of my stiff cot, anxious to ride Mayflower before my breakfast call. Pulling on jodhpurs and shoes, I jumped onto my lovely black foal and began to gallop. For the first time since the wretched war began, I set myself free. I did not think about my injured father or my fretting mother, my monotonous chores, or my perpetual fears. I surrendered my own private war.

                                     * * *

I scuttled toward the kitchen to prepare my mother some hot tea before she arrived back from morning duty at the family’s inn. My mother, the keeper of a modest inn in Valley Forge, often works early into the morning and late into the night, scrubbing her fingers down to the bone washing clothes and dishes for the struggling Patriot soldiers training at Valley Forge. Mother and I toil to help the miserable American men survive the harsh Pennsylvania winter. Mother often went to bed hungry, but she would not rest until the soldiers were well-fed.

A large charcoal portrait of my father hangs grandly in the family’s sitting room. His face has a rather highbrow expression to it, but so different from the exuberant, loving father I know. I had wanted, more than anything, to follow him into battle. I could have made it. I am practically a boy myself. I could have cut of this long, silky hair Mother is insisting I grow. I could have fought with him. Instead, I am at home, cooking, sewing, and tending to Betsy. I wish I were a boy.

My older brother, Nathanial, a tall, strapping young man of nineteen, was preparing to set off for war. I felt my heart leap to my throat as I remembered Father’s sound words to him in a recent letter, “Nathan, be cautious, but not reserved. Remember, young men like you are the Patriots’ last hope. You are a true hero.” Hero. Hero. I sighed glumly as the word echoed in my mind. Father is a hero, Nat soon shall be, but I am simply a girl. The girl who stays home, cooks, and brews tea when company is present.

                                  * * *

January 19, 1777

Dear Father,
All is well here as usual. I am missing you terribly, however. My chores and cooking have lost their luster. Betsy is too ill to write to you, but she is gradually recovering. Mother is in a dreadful state- she worries about you, then about Nathan, then about Betsy, then about you again. I have never seen her in such a frenzy.

The troops here are extremely grateful for the clothing and food Mother and I are providing for them. I have been visiting Valley Forge nearly every day to deliver new supplies. Betsy complains that Mother feeds the soldiers better than she feeds us, and I must say that I agree!

Father, write back soon, and please do not write anything that would be cut by the censors. Your last letter looked rather like a cobweb!
Love you as ever, 

Katherine
                                     * * *
Forty minutes later, I found myself in Valley Forge once again. The men beamed at me as I passed. “Hello, Miss Katherine!” came the cheerful calls. Though I grinned back and winked, as I normally would, my mind was racing. With no shoes to cover their bleeding feet, and no roof to cover their shivering heads, the Continental army is a sorry lot. Yet in Philadelphia, the Tories live a life of luxury, enjoying warm feather beds and grand hotels. 

As I rode by, I heard a hoarse cry, “Please, Miss, just a little bread.” Looking down, I saw an emaciated figure, bony arms outstretched, pale face and yellow eyes staring bleakly into my face. “Of course,” I hushed him, handing him a warm slice of bread from my bag. “What is your name?” I asked. Between scarfing down the bread and grabbing a swig of water, he replied, “William. I am seventeen years old.” Nodding, I waved him goodbye and rode away, my mind in turmoil.

Later, I could not forget that picture of poor Willy…his one leg…those forlorn eyes… The poor boy looked terribly ill; one leg amputated and bones protruding through his gaunt body. On a sudden yet resolute decision, I rode back to him and said, “William, stay at my house tonight- I will care for you until you are fit once more.” For the first time, I saw a spark of hope in his eyes, but he simply nodded as I boosted him up.

Over the next ten tiring days and sleepless nights, I cared for William Hansbury. The countless hours of hiding him in the barn house from my reproving mother, cajoling him to rest, bonded us together. I became the confidant of this shy, mild-natured boy. His family had died when he was only six years old, so young William Hansbury was sent to work in a tavern, where he was beaten and bullied. His sadness came to fore when his housemother passed away, and he ran away to join the army.

Finally, on the last day, I waved William goodbye. Watching him march away with the Continental Army to the sound of joyous drums and trumpets, his health regained, his mind and body fighting fit, I thought to myself, Maybe I was a hero, after all.