Huzzah for Betsy (Part 1/2)

March, 1778

	While shivering uncontrollably, the soldier unlatched the wooden robot's upper back panel and hastily turned the small crank inside. He paused to listen, silently praying that the cold didn't seize her gears up again. Once he heard them start to gently turn, he quietly thanked Him and rotated her crank several more times for good measure. As she regained consciousness, she found herself back in her squad's windowless log hut, though she last remembered standing guard on the outskirts of camp. The predawn light peeking through the cracks in the walls let her know that the night had passed, much to her shame. A wave of guilt washed over her upon realizing that she prematurely unwound while still on duty. She knew she would catch hell from the sergeant for that, even if it wasn't her fault.
	"M-m-morning, Betsy," a shaky male voice greeted from behind. Without turning around, she knew exactly who he was; his blanket's floral pattern atop the makeshift bed she sat on was a telling sign.
	"Good morning, Mr. Harris," she emotionlessly replied, lifting her soiled shirt, coat, and cartridge box from her arms back onto her shoulders, "I do apologize for falling asleep a little early last night. Were you the one who brought me back here?"
	"N-no ma'am," he said, "Corporal Davis carried you b-back only a few hours ago. He woke me up..." *cough* "...by accident when he came in. Wanted me to tell you not to worry, that S-Sergeant Brooks doesn't know, but to be careful it doesn't hap-pen again."
	Just as quickly as the worry came, it was gone. Harris and Davis were good men, maybe the only two in the regiment that she felt comfortable around. Though she knew very little about their backgrounds, she came to find they were as reliable in battle as they were in camp. At the Brandywine the September prior, the trio were part of the only few in the company that didn't flee when the redcoats charged at them, bayonets fixed. With the army now in one location and being drilled constantly, she hoped that the rest of the men would become disciplined enough not to cower again. It meant the difference between victory and defeat, especially against hardened British regulars.
	She finally looked over at Harris, discovering why she heard him shivering. He was clad in only his filthy breeches and a thin blanket draped over his shoulders. Every breath he took was visible in the frosty air.
	"Why, Mr. Harris," she asked, puzzled, "Where on Earth is your jacket? ...Or your shoes, for that matter? It's no wonder why you're cold."
	He then grabbed the sides of his blanket and pulled them together, tightly wrapping himself up for warmth. Giving an embarrassed grin, he answered, "I lost my shoes two days ago. Davis' wife offered to scrub my shirt and coat for two dollars, and I took her up on it because I felt like... impressing Steuben at company drill today with a clean uniform."
	After standing up and grabbing her tricorn hat off the edge of the bed, she carefully stepped around the few other soldiers sleeping on the wet sunken ground. Reaching the door, she gave one last glance over at the young man.
	"Possibly, but I don't think Von Steuben would be impressed to see your bare feet," she told him. Then, for the first time in several days, she broke her serious demeanor and attempted to tell a joke. "However, perhaps wearing multiple pairs of socks could fool him."

	She had to shove the poorly constructed door several times before it finally flew open. All at once, she was greeted by the familiar sights of the camp: packed down snow, the purple morning sky, dozens of dying campfires, and the overflow of half-nude starving men that called themselves an army. The previous week marked the third month since Washington settled in the valley, and it seemed he wouldn't think of retaking Philadelphia until he could get his motley forces properly trained.
	Up a shallow white incline, hundreds of feet away, she could see the two-story stone house that served as his headquarters. There were several tiny figures standing outside the front door, who she assumed to be other high-ranking officers. Just as soon as she blinked, the door opened and a navy blue & beige-suited gentleman emerged from the dark interior. Slightly excited, Betsy reached into the side pocket of her coat and extracted her late owner's spyglass. Extending it to its full length and lifting it to her eye, she took a magnified look at the house, confirming the man to be General Washington himself. He was yawning into his gloved fist as another officer was presenting a large piece of paper to him. A map, if she had to guess.
	The man had an aura of nobility and safety surrounding him, something she quite admired. It had been nearly two weeks since she was last within 50 yards of him. Given her low rank, she had never spoken to him directly, yet she felt she knew so much about him. As she lowered the spyglass and stared at it, her mind drifted away from Washington to her former owner. Edward Turner was his name, and despite living with his family in western Massachusetts for close to five years, she knew very LITTLE about him. He would come home at the same late hour from the sawmill every night and collapse into bed with his wife. Betsy spent most of her time aiding Mrs. Turner with housework and childcare, rarely exchanging sentences with the patriarch of the family.
	"Wait, WAS it a sawmill?" she thought, "It could have been a textile mill." She recalled his job being something of that unremarkable sort. She had been passed around from owner to owner many times throughout her short life, yet he was the most forgettable of all the men she ever worked for. Unsurprisingly, what she remembered most about him was his death. Out of the blue, several months after he enlisted in the Continental Army, a post rider appeared at the door of the Turner cottage carrying news of his passing. It was pneumonia, not British lead that killed him. While Mrs. Turner and her eldest daughter shed many tears, Betsy was more disappointed than anything. She felt his debt to the American cause had not been paid in full, that a soldier should die with honor on the battlefield and not from something an automaton would be immune to. Thus, she left an apologetic note on the table one morning, grabbed her few valuables, and rode with a helpful stranger towards Boston to continue her master's service.
	That morning at Valley Forge was particularly cold, she gathered. The winter itself was manageable, though there were occasional bouts of freezing temperatures and heavy snowfall. When the chill became unbearable, the men would combat it the old fashioned way: huddling by the campfire and putting on any extra layer they could find. Some were always reluctant to leave their fire's warmth for drill, but it was nothing a threat from their commanding officer couldn't solve.
	Hesitant to fraternize with anyone as usual, she shuffled past a group of rag-wearing soldiers sitting on a rotten log. Only one of them glanced up at her, and his wounded face was so caked with dried blood and infection that she could scarcely tell his expression. She felt no disgust looking at him, however. Even before the war, that emotion never made sense to her. Regardless, she felt sorry for the man, knowing he would soon be dead if a surgeon didn't treat him. Swallowing her typical shyness, she forced herself to offer a helping hand.
	"Good morning, sir," she turned and politely greeted him, "May I get you anything? A surgeon, perhaps?"
	The wounded man scoffed, then proudly picked at his crusted face, "No thanks, little missy, I already seen the surgeon... Some brandy would hit the spot though."
	"Yes, and if you're offering, and I will take a rum!" the shoeless soldier beside him requested with a laugh.
	"Could you top off my canteen with whiskey, Betsy?" one spun around and jokingly asked. It was Corporal Davis, looking more unkempt though just as handsome than when she last saw him. She would have have liked to stay and chat, but the other soldiers laughing around him acted as a repellent. Feeling foolish, she sighed and marched away, remembering why she rarely socialized with her fellow troops.

	Seconds later, she heard a loud "crack" echo in the distance. It was quickly followed up by several more and faint shouting. Every soldier around her stopped what they were doing and curiously looked towards the source of the noise. Most recognized the sound immediately and tensed up. It was musket fire, and less than half a mile away.
	"THE REDCOATS ARE HERE!" one panicked man shouted, and hundreds of tin cups and plates dropped into the snow in one synchronized motion.
	"UNSTACK MUSKETS AND FORM COMPANIES!" an unknown officer shrieked. Caring little whether he commanded them or another unit, the men of Betsy's regiment promptly got to their feet and bolted towards their musket stacks, herself included. In the chaos of sprinting men, she almost got knocked over on her way to the stack outside her squad's hut. When she reached it, she found Harris, (still shirtless) and Davis carrying their cartridge boxes, having just finished taking it apart. The former threw Betsy's musket into her arms and sped past her without a word, visible terror in his eyes, yet none in her own.
	"6TH MASSACHUSETTS!" a familiar officer hoisted his sabre, yelling over the commotion and drum pattering, "FALL IN ON ME!"
	Betsy and her fellow troops did as he ordered, forming neat lines on the sides and rear of the commander. To her, it appeared Steuben's repetitive drilling had finally paid off. If they weren't an army before in Washington's eyes, they certainly were now.
	After the entire force was assembled, minutes without further orders began to painfully scrape by. As the regiments impatiently awaited to move out and engage the redcoats, Betsy noticed two riders descending the hill from Washington's headquarters, both headed towards her line. As the pair approached, Betsy couldn't help but smile upon seeing that one of them was...
	"Gentlemen," General Washington addressed his army, "though I am proud of the efficiency in which you have formed your battle lines, I authorized no order for you to do so." He fought off a shiver and continued, motioning to the officer on his right. "I was informed that the gunfire you heard was from our sentries against a small raiding party, all of whom were killed or captured... I will not investigate and punish whoever gave the premature command, now stand down and return to your breakfasts."
	The moment he and his associate spurred their horses and left, Betsy heard many sighs of relief around her. There would be no desperate battle at Valley Forge that day.
	"Battalion is dismissed!" her elderly colonel shouted to the regiment, and the men promptly stumbled back to their fires, their meals looking more appetizing than before they left. Betsy carefully leaned her musket against a nearby stack and slung her ammo pouch over its bayonet, having not took it off since the night prior. An uncommon urge suddenly entered her mind, so she made her way back to where Davis and the wounded man sat. This time, she promised herself, she would stay much longer.