By: Laurie Halse Anderson

Paperback

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The young soldiers at Valley Forge are suffering from hunger, cold, and the threat of the British army. Their newly forged bonds of friendship might be enough to help them survive. But the chains of Curzon’s past threaten to shackle him again.

Surrounded by the fires of ignorance, mistrust, and greed, Curzon can’t risk sharing his deadly secrets with anyone. Does he have the mettle to hold on to his freedom? To claim his rightful place as an American? Is he strong enough to find the answer to the hardest question of all: Is Isabel still alive?

Acclaimed author Laurie Halse Anderson continues the thrilling adventure started in her bestselling, award-winning novel Chains. Ride along on a gallop that will take you from battling the British at Saratoga to fighting the elements at Valley Forge to rebelling against merciless tyranny. Discover what the fight for freedom was really all about.

About the Author

Laurie Halse Anderson is the author of several wonderful picture books and numerous highly acclaimed novels, including the bestselling Fever, 1793. Her debut young adult novel, Speak, was a National Book Award finalist, a Printz Honor Book, and an ALA Best Book for Reluctant Readers. Laurie lives in Mexico, New York.

Anderson, Laurie Halse Forge.

Atheneum, 2010 [304p] (Seeds of America) ISBN 978-1-4169-6144-4 $16.99 Reviewed from galleys R Gr. 7-10

Curzon and Isabel, runaway slaves in Anderson's Chains (BCCB 11/08), have parted company--she is headed south to find her sister Ruth, and he finds work driving a cart for Patriot soldiers. An impulsive act of battlefield bravery leads to Curzon's enlistment as a freeman with the 16th Massachusetts Regiment, and he's now a tentmate with Eban Woodruff, the young man whose life he saved, and John Burns, a sly bigot who waits for an opportunity to drum Curzon out of the army. Personal animosity simmers as the soldiers encamp at Valley Forge for the winter of 1777-8, but Curzon and his comrades cooperate to make the best of dire circumstances. When Burns rises to the rank of sergeant, though, and Curzon's legal owner, James Bellingham, reclaims his service, Curzon begins to plot yet another escape. His situation is immediately complicated by the appearance of Isabel, who has been recaptured and sold to Bellingham. Bellingham knows Curzon will withhold his labor, so he threatens to punish Isabel, who already wears a locked metal cuff around her neck, for each infraction he may cause. Desperate but unable to plan a foolproof escape, Curzon and Isabel are blessed by chance and the unexpected aid of Curzon's old comrades at arms with some slim hope of freedom as the novel ends and they march out of Valley Forge, protectively surrounded by decamping troops. The saga that began as Isabel's tale loses none of its tension as it switches to Curzon's plight, and the pair's situation at the novel's conclusion is precarious enough to suggest--even demand--another volume. Again Anderson crafts her source notes into a reader-friendly Q&A discussion and appends a glossary of eighteenth-century terms. As one of Curzon's mates observes, "This camp is a forge for the army; it's testing our qualities. . . . Question is, what are we made of?" For:

CHAPTER I

Tuesday, October 7, 1777
“BEGIN THE GAME.”
—GENERAL HORATIO GATES’S ORDER TO START THE SECOND BATTLE OF SARATOGA

THE MEMORY OF OUR ESCAPE STILL tormented me nine months later.

It did not matter that I’d found us shelter and work in Jersey or that I’d kept us safe. Isabel was ungrateful, peevish, and vexatious. We argued about going after Ruth, then we fought about it, and finally, in May, she ran away from me, taking all of our money.

I twisted my ear so hard, it was near torn from my head.

No thoughts of Isabel, I reminded myself. Find that blasted road.

I’d been looking for the back road to Albany since dawn on account of my former boss, Trumbull, was a cabbagehead and a cheat. The Patriot army had hired him and his two wagons (one of them driven by myself) to help move supplies up to the mountains near Saratoga. Thousands of British soldiers waited there, preparing to swoop down the Hudson, cut off New England from the other states, and end the rebellion.

Trumbull cared not for beating the British or freeing the country from the King. He cared only for the sound of coins clinking together. With my own eyes, I saw him steal gunpowder and rum and salt from the barrels we hauled. He’d filch anything he could sell for his own profit.

’Twas not his thieving from the army that bothered me. ‘Twas his thieving from me. I’d been working for him for three months and had no coin to show for it. He charged me for the loan of a ragged blanket and for anything else he could think of so he never had to hand over my wages.

The night before, I’d finally stood up to him and demanded my money. He fired me.

Of course, I robbed him. You would have done the very same.

I stole an assortment of spoons and four shoe buckles from his trunk after he fell asleep muddy in drink and snoring loud as a blasting bellows. I put my treasures in the leather bag that held Isabel’s collection of seeds and her blue ribbon (both left behind in her haste to flee from my noxious self). The leather bag went into my empty haversack, which I slipped over my shoulder as I crawled out of Trumbull’s tent.

I had walked for hours in the dark, quite certain that I’d stumble upon the road within moments. The rising sun burned through the fog but did not illuminate any road for me, not even a path well worn by deer or porcupines.

I climbed up a long hill, stopping at the top to retie the twine that held my shoes together. (Should have stolen Trumbull’s boots, too.) I turned in a full circle. Most of the forest had leafed yellow, with a few trees bold-cloaked in scarlet or orange. No road. Had I been in my natural environment—the cobbled streets of Boston or New York—I could have easily found my way by asking a cartman or an oyster seller.

Not so in this forest.

I headed down into a deep ravine, swatting at the hornets that buzzed round my hat. The ravine might lead to the river, and a river was as good as a road, only wetter. Because I was the master of my own mind, I did not allow myself to believe that I might be lost. Nor did I worry about prowling redcoats or rebel soldiers eager to shoot. But the wolves haunted me. They’d dug up the graves of the fellows killed in last month’s battle at Freeman’s Farm and eaten the bodies. They’d eat a living man, too. A skinny lad like myself wouldn’t last a minute if they attacked.

I picked my way through the brush at the bottom of the ravine, keeping my eyes on the ground for any sight of paw prints.

Crrr-ack.

I stopped.

Gunfire?

Not possible. I was almost certain that I was well south of the dangerous bit of ground that lay between the two armies.

Crrr-ack.

Heavy boots crashed through the forest. Voices shouted.

Crrr-ack BOOM!

An angry hornet hissed past my ear and smacked into the tree trunk behind me with a low thuuump.

I froze. That was no hornet. ‘Twas a musketball that near tore off my head.

The voices grew louder. There was no time to run. I dropped to the ground and hid myself behind a log.

A British redcoat appeared out of a tangle of underbrush a dozen paces ahead of me and scrambled up the far side of the ravine. Three more British soldiers followed close on his heels, hands on their tall hats to keep them from flying off, canteens and cartridge boxes bouncing hard against their backsides.

There was a flash and another Crrr-ack BOOM.

A dozen rebel soldiers appeared, half in hunting shirts, the rest looking like they just stepped away from their plows. Smoke still poured from the barrel of the gun held by a red-haired fellow with an officer’s black ribbon pinned to his hat.

There was a loud shuffling above. A line of redcoats took their position at the edge of the ravine and aimed down at the rebels.

“Present!” the British officer screamed to his men.

“Present!” yelled the American officer. His men brought the butts of their muskets up to their shoulders and sighted down the long barrels, ready to shoot and kill.

I pressed my face into the earth, unable to plan a course of escape. My mind would not be mastered and thought only of the wretched, lying, foul, silly girl who was the cause of everything.

I thought of Isabel and I missed her.

“FIRE!”

ISBN: 9781416961451
ISBN-10: 1416961453
Series: Seeds of America
Audience: Children
For Ages: 8 - 12 years old
For Grades: 3 - 7
Format: Paperback
Language: English
Number Of Pages: 297
Published: 24th April 2012
Publisher: ATHENEUM BOOKS
Dimensions (cm): 19.05 x 12.954  x 2.54
Weight (kg): 0.2