Valley Forge, February 11, 1778

Dearest Mama,

I write to you this bitter cold night while on picket duty in winter camp, near the Schuylkill river. I would be much knocked about were my sergeant to know, yet to write is to forestall sleep and the pitiless embrace of frost. Which is the greater sin?

My humble thanks to you and Mrs Joy for the gift of richly thick and warming woolen socks! I am the luckiest sort of militiaman!

Even now what seems like the whole of the army is visited by privation after privation. Astonishing great numbers house their bodies in tattered clothing once proud uniforms now barely a covering of modesty, and protection against snow and wet and rain not at all. I found my post this very night by following the bloody snow prints of Old Joseph, whose duty it was before me. His blackened toes are not long for the rotten rags he wears as shoes. It is much of a muchness throughout General Washington's army.

There is yet hope for our proud patriots. Just the end of January I saw with my own eyes gentlemen said to be from Philadelphia, congressmen no less. To me they looked like owls in an ivy bush. I will not lie, they seemed a hubble bubble, lost in the gaunt eyes and the skeletal forms that stared blankly upon them, they men warm and well fed. If they do not do justice to this army through their august office and with greatest haste, we will be naught but vessels of disease and starvation. Typhoid, typhus, smallpox, dysentery, and pneumonia are the charms of constant wet, freezing cold, and rotten food.

Though the army is in dire condition and its vital needs in greatest disrepair, there is yet much heart and faith in the General. And his wife, dear Mrs Martha, did last night arrive and immediately set about the camp like a moth to countless flames, laughing here and tending to the wretched there. Never have I seen such joy and energy from a woman in so vile and dark an abode. By my faith, I'll warrant she'll marshall the camp followers into her own army of salvation.

My time on post is nearing it's conclusion as I see the horizon lightening. I will be glad to return to my cabin, though I think sleep will elude me once again. The cabins are crowded, smoke filled, and not very warm. Its seems impossible to ever dry our clothes, such as they are. Still, the relative warmth is at least a fledgling comfort.

I believe conditions will improve though many will suffer great privation and even die. But those who survive to see the thaw, will find a tougher, more formidable army in this valley forged.

My love to father. Kiss little Sarah for me. And remember, do not torture your spirit with false imaginings. We will survive and we will prevail.

Your loving son,
Elijah