Forge

“My former master, Bellingham, had owned several sailing ships before the war. The tables in the library were often covered by maps and charts when his captains called. Once, a compass such as this had been used to keep the papers from flying on the sharp breeze that came from the harbor. Bellingham had been amused by my curiosity and showed me how the device worked. I considered it a magical thing, for I was still a child then.” 

Upon finding the redcoat’s compass, Curzon reflects upon a time in his childhood when compasses seemed magical. These tiny devices that would provide him a sense of direction that would tell him where to go. But now, as he’s grown older, and the freedom to explore has been more and more curtailed, he’s grown more cynical and less able to believe in the magic of things. He is, essentially, directionless.

“The aimless needle inside me spun and spun again. My heart beat to the sounds of the approaching drums. I liked the smell of gunpowder. I was not afraid to fight.” 

Curzon refers back to the compass as a metaphor, establishing it as an image for his own sense of purpose. Prior to this moment, we can infer that Curzon has spent the majority of his freedom running from the threats of his past, and those who would place him back in bondage. But with this description, we see that he is compelled forward by an inner compass – a sense of purpose or direction beyond running. The sound and smell of war becomes appealing to him. The drumbeat adheres to the beating of his heart. He is internalizing the world around him, and gleaning purpose from the revolution occurring. 

“The thought startled me. Our prisoners. When had the affairs of this army again become mine?” 

Curzon enlisted in the Colonial Army for a number of reasons, most of them pertaining to his own benefit. He wished to escape from Trumbull, escape from Bellingham, gain food and lodging and warm clothes. But here we begin to see a gradual, previously imperceptible shift in him. Curzon is no longer alone. He is becoming a part of something bigger. 

“Gentlemen bowed out of courtesy. Out of respect. I’d seen thousands upon thousands of bows whilst serving Judge Bellingham and later his son. They bowed when greeting each other. Upon taking their leave. They bowed to ladies and their elders. They did not bow to slaves or thieves or ditch scoundrels. But Sergeant Woodruff bowed to me and I was all of those things.”

When Caleb bows to Curzon, we see for the first time a white man of power, position, and privilege treating him as an equal. Through this simple gesture of courtesy, Caleb has confirmed his humanity.

“I am my own master, sir.” 

This simple, powerful declaration is the very essence of Curzon’s character. He is the master of his own destiny. He has no master but his own soul. Like those of the time who would fight for their own freedom from tyranny and oppression, Curzon refuses to submit to the control and domination of another. He is, essentially, the truest statement of the American ideal. 

“My father told me many times that a lot of white people have twisted hearts. ‘It prevents them from seeing the world properly,’ he’d say, ‘and turns them into tools of the Devil.’ Father would have advised me to let God sort out the evil inside John Burns.” 

The majority of the characters in this novel are, in fact, white. And yet the point of view we’re given to experience them is that of a young black man. Curzon shares this perspective with us, given to him by his father—an explanation, of sorts, for the persistent behavior and moral hideousness of white colonials. Whether or not he shares this point of view isn’t entirely clear, but it does expose that even from a young age, he had a tutor to the moral (or amoral) world around him. 

“The hurt in his eyes stopped me. He had been kind to me, in his jabber-mouthed way. But how deep did his kindness go? How much could I trust him?” 

Eben and Curzon are friends. In spite of momentous cultural obstacles, they have developed a genuine connection with one another. But in this moment, Curzon decides to test Eben—not his loyalty, per se, but more the character of that friendship. Is Eben capable of truly empathizing with and understanding his friend, even to the point where he must admit uncomfortable truths about his own ideals?

“‘Now you are spouting nonsense. Two slaves running away from their rightful master is not the same as America wanting to be free of England. Not the same at all.’” 

As their argument continues, Eben arrives at this crucial moment and presents an outright racist fallacy. He is incapable, in this moment, of seeing or comprehending the hypocrisy of his own statement. 

“‘This is the last word out of you on that subject, Private Greenlaw. Officers get fed first and best; that’s the way of the army, and you shall not question it.’” 

Inequity is a common theme throughout the novel, taking shape in all manner of relationships. Here we see the institutionalized inequity of both classand military status. Despite how hungry the soldiers are, those who are above them eat first, and better. This is not to be questioned. It is an unchallengeable, dogmatic inequity. 

“Sylvanus slowly poured our flour into the pot of muddy water, stopping every now and then to stir the concoction with a bayonet blade until it was thick as a stonemason’s mortar.”

Valley Forge is most notably remembered for the level of hardship endured by its inhabitants. Here we see, in depressing detail, the steps taken to eat what meager meals were available—a crust of gruel, mixed with muddy creek water, cooked on a hot rock. 

“The enormity of our task hit home. We had to chop down trees and build our own shelter with little equipment and less training. In the snow. Whilst hungry.” 

The majority of the novel’s second part deals with the construction of, and survival in, the Valley Forge camp. This line makes the challenges of that task explicit. It states outright the immense hardship of merely surviving.

“You were right. If we’re gonna fight a war, it should make everybody free, not just some.” 

As Eben and Curzon make up while cooking a pumpkin, Eben admits that since their fight, he’s reconsidered his own opinions and poor thinking. Despite his earlier ignorance, he shows he is capable of learning and becoming a better friend. 

“The compass inside me whirled. I could not trust him; he was only being nice so I wouldn’t get him in trouble. I should trust him; his apology was heartfelt. I dared not be his friend, nor the friend of any person. But I wanted to be his friend again.” 

Immediately following Eben’s apology, we experience the conflict within Curzon and the appalling loneliness of not knowing who to trust, or if those you’d call your friends are even deserving of that trust. Curzon’s compass spins and he feels he has no notion of the right direction. 

“The doctor let us keep a candle burning so that Eben could see his uncle’s face. The sergeant was overtaken by a violent fever deep in the night. When the drums sounded the reveille at dawn, he died.”

Caleb’s sudden and violent death is a shocking reminder at just how present the threat of death is in the camp. What they’re doing—building shelter, exhausted, with no training—is inherently dangerous.

“This camp is a forge for the army; it’s testing our mettle. Instead of heat and hammer, our trials are cold and hunger. Question is, what are we made of?”

Sylvanus’ statement might as well be the subtitle of the novel. It clearly explicates the meaning of not only Valley Forge in our history, but the central metaphor to the novel itself: that in hardship, our truest selves aren’t just revealed, they’re made. 

“Judge Bellingham ordered my father to beat me with a leather strap on my naked back. He and Master James watched to make sure Father did a proper job. I tried not to cry, for I knew it would upset my father more. But I could not help myself.” 

This passage establishes the traumatic violence of Curzon’s past while also establishing another idea—that of inherited violence. Bellingham receives Curzon from his father. And after he runs, it’s Curzon’s father who must whip him, at Judge Bellingham’s order. We see how generational this violence has become. 

“The once proud and powerful now appeared pitiful. Weak. Tho’ I stood in rags and upon frozen feet, I felt much more a man than he.” 

Seeing Bellingham now in a state of such shabbiness and disrepair, Curzon remarks that though his situation may be one of less power, he feels that he is far stronger than his former master. It is as much a description of Curzon as it is Bellingham. 

“‘Curzon,’ he said softly, ‘I own you.’” 

Curzon attends the meeting at Washington’s headquarters only to discover that Bellingham has no intention of helping him. Rather, he feels Curzon is still his own property, and intends to reclaim him. 

“That word – ‘master’ – was a musketball ripping through my guts. I almost bolted for the fireplace and grabbed that poker so I could brain him. They’d catch me, beat me, mebbe kill me, but it would have been worth it.” 

The distance Curzon has come in the course of the novel is considerable, and he has found a kind of freedom he had not before experienced, and now, facing Bellingham, and forced again to traffic in the deference of slavery, the very use of the word ‘master’ causes a kind of revulsion that leads him to thoughts of murder. 

“Everything is trade, you know, even between a master and a servant.” 

We get a glimpse into Bellingham’s character with this line. With this statement, we see clearly the depth of his cynicism – that all things are explainable and in fact controllable when viewed as a transaction. 

“Now I knew. I would fight the eagle and the chains and that mountain as long as I had breath.” 

Curzon recalls the myth of Prometheus, wherein a titan who gave fire to mankind was punished by the Olympian gods by being shackled to a stone and fed upon by an eagle. It is clear that now that Curzon has experienced freedom, he will fight against any force that would seek to imprison or disenfranchise him. 

“It means, ‘You are my heart.’ I leaned forward, took her hands in mine, and whispered into her ear. ‘You have always been my heart, Country.’” 

After so much time and arguing between Curzon and Isabel, we finally reach a scene where the two are able to be vulnerable with one another. In this moment, Curzon confesses his love for Isabel, and, a moment later, it’s she that kisses him. 

“Greenlaw spun on a heel so that he faced us. He touched the brim of his hat. ‘This company will always hold a space for you, Private Smith.’ I bowed.” 

The details of so much of Curzon’s life have been a function of someone else’s choosing. His slavery and his freedom have occurred either out of powerlessness or happenstance. Joining the Colonial Army was a choice he made for himself. We see, in this moment, the result of that choice: a place of his own, and the kinship of friends and fellow soldiers.