Washington's Lady (28 page)

The number of wounded was daunting, and there was only one me. “I will try.”

I moved on to the next soldier, asleep upon a few boards, his tattered blanket nowhere near large enough to cover him. I attempted to tuck it beneath his feet which bore no shoes. The act exposed his arms.

I turned to the attendant who accompanied me. “Is there a piece of cloth left in the basket?”

Raymond shook his head. “You used the last one four soldiers back.”

I looked upon the sleeping soldier, wondering whether cold arms or cold feet were the larger discomfort. His hair was matted with blood from a gash that looked too wide for proper healing.
Too soon it will not matter.

I started at my own thought. That I had come to be so matter-of-fact with death horrified me.

And yet, walking amongst the wounded day after day . . . seeing them come—and go . . . Most were not being treated for the wounds of war. There was little fighting going on beyond the occasional skirmish of one of our foraging parties coming into contact with one of the British, but disease was rampant: dysentery, pneumonia, and all sorts of complaints brought about by unsanitary conditions and poor or nonexistent food.

“Lady Washington? Since the basket is empty, are we done for the day?”

It was tempting. Visiting the men exhausted me. And yet, how could I go back to the Potts house and sit before a fire when they were suffering so?

“Not yet,” I said, moving on.

I spotted a man—or half a man, as he was so gaunt, smiling at me. I went to his side.

“Are you
her?
”

I continued to blush at such recognition. “I am Mrs. Washington, yes.”

He extended a bandaged hand. “We wait for you each winter. Did you know that?”

I felt tears threaten but held them back. “I am very honoured. I wait to come to
you
.”

“We know it is a great sacrifice for you to leave your home and visit us.”

I put my hand upon his shoulder, shaking my head. “My sacrifice is nothing, dear boy, compared to all of yours. My honour is nothing. All should go to you.”

“No, no, dear lady, you—”

I had had enough adulation. “What is your name, soldier?”

“William, ma’am.”

“I had a brother named William. A fine man he was. Just like you. Where are you from, William?”

“Vermont.”

“I have not had the pleasure. Is it beautiful there?” I pulled a stool beside him and asked about his family and the life he had left behind—the life he was fighting for.

It was the least I could do.

Sadly, the least. And the most.

*****

I disliked this duty more than any. I was annoyed that too many women put me in this position, and yet, as desperate as they were, I knew I might have done the same.

“Sit, Mrs. Drinker.”

Although our upstairs room was tiny, I could not impose upon the other spaces during the day when George and his men needed room to deal with the war.

She sat, her face hopeful, her hands keeping each other company in her lap. “I appreciate your taking my side, Mrs. Washington, and sending me to see your husband.”

I knew of her meeting—her very, very brief meeting, for George had no time for traitors’ wives.

“Do you have good news for me?” she asked.

I took a chair nearby, the two of us close enough for our dresses to touch. “I am sorry, Mrs. Drinker, but I am afraid George cannot free your husband from our prison. No matter how extensive is your love for him, or my sympathy for you, it comes to this: Americans should not sell supplies to the enemy.”

She opened her mouth to speak but wisely shut it. She rose. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Washington.”

“And yours, Mrs. Drinker.”

I saw her to the door, once again incredulous. I knew times were desperate. I knew citizens were faced with difficult survival decisions every day, but the truth was, it was long past the time to take sides. Completely. Utterly. As God did not like lukewarm people—wishing them either hot or cold, lest He spew them out of his mouth—neither did I.

So there.

*****

I arranged a party for George’s forty-sixth birthday on February 22, 1778, in the new log addition he had ordered built at the back of the Potts house for dining and the sewing circles I held regularly. I brewed coffee made with acorns—the standard fare in such hard times. There was little more I could offer. But to make things merry, I asked a few soldiers who were musicians to play us a concert.

When they finished, we applauded and George stood. “Bravo, gentlemen! Bravo.”

I moved to their leader and discreetly pressed into his palm fifteen shillings for their effort, then made a request. “Would you continue to play some songs for singing?”

The fiddle player looked in his hand, his eyes grew wide, then he bowed. “Of course, Lady Washington. Anything for you.”

George laughed. “If only
I
would elicit such loyalty.”

The soldier reddened and said, “Anything for you too, General, sir.”

George—quite delighted and at ease in the celebration—shooed his concern away. “My soldiers are ever faithful, ever loyal. I could ask for none better.”

“Hear, hear!” General Knox said.

His wife, Lucy, was quick to join the toast. “To the men who battle for us!”

There was agreement throughout the room.

And much singing. Even George, who could not list singing among his many talents, joined in with an exuberance that gave me great pleasure.

’Twas a good night. A good birthday for my old man.

*****

Rumour had it a woman named Mrs. Loring had as much to do with the inaction of the British during their stay in Philadelphia as any act or action of a military nature. She was General Howe’s mistress—and the wife of one of his officers—and had apparently so enamored him with her pleasures that he was content to party and dine and leave the war for warmer weather. Luckily, his officers and soldiers were content to follow suit.

Our officers’ wives who had come to Valley Forge to live with their patriot husbands had great fun with such rumours, and I, for one, hoped they were true. Time. We needed time for our troops to be further trained, and time to hear news of an essential alliance with the French. Let the British carouse and be distracted. The longer the better. Although I made great attempts to bring laughter and joy to our lives at camp, I was ever mindful of the responsibility we had to care for these men, to buoy them up, to mold them into fine soldiers. George did his part and I did mine.

And the Indians did theirs.

We did not expect this help. But during the winter, when our troops were at their neediest, some Oneida Indians walked hundreds of miles from the north, bringing with them six hundred bushels of corn. Our men were so starved they wanted to eat it raw, but the Indians intervened—knowing the raw corn would swell in their stomachs and kill them—and showed them how to cook it. And eat gradually. One Oneida woman, Polly Cooper, stayed behind to help the sick soldiers and teach them how to cook the corn.

I was so moved by their help that I gave Polly a bonnet and a shawl. A poor trade on her part; but I needed to do something. Women are not so very different, no matter what their background.

Another to do their part was France. In April, young Lafayette returned from France in time to hear good news: our two countries had signed an agreement to be allies. Lafayette—in his demonstrative and dramatic way—responded by taking George by the arms and kissing both cheeks. The men cheered and soon the entire camp was awash in celebration. I spotted George playing hoops with some of the camp children, smiling as I rarely saw him smile.

At the end of the day George made a speech from his heart. “It having pleased the Almighty Ruler of the Universe to defend the Cause of the United American States by raising us up a powerful friend among the princes of the earth to establish our liberty and independence upon lasting foundations, it becomes us to set apart a day for gratefully acknowledging the divine goodness and celebrating the important event which we owe to his benign interposition.

“Tomorrow, I declare an official day of public celebration beginning with morning religious services, followed by parades, marching, and the glad firings of cannon and musketry. When all is done, I will host a grand banquet and we will toast our country and the good king of all France.”

Hurrah for King Louis! Hurrah for our United States! And thank God for both.

*****

A sentry burst into headquarters. “They are leaving!”

I was in the dining room mending shirts, and ran out to hear the rest of it. George and some of his officers came out of his office. “Explain yourself, Corporal.”

The man saluted, then put a hand to his chest as he gained his breath. “The British are leaving Philadelphia and heading toward New York! I saw rows of soldiers, and wagons upon wagons of supplies and civilians going with them.”

We all looked to George for his reaction. “It appears they do not appreciate our alliance with France. ’Tis certain news has come to them as it came to us.”

“’Tis a new general in charge, sir. News is Howe went back to England. ’Tis Clinton who is retreating.”

“Not without us upon their backs,” George said.

“We are going to chase them?”

“We have not sat here for nine months to let them go with our blessing.”

The men returned to his office to make plans, their voices rising with excitement.

I left my sewing behind and went upstairs.

The waiting was over. The war would begin again.

It was time I went home.

*****

It was midsummer, and I was home. Each return was a blessing and a burden. For after being gone for five months, ’twas like starting all over. Everything, from house to chores to manners, had to be created afresh.

Jacky, Eleanor, and my granddaughters were my chief joy. I always did best with children about me. But Eleanor was skittish and needed attending to nearly as much as the girls. I was not certain why until one day I caught her in the breezeway that connected the kitchen to the house. She was not on any errand but was holding on to a column, peering at the Potomac beyond.

“Is something bothering you, dear?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded toward the river. “They could come get us.”

Ah. They. The British.

“They have before.”

Yes, indeed. Years before, Lord Dunmore had sailed warships up the river to kidnap me. “A storm turned them away. The warships did not come.”

“We cannot depend upon such a storm in July.” She turned her back upon the river to face me. Her brow was wet with perspiration—from the heat or concern? “Jack said there were two failed kidnappings during your trips north.”

“Failed, Eleanor. Failed. And I was never aware of them until after the fact.”

“I do not know why you keep going back.”

“I go where I am needed.”

“We need you here.”

“Needed most,” I said. I put my arm around her and led her toward the house. “We cannot dwell on such things lest we spend our days locked in a closet.”

“But they might—”

“They might. And if they do, we will conduct ourselves with calm, bravery, and common sense.”

“You have those qualities. I am afraid I do not.”

“You may surprise yourself, my dear.”

But in truth, I prayed she would never be faced with such a prospect. I too was afraid she would not fare well.

*****

Unwittingly, the war taught me geography. Monmouth, New Jersey, was the newest addition to my knowledge. I sat upon the lawn of Mount Vernon, on a blanket spread with dollies and blocks. My little darlings played nearby: Betsy was just two and full of the vim and vigour of her father as she ran and fell, laughed, and stood up only to do it again. And sweet Patty, at nine months, crawled from blanket to grass and back again to push herself up upon my lap.

“No, no,” I said to Patty, “we do not eat leaves.”

The child did not listen to me but made her own decision that leaves were not tasty and, making a disturbing face, spit them out. In this way, she too was like her father, who preferred to learn things the hard way.

With the girls content, I was allowed a moment to read a letter I had received from George—actually, read it again, for away from his presence, I loved to hear his voice through his words upon the page. Especially good news.

Monmouth turned out to be a glorious and happy day. Without exaggerating, the trip of the British through the Jerseys in killed, wounded, prisoners, and deserters, has cost them at least 2,000 men—and of their best troops. We have 60 men killed, 132 wounded, and about 130 missing, some of whom I supposed may yet come in. Our enemy lost near 500 to desertion—most of those Hessians who became overcome by the scalding heat and damp. ’Twas not an easy battle, more due to the disloyalty of my own officers. General Lee was given orders to attack their flank, but upon riding up to help him, I found his troops retreating and in great confusion. They had not e’en fired a shot—and they wished to fight, but had been told to retreat because Lee did not think they were up to battle against British regulars.

You know I do not swear, Martha, but with the sight of Lee’s cowardice, I did more than my share. I sent Lee to the back and took command myself, riding up and back among them, encouraging them into battle. The men rallied at my instruction—and were eager to do so—and performed with great distinction.

You will share my joy in knowing that young Laurens, Hamilton, and Lafayette distinguished themselves in a frenzy of valor. The first two had their horses shot from beneath them, but carried on just the same.

I was never so proud of the men. It seems all the hardships of the long winter did not break their spirit, but made them all the more determined. And though the British denied us a final glorious battle by sneaking away to safety in the dead of night, I feel as though I am finally being the leader I should be. The world may not remember Monmouth, but I, for one, will ne’er forget it.

You will also be pleased to note that Congress has seen fit to reward me with powers beyond those I have held as yet. I am now to superintend and direct the military operations in all the departments in these states. With reluctance—for the words are too glowing—I will quote for you from Henry Laurens, John’s father and the president of Congress: ‘Love and respect for Your Excellency is impressed on the heart of every grateful American, and your name will be revered by posterity.’ To be on the verge of removal and now receive such notations . . .