Washington's Lady (29 page)

I carry no reward other than the new ability to get done that which needs to be done in—hopefully—a more expeditious manner. I pray you and our family are safe and in each other’s happy company.

Yours always, my dearest,

George

Yours always, my dearest . . .

Reading such a letter, sitting upon the lawn with my granddaughters nearby, amid the haven of our home at Mount Vernon, I was a woman greatly blessed.

With the British having retreated to New York . . . perhaps this would all be over soon and George could join in our blessings. Perhaps.

*****

“But, Mother, I do not want to own that land anymore. It contains an insufferable quantity of mosquitoes, and running it . . .” Jacky shrugged.

We sat in the west parlour waiting for Eleanor to bring the children down to say their good-nights. I was glad it was I alone who witnessed my son’s shrug.

I hated to admit as much, but I knew Jacky was not keen on running
any
plantation. Although he had proven himself to be a loving husband and father—he was to be a father again in the spring—he had not completely lost his wild ways. It seemed being elected a Burgess had gone to his head and he preferred spending his free time in society, or playing cards and gambling.

I adjusted a stocking on the darning ball. “Your poppa bought you that plantation with your inheritance money, invested in it for its fine value, but also with hopes that one day you and Eleanor would live there.”

“But I am not good at dealing with overseers and slaves like Poppa is. I am not keen on business and find the act of selling crops most demeaning.”

I took offense. “You consider what your poppa does with the greatest skill demeaning?”

Thankfully, he reddened. “Demeaning to me, Mamma. Because I am not good at it and do not know the price I should get, nor how to get it.”

“Those are skills you can learn, that every landowner must learn.”

To my dismay he shrugged again. Although my son—as the sole heir to my first husband’s fortune—did not need to concern himself with money, I was distressed at his penchant for inaction and the pursuit of pleasure.

“I wish to sell the land, Mamma.”

I shook my head with vehemence. “Now is not the time to sell anything for cash, Jacky. Land for land. Your poppa has given you such advice himself. In the course of the last two years, with our currency losing value at an alarming rate, a pound may not, in the space of two years more, be worth a shilling.”

“Which means now is the time to gain the cash, before it is worthless.”

“You are not thinking. If you gain cash, it will only have worth if you spend it immed—” I stopped myself. Oh dear. I knew too well Jacky would have no trouble spending an immense amount with great proclivity. Even the fact goods were in short supply would not stop him.

I spotted a twinkle in his eye. He rose from his chair. “I am going to see to the girls.”

And make your escape.

I looked at the door after he left. To have regrets as a parent was near as painful as grief. Perhaps it was another kind of grief—grief for what could have been in the present if I had been a different sort of mother. Sterner. Less indulgent.

I turned back to the darning but was interrupted by the memory of George’s oft-heard admonition:
Martha, you spoil the boy!

I had. Unequivocally. And worse, had chosen to do so in spite of all better advice.

To what end?

To this end. To the creation of a boy—a man—who had little interest in hard work and industry. A man who preferred instant pleasures to lasting satisfactions.

I stared out the window but only saw my reflection in the glass dividing the candlelit room from the darkness.

My brow was furrowed.

As it should have been. Regret and self-admonishment were serious business.

*****

Jacky sold his land for cash, yet did buy a property for himself and his family. It was nine hundred acres of land near Alexandria. It was called Abingdon and was situated on the west bank of the Potomac. It was once owned by the Alexander family, for whom Alexandria was named. Its position equidistant between Mount Vernon and Mount Airy gave the satisfaction Jacky had at least used logic in the purchase.

And it
was
logical they moved to their own home. They had been married four and a half years and would soon have three children. Although I grieved their departure from Mount Vernon, I applauded this step of independence.

And prayed it would not end in disaster.

*****

If I were a jealous woman . . .

I watched as George bowed and parried with Kitty Greene as his partner. Kitty—friend though she was—was a terrible flirt. And a dancer equal to my George.

Although I had not danced in public in years, George thrived on it, and it gave me great joy in seeing
him
so joyful.

Of course, on this night, joy was present all around. I had joined George in Middlebrook, New Jersey, and times were quiet as the British moved south with their efforts. Sadly, Savannah, Georgia, had been taken, but up in the north, things were relatively quiet. I was informed I now had my own regiment: the Lady Washington Dragoons, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Baylor. I was honoured beyond words.

I was also relieved at the scarcity of danger, for its release allowed many more wives to come to winter camp—and bring their children. Before this year it was a hard decision for women to choose between supporting their husband in camp or taking care of their children back home. In this year, in this place, the decision could be inclusive.

Tonight we celebrated many blessings and came together to honour each other, and our Cause. It was February 18, 1779, and we observed the one-year anniversary of our alliance with France. General Knox and his artillery company were the hosts, and we were all dressed in our finest or as fine as we could muster considering the times. Seventy women and three hundred men were present. Knox’s wife, Lucy, had taken the honour of the first minuet with my husband. My, my, she had gotten stout indeed. I, who struggled with plumpness my entire life, found a bit of satisfaction in seeing someone more rotund than myself. By many degrees.

I should not have thought such things, but from the sidelines I had time to discern and discuss those who partook of the gaiety in full view.

There was Esther Reed, the wife of the new Pennsylvania governor. British born and bred, she was now a patriot through and through. I heard she had suffered many hardships during the war, once escaping the British with her three small children and ailing mother, driven in a wagon by a young boy of fourteen. The lot of them chose the danger of the western Indian wilderness to the brutality of the British soldiers, who, so far from the morals of home, often acted in a way most vile and horrid. I admired her greatly.

I waved at Mrs. Ford, whose husband had died at Morristown. That she would be here to celebrate with us . . . her perseverance and dedication pleased everyone who met her.

And then my eyes returned to my husband—and to Kitty, his affable partner in dance. Although she was four-and-twenty and the mother of three children, she could have been considered the belle of the ball.

The present dance ended and the partners bowed to each other. Kitty tugged at my husband’s sleeve and said to the assemblage, “I make a wager I can dance longer than any man here, and that includes you, General.”

With a wink to me and a bow to her, George said, “I will take that wager.”

After quitting at but three hours, Kitty lost the wager—for she did not know my husband.

That was only
my
pleasure.

*****

On March 21, 1779, Eleanor delivered another daughter, Eleanor Parke Custis—called Nelly. The child was born at Abingdon. I hoped she would cement the feeling of security and family I wished my son to embrace.

That Eleanor was not doing well in her recovery . . .

I was a torn woman, wishing to be with my husband in New Jersey, my son and grandchildren in Maryland, and home at Mount Vernon.

If only I could be two places at once.

Or three.

Although each winter camp was different in its own right, all shared bad weather, worry, and waiting.

The second time I was in Morristown over the winter of 1779 to 1780 was worse than the first. The winter was frigid to the point that the water surrounding New York City was frozen for the first time in the colony’s history. Chesapeake Bay suffered a similar fate, all the way south to the Potomac. The snow was relentless, with drifts higher than common memory. In hindsight, many looked fondly upon Valley Forge.

We lived in a nice house supplied to us by a widow, Mrs. Ford, who insisted on moving herself and her children into the parlour, leaving us the rest of the house for our lodging and army headquarters. Again, George took for himself one bedroom above and one office on the main floor. The Ford home was rare in that it had an attached kitchen along the back third of the house, but even that was oft full of aides using the tables for work.

Though we were amply housed, our thoughts were never allowed to wallow in the warmth. Not with our men suffering nearby. They sometimes went five or six days without bread or meat, and sometimes two or three days without either. They ate every kind of horse food but hay. Townspeople were fed up with us, wanting more, more, more from them. And some soldiers had taken to sneaking out at night and stealing what they could. George, of course, frowned on this, but did little to stop it. ’Twas not for material gain these men stole but to survive. The army was not supplying their needs. The entire nation was paralyzed by the freeze. In January, drifts were ten feet high. Few supplies could get anywhere. If there were supplies to be had. Or money to pay for them. It did not help that the British counterfeited our colonial script.

The United States were bankrupt.

And waiting for it all to end.

It seemed General Clinton, sitting with his British troops in New York City, was in no hurry to press the matter. Yet we heard of battles in North and South Carolina. And Savannah, Georgia, lost in ’78, was still in British hands. George could not leave to pursue such battles. George could not leave at all, for six of his eleven generals were unavailable, being ill or having returned to their homes on furlough.

When was my husband’s furlough? When did he have time to be sick? To be well? When did he have time to spend the day in recreation or relaxation or (dare I say it?) idleness?

Although he could not go home, George and I spoke of Mount Vernon often, and I know his letters to Lund were replete with suggestions for horses, lambs, crops, and repairs. Our hearts were always there . . . Although George had begun his time away at war by supplying Lund with weekly letters full of instructions, as the war progressed, his time to write the letters, and the ability to get the letters delivered, lessened. Lund was being forced to fend for himself. Last we heard, due to the fact the largest buyer of our grain crops—England—was obviously not available for our commerce, and our currency was now worth one fortieth its previous worth, Lund had let many fields lie fallow. He produced only what was needed to sustain Mount Vernon itself. George and I grieved we were forced to neglect our private concerns which were declining every day and would possibly end in capital losses, if not absolute ruin, before we were at liberty to look after them.

In actuality, I worried about George. This second stay at Morristown nearly broke him. He became morose and despondent, and in the middle of the night, in each other’s arms, he confided his greatest fears. “The entire nation seems to rest upon my shoulders, Martha. It is as though we wait only for the end.”

“I know, my dear. But things have looked glum before.”

I felt him shake his head. “Our prospects are infinitely worse than they have been at any period of the war. Unless some expedient can be instantly adopted, a dissolution of the army for want of subsistence is unavoidable. And with the army, so goes the hopes of a nation.”

I had no words to comfort him. No one did. He was indeed alone against the world, and all I could do was hold him close and let him know I was there. I would always be there.

As would the Almighty. We prayed with great fervency that winter. I sometimes imagined the prayers of the men and women at Morristown, rising from their huddled sources through the frigid gray air toward heaven like tendrils of smoke drifting upon the wind. My largest prayer was that these tendrils reached the ears of our God, and that He would be merciful and release us from our suffering.

And yet, forcing ourselves to look toward something positive beyond ourselves, our soldiers were gaining new respect. I heard a quote from a Hessian soldier who had fought against us: “I now see what ‘enthusiasm’—what these ragged fellows call ‘liberty’—can do. Out of this rabble rises a people who defy kings.”

Defy logic. Defy common sense.

But we would not give up. The bridges of our country were burned. There was only one way—forward.

To victory?

We could not allow any other result.

*****

I was awakened by the sounds of the alarm bell and the shouts of men. In a single motion George threw off the covers and pulled on his breeches and boots.

Sounds of men’s footfalls upon the stairs broke through the night.

Not again.

George was just putting on his coat when the men rushed into our bedroom.

“Pardon us, General. Mrs. Washington.”

Their apology was not needed. I snuggled into the bed and pulled the covers high in modesty
and
against the cold, which would presently increase.

Two soldiers whipped open the windows in our bedroom and aimed their muskets out into the dark, protecting us from the enemy.

I heard commotion in the other rooms as all windows were covered by these elite Life Guards, whose entire order was to protect headquarters. Each of the men, handpicked for the duty, stood over six feet in height.

These guards were necessary because the Ford house was situated a few miles from the main camp, with British outposts separating us. Mrs. Ford and I often agreed we did not mind the late night intrusions for safety’s sake.

“There! By the tree!”

Shots rang out, I made myself as small as possible and comforted myself with the thought all this
would
be over.

Someday.

*****

Although the capriciousness of weather caused me fits, and though I was discouraged at the impossibility of predicting its nature, I took solace in knowing God provided four seasons, and we could depend on them to eventually pass one to the next in line. Winter was always followed by spring. Eventually. Finally.

After suffering through twenty-six storms, many of them true blizzards, spring arrived, as it always did—praise God! The temperatures rose, the rivers thawed, and fish could be caught and served. Plants began to grow with the promise of berries, fruit, and other produce.

Yet with the thaw came the mud. Oozing mud that made one remember with fickle affection the pure facade of the snow.

But enough of that, for nothing could muddy the joy we received on the tenth of May, 1780. For upon that day, our dear boy, the Marquis de Lafayette, once again returned to us from France. He had heralded his coming with a letter, promising good news.

He did not disappoint.

The entire camp anticipated his arrival, for he had spent the past months in his homeland, lobbying for expedient support—for though France had agreed to help us, no help had come. The jubilant tone of his letter suggested he had been successful. How successful, we would soon see.

We had to laugh at the way in which he descended upon our house and headquarters. Dressed in fine regalia, as was his style, he was accompanied by a band of cheering officers and soldiers.

George and I met him on the front stoop. Young Hamilton, exuberant for his personal gain at the return of his friend, as well as for the national benefits, ran forward first. “He is back! Do you see? He has returned!”

“I do see, Alexander,” I said. “And your joy is ours.” I looked over to George and saw his eyes were transfixed upon the coming crowd. There were tears in his eyes as he spotted our dear marquis, waving his hat at us, his face aglow with shared anticipation. This truly was the return of a son.

Lafayette’s band stopped in front of the house and he dismounted with a singular ease. He strode up the walk, his eyes upon only one man.

The
man, first in the hearts of so many.

My George.

They embraced and, with lips to each other’s ears, exchanged private greetings. Then it was my turn. He took my hands in his, kissed them with aplomb, then kissed first one cheek, then the other. “Madame, my heart cannot tell you its joy.”

“There is no need, my boy. For its joy is ours.”

We retreated inside, and after many exuberant greetings by the officers and aides, were finally allowed time alone in George’s office.

In this place, where privacy was as dear as any provision, I shut the door, allowing us small time to ourselves.

“Well then,” I said to our marquis. “Before we hear news of country, I must hear about your family. Is your new son doing well? Your wife? What a glorious Christmas present he must have been to you.”

“I am most pleased to report that George Washington Lafayette is
magnifique
and basks in the knowledge he is your godson.”

I laughed. “My greatest happiness is derived from the bevy of godsons named George Washington and goddaughters named for me. Did you know Patrick Henry and our own general Greene have such children?”

He joined in my laughter. “After the war, the Washington namesakes must come together and have a grand celebration.”

“We are so very honoured,” George said. “And your wife?”

A mischievous grin took hold of his face. “She is well, and is still very much infatuated with you, my general. That is why I keep her in France, for if the two of you were ever to meet . . .” He looked at me. “You and I would be forced to find other consorts.”

“That is why I keep George here, my boy. If he were ever to visit your family in France—”

“I have invited him often, but he refuses.”

George nodded. “I am too old for such travels, and my ignorance of your language . . . I would not wish to rely on the knowledge of others, and I am too old to learn.”

“Too old? Nonsense,” Lafayette said. “You are but . . . forty-five?”

“Eight,” George said. “Forty-eight. And often seventy in feeling.”

Lafayette’s expression turned pensive, yet still held a degree of gaiety. “Perhaps the other news—of country—will make you feel yourself again?”

George’s eyes lit up. “Please.”

Lafayette sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped upon the edge of the table George used as a desk. “I am most happy to inform you that after meeting with the king at Versailles, he has agreed to send . . .” With a smile he looked at me, then back at George and said, “Six thousand French troops, supplies enough for fifteen thousand American troops,
and
a fleet of French battleships to put those British Regulars to the test as they dare harass American ports.”

George sat back in his chair, his mouth agape. “Oh, my dear boy . . .”

Lafayette sat erect and pointed a finger upwards. “Together we shall, by God, conquer these troops who dare to oppress your freedom.”

As handshakes and embraces were exchanged, I noticed the marquis was correct. George did indeed look his old self again.

Hope will do that.

*****

In June I returned to Mount Vernon—what was left of it. Oh, we had the land, the constant, blessed land, but the potential it had once shown was forced into dormancy while the war raged on. It appeared exhausted.

As was I.

This time, upon returning from winter camp, I did not spring back to life as quickly. A weariness pressed upon me, as though I wore a heavy blanket upon a hot day.

And it was hot. The heat was so invasive the sky could no longer hold its blue but gave it up to a washed-out version of itself.

Which mirrored my own condition.

Jacky and Eleanor came to stay awhile, as Eleanor was once again in the midst of a difficult pregnancy. Each morning Jacky tried to cheer me by reminding me I had received word Marie Antoinette—the empress of all France—was sending me a “valuable present” as a token of affection for my contribution to the Cause. “Do you think it will come today, Mamma?”

I attempted to play along and oft said, “Surely today.”

Little Betsy and Patty played guessing games as to what it was.

I was most happy for what it stood for—our alliance with France. That
did
bring me joy. As did the news that helping our Cause had become a point of patriotism
and
fashion in France. Benjamin Franklin, doing his best in French circles, was apparently quite the celebrity, and his fur cap—considered the quintessence of wild America—was oft copied by French men of fashion.

When news came that the ship which carried my gift from the empress had been sunk by the British off the New York harbour, Jacky grieved more than I.

Although I
would
have liked to have known what it was . . .

*****

One morning, before dawn, began a day that added to my melancholy.

I was awakened by a scream.

I sat erect and listened again.

“Aaahhhhhh!”

“Eleanor!”

I grabbed my dressing gown, descended our private stairway, and ran up the front stairs and into the blue bedroom they used when in residence, a room that shared a wall with mine. I was greeted by my son, his face pulled with fear.

And fresh screams.

I hurried to the bedside and took Eleanor’s hand, holding it to my breast. “I am here, dear girl.”

She opened her eyes but a slit, and in them I saw a fear that was far keener than the fear I had seen in my son’s countenance. As a mother she knew, she
knew
. . .

I turned to Jacky. “Has Dr. Rumney been sent for?”

“Hours ago.”

“This has been going on for hours? Why did you not call me?”