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Authors: Charles Johnson

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BOOK: Soulcatcher
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Thus, it was Alexander Freeman, George Liberty, and John Free who rode a few days later, bone weary from travel, into the British camp. You will never forget this sight: scores of black men in British uniforms, with the inscription
LIBERTY TO SLAVES
on their breasts, bearing arms so naturally one would have thought they were born with a rifle in their hands. Some were cleaning their weapons. Others marched. Still others were relaxing or stabbing their bayonets at sacks suspended from trees or performing any of the thousand chores that kept a regiment well-oiled and ready. When you signed on, the black soldier who wrote down your names didn't question you, though he remarked he thought you didn't look very strong. The three of you were put immediately to work. Harder work, you recall, than anything you'd known working in Master Selby's house, but for the first time in fifteen years you fell to each task eagerly, gambling that the labor purchased a new lease on life.

Over the first months, then years of the seesawing war, you, Titus, and Caesar served His Majesty's army in more capacities than you had fingers on the hand: as orderlies to the white officers, laborers, cooks, foragers, and as foot soldiers who descended upon farms abandoned by their white owners, burning the enemy's fortifications and plundering plantations for much-needed provisions; as spies slipping in and out of southern towns to gather information; and as caretakers to the dying when smallpox swept through your regiment, weakening and killing hundreds of men. M)ur brother among them. And it was then you nearly gave up the gamble.
You
wondered if it might not be best to take your chips off the table. And pray the promise of the Virginia Convention that black runaways to the British side would be pardoned was genuine. And slink back home, your hat in your hand, to Master Selby's farm—if it was still there. Or perhaps you and Caesar might switch sides, deserting to the ranks of General Washington who, pressured for manpower, belatedly reversed his opposition to Negroes fighting in the Continental Army. And then there was that magnificent Declaration penned by Jefferson, proclaiming that "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness," words you'd memorized after hearing them. If the Continentals won, would this brave, new republic be so bad?

"Alex, those are just
words
," said Caesar. "White folks' words for other white folks."

"But without us, the rebels would lose—"

"So would the redcoats. Both sides need us, but I don't trust neither one to play fair when this thing is over. They can do that Declaration over. Naw, the words I want to see are on a British pass with my name on it I'm stayin' put 'til I see
that.
"

Caesar never did. A month later your regiment was routed by the Continental Army. The rebels fired cannons for six hours, shelling the village your side occupied two days before. You found pieces of your cousin strewn everywhere. And you ran. Ran. You lived by your wits in the countryside, stealing what you needed to survive until you reached territory still in British hands, and again found yourself a pawn in the middle of other men's battles—Camden, where your side scattered poorly trained regulars led by General Gates, then liberated slaves who donned their masters' fancy clothing and powdered wigs and followed along behind Gates as his men pressed on; and the disastrous encounter at Guilford Court House, where six hundred redcoats died and Cornwallis was forced to fall back to Wilmington for supplies, then later abandon North Carolina altogether, moving on to Virginia. During your time as a soldier, you saw thousands sacrifice their lives, and no, it wasn't as if you came through with only a scratch. At Camden you took a ball in your right shoulder. Fragments remain there still, making it a little hard for you to sleep on that side or withstand the dull ache in your shoulder on days when the weather is damp. But, miraculously, as the war began to wind down, you were given the elusive, long-coveted British pass.

On the ship, now traveling north past Augusta, you knock your cold pipe against the railing, shaking dottle from its bowl, then reach into your coat for the scrap of paper that was so difficult to earn. Behind you, other refugees are bedding down for the night, covering themselves and their children with blankets. You wait until one of the hands on deck passes a few feet beyond where you stand, then you unfold the paper with fingers stiffened by the cold. In the yellowish glow of the ship's lantern, tracing the words with your forefinger, shaping your lips silently to form each syllable, you read:

This is to certify to whomfoever it may concern, that the Bearer hereof ... Alexander Freeman ... a Negro, reforted to the Britifh Lines, in consequence of the Proclamations of Sir William Howe, and Sir Henry Clinton, late Commanders in Chief in America; and that the faid Negro has hereby his Excellency Sir Benjamin Hampton's Permiffion to go to Nova-Scotia, or wherever elfe he may think proper ... By Order of Brigadier General Ruttledge

The document, dated April 1783, brings a broad smile to your lips. Once your ship lands, and you find a home, you will frame this precious deed of manumission. At least in this sense, your gamble paid off. And for now you still prefer the adopted name Alexander Freeman to the one given you at birth—Dorothy.

Maybe you'll be Dorothy again, later in Nova Scotia. Of course, you'll keep the surname Freeman. And, Lord willing, when it's safe you will let your hair grow out again to its full length, wear dresses, and perhaps start a new family to replace the loved ones you lost during the war.

Martha's Dilemma

NOTHING HAS BEEN
quite the same since George's funeral, including his Negroes. I've been managing the affairs at Mount Vernon, as I always did when he was away, first during the Revolution, then when they kept calling him back to a government service he never truly felt equal to, nurturing the fledging nation that is, I suppose, the child we never had. But even as I devote my days to managing this sprawling estate, particularly instructing the servants to maintain the arcade connecting the house to our workshops and greenhouses, of which he was so proud, I cannot help but think about how little time we had together after the Old Man turned in his resignation at the Philadelphia State House. Two years! They passed so quickly, and much of it was consumed by his entertaining visitors from all over the world when he wasn't laboring—with those nice, two young men he hired—to keep up with voluminous correspondence. And even then that owlish old curmudgeon John Adams had the nerve to ask him out of retirement to help refine the military when Talleyrand tried to blackmail us for the right of Yankee ships to have free passage on the seas, knowing—as Adams always knew—that George could never say no, that he'd struggle into his old uniform and leave for Philadelphia to once again transform pitifully unprepared farmer-soldiers into fighting men for a new republic. If he'd only known how sick the Old Man was sometimes; I doubt Adams realized, despite his being right there, that on Inauguration Day, by the time George reached the balcony of the Federal Building, where he would place his hand on the Bible and become president, he was so ill he collapsed onto the first chair he found.

Yes, they were careless with him, his admirers—I
always
told him that. But he was careless with himself, too, believing perhaps in his own indestructibility after his surveying work on the Virginia frontier, that dreadful winter at Valley Forge, the illnesses he'd overcome during the Revolution before he was even aware that he was ill, and having two horses shot out from under him in the midst of terrible gunfire during the French and Indian War. On December 13 I gave him a good piece of my mind about that, when he returned from riding on a day as dreary and damp as any I've seen. Naturally, he waved off my objections, "Oh, it's not all that bad outside, Martha," but he was shivering and sneezing when the servants took his wraps. At dinner, he barely touched his food. When he spoke I could tell his voice was getting stuffy. That he had the beginnings of a bad cold, and here we were so close to the holidays—and just after George's nephew Lawrence married Nellie Custis—with so many people on our social calendar to see! Oh, I scolded Kim severely, the big oaf, and sent him off to bed, to which he shyly retreated with a rum and toddy.

I should have
known
something was wrong.

Two hours later when I climbed under the covers, kissing him on his cheek, I discovered he had no voice at all. He couldn't talk. I rang the bell for Billy Lee, one of our most trustworthy servants, and when he arrived, breathless after running from the kitchen, I told him to saddle a horse immediately and ride to Dr. James Craik's home nearby, and to fetch him, regardless if he'd turned in for the night or not. Poor George could only communicate with me in writing. He took a quill, paper, and ink from his study, smiled at me, and scrawled,
Not to worry, James will fix me up. If he forces me to stay in bed, do remember to have someone see to the lame horse I told you about, and take care ofthe washout in the fields.

Dr. Craik, an old friend, arrived just before midnight. He examined the Old Man, and then looked very grave. Turning to me, he said, "Lady Washington, your husband has a severe case of quinsy. That's an inflammation of the tonsils," he explained, though I knew perfectly well what quinsy was and felt a little miffed by his condescension, but this is a cross women have had to bear from time immemorial, that and living in the shadow of their spouses, of course. He recommended, as was right, that Billy ride all night to Alexandria (By Billy's crabbed expression at this chore I should have seen a portent of things to come) to bring two physicians of his acquaintance to help with cupping the Old Man, which our servant did. The next day Dr. Craik and those two men he'd summoned bled George. I was by his bedside all the while, holding his piebald hand firmly, and I must say that it is to Billy's credit that he never left my side except to jump to any task or errand that Dr. Craik asked of him. Our house servants waited solemnly outside the door, whispering among themselves, in part because I believe they loved the Old Man, and in greater part because all had heard that upon his (and my) death their manumission was promised in our will. They too were god-sent that day. They saw to the chores I was too distracted to discharge, some prayed for my husband's swift recovery, and others wept. Nevertheless, all our ministrations came to nought. At ten o'clock on December 14,1799, the man with whom I'd shared life for forty years—since our wedding when we both were twenty-seven—went on to his reward.

What, I have been wondering, is
my
reward, now that he's gone?

All over this new country he served indefatigably, flags were lowered when word of his death went abroad. In America's churches, state assemblies, and the government he'd created, there were eulogies, the finest of them coming from Harry Lee—known as "Light Horse Harry" when he served under George during the Revolution—who said my husband was "First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." These were beautiful tributes, for which I am thankful. I can even turn an appreciative, albeit amused, smile toward the well-meaning mythmakers who began enlarging his legend before we could properly bury him in Mount Vernon's family tomb, spinning outrageous tales of his throwing a silver dollar across the Rappahannock River (What balderdash!), and that when his father, Augustine, discovered one of his cherry trees cut down, young George confessed to the deed, saying, "I cannot tell a lie." Well, I can tell you this: No one knew the Old Man as well as I did. He could lie, oh yes. He was, after all, a
politician.
Oh, and if one could see his temper when he was angry! Like Vesuvius, that was. Nor did he have the Olympian self-confidence so many attributed to him, what with the paucity of his education. He was painfully shy with every girl before he met me, possibly because his face bore scars from the smallpox he endured while journeying as a boy with his half-brother Lawrence to the West Indies. He was a slow reader. A poor speller. He was a man of deeds, not ideas. He knew no French at all and thus signed a miserable terms of surrender when he was captured during the battle of Great Meadows. Those are matters I assisted him with—matters of culture—as well as adding five thousand acres to his estate when we wed—indeed, you could say it was seventeen thousand acres, if you count the land now owned by my son. No, he was not perfect, but what woman could have asked for a better companion for these last forty years?

When I was a very young girl, studying the classics, I read that the ancient Greeks honored their Olympic game heroes by knocking out a portion of the wall that protected their city—the heroes stood in that spot for the rest of the day, the idea being that with champions such as them a wall was not needed. On December 14 it felt across this country, and especially at Mount Vernon, that we had lost not only a hero but one of the very foundations of our house. For days after his passing I spoke to no one about the depth of this absence save to my dearest and closest friends. Nor did I speak of how subtly I began to see a change in our servants. At first, I thought the smiles with which they greeted me were simply intended to cheer me a little. Then, ever so slowly, I realized they were smiling too much. And too often. Sometimes when I started to enter the kitchen, I'd stop outside the door, listening to the blacks laughing whilst they prepared my meals, and once our cook told the chambermaid how pleased she was that now she'd never again have to slave all day to prepare the elaborate desserts the Old Man was so fond of. At that point, I strode inside. Seeing me, both women went fussily back to work, ducking their heads, but I saw one of them, I swear, wink at the other.

Strangely enough, the worst among them was Billy Lee. With my husband dead and buried, he started behaving as if
he
was now the master of Mount Vernon, or at least over the other servants. This would have been impossible, I realized, had George and I not become so dependent upon the blacks. We'd delegated so many household responsibilities to them, and not just in the manor but in the tobacco fields as well, that I would be at pains to tell you the inventory of our kitchen, or how well the Old Man's latest agricultural experiments were proceeding. Ironically, we were enslaved to
them,
shackled to their industry, the knowledge they'd acquired because we were too busy running the country to develop it ourselves!

BOOK: Soulcatcher
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