Washington's Lady (24 page)

“That is beautiful,” Eleanor said. “And appropriate, for like Ruth and Naomi, you and I have a close bond.”

Yes, yes.
“It is something I cherish.”

Eleanor picked wax off the base of the candlestick. “I would follow you.” She smiled. “I did follow you. Here to this lovely cabin.”

“Only the best for you, my dear.” It felt good to laugh. But I had more serious issues upon my mind. “There may be a time . . .” I had to say it plain. “George has asked that I come to Cambridge and stay with him, near the troops, for the winter. Although he desired to return home this fall, it is not to be. With the issue of slaves possibly joining British forces, and the upheaval Dunmore is causing . . .”

“I thought we were going to visit your sister in Eltham.”

“We are. And as soon as it is safe, that is where I wish to go.”

“But then you plan to go to Cambridge?”

“Where is that?” Amanda asked.

“Massachusetts,” I said. “Near Boston.”

“Hundreds of miles to the north,” Eleanor said.

Amanda nodded, but I knew she had no mental claim to its true locale.

“I still am not certain,” I said. “I do not like the idea of leaving Mount Vernon.”

“Lund will take care—”

“Lund does well, but he only knows the man’s part of it. Who would take care of my duties?”

The girls looked at me blankly. Alas, I had hoped Eleanor would offer to stay behind . . .

“Well, then,” I said. “It appears I cannot go to Cambridge. I must stay in Mount Vernon and look after it for both of us.”

“But Poppa longs to see you.”

Yes, he does. Are you listening to me, girl?
“And I him . . .” Yet I knew there was more to George’s request than that. He wished for me to make an example so other wives of officers would come. It was the British way and would be a show of confidence, to say nothing of the heightening of officer morale.

We heard a horse and tensed. But then Jacky’s voice. “They have been turned back. It is safe!”

We went outside to hear more. Jacky flung himself off his horse and hugged his wife, then me. “They got as far as the mouth of Occoquan Creek, but there they encountered the Prince William militia, who were determined not to have them pass.” He smiled. “And then the storm . . . between the two, Dunmore had enough and retreated!”

“God be praised!” Eleanor said.

“Indeed,” I said. “For the storm was His doing and
did
save us.”

“So is it safe to go home?” she asked.

“Ready the horses,” I said.

Home. Home sweet home.

*****

I was true to my word and visited Nancy and Burwell and their family in Eltham. It was best for Eleanor if she kept occupied with family visits. As George had instructed family to give me solace from his absence, I did the same for dear Eleanor, to assuage the absence of her child. That her absence was permanent, and that mine might be . . .

I tried not to ponder the danger my husband faced daily. I could only take solace in knowing God was with him and would watch over him. I also embraced an inner knowing that God was not done with George Washington just yet. If someone were to question me as to what tangible fact would make me think such a thing, I would be unable to comply. There was nothing corporeal in this knowing, yet that did not mean it was without merit.

Soon after our arrival in Eltham, Lord Dunmore made good his threat by issuing a proclamation giving freedom to all slaves who would fight with the British. Virginia roiled with the news. Did we not have enough to worry about from loyalists who lived among us that we now had to worry that those who worked for us might turn against us? The
Virginia Gazette
tried to counter the offer by stating any slave caught would be executed and their families sold into the dreaded West Indies. It ran an article imploring the two hundred thousand slaves in Virginia to stand firm and not be taken in by this treasonous claim.

As I read the article, I thought it odd the
Gazette
would use this method to stop the insurgency, for slaves could not read . . .

And they did not listen on any account, for we heard news that eight hundred slaves joined up, and Dunmore created an Ethiopian Regiment. They were given the bright red uniforms, were trained, and were awarded their own motto: “Liberty for Slaves.”

The exodus did not just affect those willing to fight, for another twenty thousand men, women, and children left their owners and asked the British for protection. Just how the British army was going to accomplish this, I had no notion.

As for Mount Vernon . . . I received news from Lund that we lost a handful, including a favourite cook, Deborah Squash, and her husband, Harry.

Amid this development George sent urgent word for me to join him up north, in a city where there were no slaves to cause worry. I was still uncertain I should—or could—leave Mount Vernon unguarded. But then . . .

I received the last straw that made any thought of staying away from my husband untenable.

One morning, Burwell brought to evening supper a newspaper clipping he had received from up north. “Here,” he said. “You need to read this.”

Mr. Washington, we hear, is married to a very amiable Lady, but it is said Mrs. Washington, being a warm Loyalist, has separated from her husband since the commencement of the present troubles, and lives, very much respected, in the city of New York.

I let my mouth drop open. “How dare they!”

“What does it say, Mamma?” Jacky asked.

I passed him the paper and he and Eleanor read it together.

I pushed away from the table, unable to sit still. “Was it not bad enough one of these loyalist papers insinuated my husband had an affair with a servant girl?” The only evidence had come through a letter from another delegate, Benjamin Harrison, mentioning a “Kate, the washerwoman’s daughter” in the same sentence as George. Our side had claimed it a forgery, but it made me think twice about all correspondence. It was far too easy for it to fall into the wrong hands where it could be altered, misconstrued, or simply forged. I slapped my hands against my thighs. “The Kate scandal does not e’en deserve a rebuke, but this other? The rumour I am now a Tory? Must they now disparage my loyalty to not only George but to the Cause?”

Jacky threw the clipping on the table in disgust. “How can they print lies like this?”

“They can print what they like,” Burwell said. “The newspapers compete against each other to further their own agenda and loyalty.”

I took the clipping, crumpled it into as small a ball as I could, and tossed it in the middle of my dinner. “This forces my hand. I am going to Cambridge. Tomorrow.” On impulse I looked to Jacky. “You and Eleanor are coming with me.”

It was not what I had originally planned, but considering . . .

*****

I, who had never traveled north of Alexandria—just nine miles from Mount Vernon—was on my way through colonies as foreign to me as England or France. Maryland, Delaware, and soon Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. I was quite impressed with the beautiful country and its variances. It made me proud and held me in awe.

We did not travel at leisure, but with the greatest haste to beat the coming winter and fend off enemy troops. I could never forget the country was at war—one never knew if the people living inside a farmstead or running a shop were patriots or loyalists. The British soldiers were easy enough to spot with their red coats, but those who supported them . . . my nerves never left me. Especially when we thought about an old law—from the time of Henry VIII—that had been reinstated, saying anyone accused of treason against the crown (the taking up of arms certainly qualified) could be sent back to England to be tried, and if found guilty could be hanged, then drawn and quartered. I could not allow myself to think of any of that, yet knowing George was in constant danger from the war and from such a law . . .

Beyond that horrible death was the risk Mount Vernon and all our assets could be confiscated. The only escape to such a situation would be to run west, into the wilderness of untamed lands. Although I knew I
could
survive in such a place, I really had no wish to start over from nothing.

But I would. If I had to. Anything to save George. To be with George.

As many loyalists held on to the trappings of the pomp and circumstance of their position, I deemed we would travel with as little of those properties as possible. Eleanor and I wore homespun dresses, and I refrained from powdering my hair. Although our carriage was grand—we traveled in our lovely white coach pulled by four horses—that could not be helped. Because of her tenuous health and the time of year, we could not travel in an open carriage, and there was no time—nor logic—in buying something else just for this occasion. I made certain Eleanor was safely tucked with blankets. She would not suffer for this trip, not if I could help it.

But then, in spite of our desire for anonymity and speed (the latter well granted by our coachman, who seemed to enjoy going as fast as possible, making Eleanor squeal on more than one occasion), when we retired for the night at various inns, we were taken by a great surprise.

It happened from the very first. Jacky had gone inside to check on the arrangement made by George, and I helped Eleanor from the carriage. Suddenly, a man and woman burst from the inn and were at our sides, saying, “Lady Washington! You do us much honour! Please, please, come in.”

“It is Mrs. Washington, thank you.”

But no matter how many times I protested and corrected, no matter what town we were in, I was called Lady Washington. How odd. How disturbing.

Jacky thought it amusing and began calling me “your grace.” I assured him, though I never punished him as I should have in his youth, it was not too late to begin. “We should have worn our best clothing, dripping in jewels instead of these simple nothings,” he said.

“We should have done no such thing. In spite of their knowledge of us, we are not royalty.”

“
Au contraire
, dear Mamma. To them, you are American royalty.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“Oh, Mamma,” Jacky said. “Give them what they want.”

“I will do no such thing. I will give them what I am.”

And so, as we settled in at one inn followed by another, we were invariably greeted by well-wishers, lauding my husband, and lauding me for being a wise and lucky woman to be married to him. Even the papers knew of our coming, and announced it to all.

But this was nothing compared to the welcome I received in Philadelphia. We were not even in the city when we were met by a group of handsome horsemen. Their leader introduced himself. “I am Joseph Reed, a good friend of your husband. He has sent us to ensure your pleasant journey into the city.”

I spoke to him through the carriage window. “I had hoped to travel with a bit more discretion, Mr. Reed. Perhaps, considering the times, anonymity would be prudent?”

“Not in Philadelphia, Mrs. Washington. Everyone knows of your arrival. The most prominent families have arranged a ball in your honour.”

Well then.

As our carriage made its way into the city, with citizens cheering in the streets and church bells pealing, I said to the others, “This is embarrassing. They treat me as if I am a very great somebody.”

“You are, Mamma,” Jacky said, waving out the window at the crowds. “You are the wife of the man who is leading the fight.”

“The wife. I am not him. I did not make him who he is.”

Eleanor spoke up from her place next to Jacky. “I believe a great person becomes great only by the encouragement of those closest to them. Poppa would not be who he is if you were not who
you
are.”

Jacky applauded. “Bravo, dear wife!” He nudged his shoulder into hers and took her hand captive. “I have become a better man for marrying you . . .”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” I said. “You are a much better man for—”

Jacky pretended to take offense. “Was I
so
bad, Mamma?”

I turned my attention to the people outside. “Wave, children. Wave.”

*****

Finally, we left Philadelphia and were off to Cambridge. And the ball—proposed to be held in my honour—never materialized. Although the ladies of the city had wanted to pay tribute to me in this way, it was not proper to allow such conspicuous consumption when so many were suffering or were anticipating the coming winter with apprehension. There was a rumble against it, and so, when the committee came to me with their awkward concerns, I was more than happy to oblige. “The desires of your committee are agreeable to my own sentiments,” I told them. And so my “sacrifice” was reported in the papers, elevating me to a lauded maven of the Revolution.

Reluctant maven. For I did so love a ball.

Yet the ball was soon forgotten as we neared Cambridge. We had a military escort part of the way, and men on horseback the rest, and on December 11, 1775, we arrived, unannounced. We had traveled five hundred miles, on rough roads, with winter threatening through every cloud. We were all weary and would have been happy with a cot in a corner. Actually, we did not have certainty of anything more.

After all, George had written about the appalling conditions he had found when he entered Cambridge six months earlier. The tents and lean-tos of the soldiers were poorly put together, and garbage was everywhere. The men were unruly and undisciplined, relieving themselves in the streets—they had to be reprimanded not to drop their breeches to shock passersby on the public bridge with a show of their backsides. They were often drunk and George had to issue a general order: “The vile practice of swallowing the whole ration of liquor at a single draught is to be prevented by causing the sergeants to see it mixed with water. In which case, instead of being pernicious, it will become very refreshing and salutary.”

With no women in camp to wash for them, and thinking the job demeaning, they let their clothing become foul and rotten. They were not attuned to getting along with each other—for some reason any soldier from Pennsylvania was disdained. Officers from one colony argued with officers from another, and bored sentries ambled over to the bored British sentries to chat. The number of troops was variable, as the term of duty was for one year, and men were constantly coming and going at will. George had told me if he had known the extent of the task, he would never have accepted the job.