Washington's Lady (27 page)

I attempted to ward off panic and met them in the dining area across the foyer. Their faces were grave yet full of compassion. “Sirs?” I asked. I could not manage more.

With a glance to the parlour nearby, the taller one said, “Your husband, the general . . . it is serious. You must come now. He has requested you.”

I sucked in a breath.

The shorter soldier reached a calming hand toward me. “We have orders not to let others know of his condition. If word got out . . . it would cause harm to many men.”

Yes, yes. Indeed it would. The British would love such news, and the tenuous morale of our troops, finally optimistic after their victories at Trenton and Princeton . . . they could not know their leader was ill.

“I will make excuses to my hosts.”

“We are prepared to fit your carriage with runners to speed our way through the forest.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Do it.”

The soldiers bowed and left me alone in the dining room. My back was to the parlour, but I knew all eyes were upon me. I had to become an actress. It was imperative. I closed my eyes and drew upon the strength God always granted me upon such occasions. Then I put on a smile and crossed the foyer.

“What is wrong?” my host asked.

“What did the soldiers want?” asked his wife.

“They have come to ease my way,” I said. “At this very moment they are making my carriage into a sled.” I rolled my eyes. “It appears George is so eager to see me that he has sent them to fetch me straightaway.”

“But it is sixty miles to Morristown. And it is dark.”

I laughed. “I fear George will not take dark as an excuse. I greatly appreciate your hospitality, but as soon as they are ready, I really must go.” I leaned close in confidentiality. “In truth, I too am eager to see him at the earliest time possible.”

With that, I retired to my room to gather my things. But with the door closed behind me, I fell to my knees and my forehead kissed the back of my hands upon the floor. “O dear Lord . . . please let me get there in time.”

*****

We left for Morristown before dawn. As the snow sprayed around me, as the dark enshrouded our way through the black forest, I prayed double-time, my
Make him well
minuet turning into a brisk march of
Save him, save him, make him whole!
My breath filled the carriage with vapour and, in rhythm with my prayers, I pounded my clenched hands upon the blankets in an attempt to keep warm.

The carriage slowed at a house. I called out to a soldier. “Are we here?”

“No, ma’am. We are still sixteen miles. This is Pluckemin. A messenger met us and said to stop here—at the house of a Mrs. Eliot.”

My heart stopped. Were they going to take me inside to give me bad news?

A woman opened the front door, a shawl around her shoulders. She smiled.

It seemed an odd thing to do if bad news lay inside.

I could not stand the questions another moment, so exited the carriage even before a soldier could open the door for me.

The woman took a step outside. “Is Lady Washington inside?” she asked, looking past me to the carriage.

I had been mistaken for a maid before. Perhaps because my husband was so striking in stature and bearing people assumed his wife would be also. They did not expect a short, plump woman of forty-five who preferred to spend the long hours of travel dressed simply.

Yet before I could correct her misconception, a man appeared in the doorway, and with a better look I saw . . .

“George!”

We ran toward each other and he lifted me from the ground and round about, as though I were a young girl. “Hello, my dearest,” he whispered in my ear. “I have missed you.”

When he let me gently to the ground, I looked upon his face. “You are well?”

“I am better. Better enough to come meet you.” He drew my hand to his lips. “I have missed you beyond bearing.”

“Ten months,” I said.

“A lifetime.”

“Time,” I said. The word had much implication, for my prayers had been answered with this gift.

I leaned against him and wallowed in the sound of his heart beating against my ear. Only then did I notice the cold.

“Inside,” I said, pushing upon his chest. “You are still not well. Inside, old man.”

He turned toward the door. “Your wish is my command.”

*****

I stood in the unfinished second-floor room of the frame home where George lodged in Morristown—now lodged with me, just outside the ballroom where his aides bunked. Our room had rough wood eaten by worms for the floor, and cold air sped through gaps in the walls. George immediately gave me permission to have it made better and so I commandeered a few of the men for the work. They seemed quite willing, as the house was warm and the work filled their days and allowed them to use their talents. I knew of no better source of contentment than purpose.

I pointed to the far side where I wanted a cupboard. “Now, young men, I care for nothing but comfort here, and should like you to fit me up a beaufet on one side of the room, along with some shelves, and places for hanging clothes on the other.”

One workman put his hand in front of a crevice in the wall. “You would be wanting these plugged too, eh?”

The other ran a toe across the plank floor. “And this? We could add a layer and make it better for you and the general.”

I put a hand upon both their arms. “Gentlemen, that would be glorious.” I took a step toward the door. “Now, if you will begin, I will come up at eleven each day and bring you refreshment. And in the afternoon, when the general and I are done with our dinner below, you may come down and sup there too.”

Their faces glowed with appreciation. “That would be wonderful, Lady Washington.”

“Mrs. Washington will do, sirs. Now, I will let you get to work.”

*****

Within the week the work was complete and I extended my delight to the workers. They seemed genuinely humbled, and all was well.

I instructed George to encourage his officers to bring their wives to camp, as spousal closeness was always of benefit. Lucy Knox came, but Kitty Greene—about to give birth to her second child, could not. The Greenes had honoured us by naming their firstborn George Washington Greene, and had intimated if this child be a girl, she would be named after me.

I spent time trying to set up sewing circles with the officers’ wives and women of the town as I had done in Cambridge. Some seemed shocked I expected them to remove themselves from idleness. But by sharing stories of the men’s sufferings, by cajoling them to action, they agreed to come.

I greeted them at the door. “Come in, come in, ladies. I welcome your company and your industry.”

Two wives entered, attired in fine gowns and dressed hair. I knew they wished to impress the general’s wife. I understood their desire but needed to make it known I was not one who wished to be impressed. I myself wore a simple linen dress with a woolen stomacher and petticoat, and had a scarf wrapped about my neck, tucked into the bodice against the chill.

As I led them into the parlour, I saw them looking me over. I saw looks exchanged between them. And I waited for either an upturned lip showing their disdain at my simplicity or a downcast eye revealing shame at their own frivolity.

We settled in and I gave them each a task toward making attire for the soldiers. I asked about their families and their origins.

And I waited.

Finally, Mrs. Connally, a candlemaker’s wife, put down her stitching and sighed. “Oh dear. Forgive me, Mrs. Washington, but I can hold my tongue no longer.”

“What is wrong?” I asked. I hoped.

She ran a hand upon the blue satin of her gown, letting her fingers linger on the lace that ran upon its edge. “I feel utterly foolish for coming here as if for a ball, when you . . . when we . . .” She took another breath as if to gain complete courage. “I wished to impress you, kind lady, and in doing so find myself ashamed. For I see now, by your action and words, it is not a time to build oneself up with acts of vanity, but for putting oneself aside toward acts of selflessness. I, for one, am truly sorry.”

“I am too,” said Mrs. Miller, the wife of a local printer. “We did not know. We did not think . . . your wisdom, your kind heart, and your dictum of hard work impress me beyond measure. I only hope I can strive to match your goodness in the days ahead.”

Although I had hoped for them to see the error of their frivolity in such perilous times, I had not expected such utter humility and contrition. “I am moved, ladies.”

I extended my hands toward theirs and we completed our bond with a gentle touch of like minds and hearts.

*****

George and I were at supper with two of George’s favourite young aides: Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens. Both had recently entered our military family and were like sons to us. Alexander won our hearts by admitting he had been orphaned at twelve, yet had grown to be the able, intelligent, and dashing man who graced our table. That he had proven himself to be a hero at Princeton only added to his worth in my husband’s eyes.

John Laurens was the son of Henry Laurens, the president of Congress. He had come to our attention through a letter in which he had humbly offered his services—gratis—in any way in which he could be used. An able man, schooled in the law in London and Geneva, he was a delightful addition to our home and to our Cause.

John was regaling us with one of his many stories of near-misses—the boy was quite reckless and took little heed to danger—when there was a knock on the door. A Frenchman, clad in a stunning uniform, entered. My first impression was to his height, which seemed even grander than that of my husband.

A servant asked his business. “I have come to meet the
général
.” He nodded curtly. “I am Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roche Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, come to join the fight for
liberté
.”

George rose at once and I saw him smile. “Come in, sir.”

The marquis gazed upon my husband, his eyes turning from curiosity to awe. “Are you
he
?”

George came round the table to greet him. “I am.”

Lafayette saluted quite smartly and said, “I have left home and family to join you here. I, as well as my father and grandfather before me, have served in the French army. Although now an orphan, I have basked in their legacy. My family knows well what causes are just and right. And so, I come to volunteer. I require nothing but the honour to serve.”

I caught Alexander and John exchanging amused glances. I gave them a look to behave, which they rightly observed.

George addressed the marquis, who looked to be more boy than man. “I suppose we ought to be embarrassed to show ourselves to an officer who has just left the French forces.”

Lafayette snapped to attention. “I have come here to learn,
mon général
, not to teach.”

George’s eyebrow rose. “Then come. Let us begin by dining together.”

And so our military family gained another son.

News. Cursed, blessed news.

Even as I longed for each letter, each newspaper, each traveler who might know something about anything, I dreaded them and met every occasion with a stitch in my stomach. Sometimes the stitch relaxed; other times, it tightened with renewed ferocity.

Such was the news that filtered into Mount Vernon during the autumn of 1777 after I returned home from Morristown. News, like falling leaves, was undependable and fell upon us in its own time.

We rejoiced at a victory in the north, led by General Benedict Arnold at Saratoga, New York. But grieved and worried when George and his troops fared far worse with a defeat at Brandywine Creek and Germantown near Philadelphia. To add to my personal pain was the news Lafayette had been wounded in the upper thigh. George extolled the surgeons to treat the dear boy as if he were his own son. With all the ups and downs, I oft remembered George’s words: “
We can win this war so long as we don’t outright lose it.”

Which we could.

At any time.

Although I knew George was doing his best, I suffered each humiliation and frustration with him.

And then there were stirrings from certain generals and congressmen who wished to have George removed as commander in chief. Major General Horatio Gates (who claimed credit for Saratoga, even though he did little toward the victory) nipped at my husband’s heels, wanting to take command. He insulted George by sending letters directly to Congress, plying his claim.

I felt utterly helpless.

But then a ray of hope. George was instructed to take winter camp near the city of New York, to protect it from further attacks. Since the British had what they wanted in Philadelphia, and probably did not wish to risk leaving the luxuries of that city in the dead of winter, I hoped George would come home. We needed him here on so many fronts . . .

Firstly, we had suffered horrendous rains that had all but ruined our crops. I knew Lund was sorely worried and could have used George’s hands-on wisdom.

Secondly, at George’s instructions, we and Jacky had taken shares in a privateer vessel. Its goal was to prey on British ships and gain their cargo for profit or for use of the army. I was very proud of Jacky for his industry, and for the fact that he put himself forth to run as a representative for the House of Burgesses for New Kent County. His involvement spoke volumes to his burgeoning maturity.

Thirdly, but firstly in my heart, I needed George home due to personal reasons. For on the seventeenth of December, my dearest sister, Nancy, died. She was only thirty-eight and the greatest favourite I had in the world. She left behind dear Burwell and three children. I wished to think of it as a relief—as she had been sickly for years, but the loss was shocking just the same. Most sobering was acknowledging that the large Dandridge family of Father, Mother, and eight children had dwindled to five: Mother, Bartholomew, Betsy, Frances, and me. I clung to the promise I would see dearest Nancy in heaven one day. I would see all those who passed before.

Adding to my sorrow was the desire to travel to Eltham to offer comfort, yet knowing I could not because I prayed for a letter where George would call me north, and I could not risk being farther away. And, dear Eleanor was due with her third child at any day. I had missed one birth. I would not miss another.

And so I mourned with my family from afar, waited for a letter from George that did not come, and . . . was made a grandmother for the third time on December 31. Her name was Martha Parke Custis—Patty. With that little babe in my arms, I found the only true solace to death. I vowed once again to take no one for granted. Ever.

The year 1778 arrived steeped with this familial happiness, for both baby and her sister, Betsy (who had grown fat as a pig), were healthy. Although my largest wish was that happiness would endure, I feared it would not. Knew it could not.

I sat in the small dining room, eating a scone for breakfast, the children off to attend to little Patty, the house surprisingly guest-free.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The walls of the dining room tried their best to distract me, their surfaces ablaze with rich verdigris green. It made me remember the moment George chose such a hue three years earlier. “I suggest green, Martha, for I find it to be a colour grateful to the eye.”

Grateful. I needed to be grateful for what we had when so many had far less, and had endured far more.

My eyes strayed to the corner of the room where a mahogany case for twelve large stoppered bottles sat upon the floor. It was a fine set ordered from England, but one that brought back another memory, this one of George’s ire at being vastly overcharged.

A common miscarriage of justice in those times.

Which had led to these times.

In search of times more equitable than both.

Enough lingering, malingering, muttering, and suffering. There was work to be done,
today
.

*****

I have been duly called to what George described as a dreary kind of place, twenty miles northwest of Philadelphia. I had never heard its name before his letter asking me to join him—at Valley Forge.

’Twas a strategically located camp: it guarded the road to York, where Congress had moved, it blocked a supply route into Philadelphia, and it was close enough to watch British movements.

On the last leg of my journey there was a drastic snowstorm at Brandywine that commenced to do a good job of covering sober evidence of a past battle. My carriage was met on horseback by an aide-de-camp, Colonel Caleb Gibbs. “Welcome, Lady Washington. I bring greetings from all the men.”

“Much appreciated, Colonel, and I am eager to greet them in return, but as for now . . . there is only one soldier I wish to greet.”

He grinned and tipped his hat. “His eagerness is duly matched—if not amplified.”

After exchanging my carriage for a farm sleigh that would traverse the snow-clogged road, he accompanied me the rest of the way. I entered a camp of over ten thousand and found bedraggled, stooped men dressed in a mishmash of worn clothing, some with rags tied about their feet, many with bare legs, their stockings long worn out. They looked like a beaten band. I was appalled by their appearance, as well as the condition of their lodging—if thus it could be called: lean-tos, tents, rough shanties from discarded wood. Garbage was everywhere, and I spotted a dead horse blanketed with the recent snow. Although the snow had stopped, I saw all this through a thick haze of smoke as the men attempted to keep warm by burning whatever they could. They were in dire need of . . . everything. My inclination was to stop the sleigh and comfort them, yet what good would words do? They needed sustenance beyond words.

Then, in spite of their solemn condition, upon seeing me in the sleigh, the men stopped their work—and cheered!

“Lady, you are here!”

“Huzzah for Lady Washington!”

“God bless Lady Washington!”

I was overcome by intense embarrassment. I was not someone to cheer. I had nothing to ease their pain.
Shh! Shh! Enough of that now. Go under cover. Warm yourselves!

Colonel Gibbs rode up next to me, his face delighted. “They love you, milady. They have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“How did—?”

“Why, the general told them.”

Feeling sheepish, I waved at the men as we passed. My heart ached with their generous offering amid their extreme need. Tall men, short men, young men, old men . . . each one became a son to me, a son I wanted to protect, console, and encourage.

Yet I was just one woman of no great talent and little consequence. What could I do? I had brought supplies from Mount Vernon—fabric, thread, wool, ham, salt herring, bandages—but they would aid far too few to have meaning.

For the first time I shared the intensity of my husband’s frustration, a feeling he lived with daily. Hourly. To see the passion and hope of these countrymen, to realize their dreams of a better life were at stake—to realize my dreams were in their hands . . .

I wanted to warm those hands, hold those hands, shake those hands.

I was much relieved to arrive at the stone house that was used as our headquarters and lodging—the Potts house—and even more relieved when George came out of the house and rescued me.

“Come, my dearest. You must be frozen.”

No, I was not frozen. My chill compared to the suffering of the men I had just seen was an inconvenience amid true misery.

Upon retiring inside, upon taking a good look at my husband in the firelight, I was appalled by his pallor. I leaned close for his ears alone. “You are spent. I can see it. You need rest.”

His eyes did not betray our conversation. “I need solutions to many problems more urgent than a good night’s sleep.”

We would see about that. For I knew the fate of many men depended on the fate of this one. And this one I could help.

*****

George gave me a tour of his headquarters—it did not take long. If I had allowed myself complaints at Morristown, they were nothing to these conditions. The front door opened to a room that was no more than sixteen by sixteen, a room that slept men by night, their beds turned into desks by day. Maps and papers were strewn upon every surface. Beyond it was another room for George’s office. Upstairs George slept in a room barely large enough for a bed and small table. He stooped as he entered it.

“You quite fill it up, old man.”

“I fit well enough. But you . . .”

I moved close. “I am with you.”

*****

George needed sleep. I hoped that by having me with him—hence curtailing his worry over me—he would achieve it. Ensconced in our tiny room, in a bed that ensured the closeness we preferred, I settled in, tucked beneath his arm, my head upon his chest. I straightened the locket I had given him our first year of marriage, setting it in the center of his chest just so. “Sleep now, old man.”

I felt him nod, but the silence, the prequel to sleep, only lasted a few minutes. “I know that in so great a contest we must not expect to meet with nothing but sunshine. I have no doubt everything happens so for the best. We shall triumph over our misfortunes and in the end be ultimately happy . . .”

At his pause, I asked, “But?”

He sat up, taking me with him. “But the suffering of my men grieves me beyond comprehension. If the British knew half our sufferings, they would take advantage and attack. And defeat us.”

“Then we will pray they do not find out.”

George leaned against the wall and opened his arm to me. I took my place within his embrace. “Did I tell you I held a contest for the most ingenious shelter and shoes made of bark?”

“
That
is ingenious.”

He shrugged. “I had to do something to spur the men to thinking beyond the norm. I have found most men enjoy—they need—a chance to use their minds, especially when their bodies are sorely tested.”

“I agree.”

“But I can only do so much. I need more support. Do you know why I chose this place for our camp?”

“Because of its luxurious accommodations?”

“Because a committee in Pennsylvania said they would withdraw all the soldiers from their state if we camped farther than twenty-five miles from Philadelphia. I could not risk losing so many men.”

“You are making do here.”

“The men need supplies. Their clothing is so minimal that when one is called to sentry duty, the other men pool their garments so he does not freeze to death.” He tapped on my shoulder. “Last December Congress had the audacity to order a day of thanksgiving.”

“I know its timing might have been questionable, but we should always be reminded we are to give thanks.”

“Agreed. But with the order, they gave the men hope of a great feast. And then they provided only a half a gill of rice and a tablespoon of vinegar.”

I sat aright. “That is disgraceful.”

“It was cruel.”

“When I saw the disappointment—the betrayal—in the eyes of the men, not to mention the reaction of the women and children . . .”

I looked at him through the moonlight. “I did not see any women and children.”

“They are here.”

“But why?”

“Why are you here?”

I returned to my place against his shoulder. The thought of families existing under the horrible conditions I had seen . . .

“I beg for supplies. But the head quartermaster at Congress quit months ago and has not been replaced. I can only imagine the pile of requests languishing on some ignored desk.” He sighed deeply. “My army is fading before my eyes. I am holding it together by sheer will, and God’s grace—though sometimes I wonder if true mercy would be attained if I told the men to go home.”

I found his hand and clasped it. “No, George. We have come too far. As a defeated people . . . the home the men would return to would be of no worth. There is no—”

“No turning back. I know. I know. But we need help. If only the French would commit to us. Yet why should they? My defeats in New York have not impressed them. France will not risk Britain’s ire to back a loser.”

I tried to think of some ray of hope. “But Saratoga. Our victory there . . .”

“I am hoping it will be enough. Lafayette has sent many letters home soliciting aid, and Benjamin Franklin hopes to meet with King Louis. If anyone can cajole a king, it would be him.”

It gave little comfort to pin our hope on a country we had fought against just twenty years previous. “With all these trials . . . what keeps the men here?”

He considered this a moment. “Hope. Hope is its own army and carries its own weapons. Without it we will surely perish.”

I remembered a verse that had sustained me on many occasions.
Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.

He kissed the top of my head. “We must sleep. Tomorrow will not wait for us.”

*****

“You are an angel, ma’am.”

I put a hand upon the hand of the wounded soldier—it appeared to be the only part of him not in distress. “You sleep now.”

He turned his hand over and took mine. “Will you come back tomorrow?”