*****
I stood in the storehouse for the kitchen and made inventory. It was a difficult task to think ahead to future needs. Although there were a few shops in Alexandria, it was a full day’s outing, and they did not carry the quantity of foodstuffs needed for a plantation the size of Mount Vernon. We depended on sugar from the West Indies, and on England for most everything else.
The government back in England was intent on submerging the colonies in “acts.” The Sugar Act taxed sugar from the West Indies, foreign cloth, indigo, and coffee; the Currency Act stated we could no longer issue our own money; the Quartering Act made it mandatory to house and feed any British troops at any time; and the Townshend Act taxed paper, tea, glass, lead, and paints. Add to those a proclamation that prohibited us from settling west of the Appalachians . . . Did George not fight a war to better open that land for safe settling? After the violence up north that was instigated by a clandestine group called the Sons of Liberty, Britain wisely repealed the Stamp Act, but in the same breath passed the Declaratory Act stating they had the right to bind the colonies in whatever way they deemed necessary, and then suspended the New York Assembly for not complying with the Quartering Act. They took, gave back, slapped our hands, then took some more.
“We really need more sugar, mistress,” our cook Addie said as she counted the bags.
“I know. But the price . . . and many are urging us to boycott British luxury items.”
Her eyes grew larger. “Is sugar a luxury?”
Not to me. “I am not certain.”
“But if we don’t buy the goods, what will we do? The children so enjoy their sweets. And so many of your guests comment on your Great Cake—which alone takes four pounds.”
And forty eggs, and five pounds of flour and fruit, and four pounds of butter. I sighed. “Until George instructs us to join the boycott, let us cut back in recipes, where we can.”
She nodded, though by the crease between her eyes I knew she was not happy.
It could not be helped. These were difficult times, which I feared would only grow more difficult. If only Britain realized by tightening its reins it was igniting our independent natures, those traits which served Britain well for one hundred fifty years. A governing body could not be lax with rules for decades and then suddenly become the stern taskmaster and add more rules. Not without pushing its subjects toward a rebellious end.
I finished the inventory and headed to the main house. We were to leave for Williamsburg before the end of the week for the spring session of the House of Burgesses. I looked forward to the society and balls. Both would be a welcome respite amid the politics and positioning.
I saw George in his office. I did not stop to chat, as we both had much to do before our journey.
But he saw me and called out, “Martha, come here. There is a letter from Ann Mason.”
George and Ann Mason were Fairfax County neighbors. George Mason had previously served in the House of Burgesses and had been instrumental in protesting the Stamp Act. They too would be in Williamsburg for the season’s events.
I took the letter and sat in a corner chair to read it. After some pleasantries it said, We ladies have decided to go to the ball the Burgesses are giving for the governor in dresses made of homespun. If Britain insists on taxing our silks and satins, then we have no use for them. Will you join us in our small act of rebellion, Martha? ’Twill be a challenge to make such fabric presentable, but one we are willing to take for the Cause.
“Something she says distresses you?” George asked.
I thought of telling him . . . yet I did not want to feel guilty if I chose not to go along with the women. Although George and I had simplified our tastes since the Stamp Act a few years earlier, I was not ready for homespun. If only Ann hadn’t sent the letter. If only I could feign ignorance. Dressing up for the events in Williamsburg brought me such joy.
“You are distressed?” George asked again.
I forced a smile. “Ann sends her greetings.”
He nodded once, then looked back upon his papers. As I moved to leave he said, “I forgot to tell you. I have heard of a Williamsburg doctor who may be able to help Patsy. He is well respected. Dr. John de Sequeyra. He is a Sephardic Jew.”
“Which means?”
“He is from Spain. Or Portugal perhaps.”
If he could help Patsy, I didn’t care if he was from the moon.
“I have contacted him and he has agreed to see her,” George said.
All thoughts of homespun or sugar stores evaporated.
All thoughts, as always, returned to Patsy.
*****
My George was not one to press a point. He always prided himself on his good relations with those British who were in power within Virginia. And yet, it was my George (with the help of George Mason) who caused quite a commotion in Williamsburg.
Jacky was still in school at Reverend Boucher’s, so after settling into the old Custis mansion of Six Chimneys, it was only Patsy and I who perused the shops. In the ten years of our marriage, such excursions always brought me great pleasure. I admit to being a gregarious sort and enjoyed chatting with the shopkeepers and getting their views on the latest fashions. But this visit . . .
Each time I entered a shop all talk was of boycotts and “taxation without representation.” And I, as the wife of George Washington, a respected member of the House of Burgesses, was called upon to be an authority.
“What plans are hatching at the House?” a milliner asked me.
I adjusted a yellow-feathered bonnet upon my hair. “We must all await news.” I turned to Patsy. “Does this flatter or does it make my face look too wide?”
Patsy studied the effect. “I am afraid the latter.”
I removed the hat. I respected my daughter’s taste, for at thirteen she had developed an eye for fashion. “May I try on that one?” I asked the milliner.
She removed a flattened straw hat with a violet spray upon the ear. I set it on my head. “It looks the essence of spring, does it not?” I asked.
Before Patsy or the milliner could answer, a man burst through the door. “Governor Botetourt has dissolved the House of Burgesses for claiming exclusive right to levy its own taxes!”
“Dissolved?” I asked.
But he was gone, gone on to the next shop, and the next.
Patsy pressed a hand upon my arm. “What does it mean, Mamma?”
I did not answer but removed the hat.
We had to get home.
*****
I paced. And paced. But still no George. Were the members of the House of Burgesses arguing with the governor about his decision to dissolve their body? If so, I could imagine much shouting. There were many who did not own a cool head in such situations, Patrick Henry among them. If he so wanted, Mr. Henry was quite capable of arousing the populace to violence. That was my biggest fear, that George had been hurt.
“Mamma, please sit. You make me nervous,” Patsy said.
For her sake, I forced myself to sit and took up some embroidery.
Blessedly, George arrived in time to save my fingers from abusive pricking. I met him at the door. “What happened? Was there fighting?”
“No, my dear. No fighting. Lord Botetourt told us to disband and had soldiers interrupt our meeting, so we complied.” He smiled. “We reconvened in Raleigh Tavern and discussed a unified boycott of British goods. If they are going to tax us unfairly, then we will do without those items they deem taxable. We must become more self-reliant. Parliament has no more right to put their hands in my pocket without my consent than I have to put my hands into the pockets of my neighbours. Personally, I was thinking we need to expand our flax, hemp, and wool production so we can weave more of our own clothing. And since British iron will be unavailable, we need to create more of our own
tools in our smithy. We can sell salted herring to the West Indies, and increase our mill to create a higher yield with our wheat.” He paused to take a much-needed breath. “There is much to do.”
“I had hoped it would not come to this,” I said.
“They are forcing it to come to this,” he said. “We must take a stand, Martha. I must take a stand, e’en though it grieves me greatly. I am presenting a position on nonimportation tomorrow.”
This was not like George. He was interested and responsible when it came to the governing issues in the colonies, but he was not one to make bold proclamations or declarations. He had worked with the British for too many years to willingly provoke them.
I hung his hat upon a hook in the foyer and led him into the parlour. “Hello, Patsy,” he said. “Did you have a nice time shopping with your mamma today?”
“Yes, Poppa, but now . . . if we stop receiving goods from England, how will we shop at all?”
She had overheard—and mirrored my thoughts.
“We will have to make do. It is far from the ideal. I too enjoy nice things, but the time has come to put the common good above our own desires. It is only prudent to reduce our debt to England and encourage colonial production of the taxed goods.” He sat in his favourite chair and sighed. “Some say I have been too long to get involved. I try to explain I am one who needs to think things through before making a decision, but assure them that once made, such decisions are immovable.”
“There are plenty who act first and think later. I would imagine they appreciate your steady contemplation, logic, and common sense.”
“I am not a radical. I can never be a radical no matter what fun they make of me.”
“Who makes fun of you?”
“Henry, Mason, Jefferson.” He shook his head. “It does not matter. I have had good reason to hesitate—reasons common to many. I am a farmer. Our livelihood depends on trade with England and the good graces of our factors there. If we anger them we will pay in many ways. If angered enough there is the possibility the British government could seize our land.”
“They would not dare.”
“They rule us, Martha. Not well and not wisely, but they still rule. And unless we choose to change that fact . . .”
“How would we do that?” Patsy asked. Her face was fearful.
George offered her a smile he reserved for her alone. “I should not have mentioned such an outlandish suggestion.” He slapped a hand upon his thigh and stood. “Giving up a few material pleasures will make us stronger in character. The necessities of life are mostly to be had within ourselves. Do you not agree, ladies?”
Reluctantly.
*****
The next day George did more than present the nonimportation position; he proceeded to take it upon himself to travel the expanse of Virginia to elicit support from the populace. The boycott would not be effective unless it was adhered to by a majority. When he finally returned to Mount Vernon, he reported he had personally spoken to over one thousand of his fellow Virginians. By his own efforts the boycott was embraced.
As was he.
“They listened to me, Martha,” he told me on the first evening after his return.
We sat on the back approach to Mount Vernon and watched the fireflies of summer. “Of course they did, dearest. You are a man who demands—”
“I did not demand,” he said. “I spoke with them. I enjoyed their company. I am proud to be one of them.”
“This is a far cry from the ambitious colonel, demanding his British commanders pay him due attention.”
To his honour, he blushed. “In my youth I worked toward my own gain. But now . . . the Cause is beyond any one man. The Cause is for unity. The Cause is noble.”
As was he.
*****
“Boston, Boston.” George looked up from the Virginia Gazette and sighed. “What are we to do with those people?”
George read the paper as I darned stockings. Jacky wore holes in his stockings faster than we could weave new ones. “Is there more dissension there?”
“More than dissension. This time, violence.”
I set my darning upon my lap to hear more.
George lowered the paper and told me the latest news from that bastion of rebellion. “Some citizens, angry about taxes, accosted a group of British soldiers—whose presence is now commonplace and quite unwelcome. The Bostonians began throwing snowballs at the soldiers—and insults, I am sure. One of the soldiers fell, his gun went off, and then there was gunfire all round. Five of our men were killed.
“Innocent citizens? Unarmed?”
“No mob is unarmed. And as for their innocence . . .” He turned the paper toward me and showed me a print of an engraving signed by a Bostonian named Paul Revere. It portrayed a group of colonists, fallen and bloodied by a line of British troops firing into the crowd.
“I do not see any snowballs,” I said. “Nor snow at all.”
George looked back at the paper. “Hmm. And there is an officer behind the soldiers, ordering them to fire. The troops are there to keep the peace, not to incite a war.”
“So you think the print inaccurate?”
“I think . . .” George rubbed his chin. “I think the men of Boston—Samuel Adams, his cousin John, John Hancock, and the volatile Sons of Liberty—have strong motivation to incite action.”
“You think they caused this?”
“I think they live under conditions far different than we are experiencing here in Virginia. While we feel the inequities of taxation from afar, they see it up close as the ships enter the harbour. There are too many men whose livelihood depends on trade to have them remain unaffected—or neutral.” He set the newspaper in his lap and placed a hand upon it. “I fear the time of neutrality has slipped away.”
“Meaning?”
“The time is coming when the civilized exchange of letters and the creation of proclamations may not bring the desired results.”
Without intent, my breathing grew pronounced. “But we can’t fight them! England is the most powerful nation in the world. And we are their subjects. Their king is our king. England is our mother country and we are her children.”
George glanced back at the newspaper. “Disobedient children?”
It could not be denied.
George continued. “A parent will chastise her children, and if England is not satisfied in our contrition—or if we show no contrition but continue to push for our way above hers . . . we will be punished.”
I shivered. “But perhaps if we continue to discuss our differences and—”
“I fear the chance for discussion has passed. Once blood has been spilt . . .”
He suddenly stood. “If you will excuse me, my dear. I have some letters I must write.”
“About Boston?”
“About our future.”
*****
George and I stood beside Patsy’s bed—again. Eight days previous, she had suffered a fit of such power it had sent her to the floor and then to bed with horrible ague. The chills and sweating took turns, her body burning with fever. We had called for Dr. Rumney and he had once again traveled to Mount Vernon to apply his knowledge. He bled Patsy, but the fits returned.
“I have one more remedy to try,” he told us.
I dabbed a cool cloth on my daughter’s forehead. “Anything.”
He nodded and pointed to the candle on the bedside table. “That must be moved as far away as possible. What I will use—ether—is very flammable. A flame need not even touch it to have it flare.”
I did not understand. “Is it safe?” I asked. “If it is so flammable, how can it do a patient any good?”
“You must accept my confidence that notwithstanding the extreme subtlety of the ether, it is perfectly innocent and safe
to take.”
I glanced at George, who had his hand on his chin, his usual stance when listening to anything with intensity. “How is it administered?”
Dr. Rumney took a deep breath. “There are two ways.” He pulled from his satchel a corked phial containing a clear liquid. He held it for us to examine. “Ether is colourless, its smell sulphurous. If I were to wet my finger with it or drop a little upon the hand, it would vanish instantly and leave no moisture behind.”
“I still don’t understand,” George said. “If it evaporates so quickly, how is it given?”
“I would first attempt an external application. You may procure a bit of linen rag to cover the palm of the hand, moisten it with a little of the ether, and instantly apply it to her forehead, or hold it beneath her nostrils.” He looked at Patsy, then continued. “If that does not give her ease, the general dose for a grown person is a common teaspoonful, and the best vehicle to take it in is a draught of cold water. If Miss Patsy has any objection to water, she may take it in any agreeable cold liquid.”
“How often?” I asked.
“Twice a day. It . . . it may make her lethargic.”
It was to be expected. “I have rare found a medicinal that does not cause some effect.” I looked at Patsy. She looked back at me, listless from the fever and the exhaustion of the fits. “Does this seem all right with you?”
Her eyes turned sad. “What choice do I have?”
The doctor suggested we wait until evening for our first dispensation. At George’s insistence, he was the one to do it. The sight of him, cradling dear Patsy in his arms as he held the foul-smelling tincture to her face . . .
’Twill never leave me.
*****
Although George and I had been married twelve years, my mother-in-law remained . . . difficult. Yet George followed God’s laws and honoured her with loyal duty, visiting her when he was close to Ferry Farm and giving aid whenever asked. But now, at age sixty-three, she was no longer comfortable staying in such isolation.
He offered her a home at Mount Vernon, but to our relief, she declined. Instead he purchased a home for her in Fredericksburg, just a few miles northwest. He left to administer the move and was due home.
Washington's Lady Page 15
