A friend I missed.
As the disagreements between England and her colonies grew, how many other friends would I lose to political loyalty?
“Sold!” said the auctioneer, holding up the vase. “Again, to Mr. Washington.”
And his wife.
*****
Our guests were to bed and we were on our way toward that same location. As George washed his face and arms at the washstand—Sally’s washstand—I took the coat he had worn at dinner and hung it upon its hook.
A letter fell from the pocket.
My first reaction was not worthy of me—or George. But first reactions seldom are. My first reaction was to think he had kept a letter from Sally, and because she had been on our mind of late . . .
As penance for my unwarranted thought, I picked up the letter and took it to my husband. “Here,” I said, holding it toward him. “This fell from your pocket.”
He gave it but a glance, then said, “Open it. It is from Jack.”
“It’s not one I have read?”
“No,” George said while drying his face. “It was sent directly to me.” He nodded toward the letter. “Please.”
I opened it and read: I am at a great loss of words to tell you the level of esteem I hold for you. You have been my father in every way. I have nothing but affection and regard, both of which I possess in the highest degree for you. I shall strenuously endeavour by my future conduct to merit a continuance of your regard and esteem.
I heard George’s laughter. “You are surprised?”
“I am stunned. The boy . . . to have him express his feelings so eloquently.” I folded the letter and handed it back to him. “It makes me proud.”
“Why do you think I carry it with me?” He crossed to the armoire and placed the letter in the pocket of the coat he would wear tomorrow. That done, he faced me. “Although I did not agree to their marriage at first, I must admit it might be the best thing that could have happened to our Jack.”
I put a hand to my chest, feigning this additional shock.
“Do not make fun of me, Martha.”
“I will make fun of you. But note I am pleased by your acceptance. I have but one question.”
“What is that?”
“Since, in your frustration at having to give in to the arguments put forth by myself and my family regarding the children’s marriage—”
“Pressure. Steady, relentless pressure.”
I shrugged. “Since you allowed your frustration to be played out in a new project of adding additional wings to our house here at Mount Vernon, I was wondering . . . since you now agree with us in all entirety, since your frustration at not getting your way is abated . . . are you going to tear down the new wings? For they are no longer needed for their original purpose.”
He slipped under the bed’s coverlet. “I did not build the wings because I did not get my way. I would not—”
“You would. And you often do.” I got into bed beside him. “There is merit in directing such feelings into new projects. I do not fault you. I was just wondering if your zeal to build would continue without its source.”
He blew out the candle.
*****
As spring progressed into summer and then into fall, we all came to terms with one fact: times were changing and there was little we could do to stop it. It was not a matter of fighting or not fighting, as Britain continued to change the rules and show themselves increasingly intolerant and aggressive. They sent more soldiers to Boston, tried to make us accept taxation by making comparisons between how much we were taxed versus their citizens at home (they did suffer worse than we) and then refused to let soldiers who fought in the war against France claim the land in western Virginia, as promised. Our mother country showed itself to be a bully and dishonourable to her word, forcing us to action—or to fall down in surrender.
If she thought we would do the latter, she did not know her children well. Although we began by offering action as individual colonies, we soon came to see the only way to beat a bully was to band together. And so, when our compatriots in Massachusetts called a meeting of all the colonies—a Continental Congress—George became a delegate for Virginia along with six others, including Patrick Henry and our neighbor Edmund Pendleton. Before heading off to the meeting in Philadelphia, these men came for a visit at Mount Vernon.
I was happy to do my part in providing them a safe haven to discuss the issues that plagued us. The pressure upon their shoulders to act, and act wisely and prudently, was enormous. If I could offer them solace with good meals, warm beds, and a homey environment, then I was wont to do so. If only I could do more.
When it came time for them to leave the next morning, I stood outside to see them off. I felt tears threaten as these men—with so much to lose—were heading off with a willingness to sacrifice everything for the sake of a better life for us all.
And George . . . sitting tall in his saddle, his chin set with a deep-rooted determination to do his best. I trusted him above all men. If anyone could help us weave our way through this horrid gauntlet, it was he.
“Thank you, Mrs. Washington,” said Patrick Henry.
“Yes, thank you,” added Edmund. “Your hospitality and graciousness are a balm to our troubled souls.”
“I am happy to do it,” I said. “I hope you will stand firm. I know George will.” I stepped back to let them begin their journey. “God be with you, gentlemen.”
I watched until I could see them no more, then said a silent prayer for their journey and their objective.
It would be but one of many.
*****
I sat at the dining table with George’s cousin, Lund, going over issues of the plantation.
Lund read through some meticulous notes he had kept for George’s benefit until he returned from the Continental Congress. “George had said he would like the bricklayer’s house moved several hundred yards to the east. He believes it will be more efficient at that location. So I have moved it two hundred fifty yards and . . .” His voice trailed off “Your mind is not on bricks, Martha, nor much else other than George, I would guess.”
I nodded. “It has been difficult to know that serious issues are being attended to in Philadelphia and only learn about them secondhand from newspapers and letters from George.” I reached over the table and put a hand on Lund’s. “You have been invaluable to us both—as usual.”
“I am glad to help.”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “Although the running of Mount Vernon has kept me busy in hand these six weeks, it has not done as much for my mind.” I looked toward the window.
“He will be home soon.
“None too soon.”
*****
The winds of November blew hard and cold.
I didn’t care.
George was home again.
Yet after our initial greeting on the morning he arrived, his time had been diverted to the must-dos of the plantation. Lund had his ear most of the day, and though I resented their companionship, I understood the need of it. I would have my time alone with him. Eventually.
It was dark evening before I had my chance. George found me sitting before the fire in the parlour. He entered and closed the door behind him.
If it could have been bolted, I would have done so just to ensure his continued presence. He moved behind my chair and kissed my head. I raised my hand to gain his and we remained there a moment like two connected subjects sitting for a portrait.
When I heard him sigh, I said, “So? Tell me.”
“We have made an effort.”
“A valiant one, no doubt.”
He moved to the fire and poked it to new flame. “We all have borne so much. We have long and ardently sought for reconciliation upon honourable terms. Yet it has been
denied us. All our attempts after peace have not only proved abortive but have been grossly misrepresented. We have done everything that could be expected from the best of subjects, but the spirit of freedom beats too high for us to submit to slavery.”
I took a deep breath. “There is no choice but rebellion.”
He shook his head. “None of the colonies will ever submit to the loss of the valuable rights and privileges that are essential to happiness. Without them, life, liberty, and property are rendered totally insecure.” He looked from the fire to my eyes. “More blood will be spilt on this occasion than has ever yet been recorded in the annals of North America.”
I found my hand resting upon my bodice. “There will be war?”
“We are halting all imports from England December 1, and if Britain does not repeal the Intolerable Acts, we will cease all exports next year.”
“We are cutting ourselves off.”
“We are taking a stand against their tyranny. And yet . . . we went to the Congress with no sense of unity—feeling wary, timid, and skittish of each other. We went believing the rebels of Massachusetts were hotheads.”
“But now?”
“We have made every attempt to think and act as one.” He sat in the chair next to mine. “We are warning the people to prepare for a fight. We must not be caught unawares. We must support Massachusetts as one unit.”
“It is a new concept.”
He nodded. “And one that is still confused in its intent. Ironically, before parting we gathered for one last dinner and toasted our England.” He raised an arm in a mock toast. “‘To His Majesty, King George. May the sword of the parent never be stained by the blood of its children.’”
“Thirteen brothers rising up against their parent.”
“We do not wish it so. But we must receive some consolation. We have asked the crown to remove its military presence from Boston. If they will agree, then . . .”
“They will not agree.”
His shoulders dropped. “It is doubtful.”
The thought of fighting. I shuddered and turned conversation to the personal. “How did you fare at the Congress?”
“I listened more than I spoke.”
“As you do.”
He smiled. “Patrick Henry told me if one wanted eloquence, Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina was the greatest orator, but if one wanted solid information and sound judgment, I was the greatest man on that floor.”
“Bravo, my dear.”
“Of course he also said my thinking was slow in operation.” He cleared his throat and changed his voice to match Henry’s. “‘Being little aided by invention or imagination, but sure in conclusion.’”
“How dare he!”
George shrugged. “I took no offense. Henry may be brusque in manner, but he is right in content. Where he attends the Congress to impress and raise people to action, I feel no need to impress. I attended to learn. You know I do best debating issues one on one. I do not feel at ease before large groups.”
“You manage well enough.”
“It helps if I know my audience personally. I made great effort to get to know every delegate. A fine group of men they are, though disparate in opinion. Most delegates from Pennsylvania and New York came with instructions to find resolution with England, while the other colonies are less loyal to the mother country, but in varying degrees. ’Tis like getting a yard full of chickens to agree on which seed to pluck from the ground—and when.” He nodded once. “By the by, our own Virginian Peyton Randolph was elected president of the entire Congress.”
“A good choice?”
“Absolutely, though they are all able men. Men of great interest and bearing.”
“Any man in particular?”
“Actually, yes. John Adams. An attorney and planter from Massachusetts. Where I listen, he is happy to speak—more than he should at times.”
I wondered more about this man. “Is he married?”
“Very much so. His wife is Abigail and seems very much involved in the Cause. They have five children. He talked much about them.”
I felt a twinge of jealousy—for the prodigious children and for Abigail’s involvement. For the one I had no cure, and as to the other . . . I was as involved as I could be considering the distance involved.
George sat back in the chair and I watched his shoulders relax. “John and I make quite the pair. He is—by his own words—short, thick, and fat with a voice wont to boom where mine tends to softness. Our friends laughed at our disparity, and feared we would suffer great arguments between us.”
“This did not happen, I assume?”
“It did not. I enjoyed him immensely, as I believe he enjoyed me. For one thing, he impressed me, for he has the education I lack. He went to Harvard.”
After our experience with Jacky’s aborted education, I knew the tenaciousness and strength of character required to earn a degree.
“John countered my admiration with his own appreciation of my soldiering abilities. Apparently he feels guilty for not fighting against the French. He also is quite in awe of our land. Our forty thousand acres compared to his forty.”
“There is much to be in awe about. You are an expert at running our farms.”
George shrugged. “John also enjoys hunting and horses as much as I, along with appreciation of a fine Madeira. And he agrees with me on the need to keep keen financial records.” He paused a moment and pushed his right foot toward the fire, then back. “I attended Presbyterian services with him while in Philadelphia, and then, led by curiosity and good company, together we tried a Romish one. Actually, there was much churchgoing. Late in September, I attended two services for the delegates in one day: one at a Quaker meetinghouse and another at St. Peter’s Episcopal.”
I laughed. “I am pleased to see the delegates seeking His wisdom with such alacrity. That there are so many ways to seek it . . .”
George’s face drew serious. “We are seeking it, Martha. Every day’s congressional session began with prayer. And personally, I enjoyed experiencing the different congregations, as I enjoy the recent trend to find a more personal God within our own faith. If He is not with us, we will not prevail.”
“I have been praying also.”
“I know you have. And please continue.”
The need for prayer made me think of sacrifice. “George . . . if all proceeds in the direction it is going . . . we may lose everything.”
“There is the chance. The sacrifices will potentially affect every aspect of our lives.”
I could accept the material sacrifices, and the cultural, and even the social. What I feared most was losing . . .
George must have sensed my thoughts, for he leaned forward from his chair, his hand seeking mine. “If there is fighting, dearest, you know I feel no need to be a hero.”
“Be a hero all you wish. A live one.”
“I will do my best.”
I believed him. But would Jacky and my nephews follow such prudence? For surely they would be called to fight. To believe in a cause yet fear the cost . . .
I knew it would not be the last time I would ponder such thoughts.
*****
I heard the sound of a horse coming toward the house at high speed. I looked up from my mending to see our neighbor George Mason hurl himself off his steed. He strode toward the house. The door was open to catch the spring breezes. I moved to greet him, but George intercepted him, running up from the four acres he had set aside for fruit trees. George was determined to create hardy varieties and had hired a full-time gardener to graft the trees.
“Is there news?” my George asked.
“Too much,” Mason said.
“Come in and sit, gentlemen,” I said, luring them into the back parlour. I ordered cool drinks for them both before
returning to hear their discourse.
“. . . one thousand troops to Boston.”
I had to play catch-up. “British troops?”
“Yes,” Mason said. “Their General Gage had apparently heard we were stockpiling arms and ammunition. It is no surprise Parliament did not take it well. They accuse our Continental Congress of illegitimate plotting.”
“Plotting in our defense, I say. We would be fools to sit by.”
Mason raised a hand, stopping George’s comments. “I agree. We all agree. The British continue to show little respect for any of us. Of our militia . . . they call us a disorganized mob and do not believe we can offer much resistance.”
“I too have my doubts,” George said.
“Doubts or no, there is no turning back.”
“Gage was successful in capturing our arms?”
“Not completely. Paul Revere and William Dawes rode across the countryside warning people the British were coming, so by the time their troops arrived in Lexington, a few dozen minutemen were assembled and much of our ammunition stored there and in Concord was hidden away.”
I had to interrupt. “Minutemen?”
“Colonial militia ready to fight in a minute.”
I nodded and Mason continued. “We were sorely outnumbered, and our commander, a man named Parker, told our men to disperse, but in the dispersing, shots were fired—by whom we do not know—and many were killed. What was started as a political argument between members of the same family had become a blood feud.”
I put my hand on the back of George’s rocker. “Gage and his men?”
“They retreated into Boston with our militia dogging them the entire way, fighting from bushes and barns. Even women took up guns and nearly three hundred British soldiers were killed, as were nearly one hundred of our own. I heard it said Gage is frustrated. It is one thing to have an army fight against an army, but to have an army fight against an entire populace . . .”
“I would take up a weapon to defend Mount Vernon,” I said.
George pointed at me. “No you would not, my dear. You will not put yourself in danger.”
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