Upon our arrival we were not relegated to a cot but pulled in front of the army headquarters, which was situated in a home that had formally belonged to a loyalist, John Vassal.
When we entered, there was much commotion as soldiers, hard at work on the dining room table to our right, blinked in unbelief at the sight of me.
“Are you . . . ?”
“I am,” I said. “Pleasure to meet you . . . ?”
“Private Collins, ma’am.”
“Is my husband about?”
His eyes started, as if it were only then he realized it was George I had come to see. “He is in the back, in the writing room. I will—”
George appeared in the doorway, engulfing it with his large frame. He paused and looked at me, as though unbelieving. “Martha.”
I was unsure what greeting he would give me with soldiers present. But as I opened my mouth to speak, he crossed the room and swallowed me in a full embrace. I even received a kiss upon the lips. It was I who blushed. George seemed not to notice we had an audience.
“Hello, my dearest. I have missed you.”
“And I you,” I said. I looked upon his face. “You have lost weight.”
“I miss your fine meals.”
“We will see what we can do about that.”
He looked past me to the front door as Eleanor entered, followed by Jacky. There were more embraces, and fervent greetings. “Come,” he said, edging toward the stair. “Come see the rooms I have made for us upstairs. They are not large, but their proximity to my office here in the dining room . . .”
He led us to two rooms—one for us, and one for Jacky and Eleanor. They were far from luxurious—I am certain the Vassals moved their best possessions with them to Nova Scotia when they made their escape—but it was better than I had expected.
“Will it do?” George looked as though he truly needed my reassurance.
“’Tis a fine room,” I said as I slipped my hand round his arm. “If I am with you, ’tis a grand room indeed.”
With the children settling into their own room across the hall, he kissed me properly. Six months is a long time to ache for a kiss.
It was well worth it.
*****
We stood on Prospect Hill, northeast of Cambridge. From there we had a spectacular view of Boston, as well as the British fleet in the Charles River and Boston Harbour beyond. I shuddered at the sight of the ships. We had no ships.
George turned to point behind us. “We stand on the summit of what the British named Mount Pisgah—from whence Moses viewed the Promised Land. The land he was not permitted to enter. The British named it as a slight to us, teasing us with entry into Boston—a land we can see but cannot enter.”
“They certainly own arrogance.”
“They call us savages, fools, and cowards.” He sighed and put a hand upon the back of my neck. “We are none of those things, Martha. By God I will make sure of it.”
I believed him.
“There.” George turned us to the east and pointed across the bay. “There is Bunker Hill. That is where the shelling originates that disturbs you so. There, and Boston.” He swept his arm to the south.
I shuddered at the mere thought of it, though I endeavoured to keep my fears to myself as well as I could. “The rest of you act totally unsurprised when the cannons fire, but I fear I will never be used to it.”
“I wish I were not used to it,” George said.
I looked toward Bunker Hill. “What town is there—was there? I see so much destruction. There are but a few chimneys standing.”
“That is Charlestown. The British destroyed it when they took Bunker Hill last June.”
I looked to the south, to the city of Boston. There were many fine buildings still standing. Only God knew how long they would stand. I had heard they were pulling up the wharfs for firewood.
“Come, my dear. You have seen enough of war.”
A truth said.
Yet I knew I would see more.
More than enough.
*****
Although war—and preparations for war—raged around us, I saw no need to throw civility to the wind. As the wife of General Washington, it behooved me to wear a state of calm concern and serenity. It did no one good to panic or encourage worry. There was enough of that behind closed doors.
And so . . . I entertained as best I could. I put on dinners and socials for officers and their wives, and set up a rotation so none were slighted. If the war could be forgotten for but a few hours . . . it did everyone good. The wives of the officers were the only women close by, for the wives of the soldiers were plenty busy at home, taking care of business, farm, and family while their husbands were fighting. We wives were a rarity, we few.
Actually, I enjoyed the wives, especially Lucy Knox and Kitty Greene. Their husbands—Colonel Henry Knox (a rotund bookseller turned officer) and Brigadier General Nathanael Greene (even at age thirty-three and the youngest general in the army, George considered him worthy to take over in his stead)—had become close confidants of my husband and were invaluable to the Cause.
As Lucy and Kitty were invaluable to me. We often spent the day together in the parlour of our home or theirs. I initiated a sewing circle among us and the other officers’ wives, making the soldiers much-needed shirts and mending the ones they already had. I felt it imperative we make ourselves useful.
Kitty, small and pretty, only twenty but married a year, was vivacious, though a bit without education. She got along swimmingly with Eleanor. And Lucy . . . Lucy, also a babe at nineteen and married a year, was as outspoken as I about most everything, though she had a tendency toward volume I did not share. Where I was short and stout, she was tall and slim. And yet, diverse as we were, we became three peas in a cozy pod, with me the willing mother of them all.
“Ouch!” Kitty put a pricked finger to her mouth.
Lucy held up her hands for inspection. “Callouses, Kitty. The key is to develop hard callouses on the tips of the fingers.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“By pricking them and letting them heal strong,” I said.
Our laughter was a balm that spread across the tense day. Even Eleanor laughed—which was a relief, as she still mourned her dead baby. Yet I knew it was not easy for her to see both Lucy and Kitty pregnant with their first . . .
“Want to hear some gossip?” Kitty asked.
“Of course,” Lucy said.
“There is talk about you, Martha.”
I adjusted a sleeve in its armhole and pinned it, ready to sew. “If it is good, tell me in the greatest detail, but if it is bad, then I wish not to hear it.”
“’Tis good,” Kitty said. “It is from Mercy Otis Warren, and you know she is full of opinion.” She leaned close. “Her plays, though they are billed as written by a person anonymous, are quite biting in their satire against officials unwilling to take a stand for freedom. So any positive opinion from her lips . . .”
“I did meet her and admire her zeal,” I said. “Her good opinion would be appreciated.”
“Then you shall be pleased, for she said the complacency of your manners speaks at once of the benevolence of your heart, and your affability, candor, and gentleness qualify you to soften the hours of private life, sweeten the care of the hero, and smooth the rugged paths of war.”
Eleanor let her sewing fall to her lap. “How laudable, Mamma.”
“How true,” Kitty said.
I felt myself blush. Although I relished compliments as much as the next, I found it difficult to accept them in company. “I suppose this means I can never say an unkind word or complain about anything whatsoever lest I lose my complacent and affable status.”
Lucy sighed deeply. “Alas, ’tis so. It’s difficult being an
icon of womanhood, is it not?”
I paused a moment, then sighed for dramatic effect. “Not that difficult.”
We added more laughter to our day.
I peered across the hall to the dining room, where George met with the other officers, planning a war. He did not look up and his forehead was drawn with the seriousness of his task. So many depended on him.
As did I.
If I could sweeten my hero’s care . . .
I took up my needle and thread. “Sew, ladies. The soldiers need their shirts.”
*****
A new year. A time to reflect and think ahead.
I tried not to think of the past, for I knew the idyllic years at Mount Vernon were golden. Whether they could ever be regained was unknown. Whether George would survive, whether any of us . . . whether our Cause would survive . . .
If it did not, we would all be executed as traitors. And Mount Vernon? It would be easy pickings for a British officer with a yen to own a plantation in America.
We had to be victorious. We had to.
Toward that end, on this New Year’s Day in 1776, George developed a strategy. Not for a battle, but to elicit hope in the hearts of all patriots. His forces were dwindling as their one-year enlistment came due. If he did not do something soon, there would be no force to lead.
And so . . . we, along with other officers and wives, drove up Prospect Hill with a great purpose.
Upon my husband’s instructions, a seventy-foot schooner mast had been set in place. It loomed large at the crest of the hill, the battlements of the soldiers’ fortification trenches cut into the hill nearby.
“Come, my dear,” George said, helping me from the carriage. “Watch the snow.”
Lucy and Kitty came close, whispering, “What are we here for?”
“You will see,” I said. For George had confided in me. As the soldiers drew close, their collective breath formed a mist upon the air. Once gathered, I watched as their General Washington removed a cloth-covered parcel from the back of the carriage.
He approached the mast. “Gentlemen. Soldiers. We have come to greet you on this first day of the new year, to offer you a symbol of our sacrifice.”
With that, he removed the cloth and pulled out a flag. He, and General Greene, held it taut. It fought the breeze but was held secure. Its red, white, and blue colours were striking against the white of the snow and the gray of the sky.
“I present to you the Great Union Flag, whose creation was approved by the Continental Congress last year. The red and white stripes signify the uniqueness and unity of our thirteen colonies, and the Union Jack in the canton corner of the flag represents our wishes to keep close ties with Great Britain e’en as we long to be independent.” He nodded to two soldiers to come forward. “Raise it high upon the mast, men, so all can witness our unity of cause—the Cause of freedom.”
There was silence as the soldiers attached the rope to the flag and lofted it up the pole. When it was in place, George stood at attention and saluted it. All the men followed suit, and after a moment of dignified silence, the men erupted in loud huzzahs and cheers, along with a volley from thirteen guns.
I looked at the men’s faces. In spite of their ragged clothing and their cold hands and feet, their eyes had taken on a new fire. I prayed it would be a fire that would warm them in the months—and years?—to come.
Twelve
“I can write my own letters,” I told George. “Although I never claim to be eloquent, I do not enjoy feeling incapable.”
George glanced at his secretary, Private Masten, who had penned the letter in question. The soldier looked back, awaiting instructions.
When George did not reply, I read the letter responding to an invitation from Mercy Otis Warren to take safe haven in her home in Plymouth should the British attack Cambridge. “‘. . . she cannot but esteem it a happiness to have so friendly an invitation as Mrs. Warren has given.’” I shook my head. “Those are not my words. Would not be my words.”
“Much correspondence is being intercepted, my dear. You know a packet of letters was stolen from headquarters and delivered to General Howe. Including a letter I intended for you.”
“But he sent it back to you. He proved himself a gentleman.”
“I give him that one occasion,” George said. “But only that. We are at war. Acts of gallantry can never be counted upon.”
“If I may?” Private Masten looked to his general for permission.
“Speak.”
“My intent in your letter to Mrs. Warren was to give no indication the invitation was offered for reasons of safety against the enemy. If word got out the general’s wife was fleeing . . .” He let out a breath. “It would not be advantageous.”
George nodded. “Exactly.”
“But if you would have told me, I could have written such a letter myself.”
“I know, my dear,” George responded, “but with all you are doing at the camp, increasing morale to such high degrees . . . Do you know people say you could charm King George himself through your talent and ease with conversation?”
“If I had a chance to speak to the king, I fear I would not be very charming.”
George took the letter and returned it to Private Masten’s desk. With a hand to my back he led me out of the writing room of the Vassal House. “I did not mean to offend,” he said once we stepped away, “only to ease you of the occasional burden. If it is agreeable, others will write such letters and you can sign them.”
I stopped in the hall, physically turning him about so his back blocked those who busied themselves around us, creating a bit of privacy amid the constant chaos. Then I peered up at him, hooked my finger in a buttonhole of his lapel, and pulled him down to my level. “And you call me a charmer?”
I kissed his cheek, then let him loose to run the war.
*****
And run the war he did—and very well.
I awaited news regarding our army’s latest feat. In secret (though I knew of it, for George regularly used me as a sounding board), Colonel Knox slipped up to Fort Ticonderoga in central New York, and somehow—with great difficulty, through snow and rain—transported fifty-nine cannon more than two hundred miles to Cambridge, on wagons made into sleds. Then, during the dark of this night, the fourth of March going into the fifth, George called twelve hundred soldiers to get the cannons set on the brink of Dorchester Heights, overlooking Boston. How to do so without tipping off the British was the problem at hand. I had heard George order bales of straw to be used as cover for the men along the road to the summit, as well as used to wrap the wheels for silent passage. If the British heard or saw or suspected . . .
In the parlour, I paced, Jacky paced, Lucy Knox paced, and Eleanor sat by the warm fire—for she was blessedly with child once again and wished to take no chance of overexertion. Vassal House was nearly empty of personnel, as most had been called to help. No legs had been pulled to gain volunteers, for all wished the siege over. Progress was never made in inaction. We had stayed awake all night listening for the sound of gunfire or cannons coming from Dorchester, but it had been blessedly silent. Eerily so.
“It is dawn,” Jacky said, peering out the window. “Certainly they know something by now.”
“Maybe they did not get the guns in place,” I said.
“Oh, they got them set,” Lucy said. “I know my Henry. He did not trudge two hundred miles to have them sit where they would do no good.”
“He is coming!” Jacky said, dropping the curtain aside. “Poppa is coming.”
We moved toward the door and within moments, George entered amid the company of soldiers. Upon seeing us, he and the others stopped short.
“Well?” I asked.
“Are they set?” Lucy asked.
George smiled. “Upon awakin
g this morning, upon glancing out their windows to see whether the day was cloudy or fair, the king’s men in Boston were accosted by renewed fortifications and rows and rows of cannon pointed their way.”
A cheer went up from the soldiers, who then entered the house and spread about to do their work.
“They did not see you as you worked?” I asked my husband.
He took my hands in his and drew them close. “They did not. Providence shielded us from their eyes.”
I kissed his hands. “Thank God.”
“Indeed I do.”
“What now?” Jacky asked.
“We expect a great battle,” George said, removing his coat, stiff from the cold. “But we are ready for them.”
“And my husband?” Lucy asked.
“He is well and will stop home when he can.”
“I must go then,” she said.
As Eleanor helped Lucy into her cloak, George said, “If you will excuse me, family, the day—and my work—is not finished. I must gather a few things, then return to encourage the men. For they are truly worth the effort. They manifest their joy and express a warm desire for the approach of the enemy; each man knows his place and is resolute to execute his duty.”
I took George’s coat and spread it before the fire, for I too knew my place and was resolute to execute my duty to help in any way I could.
*****
Jacky burst through the front door. “They are leaving! The British are leaving!”
After a moment of incredulousness, we embraced, for it had been twelve days since our enemy had awakened to see our cannons looming over them from Dorchester Heights. At noon on that day they had sent a barrage of cannon fire our way, but only two or three men were killed or wounded. Some of the British troops were seen gathering, as though they were preparing to attack our position, but a violent storm arose and General Howe abandoned his plan. I have no doubt God had seen fit to thwart a maneuver which would surely have resulted in widespread bloodshed.
“Come!” Jacky said. “You must come and see the sight of it!”
Eleanor and I made quick work of our cloaks and entered the carriage that had been made ready at Jacky’s request. We drove to a promontory where we would be out of the way, yet able to see.
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