Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  I could have helped nurse them. I would have been happy to, if only George would have allowed me to join him. Too soon it would be spring and there would be battles aplenty.

  And though I suffered my loneliness for him, he suffered even more for being away from me, his family, and his beloved Mount Vernon. He wrote to me, grieving that my letters to him arrived in an erratic manner: No one suffers more by an absence from home than myself.

  I believed him.

  I heard footfalls in our private back stairs. Probably Lindy come to make a fire in the now cold grate of our room.

  I considered lying abed. People would understand. ’Twas no stretch of imagination to know that all at Mount Vernon would have preferred to stay in warm covers upon this crisp February morn.

  There was a light tap upon the door.

  “Come in, Lindy. I am awake.” To make myself truthful, I turned my legs over the side of the mattress and reached for my dressing gown.

  The door opened tentatively and Cully peeked in. “Excuse me? Ma’am?”

  “Just a moment.”

  He nodded and withdrew to the hall. I wrapped my gown around me and tied its fastening before opening the door. “Yes, Cully. What is it?”

  “Sorry to disturb you so early, but a rider came by. He had a letter and said it was most urgent.” He handed it to me and left me alone.

  I took a switch and gained a flame from the coals to light a candle to read by. I sat at my dressing table chair and noticed the handwriting did not belong to George.

  My stomach turned.

  It had no reason to lessen as the letter came from one of my husband’s aides at Morristown:

  Dear Lady Washington,

  I am sorry to inform you that General Washington is in dire sickness. We had three foot of snow at camp and he himself, being the General he is, oversaw the cleaning of the roads and town. For days he stood in the cold. And so, he now suffers from quinsy. His sore throat is extreme and though I do not wish to alarm you, I must state there are many here who are in an extreme state of worry. Please know everything that can be done to accomplish his complete recovery is being attended to.

  I stood. “Not everything is being done, for I am not there!”

  I would remedy that. If there was no carriage to take me north, I would walk.

  Let the British or the Hessians or even the weather try to stop me.

  *****

  I did not have to walk to New Jersey, but rode in a carriage arranged by Jacky. He, Eleanor, and baby Elizabeth had moved to Mount Vernon of late, and upon hearing of his dear poppa’s illness rallied all forces to gain me access to care for him.

  Jacky gave me a strong embrace before I left. “Make him well, Mamma. Please.”

  I looked up into his dark eyes. “I promise I will not allow death to take him. Bullets have spared him. I will not let sickness do worse.”

  The trip of two hundred forty miles was more arduous than my trip to Cambridge eighteen months earlier, as the weather was far colder and my inclination for speed intense. Although Jacky sent ahead evidence of my route, as I neared Philadelphia I had received no message as to my husband’s state. No news seemed bad news indeed. One would think on a trip of such a length all sorts of thoughts could tarry upon the mind. It was not so, for I had only one thought, one mind, one heart. I adjusted the rhythm of my prayers with each mile, each crook of the carriage, and each bump in the road. Make him well, make him well. Make him whole.

  I arrived at a friend’s house that would be my lodging for a night. We had just settled in to an evening before the fire when some soldiers came to the door. I did not think anything of it, as soldiers often came to residences, searching for provisions.

  But as soon as my host spoke with them, he came into the parlour to get me. “They wish to speak with you, Martha. Alone.” His face showed ample concern.

  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.�
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  “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.

  Thirteen

  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 p
ain 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.