Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  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?”

  The number of wounded was daunting, and there was only one me. “I will try.”

  I moved on to the next soldier, asleep upon a few boards, his tattered blanket nowhere near large enough to cover him. I attempted to tuck it beneath his feet which bore no shoes. The act exposed his arms.

  I turned to the attendant who accompanied me. “Is there a piece of cloth left in the basket?”

  Raymond shook his head. “You used the last one four soldiers back.”

  I looked upon the sleeping soldier, wondering whether cold arms or cold feet were the larger discomfort. His hair was matted with blood from a gash that looked too wide for proper healing. Too soon it will not matter.

  I started at my own thought. That I had come to be so matter-of-fact with death horrified me.

  And yet, walking amongst the wounded day after day . . . seeing them come—and go . . . Most were not being treated for the wounds of war. There was little fighting going on beyond the occasional skirmish of one of our foraging parties coming into contact with one of the British, but disease was rampant: dysentery, pneumonia, and all sorts of complaints brought about by unsanitary conditions and poor or nonexistent food.

  “Lady Washington? Since the basket is empty, are we done for the day?”

  It was tempting. Visiting the men exhausted me. And yet, how could I go back to the Potts house and sit before a fire when they were suffering so?

  “Not yet,” I said, moving on.

  I spotted a man—or half a man, as he was so gaunt, smiling at me. I went to his side.

  “Are you her?”

  I continued to blush at such recognition. “I am Mrs. Washington, yes.”

  He extended a bandaged hand. “We wait for you each winter. Did you know that?”

  I felt tears threaten but held them back. “I am very honoured. I wait to come to you.”

  “We know it is a great sacrifice for you to leave your home and visit us.”

  I put my hand upon his shoulder, shaking my head. “My sacrifice is nothing, dear boy, compared to all of yours. My honour is nothing. All should go to you.”

  “No, no, dear lady, you—”

  I had had enough adulation. “What is your name, soldier?”

  “William, ma’am.”

  “I had a brother named William. A fine man he was. Just like you. Where are you from, William?”

  “Vermont.”

  “I have not had the pleasure. Is it beautiful there?” I pulled a stool beside him and asked about his family and the life he had left behind—the life he was fighting for.

  It was the least I could do.

  Sadly, the least. And the most.

  *****

  I disliked this duty more than any. I was annoyed that too many women put me in this position, and yet, as desperate as they were, I knew I might have done the same.

  “Sit, Mrs. Drinker.”

  Although our upstairs room was tiny, I could not impose upon the other spaces during the day when George and his men needed room to deal with the war.

  She sat, her face hopeful, her hands keeping each other company in her lap. “I appreciate your taking my side, Mrs. Washington, and sending me to see your husband.”

  I knew of her meeting—her very, very brief meeting, for George had no time for traitors’ wives.

  “Do you have good news for me?” she asked.

  I took a chair nearby, the two of us close enough for our dresses to touch. “I am sorry, Mrs. Drinker, but I am afraid George cannot free your husband from our prison. No matter how extensive is your love for him, or my sympathy for you, it comes to this: Americans should not sell supplies to the enemy.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but wisely shut it. She rose. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Washington.”

  “And yours, Mrs. Drinker.”

  I saw her to the door, once again incredulous. I knew times were desperate. I knew citizens were faced with difficult survival decisions every day, but the truth was, it was long past the time to take sides. Completely. Utterly. As God did not like lukewarm people—wishing them either hot or cold, lest He spew them out of his mouth—neither did I.

  So there.

  *****

  I arranged a party for George’s forty-sixth birthday on February 22, 1778, in the new log addition he had ordered built at the back of the Potts house for dining and the
sewing circles I held regularly. I brewed coffee made with acorns—the standard fare in such hard times. There was little more I could offer. But to make things merry, I asked a few soldiers who were musicians to play us a concert.

  When they finished, we applauded and George stood. “Bravo, gentlemen! Bravo.”

  I moved to their leader and discreetly pressed into his palm fifteen shillings for their effort, then made a request. “Would you continue to play some songs for singing?”

  The fiddle player looked in his hand, his eyes grew wide, then he bowed. “Of course, Lady Washington. Anything for you.”

  George laughed. “If only I would elicit such loyalty.”

  The soldier reddened and said, “Anything for you too, General, sir.”

  George—quite delighted and at ease in the celebration—shooed his concern away. “My soldiers are ever faithful, ever loyal. I could ask for none better.”

  “Hear, hear!” General Knox said.

  His wife, Lucy, was quick to join the toast. “To the men who battle for us!”

  There was agreement throughout the room.

  And much singing. Even George, who could not list singing among his many talents, joined in with an exuberance that gave me great pleasure.

  ’Twas a good night. A good birthday for my old man.

  *****

  Rumour had it a woman named Mrs. Loring had as much to do with the inaction of the British during their stay in Philadelphia as any act or action of a military nature. She was General Howe’s mistress—and the wife of one of his officers—and had apparently so enamored him with her pleasures that he was content to party and dine and leave the war for warmer weather. Luckily, his officers and soldiers were content to follow suit.

  Our officers’ wives who had come to Valley Forge to live with their patriot husbands had great fun with such rumours, and I, for one, hoped they were true. Time. We needed time for our troops to be further trained, and time to hear news of an essential alliance with the French. Let the British carouse and be distracted. The longer the better. Although I made great attempts to bring laughter and joy to our lives at camp, I was ever mindful of the responsibility we had to care for these men, to buoy them up, to mold them into fine soldiers. George did his part and I did mine.