“I am so happy,” she said with her chin against my shoulder. “So is Jack. He does long for a son.”
I cringed. So that was it. Eleanor had given birth to six daughters, three who lived. Jacky’s intolerance with her recovery was due to this eternal quest for an heir?
I let Eleanor go and looked into her eyes. “I do wish Jacky would pay better attention to the children he has before taking measures to father another.”
She stepped away from my gaze and sat in a chair, retrieving the stitching I had set aside. Her finger traced my autograph upon the neck facing. “He is a good father.”
“He is too lenient.” I hesitated. I had heard accounts of Jacky’s fatherhood that alarmed me, and had spoken with him about them, as best I could. They were beyond Eleanor’s knowing—for her own good, considering her continually precarious health—and yet . . .
“If you are speaking of any tall tales told by our Betsy, then I am disappointed. She is but a child.”
“A child who is being used as a party attraction.”
The way Eleanor drew back her head, the way she blinked, told me she was not in full knowledge of what went on while she was safely upstairs at Abingdon, abed with illness.
I looked to the other women in the room. Their eyes revealed curiosity. But this was family business. “Go now,” I told them. “Thank you for your assistance. If you wish, you may take your sewing with you.”
They left, albeit reluctantly. I could hold no certainty they would not position themselves nearby in order to hear . . .
That could not be helped. In truth, knowing how servants talked, I would have been surprised if they did not know the story of young Betsy from Jacky’s servants who traveled back and forth with the family to Abingdon.
“Please sit, my dear,” I told Eleanor.
She did so, but I could tell by her stance her defenses were raised. “If you are going to tell me Betsy sings for Jack’s friends when they visit, I know that. I have heard that.”
“Did you know he stands her on the dining table to sing?”
Her brow furrowed.
“Have you listened to the words of the songs he and Dr. Rumney have taught her?”
“No . . . her voice, though good, is light. I only hear her sing, not what she sings.”
I looked to the doorway. It appeared we were alone. “They have taught her bawdy songs, Eleanor.”
She looked to her lap. “They are not so bawdy.”
I was appalled. “So you do know?”
Being caught, she reddened. “Jack assures me no harm can come from words she does not understand.” She raised her chin, strengthening her defense. “He said he has no boy and Betsy must make fun for him until he has.”
I sucked in a breath.
She stopped any words I had to say with a hand. “Betsy much likes the attention. She struts up and back upon the table and sings her voice fully. E’en the servants clap, and all the men laugh and give her high praise.”
I closed my eyes at the thought of it. “She is too much in her father’s care. He does her no favours by subjecting her to—”
“I cannot help that I have been ill. I too would like to be more available to my daughters, and do my best to direct them as a mother should. But when I am not well . . .”
It was not her fault. She was ill because of my son’s attentions. Her wishes as to her daughters’ upbringing were pushed aside, overrun by Jacky’s will and pursuit of pleasure. Since I had not been able to curtail these traits in my son when he had been under my own roof, how could I expect her to do more?
“I try, Mamma. I do try. But Jack is so headstrong and . . .”
I patted her hand, making amends. Yet the guilt of what she endured—what my granddaughters endured—lay heavily upon my shoulders, for Jacky had become the man he had become because of the boy I had let him be.
If I had it to do over again . . .
Fifteen
I left for New Windsor, New York, for winter camp, reluctant to leave my family, who might—might—have benefited from my presence.
And yet there was another reason I left Mount Vernon with reluctance.
Things were not going well for George or the army. The British had made inroads in the South and held Charleston and were threatening North Carolina. George had not garnered any great victories in the North. And there had been a blow set upon him that I knew had the capacity to break him: one of his generals, his friend, had betrayed him, had betrayed the country. General Benedict Arnold had betrayed us by planning to surrender West Point to the British. His plan was foiled, and Arnold escaped to a British warship, but George took it personally. How could a hero of so many battles, a man whom George considered one of his best and most accomplished generals, change sides and plan a campaign that would lead to the loss of American lives?
How could he give up?
Actually . . . considering the situation, the utter frustration of each year set upon year, problem set upon problem, with no end in sight . . .
No. I could not condone such an act. Ever. To do so would be to negate all the sacrifice and suffering that had thus transpired.
My job, as I entered winter camp, was to do my best to buoy the spirits of the men, and of my man.
We women were doing our part. Sarah Bache, the daughter of Benjamin Franklin, and a chairwoman of the Philadelphia sewing effort, sent my husband 2,500 shirts, and a circle of women in New Jersey sent 380 pairs of newly knitted stockings. With humility, George accepted these offerings.
With desperation.
Winter was as bad as ever, supplies worse, and Continental money now worthless. We had neither a coin in our treasury nor credit to obtain one. There were reports of many skirmishes in the South and the fighting of one ethnic group against another. In addition, citizens who were tired of having their property taken by soldiers fought to keep it or hid it away. Loyalists did not help matters when they banded together to aid the British. And mutinies . . . soldiers in the North, having had enough of the bad conditions, revolted against their own. It was as though fighting was high on men’s minds and they were determined to do it, one way or another.
Regarding our fighting against the British—George had appointed Nathanael Greene to be in charge of our southern forces. He had some success with cat-and-mouse tactics. We annoyed them with small battles, then withdrew. They followed us deeper into the wilderness, and we annoyed them some more. This pulled the British away from their supplies upon the coast and exhausted them, but did little to offer the benefits of true victory.
Deserters from both sides were plentiful, and there had even been an attempt upon my husband’s life.
And the French, who had given us such hope with their offers of help? Their warships sat mute in the harbour. We were told it would take a year before they would be ready to give true aid.
The truth was, neither side could claim it was winning. Both were merely surviving. Barely. We had heard rumours that back in England, Parliament was growing weary of the fight. We prayed they would say “Enough!” and call their soldiers home. That is all we wanted. Retreat. Just leave us alone to build this new country of ours that had barely had a chance to begin.
Many nights, while lying in each other’s arms, George shared his despondency with me, the despondency he dared not share in public. On one particular night he shared something more.
The wind howled, and the moon cast a bare lightness. We huddled together in the darkness and I settled against his shoulder, waiting to hear what had been lain upon his heart during the course of the day.
“I should not be leading them,” he finally said.
He had expressed such doubts before. “Of course you should. You are a brilliant leader, a fine general, a—”
I felt his head shake no against my hair. “Rememb
er when we were courting? When I had been deemed a hero of the war against the French?”
“You were a hero.”
He shook his head again. “I was not. Remember I mentioned a time that brought me shame?”
My thoughts slid back over twenty years. To the few—but detailed—conversations we had before our marriage. At the time George had intimated there was some moment in his time as a Continental colonel that brought him shame. I had not thought of it since.
Obviously, he had.
“I seem to remember something.”
He hesitated, and I listened to his breathing, which grew heavy as the memories returned. “It was November 12, 1758. Remember after our engagement how I reenlisted for one last try at Fort Du Quesne? I wished to redeem myself from my humiliation at Fort Necessity? Although I had left the Continental Army behind me, I still wished to be seen as capable as any British officer.”
“Thank God they never commissioned you,” I said. “How different things would have been if you had felt a loyalty to them instead of—”
His silence indicated it was not the time for such hindsight, however true.
“I apologize. Please continue.”
“Bad weather was upon us and Brigadier General John Forbes, my superior, indicated we should halt the campaign against the French for the winter. We were about to do so when we heard a French raiding party was close by. He had not thought much about the ability of my men until shortly before this time, and I was eager to convince him of our worth. So when he ordered me to take one thousand Virginians and take care of them, I was quick to go, though in truth, his orders were given in a snide way, as if the entire thing were an annoyance and he did not want to be bothered with it by sending his own men.”
“He does not sound like a good officer.”
“He was like most British officers—confident in their own troops and wary of ours. He may have been arrogant, but I was cocky. Of the two, on that particular day, mine was the worst trait.”
I waited for him to continue.
“Realizing this was my chance to prove our troops had worth, I divided the men into two groups, waited until the French raiding party was resting, and attacked. We were victorious and took many prisoners. But then, during our celebration of victory, in the twilight, more men came out of the forest, muskets raised, surprising us. And so we fired. And fired. And . . .”
I heard him swallow with slow difficulty.
“In horror I realized we were firing upon our own men. We were killing our own! I rode between them, yelling for them to stop. Never was I in more imminent danger by being between two fires, knocking up with my sword the presented pieces.”
“Oh, George.”
He nodded. “Fourteen of my men were killed and twenty-six were wounded. All because I did not have control over my command as I should have.”
I did not know what to say. “I am so sorry.”
“As I have been, all these years.”
“But you are a better soldier now, a better commander.”
“Am I?”
His doubt made me sit up and look down upon him. “You are commander in chief of the entire American army.”
“I have the position, but I am hardly successful. Do you realize I have only fought nine battles, and of those, have only won three?”
I had not realized that. I always thought of my George as victorious.
“Other American generals are more capable in battle than I. The men believe in me, believe I can lead them to victory. But there is no evidence of that. They believe in the dream of a man, not in my true history. They should not have put me in charge.”
“Nonsense!” I pointed out the window toward the army camp beyond. “Do you think those men out there are keeping score? They look to you for more than wins and losses; they look to you for inspiration.”
He raised his forearm over his eyes and sighed. “They may be led, but they will never be driven.”
“Exactly. You are their lead—”
“This whole thing has become more a test of political endurance than a war.”
“Indeed it has. And who better to remain faithful to the Cause, to get the men to remain faithful during appalling conditions, than a man like you.”
“A man who has been humiliated in one battle and shamed in another.”
“A man who is but a man. A man who loves his soldiers and the Cause they fight for with his whole heart. A man who keeps this Cause alive. A man who refuses to give up.”
“Perhaps I should give up.”
I shoved his arm away, needing to see his eyes in the pale moonlight. “Do not ever say that. Ever!”
His eyes were so troubled, so burdened.
“You are the man this country needs, at this time, in this place. God placed you here. Many believe that, including you and me. Do you now question the Almighty’s plan?”
He smiled: a wistful smile, an indulgent smile, but still a smile. “I will try to do better, dear lady.”
I patted his shoulder and gave him a kiss. “You do that,” I said. Then I laid my head down once again. George pulled up the covers and tucked me in where I belonged.
*****
’Twas a day like many others in New Windsor. The winter was surrendering to spring. I had just come back from visiting sick soldiers, and had set up our sewing circle with some of the wives in a back room. George and his men were in meetings. I heard a courier come, but took little note of it. George received much correspondence. I had learned to be patient. If there was a letter from home, a soldier had been instructed to bring it forthwith.
Periodically, I glanced toward the door of the room, hoping for some news of Jacky’s family. Eleanor was due to deliver any day. As soon as the muddy roads were passable, I would go home to be with them.
I did not expect to see George at the doorway.
Upon seeing him, the ladies fluttered. Although all had oft danced with him and supped with him, and though their husbands were like family, they still deferred to his presence.
I stood, suddenly afraid. He did not interrupt his day for no strong reason, and during war, such reasons were more likely bad than good. And with Eleanor in such a tenuous state . . . “What is it?”
With a short bow to the other ladies present, he said, “If you please?”
His desire for privacy added to my nerves. We stepped into a back hall.
“What is it, George?”
He pulled a letter from his coat. “A letter from Lund.”
I sucked in a breath. “Is Eleanor—?”
“Eleanor is fine and awaiting her confinement. But Mount Vernon . . . The British have come up the Potomac with the intent of burning the plantations.”
My heart stopped. My head shook no, no, no, no . . .
He put a hand upon my arm. “No, dear. Let me ease that fear. Mount Vernon has been spared.”
I flung my arms about his waist. “Praise God!”
He gently pulled my arms away. “’Tis how it was spared that causes me great pain.”
I took a step back. Thoughts of Jacky’s family, dealing with such fear, made my heart feel weak.
George shook the letter between us. “When the British vessel docked at our home, many of the Negros fled—ours and those belonging to Lund. In an attempt to save Mount Vernon, Lund boarded the vessel, brought the officers refreshment, and told them he would provision the ship if they would return our Negros and leave Mount Vernon unscathed.”
“And?”
“They agreed.”
I allowed myself to let out a breath, but even before its full expulsion, I took another. “But our neighbors . . . many have had their homes burned because they would not capitulate to the enemy. For Lund to save our home by giving aid . . .”
“The damage he has accomplished—”
“The miracle he has procured on our behalf, George.”
He leaned against the wall and rubbed the space between his brow. “It would have been a less painful circumstance to me to have heard that in consequence of his noncompliance with their request, they had burned our house and laid the plantation in ruins. He ought to have considered himself as my representative, and should have reflected on the bad example of communicating with the enemy, and making a voluntary offer of refreshments to them with a view to prevent a conflagration . . .”
“He did what he thought best. We left him to manage—and protect—our family and property. He has done so in the best way he could ascertain.
“But not this way. Never this way.”
A soldier peered down the hall at us, then retreated out of sight. George was needed.
Which was the problem.
I stepped closer to my husband, my voice for our ears alone. “Although I grieve the extent of action in which Lund has chosen, I applaud the result. The thought of returning to Mount Vernon after this war sustains me, sustains you, and allows you to do the enormity of work which has been thrust upon your shoulders. And as for myself—speaking in pure selfishness—I am relieved to know that once it is time for me to leave this place, I still have a home to return to.”
George stood erect and nodded once.
I pressed my hands upon his arm, turning him toward his office. “Now, leave me. Leave this, knowing that Providence has chosen it, and we, as in all things, have no right to complain or question why.”
He reached back and placed a hand upon mine. “I am so glad you are here, dearest.”
I kissed his hand, and with a gentle nudge, sent him back to work toward saving our country.
*****
I opened the box and gasped. “Lemons! Limes and oranges. A pineapple and sweets!” I looked up at George from my sickbed. “Such delicacies.”
He dug through the boxes, picking up a bottle of what looked to be a medicine, and some tea. His mouth was shaped into a grimace.
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