He was considering—no, deciding to go because he was needed. Because he, more than most men, understood the value of the magnificent land along the Ohio. If the French were allowed to erect forts and seize that land, England and the Colonies would be permitting a priceless heritage to slip through their fingers. Future colonists would need to push westward. It was vital that their progress should not be stopped by French guns. George knew that when General Braddock came to Virginia, he would join his party.
He did make one concession to his responsibilities at Mount Vernon. He decided to go with the general as a volunteer officer without pay. Then he would be free to return home after a year if matters on the plantation necessitated his presence.
His mother heard of the decision and hastened to Mount Vernon. The scene was similar to when she’d forbidden him to go to sea but with one essential difference. He was twenty-three now, not sixteen. He was master of his own home and he had the right to his own life.
He fought her rage but not with angry words, although they crowded his throat, begging for utterance. Instead he showed her exquisite courtesy which only infuriated her the more.
“I’ll not have it! Nonsense! Stay home where you belong. Your brother Lawrence would be alive now if he hadn’t gone on that fool campaign and returned with no lungs in his body. And who will take care of this place?” His mother’s voice seemed even shriller as she got older.
“Jack will, I hope.” His younger brother, John Augustine, had accompanied their mother on the visit. “Jack, could you tear yourself away from Ferry Farm and stay here till my return? If Mother can spare you, of course.”
Jack said quickly, “Mother finds me of little use at Ferry Farm. Oh, yes . . . yes, George, I’ll gladly stay here.”
George looked at his tall young brother with wry affection. Lawrence had given him a home—a refuge from his mother. Now he was doing the same thing for Jack. Then he sighed as his mother stalked angrily from the room. For a man who daily felt an increasing need for a woman to share his life, he realized that he was not very grateful for the one woman he had.
He soon discovered that there would be as much frustration in this campaign as there had been in the last one. Braddock might be a brilliant commander but, as George realized almost immediately, he was not prepared to surrender his established notions of proper military warfare. Accordingly, George’s suggestions to pack animals rather than wagons with supplies, so that the army could move quickly and easily, fell on deaf ears.
At the conferences in Braddock’s quarters George tried tactfully to point out that fighting Indians who could slide away in the woods was quite different from meeting another army in full dress on an open plain. At first the general seemed to be listening to his suggestions but it soon became obvious that he did not take them seriously. He was clearly about to recover Fort Duquesne in his own way.
George could feel his blood heat even while he kept his manner courteous and his face impassive. He had a clear picture of the kind of target the British Regulars would make in their bright jackets. He knew too that Braddock was not maintaining a consistent policy with the friendly Indians. He did not suspect that one day, as commander in chief of a revolution, he would bless the British for their shortsightedness in both these areas.
The responsibility for assembling the supplies fell to him. He frequently told himself that he’d rather face the entire French Army with a dozen soldiers behind him than work on the near-hopeless task of properly equipping an army. Money was short; horses were promised but not delivered; meat arrived from contractors in such vile state that he ordered it buried; shipments of flour did not arrive. The trails were so bad that the overloaded wagons collapsed.
But at last they were ready for the march. George was bone weary but anxious to get into action. He had volunteered his services because he wanted to serve his country and King. Certainly he’d never anticipated spending weeks and months arguing the price of flour with traders who more properly could be called robbers.
Then, just as the march was to begin, he contracted the bloody flux that had swept through the camp. He’d thought he was immune, that his strong body could cast off any germs, but he was no match for this ailment. Feebly he damned his luck as, abed with fever and weakness, he watched the troops leave the camp.
Braddock, considerately enough, stopped to wish him well before leaving. George did manage to wring a promise from the commander. If he could recover sufficiently, he could join the regiment and be present when the fort was retaken.
The camp seemed desolate and quiet after the main force was gone. He could not seem to shake the paralyzing weakness which left him somber and depressed. Loneliness added to his miseries. There was little communication and at one point he wrote John Augustine, sarcastically bidding him to thank his friends for the letters they hadn’t sent.
After that letter was mailed, he felt twice as wretched. He’d meant Sally, of course. But she had written several times. And what more could he expect. As the fever swept over him again, he knew that what he wanted of her in time and thought and attention could only be required of a wife.
Gradually the weakness left and he began to recover. Over the strenuous objections of the doctor he declared himself well enough to catch up with the general’s staff. He was frantic with anxiety now. An advanced column had been sent and all indications were that the move to take the fort before the French could get new supplies would go well.
George allowed one concession to his illness. When his horse was being saddled he permitted cushions to be put between the saddle and the animal’s body to protect his aching body from the jolting of the ride.
The unseasonable heat in Pennsylvania was distressing to him and he blamed the weather for his inability to share the lighthearted sense of conquest that Braddock and his staff exhibited when he caught up with them. They reported that the advance column had encountered no opposition, not even scouts. Why, undoubtedly, they’d take Duquesne in a few hours.
The day they began to cross the Monongahela River was July 9. George felt the quickening of his senses as they began this last leg before the battle site.
There was an exultation coursing through him similar to what he felt when he was at home in Mount Vernon. Oh, granted, he didn’t feel this way all the time on a military campaign, certainly not when he was cooling his heels for weeks in dismal little towns, trying frantically to get supplies. He stretched his shoulders back, totally unaware of what an imposing figure he was to the men around him.
Actually he would have been surprised to know how blindly his men loved and trusted him. He even felt that his air of reserve which had begun in his mother’s household was a detriment to him in his relationship with the troops. He’d heard himself termed “haughty” and felt the word unfair but could do nothing to alter it. He shrugged inwardly and gave the command to cross the river.
The forging of Turtle Creek was simple, but a warning bell seemed to clang in his mind. He pointed out to General Braddock that the riverbank was muddy with the signs of many feet. The general’s barely concealed impatience made George wheel his horse back into the line of march.
He’d been here on the last campaign, nineteen months before. The weather had been bitterly cold then, but now the trees were thick and green, the foliage dense.
He didn’t like it.
There was a clearing near Fraser’s Trading Post. They were still a day’s march from the fort. If he were the French commander, he would not let an enemy get much closer. He would find a place to stage an ambush.
Where better than right here where the troops were regrouping from the water crossing, where the forest gave coverage to an attacker?
Where better . . .
The roll of a volley shattered the precise sound of the military marching. George reined his horse in sharply. Heavy fire was followed by another volley. Then the sound he’d been waiting for came. An Indian war whoop split the air.
The battle had begun.
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George realized afterward that he could never really reconstruct the hours that ensued. He simply followed his instincts.
Afterward he listened in amazement as his fellow officers cited him for “the greatest courage and resolution.”
Afterward he found the four bullet holes through his uniform coat. Afterward he was able to grieve for the horse that was shot out from under him.
An aide came to him with the word that General Braddock had been wounded. Somehow he managed to procure a wagon and get the dying commander across the river.
Braddock remained lucid to the end. He gave orders calmly and even told George he wanted him to have his own horse and his body servant, Bishop. He died only sensing how enormous the disaster had been. He died without knowledge of the screams of the wounded as they were scalped, of the prisoners as they were burned at stakes.
It fell to George to regroup the remnants of the British and Colonial forces, to give the orders to fall back. But first he had one mission to perform for General Braddock.
As his fellow officers watched in amazement, he chose the site of the general’s burial. The trench was dug in the very road over which the column would pass. The hundreds of horses hooves would assure that no sign would remain of the grave where a brave and stubborn general was resting.
Captain Dobson asked why this was necessary. George asked him in return if he’d ever seen a body discovered and dishonored by the Indians.
The retreat was accomplished and then he was free to go home. Another campaign would have to be formed, another attempt made. It was not only the issue of the forts now. It was the prestige of Britain and her Colonies, but first plans would have to be made. Men would have to be recruited.
Wearily George began the long trip to Mount Vernon. He was heavyhearted and discouraged. He blamed himself for his part in the failure.
He did not see the worshiping glances of the troops who were still at camp when he rode away. He did not yet know that all Virginia was telling the tale of his bravery.
He did not even consider the significance of the fact that he was riding the dead general’s horse and attended by the dead general’s servant.
He did not sense that the mantle of leadership had settled firmly on his shoulders.
March 4, 1797
1:15 P.M.
Philadelphia
THE FIRE BLAZED WARM AND HEARTENing in the small study, but outside a frigid wind beat against the casements. Patsy sat by the window and peered anxiously into the street. Her eyes searched the long block looking for the tall figure who should be coming now.
Surely the ceremony was completed. Surely he should be on the way home.
She wished he had let her go with him. It was all well enough to be glad to be finished with the Presidency, but no one could fail to have some regrets at stepping aside when the actual moment came.
And she knew that some of the newspaper articles had wounded and disturbed him. He’d be wondering how many shared that editor’s feelings about the ending of his administration.
Where was he? He should have taken the carriage instead of walking on such a windy day. He had to start realizing that he wasn’t as strong as he used to be and that his throat flared up whenever he was chilled.
Resolutely she picked up her needlework. Foolish, foolish to worry so much. He was probably just visiting with Adams or Jefferson.
But he needed to rest. Tonight they would be up late at the reception.
How many times in these forty years had she waited for him, worried about him. She could still feel the clammy fear that used to haunt her when he was away at the front during the war. People ran to her with news of the general’s daring and bravery . . .
From the time he’d survived the massacre at Monongahela there’d been a legend that he couldn’t be wounded in battle.
Small comfort that legend had been in the nights when she lay awake wondering if he’d live to come back to her.
Was that . . .
Yes, it was. Far down the street a tall figure was approaching.
He seemed to be leaning forward a little, bracing himself against the wind.
As she watched, his pace quickened.
He was hurrying now.
An upsurge of relief and lightheartedness surged through her. Unheeded, her needlework slipped to the carpet. After forty years her heart still beat faster when he came.
Forty years . . . a lifetime ago . . . Her heart had pounded when her husband, Daniel Custis, had drawn her forward to be introduced to the hero of the Monongahela campaign.
He had seemed like a young god to her then with his great height and breadth accentuated by his blue-and-silver uniform and the courtly reserve in his manner
And now the white-haired, black-clad, slightly stooped figure was almost to the house.
Patsy hurried across the room and down the stairs to let her general in.
August–October, 1755
Mount Vernon
IT WAS AUGUST WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME. As usual the land restored both his body and spirits. George found that his strength returned quickly as once again he took the reins of his establishment into his own hands. Days he rode on the grounds, supervising the planting and harvesting.
Nights were quite a different matter. He could not lose the feeling of having failed abjectly in his military career. Sleeplessly he would relive every step of the trail that had led to the bloodshed at Monongahela. How culpable had he himself been? He knew the Indian mind. He knew the tactics of the French.
He should have done more.
Granted he was a junior officer. Granted that Braddock had been a crusty, difficult general. Granted even that he had tried to give the old commander his views.
There was the rub.
Should he not have been more insistent? Being a volunteer officer had been difficult but he had been sought out for the very reason that he knew the terrain. Should he not have spoken individually to the other officers, tried to wheedle or pound some sense into the heads of Shirley and Burton and St. Clair, then let them go to the general?
It might have worked.
“I gave up too easily,” he told himself as he stood at the window and watched the sun rise over the eastern fields. “Technically, maybe even before God, morally, I was not wrong, but I could have done more.”
The praise that was being heaped on him for his bravery in battle only served to sting him. He was not so dishonest that he would not admit to himself that he had proven a good officer under fire. But little comfort that would be to the families of those soldiers who had been massacred.
His remonstrations always ended on a grim note. If there could be a lesson learned from the whole of the disgrace, it was this: Never again would he hold his tongue when he knew he was in the right. Henceforth he would speak his mind plainly and forcibly.
There would be another campaign, he was sure of it. But if he were to have a part in the next one, he would go with untied hands.
The call came much sooner than he expected. Governor Dinwiddie barely digested the scope of the disaster before he realized that an even worse disaster had been foreshadowed. The retreating troops had in effect cut a road by which the French could easily march from the Ohio clear down to Virginia. There was absolutely no question but that a new offensive had to be planned at once. Besides, the Indians had become so bold that settlers in Augusta County were being scalped and their homes destroyed. The wanton murders must be terminated.
When the General Assembly met on August 5, 1755, it decided that the remainder of the Virginia Regiment was to be reassembled and sent to the frontier to deal with the savages and the French.
The news interested George greatly but he didn’t attend the session. He would not again go on an expedition where whatever skill and knowledge he possessed would not be used because of his lack of authority. His feelings were known. Letters came from Williamsburg, cautiously asking what terms he would wish if he were chosen to command the regiment. Then word was
discreetly sent that the governor was indeed interested in making him commander of the forces and that it would be a good idea if he came to the capital for a discussion.
The faint weakness still persisted but George could not deny that he looked forward to the interview. The crotchety old governor irritated him immensely but he could not help but feel sorry for him. Dinwiddie wanted to get back to England. He wanted to go to Bath and look after his health, but understandably he did not want to lay aside his responsibilities until the sorry chapter of disgrace of the Colonial forces had been rewritten.
As a man and an officer George understood and sympathized, even while he ruefully admitted that with all this, Dinwiddie would undoubtedly create obstacles to the proper conduct of any campaign.
The trouble began before he even got to Williamsburg. He’d written that he would only accept command if he had a voice in selecting the officers who would be on his staff. Characteristically Dinwiddie went ahead and appointed captains for almost all the companies that would form the Virginia Regiment.
The scene with the governor was a stormy one. The ailing old man demanded to know why Colonel Washington would not accept the honor of the position he was being offered.
George stood at attention while the tirade went on. He was angry clean through and his many lessons in childhood of not showing emotion during his mother’s rantings served him well.
He was human enough to be pleased that indirectly the governor was paying him a compliment. The men had little taste for this new campaign, especially after hearing about the scalpings and torture that had taken place after Monongahela. What the governor was actually saying was that Colonel Washington was held in such high esteem for his bravery, and was so loved by his men, that morale would be increased a thousand-fold if he were to head the regiment. The governor concluded on a somewhat irrational note. “And since your country so honors you, it is your duty to accept your country’s wishes.”
“Because I have given my best, I must give more . . .” The inconsistency stirred a moment of amusement in George, but it was short-lived. The insinuation that he was not ready to do further duty stung him. “I assure Your Excellency that it is in part my desire not to lose the esteem that my country has been pleased to bestow on me that makes me adamant now.”
Mount Vernon Love Story: A Novel of George and Martha Washington Page 5
