by Ann Rinaldi
"Oh, Cornelia, I know you like him. And he favors you. But all these years I have been patient and sympathized with him because he was estranged from his wife. I understood his need to seek out all his sweethearts. He is a man. I understood his needs, Lord knows. Even his on-again-off-again romance with Mary Maxwell and other girls in Savannah. None of it was serious. I knew that."
She paused, bowed her head. "And heaven knows, he put up with my transgressions. But now, for some reason, Cornelia, I can no longer put up with his."
I said nothing. I wanted to ask her if she loved him, but I did not dare.
I wanted, more than I wanted to breathe at the moment, to ask her if he was my father. Because the thought, the question, never left my mind. Never, over the past few years, did I ever stop thinking of it. Never did I stop wondering or hoping to find out.
But I understood what General Wayne wanted me to know.
That if I knew the truth, that if he was and I knew it, I would never again think good of my mama. And he did not want that.
So there he was, protecting her again.
And if he was not my father, then nobody lost anything. But he would not tell me that he was not, either. He would not give me that. I had to earn that myself, he'd told me. I had to learn to love and trust the people concerned enough to believe it was not so.
But after what Mama had shown me over the past few years, I could not summon the love and trust for her. I just could not do it.
So there was General Wayne. And there was always the possibility that he could be my father. And I must live with it.
"I still think," I told Mama, "that you should have told him goodbye."
Because, I added to myself, all you are doing is hurting him. Going out of your way to hurt him. And we only do that to people we love.
After all, I was a young woman now. And as a young woman you know such things.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
GENERAL WAYNE was elected to Congress in 1791.
"Has Wayne gone?" Mama asked me.
"Yes, Mama."
He'd left half an hour ago, driven to Savannah by his man, Joshua, on his way to Philadelphia, the new seat of government.
He'd come to bid Mama goodbye. They were on good terms again, though not as good as before, never quite as good as before.
I'd listened while he'd told her how he'd severely bawled out his son, Isaac, for not continuing on with his education. Isaac was twenty, and Wayne was bitterly disappointed with him. And I thought, I never want him to be that disappointed in me.
He'd picked up little Louisa, who was seven now, and whirled her around and kissed her, then came over to me. He stood me in front of him, took my measure solemnly. "You are growing up," he accused.
"Yes, sir," I said.
He scowled his disapproval. "You weren't supposed to grow up," he said, "and you are too pretty by half. Does your mama allow you to associate with young men?"
Then, not waiting for my answer, he looked at her. "Caty?" he asked.
"She goes to dances, properly chaperoned," she told him.
He nodded solemnly. "Behave yourself," he admonished. "Don't disappoint me." He kissed my forehead.
I went outside to watch him leave. I waved him off.
When I returned to the house, Mama was sleeping on the settee. I let her sleep for a while, and when she woke, she asked me if he'd gone.
***
IN THE MONTHS that followed, Mama received letters from Wayne in Philadelphia. He had initiated a resolution on her behalf about her claim. He had secured votes in her favor, and then, by spring, she heard there was a movement in Georgia to unseat Wayne in Congress.
In mid-March, a vote was passed and he was unseated, and Mama lost one of her best friends in the House of Representatives.
Wayne came home to Georgia, and we did not see him for weeks.
There were rumors that he did not go out of his house, that he did not work his plantation, or go to the post office for his mail, that he was not paying his bills or his taxes.
"Mama," I begged, "we should go and see him. Assure ourselves that he is all right."
She said no. She was not angry with him, she promised me. She just did not wish to see him at the moment.
"Let me go, then," I begged.
"I absolutely forbid it!" she said. "A young girl does not go calling on a man alone. I absolutely forbid it!"
I worried for General Wayne. I worried for Mama, for she took to her room and cried.
It rained and it rained that spring. The rain pinged off the windows and splashed into the river ominously.
Because Mama was served her meals in her room, Louisa and I had to eat at the table with Phineas Miller, which meant we had to be courteous to him and keep up a conversation. After all, he was still the manager of the plantation, and he still tutored little Louisa on the side.
I received a letter from my brother George in France, the only thing that kept me sane during this time. He wrote that he was in "good health and spirits and as saucy as he pleased." He had, as I knew, been a guest at the Lafayette home on the Rue de Bourbon, but now, he wrote, he was with Lafayette's son, George Washington, in a boarding school run by Monsieur Frestel.
"Here, Madame Lafayette would pay us a daily visit," he said, "but no longer can, since a revolution has erupted and crazed mobs are out in the streets. Don't tell Mama. She will fret."
Crazed mobs in the streets?
I knew there were no crazed mobs between our plantation and that of Anthony Wayne's. I knew Mama was going, in two days, to Philadelphia, to see to her claim before Congress.
What else did I need to know?
CHAPTER THIRTY
AFTER MAMA WENT away again to Philadelphia, I left a note for Phineas Miller, saying that I was going to a friend's for the day. At least he could not complain to Mama that I went off without telling him, leaving him in a state of anxiety without knowing what had happened to me.
Then I went to the kitchen and asked Alexis for some fresh-baked bread to take with me. She wrapped up two loaves, then gave me a third—some gingerbread—awarding me with a secret smile when she handed it to me.
But she said nothing, asked no questions.
Did she know I was going to see General Wayne?
If she did, she would not tell. She had always liked Wayne, making his favorite dishes when he came, making sure he got extra-special portions of everything.
When I arrived at the Wayne plantation just before noon, the place seemed eerily quiet, almost deserted. And then I saw the peacocks on the lawn and the horses in the pasture. But only three of them, instead of a dozen. Had he sold the others off?
When I dismounted my horse by the barn and handed fter MAMa went away again to Philadelphia, I left him over to Joshua, he said yes, the general was home and I was to go right inside.
In the kitchen, Lila grinned when she welcomed me. "Good, company. Jus' what that man needs. Go right on in, chile. I'll make fresh coffee. Don't be taken 'back by how he looks. He jus' bein' careless 'bout himself these days."
It was what Mama would call an understatement.
General Wayne was slouched in a chair in front of the hearth. His head was resting in one hand. He was unshaven, with about two days' worth of beard. His shirt was open at the collar. His boots were unpolished.
At his feet were three of his dogs. On top of his chair was his cat.
On a small table beside him was an empty cup of what had likely been coffee. Beside it was a small bottle of liquor.
The dogs roused themselves when I came into the room, growling threateningly.
The general came awake in an instant, drew himself to his feet, saw me, and quieted the dogs. "Hush." And when they did not hush, he spoke sternly. "Quiet," he said. "Down!"
They obeyed. Anybody would obey that voice, I thought.
He drew himself up tall, like the soldier he was. "Cornelia," he said. "Come in, child. Is everything all right at home?"
"Ye
s, sir," I went into the room and sat in the chair where he gestured I should sit.
He became aware of his appearance of a sudden, ran his hand through his hair, then over his face, and then looked sheepish. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess. I don't like you seeing me like this. I represent the perfect opposite of the discipline that is instilled in every soldier."
"It's all right, General Wayne. You have a right to look however you like in your own house."
He appeared surprised at my answer. "You are quite grown up. And understanding," he said. "You are going to be quite a woman someday, Cornelia."
Lila came in then with fresh coffee, fruit, and the gingerbread. He smiled, seeing the gingerbread. "I'm surprised your mother let you ride over alone," he told me.
"She didn't. Mama's gone to Philadelphia. If she knew I'd even come to call on you, she'd be furious. She forbade me to come. Much less alone."
"Is that so? And why is that?"
"Because," I said bravely, "we heard how you were living." And I told him about the rumors.
He said nothing for a moment. Just stirred his coffee meditatively. "The rumors are true," he admitted. "I've been morose and melancholy, and I've hidden away from the rest of the world. My conduct has been shabby. My spirits have been on the ground. I've been an unhappy man, Cornelia."
Tears came to my eyes and, by sheer willpower that I had never been able to summon before, I refused to let them overflow. "I'm sorry, General Wayne," I told him.
"If my son acted in such a manner, I'd shake some sense into him until he came 'round," he said. "Then I'd slap his face, just for good measure. But I can do nothing for myself."
I offered nothing. I just listened, for it was all I could do.
"It isn't just my being unseated in Congress that's rendered me this way," he confessed, "though that was a blow." He lowered his head. "James Jackson, who lost to me in the election, led the impeachment proceedings. He convinced the others that my election was a fraud."
He looked up and smiled at me sadly. "Your father always hated politics. I should have followed his way of thinking. But no, Cornelia, it isn't just that. Something else put me into the doldrums."
I came alert.
"Child," he said, "I found out in the county courthouse in Savannah that your mother and Phineas Miller have recorded a legal agreement concerning a prospective marriage."
I just stared at him for a moment. "They are getting married?" I knew I sounded like the village idiot.
He nodded yes.
"Sometime in the future, not now. The document says that Miller disclaims any property from the Greene estate. Your mother can't get married now. Her status as a widow is most important in her petition to Congress.
"And," he added, "to me. Just knowing of that document was enough to push me over the edge."
"When do you think they will wed?" I asked.
"Knowing your mother, I'd say not for a while yet, not even if her petition is agreed upon by Congress. Women become the property of their husbands once they wed, Cornelia. Your mother is not likely, anytime soon, to hand herself over to be anybody's property.
"A woman has to hand her children over to her husband, to be held under his jurisdiction. Once wed, women can't take part in any court action, keep any earnings. God, they have no rights! So I wouldn't worry about it. Not just yet."
"But you admit, you've got the miseries over it."
He scowled. "She's signed a marriage agreement with him, Cornelia. Our relations are finished."
He shrugged. "One good thing has come out of my miseries, though," he confided. "My son and daughter, having heard of my state, have both written to me. And I haven't heard from either of them in quite a while. Their letters were very endearing."
"I'm glad, sir."
He nodded. "You shouldn't have come here alone," he chided, giving the conversation a turn. "If your mother finds out..." He shook his head sorrowfully.
"She won't, sir. You won't tell her, will you?"
"I'd only have to whip you again."
We both laughed about that and his eyes found mine, warmly.
"Well, anyway, I've laid the groundwork in the House for your mother to get approval for her claim. The roll call vote should be taken this week. She has friends who will favor her."
"I thank you for what you did for her before you left, sir."
He nodded.
"What will you do now?"
"Now? I will loaf about. I will do nothing."
"You can't do that," I said.
"Oh? And why can't I? Where does a young snip of a girl get the right to tell me what I am to do with the rest of my life?"
He looked at me hard, with those hazel eyes, as if to say, Even if she is my daughter.
I blushed and looked down. "Because you are a hero of the Revolution to everyone, sir. And all look up to you."
The muscles in his jaw set. His face sobered. "You are right," he said. "I have a name to live up to, even if I am not that person people think I am."
He stood up, rubbing his beard, walked to the window that overlooked the lawn, and thought for a moment. "How is your brother George?" he asked of a sudden.
"I just had a letter from him." I told him of the news, of what was going on in France, the mobs in the streets and everything.
"Yes, yes," he murmured. "I've read of it. You know, Cornelia, we've exported cotton in this country—tobacco, rice, lumber, so much. But do you know what our first significant export is?"
"No, sir."
"Revolution," he said.
"I never thought of it that way, sir."
"You should. Everybody should. Still. Your mother should bring George home soon." He walked back and forth, ruminating. He sighed heavily.
"We're going to have war again, soon. In the old northwest. The Indians are being badly mishandled out there right now. First by General Harman and now by St. Clair. The army they have is small and unfit. A new army is going to be thrown together."
He did not have to say any more to me. I understood.
He just smiled.
But I felt a stab, as if someone had bayoneted me inside.
I forced a smile back. He was still a soldier, after all.
"It's what I would need to bring me back to life again," he said. "And I have to get away from here. I can't stay within a hundred—no, a thousand—miles of your mother if she marries that idiot. Or I'll die a slow and agonizing death, as if I were tied to the ground and being devoured by hundreds of thousands of man-eating ants. Of course, I'll have to get a commission, if President Washington would be so kind as to give it to me."
I knew I should not say what I was about to say.
But I also knew two things. One, that he would die if he stayed.
And, two, that I loved him too much to see it happen. Be he my father or not.
No, chances were that I would never know if he was my father. But that did not matter anymore.
In my heart, somewhere in some small corner, he would always be my father. And if there was the slightest chance of it, I would not leave him here to die.
"Sir," I said, "mayhap Mama could put in a good word with President Washington for you. He and Mrs. Washington like her considerable much. And they can't say enough good things about Pa."
He looked grave. "Let's wait and see if your mother gets the money she's petitioned Congress for, first," he said.
Then he brightened. "Tell you what," he said. "You give me an hour. That's all I need to shave and clean up. Browse among my books here. Romp outside with the dogs. Talk with Lila in the kitchen. When I look human again, I'll ride with you home."
"I can't let Phineas Miller see you, or know I've been here, sir."
"We'll part a short distance from the house," he promised. "As a gentleman of honor, I cannot let you ride home alone."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAMA RECEIVED her compensation from Congress for all the money of Pa's that he had given out to sustain his troops during the war.
President Washington himself signed the bill.
Mama came home that spring, bubbling with joy. All her money worries were over. Congress had given her the first installment of forty-seven thousand dollars.
Alexander Hamilton himself signed the check.
Mama was a different woman. She spoke about bringing Nat and George and Martha home. She talked about a party.
"How sweet is justice," she said. "I feel as saucy as you please."
She did have a party, and she invited General Wayne. He came, garbed spotlessly, mingling among the guests, behaving as if he never knew there was a legal agreement that bespoke marriage between Mama and Phineas Miller in the county courthouse in Savannah.
Only I saw the pained look on his face when he was standing to the side on one occasion, observing Mama and Phineas dancing.
He left the party early, claiming one of his mares had been starting to give birth when he left. He bowed to Mama and kissed her hand upon leaving.
***
"MAMA, PLEASE," I begged her, "you must do this, please."
"There is nothing I must do, Cornelia. And I do not appreciate you speaking to me like that."
"I am sorry, Mama. But you yourself said that you and we children would have been objects of charity if General Wayne had not kept his seat in Congress long enough to do you such essential services. That it was to his exertions that you owe your independence. Did you not, Mama? Did you not say that?"
"And what if I did, Cornelia? Are you saying I am now beholden to him? You know I do not like to be beholden to any man."
"Mama, I never said you were beholden. General Wayne is the last person in the world who would want you to be."
"So, then, let the matter lie fallow."
"Mama, you can't! He needs a good word put in with the president for him! That's all he needs. And you can do it. You know how President Washington likes you."
"What, bother President Washington with a request so soon again? My dear Cornelia, you should learn now to save your requests to a man for important matters. And make them few and far between, lest the man tire of you."
