by Rinaldi, Ann
He looked confused, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “I’ve already told you, they’ve refused to. Why would they want to?” he asked. “Who would feed them and look after them?”
“I can tell you’re from Virginia,” I said.
“Well, I don’t deny it.”
“I shall pay Emily if she is to wait on me.” I knew I was being contentious.
“And then what will the others say?”
Now I had no answer for him. We looked at each other.
“I’m making trouble, aren’t I?” I asked.
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m from the North.”
“I know, but I thought there were to be no sectional differences here at Mount Vernon.”
“There already are,” I said.
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “We’ll ask Miss Cunningham,” he said, “since the Association is running things now.”
“She’s from South Carolina,” I reminded him.
“Then, if she says pay them, we shall. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said.
“We’ll discuss it in the morning,” he said.
But in the morning we never did discuss it. In the morning a terrible thing happened. Mr. Herbert read in the newspapers that General Washington’s body was no longer in its grave at the foot of the hill at Mount Vernon. But that it had been shipped out to the mountains of Virginia.
But I didn’t know this when I went to sleep. The bed was made and the linens rough but clean, and somehow their roughness didn’t bother me. So, this room had belonged to Jackie Custis.
What had I read about him? That he was the spoiled son of Martha and gave the general no end of headaches, being unable or unwilling to behave at school or study. That he married early and was not in the war but was at the surrender at Yorktown, where he contracted camp fever and died.
I felt no sense of him in the room. But as night closed in and the house quieted I heard footfalls on the stairway and outside in the hall. Mr. Herbert had taken the Lafayette room. How did it feel to sleep where Lafayette had slept? I smiled, wondering what my sister, Fanny, would have to say, then turned over and fell asleep.
I woke to hear a clock downstairs strike eleven. Outside a hooty owl called. Then, again I heard steps in the hall, heavier than those of Mr. Herbert. Moonlight flooded my room. I got up, opened my door, and looked out into the hallway.
A man was walking there. A man in a long cape and boots, and holding a lighted candle.
Who was he? Certainly not Mr. Herbert! This man was heavyset and wore a planter’s hat. I watched as he took a key from under his cape and opened the door of the room next to Mr. Herbert’s. Then he went inside and the door closed.
It was not Upton Herbert. He did not have Mr. Herbert’s easy yet purposeful walk. It was not Dandridge. I had seen that he was a white man.
Was he real, or was I imagining things?
Was he a ghost?
I was never one to give in to hysteria, not much on theatrics and didn’t believe in ghosts. But just because you didn’t believe, that didn’t mean they didn’t exist, did it?
Who was I to deny them existence?
I locked my door quickly and went back to bed. Suppose he murdered us all in our sleep? Mr. Herbert had said nothing about another man in the house. At home in Troy we had a dog, a large, shaggy black-and-white dog named Pistol. And he’d never allow anyone to walk in our house at night like that without rousing the whole state of New York.
I lay awake a long time, listening to the owl calling, the silence, the faraway barking of a dog, and then I must have gone to sleep.
Five
In the morning we had breakfast on the new striped oilcloth we had purchased in Washington City. The food was cooked by Jane, who did all the cooking. And that could be quite a bit, since I came down to see Mr. Herbert directing a bunch of men ready to work on the wharf. They were both black and white. And they all had to be fed a noon meal, which Jane took charge of.
“Did you all sleep well?” he asked.
“There’s a man in the house,” I said as Jane poured my coffee for me.
Mr. Herbert looked at me. “A man?”
“I saw him in the hall last night. I heard him. He went into the room at the end of the hall.”
He and Jane stared at me.
“I don’t see things,” I insisted.
Mr. Herbert shook his head. His brow furrowed. He looked at his plate of eggs and ham. “I’m sorry he frightened you. That’s Mr. Washington.”
I and Miss Cunningham just stared at him.
He smiled apologetically. “John Augustine Washington. The man you all bought the house from. He keeps a room here. He has a farm nearby and uses the room when he visits his farm. I haven’t been able to get him to leave.”
“He just comes and goes as he pleases?” Miss Cunningham asked.
“I’m afraid so, yes,” Mr. Herbert answered.
“That wasn’t in the agreement,” Miss Cunningham said. “We paid him for the house. He and his family officially moved out on the general’s birthday last year. The only rights they maintain are to one quarter acre square surrounding the tomb. And they’ve agreed there will be no further burials within the vault.”
“I know,” Mr. Herbert answered. “I apologize for not being able to get him to leave. He’s such a sad man. Lost his wife only last month and he’s left with six children. I’m afraid this house means a precious lot to him.”
Miss Cunningham sighed. “It must be difficult for him to let go of this place. They lived here so long. But still, he cannot keep coming and going. He must make the break.”
“Yes,” Mr. Herbert agreed.
“Is he still sleeping?” I asked.
“I’m afraid he is, yes,” Mr. Herbert answered. “Unlike his famous ancestor, he does sleep late.”
“Then, I’ll speak to him, if it’s all right with you all. I mean, I’ll speak to him in Miss Cunningham’s place. In the name of the Association.”
Was I treading on Mr. Herbert’s toes again? He seemed about to say something, then agreed. “Fine. But I’m afraid there’s another matter that should have your attention this morning, Miss Cunningham. And it’s far less pleasant.”
And then he opened the New York Herald. “I just got this yesterday.” He showed us the article.
It told about General Washington’s body no longer residing in the vault at Mount Vernon.
“What?” Miss Cunningham said. “Are my eyes finally going? It cannot be.”
“It’s the press wreaking havoc with us,” Mr. Herbert said.
The poor lady was distraught by now. She walked the floor in the kitchen. She spoke sharply to the servants, ordering them out. She spilled over her cup of coffee on her black grosgrain dress. I had to help her to a chair in the library and get her another cup of coffee to soothe her nerves.
“Who would move the body?” she asked, and I could tell the thought was too horrible for her to conceive.
“They’re saying Mr. John Augustine,” Mr. Herbert told her.
“Well, you see?” she said, as if the natural outcome of allowing him to come around was talk of the body being removed. “If he weren’t here at all, the rumor would not have started. There are people out there, Mr. Herbert, who will do anything at all to blacken the name of the Association. I know most all the newspapers are against what we’re doing here. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I am regent and I’m from South Carolina.”
“Well, I’m superintendent and I’m from Virginia.”
“They call me Secesh.” I could hear the pain in her voice. “I’d resign, but it would only open a Pandora’s box. Some of the women who would take my place would cause all kinds of mischief. I’m afraid the only paper with us is the Intelligencer.”
“Then, have them print a response. Invite them to come and see that the vault hasn’t been touched. By God, what rot!” Mr. Herbert was angry.
“Mrs. Lincoln call
s them the vampire press. Now I know why,” Miss Cunningham said.
I saw my chance then. My chance to prove to both of them that I could face problems head-on. “I’ll take care of it,” I said.
They both looked at me then.
“Haven’t you enough with Mr. Washington?” Mr. Herbert asked.
“It’s my job,” I said firmly. And it was. Miss Cunningham agreed. I would write the letter that very morning. I turned to get pen and paper.
“Mr. Herbert,” Miss Cunningham said to Mr. Herbert, “you must make me a promise here and now that you will not join the army. I know your two brothers are serving, but you must promise me, please.”
I heard him promise her. I went to write the letter.
“We are requested by the ladies of the Mount Vernon Association to state that the assertation which appeared in the New York Herald of the 15th instant to the effect that Col. J. A. Washington had caused the removal of the remains of General Washington from Mount Vernon is utterly false and without foundation,” I wrote.
And: “The public, the owners of this noble possession, need fear no molestation of this one national spot belonging alike to North and South.”
Now that Virginia has seceded, we expect to hear any day that the mails have been stopped. But as Mr. Herbert says, there is always the Adams Express Company. He went that afternoon to take my letter to Alexandria.
After I wrote the letter, I spoke with Mr. John Augustine Washington.
I found him in the kitchen. He was having a late breakfast. He was a large, clumsy-looking man, cleanly but carelessly dressed. He stood up when I came in, almost knocking over the chair he’d been sitting in.
“Mr. Washington.” I felt false saying it. Surely this man, so slovenly, so awkward, who slept late and crept about like a thief in this house, could not be descended from the stern, disciplined General Washington. Why, John Augustine looked so sad.
“I’m Sarah Tracy,” I told him. “From the Association.”
“Miss Tracy.” He bowed.
“You frightened me when you came in last night.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I got right to it. “Mr. Herbert tells me you often come and go at odd hours. Are you intending to keep the room upstairs indefinitely, Mr. Washington?”
“No, ma’am. Only until I can make other arrangements.”
It was the first time ever that I’d been called ma’am, and it shook me. “We, that is, the Association wants to repair and clean the whole house. It would be so much easier without tenants. I’m sure you understand.”
Oh, he understood, all right. He understood that he was being asked to leave by a slip of a girl with a Northern accent. For good.
He understood that his time here, and that of his family, was finished. An era was over. Did I see an even deeper shade of sadness come over the round, perplexed face? It must feel terrible to be thrown out of one’s own house!
He bowed again. “I have some last-minute things to pack up, and then I’ll be out, Miss Tracy,” he said. “But there is just one final thing I’d like to do.”
“Yes, what is that?”
“I’d like to throw my key to the general’s tomb in the river. Since I heard about how I was supposed to have removed his body.”
That startled me, put me off balance. But I recovered. “Of course,” I said.
“I’d like to do it today. Before I leave.”
“Yes.”
“Would you accompany me to the wharf to do it? That way you can testify to the public, if need be, that I no longer have access to the tomb.”
Oh, I felt things breaking inside me. What had I started here? Miss Semple had always told us to be careful with words in our lives. For we could set things in motion. What had I set in motion?
“Of course I’ll accompany you,” I said. “And thank you, Mr. Washington. The Association thanks you.” I turned to go. Then stopped. “We offer our regrets for the loss of your wife.”
“Yes,” he said.
He would hate me. The only man walking around with the Washington name would hate me, I decided. And with every right. I had, after all, just dismissed him. I could see his confusion, his sorrow, his embarrassment.
And I knew that if he’d looked and acted at all like the general, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. But he didn’t. And I think that’s why I was so horrible. I was angry at him for being slovenly, for eating breakfast late, for sleeping late, for letting the house go into disrepair, for not being like his ancestor!
I went with him that day to the shaky wharf so he could throw his key in the river. I had explained to Mr. Herbert, so the workmen all stepped back on the land and gathered to watch.
I felt there should be a ceremony or something. After all, it was an official good-bye from John Augustine Washington, the last of them, to Mount Vernon. It was, if you will, a changing of the guard. But there were no soldiers, no guns, no sharply called orders, there was no marching.
There was only a moment’s silence on everybody’s part and the plop of the key in the water. Then more silence as we watched the ripples. And then we moved away.
Mr. Washington moved out that day. And I, oh, I proved my mettle to Mr. Herbert and Miss Cunningham, didn’t I? I had met the situation head-on and handled it. Then, why did I feel so bad? Why did I hate myself?
Two days later my letter appeared in the Intelligencer. We didn’t see the paper, however, until the day after, and when I saw it, I was both proud and ashamed. There was my name in print! There were my words.
Washington’s body was still at Mount Vernon, I told everybody. But his awkward, confused descendent I have thrown out.
Mr. Herbert finally found time to give me a tour of the house. With the exception of some things brought from his own house, the only things left in it from the general are the bust of him done by Houdon, the terrestrial globe in his study, and the key to the Bastille given to him by Lafayette.
This house has about it the musty sadness of a house with memories. They cling in corners. I cannot walk up or down the stairs but I think: George Washington once walked on these very stairs. I am walking in his footsteps.
Will I ever get over feeling as if I am on sacred ground?
I must ask Mr. Herbert one day, after we finish arguing about the help getting paid. For that still clings to the air between us.
But the house also has a pulse. I can feel it beating, though softly. It asks to be taken for no more than it is right now, an empty, echoing shell. And I sense it is grateful for our presence. It seems, at times, almost apologetic for the trouble it is causing us.
It seems like John Augustine Washington. I think of him often. And with sadness and guilt.
Mr. Herbert constantly talks about refurbishing. The first room he wants to tackle is Mr. Washington’s bedroom. He has asked Miss Cunningham for permission to plaster, paper, and paint, as if you could plaster, paper, and paint over memories. He says that if the room had been in order all along, he could have paid a man to guard it and made money besides. Could you just see a man with nothing to do all day but guard General Washington’s room?
Sometimes I think Mr. Herbert has notions.
He expects visitors and says we will be able to make money from them. He knows where to get some chairs. From the Lewises, who are kin to Washington. He says they are breaking up housekeeping.
On the other hand, we are lucky to have him. He knows everybody around here. I suppose notions aren’t the worst thing a man can have.
He also says the sills in the house will last three or four years, but the roof can no longer be delayed. It is leaking and will ruin everything inside.
The wind was very bad last night, and in it I heard many children’s voices. It carried away the covered passage from the house to the kitchen. I thought I heard children laughing as if they were doing great mischief.
It is the twenty-fifth of May and the season is so lovely that I want to fill my eyes with the sights and smell
s every day. The strawberry vines and fruit trees are laden, and we are already eating asparagus. Everything has blossomed and the greenery is a feast for the eyes. I am starting a small kitchen garden off to the side in back of the house. And I cannot live without flowers. There are some beautiful roses blooming here from years past, and yesterday Mr. Herbert went into Alexandria and got me eight dollars more in seeds. But the news from everywhere is terrible.
On the nineteenth of April, Union troops traveling through Baltimore on their way to duty in the capital were fired upon and stoned by a mob of civilians. It was the exact day that the fighting started up at Lexington and Concord in General Washington’s war. There has to be some connection in that. Does nobody see it but me?
Earlier this month Alexandria was in turmoil. Union troops marched in to take it from the Confederates. The town was wild with excitement, Mr. Herbert said. He was there. A twenty-four-year-old colonel from New York’s Fire Zouaves strode right into the Marshall House, went to the upper story, and took down the Confederate flag, and as he came down the stairs Mr. Jackson, who owns the place, stopped him with a blast from a shotgun. The dead soldiers name was Elmer Ellsworth. The Fire Zouaves wear their hair shorn under large red caps and carry big bowie knives. Their behavior, in general, is very wild.
Another Zouave shot Jackson dead. Mr. Herbert said the blood of Jackson and Ellsworth ran together on the stairs.
He saw it as they were bringing out the bodies. He was very shaken when he came home. Ellsworth’s body was laid in state in the East Room of the White House, because he was a personal friend of the Lincolns’.
Mr. Herbert made a final trip to Alexandria, aware of the fact that it is now under Union leadership. It was very sad for him. He will not take the test oath, so he will be unable to go there anymore. His brother has a bank there, and he’d pick up the mail and go shopping.
This time he brought a letter for Miss Cunningham. Her mother is ill and she is needed at home immediately.
It was about five days ago that he brought the letter. That night we sat at supper in the kitchen and stared at one another.
“I cannot leave here,” Miss Cunningham said dully.
