by Mary Calvi
“I am here!” Lady Joanna did not stop at the shoreline. “I am coming for you!”
Mary’s heart screamed out—It is dangerous, Mama.
Mama’s red dress with the pretty flowers spread out wide as she jumped into the water and tried to swim toward Mary. Mary could see her getting closer, calling out to her.
It was dark.
A chill overtook her body.
She was cold, so very cold.
* * *
THEN ALL she could see was light.
As if heaven wrapped her in its embrace, Mary felt strong arms lift her from a wet grave. Cradled to a young man’s chest, she could hear a voice commanding, “Breathe, child. Breathe.” She remained in this angel’s arms, bundled in a quilted blanket embroidered with blue flowers. Her hand held tightly to wilted forget-me-nots as pandemonium swirled around them.
She watched as they carried Mama out of the river with her pretty red dress dragging upon the ground. Papa laid her mother’s body on the porch. Lantern light shone upon her pale face. Mary saw her father’s hands tremble. He was crying.
Papa placed a kiss upon the forehead and closed its eyes.
* * *
MARY’S ANGUISH OVER the loss never ceased. Why did they perish? Why did she survive? Why didn’t she immediately reach for the flowers? If only she had held on tighter to little Elbert’s hand.
Though years passed, the trauma never left her. With certainty, though, she knew what she needed to do. Papa helped her find her purpose. “Protect. Save. As a beacon in the darkness, be the light,” he told her. Every year on the anniversary of that fateful day, he would take her to light a tall lantern at Hudson’s Hook.
Now a woman, Mary stood here near the shore. The lad who rescued her a grown man, Captain Garvan gave her a quick peck on the forehead. “I am forever in your service, my dear Mary.”
“As I am in yours.”
As the two spoke, the sailors transferred crates aplenty of goods and liquors from the Gabriel to the dock.
“They have not much time. Hasten your walk!” He pointed his men toward the cases of Madeira. His face turned back to Mary’s. “This man they call a hero—I understand he arrives here this night.”
Mary felt a breeze blowing from the water. “At sundown, yes.” She lowered her eyes to her arms, crossed.
“He comes to see you, Mary.”
She lifted a wayward curl off her face and tucked it behind her ear.
“With my own eyes I have seen it. Washington is the best chap in the regiment, riding the most splendid horse. A fitting choice.” Never before had the captain offered praise for one of her potential suitors. He knew them or of them all, as gossip flowed freely on board his ship. “I believe it in your benefit to meet the major.”
“Colonel.” Mary corrected him. “He is now Colonel Washington.”
“Seems you know of this fine fellow and his unparalleled reputation.”
Yes.
She listened carefully to each detail spoken about him. His auburn hair fell below his shoulders. His face carried a square jaw, a nose that was large and straight, and penetrating eyes. Not a week earlier, her cousin Eva Van Cortlandt quoted the poet John Dryden when describing him: “a temple Sacred by birth, and built by hands divine.” And Mary read Washington’s journal over and over. As she stood here now, she tried to think of how many times. Ten? Fifteen? Could it be twenty times, maybe more?
To fill the moment’s quiet, which lasted a heartbeat too long, she picked up the basket and placed it in Captain Garvan’s hands as she told him her wish for young William: “A wind to steer the course to true happiness.”
The captain responded with a wide grin. Those were his words to her on her twenty-first birthday. “And my wish for you always, Mary.”
With his farewell kiss upon her cheek, Mary turned to the manor, which bustled with preparations for the affair. The nervous excitement that now filled her whole being could hardly be contained. The words “I believe it in your benefit to meet the major” replayed in her head. In equal parts, she eagerly anticipated and dreaded this night. She wished she could meet the colonel under different circumstances than a ball, which, like so many others, brought back memories of the day her world changed. It was not her decision. She should have fought her siblings on this matter; she did not, thinking it would never come to pass. Colonel Washington agreed to travel five hundred miles to see her! This surprised her completely.
As she entered the manor and walked up the back steps behind the East Hall, she heard Frederick’s voice.
“Drag her out myself! I shall do it!”
Mary rolled her eyes and made sure to stay behind a wall, out of his view.
“Oh, Frederick. Every belle blooms in her own way, at her own time.” Her sister spoke softly between sighs. “Tonight will be glorious.”
“Just as you said about the last reception and the one before that.”
“Dearest Frederick, like a jewel being polished to an utmost shine, so will our sister be. You must be patient.”
“Our family’s reputation is at stake. I’ve invited every royal justice of the colony, the barons of New York, the Speaker of the House, the members of the Assembly, the newly installed mayor, the sheriff, the aldermen, and the lords of the manors. Susannah, we have a colonel traveling from Virginia to be here.”
“She will be glad to be in Colonel Washington’s presence.”
“Are you certain of this?”
An empty moment in the conversation lingered.
“If it takes force, then so be it!” Frederick declared like his usual scolding self.
“Curing what ails her cannot be done with coercion. We have learned tenderness is the only path to sensibility.”
Mary caught a whiff of plum pudding and knew the conversation about finding her a mate would soon come to a close. The aroma would most certainly draw Frederick’s substantially sized nose to the kitchen. Thankfully, she was correct. She did not want to listen to her brother again this morning. She had had enough of his persistence and felt a tinge of irritation over the first line of the invitation, clearly written as a message to her:
While we live, let us LIVE
Your company is desired to dine with
Lord Frederick Philipse and the family of Philipse
At the Manor of Philipse
On the second month, 14th day,
Of the seventeen hundred and fifty-sixth year
Dinner to be on the table at six o’clock
Musical Entertainment at eight o’clock
Dancing to commence at nine o’clock
A group of select guests received these special invitations which included the private banquet ahead of the dancing. Expected to be welcomed in stately manner was Washington. The colonel was becoming one of only a few so highly esteemed in the military.
Hanging in an ornate frame beside the invitation on the second-floor landing of the manor was a diagram of the guests’ placement. Mary walked over to it. The principal guest of the evening, Washington, would be seated at the head of the long refectory table, flanked on his right by her brother and on the left by Susannah with her true. Next to Frederick would be Mary.
She took a breath. So close.
Mary was involved with each of the stages of the elaborate event, as her brother and sister requested. For the past month, she worked with a dancing master of her own choosing for another part of the evening that made her feel ill at ease. Even after intensive instruction, she wasn’t sure of her readiness. This was not due to his coaching. Dancing was an area for which the gift of natural talent was not afforded her. Whenever she pushed herself to try before at previous balls, dames around her muttered the words—“inelegant,” “untaught,” “unready.”
Mary heard delicate footsteps climb the stairs. Her sister leaned against a banister, elegantly posed. Mary wasn’t sure she knew any other way to stand.
“The time is drawing near,” Susannah chimed. “Your dancing lesson comm
ences in one hour’s time, and we depart for your final fitting immediately afterward, my sister.”
“What if there’s a chill? The gown seems too open to be worn on a night like tonight.”
“You may find a gentleman’s arms to warm you, Polly. Quite a few will be attending tonight’s ball and certainly one in particular.”
The evening had been conjured up by Susannah. She had found love in Major Beverley Robinson. His brother, the Honorable John Robinson, carried the title of Speaker of the Virginia House of Burgesses. It was John Robinson who was in communication via letter with Colonel Washington. Beverley and John had spent many afternoons in childish play with George while growing up as neighbors and young schoolmates in Virginia.
At Susannah’s urging, an invitation to Washington was delivered directly to the colonel, inviting him to stay at the Philipse family estate. “The ball comes at a perfect time of year, Polly.” Mary knew to what she was referring. “‘For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day,’” said Susannah.
“‘When every bird cometh there to chose his mate.’” The sisters recited in unison a line from Geoffrey Chaucer.
“I believe I have the perfect mate for the colonel to choose.”
“There will be many belles from whom the colonel may choose.”
“Correct you are. Many a lady in New York has found the stories of the hero intriguing, especially as he has evaded the capture of matrimony. But there stands none so beautiful as you, Miss Polly Philipse.”
“What if—”
“There are no what ifs.” Susannah folded her arms. “There will be no what ifs. Not tonight, my sister, not tonight. Now, change into your practice clothes.”
Mary headed into her bedchamber. This night would be the first time the sisters would meet the gentleman whom Major Robinson often praised. The major was not alone in his opinion of the newly appointed colonel. Commanders and laymen alike spoke of George Washington as a man guided by Providence. Mary knew this from her reading of The New-York Mercury. Nearly every newspaper in the colonies and in London had printed the Journal of Major George Washington. The edition of the Mercury was neatly placed at perfect eye level on a shelf of her bookcase. She’d read Washington’s firsthand account of his exposure to peril on the frontier, engrossed by his escapes from death. The hardships he survived through his acts of bravery were far from the comforts of polite life in New York.
For more than two years, the newspaper remained here. She would always place the publication back again on the same shelf in the same position after reading it. Mary picked it up, feeling the linen paper on her fingers. She moved toward the window’s light and turned to the page that displayed his writings, in wonderment that on this night, if she found the fortitude, she would meet the man described as having the courage of a hundred men.
He began simply:
I WAS COMMISSIONED and appointed by the Honourable Robert Dinwiddie, Esq; Governor, &c of Virginia, to visit and deliver a Letter to the Commandant of the French Forces on the Ohio, and set out on the intended Journey the same Day …
Tension welled up inside her. She knew well the feelings that overwhelmed her at every other lavish gathering. Mary wanted to attend, but what if …
This time, she hoped it would be different … that she would be different.
She read on.
Chapter Two
George’s Journal
… was I to live more retired from young Women I might in some measure eliviate my sorrows …
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
OCTOBER 31, 1753
Under heathery gray skies, the air holding the odor of pine, and with the sugar maples putting on a fiery display of reds, golds, and yellows, George Washington walked out of his home and into the wilderness—alone. He was used to that.
’Tis better to be alone than in bad company.
As a boy, he had written down 110 rules from a prominent book on correct behavior. George strove to incorporate each of them into his conduct. Anything he learned, he had to do on his own. Without a father in his home, 110 rules were, at least, a start.
This was the day of his intended journey to deliver the letter to the commandant of the French forces on the Ohio. He set out on the intended journey within hours of receiving the order from the governor.
Covered in a leather match coat belted at the waist and falling past the knee, the twenty-one-year-old carried a few days’ provisions on his back with necessaries for his travels, including a small tent, a sleeping blanket, dried meats, a drum canteen that he filled with a quart of water, strings of wampum, the governor’s letter to the enemy, his leather journal with hand-stitching at the binding, as well as an inkwell with ink he made from blackberries and a quill from a white goose feather with a tip he cut at a precise forty-five-degree angle; he planned to keep rough minutes along the way.
His mission was clear. Ride into the fortress of the French, deliver the governor’s letter, and demand surrender.
Cease. Desist. Depart.
That was, in essence, what the governor was asking George to do—singlehandedly force the French from the continent. How was this young man qualified to handle such a mission? He wasn’t and he knew it. Military experience, diplomatic experience, formal education—he had none of these. What he did have was the resolve to become a man worthy of respect, which is why he accepted this mission as a volunteer, putting aside money for a higher purpose.
* * *
ONE DAY INTO the mission, rain fell fast. His coat was soggy, his hair dripping. Glad of his hood, George disembarked from the ferry, which crossed the Rappahannock River. The boat pulled into the wharf, beyond which a tiny town greeted him. It was perfectly situated along the river, with establishments for a smith, a tailor, and an ordinary keeper. A coffeehouse with a stone front was first. He entered to get out of the rain. He removed his soaked hat with both hands.
“Walk in, gentle man.” A round-faced woman with a ruffled cap carried a coffeepot in her right hand and a plate of biscuits in her left. He breathed deeply, inhaling flavors that reminded him of home. “Rest at your ease. Pay for what you call for and call for what you please.”
He needed to inquire the whereabouts of a man he once knew well. “May I ask your assistance in finding a villager, a friend by the name of Jacobus Vanbraam?”
“Ah. You are in need of a mercenary.”
“I am in need of an interpreter of the French language, as I’ve been asked to deliver a letter to the commandant of the French forces.”
She put down the pot. “Indeed, Jacobus is a French speaker … as he is a master of the blade. We shall find him.” She pointed George toward seating by the fire.
George moved to a wide tree stump of a table that appeared as if it had grown right through the flooring. He sat down on one of the stools around it and began his work. He was determined to put quill to paper to map out the excursion into enemy territory. The journey would be long, he surmised, nearly one thousand miles. Part of it would be through forests he knew well, having worked as a land surveyor of these backwoods. He assessed the need for six men to assist him.
* * *
“THE MERCENARY’S IN sight!” shouted the woman.
George headed to the entrance to greet his old companion, who had taught him everything he knew about fighting with a sword and who had served in the British Navy with George’s older half brother, Lawrence. Clean-shaven, with long, wet, black hair neatly thrown away from the face, Jacobus steadied the saber with a curved blade attached to a scabbard at his belt as he stepped along Sophia Street with a lady in tow, the two speaking in loud-enough voices for him to hear.
“You mean to enter enemy territory,” she groaned to Jacobus. Her hair and dress were damp from the rain. “And then what? Banish an army of Frenchmen with one who is barely a man?”
“Aye.” Jacobus didn’t even turn to her.
She slapped his arm. “Five years since you have had an exercise
in arms with this boy. How can you be assured he is prepared for the roar of battle?”
“This is a mission of diplomacy, not a fight to the death.” He kept his steady pace.
“Diplomacy with this enemy?” she scoffed, now in a full rage.
“You underestimate the man who has come for me.”
“If he is without sword, you will see me protest this preposterous mission.”
“The cutlass, the foil, the claymore, the saber—the boy mastered each under my tutelage.”
“How will you safeguard him?”
“Safeguard him? Ha! The man guided by divine Providence will safeguard me.” Jacobus looked toward George, whose body filled the doorway. “Drea Vanbraam, may I acquaint you with George Washington. This giant of a man was struck by lightning while still in the womb, guarded by the heavens from before his birth.”
She stared long and hard at George and at his commanding height, which caused his head to reach the top of the entryway. “’Tis true?” she asked of Jacobus.
“Have you ever known me to tell an untruth?” replied Jacobus. “The fork and knife at the table where his mother was eating fused together from the bolt.”
She looked down at George’s waist, from which Lawrence’s sword, one uncommonly broad at the base, hung. Drea swung around to her husband. She pushed a satchel into his chest. “You have my blessing.”
As the two men entered the coffeehouse, Jacobus raised his hand to reach George’s shoulder. “If I remember correctly, the young lady did not survive the bolt?”
George nodded, knowing to what he was referring. He was asked to tell the story more times than he desired. On a stormy Sunday afternoon after church services, lightning struck his family’s cottage. The electric bolt came through the chimney, knocking over a guest invited to supper, taking the life right out of her as she sat at the table with Mary Washington. The tragedy left his mother forever fearful of storms and worry-filled that she might never be blessed with motherhood. When her first child was born, she carried him everywhere, announcing that George Washington was protected by the Almighty.