by Mary Calvi
“And the nickumpoop is too foolish a fellow to have ever even seen his wife’s…” She gave a cough to fill in the missing word.
Eva burst into a cachinnation.
Susannah nearly spit out her tea. She grabbed hold of her gown for the evening and left the room. Eva followed her, folded over in laughter.
Mary regained her composure, turned to Rosie, and spoke quietly. “And how is your little Lulu feeling today?”
“Praise the heavens she’s out of danger. She prayed for you before her rest today. She is sleeping with the pillow doll you sent over for her.”
“Oh, how precious.”
“That thing woulda eaten her whole. That bloody wolf! It took the life out of her right leg.” She helped Mary down from the wooden stand, walked her to the hall, and pointed to the animal head at the other end of it, hanging on the wall with her husband’s initials, J.E., written in blood beneath it. “My beloved hunted that devil down.”
Mary had heard the girl’s screams a week prior. The sound of Willoughby’s galloping caused the wolf to let go of the child’s leg as it was dragging her away. The wolf turned back into the trees.
“Has she regained her strength to walk?”
“Her leg on the right drags quite a bit.” Rosie dragged her own right leg to show Mary. “Don’t think she’ll ever be able to dance again.”
“Oh, let’s not even think such things. We’ll be sure she receives the very best care. Why don’t you bring her tonight? I’ll carry her around with me if I have to.”
“Your brother would run us out of the place! But I’ll bring her for the costuming.”
“If you care to stay, you will be my guests.” Mary caught notice of Rosie’s little boy, Jeffrey, peeking from the doorway. “Good day, Master Sherwood.”
“Bring in some eggs, would you, son?”
Jeffrey nodded kindly.
“And be sure your father is not drinking ale before his meal?”
Only the top of Jeffrey’s head could be seen around the doorway. It nodded.
* * *
THE PAYERS OF compliments soon returned: Susannah and Eva in elegant gowns.
“Let the rogues move aside, for only one man stands with the stature of a king.” Eva carried in both of her hands a highly ornate box tied in a glorious red satin bow.
“My true tells me Colonel Washington’s height towers over that of his fellow officers.” Susannah followed beside Eva.
“This is a man of commanding presence with a body hard of muscle,” said Eva. “There is not a prince in any part of the world who would not appear a valet de chambre next to him.”
“A favorite of heaven, you know,” Susannah added. “A man who can never die in battle.”
“Ne’er die?” Rosie rolled a golden thread around its spool. “I’ve heard a great spirit can protect a person so not even a bullet will get ’im.”
The words “can never die” stayed with Mary. For a woman whose heart had an indifference toward the most elite of men, she wondered how she could have such admiration for one she had not ever met.
“Each of Polly’s potential suitors is of the finest quality. Half of the officers in New York stand with mouths agape as my sister rides by. Nearly all of them have asked for interviews. Frederick is quite finicky as to whom he will allow. I am in agreement. Our Polly should not be with just any man.”
For all of those desiring to be close to Mary, none received a return glance.
A bright-eyed smile flashed across Eva’s face as she handed the box to Mary. “It’s for you, Polly. Open it.”
Mary slowly lifted the lid.
Chapter Four
Miracle of Monongahela
… I have been protected beyond all human probability & expectation …
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY
FEBRUARY 14, 1756
The tailor was no beanpole. Hence, standing atop a crate, with eyes helped by round spectacles and morning’s light peeking through a high window, old Gerald Vincent sized the cravat around George’s neck at the rear of his millinery shop on Old Fish Street in Princeton. George and his personal secretary stood in one room. In another, a group of officers who traveled north with them awaited a transformation befitting an English gentleman.
This would be the first time George would wear a neckerchief made of fine fabric. Twice, Vincent added another inch of silk. He would have to add one more.
It was the final hour before they were to continue their journey to the New York Colony. On this day, the cavalcade would arrive before sunset, just as the banquet being given in George’s honor was to begin.
Put not off your clothes in the presence of others, nor go out your chamber half dressed. Behind a privacy curtain, he removed his hunter’s shirt and worn breeches. He stood bare-skinned. “Have you sent the correspondence?” George looked out with one eye.
His personal secretary, John Kirkpatrick, took a seat on a bench of worked oak nearest the hearth. “Yes, Colonel. The letter to Captain Roger Morris regarding the Braddock incident has been delivered. We await his response.” The secretary began reviewing the list George had written for the tailor. “The colonel prefers the cloaks laced.”
“As for the trimmings?” Vincent laid out a garment on a working table.
“Silver. Are you content with silver, Colonel?”
“I like that fashion best.” George remained without a stitch of clothing.
“As for the coats, they’ve been faced and cuffed with scarlet, as you requested.”
“My profound gratitude for your expedited service, as we are excessively hurried.” George watched as Vincent scurried away, leaving the two in private.
Keep to the fashion of your equals. His equals were no longer volunteers in the military. He was now a commander. After his brave conduct in the expedition into enemy territory to deliver the letter of ultimatum to the French, his military status rose from nothing to one level above nothing. This was followed, though, by a show of courage in the field of battle, one which almost didn’t happen because he was stricken with a sickness. He had served as a major under British general Edward Braddock of His Majesty’s Army. The road to get here had not been an easy one.
Today he was the newly promoted colonel of the Virginia Regiment and commander in chief of all forces of the colony.
This elevation in fashion was a necessity due to the circles in which he would find himself, especially the one beginning this night. He accepted an invitation from his childhood friend Beverley for a first visit to New York. Major Robinson became a man of great wealth and influence upon marriage. And Mrs. Robinson’s sister had not yet pledged herself to another. George had heard plenty about the belle of the North.
“A ravishing beauty awaits your arrival, Colonel. If I may be allowed to offer some advice now, since I will not be accompanying you … Move quickly, for others intend to batter down the virgin gates.”
“I shall labor to keep alive in my breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.” In truth, George buried his passions for women in that grave of oblivion. He was certain that might very well be the only way. The antidote, the remedy, the cure was to stay away from any one thing that brought that other woman’s silky hair back into his mind.
“Ah, his love reigns with gentle sway. It is a rarity in this age, especially when a robust fortune is the consequence.”
“Happiness depends more upon the internal frame of a person’s own mind than on the externals in the world.”
“I shall be confident in this, Colonel. After becoming acquainted with you, her heart will find warmth beyond the common degree of fondness.”
Yes, George had risen to a higher rank. He was finally receiving the respect he deserved. Still, he was not convinced.
The talk of the heiress extended to the officers who would join Washington. He listened as they swooned over her; their voices came through the open door.
“A fair-faced vision who
carries the scent of wildflowers,” George heard Captain Robert Stewart say. Stewart was a plain, honest fellow and a brave man—he witnessed this on the battlefield.
George covered his bareness and moved closer to the doorway. He wanted to learn particulars of this beauty.
“My eyes were blessed with the sight of her,” added Stewart, who had spent some time in New York.
“Does she carry a softened shape?” One junior officer motioned a woman’s shape. “Parts are in proportion?”
“Sweet breath?” asked another.
“Those and one other,” acknowledged Stewart. “Purity.”
“Finally!” Captain George Mercer exclaimed. Mercer was of a different type than Stewart. “I’ve grown tired of the great imperfections we’ve seen along the way. The bad figures of the ladies.” He shuffled with back arched and head drooping. “Many of them have a crooked shape and a very bad air.” Mercer waved his hand in front of his mouth.
George quickly regretted the decision to bring Mercer. He was recommended due to his experience as a surveyor of these parts to help make the journey faster. He also had served in the Virginia Regiment before Washington took over command.
Mercer drew laughs from the group. “When she sees us dressed in regal nature”—Mercer walked with bravado to the window—“we shall introduce ourselves as captains of the finest army, as heroes.”
“Think before you speak, gentlemen,” Washington advised. George could take the discourteousness no longer, and beyond that, he did not favor vanity, believing it unbecoming of a gentleman. “And Captain Mercer, a man ought not to value himself of his achievements.” Even on a day like this, self-admiration would not be on display, neither for himself nor for those traveling with him.
The young military officers nodded to him and remained with mouths shut as they removed their battle-worn garb to be outfitted with regimentals of scarlet superfine woolen broadcloth coats with silver lace at the arms, blue breeches, and all topped with silver-laced hats. George had ordered the garments himself. He wanted his company to look proper for the occassion. The colonel assigned five well-mounted men, in addition to two body servants, to accompany him on this trek. The servants were more vivaciously dressed. Complete livery suits in a cream color with gold accents had even been ordered.
* * *
IN FULL COSTUME, George approached a mirror that showed his whole body—well-groomed and elegant without being ostentatious. He adjusted the ruffled cambric about his neck. A blue coat with scarlet accents lined in gold silk fabric and adorned with two rows of ten golden buttons down the front and simple gold tassels at the shoulders was appropriate, he thought, for a night like tonight. He pulled his hair back and tied it. He placed a gold-laced hat upon his head. To be a gentleman, act a gentleman. Yes, this was fitting.
The body servants busily prepared a trunk next to him, removing the garb within to make room for a new, refined wardrobe. “What shall be done with your coat, Colonel?” One of them held up the garment George had worn on that doomful day. “Four clear holes right through.” The servant placed his finger through each of the openings.
George hadn’t noticed it before, but the gold metal seal with his family’s coat of arms was missing from the coat, replaced with a bullet hole right through to where his heart would be. The tricorn hat, which they pulled from the trunk, had another two shots through it. The battle, still fresh in his mind, had been brutal. In a span of three hours, two out of every three British and Colonial officers lost their lives in the backwoods of the Monongahela. George not only managed to survive, he became a hero, a legend, a man who couldn’t die.
“Protected by above.” The servant raised his eyes upward in reverence, his finger still in one of the holes. “The direction of Providence.”
MONTHS EARLIER
GREAT CROSSING OF THE YOUGHIOGHENY, PENNSYLVANIA
For ten days, George had been in quarantine, seized with a vile illness. The shooting pain that started around his eyes stretched its way to the back of his head. Excessive weakness made it difficult for him even to count out the prescribed small grains of fever powder. He was advised that taking one more granule of Doctor James’s powder than absolutely necessary could kill a man.
The sickness confined him to a bed in a covered wagon on the side of a dirt road. His fevers were at a near-crisis level—an experience he was all too familiar with. Name a disease, and George suffered through it at one point in his life. Violent pleurisy. Diphtheria. Dysentery. Smallpox—that disease left faded pockmarks on his face. Congestive fever. Lung fever. White plague—he had watched Lawrence waste away from the same disease; the image never left his mind.
This time, bloody flux invaded George’s body. The doctor forbade him to move, warning that his life would be endangered if he did so. Frustration overwhelmed him as he awaited better health.
He would have gotten here, to camp, earlier if not for his mother. She had stopped him from leaving—stopped him right at the doorway—alarmed by his decision to enlist. He could still hear her keys jangling—the ones she always wore on a large metal ring looped into the sash around her waist. He needed to convince her. There was a farm to manage, she insisted. But this was for his future. Serve king and country, certainly, and he had other reasons, selfish considerations. Learn the specifics of the British tactical battlefield maneuvers. Write each of the details into his personal journal. Secure a post of high rank. Become a man of distinction. No better opportunity would present itself than this to educate himself in the military arts. He was invited to serve as an aide-de-camp under General Braddock. These reasons contributed to his decision to join up without pay. What else was he to do? Stay on Ferry Farm forever? He sat his mother down that day to speak with her about his choice. “The God to whom you commended me, madam, when I set out upon a more perilous errand, defended me from harm, and I trust He will do so now. Do not you?”
This changed her mind. “Go, George, fulfill the high destinies which Heaven appears to have intended you for,” she had told him.
The mission was not turning out as he hoped. His plan to keep a detailed journal was fading. George attended only one council of war before the weakness set in. He sent a letter to fellow aide-de-camp Captain Roger Morris, asking him to provide a copy of all of the general’s orders by the first safe conveyance.
Now, a day later, a wagon arrived, driven by a scrappy lad, a couple of years his junior, with a tongue that never lay still. He walked with a spring in his step and always wore that same coonskin hat. Daniel Boone approached. He offered no salutation before his assertions began. “Sir, I must tell you … they believe it a joke.”
“A good day to you, Boone,” George said.
“Yes, good day. They reckon it a battle ill-planned in England, and ill-concerted in America. It was said and I heard it: ‘We have not a single Indian on our side or the least fear of being trapped by ambush.’” Boone adjusted his hat. It had become askew. “Doomed. We are doomed. Even one of the general’s own aides, not Morris, of course, believes your theory of warfare of the wilderness. He says, ‘The general is in a place more adapted than any in the world to face an enemy who can fight from the woods, and yet we continue the tradition of the old in our maneuvers.’”
In his only formal council of war with the general, George laid out the maps that he had drawn of the land the enemy occupied in the backcountry, and he advised the general that these forces would find a way to conceal themselves in the brush. George knew the charts were imperfect, since they were roughly sketched for want of proper utensils, but they offered a clear indication of the dangers of the wild. Braddock marked his planned maneuvers with standard lines onto George’s map with an adherence to rows of soldiers. They would never depart from the conventional linear British-style warfare. George insisted that would not suffice, keeping to his rules of civility. Strive not with your superiors in argument, but always submit your judgment to others with modesty.
Braddock pontificated: “
The savages may have proven formidable to your raw American soldiers; however, faced with the king’s troops, they will hardly make the least of effects.”
The general ignored George’s continued opposition.
“They will fight from the trees, General,” George told him fervently. But it was to no avail. The general would not listen, even when George suggested they hurry. “If we could credit our intelligence. The French are weak at the forks but hourly expect reinforcements, which to my certain knowledge could not arrive with provisions or any supplies in time. I urge our regiment to push on with only the artillery and such other things as absolutely necessary.”
Braddock scoffed at him. “We shall take our entire contingent, wagons, horses, troops, and all other supplies we see fit.” His soldiers had gone on to level every molehill in their way, which decelerated the pace of troop movement. Braddock wouldn’t listen to any of George’s recommendations, calling him “a young hand,” “a beardless boy.”
It wasn’t as if he was unaccustomed to that. George often heard insults directed at him—“illiterate,” “unlearned,” “unread.”
Boone kept up his chatter. “In private, our Indian ally told us he believes the general looks upon the natives as dogs. They believe Braddock sees this country as empty of integrity and fidelity.” Boone removed a scroll from his backpack. “A letter for you, sir, from Captain Morris. I’m told you should read it and offer a response to his reply if you care to.” Boone stepped back to provide privacy.
Read no letters, books, or papers in company. George lifted the seal and unrolled the letter.
Dear Washington,
It is the Desire of every particular in the Family, & the Generals positive Commands to you, not to stirr, but by the Advice of the Person under whose Care you are, till you are better, which we all hope will be very soon—This I can personally assure you, that you may follow the Advice of the surgeon to whom I know you are recommended as a proper Man.