Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  Yours &c.

  Roger Morris

  Monday five o’Clock in the Afternoon

  George motioned for Boone to return. He would have no answer to the letter, infuriated as he was. Morris provided nothing he requested. No details of the military orders, not even the supply lists.

  “And Captain Morris,” Boone continued, “’tis but assured his promotion to lieutenant colonel upon victory at Duquesne. You know the other getting what they want? That woman layered in jewels. The general’s been overheard bragging about how he will take her into battle for it will be a swift victory. He’s wasted months of our time as he feasts with her. Do you know what I transported to him on the evening last? Cases and cases of eatables—hams, cheeses, loaves of sugar. Sugar! Eight kegs of biscuits, sturgeon, herring, a barrel of potatoes, tubs of butter, and kegs of spirit … and they were set aside just for the general’s table!”

  George turned to Boone with astonishment at those words. Let your judgment always be balanced. Where there is no occasion for expressing an opinion, it is best to be silent.

  “He says, Captain Stewart does, that without Washington, we cannot win.”

  THE DAY OF BATTLE

  FORKS OF THE OHIO

  George placed a hand on his brother’s sword; he was glad to have it at his side. A field abloom in pristine white lay before him. The shade contrasted strikingly against a sea of brilliant red tunics worn by the British soldiers. The men were lined up in strict formation as far as the eye could see. George wore blue, not having had an opportunity to receive his uniform, since he rejoined the company only hours beforehand with a paleness in his face and a pain at his bottom that forced him to mount his horse on a couple of cushions.

  Glancing one row in front, he watched a graceful woman riding a horse. Her black hair, straight and long to her waist, bounced in synchrony with the horse’s gallop. She reminded him of the woman of the lowlands. That hair’s length. Its shine. It was like hers—his Affa’s. This woman beside the general wore a bright orange dress ornamented with pure gold bracelets about her arms. She stood out against so many red coats.

  “We will strike fear in the enemy!” Braddock exclaimed. George noticed his hair, surprised a general would style it for battle. A high puff carried over his noggin from ear to ear and fell in a tail of false white curls. “Expel the French from the continent!”

  For the British to take control of the Ohio country, this fort built by the French at the Forks of the Ohio would need to be captured. Here at Fort Duquesne, both the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers came together to form the Ohio River, which was essential for trade and movement of the military.

  The area appeared abandoned. The general marched the officers forth. They were lined in English tradition. The silvery lace of their uniforms glistened in the sun. With what appeared a clear path to victory on level land, despite two ravines covered with trees and high grass surrounding the final open field, the general signaled the boys to begin to play. George moved aside as the line of young fifers and drummers, just children, passed by him. The smallest of the group played the fife. The eldest carried the drum; he appeared to be beginning to show signs of manhood from the few hairs upon his face. It was he who struck the first beat.

  The marching song of the British Grenadiers played.

  The men began to sing.

  Captain Morris, who wore a boutonniere of white clover as if on parade, was loudest of all.

  Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules,

  Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these,

  But of all the world’s great heroes, there’s none that can compare

  With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadiers.

  Those heroes of antiquity ne’er saw a cannon ball,

  Nor knew the force of powder to slay their foes with all,

  But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,

  With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.

  When e’er we are commanded to storm the palisades,

  Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades;

  We throw them from the glacis about the enemies’ ears.

  Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.

  Just as the last words were sung, George heard the first bullets whistle, coming from an invisible enemy among the trees. The first fire was fatal. A boy’s drum fell to the ground. Blood seeped from his neck as his thin frame collapsed. The little fifer was next to fall.

  A terrible carnage began. The enemy overwhelmed the soldiers with a horseshoe attack, trapping them like animals in a pen. An endless barrage came from the brush. A blur of violence faded into a cloud of chaos. The rapid discharge of musketry did not obscure the screams of injured men, dying men.

  The deadly siege was exactly what George had warned against, exactly what he presaged would be the outcome of the Battle of Monongahela. His prediction of warfare in the wild was coming true.

  The force of the French with their native allies aimed at the officers on horseback, and next at the officers on the ground, leaving the British force doomed. The enemy struck the first flank; every soldier was killed or wounded. Over and over again, the general ordered his men to form their proper line and march forward. Hundreds more officers advanced in British formation, an open target for the warriors firing from nature’s camouflage. Before long, those officers, too, were shot and killed.

  “Ye enemy! They are hidden behind the trees!” Daniel Boone shouted to George above the gunfire. “They slaughtered the men! They scalped ’em! I saw it myself.”

  George raced on horseback to Braddock.

  “General, allow me to enter into tree fighting! We must change course.” Everywhere he looked, the bodies of his comrades had fallen—were falling—all around him.

  “I swear, Washington, I’ve a mind to run you through the body!”

  “Alter the fight. Allow me to use three hundred of your men. They are in the trees, General!”

  “Washington, this is my battle!”

  “I implore you.”

  “We’ll sup today in Fort Duquesne or else in hell!”

  The sting of annihilation struck. A massacre unfolded before George’s eyes. Morris fell to the ground. The general’s lady, drenched in red, dropped from her horse. Braddock had five horses shot from under him, yet he remained in the center of the fight. A bullet struck the general in the back of his shoulder. A second shot to the breast dropped him.

  With no other leader standing, George had no choice but to take control. He could have retreated; instead, he chose to reload. He could have been fearful; instead, he chose to be fearless. Leadership was thrust upon him during this dire fight. He answered the call. Refusing to let his surviving band of brothers fall, he rode in every direction, rallying the men. They took to the trees. They rushed the brush. Unlike the general, who had told the men to charge, George led the charge, with his men following.

  Twice, George’s horse was hit. It collapsed.

  Four times, bullets pierced George’s coat.

  But he continued to stand. He would not go down.

  Two shots struck his hat.

  George’s blood did not spill. He ordered cannons to fire and, with furor, grabbed his rifle, planted one hand on the muzzle, situated the other on the breach, and controlled the weapon as if it were weightless.

  Gunfire directed toward him grew even more intense.

  Fire after fire.

  He did not fall.

  He remained in the battle, sustaining not even a wound. Desperate to save the lives of the living, he continued the fight to protect his officers.

  Suddenly, the bombardment from the enemy ceased.

  The bullets fell silent. George was left bewildered by the quiet.

  “We have General Braddock!” Captain Stewart cried out to him. Washington rushed to the general’s side, hearing him murmur that he wished to be left to die with his men. Toge
ther, they placed Braddock in a tumbrel. They carried him off as he begged them to leave him there.

  “The woman?” asked George of Stewart.

  “Scalped and dragged off.”

  His focus turned to the field of clover, those white blossoms trampled and stained red. The cries of the dying pierced his heart. The stink of death surrounded him. Gloom and horror everywhere.

  George saw Morris at a distance of a dozen or more yards, stumbling, seeming near collapse. He rushed to his fellow aide-de-camp and found him with hands over a bloodied face, the silver lace on his sleeve stained red. “A bullet.” Morris gasped. “A bullet took my nose.” He ducked under Morris’s left arm and, carrying him, led him away from that meadow of death.

  Four hundred and twenty-one. George, with Stewart’s assistance, counted the injured lying on the ground. The two of them helped transport the wounded to a safe campsite. Each name Stewart wrote down. The last of the injured was a young boy with a small flute still across his chest, who slowly turned his desperate eyes to George when he asked his name.

  “Miles Brown,” he said, his voice weak. His little face resembled that of his father, a slave by the name of Billy Brown, who was in the fight and now knelt by his son’s side. With George beside them, the elder Brown rose and, with rage in his voice and tears in his eyes, began to speak loudly enough for the others to hear.

  “I’ve been given the name Billy Brown. In God’s name, I tell you now. I saw the truth on that field.” A great number of men turned to hear him. “Washington, he came up to the general during the fight and asked permission to take to the trees with his men.” It seemed the whole camp, every wounded and the few whole, listened to his words. “The general, he screamed at him, cursed him! He said to him—and I will remember these words for the rest of my life—the general said to him, ‘I’ve mind to run you through the body!’ He swore at this man. He used these words: ‘We’ll sup today in Fort Duquesne or else in hell!’”

  Cheers and assents erupted among the officers.

  “This is the truth!” Brown yelled. “I tell you, this is the truth!” He knelt again by his young son.

  From a distance, an officer’s voice could be heard, reading the names of the missing and the killed on the banks of the Monongahela.

  The list seemed to go on indefinitely. The force of fifteen hundred men shattered by a party of what could have been no more than a few hundred of the enemy. After the final name was read, George spoke quietly to Stewart: “The horrific scenes which showed themselves on this day are unspeakable, sickening.”

  “We have suffered an incomprehensible defeat.” Stewart moved with him behind a large oak, away from the injured.

  “The dead—the dying—the groans—lamentations—and cries along the road of the wounded for help … were enough to pierce the heart.”

  Both stood, each with a hand over his heart, face bowed.

  A voice interrupted. It was Dr. James. “Washington. The general has made a request for your presence. A bullet pierced the general’s lung. We have not much time.”

  George walked with the doctor, passing rows upon rows of the wounded, including Captain Morris. Still bleeding about the nose, the bandaged captain jumped to his feet, appearing flabbergasted that it was Washington about to enter General Braddock’s private cabin.

  Morris questioned the doctor as to whether it was he the general requested.

  Speak not injurious words neither in jest nor earnest scoff at none although they give occasion. George stayed silent.

  The doctor gave him a firm “Nay.”

  In the corner of the one-room structure, light pierced through a dusty window, its rays hitting the face of the general, whose skin appeared almost grayish. “The blue,” Braddock muttered in a shaky voice. “The blue saved us.”

  When another speaks be attentive your self and disturb not the audience if any hesitate in his words help him not nor prompt him without desired, interrupt him not, nor answer him till his speech be ended. He waited until the general finished his words.

  The general turned his eyes toward George. “Who would have thought it?”

  George sat on a stool next to him. Dr. James stood a few feet back.

  “We shall better know how to deal with them another time.” Braddock’s breathing was coming short and shallow.

  He nodded to the dying man. The general pointed to a small trunk near his bedside. George lifted it to him. As Braddock’s shaky hands grabbed hold of it, he whispered, “For not taking your guidance, I must apologize.” His fingers weakly fumbled with the latch. Inside was the commander’s sash, colored in brilliant British red and stained with the general’s blood, as he had worn it in the battle. “It is yours,” Braddock said, as he feebly handed over the sash. “George Washington, you are the next in command.”

  As the only aide uninjured in the fight and the man who saved an army from utter annihilation, the raw volunteer from the Virginia woods was now commander. Undertake not what you cannot perform but be careful to keep your promise. Knowing this edict, George pledged his commitment to serve.

  A rattling noise came from the back of the general’s throat. His eyes became glassy as he stared into a distance above him. The doctor rushed over as Edward Braddock took his final breath. A blue color presenting itself upon his lips.

  * * *

  BY THE LIGHT of a torch, a group of men gathered to choose the general’s resting place. With a bandage covering nearly his whole face, Morris interrupted, requesting that he perform the obsequies, noting his close ties with Braddock, having signed his allegiance to the general and having traveled with him from Britain. None would have it. To the utter agitation of Morris, they turned to the new commander to determine not only the burial details but also the movement of the entire company.

  The decision George made was to have Braddock buried in the middle of the high road cut for wagons. In order not to arouse any suspicion on the part of the enemy, he planned for no fanfare; not even a volley would be fired. If the enemy forces had any idea of the burial site’s location, they would surely dig up the corpse and carry his scalp as a trophy.

  * * *

  WRAPPED IN two blankets, the general’s body was lowered into a shallow grave. George read a devotion from the Book of Common Prayer, which Dr. James had carried with him:

  Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God

  of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our

  dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his

  body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

  dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection

  to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who

  shall change our vile body that it may be like unto

  his glorious body, according to the mighty working,

  whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

  “His attachments were warm,” George noted upon completion of a moment of silence. “His enmities were strong, and having no disguise about him, both appeared in full force.”

  He signaled for the soldiers to travel on. He ordered the wagon drivers to roll over the dirt above the general’s resting place and the men to march over it. He wanted to obliterate any trace of the unmarked grave, any trace of the past.

  Chapter Five

  Gooch’s Kitchen

  … when once the Woman has tempted us, & we have tasted the forbidden fruit, there is no such thing as checking our appetites, whatever the consequences may be.

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  YONKERS-ON-HUDSON

  FEBRUARY 14, 1756

  Lured by the scent of almonds, Mary’s appetite was calling her to the kitchen after the return from the dressmaker’s cottage. For the feast welcoming the hero and his Southern officers, Mary’s brother hired an army of culinarians. From confectioners to cooks to additional dairy and scullery maids, they joined an already large staff. The Clerk of the kitchen, the ever neat and well-kempt
Temperance Gooch, ruled like a crowned head; not even a drop of gravy dare land on her apron. Mary found it amusing, the disdain Temperance showed for the others her brother hired, many of whom were French. Frederick never cared much for taking sides in war, or in anything else for that matter.

  Down to the kitchen Mary went, where an eruption was shaking the pots.

  “A gallimaufry”—Temperance pushed aside the French cook’s completed creation of crème croquante—“and nothing more!”

  “Mademoiselle, to taste une crème croquante, one must pause to find la delicatese of each layer of flavor.” This was Chef François, one of those new hires, enunciating between his curled mustache and chin beard. “This is how I create.”

  Mary, watching the two through the half-opened door, did not interrupt.

  “Create? Imitate would be more proper a term.” Temperance, Mary knew, despised the French way of cooking. “Chef d’Anjou, I shall not fill my table with such nonsense.” A cook’s daughter, Temperance had grown up in the manor. She began working in the kitchen when she became old enough. And now, at twenty-four years of age, she demanded certain pay for her work, to which Frederick agreed. On a day like today, Temperance would not be outprepared, especially by a French cook who was in the middle of a serenade over his pot.

  “Vous insulte ma creation, Mademoiselle Gooch!” The chef walked closer to Temperance and pointed to a silver tray. “You yourself make a dessert of snowballs.” His nose scrunched up, as if it had been assaulted by putrescence.

  “A dish that is a creation, not an imitation,” snapped Temperance. Over the balls made of boiled rice, apples, and a touch of cinnamon, she drizzled a sauce that combined butter, white wine, and nutmeg. “It is to the liking of the lady of the house.”

  “Mademoiselle, never has a snowflake fallen to the south”—he picked up the tray—“just as never has a snowball had a place at a banquet.”

  “I am aware it would not be French to show praise to a good cook,” Temperance declared, storming past him. “As for your crème, it is more dull than divine.”