by Mary Calvi
I hate deception …
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
WINCHESTER
George wanted to take the author by the neck. Infuriating! Two thousand words on the front page of the Virginia Gazette, each one driving a dagger through his reputation, inch by inch. How dare someone write such lies, and with identity concealed! Who would dare accuse him of such inordinate depravity? Signed anonymous with a pseudonym—L. & V. Washington slammed the paper down onto his desk.
In black and white were printed accusations of drunkenness and profanity in his regiment:
No Profession in the World can secure from Contempt and
Indignation a Character made up of Vice and Debauchery;
and no Man is obliged to treat such a character as sacred.
When raw Novices … never used to command or have been
found insufficient for the Management of their own private
Affairs are honored with Commissions in the Army.
Kirkpatrick charged into the room, holding a copy. “Vain babbling! Worthless—malicious—envious sycophants!” Kirkpatrick became angry in the face and stomped his foot. “Colonel, these assertions are utter nonsense. Insanity. Who dares write such slander?”
Never express anything unbecoming, nor act against the rules moral before your inferiors. George chose civility in Kirkpatrick’s presence, although he wanted to utter coarse words against the article’s author.
“Ill-natured slander!” asserted Kirkpatrick. “Two, three, four men gathered together to propagate lies and lay them onto paper.”
Let your conversation be without malice. George tried to remain calm. He made clear that he wasn’t interested in discussing this with Kirkpatrick.
His secretary seemed to get his message and walked toward the doorway. “Remember what Alexander Pope says—‘Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue, but like a shadow, proves the substance true.…’”
George also knew what else Pope had written: “Be silent always when you doubt your sense.” He read through the article once more. The most scathing denunciation of his ability was printed in the paper.
… Soldiers differ; some will shed their Blood,
And some drink Bumbo—for their Country’s Good.
Some in the Field will nobly risque their Lives;
Some Hero like, will swear, or play at Fives.
Some show themselves the genuine Sons of Mars:
Some brave in Venus’ or Bacchus’ Wars,
Can show their lecherous and drunken Scars.
… when the Officers give their Men an Example
of all Manner of Debauchery, Vice and Idleness,
When this is the Case, how wretchedly helpless
must a Nation be? What useless Lumber, what an
Encumbrance is the Soldiery.
Men of Virtue and true Courage can have
no Heart to enlist, and mingle in such a Crowd. And the
few of that Character, that may be among them, are in
Danger of catching the general Contagion; of being
damped and mortified at the Sight of such Scenes of
Vice, Extravagance and Oppression.
The article continued with a final strike at his reputation, with a quote from Shakespeare that the writer used to defame him.
Men’s Flesh preserv’d so whole but seldom win.
George’s jaw muscles clenched. He could nearly feel his blood getting hot. If there was a person who believed him incapable of command or, more seriously, in need of censure, he wanted to know who it was. No one would endeavor to act more in the interests of the military than George.
Certainly his inexperience had led to some mistakes in his leadership, but his first principle in every move he made in the military was a deep love to serve. He was sensible enough to know that some in his contingent were idle. He was far from exonerating the traits of his officers, but to compare him to a prince who destroyed his empire—this was blasphemy.
A heavy knock at the door of his room at Cocke’s Tavern drew his attention. He answered it, still holding the publication, to find the Honorable John Robinson, Beverley’s brother. George had asked him to come. He was glad to see him for a number of reasons, one being affirmation, the other a personal favor.
“A vile and ignorant scribbler!”
George needed that confirmation.
“To be aspersed in such a way!” Robinson found himself a seat and grunted before his muttering continued. “To whom shall we give credit for the malicious reflections in that scandalous libel?”
George’s pacing was emphatic as he stepped toward the window of the room, hesitated, and turned back. “I do not know.”
“I have never heard any man of honor or reputation speak the least disrespectfully of you or censure your conduct in the least.”
“I have followed the strictest dictates of honor.” George placed himself on a bench near the one window in the room. He opened it with his right hand; he needed some air.
“No man can blame you for showing a proper resentment at it.”
“I assure you my conduct will remain honorable so long as I am able to distinguish between good and evil.”
“I hope you will allow your ruling passion, the love of your country, to stifle your resentment. At least await the arrival of Loudoun in Virginia.”
George glanced around at the four walls of his small room. He had to gain control of his emotions. An utter attack on his character from an anonymous writer! He walked to the hall for a moment’s escape from the confines of the space. He called for food and drink for his guest. Be not angry at table whatever happens and if you have reason to be so, show it not but on a cheerful countenance. Then he returned for a discussion on the subject that would be dear to the heart of any man. “May we speak on another matter?” George cleared his throat. “The personal one.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lord Loudoun’s Banquet
… it is uncertain how far the Enemy may attempt to pursue their Victory.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON
DECEMBER 24, 1756
Ten months had gone by since George swept Mary into his arms and she felt, for the first time in her life, whole. Now her eyes welled up. Sitting on a wooden stool feeling distraught, she slouched. The only light came from the window in her painting room in the cellar.
Live or die?
What would be the choice?
Mary begged herself to close the door on what had been, to say good-bye to the dark. She had grown tired of hiding herself away, of losing herself in loneliness. She wanted to finally put an end to the demons, put an end to the memories of that beast, before they put an end to her. She placed her fingers on the knife’s hilt and grasped it tightly. A primal anguish screamed out from the base of her soul.
“Die!”
The blade made its incision.
She pictured the powerful imagery in that story she read many times about the legend of the Phoenix. In the myth, the grand bird builds a nest of death and, with a clap of its wings, sets fire to itself, and burns in flames in the midst of an inferno.
Death was not the end, but the beginning.
From the ashes, the Phoenix rises, brilliantly rises. Feathers in the boldest peacock blue, eyes sparkling sapphire, the magical bird takes flight, illuminating the night sky in newfound life, one that is brighter, more radiant than before.
Renewal.
Rebirth.
With the paring knife, she tore into a rose, and into another and another, lashing the pile of flowers before her; they were bloodred, as were her fingers from the nicks of their thorns. The deepest red roses she chopped down to where only the blossom with a short stem survived. The stems with their thorns, she tossed away.
She arranged the roses in a radial fashion to make a full base in the low Delft vase. Bright blue irises, twenty in total, emerged from the center—tall, reflective of the rise to a new beginning.
She wished she could experience
the same.
She heard footsteps.
She put down the knife.
She assumed it was Frederick coming to negotiate her surrender. Her siblings wanted her to attend the banquet hosted by Lord Loudoun. She hadn’t been to a gala since George left. Every day, he was in her thoughts. Every day, she waited for word from him. The only letter that arrived was to Beverley, from Beverley’s brother, asking whether Frederick would consider negotiation through letters, for Colonel Washington’s physical presence was not possible at this time. Mary was elated, for negotiation could lead to nuptials. Frederick balked, saying such was unheard of. “Any such discussion has to be done face-to-face,” he told her. She fought him on this, but in the end she relented, for she believed with certainty that George would return for her. He promised he would return to her.
She wiped her eyes as her visitor entered.
Sir Tenoe. He was silent. The first thing she noticed was the scar on his face, which looked even deeper in this light. She cast her eyes to the ground as she tried to regain some type of composure. Blood on her hands. Slits, small ones, covered her fingers.
“Sir Tenoe.” She used the fabric of her dress to cover them. “Forgive me. I knew not of your visit.” He was hired to serve as dancing master for the night’s grand banquet. She was glad of this. It was the only reason she even considered attending. Why he was here left her perplexed. “Was it Frederick who sent for you?” She blew out of her mouth to get the hair away from her eyes. It wasn’t like him not to speak. She wondered what it was that he wanted to say. From his long silence, she surmised it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.
He reached out to touch the floral garlands that lined the walls of the cellar room and his fingers lingered on the dried petals painted blue. “Each of us has a scar.”
That was not what she expected.
“Mine”—he gestured to his face—“mine is on display for everyone to see.”
Mary remained quiet as she listened to him.
“This wound, it is who I am.”
With her head, Mary motioned for him to take a seat at the empty stool in front of her.
He followed her direction and took to staring out the window as he spoke. “I had just turned thirteen. I was poor, without a father. The day that left me branded I had scraped food for supper when I saw them—a group of men. They smelled of whiskey; they stumbled, with a little girl in their grip. She was no more than eleven, twelve, no more. I’d never seen her before. They slammed her down to the ground. They hollered things, horrible things, at her. ‘Pay no attention, boy. Move on,’ they ordered.” Tenoe spoke slowly. “Leaving would not be my option.” A rhythm of short quick breaths followed. “One of them put his hands over her mouth. Another held her down. I charged into their circle in the alley. ‘Release her!’ I shouted. I was enraged. I’d never been so angry in my life. I heard them snickering. That little girl’s eyes stared at me in fierce desperation.” Tenoe’s eyes shut tight. “My mother … she had faced that same fate; for her, I stayed; for her, I fought. One punch. Then another. I stayed. The six of them, they beat me bloody. I stayed. I fell down. I rose. I stayed. The child got up. She ran. I wouldn’t move until that girl was clear out of sight. I saw the broken bottle coming. A man struck me across the face with it. I stayed … until that girl was clear out of my sight.” Tenoe looked right into Mary’s eyes. “I wear this scar with pride.”
Tears burst from Mary’s eyes.
“Fate put me there that day, just like it puts me here today.” He reached out for her hand. She could see him looking at the bloody pricks on her fingers. “Destiny doesn’t care that we’re wounded. Destiny sees through scars. All that destiny sees is light.”
* * *
AN AWKWARD FIFTH wheel, that’s what Mary felt like in the carriage as Frederick and his new bride made goggle eyes at each other on one side. Beverley, whispering to Susannah, who giggled, sat next to Mary; the three of them were positioned quite close. Beverley was nearly covered in the fabric of their bell-shaped gowns, which spread out wide. Mary looked out of the window past the leafless elm trees, hoping to find a light to guide her destiny. Not a brightness flickered anywhere.
Her brother’s periwig took an unexpected bounce as the carriage moved off of the central thoroughfare of Broadway and onto Whitehall Street, where the banquet was to take place on the southernmost point at the tip of Manhattan Island.
Within the walls of the massive fort curtained in stone, inside the fort’s residential mansion lived the new general and commander in chief of all His Majesty’s Forces in North America, the governor and commander in chief of His Majesty’s Most ancient Colony and Dominion of Virginia. Why he had the longest of titles, Mary could only surmise. She wondered, too, why he decided to take up residency in New York rather than in Virginia.
As she stepped from the carriage to the ground, Mary could hear her brother say to Susannah, “Do you not think she should have worn a piece with her gown?”
Her brother was dressed in holiday ostentation from head to toe: a fully woolen greatcoat of a deep purple adorned with velvet trimmings and nearly thirty gold buttons down the front. His chain marking him Keeper of the Deer Forests was on proud display.
Mary didn’t answer him. She refused to wear anything fancy to the banquet, especially gems. Rosie made a last moment’s choice of a simple gown made of deep green Spitalfields damask, with an added brooch of a yellow flower; the costume was certainly less fancy than the usual wear for such an event. Her hair was wrapped above her head, high, but not high enough to be considered gaudy.
She was here for one person only. She promised Sir Tenoe that she would attend. How could she not? Here she was.
Mary relaxed a bit when she saw two belles approaching her. Cousins Eva and Margaret arrived at the same time. Not just the Van Cortlandts and the Kembles would be in attendance; the Livingstons, the Delanceys, and every other polite family in the colony were expected.
“Have you seen Lord Loudoun’s chariot?” Margaret appeared elated to be attending. “’Tis black and pure gold!” She did look lovely in her bold red gown, her blond ringlets flowing. “I hear he even brought from England his personal valet de chambre and maître d’hôtel. Groomsmen, coachman, footmen, postilion, as well!”
“We know. We know.” Eva stayed close to Mary’s side as they walked through the enormous entry door. “And who needs to import nineteen horses? Every one with green velvet housing embroidered with the coat of arms of the Loudoun family. I hear they filled an entire ship.”
Mary was glad she was arriving with these ladies. They took her mind off her worries. The crowds would be enormous. She could already smell them.
“What will be the reaction when the British officers see Miss Polly Philipse in attendance?” Eva took Mary by the arm. “Every military man will be wanting to join the regiment of your admirers.”
“Eva Van Cortlandt, you are aware I have no desire to meet a man this evening,” Mary muttered.
“Her heart is fixed,” replied Eva. “Any gentlemen who have demands on our Captain Polly are desired to apply immediately, as we have great reason to imagine the company will soon be broke!”
They placed themselves on either side of her as they entered. Mary took one last breath of fresh, chilled air. As the large doors opened, pine smacked with cinnamon welcomed her.
Everything in view was red. Red flowers were everywhere she looked. Upon pillar stands in every corner were vases filled with forced red blossoms. Long-needled garlands, with cinnamon sticks and red ribbons as decoratives, traveled about the winding stairwell’s balustrade in the center foyer. On the doors hung wreaths made from winter’s greenery with red-ribboned bows at their tops. The assemblage of redcoats parted to give the belles room to approach the host of the evening.
“Could that be London?” Margaret asked with burgeoning excitement.
“Loudoun,” Eva groaned. “Must be. I can tell by how high his chin is lifted.”
&nb
sp; The gentleman of high rank seemed to hasten his conversation with the sheriff’s father, Lieutenant Governor Delancey, as they neared him. Costumed in bright red velvet with shimmering gold tassels, Loudoun stood high on his heel.
“The Dutch millionaire’s family,” Mary thought she heard an aide say as the man she assumed to be Lord Loudoun moved from his position to greet her.
“How is it that I may sufficiently thank you, Miss Philipse, for not only your polite acceptance of my invitation but also for the agreeable gift of your flowers?”
“The Philipse family wishes you a splended holiday,” she responded in an amiable manner. The floral arrangement of the Phoenix design clearly arrived.
“I am abundantly honored to have your presence at my gala this evening. You are welcome in my humble abode at any hour, always.” His voice was higher in pitch than Mary would have thought for a person in his position, his face so pale, it seemed he must have been powdered white. “And may I add all the compliments of the season to you, Miss Philipse.” His pure white hand, decorated with a ruby ring, brought her gloved hand up to his lips. He kissed it. She flinched.
The ladies escorted her to the reception line, where the salutations were endless, with one officer after the next awaiting Mary’s arrival. Her hands were kissed far too many times.
One colonel hastily licked his palm and smoothed thinning gray hair over his baldness as she drew near. He mumbled a few lines to her, which she forgot to listen to. She did catch his name: Colonel John Stanwix.
Then another colonel, Thomas Hickey, greeted her, followed by a lieutenant colonel, Hugh Mercer.
“Are you a relation of Captain George Mercer?” asked Mary.
“I’ve been asked the question before,” replied Mercer. “My family hails from Scotland, while the other Mercer hails from Virginia. However, as I understand it, I’ll be headed there in a week’s time and hope to finally meet the captain I am connected to, though in name only.”
“Pray be so kind as to present my regards to Captain Mercer … and Colonel Washington.” Just saying his name sent shivers down her spine. She felt a warmth on her cheeks.