Dear George, Dear Mary

by Mary Calvi

  George turned to the doorway and moved to a gray-walled study with its moldings painted in a red as bold as the color of the British uniforms. George took a seat at the desk to write to Congress. He needed to tell them that the power of words could not even describe the impossible task before him. His army, as he looked at it, was broken. George began composing a letter to the president of Congress, John Hancock, in the forenoon.

  We are now encamped with the Main body of the Army on the Heights of Harlem, where I should hope the Enemy would meet with a defeat in case of an Attack, If the Generality of our Troops would behave with tolerable bravery, but experience to my extreme affliction has convinced me that this is rather to be wished for than expected; However I trust, that there are many who will act like men, and shew themselves worthy of the blessings of Freedom. I have sent out some reconoitring parties to gain Intelligence If possible of the disposition of the Enemy and shall inform Congress of every material event by the earliest Opportunity.

  A voice cried out from the hall: “Redcoats! Redcoats in the fields!”

  George rushed out to the portico and looked through his spyglass. The British were advancing northward. George hurried to mount his stallion.

  He found his colonels and ordered them to take 150 of the Rangers to investigate. He headed to the advanced posts, moving straight toward the enemy. He needed to assess the situation properly. For about two miles he rode, from the northernmost end of the camp to the southernmost. They had arrived. Thousands of them. The enemy was before him in large bodies of troops, moving from the southern tip to Harlem Heights. How this event would end, only God knew. The bullets whistled through the air.

  Exchanges of gunfire erupted between the British advance parties and the detachment that George sent out to investigate. A colonel raced up to him on horseback. “The advance party is in a skirmish, General. There’s more of the enemy concealed.”

  One brigade was in a confused, disorderly jumble. His greatest fears of defeat were being realized. “Good God, have I got such troops as those!” shouted George. Men with no experience, no expertise, no willingness to take orders made up his ranks. George threw his hat to the ground in a furor. “Are these the men with which I am to defend America!”

  George felt the ground shake below him.

  “The redcoats are in hot pursuit, moving northward!” yelled a colonel.

  That’s when George heard them, the pounding of hooves. The enemy rushed downhill. This was followed by bugle calls—a quick series of pulsating double notes. The British were playing “Gone Away.” The fox has left its refuge. The hunt is on. A mocking gesture to George.

  George ordered a contingent from the New England regiments, volunteers who’d been farmers up until now, to face the enemy with him. They set out bravely, heroically. He wanted to draw the whole of the British units into the open field, cut them off from hiding in the extremity of the wooded areas. A feint attack at the front forced them out. He ordered another contingent to take to the trees. To George’s surprise, the plan was working. The gunfire of his sharpshooters from nature’s camouflage was easily hitting its targets. The British were falling in huge numbers.

  Their forces wanted to entrap him. He entrapped them with a horseshoe offensive.

  He ordered three companies of riflemen from Virginia to get to the rear of the enemy’s lines. A larger force of additional Rangers reinforced by riflemen, this one led by Captain Hamilton, moved to the left. Another contingent took the right.

  The enemy was trapped.

  “Take the cornfield!” the general ordered.

  His crew of a motley sort was winning.

  Yes, the hunt is on.

  Chapter Forty

  Burn It Down

  Tho this place is under a cloud at present, I have no doubt but that it will Phoenix like again rise into consequence out of its own ashes—

  —GEORGE WASHINGTON

  NEW YORK CITY

  The little hand reached out to her. Mary grabbed it tightly, so tightly that she was nearly amazed at her strength. No mud spotted her shoes; Elbert’s were polished to a shine. “There’s no mud, Elbert.” The boy smiled wide. The dirt could not touch them. The child’s feet were above the ground. No way could he slip. No way could he fall into the river. The two of them turned their eyes to the water, so clear and glorious and blue. She could see all the way to the bottom. Across the still surface moved a reflection of black birds, ravens flying high, soaring, away from her, far away, even past the guardian’s wall. Elbert’s sparkling eyes turned back to her; they were aglow like an angel’s before her.

  A loud pounding distracted her. Mary wanted to get back to Elbert. The knocking grew heavier, more intense. “Please, let me go back to him,” she whispered. Something was burning. She coughed to clear her throat. She jumped from her bed, awakened from her deep slumber by fire. She slipped on shoes, rushed out of her bedchamber with whatever gown she had on, and raced down the stairwell. Someone was knocking. She answered the door.

  A stunned face looked back at her. “I saw a coach at your front.” The soldier spoke to her calmly but with intensity. “Why are you here, madame?”

  “It is my home.”

  “The city’s on fire. We’ve been ordered to take you out of here.”

  “By whom?”

  “Please, madame, we must go!”

  Before leaving, Mary raced back into the parlor, grabbed a painting off the wall, wrapped it in a table covering, and left.

  The scorching air smacked her in the face. The burning odor seeped into her nose. Her eyes stung. She shielded them with one hand. With the other, she clutched the covered canvas. She placed the painting in the coach and tried to climb on Valentine while covering her mouth to stop the taste of ash. The soldier told her to enter, that he would be her driver.

  She refused this. He made way for her.

  “An officer will lead you out.”

  “Your name?”

  He jumped on a horse, headed in a southern direction. “Nathan Hale,” he replied from a distance.

  Her mare charged ahead, veering around the hellfire. The mighty inferno swallowed the homes across the road. Smoke poured out onto Stone Street. The wind carried flames toward her. The odor of charred wood was everywhere. On each road she passed, another home quartering British troops burned to ash.

  As she rode on Broadway toward the northern end of Manhattan Island, the heat was intense. She watched as the British soldiers tried to put down the flames with Newsham engines. She’d seen them operate before—how they streamed water nearly 150 feet. This time, they appeared dry. No fire bells sounded. Not a fireman could be found anywhere.

  Valentine never galloped this fast before. She looked back and saw the city behind her glowing orange, engulfed in flames.

  She rode her way out of the ruins.

  Hatred, indeed, moved to blood in New York. Was it the work of human hands? George must have known. The timing of his order. The broken engines. No firemen anywhere. How could he allow this to happen? Burn a city down. What kind of man would do such a thing! Yes, maybe they were right about him. How dare he! Burn it to the ground, she thought. She knew where he was. She would find him and speak her mind! “Make way!” She’d charge in. She wouldn’t pay his guards any mind. “Where’s the general?” She wouldn’t wait for an answer. She’d demand his attention. “I have been disillusioned all these years by an idea of a man. Now I know what has been in my mind is distant from reality. You retreat and you burn!” He would return only a cold stare. “How do you not feel a deep sense of sympathy for a city that is now in ruins? Fire burned a third of this metropolis down! Who is responsible for this?”

  “Providence—or some good honest fellow,” he would say, “has done more for us than we were disposed to do for ourselves.”

  “And you will let this go without justice served!”

  “Had I been left to the dictates of my own judgment, New York should have been laid in ashes before I quitt
ed it!”

  “It’s been burned to the ground!”

  “Ah, yes, a new town is fast rising out of the ashes of the old.”

  * * *

  SHE PULLED THE reins to stop Valentine where the road was blocked by a cluster of cannon. Ominous clouds rolled closer and looked ready to burst their storm upon her. A man in a hunting shirt and tricorn hat approached.

  “By order of the general, the road to Mount Washington is not passable for a coach’s travel. You must turn the other way,” he commanded her.

  “Mount Washington?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Had he changed the name of the estate from Mount Morris to Mount Washington? she wondered. “And where is this general, so that I may make a request personally?”

  “Ma’am, he is in the mansion on Mount Washington. I’m ordering you to turn the other way.”

  “Mount Washington! This is my property! You turn the other way.” She had never been so angry. “Let me through!”

  Another man interceded. “Wait, please, madame.” Both rushed to speak to another officer, who appeared to be of a higher rank.

  For a time she waited and watched. Dark clouds that appeared ready to release their burden cast a shadow over Harlem Heights. Mount Washington? Is there no other land in all of the colonies he could have named his? Mount Washington. Revenge? Could it be? Questions swirled through her mind. She had sent him an invitation for tea, only.

  In front of her, soldiers piled logs into stacks. A fort? Were they building a fort on her estate? Here? Yes, she would have plenty to say to him. She couldn’t wait to see the general. He named her property Mount Washington! Now he was building a fort on it.

  A soldier of higher rank approached her. “Oh.” He stopped in his tracks. “Mary Eliza Philipse, my apologies.”

  “Mrs. Roger Morris,” she said, correcting him.

  “My name is Captain Hamilton. I will see to it that you are escorted safely to your home.”

  “I thank you, Captain Hamilton.” She wanted to say more, but instead, she stayed quiet. She knew he was there—George.

  * * *

  SHE RODE AS fast as she could, trying to race past her escort; however, obstructions lay in the way. Trees. Deep pits. The road to her home was completely destroyed. She needed to follow the captain. She had no other choice. Thunder sounded. Drops, light ones, fell on her. She would tell the general her mind today!

  She dismounted outside the portico of her mansion. Captain Hamilton was there to receive her horse. Six soldiers guarded the entrance. Mary grabbed the painting from the coach, adjusted the covering, and moved toward them with a quick step, shielding the canvas from the wetness. She was seething.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Mary readied herself to fight for entrance into her own house.

  Those guarding the entrance made way for her, greeting her kindly. No one stopped her. She found Lulu standing in the foyer; she helped her with the painting, which was almost bigger than Lulu.

  “It near knocked me straight over.”

  “What did?”

  “Shot right through the roof! Those redcoats!” hollered Lulu. “The cannonball. It came straight through the house. Left a hole right in the ceiling.”

  “A cannonball? You are all right, Lulu?”

  “I told them the redcoats were comin’. I saw them, ’cause I was standin’ on the porch. They went straight out and stopped those coats from getting here, but the reds—they fired and fired and fired. Anyhows, it’s in the basement—the cannonball—and they’s covered the hole with wood and things.”

  “Thank God you are all right.”

  “We’s won. The British went running from this place. We’s won. Soldiers told me we brought them good luck. The general had his men protect me.”

  “General Washington?”

  “Yes, the manly man.”

  “Where will I find him?”

  Lulu pointed to the stairwell.

  Mary swallowed hard and suddenly felt nervous. “I’ll take the painting upstairs. We leave soon for Yonkers, Lulu. It’s not safe for us to stay much longer.” Mary checked her heart with her hand to be assured it hadn’t leapt from her body. It was pounding hard now.

  She climbed the steps to the second floor ever so slowly. A sensation ran from the very top of her head down to her toes. She expected a war meeting and loud, boisterous officers to be shouting orders at one another. Instead, only steady raindrops hitting the window made noise. The door to her study was partially open. She’d store the painting here. She walked in quickly.

  She nearly lost her breath. General George Washington was seated right there in front of her, alone at her desk near the window. His hair, now cinnamon mixed with salt, fell carelessly over his broad shoulders. She scanned down his loose ivory linen shirt; it was tucked into his breeches, fitting snugly. His calves looked like tree trunks relative to the chair’s slender wooden legs. Black shoes with gold buckles covered his large feet. Her eyes rose then to his sizable hands. It somehow felt so intimate, knowing her hands had been on the same wooden surface his now touched.

  His writing hand stopped. He calmly placed down the quill and raised his head from the paper.

  She got her mind to stay focused and willed away her desire. “You have taken on a Goliath.” She spoke quietly.

  Slowly, his face, with those familiar strong features, turned toward her. His eyes opened wide. He made no other move.

  “Have you lost your mind? A fight against an empire?” As the words came out of her mouth, she didn’t believe them herself. Only one man could defeat the British forces, and he was sitting right in front of her.

  He was silent.

  The pounding in her chest beat faster, in harmony with the drops outside the window, falling harder.

  His immense frame lifted from the chair—a tall, handsome-bodied, manly man.

  “All that is dear is at stake.” His voice was gentle and sincere as he spoke.

  A deep shooting pain in her core emerged; the ache that had been buried so long finally found the power to be felt.

  “The spirit of freedom beat too high in me. The British nation deprived us of the most sacred and invaluable privileges … justice … truth … And to execute their scheme…” He paused. A hint of hardness took over his tone. “Nothing else would satisfy a tyrant and his diabolical ministry.”

  “And you will single-handedly force the English from the continent?” Indignation emerged in her voice.

  His teeth clenched. She could tell from the muscles appearing at his jawline. He took a moment. She heard him exhale. Then he spoke. “Listen well to what I tell you and let it sink deep into your heart. We have punished the English and made them sorry for all the wicked things they had in their hearts to do. We have sworn to take vengeance on our enemies. We were determined to shake off all connections with a state so unjust, and unnatural.”

  She had to turn her face away from him. The two of them were standing feet apart, yet she could feel him as if he were pressed up against her.

  “There can be no doubt that success will crown our efforts, if we firmly and resolutely determine to conquer … or to die!” His voice was firm.

  Death, no, not death. Please. Not death, her mind yelled out. “To die?” Tears begged to be shed, but she turned them away. “To die?” She stared straight into him.

  “I’ll die on my feet before I’ll live on my knees! I am a warrior!”

  She recalled the daily prayers she said for him: Keep him alive. Angels, protect him. Don’t let the curse find its way to him. Save him from me. Here he was in the flesh before her. Strong. Alive. Should she run the other way? Should she run as fast as she could into his arms? Something inside begged her: Love out loud. Love with no fear. Love the love that is right in front of you.

  The storm intensified now, becoming furious. A rumble of thunder sounded.

  She could sense him analyzing her. The painting gave her a moment to think. She clumsily tried to keep it from
falling over, but she couldn’t seem to calm the quivering of her hands. The covering fell away. She steadied the portrait finally, leaning it against a wall. She could say nothing. She feared her face flushed crimson, for the heat rushed to her cheeks. To think how the years passed, and still she felt the same for him.

  George moved his gaze to the painting. He took his time with it. His eyelids lowered in a most romantic way. His mouth tilted into a half smile.

  What lay hidden in the shadows of her soul now surfaced. “At what cost?” Honesty poured out of her. “At what cost, not to you, but to me. I’ve spent my life pained that I lost your heart. I’ve hardly been able to bear it.” She could hold back her tears no longer. “Still now, decades later, I’m hardly able to bear it. Now you tell me that you are willing to give your life! And General Washington, I tell you, nothing else would satisfy ‘a tyrant and his diabolical ministry’ more than that.”

  He approached her, walking ever so slowly. “George.” His shirt buttons, two of them, were open at his neck. It could have been seconds, but each step felt like an eternity. With his fingers, he moved his long hair back, away from his face.

  “George.” She spoke in hushed tone, with her tears trailing. “For me, losing you entirely, that I could not endure.”

  He was a step away from her now. He reached over and moved a wet wave of hair to behind her shoulder, his hand touching her cheek as he did so. She caught a glimpse of his sun-burnished, exposed forearm. He smelled of soap mixed with brawn, perfectly combined. She recalled his words to her so long ago: “’Twas perfect love before, but how I do adore.” Had she said this aloud? She hoped it was not so.

  All she could see was him.

  All he could see was her.

  The woman who still appeared the belle of the North was before him. The woman who had fallen asleep in his arms those years ago. The shadows of age had not reached her. Her warm, sweet breath fanned the skin on his arm. The blush on her cheeks tugged at his heart. She still smelled the same: lavender. Her damp hair fell free. Her dark eyes shone love, true love, the same as before. The thoughts of Mary Eliza, and the desire for her, were never quenched.