Yet as a member of Virginia society, I knew that book learning was only part of the knowledge required. Music held a vast place in every family’s life, and ours was no different. Although George could not carry a tune and had never learned to play an instrument, he was adamant the children received a proper musical upbringing.
This was accomplished in many ways. Firstly, we employed the services of a traveling musician, Mr. Christian, who visited Mount Vernon and the homes of our neighbours three or four days a month.
He taught our children to dance, and Mr. Stedlar (a German who lauded himself as a “musick professor”) joined in to teach the children to sing and play instruments. So successful were these sessions that neighbour children were added to the group, culminating in evening dances where the adults joined in. I always enjoyed these times. They were the highlight of every month. Although dance was not my passion, it was George’s, and he took full advantage of each occasion. He was much appreciated by all the ladies.
George supported these efforts and even ordered Patsy a flute and a spinet from London. For Jacky he ordered a violin, but knowing the instrument maker would send their worst violin once they knew it was coming to the Americas, George wisely asked our factor, Mr. Cary, to imply it was an instrument for him. There were ways to work within the system, flawed though it was.
I was very involved in the vocal aspect of their education, having received a wonderful book of English songs called The Bull Finch. The first time George ever wrote my married name was when he inscribed it to me the first year we were married. Mr. Stedlar had been of assistance helping us determine which melodies went with the words. Oh, if only the books would supply more than the lyrics!
One evening I sang a new song I had learned called “Gifts.” I sang it for George because it imbued his philosophy of life—and more. I stood by the spinet and cast my eyes right upon him. Then I sang . . .
Give a man a horse he can ride,
Give a man a boat he can sail;
And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.
“Give a man a pipe he can smoke,
Give a man a book he can read:
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.
“Give a man a girl he can love,
As I, O my love, love thee;
And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate,
At home, on land, on sea.
I received applause, and capped the moment by moving to my husband’s side and kissing his cheek. I whispered, “‘As I, O my love, love thee . . . .’”
He blushed.
I so enjoyed the power of music.
*****
The years passed.
’Tis such a relentless statement, yet true. Our life at Mount Vernon became a journey upon a familiar road. We grew to know the ruts and curves, yet were occasionally surprised—but still managed—the detours, delays, and trees fallen in our way.
Having barely known each other before marriage, George and I came to close acquaintance. One might think this was a given after years of marriage, as inevitable as fire creating ash, or an apple tree apples, but I knew from speaking with other women friends that it was not necessarily so. Two souls must desire close bonding for them to be bound. We had the desire. The procurement of the end result . . . ?
As expected, there were adjustments to be made—some willingly, and others with more reluctance.
I heard one of George’s friends state that George was a master of himself. This was true.
Too true.
George had a temper. Only rarely did I witness its fury. The time in question came after a worker had been caught stealing—not from us, but from another worker. To worsen his situation the man lied about it. I watched from a distance, but I could still hear my husband’s shouts of anger. And then, when the man had the audacity to shrug, George jumped from his horse and took him by a wad of his shirt and nearly lifted him off the ground.
I could not hear the words said with face nearly touching face, but when George let go, the man stumbled and ran away. Obviously, enough had been said to eradicate any chance of another shrug—or act of theft and deceit.
At the time, I had not realized Jacky was in close proximity, but upon seeing the man run away, he came close to me and said, “Poppa will not get that angry at us, will he?”
I could honestly say, “Never” but did use the moment to say, “Lying and indifference are as unconscionable as stealing, young man. You must strive to be a man of honour, to do your poppa and me proud at all times.”
Jacky nodded fervently.
My husband’s anger didn’t bother me. Nor did his penchant for wanting things done in his time, in his way. He seemed to know what everyone was doing. One time he became convinced his workers could get more lumber each day from the trees they felled. They had the audacity to disagree. So George spent an entire day observing their work (with watch in hand) and found they could produce five more feet of lumber a day. A four percent increase. That they did so in the imposing presence of the master of the plantation did not surprise me.
Although he was the master to others, it did not take George long to realize I did not react well to barked orders. Only once did I have to remind him, “I am not one of your soldiers, George.” His apology had been profuse and the offense was not repeated.
No, I was not bothered by his strong nature; in fact, I was heartened by the depth of emotion it represented. My husband was a man of distinct virtues, and expected the same virtues from others. If he had a tendency to be relentless in the pursuit of the goals he set for himself (and for others), if he oft showed a critical nature, I knew it was due to the high standards to which he held everyone—of the foremost himself. Most plantation wives complained of their husbands not helping enough. With George, he oft helped too much—he needed to have a hand in everything.
Yet if I had any real complaint regarding his nature it would be the distance which seemed ever present. Although I knew life touched him deeply—both the good and the bad—it could not often be witnessed through his bearing and countenance. I knew that many thought him cold and aloof. Impassive. At first even I thought he owned those traits. But as the years passed, I grew to see that this barrier to emotion was one that was carefully placed and maintained, partly to benefit the witness and partly to benefit George himself. ’Twas as though a fire burned within him that he dared not fuel through any cleft or fissure in character lest it consume himself and all others in his path.
I respected this control, and yet . . .
One evening, when I knew he had experienced a foul day, he sat by the fire, staring into it. He could have been a statue for the lack of movement in his bearing. Only by the twitching of the small muscles that lined his neck and jaw could I see the battle he fought within.
After watching him as long as I could bear, I knelt beside his chair and put my hand upon his. “Tell me what happened today. I heard there was a fire at the Muddy Hole Farm.”
Fires were never welcomed, of course, but I had heard all was under control. The damage to the outbuildings was not too great.
“Is it something else?” I asked. “Was there something else that disturbed your work today?”
He did not even look at me but continued to grace the fire with his attention.
“Please, George. Tell me what bothers you so.”
He swallowed, but with difficulty. He was holding something back.
I tried another tack. If imploring words would not incite him to share his concerns . . . I stood and said, “I am your wife. I work as hard as any man on this plantation to make it what we want it to be. If you choose not to share with me the situations and conditions that affect us all, then—”
“M
y brother has died.”
“Who? Which . . . ?”
“Austin. He died of tuberculosis.” For the first time, he looked directly at me. “He was only forty-two. My other brother, Lawrence, died of the same disease at thirty-four. My father, at only forty-nine.”
And George had just turned thirty . . .
“I often have coughs and breathing ailments,” he said. “They dog me. Are they my destiny? Will they be the death . . . ?”
He did not finish the sentence. I knelt beside him again. “There is nothing to say you will die as they have. You take great pains to keep yourself healthy. And you are not alone. I am here to watch over you, and I will not let anything happen to you. By God I will not.”
The faintest of smiles came—and went, as despair and fear returned. I watched his face struggle to contain them.
I put a hand on the back of his head. “George. You do not need to hold your worries inside.”
“I do.”
“No, you do not. Not with me.”
With his nod of reluctant agreement, he allowed me to take him into my arms, where I made every attempt to make all things right.
Seven
A visit to my family back in Chestnut Grove was a special treat.
My brothers William and Bartholomew came to visit with their families, and I took great pleasure in spending time with my sisters Elizabeth, Nancy, and her dear husband, Burwell, and my littlest sister, Mary.
George could not take time to accompany me, but as a treat for Mary, I brought Patsy along as a playmate. The two little girls, both nearly eight, gave us many joyful moments.
I left Jacky behind at Mount Vernon. George had suggested it be so, had actually suggested I might enjoy my family visit more without the burden of my children. I could not do such a thing in good conscience and was going to bring them both, until Jacky was so naughty that the very thought of having him with me brought with it a measure of exhaustion that seemed beyond my ken.
Mother asked me about his absence. “He must have done something extremely bad,” she said at dinner the first evening of my visit.
“He is a good boy. Generally,” I hedged.
“He is a boy,” Nancy said. “And as such needs a firm hand. I imagine George provides just what he needs.”
He would like to. I could not tell them of my inability to let my husband father the children in full. It was an unexplainable compunction on my part, and one that did not make me proud. “I try to keep the children close by. There is so much upon a plantation which can harm, and . . .” I took the moment to turn around to find little Pat.
“She is fine. She is with Mary and the nanny,” Mother said. She gave me an admonishing look. “You must relax, my dear. The children will be fine.”
“The children may not be fine. You have not lost—” I stopped the words I had oft used against George. In the present case they did not suit, for my mother had also lost two children. And a husband.
“My children were lost when they had grown past the early years of childhood. John was seventeen and Fanny but thirteen,” she said.
“This is supposed to comfort me?”
“This is supposed to remind you that death is not prejudiced against the very young. It comes when it chooses.”
“That is why—”
She held up a finger. “That is why you cannot spend time worrying beyond a normal degree. Too much worry skews happiness, Martha. You must be happy when it is time to be happy, and leave sadness and fear for the time of sadness and fear.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and quoted a verse: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
I nodded. I knew how things should be, yet seemed unable to do what I should do.
“Enough admonition—for the moment,” Mother said. “Tell us what Jacky did that has kept him at Mount Vernon without his dear mamma.”
I was more than willing to set my own indiscretions aside toward the naming of my son’s. “George has purchased a fishing schooner to sail the Potomac and into the Chesapeake. If good catches continue, he says we shall take one million fish from the tidewater this year.”
Nancy shook her head, incredulous. “Surely not one million?”
“Surely it is so,” I said. “The very number boggles my mind e’en as it pleases me. For one million fish means fish that need to be cleaned and salted and sealed in barrels to be sold in the colonies and West Indies. George says there is great profit in it, and I believe him. And this is not accounting the profit of serving fish to the people at Mount Vernon with great regularity.”
“Your George is very industrious,” Elizabeth said.
“Beyond measure,” I said.
“So,” Mother continued. “What did our little Jacky do?”
“He was down at the dock with George and the overseer, watching the crew bring in a good portion of the catch.”
“He did not fall in, did he?” Nancy asked.
“No, no. But he did dive into the river. To swim.”
There was a moment of silence. “Had he not swum there before? I seem to remember you saying—”
“Yes, yes, he swims in the Potomac all the time, with the children of the slaves, and his neighbour friends.”
“Then what was the problem?” Mother asked.
I could not attest to my problem and focused on my son’s. “He and the boys were being exuberant and . . . and he nearly drowned.”
Nancy put a hand to her chest. “Oh, Martha, no! Not like—”
Perhaps they would understand. “Our brother John, yes. If John drowned in the lowly Pamunkey River when he was seventeen, with the strength and constitution of a man, then how can I not worry about a nine-year-old, with a reckless manner and no thought to danger or common sense or—”
“I am surprised you are here, then,” Mother said. “If Jacky nearly drowned . . .”
Oh dear. I had taken the story in a direction that was not completely forthcoming.
Elizabeth stood. “You must go home, Martha. As much as I relish our time together, if poor Jacky—”
I felt Mother watching me, and she was the one to halt Elizabeth’s discourse with a hand. “Jacky did not nearly drown, did he?”
She knew me too well, read me like the page of a book. “Well, no. Though I do hate the rough play, he is quite a strong swimmer and George says I worry too much and that boys need to be allowed to be boys and—”
“He did something naughty.” Mother said it as a statement. For beyond knowing me, she also knew her grandson.
I could avoid it no longer. “After swimming, he ended up falling into . . . a crate of flopping fish.”
The ladies round me were silent. I was not sure if it was for shock or—
Nancy began to laugh. Then Mother. Then Elizabeth.
“’Twas not funny,” I said. “The more he wiggled to get out, the deeper he went, until he was thoroughly covered with the smell and slime.”
Mother covered her mouth with her hand. “He did not make good company for quite the time, I suspect.”
“George had brought him down on horseback, but made him walk beside all the way to the house. Poor little—”
“Poor nothing. I am certain he was warned time and again to stay back.”
Although I did not nod, I knew it was true.
“So he has been left behind as punishment,” Nancy said.
“Well . . . actually . . .”
“You did punish him, Martha, didn’t you?” Mother asked.
I did not. “George made him get cleaned up all by himself and wanted to make him was
h his own clothes. I put a stop to that, as I thought the walk back home was punishment en—”
She shook her head. “You are too lenient. A boy of Jacky’s age needs a firm hand or he will become a wild boy.”
“My hand is plenty firm,” I said.
“I do not see it,” Mother said. She quoted me, “‘Poor little Jacky’ indeed.”
“So if you did not leave him behind as punishment, why is he not here?” Nancy asked.
The truth would not help my cause. “He wished to stay behind. With George.”
“With the one who punished him.” Mother nodded with far too much pleasure. “’Tis interesting.”
To my luck Patsy wailed from the next room. “If you will excuse me.
*****
Dogs barking.
I snapped awake and sat erect in bed. It took me but a moment to remember I was at Chestnut Grove.
Away from home.
Away from George and Jacky.
It was still dark, but the dog . . . was a visitor coming with a message announcing horrible news that Jacky was ill or hurt in some accident?
The dog persisted. Old Joe didn’t bark without reason.
I hurried to the window and peered into the darkness, looking for a horseman.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a deer running through the clearing toward the woods. The hound ran after it and both disappeared amid the trees.
The yard was silent but for the swish of the breeze through the branches.
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