The United States were bankrupt.
And waiting for it all to end.
It seemed General Clinton, sitting with his British troops in New York City, was in no hurry to press the matter. Yet we heard of battles in North and South Carolina. And Savannah, Georgia, lost in ’78, was still in British hands. George could not leave to pursue such battles. George could not leave at all, for six of his eleven generals were unavailable, being ill or having returned to their homes on furlough.
When was my husband’s furlough? When did he have time to be sick? To be well? When did he have time to spend the day in recreation or relaxation or (dare I say it?) idleness?
Although he could not go home, George and I spoke of Mount Vernon often, and I know his letters to Lund were replete with suggestions for horses, lambs, crops, and repairs. Our hearts were always there . . . Although George had begun his time away at war by supplying Lund with weekly letters full of instructions, as the war progressed, his time to write the letters, and the ability to get the letters delivered, lessened. Lund was being forced to fend for himself. Last we heard, due to the fact the largest buyer of our grain crops—England—was obviously not available for our commerce, and our currency was now worth one fortieth its previous worth, Lund had let many fields lie fallow. He produced only what was needed to sustain Mount Vernon itself. George and I grieved we were forced to neglect our private concerns which were declining every day and would possibly end in capital losses, if not absolute ruin, before we were at liberty to look after them.
In actuality, I worried about George. This second stay at Morristown nearly broke him. He became morose and despondent, and in the middle of the night, in each other’s arms, he confided his greatest fears. “The entire nation seems to rest upon my shoulders, Martha. It is as though we wait only for the end.”
“I know, my dear. But things have looked glum before.”
I felt him shake his head. “Our prospects are infinitely worse than they have been at any period of the war. Unless some expedient can be instantly adopted, a dissolution of the army for want of subsistence is unavoidable. And with the army, so goes the hopes of a nation.”
I had no words to comfort him. No one did. He was indeed alone against the world, and all I could do was hold him close and let him know I was there. I would always be there.
As would the Almighty. We prayed with great fervency that winter. I sometimes imagined the prayers of the men and women at Morristown, rising from their huddled sources through the frigid gray air toward heaven like tendrils of smoke drifting upon the wind. My largest prayer was that these tendrils reached the ears of our God, and that He would be merciful and release us from our suffering.
And yet, forcing ourselves to look toward something positive beyond ourselves, our soldiers were gaining new respect. I heard a quote from a Hessian soldier who had fought against us: “I now see what ‘enthusiasm’—what these ragged fellows call ‘liberty’—can do. Out of this rabble rises a people who defy kings.”
Defy logic. Defy common sense.
But we would not give up. The bridges of our country were burned. There was only one way—forward.
To victory?
We could not allow any other result.
*****
I was awakened by the sounds of the alarm bell and the shouts of men. In a single motion George threw off the covers and pulled on his breeches and boots.
Sounds of men’s footfalls upon the stairs broke through the night.
Not again.
George was just putting on his coat when the men rushed into our bedroom.
“Pardon us, General. Mrs. Washington.”
Their apology was not needed. I snuggled into the bed and pulled the covers high in modesty and against the cold, which would presently increase.
Two soldiers whipped open the windows in our bedroom and aimed their muskets out into the dark, protecting us from the enemy.
I heard commotion in the other rooms as all windows were covered by these elite Life Guards, whose entire order was to protect headquarters. Each of the men, handpicked for the duty, stood over six feet in height.
These guards were necessary because the Ford house was situated a few miles from the main camp, with British outposts separating us. Mrs. Ford and I often agreed we did not mind the late night intrusions for safety’s sake.
“There! By the tree!”
Shots rang out, I made myself as small as possible and comforted myself with the thought all this would be over.
Someday.
*****
Although the capriciousness of weather caused me fits, and though I was discouraged at the impossibility of predicting its nature, I took solace in knowing God provided four seasons, and we could depend on them to eventually pass one to the next in line. Winter was always followed by spring. Eventually. Finally.
After suffering through twenty-six storms, many of them true blizzards, spring arrived, as it always did—praise God! The temperatures rose, the rivers thawed, and fish could be caught and served. Plants began to grow with the promise of berries, fruit, and other produce.
Yet with the thaw came the mud. Oozing mud that made one remember with fickle affection the pure facade of the snow.
But enough of that, for nothing could muddy the joy we received on the tenth of May, 1780. For upon that day, our dear boy, the Marquis de Lafayette, once again returned to us from France. He had heralded his coming with a letter, promising good news.
He did not disappoint.
The entire camp anticipated his arrival, for he had spent the past months in his homeland, lobbying for expedient support—for though France had agreed to help us, no help had come. The jubilant tone of his letter suggested he had been successful. How successful, we would soon see.
We had to laugh at the way in which he descended upon our house and headquarters. Dressed in fine regalia, as was his style, he was accompanied by a band of cheering officers and soldiers.
George and I met him on the front stoop. Young Hamilton, exuberant for his personal gain at the return of his friend, as well as for the national benefits, ran forward first. “He is back! Do you see? He has returned!”
“I do see, Alexander,” I said. “And your joy is ours.” I looked over to George and saw his eyes were transfixed upon the coming crowd. There were tears in his eyes as he spotted our dear marquis, waving his hat at us, his face aglow with shared anticipation. This truly was the return of a son.
Lafayette’s band stopped in front of the house and he dismounted with a singular ease. He strode up the walk, his eyes upon only one man.
The man, first in the hearts of so many.
My George.
They embraced and, with lips to each other’s ears, exchanged private greetings. Then it was my turn. He took my hands in his, kissed them with aplomb, then kissed first one cheek, then the other. “Madame, my heart cannot tell you its joy.”
“There is no need, my boy. For its joy is ours.”
We retreated inside, and after many exuberant greetings by the officers and aides, were finally allowed time alone in George’s office.
In this place, where privacy was as dear as any provision, I shut the door, allowing us small time to ourselves.
“Well then,” I said to our marquis. “Before we hear news of country, I must hear about your family. Is your new son doing well? Your wife? What a glorious Christmas present he must have been to you.”
“I am most pleased to report that George Washington Lafayette is magnifique and basks in the knowledge he is your godson.”
I laughed. “My greatest happiness is derived from the bevy of godsons named George Washington and goddaughters named for me. Did you know Patrick Henry and our own general Greene have such children?”
He joined in my laughter. “After
the war, the Washington namesakes must come together and have a grand celebration.”
“We are so very honoured,” George said. “And your wife?”
A mischievous grin took hold of his face. “She is well, and is still very much infatuated with you, my general. That is why I keep her in France, for if the two of you were ever to meet . . .” He looked at me. “You and I would be forced to find other consorts.”
“That is why I keep George here, my boy. If he were ever to visit your family in France—”
“I have invited him often, but he refuses.”
George nodded. “I am too old for such travels, and my ignorance of your language . . . I would not wish to rely on the knowledge of others, and I am too old to learn.”
“Too old? Nonsense,” Lafayette said. “You are but . . . forty-five?”
“Eight,” George said. “Forty-eight. And often seventy in feeling.”
Lafayette’s expression turned pensive, yet still held a degree of gaiety. “Perhaps the other news—of country—will make you feel yourself again?”
George’s eyes lit up. “Please.”
Lafayette sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped upon the edge of the table George used as a desk. “I am most happy to inform you that after meeting with the king at Versailles, he has agreed to send . . .” With a smile he looked at me, then back at George and said, “Six thousand French troops, supplies enough for fifteen thousand American troops, and a fleet of French battleships to put those British Regulars to the test as they dare harass American ports.”
George sat back in his chair, his mouth agape. “Oh, my dear boy . . .”
Lafayette sat erect and pointed a finger upwards. “Together we shall, by God, conquer these troops who dare to oppress your freedom.”
As handshakes and embraces were exchanged, I noticed the marquis was correct. George did indeed look his old self again.
Hope will do that.
*****
In June I returned to Mount Vernon—what was left of it. Oh, we had the land, the constant, blessed land, but the potential it had once shown was forced into dormancy while the war raged on. It appeared exhausted.
As was I.
This time, upon returning from winter camp, I did not spring back to life as quickly. A weariness pressed upon me, as though I wore a heavy blanket upon a hot day.
And it was hot. The heat was so invasive the sky could no longer hold its blue but gave it up to a washed-out version of itself.
Which mirrored my own condition.
Jacky and Eleanor came to stay awhile, as Eleanor was once again in the midst of a difficult pregnancy. Each morning Jacky tried to cheer me by reminding me I had received word Marie Antoinette—the empress of all France—was sending me a “valuable present” as a token of affection for my contribution to the Cause. “Do you think it will come today, Mamma?”
I attempted to play along and oft said, “Surely today.”
Little Betsy and Patty played guessing games as to what it was.
I was most happy for what it stood for—our alliance with France. That did bring me joy. As did the news that helping our Cause had become a point of patriotism and fashion in France. Benjamin Franklin, doing his best in French circles, was apparently quite the celebrity, and his fur cap—considered the quintessence of wild America—was oft copied by French men of fashion.
When news came that the ship which carried my gift from the empress had been sunk by the British off the New York harbour, Jacky grieved more than I.
Although I would have liked to have known what it was . . .
*****
One morning, before dawn, began a day that added to my melancholy.
I was awakened by a scream.
I sat erect and listened again.
“Aaahhhhhh!”
“Eleanor!”
I grabbed my dressing gown, descended our private stairway, and ran up the front stairs and into the blue bedroom they used when in residence, a room that shared a wall with mine. I was greeted by my son, his face pulled with fear.
And fresh screams.
I hurried to the bedside and took Eleanor’s hand, holding it to my breast. “I am here, dear girl.”
She opened her eyes but a slit, and in them I saw a fear that was far keener than the fear I had seen in my son’s countenance. As a mother she knew, she knew . . .
I turned to Jacky. “Has Dr. Rumney been sent for?”
“Hours ago.”
“This has been going on for hours? Why did you not call me?”
Why did I not hear sooner?
“You have been so tired. Eleanor did not want to disturb you until—”
I looked at my dear daughter-in-law. “You did not disturb. I am here. For you. Always.” I nodded to a maid who had poked her head in. “Fresh water in a basin, please.”
Eleanor’s neck stretched taut and she bent her legs as another pain took her prisoner. “Argghhghhh!”
God, please get Dr. Rumney here in time!
*****
Twin girls.
Twin girls born.
And died.
Why, Lord? Why?
*****
In my grief and weariness I had to keep busy or retreat to a place within myself where nothing good could live. I had to think of those who suffered even more than I.
And so my thoughts returned to the soldiers, always to the soldiers whose sacrifice made all other miseries dim. Although it was but autumn, the months would fly by, and once again I would travel north to George, to join him and the troops in winter camp.
Unless of course, victory was ours before that time.
I planned for the journey.
As with my other journeys, I would not go empty-handed. And this time, knowing from hard experience clothing was much needed, I decided to plan ahead for the need. Although the sewing circles of our winter camps were useful, they were limited. I had to get other women, in other colonies, involved.
I contacted female acquaintances in Philadelphia and Virginia and initiated a relief fund for the poorest soldiers, to help their families as they did duty for God and country. Esther Reed, the wife of the governor of Pennsylvania, was of great help. She and other ladies went door to door asking for money. Some loyalists became so annoyed by their insistence, they gave money just to be rid of them. Esther and the others were very aggressive and nailed signs all over the city, advertising the drive. I saw one, which said: “Our ambition is kindled by the fame of those heroines of antiquity, who have rendered their sex illustrious, and have proved to the universe that if opinion and manners did not forbid us to march to glory by the same paths as the men, we should at least equal, and sometimes surpass them in our love for the public good.”
I admired such tenacity and the fact the women went further than collecting money, by purchasing linen and making the shirts themselves. I gave six thousand pounds toward the effort, and our own Lafayette made a contribution in his wife’s name. Some other Frenchwomen gave offerings, and many women, compelled by such generosity, sold their jewelry in order to give. A total of ninety thousand pounds was earned. Esther insisted on sending it to me instead of George or any other male in charge. It was not that they did not trust them, but . . . they wanted to make certain the money was used for clothing. “And we want you to be our heroine, dear Martha. You take the glory for all of us.”
I did not wish for the glory, but was humbled by their trust and effort.
On this morning, I sat in the back parlour, needle in hand. I had my best sewers there—both Negros and other servants. If only I could get Eleanor to join us. She was so despondent over the loss of her babies she rarely walked a step farther than she needed, or lifted a hand but to place it upon her heart or cover a quiver of her lip. The three
girls always approached with wariness, their eyes searching their mother’s countenance for any indication she was open to their presence.
I was just tying off the thread after embroidering my name in a finished shirt—a tradition started during the drive so the soldier wearing it would know we were with him in spirit. When I looked up I found Eleanor in the doorway of the parlour. “Come in, dearest. Come join us. Your stitches have always been so capable. We can use the help. Too soon it will be November and I will be leaving for the North.”
She smiled, which was such a shocking gesture I was not certain she had heard a thing I had said. “Eleanor? What is it?”
She put a hand upon her abdomen, and with a gasp, I knew what she was going to say. I found my head shaking no, even as she formed the words I was nervous to hear.
“I am with child again.”
Every woman in the room, Negro, servant, and white, looked to one another with a trepidation tinged with joy, wariness, and fear.
Eleanor noticed. “Did you not hear me? I said I am with child—”
“Again,” I said. I let the word hang as a pure fact, neither good nor bad. I forced a smile and rose to embrace her. While I had her frail frame in my arms, I mentally chided my son. I knew a woman’s duty to her husband. I knew that duty was not a chore when a couple loved one another as Jacky and Eleanor loved, but Eleanor had scarcely recovered from the birth of her twins . . . . Pregnancy never came easily for her, much less when she was in such a weakened state. I too had given birth to four children in quick succession—within five years.
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