Washington's Lady

by Moser, Nancy;

  There was heroism from many fronts. George wrote that the patriot governor of Virginia, Thomas Nelson, had a lovely home in Yorktown. General Knox, the head of our artillery, asked Governor Nelson where it was located within the city so we could avoid shelling it. The governor’s reply? “As the finest house in town, it will surely have been assumed as the British headquarters. Fire away and destroy it, if you please.”

  I unfolded today’s offering from the front. It was from George. I scanned it quickly, as I always did, wanting to save Eleanor and the children undue worry if things did not go well. But this time . . .

  “Mamma, please. You are practically grinning. What is the news?”

  “The letter is dated October 19 and reads, ‘I have enclosed a copy of a dispatch I have just sent to the president of Congress. Revel with me, dearest Martha, as we celebrate this great victory.’”

  “Victory?” Eleanor said.

  I noticed a second sheet and read it aloud:

  “Sir, I have the honour to inform Congress that a reduction of the British army under the command of Lord Cornwallis is most happily effected. The unremitting ardour which actuated every officer and soldier in the combined army in this occasion has principally led to this important event, at an earlier period than my most sanguine hope had induced me to expect.”

  “They won?” Eleanor asked. She hugged little Wash close.

  “It appears so.” I returned to George’s letter and read for her and the children.

  “I have just witnessed the surrender of eight thousand British troops. They filed through two lines: one of the smartly uniformed French soldiers, and one of our rather bedraggled American forces. The band played ‘The World Turned Upside Down.’ Very apropos.

  “Some of the king’s men were weeping. But our men did not gloat—though they had every right to do so. Before the parade, I rode up and down between the two lines and warned them to be gentlemen. I told them, ‘History will huzzah for us.’ To their credit, they abided by my wishes. The only cloud to the event was that Lord Cornwallis did not attend, claiming illness. He sent his second-in-command to hand over his sword. At first he attempted to give it to General Rochambeau, who refused to accept it, saying: ‘We are subordinates to the Americans. General Washington will give you your orders.’ But then, as he approached me—may all forgive me for this act of pride—I rejected the sword and had this British second-in-command surrender it to mine, General Benjamin Lincoln.

  “It is a great victory, Martha. Whether it mean the end of the war is not known. But its significance is great. I hope to be home soon to celebrate with all those I love.

  Yours always,

  George”

  I stood there, staring down at the letter. “It is over.”

  “Is it?” Eleanor asked. “Poppa said he is not certain.”

  “I am certain. I feel it.” I took a seat beside her, held her hand, and together we gave thanks.

  *****

  I stood in the kitchen and gave the servants instructions. “Scour the orchard for every apple you can. I wish to give George a plentitude of apple fritters and pies when he comes home. And peach tarts. And my Great Cake. And ham.”

  Addie laughed. “We have not had any ham since ’79, mistress.”

  She was right. My desire for a grand celebration had overridden fact. “Do what you can.”

  “When do you expect the men?” she asked.

  “I do not know for certain. But we must be read—”

  Eustis burst through the door. “Mistress! Another courier has come.”

  He handed me a letter. It was dated the twentieth of October.

  Dearest Martha and Eleanor,

  I am saddened to tell you Jack has been taken seriously ill with camp fever. He forced himself to remain at Yorktown to witness the surrender, but has since been removed to your family’s home in Eltham. He is much weakened, Martha, and I fear the worst. Go to him at once. I too am planning to come as soon as I am able.

  I am so sorry. So very sorry. My heart grieves.

  George

  “No!” I ran to the house, that one word accompanying me. Hounding me.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  Part III. The Course of Duty

  Sixteen

  My son was dying.

  Even as I stood in the doorway, peering in at him, I could not fathom it. Surely God would not take this last child of my womb.

  Surely He would.

  Although Eleanor, Betsy, and I had left Mount Vernon with the greatest of speed, it had still taken us two days to travel to my late sister Nancy’s home in Eltham, some twenty miles from Williamsburg. The home in which we had oft joyfully stayed was now a house of death.

  Eleanor had not left Jacky’s side since we had arrived, and I feared for her health and mental state. As for my son, his eyes—sunken and shadowed to look nothing like the vibrant boy we had sent to Yorktown just six weeks previous—were locked upon his wife, a tether of love connecting them even as the cruel spoiler loomed close. I had told Eleanor prayer would save our boy, and we had done our best to appeal to God for a miracle.

  He had not gotten better.

  Had God not heard us? What good could possibly come from taking this young man away from his family?

  As Jacky’s condition worsened in spite of my intent, my prayers turned bitter. Have you not taken enough men during this awful war? Must you take this one too? Have you not taken enough of my children, my family . . . must you take this one too?

  “Grandmamma? I came to tell you that—” Five-year-old Betsy tugged at my skirt.

  I gently shut the door and led her away from such a scene. Although she had been in to see her father, she had not recognized him, and my greatest wish—other than the miracle of complete recovery—was that she would remember her father as he had lived, not how he had died. “What is it, little one?”

  “Grandpapa is here. He just rode—”

  George! I hurried downstairs to find George removing his cloak and hat. I ran into his arms. “Oh, George. What are we to do?”

  He held me close but offered no words.

  There were none to offer.

  *****

  John Parke Custis, my dear boy Jacky, died at eight o’clock in the evening, on the fifth day of November, 1781, shortly after George arrived. That God had granted my husband’s presence upon this awful time was of some—but little—consolation. There is no consolation in a parent outliving a child.

  We buried Jacky the next day. As we walked away from the gravesite, with George offering his arm to me on one side and Eleanor on the other, my husband tried to fill the awful silence with consolation as best he could.

  “Jacky was not used to the awful conditions of camp life. The food was bad, the sanitation . . . there is disease on both sides from the death that invades a battlefield.”

  “I do not wish to hear it, George. I do not.” Death was death. I did not wish to hear excuses or even good reason.

  “I wish to hear it.” Eleanor looked up at her father-in-law. “I need to hear it all.”

  She surprised me. “Continue, then.”

  We turned out of the cemetery and walked toward the Bassett home. The November day was overcast, as if it too mourned a light gone out.

  “The sickness overtook him very quickly,” George said. “There was little could be done to stop it. And he knew, he knew he was dying. But on October 17, when Cornwallis asked for a cease-fire and a meeting regarding the terms of his surrender, Jacky—through sheer will—rallied. He was determined to be present for the final ceremony. He insisted on being put upon a horse so he could see it, but was too weak, and was moved to a nearby carriage. We must take comfort in knowing he witnessed our great victory.”

  “But why did you not send
word sooner?” I asked. “If he had been moved to Eltham sooner, then perhaps—”

  “I did not know he was ill,” George said. “Soldier friends of his told me later that he did not wish for me to know. He knew I was consumed with the battle and he did not want me distracted from the fight. The illness overtook him so suddenly, in mere days, and I was not told until he had been taken to Eltham and . . .”

  I leaned my head against his upper arm as we walked. “I know you loved him as much as I.”

  “I did. I would have given my life for that boy.” His voice was tight.

  “If only he had not insisted on going to war, he would still be with us. He would still—”

  “No!” Eleanor stopped walking, forcing us to halt with her. She turned toward us, her gaunt face flushed. “Although I did not wish to see him go, although I argued against it because I selfishly wanted him with me, I am glad he had a chance to be a part of the fight. He was not a soldier—we all knew that—but I also know he was as much a patriot as anyone, and our Cause was dear to his heart. That he gave his life working in e’en a small way toward the completion of that Cause makes me very proud.”

  The girl humbled me. I began to cry. As did she.

  George wrapped his mighty arms around us, and there we stood, in the cold, cold day, clinging to what we had and what we had lost.

  *****

  “You should go back to your troops,” I told George. “Now is a time of celebration, and by your own words, there is still much to do.”

  “No,” he said, not for the first time. “I will accompany you, Eleanor, and Betsy safely home.”

  “But—”

  He took my hands in his. “For years you left the comforts and safety of home to come to me each winter, offering me joy, support, and encouragement. You have shown yourself to be a superior wife in all ways. Now it is my turn to offer you support and encouragement. No, my dearest. Other generals can handle what is left at Yorktown. For now my place is with you.”

  I could only nod and gratefully accept his offer.

  *****

  I wish I could have declared the war ended, but it was not. Not officially. The British were still in control in New York and in the South. Until all agreed it was time to concede . . . until the last soldier was sent home, George could not abandon his post beside them. He was tied to his position as commander in chief.

  And I was tied to the position of being the wife of the commander in chief.

  And grandmother, and mother-in-law, and sister, and . . .

  Once again, I was torn. Eleanor was devastated by Jacky’s death and was overwhelmed by the needs of her four children as well as the business of their home and the lands of the Custis inheritance.

  What was left of it. For in spite of our advice, Jacky had misspent and mishandled much, leaving comparatively little. The practical side of me wondered if eventually he would have lost it all.

  Yet what was left needed managing. We asked my brother Bartholomew to help—and he agreed to handle the property issues. But he would not help with the children—claiming ill health. Or total fear. Four children beneath the age of six . . .’twas a daunting task for even the most able-bodied.

  How odd that Eleanor found herself in the same position I had been subjected to upon Daniel’s death. The similarities were eerie: we both had been widowed after seven years of marriage, both had four children, though I had already lost my two youngest, I had been twenty-six, and she, but twenty-three. And both were responsible for vast estates. The difference was a matter of health. Eleanor had never been afforded a chance to recover from one birth before becoming with child again. She was weak, where I had been strong.

  She was overwhelmed. We ached with the need to do something to help.

  And so . . . George and I offered to take responsibility for the two youngest children, Nelly, age two and a half, and Wash, just crawling. Eleanor was not happy about the arrangement but was relieved. She saw the wisdom in taking only the two oldest, who were more deeply attached to her. Wash was being wet-nursed by Mrs. Anderson at Mount Vernon, anyway . . .

  And I was getting a second chance at raising a boy and a girl. I thanked the Almighty for second chances.

  It was not just Eleanor and the children who needed my care. My sister’s daughter Fanny was nearly thirteen and motherless. I had promised Nancy I would care for her, but up to now, the situation had not presented itself. Then there was my sister Elizabeth, who had been widowed in 1776 and left with two sons—one born but ten days after his father’s death. Both sons died of the fevers, hurling her into deep pain. She remarried in 1779 and had a daughter—another Fanny—but I worried for Elizabeth for reasons of her own. Her new husband drank, and I feared his physicality when in that condition.

  George’s sister, Betty, now widowed from Fielding and in charge of their many children, often visited—though we approved of her plans to gain income by starting a school for girls in their home. Then there were the orphaned children of George’s ne’er-do-well brother, Samuel. He had married five times and had died, leaving his fifth wife without funds, a new baby, and three boys and a little girl by previous marriages. George was the only brother who could help keep the children out of foster homes, or even sold into bondage. Jack Washington had too many children of his own, and Charles the youngest Washington brother—drank to drunkenness.

  And George’s mother . . . his mother who never saw the good in anything her son accomplished, and complained to all who would listen about how she needed money. She even appealed to the Virginia legislature for a bill of assistance! We assisted her plenty and she wanted for nothing, but appreciated less. Neither George’s great victory at Yorktown nor the loss of Jacky elicited a comment within her letters. I believe it would have killed that woman to say something nice, to tell her son, “Well done, George.” May God forgive me, but as long as she was provided for, I was quite willing to let her stew in her bitterness away from me. That she developed a cancer in her chest . . . could bitterness cause illness?

  Everyone needed something from us, and we truly wished to accommodate them all. But it was impossible.

  I sat in the dining room, organizing the family letters about me, trying to find a way to satisfy each request. I set a blank page before me, ready to make a list of who should come stay with us, who could be looked after elsewhere, and who—

  George entered the room, a letter in hand. “We need to leave, Martha. Congress wishes to meet with me in Philadelphia, and then we must travel on to winter camp in Newburgh, New York, and—”

  We? No.

  I could not do it. Not again.

  I gathered the letters in my hands and waved them in front of him—setting the many against his one. “I have my own congress, my own army who needs me here, George. Nancy’s children, Betty’s, Samuel’s, Elizabeth, and her girls . . . not to mention Eleanor and our grandchildren.”

  He looked at me blankly—which infuriated me.

  “Do you not remember we agreed to take Nelly and Wash as our own? Financially and physic—”

  “Of course, but—”

  “In the past few years everyone in our family has suffered loss. Their loss is our loss, and if we can help them, then we must help them. It is our duty.”

  My last statement seemed to cause him to stand more erect. “Duty is what I am trying to fulfill, Martha. I need to finish what I—what we—started.” His face softened and he came close, placing a hand upon my shoulder. “I have already sent word we are coming, dearest. The men will be sorely disappointed if I come back alone.”

  George knew my weak spot. The soldiers.

  He cupped my chin. “It will all be over soon. I promise. And once it is, we will return here together and help all who require our attention.”

  I looked down at the letters. Our family would always need us.
The need of our country was finite and would end soon.

  “All right,” I said. “I will leave Mount Vernon this one last time.”

  *****

  Winter camp was not the same. Our military sons had dispersed. Lafayette had gone back to France, Hamilton traveled to New York where he planned to run for Congress, and Laurens joined the fight in the South with General Greene near Charleston. We missed them, but took solace in the fact that, unlike Jacky, they were still alive.

  For a short while. Our hearts were further broken when we heard Laurens was killed by a British party foraging for food. I had been certain if death had found him during the war, it would have been related to his recklessness and absence of fear, not this meaningless chance meeting in the woods. We added his death to our list of griefs.

  In spite of my desire to help family who needed help, leaving Mount Vernon was for the best. To wander the halls with the ghosts of dead children . . . it was not healthy. And though I never understood why God took any of them, I became reconciled to the verity that God was God and I was not, and He was not required to explain His mysterious ways. For even in the midst of many sorrows, both personal and communal, I had also been witness to many miracles. Did I have a right to question Providence about the bad while accepting the good as deserved and appropriate? As His child, I was as a slave. I had no rights, no say, and no control. And as the Almighty was the master of all things, I had to trust Him in all things. Not an easy task, but one both George and I strived to attain.

  The largest miracle was our victory. In hindsight, there was no logic in our success. Everything—every thing—was against us. We were a gaggle of rebels with a notion things could be different. Better. That we chose to fight to achieve those changes—against the most powerful nation in the world, a nation that held the most powerful army and navy—belied common sense.