Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “While I repeat my obligations to the Army in general, I should do injustice to my own feelings not to acknowledge in this place the peculiar Services and distinguished merits of the Gentlemen who have been attached to my person during the War. It was impossible the choice of confidential Officers to compose my family should have been more fortunate. Permit me, Sir, to recommend in particular those, who have continued in Service to the present moment, as worthy of the favorable notice and patronage of Congress.

  “I consider it an indispensable duty to close this solemn act of my Official life, by commending the Interests of our dearest Country to protection of Almighty God, and those who have the superintendence of them, to his holy keeping.

  “Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of action; and bidding an Affectionate farewell to this August body under whose orders I have so long acted, I here offer my commission and take my leave of all the employments of public life.”

  At that moment a sensation of awe settled over the entire assembly. In their hearts they knew. Never again would they be in the presence of a man who had the world at his feet for the asking, but who was above the human need to seize it. In the darkest hours of the eight years now ended, when the urgent needs of the battlefield demanded that Washington assume control of the Continental Army without interference of an awkward, cumbersome Congress, this man had never wavered. The free and independent nation he envisioned had to be—had to be—governed by the voice of the people through their elected representatives. No one, including Congress itself, could remember the countless times Washington had deferred his own views, his own needs, his own fears, demanding that ultimate control of himself, and his army, rested with the people, not with him. How many governments in Europe had been surrendered into the hands of the military, only to discover too late that such power in the hands of warriors invariably led to the same result—disaster? It was the hallmark of the history of the world. The people knew, and they peered at Washington through their tears, and they were humbled.

  Washington drew his commission from his tunic pocket, folded the copy of his very brief address, stepped forward, handed the two papers to Mifflin, nodded, stepped back, and remained on his feet facing Mifflin, waiting.

  Mifflin stood, and from his desk raised a sheet of paper on which was written a brief acceptance speech. When he could control his feelings, Mifflin read in a voice cracking with emotion.

  “Called upon by your country to defend its invaded rights, you accepted the sacred charge before it had formed alliances and while it was without funds or a government to support you. You have conducted the great military contest with wisdom and fortitude, invariably regarding the rights of the civil power, through all the disasters and changes. You have, by the love and confidence of your fellow citizens, enabled them to display their martial genius and transmit their fame to posterity. You have persevered until these United States have been enabled, under a just Providence, to close the war in freedom, safety, and independence . . . but the glory of your virtues will not terminate with your military command. It will continue to animate remote ages. . . . And for you, we address to Him our earnest prayers that a life so beloved may be fostered with all His care; that your days may be happy, as they have been illustrious, and that He will finally give you that reward which this world will not give.”

  For a brief moment the hall was gripped in silence. Then Mifflin laid his paper down, and an audible sigh filled the room. Eyes brimming, Charles Thomson approached Washington to hand him a copy of Mifflin’s acceptance speech and shake his hand warmly. Washington nodded to his old friend, then turned to Mifflin and bowed once more, then turned first to his right, and then his left, bowing finally to the delegates in Congress. He turned, and with his aides, walked from the chamber.

  Immediately Mifflin adjourned the business of the day and dismissed the spectators. When the only persons remaining were the delegates themselves, Washington reentered the hall and personally visited the desk of each man to shake his hand and express gratitude for his services. Few could hold back the tears. No man present anticipated ever again feeling such a surge in his heart as they watched this tall, erect man walk from their chamber and close the door.

  Washington made his way through the quiet, waiting throng to his carriage with one vision in his mind: his Martha, and his home, Mt. Vernon. It welled up in his chest and filled every fiber of his being with anticipation and longing. The feel of her arms about him. Her gentle touch, and the love in her eyes. The excited chatter of her grandchildren through her son, Jack Custis, who had become as his own. And the sight of the house, square, solid, amid the outbuildings and orchards and rolling hills. Home. Hearth. Family. The world offered nothing of higher value.

  The carriage tilted as the big man stepped in and took his place. An aide firmly closed the door and nodded up to the driver. The whip popped above the matched horses, and the coach moved through the cobblestone streets.

  Citizen George Washington, Esquire, was going home.

  Notes

  The visit to Annapolis where Congress was sitting, and the resignation of his commission by George Washington as commander in chief of the American Continental Army, at noon on December 23, 1783, as herein described is historically accurate, including Washington’s yearning to be home with his wife and family (Freeman, Washington, pp. 508–10).

  The brief address given by Washington to Congress when he resigned his commission is quoted verbatim, since this author felt it to be one of the great documents to come from that time period. The spelling and punctuation are preserved as they appeared in the original document composed by George Washington (Fitzpatrick, The Writings of George Washington, pp. 284–85).

  The acceptance speech given by Thomas Mifflin, then president of Congress, is quoted verbatim herein, in nearly full context (Bowers, The Young Jefferson, p. 320).

  Boston

  December 27, 1783

  CHAPTER XXI

  * * *

  Dorothy Weems rinsed the last bowl from the midday dishes, handed it to Trudy to dry, and was wiping her hands on her apron as she walked to the archway to thoughtfully watch Billy. He was seated at the dining table with business papers in two stacks, head bowed, studying a four-page summary of the last fifteen months of business done by Covington and Sons shipping firm. He shifted, raised his head to stare at the front door expectantly, then resumed his intense concentration, shaking his head from time to time at the unmistakable profile of the failing shipping business that was emerging from the paperwork. Dorothy could not miss the set of his jaw and the grim lines about his eyes and mouth.

  “Not encouraging?” she asked.

  “Bad.”

  “Are you still expecting Matthew?”

  “He’s late.”

  “What is it he’s bringing?”

  Billy sighed and leaned back, then raised his arms and stretched set muscles. “The bank and Covington agreed to most of our offer. You knew that?”

  “Yes. Last week.” She walked to stand near his chair, waiting.

  “Their acceptance of our offer depended on two things: We must deal in gold or silver, and not in printed money. And we have to find merchants here, and in the South, that are willing to use our ships to carry their goods so we have a profitable cargo both directions. Without cargo, a shipping firm is worthless.”

  “Is that what Matthew’s been working on?”

  “Yes. There’s a manufacturer here in Boston that’s willing to ship nails and salt fish down to a buyer in Virginia, and we have a Virginia tobacco merchant willing to ship tobacco here, if we’ll guarantee a sale. It all has to be in hard money, not paper. Matthew’s been trying to find a buyer. That’s where we—”

  Dorothy jumped and Billy flinched at the sharp, distinctive knock on the front door, and Billy was on his feet and moving before Dorothy could turn. He threw the door open and instantly stepped back.

  “Come in.”

  Matthe
w stepped inside with a sheaf of papers beneath his arm, and Billy closed the door against the December cold. For one split second neither man spoke, and then Billy said, “Well?”

  Matthew lifted his tricorn from his head. His mouth was a straight line, his forehead drawn down.

  “There’s an interested tobacco buyer in New York. Maybe.”

  Billy’s face fell. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe. Dutch. He’s contracting for three hundred tons of tobacco to be delivered between now and May. Right now he’s waiting for a guarantee from a bank in Amsterdam.”

  “Guarantee of what?”

  “That they’ll loan him the money to buy. The Dutch have access to all British ports, and this merchant has big customers in London and Liverpool. Paris, too. The problem with the Amsterdam bank isn’t the European market. It’s here in the United States. Just about everybody over there knows this country is bankrupt, and they’re reluctant to give a guarantee that depends in part on American ships and merchants.”

  Dorothy interrupted. “Take off your coat. You two can sit at the table. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Matthew worked with the buttons on his heavy coat, then hung it and his tricorn and scarf on the line of pegs beside the front door. The two men took places at the table, and Matthew laid his sheaf of business papers alongside those already there. Billy leaned forward, forearms on the table.

  “Anyone know when the Amsterdam bank will decide?”

  “The Dutch merchant thinks they made their decision about four weeks ago. The problem is the Atlantic Ocean. They’re just waiting for the ship to get here with the mail.”

  Billy made instant calculations. “Four weeks? The ship could get here next week.”

  “Yes. It could. If it does, and if the Dutch bank will guarantee, we’ll most likely get the contract to carry three hundred tons of the tobacco from Virginia to New York.”

  “Nails and salt fish going down, tobacco coming back?”

  “That’s how it looks right now, but this whole thing is unstable. If we don’t get the answer from the Dutch in the next few days, I don’t know how long the other merchants will wait. Our bank won’t wait forever, either.”

  “Has our bank said anything? Are they backing out?”

  “Not yet. But they’re nervous.”

  “And we can’t do anything but wait.”

  Matthew nodded his head. “That’s about it.”

  Billy closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, and Matthew ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. Nerves and tension and weariness made lines in the faces of both men as they passed a moment of silence, each making calculations, going over the entire shaky plan one more time, judging the weaknesses and strengths, probing for any way to shore it up, knowing there was nothing more they could do.

  Finally, Matthew rounded his mouth and blew air, then pointed at the papers stacked on the table.

  “How do you see Covington Shipping?”

  Billy shook his head. “They’re finished. No bank will touch them.”

  “That’s how I see it.” Matthew tapped the papers he had brought. “These papers are from the Dutch tobacco buyer. Named Doernen. Been in business for eleven years. Fairly good reputation. I’ll leave this with you.”

  Billy nodded. “I’ll look them over. Will you be home later?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right if I come down when I’ve finished reading them?”

  Matthew stood and walked to the door to put on his coat and scarf. “I’ll be waiting.”

  For more than an hour Billy carefully went through the paperwork on Doernen Company, of Amsterdam. Then he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen to drink water dipped from the water bucket, then walked to his room to change from his worn woolen slippers to his shoes.

  He was seated on his bed closing the buckle on his shoe when a powerful, unexpected thought came into his mind. He snapped the buckle closed, then slowly rose from the bed and crossed the room to the chest of drawers in which his clean clothing was kept. He opened the bottom drawer and drew out the oilskin packet he had placed there the day he arrived home. Carefully wrapped inside were the letters he had written over the past five years, in which he had opened his heart to Brigitte. He untied the leather cord, unfolded the oilskin, and returned to sit on his bed. For a long time he tenderly touched the worn, ragged pages, reading the faded words from a few of them, remembering the times that thoughts of her, and writing the letters he was never going to deliver, had sustained him through one more night, one more battle. Thoughtfully he rewrapped the packet and carried it with him through the house to where his overcoat and scarf hung on the pegs by the front door. He thrust the packet into one of the coat pockets, put the coat on, gathered the papers from the dining table, and walked to the kitchen, where Dorothy was adding split pieces of wood to the stove fire.

  “I’ll be back soon. Maybe an hour.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes.”

  The brief walk in the cold of a December late afternoon went unnoticed. Kathleen met him at the door, and minutes later he was seated in the library of the great Thorpe home, Matthew beside him, both facing the large, ornately carved desk.

  Matthew waited in silent expectation.

  Billy tapped the papers. “The Dutch company—Doernen—is probably reliable. I think they understand the tobacco business, and the shipping business. They deal hard but fair. If their Amsterdam bank backs them, I think they’re what we’re looking for.”

  Matthew leaned back in his upholstered chair. “Can I tell that to our bank?”

  “Yes. And anyone else in this arrangement that wants to know.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Did you ever think you’d find yourself getting involved in these kinds of business dealings?”

  Billy spoke earnestly. “Never. I still can’t believe what we’re doing.”

  “Sleep much at night?”

  “Not much.”

  “Have you told your family all about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve told Kathleen and Mother. Tried to warn them. They haven’t said no.”

  “I’m not sure they really understand the risk.”

  “Probably not.”

  There was a pause, and then Billy dropped his face downward for a time, silently staring at the design in the India carpet under his feet. He raised his head and turned to Matthew, and Matthew stopped all motion. He had never seen the expression that was now on Billy’s face.

  Billy cleared his throat and spoke softly. “There’s something I need to say.”

  Matthew’s breathing slowed.

  Billy went to his overcoat and drew out the packet of letters. For a moment he held them, then walked back to lay them on the near edge of the great desk. He pointed at them.

  “Those are letters I’ve written to Brigitte. The first one was five years ago. It was then that I first understood that I had a special . . . strong . . . feeling for her.”

  He turned and looked his lifelong, closest friend in the eye. Neither knew how long they stared, Billy watching for a sign from Matthew, Matthew stunned beyond words. Billy went on.

  “I kept them. Undelivered. I didn’t want . . . I wouldn’t put them in her hands or say anything to her about them because I couldn’t hurt her. I know her feelings for the British captain, Richard Buchanan, and I know he is gone, and her heart with him. I know I will never be the sort of man she wants, or deserves, and I would never do anything that would put a barrier between her and me. I will not risk losing her as a friend.”

  He stopped, and for a few moments remained silent before he went on.

  “It’s possible our two families are going into business together, and the business could fail. I thought you should know about these letters before things go any further.” Billy stopped, set his jaw, and waited.

  For a time the only sound in the library was the crackling of the fire in the fireplace. Matthew stared, hi
s mind numbed beyond thought. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, and he started again.

  “Five years?”

  Billy nodded.

  “And not a word about it to anyone?”

  “Eli Stroud knows. And Alvin Turlock. No one else.”

  Matthew came directly to it, as only lifelong, trusted friends can. “Do you love her?”

  Billy thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ve never had anything to do with women. I think so. Yes. I think I do.”

  “You kept all this inside? Why couldn’t you tell me?”

  “To spare you. Your family. Nothing can come of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at her. A lady. Beautiful. She’s worthy of a gentleman with breeding. Now look at me. Billy Weems. Just Billy Weems. I’ll never reach her. Not where she is. I wouldn’t embarrass her with ever letting her know all this.”

  Matthew spoke with an intensity Billy had never heard in him before. “You decided all this without telling her?”

  Billy slowly straightened. “I didn’t want to—”

  Matthew cut him off, his voice rising. “Do you think she hasn’t learned something about what’s valuable in this life? Learned something from these past eight years?”

  Billy leaned back, startled. “What do you mean?”

  “The value of what a man is, not how he looks.”

  Billy leaned forward. “Matthew, look at me. No woman like Brigitte is going to take interest in a man who looks like this. I know that. I’ve accepted it.”

  Matthew paused to choose his words. “I look at you, and I see one of the best men alive.”

  There they were! Words that had lain unspoken inside Matthew all his life. Words he thought Billy understood without hearing them. Words he thought he would never speak. Out in the open between the two of them.

  Billy did not speak nor move, because he could not. Matthew went on.

  “What do you think Brigitte sees when she looks at you?”

  Billy recoiled. For a full ten seconds neither man spoke, and then Billy broke the intense silence.

  “I don’t know.”