First of Men

by Ferling, John;

  The most visceral—and, from Washington’s perspective, the most menacing—response to the “Centinel” came from his officers. Each of his company commanders publicly pledged to resign if Dinwiddie did not publish an expression of confidence in the army and its leaders. Their ire was raised less by what the anonymous essayist had said than by their mistaken belief that the Gazette’s editor would never have dared to print the essay without Dinwiddie’s acquiescence. Now Washington was vexed, for if his officers quit it was not likely that he could survive as commander. But he handled the momentary crisis admirably. He calmed his captains by promising to ride to Williamsburg where he could press their demands, then over the next few weeks he simply watched as time and second thoughts induced the officers to let their pique evaporate quietly.36

  In the damp chill of November Washington set out along his well-worn path to Dinwiddie’s door. He paused at Belvoir, where he saw Sally and picked up several shirts she had arranged to have made for him. Then he was on his way to the capital. However, when he reached Alexandria he found an ill-tempered letter from Dinwiddie awaiting him, a note in which the governor unequivocally ordered the colonel to return to his army, and, in addition, directed him to move his headquarters from Winchester to Fort Cumblerland. The letter stopped Washington in his tracks. He turned and galloped back to Winchester. Over the next few weeks, while he seethed in a black rage, Washington supervised the transference of his headquarters. Apprised in mid-December that the move was complete, Dinwiddie, in a letter dripping with sarcasm, told Washington: “It gives me great Pleasure [that] Y’r go’g to Ft Cumb’l’d is so agreeable to You, as with’t doubt its the proper Place for the Com’d’g Officer.”37

  The holiday period in 1756 was hardly cheerful for Washington. He was ensconced in snow-covered Fort Cumberland, his loneliness broken only by a carefree, energetic puppy he recently had acquired. In this morose state he decided to vent his feelings to the new British commander in chief, John Campbell, Earl of Loudoun, who had arrived in America only in the last few weeks. If he could meet with Loudoun he might gain preferment, while at the same time he might mollify the anger of his still disgruntled officers. First he wrote Loudoun a self-serving letter that was perhaps the least admirable document for which Washington ever was responsible. He recriminated about the faults of others, portraying himself as blameless for the state of affairs on the frontier. He complained about the inactivity of Virginia’s neighbors, and he maintained that his province had only half-heartedly attempted to raise troops. Nor did London escape, for he attributed the Indian’s loyalty to the French to the ministry’s indifference to the transmontane West. He took aim at the quality of his troops, and criticized his government’s strategy. Then he begged and groveled, broadly hinting that he hoped for a royal commission. Had Braddock lived, he continued, he would have been commissioned by now. “I had His Promise,” he told Loudoun. Shirley had made promises too, but he had returned to London before he could act. Then, clumsily, he told Loudoun: “I have exalted Sentiments of Your Lordship’s character. ... I am so happy . . . to have an opportunity of testifying how much I admire your Lordship’s character....”38

  When Loudoun’s aide replied in noncommittal terms, Washington secured permission from Dinwiddie to travel to Philadelphia, where Loudoun had scheduled a conference with several governors. Thus Colonel Washington embarked on his second lengthy trip within a year. Riding through heavy winter weather he reached the Pennsylvania city late in February, arriving, as it turned out, about three weeks before Loudoun. When the British commander did arrive, Washington’s request for an appointment went unheeded for several days. Finally, after Washington had whiled away nearly a month in the taverns and posh clubs of this strange city, Loudoun consented to see him.

  Short, muscular, fifty-two years old, Loudoun was rich (it had taken nearly an entire ship to transport his personal effects to America), well educated, and an experienced soldier. To him Washington was merely a petty, provincial functionary, and not a terribly successful one at that. Loudoun’s manner toward the young colonel was inhospitable. He refused to allow Washington to speak, brusquely rattling off a series of orders, the most important of which comported with Dinwiddie’s notions of strategy, though he did order Washington to return to Winchester. Loudoun gruffly asked two or three questions, then he abruptly turned his back on the young man, a signal that the conference was at an end. Before Washington had an opportunity to say another word, he was briskly ushered from the room.39 Washington had been treated with the same arrogance and contempt that he might himself have directed at an unruly servant at Mount Vernon.

  Both his pride and his ambition crushed, Washington returned to the frontier. He did not quit. To resign at this moment surely would end his public career forever. He resolved simply to try to see it through. If he had harbored any illusions that the military situation might improve, they soon were abandoned. He received only a fraction of the troops for which the Burgesses had appropriated funds. Most simply never were recruited, but many of those that were raised were ordered by Loudoun to be sent to South Carolina. Moreover, short-handed to begin with, he now was confronted by a stupendous desertion problem. At times a batch of sorely needed recruits would arrive, and within a few days half or more would be gone, frightened draftees who were loath to die on a frontier that had no meaning for them. Washington ordered a forty-foot-high gallows constructed to intimidate his soldiers, but it does not seem to have been much of a deterrent. Late that spring he wrote of the gloomy prospects for suppressing the foe, and in the fall he still was writing of the “horrid devastation” wrought by the native tribesmen. Strangely, however, there were signs of improvement. Washington’s army was augmented by forces from several southern Indian tribes, and colonial diplomatic endeavors led some tribes to lay aside their weapons. By Christmas Virginia’s Indians had been pushed onto the defensive.40

  Much of Washington’s time in 1757 had been spent in trading captious letters with Dinwiddie. Now an ill old man (for years he had suffered from a chronic ailment, probably gout or arthritis, and now some new affliction had rendered him partially paralyzed), the governor simply longed to return to England. Certainly, he was tired of Washington’s sniping. But there was more too. Their relationship, frequently stormy in the past, had grown particularly sour during this year, perhaps because of Washington’s friendly ties with Speaker Robinson, an implacable foe of the governor, and a powerful politician whom the colonel used, without Dinwiddie’s consent, to seek additional funding for the army. Dinwiddie also was convinced that Washington had betrayed him, evidently believing the young colonel had complained to Loudoun about his executive leadership. Washington was no less angry, as he had concluded that the governor had refused to aid him in his quest for a royal commission. Washington was partially correct. After meeting with Loudoun in Philadelphia early in 1757, Dinwiddie no longer importuned for Washington; for the two previous years, however, he had spared no energies in his attempts to serve Washington in this matter, and he desisted only when it appeared certain that Washington would never attain what he desired.

  The final straw in the clash between these two strong-willed men apparently came when Washington complained one too many times. Dinwiddie listened to his colonel carp about late pay, about the poor quality of the Indian scouts sent out by Williamsburg, about the lack of chaplains, about the manpower shortage, about the want of artillery, about supposedly inadequate instructions from the capital, and even about what Washington—with justification—called a “stupid scandal,” allegations circulating in the capital that he had fabricated stories of Indian attacks in order to obtain additional funds from the legislature.41 The irascible governor no longer was in a mood for this.

  His patience exhausted, Dinwiddie turned savagely on Washington, charging him with ingratitude. “You know I had reason to suspect You of Ingratitude, which I’m convinced your own Conscience and reflection must allow,” he wrote. “I have foibles, and perhaps
many of them,” Washington responded. He was not perfect, but he took exception to the charge of ingratitude. He had been blunt, he acknowledged, yet he had only been reporting factually. Never had anyone discharged their duties more earnestly, more patriotically.42

  The final act came when Washington asked permission to come to Williamsburg to settle some accounts with the governor. With brutal forthrightness Dinwiddie denied Washington’s request. Washington had been absent from his army too frequently, said Dinwiddie. “Surely the Commanding officer Should not be Absent when daily Alarm’d with the Enemy’s Intent’s to invade our frontiers,” he went on. Washington was wrong to even file such a request. Besides, “You have no Acco’ts, as I know of, to Settle with me. . . .”43

  The governor’s acrimonious tone was only one element in a wretched, melancholy autumn for Washington. With Dinwiddie’s curt words still ringing in his ears, Washington received news of the death of Colonel Fairfax. Soon thereafter Washington fell ill too, his first serious ailment since his days with Braddock. Dysentery had plagued him since not long after he returned from Philadelphia, but he had continued on the job, hopelessly watching the steady erosion of his vitality. By November he was too sick to walk, suffering still from the “bloody flux”—dysentery—then from “Stiches & violent Pleuretick Pains.” His army doctor, James Craik, a University of Edinburgh graduate, bled him three times, then recommended that he return home for a rest. Washington did not have to be told twice. He immediately turned over his command and headed east.44

  Washington did not proceed directly to Mount Vernon, however. He stopped in Alexandria to consult a second physician, who, felicitously, also told Washington to return to his farm and to rest. He did just that, and within thirty days he felt much better, seemingly rejuvenated by the comforts of Mount Vernon. In fact, since early in the year his mind increasingly had drifted back to his estate. In April he had taken the first steps toward remodeling and furnishing the mansion, ordering a marble mantel, wallpaper, two hundred fifty panes of glass, two mahogany tables, and a dozen matching chairs; now, as he recuperated, he ordered a card table, china, and glassware from London. During his years as a soldier he had purchased six slaves (including a woman and her child that he acquired from Dinwiddie), and now he bought five hundred acres adjacent to his estate.45

  The care and attention that Sally Fairfax extended to her ailing friend did nothing to impede his recovery. As soon as Washington had arrived at Mount Vernon he wrote to let her know that he was ill and at home. She came quickly, and soon she was back with the medicines prescribed by the physician in Alexandria—jellies, hyson tea, and a special wine that was to be mixed with gum arabic. With her husband in England at this time, one can only guess at how often she visited. Certainly Washington begged her to come, and she probably rode over from Belvoir frequently, though discretion would have required that she travel in the company of other ladies. (Discretion was something that her husband had advised her to employ in his absence, prompting one to wonder whether he was aware of Washington’s feelings, or whether he simply was all too familiar with Sally’s inclinations.)46

  Early in 1758 Washington felt well enough to attempt a trip to Williamsburg. In January he set out on horseback, but he got only a few miles before the bloody flux recurred. Weak and dispirited, he turned back to Mount Vernon. In the next few days a persistent cough, alarmingly like the tubercular hack that slowly had destroyed Lawrence, set in. That February, while rumors of his death circulated in the capital, Washington languished in bed. It was the lowest point in his life; he saw himself as less than successful as a soldier, and as a failure in his efforts to secure British preferment; he knew that Dinwiddie thought him an ingrate; he was not capable of having the woman he believed that he loved; and, now, he was gripped with the fearful realization that he was dying. He had to know the nature of his illness.

  With great difficulty he once again set out for Williamsburg. It was a tortorous ride, and several times he was compelled to pause along the way. But his pains were well rewarded. A careful medical examination in the capital led the doctor to conclude that the cough was harmless, merely the result of a damp winter. Free at last of that nagging worry, Washington seemed to recover instantaneously. But he did not return directly to Mount Vernon. He rode to the Pamunkey River, crossing on Williams’ Ferry to the White House, home of Martha Dandridge Custis, for nine months now a widow. Indeed, not just a widow, but the wealthiest widow in all of Virginia.47

  Washington almost certainly knew Martha before he reined up at her front door. High society in Virginia was not large. There was a chance that they had met at a ball, or perhaps at a race; if not there, their paths in all likelihood would have crossed in the capital, for Martha and her late husband usually attended the round of dances and parties that accompanied the sessions of the Burgesses, and on occasion Washington had also attended these gatherings. If they had met it would only have been the most fleeting of encounters however.

  Nine years earlier, at the age of eighteen, Martha had married Daniel Parke Custis, a man twice her age. While she came from a comfortable, middle-class background, he was the son of a wealthy, eccentric planter. In seven years she bore four children, though only two lived beyond infancy. When her husband died, she was left with 100 slaves and 6000 acres valued at about £23,000; her liquid assets were worth approximately £12,000. It was no accident that Washington called on her.48

  Martha Custis was only a few months older than her suitor. Short—she was barely five feet tall—and plump, her comely face was dominated by great hazel eyes. She was pleasant looking, not pretty, certainly not beautiful. Quiet and reserved, even shy, Martha was not the least bit flirtatious. Nor was she flamboyant in any way. More than anything else, a man could feel comfortable with her, especially a man who was not overly confident of his own talents. She knew her way around high society, she was reasonably polished, and she could be downright flinty when it came to managing a family and an estate, though that is not to suggest that she was either pushy or domineering.

  George and Martha met in her parlor and talked of this and that. She probably gave him a tour of the mansion and the grounds, and she must have summoned a servant to fetch her two children, three-year-old John Parke—Jackie, everyone called him—and little Martha Parke, not yet two. George stayed overnight; then he rode to Williamsburg after breakfast the next morning. A week later he was back. When he departed the White House following that visit he was engaged to be married. The two had spent only about twenty hours together, but that was how marriages often were made in eighteenth-century Virginia.49

  The marriage ceremony, however, would have to wait a few months. First George intended to spruce up Mount Vernon a bit. (He spent £325 on the mansion that summer, more than three times the annual wages of an unskilled laborer in those days.) More than anything else, though, George wanted to see the war on the frontier through that year’s campaign. He now believed that the war could be won in 1758, for news had arrived recently of important changes in Britain’s direction of hostilities. Loudoun had been recalled. Moreover, the new head of the ministry, William Pitt, had announced plans for three simultaneous campaigns in America, one of which was to be another operation aimed at seizing Fort Duquesne. (The other expeditions were to be directed at Ticonderoga in northern New York and at Louisburg, the great French fortress in Canada.) General John Forbes was to command the army in Pennsylvania, a force that was to include the army of Virginia under Colonel Washington, as well as a large contingent of British regulars. George and Martha must have talked of all this, then decided to schedule the wedding following that year’s military activities.50

  Why Washington decided to marry is something of a mystery. Of course, he had never been one to shun an attractive lady, and Martha was eligible and engaging. The loneliness imposed by command, especially when one was marooned on a remote frontier, probably caused him to think more and more of home and hearth, and of companionship. By early that year, more
over, he must have despaired at ever receiving a royal commission. Then, too, his brush with Loudoun, as well as his long wrangle with Dinwiddie, not to mention the strain and the anguish that came from presiding over a long, costly, ineffectual war, may have led him to the realization that his plantation was his most fulfilling calling. Finally, his bout with serious illness that winter must have reminded him of how short life could be, prompting him to acknowledge the number of life’s pleasures he had forgone while sitting at lonely martial outposts. To be alone, and ill too, often quickens one’s longing for a mate.51 Then there was Sally Fairfax.

  Unlike the young soldier who had taken up arms four years before, the Washington of 1758—now an adult of twenty-six—was more certain of his talents, more comfortable with his identity. In the years since he had emerged from Ferry Farm to serve as a courier for the governor, his world had expanded far beyond Mount Vernon and Belvoir. He had been lauded by the assemblymen of his province, welcomed into the offices and tents of powerful men, and treated as an equal by important businessmen in northern cities; he had commanded on the frontier, been entertained in Virginia’s elegant little capital, and lived for weeks in three major urban entrepots. And he had grappled with life-and-death issues, with grim problems that outdisdanced the confines of estates like Mount Vernon and Belvoir, and which haunted the very halls of power throughout America and western Europe.