[Illustration: [P. 147
“‘NEVER DRAW IT IN AN UNWORTHY CAUSE’”]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER
BY
MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1903
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
“_Nature made Washington great--but he made himself virtuous_”
ILLUSTRATIONS
“‘NEVER DRAW IT IN AN UNWORTHY CAUSE’” _Frontispiece_
“‘THIS IS MY SON, MR. WASHINGTON’” _Facing p._ 18
GEORGE BIDS BETTY GOOD-BYE “ 54
SKETCHING THE DEFENCES ON THE SCHELDT “ 72
“‘IS MARSE GEORGE WASHINGTON HERE, SUH?’” “ 100
THE DAILY LESSON IN ARMS “ 122
THE FIGHT IN THE KITCHEN PASSAGE “ 136
“SHE WAS THE STATELIEST BEAUTY OF A SHIP HE HAD EVER SEEN” “ 168
“‘MY SON, MY BEST-LOVED CHILD’” “ 192
“THEY STRUCK NOW INTO THE WILDERNESS” “ 218
“BY DAYLIGHT GEORGE WAS IN THE SADDLE” “ 236
“‘NEVER WILL YOU BE HALF SO BEAUTIFUL AS OUR MOTHER’” “ 246
THE GOVERNOR’S LEVEE “ 260
“GEORGE HAD THE SAVAGE BY THE THROAT” “ 296
“WITH DRUMS BEATING AND COLORS FLYING” “ 314
“GEORGE DID ALL THAT MORTAL MAN COULD DO” “ 342
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER
CHAPTER I
“_Nature made Washington great; but he made himself virtuous._”
The sun shines not upon a lovelier land than midland Virginia. Great
rivers roll seaward through rich woodlands and laughing corn-fields
and fair meadow lands. Afar off, the misty lines of blue hills
shine faintly against the deeper blue of the sky. The atmosphere is
singularly clear, and the air wholesome and refreshing.
Never was it more beautiful than on an afternoon in late October of
1746. The Indian summer was at hand--that golden time when Nature
utters a solemn “Hush!” to the season, and calls back the summer-time
for a little while. The scene was full of peace--the broad and placid
Rappahannock shimmering in the sun, its bosom unvexed except by the
sails of an occasional grain-laden vessel, making its way quietly and
slowly down the blue river. The quiet homesteads lay basking in the
fervid sun, while woods and streams and fields were full of those soft,
harmonious country sounds which make a kind of musical silence.
A mile or two back from the river ran the King’s highway--a good
road for those days, and showing signs of much travel. It passed at
one point through a natural clearing, on the top of which grew a few
melancholy pines. The road came out of the dense woods on one side of
this open space, and disappeared in the woods on the other side.
On this October afternoon, about three o’clock, a boy with a gun on
his shoulder and a dog at his heels, came noiselessly out of the woods
and walked up to the top of the knoll. The day was peculiarly still;
but only the quickest ear could have detected the faint sound the boy
made, as with a quick and graceful step he marched up the hill--for
George Washington was a natural woodsman from his young boyhood, and
he had early learned how to make his way through forest and field
without so much as alarming the partridge on her nest. No art or craft
of the woods, whether of white man or Indian, was unknown to him; and
he understood Nature, the mighty mother, in all her civilized and
uncivilized moods.
A full game-bag on his back showed what his employment had been, but
now he gave himself over to the rare but delicious idleness which
occasionally overtakes everybody who tramps long through the woods.
He sat down and took off his cap, revealing his handsome, blond head.
The dog, a beautiful long-eared setter, laid his nose confidentially
upon his master’s knee, and blinked solemnly, with his large, tawny
eyes, into his master’s blue ones. The boy’s eyes were remarkable--a
light but beautiful blue, and softening a face that, even in boyhood,
was full of resolution and even sternness. His figure was as near
perfection as the human form could be--tall, athletic, clean of limb
and deep of chest, singularly graceful, and developed, as the wise
old Greeks developed their bodies, by manly exercises and healthful
brain-work and the cleanest and most wholesome living. Neither the
face nor the figure could belong to a milksop. The indications of
strong passions, of fierce loves and hates and resentments, were plain
enough. But stronger even than these was that noble expression which
a purity of soul and a commanding will always writes upon the human
countenance. This boy was a gentleman at heart and in soul--not because
he had no temptation to be otherwise, but because he chose to be a
gentleman. He sat in silence for half an hour, the dog resting against
him, the two communing together as only a boy and a dog can. The sun
shone, the wind scarcely ruffled a dying leaf. A crow circled around
in the blue air, uttering a caw that was lost in the immensity of the
heavens. The silence seemed to grow deeper every moment, when, with a
quick movement, George laid his ear to the ground. To an unpractised
ear there was not the slightest break in the quiet, but to the boy’s
trained hearing something was approaching along the highway, which
induced him to sit still awhile longer. It was some time in coming,
for the heavy coaches in those days hung upon wide leather straps, and
with broad-tired wheels made much commotion as they rolled along, to
say nothing of the steady beat of the horses’ hoofs upon the hard road.
George’s eyes were as quick as his ears, but he caught nothing of the
approaching travellers until the cavalcade flashed suddenly into the
sun, and with its roar and rattle seemed to spring out of the ground.
First came four sturdy negro outriders, in a gorgeous livery of green
and gold, and mounted upon stout bay horses, well adapted for hard
travel. Then came a magnificent travelling-coach, crest emblazoned,
which would not have discredited the king’s levee. It was drawn by
four superb roans, exactly matched in form, color, and action. They
took the road as if they had just warmed up to their work; but from the
dust on the whole cavalcade it was plain they had travelled far that
day. With heads well in the air the horses threw their legs together
with a style and at a gait that showed them to be of the best blood in
the horse kingdom. A black postilion in green and gold rode the off
horse of the leaders, while a black coachman handled the reins. On the
box, next the coachman, sat a white man, evidently a servant out of
livery. One glance told that he was an old soldier. He had at his side
one of the huge holsters of the day, in which he carried a pair of long
horse-pistols, and a stout wooden box, upon which he rested his feet,
showed that the party had means of defence had it been attacked.
George was so stunned with admiration at the splendor of the equipage
that he scarcely glanced at the interior of the coach until the
sunlight flashed upon something that fairly dazzled him. It was a
diamond-hilted dress-sword, worn by a gentleman of about fifty, who sat
alone upon the back seat. The gorgeous sword-hilt was the only thing
about him that shone or glinted, for his brown travelling-suit was as
studiously simple as his equipage was splendid. He wore plain silver
buckles at his knees and upon his handsome, high-arched feet, and his
hair, streaked with gray, was without powder, and tied into a club with
a black ribbon.
One glance at his face fixed George’s attention. It was pale and
somewhat angular, unlike the type of florid, high-colored Virginia
squires with which George was familiar. He had been handsome in his
youth, and was still handsome, with a stately, grave beauty; but even a
boy could see that this man had had but little joy in life.
From the moment that George’s eyes fell upon this gentleman he looked
upon nothing else. Neither the great coach nor the superb horses had
any power to attract his gaze, although never, in all his short life,
had he seen anything so splendid. His mother had a coach, and so had
most of the people round about, but all had a common air of having once
been handsome, and of having reached the comfortable, shabby-genteel
stage. And many persons drove four horses to these great lumbering
vehicles, but all four would not be worth one of the gallant roans that
trotted along the road so gayly.
It was out of sight in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more it
was out of hearing; but in that time George, who was quick-witted,
had shrewdly guessed the name and rank of the gentleman with the
plain clothes and the diamond-hilted sword. It was the great Earl
of Fairfax--the soldier, the wit, the rich nobleman--who for some
mysterious reason had chosen to come to this new land, and to build
a lodge in the wilderness. The boy had often heard his mother, Madam
Washington, speak of Earl Fairfax. Meeting with him was one of the
events of that great journey she had made in her girlhood to England,
where for a time she lived in the house of her brother Joseph Ball,
at Cookham, in Berkshire, who had left his Virginia home and had
taken up his residence in England. Here Mary Ball had met Augustine
Washington, then in England upon affairs connected with his property.
Augustine Washington was one of the handsomest men of his day, and
from him his eldest son George inherited the noble air and figure that
marked him. Mary Ball was a Virginia beauty, and although admired by
many Englishmen of distinction, she rather chose to marry Augustine
Washington, albeit he had been married before, and had two motherless
boys. In England, therefore, were they married, sailing soon after for
Virginia, and within twelve years Mrs. Washington was a widow with
five children. She loved to talk to her children of those happy English
days, when she had first pledged herself to Augustine Washington. It
had also been the only time of excitement in her quiet life, and she
had met many of the wits and cavaliers and belles of the reign of
George the Second. She sometimes spoke of Lord Fairfax, but always
guardedly; and George had conceived the idea that his mother perhaps
knew Lord Fairfax better, and the reasons for his abandonment of his
own country, than she cared to tell.
He began to wonder, quite naturally, where the earl was bound; and
suddenly it came to him in a flash--“He is going to pay his respects to
my mother.” In another instant he was on his feet and speeding like a
deer through the woods towards home.
The house at Ferry Farm, which was home to him, was a good four
miles by the road, but by paths through the woods and fields, and a
foot-bridge across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him but a
short time to make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the
coach and outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The
old soldier jumped from the box and opened the door and let down the
steps, and the earl descended in state. On the porch stood Uncle
Jasper, the venerable black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long
white apron that reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him
bowing and ushering the earl in. The outriders loosened their horses’
girths, and, after breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in
the stable-lot back of the house. They then watered the coach-horses,
the coachman sitting in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old
soldier stretched his legs by walking about the lot. George saw this
as he came through the stable way, his dog still at his heels. Uncle
Jasper was waiting for him on the back porch.
“De madam,” he began, in a mysterious whisper, “will want you ter put
on yo’ Sunday clo’es fo’ you come in ter see de Earl o’ Fairfax. He’s
in de settin’-room now.”
George understood very well, and immediately went to his room to change
his hunting-clothes, which were the worse for both dirt and wear. It
was a ceremonious age, and the formalities of dress and manners were
very strictly observed.
Meanwhile, in the sitting-room, on opposite sides of the fireplace, sat
Madam Washington and the earl. Truly, the beauty that had distinguished
Mary Ball remained with Madam Washington. Her figure was slight and
delicate (not from her had her eldest son inherited his brawn and
muscle), and in her severely simple black gown she looked even slighter
than usual. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, and little rings of
chestnut hair escaped from her widow’s cap; but her fine blue eyes were
the counterpart of her eldest son’s. The room was plainly furnished,
even for the times, but scrupulously neat. A rag-carpet covered the
middle of the floor, while around the edges the polished planks were
bare. In one corner a small harpsichord was open, with music on the
rack. Dimity curtains shaded the small-paned windows, and a great fire
sparkled in the large fireplace. Over the mantel hung the portrait
of a handsome young man in a satin coat with lace ruffles. This was
a portrait of Augustine Washington in his youth. Opposite it was a
portrait of Madam Washington as a girl--a lovely young face and figure.
There were one or two other portraits, and a few pieces of silver upon
a mahogany buffet opposite the harpsichord--relics of Wakefield, the
Westmoreland plantation where George was born, and of which the house
had burned to the ground in the absence of the master, and much of the
household belongings had been destroyed.
The earl’s eyes lingered upon the girlish portrait of Madam Washington
as the two sat gravely conversing.
“It was thus you looked, madam, when I first had the honor of knowing
you in England,” he said.
“Time and sorrow and responsibilities have done their work upon me, my
lord,” answered Madam Washington. “The care of five children, that they
may be brought up to be worthy of their dead father, the making of good
men out of four boys, the task of bringing up an only daughter to be
a Christian gentlewoman, is no mean task, I assure you, and taxes my
humble powers.”
“True, madam,” responded the earl, with a low bow; “but I know of no
woman better fitted for so great an undertaking than Madam Washington.”
Madam Washington leaned forward and bowed in response, and then resumed
her upright position, not once touching the back of her chair.
“And may I not have the pleasure of seeing your children, madam?” asked
the earl, who cared little for children generally, but to whom the
children of her who had once been the beautiful Mary Ball were of the
greatest interest.
“Certainly, my lord,” answered Madam Washington, rising, “if you will
excuse me for a moment while I fetch them.”
The earl, left alone, rose and walked thoughtfully to the portrait
of Mary Ball and looked at it for several minutes. His face, full of
melancholy and weariness, grew more melancholy and weary. He shook
his head once or twice, and made a motion with his hand as if putting
something away from him, and then returned to his chair by the fire. He
looked into the blaze and tapped his foot softly with his dress-sword.
This beautiful, grave widow of forty, her heart wrapped up in her
children, was not the girl of eighteen years before. There was no
turning back of the leaves of the book of life for her. She had room
now for but one thought in her mind, one feeling in her heart--her
children.
Presently the door opened, and Madam Washington re-entered with her
usual sedate grace. Following her was a young girl of fourteen, her
mother’s image, the quaintest, daintiest little maiden imaginable, her
round, white arms bare to the elbow, from which muslin ruffles fell
back, a little muslin cap covering her hair, much lighter than her
mother’s, and her shy eyes fixed upon the floor. Behind her were three
sturdy, handsome boys of twelve, ten, and eight, as alike as peas in
a pod. In those days the children of gentlepeople were neither pert
and forward nor awkward and ashamed at meeting strangers. Drilled in
a precise etiquette, they knew exactly what to do, which consisted
chiefly in making many low bows to their elders, and answering in
respectful monosyllables such questions as were asked them. They
learned in this way a grace and courtesy quite unknown to modern
children.
“My daughter, Mistress Betty Washington, my Lord of Fairfax,” was Madam
Washington’s introduction.
The earl rose from his chair and made the little girl a bow as if she
were the princess royal, while Mistress Betty, scorning to be outdone,
courtesied to the floor in response, her full skirt making a balloon as
she sunk and rose in the most approved fashion.
“I am most happy to meet you, Mistress Betty,” said he, to which
Mistress Betty, in a quavering voice--for she had never before seen an
earl, or a coach like the one he came in--made answer:
“Thank you, my lord.”
The three boys were then introduced as Samuel, John, and Charles.
To each the earl made a polite bow, but not so low as to Mistress
Betty. The boys returned the bow without the slightest shyness or
awkwardness, and then took their places in silence behind their
mother’s chair. They exchanged keen glances, though, among themselves,
and wondered when they would be allowed to depart, so that they
might further investigate the coach and the four roan horses. Madam
Washington spoke.
“I am every moment expecting my eldest son George; he is out hunting
to-day, and said that he would return at this hour, and he is always
punctual to the minute. It will be a severe disappointment to me if I
should not have the pleasure of showing your lordship my eldest son.”
It did not take a very acute person to note the tone of pride in
madam’s voice when she said “my eldest son.”
“It will be a disappointment to me also, madam,” replied the earl. “I
hope he is all that the eldest son of such a mother should be.”
Madam Washington smiled one of her rare smiles. “’Tis all I can do,
my lord, to keep down the spirit of pride, so unbecoming to all of
us, when I regard my son George. My other sons, I trust, will be as
great a comfort to me, but they are still of too tender years for me
to depend upon.” Then, turning to the three boys, she gave them a look
which meant permission to leave the room. The boys bowed gravely to
their mother, gravely to the earl, and walked more gravely out of the
room. Once the door was softly closed they made a quick but noiseless
dash for the back door, and were soon outside examining the roans and
the great coach, chattering like magpies to the negro outriders, until
having made the acquaintance of the old soldier, Lance by name, they
were soon hanging about him, begging that he would tell them about a
battle.
Meanwhile, within the sitting-room, Madam Washington heard a step upon
the uncarpeted stairs. A light came into her eyes as she spoke.
“There is my son now, going to his room. He will join us shortly. I
cannot tell you, my lord, how great a help I have in my son. As you
know, my step-son, Captain Laurence Washington, late of the British
army, since leaving his Majesty’s service and marrying Mistress Anne
Fairfax, has lived at the Hunting Creek place, which he has called
Mount Vernon, in honor of his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Admiral
Vernon. It is a good day’s journey from here, and although Laurence
is most kind and attentive, I have had to depend, since his marriage,
upon my son George to take his father’s place in the conduct of my
affairs and in my household. It is he who reads family prayers night
and morning and presides with dignity at the foot of my table. It
might seem strange to those who do not know his character how much I
rely upon his judgment, and he but fifteen. Even my younger sons obey
and respect him, and my daughter Betty does hang upon her brother. ’Tis
most sweet to see them together.” At which Mistress Betty smiled and
glanced at the earl, and saw so kind a look in his eyes as he smiled
back at her that she looked at him quite boldly after that.
“It is most gratifying to hear of this, madam,” replied the earl; “but
it is hardly merciful of you to a childless old man, who would give
many worldly advantages had he but a son to lean upon in his old age.”
“You should have married twenty years ago, my lord,” answered Madam
Washington, promptly.
Something like a gleam of saturnine humor appeared in the earl’s eyes
at this, but he only replied, dryly, “Perhaps it is not wholly my
fault, madam, that I find myself alone in my old age.”
At that moment the door opened, and young Washington stood upon the
threshold.