Next morning, as usual, George was up and on horseback by sunrise.
Until this year he had ridden five miles a day each way to Mr. Hobby’s
school; but now he was so far ahead of the school-master’s classes that
he only went a few times a week, to study surveying and the higher
mathematics, and to have the week’s study at home marked out for
him. Every morning, however, it was his duty to ride over the whole
plantation before breakfast, and to report the condition of everything
in it to his mother. Madam Washington was one of the best farmers in
the colony, and it was her custom, after hearing George’s account at
breakfast, to mount her horse and ride over the place also, and give
her orders for the day.
The first long lances of light were just tipping the woods and the
river when George came out and found his horse held by Billy Lee,
a negro lad of about his own age, who was his body-servant and
shadow.[A] Billy was a chocolate-colored youth, the son of Aunt Sukey
the cook and Uncle Jasper the butler. He had but one idea and one
ideal on earth, and that was “Marse George.” It was in vain that Madam
Washington, the strictest of disciplinarians, might lay her commands
on Billy. Until he had found out what “Marse George” wanted him to do,
Billy seemed unconscious of having got any orders. Madam Washington,
who could awe much older and wiser persons than Billy, had often sent
for the boy, when he was regularly taken into the house, and after
reasoning with him, kindly explaining to him that both “Marse George”
and himself were merely boys, and under her authority, would give him
a stern reproof, which Billy always received in an abstracted silence,
as if he had not heard a word that was said to him. Finding that he
acted throughout as if he had not heard, Madam Washington turned him
over to Aunt Sukey, who, after the fashion of those days, with white
boys as well as black, gave him a smart birching. Billy’s roars were
like the trumpeting of an elephant; but within a week he went back to
his old way of forgetting there was anybody in the world except “Marse
George.” Then Madam Washington turned him over to Uncle Jasper, who
“lay” that he would “meck dat little triflin’ nigger min’ missis.”
A second and much more vigorous birching followed at the hands of
Uncle Jasper, who triumphed over Aunt Sukey when Billy for two days
actually seemed to realize that he had something else to do besides
following George about and never taking his eyes off of him. Uncle
Jasper’s victory was short-lived, though. Within a week Billy was as
good-for-nothing as ever, except to George. Madam Washington then saw
that it was not a case of discipline--that the boy was simply dominated
by his devotion to George, and could neither be forced nor reasoned out
of it. Therefore it was arranged that the care of the young master’s
horse and everything pertaining to him should be confided to Billy, who
would work all day with the utmost willingness for “Marse George.” By
this means Billy was made of use. Nobody touched George’s clothes or
books or belongings except Billy. He scrubbed and then dry-rubbed the
floor of his young master’s room, scoured the windows, cut the wood
and made the fires, attended to his horse, and when George was there
personally to direct him, Billy would do whatever work he was ordered.
But the instant he was left to himself he returned to idleness, or
to some perfectly useless work for his young master--polishing up
windows that were already bright, dry-rubbing a floor that shone like
a mirror, or brushing George’s clothes which were quite spotless. His
young master loved him with the strong affection that commonly existed
between the masters and the body-servants in those days. Like Madam
Washington, George was a natural disciplinarian, and, himself capable
of great labor of mind and body, he exacted work from everybody. But
Billy was an exception to this rule. It is not in the human heart to be
altogether without weaknesses, and Billy was George’s weakness. When
his mother would declare the boy to be the idlest servant about the
place, George could not deny it; but he always left the room when there
were any animadversions on his favorite, and could never be brought
to acknowledge that Billy was not a much-injured boy. Serene in the
consciousness that “Marse George” would stand by him, Billy troubled
himself not at all about Madam Washington’s occasional cutting remarks
as to his uselessness, nor his father’s and mother’s more outspoken
complaints that he “warn’t no good ’scusin’ ’twas to walk arter Marse
George, proud as a peacock ef he kin git a ole jacket or a p’yar o’
Marse George’s breeches fur ter go struttin’ roun’ in.” Aunt Sukey was
very pious, and Uncle Jasper was a preacher, and held forth Sunday
nights, in a disused corn-house on the place, to a large congregation
of negroes from the neighboring places. But Billy showed no fondness
whatever for these meetings, preferring to go to the Established
Church with his young master every Sunday, sitting in a corner of the
gallery, and going to sleep with much comfort and regularity as soon
as he got there. Madam Washington always exacted of every one who went
to church from her house that he or she should repeat the clergyman’s
text on coming home, and Billy was no exception to the rule. On Sunday,
therefore, instead of joining the gay procession of youths and young
men, all handsomely mounted, who rode along the highway after church,
George devoted his time on his way home to teaching Billy the text. The
boy always repeated it very glibly when Madam Washington demanded it of
him, and thereby won her favor, for a short time, once a week.
On this particular morning, as George took the reins from Billy and
jumped on the back of his sorrel colt, and galloped down the lane
towards the fodder-field, Billy, who was keen enough where his young
master was concerned, saw that he was preoccupied. Contrary to custom,
he would not take his dog Rattler with him, and Billy, dragging the
whining dog by the neck, hauled him back into the house and up into
George’s room, where the two proceeded to lay themselves down before
the fire and go to sleep. An hour later the indignant Aunt Sukey found
them, and but for George’s return just then it would have gone hard
with Billy, anyhow.
As George galloped briskly along in the crisp October morning, he
felt within him the full exhilaration of youth and health and hope.
He had not been able to sleep all night for thinking of that promised
visit to Greenway Court. He had heard of it--a strange combination of
hunting-lodge and country-seat in the mountains, where Lord Fairfax
lived, surrounded by dependants, like a feudal baron. George had never
in his life been a hundred miles away from home. He had been over to
Mount Vernon since his brother Laurence’s marriage, and the visit had
charmed him so that his ever prudent mother had feared that the simpler
and plainer life at Ferry Farm would be distasteful to him; for Mount
Vernon was a fine, roomy country-house, where Laurence Washington and
his handsome young wife, both rich, dispensed a splendid hospitality.
There was a great stable full of saddle-horses and coach-horses, a
retinue of servants, and a continual round of entertaining going on.
Laurence Washington had only lately retired from the British army,
and his house was the favorite resort for the officers of the British
war-ships that often came up the Potomac, as well as the officers of
the military post at Alexandria. Although he enjoyed this gay and
interesting life at Mount Vernon, George had left it without having his
head turned, and came back quite willingly to the sober and industrious
regularity of the home at Ferry Farm. He was the favorite over all
his brothers with Laurence Washington and his wife, and it was a
well-understood fact that, if they died without children, George was
to inherit the splendid estate of Mount Vernon. Madam Washington had
been a kind step-mother to Laurence Washington, and he repaid it by his
affection for his half-brothers and young sister. In those days, when
the eldest son was the heir, it seemed quite natural that George, as
next eldest, should have preference, and should be the next person of
consequence in the family to his brother Laurence.
He spent an hour riding over the place, seeing that the fodder had
been properly stripped from the stalks in a field, looking after the
ferry-boats, giving an eye to the feeding of the stock, and a sharp
investigation of the stables, and returned to the house by seven
o’clock. Precisely at seven o’clock every morning all the children,
servants, and whatever guests there were in the house assembled in the
sitting-room, where prayers were read. In his father’s time the master
of the house had read these prayers, and after his death Laurence, as
the head of the family, had taken up this duty; but since his marriage
and removal to Mount Vernon it had fallen upon George.
When he entered the room he found his mother waiting for him, as usual,
with little Mistress Betty and the three younger boys. The servants,
including Billy, who had already been reported by Aunt Sukey, were
standing around the wall. After an affectionate good-morning to his
mother, George, with dignity and reverence, read the family prayers
in the Book of Common Prayer. His mother was as calm and as collected
as usual, but in the small velvet bag she carried over her arm lay an
important letter, received between the time that George left the house
in the morning and his return. Prayers over, breakfast was served,
George sitting in his father’s place at the head of the table, and
Madam Washington talking calmly over every-day matters.
“I do not know what we are to do with that boy Billy,” she said. “This
morning, when he ought to have been picking up chips for the kitchen,
he was lying in front of your fireplace with Rattler, both of them
sound asleep.”
George, instead of being scandalized at this, only smiled a little.
“I do not know which is the most useless,” exclaimed Madam Washington,
with energy, “the dog or that boy!”
George ceased smiling at this; he did not like to have Billy too
severely commented on, and deftly turned the conversation. “Lord
Fairfax again asked me, when we were crossing the river last night, to
visit him at Greenway Court. I should like very much to go, mother. I
believe I would rather go even than to spend Christmas at Mount Vernon,
for I have been to Mount Vernon, but I have never been to Greenway, or
to any place like it.”
“The earl sent me a letter this morning on the subject before he left
Fredericksburg,” replied Madam Washington, quietly.
The blood flew into George’s face, but he spoke no word. His mother was
a person who did not like to be questioned.
“You may read it,” she continued, handing it to him out of her bag.
It was sealed with the huge crest of the Fairfaxes, and was written in
the beautiful penmanship of the period. It began:
“HONORED MADAM.--The promise you graciously made me, that your eldest
son, Mr. George Washington, might visit me at Greenway Court, gave
me both pride and pleasure; and will you not add to that pride and
pleasure by permitting him to return with me when I pass through
Fredericksburg again on my way home two days hence? Do not, honored
madam, think that I am proposing that your son spend his whole time
with me in sport and pleasure. While both have their place in the
education of the young, I conceive, honored madam, that your son
has more serious business in hand--namely, the improvement of his
mind, and the acquiring of those noble qualities and graces which
distinguish the gentleman from the lout.
“He would have at Greenway, at least, the advantage of the best minds
in England as far as they can be writ in books, and for myself,
honored madam, I will be as kind to him as the tenderest father. If
you can recall with any pleasure the days so long ago, when we were
both twenty years younger, and when your friendship, honored madam,
was the chief pleasure, as it always will be the chief honor, of my
life, I beg that you will not refuse my request. I am, madam, with
sentiments of the highest esteem,
“Your obedient, humble servant,
“FAIRFAX.”
“Have you thought it over, mother?”
“Yes, my son; but, as you know I am a person of deliberation, I will
think it over yet more.”
“I will give up Christmas at Mount Vernon, mother, if you will let me
go.”
“I have already promised your brother that you shall spend Christmas
with him, and I cannot recall my word.”
George said no more. He got up, and, bowing respectfully to his mother,
went out. He had that morning more than his usual number of tasks
to do; but all day long he was in a dream. For all his steadiness
and willingness to lead a quiet life with his mother and the younger
children at Ferry Farm, he was by nature adventurous, and for more than
a year he had chafed inwardly at the narrow and uneventful existence
which he led. He had early announced that he wished to serve either
in the army or the navy, but, like all people, young or old, who have
strong determination, he bided his time quietly, doing meanwhile what
came to hand. He had been every whit as much fascinated with Lord
Fairfax as the elder man had been with him; and the prospect of a visit
to Greenway--of listening to his talk of the great men he had known, of
seeing the mountains for the first time in his life, and of hunting and
sporting in their wilds, of taking lessons in fencing from old Lance,
of looking over Lord Fairfax’s books--was altogether enchanting. He
had a keen taste for social life, and his Christmas at Mount Vernon,
with all its gayety and company, had been the happiest two weeks of his
life. Suppose his mother should agree to let him go to Greenway with
the earl and then come back by way of Mount Vernon? Such a prospect
seemed almost too dazzling. He brought his horse down to a walk along
the cart-road through the woods he was traversing while he contemplated
the delightful vision; and then, suddenly coming out of his day-dream,
he pulled himself together, and, striking into a sharp gallop, tried to
dismiss the subject from his mind. This he could not do, but he could
exert himself so that no one would guess what was going on in his mind,
and in this he was successful.
Two o’clock was the dinner-hour at Ferry Farm, and a few minutes before
that time George walked up from the stables to the house. Little Betty
was on the watch, and ran down to the gate to meet him. Their mother,
looking out of the window, saw them coming across the lawn arm in arm,
Betty chattering like a magpie and George smiling as he listened. They
were two of the handsomest and healthiest and brightest-eyed young
creatures that could be imagined, and Madam Washington’s heart glowed
with a pride which she believed sinful and strove unavailingly to
smother.
At dinner Madam Washington and George and Betty talked, the three
younger boys being made to observe silence, after the fashion of the
day. Neither Madam Washington nor George brought up the subject of
the earl’s visit, although it was a tremendous event in their quiet
lives. But little Betty, who was the talkative member of the family,
at once began on him. His coach and horses and outriders were grand,
she admitted; but why an earl, with bags of money, should choose to
wear a plain brown suit, no better than any other gentleman, Mistress
Betty vowed she could not understand. His kneebuckles were not half so
fine as George’s, and brother Laurence had a dozen suits finer than the
earl’s.
“His sword-hilt is worth more than this plantation,” remarked George,
by way of mitigating Betty’s scorn for the earl’s costume. Betty
acknowledged that she had never seen so fine a sword-hilt in her life,
and then innocently remarked that she wished she were going to visit
at Greenway Court with George. George’s face turned crimson, but he
remained silent. He was a proud boy, and had never in his life begged
for anything, but he wanted to go so badly that the temptation was
strong in him to mount his horse without asking anybody’s leave, and,
taking Billy and Rattler with him, start off alone for the mountains.
Dinner was over presently, and as they rose Madam Washington said,
quietly:
“My son, I have determined to allow you to join Lord Fairfax, and I
have sent an inquiry to him, an hour ago, asking at what time to-morrow
you should meet him in Fredericksburg. You may remain with him until
December; but the first mild spell in December I wish you to go down to
Mount Vernon for Christmas, as I promised.”
George’s delight was so great that he grew pale with pleasure. He would
have liked to catch his mother in his arms and kiss her, but mother and
son were chary of showing emotion. Therefore he only took her hand and
kissed it, saying, breathlessly:
“Thank you, mother. I hardly hoped for so much pleasure.”
“But it is not for pleasure that I let you go,” replied his mother,
who, according to the spirit of the age, referred everything to duty.
“’Tis because I think my Lord Fairfax’s company will be of benefit to
you; and as there is but little prospect of a school here this winter,
and I have made no arrangements for a tutor, I must do something for
your education, but that I cannot do until after Christmas. So, as I
think you will be learning something of men as well as of books, I have
thought it best, after reflecting upon it as well as I can, to let you
go.”
“I will promise you, mother, never to do or say anything while I am
away from you that I would be ashamed for you to know,” cried George.
Madam Washington smiled at this.
“Your promise is too extensive,” she said. “Promise me only that you
will _try_ not to do or say anything that will make me ashamed, and
that will be enough.”
George colored, as he answered:
“I dare say I promised too much, and so I will accept the change you
make.”
Here a wild howl burst upon the air. Billy, who had been standing
behind George’s chair, understood well enough what the conversation
meant, and that he was to be separated until after Christmas from his
beloved “Marse George.” Madam Washington, who had little patience with
such outbreaks of emotion, sharply spoke to him. “Be quiet, Billy!”
Billy’s reply was a fresh burst of tears and wailing, which brought
home to little Betty that George was about to leave them, and caused
her to dissolve into tears and sobs, while Rattler, running about the
room, and looking from one to the other, began to bark furiously.
Madam Washington, standing up, calm, but excessively annoyed at this
commotion in her quiet house, brought her foot down with a light tap,
which, however, meant volumes. Uncle Jasper too appeared, and was about
to haul Billy off to condign punishment when George intervened.
“Hold your tongue, Billy,” he said; and Billy, digging his knuckles
into his eyes, subsided as quietly as he had broken forth.
“Now go up to my room and take the dog, and stay there until I come,”
continued George.
Billy obeyed promptly. Betty, however, having once let loose the
floodgates, hung around George’s neck and wept oceans of tears. George
soothed her as best he could, but Betty would not be comforted, and was
more distressed than ever when, in a little while, a note arrived from
Lord Fairfax, saying he would leave Fredericksburg the next morning at
sunrise if it would be convenient to Mr. Washington to join him then.