Before daybreak the next morning George came down-stairs, Billy
following with his portmanteau. Madam Washington, little Betty, and
all the house-servants were up and dressed, but it was thought best
not to waken the three little boys, who slept on comfortably in their
trundle-beds. The candles were lighted, and for the last time for two
months,--which seems long to the young, George had family prayers. His
mother then took the book from him and read the prayers for travellers
about to start on a journey. She was quite composed, for no woman
ever surpassed Madam Washington in self-control; but little Betty
still wept, and would not leave George’s side even while he ate his
breakfast. There had been some talk of Betty’s going to Mount Vernon
also for Christmas, and George, remembering this, asked his mother,
as a last favor, that she would let Betty meet him there, whence he
could bring her home. Madam Washington agreed, and this quickly dried
Betty’s tears. Billy acted in a mysterious manner. Instead of being in
vociferous distress, he was quiet and even cheerful, so much so that a
grin discovered itself on his countenance, which was promptly banished
as soon as he saw Madam Washington’s clear, stern eyes travelling his
way. George, feeling for poor Billy’s loneliness, had determined to
leave Rattler behind for company; but both Billy and Rattler were to
cross the ferry with him, the one to bring the horse back, and the
other for a last glimpse of his master.
The parting was not so mournful, therefore, as it promised to be.
George went into the chamber where his three little brothers slept,
who were not wide-awake enough to feel much regret at his departure.
The servants all came out and he shook the hand of each, especially
Uncle Jasper’s, while Aunt Sukey embraced him. His mother kissed him
and solemnly blessed him, and the procession started. George mounted
his own horse, while Betty, seated pillion-wise behind him, was to ride
with him to the ferry. Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey walked as far as the
gate, and Billy, with Rattler at his heels and the portmanteau on his
head, started off on a brisk run down the road. The day was breaking
beautifully. A pale blue mist lay over the river and the woods. The
fields, bare and brown, were covered with a white hoar-frost, and
harbored flocks of partridges, which rose on whirring wings as the gray
light turned to red and gold. In the chinquapin bushes along the road
squirrels chattered, and a hare running across the lane reminded George
of his hare-traps, which he charged Betty to look to. But although
Betty would have died for him at any moment, she would not agree to
have any hand in the trapping and killing of any living thing; so she
would only promise to tell the younger boys to look after the traps.
“And it won’t be long until Christmas,” said George, turning in his
saddle and pressing Betty’s arm that was around him as they galloped
along briskly; “and if I have a chance of sending a letter, I will
write you one. Think, Betty, you will have a letter all to yourself;
you have never had one, I know.”
“I never had a letter all to myself,” answered Betty. For that was
before the days of cheap postage, or postage at all as it is now; and
letters were rare and precious treasures.
“And it will be very fine at Mount Vernon--ladies, and even girls like
you, wearing hoops, and dancing minuets every evening, while Black
Tubal and Squirrel Tom play their fiddles.”
“I like minuets well enough, but I like jigs and rigadoons better; and
mother will not let me wear a hoop. But I am to have her white sarcenet
silk made over for me. That I know.”
“You must practise on the harpsichord very much, Betty; for at Mount
Vernon there is one, and brother Laurence and his wife will want you to
play before company.”
Mistress Betty was not averse to showing off her great accomplishment,
and received this very complaisantly. Altogether, what with the letter
and the white sarcenet, she began to take a hopeful rather than a
despairing view of the coming two months.
Arrived within sight of the ferry, George stopped, and lifted Betty
off the horse. There was a foot-path across the fields to the house
which made it but a short walk back, which Betty could take alone. The
brother and sister gave each other one long and silent embrace--for
they loved each other very dearly--and then, without a word, Betty
climbed over the fence and walked rapidly homeward, while George made
for the ferry, where Billy and the portmanteau awaited him. One of the
small boats and two ferry-men, Yellow Dick and Sambo, took him across
the river. The horse was to be carried across for George to ride to
the inn where Lord Fairfax awaited him, and Billy was to take the horse
back again.
[Illustration: GEORGE BIDS BETTY GOOD-BYE]
The flush of the dawn was on the river when the boat pushed off, and
George thought he had never seen it lovelier; but like most healthy
young creatures on pleasure bent, he had no sentimental regrets. The
thing he minded most was leaving Billy, because he was afraid the boy
would be in constant trouble until his return. But Billy seemed to take
it so debonairly that George concluded the boy had at last got over his
strong disinclination to work for or think of anybody except “Marse
George.”
The boat shot rapidly through the water, rowed by the stalwart
ferry-men, and George was soon on the opposite shore. He bade good-bye
to Yellow Dick and Sambo, and, mounting his horse, with Billy still
trotting ahead with the portmanteau, rode off through the quaint
old town to the tavern. It was a long, low building at the corner
of two straggling streets, and signs of the impending departure of
a distinguished guest were not wanting. Captain Benson, a militia
officer, kept the tavern, and in honor of the Earl of Fairfax had
donned a rusty uniform, and was going back and forth between the stable
and the kitchen, first looking after his lordship’s breakfast and then
after his lordship’s horses’ breakfasts. He came bustling out when
George rode up.
“Good-morning, Mr. Washington. ’Light, sir, ’light. I understand
you are going to Greenway Court with his lordship. He is now at his
breakfast. Will you please to walk in?”
“No, I thank you, sir,” responded George. “If you will kindly mention
to Lord Fairfax that I am here, you will oblige me.”
“Certainly, sir, certainly,” cried Captain Benson, disappearing in the
house.
The travelling-chariot was out and the horses were being put to it
under the coachman’s superintendence, while old Lance was looking after
the luggage. He came up to George, and, giving him the military salute,
asked for Mr. Washington’s portmanteau. George could scarcely realize
that he was going until he saw it safely stowed along with the earl’s
under the box-seat. He then determined to send Billy off before the
earl made his appearance, for fear of a terrible commotion, after all,
when Billy had to face the final parting.
“Now, Billy,” said George to him, very earnestly, “you will not give my
mother so much trouble as you used to, but do as you are told, and it
will be better for you.”
“Yes, suh,” answered Billy, looking in George’s eyes without winking.
“And here is a crown for you,” said George, slipping one into Billy’s
hand--poor George had only a few crowns in a purse little Betty had
knitted for him. “Now mount the horse and go home. Good-bye, Rattler,
boy--all of Lord Fairfax’s dogs, of every kind, shall not make me
forget you.”
Billy, without the smallest evidence of grief, but with rather a
twinkle in his beady eyes, shook his young master’s hand, jumped on
the horse, and, whistling to Rattler, all three of George’s friends
disappeared down the village street. George looked after them for some
minutes and sighed at what was before Billy, but comforted himself by
recalling the boy’s sensible behavior in the matter of the parting.
In a few moments Lord Fairfax came out. George went up the steps to
the porch, and, making his best bow, tried to say how much he felt the
earl’s kindness. True gratitude is not always glib, and was not with
George, but the earl saw from the boy’s face the intense pleasure he
experienced.
“You will sit with me, Mr. Washington,” said Lord Fairfax, “and when
you are tired of the chariot I will have one of my outriders give you
a horse, and have him ride the wheel-horse.”
“Anything that your lordship pleases,” was George’s polite reply.
The earl bade a dignified farewell to Captain Benson, who escorted him
to the coach, and in a little while, with George by his side and the
outriders ahead, they were jolting along towards the open country.
The earl talked a little for the first hour or two, pointing out
objects in the landscape, and telling interesting facts concerning
them, which George had never known before. After a while, though, he
took down two books from a kind of shelf in the front of the coach, and
handing one to George, said:
“Here is a volume of the _Spectator_. You will find both profit and
pleasure in it. Thirty years ago the _Spectator_ was the talk of the
day. It ruled London clubs and drawing-rooms, and its influence was
not unfelt in politics.” The other book, George saw, was an edition
of Horace in the original. As soon as the earl opened it he became
absorbed in it.
Not so with George and the _Spectator_. Although fond of reading, and
shrewd enough to see that the earl would have but a low opinion of a
boy who could not find resources in books, what was passing before
him was too novel and interesting, to a boy who had been so little
away from home, to divide his attention with anything. The highway
was fairly good, but the four roans took the road at such a rattling
gait that the heavy chariot rolled and bumped and lurched like a ship
at sea. So well made was it, though, and so perfect the harness, that
not a bolt, a nut, or a strap gave way. The country for the first
thirty miles was not unlike what George was accustomed to, but his
keen eyes saw some difference as they proceeded towards the northwest.
The day was bright and beautiful, a sharper air succeeding the soft
Indian summer of the few days preceding. The cavalcade made a vast
dust, clatter, and commotion. Every homestead they passed was aroused,
and people, white and black, came running out to see the procession.
George enjoyed the coach very much at first, but he soon began to wish
that he were on the back of one of the stout nags that rode ahead, and
determined, as soon as they stopped for dinner, to take advantage of
Lord Fairfax’s offer and to ask to ride.
They had started soon after sunrise, and twelve o’clock found them
more than twenty-five miles from Fredericksburg. They stopped at a
road-side tavern for dinner and some hours’ rest. The tavern was large
and comfortable, and boasted the luxury of a private room, where dinner
was served to the earl and his young guest. The tavern-keeper himself
carved for them, and although he treated the earl with great respect,
saying “My lord” at every other word, according to the custom of the
day, there was no servility in his manner. Like everybody else, he
was struck with George’s manner and appearance on first seeing him,
and, finding out that he was the son of the late Colonel Augustine
Washington, made the boy’s face glow with praise of his father. When
the time came to start George made his request that he be allowed to
ride a horse, and he was immediately given his choice of the four bays.
He examined them all quickly, but with the eye of a natural judge of
a horse, and unerringly picked out the best of the lot. “Do not feel
obliged to regulate your pace by ours,” said the earl. “We are to sleep
to-night at Farley’s tavern, only twenty miles from here, and so you
present yourself by sundown it is enough.”
George mounted and rode off. He found the bay well rested by his two
hours’ halt and ready for his work. He felt so much freer and happier
on horseback than in the chariot that he could not help wishing he
could make the rest of the journey in that way. But he thought it
would scarcely be polite to abandon the earl altogether, and determined
to make the first stage in the coach every day. He rode on all the
afternoon, keeping the high-road with ease, although towards the end
it began to grow wilder and rougher. He reached Farley’s tavern some
time before sundown, and his arrival giving advance notice of the earl,
everything was ready for him, even to a fine wild turkey roasting on
the kitchen spit for supper. Like most of the road-houses of the day,
Farley’s was spacious and comfortable, though not luxurious. There was
a private room there, too, with a roaring fire of hickory logs on the
hearth, for the night had grown colder. At supper, when there was time
to spare, old Lance produced a box, out of which he took some handsome
table furniture and a pair of tall silver candlesticks. The supper was
brought in smoking hot, Lance bearing aloft the wild turkey on a vast
platter. He also brought forth a bottle of wine of superior vintage to
anything that the tavern cellar could produce.
The earl narrowly watched George as they supped together, talking
meanwhile. He rightly judged that table manners and deportment are
a very fair test of one’s training in the niceties of life, and
was more than ever pleased the closer he observed the boy. First,
George proved himself a skilful carver, and carved the turkey with
the utmost dexterity. This was an accomplishment carefully taught
him by his mother. Then, although he had the ravenous appetite of a
fifteen-year-old boy after a long day’s travel, he did not forget to be
polite and attentive to the earl, who trifled with his supper rather
than ate it. The boy took one glass of wine, and declined having his
glass refilled. His conversation was chiefly replies to questions, and
were so apt that the earl every moment liked his young guest better and
better. George was quite unconscious of the deep attention with which
Lord Fairfax observed him. He thought he had been asked to Greenway
out of pure good-nature, and rather wished to keep in the background
so he should not make his host repent his hospitality. But a feeling,
far deeper than mere good-nature, inspired the earl. He felt a profound
interest in the boy, and was enough a judge of human nature to see that
something remarkable might be expected of him.
Soon after supper occurred the first inelegance on George’s part.
In the midst of a sentence of the earl’s the boy suddenly and
involuntarily gave a wide yawn. He colored furiously, but Lord Fairfax
burst into one of his rare laughs, and calling Lance, directed him to
show Mr. Washington to his room. George was perfectly willing to go;
but when Lance, taking one of the tall candlesticks, showed him his
room, his eyes suddenly came wide open, and the idea that Lance could
tell him all about the siege of Bouchain, and marching and starving
and fighting with Marlborough, drove the sleep from his eyes like the
beating of a drum.
Reaching the room Lance put the candle on the dressing-table, and,
standing at “attention,” asked:
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” said George, seating himself on the edge of the bed. “How long
will it be before my Lord Fairfax needs you?”
“About two hours, sir. His lordship sits late.”
“Then--then--” continued George, with a little diffidence, “I wish you
would tell me something about campaigning with the Duke of Marlborough
and Prince Eugene, and all about the siege of Bouchain.”
Lance’s strong, weather-beaten face was suddenly illuminated with a
light that George had not seen on it before, and his soldierly figure
unconsciously took a more military pose.
“’Tis a long story, sir,” he said, “and I was only a youngster and a
private soldier; it is thirty-five years gone now.”
“That’s why I want you to tell it,” replied George. “All the books are
written by the officers, but never a word have I heard from a man in
the ranks. I have read the life of the great Duke of Marlborough, and
also Prince Eugene, but it is a different thing to hear a man tell of
the wars who has burned powder in them.”
“True, sir. And the Duke of Marlborough was the greatest soldier of
our time. We have the Duke of Cumberland now--a brave general, sir,
and brother to the king--but I warrant, had he been at the siege of
Bouchain and in the Low Countries, he would have been licked worse than
Marshal Villars.”
“And Marshal Villars was a very skilful general too,” said George, now
thoroughly wide-awake.
“Certainly, sir, he was. The French are but a mean-looking set of
fellows, but how they can fight! And they have the best legs of any
soldiers in Europe; and I am not so sure they have not the best heads.
I fought ’em for twenty-five years--for I only quitted the service when
I came with my Lord Fairfax to this new country--and I ought to know.
My time of enlistment was up, the great duke was dead, and there had
been peace for so long that I thought soldiers in Europe had forgot to
fight; so when his lordship offered to bring me, I, who had neither
wife nor child, nor father nor mother, nor brother nor sister, was glad
to come with him. I had served in his lordship’s regiment, and he knew
me because I had once--but never mind that, sir.”
“No,” cried George. “Go on.”
“Well, sir,” said Lance, looking sheepish, “I shouldn’t have spoke of
it; but the fact is, that once when we were transporting powder from
the magazine the wagon broke down and a case exploded. It was a miracle
that all of us were not killed; three poor fellows were marked for
life, and retired on two shillings a day for it. There were plenty of
sparks lying around, and I put some of them out, and we saved the rest
of the powder. That’s all, sir.”
“I understand,” answered George, smiling. “It was a gallant thing, and
no doubt you saved some lives as well as some powder.”
“Maybe so, sir,” said Lance, a dull red showing under the tan and
sunburn of more than fifty years. “My Lord Fairfax made more of it
than ’twas worth. So, when he had left the army, and I thought he had
forgot me, he wrote and asked if I would come to America with him, and
I came. Often, in the winter-time, the earl does not see a white face
for months except mine, and then he forgets that we are master and man,
and only remembers that he is my old commander and I am an old soldier.
The earl was a young cornet in 1710-12, and was with the armies in the
Low Countries, where we had given Marshal Villars a trouncing, and he
gave Prince Eugene a trouncing back, in exchange. So, sometimes, of the
long winter nights, the earl sends for me and reads to me out of books
about that last campaign of the Duke of Marlborough’s, and says to me,
‘Lance, how was this?’ And, ‘Lance, do you recollect that?’ Being only
a soldier, I never did know what we were marching and countermarching
for, nor so much as what we were fighting for: but when the earl asks
me what we were doing when we marched from Lens to Aire, or from
Arleux to Bachuel, I can tell him all about the march--whether ’twas
in fine or rainy weather, and how we got across the rivers, and what
rations we had; we often did not have any, and the mounseers were not
much better off. But, Mr. Washington, a Frenchman’s stomach is not
like an Englishman’s. They can sup on soup maigre and lentils after a
hard day’s march, and then get up and shake a leg while another fellow
fiddles. But an Englishman has to have his beef, sir, and bacon and
greens, and a good thick porridge with beans in it. I think all the
nourishment the Frenchmen get goes into their legs, for they will march
day and night for their Grand Monarque, as they call him, and are
always ready to fight.”
“I hope we shall not have to fight the French up in Pennsylvania to
make them keep their boundaries,” said George, after a while, in a tone
which plainly meant that he hoped very much they would have to fight,
and that he would be in the thick of the scrimmage. “And now tell me
how the Duke of Marlborough looked in action, and all about Prince
Eugene, and the siege of Bouchain, until it is time to go to the earl.
But first sit down, for you have had a hard day’s travel.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lance, sitting down stiffly, and snuffing the
candle with his fingers.