Some weeks were spent at Greenway Court, and George slipped back into
the same life he had led for so long in the autumn. Instead, however,
of reading in the evenings, Lord Fairfax and himself spent the time in
studying rude maps of the region to be explored, and talking over the
labors of the coming summer. The earl told George that William Fairfax
had heard of the proposed expedition, and was so anxious to go as
George’s assistant that his father was disposed to gratify him if it
could be arranged.
“But I shall not communicate with him until I have talked with you,
George,” said the earl, “for William, although a hardy youngster, and
with some knowledge of surveying, is still but a lad, and there might
be serious business in hand. However, this season’s surveys are not to
be far from here, so that if you care for his company I see no reason
why he should not go.”
“I should be very glad to have him,” replied George, blushing a little.
“I did a very unhandsome thing to William Fairfax while we were at
Mount Vernon at Christmas, and he was so manful about it that I think
more of him than ever, and I believe he would be an excellent helper.”
“An unhandsome thing?” repeated the earl, in a tone of inquiry.
“Knocked him sprawling, sir, in my brother’s house. My brother was very
much offended with me, and I was ashamed of myself.”
“But you are good friends now?”
“Better than ever, sir, for William behaved as well as I behaved ill,
and if he is willing to come with me I shall be glad to have him.”
“I shall send an express, then, to Belvoir, and William will be here
in a few days. And now I have something else to propose to you. My
man Lance is very anxious to see the new country, although he has not
directly asked my permission to go; but the poor fellow has served me
so faithfully that I feel like indulging him. Only a lettered man, my
dear George, can stand with cheerfulness this solitude month after
month and year after year as I do, and, although Lance is a man of
great natural intelligence, he never read a book through in his life,
so that his time is often heavy on his hands. I think a few months of
mountaineering would be a godsend to him in big lonely life up here,
and I make no doubt at all that you would be glad to have him with you.”
“Glad, sir! I would be more glad than I can say. But what is to become
of you without Lance?”
“I can get on tolerably well without him for a time,” replied the earl,
smiling. And the unspoken thought in his mind was, “And I shall feel
sure that there is a watchful and responsible person in company with
the two youngsters I shall send out.”
“And Billy, of course, will go with me,” said George, meditatively.
“Why, my lord, it will be a pleasure jaunt.”
“Get all the happiness you can out of it, George; I have no fear that
you will neglect your work.”
Within two weeks from that day William Fairfax had arrived, and the
party was ready to start. It was then the first of April, and not
much field-work could be done until May. But Lord Fairfax found it
impossible to hold in his young protégés. As for Lance, he was the
most eager of the lot to get away. Cut off from association with his
own class, nothing but his devotion to Lord Fairfax made the isolated
life at Greenway Court endurable to him; and this prospect of variety
in his routine, where, to a certain degree, he could resume his
campaigning habits, was a fascinating change to him.
The earl, with a smile, and a sigh at the loss of George and William’s
cheerful company and Lance’s faithful attendance, saw them set forth
at sunrise on an April morning. George, mounted on the new half-bred
horse that Lord Fairfax had given him, rode side by side with William
Fairfax, who was equally well mounted. He carried the most precious of
his surveying instruments and two little books, closely printed, which
the earl had given him the night before. One was a miniature copy of
Shakespeare’s plays, and the other a small volume of Addison’s works.
Behind them, on one of the stout cobs commonly used by the outriders on
Lord Fairfax’s journeys to lower Virginia, rode Lance.
The old soldier was beaming with delight. He neither knew nor cared
anything about surveying, but he was off for what he called a campaign,
in company with two youths full of life and fire, and it made him feel
like a colt. He had charge of the commissary, and a led-horse was
loaded with the tent, the blankets, and such provisions as they could
carry, although they expected their guns and fishing-rods to supply
their appetites. Behind them all rode Billy on an old cart-horse.
Billy was very miserable. He had no taste for campaigning, and
preferred the fare of a well-stocked kitchen to such as one could
get out of woods and streams. George had been so disgusted with
Billy’s want of enterprise and devotion to the kitchen rations that
he had sternly threatened to leave the boy behind, at which Billy
had howled vociferously, and had got George’s promise not to leave
him. Nevertheless, a domestic life suited Billy much better than an
adventurous one.
What a merry party they were when they set off! Lord Fairfax stood on
the porch watching them as long as they were in sight, and when, on
reaching a little knoll, both boys turned and waved their hats at him,
he felt a very lonely old man, and went sadly into the quiet house.
The party travelled on over fairly good mountain roads all that day,
and at night made their first camp. They were within striking distance
of a good tavern, but it was not in boy nature to seek comfort and
civilization when camping out was possible.
George realized the treasure he had in Lance when, in an inconceivably
short time, the tent was set up and supper was being prepared. The
horses were taken care of by George and William, who got from a lonely
settler’s clearing a feed of corn for them. Meanwhile, with a kettle,
a pan, and a gridiron, Lance had prepared a supper fit for a king, so
the hungry boys declared. Billy had actually been made to go to work,
and to move when he was spoken to. The first thing he was told to do by
Lance was to make a fire. Billy was about to take his time to consider
the proposition when Lance, who was used to military obedience,
instantly drew a ramrod from one of the guns, and gave Billy a smart
thwack across his knuckles with it. Billy swelled with wrath. Lance he
esteemed to be a “po’ white,” and, as such, by no means authorized to
make him stir.
“Look a-heah, man,” said Billy, loftily, “you ain’ got no business
a-hittin’ Marse George’s nigger.”
“I haven’t, eh?” was Lance’s rejoinder, giving Billy another whack. “Do
you make that fire, you rapscallion, or you get no supper. And make it
quick, d’ye hear? Oh, I wish I had had you in the Low Countries, under
my old drill-sergeant! You would have got what Paddy gave the drum!”
Billy, thus admonished, concluded it would be better to mind, and
although he felt sure that “Marse George” would give him his supper,
yet he was not at present in high favor with that young gentleman, and
did not want to take any risks in the matter. However, he did not
really exert himself until Lance said, severely, “I have a great mind
to ask Mr. Washington to send you back to Greenway Court. It is not too
far.”
At that Billy suddenly became very industrious. Now George, on the
other side of the tent currying his horse, heard the whole affair, and
when they were called to supper he threw out a hint that his servitor
might be sent back; which threat, then and forever after, acted on
Billy like a galvanic battery.
George and William thought, as they sat by the fire in the woods eating
their rude but palatable supper, that they were the luckiest creatures
in the world. They were exhilarated rather than fatigued by their day’s
work. A roaring fire cast a red glare among the rocks and trees, and
warmed the keen, cold air of the spring night in the mountains. Within
their tent were piles of cedar boughs for beds, and blankets to cover
them.
William Fairfax had never heard any of Lance’s interesting stories,
although George had told him of them. When supper was over, and the
boys had an hour before turning in, George induced Lance to tell of
some of his adventures in the wars of the Spanish Succession. They
were deeply interesting, for Lance was a daring character, and had
seen many strange vicissitudes. Billy and Rattler, who were not very
much interested in the proceedings, dropped asleep early, and George,
throwing a blanket over Billy, let him lie and snore before the fire
until it was time to take to the tent. After a while Lance said:
“It was the Duke of Marlborough’s way to have all the lights out early;
and I think, Mr. Washington, if we want to make an early start, we had
better turn in now.”
George and William, nothing loath, betook themselves to their beds of
boughs within the tent. Lance preferred to lie just in the doorway, the
flap being left up for air. The boys noticed that he very carefully
took off his shoes and washed his feet in a pail of ice-cold water
brought from a spring near by.
“Why do you do that, Lance?” asked George, who thought it rather severe
treatment.
“Because that’s the way to keep your feet in order, sir, and to keep
from taking cold in a campaign; and I recommend you and Mr. Fairfax to
try it for a regular thing,” answered Lance.
Within two days they reached the point where they must leave their
horses and really begin their walk. They struck now into a wilderness,
full of the most sublime scenery, and with a purity of air and a wild
beauty of its own that would appeal to the most sluggish imagination.
George had found William Fairfax to be a first-rate camping companion,
and he proved to be an equally good assistant in surveying. George was
not only an accurate but a very rapid surveyor, and William was equal
to every demand made upon him. Although they carried their guns along
when at work, they shot but little game, leaving that to Lance, and the
trapping of birds and small animals to Billy, who was always willing to
forage for his dinner. They met a few Indians occasionally. Many of the
Indians had never seen surveying instruments, and thought them to be
something miraculous.
[Illustration: “THEY STRUCK NOW INTO THE WILDERNESS”]
Lance was a genius in the way of making a camp comfortable. Although
all of his experiences had been under entirely different circumstances,
in an old and settled country with a flat surface, he was practical
enough to transmute his knowledge to suit other conditions. He made no
pretence of assisting in the field-work, but when George and William
would come back to camp in the evenings, after a long day’s tramp on
the mountains, Lance would always be ready with a good supper, a bed of
pine or cedar branches, and an endless store of tales of life in other
days and other places. In the absence of books, except the two volumes
given George by Lord Fairfax, these story-tellings became a great
resource to the two young fellows, and were established as a regular
thing. Although Lance had been only a private soldier, and was not an
educated man, he had natural military talents, and when they would talk
about possibilities of war with the French upon the frontier, which was
then looked upon as inevitable, Lance clearly foresaw what actually
happened years afterwards. The military instinct was always active in
George, and it developed marvellously. For recreation he and Lance
devised many campaigns against the French and Indians, and proved,
on paper at least, how easy it would be to capture every French fort
and block-house from the Alleghanies to the Great Lakes. George had a
provincial’s enthusiastic confidence in regular troops, and was amazed
to find Lance insisting that their usefulness in a campaign in the
wilderness was doubtful.
“I tell you, Mr. Washington, I have seen a little of the Indian
fighting, and you give a few of those red devils firelocks, with
a handful of French to direct them, and there is not a general in
England who would know how to fight them. And the worst of it is that
the English despise the Indians, and you could not make an Englishman
believe that he could not lick two Frenchmen until he has been licked.
An English general would want roads and bridges and an artillery-train
and a dozen other things that these savages never heard of, while all
they want is a firelock and a tree, and they can pick off their man
every time.”
“Then do you think the English will not be able to hold this part of
the country?” asked George.
“With the militia--yes, sir. Your provincial troops know how to fight
Indians, and can get through a wilderness without making a highway like
a Roman road. But, mark my words, Mr. Washington, many a brave fellow
has got to lay down his life before the English learn how to fight in
the woods.”
These prophetic words came back vividly to George before many years had
passed.
The summer came on apace. Never had George seen anything more beautiful
than the outburst of tree and leaf and flower among these lonely
peaks. The out-door life agreed with him perfectly, as it did with
William Fairfax. They worked hard all the week, always leaving camp
before sunrise, and generally not returning until after sunset. Lance
always had a good fire and a capital supper waiting for them. He
fashioned rude but comfortable seats and tables out of logs, and his
impromptu out-door kitchen was a model of neatness and order. He was
an accomplished laundress, but, after instructing Billy in the art of
washing and drying clothes, turned that branch of their housekeeping
over to this young person, who worked steadily, if unwillingly. On
rainy days the boys remained in their tent, with two large tarpaulins
thrown over it to keep out the water. George then wrote in his journal
and read one of his precious books, William reading the other. On
Sundays they took turns in the morning, after the work of the camp was
over, in reading the service of the Church of England to a congregation
composed of Lance, Billy, and Rattler--the two latter generally going
to sleep in the first five minutes.
Besides his regular work and having an eye to military operations in
that region, George and William both had an opportunity to study the
animals and birds the forests and mountains harbored. For the first
time they had a chance of closely watching the beaver, and admiring
this great engineer among beasts. They were lost in admiration at the
dam constructed by him, which the most scientific engineering could
not surpass. The brown bear, a good-natured creature that was always
frightened at the sight of a human being, was common to them, and deer
enough to keep their larder supplied were found. Lance was a skilful
fisherman, and the mountain trout was on their daily bill of fare. The
only thing they feared were the snakes, but as they always wore long
and stout boots, they escaped being bitten while at their work, and
Lance and Billy kept a close watch on the camp, examining the tent and
ground every night before they slept. It was so cold at night, however,
that they were in but little danger from reptiles then, for, no matter
how warm the day, by nightfall a fire was pleasant.
And so days became weeks, and weeks became months. George had begun his
work with a fierce disappointment gnawing at his heart, and thought
he should never live to see the day when he would not regret that he
was not in the navy. But at sixteen, with health and work, despair
cannot long abide. Before he knew it the pain grew less, and insensibly
he found himself becoming happier. But this was not accomplished by
sitting down and brooding over his troubles; it was done by hard work,
by a powerful will, and the fixed determination to make the best of
things. Before the summer was over he could think, without a pang, of
that cruel blow he had received the day after he reached Ferry Farm.
Lord Fairfax thought he had not given George too much time when he
named the 1st of October as the date the party would probably return
to Greenway Court. But on a glorious day in early September, when Lord
Fairfax came in from riding over his principality in land, he saw a
young figure that he well knew speeding down the road to meet him,
and recognized George. The boy was much grown, and gave full promise
of the six feet three that he attained in his manhood. His figure was
admirably developed, his fair complexion bronzed, and his bright,
expressive eyes were brilliant with health and spirits.
Lord Fairfax’s pale and worn face lighted up with pleasure, and he
dismounted on seeing George. Arm in arm the two walked up to the great,
quaint house--the man, old before his time, and never losing the sad
and wearied look that showed he had not found life all roses, and
the splendid youth glowing with health and hope and brightness. Lord
Fairfax asked many questions about the work, and George was equally
full of questions about lowland affairs. Of these Lord Fairfax knew
little, but he told George there were a number of letters for him in
a desk in the library. George was all eagerness to get them, as he
knew he should find letters from his mother and Betty and his brother
Laurence.
As they neared the house they passed within view of the kitchen.
Billy had not been off his horse’s back half an hour, but he was
already seated in the kitchen door, and between his knees was a huge
kettle, in which were some bacon and beans. In one hand he held a
tremendous hoe-cake, which he shared with Rattler, who was sitting on
his haunches, with an expression of profound satisfaction very like
that which irradiated Billy’s dusky features. Neither George nor Lord
Fairfax could forbear laughing, and Billy grinned appreciatively at
them.
But on reading his letters a little later in the library George’s face
lost its merry smile. His mother and Betty were quite well only ten
days before--which was late news for that day--but his little playmate
Mildred, at Mount Vernon, was fading fast. One of Madam Washington’s
letters, dated about three weeks before, said:
“I have just come from a visit of eight days to Mount Vernon; your
brother and sister are fairly well, although Laurence will never be
of a robust constitution. But the little girl, I see, is not to be
spared us long. She is now nearly three years old--older than any of
Laurence’s other children have lived to be--but there is a blight upon
this dear little innocent, and I doubt whether she will not be a
flower in God’s garden by Christmas-time--greatly to her profit, but to
the everlasting grief of her sorrowing parents.”
This letter made George feel as if he would like that very moment to
have his horse saddled and to start for Mount Vernon. But he felt that
with the great interests with which he had been trusted by Lord Fairfax
it would not be right to go without giving an account of his work. He
was sitting sadly enough at the library table, reading his mother’s
letter, when Lord Fairfax entered.
“You have bad news, George,” said he, after one glance at the boy’s
troubled face.
“Very bad, sir,” replied George, sadly. “My brother’s only living
child, a dear little girl, is very ill, I am afraid. My mother writes
me she is fading fast. My poor brother and sister love her so much--she
is the only child that has been spared them. Three others have all died
before they were a year old.”
“Then you want to go to Mount Vernon as soon as possible,” said the
earl, reading the unspoken wish in George’s heart.
“Oh, sir, I do want to go; but I think I ought to stay here for some
days, to show you what I have done.”
“One night will be enough, if you will leave your surveys and papers
with me; and perhaps I may myself go down to Mount Vernon later on,
when the little one is either better on earth or eternally well in
heaven.”
George looked at him with eloquent eyes.
“If you will be so kind as to let me go, I will come back just as
soon--” George stopped; he could say no more.
Although just come from a long journey, so vigorous and robust was
George that he began at once exhibiting his surveys and papers. They
were astonishingly clear, both in statement and in execution; and Lord
Fairfax saw that he had no common surveyor, but a truly great and
comprehensive mind in his young protégé. George asked that William
Fairfax might be sent for; and, when he came, told Lord Fairfax how
helpful William had been to him.
“And you did not have a single falling out while you were together?”
asked Lord Fairfax, with a faint smile. At which both boys answered at
the same time: “No, sir!”--William with a laugh and George with a deep
blush.
All that day, and until twelve o’clock that night, George and Lord
Fairfax worked on the surveys, and at midnight Lord Fairfax understood
everything as well as if a week had been spent in explaining it to him.
When daylight came next morning George was up and dressed, his horse
and Billy’s saddled and before the door, with Lord Fairfax, Lance, and
William Fairfax to bid him good-bye.
“Good-bye, my lord,” said George. “I hope we shall soon meet at Mount
Vernon, and that the little girl may get well, after all. Good-bye,
William and Lance. You have been the best of messmates; and if my work
should be satisfactory, it will be due as much to you as to me.”
Three days’ hard travel brought him to Mount Vernon on a warm September
day. As he neared the house his heart sank at the desolate air of the
place. The doors and windows were all open, and the negroes with solemn
faces stood about and talked in subdued tones. George rode rapidly up
to the house, and, dismounting, walked in. Uncle Manuel, the venerable
old butler, met him at the door, and answered the anxious inquiry in
George’s eyes.
“De little missis, she k’yarn lars’ long. She on de way to de bosom o’
de Lamb, w’har tecks keer o’ little chillen,” he said, solemnly.
George understood only too well. He went up-stairs to the nursery. The
child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her
forehead, lay in her black mammy’s arms. The father and mother, clasped
in each other’s arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life
ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently
rocked the dying child
“‘De little lambs in Jesus’ breas’
He hol’ ’em d’yar and giv’ ’em res’;
He teck ’em by de little hands,
An’ lead ’em th’u de pleasant lands.’”
As George stood by her, with tears running down his face, the old mammy
spoke to the child. “Honey,” said she, “heah Marse George; doan’ you
know Marse George, dat use ter ride you on he shoulder, an’ make de
funny little rabbits on de wall by candlelight?”
The child opened her eyes and a look of recognition came into them.
George knelt down by her. She tried to put her little arms around his
neck, and he gently placed them there. The mother and father knelt by
her too.
“My darling,” said the mother, trembling, “don’t you know papa and
mamma too?”
The little girl smiled, and whispered: “Yes--papa and mamma and Uncle
George and my own dear mammy.”
The next moment her eyes closed. Presently George asked, brokenly:
“Is she asleep?”
“Yes,” calmly answered the devoted old black woman, straightening out
the little body; “she ’sleep heah, but she gwi’ wake up in heaben, wid
her little han’ in Jesus Chris’s; an’ He goin’ teck keer of her twell
we all gits d’yar. An’ po’ ole black mammy will see her honey chile
oncet mo’.”