George’s second summer’s work was less like a pleasure expedition than
his first had been. He spent only a few days at Greenway Court, and
then started off, not with a boy companion and old Lance, but with
two hardy mountaineers, Gist and Davidson. Gist was a tall, rawboned
fellow, perfectly taciturn, but of an amazing physical strength and of
hardy courage. Davidson was small but alert, and, in contradistinction
to Gist’s taciturnity, was an inveterate talker. He had spent many
years among the Indians, and, besides knowing them thoroughly, he was
master of most of their dialects. Lord Fairfax had these two men in his
eye for months as the best companions for George. He was to penetrate
much farther into the wilderness and to come in frequent contact with
the Indians, and Lord Fairfax wished and meant that he should be well
equipped for it. Billy, of course, went with him, and Rattler went
with Billy, for it had now got to be an accepted thing that Billy
would not be separated from his master. A strange instance of Billy’s
determination in this respect showed itself as soon as the second
expedition was arranged. Both George and Lord Fairfax doubted the
wisdom of taking the black boy along. When Billy heard of this he said
to George, quite calmly:
“Ef you leave me ’hine you, Marse George, you ain’ fin’ no Billy when
you gits back.”
“How is that?” asked George.
“’Kase I gwi’ starve myself. I ain’ gwi’ teck nuttin to eat, nor a drap
o’ water--I jes gwi’ starve twell I die.”
George laughed at this, knowing Billy to be an unconscionable eater
ordinarily, and did not for a moment take him in earnest. Billy,
however, for some reason understood that he was to be left at Greenway
Court. George noticed two or three days afterwards that the boy seemed
ill, and so weak he could hardly move. He asked about it, and Billy’s
reply was very prompt.
“I ain’ eat nuttin sence I knowed you warn’ gwi’ teck me wid you, Marse
George.”
“But,” said George, in amazement, “I never said so.”
“Is you gwi’ teck me?” persisted Billy.
“I don’t know,” replied George, puzzled by the boy. “But is it possible
you have not eaten anything since the day you asked me about it?”
“Naw, suh,” said Billy, coolly. “An’ I ain’ gwi’ eat twell you say I
kin go wid you. I done th’ow my vittles to de horgs ev’ry day sence
den--an’ I gwi’ keep it up, ef you doan’ lem me go.”
George was thunderstruck. Here was a case for discipline, and he was
a natural disciplinarian. But where Billy was concerned George had a
very weak spot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the simple,
ignorant, devoted fellow might actually do as he threatened. Therefore
he promised, in a very little while, that Billy should not be separated
from him--at which Billy got up strength enough to cut the pigeon-wing,
and then made a bee-line for the kitchen. George followed him, and
nearly had to knock him down to keep him from eating himself ill. Lord
Fairfax could not refrain from laughing when George, gravely and with
much ingenuity in putting the best face on Billy’s conduct, told of it,
and George felt rather hurt at the earl’s laughing; he did not like
to be laughed at, and people always laughed at him about Billy, which
vexed him exceedingly.
On this summer’s journey he first became really familiar with the
Indians over the mountains. He came across his old acquaintance Black
Bear, who showed a most un-Indianlike gratitude. He joined the camp,
rather to the alarm of Gist and Davidson, who, as Davidson said, might
wake up any morning and find themselves scalped. George, however,
permitted Black Bear to remain, and the Indian’s subsequent conduct
showed the wisdom of this. He told that his father, Tanacharison, the
powerful chief, was now inclined to the English, and claimed the credit
of converting him. He promised George he would be safe whenever he was
anywhere within the influence of Tanacharison.
George devoted his leisure to the study of the Indian dialects, and
from Black Bear himself he learned much of the ways and manners and
prejudices of the Indians. He spent months in arduous work, and when,
on the first of October, he returned to Greenway he had proved himself
to be the most capable surveyor Lord Fairfax had ever had.
The earl, in planning for the next year’s work, asked George, one day,
“But why, my dear George, do you lead this laborious life, when you are
the heir of a magnificent property?”
George’s face flushed a little.
“One does not relish very much, sir, the idea of coming into property
by the death of a person one loves very much, as I love my brother
Laurence. And I would rather order my life as if there were no such
thing in the world as inheriting Mount Vernon. As it is, I have every
privilege there that any one could possibly have, and I hope my brother
will live as long as I do to enjoy it.”
“That is the natural way that a high-minded young man would regard it;
and if your brother had not been sure of your disinterestedness you may
be sure he would never have made you his heir. Grasping people seldom,
with all their efforts, secure anything from others.”
These two yearly visits of George’s to Greenway Court--one on his way
to the mountains, and the other and longer one when he returned--were
the bright times of the year to the earl. This autumn he determined to
accompany George back to Mount Vernon, and also to visit the Fairfaxes
at Belvoir. The great coach was furbished up for the journey, the
outriders’ liveries were brought forth from camphor-chests, and the
four roans were harnessed up. George followed the same plan as on his
first journey with Lord Fairfax two years before--driving with him in
the coach the first stage of the day, and riding the last stage.
On reaching Mount Vernon, George was distressed to see his brother
looking thinner and feebler than ever, and Mrs. Washington was plainly
anxious about him. Both were delighted to have him back, as Laurence
was quite unable to attend to the vast duties of such a place, and
Mrs. Washington had no one but an overseer to rely on. The society of
Lord Fairfax, who was peculiarly charming and comforting to persons of
a grave temperament, did much for Laurence Washington’s spirits. Lord
Fairfax had himself suffered, and he realized the futility of wealth
and position to console the great sorrows of life.
George spent only a day or two at Mount Vernon, and then made straight
for Ferry Farm. His brothers, now three fine, tall lads, with their
tutor, were full of admiration for the handsome, delightful brother, of
whom they saw little, but whose coming was always the most joyful event
at Ferry Farm.
George was now nearing his nineteenth birthday, and the graceful,
well-made youth had become one of the handsomest men of his day. As
Betty stood by him on the hearth-rug the night of his arrival she
looked at him gravely for a long time, and then said:
“George, you are not at all ugly. Indeed, I think you are nearly as
handsome as brother Laurence before he was ill.”
“Betty,” replied George, looking at her critically, “let me return the
compliment. You are not unhandsome, but never, never, if you live to be
a hundred years old, will you be half so beautiful as our mother.”
Madam Washington, standing by them, her slender figure overtopped by
their fair young heads, blushed like a girl at this, and told them
severely, as a mother should, that beauty counted for but little,
either in this world or the next. But in the bottom of her heart the
beauty of her two eldest children gave her a keen delight.
Betty was indeed a girl of whom any mother might be proud. Like
George, she was tall and fair, and had the same indescribable air of
distinction. She was now promoted to the dignity of a hoop and a satin
petticoat, and her beautiful bright hair was done up in a knot becoming
a young lady of sixteen. Although an only daughter, she was quite
unspoiled, and her life was a pleasant round of duties and pleasures,
with which her mother and her three younger brothers, and, above all,
her dear George, were all connected. The great events in her life were
her visits to Mount Vernon. Her brother and sister there regarded her
rather as a daughter than a sister, and for her young sake the old
house resumed a little of its former cheerfulness.
George spent several days at Ferry Farm on that visit, and was very
happy. His coming was made a kind of holiday. The servants were
delighted to see him, and as for Billy, the remarkable series of
adventures through which he alleged he had passed made him quite a
hero, and caused Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey to regard him with pride,
as the flower of their flock, instead of the black sheep.
Billy was as fond of eating and as opposed to working as ever, but
he now gave himself the airs of a man of the world, supported by his
various journeys to Mount Vernon and Greenway Court, and the possession
of a scarlet satin waistcoat of George’s, which inspired great respect
among the other negroes when he put it on. Billy loved to harangue
a listening circle of black faces on the glories of Mount Vernon,
of which “Marse George” was one day to be king, and Billy was to be
prime-minister.
[Illustration: “‘NEVER WILL YOU BE HALF SO BEAUTIFUL AS OUR MOTHER’”]
“You niggers, livin’ heah on dis heah little truck-patch, ain’ got
no notion o’ Mount Vernon,” said Billy, loftily, one night, to an
audience of the house-servants in the “charmber.” “De house is as
big as de co’t-house in Fredericksburg, an’ when me an’ Marse George
gits it we gwi’ buil’ a gre’t piece to it. An’ de hosses--Lord, dem
hosses! You ain’ never see so many hosses sence you been born.
An’ de coaches--y’all thinks de Earl o’ F’yarfax got a mighty fine
coach--well, de ve’y oldes’ an’ po’es’ coach at Mount Vernon is a heap
finer ’n dat ar one o’ Marse F’yarfax. An’ when me an’ Marse George
gits Mount Vernon, arter Marse Laurence done daid, we all is gwine ter
have a coach, lined wid white satin, same like the Earl o’ F’yarfax’s
bes’ weskit, an’ de harness o’ red morocky, an’ solid gol’ tires to de
wheels. You heah me, niggers? And Marse George, he say--”
“You are the most unconscionable liar I ever knew!” shouted George, in
a passion, suddenly appearing behind Billy; “and if ever I hear of your
talking about what will happen at Mount Vernon, or even daring to say
that it may be mine, I will make you sorry for it, as I am alive.”
George was in such a rage that he picked up a hair-brush off the chest
of drawers, and shied it at Billy, who dodged, and the brush went to
smash on the brick hearth. At this the unregenerate Billy burst into a
subdued guffaw, and, looking into George’s angry eyes, chuckled:
“Hi, Marse George, you done bus’ yo’ ma’s h’yar-bresh!” Which showed
how much impression “Marse George’s” wrath made on Billy.