By an Associate.

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Continuing the narrative that began here.

Chapter VIII.—Difficulties maintaining the army.—Philadelphia lost; Congress removes to York.—Mr. Hamilton’s plan for a new form of money.—Disappointing results in first trial of Hamilton’s money.—A visit to Ferry Farm.—Washington’s lost treasure.

The campaign in New-Jersey was a resounding success for Washington, but the success was not as lasting as we had hoped. At first, indeed, its effects were nearly miraculous. Our struggling army was reinforced by thousands of new recruits who were keen to serve under the great Washington, who, being now just an inch short of eight feet tall, more truly deserved the epithet “great” than any other general of his era. But with the new recruits came the difficult problem of paying them, a problem that would haunt us for some time until Washington himself hit on an ingenious solution, as will be narrated in its proper place. The discipline of the army was chronically lax as well, for most of the officers were themselves new recruits, and they refused to adopt such extreme measures as sending men to bed without supper, or, what they dreaded most, making them write “I will not desert the continental army” one hundred times, a punishment Washington reserved for repeat offenders.

Meanwhile Howe was not inactive. New-York being securely occupied, Howe was able to land an enormous army just below Philadelphia. Washington attempted to oppose Howe in a straightforward manner, but while he was giving Howe an honest and straightforward battle, and not without some success, Lord Cornwallis marched deviously around to our right flank and surprised us, which Washington regarded as simple cheating. The result, which even to this day I blush to relate, was that we lost Philadelphia. The Congress managed to escape just before Howe’s army marched into the city, and removed to York, where some of the members indulged a simmering resentment against Washington. Our army settled in at Valley Forge, and there we spent a miserable winter, in which, however, some of the qualities of true greatness manifested themselves in the General.

One afternoon Washington was in an unusually cheerful state as he came back to his headquarters after his daily rounds in the camp. Susanna and I, along with Parson Weems, were put up in the house with Washington (a luxury that gave me occasional pangs of guilt when I thought of the soldiers in their icy tents), so we were sitting by the fire when Washington came in with Hamilton in tow and announced that the pay problem was solved.

“That’s very good news indeed,” I said. “How did we get the money?”

“Oh, we haven’t got it yet. But Hamilton has figured out a way to get the money from the Congress.”

“I thought,” said Susanna, “that the last time we asked for money, the Congress replied that, owing to Mr. Hamilton’s program of spending more and taxing less, all they could come up with was two shillings, four pence, and three brass buttons.”

“Yes,’ replied Washington, “but the beauty of Mr. Hamilton’s new plan is that the Congress need not actually have the money to give it to us.”

“You mean they’ll steal it from somebody else?” asked Susanna.

“Of course not. Explain it to them, Hamilton.”

“My thought,” Hamilton explained, “is that we can simply instruct the Congress to have the money we need printed.”

“Printed?” I think Weems, Susanna, and I all repeated the word together.

“Precisely. You see the beauty of it, don’t you? Instead of coins, the soldiers will simply receive small slips of paper with the words ‘One Dollar,’ ‘Five Dollars,’ ‘Ten Dollars,’ or what have you, printed on them, and will use them the same way they would use coins in the same denominations.”

“But why would they think a piece of paper was worth ten dollars?” Weems asked.

“Why do we think a piece of gold is worth ten dollars?” Hamilton returned.

“Well, because,” Weems began, “because it’s—well, because it’s gold.”

“Precisely,” said Hamilton. “We think gold is valuable because we agree to think gold is valuable. Why? We cannot eat gold; we cannot build shelter with it; we cannot burn it to keep ourselves warm. We can only exchange it for the things we really need, because we agree that a very small quantity of gold is worth a very large quantity of food. Its value depends entirely on our agreement: it is not in any way intrinsic. Now, my very simple plan is this: that, in the same way we have agreed to regard gold as valuable, so we shall now agree to regard money on paper as valuable. Once again, our simple agreement will suffice to create the value.”

“Isn’t it a remarkable thought?” asked Washington.

“Remarkable,” Susanna agreed, although her tone suggested that there was room for more than one kind of remark on the subject.

“I’m sending Hamilton to York to speak to the Congress about it,” said Washington. “Just imagine—in our new North American empire, no one need ever be poor again. We can provide all the money every citizen of these United States will ever need for any purpose whatsoever.—Come along, Hamilton: I’ll write a letter for you to take with you detailing the successes of our current campaign; for I trust, sir, that you understand the value of a good dispatch.”

With those words, Washington led Hamilton into the back room he used as his office.

“One of them is an imbecile and the other one is mad,” Parson Weems remarked.

“It seems to me,” said Susanna, “that there is no reason why they could not both be imbeciles.”

I must own that I had not expected much result from Hamilton’s expedition, but a few weeks later he was back with stacks of freshly printed money, which was distributed forthwith to the puzzled soldiers. I say “puzzled,” though in many cases “mutinous” might have been a more nearly accurate description.

Hamilton, however, was full of optimism; and Susanna and I went with him to demonstrate the utility of his new form of money by using it to buy some sorely needed potatoes from a nearby farm.

“Dollar a bushel,” the farmer replied when asked the price of his potatoes. I might have spent some time negotiating with the man, but Hamilton was eager to present his new creation, and therefore simply asked for ten bushels, and handed the man a ten-dollar note.

“What’s this?” the farmer asked.

“It’s ten dollars,” replied Hamilton.

“No it isn’t,” said the farmer. “It’s a piece of paper that says ‘Ten Dollars’ on it.”

“But it is in fact ten dollars,” Hamilton told him. “You see here where it says, ‘By act of Congress, this note is legal tender for all debts, public and private.’ ”

“I don’t need a tender,” the farmer insisted. “I need ten dollars.”

“Precisely,” said Hamilton, undaunted. “I’m giving you this piece of paper with ‘Ten Dollars’ printed on it. And because we agree that it is worth ten dollars, it is in fact worth ten dollars.”

“Tell you what,” said the farmer. “You give me that piece of paper with ‘Ten Dollars’ written on it, and I’ll give you a piece of paper with ‘Ten Bushels of Potatoes’ written on it.”

“But a piece of paper won’t feed the men,” Hamilton objected.

“It will if they agree that it is in fact ten bushels of potatoes,” the farmer replied. “Won’t it?”

In the end we did not succeed in procuring our ten bushels of potatoes, and for the most part the men were similarly unsuccessful in exchanging their paper money for useful goods. Hamilton himself refused to be entirely discouraged, but the men were cold and hungry. To make matters worse, not only could we not persuade the Congress to do anything for us, but in fact we could not even find the Congress. Fearing a surprise attack, the men of the Congress had turned peripatetic. From York they moved to Lancaster, and then to Annapolis, and then to Baltimore, to Winchester, to Cumberland, to Pittsburgh, and briefly (owing to the gentlemen’s refusal to stop and ask directions) to Mexico City. We were left to our own devices, and it seemed as though we should eventually lose our army altogether without some means of procuring money in the form of coins rather than paper.

“Of course there is much to be hoped for from the French,” said Washington when we were discussing the situation one bitter morning in late winter. “I have every confidence in our diplomats. Dr. Franklin reports that the French women are particularly susceptible. I have no doubt that he has spent every evening explaining to the court ladies that it is to France’s advantage to have a strong American empire that is well disposed toward France and capable of defending their remaining North American interests.

“You mean St.-Pierre and Miquelon?” asked Parson Weems.

“Exactly. Surely the French will see the wisdom of balancing British power in the north with a great independent empire to the south.”

“The French may or may not come to our aid,” said Susanna, “but for the present we need money. We need to be candid and admit to ourselves that the paper-money project has been a failure.”

“The fault is not on our side,” Hamilton insisted. “We have maintained from the beginning that the money is in fact worth exactly the value printed on it. It is the ill-bred and uneducated bumpkins who inhabit these parts who are to blame: they refuse to see the logic of the notion, and to be absolutely frank I suspect them of Tory sympathies.”

“At the moment we must be practical,” I said. “For reasons we may or may not know, our suppliers refuse to accept our paper money, whereas we know they would accept money in specie. It is vital to our cause that we obtain money they will accept. Can anyone think of any possibilities?”

“I think we’ve run out of possibilities,” Weems remarked grimly.

“Gentlemen,” said Washington, “we certainly cannot allow ourselves to lose hope: for, as the old proverb has it,⁠—” (he brought out the tattered copybook, and we waited patiently for him to find his page)—“ ‘Do not chew your nails in the sight of others.’ The wisdom of our fathers, gentlemen, when understood metaphorically, is an ever-present help in managing our affairs. For my own part, I am convinced that our current difficulties all spring from the evil machinations of Irving, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him see me despair.”

“Irving?” asked Hamilton.

“The wicked invisible mule who bedevils him throughout his life,” Weems explained.

Hamilton looked helpless: his question had been answered, but not in a way that satisfied him intellectually.

“I cannot believe,” said Susanna, “that there are no possibilities left to us.”

“In fact I can think of one possibility,” Washington said.

“What’s that?” asked Weems. “And don’t tell me it involves any more invisible livestock.”

“When I was a boy, I used to spend hours at Ferry Farm throwing Spanish milled dollars across the Rappahannock. It became, as you know, a lifelong habit, but I have never since had so much leisure to indulge in the sport. There were times when I went to the riverbank day after day to spend all afternoon throwing dollars. That was how I developed the accuracy for which, I may say without boasting, I am still noted.”

“And how will that help us right now?” I asked.

“Well, I never brought any of them back.”

We looked at him in stunned silence.

“There were always more, you see. We seem to have had a good many Spanish milled dollars. It was never necessary to retrieve them, because there were always more to throw.”

“Do you mean you think that, in all these years, no one has picked up the dollars you threw across the Rappahannock?” Susanna asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“The other side of the river is Washington land, too. Why would anyone be looking for dollars there?”

“So you mean,” I said, “that if we went down there right now, we’d find some of the money you threw?”

“It’s worth trying,” said Washington. “Gist, why don’t you head down there now? See what you can find, and then we’ll have something to pay the soldiers.”

It sounded very dubious to me. “Well, I’m, uh, not sure—”

“Take Phillips with you. You may need more than one man to carry the money back.”

“I’m, uh, not—”

“We’ll go right away, General,” Susanna declared.

Why was Susanna suddenly interested in this unlikely prospect? I had learned not to discount any idea of hers, but it did not seem reasonable to expect that Washington’s idly flung dollars should still be waiting for him after so many years.

“I think we should take Mr. Hamilton with us as well,” Susanna added. And now I was certain she had some notion in her mind, but what it was I could not guess. When Washington seemed to hesitate, she added, “He’s very good at finding money.”

“That is true. Very well then,” Washington agreed. “Take Hamilton with you, find the dollars, and you should have enough to pay the soldiers, with a little left over for Madeira. Best set off at once: for, as they say” (and here he produced his copybook, and we waited for him to find the appropriate citation): “ ‘If others talk at dinner, be attentive, but do not speak with your mouth full.’ ”

We had to go by land, as the British made the sea route unreliable. Susanna has always been an excellent rider. I at least can stay on the horse, and Hamilton was not entirely hopeless; our progress, therefore was fairly rapid.

At our first stop, Hamilton took the opportunity to ask the obvious questions about Susanna.

“She is my wife,” I explained in a tone that I hoped would answer all unexpressed questions.

But Hamilton persisted.

“Why, then, is she also a man called Phillips?”

Susanna replied, “We find it best not to contradict the general too often. It confuses him.”

“Is that why we’ve come looking for lost treasure?” Hamilton asked. “Are we making a useless journey of several days and unknown dangers because no one wants to contradict General Washington?”

“No,” Susanna replied, and I listened attentively myself to hear her explanation. “Your mission to the Congress showed that you have an aptitude for parting rich fools from their money. Virginia is stuffed with rich fools, and such a man as you ought to be able to extract enough from them for our purposes.”

“But what shall I tell them?”

“Just draw another picture of the Liberty Bell,” Susanna replied, “and tell them the same nonsense you told us.”

Hamilton was not convinced that the same nonsense would apply, and was worried that he might have to come up with different nonsense in order to persuade the Virginia planters to come up with the back pay of an entire army. Nevertheless, in broad outline, Susanna’s plan seemed a reasonable one.

We agreed, however, that it would be necessary at least to pay a quick visit to Ferry Farm, so as to be able to assure the General (for he himself was so naturally honest that we should have been ashamed to lie to him) that we had done our best to retrieve his long-lost dollars. Accordingly we found the old plantation, which had, by various curiosities of wills and inheritance laws, passed into the hands of Washington’s elderly Uncle Cedric, who answered the door and received our awkward greetings.

“Little Georgie,” he said when we had told him of our errand. “How many years have passed since I saw him! Is he out of short pants yet?”

“I can assure you that his pants are quite long,” I replied. “In fact he is general of the continental army.”

“Always loved to play soldiers, our little Georgie, especially when his father took away his hatchet. He needs money, you say? I might be able to find a few shillings in my coat pocket.”

“We thought we might borrow your boat, if you would be so kind,” Susanna said. “General Washington suggested there might be a few coins across the river.”

“Might be. Or pine cones. If you can use pine cones, I’m sure it’s the place to look.”

Susanna thanked him and headed toward the shore; I was beginning to follow her when Uncle Cedric took my arm and said in a confidential undertone, “That young man” (pointing to Susanna)—“does it strike you that there’s something odd about him?”

“Well,…” I began hesitantly.

“I think he looks pale,” said Uncle Cedric. “I hope he’s not ill.”

I assured him that I would look after the pale young man, and then Hamilton and I joined her at the boat. Before I could say anything, Susanna took the oars, which I suppose was her prerogative as the only military man among us, and with energetic strokes she took us across the Rappahannock in good time.

The other side of the river was a forest of tall pines, and our footsteps seemed preternaturally silent in the thick carpet of needles that made the ground a rich uniform sable color.

“Nothing but pine needles and a few cones,” Hamilton remarked, and his voice was jarringly loud in the silence of the winter forest.

I looked around, idly scraping my foot through the needles. “I’m afraid you’re right, But at least we can tell the General—”

“Look!” cried Susanna, pointing toward my feet.

I looked down. Where I had scraped the ground, something metallic was glinting through the needles. Quickly I stooped and started brushing away the needles with my hands. Under them was a layer on the ground made up entirely of Spanish milled dollars.

Susanna knelt down where she stood and swept away the needles, and there, too, she found a carpet of dollars.

I stood and took half a dozen strides and stooped again. And Susanna did the same, and Hamilton joined us; and for quite some time wherever we brushed away the needles, we found a uniform layer of dollars below. It took us at least half an hour to delineate the limits of the field of dollars, and most of it was done by Susanna and me, for a strange lassitude had overcome Hamilton. He lay on his back, his fingers slowly gripping and releasing the coins beneath him.

“Are you feeling ill, Mr. Hamilton?” Susanna finally asked him.

“I want to live here,” replied Hamilton. “No—I want to die here. Nothing will ever equal this. My life has reached its peak, and no experience will ever bring joy to me again. I have lived as much as I care to live, and it would be fitting now that I should be taken directly to the heavenly Jerusalem, which is the only greater joy I can ever hope to experience.”

“Mr. Hamilton,” said Susanna, “you are still a young man, and life has many joys waiting for you. You will find love, and—”

“I have found love, Captain, uh, Phillips! I am passionately in love with money, money in all its forms, beautiful gold, ravishing silver, charming copper, neatly printed slips of paper;—I desire money as other men desire their mistresses! And here is a forest made of money! If you were suddenly placed among the seventy-two willing virgins of the Mohammedan heaven, would you have any desire to leave that spot? Well, not you personally, captain—forgive me—the uniform, you see, makes me forget the lady—but I have found my seventy-two virgins! I have found the earthly paradise, and now it must be broken up and taken away. I must be cast out of Eden, and cherubim with a flaming sword must keep me from the tree of life. What reason have I to live any longer?”

“We are founding a new government,” said Susanna, “with all the problems of government to be solved—including the question of money.”

“Yes,” I added, “you will be present at the birth of a new pecuniary system. Is that not something to live for?”

He sat up with a start. “A new kind of money?”

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton,” said Susanna. “The coin of the United States of America.”

“Why, yes! That is true,” said Hamilton. “It will be only fitting that I should be present at the birth of an entirely new species of specie. How many true lovers of money are afforded that opportunity?”

“But first,” Susanna continued, “we must win the war, and to do that we must pay the army.”

This argument was enough to bring Hamilton out of his lethargy; and, with a last wistful look at the forest of dollars, he began helping us gather the coins into large piles. Then he and Susanna went back to find a large number of sacks, while I sat in the silent forest to guard the piles of coins from no one except a ragged-looking fish crow, which took enough of an interest in the shiny dollars to make it worth my while to chase the bird away.

It took many trips with the boat to bring the hoard across the river, and then we had to arrange for what amounted to a caravan to transport it all back to Pennsylvania; but of course we had all the funds we could possibly need to pay for the wagons, drivers, and escorts. We finally reached Valley Forge in the spring—only to find an enormous army marching in just as we arrived.

At first all of us presumed the worst; but then we spotted the fleur-de-lis flag and realized that the French had arrived at last, and in numbers we had not dared hope for.

Just as we reached Washington with the good news that we had found his trove of dollars, the French commander made his appearance.

“La Fayette, I am here, yes?” he announced. “Which one is the général Washington?”

To be continued in Chapter IX. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.

By an Associate.

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Continuing the narrative that began here.

Chapter VII.—Washington’s strategy on Long-Island.—A sudden marriage.—Escape to New-York by raft.—Attractions of New-York.—Mr. Hamilton’s Drip-Down Economics.—Loss of New-York.—Crossing the Delaware.

By the time we had left Philadelphia, Washington was on the move. He was heading for Long-Island, with the intention of preventing Howe from capturing the city of New-York. Susanna and I determined to meet him there in the town of Brook­lyn, across the river from the city; and there we found him awaiting the arrival of Howe’s force. The news of independence had, of course, reached him long before we did, and the soldiers were stirred by the idea that they were now fighting for something permanent.

“So what do you intend to do to prepare for Howe’s arrival?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” Washington responded confidently.

“Nothing?” Susanna and I both repeated at once.

“Precisely,” said Washington. “You taught me that, Phillips. It worked for Forbes at Pitts­burgh; it worked for us at Boston; it will work again here. Nothing, I might go so far as to say, is the greatest contribution our present age has made to the art of military strategy. In the future, wars will be fought entirely by armies doing nothing, nothing on a titanic scale; and think what a savings in men and material we shall have when opposing armies both adopt a strategy of doing nothing whatsoever! Further­more, as doing nothing has been demonstrated to be the strategy that procures victory, both sides in future wars will invariably be victorious. There will be none of the bitterness of defeat and concomitant desire for revenge; but all men will live in amity in a world that is constantly at war, providing pleasant employment for young men in the armies and navies, and leaving the other classes of society to enjoy all the benefits of the profoundest peace. From now on, nothing is the strategy I intend to adopt.”

Susanna was rubbing her temples as if suffering from a headache, but she apparently was resigned enough to hold her peace.

“Meanwhile,” Washington continued, “I’ve set up my headquarters in this very commodious house, although I must say the ceilings are a bit low and the bed a bit short. I’ve set aside a room for you and Phillips to share, just upstairs and to the right, across from my own chamber.”

“I’m sure I could find something in—”

“I won’t hear of it,” Wash­ing­ton said with finality. “After your journey you both must be in need of a good rest, and you’ll find no accommodations but soldiers’ tents elsewhere. I should like to have you with me and Parson Weems here, so please indulge me. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a time, I have to make my usual rounds.”

He left us alone in the house, and I immediately said to Susanna, “I can sleep in the parlor.”

“It seems as if every man I meet tries to take advantage of my sex and my color,” Susanna remarked. “Except for you. You have always behaved as a gentleman to me.”

“I’ve always tried to—”

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded with sudden vehemence.

“Susanna, I would never take advantage of a lady, in spite of all the pressing temptations I suffer every time you’re near me—temptations I struggle mightily to resist, because I would not insult the finest lady I have ever known.”

“And did you think you were the only one who was tempted?”

For a moment I stood mute and looked into her eyes. Then I asked carefully, “What do you mean, Susanna?”

“I mean, obviously, that I don’t want you to sleep in the parlor.”

“Then you really do feel…some attachment to me?”

“I have a weakness for perfect gentlemen.”

I was probably gaping like a fish in a boat, because she continued:

“Mr. Gist, I know where I stand. I know I can never be more than a mistress to you. But even though—”

“By God, you’re wrong!” I cried. “Susanna, I love you, and I know I can never deserve you, but if you’re fool enough to have me, will you be my wife?”

A long interval of dreadful silence followed, until at last Susanna said quietly, “You’re mad.”

“I do believe I am. Since the moment I saw you a divine madness has taken possession of my soul, a madness that—”

“Oh, shut up!” Susanna exclaimed, and she enforced her will by pressing her lips hard against mine. She held them there until I had lost all desire to express my thoughts in articulate speech.

At last she spoke again: “I will be your wife, Mr. Gist, when we can do it, but I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“There’s a clergyman in this very house,” I reminded her.

“You mean that jackass?”

“A jackass with the power to make us both what we long to be.” I took her hand and led her up the stairs, where we found Parson Weems sitting in his little room composing a tract.

“Weems,” I said breathlessly, “marry us now.”

Weems thought for a moment and then said, “Gist, may I have a brief word with you?”

“No,” I replied. “Not without Susanna, who is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh from this day forward.”

“You do realize that I really am a clergyman, Gist, don’t you? If I do this⁠—”

“Weems, you fool! Do you think I’m plotting to seduce this lady with a sham marriage? By heaven, I should thrash you. But wedding now, and we’ll save the thrashing for later.”

“I’ll do the wedding if you’ll forgo the thrashing.”

“Done,” I said.

“Only do it quickly,” Susanna added, clinging to me.

“All right,” said Parson Weems. “Dearly beloved, et cetera, honorable estate and so on, skip to the good part. Do you, Susanna, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, whether he snores or not, till death do you part?”

“I do,” she replied.

“And do you, Christopher, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, under all the usual conditions et cetera?”

“I do,” I answered eagerly.

“Then I now sentence you to be man and wife, and may God have mercy on your souls.”

“We’re done?” asked Susanna.

“For the rest of your natural lives,” Weems replied.

Susanna yanked me out the door and into our own chamber, where what an hour before had been a dreadful temptation was now, by a few words spoken in front of the parson, mystically transformed into a sacred duty.

Our joy, though complete, was, however, short; for the next day Howe’s army appeared, and it soon became evident that Washington’s plan of doing absolutely nothing was not as effective as he had hoped. Howe had hemmed us in from both sides, and it was clear that, without something near a miracle, the army was lost.

But then the miracle came, and Susanna seized it. As evening came on, a thick fog settled in, and it was impossible to see more than a few paces in any direction.

“If only we had some way to slip across the river!” said Su­sanna. “We could be out of harm’s way if we had boats, or even rafts.”

“There are trees everywhere,” I said.

“But it would be impossible to reduce them to logs quickly enough to do any good,” Susanna responded.

“Are any of them cherry trees?” I asked.

“Oh!” said Parson Weems. “I see what you mean! There’s a fine large stand of black cherries right by the river.”

“Get us an axe,” I told him, “and we’ll go get Washington.”

“I don’t understand,” said Susanna. “How is it easier to make logs from cherry trees?”

“You don’t know Washington as well as we do, my love,” I replied. Then I turned to find the nearest officer, who happened to be an old captain. “We need the men together and ready to build rafts. Any rope they can find, any fabric that can be twisted into ropes—have them gather as much as they can and go down to the river by the cherry grove. We’ll provide the logs.”

We found Washington eventually. It was difficult in the fog, but we kept asking soldiers until we found the place where he had fallen off his horse. We led him to the river, where the fog, by some providential dispensation, was dissipating; and when we came to the cherry trees, Wash­ing­ton did not need to be told what to do. The mania took hold of him before we said anything, and Susanna watched with awe as the trees were reduced to logs in a few minutes at most, with a terrifying din that must surely have been discouraging to the enemy. As soon as it was safe to approach, the soldiers began assembling the logs into rafts; and as the rafts were assembled, they set out for the lights across the river, where the fog had now entirely cleared.

By the next morning, the entire army had slipped out of Howe’s grasp, and was safely lodged in New-York, where the local militia supplemented our forces, and for the present Howe did not dare pursue us.

New-York in those days was a much smaller town than it is today; indeed, I believe there was scarcely a building over forty storeys in the whole island. But even in those days it was a town that loved a spectacle, and the movements of troops across the river, and the prospect of imminent invasion by Howe’s army, did not prevent New-Yorkers from enjoying themselves.

Having disposed his troops as well as he could, Washington gave them a day’s leave, and he himself spent the evening with Weems, Susanna, and me indulging in his favorite entertainment. He had learned that there was a popular puppet-show all the way uptown on Fourth-street; and, asking directions, was told to walk down the stairs at the next corner. These proved to lead down to an underground chamber hollowed out of a tunnel, where two dozen or so people were standing, apparently waiting for something. In a few minutes we heard the clopping of horses’ hooves echoing in the tunnel, and a light was visible coming into the chamber. A team of eight horses entered, followed by a very long carriage; imitating the rest of the crowd, we entered the carriage, which was already stuffed with riders, so that we were forced to stand and cling to leathern straps hung from the ceiling, apparently for that purpose, as the carriage began to move and entered the dark tunnel once more.

Uncomfortable though the arrangements were, the carriage did convey us to Fourth-street, which, when we emerged from the subterranean conveyance, proved to be lined with theaters and expositions of every sort. We found the puppet-show, where we enjoyed the amusing adventures of a cast of oddly shaped befurred puppets with bulging white eyes—most of the audience laughing in delight, but Washington watching with his usual stony dignity and expressionless silence.

After the show, Parson Weems, Susanna, and I retreated to a popular tavern across the street for a bit of Madeira; but Washington’s eye was attracted by a poster advertising an exhibition in the rooms next to the tavern:

the incomparable derwin
and
the incomparable sherwin

twin brothers who are
incomparably different,
one from another

He told us he would meet us in the tavern, and went in to enjoy the exhibition. Some time later he joined us, and declared himself well pleased with what he had seen. “It really is remarkably interesting,” he said. “The men are twins, and yet you cannot imagine two men more different in every respect.”

“How did you know they were twins?” asked Parson Weems.

Washington looked surprised and shocked. “I took it upon their word as gentlemen.”

The rest of us decided not to pursue that line of inquiry. Instead, I turned the conversation to the question of what was to be done now that Howe occupied Long island and was doubtless plotting to move on New-York itself.

“Nothing,” Washington replied with confidence.

“Nothing?” Susanna repeated incredulously. “But surely what happened across the river must have persuaded you that it is necessary to do something!”

“What happened there, I am quite convinced, was entirely owing to the malevolent influence of Irving. It was not the strategy that was at fault, but merely the events.”

“But—” Susanna began, and then stopped and took a very big gulp of her Madeira.

“To my mind,” said Parson Weems, “our most pressing problem is one of money. The soldiers have not been paid for some time. If they are not paid soon, they will begin to desert.”

“They had better not,” Washington replied with some warmth. “I am not a cruel man, but I do believe in strong discipline, and if I have to send men to bed without supper, I will do it.”

“I must agree with the Parson,” I said. “Even the sternest discipline will not keep the men long if we cannot pay them what they are legitimately owed. We must find a way to persuade the Congress to deal with the question of paying the army.”

“And I’m sure the Congress will respond with alacrity once we have made our case,” said Washington. “Meanwhile, I have been thinking of erecting a fort at the northern end of the island.”

“A very good idea, General,” said Susanna, obviously pleased. “If we control the navigation up the Hudson, we deprive the enemy of the opportunity to drive a wedge between the East and the Middle.”

“True,” said Washington. “I had not thought of that. I was more interested in establishing the site of a new city on Manhattan Island—a city that, as it grows, will doubtless eclipse New-York to the south, and perhaps even absorb it; a city that will soon rival even Philadelphia as a center of our new American civilization; a city called Washington. A fort, of course, will be the seed from which such a city sprouts. And there is one more thing I’ve been thinking of, Phillips.”

“What is that, General?”

“You’re a lieutenant, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you mind terribly being a captain?”

She glanced at me, and then answered, “No, sir.”

“Good. Captain Phillips it is, then.”

Susanna smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir.”

“You are, after all, the architect of the nothing strategy, and you deserve recognition. Perhaps in the future nothing will be named for you.”

Susanna’s smile froze on her face as she repeated, “Thank you, sir.”

Washington found us lodgings in a rather large inn. Susanna and I had a room on the twenty-seventh floor, which required a bit of labor in climbing the stairs, but rewarded us with a fine view of the city. I told Susanna I was very proud to be married to the most beautiful captain in the continental army, and we spent a very pleasant night together. It would be the last pleasant night for some time.

In the morning, when we found Washington (rather late, since Susanna and I had slept but little), he was in earnest discussion with a small, energetic man who seemed to be explaining something to him, while writing or drawing something on a paper in front of him.

“Ah! Gist—Phillips—just the men I wanted to see,” Washington said when he saw us. “This is Mr. Alexander Hamilton, a young fellow who has the most amazing ideas about money. Mr. Hamilton, this is Mr. Gist, my trusted advisor; and the other young man is Captain Phillips, one of my most valuable officers.”

The small man named Hamilton looked perplexed. “Other young man?” he repeated.

“The one in the uniform, of course.”

Hamilton continued to look perplexed for a moment, and then appeared to decide that perplexity was not worth the effort. “Very pleased to meet you both, uh, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Hamilton was just explaining to me how to get all the money we need for the army,” Washington continued. “It turns out that the Congress can have all the money it wants by simply increasing military spending and lowering taxes.”

“Don’t you mean raising taxes?” Susanna asked.

“Ah! That’s the clever part,” Washington replied. “Explain it to them, Hamilton.”

Mr. Hamilton turned his paper over to its blank side and started drawing something while he spoke. “You see, military spending stimulates economic activity by creating demand for manufactured products. But higher taxes have the opposite effect by reducing the incentive to get rich. By lowering taxes, we create incentive to gain wealth, and the wealth is then spent on luxury items, creating more wealth for the producers thereof, and thus raising tax revenue overall.”

I looked at the paper in front of him. He had drawn a sort of crude outline of a bell.

“And is this drawing some sort of graphic representation of your theory?” I asked.

“No. That’s just a drawing of the Liberty Bell. Sorry—I always doodle like that when I’m explaining things. It’s a nervous habit.”

“It seems to me,” said Susanna, “that the incentive to get rich is that, once you’ve done it, you’re rich. Even if you take away fifty per cent, if I make a thousand pounds, I still get to keep five hundred, so I’m five hundred pounds better off.”

Hamilton gave her a condescending smile. “I don’t expect military… uh, men to understand economics.”

“I’m sending Hamilton down to Philadelphia to explain all this to the Congress,” said Washington. “All they have to do is lower taxes and spend more money on the army, and everything will be fine.”

“Do you really think the Congress will be that…” Susanna searched for an appropriate adjective, and at last came up with “…amenable?”

“Oh,” replied Washington, “the Congress is—heh—the Congress—heh heh heh—best minds of the—ha ha ha ha ha—of the—ha ha ha ha ha!”

The laughing fit was now fully upon him, and Washington was pounding his great fists on the table, nearly upsetting the inkpot, trying to speak but finding it impossible.

“It is the effect of a puppet-show he saw last night,” I explained to poor Hamilton, who was watching with an expression of barely suppressed terror.

Washington threw his head back and exclaimed, “The blue one lives in a garbage can!” Then he fell forward, banging his forehead repeatedly on the table, so that the ink spilled all over Mr. Hamilton’s bell.

It was some time before he recovered. But eventually Mr. Hamilton was sent off to Philadelphia to persuade the Congress, and I wished him very good luck with that.

Meanwhile, things did not go well in New-York, and Washington’s strategy of doing nothing did not bear the fruit he had hoped it would bear. Even as Hamilton set off for Philadelphia, Howe, reinforced by Hessian mercenaries, invaded New-York, and our brave soldiers ran all the way across New-Jersey before they stopped. Washington eventually regrouped what was left of his army west of the Delaware, but that was not very much, most of the soldiers having deserted along the way.

All was not lost, however: two or three days after we arrived on the west bank of the Delaware, Susanna, Parson Weems, and I were very much surprised to see that little Hamilton fellow walking toward us.

“Mr. Hamilton!” I greeted him. “What a surprise to see you here! How did your mission to the Congress go?”

“Perfectly, of course,” he said, with the air of one confident that all his projects must always proceed perfectly. “I explained my ‘Drip-Down Theory’ to the Congress, which sent me back with the entire back pay of the army in specie.”

“So at last the soldiers can be paid,” Parson Weems said. “I’m sure that will come as very good news to the ones who are left. Where is the money?”

“I left it with General Washington,” replied Hamilton. “He’s down by the river in that direction.”

Weems was the first to give voice to the sudden fear that had gripped me as well. “You mean you left the General with a bag of coins? Beside a river? Alone?”

“Was that unwise?” asked Hamilton.

We said nothing; we simply began running toward the river. Susanna followed, and Hamilton trailed behind us, saying,

“Surely you don’t mean to imply that the General can’t be trusted!”

But we merely kept running for the river, whither we arrived just in time to see Washington, surrounded by empty sacks, hurling one of of the dollars the Congress had provided across the Delaware.

“What is he doing?” Susanna asked in disbelief.

“He can’t help himself,” I said to her; then to Washington, “Washington! For heaven’s sake, stop!”

“I have to stop anyway,” he said cheerfully. “I ran out of dollars.”

“But, general,” cried Susanna, “that money was all we had to pay the soldiers!”

“Was it? I suppose it was. I didn’t think of that. I saw dollars, and I saw a river, and the rest just naturally followed. My word! It felt good. I haven’t done that in a very long time.”

“But why?” Susanna demanded.

“I don’t think I understand the question,” Washington replied.

“And how will you get the dollars back?” Parson Weems asked in a mildly disapproving tone.

“By the usual method, I suppose. We’ll cross the river and retrieve them.”

“But the other side of the river is crawling with Hessians,” Weems reminded him.

“Oh—is it? I suppose it is.”

Nevertheless, there was nothing else to be done. The men had to be paid, or we should have no more army. The money was on the other side of the river. We found a few boats nearby and decided to send a small patrol across to retrieve the money if it could be done. I recommended that some subordinate officer be found to lead the patrol, but Washington would not hear of it. I therefore placed myself in Washington’s boat, with Susanna (over my objections) beside me, and we set out across the icy Delaware, fully expecting (at least for my own part) to be shot before we even reached the opposite shore.

No shots were fired, however, and when we reached the other side it became apparent why that was so. Bodies of Hessian soldiers were strewn all over the ground. At first I wondered whether some local militia had come before us and massacred the men; but as we came closer it became clear that the Hessian soldiers were not dead, but unconscious, lying in a field of Spanish milled dollars. The hail of coins had been too much for them, and each dollar hurled by the mighty arm of Washington had found its target on a Hessian skull.

“Well,” said Washington, “this is very convenient. Disarm these men and take them prisoner, and we can collect our money and our prisoners and take them back with us.”

“Or,” said Susanna, “we can bring the rest of the army across and press forward and take Trenton.”

“Would that be good?” asked Washington.

“Very good,” I told him. “The Hessian troops lie here, our prisoners. Trenton is undefended, and Trenton is the capital of the province.”

“Oh! Well, in that case, by all means. Excellent thinking, Phillips.”

Thus, having crossed the Delaware, Washington was able, by a singular stroke of good fortune, to take Trenton. The cause of independence, which had seemed so nearly hopeless after the loss of New-York, was once again embraced by public opinion.

To be continued in Chapter VIII. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.

By an Associate.

---

Continuing the narrative that began here.

Chapter VI.—Washington declares for independence.—Susanna and I travel to Philadelphia.—Jefferson drafts the Declaration.—Debate over spinach, slavery, and silkworms.—Mr. Rodney decides the question of independence.—The Declaration signed.

By the spring of 1776, Washington had assumed a stature well above that of any other man in the colonies, and the best tailors in Boston were kept busy making him a new wardrobe. He was measured at seven feet seven inches tall, and we were beginning to have to make certain adaptations to accommodate his unusual height, though always discreetly, so as to avoid dwelling on what might well be a sensitive subject with the General. We found a house with high ceilings for his headquarters, and for his mount we procured a sturdy carthorse of the largest dimensions, which was docile enough that, provided he did not attempt any difficult feats of horsemanship, such as trotting, he did not often fall off.

Meanwhile, the victories at Ticonderoga and Boston had changed the perception of the conflict throughout the colonies. It was a war now, and it seemed possible that it might be a war that could be won. The popular sentiment now favored a complete and permanent break with Great Britain, and Washington himself had come around to the idea and now embraced it enthusiastically.

“The time has long passed,” he declared at dinner one afternoon, “when we could expect King George and his ministers to see their own folly and redress our grievances in a forthright and responsible manner. We have grown too distant from England for that; we have our own interests, and I may be so bold as to say that we have preserved the true spirit of English government, which has been lost in the mother country. I believe it is our destiny to found a new kingdom on the American continent, a kingdom which, as it is already greater in extent, must soon be greater in wealth, population, and power. Of course it will be necessary, in order to have a kingdom, that we should have a king.”

“Perhaps one of the exiled Stuarts,” Parson Weems suggested.

“But the last Stuart king was even more tyrannical than George III,” I objected.

“That is true,” Washington concurred. “I believe that the founder of a new American dynasty ought to be one of our own people: a man born on our soil, and one widely known in the colonies; a man of stature, you might say, who would naturally be looked to as a leader. It might also be of use in easing our transition to full independency if he bore a name already in accustomed use as the name of kings, so that it came naturally to the tongues of the people. A good uniform would also be a desideratum, as kings look well in uniforms. I say no more for the present, but I shall be ready with my suggestions when the time comes.”

Much later, after Washington had gone upstairs to bed, Susanna asked, “Shall we really trade one imbecile for another?”

“Washington,” I said rather too warmly, “is a man with a great heart and the most thoroughly honest nature I have ever known. If we must have a king, let it be such a king as that.”

“Besides,” added Parson Weems, “imbecility has never been thought a detriment in kings.”

“But why must we have a king at all?” Susanna asked, and to that I could think of no very good answer.

The next day we received messengers from Philadelphia, who informed us that the question of independence was to be brought up in the Congress. It was not possible that Washington should leave the command of the army, but he did earnestly desire to have a report of the debates.

“You go, Gist,” he told me. “There’s no one I trust more than you, and if I cannot be spared, I should at least like to have you there to hear what is said, and to make my sentiments in favor of independency known.”

“I am honored by your trust,” I replied.

“Take Phillips with you,” Washington added. “He has a sharp mind, that man. He might be useful if difficult questions come up, especially in matters of arithmetic. I have found him extraordinarily useful in matters of arithmetic, especially when the numbers go above twelve. I am not very good at numbers above twelve.”

All at once I was paralyzed by indecision. If I had to go to Philadelphia, how much more pleasant it would be to have the divine Susanna with me! Yet it would expose me to great and terrible temptations of the sort Parson Weems had not been able to resist. Ought I not, therefore, to suggest that she stay with Washington? But that would deprive me of her company, and of the possibility of yielding to temptation, which could be very pleasant if Susanna were equally tempted. If not, I might end up with a blackened eye, as Parson Weems had done, and if I behaved as he had behaved then I would certainly deserve that fate.

Thus buffeted by conflicting desires, I said nothing; and because I said nothing, Washington’s will was done.

We were to go to Philadelphia by ship—something of a risk, but not too much of one, as the British did not yet have the capacity to blockade our ports. I would like to tell you a thrilling sea-tale, but in fact we had calm weather and no danger of any description, except the danger to my self-mastery incident to traveling with a lady whose charms seemed to captivate me more every hour. I behaved as a gentleman the whole way, and I still regard that as one of my proudest achievements.

Susanna, of course, excited some comment, the more so as she was still in uniform; but the letters from General Washington answered all questions. If the General stated that a colored woman was a lieutenant named Phillips, then so it must be.

We arrived in Philadelphia to find the city miserably hot. Susanna and I lodged at the same inn where Washington and I had stayed months before, and indeed Susanna slept in the same room Washington had occupied. The innkeeper was a little baffled by the arrangement: he accepted the letters from Washington as proof enough of her right to wear the uniform, but still persisted in assuming that I must have brought her along for immoral purposes. I fear I must have used some language with him that was strong in proportion to the temptation I was resisting, for the poor man after that was never quite able to decide whether to treat her as an officer or as a lady. But at any rate he treated her with respect, mingled with a certain amount of fear.

At dinner we discovered that two of the members of the Congress were staying at the same inn: Mr. Harrison and Mr. Jefferson, both from Virginia. When he saw the divine Susanna, Mr. Jefferson gave obvious signs of admiration; I thought his eyeballs might tumble out of his head, so eagerly did he devour the sight of her. My jealousy was naturally inflamed, but as I had made no declaration to Susanna, I could but watch and fume silently, meanwhile treating Jefferson with scrupulous, if not over-scrupulous, politeness.

“I believe the question will be settled in the next few days,” Jefferson said when I asked about the debate on independence. “We require a unanimous vote; Mr. Franklin has some clever saying about the necessity for unity, which I have forgotten at the moment, though it has something to do with hanging, believe it or not, but that’s Franklin’s sense of humor. At the moment Georgia and Delaware are holding out. It goes without saying that Massachusetts and Virginia have stood for independence from the beginning. The other colonies have fallen into line one after another, but Georgia is waiting for the silkworm issue to be addressed before making a decision. As for Delaware, I believe the whole colony has no more than three men in it, and the two sitting in the Congress now are of opposite opinions. The third went home with a headache some time ago, but we may have to send for him to get a decision from Delaware. Meanwhile, I have been asked to draft a proclamation or declaration showing the causes why we must break the bonds which connect us with England, on which I should be happy to have your opinion.”

“Oh, I’d be very interested in seeing that,” said Susanna.

“Dear lady, nothing would delight me more. If you would come to my chamber, we can peruse it together as long as we like, and—”

“Why don’t we bring it down here to the front parlor?” I suggested quickly, “—so that the three of us have room to peruse it together.”

Jefferson was visibly disappointed when Susanna eagerly assented to my suggestion, but it was too obviously reasonable to admit of any objection. Accordingly, after dinner, we sat in the parlor and heard Mr. Jefferson read the text he had written, after which he invited our opinions and suggestions.

“The beginning might perhaps be a little more dignified,” I said.

“Do you think so? I wondered about that. I was aiming for a colloquial directness, but you say that ‘When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go’ leans too far in that direction?”

“It ought,” said Susanna, “to begin with a few resounding phrases, easily remembered but impressive and tending to emphasize the seriousness of the occasion.”

“How about something like ‘We, the people of the thirteen United States of America,’ and go on from there?”

“I don’t think that quite fits,” said Susanna. “It sounds well, and you should keep it in mind for something in the future, but for the present we need something that places us firmly in the flow of history, so that the world knows that we are justified not only by facts but by precedent. Something like ‘When in the course of events’ to start with, and then a brief statement of what we are compelled to do.”

“By heaven, dear lady, I think you’ve hit on something there,” Jefferson said, hurriedly dipping his quill in the ink-pot and scribbling her suggestion at the top of his first sheet.

“You have quite a list of complaints against King George,” I remarked.

“Yes, it seemed necessary to make the list long and detailed, so that we should not seem to be revolting for light and whimsical reasons.”

“Some of them,” I continued, “I do not quite understand. For instance, ‘He has made us eat spinach.’ ”

“Somebody made me eat my spinach,” said Jefferson. “Mother always said, ‘Eat your spinach for King George.’ ”

“Ah, I see.”

“I don’t like spinach,” Jefferson added.

“What about the slave trade?” Susanna added.

“The slave trade?”

“The slave trade,” she repeated, her dark eyes blazing; “that wicked and murderous trade in the human species, which condemns the more fortunate of its victims to a miserable death on unspeakably filthy ships where they are stacked like cordwood, and the less fortunate to a life of unending servitude under the whip of a master whose cruelty is unchecked by law, and against whose foul lusts the women have no defense; the children from such unions, the only consolations afforded to the victims, being ripped from the arms of their wailing mothers and callously sold to buy a few trifling luxuries for the man who calls himself their owner. What have you to say to King George about the slave trade?”

“By God, madam, I shall have something to say about it!” Jefferson said, his pen scratching frantically. “Where, madam, did you learn such eloquence?”

“My father, sir—my adoptive father, for I was left on his doorstep—was a minister of God, with a library of a few well-chosen books. One of them was the Bible.”

“Oh, yes—the Bible. I’ve always meant to read it, but every time I start I think what an awful lot of words there are to get through. I have always thought it would attract more readers if it were condensed into the form of a small octavo of a few dozen pages. When I have leisure, I shall undertake the work.”

Fatigued by our journey, Susanna and I both retired early. The next morning I woke and dressed and came downstairs to find Jefferson nursing a blackened eye. I said nothing, and he was not as garrulous as he had been the evening before. When Susanna came down, and Jefferson was momentarily out of the room, I asked her, “Did Mr. Jefferson pay you a visit last night?”

“I took care of it,” she replied. She had no more to say on that subject.

As General Washington’s representatives, we were allowed to be present at the daily sessions of the Congress as silent observers. On that first morning, Jefferson presented his draft declaration, and debate began with the first line.

“I think you ought to specify what kind of events you mean,” said Mr. Whipple.

“What kind of events?” asked Mr. Jefferson.

“Say, ‘When in the course of human events.’ That makes it clear.”

Mr. Harrison interrupted. “Really, Whipple, what other kinds of events would we be talking about?”

“Well, equine events, for example. Or canine events. Things happen to horses and dogs all the time. It’s not just humans who have events.”

“Do you really want to complain that King George has trampled on the rights of horses and dogs?” asked Mr. Harrison.

“No,” said Mr. Whipple. “I wish specifically to remove the ambiguity and make it clear that we are not concerned with the rights of horses and dogs.”

“The word has been added,” said Mr. Jefferson. “When in the course of human events.”

“Which is absurdly redundant,” Mr. Harrison grumbled.

“But it will do,” said Mr. Jefferson.

“Why are we not concerned with the rights of horses and dogs?” asked Mr. Gerry; but he spoke in a soft voice, and thus was ignored as Mr. Reed rose to speak.

“Delaware,” said Mr. Reed, “has not declared for independency; but if she were to do so, her representatives could in no wise accept this condemnation of spinach-eating. Spinach-growing is one of our two main industries: that and picture postcards with sand dollars on them are the twin pillars of our prosperity.”

“It is removed, Mr. Reed,” said Mr. Jefferson, striking a line through the offending clause.

“Look here, Jefferson,” said Mr. Rutledge, “what’s all this intemperate language about slavery?”

“It hardly seems intemperate to me,” said Jefferson. “The language indeed seems hardly adequate to describe the human misery inflicted by the institution of slavery.”

“But you make human misery sound like a bad thing,” Mr. Rutledge complained. “Human misery is the foundation of our happiness in South Carolina. Misery is the divinely ordained condition of the African, so that by God’s providential arrangement the white man can have the leisure to glorify his Creator by drinking juleps and playing whist. That is why he gave the African such a hideously dark complexion.” And then, realizing that there was a lady present, he nodded to Susanna and said, “No offense intended, madam.”

She gave him a smile that would have frozen a volcano.

Here Dr. Franklin stood and, with an eye on Susanna, began to speak: “I wish to register my strong objection to Mr. Rutledge’s characterization of the African complexion as ‘hideous’—a characterization rendered nigh incomprehensible by the ample evidence to the contrary we all have right before our eyes. It is time to end this curse before it blights the hope of our nascent confederation. A stitch in time saves the mime. I support the condemnation of slavery and the slave trade as Mr. Jefferson wrote it, and I further condemn slave-owners as depraved and debauched men whose wickedness makes them hardly less than devils incarnate. No offense intended, Mr. Rutledge.”

Mr. Wythe spoke next: “But see here, Jefferson, you’re a slave-owner yourself.”

“Am I?” Mr. Jefferson responded with some surprise. “Why, so I am. I have so little to do with the slaves, you see. I have a manager for that purpose.”

“And who is your manager?” asked Mr. Rutledge.

“Oh, one of the slaves takes care of that. Well, then, gentlemen, I think we can strike the slavery clause, can’t we? Let’s move on to more important questions.”

Susanna’s right hand was clenched into a fearsome-looking fist, but she kept her seat.

Mr. Gwinnett spoke up. “The colony of Georgia is not likely to declare for independence unless the silkworm issue is addressed. We suggest a clause, perhaps replacing the slavery clause, along these lines: ‘He has failed to send the right species of mulberry for our silkworms.’ ”

We returned from the day’s debate somewhat dispirited, but nevertheless appeared dutifully to hear the next day’s session, which was taken up mostly with the silkworm question, until at last, by various whispered compromises, the Georgians were persuaded to declare for independence without a silkworm clause specifically so worded, but with the addition of a more general clause stating that “He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good,” which everyone agreed to understand as referring to the silkworm crisis.

The day after that was consumed with fruitless wrangling: only Delaware held out, the two delegates still holding opposing opinions on independence. Thus, in fact, there was only one member left to be moved, but he was as immobile as the Alleghenies. It was finally decided that Mr. Rodney would have to be sent for to gain a clear majority one way or the other from Delaware. A rider was dispatched, with the hope that he would return with Mr. Rodney on the morrow.

In the evening we had supper with Dr. Franklin, who gave every evidence of being captivated by the charm of the divine Susanna. Indeed, I believe he must have given her some quite unmistakably clear evidence: for I had left the room to answer the call of nature, and when I returned Dr. Franklin was holding a wet rag over his eye. When I asked Susanna about it later, she would say only, “I accepted his apology.”

Mr. Rodney arrived in due time, and spent the hour after his arrival excoriating the Congress in general and his brethren from Delaware in particular for making him ride all the way up to Philadelphia with the most appalling headache ever suffered by mortal man. It was some time before he ran out of breath; but at last Mr. Hancock was able to put the question to him directly.

“Independence, Mr. Rodney: Aye or nay?”

“Oh, yes, by all means, let us have independence, and let us all be hanged as traitors and put out of our misery,” replied Mr. Rodney.

“Yes,” Dr. Franklin began, “we must all hang together, or—”

“Shut up, Franklin,” said Mr. Rodney, holding his head in both hands.

“So finally the question is decided by Delaware,” Mr. Wythe remarked.

“Which will doubtless be known for ever afterward as ‘The Last State,’ ” added Mr. Harrison.

But at last the Congress was unanimous: we should have independence, if General Washington and his army could procure it for us. There remained yet some few clauses in the Declaration which did not please everyone, and another few days were expended in debating them. But in the end the document had been drawn up in a form that, if it did not please all the delegates, was at least no longer worth fighting over.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Hancock on that memorable day, “what remains is for each of us to affix his signature to this Declaration, as a pledge that we shall all remain united in our determination to establish a permanent separation from the tyranny of King George.”

“Yes,” Dr. Franklin agreed, “we must all hang together, or we shall assuredly hang our heads in shame.”

“That one needs some work before it goes in the almanac,” said Mr. Clymer.

“Now, my friends,” Mr. Hancock continued, “let there be no jealousy over the order of the signatures. We shall simply start on my right with the delegation from Georgia, and then we may go around the room in an orderly fashion.”

“And if I may suggest,” added Mr. Harrison, “we ought to leave a good space near the center for General Washington to sign at the next opportunity.”

“Hear, hear,” Mr. Chase concurred. “The General was a member of this Congress until we ourselves committed the command of the continental army to his care. He more than anyone else has brought us to the point where independency can be considered by reasonable men. Centuries from now, when the infant nation born this day has grown to a mighty empire of perhaps as many as eighteen or nineteen states, our distant progeny will treasure this Declaration and will look eagerly for the name of Washington subscribed to it.”

Mr. Hancock looked a little sour, but all he said was, “Yes, of course; but first let us all sign it, so that the thing is finished and we are all pledged to independence.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Franklin, “for we must all hang loose, or we shall assuredly hang together.”

“Keep working on it, Franklin,” said Mr. Clymer.

Meanwhile the Georgian delegation had already subscribed, and then came the Carolinas, and so on from one end of the room to the other, until all but Mr. Hancock had signed.

“And now,” said Mr. Samuel Adams, “it remains only for our President to add his name to the roll.”

Mr. Hancock plunged the quill into the ink as if he meant it to soak up the whole pot.

“Don’t forget to leave a space for—” Mr. John Adams began; but Mr. Hancock was already applying the quill to the Declaration with vigorous motions of his whole arm, extending all the way up into his shoulder.

“Why, Mr. Hancock,” Mr. Gerry remarked after the President had lifted his hand from the paper with a final flourish, “you’ve left no room at all for General Washington’s name!”

“Oops,” said Mr. Hancock.

To be continued in Chapter VII. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.

By an Associate.

---

Continuing the narrative that began here.

Chapter V.—Prelude to revolution.—Continental Congress.—Debate over the generalship.—Washington chosen.—Siege of Boston.—I meet Susanna.—Cannons brought from Ticonderoga.—We seize Dorchester Heights, and control the harbor.—British evacuate.

I shall pass over the next fifteen years without much remark. Though the French and Indian War was successfully concluded on the Plains of Abraham four years after Washington retired from active military life, General Washington was remembered in the colonies as the man who would have cleared the French out of the Ohio country and won the war had he not had the bad luck to be defeated each time he attempted it. He was thus the only man in the colonies whose reputation extended from Massachusetts to Georgia, and the great men of the age were familiar guests at Mount Vernon. Washington expanded the house to accommodate entertainment on a lavish scale. Wings were added with more guest rooms; the kitchens were expanded so as to be able to cook for a small army when the occasion demanded it; and a small theater for puppet-shows was added in the rear garden. Nothing was lacking that could possibly serve to keep Washington’s guests comfortable or amused.

In the meantime events were progressing that would in the end lead to our rupture with the mother country and that revolution which would shower Washington with so much glory.

So habituated are we to thinking of Washington as the hero of the revolution that most of us have forgotten how little interest he took in the events leading up to it. The Intolerable Acts were quite tolerable for Washington; his wealth insulated him from the effects of arbitrary taxation, and the government of Quebec interested him no more than the government of the lunar regions. It was only when events began to take on a more martial character that Washington’s interest was roused. News of the Boston Massacre filled him with righteous indignation, and he introduced a bill in the House of Burgesses prohibiting massacres of any sort in any town or independent city within the territory of Virginia—a bill that passed by a large majority, but which the governor refused to sign, describing it as disloyal to the crown, which, he said, retained a divinely instituted right to massacre citizens which no act of any colonial legislature could alienate. Positions were hardening on both sides, and men who had been peaceful citizens now began to speak openly of armed resistance. And if it came to that, there was, in Washington’s mind, only one suitable leader.

By the time of the First Continental Congress, to which Virginia naturally sent Washington as a delegate, the General was ready in his own mind to take command of the colonial forces. Certainly he would have been the obvious choice had there been any colonial forces to take command of, but that one detail was lacking. The Congress therefore accomplished little. Washington indeed pressed it to adopt certain resolutions which had the effect of fanning the flames, notably the “King George is a fat Dutch slob” clause in the Suffolk Resolves, a clause which Washington regarded as essential to demonstrating the seriousness of the colonists’ grievances. But these protests for some reason merely hardened the position of the king and his ministers.

Everything had changed by the time of the Second Continental Congress. By then the stirring events at Concord and Lexington had reached the ears of every American, no matter how remote, and with no real leadership or direction a large force of colonial militia had gathered around Boston, hemming in the British soldiers who occupied the city.

Summoned to that Second Continental Congress, Washington made it his first order of business to visit his tailor. He had grown to six feet ten inches tall, and thus required an entirely new uniform in splendid buff and blue.

This time Parson Weems and I accompanied Washington to Philadelphia. “Great events are doing, Gist,” Washington told me, “and I have need of old and trusted friends. It may possibly be—I will not, of course, anticipate the decision of the Congress, but it may possibly be—that I shall be called to lead the forces investing Boston. In that case, I shall rely upon you to put affairs in order at Mount Vernon and then join me in Massachusetts.”

This was my first visit to Philadelphia, the metropolis of America. Washington, of course, was familiar with the place; or at least he was familiar with the inn at which we stayed (where his chamber was already adorned with one of his brass plaques), the house where the Congress met, the tavern nearby, and a theater at which puppet-shows were regularly exhibited. The tavern was noted for a peculiar meal served on a small loaf of bread, consisting of thinly sliced beef mixed with onions and some green vegetable I did not recognize, with a certain liberal amount of cheese laid on top. Washington was much taken with the dish, which he consumed with his usual Madeira. 

I attended the daily meetings of the Congress as Washington’s adjutant, so that I was afforded a first-hand view of the momentous debates in which the future of North America was decided. Yet at the time one would hardly have thought that momentous debates were in progress. It is always only in hindsight that we can see history in the making; the dross is burned off in the flame of later events, and we remember only the gold. Most of the debates led nowhere. The question of independence was brought up by a few of the New England firebrands; the middle and southern representatives were altogether against the notion, regarding it as an absurd phantasy. Yet there was no real agreement as to what was the objective of the rebellion. Mr. Hancock, the merchant from Massa­chusetts, was of the opinion that the most desirable outcome would be a new system of taxation in which the burden of government was supported largely by the poor, leaving the rich free to invest their money in various enterprises that would enrich our country by enriching the owners thereof. Representatives from Georgia were certain that any equitable settlement would involve support for the silk industry. One of the gentlemen from Delaware believed that the rebellion would serve the divine purpose of inaugurating the millennial rule of the saints, but he usually kept to himself and indeed was encouraged to do so.

One thing, however was certain: that a rebellion of some sort was already in progress: and without some coordination among the colonies it was likely to end in disaster. The delegates seemed unanimously agreed that someone ought to take command of the volunteers currently besieging Boston, someone who represented the colonies acting in concert. But who might take that exalted position? Where might the Congress find a man who had both the military experience and the stature to meet the current emergency?

The delegates had picked June 15, 1775, as the date for a vote on the commander-in-chief of colonial forces. On the evening of the fourteenth of June, Washington insisted (against my gentle admonitions) on taking Parson Weems and me to see a puppet-show much like the one his men had mounted all those years ago at Fort Washington, but of course with more elaborate settings and puppets, and the addition of a crocodile to the dramatis personae. I found it amusing in its way; Washington took in the drama in almost reverent silence, with no visible change in his expression. I wondered whether he would suffer the effects of the show later that evening, but he seemed not to be affected at all.

The next morning, when the Congress met, Mr. Hancock began the debate with some abstract observations on the desirable qualities to be sought in such a commander as the Congress planned to appoint.

“Gentlemen,” said Hancock, “it is to be noted that the soldiers—I scruple not to call these brave volunteers soldiers, though as yet few of them have any military experience—it is to be noted, I say, that almost all of them are from New-England, and indeed the greater part from Massachusetts. Now, this being the case, it is clear that they need one of their own to lead them: a New-Englander like themselves, and for preference a man from Massachusetts. It would indeed be most desirable to have a man of Boston, who would thus be intimately acquainted with the scene of the battle. Furthermore, our candidate must be a man already known to most of them, at least by reputation; and he must be a man universally respected by his neighbors. Now, it is a peculiar fact of the New-England character that wealth is the thing most likely to excite a New-Englander’s admiration and approval. Our man must therefore be a man preeminent in wealth, which not only would give him the requisite reputation, but also could prove useful in meeting the needs of the army in an emergency. As for his name, it ought to roll of the tongue easily; and we ought not to diminish the importance of its beginning with a good sturdy letter, such as H, whose two uprights are solidly cross-braced for an appearance of stability that inspires universal confidence. I make no particular recommendations, of course; I merely state a few general principles by which this Congress may wish to be guided.”

After this speech, Washington was recognized. He stood to his full height, which was more than a head taller than any other man in the room, and made sure the brass buttons on his buff-and-blue uniform were displayed to their best advantage. Then he began his discourse:

“Gentlemen, I thank the representative from Massachusetts for his observations. I must agree with him that, in the matter of personal wealth, our candidate must have a lot of it. I would add that it is desirable that such wealth be in a form that is not likely to lose its value in the vicissitudes to come: I am thinking particularly of land. I would suggest, however, that it is essential at this crucial moment to have all the colonies united. For this purpose it is necessary to show that we have set aside all considerations of sectional prejudice. What better way to demonstrate that we have not been influenced by local sentiment than by appointing a man who not only is not a New-Englander, but in fact has never even been to Boston? Moreover, such a commander’s complete ignorance of the land, the town, and the waterways surrounding it will give him a fresh view of the situation, unhampered by the fettering influence of specific knowledge. Furthermore, it will be useful to have a man of such physical stature as to be able to make himself readily seen on the field. And of course it goes without saying that he must look well in his uniform; and all the better if he already possesses a suitable uniform, as in that case no time will be lost at the tailor’s. In short, gentlemen, if you will take my advice, you will choose for your general a man who is tall, rich, Southern, well-dressed, and thoroughly ignorant. I hope these few remarks have been of some assistance to you in making your choice.”

Washington resumed his seat to considerable applause, although what I had first heard as applause coming from the Massachusetts delegation proved to be the sound of Mr. Hancock slapping his forehead.

Mr. Carroll of Maryland then stood and nominated General Washington as supreme commander of the army of the United Colonies, at which turn of events Washington showed great surprise. Mr. Hancock, displaying signs of impatience or disgust, then rose and nominated Mr. Hancock. A vote was called for, and Washington rose to retire into the next room, saying that, as the vote concerned himself, he would not have the other members prejudiced by his presence, and would therefore occupy the time in brushing his general’s uniform. I followed him, and thus was not present to hear the vote taken; but Washington was ready when the door opened and he was summoned to accept the commission of the Congress.

“I call every gentleman in the room to witness that I am not fit for this signal honor which you have bestowed upon me,” he declared as he made his way to the center of the chamber.

“Well, in that case—” Mr. Hancock began; but he was ignored in the general press to greet Washington.

“However,” Washington continued, easily addressing the whole assembly over the tops of the heads of the men surrounding him, “with the aid of Almighty God, and—heh—with the certainty—heh heh—that the brave—heh heh ha ha ha—the br—— ha ha ha ha ha ha—”

The laughing fit was now fully upon him, and Washington began whooping and gasping for air.

“He saw a very amusing puppet-show last night,” I explained to the other delegates.

“The crocodile ate him up!” Washington wailed before he fell down in a chair, kicking his feet in the air, unable to speak for quite some time. The chamber echoed to the sounds of Washington’s laughter, the applause of the delegates, and a rhythmic thumping, which I found to be coming from Mr. Hancock, who had grasped the ledger in which the minutes of the sessions were kept and was busy smacking himself in the face with it.

Washington set off for Boston the next morning. I did not accompany him; instead, as we had planned, I rode back to Mount Vernon to make a few final arrangements for Washington’s extended absence. Mrs. Washington was quite competent to manage the estate, but Washington trusted me alone to bring him certain necessities, among them a dozen pairs of his favorite silk underwear.

It was thus some weeks before I arrived at Boston, or rather at Cambridge across the river, where Washington had made his headquarters. The city was still occupied by the redcoats, but the colonial volunteers held most of the land around the city. The British could not get out by land, but they could supply themselves by sea. Under those conditions, the siege could go on till the day after Doomsday.

As soon as I identified myself, I was conducted to the house that served as Washington’s headquarters. I entered and was left in a small front parlor warmed by a generous fire.

Here I expected to meet Washington, and I was rather surprised when, instead of the General, a young woman came in and greeted me:

“Mr. Gist?”

She looked about twenty at the most, with a complexion of pure dark walnut, jet-black hair, dark eyes that blazed in the firelight, full lips that invited thoughts of what they would feel like against mine. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life, all the more so because she was dressed in a militia officer’s uniform, which molded the shape of her figure in a way that emphasized all the features a man likes best in a woman.

Had Washington taken a mistress? No, the idea was absurd. But who was she?

And then it occurred to me that she had spoken to me, and I ought to answer her.

“Yes—Christopher Gist, Miss…”

At that moment Washington burst into the room and seized both my hands. “Gist, my dear friend! How good it is to see you and my underwear. I see you’ve met Phillips.”

He was obviously referring to the beautiful young woman in military dress. “Yes. Yes, we were just introducing ourselves.”

“Invaluable man, Phillips. He has a mind for military problems. You’ll like him when you get to know him. Now let me have a pair of my underwear. You can hardly believe what I’ve been reduced to wearing up here. There we are! I’ll be right back.”

He left the room holding his underwear out in front of him, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the lintel.

The young woman waited until she heard another door close. Then she turned back to me.

“The General believes I am a white man named Phillips. You may attempt to tell him otherwise. Perhaps you will have better luck than I had.”

“But you’re really—”

“Susanna, Mr. Gist.”

“Susanna Phillips?”

“Just Susanna.”

“And you are a, um, a…”

“A free woman, sir.”

“And no one else has remarked on the, um, the fact of, uh…”

“The men don’t like to contradict the General, Mr. Gist.”

I could certainly see the wisdom of that policy. It was not that there was any danger in contradicting Washington, who was the most affable man in the world; it was simply that contradicting him was a task like that of Sisyphus, but far more fatiguing. “The men are right. He’ll get no contradiction from me. But how—I mean, what brought you into the continental army in the first place?”

“My uncle, sir—I mean, not really my uncle, but I called him that, and I loved him, and the redcoats killed him in the Massacre, when I was a girl of twelve. And now that I have the chance, sir, I thought I might return the favor. Many times over, if I can manage it.”

At that moment my old friend Parson Weems appeared in the doorway. “Gist! You’ve made it. How are things at Mount Vernon?” He made his way to the fire and opened his greatcoat as if to absorb all the heat from the flames.

“Mrs. Washington is in good health and keeping the house in order,” I replied.

“Very good. I see you’ve met Susanna. Our friend the General thinks she’s a remarkable man.”

“So I’m given to understand.”

“I’m beginning to think he’s right,” Weems added, with a smile for Susanna, which I noticed she did not return.

“How has the siege been going?” I asked—“if ‘siege’ is the right word.”

“We have the redcoats penned up,” Parson Weems answered. “They are confined to Boston and such places as they can reach from the harbor, which is to say England, Europe, the Americas, Africa, Asia, and the islands. But, by heaven, they can’t get to Cambridge.”

“And has Washington done anything to change the situation?”

“Well, he sent an expedition to a pencil-factory in the wilds of New-York.”

“New-York? What in heaven’s name has that to do with the siege of Boston?”

“Susanna gave him the idea,” Weems said with a wry smile.

I turned to the dark beauty, who explained, “There was a certain young officer who was too…energetic. He was constantly meddling in the conduct of the siege. So I thought his energy might best be expended in an unexpected attack on an important British installation in the interior.”

“Ticonderoga supplies the pencils for all the British forces in North America,” Weems explained.

“If Arnold is half the brilliant commander he thinks he is,” Susanna continued, “an American victory will fill the whole army with enthusiasm. If he fails, we shall hear no more of him. Either way, he will be there instead of here.”

“I see,” I said, and I had to admit the idea seemed to be well thought out. “And you made that statement to General Washington?”

Parson Weems laughed. “Not precisely, eh, Susanna?”

Susanna glanced down at the floor. “The general may possibly be under the impression that Ticonderoga is a suburb of Boston,” she said rather quietly.

“Clever man, our Susanna,” Weems said with a smile.

Washington now came into the room; but as he had forgotten to duck under the lintel, he was rubbing his forehead. “They build houses smaller than they used to,” he complained. “But at least the underwear situation is rectified.” He turned to Susanna. “What is the news from the troops?”

“They are cold and miserable and bored,” she replied.

“Good man, Phillips. See what you can do for them.”

“Yes, sir,” Susanna replied, and she left the room. We heard her putting on her coat and going out the front door. Then Washington spoke in a more confidential tone.

“Gist, Parson, I’ve sent Phillips away because I wished to speak to you about him privately. You’ve known him as long as I have, Parson, and Gist, you’ve seen enough, perhaps, to be able to render an opinion. I’ve been worried that there’s something not quite right about him.”

“Really?” I asked warily, and at the same time Parson Weems said, “Indeed?”

“He works so hard that I hate to say anything to him,” Washington continued, “but I’ve been concerned for some time. Does he look pale to you?”

Weems and I looked at each other silently for a few moments.

“Not…particularly,” I replied at last.

“Not more than usually,” Parson Weems agreed.

“I wouldn’t say ‘pale’ exactly,” I added.

“Some men have naturally pallid complexions,” said Weems, but I tried to signal him that he was perhaps going too far.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I may be imagining things,” Washington said, “and indeed I hope that is the case. I feel better having the opinion of two trusted friends. Mr. Phillips has proved so useful that I naturally worry about his health, but you have reassured me.”

That night I shared a room with Parson Weems, who snored abominably. Washington had suggested putting me up with young Phillips, a temptation I resisted on the grounds that, if his health indeed was delicate, he ought to have a room of his own.

The next morning came a great sensation: that proud young officer Benedict Arnold had returned from Ticonderoga covered with glory, bearing with him enough pencils to supply the colonial forces indefinitely, and, what was just as important, the cannons the British had been using to defend the place.

“Now,” Washington said later on, when he was having dinner with Susanna, Parson Weems, and me, “we have the means to evict the British from the city. With these cannons, we can level any hiding places and leave the redcoats no shelter whatsoever.”

“That would have the effect of destroying Boston,” I remarked.

“True, but it may be necessary to destroy the city in order to save it.”

“The cannons need not be trained on the city,” said Susanna. “There is a hill at Dorchester Heights with a commanding view of the harbor. If the cannons were brought up to the top of the hill, they could be trained on the harbor, and the British would find it impossible to withstand our siege.”

“An interesting thought,” Washington replied, “but it seems to show your inexperience. I have seen cannons in operation. They are very effective against solid objects, but against the liquid element I believe they would have very little power. When a hole is made in water, you see, the water on all sides rushes in to fill the gap, and in a manner of speaking the body of water repairs itself instantaneously. I do not believe a cannon could do any permanent damage to the harbor at all.”

Susanna was looking downward with her fingers on her temples, as if suffering from a headache; but she spoke in a civil tone. “I was thinking of the ships in the harbor, General.”

“The ships?”

“The redcoats can stay in Boston forever as long as they can supply themselves by sea. If we make it impossible for their ships to come and go safely, the British will not be able to hold out very long.”

“Oh,” said Washington, looking puzzled. “But how do we make it impossible for the ships to come and go safely?”

“By blasting them to splinters with our cannons!” Susanna exclaimed; and then, more calmly, she added, “sir.”

“Ah, I see.” And then Washington’s face lit up. “Yes! My word, I do see! Well done, Phillips. We’ll give it a try.”

Immediately the order was given to occupy Dor­chester Heights, and soon our cannons were making quite an impression on British shipping.

“And now what do we do?” Washington asked Susanna as we stood on the heights looking down into the harbor, which for the moment was singularly free of British ships.

“Nothing,” Susanna replied.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. When the British ships come in, we fire on them. But otherwise we wait and do nothing. The British will realize the impossibility of their situation, and they will either try something desperate and stupid, or they will simply leave—and we shall let them leave—and the city will be free. All we have to do is—nothing.”

“Yes!” Washington agreed enthusiastically. “The ‘nothing’ strategy, which worked so well for General Forbes. You remember, Gist—oh, no, you weren’t there. But you heard the story. The French ran away and burned their own fort without a fight, all because General Forbes did nothing. Well, gentlemen, if nothing worked for Forbes, perhaps it will work for me as well. We’ll try nothing.”

So we did nothing. I spent some of that time getting to know the charming Susanna better, but I was not aware of how much she had charmed me until one evening Weems came into the room we shared with a blackened eye that was painfully obvious even in the dim rushlight.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I tried my luck with Susanna,” he replied. “Apparently fortune did not favor my attempt.”

I suddenly found it difficult to control my rage, which is a very unusual condition for me. “Weems,” I reminded him, “you are a man of the cloth.”

“The cloth does not always cover the man,” said Weems.

“You insulted a lady!”

“She’s only a negress.”

Suddenly I was much closer to him. “She wears the uniform of the Virginia militia! As far as you are concerned, she is an officer and a gentleman, and you will treat her as such, or by God, Weems—”

I stopped. I realized I had been shouting in his face. I backed away.

“I’m sorry, Weems.”

“Apparently the subject interests you warmly,” he said with an infuriatingly wry smile.

“I will not mention it again.”

“You were merely following your chivalrous instincts.”

“And you will apologize to Susanna at the earliest opportunity.”

“Now, really, Gist—”

“You will apologize to her,” I repeated, and I think he could see that I meant it seriously.

“As you say,” he replied with a sigh of resignation. “Since you take such a personal interest in the matter, however, I have a bit of advice for you. Beware of her right fist. You’ll never see it coming until it’s too late.”

Not long afterward, the British evacuated Boston. Washington rode into the city in triumph.

“My word!” he told Susanna, “this ‘nothing’ strategy certainly reaps abundant benefits. I ought to have tried doing nothing a long while ago!”

To be continued in Chapter VI. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.

By an Associate.

---

Continuing the narrative that began here.

Chapter 4.—Washington’s greatest dispatch to date.—Parson Weems and I are entrusted with an unusual commission.—Seeking a wife for Washington.—Martha Custis.—Washington’s wedding and wedding night.

In honor of his departed friend, Washington wrote what was doubtless the best dispatch of his career so far. It was true that he had returned with less than half the force, and a considerable number of those wounded; but upon reading his dispatch, Governor Dinwiddie made Washington commander in chief of the entire Virginia militia. In this capacity he participated in the capture of Fort Duquesne with General Forbes. He disagreed with Forbes rather warmly on nearly every decision; but in spite of ignoring Washington’s advice, Forbes had the favor of fortune. Washington’s most vehement disagreement with the general was over the naming of the new settlement at the Forks of the Ohio, which Forbes decided to name for the minister Pitt, though Washington reminded him that there were men on the hither side of the ocean who were more nearly concerned with the land in question. 

These disappointments temporarily soured Washington on the military life, and he used the excuse of having been elected to a seat in the House of Burgesses to resign his commission. In gratitude for his service, he was made brigadier general at his resignation, for which his tailor made him a magnificent new buff-and-blue uniform. Wash­ing­ton indeed kept his tailor very busy: he had outgrown all his old clothes, and his tailor now measured him at six feet two inches tall. 

I mention these momentous events only in passing because I was not part of them. On our return from the Braddock expedition, Wash­ing­ton had entrusted me and Parson Weems with a more delicate commission. 

We had dinner at Ramsey’s Tavern in Williamsburg the evening Wash­ing­ton personally delivered his account of the Braddock expedition to the governor, and it was over the Madeira after dinner that Washington brought up his plan.

“Gist, Parson,” he began, “I am now at an age and in a position where it no longer behooves me to pass through life alone. It is true that my duties have kept me occupied hitherto, and I have not spent much time at home. But, as the governor intends to entrust me with the command of the entire Virginia militia, I cannot but assume that this French war will soon be brought to a successful conclusion; and then it will be time for me to cultivate the arts of peace. Now there is a wise old saying” (here he produced his copybook): “ ‘When yawning, put your handkerchief or hand before your face, and do not make a great show of the thing.’ In other words gentlemen, it is time for me to find a wife.”

The parson and I agreed that it would be an excellent idea for Washington to marry, and I asked him whether he had any suitable lady in mind.

“No,” he answered, “and that is the commission with which I am entrusting you. No one knows my tastes and inclinations better than you two gentlemen. If you could find me a wife and have her ready for me by the time I finish the war, I shall be very much obliged to you.”

Parson Weems gave me a glance with a raised eyebrow, signaling that he expected me to handle this matter. I boldly forged ahead.

“I’m not sure how I’d go about finding a suitable young lady,” I began delicately.

“Oh, but that is the simple part. The ladies will come to you. I have a plan that cannot possibly fail. The Virginia Gazette in Williams­burg, and the Alexandria Gazette in the town of that name, print more than three dozen copies between them, reaching every estate of note in Virginia. A notice printed in those two papers will be read by every eligible young lady in the country, or by her father, which comes to the same thing. Let it be once printed, and, as I say, the ladies will come to you. You need only choose the most suitable candidate and present her upon my return for my approval—which will doubtless be forthcoming, since I have boundless confidence in you two gentlemen.”

I glanced over at Weems, who indicated by his expression that he would prefer to have me continue to handle the discussion.

“And what would we say in this notice?” I asked Washington.

“You needn’t trouble yourselves about that. I have already made up a suitable announcement, which I shall leave with you so that you may manage the business with the printers.”

He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a folded paper, which I unfolded and read:

Gentleman farmer, tall, noted war hero, seeks extremely wealthy heiress or widow for marriage & investment purposes. I bear the rank of Colonel & own an estate bounded by the Potomac on the east & the Russian Empire on the west. I enjoy puppet-shows, equestrian exercises, fox-hunting, wrestling, fishing, dancing, billiards, bear-baiting, theater, cards, colt-breaking, duck-shooting, Madeira, & leading men into battle, but especially puppet-shows. You enjoy being rich, managing a large estate, entertaining important guests, & watching your husband invest your money in ambitious land schemes beyond the Alleghenies. Let us unite & profit from said union.

I passed the paper to Parson Weems for his perusal while Washington explained, “You will of course add the necessary information so that the ladies may reach you, and perhaps you will wish to make up a list of questions to ask when you interview them, such as ‘How much land do you possess?’ and ‘How much per annum does it produce?’ But I leave these minor details to your discretion.”

“I gather,” I said, “that the wealth is of paramount importance. But are there any other qualities you would look for in a wife? Physical qualities perhaps?”

“Well, of course she ought to be in good health. You might examine her teeth. I have been having trouble with mine, and a wife with bad teeth would be troublesome. I always examine the teeth before I acquire a horse, and I suppose the same precaution might be useful in acquiring a wife.”

I tried to phrase the question a little more directly. “I mean to say, are there any physical qualities that attract you more than others?”

“Sturdiness,” replied Washington. “Durability. Like any other household apparatus, a wife should be capable of reliable and continuous service.”

I glanced at Weems, who reluctantly picked up the thread of the unraveling discourse. “He means,” the parson began, and from there launched a detailed description of some of the things a husband might want from a wife, using some language that I might not ordinarily have wished to employ in company, but which was probably rendered necessary by Washington’s apparent ignorance of the subject.

“My word!” Washington exclaimed when the parson had finished his discourse. “I had no idea marriage involved so many mechanical operations. But I should think that in this enlightened age we could dispense with those. The important thing is the land. Or the money, or any other forms of wealth. A happy alliance of fortunes is what I seek, and of course an eye for the proprieties in the entertainment of my guests. As for the rest, I rely on your wisdom and experience. It is the mark of a good commander to surround himself with capable men, and two more capable men than yourselves, gentlemen, I do not know.”

Accordingly, while Washington was off on Forbes’ successful expedition against Fort Duquesne, Parson Weems and I were managing the business of finding a wife for him.

We paid the printers to insert Wash­ing­ton’s advertisement as he had suggested, adding a time at which candidates would be seen in the rooms we had rented next to the Gazette printing office on King-street in Alexandria. I had expected three or four ladies at most, and had been fully prepared to waste a day without seeing any. But when the appointed day came, I arrived at King-street to find a line of young and hopeful ladies stretching down to the docks, many of them accompanied by their fathers, others by brothers or elderly aunts. We had a full day of work ahead of us, for it seems that the word had got out that the gentleman farmer in the papers was none other than Washington himself, the most coveted match in the colonies.

Parson Weems and I divided the work between us. If one of us found a candidate who seemed to have the right qualities, she would be sent to the other to confirm the choice; then, out of that small number of best candidates, we would agree on one to present to Washington.

The plan was a sound one, but how much work it took to get us to that firm conclusion! With a feeling near despair I began questioning our first candidate and her father.

“What sort of fortune have you?” I asked her.

“My—” she began, but her father interrupted:

“A gentleman would not ask such a question.”

I had to agree with him. I did not feel much like a gentleman that day, asking very personal questions of young ladies with whom I was not acquainted at all. Most of them had more hope than fortune. Some expected their beauty to compensate for their relative poverty; more than one of them could have had me for a husband that very day, but I was not the husband they were looking for. Twice I was threatened with a thrashing, once by a brother and once by an elderly but vigorous aunt.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we ran through all the candidates. Then it was time for us to speak to the ones we had set aside as possibilities. I had picked three for Weems to interview and he had left me five.

The first of Weems’ choices came in alone. She was a very attractive woman, with emerald eyes and a copious mane of red hair; but her manner did not suggest an aristocratic upbringing.

“What sort of fortune have you?” I asked her.

“My pa’s got a tavern on the Occoquan Ferry road,” she replied.

“I see. And what do you think you have to offer Colonel Washington?”

“You want me to show you?”

After that interview I could see why she had appealed to Parson Weems, and I made sure to note the location of her father’s tavern. But she had nothing of what Washington was looking for.

The next lady also came in alone, but in her dress and demeanor she showed every evidence of belonging to the old Virginian aristocracy. I began with my usual question:

“What sort of fortune have you?”

“Well,” she began, “I have eight thousand acres outside of Williams­burg, three thousand five hundred on the…”

I traced the properties she mentioned on Farrier’s Map of the Province of Virginia as she rattled them off. The list went on for quite a while, and it was a nearly perfect fit. All the bits of Virginia that were not owned by Washington seemed to be owned by this woman. She had certain other sources of wealth, including a number of slaves, but it was the land that I knew would appeal to Washington.

“What is your family background, Miss…”

“Custis, sir—Martha Custis, widow of the late Daniel Parke Custis. My lamented husband left me comfortable; I mourned his passing, of course, but in the words of a wise old saying,—” here she produced a small ornately bound copybook and leafed through the pages. “Here it is: ‘Do not read over another’s shoulder unless asked to render an opinion.’ ” She closed the book, satisfied that she had made her point.

“Martha Custis,” I said to Parson Weems after the last of the candidates had left.

“Martha Custis,” he agreed. “But I hope you enjoyed the tavern wench.”

When Washington returned to Mount Vernon as a brigadier general, therefore, Parson Weems and I were able to present it to him as our united opinion that Martha Custis was the wife for him.

“Splendid,” said Washington. “Install her as mistress of the house at once, and we’ll have no more worries on that subject.”

“It might be best to meet her first,” I suggested.

“No need for that. I trust you implicitly.”

“Just for courtesy’s sake,” I insisted.

“Ah, yes, of course. A matter of civility and decent behavior. Thank you, Gist, for reminding me. Three months of frontier fighting have perhaps dulled some of my polish. Will there be any other little necessary civilities?”

“A wedding is usually expected,” said Parson Weems.

“I had forgotten. Parson, I rely on you to deal with that aspect of the arrangements. Bring Mrs. Custis up to Mount Vernon, let’s have a meeting and a wedding, and then my domestic arrangements will be complete.”

Within a week we had Martha Custis at Mount Vernon, and Wash­ing­ton met his future wife for the first time. It was not five minutes before they had both pulled out their copybooks and were exchanging wise old sayings.

“And what especially pleases me,” Washington confided to us later, “is that she has experience in the wifing business, so that she will be able to take up her duties immediately without any special training.”

An alliance between two such illustrious families was inevitably a great event in Virginia society. All the Washingtons and Custises and Byrds and Randolphs and Taylors and Harrisons were there, and they all brought their copybooks with them, so that the air was thick with flying aphorisms. The wedding dinner was on a magnificent scale, and Parson Weems and I were among the guests who were privileged to stay at Mount Vernon that night—for even in those days, before Washington’s additions, the house had generous accommodations for guests.

I rose early the next morning, and somewhat to my surprise found Washington already out walking in the herb garden.

“My word, Gist, what a happy man you’ve made me!” he exclaimed as soon as he saw me. “Martha is everything I could have wanted in a wife!”

“It gives me great satisfaction to see you so well matched,” I replied.

“To every young gentleman, I should certainly recommend taking an experienced woman to wife,” he continued with a broad smile. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Gist.”

“I have some idea,” I said, returning his smile.

“She introduced me to a new sensation I had never before experienced, Gist!”

“Did she indeed?”

“She calls it cribbage. I wonder how I could have come so far in life without having been introduced to the game before.”

Martha proved to be in every way the wife Washington needed and deserved. She was an accomplished hostess and a good manager, and the Wash­ing­tons’ house became famous throughout Virginia for its hospitality. The next few years were a time of peace and prosperity for my friend Washington, and it seemed as though he had left military pursuits altogether and grown into his role of gentleman farmer. I took a house in Alexandria, not far from Mount Vernon, and Washington still found occasional uses for me. But it seemed as though his days of daring adventure were over. I had not, however, counted on the callous incompetence of the ministers in London.

To be continued in Chapter V. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.