Posts filed under “Novels”
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
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.
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
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.
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
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.
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
The colonel’s fortunes seemed to be at a peak. Fortune, however, is not known for her constancy. Some weeks later, ships arrived from England bearing soldiers and officers. What had been an American conflict was now all-out war between England and France, and the officers newly arrived from England bore new orders which made the lowliest English lieutenant the superior of any colonial officer whatsoever. Washington’s pride could not submit to such humiliating conditions. He resigned his commission and retired to his estate at Mount Vernon, whither Parson Weems and I accompanied him. By this time, I should mention, Washington had grown to exactly my height, so that in the most literal sense we saw eye to eye.
Mount Vernon was certainly a different world for me. Accustomed to a solitary life on the frontier, I found myself on a plantation almost as big as the city of Williamsburg, and one with a large population of slaves. I must own that I had never thought much of slavery one way or the other, as there had been no slaves on the frontier; but the more I lived among them, the harder I found it to understand how these men, women, and children, with hearts and minds and wills, could be accounted as property. Washington seemed to accept the institution of slavery without a thought; I supposed that a lifelong acquaintance with it had taught him to accept it as part of the order of nature. Not until many years later would I discover how mistaken I had been.
Life at Mount Vernon was easy and pleasant—so easy and pleasant, indeed, that I wondered what I was doing there. Parson Weems spent his days composing tracts against the papists. I read the books in Washington’s library, walked along the river, ambled through the gardens, and generally made myself comfortably useless.
Washington occasionally persuaded me to join him in equestrian exercises. He was passionately fond of horses, and he was a master of all departments of the art of riding except for the matter of staying on the horse. This latter skill eluded him, but he took his tumbles good-naturedly.
The arrival of General Braddock put an end to our indolence. He came to Mount Vernon in February and was, of course, treated with Washington’s wonted hospitality. After a generous dinner, we sat and shared a bottle of Madeira, and Braddock revealed the reason for his visit.
“Washington,” he said, “your reputation has reached my ears, as indeed it has reached the ears of every Englishman, in the colonies or at home. The stunning success of your previous expedition could hardly have been improved upon, unless indeed you had defeated the French instead of the other way around. When I arrived in Virginia, I immediately inquired after you; and when I was told that you had resigned your commission, you can hardly imagine my disappointment, or my anger at the muddleheaded fools in London whose insulting ignorance deprived me of the finest officer in the colonies. I have come to rectify that grievous mistake. I am leading my army against Fort Duquesne in the spring. If you will consent to accompany me as my aide-de-camp, you will have your rank of colonel with undisputed authority over all officers in my army, myself only excluded. I believe that with your expert knowledge and brilliant strategic mind, we shall—um, we shall—um—”
The general stopped and appeared to be listening intently.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Washington asked.
“You didn’t hear, just now, a sound that might possibly be described as ‘lowing,’ did you?”
“I don’t believe so,” Washington answered. He glanced at me and Parson Weems, and we both shook our heads.
“Ah. Very good,” said Braddock. “One can never be too careful. As I was saying, I have no doubt that we shall defeat the French if I have you by my side, whereas I make bold to say that without you I do not believe it can be done. Will you accompany me?”
“My duty and my inclination both point to the same conclusion,” replied Washington. “I must answer in the affirmative; it is my duty as a Virginian, and it is my pleasure as a soldier. This life of farming is an honorable profession for a gentleman, but for a soldier it must always seem a life of indolence and sloth. I have heard the bullets whistling, and believe me, there is something charming in the sound.”
“Yes!” Braddock agreed vehemently. “Yes!—they whistle ‘All in a Garden Green’!”
“In my last encounter, it was ‘Lillibullero.’ ”
“Probably a difference in the North American climate.” Braddock stood and extended his hand across the table. “Your hand, sir,” he said. Washington stood and took Braddock’s hand, and the agreement was sealed.
“One condition I should like to add,” Washington said as he sat back down. “I should feel much more confident if Mr. Gist and Parson Weems came with us. Parson Weems’ tracts are very effective weapons of the spirit, and Mr. Gist has an unrivaled understanding of the cardinal directions.”
“Splendid!” said Braddock. “I myself have always had difficulty with east, so it will be very useful to have an expert on hand.”
General Braddock accepted Washington’s invitation to stay at Mount Vernon that night. Early in the morning, just after dawn, I was awakened by a loud pounding from very nearby in the house. Tossing a robe over my nightshirt, I dashed out into the hall to find that Braddock had procured a hammer from somewhere and was pounding a nail through a brass plaque into the door of his bedroom. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, and I was able to read the words engraved on the plaque:
At this moment Washington appeared, already fully dressed, saying, “Good morning, general. I trust you slept well.”
“Quite soundly,” Braddock replied. “I hope I have not got you out of bed too early, but I wished to lose no time in expressing my gratitude for your hospitality.”
“Not at all. I have always thought that gratitude ought to be promptly expressed, or—”
“—or it is as good as a cucumber!” Braddock finished, and the two men clasped hands. “Truly a man after my own heart!”
Several months still had to elapse before General Braddock’s planed expedition. He wanted to wait until the spring floods had subsided before he set out. Washington occupied that time in having one of his slaves teach him how to play the mandolin, which he thought would give him a tactical advantage over the French; but as far as I know nothing ever came of this scheme.
We set out in June with a large force and a cumbersome baggage train, which meant that the Indian trail had to be broadened considerably to accommodate us. Washington was of less use in this regard than I had hoped. If a grove of cherry trees stood in the way, Washington could be relied upon to demolish them expeditiously; but it was vain to try rousing his enthusiasm for an oak or a maple or a beech, for no matter how valiantly he tried to bring on his mania, he was worth no more than any other soldier with an axe.
“Nevertheless,” said Braddock one evening as he dined with the officers, “it is imperative that we make quick progress, both for the sake of expelling the French as quickly as possible and so that Jeremy will not catch up with me.”
“Jeremy?” Parson Weems asked.
“My mortal enemy,” Braddock explained.
“And this Jeremy,” I asked, “wouldn’t happen to be a mule, would he?”
“No, sir,” Braddock replied. “An ox—the most fiendishly devious and diabolically wicked ox ever bred.”
Parson Weems gave me a slight smile; Braddock’s English officers pretended not to be paying attention.
Washington, however, responded immediately. “I know but too well what you mean. I myself have been pursued from my youth by a mule named Irving. He lives to deepen my sorrows—”
“—to blast your victories—”
“—and to hound me into an early grave. And yet—”
“—And yet he is not visible in the strict sense! By Jove, Washington, I was certainly right about you! It has been my observation, sir, that all great military commanders are pursued throughout their careers by the forces of envy and malice, personified in malevolent invisible animals. It is almost the proof of a commander’s greatness. Ah, Washington, what shall we not accomplish together?—But for the present we require a plan, and for that I hope we may rely on your wisdom.”
“What wisdom I have, though I am very much your junior in age and experience, is at your disposal,” said Washington.
“Then let us clear the table, bring in more Madeira, and discuss our strategy,” Braddock responded.
In a few minutes the table was cleared, and Braddock’s officers unrolled a long chart consisting of a circle marked “
“We are here, and the French are there,” Braddock explained. “My plan was to take our whole army from here to there, crush the French, and place ourselves there. But I should like to have your opinion.”
“If you will take my advice,” Washington said, “you will leave most of your force and equipment behind and attack the French with half our army at most.”
“An intriguing suggestion,” Braddock remarked. “What is your reasoning?”
“Elementary strategy,” said Washington. “The French will be expecting us to attack with a large force. By attacking them with a small force, we take them completely by surprise. The Stratagemata of Frontinus are full of such ruses, which among the ancients invariably met with success.”
“By Jove, what a remarkable military mind you have! Yes, I see how such a deception might put the fear of God into the papists! We shall put your plan into effect tomorrow morning.”
Accordingly, the next morning the army was divided into two parts, the greater part remaining with the baggage train to follow the lesser part at a slower pace. Braddock and Washington and I would lead the lesser part over the Indian trail on horseback; Parson Weems, at Washington’s insistence, came with us, but mounted on a docile old mule, as he did not consider himself much of a rider.
“I have named him ‘Irving,’ ” Parson Weems confided in me.
“You are a strange and cruel man,” I told him.
The main difficulty with making our expedition on horseback was keeping the general and the colonel on the horses. After a number of failures on the part of one of the officers, I took over the duty of helping Washington mount. After considerable effort, I would at last succeed in getting him up one side of the horse, only to hear him land with a thud on the other side. Braddock’s valet had much the same trouble with his master. When we did get our two commanders mounted, we seldom went three miles without losing one of them on the side of the trail.
Each morning the camp awoke to the sound of the commanders nailing brass plaques to trees, and two mules were delegated especially to the task of carrying the sacks of plaques and nails.
We had made good progress by the beginning of July, and we were probably within two days’ ride of Fort Duquesne when the French suddenly fell upon us.
They appeared all at once from both sides of the trail, and it was evident immediately that there were far more of them than there were of us. The battle might have been a rout from the beginning, except that we had no avenue of escape in any direction. Washington fell off his horse immediately, or rather his horse shot out from under him and tore away into the woods. (These words “shot out from under him,” taken verbatim from Washington’s later dispatch, would later be widely misinterpreted.) In the confusion, we did our best to get Washington mounted on another horse. Immediately he galloped off again, urging the men to press forward toward the west. A moment later, Braddock sailed by, urging the men, “Back! Back toward the thingy!”
“East?” I called out.
“Good man, Gist!” cried Braddock as he fell from his horse.
I ran to him and gave him what assistance I could.
“Do you hear those bullets whistling ‘Lillibullero’?” he shouted as we mounted him on another horse. “By Jove, Washington was right!”
I had no heart to tell him that it was Parson Weems again, and at any rate he had already galloped into the thick of the battle.
With the two commanders giving opposite commands, and the French pressing in from all sides, the men were desperate, and the battle was turning into a massacre. Perceiving, however, a gap in the French encirclement toward the east, I rounded up the dozen men nearest me, and by our shouts we attracted more; and we were able to press through and begin what was perhaps too panicked and disorderly to be called a retreat, but was at least better than the massacre we were leaving behind us.
It seemed that we half-walked, half-ran for hours, turning as we could to fire on any pursuers. Eventually the French gave up the pursuit, since they could gain nothing by it. We began to regroup. I found that Parson Weems had made it on his mule, and somehow the two mules bearing the brass plaques had followed him. Washington was on foot and could not say where his horse had gone; but Braddock, who by the men’s accounts had always placed himself where the fighting was thickest, was gravely wounded, borne on the back of some horse or other. When it seemed clear that we were out of harm’s way for the moment, we stopped and let down General Braddock to see what could be done for him.
“Please don’t waste your efforts on me,” he told me when I had a look at his wounds—and indeed, though I said nothing, I could see that any effort would be wasted. “Washington will lead you back. Where is Washington?—Ah, there.—Washington, my boy, my career comes to an end here, but yours is just beginning. You know what to do now. Write the dispatch! The battle is lost, but write the dispatch and the war is won! It’s not whether you win or lose, Washington—it’s the dispatch!”
Those were his last words for some time. He slipped away from the conscious world for a quarter-hour or so, during which I told Washington frankly that there was nothing I could do, nor could our surgeon have done anything more had he not been killed in the battle.
The next time Braddock’s eyes opened, he seemed not to see us at all. From the smile on his face, I believed he was already seeing sights far more splendid. He spoke only four more words: “I’ve beaten you, Jeremy!” Then he passed out of our world.
We buried Braddock under a great white oak. Washington gave a moving oration in memory of all our fallen; about Braddock in particular he said only, “The world has lost a hero, but I have lost a friend.”
Then, as our fife-player whistled an appropriate dirge (he had lost his fife in the battle), Colonel Washington nailed a brass plaque into the oak tree above Braddock’s grave:
To be continued in Chapter IV. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
Continuing the narrative that began here.
“Once again, Virginia has need of your services, Mr. Gist,” he told me after we had exchanged greetings. “You were instrumental in the success of our recent expedition, and the governor and I would be honored if you would add your unrivaled knowledge of the western forests to our current enterprise.”
“What little ability I have is at your service, Mr. Washington,” I replied.
“Lieutenant Colonel Washington now. I received my commission at the beginning of the month. But ranks and titles mean nothing between friends, Gist, and I hope you will permit me to consider you a friend.”
“I am honored, sir.”
“And as your friend, let me tell you, do not belittle your own abilities. You have an instinct for difficult notions that has already proved very valuable. North, for instance. I have always had difficulty with that one, but you grasped it right away. I assume you have an equally good grasp of west, and those two notions together ought to get us to our destination.”
“And what is that, if I may ask?”
“The Forks of the Ohio, Gist. My Ohio Company is constructing a fort there, and I have a commission from Governor Dingwoodle to reinforce it and take command. If, therefore, we may make use of your boat once more, I believe that we should be able to make quick progress by simply retracing the route that brought us hither the last time.”
“The spring floods may retard our progress a little,” I remarked, “but otherwise I see no reason why the expedition should not proceed quickly enough. How many are in your party this time?”
“One hundred sixty-three,” Washington answered.
“One hundred sixty-three?” I stepped past him. Gathered in the clearing around my cabin was a motley assortment of militiamen, the sort of force for which the term “ragtag” might have been invented. I recognized none of them except, sitting on the stump of the cherry tree, the familiar figure of Parson Weems.
“Do you think we shall need to make more than one crossing with the boat?” Washington asked.
“It’s possible,” I answered.
“Then the sooner we start the better,” said Washington. “There is a wise old saying…” He pulled out his copybook from his breast pocket and found a page in it. “ ‘A gentleman ought to avoid contradicting a lady if it is at all possible.’ I live my life by these maxims.”
After one hundred seven trips across the river and one hundred six back, we succeeded in transporting all the men and their equipment across the Potomac. We had proceeded only a few miles along the trail, however, when we were met by a small group of ill-dressed men coming from the other direction. One of them approached Washington immediately.
“Sir,” he said, “I perceive by your blue-and-yellow uniform that you must be Lieutenant Colonel Washington.”
“Buff and blue,” Washington replied.
“Sir,” the stranger said, “the French have taken Fort Washington.”
“What do you mean?” Washington demanded in alarm.
“I mean that, whereas once we were inside the fort, with the French outside, now we are outside the fort, and the French are inside.”
Washington looked grim. “This is disturbing news,” he said.
“The French commander also said some very uncomplimentary things about you personally,” the newcomer continued.
“What things were those?” Washington asked.
“I believe his exact words were, ‘And you may tell that petit caniche Washington that if he should come here, je vais kiquer his derrière.”
I asked the man whether this French commander were a certain Captain Hautain, and he answered that he believed that was the name.
Washington turned to address his men. “Men, the object of our expedition has changed. We are going to eject the French from the Forks of the Ohio, where they have ensconced themselves in the very fort we had been marching to reinforce. I must warn you all that we face a foe who does not scruple to insult us in a language we cannot understand. From that fact alone you may learn how wicked these papists are, and why it is necessary to expel them utterly from my—I mean our—land. I rely on every man’s attachment to his country and to his Protestant faith, and to the large bonus Governor Damwadi will doubtless authorize when we are successful.”
The men seemed pleased at least by the prospect of the bonus, and a few of them attempted something like a cheer, which gave Washington obvious satisfaction.
Indeed, I could already see the qualities that would make Washington such a renowned leader of men. The first night he showed himself a stern disciplinarian, sending several men to bed without supper for various infractions. Yet the men, if they did not positively love him, at the very least did not seem to be plotting to assassinate him.
Our progress was considerably slower than it had been in the previous expedition, owing to the larger number of men, the amount of equipment, and the many swollen streams we had to cross. Twice the mania came upon Washington, and an innocent cherry tree met its fate; but the third time was attended with momentous consequences.
It was a bright mid-morning in late May; the sunlight painted irregular splotches on the forest floor, and the air was pleasantly warm without oppressive heat. All at once Washington stopped in mid-stride, and I recognized all the symptoms: the perspiration, the gritted teeth, the trembling tension of every muscle. Beside him was a particularly fine black cherry, at least fifty feet tall, and in full bloom.
It was too much for him. In a movement too quick for the eye to follow, the hatchet came out of his pack, and chunks of wood began to fly in all directions. The air was filled with the heady scent of cherry sap, and Washington was shouting “Hatchet! Hatchet! Hatchet!” with each blow. The men, who by now had seen this performance at least twice before, did their best to remove themselves from harm’s way; and soon the tree was toppling into the forest.
Suddenly there was a loud cry, followed by confused shouting. One voice, higher than the rest, penetrated the din: “On a tué de Jumonville!”
A French patrol! Washington quickly ordered his men into battle array, which was hard to distinguish from their accustomed random grouping, and led a charge toward the source of the shouting. I readied my musket, but by the time I reached the spot, the French were already surrendering to our overwhelmingly superior numbers. Their commander had been crushed by the falling tree, and he had probably died almost instantly; the rest of the French force numbered only nineteen, who were taken prisoner.
Having won this signal victory, Washington determined to build a fort immediately, reasoning that it would be easier to keep prisoners if he had a fort to keep them in. The Youghiogheny River being nearby, I suggested that as a location; Washington, however, insisted on erecting the fort exactly where we stood, which happened to be a low and boggy meadow most remarkable for the proliferation of skunk cabbages in it. He immediately set the men to building, as soon as the French commander had been given a decent burial; meanwhile, he sent messengers back to Williamsburg with a dispatch giving a full account of the affair.
The fort went up quickly. We had all the logs we could desire: it was necessary only to find a grove of cherry trees and turn Washington loose on them, and we instantly had several days’ worth of lumber. Washington himself drew up the plans for the fort, though I persuaded him to make some minor revisions. In particular, I thought that a museum, an opera house, and a university, while they would be of undoubted utility once we had established a more permanent possession of the Ohio country, might strain our resources at the present moment. Washington reluctantly agreed, but he would not give up his plan for a small theater for puppet shows. “I am passionately fond of puppet shows,” he said. “And it is fitting that at least some accommodation should be provided for the muses at the very foundation of what will doubtless blossom into a great city, a beacon shining from the west—a city to be known, when it takes its place among the world’s great centers of the arts and sciences, as Washington.”
“Wasn’t—” I began; but I stopped myself, supposing that no good could come of asking the question.
“You see,” Washington continued, “it is fitting that the place be named after myself, since it is by necessity that we have constructed it.”
Fort Washington was nearly complete when messengers arrived from Williamsburg bringing a new commission promoting Washington to full colonel and officially ordering him to eject the French from the Forks of the Ohio by whatever means he thought appropriate. We were now on a war footing. Shortly after that, about two hundred men arrived, sent by Governor Dinwiddie as reinforcements. Washington immediately put them to work, some planting flower gardens, some laying out a green for lawn-bowling, and an elite detachment charged with mounting a puppet-show. The first performance took place the next afternoon; the plot involved the domestic arrangements of a husband and wife who settled their disputes by hitting each other with sticks. The men laughed riotously; Washington, however, watched impassively without so much as a smile through the whole performance, though he gave it his enthusiastic applause at the end.
That same evening, I dined with Washington, Parson Weems, and three of the officers, and we discussed the best means of surprising the French at their fort, which they had renamed Fort Duquesne.
“It seems to me,” Washington said, “that our best chance is to march directly southeast.”
“But the French are northwest of us,” one of the officers objected.
“Precisely,” Washington replied. “They will be expecting us to march directly to the northwest. But see what an advantage our Protestant natural philosophy gives us over the benighted papists. The most distinguished English philosophers and geographers assert that the earth takes the form of a sphere. If, therefore, we march straight to the southeast, we must eventually come upon the French fort from the northwest, taking the French completely by surprise.”
The three officers stared without saying anything, and after a moment I perceived that they were staring at me. Parson Weems, too, was looking in my direction, with an expression compounded of amusement and anticipation.
“In theory,” I said cautiously, “that strategy would indeed take the French by surprise. However, the advantage gained in surprise might might not be worth the loss of time. While we were marching, the French would have ample time to bring their reinforcements from Quebec, and no matter how surprised they were, they might be able to oppose us with overwhelming numbers.”
“True,” Washington agreed. “We might—heh—therefore be better—heh heh—better advised to—heh heh ha ha—to—ha ha ha—”
What had started as light chuckling rapidly grew into a gasping, choking fit of laughter. The officers were plainly alarmed, and even Parson Weems looked worried.
“Are you all right, Washington?” I asked, standing ready to offer my assistance.
“He hit—” Washington fell forward laughing and gasping, and for some time was unable to make any articulate sounds. At length he tried again: “He hit his—” More laughs, more gasping. Finally he was able to choke out a phrase: “He hit his wife with a stick!” He pounded the table with both fists, laughing and gasping with tears pouring down his cheeks; and it was quite some time before he was able to master himself sufficiently to resume the discussion.
Eventually it was decided that we should attack the French without delay by marching to the Youghiogheny and then down to the Monongahela, which we could follow to Fort Duquesne. It had the advantage of being a slightly more direct route than going around the world to the southeast, yet at the same time being somewhat more devious than marching straight along the Indian trail to the Forks of the Ohio.
In two days, all was prepared, and our whole force set out into the forest. Scarcely had we gone a mile, however, when a French force appeared before us and began firing. Washington’s soldiers, brave to a man, soon discerned that the French had a distinct advantage in numbers, and were not afraid to show the broad expanses of their backs to the enemy, no matter how tempting a target they made. With laudable expedition, the entire force made it back to the fort in a few minutes.
The French soon had us surrounded, and as the bullets flew, Parson Weems began absentmindedly whistling “Lillibullero,” as was his wont in times of danger.
Washington was glowing with battle ardor. “Do you hear those bullets whistling?” he shouted to me as he dashed from one side of the little fort to the other. “Believe me, there’s something charming in the sound!”
I suppose I ought to have told him that it was Parson Weems he heard, but in the excitement there was no obviously appropriate occasion for conveying that information.
For most of the day we held out, but it was obvious that the French, with at least twice our numbers, must inevitably prevail. The officers and I agreed that a surrender upon terms was better than the loss of all our men. As I was, by this time, the one best acquainted with the humors of our commander, it fell to me to approach him with this unpleasant proposal.
“Washington,” I said bluntly, “the officers and I believe it is time to discuss terms of surrender.”
“Had enough, have they? Well, I shall be merciful. They shall have honorable conditions, since they have fought bravely.”
“I meant our surrender,” I said. I dreaded his reaction, but it had to be put as unambiguously as possible.
“Really?” He looked nonplussed for just a moment, and then said, “Oh, well—win some, lose some. Find a white rag somewhere, tie it on a stick, and let’s get on with it.”
I was quite surprised to hear him accept our advice with such good cheer, and I told him as much. But Washington merely pulled his copybook from his pocket and told me, “As the old saying has it, ‘The other guests will be better pleased if you do not make slurping sounds when eating broth.’ Such is the life of a soldier.”
Within the hour, then, we were facing Captain Hautain himself, who could not contain his sneer. “So! It is the assassin of de Jumonville, yes?”
“If you mean,” said Washington coldly, “that I led my men to victory against Mr. Jumonville’s party, that is accurate.”
“Victory! Plume de ma tante! You drop-ped the tree on him! I should have you executed for this thing alone!”
“We have come to discuss terms. If you do not wish to negotiate, we can go back to the fort and resume the battle.”
“Oh, you shall be given terms, Monsieur Washington. When one has the little yapping poodle which chomps at the ankles, then one throws it the bone, yes? Eh bien, we give you the terms, and you allez-vous-en, and we are finis avec you.” He looked back at one of his officers, who stood ready at a portable desk with a quill and paper. “Et maintenant, our terms.”
The terms he dictated were simple and, I thought, for the most part generous.
“1. The Virginians will hand over their arms.
“2. The Virginians may march back with full honors of war.
“3. Colonel Washington will not name anything else in the Ohio country after himself for the space of one year.
“4. Colonel Washington will sign a paper stating that ‘Washington n’est qu’un tout petit caniche qui jappe incessamment.’ ”
Before he affixed his signature, Washington was careful to ask, “What exactly do you mean by ‘full honors of war’?”
“Sacred blue!” cried Captain Hautain. “I mean that you will be permitted to march out of la Nouvelle France without having to wear a sign on your back that says ‘Kiquez-moi’!”
“That sounds fair,” Washington agreed, and he signed the instrument of surrender.
Our march back was a difficult affair. Washington himself was in surprisingly good spirits, and I wonder whether we should have made it back at all had it not been for his relentless good cheer. But we had no arms for hunting game. Once indeed Washington managed to crush a deer with a cherry tree, but we could not rely on such good fortune for the most part.
Parson Weems once congratulated Washington on his philosophical acceptance of defeat, but Washington saw nothing unusual in it. “Victory or defeat is almost immaterial,” Washington explained. “The important thing is the dispatch. A well-written dispatch conquers all difficulties. As a wise man once said, ‘Assistance promptly rendered to a lady purchases a good reputation for a gentleman in society.’ ” (This last was from his copybook.) “It is clear to me that Irving somehow warned the French of our attack, as there is no end to his malevolence; my duty, therefore, is to report to the governor, and to advise him on the next step to be taken to assure our ultimate victory, and the entire possession of the Ohio country for Virginia.”
“What will you tell the governor?” asked Parson Weems.
“The truth, of course: that the entire expedition would have been lost but for the presence of mind and quick action of Colonel Washington.”
We met a small party of Indians one day, and Washington attempted to trade with them for badly needed provisions; but the Indians made use of a gesture that consisted of bringing the thumb up to the tip of the nose, waving the fingers in the air, extending the tongue between the pursed lips, and making a sound like air escaping from a bladder, which in their marvelously expressive sign language signifies, “We are not inclined to treat with you at present.” This was an indication that the local tribes were less favorably disposed toward us than they had been before, and that perhaps they were beginning to favor the French—a suspicion that would prove all too well founded.
At last we reached the Potomac, where, owing to our having considerably less equipment to carry, it took only one hundred sixty-five crossings in my boat to bring all 350 men across. Washington stayed on the north shore until the last man was across, and it was when we had already brought the second-to-last load across that we realized we had left Washington alone on the shore with the entire treasury of the expedition. I directed the men to take cover behind trees until the hail of dollars had subsided; then I went back across to pick up Washington, while the men collected the bonus to which they were doubtless entitled.
It was a little cramped, but I offered the men the hospitality of my cabin for the night, which they gladly accepted. In the morning, as they prepared to leave, Washington made an unexpected proposition.
“Gist,” said he, “I have come to rely on your good sense and your expert knowledge of the cardinal directions. If you would consent to come with me, Virginia would be the better for it.”
I thought it over briefly. We were now at war with France; I certainly could not rely on the security of my isolated cabin anymore, especially if the Indians had allied themselves with the French. But with Washington, I might have some small chance of affecting the outcome of that war. I gave him my hand and accepted his proposal.
“Splendid!” said Washington. “With Parson Weems’ spiritual advice and your practical wisdom, the three of us should be more than a match for Irving.”
To be continued in Chapter 3. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.
MEMOIR OF THE LATE GEORGE WASHINGTON,
By an Associate.
When the knock came at my door, I was, I admit, rather surprised, and not a little apprehensive. Visitors came seldom to my cabin on the Potomac, far upstream as it was and at the very edge of English settlement; and it was not out of the question that I might find some lawless savage waiting for me outside the door, ready to take my scalp to add to his personal museum. With that possibility in mind, I seized my staff, which I have always found more useful at close quarters than a musket or a rifle, and opened the door with a quick jerk.
I saw no one before me until I heard a voice saying, “Pardon the intrusion”; then I looked down and beheld a small man, about four feet nine inches tall, looking up at me. He was dressed in military fashion in buff and blue, and he was holding an empty burlap sack. He seemed barely more than a boy, but there was something commanding in his bearing, and a sort of inherent dignity in his address, that compelled my immediate respect.
“Pardon the intrusion,” said he, “but I have urgent need of a boat, and I was hoping I might perhaps make use of yours.”
“You need to cross the river?” I asked.
“Yes, to retrieve the money that was in this bag.” He held up the empty sack. “There were fifty-six Spanish milled dollars in here.”
“But how did they get across the river?”
“Well, I—” He looked down at the ground. “I’m afraid I threw them.”
I fear I may have responded with undignified incredulity. “You threw them?”
“In a moment of absence of mind,” he replied, looking up at me again. “You see, as a boy I whiled away so many hours throwing dollars across the Rappahannock that the thing became an ingrained habit, as it were. When there is a river, and there are dollars, they always seem to end up on the other side.”
“That does seem inconvenient,” I said.
“But there is, I believe, a wise saying that applies very well to such inconveniences.” From his breast pocket he produced a small, well-thumbed copybook, and he leafed through it until he found the page he desired. “‘When in good company at dinner, do not pick your teeth until after the ladies have withdrawn.’” He closed the book and returned it to his pocket.
“Well,” I said, “I am at your service, Mr…”
“Oh! Washington, sir. George Washington, adjutant to Governor Dunwoodie, sir.”
“Dinwiddie?”
“Yes, sir. Forgive me—I ought to have introduced myself at once. I’m on an important mission from the governor, sir, and the cares of my commission must have been weighing heavily on my mind.”
I extended my hand, and the little man gripped it with surprising firmness. “Christopher Gist, sir,” I said, “and my boat is at your service. I shall be happy to take you across.”
“There are several of us in the party,” Washington said. “Allow me to introduce you.” He turned aside to let me through the door, and I stepped out into the cold November air. Four other men were waiting out there, and Washington introduced them one by one.
“This is Mr. Gadelle, an Indian trader recommended to me as familiar with the ways of the savages.”
“Yup,” said Mr. Gadelle.
“And this is Mr. Beadle, another Indian trader, whom I have persuaded to accompany me to consult on the commercial possibilities of certain lands I possess near the Forks of the Ohio.”
“Yup,” said Mr. Beadle.
“Mr. Beadle and Mr. Gadelle are from Connecticut,” Washington explained. “And this is Mr. Von Schloss.”
“Guten Tag, mein Herr,” said Mr. Von Schloss.
“As my mission is to confront the French and warn them to depart the Ohio country, I have engaged Mr. Von Schloss as an interpreter,” Washington explained. “And this is Parson Weems.”
“How do you do, sir?” said the ecclesiastical gentleman.
“Parson Weems will use his most persuasive rhetoric to redeem the French officers from the wickedness of popery,” said Washington. “When that is accomplished, they will doubtless become much more friendly toward us, their fellow Christians.”
“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” said I. “I fear it may take more than one crossing to transport all of you and your baggage across the river, but I can—”
“Oh, that will not be necessary,” said Washington. “It will suffice to transport me so that I may retrieve the dollars, and then you can bring me back, and we shall be on our way.”
“But aren’t you headed for the Ohio country?”
“Yes, that is our destination.”
“Then you’ll have to cross the river. North is that way.”
“Is it?” He looked puzzled for a moment, and then seemed to reach a sudden decision. “Mr. Gist, you seem to be extraordinarily well informed in matters of geography. Would you consider serving the great country of Virginia in the capacity of a scout or guide? I have sore need of a man with your obvious gifts.”
I did not accept his invitation at first. But when he pressed it on me a second and third time, I reconsidered. I had no wife or children, nor even so much as a hunting dog, to tie me to my simple cabin. If I could be of service to Virginia, ought I not to place my meager abilities at her command? After some hesitation, I accepted the proposal.
“Governor Denwaddie and I will be most grateful,” said Washington. “And now, if you will conduct us to the other side, we can be on our way.”
“It might be best to set off tomorrow,” I suggested. “The day is already far advanced, and I have some small preparations to make before I leave. You gentlemen are welcome to my cabin tonight, where, poor though it may be, you will at least be warm and comfortable. Tomorrow we may start at dawn, and we should be able to make good progress on the Indian trail.”
“A fine suggestion,” Washington agreed. “Only—”
He hesitated, looked to the left and the right, and lowered his voice.
“You haven’t heard a sound around here that might be described as ‘braying,’ have you?”
I listened. Except for the usual sounds—the river, the wind in the trees, and a crow in the cherry tree near the riverbank—I heard nothing, and certainly nothing that could have been called braying.
“I don’t think so,” I answered.
“One can never be too careful,” said Washington. “Now, if you would be so kind as to take me across to pick up my dollars, I shall be most grateful to you.”
“By all means. Please follow me.”
“Just a moment.” He turned to Mr. Von Schloss and pointed to another burlap sack, this one sitting on the ground and obviously full. “I rely on you, Mr. Von Schloss, to guard that bag. It is of the highest importance.”
“Guten Tag, mein Herr,” said Mr. Von Schloss.
“Well done. And now, Mr. Gist, to the boat.”
We walked down to the riverbank, and had almost reached my little rowboat, when suddenly Washington came to an abrupt halt.
“Is that a cherry tree?” he asked so quietly that at first I could not hear him distinctly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is a cherry tree, isn’t it?”
I looked down at the man, and in just a few seconds, there in the November chill, large beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead.
“Yes,” I answered cautiously. “A wild black cherry. Very productive of fruit in its season.”
Washington was trembling all over. “Hatchet,” he whispered through gritted teeth. And then he shook his head vigorously. “Please forgive me, Mr. Gist. I am in perfect control of my actions.” His manner, however, suggested the opposite, and I wondered whether he was speaking more to convince himself than to inform me.
We made the crossing with no difficulty, as the river was calm at the time, and on the opposite shore we easily found the dollars we were seeking. They were distributed over a remarkably small area. “You must have very good aim with a dollar,” I remarked.
“It is not boasting to say that I can throw a dollar farther than anyone else in the colonies, and with greater accuracy.” He picked up one of the dollars, and, turning to face the river, suddenly launched it with almost incredible force. It sailed through the air until I lost sight of it; and then, a few moments later, we heard a sharp yelp from the opposite shore.
“Oh, dear,” said Washington, gazing in that direction. Then he turned away. “Well, it can’t be helped now. As they say…” He pulled the copybook out of his pocket and thumbed through it rapidly until he found his page. “A pair of clean stockings every day will do much to improve one’s standing among men of discernment.” Then he replaced the book in his pocket and resumed filling his sack with dollars.
When we returned with the sack of fifty-five dollars, we found Mr. Gadelle prone on the ground. Washington passed the cherry tree as quickly as he could and then addressed Mr. Beadle apologetically. “I appear to have struck Mr. Gadelle with a Spanish milled dollar.”
“Yup,” replied Mr. Beadle.
“He’ll come around soon enough,” Parson Weems remarked. “They generally do.”
“Under the circumstances,” said Washington, “I think I ought to let him keep the dollar as usual.”
“Yup,” replied Mr. Beadle.
And indeed Mr. Gadelle recovered soon afterward and took possession of the dollar without further remark.
I managed to feed the five guests and myself fairly well, and when we retired, though the cabin was small, we slept soundly, except for a brief moment when Washington shouted the name “Irving” in his sleep, waking the rest of us but not himself.
The next morning I woke just before dawn to the sound of some sort of pounding on the outside of the cabin. My alarm turned to curiosity when I noticed that Washington was missing, and that none of the other guests seemed to be alarmed by the sound. Tossing on my coat, I stepped around and over the sleeping guests, or rather the grudgingly waking guests, and walked out into the grey chill of pre-dawn November.
Washington was pounding a nail into the wall beside the door with a stone for a hammer. When he moved his hand, I saw that the nail went through a hole in a brass panel or plaque. Another nail was already driven through a hole in the other end of it, and as I approached closer, and Washington stepped back to admire his work, I was able to read these words on the plaque, in finely engraved letters:
“I have always thought,” said Washington, “that gratitude ought to be promptly expressed, or it is as good as not expressed at all. In fact, there is a wise saying on that subject.” The copybook came out of its pocket again, and Washington flipped through its pages. “I remember that it was… Oh, yes—here it is. ‘Gratitude ought to be promptly expressed, or it is as good as a cucumber.’ I may have miscopied that.” He closed the book and slipped it back in the pocket.
By this time the rest of the party had risen, so after a breakfast of johnny cakes and salt beef, we set out on our way. I had brought the lightest possible pack, but it took four trips across the river to carry all the men and the baggage over. I admit that we were perhaps overly cautious, and the bag of dollars made every trip, owing to Parson Weems’ reasonable insistence that it was unwise to leave Washington and the coins alone together on the riverbank, and Washington’s flattering (if inexplicable) unwillingness to trust anyone but me with it. Once we had crossed the river, and the men had all assumed their burdens (Washington seemed to be carrying nearly his own weight in equipment), we set off along the Indian trail that crosses the Alleghenies.
“And what gives me the most satisfaction,” Washington said as we walked, “is that I am almost certain that Irving has not followed us across the river.”
“Who is this Irving?” I asked. “Forgive me for asking, but we heard you shouting his name in your sleep last night.”
“Irving,” he said gravely, “is my mortal enemy. For most of my life he has pursued me relentlessly, and I have no doubt but that he will continue to pursue me to the end of my life. He lives to deepen my sorrows, to blast my victories, and to hound me into an early grave. I am morally certain that Irving will be the death of me sooner or later.”
“But how can one man be so thoroughly wicked?”
“Oh, Irving is not a man. Irving is a mule.”
“A mule?” I asked incredulously.
“The most fiendishly devious and diabolically wicked mule ever bred.”
“But—but what does he look like, this Irving?”
“Irving,” Washington said, “is not visible in the strict sense.”
To this I could think of no reply, so we walked on in silence for a while.
The weather was turning colder as we crossed the mountains. We camped under a rocky overhang the first night; in the morning, Washington produced another brass plaque from his big clanking sack, but had the devil of a time trying to get his nails pounded into the rock, until I suggested that he apply the plaque to a nearby tree instead. This solution satisfied him, and we continued on our way.
So we went, crossing the Alleghenies in nine days and leaving a trail of brass plaques behind us. At the Allegheny River we made the trifling mistake of leaving Washington alone on the shore with the bag of dollars; but since we were obliged to make the crossing anyway, we suffered no serious inconvenience.
Eventually we reached the French post at Fort Le Boeuf, where we were received courteously by a lieutenant in a rather tattered uniform. Washington immediately brought forward his interpreter, Mr. Von Schloss.
“Guten Tag, mein Herr,” said Mr. Von Schloss.
“I’m terribly sorry,” the lieutenant replied, “but I don’t speak a word of High Dutch. However, I have some rudimentary knowledge of the English tongue, if that will suffice.”
“That will be suitable,” Washington agreed. “I have a message from Governor Dimwittle that must be delivered personally to your commanding officer.”
“If you will follow me,” said the lieutenant, “I will conduct you to him forthwith.”
We all followed Washington as he followed the lieutenant. The fort was a hastily constructed stockade, but one small building in the center showed considerably more effort than the rest. To this building we were conducted, and we waited outside while the lieutenant went in to inform his superior of our presence.
He emerged a few minutes later and told us, “Captain Hautain will see you now.”
Washington entered, and we filed in after him, one after another.
The interior was sumptuously appointed, with carved chairs upholstered in fleur-de-lis patterns, fine tapestries on the walls, and a magnificent table whose marquetry top was covered with an array of pastries the likes of which I had never seen before in my life. Captain Hautain was standing before it in all his military splendor, his mustache perfectly waxed to a pair of dangerous points.
“Bonjour, mes amis!” the captain said cheerfully. “Vous avez quelque chose à dire? Bien! Mais maintenant, des napoléons!”
“Captain Hautain says that before you speak, you might like some of these pastries, which for some reason are called ‘napoleons,’” the lieutenant said.
“Lieutenant!” the captain said sharply. “Vous êtes de trop! I will be the handling of these matter. —Gentlemen! Comme vous voyez, I speak English assez good.”
“I’m grateful to you for your hospitality,” Washington responded. “I shall come straight to the point. My name is George Washington, adjutant to Governor Dunwattle of Virginia, and I have come to warn you that you are trespassing on Virginian soil. It is imperative that you leave as soon as practicable.”
“Ho! Virginian soil? It is a plaisanterie, oui? This is the soil of the Nouvelle France. Dites-moi, little adjutant fellow, if I should refuse the moving of my fort, yes?—then what would your Governor Denwallow do, hein? Comment?”
Washington appeared to be taken aback. He was silent for a few moments, and then he replied, “Well, I don’t know. I had relied upon your honor as a gentleman to persuade you to do what was obviously the right thing. But perhaps you would like to hear Parson Weems preach first on the reasonableness of the Protestant religion.”
“My text,” Parson Weems began without further preamble, “is taken from the Letter of St. Paul to the Galatians, the second chapter, beginning with the—”
“Sacred blue!” the captain interrupted. “Away with your preachers of the preaching! I have the réponse for your governor, yes? You may tell your Governor Dingbattle that it is my irrevocable intention to keep toute la Nouvelle France, yes? Et par Dieu, if he comes here, je vais twiquer his nose! That is what il faut dire to your governor!”
An interval of silence followed this outburst; then Parson Weems suggested, “Perhaps you would like to read a small tract which I have composed, entitled ‘Fifty Popish Falsehoods and the Answers Thereto,’ which gives—”
“Hors d’ici!” the captain shouted. “And take with you your miserable heretical tracts! No napoléons! Allez-vous-en!”
The lieutenant was very apologetic as he escorted us to the gate of the fort. “Captain Hautain is of a warm disposition,” he explained.
“I have done my duty, Lieutenant de Trop,” Washington replied. “You have been most courteous, and I shall not forget your gentlemanly conduct. I have a reply to bring to my governor, and I shall bring it. For myself, I am certain now that Irving has preceded me here and has poisoned the mind of your captain.”
“Irving, Mr. Washington?” the lieutenant asked.
“My mortal enemy. But I need not burden you with my personal affairs. Irving is no concern of yours. Farewell, Lieutenant de Trop, and may we meet again under more favorable circumstances.”
So saying, Washington picked up his heavy sack of brass plaques, and the rest of us resumed our burdens for the long march southward.
The weather was now sharply colder, and flakes of snow were dancing among the brown leaves. Streams we passed were freezing along the edges, and at night the cold seemed to penetrate me with unusual power. Washington, however, made light of the difficulties of the journey, reminding me that, as it was written in his copybook, “When ladies are present, one can wait to use the chamber-pot.” Our misery was compounded by a steady cold rain the third day, which soaked our clothes; and I think we might have frozen to death had we not found another natural rock shelter in which to build a fire.
We met a small party of Indians on the fourth day, and here our Indian traders proved invaluable to us. I directed them to ask the shortest route to the Allegheny River, which I intended to follow for some distance. Mr. Beadle addressed the Indian who appeared to be the leader of the group.
“Mr. Washington, him big chief in Williamsburg. Him heap socially connected. Him going places. Him needum find heap quick trail to river of many waters.”
“I’m sorry,” the Indian replied, “but I don’t quite catch your drift.”
“He says,” Mr. Gadelle explained, “that the little fellow over there is a very important man, and he needs to know the shortest route to the Allegheny River.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” the Indian replied. “Tell him to head straight for that gap in the hills down there to the southeast, and then the trail will wind down to the river. You can’t miss it.”
Mr. Gadelle turned to Mr. Beadle. “Him say, takum trail to hole in hill, walkum down to many waters.”
“Heap much thanks,” said Mr. Beadle.
Mr. Gadelle turned to the Indian. “He says he’s very grateful to you.”
Washington gave the four Indians a dollar each for their trouble, which seemed to please them; and indeed we found the trail exactly as they had told us. When we came to the Allegheny, which was much more boisterous this time, owing to the recent heavy rains, we continued downstream for a day and a half, until Washington came to a sudden halt in a grove by the riverbank.
I looked down at him to ask the cause of our abrupt stop, and saw the beads of sweat rapidly growing on his forehead.
“Hatchet,” he whispered. “Hatchet… Hatchet… Hatchet…”
I looked around us. From the bark, I could recognize that the grove in which we stood was made up entirely of wild black cherry trees.
Suddenly Washington erupted. “Hatchet!” he shouted, dropping all his possessions with a loud clatter of brass plaques and drawing a hatchet out of his pack. “Hatchet! Hatchet!” With a mad gleam in his eye, he attacked the nearest tree like a man possessed. “Hatchet!” he bellowed as the splinters flew. “Hatchet! Hatchet! Hatchet! Hatchet!” So vigorous was his assault that the tree was felled in less than a minute. The rest of us scrambled to get out of the way as it fell, but Washington was still attacking it as it collapsed, and did not rest until the tree was reduced to a pile of logs of varying sizes. Then it was as if the devil had left him, and he sank down exhausted beside the logpile.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said after a few minutes’ rest. “The…indisposition is usually under my control. But—so many cherry trees!” He took a few more heavy breaths, and then added, “I place the blame on Irving, of course.”
“Well,” said I, “since my plan was to build a raft at some convenient spot, and since we now have a ready supply of logs, I propose that we stop here and make our camp for the night, and then tomorrow we may assemble our raft at our leisure.”
This proposal met with ready agreement; so we all set to work establishing our camp, and then retired early.
Washington woke us as usual with the sound of a brass plaque being nailed to a tree. Once we had fortified ourselves with some of our provisions, we set to work on the raft, using some stout frost-grape vines to bind the logs together. It took us most of the day, except for a few intervals of rest, during which Washington managed to empty his bag of dollars before anyone noticed what he was doing; but since we had to cross the river anyway, we thought the incident would be attended with little inconvenience.
With the raft finished, I proposed to camp there another night, making the crossing in the morning, when I hoped the river might be somewhat lower; but Washington insisted that time could not be lost, saying that it was of vital importance to inform the governor of the French response quickly. Thus, though it was already late in the day, Washington insisted on crossing the river immediately. We therefore piled our baggage on the raft and carefully launched it, using a long branch as a pole until the river became too deep, and then resorting to some improvised paddles.
The river was turbulent, and it took all our effort to stay on the raft and propel it in the direction of the southern shore. Nevertheless, we continued without serious incident until about two-thirds of the way across, when our raft was struck by a drifting branch, which knocked Washington’s sack of brass plaques into the river.
Instantly and without a word, Washington leapt into the icy water. I shouted after him, but he sank like a brick. For some time—it must have been brief, and yet it seemed infinite—there was no sign of him. Our consternation may be imagined. Parson Weems began whistling “Lillibullero,” as I would discover was his habit whenever danger threatened. But then, when we had already given him up for drowned, Washington appeared above the water and grasped the raft with one hand.
“Give me your other hand!” I called out to him. “I’ll pull you up!”
“Impossible,” he replied, in between loud gasps. “The other… the other hand…has…the sack.”
“Let it go!” I begged him. “The plaques can be replaced!”
“A gentleman does not part with his honor!”
Casting about for some way to end this impasse, I leaned out with the branch I was using for a pole. “Get the sack on the pole!” I directed him, bringing it as near as I could to where I supposed his other hand must be. With much effort, he managed to snag it with the branch, so that Parson Weems and I could haul it aboard. Meanwhile, Washington’s other hand was free, and Mr. Von Schloss and the two Indian traders were able to pull him up on the raft.
“Guten Tag, mein Herr,” said Mr. Von Schloss, and we all concurred in the sentiment.
We landed a good mile downstream; but Washington, wet, frozen, and exhausted as he was, still insisted on walking that mile to retrieve his dollars before he would rest. Only when he had them safely back in his sack did he consent to make camp for the evening. Then we built a fire, and Washington carefully laid his copybook on a rock near the fire to dry. I think the poor man nearly froze to death in his wet clothes that night, but we never heard a word of complaint from him, save that, several times in the quiet of the night, he groaned out the name “Irving” in his sleep.
From there the next morning we followed the Allegheny down to the Forks of the Ohio, since the forbidding bluffs that lowered over the narrow strip of land on the south shore suggested to me that our most efficient route to the south would be by way of the Monongahela. At the point where the two rivers met, we stopped for a quick meal of the abundant game in those parts; and while we admired the magnificent view down the mighty Ohio, Washington was much taken with the strategic potential of the place.
“A fort here,” said he, “at the confluence of these two mighty rivers, would command the only water route into the west, and thus keep the French from penetrating any further into my land.”
“Your land, sir?” I asked.
“Indeed. My late brother founded the Ohio Company for the purpose of developing the western lands. As I inherited the estate, the land now belongs to me, from the Allegheny Mountains westward to the Russian Empire, assuming, as seems to be the case, that there is a connection between the western extremity of America and the eastern part of Asia.”
“But how did your brother acquire it in the first place?”
“By forming the Ohio Company to develop it. You see, at present the only occupants of the land are Indians, who are savages, and the French, who are papists. The land thus belongs to the first civilized Christian gentlemen who are prepared to plant the seeds of true Christian civilization in it. A fort here will be but the beginning. At this commanding location I foresee a mighty city rising—a city whose position at the head of navigation into the west will give rise to undreamt-of prosperity—a city of titanic industries and globe-circling commerce—a city of gleaming towers and verdant parks—a center of learning and the arts—a city called Washington.”
The remainder of our journey passed without any remarkable incident, and we reached my cabin early in December. Once again I offered the company my hospitality, which once again was accepted with thanks; but Washington and his party left so early the next morning that I was not able to bid them farewell. When I did come out of my cabin, I found the cherry tree by the river felled and a note stuck on the stump:
Mr. Gist—
My apologies for the state of your cherry tree, but the fit came upon me suddenly this morning. In compensation, I have left you ten Spanish milled dollars, if you will make the trifling effort to retrieve them from the opposite shore. I owe you a debt of gratitude that can never be properly repaid, but I shall see to it that the governor sends a handsome reward.”
Yours, &c.,
George Washington.
Not too long afterward I received the handsome reward of which he spoke, in the form of a framed certificate headed “Valued Team Member” in elaborate blackletter, and signed by Governor Dinwiddie himself.
As for Washington, I had rather pitied the young man, imagining that the governor would be less than pleased with the outcome of the expedition, which had utterly failed in its object of displacing the French. I had not reckoned, however, with Washington’s mastery of the art of the dispatch. As soon as he reached Williamsburg, he wrote an account of his expedition that placed his own conduct—and, I understand, mine as well—in a very favorable light. Governor Dinwiddie was immensely pleased and had Washington’s dispatch printed as a small duodecimo, which proved to be the most popular work ever issued by the press in Williamsburg, having sold upwards of eighteen copies.
So ended my first adventure with young George Washington, and I fully expected not to see the man again, at least for a great while. Momentous events were afoot, however, which would soon bring us together again.
To be continued in Chapter 2. Or you can order the whole book now and spare yourself the wait.
NOT DEAD YET.
From the Files of Mush Marlow, Private Investigator.
Continuing the story that began here.
CHAPTER 8.
“I thought you said Mrs. Pifler was in here,” I said to Betty as she came in behind me.
“Well, she… This is—I mean, she was just in here, and there’s only one door.
“Right,” said Billy. “You look in the closet and I’ll look under the desk.”
I felt pretty silly doing it, but this time I did look in the closet. Nothing but Necco wafers and slide whistles left there by the previous tenant.
“Nobody under here, boss,” Billy reported from under the desk. “Except me, I guess.”
Betty looked nonplussed. I’d never seen her look nonplussed before. I had to ask her what kind of look that was on her face, and she said “nonplussed,” and then I had to look up that word in Funk and Wagnall’s, so there was a bit of a delay.
“She was right here,” Betty said when I was through flipping pages. “Maybe I’m losing it. This is the second time—I mean, first Mr. Pifler gets in without my seeing it, and then Mrs. Pifler gets out.”
“Hey, it’s a mystery!” said Kosciuszko, who had been watching from the doorway, munching an oatmeal cookie. “Maybe you should call a detective or somethin’.”
“Well,” I said, “if she’s not here, where would she be? Did she say anything about why she came here?”
“Just ‘Nothing is right at the house,’ ” Betty recalled. “She said that two or three times.”
“Okay, sidekick,” I said to Billy. “You’ve heard everything I’ve heard. Where would you go next?”
“The Registrar of Deeds,” Billy replied definitely.
“The Re— Why would you go there?”
“Well,” said Billy, “I figure, if something’s wrong with a house, it’s probably cause it’s built on an old Indian burial ground. That’s always what it turns out to be in magazine stories. So we go to the Registrar of Deeds and trace the history of the property, and we find out who’s haunting it.”
Kosciuszko broke in here: “Gotta be Guyasuta.”
“Oh, yeah?” Billy asked with keen interest. “Why do you say that?”
“Cause he’s the only Indian whose name I remember,” Kosciuszko explained.
There was a certain logic to that, but I wasn’t convinced yet. “I think we should go to the house and see what we find there. Then if it looks like an Indian haunting, Billy, you can tell us what the magazine stories recommend.”
“We could try sacrificing a virgin,” Billy suggested. He looked over at Betty.
“If you even ask that question that’s in your head right now,” she said, “you’ll be lucky if a black eye is all you get.”
“I don’t think sacrificing virgins is legal in this state,” I said.
“We got a First Amendment right to freedom of religion,” Kosciuszko pointed out.
“It’s not in the plan, anyway,” I said. “Betty, call a cab. We’re going to the Pifler house, Billy and I, and we’ll see what’s up.”
“Right, boss,” said Betty, heading to her desk.
“Okay,” said Billy. “But just remember these words: ‘Unga braka unga barka anga banga brink.’ ”
“Unga— What? What are you talking about?”
“That’s the ancient Lenape spell that laid the spirit to rest in ‘Mystery of the Mysterious Old House.’ ”
“I don’t think that’s a real Lenape spell, Billy,” I said.
“Yeah,” added Kosciuszko. “Sounds more Italian to me.”
“Cab’s on its way,” said Betty from behind Kosciuszko. “And while you’re visiting the Pifler place, I’ll be trying to plug the hole your clients keep slipping through.”
“Look for a secret trap door,” said Billy. “That was how the masked maniac kept getting into the house in ‘Dark Doings in the Old Dark House.’ ”
“I’ll remember that,” said Betty, but I think she was using her sarcastic voice.
The taxi driver let us off at the Pifler house with a sense of foreboding. I mean the driver had a sense of foreboding. He was afraid he wasn’t going to get paid. I told him to wait, and I’d be out in fifteen minutes. He said, “Yeah, right,” but he didn’t sound like he meant it. I think he was using his sarcastic voice, too.
“Sir was not expected,” said the butler when he opened the door.
“I didn’t expect to be here myself,” I replied. “But the lady of the house was in my office telling my secretary that nothing was right and it was life or death, and then she wasn’t, and she couldn’t get past Betty, but she did. So that’s why I’m here.”
The butler thought for a moment and then spoke. “Would sir care to repeat—”
“Look,” I said, “sir is just as mixed up as you are, okay? So if you’ll just let sir and sir’s sidekick come in and have a look around, maybe we can all get a better idea of what’s going on around here.”
The butler hesitated just a moment. Then he said, “Very good, sir,” and opened the door all the way.
Billy and I stepped into the hall, which was about the size of Union Station but better decorated.
“Some place they got here,” said Billy. “Say, this would be perfect for jousting.”
“Jousting?” I repeated.
“Yeah. I’m a member of the Bloomfield Jousting Association, you know.”
“Well, no, I didn’t know that.”
“Huh. I guess there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me yet.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true.”
“You shoulda seen us beat the pants off Stanton Heights last week.”
The butler cleared his throat in a way that conveyed whole paragraphs of polite impatience.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Back to business. First of all, have you or any of the upstairs maids or the downstairs maids or the mezzanine maids noticed anything unusual going on?”
“That would be hard to say, sir. In a manner of speaking, the unusual is usual in this house. Queer things happen quite often, sir. The house is built over an old Indian burial ground, you know.”
I didn’t look at Billy, but I could hear the smugness behind me. “Well, then, I guess what I should ask is, has there been anything unusually unusual going on, as opposed to the usual unusual stuff?”
“One would hesitate to say that anything unusually unusual had been going on, sir,” said the butler. “In fact, if one were to characterize the day so far, one might almost say that it had been unusually usual.”
“I see. Well, maybe we should just have a look around the house. How about we start down this way?”
“Not that way,” the butler said with some show of alarm. “The south wing is closed, sir.”
“Yeah, I remember Mrs. Pifler saying there wasn’t a south wing. But what’s down there?”
“Nothing, as far as one knows, sir.”
“But I see a hallway with doors and all,” I insisted.
“Mrs. Pifler assured the staff that it was an optical illusion.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Well, if it’s an optical illusion, is there any reason I shouldn’t go down there?”
“It might be a precipice,” said the butler.
“Or a pit of vipers,” said Billy. “You know, like in ‘Adventure of the House with the Pit of Vipers.’ ”
By this time I was too curious to hold back. “I’ll walk carefully,” I said, and I started down the hall toward the south wing.
The floor seemed pretty solid all the way.
The hall ended at a double door. I turned the knob on the right-hand door. It was locked.
“You have a key to this?” I asked, looking back at the butler, who had followed me at what he considered a safe distance.
“One is not aware of having such a key,” he said. “Unless it might possibly be this one.”
He produced a key from his coat pocket. It was attached to a very large round fob on which were engraved the words “DO NOT USE THIS KEY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.”
“That could be the one,” I said, taking it.
I tried it. It worked.
Just in case there were vipers, I opened the door very slowly.
On the other side was what looked like a gentlemen’s club. There were a dozen or so men reading newspapers, playing cards, and so on.
They looked up at me.
“I say,” said one of the card-players, “are you one of the husbands?”
I looked back at Billy and the butler, but they looked just as confused as I felt.
“One of the husbands?” I repeated.
The same man spoke again. “I’m number nine, don’t you know.”
“Eight,” said one of the other card-players at the same table.
“Really?” said the first man. “I could have sworn I was nine.”
“You were, but the marriage to the Brenneman chap was annulled,” said the other. “That bumped you down to eight.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I do tend to forget these things. I suppose that would make the new man, what, number fourteen?”
“Thirteen,” said the other.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite. I’m number ten, and Davis over there is number eleven, and the last to come in was Capelli over there. Isn’t that right, Capelli?”
“Si, signor,” said a man in a chair without looking up from his newspaper.
“Well, at any rate,” said the first man to me, “we’re always ready to welcome a new member. You’ll find your accommodations a bit spartan, but comfortable.”
“What is this place?” I demanded.
“She hasn’t told you?”
“Who hasn’t told me what?”
The two card-players looked at each other, and then back at me.
“Sorry to tell you this, old chap,” said the first, “but Emmaline is through with you. This is where her husbands end up when she’s found a new one.”
“Emmaline? You mean, Mrs. Pifler?”
“Pifler? Capelli, was the chap who replaced you—”
“Si,” said the man behind the newspaper.
“Well, then, Mr. Pifler,” said the card-player who had been talking to me, “welcome to Emmaline’s little club of rejected husbands.”
NOT DEAD YET.
From the Files of Mush Marlow, Private Investigator.
Continuing the story that began here.
CHAPTER 7.
“
“Wow!” said Billy. “Two in one day!”
“Two whats?” asked Facto.
“Two big bosses! You and that Canterbury guy.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Facto. “Kosciuszko told me he took you to see the Archbishop. He’s got a big operation, they tell me. But I don’t think it’s as big as mine. I own this town, Marlow.”
“So I hear,” I said warily.
“And by ‘this town,’ he continued, “I mean Sharpsburg. Not the whole Pittsburgh metropolitan area. I mean, that would be silly. I own this block of Sharpsburg, or at least I own this bar, which is at the end of the block. I have a one-third interest in this bar, shared with a certain number of investment partners. So you see, Marlow, I’m a big man around here.”
“Really? said Billy. “I would have said you were about five-foot—”
“Ixnay,” said Kosciuszko in a gravelly half-whisper.
“Wow!” said Billy. “You speak Latin, too!”
“So I think we can come to an agreement that would be good for both of us,” Facto continued. “Mutually beneficial, that’s what I’d call it.”
“I haven’t got any Croydons.” I figured it would be good to get that out there right away.
“Of course not,” said Facto. “I know you ain’t got it. I ain’t some small-timer, Marlow. I get information, and I get the good stuff. You ain’t got the Croydon, and I ain’t got it either. But a lot of people think you have it. You know that’s worth something, right?”
“What’s it worth?” I asked warily, because I usually ask questions warily.
“It gives you influence, Marlow. And influence is always a good thing to have. As long as people think you got the Croydon, you’re valuable. They may threaten you, but they can’t actually kill you, because then you couldn’t tell them where it is. You’re practically immortal! The worst they can do is torture you to make you talk, and we both know you’re tougher than that.”
“When you say ‘we both,’ ” I asked, “do you mean—”
“Yeah,” Billy interrupted, “he’s tougher than that. He’s tougher than anything. He’s tougher than my grandma’s roast beef.”
“Exactly,” said Facto. “And I could use a tough guy like you. See, we’re gonna have a lot of pick fanciers in town for the convention, and I figure some of them guys is bound to be rich.”
“Convention?” It seemed to me I’d heard that word somewhere before.
“The big pick convention. You know, the one where the Archbishop is the keynote speaker.”
“Oh, that convention,” I said, because I always try not to look dumber than people think I am.
“So here’s what I want you to do,” said Facto. “Next time one of them guys asks if you got the Croydon, you say, ‘No, but I know how to get it.’ Then you lead him to me.”
“And then what do you do?”
“I bonk him over the head and take his money.”
“Subtle,” I said.
“Well, I’ve always been clever. That’s what my mom tells me.”
“So your mom thinks you’re clever when you bonk people over the head?”
“Well, she’s the one who does the actual bonking. Mostly I just ransack their pockets once they’re bonked.”
“It sounds like a clever plan,” I admitted, “but I don’t know whether it’s ethical.”
“Oh, I can help you out there,” said Facto. “Kosciuszko here is a trained ethicist. Kosciuszko, it’s ethical, ain’t it?”
“Ethical as all get out,” said Kosciuszko. “I looked it up.”
“See? There you go,” said Facto. “I wouldn’t want to be a crime boss if I had to do anything unethical.”
“I still don’t think I can do it,” I said. “It would damage my reputation if everybody I talked to started getting bonked.”
“Your reputation? Marlow, your reputation is about to get you killed.”
“Killed?” I didn’t like the sound of that. I usually don’t like the sound of verbs that begin with K, like “killed” or “klobbered.”
“Every important pick collector in the world thinks you’ve got the Croydon. That’s your reputation, Marlow. It ain’t a healthy reputation to have. And every important pick collector in the world is going to be in town for the convention. They ain’t all nice guys like me. Some of ’em won’t stop at anything. Not even murder. Not even copyright infringement. There’s some real desperate characters in that crowd. I’m just givin’ you a chance to bonk them before they bonk you.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t murder me,” I reminded him.
“Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. But I’ve been on the level with you, Marlow. I think you’re a valuable property, and I’m offering you a way to squeeze that value out without getting squeezed. I think you should take me up on it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “No bonking when I’m around.”
Facto was silent for a moment. Then he put his hands flat on the table “Well, Marlow, all I can say is, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking down at my feet, “I’ve been meaning to get new ones, but what with—”
“No, I don’t mean your literal shoes! Criminy! It’s a metaphor. A what-do-you-call-it. It’s an idiotism. I mean that I wouldn’t want to be in your position vis-à-vis the unscrupulous pick collectors out there. I’m giving you a final offer, Marlow. Fifty-fifty. You rope ’em in, Mom bonks ’em, and whatever falls out when they hit the floor, you take half and I take half, and Mom takes half ’cause she bonked ’em. I can’t be any fairer than that.”
“No bonking,” I repeated, turning around to leave.
“Fine,” I heard him saying as Billy and I walked out. “I guess you don’t want to do your bit for a neighbor. I guess you don’t care about a poor honest crook just trying to scrape by. Well, if I were you, I’d be careful, ’cause—”
But we were out in the street by this time, so I didn’t hear the rest.
“You sure showed him,” Billy said as we walked down the street toward the main business district of Sharpsburg. “Now what are we doing next? Another crime boss?”
“Actually, there’s a shoe store on Main Street that I was thinking of stopping in, and—
“You two need a ride?” came a familiar voice from the street beside us.
“Well, actually,” I said, “I was headed for Wagner’s Shoes, and it’s just around the—
The doors opened, and once again thugs poured out of the DeSoto. Once again Billy and I were bundled into the back. Once again I ended up on my head.
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing this moonlighting thing?” I asked. “Three bosses seems like two too many.”
“This one ain’t a job,” said Kosciuszko. “It’s more a personal favor.”
“Favor? Who for? Another crime boss? A Byzantine archeparch?”
“Gee, Mr. Marlow, it’s almost like you don’t trust me. Now, that ain’t fair.”
“If I’m supposed to trust you, how come you keep grabbing me and throwing me into the car?”
“’Cause I don’t trust you.”
“Well,” said Billy, ”that seems fair.”
We were heading over the bridge again, and it occurred to me to say, “You know, maybe you ought to get out a map and plot your route. Then you could take me to all the mob bosses on the north side of the Allegheny in the morning, and all the ones between the rivers in the afternoon, and then you’d still have the evening for the ones on the South Side.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea,” said Kosciuszko. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a map.
“Told you he was smart,” said Billy.
For the rest of the trip, Kosciuszko was busy making marks on his map, so I just sat there and watched out the window until the car rolled to a stop right in front of the building where I had my office.
“Now we’re gonna get out and walk in nice and casual-like,” said Kosciuszko. “Just as if we did it every day.”
“I do do it every day,” I said. “This is my building.”
“Then it oughta be a snap,” said Kosciuszko, and I suppose he was right.
We all walked up the stairs to my office, and Kosciuszko held the door open for me.
“There you are,” said Betty. “About time. Thanks, Koz. There’s a bag of oatmeal cookies on my desk over there.”
“Oh boy!” said Kosciuszko. “With raisins?”
“Just the way you like them.”
Kosciuszko snatched up the bag, pulled out an oatmeal cookie, and bit into it with an expression of pure bliss.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re my next big crime boss?”
“I owed her a favor,” Kosciuszko explained with his mouth full. “And your secretary makes the best oatmeal cookies.”
“So what’s this about?”
“I called the Backstreet Bar in Sharpsburg and told Koz I needed you back right away,” Betty said.
“How did you even know I was there?”
“Somebody in this office has to be a detective,” said Betty. “Anyway, your client is in your office. She says it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Somebody threatened her? Facto was right. They really will stop at nothing.”
“Well, actually,” Betty said, “I got the impression it was your death she was talking about.”
NOT DEAD YET.
From the Files of Mush Marlow, Private Investigator.
Continuing the story that began here.
CHAPTER 6.
“Well, I hate to keep people waiting,” the Archbishop said with a friendly smile. “The moment I heard you wanted to speak with me, I made sure to extend you an invitation in what I understand is the approved Yankee style. I hope the gentlemen I hired performed their duties in a satisfactory manner.”
“They got me here,” I told him, which was about the best I could say for them.
“Good. In England, of course, one would simply have sent a card, but one likes to make the natives feel as though one has made an effort. In Kenya, for example, to send an invitation it is customary to strip to the waist, climb a tree, beat one’s chest, and yodel. I should never have known that if my native guides had not told me. Delightful people, the Kenyans—always smiling and laughing. But enough of my fascinating reminiscences. I believe you and I share a common interest, Mr. Marlow.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think if you tried to read me thirty-nine magazine articles, I’d doze off by the twenty-seventh.”
“I beg your pardon?—Oh, yes, I see! This is an example of that bracing Yankee humor I’ve heard so much about. I tried to read a bit of Josh Billings in preparation for my visit, but I must be candid, Mr. Marlow: I couldn’t make head or tail of the fellow. The fault is all mine, I’m sure. But one thing I do know about you Yankees is that you like to get right down to business. There I think I can oblige you. As you are doubtless aware, I am fortunate enough to be the possessor of the world’s largest collection of picks.”
“Even bigger than the Pope’s?” Billy asked.
“Oh, I say! More of your delightful American humor! As every connoisseur knows, Pope Pius collects beer cans. It is one of those minor differences that keep the Bishop of Rome out of the Anglican Communion for the present, although we pray ceaselessly that he may be brought back into the fold. I do hope I can learn before long to incorporate some of your bracing Yankee wit into my own discourse. But to business. The rumor in the world of pick connoisseurs is that you have come into the possession of a pearl of great price. I speak metaphorically; I quote from Scripture, having spent much of my youth idly turning its pages before my onerous duties deprived me of the leisure for such pleasant but unproductive recreations. The object to which I refer is in fact a marbled pick, blue rather than pearl, bearing the name of Jeremiah Croydon. When your secretary telephoned and told me you wished to see me, I presumed you had terms to offer; and since I am most eager to obtain the Croydon, I think you will find me very willing to entertain any reasonable offer.”
“And what makes you think I’ve got the Croydon?” I asked.
“Well, really, I— Oh, I say! It’s the Yankee way, isn’t it? The complete package, as it were. I say to you, ‘Look here, old chap, there’s a thing I want,’ and you say, ‘Well, mack, what if I ain’t got it?’—and that spurs me to make a more generous offer. Why, it’s just like one of your tuppenny novels! That is, one of your dime novels. Excuse me—I am not as accustomed yet as I hope to be soon to your delightful colonial attempts at currency.”
“Yeah, but I—”
“Now, let me assure you, Mr. Marlow, I mean to be very generous. If you have other offers, I will exceed them. An archbishop’s base salary is perhaps—how would you say it?—‘nothing to write home about,’ but I do make quite a tidy income from the subsidiary rights. Since my worldly needs are met by the kindness of the parishioners, I really have nothing to spend it on but my collection. It would therefore be profitable to you to be forthcoming about the Croydon, and is not profit your highest moral duty in this delightful country of yours?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, that and conga lines.”
“Splendid. Then we can, as you say, do business.”
“We could, except I don’t have it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Believe me, I wish I had a Croydon. It would make my life a lot simpler. I’d sell it to you, and then I’d tell the next guy who thought I had it that, no, you have it, and my life would get back to normal. But I haven’t got it.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Archbishop. “Well, to be entirely straightforward with you, Mr. Marlow, I am not at all sure whether I believe you. I’m afraid I may have to call on the skills of Mr. Kosciuszko here, much as I would prefer not to. You see, Mr. Kosciuszko has informed me that he has ways of finding out whether you’re telling the truth. Mr. Kosciuszko?”
Suddenly the guy who had shoved me into the car was coming toward me. I didn’t like the look of this at all.
He stopped right in front of me and held up his hand in front of my face, with the thumb and little finger folded across the palm.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.
“Uh—three?” I answered.
He pulled back his hand and carefully counted the extended fingers. Then he turned around.
“He’s tellin’ the truth, boss,” he told the Archbishop.
“Ah, well,” said the Archbishop. “This is disappointing, I must say. There is no other word for it. I had thought I was on the verge of a triumph, and— Well, Mr. Marlow, I shall not detain you any longer. But I should like you, in the Yankee vernacular, to keep in touch. It is quite clear to me that, wherever the Croydon may be at the moment, you have as great an interest in finding it as I have. It is a matter of your peace and security, Mr. Marlow. Until the Croydon is found, the rumor that it is in your possession will continue to circulate. And there are, I regret to say, certain connoisseurs who are less scrupulous than I. They may not take the trouble to ascertain your veracity. In your position, Mr. Marlow, I should be very careful.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too, I guess.”
“And now, Mr. Marlow, I thank you for your time. Mr. Kosciuszko, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Marlow back to his office?”
“How about that?” said Billy as we walked out of the hotel with Mr. Kosciuszko and his minions. “My first day on the job and already I get to meet a big gang boss like that!”
“It’s just one thrill after another in this business,” I told him.
“You think we’ll see another one today?”
“Don’t expect too much excitement, Billy. Wasn’t meeting the head of the Anglican gang enough for one day?”
“Yeah, but I need action in my life. Thrills, you know? I sat at that desk too long.”
“Okay,” said Kosciuszko, “get in the car.”
“Actually,” I said, “I think we’ll walk back. It’s stopped raining, and the air is fresh, and it’s not too far from—”
“I said get in the car!” Kosciuszko growled, and before I knew what was happening I was face down on the back seat again. Tires squealed, and the car jolted forward.
“Golly!” I heard Billy saying. “You really do live a life of thrills and action! I shoulda been a sidekick a long time ago.”
I managed to right myself in the seat. Once again I could see the city going by outside at a worrying clip.
“Where are you taking us?” I demanded.
“We’re going to see the boss,” said Kosciuszko.
“I thought we just saw the boss,” said Billy.
“I mean the other boss.”
“How many bosses you got?” I asked.
“Look, it’s like this,” said Kosciuszko. “I got a wife an’ three kids, an’ two of ’em wanna go to college. The third wants to sing soprano with the Allegheny Opera. I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. But anyway, it takes a lot of money to raise three kids. I had to take a second job, an’ I couldn’t be too picky.” Then, almost to himself: “Imagine a good Catholic boy like me workin’ for the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
We careened down a long hill, and then we were going across the Fortieth Street Bridge. At the end we turned right and barreled down a little back street until, with a squeal of brakes and a shriek of tires, we stopped in front of a backstreet bar.
“Made it,” said Kosciuszko. “Last one out’s a rotten egg.”
Billy and I both jumped out quickly, leaving one of the minions to suffer the curse Kosciuszko had pronounced. Then we were led into the dark little bar, and near the back was a dark little booth, and in that booth was a little man who observed our approach with calm but keen interest.
“I brung Marlow and his sidekick, boss,” said Kosciuszko.
“Excellent,” said the man in the booth. He had a high tenor voice, but he managed to sound a bit intimidating anyway. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Marlow. Facto’s the name. But you can just call me Ipso. Everybody does.”
NOT DEAD YET.
“His name is Billy,” I told her. The look on her face was saying she needed more information than that. “He sort of…followed me.”
“Wow!” Billy said. “This is your secretary? She’s a knockout!”
“Hey, I like him already,” Betty said. “Can we keep him?”
“I don’t know if we have a choice,” I replied.
“So when do I start doing sidekicky things?” Billy asked.
“Well,” I said, trying to think what a sidekick could do, “I suppose you could take out the trash.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Betty said. “You’ll end up on the curb. Anyway, I’ve got some interesting news for you.”
“What’s that?” Billy and I both asked at once.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury is in town.”
“I thought you told me he was on the other side of the Atlantic,” I said.
“Well, he usually is, but he came over for some sort of convention or something. It was in the Dispatch.”
“Can you get me an appointment?”
“Not likely, but I’m trying.”
“Say,” said Billy, “who’s this Canterbury guy? Some bigshot gangster?”
“Oh, you’re adorable!” Betty exclaimed. “You’ll fit right in around here.”
“The Archbishop of Canterbury,” I explained patiently, “is the head of the whole Tanglican Church.”
“Anglican,” Betty said.
“That’s what I said. More or less. Anyway, he visits sick people and reads them magazine articles. But he’s also a big collector of picks.”
“Oh, you mean like what paleontologists use?” Billy asked.
“You don’t have to make words up. It’s okay if you don’t know what I’m talking about. I mean like what you play a guitar or banjo or mandolin with.”
“Oh,” said Billy. “Like stamp collecting, but not with stamps.”
“People collect stamps?” Maybe he was making that up, too. “Well, never mind that. Our big job today is to look for old man Pifler.”
“Right you are, boss. You look in the closet; I’ll look under the desk.”
I smiled a condescending smile. “I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.”
“Found him,” said Billy, raising his head from under the desk.
“What?” I stooped and looked under the desk. Old man Pifler was huddled under there, looking at me with a sheepish half-smile.
“What are you doing under there?” I asked.
“Hiding,” he answered, and I had to admit it was a reasonable response.
Betty stooped down beside me. “How did you get in here?” she asked.
“I followed you in this morning.”
“I didn’t see anyone come in.”
“People generally don’t notice when I come into a room,” Pifler said. “I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
“Why are you hiding here?” I asked.
“Some men came to visit me last night, and they exhibited a demeanor that I would frankly call threatening. One of them even had a water pistol.”
“Lot of that going around,” I remarked. “So how did you get away?”
“They seemed to be looking for something, so while they looked I walked out. Fortunately, people don’t generally notice when I leave a room.”
“Did they tell you what they were looking for?”
“No. They seemed to think I knew what they wanted.”
“Say,” said Billy, “you think it was that Croydon thing?”
Suddenly Pifler stood up, banging his head on the desk. He tried again and succeeded by moving out from under the desk first. “Croydon!” he said. “What do you know about that?”
“Not much,” I answered, “but I know a lot of people are looking for one.”
“I’m not surprised. It would be a very valuable acquisition. Anything not listed in Paxton is ipso facto valuable.”
“Facto,” Billy repeated. “Isn’t he that mob boss from Sharpsburg?”
“I think so,” I said. “So he’s the one who wants a Croydon?”
“I meant ‘by the fact itself,’ ” Pifler explained. “It’s Latin.”
“Oh, wow!” said Billy. “Latin! So you can talk to pigs?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with Latin,” said Pifler.
“Getting back to that Croydon thing,” Betty interrupted, “what is it and who wants it?”
“Mr. Marlow may remember,” Pifler said. “I had just run across it when he paid me a visit. It was in a shipment of assorted picks from Alberta—a blue marble labeled Jeremiah Croydon, a dealer whose name does not appear in the index to Paxton’s, the standard reference in the field. I recognized it at once as a valuable piece, but I must say it never occurred to me to suspect that anyone would attempt to obtain an article of value by dishonest means. I don’t know whether the English language even has a word for such a crime.”
“How about ‘stealing’?” Betty suggested.
“Steeling? You mean metaphorically hardening oneself like armored plate so as to be impervious to the assaults of the moral sense? Yes, I suppose that would describe it.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I can see why you were hiding. You can’t go home right now. You need a place to stay. Betty—”
“Forget it,” said Betty.
“Under your desk is fine,” Pifler said. “I was quite comfortable there.”
“Yeah, but sometimes my feet go there. Is there anywhere else you could stay? Like a club or something?”
“I thought it might be wiser to stay somewhere else,” Pifler said. “I was reluctant to stay at my own club on the grounds that the sort of unscrupulous villains who entered my library unannounced might easily find me at the club. It would be frankly embarrassing if they appeared and found their way to me. It would suggest to the other members that I was indiscriminate in my acquaintances.”
“Well, then maybe you should go to a hotel. You think that would work?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a hotel. What exactly is a hotel?”
Betty handled this one: “It’s like a club for people who aren’t members of clubs.”
“Oh, I see. But do they let one in if one is a member of a club?”
“The hotels I know don’t ask many questions,” I told him. “There’s the Hotel Deckenbach. They’re used to getting all kinds of guests there.”
“All of them named Smith,” Betty added.
“Then I shall repair to the hotel you mention,” Pifler said. “But, having left home in more than the usual hurry, I find myself without much ready cash—only about three hundred in odd bills and coins. Will that be sufficient to rent a desk to hide under?”
“You could buy the hotel for fifty bucks,” said Betty.
We got Pifler checked into a room at the Hotel Deckenbach under the name Smith. He was pleased to find that his room had a small writing desk, and he stationed himself under it and said the accommodations were quite satisfactory. I said he might try the bed instead, but Pifler pointed out that the bed was too low to sit up under, and I couldn’t argue with him there.
It was turning into a blustery day, with rain coming at us almost sideways as Billy and I walked down the street from the hotel.
“When do I get my trench coat?” Billy asked as we hurried from one awning to the next.
“When you find one for a buck in a pawn shop like me,” I answered, pulling the lapels of my trench coat closer together.
“Hey, fellas!” came a voice from the street beside us. It took me a moment to realize that it was coming from a big La Salle limousine. The right-hand window was down, and a man in the passenger seat was calling to us. “You look wet. Want a ride?”
I hesitated a moment, so Billy answered first. “My ma told me never to accept rides from strangers.”
The door opened and the man jumped out. At the same time, the back door opened and two more men appeared.
“Luckily,” said the man who had spoken before, “your ma ain’t here.”
My arms were grabbed from behind, and I lost my balance as I was shoved into the car. I ended up in an awkward position on one of the back seats. Just as I managed to sit up straight, I was toppled again, this time by the car suddenly accelerating.
“Where are you taking us?” Billy demanded.
“Someplace you want to go,” the man in the front seat replied.
“A pawn shop?” Billy asked.
“What? No, not a pawn shop. Just sit back like Mr. Marlow there and enjoy the ride.”
I managed to sit up again so I could look out the window. The driver was weaving through traffic at a manic pace, sending fountains of spray flying as he plowed through puddles. A couple of times I thought he had lost control on the wet bricks, but he managed to miss the other cars, or at least most of them, and kept at it till he came to a screeching stop in front of the Worcester Arms Hotel.
“Here we are,” the man in the front seat said cheerfully. “Everybody out.”
The men in the back seats with us opened the door, jumped out, and held the door open for us.
“Now, we’re going into the lobby,” the man who had been in the front seat told us. “Nice and casual-like, just like old friends. When we get there, we’re heading for the elevators.”
Billy and I followed his instructions. I thought of making a break for it, but I didn’t know what he had in the coat pocket where his hand was, and there was a good chance I didn’t want to find out. So we walked through the lobby as if we were all old friends, just like he had said. When we got to the elevator, the doors opened and the elevator band started playing “Penthouse Serenade.”
Suddenly Billy lit up, like he recognized somebody. “Mitch! You got fired from Consolidated too?”
The music stopped as the first fiddle explained, “No, this is my day job.”
“Oh, I get it,” Billy said. “Sorry to interrupt. You can go on.”
The music resumed until we had reached the eighteenth floor. Then the doors opened, the band stopped playing, and the men from the car motioned us to get out.
We walked wordlessly down the hall until we reached a door marked 1818; then one of the men opened the door, and we all stepped inside.
An older man in a clerical collar was standing there waiting for us.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Harold William Stamford-Hastings, but you probably know me as the Archbishop of Canterbury.”