A VIRGINIA CAVALIERCHAPTER I
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER
“Nature made Washington great; but he made himself virtuous.”
Thesun shines not upon a lovelier land than midland Virginia. Great rivers roll seaward through rich woodlands and laughing corn-fields and fair meadow lands. Afar off, the misty lines of blue hills shine faintly against the deeper blue of the sky. The atmosphere is singularly clear, and the air wholesome and refreshing.
Never was it more beautiful than on an afternoon in late October of 1746. The Indian summer was at hand—that golden time when Nature utters a solemn “Hush!” to the season, and calls back the summer-time for a little while. The scene was full of peace—the broad and placid Rappahannock shimmering in the sun, its bosom unvexed except by the sails of an occasional grain-laden vessel, making its way quietly and slowly down the blue river. The quiet homesteadslay basking in the fervid sun, while woods and streams and fields were full of those soft, harmonious country sounds which make a kind of musical silence.
A mile or two back from the river ran the King’s highway—a good road for those days, and showing signs of much travel. It passed at one point through a natural clearing, on the top of which grew a few melancholy pines. The road came out of the dense woods on one side of this open space, and disappeared in the woods on the other side.
On this October afternoon, about three o’clock, a boy with a gun on his shoulder and a dog at his heels, came noiselessly out of the woods and walked up to the top of the knoll. The day was peculiarly still; but only the quickest ear could have detected the faint sound the boy made, as with a quick and graceful step he marched up the hill—for George Washington was a natural woodsman from his young boyhood, and he had early learned how to make his way through forest and field without so much as alarming the partridge on her nest. No art or craft of the woods, whether of white man or Indian, was unknown to him; and he understood Nature, the mighty mother, in all her civilized and uncivilized moods.
A full game-bag on his back showed what his employment had been, but now he gave himself over to the rare but delicious idleness which occasionally overtakes everybody who tramps long through the woods. He sat down and took off his cap, revealing his handsome, blond head. The dog, a beautiful long-eared setter, laid his nose confidentially upon his master’s knee, and blinked solemnly, with his large, tawny eyes, into his master’s blue ones. The boy’s eyes were remarkable—a light but beautiful blue, and softening a face that, even in boyhood, was full of resolution and even sternness. His figure was as near perfection as the human form could be—tall, athletic, clean of limb and deep of chest, singularly graceful, and developed, as the wise old Greeks developed their bodies, by manly exercises and healthful brain-work and the cleanest and most wholesome living. Neither the face nor the figure could belong to a milksop. The indications of strong passions, of fierce loves and hates and resentments, were plain enough. But stronger even than these was that noble expression which a purity of soul and a commanding will always writes upon the human countenance. This boy was a gentleman at heart and in soul—not because he had no temptation to be otherwise, but because he chose to be a gentleman.He sat in silence for half an hour, the dog resting against him, the two communing together as only a boy and a dog can. The sun shone, the wind scarcely ruffled a dying leaf. A crow circled around in the blue air, uttering a caw that was lost in the immensity of the heavens. The silence seemed to grow deeper every moment, when, with a quick movement, George laid his ear to the ground. To an unpractised ear there was not the slightest break in the quiet, but to the boy’s trained hearing something was approaching along the highway, which induced him to sit still awhile longer. It was some time in coming, for the heavy coaches in those days hung upon wide leather straps, and with broad-tired wheels made much commotion as they rolled along, to say nothing of the steady beat of the horses’ hoofs upon the hard road. George’s eyes were as quick as his ears, but he caught nothing of the approaching travellers until the cavalcade flashed suddenly into the sun, and with its roar and rattle seemed to spring out of the ground.
First came four sturdy negro outriders, in a gorgeous livery of green and gold, and mounted upon stout bay horses, well adapted for hard travel. Then came a magnificent travelling-coach, crest emblazoned, which would not have discreditedthe king’s levee. It was drawn by four superb roans, exactly matched in form, color, and action. They took the road as if they had just warmed up to their work; but from the dust on the whole cavalcade it was plain they had travelled far that day. With heads well in the air the horses threw their legs together with a style and at a gait that showed them to be of the best blood in the horse kingdom. A black postilion in green and gold rode the off horse of the leaders, while a black coachman handled the reins. On the box, next the coachman, sat a white man, evidently a servant out of livery. One glance told that he was an old soldier. He had at his side one of the huge holsters of the day, in which he carried a pair of long horse-pistols, and a stout wooden box, upon which he rested his feet, showed that the party had means of defence had it been attacked.
George was so stunned with admiration at the splendor of the equipage that he scarcely glanced at the interior of the coach until the sunlight flashed upon something that fairly dazzled him. It was a diamond-hilted dress-sword, worn by a gentleman of about fifty, who sat alone upon the back seat. The gorgeous sword-hilt was the only thing about him that shone or glinted, for his brown travelling-suit was as studiously simpleas his equipage was splendid. He wore plain silver buckles at his knees and upon his handsome, high-arched feet, and his hair, streaked with gray, was without powder, and tied into a club with a black ribbon.
One glance at his face fixed George’s attention. It was pale and somewhat angular, unlike the type of florid, high-colored Virginia squires with which George was familiar. He had been handsome in his youth, and was still handsome, with a stately, grave beauty; but even a boy could see that this man had had but little joy in life.
From the moment that George’s eyes fell upon this gentleman he looked upon nothing else. Neither the great coach nor the superb horses had any power to attract his gaze, although never, in all his short life, had he seen anything so splendid. His mother had a coach, and so had most of the people round about, but all had a common air of having once been handsome, and of having reached the comfortable, shabby-genteel stage. And many persons drove four horses to these great lumbering vehicles, but all four would not be worth one of the gallant roans that trotted along the road so gayly.
It was out of sight in a few minutes, and in a few minutes more it was out of hearing; but inthat time George, who was quick-witted, had shrewdly guessed the name and rank of the gentleman with the plain clothes and the diamond-hilted sword. It was the great Earl of Fairfax—the soldier, the wit, the rich nobleman—who for some mysterious reason had chosen to come to this new land, and to build a lodge in the wilderness. The boy had often heard his mother, Madam Washington, speak of Earl Fairfax. Meeting with him was one of the events of that great journey she had made in her girlhood to England, where for a time she lived in the house of her brother Joseph Ball, at Cookham, in Berkshire, who had left his Virginia home and had taken up his residence in England. Here Mary Ball had met Augustine Washington, then in England upon affairs connected with his property. Augustine Washington was one of the handsomest men of his day, and from him his eldest son George inherited the noble air and figure that marked him. Mary Ball was a Virginia beauty, and although admired by many Englishmen of distinction, she rather chose to marry Augustine Washington, albeit he had been married before, and had two motherless boys. In England, therefore, were they married, sailing soon after for Virginia, and within twelve years Mrs. Washington was awidow with five children. She loved to talk to her children of those happy English days, when she had first pledged herself to Augustine Washington. It had also been the only time of excitement in her quiet life, and she had met many of the wits and cavaliers and belles of the reign of George the Second. She sometimes spoke of Lord Fairfax, but always guardedly; and George had conceived the idea that his mother perhaps knew Lord Fairfax better, and the reasons for his abandonment of his own country, than she cared to tell.
He began to wonder, quite naturally, where the earl was bound; and suddenly it came to him in a flash—“He is going to pay his respects to my mother.” In another instant he was on his feet and speeding like a deer through the woods towards home.
The house at Ferry Farm, which was home to him, was a good four miles by the road, but by paths through the woods and fields, and a foot-bridge across a creek, it was barely a mile. It took him but a short time to make it, but before he could reach the house he saw the coach and outriders dash into sight and draw up before the porch. The old soldier jumped from the box and opened the door and let down the steps, and the earl descended in state. On the porch stood UncleJasper, the venerable black butler, in a suit of homespun, with a long white apron that reached from his chin to his knees. George saw him bowing and ushering the earl in. The outriders loosened their horses’ girths, and, after breathing them, led them to the watering-trough in the stable-lot back of the house. They then watered the coach-horses, the coachman sitting in solitary magnificence on his box, while the old soldier stretched his legs by walking about the lot. George saw this as he came through the stable way, his dog still at his heels. Uncle Jasper was waiting for him on the back porch.
“De madam,” he began, in a mysterious whisper, “will want you ter put on yo’ Sunday clo’es fo’ you come in ter see de Earl o’ Fairfax. He’s in de settin’-room now.”
George understood very well, and immediately went to his room to change his hunting-clothes, which were the worse for both dirt and wear. It was a ceremonious age, and the formalities of dress and manners were very strictly observed.
Meanwhile, in the sitting-room, on opposite sides of the fireplace, sat Madam Washington and the earl. Truly, the beauty that had distinguished Mary Ball remained with Madam Washington. Her figure was slight and delicate(not from her had her eldest son inherited his brawn and muscle), and in her severely simple black gown she looked even slighter than usual. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, and little rings of chestnut hair escaped from her widow’s cap; but her fine blue eyes were the counterpart of her eldest son’s. The room was plainly furnished, even for the times, but scrupulously neat. A rag-carpet covered the middle of the floor, while around the edges the polished planks were bare. In one corner a small harpsichord was open, with music on the rack. Dimity curtains shaded the small-paned windows, and a great fire sparkled in the large fireplace. Over the mantel hung the portrait of a handsome young man in a satin coat with lace ruffles. This was a portrait of Augustine Washington in his youth. Opposite it was a portrait of Madam Washington as a girl—a lovely young face and figure. There were one or two other portraits, and a few pieces of silver upon a mahogany buffet opposite the harpsichord—relics of Wakefield, the Westmoreland plantation where George was born, and of which the house had burned to the ground in the absence of the master, and much of the household belongings had been destroyed.
The earl’s eyes lingered upon the girlish portraitof Madam Washington as the two sat gravely conversing.
“It was thus you looked, madam, when I first had the honor of knowing you in England,” he said.
“Time and sorrow and responsibilities have done their work upon me, my lord,” answered Madam Washington. “The care of five children, that they may be brought up to be worthy of their dead father, the making of good men out of four boys, the task of bringing up an only daughter to be a Christian gentlewoman, is no mean task, I assure you, and taxes my humble powers.”
“True, madam,” responded the earl, with a low bow; “but I know of no woman better fitted for so great an undertaking than Madam Washington.”
Madam Washington leaned forward and bowed in response, and then resumed her upright position, not once touching the back of her chair.
“And may I not have the pleasure of seeing your children, madam?” asked the earl, who cared little for children generally, but to whom the children of her who had once been the beautiful Mary Ball were of the greatest interest.
“Certainly, my lord,” answered Madam Washington,rising, “if you will excuse me for a moment while I fetch them.”
The earl, left alone, rose and walked thoughtfully to the portrait of Mary Ball and looked at it for several minutes. His face, full of melancholy and weariness, grew more melancholy and weary. He shook his head once or twice, and made a motion with his hand as if putting something away from him, and then returned to his chair by the fire. He looked into the blaze and tapped his foot softly with his dress-sword. This beautiful, grave widow of forty, her heart wrapped up in her children, was not the girl of eighteen years before. There was no turning back of the leaves of the book of life for her. She had room now for but one thought in her mind, one feeling in her heart—her children.
Presently the door opened, and Madam Washington re-entered with her usual sedate grace. Following her was a young girl of fourteen, her mother’s image, the quaintest, daintiest little maiden imaginable, her round, white arms bare to the elbow, from which muslin ruffles fell back, a little muslin cap covering her hair, much lighter than her mother’s, and her shy eyes fixed upon the floor. Behind her were three sturdy, handsome boys of twelve, ten, and eight, as alike as peas in a pod. In those days the children ofgentlepeople were neither pert and forward nor awkward and ashamed at meeting strangers. Drilled in a precise etiquette, they knew exactly what to do, which consisted chiefly in making many low bows to their elders, and answering in respectful monosyllables such questions as were asked them. They learned in this way a grace and courtesy quite unknown to modern children.
“My daughter, Mistress Betty Washington, my Lord of Fairfax,” was Madam Washington’s introduction.
The earl rose from his chair and made the little girl a bow as if she were the princess royal, while Mistress Betty, scorning to be outdone, courtesied to the floor in response, her full skirt making a balloon as she sunk and rose in the most approved fashion.
“I am most happy to meet you, Mistress Betty,” said he, to which Mistress Betty, in a quavering voice—for she had never before seen an earl, or a coach like the one he came in—made answer:
“Thank you, my lord.”
The three boys were then introduced as Samuel, John, and Charles. To each the earl made a polite bow, but not so low as to Mistress Betty. The boys returned the bow without the slightestshyness or awkwardness, and then took their places in silence behind their mother’s chair. They exchanged keen glances, though, among themselves, and wondered when they would be allowed to depart, so that they might further investigate the coach and the four roan horses. Madam Washington spoke.
“I am every moment expecting my eldest son George; he is out hunting to-day, and said that he would return at this hour, and he is always punctual to the minute. It will be a severe disappointment to me if I should not have the pleasure of showing your lordship my eldest son.”
It did not take a very acute person to note the tone of pride in madam’s voice when she said “my eldest son.”
“It will be a disappointment to me also, madam,” replied the earl. “I hope he is all that the eldest son of such a mother should be.”
Madam Washington smiled one of her rare smiles. “’Tis all I can do, my lord, to keep down the spirit of pride, so unbecoming to all of us, when I regard my son George. My other sons, I trust, will be as great a comfort to me, but they are still of too tender years for me to depend upon.” Then, turning to the three boys, she gave them a look which meant permission to leave the room. The boys bowed gravely totheir mother, gravely to the earl, and walked more gravely out of the room. Once the door was softly closed they made a quick but noiseless dash for the back door, and were soon outside examining the roans and the great coach, chattering like magpies to the negro outriders, until having made the acquaintance of the old soldier, Lance by name, they were soon hanging about him, begging that he would tell them about a battle.
Meanwhile, within the sitting-room, Madam Washington heard a step upon the uncarpeted stairs. A light came into her eyes as she spoke.
“There is my son now, going to his room. He will join us shortly. I cannot tell you, my lord, how great a help I have in my son. As you know, my step-son, Captain Laurence Washington, late of the British army, since leaving his Majesty’s service and marrying Mistress Anne Fairfax, has lived at the Hunting Creek place, which he has called Mount Vernon, in honor of his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Admiral Vernon. It is a good day’s journey from here, and although Laurence is most kind and attentive, I have had to depend, since his marriage, upon my son George to take his father’s place in the conduct of my affairs and in my household. It is he who reads family prayers night and morningand presides with dignity at the foot of my table. It might seem strange to those who do not know his character how much I rely upon his judgment, and he but fifteen. Even my younger sons obey and respect him, and my daughter Betty does hang upon her brother. ’Tis most sweet to see them together.” At which Mistress Betty smiled and glanced at the earl, and saw so kind a look in his eyes as he smiled back at her that she looked at him quite boldly after that.
“It is most gratifying to hear of this, madam,” replied the earl; “but it is hardly merciful of you to a childless old man, who would give many worldly advantages had he but a son to lean upon in his old age.”
“You should have married twenty years ago, my lord,” answered Madam Washington, promptly.
Something like a gleam of saturnine humor appeared in the earl’s eyes at this, but he only replied, dryly, “Perhaps it is not wholly my fault, madam, that I find myself alone in my old age.”
At that moment the door opened, and young Washington stood upon the threshold.