I am left like a wanderer in a wilderness.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
WINCHESTER
The temperature dropped near twenty degrees, leaving the air miserably raw, much like his mood, since he spent the Christmas season in near desolation. His reputation had been damaged by a still-unknown scribbler and his hopes of a holiday in the North dashed. George stood at the edge of a six-foot-wide hole in the ground, glaring into its empty depths. It seemed a lost cause.
“Can’t say there will be any likelihood of a spring,” Lieutenant Charles Smith said as he placed down an empty bucket. He’d been digging for water for months now. He was one of the few officers who didn’t complain over lack of money, lack of clothes, or lack of protection. Smith continued to serve at the fort for another reason: His military status would likely keep him from conviction.
“How many feet?” George designed the well on paper and figured Smith’s oversize hands were strong enough to use the hand tool to create holes in the limestone. After all, Smith’s fist killed a man with just one punch; the fellow died on the spot.
“The hole is near ninety feet deep.” Captain Stewart was overseeing Smith’s project.
Not a drop of water in it.
“Fill it with gunpowder and detonate. Continue to one hundred feet,” George instructed them.
The only drop came from above. A misty rain fell for days, making everything damp, like his optimism. His mouth was dry.
Not reaching water added to his troubles at this fort. The other more pressing issue was war. Twenty people were killed just twelve miles from the garrison. George sent a detachment to find the savages—without success. How could he secure a frontier of more than 350 miles with minimal manpower? He was using every means in his power, but the effort was in vain.
Even protection of the fort itself was unacceptable. George was in need of twenty-four cannons. Twelve-pounders protected it now, and only a few. As he looked up to the bastions, he knew they were nearly defenseless. An attack with a half-pounder could destroy it and destroy them. Maybe he was capable of an hour’s defense. Maybe.
The blank sky was welcoming deep, dark clouds. George headed back to his space inside the partially built fort. Sweeping winds picked up quickly, pushing the rain against the single window of the room. He felt choked by these four walls, so tight, and by his circumstances. On his desk, he rolled out the designs for the fort. Fully constructed, it would include four bastions and barracks for 450 men. But now, even the mission itself he questioned. Why did this place exist other than to keep a colonel and his men trapped in a barren and dangerous frontier with ambiguous orders?
Adding to that frustration, the announcement of the name change a day earlier; it nearly infuriated him to be stationed at Fort Loudoun. This Loudoun—this newly appointed governor of Virginia—never responded to George’s welcome letter six months prior nor stepped foot in Virginia! How could Loudoun protect a colony when he knew nothing of its defenses or its terrain?
George moved to a small table by the fire to eat the last of the pickled white plums Mary Eliza had sent to him in a hand-carved trunk with a brass lock. Her gift of preserves, tipsy cakes, and catsup of different flavorings—including mushroom catsup—provided the only enjoyment in the months that passed in winter’s cold.
He felt an unease as his fork entered the last slice of plum and he lifted it to his mouth. Over the time away from Mary, he had collected any information he could about her. The assessment presented by Captain Hugh Mercer was more than any man with dignity could take. A banquet was hosted by Loudoun, where officers gawked at the woman who held his heart. “I will wait for you” is what she had said to him. He knew she was true to her word. He placed his elbow upon his desk and let his forehead fall on his hand.
Loudoun! The man who called Virginia his dominion! Throwing banquets was more important to that man. George knew he himself had sacrificed much, risked even more for a position in the military and a chance at a better life not only for him but for the colonists, who ought to have days of peace. He wanted to fight. He wanted to protect. He wanted to save a people! Many of them suffered at the hands of the enemy, and now this!
George took out his quill for a second letter to this Lord Loudoun. It irked him even to write his location—Fort Loudoun. In page after page of rage, George presented his bitterness and frustration like a malcontent. He got to the end:
… if, under all these concomitant Evils I shoud be sickened in a Service that promises so little of a Soldiers reward.
I have long since been satisfied of the impossibility of continueing in this Service without loss of Honour …
Althô I have not the Honour to be known to Your Lordship: Yet, Your Lordship’s Name was familiar to my Ear, on account of the Important Services performed to His Majesty in other parts of the World—don’t think My Lord I am going to flatter. I have exalted Sentiments of Your Lordships Character, and revere Your Rank; yet, mean not this, (coud I believe it acceptable), my nature is honest, and Free from Guile.
We have my Lord, ever since our Defence at the Meadows, and behaviour under His Excellency General Braddock been tantalized; nay, bid expect most sanguinely, a better Establishment; and have waited in tedious expectation of seeing this accomplished. The Assembly it is true, have, I believe, done every thing in their Power to bring this about, first, by Sollicitting His Honour the Lieutenant Governor to Address His Majesty: and next, addressing His Majesty themselves in favour of their Regiment, what Sucess these Addresses have met with I am yet a stranger to.
In regard to myself, I must beg leave to say, Had His Excellency General Braddock survived his unfortunate Defeat, I should have met with preferment equal to my Wishes: I had His Promise to that purpose, and I believe that Gentleman was too sincere and generous to make unmeaning offers, where none were ask’d.
And now before I sum up the whole, I must beg leave to add—my unwearied endeavours are inadequately rewarded—The Orders I receive are full of ambiguity: I am left like a wanderer in the wilderness, to proceed at hazard—I am answerable for consequences, and blamed, without the privilege of Defence!
He continued on a page more. He exhaled. It was done. He folded the fifteen pages and put them aside. He would read them through before sending them to New York.
Another letter needed to be written. He would return for her, so he had told her before his swift departure when their moment upon Valentine’s Hill was interrupted by a cavalry of British officers rushing to present him the memorandum from the assembly requiring his immediate departure on account of a fort needing to be built.
If only he had refused the order and chosen love instead. If only he had reached out for her hand and asked her then to be his and only his for all time. Happiness, moral duty, they should be able to be connected, inseparably connected.
George brought out the gift he’d purchased in Boston, which he so desperately wanted to take to her. He imagined her eyes looking at him in that loving way and how they would react as she opened the box. He then pulled out the last letter he had received from Yonkers. Joseph Chew had kept his pledge to keep George abreast of her situation, “Pretty Miss Polly,” wrote Mr. Chew, “is in the same condition and situation as you last saw her.” She was waiting for him, just as she promised. George, too, was in the same condition. This frustrated him. He and she should be moving forward, not remaining in stasis.