Part Two

BOY SOLDIER AND SOLDIER OF THE KING

C.D.—It was not surprising that the old slave never mentioned Martha’s letters, but he took me from the beginning of Washington’s life to the end and by the time he was done, it was clear to me that the arc of that life across the American sky might be traced through five distinct sections, as would become readily apparent to the reader. Moreover, each name that Jacob mentioned promised yet another pathway to Washington.

So I went to my uncle’s office with a list of those names, perhaps a dozen, like Dr. James Craik, Sally Fairfax, the Marquis de Lafayette, and I searched out their addresses. I had determined that I would send them letters and request interviews, even if my travels should take me all the way to France.

Naturally, when my uncle spied me at his files, he was filled with curiosity.

“You got all those names from old Jacob? The one we had to chase? Found him under a Chotank dock?” He chuckled, as if some ancient slave hunt were to be as fondly remembered as a first catfish … or a first kiss.

“He seems a smart old Negro,” I said.

“A sharp-eyed slave can tell you plenty. Especially if he has a sharp nose and can smell scandal. That’s what counts in this, boy. The odor of impropriety. The stink of deceit. Find out what was in those letters, and I won’t need to throw stones at the statue. I’ll have a hammer to break it into pieces.”

I said, “Will you tell me your story? Tell me why you want a hammer?”

“I told you,” he said, “I’ll hammer Washington because of all the damn Federalists who collected around him like ticks on a hairy dog … and because of his hunger for land, some of which should have been mine.”

“Then, this was more than political. It was personal, too?”

“Isn’t everything, son?”

He then announced that it was time for his daily stroll. Putting on his tricorne and taking his silverheaded walking stick, he led me out into the bright sunshine of the third day of a new century. He went briskly in the chill air, snapping his stick ahead of him, meeting the gaze of everyone who passed.

Most ladies gave him a smile or a nod, though a few looked pointedly away. As for gentlemen, the betterdressed offered him bows, others doffed their hats, and tradesmen gave out with booming loud greetings. And my uncle answered each of them in kind. He was clearly a man of wide reputation.

Between greetings, he lectured me: “Now, then, about the Federalists, I’ll offer four words: Alien and Sedition Acts. Familiar with them?”

“My father was a prime supporter. I argued bitterly with him.”

“We’ll make you a Republican yet,” he said as we wended our way toward the riverfront. “Never thought the country I fought for would make a law prohibitin’ public assembly—and I quote—‘with intent to oppose any measure of the government.’ But the Federalists did it two years ago.”

“Because we were about to fight the revolutionary French government over freedom of the seas. We couldn’t trust the Frenchmen in America.”

“Believe that if you want, son, but here’s the truth: the Federalists want to control dissent. They’re the faction in power. And they want to keep it that way.”

Up ahead I could see the bustling docks and the wide brown water.

“The Bill of Rights is supposed to guarantee freedom of the press,” he went on. “But the Federalists’ act makes it illegal ‘to print, utter, or publish … any false, scandalous, or malicious writing’ against the government.’”

“And you’ve done that?”

“What we said about Adams in the Philadelphia Witness was true. He wants to concentrate power in the hands of the moneyed interests, put on the trappings of royalty, and cozy up to England. Jefferson, for all his faults, doesn’t.”

“But Jefferson loves the French. And the French love the guillotine.”

My uncle just grunted and quickened his pace. With his walking stick tapping out the rhythm of our steps, he led me out onto one of the docks. He did not stop until he was at the very end, with the wide Potomac before us.

“Son, the Federalists want to take government out of the hands of local folks and put it all there”—he aimed his walking stick north, toward the triangle of land where the Potomac forked—“the federal city. Washingtonopolis is what they called it to start. Now they’re just callin’ it Washington. I call it the swindle on the Potomac.”

“But my father once told me you bought up half the land there.”

“I’m not stupid. One man’s swindle is another man’s opportunity.”

I had ridden through Washington on New Year’s Day. And while there might have been stranger sights in the year of our Lord 1800, I would have had to see them to accept the premise.

It has been said that Rome was not built in a day, or even a century, but Americans were attempting to construct a new capital, after that ancient model, in a single decade. They had chosen to build it, with what has since come to be called typical American optimism, on land that was mostly malarial swamp, virgin forest, and muddy hillside. The allotted decade was nearly over, Congress would soon be arriving, and as yet, swamp, forest, and mud prevailed.

My uncle snorted. “Washington picked the spot. Said he did it for the good of the country. Always said that. But he wanted that city there because he was chairman of the Potomac Canal Company. Puttin’ the new capital where he did was good for business.”

I suggested that nothing I’d seen in the capital looked good for anything. Shanties, muddy streets, and half-baked wedding cakes of limestone block were not the stuff to inspire investors, or a nation. It seemed to me that Washington’s capital was a failure.

My uncle said that Washington had always found a way to outlast his failures, and so it would be with the city named after him.

“Always?” I asked.

“I watched him do it for his whole life … .”

And he began his story. He talked for two days. And as I set down his words, I found that like the teeth of a dovetailed joint, they could be interlocked with Jacob’s, and a picture of the young Washington might emerge.

The Narrative of Hesperus Draper:

George didn’t impress me. He was just like the rest of us—a boy who grew up on a backwater farm.

Now, when we were young, the geography of Virginia said as much about who you were as where you were. Top-rung people lived on the Tidewater. Got there first, got the best land, got the most land, too. As you went up the rivers, you went down the ladder. Near the fall lines, near places like Fredericksburg, the farms got smaller and life got harder. Then there was the frontier. Out there, you might work your hands to the bone and lose your scalp to maraudin’ Injuns, but you could be whatever you made of yourself.

No matter where you lived in this world, though, you were supposed to know your place. You tipped your hat to the ones higher up and turned up your nose to the ones below.

And if you wanted to climb the ladder, you had to get your hands on some of that land. But how, when you had a king who gave charters to favored companies and land grants to favorite lords? You had to go lookin’ for what was called ungranted lands, or go hat in hand, ready to pay Fairfax quitrents to get Fairfax patents.

Considerin’ his Fairfax connections, George had a jump on me. And he was already puttin’ on airs, tryin’ to act like the folks up on the top rung. That’s why he studied that book of rules. A lot of us read it, but he took it serious. Took himself serious, too.

After that card game, where he took himself so serious that I took all his money, I didn’t see him again for a year. Spring of 1748, to be exact. We were both sixteen and both about as far away from home as we’d ever been. I was bringin’ civilization to folks pressin’ the frontier westward. George was bringin’ the survey tools to do the pressin’. And both of us was tryin’ to get rich.

My scheme was a pretty fair one. I had an uncle, Jonathan Draper, fattest Draper who ever put his foot into a shoe. Ran the tobacco inspectin’ station at Huntin’ Creek, where they built Alexandria a few years later. He did a little factorin’, a little tradin’, and I’d made a deal with him to expand his business out to the frontier, which he liked doin’ about as much as he liked expandin’ his waistline.

Convinced him to give me a wagonload of goods—consignments that Tidewater planters had turned down, damaged goods, overstock, stuff I could peddle to frontier tradin’ posts. I reckon he liked my ambition, and since his brother had run out on me and my mother, he figured he owed me somethin’.

So he gave me a team of horses, two of his slaves, and a covered wagon, and off we all headed for the Blue Ridge. The slaves drove the wagon. I rode a horse. My friend Eli Stitch rode along, too. And him and me, we each carried a brace of pistols in leather holsters, just to keep the nigras in line and discourage anyone else who might want to trade some lead for whatever we had in our wagon.

Mostly we were bringin’ things we thought the tradin’ posts couldn’t do without: wool blankets; china cups and plates, the heavy kind; a box of spectacles—some for readin’ up close, some for seein’ far off; crates of tea; cones of sugar wrapped in blue paper; cloves and pepper. Carried a few luxuries, too: three bolts of silk, a mantelpiece clock in a mahogany case, a set of French duelin’ pistols, and the finest red-feathered hat you ever did see.

My uncle didn’t demand collateral. I was takin’ it all on consignment. Gettin’ twelve percent of what I sold, like a factor. Bringin’ back what I didn’t sell. No excuses. Simple as that.

Along the Tidewater, spring was comin’ in. Daffodils and tulips bloomin’ in the dooryards. Dogwoods puttin’ out flowers. And when we come out into the open country, where it rolls on to the Blue Ridge, the color of the grass was so light it looked almost yeller. Yes, sir, the color of youth it was.

We traveled northwest. Headed for a place called Ashby’s Gap, ’bout fifty miles inland. Got colder as the land rose. The fresh color faded some. And once we started climbin’ in the Blue Ridge, we saw more snow. Trail got damn muddy, too. Horses sunk to their fetlocks. Wagon wheels sunk to their hubs. Pushed that wagon more than we pulled it. But after two days, we reached the top, and I saw the Shenandoah Valley for the first time.

I knew right then why folks talked about it like they did. As far as you could see, ’twas good bottomland and stands of hardwood and wide meadows of grass that the Injuns had been burnin’ clear for …well, for as long as there’d been Injuns to hunt in burned-off meadows. The river flowed through it like a pretty blue ribbon. And the Alleghenies made a wall to the west, protectin’ it all like a mother protectin’ her only child.

I said to Eli, “Let’s go and make our fortune.”

The next night we reached Winchester, in the hilly woodlands at the north edge of the valley. ’Twasn’t much of a town, just crossroads in the wilderness, but there was a trader there, name of Hite. I done some business with him and made some money, which made me feel pretty proud. Then he told me if we pushed on to Cresap’s tradin’ post, about thirty miles northwest, on the Maryland side of the Potomac, we might catch up to the surveyors who come through Winchester a few days before.

Well, we’d heard down Chotank way about Washington goin’ west with a Fairfax surveyin’ party. He was helpin’ to shoot boundaries, so that old Lord Fairfax could start puttin’ down marker stones and puttin’ off squatters and sellin’ some of that five million acres of his.

I’d been considerin’ a push to Cresap’s. Hearin’ that Washington was there, that made up my mind. I’d show him he wasn’t the only boy around with ambition.

’Twas a small world we moved in, don’t forget, and what people thought about you mattered. You might think I don’t give two damns for what men think about me. But your reputation means everything.

It means more than sayin’ you’re good in a fight, or rich, or smart. It means you have the respect of the men around you. It means you know who you are and so does everybody else. It means your credit’s good. Hell, it means you can say the cows’ll come home at dawn instead of sunset, and no one’s gonna get up early to prove you wrong.

I figured if I showed up all the way out there, ready to do business, George’d have to respect me and speak well of me, no matter what he thought about me. Then my reputation ’mongst my peers, the boys down Chotank, ’twould be solid as stone.

But gettin’ to Cresap’s was no midnight saunter out to the necessary. I couldn’t have picked a worse time to be crossin’ rivers, never mind haulin’ a wagon. Spring runoff was roarin’ out of the mountains. ’Twas rainin’ like hell. But I was goin’ to Cresap’s. Told Eli, “I’ll eat dirt ’fore I go back over the Blue Ridge with my wagon half full and my tail between my legs.”

The slaves looked at each other and rolled their eyes, which I pretended I didn’t see. Fact is, those two poor nigras—can’t even remember their names, only that one was fat and one was skinny—I think they could see what lay ahead.

 

 

Now, when folks think of the Potomac, they think of that big, flat river down on the Tidewater. They forget that above the falls, way up in the backcountry, ’tis narrow and rocky and about as fast as a jackrabbit with the hounds on his tail. And no bridges.

So we traveled twenty miles northwest, and I bartered all my spices and the last of my tea to get two canoes from a feller that Hite told me about. Didn’t have any more sugar, or he would’ve got that, too.

Then I asked him where the best spot was to cross.

By then that skinny little muskrat—name was Andrew Mensing—he’d pawed through everything in my wagon. Decided he wanted my mantelpiece clock. Said he’d guide us if we give it to him.

But his house was a miserable shack with a push-away chimney, settin’ in the middle of those dark, wet woods, with the mud gettin’ deeper by the minute. I said, “What in hell would you want with a mantelpiece clock when I don’t reckon you even have a mantel?”

He just said, “I likes ze clock.” He was one of those Dutch or Germans come down from Pennsylvania. Had a pretty heavy accent.

I shook my head and started to walk away. I was learnin’ how to bargain.

So Mensing said, “Vat about ze hat? I seen a red-feathered hat. Give to me ze hat and I show you ze best crossing.”

Now, this feller was wearin’ rags. His own hat flopped down to his shoulders and poured rain right the way down his back. And from what I could see of his boots, the only thing keepin’ his feet dry was the mud caked in the holes.

I said, “What in hell will you do with the hat?”

And he said, “Give it to my wife. A hat she vould like.”

Just then she stepped out of the shack. She was yeller-haired and wide-hipped. Tall, too. Had bare feet, dirt on her face, livin’ a mean life in a mean place, just ’cause she wasn’t born up on one of them high Tidewater rungs. Fact was, she couldn’t’ve been much older ’n me.

Seein’ her, I went soft, right in my belly … . When I give her the hat, she smiled like I give her a bag of sunshine. ’Twas a good feelin’, even if I was givin’ up a lot for a little … damn little, as it turned out.

Mensing brought us to a spot on the south bank. River was about eighty feet across, with dark, wet woods on both sides. But in the quarter mile of water we could see, ’twas the only spot that wasn’t swirlin’ and roilin’ and boilin’ like a kettle on a fourlog fire.

Mensing had to shout over the roar, just to say that this here was the reg’lar crossin’. “You cannot tell. Ze vasser iss six feet more zan it should be. But cross here. Zen take ze Maryland Road, jah? And stay on it. And don’t take no cow paths. Zey get you lost quicker zan your niggers.”

And with that, he was gone. Off to see how his wife looked in her new red-feathered hat … and bare feet.

I was glad to get rid of him. Could barely understand the son of a bitch.

I looked at that river, and Eli looked up at the rain, and the slaves looked at each other, and the only one who didn’t look over his shoulder at the road headin’ back was me … .

About two hours later we had both canoes filled.

Then I asked the slaves which of ’em knew how to handle a canoe. They just shrugged and rolled their eyes. I figured they was duckin’ the work. I didn’t know yet the difference ’tween shiftless and scared.

So Eli and me, we took the first canoe. Don’t know how we ever got across. The river looked quiet in that spot, but the current pulled at us like Satan tryin’ to pull a sinner down to hell. Halfway over, it got hold of us good. You never saw two boys paddle harder.

If the roar of that river is anything like the roar of hell’s fires, we should all repent. But the Lord favored us, if he favors anyone, and before long we were on the far bank, callin’ to the slaves to follow us.

They shouted back that we should come and paddle the second canoe, we done such a good job with the first one.

I told ’em that if they ducked this work, I’d see that they were sent back to the fields. That made ’em take to the water like two bird dogs.

But the truth was, they didn’t know a canoe from a cornstalk. I could see it as soon as they were off the bank. They paddled too fast. Kept swingin’ the paddles from one side to th’ other, with no rhyme or reason. And sure enough, they tipped over right in the middle of the damn river.

My goods was gone in a flash. And if those slaves drowned, I’d be payin’ off my uncle for the rest of my life.

So Eli and me, we plunged in, rowed like hell, almost tipped ’fore we fished one of them out—the skinny one. Figured I’d lost the fat one, and a lot of money, too. But he had enough fat on him that he floated, and the current carried him back to the south bank. Found him clingin’ to a tree, cryin’ for his mama and cursin’ all white men.

Well, now that we were down to one canoe full of goods, we didn’t need the slaves. And we only needed four horses, which we swum across with ropes tied to their bridles and tails. We chained our wagon to a tree, and tethered the other two horses, and told the slaves we’d be back in a few days. Left ’em sittin’ on a little outcrop of limestone, up where the riverbank reached the road. Warned ’em that if they run off, we’d come find ’em and throw ’em in the river again.

Couldn’t have been two slaves anywhere happier to see the backside of a bad master than them two.

 

 

The trail to Cresap’s was nothin’ but a mud path through the dark, wet woods and the wide, wet meadows and back into the dark, wet woods again. The tradin’ post sat in a clearin’ on a promontory, above where the south branch of the Potomac met the north. A stockade surrounded it, with gates they could shut quick in case the Injuns got ugly.

But the only Injuns around was some Delawares. They were comin’ home after a raidin’ party on the Shawnees with nothin’ to show but one measly Shawnee scalp. Must’ve been embarrassed by that, because they were stoppin’ at Cresap’s to load up on firewater. Made such a stir that nobody noticed me and Eli comin’ through the gate right after them.

There was men everywhere inside the stockade, mostly from the Fairfax surveyin’ party. I reckoned they couldn’t work on account of the rain and the swollen rivers, so they were just killin’ time. Some were whittlin’. One was sightin’ a compass. Two young fellers were practicin’ fencin’ off in a corner. And all of them quit what they was doin’ at the sight of those Injuns.

I knew the two fencers—Washington and George William Fairfax. Washington sheathed his sword and came closer to the Injuns. Don’t guess he’d ever seen a war party before. He studied them close, cranin’ his neck and cockin’ his head. Then he started whisperin’ with Fairfax.

They say Washington looked up to young Fairfax, but I never liked him. Struck me as a fop. Educated in England. Liked to wave his sword around but never fought a real fight in his life. Had a soft face and soft hands. Acted as if he was better than anybody he was likely to set eyes on without takin’ a six-week sail to England. Wonder to me that he could keep his stockin’s so white in the wilderness. But I figured that was what made a gentleman—havin’ white stockin’s while everyone else was caked with mud.

Their eyes were on the Injuns, of course. They couldn’t give a care about two young traders leadin’ a pack train, so I shouted over to them, “Any of you boys have any money to spend?”

And Washington looked at me like he was seein’ his own dead father walkin’ through the gate. “Draper?”

I give him a grin. “Surveyed any good plots, George?”

“Well, I … I”—he stammered sometimes, when he was nervous or surprised—“I’ve been through some beautiful groves of sugar trees. I’ve seen some r-r-rich land, some of it planted in good grain–hemp tobacco … . Good to see you, Draper.”

I knew he was happier to see my blankets than me. He wanted to buy one right away. Said he’d slept on his share of bug-infested beds in the backcountry, and he’d took to sleepin’ outside, so he could use another clean blanket.

I said, “Sorry, George. I come to do business with Cresap. He’ll sell you the blankets I sell him.” Felt good, leavin’ him there with his money in his hand. I decided that whatever I’d been through to get there, ’twas worth it.

Cresap was the sort you’d expect to find runnin’ a frontier tradin’ post—bearded, buckskinned, smart, and strong-smellin’, too, which was sayin’ a lot in them parts, since everybody smelled like dried shit and rottin’ leather. I was just a boy, and he could’ve skinned me good. But he give me ten beaver pelts for fifty blankets. I tried to sell him the mantelpiece clock too, but he just laughed.

I didn’t want to carry the clock home, so I decided to give it to the Injuns. Figured I’d be back soon, with a long train of packhorses. And there’d be nothin’ better than havin’ the local Injuns think good thoughts about me.

So I went out to where they were drinkin’ rum with the surveyors. Made a big show of holdin’ the clock over my head, then put it into the chief’s hands with all the ceremony I could muster. Told them, “This clock is a symbol of my friendship with great warriors.”

When the Injuns saw that the clock made a tickin’ sound and the pendulum moved, and the sound and movin’ went together, I was their friend for life. I’d give them somethin’ with magic in it, somethin’ for them to take home. So they made sure me and Eli got all we wanted to drink.

After I had a little rum-dum buzz ’twixt my ears, I went over to where Washington and Fairfax were watchin’ all this.

Fairfax give me this down-the-nose look. “Great warriors, you say? Great warriors bring more than one scalp.”

“You ever seen a scalp before?” I asked him. “Or a war party?”

He raised his chin to give that uppity look those folks are so good at, and he said, “I’ve read enough about war parties to know that one scalp is a paltry haul.”

I looked at George, “What about you? You read any books about Injuns?”

He shook his head. “Where did you learn about them?”

“The same place you’re learnin’ about land. On the frontier. Learn by doin’, George. That’s my motto.”

And he gave me that flat stare, like he was tryin’ to see through me. Later, people said that stare showed how smart he was. Said he’d look hard, think hard, say nothin’ till he had everything straight. Others said his look showed just the opposite. Said that while he was lookin’, he was tryin’ to figure out what to think about the thing he was lookin’ at.

What he really had, though, was one of those heavy minds, like a mill wheel, just sittin’, waitin’ for the river to rise so the keeper could throw the lever and engage the gears and the wheel could start to turn, and then ’twould turn so slow and steady you wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Even if it took George a bit of time to get somethin’ straight, he usually got it. And he was gettin’ it straight about me, which meant all the boys in Chotank would, too. However much ambition he had, I had as much.

Now, the liquor’d made the Injuns so happy, they was startin’ to raise a ruckus. Built a big fire out in front of the tradin’ post. Made themselves a drum by stretchin’ a deerskin across one of Cresap’s kettles. Filled a couple of gourds with shot for noisemakers. And the chief stood in the middle of the circle givin’ a speech, wavin’ his legs and arms like a big bird.

Fairfax whispered somethin’ in George’s ear and made a funny flappin’ motion with his elbows. Both of ’em snickered. I thought, These Injuns might be ignorant as all hell, but you won’t get nowhere by laughin’ at ’em.

’Twas pretty funny, though, seein’ that chief do his storytellin’ dance. Then another brave jumped up and started swoopin’ about the circle like he was made of nothin’ but arms and legs and feathers. Then all of them got up and started swoopin’ and jumpin’ and hoppin’ from one foot to the other, like they all had bees in their breeches.

I was afraid to give Eli a glance, ’cause I knew we’d both start in to laughin’. Don’t forget, we were just boys, and boys can be damn silly, ’specially boys who’ve had a few long swallers of rum.

But I think all of us wanted to laugh so we wouldn’t feel so … so awed by those Injuns. They were half naked. They were childlike. They were mostly drunk. But if they wanted to, they could’ve turned on us and taken our scalps right then. Knowin’ that, and feelin’ the poundin’ of those drums deep in your chest …’twas all as strange and strong as them dark, wet woods. ’Twas somethin’ you couldn’t ignore. So you laughed to make it seem less powerful.

 

 

Next mornin’ ’twas rainin’ again, but I was bound to get back to that river crossin’. So I said good-bye to George and asked him what he was plannin’ to do.

“I’ll let the Indians amuse me some, then write about it in my journal.”

I said, “Make sure you put down about a Chotank boy come west to trade with nothin’ but a few packhorses and Eli Stitch to keep him company.”

Just then George William Fairfax come runnin’ out, wearin’ fresh stockin’s, white as snow against the mud. Had a letter in his hand, wavin’ it at me. “I say there. I say there, Draper. You’re heading back to Hunting Creek, aren’t you? Would you be so kind as to deliver this to Belvoir? My father will see that it’s forwarded.”

I said I’d do my best.

“You must promise me, Draper.”

I told him he didn’t have to say it twice.

George said, “Mr. Fairfax corresponds with a lady he’s engaged to. She means a great deal to him. I know he’ll favor anyone who delivers a letter to her.”

I didn’t give a fiddler’s fart about Fairfax and who he favored and who he fondled. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew what a Fairfax could do for me, or to me. So I plastered a foolish grin on my face and promised: “This letter will get to …”

“To Sally Cary, of Ceelys,” said Fairfax. “It’s a plantation down on the James. You may know of it.”

I didn’t and didn’t care. But if love could make an old German river rat bargain for a fancy hat, ’twas no surprise it could turn a young fop into a chatterin’ girl.

And chatter he did. “She’ll be Sally Fairfax of Belvoir before Christmas. This is my first letter to her from the frontier, Draper. See that she receives it, and you shall get to meet her when she comes up the Potomac.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fairfax. Thank you, sir.” I gave my hat brim a polite little pull, feelin’ like a hypocrite all the while.

But Fairfax just kept talkin’: “I’ve already described her many times for George. Raven hair, brown eyes, elegant long neck, forehead so high and proud and redolent of intelligence …”

He really talked that way. I thought to warn him about intelligent women. My pa used to say they was like intelligent slaves. Too smart for their own good, too dumb to be left alone, and never to be trusted. But I wasn’t sure ’twas true.

And when George William was talkin’, he wasn’t interested in listenin’. “I’ve painted so fine a portrait of Sally that I think Washington is already in love with her, even though he hasn’t even met her.”

At that, George’s face got red. Talk of women could always bring a flush to his face. And talk of women was somethin’ boys my age was glad to engage in, even if they didn’t have anything truthful to say.

So I talked, too, like the boy I was, and I tweaked, like the troublemaker I’ve always been. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Fairfax. George won’t be interested in your Sally. He’s in love with a Fredericksburg gal.”

And Washington’s face burned as red as an andiron.

“Yep,” I said. “Her name’s Fanny Alexander, and George’s even written poetry about her, or so I’ve heard.”

After all I’d been through, just to show Washington that I was as ambitious as him, I had to go and rub his nose in all that. He brought his hand to the hilt of his sword, and his eyes—blue-gray they were—they got as cold as two little nuggets of ice in that flamin’ hot face of his.

But I was too stupid to shut up. I threw my head back and declaimed his poetry, “‘From your sparkling eyes I was undone; rays you have more transparent than the sun.’ Written by George Washington. Surveyor and versifier, too.”

He said, “Where did you hear those lines? Who read them to you?”

I’d heard them from Fanny herself, but I was smart enough not to say so. I was also smart enough to be takin’ to the trail right then. I give a wave over my shoulder, but I didn’t turn around. Knew Washington wouldn’t stab me in the back. Wasn’t near so certain of what he might do if I looked him in the eye.

 

 

“You’re a fool, Hesperus Draper. No two ways about it.” That was Eli. Called me a damn fool for embarrassin’ George. Called me a cursed fool. A goddamned fool. And once, he even called me a fuckin’ fool.

I told him if he called me that again, I’d throw him in the river. So he went back to sayin’ damned fool as many ways as he could. Stayed at it for two days.

He was still goin’ on when we come up to the crossin’ where we’d left the nigras. But I wasn’t listenin’ to him. I was listenin’ to the river. Sounded louder somehow. And the banks seemed steeper, muddier, and there was more light, too. Couldn’t figure that out.

When we looked out at the river, I thought we were at the wrong place.

By now Eli’d stopped chatterin’. He was lookin’ hard across that brown water. Lookin’ for somethin’ familiar.

I said, “You got a good eye for landmarks, Eli. You see any?”

And he pointed to a honeycomb of limestone rock stickin’ out of the ground at the place where the land dropped away.

And I knew. That was the outcroppin’ where we’d left our two slaves a few days before. Now the earth all around it was gone. And the trees was gone. And the wagon chained to the trees was gone. And the horses tethered ’tween the wagon and the trees was gone. And the nigras was gone, too.

The river just came up and swept ’em all away. As quick as that.

Before I came ’round that bend and saw that limestone rock, Cresap’s pelts had damn near turned my trip into a break-even operation. But when I got back to Huntin’ Creek—minus two slaves, two horses, wagon, and goods—I was so deep in debt to my uncle that I had to work for him for the next four years.

And my reputation down Chotank … well, ’twas as muddy as the Potomac. But for the next four years, while I was workin’ off my debt, I was thinkin’ about that Shenandoah Valley and the land beyond and how someday, somehow, I’d get me a piece of it, even if I didn’t have two pennies to my name.

Jacob, Mount Vernon Slave:

I always ’member Christmas of ’48.

We go up to Mount Vernon, see, and I go nightwalkin’. And Alice waitin’ for me at her cabin door. When she see me, she don’t need to say nothin’. She jess glow. Tha’s the only way I can say it. She glow. I’se to be a papa. That make me so happy I jess cry.

Even ol’ Matchuko smile.

As for Massa George, he be a real surveyor by now. He have enough money to start buyin’ nice clothes and take dancin’ lessons, too, so’s he know what to do when the music start and all the ladies and gents go tippy-toein’ and tappin’.

And they’s plenty of dancin’ at Belvoir that winter, ’cause George Wil’lum Fairfax marry a fine-lookin’ long-necked gal ever’body call Sally.

We’s there the first night she meet ever’one. House all trimmed with laurel leaves, music playin’, candles glowin’, drinks flowin’ like the river. And I’se sweatin’ like a stump-pullin’ donkey in my livery and white wig.

But Massa George go right up to George Wil’lum and his new wife. He ain’t no skittish colt no more. He give ’em both a deep bow, like he learn it in England ’stead of with the music massa down Fredericksburg. They chitchat some, and when the music start in to playin’, he offer Sally his hand.

And she know jess what to do. She been well bred, see. She rest her hand on top of his, like hers be a little bird and his be the nest, and they go tippy-toein’ and tappin’ onto the floor.

Massa George dance with plenty of gals. And near every time he come away lookin’ like he jess fall in love. Sometime he send letters to the gal he dance with, and sometime he write her poems, too. But most gals don’t take to George. Mebbe he too big for ’em. Or he don’t say the right things. ’Tis true that he still dance better than he chitchat.

This Sally Fairfax be eighteen and married to his best friend, but he struck with her, too. They curtsy and bow, and she flash him these little smiles, and all the while they dance he have this happy look on his face, like he been drinkin’ too much punch. He only dance with her once, but he never quit lookin’ at her the rest of the night.

After, we’s back at Mount Vernon, and Massa George’s sittin’ up with his brother. I pour sherry for ’em and listen to ’em talk. And George say how much he envy Mr. Fairfax, which is what he still call George Wil’lum.

Lawrence ask him, “Why, beyond the obvious?”

“Because of his new wife,” George say. “What an amiable beauty, possessed of mirth, good humor … What else?” He just plain tongue-tied by that gal.

Lawrence start in to say somethin’, but a fit of coughin’ git him, bad coughin’ that make a big crackin’ in the middle of his chest. After he take a drink of sherry, it settle down some, but he got no mo’ color than the snow outside.

George say, “Is that cough the reason you’ve taken leave from the House of Burgesses?”

Lawrence say the cough ain’t nothin’. Jess a cold. He come home, he say, on account of his wife.

’Member Miz Nancy, how she lose her first baby? Well, she have ’nother, a boy named Fairfax. And she lose him after two months. And then she have a girl, named Mildred, three month old, and awful sickly, too. That Mount Vernon be a sad house.

So we stay there that whole winter. Massa George want to be close, in case somethin’ happen to the new baby, or his brother don’t stop coughin’, which he don’t. But it ain’t all gloom. They go plenty over to Belvoir. They’s chitchattin’ with George Wil’lum and Miz Sally, card playin’, dancin’, foxhuntin’ with the colonel. And I gits to sleep with Alice all winter.

Come springtime, Massa start surveyin’ agin, and his first job’s a big ’n—layin’ out lots for the town of Alexandria, which they’s buildin’ that year up on Big Huntin’ Creek, by the tobacco ’spection station.

And Lawrence go to England. He hope them doctors can make his cough go away. But he don’t go jess for that. Him and bunch of other rich gents got a charter, see, to start somethin’ they call the Ohio Company of Virginia, and he goin’ to England to see some of his partners.

I thinks, Damn, but what these white massas can do when they puts their minds to it. They needs a town in such and such a place, they go and build it. They wants land on th’other side of the Alleghenies, they start a company, and the company git a piece of paper from the king, and the king say they has the right to settle a quarter million acres of land they never even seen.

And the Injuns who live there … well, fuck ’em. Tha’s the plain talk for it, jess like when the fathers of these white massas decide they needs hands to work their farms. They’s black folks over in Africa, folks we never even seen, folks mindin’ their own beeswax? Well … fuck ’em. Bring ’em here.

 

 

That summer, Colonel Fairfax git Massa George named surveyor of Culpeper County, so we’s on the move plenty. And usually we go back to Mount Vernon, not Ferry Farm, so I can see Alice and rub her belly, and feel that little baby kick inside her.

One time we come back to Mount Vernon from one of our trips, and Miz Nancy call me to come to her sittin’ room right away. She got this terrible sad look on her face. She say, in this real soft voice, “Jake, your Alice wants to see you at Belvoir. Ask your master if you may go … right away.”

Well, if Alice want me, and Miz Nancy been cryin’ … I can only think somethin’ bad happen.

Massa George let me go, and I gallop over to Belvoir.

My belly clench like a fist, my hands shake, but when I throw open the cabin door, there’s Alice, sittin’ up in bed, holdin’ a little bundle. She smile at me, and she say, “Jake, you’s a papa. You has a little girl.”

And I take that baby in my arms and I tell you I never seen nothin’ so beautiful. I jess start to cry. I’se so proud, I put her in a cart and go ridin’ up to Mount Vernon. The house slaves come out and git all oogly and googly. And then Massa George come out, not even smilin’.

I say, “Look, Massa, I’se a papa.”

He say, “Well done, Jake.”

I say, “We’s namin’ her Narcissa, after my mama.”

And Massa don’t even smile. He say, “The sound of a healthy baby is not what Miss Nancy wants to be hearing under her window right now, what with her own baby Mildred just dead.”

Birth and death. Happy and sad. The world keep turnin’ for the white folks and the black.

 

 

C.D.—In setting down these stories, it was becoming clear to me that when a man tells you a tale from his life, he makes himself the main character. It would fall to me to keep the stories advancing in step with the life of the man who was meant to be the center of them all, a man just beginning to make his way in the world.

Washington had opened a surveyor’s office in Winchester, but for most of the next two years he was in the field, living in camps, “amongst a parcel of barbarians and uncouth people,” competing with them for the sleeping berths by campfires, and staying in his clothes for weeks on end, as he said, “like a Negro.”

He pined for a certain lowland beauty, perhaps Fanny Alexander, and he relished his visits to Belvoir and Sally Fairfax, who quickly became his ideal of femininity.

But femininity occupied less of his attention than land. While surveyors might be paid in tobacco certificates, he preferred hard money—“A doubloon is my constant gain every day that the weather will permit me going out”—with which he bought his first Shenandoah land: 1,459 acres on Bullskin Creek. He was only eighteen, but he had learned well from his half brother.

As for Lawrence, he had been made president of the Ohio Company. The king had promised that if they began to settle the Ohio Valley, he would expand their grant by 300,000 acres. They were building a rough road northwest from Virginia, and they had sent agents to placate the Indians. Placating the French, who eyed this territory from the north, would be more difficult.

Jacob, Mount Vernon Slave:

Doctors don’t know nothin’. They has their medicines and their bleedin’ tools. They has their opinions and their fancy airs. And mebbe if you break a bone they can set it for you. But mostly they don’t know nothin’.

They for certain know nothin’ when my mama take sick. She start passin’ blood when she … when she do her business. The overseer give her some medicine. And the local slave doctor—he know some African cures and spells, too—give her some herbs. And finely the doctor from Fredericksburg come by and bleed her. But she jess keep passin’ that blood.

In six months that big, happy woman go down to skin and bones. Then jess bones. Then jess dust in the Rappahannock ground. She never see no more than a chunk of land ’bout sixty mile from one end to th’other.

But the fall she die, 1751, I git to go on a ship all the way to Barbados. ’T’ain’t a happy trip ’cause, like I say, doctors don’t know nothin’, and for certain, they don’t know how to make Massa Lawrence stop coughin’.

With winter comin’, he decide to git out of the Virginny damp and cold. Colonel Fairfax, he know a doctor in Barbados. So tha’s where Massa Lawrence go. But Miz Nancy, she jess have another baby, and she ain’t up to travel. So Massa George go ’stead. This mean he don’t git those good fall months for surveyin’, but he never say a word. His brother need him. And Massa George need his slave, to lay out his clothes and help with the trunks and such like.

When that schooner clear the Virginny Capes and commence to rockin’ and rollin’, all’s I’se thinkin’ is, What do my granddaddy think when his slave ship move like that? Do he git seasick? I’se sure seasick. I’se scairt, too, and I know why I’se on this ship, not like my granddaddy, chained down below, not knowin’ nothin’ … .

In Barbados, Massa Lawrence go see this Dr. Hilary. Folks say he know more ’bout coughin’ sickness than any doctor in England. He listen to Lawrence’s chest. He tap it here and there, front and back. He look at Lawrence’s spit, which I guess is somethin’ you don’t mind doin’ if you’s a doctor. Then he tell Lawrence he gonna be fine. All he need’s a little rest and a few months of warm weather.

Well, tha’s good news for Lawrence, and for us, ’cause we gits to stay all winter on a island that be greener ’n anythin’ you ever seen in Virginny even in the summer. And the house we stay in have this fine view of the ocean and all the ships comin’ in and out.

Massa George go all over the island. He see how folks live. He take notes. He visit the English gents who wants to buy him drinks and hear ’bout Virginny.

But Lawrence keep to the house and keep coughin’.

Massa George say, “Lawrence, ride with me. A ride would do you good.”

Lawrence say, “I can go about at night or ride at the first dawn of the day, George. But by the time the sun’s a half an hour high, the heat’s too hard.”

“So we’ll ride at dawn.” Massa George say this real gentle, see. He talk more gentle to his brother than to anyone else, ’fore or since. “You’ll be ravished by the beautiful views … fields of cane, corn, fruit trees … a green so delightful it’ll make you forget everything but itself.”

But whenever they ride, Lawrence break out in a cold sweat and have to come back. And when they go out at night, for dinner or to someone’s house, where mebbe they’s a little dancin’, Lawrence say he can’t dance, ’cause a doctor tell him dancin’ give you yellow fever. Truth is, he can’t dance ’cause it start him coughin’. He even too sick to go to the theater.

But Massa George see a play called George Barnwell . And he talk about it for days. He love the fine clothes and the way the actors move, and sometime, out on the lawn, when he think nobody lookin’, he practice somethin’ some actor done—a bow or a movin’ of the hands or the way one of ’em draw his sword. Only natural for a boy with no father to learn from the men he see, from Massa Lawrence and Colonel Fairfax, and from actors puttin’ on shows.

 

 

Best thing that happen while we’s in Barbados—best and worst, both—be the smallpox. Massa come down with it after he visit a house where it’s been.

It’s bad ’cause half who gits it die. And I worry the whole time ’bout gittin’ it, too. But it’s good, ’cause Massa don’t die, so he can’t never git it agin. And I don’t git it neither, which is good too, ’cause I don’t want it.

Massa start feelin’ better when them little poxes crust over and start itchin’ like burrs. But scratchin’ bring on scars. So him and Lawrence sit on the veranda and look out at the sea, one tryin’ not to cough, one tryin’ not to scratch, till one day, Massa Lawrence say, “You’ve survived, George. Now you may go anywhere that there’s pox, and go without fear.”

Lawrence sittin’ in a shirt and linen waistcoat. His skin’s as red as a berry even though he never spend more ’n an hour in the sun. He have that high forehead, and the hair backin’ off it like a field goin’ fallow, which give him the look of a skull. He stare out at the ocean and say, “George, our bodies are too relaxed here. We need winter to brace us up.”

And Massa George say, “You don’t think this climate has helped you?”

“Do you?”

George jess look out, like he know the truth.

Lawrence know it, too. “I miss my Nancy, George. And our new baby. And this island wears on me. Time to move on.”

“To where?”

“I’m for Bermuda. A more temperate clime may agree with me. You’re back to Virginia as soon as the doctor ends your quarantine.”

Massa George try to say somethin’, but Lawrence keep talkin’. “You must get in your surveying before the trees leaf out. You must get on with your life.”

Massa George put his hand on his brother’s arm, which you don’t see much; he don’t touch folks much. He say, “’Tis your life that’s important now, Lawrence. Important to your family … to the Ohio Company.”

“There’s the true order of things.” Lawrence give that smile I ’member from the first day I seen him at Mount Vernon. He’s only in his thirties, but to me he’s a old man, I been lookin’ up to him so long. He say, “I feel like a criminal condemned, though not without hope of reprieve.”

Massa George say, “I’ll stay with you.”

Lawrence shake his head. “Get home. I’ll have Nancy meet me in Bermuda. There’s a doctor there who claims to have conquered consumption. His patients forswear meat and strong drink in favor of regular riding and … milk.”

“Milk?” George can’t believe that; me neither.

“If milk is my cure, then milk it shall be. If I grow worse, I … I”—he stop, like he startin’ in to coughin’ agin, but his eyes fill up with tears—“I shall hurry home to my grave.”

I can’t say for sure, ’cause I never seen it afore, but it sure look to me like Massa George wipe away a few tears of his own.

 

 

’Twas a sad trip back. Massa George know his brother be dyin’. But he know life got to go on, too.

We put in at Yorktown in late January and go straight to Wil’lumsburg. Massa George need to see the gov’nor. He have letters from his brother. And he have a plan. I don’t ’spect he tell me, ’cept he don’t have no one else to tell. He say, “My brother won’t be able to hold the adjutancy of Virginia much longer. He’s too sick. The governor should know that. So I’ll tell him in all honesty … and then I’m going to ask for the post myself.”

“Th’ adjutancy?” I shouldn’t be sayin’ nothin’. But sometimes I say too much. “Massa, you don’t know nothin’ ’bout soldierin’, do you?”

And he jess look at me, with the same look his mama have. Kind of steady and flat. Like to say, don’t git in my way and don’t ax questions.

Now, I gits to visit Wil’lumsburg with Massa a few times. And that Duke of Gloucester Street jess about the handsomest street I ever see. At one end, they’s the House of Burgesses, all fine red brick. And at th’other end, they’s the college named after King Wil’lum and his wife.

The gov’nor have a palace at the end of what’s called the Palace Green. And the entry hall be the finest room I ever seen. High ceilin’, fancy carvin’ … . but that ain’t the half of it. Up on the ceilin’ they’s muskets, see, a big wheel of brown Besses with shiny bayonets all pointin’ in. Sixty-four of ’em. I count ’em all. And above all the doors they’s pistols, and ever’place else they’s shiny swords.

Imagine you’s a Frenchman or a Injun or a Marylander come to complain ’bout somethin’. You look up and see all them guns and swords, and you know they’s jess decoration, and they’s a powder house loaded with muskets and pistols enough to outfit a whole army. Well, suh, you git friendly right quick.

Massa George, he jess look at it all with his mouth wide open, like he seein’ the power of the Crown itself, right there on the ceiling.

Now, this Gov’nor Dinwiddie, he got a hand in the Ohio Company, see, and he doin’ his damnedest to see that they build their road and get treaties with the Injuns, so the company can git on with business.

Massa say Dinwiddie be good to have for a friend, and I reckon Massa make a friend up in the gov’nor’s chamber that day, ’cause Dinwiddie come down to see him out.

Dinwiddie dress fine, but he ain’t too tall, and he got this big mouth and this flat-across nose and this stumpy neck that make him look like a frog, see, a frog in a fancy white wig. He say, “Your brother’s a fine man, George. I can see his reflection in you. I shall tell him so when I see him next.”

 

 

But next time anybody see Lawrence is when he come home to die, like he promise. He shrinkin’ down to nothin’, not eatin’, coughin’ his lungs up. And for all his money and polish and fine friends, they’s nothin’ to help him—no medicine, no milk diet, and for certain no doctor, ’cause doctors don’t know nothin’.

I watch Massa George the day they put Lawrence in the Mount Vernon tomb, a hot, steamy July day. He standin’ apart from his other brothers and sister, like he’s the loneliest man on earth, and he keep his hands clasped behind him and his head bowed, and I swear he bite his lip like to draw blood.

He lose his best friend, and the man who teach him everything.

But life go on. After six months, that friendship he strike up with the gov’nor, it pay off. He git swore in as adjutant of Virginny jess like he plan. He git a red uniform jess like what his brother wore. He put it on once a month, and he look good in it, too.

But looks is all he got. He ain’t no soldier, ’less readin’ a couple of books on soldierin’ make you one. He’s only twenty-one, and he wouldn’t be adjutant ’less his brother been adjutant afore him. And folks know it. So how he gonna give orders to officers who know more ’n he does?

Well, he find out that next year, but I ain’t with him. He send me to work at Mount Vernon, see. He say the best slave be a happy slave, and he know I’se happy if I can go nightwalkin’ to Belvoir. I’se glad to go. I miss some famous things, but I don’t mind missin’ no wars.

Hesperus Draper:

’Twas a small world, and up there on that top rung ’twas as cozy as a quilt.

The king had given patents to the Ohio Company to claim the land on the far side of the Alleghenies. But the French built forts south of Lake Erie. And they went in canoes down the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers, drivin’ out the English traders and buryin’ lead plates wherever they went. The plates told whoever dug them up that the land had been claimed by the French king.

Goddamned French sneaks, if you ask me, afraid that if they put up good, honest stone tablets, some Englishman would come along and knock them all down.

Now, the pivot point of all this maneuvering, the leg bone in the joint of the broad-hipped Ohio River, was the place where the Monongahela and the Allegheny come together, where Pittsburgh stands today. From there, traders could travel all the way to the Mississippi, and from the Mississippi all the way to the sea. The king told Dinwiddie to warn the French away from the Forks of the Ohio, and if the French would not leave, Dinwiddie was to threaten them with war.

And who got to deliver Dinwiddie’s warnin’ letter? The Fairfax favorite, that’s who. Colonel Fairfax was on the governor’s council, and he knew that here was a chance for a boy to polish his reputation. So he plumped for George, and when a Fairfax plumped, folks listened.

I’ll admit it. Washington had a few qualifications. He was adjutant of Virginia, so he seemed like a military man, even if he’d never fought a battle in his life. And he didn’t say much, which is a good way to get men to trust you, especially married men who spend most of their time listenin’ to women chatter. And after four years as a frontier surveyor, he was as tough as any pelt-trappin’ backcountry French frog-eater he’d run into.

’Twas good that he was tough, because he had to cross four hundred miles of winter wilderness—by horse, by canoe, and on foot—all the way to Fort Le Boeuf, up near Lake Erie, before he could find a French officer who’d accept the letter.

Along the way, he got his first look at the Forks of the Ohio. Met the local Injuns. And he drank with all the French officers he saw. He could drink more than most men, on account of he was so big. Even if he was matchin’ those French drink for drink, he probably stayed sober while they got drunk. And when they were done drinkin’, he knew all about the French plans to take the whole Ohio Valley … .

 

 

C.D.—My uncle said the best person to speak with about that trip would be an Indian who lived near Pittsburgh. He wrote a letter of introduction, which he assured me the Indian would be able to read. He gave me his bodyguard, the sullen and silent Mr. Stitch, as a guide. And we set off northwest for the frontier, like Washington and Hesperus Draper in their youth.

To quote Washington on his first visit to the wilderness, “nothing remarkable happened” until Stitch and I went beyond the muddy streets and smoky chimneys of little Pittsburgh to a farm on the far bank of the Allegheny, where the Indian John Britain lived with a white woman named Mary.

Their home was a dirt-floored hovel that reminded me of one of my uncle’s more apt descriptions—“a miserable shack with a push-away chimney, settin’ in the middle of those dark, wet woods”—except that here the woods had been cleared back and small fruit trees were stretching their limbs toward the taller trees around them like children reaching toward their parents.

Mary wore conventional garb—white mobcap, shirt and shawl, woolen skirt and apron.

John Britain wore a woolen hunting shirt, moccasins, and buckskin leggings. He kept a feathered tricorne on his head, so that I could not see what Indian wonders he might have worked with his hair. He was lighter-skinned and taller than I expected, and he spoke English as if he had learned it from a lawyer, so careful was he in his selection of words.

But he had savage blood. That was plain. A ring pierced the septum of his nose. Shiny copper wire hemmed his ears. And though his laugh was as guileless as a child’s, there was a darkness in his gaze that reflected, at worst, the violence he might have seen, and at best, the dark, wet woods that formed his world.

The Narrative of John Britain, known as Silverheels:

Washington? We named him Caunotaucarius. We named him in the winter before the war between the English and the French.

We were the Iroquois nation, six tribes bound as one: Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, Senecas, Tuscaroras. You cannot know of our greatness in those days. For hundreds of winters we had been bound, since before the whites.

I was of the Mingo people. We had been made by the marrying of Senecas and Cayugas. Our sachem was a Seneca, Tanacharison, called by the English the Half-King. He was strong and fierce, and even when I had seen only seventeen summers, I could see that he wrapped strength and fierceness in a blanket of wisdom. That was why the Great Council of the Iroquois League made him their speaker with the whites.

When Washington brought his letter, he went first to see Tanacharison at Logstown.

There we had built the longhouse in which our councils met. There, two summers before, we had signed a paper with the English. It said they could make settlements in our Ohio Valley. It said they would help us protect our lands from the French. It said we would live with them as one people.

We did not want to live as one with any whites. But the fathers of the Great Council were not fools. They knew we had to choose between the French and the English. The French had made allies of our northern enemies, the Algonquin peoples—Hurons, Ottawas, Abenakis. So we chose the English. But English or French, both were bad choices.

In the summer before Washington came, the French had gathered to the north. Their numbers were greater than we had ever seen. So Tanacharison went to them and asked if they were coming with raised hatchets or good hearts.

They laughed. They said they would come as they wished and take what they wanted, and no Indian or Englishman would stop them.

Washington told us he carried a letter that would order these French to leave. He asked Tanacharison to help him deliver it. He did not say that this letter claimed our land for his king. He said only that we were allies. So, as allies, we went back to see the French again.

The journey was to the north, in winter. The going was hard. But we did not stop until we reached Fort Le Boeuf.

There was a new French captain there, named Saint-Pierre. He did not laugh at us. He said the French wished to be friends with all the tribes. He treated Tanacharison like a guest. He flattered Washington’s red Virginia soldier’s suit. He took Washington’s letter and promised he would send it north to Quebec.

Washington asked why his men were building so many canoes along the creek bank. Were they coming south?

Saint-Pierre said only that he had to keep his men busy, so he had them build. Then he poured brandy.

My first taste was like drinking fire. But a fire that burns can warm, too, and the brandy fire warmed enough that I wanted another drink. The second did not burn so much and warmed more. The third was like a warm summer night.

For days, the French poured us brandy and promised us gifts. Washington watched and warned and made mad faces. We did not care.

On the third day, Washington changed from his soldier’s suit to his buckskins. He came to the great fire we had built on the creek bank. It was cold. Big snowflakes were falling, but the French brandy still warmed our bellies.

Washington told Tanacharison, “Do not let French brandy or fine French speeches pry you from your treaty. We are your true friends.” Then he ordered us to go.

But we did not want to go. And he could not order us. Each time we made to leave, the French reminded us of the gifts that were coming. Then they brought out more brandy. My head hurt very much.

But Washington was stubborn. He told Tanacharison that he had come to Fort Le Boeuf with his Mingo allies and he would not leave without them.

Tanacharison said he liked the French brandy.

From the gate of the fort, Captain Saint-Pierre watched and smiled.

Washington whispered to Tanacharison, “Every scheme the fruitful French brain may invent is being practiced here to entice you from your friendship with the English. You do not even see the deceit.”

Tanacharison looked up at Saint-Pierre and smiled, the way the dog smiles at the master he is thinking of biting; then he whispered to Washington, “French brandy is good, and if they give us muskets for gifts, we will have more muskets to shoot at them.”

“They offer these things only to make you stay,” said Washington. “And if you stay, you will be swayed from your English fathers.”

Tanacharison said he was not one to be swayed. Then he took a drink.

Washington put out his hand for the brandy pot, and Tanacharison gave it. I think he was glad that Washington would drink with him.

But instead of putting the pot to his lips, Washington threw it into the creek. Then he stepped back and by some magic, he pulled himself up so that he seemed even taller than he was. He clasped his hands behind his back. He said in a loud voice, “I accuse Captain Saint-Pierre of breaching military etiquette. He is keeping my escort here by devious means. I order him to deliver the presents he promises to my Mingo allies, and I order Tanacharison and his warriors into their canoes.”

These words were turned into Iroquois and French by the word changers, who took big gulps of air and whispered the words hard and sounded scared as they spoke them. That was because these words were an outrage. No man gave orders to Tanacharison. And no man threw away his brandy.

I was standing behind Washington. I put my hand on my tomahawk and waited for Tanacharison’s order to strike him. The French soldiers cocked their muskets and waited for Saint-Pierre’s order to shoot.

I heard the water trickling along the ice that edged the creek bank. I imagined Washington’s scalp hanging from my belt. I was not afraid.

But then … Tanacharison laughed. And he slapped Washington on the arms, like an old friend. He said, “The Virginian speaks the truth. It is time to go. If the French have presents for us, let them be brought now.”

From where I stood, I could see Washington’s hands, still clasped behind him. One hand held the other tight as if, together, they could keep from shaking.

 

 

That night we made camp downstream. And Tanacharison gave Washington his name: Caunotaucarius. He said that it meant Town-Taker.

“I thank you,” said the new Caunotaucarius, “but I have taken no towns.”

“Your great-grandfather took them,” said Tanacharison. “He took many towns in the war, in the year you call 1676. We have kept his name alive, and now we give it to you.”

You cannot know how great were the Iroquois people, that we could remember such things for so long. But we knew our history as you know yours, and in all our words with Washington after that, we called him Caunotaucarius.

The next morning he left us to go home with news of what he had seen among the French. We told him to wait and we would go with him, but he was in a great hurry. He built a raft. He fell into a river and almost drowned. He spent a night in frozen buckskins. A weaker man would have died. But Caunotaucarius was strong.

Hesperus Draper:

The news Washington brought back scared Governor Dinwiddie right out of his peruke. Sent him runnin’ to the King’s Council, cryin’ that they needed a Virginia regiment to stop the French from takin’ the Ohio Valley.

Dinwiddie even had Washington’s journal printed to show that the French were buildin’ canoes and makin’ plans. Some in the council said it was all a ruse to protect the interests of the Ohio Company, and they were half right. Others read Washington’s journal and said that if we did nothin’, we’d have French rats comin’ through our back doors afore we knew it, and they were only half wrong.

So Adjutant Washington was ordered to raise a company up in Alexandria. Come March he set up headquarters and put out the word. But there wasn’t many who wanted to risk their necks, especially for the Ohio Company.

I was in Alexandria, still workin’ for my uncle, still payin’ back the money I’d lost, keepin’ his books, stokin’ his fire, sweepin’ out his office. Had no more interest in soldierin’ than in wearin’ a skirt.

Then Dinwiddie sent out a proclamation titled, “Encouragement to the People to Enlist with Spirit.” ’Twas put up in broadsides all around town. Dinwiddie was offerin’ a bounty, a share of 200,000 acres of good bottomland on the east bank of Ohio River just below the Forks, “to such persons who by their voluntary engagement and good behavior in the said service shall deserve the same.”

All we needed to do was to show up with powder and musket, do our duty, and the land would be ours. And the longer we served, the more land we’d get.

Next mornin’ I was at the sign-up desk at Market Square. Lined up ahead of me was some sorry-lookin’ fellers—drifters, tavern dregs, troublemakers. But there were a few like me—office boys and countin’ house hackers who knew there’d never be a chance like this again, a chance to own land in the great Ohio Valley. And my friend Eli Stitch was there, too.

Now, if you want to know why I never had any love for Washington, remember who Dinwiddie wrote that proclamation for—enlistees. Not officers.

The snow was sprinklin’ down, and Washington was standin’ aside his sergeant and his drummer boy, watchin’ with that flat, steady gaze of his, watchin’ every man who signed up as if he could look right into their bellies and know if they’d be good soldiers.

With the gals at the dances, that gaze made him seem as interestin’ as a fireplace brick. But in a recruitin’ line, his face was like confidence itself. Think of Rule Number Nineteen: “Let your countenance be pleasant but, in serious matters, somewhat grave.” ’Twas the face of a man that nothin’ could fluster, no matter how flustered he might really be in his belly.

He was just twenty-two, still had all his teeth, reddish brown hair, and he stood taller than anyone in sight. Six feet and three. His tricorne added another three inches to that. And his red uniform—red coat, red waistcoat, red breeches—fit him like bark fits a tree.

He give me a nod after I signed, and he said, “I was hoping to attract men with frontier experience, Draper.”

“’Twas the land bounty that attracted me,” I answered.

“You knew how to charm Indians with a mantelpiece clock back in ’48. Are your frontier instincts still good?”

I thought a lie might get me a better position, but it might also get me some trouble. So I said, “I haven’t been on the frontier since that trip, George … sir.”

“You’ll be there soon enough.”

 

 

^’Twas early spring. Sap was runnin’ in the trees. Runnin’ in the recruits, too. But for all the talk at Williamsburg ’bout raisin’ a regiment and payin’ ’em right, nobody’d paid us a penny. Most of the boys didn’t have the money to go up to that house on the north edge of town where an old hag named Chastity Dibble kept three girls in her upstairs rooms and two loaded pistols in her skirt.

She also kept two nigras in the parlor. One played the fiddle, the other played the flute. Always had ’em playin’ quick little jaunty tunes. Think she done it to speed up the beat of things in the rooms. ’Twas for certain the music done nothin’ to cover up the thumpin’ and the gruntin’ and the other sounds in that house.

And while waitin’ your turn, not only did you have to listen to the music, you had to look at Chastity. And talk to her. She talked like the whore she was, about the ways the girls could pleasure us, with—how’d she put it?—“quims as soft as beaver pelts, as warm and juicy as melons in the sun.” Guess she figured if she talked like that, we’d be primed and ready when we got to the girls. She didn’t know that if you looked at her too long, you’d lose the urge altogether.

She’d floated so far down the river of time ’twas a wonder she hadn’t been swept under years ago. Even looked waterlogged. Body saggin’, face all pruned up. Filled her wrinkles with flour and painted her lips bright red. But when she made that smile and said, “Dearie, your wench is waitin’,” most men decided she was the beautifullest thing they’d ever seen, so long’s they had the money to pay.

That’s where I come in.

Even workin’ off my debt to my uncle, I’d been savin’ a few coins, so I was in a position to lend the lads what they needed. So I started doin’ what the London Stock Exchange calls futures tradin’. I’d advance a lad some janglin’ money, but he had to sign over a share of his bounty on the Ohio. ’Twas like stealin’, but there’s some things a man’ll pay just about anything to get, and ’tis always easier to make him pay with currency he ain’t holdin’ in his hand.

Soon enough I had three more full shares. So long’s I kept my face to the enemy when the fightin’ started, I’d have me a fine estate on a fine big river when that war was over.

Had a few coins left to spend at Chastity’s, too. Went up there one night when there wasn’t much business. The nigras were playin’ somethin’ slow and soft—“Greensleeves,” I think—and the girls was just sittin’ there, listenin’. Looked kind of homey, kind of sad.

But at the sight of me, Chastity pulled her red lips into a smile and give me an “Evenin’, soldier.” Then she told me I could have my pick of the girls—Nancy, Diana, or the new girl, named Bee.

Well, Nancy looked like a young Chastity, with even more face paint.

Diana I’d had before. Called herself fashionable. Wore a corset that pushed her breasts up so high you could see her nipples. Wore her hair like women in Europe. Stuffed it under a foot-high wig that was supposed to make her look elegant, which maybe it done for fashionable European ladies. But when you spend your time on your back in a corset that shows your titties, a tall wig won’t give you any elegance at all, especially when it looks like there’s things nestin’ in it.

But this Bee had a fresh look, like the newcomer she was. And for some reason, ’twas a familiar look, too. She had nice yeller hair that she didn’t do much more than comb. She was a full-bodied woman. Looked like she might have some strength in her. And when she smiled, she showed real good teeth. Always liked good teeth.

Up in her room we got right down to business. She slipped off her skirt and shirt but left on her corset and stockin’s, which was black. Always like that milkwhite skin ’tween the top of the stockin’s and the bottom of the corset.

Down in the parlor the nigras started playin’ somethin’ quick, with a jaunty beat, like the music was tryin’ to poke holes in the air, a marchin’ tune called “The World Turned Upside Down.”

We didn’t turn the world upside down. She wasn’t near so experienced as Diana, but I liked her more. Liked her enough that I wanted to talk to her while I was pullin’ up my breeches. Asked her where she was from.

She just said, “Here and there. What about you?”

I said, “I’m a poor honest Chotank boy. Joined the Virginia Regiment to get me some of that land out on the Ohio.”

“Pretty country out that way,” she said, “but hard, hard as a Dutchman’s heart.”

“You been out there?”

“Lived out there some. Finished with that now.”

I took a shillin’ from my pocket and put it on the little table beside the bed. Then I saw the hat hangin’ on a peg on the wall, the fine red-feathered hat I’d bartered to find a river crossin’ some four years before. And I knew where she’d lived, and who the hardhearted Dutchman was.

I looked at her and said, “Mrs. Beverly Mensing. I reckon you like the hat.”

There was no more than a candle lightin’ the room, but ’twas enough for me to see how wide her eyes went.

“How do … You. The peddler … I thought you drowned.”

“No. Just my slaves.”

“That hat was the only nice thing that ol’ Dutchman ever give me. Most of the time, all he give me was the back of his hand.”

“You’d never know,” I lied. Looked like her husband hit her more than once. Had a crook in her nose like the bend of a dog’s hind leg.

She flashed them nice teeth; then her smile guttered like the candle in the corner. “I run away. Couldn’t take it no more. You ever see him, you won’t tell him what I’m doin’, will you?”

“Hell, no. Thought he was an old son of a bitch.”

“Me too.” She threw back the covers. “Climb in here and I’ll pay you back good and proper for that hat.”

’Twas the best tumble of my life. And as soon as I could, I went back. And when I wasn’t with her, I was thinkin’ about her.

 

 

C.D.—While transcribing my uncle’s narrative, I received the first answer to one of my letters. It had only a short distance to travel, from Dr. James Craik in Alexandria.

Craik had known Washington from their young manhood until he closed Washington’s eyes the last time. He said he would speak with me, if only to offer an antidote to my uncle’s bilious opinions. We met at Gadsby’s, and over several tankards of ale, this heavyset and prosperous-looking physician recalled a youth in which “we were all much trimmer around the middle and much lighter in the purse.” He proved an invaluable resource, especially on Washington’s life before the Revolution.

The Narrative of Dr. James Craik:

I was born near Dumfries, Scotland, in 1730 and educated at the University of Edinburgh. Nae having been born to the gentry, I determined to raise myself in the world by becoming a man of medicine, doctors holding the same standing in society as ministers and barristers. But there was a sufficiency of doctors in Edinburgh. So in the year of our Lord 1750, I migrated to the colony of Virginia, arriving in good time for the war about to start betwixt England and France. And wars, as anyone knows, make good opportunities for young physicians.

I was proud to sign my name and become the surgeon for George Washington’s Virginia Regiment. His bravery and resource was the talk in all the taverns. Imagine a young laddie marchin’ eight hundred miles in the middle of winter, just to look the French in the eye and give them the king’s warning.

From the beginning, there was about him a reserved cordiality that he seldom shed. But I do not flatter myself to say that we became close colleagues who shared Madeira and conversation on many a night.

“The men seem a healthy lot, sir,” said I after a day spent examining them. “Considering that, in the generality, they be nae the most clean-living sorts, I found rather few venereal diseases and skin rashes, rather more teeth—”

“Doctor,” he said, “our best efforts have produced a force made up mostly of loose, idle men, destitute of home, many without clothes. I’ve written to the governor of our need for uniforms, but Williamsburg will give us no money.”

I said, in my professional opinion, “Uniforms are of less importance, sir, than simple clothes and shoes. Some of these men be all but barefoot.”

“We need uniforms, Doctor. ’Tis the nature of Indians to be taken by show. A uniformed force will give the Indians a much higher conception of our power when we march out among ’em.”

But uniforms were nae forthcoming. When Washington suggested that the soldiers might receive an advance on their pay, with which to buy uniforms, he was rebuffed on that, too.

He blamed his troubles on his rank, which was a festering boil to such a proud and sensitive young man. He hoped that by serving well in the colony, he would receive a king’s commission. But a mere colonial major could never hope for royal advancement. So he wanted a promotion.

Indeed he complained so constantly to Williamsburg that he was finally raised from major to lieutenant colonel. But the letter that brought the commission also brought news that drove him toward the kind of cold fury he displayed whenever he thought he had been wronged. Dinwiddie told him that none of the colonial officers would receive the pay promised, the same pay as they would have received had they been in the British army.

“We are in the British army,” George said. “We are in the service of the king.”

“An outrage, sir,” said I. “With one hand they give you your just due, and with the other they take it away.”

“This cannot be Dinwiddie’s work,” said Washington, his face flushing as if from fever. “It must be the council.”

“Indeed, sir,” said I. “Small men of small mind.”

Washington looked out at the Potomac. One of his companies was drilling on the riverbank—fifty amateur soldiers trying vainly to keep in step, like a line of goslings trying to keep in step with their mother. Then he said, “There’s one on the council who’s no small man. We’ll go and see him. We’ll see Colonel Fairfax. A visit from a physician might be just the thing for him.”

 

 

Belvoir was a magnificent brick manor, as fine as anything you might see in Scotland, and the master was most busy in a large office on the first floor.

George introduced me as a physician in whom he placed high trust. I think he was worried about Colonel Fairfax. What sickness could have affected his mentor so extremely that he had declined the command of the Virginia Regiment?

“I need no doctor, gentlemen,” said his honor, in an accent as fine as any ever heard at the Court of Saint James. “I’m simply too old to go riding into the wilderness to fight Indians or French.”

But we prevailed upon the colonel to unbutton his waistcoat so that I might listen to his chest.

“You flatter me, George.” Fairfax held his eyes on Washington while I placed an ear to his bony chest. “A war threatens … nay, it beckons … and you come here to see after my health.”

“I must tell you,” said George, “that I’m thinking about resigning.”

I raised my head so quick that I bumped it on Colonel Fairfax’s chin. I’m nae sure which hurt more. Head or chin. I said, “Resign?”

Colonel Fairfax waved me away. “What is all this about, George?”

“The council would cut my pay below that of regular British officers.”

“But you’re not a regular British officer, George.”

“A man must value himself, sir. You’ve taught me that yourself.”

“You’re a proud one,” said Fairfax. “Proud … but a bit too touchy.”

“Many agree with me over the matter of pay, sir. My own officers—”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said I, believing a united front was always best for military men to display, though I had only been a military man for two weeks.

“—and many in the House of Burgesses. If they cannot see to it that we are paid according to our service, I shall have to resign.”

Fairfax hardened his voice. “Many years ago, George, we sought a midshipman’s appointment for you because we knew what military glory could do to enhance a young man’s reputation. Did we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you still wish for glory?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The first step to glory is service. So how can you speak of resignation?”

One of Washington’s strengths was stubbornness. ’Twas also a weakness. “Because … because I believe myself to be in the right, sir.”

Fairfax took the Dinwiddie letter and scanned it until he reached a passage which caused him to read aloud: “Our knowledge that the French are moving in force makes it necessary for you to march what soldiers you have immediately to the Ohio.” He looked Washington in the eye. “The enemy approaches and you’re worried over the punctilios of rank.”

George kept his chin at a firm angle, but ’twas clear that the words of his mentor struck hard. “Without the punctilios of rank, our system will totter, sir.”

At that moment a young lass came into the room, a long-necked beauty with black hair flowing halfway down her back and a straightforward gaze that belied the coquetry one expects from women so gifted by nature. This, I knew, was Sally Fairfax.

“Why, George!” she cried. “How dare you come to Belvoir and not announce yourself to me immediately?”

Doctors are observant people, observation being the most important of the diagnostic arts, and I observed young Washington leap to his feet, shift his weight from one foot to the other, and stammer—a sure sign of nerves—“It … it … it is your father-in-law who deserves our first attention, ma’am.”

“But not your last at Belvoir, I hope.”

“It may be his last,” said Colonel Fairfax angrily, “if he ignores his good sense and follows his wounded pride. He wants to resign.”

“Resign?” Sally furrowed her dark brow. “And leave our frontier exposed to the French?”

“That is his plan, but he does not reckon with my power in the governor’s council.” The colonel turned his attention to George. “Go back to your troops. Stand by them. Earn your reputation and military glory. I shall stand by you in the matter of pay and rank. You have my word.”

“And you have my word,” said Sally, “that if you resign, I shan’t welcome you to Belvoir ever again.” This was said with a small smile, suggesting she was not serious, and I could see now that she was a coquette after all.

George gave her an exaggerated bow. “That, dear madam, would be a fate worse than … than waging war for a foot soldier’s pay.”

Colonel Fairfax cleared his throat, as if such innocent flirtation between his son’s closest friend and his daughter-in-law was nae something of which he approved or wished to witness. He said, “You should be ready to serve, George, though you receive not a brass farthing. ’Tis expected of a gentleman.”

“Yes, sir. You’re right, sir.”

“And consider the responsibility placed in your hands.” The colonel read the rest of the letter: “You are to act on the defensive, but if attempts are made to interrupt our settlements, you are to restrain the offenders, and in the case of resistance make prisoners of or kill them all. You are to conduct yourself as you find best for the furtherance of His Majesty’s goals and the good of his dominion.”

“Oh, George.” Sally clasped her hands to her breast and all but swooned.

And there was no doubt but that these was stirring words. Here was a call to the defense of the Crown. We were soldiers of the king.

Soon after, with his face turned bravely to the west, his left hand holding the reins, his right hand pressed to his hip, his fractious mare prancing beneath him, Lieutenant Colonel George Washington, all of twenty-two years old, led one hundred and twenty men toward the Blue Ridge.

The race for the Forks of the Ohio had begun. On the one side was a small regiment of amateur soldiers. On the other, the army of France.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

In the first warm days, our scouts brought word: the French were coming in their canoes. Tanacharison went to the Forks of the Ohio to warn the British who had gone there to build a fort. But the British major said not to worry, because Washington—Caunotaucarius—was coming north with a great army.

Tanacharison said they should hurry their work so the fort would be ready if the French arrived first. He said his Mingoes would help. And so we did. And so we worked like women, or dogs. We worked until our muscles burned and knives of pain pierced our legs. We worked, but Caunotaucarius did not come.

By the fourth day we had raised the stockade all around. We were hanging the gate on greased hinges. We were almost done.

I had worked hard beside Tanacharison, so I was bold, and I asked him, “Why is it that we take the muskets that the French give, but still we are better friends to the English?”

“The English have been better friends to us. They are as foolish as the French, but our fathers smoked pipes with them in the past, and so do we.”

I looked around at the sharpened logs of the stockade. They pierced the air like spears. “Is it good, sachem, to have a white man’s fort in our land?”

“Once the fort is built, we will have a place to trade. We will bring pelts, and the English will trade muskets, blankets, brandy. What we cannot stop, we must welcome, so that we make it our own.”

I looked out at the place where two rivers joined to make a third. The Ohio was big and brown in the sunlight. It carried the dirt of many mountains. It carried the cold of many snows. I wished to be like the river and flow away from this place.

But the next day the French came in four-man canoes. At first a few, then many, then many more. Three hundred canoes came—more than one thousand French. And behind the soldiers came heavy rafts with great cannon. They ran their canoes onto the bank. They formed on the meadow grass around the fort. They pointed their cannon at us.

The officer who ran the fort—his name was Ward—he asked Tanacharison what they should do. I did not think this was a good sign. It was like Tanacharison asking an Englishman what we should do in the middle of the forest.

Tanacharison said, “Tell the French captain you are of no importance. Tell him he must take his message farther south. This will buy you time.”

Ward did this.

And the French sent a message back: “Surrender in one hour or die.”

Tanacharison began to shout, “They are dogs! I will cut their captain’s throat. Then I will boil him and eat him, as they did to my father.”

All the Mingoes made war cries. I looked at my friend, whose name, in English, was Slow Bird. I whispered, “Did the French eat Tanacharison’s father?”

Slow Bird shrugged.

Tanacharison said he would salt the French flesh and pass it out among his tribes so that they could all eat it and gain strength. He said this with much anger and wild waving of arms.

Ward said, “Does this mean you do not wish to surrender?”

Tanacharison lowered his arms and whispered, “Only a fool would not surrender now. These things that I promise … I … I will do them later.”

So we surrendered, but the French were merciful. They gave us brandy and told the English to go back to their lands in Virginia.

 

 

I was glad to be out of the fort. I was gladder to be alive.

Tanacharison sent me ahead with Ward to take a message to Caunotaucarius. Tanacharison said I was the fleetest of his warriors, like one with silver heels. That is how I was given my name.

We went hard down the trails and deer paths, hard through the greening woods. We went sixty miles or more, to the camp of Caunotaucarius at a place called Wills Creek. And my heart was saddened by what I saw.

This was no great army. There were maybe a hundred and twenty-five soldiers. And no colored suits, except on the officers. The rest wore dull clothes. Their cook fires made small smoke. Their tents looked flimsy, even in the spring sun. In front of the largest tent was the English flag. Inside was Caunotaucarius.

Hesperus Draper:

I was guardin’ Washington’s tent when Ward and this Injun named Silverheels come into camp. I made the Injun wait outside. He held up this wampum belt, like ’twas supposed to mean somethin’, but I just shook my head. He was no chief, and so far’s I’d been told, only officers and chiefs got into Washington’s tent. Didn’t like playin’ doorkeep, but I was followin’ orders.

While I listened to Ward passin’ the bad news, I eyed this Injun. Didn’t get too close, ’cause he was pretty smelly. Smeared bear fat all over himself. Kept the bugs away. Most white men, too.

Injuns are strange creatures altogether. Strange to us, strange to each other. These Iroquois tribes wore their hair different from the Delawares I’d known, painted themselves different, too. This one had red paint goin’ from his forehead down his cheek, around his chin, and up the other side, just like a big circle of blood. Scare the hell out of you, if you was given to such things.

But along about then we were more mad than scared.

You’d be mad, too, if you marched all the way from Alexandria to Winchester, expectin’ wagons and supplies, and found nothin’ but a few farmers pickin’ their teeth and holdin’ out their palms. From Winchester we’d pushed on to Wills Creek, where we were supposed to find pack animals and more supplies. If you call a squirrel a pack animal, we found ’em. And considerin’ what was there for supplies, we didn’t need more than squirrels to carry ’em.

And now came bad news from the Forks of the Ohio.

Washington called the Injun into the tent. Took the wampum belt from the Injun and read the Half-King’s letter, written out by one of the interpreters.

“The Half-King says, ‘Have good courage, and come as soon as possible. You will find us as ready to fight them as you are yourselves. We have sent this young man to see if you will come. If so, he is to return to us, that we may await you. If you do not come now, we are undone, and we shall never meet again.’”

For a minute or two, nobody said nothin’.

Then one of the officers—Captain Stephen, I think—he whispered, “By God, there’s an ally.”

Washington called me into his tent. “Draper, you heard that, and you’ve shown an instinctive understanding of the savage in the past. Any instincts now?”

That surprised me. Officers don’t often ask privates to speak their minds, especially in front of other officers. I couldn’t tell if Washington was just stallin’ or if he really wanted to hear what I had to say.

Decided I better sound smart. If officers think you’re smart, they’ll be less likely to sacrifice you when somebody has to be sacrificed. I give it all a bit of thought and fixed on one part of that letter. “This Half-King says he’s as ready to fight as we are ourselves.”

Washington nodded, grave as a priest.

So I kept talkin’, feelin’ more certain of myself, “If we don’t show some backbone now, he’ll just disappear into the woods.”

“Yes.” Washington looked at the others. “If we desert the Half-King, the Iroquois will desert us. But we’re not strong enough to fight the French without reinforcements.”

“So what do we do?” asked Lieutenant Van Braam, his translator.

I don’t think Washington knew. So he did what he would later do hundreds of times: have a council of war, ask the opinions of his officers.

Now, we may have been short on supplies but if opinions were beefsteaks, we’d’ve et like kings.

Washington’s officers were all older than he was, and more experienced. Captain Adam Stephen was a big-drinkin’ Scots blusterer who’d been a surgeon on a British ship. Captain Hogg had fought at the Battle of Culloden. Van Braam had been in the Dutch army. And all of them had somethin’ to say.

Washington listened. Cocked his head. Asked questions. Let them argue. And got them all to agree on a plan that wouldn’t get us all killed or scalped but would still keep us in the field.

We’d push on to the place where Redstone Creek meets the Monongahela, ’bout thirty miles upstream from the Forks. There was a storehouse there, built by the Ohio Company. He said it would make a good place to strike from, and we could run like hell if the French came after us.

Then he wrote a letter to the Half-King. ’Twas full of compliments, to keep the Injuns happy, and full of lies, to keep ’em loyal. It thanked them “from hearts glowing with great affection.” It said the French had caused only a small bump in our plans, ’cause we were “a small part of the army advancing toward you, clearing the road for a great number of our warriors that are immediately to follow with our great guns, our ammunition, and our provisions.”

We said “great” a lot, but there was no great army comin’ after us, no great nothin’, just enough reinforcements so that eventually we’d have to fight or dishonor ourselves.

Washington gave Silverheels another belt of wampum, like a safe conduct, and we watched him go runnin’ off into the dark, wet woods.

Van Braam said, “They are strange-looking creatures.”

“Strange-looking and strange-acting,” said Washington. “Human only in their form.”

I said nothin’. Wasn’t my place. But I didn’t like it that Washington thought so little of the Injuns. Not human? There’s nothin’ more murderous than a human, and no human can be more murderous than an Injun. Best respect him.

 

 

Now, let me tell you about buildin’ roads. ’T’ain’t near so much fun as soldierin’. And considerin’ that soldierin’ is about as pleasant as havin’ dysentery on a cake of ice, imagine what it’s like to be a soldier buildin’ a road.

Cuttin’ trees, pullin’ stumps, smoothin’ grades … made two miles most days. Best we ever done was four. Absolute hell. Followed an Injun trail over Great Savage Mountain, more than two thousand feet high, then down into a forest called the Shades of Death, maybe the darkest, wettest woods we saw in a spring that men said was the wettest they could remember. Then we went over Negro Mountain. And every step of the way, we fought black flies and mosquitoes that bit so bad both my eyes closed up, and I couldn’t see to walk, never mind chop down trees.

And every day we met more scared trappers, haulin’ their pelts and their goods, bringin’ stories of the French. First eight hundred was comin’ … then nine … then a thousand …

Finally we reached a place called the Great Meadows, ’bout fifteen miles from Redstone Creek. Remember stories about the deserts in Araby, about how men felt when they finally come to an oasis? Well, the Great Meadows was like an oasis to us.

After a month in the woods, we looked out on grass, tall grass wavin’ in the breeze of a day as bright as a gold guinea coin, two miles of grass, with wooded hills on both sides and two streams joinin’ right in the middle. The ground was a little wet, but the streams meant good water, and the grass meant good forage.

Washington set us to work clearin’ bushes from the meadow, givin’ clear paths for musket fire. ’Twas like pickin’ flowers after a month of cuttin’ trees, and by nightfall, we were done.

Things were quiet. Most of the men were eatin’. I moved out for picket duty. I was leanin’ on my musket, watchin’ a bird swoopin’ and dartin’ over the meadow. Washington come up beside me, hatless, coatless, fingers inkstained from writin’ letters to Dinwiddie. And for a few minutes, we just stood there, listenin’ to the soft evenin’ sounds.

Washington was lookin’ out across the meadows toward the hills, like he could see the future. Then he muttered something.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to hear it, so I said, “Sir?”

He looked at me, “I said, ‘A charming field for an encounter.’”

“Encounter?” said I. “You mean a battle?”

“It’s why we’re here, isn’t it, Draper? To fight for king and country?”

Wasn’t why I was there. And if there was a battle, I was plannin’ on fightin’ from behind one of the wagons. But I just said, “Yes, sir.”

“A charming field for an encounter,” he said again. Then he went walkin’ through the tall grass like he was seein’ a battle take shape, fightin’ it in his head.

I knew right then that we were in for trouble. Our leader was just another boy soldier lookin’ for glory.

Washington’s slave was fetchin’ a bucket of water. Name was Jester. Little scrawny feller, nothin’ like that big Jacob back at Mount Vernon. I wondered what Jester made of his master’s musin’s. So I said, “Charmin’, ain’t it?”

And he said, “Oh, yassuh, charmin’ night. Make you glad you’s alive.”

Poor bastard, he had no idea … .

 

 

Next evenin’, just after dark, that Silverheels come stumblin’ into camp with a message from the Half-King for Washington: “We find French raiding party. Thirty-five, maybe forty. Six mile. Come quick.”

Washington didn’t even call an officers’ council. He just said, “We must strike them before they strike us.”

An hour later we set off in a light rain with Silverheels in the lead, Washington close behind, and about forty of us followin’, Injun style, one after the next, so we wouldn’t get lost in the dark. Like a march of blind men.

If ever the woods was dark and wet, ’twas that night. Dark to black and waterfall-wet. Rained so hard the water filled up the brim of my hat and started pourin’ down over all three corners at once. We kept our powder horns covered and our flints in our cartouche boxes, but there wasn’t a one of us thought that our muskets would fire when the time come.

I was followin’ the big arse of Eli Stitch, and Henry Dundee was bumpin’ along behind me, and he never shut up. ’Twas “Bejesus this” and “Mother of Christ that” and “God damn it all to hell” every minute. But mostly I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the rain. Felt him plenty, though. Kept steppin’ on my heels and walkin’ into me when I stopped.

We finally come to the camp of Tanacharison, the Half-King, just about the time we could see shapes brightenin’ around us, and all we found was seven Injuns. And two of them was no more than boys.

As for the Half-King, he was just another savage. Plucked his hair into a little ridge at the top of his head. Used bear grease to make it stand up. Wore a long scalp lock down his back, like most Iroquois. Had little lines tattooed across his forehead, a streak of yellow paint across his eyes, and a ratty red blanket over his shoulders. Pretty sorry king.

Leastways, the rain had stopped.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

I was glad to come to Tanacharison’s camp in the first graying of the sky.

I was glad, because Caunotaucarius was very mad. He thought I was a bad scout. Once, I walked into a tree, and he called me a foolish savage. I did not like him.

Tanacharison said, “We have found the French. They are the ones that boiled and ate my father.”

I do not think Caunotaucarius believed this. But I knew it was true, even if it never happened.

Tanacharison said that we should attack right away, before the day went further, before the French could attack us and boil and eat Caunotaucarius.

“I would be hard to swallow,” said Caunotaucarius. “But we will attack.”

Hesperus Draper:

We smelled the French cook fires ’fore we saw the smoke. ’Course, with the air so heavy and gray after the rain, everything looked a little smoky.

I remember comin’ down, down through tall trees, down toward a rocky outcrop that dropped away to nothin’. One of the scouts said the French were camped below, in a little glen, a little horseshoe of rock open to the forest at the far end. We had ’em right where we wanted ’em.

But I kept askin’ myself the same questions. Was the powder dry? Would the flint spark? Could I kill a man? Then I’d think of that land at the Forks and my courage’d come right back.

I wasn’t much of a soldier, but it looked like this French raidin’ party was even worse. No pickets. Didn’t hide themselves. Went clatterin’ pans and chatterin’ and singin’ some silly song down below. But nobody had declared a war so far as we knew. Washington was just actin’ on his own hook.

He took off his hat and snuck to the edge of the rocks, so he could peer down. Then he started makin’ hand signals. Don’t recall that his hand shook. Don’t think he had a second thought about the ambush he was about to spring.

Stephen moved off to the right. The Half-King and his Injuns slithered away as silent as snakes, to cut off escape through the woods below. And the rest of us slipped out, keepin’ low, holdin’ our cover, waitin’ for the word.

And who do you think spoiled the surprise? The boy soldier himself. ’Fore we were in position, he let the French see his red uniform. And they started screamin’, “Les Anglais! Les Anglais!”

Now I got a clear look at ’em—men just wakin’ up, some wearin’ nothin’ but shirts and boots, a few pullin’ on their breeches, others bare-assed and ballocky and stumblin’ for their pants and their muskets at the same time.

But for all that, one of them got off the first shot. A bullet hit the boulder right beside Washington’s ear and went whinin’ away. He didn’t even duck. He just give a little twitch at the sound so close to him. He stood up straight, right on the lip of the rocks, all but darin’ the French to shoot at him again, and he screamed, “Fire!”

But we were all weak-kneed amateurs more used to shootin’ at ducks than men. Our first volley was just a lot of little pops and loud bangs, pan flashes and muzzle blasts, and smoke comin’ out in clouds all around, clouds billowin’ up above us and clouds fillin’ that little glen, too.

I know my musket went off. I don’t know that I hit anyone. Saw some Frenchmen go down, though. They tried to answer our fire, so we gave them another volley. ’Twas better than the first, and it convinced them ’twas time to run.

So they went scurryin’ toward the woods at the open end of the horseshoe. That’s when they got the ugliest surprise of their French lives, and I heard somethin’ that made my blood go colder than a January wagon wheel. ’Twas the screamin’ of the Injuns.

I’d never heard it before, and I hoped never to hear it again.

The French run right into them, right into a volley from the muskets they’d given those Injuns as presents. And the next thing you knew, the French was runnin’ back toward us, and one of them, he was wavin’ a white handkerchief and screamin’ in French.

Washington jumped to the edge of the rocks, and called for us to hold our fire. But the bad part was only just beginning.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

Our blood was up. Our anger at the French was great. They had invaded our land. They had boiled and eaten our fathers.

Tanacharison gave a war cry and ran into the glen.

Seeing his bravery made me brave. I gave a war cry and followed him. I told myself that the first Frenchman I found I would scalp.

I saw one on the ground. His shirt was bunched up at his waist. He wore no breeches so his balls hung like a toy between his legs. He had been shot in the hip and was crying out. I went to finish him and take his scalp, but Slow Bird reached him first. The man put up his hands, but Slow Bird was quick with his club. He brought it down hard on the Frenchman’s skull. So I ran on.

All was confusion.

The English were coming down from the rocks. The French were throwing down their weapons and running toward their white brothers. And we were running to get ourselves between the English and the French, so that we could take prisoners, which was our right as warriors.

A bird flew overhead. He fluttered, as if he did not know the place where he came each morning. Then he flew away. I thought he was a wise bird.

Caunotaucarius was shouting, pointing this way and that, and the word changer Van Braam was telling him what the French were saying. Some French were shouting. Other were moaning like women.

Caunotaucarius looked from one face to another, as if he was not certain where to look. I told you, all was confusion.

And now Tanacharison said to Caunotaucarius, “I demand my prisoners.”

Caunotaucarius said, “I demand that you stop killing the wounded.”

Tanacharison said, “They are our prisoners. And I want others.”

This was the way of Iroquois war.

“They are my prisoners,” said Caunotaucarius, and he turned his back on Tanacharison.

He was insulting Tanacharison in front of his warriors. Again our sachem would not let this insult anger him. A warrior must fight with fury but not anger. Tanacharison would not strike Caunotaucarius, but he would take what was his. So he turned to the French leader, who was pouring out a river of French words.

Hesperus Draper:

I was guardin’ the head Frenchman. Watchin’ his mouth, listenin’ close, figurin’ if I did, I could understand his jabber. Concentratin’ so hard I didn’t even see the Half-King come up behind me.

He pushed me out of the way. Then he shoved his face right up to this Frenchman and he said, “You French?”

And the Frenchman just looked at him. Acted like this Injun was vermin, which I suppose he was. Wrinkled his nose, like the Injun stunk, which I know he did. Then looked over at where Washington was givin’ orders and started shoutin’ again, all in French, like the Injun wasn’t even there, which he surely was.

The Half-King didn’t like this at all. He knew this was the head Frenchman, and he hated Frenchmen. So, ’fore I had any inklin’ of what he was doin’, he pulled out his tomahawk, planted his feet, and stove in that Frenchman’s skull like he was bustin’ in a barrel.

The Frenchman went down like a poleaxed horse, and the Half-King—half man, half beast, if you ask me—dropped right down on top of him.

His warriors closed tight in around him, made a wall to protect him while he slammed that tomahawk down again. Blood splattered everywhere. Then that damn savage shoved his hands right into the Frenchman’s skull! Right into his head! Come out with two fistfuls of brain, all gray and red and, I swear, still pulsin’ with that Frenchman’s thoughts.

And his warriors all screamed and hooted. This was how they expected their chief to treat his enemies, especially the ones who’d boiled and eaten his father.

Then the Half-King pulled out his knife and sliced off the Frenchman’s scalp, neat as you please. I almost puked. But he wasn’t finished. He saw another French prisoner, a dark, squat feller, and he ran at him.

This time Washington stepped in front of him, actin’ like he didn’t even see the blood and the brains still drippin’ from the Half-King’s hands, like he wasn’t surprised by anything that the heart of a savage could invent. Looked hard at this Injun and said, “No more killing.”

And the Half-King’s bloodthirst must have been slaked, because he backed off, but he held that scalp up and waved it at the other Frenchman. Then he waved it at Washington for good measure.

The Frenchman spat. Washington turned away, chewin’ on his cheek, tryin’ to keep from cursin’, or maybe from pukin’.

 

 

The last I saw of that little glen, the Injuns was plunderin’ the French baggage, and the head of some dead Frenchman—had a fine mustache and a black chin beard—was lookin’ down on everything from the top of a sharpened pole.

There was ten dead Frenchmen and one dead Virginian. I didn’t think on how stupid ’twas to give up your life in a little forest fight. I was just glad to be marchin’ back to the Great Meadows. And so was the survivin’ French.

But once we were on the trail, the French officer—the dark, squat one—he started askin’ questions. And he spoke good English, so Van Braam didn’t have to translate. “Are we being treated as prisoners or emissaries?”

Washington said, “You are prisoners, of course.”

“But the one who lost his brains, Coulon de Jumonville, he was sent as an emissary, sent from Governor DuQuesne.”

That stopped Washington right in his tracks.

The Frenchman almost grinned. “Yes … the papers you took from his body, they were his orders to meet with you and tell you peaceably to leave.”

Washington took the papers out of his pocket and glanced at them. But they were all in French, so I knew he couldn’t read them.

The Frenchman knew it, too, so he just kept talkin’. “We should be treated as you were treated last winter. With respect.”

’Twas plain that Washington was surprised. I could see the wheels turnin’ inside his head. If this was a French emissary and his escort, the boy soldier had blundered, and his Indian ally had committed one heinous murder.

Washington told the Frenchman, “Last winter I traveled in the open. I did not hide in obscure places surrounded by rocks. You came to spy on us and attack us.”

Then he had Van Braam translate the papers, and sure enough, they carrried diplomatic intructions. They also carried orders for the French “emissary” to set down how many of us there were and what we were doin’. That made them all spies.

Still, no matter how close you shaved it, our attack was an act of war. ’Twas as if that little rock-walled glen was a powder keg and Washington walked up and set a match to it. And one blast would set off another, because those French at the Ohio Forks, they’d hit us hard now.

Back at the Great Meadows, Washington told his officers, “If we do not get reinforcements, we must either retreat or fight very unequal numbers. But that’s what I’ll do before I give up one inch of what we’ve gained.”

The officers looked at each other and shook their heads. A few rolled their eyes.

The boy soldier looked out at the meadow again, at that charmin’ field for an encounter. Then he ordered the men to build a fort right in the middle of it.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

I brought my woman to the Great Meadows. Her name was Bright Leaf. She was big with child. I thought that at the Great Meadows she would be safe. That was before I saw the fort they were building.

It was weaker than what they had built at the Forks, which the French took in ten minutes.

Tanacharison told Caunotaucarius, “This fort will not stand against the wind that soon will blow.”

Caunotaucarius answered, “It will withstand an army of five hundred men.”

“What if six hundred come to fight you?”

Caunotaucarius spoke with great certainty, “The French will engage us in line of battle, out in the meadow. After we’ve volleyed and weakened them, we’ll fall back to our entrenchments and rake them with our four-pounders.”

Later Tanacharison came to my wigwam. He said that he liked to see my wife’s belly filling with life. He asked if he could touch it. I was very proud.

Tanacharison said that the child would be a brave boy. Then he looked out across the meadow to the puny English fort. He said, “Caunotaucarius is a good-natured man, but he has no experience. He will not win the fight that is coming.”

Dr. James Craik:

It has been said that George Washington had nae sense of humor. The same has been said of the Scots. But on the day I arrived at the Great Meadows, as part of the first reinforcing column, I would have laughed like a fool at what Washington had built there, except that he planned to fight there.

He had raised a circle of pointed logs, forty feet in diameter, with a wee shed in the middle. Trenches surrounded the stockade, and the wigwams of our Indian allies spread out beyond the trenches. To my medical eye, it gave the impression of some kind of concentric fungus—ringworm, perhaps—growing on the green meadow grass. The name that Washington had given to this place, with nae sense of irony, was Fort Necessity.

The necessity most pressing was for more reinforcements. They arrived a few days later, heralded by the sound of fife and drums in the wilderness: the independent company from North Carolina. They were easy to sight even before they emerged from the woods—a hundred men in scarlet coats, led by a mounted officer in a white wig. They brought great rejoicing to the camp, as they were driving some sixty head of cattle.

Everyone went out to greet them—the men, the officers, and our Indian allies, too, though the Indians were happier to see the cattle than the soldiers. The Half-King had brought about a hundred of his people to the Great Meadows, and they had all brought their appetites.

Now, this independent company had a special distinction. They were colonials, but their commissions came direct from the king. So they were considered superior to provincial soldiers like ourselves and were better paid because of it. Their demeanor made it plain that such knowledge was nae lost upon them.

In a letter, Dinwiddie had warned Washington to treat them with respect: “As the officers of the independent company are gentlemen of experience in the art military, are jealous of their honor, and come well recommended, I hope you will conduct yourselves toward them with prudence and receive their advice with candor, as the most probable means of promoting His Majesty’s service and the success of the expedition.”

“Does this mean you give orders to them, or they to us?” I asked.

“That,” Washington answered, “is a delicate question.”

And no one was more delicate about such matters than himself. Washington had threatened to resign once again, a week before the fight with the French, so misused did he feel by the powers in Williamsburg.

He had read to me a part of his letter to Dinwiddie: “I could enumerate a thousand difficulties we have met with, more than other officers who receive double our pay. Giving up my commission is contrary to my intention. But let me serve voluntarily and I will devote my services to the expedition without any other reward than the satisfaction of serving my country; but to be slaving dangerously for a shadow of pay, through woods, rocks, mountains—I would prefer the toil of a daily laborer.”

Rank and pay, pay and rank. It played like a reel in all our heads.

Of these North Carolinians he said, “I expect that their officers will have more sense than to insist upon unreasonable distinctions. I’ll make it clear to them that though they have king’s commissions, we have the same spirit to serve.”

However clear Washington made it, their commanding officer dinna see it. From the first, James Mackay treated Washington correctly but nae subserviently, though his rank was two levels lower. He gave our little palisade a disdainful look and said he and his men would choose their own campsite.

Washington bowed graciously.

Around dusk, with the cook fires rising and the smell of fresh beef bringing juices to every mouth on the meadow, Washington sent Hesperus Draper—he wasn’t a carbuncle then, merely a wee pimple—over to Mackay’s tent with the parole and countersign, the nightly password in the camp.

A few minutes later, Draper returned: “Captain Mackay rejects the passwords … respectfully. Says he ain’t required to accept orders of any kind, on any matter, from a colonial of any rank … sir.”

I remember a smile crossing Draper’s skinny face, as though he thought this was just silliness. Of course, it wasn’t.

Washington’s face reddened, and he snapped, “Who is to give the passwords if not myself?”

Hesperus Draper:

Some people thought the business with Mackay was silliness, just a pair of jealous officers pissin’ on their turf like he-dogs. But ’twas more than that.

Why should troops commissioned by the king get better pay for less work than good, honest colonials? What made them so special? Think about where that line of reasonin’ can lead, and you’ll see what it could grow into.

Next mornin’ I was guardin’ Washington’s tent when Mackay come by.

Beneath the white wig and the banty-rooster strut, this Mackay was a good soldier, but stubborn. He said, “Colonel, a colonial governor cannot issue a commission to supersede mine.”

Washington said, “Nor does your commission supersede mine, sir.”

Mackay answered, “I am sure you know, sir, that a royal commission supersedes any colonial commission.”

“I am a colonel, sir,” answered Washington. “With all due respect, a captain cannot supersede a colonel.”

“With equally due respect, sir, your governor cannot give commissions that command me, sir.”

Even with all the sirrin’, ’twas plain they were gettin’ nowhere fast. Finally Washington said, “But you will join us in road building, will you not?”

“My men are soldiers, sir, not laborers,” answered Mackay. “If they are to build roads, they will have need of another shilling of pay per day.”

Washington’s voice got a little higher, the way it did when he was tryin’ to control himself. “My men are paid nothing extra for building the road.”

“Blame that on their commissions, or lack thereof.”

Washington stood. He was gettin’ red, gettin’ mad, and gettin’ Mackay out of his tent. “I think, sir, that it would be best if we operate our commands as allied but independent.”

“That, sir, is why we are called an independent company.”

’Twas all very correct, all very precise, and much more serious than silly.

What was silly was Washington’s decision to keep buildin’ the road toward Redstone Creek. We had our reinforcements, and the French still outnumbered us. The road would just bring them down our throats that much faster.

But the next day Washington had the wagons loaded with shovels and supplies, and the regiment was mustered. If he couldn’t stay in his own camp and give the orders, he’d leave the camp to the North Carolinians and take to the road.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

Tanacharison said the forest was like a lake. The white men were swimmers. And we were fish. The fish know the currents and the sandbars and the places where the springs come into the lake. The swimmer must make friends with the fish or drown. So Caunotaucarius asked Tanacharison to call the tribes to a council.

Mostly Delawares and Shawnees came. Some of the Six Nations. Even some Mingoes came who did not like the English.

We met at a plantation on the road between Fort Necessity and Redstone Creek. We drank brandy. We heard speeches.

Caunotaucarius even let the unfriendly Mingoes speak. Their leader was called Hardhand in your language. He was of the clan of the Eel. But he looked more like a porcupine, his hair all bristles, his weapons all sharp. He said, “We have heard that the English will attack every village that will not march with them.”

Caunotaucarius said, “That is not true.”

“We have also heard that the French are going to drive the English back over the eastern mountains.”

Caunotaucarius said, “That is not true.”

“You say these things are not true, but we believe the truth we see. You are weak, and the French are strong. They have built a great fort at the Ohio Forks. You have built a little circle of logs at the Great Meadows.”

Caunotaucarius stood and did the magic that made him taller than he was. “I am the vanguard of an army coming to maintain your rights to put you in possession of your lands, to make the whole country yours.”

He looked into the eyes of every Indian, to convince them of his truth. But Tanacharison would not meet his gaze. Tanacharison put his eyes on the ground because he had brought the tribes together to hear this lie. And he was sorry for it.

Caunotaucarius kept lying. “It is for the safety of your wives and children that we fight. This is our only motive. Join us to oppose the common enemy.”

These fish knew that the swimmers would do what they always do after they swim. They would grow hungry. Then they would try to eat the fish.

After three days, a runner came with a wampum belt from the Great Council of the Iroquois at Onondaga. They decreed that the Iroquois and their vassals, the Shawnees and Delawares, should do nothing in the fight between the English and French, “nothing but what was reasonable.”

To the Delawares, this meant to stay out. To the Shawnees, it meant to join the French. To our mixed band of Mingoes and Senecas, it meant we should look out for ourselves. So Tanacharison led us back to the Great Meadows.

I heard Caunotaucarius say to the doctor named Craik, “If I had gifts to give them, I could have brought them all to our side.”

Gifts. That was all he thought we would need. I was beginning to think that Caunotaucarius was a great fool.

Hesperus Draper:

Our Injun allies had decided to sit back and watch. Our North Carolina allies wouldn’t lift a finger, except to drill and look pretty in their red suits. And then we got the news we’d been expectin’: the French were comin’ in force.

At first Washington wanted to dig in and fight where he was. Then he changed his mind, which he could do as often as a woman with her monthlies comin’ on, and he fell back to the Great Meadows.

That retreat was the longest thirteen miles of my life. Imagine pullin’ cannon over a rutted, stump-filled road in the kind of damp heat that gives you a prickly rash ’tween your legs even when you’re someplace civilized and can change your breeches every week. And worse than the heat, there wasn’t an ounce of food waitin’ for us at the Great Meadows. Washington might have kept runnin’, but he knew we were too damn tired and weak. Better to meet the French there on that charmin’ field than on some forest road.

So he set us to diggin’ in the four-pounders. The guns wouldn’t be much good for knockin’ down troops at a distance, but if we loaded ’em with grapeshot and the French got close, we could do some fine damage. Even the independents lent a hand, which I took as a sign of how bad things was gettin’.

Me and a few of the boys were diggin’ in a gun when I sensed someone lookin’ at me. ’Twas the Half-King, suckin’ on a little dip of tobacco, spittin’ every now and then, watchin’ us with the snake eyes you see on an Injun sometimes, when he’s lookin’ at you like he’s tryin’ to figure out how to swallow you whole. Then he just shook his head and went off.

Later I heard him advisin’ Washington to leave.

Washington said, “I told you. This fort will withstand an army of five hundred.”

The Half-King just laughed. ’Twas the first time I’d heard that, and it scared me more than seein’ the independents swingin’ shovels.

Then Washington said, “Send out your scouts.”

The Half-King said, “You will not order us to fight in a bad place.” And he started pointin’ here and there, goin’ on like a preacher, tellin’ Washington his sins. “You have not cleared the woods beyond musket shot. Your trenches are dug by a stream, so they will fill with water if it rains. Your men are starving. And you think the French will fight standing out in the field, as if they are stupid.”

“I’ll say it again”—Washington raised his chin—“send out your scouts.”

Well, the Half-King didn’t send out scouts. Didn’t do much of anything the rest of the day but sit in front of his wigwam and spit tobacco. Then, around dusk, his people packed up and disappeared into the forest.

That scared me more than anything.

 

 

And the savage was right—about the French, the rain, the whole damn fight.

Come the mornin’ of July 3. Cloudy and hot. Been rainin’ like hell and looked like ’twas fixin’ to rain again. In between downpours, a scout come in with news: the French and Injuns were just over the ridge, and they were all naked!

Well, the Injuns were mostly naked, but the French were dressed like regulars, in powder-blue coats, or like trappers, in the same kind of buckskins and huntin’ shirts we wore. They come into the meadow, kneedeep in the grass, and made a long, lazy skirmish line, with the Injuns movin’ slow and easy on either side. I couldn’t quite tell how many there was, ’cept there was a hell of a lot more of them than of us and a hell of a lot more than five hundred.

Washington was standin’ out in front of our trenches, and he said to his captains, very calmly, “Bring the men into the field.”

At the same time, Mackay called out to the independents, “Form line.”

Now, that was silly. With the French comin’, those two was still worried over who was givin’ the orders. We formed up. Dressed our lines three deep. Stood ready to volley and fall back, then volley again and drop to the trenches.

Yes, sir, in the middle of the North American wilderness, the boy soldier had found the one place where he thought he could fight like a European.

The French fired a volley from about six hundred yards away, which made me feel better. Only fools fired from that far out. Then they came closer. We stood our ground, scared to death, knowin’ we’d never knock them all down with one volley. But the French weren’t fixin’ to charge. Before they come into range, they stopped and loped off into the trees on either side of us, like they were goin’ off to a picnic.

That was when I knew why the Half-King had been laughin’.

These French weren’t fools. They’d learned their lessons from their Injun allies, and they knew good cover when they saw it. For a month we’d been settin’ in that damn meadow, and nobody’d thought to cut the trees back on the hillsides. Now the French and Injuns had better cover than we did, and they could look down into our fort like we’d left up a ladder for them.

All we could do was hunker back in our trenches and wait. For a while, the Injuns whooped at us from the woods, like they were tryin’ to beat us just by curdlin’ our blood. When that didn’t work, the bullets started flyin’. Never a big volley, mind you. Just a steady splatterin’, like hailstones hittin’ the sides of a house.

They killed our horses and the few stringy cows we still had. Even killed two or three of the camp dogs. And they killed plenty of us, too. The independents—had to hand it to them—they took the most exposed position and did most of the dyin’.

We tried to fight back. We kept our muskets poppin’ and bangin’, even after the rain started. Filled those trees with lead. Filled that little valley with smoke. And kept those four-pounders barkin’ like beagles. Judgin’ by noise alone, we were winnin’.

The bodies told another story.

Washington kept runnin’ from one place to another, movin’ quick and only crouchin’ a little. One minute he was in the trenches, then over with Cap’n Stephen, then in the stockade. And every stop he made, he had more dead to count.

His slave, Jester, ran around behind him, doin’ his biddin’, and scared to death about it, too, considerin’ the size of those white eyeballs in his black face. He was smart to be scared, because along about four o’clock, a musket ball took him in the stomach and he went down with a big bellow.

But there was no time for Washington to be worryin’ about a gut-shot nigra. He called two men to get Jester into the stockade, and he kept right on movin’, always movin’, always lettin’ his men see him. He’d gotten us into a hell of a spot, but he was actin’ like he’d get us right out of it again.

“He’s either the bravest boy soldier in the backwoods or too damn dumb to know they’re shootin’ at him,” said Henry Dundee. That made me laugh.

Laughed more at the fix we were in than the joke. ’Twas late afternoon and rainin’ harder. Water was ankle deep in our trench. Sides were all mud. We were all mud. Funny as hell.

But while I was laughin’, a musket ball hit Henry at the base of the skull and come out his throat. He died gurglin’ in the water at the bottom of the trench.

You’d have thought that after the fight in the glen, I wouldn’t be shocked by the sight of blood. But this struck me hard. I liked Henry, even if he talked too much. I just slid down into the trench and damn near started cryin’.

Then it commenced to rainin’ as hard as it had that whole miserable, foot-rottin’, mushroom-makin’, brainsoakin’ spring. ’Twas the kind of rain that roared. Roared so loud, it drowned out the sound of the musket fire. Then it drowned out the musket fire ’cause all the powder got wet and nobody could get off a shot. Then it came damn near to drownin’ all of us in the trenches. ’Fore long, we were waist-deep, with the water risin’.

And that was when we were most frightened, because if the French couldn’t shoot at us, they knew we couldn’t shoot back. Might decide to rush us with bayonets and tomahawks.

Dr. James Craik:

Cutting off a limb is ugly business. The screaming is truly the wail of the banshee. The blood and the mess would sicken a vulture. And the sight of living bone, white and pure in the midst of bleeding meat, speaks volumes on the fragility of life itself.

All day, the men were brought to me, and I practiced the craft for which I was trained. Those I could help received the benefits of all I had learned. Those I could not received what laudanum I could spare. When the laudanum was gone, I opened one of the rum pipes stored in my hut, and I saw that each dying man received a dram or a draft, whichever he wished.

About an hour before dark, Washington came to see me. The rain was pounding so hard on the roof that I felt as if I were inside a drum. Water was leaking in. Sweat was pouring from my forehead and mixing with the water, and both were flowing down to mingle with the blood at my feet. And by now a hundred men, a third of our force, had been killed or wounded.

Washington still tried to wear a mask of calm, but ’twas hard with the sounds of suffering as loud as the rain and his own slave lying in a drunken stupor, quietly bleeding to death.

I told him there was naught I could do to save Jester.

“And what about these others? Are any of them fit to fight?”

There were twenty men crowded into the hut. Of the few who might have returned to the fight, none would even cast their eyes in his direction.

“Doctor”—Washington gestured for me to step outside, into the rain, where the wounded men would nae hear—“we are determined not to ask for quarter. We’ll screw our bayonets tight and sell our lives as dearly as possible.”

I’d had no time to consider the possibility of defeat … or death in this miserable wilderness. I swallowed the sick fear that rose in my throat like suet, and I told Washington that I would do all that I could to rally the wounded.

When I went back inside, I noticed that one of the rum pipes was missing. And a few moments later, after two soldiers had carried in a wounded man, I noticed that another was gone. Our soldiers had determined that they would nae sell their lives dearly at all. They preferred dying drunk to dying honorably.

Hesperus Draper:

Men do strange things in the face of death. I admit that I did. Some of the boys got into the rum supply, and they was passin’ a hogshead along the trench. I took a good long swaller, and the next time it come by, I took an even longer one, and when it come by a third time, I took the longest swaller yet. Eli Stitch had his share, too. In stomachs so empty as ours, this rum done its business like a match does business to a wick.

I don’t recall which of us come up with the idea of givin’ Henry Dundee a swaller to speed him to his reward. But we dragged him to a place in the trench where the water wasn’t quite so deep. Then we sat him up like he was still alive. Put his musket in his hands, poured a bit of brandy onto his lips. Then we both toasted him and had a few more good swallers of our own.

’Twas gettin’ near dark. Rain was lettin’ up some. Washington was comin’ along the trenches, tellin’ us to bear up and be ready for whatever come next. Whether he could see that we were drunk or not, I don’t know. In the half-light, I don’t think he could even see that Henry was dead. But he must have seen how hopeless things were. I sure did.

Then the damnedest thing happened. Over the patter of the rain we heard a Frenchman shout, “Voulez-vouz parler?”

Somebody said, “I think it means they want to talk.”

“Talk?” That made me laugh.

Dr. James Craik:

The French terms were so generous as to make us suspicious.

We learned later that they believed we were about to be reinforced, and so they wanted to end this quickly. We would be allowed to march out with the honors of war, under the British flag, and in possession of our arms, so long as our officers agreed not to invade land that belonged to the king of France for one year. Since none of us accepted that this land belonged to the king of France at all, ’twas a parole we could honorably accept.

Near midnight, negotiations was completed between the French and Jacob Van Braam, the only one of our number who could speak French.

In our wee hut, Van Braam tried to read to us the blotted, rain-splattered sheets he had translated, but we had only a single guttering candle for light, and his own writing was all but illegible, so he gave up and told us in his own words: “The first part says the French did not want to trouble the peace between England and France, but only to revenge the killing of Colon de Jumonville and his party, and to stop any English settlement on land claimed by their king.”

Washington said, “I am to admit that we attacked the party in the glen?”

“The French insist,” said Van Braam. “Jumonville, the one the Half-King killed, he was brother to the commander of the force surrounding us.”

“Jumonville was leading a war party,” said Washington. “He was a casualty of war, killed in the confusion of the fight.”

“Then admit the truth,” said Captain Mackay, “and take the terms.”

Washington looked into the haggard faces of the officers around him, as if trying to discern their thoughts or gauge their endurance. Then he said, “’Tis plain. I have no other choice.”

 

 

The next day was July 4, a date that no man in our regiment could ever have seen himself celebrating. The British flag came down in the bright sunlight, and the French flag went up. What baggage we could nae carry was piled up and would, the French promised, be protected. So would the wounded, who would be staying under my care.

I worried much about them, and myself, because the Indian allies of the French had come into camp and were demanding prisoners. The French were refusing them the human spoils of war, but they could nae stop the Indians from breaking into our baggage, nor from stealing the mahogany medicine chest my father had given me when I left Scotland.

The one who did the stealing must have been practiced at it, as he had at some point stolen a mantelpiece clock. His breastplate was the clockface, and his earrings were the brass finials that once decorated the clock case.

The other Indians closed around him and began grabbing at the medicine chest, as a dog pack will when the bravest of them steals a piece of food. I took some pleasure in knowing that those savages would soon be consuming the contents of my medicine bottles and soon after that, some would be vomiting uncontrollably; others would be shitting as they never shat before, and still others would be in a stupor … all of which would serve them right.

Hesperus Draper:

Yes, sir, my fine mantelpiece clock was now just decoration, and that Injun was just another plunderin’ scavenger. Once I’d been awed by these savages. Now I was just disgusted. The sooner we swept ’em aside, the sooner we could make somethin’ out of all that wilderness.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

We were not there when the English marched out. We had moved off into the woods. So Hardhand came to us and told us what had happened and said that we should all go over to the French.

He told of some who took the things that the English carried, which was their right as warriors. He told of taunting Caunotaucarius: “I called him brother. I asked him how he did on a day that he surrendered to the French.”

But Hardhand said that Caunotaucarius did not lose his dignity. He kept his eyes ahead and did not answer Hardhand’s taunts.

So Hardhand had spoke to Caunotaucarius the words that Caunotaucarius had once spoke to us: “The things I do, I do for the safety of our wives and children … brother.”

Still, Caunotaucarius would not even look at Hardhand, which angered him.

Tanacharison was angry too. He said he would not go back to the English: “If Caunotaucarius is the best leader they have, they cannot win. He treated us like slaves when he should have treated us like brothers.”

“They will both treat us like slaves,” I said, “the French and the English both.” I was no longer afraid to speak before my elders. My baby had been born. I had been in a fight. These things had made me a man.

“They are both no good,” said Tanacharison. “The French acted as great cowards and the English as great fools in the fight.”

“So who will we fight for?” I asked.

“We will do as the council says,” Tanacharison answered. “We will watch out for ourselves. And we will watch out for your little boy.”

Tanacharison was very wise.

But soon he drifted away. They say he went to the Mingo villages far to the west, on the banks of Lake Erie.

Later I heard that a sickness came upon him. He was not old, but his strength left him fast. They say it flowed out like water from a leaky gourd. He lost his heart. He lost his hope. I was very sad when I heard. But it was only a small sadness compared to those that would come to us all.

Hesperus Draper:

In French, the word for “assassin” is “l’assassin.”

Now, I don’t know how in hell a man could see that word in a surrender and not get the idea it meant somethin’ other than honorable action on the battlefield. But that’s what Van Braam did. He translated the world l’assassin as “death.”

When Washington signed the surrender, he didn’t know that he was admittin’ that he had assassinated a French diplomat named Jumonville. Never mind that the Half-King done the assassinatin’, and never mind that Jumonville was up to no good when we jumped him. After that translation made the rounds, the French had a fine time goin’ on about English treachery in the backwoods of America.

One lord in the English government called the surrender “the most infamous a British subject ever put his hand to.”

But by then Washington was pointin’ a finger at somebody else: his translator. The last we’d seen of poor Van Braam, he’d been wavin’ good-bye when we marched out of the Great Meadows. He’d volunteered to be a hostage till we exchanged the French prisoners we took in the first fight.

You’d think Washington would stick up for Van Braam. But when Washington heard what that translation meant, he took a sharp breath like a woman learnin’ her husband’s been visitin’ the whorehouse. “How could Van Braam be so stupid?”

Cap’n Stephen said, “You can’t be blamed for signing this.”

“You can’t,” said Cap’n Mackay, “nor can I.”

Mackay’d put his name to the surrender too. As jealous over surrenderin’ as he was over commandin’. Damn fool even put his name above Washington’s. But Washington had ordered the attack in the glen. Everybody knew that. The blame’d be on his head. Unless he could shift it.

And Stephen said, “Maybe Van Braam wasn’t so stupid.” And from there they spun the story that Van Braam must have been in the pay of the French.

’Twas a fine tall tale. And Washington let it grow. ’Twas better to have folks sayin’ that the worst thing he did was trust a Dutchman. And the second worst was to trust the government. It would take time for the bad opinions in London to reach him.

 

 

As for the troops, we straggled back to Alexandria, all beaten, dirty, damn sad, and dressed in rags. It cheered us considerable to see Washington ride in with a bag of three hundred pistoles, the governor’s reward for the men who’d marched out. ’Twasn’t much next to the land we’d been promised, but better than nothin’.

Some of the boys bought clothes with the money. I spent mine on two things: extra gunpowder and Bee Mensing.

Word was the governor was plannin’ to send a bigger expedition against the Forks before the snow flew. Struck me as damn foolery, considerin’ what we’d just been through. But so long as there was a chance for me to get that Ohio bonus land, I was goin’. So I spent my days practicin’ with my musket and spent my nights in Alexandria with Bee’s legs wrapped around me.

’Fore long I could hit a standin’-still target at seventy-five yards, a movin’ target at fifty. No better musketshootin’ than that. Thought about gettin’ me one of them Pennsylvania rifles, but they was too expensive and took too long to load.

And Bee … well, she was pretty expensive too, but it didn’t take me no time at all to load … or to fire. ’Twas more than the old in-and-out, though. ’Fore I went to the Great Meadows, I was glad to do my business and pull up my breeches. But after you’ve looked death in the face, couplin’ with a woman is like feelin’ the beat of life, and couplin’ with one who likes you is like a glimpse of life after death, even if you have to pay to see it.

Bee had her faults. Most women do. A quick temper. A powerful thirst. That crooked nose. But that skinny Dutchman, he never hit her in the mouth. Didn’t want to spoil them good teeth. Always liked good teeth.

What’s more, she was good company. And gettin’ better the longer she stayed at Chastity’s. Learned how to make you laugh, how to tell you something good about yourself, how to take your mind off whatever was botherin’ you. I wasn’t so dumb as to think she done this just for me. But I always thought she done it a little more for me.

The last night I visited her I could smell her vanilla-extract perfume as soon as I stepped into the room. There was just one candle flickerin’. But I could see that straw-colored hair on the pillow and those fine teeth glistenin’ from all the way across the room. She was wearin’ more paint. Her cheeks were rouged and her lips were red. But I didn’t mind. And the bedbugs didn’t matter a bit. Our main business went fast, like always. Then we talked, like always.

I asked her if she’d been busy.

“What do you think, with all you soldier boys comin’ through?”

“Well, that’s over. We’re headin’ back.”

She sat up in the bed and looked into my eyes. She looked so worried, she could’ve been my mother. “Back to the Forks?”

“Back the Forks, aye. But don’t let it worry you.”

“I ain’t worried, but … you boys leave, us girls won’t have nothin’ to do.”

I pulled her close. Didn’t hear the mercenary meanin’ of what she just said. I was thinkin’ about that kindhearted look she’d just given me. And the kindhearted gifts she’d given me in that bed. “I have things for you to do, honey.”

“Not if you ain’t here. Why don’t you stay?”

“I can’t desert.” Then I got serious. “What I’m doin’ is for the future, for me and the woman who comes with me to the Ohio country someday.”

“You got a woman in mind?”

I leaned into her a little more, “I was thinkin’ about you, darlin’.”

That was wider than I’d ever opened my door to anyone. Expected her to walk right through and give me a kiss. Instead, that painted face of hers looked like ’twas dryin’ up and fallin’ off. “Hesperus Draper, what would I want to go back to the wilderness for?”

“To … to be with me. That’s what I was thinkin’.”

She looked into my eyes like she was searchin’ for somethin’. And then she give out a laugh. Like ’twas all a big joke.

And I hate to be laughed at. Last thing my father did, before he left for good, was laugh at me for how scrawny I was. Hurt me plenty. So did she. I swung my legs out of the bed, pulled up my breeches, and said, “What else should I expect from a painted whore?”

Right then Chastity came bangin’ on the door. “Time’s up. Another shillin’, son, or be off with you.”

And I reckon Bee must’ve seen I was serious about what I’d said, because right then she grabbed for my arm. I pulled it away, so she grabbed for my shirttail. I shoved it into my breeches, so she grabbed for my leg. I pulled it hard and dragged her out of the bed. When I slammed the door behind me, she was cryin’.

 

 

They say a mad soldier’s a good soldier, and I was good and mad after that. Washington led us back to Wills Creek. Set us to drillin’. And whatever I did, I did hard. And did right.

One day Washington called me to his tent. “I’m making you a sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve shown leadership … of late. ’Tis something we’ll need if we’re asked to retake the Forks.”

“Yes, sir.” I always agreed, even to the stupid things, like tryin’ to retake the Forks … with what little we had.

He said, “I expect a royal commission for my leadership. Your leadership is rewarded in advance.”

Royal commissions didn’t grow on trees. You needed friends in England, and even if you had them, you still had to pay for whatever rank you got. But I didn’t question Washington, not with the friends he had.

He made a wave to dismiss me, then said, “One more thing, Draper. If you ever pass a rum pipe during battle again, I’ll flog you to the backbone.”

 

 

By August, Dinwiddie had come to his senses. Decided only a fool would attack the French with what little force we had, which was just what Washington had been tellin’ him ever since we got back.

But nobody give Washington credit, leastways nobody in power. The British ministers had heard the stories of assassination in a forest glen and flimsy forts on marshy ground, and they’d decided to step to this little gavotte themselves. Too much at stake to be lettin’ boy soldiers make bad decisions in the backwoods.

The Virginia Regiment was broke down, broke into companies, with no better than a captain commandin’ each company. And the only royal commission went to the governor of Maryland. So Washington did what any self-respectin’, headstrong, touchy, arrogant young man should do. He quit.

 

 

C.D.—The British ministers had heard one other story that I am compelled to include.

After his attack on Jumonville, Washington wrote to his brother, “I have heard the bullets whistle, and believe me, there is something charming in the sound.”

These words were reprinted in a British gazette, and even the king was amused, saying, “He would not think so, had he heard many.”

Dr. James Craik:

Upon learning of Washington’s decision to resign, I hurried to his tent, bringing with me my last bottle of Madeira. I poured two glasses and told him of my disappointment.

His voice mixed equal portions of anger and resignation. “If they thought me capable of holding a commission that had neither rank nor emolument, they must have held a very low opinion of me.”

“But the men of the regiment hold you in high esteem,” I said.

“And every half-pay officer bearing the king’s signature now ranks me.”

“But, sir—”

He raised his hand. “Doctor, you know my inclinations are strongly bent to arms. I’ve said as much to Dinwiddie, but I won’t brook a demotion.”

“It might only be temporary, sir.”

“I’ve earned better. At least I know we stood against a superior army. We stood the heat and brunt of the day. I have the thanks of my countrymen for the services I’ve rendered.”

I’ll nae deny it. He could eulogize himself like a professional mourner, particularly when he was young and uncertain.

So I said, “The thanks would be even greater if you stayed.”

“Doctor, my mind’s made up. Now pour me another glass of Madeira.”

’Twas nae the first time that I poured him a dram. Nor would it be the last. But ’twas the first time he had ever disappointed me. Of course, as I saw it later, he was right. He understood the principle of a thing as well as any man I ever met.

Jacob, Mount Vernon Slave:

In all them months that I work for the Mount Vernon overseer, Alice and Narcissa and me, we live together. And I feel like I finely belongs to somethin’, to a real fam’ly, see.

’Course, what I belongs to is the Washin’tons, and when the Mount Vernon overseer don’t need me no more, I’se shipped back to Ferry Farm. I miss my second baby bein’ born. A boy which Alice name Matchuko. Leastways I ain’t killed like po’ Jester.

Then one day, comin’ on to Christmas, Ball-and-Chain call me in. She still the queen bee of Ferry Farm, and she got no plans to leave her partic’lar hive. Now that he’s past twenty-one, the place belong to Massa George, but he ain’t the kind to put his mother out. And if’n he don’t have to, he ain’t the kind to live anywhere near her, neither.

Most of the time, when he be at the Tidewater, he be at Belvoir. Colonel Fairfax still treat him like a son, even if he quit soldierin’. And now that they’s both older, him and George Wil’lum be like brothers. And Miz Sally, she have the sweetest smile … .

So what do Ball-and-Chain want with me? She settin’ by the fireplace, rockin’ in her chair, spittin’ tobacco. Growin’ old done nothin’ to soften her. She still have that strong look. Strong and leathery. She jess say, “Pack yer things.”

And I thinks, They’re sellin’ me. And I thinks, Oh, Lord, don’t let ’em be sellin’ me south, further from my family.

But the news turn out good, even if she take the roundaboutest way to git to it. She say, “You know baby Sarah’s died, don’t you?”

“Yes’m.” I felt awful bad ’bout that. See, po’ Miz Nancy Fairfax, she lose Massa Lawrence, and she lose all her chilluns, too.

“Baby Sarah was Lawrence Washington’s last heir. She would have inherited Mount Vernon.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now that she’s passed and Miz Nancy’s remarried, your master has rented Mount Vernon.” She spit in the fire and it make a little sizzle. “Why he needs another plantation when he has Ferry Farm, I don’t know.”

“Me neither, ma’am.”

She give me a look, to make sure I ain’t bein’ fresh. I’se lyin’ to her, but I ain’t never fresh to her. Then she say, “And why he wants to take a good slave like you away from me I don’t know, either.”

I jess say, “Me neither, ma’am.”

“Leastways, he only wants you. He could’ve taken the lot of you, and left me with no help at all.”

“Well, ma’am,” I say, “Massa George be a good son.” She jess spit in the fireplace agin and say, “Git goin’. Be at Mount Vernon by sundown tomorrow.”

 

 

Comin’ up the road to Mount Vernon, I’se thinkin’ I’se the luckiest slave in Virginny … if there be such a thing.

Mansion house be smaller then. But strange how empty it feel … no furniture in it … no Massa Lawrence or Miz Nancy, no babies, all of ’em dead and buried. No wonder Massa George don’t look too happy when I come in the parlor. He never one to go about smilin’ like a fool, but he look mighty serious that day. He ain’t never lost at nothin’ afore, but he lost at war, and he lost his rank, too.

He say to me, “You heard about Jester?”

I say, “Yassuh. Mighty sad.”

“I need a personal servant. Your nightwalking … I won’t forbid it, but I rise before dawn. I expect my water to be hot and my razor to be sharpened.”

I say, “Over to Belvoir they has the noisiest rooster you ever did hear. He commence to crowin’ soon’s the sky git light.”

He warn me, if it don’t work out, I’ll go to the fields and he’ll find another servant.

I say, “Fair ’nough, suh, fair ’nough.”

That night, when I come walkin’ in the cabin where Alice and my babies live, her eyes pop out of her head. Her first words is “Jake, you ain’t run away again, is you?”

I don’t say nothin’. I jess throw my new livery coat on the table. And little Narcissa come runnin’. We’s a fam’ly agin.

 

 

Come spring, Massa’s mood improve some. I don’t know why. I reckon ’tis jess the comin’ of the light.

And one April afternoon, George Wil’lum and Miz Sally Fairfax come by for tea. She bring some pictures of furniture, things she say Massa George should order for Mount Vernon. He’s standin’ aside her, lookin’ over her shoulder at the pictures, and all the talk’s ’bout Chippendale-this and mahogany-that and yellow damask and red silk.

George Wil’lum git so bored, he go outside and look out at the river.

I brings in some tea, but Massa George don’t even look up. He too busy hangin’ over Sally. He listenin’ hard, and from where he standin’, I guess he have him a fine view down her dress. If I thought I wouldn’t git whupped for doin’ it, I might’ve tooken a peek myself. Fine-lookin’ woman.

Then George Wil’lum come runnin’ in the house, eyes popped wide. “There are ships in the river—transports, carrying troops.”

Massa George look up like Jesus Christ and the twelve apostles be sailin’ past. He grab his spyin’ glass and go runnin’ out to where he see the river through the trees. And he say, “By God, they’ve arrived.”

Miz Sally say, “Who?”

Massa say, “General Braddock and the British army.”

Now, slaves ain’t s’posed to ax questions, but I can’t help it. I say, “What … what this British army plannin’ to do, suh?”

“March to the Forks of the Ohio. Take Fort Duquesne. Do it the proper way.” Massa put the glass to his eye and sweep it up and down the river. “By God, look at those transports—supplies … soldiers … officers … artillery …”

George Wil’lum say, “You should be going with them, George.”

And Massa get this smile on his face. “I wrote to Braddock when he reached Yorktown. I offered him my services, and he has invited me to join his family.”

So there’s the reason he been brightenin’.

“Family?” say Miz Sally. “Are you related?”

“A military term,” he tell her. “The general calls his staff his family. Like we call our plantation people family.”

“You’re going to accept, aren’t you?” say George Wil’lum. “My father would be quite disappointed if you turned down a proper offer.”

Massa George close his spyglass, and the excitement go out of him some. “Until I meet General Braddock and hear his proposal, I can make no decision.”

“But, George,” say Miz Sally, “you know you want to be a soldier.”

He say, “A proper offer.” When it come to what he call his honor, my massa be stubborn as a stump.

 

 

Massa George bring me with him when he go up to Alexandria to meet the general. He want Braddock to see that he be important enough to have a slave followin’ him ’round all day.

Braddock set up at the house of Massa Carlyle, another son-in-law of Colonel Fairfax. Officers keep comin’ and goin’, all buzzin’ ’round, like they’s the flies and Braddock’s the prize bull at Red Coat Farm. He ain’t no big man. But he have a solid look. And he wear a wig so white it make his skin look boiled, like he always mad.

When Massa George come in, Braddock don’t even look up. He ain’t the most mannerly sort, see, and he signin’ the papers his men keep puttin’ in front of him. His quill flutter so fast I reckon it still attached to some bird. Finely he say, “Mr. Washington … I hear you know Indian country.”

“I … I … I do, sir.” Massa George be mighty impressed with what he see around him. This the first time he ever meet a real general, and he put on his best coat and lace trimmin’s, and satin waistcoat, too, and he stand so straight you think he have a ramrod up his ass.

Braddock say, “I hear that you also believe that you are as good as any British officer.”

Massa George swallow. “I … I … believe, sir, that none who achieve rank and respect should be asked to surrender it when they’ve served with honor.”

“Honor … What about patriotism?”

“I believe that without one, sir, we cannot have the other, sir.”

Braddock give a grunt. “Well put. Sit down and tell me what you know about the country we plan to march across.”

And they talk a long while. Massa tell plenty about the lay of the land out where he done his ambushes and took his beatin’.

And you has to say this—Massa have somethin’ about him that make men trust him. After all them years of readin’ the Rules, he know how to seem sure of hisself while seemin’ polite, too, and he have that straight-up look that men like. Why else this mad-faced old general go and offer him a job?

Braddock say he can’t give him no rank. But if Massa George serve as a volunteer, maybe when it’s all over, he git the royal commission he want worse than a drunken field hand want another swaller of rum.

Still, he spend about a week tryin’ to decide what to do. He talk plenty with Colonel Fairfax ’bout whether this be a honorable offer. Then come the April mornin’ he plan to give his answer. He tell me to saddle up his horse.

But ’fore he leave, a carriage pull up. And who be in it but old Ball-and-Chain herself. I don’t recollect she been here in years. She step out and look around … kick at a little pebble in the path … and march up to the door.

I answer it ’fore she git a chance to knock. “Mornin’, Miz Washin’ton.”

She say, “Is my son here?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” I let her in and tell her to please wait in the passage. I like makin’ her wait, see, after all the orderin’ ’round she done to me.

She jess say, “Tell him to hurry.”

In the parlor, Massa George whisper, “My mother? Here? Today?”

I say, “Yassuh.”

He have on his waistcoat. But he don’t let me bring her in till he put on his topcoat, like she some stranger.

“Mother,” he say, “what a surprise.”

You know from his tone it ain’t no good surprise. Jess a surprise. He tell me to fetch tea. I tell Beatrice, the kitchen slave, to do it, so’s I can stay in the passage and listen to what’s goin’ on ’twixt Massa George and his mama.

Well, suh, Ball-and-Chain git right to it. She say, “George, what’s this I hear about you marchin’ off with General Braddock?”

He say, “Word travels.”

“It travels to Ferry Farm.”

“Then you know more than I’ve known myself, at least until this morning. I’m bound for Alexandria today, to confer with the general.”

She plunk herself down in the big chair by the fireplace, plunk herself down like she plannin’ to stay. “A son who goes ridin’ off to Alexandria when his mother come all the way from Fredericksburg ain’t been raised right, I’d say.”

“Would you like tea?” Massa George ax, like he can’t think of nothin’ else to say. “A son who serves his mother tea has been raised right, hasn’t he?”

“What about a son who goes against his mother’s wishes?”

“What wishes?”

“That you don’t go off and get yourself killed.”

“Mother, I have no intention of getting myself killed.”

“Then you are goin’?”

“Serving as volunteer will serve my honor well, and if I serve the general well, a royal commission may follow.”

She give a snort. “Honor … royal commissions. They’re no good if you’re dead. And you come damn near to bein’ dead at the Great Meadows.”

He git up and walk to the windows. He do that sometime when he tryin’ to control hisself, see. He say, “I was serving the colony.”

She get up and stand aside him. She reach out to stroke his hair, but she don’t quite do it. Don’t think I ever see her touch him. She say, “I sure would hate for that chestnut-colored hair to end up hangin’ from some Injun belt.”

George step away. “No Indian’ll scalp me. They call me Caunotaucarius, the Town-Taker. They fear me.”

“They’re savages … George, if you’re killed, who’ll manage Ferry Farm? Or Mount Vernon? You’re too valuable to your family to be endangerin’ yourself.”

’Twas the same ol’ story. Like when he want to go to sea. Who gonna take care of the spread? Who gonna take care of the family? Who gonna take care of her? She only got fifteen slaves to do the job. Reckon that ain’t enough.

Massa George say, “I’m taking this offer. I may never have a chance to enhance my reputation at arms again.”

She say, “What about your reputation as a son?”

They go back and forth an hour or more. Massa George keep lookin’ at the clock, jess dyin’ to git to Alexandria. But she keep gnawin’ at him, like a pig on a corncob, till finely he quit arguin’. Then she start axin’ when she gittin’ a tour of the spread, ’cause, like she say, Lawrence never invite her in the whole time he live there … and, oh, yeah, she want to know what’s for supper.

Massa George know he can’t go ridin’ off when his mama come to visit, or there be hell to pay. So he write a note to General Braddock, sayin’ he sorry for missin’ the meetin’ and sayin’ he’ll serve, if the offer still stands. I know, ’cause he tell me tha’s what’s in the note, and he want a fast rider to git the note to Braddock right away.

’Bout four hours later, jess ’fore Massa and his mama set down to supper, the rider come back with a letter from the general.

Massa George tear it open, and I can see by the smile on his face, the general say yes. So Massa eat a nice dinner with his mama and don’t tell her none of it. Far as she know, he stayin’ home, jess like she tell him to.

 

 

Yassuh, he have him some woman troubles in them days. Have ’em with that hard-shelled old crab of mama, and with Miz Sally, too.

Jess ’fore he leave with Braddock, he ride over to Belvoir to see her.

My Alice, she a house slave, and she keep her feather duster whooshin’ while she listen. Massa George and Miz Sally set on the veranda, talkin’ soft.

Miz Sally say, “A pleasant surprise, George. I’m sorry George William’s not here.”

“So am I. But I’ve come to see you. To tell you of my intent.”

“Intent? Intent to what?” Miz Sally sound surprised.

And he stammer some: “To … to engage your correspondence. I would like to write to you while I’m in the field.”

Miz Sally giggle some, which Alice say she done when she tryin’ to make a man rise to her bait. “Why, George, what’ll General Braddock think if he hears you’re writin’ to a married woman?”

He say, “Corresponding with friends is the greatest satisfaction I can expect to enjoy on this campaign.”

“Oh, George, you do go on so in the presence of a lady. Drivin’ the French from Fort Duquesne would be the greatest pleasure any man could enjoy … especially a man so soundly beaten by them so recently.”

He act like he don’t even feel that little tweak. He jess say, “Please write.”

“Well … maybe just one letter … or two.” She make her voice sound all singsongy and sweet—another a little trick of hers when she playin’ with a man.

But he actin’ serious as a overseer findin’ mealy bugs on the tobacco leaf. He say, “None of my friends are able to convey to me more delight than you can.”

“Oh, George …”

“Please write. And please give my compliments to Miss Hannah, Miss Dent, and any others you think worthy of my inquiries.”

Well, Alice say what Miz Sally say: Massa do go on in the presence of a lady. She reckon he’s sweet on Miz Sally, which ain’t too good, on account of her bein’ married and all. She think that deep inside, my massa jess a lonely man, rattlin’ ’round his big house, wishin’ he have somebody who love him. Tha’s why he want Miz Sally to ’member him to all them other women, see, in case one of them want some courtin’ from one of General Braddock’s aides.

Now, Massa George decide to take a white servant with him on the march. Don’t ax me why. I jess see it as a blessin’, ’cause I gits to sleep later. His brother Jack, who come to run the plantation, he don’t git up so early or make me work near so hard. And tha’s jess the way I like it.

Hesperus Draper:

Well, let me tell you about the great British army as I witnessed it in the spring of 1755.

Take ignorant bog hoppers and tavern dregs, dress ’em up in red uniforms and white breeches. Then flog ’em. Flog ’em till they can’t have a thought without you thinkin’ it for ’em. Flog ’em till they fear you more than they could ever fear the enemy. Flog ’em if they make a face. Flog ’em if they drink. And flog ’em if they gamble. Flog ’em if they’re late from the whorehouse, too.

Hang ’em if they desert. Shoot ’em if they run. And drill ’em till their dicks fall off. Drill ’em to fire as one and charge as one and march into a wall of cannonballs and hellfire any time you tell ’em to. Then set ’em on the road with their drums thrummin’ and their fifes tootlin’ and their red coats lookin’ like fresh blood. Then they’ll strike fear into anyone, and like as not, fear’ll win the fight.

And don’t forget the officers. All with bought commissions. Most with contempt for the poor flogged, ignorant fools they’re commandin’. Some good men. Some silly twits. And all of ’em think they know more than you, just ’cause they’re from England and you’re not, even if they’re crossin’ a wilderness where you’ve spent years and they’ve never been before.

And they have women taggin’ along too—washerwomen and hospital servants at sixpence a day. And some of the men march with their wives and mistresses, and some of the wives get to be mothers for whole companies of men, and some of the mistresses get to be somethin’ else. The women go with the baggage trains by day and sleep with their soldiers at night, and the soldiers that get slept with, at least, they’re happy on the march.

We got our first look at this great British army in early May.

My company’d been out at Wills Creek buildin’ Fort Cumberland. ’Twas a monstrous thing, that fort. Big rectangle of logs, ten feet high, four hundred feet long, two hundred wide. Set up on a hill. Woods cleared well back on all sides. Even had a trench runnin’ from the fort down to the creek, so we’d have water if we was attacked. But who would attack us, with the strength we had now?

The Forty-fourth Regiment of Foot come up first, followed a few days later by the Forty-eighth, all of ’em marchin’ to “The British Grenadiers,” and “Lillibullero,” bayonets glitterin’, flags flutterin’, ground thuddin’ under hundreds of feet.

Braddock came in a chariot—the four-wheeled kind—with his officers canterin’ alongside. And damn my eyes but who should one of those officers be, dressed in the new blue-and-red uniform of the Virginia Regiment, but the boy soldier himself? There’d been talk of him joinin’ the general’s family, but I was only half-expectin’ to see him. Hadn’t learned yet about his luck. In the fall, he’d gone home like a young girl insulted at a tea party, and here he was back and bold.

The commander of the Forty-fourth, Sir Peter Halkett, ordered a seventeen-gun salute. Cannon banged. Big smoke rings rolled down the creek and disappeared into the trees. And out of that chariot stepped a short, heavy, droopin’ man with a scowl that could bend the tines on a pitchfork.

We all come to attention, Virginians and the king’s troops, both, while Braddock’s officers dismounted around him.

Halkett said, “Did you have a pleasant journey, sir?”

“No,” Braddock said. “There’s no describin’ the badness of the roads.”

Sir John St. Clair, an aide, looked around and announced, “Just as I said, General. A ridiculous place to build a fort. It covers no country, nor do we have communication open behind, either by land or by sea.”

“What’s behind us doesn’t matter.” Braddock snorted like he had some snuff caught in his nose that he couldn’t sneeze out. “We’re pushing ahead, once we get the wagons and livestock to do it. Any sign of them?”

“They haven’t arrived yet, sir,” said Halkett.

“Bloody country. Bloody provincials. Bloody ministers who sent us here.”

I don’t believe the common soldiers were supposed to hear this. Or maybe ’twas assumed we wouldn’t listen. But Braddock seemed like a bad-tempered son of a bitch. This made him a man after my own heart.

Followin’ him, however, was a man not after anything, it seemed to me, but reputation, recognition, and a British commission. What I wanted to know was how in hell the boy soldier had managed to kiss Braddock’s ass … and how I could do the same thing.

Washington looked at me as he passed. “I hope you’re avoiding the rum.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said I, “avoidin’ the rum and loose women, too.”

If I couldn’t kiss the general’s ass, I’d kiss the ass of him who had.

 

 

Now, once the Forty-eighth come in, there was twenty-four hundred men campin’ around that stockade. Women, too. And about fifty Injuns with their families. Even though we dug new necessaries every other day, that’s a lot of shit to get rid of, and just ’cause we dug the necessaries downstream, that didn’t mean downwind.

One day I made my visit, held my nose, did my business, moved off right quick. Comin’ back up, ’twas only natural to sneak a peek at the women’s pit. ’Twas surrounded by pine boughs for privacy, but damn if I didn’t see a fine red-feathered hat stickin’ up. And sure enough, there was Bee Mensing, comin’ out, straightenin’ her skirt.

I decided to follow her.

The tents were all pitched in long straight lines that ran up the hill, like spokes on a wheel, with the fort at the hub. For a woman, goin’ by them tents was like runnin’ an Iroquois gauntlet. Boys called out, hooted at her like loons. But Bee kept her eyes straight ahead. No laughin’, no banterin’ … as if she belonged to somebody and didn’t need customers.

Then a red-faced Irish corporal come past her and give her a slap on the ass, a big thwack, and he shouted, “There’s the sound I likes to hear. A wench with no corset … flesh as firm as a horse’s flank. Music to me ears, it is.”

And without a word, Bee Mensing pulled a sock from her skirt—a sock loaded with bird shot. Skulled that big redcoat right in front of all his mates. Set him down like a drunk with straw legs.

Then she marched on, but she only went a few steps ’fore that Irish mountain was fallin’ right on her, grabbin’ her by the arm … twistin’ her … screamin’ that no one strikes a soldier of the king. So she swung the sock again. Swung it with one hand while tryin’ to hold on to her red-feathered hat with the other. Swung the sock so hard all the darnin’ come out of it and the bird shot went flyin’. Sock went as limp as an old man’s prick, and all the other soldiers roared.

Don’t forget, soldierin’s damn borin’ business, and here was some entertainment.

That big corporal had a look on his face … I swear, if I was a woman, it would’ve made me hate men forever. His teeth were drawn back, eyes all lidded down like a snake’s, features all sharp … a look of hate and lust that made you think he might take a bite out of her.

That’s when I decided to step in. The Irishman was twice my size. So I give him a boot right in the balls. Followed that with both fists doubled up and swung like an ax. Chopped him right down. But he popped right back up. One tough Irish tree. I chopped him again, right in the nose, but he kept comin’ and caught me by the throat.

So I grabbed a piece of his cheek and tried to gouge at his eye.

He roared and shook his head like a big bull. I kicked at his balls, and he roared again and squeezed his hand harder around my throat.

That was when I saw two blue sleeves reachin’ into the little space between us. And two strong arms pushin’ us apart.

Now, that corporal had me so tight I couldn’t have pried his hand loose with an iron bar, but the strength in the arms inside them blue sleeves was somethin’ amazin’. I don’t think the Irishman knew who was wearin’ the blue coat that the sleeves was attached to: the only Virginian on the general’s staff, with arms like a pair of ax handles, long and thin and strong as hickory wood.

’Twas Washington, shoutin’, “Stand down!”

And I done it, right quick. But the Irishman kept pokin’ at me. There was a mistake. Washington’s face went red, and them little pockmarks went purple. He turned both arms on that Irishman, grabbed him by his red coat, and lifted him, absolutely lifted him, right off the ground.

While the Irishman was still in the air, Washington got these strangled words out: “I said, ‘Stand down.’” Then he didn’t so much drop him as throw him, right onto his ass.

Twitched his hands at his waistcoat, ran ’em down both sleeves, straightened himself, and said, “I should have you both flogged.” Then he dug those small eyes into me and asked the meanin’ of this.

I tilted my head toward Bee, still standin’ there in her dirty skirt and fine red-feathered hat. “She’s my sister.”

“Sister?” said the Irish redcoat. “Sister?”

Washington looked at me like I was tryin’ to sell him a lame horse. Maybe he knew I didn’t have a sister. Maybe not.

Then Bee picked up the lie. “My brother didn’t know that Corporal Kenney’s an old friend. Corporal give me a small gesture of … of friendship, which my brother thought were somethin’ else.”

“I … I misinterpreted it, sir,” I said.

Kenney flicked his eyes and give me a little nod, as if to thank me.

“’Twas a disagreement over a misunderstandin’,” I went on.

“Aren’t all disagreements that?” said Washington.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” said Kenney. “Now that it’s cleared up.”

Washington was not the most merciful of men. He could use the lash better than most. But that day he just said, “If this happens again, you’ll all be flogged, all three.” Then he stalked off.

I looked at the Irishman and, before any harsh words could be muttered, offered my hand and an apology for kickin’ him.

Fortunately for me, Corporal James Kenney was not the vengeful sort. And he was gullible. “I’m sorry for slappin’ your sister in the arse.”

Hands were shaken. And then ’twas time for private explanations, which I didn’t get till I escorted Bee down to a big tent near the creek, where a dozen women was workin’ over washtubs, under the eye of a big, heavy old harridan with a craggy face and scraggly hair.

As soon as she saw me, this woman said, “No favors, son. ’Less you’ve brung somethin’ to be washed for pay, be on your way.”

By the sound of the voice and the refrain of money in her talk—and only by those—did I recognize old Chastity Dibble, takin’ on another job for the troops.

“He’s my brother,” said Bee.

“Your brother?” Chastity eyed me as if it was no more likely that I was her sister. Then she picked up two buckets and shoved them into my hands. “If you’re this girl’s brother, help her do some work.”

And together, Bee and I went down to fetch water.

When we were alone I asked, “Why are you wearin’ the hat?”

“So nobody’ll steal it.” Then she tugged on a little cord around her neck and pulled a purse from out of her shirt. “They’d steal this, too, if they could. All the girls wear their goods on their bodies. Nobody trusts nobody.”

By the time we reached the creek, I’d learned that Chastity’d gotten her girls attached to the army as general help. So long as they were subtle about it, they could offer their more personal services, too.

“How are you making your money?” I asked.

“Sixpence a day washin’ clothes. Better than makin’ money on my back.”

“You shouldn’t be wearin’ that hat, then. It announces you.”

“It got your eye … . That’s why I come out here.”

And I felt better than I had in a long time.

Jacob, Mount Vernon Slave:

Bad drought that spring. By the end of May, things brownin’ off, livestock gittin’ weak, and one damn hot summer layin’ ahead. Then Massa George come ridin’ back, with a big dust cloud followin’ his horse up the road. First thing I thinks, he’s up and quit again.

But he jump off the horse and say, “Jacob, I need another mount. I’ve broken down three horses between here and Fort Cumberland.”

“I don’t know where you’ll git a mount, Massa. Men from the army been takin’ horses and wagons and shippin’ ’em to General Braddock all month. Even took Massa Fairfax’s best team and his slave Simpson to drive it.”

“General Braddock needs wagons and teams. And I need to get to Williamsburg on the general’s business.”

That make me feel better, knowin’ he ain’t quit the army again. Braddock trust him enough, he send him to Wil’lumsburg to get cash money for to pay the troops. But Massa need a horse. Hard to believe they ain’t no good ridin’ horses to borrow or buy on the Tidewater.

’Course, they’s quicker ways to git to Wil’lumsburg from Fort Cumberland, so I reckon he want to see how his brother runnin’ the plantation, and I know he want to do a little visitin’, too.

Him and his brother Jack go to Belvoir for dinner that night. Colonel Fairfax been called away to Wil’lumsburg. So it’s jess George and George Wil’lum and Jack and, ’course, Miz Sally.

My Alice serve that night. I stand by the door. And George Wil’lum go on and on ’bout how they come and take one of his teams.

Massa George say, “We must help Braddock. He’s already formed a low opinion of what he calls the provincials, lost all patience with us because of the frequent breaches of contract he’s encountered among our people in the backwoods. Instead of blaming the individuals who fail him, he sees the whole country as void of honor. He and I have had our disputes on this matter.”

Miz Sally’s eyes go wide. “You argue with General Braddock?”

Massa George lean back a bit in his chair and sound kind of proud, almost cocky. “Our talks are quite heated on both sides. I’ll tell you honestly, the general is incapable of arguing without temper. And he never gives up any point.”

“So,” say George Wil’lum, “what about my team and slave?”

And Massa George, he get a little temper of his own. He say, “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“We can see that,” say Sally, smoothin’ things some. “Bein’ General Braddock’s aide must be a heavy responsibility.”

“Heavy indeed. But I have a good opportunity of forming acquaintances who may be helpful if I choose to push my fortune in the military way.”

George Wil’lum give a laugh—a hoot is how Alice put it. He know what we all know: that Massa George want to be a British officer with a commission from the king. He want that more ’n anything.

But he don’t like to be hooted at. He jess give his friend one of them looks, and George Wil’lum, he change his hoot to a cough, to cover it up. And I feel a passin’ right there. George Wil’lum always been on top, always called Mister Fairfax, but now Massa George be the one settin’ the tone of the table talk. Him … or Miz Sally.

She say, “We’re all proud of you, George.”

“I would be warmed if you spoke of your pride in a letter.” Then he look at George Wil’lum, and he git friendly agin, like he tryin’ to smooth a little bump in the road. “She promised to send me a letter.”

George Wil’lum say, “I don’t recall that she’s written to me more than a dozen times in seven years of marriage.”

And Miz Sally give a giggle. “Now, you two, stop goin’ on. There’s more important things to be worried about than how regular I write letters. How, for example, is George going to get to Williamsburg, so he can get the money to bring back to General Braddock, so that the general’s troops don’t mutiny and the locals don’t stop sellin’ him food.”

“We need to find him a horse,” say George Wil’lum.

And after this long pause, Miz Sally bring her napkin to her mouth, dab a bit, and say, “There is a horse that I can think of.”

George Wil’lum say, “You’re not talking about Black Pepper, are you?”

Miz Sally bat her eyes at her husband, then bat ’em at Massa George. Alice say that gal have the battin’est eyes in Virginny. “I should be a very poor neighbor were I to deny him help. George, you may take my horse. She’s the sweetest filly on the Tidewater.”

“Well, there you have it,” George Wil’lum slap the table. “Braddock may complain about the provincials, but he can’t say the Fairfaxes aren’t patriots.”

Massa George don’t even look at George Wil’lum. He have his eyes on Miz Sally, and he give her this smile, like a sweet candy meltin’ in his mouth. “One more thing for which I’ll be forever indebted to the Fairfaxes.”

She say, “I’m happy to do it, but I must be informed of your safe arrival back at Fort Cumberland, along with the charge that I entrust to your care.”

“I shall write to you as soon as I get there.”

Miz Sally say, “Include a message to me when you write to Miss Hannah Fairfax or to your brother. That would be better.”

Massa Jack say, “Oh, yes. I’d be glad to bring a message over.”

But Massa George’s smile crack like a piece of glass and fall off. “Are you forbidding my correspondence?”

She flutter her hands and say, “Oh, George, save your time for more important things than writing to me.”

Massa George seem a little sad after that, but I declare, Miz Sally know how to play men like they’s harps.

Hesperus Draper:

They say an army marches on its stomach. It also marches on a pocketbook, and once Washington come back with hard money, we got ready to move.

But before we did, the British drillmasters tried to turn Virginia troops into a parade-ground army. Considerin’ that our best skill was in woodland fightin’, I thought the whole exercise was a waste of talent, like tryin’ to turn deer into packhorses.

One day, while we were drillin’, Braddock come out to watch us stumble through our paces.

And right in front of us, his aide, Robert Orme, said, “I’m sorry for you to see this, sir. These Virginians are languid, spiritless, and unsoldierlike in appearance. Add to that the lowness and ignorance of most of their officers, and I have little hope of their future good behavior.”

Right in front of us. They were an arrogant bunch. But before it was over, they’d change their tune.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

Our Mingo band had become like children. We followed the white traders wherever they set up their posts. We gave good pelts for trinkets, better pelts for liquor. I did not see it, but it was the beginning of our end.

The British wanted us to scout, to be their eyes in the forest. So they called us to their camp. I did not want to go, but Bright Leaf said that the British were now more powerful than the French, so I should go, for the good of us all.

The Shawnee chief Monacatootha was there. He was a friend of Tanacharison, and so he was my friend, too.

But Tanacharison had been like a wind, one day blowing hard, the next day a wisp of breeze, the next day a gale, and the day after that, nothing at all. Monacatootha was like a tree. Whatever wind blew, he only bent a bit. He was a faithful friend of the British, even when Braddock told him the Indians would take orders, not give advice. Monacatootha asked me to march with him because I knew the British hearts better than most.

I told him, “You are a Shawnee. I am a Mingo. The Shawnees are going to the French. Most of the Mingoes are going home. Besides, I do not like this Braddock. I like him less than Caunotaucarius.”

Monacatootha wore tattoos: a tomahawk on his chest, bows and arrows on his cheek. They were good marks. He said, “Braddock is a bad man. He treats us like dogs and will not listen. But the French are no better.”

It was true. Braddock did treat us like dogs. But he and the French were dogs too, bigger dogs. And they were fighting over our country. So, like all small dogs, we had to choose the pack we thought would win.

Hesperus Draper:

I was with Bee Mensing the night before we marched. Was with her down by the river, against a tree. Didn’t have much time. She raised her skirts. I heard a mournin’ dove cooin’. It only cooed four or five times and I was done. But I was young and in a hurry.

’Twas a warm dark night. No moon. Air so thick you could drink it. Told Bee, “The memory of this will get me all the way to Fort Duquesne.”

And she whispered, “I’m goin’ with you.”

“On the march?”

And her smile just sparkled in the dark. “There’s wives marchin’, and the officers, they said they need a washerwoman. Washington spoke up for me. Said I had a brother in the company, to watch out for my honor.”

 

 

Next mornin’, I was goin’ with my company to our place in the line. Washington was standin’ in front of Braddock’s marquee.

We weren’t yet in formation, so I said, “I thank you, sir. Sister thanks you, too. She knows there’s good money to be made washin’ officers’ shirts.”

“The brighter the shirts,” said Washington, “the brighter the reputation.”

I don’t know if he put a little extra meanin’ in those words. He wasn’t the kind to mean more than one thing at a time. I think he just liked how she washed his shirts.

That day the tents come down, the drums beat, the fifes tootled, and Braddock’s army stepped off. ’Twas all grand and glorious. Some of us had been given uniforms by then, new blue uniforms of the Virginia troops. Looked like blue sugar sprinkles in a long, twistin’ red pastry.

Dr. James Craik:

The bloody flux began shortly after we left Fort Cumberland. Twelve days later it infected almost every company.

It first presents with a feverish headache. Then it moves to the nether regions, and there be neither necessary, shit pit, nor hole in the ground close enough for the afflicted. Betimes they pass their blood and guts away and die. But usually they survive, weak and wobbly, more like babes than men.

On the thirteenth day of the march, Washington appeared at my tent. He was flushed with fever and had already made his first run to the pit. He was even sicker the next morning, but when General Braddock sent for him, he went, sickness or not. Afterward he related to me the following dialogue:

Braddock began by saying, “Washington, you look terrible.”

Washington answered, “I’m at your service, sir.”

“Good. Because I need your advice.”

I imagine that Washington puffed up like a peacock. Any of us would have.

Braddock said, “We’ve barely made two miles a day from advance to rear guard. Our maps show that it only gets worse from here. What do you say?”

“I would say the maps are right, sir.”

“What about reports of French reinforcements descending from Canada?”

“The present drought is our ally. The rivers north of Duquesne are much susceptible to it. The French canoes will be badly hampered until it rains.”

“You would urge all possible speed, then?”

“I would suggest that we pick a detachment of light infantry equipped with only a few artillery pieces and supplies for thirty days. Let them press ahead, and leave the main baggage train to move at their own pace.”

Washington told me, as proudly as the young nephew whose uncle has taken him into the family business, that Braddock took his advice. “A wise man always listens to advice.”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that he took mine, too. I told him you’re nae in condition to march.”

Washington staggered, leaned against a tent pole, and almost collapsed. “Craik, how could you?”

“You haven’t the strength to push on.”

“But, Craik, this is the chance of—” Just then his body was racked by cramps and he went running off.

But Braddock sent him a note, promising that Washington would be brought to the front before the fort was finally reduced. He also suggested a dose of Dr. James’s Powder for the young patient.

I had found this to be a fine medicine—a phosphate of lime and oxide of antimony known to drop a fever and restore a man to health—and I gladly prescribed it.

Generals dinna ordinarily worry about the health of their aides. Generals dinna ordinarily divide their command in enemy territory on the advice of an aide. It was plain that Braddock held a high opinion of young Washington.

Hesperus Draper:

Our company was one of the units movin’ ahead. Glad of that. Nobody wanted to be draggin’ along with the supply train.

On the day we left, Washington came out of the surgeon’s tent to watch us, lookin’ as pale as the canvas.

“Don’t think we’ll be seein’ him no more,” said Eli Stitch, clompin’ along beside me, as usual. “Wouldn’t mind gettin’ a touch of the flux myself.”

“You don’t want the flux,” I said. “You want to be there when we take Duquesne. If you ain’t, it could cost you acres when they give out the land.”

He said, “I told you, I’m sellin’ my land to you.”

“All the more reason to get as many acres as you can.”

I remember lookin’ back, just ’fore we ’rounded the bend. Washington was still standin’ there, watchin’ us through the dust, like a little boy watchin’ his pa leave home. Then he doubled over and went runnin’ off.

But he wasn’t my worry, because Bee and her fine red-feathered hat were bouncin’ along in one of our supply wagons. Eight women were movin’ out with the advance unit. The officers really liked how Bee done their shirts.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

They made their army smaller to move it faster. But still they took ten wagons, and still they stopped to build bridges over small streams and cut trees and level small hills. They would not swim in our great lake of trees. Instead, they tried to smooth its waves. But only the Great Spirit can do that.

We marched past the Great Meadows. The burned circle of Fort Necessity and the bleached bones of dead soldiers lay there together.

Soon some of the fish in this lake became bold. They were Ottawa fish, and Huron, some Delaware and Mingo, too. They killed and scalped drivers who hunted horses that strayed in the night. They captured Monacatootha and tied him to a tree. They would have killed him, but one who captured him was of his tribe. So they asked him if it was true that many British were coming with cannon to take the fort. He said it was. So they went running back to tell the French.

I do not think that Braddock cared. He did not think he could be defeated.

We Indians were the eyes of the army. We moved ahead. We camped without fires and slept in trees. One night I was in a tree. I heard the sound of two people coming through the woods below me, coming from the camp.

There was a good moon. I saw the woman’s red-feathered hat and the man’s blue uniform. They looked around like they were stealing something. They had come outside of the picket line to do their fucking. They were very stupid. We were under twenty miles from Duquesne. We were too close to the enemy for men to be fucking women outside the picket lines.

But they slipped into the bushes. Soon the bushes were shaking. An ass was going up and down like the head of a white bird pecking for food in the moonlight. The man made grunts. The woman made little squeaks, not like an Iroquois woman, who squalls like a cat and lets her man know she likes what he does.

I thought of my woman. And I thought that it was good she was far away, with the other squaws, because there were two Hurons creeping through the woods.

Hesperus Draper:

We weren’t supposed to be sneakin’ off through the picket lines, considerin’ all the lads who’d been scalped. But a man ain’t supposed to make the two-backed beast with his own sister, neither. So I needed some privacy, ’cause I wanted Bee somethin’ terrible.

And that was how I damn near got her. Right in the middle of my fun, I caught sight of a pair of moccasins. I jumped up with my breeches ’round my ankles and my dick … well … A tomahawk hit me off the side of the head and I stumbled on the breeches.

Nothin’ makes a Injun look better than gettin’ to the enemy’s women. And I had delivered Bee right into their hands. One Huron grabbed her. The other came to finish me. What a way to die, with your breeches down and your dick still wet, and some savage draggin’ your woman off.

But like an angel with a tomahawk, a Mingo dropped from the trees, straight down, straight into the middle of us. You never saw two Injuns more surprised than them Hurons, so surprised that he brained them both in a single motion. Down and thunk, then up and splat. Those Huron heads sounded like melons.

Now, this Mingo could’ve asked for a bit of what I was gettin’. Could’ve just taken it, considerin’ that I was unarmed, groggy, and bare-assed. He knew I was lookin’ at a thousand lashes for sneakin’ out of camp, a thousand more to be doin’ what I was doin … especially with my … sister.

I remembered him from Fort Necessity. I said his name—Silverheels—and shook his hand and hoped he remembered me.

But his eyes were on Bee. And she showed how smart she was. She took that fine red-feathered hat off her head and plucked a feather out of it, and by God, that satisfied him just fine … . Oh, and he scalped the two dead Hurons, too.

Dr. James Craik:

We were confident on the march. Our scouts had gone as far as Fort Duquesne itself. They counted only three hundred French. There was no doubt that within days we would avenge our defeat at Fort Necessity.

My only regret was that Washington had nae joined us. But when the chance for glory and honor presented itself, so did he. His wagon thumped into camp the night before our final advance, and he came to the physician’s tent looking unsteady and skinny, weak and well worn, from his fluxing and from the bone-jarring wagon ride he had taken to catch up with us.

I said, “I dinna expect to see you, George.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for five hundred pounds.” His eyes flickered with excitement, but I was a physician. It was my job to see more in his gaze than the hot reflection of a campfire flame. In truth, beneath the excitement, he looked as weak as second-brewed tea. So I asked him, “Do you think you can sit a horse tomorrow? Ride up and down the column delivering the general’s orders? Do the job of an aide-de-camp?”

“With a bit of help … yes.”

“Help? How can someone help you to sit a horse?”

Hesperus Draper:

The son of a bitch made it. That’s what I thought when I saw him that night. Couldn’t miss a chance for glory, even if he was half dead.

Strange thing was, when I seen him, he was tyin’ a pillow onto his saddle.

I said, “Welcome to the advance column, sir.”

“Good to be here, Draper.”

“Tomorrow’s a day we’ll tell our grandchildren about.” I could make idle chitchat with the best of ’em.

Just then Craik come out of his tent carryin’ two more pillows. I asked what they were doin’. Washington told me to be about my business. Fact was, they were paddin’ Washington’s saddle so he could take the jarrin’ of horseback. He was that weak. That sore from the bloody flux. That stubborn, too.

I didn’t much care ’bout him, though. I was lookin’ for Bee. Found her doin’ what she done best—makin’ money, stirrin’ a pot for a bunch of soldiers. They were payin’ her to make squirrel stew. Famous for her stew, she was. Made it with fresh-killed squirrel and whatever she found in the woods—dandelions, Jerusalem artichokes, oniongrass, wild thyme, bay leaves—and, by damn, ’twas delicious.

She give me a big smile that lit up in the firelight. “Have a seat, brother, and listen to our boys tell about the Injuns.”

“Yes, brother.” Eli Stitch pointed to a grizzled old teamster in buckskins. “This here’s Heman Dillaway. He’s tellin’ the lads what the Injuns’ll do to them if they catch ’em.”

There were half a dozen from the companies we were marchin’ with. There was that big Irish redcoat Jamie Kenney and some of his friends, and every one of them was slack-jawed at what they were hearin’.

“Yes, sir,” old Dillaway was sayin’, “if the Injuns takes you alive, you’ll be wishin’ you was dead afore long. They’ll strip you. Then they’ll skin you. Then, if you’re lucky, they’ll tie you to a stake and burn you to a crisp. If you ain’t so lucky, they’ll give you to their women, who’ll cut off your balls, then …”

Those soldiers were like little kids who wanted to hear a story over and over, just for the bloody parts. And right in the middle of it, a real Injun walked into camp, that Silverheels, wearin’ the red feather in his hair.

Jamie Kenney grabbed his musket, like he was expectin’ to git skinned alive and lose his balls right then.

I jumped in front of Silverheels. “He’s a friendly one, James.”

“Friendly?” said Jamie, settlin’ down some. “So what’s he want?”

The Injun made a motion to his stomach and said, “Hungry.”

“So let him eat with his own kind,” said Kenney. “Bloody savages.”

But Bee flashed them beautiful white teeth and give Silverheels a mug of stew. She’d made a friend for life. ’Twas good to know some of the good Injuns. Made the bad ones seem less like devils.

Later, in the shadows of the washerwomen’s tent, Bee give me a kiss and said it, said it for the first time: “I love you, Hess Draper.”

“I love you, darlin’,” I said, and I wasn’t lyin’. “When this is over, we’ll build us a fine home right here near the Forks, on the bounty land.”

Then, like she’d been thinkin’ on it a long time, she reached into her shirt and pulled out her purse, with all the coins she’d made on the whole march. She put it into my hand and said, “Take care of this … for us.”

And I give her somethin’—a pistol. To take care of herself.

 

 

All the next mornin’ the main body marched through those dark woods, which was not too wet in the drought year of 1755. Then, about midmornin’, a cheer come runnin’ along the column. The van, a company of light horse, had come to the Monongahela River crossin’, and our company of engineers was finishin’ the grade on the far bank. We were almost there.

Soldiers started slappin’ each other on the back, throwin’ their arms ’round each other, and cheerin’. For all the bloody stories from the teamsters, here we were, not five miles from Duquesne, without a breath of an Injun around and the one place where we’d be vulnerable—the river crossin’—now firmly in our hands.

Braddock held the main body on the bank until the engineers finished the grade. Then he said somethin’ to Washington, who come gallopin’ along the ranks, ridin’ his pillows, bringin’ the general’s orders. The band struck up the grenadiers’ march, the regimental colors come out of their cases, columns formed up, and into the river we went.

Us Virginia boys was marchin’ near the rear, marchin’ with Sir Peter Halkett’s regular unit. From where we were, we could see down the whole line of wagons, and ridin’ in the sixth, wearin’ her fine red-feathered hat, minus a feather, was my Bee. Thought, How excitin’ all this must’ve been for her. How many women ever seen anything like this? Hell, how many men?

I was caught up in the show of war. ’Twas like I’d never heard of Fort Necessity, never been there, never poured rum onto the cold dead lips of Henry Dundee. Didn’t even notice how wet my feet got marchin’ across that river.

Dr. James Craik:

The surgeon’s wagon was third in the line. So from where I was sitting, I could keep a sharp eye on Washington.

He dinna sit his horse with the usual confidence. And betimes he doubled up on the pommel as if he had nae the strength to stay in the saddle. But they were small waves of weakness washing over him, for he would always straighten up after a time and get on with his business.

And what glorious business it was—music playing, sun glittering off musket barrels and flagstaff finials, feet tramping, wagons rumbling through the shallow water. In jig time we were across and up the embankment. The land rose, and we moved away from the river, in under a fine, high hardwood canopy. As the underbrush was light, our engineers had little difficulty in making way. Now and again, above the music, we might hear the sound of a trunk cracking as a tree was felled, but in the main ’twas easy going.

With the summer leaves fluttering above and the coolness of their shading a most welcome sensation, I could feel a new sense of purpose in the men all around me. Braddock had put out proper flanking parties and sent scouts ahead, but we were firm in the conviction that at the riverbank the French had missed their best chance to strike.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

The forest is a silent place.

The white man does not know this. He will say that there are birds singing … breezes blowing … the rush of a river over rocks. But the heart of the forest is silence. Seek the silence with your ears, and other sounds will go. Then the breaking of a twig will echo like a gunshot. The fall of a moccasin on the forest floor will be like the fall of a tree.

But on that day I could not find the silence. I could not hear the hundreds of moccasins moving through the trees before me. I could hear only the stupid tramping of British boots and silly flutes playing silly music. And so, like a white man, I was amazed to see a huge party of enemies—eight or nine hundred—appear in the woods ahead. There were French and Ottawas and Hurons, too. I even saw some Mingoes who had joined the French.

Before they saw me, I turned and ran toward our column. The first officer I came to was marking trees to chop down. I tried to speak. But a white scout came running in, shouting, “The Indians are upon us. The Indians are upon us.”

That is how the white men always thought in a fight. It was Indians upon them. Not Hurons. Not Ottawas. Not enemies. Just Indians.

The officer fired a warning shot. Then he turned and ran, shouting it again: the Indians were upon them.

I thought the next few minutes would be a bad time to be an Indian.

The soldiers from the advance guard ran forward. They were grenadiers. They wore tall hats that looked heavy and hot. Some said the hats made the soldiers look bigger. I thought the hats made them look stupid.

The French and Hurons and Ottawas came running from the other direction. But the sight of red coats made them stop fast, like galloping horses digging in their hooves.

The British captain was shouting, “Make ready!” And the grenadiers were forming their lines. Only white men try to make straight lines in a crooked forest. The French captain was shouting and pointing. The Hurons and Ottawas were running right and left, around the ends of the straight lines.

I dropped to my belly. I tried to make myself a snake and slither away.

Hesperus Draper:

The rear guard had just come up from the riverbank. Meant the whole column was across. Must have been about one o’clock. Sun was dapplin’ down. Trail dust wasn’t too thick. We’d slaked our thirst in the river. Everything was goin’ fine.

Then we heard a shot up near the head of the column. A minute or two later we heard a volley and ragged fire answerin’ it. We was stretched out for near a mile, don’t forget, so the firin’ sounded puny, and the echoes were swallowed up in the trees. Didn’t think ’twas much. Still and all, ’twas enough to stop the column.

Bee give a look back toward me, and I give her a grin so she wouldn’t worry, ’cause I wasn’t. Not yet anyway.

We stood there waitin’ for orders, listenin’ hard. Then we heard another volley. And the answerin’ fire got more general. And mixin’ with the fire was the sound of somethin’ worse—that blood-freezin’ war whoop … Injuns out for scalps.

Now I was worried.

Dr. James Craik:

Washington’s back stiffened at the first shot, as if he was trying to will the strength into his body. He would need it, because there followed a volley, then the sounds of a full engagement some distance up the road.

Braddock ordered one of his aides to ride up and see what was happening. Then he ordered Colonel Burton to take six companies forward.

I watched the men go by and hoped I would not need my medical kit.

John Britain, known as Silverheels:

The grenadiers wore stupid hats, but they were good soldiers. They moved forward fast, presented, and fired fast. They filled the woods with smoke and sound. And one of their shots struck down the French leader.

But the Hurons and Ottawas did not need French officers. They were already hiding behind trees on the rising ground to the right and along the edge of a deep ravine to the left. They were fighting on Indian ground, in the Indian way.

Another volley from the grenadiers struck nothing but air. Then the musket balls began to fall on them like rain. And the splatter of the bullets traveled down the length of the advance column, like a summer storm that comes on, comes over, and delivers its rain, all too quickly for us to escape.

Soon the grenadiers were falling back upon the engineers, and the flanking parties were running back from the woods, and confusion came upon the British, who had always seemed so sure of themselves.

The captains tried to rally the men, and some of the men tried to do as they were told. But there was no room on that twelve-foot-wide road to do the things they had been taught on the parade grounds. Nor was there a heart for it. Too many were gripped by fear and struck dumb by terror.

The Hurons and Ottawas knew what to do first—kill the officers.

They shot at any man on a horse. Those they missed they shot at again. The soldiers were clumped like dumb cows in the road, and like dumb cows, they would die.

But there was scalping at the start. Only warriors who think the battle may go against them scalp at the start. I decided that no one would get my scalp.

I was a Mingo. I wore my hair like a Mingo. I painted my face like a Mingo. I knew that the Hurons and Ottawas would not fire at a Mingo they saw moving from tree to tree. So I crawled on my belly. I crawled up the hill toward the Mingoes I had seen running through the woods.

Dr. James Craik:

Braddock, flanked by Washington and Orme, sat nervously on his horse, squinting into the trees ahead, as if he might see what was happening up where the firing and the war whooping were growing louder by the minute.

I was glad to see that Washington had mastered himself. His head swiveled right and left, the picture of vigilance in his Virginia blue uniform. He had mastered his horse, too, a black mare that shied at the sound of gunfire, but with a few steady tugs on the reins, he kept her firmly in her place.

Finally Braddock told Washington, all very calmly, “Take my compliments to Sir Peter. Tell him to leave a rear guard at the wagons and come forward with the rest of his men. Then follow me forward.”

“Yes, sir.” Washington wheeled his horse and pounded down the column.

Braddock and Orme spurred on toward the fighting.

I reached into the wagon and pulled out my medical kit.

Hesperus Draper:

When I saw Washington’s face, I knew things was gettin’ worse. He had on the hard look he’d worn at Fort Necessity, a look that tries to show nothin’ and, in the tryin’, shows all. He rode up to Sir Peter Halkett and said, “General’s compliments, sir. He orders you forward, all but the rear guard.”

And we was off at a dogtrot, runnin’ past the wagons and all the nervous drivers. They weren’t soldiers, and ’twas plain that with the sounds of the firin’ and whoopin’, they were gettin’ mighty scared.

Runnin’ past Bee’s wagon, I said to the driver, old Heman Dillaway, “You take good care of my sister.”

Dillaway pulled a musket out of the wagon and laid it across his knees. “Your sister’s the prettiest gal in the army, son. Don’t you worry a bit about her.”

But I was plenty worried. And the deeper we went into them dark, deadly woods, the more worried I was. After about a half mile, we run right into the bloody rear of Burton’s men, who’d run right into the two or three hundred men in the advance guard, who were retreatin’ from where they’d first bumped into the French and Injuns. Some were fallin’ back in good order, volleyin’ as they came. But most were just runnin’, as wide-eyed and disorganized as flushed deer.

The officers—what officers was still mounted—were screamin’ at their men and beatin’ ’em back into formation with the flats of their swords. But what did they expect from an army of flogged tavern dregs and ignorant bog hoppers who didn’t have a notion of how to handle a forest fight like this? Bullets were thumpin’ into men from every direction. The war whoops were more frightenin’ than the bullets. And volley fire was pointless, because no one could see a target. But every time somebody shot into the trees, everybody else shot in the same direction.

And right in the middle of it, Braddock was wavin’ his sword, bellowin’ for his captains to pull their men into platoons, and sendin’ Washington and Orme up and down the line with orders.

Didn’t take long before Orme was blown off his horse. ’Twouldn’t be much longer before Washington went down, too. That’s what I thought, anyway. At least, he’d gotten what he dreamed of—a big battle, on another charmin’ field for an encounter.

But us Virginians didn’t think ’twas too charmin’, and we wasn’t so stupid as to stand out there makin’ targets of ourselves. Without orders, we made for the trees along the edges of the road and got ourselves down.

Some damn-fool British officer ridin’ a horse that looked about as wide-eyed scared as he was, screamed at us to get back in line, but we ignored him. So he screamed even louder. “I issued you an order! I demand—”

Right then a bullet hit him in the mouth. He made a funny gurglin’ sound and dropped out of the saddle, deader than salted cod. Served him right.

Air was so thick with lead you could almost see it … slammin’ into tree trunks … ricochetin’ off rocks … thumpin’ into flesh …’Twas plain to some of us that if we didn’t get control of the risin’ ground to our right, we’d all die right where we were. Braddock didn’t see it, though. Not yet.

But Cap’n Waggener—he commanded our company—he wasn’t waitin’ for Braddock’s order. Called to us: “Virginians! Up that hillside! Make for that big felled tree ’bout halfway up. We’ll fight our way from there.”

Fifty men jumped up and give a yell, loud as an Injun war whoop. It felt good, that yell. Felt good to get some of that fear out of us, almost like a good puke after a bad meal.

Then we heard an officer—’twas probably Braddock—shoutin’ behind us, “You men! Stop! Form line! Stop!”

Didn’t matter. We was goin’ up that hill. The Injuns started firin’ at us, but we didn’t slow-march with our pieces at our hips like a bunch of regulars. We ran from tree to tree, took good shots, hit a few targets, and made it all the way to the felled tree without losin’ a man. Then what do you think happened?

We got hit in the back by a volley! Those damn-fool British troops down on the road fired up at us! Maybe they thought we were French. Maybe some officers thought we were runnin’. I don’t know.

We went up that damn hill with fifty men, and I’ll bet there wasn’t but twenty come down in one piece. And as soon as we were down, the Injuns come out and started scalpin’ our dead on the hill … scalpin’ our wounded, too … And if you want somethin’ to make your blood go colder than the sound of an Injun war whoop, just add the screamin’ of a man havin’ his hair skinned off with a knife.

I stopped at the edge of the road, raised my musket, and blew one red scalpin’ bastard right to hell. Then I was hit on the head with the flat of a saber.

’Twas Braddock, glarin’ down at me, face as red as raw beefsteak. “Wait for orders before advancing again … or firing. Platoon firing is the order. There’ll be no firing from behind trees!”

“General,” I said, “you are a damn fool! And if you ever hit me again, I’ll shoot you!” And I was mad enough that I would have, too.

Now Braddock spied Washington. “Put this man on report.”

“Yes, sir.” Washington wobbled in his saddle a bit, like he was still weak from the flux. The bullets were flyin’ so thick around him, they were like flies followin’ a bull. But instead of flinchin’, Washington ignored them, like they wouldn’t dare hit him. Had to admire such brainless courage. Had to admire his good sense, too. Puttin’ me on report mattered a lot less than winnin’ the battle.

So he said to Braddock, “Sir, let me collect the provincials and fight the Indians in their own way. We’ll move up and flush them.”

But that stupid bastard Braddock refused.

“Sir”—Washington kept at it—“please, before the confusion becomes too general for us to do anything—”

Braddock said, “No! These savages will melt away when confronted by the king’s disciplined troops. We’ll restore discipline and fight our way out of this.”

Then Braddock’s horse screamed and bowled over. Slammed right to the ground. For a second I thought Braddock had been shot. Hoped so, too. But ’twas just the horse. Braddock come up kickin’ and shoutin’ and ragin’. “Find Halkett!”

“Halkett is dead, sir,” said Washington.

“Dead? Damn … Find his captain, then. Order him to set the colors of the Forty-eighth at the rear of this line. Then ride forward and advance the colors of the Forty-fourth. We’ll bring order to this mob if it’s the last thing we do. Then we’ll take that hill.”

Braddock wasn’t much of a general. But he was a stickler for goin’ by the book.

Washington wheeled his horse, and the big mare took a shot in the head. If Washington’d been a fraction slower or faster, the bullet would have hit him square in the chest. The horse went down, kicked once, and just plain died, with Washington pinned under him.

Braddock shouted, “Get up, George, and do your duty.” Then he grabbed a riderless mount by the bridle and went off in another direction.

’Twas left to me to help Washington get up while more bullets thumped into the horse and tore up the ground all around us.

I said, “We should be takin’ that hill, George.”

He give me a quick look—I couldn’t see any meanin’ in it, which was always the way with his looks—and then he started huntin’ for another horse.

Dr. James Craik:

We set up our wagon as an infirmary. And very quickly we could see the progress of the battle in the number of wounded we treated.

The captain of the rear guard positioned his men well behind trees, so that each time the Indians approached, our men fought them off. ’Twas a great comfort to me and the other physicians. The job of closing bullet holes and extracting arrows is made easier when one is nae ducking bullets and arrows oneself.

We were some half mile from the fighting. ’Twas difficult for officers and men to move from the battlefront back to us. Many accomplished the task, but only the officers chose to go back after they were stitched or bandaged. The foot soldiers found it much more safer to hide under wagons and feign exhaustion or slip toward the rear and sneak back across the river.

All through the fight, I expected to see the tall figure of Washington, but he dinna appear. This I took as either the best of signs or the worst, and each wounded officer who came to me was quizzed: Did Washington live? Some filled me with hope, others could nae answer, and so it was left to me to do my job and put the fate of my friend out of my mind.

We were assisted in our labors by women still with the baggage train. While some of the females was struck motionless with fear, others made bandages, fetched water, and did what they could to ease the suffering of the wounded.

There was a washerwoman in a broad-brimmed red hat who stayed by our wagon much of the afternoon, doing our bidding and bringing water to the men of the rear guard, even when they came under fire. I asked her why. She said that her brother was fighting at the front, and she was sure that he was thirsty, too.

Hesperus Draper:

Every so often I could hear the gunfire from the direction of the wagon train. Told Eli, “I’m worried about Bee. But if I try to get back to her, I’ll be shot for certain, most likely by some British officer.”