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Title: The Youth of Washington: Told in the Form of an Autobiography

Author: S. Weir Mitchell

Release date: June 5, 2021 [eBook #65513]

Language: English

Credits: Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUTH OF WASHINGTON: TOLD IN THE FORM OF AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***





                                  THE
                          YOUTH OF WASHINGTON




[Illustration: “MY BROTHER COMFORTED ME IN MY DISAPPOINTMENT.”]




                      Author’s Definitive Edition


                                  THE
                          YOUTH OF WASHINGTON

                          TOLD IN THE FORM OF
                           AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY


                                  BY
                        S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D.


                            [Illustration]


                               NEW YORK
                            THE CENTURY CO.
                                 1910




                          Copyright, 1904, by
                            THE CENTURY CO.

                       _Published October, 1904_


                   The Knickerbocker Press, New York




                                  TO
                           JOHN S. BILLINGS
                      IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF
                            FORTY YEARS OF
                              FRIENDSHIP




                                  THE
                          YOUTH OF WASHINGTON




“And if I have done well, and as is fitting the story, it is that which
I desired: but if slenderly and meanly, it is that which I could attain
unto.”――_2 Maccabees xv. 38._




THE YOUTH OF WASHINGTON




DIARY――NOVEMBER, 1797

I


My retirement from official duties as President has enabled me to
restore order on my plantations, and in some degree to repair the
neglected buildings which are fallen to decay. The constant coming of
guests――moved, I fear, more by curiosity than by other reasons――is
diminished owing to snows, unusual at this period of the year.

Owing to these favouring conditions, I have now some small leisure to
reflect on a life which has been too much one of action and of public
interests to admit, hitherto, of that kind of retrospection which is
natural, and, as it seems to me, fitting in a man of my years, who has
little to look forward to and much to look back upon.

My recent uneasiness lest I should be called upon to conduct a war
against our old allies, the French, is much abated, and I feel more
free to consider my private affairs. I am too far advanced in the
vale of life to bear much buffeting, and I have satisfaction in the
belief we have escaped a new war for which the nation has not yet the
strength. For sure I am, if this country is preserved in tranquillity
twenty years longer, it may bid defiance in a just cause to any powers
whatever, such in that time will be its power, wealth, and resources.

Increasing infirmity and too frequent aches and ailments remind me
that I am nearing the awful moment when I must bid adieu to sublunary
things, and appear before that Divine Being to whom alone my country
owes the success with which we have been blessed. But the great
Disposer of events is also the Being who has formed the instruments of
his will and left them responsible to the arbitration of conscience.
Therefore I have of late spent much time in considering my past
life, and how it might have been better or more successful, and in
thankfulness that it has escaped many pitfalls.

My reflections have brought back to mind a remark which seems to
me just, made by my aide, Colonel Tilghman, a man more given to
philosophic reflection than I have been. He asked me if I did not think
there was something providential in the way each period of my life had
been an education for that which followed it. I said that this idea had
at times presented itself to my mind, and when I betrayed curiosity,
he went on to say that my very early education in self-reliance and
my training as a surveyor of wild lands had fitted me for frontier
warfare, that this in turn had prepared me for action on a larger
stage, and that all through the greater war my necessities called for
constant dealing with political questions, and with men who were not
soldiers. He thought that this had in turn educated me for the position
to which my countrymen summoned me at a later time.

As I was silent for a little, this gentleman, who became my aide-de-camp
in June, 1780, and for whom I conceived a warm and lasting affection,
thinking his remark might have been considered a liberty, said as much,
excusing himself.

I replied that, so far from annoying me, I found what he had to say
interesting.

When, recently, these remarks of Colonel Tilghman recurred to me, I
felt that they were correct, and dwelling upon them at this remote
time, my interest in the sequence of the events of my youthful life
assumed an importance which has led me of late to endeavour, with the
aid of my diaries, to refresh my memories of a past which had long
ceased to engage my attention.

I remember writing once that any recollections of my later life,
distinct from the general history of the war, would rather hurt my
feelings than tickle my pride while I lived. I do not think vanity is
a trait of my character. I would rather leave posterity to think and
say what they please of me. Those who served with me in war and peace
will be judged as we become subjects of history, and time may unfold
more than prudence ought to disclose. Concerning this matter I wrote to
Colonel Humphreys that if I had talent for what he desired me to do, I
had not leisure to turn my thoughts to commentaries. Consciousness of
a defective education, and want of leisure, I thought, unfitted me for
such an undertaking. I did, however, answer certain questions put to
me by Colonel Humphreys concerning the Indian wars, but he has, so far,
made no use of these notes.

One of these considerations does not so much apply at present, for I
possess the leisure, and in recording my early reminiscences I shall
do so for myself alone, and assuredly shall find no satisfaction in
comments on the conduct of other officers who, like myself, were
honestly engaged in learning, and at the same time practising, a
business in which none of us had a large experience. I shall confine my
attention to recalling the events of my youth, and as I hate deception
even where the imagination only is concerned, I shall try, for my
own satisfaction, to deal merely with facts. General Hamilton, whose
remarks I have often just reason to remember, once wrote me that no man
had ever written a true biography of himself, that he was apt to blame
himself excessively or to be too much prone to self-defence. He went
on to state that an autobiography was written either from vanity and
to present the man favourably to posterity, or because he desired for
his own pleasure in the study of himself to recall the events of his
career. In the latter case there is no need of publication.

It is only in order to such self-examination as that to which he refers
that I am induced to set down the remembrances of my earlier days, and
because writing of them will, I feel, enable me more surely to bring
them back to mind. I have no other motive.

Whatever just ambitions I have had have been fully gratified; indeed,
far beyond my wishes. The great Searcher of hearts is my witness that
I have now no wish which aspires beyond the humble and happy lot of
living and dying a private citizen on my own farm. In my estimation,
more permanent and genuine happiness is to be found in the sequestered
walks of connubial life, so long denied me in the war, than in the
more tumultuous and imposing scenes of successful ambition. Nor can
I complain. I am retiring here within myself. Envious of none, I am
determined to be pleased with all; and with heartfelt satisfaction,
feeling that my life has been on the whole happy, I will move gently
down the stream until I sleep with my fathers.

There are indeed not many circumstances in my life before the war
which it now gives me pain to recall. I could not truthfully say this
of that great contest, nor of the political struggles of my service as
President. Mr. Adams, or perhaps Mr. Jefferson, once said of me that I
was a man too sensitive to condemnation. This I believe to be correct,
but I have not discovered that my ability to decide was ever largely
affected by either unreasonable blame or the bribes of flattery.

The treachery of men who professed for me friendship, and the intrigues
of those who, like Conway, Lee, Gates, and Rush, used ignoble means
to weaken my authority when it was of the utmost importance to our
common cause that it should be strengthened, were calculated to give
pain chiefly because they lessened my usefulness. Nor am I ever willing
to dwell upon the treason of Arnold, which cost me the most painful
duty of the war, and lost to the country a great soldier, who had not
the virtue to wait until, in the course of events, his services would
obtain their reward. It is, however, somewhat to be wondered at that in
so long a war, where hope did at times seem to disappear, the catalogue
of traitors was so small. It is strange that there were not more, for
few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder. As to ill-natured
and unjust reflections on my conduct, I feel, and have felt, everything
that hurts the sensibility of a gentleman, but to persevere in one’s
duty and be silent is the best answer to calumny.

Dr. Franklin has wisely said that no examples are so useful to a man
as those which his own conduct affords, and that he was right in his
opinion I have reason to believe. This I have observed to be true of
anger, to which I am, or was, subject. I flatter myself that I have now
learned to command my temper, although it is still on rare occasions
likely to become mutinous. I do not observe that mere abuse ever
troubles me long, but in the presence of cowardice or ingratitude I am
subject to fits of rage.

Arnold’s treason distressed me, but the treachery of one of my cabinet,
Edmund Randolph, the nephew and adopted son of my dear friend Peyton
Randolph, disturbed my temper as nothing had done since the misconduct
of Lee at Monmouth. If in any instance I was swayed by personal and
private feelings in the exercise of official patronage and power, it
was in the case of Mr. Randolph; and this fact added to the anger
which his conduct excited.

I willingly turn from the remembrance of ingratitude, a sin that
my soul abhors. It is a severe tax which all must occasionally pay
who are called to eminent stations of trust, not only to be held
up as conspicuous marks to the enmity of the public adversaries of
their country, but to the malice of secret traitors, and the envious
intrigues of false friends and factions. But all this is over. I
willingly leave time and my country to pronounce the verdict of history.

As I wrote what just now I have set down, a remark of Mr. John Adams
came into my mind. He said it was difficult for a man to write about
himself without feeling that he was all the time in the presence of an
audience. This may be true of Mr. Adams, but I am not aware that it is
true of me.

The statement I shall now record of myself and for myself might be made
very full as to events by the use of the details of my diaries, but
this I desire to avoid. My intention is to deal chiefly with my own
youthful life and the influences which affected it for good or for ill.




II


Being without children to transmit my name, I have taken no great
interest in learning much about my ancestors. I have, indeed, been too
much concerned with larger matters. It is, however, far from my design
to believe that heraldry, coat-armour, etc., might not be rendered
conducive to public and private uses with us, or that they can have any
tendency unfriendly to the purest spirit of republicanism; nor does
it seem to me that pride in being come of gentry and of dutiful and
upright men is without its value, if we draw from an honourable past
nourishment to sustain us in continuing to be what our forefathers
were. This also should make men who have children the more careful as
to their own manner of life, and as for myself, although denied this
great blessing, I may perhaps wisely have been destined to feel that
all my countrymen were to me something more than my fellow-citizens.

I have heard my half-brother Lawrence say that he had learned from his
elders that my English ancestors were violent Loyalists, especially
one Sir Henry Washington, when the great struggle arose between the
Parliament and the King in the time of the Commonwealth.

I recall that, when a young man, I was riding with my friend George
Mason, and when this matter arose, and he asked me whether if I had
lived in those days I should have been for the crown or the commons,
I replied that if I had lived in that time I could have answered him,
but that I was not enough informed concerning that period to be able to
state on which side I should have been. Certainly I should have found
it hard to make war on the King.

I profess myself to be ignorant as to much that concerns my ancestry.
When too young to have the smallest interest in the matter, I heard
my two half-brothers and William Fairfax conversing on the subject
of the origin of my family. The brothers were not very clear as to
our descent, but were of opinion that we came of the Washingtons of
Sulgrave, originally of Lancashire. In 1791 the Garter king-at-arms,
Sir Isaac Heard, wrote to me, sending a pedigree of my family; but
I had to confess it was a subject to which I had given very little
attention; in fact, except as to our later history, I could only say
that we came from Lancashire, Yorkshire, or some still more northerly
county.

Most of the early colonists of all classes were too busy in fighting
Indians and raising the means of living to concern themselves with the
relatives left in England. This indifference was not uncommon among
us, and was in those early days to be expected. It explains why we and
other descendants of settlers knew, and indeed cared, too little about
our ancestors.

I do not know what exactly was the station of the father of the
brothers who first came over――John, my ancestor, and Lawrence, his
brother. It is of more moment to me to know that my forefathers in this
country have been gentlemen, and have in many positions of trust, both
in civil employ and in the military line, served the colonies and,
later, their country with faithfulness and honour.

As concerns the question of ancestry and a man’s judging of himself by
that alone, I am much of Colonel Tilghman’s opinion, who once said to
me, speaking of Mr. B――――, that when a man had to look back upon his
ancestors to make himself sure he was a gentleman, he was but a poor
sort of man, which I conceive to be true.

My great-grandfather, John Washington, the first emigrant of our name,
was the son of Lawrence and Amphilis, his wife. He went first to the
Barbados, but, not being pleased, came later to Virginia; that is, in
1657.

It is certain that my great-grandfather in some respects possessed
qualities which resembled those which I myself possess. He was a man
of great personal strength, inclined to war, very resolute, and of
a masterful and very violent temper. He was accused in 1675 of too
severe treatment of the Indians in the frontier wars against the
Susquehannocks, for which he was reprimanded by Sir William Berkeley,
but, it is said, unjustly. He was a man had in esteem and most
respectable, and held a seat in the Assembly in 1670. He was also of
a nature greatly moved by injustice, for on his voyage to Virginia a
poor woman on board the ship was hanged for a witch, and he made great
efforts, on being come ashore, to have the master and crew punished. I
find in myself the same anger at injustice.

It is proper to add that there was current in the colony a story
that, on account of his rigour with the Indians, he was called by
them Conocatorius, which, Englished, means a Destroyer of Villages.
The Half-King, an Indian chief so called, hearing my name when first
we met, addressed me by this title. There must have been among these
tribes a remembrance or tradition as to the name, for certainly I
never deserved it, and that after so long a time it should have been
remembered appears to me strange.

My great-grandfather’s brother Lawrence was engaged for a time in the
mercantile way, and at one time signed himself as of Luton, County
Bradford, merchant. He made some voyages to Virginia and home again
before he settled in the colony, and may have acquired land in England,
for, as I shall state later, he devised real estate in the home country.

As I speak of the home country, I am reminded that even after the War
of Independency the habit of speaking of England as home prevailed
with many, so strong was the attachment to the mother country; and,
indeed, nothing but the folly of Great Britain could have broken the
bonds which united us.

My great-grandfather, John Washington, brought with him a wife from
England. Her maiden name I do not know. She and her two children
died within a few years of his landing. The brothers mention in
their wills property in England, but where or exactly what it was
they do not say. It would seem, therefore, that it was not poverty
which drove my ancestor to emigrate. That this property was not mere
money, the proceeds of tobacco, appears to be shown by the will of
my great-grandfather’s brother Lawrence, who devised to Mary, his
daughter, his whole estate in England, real as well as personal.

My great-grandfather married secondly the widow of Walter Broadhurst,
daughter of Nathaniel Pope of Appomattocks, gentleman. My grandfather
Lawrence was the first born of this marriage. My great-grandfather died
in 1677. He was of that importance as to have named for him the parish
in which he resided. The brothers were not the only ones of the name
who came to Virginia. There was also a cousin, Martha Washington. She
emigrated to Virginia and married Nicholas Hayward of Westmoreland. How
it was that, being a spinster, she came over alone, I am not informed.
She left her property to her cousins John and Lawrence, and a gold
twenty-shilling piece to each, and to their sons each a feather bed and
furniture, and to their heirs forever――which does appear to me long for
a bed to last.

There were also others, but if related I have not felt concerned to
inquire. They spelled the name Vysington in certain deeds, which I have
heard was the ancient manner of spelling it. Of them I know nothing
further. My great-grandfather left a legacy to the rector of the lower
church of Washington parish, and ordered that a funeral sermon be
preached, which appears to me, as Lord Fairfax said, to be a certain
way to secure being well spoken of, at least once, after death. He also
provided in his will for a tablet of the Ten Commandments, and also the
king’s arms, to be set up in the church of his parish.

He may have been led to come to Virginia by the fact that it had become
for men loyal to the crown and to the Church of England a refuge such
as the Puritans sought in Massachusetts. We have ever since been
connected with that Church, nor have I found reason to depart from it.
At times I have been a vestryman, but this was in those days also a
civil office, having judicial duties, such as charge of the schools and
of the poor of the parish.

My connection with the Church of my fathers has varied in interest from
time to time, for, although I have at times partaken of the sacrament
and even fasted, I have not always felt so inclined, although I have
with reasonable punctuality attended upon the services. I have had all
my life a disinclination to converse on this subject, and confess, as
Dr. Franklin once remarked to me, that “silence is sometimes wisdom as
concerns a man’s creed.”

In considering so much of my family history as is known to me, I
perceive that men married at an early age and remained no long time
widowers. Also I observe that many children died young, as was like
enough to happen on plantations remote from physicians, and indeed
these were few in number and not as good as in the northern colonies.

I know less of my grandfather Lawrence than of his father. He did not
increase the importance of the family, neither was he inclined to
public business. He was, as I have understood, a quiet, thrifty man,
and no seeker of adventure by land or water. He married Mildred Warner,
by whom he had children, and died leaving a competent estate, but none
to be compared with the great lands accumulated by the Byrds or Carters.

I conceive him to have been a person of moderate opinions concerning
the Church of England, and as one who may have considered the
dissenting sects as ill used. This I gather from a book given to me
three years ago by a gentleman of Philadelphia, of the Society of
Friends, who would have had me to believe that my grandfather was of
that sect. This book is the life of one John Fothergill, a Quaker
preacher, who says that in 1720 he “held a meeting at Mattocks, at
Justice Washington’s, a friendly man, where the Love of God opened my
heart toward the people, much to my comfort and their satisfaction.” I
do not suppose it to have meant more than that, as the church could not
be used by a dissenter, Justice Washington willingly gave the good man
the use of his own house.




III


My father, Augustine, was born in 1694, on the plantation known as
Wakefield, granted, in 1667, to his grandfather, and lying between
Bridges’ and Pope’s creeks, in Westmoreland, on the north neck between
the Potomac and the Rappahannock. My father, in his will, says:
“Forasmuch as my several children in this my will mentioned, being by
several Ventures, cannot inherit from one another,” etc.

What he speaks of as his “Ventures” were his two marriages. A venture
does appear to me to be an appropriate name for the uncertain state
of matrimony. The first “venture” was Jane Butler, who lies buried at
Wakefield. Of her four children two survived――that is, my half-brothers
Lawrence and Augustine, whom we called Austin. I was the first child
of my father’s second “venture,” and my mother was Mary Ball. I was
born at Wakefield,[1] on February 11 [O. S.], 1732, about ten in
the morning. I was baptized in the Pope’s Creek church, and had two
godfathers and one godmother, Mildred Gregory. Mr. Beverly Whiting and
Mr. Christopher Brooks were my godfathers. I do not recall ever seeing
Mr. Whiting, although his son, of the same name, I met in after years.
Of Mr. Brooks I know nothing, nor do I know which one of the two gave
me the silver cups which it was then the custom for the godfather to
give to the godson. I still have them. I was told by a silversmith in
Philadelphia that the cups are of Irish make, and of about 1720. There
were six of these mugs, in order to be used for punch when the child
grew up.

  [1] This estate was bought by my father from his brother John.

The Balls were respectable, and came out first as merchants. My
maternal grandmother we know to have been Mary Johnson, of English
birth, but of her family nothing more. At a later time the older
planter families, both with us and in the West Indies, paid more
attention to their ancestry, sometimes, it is to be feared, with
pretensions which had no just foundation.

Many assumed arms to which they were not entitled, or, like Mr. J――――n,
commissioned an agent in London to purchase some heraldic device,
having Mr. Sterne’s word for it that “a coat of arms may be purchased
as cheap as any other coat.”

I have had some reason to believe that our friends did not regard my
mother’s family, being in the mercantile line, as on the same social
level as our own. But, in fact, we ourselves were not until a later
day considered as of the highest class of Virginia gentry. Why this
was I do not fully know. It is certain, however, that nowhere were
aristocratic pretensions and the distinctions of social rank more
marked than in Virginia. For a long time families like the Lees, Byrds,
Carys, Masons, etc., regarded themselves as superior to other planter
families, of as good or better blood.

The lines of social rank among us I judge to have been made early
to depend on extent of landed property, so that the owners of these
vast estates were like great nabobs, and by having seats and control
in the governor’s council and the House of Burgesses obtained large
influence. They were at pains to defend their pretensions by a law of
primogeniture, which made entails so strict that they could not be
broken, as in England, by agreement of father and son, but required to
break them, in each case, an act of the Assembly. Families like our
own were regarded rather as minor gentry, and were, for a time, owing
in a measure to their having but moderate estates, looked down upon by
certain of the great proprietors of enormous plantations and numberless
slaves.

Whatever may have been the reason, or the reasons, I was more than once
made to feel the fact that I was not looked upon as an equal by certain
of these gentlemen, and this at an age when men are sensitive to such
considerations.

My father, Augustine, has been described as a good planter and a man of
energy. I apprehend that he was of a serious tendency, for Lawrence,
my brother, once gave me to understand that most of the few books at
Wakefield were religious; but whether this was so or not I do not know.
Like some of the rest of us, my father had a high and quick temper,
which, as he used to say, he had to keep muzzled. I remember being
terrified at seeing him in a storm of anger because the clergyman who
was to have baptized my sister Mildred was too much in liquor to
perform the ceremony.

About the year 1724 he became interested in the mining of iron ore with
the Principio Company, in which the venturers were chiefly English. A
furnace was opened on his estate in Stafford County. It was confiscated
in 1780 as rebel property. He had a contract for hauling the ore
from the mines, and later commanded a ship for the taking of iron to
England and the fetching back of convict labourers. On this account,
I apprehend, he was known as Captain Washington. He was, I have
understood, a man of enterprising nature and better informed than most
planters of his time.

He was educated at Appleby in England, near Whitehaven. I have often
regretted that I never had his opportunities, or those of my brothers,
in the way of education. The fact of my being a younger son and my
father’s death, and also my mother’s overfondness, may have stood in
the way, and on this and other occasions interfered with my own plans
or with those of others for me.

I did not take after my mother in appearance, and I had the large frame
and strength of my father. In other respects also I was somewhat like
him in my mind and character.

When in later years I returned to visit Wakefield I used to fancy I
remembered it. This I could not have done, as I was only three years
old when, because of the unhealthfulness of the place, my father moved
away. The house was burned down on Christmas eve, 1779. It was of
wood, with brick foundations, and had eight bedrooms. There was an
underground dairy, a great garden with fig-trees and other fruit, and
along the shores were wild flowering grapes and laurel and honeysuckle
and sweetbrier roses, very fragrant in the spring season. Here in the
middle of a great field lie my ancestors and some of the children of my
father’s first marriage.

In the year 1735 we moved, as I have said, fifty miles higher up the
Potomac to the estate then known as Epsewasson or Hunting Creek. This
was given, with other land, by the colony to my great-grandfather and
Colonel Spencer for importing an hundred labourers, and was bought by
my father in 1726 from my aunt Mildred Gregory, later my godmother.
It came afterwards to be called Mount Vernon. It was at that time in
Prince William County, which my father represented in the House of
Burgesses, as my brother did later. There we remained until 1739.

In this year our house took fire, as was supposed, by the act of one
of our slaves, but never surely ascertained. We were then obliged to
remove, and this time settled in Stafford, formerly St. George, on the
east bank of the Rappahannock, opposite to Fredericksburg.

This residence was a two-story house on a rise of ground, with a
fertile meadow sloping gently to the river. It was built of wood and
painted red. There, as people well-to-do, we lived until my father’s
death, when the division of his estate did somewhat lessen the easiness
of our lives; and of these latter years I can recall some more or less
distinct remembrances, for here my education began.




IV


While I was a child, my father, as I have said, made many voyages to
England and fetched back with him convicts, and perhaps also indentured
servants. Often in those days some of the unfortunate people thus sent
to the colonies were under sentence for political offences, but many,
of course, for crimes. One of these, a convict I was told, was my first
schoolmaster. We called him Hobby, which was, I believe, a nickname;
but he was named Grove, and was sexton of the Falmouth church, two
miles away. Of what our sexton schoolmaster had been convicted I never
heard, but of this I am assured, that my father would not have used
as a schoolmaster a common thief. I used to ride the two miles to the
“field-school,” as they called it, in front of a slave named Peter, and
later was allowed a pony, to my mother’s alarm when he would tumble me
off, as happened now and then. Hobby was a short man, with one eye,
and too good-humoured or too timid to be a good teacher, even of the
a-b-c’s and the little else we learned.

My father was kind to this man, and perhaps knew his history. He would
even have allowed him the use of the rod, with the aid of which I might
have profited more largely, for I am of his opinion that children
should be strictly brought up. Hobby, being of a humourous turn, seems
to me, as I remember him, to have resembled the grave-digger in the
play of “Hamlet.” He sometimes amused and at other times terrified us
by tales of London or of his recent life as a sexton. He believed many
of the negro superstitions――as that if a snake’s head was cut off the
tail would live until it thundered――and was much afraid of having what
he called black magic put upon him by the negroes.

I did not learn much from Hobby and preferred to be out of doors. My
father considered, I believe, that, as I was a younger son and must
in some way support myself, I should be well trained in both mind
and body, and had he lived the chance of the former might have been
bettered. The latter was often made difficult by my mother, who was
unhappy when I was subject to the risks to which all lads of spirit
are exposed. I remember that, when later my father was teaching me
to leap my pony, the pony refused over and over, and this being near
to the house, my mother ran out, and at last had a kind of hysterick
turn. My father sat still on a big stallion and took no notice of her
entreaties. At last I got the pony over, and he fell with me. I jumped
up and was in the saddle in a moment. My father said that was ill
ridden, I must try it again; and upon this my mother ran back to the
house, crying out I would be murdered. But my father was this manner of
man; he hated defeat, while my mother was ever desirous of keeping me
out of danger, because it made her uncomfortable; and this was strange,
for I have never been able to see that she was greatly pleased when I
was successful, or was much moved by what the great Master allowed me
to attain in later years.

My elder brothers, Lawrence and Augustine, were both at different times
sent to England for education at Appleby School, near Whitehaven, when
I was a child. Lawrence had the family liking for enterprises and
martial employment. I was eight years old, and he of age, when Lawrence
served with Admiral Vernon and General Wentworth in the disastrous
attack on Cartagena. I remember as a boy the interest this expedition
caused in our neighbourhood. It was said that Harry Beverley and other
Virginians captured by the Spaniards had been made to work as slaves,
and this stirred up much feeling among us. The ex-Governor Spottiswood,
although an aged man, would have gone as a major-general, but died
suddenly at Temple Farm, near Yorktown, where forty-two years later
Lord Cornwallis met me to sign the capitulations.

Lawrence was away two years. The letters wrote by him to my father were
full of interest, and, as I remember, were the means of arousing in me,
who was but a little lad, the liking for warfare, of which we all had a
share.

I can remember how, as we sat about the hearth at evening, my father
read aloud to us these letters, and explained to me the military terms
used, and why, for want of foresight, the gallantry of soldiers and
sailors served only to give opportunity for loss of life. This was
especially in connection with the last letter we received, after the
dismal failure of the attack on Cartagena. He wrote:

    HONOURED AND DEAR FATHER: What with dissensions between the
    General Wentworth and Admiral Vernon, who was, as we think, not
    to blame, we have come away, leaving the Spaniards to crow, and
    our Colonel Gooch ill at Jamaica. When I am to have another
    dose of glory I pray to have better doctors.

    We were to storm Fort _Lazaro_――which must mean Lazarus――at
    night. But we were too long getting there, or the guides
    treacherous, and the ladders too short and no sufficient
    breach. This _Lazarus_ fort was too much alive, but we were
    actually on the rampart when Colonel Grant was killed, and
    we were driven back in sad confusion, and half of us, a good
    thousand, killed or wounded for want of forethought. I came off
    with no more hurt than to be so spent that I had no breath to
    curse the folly for which so many brave men died. The climate
    was worse than the dons, and we took ship with our tails
    between our legs and some two thousand shaking with agues and
    racked with fever.

When I heard this I jumped up and said I wished I could have been
there, upon which my father laughed and said I was better off where I
was, and my mother that I had better go to bed.

I was at that age when lads of spirit are apt to ask questions, and
concerning these my father was always patient, and encouraged a
reasonable curiosity; but, on the other hand, my mother disliked this
habit of curiosity, and when my father talked of Indian wars and of my
brother’s fine conduct at Cartagena she was sure to say I should never
go to war. My father would reply that it was sometimes the business and
also the duty of a gentleman, and then there was no greater pleasure
than to hear over and over how Sir Henry Washington, said to be of our
family, defended Worcester in the civil war in England.

In those days all the world was at war, and with us there was always
the dread of Indian outbreaks. It was no wonder that I and other
little fellows at Hobby’s school played at soldiering. A lad named
William Bustle, a fat, sturdy boy, was commander of the Indians, and
in the woods we imitated the red men and the frontier farmers, and
passed from tree to tree throwing stones, or, in winter, snowballs,
with mock scalping and much pulling of hair, which was worn long.
This was interfered with one winter because Bustle hit me in the eye
with a snowball in which was a stone, a thing not considered fair.
My mother wished Bustle punished. My father said I must take care of
my own quarrels, and this I did, for, being then ten years old, and
very strong, as soon as I went back to school I gave Bustle a good
beating. In fact, I was of unusual strength, and because of my violence
of temper felt no hurt, and would not listen when Bustle called,
“Enough.” My mother’s uncertain discipline and her too affectionate
weakness did me great harm. For if my father punished me on account of
disobedience or outbursts of temper, my mother was sure to interfere,
or to coddle and pity me, a thing I greatly disliked. I never learned
much self-control until a later day, which, in its place, I shall call
to mind.

My sister Betty, who afterwards married Fielding Lewis, was, next to
my half-brother Lawrence and my brother Jack, most dear to me. Samuel
had some of the weaknesses of my mother, and Charles, in later days,
some worse ones of his own. In after life Samuel was often in debt,
and was married five times, being extravagant in this as in all other
ways. Mildred was sadly affected from birth and died young. It was
unfortunate for me that while I was a child my half-brothers were sent
from home and put in charge of the plantations of Wakefield and of
Mount Vernon, which had been rebuilt and given the name of the admiral
whom Lawrence much admired.




V


In 1742 Lawrence came from Cartagena, and meant to continue in the
service, but, after our sudden way, he fell in love with Anne, the
daughter of William Fairfax of Belvoir, our neighbour, the cousin and
agent of my lord of that name, and this, luckily for my own character,
ended his desire for a military life. I too well recall the event which
delayed his marriage. I was at this time, April 17, 1743, being eleven
years old, on a visit to my cousins at Choptank, some thirty miles
away. We were very merry at supper, when Peter, who was supposed to
look after me, arrived with the news of my father’s sudden illness. It
was the first of my too many experiences of the ravage time brings to
all men. I heard the news with a kind of awe, but without realizing how
serious in many ways was this summons. I rode home behind Peter, and
found my mother in a state of distraction. She led me to the bedside
of my father, crying out, “He is dying.” The children were around him,
and he was groaning in great pain; but he kissed us in turn, and said
to me, “Be good to your mother.” I may say that throughout her life I
have kept the promise I made him as I knelt, crying, at his bedside. He
died that night, and I lost my best friend.

My mother for a month talked of him incessantly, and after that very
little, except to say, “If your father were alive I should be more
considered.” I do not know why I, too, was averse to speaking of him,
and yet I loved him above all people. But concerning such matters
children are puzzled, and unable to express themselves, nor have I ever
been other than shy in saying what I feel in the way of affection,
whereas on paper I do not suffer this shyness, nor feel the reserve
which occasioned Colonel Trumbull to say to me once that I was often
unjustly regarded as cold because of my difficulty of being outspoken
concerning my regard for those dear to me. I am little better of it
to-day.

My father had much land and little money. As was usual in Virginia,
he left to his elder sons the larger share. To Lawrence he gave his
interest in the iron-works, with Mount Vernon and two thousand five
hundred acres, also the resident slaves and the mill, and, in case of
his failure to leave a child lawfully begotten or such child dying
under age, this property was “to go to and remain” to me. To Augustine
he left Wakefield; to me his farm on the Rappahannock and one moiety of
his land on Deep Run, with ten negro slaves. Samuel, John, and Charles
were also given land and slaves, and Betty four hundred pounds.

My mother was to have my estate for her use until I was of age, and
with whatever else was left her, and her own sixteen hundred acres,
might have sufficed with economy; but that virtue she found difficult
to practise, and was never a prudent or managing woman. She soon
felt her children to be a heavy burden upon an estate which was
none too large, and complained, as was common for her to do all her
life, that she was poor, and this even when I was assured that she
was comfortably cared for. I never knew a more affectionate mother.
She was said to have been foolishly fond of her children, and I was
more than once brought to feel that her love of us did interfere with
good judgment. Certainly whatever were her opinions,――and we did not
often agree,――these differences never lessened my love for her, as
differences often do. As she grew old her peculiarities were more and
more notable. With very many good qualities, she was hard to satisfy,
and this did not cease until the end of her life, for she could not be
restrained from borrowing money and accepting gifts from those who were
not her relations. Indeed, I once had to write her that while I had a
shilling left she should never want, but that I must not be viewed as
a delinquent, or be considered by the world as unjust and an undutiful
son. But so was she made, and even her doctor, Thornton, wrote to me in
her last illness, in which his cousin, Dr. Rush, was also consulted,
that he “had every day a small battle with her.”




VI


My father died in April, 1743, and Lawrence was married to Miss Fairfax
in June of that year. It was fortunate for me that my brother’s wife,
Anne Fairfax, soon shared the constant affection felt for me by her
husband Lawrence.

Austin, as we usually called Augustine, also embarked into the
matrimonial state as the husband of Anne Aylett of Westmoreland, who
brought him a large property.

The next three years of my young life were important. I learned very
soon from my mother that, when of age, I would have a moderate estate
and insufficient. It is a happy thing that children have no power to
realize what money means to their elders, else I might have been set
against Lawrence and thought my father unjust. As I did not understand
my mother’s complaints of poverty, they had no effect upon me. After
my father’s death, and in the absence of my elder brothers, the house
and farm soon showed the want of a man’s care, and we lads enjoyed at
this time almost unlimited freedom. My older brothers saw it, and felt
that I, at least, might suffer, being of an age and nature to need
discipline and to be guided. In fact, I delighted to skip away from my
man Peter, and find indulgence in roasting ears of Indian corn in the
forbidden cabins of the field-slaves, or in coon-hunts at night, when
all the house was asleep. When my pranks were discovered my mother was
sometimes too severe in her punishments, or else only laughed.

Nothing was assured or certain in the house, now that the hand of wise
and strong government was gone.

We were taught the catechism as a preparation for Sundays, and
my mother read the Bishop of Exeter’s sermons or Matthew Hale’s
“Commentaries, Moral and Divine.” I still have this book. It belonged
originally to my father’s first wife, Jane Butler, and below her name
my mother wrote her own, “Mary Ball.” At this time she was much given
to Puritanical views, which were beginning to be felt in Virginia,
owing largely to the want of better clergymen in the Established
Church. She would have the servants up late on Saturday to cook, that
there might be no labour on Sunday. In consequence, the blacks fell
asleep in church. My mother would then get up in mid-service, and go
where they sat, and poke them awake with her fan.

At this period my great personal strength and endurance were constant
temptations to forbidden enterprises on land or water, and it was at
this time of my life that I discovered a certain pleasure in danger.
I find it difficult, not having the philosophical turn of mind, to
describe what I mean; but of this I became aware as time went on,
that, in battle or other risks, I was suddenly the master of larger
competence of mind and body than I possessed at other times.

When, on one occasion, the learned Dr. Franklin desired to be excused
if he asked whether in battle I had ever felt fear, I had to confess
that in contemplating danger I was like most men, but that immediate
peril had upon me the influence which liquor has upon some, making
them feel able for anything. He said yes, but as to the influence of
drink, that was a mere delusion; whereas he understood, and here he
begged to apologize, that, in great danger in battle and when the ranks
were breaking, I had seemed to possess powers of decision and swift
judgment beyond those I could ordinarily command. I said it was true,
that danger seemed to lift me in mind and body above my common level,
and that it was the satisfaction this gave which made danger agreeable;
not, be it said, the peril, but the results.

I apprehend him to have been correct, for in battle I have often felt
this, as at Monmouth, at Princeton, and elsewhere. In general, my
mind acts slowly, and I have been often painfully aware of it when in
council with General Hamilton, Mr. Jefferson, or General Knox. General
Wayne was fortunate in this quickening of the mind in danger. He once
said to Colonel Humphreys of my staff that he disliked danger, but
liked its effects upon himself when it came.

Certainly I had my share of risks at the time I now speak of. No one
controlled my actions, and old Peter, in whom my father had greatly
trusted, now allowed me, in general, to do as pleased me. The river
and the forests afforded game, but the riding of half-broken horses
was what most I liked. My joy in the horse and his ways was the mere
satisfaction in conquest and in the training of a strong brute; but
it made me a good horseman, and helped, though I knew it not then, to
prepare me for the years when I was to be so much in the saddle.

We had at this time a slave named Sampson, who possessed great control
over animals. He was old in our service, and very black. He was said to
be a Mandingo negro, and to do very well if kindly treated. The blacks
of this tribe incline to take their own lives if what they feel to be
disgrace falls upon them, and this man, for whom my father had a great
liking, never had been whipped. He had charge, under the overseer, of
the stables, the brood-mares, and the training of horses for saddle or
harness.

I was at this time more about the stables than was allowed under my
father’s rule, and did, in fact, much as I liked out of school hours.
It so happened that once, on a Saturday, there being no school, I was
very early at the stables, and, as there was no one to hinder, made
the groom saddle a hunter we had. On this I made my appearance at a
meet for fox-hunting, four miles from home, to the great amusement of
the gentry. They asked me if I could stay on, and if the horse knew he
had any one on his back. However, the big sorrel carried me well, and
knew his business better than I did. I saw two foxes killed, and this
was my first hunt; but as I rode home my horse went lame, and, to save
him, I dismounted and led him. Towards noon, when we were come to the
farm stable, I found the overseer, with a whip in his hand, swearing
at Sampson, and making as if about to beat him. I ran up behind them
and snatched away the whip. The overseer turned and, seeing me, said
he meant to punish Sampson for letting me take a horse which was sold
to go to Williamsburg. When he knew the horse was lame, he was still
more angry; but I declared I was to blame, and no one else, and said he
should first whip me. He said no more, except that my mother would say
what was to be done. I think he made no report of me, and certainly my
mother said nothing. When the overseer had walked away, the old servant
thanked me, and said no one had ever struck him, and that it would
be his death. This seemed strange to me, a boy, for the slaves were
whipped like children, and thought as little of it. Sampson said to me
that I was like my father, that when I was angry I became red and then
pale, and that I must never get angry with a horse.

After this interference Sampson took great pains with me and taught me
many useful things about horses. Although I became a good horseman, I
never had his strange gift of managing dogs or other creatures. Indeed,
he was the only black man I ever saw who could handle bees, for these
industrious little insects have a great enmity to negroes.

All this happened in October, 1743, and was the means of making a
useful change in my life and ways. At about this time my two brothers
came together to visit us, in order to satisfy my mother’s complaints
that she was never so poor and, since my father died, was not ever
considered. It seems that at this time she was, as she remained
until death, a dissatisfied woman, although never without sufficient
income. She was, I fear, born discontented, and could not help it; for
happiness depends more on the internal frame of a person’s mind than on
the externals in this world.




VII


While matters concerning the estate were being discussed, Lawrence soon
discovered so much of my too great freedom that he and my half-brother
Augustine insisted that I go to live for a time with the latter, near
to whose abode was a good school. My mother wept and protested, but at
last agreed, with impatience, that I might go if I wished to do so. Of
this Lawrence felt secure, for he had promised me a horse for myself
and clothes to come from London, especially a red coat. I have always
had a fancy for being well clothed; and as I was less well dressed than
other gentlemen’s sons, the idea of a scarlet coat, and the promise of
spurs when I had learned to ride better, settled my mind. I liked very
well the great liberty I had, and to part with this and my playfellows
I was not inclined; but I felt, as a boy does, that I was being made
of importance, which pleases mankind at all times of life. I may
say, also, that I was become more grave than most of my years, and
was curious to see Williamsburg, where lived the king’s governor, and
something beyond our plantation.

I remember that George Fairfax insisted once that no action ever grew
out of only one motive, and, as I see, there were several made me
willing to leave my home. Thus when Lawrence talked to me of his wars,
and of his friends the Fairfaxes, and of how I must also soon visit him
at Mount Vernon, I readily agreed to his wishes. It was hard to part
with Betty, who looked like me until I had the smallpox, and with my
dear brother Jack; but I was eager, as the day came, to see the outside
world, and I rode away very content, on a gray mare with one black fore
foot, beside Augustine, and my man Peter after us.

It was a long ride across the neck and down to Pope’s Creek on the
Potomac, and I was a tired lad when we rode at evening up to the door
of the house of Wakefield, where I was born eleven years before.

Here began a new life for me. Anne Aylett, Mrs. Augustine Washington,
was a kind woman, very orderly in her ways, and handsome. After two
days Peter was sent home, and I was allowed to ride alone to a Mr.
Williams’s school at Oak Grove, four miles away.

I took very easily to arithmetic, and, later, to mathematic studies. I
remember with what pleasure and pride I accompanied Mr. Williams when
he went to survey some meadows on Bridges’ Creek. To discover that
what could be learned at school might be turned to use in setting out
the bounds of land, gave me the utmost satisfaction. I have always had
this predilection for such knowledge as can be put to practical uses,
and was never weary of tramping after my teacher, which much surprised
my sister-in-law. I took less readily to geography and history. Some
effort was made (but this was later) to instruct me in the rudiments of
Latin, but it was not kept up, and a phrase or two I found wrote later
in a copybook is all that remains to me of that tongue.

I much regret that I never learned to spell very well or to write
English with elegance. As the years went by, I improved as to both
defects, through incessant care on my part and copying my letters over
and over. Great skill in the use of language I have never possessed,
but I have always been able to make my meaning so plain in what I wrote
that no one could fail to understand what I desired to make known.

I have always been willing to confess my lack of early education, but
notwithstanding have been better able to present my reasons on paper
than by word of mouth. I am aware, as I have said, that, except in the
chase or in battle, my mind moves slowly, but I am further satisfied
that under peaceful circumstances my final capacity to judge and act
is quite as good as that of men who, like General Hamilton, were my
superiours in power to express themselves. I may add that I learned
early to write a clear and very legible hand. As to spelling, my
mother’s was the worst I ever saw, and I believe King George was no
better at it than I, his namesake. This just now reminds me that I may
have been named after his grandfather, King George II, for George was
not a family name, and, as we were very loyal people, it may have been
so.

It was usual in those days to give to children names long in use in a
family. John, Augustine, and Lawrence, for males, were repeated among
us, and Mildred and Harriott; but I never heard of a George Washington
before me, nor of any George in our descent, except my grandmother’s
grandfather, the Hon. George Reade of his Majesty’s council in 1657.
General Hamilton at one time interested himself in this matter, but I
could make no satisfactory answer. I suppose my mother knew. I never
thought to ask her. General Hamilton made merry over the idea of how
much it would have gratified his present Majesty to have known of his
grandfather being thus honoured.

Indeed, it pleased Mr. Duane, when maligning me, to call me Georgius
Rex, but of this I apprehend that I have said enough. It is of no
importance.

Outside of my school, the life at Wakefield was well suited to a lad of
spirit. There were thirty horses in the stables, and some of them well
bred and had won races at Williamsburg.

The waters of Pope’s Creek, where the Potomac tides rush in at flood
and out at ebb through a narrow outlet of the creek, were full of
crabs, oysters, clams, and fish. One of the slaves, named Appleby
after August’s school, was engaged in the supply of fish, which the
many negroes and the family needed. I think there were, at the least,
seventy blacks. Being permitted to go on the water with Appleby, I
found much satisfaction in sailing and rowing and the search for
shell-fish. My brother August once surprised me by saying that some day
the bottom of the Bay of Chesapeake would be a richer mine, on account
of the oysters, than my brother Lawrence’s iron-mines, by which we all
set great store. This may some day come to pass. The quantities of shad
took in April and May were enough to feed an army, and what we did not
eat went to feed the land.

In the autumn I was sometimes allowed to sit with August in a wattled
blind, behind brush, while at dawning of day he shot the ducks, geese,
and swans which flew over the little islands of Pope’s Creek in great
flocks.

I prospered in this hardy life and grew strong and able to endure,
nor was it less good for me in other ways; for, although I cared very
little for August’s fiddling, nor to hear Anne sing, nor for the books,
of which there was a fair supply, I admired August so much that I
began, as some lads will do, to imitate his ways of doing things. And
this was of use to me, for August was very courteous and mild-spoken to
people of all classes, and much beloved by his slaves, to whom he was a
gentle and considerate master.

The country along the Potomac was well settled with families of
gentry, and visits were made by rowboats, so that I found very soon
boy companions, although Belvoir, where the Fairfaxes lived, and Mount
Vernon, rebuilt in 1742, being remote, were less frequently visited.

The church at Oak Grove was the better attended, and few persons were
presented or admonished for non-attendance, because on Sunday, as many
drove long distances, provisions were brought, and in the oak grove
near by, between services, there was a kind of picnic, very pleasant to
the younger people.




VIII


Soon after going to live for a season at Wakefield with Augustine, I
began to take myself more seriously than is common in boys of my age.
I believe I have all my life been regarded as grave and reserved,
although, in fact, a part of this was due to a certain shyness, which
I never entirely overcame, and of which I have already written. My
new schoolmaster, Mr. Williams, gave me a book which I still have,
and which here, and later at Mount Vernon, was of use to me. It was
called the “Youth’s Companion.” It contained receipts, directions for
conduct and manners, how to write letters, and, what most pleased me,
methods of surveying land by Gunter’s rule, and all manner of problems
in arithmetic and mathematics, as well as methods of writing deeds and
conveyances. Young as I was, it suited well the practical side of my
nature; for how to do things, and the doing of them so as to reach
practical results, have never ceased to please me.

My mother’s natural desire for my presence wore out the patience of
Augustine, and I was at last, after some months (but I do not remember
exactly how long), sent back to her and to a school kept by the Rev.
James Marye, a gentleman of Huguenot descent, at Fredericksburg, and
from whom I might have learned French. My father had been desirous,
I know not why, that I should learn that language; but this I never
did, to my regret. I should have been saved some calumny, as I shall
mention, and later also inconvenience, when I had to deal with French
officers during the great war. I had then to make use of Mr. Duponceau
and of Lieutenant-Colonel Hugh Wynne of my staff, but had been better
served by G. W. had I known the French tongue.

I was at this time about fourteen, and was, as I said, a rather grave
lad. I was industrious as to what I liked, but fond of horses and the
chase, and was big of my years, masterful, and of more than common
bodily strength.

I was not more unfortunate than most other young Virginians in regard
to education. Governor Spottiswood, as I have heard, found no members
of the majority in the House who could spell correctly or write so as
to state clearly their grievances. There were persons, like the late
Colonel Byrd, who were exceptions, but these were usually such as had
been abroad. Patrick Henry, long after this time, observed to my sister
that, even if we Virginians had little education, Mother Wit was better
than Mother Country, for the gentlemen who came back brought home more
vices than virtues. In fact, this may have been my father’s opinion;
for, although he sent Lawrence and Augustine to the Appleby School in
England, he would not allow of any long residence in London, where, he
said, “men’s manners are finished, but so, too, are their virtues.”

For a few months in the next year I spent about half of the time with
my mother. While there I studied, as before, at the school kept by
the Rev. Mr. Marye. The rest of the time was spent in the company of
Lawrence and his lady at Mount Vernon.

Lawrence was a tall man, narrow-chested, and less vigorous than
Augustine. He was, however, fond of the chase and fox-hunting, and had
books in larger number than was usual among planters. I remember him
as very pleasing in his ways, and possessed of a certain reserve and
gravity of demeanour, which, as my sister Betty Lewis remarked, made
his rare expressions of affection more valuable.

He seemed to me the finest gentleman I ever knew, and I took to
imitating him as my model, as I had done Augustine, which was at times
matter for mirth to Anne, his wife. No doubt it seemed ridiculous, but
it was, I do believe, of use to me.

As I write, I recall with unceasing gratitude the great debt I owe to
my brother’s care of me at this period of my life. I was encouraged
when I was at Mount Vernon――as I was then for a time away from
school――to keep up my studies, and I remember that I fell again with
satisfaction upon the manual I just now spoke of. It is still in my
possession, and my wife’s children once made themselves uncommon merry
over the ill-made pictures I drew on the blank pages; but it was of use
to me as no other book ever was.

I was early made to understand that I must do something to support
myself. The few acres on the river Rappahannock were not to be mine
until I became of age, and until then were my mother’s; indeed, I never
took them from her. My brother disapproved of the easy, loose life
of the younger sons of planters, and, of course, trade was not to be
considered, nor to work as a clerk; and yet, without care, accuracy,
and such business capacity as is needed by merchants, no man can hope
to be successful, either as a planter or even in warfare.

Ever since I had been at Mr. Williams’s school, I had a liking for the
surveying of land, and had later been allowed to further inform myself
by attending upon Mr. Genn, the official surveyor of Westmoreland, a
man very honest and most accurate. Indeed, I had so well learned this
business that I became, to my great joy, of use to Lawrence and some of
his neighbours, especially to William Fairfax, who had at first much
doubt as to how far my skill might be trusted.

Meanwhile various occupations for me were considered and discussed by
my elders. The sea was less favoured in Virginia than at the North; but
many captains of merchant ships were in those days, like my father,
of the better class, and my brothers, who saw in me no great promise,
believed that if I went to sea as a sailor I might be helped in time to
a ship, and have my share in the prosperous London trade.

Like many boys, I inclined to this life. I remind myself of it here
because it has been said that I was intended at this time to serve the
king as a midshipman, which was never the case. Meanwhile,――for this
was an affair long talked about,――my mother’s brother, Joseph Ball,
wrote to her from London, May 19, 1746, that the sea was a dog’s life,
and, unless a lad had great influence, was a poor affair, and the
navy no better. Upon this my mother wrote, offering various trifling
objections, and at last hurried to Mount Vernon, and so prevailed by
her tears that my small chest was brought back to land from a ship in
the river.

My brother Lawrence comforted me in my disappointment, saying there
were many roads in life, and that only one had been barred. I remember
that I burst into tears, when once I was alone, and rushed off to
the stables and got a horse, and rode away at a great pace. This
has always done me good, and, somehow, settled my mind; for I have
never felt, as I believe a Latin writer said, that care sits behind a
horseman. I jolted mine off, but for days would not have any one talk
to me of the matter. Even as a lad, I had unwillingness to recur to a
thing when once it was concluded, and that is so to this day.




IX


The summer passed away in sport and in visits to William Fairfax,
who lived below us on the river. Here I saw much good society, among
others the Masons, Carys, and Lees, and formed an attachment to
William Fairfax, the master of Belvoir, and his son George, which was
never broken, although we came long after to differ in regard to our
political views. But of this, and of his cousin, Lord Fairfax, more
hereafter. In the fall of this year I returned to my mother, or rather,
as before, I went to board across the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg,
in the house of a widow of the name of Stevenson, which she pronounced
Stinson. She had, by her two marriages, six sons, two of them Crawfords
and four Stevensons. They were all well-grown fellows, and of great
strength and bigness.

I am reminded, as I set down in a random way what interests me, that,
as I expected, this act of attention brings to mind some things which
I seemed to have altogether forgotten. Among them is this, that, just
before returning to my school, I went with Lawrence to pay my respects
to Lord Fairfax, who was come for a visit to his cousin at Belvoir.
We found the family, however, in sudden distress at the news, just
arrived, of the death in battle of Thomas, the second son, who was
killed in the Indies, in an engagement on board his Majesty’s ship
_Harwich_. We made, on this account, but a short stay. I remember that,
as we rode away, Lawrence said to me: “A great preacher called Jeremy
Taylor wrote a sermon about death, and gave a long list of the many
ways of dying. Which way, George, would you wish to die?” I said I did
not wish to die at all.

Lawrence said: “But you will die some day. What way would you choose?”
I said I thought to die in battle would be best, and I said this
because I remembered with horror watching how my father died and how
greatly he suffered.

Lawrence said: “The good preacher did not speak of that way to die.”
Now, as I write, being in years, it seems that not in that way shall I
die, nor does it matter.

After this I went back to my mother, or rather to the town of
Fredericksburg. I liked it the more because Colonel Harry Willis lived
there. He married first my aunt Mildred, and second my cousin Mildred,
so that I had about me many cousins, with also Warners and Thorntons of
my kindred.

I was here fortunate in my teacher, of whom I have spoken before. This
gentleman, the Rev. James Marye, was very different in his ways from
some of the clergy put upon us by the Bishop of London, hard-drinking,
ill-mannered men. Mr. Marye was got for St. George’s parish, on a
petition of the vestry to Governor Gooch. He was rector thirty years,
and was succeeded by his son.

On Sunday, as was quite common in Virginia, the girls and boys were
heard the catechism by the rector, and those who did well were rewarded
from time to time――the girls with pincushions and the boys with
trap-balls.

The sons of the widow in whose house I lodged during the week were,
as I have said, rough, big fellows who damaged a great deal the
pride I had in my strength, because among them, for the first time
as concerned lads of near my years, I met my match in wrestling and
jumping, and what we called the Indian hug. Almost all of them served
under me in the war, and one, William Crawford, rose to be a colonel
and perished miserably, being burned at Sandusky in the war with the
Indians, after their cruel way.

The Rev. Mr. Marye concerned himself more than the ordinary schoolmaster
with the manners of his scholars. I may have been inclined beyond most
lads to value his rules of courtesy and decent behaviour, for I kept the
book in which I was made to copy the one hundred and eighteen precepts
he taught us. I conceive them to have been of service to me and to
others. I find the mice have gnawed and eaten a part of these rules.
When, of late, I showed them to my sister Betty, she said she hoped
eating of them would make the mice polite, for she was dreadfully afraid
of those little vermin.

In this manner my next two years passed by. During this time I
became still further attracted by the exactness and interest of the
surveying of land, which I carried on without present thought of gain.
I used to ride into the woods, and, leaving my horse tied, make
use of Peter as a chain-bearer. Sometimes my cousins went with me,
especially Lewis Willis, my schoolmate. But they soon grew tired and
went to bird-nesting, or digging up of woodchucks, or to making the
“praying-mantis” bugs fight one another. I never had much inclination
towards games which had no distinct or lasting result. At any time I
preferred for my play to fish or shoot, when allowed, or to measure
lands and plot them.

Any work demanding strict method is good for a lad, and I found in
surveys an education of value and one suited to my tastes, which never
very much inclined to discover happiness in constant intercourse with
my fellow-men, nor in much reading of books.




X


At the age of fifteen, in the fall of 1747, I went once more, for a
time, to reside with Lawrence at Mount Vernon, where it was to be
finally determined what I should do for a livelihood. As I look back
on this period of my life, I perceive that it was the occasion of many
changes. I saw much more of George William Fairfax and George Mason,
ever since my friends, and was often with George’s father, the master
of Belvoir, only four miles from Mount Vernon.

There came often, for long visits, William’s cousin, Lord Fairfax, over
whose great estates in the valley William was the agent. I learned
later that when first his lordship saw me he pronounced me to be a too
sober little prig――and this, no doubt, I was; but after a time, when
he came to overcome my shyness, he began to show such interest in me
as flattered my pride and pleased my brother Lawrence. At this period
Lord Fairfax was a tall man and gaunt, very ruddy and near-sighted.

It was natural that as a lad I should be pleased by the notice this
gentleman, the only nobleman I had ever seen, began to take of me.
My fondness for surveying he took more seriously than did my own
people, and told me once it was a noble business, because it had to be
truthful, and because it kept a man away from men and, especially, from
women. I did not then understand what he meant, and did not think it
proper to inquire.

I owed to this gentleman opportunities which led on to others, and to
no one else have I been more indebted. I trust and believe that I let
go no chance in after life to serve this admirable family.

True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and
withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the
appellation. In fact, much disaster has befallen these friends, from
whom politics and distance have separated me without weakening my
gratitude or affection.

It has often happened to me to learn that I am thought to be a cold
man, but this I believe to be untrue; for though I am, as concerns
social intercourse and freedom of speech, a man reserved by nature, I
discover in myself a great freedom to express myself affectionately on
paper――nor do I conceive that I am unlike others in feeling the loss of
the many friends whom distance or death has separated from me. But I
will not repine; I have had my day.

As my brother was aware of the advantage it might be to me to secure
the good will of the Fairfaxes, I was encouraged to visit Belvoir
often, and thus was given me the chance to be, when he chose, in the
company of his lordship, who was at this time a frequent guest at
Belvoir with his cousins, and now and then at Mount Vernon.

The company of these gentlemen was of much value to me, and in all
ways useful. William Fairfax was a man of honour and great probity;
also very courteous. He had seen service in both Indies, and had
divers adventures in clearing the pirates out of New Providence, all
of which I was delighted to hear of, and he to relate. He had lived
as a collector of customs in the New England colonies, having taken
a wife at Salem, and had a greater respect for them than was common
in Virginia. Indeed, in those days our planters despised the men of
the North as mere traders and Puritans, while they, in their turn,
considered us godless, drunken, fox-hunting squires, out of which
prejudices arose, during the great war, many jealousies and troubles,
of which, God knows, there were enough without these.

At this time I was old enough to take an interest in what my elders
said of the politics of the colonies. I was more and more surprised
to hear how lightly they regarded the governor. I listened also to
their complaints of the too frequent interference in affairs of which
we knew much, and the advisers of the crown in England very little.
They complained that enterprise was crippled on sea and land, and
considered smuggling a just way to escape some of the grievous duties
laid between the colonies. They felt it unjust that we must use none
but British ships on the ocean, and be cut off from the natural
channels of commerce, etc. I listened eagerly and wondered, as a boy
would, why these great gentlemen, who seemed to me so powerful, should
submit to such wrongs. They spoke also with anger of the way in which
the colonies were being loaded with thieves and women of the worst
class, sent out as convicts. Of the political convicts they spoke with
pity, as indeed they might, for some of these were gentlemen of good
families, and in later times, being freed, prospered in honourable
conditions of life.

There were some singular matters combined with the condition of
indentured servitude. Especially was I one day astonished to learn
that at one time, but earlier than this, if the white master of an
indentured man was fined and could not pay, the debt might be satisfied
by the whipping of one of these bad or unfortunate servants.

Both Fairfaxes spoke with more freedom of the king than did my
brothers. Perhaps they inherited some of the liberty of thought which
made the famous earl of their name a rebel to the crown in the time of
the Commonwealth; and yet, when, at a later day, we had even greater
cause to rebel, they were, to my sorrow, loyal Tories.

I was not without younger friends, for to Belvoir came the Carlyles,
cousins of the Fairfaxes from Alexandria, my own cousin Lawrence,
with my dear cousin Robin Washington of Choptank, and many more,
such as the Carys, Mrs. Fairfax’s kindred, the Masons, and my sister
Betty, a great favourite. But of all these people, the Lord Fairfax
most affected my life, and indirectly prepared me for the career of a
frontier officer. At this time he was fifty-nine years old. Although
a heavy man, he was a fine horseman; and as I never was tired of
the saddle, we were much engaged in the hunting of wild foxes, or,
lacking these, of foxes bagged by the negroes and let loose for the
sport. He was a man who disliked women, and avoided society, or was
inclined to be silent in company; but with me he was a most lively
companion, and would tell me of Oxford, and of having written papers in
the “Spectator,” which I had then begun to read. My sister Betty was
inclined to be merry over his lordship’s fancy to have me ride and hunt
with him, saying that as I never talked except to answer questions, and
his lordship talked only once a week, we were well matched. My brother
Lawrence considered her wanting in respect, and that his lordship might
be of much service to me. I could talk when occasion served, but I had
been taught that it was for my elders to choose whether I should talk
or not. There were times when his lordship was pleased to encourage me
in the asking of questions, and at other times liked to puzzle me with
matters beyond my years.




XI


In this pleasant company of William Fairfax and his wife, and my friend
George William, his son, I saw with profit something of the ways and
manners of persons of consideration, and, being by nature observant,
profited accordingly. Indeed, the Lord Fairfax more than once commended
the matter to my attention, saying that good and fitting manners to men
of all classes would often obtain what could not be otherwise as easily
had. I do not now recall the phrase he used, but, if I recollect, it
was out of a letter written to Sir Philip Sidney by his father.

I find it curious to recall how at this time I appeared to others, and,
concerning this, I have found a letter addressed by Lord Fairfax to
my mother. In one of her sudden and often brief ambitions for me, she
desired to know of his lordship whether it would not be well for me,
like Mr. C―――― and Colonel H――――, to go to Oxford. When riding with the
old gentleman the next day, he told me of her wish. I was surprised,
but even then I knew she would, at the last minute, change her mind,
and I said as much, with due respect. For a time he rode on in silence,
and at last said: “Young man, this is your country; stay here. What do
you want to do?” I said boldly I should like to be a surveyor and help
in the settling and surveying of his lordship’s lands in the valley. He
said I was young to contend among hostile squatters, but he would talk
with Lawrence of it. I heard no more of Oxford, and this is the answer
he made my mother. It seems to me as I read this letter, after the
lapse of forty-nine years, that what his lordship wrote was very near
to the truth; nevertheless, it greatly displeased my mother. But she
was always displeased with any one who did not agree with her, which,
indeed, was hard to do, as sister Betty Lewis once said, because,
whenever for peace you were on her side, you found that she had changed
to the opposite opinion.

He wrote:

    _Belvoir._

    HONOURED MADAM: You are so good as to ask what I think of a
    temporary residence for your son George in England. It is
    a country for which I myself have no inclination, and the
    gentlemen you mention are certainly renowned gamblers and
    rakes, which I should be sorry your son were exposed to, even
    if his means easily admitted of a residence in England. He is
    strong and hardy, and as good a master of a horse as any could
    desire. His education might have been bettered, but what he has
    is accurate and inclines him to much life out of doors. He is
    very grave for one of his age, and reserved in his intercourse;
    not a great talker at any time. His mind appears to me to act
    slowly, but, on the whole, to reach just conclusions, and
    he has an ardent wish to see the right of questions――what
    my friend Mr. Addison was pleased to call “the intellectual
    conscience.” Method and exactness seem to be natural to George.
    He is, I suspect, beginning to feel the sap rising, being in
    the spring of life, and is getting ready to be the prey of your
    sex, wherefore may the Lord help him, and deliver him from the
    nets those spiders, called women, will cast for his ruin. I
    presume him to be truthful because he is exact. I wish I could
    say that he governs his temper. He is subject to attacks of
    anger on provocation, and sometimes without just cause; but as
    he is a reasonable person, time will cure him of this vice of
    nature, and in fact he is, in my judgment, a man who will go to
    school all his life and profit thereby.

    I hope, madam, that you will find pleasure in what I have
    written, and will rest assured that I shall continue to
    interest myself in his fortunes.

    Much honoured by your appeal to my judgment, I am, my dear
    madam, your obedient humble servant,

    _Fairfax._

    To Mrs. Mary Washington.

My nephew Bushrod Washington, in arranging my papers, placed all my
Fairfax letters in one packet, and thus it chances that lying next
to this one is a letter from Bryan Fairfax, the brother of my older
friend, written in 1778 from New York. I am pleased to find it here,
and thus to be reminded of the vast changes through which time gives
us opportunities. I had been able to stop the Whigs in New York from
offensive attacks upon this gentleman, and on this he wrote:

    There are times when favours conferred make a greater
    impression than at others; for, though I have received many,
    I hope I have not been unmindful of them; yet that, at a time
    your popularity was at the highest and mine at the lowest, and
    when it is so common for men’s political resentments to run
    up so high against those who differ from them in opinion, you
    should act with your wonted kindness toward me, has affected me
    more than any favour I have received; and such conduct could
    not be believed by some in New York, it being above the run of
    common minds.

When Lord Fairfax died in his ninety-second year, my old comrade,
this Bryan Fairfax, became the heir to his title, but I believe never
allowed himself the use of it, and, becoming a clergyman of our church,
is still thus engaged.

The finding of these two letters moved me more than common. Two matters
are alluded to in his lordship’s letter to my mother which, otherwise,
I might not have reminded myself of, and yet one of them had an
important influence on my life.

I had been told, of a Sunday morning, of a great flock of ducks, of the
kind called canvasback, and much esteemed. It was against our habits
to shoot on this day, but towards evening, the temptation being great,
I went to the shore and was about to push off, when Peter, using the
liberty of an old family servant, said I would make Mr. Fairfax and my
brother, then like myself at Belvoir, angry if I went. When he held
on to the prow to stay me, I suddenly lost my temper and struck him
with an oar on the head. He fell down and lay in a sort of a shake. I
thought he was killed, and had he been white I must surely have put an
end to him; but the blacks have thick skulls, and presently he got up
and staggered away, his head bleeding. I was both sorry and scared, for
he would not wait when I called, but walked off to the quarters of the
slaves.

I stood still a minute, and then went to the house and told Lawrence,
and asked him to have the man looked after. Lawrence, being very angry,
said: “This comes of your hot temper. Once our father nearly killed a
man for a small matter, and that cured him; I hope this may cure you.”
I said nothing, and went to see if the man was badly hurt. Peter only
laughed and said: “Master George, you hit mighty hard.” I liked the
man, and, although no one else spoke of the matter again, it had more
effect on me than the many good resolutions I had written or made as to
keeping my temper. I have rarely lost it completely since that time:
once at Monmouth, once after Edmund Randolph’s treachery, and once when
General Knox, then of my cabinet, showed me a vile caricature of myself
being guillotined.




XII


Like other men, I have had my times of being irritable, but open anger
is with me like to a tornado, and if I give way I am as is a ship in a
storm when no anchors hold. General Hamilton, on one occasion, observed
to me that there were some talents which it was good that men should
know you to be possessed of, because once they were aware of this, you
were not so apt to be called upon to use them, and this may be true of
that rage of anger I now speak of. But I cannot think it a thing of
value, nor of any real use; for if it follow another’s actions, it can
do no good, and there are better ways of showing disapprobation.

The other matter to which his lordship alludes is that I was, at this
time, the victim of one of those attachments to a lady older than
myself from which lads are apt to suffer. It was not the last, for in
the composition of the human frame there is a good deal of inflammable
matter. My fancy lasted for some months, but was cured at last by hard
work and life in the saddle. It was full time that I got away from the
easy hospitality of Belvoir and Mount Vernon. A masterful nature amid
slaves is not so well situated as among scenes where he has to contend
with those who can resist. Since I became a man I never approved of
human slavery, and surely the worst thing ever done to the colonies
was the act of England in forcing upon us an endurance of the trade in
slaves. The evil results of this tyranny I do not propose to discuss
fully, but sure I am that the continuance of this form of servitude
will some day give rise to troubles. I find myself, however, inclined
to believe that the habit of mastery, also the aristocratic turn which
society acquired in Virginia, had a certain value in our war with the
mother country. In Virginia the minor officers, such as captains,
were of a higher class than their privates, and for this reason, and
on account of being from youth upward accustomed to command obedience
and exact discipline, were in this respect well fitted for warfare.
In New England, especially, under more democratic circumstances, and
also because there were few slaves, the officers, such as captains
and lieutenants, were unused to control men who, being of their own
class, acknowledged of late years no such differences of position as in
Virginia, and were very insubordinate. I found in this state of things
a serious obstacle to discipline when I first took command at Cambridge.

On the other hand, it is worthy of remark that no general officers
of great distinction were of Southern birth. All of those on whom I
learned to depend most largely were born in the North, or had lived
long in the colonies north of Maryland. Of these were the generals
Knox, Morgan, Wayne, Hamilton, Montgomery, Schuyler, Greene, and, alas!
Arnold; and generally these were men who were not of the upper classes.
This is a matter which I once had occasion to mention to Mr. Edmund
Pendleton, who was of opinion that, as the first open warfare was at
the North, and the first army there collected, it was natural that the
early opportunities and high commissions should have fallen to men
of the North. I was unable to deny this, but upon reflection it does
not present to me a satisfactory explanation, since the actual war
lasted seven years and afforded many chances to men of all sections.
I find myself naturally drawn into these reflections by the events of
my early life, but such interruptions are of no moment, because I am
endeavouring, for my own satisfaction and with no thought of others, to
consider rather how certain steps in life prepared me for larger tasks,
than with a view to any connected narration.

There lived near Mount Vernon at this time a man named Van Braam, a
Dutchman, who, having served under my brother Lawrence at Cartagena,
was used at times as a clerk. He was a slight, wiry little man, and
dependent in those days on my brother’s aid. He spoke French, but
whether well or ill I was too ignorant to know; yet, because of his
supposed knowledge, he came later to be the innocent means of getting
himself and me into unpleasant difficulties. Like Lawrence, he was an
accomplished swordsman; and I received from him lessons in the small
sword, and became myself expert in this, as I have usually been in all
exercise involving strength and accuracy, being more quick of body than
of mind.

This talent of the sword was an accomplishment which I never had to use
personally, nor have I ever been so unfortunate as to have needed it in
the duel. Experience has proved that chance is often as much concerned
in these encounters as bravery, and always more than the justice of the
cause. I felt regret that my friend, General Cadwalader, should have
exposed a valuable life to the pistol of a man like General Conway,
especially since the real cause of the quarrel was, I am assured,
language used by the latter which my friend knew I could not resent.

Indeed, in an affair like that of these two generals, it would have
been reasonable to have decided by lot which was wrong; for a farthing
was tossed as to who should be first to fire, and both were good shots.
Happily, my friend was fortunate, and the other, who had considered his
honour wounded, was now in addition wounded in his tongue――the organ
which made all the mischief.

This lamentable manner of settling disputes was the occasion, while we
lay at the Valley Forge, of our losing valuable officers. I have always
discouraged it. Many of the duels in the war might have been avoided
by the help of judicious friends. When Captain Paul Jones desired
to call out Mr. Arthur Lee, I dissuaded him from asking my friends,
the two C――――s, to be his advisers, on account of the too pugnacious
tendencies of these gentlemen of Welsh blood.




XIII


The question of whether I should become a surveyor by profession was
much debated among us. My youth was against it, but I was in strength
and seriousness older than my years. My mother opposed it, as she did
every change, being of those who are defeated beforehand by obstacles.
Without any better plan of life to offer, she insisted that it was
not an occupation for a gentleman. This was, in a measure, true in
Virginia. The bounds of estates were often vague or contested, and
there was a strong prejudice against the persons employed to settle
these disputes, or who were engaged in laying out new plantations
beyond the Alleghanies, and who took daily wages, like mechanics.

The planters settled on the tide-water coast or on the rich river
lands were long since uneasy because they feared the settlements made
inland might interfere with their control of the trade in tobacco, in
the culture of which they were exhausting the soil. At one time the
king endeavoured to prevent settlements beyond the mountains, under
the pretence that they would be too little under government. It was
believed, however, that the jealousy of the long-settled planters was
the real means of bringing about this decree, which no one obeyed.
The more enterprising families, who were disposed to engage in the
acquisition of such lands, were looked upon with suspicion. Nor were
their active agents regarded with favour. Indeed, long afterwards I was
subject to reproach because of having been engaged in the occupation
of a surveyor of lands. The prejudice entertained by the gentry of
Virginia was not without foundation in the character of many of those
who were thus employed, for they were not all of a decent class,
and were subject to be influenced by bribes, so that out of their
misconduct arose many tedious disputes as to boundaries.

Although among my elders there was much discussion as to my choice of a
means of livelihood, I cannot remember that it in any way affected my
own resolutions or, in the end, those of my brothers. It was finally
concluded that I was to serve under Mr. Genn, my former instructor in
surveying, and was to be accompanied by Mr. George William Fairfax on a
visit to the estate of Lord Fairfax.

The prospect of being able to earn my own living, and of a life in the
wilderness, filled me with pleasure, and I set about preparing flints,
powder, and shot for the new fowling-piece his lordship was so kind
as to give me. I had the foresight, also, to take some lessons in the
shoeing of horses, and, after a visit to my mother, was fully prepared
for my journey.

I hold it most fortunate that my own inclinations and the good sense of
my brothers set me to work at a time of life when temptations are most
dangerous because of their novelty. Many of the young men I knew became
brutal from contact with slaves, and spent their lives, like some of
their elders, in fighting cocks and dogs and in running quarter-races.
A few men were brought up to professions; but as estates were entailed
on elder sons, or they, at least, received the larger portions, and
there was no army or navy, the younger sons were generally without
occupation and apt to fall into evil ways. I little knew, when I rode
away, how fortunate was my choice.

We set out on March 11, 1747, George William Fairfax and I, with two
servants and a led horse, loaded with a pack and such baggage as could
not be carried in saddle-bags. I was at this time ill, not having
recovered from an attack of the ague; but the action of the horse and
the feeling of adventure helped me, so that in a day or two I left off
taking of Jesuits’ bark, and was none the worse.

I have now before me the diary I kept as a lad of near sixteen years.
It was not so well kept as it was later, but already in it I discover
with interest that it turns to practical matters, like the value of the
land and what could be produced on it.

As we were soon joined by my old master in surveying, James Genn, I
learned a great deal more of his useful art, and usually earned a
doubloon a day, but sometimes six pistoles. Although the idea of daily
wages was unpleasant to Virginians of my class, I remember that it made
me feel independent, and set a sort of value upon me which reasonably
fed my esteem of myself, which was, I do believe, never too great.

Our journey was without risks, except the rattlesnakes, and the many
smaller vermin which inhabited the blankets in the cabins of the
squatters.

I remember with pleasure the evening when I first saw the great fertile
valley after we came through Ashby’s Gap in the Blue Ridge. The snows
were still melting, and on this account the streams were high and
the roads the worst that could ever be seen, even in Virginia. The
greatness of the trees I remember, and my surprise that the Indians
should have so much good invention in their names, as when they called
the river of the valley the Shen-an-do-ah――that is, the Daughter of the
Stars; but why so named I never knew.

In this great vale were the best of Lord Fairfax’s lands. Near to where
this stream joins the Potomac were many clearings, of which we had
to make surveys and insist on his lordship’s ownership. Here were no
hardships, and much pleasure in the pursuit of game, especially wild
turkeys. I learned to cook, and how to make a bivouac comfortable, and
many things which are part of the education of the woods. Only four
nights did I sleep in a bed, and then had more small company than I
liked to entertain.

I copy here as it was wrote by me, a lad of sixteen, what we saw on a
Wednesday. It might have been better spelled.

    At evening we were agreeably surprised by ye sight of thirty
    odd Indians coming from war with only one scalp. We gave them
    some liquor, which, elevating their spirits, put them in ye
    humour of dancing. They seat themselves around a great fire,
    and one leaps up as if out of a sleep, and runs and jumps about
    ye ring in a most comicle manner; afterward others. Then begins
    there musicians to play and to beat a pot half full of water,
    with a deer-skin tied tight over it, and a gourd with some
    shott in it to rattle, and piece of a horse tail tied to it to
    make it look fine.

The Dutch, then of late come in from Pennsylvania, I found an uncouth
people, who, having squatted, as we say, on lands not their own, hoped
to acquire cheap titles. They were merry and full of antic tricks. I
talked with some by an interpreter and heard them say they cared not
who were the masters, French or English, if only they were let to farm
their lands. This amazed me, who was brought up to despise the French
as frog-eating folk, and, indeed, this indifference of the Dutch became
a matter of concern when we had a war with the French.

After one night in a Dutch cabin I liked better a bearskin and the open
air, for it was not to my taste to lie down on straw――very populous――or
on a skin with a man, wife, and squalling babies, like dogs and cats,
and to cast lots who should be nearest the fire.

I did not like these people, and the Indians interested me more. Genn
understood their tongue well enough to talk with them, and the way they
had of sign-language pleased Lord Fairfax, because, he said, you could
not talk too much in signs or easily abuse your neighbour; but I found
they had a sign for cutting a man’s throat, and it seemed to me that
was quite enough, and worse than abuse. Mr. Genn warned me that one of
their great jokes was, when shaking hands with white men, to squeeze so
as to give pain. Being warned, I gave the chief who was called Big Bear
such a grip that, in his surprise, he cried out, and thus much amused
the other warriors. This incident is not in my diary, and I find it
remarkable that now, after so many years, it should come to mind, when
even some more serious affairs are quite forgot.




XIV


Early in April, having completed our work, I crossed the mountains
afoot to the Great Cacapehon, and, passing over the Blue Ridge, on
April 12 found myself again at Mount Vernon. But before that I first
rode on to Belvoir, that I might be prompt to answer his lordship’s
questions. All he would talk about was how to get horse and man over
rivers, and of a way I learned of an Indian to wade across a strong
swift stream safely, even breast-high, by carrying a heavy stone to
keep me on my feet. He advised me to learn the sign-language of the
savages.

He was soon to set out for the valley, where he meant to lay out the
manor of Greenway Court and there reside. He desired me to come and
help to survey his great domain.

There must be some natural taste in man for the life in the woods, and,
for my part, I longed ever to return to them, of which, sooner or
later, I had many opportunities. Nor did the free life make me less,
but rather more, practical, and I learned to observe the trees, and how
the land lay, and the meadows, whether liable to flood or not, all of
which enabled me not only to serve my employers well, but was of use to
me when I became able to purchase land myself.

About this time the influence of Lord Fairfax and my brothers obtained
for me the place of surveyor of the county of Culpeper. I saw, a few
years ago, in the records of Culpeper Court House, under date of July
20, 1749, that George Washington, gentleman, produced a commission
from the president and masters of William and Mary College appointing
him to be a surveyor of the county, whereupon he took the oath to his
Majesty’s person and government, and subscribed the abjuration oath,
the test, etc.

I recall now the pleasure this formal appointment gave me. Although
I was then but seventeen years old, I was much trusted and was soon
busily employed, because of my exactness, and because it was known
that I could not be bribed; and thus for over two years I pursued this
occupation. His lordship had long since this time left his cousin’s
house of Belvoir and gone to live in the valley, in his steward’s
house, which now he bettered and enlarged for his own use, meaning soon
to build a great mansion-house, which he never did.

His home was a long, low stone dwelling, with a sloped roof, and many
coops where swallows came, and bird-cotes under the eaves, and around
it on all sides a wide porch, with, in every direction, the great
forest of gum and hickory and oaks, and the tulip-trees. I found the
roads much improved on my first visit, and many outbuildings for slaves
and others, with kennels for the hounds his lordship loved to follow.
My own room was ever after kept for me. It had a wide dormer-window,
and next to it a room with more books than I had ever seen before,
except at Westover, Colonel Byrd’s great mansion.

I never passed the time more agreeably. When not absent laying out
land, we hunted and shot game, especially wild turkeys, which abounded;
and when the weather served us ill I read the history of England, and
tried to please his lordship by reading Shakspere and other books of
verse. But although I had by hard labor managed to lay out and plot
verses to certain young women, I never found much pleasure in the use
of the imagination, nor in what others made of it. It seemed to me
tedious and without practical value, nor did it amuse me except when it
was in a play.

For days at a time I sometimes saw nothing of this kind but eccentric
nobleman. A woman in England was said to have wounded his life, and it
was rare that we had any female guests at Greenway Court, except Anne
Cary, the sister of George William Fairfax’s wife. I found it not good
for me to be in her company, for in some way she brought to my mind a
boy love, which I had resolved no more to entertain, but which I found
it difficult to master.

Miss Cary stayed no long time, and others came and went, but for the
most part I had his lordship to myself. There were days when he was
absent in the woods with a servant, or alone. At others he would remain
all day shut up in a small log house, not over fifteen feet square,
where he slept, and, as he said, very ill. It was his custom, however,
to join me at supper, and then to remain smoking, which I never
learned, and taking his punch. He was either full of talk or so silent
that we would not exchange a word while he sat staring into the fire.
Sometimes, when tired, I fell asleep, and, on waking, found him gone to
bed. When disposed for conversation, he was apt to be bitter about his
native land, and once said that the best part of it had come away.

My brother Lawrence and he were the only persons of our own class
I ever knew in those days who, to my surprise, foresaw serious
trouble from the selfish policy of the crown and the greed of English
merchants, who desired to keep us shut out of the natural way of sea
trade. I should have been most ungrateful, which I never was, had I not
felt my obligations to Lord Fairfax. His great wealth and high position
kept even my mother satisfied that what pleased my patron could never
be complained of, and so, for a season, I was let to go my own way.

He led me to feel sure that, soon or late, we must be at war with both
France and the Indians, or else submit to be shut out of the fertile
lands to the westward. He was almost the only Englishman of high rank
whom we saw in Virginia. There were governors with their secretaries,
and officers of the army, but, except my lord, all of them regarded
the gentlemen of the colonies as inferior persons. This feeling was, I
apprehend, due to the fact that we looked to England for everything,
and were in many ways kept as dependent as children. He once said to
me that we were like slow bullocks that did not know their power to
resist. This was all strange to a young Virginian in those days. I have
lived to see its wisdom, and now, as I think of it, am reminded that
Mr. Hamilton once wrote to me, “a colony was always a colony, and never
could be a country until it had altogether to stand on its own legs.”

This was spoken of Canada, which unwisely refused to make common cause
with us, and will now be for us at least a troublesome, if not a
dangerous neighbour.

But to see her in the hands of France was not, as the matter presented
itself, to be desired, for which reason I did not at a later time
encourage Marquis Lafayette in his design upon Canada, knowing that
if we succeeded in the war, and with French troops were able to take
Canada, France would claim it as her share of the spoils, and thus hem
us in from Louisiana to the Great Lakes. Indeed, this was very early
a constant fear throughout all the colonies, and especially in New
England, where the notion of being shut in by a popish nation added to
their uneasiness.

When considering this matter, I recall the effect of the capitulations
of 1759, for at that time, in order to quiet the French after England
had taken Canada, and to get the Canadians to accept willingly English
rule, vast and unwise privileges were granted to the Church of Rome.
Still later the Quebec Act of 1774 decreed that Quebec should be held
to extend over all the country west of the Ohio and up to the lakes,
and thus that the privileges enjoyed by the Romish Church should
prevail over all this great dominion.

While the Stamp Act and the laws restrictive of trade did variously
annoy the separate colonies, the Quebec Act produced a still more
general dissatisfaction.




XV


While at Greenway Court I had other teachers besides his lordship, for
many Indians, frontier traders, and trappers came to claim food and
shelter, which were never denied them. Often the woods were lighted up
by their fires, and I found it of use, and interesting, to hear what
was said and to learn something of the uncertain ways of the savages.

I heard how the Delawares, Shawnees, and Iroquois had wandered from
the north and taken to the lands about the Ohio, and how the French
protected them and claimed all the country up to the Alleghanies.

To these camps came the rude, lawless traders from Pennsylvania, who
had stories to tell of the Indians and of the French beyond the Ohio.
These men foresaw a war on the frontier when scarce any others did,
and, by their accounts of the fertility of the wide savannas beyond the
Ohio, filled me with desire to explore this rich wilderness. I learned
that already the French had warned the fur-traders to leave and had
driven away their hunters, and when I mentioned this to Lawrence he
said we were not easy folk to drive, and, least of all, Pennsylvania
Quakers, and that there would be trouble, which there was soon enough.
We were on the edge of a struggle in which all the world was to share.
Meanwhile, time went on, and what Lord Fairfax called the “frontier
pot” was boiling.

I was often back at home, sometimes with my mother, or at Belvoir, or
at Mount Vernon, riding to hounds, surveying, and making more than I
needed in the way of money, and enough to keep me in horseflesh and
to give me better clothes, for which I have always had a fancy. Only
in the woods I liked best such dress as our rangers wear, and good
moccasins are the best of foot-gear. But as to clothing, when not in
the woods, I found in myself a liking for a plain genteel dress of
the best, without lace or embroidery. Fine clothes do not make fine
men, and the man must be foolish who has a better opinion of himself
because his clothes are such as the truly judicious and sensible do not
advise.

Until I had money of my own I did not venture much at cards; but now I
played a little, although I was never fond of it, and lost more than I
made. I was more inclined to the game of billiards.

If at times I was in danger of leaning towards the rough ways of the
wilderness, I had the advantage of seeing at Mount Vernon, or at the
homes of the Carters and Lees, or among the Lewises of Warner Hall,
and elsewhere, the older gentry, who were orderly and ceremonious, and
who reminded me anew of his lordship’s lesson as to the value of good
manners.

Sometimes on these great plantations I was employed in surveys, but
at others, as at Shirley and the Corbins’, I was only a guest. I was,
I conceive, unlike the idle young men of some of these houses, for I
was over-grave and cared less for card-playing and hard drinking than
suited them.

I found myself at this time preferring the society of women, who are
always amiably disposed to overlook the shyness of men like myself,
and with whom it is possible to be agreeable without either punch or
tobacco; but racing of horses I always liked, and dancing.

In those days cock-fighting was also to my liking. I remember well,
because it was at Yorktown, a great main of cocks in 1752 between
Gloucester and York for five pistoles each battle, and one hundred the
odd. I was disappointed to leave before it was decided. I saw there a
greater cock-fight in after days.

I recall now that my brother Lawrence once wrote home from Appleby
School that each boy must pay to the master on Easter Tuesday a penny
to provide the school with a cock-fight.

As to the hard drinking of rum and bumbo, Madeira and sangaree, I
never had a head for it, or any liking, nor for the English way of
locking doors until the half were under the table. These things were
not encouraged in the better houses, but sometimes they were not to be
avoided without giving offence. The great war helped to better these
foolish customs, and now they are more rare.

I remember, about this time, to have seen such an occasion on a hot
day in July at L―――― Hall, where I was come to survey a plot of
meadow-land. I arrived about 7 P.M., and I must needs go at once to
sup with a gay company of men, very fine in London clothes. I would
have excused myself to be of the party, but no one would listen to
me, and, although dusty and tired, I was pulled in whether I would
or not. We had a great supper, and Madeira wine, and much rum punch,
with wine-glasses which had no stands or bottoms and must, therefore,
be kept in the hand until emptied. When it became very warm, negroes
were sent for to fan us and to keep off the flies. At last there was
a dispute as to gamecocks, and two were fetched in, very sleepy, and
set on the table to fight, which they were little of a mind to, but
were urged until feathers and blood were all over the table. When songs
were sung, and most very drunk, and the King toasted, I slipped away,
and would have got out the door, but found it locked. Being unable
to escape, I was forced to return to the table. At last a lighted
candle having been set before each guest, our host called on us to
rise, and when he cried out his toast, “The Ladies, God bless them!”
each gentleman, having drained his glass, used it to extinguish the
candle-light set before him. It seemed to me a strange custom. I took
advantage of the darkness to get out of an open window, and was pursued
by two or three, who fell on the way, so that I got back to the house
and to bed, liking none of it. But now all this is much amended, and
there is more moderation in drinking, but still too much of this evil
custom.

I am led here to remark that in the War of Independency many officers
who were otherwise competent failed because of drunkenness, and,
indeed, at Germantown this was one cause of our losing the battle.
When it became needful after St. Clair’s defeat in 1791 to appoint
general officers, I furnished my cabinet with a statement of the names
and characters of such officers as, having served under me, I knew
should be considered. As concerned most of them, I found it well to
state whether or not they were addicted to spirits, so common was this
practice.

It seems very remarkable that so few gentlemen should have foreseen
what was plain to the trappers and dealers in furs. All of the Ohio
country was claimed by both French and English. The Indians, although
cheated and made drunk, were still in possession of the woods they
considered to be their own. Virginia claimed what Pennsylvania, and
even Connecticut, said was theirs; Pennsylvania was reaping the only
harvest of the wilderness, of the value of some fifty thousand pounds
a year, the trade in furs; last of all, in 1749, some enterprising
gentlemen in England and Virginia planned the Ohio Company, meaning to
colonize even north of the Ohio.

When Mr. Thomas Lee, president of the council, died, my brother
Lawrence became the head of the Ohio Company, and all of this, as I
now see, had much to do with the next change in my life. I find it
pleasant again to dwell here on the good sense and liberal spirit of my
brother, who, had his life been spared, would surely have been chosen
to do that which has fallen to me. His character is well seen in his
desire that the Dutch from Pennsylvania, whom he invited as settlers,
being dissenters and having come into the jurisdiction of Virginia,
should not be forced to pay parish rates and support clergymen of the
Church of England, as all dissenters were obliged to do. He urged
that restraints of conscience were cruel, and injurious to the country
imposing them, and he wrote:

    I may quote as example England, Holland, and Prussia, and, much
    more, Pennsylvania, which has flourished under that delightful
    liberty, so as to become the admiration of every man who
    considers the short time it has been settled, whereas Virginia
    has increased by slow degrees, although much older.

There, on our borders, as Lord Fairfax said, was much powder, and only
one spark needed to set it off. Meanwhile Mr. Gist set out to survey
the grant of the Ohio Company, on the south side of the Ohio River, all
of which was greatly to concern my life.

Virginia and Pennsylvania were, at that time, much stirred up by the
hostile threats of France, and efforts began to be made to prepare for
hostilities on the frontier. About this time, but the exact date I fail
to recall, my brother Lawrence abandoned all concern in the military
line of life, and arranged that his place of major in the militia
should be given up to me, and that I should also take his position as
district adjutant.




XVI


During the summer of 1751 I saw with affectionate anxiety a great
change in the health of my brother Lawrence. I remember no event of
my life which caused me more concern. Since our father’s death he had
been both father and friend. Had it not been for him, I should not have
known Mr. Fairfax and his cousin, Lord Fairfax, nor without their help
could I have become employed in a way which brought about my service on
the frontier and all that came after. Thus, in the providence of the
Ruler of the events of this world, one step leads on to another, and we
are always being educated for that which is to come.

At last, in September, Lawrence, who had been long ill of a phthisical
complaint, asked me to go with him to the Barbados. Therefore, while
Mr. Gist’s surveys on the Ohio went on, and both English and French
were making bids to secure the Indians, we were on the sea. It is far
from my purpose to recall what, after a constant habit, is set down in
my diary. I lost in the Barbados what good looks a clear skin gave me,
because of a mild attack of smallpox, such as a third of the human race
must expect, and I remain slightly pitted to this day.

What most struck me in the islands was the richness of the soil, and
yet that nearly all the planters were in debt, and estates over-billed
and alienated. They were all spendthrifts, and I remind myself that
I resolved at that time never to be in the grasp of the enemy called
Debt. How persons coming to estates of three hundred or four hundred
acres could want was to me most wonderful.

Lawrence now declared for Bermuda, and as he seemed better, I felt able
to leave him and return. To be torn by the demands of public duty on
the one hand and by the call of affection on the other, I have many
times been subjected to. Lawrence insisted that matters at home made
urgent my return, and, indeed, through life I have always held that the
public service comes first.

I reached home in the ship _Industry_, in February, 1752, having had
enough of the sea in a five weeks’ voyage, and very stormy.

Lawrence was at times better and desired to remain a year in Bermuda,
and for me to fetch his wife. But soon his mind changed, and he wrote
that he was resolved to hurry home, as he said, to his grave.

In the little time that was between his return and his passing away,
I was much in his company――nor have I ever since been long without
thought of him; for, although I am not disposed to speak much of
sorrow, nor ever was, his great patience under suffering, and how he
would never complain, but comfort his wife and me as if we were those
in pain, and not he, have often been in my mind, and particularly of
late, since the increase of my own infirmities has reminded me that the
end of life cannot be very remote.

I am of opinion that I must have seemed, when younger, to be a dull,
plodding lad; but, as time went on, Lawrence came to think more of me
than did any, except Lord Fairfax, and in this his last illness gave
me such evidence of his esteem as greatly strengthened my hope that I
should justify his belief in me.

General Hamilton once asked me whether I did not think that at the
approach of death men seem sometimes to acquire such clearness of
mind as they might be thought to obtain beyond the grave. I had to
reply that such considerations were remote from my usual subjects of
reflection; but what he then said, although I had no suitable reply,
reminded me of certain things Lawrence said to me, and of his certainty
that I should attain honourable distinction. I thought him then more
affectionate than just, for I have never esteemed myself very highly;
but I know that I have never ceased to do what I believed to be my
duty, and as to this my conscience is clear.

My dear Lawrence died at Mount Vernon, July 12, 1752, aged thirty-five
years, and thus I lost the man who had most befriended me. As his
infant daughter Sarah inherited his estate, and I, although only twenty
years old, was one of his executors, my time was fully occupied by this
and by the increase of public duties, which were made heavy by the want
of good officers and by the insubordination and drunkenness of their
men. Even then I saw what must come of it all if we had a serious war,
for the militia could not by law be used more than five miles outside
of the colony, and we should have to rely upon volunteers for more
extended service.

The little maid, my niece, at Mount Vernon, did not live long after
her father’s death, and thus, as I have before stated, in 1754 the
estate fell to me under the will of my father. It was charged with a
life-interest in favour of my brother’s wife, who soon married Mr.
George Lee of Westmoreland. I was obligated to pay her fifteen thousand
pounds of tobacco yearly; and as the estate, because of Lawrence’s
illness, had fallen away, I was little the better for the property
until her death in 1761.




XVII


On my brother’s return, although very ill, he interested himself in my
future, and it was, no doubt, in part due to his influence that, before
his death, I was called to Williamsburg, the seat of government, by
Governor Dinwiddie, who told me he was advised to make me one of the
adjutant-generals. To my surprise, he seemed to consider me competent,
and, owing to my brother, and probably also to the advice of the
Fairfaxes, I received this appointment for the Northern Division, one
of the four now newly created, with the rank of major and one hundred
and fifty colonial pounds a year.

To this day I do not fully understand why I so easily secured this
important appointment. I was only nineteen and knew nothing of war.
As I consider the matter, there were many more experienced men, who,
like Lawrence, had served at sea and on land. The other adjutants were
older than I. One of them said I would have a bitter business, for the
chief use of the militia was to search negro cabins for arms and to
get drunk on training-days. Nevertheless, as I knew well enough, there
was good stuff in the men of Virginia, and no better could be found
than the men of the frontier, who were expert with the rifle and were
more than a match for the Indians. As I learned from Lawrence, the
candidates for these places of adjutant were either too old or were
men of drunken habits; and as to the wandering soldiers of fortune who
had had experience in war, they were not gentlemen of our own class,
and this, I understood, was a question which the governor and council
considered important.

When I went again to accept and thank the governor for the appointment,
he talked to me at some length, and I learned that he was more largely
interested in the Ohio Company than I had previously known, and that
one reason for my appointment was my familiarity with the frontier
country, where I might have to serve. Without further troubling myself
as to why I, a young man of nineteen, was thus chosen, I set earnestly
about my work. I found it no easy task. I myself had much to learn,
and, by Lawrence’s advice, secured Mr. Muse, formerly adjutant of a
regiment, who had served with my brother in the Spanish war and now
resided near us in Westmoreland. This old soldier lent me books on
tactics, and taught me the manual of the soldier, which was to prove of
small value on the frontier. Van Braam was also put to use, as I wished
now to learn the broadsword.

Meanwhile, at intervals, I rode through the counties of my district,
and did my best to ascertain how many men could be counted on, and to
stiffen the lax discipline of the county militia.

I soon discovered that the governor, Robert Dinwiddie, was more intent
on making money than on governing wisely.

Appointments to office, in my youth, were very often obtained through
family and other influence, and were, like mine, critically considered
by many. Indeed, in this year, not long before Lawrence died, Mr.
George Fairfax mentioned to me that, being at Greenway Court, and Mr.
Meade present, that gentleman inquired of him how it chanced that a
man so young as I should have succeeded to obtain what older men had
failed to get. His lordship replied for his cousin that he was mistaken
as to my age, for all the Washingtons were born old, and he supposed
that I was near about thirty. Mr. Meade said that it was thought my
lord knew best who pulled the strings, but to this, as George Fairfax
said, laughing, his lordship only smoked a reply.

This Mr. Meade was the father of Richard, who served well as one of my
aides in the great war. David Meade, the second son, was of those who
believed that Colonel Byrd should have been made commander-in-chief by
the Congress. It may be that he was right, or would have been so had
Colonel Byrd been more decided in his opinions. He had both ability and
military experience.

Mr. Meade was not alone in this opinion, and was said to have himself
entertained the belief that, although I was, as he said, a good
business man and of irreproachable morals, Colonel Byrd of Westover
was my superiour in some respects and in none my inferiour, and of
even greater experience in war. I have had at times to contradict the
statement that there was no opposition to my appointment. I may add
that I made no effort to secure it, and I am sure that no one doubted
my capacity for the command more than I myself; but of this I have
already said enough.

There were many in and out of the Congress who preferred others.
More than one of the Virginia delegation has been said to have been
cool in the matter, and Mr. Edmund Pendleton was clear and full
against my appointment. I have always taught myself never to resent
opposition founded on honest beliefs or entertained by those of
unblemished character. Colonel Madison once said to me that time is
a great peacemaker, but I have rarely needed it. My breast never
harboured a suspicion that the opposition then made was due to personal
unfriendliness, for no man could have had more reasonable doubt of my
fitness than I myself. Nor have I ever permitted the remembrance to
affect my actions, and I have lived to have unequivocal proofs of the
esteem of some who most opposed me.




XVIII


Like all Virginians, I was disturbed during this time by the news of
the insolence of the French on the frontier, and began to feel that my
brother’s money, put into the Ohio Company, was in peril, for we were
like to be soon cooped up by a line of forts, and our trade in peltries
was already almost at an end, and about to pass into the hands of the
French. We learned with pleasure that the royal governors were ordered
to insist on the retirement of these overbusy French, who claimed all
the land up to the Alleghanies, but I did not dream that I was soon to
take part in the matter.

About that time, or before, there had been much effort to secure the
Six Nations of Indians as allies. One of their chiefs, Tanacharisson,
known as the Half-King, because of holding a subsidiary rule among the
Indians, advised a fort to be built by us near to the Forks of the
Ohio, on the east bank, and Gist, the trader, set out on this errand.
A Captain Trent was charged to carry our King’s message to the French
outposts; but having arrived at Logstown, one hundred and fifty miles
from his destination, and hearing of the defeat of our allies, the
Miamis, by the French, he lost heart and came back to report. The Ohio
Company at this time complained to the governor of the attacks on their
traders, and this gentleman, being concerned both for his own pocket
and for his Majesty’s property, resolved to send some one of more
spirit to bear the King’s message ordering the French to retire and to
cease to molest our fur traders about the Ohio.

It was unfortunate that Governor Robert Dinwiddie, who was now eager
to defend his interests in the Ohio Company, had lost the prudent
counsel of its late head, my brother Lawrence. He would have made a
better envoy than I, for at the age of twenty-one a man is too young
to influence the Indians, on account of a certain reverence they have
for age in council. I was ignorant of what was intended when I received
orders to repair to Williamsburg. To my surprise, and I may say to my
pleasure, I learned that I was to go to Logstown. I was there to meet
our allies, the Indians, and secure from them an escort and guides, and
so push on and find the French commander. I was to deliver to him my
summons, and wait an answer during one week, and then to return. I was
also to keep my eyes open as to all matters of military concern.

Whatever distrust I had in regard to my powers as an envoy, I said
nothing, for in case of an order a soldier has no alternative but to
obey. Had I been in the governor’s place I should have sent an older
man.

I received my credentials at Williamsburg, and rode away the day after,
October 31, 1753, intending no delay.

Van Braam was assigned to me as my French interpreter, and I gathered
my outfit of provisions, blankets, and guns at Alexandria, and horses,
tents, and other needed matters at Winchester, and was joined near
Wills Creek――where now is the settlement called Cumberland――by Mr. Gist
and an Indian interpreter, one Davidson.

The same day, November 13, to my pleasure, Lord Fairfax rode into camp
and spent the night. It was raining and at times snowing, but Gist
soon set up a lean-to, and with our feet to the fire we talked late
into the night, his lordship smoking, as was his habit.

I have many times desired to be able to make drawings of the greater
trees, but, although I could plot a survey well, beyond this I could
never go. I speak of this because of my remembrance of that night, and
how mighty the trees seemed by the campfire light around the clearing.
It was his lordship who called my attention to the trees. He had a way,
most strange to me, of suddenly dropping the matter in hand before it
was fully considered. He would be silent a space and speak no more, or
turn presently to another matter most remote. All of this I learned to
accept without remonstrance, out of respect for this great gentleman,
as was fitting in one of my years. I never got accustomed to his ways,
for it has been always my desire to deal with the subject in hand fully
and to an end. Nor did I see this wilderness as his lordship saw it;
for, while I made note of trees for what logs they would afford, and
as to the soil and the lay of the land, his lordship I have seen stand
for ten minutes looking at a great tree as though he found much to
consider of it. In like manner I have seen him stop when the hounds
were in full cry, a thing most astonishing, and sit still in the
saddle, looking down at a brook or up at the sunrise.

As we lay by the fire he remained without speaking for a long while,
until the men, having found some old and dried birch logs, cast them
on the fire, and a great roaring red flame lighted the woods and was
blown about by the cold wind. His lordship said, “See, George, how the
shadows of the trees are dancing”――a thing very wild, that I never
should have much noticed had not he called on me to observe it. After
this he was silent until suddenly he began to ask questions as to my
men and my route, and what I meant to do and say in the French camps.
At last he said, “You are going to stir up a nest of hornets,” and,
finally, that the former messenger, Trent, was a coward.

When he had again been silent a long while, he said that this time,
at least, he was not responsible for my appointment, and Dinwiddie
was a fool to send a boy on a man’s errand. This was my own opinion,
but I made no reply. At last he filled his pipe again, and called for
a coal, and said, “But by George, George, you never were a boy, not
since I knew you.” I ventured to say that but for his former influence
this office would not have come to me. To this he made no answer, but
bid me distrust every Indian, especially the Half-King, who was not
treacherous but uncertain, and not less every Frenchman, and added that
I was so young that they would think that I could be easily fooled. I
said that might be an advantage, for I meant to see all there was to
see, and had told Van Braam to keep his ears open.

His lordship laughed, and said I might thank Heaven there were no women
in the business, and with this, bidding me have the fire made up for
the night, we lay down to sleep in the lean-to.

I find it interesting now in my old age to discover myself thus able to
recall, little by little, what his lordship said. I was pleased at the
notice he took of me, but a lad, and lay long awake under the lean-to,
thinking upon such counsels as his lordship had been pleased to give.




XIX


As I turn over the diary in which I recorded my journey through this
wilderness, I find myself remembering many little incidents which I
never set down.

It rained or snowed almost daily. The rivers were swollen, so that
we had to swim our horses, an art which soldiers should be taught.
Although Van Braam much enlivened the way by his songs and very
doubtful tales of his wars, I was very tired and my new buckskin
coat in tatters when we arrived at the mouth of Turtle Creek on the
Monongahela. There we found Frazier, a trader whom the French had
driven out of the Indian town of Venango. With two canoes he lent me
I sent our baggage down the Monongahela to the fork, where, with the
Alleghany River, it joins the Ohio, and set out on a bad trail to meet
them.

We got to the Forks of the Ohio before the canoes. There, I settled in
my mind, was the place for a fort, nor could I better that judgment
to-day. It came afterwards to be chosen by the French engineer Mercier
to be Fort Duquesne. On the rise of ground we made camp, and paid a
visit to Shingiss of the Delawares, who pretended to favour us, but
proved later a savage foe.

Gist insisted that he could tell from their faces how the Indians felt
towards us, but to me they told nothing, and are in this respect unlike
the faces of white men.

We got to Logstown, fifteen miles down the Ohio, on November 24. Here
I met the Indian known as the Half-King. He was angry at the French
claims, and I did not too strongly put forward those of the King, which
were not much better founded; but that was for my superiours to decide.
I found him hard to satisfy, but if I spoke of the French he was at
once angered, and eager to help. I watched with interest as he drew
with charcoal on birch bark the plan of their forts at French Creek and
on Lake Erie, while Davidson interpreted his words.

The nearest way was impassable because of marshy savannas, and I found
I must needs travel north so as to reach the lake, by passing through
Venango. This, the Half-King informed me, was five sleeps distant, and
expressed it by five times drawing up his hands, as a man does when
pulling up his blankets before sleeping.

It was fortunately arranged that the Half-King, White Thunder, and two
more chiefs should go with me. It was but seventy miles to Venango, but
the weather could not have been worse, and so it was December 4 before
we rode into the clearing the French had made around the big log house
out of which they had driven the trader John Frazier.

I recall what is not set down in my diary, the anger and shame with
which I saw the flag of France flying over the big cabin. As I came out
of the woods, a lean, dark-faced man came forward with three French
officers, and I learned that he was Captain Joncaire, the worst enemy
we had, for he was a half-breed and had the tongues of the Indians.
He said he had command on the Ohio, but we must push on to see his
general. He was very merry, and laughed every minute or two, but was on
his guard like the others.

Three days passed before I could get away, with La Force, the guide
they gave me, and three soldiers for escort. Meanwhile Joncaire
entertained us at a supper. I never had better cause to be thankful for
my sobriety, which was a rare virtue at that day, and even later, among
all classes. The big log cabin had a great table set out with game
and French kickshaws, such as were strange to me. None of the French
spoke English nor understood it, and of my people Van Braam alone had
any French. They all dosed themselves freely with wine and brandy, and
pretty soon the French felt it and began to give their tongues license
and to brag and talk loosely. I was never more amused in all my life,
for as Joncaire boasted of what they meant to do, Van Braam, who was
an old soldier with a head used to potations, chattered what seemed to
be a kind of French, which set the drunken fools a-laughing. Amid all
the noise, and the smoke which nearly choked me, Van Braam now and then
spoke to me, telling me what they said, and of their mind to seize and
hold the country. Next day he was still more full as to their talk,
and did me a service, which, in spite of the hurt he innocently did me
later, I never forgot.

I was glad to get away at last, for when Joncaire found the Half-King,
who was hid away in my camp, which I had made in the woods at a
distance, he got the poor savage drunk with rum and loaded him with
gifts. Four days later, and very tired, I was at French Creek, where
was a great fort, fifteen miles from Lake Erie. Much against my will,
Joncaire had sent with me La Force, as great a lover of mischief
as could be found. This fellow was the leanest man I ever saw, and
saddle-coloured. When he spoke to me he stared constantly, which is as
unpleasant as to avoid entirely to meet a man’s gaze. He made no end of
trouble, and had later his reward, and perhaps more punishment than he
deserved.

I met at this station many educated French officers, such as I was to
make welcome at another time. I could not avoid to be pleased with the
commandant, by name Legardeur de St. Pierre, a chevalier of St. Louis.
He was an old soldier, very tall and straight, and with much grey hair,
and had lost an eye in battle. This gentleman was most courteous, and
had brisk, pleasing ways, very frank and outspoken. He desired to be
remembered to Lord Fairfax, whom he had known in Paris long ago.

The chevalier, by good fortune, spoke English enough to make his
company very agreeable, and I became sure, as I spent some days in his
society, that he made no attempt to deceive me; for nothing could have
been more plain than that he meant to hold the country for his king.

He was pleased to relate his campaigns in Europe, and, although he was
apt, like old soldiers, to be lengthy as to these, I found him to be
instructive.

He talked lightly of women, but so did his officers, and in a manner we
in Virginia should have considered to be unmannerly or worse. Also he
told me that the French encouraged their soldiers to take wives among
the young squaws, a thing our people never inclined to do. He seemed to
have known many English gentlemen who had been in Paris, and even why
Lord Fairfax had left England, all of which story I could have heard
from him if I had thought proper so to do, which I did not. He did
say, and was very merry about it, that if a woman drove his lordship
to America, another might drive him back, for, after all, we were only
shuttlecocks, and were knocked to and fro by the women――and I might
say so to his lordship with the chevalier’s compliments.

I remember that when, after this journey, I had returned home, my
sister Betty was agreeably interested to hear what the chevalier had
said of the old lord, who was the only person who could keep Betty
quiet for five minutes. I had to answer that I had not seen fit to
inquire further. Upon this she declared that some day she should ask
his lordship all about it. When I laughed and made no other reply, she
declared that I was as silent as my lord, and that I had lost a fine
opportunity. I contented myself with the chevalier’s compliments to
Lord Fairfax, who said if that was all the old fellow had said he must
have changed, for he was a gossiping old reprobate and fit to corrupt
me. But for my part I liked him and found him a gallant gentleman, and
only of a mind to serve his king, as I was to serve mine.

There was no unreasonable delay, for the chevalier made clear to me
that nothing could be done until after they had held a council. I
arrived on the 12th, and on the 14th they were able to give me a sealed
reply to the governor’s summons. Meanwhile I had been left free to
inspect the fort and count the canoes made ready for use in the spring.
I must admit that they seemed careless as to what I saw. There were
many Indians and French and half-breeds coming and going. The fort was
square, of logs, with palisadoes, a forge, and a chapel, all very neat
and clean, and much ceremony when we came in and went out.




XX


I was now very eager to go, but notwithstanding the polite ways of the
commandant, I found needless delays as to guides and supplies. This
was to gain time to win the Half-King, who was of our side to-day, and
the next had what the Indians call “two hearts.” I cannot say that
ever in my life I suffered as much anxiety as I did in this affair.
The Half-King, being half drunk, assured me the chevalier was keeping
him. That officer swore that he was ignorant why we did not go, but
this I determined not to do without Tanacharisson. One day a gun was
promised the savage, another day all my sachems were dead drunk. I was
in despair, for to lose the Half-King to the wiles of the French would
be a serious matter, and I was resolved not to fail. But here was I, a
lad of twenty-one, playing a game with old, astute men for the prize of
a drunken Indian!

Finally Gist succeeded in keeping him sober a day, and yet, as he said,
reasonably intoxicated with promises of great gifts; and so at last, on
December 16, we gladly bade farewell and set out in our birch canoes to
go down French Creek.

A cannon was fired, and the officers assembled on shore saluted us
politely as we left the fort. The commandant sent one canoe loaded with
strong liquors to be used on the way, and at Venango to overcome the
wits of Tanacharisson.

Each of us, Gist and Van Braam and Davidson, was seated very
comfortably in the middle of a canoe of birch bark; at the bow and
stern were Indians or half-breeds, and, as the water was very rapid
most of the way, they used poles of ash to hold and guide the canoes.
On the 18th December we were no longer comfortable. The ice was thick,
and we had all of us to wade and, in places, to portage. On the 22d
we came to a strong rapid. Gist advised to land and portage the
provisions. This we did, and, being arrived before the French canoes,
stood to watch them descend, a fine sight. About half-way the man on
the bow of one canoe――that with the liquors――caught his pole between
two rocks. He should have let it go; but as he did not, the boat slued
square to the stream and, filling, turned over, so that all the brandy
was lost, to my satisfaction. The men got out, with no great ease,
swearing oaths, both French and Indian.

It rained and froze, and when, at fall of night, we came to Venango on
December 22, we were cased in ice like men in armour. I was never more
glad of a fire.

Here Captain Chabert de Joncaire set to work again to convince my
Half-King with the bottle. But by good luck the sachem was much
disordered in his stomach because of the rum he had of St. Pierre, and
when Gist persuaded him the French had bewitched the liquor, he would
none of it. Here we found our horses, but very lean, and, after a
rest, set out by land from Venango, over a bad trail, this being about
December 25.

It was a horrible journey, the men getting frozen feet and the
packhorses failing, until, in despair at the delay, on the third day,
against Gist’s advice, I left Van Braam to follow me with the horses
and men, and determined to strike through the woods by compass to the
Forks of the Ohio, and thus be enabled the sooner to report to the
governor.

For this venture Gist and I put on match-coats, Indian dress, thick
socks, and moccasins. We carried packs, with my papers tied up in
tanned skin, and as much provision as we could manage. With our guns,
and thus cumbered, we left the camp and struck out through the woods,
where to move by compass is no easy matter, because to go straight is
not possible where every tree and bit of swamp must turn a man to this
side or that. But by taking note of some great pine in front of us,
and, on reaching it, of another, we made good progress, and for part of
the way we had an Indian trail.

On the third day, the snow being deep, we struck up the southeast fork
of Beaver Creek. Here were a few Indians camped, who seemed to expect
us, but how they could have done this I never knew; but there is much
about Indian ways of communication of which I must confess myself
ignorant.

They were too curious to please Gist; but as we were now in midwinter,
and to pass through a wilderness with no trails, we engaged, for we
could do no better, an Indian as guide and to carry my pack. Gist
mistrusted him, and I soon shared his opinion.

We left at break of day, and after ten miles were in doubt as to our
route, I with one foot chafed and the most tired I ever was in my life,
on account of plunging through drifts, where, on his snow-shoes, the
Indian was at ease. At this time he would have carried my gun, but I
refused. When we said we would camp and rest, he declared the Ottawas
would see our fire-smoke and surprise us. Upon this we kept on, as he
said, toward his cabin. Once he told Gist he heard whoops, and then a
gun, and kept turning northward, to our discontent.

Notwithstanding my fatigue, I found the loneliness and silence of
these woods to my taste, being open and free of undergrowth. I was
startled at times by the sharp crack, like a pistol-shot, of huge limbs
breaking, but there was no other sound.




XXI


At last I declared that I must camp at the first brook we met, and so
kept on, stumbling, and ready to fall down with fatigue. At this time,
being come some two miles farther into warm sunlight and an open glade,
all the brighter for the whiteness of the snow, I came to a stand and
said, “Here is our stream; let us camp.” At this time Gist and I were
near together, and the Indian about twenty paces away. Of a sudden he
turned and fired at us. I cried out to Gist if he was shot. He said no,
and we ran in on the fellow before he could load, and seized him and
took his gun. Gist was for killing him at once, but this I would not
allow, and we contented ourselves with taking his gun, and made him
walk on in front. Gist, who was much vexed, said if we did not shoot
him, which was the better way, we must contrive to fool him. At last it
was agreed to pretend we believed his excuses as to the shooting being
an accident, and to let him go to his cabin. He said he knew we would
never trust him further, and was pleased to be told he might go home
and get some jerked venison ready, and that we would camp that night
and follow his tracks in the snow at morning. We returned his gun, but
took all his powder. We gave him a cake of bread, and Gist followed him
until he had gone a mile. After my companion came back to me, we moved
on rapidly for an hour and made a big fire, and, as it was night, took,
by the light of the blaze, a course by compass, and set out, leaving,
to my regret, the great warm flame behind us.

It was now clear and very cold. All night long we pushed on, now and
then making a light with flint and steel to see the compass, and trying
to observe the stars. We were well assured that we should be pursued,
and on this account never halted the next day, and hardly spoke a word
until, at evening, we came upon the Alleghany River.

There we made camp, and were up at break of day.

The ice lay out some sixty feet from the two shores, and between
were masses of ice afloat and a great flow of water. Having only one
hatchet, and that not very good, we were all day contriving to build
a raft. At sundown we pushed it over the shore ice and got afloat.
Midway we got caught in the jam of ice-cakes, and as I pushed with my
setting-pole, the swift current and a block of ice caught it, and I was
cast into the deep water. I caught on to a log of the raft, and Gist
giving me a hand, I crawled on to the raft. I had lost my pole, and
to go to either shore was not possible, and when we drifted on to an
island I was thankful enough, and the raft swept away in the flood.

Very soon Gist had a great fire burning, and by this I dried myself;
but to keep warm was impossible, for the cold was the greatest I have
ever known, and so intense was it that Gist would not allow me to
sleep, but made me walk about, although I was ready to drop, saying if
we slept and the fire should die, so should we. By good fortune there
was a large jam of drifted wood on the upper end of the island, and
thus we had fuel sufficient.

What with fatigue and the cold increasing as the night went on, even
Gist, who was of great endurance and hopeful, was concerned lest we
should have been followed, and, as the island afforded small shelter,
be shot from the shore. This troubled me less than to keep warm, for
there was not snow enough to build a hut, than which there is no better
shelter.

About ten o’clock that night we found that the river was rising, so
that it would take little more to flood us. What I found worst of all
was the delay. I said things could hardly be worse, but that the cold
was such as would freeze the river by daylight. He said that was true,
and we went back to the fire and shared a part of a flask of brandy
St. Pierre gave me. Fortunately we had food enough. Gist kept me and
himself awake with amazing stories of Indians and French, and of great
bears. But, contrive as we could, Gist had his toes froze, and had to
have them rubbed with snow to save them. I was well pleased at last to
see red in the sky to eastward, and when we found the ice-cakes froze
hard together we made haste to cross to the shore. There, being out of
shot and the sun warmer every minute, we built another fire and ate
breakfast, and took, each in turn, an hour’s sleep.

As we walked away, Gist said there was small fear of Indians either in
the darkness or in great cold, for they liked neither, and he thought
the cold had perhaps saved us from pursuit.

This was the case at Valley Forge in ’78, when, although my soldiers
suffered greatly, the snows and the cold were such as to keep Sir
William Howe in his lines.

From the top of a hill, as I looked back on the river, Gist said: “You
will never again, sir, be in a worse business than that, nor ever see
the like again.” But this I did, when, on the night before Christmas,
in 1776, I crossed the Delaware in a boat with General Knox, amid as
great peril of ice, on our way to beat up the Hessian quarters at
Trenton.

While we were in danger, Gist had been silent; but now that we were
released from anxiety and on a clear trail, he talked all the time,
whether I made answer or not. I remember little of what he said, being
engaged in thinking how soon I should be able to reach Williamsburg.
I recall, however, his surprising me with a question as to whether
I had ever before had a man shoot at me. I said never, and having my
mind thus turned to the matter, felt it to be strange that so great an
escape and such nearness to death had not more impressed me. But, in
fact, I had no time to think before we caught the man, and after that
the great misery of the cold so distressed me that how to keep warm
employed my mind.




XXII


We were now on a good trail, and by nightfall came to the cabin of
Frazier, a trader in furs; and this was where the Turtle Creek falls
into the Monongahela. Here I wrote up my diary.

As there was hope of packhorses coming hither which might be used
on our return, I waited, pleased to be fed and warmed, but hearing
bad news of massacres by the Ottawas. Near by I visited the Queen
Aliquippa, and made her presents of a match-coat and a bottle of rum I
had of the trader, asking, too, her advice as to the Indians, all of
which pleased her mightily.

I was surprised to find a woman with rule over Indians, but she was
said to be wise in council. I never heard of a King Aliquippa. The
queen was old and fat and as wrinkled as a frosted persimmon. She
smoked a pipe and had a tomahawk in her belt, and I did not think she
would be a comfortable partner in the marriage state.

At last, as we failed at this place to get horses after a three
days’ rest, we left on foot, January 1, reaching Gist’s home on the
Monongahela, a sixteen-mile tramp. There I left Gist, and, buying a
horse, pushed on, passing packhorses carrying stores for the new fort
begun at the Forks.

I had no more appetite for adventure, and was glad to reach Williamsburg
on January 16, 1754, where I delivered my sealed reply, and conveyed to
the governor my views, and remembrance of what I had seen and heard,
with maps I had made and drawings of the forts.

Looking back from the hilltop, as General Hamilton once said to me,
must often surprise a man with knowledge of mistakes made by the way;
but considering this journey from the summit of years, I seem to have
done as well as so young a man might.

Van Braam, who came in later, told me that the elder French officers
were rather amused that a boy should be sent on an errand which might
bring about a war. I think it was their imprudent indifference which
left me free to observe all I wished to learn which might bear upon
military action in the future. It appeared to me that they felt so
secure of their own power as to be altogether careless.

I proposed to myself on starting to be as full of wiles as the Indians,
and to be very careful as to what I said to them and to the French. I
perceive to-day that my disposition to look down on the Indians was a
mistake, and that I had been wiser to have treated the Half-King more
as an equal. My disposition to be what is called diplomatic with the
French in command was needless, for the commander was very frank. I
have learned, as years went by, that in treating with men or nations
the simplest way is the best.

The answer made to the governor was plain enough. The Frenchmen were
there to obey orders, and meant to hold the lands. They would, of
course, send our summons to Marquis Duquesne. The chevalier said in his
despatch polite words of me, which I still recall with satisfaction,
for I have never been insensible to the approbation of men, and the
words of the courteous French officer were not lost upon me.

The governor thought, and so did his council, that the answer was
evasive and was meant to gain time. It seemed to me remarkably
straightforward, and I was sure that in the spring they would descend
the Ohio and take possession. I had to prepare my report hastily in
two days, which was printed and distributed through the colonies. It
appears to me, as I read it over, to have been well done for so young
a man, with no time allowed to correct and improve the language. I am
more surprised, as I now read it, that I should have had the good sense
to see, as the French engineers saw later, that where the Monongahela
and Alleghany join was the best place for a fort, and a better than
where the Ohio Company intended.

It seems strange to me, as I look back on this time, to see what share
I, but a young man, had in the historical events of the day. My report
was not only read throughout the colonies, but in England and even in
France, so that at this time, and again soon after, my name became
known both among ourselves and on the other side of the ocean, although
the matters in which I was engaged were in themselves, to appearance,
of little moment. To be so widely spoken of was not then unpleasant,
and the less so because it was a source of gratification to my friends.

I had been through the winter wilderness and delivered the hostile
message of the King’s governor. It was seemingly no great matter. But
as I reflect, I perceive that whatever I did then or later gave me such
importance in the eyes of men as led on to my being considered for the
greater tasks of life. Mr. J――――, who much disliked General H――――, once
wrote of him that he was like a pawn in the game of chess, and was
pushed on by mere luck, until he suddenly found himself on the far line
of the board with the powers of royalty. This was said with bitterness
not long ago, when I insisted he should command under me, at the time
we were threatened with a French war. I am not, however, of the opinion
that good fortune alone presides over the destinies either of men or
nations, for often in after days I have had cause to believe that an
intending Providence was concerned in the events of the great war.

As soon as I had made an end of my business with the governor, I
visited my mother, and thence rode to Mount Vernon. There I found Lord
Fairfax, and was pleased to be rested and to hear his lordship speak
well of my conduct of a difficult affair. When we were alone next day
on horseback, he rode long in silence, as was his way. When he spoke
he said: “George, I have sent for copies of your report to send to my
friends in England. It is well done. I am pleased that you would not
talk much of it last night to Colonel Willis and Mr. Warner. The men
who do not talk about themselves are the most talked about by others.
Silence often insures praise.” Indeed, even thus early and since, I
have been averse to speak of what I had done. I replied that I should
remember his lordship’s advice, upon which he went on to talk of the
chances of war with France. I was not left long idle.




XXIII


The governor was now fully decided to resist the French aggressions,
and convened the House of Burgesses after much delay. I was offered
full command of a force of three hundred men in six companies, forming
a regiment. I consulted his lordship and my half-brother Augustine as
to this, and not feeling secure of my fitness for so great a position,
and they agreeing, I chose rather to serve as second under Colonel
Frye. This being settled, I went about the business of recruiting as
lieutenant-colonel.

In considering the new duty to which I was called and what it led
me to do, I have asked myself whether I could have done it better,
considering the want of supplies and of sufficiency of men.

Mr. John Langdon at one time wrote to me, when commenting on the
character of General A――――, that what he had been as a very young
man he continued to be ever after, and that, although education and
opportunity might give a man of strong character the tools for his
purposes, they would not seriously alter his nature; he would only be
more and more that which he had been.

As I sit in judgment upon the particulars which occasioned the affair
at Great Meadows, and later my disaster at Fort Necessity, I am
inclined to believe that I could have done no better at fifty than I
did at twenty-two. I perceive also that the conditions which at that
time surrounded and embarrassed me were on a lesser scale the same as
those with which I had to struggle in the later and more important
days, which made me old before my time. Such comparisons as these do
not readily occur to me, as I am inclined to dwell most upon the needs
of the present and upon the possibilities which the future may have in
store.

On one occasion, during the march to Yorktown, when bivouacked at the
head of the Elk, Colonel Scammel and Lieutenant-Colonel Hugh Wynne,
both at that time of my military family, led me into expressing myself
as to these earlier events, and one of them, Lieutenant-Colonel
Wynne, I think, remarked that I had then to encounter the same kind
of obstacles as those which had perplexed me at the Valley Forge and
Morristown, and indeed throughout the War of Independency. I did not
encourage such further discussion by these young officers as might
readily lead on to the impropriety of criticisms upon Congress. But
now, recalling what was then said, I am led to see how remarkably alike
were the conditions I had to meet at two periods of my life. Nor can
I fail to observe that what General Hamilton liked very often to call
“the education of events” was valuable in teaching me moderation and
such control of temper as I was to need on a larger field.

While I went about my military preparations, the governor and the House
wrangled over the ten thousand pounds he asked for the fitting out of
troops. I have observed that men engaged in agriculture as the masters
of slaves acquire a great independence of thought and are hard to move
to a common agreement even when, as at that time, there is an immediate
need for united action.

There was also much distrust of Governor Dinwiddie, and indeed we
rarely submitted with entire good will to any of the royal governors.
He got his grant at last, but a committee was to confer with him as to
how it was to be used――a measure not altogether unwise, but which made
him swear we were getting to be too republican and, he feared, would be
more and more difficult to be brought to order.

As to my recruiting, the better men were indisposed to join, and I got
chiefly a vagabond crew of shoeless, half-dressed fellows, but most of
them hunters and good shots. I did better when the governor offered a
bounty in land, which as yet we had not, for it was to be about the
fine bottoms at the Forks of the Ohio, which were in the hands of the
French and the Indians.

I made Van Braam a captain, and thereafter obtained more men and
better, for the old warrior promised, I fear, an easy time and all
manner of agreeable rewards, with such accounts of the lands they were
to have as much delighted the hard-working farmers’ sons.

On April 2 I left Alexandria, with orders to secure tools and build
roads, for Colonel Frye to follow me with the artillery and a greater
force.

In what I was thus set to do I knew I was to have difficulty, and this
it was hard to make Governor Dinwiddie understand, nor do I think he
or our rulers in England could form any idea of the country to be
traversed, even up to the Forks of the Ohio. From our outlying farms
westward to the Mississippi was a great forest land with savannas,
and beyond the Ohio vast meadows where buffalo grazed. Through our
own hills there were old Indian trails, and as far as to the Ohio
were horse-paths used by the traders and their men. There were also
many crossing-trails made by horned game to reach water, and apt
to mislead any but men accustomed to the woods. Very few knew this
mighty wilderness, nor was it easy to make persons unused to the woods
comprehend the obstacles and risks an army would find on traversing
them with waggons and artillery.

As I have said, I had long ago fixed upon the Forks of the Ohio as an
excellent station for a fort. The French were also of this opinion,
and in their hands it became at last Fort Duquesne, and in 1759 was
lightly given up by them to General Forbes. At this earlier date our
governor, resolving to take my advice, made choice of Captain Trent to
build a fort at the Forks, where we prepared to follow and support him.
Having failed on a former and easier errand, it was foolish to have
expected better things of this man in a more difficult matter. He was
given only fifty men, as it was supposed he would not be attacked.

While I was on my way to Wills Creek from Winchester, Contrecœur
dropped down-stream from Venango with a great force and took the
half-finished fort, Captain Trent being absent at the time. I was
near to Wills Creek when I learned of this disaster. Colonel Frye and
other detachments were to follow me, but I saw that we were now in a
way to be devoured in bits by the larger French forces. Everything I
needed was lacking. I had been cursed along the border for my taking of
waggons, horses, and food, and when I would have picks, shovels, and
axes, it was worse.

I heard while here from Mr. Fairfax, desiring me not to neglect having
divine service in the camps for the benefit of the Indians. I did on
one occasion, but as Davidson told me they considered it some form of
incantation, I did not repeat it. I had also a letter from my mother,
meant to have found me earlier. It seemed strange amid anxieties like
mine to be asked to send her a good Dutch servant and, if I remember
correctly, four pounds of good Dutch butter. I had far other business.

At the Ohio Company’s post at Wills Creek, nothing was ready; only
Captain Trent, full of excuses for the failure of horses and boats, and
much cast down at the news of the loss of the fort. I sent back for
waggons and horses sixty miles to Winchester, and waited as patiently
as I could.

On April 23 came the men of Trent’s party, released by the French. The
ensign, Mr. Ward, was the only officer with them, and to surrender was
all he could do. He told me of hundreds of Chippewas and Ottawas coming
to join Contrecœur, and of another force descending the Ohio. To add to
my troubles, Trent’s men were disorderly, making my men uneasy by their
stories.

At this time I was decently housed in a small log hut, and here,
retiring by myself, I fell to thinking of what I had heard and what I
ought to do. The situation demanded serious consideration, but also
speedy action.




XXIV


I had been sent forward to build bridges, to corduroy swamps for the
cannon, and to make roads. I was not to bring on hostilities, but I
was to assert the King’s title and, at need, to resist the French. The
orders were well fitted to get me into trouble, but the capture of
Trent’s fort and men somewhat aided my decision, for this was an act of
open war. While thus occupied, a runner fetched me letters, and among
them one from Lord Fairfax.

As adjutant of the Northern Division since I was nineteen, I was
prepared for much that his lordship’s letter conveyed, but it went
in some respects beyond what I then knew or was prepared for, and, I
may add also, much beyond the views which his lordship came later to
entertain, when men were obliged to elect as between loyalty to the
King and disloyalty to human rights.

This letter now before me runs as follows:

    _Greenway Court._

    MY DEAR GEORGE: Yours received from Alexandria, and thank you
    for the attention when you were so busily engaged. I am always
    pleased to be acquainted with anything to your advantage, and
    was gratified at your being chosen to be of the force. I desire
    you, however, to understand that your worst enemies will not be
    the French, or the fickle Indians, but those in the rear.

    There is of late years a great desire for freedom in all the
    colonies, and men are disposed to dispute the too royal sense
    of prerogative on the part of the governors. Whenever, as
    now, money is to be voted, the houses in the several colonies
    are apt to use the occasion to dispute it, and to bargain for
    something else as a reward for their grant of supplies. The
    withholding of money has been the chief means of governing
    kings by our own Commons. I blame it not. But this present
    reluctance is without cause――foolish, and at a wrong season. As
    to the difficulty of disciplining our people you know enough,
    and will know more; but they will always fight, which may
    console for other defects. The want of an organized commissary
    you will feel of a surety, but less than with regulars, who do
    not know as do our people how to diet their English bellies,
    or how to forage at need on wood and river. Prepare, too, for
    desertion and drunkenness, which is the curse of the land.
    But I must forbear, lest I discourage you, although that I
    consider not to be easy. I would that you smoked a pipe. It
    confers great equanimity in times of doubt, and the Indians
    hold it to be helpful in council; for while a man smokes he
    cannot discourse, and thus must needs obtain time for sober
    reflection, for which reason it would be well that women took
    to the pipe, a custom which would greatly conduce to comfort in
    the condition of armed neutrality known as the married state.
    Charles Sedley once said in my company that the pipe was the
    bachelor’s hearth, and I have found it a good one. Indeed, my
    dear George, when I reflect upon the many statues of worthless
    kings and the monuments to scoundrels in graveyards where the
    dead lie and the living lie about them, I am inclined to set
    up a fine memorial at Greenway Court to the unknown Indian who
    invented this blessing of the Pipe. He must have been a great
    genius.

    Wishing you the best of luck, and that I were young enough to
    be with you, I am,

    Yours,

    _Fairfax_.

    P. S. You will at some time have to serve with regulars or with
    colonial officers appointed by the crown. Your sense of justice
    and of what is due to a gentleman will, I am assured, revolt
    at the want of parity in pay and at other claims to outrank
    gentlemen of the colonies serving in the militia. As to this I
    counsel moderation and endurance. Your first duty must be to
    the crown.

    _F._

It was raining heavily as I sat that night and considered what I
should do. To fall back I had no mind. I had been set to the slow work
of preparing roads, and had made them up to the west branch of the
Youghiogheny, about four miles a day, and here meant to make a bridge.
As I sat in the log cabin alone, deciding what next to do, came in Van
Braam with a warning from the Half-King, and, just after, a trader who
had been driven out by the French and who told me that a force sent
from Duquesne was at least eight hundred in number. This I was sure
could not be the case, and until I knew more I could not decide what to
do. I asked to be alone, and with a candle and a rude map considered
the situation. I concluded that the French would make no considerable
move forward until they had made secure the excellent position they had
taken from Trent. I was of opinion they would meanwhile send out small
parties to scout.

After a council with my officers, we resolved to go on to fortify a
post of the Ohio Company at Redstone Creek, near the Monongahela,
and after sending back urgent letters we set out, doing the best
we could as to the road. On May 9, at Little Meadows, we were met
by many traders, driven in by the French, with tales which much
discouraged my men――in all some two hundred; and still I pushed on to
the Youghiogheny, and there kept the men busy with the bridging of it.
Leaving them occupied in this manner, I explored the Youghiogheny for
a better way by water than over the hills, but found it impracticable,
and so came back to do as best I could with the road over the mountains.

That night I was again called on for a decision. I remember I walked to
and fro, considering how it was but an outpost, with nothing near in
the way of succour, and before me the French and the wilderness.

Van Braam, whom I had sent out to scout, had before this appeared,
bringing news that, eighteen miles below, the French were crossing
by a ford, their number unknown; also that several of our men had
deserted and that there was much uneasiness in the camp. I was myself
quite uneasy enough. Many times since I have been in as doubtful and
perilous situations, where the fate of an empire was concerned, but
then I have had with me officers of distinction. I was alone, hardly
more than a boy, and surrounded by men who were becoming alarmed.

I said to Van Braam that we must not be caught here, but that I would
not fall back very far. The old trooper smiled, and I confess to having
been pleased by this sign of approval. My mind was made up not to
return to the settlements except before an overwhelming force.




XXV


On May 23, six more men being gone away, I retreated to Great Meadows,
a wide, open space free of large trees, a charming place for an
encounter, and here I cleared the ground of bushes, began a log fort,
and prepared to remain until I heard further. This I did very soon,
for Gist, the trader, came in on the 25th of May with news of my old
acquaintance, La Force, having been at his camp, at noon the day
before, with some fifty men, and one, De Jumonville, in command. They
were foolish enough not to hold Gist, for he got off and warned me of
their being not five miles from us. They had been sending runners back
to Contrecœur, and what were their intentions Gist did not know. That
night I got news of my doubtful Half-King, who promised help if I would
attack this party.

Whatever indecision I have had in my life of warfare has been due to a
too great respect for the opinions of other officers, and very often
I had done better to have gone my own way. All day long I had been in
the melancholic state of mind which at times all my life has troubled
me. I remember that the news from Gist of this prowling band so near
as five miles, and the word sent by the Half-King, at once put to rout
my lowness of mind. Usually young officers go into their first battle
under more experienced guidance, and I now wonder at the confidence
with which I set out, for some of my officers were clear against it.

I felt sure that De Jumonville would attack me if I retreated, or, if I
let him alone, would wait for further help and orders from Contrecœur
before making an end of my little party. That I was to strike openly
the forces of the King of France did not disturb me, after their
seizure of our fort at the Forks.

When I told Van Braam and Gist what I meant to do, the former approved,
but Gist would have had me retreat to Wills Creek. I said no; we would
surely be ambushed, and the men were deserting.

Having given my orders, I tied an extra pair of moccasins to my belt,
and taking no gun myself, set out at 10 P.M., leaving behind me a
baggage-guard. I took with me forty men, the best I had, and mostly
good shots. The Half-King and a few warriors in full war-paint met me
at a spring some two miles away.

His scouts had found the French in a rocky valley, where they had
cleared a space and evidently meant to await orders or reinforcements.

The rain was pouring down in torrents, the worst that could be, when
we met the Half-King. We halted in the darkness of the forest while my
interpreter let me know the situation of De Jumonville, which seemed to
me to be well chosen as a hiding-place, but ill contrived for defence.
After this we pushed on, the Indian guides being ahead. Several times
they lost their way. We stumbled on in the wet woods, falling against
one another, so dark was the night, and crawling under or over the
rotten trees of a windfall. I was both eager and anxious, and kept on
in front, or at times fell back to silence my men. We were moving so
slowly that my anxiety continually increased, and I had constantly to
warn my men to keep their flint-locks dry.

At last, toward dawn of day, we came where we could look down on the
camp. The wind being in our faces, we had smelt the smoke of their
fires a quarter of a mile away, and now and then, even at this distant
day, the smell of the smoke from wet wood smouldering in the rain
recalls to my mind this night, a fact which appears to me singular. To
my joy, the camp was silent and there were no sentinels. I halted the
men, and my orders were whispered down the trail for them to scatter
to the right while the Indians moved to the left. After giving time
for this, I moved out alone from the shelter of the rocks and trees.
As I did so, a man came from a hut and gave a great shout. At once
the French were out with their arms and began to fire, but had no
cover. Some of my own men were practised Indian-fighters and kept to
the shelter of the trees, moving from trunk to trunk and firing very
deliberately. I heard the enemy’s bullets whizz around me, and felt at
once and for the first time in war the strange exhilaration of danger.
A man fell at my side, and I called to those near me to keep to the
trees, but did not myself fall back, feeling it well to encourage my
men.

For a little while the firing was hot. It lasted, however, but fifteen
minutes. Then I saw an officer fall, and they gave up and cried for
quarter as I ran down into their camp to stop the Indians from using
their tomahawks and killing the wounded.

Van Braam told me afterwards that I exposed myself needlessly, but I
thought this was necessary in order to give spirit and confidence to
men who were many of them new to battle.

Our loss was small and that of the French great, since De Jumonville,
who was in command, and ten men were killed and twenty-two taken, with
some others hurt.

I remember to have written my brother Jack of this little fight, that
the whistle of the bullets was pleasing to me; but I was then very
young, and it was, after all, but a way of saying that the sense of
danger, or risk, was agreeable.

On our way back through the woods I talked to La Force, who was in no
wise cast down and told me that I should pay dear for my success, and
how innocent they were, and a fine string of lies.

I was very well pleased to have caught this fellow, one of the most
wily and troublesome half-breeds on the frontier, and a fine maker of
mischief, as he had been when I was on my way to the lake.

After the fight we found, on the person of De Jumonville and in his
hut, papers amply proving his hostile intention, although even without
this evidence his hiding so long in our neighbourhood, and sending out
runners to Fort Duquesne, sufficiently showed what my party had to
expect when the French would be reinforced.

After the fight it was thought prudent to return as soon as possible,
so, to my regret, I had to leave the dead, both our own and the French,
without decent burial. This I believe they had later at the hand of
De Villiers. Although the fugitives were nearly all taken, one or two
escaped and took the news to Contrecœur, at the Forks of the Ohio.
I sent my prisoners to Williamsburg under a strong guard, having
previously supplied M. Drouillon, a young officer, and La Force with
clothes of my own out of the very little I had. I remember that I was
amused when Drouillon, a pert little fellow, complained that my shirt
was too big for him. Indeed, it came down near to his ankles.

I asked of the governor in a letter such respect and favour for these
persons as was due to gentlemen placed in their unfortunate condition.
Neither of them seemed to me to have been aware of the character of
their commander’s orders. To my regret, the request I made to Governor
Dinwiddie received small consideration, as I may have to relate. I was
of opinion, however, that La Force should not be set free too soon,
because of his power to influence the Indians.




XXVI


The action with De Jumonville took place on May 28, and the Half-King,
although disappointed as to scalps, went away, promising to return with
many warriors. He told me his friends the English had now at last begun
in earnest, but that it was no good war to keep prisoners.

As I trusted him more than most of the Indians, I sent thirty men
and some horses to assist in moving the Indian families, for without
them the warriors would never return; and I did not neglect to send
a runner back to hasten Mackay, who was in command of an independent
company from South Carolina. They were indeed quite independent,
having neither good sense nor discipline, as I was soon to discover.
My little skirmish with the French on May 28 added to my perplexities
the knowledge that as soon as the runners who escaped should reach the
fort at the Forks Contrecœur would undertake to avenge the loss of his
officer.

While I was impatiently waiting supplies from Croghan at Wills Creek,
for now we were six days without flour, came news that Colonel Frye,
my commander, was dead at that post. Colonel Innes of North Carolina,
who was to succeed him in the whole command, lay at Winchester with
four hundred men; but as he continued to lie there, neither he nor his
troops were of any use in the campaign.

During the period which elapsed between my fight on May 28 and my
being attacked on July 3, being now a colonel, and sure of soon being
reinforced, I made haste to complete the fort at Great Meadows.

There I had excellent help from Captain Stobo and Mr. Adam Stephen,
whom I made captain, and who, long after, became a general and served
under me in the great war.

It was only a log work we built, near to breast-high, with no roof,
one hundred feet square, with partitions, and surrounded at some
distance by a too shallow ditch and palisadoes. Captain Stobo gave to
this defence the name of Fort Necessity, and said that the name was
suggested by his empty belly, for indeed we were at this time half
starved.

Near about this time came three hundred men from Wills Creek, and, to
my satisfaction, my friend Dr. Craik, who was of a merry disposition,
and kept us in good humour, besides what aid he gave us as a physician,
and I never had the service of a better.

On the 9th of June arrived my old military teacher, Adjutant Muse, with
other men, nine swivels, and a very small supply of ammunition. He
fetched with him a wampum belt and presents and medals for the Indians,
as I had desired of the governor.

At this time, in order to secure the Indians, who are fickle and must
always be bribed, we had a fine ceremony, and I delivered a speech sent
from the governor.

Dr. Craik gave me, two years ago, the account he wrote home of this
occasion, and I leave it in this place for the time, since it serves to
record matters of which I have no distinct remembrance, and is better
wrote than it would have been by me.

    MY DEAR ANNE: To-day, before we move on, I send you a letter
    by a runner who returns to hasten our supplies. We had a
    great ceremony to-day. A space in the meadows near the fort
    was cleared, and all our men set around under arms in a great
    circle. In the middle stood the Colonel, very tall and, like
    all of us, very lean for lack of diet, for we are all shrunk
    like persimmons in December. Before him were seated the
    Half-King and the son of Aliquippa, the Queen of one of the
    tribes. Last year our Colonel gave her a red match-coat and a
    bottle of rum, and now she is his great friend and waiting for
    more favours, especially rum.

    The warriors were painted to beat even a London lady, and no
    bird has more feathers or finer. The pipe of Council was passed
    around, and all took a few whiffs. When it came to the turn
    of our Colonel, he sneezed and coughed and made a wry face,
    but none of the Indians so much as smiled, for they are a very
    solemn folk. I could not refrain to laugh, so hid my face in
    the last handkerchief I possess. There are holes in it, too.
    Then we had the Indian’s speech and that the Governor sent to
    be spoken. After this the Colonel hung around the necks of the
    Chiefs medals of silver sent from England. One had the British
    lion mauling the Gallic cock, and on the other side the King’s
    effigy. Then the drums were beat, and the son of Aliquippa was
    taken into Council as a sachem, and given, as is the custom, a
    new name. I suppose it is a kind of heathen Christening. He was
    called Fairfax. I hope his Lordship will look after his Godson,
    or devil son, as he is more like to be. The Half-King was made
    proud with the name of Dinwiddie, and so we are friends until
    to-morrow, and allies――I call them _all lies_. After this the
    Colonel read the morning service, which I hope pleased them.
    They believed he was making magic.

This is a good account, and I certainly did make a face with the
tobacco-smoke, for, although at that time I raised the weed, I cannot
endure it.

Captain Mackay arrived on the 7th of June, but it came about untowardly
that the company which thus joined me was not Virginian, and gave me
more trouble than help. I may be wrong concerning the date of Captain
Mackay’s arrival, but he was with us when, on the 10th of June, I moved
out of our fort to prepare the road for the larger attempt proposed
to take the defences at the Forks of the Ohio. I soon found that I
was to have difficulty with this officer. I found him a good sort of
a gentleman, but, as he had a distinct commission from the King, he
declined to receive my commands, and, I found, would rather impede the
service than forward it. I have made it a rule, however, to do the best
I can in regard to obstacles I cannot control, and so I kept my temper
and was always civil to this gentleman, even when he would not permit
his men, unless paid a shilling a day, to assist in the making of roads.

As two masters are worse in an army than anywhere else, he agreed
willingly enough to remain at Fort Necessity, while I went on toward
Redstone Creek with my Virginians to better my road. It was a hard
task, and at night the men were so tired that the scouts and sentries
could hardly keep awake. The Indians came in daily, asking presents,
and were mostly spies.

At Gist’s old camp, thirteen miles from Great Meadows, I learned that
Fort Duquesne had been reinforced and that I was to be attacked by
a large force. I sent back for Mackay, and at once called in all my
hunters and scouting-parties. When Captain Mackay arrived we held a
council and resolved that we had a better chance to defend ourselves
at Fort Necessity. The officers gave up their horses to carry the
ammunition, and we began a retreat with all possible speed. The weather
was of the worst, very hot and raining, and the Carolina men, who
called themselves king’s soldiers, would give no assistance in dragging
the swivels. What with hunger and toil, my rangers were worn out when,
on July 1, we were come back to the fort. I was of half a mind to push
on and secure my retreat to Wills Creek; but the men refused to go on
with the swivels, and the few horses we had were mere bone-bags, and
some of them hardly fit to walk.

I turned over the matter that night with Captains Mackay and Stephen,
and resolved, for, indeed, I could do no better, to send for help and
abide in the fort. I was well aware that to retreat would turn every
Indian on the frontier against us, and I was in good hope to hold out.

If, as I wrote the governor, the French behaved with no greater spirit
than they did in the Jumonville affair, I might yet come off well
enough if provisions reached me in time, and I thought with proper
reinforcements we should have no great trouble in driving them to the
devil and Montreal.

On the evening of July 1 an Indian runner came in. He had been with De
Villiers and a force from Duquesne. He told me that when that officer
reached Gist’s palisado he fired on it, but, finding no one there,
was of a mind to go back, thinking I had returned to the settlements.
Unfortunately, some of our Indians, who were now leaving us in numbers,
told him I meant to make a stand at Fort Necessity.

Whether I should fall back farther or not was now a matter for little
choice. If I retreated with tired, half-starved men and no rum for
refreshment, De Villiers’s large, well-fed force and quick-footed
Indians would surely overtake us, and we should have to meet superiour
numbers without being intrenched. If Captain Mackay and his men, in my
absence, had done anything to complete my fort, I should have fared
better. Meanwhile we might be aided with men from Winchester, or, at
least, be provisioned. I said nothing to the South Carolina officer of
his neglect, for that would do no good, and I desired when it came to
fighting he should be in a good humour.

News seemed to fly through the forests as if the birds carried it,
and I was not surprised to learn before I got to the fort that the
Half-King and nearly all his warriors had stolen away. He was out of
humour with the officers I had left in charge and said no one consulted
him. I think he desired to escape a superiour force and to assure the
safety of his squaws and papooses, whom I was not ill pleased to be rid
of, but not of the warriors.

After my men were fed, Captain Stobo, Adjutant Muse, Captain Stephen,
and I took off our coats and went to work to help with axes, Dr. Craik
very merry and cheering the poor fellows, who were worn out with work.

We raised the log shelter a log higher, and dug our ditch deeper, and,
had we had more time, had done better to have enlarged the fort, for it
was quite too small for the force.




XXVII


On the evening of July 2, I went over the place with Captain Stobo. We
were in the middle of a grassy meadow about two hundred and fifty yards
wide, and no wood nearer than sixty yards. Stobo would have had us cut
down the nearer trees, but the rangers could work no more. As to men, I
had enough, if I had been supplied with ammunition and food.

The next day being the 3d, this was tried――I mean the clearing away
of trees; but about half-past ten I heard a shot in the woods on that
side where the ground rises, and at once all the men hurried in, as was
beforehand agreed, and a sentry ran limping out of the woods, wounded.
Next came our scouts in haste to say the French and Indians, a great
force, were a mile away, eight hundred it was thought. At eleven I saw
them in the forest on the nearest rise of ground, well under cover.
I left Captain Mackay in the fort, and set my rangers in the ditch,
fairly covered by the earth cast up in the digging of it, hoping the
enemy would make an assault. But they kept in the woods and fired
incessantly. About 4 P.M. it came on to rain very heavy, with thunder
and lightning. So great was the downfall that the water flowing into
the ditch half filled it, and the pans and primings of the muskets got
wetted, and our fire fell off. Seeing this, I drew the men within the
palisadoes and the log fort, where they were favourably disposed to
resist an attack, for which the enemy seemed to have no stomach. This
was near about 5 P.M., and soon, to my dismay, shots began to fall
among us from the Indians, who climbed the trees and thus had us at an
advantage.

Many men began to drop, and De Peyronney, a Huguenot captain, was badly
wounded, while our own shooting, because of the torrent of rain, was
much slackened, and at dusk our ammunition nearly all used. Twelve men
were killed and forty-three wounded out of the three hundred rangers,
but how many out of the Independent company I do not know, nor was the
loss of the enemy ever ascertained.

About 7 P.M., seeing that we had almost ceased to fire, the French
called a parley, which I declined; but at eight, knowing our state and
that we had scarce any provisions left, I answered their second flag
that I would send an officer, and for this errand would have ordered
De Peyronney, who spoke the French tongue, but that he was hurt and in
great pain. I had no one but Van Braam who knew any French. He went,
and returned with demands for a capitulation so dishonourable that I
could not consider them. At last, however, we came to terms, which were
to march out with all the honours of war, Van Braam and Captain Stobo
volunteering to go as hostages for the return of Drouillon and La Force.

It was eleven o’clock at night and very dark when Van Braam translated
the final terms of capitulation. We were to march away unmolested and
to agree not to build forts or occupy the lands of his Most Christian
Majesty for a year; but to this vague stipulation I did not object. It
was raining furiously, and we heard the terms read by the light of one
candle, which was put out by the rain, over and over, as Van Braam,
with no great ease, let me hear what, he declared, was set down.
Unhappily, he translated the words which twice made me agree to be
taken as the _assassin_ of De Villiers’s brother, Jumonville, so as to
read that the French had come to revenge the _death_ of that gentleman,
and understanding it, with Stephen and Mackay, to mean this and no
more, I signed the paper and thus innocently subjected myself to a foul
calumny.

At dawn we moved out with one swivel and drums beating and colours
flying. This was on July 4. I was reminded of it when, on July 9, 1776,
I paraded the army to announce that on July 4 the Congress had declared
that we were no longer colonies but free and independent States. Then
I remembered the humiliation of the morning when we filed away before
those who were to become our friends and allies.

I bade good-by to Van Braam and Stobo, and we began our homeward
march, all on foot, because of our horses having been taken when we
were forced to leave them outside of the fort. We had gone scarce a
mile, carrying our wounded on rude litters, when, against all the
terms agreed upon, the Indians followed and robbed the rear baggage,
misusing many. Upon this, showing a bold front, I drove them off, and
destroying all useless baggage, set out again.

Some died on our way, others fell out and were no more heard of; and
thus, half starved and weary, we made the seventy miles to Wills Creek.

Having conducted my command to this point, where was all they required
in the way of clothing and supplies, I rode with Captain Mackay to
Williamsburg.

I felt for a time and with much sharpness the sense of defeat, and I
heard later that Captain Mackay complained that I was dull company on
the ride, which was no doubt true enough, for I felt that he and his
command were partly to be blamed.

Indeed, I appeared to myself at this time the most unfortunate of men;
but I have often been led to observe that we forget our calamities more
easily than the pleasures of life, nor on the occasion here described
could I so much reproach myself as those who had failed to supply me
with the ammunition and provisions required for success.

Although it was near to nine at night when we rode into Williamsburg
and put up at the Raleigh Tavern, I went at once to the house called
the governor’s palace, but much inferiour in size and convenience
to the fine houses of Westover and Brandon. The governor being
gone to supper elsewhere, I gave the sealed package containing the
capitulation, all in French, with the signatures of De Villiers and
myself, to the governor’s aide.

In the morning I called upon the governor and was cordially received.
He said that we could not go into the details of the capitulation until
the articles of it were fairly Englished. This would require a day. He
made rather too light, I thought, of the surrender and of what seemed
to me serious; for to my mind the French were come to stay.

While the governor was assuring me that we should easily drive out the
invaders, my kinsman, Colonel Willis of the council, joined us. He
considered the situation on the frontier as very grave, and succeeded
in alarming the governor, a man of confident and very sanguine
disposition. At last Colonel Willis turned to me and said: “George, I
dare venture to engage that this little fire you have left blazing will
set the world aflame.”

After further talk I left them. I had been before this in the capital
of the colony, but always for a brief visit. Now, having time, I
walked down the broad Duke of Gloucester street, and saw the famous
William and Mary College. There were many fine houses and the handsome
parish church of Bruton, said to have been planned by the great Sir
Christopher Wren.




XXVIII


The next morning about nine came Mr. William Fairfax to the inn and
said: “There is some trouble about the capitulations, but I do not know
what. You are wanted at once by the council.”

Upon this I made haste to reach the palace, wondering what could be the
matter.

In the council-chamber were several gentlemen standing, in silence――Mr.
Speaker Robinson, Colonel Cary, and my Lord Fairfax, as I was pleased
to see, he having arrived that morning to be a guest of Governor
Dinwiddie. There were also others, all standing in groups, but who they
were I fail now to remember. All of them appeared to be serious as I
went in, and there was, of a sudden, silence, except that the governor,
a bulky man, very red in the face and of choleric temper, was walking
about cursing in a most unseemly way. Lord Fairfax alone received me
pleasantly, coming forward to greet me, but no one else did more
than bow. The governor came toward me, and holding the capitulations
in one hand, struck them with the other hand and cried out: “Explain,
sir――explain how you, sir, an officer of the King, came to admit over
your signature that you were an assassin, and twice, sir, twice. I
consider you disgraced.”

Lord Fairfax laid a hand on my arm to stay me and said:

“Your Excellency, it is not the manner among us to condemn a man
unheard; nor, sir, to address a gentleman as you have permitted
yourself to do.”

Colonel Cary said: “That, sir, is also my own opinion.” For this I was
grateful, because on a former occasion he had himself been lacking in
civility.

Then my cousin Willis came across the room and said very low: “Keep
yourself quiet, George.”

I bowed and asked to be shown the translation. I read it over with
care, while no one spoke. What had been said was correct. For a moment
I was too amazed to speak. As I looked up, utterly confounded, Lord
Fairfax said: “Well, colonel?”

Upon this I related the facts of the case, and that Captains Mackay and
Stephen had heard Van Braam translate the articles, and that he had
never used the word _assassination_, but, in place of it, _death_; and
that I considered it to have been ignorance on his part, and no worse.

I saw also that, while I had been given to understand by Van Braam that
for a year we were pledged not to make any forts on the lands of the
King of France, I had really agreed that we were not for that period to
do so beyond the mountains.

When I had thus fully accounted for my misapprehension, Lord Fairfax
said at once: “Then, gentlemen, this unfortunate mistake and this
unlucky pledge were due to the governor’s council having failed to
provide Colonel Washington with a competent French interpreter.” I
could hardly help smiling at this transfer of the blame to the governor
and his advisers. Colonel Byrd laughed outright, as the governor, with
a great oath, cried out, “Nonsense, my lord,” and to me, “You should be
broke, sir; you are unfit to command.”

Lord Fairfax said quietly, “Be careful of your words, governor.” This
stayed his speech, but amid entire silence he stood shaking with
anger, so that, although his wig was covered with a net, the powder
fell over his scarlet coat.

Upon this I threw the capitulations on the table and, with much effort
controlling myself, said: “I have explained myself to the honourable
council and have no more to say.”

The governor said: “I presume, sir, we must accept your statement.”
I replied at once, looking about me: “If any gentleman here doubts
it, I――” But on this Colonel Cary said: “I do not. I think the matter
cleared, Colonel Washington, and I trust that his Excellency will see
that he has spoken in haste.”

Lord Fairfax and Mr. Robinson also spoke to like effect, and with
a degree of warmth which set me entirely at ease. The governor,
much vexed to be thus taken to task, said in a surly way that he
was satisfied and that Van Braam was a traitor, which I declined to
believe, also adding that Captain Stephen would be asked to see the
governor and confirm my statement.

After this, to my surprise, the governor desired my company at dinner,
and seeing Lord Fairfax nod to me, I accepted, but with no very
good will. The matter ended with a vote of thanks from the House of
Burgesses, Van Braam being left out, and also Adjutant Muse, who was
considered to have shown cowardice. I was well done with a sorry
business.

Indeed, but for the rain, the bad light, and that I had no reason to
disbelieve what Van Braam read to us, I should have looked over the
paper, where the word _assassin_, being as much English as French, must
have caught my eye. What seemed to me most strange was that De Villiers
should so easily have let go a man whom he professed to consider the
murderer of his brother.

When we surrendered the French officers were very civil, and I saw no
evidence of unusual enmity, but I do not think I met M. de Villiers.

Van Braam was very much abused and called a traitor, which I neither
then nor later believed him to have been. Some few in Virginia blamed
me, but since then I have lived through many worse calumnies.

As each nation was casting the blame of warlike action on the other,
much was made in France of the death of De Jumonville and the
surrender of Fort Necessity.

I was able long afterwards to see the account of this capitulation at
Fort Necessity as it was given by the French commander, M. de Villiers.
It was quite false, but he could not have known all the facts as to
De Jumonville’s conduct nor how the Dutchman Van Braam――as I believe,
without intention――misled me. That he was not bribed to do so is shown
by the fact that, being held as a hostage, he was long kept in jail in
Quebec.

It is to be remarked as worthy of note that only a month ago I should
have heard news of this old soldier of fortune. A letter came to me at
Mount Vernon in which Van Braam related his wanderings and how at last
he had settled down in France, as it would seem, in a prosperous way.
He was very flattering to his old pupil, and, for my part, I wish him
good luck and a better knowledge of the French tongue than he had when
we starved together at the Great Meadows.

I am also reminded as I write that Lieutenant-Colonel Wynne asked leave
during the siege of Yorktown to present to me a young French nobleman,
an officer of the regiment Auvergne, whose name now escapes me. This
gentleman’s father had served in Canada under Marquis Montcalm, and
before that on the frontier. The conversation fell upon my early
service on the Ohio. To my great astonishment, the young gentleman
told me that in 1759 a French writer, called, if I remember, Thomas,
published a long piece in verse about this unfortunate De Jumonville in
America, and how his murder was avenged. I never supposed any one would
write poetry concerning me, nor do I believe it will ever happen again.




XXIX


I find my diaries insufficient as to the events which preceded the
battle on the Monongahela, where, in Braddock’s rout, I lost almost all
my papers, with my plans and maps, chiefly copies of those I had given
the general. This I now regret more than I did at the time when my
memory served me better. Finding, as I have noted before, that to write
of events recalls particulars, I shall endeavour thus to revive my
personal remembrances, but not to record at length the entire history
of the defeat of General Braddock.

I do not suppose that any land was ever worse governed than Virginia
was under Dinwiddie, and as to military affairs worst of all, but not
worse than other colonies. The governors were ignorant of warfare and
expected too much from the half-trained militia and their careless
officers. These conditions may have seemed to justify the King’s order
that all officers holding militia appointments should be outranked by
all royal commissions, and even by the King’s officers on half-pay.
This was bad enough, but there were also Independent companies raised
in time of need; and their officers, being directly commissioned by
the governors acting for the King, insisted on their right to outrank
gentlemen of the militia, and led the men in their commands to disobey
such officers and to consider themselves of a class superiour to the
militia. I had already had so sad an experience of the difficulties
which arose out of these conditions that I was unwilling to submit
to Governor Dinwiddie’s plan of making all the militia Independent
companies and with only captains in command. The object to be attained
by this awkward expedient was to put a stop to the constant disputes
as to precedency and command. As this would reduce me from colonel
to captain, I made it clear to the governor that it was not, in my
opinion, a step to be advised, but I would consider of it, which,
indeed, took me no long time.

In November I resigned my commission, and before it was accepted went
to Alexandria, where my regiment then lay. I asked the officers
to meet me and explained the cause of my being forced to resign. I
was surprised to find that my resolution, which all admitted to be
reasonable, met with the most flattering opposition. Indeed, I received
soon after a letter from these gentlemen in which, with much more, they
said:

    We, your obedient and affectionate officers, beg leave to
    express our great concern at the marked disagreeable news we
    have received of your determination to resign the command of
    the corps. Your steady adherence to impartial justice, your
    quick discernment and invariable regard to merit, enlivened our
    natural emulation to excel.

As this letter lies before me and I think of the emotion it caused me,
I still like to remember that at the close they spoke of me as “one
who taught them to despise danger and to think lightly of toil and
hardships while led by a man they knew and loved.”

I have been spoken of as wanting in sensibility. If it had been said
I lacked means to show what I feel, that were to put the matter more
correctly. Even now the recollection of the praise thus given moves me
deeply, and recalls the memory of my farewell to those who served with
me in the War of Independency. I was but twenty-three when I left the
colonial service.

I did so with much reluctance, for my desire was not to leave the
military line, as my inclinations were still strongly bent to arms, and
of this I assured Colonel Fitzhugh very plainly when he would have had
me submit to return to service in the inferiour grade of captain. I
preferred my farm to submitting to this degradation.

Among the minor matters which, by degrees, discontented even the most
loyal of the upper class of Virginia gentlemen, none was more ill borne
than the impertinence and insults to which this order of the King gave
rise.

Having thus, with much regret, resigned my commission, I retired
to private life at Mount Vernon and to the care of my neglected
plantations.

As we had left two hostages, Van Braam and Stobo, in the hands of the
French after my defeat at the Meadows, I was anxious that La Force
and the French officers we held should be treated with decency and
exchanged for my two captains.

In spite of my earnest remonstrances, Drouillon and two cadets were
alone offered for exchange, and La Force held in prison, which, of
course, the French refused to consider. My wishes were disregarded
in this matter in which I considered my honour was involved, and I
was treated with the indifference the governor so often showed to the
advice of colonial gentlemen of consideration. I was deeply mortified,
and La Force was at least two years in jail, nor do I know what became
of him. In retaliation, Van Braam and Stobo were long detained in
prison by the French at Quebec, but finally got away, I do not know
how. Captain Stobo, a Scotchman, I believe, was a sober, brave, and
sensible man. That he was ingenious and little subject to fear appears
from the fact that, while imprisoned at Fort Duquesne, he contrived a
plan of the fort, and also to send it to the governor by an Indian. Had
he been detected it must have cost his life.

After the fall of Quebec in 1759, I was informed by an officer that
Captain Stobo made his escape before that event, and had been able to
join his Majesty’s troops, and finally had guided General Wolfe on the
path by which he succeeded to occupy the Plains of Abraham. I do not
know what truth there was in the story.

While time ran on and I was busy with the innocent pursuits of
agriculture, England and France were preparing for serious warfare, and
as I heard of the efforts to be made to recover the Ohio and the forts
at the North, I became troubled that I was to have no share in the
business. Sir John St. Clair had come out in this year (1755) as deputy
quartermaster-general, and was at once much disgusted at colonial
inefficiency, and expressed himself with such freedom as gave great
offence. Five weeks later, in February, I believe, General Braddock
reached Williamsburg, where I then chanced to be on business concerning
the purchase of bills on London. On this occasion I once more appealed
to the authorities concerning Stobo and Van Braam; but although I spent
some time in efforts to persuade Governor Dinwiddie that to further
hold La Force was to prevent the release of two brave and innocent men,
he persistently refused. Upon this I went away, declining to discuss
other matters on which he would have had my opinion.

While at Williamsburg, Colonel Peyton invited me to visit Sir John St.
Clair, to whom I was able to express my regret that the conditions of
the King’s late order as to rank must deprive me and other colonial
gentlemen of the pleasure of serving. Sir John said that he was
surprised to encounter so much sensitiveness among us. To this I made
no reply, but Colonel Byrd, who was present, said if Sir John would
in his mind reverse our positions he would find the matter to explain
itself. Sir John said that he could not imagine himself a provincial
captain of border farm-hands.

Upon this Colonel Byrd rose and said there was also something which
he could not imagine Sir John to be. Seeing a quarrel close at hand,
a thing very undesirable when already we were on edge owing to the
affectation of superiority on the part of some of Sir John’s aides, I
was fortunate enough to say that Colonel Byrd no doubt misunderstood
Sir John, and that I never had been able to put myself in another
man’s place. Sir John, who had spoken hastily, was also of no mind to
provoke a gentleman of Colonel Byrd’s influence, and said at once that
he had no intention to offend, and thus the matter ended.

It was, however, this kind of thing which made so much bad blood in the
colonies and was so deeply resented by men of all classes.

In the afternoon I met Colonel Byrd, who said I had spoiled a good
quarrel and that he considered it would be necessary to teach some of
the officers a lesson in manners. I said I hoped that at this crisis it
might be avoided. I had quite forgot this incident, and am agreeably
surprised, now that my memory is failing, at recovering by attention so
many things which seemed lost.

On the following morning Sir John called upon me and asked would I dine
with him that day, to meet General Braddock, whom, on his arrival,
I had welcomed in a letter expressing my regret at being out of the
service.

I was glad to meet the new commander, and at Sir John’s request named
several gentlemen who should have the same honour, and who might be
of great use in the campaign. On this occasion there was less heavy
drinking than usual, and I was very agreeably entertained and much
questioned as to the border. I promised to send my maps to the general,
who, upon my taking leave, hoped some way might be found to secure my
services in the coming campaign.

Indeed, I was more eager than the general, and, as occasion served,
I was still more open with some of the younger members of General
Braddock’s family concerning my continued desire to follow the military
line.

I rode homeward a day or two later, taking Fredericksburg on the way,
that I might see my mother. I found her in the garden of her house,
engaged in putting some plants in the ground.

She said she was pleased to see me, but did hardly look up from her
work and went on talking of the family. I was of no mind to stop her,
and, indeed, it was always best to let her have her say; nor did I now
interrupt her, which out of respect I never inclined to do.

My sister Betty Lewis, having more desire to talk than I ever had,
could never hear my mother out, and this I did not approve, nor did it
do any good.

While I was listening came a servant with a letter inclosed in a cover
with a flying seal of Captain Orme’s arms. The letter within carried
the royal arms and “On his Majesty’s service with speed,” wrote large.
It appeared that when I had gone, the general’s aide, Captain Orme,
requested Colonel Peyton to forward to me this communication, and
accordingly he had sent it after me as desired. I excused myself and
read it with pleasure.

My mother, being curious as to small things, and as to large ones too
often indifferent, asked me what it was, and was eager to know why it
bore the King’s arms. I saw no better way than to let her read it.

She gave it back to me, saying, “I suppose my opinions about this
business of war are never to be regarded,” and more besides than I
desire to recall. I replied that there was only one answer a man of
honour and a loyal subject of the King could make, and that I should at
once accept if time were given me to set in order my affairs; and so,
with this, after much advice on her part that my duty lay at home and
on my plantation, I got away, avoiding to say more, my mind being fully
made up. I find the letter now among my papers, and reading it in my
old age, renew the memory of the satisfaction it gave me when young.

    _Williamsburg, March 2, 1755._

    SIR: The General, having been informed by friends that you
    expressed some desire to make the campaign, but that you
    declined it upon some disagreeableness that you thought might
    arise from the regulations of command, has ordered me to
    acquaint you that he will be very glad of your company in
    his family, by which all inconveniences of that kind will be
    obviated.

    I shall think myself very happy to form an acquaintance with a
    person so universally esteemed, and shall use every opportunity
    of assuring you how much I am

    Your obedient servant,

    _Robert Orme_,

    Aide-de-camp.

I have no doubt that Colonel Peyton was the gentleman who, knowing my
wishes, had suggested my appointment. I was considered by some to have
been imprudent at Fort Necessity, and the governor, because of the
freedom of speech I used with him in the matter of Stobo and La Force,
had for me no great regard, and was very unlikely to have favoured me
with the general.

Before leaving Williamsburg, Mr. C――――, a cousin of Colonel Peyton,
visited me and said he had been well advised to seek my friendship in
a letter from the colonel, which he thought might please me and which
I was free to read. As to my appearance, wit, and judgment, the letter
spoke in the most agreeable language, and added that I was destined to
make no inconsiderable figure in our country. I confess to having felt,
as I read it, both pleasure and doubt.




XXX


I had thus engaged as a volunteer, much against the wishes of my
mother, who, as she said, saw no good in war and entreated me not
again to expose myself to peril in the wilderness. If the French had
been of her opinion as to war, I might have stayed at home. We had an
unpleasant meeting, or rather parting, for she did little else but
lament; but what was there I could do? I left her in tears.

I have no intention to record here the full history of this expedition,
but rather to revive for my own interest what I, personally, saw, and
what is nowhere else fully set down.

My appointment gave satisfaction to many friends, who felt more deeply
than I myself that in the matter of commissions and as to the Villiers
affair――for that was soon noised about――I had been ill treated by the
governor. The favourable sentiments thus expressed could not, under
the circumstances, be other than pleasing to a mind which had always
walked a straight line and endeavoured, as far as human frankness and
strong passions would allow, to discharge the relative duties to his
Maker and to his fellow-countrymen without by indirect means seeking
popularity.

As I pause here before making the effort to recall some of the
incidents of the disastrous events in which I was to have a share,
I remember with pleasure the friends who felt that my honourable
invitation from a veteran general was a final answer to the censures of
the King’s governor.

Nor, in looking back over the greater war and my life in office, have
I had reason to complain of want of affection from those whose esteem
I desired to retain. Many times in my life I have, however, had just
cause to complain of things said of me by those who possessed my
regard, but I have in all such cases felt it better not to sacrifice a
friendship on account of ill temper or the indiscretion of the hour,
and am made happy in the belief that I have thus been able to keep
what I would not willingly have lost. Where men have been needed in
the service or in office, I have been still more desirous of forgiving
words or actions which affected me alone, but which did not in the end
destroy their usefulness. Nor have I myself been without need to be
thus considered, for at times I am by nature irritable and short of
temper. Lawrence once said to me that he found it more easy to forgive
his enemies than his friends; but this I did not clearly see, and,
after all, if a man is resolved to keep himself from thinking of what
is said against him, the memory of it soon becomes dulled and there is
less need of forgiveness.

Among the many evidences of esteem I had before the Braddock affair
was a letter from Captain Peyronney, now recovered of his wound, but
to die bravely on the Monongahela. He must have heard that I had been
ill spoken of by Major Muse and perhaps by others. He wrote very odd
English, but I could hardly find fault with his meaning.

    SIR: I Shan’t make Bold to Describe the proceedings of the
    House [of Burgesses], which no doute you have had already Some
    hint of. I only will make use of these three expressions:
    _furtim venerunt_; _invane Sederunt_; and _perturbate
    Redierunt_.

    But all that is matere of indifference to the wirginia Regiment
    Collo. Washington will still Remain att the head of it,
    and I spect with more esplendor than ever; for (as I hope)
    notwithstanding we will Be on the British stabichment, we shall
    be augmented to Six houndred and by those means entitle you to
    the Name not only of protector of your Contry But to that of
    the flower of the wirginians, By the powers you’ll have in your
    hands to prove it So.

    Many enquired to me about Muses Braveries; poor Body I h’d pity
    him ha’nt he had the weakness to Confes his coardies him self,
    and the impudence to taxe all the reste of the oficiers withoud
    exception of the same imperfection, for he said to many of the
    Consulars and Burgeses that he was Bad But th’ the reste was as
    Bad as he:――

    To speak francly had I been in town at that time I cou’nt
    help’d to make use of my horse’s wheap for to vindicate the
    injury of that villain.

    he Contrived his Business so that several ask me if it was true
    that he had challeng’d you to fight: my answer was no other But
    that he should rather chuse to go to hell thand doing of it,
    for had he had such thing declar’d: that was his Sure Road――

    I have made my particular Business to tray if any had some
    Bad intention against you here Below: But thank God I meet
    allowais with a goad wish for you from evry mouth each one
    entertining such Caracter of you as I have the honnour to do my
    Self who am the Most humble

    And Obediant of your Servants

    _Le Chevalier de Peyronney_.

I had much cause to feel grateful for such friends, and I may here add
that, as concerns Van Braam, I had his censure reversed when I myself
became a member of the House of Burgesses.

As soon as possible after bringing my affairs into order, I set out,
determined to lose no chance to perfect my military education.

At Fredericktown I met the general, and on May 10 was announced in
general orders as aide, with brevet rank of captain. I rode thence in
advance to Winchester, where I had need to send a servant to borrow
fresh horses from my friend Lord Fairfax, who himself came later from
Greenway Court to meet me and rode with me about one hundred miles
to Wills Creek, near to which was Fort Cumberland, so named for the
captain-general.

On the last day of our ride, as we rode on over, I do believe, the
most abominable roads in the world, I described to his lordship the
array of well-drilled men, sailors, artillery, etc., I had seen
at Alexandria, landed from Admiral Keppel’s fleet, and said, if I
remember, that it was a great advantage to serve under a gentleman of
General Braddock’s abilities and experience, and that as to any danger
from the enemy, I considered it as trifling, for I believed the French
would be obliged to exert their utmost strength to repel the attacks
about to be made on their forts at Niagara and Crown Point.




XXXI


As I talked, Lord Fairfax, who had seen greater armies, heard me in
silence, and indeed, when I ceased, remained for a time without making
any comment. Then he reined up his horse, and, handing me two letters,
said: “I have kept these for your private reading, George; I have them
through the kindness of one of Admiral Keppel’s officers.” I read them
as we rode on, well in the rear, to avoid the annoyance caused by the
marching of the Forty-eighth Foot, which beat up a great dust. He said:
“Read them again at your leisure.” I did as was desired, and, as they
happened to be left in my buckskin-coat pocket and forgot, they were
the only papers I chanced to save in the battle. They are now before
me, and I read them anew with interest. Not for many years have I seen
them.

    MY DEAR LORD: I take this occasion to write you. London is
    very gay, and the clubs and their wits amazing merry over the
    appointment of Edward Braddock to command the force sent out to
    protect you from the Indians. Ch. S――――y was here for dinner
    yesterday. He said General B. was a stranger both to fear and
    common sense, and that his best fitness to fight Indians was
    that he was providentially bald. Lord C. S. says he saw Anne
    Bellamy, the actress, whom the General visited when on the
    point of leaving London. She said Mr. Braddock was melancholy,
    and declared he was sent with a handful of men to conquer
    nations and to cut his way through an unknown wilderness.

    He said: “We are sent like sacrifices to the altar.” That
    ancient ram! say I. He told her she would never see him again.

    I wish you luck of your new General. He is touchy, punctilious,
    of a stiff mind, and has had forty years in the Guards. I do
    not think he was eager to leave Anne Bellamy and the clubs, for
    the man is a favourite; but he has little money, and it will be
    at least agreeable to spend the king’s guineas.

    If you were a woman I should tell you the new fashions. The
    beaux now carry their watches in their muffs, and the women are
    taking, more and more, to what Charles S――――y calls undress
    uniform, so that soon Madame Eve will be the fashionable maker
    of gowns!――but I must not nourish your provincial blushes. Lord
    R. tells me that your General is a sad brute, for when his
    sister――a pretty thing she was――spent all her money at cards
    and hanged herself, the man said: “Poor Fanny, I always thought
    she would play till she would be forced to tuck herself up.”
    Horace Walpole says, when she meant to die, she wrote with a
    diamond on the window-pane this out of Garth’s “Dispensary”:

    “To die is landing on some silent shore,
     Where billows never break nor tempests roar.”

    But why should the woman die when she had a diamond left to
    gamble with?

    However, the Duke of Cumberland is his patron, and that is
    enough. F――――x lost the other night at White’s, they say, £1000
    and――

I looked up and said: “The rest does not seem to be of interest or to
say more of the general.”

“No, but always look at the postscript of a lady’s letter. There is
more about your general.”

It was true, for I read:

    P. S. I meant not to tell you of Braddock’s affair with Colonel
    Gumley, who was his friend, but I may as well, even if you
    think it incredible. A letter is a fine way to talk, because
    you can never see the blush you may cause, and may fib without
    being vexed by contradiction until so long after that you have
    forgotten all about it. But what a pother I am making about my
    harmless gossip!

    When Braddock quarrelled over cards with his friend, and swords
    were drawn, Gumley (you know, Lord Pulteney married his sister)
    cried out: “Braddock, you are a penniless dog. If you kill me
    you have no money, and you will have to run away.” So with
    that he tossed him his purse. Braddock was in such a rage that
    Gumley easily disarmed him, but he would not ask his life.

As we rode on I said it seemed to me to show that our general was
foolishly obstinate, and that I liked the other man better, but neither
very much.

His lordship said: “Yes, yes; it is a wild and a silly life. The woman
is heartless, but what she says may serve to put you on your guard.
These people think London the only part of the world worth a thought.
The other letter is of more moment. It is from Colonel Conway. I have
inked over these names; they do not matter. He is of another clay.”

    _London._

    MY DEAR LORD: My nephew, Mr. Henry Wilton, carries this letter
    to you, and any kind attention you may feel disposed to pay him
    will oblige me.

    I think the choice of Braddock unfortunate. He is a brave,
    or rather a reckless, man, overconfident, arrogant, and sure
    to despise his enemy, and goes out, as I am assured, with a
    bad opinion of the Colonials. Horace Walpole, who knows, as
    we all do, the mad life Braddock has led in London, says: “He
    is a very Iroquois in disposition, and so, I suppose, fit
    to fight his kind.” Horace is making himself merry over the
    appointment, and the Colonial helping he is to have. But it is
    the fashion here to laugh at Colonials, and not for the world
    would Horace be out of the fashion. I wish the General may have
    good fortune, but I fear the matching of drill and pipe-clay
    against the wiles of the woods; as sensible would it be to set
    a fencing-master with a rapier to fight a tiger in a jungle.
    When I consider how vast is this increasing number of English
    in a country where must be great prospects and a fine sense of
    independency, I wonder how little they are regarded here. But
    it is our way to despise other nations, and even our own blood
    if it has had enterprise to cross the seas. Come back and help
    us to learn better.

    Always your Lordship’s

    Ob’d’t hum’le serv’t.

    _Henry Conway._

His lordship looked at me as I put away the letters. I said: “That
seems to me good sense; but about the general, I cannot credit it.”

“You will judge for yourself,” he said, “if this be the man to send
into the wilderness. Keep the letters, but do not lose them; you may
return them later.” Which I should have done, only that the rout on the
Monongahela put it out of my mind.




XXXII


It was about noon when, as I have said, being in the rear of the
Forty-eighth Foot, we heard a noise behind us. We drew up at the side
within the wood to see what was coming.

Amid a great dust came General Braddock, in a fine red chariot bought
of Governor Sharpe, with an escort of light horse, all in great haste,
and bumping over the worst road possible. Presently they flew by the
troops, who saluted, the drums beating the Grenadier’s March, a tune I
was to hear again.

“If I were the general,” I said, “I should have preferred a horse to a
coach.”

“Not if you were he,” said his lordship.

“But the man is not a fool,” I ventured to say. “He seemed to me not to
want for intelligence.”

“An intelligent fool, George, is the worst fool. His intelligence feeds
his folly.”

This, like much else that his lordship said to me, was not so plain as
it would be now, and, accordingly, I made no reply.

After being silent for a time, his lordship went on to say that I
should do well to talk little, and quietly to observe things for
myself; that he himself knew General Braddock to be a spendthrift,
obstinate as a pig, and very self-confident; and, finally, that I knew
what a lot of drilled regulars would be worth in the woods. He feared
also that the officers were quite unfit for the service.

As it was the way of his lordship to mock at most things, it did not
affect me as much as what I saw and heard later, for, unfortunately, he
was not alone in his opinion concerning the general.

By and by, the general having preceded us by an hour, we heard the
salute of seventeen guns, fired as he entered the camp.

We came in sight of the tents about Wills Creek early in the afternoon,
and were walking our horses, very tired, man and beast, when a
gentleman came towards us. He was mounted on a rather uneasy animal,
and I saw, as he met us and we bowed, that his girth was loose and he
in danger of a fall. I dismounted and, with an apology, set it right.
He thanked me and got off his horse, saying, as was plain to see, that
he was no horseman and would walk, preferring two certain legs to four
uncertain ones. On this his lordship also dismounted, and, our servants
taking the horses, we walked on together. But first his lordship said:
“I am Lord Fairfax, and this is my friend, Colonel George Washington.
May we have the honour to know your name?”

He replied, “I am Benjamin Franklin,” and asked if this were Colonel
Washington who had been in command in the Jumonville affair. I said I
had had that good fortune, and after this he turned to his lordship,
and, they conversing, I was able to observe the looks and ways of Mr.
Franklin, who was now the Postmaster-General and known throughout the
colonies as a learned man, and in affairs very competent. I was to be
deeply engaged with him in the future.

He was at this time a vigorous man of forty-nine years, with a great
head and a kindly look, clad very simply in a gray suit. When he began
to talk I envied him the ease and exactness with which he expressed
himself, and the prudence he showed in speech, of which quality his
lordship had little.

When at last the Postmaster-General learned that I was to serve as a
volunteer aide, he smiled and remarked that that was to manufacture
glory for others and not even to get pay. To this I replied that I
considered my ends were clear enough to me, for that I was, as it were,
an apprentice, and was bent to acquire experience in war under one
who knew the business. He said he hoped I should not be disappointed,
and at this I saw his lordship smile; and so no more of moment passed
between us, for we met Captain Orme and Sir John St. Clair, and were
soon in the camp.

Here was our most western fort. It lay very well, what there was of it
finished, just where Wills Creek falls into the Potomac.

I went, with Captain Orme guiding me, to headquarters at the fort to
report, passing a few Indians and squads of ill-clad Virginians whom
an officer, one Ensign Allen, was cursing and trying to drill into
regulars.

Everybody was out of temper for one reason or another. Sir John could
get neither waggons nor flour, and the Indian squaws were making
mischief because of the unchecked license of the younger officers.

Having reported, I was received very agreeably by the general and his
aides, and he would have me to dine with him that day. At four in the
afternoon――for the general kept very fashionable hours――we sat down in
a great room in the fort, and as he told us his cooks could make a good
ragout out of old boots, we were served with a great variety of dishes,
and in fine state.

The general had Lord Fairfax on his right and Mr. Franklin on his left,
and I was fortunate to find myself beside a very courteous gentleman
just come to the fort, Mr. Richard Peters, secretary of Governor
Morris of Pennsylvania. I engaged this gentleman in talk concerning
the proprietary government and the Quakers, and their unwillingness to
be taxed for defence, until, the wine being freely used and then punch
more than enough, men’s tongues were loosed. There were toasts to the
King and the governor, and at last I heard the general’s voice raised.

He said: “Your health, Mr. Peters, and when do you set out to cut that
road for my troops? You are long about it.” Mr. Peters said quietly:
“When, sir, I get guards against the Indians for the wood-cutters;
until then it will not be possible.”

The general damned Pennsylvania and the Quakers, and said: “That colony
must find guards for their own wood-cutters, and as to the Indians, his
Majesty’s regulars laugh at the idea of danger from them.” Upon which,
several officers, not very sober, cried out, “Hear, hear!”

Mr. Peters, who had taken very little wine, replied that they were not
to be despised, meaning the savages, but that every step of the march
would be at risk of ambuscades.

Then, to my amazement, General Braddock cried out that he despised such
counsels and that the colonials were like old women.

On this Mr. Peters rose, and one or two other gentlemen, and I saw Mr.
Franklin glance at him. As he hesitated, I said so that he alone could
hear: “Pardon me, Mr. Peters, the man is drunk, and you are entirely
right.” Then I saw that his lordship spoke quickly to the general,
who cried out: “My apologies, Mr. Peters, and a glass with you. We
have had too many vinous counsellors. You shall have your guards”――as
indeed he did, but not until my lord had been very urgent, and also Mr.
Franklin. Mr. Peters, very grave, bowed and sat down. When shortly his
lordship went away, I made my own excuses and followed him.

The next day I happened to be in his lordship’s quarters and Mr.
Franklin present, when General Braddock called to pay his respects to
Lord Fairfax. We rose to go out, but his lordship detained us. The
general was in high spirits. He said to Mr. Franklin: “Only let the
colonies keep their promise and all will be well.”

I confess I was unprepared for the confidence with which he assured
Mr. Franklin that he would take Duquesne and go on to Niagara and
Frontenac, and that the fort would be an affair of a day or two.

“But, sir,” said Mr. Franklin, “you must march through a narrow road in
pathless, dense forests, and your line will be some four miles long.
You will, I hope, take Duquesne, but you will be, I fear, in constant
danger of being cut in two, for the French and Indians are dexterous
in ambuscades, and to send back relief quickly, if attacked, will be
nigh to impossible with woods all about you. As to the waggons we
talked of, I will get you all the waggons you want out of Pennsylvania,
and shall set out for Lancaster at once.”

The general thanked him, but said he must remind Mr. Franklin that
he talked as a civilian, and that, although these savages might be
formidable to raw American militia, they would make no impression on
disciplined troops, and much more to like effect.

Mr. Franklin replied quietly: “I am conscious, sir, of the impropriety
of arguing such matters with a military man, but I should like to ask
Colonel Washington his opinion. He has had some experience in the
irregular warfare of our woods.”

His lordship, desirous, as I learned later, that I should not
contradict my superiour, said: “I beg to answer for Mr. Washington that
I am sure General Braddock will, as time serves, consult such colonial
officers as have seen service on the frontier.”

After other talk the general rose, and said he should be sure to take
his lordship’s advice.




XXXIII


When alone with us the Postmaster-General talked with even greater
seriousness, saying that in Philadelphia, so secure were they of the
success of the campaign, that a gentleman, a Dr. Bond I think it was,
proposed to raise money for an illumination to be ready when the news
of victory came. Mr. Franklin told us that he had begged him to take
warning from a verse in the Old Testament as to before battle and
after, and this much pleased his lordship, who laughed and said, “Well
put, sir”; but when I asked what the verse was, they both laughed and
bade me read my Bible, and, indeed, I am none the wiser up to this day.

It was not alone the general who was discontented. On arriving at
Wills Creek I found this letter from George Croghan, one of the
most important traders on the frontier, and with a commission from
Pennsylvania to make roads and secure waggons and Indian allies.

    DEAR COLONEL: If the rest are like Sir John St. Clair, I shall
    be glad to be shut of the business. He swore at us for delay
    and said “no soldier should handle an axe, but by fire and
    sword he would force the inhabitants to do the work; we should
    be treated as traitors, and that when the General came he would
    give us ten bad words for one that he had given.” You, Sir,
    know well how hard it is to stir up our border folks and what
    a task to get from farmers in the spring their waggons and
    horses. We are doing our best. I have secured Captain Jack――a
    guide hard to beat.

There was more of it, and enough to afford serious thought.

During our stay I heard nothing but complaints of our want of
efficiency, and no one seemed to see that it was silly to expect to
find everything at hand in a land as new as ours. Captain Orme and
Ensign Allen complained on one occasion to Dr. Mercer and me that our
men were languid, spiritless, and unsoldier-like. Dr. Mercer, who was
a hot-headed Scotchman, said he had seen undisciplined Highlanders put
to rout regulars at Prestonpans and Falkirk, and that in the woods
our men would beat the best grenadiers in the King’s army. Orme grew
angry and said Mercer was a damned rebel; but I succeeded in quieting
them, although I insisted that Captain Orme would in time change his
opinion, as indeed happened. Mercer was in a constant rage and told
me over and over that the officers were insolent and that the general
was ill with the disease called damned foolishness. I thought him
imprudent and begged him to be careful; but as he had served in ’45
with the Pretender, and come over here after his flight, he was, on
that account, in bad odour with the regular officers, and, I feared,
also with the general, who had been with the Duke of Cumberland upon
the final bloody defeat of the rebels at Culloden. Dr. Mercer had just
cause to complain, but I thought him unwise to talk so freely. He
was, nevertheless, a gallant gentleman, and died a general, falling
gloriously at Princeton when rallying his men.

I saw Mr. Franklin again but once before he went away. He was clearly
not a man altogether to the liking of Lord Fairfax, but why, I never
came to know. He seemed to me at that time a conscientious and
intelligent person, very able to get along with all manner of people.
I must admit that he conducted matters of gravity as if they amused
him and were not serious, a method which never altogether pleased me.
When I justified the general’s groaning over his many difficulties as
to roads and transport and food, he said that his difficulties were of
British making, and that had the force landed in Philadelphia, horses,
waggons, and supplies would have been found in abundance. To this I
agreed, for I thought the plan of the march ill chosen. After this the
doctor amused himself with the astonishment the Indians would have when
they got hold of the wigs of the officers――a jest which did not seem
to me agreeable. He spoke also with much freedom of the general, and
said to argue with him was useless and was like striking a pillow or
reasoning with a wild animal, who had only its own thoughts and could
not comprehend yours. I made no reply, and he fell to most ingenious
talk about the temperature of springs and the ways of swimming.
Notwithstanding his doubts, the great array of war kept me somewhat
confident and cheerful until I heard that nine hundred men of the
French had passed Sandusky on their way to reinforce the French on the
Ohio, so that I had to write Mr. Speaker Robinson that I feared we
should have more to do than merely to march up and down the hills, as
the general had said would be all.

It was May 19 when the general arrived at Fort Cumberland, and June 10
before he set out to cross the mountains, and after, as the general
said, more expenditure of oaths in a month than he had needed in his
whole Scotch campaign with the duke, of whom the general liked to speak.

I spent much of my time while we lay at this post in learning the
methods of drill and discipline, and in aiding to satisfy the Virginia
recruits that it was necessary to imitate the methods of the regulars,
although if it came to wood fighting I believed the English officers
and men would more need to learn the ways of the rangers. Yet some who
judged our people by their dislike of strict drill were of opinion that
the lowness and ignorance of their officers gave little hope of their
future behaviour under fire. My task of helping to train the men was
given up when the general ordered me to go to Williamsburg and fetch
back four thousand pounds, an errand not much to my liking.

Unfortunately, the detail was made without my having the opportunity of
choice, and proved very unfit, giving me much concern and anxiety. I do
not know why there was delay in assembling this detail, but eight days
passed after I got my order before I was given the men. I believe they
would not have been eight seconds in dispersing if we had been attacked.

Captain Horatio Gates, of a New York Independent company, advised not
to take regulars, who would obey only their own officers; but I had no
choice, and so set out and was gone a fortnight. On my return I slept
every night in the waggon, with my precious money about me and pistols
loaded. The men were drunken and disobedient until I promised strappado
on our reaching camp, and indeed I was glad to be rid of the money and
the guard.

I saw during this ride and later that, as Orme had told me, the men of
the Forty-fourth and Forty-eighth regiments were drunken, mutinous, and
disorderly, so that it was not alone our own failures to provide which
made difficult the task of our unfortunate commander.

I found the general much disgusted at the delays in supplying him, and,
as I thought, most unwise, and only increased his trouble by abuse of
the colonies, for the more men deserve abuse the less they like it, and
get sullen and less than ever inclined to help.

Just before we set out from Fort Cumberland, the general being now in
the saddle, Lord Fairfax presented me with a handsome pair of pistols,
and said: “I should have been pleased to have had a son like you;
but for that I must have had a wife, which is a calamity I have been
spared. If occasion serves, I shall be glad to hear from you.”

Lord Fairfax had informed me that General Braddock would ask my opinion
and advice as to the use to be made of Indians and our rangers. He did
consult me, but only, I believed, because his lordship had desired him
to do so.

I never succeeded to make much impression upon him, and it was as the
wise Mr. Franklin had said. Many Indians joined us on the way with
their squaws, but the chiefs were too little considered or consulted.
Their women were insulted or worse, and those that came to-day,
receiving no gifts, were gone to-morrow.

On June 6, Sir John St. Clair was sent on in advance with some six
hundred choppers to widen and better my old road. After him came Sir
Peter Halket’s force. On June 10, if I remember aright, the general
followed with his staff and the rest of the army. As soon as the march
began, the lack of discipline became plain, and the officers were worse
than the men and altogether too much drunkenness.

Captain Croghan said to me: “I should like to give these fellows a
wood drill and upset half the rum-kegs.” This was as we led our horses
over the second mountain. “Why, sir,” he said, “here are hundreds of
waggons and enough gimcracks and nonsense to fit out a town, and all
the officers of foot on horseback.”

I said that I had represented to the general and Colonel Dunbar
the risk of this long train, and urged that we use our horses for
packhorses and to carry only what we really needed. “That would be,”
Captain Croghan said, “for the men, blankets, an axe, a rifle, a
knife, and ammunition.”

He went on to tell us that he had urged this to be done again and
again――that was, to Captains Orme and Shirley, the military secretary
of the commander, for he had been told plainly enough that he was
himself too small a person to converse with the general, and a d――d
trader he had been called. He was sure the general would listen to no
advice except from the King’s officers. I had to admit that he listened
to me at times, and had always said in a civil way that he would
consider of what I advised, but got no further.




XXXIV


Croghan came to me the day after at my hut (I am not sure of this
date), and with him was Mr. Gist and a tall man in buckskins, leggins,
and moccasins. He carried a long rifle and a scalping-knife.

Captain Croghan said: “This, colonel, is my friend, Captain Jack, of
whom I wrote. He has come with fifty Pennsylvania men to offer as
scouts.”

I had heard often of this man and was pleased that we were to have
his services. I made him welcome, bade him be seated, and offered him
rum, which he refused to take, saying he drank no spirits. He was
very silent and made brief answers to my questions concerning the
Indians and their inclinations. When I would have gone further, he
rose and said his men were waiting to camp. He must see the general,
and asked me to go with him. As we walked through the shelters the
rangers had set up, I saw many look at him with curiosity, which was
not surprising, for he was not less than six feet three, but a gaunt,
thin man, of melancholic aspect. He never spoke a word, but presently
we met a certain Major Moore, a rough, hard-drinking officer of the
grenadiers. As he stopped us, I saw that he was under liquor, as was
too common. He said, “Whom have you got there? Make a fine grenadier.”
I said, “This is Captain Jack, a famous Pennsylvania scout,” and so
would have passed on, when the major said rudely to Captain Jack, “Who
the deuce made you a captain?” The scout tapped his rifle and said,
“That,” and walked on, without saying more than his gesture seemed to
imply. I could not avoid remarking, “You are well answered, major,” for
I have always had a liking for men who do not talk much. I contented
myself with saying to the scout that, as usual, the major was in liquor.

I sent in my name to General Braddock, and we were desired to enter his
tent. Here I introduced Captain Jack as an experienced ranger and said
he had fifty good scouts. The general asked me to be seated, but as he
did not invite the scout to sit down, I remained standing. As for the
captain, he said not so much as a word, but waited, looking steadily
at the general, who asked me a question concerning the roads, and then
said to me, “Let the man wait; I will see about him in a day or two.”
Then he asked what pay they wanted, to which Captain Jack said, “No
pay, nothing.”

I tried to make the general understand the great service we might
expect in the woods from such men, but he replied impatiently that
these men could not be drilled, and that he had experienced troopers on
whom he could rely for any service he might require. He was going on to
give orders as to where the men should camp, when Captain Jack turned
and went out without further words. The general damned him roundly for
an ill-bred cur, and I made after him in haste. When I had overtaken
him, he said very quietly: “Good-by, Colonel Washington; when you have
a separate command send for me.” I made a vain effort to induce him to
remain. In half an hour he called his men together, and they went away
into the woods Indian fashion, one after the other, and we saw him no
more. Captain Croghan told me that this man had had his whole family
massacred by the Indians, and had spent years in revenging himself,
sometimes alone, and sometimes with a party, for he was both esteemed
and trusted on the border-lands of Pennsylvania. Both Croghan and I
were much disappointed.

Amid the difficulties caused by European need of useless luxuries
and by the absence in officers and men of what Mr. Franklin called
“pliability in the hands of new circumstances,” I was getting useful
lessons and was made to see that when a commander cannot get what he
wants he must make the most of what little he has. Indeed, the delay in
getting waggons he could have done without was, in the end, a calamity
to the general.

The army, over two thousand strong, followed routes over and through
the Alleghanies which I had used in 1754, and which could easily have
been bettered by free use of trained scouts and our own axe-men sent on
ahead.

There was much sickness, and the regulars suffered in many ways by
reason of ignorance and want of knowing how better to take care of
themselves. They complained bitterly of the mosquitos, black flies,
and midges, and took so kindly to smudges that Orme said the smoke
was like that the Israelites had, with less or no trouble. There was,
indeed, some reasonable cause for complaint by men unused to the woods.
We had twice the worst thunder and lightning I ever saw. Trees were
struck, but no man, nor ever is in the woods. Three men died of the
bite of rattlesnakes, but few escaped the little forest bugs called
ticks, which bore into the skin and leave sores and great itch for
weeks. Our rangers undressed every night and picked off these pests.
The soldiers were too lazy or did not know enough, and many were lamed
or ulcered for want of such care.

Even before we reached Little Meadows certain officers saw the danger
of our thin line; more than four miles of it stretched out across
streams and marshes in deep woods. Had the French been in force we
had certainly been sooner ambushed. Even the men became uneasy as we
entered the white-pine woods beyond Great Savage Mountain. Here the
deep of the forest was like twilight, and the trees of great bigness.
When the rangers told the soldiers that these dark woods were called
the “Shades of Death,”――but why I do not know,――they were more alarmed,
and were glad about the 18th to be out of the forest and descending the
shaggy slopes of the Meadow Mountain to Little Meadows, where was more
light and room to camp.

It was a wonder to us frugal woodsmen how all this host, cumbered as it
was, did at last get over the hills and reach the Little Meadows, this
being about June 18.

On the evening of our arrival the general desired me to remain after
the other aides had received orders and gone away. He then opened his
mind to me with great freedom about the tardiness of the march and his
desire to know what was my opinion concerning the matter in hand. When
he had made an end of speaking, I said that he had more men than were
needed, but that to push on in haste was desirable and to take only the
light division, leaving the heavy troops and most of the baggage.

I begged leave to add that Duquesne was as yet weakly garrisoned, and
the long dry weather would keep the rivers low, and hard to navigate by
reinforcements from Venango and the lake, so that if we could dismount
officers, take to packhorses, and push on without encumbrance, we could
be sure of an easy victory.

A council of all the field-officers was called soon after I left the
tent; but my rank not entitling me to be present, I was pleased to hear
from Captain Orme that the general had stated my views and that a more
rapid march was decided. I was much disappointed to learn that we were
still to be overburdened with artillery and waggons. I gave up one of
my horses for a packhorse and saw it no more. Out of two hundred and
twelve horses allowed to officers, only twelve were thus offered. Why
the general did not order them taken I do not know.

The force selected was in all about twelve hundred men and their
artillery; but in place of pushing on with vigour, they must needs
stop to bridge every brook and level every mole-hill. In four days we
marched only twelve miles.

St. Clair and Colonel Gage were sent on ahead to clear the way with
four hundred men, and the general followed with eight hundred. We still
moved so slowly that we were constantly halted because of overtaking
our pioneers. It was up hill and down, where cannon and waggons had to
be lowered by ropes. There were deep morasses and constant scares from
outlying parties of Indians.




XXXV


On the 21st we entered the colony of Penn, and on the 30th June dropped
down from the hills to Stewart’s Crossing on the Youghiogheny. Here St.
Clair, sent on in advance, had cleared the ground for a camp.

We had been all of ten days in marching twenty-four miles. Day after
day, as Croghan and I uneasily hung about the flanks and the rear,
we saw the long line of red-coated, cumbered men, sweating in heavy
uniforms, with waggons and cannon, slowly moving through the silent
woods, so full, to our minds, of peril.

I had been ill for some days, but at the Youghiogheny River I fell
worse of a sudden with a fever and pain in the head. The general was
most kind and at last ordered me to remain, leaving me a guard and my
dear Dr. Craik. Colonel Dunbar’s division had been left behind, to his
great indignation, and was to follow slowly with the baggage-train. I
was in the utmost gloom at my detention, being in a way responsible for
the new movement. The chance to be, by ill luck, laid up while a battle
might take place much disturbed me. I wrote my brother Jack I would not
miss it for five hundred pounds.

While I lay in bed most impatient, the detachment went on, and soon
after I had this letter from Christopher Gist, who was acting as guide:

    RESPECTED SIR: We are moving along as solemn as a box-turtle,
    one day two miles, which any smart turtle might compass. The
    pickets are doubled, and men sleep with their arms, for, good
    Lord! if a branch cracks they give an alarm, and if a poor
    devil strays there is a scalp gone, for every step of our march
    is watched. Still I am sure there are no big parties out, for
    I have been off in advance and been within half a mile of
    the fort, and came nigh to losing my hair, but with decent
    good fortune we have the place. I should be easier with a few
    hundred of our own people in the advance and on our skirts, but
    they are kept in the rear, the Lord knows why.

Captain Orme also wrote to me of frequent night alarms, and of the
general’s confidence at being now but thirty miles from the fort. Here
two days’ halt was made to await fresh supplies from Dunbar.

On July 4, being stronger, I started in the rear of a party of one
hundred men just come up from Colonel Dunbar with provisions. I was set
upon going with them, but was too weak to ride a horse and must needs
use a waggon. As the road was much cut up, my bones were almost jolted
through the small cover left on them. On the 8th I reached the camp,
now but thirteen miles from Duquesne.

My journey took me through the Great Meadows, near where was my little
fight, and past the ruined palisadoes of Fort Necessity. I saw them
with great interest, and felt some sense of gratification that now I
might pay up my score against those who had both humbled and insulted
my King and myself.

Once, as my waggon approached the rear-guard, we came upon a dozen or
more stragglers. Some had fallen out tired, and some were loitering
to gather berries. I cried out to warn them of the danger they were
in, and, in fact, about a quarter of an hour later they ran after us,
crying, “Indians!” They may have had cause, but all the strange noises
of the woods alarmed them, and this time the rangers said it was a
wildcat.

The sound of distant martial music from the camps which we were come
near to seemed to revive my mind, and I was able to cast off the
feeling of gloom and converse with Captain Shirley, the military
secretary, who had ridden back with an order. He said to me that we had
been a month in marching less than a hundred miles. Captain Morris, who
was with him, said it was true, but all was well that ended well, and
we had the fort at our mercy and would attack next day. I advised my
friends, as I had before done, that it would be well if the officers
could be dressed in wood colours, like our scouts; but Captain Shirley
replied that the general would never allow of it, and, indeed, when
next day I got rid of my fire-red coat and put on a fringed buckskin
shirt, I was no little jeered at, and Colonel Gage made some comments,
which, I trust, he came later to regret. I am of opinion that the
absence of a gaudy red coat saved me from many balls and enabled me
to be of use when the other aides were wounded. I was much of Mr.
Franklin’s opinion that if fine feathers make fine birds, they also
make them an easier prey for the fowler.

Indeed, the learned Postmaster-General made himself very merry over the
queues and the stiff stocks and the bright scarlet uniforms. He thought
the officers only needed corsets, which I was told they did often use
at home.

When, in the afternoon, very tired and weak, I reached the tent made
ready for me by the kindness of my brother aides, I lay down to rest,
and, as Captain Morris was now on duty, I asked him to tell me what was
to be our mode of approach to the fort. I was able easily to recall the
general features of the country, for the camp was now set about twelve
miles from Frazier’s former trading-station, where I stopped on my
return from my mission to the French. We lay some ten miles to the east
of the Monongahela River, and, as was said, thirteen from Duquesne as
the crow flies.

As I rested and we talked, came also Captain Shirley and Captain Gates
of the Twenty-eighth Regiment, with Stephens, Hamilton, and Stewart of
the Virginians. Of all of them I was the only man not killed or wounded
in the next day’s battle. I may well entertain my brother August’s
belief that the conspicuous hand of Providence was over me, and he must
be worse than an infidel who lacks faith in it.

No thought of to-morrow troubled our council of war, and we discussed
with spirit what our superiours meant to do. I drew on a piece of birch
bark a rude sketch of the country. The fort lay on a high bluff in the
angle made by the Ohio and Monongahela rivers. We were, as I said, some
ten miles to the east of the latter stream and on the same side as the
fort. Between us and it lay the deep, rugged ravines of Turtle Creek
and the brooks which run into it. The country beyond it was densely
wooded and without any road. To cross the creek and cut a road to the
fort would be the most direct way; otherwise we must march to and cross
the Monongahela, a fordable river, and afterwards move along bluffs
three or four hundred feet high, and follow the stream for five miles.
We should then descend to the water and arrive at a second ford; having
crossed it, we should be again on the same side as the fort. Then there
would be before us a slope, and, some two miles distant, hid in the
woods, the bastions of Duquesne. Having made clear to my fellow aides
the localities, we considered the two routes, with some differences of
opinion in regard to which was the better, until they were called away,
and I was left alone.

Soon after came Sir John St. Clair, sent by the general with a kind
message. I then learned that some effort had been made to cross Turtle
Creek, but that it had been found impossible to get the artillery
over and that the engineers pronounced it impracticable. Upon this
the general had given orders to change the route, so that we should
follow the traders’ horse-trail, on which we had made our road, and
should march to the river. There we were to ford the stream as I have
said, move on the farther bank some miles, and recross by the second
ford to the east side again, where the lay of the land allowed, as was
supposed, of an easy approach to the fort.

I was still weak, but although I could have desired more rest, I
walked at dusk through the great clearing made for the camp, to report
myself at once to the general’s headquarters. I had been sorry for
his obstinacy and the rudeness he showed in laughing at our way of
fighting, but I had been told by Sir Peter Halket that he had said
that Mr. Franklin and Colonel Washington were the only trustworthy
people he had met in the colonies. I thought this foolish as showing
poor judgment; but he had been most kind to me, and now, in spite of
all his blunders and our own failures to supply him promptly, which
were with some justice to be complained of, we were, as it seemed, on
the point of success.

When I presented myself, the general asked most pleasantly concerning
my health, and if I was well enough to serve as aide. I assured him I
was, but I was really at the time feeble enough. When I ventured to
make him my compliments on the near prospect of success before him,
he laughed and asked where had been the need for our rangers and the
tribes of Indians, and then made me a very fine speech, which I must
admit to having been pleased at. I ventured to ask leave to go on
in the advance with the Virginia wood-rangers, so as to secure the
pioneers and road-makers from an ambuscade. He replied shortly: “Oh,
damn your half-drilled rangers! I shall keep them as a rear-guard.”
I rose and apologized, feeling that I had been too forward and had
better have held my tongue. Indeed, I excused myself as well as I
could, and upon this his face cleared, and he said: “Colonel Gage is
to have the advance, and what would he say to the best regiment of the
King being protected by a mob of squatters and border farmers. No, sir;
I desire you as my aide.” I said no more, and returned to my tent.

I have never found that the coming of decisive events kept me awake
when I was myself the person who had the duty of decision; but this
night, whether from great fatigue or not, for that does keep a man from
sleep, or that I was still fevered, I lay awake long, unable to free my
mind from anxious thoughts.

I regretted that I had not asked Mr. Franklin why at night we heard so
many sounds in the woods which are not heard by day. No doubt he would
have found an explanation. Long after the camp was at rest I remained
sleepless, hearing the quick waters of the creek and the noises of the
wood, with the hoot-owl’s cry and the chipmunks gamboling over the
canvas of my tent, and such stir of the camp as never quite ceased.
The way we were to march troubled me and others, especially Sir Peter
Halket, who had forebodings, concerning which Dr. Mercer had some
superstitious ideas, such as my mother often had, but which I never
entertained, or if as to any, it is in the way of dreams.

I had reason for my fears, for the two fords we were to cross could
be easily disputed by a small party. I concluded that to leave all
baggage and artillery to come later by the fords, and to make a quick
and direct march over the creek and along a ridge leading to the fort,
would be the better way.

Having settled my mind as to what I would have done had I been in
command, I disposed myself for sleep, but with no good result until so
late that I heard no reveille sounded, and was waked by my orderly.




XXXVI


I do not pretend, even now, to be acquainted with all the reasons which
influenced the general; but having made up his mind, we broke camp on
the 8th and marched southwest along a little stream the scouts called
Long Run, and so about eight miles towards the river Monongahela, being
thus at last two miles from the ford he meant to cross the next day.

When, in the afternoon about six o’clock, I was released from duty,
I walked through the camps with Sir Peter Halket. The men were
cleaning their guns and brushing their clothes and soaping queues and
pipe-claying, all as if for parade and very needless.

Sir Peter, a man of excellent parts and a good soldier, had expressed
himself in the council as averse to the plan of march. When he asked
after my health and if I had again regained my strength, I replied that
I was fit for duty, but had been better if I had been able to sleep. He
said with gravity that many would sleep soundly to-morrow and that he
was sure he himself would be killed. This seemed strange to me, and I
could only reply that I did not think I should be killed, but that we
might both be wrong; and yet both of us were right, for these matters
are in the hands of the great Disposer of Events, and have never
troubled me on going into battle. One of my aides in the Revolutionary
War, Colonel Scammel, to whom I was much attached, did always believe
he would be killed, as indeed happened, at last, to my sorrow, at
Yorktown.

Dr. Craik was with me that evening and found me chilled and full of
aches; but notwithstanding a potion he gave me, I slept ill again, and
was aroused in the morning by my good doctor. He advised a glass of
rum, for which I felt the better, and when I had eaten and was in the
saddle I repaired to where was General Braddock, a short distance from
the shore. He was in a gay humour and very kind, asking if I felt well
and would drink with him to the King that evening in the French fort. I
could do no more than reply that to do so would give me great pleasure.
I was presently sent down to the shore with a message, and there saw
Colonel Gage crossing the shallow ford to some open meadow-lands on
the farther side. He was to secure the two fords by which the whole
force following him was to cross and then recross, so as to be again
on the same side of the river as Fort Duquesne. After him, about four
o’clock, came Sir John St. Clair, with carpenters――or, as we should
say, axemen――and engineers, some three hundred in all.

I lingered a few moments and saw the last of the advance, as they
marched up from the farther bank of the river and their red coats
disappeared into the forest beyond the ford, which was, I thought, well
chosen and shallow.

Before I went back, Gist, the trader, and Captain Croghan came to speak
to me. I remarked that we had done well to come so far without more
trouble from the Indians. Gist laughed and said: “They have never left
us since we dropped you at the Youghiogheny.” Then Croghan cried out,
“There they are,” and there was a sound of musketry beyond the river.
It proved to be a small body of savages, easily dispersed by Gage. It
being then about six o’clock A.M., the signal to fall in, which we
call the “general,” was beat, and the main body fell in with fresh
cartridges.

The officers were in full uniform, and so, with fixed bayonets and
colours flying and the drums beating the Grenadier’s March, they waded
the stream.

I sat in the saddle with the two aides, Captains Orme and Morris, and
with the interest of a young soldier watched this fine body of men fall
in with perfect discipline on the further side and disappear in their
turn. This being the main body, the staff followed with the general,
and I was sent back to hasten up the rangers, who had the rear. I
found them about two hundred and thirty strong, moving slowly, most in
hunting-shirts and fur caps and moccasins. A part were thrown out far
to right and left in the woods. Ensign Allen and an officer whose name
I forget appeared to be in command, and were vainly endeavouring to
keep up some of the military order they had been teaching. I thought
them wanting in sense and wished I had the rangers at the front. I gave
my message and left them. Then I made haste to ride back to the ford,
which was still held by a small guard. Here I waited, as I was ordered
to do, to see the rear well over and into the woods. After crossing the
ford I found that a rough road had been cleared by the French along the
shore, and hurried through the woods beside the moving column to report.

It was noon before we got to the second ford, above where Turtle Creek
empties into the river; and, after much delay with the artillery, we
got over, I think a little after one o’clock, as fine a sight as ever
I saw. Here, before us, were some open meadows about a quarter-mile
wide, and, twenty feet above the ford, a fair road leading upward over
a little stream called Frazier’s Run, and into the woods. Very quickly,
the aides carrying messages at need, the men were got into marching
orders. For a full quarter of a mile there were bottom-lands in two
easy rises, and beyond these the ground rose amid long grass, very dry,
and thick bushes, great rocks, and trunks of fallen trees, which the
garrison must have felled for fuel.

Long afterwards I rode over this field and saw better the trap into
which we fell. On both sides of the road, which was broad and much
used, the ground rose, and here, where the wood was more dense, amid
thick underwood, were ravines, some very deep and others only five or
six feet. These gullies lay among great trees, pines and gum, and a
tangle of grape-vines, brambles, and Indian plums. One long and deeper
ravine was the bed of a little creek, and on the right of the road the
ground rose quite steep. Further on, as I saw at the time, for the
advance was slow, I observed that the woods seemed to show a series of
low hills, and beyond them no greater rise of land to the fort, which
was hid some seven miles away, at the junction of the rivers; nor did
we ever have sight of it.

Meanwhile we of the main body, halting now and then, marched slowly up
from the ford towards the deeper woods, losing sight of the advance
as it entered the forest, and quite ignorant of the ravines, or of an
enemy, so hid were they in the underbrush.

The main body halted in the mid-space, where the battle was later
engaged, so that we lay for the time just on the second bottom. By
this time Colonel Gage was far in front with guides and engineers,
engaging in the woods, and Sir John St. Clair, with his working-party
of pioneers, axemen, and grenadiers, followed. All was very orderly,
with flanking-parties thrown out on both sides, but not, to my mind,
far enough. Orme wrote me afterwards, when he had learned better, “It
was all as if for a fine review in St. James’s Park.”




XXXVII


At this time, as I said, I was with General Braddock on the upper
bottom. I considered that between the place where the three hundred
men of the advance were entering the thicker woods, and the ford,
might have been about six hundred perches. I took out my watch and saw
that it was ten minutes to two, the rear being yet crossing or in the
river. As I turned to look forward, heavy firing broke out far away in
the woods and among the rocks and bushes. I knew too well the Indian
yells. Very soon I could see men falling and others dropping back. Orme
rode forward to get some account for the general. In a few minutes he
returned, badly wounded in the left arm. Sir John still advancing, the
general ordered Colonel Burton, of the main van, forward with eight
hundred men. There was now thick smoke about the advance on the edge of
the deeper wood, and amid yells and cries the whole of what was left of
the pioneers and their guard fell back out of the woods, at first a
few, and then many, and down the upper slope, somewhat disordering Sir
John’s supporting party.

Sir Peter Halket was told to remain with four hundred men as a
baggage-guard, and the general rode forward himself with Colonel
Burton’s eight hundred men, ordering a bayonet charge of a party up the
hill on our right, whence came so hot a fire from unseen enemies that
the officers were at once killed, and the men fell back at a run.

For some time Sir John’s force behaved with great courage and let the
broken pioneers pass through their lines, but could never be got to
go farther, and stood stupidly firing into the wood. At last, as the
officers fell, the advance became more broken and began to retreat
slowly, but at last running, until they were mixed up with Colonel
Burton’s reinforcement.

I never saw in my later warfare worse confusion nor a hotter fire, nor
men better hid, for the savages and French lay in the ravines among the
brush and picked off the mounted officers, or fired into the masses of
men with no need to take accurate aim.

More and more the rear was forced forward to support the retreating
troops; but as none of them could see any enemy and were falling
every moment from the fire, a general panic took place among the men,
from which no exertion on the part of the officers could recover
them. In the early part of the action some of the irregulars, as they
were called, without directions, advanced to the right, in loose
order, to attack; but this, unhappily, from the unusual appearance of
the movement, being mistaken for cowardice and a running away, was
discountenanced.

It is my opinion that even then if the general had remained on the
cleared ground below and there rallied the men, where was open space
and on the sides little cover, the day might have been saved, as the
small French and Indian force would never have left the woods. He,
however, pushed on in person, urging an advance, and sent Captain
Morris to order up Sir Peter Halket and the rear-guard. We were now
caught on both sides among ravines, great rocks, and trees, where on
our front and on both flanks the enemy spread out in the woods. The
more of our force came up from the rear, the easier was the slaughter.
At this time, when it was not yet too late, amid the confusion which
became more and more general, I made an offer to head the provincials
and engage the enemy in their own way; but the general would not listen
or perhaps did not hear, for the noise was great. At all events, the
propriety of it was not seen until it was too late for execution.
Whether he heard me or not, I cannot say. What with our regulars
shooting at random, the replies from the ravines and woods, the orders
of officers, the yells of the Indians, and the cries of the wounded,
there was a confusedness fit to turn any man’s head. When the soldiers
tried to take wood shelter, as was proper and reasonable, the general
and their officers cursed them for cowards and struck them with the
flat of their swords. The poor dogs tried to obey their leaders,
and again and again formed into platoons, facing to left or right,
thus making them only the easier to kill. I saw Captain Orme of the
artillery fall dead as they rode up with the cannon, and the engineer,
Captain Henry Gordon, dropped wounded, but got up and did, I believe,
succeed to reach the ford.

The men with the swivels stood to it well in giving some shots, and
then gave way, most of them tumbling almost in heaps. Seeing this, I
dismounted with two other officers, and made a man hold my horse, and
aided to fire into the ravine on the right; but the few men left who
should have helped to serve the piece soon dropped, hurt or dead, and
seeing I could no further assist, I mounted again and turned out of
the broken ranks to encourage the Virginia rangers, who were running
up without orders and spreading out to right and left, taking shelter
wherever was a tree or rock, all most gallant and well done. Although
the turmoil was such as I cannot describe, there were many brave
efforts to rally and to carry the high ground above our right. All this
lasted fully an hour or more, for at times, discipline prevailing,
orders were given to storm the flanking slopes, and constantly failed
to be effectual, for, as the officers were picked off, the men ran back
to the main body.

The smoke was by this time so thick as somewhat to obscure all things
at a distance, but a sudden wind, arising, cleared it away, and I saw
that we were giving way more and more, the whole body of the force
moving slowly down the slope. As I looked about me in despair, my
horse fell and rolled over dead. By good fortune I had learned in
fox-hunting how to fall clear. In a moment I was up, and saw that
the troops were scattered in detachments and firing at random, or
vainly trying in groups to follow their officers, who were shot down
mercilessly. I saw Captain Shirley, the general’s secretary, fall dead.
He was quite close to me, and amidst all this tumult his horse stood
still, and, to my amazement, began to eat the grass. I caught the beast
and mounted. I hardly knew what to do. The Virginians were being shot
by the regulars, who knew no more than to fire wherever they saw smoke
from behind a tree or bush. As to orders, there were at this time none,
and, indeed, until just above the river, no sufficient space to move in
without taking to the woods.

I tried to help the general and the few left of the officers in their
efforts to effect an orderly retreat. I have heard that five horses
were shot under him. This I was told by Captain Morris, and it is
no doubt true, for the horse is a large object and easy to hit. Few
officers were left alive, and those who were unhurt could not get the
regulars to obey a command. What was left of twelve hundred men were
huddled together in groups in and out of the woods, as I have seen
sheep in a storm.

The general showed great courage, and made many efforts in person to
rally the men or get them to retreat in an orderly way. He was carried
down the slope with the rout, but remained as obstinate as ever as to
the way of fighting, insisting on the men re-forming. Sir Peter Halket,
Morris, and I vainly entreated him to order the soldiers to take
shelter as the rangers did. As Sir Peter spoke, he dropped dead. His
son, the captain, dismounted to help him, and fell dead on his father’s
body.

I have never seen a man who could describe what took place in the midst
of a battle, nor can I pretend to greater accuracy. I remember that
after two hours or more I became suddenly sure that all was lost. The
whole disordered mass now broke and ran as sheep before hounds, leaving
artillery, provisions, baggage, and the wounded and dying――in short,
everything. When finally a dozen gallant officers threw themselves
in front, they were knocked down and trampled on. We had as little
success as if we had attempted to stop the wild bears of the mountains,
or torrents, with our feet. It was quite useless.

At this time General Braddock was under a great oak near to where we
left the waggons. I was beside him and heard him cry out, “They have
got me.” Captain Stewart, of the Virginia light guard, caught him as
he reeled in the saddle, shot through the right arm and lung. The men
ran past us, refusing to help; but another officer aiding, we somehow
got him on to a small covered cart, and he was carried along in what
was now a mad flight to get to the ford. I heard him cry out: “Let me
alone. Let me die here.”

The waggoners in our rear near the ford cut loose the traces and
mounted their horses and fled. In spite of the great courage shown by
the officers, who in camp were drunken or seemed to be effeminate or
lazy, all who were of mind to resist were swept away by a mere mob of
panic-struck men. Men caught on to my stirrups, and even the horse’s
mane, but somehow I got free and out again to one side. Instantly my
second horse staggered and went down. I saw Dr. Craik, near by, with
the utmost devotion, although himself wounded, helping a disabled
officer to walk away. I was now afoot, and, as I saw how complete was
the rout, I began to fear that our brave Virginians would none of them
escape. They held the fringe of the woods with wonderful courage, using
their rifles, and keeping back the French and Indians. Nothing else
saved the troops of his Majesty from complete massacre.

As I stood still a moment I heard Croghan call loudly to me to take to
cover. I took his advice, and God alone knows how I escaped death. I
had four balls through my clothes.

The leaders of the rangers now saw how great was their peril. The
regulars were by this time near the ford, in the river, or across and
far beyond it. A few brave men in groups were retreating slowly, firing
useless shots. The enemy, yelling in triumph, were crawling or leaping
nearer from time to time. Now and then a painted savage ran out from
cover and fled back, shaking a bloody scalp.

The rangers had lost heavily, but those who were left slipped from one
shelter to another, and at last, when there was little cover left, ran
down to the river, and I with them. Few would have got away except for
the desire of the Indians to plunder the dead and the baggage and to
collect scalps, and that the French were too few in number to venture
on pursuit.

I got over the ford in haste, and standing still on the rise of ground
beyond the river, looked at my watch. I could hardly believe it to
be, as I saw, five o’clock. Most of those who were unhurt were now
safe, and with Captain Croghan I began to gather the wreck of our poor
rangers. One company was almost all gone; another lost every officer
and many men. As to the regulars, seven hundred, nearly half of the
force, were dead or wounded. A part of what was left of this fine army
was soon scattered beyond the two fords, and later was starved in the
woods or got at last into the camps.

About a hundred men were gathered by the officers a quarter of a mile
beyond our first ford. Lieutenant-Colonel Burton rallied some hundreds
of men, and later about eighty, under Colonel Gage, joined them. To my
relief, and greatly to my surprise, there was no pursuit. We pushed on
with the wounded general, and at last, as night fell, camped in much
discomfort.




XXXVIII


That night the parties and sentinels thrown out deserted in an hour.
Although very weak, I sat up beside the general all night. Dr. Craik,
who had cared for his wound in the lung, assured me that he would
certainly die before dawn; but he lived longer than was expected. I
never remember having been more disturbed in mind than during that
night.

We all sat up, armed, in or about the rude shelter which held General
Braddock, and talked in whispers sadly of the battle. Captain Montresor
and also Captain Gordon of the engineers, who gave the first alarm,
and who was severely wounded, declared to me that so complete were the
shelters that he never saw so much as a half-dozen of the enemy. We
could only lament the fate of the wounded left on the field, for the
French made later no return of prisoners. Every moment I expected to
hear the yells of the Indians.

At break of day we rigged a kind of litter and got away, being soon
joined, to my relief, by Colonel Gage, who was severely contused, and
his eighty men. I caught here a stray waggon-horse and rode him, with a
rope bridle and no saddle but a blanket.

As we pushed on through the woods, Colonel Gage talked with me at
length of the disaster. He made many excuses for the soldiers, as that
they had been worn out by labour on the way, had no rum, and were
disheartened by the tales our rangers had told them of the Indians.

Indeed, I fear it was true that the Virginians amused themselves with
talk about legions of rattlesnakes, bears, and scalping. Croghan said
the regulars were babes in the woods and quite as helpless. I made
answer to the colonel that but for our rangers few of his Majesty’s men
would have seen their homes, and that the soldiers had behaved like
poltroons. He said that was true, and after this we walked our horses
on through the woods in silence, the rangers ahead.

I met this officer again in 1773, when, being a general, he was
entertained at dinner by the citizens of New York. At this time the
freedom of the city of New York was presented to him in a gold box
having on it the arms of that city, and below, those of the King.[2]
Our final intercourse was by letter, when he was besieged in Boston and
I felt it needful to remonstrate upon his treatment of prisoners.

  [2] Now in the possession of Lord Rosebery.

So many officers were wounded that, early on the day after the battle,
although very weak, it fell to me, having at last been better horsed,
to carry orders to the force we had left forty miles in our rear.

With a half-dozen horse I rode on all night in a drizzle of rain, and
so all the next day, very melancholy and ready to drop with fatigue.
Indeed, I fell down as I dismounted when I rode in to Colonel Dunbar’s
camp, and was only revived by a little spirits and a good meal.

The whole force which we had left here were more scared, I believe,
than those who had been in the battle; for the runaway waggoners told
terrible stories, and it was with great difficulty that this division
of the army was kept from flying.

The shocking scenes which presented themselves in this march to
Dunbar’s camp are not to be described: the dead, the dying, the
groans, the lamentations and cries for help of the wounded along the
road (for those who were hurt endeavoured, from the first commencement
of the action, or rather the confusion, to escape to the second
division), were enough to pierce a heart of adamant. Our trouble was
not a little increased by the impervious darkness occasioned by the
thick woods, which rendered it almost impossible for the guides to
know when they were in or out of the track except by groping on the
ground with their hands to find the way. It was happy for the wreck of
the foremost division that they left such a quantity of valuable and
enticing baggage on the field as to occasion a scramble and contention
in the seizure and distribution of it among the enemy; for if a pursuit
had taken place by passing directly across the deep defiles of Turtle
Creek, which General Braddock had avoided, they would have got into
our rear, and then the whole, except a few woodsmen, would have fallen
victims to the merciless savages.

The provisions and waggon needed for the general were made ready during
the night, and at break of day, with two companies of grenadiers, I
rode back again, hardly knowing if I should drop on the road. I met the
general at Gist’s cabin, some thirteen miles away. On our return we
halted half a day at Dunbar’s camp, and then hurried on with his force
to Great Meadows, where we camped on the 13th of July. There were, as
some of us believed, still men enough, if fitly handled, to return
and surprise the French; but, as Gist said, these men were already
defeated, and no one of those in command meant to try it again. Indeed,
Dunbar intended for Philadelphia and to wait there for reinforcements.
Even Governor Dinwiddie would have had him make a new campaign; but
they had all of them had, as Dr. Craik said, a big dose of Indian
medicine, and a council decided with the colonel. The governor was much
troubled when he heard of this decision, and, as he told me later,
wrote to Lord Halifax that he would have now not only to guard the
border, but to protect the counties from combinations of negro slaves,
who had become, Governor Dinwiddie declared, audacious since General
Braddock’s defeat, because the poor creatures believed the French
would give them their freedom. My wounded general’s proud spirit gave
way when he heard of Colonel Dunbar’s intention. He lived four days
after the battle, having been brought in much pain, and still more
distress of mind, to the camp at Great Meadows.

For the most part he was silent and only now and then let a groan.
Dr. Craik told me that he cried out over and over: “Who would have
believed it possible?” Once he said to Captain Stewart: “We shall know
better next time; but what will the duke say? [That was his Grace of
Cumberland.] What will he say?” On the morning of the 13th Dr. Craik
said the general had made his will and desired to see me. When he was
aware of my coming into his hut, he put out his left hand, saying,
“That is the only hand which is left,” for the ball had gone through
his right arm. He was said to be a great wit, but that a man about
to die should have spirit to use his dying breath in a jest much
astonished me.

He said: “I want you to take my horse and my man, Bishop. I have told
St. Clair.” Then he said: “I should have taken your advice. Too late;
too late.” After this he closed his eyes, and again, after a little,
opened them and said feebly: “If I lived I should never wish to see
a red coat again. My compliments to the governor.” He spoke no more,
only, “How they will curse me!” and I went out. In fact, I was too weak
to endure the deadly sorrow with which this brave man’s miserable end
afflicted me, to whom he had been so kind a friend.

I endeavoured to distract my mind by examining the remains of the fort
I had here made. To my amazement, I saw, as I moved about, that there
was little discipline, and I observed that where there is too much
drill and mechanical order a defeat does away with it entirely. The
colonials it was hard to instruct; but as every man was used to rely on
himself at any minute, and not to look all the time for orders, they
suffered less during disaster, and on a retreat knew how to care for
themselves. Now the few that were left looked on with wonder at the
stupid destruction of waggons, provisions, and even artillery. Many of
the officers were disgusted, and protested against these disgraceful
proceedings.

But Colonel Dunbar meant to move on to Philadelphia, as he said, for
winter quarters, and yet now it was only July, and he had men enough
left to guard the frontier or to return and take the fort.

I felt sick and worn out, and soon went to my shelter among the
Virginians. I threw myself down and fell into a deep sleep, and indeed
never stirred until Captain Walter Stewart had to shake me to wake me
up. I must have dreamed, for he told me I had called out “Indians”
twice.

When I was well awakened, he said: “We are to move at once. Every frog
that croaks and every screech-owl is an Indian for these whipped curs.
The general died at twelve o’clock. He is to be buried in the roadway,
so that the red devils may not dig up his scalp. Colonel Dunbar asks
that you will read the service.”

I thought the request strange until he reminded me, as indeed I knew,
that the chaplain, Mr. Hamilton, who had behaved with good sense and
courage in the action, was badly wounded, and that the colonel, who was
the proper person for this sad business, was occupied in arranging for
the march and in destroying what had been gathered at such great cost.

It was just before break of day I went out after Stewart, feeling a
kind of satisfaction that the coward in command was not to commit to
the grave my poor general, whom, being dead, every one would abuse.




XXXIX


If I had the pen of a good writer I should incline to describe what
I saw. There were great fires burning, and all manner of baggage
and stores thrown on them. The regulars were chopping up the
artillery-waggons and casting ammunition into a creek.

About a hundred yards away from my hut, in the middle of the road, a
deep grave was dug. A few officers and men were gathered about it,
and on the ground lay the general’s body, wrapt in a cloak, but no
coffin. I looked about me, not knowing how to conduct the matter. Then
an orderly handed me the chaplain’s prayer-book, with a marker at the
funeral service.

As I was about to begin, Lieutenant-Colonel Burton came forward with
a flag and laid it decently over the dead man. Then he placed on it
his sword, and fell back, and all uncovered. After this I read slowly,
for the light was yet dim, the service of the church. This being
over, the men lowered the body into the grave and filled it up with
earth, and cast stones and bushes over it. No guard was ordered, and no
volley fired, lest, as was said, it might be heard by the enemy, which
appeared to me foolish, for there was noise enough, and at any minute
one hundred men in the woods would have routed the whole camp.

Thus died a man whose good and bad qualities were intimately blended.
He was brave even to a fault and in regular service would have done
honour to the army. His attachments were warm, his enmities were
strong, and, having no disguise about him, both appeared in full force.
He was generous and disinterested, but plain and blunt in his manner,
even to rudeness.

Dunbar made haste to get away, and I was not less pleased to be out of
an ill-contrived business.

This affair was a serious blow to the belief in the colonies as to the
high value of the King’s soldiers. It became like a proverb in Virginia
to say a man “ran like a regular.”

Mr. Franklin said to me long afterwards that this disaster gave us
the first suspicion that our exalted ideas of the powers of British
regular troops had not been well founded, and indeed I am assured that
when Lord Percy’s and Colonel Pitcairn’s force was put to flight at
Lexington the older farmers on our own frontiers, when they knew what
had been done, were less amazed than the minute-men of Massachusetts.

We reached Wills Creek on the 18th, as Morris said, the worst-beaten
army that had not been in battle. Colonel Dunbar did not require my
aid, and my general being dead, my service as a volunteer was at an end.

The march to the settlements was most disgraceful――all in cowardly
haste to get out of the wilderness. I am satisfied that no troops
are so given to pillage as a retreating army, and certainly none was
ever worse conducted by the officers or more disorderly than Colonel
Dunbar’s force. The settlers and outlying farms near Fort Cumberland
suffered much; men and women were misused, and chickens and cattle
stolen. I heard afterwards that in their march through Pennsylvania
Dunbar’s men plundered and insulted the farmers still worse, and were
quite enough, Mr. Franklin said, to put us out of all patience with
such defenders.

I bade good-by to the aides of the general, and would have had Orme and
Morris go home with me to be cared for by Dr. Craik, but they preferred
to go on to Philadelphia. They were much dispirited, but had only warm
praise for my Virginia rangers. I was in no better humour, and felt, as
I rode away, that we were on the edge of an awful crisis for the border
counties. The favourable sentiments Sir John St. Clair and Colonel
Burton were pleased to express respecting me could not but be pleasing;
but the situation of our affairs was, to my mind, so serious as to put
me into one of my melancholic moods and to make me feel, as I often
did in the greater war, that, what with want of patriotism and lack of
spirit, only that Providence in which I have always trusted could carry
us through a great peril. As usual, a brisk ride jolted me into a more
hopeful state of mind.

I lay for a day at Winchester in a poor tavern, cared for by the
general’s man, Bishop. There, to my comfort, came Lord Fairfax, who had
the kindness to bring with him a good horse, which I was the better
pleased to have because what became of the horse the general would have
had me have I was never able to hear. His lordship insisted that I
rest at Greenway Court until I was more fit to travel. I had here many
letters; one said that I was given up for killed, and there was come a
long story about my dying speech. My mother was in a sad worry about
me, and when she received my letter contradicting my death, and that I
had never composed any dying speech, she declared I was always making
her anxious and had no right to distress her by doing things that gave
her occasion to think I was dead. His lordship overcame my objections,
and I remained with him at the court several days, well pleased to be
at rest.

When alone with Lord Fairfax, he showed me the affection and concern
which, like myself, he was averse to displaying in company. After I
had been made to give him a full account of the march and the battle,
he said: “You will be wise to write and to say little of what took
place, and to let others say what they will. The men who, having done
something worthy of praise, do not incline to speak of it, are sure to
be enough spoken of by others.”

This was much as in any case I inclined to do, so that until now I have
nowhere related this matter at length, and, as to the diary kept on our
march, the French had it, and I saved only two or three letters.

What his lordship wrote of this disastrous business and of me to his
friends in London, I do not know, but I was soon aware that both in
England and in the colonies I was more praised than I deserved to be.

In 1758, a second British force, under Colonel Grant, was defeated in
like manner as Braddock had been, but this was at the outworks of Fort
Duquesne. In November of that same year I served under General Forbes
and saw once more this disastrous neighbourhood. The hillside where we
suffered such disgraceful and needless defeat was a miserable sight,
for there were here scattered bits of red uniform and the bones of men
and horses bleached in the sun.

At this time the garrison had fled, after succeeding in part to burn
the fort, but no great damage done. I myself raised the flag of his
Majesty over the ruins which had cost the lives of so many brave men.

I lingered longer at Greenway Court than was needful to repair my
broken health, for what his lordship had to say of men and of passing
events I found instructive, and the counsels he gave to agree with my
own disposition.

I received here a letter from my mother, entreating me not to engage
further in the military line, but giving no good reasons, so that I had
to reply that she should more consider my honour and what duty I owed
to my country than to grieve over what might not result in misfortune,
or if it did, was to be accepted as better for me than to have failed
to be worthy of the esteem of just men. When I spoke of this letter to
Lord Fairfax, he said I had answered with entire propriety.

I reached Mount Vernon, as my diary shows, on July 26, at 4 P.M., a
poorer man for my campaigning, and, I feared, with a good constitution
much impaired.

Soon after I returned I received several letters congratulating me on
my escape unhurt, and expressing a general satisfaction that amidst so
much cowardice and ill management the rangers behaved with spirit and
courage.

Among these communications one which afforded me more than ordinary
pleasure was from Mr. Benjamin Franklin. Besides what he found fit to
say of me, were certain reflections which, at this distant day, seem to
nourish my inclination to look forward now, as he did then, desirous,
as all must be, to discern from the present what the future alone can
surely disclose.

Indeed, as I have descended the vale of life I have had increasing
need to consider what the years would bring about, for to endeavour to
forecast the future is one of the duties of a statesman.

Mr. Franklin, when in his last illness, said to General Knox, who spoke
of it to Mrs. Washington, that I possessed the capacity to look forward
in a way which, he said, was one of the forms of imagination, but that
I had not the gift of fancy. I am not assured even now that I fully
understand what he desired to convey by this statement.

The letter which gave rise in my mind to these reflections contains
one of those light statements which I have never found myself able to
employ, and which do not assist me to understand the affair in hand,
or to comprehend any better what is desired to be conveyed.

    _Philadelphia._

    To Colonel George Washington.

    RESPECTED SIR: I am the richer for having had the opportunity
    of making your acquaintance, and I ought not to conceal from
    you the pleasure I have had in learning of late that your
    conduct in the humiliating defeat of General Braddock was such
    as to be a matter of just pride to the colonies.

    Affairs with us, and indeed with all the colonies, are in a
    condition greatly to be deplored. We are, as it appears to me,
    much in the same state as a man I knew who, having married four
    times, had as a consequence four mothers-in-law, all of whom
    were of opinion that they had the right to meddle in his family
    affairs. These are, for us, the King, the Parliament, the Lords
    of Trade, and the Governors. For all of them we are a family of
    bad little boys. We, on the other hand, entertain the belief
    that we are grown-up Englishmen, who believe that we inherit
    certain rights. Soon or late mischief will come of it. The eggs
    of trouble are slow to hatch, but they do surely hatch soon or
    late and are never addled.

    It would be worse than folly to conceal from you my fears
    as to the future. There are limitations to what men like our
    colonists, accustomed to a large measure of individual freedom,
    will endure. We seem to me to have gone back a century and to
    be at the commencement of just such a struggle with the crown
    as then occurred.

    I was interested in what you said of the great coldness of a
    spring at Mount Vernon. I will, when opportunity serves, send
    you a good thermometer, when I think you will find that your
    wells have near about what is the average heat of the air for
    the entire year.

    I hope to hear from you at your convenience, and, believe me, I
    shall feel myself honoured by any such mark of your attention,
    and that I am, with respect,

    Your ob’d’t humble servant,

    _Benjamin Franklin_.

    P. S. I venture to enclose one of my almanacs.

    _B. F._

I gave this almanac and the letter to be read to my Lord Fairfax. He
returned them, saying that what was said of the way of governing the
colonies was true, but that Mr. Franklin overstated what was to be
feared in the future; and as to the almanac, damn the man’s little
maxims! They smelt of New England.




XL


This account of my youth I have for the present put aside to be
considered later, whether to destroy it or not.

I discover in writing these remembrances that I have found pleasure in
recalling many small circumstances which I had forgot. I also observe
that, as I have written very little but letters in my life, the habit
of writing as if for another’s eyes than my own has prevailed, without
intention on my part; but this can do no harm, seeing that all this has
been set down only in order that I may for my own satisfaction consider
as an old man what judgment I should pass on my acts as a young one.

As I shall retain for a season what I have written, I desire that,
in case of accident to me, these pages should not for a long time be
allowed to come to the general eye. The letters left among these leaves
I intend to restore to their proper files.




DIARY――DECEMBER 7, 1799


Rainy morning; mercury at 37. Afternoon clear and pleasant. Dined with
Lord Fairfax at Belvoir.

In the evening felt somewhat a lowness of mind, and am reminded, as I
write, that I have never had the inclination to set down in my diary
other than practical matters. To distract my thoughts, I began to
run over what was wrote last year and to consider of what has passed
since I wrote, and of what must be done with what was written. My
late brother Charles dying in September, I am the only male left of
the second marriage. We are no long-lived people, and when I shall be
called to follow them is known only to the Giver of Life. When the
summons comes, I shall endeavour to obey it with a good grace.

I have had much anxiety during the past two years concerning my
country, and especially as to the indignities inflicted on us by the
French, and a certain relief not to be again called, at my age, into
the field. I may have been too anxious, but a bystander sees more of
the game than they who are playing, and I believe I have had cause to
feel uneasy. But the Ship of State is afloat, or very nearly so, and,
considering myself as a passenger only, I shall trust to Heaven and the
mariners, whose duty it is to steer us into a safe port of peace and
prosperity.


[The general died on December fourteenth of this year, seventeen
hundred and ninety-nine.]


       *       *       *       *       *


 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Archaic and variable spelling, and misspellings in correspondence,
   have been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.



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