A Virginia cavalier

by Molly Elliot Seawell

The winter was passed in hard work at Mount Vernon. Only by ceaseless labor could George control his restlessness. The military fever was kindled in his veins, and, do what he could, there was no subduing it, although he controlled it. Torn between the desire to serve his country as a military man and the sense of a personal and undeserved affront, he scarcely knew what to do. One day, in the fever of his impatience, he would determine to go to Alexandria and enlist as a private in his old corps. Then reason and reflection, which were never long absent from him, would return, and he would realize that his presence under such circumstances would seriously impair the discipline of the corps. And after receiving the officers’ letter, and hearing what was said and done among them, he was forced to recognize, in spite of his native modesty, that his old troops would not tolerate that he should be in any position which they conceived inadequate to his deserts. Captain Vanbraam told him much of this one night when he rode from Alexandria to spend the night with George.

“General Braddock is a great, bluff, brave, foolish, hard-drinking, hard-riding Irishman. He does not understand the temper of our soldiers, and has not the remotest conception of Indian fighting, which our enemies have been clever enough to adopt. I foresee nothing but disaster if he carries out the campaign on his present lines. There is but one good sign. He has heard of you, Colonel Washington, and seems to have been impressed by the devotion of your men to you. Last night he said to me, ‘Can you not contrive to get this young colonel over to see me? I observe one strange thing in these provincial troops: they have exactly the same confidence in Colonel Washington now as before his disastrous campaign, and as a soldier I know there must be some great qualities in a commander when even defeat cannot undo him with his men, for your private soldier is commonly a good military critic; so now, my little Dutch captain,’ bringing his great fist down on my back like the hammer on the anvil, ‘do you bring him to see me. If he will take a place in my military family, by gad it is his.’ And, my young colonel,” added Vanbraam in his quiet way, “I am not so sure it is not your duty to go, for I have a suspicion that this great swashbuckler will bring our troops to such a pass in this campaign that only you can manage them. So return with me to-morrow.”

“Let me sleep on it,” answered George, with a faint smile.

Next evening, as the general sat in his quarters at the Alexandria Tavern, surrounded by his officers, most of them drinking and swaggering, the general most of all, a knock came at the door, and when it was opened Captain Vanbraam’s short figure appeared, and with him George Washington, the finest and most military figure that General Braddock ever remembered to have seen. Something he had once heard of the great Condé came to General Braddock’s dull brain when he saw this superb young soldier: “This man was born a captain.”

When George was introduced he was received with every evidence of respect. The general, who was a good soldier after a bad pattern, said to him at once:

“Mr. Washington, I have much desired to see you, and will you oblige me by giving me, later on, a full account of your last campaign?” The other officers took the hint, and, in a little while, George and the general were alone. They remained alone until two o’clock in the morning, and when George came out of the room he had entered as a private citizen he was first aide-de-camp on General Braddock’s staff.

As he walked back to Captain Vanbraam’s quarters in the dead of night, under a wintry sky, he was almost overwhelmed with conflicting feelings. He was full of joy that he could make the campaign in an honorable position; but General Braddock’s utter inability to comprehend what was necessary in such fighting filled him with dread for the brave men who were to be risked in such a venture.

Captain Vanbraam was up waiting for him. In a few words George told what had passed.

“And now,” he said, “I must be up and doing, although it is past two o’clock. I must bid my mother good-bye, and I foresee there will be no time to do it when once I have reported, which I promised to do within twenty-four hours. By starting now I can reach Ferry Farm to-morrow morning, spend an hour with her, and return here at night; so if you, captain, will have my horses brought, I will wake up my boy Billy”—for, although Billy was quite George’s age, he remained ever his “boy.”

Next morning at Ferry Farm, about ten o’clock, Betty, happening to open the parlor door, ran directly into George’s arms, whom she supposed to be forty-five miles off. Betty was speechless with amazement.