That a member of the family should "put up at a tavern" was so tremendous an event that no one dared mention it to his mother. Observing an air of mystery in the faces of her servants, she demanded an explanation. "Tell George to come home instantly—instantly!" she exclaimed; and straining him to her bosom, she again commended him to God, and again gave him, with her blessing, to his country.
On the 15th of June, 1775, he was elected commander-in-chief of the American forces, and crossed the threshold of his mother's home, and his own beloved Mount Vernon, on the right bank of the Potomac, to return no more until the war should end. He was in his saddle, on his way to Boston on horseback, when he was met by the news of the battle of Bunker Hill. On the second of July he entered Boston amid the acclamations of the people and the thunder of cannon, and the next day assumed command of the American forces.
The anguish of his mother was shared by the wife, left alone at Mount Vernon. She wrote to a relative who censured the folly of Washington's position: "I foresee consequences, dark days, domestic happiness suspended, eternal separation on earth possible. But my mind is made up. My heart is in the cause. George is right; he is always right!"
"Escorted," says Washington Irving, "by a troop of light-horse, and a cavalcade of citizens, he proceeded to the headquarters provided for him at Cambridge, three miles distant. As he entered the confines of his camp, the shouts of the multitude and the thundering of artillery, gave note to the enemy beleaguered in Boston of his arrival."
Abigail Adams.
He was already the idol of the hour! As he rode along the lines, all travel-soiled and dusty, he found favor in every heart. The soldiers adored him—the women as well. The elegant and accomplished wife of John Adams, destined to be the first American lady to make her courtesy to King George after it was all over, wrote to her husband: "Dignity, ease and complacency, the gentleman and the soldier, look agreeably blended in him. Modesty marks every line and feature of his face. Those lines of Dryden instantly occurred to me:—
"'Mark his majestic fabric! He's a temple
Sacred by birth and built by hands divine;
His soul's the Deity that lodges there;
Nor is the pile unworthy of the God!'"