The Mother of Washington and Her Times

by Sara Agnes Rice Pryor

While her son was leading the troops of his country she was busily engaged in the industries of domestic life,—sorting the fleece and mingling it with shredded silk to make long hose for her son, the general; weaving substantial fabrics in the great cumbrous looms; learning cunning secrets of herbs and leaves to dye the cloth for garments; preparing balsams and lotions for the sick and needy. Her hands were never idle. Gathering her apron into a spacious pocket, she walked about with the woollen knitting for her son's soldiers. She became, it is true, somewhat more silent, more reserved. The lines of the face lost all hint of humor. She was too sad for that, but never peevish or complaining. Descendants of her old neighbors acknowledged that "Mrs. Washington was somewhat stern," but add that she and her daughter, Mrs. Lewis, possessed withal a lofty graciousness of manner peculiarly their own. General Washington had this manner, commanding deference and confidence, and forbidding familiarity or the smallest liberty; although it is certain that neither he nor his mother were conscious of the impression made upon others.

Her daughter, Betty Lewis, lived at "Kenmore," the elegant mansion near Fredericksburg, and entreated her to come to her "to be taken care of," but she said, "My wants are few in this life, and I feel perfectly competent to take care of myself." She elected a home of her own very near "Kenmore," preferring to be independent. Thence she was driven every day by "old Stephen" in her phaeton to her farm across the river, whence she brought seeds and cuttings for her town garden and a jug of water from the spring out of which her husband and children had drunk. Old Stephen witnessed with glee her method of dealing with her overseer. The latter ventured one day to depart from her instructions, and she called him to account.

"Madam," said the agent, "in my judgment the work has been done to better advantage than if I had followed your instructions."

"And pray, sir, who gave you the right to exercise any judgment in the matter?" she asked; "I command you, sir! There is nothing left for you but to obey."

Fredericksburg was in the direct line of communication between Williamsburg and the headquarters of the army. Couriers were perpetually passing to and fro, and many were the respectful letters "honored madam" received from the great commander.

With the coming of these couriers came repeated tidings of loss and defeat. She heard about the battle of Long Island, the long days and nights in the saddle; of the defeat at White Plains; of how the militia quitted and went home; of the Princeton victory, where her loved neighbor, Hugh Mercer, died in her grandson's arms; of the heavy loss at Brandywine and Germantown, where her near neighbor, the son of plucky John Spotswood, fell dangerously wounded into the hands of the enemy; of the misery at Valley Forge; of Howe's occupation of Philadelphia; of General Gates's great victory at Saratoga—perhaps of the cabal against her son, when the victorious general was preferred by some to him. Perhaps her son may have written, or some of Morgan's borderers written to their friends, of their march from the Shenandoah to Boston with "Liberty or Death" embroidered in white letters on their hunting-shirts; how General Washington had met them as he was riding along his lines; how Morgan had saluted with the words, "From the right bank of the Potomac, General!" how the great commander had leaped from his horse, and with tears in his eyes shook hands with each one of them.

"The night was dark and he was far from home!"

Or, perhaps, those watching, waiting women on the Rappahannock heard of how the Virginian, George Rogers Clarke, had begged powder and men, and gone out to shut and guard the back door of the country; how they had waded in freezing water, fasting five days and nights, holding their muskets above their heads as they struggled on; how, finally, ready as they were to give up, a little drummer-boy had mounted the shoulders of a tall soldier, and beat the vigorous "Charge," rallying and inspiring their fainting spirits. Or, it may be, that some messenger among the fleet couriers had come from Wheeling, Virginia, and could tell of Elizabeth Zane, the brave young girl, who volunteered to cross a plain under Indian fire, and bring a keg of powder from a house in town to save the stockade in which her people were hiding; how she ran across the plain, found and fetched the powder, and saved the day.

"These noble legends," says Esten Cooke, "are the true glories of American history; the race lives in them and is best illustrated by them. It was a very great race, and faced peril without shrinking, down to the very boys and girls; and what the long years of the future will remember is this heroic phase, not the treaties and protocols of American history." It was the spirit behind our little army that compelled events and carried it triumphantly to the glorious result.