March 4, 1797
11:45 A.M.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
It was a windswept, raw March morning and the city looked
bleak and dreary as it shivered under the overcast sky.
But the man who stood at the window of his study in the
large house on Market Street didn't hear the rattling of
the wind against the panes or even feel the persistent
draft that penetrated between the window frame and sill.
He was staring unseeingly into the street.
In his mind he was hundreds of miles away and just
arriving at Mount Vernon. Eagerly he pictured the last few
minutes of that journey. The carriage would gather speed
as the horses galloped up the winding road. Then they'd
round the bend and it would be there...the great house,
gleaming and white in the afternoon sun.
For years he'd looked forward to that homecoming. Several
times during severe illness he'd thought that he wouldn't
live to enjoy Mount Vernon. But now the hour was at hand.
Now he could go home.
He was a tall man who still carried himself impressively
well. When he was twenty-six an Indian chief had exclaimed
that he walked straighter than any brave in the tribe. At
sixty-five he'd begun to bend forward a little like a
giant tree that could no longer resist the battering force
of the wind.
The width of his shoulders was still there, although the
shoulders no longer suggested the agile strength that had
once made him seem near godlike to an army. The long white
hair was caught in a silk net at the nape of his neck. The
black velvet suit and pearl-colored vest had become almost
a uniform. The days of blues and scarlets were behind him.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't hear the
light tap on the study door, nor did he note when the door
opened. For a long moment Patsy stood surveying him
intently. To her worried eyes he seemed weary and gaunt.
But beneath the concern a current of joy rippled and
danced through her. Her fears had been groundless! For
eight years a persistent instinct had nagged her that
something would happen to him...that he wouldn't live to
go home with her...but she'd been wrong. Thank the dear,
dear God, she'd been wrong.
She was a short woman. The gently rounded figure that had
once made her seem doll-like had thickened into solid
matronly lines. Still, she moved with a quick, light step
and from under her morning cap silvery ringlets lined her
forehead giving her a disarmingly youthful look. Long ago
she'd explained to the man she was watching that even
though her name was Martha, her father had dubbed her
Patsy because he thought Martha too serious and weighty.
Now this man was almost the only one left who called her
Patsy.
She started across the room and went up to him. "Are you
ready to go?" she asked. "It's getting late."
He turned quickly, looked puzzled for an instant, then
wrenched himself back into the present. With a sheepish
expression he reached for his black military hat and
yellow kid gloves. "Indeed, after professing to have
longed for this day, it would seem unfit to be tardy for
my deliverance," he commented wryly. He pulled on his
gloves then sighed, "It really is over, isn't it, Patsy?"
For a moment her expression became anxious. "You don't
mind giving up, do you, my dear? You're surely not sorry
that you didn't accept another term."
He put his hat under his arm and now his eyes
twinkled. "My dear, if John Adams is as happy to enter
this office as I am to leave it, he must be the happiest
man in the world."
Lightly he touched his lips to her cheek. "I won't be
long," he told her, "and then if Lady Washington will not
mind spending her afternoon with a private citizen..."
"I wish I were going with you now," she said.
He shook his head. "Since Mrs. Adams couldn't be here to
watch John take the oath of office, your presence might
point up her absence."
Then he was gone. His valet, Christopher, was waiting
downstairs to open the front door. Usually Christopher
said, "Good-bye, Mr. President," but now he only bowed.
The words had trembled and died on his lips as he realized
that he would never be saying them again. But after he
closed the door behind the tall old gentleman, he
whispered softly, "Good-bye, Mr. President."
The wind whipped around the wide-rimmed black hat. He
raised his hand to steady it, then quickly braced himself
and with a rapid stride started down the block. A small
cluster of people were waiting on the street just beyond
the grounds of the executive mansion. They bowed and he
nodded to them. He heard their footsteps behind him as he
turned in the direction of Federal Hall.
The full blast of the March gale pushed hard against him
and he leaned forward slightly. He had a fleeting thought
that he should have ordered the carriage, but it was a
relatively short walk and there was something about going
to this ceremony on foot that appealed to him. It was less
obtrusive and he wanted to be unobtrusive now.
Maybe he needed this bit of solitude, too. One had to
adjust to the end of the road as thoroughly as one
adjusted to its beginning.
The beginning...In a way it seemed only yesterday that his
mother had warned him about always dreaming and never
accomplishing. But it wasn't yesterday. That was over
fifty years ago when he was a lad of twelve or thirteen
and back at Ferry Farm.
The coldness of the March air faded into the bleak chill
of a forbidding parlor. The crunching of his boots became
the tapping of his foot on the uncarpeted floorboards. The
stark branches of the trees took on the appearance of the
depressing furniture in his mother's home. He was absorbed
in the memory of that home as he continued on the last
walk he would ever take as President of the United
States...
March, 1745
3 P.M.
Ferry Farm
His foot tapped against the floor as he sprawled
uncomfortably on one of the stiff old chairs in the parlor
at Ferry Farm. As always he'd had a time becoming absorbed
in his book. There was something forbidding and
uncomfortable about the spartanly furnished room, about
the house itself.
He was a scant thirteen but had already decided that when
he grew up, his home would be warm and welcoming. It would
have fine papers on the walls and a marble chimney, papier-
mâché on the ceilings and neat mahogany tables which could
be joined together for company. George spent much time
envisioning that home.
Sighing, he turned back to his reader. Once more he
shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. There
simply didn't seem to be room enough for his legs anymore -
- in the past year he'd gained three inches, was now
nearly 6 feet 1 inch, and did not seem to be finished
growing. Even his shoulders were pushing their way out of
the plain shirting that his mother considered suitable
garb.
His book that day was the Young Man's Companion. His
favorite lines in it were:
Get what you get honestly.
Use what you get frugally.
That's the way to live comfortably
And die honorably.
The book slid from his lap. He would have a useful life.
Long ago he'd promised his mother that he'd live up to her
family's motto. Mary Ball Washington was a difficult woman
to please, but that promise had pleased her and evoked one
of her rare moments of tenderness.
George thought again of the story he'd heard of when his
mother first came into this house as a bride. His father
carried her over the threshold and the first thing her eye
fell on was the family copy of Matthew Hale's
Contemplations. The housekeeper had left the book open at
the page that bore the signature of her husband's first
wife.
Mary Washington said to her husband, "Put me down,
please." Firmly she walked over to the book, picked up a
pen, and wrote her own name, boldly and with flourishes.
The new mistress was very much in charge from that day on.
George loved his mother but he didn't like her very much.
Since his father's death when George was eleven he'd tried
to be the man of the house for her, but Mary Washington
allowed no smidgen of authority to be taken from her even
by her own son. She took care of her brood, wrangled with
the overseers who handled the vast lands her husband had
left to her and the children, and carried a leather whip
at her belt to ensure obedience from her offspring.
George had an uneasy conscience about the fact that he was
much happier during his long visits to his half brothers
Augustine and Lawrence. They lived on their own estates
now. Lawrence on the Hunting Creek land that he'd renamed
Mount Vernon, and Augustine on the Rappahannock Farm near
Fredericksburg.
Both young men seemed to understand George's feelings
because he was frequently invited to spend long periods of
time with them. "And how is your good mother?" Lawrence
would ask when George arrived. "The same?"
"The same," George would say, hoping that a wry note did
not creep into his voice. He wished he could love his
mother more. And then he'd forget her and settle into the
comfortable atmosphere of his brothers' homes and families.
Now his mother stalked into the room. "Idle?" Her spare
figure was even straighter than usual. The nostrils of her
roman nose suggested a sniff...always a dangerous sign.
George sprang up. "No, madame. I have been reading my
meditations." Lamely he pointed to the book which had slid
unnoticed to the floor.
His mother picked it up. "It is not enough to read about
how to live life, or to dream it. It is quite more
important to do something about it. Are your chores
finished?"
"Yes, Mother." He hesitated a moment. It was probably a
dangerous time to bring up a sore subject but intense
desire to know his mother's mind pushed him on. "And,
Mother, have you given further thought to my going to sea?"
It was the wrong time. His mother's eyebrows, thick and
well-shaped, drew into an almost unbroken line. "I see no
need to think about it today. I have at least three years
longer to give that subject my thoughts." She turned and
stalked from the room.
She'd only been gone a moment when his sister Betty
slipped in. "Is she vexed with you again?" Betty asked
anxiously.
George smiled a welcome. Betty was only a year younger
than he and they'd always been close. He wondered again
how she had ever been their mother's daughter. Betty was
pretty, gay, and lighthearted. She always had a light
novel tucked in her workbasket. She never walked but
seemed to dance across a room. Oddly, of all the children,
she got along best with the mother.
She and George understood each other completely and shared
dreams. Betty, too, had her own ideas about her future
home. "I shall have the very grandest house in all
Fredericksburg," she often said. "It shall be built just
for me and have great beams and fine brass, a beautiful
reception hall with lovely, lovely furnishings. And I
shall be the mistress in the finest gowns from London.
I'll have lots of company and be very gay all the time and
not live like this." Whenever she got to that part of her
dream, she would give a near sniff and look greatly like
her mother.
Now she stood in front of her tall brother and looked at
him adoringly.
George cupped her chin in his hand. "God help the young
men in a year or two. No, little one, she isn't really
vexed. She just wants to get vexed about something, so
beware."
Betty giggled. "Well, if she goes to the kitchen, she'll
have plenty of reason. Cook's new assistant has vastly
overcooked the pork and cook is in a state."
George groaned. "Dinner should be a pleasant affair
indeed. Thank God I'm off for Mount Vernon tomorrow."
Betty sighed. "I'm glad for you but how I shall miss you.
You love Mount Vernon very much, don't you?"
George considered a moment. "Yes," he said. "Lawrence and
Anne are so kind to me but it's more than that. That
land...just the way the sun shines on it, or the snow
blankets it in white. The way it looks in autumn when the
great trees are losing their leaves. It's the joy of
riding across the acres next door to Belvoir and visiting
with the Fairfaxes. It's riding home again late, when
evening shadows are touching the house and the sun is
sinking and the Potomac is half dark, half gleaming. Yes,
Betty, I truly love Mount Vernon."
March 4, 1797
11:55 A.M.
Philadelphia
The firing of the cannons brought him sharply back to the
present. Of course, the cannons were being fired to
signify the momentous event that was about to take place.
For a moment he thought of the cannons that had purchased
this moment -- the ones that had shattered the silence
of '74 and '75.
There was a great crowd outside the building of the
Congress. It parted quickly to let him pass. He began to
climb the steps. And then the applause began. It started
tentatively, one single pair of hands clapping, then like
a flash it swept through the assemblage.
The sound preceded him so that when he came in sight of
the lower chamber of the House, the members were already
on their feet. A burst of applause greeted his entrance.
It rose in volume and pushed against the ceiling and walls
of the great room. It mingled with the ovation which the
people outside continued to offer.
He quickened his pace, anxious to reach his seat so that
the tribute might end. "Not for me," he thought. Not
today. But when he reached his place and stood there the
tremendous sound didn't abate; it reached a crescendo then
softened and died reluctantly.
Jefferson was the next to arrive. The President watched as
the tall aristocratic figure made his way through the
room. He was wearing a long blue frock coat and his even
patrician features betrayed none of the turmoil that might
well be expected of the Vice-president-elect.
They had often opposed each other in their views, so much
so that Jefferson had resigned from the cabinet. But
George eyed his old friend affectionately. He would not
admit, even to himself, that much as he and Jefferson had
differed in many ways, he could warm to the man far better
than he could to John Adams.
He thought of the day in '76 when the messenger had come
to his New York headquarters, bearing a copy of the
Declaration of Independence. He'd opened it slowly. For
months he'd been begging for a statement like this and
fearing it would never come. Even after a year of conflict
some members of Congress still talked about an eventual
reunion with England. He'd tried to point out that armies
must fight for a cause; they must have a goal.
Independence was a mighty word. It made it possible for a
man to put up with starvation and misery. It drove out
fear. And still many of the lawmakers vacillated about
making a final break with the mother country.
Finally he'd been promised that a formal document would be
issued. In the hopelessness of that first New York
campaign he waited for it and wondered just how weak and
carefully hedged it would be. The news that Tom Jefferson
was charged with the responsibility of writing it made him
cautiously optimistic. Jefferson was young but he wrote
with the bold pen of a dedicated man. Then when he read
the Declaration and absorbed the full richness and power
of it, the majesty and breathtaking vision of it, he
exultantly ordered that it be proclaimed to all the
troops. That evening he stood at the door of headquarters
and watched the expressions on the men's faces as a
booming voice cried: "When in the course of human
events..."
A stirring in the chamber announced the fact that the
President-elect had arrived. George knew that Adams had
ordered a new coach-and-four for this day. He'd refused to
let even Patsy make him comment on the fact, but had been
content to remind her that they had had a new carriage at
the beginning of the first term in New York.
Patsy had sniffed that there was something about Adams
that made you fairly feel as though he should be riding in
front with the groom. Again George declined to answer. In
the secret recess of his soul he quite agreed. John was a
powerful patriot with a brilliant mind, but there was
something about the man's attitude toward himself, at once
obsequious and resentful, that was curiously irritating.
Adams was wearing a handsome pearl-colored broadcloth
suit. His sword gleamed at his waist. But his expression
was as dour as ever. A pity Mrs. Adams could not be here,
George thought. Only she seems to have the talent for
putting John at ease.
Eight years before, Adams had been embarrassed when
greeting George, who was to take the oath of the
Presidency. Now once again he seemed embarrassed. His nod
was nearer to a bow. He seemed too hasty to begin his
Inaugural Address.
George settled back slightly in his chair. It was
understandable, the man was nervous. He thought of his own
first Inauguration. He remembered the crimson velvet
cushion that had held the large leather-covered
Bible...the cheers of the crowd...his own opening
words: "No event could have filled me with greater anxiety
than that of which the notification was transmitted by
your order..." He'd wanted them to know that he entered
the office aware that he might fail them. Had he failed
them? He hoped not.
Years ago he'd sworn that he would do well.
Years ago.
Just suppose it had all worked out that he had been able
to go to sea. How different his life might have been.
Nearly fifty years ago he'd wanted a nautical career so
desperately but his mother refused him her permission. He
sighed deeply. Even now, like a learned response, the
pulsing anger of that moment came back -- the fury, the
frustration, the sense of dead end. He leaned forward a
bit but he wasn't hearing John Adams' address. The rather
flat nasal voice seemed to become more clipped and sharp-
toned...It became his mother's voice.
Copyright © 1968, 2002 by Mary Higgins Clark