Martha Washington (34 page)

The winter of 1799 was as cold and miserable as 1759, the year Martha and George married. On December 12, George returned from his daily ride around the plantation wet and shivering but refused to change his damp clothes before dinner. The next day, he went out into the snow and sleet to mark trees for cutting despite the very evident beginnings of a cold—he was never deterred by bad weather. That evening, he read the newspapers aloud to Martha and Lear, his throat congested and voice muffled. In the middle of the night, he experienced great trouble breathing. When the terrified Martha wanted to go for help, he refused to let her get up until morning, lest she too should become sick. With the blazing fires of evening down to ashes, the house was freezing cold.

At dawn, she finally got up and sent for a doctor, who was later joined by two more physicians. Lear and Christopher Sheels, George's personal servant, joined her in their bedroom. Other members of the household came and went throughout the day as George lay struggling for every breath. Only Nelly stayed away, still too weak to get out of bed. The doctors tried all the painful weapons in their limited arsenal—bleeding, purging, blistering, vomiting—but to no avail. George had apparently contracted quinsy or epiglottitis, both throat infections that progressively close the wind-pipe until the patient suffocates.

George's dying was prolonged by his strength. Throughout that long, horrible day, Martha sat in a chair in the room, leaving only to check on Nelly or to fetch two wills, one of which she burned at his request after he had selected the one he wanted. That evening, December 14, 1799, he finally stopped breathing. Lear was holding his hand when he died.

Martha asked quietly, “Is he gone?” When Lear assented, she murmured, “ 'Tis well. All is now over. I shall soon follow him. . . . I have no more trials to pass through.” Rendered tearless by the depths of her grief, she couldn't yet break down. In the meantime, she sent messengers to the far-flung family, summoning them home. She insisted that Nelly stay tucked in with her newborn daughter, following doctor's orders. She didn't want to take the chance of losing another of her loved ones.

As the family gathered, George Washington's body lay in state in its lead-lined mahogany coffin for three days, according to his deathbed wish. The night he died, Martha moved into a small third-floor bedroom. She closed his study and their bedroom for good, never again to sleep in the large bed they had shared so happily.

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
one-chilling cold still embraced Mount Vernon that Wednesday morning, December 18. Shocked and grief-stricken when a messenger brought them the news of George Washington's sudden death, family members had gathered over the past three days, met by Tobias Lear when their coaches rattled up the graveled drive to the front door, their voices filling the silent mansion: Nelly and David Stuart with their brood of six from near Fairfax Courthouse; from the new Federal City, Eliza and Thomas Law with two-year-old Eliza, Patty and Thomas Peter with two little girls, Martha and Columbia, and the baby, John Parke. Nelly was still abed with newborn Frances; Lawrence Lewis and Washington Custis were too far away in New Kent County to be recalled in time. Of the Washington family, only nephew Bushrod Washington in Alexandria lived near enough to be summoned.

Everyone was clad in mourning black, including the slave attendants. It was up to the women of the family and the household servants to prepare the light refreshments that would follow the ceremony; lay out serving pieces, glasses, plates, silver, cups, and saucers; buff up whatever needed it; set up and cover tables with cloths; fold napkins; and tend fires throughout the house against the fierce cold. People arrived throughout the late morning and early afternoon—two hundred soldiers in the uniform of the Virginia militia marched down the road from Alexandria, accompanied by a military band. Friends and officials from the neighborhood rode horseback or drove in their carriages. Hostlers would have been kept on the run by the hallooing of each new arrival, hustling to lead all the horses and vehicles down the dirt road to the stables.

And through all the bustle and preparation, Martha sat frozen-faced with misery, too grief-stricken to take part in the funeral procession or talk or even cry. Sorrow had turned this woman, all movement and smiles and lighthearted talk, to stone. She stayed in the house, perhaps even up on the third floor, as they moved the heavy coffin holding her beloved onto the portico overlooking the icy Potomac. She could not force herself to take part. Appearances simply didn't matter to her at this moment.

The procession formed there on the portico, the coffin carried by members of the militia and six honorary pallbearers. The cavalry led, followed by soldiers with arms reversed, the band with its muffled drums beating, beating, clergymen, Washington's riderless horse led by black-clad servants. Nelly Stuart, Martha's once and forever daughter-in-law, took her place in the funeral procession, followed by other family members and mourners. The cortege moved slowly, with dignity, to the old brick family vault a hundred yards away on the riverbank, newly cleaned, its wooden door repaired. After the Episcopal minister read the order of burial, Masonic rites followed. Arrayed in ceremonial aprons and other regalia, the Alexandria Lodge conducted burial rites in a solemn and moving ceremony. On that cold, still day, sounds rang out sharply, and inside the mansion, Martha Washington would have heard it all—the funeral dirge, the marching and shuffling feet, the masons' words, the minister's prayers, the crackling volleys from the soldiers' muskets after the door of the tomb was closed and sealed.

Following the ceremony, the mourners walked back to the warm house. In the large dining room, they partook of cake, cheese, tea, whiskey, and wine as they shared memories of the hero. Still, Martha stayed apart, mourning dry-eyed.

The nation also mourned. To the tolling of muffled church bells and repeated volleys of the federal salute, a memorial service was held in Philadelphia, still the capital, attended by the government's leaders. Processions, ceremonies, orations, and sermons continued throughout the nation for the next two months. More than four thousand attended the service in Philadelphia, where Henry “Light-Horse Harry” Lee, a loyal Revolutionary comrade, had been chosen by Congress to deliver the eulogy. The first phrase of that tribute is famous in American history: “First in war, first in peace and first in the hearts of his countrymen,” but the rest of the line is generally forgotten: “he was second to none in the humble and endearing scenes of private life.” Like all his contemporaries, Lee understood that George Washington's partnership with Martha and his home life with her were essential to his public achievements.

Over the next few days, the guests left Mount Vernon and Martha resumed some semblance of her former life. After nearly forty-one years of devoted partnership, she never truly recovered from the pain of Washington's death—and didn't really want to. Her bedroom on the third floor was comfortably warmed by a Franklin stove, where she sometimes gathered the members of the household around her. Wash slept in the room across the hall, and younger slave girls sat with her in her own room, or in the landing hall with its leather sofa and armchair, as she taught them to sew.

As it had been throughout their lives together, George Washington's first concern in his will was for his “dearly beloved wife.” Martha was to control and receive the income from the entire estate. After her death, Nelly and Lawrence Lewis would receive two thousand acres of the estate as well as the distillery and grist mill, which they were currently renting, Washington Custis another twelve hundred undeveloped acres north of Alexandria, and George Augustine Washington's sons two thousand acres along the river, including the farm under their stepfather's control. The house and the remainder of the estate would return to the Washington family when Martha died. Since George Augustine's untimely death, George's chosen heir was another nephew, Bushrod Washington, the son of his brother Jack. A graduate of William and Mary, Bushrod was an attorney who was sensitive to the chagrin of the Custises at this disposition of Mount Vernon, but he turned down Wash Custis's urgent offer to buy him out. Throughout the next months, Bushrod consulted frequently with his “beloved Aunt” about the proper means to deal with their intermingled financial interests. Since she had no heart for running the plantation, Martha followed his sensible advice about selling a good deal of the stock and scaling down operations.

Her widowhood was enlivened by the permanent inhabitants of the house over the next two and a half years: Nelly and Lawrence Lewis and their two daughters, Frances Parke, a plain, shy little girl, and Martha Betty, born in 1801, claimed by her mother to be “the most lovely and engaging little Girl I ever saw”; Wash Custis; and Tobias Lear, Fanny Bassett Washington's widower, who remained in his role as a combination relative, friend, secretary, and wise counselor.

Nelly and Lawrence began building a grand red-brick Georgian mansion on their inherited land three miles away from the Mount Vernon mansion, but they planned to remain with Martha as long as she lived. More beautiful than ever now that she was in her twenties, Nelly spent her days as her grandmother's companion, ran the household, and helped charm and entertain their many visitors. Lawrence cooperated with Bushrod in running the plantation, helped desultorily by Wash, whose approaching Custis legacy made it unnecessary for him to work very hard at anything. As he turned twenty, this slight, fair young grandson delighted Martha's heart, although she fretted constantly over his health and well-being.

The Stuarts, Laws, and Peters came regularly for extended visits, and the house was gay with the sound of children's laughter. Besides the little Lewis girls, there were four other great-grandchildren under the age of four, as well as Nelly Stuart's six children from her second marriage, ranging from adolescents down to a toddler the age of her own grandchildren.

In the months following her husband's death, Martha was deluged with letters of condolence and requests for mementos. President and Mrs. Adams sent letters by William Shaw Smith, his secretary and her nephew. At their request, he was to see the widow and deliver their sympathy personally. Although the young man waited two days, Martha was simply unable to bring herself to see a stranger. Her letter of reply was filled with anguished grief. Lear reported to Smith that after she read the Adamses' letters, she finally found release in a flood of tears.

Lear dealt with much of the correspondence, drafting her replies or simply answering letters himself. Nelly also answered some letters from close family friends. The expense of this barrage of mail grew so heavy that Congressman Henry Lee and Secretary of State Timothy Pickering arranged for Martha Washington to enjoy the privilege of franking—mailing free—letters and packages for her lifetime, a right previously enjoyed only by government officials.

The widow responded generously to requests for mementos of the great man, whose memory she tended so faithfully. For example, Paul Revere's Grand (Masonic) Lodge of Massachusetts wrote in early January 1800 requesting a lock of Washington's hair to be preserved in a gold urn with the jewels and regalia of the lodge. Two weeks later, Lear responded on her behalf with a letter enclosing the requested hair and assuring them that Mrs. Washington “views with gratitude, the tributes of respect and affection paid to the memory of her dear deceased husband, and receives with a feeling heart, the expressions of sympathy contained in your letter.”

But a far greater demand was made on her public-spiritedness. Congress requested that Washington's body be removed from the family tomb to be interred in the new capital city, and she agreed. Abigail Adams wrote, “She had the painfull task to perform, to bring her mind to comply with the request of Congress, which she has done in the handsomest manner possible in a Letter to the President which will this day [January 7, 1800] be communicated to congress.”

William Thornton enlarged on Martha's views on this matter to John Marshall. “The body of her beloved friend and companion is now requested and she does not refuse the national wish—but if an intimation could be given that she should partake merely of the same place of deposit it would restore to her mind a calm and repose that this acquiescence in the national wish has in a high degree affected. You, who know her, are not unacquainted with her high virtues, and know that her love for the departed would be the only reason why such a wish could be entertained.” Despite Martha's assent, however, her husband's body was never moved. Any final decision about the erection of a monument remained mired for years in political wrangling and infighting, while George Washington rested peacefully at Mount Vernon.

Alone among the founding fathers, Washington freed his slaves. During his later years, he had become convinced that holding human beings in bondage was wrong and determined to free his own slaves in his will. Many of the slaves at Mount Vernon, however, were not his to free. Besides those rented from a neighbor, more than half the estate's slaves were included in the Custis dower holdings. Martha was legally entitled to their labor during her lifetime, but she could neither sell nor liberate them, even had she wished to, because they were part of the family estate, which would eventually go to her grandchildren.

During the past forty years, the laborers at Mount Vernon had married or cohabited, and their numbers now included generations of their children as well. The status of these descendants depended entirely on whether their mothers belonged to Washington or to the Custis estate, because a slave's status was derived from her or his mother. Thus, a woman and her children could be freed while their father remained in slavery; conversely, a husband could become free while his wife and children remained enslaved. One family could be freed, while their first cousins were kept in bondage, and so on with grandparents, aunts, and uncles, splitting families apart through the generations. The emotional ramifications of these separations were dreadful to contemplate and could not be effected without considerable pain to all the enslaved residents of Mount Vernon.