The Power of the Herd (12 page)

And it is here, curiously enough, that Washington's long and varied career offers yet another revolutionary example, one of hope that people can actively change their ways despite aggressive personality traits and egregious past transgressions. In this respect, his horses may have provided the ultimate nonverbal education in the counterintuitive benefits of
nonpredatory
power.

G
eorge Washington's mother was an enigma:
a true maverick, a pistol, a tough cookie, an
inconvenient
woman. Though well schooled in the genteel social graces demanded of a wealthy officer's daughter, she also knew how to shoot a gun, manage a boat, and, most exceptional for a woman of her era, train a horse.

An accomplished rider in her teens, Mary Ball dodged marriage until the ripe old age of twenty-three, when she became the second wife of a successful Virginia tobacco planter, sheriff, and politician. During Augustine Washington's frequent business trips, she proved capable of running one of his extensive properties, a seven-hundred-acre operation near Fredericksburg later known as Ferry Farm. Unlike most plantation wives, she refused to hire an overseer to help her. So when Augustine died in 1743, he left his wife in charge — until their eleven-year-old son, George, came of age to claim his inheritance or Mary found a new husband, whichever came first. Augustine's will specified that his widow would remain custodian of the farm until she remarried; at that point the man of the house would take over, as was customary in the 1700s. Many biographers believe she rebuffed all subsequent suitors to maintain her position.

By her midthirties, Mary Ball Washington cut a proud and imposing figure — backed by an unspoken power that people found unnerving.
“She awed me in the midst of her kindness
, for she was, indeed, truly kind,” George's cousin Lawrence Washington marveled later in life, noting that he had been “ten times more afraid” of his aunt than of his own parents. “I could not behold that majestic woman without feelings impossible to describe….Whoever has seen that
awe-inspiring air and manner so characteristic of the Father of his Country, will remember the matron as she appeared when the presiding genius of her well-ordered household, commanding and being obeyed.”

Mary's ability to protect her interests, voice her opinions, and run the plantation as she saw fit led to her subsequent reputation as a difficult woman. Modern historians, however, are more likely to see her as a strong, independent matriarch intelligent and assertive enough to nurture the untapped potential of a future war hero, entrepreneur, and statesman. Her enthusiasm for riding was pivotal, not only in exercising her son's nonverbal leadership abilities but also in exposing him to a rare yet influential phenomenon: a responsible, highly effective
feminine
approach to power. Long after George officially claimed his inheritance, she maintained an active role at the farm until she moved to a nearby townhouse at age sixty-four. (Augustine's son by a previous marriage, also named Lawrence, inherited the now-more-famous Mount Vernon, which became George's preferred home base after his beloved half-brother and role model succumbed to tuberculosis at age thirty-four.)

Reports of Mary's willfulness and short temper, especially later in life, reveal the ongoing frustration of a woman who knew that, no matter how accomplished and successful she became, she would always be a second-class citizen. Like the status of the slaves she oversaw at Ferry Farm, Mary's status was not changed by a Declaration of Independence declaring all
men
created equal. Her legendary crankiness, sometimes directed at her increasingly influential son, stemmed from an unsettling combination of pride in George's accomplishments and jealousy of the opportunities afforded him, especially when she had to ask
him
for money. The farm she so diligently managed for decades, after all, was never hers.

Still, Mary was truly revolutionary for her time. Historically, men rode, trained, and cared for horses. Women were more likely to travel in carriages. It wasn't until the nineteenth century that a modest but growing number of women began to exhibit some equestrian talent, at first mostly among the upper classes and usually riding sidesaddle. Joan of Arc, Katherine the Great, and Elizabeth I were rare exceptions. So was Mary Ball Washington, a fine rider who some historians believe taught her son how to train horses with a gentler touch. Though reliable documentation is sketchy, we do know that by the age of eighteen she owned three fine mounts, and she raised a number of feisty horses at Ferry Farm, including a sorrel colt that met an unfortunate end at the hands of her ambitious teenage son.

As the story goes, George was hell-bent on emulating Alexander the Great in his legendary horse-taming abilities. Knowing his mother would disapprove
of rash and dangerous “training” techniques, he led the spirited, unschooled colt to an undisclosed location and attempted to ride the bucks out of him, cowboy-style. According to Marion Harland's 1893 book
The Story of Mary Washington,
“The experiment ended with the death
of the fiery horse, who broke a blood-vessel in a futile attempt to dislodge the lad from his back.”

It was Mary Ball Washington, not a farmhand or one of her son's older half-brothers, who subsequently noticed that the horse was missing. And, in a decidedly tragic, equestrian take on the old cherry tree story, George could not tell a lie. Harland reports that
he admitted the facts “promptly and squarely
. The widow struggled for a second with the temper she had not lost in passing it down to her child, then replied to the effect that she was sorry the horse was dead, but glad that her boy had spoken the truth.”

Young George learned a grievous lesson that day — namely, that flashy, quick-fix dominance tactics end in destruction as often as glory — and that his own mother might very well know more about horse training than he did. Dealing with this strong-willed, cultured, fair-minded woman, he developed a respect for women as worthy companions and confidants, a then-unique perspective that would inform his marriage and his morale-boosting strategies at Valley Forge decades later. Washington also honed an ever-more-sophisticated version of his mother's awe-inspiring presence, most notably her ability to convey power, kindness, and integrity simultaneously. Developing that particular combination is common among expert riders. The proudest, most athletic horses seem to demand it.

When George accepted his first officer's commission at age twenty-two, against his mother's wishes, no less, Mary Ball Washington's independent streak, idealism, lucid problem-solving skills, and uncompromising morals were also well entrenched in her son, qualities that would be continuously challenged, and ultimately strengthened, through the unexpected, perplexing, sometimes truly horrific battles to come.

No matter how seemingly just the cause, war unearths labyrinths of trauma. Unrelated conflicts and tragedies from the distant past can affect the trajectory of current events in unexpected ways as human behavior becomes a minefield of opportunistic reactions to ancient pain.

George Washington learned this the hard way during his first tour of duty. In April 1754, the successful land surveyor and frontiersman gained a position as lieutenant colonel in the Virginia Regiment. Charged with leading 160 troops
to help protect settlers in the Ohio Country, he inadvertently found himself exchanging the first shots in what later became known as the French and Indian War.

What seemed a straightforward mission — securing a strategic location where the Ohio Company, a land speculation company, was constructing a fort — turned into an unexpected conundrum when Washington trekked over the Allegheny Mountains, only to discover that more than a thousand French soldiers had already seized the half-built complex, renaming it Fort Duquesne. Alliances between French forces and various Indian tribes were already forming, and Washington's own closest Indian ally, Tanacharison, was frantically requesting support.

Known as the Half King to local settlers, the fierce warrior chief spoke fluent French. Still, he had good reason to mistrust the Duquesne contingent. As a boy, he'd been taken captive by the French, and while he was later adopted by the Seneca tribe, his early trials had become legendary in the region. Now in his midfifties, Tanacharison openly claimed that the Frenchmen who decimated his family had callously boiled and eaten his father during that tragic childhood encounter.

Washington was in a difficult position, fortless and vastly outnumbered to be sure. Still, what twenty-two-year-old officer could be expected to predict, let alone prevent, the additional havoc wreaked by an older, more experienced warrior's toxic past? A thousand foreign troops turned out to be the least of his worries as Washington christened his nascent military career with a most dubious distinction: within weeks, he would be praised and vilified on both sides of the Atlantic for overseeing a massacre.

The young lieutenant colonel's initial strategy seemed reasonable enough. He directed his men to build a makeshift fort near Tanacharison's camp, rallying whatever Indian allies they could find while waiting for reinforcements. Things quickly got out of hand, however, when the Half King rode up to warn him of a French patrol in the vicinity. On the morning of May 28, a combined force of colonial troops under Washington and a group of Indian allies led by Tanacharison surrounded thirty-two French soldiers encamped in a nearby forest glen.

Shots were fired. Though eyewitness accounts vary regarding which side actually started the skirmish, the French eventually realized they were outgunned and tried to surrender. Wounded yet lucid, their commander, Joseph Coulon de Villiers, sieur de Jumonville, insisted he'd come on a diplomatic mission representing King Louis XV.

Jumonville's motives were certainly suspect. After all, the French had just challenged English claims on the region by capturing Fort Prince George and
renaming it Fort Duquesne. Even so, Washington was reportedly listening to the foreign officer's words, trying to decipher his intent through translation, when Tanacharison, who fully grasped the Frenchman's plea for peaceful resolution, walked over to where Jumonville lay.
“Thou art not yet dead, my father,”
the Half King declared in French. Then he raised his hatchet, split the man's skull open, grabbed hold of his brain, and washed his hands in the blood-soaked carnage. Washington and his troops watched in horror as Tanacharison's warriors proceeded to scalp the remaining members of Jumonville's party, decapitating one and raising his head on a stake.

The Frenchmen who had slaughtered the Half King's father a half century earlier were long since dead and buried. Though they may very well have been criminals — rogue settlers running amok through the American outback — Jumonville paid dearly for their cruel actions, and his men were tacked on as interest. From that day forward, Washington had to wonder what other hidden debts were accruing in the minds and hearts of people he might encounter. After all, it was only a matter of time before he counted the French among his allies as the British challenged a colonial bid for greater freedom and prosperity.

Throughout the American Revolution, Washington was consciously trying to minimize the impact of the war, not only through the humane treatment of enemy captives but also by guarding the rights and property of nearby civilians, regardless of their shifting loyalties and mercenary efforts to profit from the war. In this undertaking, his
emotional
heroism was arguably more impressive than all of his battle strategies and courageous acts combined.

Valley Forge, a name synonymous with triumph over suffering, initially appeared to be a good location for winter encampment. With British troops comfortably occupying Philadelphia in December 1777, this nearby Pennsylvania town provided a strategic location, plenty of wood for warmth and cabin construction, and (theoretically) ample food supplies for American soldiers. The problem was that local farmers found it much more lucrative to sell their goods to the king's forces twenty miles away than to the shivering, shoeless, shirtless, blanketless troops under Washington's command. Not only did the Continental Congress have trouble raising funds voluntarily from the states, but its currency was depreciating, no match for the well-funded British, who paid in solid pounds sterling.

Washington had to concede that patriotic fervor was a fair-weather phenomenon. Regardless of the odds, many colonials had expected a fast and
furious victory. After two years of conflict — with no clear winner in sight — revolutionaries were transforming into political fence-sitters faster than anyone had anticipated, and a dense fog of cynical self-interest was settling over the countryside.

In
Washington: A Life,
Ron Chernow sums up Washington's disappointment and outrage, illustrating that the general could, in fact, express himself effectively when the spirit moved him:

Seeing the decay of public virtue everywhere
, he berated speculators, monopolists, and war profiteers. “Is the paltry consideration of a little dirty pelf to individuals to be placed in competition with the essential rights and liberties of the present generation and of millions yet unborn?” he asked James Warren. “…And shall we at last become the victims of our own abominable lust of gain? Forbid it heaven!” Washington himself could be a hard-driving businessman, yet he found the rapacity of many vendors unconscionable. As he told George Mason, he thought it the intent of “the speculators — various tribes of money makers — and stock jobbers of all denominations to continue the war for their own private emolument, without considering that their avarice and thirst for gain must plunge everything…in one common ruin.”

Washington's strong words fell on deaf ears. Efforts to shame fiscal predators, no matter how eloquently those justifiable sentiments were conveyed, did not save the day as men continued to die from starvation, disease, and exposure to the cold. The dream of freedom was kept alive that winter by Washington's own ability to endure one demoralizing scene after another. While letters reveal that he felt incredible anguish and despair at times, he continued to inspire those who were suffering for the cause.