In My Dreams I Hold a Knife Ashley

Winstead
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Ashley Winstead
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Holly Ovenden
Cover images © Jarno Saren/Arcangel;
Sean GladwellL/Getty; Peter Zelei Images/Getty
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in
any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including
information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—
without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious
or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their
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Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of
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 Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Content warning: contains physical and sexual violence
For Don and Linda Tannenbaum, whose kindness changed my
life.
 Chapter 1

Now
Your body has a knowing. Like an antenna, attuned to tremors
in the air, or a dowsing rod, tracing things so deeply buried
you have no language for them yet. The Saturday it arrived, I
woke taut as a guitar string. All day I felt a hum of something
straightening my spine, something I didn’t recognize as
anticipation until the moment my key slid into the mailbox,
turned the lock, and there it was. With all the pomp and
circumstance you could count on Duquette University to
deliver: a thick, creamy envelope, stamped with the blood-red
emblem of Blackwell Tower in wax along the seam. The
moment I pulled it out, my hands began to tremble. I’d waited
a long time, and it was finally here.
As if in a dream, I crossed the marble floor of my building
and entered the elevator, faintly aware of other people, stops
on other floors, until finally we reached eighteen. Inside my
apartment, I locked the door, kicked my shoes to the corner,
and tossed my keys on the counter. Against my rules, I
dropped onto my ivory couch in workout clothes, my spandex
tights still damp with sweat.
I slid my finger under the flap and tugged, slitting the
envelope, ignoring the small bite of the paper against my skin.
The heavy invitation sprang out, the words bold and raised.
You are formally invited to Duquette University Homecoming,
October 5–7. A sketch of Blackwell Tower in red ink, so tall
the top of the spire nearly broke into the words. We look
forward to welcoming you back for reunion weekend, a
beloved Duquette tradition. Enclosed please find your
invitation to the Class of 2009 ten-year reunion party. Come
relive your Duquette days and celebrate your many successes
—and those of your classmates—since leaving Crimson
Campus.
A small red invitation slid out of the envelope when I shook
it. I laid it next to the larger one in a line on the coffee table,
smoothing my fingers over the embossed letters, tapping the
sharp right angles of each corner. My breath hitched, lungs
working like I was back on the stationary bike. Duquette
Homecoming. I couldn’t pinpoint when it had become an
obsession—gradually, perhaps, as my plan grew, solidified
into a richly detailed vision.
I looked at the banner hanging over my dining table, spelling
out C-O-N-G-R-A-T-U-L-A-T-I-O-N-S-! I’d left it there since
my party two weeks ago, celebrating my promotion—the
youngest woman ever named partner at consulting giant
Coldwell & Company New York. There’d even been a short
write-up about it in the Daily News, taking a feminist angle
about young female corporate climbers. I had the piece
hanging on my fridge—removed when friends came over—
and six more copies stuffed into my desk drawer. The seventh
I’d mailed to my mother in Virginia.
That victory, perfectly timed ahead of this. I sprang from the
couch to the bathroom, leaving the curtains open to look over
the city. I was an Upper East Side girl now; I had been an East
House girl in college. I liked the continuity of it, how my life
was still connected to who I’d been back then. Come relive
your Duquette days, the invitation said. As I stood in front of
the bathroom mirror, the words acted like a spell. I closed my
eyes and remembered.
Walking across campus, under soaring Gothic towers, the
dramatic architecture softened by magnolia trees, their thick
curved branches, waxy leaves, and white blooms so dizzyingly
perfumed they could pull you in, close enough to touch, before
you blinked and realized you’d wandered off the sidewalk.
College: a freedom so profound the joy of it didn’t wear off
the entire four years.
The brick walls of East House, still the picture in my head
when I thought of home, though I’d lived there only a year.
And the Phi Delt house at midnight, music thundering behind
closed doors, strobe lights flashing through the windows,
students dressed for one of the theme parties Mint was always
dreaming up. The spark in my stomach every time I walked up
the stone steps, eyes rimmed in black liner, arm laced through
Caro’s. The whole of it intoxicating, even before the red cups
came out.
Four years of living life like it was some kind of fauvist
painting, days soaked in vivid colors, emotions thick as gesso.
Like it was some kind of play, the highs dramatic cliff tops, the
lows dark valleys. Our ensemble cast as stars, ever since the
fall of freshman year, when we’d won our notoriety and our
nickname. The East House Seven. Mint, Caro, Frankie, Coop,
Heather, Jack, and me.
The people responsible for the best days of my life, and the
worst.
But even at our worst, no one could have predicted that one
of us would never make it out of college. Another, accused of
murdering her. The rest of us, spun adrift. East House Seven
no longer an honor but an accusation, splashed across
headlines.
I opened my eyes to the bathroom mirror. For a second,
eighteen-year-old Jessica Miller looked back at me, virgin hair
undyed and in need of the kind of haircut that didn’t exist in
Norfolk, Virginia. Bony-elbowed with the skinniness of a
teenager, wearing one of those pleated skirts, painted nails.
Desperate to be seen.
A flash, and then she was gone. In her place stood thirty-
two-year-old Jessica, red-faced and sweaty, yes, but polished
in every way a New York consultant’s salary could manage:
blonder, whiter-teethed, smoother-skinned, leaner and more
muscled.
I studied myself the way I’d done my whole life, searching
for what others saw when they looked at me.
I wanted them to see perfection. I ached for it in the deep,
dark core of me: to be so good I left other people in the dust. It
wasn’t an endearing thing to admit, so I’d never told anyone,
save a therapist, once. She’d asked if I thought it was possible
to be perfect, and I’d amended that I didn’t need to be perfect,
per se, as long as I was the best.
An even less endearing confession: sometimes—rarely, but
sometimes—I felt I was perfect, or at least close.
Sometimes I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, like now,
slowly brushing my hair, examining the straight line of my
nose, the pronounced curves of my cheekbones, thinking: You
are beautiful, Jessica Miller. Sometimes, when I thought of
myself like a spreadsheet, all my assets tallied, I was filled
with pride at how objectively good I’d become. At thirty-two,
career on the rise, summa cum laude degree from Duquette,
Kappa sorority alum, salutatorian of Lake Granville High. An
enviable list of past boyfriends, student loans finally paid off,
my own apartment in the most prestigious city in the world, a
full closet and a fuller passport, high SAT scores. Any way
you sliced it, I was good. Top percentile of human beings, you
could say, in terms of success.
But no matter how much I tried to cling to the shining jewels
of my accomplishments, it never took long before my shadow
list surfaced. Everything I’d ever failed at, every second place,
every rejection, mounting, mounting, mounting, until the
suspicion became unbearable, and the hairbrush clattered to
the sink. In the mirror, a new vision. The blond hair and white
teeth and expensive cycling tights, all pathetic attempts to
cover the truth: that I, Jessica Miller, was utterly mediocre and
had been my entire life.
No matter how I tried to deny it, the shadow list would
whisper: You only became a consultant out of desperation,
when the path you wanted was ripped away. Kappa,
salutatorian? Always second best. Your SAT scores, not as
high as you were hoping. It said I was as ordinary and
unoriginal as my name promised: Jessica, the most common
girl’s name the year I was born; Miller, one of the most
common surnames in America for the last hundred years. The
whole world awash in Jessica Millers, a dime a dozen.
I never could tell which story was right—Exceptional
Jessica, or Mediocre Jessica. My life was a narrative I couldn’t
parse, full of conflicting evidence.
I picked the brush out of the sink and placed it carefully on
the bathroom counter, then thought better, picking it up and
ripping a nest of blond hair from the bristles. I balled the hair
in my fingers, feeling the strands tear.
 This was why Homecoming was so important. No part of my
life looked like I’d imagined during college. Every dream,
every plan, had been crushed. In the ten years since I’d
graduated, I’d worked tirelessly to recover: to be beautiful,
successful, fascinating. To create the version of myself I’d
always wanted people to see. Had it worked? If I could go
back to Duquette and reveal myself to the people whose
opinions mattered most, I would read the truth in their eyes.
And then I’d know, once and for all, who I really was.
I would go to Homecoming, and walk the familiar halls, talk
to the familiar people, insert New Jessica into Old Jessica’s
story, and see how things changed.
I closed my eyes and called up the vision, by now so familiar
it was like I’d already lived it. Walking into the Class of 2009
party, everyone gathered in cocktail finery. All eyes turning to
me, conversations halting, music cutting out, champagne flutes
lowering to get a better look. Parting the sea of former
students, hearing them whisper: Is that Jessica Miller? She
looks incredible. Now that I think about it, I guess she always
was the most beautiful girl in school, and Did you know she’s
the youngest-ever female partner at Coldwell New York? I
heard she’s being featured in Forbes. I guess she always was a
genius. Wonder why I never paid attention.
And finally, arriving at my destination: where I always
gravitated, no matter the miles or the years. The people who
pulled me into their orbit. Mint, Caro, Frankie, Coop. Except
this time, no Heather or Jack. This time, Courtney would be
there, since she’d reinserted herself so unavoidably. But it
would be okay, because this time, I would be the star. Caro
would gasp when she saw me, and Frankie would say that
even though he ran with models, I was still the prettiest girl
he’d ever seen. Courtney would turn green with envy, too
embarrassed by how successful I was, how much money I
made, to talk about her ridiculous career as a fitness
influencer. Mint would drop Courtney’s hand like it was on
fire, unable to take his eyes off me, and Coop…Coop…
That’s where I lost the thread every time.
It was a ridiculous vision. I knew that, but it didn’t stop me
from wanting it. And thirty-two-year-old Jessica Miller lived
by a lesson college Jessica had only started to learn: if you
wanted something bad enough, you did anything to get it. Yes,
I’d go back and relive my Duquette days, like the invitation
said, but this time, I’d do it better. I would be Exceptional
Jessica. Show them they’d been wrong not to see it before.
Homecoming would be my triumph.
I released the ball of hair into the trash. Even tangled, the
highlights were pretty against the Q-tips and wads of white
tissue paper.
But in a flash, a vision of torn blond hair, sticky and red,
matted against white sheets. I shook my head, pushing away
the glitch.
I would show them all. And then I would finally rid myself
of that dark suspicion, that insidious whisper—the one that
said I’d done it all wrong, made the worst possible mistakes,
ever since the day East House first loomed into view through
my parents’ cracked windshield.
At long last, I was going back.
 Chapter 2

Now
The night before I left for Homecoming, I met Jack for a
drink. In the weeks since the invite arrived, my excitement had
been tempered with guilt, knowing Jack had gotten one, too,
but couldn’t go back, not in a million years. Traveling across
the city to his favorite bar—a quiet, unpretentious dive—was
small penance for all the things I’d never be able to atone for.
Chief among them, the fact that my whole life hadn’t come
crashing down around me when I was twenty-two, like his.
I slid into the booth across from him. He tipped his whiskey
and smiled. “Hello, friend. I take it you’re Duquette-bound?”
We never talked about college. I took a deep breath and
folded my hands on the table. “I fly out tomorrow.”
“You know…” Jack smiled down at his glass. “I really miss
that place. All the gargoyles, and the stained glass, and the
flying buttresses.” He lifted his eyes back to me. “So
pretentious, especially for North Carolina, but so beautiful,
you know?”
I studied him. Out of all of us, Jack wasn’t the most changed
—that was probably Frankie, maybe Mint—but he’d certainly
aged more than ten years warranted. He wore his hair long,
tucked behind his ears, and he’d covered his baby face with a
beard, like a mask. There were premature wrinkles in the
corners of his eyes. He was still handsome, but not in the way
of the past, that clean-cut handsomeness you’d expect out of a
youth-group leader, the boy in the neighborhood you wouldn’t
think twice about letting babysit.
“I wonder how campus has changed.” Jack wore a dreamy
smile. “You think the Frothy Monkey coffee shop is still
there?”
“I don’t know.” The affection in his voice slayed me. My
gaze dropped to my hands.
“Hey.” Jack’s tone changed, and I looked up, catching his
eyes. Brown, long-lashed, and as earnest as always. How he’d
managed to preserve that, I’d never know. “I hope you’re not
feeling weird on my account. I want you to have fun. I’ll be
waiting to hear about it as soon as you get back. Do me a favor
and check on the Monkey, okay? Heather and I used to go
there every Sun—” He cut himself off, but at least his voice
didn’t catch like it used to. He was getting better. It had been
years since he’d called me in the middle of one of his panic
attacks, his voice high as a child’s, telling me over and over, I
can’t stop seeing her body.
“Of course I’ll go.” One of the bar’s two waitresses, the
extra-surly one, slid a glass of wine in front of me and left
without comment. “Thanks,” I called to her back, sipping and
doing my best not to wince while Jack was watching. My
usual order was the bar’s most expensive glass of red, but that
wasn’t saying much.
I forced myself to swallow. “What else should I report back
on?”
He straightened, excited, and for a second, he looked
eighteen again. “Oh man, what do I want to know? Okay, first,
I want all the details about Caro and Coop—how did he pop
the question, when’s the date, what’s she wearing?” Jack
barreled on, neatly sidestepping the fact that he wasn’t invited
to the wedding. “Do you think they hooked up in college and
kept it a secret from the rest of us? Ask her. I want the dirt.
Who would’ve pictured the two of them together? It’s so
unexpected.”
I tipped my glass back and lifted my finger for another,
though I knew the waitress hated when I did that. “Mm-hmm,”
I said, swallowing. “Sure.”
Jack grinned. “I need the full report on what Coop looks like
now. I need to know how many tattoos he has, if he’s still
rocking that Outsiders vibe, if he cut his hair.” He tugged a
strand of his own hair. “What do you think… Did I get close to
the way Coop used to wear it?”
Death by a million paper cuts. “It’s very zero fucks meets
Ponyboy. Classic Coop. Um, what about Caro, anything?”
His gaze turned thoughtful. “I guess I just want to know
she’s happy. I don’t know… Caro never really changes. You
talk about her the most, anyway.”
He was right. Caro looked and acted exactly the same now
as she did then. She still texted me regularly, albeit not every
five minutes, like in college. In fact, the only thing that had
really changed about Caro was the addition of Coop.
“You have to tell me if Mint still looks like a movie star,”
Jack said, “or if his hairline is finally receding like his dad’s.
God, I don’t know whether I want you to say he’s even more
handsome, or his hair is falling out, ’cause that would serve
him right. I can’t believe he left law school to rescue the
family business. There was always something off about his
family, right? His dad, or was it his mom? I remember that one
time senior year, when Mint lost it—” Jack stopped
midsentence, eyes widening. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. I’m an
idiot.”
And there it was. Pity, even from Jack. Because I’d lost
Mint, the person who used to make me valuable just by
association. And even though no one had been there to witness
the breakup, to see how deep the blow had struck, it seemed
everyone could sense it anyway.
“First of all,” I said, trading the waitress my empty glass for
a full one, “that was a long time ago, and I literally could not
care less. I’m actually looking forward to seeing Mint. And
Courtney. I’m sure they’re very happy together.” I blinked
away a vision of my laptop, shattered against the wall, screen
still stuttering on a picture of their wedding. “Second, crap? I
find it adorable you still don’t curse. Once a Boy Scout,
always a Boy Scout. Hey,” I continued, “did you know Frankie
just bought one of Mint’s houses?”
Knife, twist. Tit for tat.
“Really?” Jack shrugged, playing nonchalant, but his
Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “Good for
him. I guess he’s getting everything he wanted.” He tossed his
hair, another stolen Coopism. “Whatever… Everyone in the
world sees Frankie every Sunday. Not hard to tell how he’s
doing. What I really want is for you to come back and tell me
Courtney’s into new age crystals and meditation, or she does
physical therapy with retired racehorses. Something charitable
and unexpected.”
I almost snorted my wine. “Courtney? If she’s even one iota
less a mean girl, I will consider that immense personal
growth.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “I said it was my hope, not my
expectation, Miss Literally-Could-Not-Care-Less.”
 “Ha.”
“You know, I always felt bad for her. Underneath the
designer clothes and bitchiness, Courtney seemed like an
insecure little girl, desperate to be liked.” He gasped, lifting a
hand to his chest. “Will you look at that… I cursed. Soak it in,
’cause it’s not happening again. The Baptist guilt hangover is
already setting in.”
I shook my head, trying to keep the smile on my face, but
inside my heart was breaking.
“Jess.” Jack laid his hand over mine. “I really do want you to
have fun. For both of us.”
Fun. I was going back for so much more than that. I cleared
my throat. “After I give you my report on everyone, my
reward is that I finally get to meet Will.”
Jack withdrew his hand. “Maybe. You know I like to keep
things…separate.”
Jack had never introduced me to his boyfriend. Not once in
the years since we’d been friends again, which was itself a
strange story. When Jack was accused of murdering Heather
our senior year, in the few months before he left campus for
good, the other students crossed the street wherever he walked,
sure down to their bones they were looking at a killer. If he
entered a room, everyone stiffened and fled.
But not me. My limbs had remained relaxed, limber, fluid
around him—no escalating heartbeat, no tremor in the hands—
despite the police’s nearly airtight case.
It wasn’t a logical reaction. Jack was Heather’s boyfriend,
the person most likely to kill her, according to statistics. The
scissors crusted with Heather’s blood—used to stab her, over
and over—were found in his dorm room. Witnesses saw Jack
and Heather screaming at each other hours before her body
was found. The evidence was damning.
But in the end, the police weren’t able to convict Jack. In
some ways, it didn’t matter. He was a murderer in everyone’s
eyes.
Everyone except for me.
Slowly, inch by inch, my body’s knowing filtered into my
brain. One night, a year or so after I moved to New York City,
I woke in a cold sweat, sitting up rigid as a board in my tiny
rented bedroom, filled to the brim with a single conviction:
Jack was innocent.
It took me another three months to reach out to him. He was
also living in the city, trying to disappear. I’d told him I
thought he was innocent, and from that day forward, I’d been
one of his few friends. I was his only friend from college,
where, until Heather died, he’d been popular. Student body
president. Phi Delt treasurer. Duquette University Volunteer of
the Year.
To this day, I hadn’t told anyone I still saw Jack. He was my
secret. One of them, at least.
Looking at him now, radiating kindness, filled me with
anger. Jack was undeniably good, so easy to read. The fact that
so many believed he was capable of brutal violence was
baffling. I’d met dangerous people—truly dangerous people—
and seen the violence in their eyes, heard it brimming in their
voices. Jack wasn’t like that.
So I understood why he wanted to shield the new people in
his life from his past, the horror of the accusation that
remained unresolved, despite the dropped charges. It’s not like
he could ever truly hide it from someone, not with the internet,
or the fact that his whole life, he was doomed to menial jobs
that wouldn’t fire him after a startling Google search. Or the
fact that he barely spoke to his family anymore. Though, to be
fair, that was because of more than Heather, because of their
southernness, their Baptistness, their rigidness…
I understood why Jack would want to draw a solid,
impenetrable line between now and then. But still, it was hard
to wrap my mind around, because the past was still so much
with me. I lived with the constant unfolding of memories, past
scenes still rolling, still playing out. I heard my friends’ voices
in my head, kept our conversations alive, even if for years now
it had just been me talking, one-sided, saying, Just you wait.
A thrill lifted the small hairs on my arms. Tomorrow, there’d
be no more waiting.
Jack sighed. “Thanks for coming to see me before you left.
You know, I’m glad you never changed. Seriously. Ten years,
and same old Jess.”
I nearly dropped my glass. “What are you talking about?” I
waved at myself. “This dress is Rodarte. Look at this hair,
these nails. I’ve been in Page Six. I’ve been to Europe, like,
eight times. I’m totally different now.”
Jack laughed as if I was joking and rose from his seat,
leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Never stop being a
sweetheart, okay? You’re one of the good ones.”
I didn’t want to be a sweetheart. How uninteresting, how
pathetic. But I did want to be one of the good ones, which
sounded like an exclusive club. I didn’t know how to respond.
At least Jack had given me what I’d come here looking for,
besides the penance: his blessing. Now I could go to Duquette
guilt-free. For that, I held my tongue as he tugged his coat
over his shoulders.
 He stepped away from the table, then turned back, and there
was something in his eyes—worry? Fear? I couldn’t quite pin
it. “One more thing. I’ve been getting these letters—”
“Please don’t tell me it’s the Jesus freaks again, saying
you’re going to burn in hell for all eternity.”
Jack winced. “No. Kind of the opposite.” He looked down at
me, at my raised brows. “You know what, it’s not important. It
might not mean anything in the end.” He squared his
shoulders. “Put your wine on my tab. Clara never makes me
pay.”
He squeezed my shoulder and took off, winding around the
bar’s motley collection of chairs. He paused by the door and
looked over his shoulder. “Just… When you get to Duquette,
say hi to Eric Shelby for me.” Then he was out the door, on the
sidewalk, carried away by a sea of people.
This time, I actually did spit out my wine. Eric Shelby—
Heather’s younger brother? Eric had been a freshman when we
were seniors. I’d never forget the look on his face when he
came flying around the corner the day they found Heather, saw
the crowd gathered outside our dorm room, scanned it for his
sister’s face, didn’t find her…
The last time I’d seen Eric and Jack in the same place, it was
outside the library ten years ago. A crowd had gathered around
them. Eric was screaming at Jack that he was a murderer, that
he was going to pay for what he’d done to his sister, that even
though the cops had let him go, Eric wouldn’t stop until he
found out the truth. Jack’s face had gone white as a ghost’s,
but he hadn’t walked away. He’d stood there taking it with
fists clenched as Eric screamed, his friends trying to hold him
back by his scrawny, flailing arms. If there was anyone alive
who hated Jack Carroll more than Eric Shelby, I didn’t know
them.
So why the hell would Jack tell me to say hi to him?
 Chapter 3

August, freshman year

The day I moved into Duquette, all I could think about was the
fourth grade. We’d moved to Norfolk from Bedford over the
summer, so I’d entered fourth grade at a new school,
desperately shy. I barely talked to anyone, kept my eyes on my
feet and the linoleum floor. Miraculously, my teacher saw
something in me and suggested I take the gifted test. I scored
high enough to get in, and all of a sudden, everything changed.
I was given books to read at the ninth-grade level. Math test
after math test came back with big, fat 100s scrawled in red
marker. I felt as if a radioactive spider had bitten me and
infused me with boldness, like a superpower. I started looking
up from the floor to people’s faces when they spoke to me,
because for the first time, I felt I might be worth the attention.
Fourth grade promised to be the best year of my life. I loved
my teacher, Mrs. Rush, a short, blustery woman who swept
around the classroom, calling out compliments and ruffling
students’ hair. The day of our big field trip to the tide pools,
I’d gotten permission to go to the bathroom to change into
galoshes before we lined up for the bus. I’d studied the
animals that lived in tide pools every day after school and had
begged my mother to buy me galoshes so I could wade in and
show everyone what I’d learned. Like an expert. A gifted
student.
 But when I arrived back at the classroom, it was empty. The
class had left without me. After thirty minutes of waiting for
them to realize their mistake, I made my way to the front
office. There I sat, for the rest of the day, in an uncomfortable
plastic chair. Trying—and failing—to keep myself from
crying. For hours, my throat ached.
Mrs. Rush finally appeared in the office near the end of the
day. She walked straight to the receptionist and said, “I
counted my kids and you’re right, I only have thirty-one. But
I’ve racked my brain and can’t for the life of me think who I
forgot.”
The words cleaved me in half. Mrs. Rush, my favorite
teacher—the one I felt surely saw me, recognized I was special
—couldn’t remember I existed. The receptionist gave a small
nod in my direction, whispering, “Jessica Miller has been
waiting here for hours.” Mrs. Rush spun and pressed her hands
to her face. “Of course—Jessica M. There are just so many
Jessicas to keep track of. I’m very sorry.”
I let her hug me, ruffle my hair, but I never forgot it. I never
forgave her. Most of all, I never absolved myself of the sin of
being so utterly forgettable.
It was this tide-pool memory that haunted me on Freshman
Move-In Day. Move-In was supposed to be thrilling, a Big
Moment marking the transition from childhood to adult life.
But all I could think about was that empty classroom, the
excitement spiraling into disbelief, then pain. My stomach was
a pit of butterflies—and underneath, a thread of something
darker.
What was I so afraid of?
The four-and-a-half-hour drive from Norfolk to Winston-
Salem felt like a week, thanks to my dad’s desire to turn off
the radio and talk a mile a minute. First about college and then
about anything and everything that popped into his head. This
was something new I was still getting used to—a version of
my dad who participated. Hell, who spoke. When I was
younger, I would’ve given anything to have a conversation
with him, have him take interest in me. But by now, through
all our ups and downs, it just felt wrong, like an imposter
living inside my dad’s skin. The energy with which he pointed
out the window and twisted in his seat to ask me questions was
too much. Unsustainable. There was no way this upswing
could last.
By the time we finally circled downtown Winston-Salem
and made our way to the outskirts, where Duquette University
sat tucked away like a secret, my mother’s knuckles were
white against the steering wheel. She’d stopped trying to turn
on the radio hours ago and instead drove silently, letting my
dad talk and talk.
We took a left, and finally, there it was: the larger-than-life
stone arch marking the entrance to Duquette. Just like in the
brochures. The butterflies beat their wings. I clutched my
stomach in the back seat.
“Well, that does impart a sense of grandeur, doesn’t it,” said
my dad approvingly. Even my mom took her eyes off the road
long enough to shoot me an impressed look.
We glided under the arch and onto campus, driving slowly.
Duquette was more than grand. Blackwell Tower, home to the
chancellor’s office, was modeled after the Notre-Dame
cathedral in Paris, single spire piercing the sky in a lethal
spike, buttresses creeping out the sides like spindly spider legs.
In the blazing glory of late August, rows of red crepe myrtles
formed a sea of crimson everywhere, the ocean of color
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 CHAPTER XVII
Very splendid was the ball at the palace that night, and very
splendid to George’s provincial eyes were the assemblies in the
great Apollo Room at the Raleigh, where the wits and beaux and
belles of the colonial court assembled. Sir John Peyton was not the
only dandy to be met with there, although by far the most
entertaining. There were many handsome and imposing matrons,
but George saw none that his mother could not outshine in dignity
and grace; and many beautiful girls, but none more charming than
Betty. As communication with his home was easy and frequent, he
could write long, descriptive letters to Ferry Farm as well as to Mount
Vernon. Betty became so infatuated with George’s accounts of the
fine people and gay doings at Williamsburg that she wrote George: “I
wish, dear George, you would not write me any more about the routs
and assemblies at Williamsburg, for your poor sister’s head is so full
of junkets and capers and the like that she attends to her duties very
ill, and drops stitches in her knitting, which brings her many reproofs,
and plays nothing but jigs on the harpsichord, instead of those noble
compositions of Mr. Handel, of which our mother is so fond.”
George laughed when he read this. He knew, no matter how much
Betty’s little head might be filled with gayeties, she never forgot to do
her whole duty, and had always time for a kind act or an affectionate
word to others. But there were more than balls and routs and
governor’s levees in this visit. George had the opportunity of
knowing men prominent in colonial matters—statesmen, scholars,
lawyers, men of affairs—and Lord Fairfax, ever on the alert for his
favorite’s advancement, lost no chance of bringing him to the
attention of those in power.
Among the persons they met were many officers of the governor’s
suite, as well as those attached to the ships at Yorktown. George’s
passion for a military life had never died, or even languished; but by
the exertion of a powerful will he had kept it in abeyance until the
times were ripe. Already were Governor Dinwiddie and his council
preparing a scheme of defence for the frontier, and Lord Fairfax, with
other leading men in the colony, were invited to meet the governor
and council to discuss these affairs. After attending one of these
meetings the earl, on coming back to his lodgings, said:
“George, after our conference broke up I talked with the governor
concerning you and your future, and he promised me, if the plan is
carried out of dividing the colony into districts with an inspector-
general with the rank of major for each, that you shall have a
commission—that is, if you have not given up your wish for a military
life.”
As Lord Fairfax spoke a deep red dyed George’s face.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I never have given up, I never can give up,
my wish for a military life; and although I did not accept the warrant I
was given in the navy, it almost broke my heart. But fighting for my
country is another thing; and if the governor calls on me for my
services it would certainly be my duty to respond—and I will.”
After four delightful weeks in Williamsburg they returned to Mount
Vernon; and George, following his plan for two years past, divided
his time between Mount Vernon and Ferry Farm until April, when he
again started for Greenway Court, where Lord Fairfax had preceded
him. Again he started for the frontier with Gist and Davidson, and
again he repeated the experiences of the former year almost without
the slightest variation. But on his return in September to Greenway
Court a melancholy letter from Laurence Washington awaited him.
The doctors had declared a sea-voyage the only thing that would
restore Laurence’s health; and passage for Barbadoes had been
engaged in the Sprightly Jane, a commodious merchantman, sailing
between Alexandria and the West Indies. Laurence wrote, saying
that George must accompany him, otherwise he would not go, to
suffer and die, perhaps, among strangers.
Two hours after receiving this letter George was on his way to Mount
Vernon. The earl, ever kind, assured him that Gist and Davidson,
both highly intelligent men, could give him all the information
necessary, together with George’s papers, and, furnished with the
best horse in the stables at Greenway Court, George set out with a
heavy heart. He travelled night and day, and reached Mount Vernon
a week before the very earliest that he was expected. His brother’s
pale and emaciated countenance, his sister’s anxiety, cut George to
the heart. All the preparations for sailing were made, and the
Sprightly Jane only waited a fair wind to trip her anchor. George took
time to spend one day at Ferry Farm. Madam Washington was a
woman of great fortitude except in one particular—she trembled at
the idea of danger to this best-beloved son; but she made no
objection to the voyage, which she saw that George considered not
only his duty but his pleasure to make to oblige the best of brothers.
But Betty had fortitude even in parting with him. As George rode
back through the night to Mount Vernon he could not recall a single
instance in connection with himself that Betty had ever once
considered herself or her love for him or the solace of his society;
always, her first and only thought was for his credit.
“Dear Betty,” thought George, as his horse took the road steadily
through the darkness, “I believe you would inspire the veriest
poltroon that walks with courage to do his duty.”
And Betty was so very pretty and winning and coquettish, and had
troops of young gentlemen to admire her, at whom George scowled
darkly and thought Betty entirely too young for such things. But Betty
thought differently, and rated George soundly for his overbearing
ways in that respect. For she was not the least afraid of him, and
could talk him down with the greatest spirit and emphasis at any
time, George being a little in awe of Betty’s nimble tongue.
Late in September Laurence Washington, with George and his
faithful body-servant Peter, sailed for Barbadoes. The voyage lasted
five weeks, and was very tedious. It did more to cure George of his
still smouldering passion for a sea life than he had thought possible.
To a young man accustomed to the boundless forests the
confinement was irksome. He was used to pursue his plans
regardless of weather, and the lying motionless for days in a dead
and depressing calm chafed him inexpressibly. Laurence, who bore
patiently all the discomforts and delays of their position, could not
forbear a wan smile when George, coming down one day to his
cabin, burst forth:
“Brother, you were right to prefer the army to the navy for me. At
least, let me be where if I walk ten miles I shall be ten miles
advanced on my way. I have walked ten miles around this vessel,
and I am just where I started.”
On a beautiful autumn morning, under a dazzling sun, they landed at
Barbadoes. The governor of the island, hearing that the sick
gentleman had once been an officer in the British army, immediately
called at their temporary lodgings and offered every kindness in his
power. He advised Laurence to take a house in the country near the
sea, and where the air was good. That afternoon they drove out to
the house recommended by the governor, and in a few days were
comfortably established there.
At first Laurence improved much. He received every attention, and
took pleasure in the society of the officers of the garrison, who found
two polished and educated strangers a great resource in their
monotonous lives. So anxious was one of them—Colonel Clarke—to
have them to dinner that he very unwisely invited them without
mentioning that a member of his family was just recovering from the
small-pox.
They knew nothing of it until their return home, when both of them
were naturally indignant; and George had reason to be, for within
nine days he was seized with a well-marked case of the terrible
disease. In anticipation of it he had made every arrangement, and,
having engaged an old Barbadian negro who had had small-pox for
a nurse, he shut himself up to fight the disease.
His powerful constitution triumphed over it, and in three weeks he
was well. But never, in all his life, did he forget the sufferings of those
dreadful weeks. Utterly unused to illness, he endured agonies of
restlessness, and was like a caged lion in his wrath and furious
impatience. The old Barbadian, who had nursed many small-pox
patients, made him laugh, while in one of his worst moods, by
saying, gravely:
“Barbadian nuss small-pox folks forty year. Ain’t neber see no patient
so bad like Massa Washington.”
A fear haunted him that sometimes made him smile grimly, but,
nevertheless, gave him some anxious moments. The idea of being
horribly disfigured for life was bitter to him. He saw no one but the
old Barbadian, and felt afraid to ask him; and as he said nothing
about the marks of the disease, there was room to suspect they
were bad. George had been able to sit up several days before he
dared look in the glass. At last one day, nerving himself, he walked
steadily to the mirror and looked at himself, expecting to see a vision
of horror. To his amazement and deep relief there was not a single
permanent mark. His skin was red, his eyes were hollow and
sunken, and he was not by any means the handsome young man
who had landed on the island four weeks before, but he was
unmarked. He felt a deep thankfulness in his heart when he was
thoroughly recovered, though he was distressed to find that his
brother grew daily weaker.
Christmas amid waving palmettos and under a tropical sky was
dreary to the two brothers, and soon after it became plain that the
climate was doing Laurence no good. One night, calling George to
him, he said:
“George, I have determined to leave this island, and, with Peter, go
to Bermuda. But I am homesick and heartsick for those I love,
therefore I have determined to send you back to the colony for your
sister Anne, to bring her to me. If I am compelled to be an exile, I
will, at least, have the comfort of her society, and I do not think it
right, at your age, to keep you forever tied to a sick man’s chair.”
George answered, with tears in his eyes:
“Whatever you wish, brother, shall be done.”
It was found that a vessel was sailing for the Potomac in January,
and on her, with a heart heavier than when he came, George
embarked the same day that his brother sailed for Bermuda.
Storms, instead of calms, delayed this return voyage, and it was late
in February before George reached Mount Vernon. He tried to make
the best of Laurence’s condition in describing it to his sister, but Mrs.
Washington, with a sad smile, stopped him.
“I know all that your kind heart, George, would make you say; but I
know, also, that my husband is very, very ill, and when I go to him
now it will be never to leave him again.”
The Sprightly Jane was to make another voyage in March, and it
was intended that George and his sister should sail on her; but she
was delayed below Mount Vernon for two weeks, waiting for a wind.
One morning late in March, George, looking out of the window on
rising to see if there were any chance of getting off that day, felt a
strong wind from the northwest; but as soon as his eyes fell on the
river he saw a frigate at anchor that had evidently come in during the
night. And while watching her he saw the captain’s gig shove off with
two figures in it that wonderfully resembled his brother Laurence and
his faithful Peter. George jumped into his clothes, and ran down-
stairs and to the shore to make certain, and there in the boat, half
supported by his servant, lay Laurence, pale and ill beyond
description, but with a happy light in his weary, suffering eyes. In a
few minutes Mrs. Washington came flying down, and, with clasped
hands and tears streaming down her cheeks, awaited her husband
on the end of the little wharf. The negroes flocked after her, and
shouts and cries resounded of, “Howdy, Marse Laurence! Bless de
Lord, you done come! Hi! yonder is dat ar’ Peter! Lordy, Peter!”
This joyous welcome, the presence of faces dear and familiar, the
sight of home, was almost too much happiness for the poor invalid.
George literally carried Laurence in his strong young arms up to the
house, while his wife clung to his hand, the old black mammy hung
over him, blessing “de Lam’” for letting him return to them, and the
negroes yah-yahed with delight.
“I could not stay away any longer,” said Laurence, “and when the
ship came to Bermuda, and the kind captain saw how hard it was for
me to stay, to die among strangers, he invited me to return with him
as his guest. I thought that you, Anne, and George might already
have started for Bermuda; but, thanks to the good God, I find you
here.”
All those who loved Laurence Washington saw that day that his end
was near, and within three months, with the calmness of the
Christian soldier, he gave up his life.

One gloomy September day, just a year from the time he had set
forth with his brother on that dreary voyage, George realized that, at
last, he was master of Mount Vernon, and the realization was among
the most painful moments of his life. He returned to the place from
Belvoir, the home of his sister’s father, where he had left her. In vain
he had pleaded with her to continue at Mount Vernon, for Laurence
in his will had given it to her during her lifetime. But, gentle and
submissive in all else, Anne Washington would not and could not
return to the home of her brief married happiness and the spot
connected with the long series of crushing griefs that had befallen
her.
To all of George’s pleadings she had answered:
“No, George. Anywhere on earth to me is better than Mount Vernon.
I understand what you feel, and have not spoken—that you do not
wish to appear to be master while I am living. But you must. I have
no fear that you will not give me my share and more of what comes
from the estate; but I would give it all up rather than go back. My
father’s house is the least painful place to me now.”
There was no moving her, and at last she was permitted to have her
own way.
The servants all crowded around him, and the old mammy, who was
promoted to be housekeeper, wanted him to take the rooms that had
once been his brother’s, but George would not, and had his
belongings placed in the little room overlooking the river which had
been his from his boyhood. This much disgusted Billy, who thought
the master of Mount Vernon quite too modest. He spent the autumn
there, varied by occasional visits to Ferry Farm and his sister at
Belvoir. He worked hard, for he regarded himself as merely his
sister’s steward, and he determined never to make her regret either
his brother’s or her own generosity to him. He never thought Mount
Vernon could be so dreary to him. William Fairfax, who was then
graduated from William and Mary College, came over to see him
often, but George had not the heart to return even William’s visits, so
it was all on one side. His mother and Betty came to visit him, but
Madam Washington had upon her hands three growing lads, the
eldest a tall youth of seventeen, and with the vast cares and
responsibilities of the mistress of a plantation in those days she
could not be absent for long. The only time in which there was any
real brightness was once when Betty came over and stayed a whole
month with him. George’s affections, like his passions, were rooted
in the fibre of his being, and he felt his brother’s death with a depth
of sorrow that only those who knew him well could understand.
At Christmas he gave all the negroes their usual privileges and
presents, but closed the house and went to Ferry Farm. In the
holiday time his coming gave the greatest joy, and the cloud upon
him began to lift a little.
Meanwhile he had received his commission as major and inspector-
general of the forces in his district from Governor Dinwiddie, and he
entered with enthusiasm into his work. He attended the general
musters diligently at Alexandria, and used all his influence in
promoting enlistments in the militia. He was then nineteen years old
—the youngest major in the colonial service.
He was in constant receipt of letters from Lord Fairfax, giving him
news of affairs on the frontier, which were assuming a menacing
aspect. In one of these letters Lord Fairfax wrote: “The policy of the
English has always been to keep on friendly terms with the Six
Nations, and the good-will of these great and powerful tribes is
essential in the coming conflict. But they have been tampered with
by the French, and the great chief lately sent me this message:
‘Where are the Indian lands, anyway? For the French claim all on
one side of the Ohio and the English claim all on the other.’ By which
you will see, my dear George, that in diplomacy, as in war, you will
find these chiefs no fools. Our honorable governor means well, but I
think he will wait until a few men, and perhaps women, are scalped
before taking any decisive measures. I need not say I long to see
you. Let not another year pass without your coming to Greenway
Court.”
All during the summer George kept up an active correspondence
with the earl, who had special means of finding out the truth. In the
early autumn he received a very pressing message from the
governor, requiring his presence at Williamsburg. George set off
immediately, with Billy, as usual, in charge of his saddle-bags. These
sudden journeys, in which George could ride tirelessly night and day,
very much disgusted Billy, who, as a man, was quite as fond of his
ease as when a boy, but he was obliged to start on short notice.
They arrived at Williamsburg in the evening, and George
immediately sent Billy to the palace with a letter notifying the
governor of his arrival. In a very little while a letter came back from
Governor Dinwiddie, asking Major Washington’s presence at the
palace at his very earliest convenience.
George had held his commission as major for more than a year, and
at twenty-one military titles have a captivating sound. So Major
Washington, as soon as he had got his supper, changed his
travelling-suit, and, preceded by Billy with a lantern, picked his way
through the muddy streets to the palace. The governor was sitting in
his closet, as his private room was called in those times, with
Colonel Byrd and Colonel Steptoe, his colonial secretary, when the
door opened and Major Washington was announced.
George’s appearance, always striking, was more so from the
handsome mourning-suit he still wore, although his brother had been
dead more than a year. It showed off his blond beauty wonderfully
well. His features had become more marked as he grew older, and
although his face lacked the regular beauty of his father’s, who had
been thought the handsomest man of his time, there was a piercing
expression, an indescribable look of dignity and intelligence in
George’s countenance, which marked him in every company.
The governor, who was a fussy but well-meaning man, began, as
soon as the formal greetings were over: “Major Washington, I have
work in hand for you. I am told by my Lord Fairfax and others that
you are the fittest person in the colony for the expedition I have in
hand. It requires the discretion of an old man, but it also requires the
hardiness and strength of a young man; and you see, therefore,
what a burden I lay upon you.”
George’s face turned quite pale at these words. “Sir,” he stammered,
“you ask more of me than I can do. I will give all my time and all my
mind to my country; but I am afraid, sir—I am very much afraid—that
you are putting me in a position that I am not capable of filling.”
“We must trust some one, Major Washington, and I sent not for you
until I and my council had fully determined what to do. Here are your
instructions. You will see that you are directed to set out with a
suitable escort at once for the Ohio River, and convene all the chiefs
you can at Logstown. You are to find out exactly how they stand
towards us. You are then to take such a route as you think judicious
to the nearest French post, deliver a letter from me, sealed with the
great seal of the colony, to the French commandant, and demand an
answer in the name of his Britannic majesty. You are to find out
everything possible in regard to the number of French forts, their
armament, troops, commissariat, and where they are situated; and
upon the information you bring will depend to a great degree whether
there shall be war between England and France. When will you be
ready to depart?”
“To-morrow morning, sir,” answered George.
 CHAPTER XVIII
The next day, the 31st of October, 1753, George set forth on his
arduous mission. He had before him nearly six hundred miles of
travelling, much of it through an unbroken wilderness, where snow
and ice and rain and hail at that season were to be expected. In the
conference with the governor and his advisers, which lasted until
after midnight, George had been given carte blanche in selecting his
escort, which was not to exceed seven persons until he reached
Logstown, when he could take as many Indians as he thought wise.
He quickly made up his mind as to whom he wanted. He wished first
a person of gentle breeding as an interpreter between himself and
the French officers. He remembered Captain Jacob Vanbraam, a
Dutch officer, now retired, and living at Fredericksburg, who might be
induced to make the journey. Then there were Gist and John
Davidson. It was thought best, however, to take an Indian along as
interpreter for the Indians, as they might complain, in case of a
misunderstanding, that Davidson had fooled them. In regard to the
other three persons George concluded that it would be well to wait
until he reached Greenway Court, which was directly in the route of
his outward journey, as he would be most likely to find in that vicinity
a person better used to such an expedition than in the lower country.
Armed with full credentials by the governor, and with a belt around
his body containing a large sum in gold and negotiable bills, George
at daylight took the road he had traversed the night before.
He determined not to take Billy on the expedition, but he rather
dreaded the wild howlings and wailings which he thought it was
certain Billy would set up when he found he could not go. George
therefore thought it well as they trotted along to make Billy ride up
with him, and describe all the anticipated hardships of the coming
journey. He did not soften one line in the picture, and enlarged
particularly upon the scarcity of food, and the chances of starving in
the wilderness, or being scalped and roasted by Indians. Billy’s
countenance during this was a study. Between his devotion to
George and his terror of the impending expedition Billy was in
torment, and when at last George told him he must remain at either
Mount Vernon or Ferry Farm, Billy did not know whether to howl or to
grin.
George reached Fredericksburg that night, and went immediately to
Captain Vanbraam’s house. The Dutchman, a stout, middle-aged
man, yet of a soldierly appearance, at once agreed to go, and, in the
few hours necessary for his preparations, George took the
opportunity of crossing the river, and spending the night with his
mother and sister and brothers at Ferry Farm. His mother was full of
fear for him, but she realized that this brave and gifted son was no
longer solely hers—his country had need of him as soon as he came
of age. Next morning Betty went with him across the river, and bade
him good-bye with the smiling lips and tear-filled eyes that always
marked her farewells with George, her best beloved. Billy wept
vociferously, but was secretly much relieved at being left behind.
Four days afterwards George and Captain Vanbraam reached
Greenway Court, having sent an express on the way to Gist and
Davidson, who lived on the Great North Mountain.
When George burst into Lord Fairfax’s library one night about dusk
the earl knew not whether to be most delighted or surprised. He
immediately began to tell the earl of his forthcoming plan, thanking
him at the same time for procuring him such preferment. “And I
assure you, sir,” he said, with sparkling eyes, “although at first I felt a
strange sinking of the heart, and was appalled at the idea that I was
unequal to the task, as soon as the command was laid upon me I felt
my spirits rise and my fears disappear. If I succeed I shall be very
happy, and if I fail the world will say I was but a boy, after all. Why did
his excellency send an inexperienced young man on such an
errand? But I shall certainly do my best.”
“Angels can do no more,” the earl quoted.
George’s eagerness and his boyish enthusiasm pleased the earl,
who had no taste for solemn youngsters; and he listened, smiling, as
George poured forth his hopes, plans, and aspirations. When he
spoke of the additional men to be taken, Lord Fairfax said:
“I know of two capable ones. Black Bear would make an excellent
Indian interpreter, and Lance would be the very man to note the
French fortifications. He has as good a military eye as I ever knew.”
George gasped with delight.
“Do you mean, sir,” he cried, “that you will really let me have Lance?”
“Go and ask him.”
The young major, who had impressed the governor and councillors
with his gravity and dignity, now jumped up and ran to the armory,
bawling “Lance! Lance!” at the top of a pair of powerful lungs. Lance
promptly appeared, and in three words George told him the plan. Old
Lance nearly wrung George’s hand off at the news.
“Well, sir, it makes me feel nigh thirty years younger to be going
among the mounseers again. Maybe you think, sir, I never saw a
French fort; but I tell you, sir, I have seen more French forts, aye,
and been at the taking, too, than they have between here and
Canada.”
Black Bear was across the mountain, but a messenger was sent at
once for him, and he was told to bring another trusty Indian along.
Within two days from reaching Greenway Court the party was ready
to start. Lord Fairfax saw George set off, in high health and spirits,
and full of restrained enthusiasm. He wore the buckskin shirt and
leggings of a huntsman to make the journey in, but in his saddle-
bags was a fine new major’s uniform of the provincial army, and he
carried the rapier given him many years before by Lord Fairfax.
Seven days’ hard travelling, at the beginning of the wintry season,
brought the party to Logstown, not far from what is now Pittsburg.
The journey had been hard, snow having fallen early, and, the fords
being swollen, the party were obliged to swim their horses across the
mountain streams. But George had not found time heavy on his
hands. Captain Vanbraam and Lance discovered that they had
served in different campaigns in the same region, and, without
forgetting the status between an officer and a private soldier, they
were extremely good comrades, much to George’s delight.
On their arrival at Logstown, Black Bear at once went in search of
his father, the great chief of one of the Six Nations, and the other
chiefs were assembled in the course of a day or two. George found
them much incensed against the French, but, like all their tribe,
before they could act they had to have many meetings and a great
oratorical display. George, who loved not speech-making, made
them but one brief address, and by using all his powers managed to
get Tanacharison and representatives of the other tribes off, and in a
few days more they arrived at a French outpost. It was merely a log-
house with the French colors flying over it. George, waiting until
dusk, and leaving his Indian allies out of sight, taking only with him
Vanbraam and Lance, as his servant, rode up to the door and
knocked. Three French officers appeared, and, on seeing two
gentlemen in uniform, the senior, Captain Joncaire, civilly asked
them, in broken English, to alight and sup with them.
George, with equal politeness, told them that he was the bearer of a
letter to M. de St. Pierre, the commandant at the French fort farther
up, but would be pleased to accept their hospitality.
Inside the house was quite comfortable, and the party, except Lance,
who waited on the table, soon sat down to supper. As George had
frankly informed them of his mission, it behooved them to be
prudent, and so they were until the wine began to flow. Captain
Vanbraam had not thought it his duty to let on that he understood
French, and the conversation had been conducted in such English
as the French could command. George, although he could not speak
French, could understand it a little, especially with the help of the
abundant gestures the French used.
He had always had a contempt for men who “put an enemy in their
mouths to steal away their brains,” and the spectacle soon presented
by the French officers made him swear inwardly that never, so long
as he lived, would he put himself in the condition they were in then.
These men, brave and otherwise discreet, passed the bottle so often
that they soon lost all sense of prudence, and, turning from broken
English to French, told things in regard to their military plans which
they would have died rather than betray. Captain Joncaire,
forgetting, in his maudlin state, that George had said he did not
understand French well, turned to him and said, in French:
“Ah, you English mean to drive us out. Well, let me tell you, we are
not to be driven out. We expect to go to war with your country soon,
and this is a good place to begin. We know that you can raise two
men to our one, but you have a dilatory, foolish governor in Virginia,
and he will let us overrun the country before he does anything to
stop us.”
As he kept on, giving information about his people that he should
never have done, and which George partly understood, such keen
contempt came into George’s eyes that a gleam of soberness
returned to Captain Joncaire, and for a few minutes he said no more.
But “when the wine is in the wit is out,” and the Frenchmen
continued to talk in the foolish manner which awaits the wisest man
when he makes a beast of himself with liquor.
At ten o’clock George and Captain Vanbraam had to tear themselves
away from the Frenchmen, who, drunker than ever, tried to hold
them back by embracing them.
As they made their way back to their camp Captain Vanbraam
repeated every word the drunken officers had said. George spoke
little. The spectacle was not only disgusting but painful to him.
Next morning, early, Captain Joncaire sought out their camp, and
professed great surprise at seeing the Indians, whom he declared to
be his friends. He invited them to the house, where George well
knew there would be liquor and cajolery in plenty for them.
“My dear Major Washington,” cried Joncaire, after a while, and
coloring slightly as he spoke, “I am afraid you had us at a
disadvantage last night. We talked rather wildly, I fancy, but don’t put
too much confidence in what we said when the wine was flowing.”
“I am compelled to put confidence in what Captain Joncaire and his
officers say, drunk or sober,” was George’s reply, delivered not
without sarcasm, at which Captain Joncaire winced. The Frenchmen
invited the Indians to their post, and George had the mortification of
seeing them all carried off, except Tanacharison and his son Black
Bear; and when, in the evening, he sent for the chiefs, they returned
to him stupidly drunk and loaded with presents from the French.
“We must get them away as soon as possible,” said George to his
white followers and his two faithful Indians. Tanacharison, a
venerable old chief and a man of great eloquence, watched the
Indians in their drunken sleep, and when they wakened, although it
was near sundown, so worked upon them by a speech he made
them that they agreed to leave with the rest of the party. George and
Captain Vanbraam went to the French post to bid the officers a polite
farewell.
Captain Joncaire said many civil things to them, and sent them a
handsome present of provisions, but was evidently chagrined at the
Indians being carried off under his very nose.
Eleven days more of travelling through intense cold, with the snow
deep on the ground, brought the party to Fort Le Bœuf, on French
Creek, about fifteen miles from Lake Erie. This was commanded by
M. Lagardeur de St. Pierre, an old French officer of great ability, and
a chevalier of the military order of St. Louis.
The party reached the fort late in the evening and found it a stout
place, well adapted for defence. George rode up to the gate—his
horse now a sorry-looking creature—and asked to be conducted to
the commandant. As soon as the message was delivered M. de St.
Pierre came out in person, and, receiving the letter from the
Governor of Virginia with great respect, raising his hat in taking it,
invited Major Washington’s party in.
Although strictly attending to the commandant’s conversation,
George used his keen eyes to the utmost advantage, and he felt
sure that Lance was doing the same thing. There were over a
hundred soldiers in the fort, and not less than thirty officers.
George and his party were led through a courtyard, around which
were barracks and officers’ quarters, protected by bastions well
provided with artillery. Arrived at the commandant’s quarters, M. de
St. Pierre said, courteously, in English:
“When you and your party have refreshed yourselves for a day or
two, Major Washington, we will discuss the matters contained in the
governor’s letter.”
Now this was just what George did not desire. He knew that every
artifice would be practised on his Indian allies to win them to the
French, as Captain Joncaire had done, with much greater prospect
of success. How would he persuade them to leave the good food,
the seductive liquor, and the presents that he felt sure the French
were ready to shower upon them? His only dependence was upon
Tanacharison and Black Bear. How often did he rejoice inwardly over
that bucket of water he had given Black Bear the night of the attack
at Greenway Court, six years before! His reply, therefore, to the
French commandant was polite but positive:
“I thank you, sir, for your kindness, but I am ready, at this moment, to
proceed to the consideration of his excellency’s letter.”
This slightly disconcerted M. de St. Pierre, who had some inward
contempt for the youth of the ambassador sent by the governor.
“I shall have to send for my second in command, Captain Reparti,”
he said, “who left us this morning to visit another post.”
“I hope, monsieur, that you will send for him at your earliest
convenience, for my orders are peremptory—to deliver the letter and
return with an answer at the earliest possible moment.”
“If I send this evening,” remarked M. de St. Pierre, “my messenger
might lose his way in the darkness.”
“If you will kindly give me the directions, sir,” answered George, with
much politeness, “I have men in my party who can make the journey
by night, although they have never traversed this part of the country
before.”
“I will send, however, immediately,” said M. de St. Pierre, coloring
slightly, and comprehending that he was dealing with a natural
diplomatist.
After a very agreeable dinner George was shown to his room, where
Lance, as his servant, awaited him. Scarcely was the door closed
before George began, anxiously:
“Where are the Indians?”
“In the barrack-room, sir. The French soldiers are promising them
guns and powder and shot and hatchets, and pouring liquor down all
of them except Tanacharison and Black Bear, who won’t drink, and
who mean to be true to us. But, sir, you can’t blame the poor devils
for taking what the French give them.”
“We must get away from here as soon as possible,” cried George.
“What have you noticed in the fort, Lance?”
“That it’s mighty well made, sir; the mounseers are fine engineers,
and they know how to build a fort. They have eight six-pounders
mounted in the bastions, and a four-pounder at the gate-house. But
they have got a lot more places pierced for guns, and you may
depend upon it, sir, they have a-plenty more guns than they choose
to show stowed away somewhere.”
Next morning, Captain Reparti having arrived, M. de St. Pierre and
his officers considered the governor’s letter privately, and then,
admitting George, with his interpreter, Captain Vanbraam, an answer
was dictated denying the right of the English to any part of the
country watered by the Ohio River. This was an important and
dangerous announcement, and, although not a word was said about
war, yet every man present knew that if this contention were
maintained England and France must fight, and the country must be
drenched with blood. George, with perfect composure, received the
letter, and, rising, said:
“My mission, sir, is accomplished. I have delivered the governor’s
letter, and your reply, M. de St. Pierre, shall be conveyed not only to
the governor but to his Britannic majesty. I am now ready to take my
leave.”
“Do not be in so great a hurry to leave us, Major Washington,” said
M. de St. Pierre, suavely. “Some of my young officers promised a
few guns to your Indian allies, by way of making them satisfied to
remain during our negotiation, which I thought would be longer, and
the guns cannot arrive until to-morrow morning.”
As George knew the impossibility of getting the Indians off without
the guns, he consented with the utmost readiness to remain; but he
would have given half his fortune to have got off.
The day was one of intense nervous strain on him. His sole
dependence in managing the Indians were Tanacharison and Black
Bear. And what if they should betray him? But at night the old chief
and his son came to him and promised most solemnly to get the
chiefs away as soon as the guns should arrive in the morning.
George had a luxurious bed in his rude though comfortable quarters,
but he slept not one wink that night. By daylight he was up. Soon
after Lance sidled up to him in the courtyard, and said:
“Sir, the guns have come—I saw them myself; but the Frenchies will
not say a word about it unless they are asked.”
Just then M. de St. Pierre, wrapped in a great surtout, appeared,
coming out of his quarters.
“Good-morning, Major Washington!” he cried.
“Good-morning, M. de St. Pierre!” replied George, gayly. “I must give
orders to my party for an early start, as the guns you promised the
Indians have arrived, and I have no further excuse for remaining.”
“Sacre bleu!” burst out M. de St. Pierre; “I did not expect the guns so
soon!” At which he looked into George’s eyes, and suddenly both
burst out laughing. The Frenchman saw that his ruse was
understood.
The party was soon collected, and after a hearty breakfast George
took his leave, and, much to the chagrin of the French, succeeded in
carrying off all his Indian allies with him. They rapidly retraced their
road, and when they made their first halt, ten miles from Fort Le
Bœuf, George exclaimed, aside to Lance:
“This is the first easy moment I have known for twenty-four hours!”
“’Tis the first I have had, sir, since we got to the first post, fourteen
days ago!”
It was now the latter part of December. The horses, gaunt and
starved, were no longer fit for riding, and George set the example of
dismounting and going on foot. Their progress with so large a party
was not rapid, and George determined to leave Captain Vanbraam,
with the horses and provisions, to follow, while he, in his health and
strength, set off at a more rapid gait, in order that he might reach
Williamsburg with M. de St. Pierre’s defiant letter as soon as
possible. Lance, with his experience as a foot-soldier, easily proved
his superiority when they were reduced to walking, so George chose
him as a companion. Christmas Day was spent in a long, hard
march, and on the next day George, dressing himself in his buckskin
shirt and leggings, with his gun and valuable papers, and giving most
of the money for the expedition to Captain Vanbraam, struck off with
Lance for a more rapid progress.
The two walked steadily all day, and covered almost twice as much
ground as the party following them. At night with their flints they
struck a roaring fire in the forest, and took turns in watching and
sleeping. By daylight they were again afoot.
“I never saw such a good pair of legs as you have, sir, in all my life,”
said Lance, on this day, as they trudged along. “My regiment was
counted to have the best legs for steady work in all the Duke of
Marlborough’s army, and mine were considered the best pair in the
regiment, but you put me to my trumps.”
“Perhaps if you were as young as I you would put me to my trumps,
for—”
At this moment a shot rang out in the frozen air, and a bullet made a
clean hole through George’s buckskin cap. One glance showed him
an Indian crouching in the brushwood. With a spring as quick and
sure as a panther’s, George had the savage by the throat, and
wrenched the firelock, still smoking, from his hand. Behind him half a
dozen Indian figures were seen stealing off through the trees. Lance
walked up, and, raising a hatchet over the Indian’s head, said, coolly: