Revolution... and the Man: Mount Vernon Part III

Surprisingly, when Washington returned to Mount Vernon for good after long years away as Commander of the Continental army and then as President, his finances were unstable. His policy had long been to keep enslaved families together, and as his “unavoidable regret” over slavery grew, he had vowed to no longer buy or sell humans, so there was no gain to be made there. Steve Bashore, master distiller, told our group that, knowing the perils of liquor, Washington was disinclined to encourage that industry when his Scottish farm manager, James Anderson, urged him to open a distillery. The estate was not producing enough to offset expenses, however, and when Washington discovered he could turn a much-needed profit from whiskey sales, he cautiously delved into that enterprise. 

                                                                      

After a delicious lunch of salads from the Mount Vernon Inn, it was time to visit the re-enactor encampment and browse the vendor’s wares. While my friends and I wished to support the distillery, we had not indulged in any noon whiskey tippling, planning instead to purchase some later at the museum gift shop. In the meantime, distant drumbeats bid us hasten to the field of battle. 

The Crown Forces were lined up at attention, impressive in striking red uniforms, targets as bold as a cardinal against snow. On command, they broke from the line in groups of six to wheel about, maintaining formation, to march to the far end of the field. Hup! Hup! Hup!

While Colonial Massachusetts had militias, for the most part, the soldiers of the Continental army were untrained, undisciplined, and unused to following orders, a source of tremendous frustration for General Washington. The re-enactors in the buff, blue, and cream uniforms of the Continental soldiers seemed similarly at ease compared to the strutting scarlet enemy. 

The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, and an announcer made clear that wet gun powder was no friend to war. As onlookers in capes tugged them closer and those in jeans raised umbrellas, the Continental soldiers loaded canons as the Red Coats closed in. Amid flashes of musket fire and billowing smoke that all but engulfed them, those engaged on the field appeared as ghostly as the long dead men they represented. 

After the re-enactment, it was fitting that we visit the Washingtons’ tomb. Every day at Mount Vernon, a prayer is read, and a wreath laid on the President’s sarcophagus. During our visit, we were given that honor. Washington himself chose the site and the design for the tomb where he and Martha rest. Unlike others who extol themselves with grand monuments and epitaphs, his bears no dates, no weighty words, and no mention of achievements… simply his last name.         

                                                                    

When the MVLA began their fundraising campaign, the country was still young, and the divisions that led to the Civil War were simmering. In America, no one was thinking to preserve historic sites… until Louisa Cunningham spotted the deteriorating mansion on the rise above the Potomac. In saving and restoring Mount Vernon, the preservation movement itself was launched. 

It was late afternoon when Dr. Susan Schoelwer, Executive Director of Historic Preservation and Collections, met us at the mansion. As we walked around to the piazza facing the river, I spotted a tourist from a bygone century, a member of the Royal Highland Regiment perhaps, craning to peek in the dining room window. How many different frocks, bonnets, boots, and overcoats have clothed those who explored these grounds and peeked in the windows in the years since The Ladies preserved the property? 

On the far side of the house, a flock of geese wandered and browsed the lawn as, with a sweep of her arm, Dr. Schoelwer gestured to the opposite bank. It was lush and green with no sign of human intrusion, “Just as the Washingtons would have seen it,” she said. “The Ladies felt this was an important feature, and through outright purchase and conservation easements they have ensured this view would remain.” 

We began our tour of the mansion in the front hall. I gazed up the staircase and into the adjacent rooms and mused about the many homes, taverns, and inns that boast, true or not, “George Washington slept here.” My nose prickled, as it did so many times during our visit, in thinking this was the man’s home.

While most of the original furnishings were dispersed to family members or sold after Martha Washington’s passing, one item, weighty in fact and symbolism, has remained in the house since the President placed it in a display case in the foyer. Presented to Washington by the Marquis de Lafayette after the demolition of the notorious prison during the French Revolution, it is the key to the Bastille: “a tribute I owe as A Son to My Adoptive father, as an aid de Camp to My General, as a Missionary of liberty to its patriarch.”  

As Dr. Schoelwer led us from room to room, commenting on the research commissioned by The Ladies that led to the upholstery patterns and surprisingly vibrant paint colors, I tried to conjure Washington as the human who lived here. In paintings and statues, he is frozen, regal as the king he refused to be. Since he is always portrayed tight-lipped, I wondered, was he much of a talker? The curse of terrible teeth caused him constant pain, and his spring-loaded dentures must have made speech a challenge. No doubt people expected profundity whenever he opened his mouth, a pressure he probably wished to avoid.  

Correspondence from early in his presidency indicates that he would have preferred to avoid being president as well. As he approached the day of his inauguration, he wrote to Henry Knox that he felt like “a culprit going to his place of execution.” To Edward Rutledge, he worried that he would not meet the expectations of his fellow Americans. The man was nervous, like any of us would be.

Toward the end of the tour, we entered the bedroom in which Washington died. Against the wall under four portraits of the Washington grandchildren, was a small desk. “Although Martha burned all their correspondence, two letters from the President to his wife were discovered behind the drawer in this desk,” said Dr. Schoelwer. “One told her of his call to head the Continental Army; the other of his election to the Presidency. Given their significance to the two of them as a couple, I think she held on to them on purpose.” 

Dr. Schoelwer then told us about a postscript to one of the letters in which Washington mentioned that he had purchased some fabric Martha had requested, and he hoped it was what she wanted. 

“He was shopping for her!” exclaimed Dr. Schoelwer.  

And, like any husband, hoped he had done the right thing.   

                                                          

While Washington was widely esteemed and felt to be the one man who could, perhaps, unite the new states, this remained a challenge. Within his own cabinet, Thomas Jefferson was wary of centralized government and the President’s popularity and sought to undermine him, and the heated debate over slavery already threatened to divide the fledgling nation. Washington’s Presence was his power, and he knew the people needed to be convinced. To familiarize himself with the customs of the formerly separate colonies and to bring that personal power into play, Washington undertook several lengthy tours after his inauguration. 

Over the years, the towns he visited have perpetuated legendary tales of his stay. How many are accurate? Historian and writer Nathaniel Philbrick was curious, and in his book Travels with George, he recounts his findings as he, his wife Melissa, and their dog, Dora, followed the routes Washington took from 1789 to 1791. 

One anecdote seemed, to Philbrick, almost ubiquitous. Whether from the mouth of a disappointed youngster expecting to see a god-like vision or from Washington himself when encountering the high expectations of his countryfolk, the line “he’s just a man” surfaced countless times. Because of the repetition, Philbrick doubted the tale…but it makes sense to me. As my friends and I strolled the grounds of his home, gazed at his books and belongings, and stood by the bed where he died, I was inclined to drop the “just” but marveled at what he accomplished, human as he was. In walking away from the presidency, he left to succeeding generations and leaders his legacy and challenge: to have the integrity, patriotism, and belief in the country’s ideals to do the same. 

 For Further Information:

Johnson, G.W., Epilogue by Ellen McCallister Clark. (1991). Mount Vernon, the Story of a Shrine, Mount Vernon Ladies Association  

Philbrick, N. (2021). Travels with George. Viking

Thompson, M. (2019) “The Only Unavoidable Subject of Regret,” George Washington, Slavery, and the Enslaved Community at Mount Vernon, University of Virginia Press

 

 

 

 

 

 

Strangers No More

The soft glow of candlelight.  Well-worn plank floors.  Low, beamed ceilings tinged by centuries of smoky fires. A blaze leaping, orange and hot, beneath an ancient mantle.  The clatter of glassware and pewter, a murmur of conversation. With ease, I mentally garbed our server in Colonial mop cap and apron while I settled into a seat across from Dave in the 1700’s tavern with a sense of cozy familiarity. 

Dave has hazy memories of robes sweeping sandy soil, and his feet, sandal-clad, during a former life in Medieval times. My comfort in Revolutionary settings is so total I feel I must have worn that skin before.  A guide to castles and dungeons of the Middle Ages might have been a fitting Christmas gift for Dave, but I’d chosen “Taverns of the American Revolution” by Adrian Covert instead. 

Over the following months, Dave and I have snuggled up with Mr. Covert, charting future jaunts to battle sites, historic homes, and taverns. The Griswold Inn in Essex, featured in Covert’s book, is only an hour from our home, and has become one of our favorite destinations. 

Open for business since 1776, The Griswold Inn (fondly known as “The Gris” to locals) survived a sneak British attack during the war of 1812 that left 27 ships aflame, decimating the town’s shipbuilding industry.  The inn is gracious, beautiful, and comfortable, and beyond its history, boasts several unique features.  

One of the inn’s dining rooms is made of wood salvaged from an old covered bridge, and the Taproom is a repurposed 1738 schoolhouse.  Among the antique firearms displayed in one dining area is a musket, and with it, an aged handwritten note dated July 7, 1776, that was discovered in its barrel:

“My dear son Jared,

I send you this my gun,

Do not handle it in fun,

But with it make ye British run,

Join ye ranks of Washington,

And when our independence is won,

We will take a drink of good old rum.  

In a way, my own past seems almost fiction, as hazy and unreal as Dave’s stroll through dusty medieval streets in the thirteenth century, so grasping history as the lives of real people is a stretch for me.  But as I read Jared’s father’s note, I could picture him putting quill pen to paper, squinting in the dim light of a candle at a scarred wooden tavern table. Most likely, he quaffed some ale or rum as he urged his son to join the cause of independence two days after the Declaration was approved. I hope Jared survived the war and lived to share that celebratory toast with his dad.

On this evening at The Gris in 2019, without threat of British interruption, Dave and I sipped red wine and beamed at each other as our server set down platters of salmon with creamy leek, mustard, and wine sauce, and trout over beans with roasted tomatoes.  Heaven. 

Meanwhile, we could see from our fireside table that the adjacent Taproom was filling in.  The crowd was a mix of ages and predominantly male.  Regulars, I guessed, by the grins, greetings, and glasses raised high.  The Gris boasts live music every day of the week, year round, and while we couldn’t make out the words, it was clear from all the “fare thee well, me lads” and talk of tossing seas that we’d happened upon chantey night with The Jovial Crew. 

Dave and I finished dinner as robust bass voices rolled and rumbled in unison, swelling in waves to carry us toward the Taproom as sure as fair winds bear sailors back to their families.

“Remember Lad, he’s still your dad, though he’s working far from home…”

As we inched between the companionable patrons, a muscled, portly, skinny, clean-shaven, tattooed, and flannel-shirted lot, I noticed all of them were singing. All of them!  No one checked cell phones, and no TV distracted with the shriek of a referee’s whistle or the squeak of sneakers on polished wood. Every face was turned toward the five musicians up front, and every person knew the lyrics.  Each song was hallooed as an old favorite as guitar, fife, vocals, and concertina* spun tales of homesickness, travel, good rum, and women. The Old Ohio, Running down to Cuba, Fishin’ for a Whale, and The Girls of Old Maui begged that we bemoan and bellow, and the singers supplied the chorus in a call-and-response so newcomers like us could not plead ignorance and stay silent. 

Eventually, I managed to snag a seat near the door, and saw that new arrivals edging into the bar picked up whatever song was underway, joining in as they shrugged off coats and raised a finger to order a beer. 

During a break, the man in the seat across from me said he learned the chanteys when he was a Boy Scout. “The scoutmaster used to come here on Mondays and then teach us scouts the songs around the campfire.”  He gestured toward the lead vocalist, a sturdy guy with a close-shaven beard and white hair.  “Cliff has been singing chanteys at The Gris on Monday nights for 47 years.” Soon thereafter, Cliff, having spotted us, the only strangers in the crowd, sidled over to introduce himself.  “So, first time here!  Where you folks from?”

Much as it’s always been in convivial taverns – even when revolutions were being planned, tea parties hatched, and drafts of broadsides and pamphlets scribbled – conversation flowed freely between sets.  Members of The Jovial Crew and those around us made sure we didn’t feel like outsiders. Tim, the tall, white-bearded vocalist for the band, told us,  “These are work songs. I can hear chanteys sung in foreign languages and know the job being done by the nature of the rhythm. Think about it.  Most of those sailors were 14 to 17.  Boys. They missed their moms and girlfriends.  They were homesick and horny!  The chanteys tapped into that to perform the work of keeping them synchronized while hauling up sails or anchor.” 

Indeed, the songs chosen for the third set were clearly created to keep those lusty boys focused. The lyrics were joyously raunchy and the crowd belted them out with grins and gusto.  A slew of verses I’d never heard in that innocent old ditty She’ll be Coming Around the Mountain would certainly fuel a young lad’s fantasies while he swabbed decks and hauled ropes. “You had to hold those boys’ attention!” said Tim.  “That’s what interested them!”

It seemed we could all sing together forever, but ways must surely part.  Lynn Anne, the server, bustled about, smiling and singing along, but probably ready to call it a night. Chairs scratched across the floor. Empty glasses were set on the bar and tables. But instead of leaving, people circled the room and linked arms. Obviously, it was the thing to do, so Dave and I rose, a bit befuddled, and searched for a spot.  There was a gap near the door so we angled that way.  A hubbub of protest from around the room rang out, “Wait!  No! You can’t leave now!”

Oh!  How lovely to be so welcomed! “We’re just trying to find a place in the circle,” we stammered.  Room was made for us, and we squeezed in.  Swaying together, we all bid farewell, strangers no more, singing, “Rolling home to old New England. Rolling home across the sea.”    

*concertina: small bellow-like instrument with buttons for keys and handles on each of the two hexagonal ends.