The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [187]
She would not let him go, not yet, hid her tears in his shirt, and he patted her lightly on the back.
“Let us go upstairs. My room . . . our room is there. We should have a moment of privacy.”
She would not look at his face, was embarrassed at her emotions, held tightly to his arm as he led her to the stairway. The hall was empty now, the kitchen silent, no one in the house making a sound. He was in full uniform, and she could hear the sword on his belt tapping the wall as they climbed the narrow steps, the boards squeaking from the weight. He led her through another hall, another room much like the parlor, warmed by a crackling fire. He closed the door behind her, and she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him turning her toward him, touching her hair, pulling her close. She wrapped him again, but this time he was not the general. The rough uniform could not disguise the man. He seemed to melt against her, and she felt a strange frailness in his arms, could hear the sadness in his breathing, soft cries now, every part of him finally able to let go of the exhaustion, his own emotion. She was no longer embarrassed at her own tears, held him tightly, would hold him, would feel his soft cries as long as he needed.
30. WASHINGTON
FEBRUARY 1778
HER DAY HAD BEGUN EARLY, A GENTLE KNOCK AT THEIR BEDROOM door, the soft apology as the man moved quickly in the darkness to light the fire in the small bedroom hearth. Washington was awake and up quickly, and she watched him in the glow of firelight as he fastened the buttons of his uniform and pulled on his boots. She sat up in the bed, and he responded by lighting a candle, said in a quiet voice, “I thought you would remain here. There is no need for you to rise so early.”
“Nonsense, Old Man. A general’s wife should set a good example.”
It was the first time she had called him by her pet name in a long time, and he leaned closer to her, covered her hand with his, said, “Not around the staff, please. In their eyes, I am old enough as it is.”
She was surprised by his good humor, watched as he stood up, pulled his heavy coat down from the hook on the wall.
“I will come for you a bit later. Perhaps we can ride out in the country. It is quite beautiful here.”
“What must you do today, George?”
He absorbed the question, said slowly, “Many things. We are waging war with the quartermaster department. Mr. Mifflin resigned his post there because I would not sacrifice this army merely to save his home in Philadelphia. The congress has not found it necessary to replace him, thus, for some time now, there has been no one in charge. It is a vexing problem, and possibly the most important difficulty we face. So many of my urgent requests have been ignored that I am certain my dispatches are regarded as fuel for their fires. The troops have not received any meat in two weeks, and when I warned the commissary of the consequences, the possibility of mutiny in the ranks, their response was, ‘Give them bread.’ I am astounded at the lack of empathy for our suffering.”
“Perhaps you should appoint your own officers to command that department.”
“It is not so simple as that. I can suggest, but it is congress who must make the appointment. There are so few of them in attendance at York that nothing is accomplished, nothing but the posturing and complaining from the Board of War. If Mr. Mifflin had performed his duty as quartermaster general with the same zeal he places on his performance at the Board . . .” He paused, and she could hear his breathing. “I regret you must hear this.”
“You may speak to me of anything, George. Is it not better to unburden yourself here, to me, than to risk offending