Sarah's Ground (9781439115855) (12 page)

I was right. Upton is even more cast down now since the visit of his brothers. He is quieter than ever, though still polite and courtly to Mary, who I think drives him crazy.

We have a note about the harpsichord! It will arrive tomorrow by boat! Oh, I hope the weather holds! Oh, where shall we put it? I think in the Little Parlor, the room where we sometimes receive visitors.

I have been reading some about Nelly Custis. She was Marthas granddaughter, and the general loved her so! She was married to Lawrence Lewis, his nephew, on the generals last birthday, in February of 1799. He never had another birthday. He died before the year ended.

And oh, it must be some kind of a sign! This book says Nelly loved to play the harpsichord for the general in the Little Parlor. Exactly where I have decided to put it.

Sometimes I feel so close to General Washington in this house that it is eerie. But then, I walk in his footsteps. I sit where he sat. I gaze at what he gazed at outside. How can one not feel his spirit? I wonder if Upton ever does. I must ask him.

The harpsichord has come, wrapped in blankets, guarded by bales of hay, and undamaged. Upton had all the men go to the wharf to get it off the boat. He had it put on a wagon pulled by mules up to the house. It was a tedious
business, for he insisted the mules go very slow.

Then he himself chose the workmen who would carry it into the Little Parlor. They were very careful, as if it were a priceless vase, only bigger.

Then I polished it carefully.

“May I play?” Mary asked when I was finished.

Upton knows I play. He wiped his hands with a rag and just stood there. I felt it was pushy of Mary. Miss Semple would be ashamed of her. But she seems to have no shame. “Of course,” I said. And she sat right down and played “Home, Sweet Home.”

The strains of that song always tug at my heartstrings. I thought of Mother and Father and my own home up in Troy, which I hadn't seen in a few years now. And I was determined to do better than ever here, in this home entrusted to my care.

I looked at Upton, and he at me, as the song wound down. And I don't know what he was thinking, but in the end I could have hugged Mary for her choice of music.

Upton smiled at me. And I imagine he was thinking along the same lines as I about this place. And renewing his pledge to take care of it.

I wrote immediately, of course, to Miss Cunningham, telling her of the safe arrival of the harpsichord. I know that already the war has financially ruined her plantation in South Carolina. And that she is feeling physically more disabled every day. Yet she is determined, as if in a fight all her own,
to restore to this place all the furnishings that belong here.

She wrote that the harpsichord came from Lorenzo Lewis, cousin of Mrs. Robert E. Lee. I know that Mary can write in fancy scrollwork, so I had her make out a little card and placed it on top of the harpsichord, telling how it came to be here. After all, we are part museum, aren't we?

I
n the glory that nature bestows upon us in these September days there has been another skirmish at Pohick Church. The weather was very damp yesterday evening, and the gunfire carried on the air. I have learned that General Washington was a vestryman there. Mrs. Frobel told me. She also came round to tell us that someone had taken the brass doorknobs from the church doors.

What is there in soldiers that is so dastardly? What makes them think they have a right to steal things away from where they fight? Does fighting bring out the worst elements in people? I saw Upton's brothers ride away, and though a Northerner, I was so proud of them. Would they steal after a skirmish? Does war turn all men bad?

The applesauce is finished. It will serve us all winter. We are now drying corn and putting away potatoes. Upton knows how to do all of this. I don't, but I am learning. He puts the potatoes in the root cellar, packed in hay. We are also drying some apples. Upton is harvesting sufficient wheat and a little rye. He also has vegetables in abundance. I am making blackberry preserves. I got Mary to go down
to the river with me to pick some blackberries. She was entranced by the river and the fact that it has tides. She begged me to teach her to fish, and so I promised her I would.

I think she is bored here without many people coming and going who can admire her. One of the most important accomplishments she can imagine is to be admired.

We do have the soldiers visiting, though. Sometimes they come in bunches. Of course, it takes all our time to show them around, but then, they are paying twenty-five cents each. And another twenty-five if they want to see the generals bedroom, where he died.

There seems to be a rhythm about the place, like we move to the notes of a placid, old-fashioned tune, even though we are right between the lines.

Sometimes when I am outside and look into the woods, I fancy that I see soldiers on horseback riding through. They make no noise, however. They do not shout or fire guns, and even their horses' snorts are quiet. I wonder if I am seeing things. I wonder if it is the quiet of them that frightens me.

I asked Upton about it. “There is cavalry out there,” he said. “They are the eyes of both armies. And they are always watching. Just mind your own business.”

I forgot. Both his brothers are in the cavalry.

This week we had several hundred soldiers come to
visit, and they were very disorderly and trampled over everything. Upton had all he could do to manage them. And they all wanted a piece of brick or stone from the area of Washington's tomb. They actually chipped away at it. Upton had to scold them. They also wanted to take pieces of the branches of the holly trees along the garden walks.

So now Upton shows the soldiers the house and tomb and puts me in the sitting room, where from the windows I command a view of the garden walks and can chide them if they start taking holly.

Mary calls me stingy. “Let them have something to take away with them as a memento,” she says. She is right. They want to take something from this place, but I cannot let them have the holly or pieces of the tomb. I must think of something that they can purchase when they leave.

Upton has solved the problem. The workmen have been making bricks here for purposes of restoration. Upton thinks we might put aside those he calculates we need and sell the rest as souvenirs. Many of the soldiers have money, and then at least they'll leave our holly alone. And it will help defray expenses.

I have a letter from Louisa Washington, John Augustine's oldest daughter, who is just sixteen. She assures me that her father's will is explicit and sound. And even though the family retains the rights to one quarter square acre around
the general's tomb, none of his heirs will ever molest Mount Vernon.

What a lovely girl! I sent her a note, thanking her and saying we must meet as soon as is possible. What thoughtfulness. I feel ashamed, since I was not so thoughtful and considerate with her father.

We've had another visitor. The photographer Matthew Brady. He came in the west gate at sunset the other day, two mules pulling his “what is it?” wagon, which is what he calls the contrivance he drags around, in which he develops his pictures. He came with one of his assistants—or “field operatives,” as he calls them—a man named Timothy O'Sullivan.

Upton put them up in the barn, cautioning Mr. Brady not to let any of his chemicals start a fire and burn the place down.

Here is a man who has seized the moment, and I admire him very much. He was at Fort Sumter to take pictures three days after the evacuation of the Union garrison. This will be a war of photographs, he says. His aim is to place these photographs in front of the people so they do not become complacent about the killing. He says he aims to photograph dead bodies. Well, I suppose he has a point. If people actually see what is being done, they won't be so eager to have parades and military celebrations in honor of the war.

We fed him and his assistant, and he showed us his equipment and asked to do photos of the house. Upton immediately struck a deal. He would pay if he could sell them. So Mr. Brady stayed two days photographing, and now we have some pictures of the house and the tomb to sell to soldiers.

Somehow I cannot adjust to photographs, however. They look so harsh, so real. They leave nothing to the imagination, but show every defect in place and person.

I know because Mary convinced Mr. Brady to photograph her, and she looked harsh and older than her years. I would not be photographed. I think Mary was disappointed. I much prefer Winslow Homers sketch. But I think photography is both the blessing and the curse of the future.

I promised to teach Mary to fish, and so I did. The herring are running, of course. The neighbors call it “a rare delicacy and steady diet.”

Upton was out on our small rowboat that same day, fishing for herring, which he salts down in barrels for the winter and puts in the storehouse.

Mary and I were on the wharf, which is now repaired. She was happily holding her pole when I leaned over and, of all things, fell into the water! Well, of course I can swim. My brothers taught me as a child. But the most terribly embarrassing thing happened then. Mary stood up and
called to Upton, who was far enough downriver not to see us, just around a little bend. He came rowing over, and just as he did she took off her hoopskirt and blouse and, in her chemise and pantalets,
right in front of Upton,
jumped in to save me.

Well, I would not be saved and told her so. “Get out of the water,” I told her savagely, “as soon as I do. I'll hand you your dress. How dare you, in front of Upton?”

“I'm saving you,” she shouted, all the while splashing about with her mouth open so the nearest herring could pop in.

“I don't need saving, Mary, but I'm afraid you do.” My own hoopskirt was billowing about me, making it near impossible for me to make progress, but all the same keeping me afloat, so I made it to the wharf like a great whale.

“We're all right,” I yelled to Upton. “Stay back.”

But he didn't. He was out of the boat before I could say another word, swimming toward me. He guided me to the wharf, got me up, then reached for Mary, who of course had her arms outstretched like a true damsel in distress.

Then he lifted her out. Her chemise and pantalets clung to her, dripping, and I was so ashamed for her that I reached for the shawl we'd been sitting on and wrapped it around her. “Get up to the house!” I scolded. “Mary, I'm responsible for you while you are here.”

“I didn't drown, did I?”

“It isn't drowning I'm talking about.”

I glanced back. Upton was swimming back to his small rowboat, not looking at us.

I am convinced that Mary did it purposely. And another thing I am convinced of now: All this while she has had an eye out for Upton. All this snapping at him, arguing with him, and sassing him has been her way of getting attention.

And what does he think of her? I find that it worries me.

I
had to scold Mary. I had to play Miss Semple. And if I must say so myself, I did it with rather a firm hand and voice.

“How
could
you do such a thing as to take off your clothes in front of him?”

“Heavens, Sarah, I didn't know you could swim. I was saving you.”

“You know my brothers taught me. We used to go swimming in the creek at home.”

“Well, this was a
river. With tides
. I was thinking of you, Sarah.”

“Well, thank you, but I have to say that I think you were thinking of yourself.”

“Do you accuse me of showing my charms to Upton?”

“Yes, I do.”

“WeIl, I am precious insulted, I can tell you.”

We were quarreling upstairs. Away from the servants. Yet I knew every one of them was listening. The house itself had ears.

“I don't care how insulted you are, Mary. I don't care a fig for your feelings. What you don't know is how people
around here gossip. And we can't afford gossip. This situation we have here is tenuous enough as it is.”

“People!” She laughed. “What people? You don't consider the servants people, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I do consider them people, Mary. But besides them, there are eyes and ears all over this place. Tomorrow we're likely to read in the
Washington Star
that we were frolicking without our clothes on in the river with the superintendent. Don't you understand?” I appealed to her. I told her other charges that had been thrown at me. Even the business about being a spy. “We must keep the name of the Association spotless,” I finished. “No scandal.”

“Well, I thank you, but I have to say that I can't see what my honestly trying to save you from drowning has to do with all this,” she said.

She would not see. I could not make her.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked. “I'll leave this place if I cause so much trouble for you, Sarah.”

I said no. I should have agreed and said yes.

“You know,” she said, drying her hair with a towel, “you ought to ask yourself why you are really taking on so, Sarah. Is it because you are jealous?”

“Of what?” My heart lurched inside me.

“I mean, do you like Upton yourself? Do you favor him? Or are you too prissy to acknowledge it?”

It was as if she had slapped me. But I was never
tongue-tied. And I felt years older than her. She was acting no better than a schoolgirl.

“My feelings are my own,” I said.

“You could at least admit them to me so I know.”

“Know what?”

“If you harbor feelings for him. If there is an understanding between you. If there is, I will leave, Sarah. I will take myself out of the picture.”

“There is no picture,” I said.

We exchanged a long look. I could see she did not believe me, or was at least unsure. “Thank you, Sarah. Then, I shall stay,” she said.