A Buss from Lafayette (8 page)

I murmured to myself, “What a spoiled brat she is. I would rather be a hoyden than a brat like Hetty.”

I made a face, happy that Prissy was not around to scold me for it. “Poor me, indeed,” I muttered. “To have a cousin as awful as you are!” I thought again about how Hetty had changed towards me in the last few years. We were such good friends as children. Why is she such a witch to me now?

I sighed and forced myself to finish reading the letter.

Seething, I threw the letter down on my bed and
hurriedly changed into my green spotted muslin Sunday dress and its matching pantalettes. It was a bit too short, too tight across the chest, and much higher-waisted than the current fashion. Its skirt was not gored, nor did it bell out at the bottom. Still, it was better than wearing my old blue day dress, still damp from the day’s “inelegance,” not to mention the wet chemise.

I glanced in my looking glass to check my appearance. With a sigh at the disordered reflection I saw there, I hastily untied my braids, brushed them out, and re-plaited them.
Not for Dickon’s sake
, I thought,
but because I do not wish to look frowsy in front of a gentleman as well-respected as his father.

I soon finished my toilette, such as it was, and ran down the stairs to help set the dining room table. Because of our distinguished guest—and his somewhat
less
distinguished son, who had supped with us in the kitchen many times as a child—for once I was pleased and proud to dine in the “elegant” room.

C
HAPTER 13

As soon as I had set out the silverware and our best china, Joss and Dickon came down the stairs ready to sup, too. Both had freshly combed wet hair, and both were wearing dry shirts.

Why, they have done their toilettes, too!
I thought, grinning as I pictured my brother and his friend primping upstairs.
And I believe Dickon is wearing Joss’s shirt.
I knew it belonged to my brother, because I made all his shirts. I could see that the left sleeve was not quite symmetrically attached. My work, indeed.
Well, well.

Mrs. Weeks had sent over plenty of cold fried chicken, a salad made with tomatoes and cucumbers, and some freshly baked Anadama bread. After this repast had been placed on the table, I took one look and realized that my day’s work in the berry patch had made me as hungry as my brother, for once.

We all sat down and ate briskly.

The conversation was equally as brisk, with Major Weeks telling us all about the huge celebration
honoring Lafayette that had been held in Concord the day before.

I noted that
he
did not preface it by describing what he had worn to the celebration.

He did say that Concord had been filled to the brim with nearly forty thousand people, more than ten times the town’s normal population. Two cannons on the hill back of the State House kept firing away, and the church bell of Old North Church rang and rang and rang.

“Ladies and little girls showed up with their arms absolutely
full
of roses to bestow on the Nation’s Guest,” the major went on. “Then, when the procession with the man himself arrived, there was such a frenzy as I have never heard or seen in my entire life!”

“Was the procession just the General and his entourage?” Prissy asked.

“Oh, no, ma’am, ’twas far grander a spectacle than that!”

We all listened spellbound as the major told of Lafayette arriving in a barouche drawn by six white horses, followed by a stagecoach carrying his son, George Washington Lafayette, his secretary, Mr. Levasseur, and Amos Parker.

Major Weeks added, rather indignantly, “Not quite sure how
Amos
rated such a distinction, but there he was, big as life. Then came a musical band, with fifes
and drums and clarinets. Marching behind them were twenty companies of New Hampshire militia. Twenty! It was quite a sight, I tell you.”

“Was ‘the Troop’ there?” asked Joss eagerly. “I think its uniforms are better than those of any other militia in New Hampshire!”

“The Troop” was an independent militia company famous for the horsemanship of its riders and the beauty of its horses. My brother yearned to wear one of the Troop’s scarlet coats with buff facings and one of its leather, bell-crowned caps with long white feathers tipped in red. The Troop was commanded by Captain Brinsley Perkins, a man we knew well and who ran the popular tavern in our town. Perhaps Joss just might be able to join it someday.
However, those fancy uniforms are mighty expensive
, I thought.
I know Joss is trying to build up credit at Towne’s, but it is going to take him a long, long time to accumulate enough credit for one of
those
costly outfits.
Mr. Towne did not sell uniforms himself, but he would happily transfer Joss’s credit in his store ledger to the personal account of a Hopkinton tailor who made such clothing.

Major Weeks told us more about the Concord reception for Lafayette. After the famous hero had visited the legislature, he came out of the Capitol to find two hundred Revolutionary soldiers, assembled under the command of General Benjamin Pierce,
waiting to pay him their respects. After Pierce was formally presented to Lafayette, he presented each individual veteran in turn to the esteemed visitor.

“It was very affecting,” said the major. “All the veterans shed tears and some of them sobbed aloud. Many had served under Lafayette at one time or another during the Revolution. In fact, Lafayette remembered a number of them by name!”

Father asked, “Were you able to speak to General Lafayette?”

“Yes, of course. In fact, later I had the honor of sitting right next to him at the huge banquet on the State House grounds. Over six hundred people sat down to dine.”

And all for this one man,
I thought. Then it struck me that this one man was a kind of living link with our nation’s history.

Joss said, “So you must have known Lafayette in the war, to be seated next to him at this banquet.”

Major Weeks explained that he had been an aidede-camp to General Washington, so he had known Lafayette as a young, young man. “He was tall and skinny then, but so elegant in his uniform, so eager in his support for our cause and so resolved in his enmity toward Britain.”

“And is he still?” I asked. “Tall and skinny, I mean.”

“Well, he is still tall, but he is not exactly
skinny
any
longer,” replied Major Weeks. “He now walks with a limp—not from his war wound, but from a fall on an icy city street—and his hair looks very different now. ’Tis very brown and plentiful, which is quite unusual in a gentleman nearly seventy years of age.” He ruefully pointed to his own thinning white locks.

“What happened after the dinner, Major?” asked Father. “Were there speeches and such?”

“There were
many
speeches,” answered Weeks. “And there were also two songs written for the occasion. One of ’em referred to New Hampshire as the ‘Granite State’. I have never heard it called such a thing before.”

“Well, heaven knows, it is an accurate description: any farmer or well-digger will tell you the whole state has granite underpinnings!” Father said.

Joss turned and eagerly asked Dickon if he had also met General Lafayette.

“I
saw
him, I did,” answered Dickon, “but the crowd was so enormous, it was hard to get near him. And I was not able to go with Father when he sat with Lafayette.”

“I have heard that Lafayette was monstrous brave, Major,” I said, remembering what I had heard at Towne’s store. “At Brandywine, and then at Gloucester.”

“Aye, that he was, child, although he showed other
kinds of bravery, too. He endured the hardships and cold at Valley Forge during that long, hard winter. It must have been doubly hard on a highborn Frenchman used to the luxuries of life. But I never heard him complain.”

“Were you at Valley Forge that winter, sir?” Joss asked.

“Indeed, my boy. Those who tell of hardships there do not exaggerate by one jot. Over twenty-five hundred men died of exposure and starvation. Hundreds of horses perished there, too.”

I watched Joss reach for more chicken.
Speaking of starving, that’s his fifth piece!
I thought.
Maybe Joss really
is
part starving horse and part empty pit, as Father said.

Then I noticed that Dickon was reaching for more chicken as well.
Maybe Dickon is, too,
I thought. He happened to look across the table at me. I noticed that he noticed that I was noticing him, and could feel a blush rising on my face.

Major Weeks went on. “If all that shared suffering at Valley Forge was not terrible enough to endure on its own, there was also backbiting and plotting enough to make your stomach turn!”

“Why, I have never heard of that, sir!” exclaimed Joss.

The major snorted with outrage at the memory. He
explained that an Irish adventurer named Conway had gotten himself appointed inspector general at their encampment at Valley Forge. While there, he had plotted to get Congress to throw out Washington as commander-in-chief and replace him with the so-called “hero of Saratoga,” General Gates.

“But young Lafayette was one of the first to alert General Washington about this so-called Conway Cabal,” said the major. “Such deceit—not to mention wrong-headed foolishness! The only thing holding our troops together at that time was loyalty to Washington! If Conway had succeeded, our soldiers would have left in droves. I tell you honestly, I do not know what would have happened if Lafayette had not been so close and so loyal to General Washington, whom he looked upon as a father. No, we have a lot to thank ‘Our Marquis’ for.”

Prissy looked up. “Especially his helping to convince the French monarch to support the American side. If not for that, we would not have gained our liberty from Britain.”

“The French king was not that interested in supporting
liberty
, ma’am. But he
was
very interested in conquering his old enemy, England. And whatever reasons moved France to help us, it was Lafayette who made sure it happened,” said Major Weeks.

Suddenly I remembered the story I had heard at Towne’s and raised my glass in salute. “
Bon
for Lafayette!” I said with a grin.

C
HAPTER 14

My stepmother looked at me as if I had suddenly grown another head. Before she could ask where I had learned a French word, however, Dickon spoke up.

“Father was there the day the alliance with France was announced at Valley Forge in the spring of 1778.”

Prissy looked impressed. “Were you, indeed, sir?”

“Aye, that was a hullaballoo! Shouting and cheering and throwing of hats! All the men lined up as von Steuben had trained them to do, and then, one after another, they fired their guns down their lines. It was what the French call a ‘feu de joie’—a ‘fire of joy!’ And there was joy a-plenty that day.” There was a catch in the major’s voice at the memory. He then asked his son to explain what happened next. “You know the story as well as I do, my boy, and my full plate tells me that I have been talking too much and eating too little.”

Turning to my father, the major continued. “He asked me to recount this so often when he was a lad that it became his regular bedtime story. There would be little Dickon tucked into bed with his favorite toy,
and there I would be talking about the Revolutionary War!”