A Letter for George Washington:
A Letter for George Washington:
August, 1776:
George Washington sat. His aides, stone-faced, formed a semicircle in front of him. The dust of the battle was still encrusted on some of their boots. The all to near roar of gunfire hung over Long Island. The battle was lost, and the retreat must begin. General Howe was pursuing the fleeing troops with unexpected vigor.
It was time to make a decision.
George searched for words. But at that moment, he had no words inside him to give. He heard no sounds of gunfire. He did not hear the murmurs of concern that began to ripple through the meeting. The only sounds that he heard were the words of his long-dead father, ringing in his ears, “Build well, little boy. One day the Devil will take it all to hell.”
Those words could not leave the back of his mind. He had used the force of his will to remove them from his thoughts—to focus on his duty, to pursue excellence and integrity. But ever since he had received That Letter, the struggle had become all-consuming.
The loss of his brother had been hard. Lawrence had always been a pillar of his life, an exemplar, far better than the hidden scorn of his deranged father. He had been there when no one else had. If anyone could succeed, his brother could.
But those letters and diaries from Lawrence that he had received in Boston had shattered that pillar. Why would he receive them now, of all times? His brother had died over twenty years ago. When George received news of his death years ago, he had assumed that illness was the cause. No one in the family had explained otherwise.
But now this scandal. Lawrence's widow had kept his letters for years. Now that she was on her deathbed she had felt that the time for truth had come. She had reason to fear the truth-- the laws of England were often far away, but the truth could have lead to prosecution, questions of inheritance, even confiscation of property.
These letters, these writings of his brother showed a battle with secret despair. The secret fears. The secret anger. But even worse, the secret indiscretion. Not just any indiscretion— unnatural unions. Young boys, sought out in private, used as a man uses a woman. Did he treat them well, even? Or did he pour out his hidden anger on them, as his father had on him?
The letters showed that the truth was about to come out. It was more shame than his brother could bear. And so his death was not caused by the all too common scourge of illness. Instead, his death was the shocking work of his own hands.
“Build well, little boy. One day the Devil will take it all to hell.” With Lawrence, at least, his father had been right. A well-built life, a successful man, with property and family. All thrown down into deepest hell.
George had pushed all this into the background as he fulfilled his duties during the day. But at night, he could think of nothing else as the army marched from Boston to New York. Did the words of George’s father drag Lawrence down, too? What terrible things had his father done to him in those times when they were alone, that had left him shaking and pale? They had both worked so hard, pushed to the top of their society, their country, their people, hoping to escape that dark shadow of their father that had been cast over their lives. If Lawrence could fall, what hope was there for him? If the life of his brother had ended in destruction, what trust could he have in his own self?
An aide cleared his throat. The murmurs had ceased, and now all fixed their eyes on their General. They sat, and they waited for vital orders from the field. They sat as George Washington became increasingly lost in indecisive, planning and re-planning how to recover the battle. They waited as he gave orders, then rescinded them, sat in silence, then lashed out in one of his explosive rages when one of his subordinates questioned him. They waited for direction as the battle turned into a retreat. They implored him for direction as the retreat turned into a rout. And the rout continued as George Washington fought a losing battle with the dark voice of his father whispering in his mind.