But the 3rd New Jersey would prevail. It was the youngest of the three regiments of the New Jersey Line, having been commissioned on the first day of 1776, three months after the first two Jersey regiments had been formed. Never-theless, it was quite experienced, fighting in more than half a dozen campaigns, including the Battle of Monmouth, where Alex himself had been injured. It was a typical Continental regiment consisting of eight companies, each with ninety soldiers and a captain.
The plan was to go south.
Reliable intelligence had it that General Henry Clinton, the commander in chief of British forces in North America, had sailed south in December at the head of a massive army of over 8,500 men. General Clinton was believed to have been in Savannah since early in the year, where he had been joined by Generals Cornwallis and Rawdon, who had swelled the British forces to 14,000 men. It appeared the British general had his sights set on taking the crucial city of Charleston, which, in addition to its trading importance, was also garrison to some 5,000 Continental troops.
Colonel Hamilton and the men of the 3rd New Jersey, in conjunction with seven other regiments, would sail to South Carolina and establish a second American position on Sullivan’s Island, where in 1776 Colonel Moultrie had successfully defended Charleston against a far smaller British force.
The second garrison would make it impossible for Clinton to lay siege to the forces inside Charleston proper without exposing his rear flank to constant ambushes by the American forces at Fort Moultrie.
SHE WAS GOING to marry someone else. Someone with a name, a family, and a fortune. Of course she was. He had to forget about her. He had 728 men under his command. At first they were no more than a list of names on sheets of paper, but as he perused the litany of Alcotts and Kilkelleys and Williamsons, the Josiahs and Ezekiels and Franklins, Alex had a sense of the awesome responsibility that had been placed in his hands. Each of these men was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s husband—someone’s future. And all of them would be risking their lives at his sole discretion. Alex’s wisdom would be their salvation. His folly would be their death.
When he got the word from General Washington, Alex poured his heart out to his friend Laurens.
May I say, the news of an imminent reunion with my Dearest Friend is the only thing that consoles me during these dreary days, when I am separated from my adored Eliza not just by a distance of some hundreds of miles, but by the dispiriting prospect of her marriage to that bounder Henry Livingston! Dispiriting, I write, as if I were talking about a loss at cards or a poor yield from an orchard. The truth is, John, I am crushed. So dismal am I that I have bethought myself to decline General Washington’s commission on the grounds that I am not fit to assume responsibility for the lives of Seven Hundreds of our boys when I care not a whit for my own. If I had my druthers right now, I would not lead these brave lads but fight amongst them as one of them. I would charge the enemy line with my bayonet outstretched and gorge myself on British blood till they were all strewn about me like a covey of partridge happened upon by a rabid dog, or until I myself was gored and fallen. Indeed, I sometimes think it better that I die in the upcoming battle so that Eliza may be free of me and not have the regret of not marrying me to compound the woes of what I cannot help but conceive of as a difficult marriage. And yet it is a marriage that I have no right to contest, for I have not the fortune nor the name to claim her as my own. Laurens, the fighting cannot come soon enough . . .
And yet, he would still have to wait a little longer.
DURING THE COURSE of the long winter, one of Alex’s many tasks was negotiating with Wilhelm von Knyphausen, a general in the army of England’s Hessian allies, and the erstwhile commander of British-held New York City in General Clinton’s absence, over a plan for an exchange of prisoners of war. After Clinton’s departure to South Carolina, Alex began corresponding with the German general. Both sides claimed to long for the prisoner exchange, yet during the four and half years of fighting, no steps forward had been made.
By this point, each side held thousands of prisoners, which was onerous for the captors, but excruciating—and often fatal—for the captives. King George, in violation of the rules of war, had gone so far as to declare that American soldiers should be treated not as enemy combatants but as traitors, and thus were denied many of the protections that were afforded to prisoners of war by international custom. Wallabout Bay off the coast of Brooklyn was filled with the hulks of more than a dozen so-called prison ships—ancient vessels too decrepit to go to sea. Conditions on board were unspeakable, with reports that thousands of Americans had died of starvation, disease, and exposure. Captured Britons were treated more humanely by the Americans, but only to the degree that supplies permitted. This was wartime, after all. It was hard enough feeding one’s own army, let alone some seven thousand enemy troops. It would be a tremendous relief to be rid of them, but of course that wouldn’t happen if the British did not consent to release a compensatory number of captured Americans.
The negotiations had progressed well, with General von Knyphausen proving more amenable than General Clinton to divesting himself of the responsibility for thousands of captured Americans. No doubt as a mercenary and someone with no national loyalty to England, he took the rebellion less personally than did General Clinton, who seemed not to care how many American boys died on his watch. With spring approaching and with both sides in need of more troops for the resumption of hostilities, von Knyphausen requested a personal meeting to move the negotiations forward. General Washington refused to meet with him, on the grounds that von Knyphausen was not his equal in rank and it would be beneath him to parlay with an inferior.
His Excellency directed Alex to go in his stead.
Alex was torn about the mission. It was, in its own way, an even greater responsibility than command of a regiment, with perhaps twenty thousand lives hanging in the balance. Yet Alex was tired of telling powerful men how powerful they were. It would be tedious work, more a matter for an accountant than a statesman, with dozens of egos to play off and assuage.
He longed for the straightforward heroism of combat. And he also wanted to be away from Morristown, with its constant reminders of Eliza and her upcoming nuptials to Henry Livingston.
But General Washington’s directive was not a request—it was an order. Alex had no choice but to delay his journey to Carolina.
So on a chilly morning in early April, accompanied by Lieutenant Larpent acting as his secretary, Alex set out on horseback for the town of Amboy, New Jersey, a bucolic hamlet at the confluence of the Raritan River and Arthur Kill, across from the southern tip of Staten Island. It was a ride of less than thirty miles, which would take no more than three or four hours on horseback, depending on the condition of the roads.
Along their journey, the crisp air was laced with chimney smoke and the smell of the morning’s bread. Housewives and maids tossed seed to chickens, gathering the eggs into their aprons; farmers set off armed with muskets for hunting or axes for felling trees. From a distance, the men and women might have been mistaken for married couples, but on closer inspection, the males were either very young or very old. Every man of fighting age was off at war.
AS THEY TROTTED past yet another frame farmhouse set back from the road, Lieutenant Larpent eyed a shapely milkmaid dragging a stool toward the cow shed. Larpent slowed his horse to a walk.
“It’s hard to believe there’s a war going on. If you ignore the fact that we’re in uniform, I mean.”
Alex spoke sharply to the listless soldier. “Were you speaking to me, Lieutenant Larpent?”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Larpent sit up straighter in his saddle.
“Sir! I said, Colonel Hamilton, sir, that it’s hard to believe there’s a war going on. Everything seems so . . . peaceful, sir.”
Alex smiled out of sight of the lieutenant’s eyes. He had learned from General Washington t
o ignore the temptation to fraternize with those beneath his rank. It only made it that much harder for them to accept one’s orders when the time came. Though Washington often referred to Alex as “my boy,” he had never referred to him by his Christian name or offered Alex permission to call him anything other than “Your Excellency.”
Alex had adopted the policy for himself. If anything, he found it even more necessary than did General Washington, for he had not the latter’s family connections and long history to fall back on to command respect.
“Aye, Lieutenant. It’s a beautiful morning. Let’s hope the day ends on a high note as well.”
“Do you think Knyphausen is serious about exchanging prisoners, sir? It’s hard to believe, given General Clinton’s refusal to do so, that he would allow one of his subordinates to act in his absence.”
“General von Knyphausen tells me that he has full authority in this matter, and that General Clinton is eager to be rid of the headache.” He shrugged. “I’d say the chances are one in two that he’ll bother to show up, and one in ten that he’ll agree to an exchange of any consequence. But it is worth the effort, given the thousands of lives that hang in the balance.”
They mulled over the subject until it was exhausted, then lapsed into a companionable silence. Alex’s thoughts flitted back and forth between the praise he would elicit from General Washington should he succeed in negotiating the prisoner exchange, and images of Eliza’s face framed by an ivory wedding bonnet, saying “I do”—but not to him.
A half hour passed before Lieutenant Larpent cleared his throat and said, “Pardon me? Colonel Hamilton?”
Alex roused himself from his thoughts.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I was just wondering, sir, whether you knew when we would be getting back to Morristown? That is, will it be by tomorrow night, sir?”
“I cannot say with certainty, Lieutenant. If, as I suspect, this is just another overture, our business may well be concluded by the evening, and we can return first thing tomorrow. But General von Knyphausen placed no constraints on our discussion, and if the conversation goes well, it could take several days or more to work out a large-scale exchange.”
Lieutenant Larpent sucked in a breath. Alex resisted the desire to scold him.
“Have you pressing business back in Morristown, Lieutenant?”
“Well, not exactly, sir.”
“For some reason your ‘not exactly’ sounds unerringly like ‘exactly.’”
“I—sir?” Lieutenant Larpent had clearly not understood Alex’s wit.
“What is it that you need to get back to Morristown for?”
Lieutenant Larpent opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. After a long moment, he said in a guilty voice, “Oh, it’s nothing, sir.”
“Lieutenant, don’t make me order you.”
“It’s just a, well—it’s a party, sir?”
Alex’s eyebrows raised. He had not heard of any upcoming party for the officers, junior or senior.
“Is there a birthday among the ranks?”
“Eh, not exactly, sir.”
“Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Larpent sighed heavily. “It’s more of a, well, a send-off, sir.”
“I was not aware that any regiment beside the Third had been given marching orders. I would hate to think that a party is being thrown for my own men, and I was not invited.”
“It’s not that kind of send-off, sir.”
“My God, Lieutenant, I think you should take my place in the upcoming negotiations with General von Knyphausen. You can withhold better than anyone this side of an Algonquin brave.”
Another squirming sigh from Lieutenant Larpent. “It’s more of a, um, a party, sir.”
“A party? What on earth could the men be celebrating?”
Suddenly Alex understood. It was a party for Henry Livingston to celebrate his upcoming marriage to Eliza Schuyler.
“I’m sorry, Colonel Hamilton. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Alex wasn’t in the mood to be charitable.
“Indeed, you should not have, Lieutenant Larpent. We are on a mission of state. There are thousands of American soldiers festering on British prison ships whose freedom depends on what we do in the next several days. And you can think only of getting drunk on cider and sherry!”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s not why I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m sorry because I know how much you love Miss Schuyler, sir.”
Alex whirled on Larpent, ready to lash out at him. But the face he saw staring at him sympathetically wasn’t that of an underling but that of a boy a few years younger than him, who felt keenly the heartsickness of an admired comrade. Alex’s rage melted on his tongue. He brought his horse up beside Larpent’s.
“At ease, Lieutenant. I confess I have been rather on edge this last week.” He managed a laugh. “So, you feel my pain, do you—but not so much as to decline the invitation of my rival?”
Lieutenant Larpent risked a chuckle. “As you said, Colonel, there’ll be all the cider and sherry you can drink. It’s been a long winter with nothing stronger than the corn mash Sixth Massachusetts brews behind the Langleys’ barn. A man has to treat himself once in a while.”
Alex nodded. “Well, then, let’s get a move on, and I’ll do my best to get you back in time to the celebration.”
He spurred his horse, and Lieutenant Larpent kicked his up beside him. “If it makes you feel any better, Colonel,” he said as they galloped toward the river, “the troops all think Colonel Livingston’s nothing but an empty purse, and you can be sure I’ll be drinking his liquor all the while—and having him on in your stead!”
28
Hen Party
The Cochran Residence
Morristown, New Jersey
April 1780
“Oh, Eliza, isn’t it thrilling! We’re going to be sisters! It is a prospect almost too delicious to contemplate.”
Kitty Livingston, Henry’s older sister and Eliza’s friend since the earliest days of their childhood, had been tasked with throwing Eliza a little celebration of her own. And here it was, coming off as something of a failure
Due to such short notice and Kitty’s lack of acquaintance with the local mademoiselles, she had been unable to round up any guests besides herself and Peggy and Aunt Gertrude, who was now sleeping soundly over in the wing chair next to the fire.
To make up for the lack of guests, however, Kitty had dressed herself in enough fashion for ten women. Her wig was so tall it would have made Madame de Pompadour jealous, and her heavy makeup was done in exquisite grisaille. Her face and décolletage had a silvery sheen, so that she looked like Pygmalion’s statue of Galatea come to life in all her perfect beauty, polished yet nubile.
Her dress was a separate work of art. Acres and acres of laurel-green silk moiré embroidered with the most ornate arabesques of saffron and oxblood, the tones muted yet exquisitely deep, like sugar candies tinted with mint and lemon and cherry. The bustle was three feet wide and the skirts twice that, so the only spot she could find to sit was in the middle of Aunt Gertrude’s longest sofa, which was so crowded with Kitty’s dress that no one else could join her. Eliza thought perhaps Kitty had done that on purpose.
“Can you imagine, Eliza?” trilled Kitty. “One day soon we’ll be able to send out invitations that proclaim ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands wish to invite you to Liberty Hall to officially open the season at Elizabethtown’ and ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands invite you to—’”
“But, Kitty,” Eliza interrupted her. “If it’s ‘Catherine and Elizabeth Livingston and their husbands,’ won’t your surname be necessarily different after you marry?”
“Oh, I’ve already thought of that. I’ve always said that I’d refuse to marry anyone less distinguished t
han a Van Rensselaer or a Livingston—or maybe a Schuyler, though Philip is a little too young for me to wait around for,” she added with a wink at Eliza. “And since Peggy seems to have snatched up the Van Rensselaer to have, I’ve set my eye on a couple of cousins on Papa’s side.”
“Oh, Kitty,” Peggy said with a laugh. “You speak of a husband as though he were a long-term investment, like a parcel of land to be cleared and sowed with some slow-growing orchard crop.”
“And isn’t he? How old was Stephen when you began to reel him in? Eleven? Twelve? You have been playing that boy as expertly as a courtesan.”
“Kitty!” Eliza clapped her hand over her mouth. “You go too far.”
“You think I’m speaking ill of dear Peggy, but I’m complimenting her. Your sister will be the richest woman in the United States. If,” she added slyly, “she can ever get him to propose.”
“And what makes you think he hasn’t?” Peggy said coyly.
Like Kitty, she had gone full stop for tonight’s party. Even though the ever-thrifty Catherine Schuyler had slashed her daughters’ dress budgets, Stephen was constantly sending his beloved bolts of the most exquisite silks from Europe. Her dress tonight was made of a shocking orange damask, a color that Eliza would have thought no living girl could pull off. Yet Peggy had gone the extra mile, having her maid dye her hair with ancient Egyptian henna, giving it dramatic umber tones. Piled up high, it sat atop her head like the crest of some exotic bird from the jungles of South America, perhaps, or one of those elegant long-legged cranes that wade through the shallow waters of southern wetlands. The summery palette highlighted the rosy hue of Peggy’s skin, which was sprinkled with enough flecks of mica to rival Kitty’s silvery sheen.
Alex and Eliza--A Love Story Page 20