Hamilton’s Battalion
A Trio of Romances
Rose Lerner
Courtney Milan
Alyssa Cole
Promised Land: © 2017 by Susan Roth
The Pursuit Of…: © 2017 by Courtney Milan
That Could Be Enough: © 2017 by Alyssa Cole
Hamilton’s Battalion Cover: © 2017
Cover design created collaboratively by Alyssa Cole, Courtney Milan, and Designs by Priyanka. Some images used under license from Shutterstock.com. Stone engraving of the Declaration of Independence is public domain, sourced from the National Archives. Silhouette of shooting figure is from “The Struggle on Concord Bridge,” available in the public domain, sourced from the New York Public Library.
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
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Contents
Promised Land
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Author’s Note
The Pursuit Of…
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Author’s Note
That Could Be Enough
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Author’s Note
End Notes: Rose Lerner
Acknowledgments
Historical note
Also by Rose Lerner
End Notes: Courtney Milan
Acknowledgments
Historical Note
Also by Courtney Milan
End Notes: Alyssa Cole
Historical Note
Also by Alyssa Cole
Promised Land
BY ROSE LERNER
Donning men’s clothing, Rachel left her life behind to fight the British as Corporal Ezra Jacobs—but life catches up with a vengeance when she arrests an old love as a Loyalist spy.
At first she thinks Nathan Mendelson hasn’t changed one bit: he’s annoying, he talks too much, he sticks his handsome nose where it doesn’t belong, and he’s self-righteously indignant just because Rachel might have faked her own death a little. She’ll be lucky if he doesn’t spill her secret to the entire Continental Army.
Then Nathan shares a secret of his own, one that changes everything…
For my uncle David. Thanks for everything you’ve taught me about military history. I finally wrote you a battle!
Introduction
Mrs. Hamilton,
As requested, I have read and sorted this week’s correspondence and collected those letters pertaining to your husband’s ever-growing biography. This account was received from Mrs. Rachel Mendelson in response to your query sent to those who served in your husband’s light infantry battalion. She describes the experience of one Ezra Jacobs, who served under Colonel Hamilton. Corporal Jacobs’s story is quite unconventional, but is that of an ardent patriot. It appears that Mr. Mendelson was also acquainted with your husband, and he has added some observations of his own. I have attached my notes listing specific interactions with your husband, as that is what most interests you. I hope that you will find this useful to your endeavor.
Your obedient servant,
M. Alston
Prologue
New York City, 1820
“Look at this letter I got.” Rachel slid the unfolded sheet across the breakfast table.
Nathan skimmed it as he drank his coffee: …Writing to those who knew my husband in his military career…his command at Yorktown…a memorandum of all your recollections of him…most particularly anecdotes, even of the most trifling description…his style of speech…everything which will illustrate the elasticity of his mind, shrewdness of his judgment, excellence of his heart, forbearance, courage, authority, virtues, &c….Yours, &c., Elizabeth Hamilton.
“Oy. She doesn’t want much, does she?”
Rachel took the letter back, smoothing out the creases. “I’m honestly surprised she wants my reminiscences for Colonel Hamilton’s biography. I left him mostly out of my memoirs on purpose, out of gratitude.”
“She’ll probably take your anecdotes and leave out your name,” Nathan said caustically, spearing another herring. “She didn’t address one to me, I see. I have recollections of Hamilton too.”
“Then we can write a memorandum together.” She smiled at him. “I have fond memories from the siege of Yorktown.”
“I have scars from the siege of Yorktown,” Nathan said, but he smiled back.
“‘I beg you will sit down day after day for a short time and endeavor to tax your memory,’” Rachel read. “What time are you needed at the counting house?”
“Not for another hour.”
“Then we can start now.”
Chapter One
October 3, 1781
Outside Yorktown, Virginia
Rachel’s messmate Scipio was writing a letter by the faint light from the open tent flap. The light was growing stronger; the drummer would beat the reveille soon. Scipio frowned over his paper. “Last night I dreamed about Anna Maria, but I can’t decide if I should mention it to her or not.”
Rachel laughed as she combed the snags out of her thick brown hair. Even with pomade, it wasn’t easy to keep Jewish hair smooth and neat enough to suit their captain’s ideas of the example a noncommissioned officer should set for his men. “Why? Did you dream you were quarreling?”
“She was setting a hot johnnycake on the table, and I could smell the maple sugar,” Scipio said ruefully. “It’s not very romantic, is it?”
“A hot johnnycake sounds damned romantic to me.” Rations hadn’t exactly been plentiful the last month. To speak truth, rations hadn’t exactly been plentiful the last four years.
Bugger this knot. Rachel dug her fingers through her hair, finding the stubborn tangle and carefully dismantling it. A clump of strands had to be sacrificed, crusted with old pomade. She shook them off outside the tent with a grimace. “I think Anna Maria would want to know the truth,” she said decisively. “That you were thinking about her.”
In case she never sees you again, she didn’t say, but they both heard it in the distant boom of the enemy’s cannon, firing on the Allied camp. The British wouldn’t give up Yorktown without a fight.
Rachel felt a little hollow, and not just from hunger. Of the other three junior NCOs of the First New York Light Company, Corporal Scipio Coffin had Anna Maria waiting to marry him when he returned to Albany with his freedom; Corporal Tench Goodenough and his wife had already left the tent to sneak a few minutes alone; and while Sergeant Zvi Hirsch Philips had no mistress, he wrote his bosom friend Daniel twice a week and talked of him unceasingly the other five days.
If Rachel died in the assault on Yorktown’s defenses, who outside her regiment would mourn her?
Uniforms were scarce in
the Continental Army, so soldiers were stripped before burial. Would everyone be angry when they realized she was a woman? Would they remember her fondly as a fallen comrade, as they would have remembered Ezra Jacobs, or would they only remember that strange creature who tricked us and was most likely a whore besides?
She thought often of the glorious future when there would be ballads written in her honor. The moment of discovery itself she shied away from.
Despite some teasing about her beardless face, no one had guessed the truth yet. Either she would be found out by accident or she would know when the moment was right to reveal herself. Neither could be prepared for, so why think of it?
“Will you plait my queue?” she asked.
Scipio obliged. He himself had given up trying to make his tight black curls meet regulations; his wig rested atop his knapsack in the corner.
Her queue neatly tied off, Rachel put on her hat and poked her head out of the tent. The reveille was beat when a sentry could clearly see a thousand yards distant, which was bound to be any minute now. She’d better make sure their drummer was awake.
Checking that the ribbon she wore around her neck was securely beneath her collar, Rachel shouldered her musket and stepped into the frigid morning air, wishing her uniform were less threadbare. She eyed with envy the warm, thick coat of a civilian making his way through the sleeping camp.
He wasn’t the only one stirring: picket guards patrolled the avenues between tents, a few soldiers shaved and cursed their gooseflesh, and a woman carried a kettle towards the smoke rising from the kitchens. But her eyes lingered on him. Was it only because of his coat? Or did she know him?
He glanced about him, head turning towards her. She saw half his face beneath his broad-brimmed hat.
Recognition shook Rachel to the soles of her boots. Her heart pounded.
Nathan.
He disappeared behind the next row of tents, evidently not having spotted her. What was he doing here?
But even as she thought it, she knew there was only one answer. Glad her musket was unloaded—for God’s sake, she couldn’t shoot Nathan—she ducked between two tents and ran after him.
And here it is, she thought. The moment of discovery. There was no hope Nathan wouldn’t reveal her sex. Maybe she should shoot him after all.
Quashing the thought, Rachel put on a fresh burst of speed. “Loyalist spy! Stop that man!”
Heads poked out of tents, and a few men stumbled forth in their stocking feet, blinking gamely about. She was already past them, gaining on him. “British spy!”
He glanced back, looking mildly curious. She was almost on him. Wasn’t he going to run? If he did, a picket guard might shoot him. Her breath came short and blood roared in her ears.
Nathan stepped politely aside to let her pass.
Abruptly furious, she changed course and barreled into him, bearing him to the ground. He landed flat on his back with Rachel sprawled on top of him.
This was the strangest moment of her life, yet it felt familiar—Nathan’s neat shoulders and narrow chest, their legs tangled together. His hat had landed a few feet off, and unruly curls fell across his face and straggled on the ground. He hadn’t bothered to pomade his hair.
He stared up at her, and for a second she thought, I’ve changed. He doesn’t recognize me.
He went white as one of the commander in chief’s fine bedsheets. His lips parted, his dark eyes widened, and his body trembled beneath her. The drummers began to beat the reveille; at first she thought it was her heart.
“Rachel?” he whispered. His mouth opened and closed, as if he was trying to think of something to say. “R—Rachel?”
She felt awful for a moment that she’d made him unhappy, and that was how she knew she hadn’t changed after all. Still the same weak Rachel. She should have shot him.
She wanted to scramble away. Instead, she checked that the sentries had arrived and were pointing their muskets at Nathan. Then she stood, brushing mud off her elbow as best she could. Just focus on the next thing, and the next, and wait for him to let the cat out of the bag.
She was so rattled that the adjutant’s name flew right out of her head. But she took a sharp breath, and it came back to her. “Privates, help me escort this man to Major Fish for questioning.”
They fixed their bayonets and stepped forward, a small glorious miracle that banished her nerves. Her deception hadn’t suddenly become obvious only because Nathan was here. She was yet a soldier, and she would act like one.
Squaring her shoulders, she met Nathan’s eyes. “Get up,” she said curtly, for he had stayed on the ground, gaping at her with stunned, accusing eyes.
He’d put his hat back on, though. A good Jew should never go bareheaded. Rachel fought the urge to dive for her own hat and clap it on her head like a scolded child.
Damn Nathan anyway. She kicked him, not as hard as she wanted to. “Stand up.” Backing away, she motioned her men back too.
Still staring, Nathan stumbled to his feet. There was a small pleasure in remembering she topped him by an inch or two.
“Keep your arms out of his reach. You, kindly search him for weapons. Be careful.” Despite the warning, she didn’t expect Nathan to have anything bigger than a pocketknife, and she was right.
It wasn’t the walnut penny knife she remembered; somehow that rankled. Rachel freed the blade from its cheap bone handle and tested the edge. Dull. What business did he have in an army camp?
Shutting the knife and dropping it in her pocket, she retrieved her hat with deliberate carelessness. “Follow me, Mr. Mendelson.” To the escort, she added, “If he runs, shoot him.”
She wheeled on her heel with precision, as she’d trained for hours to do, and marched off towards the regimental colors marking the adjutant’s tent.
As soon as Rachel’s name left his mouth, Nathan had felt like an idiot. Of course it wasn’t her. It was some Jewish boy from New York who happened to share her accent and the shape of her chin. He braced himself for a puzzled sneer.
But when the soldier sneered at him, there was nothing puzzled about it. She wasn’t surprised to be called “Rachel,” because it was her name. That was Rachel. Rachel’s angrily furrowed brow, the proud tilt of Rachel’s head and the curl of her mouth. The familiar curve of Rachel’s shoulders forced into a new military posture. It had been so long that he couldn’t even be sure her beautiful voice was pitched lower than it used to be.
Nathan followed her. Well, he had no choice, did he, if he didn’t want to be bayoneted. Honestly, at the moment, maybe he did want to be bayoneted, because at least then he wouldn’t be miserably realizing that…
No. No, he refused to be sad about this. She was alive, and not dead of yellow fever and buried in Philadelphia. That was a good thing.
He couldn’t make up a story for how she’d got from there to here. Had she…done it on purpose? How could she have managed that? Had she ever really been sick?
Was it a miracle direct from HaShem?
She knew perfectly well who Nathan was, though. She wasn’t born again. She hadn’t suffered a loss of memory and forgotten her old life. She’d chosen to let everyone go on thinking she was dead.
Actually, he didn’t care about “everyone.” She’d chosen to let him think it. That wasn’t such a good thing. It felt—he didn’t know what it felt like, other than Not Sadness. Like a sizzling ball of something eating away his guts.
It was almost nice to feel something this powerfully that wasn’t fear. He’d spent a lot of time being afraid since last he saw Rachel.
He was seeing Rachel.
In a three-cornered hat instead of a cap, with a severe wool-wrapped queue marching down the back of her neck—but it was the same sweet nape of her neck. Tanned and thinner, maybe, but he’d know it anywhere.
Given the choice, he’d follow it anywhere. And since she’d ordered him to do so, for once they were in agreement.
He’d always known in his heart that given the ch
oice, she would pick the Revolution over him, this new country of goyim over her own people. But even in his moments of bitterest resentment, he’d never imagined this. How could he—Rachel, a soldier?
Rachel, a soldier. Ah yes, there was the fear after all, fresh and bright and new again. The British were desperate. They wouldn’t yield the town without a fight. How many of the men in this camp would be alive at the end of the week? He’d just found her! He couldn’t lose her again. He couldn’t. His body wasn’t strong enough to bear such a terrible strain twice over.
She was taking him to her superior officer right now. If he told the truth, that she was a woman, she’d be safe. Safe, and angry at him—angrier, anyway—and humiliated, and he couldn’t do it. He’d learned the value these last years of keeping dangerous secrets, and the peculiar depth of affection it took to watch someone you liked run a terrible risk and not stop them.
Drums started beating at one end of the camp and spread. Men poured out of their tents, making escape easier and harder at the same time. He tried to think, tried to do his job again. Better to brazen it out, he decided, than attempt to outrun an army of men in better condition than he was. Which meant he could keep following Rachel.
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