I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “But they didn’t take you, Papa,” I said softly. Though I wouldn’t say so to him, I was doubly glad the kidnapping had failed; given his age and infirmities I wasn’t sure he would have survived a forced march to Canada. “If the plate was a kind of ransom in advance, then it was worth every last candlestick to have you safe.”

  He smiled wearily, and patted my hand. “Hamilton is fortunate to have you as his wife, Eliza,” he said. “I fear you’re the only one of my daughters with sufficient sense to be a soldier’s wife.”

  I smiled, too, for this was the highest possible praise from him.

  “He won’t always be a soldier,” I said. “Soon I hope to be a lawyer’s wife instead.”

  “The world is filled with lawyers,” he said dismissively. “For now he’s a soldier and an officer, and an excellent one at that. The general is fortunate to have his services at this time.”

  Ordinarily I would have considered that another compliment from him on Alexander’s behalf, but the conviction in his voice made me pause.

  “What have you heard, Papa?” I asked. “I know that Alexander writes to you of military matters that he cannot share with me. What has he told you?”

  If I’d any doubts before, they fled as soon as I saw my father frown and duck his chin.

  “That’s a question for your husband, Eliza,” he said. “Not for me.”

  “Alexander isn’t here for me to ask, Papa, and you are,” I said. “Please, if you have fresh news of him that I do not, then—”

  “No, Eliza,” he said firmly. “Any news of that nature must come from Hamilton himself.”

  I knew better than to press for more, but I hadn’t long to wait. Alexander’s next letter shared the news that my father had already known. On the last day of July, he’d finally been given command of a New York light-infantry battalion. For his second in command, he’d been able to choose Major Nicholas Fish, an old friend from his days at King’s College. Although for my sake he attempted to mute his excitement, I read it in every word he’d written, nor did his assurances that nothing might come of the army’s preparations offer me any comfort whatsoever. He promised to try to visit Albany to see me one last time before the troops began to move in earnest.

  Even as I realized how difficult that promise would be for him to keep, I clung to this most slender hope to see him once more before he plunged into the fray of bloodshed. But later in August came another letter that dashed that hope completely, and worse, added much more to my worries.

  He could not come to Albany. He couldn’t ask permission, nor did he wish to. The target of the campaign that had occupied so much thought and attention over the past months was not the city of New York, but Virginia. His battalion, and much of the rest of the army currently at Dobb’s Ferry, would be leaving for there shortly.

  There were also many words of love for me and our child, and unhappiness at how far apart we would be for these next months, and how he could scarce wait for us to be reunited later in the autumn. These were meant to succor me, and they did; no man has ever written a more beautifully loving letter than my dear husband.

  But as precious as his protestations were to me, they still couldn’t soften the hard reality of our situation. I was wise enough in military matters to understand that the light infantry were often in the very thick of any battle. No longer would he be to the rear of the fighting, as aides-de-camp usually were, but in the very heat of the conflict.

  Moreover, this could well be the last letter he could send to me with any certainty. The fact that he also included information on his personal funds and instructions for how I might make drafts upon them if necessary only proved to me that he was not only acutely aware of the risks of the coming campaign, but preparing for the unthinkable possibility that he might not return. Further, he wished me to be aware of it as well.

  In retrospect, I realize this letter was remarkably indiscreet of him to send me. The success of the campaign depended upon surprising the enemy, and if his letter to me had been intercepted, or otherwise fallen into the hands of the enemy, then His Excellency’s entire plan would have been revealed.

  But at the time when I first read his words, I saw only his innate honesty, and how, even in such a situation, he was unable to tell me anything but the truth, which rendered his words of love and devotion all the more precious to me. It was a small solace, there in the middle of so much distressing news, but it was all that I had.

  I took the letter to my father in his library, and let him read it through as he sat at his desk.

  He sighed, refolded it along the creases, and handed it back to me.

  “You husband writes an excellent letter,” he said. “He is perhaps a bit free with his knowledge of troop movements, but no harm has come from it, especially if it brings ease to you.”

  “I’m sure he has written more to you,” I said. “If you know when his battalion has decamped, or where they are bound, or any other news, I wish you’d tell me.”

  He gave a small shake to his head. “I doubt that would be of interest to you. It’s dry, dull stuff.”

  “Not if it includes Alexander,” I insisted. “Please, Papa. Don’t keep things from me.”

  “I don’t wish to distress you, Eliza,” he said gently. “Hamilton agrees with me, too. You’re in a delicate condition, and I won’t risk any upset that might bring harm to you or your child.”

  I looked down so he wouldn’t see the frustration in my face and interpret it as distress. I know that my family wished me to be calm for my child’s sake, but I’d never liked being coddled. I was stronger than that. I pressed Alexander’s letter between my palms, as if to feel his presence through the words he’d written, and my wedding ring, still so new, gleamed in the sun against the white paper.

  “What he has written here,” I said slowly. “It sounds as if he believes he might not return.”

  Papa leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs creaking beneath him.

  “A good husband must consider every eventuality,” he said carefully. “That is why he has told you how to obtain funds, if you find yourself in need of it.”

  “He also says that you have offered him money as well,” I said. “He is polite about it, yes, and thanks you for your kindness, but you know he is proud, and doesn’t wish to be indebted to you.”

  He ran his thumb back and forth over the carved, curved arm of the chair, a sure sign of muted impatience.

  “I understand his pride, Eliza,” he said. “But I regard your husband as another son, just as you are my daughter, and if you are ever in want, I would want you to rely on me. As a soldier, Hamilton understands, and is perfectly aware of the dangers he will face. You should be as well.”

  “I am, Papa,” I said. Nothing about this conversation was easy. “Long ago, when you and I had first arrived in Morristown, you told me that Alexander had survived through the war because he was lucky. You said some men simply were.”

  He nodded, his expression softening.

  “I remember,” he said. “I remember, because it was a surprise to me. When your Hamilton first came to Albany, I didn’t expect he’d last the winter, let alone the war.”

  “Do you still believe what you said, Papa?” I asked, my voice taut with urgency. “About him being lucky?”

  “Yes, he’s a lucky man,” he said at once, smiling. “He was lucky to win you for his wife, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, Papa,” I said. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know what you meant,” he said, turning serious again. “You want me to offer you some sort of surety, a guarantee, that your Hamilton will not be killed or wounded, and that he will return to you unharmed in any way. And I won’t do that, Eliza. I can’t.”

  I bowed my head over the letter in my hand.

  He reached out and rested his hand on my shoulder, the weight of it comforting, and linking us together as father and daughter.

  “I recall something else from our journey to Morristown, Eliza,
” he said. “I recall that you told me you believed Colonel Hamilton had been spared from danger for the benefit of the country. You believed that he was meant to do great things, and that nothing would stop him until he’d done them.”

  “I did say that,” I said, surprised that he’d remembered.

  He narrowed his eyes, watching me closely. “Do you believe it still?”

  “I do,” I said softly. “Except that now I believe it even more.”

  “Then you have your answer, Eliza,” he said. “You needn’t ask me. You already know.”

  * * *

  Despite my fears, that wasn’t the last letter I received from Alexander that autumn. While I knew he wrote to me whenever he could, the letters were delivered to me willy-nilly, sometimes three or four together, followed by another that had been written a month previously, and then none for what seemed an eternity. There were still others that were altogether lost, and never arrived at all.

  It was the same with my letters to him, and his customary (and untrue!) complaint that I didn’t write to him with sufficient frequency must, for once, have seemed justified. He’d been horrified when I’d written to him of the attack upon our home and the attempt to kidnap my father. He now worried for my safety just as I worried for his, which made the erratic delivery even more of a trial to us both. But in the middle of a military campaign with the army on the march, that was to be expected, and I told myself not to be disappointed when no letter came for me, or when all he’d sent was a scribbled line or two to assure me he was well.

  Short or long, Alexander’s letters were my best comfort, especially at night. Before I said my prayers, I always read his last letter again, concentrating on the part where he’d written how much he loved me. Alone in our bed with no one else to overhear, I’d prop his miniature portrait against his pillow beside mine, and read the letter softly out loud, trying to imagine his voice speaking the words.

  Alas, my voice was no more his than the painted smile of the miniature possessed his warmth and charm, and I’d sadly put the letter in the wooden box with all the others he’d written me. I’d say my prayers—and oh, such prayers I said for him!—douse the candle, and climb into bed.

  Even when surrounded by my family during the day, I felt Alexander’s absence as a constant, gnawing ache, and it only grew worse at night. The bed we’d shared seemed too large and lonely, and I’d always sleep to one side, as if expecting him to join me in the course of the night. It was then that I missed him most: the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breath as he slept, the scent of his skin on the sheets.

  I’d lie on my back with my hands settled protectively over the rounding swell of my belly, over our child. Alexander hoped for a boy (though his reasoning for the preference—that a girl combining our best qualities would be too devastating to men—was so outlandish that I was convinced he’d love a daughter just as well) and most nights I was sure the child I carried was a son. By now the baby had quickened, and whenever I’d feel those first little kicks of new life within me, I’d wish that Alexander was here to feel them, too. My sister had been safely delivered of her child, another boy, which made me only long the more to meet my own baby.

  I’d leave the bed curtains open so I could see the night sky and the moon through the window, and think of how that same moon was shining on Alexander. He wrote to me that he believed that not just the last battles but the war itself could be over before the end of the year, and he’d be back with me by Christmas, never to leave again.

  And each clear night I’d watch the moon rise, and pray that he was right.

  * * *

  As I have mentioned here before, my parents’ house drew many visitors and guests. Because of my father’s continued importance in the affairs of both state and county, every stranger of means or ambition made sure to present himself to Papa with a letter of introduction. In turn my father would often oblige them as far as he could, and through his kindness arrange other meetings and advantages to help the newcomer find his place in Albany.

  Since New York City continued to remain in the hands of the British, Albany’s importance had only increased, and each week brought fresh visitors to our doorstep. Depending upon their importance, some would be invited into our parlor for tea, or perhaps to stay to dine, at Mamma’s discretion, and my sisters and I were expected to play our parts in the family’s hospitality, too. I enjoyed it, and I was also grateful for the diversion from my own worries.

  One afternoon Mamma, Peggy, and I were pouring tea for several gentlemen in the parlor when Papa joined us. With him was a gentleman in a dark gray suit, similar to Alexander in age and stature. There the resemblance ended, however. While handsome enough, this gentleman was dark, with a saturnine face and restless eyes beneath heavy brows. He was also notable for not wearing a uniform, a rarity for any man of his age at that time. Yet when Papa brought him to me, I held out my hand and smiled in welcome.

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Burr, Eliza,” Papa said as the gentleman bowed over my hand. “He has come to Albany from New Jersey intending to solicit license to practice the law in our courts. He tells me he is also a longstanding acquaintance of your husband’s, having served with him under His Excellency.”

  “How do you do, Colonel Burr?” I said, more eagerly than I’d been first inclined. Despite having attended two winter encampments of the army, I’d still met few of Alexander’s friends and acquaintances. “Forgive me, I did not realize you were an officer.”

  He nodded, gracefully accepting my apology. “I was forced to resign my commission on account of ill health, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “He is too humble by half,” my father said. “He was an excellent officer who discharged his duty with uncommon vigilance. Hamilton may not have told you, but long ago, in the early days of the war, Colonel Burr relieved Hamilton and his company when they were cut off at Fort Bunker Hill during the enemy’s attack at Manhattan, and by doing so, likely preserved his life as well.”

  “Then I must offer you my heartfelt thanks, Colonel Burr,” I said. Alexander had in fact never mentioned this incident, but then from respect for my tender feelings, he often spared me from past exploits where his life had been in danger. “You must indeed be friends.”

  “I was only following the general’s orders, madam,” he said with becoming modesty.

  “He also served as an aide-de-camp with the general,” Papa said. “Unlike Hamilton, however, he only lasted a fortnight in that service.”

  Colonel Burr smiled, and nodded to my father as Papa excused himself to speak to my mother.

  “I fear I hadn’t the perseverance that Colonel Hamilton demonstrated in the General’s Family,” the colonel said. “I much preferred to be in the field than bound to a desk.”

  My own smile faded a fraction at that, catching a hint of disparagement for Alexander, and I couldn’t help but come to his defense.

  “Perhaps you did not realize, Colonel Burr,” I said briskly, “that my husband resigned his post with His Excellency, and is instead serving as a field officer in the present campaign, commanding two companies of light troops from the Connecticut Line.”

  If Colonel Burr felt chastised, he masked it well. “I had heard that, Mrs. Hamilton, yes,” he said. “Colonel Hamilton is to be congratulated not only for his command, but for having such a devoted and loyal wife.”

  “I thank you on my husband’s account, Colonel Burr,” I said, mollified, even if his flattery was obvious. “Have you a wife yourself?”

  He shook his head, and there was no mistaking the regret in his dark eyes.

  “Not as yet, no,” he said. “But there is an estimable lady whom I pray will one day be able to favor me in that way.”

  “I pray that she will, too,” I said in a rush of sentiment; in the manner of those deeply in love, I was so joyful in my affections that I wished the rest of the world to feel the same. “Would you care for tea, Colonel?”

  “Thank you, madam, but I fear I
must decline on account of another engagement,” he said, bowing. “But please offer my regards to Colonel Hamilton, and the hope that I might call upon him at a later date. Your servant, madam.”

  I nodded and murmured farewell, but Colonel Burr’s last sentence lingered. He’d purposefully said that he’d hope to call on Alexander in the future, not that he would. Ordinarily I’d have given no thought to such a nicety of phrase, but now I feared it was laden with ominous foreboding.

  Grim thoughts, grim thoughts, yet for the sake of my baby, I did my best to put them aside. I believed I’d done an acceptable job of it, too, smiling and pouring tea as if I hadn’t a care, but it was clear my parents thought otherwise. Papa came over to me, bending over to me so no one else would hear.

  “You needn’t stay here any longer, daughter,” he said gently. He took me by the arm and helped me to my feet. “Come, let us retreat to the library, and study today’s progress on the map.”

  I nodded, happy to be relieved of my hospitable duties, and happier still to be going to the library with him. Since we’d first heard of the summer campaign, Papa had kept a large map of the American states spread out on a table in his library. Whenever he received fresh news of the army’s travels—whether from dispatches, letters, or newspapers—he would call for me (and only me, since I was the one of my siblings with the most at stake) to join him.

  Together we’d trace the army’s progress, from this town to the next, across this river or around that bluff. From Alexander’s letters, I knew the army’s day began early—Alexander raised his company at three in the morning, to be able to begin by four—and lasted until dusk. Haste was of the essence in this campaign, and everyone knew it. Sometimes Papa calculated that the troops marched ten miles in a day, sometimes twenty, while other days were entirely consumed while the troops were ferried by battalion across a river.