They marched through the city of Philadelphia, which must have been an impressive column of Continental and French soldiers stretching over two miles in length through the streets. I eagerly read the descriptions in the Philadelphia newspapers that arrived for my father soon after the event, trying to picture everything for myself from my visit there. Apparently, the weather in the city was very dry and the streets so dusty that the marching soldiers soon became coated with a film of the stuff. Their consternation was reported in the papers, on account of them being unable to make the smart military appearance they wished before the ladies waving from the windows. I thought wryly of my husband, who always wished to be as fastidious as possible in his uniform and general dress: how he must have loathed that dust!
A week later, they’d boarded the French fleet at Head of Elk in Maryland. Under sail their journey became much quicker, thirty miles a day, thirty-five, even forty. By the end of September, they were in Virginia, sailing up the James River to disembark and make their camp in the state’s capital of Williamsburg. By the first week of October, they were finally less than twenty miles from Yorktown, the site of what all hoped would be the final major confrontation of the war.
“General Washington has every advantage,” Papa said with satisfaction as together we leaned over the map. “From all reports, Cornwallis has trapped himself by his location, and all we must do is lay a proper siege.”
“A siege instead of a battle?” I asked anxiously. I’d heard all about sieges from Alexander, who’d been fascinated by them from a tactical and intellectual perspective. From his description, a siege sounded much less dangerous. Soldiers took cover in trenches and behind fortifications instead of standing neatly in rows waiting to be shot.
Papa, however, wasn’t nearly as reassuring.
“Oh, a siege is simply a different kind of battle,” he said. “Both sides attempt to outlast the other, while seeking to undermine and exploit the other’s position. Long-range attacks can be conducted by artillery, especially shelling, but there may also be close fighting as well along the barricades, and—”
He broke off suddenly; I suppose he must have taken note of my stricken expression.
“But I don’t expect this siege to be like that,” he said too heartily to be true. “I expect it will last no more than a week at most. Having the French fleet as well as their troops has changed everything. For once, His Excellency has all the advantages in his possession.”
I looked down at the place on the map where all this was to take place. It was evidently so small a town that it hadn’t been printed on Papa’s map. He’d written it in himself—YORKTOWN—in heavy inked letters symbolic of the town’s new importance.
“When do you expect this siege to take place?” I asked.
“Very soon,” Papa said, giving the location on the map an extra tap with his forefinger. “It may even be underway as we speak.”
I hadn’t had a letter from Alexander in nearly a fortnight. He could be swinging his sword or firing a musket at this very moment, or he could also be lying—
But no: I would not think of that.
I raised my chin with determination, even as I clasped my hands together to mask their trembling. “Alexander wrote that he expected the siege to be over swiftly, too, and that he planned to be here in Albany once again by Christmas.”
“I believe that is entirely reasonable,” Papa said, and nodded with satisfaction. “Pray for him, Eliza, as I know that you do. But also recall all the preparation and care that have gone into this final moment.”
I nodded, remembering how His Excellency had been planning for this when Alexander had still been an aide-de-camp. All those letters and dispatches he’d written in French, all the hopes that had traveled to Versailles with Lafayette and John Laurens, every conference in Newport with the French generals, had aimed for this single confrontation with the British.
“If we succeed as I expect we will,” Papa continued, surprising me with his emotion, “then at last this wretched war will end, and our country shall find peace. Think of that, Eliza. It’s been more than six years since we first went to war, and now, if the Heavens favor us, your child will never know anything else but peace.”
* * *
Peace . . .
It was the last word that drifted through my head as I fell asleep that night, peace that would bring Alexander back to me, and peace that would keep us together for always.
Yet I didn’t dream of Alexander, or even our unborn child. Instead I dreamed of a long-past day when I’d been only thirteen, still a girl, when my family had spent the summers in our house in Saratoga, and I dreamed of an event that had actually occurred to me.
In this dream, our rambling, clapboarded house was untouched by the British who would later burn it to the ground, because then, in 1770, our family was still British, too. Everything was exactly as I remembered it, from the rustling maple trees that flanked the front door, to the blue-and-white pot that Mamma had filled with yellow wildflowers on the parlor’s sill, to the old stone mill wheel that served as the house’s front step.
But what mattered about his particular day was that Papa had chosen me–not Angelica, not Peggy–to accompany him to Fort Clinton, and be presented to the Chiefs of Six Nations. Mamma had not been happy about it, but Papa had insisted, claiming the chiefs would see my presence as a sign of good faith.
I was surprised, and excited. The people of the Six Nations were the Iroquois, the Indians who had once lived upon our land, and still ruled the rest of the wilderness. Every so often, their chiefs would gather to meet with the military leaders like Father. Indians were common enough in our lives, appearing at our house to trade game and other goods, but I’d never seen a chief. Chiefs were like generals, or governors; they were grand, rare, important men.
I’d dressed in my best white linen gown with a blue silk sash and a wide-brimmed straw hat, and soon I was sitting in the carriage beside Papa in his militia colonel’s uniform. The morning sun glittered off the gold lace and polished buttons of his scarlet uniform coat and glinted across the hilt of his sword, and I’d thought proudly that my father was the most perfect military hero I’d ever seen.
The fort wasn’t far from our house, and our drive was brief. Stout upright logs formed the stockade walls of the fort, with raised, square tower-houses on the corners for surveying the river and the forests. The gates opened for us, and as soon as we were within, I’d seen the Chiefs of Six Nations waiting for us on parade grounds.
They’d stood in a ring, solemn and daunting as they watched us approach. None of them smiled. Their faces were painted according to their nations, with feathers and beads woven into their dark hair, or some with half their hair shaven clear away. They wore garments made from deerskin and fur mixed with trade cloth in crimson and blue, and elaborate jewels and bracelets fashioned from silver or brass. They were regal and splendid and more than a little daunting to me, and I understood now why Father had cautioned me to show no outward fear, but to be brave and strong.
“Remove your hat, Eliza,” Papa had said softly. “Your cap, too. It’s their custom for women to have their heads uncovered.”
I did as he bid, looping the ribbons of my hat around my wrist and tucking my linen cap into my pocket. Mother would have scolded me for being out of doors without either, but here with the chiefs it was expected. The same breeze that tossed the flag overhead now ruffled my dark hair, tugging wisps free from the hairpins that held the tight knot at the back of my hair. I let them go, and didn’t try to smooth them back.
The chiefs stepped aside to let us walk among them. I was curious and frightened at the same time, yet I tried not to let any of it show. I would be brave; I would be strong. Even in my dream, I knew the importance of that.
Several of the chiefs addressed me and smiled. I comprehended none of their words, spoken in their tongues, but I sensed it was all well-meant, and with Father beside me I felt my fears slip away. One by one, the old
est and most revered of the chiefs placed their hands on my head, covering my hair with their open palms, as a Christian will do in blessing. Perhaps that was why I was no longer frightened; I felt the kindness in their gestures, no matter their language, and the good wishes that came with it.
Finally my father said something more in their language to take our leave, and we bowed and left the circle. I’d waited until we were alone in the carriage again to ask Papa what the chiefs had said.
“Why, they took you in as if you were their own child, Eliza,” he explained, “and made you a daughter of the Six Nations, exactly as I’d hoped. They gave you a new a name that means ‘One-of-Us.’ I presented you to them in trust and good faith, and they returned the favor by embracing you into their family.”
“They did?” I’d said, awestruck. “I’m an Indian now?”
“After a fashion,” he said. “You’ll always belong to us first, of course, but it’s wise to have friends and allies wherever you may go. The chiefs want the same things that I do, as all men do in every country: peace and prosperity and security for their families and their people. They don’t want war any more than an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a German does. But peace is fragile, and this is the only sure way it can be kept, through trust and understanding and respect. Never forget that, Eliza. No matter what happens, never forget it.”
I hadn’t forgotten. How could I, when another war had begun again only a few years later? I’d never forget, no matter what I dreamed, and yet again I heard my father’s voice speaking still of peace, again and again.
“Wake, Eliza, wake,” he said, his hand upon my shoulder.
Groggy with sleep, I turned my face from the pillow and forced my eyes to open. Though my room was gray with coming dawn, he was holding a candlestick, the flickering light flaring across his face, and my mother’s behind him. She was crying and pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and that was enough to draw me sharply awake.
“What has happened?” I asked anxiously, my first thought for Alexander. “What is wrong?”
“Not a thing,” Papa said, his smile so wide it must have hurt. “Cornwallis and his army have surrendered, and our army has won. Your husband is not only safe, but a hero, and will return to you soon. It’s peace, Eliza. At last, it’s peace.”
CHAPTER 12
The Pastures, Albany, New York
February 1782
So much has been said and written about my husband’s role in the final battle at Yorktown that I could write a thousand more pages here on that topic alone, and fail to include it all. At the time, we did not learn of the battle or its outcome until two weeks after it had occurred. Given that nearly six hundred miles lie between Albany and Yorktown, this is not surprising, and in a way, I was grateful to be unaware of the exact moment when Alexander had put himself into the most peril.
In fact, I didn’t learn how precipitously, even recklessly, he had embraced direct engagement with the enemy until much later, when he himself told me, and even then I doubt I heard all the details. I also suspected that there was a conspiracy within my family to keep the most alarming facts of my husband’s adventures from me on account of my pregnancy. Alexander did write to me immediately after the siege was done, to alert me that he was unhurt. Yet he did so in the most contrite way possible, informing me that he’d acted so boldly for the sake of honor and duty that he’d risked my happiness along with his life. Fortunately, by the time I received this letter, Alexander himself was once again in Albany and in my arms, and so the shock of it was much diminished.
And how very fast he flew to me, too!
He remained at Yorktown long enough to witness the British surrender, but as soon as he could arrange leave with His Excellency, he’d taken to the road. He was shameless in his desire to return to me, and did not care who knew it. He stopped for nothing, not even to tell Congress in Philadelphia of the victory and surrender, as he was supposed to have done. He rode hard and fast, so fast that he exhausted his horses near Red Bank in New Jersey, and was forced to obtain others for the last leg of his journey. He covered the entire distance in less than three weeks: an astonishing feat.
But I’d no knowledge of any of this, or what day to expect his return. All I knew was that he was coming, and that he’d promised to return before our anniversary in December. Papa had warned me not to set my heart on this day or that, because I’d only court disappointment. There was no predicting a journey of that many miles, often through rough terrain and uncertain weather. I tried not to pin my hopes on any one day, but each morning when I rose, I prayed that by nightfall he might once again be with me.
On the afternoon when he finally did appear, I wasn’t on the step to greet him, or even watching at the window. I didn’t hear his horse, or the joyful salutations from my brothers and father as he entered the door.
I heard none of it, because I regret to admit that I was asleep. I was by then seven months gone with child, and because I was ordinarily a small woman, I’d grown more unwieldy and uncomfortable with each passing week. I tired easily, and it had become my habit to retire to my bedchamber each day after dinner. I told my family that I required the time for reading and quiet reflection for the sake of my child, but the truth (which I expect was no secret to them) was that as soon as I lay my head on my pillow, I was fast asleep, and remained that way for an hour or more.
I didn’t hear the sound of the chamber door opening, or Alexander’s footsteps as he joined me, either. All I heard in my dreams was his voice.
“My angel,” he said softly. “My own dear Betsey.”
I sighed, and kept my eyes tightly shut, clinging to the fading dream as long as I could.
Then he kissed me, and I realized it was no dream. I gasped, and flung my arms around his shoulders, pulling him down so he might kiss me again. I was crying, too, tears of purest joy and relief that a moment I’d so long anticipated had finally come.
“I cannot believe you’re finally here, my love,” I said, awkwardly pushing myself up against the pillows. “My love, my love! Let me look at you.”
“I’m likely a sorry sight,” he said ruefully. He was: in fact his appearance shocked me. His hair was crushed flat from his hat, his uniform was flecked with the mud of the road, and he smelled like his horse. But those things could easily be corrected. What made me worry was how thin he’d become, his cheeks hollowed and his uniform loose where it shouldn’t be, and how dark circles of exhaustion ringed his eyes. There were also dozens of new freckles across his nose and cheeks from so much time in the sun, freckles that made him look more boyish despite his obvious weariness.
“You’re not well,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Don’t pretend otherwise, either. We must send for a physician.”
“Hush,” he said, hungrily kissing me again. “It’s my turn to gaze upon my beautiful Betsey, and our child.”
He knelt beside the bed, his face level with my belly, and stared at my roundness with unabashed awe. “Our son has grown considerably since I left.”
“So have I,” I said. I took his hand and placed his palm on my belly, moving it gently back and forth. “There! Did you feel the kick?”
He grinned in wonder.
“I did,” he said. “That’s my son.”
“It could be your daughter instead, you know,” I cautioned. “There is no true way of knowing.”
“It’s my son,” he said confidently. “I’m sure of it.”
I smiled, so grateful to have him back. Besides, I’d long ago learned that when Alexander was this sure of something, he was usually right.
“My dearest Betsey,” he continued softly. “This is why I came home to you. This is why I did what I did, for you, for our son, for . . . for . . .”
He swayed, and I grabbed his shoulders. He was too heavy for me to support, and as he toppled over on the floor from exhaustion, I slipped down with him. Frantically I shouted for help, then bent over him, holding him as tightly as I c
ould.
It was hardly the homecoming I’d envisioned, but at last he was home and we were once again together, and because I couldn’t see into the future, I believed with all my heart that we’d never be parted again.
* * *
The long march, the siege and battle, and then the ride to Albany had all taken their toll on Alexander’s health. He’d never been hardy, relying more on will and spirit than a robust constitution to accomplish the prodigious amount that he did, but the exertions and hardships of the last months finally proved more than even he could bear.
The best physicians in Albany were summoned, and though I had dreaded that Alexander was taken with camp fever, a common malady that claimed as many soldiers as battle-wounds, to my relief the physicians declared he’d no grievous illness beyond exhaustion. The prescribed treatment was lengthy, but not complicated. Alexander was duly bled to relieve any unfortunate humors that might have lingered from his efforts on the battlefield. He was ordered to remain in his bed, and not to rise for the next six weeks, or risk further weakness. As a restorative, a compress of flannel dipped in hot wine was applied to the pit of his stomach three times during the day, and his diet was restricted to strengthening nourishment, including new-laid eggs lightly poached, rich chocolate, light roast meats, savory soups, and clear jellies. He was permitted cordials and brandy for fortification, but no ardent spirits. His company was limited to our immediate family, much to the disappointment of all those in Albany who wished to call to congratulate him as a newly minted hero, and hear him describe the victory himself.
So weak was his condition that for the first weeks he was completely agreeable to these restrictions, and slept more hours than he was awake: a complete change from my husband’s normal habits. I seldom left his side, striving to make sure that whenever he did wake, mine was the first face he saw. I tended to him myself as best I could, and reluctantly relied on the servants when his care was beyond me. My sister Angelica, visiting with her family for the holidays, gave me respite as well, and pleased Alexander no end with her fussing and petting him in French.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 23