Angelica laughed, almost as if she were surprised by the question. Clasping their hands, she drew her sisters to the window and pointed. Way down their hill, toward their private dock, was a silhouetted rider. He held the reins to a white horse, illuminated by a full moon that also sprinkled light onto the river’s dark waves, making them glitter and look magical rather than menacing.
“How could I not love him?” she whispered, laying her cheek on Eliza’s head. “He is like Perseus, freeing Andromeda from the rock to which her parents had chained her.” Together, Angelica and Eliza sighed—just like they did over poetry.
Peggy bit her lip, knowing she had lost the argument. This was how it was among the three of them. Once two agreed, the third must go along—not in a coerced way, but because that was the irresistible pull, the strength, the sacredness of the Schuyler sisters’ symbiosis.
It had always been that way, particularly with expeditions that required some daring—from climbing trees in the orchard to sneaking down to the Hudson to watch sailors landing at the family wharf. Typically, though, whatever aspect carried the heaviest punishment if caught by their parents seemed to fall to Peggy.
And so it was now. “Will you help me, sweet Peggy?” begged Angelica. “I must elope now, before Albany is engulfed in fighting and we cannot make our way through battle lines to Boston. Before Papa comes home. All I need is the key to the front door. The windows are all too high off the ground for me to jump. Mr. Carter cannot approach the house with a ladder because of Papa’s guards. I must slip away quietly, out the front door, timing my escape in between the sentries’ rounds. You are the only one who can move with the stealth needed to get into Mother’s room and remove the door key from her chatelaine without waking her.” She squeezed Peggy’s hand. Her radiant, dark eyes pleaded as much as her voice. “Please?”
Peggy waited an hour, until the house was asleep. Then, leaning forward, walking toe to heel, she crept silently across the broad, bleached floorboards of the upstairs hall. Her papa had once described to her how Oneida warriors could come within a few feet of deer they hunted, without the animals knowing. Wearing his moccasins, Peggy had quickly perfected the silent glide.
Creeeeeaaaaaaaaaakkkkk, the door to her parents’ room groaned as Peggy pushed it open. She froze, holding her breath as her mother rolled over. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally her mother gently snored again.
Peggy exhaled. Heart pounding, she tiptoed to her mother’s dresser. Atop the polished wood was Catharine’s chatelaine. Besides her keys, the ornate waist-chain held a thimble and needle case, a medicinal funnel, and miniature portraits. The tiny painting of Angelica was particularly pretty. What would Catharine do with it after her daughter so flagrantly defied her? What would she do with Peggy’s once she discovered her role in the betrayal? Oh, this was all family treason, and for a man Peggy didn’t trust at all. What was she doing?
Peggy hesitated but then shook her head to rid her mind of such misgivings. Like Caesar, she had crossed the Rubicon. The die was cast. No retreat now. She pocketed the chatelaine. There was no way to pull the door key off without rattling the chain. She’d have to slip back in again to return it before dawn, doubling her chances of awaking her mother.
Toe to heel, toe to heel. Peggy was almost safely to the door again when she heard, “Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.” Eighteen-month-old Cornelia sat up in her cradle and crooned, pointing to her big sister.
Peggy shook her head at the child and put her finger to her lips in a hushed sssshhhhhhhhhhh.
Catharine stirred. “Mmmmmmmm,” she mumbled, half awake.
Cornelia chortled. “Up, up, up, up,” She grabbed the edges of her cradle and began rocking it back and forth.
“Go back to sleep, little one,” Catharine murmured.
“Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.”
Catharine groaned, nestling deeper under her blanket. “Sleep, Cornelia.”
“Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma.” Cornelia rocked harder.
She’d be caught! Hastily, Peggy scooped up her tiny sister. The toddler laughed and grabbed fistfuls of Peggy’s hair.
“Shhhh, shhh, shhh,” Peggy pleaded.
Yawning, Cornelia stretched abruptly, yanking Peggy’s curls.
“Ouch!” Peggy mouthed.
Cornelia giggled.
Taking a deep breath, Peggy forced herself to stay calm. Slowly, gently, she swung the child and hummed into her ear.
Cornelia yawned again, bigger.
“Thaaaaattt’s iiiiiit,” Peggy whispered in a singsong voice, “gooooooo to sleeeeeeeep.”
Cornelia’s eyelids fluttered.
“Gooooooooo to sleeeeeeep.”
Cornelia’s head fell back against Peggy’s shoulder. She had drifted off.
Ever so carefully, Peggy laid Cornelia back down in her cradle and worked her hair out of the toddler’s grasp. She straightened and turned for the door—and about jumped out of her skin.
Catharine was watching her.
“Mama!” she gasped.
“You are so good with the child, Peggy. So good with people when they are sick . . . or in need.” Catharine lay back on the pillows, obviously exhausted and still half asleep. “I am so tired, child. Worrying about your papa and what I should do if . . .” She almost drifted off. “Come here.” She patted the bed.
Trembling, Peggy sat on its edge, careful to keep one hand atop the pocket filled with Catharine’s keys to keep them from jangling.
Catharine took her other hand and held it. “Goodness, child, you’re shivering. You are not with fever, are you?” She held Peggy’s hand to her own face to test its temperature. Satisfied Peggy was not sick, she continued sleepily, “I remember when Eliza had her nightmares, you were the one to talk her out of . . . out . . . of . . .” Catharine’s eyes closed. After a moment, she snored again slightly, that blissful heavy breathing of deep slumber.
Peggy made herself count to sixty before slowly sliding her hand out from Catharine’s.
Her mother hadn’t questioned Peggy being in her bedroom. Clearly, she trusted that her daughter had heard the toddler cry and out of kindness and goodness came in to rock her back to sleep. Peggy felt sick to her stomach. Catharine would probably never entirely trust Peggy again—once she discovered Angelica gone and thought back to this moment. What an enormous sacrifice Peggy was being asked to make for Angelica. Choosing her sister’s love over her mother’s better prove worth it!
Angelica was waiting at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her dark cloak to conceal her in the night. But nothing could dim the shine of joy, of adventure, on her face.
Taking her hand, and Angelica clasping Eliza’s, Peggy led them in soft tiptoeing down the stairs, their arms lifted and arched gracefully as in the dozens of allemandes and reels they had danced together in their parlor.
Clllllliiiiicccckkkk. The bolt unlocked. The night air spilled in, smelling of freedom, of intrigues, of endings and beginnings.
They looked left, then right. No sentry they could see—the watch must be pacing the back of the house. Without a word, the three sisters embraced in a long, tight hug, hearing one another’s breath, feeling one another’s heartbeats. Just as they had done when they were little and jumped into the sweet-cool lake by their Saratoga country home.
Then Angelica pulled away and fluttered down the hill, knee-high fog rising to wrap her in mystery until she reached Carter and the luminous white horse he held for her. Even Peggy giggled girlishly with Eliza as they watched Carter leap off his own horse to sweep Angelica up onto hers. Their horses pranced and pawed, impatient to go. Angelica looked back to her childhood home and waved to her sisters. Her cloak fell back as she did, revealing she wore her favorite scarlet ball gown. Then she disappeared, a blaze of brilliant red rushing along the river.
“Like dawn in russet mantle clad,” whispered Eliza.
Peggy looked at her in surprise.
“I remember your quoting that once, from something. And I always liked it.” Her big sister smiled at Peggy. “Ange
lica has ever been our brightest light, hasn’t she, blinding us slightly to each other’s?” Eliza pulled them inside and quietly closed the front door. “Truth be told, Peggy, I thought that bear meat rather delicious myself. As much as our journey north to nurse Papa terrified me, I thrilled to some of the adventure of it, too. I just don’t have your courage to say it.”
Again, Peggy assessed Eliza’s gentle face with some astonishment. She wouldn’t have ever guessed that Eliza might define her headstrong impulsiveness or tendency to shock people as courage. Or that the vein of wild that coursed through Peggy’s soul might trickle through Eliza’s as well. In that regard, she had always felt more kindred with Angelica. Somehow that realization made the ache she was feeling at her eldest sister’s flight a little less sharp.
Peggy smiled at Eliza. “Help keep Cornelia quiet if she wakes as I put Mama’s chatelaine back?”
Eliza took a deep breath and nodded solemnly.
Peggy took Eliza’s hand and together, now a duo, they tiptoed back up the staircase.
Three
Summer
Philip Schuyler to General George Washington
Albany, June 30 and July 5, 1777
Dear Sir
Should our Troops at Tyonderoga fall into the Enemy’s Hands, I fear they will be able to march where they please, unless a greater Force is sent me . . . If any Tents can be spared I beg your Excellency to order them up and whatever Cartridge paper you can, for we have next to none on this Side of Tyonderoga. . . . If any intrenching Tools can be spared, I wish to have two hundred Spades . . . we shall be in a disagreeable Situation with little else besides Militia . . . If it is possible, I wish your Excellency to order us as many Artillery men and Field pieces to this Quarter as can be spared . . .
I am Dear Sir most respectfully
Your Excellency’s obedient humble Servant.
Ph. Schuyler
“ELIZABETH! MARGARITA!”
“It’s Papa!” Eliza jumped up, dropping her needlework. “Thank God! He’s home.”
Peggy stayed rooted. Since Angelica’s elopement, their mother had banished the girls to their bedroom. Their father’s voice sounded more like cannon fire than joyous greeting.
“Margarita! Elizabeth!” he boomed again.
Eliza’s face flushed. “Do you suppose him angry?”
“Yes, I suppose him angry.” Peggy took her sister’s hand.
At the bottom of the wide, grand staircase stood their father, hands on hips, his boots and breeches splashed with mud from riding at a hard pace. Behind him, his aides carried in boxes of papers and maps to his study, just off the mansion’s back courtyard entrance. A few feet beyond was Catharine, arms crossed, fuming. Peggy could imagine easily the conversation her parents had just had. Nothing upset Catharine more than displeasing Philip.
Her father was in full uniform. Congress must have cleared him of the criticism that Philip had botched the Canadian expedition. Peggy knew her mother would be aggravated by that as well. More than once, Catharine had said she hoped her husband would just quit. Many other generals threatened to do so, insulted by Congress second-guessing their stratagems or promoting less-qualified men over them purely for political reasons.
But Philip Schuyler was stoic and loyal. He believed in duty and the personal honor it brought a man.
Peggy noted all this as she descended the stairs, and spotted the potential for a diversion. “Papa! You are in your general’s uniform—congratulations! You have been restored to command?” She smiled hopefully.
But Schuyler glared back, her flattery missing its mark. “I am. Which makes my having to deal with a betrayal within my own family in the middle of these coordinated British attacks even more egregious. General Burgoyne is reported a mere three miles from Fort Ticonderoga! We cannot lose it—Ticonderoga is like a floodgate—closed we are safe, open we drown in Redcoats. I am in desperate need of reinforcements and ammunition to hold it. But General Washington must also block a movement of British regulars out of New York City. Never have we been spread so thin!”
Peggy felt a flash of resentment for Angelica and her timing. Peggy had feared this precisely—that reprimand. God forbid their sisterly insurrection endanger America’s by distracting their papa.
“Your mother says neither of you will explain what happened or where your sister is.”
The girls remained silent. They had pledged to not divulge anything until Angelica contacted their parents herself—to give her time, so that no rescue party sent out by their father would find her before the marriage knot was tied.
Schuyler sighed. “I have no choice, then, but to separate you two for questioning, as I would any confederacy of traitors.” He took Eliza’s hand and led her toward his study. “Come in here, Eliza.” He turned to look at Peggy. “You.” He pointed to a chair against the wall between his study and the door leading to their back courtyard. “Wait there.”
Peggy sat. Closing her eyes to steady herself for her own interrogation, she turned her face up to the warmth of early morning summer sunlight spilling through the enormous window. This corner was actually one of her favorites in the house. With the window open, she could catch the scent of boxwood and flowers blooming in the formal gardens adjacent to the house and the sweet promise of recently turned earth in the vegetable gardens beyond.
She drew a large breath to pull in those delicious smells while Schuyler’s aides hurried past her, bringing in their last armload. Eliza remained just inside the door while Schuyler quickly dealt with issuing some orders. Then Peggy could hear Varick open a paper the aides had brought in and splutter with aggravation.
“What is it, Richard?” Schuyler asked.
“Sir! It is a proclamation from General Burgoyne to the people of New York.”
“And what does Gentleman Johnny puff himself up to proclaim?” Schuyler sarcastically used the affectionate nickname the British had given their aristocratic general.
Before Varick could answer, Schuyler’s personal secretary, John Lansing, joked, “It is a wonderment he took the time to write anything. Rumor has it he spends all his nights drinking champagne with his mistress. Gentleman Johnny carries thirty wagons of wine, personal possessions, and clothing—as if he was going to a ball rather than a battle!”
The aides laughed.
But Varick did not. “There is nothing gentlemanly about this proclamation. He accuses us of tyranny! Us! He claims we persecute Loyalist Tories as surely as the Spanish Inquisition! He incites them and their Iroquois allies to take up arms against us. To attack and do as they will. He threatens us—with devastation! Wrath! Famine!” Varick read a horrifying description of the hell Burgoyne planned for the Patriots, ending with the British general’s claim, “I shall stand acquitted in the Eyes of God and Men in executing this vengeance against the willful outcasts.”
Peggy heard Eliza plop down into a chair, her wide skirts ballooning around her with a little pop.
“For God’s sake, man, you’ve frightened the child.” Schuyler appeared at the study door, calling for Catharine. She bustled in, all worry and motherly care. With that, Eliza’s part in Angelica’s rebellious love affair seemed all forgotten.
That had always been the way of it with their gentle middle sister. Their parents’ ire seemed reserved for the other two, sometimes doubled in fury since what came to Angelica and Peggy included the dose that should have been for Eliza. Peggy would be in for it later. It was a good thing she loved Eliza so much, or she’d box her ears.
Sighing, Peggy stood up to gaze out the window. Outside, the family’s stablehands scurried to sponge down and get water to the winded horses Schuyler and his aides had ridden. In the midst of the hubbub, Peggy noticed a stranger wander into the courtyard. Schuyler’s guards should have challenged him. Any man could be an assassin these days.
Muttering to herself about incompetence, Peggy went to the door and eyed him.
The man was lean, his face gaunt and smudged, his clothe
s soiled and patched. Thirtyish, Peggy estimated. He had taken off his frayed hat and was nervously clutching it to his breast as he stared up at the mansion, tracing its breadth with his eyes, his mouth slightly ajar. Peggy had seen that look of awe in many a tradesman who had approached her home for the first time. He was obviously no assassin.
“May I help you, sir?”
The man startled and brought his gaze down to her. He blushed as he saw her face.
Peggy smiled, touched—she preferred such unspoken compliments to the flowery pronouncements of men like Carter. She bobbed a curtsy appropriate for a more aristocratic visitor, and as she performed the feminine bow with its prescribed downcast look, she noticed that his toes had broken through his worn shoes and were bloody from his journey. But she knew better than to embarrass him. “You look as if you have traveled far, sir; may I offer you some water?”
“Aye, miss, please. But I think I best speak to the general first.”
“He is with his staff right now. But in a bit I am sure he will be glad to speak to you.”
“Begging your pardon, miss, but truly someone needs to look at these right away.” He pulled from his dirty brown jacket a packet of crisp, sealed letters, emblazoned with sweeping writing.
Peggy gasped as he laid them in her outstretched hand. They were addressed to Sir Guy Carleton, the royal governor of Canada—official British communiqués! “Where did you come by these?” she asked in astonishment.
“Well, miss, I reenlisted upon hearing of the Danbury raid.” He drew himself up taller, as if at attention and reporting for duty. “’Tis my fourth enlistment, so they made me a sergeant. In the Sixth Dutchess County Regiment. Sergeant Moses Harris, that’s me.” He tapped his chest with his thumb. “Anyway, Major Brinton Paine—you must know him, miss?”
Peggy twitched with impatience, but she knew she needed to honor the pride of this simple man who had risked his life so many times already for the cause while richer Patriots sat in their warm houses, wearing soft slippers, and opined. “No, sir, I have not had the pleasure of knowing Major Paine. That county is a good bit south from here.”
Hamilton and Peggy! Page 4