Hamilton and Peggy!

by L. M. Elliott

  “Aye, miss, on the Hudson just above West Point.” He pointed south.

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, sir, I know the area. And these letters?”

  “Oh, right-o. You see, Major Paine sent me on a scout. I, by accident, all of a sudden like, fell into a party of exhausted Loyalists. They were lying beside the cascades at Wappinger Creek, fast asleep. That’s why I didn’t notice them at first; the grasses were up around them.” He shook his head. “A fool I was. They could have killed me sure.”

  “And . . . these letters?”

  “Of course, miss. I am trying to explain the way of it. Them Tories jumped up—like crickets when you almost step on them. One grabbed me by the throat. But I talked a good game, no worries there. I learned that from dealing with my accursed Loyalist uncle—a Gilbert Harris by name. He owns the Thousand Appletree Farm, what he stole from my pa back when—”

  “Sergeant Harris,” Peggy interrupted. “The letters?”

  He nodded but persisted in telling his story in the manner he wanted: “I learned to pretend with my uncle that I agreed with his cur-like opinion of the Crown, figuring someday he might drop unsuspecting a bit of information we Patriots might need. So I convinced those blokes that I was a Loyalist like them were. We sat back in the grass. I revived them with a bit of peach brandy I had on me. That’s when they told me our patrols had been giving them good chase. They were afeard of going farther. They had been on their way here, to Albany. They were to give those letters to a traitor in the city, who was to get them to the lobsterbacks in Canada.

  “So I told them I was heading this way already and would gladly undo your father, the general, and his damned rebels by delivering their missives for them.” He grinned. “So here I stand, miss.”

  Peggy grinned back. No fool, this rustic man. “Come with me.” Carrying the letters like a sacred chalice, she and Harris approached Schuyler’s study.

  Inside, Eliza sat penitent, in a Windsor chair tucked in a corner. Her frightened face was almost the color of the green brocade wallpaper. Their papa was surrounded by several aides, Varick, and Lansing. Studying a map laid out across a table, Schuyler was placing pieces of his favorite backgammon set to trace what he suspected would be Burgoyne’s next moves toward Ticonderoga.

  “Really, sir, I think Burgoyne’s outrageous proclamation needs to be publicly rebuked so the citizenry do not panic,” Varick was saying, pounding the table and rattling the backgammon disks. “The last thing Albany needs is a flood of terrified refugees from the country, looking for protection within the city walls. We have no food or shelter to spare.”

  “Perhaps we can confiscate houses for them from suspected Loyalists,” Lansing suggested.

  “Papa?”

  Schuyler looked up with a scowl. “I do not have time now, daughter. I will speak with you later.”

  “But Papa”—she held out the letters—“this man has intercepted British communiqués. Sergeant Harris,” she prompted him. Harris was again looking up, gaping at the mansion’s ornate dentil crown molding and all the books in Schuyler’s library. She cleared her throat loudly. “Sergeant Harris!”

  He jumped a bit.

  Schuyler straightened. “What have you there, Sergeant?”

  Harris snapped into duty mode, saluted, and told his story again, this time mercifully trimmed. “I thought the letters urgent, sir,” Harris concluded, “since they risked three couriers on the same errand.” He shook his head. “There’s sure to be mischief in those letters you need to know of, General.”

  Quickly, Schuyler rounded the table, took the letters from Peggy, and turned them over. “Good man,” he murmured to Harris. “You have not broken the seal.”

  “No, sir. T’wouldn’t have done me no good or changed my mind about getting them to you. I cannot read.”

  Schuyler clapped him on the back. “Sir, you have more good sense than half the Continental Army’s senior officers. You are absolutely certain your deception held? The Tories were convinced you’d deliver these letters for them?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “And so you shall, then. If you have the courage for it?”

  “Sir?”

  Peggy could see immediately what her father planned. If Schuyler could open those letters, read them, but then reseal them and get them delivered so the British would never suspect he knew their plans, he could prepare for their attack, perhaps even set up an ambush of his own.

  Schuyler explained as much to Harris.

  Harris grinned. “That would stick it to ’em, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Schuyler smiled back. “It would mean you would have to continue pretending to be a Loyalist. If they figure you out, you will be hanged as a spy.”

  “We all will hang if we don’t win this fight, won’t we, sir?”

  Schuyler nodded and considered Harris for a moment. Peggy could tell her papa admired the sergeant’s grit. “Perhaps we should stir the pot a bit, Sergeant. I’d like to send along a little feint that might pull some British troops out of Burgoyne’s invasion force—thus lowering his numbers a bit to our advantage.”

  He paced, holding the precious letters. “I shall compose a letter to General Washington, proposing I send General Stark’s brigade north to invade Canada. Everyone is afraid of John Stark. The man is insane—terrifying in the best way. We can hope Governor Carleton will panic and recall some of Burgoyne’s men to defend Montreal and Quebec.”

  “But didn’t Papa already try going into Canada?” Eliza whispered nervously to Peggy. “It didn’t go well.”

  “It’s a ruse,” Peggy murmured into her sister’s ear, as her father continued pacing.

  “Oh.” Eliza looked at Peggy with gratitude. “Of course it is.”

  Schuyler abruptly turned to face Harris. “You will need to claim that you came upon a Patriot courier when you were on your way to Albany to deliver these letters the Loyalists gave you. Say you managed to convince that Patriot courier you would deliver his messages. To me. But that you went straight to the Loyalist agent instead so that the British would know what we ‘rebels’”—Schuyler made little quotation marks in the air on the last word—“were plotting. Does that make sense?”

  “Aye, sir.” Harris nodded.

  “It makes you a bit of a double agent, Sergeant. Is that too confusing for you to keep straight under”—Schuyler hesitated—“under stringent questioning?”

  Harris snorted. “No, sir.”

  “Good man! All right, then.” That agreed upon, Schuyler could continue. “I have Oneida scouts, and a few friendly watchers in Canada, but I have been hoping for just such an agent like you, Sergeant Harris. To intercept British messages. Such intelligence gathering could be the trick that saves us.

  “You see, sir, General Washington now plans a purely defensive war, engaging the enemy only in small hit-and-run skirmishes. Full-out battles are suicide. The British regulars and Hessians are professional soldiers. They outnumber us. They outgun us. So, we will seek to disrupt and perplex them. We’ll cut their supply lines. Raid their outposts at night. Take what we need, then disappear, using our forests and rivers as shields. Like we did at Trenton. We’ll wear them down by forcing them to maneuver constantly, trying to locate us.

  “But all this will only work if we have solid intelligence of where the British are and what they are planning. I have been building networks to do that. Reliable couriers, that’s the key.”

  Schuyler glanced down at the letters again. Each was closed tightly by red wax that had been pressed with a heavy seal, ornamented with the Crown’s distinctive emblem. Any break in the impressed image would tell the recipient the letter’s contents were compromised—opened and read along its delivery route.

  “The design of these crests is more intricate than what I have seen before,” Schuyler muttered. “I don’t have time to re-create it today. I must open them without breaking the seal.”

  He unlocked his writing desk, folded down the tabletop, and rea
ched for a long, thin knife in one of its slots. “Colonel Varick, light that candle. I suspect we haven’t a moment to lose.”

  Schuyler was so intent on finding out what was inside those communiqués, he didn’t waste time shooing his daughters out of the room. Fascinated, Peggy watched him roll the flat, razor-like blade in the candle’s flame, heating its steel.

  She knew exactly what he was doing. When the knife was hot enough, it would actually melt the wax as it sliced under, so that the seal would lift without breaking. The motion had to be quick and confident, though. The slightest jostle would crack the wax. Resealing it had to be done carefully as well—by holding the letter close to the flame to soften the wax enough that it would stick again when pressed. But not so soft that the wax bled a telltale trickle. A sure hand was paramount to it all working.

  Peggy winced seeing her papa’s hand shaking, making the candle flame dance. Sometimes he trembled like that during attacks of gout.

  When the knife glowed, Schuyler tucked it underneath the letter’s folded flap, up against the red seal. But he paused. “Damn,” he cursed, pulling it back out again. He rubbed his hands together.

  He looked toward Varick for help, but before the Dutchman could move, Peggy stepped forward. “Let me do that for you, Papa.” Without thinking about how surprising her actions were, she reheated the blade for just a moment and then with a graceful flick of her wrist, swiped the hot steel underneath the seal, popping it open—perfectly intact.

  She handed him the communiqué.

  Schuyler and all the other men stared at her, stunned. “How did you know how to do that, child?” he asked.

  Oh Lord. Peggy froze. She hadn’t thought about having to explain that she’d perfected that trick as a youngster to snoop on Angelica. She’d been left behind as being too young when Angelica and Eliza first attended balls. Furious, Peggy started opening and then resealing ardent letters from Angelica’s swarm of new admirers. Peggy had outgrown that bit of little sister tomfoolery long ago. But that probably wouldn’t matter now, considering she was already in trouble for helping Angelica elope.

  Now everyone would think her devious, unworthy of trust. She opened her mouth to find some quip to defend herself. But nothing came out.

  Schuyler frowned. “Colonel Varick, have you been gossiping?”

  “Indeed not, sir. On my life!”

  “Margarita, have you been prying about my study? What happens in this room is the business of the Continental Army.”

  Peggy felt the color drain from her face.

  It was Eliza who saved her. “Oh, Papa,” she said, rising and brushing off her skirts. “Our Peggy is a wonderment. She has read almost everything here in your library and probably knows almost as much as you do.” With careful nonchalance, she swept toward her sister, and put her arm through Peggy’s. “Hadn’t you better see what the letter says, Papa?”

  Eliza was right. Peggy had underestimated her.

  Schuyler shook his head slightly. “Yes. Yes. What am I thinking?” He read greedily as Peggy gave Eliza’s arm a squeeze in thanks.

  “Good God,” he breathed. “Burgoyne is planning a three-pronged attack. As he marches down from Canada, and the British in New York City sail up the Hudson, he orders a Colonel Barry St. Leger to invade western New York at the same time! Leger will attack Fort Stanwix from Lake Ontario to gain control of the Mohawk River. And then lay waste to all the villages along it on his way to Albany.”

  Schuyler dropped the letter to the table. “I don’t have enough troops or guns to fight on three fronts at the same time. We will be crushed.”

  A horrified silence filled the room.

  “Quick, man.” Schuyler waved Lansing to the table. “Pen and paper. At all costs we must hold Fort Stanwix. It’s guarded right now by a handful of ill-trained lads. Order two hundred soldiers to reinforce them immediately. Now, we must copy these British communiqués and get them to General Washington so he knows what I am about.”

  He turned to Sergeant Harris. “Go to the kitchens, sir, and tell them to give you a good meal. You will need sustenance before you continue on to deliver these letters to the Loyalist agent in town. The couriers told you where to find him?”

  “Aye, sir, that they did.”

  “Did they divulge his name?”

  “Aye, the trusting bastards.” He laughed. “His name is William Shepherd.”

  “Shepherd!” blustered Varick. “I know the man! Let us go arrest the traitorous cur!”

  “No, you mustn’t,” Peggy blurted out. “He must think all is safe, so we can continue using him, Colonel Varick, without his realizing that he is to play our fool.”

  Harris nodded. “This one a smart’un, sir.”

  About time someone noticed, thought Peggy.

  “Indeed, so I am learning, Sergeant.” A slow smile spread on Schuyler’s face as he looked at Peggy. “Now, daughter, can you open these remaining two? My hands are unsteady today.”

  Oh, the sudden pride Peggy felt.

  Their papa had always favored Angelica with his conversation about politics, not Peggy. Could this moment change that? The night she eloped, Angelica said she hoped her marriage would allow her to participate in the Revolution in a tangible way—influencing her husband’s dinner guests and visiting foreign dignitaries. Was it possible that Peggy’s tendency to nosiness, her capacity for shrewd observation—which many dismissed as sarcasm or as inappropriate for a woman—could actually help her serve the cause of liberty?

  Hushed at the possibility, Peggy held out her hand to receive responsibility.

  But just as her papa passed the letters to Peggy, an express rider rushed into the room, red-faced, soaked in sweat.

  “General Schuyler, sir!” he shouted breathlessly. “Ticonderoga has fallen. Without a shot fired. And our troops—all three thousand of them—disappeared. Without a trace!”

  Four

  Midsummer

  Alexander Hamilton to [New York delegate] John Jay

  Pompton Plains [New Jersey], July 13th, 1777

  The stroke at Ticonderoga is heavy, unexpected and unaccountable. . . . [W]hat, in the name of common sense could have induced the evacuation? I would wish to suspend my judgment on the matter; but certainly present appearances speak either the most abandoned cowardice, or treachery. . . . All is mystery and dark beyond conjecture.

  I am Dr Sir

  Your most Obed servant

  A. Hamilton

  CRAAAACCKK!

  Crack-crack-crack!

  Peggy shot up in bed. That was musket fire.

  “There! The tree line. See ’em?”

  Peggy could hear the sentries outside shouting. She jumped out of bed to run to her mother’s room.

  She and Catharine were in the family’s Saratoga country house to pack up precious belongings and to gather what stores of wheat and flax they could before Burgoyne’s army overran their fields. The fall of Fort Ticonderoga and the disappearance of Patriot troops supposed to guard it had thrown New York into panic. Those three thousand soldiers made up a third of all American troops—if they were prisoners or, worse, gone over to the enemy, the fight for liberty would be all but dead and hopeless.

  And Burgoyne was on the move—heading straight for them.

  Her papa had raced to Fort Edward, desperately marshaling what little troops he had left to mount a defense against the British invasion. He urged Patriots to quickly harvest their crops—or burn them—and to drive their livestock into the relative safety of Albany. This biblically harsh sacrifice would starve the approaching Redcoats, who expected to live off the land as they marched. But it could also starve all New Yorkers. That wheat and corn was to be their food supply during the coming winter.

  Believing she should, by example, inspire the populace to obey her husband’s orders, Catharine had ridden north toward the enemy. She clearly didn’t recognize or care about the danger, since Catharine had carted along little Cornelia as well as Peggy.

 
Eliza had been left behind, safe in Albany, supposedly to keep an eye on John, who had threatened to join up as a drummer boy the instant Catharine left. Of course, rarely did Catharine enlist Eliza in manual labor like packing china or even overseeing their enslaved servants doing it.

  Being dragged to Saratoga felt like punishment for her part in Angelica’s elopement. As Peggy had expected, Eliza’s sensitive and inoffensive nature had brought out Catharine’s motherly protectiveness. She’d actually accused Peggy of coercing Eliza into participating in Angelica’s escape! She’d patted Eliza’s face as she said, “I know you’d never have imagined such mischief, child.” When Eliza tried to defend Peggy, her mother replied, “What a kind soul you are to try to cover up your little sister’s treachery.”

  Typical. When Catharine made up her mind about something, there was no changing it. Take, for instance, their still being in Saratoga. Catharine had foolishly lingered an extra day after receiving word from Schuyler that he needed the estate’s carpenters and blacksmiths to build—with all speed humanly possible—carriages for forty small, unmounted cannon General Washington had managed to send. Without carriages, the guns were useless. Catharine had hovered, urging the workmen on.

  What had she been thinking? She and Peggy were in the isolated house all alone. Schuyler and his troops were thirteen miles and a ninety-minute express horse ride away. All they had to protect them was Colonel Varick, who had accompanied them, and a few guards posted outside.

  All this swept through her mind as Peggy sprinted into her mother’s room, nearly tripping over her nightgown in her hurry.

  Craaaaccckkk.

  Crack. Crack.

  Catharine was already at the window. “Here, daughter.” She shoved little Cornelia into Peggy’s arms. “We have a few hours until dawn. Hold her while I fill the last boxes. I have some precious things I wish to wrap myself.”

  “What?” Peggy shook her head violently, setting Cornelia to crying. “There is fighting right outside in the woods. Forget the boxes! We must go now, Mama!”