Hamilton and Peggy!

by L. M. Elliott

  Five

  Late Summer

  Albany, August 8th

  Philip Schuyler to the following:

  To Governor Clinton (New York)

  [W]hat reinforcements of Militia are we likely to have? . . . Yesterday, the time expired of a regiment of Continental troops, they marched off, nor could I prevail on one (man) to remain., altho I offered twenty dollars bounty if they would engage.

  To Governor Trumball (Connecticut)

  [N]one of your militia has yet joined us. I wish it may be remembered that I have made early & repeated application for assistance; that I have only had about one hundred from your State, and those deserted a few days after their arrival.

  To the Committee of Berkshire (Massachusetts)

  We are very weak . . . If the enemy gets as far as this place it will soon be lost. . . . If [your militia] come an hour too late it is the same as a year.

  I am with Great Esteem & Regard your most obed.

  Hble Servant, Ph. Schuyler

  SAFELY BACK IN ALBANY, PEGGY STOOD IN THE WIDE hallway of her family’s mansion, smiling at two Iroquois warriors. Their Kahstowah headdresses of three eagle feathers—two pointed up and one hanging down—had quickly identified them as Oneida. Their arms also bore the Oneida’s tattoo of a rock in a fork, their sign as People of the Standing Stone, a symbol of their endurance and constancy to one another. With them were seven Caughnawaga who had journeyed from Canada to speak to her father.

  Philip Schuyler had ridden hard through the night from his new headquarters just south of Fort Edward to meet the Indian delegation. Clearly the Caughnawaga had critically important intelligence to have traveled so far, and considering the increasing attacks on frontier settlers and American scouting parties, it was crucial Schuyler reinforce his friendship with the Oneida. Of the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy four had allied with Burgoyne—the Mohawk, Seneca, Cayuga, and Onondaga. Only the Oneida and the Tuscarora stood with the Patriot.

  “General Schuyler will be here in a moment,” Peggy said, bobbing a curtsy. “He begs your pardon for his delay. An express messenger brought grave news my father must respond to immediately.” She repeated herself in French, knowing the Canadian Caughnawaga were more likely to understand that language.

  The men nodded.

  Even though this was the first time Peggy had been trusted to welcome such an important group, she spoke with more confidence than she might have if addressing American officers. Part of that came from the fact she had grown up meeting Iroquois leaders and watching her father, as New York’s Indian Commissioner, negotiate with the tribes. At one such conference, the Oneida had even given her sister Eliza a tribal name meaning One of Us. The Iroquois were like that—embracing of family. They also elevated women above men in many ways. Clan mothers chose the tribal chiefs and had the authority to remove them if those men did not fulfill their duties to the matrons’ liking. Women councillors attended conferences on war and diplomacy and had the vote to block a decision if they felt it endangered their kin.

  Would her new nation offer her the same voice? Peggy wondered.

  Aloud she asked, “May I provide you some food or drink?” The delegates shook their heads. She gestured for them to sit in the many Windsor chairs along the hall’s paneled and lavishly papered wall. But the men remained standing, tall, on watch.

  The eldest among them smiled back at her. He was older than her father, but his bearing was still imposing. Most likely a sachem, a chief. He wore the typical breechcloth and leggings, but also a white-man’s hunting shirt he had decorated with Iroquois beadwork. Silk ribbons once imported from England were tied below his knees to ornament and keep in place his buckskin leggings. He was a walking display of the easy mingling of cultures on the frontier that had also created European-born men who fought with tomahawks and traveled by canoe.

  So Peggy was not surprised when he spoke in perfect English, saying, “I remember you, daughter of Thoniondakayon. You cried when your father would not let you run in a race with our warriors for a silver armband he gave as prize after a peace talk.”

  “Oh dear,” Peggy murmured. She didn’t remember that, but it sounded like something she might do. Once when she was very young, Peggy had been furious that the Oneida had pulled her father into their ceremonial dance but refused to include her. They had all laughed, but in a kind way, when she had tried to smear her face with paint as they decorated her papa’s. The Iroquois were like that, too—they joked easily among themselves and with those they considered friends.

  How they had teased one of George Washington’s aides two years before, during the “Great Peace,” when the Six Nations had agreed to stay out of the conflict between the English and the then colonists. An Onondaga chief announced that he would adopt Lieutenant Tilghman since he was Washington’s emissary. But to really become a member of his tribe, Tilghman must take an Onondaga bride.

  Peggy laughed out loud remembering. She spoke quickly to explain herself. “I was just remembering when the Iroquois honored one of General Washington’s officers with adoption and the promise of the chief choosing him a bride.”

  “Yes. I remember,” the sachem replied with a smile. “He was sad when your sister offered to stand as bridesmaid—not the bride. I think his heart was for her.”

  Peggy nodded. Tilghman had been crestfallen, clearly quite taken with Eliza. He had been the only man she’d ever noticed look more at Eliza than at Angelica.

  “Is that daughter of Thoniondakayon here today? She sang like a mockingbird last time we met.”

  Eliza had joined the Oneida women when they gave a concert for the people of Albany watching the peace proceedings. “I am afraid not, sir. She is with my other sister, who has married.”

  How Peggy was missing Eliza now. Catharine had sent her to the relative safety of Boston, to visit Angelica, whose elopement she had forgiven after Angelica had fled to her grandparents for help, counting on their fond indulgence. Angelica was smart that way. Indignant, their grandparents had arrived at the mansion and berated Catharine for being intransigent. After a great deal of tears and shouting in Dutch, Catharine had finally relented and acknowledged Angelica’s marriage to Carter—or whatever his real name was.

  But Peggy had heard her mother say, as she kissed Eliza and tucked her into the carriage for Boston: “If that Englishman is not treating your sister well, you bring her home.”

  Catharine might forgive, but she did not forget.

  The Oneida chief interrupted Peggy’s thoughts: “You are grown now, Miss Schuyler. You are like the great trumpeter swan that has shed its gray for white feathers and a strong song.”

  Touched, Peggy’s hand flew to her heart. “Thank you, sir.”

  The Caughnawaga looked at him with a questioning glance. It was so strange to Peggy that all these tribes living so close together could be so foreign to one another. But then again, a Congregationalist fisherman from Marblehead, Massachusetts, had naught in common with a Dutchman from New York and even less with the country gentry of Virginia—even if they shared the same language and desire for independence. The Six Nations’ cooperative confederacy among diverse and autonomous tribes for mutual trade and against common foes was a good model for the Patriots’ fledgling United States.

  “The chief was kind enough to compliment my maturity,” she said, translating for them: Le chef a la bonté de faire un compliment sur ma maturité.

  The Caughnawaga told her that they heard wisdom in her voice as well.

  Again touched, Peggy lowered her gaze and curtsied, just as Schuyler hurried out from his study. Pulling his uniform coat on as he came, her papa was followed by Varick and Lansing. “Get these to express riders immediately,” he ordered Lansing as he hurriedly scribbled his signature and handed the letters back to his secretary one at a time. “To His Excellency. To General Lincoln. To Ethan Allen, and these begging for militia reinforcements to Governor Clinton, to Governor Trumbull, and this to the Berkshire Com
mittee. With all haste, man! Or we are done for.”

  She caught her breath. Peggy had never ever heard her father so pessimistic. She also had never seen Schuyler so exhausted. She noted him limping slightly, and prayed that his gout would not attack him now. They all needed him.

  “Sirs.” Schuyler bowed low to the Oneida and Caughnawaga and said solemnly in their dialect, “Welcome. How are you, my friends?”

  “We have come, brother, to ask how matters are with you and Father Washington.”

  “I will not lie to a great chief. They are dire indeed. Please.” He gestured for them to sit. This time they did.

  The Oneida chief motioned for Peggy to sit as well. She glanced to her father for approval. He was surprised but nodded permission. Peggy settled into a chair, smoothed her skirts into their smallest circumference, and tried hard to suppress her excitement, to not to move at all, lest he change his mind.

  “You must have news of great import to have traveled so far for us.” Schuyler looked at the Caughnawaga. He repeated himself in French. “Please, proceed. S’il vous plaît, procédez.”

  The Caughnawaga told of what they had seen in their country—that Burgoyne was eight thousand strong, including tribesmen and Canadians. A thousand Tories had joined as well. Some British regulars were left at Quebec, fortifying that city against any counterattack from the Patriots.

  Schuyler nodded. “Yes, this we had heard from others. I am grateful you corroborate it.”

  He asked a few clarifying questions, of exact positions, the condition and supplies for the troops. Then the Oneida sachem added: “You fight more than Iroquois. Mississauga, Huron, and Chippewa cross by canoe from Canada in great numbers now to add their tomahawks to the British.”

  “Good God.” Schuyler fell back in his chair. “I wonder if they will join the British siege of Fort Stanwix?” he muttered to himself.

  After a moment, he sat up. “Sirs, what kept me this morning was an alarming report from the west. The British landed a force at Oswego from Lake Ontario. They marched east to attack Fort Stanwix. Their plan is to gain control of the Mohawk River, then sail down it to Albany—at the same time Burgoyne’s troops arrive here to attack our city.”

  “This is a cunning plan,” said the Oneida chief. “Two packs of wolves hunting one deer from two sides will always kill their prey.”

  “Yes. So you see it is imperative that Fort Stanwix not fall. To that end, I asked the leader of that county’s militia, a General Herkimer, to gather his men and hasten to reinforce the fort. But this morning I learned that he and his men were ambushed and cut to pieces.”

  “By?”

  “By the Royal Greens and five hundred Mohawk and Seneca warriors.” Schuyler paused and sighed. “They say old Herkimer was shot through the thigh in the first volley. But the brave old man dragged himself to a stump where he propped himself and smoked his pipe to dull his pain so he could continue to direct his men. But alas, they were not prepared for such fierce combat.” Schuyler’s voice broke as he added, “These men are just farmers, who laid down their scythes during haying, and ran to defend us. Entire families are lost. The dispatch rider told me one father witnessed the death of seven of his nine sons.”

  Schuyler put his hand on the Oneida chief’s shoulder. “And I must tell you, sir, that many of your tribe flew to help our militia. But your brave warriors were killed as well. Perhaps as many as seventy.”

  The Oneida bowed his head. After a long moment, he said, “A chief must bear many sorrows, brother. We will honor Herkimer and his fighters with our warriors.”

  “Thank you. But I am afraid we have little time to mourn. I must again ask your help,” said Schuyler. “Will you send scouts to determine the situation at Fort Stanwix? I need to know how many British troops and how many of their Mohawk allies surround it. I have no scouting parties of my own to spare. The few we have risked have been ambushed.”

  “Before I risk my people more, I must ask the truth of something the British have shouted to the Iroquois Nations. British chieftains say they command the Hudson River waters. That they have taken Philadelphia. That your Congress has fled and scattered like milkweed, leaving you without leaders, no council. The British say this will allow them to crush you in a few weeks.”

  Schuyler’s mouth dropped open. “No! None of that is true. But that confirms what General Washington has feared were the British plans. Thousands of Redcoats have been loaded onto transport ships and departed New York City. But we knew not for where. General Washington must move with all haste to protect Philadelphia!”

  Schuyler stood, rubbed his forehead, and muttered, “This means His Excellency absolutely cannot spare a single man to me now.” He staggered a few feet and stopped. “Nothing to help me reinforce Fort Stanwix or to protect the families of Tryon County.”

  “What about General Arnold, Papa?” Peggy whispered. “He was so effective in riding to Danbury’s defense.”

  Surprised, Schuyler swung round to look at her. “My very thoughts, daughter.”

  “Ah yes,” the Oneida chief said to her with a smile, “a trumpeter swan.”

  With that, the Caughnawaga and Oneida left, but the day was far from done.

  An hour later came a great banging and shouting at the front door. Varick rushed from Schuyler’s office as Peggy peeped out from the parlor where she had retreated to draw portraits of the chiefs from memory, sketch pad and charcoal in hand. Cautiously, muskets ready, the guards opened the door to reveal a group of agitated Patriots from Albany’s watch. With them, bound and much bruised about the face, was Moses Harris.

  “We caught us a Tory spy!” cried the leader of the ragtag bunch. “We want General Schuyler’s permission to hang him!”

  Feigning enormous gratitude and amazement at their clever capture, Schuyler announced he would question the prisoner first. He hauled Harris into his office and slammed the door shut—leaving Peggy, Varick, and the Patriot watch in the hallway, much disappointed.

  “Well, sirs,” Varick blustered, clearly insulted by his exclusion, “I have questions about who you think might provide supplies for the troops.”

  “Oh, there are a brace of Loyalists around here with ample chicken coops and cattle we should confiscate,” one watchman answered.

  As Varick asked about beef and eggs, Peggy flounced into the parlor, fuming. The Oneida and Caughnawaga had just pulled her into their conference, even complimented her wisdom. How could her father continue to infantilize her?

  Peggy threw herself onto one of the couches.

  “Ouch!” She’d landed on her sketch pad and the tin box holding her charcoal. Peggy stood up, grabbed it, turned around while rubbing her backside, and flung the box. Damn it and all the demure feminine arts that she was reduced to!

  The box sailed, crashing against the door leading to Schuyler’s study and scattering charcoal bits everywhere.

  Peggy sighed. Catharine would scold her for that mess. She stomped to the corner to pick up the pieces. As she collected shattered bits that had fallen up against the doorjamb, she heard voices! Muffled. But she could hear the deep baritone of her father and Harris’s answering country lilt.

  Quickly Peggy pulled a footstool up to the door. It was closed, of course, but there was a large keyhole. She faced herself toward the parlor, pretending she needed that perspective to capture its entirety in a sketch, and leaned over to eavesdrop as best she could.

  Dampened, she heard:

  “I delivered them letters to the Loyalists’ man here in Albany, just like you directed, General. There was a bit of questioning to endure—nothing like what those Patriot ruffians done me that brought me here to you today. You should reward those lads, you should. Most men wouldn’t hold up against their . . . interrogation.”

  Peggy could hear the scrape of a chair, probably Schuyler pulling up right next to Harris. “Go on,” her father said.

  “So it were simple to hoodwink him. The fool asked me if I’d like to serve the kin
g as a messenger from Montreal to New York. And I hemmed and hawed a bit, sir, afore I gave over. Didn’t want to look too ardent, that’d be a giveaway I were up to something. What sane body would go on such an errand?”

  “Good man,” Schuyler said.

  “Then I told him about my uncle, that Tory cur what stole the apple orchard from my pa, may he choke on the cores. . . .”

  “Mr. Harris, please, I am afraid today is dreadfully rushed with urgent news on all sides.”

  “Right, sir, sorry. So, the fool told me to go to my uncle’s and his conspirators would send word there. I thought that right remarkable, till I learnt my uncle was in deep with our enemy all along. Round midnight, my uncle took me to his barn. And do you know that old bastard has a secret passage to a tiny room he built in the center of the haymow to hide it. I had to keep me head ducked. There were three British officers, mind you, all cramped up inside as well. They told me they needed a trusty courier to go to General Burgoyne and back.”

  Peggy heard the chair squeak and Schuyler say, “And . . . ?”

  “Well, sir, I went straightaway to Burgoyne. That were your and my plan, after all. The general—handsome bloke, I must admit, and very jolly. He was with a pretty strumpet, but he put down his glass to talk with me. He gave me a canteen with three heads—one for drinking water inside, and two concealed ones, where he tucked two messages. Just like a chipmunk stuffs nuts into a hidey-hole. Then he told me to head back to Albany—Shepherd would carry the messages to the Redcoats in New York City.

  “But then those fellows in your hall apprehended me. I told them I was fleeing into Albany for sanctuary, like all them other refugees. But someone recognized me, what with my going back and forth and all, and started in with questions. No fooling good Patriots, General. I count my lucky stars they didn’t string me up afore bringing me to you.”

  Schuyler lowered his voice to an urgent whisper, and Peggy had to put her ear right to the keyhole to hear: “Mr. Harris. Do you still have that canteen?”