“No, Papa.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Papa. The curtain has already come down on a drama that is not worth sharing.” She ached to tell him she was recovering because she was helping him, doing tangible things, no matter how small, for the Revolution and being included in his thoughts gave her purpose, a sense of individual identity and consequence. But she was afraid to call attention to it, knowing his reliance on her was unusual and a result of war necessity.
“I am relieved,” he answered. “I would hate to lose you to someone who does not appreciate you enough to make himself known to me.” He kissed her on her forehead. “Now. Let us collect that Bible.”
Schuyler played host seamlessly for the rest of the day, but Peggy could tell he was worried. And well he should be.
Over the next weeks, more of his spies came in with alarming reports. A man Schuyler called “Mr. Fox” shared that his Tory friends just north of Saratoga bragged they were about “to make rare work with the rebels.” Right across the Hudson from Saratoga, on the river’s eastern banks, a Mr. Shipman saw three British boats landing infantrymen. Another agent, going by the name Pierre, reported British campfires at Crown Point that to him suggested two thousand Redcoats were encamped there. A local man doubled the spy’s estimate, counting English forces as being closer to four thousand strong. An Oneida scout spotted another fifteen hundred British soldiers near Ticonderoga.
Meanwhile, cattle and hogs were being stolen in droves from the settlements edging New York’s wilderness. Barns were burned. Farmers were being pulled out of their beds and from their homes into the darkness of night, beaten, and left for dead.
In retribution, Albany’s anticonspiracy commissioners stepped up their arrests of suspected Tories, increasing their threats and confiscations of Loyalists’ property to force confessions. Such tactics unearthed, for instance, the fact that five hundred Loyalists and Mohawks were hovering southwest of Albany determined to torch the city. They planned to accomplish that plot with a series of coordinated kidnappings of militia officers that would leave local forces leaderless and in chaos during the larger attack on the city.
Then in late May, a commissioner arrived, breathless and heaving from his climb up the hill to the mansion’s front door. The old Dutchman was so agitated, Peggy guided him to her papa’s study without waiting to announce him.
“General!” The man nearly flung himself at Schuyler. “I have dire news you must heed!” He was so loud, Peggy worried he would frighten her mother and siblings. She pushed him unceremoniously into the study and shut the door behind them as he hurried on with his story: “We have this from two sources. One is a most perfidious deserter, but a man who knows the worth of intelligence to save his own skin. The other man is a local Tory. This Loyalist is most grateful for previous favors you have done him, and so gives up information to save your life specifically. They both say that just beyond your pastures lurks a band of Queen’s Rangers bent on capturing or assassinating you.”
Schuyler nodded.
“Truly, sir, you must believe me! It’s Robert Rogers’ Rangers.” Once a legendary American fighter during the French and Indian War, Rogers had pledged himself and his barbaric guerilla tactics to the British. Mention of his name struck terror in the hearts of New Yorkers.
“I do believe you, sir,” Schuyler answered. “In fact, I have been told the British Canadian government has placed a price of two hundred guineas on my head.”
The Dutchman fell into a chair. “Two hundred guineas!” He fanned himself. “For that amount, General Schuyler, most anyone might be tempted.”
Schuyler laughed ruefully. “Just think of all the salted fish we could buy with that, eh?”
“Papa!” Peggy couldn’t help herself. “This is serious!”
“Oh, I know, my dear. I have written General Washington already. He has promised to double our guard.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Please do not worry. Best for you to check on your mama, who might have heard all this hubbub. Please? I need to discuss with the councilman how we can build some bateaux for General Washington. Then will you come back and help me with some correspondence?”
Peggy nodded.
When she returned, her father’s bravado was gone. He handed her a letter from Ethan Allen, leader of the Vermonter militia.
“Why is he writing you?” Peggy asked. “I thought you suspected the British of trying to seduce this man and his followers.”
Schuyler shrugged. “Allen may have been talking with them. But this letter proves once again that having more than one source for a story is what allows us to determine fact. If nothing else, this letter suggests Allen is aware of our watching him—which may temper his choices. More important, however, as I speak with you now, daughter, is other information he sends, which is of grave importance to our family.” He motioned for her to look at the letter for herself.
Peggy quickly read Allen’s rough-written statement that despite false rumors he was conversing with the British, he was committed to the welfare of the United States and to Schuyler. As proof he shared that he had taken several British prisoners who confessed “that they at several different times threatned to Captivate your person, said that it had been in their power to have taken some of your family the last Campain, but that they had an Eye to your self.”
Peggy looked up at her father. “Do you suppose he is offering you this report to regain your favor, as a way to dispel suspicion against him?”
Schuyler smiled. “You have become quite the analyst, my dear.” He crossed his arms and paced. “I did consider that. But given what the good commissioner rushed here to tell me today, I need to give the threat credibility. What I am most concerned about, of course, is Allen’s statement that the enemy considered taking some of my precious family captive.”
“Papa, did Mama ever tell you that when we were in Saratoga gathering things before Burgoyne reached it, that there were shots fired from the woods and an attempt to invade the house?”
“Yes,” Schuyler answered gravely. “I will always be grateful to Richard Varick for his actions that night.” He took her hand and sat them down together, facing each other. “I need you to be on guard now, Peggy,” he said with urgency. “Do not go wandering through the orchard, as you are wont. Nor go through the pastures down to the river. You must not walk too far from the safety of the house. Keep close watch on your sisters and brothers.” He searched her eyes to ensure she was listening, really listening, and heeding him. “Do you promise?”
Peggy nodded solemnly.
“Good.” Her papa seemed relieved. “I depend on you. It could be a matter of life or death.”
Twenty
Summer
From John Carter to Colonel Alexander Hamilton
New Port [Rhode Island] May 18th, 1781
My Dear Sir
You do not tell me what your future line of life will be, but Villemansey tells me he thinks you are to command a Body of Troops this Campaign. I wish much to be informed, as independent of myself a certain Lady (who has not made her appearance this morning) is very anxious for your Happiness and Glory.
I have been in constant Expectation of Genl. Schuyler’s arrival here to take Mrs. Carter and the little ones with him to Albany, but I hear not a Word of him. If he does not appear in ten Days, I must send Mrs. Carter as in her Situation the Journey in the middle of June will be too fatiguing.
Your Friend & Servant,
John Carter
CATHARINE AND PEGGY HOVERED AS DR. STRINGER, Albany’s most-respected physician, punctured her papa’s arm with a lancet. Wrinkling her nose, Peggy watched blood ooze from the cut into a cup the surgeon held below Schuyler’s elbow. It was the second time that week his surgeon had bled Schuyler to treat his quinsy and to prevent his suffocating. Yet her papa still struggled to breathe, his throat rattling with each raspy gasp.
As soon as the doctor left the room, escorted downstairs to the front door by Catharine, anx
ious to hear all his instructions, Peggy knelt by her father’s chaise. “Papa, this is not working. Leeches, scalpels. You just seem weaker.”
Schuyler grunted, putting his hand to his throat. “Better tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Papa, do you trust me?”
Schuyler eyebrows shot up, but he smiled.
“Martha Washington told me of a remedy she has for quinsy that she gives His Excellency. She mixes molasses and onions into a toddy.”
Schuyler made a face.
“Will you try it? For me?” She grinned at him, adopting a singsong mama voice to say, “If General Washington can drink it, so can my brave papa.”
Schuyler laughed, which turned into a cough that cleared his throat. He took in a long, grateful breath. “That’s better. What would I do without you, my dear?”
Peggy laughed back. “Who would have known that being saucy to one’s papa could help him breathe? I have found my purpose!”
“Margarita, my beloved child, your spirit—stubborn, defiant, willful”—he paused to pinch her cheek affectionately—“is just what this new nation needs. I wish more men had it.”
Peggy’s heart swelled. All those adjectives were typically used as criticisms of her rather than compliments, adjectives used as negative comparisons to the sophisticated Angelica, the composed Eliza. She certainly did not want her father ill so that he needed her, but oh, how Peggy had grown up and learned, nurtured by his trust in her. No longer did she feel so overshadowed by her sisters. But that hard-earned place was about to be turned upside down.
“Paaaa-paaa!” a pretty voice called up the stairs. “Mama! Peggy! Where is everyone? I’m hoooo-mmmme!”
It was Angelica.
Two weeks later, Angelica sat in the dining room, a mound of luxurious petticoats and pregnant stomach—voluptuous, rosy, exuding life. An Aphrodite of motherhood, gorgeous as ever, even eight months pregnant and holding her own baby Catharine, a china-doll-pretty toddler, and clambered over by her three-year-old Philip. As always, her vivacious chatter was a scintillating mix of political commentary and gossip, and had everyone riveted.
Across the wide mahogany table from her sat Eliza and Hamilton, who had just come home as well. Eliza would stay in Albany as Hamilton rejoined the Continental forces in the coming campaign—if Washington granted him a command and then whenever His Excellency and Rochambeau determined what would be the most advantageous line of attack. The Schuyler sisters’ circle was once again complete.
“Vicomte de Noailles and his friend fought a duel over a Newport milkmaid, can you imagine?” she said.
Eliza giggled. Then her hand shot to her mouth and she pressed her lips together to suppress a gag. She, too, was pregnant, early on in it. But rather than blooming, she was wretched and violently ill most days. Hamilton reached over and sympathetically patted her hand, but his violet-blue eyes never left Angelica as she continued with her stories about the French forces in Newport.
“One of the officers was determined to show me how on command his horse would rear and stand on his hind legs. But the gelding added a buck that sent the gentleman flying. Oh my.” She laughed and then steadied her pregnant belly. “But enough about me,” chirped Angelica.
I should say so, thought Peggy, who had had her fill of wondering where in Angelica’s stories Fleury might have been. How could her sister not think about how her anecdotes might be tearing her heart apart?
“And so, my dear Ham, what sort of command are you hoping for?” But before he could answer, she added, “Does General Washington know of your daring exploits before joining his staff? Surely you have told him of stealing cannon right out from under British noses as their battleships sailed into New York Harbor and dragging them to the liberty pole at King’s College?”
Hamilton smiled.
Eliza’s face puckered. “I do not know that story.”
“Oh my,” said Angelica, “it is quite astounding. There is also the time he led a hundred men in a raid against the British at Sandy Hook Lighthouse.”
“We would have taken it, too,” said Hamilton, “had Loyalists not tipped off the British regulars to our coming. They were ready for us. We fought bravely for two hours under fire from the ships and the lighthouse. Still, I am proud to say I did not lose a man.”
Throughout his eldest daughter’s merry monologue and exchange with Hamilton, Schuyler had remained mute. Now he frowned and fiddled with his knife. Peggy knew how disappointed he was that his new son-in-law had totally ignored his urgings to return to Washington’s staff. As protective as she had been of Hamilton when he first wrote of his break with Washington, she now felt she should champion her father’s hopes. To play mediator as she had in Morristown between the young fifer and Lafayette, and in Newport between the French guard and Rhode Island fisherman. “I am sure General Washington misses your insight and eloquence, Colonel Hamilton, and especially your facility with French.”
Hamilton looked at her with some surprise and a flash of irritation. He hid it by correcting the name she used: “Alexander, little sister.” But he did not respond to the content of her comment, which infuriated Peggy. He wouldn’t brush aside Angelica like that. And “little sister”?
“You know, Alexander,” she now spoke with some indignation, “it may not be as outwardly glorious, but there are many who have sacrificed much, forgone popularity and individual renown to quietly serve, thereby making all the difference in outcome. Like Papa.”
Hamilton shot an anxious look toward Schuyler before saying, “Sadly, that will not gain me accolades enough for employment after the war to support your sister as she deserves.” Hamilton kissed Eliza’s hand. “If I have my own command I will gain sway among men. That will help me succeed professionally.”
“And what profession will that be, Mr. Hamilton?” asked Catharine, in mother-in-law tones.
“I plan to study the law, especially since many of our current lawyers are Loyalists. After the war they should not be allowed to practice. There will be need for a new breed of Patriot attorneys. I will read the law on my own.” He tactfully added, “Just as you educated yourself, General.”
At this Schuyler sat up and finally spoke. “You may use my library for that very purpose.”
Eliza clapped her hands happily. “Why not start now, dearest?”
“Goodness, Eliza,” burbled Angelica, “Alexander is not going to want to remain buried in a library during a campaign that may win the Revolution for us. You must not deny him glory. The chance to seize victory and defeat tyranny!”
Eliza glared at their big sister.
Peggy bit her tongue to prevent asking, Why don’t you volunteer your own husband?
Angelica ignored both her sisters, speaking directly to Hamilton. “Mr. Carter says it is best you meet up with His Excellency’s forces soon. If you are nearby, it will be easier for him to give you troops. You will be like Achilles—brought in to inflame everyone’s patriotism, to lead the charge. As you know, Lafayette is promoting you with General Washington. But best be in the right place at the right time. Lafayette’s influence with His Excellency is . . .”
“Enormous,” Hamilton completed her sentence.
Was there a twinge of jealousy in Hamilton’s statement? There had been none before about his friend Lafayette. Peggy tried to assess that beautiful face, but Hamilton’s expression was guarded.
“Actually, sir.” He turned back to his father-in-law with a fretful look Peggy was coming to recognize as a desire for approval. “I have been doing a bit of writing. I plan a series of papers, titled ‘The Continentalist,’ arguing that we need a stronger centralized government, a standing national army, if we are to survive. I have sent the first to the New-York Packet. It should be published in a week or so.”
Schuyler seemed pleased. “Indeed, whenever Congress acts foolishly, it is because one region selfishly considers its own interests over the nation’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Hamilton replied. “We began the Re
volution with vague notions of the practical business of government. But it has become obvious in the way our Continental Army is starved that we must have a strong, overarching federal government. If that federal government is too weak, the ambitions and local interests of more powerful members might undermine and usurp the union’s overall goals.”
“Precisely!” Schuyler agreed enthusiastically. “I have been thinking this is especially true with our monies and how we pay for our nation’s needs. We cannot count on the pockets of individual Patriots to continue funding things. Many of us have completely emptied our coffers.” Schuyler smiled apologetically at Catharine.
As he and Hamilton talked, Eliza glowed with pride, Peggy hung on every word, and Angelica squirmed, kicked by her unborn baby. Bored, the younger children slipped out of their chairs to play on the floor or skip around the table. Six-year-old Cornelia stopped rocking the cradle holding her infant sister Caty to clasp hands with her eighteen-month-old niece as she toddled around the room. Angelica’s daughter was still a bit unsteady on her feet and tripping on the hem of her gown. Three-year-old Philip, though, was quick dash and speed even in his dress. Out the door he scooted, Angelica watching her son with obvious adoration.
Suddenly she shot to her feet, knocking over her chair as she lumbered as quickly as she could toward the door herself, crying out, “Philip, stop! Do not move!”
Startled, everyone silenced. Hamilton rose, moving to help with whatever was so urgent. But Angelica bustled back into the room, furious, holding Philip’s hand and dragging a Brown Bess. “Papa! Your grandson was about to pull the trigger on this loaded musket. All arms must be taken to the cellar, right now, out of his reach!”
No one dared disobey her, given her fluster and their own horror at what might have happened. So no one pointed out that the preloaded muskets were propped by the doors because of dire warnings that Queen’s Rangers and Tory bands were plotting to attack and kidnap Schuyler.
Hamilton and Peggy! Page 26