Angelica let out a little laugh. “Oh, I like her this way. I think we should conspire to get Mama to drink more often.”
If their mother heard them, she didn’t answer. Eliza noticed that not only were the contractions lasting longer, they were also occurring more frequently. Dot’s hands were busy beneath the sheets, working in trancelike precision. Though neither she nor Mrs. Schuyler spoke, it was clear the two women were in harmony with each other, working to bring another Schuyler sibling into the world.
“But tell me,” Eliza said. “Why were you visiting the Van Alens? You have never seemed overly fond of them previously. And why on earth are you wearing that shawl on such a hot day?” she added as her sister fussed yet again with the long wrap of cloth.
Angelica’s hands froze as if she had been caught doing something improper. Eliza turned and saw that her sister’s face had gone ashen, yet with bright spots of color in the cheeks. She looked back at Angelica’s hands again, and thought that they seemed to float slightly above her lap. But it was not that, exactly. No, it was as if Angelica’s lap were somehow . . . thicker. Now that she thought about it, she realized Angelica had been eating rather more than usual lately, extra servings of bacon at breakfast (well, who could blame her?) and, more oddly, extra portions of fiddlehead ferns for dinner. Angelica had always hated fiddleheads—said they tasted as bitter as poorly made vinegar. But now she ate them ravenously. It was almost as if she had a . . . craving.
A strange realization came over Eliza. She looked again at Angelica’s hands dancing over her thickened lap. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to articulate the word, even mentally. Angelica was her sister, after all. Even if she was married now, she still couldn’t be . . . Could she?
A heavy sigh came from the bed. “Oh, Eliza, my sweet, sweet, naïve girl. Don’t you realize you are going to be an aunt?”
Eliza laughed nervously. “Don’t you mean sister, Mama?”
“I am in labor, my dear. I am not ill, nor have I lost my wits, nor my words. I mean aunt.”
“Aunt?” Eliza repeated dumbly.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Dot said from the opposite end of the bed. “Open your eyes, girl. Your sister is pregnant!”
Eliza turned to Angelica, who was looking at her with wide eyes, her face a mixture of exultation tinged with fear. She nodded to Eliza’s unvoiced question, and then the sisters threw their arms around each other in glee, the sound of their merriment filling the already overcrowded bedroom. And as she held her sister’s body and felt the soft mound of Angelica’s stomach press against hers, all the arguments that she had conjured against children during her walk home evaporated. She realized she, too, longed to be a mother. To raise a family of Hamiltons with her Alex. She hoped that she, too, would soon be similarly blessed.
Dot looked up and found Mrs. Schuyler’s eyes. “I must say, I’ve been in some rather peculiar birthing rooms. But this takes the cake.”
Mrs. Schuyler smiled wryly down at her midwife. “You know the Schuyler sisters,” she said. “There is no situation so august that they cannot find a way to have a laugh. Why, I bet this new one will be born with a smile!”
10
Into the Fray
The Trenches
Yorktown, Virginia
September 1781
Alex made his way slowly up the ranks of men, nodding at this one, shaking hands with that. The setting sun was behind him, bathing his men’s faces in golden tones, but every time he stepped close to one of them his shadow would cast the man into darkness. Alex did his best not to think of that as an omen.
“You wanted stories to tell your sons, Enright,” he said to one. “We’ll give him a good story tonight, I promise!”
“Private Carson! Are you really eating soup at a time like this? Let’s hope it’s not leaking out a bullet hole a few hours hence!”
“No, Corporal Fromm, we will not be taking British scalps as trophies of war. Feel free to pilfer a new pair of boots, though. Those look about as solid as cheesecloth!”
The men—his men—looked at him with sardonic yet resolute expressions, the forced jocularity of soldiers pretending they weren’t frightened of the death that might very well be awaiting them in the next hour or two. Their faces were streaked with mud, which Alex had jokingly told them not to wash off. “A paler bunch of boys I never saw! Two weeks in the sun and you still have cheeks like fish bellies! A little mud’ll help to hide you from British eyes once the moon is up!”
Like his soldiers, Alex struck a carefree, even comical tone. Unlike them, however, there was no pretense in his façade. Though he knew the action he was about to undertake was extremely dangerous, and that some of his men, and quite possibly himself, would be killed, he felt no fear. He had promised Eliza he would return to her side, and he meant to keep his promise. As far away as he was from her, she was ever in his thoughts and in his heart.
True, he had sought a command because it would help his reputation and further his career, especially if he chose to pursue politics as more than hobby or a purely intellectual pastime. What he hadn’t been able to admit, even to himself, was that he craved the battlefield, the chance to put his life on the line for something he believed in, and, yes, to take the lives of people who opposed those values.
When he had served under General Washington at Monmouth, he plunged into the fray like an enlisted infantryman rather than take advantage of an officer’s prerogative to give orders from afar. In this, he followed Washington’s example, but he continued to fight even after the enemy had been routed, risking death time and again as he hunted down fleeing soldiers, until, at last, his horse was shot from him and he narrowly avoided being crushed by the collapsing animal.
He could feel that same battle-lust growing in him now. A few hours ago, he and his soldiers had completed digging the forward trench of the American position—a backbreaking task that took four hundred–plus soldiers the entire day. Alex’s unit was comprised of men who understood the engineering needed to fight a battle: sappers who could cut a path through forest and brush with speed, and miners who knew the craft needed to dig a well-made trench.
It was impossible to know what the British troops were up to behind the twenty-foot walls of their palisade, but no cannon balls had come flying over the spiked timber poles of their fort walls as yet. Alex had grabbed a shovel and worked with the rest of his men, in part to inspire camaraderie (he could not use the word without grimacing at the memory of Lafayette’s attempt to wrest his command from him), in part because he could not bear the idleness of waiting.
The work was exhausting but his mind had continued to race about chaotically, and as soon as the trench was completed, he led his men in a macabre dance just outside the range of British rifle fire to taunt the enemy with their accomplishment. Drummers beat their skins and pipers blew shrill scales through their reeds, as bone-weary soldiers danced their way into fatigue and out the other side.
He needed to get their minds off the coming action, and off death itself. For ten minutes, they cavorted as though at a barn dance, laughing, jigging, and whooping like, yes, lunatics escaped from an asylum, and though they may well have then looked like the most undisciplined bunch of soldiers ever to don a uniform, now were they calm where before they had been jittery. They sat in little groups of threes and fours, chewing on jerky or hardtack and sharing flasks with brotherly solidarity, their eyes alert even as their limbs were relaxed. They looked ready to charge forward at a moment’s notice.
Afterward, when Alex had jumped back into the ditch, he found a scowling Laurens waiting for him. Laurens’s presence wasn’t a surprise. Alex had requested that his friend be assigned to his unit as one of his three battalion leaders. Laurens had been delayed in his arrival, though, and this was the first Alex had seen him all day.
“Laurens!” he exclaimed. He extended his hand, but his friend ignored it.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Laurens demanded.
Alex pulled up short. He stood up straight and squared his unbuttoned jacket on his shoulders as best he could. “Excuse me, Colonel Laurens?” he said in the most imperious voice he could summon in his breathless state. “Have you something to ask me?”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Laurens repeated, before throwing in a sneering “Sir.”
Laurens’s eyes flickered to the men who were jumping down from their dancing into the trench, and Alex knew just what he meant. “You refer to the current bacchanal?”
“Assuredly so. Dancing like coyotes whose fur is on fire in full view of the enemy.”
“I assure you that my men were well out of reach of the British, and should they have fired their cannon we would have—”
“Hang the British!” Laurens interrupted him. “Do you want to be stripped of your command before you’ve even taken the field?”
Alex’s eyes went wide. For the first time, he realized just how foolish his actions must have looked to an outsider. Yet he knew, too, that it had been the right thing to do. His men were tired and, though they would never admit it, frightened as well. To storm a twenty-foot palisade with nothing but bayonets, axes, and ladders was as risky a venture as war provided, and some of his men would surely die.
Laurens leaned in close now. His face had softened, as if he had read the thoughts that had raced through Alex’s head. “Listen to me, sir,” he said. “I have served in the infantry, and I have led it as well. I know the emotions that are coursing through your men right now. This is a momentous night. If we are victorious here, we may well establish unequivocally the freedom and independence of these thirteen states—not colonies but states—and the nation they comprise. But to accomplish that, your men need the brilliant and composed Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton, not the fierce, fearless, but, dare I say, sometimes foolhardy boy who has made his own way in the world since he was barely into his teens.”
Part of Alex heard the wisdom in his friend’s words, but part of him was still angry at being called out—and for doing the right thing, no less, regardless of the optics. “I can’t help but note that that boy has done rather well for himself,” Alex said now, but in a softer tone.
“Indeed, he has: by channeling his anger and energy into mature pursuits, and putting childish fancies behind him.” Laurens lowered his voice, but it only increased in intensity. “It is not just these men who need you, Colonel, nor even your country. You have a wife now. You have a future.”
Alex allowed an image of Eliza to fill his mind. Eliza in all her beauty and strength and intelligence, shaking her head at his over-exuberance, and he knew Laurens was right. He stood silently for a long moment, letting his friend’s sage words sink in. At length, Laurens stepped back and snapped a smart salute.
“Colonel Laurens, sir!” he barked in a grade-A military voice. “Reporting for duty, sir!”
Alex saluted back, yet still couldn’t help himself. He grabbed a nearby shovel and tossed it to his friend. “I believe the latrines have yet to be completed, Colonel. See to that, will you?”
A wry grin split Laurens’s face. “And to think I gave you a horse,” he said, then slung the shovel over his shoulder and marched away.
* * *
NOW, SOME THREE hours after Laurens had reined him in, Alex’s manic energy was gone, and in its place was a calmer resolve. He was still eager to engage with the enemy, but he knew he would not rush in foolishly or make any rash decisions. War required blood, yes, but cold blood, not hot. He shook his hands and joked with his men, and knew that when the signal came he would organize them into serried ranks and lead them decisively into hellfire. They would fight as soldiers, not barbarians, and if they secured victory they would do so as men, not animals.
As American citizens, he said to himself, not subjects of a distant crown.
He came at last to the end of the ranks and ducked into the small command tent that had been established there. Inside waited Laurens and Major Nicholas Fish, with whom Alex had served many times under Washington’s command, and a third man whom he never formally met, though he had seen him in the company of Lafayette.
“Major Gimat,” he said, extending his hand before the Frenchman could greet him.
“Colonel Hamilton!” Gimat barked, jumping to his feet. “Major Gimat, reporting for duty!” His English was as impeccable as his uniform, though both were tinted French.
He saluted Alex and then, seeing that Alex’s hand remained extended, shook it firmly.
“I trust there are no hard feelings about yesterday’s shake-up,” Alex said in a quieter tone, so that only the Frenchman could hear him.
Gimat allowed himself a smile. “What shake-up, sir? I didn’t hear of any shake-up.”
“Good man,” Alex said. “Now then,” he said, turning to include Laurens and Fish. “I want to make sure we’re versed on tonight’s plan of action. General Rochambeau’s sentries are observing the British position. When they see the guard being relieved, they will dispatch runners to alert us. We will have approximately five minutes to prepare the men for the charge, at which point our cannon will unleash a fusillade into the sky. The bombs are for illumination rather than attack. The sappers and miners will dig the last yards forward and then clear two breaches into the enemy pikes. The remaining soldiers will give them exactly four minutes to accomplish their task, then follow after. Once we clear the pikes, we will proceed directly to the palisade. Four ladder teams will scale the wall and lay down protective fire for two advance teams, who will cut through the palisade with axes. And then, well”—he brandished his bayonet-tipped rifle—“we fight.”
He turned to Major Fish. He was three years younger than Alex, a rangy, powerful man with a thin, sharp nose and lively eyes. He had fought for the revolutionary cause since his teenage years in the Sons of Liberty, an organization that dated back to before the Declaration of Independence, and whose daring raids helped spur a cowed populace to throw off their overseas oppressor. As pure a patriot couldn’t be found in the all the soldiers on this side of the British line.
“Major Fish,” Alex said, “it falls to your sappers to lead us onto the field. Are they ready?”
Fish nodded curtly. “Their saws are as sharp as razors and their chains coiled tighter than an angry viper. You have provided us four minutes to take down the enemy’s pikes, but I predict we will have them shredded in two. Their axes will knock the enemy’s timber walls to the ground like a nor’easter snapping the masts off a hapless whaler.”
“I have no doubt that they will. Colonel Laurens, Major Gimat, your men know this is to be a battle fought primarily with blades, not bullets. There will be no time for reloading in such close quarters.”
“Nearly all my men have been equipped with bayonets, sir,” Laurens replied in a military tone that betrayed no hint of the friends’ intimacy. “Those who haven’t are well armed with sabers.”
“My men are similarly equipped, sir,” Gimat followed. “They are aware that we outnumber the enemy and that we can swarm them into submission. I have told them to fight as fiercely as if this were French soil they were defending. If the British have any sense, they will surrender once we take the palisade down, and most of their boys will live to book journeys back to British soil, where they can return to their potato farming.”
“I believe it is the Irish who grow the potatoes, Major,” Laurens said with a bit of a laugh.
“You say potato, I say pomme de terre,” Gimat said. “In either case, I am sure it will be only a few years before the British come traipsing on our side of the Channel, and I will once again have the honor of planting redcoats in the ground. Like potatoes,” he couldn’t help adding.
“One war at a time, Major,” Alex said wryly. “Well then. It seems we are ready. Now all we do is wait.”
Gimat produced a small silver flask from his jacket. “Perhaps a drink to seal our union. I have grown rather fond of your American whiskey. It tastes like sin and burns like pepper, but it ‘gets the job done,’ as they say, with remarkable alacrity.”
“I can think of no more fitting occasion,” Alex said, taking the flask and pulling a slug of fiery liquid into his mouth, then handing it back to Gimat. Gimat passed it to Laurens, and then to Fish, before drinking himself.
Gimat had just finished screwing the lid back on the flask and stowing it when heavy footsteps were heard outside the tent flap. The sentry asked for the password, and a breathless voice answered, “Rochambeau!” A moment later the flap was pulled aside and a young soldier entered.
“The redcoats are pulling their guards off the wall,” he panted, not even bothering to locate the commanding officer. “The cannon will be fired momentarily.”
Alex nodded at him. “Gentlemen,” he said. “To war.”
He shook Fish’s and Gimat’s hands as they headed out of the tent. Laurens grabbed his friend in a bear hug, kissed both of Alex’s cheeks, then departed into the night.
Alone in the tent, Alex pulled the latest letter from Eliza from his pocket, one he had committed to memory so that reading it was redundant.
My dearest,
On July 5, Catherine Van Rensselaer Schuyler II entered this world in the presence of myself and Angelica. She is a bright-eyed, strong girl whom we have already christened Kitty, which was the name by which Mama says she was known in her youth. (Tho’ I have a hard time imagining anyone having the temerity to refer to Catherine Van Rensselaer Schuyler I as “Kitty”!) To compound the day’s joys, Angelica informed me that she and Mr. Church are expecting a child of their own! Oh, Alex, it is happening! The war is ending and a new generation is being born! The first generation to grow up as Americans! It is a privilege almost too great to contemplate. Oh, my darling, I cannot wait till you are here again—till we make our home wherever we make it, in Albany or Boston or New York or Philadelphia! Hurry back to me, and let us lead this nation into the future!
Love & War--An Alex & Eliza Story Page 9