Alex and Eliza--A Love Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  On the afternoon of the third day of Laurens’s visit, a messenger arrived from Charleston. Reports had come in that General Clinton, the commander in chief of the British forces, was shifting the focus of the war to the South. After being driven from Philadelphia a year and a half ago, General Clinton had holed up in New York City, but since Ambassador Franklin and the Marquis de Lafayette had persuaded the French to enter the war on the side of the Americans, Clinton had come to the conclusion that the northern states, with their close proximity to French Canada, were increasingly vulnerable to a combined French-American attack, and he should shift their efforts south.

  The South was the engine of the American economy: Much of its food came from below the newly surveyed Mason-Dixon Line, as well as two of its most valuable exports, tobacco and cotton. If Clinton could cut off the South from the North, the cash-strapped nation would soon run completely out of money.

  Even before the messenger had finished delivering his news, John Laurens was shifting about in his seat. As soon as General Washington dismissed them, he raced out of the building. It was all Alex could do to keep up with him.

  “Laurens!” he called after his friend, fleeing out of headquarters without even bothering to put on his coat amid the winter chill. “Laurens, wait!”

  At the sound of Alex’s voice, Laurens halted, panting wildly. He waited until his friend caught up to him.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Charleston is my home. My family is there. My mother and brothers and sisters, and Mepkin.”

  “Your beloved estate. You talk about it as though it were your child.”

  “More like my parent. I would not be the man I am were it not for what I learned at Mepkin. One day when you establish an estate of your own you will feel the same way about it. I must return home to protect her.”

  “Of course,” Alex said, even though he had no real experience with what having a home meant. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to persuade you otherwise.”

  “Then give us a good hug farewell, Alex.”

  The two men embraced there on the path to the Ford mansion. When Alex stepped back, though, Laurens held on to one of his hands.

  “And take the advice of your fondest friend—the Schuyler girl is yours for the asking. It’s time to rally, soldier. Do not wait to speak your heart.”

  Alex was surprised to see tears in his friend’s eyes, and he felt an upswell of emotion in his own chest. He knew Laurens was right, and that he was perilously close to losing his chance.

  “Be safe, my friend, and send me a lock of hair from General Clinton’s head when you drive him from Carolina,” said Alex at last.

  Laurens bowed with mock formality, then turned and strode off toward his quarters. His shoulders were square, his back straight and proud, yet Alex couldn’t shake the idea that his dear friend was marching off to his doom.

  THE NEXT MORNING was taken up with routine administrative duties, although routine was hardly the right word. The weather of winter of 1779–80 could hardly be compared with that of 1777–78, which the Continental army had spent freezing at Valley Forge. During that terrible season, one in four American soldiers died. Diseases and injuries, which would normally have been no more than inconveniences, were made rapacious by poor shelter and few provisions. The current season was milder, but the war had been going on for two additional years, and supplies were meager. Storeroom ledgers were alarming; reports from the infirmaries were dispiriting. Among Alex’s most dreaded tasks was writing the letter to the family of a fallen soldier, informing them that their son had died, not in battle like an Asgardian warrior, but in a cot, of a fever, because he could not get warm enough or fill his belly with enough sustenance to fight off the ravages of injury and infection.

  “My dear Mr. and Mrs. Willey, it is with great sadness for your loss, but also great respect for your son’s commitment to the cause of freedom, that I write to inform you of the passing of Josiah, on the 19th day of February in the year of our Lord 17 hundred and 80 . . .”

  Alex had penned no fewer than sixteen such letters that morning, and on no fewer than seven different occasions he had to abandon his draft and begin again, because he’d mistakenly used the name John for whatever fallen soldier he was meant to be commemorating. When the letters were complete, he told Corporal Weston that he was off to run an errand; he grabbed his coat and hurried from headquarters.

  He had no fixed plans when he left. He only knew he needed to get away from his dismal task and worries about his friend, who was riding south toward the fiercest troops the British had mustered. But his feet knew where to take him. Within ten minutes of leaving the Ford mansion, he found himself back again at his post on Chapel Street, standing before the two-story white house.

  It was one o’clock in the afternoon when Alex banged the knocker on the Cochrans’ front door. He had no idea whether anyone would be home or not, especially since Eliza’s sisters had arrived in Morristown. No doubt she was off somewhere doing the Lord’s work with them. But he thought about what Laurens had said. I’m a soldier. It’s time to rally! But maybe he should just go and get back to his—

  The door pulled open and Ulysses greeted him. “Colonel Hamilton,” he nodded, motioning that he should enter.

  Alex thanked the old butler and walked into the hall, which in truth was not much warmer than it was outside. Ulysses beckoned him to follow him into a parlor, which was considerably warmer. A fire blazed in the hearth and the scent of spiced cider oozed from a brass kettle hanging over it. Alex’s soldier-trained eyes peered into the shadowed room—its windows faced northeast—but did not spy an occupant.

  “Miss Schuyler, Colonel Hamilton is calling.”

  A shadow detached itself from the recesses of a high-backed wing chair, and Eliza’s face, turning toward the door, greeted his.

  “Colonel Hamilton!” Eliza jumped to her feet, sending an embroidering ring and several spools of thread and a pair of long needles flying. “No, no, not to worry,” she said as Ulysses stooped forward to pick up the fallen objects. “I’ll get it. Please bring Mr. Hamilton a cup. I’m sure he would enjoy a glass of hot cider. It is particularly frosty today.”

  She knelt down as the butler retreated from the room, her nimble fingers retrieving the scattered articles. “Indigo, indigo, I am sure I was working with—oh!”

  She started as she looked up and found Alex kneeling beside her, his gloved hands proffering the spool of blue thread. He pressed it into her hand more firmly than he needed to.

  “Here you are, Miss Schuyler.”

  “I—thank you, Colonel.”

  He helped her stand, taking her hand once more. He didn’t seem to want to release it.

  “Somehow I take it you are not here to invite me to a sleigh ride,” she said with a hint of smile.

  Alex shook his head as the door opened behind them, and a maid entered with a pewter cup. He crossed to a chair and waited till Eliza had taken a seat before he, too, sat down. Louisa brought them each a tall drink of cider, poked the fire, then asked if there was anything else needed.

  “No, thank you, Louisa. You may go.” She waited until the maid was gone before speaking again. “I am sorry to say that my aunt and uncle are not at home. Dr. Cochran is attending to the troops, and my aunt is, as always, acting as nurse and assistant, and my sisters are out at the moment.”

  Alex spoke frankly. “I did not come to see them.” Then, fearing he was insinuating too much, he said, “Colonel Laurens left yesterevening. I thought you would like to know.”

  “Oh! That is too bad. I know you are dear friends. Did he take the marquis with him?”

  “No, General Lafayette remains among us, though he will be off soon. There are rumors of British activity in coastal Connecticut, and he is going to investigate.”

  “Ah. So you will be left quite friendless and bereft!”

  “N
ot entirely bereft, I hope,” Alex said, staring directly into Eliza’s eyes. But his gaze must have been too intense, for she turned away suddenly and reached for her embroidery. He saw now that it wasn’t a ring for a pillow sham but rather the sleeve of a uniform she was working on—she was sewing on an insignia of rank.

  “You give so much to our troops,” Alex said now. “If there were decorations for noncombatants, you would be the first to receive one.”

  “I fear I do not do nearly enough,” Eliza said. “Especially since coming here, to a strange town where I have not the network of friends and acquaintances to tap for resources for our boys.”

  Alex knew that he should tell her that what she did was more than adequate, but something held his tongue. At length he spoke.

  “You will forgive me, Miss Schuyler. I am afraid I do not know why I came here this afternoon, but I could not help but want to see you. I think I wanted . . . consolation?”

  “Colonel Hamilton? Have you lost someone dear to you?”

  Alex thought of Laurens walking away, and the number of times he had written his name in the place of one or another fallen soldier. “I hope not,” he said.

  “Colonel Hamilton?” Eliza said again, concern etched all over her gentle face. It was a face he could imagine waking up to every morning, and in his dreams, she was always there.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Schuyler,” Alex said. “I—” He broke off. Then a thought came to him, unbidden: “Have you ever been to the infirmaries?”

  Eliza knew what he meant. “You mean the wards? Where the soldiers recuperate? I am afraid I have only been to the examining rooms when I helped my aunt administer the inoculation for the pox.”

  “It is a difficult thing to recover in the coldness and anonymity of a hospital as opposed to the comfort and familiarity of one’s home. There are no books, no mother or servants, no little brothers and sisters to distract one from the boredom or the pain. I think that our soldiers would appreciate it very much if they had a visitor every now and then.”

  Eliza looked taken aback at first, and then chagrined. “Of course! And here I am sewing on silly little epaulets that turn an ensign into a lieutenant and a lieutenant into a . . . major? Did I get that right?” As the daughter of a general Eliza knew the insignia well, but she felt the need to be a little self-deprecating. She continued: “I shall make arrangements with my uncle to visit them as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “That is, I was thinking—perhaps I could take you there now?”

  “Oh!” Eliza said, then “Oh!” again. “Of course. Just let me put on something warm.”

  She stood up and only then did Alex notice that she was wearing a simple woolen dress: warm, if one were inside, near a fire, but hardly suited to the freezing weather.

  He stood up, too.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being stupid,” he said. “I should have written and given you advance notice. We can do this another day. Tomorrow or—no, tomorrow I have to drill. Friday, then—”

  “Nonsense,” Eliza said. “If the truth be known, I am half crazy with boredom. Peggy has been spending all her time with Stephen, and Angelica is off who knows where. While Aunt Gertrude and Uncle John are off saving lives, I am left here for six or eight or ten hours at a time sewing epaulets on sleeves. Please, I beg of you: Put me to real use.”

  Alex waited while she slipped from the room. She was back some fifteen minutes later. It was unclear to him whether she’d changed her dress or not, but now she was bundled beneath several layers of coat and shawl and hat and gloves. He did see that she had replaced her silk slippers for a pair of sturdy leather boots with a pointed toe and tiny heel.

  “I am ready for the fiercest storm,” she said. “Please, lead on.”

  It was only when they were outside that Alex realized he should have commandeered a buggy for this trip. The nearest infirmary was half a mile away, and though Eliza was dressed for the weather, he had only his greatcoat and tricorne. From chest to knees he was snug, but his exposed neck and poorly shod feet immediately felt the nip of the cold. Yet when Eliza crooked her elbow to accept his, all thoughts of the cold vanished from his mind, and he set off toward the infirmary at a leisurely pace, half hoping the journey would never end.

  As they strolled, he told Eliza of his gloom at Laurens’s departure, and the strange vision he kept having of his friend’s death as he wrote out letters of consolation to the families of fallen soldiers. He kept telling himself to change the subject—talk of death and war were not the things to win a girl’s heart—but the words came of their own accord. Though Eliza said very little as he spoke, her step never faltered and her arm in his never shook. More than once, he felt her reach across with her free hand to pat his.

  Was he mad? Wooing a girl by taking her to the infirmary? What was he thinking? But Eliza Schuyler did not seem to mind.

  Romance during wartime, he thought. In exceptional times, none of the usual rules apply.

  Then again, perhaps it’s not the times that are exceptional, he thought. Perhaps it’s the girl.

  21

  Soldiers and Suitors

  C Infirmary

  Morristown, New Jersey

  February 1780

  The C Infirmary was housed in a long stone barn. The structure had been crudely winterized during its conversion, and the roof had been lowered to keep the heat from disappearing into the rafters, but even so, the barn had not been designed for human habitation, and the four cast-iron stoves deployed along its length barely raised the temperature above freezing. Ten cots stretched up each side of the long space, twenty in all, and puffs of breath could be seen floating in front of pale faces.

  Eliza shook her head at the sight and pulled a small notebook and pencil from her reticule and scrawled a note.

  “What are you writing?” the colonel asked, intrigued.

  For a moment she was consciously aware of his presence and felt the quickening beat of her heart, but she took hold of herself and her emotions in order to concentrate on the task at hand.

  “Lists! We need more stoves,” she told him. “More stoves and blankets.” She waved a hand at the vast space. “This simply will not do.”

  “If anyone can find them, I have no doubt it’s you.”

  An orderly dozing near one of the stoves snapped to attention as they approached.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Hamilton!” he barked, saluting. His face was flushed from the heat so close to the stove, his collar undone, revealing a slightly moist neck.

  “Corporal Weston!” exclaimed Eliza, delighted to recognize a familiar face.

  “You know this man?” Colonel Hamilton demanded, sounding just a bit jealous.

  Eliza turned to him, smiling. “Of course. I inoculated him from the pox. What on earth are you doing here, Corporal?”

  Weston looked sheepish. “I got a bit ill from the inoculation.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, it should pass sooner rather than later. But I have to ask, Corporal Weston, why is your chair pushed so close to the stove? It seems to be rather uncomfortable for you, if the floridity of your cheeks is any measure.”

  Weston’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, it’s the warmest spot in the room, miss! In case you haven’t noticed, it’s winter!”

  “Indeed, I have noticed. As have, I suspect, the twenty men who lie on these cots, much farther from the stove than you are.”

  “Nineteen, miss,” Corporal Weston said defensively. “One of the beds emptied earlier this morning.”

  “Emptied?” Eliza repeated. “You mean, its occupant died?” Her voice was all but an accusation.

  “Y-yes, miss,” Corporal Weston answered weakly. “There are three more stoves, miss.”

  “And nineteen more patients. Might I suggest that you move one or two of the cots closer to this stove, and find a place to s
it that will be less uncomfortably hot? I do so hate to see one our brave soldiers suffering.”

  “It takes at least two men to move a bed, miss. I’m the only attendant on duty.”

  “I’m sure Colonel Hamilton would be happy to assist?”

  She turned to him for the first time since they’d entered the infirmary, brave enough to meet his piercing gaze, which never seemed to leave her face. Why on earth was he looking at her like that? Was that what Peggy and Angelica meant when they said he mooned over her all during dinner? And if so, did he notice that she looked at him that way as well?

  “Colonel?”

  As if roused from a reverie, he snapped to attention. “Corporal, grab the foot end and be quick about it,” he said, trotting toward the nearest bed. Its young occupant appeared unconscious; a downy peach fuzz sprouted along the edge of his jaw. Eliza watched as Alex tucked the soldier’s blanket around his shoulders and tenderly patted his hand.

  “Get some rest, boy. You will need it for the long journey ahead.”

  Eliza pulled gently away from Alex’s side and approached the fellow in the next bed. Another pale young face peered at her curiously, having obviously heard the commotion when she came in. Eliza introduced herself, and the soldier said his name was Private Wallace. He was perhaps twenty, but his hand in hers was as weak as a boy half his age.

  “How are you today, Private Wallace? Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Just the sight of a female face is enough to brighten up the day,” Private Wallace answered.

  “Have you no other visitors?”

  “None besides the doctors, and they’re so busy they only come once a day, usually.”

  “No family? That’s terrible.”

  Private Wallace just shrugged. “We hail from all across the north, and some even as far south as Virginia. The mails being what they are these days, most of our families don’t hear that we’ve been injured until we’ve been discharged or, you know, discharged.”