Although none of us realized it then, that winter would be the worst in memory, with bitter cold and numerous storms that froze rivers and harbors solid and buried roads thick in snow and ice. Our journey was slow and arduous, by sledge and by sleigh. Although the campaigns of both armies had ceased for the winter season, the country was still at war, and Papa took care that our driver followed only the safest (if indirect) routes through territory held by the Continental forces.
There was another reason to be cautious. Although my father had resigned his commission, he remained a close friend and advisor to General Washington as well as a member of Congress. The British knew this, and there’d been sufficient rumors of a possible kidnapping that we were granted a military escort for our journey.
Not a day passed that our progress wasn’t hampered by fresh snow or ice, yet still we pressed onward. As a soldier, Papa was accustomed to this kind of hardship, and lost himself in reading letters and dispatches from the other members of Congress as if he were home at his own desk. I was woefully not as stalwart, no matter my resolve. Fresh coals in my foot warmer turned cold beneath my skirts within an hour, and even bundled beneath heavy fur throws, my fingers and toes were often numb with the cold. It wasn’t possible to divert myself with needlework or reading; all I could do was concentrate on keeping warm.
In the midst of my misery, I thought often of how Colonel Hamilton had made this journey in five days during October. Now, in January, it took Papa and me nearly three weeks to cover the same distance.
We finally arrived in Morristown late in the afternoon on the first of February. The weak winter sun was low and rosy in the sky, making long shadows across the snow. I sat up straight and looked about me as the weary horses slowly pulled our sleigh through the small town, eager for a glimpse of the exciting encampment that Aunt Gertrude had promised.
I didn’t see it. Instead Morristown had a weary, pinched look, and none of the bustle and purpose that I’d expected. The snow in the streets was dirty and trodden, and the few soldiers we passed were hurrying hunched and bent against the cold. To my surprise, there were no women or children abroad at all. Although the houses were agreeable, some had their shutters closed on the lowest floors as if the inhabitants were in hiding, while others showed more the appearance of public houses than private homes, with a general lack of care and tidiness that no good housewife would admit.
“Where is everyone, Papa?” I asked, my words coming out in little clouds in the chill air. “Aunt Gertrude said there were thousands of soldiers here, yet I’ve seen fewer than a dozen.”
“The majority of the men aren’t stationed here in town, but to the north, in a place called Jockey Hollow,” Papa said as he, too, glanced about the quiet street. “Some of the higher-ranking officers have secured quarters in private houses for themselves and their families, with His Excellency and his staff in Mrs. Ford’s mansion at the end of town.”
I nodded, for that made sense. “But if the soldiers are elsewhere, then where are the townspeople? I know it’s cold, but there should still be people about at this time of day. There would be in New York or Albany.”
“But neither of those are Morristown,” Papa said, his voice somber. “I suspect your aunt has painted this place like some merry Vauxhall frolic, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The townspeople don’t want the army here at all, and have no compunctions about showing their disdain by keeping their distance, as you have noticed.”
His frankness startled me, for though he was still closely involved with affairs of the war, he seldom confided these matters to me.
“How very uncivil of them,” I said warmly, “and unpatriotic, too.”
Papa grunted. “They have their reasons,” he said. “Nor would I question their patriotism. The last time the army camped here three years ago, the soldiers brought smallpox with them, and many from families here fell ill and died. Since then, His Excellency has ordered that all men be inoculated so they no longer carry the contagion, but the fears among the people remain.”
Their fears were understandable, too. Smallpox was a terrible evil that claimed young and old alike, and while inoculation was growing in popularity, there were still many more superstitious folk who would rather risk the disease itself. No wonder they kept within their homes.
“But for this camp, disease is the least of the worries,” Papa continued without any prompting. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead past the driver’s back, his profile sharp against the banks of snow, and his mouth grimly set. I wondered if he even remembered I was beside him.
“The soldiers themselves are already suffering,” he continued bluntly, his voice edged with anger, “and winter still has months to run its course. There are insufficient shelters, leaving men to weather these snowstorms with no more comfort than a tattered blanket. His Excellency does what he can for them, but there isn’t enough food, firewood, or cabins, and most of the men haven’t been paid in months. Some have deserted for home, and others have turned to thieving. It is a constant challenge for the officers to maintain morale and discipline.”
No, there hadn’t been a word of any of this in Aunt Gertrude’s letters. I sank a little lower beneath the piled furs that kept me warm with my hands snug inside my muff, and with guilty remorse I thought of soldiers shivering through the winter without proper shelter, without fires for warmth or food in their bellies. What right did I have to feel the cold, or complain of it?
“Where are the army’s provisions?” I asked. “It’s still early in the winter. Surely supplies are not already exhausted. If the men are in want, why hasn’t Congress addressed their needs?”
Papa frowned, and lowered his chin into the thick collar of his greatcoat like a turtle closing into its shell. “It is not so simple as that, Eliza.”
“Why isn’t it?” I asked, genuinely troubled. I wasn’t being difficult; I simply wished to know. Surely there was a way to remedy this appalling state of affairs. “You’re a member of Congress yourself, Papa. If it is known that our soldiers are hungry, why isn’t food being given to them?”
“That’s no concern of yours, nor should it be,” he said, more sharply than I’d expected. “It will be addressed by Congress, and they will be made to understand.”
He gave my knee an awkward, muffled pat with his gloved hand. “I shouldn’t burden you with my worries. That’s not why you’ve come all this way, is it? No, your purpose here is to be a companion to your aunt through a difficult winter. I’m sure you’ll be a cheerful and virtuous presence and a comfort to all those here who need it most, as any good Christian woman would.”
“I shall do my best, Papa,” I said, an easy promise to make. Being cheerful, virtuous, and a comfort to others had been ingrained into me and my sisters all our lives by our mother.
He nodded, though I sensed that his thoughts were already elsewhere.
“I’m sure your aunt has told you that Colonel Hamilton continues as His Excellency’s primary aide-de-camp in Morristown,” he said gruffly, “and that he has asked after you. You do recall the gentleman, don’t you?”
We’d been traveling together for three weeks, yet it had taken Papa until now to speak those words to me. But because I’d been half expecting this from the beginning (and even long before), I managed to keep my voice even and my reply measured and truthful.
“Aunt Gertrude did relay the colonel’s compliments to me, yes,” I said carefully. “And yes, I have not forgotten him. But he has never written to me directly, Papa, nor presumed upon our acquaintance.”
Papa frowned, his brows drawing tightly together beneath the cocked brim of his hat.
“I would expect that as an officer, Colonel Hamilton has been far too occupied with his duties to write love letters,” he said. “It’s your aunt who has been the presumptuous one in regard to the man.”
“You liked Colonel Hamilton when he called on us two years ago,” I said, daring greatly. “You said he had great prom
ise, and you said he was intelligent, resourceful, and courageous.”
“And you, daughter, have an excellent memory.” He shifted on the sleigh’s seat to face me. He had tied a scarf around his black beaver hat to keep the wind from carrying it away from his head, yet long wisps of his hair had pulled free from the ribbon around his queue to whip in the breeze beside his weathered cheek. I don’t know why I took notice of his hair at that moment; perhaps my thoughts would rather have concentrated on his unkempt hair than on the seriousness of our conversation. “So the colonel did catch your eye when he last visited us. I thought as much.”
My cheeks warmed, even in the cold air. “One evening’s acquaintance is scarcely enough to judge him, Papa,” I said. “He made himself agreeable to me, that was all.”
“You needn’t be so coy with me, Eliza,” he said. “I knew within moments of meeting your mother that I would marry her.”
“Papa, please,” I exclaimed. My parents had never made a secret of the warm devotion and love they held for each other, and although they had been wed for nearly twenty-five years, the nursery on the uppermost floor of our house was still frequently required for another new little brother or sister. Yet it made me feel uncomfortably rushed to hear my father speak of me and Colonel Hamilton in the same fashion. “It’s far too soon for that.”
He shook his head, making it clear that he believed my objections to be nothing more than over-modest rubbish.
“Such matters are inclined to move more swiftly during times of war, Eliza,” he said. “I realize that your aunt may be as enthusiastic as Cupid himself, especially where Colonel Hamilton is concerned. It cannot be denied that he has certain impediments, however. The man has no fortune or family, and his origins are questionable at best.”
“I know his family wasn’t Dutch, like ours,” I began, “and I know he wasn’t born in New York, but—”
Papa cut me off. “It’s not where he was born, Eliza, but how,” he said. “His mother left her lawful husband to live sinfully with her lover. That man was Hamilton’s father. He is illegitimate, a bastard, and all the world knows it.”
All the world might have known his parentage, but I hadn’t, and in confusion I looked down to my lap. I’d never known anyone who’d been born outside a lawful marriage, and although it was shocking, I was still unwilling to abandon Colonel Hamilton.
“But that is not his fault, Father,” I said earnestly. “None of us has the ability to choose our parents. That is God’s will, not ours. I was fortunate in my birth, and he was not, and he should no more be blamed for that circumstance of his fate than I should be praised for mine.”
“What republican sentiments for a lady, Elizabeth,” Papa said, so dryly that I couldn’t tell if he agreed with me or not.
“They’re Christian sentiments as well,” I said firmly. “You cannot quarrel with that.”
“Nor with you, daughter,” he said more gently. “Permit me to continue. You should know that regardless of Colonel Hamilton’s lack of a respectable family, I remain impressed with his zeal, his courage, and his determination. By his own merits, he has achieved far more than he should have by rights of his low birth, and I’ve little doubt he’ll continue on that path. He will do well in this world. He already has. He has won the favor of His Excellency, and therefore mine as well.”
“Then you—you do not find him objectionable?” I asked uncertainly.
“Not at all, Eliza,” Papa said. “If you discover that the fellow continues to be agreeable to you, why, then, I want you to understand that neither your mother nor I would object if he presses his suit. I would not object at all.”
I bowed my head, my thoughts spinning. That was as good as a blessing, better than I’d expected. But I understood what Papa wasn’t saying, too: that I was twenty-two-years old, that he worried for my future, that he was relieved that a reasonably acceptable man was showing interest in me, and that he didn’t want me to waste away as a spinster.
I didn’t want to perish as a spinster, either. But it had been over two years since I’d last seen Colonel Hamilton, and even that had been for only a few hours’ time. After so many months, I wasn’t sure I could even recall his face, handsome as it had been, with real clarity.
Yet I had liked him; he’d impressed me in all the ways that mattered most. That was what I remembered, that he’d been so different from other gentlemen. He’d been special.
If I’d married someone from Albany or New York as had always been expected of me, a young gentleman who was from a family similar to my own, I would know exactly what my life would be. I would oversee a large house in the country and another in the city of New York, with children and servants and a respectably dull and dully respectable husband. It would all be predictable and safe and without a whit of excitement, and the longer I considered such a life, the less appeal it held for me. Yet even after only one meeting, I knew that life with Alexander would always be exciting, because he was exciting.
So yes, I’d liked him. But as much as I respected my parents’ wishes, I wanted this decision to be mine, not theirs, and I wanted to be sure.
Papa, however, misread my silence.
“Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to go against your heart, Elizabeth,” he said with another awkward pat to my knee. “If your mother and I are mistaken and he doesn’t please you, then you’re sure to find many other fish in the sea, yes? Above everything else, we wish you to be happy. There will be officers by the score here at this encampment, and perhaps there will be another who will better—”
“He didn’t die, Papa,” I said, my head still bent. “Colonel Hamilton wasn’t killed in battle or by illness or anything else. You and I both feared he would be, and yet instead he was preserved.”
“He’s lucky that way,” Papa said easily, an explanation that I expected was popular among soldiers. “Some men simply are.”
“Perhaps Colonel Hamilton was kept from danger for a purpose, Papa.” I looked up to meet his gaze. “Perhaps he was meant to do great things, for this country, and nothing will stop him until he does.”
Papa only smiled indulgently.
“I suspect the colonel would agree with you, Elizabeth,” he said, glancing past me to the houses we were passing. “Ahh, finally, there are your aunt’s lodgings. I cannot wait for the comfort of a good fire, can you?”
To mask my disappointment, I busied myself with arranging my cloak, as if preparing for the end of our journey. I should have known better than to say such things about Colonel Hamilton to Papa. It wasn’t that Papa couldn’t understand. It was more that he wouldn’t. In his head he’d already decided that Colonel Hamilton would be acceptable as a suitor for me, and that was the end of it. The subject was done.
Mamma claimed proudly that Papa’s ability to make up his mind quickly and progress forward to the next decision was why he had been a successful general, and perhaps it was. My opinions were of no consequence, because his thoughts had already moved elsewhere, doubtless to the confidential meeting he would have with General Washington later in the evening. How could my humble opinions rival that?
I smoothed my gloves and sighed, and resolved to let it pass. But I could understand now why my sister Angelica had eloped rather than battle with Papa about her own choice of a husband.
The horses had stopped before a clapboard house, with candles already lit within against the dwindling daylight and smoke from the fires that my father so craved curling from the chimneys. The house belonged to Dr. Jabez Campfield and his wife; Dr. Campfield was an army surgeon who had agreed to quarter my aunt and uncle during the winter encampment. In a town where lodging was at a premium, the arrangement between the two medical gentlemen had become both gracious and convenient. Still, as was the case everywhere in Morristown, we would be a crowd in the house, with not only Dr. and Mrs. Campfield and their young son, their servants, and the doctor’s two apprentices, but my aunt and uncle, their two sons, their servants, and now me as well.
I, too, retreated to my bedchamber to oversee Rose as she unpacked my trunks. Mamma had made a loan to me of Rose, one of our Negroes, to act as my lady’s maid and to dress my hair for me while I was here in Morristown. Rose and father’s manservant had only just arrived, having traveled more slowly in the sledge with our baggage, and she was now beginning to shake out my gowns. I joined her, trying to decide what of my belongings to unpack and which to leave for now in the trunks. As was to be expected, my room was small for all that Mamma had insisted I needed to bring with me.
We’d scarcely begun before Aunt Gertrude joined us. My aunt resembled my father, with the dark eyes and long nose of their family, as well as the same practical streak. But while in years she was the older sibling, she had always seemed much younger to me. This was perhaps because after being widowed and then remarrying, she’d surprisingly become the mother of two more sons, now aged nine and three, the younger born when my aunt was fifty-three.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 3
