And now I determined to be brave.
* * *
PAPA’S LITTLE STUDY at the back of the house, with its emerald flock-papered walls, and its books, maps, and calculations arranged in orderly fashion, was a place forbidden to my younger sisters and brothers. They never dared interrupt Papa’s work, but because I had mastered the art of sitting with him without disturbing his thoughts, he sometimes indulged me to stay while he wrote his letters. So, bracing for the reprimand I deserved, I took the liberty of knocking upon the door.
Papa summoned me inside, and I closed the door behind me. But instead of slipping quietly into the window seat where I liked to read, I waited for him to finish his letter.
Finally, he poured a circle of wax upon the folded page and stamped it with his seal, then glanced up at me quizzically where I leaned with my back against the door. “What is it, my child?”
“What are you working on?” I asked, not quite finding the courage to tell him why I’d come.
He didn’t press me on the matter. “I’m preparing my defense for the court-martial.”
“Good,” I said, guilt souring the dinner in my belly. “Then your name can be cleared of wrongdoing once and for all.”
Papa wasn’t always a calm man—he’d once threatened to dash the brains of an incompetent underling upon the ground—but he strove to conduct himself as a gentleman. And one of the ways he attempted to discipline himself was by the working of mathematical problems. He must have been struggling with something now, because he absently scratched figures into a notebook before saying, “Unlike you, my dear child, I am not entirely confident that I will be exonerated. But at least I will have a consolation which no one can deprive me of: the conscious reflection that I have done my duty, even if I am to suffer unjustly for my country.”
I followed his gaze as it cut to the silver falcon coat of arms affixed above the fireplace.
Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. Always loyal.
That was our Schuyler family motto, one that had been flung in my father’s face by our Tory neighbors when, in ’75, Papa had exchanged his red officer’s coat for a blue general’s uniform and declared himself a soldier for the American cause. And now, because of me, he found himself accused of treason by some patriots, too.
I swallowed around a knot in my throat and finally said what I should have said months before. “I’m so sorry, Papa.”
When my mother discovered that we’d helped my eldest sister run off, she’d said some very unhandsome words to Peggy and me, in both English and Dutch. And yet, my father had never let one word of blame pass his lips. Which somehow made it worse.
Tears now blurred my vision as I blurted, “I’m so sorry for what I helped put in motion with Angelica . . .”
For my sister’s elopement had given the fractured and fractious soldiers of the Northern Department yet another reason to distrust Papa. My father should have been celebrated for cobbling together an army of fur-trading, river-going New Yorkers and unruly New England backwoodsmen. He should have been hailed as the general who staved off the invasion by felling trees over roads, destroying bridges, blocking rivers, and burning whole fields of golden wheat so as to leave the British with nothing but scorched earth. Instead, he’d been belittled as a general who could not command his own daughters, much less hold Fort Ticonderoga. I worried that my role in Angelica’s elopement had cost Papa the confidence of his men, allowing them to believe the very worst about his loyalties and competence. Perhaps it had even cost him his command.
So I expected, at long last, that with my apology, my father would bring down his wrath on me. But instead he simply said, “That was Mr. Carter’s doing.”
As much as my father had resented his new son-in-law, at least at first, I resented Jack Carter more. That’s why I wasn’t as startled as I should have been when Papa added, “I considered dispatching him with pistols, but I couldn’t kill a man your sister saw fit to love. It also wasn’t in my heart to disown her. So, at the end of the equation, there was no undoing this Gordion knot. And, as you will find is so often the case in life, my dear Betsy, the only prudent thing to do was frown, make them humble, and forgive.”
I realized that he was frowning now.
That I was humbled.
And that I was also forgiven.
At least by Papa. And the love I felt for my father in that moment was eclipsed only by admiration. Because I realized that it was love that allowed my father to set aside the injuries done to his reputation, security, and pride. For love of his family, and his country, he swallowed down indignity as if immune to its poison.
And I wished I could be like him.
But if there is anything that marks my character, it’s that I have never rested easily in the face of injustice. My father might have been able to bear it, but I simply could not. If I’d been born a son, I’d have joined the army to see our family honor restored. I’d have trained to become an officer, testing my bravery and seeking glory upon a battlefield in service of the cause. I’d have challenged his detractors to a duel.
But how, I wondered, could a daughter make a difference?
Chapter Two
There is a spirit of dissatisfaction prevailing among the soldiers and even the officers.
—MAJOR GENERAL LAFAYETTE TO GEORGE WASHINGTON
February 19, 1778
Albany
MEN THINK STITCHERY the most demure of occupations—all they see is gently bred girls, their heads bent in domestic pursuit, their hands kept busy and out of mischief. But my mother knew sewing circles for the wheels of conspiracy that they actually are. At least amongst sisters. Which was why Mama wasn’t about to leave us to our own devices.
Papa might have forgiven me, but my mother was still wroth. “You girls are dallying,” she accused from her rocking chair in the yellow parlor, her own knitting needles clicking and clacking under her experienced hands. “Especially you, Betsy.”
I pressed my lips together without offering a defense of myself, intent on not losing count of my stitches. But Peggy lifted her pretty head of dark curls to complain. “We’ve been knitting since sunrise; if we don’t take a rest, we’re going to split stitches and ruin the stockings.”
“There’s no time to worry about workmanship,” Mama snapped. Her special urgency was because the Committee of Safety and Correspondence was offering eight shillings to the first family in Albany to produce three pairs of two-threaded stockings for the soldiers billeted in our town.
Being one of the wealthiest families, we would not take the money, of course. But because we were beset by recent scandals, and Papa’s court-martial had not yet been convened to clear his name, Mama wished to burnish our reputation by knitting stockings for the cause. After all, with Albany consumed in a near hysteria of suspicion and accusation, our jail was currently filled with formerly prominent citizens accused of being enemies to this country.
I was still desperate to do something to redeem myself and my family—something more than knitting stockings in a warm parlor with frost on the windows. Fortunately, an opportunity presented itself when my father emerged from his study and called for Prince to fetch him his hat and coat.
“I’m going to the hospital,” Papa announced.
He was restless. For years, urgent letters from General Washington had come to us day and night, under seal and from riders on frothing mounts, but once the British were gone from our home, we no longer received any word from headquarters at all.
And the silence was deafening.
In what seemed almost a fit of defiance, Papa rebuilt our Saratoga house in a mere twenty-nine days, salvaging nails and hinges and knobs. Then he paced at the windows, staring beyond the fine trees to a country that was still at war . . . without him. He was a general without a command. A soldier without a battle to fight.
And somehow, I felt that way, too. As my father stooped to kiss Mama on his way out, I quickly finished my stocking and asked, “Can I go with you, Papa
?”
I think he knew that I shared his restlessness and discontent, because Papa rescued me from my mother’s withering glare by asking, “Can you spare Betsy? She’d be a help today. Peggy doesn’t have the stomach for it, but Betsy’s good with the soldiers. And Arnold likes her.”
Benedict Arnold, he meant. The Hero of Saratoga.
Having led a charge in the battle amidst a hailstorm of grapeshot and musket balls, General Arnold had taken a bullet to the leg that shattered his bone. And his patriotism was so unimpeachable that his friendship bolstered Papa’s badly bruised reputation.
It was probably for that reason that Mama agreed to part with me. I was a little sorry to abandon Peggy, who feigned the long-suffering look of a wounded soldier left behind. Still, Papa wasn’t wrong about Peg’s delicate stomach; she’d retched at the sight of a soldier whose face had been half torn off by a cannonball and none of the doctors wanted her back, whereas I knew how to make myself useful.
“Hurry while the horses are being brought out,” Papa whispered. “Before your mother changes her mind.”
I grinned. It was a grin that faded when we neared the barracks and passed a small gathering of patriot soldiers huddled together around campfires upon which they made paltry cakes of nothing more than water and flour.
These men did not salute.
One of them even spat as we passed.
Green Mountain Boys, I thought. Rude backwoods riflemen Papa once commanded who adored General Gates and had spread the rumor about Papa’s supposed treason. Dr. Franklin famously said we must all hang together, or we would surely hang separately. Well, I wished he’d told the militia.
But if Papa feared them, he didn’t show it.
Instead he rode on, contemptuous of the insult. Still, I knew he felt it, because he said, “I spoke for independence when I served in the Continental Congress. Now, blood has been spilled, widows made, children orphaned, and soldiers left half-naked, sick, and starving. I count it my duty to do for them what I can, whether I am in uniform or not, with rank and dignity, or without. Whether they spit at me for it, or not.”
Letting go the reins of my mare for a moment, I reached with one mittened hand to touch him on his mount beside me, to let him know how much I felt pride in being his daughter.
And I hoped to make him proud of me, too.
When we reached the piazza at the two-story hospital, I dismounted like a soldier and collected a parcel of shirts and bandages from the saddle, tucking it under my arm. Then I took a deep breath, knowing the hospital air was often putrid.
And yet, those lingering in either of the hospital wings were the lucky ones. They had a roof and walls to protect them against the snowfall. The hospital could only accommodate five hundred beds—and even the floor of our church at the center of town had no more room, so many wounded soldiers had to make do with tent covers. And there weren’t enough of those either.
We’d scarcely gone through the front door before a grizzled veteran with a bloodstained bandage tied about one eye actually had the temerity to shout in Papa’s face, “Where’s our pay?”
I wanted to say that he should ask Congress. But I was not tart by nature. Not like my sisters. I wasn’t pretty enough to get away with it. So I held my tongue.
Fortunately, we were spared of a reply when Benedict Arnold limped over and shoved the angry man with his crutch. “Shut your bone-box and mind your manners around Miss Schuyler,” Arnold growled at the veteran. “You’re not the only one who can complain about not being given his due . . .”
In the face of the Hero of Saratoga’s disapproval, the veteran went from steel to milk. “Yessir,” he murmured.
Not giving the surly veteran another moment of attention, Arnold turned to me. “Miss Schuyler. Always a pleasure.”
I bobbed my head, not put off by his growling, especially not when it was in defense of my papa. Arnold was simply gruff by nature, and it was a trait I knew the pain of his injury had worsened. “General Arnold.”
But as Papa took Arnold aside into a little room the hero had fitted for himself as an office, I heard the veteran behind us grumble, “Guess it don’t matter when the pay comes, since we’re all soon to die on some snowy cliff in Canada.”
I didn’t blame the soldiers for their fear of the forthcoming winter campaign. The least we could do to encourage them was put warm clothes upon their backs, so I asked, “General Arnold, is there somewhere we can put these bundles of shirts to distribute to the men?”
“Leave them with Dr. Thacher,” Papa replied. “That’s not why we have come.”
I blinked. “It’s not?”
In answer, Papa turned to Arnold. “I thought you might like to borrow a horse and join me at the barracks in greeting my latest replacement as commander of the Northern Department.”
At this, Arnold barked out a bitter laugh. “Washington’s pet Frenchman? He’s not due for a week yet.”
Papa’s mouth quirked in the way it sometimes did when he had a secret no one else knew. “My scout spotted a group of horsemen and sleighs, French uniforms, some of them. My guess is that Lafayette will be at the barracks within the hour, if he hasn’t arrived already.”
Arnold rolled his broad shoulders, sighing ruefully. “I’m sorry, Schuyler. To think we must fete and flatter and give your command to a damned boy soldier of just twenty years in the hopes he can deliver us an alliance with King Louis . . .” He glanced at me and reddened. “I beg your pardon, miss, for coarse language.”
“Think nothing of it, sir,” I said, quickly. “I’m accustomed to soldiers.”
But inside, I railed at the very idea that the new general was my very same age. It was bad enough when they gave my father’s command to Gates. Why should Congress now entrust the entire Northern Army, and perhaps even the fate of the war, into the hands of an untested young foreigner? This was my father’s army. I could not be convinced otherwise.
And maybe Papa felt the same way, because he said, “If we get to Lafayette before anyone else, maybe we can talk sense into him about this campaign.”
The bull-necked Arnold scowled, leaning on his crutch. “Lafayette’s a lost cause. The lad was still in swaddling when you and I saw blood in the French and Indian War—but he thinks he’ll win laurels throughout Europe for chasing his death in Quebec, taking our soldiers with him. A vainglorious French stripling isn’t going to listen to reason.”
“Washington trusts him,” Papa said, simply.
“Lafayette is a titled nobleman,” Arnold barked, as if he didn’t hear Papa speak. “He’ll think we’re insolent inferiors trying to undermine him.”
Seeing that Arnold was not to be convinced, my father gave a curt nod. “I understand if you want nothing to do with it; still, I must make the attempt. I’ll invite Lafayette to dine tonight. You’re welcome, too. Betsy, come along.”
I should’ve nodded and meekly followed my father out. But I’d taken what Arnold said very much to heart. The army was, officially, no longer my father’s responsibility or duty. There was a good argument to be made that he should simply return to his plantation and pull the gate closed until the war was over. Instead, he was taking what seemed to me a large risk. For a man under suspicion of treason and neglect of duty to speak against the new general’s plans for attacking the enemy . . .
If this Frenchman must be set straight about the folly of marching in winter, it would be better for Arnold to do it. The Hero of Saratoga would risk much less.
Betsy’s good with the soldiers, Papa had said. Arnold likes her.
That was true, in a fashion. Arnold had taken a liking to me—not, as my mother might have hoped, for any feminine charm—but for the same reason that most soldiers liked me; having spent most of my childhood tromping about the frontier, I carried myself with just enough boyishness to put them at ease. All the doctors complained that the thirty-six-year-old Arnold was a fractious patient, but I’d once helped to distract him from his pain with a game of backgam
mon. And I suddenly felt certain that Papa had taken me along with him to help convince Arnold to attend what might be the most important dinner of the war.
Because if we couldn’t stop this doomed winter campaign, all the soldiers I’d helped stitch back together in autumn might be dead by spring.
“Oh, but General Arnold,” I rushed to say, “I’d be so disappointed to miss you at dinner. I haven’t had a good game in ages, and you did promise me a rematch, sir.” Arnold’s scowl lifted only a bit, and I wished I knew what else I could say to convince him. I’d never learned the art of wrapping a lock of hair around my fingertip and flashing my eyes at a man. That was the province of my sisters. But emboldened by what I took for encouragement in Papa’s eyes, I quite shamelessly added, “And my sister Peggy has been asking after you.”
The bachelor broke into a slow toothy grin. “Miss Peggy asked after me?”
Of course, my sister Peggy asked after every handsome soldier with the same interest and constancy she asked about ribbons, hats, and hair combs. But I nodded.
And Arnold seemed intrigued. “All right, then. I hate to disappoint a lady. But I fear Lafayette will not accept the invitation and we’ll dine alone.”
A happenstance I fretted about on the ride—which was mercifully short, given the difficulty Arnold’s injury gave him in staying upon his mount—through our greatly disordered town.
Before the war, winter in Albany had been a thing of enchantment. Pristine snow-covered hills sloped gently to a frozen river, where skaters had frolicked amongst sleds and sleighs. And up from the river stood a cluster of about three hundred Gothic New Netherlander houses, their windows frosted and glistening icicles ornamenting the gables that faced the neatly kept streets.
But our once bucolic paths were now trodden to slushy brown mud, with milk cows roaming the streets for want of a pasture, and we were desperate for everything: meat, money, firewood, doctors. The circumstances were so dire that only a selfish or sadistic commander would force these soldiers to march.
My Dear Hamilton Page 3
