“My dear lady, I don’t mean to say that Monroe is dead. No. I only mean that after four years of fighting this interminable and wearying war, my circle of boon companions is scattered. Lafayette to France, Monroe to Virginia, John Laurens to Philadelphia . . .”
I exhaled with relief, and it wasn’t lost upon me that Hamilton was keenly aware of the number of years he’d been at war. If it seemed to me that this war might never end, how must it have seemed to the men doing the fighting? So as Hamilton reached for a bit of bread, I asked, “Does it help with the weariness to remember what you wrote at the start? The sentiment my sister recited was beautiful.”
“You are too kind,” Hamilton said, with facile glibness. “But all sentiments are beautiful when spoken by a beauty.”
I didn’t believe that. I also had the impression that he expected me to say something witty or clever or flirtatious. But all I managed was, “I found the sentiment beautiful on its own merit. An inspiring reminder of the righteousness of our cause and the good we’re trying to accomplish in this world.”
Hamilton started to say something—perhaps something witty and clever and flirtatious—but for the first time in our short acquaintance, his mask of esprit slipped away. “You make me feel a pretender, Miss Schuyler, for these days I am disgusted with everything in this world and I have no other wish than to make a brilliant exit.”
As the daughter of a general, I’d met some soldiers who seemed to crave such an end, if it were possible, and now I feared Hamilton was one of them. “What has shaken your resolve, sir?”
He took a breath, then stared off into the distance. “I begin to hate the country for neglecting us. Our soldiers are left to suffer. Our ideals of true equality are scorned. And men without talent or integrity are unjustly advanced. Schemers and slanderers—” He blinked, as if remembering himself. “None of which, of course, is proper conversation for a ball.”
“It seems entirely proper, given that my family is well acquainted with the evils of which you speak.”
He blinked again. “Of course. I’ve made the unpardonable error of forgetting whose daughter you are. It is a rare man who can, like your father, continue to serve his country without complaint or self-interested motive in the face of such unmerited abuse.”
I smiled. “Surely it is a little self-interested to wish to avoid the king’s hangman.”
At my altogether too honest reply, Hamilton barked out a laugh that seemed to take us both by surprise. “Miss Schuyler, your candor is most unexpected. You may be the only lady present tonight with such a saintly virtue.”
He said this in a way that made me think he didn’t quite approve of saintly virtue. Perhaps it was for this reason, and not my own humility, that I replied, “I assure you, sir, I am no saint.”
He glanced at me, then seemed to put a great deal of concentration into his glass of punch. “In such company as we have tonight, I would strongly advise you against making such declarations lest a gentleman demand proof.”
“What proof should I offer that might suffice?”
With that, Hamilton set aside his cup, and seemed to lose some sort of struggle with himself. At length he turned to stare, and I thought perhaps the candlelight played tricks with me, because beneath his pale lashes were eyes so intensely blue as to give the impression of violet.
Those extraordinary eyes drifted to my bosom, which was delicately covered with my fichu, then to my neck, as if he did wish to nibble it. And I fell silent because I’d never before been given such an openly lascivious look. In fact, his open appraisal made me acutely aware that I’d never felt the sensual gaze of a man upon me before at all. Stolen glances of lustful boys, possibly. Respectful attention of gentlemen, certainly.
But there was nothing gentle, playful, or boyish in Hamilton’s expression now. And I was suddenly, and thrillingly, made to feel as if every other flirtation of my life had been but child’s play. “Until this moment, Miss Schuyler, I had not realized the disservice done to you by your admirer.”
“My admirer?” I asked, wondering if it was the strength of the rum punch that left me so dizzied.
Hamilton smirked. “Don’t look now, but he’s finally mustered his courage.”
Yet, I did look. And from a crowd of swaggering officers, wives, and daughters in rustling petticoats and delicate-heeled shoes, emerged a man in dress uniform. Quite a well-formed man, in truth. Broad at the shoulders with strong stocking-clad calves, wearing a dignified powdered wig. “Why Colonel Tilghman,” I said, blushing unaccountably, as if I’d been caught in some manner of undress. “How good to see you after all these years.”
“Years in which you’ve blossomed from a wildflower into a rose,” Tilghman replied, with a bow. “I remember our picnic, and how easily you—a perfect nut-brown maid with the eyes of a Mohawk beauty—clambered over rocks while the other ladies needed assistance. I’ve often regaled my companions with the story.”
“That he has,” Hamilton said, drily, as I blushed hotter. “In detail that would be tiresome were his subject not so worthy.”
I recognized a friendly rivalry when Tilghman pointedly turned to make the hilt of his dress sword poke Hamilton in the side. “As I was saying, Miss Schuyler, I recall you with great fondness and owe you a debt of kindness.”
Genuinely surprised, I said, “And here I believed I’d left you with a decidedly unfavorable impression.”
Tilghman’s cheeks colored beneath the white of his powdered wig. “Quite the opposite. In fact, I was wondering if you would honor me with—”
“No,” Hamilton said.
“No?” Tilghman was taken aback. I was, too.
“No,” Hamilton repeated, more firmly, rising to his feet. “You’re too late. Miss Schuyler owes me this dance.” Hamilton touched my elbow, prompting me to rise. And with a glee nearly unbecoming, Hamilton crowed, “My dear Tilghman, let this be a lesson to you on what comes of being timid with a lady fair.”
As he led me away from a sputtering Tench Tilghman, I whispered, “But I didn’t promise you a dance.”
“Didn’t you?” Hamilton asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “You offered to furnish me sufficient proof that you are not a saint. And the dance master is calling an allemande.”
“But I gave my last dance to you,” I protested.
“I believe two consecutive dances are permitted during war.”
“I don’t think that’s the etiquette at all, sir.”
“Only a saint would give a care for etiquette,” Hamilton replied with a wink. “So far, your proofs in that regard are sadly lacking, Miss Schuyler . . .”
The words were designed to ensure I gave way, which I did, and the dance became a flirtation set to music. A series of figures, handholds, and passés that had Hamilton turning beneath my arms before twirling me into his. When we interlaced hands, I felt the heat of him. And when I turned again, his hand brushed the nape of my neck—a shocking sensation.
Was it merely a slip, or had he intended it?
Then it happened again. This time, as he turned, his palm stroked the small of my back, and then a little lower. The rules of this dance precluded all touch except for linked arms and hand clasps, so it was no mistake. Perhaps I ought to have put a stop to it, but I’d foolishly agreed to prove I wasn’t a saint.
And then there was the problem that I liked the stolen touches.
Round and round we twirled until I felt as if I were falling, falling into his arms. And in his extraordinary eyes, I sensed the Nix, a figure of Dutch legend whose sweet songs lure maidens to dangerous depths for a kiss . . .
I shall not dissemble or hide behind virtue and claim that I wasn’t tempted. Hamilton was a winsome man with captivating eyes. He might have charmed me entirely if he hadn’t known himself to be so charming. And if I hadn’t known this dance meant nothing.
It was only to inspire jealousy. It was all play pretend. Except of a very grown-up variety.
* * *
TH
E NEXT MORNING was impossibly more frigid. But inside, I burned.
As Kitty groaned about having consumed too much rum punch and Angelica complained that her ink was frozen, I was still dreaming of the ball. I’d finally danced with Tilghman, whose courtly manner did him great merit; with another of Washington’s aides, Lieutenant Colonel McHenry, a medical doctor who made me laugh by reciting the worst poetry I’d ever heard; and with the stately Baron von Steuben, whose shiny military medal caught upon my lace sleeve, entangling us briefly to the amusement of all. I’d even sat a spell with the now married Benedict Arnold, who asked me with genuine fondness to thank my father for his help in trying to secure him a new post at West Point, now that his ruined leg left him unfit for active service.
But there was something about Hamilton that lingered beyond the impression of any of these men, and it was not merely those captivating eyes or the heat of his hands when he touched me during our dance. His intelligence, wit, and devotion to duty were plain for all to see, but it seemed to me that Hamilton had built around himself a sparkling citadel of courtly manner and playful flirtation. He’d allowed me, for just a moment, to glimpse past it. And I thought I’d seen wounds. Wounds that perhaps couldn’t be healed, but I had the ridiculous notion that given the opportunity, I’d like to try.
And it was a ridiculous notion, because while Hamilton had made a powerful impression upon me, I didn’t believe I had made any upon him. He seemed to give no thought to me beyond my acquaintance with Kitty, with whom he engaged in some manner of hot-and-cold courtship.
“Ladies,” Hamilton said later that morning, doffing his cap to us where we sat with mending work. He’d come to escort us to religious services. “Seeing you seated at the fire with your spindle, thread, and scissors, I cannot help but think of the three Fates.”
Angelica playfully snapped her shears. “Do you imagine that we’re measuring out the length of your life and deciding where to snip it?”
Feeling at quite the disadvantage when it came to ancient stories, I left it to Kitty to scold, “You should rather think we are the Three Graces.”
Hamilton grinned. “Oh, but I would not hazard a guess as to which of you was Charm, Grace, or Beauty. After all, the last time a mortal man awarded a golden apple to the fairest, he caused a dreadful war.”
“Is that how this got started?” Angelica asked.
He laughed in a way that told me he admired my sister’s wit as well as her beauty. And, quite unfortunately, that made me like him all the better.
Because the churches of Morristown had been converted to hospitals, religious service was to take place in the home of the reverend. We’d attended both Dutch and Anglican services as children, but not Presbyterian. So as I fetched my coat I asked, “You’re certain we’ll be welcome though we aren’t of the denomination?”
“The very same question His Excellency asked,” Hamilton replied. “The reverend replied it was not the Presbyterian table but the Lord’s table.”
Thus, in our best church dresses, coats, hats, and scarves, Angelica, Kitty, and I took our communion. But Hamilton did not. Surely he’s a Christian, I thought, but I couldn’t muster the courage to ask.
On the way back, we strolled by a frozen pond, where Colonel Tilghman was most solicitous of me. Hamilton had the idea of a sledding party for the week next, which occasioned McHenry to taunt him in his Irish brogue. “He might be a silver-tongued courtier in a ballroom, ladies, but you’ve never seen a lad less made for winter sport.”
“Allow me to put that to the lie,” Hamilton said, launching a snowball at McHenry, who, like a naughty laughing leprechaun, ducked behind the taller Tilghman as cover to return the volley.
Then ensued the most delightful mayhem.
Slipping and sliding and thrashing one another as they ran, Washington’s aides acted like brothers, I thought. Even in their horseplay, the strapping officers who rode into nearly every battle with our general were all athletic grace.
But when a shower of snow came our way, Angelica asked, with feigned sternness, “Must we negotiate a truce, gentlemen?”
From behind a fortress he’d made of a tree, Hamilton replied, “I’m afraid it’s victory or death for me.”
“Don’t believe it, ladies.” McHenry quipped with bawdy mischief, “He’ll surrender his sword to any pretty girl who wants it. Three by my count in the last month alone.”
“Have a care, Mac,” Colonel Tilghman scolded, as if worried to offend my maiden ears. But everyone else laughed. And in truth, I knew not what to make of Hamilton’s rakish reputation.
“Make way!” came a command from down the narrow, frozen lane where we stood watching the men’s antics. Clutching hands to keep our balance, we trudged into a deeper drift of untrodden snow as a war-weary company of men paraded by. Their threadbare uniforms were familiar, of course, as were the abused muskets upon their shoulders and the malnourished gaunt upon their frostbitten faces. But one thing was strikingly different about these soldiers.
They were black.
A thing that perhaps shouldn’t have so surprised me, for I’d heard Papa talk about the black troops who served at Saratoga. But a few of these men wore the gold epaulets of an officer, a thing that I’d never before heard about or seen.
Our escorts saluted the white colonel at the head of the column, who returned the gesture and shouted out more commands to his men.
“The First Rhode Island,” Hamilton said to me as they passed, perhaps sensing my surprise. “Our first black regiment.”
McHenry nodded and spoke in his thick brogue. “And we’ll need ’em, too. We lose too many men to disease and desertion to refuse blacks in the army now, and those with reservations voice their concerns no longer.”
“The British recruitment of slaves has convinced most Americans that we should do the same,” Tilghman said, glancing amongst us ladies, as if he wished to make sure we knew his sentiments on the matter. “As if the standard of humanity did not make them deserving of freedom enough.”
“And the other men don’t mind serving with them?” Angelica asked, and I knew precisely why, for our father had complained that black troops disgraced our arms.
But I was glad that Angelica had asked, instead of me, because Hamilton actually frowned at her. “The contempt we’ve been taught to entertain for Negroes makes us fancy many things that are founded neither in reason nor experience. As my dear Laurens’s project in South Carolina is sure to prove.”
This was the second time I’d heard him mention John Laurens, and I’d since learned that the southerner was another of Washington’s aides, now away on different business, and an officer, like Hamilton, with an unfailing ability to work his way into the gazettes. Laurens’s most recent fame came as a result of suggesting we give freedom to slaves willing to fight in the army.
“Laurens seeks to raise a black regiment in South Carolina?” I asked. I could scarcely contemplate it. If a northern plantation owner with only a few slaves like my father hadn’t approved of Laurens’s scheme, I could only imagine how outlandish—and dangerous—southern planters would deem the idea.
But Hamilton seemed to admire his friend’s audacity. “If Laurens has any fault, it is an intrepidity bordering upon rashness, but in that he is excited only by the purest motives.”
It was rash. But now I found myself surrounded by men fighting for freedom—everyone’s freedom, it seemed—and I couldn’t help but feel . . . sympathetic to the idea.
For didn’t the men of that Rhode Island regiment marching past show the same fidelity, do the same duty, draw upon the same courage, and make the same sacrifices? What more could a country ask of its citizens, let alone its slaves?
Chapter Eight
THE LONGER I spent in the company of the army, the more I felt within my breast the desire to contribute to the cause. So I went the next day with my aunt and uncle to the Presbyterian Church that had been commandeered for a hospital. As we approached the adjoining cemetery, w
e found two soldiers with axes breaking the frozen ground for a grave. A stiff corpse lay in the snow, arms bent at a grotesquely unnatural angle, his mouth locked, as if in a silent shriek.
“Will there be no coffin for the poor soul?” I asked.
“There’s no time if it’s a contagion.” My uncle had been instrumental in inoculating the army against smallpox—and me and my siblings as well when we were younger—checking this most dreaded epidemic after Valley Forge. Still, the soldiers suffered typhus and flux, fevers and dysentery, measles and mumps. “When we made winter quarters here three years ago, we were forced to dig a mass grave. Sickness in the army was much worse then, and smallpox carried away a fourth of the town, too.”
No wonder the people of Morristown treated us coldly. If the army brought with it pestilence and hardships, the townsfolk could scarcely be happy to have the army back again. And the words of the irritated sentinel came back to me now, haunting me with their literal meaning.
They’re just sick to death of us.
“You’re a good-hearted girl, Betsy,” my uncle warned. “But what you’ve seen in an Albany hospital won’t prepare you.”
Carrying a bundle of bandages, Aunt Gertrude patted my shoulder. “Pay him no mind, dear. Dr. Cochran has mistaken you for some milk-and-water miss. He forgets you’re a Schuyler.”
Like my mother, Aunt Gertrude had learned rudimentary medicine at the barn my family turned into a hospital at Schuyler Flatts during the French and Indian War. She was sturdy and strong and expected me to be the same. So with that reminder ringing in my ears, I braced myself to witness with mine own eyes the horrors my uncle thought would shock me.
Inside the church, officers lay upon church pews, but the rank and file rested on naught but piles of straw. Nurses moved amongst the groaning mass of patients, emptying chamber pots, combing hair for lice, and dousing everything with vinegar as a purifier. It was too cold to remove my pelisse coat and fur-lined hood. I had no choice but to shed my calfskin gloves, however, so I left them upon the altar before fetching a bucket of vinegar water.
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