I wanted to be alone with him to tell him so, but after the ceremony there commenced an open house of visitors who nibbled on honey cakes, marzipan, candied almonds, and my mother’s famous olie-koecken—sweet dough fried in hot lard until golden brown. Then a sumptuous wedding feast of roast duck with dumplings, pork with cabbage, and baked apples and raisins. For dessert, imported chocolates, cinnamon bark, and spiced koekjes—or cookies, in English.
Alexander and I never had time for more than an affectionate smile or a stolen kiss. Until, suddenly, we were alone in my childhood room, now turned into a bridal chamber, lit only by a warming fire.
Music and laughter reached us from below stairs, but it felt as if it came from a thousand miles away when Alexander looked at me with desire. “You’re finally mine,” he said, his voice tender but full of a gravity that hadn’t been there before. His hand clasped mine, and his thumb rubbed over my wedding band, a ring made of two linked circles of gold that swiveled to join as one. Alexander had engraved them with our names. “And I am yours, too.” He spoke as if he were trying out the premise, drafting an argument and seeing if he could make it work.
I was determined that he would. “Show me . . .”
He unwrapped me as he had my gift the night before, with eagerness and curiosity and hunger. And I found that the more ardently he touched me and kissed me, the more I shared his hunger. When he wore only his shirt and I only my shift, he guided us to the bed, under covers that his ravenous hands and body quickly made warm.
That night, Alexander’s heated whispers were in French as he made love to me. I didn’t know enough of the language to decipher the words, but his meaning had never been plainer.
All my life, I’d been the boyish sort of girl who preferred climbing trees and hiking through the woods, or the veritable spinster, more concerned with nursing sick soldiers than landing one for a husband. I was the general’s daughter who’d inherited the fervor of his warrior’s heart. But Alexander’s lovemaking found the woman in me, and the more claiming his touch, the more ecstatic my escape. He was as relentless in bed as he was in everything else, craving my surrender and winning it again and again.
“Oh, lovely wife, crown me with everything that is tender and kind and passionate in you. Love me,” he commanded.
And, I did. Oh, I did.
Chapter Ten
On the first days of your wedding I dare say you wanted nothing to do with anybody’s letters. But I will now become bolder in interrupting your amorous occupations, as the importance of the matters I have to mention deserve some minutes’ respite. You may therefore, my good friend, take this opportunity of catching breath with decency, which will be attributed to the strength of your friendship for me.
—MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE TO ALEXANDER HAMILTON
AN EXTREMELY WAGGISH letter interrupted our honeymoon, reminding me that I was now a soldier’s wife. An ambitious soldier’s wife.
The marquis had returned from France a few months earlier with the aid our cause so desperately needed. Supplies. Money. A fleet of ships under the command of French general Rochambeau. It could change everything. It could turn the war. If we found the right opportunity. And my new husband was looking for not only an opportunity of victory, but also a chance to rise in station.
The same man who pretended he could have been content to plant turnips enlisted Lafayette’s help in a campaign to secure a promotion to adjutant general. And when that failed, Lafayette undertook to get my husband appointed as an envoy to France on a mission to obtain loans and expedite supply shipments.
“Paris?” I gasped from my seat before the fire in the sitting room. How would I fare in the social whirl of such a cosmopolitan place? But I’d scarcely had time to wish I’d better applied myself to learning the French language when we learned the appointment had gone to someone else.
“Worry not,” Alexander said, bracing his hands upon the mantel and staring into the flames. “It appears I’ll be shackled to a desk forever while my friends cover themselves in glory. Shall I never receive an opportunity for advancement?”
I went to him, searching for the best way to soothe my husband, as a wife should. “You’re Washington’s most trusted aide,” I said, hoping the reminder of the vital role he played in the war would offer solace. “And as such, you daily command generals in the field even though they outrank you.”
“Once, that might have been enough,” he replied, unconvinced. “But then I met you.” He turned and took my hand. “And now, instead of chasing a glorious death, I must somehow make a glorious life. Which is a great deal more trouble, wife.”
“Fortunately, husband,” I replied, kissing his furrowed brow, “you needn’t do it alone.”
He sighed. “Alas, my duty is soon to separate us. You could make me forget the whole business of war entirely, but I suppose you are so much a Portia that if you saw me inclined to quit the service of your country, you would dissuade me.”
“A Portia?” I asked, then instantly wished I hadn’t. “No, please, not another Roman . . .”
“But I pay you a compliment,” he protested, telling me—at great length, with many quotations of the original Latin, plus a tangential dart into Shakespeare—of an ancient lady who, amongst other heroic things, patriotically concealed her sorrow to be separated from her husband when he went to war.
But I didn’t wish to be separated. I had no children to care for, plantation to manage, or homestead to defend. I had a husband whose joys and travails I had pledged before God to share. And a war that I wished to have a part in winning.
When I told Alexander that I intended to accompany him on his return to headquarters, he kissed my forehead and assented. “I was hoping you might. My Portia. According to Plutarch, Portia’s husband said of her, as I would say of you, ‘though the natural weakness of her body hinders her from doing what men can perform, she has a mind as valiant and as active for the good of her country as the best of us.’”
It was, I thought, the best compliment anyone had ever paid to me. “Why, Colonel Hamilton, I seem to learn something new whenever in your company.”
Heat banked in his eyes. “Perhaps if you submit yourself to my tutelage, you shall have a real education by spring.”
An answering heat rushed over my skin, and I eyed him with curious hunger. “Whatever would you teach me?”
“To start with,” he began, drawing me back to our bedroom, “your classical education is in vast need of improvement . . .”
Whereupon he taught me, by way of demonstration, some choice Latin terms that would have scandalized a harlot. And I minded not at all. In truth, I counted myself the happiest of women, altogether.
Thus, after a perfect Christmas holiday with my family, I went with Hamilton from nuptial splendor and plenty, to the scarcity of the army.
General Washington’s new headquarters was situated at a small Dutch farmhouse near the village of New Windsor, New York. Conditions for the ordinary soldier were dismal, the vast majority clad only in tattered uniforms, shirts, and breeches, shoes worn through, and not enough food or munitions by half. If they were lucky, they shared a single blanket between every two or three men.
It was Jockey Hollow again, with milder weather. How had nothing else improved?
It was unthinkable, but Congress claimed to have no legal power to tax and raise funds for the army they’d called into the field. Alexander argued that the power was implicit, that having declared independence and war, Congress should consider themselves vested with full power to preserve the country from harm.
He was not the only one to think it.
After the expiration of the three-year enlistments that most had signed, the soldiers were angry—at not being permitted to leave, at not being paid, at everything. Indeed, their discontent had boiled over into another mutiny only just resolved, and the tension around camp was still as thick as the frozen mud covering the ground. There was not a little fear that the troops might join Benedict Arn
old, who had donned a red coat and recently captured Richmond, Virginia.
For the British.
It was within this surly atmosphere that Alexander secured for us a cramped and dreary room in a boardinghouse, but I could hardly complain when I saw what our countrymen endured. Instead, I donned practical and patriotic homespun and endeavored to make myself useful to Mrs. Washington at headquarters. There, alongside the great lady, I threw myself into writing letters to raise money, hosting dignitaries who visited camp, and helping the slaves prepare meals for Washington’s little military family—repetitive suppers of bread, butter, and a spicy tripe stew, the scent of which was not altogether appetizing, but better than what the ordinary soldiers ate by far.
It was at one of these dinners that we were reunited with the Marquis de Lafayette. Having just negotiated the end of a mutiny in the Pennsylvania Line, he returned to headquarters and broke the sour mood by hugging—and even kissing—everyone.
I was startled that General Washington, a very formal man who did not like to be touched, allowed the marquis this familiarity. Then Lafayette treated me to the same exuberant greeting. “Mademoiselle Schuyler—or shall I say Madame Hamilton, now?” he asked, kissing both my cheeks.
“Marquis,” I said, smiling.
But before I could decide whether I was meant to return these kisses, Lafayette withdrew and wagged his finger at me. “I’m afraid I have a quarrel with you. I invite you to camp some years ago. You refuse me. Yet, for Hamilton, here you are. I would take offense did I not so much approve of your choice.”
“As do we all,” said Colonel Tilghman with a polite smile.
Seemingly caught off guard by the warm sentiment of his friends, Alexander flushed.
Even as McHenry called, “Speak for yourself, Tench. If you’d seen Ham strutting at his wedding, you’d know he doesn’t need a thing more to swell his head.”
Before I could flush at what might have been Mac’s innuendo—and in front of the Washingtons!—Lafayette unveiled a crate of champagne he’d acquired from somewhere and smuggled into the house. “Since we could not all see the wedding, we celebrate tonight, oui?”
Quietly, from his end of the table, General Washington said, “A capital idea.” And that was all the approval the younger men needed to pop the cork and start pouring.
“May I propose a toast?” Colonel Tilghman asked from where he was seated beside Mrs. Washington. Tench didn’t wait for an answer but rose to his full height and raised his glass. “To our Little Lion,” he said to Alexander, respectfully and with genuine fondness. Then turning to me, he added, “And to the finest tempered girl in the world. A perfect match. May it endure and prosper with our country. With my blessing and unalterable friendship.”
His graciousness moved me, and I hoped Tench might one day find a woman to love him as he deserved. I tipped my glass to him in return, hoping he could feel my good wishes before we drank. And then it was all laughter and merriment.
“Congratulations, my boy,” Washington said to Hamilton with a fatherly tone, and my husband seemed not quite certain how to take it.
Perhaps to ease the moment, Tilghman continued, “We all knew your husband was a gone man for you, Mrs. Hamilton, the night he forgot the watchword.”
At the reminder, Mac roared with laughter, recounting details Alexander never told me. “He’s lucky he managed to wheedle it out of that boy who lived at headquarters or the guards would’ve let him sleep in the snow.”
Grinning, Hamilton protested, “I was determined to keep what little dignity I had left! I had to pretend I’d just been testing the guardsman.”
Even Mrs. Washington chuckled at this, shaking her head. And the toasts continued long after the Washingtons went to bed.
“Thirteen toasts,” Hamilton insisted. “One for each state!”
Mac raised his glass, his Irish brogue more pronounced with every raised glass. “Here’s to the four hinges of friendship. Swearing, lying, stealing, and drinking. When you swear, swear by your country. When you lie, lie for a pretty woman. When you steal, steal away from bad company. And when you drink, drink with me.”
“Huzzah!” we cried until all thirteen toasts were made.
I still remember the international brotherhood of that night so vividly. The French Marquis de Lafayette. The Marylanders, James McHenry, Tench Tilghman, and Robert Hanson Harrison. The Connecticut Yankee, David Humphreys. And Alexander Hamilton of the West Indies.
My husband told me they were the only real family he’d ever known, and now I saw that they were a family. What’s more, I felt privileged to be included. At our wedding, I’d sworn that my people would be Hamilton’s. But now I said another silent vow that his people would also be mine.
* * *
“MY DEAR, I must pay you a compliment,” Mrs. Washington said.
We sat together, huddled by the fire as cold whistled through cracks in the weathered walls, great piles of mending at our feet in baskets. I’d been wondering how we’d ever make a dent as my fingertips stung from working the needle through the coarse cloth when her words drew me from my thoughts. “Oh? Whatever for?”
I thought she’d praise my stitchery, but instead she said, “You’ve made our Colonel Hamilton very happy. I wasn’t sure anyone could.”
Pride stilled my hands, for she’d known my husband for far longer than I had. “You do me a kindness—”
Just then, shouts erupted from outside and footsteps pounded down the staircase. General Washington ran past us, out the doorway, and his flight set my heart into a thunderous beat. His Excellency was so measured in all things that his alarm sent us following him out the front door into the biting afternoon.
I braced myself for any possibility—mutinous soldiers, perhaps even a British attack! And with all the general’s aides, including Alexander, dispatched on errands. But I never expected to see the adjoining shed afire, hungry flames consuming the wall closest to where the enslaved laundresses worked over a campfire. Nor did I expect to see General Washington single-handedly heaving three enormously heavy washtubs of water upon the blaze before it spread to the house.
Not knowing what else to do as the bodyguards came running, I rushed to get more water, but Washington already had everything smothered—only smoke and black scorch marks remained. Then the general leaned back against the house to catch his breath.
“Good heavens,” Mrs. Washington uttered, her hand on her heart while the laundresses fell into apologies before the great man, realizing their fire had sparked the ignition, and perhaps expecting punishment. But the general kindly reassured the women before coming up the steps of the porch where we stood.
“Are you unharmed, sir?” I asked, noting his weariness. His hair was much grayer than it had been when I’d first met him in Morristown. More so than the hair I wore in the pendant round my neck.
“Quite, Mrs. Hamilton, but your concern is appreciated,” he said, reaching for the door to return to his work, as if nothing remarkable had just occurred.
Noting the pallor of Mrs. Washington’s face, I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Thank you, dear,” she whispered with an appreciative glance, then stepped inside with the general. The quick exchange made me wonder who Martha Washington, so often without female companionship while in camp, had to confide in and rely upon. Perhaps it wasn’t my place, but I’d consider it a privilege to call Mrs. Washington my friend.
A moment later, Tench rode up to the house, eyes bulging at the sight of the scorch marks. When I told him what happened, he shook his head. “As if the weight of the whole war didn’t already lie upon his shoulders, now he’s literally putting out fires.”
It was a sentiment that stuck with me.
One I shared with Alexander when he returned from his duties that night to our little room at the boardinghouse, his hair ice crusted and his cheeks raw from the wind. But not before I helped him remove his sodden cloak and draped it near the fireplace. “Can I get you someth
ing hot to eat or drink?”
He peered over his shoulder at me as he opened his satchel and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. “Your very presence warms me, my love. My travels kept me from finishing today’s correspondence, so I must attend that before I can sleep.”
“Of course.” Moving quietly about the small room, I readied for bed. The crackle of the fire and the fast scratches of Alexander’s quill were the only sounds in the dim room. Kneeling at the hearth, I added two logs to the blaze, then held out my hands to soak in the heat when, on a sigh, Alexander stamped a seal against the page and then set the letter aside.
“I saw something quite remarkable today,” I said, having waited impatiently for him to finish. “General Washington single-handedly put out a fire upon the shed at the headquarters.”
Alexander turned in his seat. “So I heard.”
“I saw him run to put the fire out. I didn’t even know he could run, he’s always so dignified.”
“It sounds as if this made quite an impression on you,” Alexander said after a long moment. Then he frowned and got up to pace, his expression suddenly stormy. “Perhaps you would hold me in such regard if I received an appointment or command befitting my talents.”
My stomach dropped. “Oh, but I admire you more than any other.” When he didn’t answer, I asked, “Have I said something to upset you?”
Alexander shook his head, rueful. “No. I’m sorry. It’s only that I’ve engaged in military service since the beginning of ’76. I began in the line and had I continued there, I’d be in a more advanced rank than I now am.”
“Of course,” I said, realizing the cause of his peevish agitation. Alexander worried over his future. Over our future.
He threw himself back into the chair. “And yet, here I sit, writing letters of introduction for John Laurens while I am yet again passed over.”
I felt a little nauseated for him. That an appointment he wanted went to his friend both soothed and salted the wound. “Alexander, you will receive a command—”
“When? Dammit Betsy, I have yet to once merit the confidence and esteem of the man you admire so much!” His raised voice echoed in the small space.
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