Hamilton and Peggy!

by L. M. Elliott

  The debate about Hamilton’s rejoining Washington’s staff as aide-de-camp or starting to read the law ended abruptly with Angelica’s upset. Arguing his choices was replaced with everyone’s fears and prayers for his safety when he left for the war, a few days later, determined to gain his own unit of soldiers to lead into battle. Eliza remained upstairs, crying, while Angelica walked beside him on the stairs. Her hand was slipped inside his elbow and the other lay atop his arm, her cheek resting on his shoulder. “I know you will return to us with laurels, like Caesar,” she murmured as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “But without Caesar’s plans to become emperor, let us hope,” quipped Peggy, who sat in the downstairs hall waiting to say her good-byes. She had watched their descent, a bit alarmed at Angelica’s physical closeness to Hamilton. Angelica was like that, always had been, embracing and affectionate, but Peggy wasn’t so sure how Eliza would feel about it if she saw them together. “And certainly,” Peggy added, “we hope you don’t so insult and annoy your comrades as did Caesar that they collude to assassinate you! We don’t want Eliza having to play Portia.”

  Hamilton chuckled. “Thank goodness you are here to keep me in order, Peggy.”

  “I foresee that will be no easy task.” Peggy playfully turned back on him his own warning to her in his postscript to Eliza’s letter.

  Recognizing it, Hamilton laughed heartily. Taking Angelica’s hands in his, he kissed her on both cheeks. Then—did Peggy see this right?—he pulled away slowly so that his face slid along hers, his mouth hovering over her lips for a tantalizing moment before he pulled back. Angelica swayed, closed her eyes, sighed, and reopened them.

  “Adieu, ma belle soeur. God keep you and your baby safe.”

  Peggy’s stomach churned. There was nothing technically inappropriate in that embrace. It just felt a little too . . . too something. Having been kissed herself, really kissed, she recognized heat.

  “My Peggy.” Hamilton grinned at her. “Will you walk me to the stable? I need ask a favor of you.” He held out his hand.

  Peggy clasped hers behind her back, but fell in line beside him as they stepped into the courtyard, sending chickens scattering and squawking.

  “So do I have your blessings on my odyssey, fair nymph?” he asked, reverting to the provocative banter he’d used when they were only coming to know each other.

  Peggy stopped in her tracks. “Alexander, you do not need to be flirtatious with me. I know it feels a novelty, but you have already won my heart—as your sister.”

  To her amazement, Hamilton’s enormous violet-blue eyes filled with tears. He looked down quickly and flicked dirt from his sleeves, and by the time he raised his gaze back to hers, that haze of emotion was gone, tucked away behind the intensity of his gaze. But the sincerity was not.

  “I am not used to having a family. Certainly not a little sister. I apologize.” He reached for her hand, and this time Peggy took it. “Watch over Eliza for me, will you? For a heart that so willingly and completely gives, hers is a delicate one. I fear for her and for the child if she frets too much about me. Her anxieties might”—he hesitated—“might . . .”

  “I promise to take tender care of her.”

  He nodded. “The Schuyler sisters’ bond is nothing short of mystical. Eliza derives strength from it.” He paused. “I know Angelica adores Eliza.” He lowered his voice even though Angelica remained inside, out of earshot. “But it is you Eliza trusts, Peggy.” He smiled. “You have the best of both of your sisters. Perhaps wrapped in a somewhat biting wisdom”—he laughed—“but also in a fearless loyalty.” Hamilton kissed her forehead. “Fleury is a fool,” he whispered.

  And then he was on his horse and gone.

  Peggy watched until she could no longer see the cloud of dust his horse kicked up from the road.

  She brushed away a tear. Eliza’s life would be shattered if Hamilton did not return. But hers would have a hole in it as well. Her brother-in-law understood her and knew more of her heartache than her sisters. Peggy already loved him as an ally, a kindred spirit, a needed confidante, a protective big brother. And even though he was out of sorts with General Washington, Peggy sensed that without this slightly reckless, quixotic, and dazzlingly eloquent young man, His Excellency’s ability to stand down the British and forge a new nation could be dangerously diluted.

  “Godspeed,” Peggy whispered, a catch at her heart.

  A few weeks later, Angelica sat fanning herself against the August heat. Her baby girl nestled in her arms and batted at the delicately painted fan, chortling, her tiny feet squirming happily. “Thank you for setting supper in the front hall so we can enjoy the evening air, Mama,” she said.

  “Of course, my dear. I know well how you are feeling. Being pregnant in summer temperatures is hard. It won’t be long now, though. I think the baby has dropped, don’t you, from the way you are carrying?”

  Angelica nodded, rubbing her lower back.

  “I wager no more than a month,” added Catharine.

  “Oh, let it be sooner than that,” Angelica said with a sigh. “And how are you, dearest?” she asked Eliza.

  “Better, thank you. I can eat now.”

  Angelica and Peggy exchanged glances. They were both worried about their middle sister. She had passed through the first third of pregnancy so her stomach was no longer constantly at sea. Eliza’s wan face these days had nothing to do with expecting a baby and all to do with her anxiety about Hamilton’s safety.

  But she didn’t admit to it, saying, “Just think, Peggy, when you are carrying your first child, Angelica and I will know all about everything to guide you through it.”

  “Hmpf. First she must find a husband,” Catharine said. “Have you heard from Mr. Varick, Margarita?”

  Peggy rolled her eyes. Varick, always Varick with her mother. With Angelica married to a Brit of questionable identity and Eliza to an immigrant of French-Scottish heritage from the Caribbean island of Saint Croix, Catharine was clearly aiming for a solid Dutchman for her third daughter.

  “Look, isn’t that a beautiful moon rising over the river?” Schuyler asked, deftly changing the subject.

  Peggy stood, hugged her father gratefully for distracting her mother, and moved to the doors flung open to the river’s breezes. She drew in a deep breath. “Could we take a walk down to the river, Papa? The moon will be full tonight and the stars clear.”

  “We’d need a shepherd,” Eliza said with a laugh, surveying the flock of children at the table, including five under the age of ten—Angelica’s two youngsters, plus Cornelia, Rensselaer, and baby Caty asleep in her cradle. Thirteen-year-old Jeremiah was also with them. The only one missing was sixteen-year-old John Bradstreet, off visiting an uncle.

  Schuyler grinned, surveying the wealth of family around his table. “We are blessed indeed,” he said proudly.

  “You go on,” said Angelica. “I will stay here at the house with the children.”

  Schuyler hesitated. Peggy knew he was worrying over reports that had come in all week of Tory Rangers attacking and kidnapping prominent Patriots in the Albany area, just as his spies had predicted might happen as prelude to an all-out attack on the city. The husband of Ann Bleecker—the poor mother whose infant perished of dysentery along the road from Saratoga during Burgoyne’s campaign—had been dragged away from their home, for instance, leaving local militia without a ranking officer. Word was the orders for such raids came directly from British high command in Canada and Barry St. Leger, whom Schuyler and Benedict Arnold had outfoxed at Fort Stanwix in 1777. “He be out for retribution on you, General,” Schuyler’s agent had warned.

  Peggy did a quick head count in her mind. Three of Schuyler’s guards were off duty in the cellar and three more were standing post in the gardens. There was also a Continental Army courier on call out back in the courtyard, and several of the family’s enslaved male servants eating in the kitchen. Among them was Lisbon, whom Peggy completely trusted to be resourcefu
l and quick to act in trouble. Surely, Angelica should be safe in the house with the children if her papa took a stroll with her to the waterfront.

  Peggy was about to say so when Prince approached. “General Schuyler, there’s a stranger at the back gate wishing to see you.”

  Schuyler sighed. “Seems our stroll will need to wait, my dear,” he apologized. To Prince, he said, “Show him to my study, please.”

  Wistfully, Schuyler finished off his wine as a distant shout came from out back by the stables. “Halt!”

  BANG!

  “Intruders at the gate!”

  BANG! BANG!

  “Huzzah! We’re in! Come on, lads!”

  Schuyler leapt to his feet, dropping his cane and the wineglass to the floor with a crash. “Kitty, quickly, the children.” He spoke calmly but lifted her out of her chair with some urgency. “We must get everyone upstairs.”

  BANG! BANG!

  “To arms! To arms! There’re at the courtyard.”

  “Prince, bolt the doors!” Schuyler commanded.

  Lisbon raced into the house from the kitchen through the dining room, bringing another servant with him to guard the back hall entrance. “The muskets,” he cried, “where are they?”

  “Oh my God,” gasped Angelica. “I had them put the muskets in the cellar! What have I done?”

  BANG! BANG!

  “No time to worry about the muskets now! Get up, Angelica! Hurry!” shouted Peggy. She grabbed Cornelia and Rensselaer by the hand. “Eliza! Come on!”

  Eliza sat frozen, ashen.

  “You men, come with me! Schuyler’s inside!”

  Angelica seized Eliza by the elbow and pulled her to her feet, then scooped up her little girl. “Mama,” Angelica cried in dismay. “Little Philip!”

  Peggy spotted the boy, racing ahead, thinking it all a game. He was heading right for where the attackers would try to enter. The very pregnant Angelica would never catch him. Peggy shoved Cornelia at Catharine, Rensselaer at Jeremiah, and raced after her three-year-old nephew, scooping him up, kicking and shrieking to be let down.

  Schuyler reached the staircase, half carrying Catharine, who dragged Cornelia behind her. The boys bounded ahead two steps at a time. Eliza took the kicking toddler from Angelica so she could hoist herself up the stairs as they both struggled to hurry, yanking their heavy skirts up to their knees.

  CRASH!

  As the Schuylers reached the second floor, the back hall door flew open, smashing against the wall.

  “Stand fast agin ’em, boys!” From below, Peggy could hear Lisbon’s shout. Then sounds of scuffling, scraping feet, steel being drawn, shoves, shouts, curses.

  BANG! A scream of pain.

  Stumbling across the wide salon hallway, Schuyler flung his family into his bedroom, slammed the door, bolted it, and raced to the closet to pull out two preloaded pistols.

  Panting, starting to cry now in fear, Catharine, Angelica, and Eliza huddled together as far from the door as possible, herding the little ones behind their skirts. Jeremiah took his place as a sentry to his mother and sisters, holding up his hands in fists. The thirteen-year-old bit his lip to control his own terror as Rensselaer wrapped his arms around his big brother’s leg, peeking out from behind him.

  Schuyler flung open the window and looked into the dark night. “Peggy,” he said quietly as he scanned the horizon, trying to spot something in the gloom to aim at. “Take my sword from the dresser and give it to Jeremiah. Son, use that only if I fall.”

  Peggy pulled her father’s sword from the drawer, knowing that recently the weapon had only been used in ceremonies. Was the blade still sharp? But she smiled reassuringly to her little brother as she handed it to him.

  Only then, facing everyone who was dear to her, did Peggy realize something terrible. “Mama, do you have baby Caty?”

  “Oh my God.” Catharine’s knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Then she tried to crawl toward the door.

  “Kitty, no!” Schuyler scrambled to stop her, lifting her to her feet and holding on to her.

  “Peggy,” she cried out.

  But Peggy needed no prompting. The image of Bleecker’s dead baby, an innocent victim of their adult war, had already flashed through her mind. She had prayed that awful day in 1777, among those terrified refugees, that she would have the nerve to protect her family when it most counted. This was that moment. And sharp-edged words were not enough.

  Peggy pulled back the bolt of the door. The littlest Schuyler sister, her goddaughter, needed her.

  Trembling, Peggy kicked off her shoes so she could skitter across the floor without a heavy tread, alerting the marauders of her family hiding upstairs. Quickly! Quickly! her mind screamed. Before they spot the baby!

  Peggy shoved out of her head stories of Tories and their Iroquois allies killing entire families to terrorize their Patriot neighbors. They want Papa alive to ransom him. To embarrass the Patriot cause and unnerve the locals. They won’t kill the baby. They won’t kill us. Surely.

  But she didn’t believe herself. After all, her papa had a 200-guinea price on his head.

  What Peggy did know with certainty was if the invaders nabbed the baby, Schuyler would give himself up to win her safe release, just like the Oneida sachem had for his captive children. The old warrior had never returned.

  BANG!

  “Hold them!”

  “Help! Help!”

  Her heart pounding in her ears as loudly as musket fire, Peggy slipped through the closet-like door to the servants’ back steps—a tight, winding, suffocating staircase to the ground floor, no railing, no candlelight. She groped her way in darkness along the rough-hewn walls.

  CRASH! The door to the cellar below her was thrown open.

  “Have at them, boys!”

  KA-PING! KA-PING! Shots ricocheted. Mortar exploded and crumbled on the opposite side of the wall from her fingertips.

  The baby started to wail.

  Please don’t cry, Peggy pleaded. They’ll hear you. They’ll grab you!

  She tripped on her skirts and nearly fell headfirst down the steps. What she would give to be in breeches. Finally she reached the bottom step.

  THUMP! A body slammed against the very door she needed to exit. Peggy clapped her hands over her mouth to silence a startled shriek of fear.

  SCRAAAPPE! The body was dragged away.

  Peggy took a deep breath, waited a moment, then turned the latch and cracked the door to peep out.

  One of Schuyler’s guards lay on the floor bleeding. Lisbon kicked at a man who jabbed at him with the butt of a musket. A few invaders were pocketing silverware from the table, while others checked the parlors. Baby Caty was crying and thrashing so hard, her cradle rocked.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven men that she could see. So many of them!

  “Any sign of Schuyler?” asked an officer in Loyalist green, holding a pistol.

  “No, sir!”

  “Upstairs, then,” he commanded. “Take the guards at the staircase prisoner if you can. Let’s learn what they know.” He pulled back the flintlock.

  Hurry! Hurry! Peggy’s mind screamed. She had to grab the baby, and then make it back upstairs to warn her papa before these blackhearts reached her family.

  The Loyalists gathered together to stride toward the grand staircase. “What about that baby, Captain?” one asked. “We could ransom the brat, don’t you think?”

  Peggy thought she might throw up.

  “Stop right there!” shouted one of Schuyler’s guards. Peggy couldn’t see him, but she recognized the voice—it was Private Hines. He had gotten Peggy through the blizzard to Morristown—alive. She could trust him to stand fast for the minute she would need to snatch her baby sister. She had to.

  “Stand down, man, or suffer the consequences!”

  “Back at you, ye bloody bastard!”

  More shouts, more scuffling, more grunts of pain.

  Now! Do it now! Peggy slipped out of the stair-chute, skitt
ered across the floor, and scooped up the baby, who shrieked with agitation. She turned to dash back.

  “Hey! Stop that woman!” shouted the Tory captain.

  Peggy pressed baby Caty to her chest, hoisted her skirts around her waist, and made for the steps. Run! Run!

  “Grab her!”

  Peggy—crawling, climbing, scratching her way up—made the second floor, and sprinted across the wide hall. The bedroom door swung open and her papa swept her inside. He threw the door closed behind her, bolting it again.

  BANG! BANG!

  “Surrender!”

  “Papa, they are coming up the stairs.” Peggy heaved out the words as Catharine pulled away from the huddle of sisters and toddlers to embrace her and gather up her infant. Never had her mother kissed Peggy that many times.

  Peggy fell to the floor, now shaking uncontrollably.

  “Ready, son?” Schuyler smiled reassuringly at Jeremiah.

  The thirteen-year-old blanched but nodded bravely. Peggy’s heart about broke at the sight. “Papa, no, there are too many of them!” They might shoot her brother if he tried to brandish that blade at them. She racked her brain for an alternative. “I wish we could make them think we have guards in here with us. They might think twice about entering.”

  Schuyler’s face lit up. “We think alike, daughter. I set up a signal for the city’s watch in case of something like this. Let’s try a little subterfuge.” He strode to the window and fired into the night, bellowing, “Come, my lads! Surround the house! The villains are inside it!”

  By the door, Peggy could hear the Loyalists make the upstairs hall, heavy boots dashing from room to room. “Do it again, Papa,” she whispered. She pulled the key from the door and peeped out the keyhole.

  He nodded, shot his second pistol, and called, “That’s right, my brave fellows! Have at the rascals!” He reloaded and shot again. “This way!”

  Peggy saw the Tory captain freeze, then motion to his men and point toward the stairs. She held up her hand to keep everyone in the bedroom silent as she strained to see through the tiny slot. Legs. Backs. The invaders were retreating! Yes! They had bought the ruse! They must think her papa was outside with reinforcements, or was signaling because he saw a Patriot unit coming. “Thank God,” she breathed, pulling herself off the floor to stand.