Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Alex’s eyes wavered. “I told him that if he did not give me a battle command, I would resign immediately.”

  “Resign!” she echoed, shocked.

  “I am a soldier, Eliza, and a good one. Without a command, I would never rise in the ranks, never gain the respect and the honor I am due,” he said. “Please, try to understand. I am no one, I am nothing. I did this for us.”

  She shook her head. “But if you resign, you forfeit your pay and your pension! We would be penniless for certain! You did all this without consulting me?”

  “My darling, please,” Alex said, grabbing her hands. “There are some decisions a man has to do on his own.”

  Eliza resisted the urge to pull her hands from Alex, lest she cause a scene. But her fury was so palpable that Alex dropped them of his own accord.

  “A man maybe. But a husband—never,” she said coldly. She stormed away from him, her head held high.

  “Eliza, please!” he begged.

  Eliza stopped in her tracks and turned back slowly to face him, her eyes boring into his. “You made your decision on your own. What do you care where I go?” she said, then whirled on her heel and plunged into the crowd.

  6

  Separations and Reunions

  Aboard the Pilgrim

  Albany, New York, to Newburgh, New York

  May 1781

  Alex had a miserable journey to Newburgh. To speed his trip, John Church had arranged for him to catch a ride on the Pilgrim, a merchant vessel loaded with beaver furs. The beautiful weather had yielded to a summer squall, with sheets of rain whipping across the freighter’s deck and rendering it uninhabitable to all but the most seasoned salts. Below decks was nearly as bad, though: unbearably muggy, and suffused with an odor of rotting meat from the uncured hides bundled in the hold. The captain was a grizzled mariner who claimed to be French but between his toothlessness and the pipe he kept clapped between his gums, Alex understood only about one out of five words that came from the man’s mouth, despite his growing up speaking both English and French.

  But that’s not why Alex was miserable.

  His parting from Eliza had been less than amicable, to put it lightly. Eliza had disappeared from the party after their argument, and did not resurface until the end of the evening, when she shook his hand in full view of the servants who were cleaning up the greasy platters and wine-stained glasses. “I hope you enjoyed your party, Colonel Hamilton,” she said in a voice that could have frozen water. “No doubt you need your rest in preparation for your journey, so I will sleep in Angelica’s old room tonight.”

  Two days later, his wife was still cold as a glacier with no hope of melting. Alex had tried to get her alone all the next day, but Eliza spent the entire morning and afternoon visiting friends. When she arrived home at dinnertime, she announced that she had “taken too much sun,” and ate her dinner in Angelica’s room, where she slept once again, refusing to return to their marital bed.

  She only consented to speak to him the next morning, when she saw him off at the river pier. Her face was red and puffy. Clearly, she had not spent a pleasant night.

  “My darling,” he said, moving to take her in his arms. “Please hear me out. I am so sorry for having upset you. I should have told you earlier.”

  Eliza stepped back, and Alex was left clutching empty air. “It is not your apology I want Alex,” she said. “I want you safe and whole.”

  Alex’s eyes dropped.

  “I understand you feel you have to do what you think is best,” said Eliza as her eyes filled with tears. She batted them away angrily. “But why risk your life if you don’t have to?”

  “Because I love this country!” Alex replied immediately. “And because other men are risking their lives. What kind of man would I be if I was content to send others to the front lines while I took shelter in the general’s tent?”

  “You would be a man who came home to his wife!” Eliza cried. “You would be a man who could help his country in ways that others cannot. You have the mind of a philosopher, a political scientist, an economist! The United States will need men who possess all of these rare gifts if it wants to survive the transition from colony to country.”

  Alex reluctantly shook his head at his wife. “Though the Creator has blessed me with a reasoning greater than the average man, a sharp mind does not free one from corporal responsibilities—of putting his body on the line when the circumstances demand it. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword, but that is not true on the battlefield. For a few days, I will put down my quill and take up my blade like every other man, and on the other side of the battle I will be able to say that I risked my blood for my country like every other patriotic American.”

  “You see!” Eliza said. “It is not just that you feel a sense of responsibility. You want the glory of being a war hero, just like Clinton said!”

  Alex’s eyes went wide. “You would use that boor’s words against me?”

  “I would say anything if I thought it would get you home to me safely!” she said passionately. “Anything at all,” she said more softly now.

  “But would you respect me when I returned?”

  Eliza’s eyes flashed angrily. “How much did you respect me when you sought a battlefield command and didn’t bother to inform me? You think being called out by Governor Clinton is bad? Try learning from him in front of a roomful of family and friends that your husband thinks so little of you that he decides to risk his life without even telling you!”

  Alex couldn’t help but smile, though it was a sad, chagrined expression. “So, we both have ulterior motives. I want a bit of glory, and you want a husband who treats you as a partner.” He shrugged. “It appears war and marriage are both more complicated than we realized.”

  “And often hard to tell apart!” Eliza quipped.

  “Listen to me, my dearest,” Alex said then, catching Eliza’s hand in his and placing it against his cheek. “I promise that I will return to carry you across the threshold of your new home like a proper bride. To Philadelphia, perhaps, where you shall entertain the ambassadors of foreign nations, or New York City, where we will establish ourselves in one of the grand new town houses on Wall Street. You shall be the doyenne of society, and I shall be the most brilliant politician and lawyer this young country has yet seen. And who knows, perhaps one day I’ll run for governor, and chase that windbag out of office.”

  “Governor Clinton is harmless, you men just don’t know how to handle him,” Eliza said in a softer tone. “But you’d better come home,” she continued. “If you don’t, I will hunt you down and run you through myself.”

  They embraced then, for the first time in two days, and kissed each other—softly at first, and then urgently, so there was no question of the love between them. Alex buried his head in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent, wanting nothing more than to prolong the moment, but it was Eliza who pulled away first.

  “Don’t,” she said when he stepped forward for one more kiss. “If I put my arms around you again, I do not think I will be able to let go, and I want to be brave for you.”

  And, blinking back tears, Eliza turned as quickly as she could so Alex wouldn’t have to see her cry.

  *

  ALEX PASSED THE last hour of the journey penning a letter to Eliza—a thousand times “I’m sorry” and a thousand more “I love you”—hoping that she would forgive him, and only when he was done did he try to put his wife out of his mind and concentrate on the looming war.

  The rain had ended by the time they reached Newburgh. Low hills crowded right to the river, with a small port built largely of reddish-brown bricks and, higher up, a bustling village of handsome brick and frame houses, with here and there an older building made of rough stone pieces joined by thick welts of mortar. A few cook fires burned, sending gray ribbons of smoke into the air, where they mixed with the wet blanket of mist that persisted after the rain. The mist was so heavy that Alex sweated uncomfortably in his heavy un
iform. Still, it was better than being trapped aboard the fur ship with its fetid cargo. Alex strode onto dry—well, solid—land purposefully, eager to get to General Washington’s headquarters and find out whether his request for a command had been granted.

  The first thing he saw was a chestnut stallion tied up at the edge of the broad wharf that abutted the pier. Its coat was the color of caramelized butter, its mane and tail so light they were almost golden. The animal was so fine that Alex was tempted to call it pretty, and yet it was no delicate creature. It must have been sixteen hands high and thickly muscled, and even as it waited, it had an air of martial readiness about it. This was no city horse or buggy puller, let alone a palfrey. This stallion looked like it could handle the stresses of the battlefield and finish off any enemy soldiers its rider failed to dispatch.

  Alex couldn’t take his eyes off it as he made his way onto the wharf. General Washington was famed for the white charger he rode into battle, and though the army had always supplied Alex with admirable steeds, he’d never been in possession of a horse of any great renown, as much as he was fond of his former mount Hector. But a horse like this would make any warrior more confident, and Alex found himself wondering who owned it, and how he might be persuaded to part with it. Never mind the price. But Alex’s salary as an aide barely paid for his uniforms. This was merely a fantasy. Even so, it would be the kind of horse that would soothe some of Eliza’s fears about his chances in battle. It might even allay some of his own.

  “If you leered at my horse any more openly, I would have to cite you for indecency,” a rough voice called from the shadows.

  Alex started, and peered beneath the overhang. He was only able to make out a tall man in Continental army blue.

  “He is indeed a fine specimen,” Alex agreed.

  “Not nearly as fine as his owner,” said the soldier, who stepped into the light, a sardonic grin splitting his wide, fair face, which was lightly dusted by whiskers nearly as light as his horse’s hide.

  “Laurens!” Alex exclaimed, dropping his satchel and rushing forward to throw his arms around his old friend. “You old dog! I did not recognize your voice at all!”

  Laurens returned Alex’s embrace warmly. “My old friend,” he said. “I cannot tell you how good it is to see your face. There have been times in this past year when I despaired of ever seeing it again.”

  “Oh, come now,” Alex said. “I know you were in France for much of that time, but surely it wasn’t that bad.”

  “The climate is so damp in the plain, and those châteaux are so drafty. They may be larger than our plantation houses, but I will take the humbleness of Mepkin any day,” Laurens said with another grin.

  “Humble? Mepkin? Although I have yet to have the privilege of seeing your childhood home, I understand that it boasts four grand parlors, a ballroom, and more bedrooms than one can count on the fingers of one’s hand.”

  Laurens smiled wryly. “Said the gentleman who has been living in General Schuyler’s mansion for the past half year. What is the house called? The Pastures? It sounds positively rustic.”

  “If only!” Alex said. “At first Eliza and I attempted to establish a residence downriver in New Windsor, but I was reassigned and she was forced to return to the Pastures. I was able to rejoin her there only briefly, and then we decamped to De Peyster’s Point just across the river from General Washington’s headquarters”—he pointed at an invisible spot north and east of them, lost in the mists cloaking the river—“and then once again circumstances forced us to return to Albany. Eliza has told me she refuses to move again, until it is into a house of our own, and for good.”

  “My word!” Laurens laughed. “It seems you have traveled nearly as much as I have. I cannot tell you,” he added in a more earnest tone, “how much it grieved me to miss your wedding to the fair Miss Schuyler. We are of an age when we could have many more bachelor adventures together, and I am almost jealous of her new hold over you. But you are such a well-met pair, I cannot help but be happy for you. Her sensibility will rein in your passionate nature, and her beauty will counteract your hideous visage.”

  Alex laughed at his friend’s joke even as he grimaced inwardly, thinking how his passion and Eliza’s sensibility had clashed so recently. He knew that Laurens was right, and that he needed someone to remind him that his responsibilities required more than enthusiasm. They required steadiness as well, and he knew that Eliza encouraged that quality in him. Nevertheless, he did not relish another clash of the kind they had before he left.

  Aloud, though, all he said was, “I look forward to the day when I shall see you as happily married as I am, to a girl equally as sensible as Eliza, if not quite her equivalent in beauty.”

  “Let’s hope not!” Laurens scoffed. “I cannot imagine the woman who could put up with such a selfish hedonist as I, nor can I imagine what I would do with a wife!”

  Alex guffawed. “And what would a lady do with the likes of you!”

  “But come now,” Laurens continued. “Let us hurry to headquarters so you can present yourself to General Washington, and then we can get down to the serious business of drinking!”

  “Indeed,” said Alex. “Perhaps it is easiest for me to find you there. I have to take the coach, which does not seem to be in evidence.”

  “What? Do you not want to ride your horse?”

  “My—” Alex looked up and down the wharf, but there was only one other horse visible, tied up farther down the rail. It was a well-built animal, though, it was no horse he’d ever ridden before.

  When he turned back to Laurens, however, his friend’s face was beaming, and he was nodding at the beautiful chestnut stallion nearer to hand. Still, Alex could not quite believe what seemed to be happening.

  “I-is this not your horse?” he stuttered.

  “It was until you stepped off that gangplank. I saw it two years ago when I was down at Mepkin. It was just a yearling then, but its russet tones reminded me a little of you. I told my father that if it fulfilled the potential it showed then, I should like to present it as a gift to you. When I arrived back home and saw how fine an animal it had become, I almost regretted my generosity. It is not the largest horse my father has ever bred, but it may well be the most beautiful.”

  Alex was shocked. “I do not know what to say. It is perhaps the finest gift anyone has ever given me since Governor Livingston brought me to North America.”

  “Well then. I know not who will prevail in the coming battle, but I do know who the handsomest pair of officers will be. And as my father said when he taught me to play cricket, it is not whether you win or lose, but how you look when you take the field.”

  “Do not jinx it,” Alex said, unwilling to take his eyes from the gorgeous horse in front of him. “I have not received my commission yet.”

  *

  IT WAS SOME three hours before Alex actually met with the commander in chief of the Continental forces. There had been the new horse to see to, for one thing—Alex could stable it with the army’s other horses, but he had to make sure that the grooms knew this was a private animal, and it was not to be requisitioned by some scurrilous lieutenant who might fancy a finer ride than the war-weary mounts the army provided. Alex wanted to freshen up as well and change out of his damp shirt. Then, too, Laurens refused to let him out of his sight until he had shared at least one tankard of ale with him: “It will calm you,” he said jovially, “and besides, General Washington will be in his office till late. There is no danger of missing him.”

  The sun was low on the hills to the west of Newburgh when Alex finally made his way to Hasbrouck House, a one-and-half-story Dutch stone farmhouse that had been provided to General Washington. An orderly waved Alex through to an inner vestibule, where a closed door made of heavy, plain maple planks separated him from his fate. He took a deep breath and knocked with a rap he hoped was not terribly intrusive, but still confident and decisive.

  A pause, long enough that Alex considered knocking
again. Then a gruff voice called: “Enter.”

  Alex pushed the door open carefully. He had not been in this office before, and he didn’t know what lay on the other side. Heaven forbid he should slam the door into General Washington’s desk and start the meeting off on the wrong foot.

  The low-ceilinged room beyond was smaller than the general’s office in Morristown, and much more rustic, but the desk was still some feet away, and after entering the room and closing the door behind him, Alex placed himself before the general, and waited for him to look up from his papers.

  Washington was well-known to make his subordinates wait on him for sometimes twenty or thirty minutes while he finished a routine task, but he was apparently not in the mood for such theatrics today. He stowed his pen immediately and indicated a ladder-back chair opposite his desk. “Colonel Hamilton. Please, have a seat.”

  Alex resisted the urge to stick his fingers in his ears to see if they were stuffed with wax. In the five years Alex had worked for him, Washington had never said “please” to Alex, let alone invited him to “have a seat.”

  However, as the general continued to stare at him expectantly, Alex nervously made his way to the chair and eased himself into it, as if it might collapse beneath his weight. The rush caning was a little on the thin side and the back was uncomfortably straight, but nevertheless it held.

  “I have reviewed the document you placed into my hands at our last meeting,” Washington said. As always, his words sounded formal. But they also sounded so much like him, that to anyone familiar with the general, it was hard to take offense. Alex was not given to flights of fantasy where his commander in chief was concerned, but on the rare moments he had allowed himself to imagine Washington as a boy, or alone with his wife, Martha, he could not picture “George” choosing his words with anything less than meticulous care.

  The document Washington referred to was a letter Alex had written, but in the general’s voice rather than his own. Alex had written hundreds of such documents during the course of the war to which the general had affixed his signature. The only difference was that all those other letters—letters sending men into battle or pulling them away from it, to the gallows or giving them their freedom—had been written at Washington’s direction, whereas this one was entirely of Alex’s creation. Which is to say, after years of asking the general to give him command of his own battalion, he had simply written the promotion into existence.