I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott
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everyone, Papa?” I asked, my words coming out in little clouds in the chill air. “Aunt Gertrude said there were thousands of soldiers here, yet I’ve seen fewer than a dozen.”
“The majority of the men aren’t stationed here in town, but to the north, in a place called Jockey Hollow,” Papa said as he, too, glanced about the quiet street. “Some of the higher-ranking officers have secured quarters in private houses for themselves and their families, with His Excellency and his staff in Mrs. Ford’s mansion at the end of town.”
I nodded, for that made sense. “But if the soldiers are elsewhere, then where are the townspeople? I know it’s cold, but there should still be people about at this time of day. There would be in New York or Albany.”
“But neither of those are Morristown,” Papa said, his voice somber. “I suspect your aunt has painted this place like some merry Vauxhall frolic, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The townspeople don’t want the army here at all, and have no compunctions about showing their disdain by keeping their distance, as you have noticed.”
His frankness startled me, for though he was still closely involved with affairs of the war, he seldom confided these matters to me.
“How very uncivil of them,” I said warmly, “and unpatriotic, too.”
Papa grunted. “They have their reasons,” he said. “Nor would I question their patriotism. The last time the army camped here three years ago, the soldiers brought smallpox with them, and many from families here fell ill and died. Since then, His Excellency has ordered that all men be inoculated so they no longer carry the contagion, but the fears among the people remain.”
Their fears were understandable, too. Smallpox was a terrible evil that claimed young and old alike, and while inoculation was growing in popularity, there were still many more superstitious folk who would rather risk the disease itself. No wonder they kept within their homes.
“But for this camp, disease is the least of the worries,” Papa continued without any prompting. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead past the driver’s back, his profile sharp against the banks of snow, and his mouth grimly set. I wondered if he even remembered I was beside him.
“The soldiers themselves are already suffering,” he continued bluntly, his voice edged with anger, “and winter still has months to run its course. There are insufficient shelters, leaving men to weather these snowstorms with no more comfort than a tattered blanket. His Excellency does what he can for them, but there isn’t enough food, firewood, or cabins, and most of the men haven’t been paid in months. Some have deserted for home, and others have turned to thieving. It is a constant challenge for the officers to maintain morale and discipline.”
No, there hadn’t been a word of any of this in Aunt Gertrude’s letters. I sank a little lower beneath the piled furs that kept me warm with my hands snug inside my muff, and with guilty remorse I thought of soldiers shivering through the winter without proper shelter, without fires for warmth or food in their bellies. What right did I have to feel the cold, or complain of it?
“Where are the army’s provisions?” I asked. “It’s still early in the winter. Surely supplies are not already exhausted. If the men are in want, why hasn’t Congress addressed their needs?”
Papa frowned, and lowered his chin into the thick collar of his greatcoat like a turtle closing into its shell. “It is not so simple as that, Eliza.”
“Why isn’t it?” I asked, genuinely troubled. I wasn’t being difficult; I simply wished to know. Surely there was a way to remedy this appalling state of affairs. “You’re a member of Congress yourself, Papa. If it is known that our soldiers are hungry, why isn’t food being given to them?”
“That’s no concern of yours, nor should it be,” he said, more sharply than I’d expected. “It will be addressed by Congress, and they will be made to understand.”
He gave my knee an awkward, muffled pat with his gloved hand. “I shouldn’t burden you with my worries. That’s not why you’ve come all this way, is it? No, your purpose here is to be a companion to your aunt through a difficult winter. I’m sure you’ll be a cheerful and virtuous presence and a comfort to all those here who need it most, as any good Christian woman would.”
“I shall do my best, Papa,” I said, an easy promise to make. Being cheerful, virtuous, and a comfort to others had been ingrained into me and my sisters all our lives by our mother.
He nodded, though I sensed that his thoughts were already elsewhere.
“I’m sure your aunt has told you that Colonel Hamilton continues as His Excellency’s primary aide-de-camp in Morristown,” he said gruffly, “and that he has asked after you. You do recall the gentleman, don’t you?”
We’d been traveling together for three weeks, yet it had taken Papa until now to speak those words to me. But because I’d been half expecting this from the beginning (and even long before), I managed to keep my voice even and my reply measured and truthful.
“Aunt Gertrude did relay the colonel’s compliments to me, yes,” I said carefully. “And yes, I have not forgotten him. But he has never written to me directly, Papa, nor presumed upon our acquaintance.”
Papa frowned, his brows drawing tightly together beneath the cocked brim of his hat.
“I would expect that as an officer, Colonel Hamilton has been far too occupied with his duties to write love letters,” he said. “It’s your aunt who has been the presumptuous one in regard to the man.”
“You liked Colonel Hamilton when he called on us two years ago,” I said, daring greatly. “You said he had great promise, and you said he was intelligent, resourceful, and courageous.”
“And you, daughter, have an excellent memory.” He shifted on the sleigh’s seat to face me. He had tied a scarf around his black beaver hat to keep the wind from carrying it away from his head, yet long wisps of his hair had pulled free from the ribbon around his queue to whip in the breeze beside his weathered cheek. I don’t know why I took notice of his hair at that moment; perhaps my thoughts would rather have concentrated on his unkempt hair than on the seriousness of our conversation. “So the colonel did catch your eye when he last visited us. I thought as much.”
My cheeks warmed, even in the cold air. “One evening’s acquaintance is scarcely enough to judge him, Papa,” I said. “He made himself agreeable to me, that was all.”
“You needn’t be so coy with me, Eliza,” he said. “I knew within moments of meeting your mother that I would marry her.”
“Papa, please,” I exclaimed. My parents had never made a secret of the warm devotion and love they held for each other, and although they had been wed for nearly twenty-five years, the nursery on the uppermost floor of our house was still frequently required for another new little brother or sister. Yet it made me feel uncomfortably rushed to hear my father speak of me and Colonel Hamilton in the same fashion. “It’s far too soon for that.”
He shook his head, making it clear that he believed my objections to be nothing more than over-modest rubbish.
“Such matters are inclined to move more swiftly during times of war, Eliza,” he said. “I realize that your aunt may be as enthusiastic as Cupid himself, especially where Colonel Hamilton is concerned. It cannot be denied that he has certain impediments, however. The man has no fortune or family, and his origins are questionable at best.”
“I know his family wasn’t Dutch, like ours,” I began, “and I know he wasn’t born in New York, but—”
Papa cut me off. “It’s not where he was born, Eliza, but how,” he said. “His mother left her lawful husband to live sinfully with her lover. That man was Hamilton’s father. He is illegitimate, a bastard, and all the world knows it.”
All the world might have known his parentage, but I hadn’t, and in confusion I looked down to my lap. I’d never known anyone who’d been born outside