I, Eliza Hamilton. Susan Holloway Scott
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bravely and for as long as they could, but they were grossly outnumbered and outfought. When the British cannon began to rain heated shot upon the city, causing fires to homes and public buildings alike, the army and the city had no choice but to surrender.
The British victory was more costly than anyone in the North had expected. Nearly five thousand Continental soldiers surrendered and were made prisoner, and the British also captured more than three hundred cannons, six thousand muskets, and several tons of gunpowder—a grievous loss in every way.
The British now had possession of the largest city in the south with the best harbor, and further, by their decisive actions, they had won back the allegiance of many of the citizens who’d wearied of the long war. As Alexander told me in gloomy confidence, General Washington himself could have gone to Charleston and met only defeat, the odds were so much against the Continental troops.
At the same time, there was misfortune in Morristown, too. In May, a number of the Connecticut troops fomented an out-and-out mutiny against their officers, citing the lack of pay, food, and respect from Congress. The mutiny was quickly put down, but a number of their leaders were sentenced to death. They were not alone in their infamy, either. Several other men were sentenced for crimes including repeated desertion and forgery, bringing the total of eleven criminals. Some were to be hung for their sins, and others shot.
The night after the executions, Alexander described the scene to me, though in such halting terms I was sure he left much out to spare my sensibilities. At the last moment beneath the gallows, General Washington pardoned ten of the men, but the worst of the lot, a man from a Pennsylvania regiment, was not spared, and died his dishonorable death. As Alexander said, it was one thing to watch a man die in battle, and another to see him die as a weeping, guilty miscreant at the forced hands of his military brothers. The execution shadowed the encampment and the whole town with it, as if any of us needed more darkness in an already dark year.
And yet even in the midst of these unhappy troubles there were scattered bright rays of light and hope.
Alexander learned that his friend Colonel Laurens had survived the siege of Charleston unharmed, but was now among the thousands of prisoners of war waiting to be exchanged and released. Unlike most of his fellow prisoners, however, he’d a wealthy and well-respected father laboring to secure his release, and with Charleston fallen, Alexander hoped that he would soon return to rejoin His Excellency’s family.
In May the encampment was honored by several distinguished visitors from abroad, including the Chevalier de la Luzerne, Minister of France. His presence was seen as a sign that France would soon enter the war as our allies, and hopes began to rise at a giddy rate.
Nor were those hopes in vain. Soon after, another Frenchman arrived, Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, who also served as a major general in the Continental Army. Lafayette (for so everyone called him, ignoring his noble title) was another old acquaintance and compatriot of Alexander’s, and much esteemed by His Excellency as well. The news Lafayette brought with him from the French king Louis XVI, however, outshone even the bonds of friendship: the French fleet was bringing six thousand much-needed soldiers to join the American cause against the British.
In honor of these visitors, His Excellency announced a military review and a ball in honor of the French ambassador. As can be imagined, we ladies rejoiced at the news of such a diversion, and rallied to create ensembles suitable for a ball there in the fashionable wasteland of Morristown.
I also took pleasure in again meeting Lafayette, who had once been our guest at The Pastures during the early days of the war. I’d no notion then that he was a close friend of Alexander’s, or that the two would fight together with such distinction and bravery, especially at the Battle of Brandywine where the marquis had been wounded. I remained in awe that he could have achieved so much for the cause of a country that was not his own, and yet was still of the same youthful age as Alexander and I. I liked his enthusiasm and his vigor, and how he hoped that one day I might have the honor of meeting his wife and young son, now left behind in France. He showed me painted miniatures of them, too: the marquise a sweet-faced lady of fashion, and his son a true little cherub of less than a year, named George Washington de Motier in honor of His Excellency.
For me, however, there was one more guest who arrived on a rainy, muddy, April afternoon of more importance, someone who in my eyes eclipsed all the French nobility combined: the much-admired Mrs. John Carter, or as I knew and loved her, my older sister, Angelica.
* * *
“I wish you had brought your children with you,” I said as I followed my sister up the stairs of our house. I could see from how closely her riding habit fit that she’d regained her neat figure after giving birth to her second child the previous November. “I’ve yet to welcome little Catherine.”
“You’d hear little Catherine before you would see her,” Angelica said. “She’s a dear little creature, but colicky as the wind itself, which can make her a trial. I cannot imagine traveling with her at this season, nor taking her from her nurse to come traipsing off to an army encampment. She’s much better off in Boston with her brother and John. I shall bring her home with me this summer, and you shall meet her then.”
This was a pretty story, but I suspected it was more likely that her husband had preferred to remain in Boston and avoid my parents. Although both parties had finally been brought to a reconciliation, it was an uneasy connection at best. I’d hoped that Angelica’s naming the new baby after Mamma would lessen some of the tension, but that rapprochement wouldn’t occur if Angelica didn’t bring the child to Mamma for her blessing.
“How does Mr. Carter?” I asked. “Is he well?”
“John is always well,” she said, “and always prospering. It is his nature to do so.”
That was certainly true. One of the reasons that Papa disliked Mr. Carter was his uncanny ability to increase his fortune from the vagaries of the war, while most men had seen theirs decline. “You’re brave to travel so far without him.”
“It’s only brave when a woman does it, Eliza,” she said. “No one thinks twice of a gentleman making a similar trip. I made the journey in the company of several of John’s associates, and never once felt frightened or ill at ease.”
She paused in the doorway to survey the bedchamber under the eaves that had been mine alone until now. Her trunks had already been brought upstairs, and stood waiting on the floor to be unpacked.
“So I see we shall share a room once again, Eliza, and a bed with it,” she said, walking the length and breadth of the small room in a few quick steps. “Will you share your secrets again as well, dear sister? Will you tell me everything in your heart, as you used to do when we were girls?”
She smiled at me and turned about quickly, making the petticoats of her scarlet riding habit flare dramatically around her ankles. But then, that was how Angelica did most everything, with drama and a perfect confidence that all others about her were watching. They did, too, for she was impossible to ignore. She was a fraction taller than I (or appeared that way) and handsome rather than beautiful, but it was her style, her wit, and intelligence that drew others to her.
When Angelica had showed promise as a child, Papa had obtained a tutor for her as if she were a boy, and she had learned to speak French like a Parisian, read Latin like an Oxford don, and could discourse with ease on male topics such as politics and economics. She had always aspired to be one of the accomplished ladies in London and Paris who attracted brilliant company to their drawing rooms, whilst I had always held humble aspirations, dreaming instead of a house filled with laughing children rather than philosophers.
I will, however, hasten to note that there was never any animosity between us, despite what scandal-mongers later whispered. We were as different as sisters could be, yet still we loved each other with the warmest bonds of our blood. Only a year separated us, yet Angelica had always played the role of older sister to the hilt—though to be honest, I’d been equally content to stand starry-eyed in her grandiloquent shadow.
But on that April afternoon, I gave no thought to any of that. I was only happy to