Another moment that went far too fast, and then he was gently easing himself apart from me. “I must go now.”
“Go,” I echoed sorrowfully, my open palm still on his breast. “May God be with you, my love, and keep you safe.”
He paused and smiled. “You always pray for me, don’t you, Betsey?”
“Someone must do it.” Somehow I managed at last to smile through my tears. “I love you.”
“Dearest love.” He kissed me quickly, then backed away from me perhaps a dozen paces before he finally turned and walked purposefully toward his horse.
Left behind, I hugged my arms around myself, a sad mockery of his embrace, and no real solace at all. He swung himself easily up into the saddle, gathered the reins, and settled his hat more firmly on his head. He looked one more time toward me and saluted, and then turned, and was gone. I stood alone and watched him as long as he was in view, and longer beyond that, before at last I too turned away and began on my solitary way.
But to my surprise, this was not to be his final farewell to me that day. Later that evening, I sat sewing with my mother in our parlor. The events of the day weighed heavily upon us both, and when we did speak, we kept our voices low, as if unconsciously fearing that the enemy might somehow overhear us. With all of Papa’s military experience, Mamma wished that he were here with us instead of in Philadelphia, while I missed Alexander’s presence most sorely.
We still had our two sentinels from the army to watch over us, yet both Mamma and I jumped in our chairs and exclaimed with surprise when the knock came on our door. No one would call upon us at that hour of the evening, especially not on this night. Not trusting a servant to answer on a day such as this, Mamma herself rose and I joined her, and together we hurried to the door.
Standing beside the sentinel was a small mulatto man whom I recognized as another of the Washingtons’ servants. In his hand was a letter for me, addressed in Alexander’s unmistakable hand. My mother sighed with resignation and nodded, excusing me, and I rushed upstairs to read his letter in privacy. I couldn’t imagine he’d had opportunity to write today, not on horseback, and not on the first day of a campaign, either.
I slowly and carefully cracked the seal and unfolded the sheet, the way I always did to prolong the pleasure of his letters. This time, however, there wasn’t a letter, but a single line, written in obvious haste:
My dearest Betsey, I would have given you this myself tonight. Instead let it carry my heart to yours, and love your Hamilton as well as he does you. ~ AH
He’d written that tender closing in letters to me before, a true lover’s admonition, and again its tenderness brought tears to my eyes. He must have scrawled these lines this morning, when he’d believed he’d missed me at headquarters. The servant had become our unlikely Cupid, unable to carry Alexander’s message until after his own duties were done for the day.
But this short note only served as a prelude to a smaller sheet, folded into a tight square within. This wasn’t a letter, either, but a poem, and written out with care.
ANSWER TO THE INQUIRY WHY I SIGHED
Before no mortal ever knew
A love like mine so tender–True–
Completely wretched–you away–
And but half blessed e’ven while you stay.
If present love would show its face
Deny you to my fond embrace
No joy unmixed my bosom warms
But when my angel’s in my arms.
He’d never written a poem to me before. No one had. I read it again, then read it aloud, whispering the words to myself as I imagined hearing them in his voice. I smiled, and pressed my lips lightly to the page, and counted myself the most fortunate of women to love, and be loved, as I was by my Alexander.
*
At Papa’s insistence, Mamma and I and our servants left Morristown for Albany two days later. We were accompanied by several guards, but our progress home was without risk or hindrance, and we saw no signs of the troubles that were disturbing New Jersey. The closer we came to Albany, the more Mamma’s health improved as well. I do not know whether this was from Lady Washington’s elixir, or her anticipation at once again being in her own home, or simply the natural progress of her pregnancy; whatever the case, I was glad, and relieved that she was better. If it were not for the uncertainties of the war so close to us, the sunny June weather would have made our journey a pleasurable one.
The remainder of the month was far more eventful for our army, and therefore for Alexander. When people now think of a battle, they imagine a wide and airy field with tidy rows of combatants in gaudy uniforms following a well-ordered plan of attack and defense; much like a game of chess, with the generals on both sides moving their soldiers like pieces about the board.
Perhaps amongst the great powers of Europe, war is conducted with this kind of restraint and order. But in the war here in America, battles were seldom so neat. In fact, to the British officers, the American way of fighting was dishonorable and disorganized, no matter that they soon adopted it themselves. Because General Washington never had the same sheer numbers of men and artillery that the British generals possessed, he often chose to engage the enemy in a manner drawn more from native warriors like the Delawares, the Shawnees, and the Iroquois. Soldiers fought amongst villages and forests, using whatever it was they found to their advantage, or for their defense.
The British attack upon New Jersey that began in early June continued in this manner for several more weeks. I learned of it first from Papa, and then from Alexander, who could write to me only when he found a messenger to carry a letter through the lines to me. The so-called Battles of Connecticut Farms and of Springfield were drawn-out affairs that savaged these towns. The local militia combined with the Continental troops to drive the enemy back to Elizabethtown, and finally again across the river to New York. It was considered a mighty victory for our side, and cheering to His Excellency, the soldiers themselves, and even Congress.
Yet while Alexander wrote in his most exaltatory fashion about these victories (and doubtless also wrote the same in His Excellency’s official reports to Congress), it was the more sorrowful aspect of the fighting that lingered with me.
Many houses in the various villages were burned by the British as they retreated, leaving families homeless and bereft. I thought of how the same enemy had looted and burned my own family’s house in Saratoga this way earlier in the war, and how they showed so little remorse over the destruction of private property.