Looking to the future, Alexander resolved to make himself known to Mr. Morris with a detailed letter explaining the same philosophies that he’d been explaining to me. And what a letter it turned out to be: page after page after page, the written equivalent of his addresses to me. He wasn’t simply describing the monetary problems that Congress faced at present, but suggesting an entirely new kind of financial model for government to follow the war.
When his ideas came too fast and he became unable to keep still from excitement, he’d thrust the pen toward me, and I continued to write what he dictated as he paced the room. In jest I said I’d become an “aide-de-Alexander,” which made him laugh. He said he preferred to think of me his “amanuensis,” a much more elegant and literary Latin term. Either way, I relished the role, and when Mr. Morris replied with appreciative praise, I rejoiced with Alexander not just as his wife, but as his partner—and his amanuensis.
But he was sharing his ideas more publicly, too, in a series of articles that were published in the New-York Packet that summer. He did not credit himself as the author (something few gentlemen did, and also unwise for his military aspirations). Instead he wrote under the initials A. B., yet those in power recognized him as the author, and took note.
As spring shifted toward summer, however, Alexander’s thoughts were more often again with the troops across the river. The encampment would soon break for summer. Although Alexander no longer knew every detail of the army’s activities and plans from headquarters—the sole feature of being an aide-de-camp that he missed, and sorely, too—he remained sufficiently informed to learn that His Excellency was determined to break the stalemate in the war this summer.
The largest concentration of British troops remained in the city of New York, which they had occupied since 1777. From Alexander’s final days in headquarters, he knew that His Excellency was planning to combine forces with General Rochambeau’s French troops and attempt to wrest control of the city from General Clinton. More recently he’d heard the attack could take place as soon as July, and already the first of the Continental troops were beginning to shift to another camp to the south and on the eastern side of the river, near Dobb’s Ferry and only twelve miles from the city itself.
On the days when Alexander didn’t have himself rowed across the river, he climbed to the highest spot on our point, and peered across the river with his spyglass by the hour, watching for signs of moving troops. It all made my heart heavy with dread, knowing I’d have no choice soon but to let him go.
When he finally received encouragement from His Excellency regarding a field post, before the coming campaign, he decided it would be best to rejoin the encampment to be in readiness. For safety’s sake, I would return to my parents in Albany, and he took me there himself, spending only a few more precious days with me and conferring with my father before he left in early July.
As can be imagined, our parting was sorrowful, but he promised he’d steal away to see me again before any attack took place. Still, I watched from the dock as the sloop on which he’d sailed caught the breeze, and headed down river. He stood on the deck, waving to me, while I waved my handkerchief back at him.
How many other women over time had done the same with their sweethearts and husbands? How many handkerchiefs beyond counting had fluttered in the breeze as the dear one had grown smaller and smaller in the distance, to finally vanish from view? And how many of those same handkerchiefs had then been used to blot the fresh tears of separation, sorrow, and aching loneliness?
Yet I’d learned several important things from that spring. First, that the love that Alexander and I felt for each other and our marriage with it only grew stronger with each moment we were together. Second, that my husband was the most intelligent and thoughtful man I’d ever known, and that as much as he might long for battlefield glory, he would likely have much more lasting importance in shaping our new government once the war was won. I feared for his life, yes; but I also realized now that for him to perish in battle would be a terrible loss not just for me, but for our country.
There was one more thing I learned that June, as the days grew longer and warmer and the trees began to leaf with new green: by all my cautious reckonings, I was at last pregnant with our first child.
CHAPTER 11
The Pastures, Albany, New York
August 1781
When Alexander and I parted in July, my greatest concern was for his welfare. He was once again in the army’s camp, where he believed a field command was to be given him as part of the upcoming military plans. Though I knew he wished this above all things, I hoped that Fate (and His Excellency) had a less dangerous path planned for his life.
It did not help to hear my father agree in his brisk military way, predicting that the three armies—Continental, French, and British—would meet this summer in a battle so momentous that it would likely decide the entire outcome of the lengthy war. This did little to ease my concerns for Alexander’s welfare, and I wrote him more letters than I ever had before, all describing in teary detail how very much I missed him and prayed for his safety. Before we’d been wed, I’d longed to conceive his son or daughter as a lasting proof of our devotion, but now that I truly was with child, I was terrified that our poor little innocent might be born without a father, and never know his love.
Nor did I find much comfort in my sister Angelica, who was also visiting The Pastures for the summer with her children. She was pregnant, too, but her husband was entirely safe in Boston, which made her advice to me ring hollow at best. Waxing dramatic as any actress on the stage, she likened Alexander to a warrior about to make the most gallant and noble sacrifices on the field of honor, and urged me to be a patriotic wife and feel the same. I suppose it amused her to sigh on about him as if he were the hero in a romantic poem instead of my flesh-and-blood husband; it only served to upset me, and one night at supper I’d finally cried at her to stop in a shameful outburst that sent me sobbing into my bed pillow while she begged my forgiveness.
I must hasten to note that this was unlike my usual temperament. I’d always considered myself by nature a practical lady, not given to tantrums and tears or impassioned scenes. All this changed once I was with child. While I wasn’t ill the way many women were, most anything—a slice of bread toasted too dark, a mislaid stocking—could set me to weeping so piteously that I feared I’d lost my wits.