Mamma calmed me as best she could, and assured me that this would pass as my time progressed. But this coupled with my worry for Alexander made for a long and miserable summer, and I both dreaded and longed for the post messengers that brought his letters and news of the army’s intentions. Yet as much as I fretted and worried for his safety over the course of that summer, I was the one, not he, who was first confronted by the hazards of war.
Most people now will remember the war for the great battles with uniformed regiments led by His Excellency and others of his generals. But for those of us who lived along the northern frontiers, the war was a series of smaller events, attacks and raids led by Tories and the Indians in their hire. Crops and barns were burned, livestock stolen, and houses looted, and in the most deadly raids entire families were slaughtered and their bodies mutilated on the same land they’d worked so hard to clear and make their own.
These raiders had grown bolder with the rumors that the war might be reaching its climax, and in the spring of 1781, they’d come sufficiently close to Albany that my father had been warned to be on his guard. While Papa might no longer hold an active commission, he was still regarded as an important gentleman in the country, much involved in gathering military information. He was also known to be a member of Congress and a close friend and advisor to General Washington, and because of that, Continental spies had uncovered a plot to kidnap him and make him a prisoner for ransom in Canada.
Our house stood on the outskirts of Albany, not in the wilderness, and Papa doubted the Tories would be so bold as to attack him here. Yet still he warned us all to take care when we walked out of doors, and to keep within sight of the house at all times. A guard of six men stood in constant vigilance over us, with three on watch and three at rest in their temporary quarters in our basement, and our servants were warned to be vigilant as well.
In preparation for a possible attack, my father and the guards left their weapons near the door in readiness. However, after Angelica caught her little son, Philip, showing too much interest in these weapons, she did what most wise mothers would, and removed the guns herself to the cellar, where they’d offer less temptation.
August was especially warm that summer. The air was heavy and thick, and the usual breezes from the river that cooled our house on the hill seemed to abandon us. My mother and sisters and I dressed as lightly as possible, leaving off our stays and extra petticoats when we were at home, and forsaking silk for airy linen. The high-pitched whirr of cicadas in the trees added to the drowsiness of these days, and often the evening ended in a thunderstorm that did nothing to cool us, but only increased the steamy heat.
On this particular evening, we had gathered after supper in the large center hall with the doors on either side thrown open to catch whatever breeze we could. Mamma and I were stitching clothing for my coming child, while Papa, Peggy, and Angelica were reading, our chairs drawn close to the front door to catch the last light of the day. Angelica’s two children, Philip and Catherine, were engaged in some sort of game using the black-and-white patterned floor, and baby Catherine slept in her cradle in the family parlor nearby where it was quiet and she’d be undisturbed. Three of the guards were at rest downstairs, while the other three were in the shade in the garden, their guns on the lawn beside them.
Everything was as it should be, except that it wasn’t. One of our servants came into the house and addressed Papa, and we heard the man say there was a stranger at the back garden gate who wished to see my father.
While this seemed harmless enough to the rest of us, to my father, this was a signal. At once he briskly ordered the windows and doors shuttered and barred. Servants rushed to obey, pulling the heavy shutters over the windows and sliding the iron bars in place across them, while Papa hurried us upstairs and into the bedchamber he shared with Mamma.
“Keep together, and remain here,” he said. “Stay quiet, all of you.”
He took a pistol from the top of a chest where it had been loaded in readiness, and fired it from the window, a signal to summon help. He tossed aside the pistol and grabbed a musket leaning in the corner, taking care to keep to one side of the window where he wouldn’t be seen.
I’d a quick glimpse of men with pistols and rifles on the lawn, not in uniforms, but roughly dressed, and I gasped with fear. At least half of them were Mohawks, their faces fearsomely painted red and black and their long hair gathered atop their heads, armed with not only rifles, but tomahawks, too. There were so many of them that I guessed they must have overwhelmed the three guards outside, and I was thankful I could see no more. Clutching at my skirts, Angelica’s son began to cry beside me.
“Quiet,” Papa ordered sharply as he cocked the musket with an ominous click. I took the little boy into my arms, holding him tightly to quiet him as best I could. Angelica was cradling her daughter, rubbing her palm across the child’s back to comfort her even as her own face was taut with fear and her eyes squeezed shut.
We heard the men’s voices now, loud oaths and shouts and other blasphemy that was intended to frighten us more, and the crashing of shattered glass as they broke windows in the rooms below us. They were beating against the door, attempting to break it down with heavy, drumming thumps that echoed through the dark house.
Little Philip whimpered and curled against me, and I tightened my arms around him, as much to comfort myself as him. Silently I prayed for him, and for all of us, and especially for Alexander’s child, innocent and unknowing in my belly.
Suddenly Mamma cried out, her hands pressed to her face in alarm.
“The baby!” she wailed. “Oh, Philip, I forgot Catherine!”
She started for the door, determined to fetch the baby we’d somehow all forgotten in her cradle in the parlor.
But Papa seized her arm and held her back. “You can’t,” he said tersely. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll go,” said Peggy, and before anyone could stop her, she’d darted from the room, her steps a brisk counterpoint to the men pounding on the door.
Mamma clutched at my father for support as she sank to her knees, overcome by the thought of losing not just one daughter, but two.
Abruptly we heard the front door to the house give way, and the attackers surged into the hall, grunting and cheering at their success. There were sounds of cracking wood, of breaking glass and porcelain, as the men roamed through the lower rooms, intent on plundering our belongings. I was shaking now, imagining Peggy with the baby in their midst.
Suddenly one man’s voice rose above the din. “Wench, wench!” he shouted roughly. “Where is your master, girl?”
“He’s gone to alarm the town!” Peggy cried as she ran up the stairs. In the next moment she was again with us, handing Catherine to Mamma. Her eyes were wide with terror, her hair disheveled, and there was a large slash in her petticoat. I held my arm out to her, and she came, hugging me close.