Ordinarily I would have considered that another compliment from him on Alexander’s behalf, but the conviction in his voice made me pause.
“What have you heard, Papa?” I asked. “I know that Alexander writes to you of military matters that he cannot share with me. What has he told you?”
If I’d any doubts before, they fled as soon as I saw my father frown and duck his chin.
“That’s a question for your husband, Eliza,” he said. “Not for me.”
“Alexander isn’t here for me to ask, Papa, and you are,” I said. “Please, if you have fresh news of him that I do not, then—”
“No, Eliza,” he said firmly. “Any news of that nature must come from Hamilton himself.”
I knew better than to press for more, but I hadn’t long to wait. Alexander’s next letter shared the news that my father had already known. On the last day of July, he’d finally been given command of a New York light-infantry battalion. For his second in command, he’d been able to choose Major Nicholas Fish, an old friend from his days at King’s College. Although for my sake he attempted to mute his excitement, I read it in every word he’d written, nor did his assurances that nothing might come of the army’s preparations offer me any comfort whatsoever. He promised to try to visit Albany to see me one last time before the troops began to move in earnest.
Even as I realized how difficult that promise would be for him to keep, I clung to this most slender hope to see him once more before he plunged into the fray of bloodshed. But later in August came another letter that dashed that hope completely, and worse, added much more to my worries.
He could not come to Albany. He couldn’t ask permission, nor did he wish to. The target of the campaign that had occupied so much thought and attention over the past months was not the city of New York, but Virginia. His battalion, and much of the rest of the army currently at Dobb’s Ferry, would be leaving for there shortly.
There were also many words of love for me and our child, and unhappiness at how far apart we would be for these next months, and how he could scarce wait for us to be reunited later in the autumn. These were meant to succor me, and they did; no man has ever written a more beautifully loving letter than my dear husband.
But as precious as his protestations were to me, they still couldn’t soften the hard reality of our situation. I was wise enough in military matters to understand that the light infantry were often in the very thick of any battle. No longer would he be to the rear of the fighting, as aides-de-camp usually were, but in the very heat of the conflict.
Moreover, this could well be the last letter he could send to me with any certainty. The fact that he also included information on his personal funds and instructions for how I might make drafts upon them if necessary only proved to me that he was not only acutely aware of the risks of the coming campaign, but preparing for the unthinkable possibility that he might not return. Further, he wished me to be aware of it as well.
In retrospect, I realize this letter was remarkably indiscreet of him to send me. The success of the campaign depended upon surprising the enemy, and if his letter to me had been intercepted, or otherwise fallen into the hands of the enemy, then His Excellency’s entire plan would have been revealed.
But at the time when I first read his words, I saw only his innate honesty, and how, even in such a situation, he was unable to tell me anything but the truth, which rendered his words of love and devotion all the more precious to me. It was a small solace, there in the middle of so much distressing news, but it was all that I had.
I took the letter to my father in his library, and let him read it through as he sat at his desk.
He sighed, refolded it along the creases, and handed it back to me.
“You husband writes an excellent letter,” he said. “He is perhaps a bit free with his knowledge of troop movements, but no harm has come from it, especially if it brings ease to you.”
“I’m sure he has written more to you,” I said. “If you know when his battalion has decamped, or where they are bound, or any other news, I wish you’d tell me.”
He gave a small shake to his head. “I doubt that would be of interest to you. It’s dry, dull stuff.”
“Not if it includes Alexander,” I insisted. “Please, Papa. Don’t keep things from me.”
“I don’t wish to distress you, Eliza,” he said gently. “Hamilton agrees with me, too. You’re in a delicate condition, and I won’t risk any upset that might bring harm to you or your child.”
I looked down so he wouldn’t see the frustration in my face and interpret it as distress. I know that my family wished me to be calm for my child’s sake, but I’d never liked being coddled. I was stronger than that. I pressed Alexander’s letter between my palms, as if to feel his presence through the words he’d written, and my wedding ring, still so new, gleamed in the sun against the white paper.
“What he has written here,” I said slowly. “It sounds as if he believes he might not return.”
Papa leaned back in his chair, the wooden legs creaking beneath him.
“A good husband must consider every eventuality,” he said carefully. “That is why he has told you how to obtain funds, if you find yourself in need of it.”
“He also says that you have offered him money as well,” I said. “He is polite about it, yes, and thanks you for your kindness, but you know he is proud, and doesn’t wish to be indebted to you.”
He ran his thumb back and forth over the carved, curved arm of the chair, a sure sign of muted impatience.
“I understand his pride, Eliza,” he said. “But I regard your husband as another son, just as you are my daughter, and if you are ever in want, I would want you to rely on me. As a soldier, Hamilton understands, and is perfectly aware of the dangers he will face. You should be as well.”
“I am, Papa,” I said. Nothing about this conversation was easy. “Long ago, when you and I had first arrived in Morristown, you told me that Alexander had survived through the war because he was lucky. You said some men simply were.”
He nodded, his expression softening.
“I remember,” he said. “I remember, because it was a surprise to me. When your Hamilton first came to Albany, I didn’t expect he’d last the winter, let alone the war.”
“Do you still believe what you said, Papa?” I asked, my voice taut with urgency. “About him being lucky?”
“Yes, he’s a lucky man,” he said at once, smiling. “He was lucky to win you for his wife, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, Papa,” I said. “That’s not what I mean.”
“I know what you meant,” he said, turning serious again. “You want me to offer you some sort of surety, a guarantee, that your Hamilton will not be killed or wounded, and that he will return to you unharmed in any way. And I won’t do that, Eliza. I can’t.”
I bowed my head over the letter in my hand.