I was flattered. I was intrigued. I’ll admit to nothing more, even now. I was by nature more practical than many ladies, and I didn’t believe in the kind of instantaneous love that poets praised. I had liked Colonel Hamilton, and I’d thought often of him, and yes, I’d kept him in my prayers each night for the past two years. Apparently, he had liked me, too, at least well enough to confess it to my aunt. Now, in Morristown, he and I could discover where that affinity might lead us.
To my great surprise, my parents were nearly as eager as I for me to join my aunt—so eager that I suspected Aunt Gertrude had shared her schemes for me and Colonel Hamilton with them as well. The favorable impression that my father had first formed of the colonel had continued to grow with reports of his diplomacy and intelligence from General Washington himself, reports that balanced the more frivolous praises from my aunt. The colonel had become the general’s most skilled aide, and his most trusted as well. Whatever my parents’ reasoning, they agreed that I should go, and when Papa departed Albany to return to Philadelphia soon after Twelfth Night, I traveled south in his company, with the plan that I would be left off in Morristown.
Although none of us realized it then, that winter would be the worst in memory, with bitter cold and numerous storms that froze rivers and harbors solid and buried roads thick in snow and ice. Our journey was slow and arduous, by sledge and by sleigh. Although the campaigns of both armies had ceased for the winter season, the country was still at war, and Papa took care that our driver followed only the safest (if indirect) routes through territory held by the Continental forces.
There was another reason to be cautious. Although my father had resigned his commission, he remained a close friend and advisor to General Washington as well as a member of Congress. The British knew this, and there’d been sufficient rumors of a possible kidnapping that we were granted a military escort for our journey.
Not a day passed that our progress wasn’t hampered by fresh snow or ice, yet still we pressed onward. As a soldier, Papa was accustomed to this kind of hardship, and lost himself in reading letters and dispatches from the other members of Congress as if he were home at his own desk. I was woefully not as stalwart, no matter my resolve. Fresh coals in my foot warmer turned cold beneath my skirts within an hour, and even bundled beneath heavy fur throws, my fingers and toes were often numb with the cold. It wasn’t possible to divert myself with needlework or reading; all I could do was concentrate on keeping warm.
In the midst of my misery, I thought often of how Colonel Hamilton had made this journey in five days during October. Now, in January, it took Papa and me nearly three weeks to cover the same distance.
We finally arrived in Morristown late in the afternoon on the first of February. The weak winter sun was low and rosy in the sky, making long shadows across the snow. I sat up straight and looked about me as the weary horses slowly pulled our sleigh through the small town, eager for a glimpse of the exciting encampment that Aunt Gertrude had promised.
I didn’t see it. Instead Morristown had a weary, pinched look, and none of the bustle and purpose that I’d expected. The snow in the streets was dirty and trodden, and the few soldiers we passed were hurrying hunched and bent against the cold. To my surprise, there were no women or children abroad at all. Although the houses were agreeable, some had their shutters closed on the lowest floors as if the inhabitants were in hiding, while others showed more the appearance of public houses than private homes, with a general lack of care and tidiness that no good housewife would admit.
“Where is everyone, Papa?” I asked, my words coming out in little clouds in the chill air. “Aunt Gertrude said there were thousands of soldiers here, yet I’ve seen fewer than a dozen.”
“The majority of the men aren’t stationed here in town, but to the north, in a place called Jockey Hollow,” Papa said as he, too, glanced about the quiet street. “Some of the higher-ranking officers have secured quarters in private houses for themselves and their families, with His Excellency and his staff in Mrs. Ford’s mansion at the end of town.”
I nodded, for that made sense. “But if the soldiers are elsewhere, then where are the townspeople? I know it’s cold, but there should still be people about at this time of day. There would be in New York or Albany.”
“But neither of those are Morristown,” Papa said, his voice somber. “I suspect your aunt has painted this place like some merry Vauxhall frolic, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The townspeople don’t want the army here at all, and have no compunctions about showing their disdain by keeping their distance, as you have noticed.”
His frankness startled me, for though he was still closely involved with affairs of the war, he seldom confided these matters to me.
“How very uncivil of them,” I said warmly, “and unpatriotic, too.”
Papa grunted. “They have their reasons,” he said. “Nor would I question their patriotism. The last time the army camped here three years ago, the soldiers brought smallpox with them, and many from families here fell ill and died. Since then, His Excellency has ordered that all men be inoculated so they no longer carry the contagion, but the fears among the people remain.”
Their fears were understandable, too. Smallpox was a terrible evil that claimed young and old alike, and while inoculation was growing in popularity, there were still many more superstitious folk who would rather risk the disease itself. No wonder they kept within their homes.
“But for this camp, disease is the least of the worries,” Papa continued without any prompting. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead past the driver’s back, his profile sharp against the banks of snow, and his mouth grimly set. I wondered if he even remembered I was beside him.
“The soldiers themselves are already suffering,” he continued bluntly, his voice edged with anger, “and winter still has months to run its course. There are insufficient shelters, leaving men to weather these snowstorms with no more comfort than a tattered blanket. His Excellency does what he can for them, but there isn’t enough food, firewood, or cabins, and most of the men haven’t been paid in months. Some have deserted for home, and others have turned to thieving. It is a constant challenge for the officers to maintain morale and discipline.”
No, there hadn’t been a word of any of this in Aunt Gertrude’s letters. I sank a little lower beneath the piled furs that kept me warm with my hands snug inside my muff, and with guilty remorse I thought of soldiers shivering through the winter without proper shelter, without fires for warmth or food in their bellies. What right did I have to feel the cold, or complain of it?
“Where are the army’s provisions?” I asked. “It’s still early in the winter. Surely supplies are not already exhausted. If the men are in want, why hasn’t Congress addressed their needs?”