Colonel Burr smiled, and nodded to my father as Papa excused himself to speak to my mother.
“I fear I hadn’t the perseverance that Colonel Hamilton demonstrated in the General’s Family,” the colonel said. “I much preferred to be in the field than bound to a desk.”
My own smile faded a fraction at that, catching a hint of disparagement for Alexander, and I couldn’t help but come to his defense.
“Perhaps you did not realize, Colonel Burr,” I said briskly, “that my husband resigned his post with His Excellency, and is instead serving as a field officer in the present campaign, commanding two companies of light troops from the Connecticut Line.”
If Colonel Burr felt chastised, he masked it well. “I had heard that, Mrs. Hamilton, yes,” he said. “Colonel Hamilton is to be congratulated not only for his command, but for having such a devoted and loyal wife.”
“I thank you on my husband’s account, Colonel Burr,” I said, mollified, even if his flattery was obvious. “Have you a wife yourself?”
He shook his head, and there was no mistaking the regret in his dark eyes.
“Not as yet, no,” he said. “But there is an estimable lady whom I pray will one day be able to favor me in that way.”
“I pray that she will, too,” I said in a rush of sentiment; in the manner of those deeply in love, I was so joyful in my affections that I wished the rest of the world to feel the same. “Would you care for tea, Colonel?”
“Thank you, madam, but I fear I must decline on account of another engagement,” he said, bowing. “But please offer my regards to Colonel Hamilton, and the hope that I might call upon him at a later date. Your servant, madam.”
I nodded and murmured farewell, but Colonel Burr’s last sentence lingered. He’d purposefully said that he’d hope to call on Alexander in the future, not that he would. Ordinarily I’d have given no thought to such a nicety of phrase, but now I feared it was laden with ominous foreboding.
Grim thoughts, grim thoughts, yet for the sake of my baby, I did my best to put them aside. I believed I’d done an acceptable job of it, too, smiling and pouring tea as if I hadn’t a care, but it was clear my parents thought otherwise. Papa came over to me, bending over to me so no one else would hear.
“You needn’t stay here any longer, daughter,” he said gently. He took me by the arm and helped me to my feet. “Come, let us retreat to the library, and study today’s progress on the map.”
I nodded, happy to be relieved of my hospitable duties, and happier still to be going to the library with him. Since we’d first heard of the summer campaign, Papa had kept a large map of the American states spread out on a table in his library. Whenever he received fresh news of the army’s travels—whether from dispatches, letters, or newspapers—he would call for me (and only me, since I was the one of my siblings with the most at stake) to join him.
Together we’d trace the army’s progress, from this town to the next, across this river or around that bluff. From Alexander’s letters, I knew the army’s day began early—Alexander raised his company at three in the morning, to be able to begin by four—and lasted until dusk. Haste was of the essence in this campaign, and everyone knew it. Sometimes Papa calculated that the troops marched ten miles in a day, sometimes twenty, while other days were entirely consumed while the troops were ferried by battalion across a river.
They marched through the city of Philadelphia, which must have been an impressive column of Continental and French soldiers stretching over two miles in length through the streets. I eagerly read the descriptions in the Philadelphia newspapers that arrived for my father soon after the event, trying to picture everything for myself from my visit there. Apparently, the weather in the city was very dry and the streets so dusty that the marching soldiers soon became coated with a film of the stuff. Their consternation was reported in the papers, on account of them being unable to make the smart military appearance they wished before the ladies waving from the windows. I thought wryly of my husband, who always wished to be as fastidious as possible in his uniform and general dress: how he must have loathed that dust!
A week later, they’d boarded the French fleet at Head of Elk in Maryland. Under sail their journey became much quicker, thirty miles a day, thirty-five, even forty. By the end of September, they were in Virginia, sailing up the James River to disembark and make their camp in the state’s capital of Williamsburg. By the first week of October, they were finally less than twenty miles from Yorktown, the site of what all hoped would be the final major confrontation of the war.
“General Washington has every advantage,” Papa said with satisfaction as together we leaned over the map. “From all reports, Cornwallis has trapped himself by his location, and all we must do is lay a proper siege.”
“A siege instead of a battle?” I asked anxiously. I’d heard all about sieges from Alexander, who’d been fascinated by them from a tactical and intellectual perspective. From his description, a siege sounded much less dangerous. Soldiers took cover in trenches and behind fortifications instead of standing neatly in rows waiting to be shot.
Papa, however, wasn’t nearly as reassuring.
“Oh, a siege is simply a different kind of battle,” he said. “Both sides attempt to outlast the other, while seeking to undermine and exploit the other’s position. Long-range attacks can be conducted by artillery, especially shelling, but there may also be close fighting as well along the barricades, and—”
He broke off suddenly; I suppose he must have taken note of my stricken expression.
“But I don’t expect this siege to be like that,” he said too heartily to be true. “I expect it will last no more than a week at most. Having the French fleet as well as their troops has changed everything. For once, His Excellency has all the advantages in his possession.”
I looked down at the place on the map where all this was to take place. It was evidently so small a town that it hadn’t been printed on Papa’s map. He’d written it in himself—YORKTOWN—in heavy inked letters symbolic of the town’s new importance.
“When do you expect this siege to take place?” I asked.
“Very soon,” Papa said, giving the location on the map an extra tap with his forefinger. “It may even be underway as we speak.”
I hadn’t had a letter from Alexander in nearly a fortnight. He could be swinging his sword or firing a musket at this very moment, or he could also be lying— But no: I would not think of that.
I raised my chin with determination, even as I clasped my hands together to mask their trembling. “Alexander wrote that he expected the siege to be over swiftly, too, and that he planned to be here in Albany once again by Christmas.”