“I believe that is entirely reasonable,” Papa said, and nodded with satisfaction. “Pray for him, Eliza, as I know that you do. But also recall all the preparation and care that have gone into this final moment.”
I nodded, remembering how His Excellency had been planning for this when Alexander had still been an aide-de-camp. All those letters and dispatches he’d written in French, all the hopes that had traveled to Versailles with Lafayette and John Laurens, every conference in Newport with the French generals, had aimed for this single confrontation with the British.
“If we succeed as I expect we will,” Papa continued, surprising me with his emotion, “then at last this wretched war will end, and our country shall find peace. Think of that, Eliza. It’s been more than six years since we first went to war, and now, if the Heavens favor us, your child will never know anything else but peace.”
*
Peace . . .
It was the last word that drifted through my head as I fell asleep that night, peace that would bring Alexander back to me, and peace that would keep us together for always.
Yet I didn’t dream of Alexander, or even our unborn child. Instead I dreamed of a long-past day when I’d been only thirteen, still a girl, when my family had spent the summers in our house in Saratoga, and I dreamed of an event that had actually occurred to me.
In this dream, our rambling, clapboarded house was untouched by the British who would later burn it to the ground, because then, in 1770, our family was still British, too. Everything was exactly as I remembered it, from the rustling maple trees that flanked the front door, to the blue-and-white pot that Mamma had filled with yellow wildflowers on the parlor’s sill, to the old stone mill wheel that served as the house’s front step.
But what mattered about his particular day was that Papa had chosen me–not Angelica, not Peggy–to accompany him to Fort Clinton, and be presented to the Chiefs of Six Nations. Mamma had not been happy about it, but Papa had insisted, claiming the chiefs would see my presence as a sign of good faith.
I was surprised, and excited. The people of the Six Nations were the Iroquois, the Indians who had once lived upon our land, and still ruled the rest of the wilderness. Every so often, their chiefs would gather to meet with the military leaders like Father. Indians were common enough in our lives, appearing at our house to trade game and other goods, but I’d never seen a chief. Chiefs were like generals, or governors; they were grand, rare, important men.
I’d dressed in my best white linen gown with a blue silk sash and a wide-brimmed straw hat, and soon I was sitting in the carriage beside Papa in his militia colonel’s uniform. The morning sun glittered off the gold lace and polished buttons of his scarlet uniform coat and glinted across the hilt of his sword, and I’d thought proudly that my father was the most perfect military hero I’d ever seen.
The fort wasn’t far from our house, and our drive was brief. Stout upright logs formed the stockade walls of the fort, with raised, square tower-houses on the corners for surveying the river and the forests. The gates opened for us, and as soon as we were within, I’d seen the Chiefs of Six Nations waiting for us on parade grounds.
They’d stood in a ring, solemn and daunting as they watched us approach. None of them smiled. Their faces were painted according to their nations, with feathers and beads woven into their dark hair, or some with half their hair shaven clear away. They wore garments made from deerskin and fur mixed with trade cloth in crimson and blue, and elaborate jewels and bracelets fashioned from silver or brass. They were regal and splendid and more than a little daunting to me, and I understood now why Father had cautioned me to show no outward fear, but to be brave and strong.
“Remove your hat, Eliza,” Papa had said softly. “Your cap, too. It’s their custom for women to have their heads uncovered.”
I did as he bid, looping the ribbons of my hat around my wrist and tucking my linen cap into my pocket. Mother would have scolded me for being out of doors without either, but here with the chiefs it was expected. The same breeze that tossed the flag overhead now ruffled my dark hair, tugging wisps free from the hairpins that held the tight knot at the back of my hair. I let them go, and didn’t try to smooth them back.
The chiefs stepped aside to let us walk among them. I was curious and frightened at the same time, yet I tried not to let any of it show. I would be brave; I would be strong. Even in my dream, I knew the importance of that.
Several of the chiefs addressed me and smiled. I comprehended none of their words, spoken in their tongues, but I sensed it was all well-meant, and with Father beside me I felt my fears slip away. One by one, the oldest and most revered of the chiefs placed their hands on my head, covering my hair with their open palms, as a Christian will do in blessing. Perhaps that was why I was no longer frightened; I felt the kindness in their gestures, no matter their language, and the good wishes that came with it.
Finally my father said something more in their language to take our leave, and we bowed and left the circle. I’d waited until we were alone in the carriage again to ask Papa what the chiefs had said.
“Why, they took you in as if you were their own child, Eliza,” he explained, “and made you a daughter of the Six Nations, exactly as I’d hoped. They gave you a new a name that means ‘One-of-Us.’ I presented you to them in trust and good faith, and they returned the favor by embracing you into their family.”
“They did?” I’d said, awestruck. “I’m an Indian now?”
“After a fashion,” he said. “You’ll always belong to us first, of course, but it’s wise to have friends and allies wherever you may go. The chiefs want the same things that I do, as all men do in every country: peace and prosperity and security for their families and their people. They don’t want war any more than an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or a German does. But peace is fragile, and this is the only sure way it can be kept, through trust and understanding and respect. Never forget that, Eliza. No matter what happens, never forget it.”
I hadn’t forgotten. How could I, when another war had begun again only a few years later? I’d never forget, no matter what I dreamed, and yet again I heard my father’s voice speaking still of peace, again and again.
“Wake, Eliza, wake,” he said, his hand upon my shoulder.
Groggy with sleep, I turned my face from the pillow and forced my eyes to open. Though my room was gray with coming dawn, he was holding a candlestick, the flickering light flaring across his face, and my mother’s behind him. She was crying and pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and that was enough to draw me sharply awake.
“What has happened?” I asked anxiously, my first thought for Alexander. “What is wrong?”
“Not a thing,” Papa said, his smile so wide it must have hurt. “Cornwallis and his army have surrendered, and our army has won. Your husband is not only safe, but a hero, and will return to you soon. It’s peace, Eliza. At last, it’s peace.”
CHAPTER 12