The Pastures, Albany, New York
February 1782
So much has been said and written about my husband’s role in the final battle at Yorktown that I could write a thousand more pages here on that topic alone, and fail to include it all. At the time, we did not learn of the battle or its outcome until two weeks after it had occurred. Given that nearly six hundred miles lie between Albany and Yorktown, this is not surprising, and in a way, I was grateful to be unaware of the exact moment when Alexander had put himself into the most peril.
In fact, I didn’t learn how precipitously, even recklessly, he had embraced direct engagement with the enemy until much later, when he himself told me, and even then I doubt I heard all the details. I also suspected that there was a conspiracy within my family to keep the most alarming facts of my husband’s adventures from me on account of my pregnancy. Alexander did write to me immediately after the siege was done, to alert me that he was unhurt. Yet he did so in the most contrite way possible, informing me that he’d acted so boldly for the sake of honor and duty that he’d risked my happiness along with his life. Fortunately, by the time I received this letter, Alexander himself was once again in Albany and in my arms, and so the shock of it was much diminished.
And how very fast he flew to me, too!
He remained at Yorktown long enough to witness the British surrender, but as soon as he could arrange leave with His Excellency, he’d taken to the road. He was shameless in his desire to return to me, and did not care who knew it. He stopped for nothing, not even to tell Congress in Philadelphia of the victory and surrender, as he was supposed to have done. He rode hard and fast, so fast that he exhausted his horses near Red Bank in New Jersey, and was forced to obtain others for the last leg of his journey. He covered the entire distance in less than three weeks: an astonishing feat.
But I’d no knowledge of any of this, or what day to expect his return. All I knew was that he was coming, and that he’d promised to return before our anniversary in December. Papa had warned me not to set my heart on this day or that, because I’d only court disappointment. There was no predicting a journey of that many miles, often through rough terrain and uncertain weather. I tried not to pin my hopes on any one day, but each morning when I rose, I prayed that by nightfall he might once again be with me.
On the afternoon when he finally did appear, I wasn’t on the step to greet him, or even watching at the window. I didn’t hear his horse, or the joyful salutations from my brothers and father as he entered the door.
I heard none of it, because I regret to admit that I was asleep. I was by then seven months gone with child, and because I was ordinarily a small woman, I’d grown more unwieldy and uncomfortable with each passing week. I tired easily, and it had become my habit to retire to my bedchamber each day after dinner. I told my family that I required the time for reading and quiet reflection for the sake of my child, but the truth (which I expect was no secret to them) was that as soon as I lay my head on my pillow, I was fast asleep, and remained that way for an hour or more.
I didn’t hear the sound of the chamber door opening, or Alexander’s footsteps as he joined me, either. All I heard in my dreams was his voice.
“My angel,” he said softly. “My own dear Betsey.”
I sighed, and kept my eyes tightly shut, clinging to the fading dream as long as I could.
Then he kissed me, and I realized it was no dream. I gasped, and flung my arms around his shoulders, pulling him down so he might kiss me again. I was crying, too, tears of purest joy and relief that a moment I’d so long anticipated had finally come.
“I cannot believe you’re finally here, my love,” I said, awkwardly pushing myself up against the pillows. “My love, my love! Let me look at you.”
“I’m likely a sorry sight,” he said ruefully. He was: in fact his appearance shocked me. His hair was crushed flat from his hat, his uniform was flecked with the mud of the road, and he smelled like his horse. But those things could easily be corrected. What made me worry was how thin he’d become, his cheeks hollowed and his uniform loose where it shouldn’t be, and how dark circles of exhaustion ringed his eyes. There were also dozens of new freckles across his nose and cheeks from so much time in the sun, freckles that made him look more boyish despite his obvious weariness.
“You’re not well,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Don’t pretend otherwise, either. We must send for a physician.”
“Hush,” he said, hungrily kissing me again. “It’s my turn to gaze upon my beautiful Betsey, and our child.”
He knelt beside the bed, his face level with my belly, and stared at my roundness with unabashed awe. “Our son has grown considerably since I left.”
“So have I,” I said. I took his hand and placed his palm on my belly, moving it gently back and forth. “There! Did you feel the kick?”
He grinned in wonder.
“I did,” he said. “That’s my son.”
“It could be your daughter instead, you know,” I cautioned. “There is no true way of knowing.”
“It’s my son,” he said confidently. “I’m sure of it.”
I smiled, so grateful to have him back. Besides, I’d long ago learned that when Alexander was this sure of something, he was usually right.
“My dearest Betsey,” he continued softly. “This is why I came home to you. This is why I did what I did, for you, for our son, for . . . for . . .”
He swayed, and I grabbed his shoulders. He was too heavy for me to support, and as he toppled over on the floor from exhaustion, I slipped down with him. Frantically I shouted for help, then bent over him, holding him as tightly as I could.
It was hardly the homecoming I’d envisioned, but at last he was home and we were once again together, and because I couldn’t see into the future, I believed with all my heart that we’d never be parted again.
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