We celebrated our first wedding anniversary quietly, followed by Christmas and Twelfth Night, leaving the revelry of the season to my younger siblings. As I grew larger and more uncomfortable, Alexander’s health improved, and soon the only way to keep him in bed was to surround him with the books he requested from Papa’s library.
His old energy was returning, and with it his intellectual fervor. While the British surrender at Yorktown had effectively ended the war, a final peace had not yet been negotiated, and British soldiers continued to occupy New York City and less populous regions in the southern states. To Alexander, this was a time even more dangerous to America than the depths of the war had been, and he railed against the weaknesses of Congress and the imperative need for change in the government before the country could survive on its own. I listened and asked questions, wrote letters and made notes for him since Mamma forbid open bottles of ink anywhere near beds. It was as if he and I were again back in the small house on De Peyster’s Point, with him thinking at a furious pace.
But on one of those gray January afternoons when dusk falls too soon and candles must be lit by the middle of the afternoon, his mood turned as melancholy as the day. He was for once silent, lost in his own thoughts as he lay against the pillows, staring out the window at the snow-covered garden and gray sky above it.
“When I went over the top of the parapet, I believed I was a dead man,” he said softly. I was startled, for this was the first time he’d mentioned Yorktown in many days, and never in this subdued fashion, either. He was still gazing toward the window, though at that moment I doubt he was aware of the landscape beyond the glass, or me beside him, either.
“It was my duty to go first, Betsey,” he continued. “I’d sought this chance to lead my men into battle, and I’d welcomed it. You know I’ve never been a coward, not one time.”
“Never,” I murmured, agreeing but letting him continue.
“Yet when I should have thought only of victory and a glorious death, I thought of you.” Restlessly he raked his fingers back through his hair. “Even as I jumped from the parapet with my sword drawn and in amongst the enemy’s guns, I thought of you and our son, and how desperately I desired to see you both.”
“That was love, Alexander,” I said, putting aside my sewing to take his hand. “There’s no dishonor or cowardice to that.”
He shook his head. “Everyone believes I acted from purest honor, duty, and courage,” he said, “but in my heart I was afraid, afraid that I’d never see you again, afraid that I’d never see our son, afraid that he’d grow and live without a father as I did. How could I lead other men into battle with that much fear in my head and my heart?”
“But you did lead them, my love,” I insisted. “You fought for us and our future together. You did your best, because you had a reason for fighting. That doesn’t make you any less of a soldier.”
“But it does,” he said sadly. “It did. Love has no place in battle. In the past, before I married you, I fought with abandon and real courage, ready to sacrifice everything for freedom. I could face the enemy’s guns and death without flinching. Now I hesitate, and stop to consider the cost. And that hesitation means the very death of a good soldier.”
“You didn’t do that at Yorktown,” I said. On the contrary: every report I’d read had declared his actions to have been daring to the very edge of reckless, and his boldness and bravery were constantly singled out for admiration. “You put your life in jeopardy for the sake of liberty and for your men, and the world now lauds you as a hero.”
“Eight men were killed in my company, Betsey,” he said. “I’m praised by my superiors for having lost only eight, but I knew them. Good men, men who’d marched with me all the way from New York. They died following my orders, and my lead. Why did they die instead of me?”
“Oh, my love,” I said gently. “You can’t torment yourself with questions like this that have no answers. You’ve said yourself that such losses are the fortunes of war, both cruel and capricious. What more could you have given for the cause?”
He didn’t answer my questions, but instead answered one of his own.
“I am done as a soldier,” he said with finality. “I’ve resolved to write to His Excellency and resign my commission. Instead I intend to devote myself once again to studying the law, a pursuit that, while requiring dedication, does not demand the single-minded tenacity of a soldier.”
As can be imagined, my heart rejoiced at this declaration. To have Alexander step down from the army and its dangers and obligations would be as Heaven to me. But I was also aware that this declaration could well be no more than a passing thought on a gloomy day, a resolution made more from my husband’s current debilitation, and easily overturned upon his recovery. I wanted him to be certain, without any regrets or looking back.
“You needn’t decide yet,” I said. “I don’t wish you to berate yourself if there were to be another crisis and His Excellency were in need of your talents.”
“If matters became that dire, then His Excellency would need more than I could provide,” he said firmly. “No, Betsey, my decision is made. I’ve had my share of glory. I’m determined upon the law. But most of all, I vow to devote myself to you and our child.”
What sweeter words could there be than those? Certainly, it seemed as if the Siege at Yorktown had quelled the hottest fire of his ambition. If this was to be the future of our family, then I could ask for nothing more.
With Alexander finally permitted to leave his bed for a few hours a day, we began to join the rest of the family downstairs in the parlor. He particularly enjoyed listening to me play our fortepiano, and so did our child, who seemed to dance within me in time with the music. Alexander claimed that he’d fallen in love with me as I’d sat at my instrument on his first visit to our house years before, and that he never ceased to take pleasure in my accomplishment.