Before the war, winter in Albany had been a thing of enchantment. Pristine snow-covered hills sloped gently to a frozen river, where skaters had frolicked amongst sleds and sleighs. And up from the river stood a cluster of about three hundred Gothic New Netherlander houses, their windows frosted and glistening icicles ornamenting the gables that faced the neatly kept streets.
But our once bucolic paths were now trodden to slushy brown mud, with milk cows roaming the streets for want of a pasture, and we were desperate for everything: meat, money, firewood, doctors. The circumstances were so dire that only a selfish or sadistic commander would force these soldiers to march.
And I feared this young upstart Lafayette might be both.
We’d scarcely arrived at the barracks when a commotion erupted from the direction of the river. I turned to see a procession of sleighs carrying soldiers, their white infantry uniforms embroidered with the fleur-de-lis of French heraldry. But at their head, wearing American buff and blue, rode a lanky young officer, borne upon a majestic mount like a conquering Caesar.
This must be Lafayette, I thought. And I didn’t know whether to laugh or weep at the ridiculous sight of a baby-faced general who’d apparently traversed a wilderness in rain and snow, all while properly powdered and ornamented with gold braid and dainty lace. I confess that my first glimpse of him with one hand upon his hip, the other upon his sword in martial pose, was enough to convince me that he was exactly the young fool that Benedict Arnold supposed him to be.
But when my father moved forward to make introductions, Lafayette seemed to know him already, and snapped off a very correct salute. “Major Général Schuyler.”
The respectfulness softened me a little.
When Lafayette dismounted and greeted General Arnold as well, Papa said, “I present to you my second-eldest daughter, Elizabeth.”
Given the increasingly rigid revolutionary sentiment at the time, I was uncertain if I should curtsy to a nobleman like Lafayette lest I be thought a secret Tory. Before I could decide, Lafayette took my hand and pressed upon it an audible kiss. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Schuyler. I am Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.” My eyes must have widened because Lafayette laughed and added, “It is not my fault, all these names. I was baptized like a Spaniard, with the name of every conceivable saint who might offer me protection on the battlefield so that I might be invincible.”
I could not help but smile at Lafayette’s jest, though I disliked the word invincible. I’d known too many soldiers who thought themselves invincible in this war and now found themselves moldering in graves. And if Papa couldn’t talk sense to this Frenchman, he was going to put many more into the ground besides.
Before Lafayette even inquired about quarters for his half-frozen men—or meeting the mayor who was, no doubt, scurrying out of his house now at the surprise arrival—he asked my father, “Report to me, please, the conditions of the forces here at Albany and their readiness for a winter campaign.”
This was the news that we wished to broach slowly, over a good meal and in front of a warm fire, with Arnold vouching for all Papa had to say. But the Frenchman was already demanding a report, and looking to Papa to give it. Oh, how I cringed to see my father make a report to Lafayette, a now superior officer, one much his junior in age, and a foreigner at that!
Still, the important thing was that the Frenchman heard the truth. Not enough gunpowder, muskets, or bullets. Too few provisions of every kind. Men without shoes, without coats, without medicines. It was an army that could scarcely defend the river, much less mount an invasion.
Lafayette listened to all this with a half-lidded, nearly insolent gaze. It seemed to me that he didn’t believe my father, or perhaps didn’t wish to believe him. And rather than see Papa subjected to the further indignity of being dismissed, I was now eager to go.
Pretending at a chill I didn’t feel, I rubbed my hands together. “I’m quite cold, Papa.”
Knowing me to have the hardiest constitution of all his daughters, my father glanced at me with surprise, then back at Lafayette. “I should very much like to discuss this further, sir. I extend my hospitality to you and your officers for dinner this evening. And with that, General Lafayette, I take my daughter and my leave.”
But Lafayette’s gaze skimmed over the encampment of miserable soldiers, and he actually dared to arrest my father’s movement with a gloved hand tight upon his elbow. “I cannot let you go, Schuyler. For I see now that I am betrayed.”