“General,” I began, aware of what felt like six thousand pairs of eyes now fixed upon us. “We are honored by your invitation and generous attention. But the hour grows so late—”
“We accept,” Lysbet interrupted me, with extraordinary impertinence. “Gladly.”
“Lysbet!” I hissed.
Something had come over my daughter. I didn’t know if it was the ball gown, the idea of further conversation with her curly haired beau, or seeing the bust of her father. Whatever the cause, Lysbet grabbed my hand. “Wouldn’t my father go with Lafayette, and since he cannot, shouldn’t we?”
Of course, her father would go. Alexander, the hero of Yorktown, would have every right, in justice, to ride in glory beside Lafayette. To deny it would be to deny his children the recognition and honor they craved all their lives. The cruelty of the world had denied them this.
How could I deny it to them, too?
“Ah, I see I have it wrong,” Lafayette said with a mischievous wink. “She is a Hamilton through and through.”
Outflanked by the pair of them, I threw up my hands. “But . . . we have nothing packed.”
Lafayette made an elaborate, twirling gesture with his hand. “And what of it? When we were young, you climbed into a sleigh with only a satchel and drove off with me into the wilderness.”
This memory was a warm and delightful one. It was also a story my daughter didn’t know. As Lafayette told it, he made me remember the young and adventurous woman I used to be. And, quite unexpectedly, I yearned for her . . .
“So I beg you,” Lafayette said. “Come with me tonight.”
Despite his words, Lafayette was not begging. He was issuing a command. And though I had defied victorious generals before, I didn’t have the heart to resist or resent him for it. Especially when Lysbet looked happier than I’d ever before seen her, and multitudes clamored for the opportunity to take my place.
Drunk on champagne and celebration, the whole city wished to climb aboard Lafayette’s steamship and chug away with him. And so, quite irregularly and recklessly, that is exactly what we did.
*
THAT NIGHT, A great number of prominent citizens, unwilling to part with Lafayette, crowded onto the ship deck with us until the captain was forced to refuse even one more.
Then, to a setting moon, we lost sight of the Castle Garden amidst the noisy cadence of the steam machinery struggling against the waves and current of the river. The river that tied me to my past . . .
Though the steamboat contained more than eighty beds, the crowd had not been foreseen and the greater part of the men slept upon the deck. Nevertheless, I don’t believe any of us slept much, because every few minutes cannons announced our passage by some village. So at sunrise, I abandoned my berth and went above deck to enjoy the view of the majestic banks of the Hudson.
I was at Lafayette’s side when a group of old revolutionary soldiers gathered at the rail, sharing stories from their service. “There I wept for an enemy,” Lafayette said, pointing to the spot where he’d sat in court-martial over the British spymaster Major André, and seen him hanged. And I knew, should we keep chugging north, we’d pass Sugarloaf Mountain and the house on the shoreline from whence Benedict Arnold fled to the British Army, my husband in desperate pursuit.
I heard the word traitor murmured by more than one man. And I nearly murmured it myself, remembering that I was with Arnold when I met Lafayette, though I hadn’t thought of that day in years. Now, those harrowing times of the war came back to me. Names of towns and soldiers and battlefields in this valley stirred memories for me, too. Fort Ticonderoga, the loss of which cost my father his command. Saratoga, where Burgoyne burned our home to the ground before being forced to surrender. Albany, where loyalists broke into my father’s home and nearly chopped us with a hatchet. New Windsor, where Alexander and I first lived as newlyweds and where I learned the story of Captain Molly.
I had not, like Captain Molly, taken up arms or shed blood in the cause.
But I’d stitched up and cared for those who did. I’d traveled with Washington’s army and shared some of its privations—and I imagined myself in fraternity with these brother soldiers, looking out upon the country we’d brought into being.
And to my astonishment, I felt as if I belonged with them on this journey after all . . .
As if to banish any doubt, Lafayette said, “When I first came to this valley, I found the high mountains, with their thick forests and naked rocks, all along this river, so imposing. It was difficult not to share the superstitious terror of the Indians. Unless, of course, one has a Schuyler at his side . . . as I did then, and now.”