God could not wish this, I thought. Our ancestors’ Dutch Reform faith held that much was predestined. But God could not wish helpless babes to die after only a few painful breaths. No just God could wish suffering, sickness, slavery, and savagery.
Wasn’t that why we were fighting a revolution?
I’d never been a patient girl in church services. I’d read the Bible only indifferently and because my mother insisted. But now, at the grave site of my dead baby brother, hearing clods of earth fall upon the tiny coffin like the sound of knocking, I was struck by the powerful conviction that God put us here to make a better world.
And it is a conviction that has informed the rest of my life.
Though I burned for some heroic deed to accomplish, the uncomfortable realization of maturity was dawning. The grinding toil of duty might not be as glorious as adventures in the wild, but more necessary. To make this world a better place, my family needed to survive this war. And so I applied myself for the first time to the housework I’d always shirked, laundering clothes, feeding chickens, bundling herbs, pickling vegetables, bottling cider, and making soap. And to make sense of any of it occasioned countless trips up and down the stairs to disturb my poor mother’s rest.
This was especially so because Dinah, our cook, had not returned from Pinkster. She’d been found in a barn, harbored by a Scotchman, and now marked time in jail as a runaway until Papa could reclaim her. Despite my father’s reassurance that he wouldn’t punish Dinah harshly, Jenny was beside herself with fear—or perhaps with guilt that she’d not joined her mother in running away. And even after a chastened Dinah returned to our kitchens, tensions on our plantation ran high, with Prince thin-lipped and more insistent upon protocol than ever.
Meanwhile, my father slept scarcely at all that spring and well into autumn.
He’d lost his child, his command, and his honor. For months now, despite his continued service, Congress denied him the opportunity to defend himself against charges of neglect and disloyalty. All while General Gates discounted our reports of devastating raids by the Mohawk, Cayuga, Seneca, and Onondaga.
It wasn’t until October—perhaps under my father’s subtle threat that he would publish a pamphlet to exonerate himself—that he was finally called upriver for his court-martial.
The verdict came in three days.
The court having considered the charges against Major-general Schuyler, the evidence and his defense, are unanimously of opinion that he is NOT GUILTY and the court do therefore acquit him with the highest honor.
Sweet vindication! All the sweeter because it helped put an end to talk of replacing Washington. His trusted officers had proved trustworthy. Lafayette had avoided the trap of a disastrous misadventure in Canada and salvaged his reputation by recruiting Indian allies to the cause. My father had been acquitted by an honest court. Our generals and young officers had stood together with Washington.
Semper Fidelis.
And I will always believe it was loyalty to the cause over personal ambition that saved us. General Gates was forced to apologize for his role in attempting to undermine Washington and became, himself, the subject of an inquiry. Other conspirators resigned in humiliation. And since Mama was quite nearly recovered, it was a thing I meant to celebrate in high style.
Peggy and I determined to host a party, something to bring cheer and joy back to the Pastures. The little ones thought to make a pie for Papa’s return, so we invited friends from our community troop of Blues on a foraging day to pick the last of the season’s berries. A group of us ventured into the wilds, singing and joking, as we’d done since we were young.
It was an old Dutch tradition meant for matchmaking. All New Netherlander children were divided from the youngest ages into teams for races and games, outings and house parties. The Blues, the Reds, the Greens. Even in Papa’s day, no chaperones were present, which was how, I supposed, my oldest sister had come to be born only a few months after our parents married.
Not that I’d ever dared ask my starchy mother about it.
In any case, amongst our children’s troops, Angelica had been our undisputed leader. Never one who enjoyed the outdoors, Peggy had often groused her way through all of our troops’ adventures, but Angelica had cheered our Blues in the winter as I skated to victory past one of the Livingston girls. And sang songs as we climbed through the brambles to explore the mist-slick caves along the river. And lolled on the green grass, nose buried in a book while the rest of us stuffed ourselves on a picnic of good bread, butter, and jam.