“At long last, a detail of your sojourns amongst the Indians that Tilghman neglected to mention,” he said with a teasing smirk as we passed under tree boughs that sagged with the weight of new-fallen snow. “Nevertheless, I can only put to His Excellency a plan to part with supplies in the interest of science, not superstition.”
That should have ended the matter. Normally I wouldn’t have inquired further. But something about Hamilton provoked me. “Our men at Valley Forge were ignorant of the science behind cooking white corn. It was the Oneida allies my father and Lafayette recruited who taught them better.” Remembering how Hamilton spoke reprovingly to Angelica about the unfair ways we’d been taught to view Negroes, I added, “Perhaps you dismiss Indian medicine as superstition with unfair prejudice.”
Hamilton’s mouth opened, then snapped shut again. “Certainly our Indian allies have proved invaluable to our cause. And they deserve the respect of humanity. However—”
“Then I appeal to your humanity to give the doctor what he requires.”
Hamilton laughed, which was not at all the reaction I’d wished. “Had you appealed to my friendship or gallantry it would have been irresistible. I should think myself bound to attack windmills in your service. But when you appeal to the general principle of humanity, I must show you that even the eloquence of your plea cannot tempt our Fabius to do wrong.”
“Fabius?”
“I mean General Washington, of course, who, like the Roman hero of old, pursues a strategy of evading and wearing down the enemy. Avoiding pitched battles and, above all, conserving supplies.”
Hamilton obviously had done some cold manner of calculation, weighing sickness against the possibility of battle, deciding the gunpowder could not be spared. So I did not press him further. Instead we walked in silence, only the sound of the snow crunching underfoot between us, until I had to ask. “Are we losing the war, Colonel?”
It was an impulsive question, one that Hamilton shouldn’t have answered. But he did. “Yes, we’re losing the war.”
I was so surprised by his candor that I slipped on the ice. He caught me by the arms and steadied me until we stood facing one another. And his blue eyes again gave the impression of violet against the bleakness of all that surrounded us.
“Is it—is it because of the desertions?” I asked.
“Miss Schuyler, I begin to worry you are utterly destitute of the frivolousness which is justly deemed one of the principal accomplishments of a belle.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, sir.”
“I’m not sure I meant it as one,” he said.
I swallowed against a sudden unexpected wanting, and took a step back. “Still, you were saying about the war . . .”
He shrugged as we resumed walking. “We’re losing the war for a thousand reasons, starting with the fact that you arrived here not long after a mutiny. We’re not sure how much longer we can hold this army together. Oh, militia will fight if you pick a time and place and send a pretty invitation, but the hard slog of a disciplined army ready to strike whenever opportunity presents itself is what’s necessary.”
It was part of the trouble my father faced with militias and the Green Mountain Boys, so I understood. What he said next, I understood less.
“Then there is the deranged state of our currency—the value of paper money has dwindled to nothing. And the necessity of a foreign loan is now greater than ever.” He glanced at me before summarizing. “Our affairs are in a bad way, but perhaps Europe will save us in spite of ourselves. If Lafayette returns with assistance from France, it could change everything.”
“Fortunately, I know the marquis to be resourceful.”
“So he is.” Hamilton’s expression softened. “I forget that even if you know nothing of old Romans, you are Schuyler’s daughter, and a woman of the world.”
“Is it your way to taunt and flatter in the same breath?”
“It is when I’m trying to win a lady’s admiration.”
I slanted him a glance. “Is that what you’re trying to do?”
He peered down at me, the hint of a smile around too pretty of a mouth. “I sense that you disapprove of me, Miss Schuyler. Though it is assuredly my own fault, it is fast becoming a circumstance I cannot bear.”
Did he really care so much what I thought of him? “I confess no such disapproval, sir.”
“Only indifference?”
A little smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as we sparred. “I do not confess to that either.”