“Betsy,” my uncle said, softly, trying to draw me to follow him. But his efforts were to no avail, because in the swirl of my horror, I’d noticed a man hanging by one arm on a picket, tied to one of the few remaining trees, red blood flowing from his shivering ribs, his bare back laid open in gory gashes that revealed bone. And it looked as if his shoulder had dislocated.
“Dear God, he needs help,” I said, starting for the poor fellow, my petticoats dragging in the snow.
My uncle caught me by the arm. “It’s a military matter, Betsy.”
As a general’s daughter, I’d known soldiers forced to run the gauntlet and slashed by their fellows. But the sorts of punishment meted out by the British army—a thousand lashes like to make a man die—I’d never seen in ours. And this man’s suffering seemed an utter barbarity. So I broke away from my uncle and rushed to the bloody soldier.
What I would have done for him, I didn’t know. Untie him. Bandage him. Give him my cloak?
I only knew that I must do something until the miserable fellow looked up at me from his bindings and croaked, “Listen to good Dr. Bones, lass.” His words slurred. “There’s nothing you can do. I was caught robbing the town folks.”
“You’ve been punished for it, amply,” I said. “By whose orders are you left here to—”
“I was d-deserting,” explained the half-frozen miscreant, his eyes glassy and his teeth chattering against the cold and the pain. “Better than the imbecility in staying and starving for a country that cares nothing for us. They’re likely to shoot or hang me c-come morning. So be an angel of mercy and pray for me to die.”
A startled sob caught in my throat.
“Elizabeth!” my uncle barked. This time, he brooked no resistance, pulling me away by the arm and taking such long strides that I was forced to take two steps for his every one.
“He can’t be left there in agony, Uncle.”
“The officers will decide that. I thought your father would have taught you this. I’d never have brought you with me if I thought otherwise.”
As a general, my father, too, must have ordered men flogged or maybe even hanged. I’d never questioned Papa’s decisions, or his wisdom, or his mercy. But to torture a man—to torture all these men . . .
“This is no place for ladies,” my uncle was saying. Yet I spotted women everywhere. Some even with children, also gaunt and starved. Camp followers, we called them, intimating they were prostitutes. Some were, but more were wives of the soldiers who, having been burned out of their homes by the British, had nowhere else to go. The women boiled water. They sewed. They cleaned clothes. And I was shamed at myself for not bearing up better when so many of them managed to.
“I’m sorry,” I said, to my uncle. “I will better conduct myself.”
But he’d thought better of my presence entirely. “What you’ll do is go to the Wick House until I fetch you. General St. Claire has his headquarters there.”
If he’d been the officer to order a man lashed to the bone, I didn’t think I could face him.
Sensing my reluctance, my uncle said, “Don’t keep me from tending the men.”
Sorry for giving my uncle trouble, I nodded and grabbed up my skirts, then marched up a snowy path marked with blood from barefooted soldiers. I knocked upon the door of the little wooden farmhouse, but it wasn’t St. Claire who answered.
It was Alexander Hamilton.
Somewhat dazed, I asked, “Is General St. Claire here?”
“I’m awaiting his return.” Hamilton frowned. “What the devil are you doing here?” At the moment, I was so shaken, I wasn’t sure. And when I didn’t answer, Hamilton guided me into the small space before a roaring fire, herbs drying from the rafters and copper pots hanging on the wall. And though it was clear he wasn’t pleased to see me, concern crept into his voice. “Miss Schuyler?”
“Is it right to torture a soldier like that?”
Realizing what I must’ve seen, he pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t give that order.”
My lower lip quivered. “I only asked if it was right.”
“Miss Schuyler, we must hold the army together.”
It was a coldhearted answer. And he must’ve known that I thought so. Because he couldn’t meet my eyes. He stared at his boots. And I stared at him, hoping he would use his influence, if he could, to remedy the situation.
Instead, at length, he said, “This morning I had the occasion to pass a private talking to his mates over a campfire. An Irishman, I gather. Not a wealthy soldier. Nor a learned one. Nor a statesman. Neither were his fellows. Indeed, they were a motley group of Yankees, Irishmen, Negroes, Buckskins, and whatnot. And do you know what they were discussing?”