At the reminder, Mac roared with laughter, recounting details Alexander never told me. “He’s lucky he managed to wheedle it out of that boy who lived at headquarters or the guards would’ve let him sleep in the snow.”
Grinning, Hamilton protested, “I was determined to keep what little dignity I had left! I had to pretend I’d just been testing the guardsman.”
Even Mrs. Washington chuckled at this, shaking her head. And the toasts continued long after the Washingtons went to bed.
“Thirteen toasts,” Hamilton insisted. “One for each state!”
Mac raised his glass, his Irish brogue more pronounced with every raised glass. “Here’s to the four hinges of friendship. Swearing, lying, stealing, and drinking. When you swear, swear by your country. When you lie, lie for a pretty woman. When you steal, steal away from bad company. And when you drink, drink with me.”
“Huzzah!” we cried until all thirteen toasts were made.
I still remember the international brotherhood of that night so vividly. The French Marquis de Lafayette. The Marylanders, James McHenry, Tench Tilghman, and Robert Hanson Harrison. The Connecticut Yankee, David Humphreys. And Alexander Hamilton of the West Indies.
My husband told me they were the only real family he’d ever known, and now I saw that they were a family. What’s more, I felt privileged to be included. At our wedding, I’d sworn that my people would be Hamilton’s. But now I said another silent vow that his people would also be mine.
*
“MY DEAR, I must pay you a compliment,” Mrs. Washington said.
We sat together, huddled by the fire as cold whistled through cracks in the weathered walls, great piles of mending at our feet in baskets. I’d been wondering how we’d ever make a dent as my fingertips stung from working the needle through the coarse cloth when her words drew me from my thoughts. “Oh? Whatever for?”
I thought she’d praise my stitchery, but instead she said, “You’ve made our Colonel Hamilton very happy. I wasn’t sure anyone could.”
Pride stilled my hands, for she’d known my husband for far longer than I had. “You do me a kindness—”
Just then, shouts erupted from outside and footsteps pounded down the staircase. General Washington ran past us, out the doorway, and his flight set my heart into a thunderous beat. His Excellency was so measured in all things that his alarm sent us following him out the front door into the biting afternoon.
I braced myself for any possibility—mutinous soldiers, perhaps even a British attack! And with all the general’s aides, including Alexander, dispatched on errands. But I never expected to see the adjoining shed afire, hungry flames consuming the wall closest to where the enslaved laundresses worked over a campfire. Nor did I expect to see General Washington single-handedly heaving three enormously heavy washtubs of water upon the blaze before it spread to the house.
Not knowing what else to do as the bodyguards came running, I rushed to get more water, but Washington already had everything smothered—only smoke and black scorch marks remained. Then the general leaned back against the house to catch his breath.
“Good heavens,” Mrs. Washington uttered, her hand on her heart while the laundresses fell into apologies before the great man, realizing their fire had sparked the ignition, and perhaps expecting punishment. But the general kindly reassured the women before coming up the steps of the porch where we stood.
“Are you unharmed, sir?” I asked, noting his weariness. His hair was much grayer than it had been when I’d first met him in Morristown. More so than the hair I wore in the pendant round my neck.
“Quite, Mrs. Hamilton, but your concern is appreciated,” he said, reaching for the door to return to his work, as if nothing remarkable had just occurred.
Noting the pallor of Mrs. Washington’s face, I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Thank you, dear,” she whispered with an appreciative glance, then stepped inside with the general. The quick exchange made me wonder who Martha Washington, so often without female companionship while in camp, had to confide in and rely upon. Perhaps it wasn’t my place, but I’d consider it a privilege to call Mrs. Washington my friend.
A moment later, Tench rode up to the house, eyes bulging at the sight of the scorch marks. When I told him what happened, he shook his head. “As if the weight of the whole war didn’t already lie upon his shoulders, now he’s literally putting out fires.”
It was a sentiment that stuck with me.