In truth, he spent his life keeping that promise.
Chapter Eleven
February 16, 1781
New Windsor
IT WAS, AT long last, time to make a stand.
After the mutinies had been put down and their leaders executed, all the men were weary and anxious for the coming—and hopefully decisive—battle with the British.
For almost a year now, the French general Rochambeau’s fleet had been blockaded in Rhode Island. Now he was ready to abandon his ships and march his well-equipped and well-trained French soldiers with ours in what we all hoped might be the decisive battle for American independence.
All that remained to be decided was when and where we would fight.
In the deciding, Alexander was gone many nights until well after the fire had died and I’d fallen asleep. I’d taken a terrible cold, and so had poor Colonel Tilghman, who forged on with his work anyway.
For myself, in the most secret part of my heart, I was terrified. I believed in our soldiers and our cause and our chances, but from what I overheard at headquarters, it seemed that we were now racing week by week headlong toward a battle from which there could be no retreat or stalemate. This time would be for all the world.
Win, and nothing would ever be the same.
Lose and, well, my husband, my father, my family, my friends—we stood to lose everything.
Knowing what was at stake, I didn’t mind my husband’s late hours. What alarmed me was Alexander’s arrival to our room in the middle of the afternoon. I’d never before seen him so distressed. Sitting up in bed, where I’d been endeavoring to rest away a headache and sore throat, I ran my gaze over him, trying to determine what could be wrong.
Slamming the door, he stomped inside and threw his satchel to the floor. His cloak followed in a great flourish of dark fabric, all the while he muttered and cursed to himself. Slipping out of bed, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and he came straight to me, his blue eyes stormy. “You shouldn’t get up. You need rest.”
“But—”
“There’s been an unexpected change,” he said, a strangeness to his voice, a wildness to his expression. “I am no longer a member of the general’s family.”
I almost couldn’t make sense of the words. “I don’t understand.”
He pulled me to sit on the edge of the bed. “General Washington and I have come to an open rupture. He accused me of treating him with disrespect.” My husband’s tone was equal parts anger and dismay.
I took his hand. “You? Disrespect His Excellency? I cannot imagine it. Tell me what happened.”
Alexander squeezed my hand and then rose. For a moment, he stared into the fire, and then he began to pace, as he so often did when agitated. “There is very little to tell. He asked to speak to me, and I nodded, then continued down to hand Tilghman a letter. The marquis asked me a question, to which I gave the most concise of answers because I was impatient to return to the general.” Hamilton heaved a breath, his hands raking at his auburn hair. “But instead of finding Washington as usual in his room, I met him at the head of the stairs. Do you know what he said? That I’d kept him waiting ten minutes and had treated him with disrespect. Can you imagine?” Alexander whirled on me. “I sincerely believe my absence didn’t last two minutes.”
“Of course,” I said, my mind racing. “It was just a misunderstanding. Surely this can be remedied.”
“No, it cannot.” He shook his head. “I argued that I was not conscious of any disrespect, but since he thought it necessary to tell me such we should part. He agreed. So here I am.”
Alexander had barely finished recounting the tale when a knock sounded upon our door. My husband crossed the room and opened it, the rusted hinges creaking in protest. And I heard Tilghman’s voice from the other side. “General Washington has sent me. May I come in?”
“I don’t think so, sir. My wife is indisposed.” Alexander gave a curt nod and made to close the door.
I was aghast at his rudeness. “I am perfectly well,” I called, not willing to let him use me as a rationale for not resolving this disagreement. And I was becoming accustomed, at this point, to my husband’s colleagues bursting in upon us at any hour of day or night. “Invite poor Tilghman in to get warmed by the fire.”
After a pause, my husband relented, and the colonel entered and gave me a bow, even as a coughing fit had him clasping his chest.
“Let me get you some raspberry leaf tea with honey,” I said, pouring from the pot I’d made myself downstairs at the boardinghouse’s hearth.