Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(46)
“I have to go,” he said. “Charleston is my home. My family is there. My mother and brothers and sisters, and Mepkin.”
“Your beloved estate. You talk about it as though it were your child.”
“More like my parent. I would not be the man I am were it not for what I learned at Mepkin. One day when you establish an estate of your own you will feel the same way about it. I must return home to protect her.”
“Of course,” Alex said, even though he had no real experience with what having a home meant. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to persuade you otherwise.”
“Then give us a good hug farewell, Alex.”
The two men embraced there on the path to the Ford mansion. When Alex stepped back, though, Laurens held on to one of his hands.
“And take the advice of your fondest friend—the Schuyler girl is yours for the asking. It’s time to rally, soldier. Do not wait to speak your heart.”
Alex was surprised to see tears in his friend’s eyes, and he felt an upswell of emotion in his own chest. He knew Laurens was right, and that he was perilously close to losing his chance.
“Be safe, my friend, and send me a lock of hair from General Clinton’s head when you drive him from Carolina,” said Alex at last.
Laurens bowed with mock formality, then turned and strode off toward his quarters. His shoulders were square, his back straight and proud, yet Alex couldn’t shake the idea that his dear friend was marching off to his doom.
THE NEXT MORNING was taken up with routine administrative duties, although routine was hardly the right word. The weather of winter of 1779–80 could hardly be compared with that of 1777–78, which the Continental army had spent freezing at Valley Forge. During that terrible season, one in four American soldiers died. Diseases and injuries, which would normally have been no more than inconveniences, were made rapacious by poor shelter and few provisions. The current season was milder, but the war had been going on for two additional years, and supplies were meager. Storeroom ledgers were alarming; reports from the infirmaries were dispiriting. Among Alex’s most dreaded tasks was writing the letter to the family of a fallen soldier, informing them that their son had died, not in battle like an Asgardian warrior, but in a cot, of a fever, because he could not get warm enough or fill his belly with enough sustenance to fight off the ravages of injury and infection.
“My dear Mr. and Mrs. Willey, it is with great sadness for your loss, but also great respect for your son’s commitment to the cause of freedom, that I write to inform you of the passing of Josiah, on the 19th day of February in the year of our Lord 17 hundred and 80 . . .”
Alex had penned no fewer than sixteen such letters that morning, and on no fewer than seven different occasions he had to abandon his draft and begin again, because he’d mistakenly used the name John for whatever fallen soldier he was meant to be commemorating. When the letters were complete, he told Corporal Weston that he was off to run an errand; he grabbed his coat and hurried from headquarters.
He had no fixed plans when he left. He only knew he needed to get away from his dismal task and worries about his friend, who was riding south toward the fiercest troops the British had mustered. But his feet knew where to take him. Within ten minutes of leaving the Ford mansion, he found himself back again at his post on Chapel Street, standing before the two-story white house.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon when Alex banged the knocker on the Cochrans’ front door. He had no idea whether anyone would be home or not, especially since Eliza’s sisters had arrived in Morristown. No doubt she was off somewhere doing the Lord’s work with them. But he thought about what Laurens had said. I’m a soldier. It’s time to rally! But maybe he should just go and get back to his—
The door pulled open and Ulysses greeted him. “Colonel Hamilton,” he nodded, motioning that he should enter.
Alex thanked the old butler and walked into the hall, which in truth was not much warmer than it was outside. Ulysses beckoned him to follow him into a parlor, which was considerably warmer. A fire blazed in the hearth and the scent of spiced cider oozed from a brass kettle hanging over it. Alex’s soldier-trained eyes peered into the shadowed room—its windows faced northeast—but did not spy an occupant.
“Miss Schuyler, Colonel Hamilton is calling.”
A shadow detached itself from the recesses of a high-backed wing chair, and Eliza’s face, turning toward the door, greeted his.
“Colonel Hamilton!” Eliza jumped to her feet, sending an embroidering ring and several spools of thread and a pair of long needles flying. “No, no, not to worry,” she said as Ulysses stooped forward to pick up the fallen objects. “I’ll get it. Please bring Mr. Hamilton a cup. I’m sure he would enjoy a glass of hot cider. It is particularly frosty today.”
She knelt down as the butler retreated from the room, her nimble fingers retrieving the scattered articles. “Indigo, indigo, I am sure I was working with—oh!”
She started as she looked up and found Alex kneeling beside her, his gloved hands proffering the spool of blue thread. He pressed it into her hand more firmly than he needed to.
“Here you are, Miss Schuyler.”
“I—thank you, Colonel.”
He helped her stand, taking her hand once more. He didn’t seem to want to release it.