From John Carter to Colonel Alexander Hamilton
New Port [Rhode Island] May 18th, 1781
My Dear Sir
You do not tell me what your future line of life will be, but Villemansey tells me he thinks you are to command a Body of Troops this Campaign. I wish much to be informed, as independent of myself a certain Lady (who has not made her appearance this morning) is very anxious for your Happiness and Glory.
I have been in constant Expectation of Genl. Schuyler’s arrival here to take Mrs. Carter and the little ones with him to Albany, but I hear not a Word of him. If he does not appear in ten Days, I must send Mrs. Carter as in her Situation the Journey in the middle of June will be too fatiguing.
Your Friend & Servant,
John Carter
CATHARINE AND PEGGY HOVERED AS DR. STRINGER, Albany’s most-respected physician, punctured her papa’s arm with a lancet. Wrinkling her nose, Peggy watched blood ooze from the cut into a cup the surgeon held below Schuyler’s elbow. It was the second time that week his surgeon had bled Schuyler to treat his quinsy and to prevent his suffocating. Yet her papa still struggled to breathe, his throat rattling with each raspy gasp.
As soon as the doctor left the room, escorted downstairs to the front door by Catharine, anxious to hear all his instructions, Peggy knelt by her father’s chaise. “Papa, this is not working. Leeches, scalpels. You just seem weaker.”
Schuyler grunted, putting his hand to his throat. “Better tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Papa, do you trust me?”
Schuyler eyebrows shot up, but he smiled.
“Martha Washington told me of a remedy she has for quinsy that she gives His Excellency. She mixes molasses and onions into a toddy.”
Schuyler made a face.
“Will you try it? For me?” She grinned at him, adopting a singsong mama voice to say, “If General Washington can drink it, so can my brave papa.”
Schuyler laughed, which turned into a cough that cleared his throat. He took in a long, grateful breath. “That’s better. What would I do without you, my dear?”
Peggy laughed back. “Who would have known that being saucy to one’s papa could help him breathe? I have found my purpose!”
“Margarita, my beloved child, your spirit—stubborn, defiant, willful”—he paused to pinch her cheek affectionately—“is just what this new nation needs. I wish more men had it.”
Peggy’s heart swelled. All those adjectives were typically used as criticisms of her rather than compliments, adjectives used as negative comparisons to the sophisticated Angelica, the composed Eliza. She certainly did not want her father ill so that he needed her, but oh, how Peggy had grown up and learned, nurtured by his trust in her. No longer did she feel so overshadowed by her sisters. But that hard-earned place was about to be turned upside down.
“Paaaa-paaa!” a pretty voice called up the stairs. “Mama! Peggy! Where is everyone? I’m hoooo-mmmme!”
It was Angelica.
Two weeks later, Angelica sat in the dining room, a mound of luxurious petticoats and pregnant stomach—voluptuous, rosy, exuding life. An Aphrodite of motherhood, gorgeous as ever, even eight months pregnant and holding her own baby Catharine, a china-doll-pretty toddler, and clambered over by her three-year-old Philip. As always, her vivacious chatter was a scintillating mix of political commentary and gossip, and had everyone riveted.
Across the wide mahogany table from her sat Eliza and Hamilton, who had just come home as well. Eliza would stay in Albany as Hamilton rejoined the Continental forces in the coming campaign—if Washington granted him a command and then whenever His Excellency and Rochambeau determined what would be the most advantageous line of attack. The Schuyler sisters’ circle was once again complete.
“Vicomte de Noailles and his friend fought a duel over a Newport milkmaid, can you imagine?” she said.
Eliza giggled. Then her hand shot to her mouth and she pressed her lips together to suppress a gag. She, too, was pregnant, early on in it. But rather than blooming, she was wretched and violently ill most days. Hamilton reached over and sympathetically patted her hand, but his violet-blue eyes never left Angelica as she continued with her stories about the French forces in Newport.
“One of the officers was determined to show me how on command his horse would rear and stand on his hind legs. But the gelding added a buck that sent the gentleman flying. Oh my.” She laughed and then steadied her pregnant belly. “But enough about me,” chirped Angelica.
I should say so, thought Peggy, who had had her fill of wondering where in Angelica’s stories Fleury might have been. How could her sister not think about how her anecdotes might be tearing her heart apart?
“And so, my dear Ham, what sort of command are you hoping for?” But before he could answer, she added, “Does General Washington know of your daring exploits before joining his staff? Surely you have told him of stealing cannon right out from under British noses as their battleships sailed into New York Harbor and dragging them to the liberty pole at King’s College?”
Hamilton smiled.
Eliza’s face puckered. “I do not know that story.”
“Oh my,” said Angelica, “it is quite astounding. There is also the time he led a hundred men in a raid against the British at Sandy Hook Lighthouse.”
“We would have taken it, too,” said Hamilton, “had Loyalists not tipped off the British regulars to our coming. They were ready for us. We fought bravely for two hours under fire from the ships and the lighthouse. Still, I am proud to say I did not lose a man.”
Throughout his eldest daughter’s merry monologue and exchange with Hamilton, Schuyler had remained mute. Now he frowned and fiddled with his knife. Peggy knew how disappointed he was that his new son-in-law had totally ignored his urgings to return to Washington’s staff. As protective as she had been of Hamilton when he first wrote of his break with Washington, she now felt she should champion her father’s hopes. To play mediator as she had in Morristown between the young fifer and Lafayette, and in Newport between the French guard and Rhode Island fisherman. “I am sure General Washington misses your insight and eloquence, Colonel Hamilton, and especially your facility with French.”
Hamilton looked at her with some surprise and a flash of irritation. He hid it by correcting the name she used: “Alexander, little sister.” But he did not respond to the content of her comment, which infuriated Peggy. He wouldn’t brush aside Angelica like that. And “little sister”?
“You know, Alexander,” she now spoke with some indignation, “it may not be as outwardly glorious, but there are many who have sacrificed much, forgone popularity and individual renown to quietly serve, thereby making all the difference in outcome. Like Papa.”
Hamilton shot an anxious look toward Schuyler before saying, “Sadly, that will not gain me accolades enough for employment after the war to support your sister as she deserves.” Hamilton kissed Eliza’s hand. “If I have my own command I will gain sway among men. That will help me succeed professionally.”
“And what profession will that be, Mr. Hamilton?” asked Catharine, in mother-in-law tones.
“I plan to study the law, especially since many of our current lawyers are Loyalists. After the war they should not be allowed to practice. There will be need for a new breed of Patriot attorneys. I will read the law on my own.” He tactfully added, “Just as you educated yourself, General.”
At this Schuyler sat up and finally spoke. “You may use my library for that very purpose.”
Eliza clapped her hands happily. “Why not start now, dearest?”
“Goodness, Eliza,” burbled Angelica, “Alexander is not going to want to remain buried in a library during a campaign that may win the Revolution for us. You must not deny him glory. The chance to seize victory and defeat tyranny!”
Eliza glared at their big sister.
Peggy bit her tongue to prevent asking, Why don’t you volunteer your own husband?
Angelica ignored both her sisters, speaking directly to Hamilton. “Mr. Carter says it is best you meet up with His Excellency’s forces soon. If you are nearby, it will be easier for him to give you troops. You will be like Achilles—brought in to inflame everyone’s patriotism, to lead the charge. As you know, Lafayette is promoting you with General Washington. But best be in the right place at the right time. Lafayette’s influence with His Excellency is . . .”
“Enormous,” Hamilton completed her sentence.
Was there a twinge of jealousy in Hamilton’s statement? There had been none before about his friend Lafayette. Peggy tried to assess that beautiful face, but Hamilton’s expression was guarded.
“Actually, sir.” He turned back to his father-in-law with a fretful look Peggy was coming to recognize as a desire for approval. “I have been doing a bit of writing. I plan a series of papers, titled ‘The Continentalist,’ arguing that we need a stronger centralized government, a standing national army, if we are to survive. I have sent the first to the New-York Packet. It should be published in a week or so.”
Schuyler seemed pleased. “Indeed, whenever Congress acts foolishly, it is because one region selfishly considers its own interests over the nation’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Hamilton replied. “We began the Revolution with vague notions of the practical business of government. But it has become obvious in the way our Continental Army is starved that we must have a strong, overarching federal government. If that federal government is too weak, the ambitions and local interests of more powerful members might undermine and usurp the union’s overall goals.”
“Precisely!” Schuyler agreed enthusiastically. “I have been thinking this is especially true with our monies and how we pay for our nation’s needs. We cannot count on the pockets of individual Patriots to continue funding things. Many of us have completely emptied our coffers.” Schuyler smiled apologetically at Catharine.
As he and Hamilton talked, Eliza glowed with pride, Peggy hung on every word, and Angelica squirmed, kicked by her unborn baby. Bored, the younger children slipped out of their chairs to play on the floor or skip around the table. Six-year-old Cornelia stopped rocking the cradle holding her infant sister Caty to clasp hands with her eighteen-month-old niece as she toddled around the room. Angelica’s daughter was still a bit unsteady on her feet and tripping on the hem of her gown. Three-year-old Philip, though, was quick dash and speed even in his dress. Out the door he scooted, Angelica watching her son with obvious adoration.
Suddenly she shot to her feet, knocking over her chair as she lumbered as quickly as she could toward the door herself, crying out, “Philip, stop! Do not move!”
Startled, everyone silenced. Hamilton rose, moving to help with whatever was so urgent. But Angelica bustled back into the room, furious, holding Philip’s hand and dragging a Brown Bess. “Papa! Your grandson was about to pull the trigger on this loaded musket. All arms must be taken to the cellar, right now, out of his reach!”
No one dared disobey her, given her fluster and their own horror at what might have happened. So no one pointed out that the preloaded muskets were propped by the doors because of dire warnings that Queen’s Rangers and Tory bands were plotting to attack and kidnap Schuyler.
The debate about Hamilton’s rejoining Washington’s staff as aide-de-camp or starting to read the law ended abruptly with Angelica’s upset. Arguing his choices was replaced with everyone’s fears and prayers for his safety when he left for the war, a few days later, determined to gain his own unit of soldiers to lead into battle. Eliza remained upstairs, crying, while Angelica walked beside him on the stairs. Her hand was slipped inside his elbow and the other lay atop his arm, her cheek resting on his shoulder. “I know you will return to us with laurels, like Caesar,” she murmured as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“But without Caesar’s plans to become emperor, let us hope,” quipped Peggy, who sat in the downstairs hall waiting to say her good-byes. She had watched their descent, a bit alarmed at Angelica’s physical closeness to Hamilton. Angelica was like that, always had been, embracing and affectionate, but Peggy wasn’t so sure how Eliza would feel about it if she saw them together. “And certainly,” Peggy added, “we hope you don’t so insult and annoy your comrades as did Caesar that they collude to assassinate you! We don’t want Eliza having to play Portia.”
Hamilton chuckled. “Thank goodness you are here to keep me in order, Peggy.”
“I foresee that will be no easy task.” Peggy playfully turned back on him his own warning to her in his postscript to Eliza’s letter.
Recognizing it, Hamilton laughed heartily. Taking Angelica’s hands in his, he kissed her on both cheeks. Then—did Peggy see this right?—he pulled away slowly so that his face slid along hers, his mouth hovering over her lips for a tantalizing moment before he pulled back. Angelica swayed, closed her eyes, sighed, and reopened them.
“Adieu, ma belle soeur. God keep you and your baby safe.”
Peggy’s stomach churned. There was nothing technically inappropriate in that embrace. It just felt a little too . . . too something. Having been kissed herself, really kissed, she recognized heat.
“My Peggy.” Hamilton grinned at her. “Will you walk me to the stable? I need ask a favor of you.” He held out his hand.
Peggy clasped hers behind her back, but fell in line beside him as they stepped into the courtyard, sending chickens scattering and squawking.
“So do I have your blessings on my odyssey, fair nymph?” he asked, reverting to the provocative banter he’d used when they were only coming to know each other.
Peggy stopped in her tracks. “Alexander, you do not need to be flirtatious with me. I know it feels a novelty, but you have already won my heart—as your sister.”
To her amazement, Hamilton’s enormous violet-blue eyes filled with tears. He looked down quickly and flicked dirt from his sleeves, and by the time he raised his gaze back to hers, that haze of emotion was gone, tucked away behind the intensity of his gaze. But the sincerity was not.
“I am not used to having a family. Certainly not a little sister. I apologize.” He reached for her hand, and this time Peggy took it. “Watch over Eliza for me, will you? For a heart that so willingly and completely gives, hers is a delicate one. I fear for her and for the child if she frets too much about me. Her anxieties might”—he hesitated—“might . . .”
“I promise to take tender care of her.”
He nodded. “The Schuyler sisters’ bond is nothing short of mystical. Eliza derives strength from it.” He paused. “I know Angelica adores Eliza.” He lowered his voice even though Angelica remained inside, out of earshot. “But it is you Eliza trusts, Peggy.” He smiled. “You have the best of both of your sisters. Perhaps wrapped in a somewhat biting wisdom”—he laughed—“but also in a fearless loyalty.” Hamilton kissed her forehead. “Fleury is a fool,” he whispered.
And then he was on his horse and gone.
Peggy watched until she could no longer see the cloud of dust his horse kicked up from the road.
She brushed away a tear. Eliza’s life would be shattered if Hamilton did not return. But hers would have a hole in it as well. Her brother-in-law understood her and knew more of her heartache than her sisters. Peggy already loved him as an ally, a kindred spirit, a needed confidante, a protective big brother. And even though he was out of sorts with General Washington, Peggy sensed that without this slightly reckless, quixotic, and dazzlingly eloquent young man, His Excellency’s ability to stand down the British and forge a new nation could be dangerously diluted.
“Godspeed,” Peggy whispered, a catch at her heart.
A few weeks later, Angelica sat fanning herself against the August heat. Her baby girl nestled in her arms and batted at the delicately painted fan, chortling, her tiny feet squirming happily. “Thank you for setting supper in the front hall so we can enjoy the evening air, Mama,” she said.
“Of course, my dear. I know well how you are feeling. Being pregnant in summer temperatures is hard. It won’t be long now, though. I think the baby has dropped, don’t you, from the way you are carrying?”
Angelica nodded, rubbing her lower back.
“I wager no more than a month,” added Catharine.
“Oh, let it be sooner than that,” Angelica said with a sigh. “And how are you, dearest?” she asked Eliza.
“Better, thank you. I can eat now.”
Angelica and Peggy exchanged glances. They were both worried about their middle sister. She had passed through the first third of pregnancy so her stomach was no longer constantly at sea. Eliza’s wan face these days had nothing to do with expecting a baby and all to do with her anxiety about Hamilton’s safety.
But she didn’t admit to it, saying, “Just think, Peggy, when you are carrying your first child, Angelica and I will know all about everything to guide you through it.”
“Hmpf. First she must find a husband,” Catharine said. “Have you heard from Mr. Varick, Margarita?”
Peggy rolled her eyes. Varick, always Varick with her mother. With Angelica married to a Brit of questionable identity and Eliza to an immigrant of French-Scottish heritage from the Caribbean island of Saint Croix, Catharine was clearly aiming for a solid Dutchman for her third daughter.
“Look, isn’t that a beautiful moon rising over the river?” Schuyler asked, deftly changing the subject.
Peggy stood, hugged her father gratefully for distracting her mother, and moved to the doors flung open to the river’s breezes. She drew in a deep breath. “Could we take a walk down to the river, Papa? The moon will be full tonight and the stars clear.”
“We’d need a shepherd,” Eliza said with a laugh, surveying the flock of children at the table, including five under the age of ten—Angelica’s two youngsters, plus Cornelia, Rensselaer, and baby Caty asleep in her cradle. Thirteen-year-old Jeremiah was also with them. The only one missing was sixteen-year-old John Bradstreet, off visiting an uncle.
Schuyler grinned, surveying the wealth of family around his table. “We are blessed indeed,” he said proudly.
“You go on,” said Angelica. “I will stay here at the house with the children.”
Schuyler hesitated. Peggy knew he was worrying over reports that had come in all week of Tory Rangers attacking and kidnapping prominent Patriots in the Albany area, just as his spies had predicted might happen as prelude to an all-out attack on the city. The husband of Ann Bleecker—the poor mother whose infant perished of dysentery along the road from Saratoga during Burgoyne’s campaign—had been dragged away from their home, for instance, leaving local militia without a ranking officer. Word was the orders for such raids came directly from British high command in Canada and Barry St. Leger, whom Schuyler and Benedict Arnold had outfoxed at Fort Stanwix in 1777. “He be out for retribution on you, General,” Schuyler’s agent had warned.
Peggy did a quick head count in her mind. Three of Schuyler’s guards were off duty in the cellar and three more were standing post in the gardens. There was also a Continental Army courier on call out back in the courtyard, and several of the family’s enslaved male servants eating in the kitchen. Among them was Lisbon, whom Peggy completely trusted to be resourceful and quick to act in trouble. Surely, Angelica should be safe in the house with the children if her papa took a stroll with her to the waterfront.
Peggy was about to say so when Prince approached. “General Schuyler, there’s a stranger at the back gate wishing to see you.”
Schuyler sighed. “Seems our stroll will need to wait, my dear,” he apologized. To Prince, he said, “Show him to my study, please.”
Wistfully, Schuyler finished off his wine as a distant shout came from out back by the stables. “Halt!”
BANG!
“Intruders at the gate!”
BANG! BANG!
“Huzzah! We’re in! Come on, lads!”
Schuyler leapt to his feet, dropping his cane and the wineglass to the floor with a crash. “Kitty, quickly, the children.” He spoke calmly but lifted her out of her chair with some urgency. “We must get everyone upstairs.”
BANG! BANG!
“To arms! To arms! There’re at the courtyard.”
“Prince, bolt the doors!” Schuyler commanded.
Lisbon raced into the house from the kitchen through the dining room, bringing another servant with him to guard the back hall entrance. “The muskets,” he cried, “where are they?”
“Oh my God,” gasped Angelica. “I had them put the muskets in the cellar! What have I done?”
BANG! BANG!
“No time to worry about the muskets now! Get up, Angelica! Hurry!” shouted Peggy. She grabbed Cornelia and Rensselaer by the hand. “Eliza! Come on!”
Eliza sat frozen, ashen.
“You men, come with me! Schuyler’s inside!”
Angelica seized Eliza by the elbow and pulled her to her feet, then scooped up her little girl. “Mama,” Angelica cried in dismay. “Little Philip!”
Peggy spotted the boy, racing ahead, thinking it all a game. He was heading right for where the attackers would try to enter. The very pregnant Angelica would never catch him. Peggy shoved Cornelia at Catharine, Rensselaer at Jeremiah, and raced after her three-year-old nephew, scooping him up, kicking and shrieking to be let down.
Schuyler reached the staircase, half carrying Catharine, who dragged Cornelia behind her. The boys bounded ahead two steps at a time. Eliza took the kicking toddler from Angelica so she could hoist herself up the stairs as they both struggled to hurry, yanking their heavy skirts up to their knees.
CRASH!
As the Schuylers reached the second floor, the back hall door flew open, smashing against the wall.
“Stand fast agin ’em, boys!” From below, Peggy could hear Lisbon’s shout. Then sounds of scuffling, scraping feet, steel being drawn, shoves, shouts, curses.
BANG! A scream of pain.
Stumbling across the wide salon hallway, Schuyler flung his family into his bedroom, slammed the door, bolted it, and raced to the closet to pull out two preloaded pistols.
Panting, starting to cry now in fear, Catharine, Angelica, and Eliza huddled together as far from the door as possible, herding the little ones behind their skirts. Jeremiah took his place as a sentry to his mother and sisters, holding up his hands in fists. The thirteen-year-old bit his lip to control his own terror as Rensselaer wrapped his arms around his big brother’s leg, peeking out from behind him.
Schuyler flung open the window and looked into the dark night. “Peggy,” he said quietly as he scanned the horizon, trying to spot something in the gloom to aim at. “Take my sword from the dresser and give it to Jeremiah. Son, use that only if I fall.”
Peggy pulled her father’s sword from the drawer, knowing that recently the weapon had only been used in ceremonies. Was the blade still sharp? But she smiled reassuringly to her little brother as she handed it to him.
Only then, facing everyone who was dear to her, did Peggy realize something terrible. “Mama, do you have baby Caty?”
“Oh my God.” Catharine’s knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Then she tried to crawl toward the door.
“Kitty, no!” Schuyler scrambled to stop her, lifting her to her feet and holding on to her.
“Peggy,” she cried out.
But Peggy needed no prompting. The image of Bleecker’s dead baby, an innocent victim of their adult war, had already flashed through her mind. She had prayed that awful day in 1777, among those terrified refugees, that she would have the nerve to protect her family when it most counted. This was that moment. And sharp-edged words were not enough.
Peggy pulled back the bolt of the door. The littlest Schuyler sister, her goddaughter, needed her.
Trembling, Peggy kicked off her shoes so she could skitter across the floor without a heavy tread, alerting the marauders of her family hiding upstairs. Quickly! Quickly! her mind screamed. Before they spot the baby!
Peggy shoved out of her head stories of Tories and their Iroquois allies killing entire families to terrorize their Patriot neighbors. They want Papa alive to ransom him. To embarrass the Patriot cause and unnerve the locals. They won’t kill the baby. They won’t kill us. Surely.
But she didn’t believe herself. After all, her papa had a 200-guinea price on his head.
What Peggy did know with certainty was if the invaders nabbed the baby, Schuyler would give himself up to win her safe release, just like the Oneida sachem had for his captive children. The old warrior had never returned.
BANG!
“Hold them!”
“Help! Help!”
Her heart pounding in her ears as loudly as musket fire, Peggy slipped through the closet-like door to the servants’ back steps—a tight, winding, suffocating staircase to the ground floor, no railing, no candlelight. She groped her way in darkness along the rough-hewn walls.
CRASH! The door to the cellar below her was thrown open.
“Have at them, boys!”
KA-PING! KA-PING! Shots ricocheted. Mortar exploded and crumbled on the opposite side of the wall from her fingertips.
The baby started to wail.
Please don’t cry, Peggy pleaded. They’ll hear you. They’ll grab you!
She tripped on her skirts and nearly fell headfirst down the steps. What she would give to be in breeches. Finally she reached the bottom step.
THUMP! A body slammed against the very door she needed to exit. Peggy clapped her hands over her mouth to silence a startled shriek of fear.
SCRAAAPPE! The body was dragged away.
Peggy took a deep breath, waited a moment, then turned the latch and cracked the door to peep out.
One of Schuyler’s guards lay on the floor bleeding. Lisbon kicked at a man who jabbed at him with the butt of a musket. A few invaders were pocketing silverware from the table, while others checked the parlors. Baby Caty was crying and thrashing so hard, her cradle rocked.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven men that she could see. So many of them!
“Any sign of Schuyler?” asked an officer in Loyalist green, holding a pistol.
“No, sir!”
“Upstairs, then,” he commanded. “Take the guards at the staircase prisoner if you can. Let’s learn what they know.” He pulled back the flintlock.
Hurry! Hurry! Peggy’s mind screamed. She had to grab the baby, and then make it back upstairs to warn her papa before these blackhearts reached her family.
The Loyalists gathered together to stride toward the grand staircase. “What about that baby, Captain?” one asked. “We could ransom the brat, don’t you think?”
Peggy thought she might throw up.
“Stop right there!” shouted one of Schuyler’s guards. Peggy couldn’t see him, but she recognized the voice—it was Private Hines. He had gotten Peggy through the blizzard to Morristown—alive. She could trust him to stand fast for the minute she would need to snatch her baby sister. She had to.
“Stand down, man, or suffer the consequences!”
“Back at you, ye bloody bastard!”
More shouts, more scuffling, more grunts of pain.
Now! Do it now! Peggy slipped out of the stair-chute, skittered across the floor, and scooped up the baby, who shrieked with agitation. She turned to dash back.
“Hey! Stop that woman!” shouted the Tory captain.
Peggy pressed baby Caty to her chest, hoisted her skirts around her waist, and made for the steps. Run! Run!
“Grab her!”
Peggy—crawling, climbing, scratching her way up—made the second floor, and sprinted across the wide hall. The bedroom door swung open and her papa swept her inside. He threw the door closed behind her, bolting it again.
BANG! BANG!
“Surrender!”
“Papa, they are coming up the stairs.” Peggy heaved out the words as Catharine pulled away from the huddle of sisters and toddlers to embrace her and gather up her infant. Never had her mother kissed Peggy that many times.
Peggy fell to the floor, now shaking uncontrollably.
“Ready, son?” Schuyler smiled reassuringly at Jeremiah.
The thirteen-year-old blanched but nodded bravely. Peggy’s heart about broke at the sight. “Papa, no, there are too many of them!” They might shoot her brother if he tried to brandish that blade at them. She racked her brain for an alternative. “I wish we could make them think we have guards in here with us. They might think twice about entering.”
Schuyler’s face lit up. “We think alike, daughter. I set up a signal for the city’s watch in case of something like this. Let’s try a little subterfuge.” He strode to the window and fired into the night, bellowing, “Come, my lads! Surround the house! The villains are inside it!”
By the door, Peggy could hear the Loyalists make the upstairs hall, heavy boots dashing from room to room. “Do it again, Papa,” she whispered. She pulled the key from the door and peeped out the keyhole.
He nodded, shot his second pistol, and called, “That’s right, my brave fellows! Have at the rascals!” He reloaded and shot again. “This way!”
Peggy saw the Tory captain freeze, then motion to his men and point toward the stairs. She held up her hand to keep everyone in the bedroom silent as she strained to see through the tiny slot. Legs. Backs. The invaders were retreating! Yes! They had bought the ruse! They must think her papa was outside with reinforcements, or was signaling because he saw a Patriot unit coming. “Thank God,” she breathed, pulling herself off the floor to stand.
Schuyler remained at the window, looking out to the moonlit night. After moments that felt like a year, he smiled slowly. “It worked.” He kept watching. “I can see them heading toward the river. Good God,” he cursed. “I count twenty Tories at least. It’s that blaggard Waltermeyer. Damn him! He’s dragging two of our guard with him.”
Peggy shifted her gaze from him to her sisters and the herd of her nephews, nieces, and siblings, still hanging on to one another.
They were all staring at her, their mouths open.
“What?” Peggy asked.
“What?” Angelica burst out laughing, in anxious, relieved hiccup-like gulps. “You! You are what.” She looked toward their father. “Perhaps Peggy should be sent to General Washington as well!”