The Conqueror

IX

The wed­ding of Alexan­der Hamil­ton and Eliz­abeth Schuyler was the most no­table pri­vate event of the Rev­olu­tion. The im­mense so­cial and po­lit­ical con­se­quence of the Schuylers, and the ro­man­tic fame of the young aide, of whom the great­est things pos­si­ble were ex­pect­ed, brought the aris­toc­ra­cy of New York and the Jer­sies to Al­bany de­spite the in­clement win­ter weath­er. The large house of the Schuylers gave a pro­longed hos­pi­tal­ity to the wom­en, and the men lodged in the pa­tri­ar­chal lit­tle town. But al­though Hamil­ton was glad to see the Liv­ingstons, Ster­lings, and Boudinots again, the greater num­ber of the guests in­ter­est­ed him far less than a small group of weath­er-​beat­en sol­diers, of which this oc­ca­sion was the hap­py cause of re­union. Troup was there, full of youth and hon­ours. He had re­ceived the thanks of Congress for his ser­vices at Sarato­ga, and been ap­point­ed sec­re­tary of the Board of War. Re­cent­ly he had re­signed from the army, and was com­plet­ing his law stud­ies. Nico­las Fish came with Lafayette, whose light ar­tillery he com­mand­ed. He was known as a brave and gal­lant sol­dier, and so ex­cel­lent a dis­ci­plinar­ian that he had won the ap­proval and con­fi­dence of Wash­ing­ton. He still part­ed his lit­tle fringe in the mid­dle, and his face was as chub­by as ev­er, his eyes as solemn. Lafayette, who had brought a box full of clothes that had daz­zled Paris, em­braced Hamil­ton with tears, but they were soon deep in con­jec­tures of the next cam­paign. Lau­rens, look­ing like a king in ex­ile, wrung many hearts. Hamil­ton's broth­er aides, un­for­tu­nate­ly, were the more close­ly bound by his ab­sence, but they had despatched him with their bless­ing and much chaffing.

The hall of the Schuyler man­sion was about twen­ty feet square and pan­elled in white. It was dec­orat­ed with hol­ly, and for three nights be­fore the wed­ding il­lu­mi­nat­ed by hun­dreds of wax can­dles, while the young peo­ple danced till three in the morn­ing. The Schuyler house, long ac­cus­tomed to en­ter­tain­ing, had nev­er been gay­er, and no one was more con­tent than the chate­laine. Al­though she had been rea­son­ably sure of Eliz­abeth, there was no telling at what mo­ment the maid­en might yield to the ro­man­tic ma­nia of the time, and climb out of her win­dow at night while Hamil­ton stood shiv­er­ing be­low. Now all dan­ger was past, and Mrs. Schuyler moved, large, placid, and still hand­some, among her guests, beam­ing so af­fec­tion­ate­ly when­ev­er she met Mrs. Carter's flash­ing eyes that Peg­gy and Cor­nelia re­newed their vows to elope when the hour and the men ar­rived. Gen­er­al Schuyler, once more on the crest of pub­lic ap­proval, was al­ways grave and stern, but he, too, breathed sat­is­fac­tion and re­lief. He was a tall man of mil­itary ap­pear­ance, pow­er­ful, mus­cu­lar, slen­der; but as his nose was large and fleshy, and he wore a ragged-​look­ing wig with wings like Wash­ing­ton's, he could not be called hand­some. It was a no­ble coun­te­nance, how­ev­er, and his black eyes flashed and pierced.

As for Hamil­ton and Miss Schuyler, who had a trunk full of charm­ing new gowns, they were as hap­py as two chil­dren, and danced the night through. They were mar­ried on the 20th, in the draw­ing-​room, in front of the splen­did man­tel, which the house­wives had spent much time in ad­mir­ing. The bride wore the white which be­came her best, made with a long point­ed bodice and paniers, and lace that had been worn by the wife of the first pa­troon. She had risen to the dig­ni­ty of a wig, and her mass of black hair was twist­ed mer­ci­less­ly tight un­der the spread­ing white mon­stros­ity to which her veil was at­tached. Hamil­ton wore a black vel­vet coat, as be­fit­ting his im­pend­ing state. Its lin­ing and the short trousers were of white satin. His shape­ly legs were in white silk, his feet in pumps with di­amond buck­les, the present of Lafayette. He, too, wore a wig,--a close one, with a queue,--but he got rid of it im­me­di­ate­ly af­ter the cer­emo­ny, for it heat­ed his head.

Hamil­ton had then reached his full height, about five feet six. His bride was per­haps three inch­es short­er. The world vowed that nev­er had there been so pret­ty a cou­ple, nor one so well matched in ev­ery way. Both were the per­fec­tion of make, and the one as fair and fresh as a Scot, the oth­er a gold­en gip­sy, the one all fire and en­er­gy, the oth­er docile and ten­der, but with suf­fi­cient spir­it and in­tel­li­gence. It is sel­dom that the world so gen­er­ous­ly gives its bless­ing, but it might have with­held it, for all that Hamil­ton and his bride would have cared.

Hamil­ton's hon­ey­moon was brief. There was a mass of cor­re­spon­dence await­ing him, and no place for a bride in the hum­ble Dutch house at New Wind­sor where Wash­ing­ton had gone in­to win­ter quar­ters. But the dis­tance was not great, and he could hope for fly­ing leaves of ab­sence. Wash­ing­ton was not un­sym­pa­thet­ic to lovers; he had been known to un­bend and ad­vise his aides when com­pli­ca­tions threat­ened or a siege seemed hope­less; and he had giv­en Hamil­ton the longest leave pos­si­ble. Nev­er­the­less, the bride­groom set forth, one harsh Jan­uary morn­ing, on his long jour­ney, over roads a foot deep in snow, and through soli­tary win­ter forests, with any thing but an im­pas­sioned de­sire to see Gen­er­al Wash­ing­ton again. Had he been re­turn­ing to the com­mand of a corps, with a prospect of stir­ring events as soon as the snow melt­ed, he would have spurred his horse with high sat­is­fac­tion, even though he left a bride be­hind him; but to re­turn to a drudgery which he hat­ed the more for hav­ing es­caped it for three en­chant­ed weeks, made his spir­it turn its back to the horse's head. He re­solved anew to re­sign if an op­por­tu­ni­ty of­fered. Four years of that par­tic­ular sort of de­vo­tion to the pa­tri­ot cause were enough. He wished to demon­strate his pa­tri­otism in oth­er ways. He had ac­com­plished the pri­ma­ry ob­ject for which Wash­ing­ton had pressed him in­to ser­vice, and he be­lieved that the war was near­ing its fin­ish; there was noth­ing he could now do at Head­quar­ters which the oth­er aides could not do as well, and he want­ed mil­itary ex­cite­ment and renown while their pos­si­bil­ities ex­ist­ed.