Fortunately, we were spared of a reply when Benedict Arnold limped over and shoved the angry man with his crutch. “Shut your bone-box and mind your manners around Miss Schuyler,” Arnold growled at the veteran. “You’re not the only one who can complain about not being given his due . . .”
In the face of the Hero of Saratoga’s disapproval, the veteran went from steel to milk. “Yessir,” he murmured.
Not giving the surly veteran another moment of attention, Arnold turned to me. “Miss Schuyler. Always a pleasure.”
I bobbed my head, not put off by his growling, especially not when it was in defense of my papa. Arnold was simply gruff by nature, and it was a trait I knew the pain of his injury had worsened. “General Arnold.”
But as Papa took Arnold aside into a little room the hero had fitted for himself as an office, I heard the veteran behind us grumble, “Guess it don’t matter when the pay comes, since we’re all soon to die on some snowy cliff in Canada.”
I didn’t blame the soldiers for their fear of the forthcoming winter campaign. The least we could do to encourage them was put warm clothes upon their backs, so I asked, “General Arnold, is there somewhere we can put these bundles of shirts to distribute to the men?”
“Leave them with Dr. Thacher,” Papa replied. “That’s not why we have come.”
I blinked. “It’s not?”
In answer, Papa turned to Arnold. “I thought you might like to borrow a horse and join me at the barracks in greeting my latest replacement as commander of the Northern Department.”
At this, Arnold barked out a bitter laugh. “Washington’s pet Frenchman? He’s not due for a week yet.”
Papa’s mouth quirked in the way it sometimes did when he had a secret no one else knew. “My scout spotted a group of horsemen and sleighs, French uniforms, some of them. My guess is that Lafayette will be at the barracks within the hour, if he hasn’t arrived already.”
Arnold rolled his broad shoulders, sighing ruefully. “I’m sorry, Schuyler. To think we must fete and flatter and give your command to a damned boy soldier of just twenty years in the hopes he can deliver us an alliance with King Louis . . .” He glanced at me and reddened. “I beg your pardon, miss, for coarse language.”
“Think nothing of it, sir,” I said, quickly. “I’m accustomed to soldiers.”
But inside, I railed at the very idea that the new general was my very same age. It was bad enough when they gave my father’s command to Gates. Why should Congress now entrust the entire Northern Army, and perhaps even the fate of the war, into the hands of an untested young foreigner? This was my father’s army. I could not be convinced otherwise.
And maybe Papa felt the same way, because he said, “If we get to Lafayette before anyone else, maybe we can talk sense into him about this campaign.”
The bull-necked Arnold scowled, leaning on his crutch. “Lafayette’s a lost cause. The lad was still in swaddling when you and I saw blood in the French and Indian War—but he thinks he’ll win laurels throughout Europe for chasing his death in Quebec, taking our soldiers with him. A vainglorious French stripling isn’t going to listen to reason.”
“Washington trusts him,” Papa said, simply.
“Lafayette is a titled nobleman,” Arnold barked, as if he didn’t hear Papa speak. “He’ll think we’re insolent inferiors trying to undermine him.”
Seeing that Arnold was not to be convinced, my father gave a curt nod. “I understand if you want nothing to do with it; still, I must make the attempt. I’ll invite Lafayette to dine tonight. You’re welcome, too. Betsy, come along.”
I should’ve nodded and meekly followed my father out. But I’d taken what Arnold said very much to heart. The army was, officially, no longer my father’s responsibility or duty. There was a good argument to be made that he should simply return to his plantation and pull the gate closed until the war was over. Instead, he was taking what seemed to me a large risk. For a man under suspicion of treason and neglect of duty to speak against the new general’s plans for attacking the enemy . . .
If this Frenchman must be set straight about the folly of marching in winter, it would be better for Arnold to do it. The Hero of Saratoga would risk much less.
Betsy’s good with the soldiers, Papa had said. Arnold likes her.
That was true, in a fashion. Arnold had taken a liking to me—not, as my mother might have hoped, for any feminine charm—but for the same reason that most soldiers liked me; having spent most of my childhood tromping about the frontier, I carried myself with just enough boyishness to put them at ease. All the doctors complained that the thirty-six-year-old Arnold was a fractious patient, but I’d once helped to distract him from his pain with a game of backgammon. And I suddenly felt certain that Papa had taken me along with him to help convince Arnold to attend what might be the most important dinner of the war.
Because if we couldn’t stop this doomed winter campaign, all the soldiers I’d helped stitch back together in autumn might be dead by spring.
“Oh, but General Arnold,” I rushed to say, “I’d be so disappointed to miss you at dinner. I haven’t had a good game in ages, and you did promise me a rematch, sir.” Arnold’s scowl lifted only a bit, and I wished I knew what else I could say to convince him. I’d never learned the art of wrapping a lock of hair around my fingertip and flashing my eyes at a man. That was the province of my sisters. But emboldened by what I took for encouragement in Papa’s eyes, I quite shamelessly added, “And my sister
