I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  Slowly he began to improve and regain his strength, and though he credited me, I believe it was his own indomitable will that carried him through. We were quite a pair, my husband and I: I was round as a pumpkin while he was thin as a rail, and we laughed together at what a ridiculous couple we must present.

  Ridiculous, yes, but also most contented. We conversed by the hour, making up for the months when he’d been away. I sat in a chair beside the bed, and sewed while he told me of the campaign, of adventures during the long march and through the last encampment. He recounted stories he knew would entertain me: how the patriotic ladies in Philadelphia had put thirteen candles in their houses’ windows when the army had marched past, and how he’d been the only officer who hadn’t become seasick when they’d sailed down the chop of Chesapeake Bay to Annapolis.

  I heard how he’d been reunited with his dearest friends from earlier in the war, John Laurens, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Nicholas Fish, and how they had triumphed together. I watched how, for the benefit of my younger brothers, he thrillingly re-created his men’s attack and capture of Redoubt 10 (a British stronghold fiercely defended by about seventy enemy soldiers), using their old toy soldiers and with his knees beneath the coverlet to represent the redoubt.

  The stories I had to share were far less exciting, mostly news and regards from friends like Kitty Livingston and Lady Washington. I was able to tell him, however, of meeting his old acquaintance Mr. Burr.

  “Burr is in Albany?” he asked with surprise. He was propped against the pillows and comfortably clad in a shirt and flannel dressing gown. His hair was untied and tousled around his shoulders, his face had lost its hollowed look, and his coloring was much improved, though the scattering of new freckles—I called them his Virginia freckles—remained. In short, to me my husband was altogether handsome, perhaps the most handsome gentleman in all the state. If I hadn’t been so close to my time and he still under doctor’s orders to avoid excitement, I would have climbed into bed with him and loved him as a devoted wife should.

  Instead I merely nodded and rethreaded my needle, trying to concentrate instead on Colonel Burr. “He is here to study the law, and hopes to obtain his license to practice. He called upon Papa with a letter of introduction from General McDougall.”

  “Burr to study the law,” he said, musing. “Before the war, he’d determined upon theology to become a minister like his father, and his father’s father before him. I could have guessed even then that he’d give that up in favor of more stimulating career. What else could it be besides the law?”

  “Perhaps you two shall study together,” I suggested. “He seemed an intelligent gentleman, and well-spoken.”

  “Oh, he is that,” he said drily. “He’s a well-bred, impatient rascal, accustomed to having his own way.”

  “He also confessed to having serious attentions toward a lady,” I said. “I wondered if it was anyone I know here in Albany.”

  Alexander laughed. “Oh, my dearest innocent angel,” he said. “You truly have not heard of this lady, not from Angelica or any of your other female spies? The scandal is widely known.”

  “No, I have not,” I said, disappointed that my news was so behindhand. “Who is she, Alexander?”

  “She is a lady from New Jersey named Mrs. Theodosia Prevost,” he said. “She is said to be well-spoken, generous, and learned, with a gift for French, much like your sister herself. That’s all to her praise, and not where the scandal lies, however. Rather, not only is she said to be a good decade older than Burr, but she is also married to a British officer.”

  “Oh, goodness,” I said, genuinely startled, and reminded again of how much more worldly Alexander was than I. “That’s very wicked of them. Not only because she is an—an adulteress, but also because her sympathies must be with the enemy. No wonder he did not last as an aide-de-camp in His Excellency’s Family.”

  “You did hear Burr’s particulars, didn’t you?” he teased. “He wasn’t conducting his little intrigue with the officer’s wife whilst he was with the general, or yes, he would have received a goodly sermon from the great man on the honorable demeanor expected of the army’s officers. But I suspect it was more that Burr hasn’t the temperament for the general’s foibles.”

  “Perhaps not,” I agreed, remembering how Colonel Burr had admitted much the same thing himself.

  “No, indeed,” he said, yawning expansively. “But then, he may not have the temperament for mine, either.”

  From this I still wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed the company of the scandalous Colonel Burr or not. Like many gentlemen, Alexander often seemed to reserve his best insults for his closest friends. But we spoke no more of Colonel Burr, not then or anytime soon after, and he and his intrigue were soon put from my mind.

  We celebrated our first wedding anniversary quietly, followed by Christmas and Twelfth Night, leaving the revelry of the season to my younger siblings. As I grew larger and more uncomfortable, Alexander’s health improved, and soon the only way to keep him in bed was to surround him with the books he requested from Papa’s library.

  His old energy was returning, and with it his intellectual fervor. While the British surrender at Yorktown had effectively ended the war, a final peace had not yet been negotiated, and British soldiers continued to occupy New York City and less populous regions in the southern states. To Alexander, this was a time even more dangerous to America than the depths of the war had been, and he railed against the weaknesses of Congress and the imperative need for change in the government before the country could survive on its own. I listened and asked questions, wrote letters and made notes for him since Mamma forbid open bottles of ink anywhere near beds. It was as if he and I were again back in the small house on De Peyster’s Point, with him thinking at a furious pace.

  But on one of those gray January afternoons when dusk falls too soon and candles must be lit by the middle of the afternoon, his mood turned as melancholy as the day. He was for once silent, lost in his own thoughts as he lay against the pillows, staring out the window at the snow-covered garden and gray sky above it.

  “When I went over the top of the parapet, I believed I was a dead man,” he said softly. I was startled, for this was the first time he’d mentioned Yorktown in many days, and never in this subdued fashion, either. He was still gazing toward the window, though at that moment I doubt he was aware of the landscape beyond the glass, or me beside him, either.

  “It was my duty to go first, Betsey,” he continued. “I’d sought this chance to lead my men into battle, and I’d welcomed it. You know I’ve never been a coward, not one time.”

  “Never,” I murmured, agreeing but letting him continue.

  “Yet when I should have thought only of victory and a glorious death, I thought of you.” Restlessly he raked his fingers back through his hair. “Even as I jumped from the parapet with my sword drawn and in amongst the enemy’s guns, I thought of you and our son, and how desperately I desired to see you both.”

  “That was love, Alexander,” I said, putting aside my sewing to take his hand. “There’s no dishonor or cowardice to that.”

  He shook his head. “Everyone believes I acted from purest honor, duty, and courage,” he said, “but in my heart I was afraid, afraid that I’d never see you again, afraid that I’d never see our son, afraid that he’d grow and live without a father as I did. How could I lead other men into battle with that much fear in my head and my heart?”

  “But you did lead them, my love,” I insisted. “You fought for us and our future together. You did your best, because you had a reason for fighting. That doesn’t make you any less of a soldier.”

  “But it does,” he said sadly. “It did. Love has no place in battle. In the past, before I married you, I fought with abandon and real courage, ready to sacrifice everything for freedom. I could face the enemy’s guns and death without flinching. Now I hesitate, and stop to consider the cost. And that hesitation means the very death of a good sold
ier.”

  “You didn’t do that at Yorktown,” I said. On the contrary: every report I’d read had declared his actions to have been daring to the very edge of reckless, and his boldness and bravery were constantly singled out for admiration. “You put your life in jeopardy for the sake of liberty and for your men, and the world now lauds you as a hero.”

  “Eight men were killed in my company, Betsey,” he said. “I’m praised by my superiors for having lost only eight, but I knew them. Good men, men who’d marched with me all the way from New York. They died following my orders, and my lead. Why did they die instead of me?”

  “Oh, my love,” I said gently. “You can’t torment yourself with questions like this that have no answers. You’ve said yourself that such losses are the fortunes of war, both cruel and capricious. What more could you have given for the cause?”

  He didn’t answer my questions, but instead answered one of his own.

  “I am done as a soldier,” he said with finality. “I’ve resolved to write to His Excellency and resign my commission. Instead I intend to devote myself once again to studying the law, a pursuit that, while requiring dedication, does not demand the single-minded tenacity of a soldier.”

  As can be imagined, my heart rejoiced at this declaration. To have Alexander step down from the army and its dangers and obligations would be as Heaven to me. But I was also aware that this declaration could well be no more than a passing thought on a gloomy day, a resolution made more from my husband’s current debilitation, and easily overturned upon his recovery. I wanted him to be certain, without any regrets or looking back.

  “You needn’t decide yet,” I said. “I don’t wish you to berate yourself if there were to be another crisis and His Excellency were in need of your talents.”

  “If matters became that dire, then His Excellency would need more than I could provide,” he said firmly. “No, Betsey, my decision is made. I’ve had my share of glory. I’m determined upon the law. But most of all, I vow to devote myself to you and our child.”

  What sweeter words could there be than those? Certainly, it seemed as if the Siege at Yorktown had quelled the hottest fire of his ambition. If this was to be the future of our family, then I could ask for nothing more.

  With Alexander finally permitted to leave his bed for a few hours a day, we began to join the rest of the family downstairs in the parlor. He particularly enjoyed listening to me play our fortepiano, and so did our child, who seemed to dance within me in time with the music. Alexander claimed that he’d fallen in love with me as I’d sat at my instrument on his first visit to our house years before, and that he never ceased to take pleasure in my accomplishment.

  I was thankful that he could remember me as I’d been then, slender and elegant in a silk gown with plumes in my hair, because now I was a rare sight indeed. I wore a quilted waistcoat instead of stays beneath one of Mamma’s old calico bedgowns, the only thing that remained that could encompass my belly, with the strings on my petticoat barely tied at what once had been my waist. Because my ankles and feet were so swollen, I could bear only thick knitted stockings that drooped without garters (because I couldn’t wear them, either) and a pair of ancient backless slippers. I had to sit so far back from the keys of the fortepiano that my hands were forced to stretch straight before me, and by the end of even the shortest piece I was huffing and puffing with exertion. Yet still Alexander called me the most beautiful woman in the world, and I loved him all the more for it.

  One afternoon, on a whim, he asked me to teach him a few simple notes. Because of the circumstances of his childhood, he’d never had the leisure or opportunity to learn to play an instrument, and he much regretted it. I bade him sit beside me on the bench, and showed him a child’s tune. He concentrated on the lesson with the same intensity that he showed toward everything else, and soon had the pattern of the song learned. My mother and sister applauded, and he bowed his head as grandly as any maestro from the Continent.

  I played the harmony part at the other end of the keys to accompany him, and after the first time, I began playing faster to tease him. Laughing and accusing me of foul play, he raced to match my speed, keeping pace even as he struck far more wrong keys than right. Out of breath, I laughed beside him, then suddenly gasped, and clutched at my belly. I felt a rush of wet warmth escape me, and to my mortification saw the growing puddle on the floor beneath the bench.

  “What is wrong, my angel?” asked Alexander with concern, his arm instantly around me. “Are you unwell?”

  “She’s perfectly well,” Mamma said, hurrying to my side and helping me to my feet. “It’s time she was finally brought to bed with your child.”

  As can be imagined having borne so many children herself, my mother was an expert on the process, and like any general of rank, she swiftly took control of my confinement. She permitted me to kiss Alexander one last time, and then I was led upstairs while Alexander was turned over to my father’s care, in the way that these things have always been done.

  Throughout the rest of the day, through the night, and into the next morning I suffered through my travail. I was tended by the same Dutch midwives who had helped bring me into the world twenty-four years earlier, and all my mother’s other children since then. Even with their gentle guidance, I foundered on the waves of pain, beyond anything I’d expected. Like all women bringing forth their first child, I’d nothing for comparison, and so was certain my pains were beyond any before endured.

  Through it all, I feared most not for myself, but for our child. I remembered the times my mother had given birth to babes who hadn’t survived, their tiny, still, blue-white bodies wrapped not in swaddling clothes, but in winding sheets for burial. I could not fathom how a healthy child could be born from so much anguish, no matter how the other women reassured me.

  It was only when I was at last delivered of my child, shortly before noon, and heard its lusty cry, that I could rejoice.

  “A boy, Mrs. Hamilton, a fine son,” the oldest midwife declared proudly, as if it had been her doing.

  “Please, I wish to see him,” I begged weakly. “I want to see my son.”

  Someone put him within my reach on my belly, still sticky with the blood we shared, and I cradled him as best I could. From that first touch, my hands across his tiny, wriggling limbs, I knew such love as only mothers feel, and I wept from the power of it. For a moment he was taken and washed and wrapped while much the same was done to me, and then again we were reunited. He was put to my breast to suckle and I held him tight, and gazed down at him in adoration, marveling at his miniature perfection.

  “My own dear wife,” said Alexander, suddenly with me. He was unshaven and disheveled, and I guessed he hadn’t slept last night, either. “A son, they say?”

  “Your son,” I whispered. “Our son.”

  He touched his fingertip to our baby’s cheek, a feather-light caress of wonder.

  “You cannot know how I have longed for this,” he said. “All my life, it seems, this is what I’ve wanted.”

  I understood. We were a family now. I’d never felt so loved, nor loved so much.

  * * *

  Just as I had made certain that Alexander had kept to his bed to recover from his final campaign, so, too, did he insist that I do the same for the full month of my lying-in. He had my mother as his ally, who agreed that it was the one sure way to regain my health after an arduous delivery. Though it went against my nature to be so idle, I’d no choice but to obey them, and happily gave myself over to doing nothing except lavishing attention on my new little son.

  We named him Philip, after my father, a choice that Alexander himself suggested first and I’d heartily agreed. It did lead to some confusion in our family, since Angelica’s older son was also named after my father, but not so much that we changed our intentions.

  From birth, our Philip was a handsome, lively child with an even temper. He’d inherited my dark hair and dimpled chin, but the general shape of his face and fe
atures belonged to Alexander, or at least as much as could be determined with an unformed infant. He also shared his father’s inquisitiveness, and watched every aspect of his world with wide-eyed interest.

  But the center of Philip’s world was his father, and the other way around as well. Alexander adored his son; there was no other way to describe the degree of affection he showered on Philip. Even before his son’s birth, Alexander had resolved to be the best father possible, to make right all the long-ago wrongs that his own negligent father had inflicted upon him. Where other fathers would be content to leave their offspring to the care of mothers and nursery maids, Alexander took every opportunity to hold his son on his knee, or carry him about in his arms. It was to me the most beautiful sight, and one I never tired of watching.

  I was also sure that Philip would share his father’s rare gift for elegant speech, for while Alexander held him as they both kept me company, he discussed his plans for his future, and ours together. He did in fact resign his commission from the army early in the year, much to my happiness. His plan to turn his energies to a profession in law seemed doubly fortuitous. Not only would the law be a good match for his talents and a lucrative path toward supporting our family, but the state’s legislature also seemed to smile upon him: a newly passed law prohibited lawyers with Tory sympathies from practicing in any state courts. Lawyers who were veterans of the Continental Army would be considered unquestionably patriotic, and able to reap a windfall of cases.

  At least he would have been able to do so if he’d already completed the required law studies and three-year apprenticeship before he could be examined for the bar. While the legislature had created a special dispensation for those gentlemen who’d had their legal studies interrupted by their war service, the closing date for this was late January, an unattainable goal even for Alexander. Along with many other aspiring lawyers, he argued for a six-month extension. Knowing his abilities, I wasn’t surprised that it was granted to him, but I was interested to learn that only one other veteran who likewise received an extension was Colonel Burr.