“You should forget it, because now I judge them to be only the wisest and most prudent of gentlemen,” he said, holding the letter out for me to read. “Read this, Betsey. They have chosen me as a delegate to represent New York at the next Continental Congress. I leave for Philadelphia next week.”
CHAPTER 13
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
January 1783
Journeys made in the winter months are never easy. Ice, snow, and winds are only part of the trial. Even when shod with ice shoes, horses seem to go lame more often in the cold, and roads that are hard-rutted with ice can break wheels and axles of even the sturdiest conveyances. If there is sufficient snow, the best mode of travel is a sleigh, which cannot be excelled for smoothness and speed, but leaves much to be wanted in regard to comfort.
No matter how many coverlets and furs are provided across the sleigh’s bench, the biting wind still manages to steal its way to any skin left uncovered, and the coals in the foot-warmer that felt so cozy when the day began lose their heat all too soon, and with it vanishes all feeling in the toes and feet. Swaddled like eggs for market against the cold, there is no opportunity for amusement whilst traveling by sleigh: blowing pages make reading impossible, and hands tucked in mittens or muffs can do no needlework. Even conversation can be difficult, with the wind tearing away each shouted word, and refreshment is best left for the next tavern.
For the sake of joining Alexander in Philadelphia, I made such a journey from Albany in January 1783. To every hardship I’ve listed, I added one more challenge of the most taxing, albeit charming, sort: at Alexander’s request, I brought with me our son, Philip.
Philip was nearly a year in age, bright-eyed and lively, with thick dark hair and round, rosy cheeks. He was accomplished at sitting, crawling, and standing, and was laboring mightily at walking without the helpful yet meddlesome hands of a larger person for support. However, he had next to no interest in being wrapped in thick clothes and tucked beneath furs, and in being made to sit still in a sleigh for hours on edge.
I had a single servant—my ever-capable Rose—with me to help, but still we were forced to stop much more frequently than I ordinarily would have, making the trip stretch out over more days. I do believe we paused at every respectable tavern and inn between here and Albany in addition to the houses of friends and distant family, all for the sake of letting Philip weary himself in the hopes he’d sleep in my lap during the next leg of the journey.
As arranged, Alexander met us at a tavern in New Jersey, and as parents who have been separated and one left with a restless child, I’d never been so glad to see him. With less snow on the ground in New Jersey than there had been in New York, we switched from the sleigh to a hired carriage, and rode to Philadelphia together as a family, with Philip snug and content in his father’s arms. I understood, for after two months apart, I was mightily content to be with his father as well.
Philadelphia was much as I recalled it from my visit with my father nearly three years before, save without the uncertainty. For a city that had been occupied by the enemy, it appeared to me to be remarkably unscathed. I do not know if it was on account of the Quakers, who were much in evidence, or some other civic force, but the city was also more tidily kept than most, with the steps before the houses well swept and the streets free of rubbish. With the war largely over, there also appeared to be more building, more new houses, more ships tied at the waterfront docks, and in general a greater show of wealth and prosperity. The women we passed on the streets were much more richly dressed than in Albany, with extravagant hats and muffs, and fur edging their cloaks as they strolled along the streets.
“I don’t recall Philadelphia being such a place of fashion,” I said as we passed a particularly stylish lady climbing into her carriage, her liveried servants waiting upon her as if she were a duchess. “I hope I’ll not shame you too much as a country cousin.”
“Not at all,” Alexander declared with gratifying certainty. “You will always shine in any company, my dearest. I’ll grant that there are handsome women in Philadelphia, but a great many of them are in keeping to merchants who lavish every folly upon them, like oriental pashas with their harem-favorites. I’d much rather my wife cloaked herself in virtue and honor.”
“As I should, being the wife of an esteemed delegate from New York.” I looked after the woman with the carriage with new interest. “That woman, then—was she a rich man’s mistress?”
He shrugged expansively, his eyes twinkling. “I do not tell tales, Betsey, nor whisper idle gossip or tattered scandal.”
“Then she was,” I said, and laughed happily. I knew he was teasing me from fondness, and it made me realize all over again how sorely I’d missed him. He might be but a humble junior delegate from New York with his son curled asleep against his shoulder, but it was evident that he’d patronized the tailors and barbers here in Philadelphia: his suit was new, plainly cut but of a rich, plum-colored woolen, as was his dark blue greatcoat with cape collar and silver buttons, and his hair had obviously been dressed by a Frenchman familiar with combs and pomatum. Nor did he looked peaked or overworked, as I’d feared, but sleek and handsome, so handsome that I proudly tucked my hand a little more tightly into the crook of his arm.
“Humble we may be, sweet wife,” he said, “but I promised you I’d squeeze a few coins from our purse for you to visit a mantua-maker here.”
“You needn’t do that,” I said quickly, but he held up his hand to quiet me.
“I don’t need to do it, no, but I’d like it if you’d please yourself,” he said. “You’ve such a generous soul toward others, Betsey. Spend a bit on yourself while you’re here.”
I nodded, and smiled at his kind indulgence. I hadn’t had anything new since we’d been wed, refusing every offer of assistance from my parents and from Angelica, too. I’d kept my promise to Alexander to be a frugal wife, but if he said we could afford it, then I’d believe him.
But when we finally arrived at a small brick house and climbed the stairs to our lodgings, I wondered that we could afford much of anything.
We’d only two small rooms for our use, rented from the widow who lived below. There was a parlor and a bedchamber, each with a single window that overlooked the noisy street. The furnishings were sparse and well-worn: a bedstead with a trundle beneath for Philip, a small table for washing below a tiny looking glass, and an earthenware chamber pot in the bedchamber; and a table (which from the number of papers and books upon it, was clearly being used by Alexander as a desk), a bench, two chairs, and a chest in the parlor. A pair of fly-specked prints showing Juno and Jupiter were pinned to the wall, and that was that.
Alexander must have realized my misgivings from my expression.
“Lodgings are very dear in this town,” he said apologetically, taking Philip to the window to show him the street. “I’m fortunate to have found this, and our landlady Mrs. Williamson provides our dinner, too.”
“It will serve us well enough,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “What about Rose?”
He glanced back over his shoulder at Rose, standing uncertainly with two of my boxes from the carriage.
“There’s a space for servants in the attic,” he said. “That’s where my man is staying. Or we can arrange a pallet for her here at night.”
“I’d rather Rose stayed here with us,” I said, not wanting to imagine the servants’ quarters that accompanied lodgings such as these. The driver was bringing the rest of my trunks upstairs; I was grateful that I’d heeded Alexander’s warning, and not brought much with me.
But clearly he’d other concerns, holding Philip out and away from his splendid new greatcoat.
“Rose,” he said with a sniff. “I believe the young gentleman needs his clout changed.”
It wasn’t until much later, when he and I were in bed together, that we were finally able to talk with any frankness. After a long separation, most women would not consider politics to be romantically alluring c
onversation, but for Alexander and me it was, and always had been. It was all part of the warm familiarity of him beside me in our bed.
“Nothing is ever accomplished,” Alexander said with unabashed disgust, propping his head on his elbow to gaze down at me while we conversed. “There are too many committees, too many debates, too many adjournments and postponements and delays. Nor do many of the appointed delegates feel any obligations whatsoever to appear, making quorums impossible. I’ve yet to meet three of our party from New York, who haven’t deigned to show their faces in Philadelphia once this season.”
“I’m sorry of that,” I said, though sorrier still that he was so unhappy. “You’d had such expectations.”
He’d postponed beginning his legal profession in earnest to serve as a delegate, and I’d hoped he would have found the sacrifice more rewarding. Yet I could have predicted it, too, though I’d never say so. I’d witnessed it before. Alexander’s mind was so quick and his obsession with both details and efficiency so thorough that he should in theory be the ideal delegate, but at the same time those same qualities could make him an irritant to men less driven than he. No man likes to be bettered by another who is wiser and works harder, and is younger, too. It had been that way for Alexander when he’d been employed on the general’s staff, and I wasn’t surprised that it was happening again here.
“I’d expectations of actually accomplishing something worthwhile,” he said, “and not being halted by lazy fools who think only of their own states instead of a more encompassing vision. It is the same as it was in Poughkeepsie, only here there is more at stake.”
I nodded, for I’d learned much of this earlier from his letters. “I should think that they’d be more interested in settling the government now that the peace treaty has been signed.”
“I fear it’s exactly the opposite,” he said, impatiently shoving his hair back from his face. “Now that we’re no longer at war, most of the delegates—and most of whom were never soldiers—believe there isn’t a need for a unified government, let alone a single country. Taxes and tariffs, the courts, the military, would all be better served by consolidation. Yet the only thing that concerns my fellow delegates is the wretched sovereignty of their individual states, smug and separate. They refuse to see the weakness that comes from thirteen individuals as opposed to the strength to be found in a single entity.”
“Clearly they need you to enlighten them,” I said. “If anyone can explain the need for unity, my love, it’s you.”
He rolled onto his back with an exasperated sigh, throwing his arms over his head across the pillow. “They try my patience sorely, Betsey, and remain willfully blind to the truth. They’re as jealous and petty of their holdings as girls with beaux at their first ball.”
“You exaggerate, my dear,” I said mildly. I settled myself in comfort upon his chest with my hands pillowed on my folded arms. “These delegates are considerably more jealous and petty than any girls I’ve known.”
“That is true,” he admitted, idly twisting a lock of my hair around his fingers. “Girls at a ball show more direction and sense of purpose.”
I smiled. “I’ll not quarrel with that.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said. “But then you, Betsey, are so much more eminently sensible than any mere delegate. In the army, no matter what our state, we learned to serve under one flag, one general. We fought together, and we were victorious. If only more of the delegates had served in the field, then perhaps we’d have more success than this pack of—”
“Shhh, not so loud,” I cautioned as his voice became more impassioned, and I heard Philip stirring in the trundle. “Don’t wake our son unless you want him here in our bed, too.”
He grunted, drawing me closer and sliding his hand along my hip, which was answer enough.
“There is no godly reason why ending a war should be so much more difficult than agreeing to begin one,” he continued, lowering his voice but keeping the same fire in his words. “Yet that is where we are. How can we dismiss an army that hasn’t been paid in years? How can we send our officers home to their families without the pensions they were promised when their commissions were signed?”
“It’s wrong, dearest, and shameful,” I said with conviction equal to his. I could believe no less. I was both a soldier’s daughter and a soldier’s wife. What Congress—or rather, the states that were represented by Congress—was doing was shameful. Soldiers must be paid, and yet the states refused to give Congress the money to pay them, and worse, made them the scapegoats, too. “You’re right to fight for this.”
“It’s the same as standing firm for the men in my battalion,” he said. “They risked their lives, and they deserve to be paid.”
I sighed, thinking. “Haven’t you made any allies among the other delegates? There must be at least one other gentleman who thinks as you do.”
“Mr. Morris, of course, as Superintendent of Finance, though he is lofty above me, and his opinions must be more measured,” he said. “I also suspect several others among the delegates who are too cowardly to admit their sympathies. But there is one gentleman from Virginia, Mr. Madison, whom I’ve mentioned to you before. He’s a learned, thoughtful fellow, and he studied with Burr at the College of New Jersey before the war. He has the sufficient rigor of intellect to foresee the necessity of unified, federal government, and when three officers from this year’s winter camp came down from Newburgh with a petition of grievances, he and I met with them, and offered our assurances.”
“Then I am glad you have made his acquaintance,” I said. “Is his wife here in Philadelphia, too?”
“Oh, Madison isn’t married,” he said, and couldn’t keep back a wry chuckle. “He’s a prim old bachelor who’d have no more notion of what to do with a wife than she would know what to do with him.”
His hand slid a little lower on my hip to remind me that, unlike Mr. Madison, he knew perfectly well what to do with his wife, and how to please her, too. I smiled, shifting closer to him. It was cold in this room, but warm beside him.
“Then you must tell me the other wives of delegates I should call upon,” I said. “I’m here not only as your wife, but your partner in this. I’m eager to lobby on your behalf to these ladies, who will in turn speak to their husbands.”
I meant it, too. All my life I’d watched my mother gently steer support toward my father’s various causes, all over a cup of tea, a fine dinner, or a glass of Madeira wine, and Lady Washington was a consummate hostess on His Excellency’s behalf as well. As humble as our lodgings might be, I was still eager to do the same here in Philadelphia for Alexander.
But instead of embracing my offer as I’d expected (for we’d discussed the possibilities many times before in Albany), he only smiled ruefully.
“I wish that you could, Betsey,” he said. “But the sad truth is that few of the delegates have brought their wives with them.”
I nodded, disappointed that I couldn’t help more. “It’s not to their credit, abandoning their wives like that.”
“Most would say I’m the selfish one, having brought you and our boy all this distance for no reason beyond my own wish,” he said softly, cupping my face against his palm. “Yet I couldn’t help myself. I had to have you here. I’ve missed you more than I can ever say, my wife, my counsel, my friend, my angel, my dearest, dearest love.”
“My dearest, dearest husband,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him. “That is more than reason enough.”
* * *
While I did not regret joining Alexander in Philadelphia—I never in our life together regretted being with him, only being apart—I will concede that it was not an easy time for either of us. Alexander’s numerous responsibilities were taking their toll on his person and I worried again for his health; his hours were long and thankless, with seemingly insurmountable challenges.
Mine were of a more domestic nature. While there were some ladies in Philadelphia whom I’d recalled from my earlier visit with my fa
ther, many had retreated to their estates outside the city. We could not afford to keep a carriage, nor did I wish the expense of hiring one, and so I restricted my circle of acquaintance by the distance I could walk.
This was not such a grave hardship for me, realizing the circumstances, but poor little Philip had neither the understanding nor the patience to cope with his newly limited world. At The Pastures, he’d been accustomed to the constant amusement and attention of our large family and the spaciousness of our house and property. Now most days his company was limited to me and Rose, and his boundaries had shrunk to the two small rooms of our lodgings, and he was most vocal in his unhappiness.
Our only solace came at night—and sometimes very late it was, too—when Philip and I were rejoined by Alexander. Then, as a family and as husband and wife, we took comfort in one another, and the cares of the day faded away.
Nor was it an easy winter for our country. The unhappiness of the soldiers at what would be the final winter encampment at Newburgh continued to fester. The soldiers realized that there would likely be no further use for their services, and their sole concern was to be paid what was owed them. Discontent was being sowed freely among the ranks, and yet the states continued to deprive Congress of funds to pay the soldiers.
For his services during the war, Alexander himself was entitled to a handsome pension as an officer of five years’ standing. Yet to make certain there were absolutely no hints of partiality or special treatment attached to his name as a member of Congress, at this time he renounced all claims to this pension, a noble and selfless act that astonished his peers.
But this wasn’t his only action in regard to the army. Although Alexander had had no communication with His Excellency since resigning his commission a year earlier, he took it upon himself to write directly and confidentially to the general, explaining the dire situation from the view of Congress. While Alexander harbored hope that the general would himself pressure the states, instead in March His Excellency chose to address the rebellious troops directly, successfully counseling them toward peace rather than rebellion.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 26