But relief was only temporary. In April, Congress ratified the provisional peace treaty with Great Britain, finally bringing our long war to a close; yet despite desperate measures and resolutions aimed at producing more revenue to pay the army before sending them home, Alexander feared there would simply not be enough.
I had planned to remain in Philadelphia with my husband until the first week of July, and leave with Philip for Albany before the city’s heat became intolerable and the air unhealthy with the summer miasma from the docks. But by the middle of June, the political circumstances were growing so desperate and uncertain that Alexander decided it would be unwise for us to remain in the city, and he hired a carriage for us to depart the following Monday.
On the Thursday before we were to leave, news reached Congress that a group of disgruntled soldiers was marching toward the city from Lancaster. On behalf of Congress, Alexander asked Pennsylvania’s Supreme Executive Council (such a grand name for such a cowardly group!) to call out the militia to defend Philadelphia. They refused, saying there was insufficient cause, but the next day there were rumors that the dissidents were on the very edges of the city.
The rumors also claimed that if the soldiers received no satisfaction from Congress, they were then prepared to attack and pay themselves from the Bank of North America. In a curious twist of coincidence, the bank’s president and largest shareholder was Alexander’s friend and supporter Robert Morris, and the second largest shareholder was my sister Angelica’s husband, John Church.
“It’s a good thing that you’re leaving with Philip on Monday,” Alexander said as we took breakfast together. “My heart will go with you, of course, but I want you and Philip removed from any possibility of danger.”
“But what you, my love?” I asked, unable to keep the fear from my voice. “You have been so much at the front of this conflict that I worry you’ll be made a target.”
He shrugged, gulping the rest of his coffee before he rose to leave for the day.
“I’ll be safe enough,” he said. “I’m hardly worth their trouble.”
I found it difficult to be reassured. If the city were too dangerous for me to remain, then how could it be safe for him? Still, the streets appeared to be at peace, and I wondered if the alarms had been exaggerated. I’d planned to call upon Mrs. Mary Morris, the wife of Alexander’s supporter Robert Morris, to bid her farewell. She was a gracious lady who had shown me much kindness whilst I’d been in Philadelphia, and her own young children had become Philip’s playmates. The Morris house was not far from our lodgings, and so with Rose to carry Philip (who was growing larger by the day, and had become a robust armful), we set out.
As we waited in the parlor for Mrs. Morris to join us, I reflected on how swiftly this war, wrought by men, had forced changes upon us women. The Morris house was sizable and elegant, as was to be expected, but it had not always belonged to them. One of the more recent residents had been the military governor, General Benedict Arnold, who had lived here when he’d wed Peggy; now he was a traitor who’d be hung without a trial if he ever dared return, and they lived as exiles in London. How could she have known when she lived here that her life would take such a twisted turn?
Even Mrs. Morris, who lived here now, had seen her family’s fortunes tumbled by the war as well. According to Alexander, her husband had extended vast loans to the army that were likely never to be repaid, and he’d also lost over a hundred of his merchant and privateering ships to capture.
As I sat waiting with Philip on my lap, I thought of how fortunate Alexander and I had been. To be sure, we hadn’t had a fortune to lose, nor would Alexander ever have been tempted to betray his beliefs and country, but I never forgot how he himself had survived battles that had claimed far too many other sweethearts, husbands, and fathers. I thought of it each night when I lay curled beside him, and I thanked God every day for his deliverance.
But that afternoon in her parlor Mrs. Morris and I spoke only of cheerful matters, of embroidery patterns and recipes and how fast our children were growing. By unspoken agreement we said nothing of the difficulties facing our husbands in Congress—difficulties that, alas, soon proved impossible to ignore.
She had just led me into her garden to show me the buds on her roses when we both paused at once, struck silent by the same unfamiliar sound in the distance.
“Whatever could that be?” she murmured, but we both knew what it was: a crowd of angry men, voices raised, the soldiers from Lancaster.
“I should take my leave,” I said, thinking only of Alexander.
“Stay here until we learn more,” she urged. “I’ll send a servant to discover what is happening.”
The news the servant brought back was not auspicious. Scores of soldiers and other men were gathered before the statehouse with Congress trapped inside. The malcontents did not appear to be threatening either the property or the delegates within, but taverns and tippling houses in the area were doing a brisk business, and the situation would likely worsen.
“You may remain with me as long as you please, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mrs. Morris said. Her own anxiety underscored the generous invitation, making her voice taut. As the Superintendent of Finance, her husband was most likely inside the State House, too. “You’ll be safe here.”
“Thank you, but I must return to our lodgings,” I said, thinking that there likely wasn’t any place in Philadelphia that could be considered safe. “I wish to be where my husband expects me to be.”
Mrs. Morris shook her head, her brows drawn tightly together and her hands tightly clasped with anxiety. “Then at least let me send you and your son in our chaise.”
I thought of the Morrises’ chaise, with the elegant Morris arms painted on the door in gold, and what a pretty target that might make to the mob of men who believed themselves to have been cheated by the government.
“Thank you, Mrs. Morris, but no,” I said. “I’ll leave as I came, by walking.”
“Then at least permit me to send two of my servants to accompany you,” urged Mrs. Morris. “I can’t let you go otherwise, not in good conscience.”
I agreed to that, and soon I was walking swiftly with Rose and Philip between two of the larger Morris servants. No one paid us any attention. The few people on the street were instead concentrating on the crowd gathered along Chestnut Street. While I knew my little party should have taken advantage of this and proceed directly to our lodging house, from concern for my husband’s welfare I insisted we walk one street out of our way so that I, too, could have a glimpse of the disturbance.
I wished I hadn’t.
I could see the tall brick tower of the statehouse framed between the buildings on the corners at the end of the street. Soldiers filled the front yard and spilled into the street, blocking any traffic that wished to pass, and more soldiers had surrounded the sides of the statehouse as well. Though I cannot say for certain, I would guess there were at least four hundred gathered there, a sea of churning anger and resentment. Many were still in uniform, their coats faded and their breeches patched, which was the condition of most of the Continental troops after so many years. All carried their muskets, too, the long bayonets shining like a field of dangerous silver blades. I didn’t doubt that those muskets were loaded.
Soldiers in themselves did not frighten me. Because of my father, they’d always been part of my life. But soldiers who were angry, half drunk, armed, and without officers in control terrified me. The delegates inside had closed most of the windows against the crowd, and I was surprised the soldiers hadn’t broken the panes. Perhaps they didn’t feel the need to: the delegates were trapped inside with no means of escape, and I could not imagine how this could be resolved peaceably.
And somewhere in the middle was my husband, unarmed and without resources, yet both blessed and cursed with the constant, reckless desire to act the hero.
I stood and watched, my heart pounding with dread for Alexander’s sake. I’d never felt so helpless. There trul
y was nothing I could do, yet still I stood rooted to the paving stones, unable to look away.
Behind me Philip whimpered and said my name. Automatically I turned to take him from Rose. Not only was Philip fretful, but fear radiated from the three servants, too. They hadn’t the right to tell me that we should leave, and that we didn’t belong here. That was my responsibility, as were they. All I could do now for Alexander was pray that he’d find the wisdom he’d need. Without a word, I turned, and led the way back to our lodgings.
I sat by the window, waiting for Alexander, and I waited long after the sun had set and the moon had risen, and both Philip and Rose had gone to sleep. Though I didn’t wish to admit it to myself, I was listening as much as waiting. We were only a short distance from the statehouse, and if any real violence had been done, I would have been able to hear the gunshots.
At last I saw the shadow of Alexander’s slight figure in the street, and heard his footsteps come wearily up the stairs. I embraced him at once and held him close, grateful beyond words that he’d safely returned.
“You’re leaving tomorrow morning, as soon as the sun rises,” he said. His shoulders sagged with fatigue and his clothes were rumpled, but he was otherwise unharmed. “I had to pay the rogue at the stable double to drive on Sunday, but I don’t want you here another day.”
“But what of you, my love?” I asked, helping him shrug free of his coat. “You can’t tell me you’re safe, because I know you weren’t today. I passed the statehouse this afternoon after I’d called upon Mrs. Morris. I saw the soldiers gathered there, and—”
“They’re mutineers,” he said grimly. “Call them what they are. They’ve turned their back on their duty and their officers. They have reason, yes, but not this way.”
“I don’t care what they’re called,” I said. “You could have been killed, and you know it.”
He shook his head, but didn’t disagree. “They let us pass unharmed today, but I wouldn’t vouch for tomorrow.”
“Then what will you do, Alexander?” I asked, pouring him a glass of wine. “You can’t stay here.”
“The delegates met tonight at Boudinot’s house,” he said, “and agreed that if Pennsylvania again refuses to call up their militia for our protection, then we’ll convene instead in New Jersey, in Princeton. I doubt the state will do what it should, and I’ll likely be trudging in your footsteps by evening tomorrow.”
He emptied the glass and stared into it, his thoughts elsewhere. I’d often seen him discouraged here in Philadelphia, and frustrated, too, but this was the first time I’d seen him resigned.
“There needs to be change, Betsey,” he said, “but no one here is ready for it. Until the states realize that Congress needs power, real power, to accomplish what it must for the good of the country as a whole, then there is little point to being here. I’ll remain a delegate long enough to sign the final peace treaty, but no longer.”
“You’ll return to Albany?” I asked, daring to hope.
“Before the summer is done,” he said. “Then at last, my own dear Betsey, you and I shall go to New York.”
* * *
My journey back to The Pastures with Philip and Rose was without event. By the time I reached Albany, there were already letters from Alexander waiting for me. The Pennsylvania militia had in fact been called out soon after I’d left the city, and the mutiny had dissipated without any further trouble. Alexander and Robert Morris contrived to have the soldiers paid, through bills personally guaranteed by Mr. Morris. But Congress had still determined to shift to New Jersey, and was meeting now in crowded quarters in Princeton. Nothing had changed beyond their location, however, and Alexander reiterated his plan to quit Congress and once again join me.
But there was little peace to be found at The Pastures, either. While Philip and I were warmly welcomed back home, both Mamma and Papa were grim and unhappy, and with good reason, too.
Only days before, my younger sister Peggy had stunned everyone by eloping. Unlike Angelica, who had also eloped, there could be no objections to Peggy’s new husband’s family. They were Dutch descendants like us, and distant cousins of my mother’s family as well. But while Stephen Van Rensselaer was his late father’s eldest son and in line to become the tenth patroon of Rensselaerwyck, he was also scarcely nineteen, a recent graduate of Harvard College.
My sister Peggy was twenty-five. While no one was so impolite as to say that Peggy was too old for Stephen, there was considerable talk about how Stephen was too young to marry in general. Although legally of age to choose a wife, he wouldn’t inherit his estate (his father having died when he was a young child) until he was twenty-one. When he and Peggy had first shown interest in each other, older members of both families had cautioned against the match, but Peggy had always been impulsive by nature, and apparently Stephen was as well. Knowing Peggy, I was surprised, but not shocked, and I prayed they’d be happy together. My poor mother, however, was still reeling.
“I am at a loss,” Mamma said to me once we were alone. I’d scarcely been home an hour when she’d taken me into her bedchamber and shut the door, specifically to speak of the elopement. “It was disgraceful enough that Angelica chose to ignore our wishes and blessings for the sake of Mr. Church, but to have Peggy do so, too—why, it has quite broken your poor father’s heart.”
I guessed it had likely made our family the talk of Albany and our vast extended family as well. To have one daughter elope was scandalous enough, but now to have had a second one forgo the ritual of a Schuyler wedding in the parlor was almost an insult to my parents, and one not quickly forgiven. It had taken months before Angelica was again welcome at The Pastures, and even longer for her husband, and I wondered if Peggy and Stephen would face the same fate.
“You father had made his opinions on the match very clear to them both,” Mamma continued, clearly wounded. “Yet your sister disobeyed him.”
“Oh, Mamma,” I said, sitting beside her on the bed to take her hand. “Perhaps Peggy didn’t understand.”
“She understood,” she said emphatically, “and Stephen did as well. Now, I’ll grant that there are some gentlemen of Stephen’s age who have already attained the thoughtful maturity of their station, but he remains in the first flower of impetuous youth, full of impulse and passion. He’s hardly the steadying force your sister needs. He can’t be. Two peas in a foolish pod, that’s what they are, and all I can do now is pray that they won’t repent of what they’ve done.”
“Perhaps they’ll surprise us all, Mamma,” I said, striving to play the peacemaker for Peggy’s sake. I recalled how I’d been so eager to wed Alexander that I, too, had proposed an elopement, only to be dissuaded by Alexander’s wisdom. Now I was glad we’d shared our joy with my family, but I still could feel empathy for Peggy and Stephen. “I hope they do, if they loved each other that much.”
My mother’s deep sigh showed exactly what value she placed on that love—no matter that she’d risked a great deal for love herself.
“Your sister climbed from her bedchamber window to meet him,” she said forlornly. “It’s all Angelica’s fault, of course, for having eloped with Mr. Church. Once Peggy saw what Angelica had done, her heart was set on following. But climbing from the window like a thief in the night!”
I could all too easily picture Peggy clambering down a rope with her petticoats flying above her garters, just as I could imagine Stephen persuading her that it was the proper thing to do. My mother was right: they were two peas in a foolish pod.
Mamma pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and blotted the corners of her eyes.
“Nothing is as it should be any longer, Eliza,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “If it were not for you and Hamilton, I should be in the blackest despair over my daughters. First Peggy, and now this sad news regarding Angelica. I do not know how I shall bear it.”
“What news of Angelica?” I asked swiftly, a score of unfortunate possibilities springing to mind. My older sister could be e
qually as impulsive as Peggy, but in less predictable ways. She was also with child again, and I prayed she hadn’t come to grief.
“You must not have received her letters,” Mamma said, pressing her handkerchief to her cheeks again as fresh tears spilled forth. “Now that the war is done, John has decided to sail to France for the sake of settling his accounts, and take her and the children to live in Paris. To Paris, Eliza!”
I gasped, stunned. In a way, it made perfect sense: Mr. Church had come to New York in 1775 to escape his past and to make his fortune in the war, and he’d always intended to return to either London or the Continent, whichever proved more welcoming. He’d no reason to remain now that hostilities from which he’d so profited had ended. For her part, Angelica longed for what she perceived as the irresistible allure of the Old World, and Mr. Church’s promises to take her there had been much of his allure as a suitor. Nor could I question his desire to settle his final accounts from his wartime trading; Angelica had hinted to me that he’d still substantial funds outstanding from having supplied the French army in America.
Yet there was so much more to such a voyage. Crossing the ocean was always hazardous, and even the most experienced of shipmasters couldn’t guarantee a safe passage. I was loath to think of Angelica and her children in peril from storms or pirates, and then to imagine them living so far from us, in another country entirely. Once they sailed, I might not see any of them for years, or perhaps ever again in this life. She’d three little ones now, Philip, Kitty, and John, and the fourth to come at the end of the year. Before long her older children would entirely forget their aunt Eliza, and the one yet born would have no knowledge of me at all. I’d let myself believe we would all live near one another in New York, as Angelica and I had once dreamed, but now—now that dream was done.
Mr. Church was eager to sail no later than the end of July, before hurricane season made crossings more dangerous. For one brief, final visit, Angelica came with her children to The Pastures. Because I’d no notion of when we’d meet again, I spent as much time with them all as I could, making sure that my Philip, too, was often with his cousins. On the evening before they were to leave us, I took one final long walk with Angelica, our arms linked.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 27