“Your arguments are logical and concise,” I said, “and your solutions are wise and necessary, as any man of intelligence will understand.”
“But that’s the true problem, isn’t it?” he said irritably. “Much of Congress appears to consist of half-wits and pea-brains, unable to figure their own reckonings in a tavern, let alone a nation’s budget.”
“I know few gentlemen are as clever as you,” I said, resting my palm on his chest, “but if you wish them to accept your recommendations, a little humility would not be amiss.”
“A mountain of humility wouldn’t help,” he said, and groaned. “It will be like the old Congress all over again. They won’t approve it because they’ve already decided they won’t, from sheer perversity.”
“Do not be so pessimistic, Alexander,” I urged gently. “Congress nominated you to find a solution, and you have. They will criticize, and they will debate. That’s why they’re here. But your solution will be a weighty meal for them to swallow whole. Let them take small bites, and decide that way if it’s to their taste.”
He groaned again. “So long as they don’t vomit the entire meal back upon my shoes.”
“Even if they do, you must vow not to take offense.” Lightly I tapped his chest, a kind of wifely remonstration. “Try not to take their criticisms to heart, Alexander. It is the report they will be attacking, not you.”
He didn’t answer, but rolled to his side to face me, shoving his hair back from his face.
“You will come tomorrow, when the report is read aloud?” he asked, betraying his anxiety. “You’ll be there in the galleries?”
“You know I shall,” I promised. Women were permitted to sit in the galleries of Federal Hall to observe Congress. I hadn’t attended before, but I’d heard from other ladies that depending on the day and the debate, Congress could be as dull as yesterday’s dishwater with senators asleep in their chairs, or as raucous as a bare-knuckles fight between sailors, with shouting and disorder. I prayed that the reception to Alexander’s labors would fall somewhere between the two, and for him, I’d climb to the gallery to watch.
“I cannot stay the entire day on account of the children,” I continued, “but I’ll be there when it begins.”
“I’ll find you.” He smiled, and lightly touched his fingers to my cheek. “And make certain you pray for me, my love. Given how surly the men from Virginia and the Carolinas have already been toward me, a bit of divine support would be most welcome.”
I did pray for him—though I did not go so far as to wish ill upon the senators from Virginia and the Carolinas—and the next day I made my way up the narrow stairs to the gallery. I sat with several other ladies, wives of congressmen whom I’d met at Lady Washington’s receptions, and just as a small flock of hens will draw together against a hazard, we formed a sufficient bastion of respectability to keep away the coarser men who’d also come upstairs to watch.
Because as secretary Alexander was a member of the executive branch of the government, he was not permitted to present his paper directly to the House, although he was seated to one side. He must have been watching the gallery, for as soon as I was settled, he looked directly toward me, and smiled.
I think that must have been the only time he smiled in Federal Hall that day, or many after that. I remained through the lengthy reading, and returned at my husband’s request to hear the debates that began a week later. From them, one fact became abundantly clear: that while my husband had been occupied with the herculean task of devising this financial plan, he had also made a good many enemies.
I had suspected as much. Alexander could be charming and engaging one moment, and then with a blunt, unthinking word or two, permanently destroy all the previous good will. Honesty was both his blessing and his curse.
But to listen to endless attacks not only upon my husband’s plans, but his allegiances to the country, and even his patriotism—he was several times accused of being an English sympathizer!—was more than anyone, especially he, could swallow with grace. It was difficult enough for me, sitting straight-backed in the gallery while those around me turned to look at me, eager to see how I’d respond. I didn’t give them either the satisfaction or the tattle, but it wasn’t easy.
Some of my husband’s attackers were to be expected, men whose states had always aligned against the Federalists, but there were others who shocked me with their vehemence, the first of these being James Madison from Virginia. I’d always considered Mr. Madison, one of Alexander’s fellow authors of The Federalist, to be among his staunchest allies, until he, too, attacked the report, calling it a betrayal of the ideals of the Revolution, and a great deal more besides. Agreeing with Mr. Madison was the other senator from Virginia, Colonel James Monroe.
The new senator was already known in New York society, for several years before he’d married a lady from our city, Miss Elizabeth Kortright. Tall and reserved in his speech, Colonel Monroe seemed content to let Mr. Madison make the most salient arguments, and then he would agree. Unfortunately, this meant that the colonel, too, like Mr. Madison, publicly agreed to disagree with my husband and scorn his report, much to Alexander’s dismay.
Yet as wounded as Alexander was by the debates, he somehow managed to hold himself back from the fray, and let his supporters defend the report. For my part, I ceased attending the debates after the first three days.
“I know you wished me to go so that I might tell you what is said, Alexander,” I said warmly when I told him my decision. “But as your loyal wife, I cannot sit there any longer and listen to those simpletons attack your beautiful report. I suppose that makes me a poor sort of Christian, unable to turn the other cheek, but I simply cannot bear it any longer.”
He laughed, and somehow found the forbearance not to toss my own cautionary words to him back at me.
“My poor put-upon Betsey,” he teased. “I warned you how vexing our country’s congressmen can be.”
But on the first of April, he wasn’t laughing, and neither was I.
He came home earlier than I expected. I was sitting in the parlor on the sofa with a children’s primer in my hand, and pressed close beside me was our daughter, Angelica. Now six, she already knew her alphabet, and was beginning to pick out short words, especially when helped by a picture beside them.
I looked up expectantly when I heard his voice and step in the hall, ready to praise our daughter’s cleverness to him. One look at his face, however, and I knew that some trouble had just occurred.
But Angelica saw no such warning and immediately flew to her father, holding her arms up to him as she always did. He plucked her up, swinging her high to make her squeal, then set her carefully back down.
“There you are, little miss,” he said, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Off you go, for I must speak to Mamma alone.”
Still she hesitated, not wanting to give up her father’s company quite so fast.
“Please, Angelica,” I said firmly. “Find Johanna in the kitchen, and tell her I said you may have a biscuit.”
That made her leave, and Alexander shut the door after her. “I’m glad you weren’t at Federal Hall this morning.”
“Then pray sit and tell me why,” I said, hearing the tension in his voice that was never a good sign. I patted the sofa’s cushion in encouragement, but he ignored me, and instead began pacing back and forth before me, his hands clenched tightly together behind his back.
“A self-righteous representative from South Carolina named Ædanus Burke, and a man I scarcely know, decided the debate was the proper time to declare me a liar,” he said, giving each word a sharpened edge. “He was called to order by another from his state, yet still he persisted, and repeated the charge more loudly, so all would hear it.”
“Why on earth would he do such a thing?” I asked, shocked.
“He has taken offense from the eulogy that I offered for General Greene last Fourth of July,” he said. “You heard it, Betsey. Do you recall any untruths?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I remember it as a beautiful tribute to the general’s memory.”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed, flinging his hands out for emphasis. “But Burke now claims that by praising a northern general, I somehow insulted the militiamen of South Carolina and questioned their bravery. That is his empty reasoning for calling me a liar, Betsey, and such an insult to my honor is not to be borne.”
“If you can’t recall the slander, then I doubt anyone else will, either,” I said quickly. “Please don’t take it to the papers, Alexander, I beg you. If you draw attention to his foolish words, then you’ll only make more people aware of them.”
“I’ve no intention of making this public,” he said. “This is between Burke and me, and will be settled between us as well. I will explain to him the consequences of his words, and what will occur if he does not offer an apology.”
“What consequences?” I demanded, although I could already guess. “Alexander, please. What consequences?”
But he turned on his heel without answering, and no matter how much I pleaded with him that evening, he refused to explain further. As he bid me good-bye the next morning, he was much more agreeable, and with relief I guessed a night’s sleep had brought him peace.
I’d guessed wrongly.
“I’ve written a short letter of explanation to Burke,” he said pleasantly over our midday dinner. “If he fails to reply in an acceptable manner, then he now knows what conduct I shall expect from him, and an interview will be unavoidable.”
I set my teacup down on its saucer with a clatter. Even I knew what gentlemen meant when they spoke of “an interview.”
“You cannot be serious, Alexander,” I said with disbelief. “You would challenge Mr. Burke to a duel over this? You would risk your life and the happiness of your family for this?”
My husband’s smile was maddening. “It will not come to that if he does what he should, and apologizes.”
But Mr. Burke didn’t do what he should. Instead he wrote to my husband reiterating what he’d said before, but even more forcefully—a letter that Alexander showed me only because I demanded to see it.
I couldn’t stand by any longer. I went immediately to my father’s house to ask him to intervene.
“He cannot do this, Papa,” I said with despair. “He won’t listen to me. To fight a duel, to risk his life for something as foolish as this!”
My father lowered his chin and looked very grave.
“It’s a serious insult, Eliza, and a clear insult to Hamilton’s honor,” he said. “Because Burke spoke as part of the debate, it’s also now included in the public record.”
“But if it isn’t true, why does it matter?” I cried with mingled frustration and fear. “Mr. Burke is the liar, not Alexander, yet now he would risk not only his life, but the happiness and security of his family. He speaks of defending his honor, but who will defend our poor children if they are left fatherless? Oh, Papa, I cannot lose him!”
“Pray don’t distress yourself, Eliza,” Father said, patting my arm. “I’ll speak to him.”
The next evening, a group of grim-faced congressmen including my father and several of Alexander’s closest friends called at our house, and closeted themselves with my husband in our parlor for a good hour. I do not know what was said, or whether they called upon Mr. Burke as well, for this was all kept from me, being a mere woman. The following day, however, Alexander received another letter from Mr. Burke. The letter conceded that he’d misheard Alexander’s speech, that the so-called lie had been only words taken out of their original context, and that the entire affair was no more than a misunderstanding.
Suddenly agreeable and full of good fellowship, Alexander wrote back to accept the apology. Just like that, the whole affair was done.
“You see, Betsey, no harm was done to anyone,” Alexander said to me that night, his reassurance tainted by a certain unbecoming smugness. “Burke admitted his error, his accusation was withdrawn, and my honor preserved.”
“No harm, no, if you discount the fearful anxiety you caused me,” I said, unwilling to be so easily mollified. “What if you’d been killed, shot dead for no reason?”
“But I wasn’t,” he said, trying to pull me into his arms.
“But you could have been,” I insisted, pushing back. “Please, Alexander, for my sake and for the sake of our children, promise me that you’ll never again let yourself be drawn into such insanity.”
“My own dear Betsey,” he said, his voice low and seductive, and this time I let him pull me close. “You must know I’d never willingly leave you, or our children.”
In that moment, my steely resolve abandoned me, and I thought only of how much I’d miss him, his love, and strength if he were gone. I held him close, burrowing my face against his shoulder so I wouldn’t weep.
It wasn’t until the following morning that I realized how, lawyer that he was, he hadn’t promised me a thing.
* * *
In addition to warmer days and sunny skies, spring brought an intriguing new gentleman to New York to join the president’s cabinet as the secretary of state. A Virginian planter by birth, Thomas Jefferson was, by reputation, no stranger to me. My sister had known him well in Paris, where he’d served as the American minister to France, and to hear her lavish praises upon him, I suspected he’d been another of her conquests, or perhaps she’d been his. Doubtless not wishing to shock her provincial younger sister, as she often playfully called me, she’d never confessed to having followed the regrettable fashion of Parisian ladies and taken a lover—but if she had, I do believe Mr. Jefferson might have been her choice.
Alexander was eager to make Mr. Jefferson’s acquaintance and to see what measure of gentleman he would prove to be, and so soon after he’d settled himself in his lodgings in New York, we entertained him at a supper at our house. I enjoyed giving dinners and suppers like this, one of the opportunities I had to meet the gentlemen who so filled my husband’s days and conversations.
From Angelica’s description, I’d expected Mr. Jefferson to be a true patrician, but my first impression was of an overgrown, gangling youth, his face spotted overall with freckles. He wore an embroidered coat of brilliant blue silk and red smallclothes, certainly the attire of a stylish French gentleman, yet he had none of a gentleman’s presence or bearing. Unlike my husband, who had retained his strict military bearing, Mr. Jefferson moved as loosely as one of my children’s toy puppets with string for joints, and even at table he sat lazily unbalanced with one arm flung over the back of a chair.
Still, he was a most agreeable guest and made good company at our table, and like Alexander and Angelica, clearly delighted in books and learning, sprinkling phrases in French and Latin through his speech, though he offered surprisingly few opinions of his own. Angelica had warned me that he was very particular in his food and wines, having developed exceptionally refined tastes whilst in Paris, but he was cordial enough with our more humble New York fare. He was in fact so personable that I marveled that he was reputed to be good friends with his fellow Virginians Mr. Madison and Colonel Monroe, neither of whom made amiable society. Most of all, however, I was relieved to see that Mr. Jefferson and Alexander appeared to enjoy each other’s company, a fortunate convenience considering how often they’d be expected to work side by side in the government.
They soon had their opportunity. One of the most contested elements to Alexander’s proposed funding bill was the assumption by the federal government of the various war debts incurred by the individual states. State taxes would therefore be lessened, but the federal government could now levy federal taxes to raise funds for the betterment of the entire country. Consolidating the thirteen debts into one seemed a logical action, but the representatives of states with lesser debt howled at what they perceived as a gross inequality. They failed to see the overall good to be gained for the country as a whole, and instead thought only of how they did not wish to be forced to pay another state’
s debt.
Despite Alexander’s fierce lobbying for assumption, it was voted down by the House in April. In early June, the rest of the funding bill was passed, and the issue of assumption was presumed by all to be as good as dead and buried. Except, of course, by my husband, who continued to see it as an essential key to federal finances and to binding the states irrevocably together as a union, and was determined not to let it fade away.
But there was also another, equally heated question facing the congressmen: that of the location of a new capital city. No one denied that a permanent capital needed to be established and built to serve the country’s needs—and likewise an interim capital decided while the permanent one was constructed—but again the northern representatives favored a site more convenient to them, in either New York or Philadelphia, while the men from the south endorsed a more centrally located placement along the Potomac River.
There was far more at stake than mere convenience, however. The winning site would be poised to become one of the great cities of the world, another London, Paris, or Rome. The value of property surrounding the new capital could soar overnight. There would be a boon in all the building trades to create the new buildings of government as well as housing for new citizens. Most of all, those who lived closed to the new capital would surely be the ones most likely to be heard by Congress, and their desires addressed more swiftly than citizens who lived at a distance.
Considering itself the front-runner, New York City had already spent substantial amounts to make the old statehouse into Federal Hall, improve other public buildings and streets, and had begun work on a new president’s residence. Those in favor of the Potomac location argued that it represented an opportunity to build from scratch, without any existing impediments. It had become a rancorous stalemate, with neither side wishing to concede to the other.
As can be imagined, Alexander was in favor of New York City as the permanent capital. So was I: not only because my husband wished it, but because our home and friends were already located there, and it was also a convenient location for me to visit my family up the river at The Pastures. I’d no desire to pack up my household and children to remove south to a rented house in Philadelphia, or worse, even farther away to the shores of Virginia.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 36