In fact, just as I look back and recall the first two years of President Washington’s first term as a time of optimism and accomplishment, of great things said and achieved for the betterment of our country, I remember the last two years of that same term as a dreary muddle of recrimination, backbiting, and public name-calling.
And despite how I wished it were otherwise, my husband was in the very thick of it.
This is not to say that he and his department did not continue to be the most productive member of the entire government. The measures that he’d set in motion in the first two years—from the cutters that now guarded our coasts, to the new coinage, to the system of a national bank—all had proved so successful that the country as a whole was running more efficiently and more prosperously than anyone had expected. Alexander continued to implement and refine what he’d already created as well as expand his interests to include the development of textile mills in New Jersey and other manufactories with the hope of one day rivaling England.
But the rivalry between Alexander and Mr. Jefferson had sunk to bitter hatred. It was not simply that they disagreed on nearly everything, which they did. It was that each had come to believe the other stood for ideas and theories that would destroy the country. As a Federalist, Alexander could not tolerate anything that Mr. Jefferson, a Democratic-Republican, stood for. Each judged the other to be a dangerous zealot, aspiring to seize control of the country. Each believed the other already had too much power, and too many followers who accepted and trusted the false doctrine. And each believed the other influenced the president to an excessive degree.
Nor were their quarrels confined to the offices of state. Far from it. To hear Alexander tell it, Mr. Jefferson dared to begin his scathing attacks against Alexander even when they were in cabinet sessions led by President Washington. I was appalled to learn that matters became so ill-humored between them that the president himself had been forced to order them to stop their argument, as if they were a pair of squabbling children instead of two grown, intelligent men holding distinguished government positions.
“To force the president to intervene between you two is dreadful, Alexander,” I said, thoroughly shocked when he told me of their latest confrontation one evening as we sat together in the parlor. “You should at least show him the respect due to him as your former general. There was a time when you would have quaked if he’d so much as glanced at you with disapproval, and now you openly defy his wishes in his presence.”
“It’s not my doing, Betsey,” he said, surprised and a bit wounded that I hadn’t taken his side. “If Jefferson weren’t so determined to utter his nonsense without provocation, then I wouldn’t need to defend myself.”
“There shouldn’t be any need for either provoking or defending,” I said, feeling as if I truly were addressing four-year-old James instead of my husband. “Not in a cabinet meeting. Even if Mr. Jefferson says something untoward, can’t you ignore him, and concentrate on the general discussion instead?”
He sighed, as much as saying that I didn’t understand, and looked back down at the book he’d been reading.
Perhaps I should have let him have his peace, and not persisted. But each time I saw President Washington in company, I was startled by how much he’d aged in these past two years. Gone was the towering, intimidating commander I remembered from Morristown. He was sixty now, but appeared far older, and visibly frail. Whilst in office, he had suffered several serious illnesses that would likely have killed a weaker man. His face was pale and blotchy and his eyes sunken and guarded, and the false teeth that we all knew he wore forced him to perpetually clench his jaw to keep them in place. Lady Washington had told me that all her husband wished to do was retire to Mount Vernon and never give another thought to politics, and whenever I heard Alexander describe these pugnacious cabinet meetings, I understood why.
I put aside my handwork, and came to sit close beside my husband.
“Please listen to me, my dearest,” I said softly, touching his cheek to distract him from his book. “I know it’s your nature to defend yourself and your honor, but you will be the greater gentleman if you can even once take no notice of Mr. Jefferson’s barbs. I’m sure the president will be most grateful if you do.”
He glanced up at me, and sighed heavily.
“For me, then,” I said, playing my last card. “For my peace, and for the sake our next child.”
Shamelessly I placed my hand on the small swell of my belly. To our great delight, I was finally with child again, and I didn’t doubt that all the antagonism toward Mr. Jefferson that Alexander brought with him could well have ill effects on the baby.
At once he took my hand, and kissed it.
“My own girl,” he said contritely. “You are right, of course, in your infinite wisdom. The general does deserve better, as do you. Because you have asked, I shall make every effort to control the warmth of my temper.”
I smiled, and silently prayed that he would at least try.
But if he did, his resolution did not last. Less than a week later, he couldn’t wait to tell me how at the latest cabinet meeting he’d completely confounded Mr. Jefferson by speaking for nearly an hour without stopping, which must have been a trial to everyone else in the meeting, too. It seemed as if now the entire government was aware of the acrimony between the two men. The other wives of congressmen freely offered their commiseration to me, and hostesses became leery of inviting both us and Mr. Jefferson to the same suppers, fearing an out-and-out battle royal in their dining rooms.
The only joyful event that came of that summer was the arrival of our fourth son in August. The birth was an easy one for me, and likewise the baby himself proved of an easy, mild disposition, disproving all my fears to the contrary. We named him John Church Hamilton, after Angelica’s husband, and she and Mr. Church returned the favor by calling their own new son, born soon after ours, Alexander Hamilton Church.
By the end of the year, the results of the second presidential election were confirmed, and once again General Washington was elected president, with Mr. Adams from Massachusetts again his vice president. Although this was good news in general for Alexander, the Federalists had lost seats in Congress, and the Democratic-Republicans who’d replaced them were eager for a fight, and alas, eager to see my husband deposed.
Rumors that Alexander had inappropriately used foreign loans to pay national debt became so common that the House asked Alexander to present a full accounting, with detailed reports of all the Treasury Department’s accounts. Of course, the rumors were unfounded, and fed by Mr. Jefferson, but still Alexander was forced to answer them. He did, in vast detail, and proved his innocence.
Still determined to see my husband discredited and his career destroyed, Mr. Jefferson encouraged his minions in Congress to file resolutions censuring his behavior, and requesting that the president remove him from the cabinet. These, too, were soundly voted down by Congress, and my Alexander’s reputation was vindicated and restored to its usual shining brilliance.
But the vitriol soon spilled over once again into the newspapers, where it became appallingly public. While Mr. Jefferson often had others write on his behalf—including his fellow Virginians, James Monroe and James Madison—Alexander was his own best defender, and took an almost unseemly pleasure in doing so. His work appeared so often on the pages of the Federalist-inclined Gazette of the United States that he might as well have been an editor himself, countering every word the Democratic-Republicans printed in Mr. Jefferson’s newspaper of choice, the National Gazette.
On the printed page, Alexander was in his very element, dashing off letter after letter over various names borrowed from the ancients. Whenever he worked late in his study, I came to know from how fast his pen was scratching across the paper when he was writing an ordinary letter, and when he was composing yet another screed against the Democratic-Republicans.
I thought wistfully back to the days of The Federalist, when he’d used his argumentative
powers toward a productive purpose, days that now seemed so long ago. At least his only weapons were a quill and ink, and he and Mr. Jefferson had never launched into the dangerous, posturing talk of duels of honor.
The news from France of the deposition of their king added another fresh layer to the quarrel. While most Americans applauded the French for pursuing their own liberty and freedom from royalty much as we had done, Mr. Jefferson was avid in his admiration, believing that America should throw all its support behind the new French government. And as usual, Alexander preached caution, especially once war was declared between Great Britain and France, and fortunately, President Washington agreed with him. The American states were finally finding their own footing, and the last thing anyone wished was for us to be drawn into a ruinous war between France and Britain—anyone, that is, except Mr. Jefferson.
Yet as contentious as the politics in our government had become, all of it paled beside the calamity that struck Philadelphia in the late summer of 1793.
Instead of having me travel to The Pastures with the children for the warmer months, Alexander had taken a summer residence for us a short drive from the city. Called Fair Hill, it became our pleasant retreat, and I was especially happy that Alexander could relax here with me and the children, and have some respite from his near-constant labors as well as from Mr. Jefferson.
We were especially grateful for Fair Hill as the summer’s heat worsened. After a spring filled with rain, the summer proved dry and wickedly hot, and even the children were content to lie idle in the shade during the worst heat of the day. The weather was so taxing that Alexander brought back stories from the city of dozens of poor people dying from the heat, especially those who lived in the crowded lodgings near the docks or toiled in the hot sun for their livings.
But soon the news he brought to us grew much more serious. The people had died not from the heat, but from yellow fever, and soon it wasn’t only poor people who were taken ill. Alexander described scenes that were all too familiar to him from his childhood: of carts that passed each morning to collect the bodies of the dead, of warning placards tacked to the door of every house where someone had sickened, of a desolate city of deserted streets and empty shops.
He’d heard that people were dying at the rate of twenty a day, and I begged him not to return to town, but to stay with us where he’d be safe. When clerks in his office began to fall ill at their desks, he finally relented, and remained with us at Fair Hill. I thanked God for His Mercy, relieved that my little family was safe together.
But on the second night I was awakened to the sound of Alexander retching in the chamber pot. I found him sprawled on the floor, too weak to climb back into bed, and with the chamber pot half-filled with noxious vomit beside him.
“Here, my dear,” I said, crouching down beside him. “Let me help you back to bed.”
He shook his head. “Have the children taken at once away from here, and next door,” he ordered, his voice a rough rasp. Even by the moonlight I could see his face was sheened with sweat and his nightshirt clung damply to his body. “Don’t touch them or kiss them yourself. Then send for Dr. Stevens.”
“Not Dr. Rush?” I asked anxiously. Dr. Benjamin Rush was the most respected physician in the city, and the one fearlessly treating the most patients with the fever.
“Dr. Stevens,” he insisted, and then bent to vomit again.
Terrified, I summoned servants at once to do as he’d bid, carefully issuing my orders at a distance from them. I could hear my poor children awakened from their sleep, weeping at the sad news and crying for me. I held firm and kept away from them, as Alexander had told me to do, even as it broke my heart. Then I rushed back to Alexander, staying with him as we waited for the doctor.
I’d mercifully never encountered yellow fever, but I’d heard enough not only to be able to recognize the signs in my poor husband, but also to know how the odds for his survival were not in his favor. Even Dr. Rush, who employed the most modern and aggressive treatments of bleeding and purges through enemas, had had limited success bringing patients through the fever.
“I wish you’d let me summon Dr. Rush,” I said softly as I sat beside him, changing the cool, damp cloth I’d placed on his forehead. Daylight was slowly beginning to show through the curtains, and though Alexander had ceased vomiting, he was sweating profusely, his breathing shallow.
“I trust Stevens more,” he said without opening his eyes. “We knew each other as boys on St. Croix.”
“You did?” I asked, surprised. Dr. Stevens was new to Philadelphia, having recently married a woman from the city, and though Alexander had mentioned him, I hadn’t realized their acquaintance was so old.
“He’ll have more experience with yellow fever than Rush,” he said raggedly. “Besides, Rush is one of Jefferson’s followers, and he’ll kill me if given the chance.”
“Oh, hush, Alexander, not now,” I said, appalled that he’d mention politics now.
“I was teasing you, my love.” He smiled, a ghastly grin, and opened his eyes, squinting painfully at the light from the windows. I gasped; I couldn’t help it. The whites of his eyes were bright red, made all the more shocking in contrast with his pale irises.
“Am I that horrid to gaze upon, Betsey?” he asked, and though I knew he was teasing me still, I fought back my tears. I couldn’t lose him; I couldn’t.
“You will recover, Alexander,” I ordered fiercely. “You will not die.”
He smiled again, his eyes drifting shut. “I won’t,” he said faintly. “Not to oblige Jefferson.”
By the time Dr. Stevens arrived, I couldn’t tell if my husband were unconscious, or sleeping. The doctor immediately began his treatment: a cold bath, Peruvian bark, and brandy with burned cinnamon, and a dose of laudanum at nightfall. There were no traditional purges, no blood-letting, which made me uneasy, but if Alexander trusted this physician, then I must as well.
“How do you fare yourself, Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked me as soon as Alexander was back in his bed. He stared at me closely, doubtless looking for signs of the disease. “In nearly all cases of a husband taken ill, his wife is sure to follow.”
I swore that I felt perfectly well, and determined to nurse my husband myself. That afternoon, I stood at the open window, and waved and called across the yard to our children to reassure them, and tell them their papa and I loved them. In this same way, I arranged for friends to remove our children from the area entirely, and find sanctuary at The Pastures. But three days later, I was dizzy with a grievous headache, and before long I, too, began retching.
When Dr. Stevens came to call upon Alexander, he could now count me as his patient as well. I’d never been so ill, passing in and out of consciousness and suffering from outrageous fever-dreams and deliria. But Alexander’s faith in his old friend was well placed. My husband recovered first, in a mere five days, and I soon after.
After several more days to restore our strength, our one goal was to travel to Albany to retrieve our children, and reassure ourselves that they’d escaped the fever. But our journey north proved a difficult and taxing one. The entire coast was terrified of the epidemic, and so many people had fled Philadelphia only to subsequently die that no taverns would admit Alexander and me once they learned who we were, fearing that we’d carry the contagion.
We weren’t the only ones, either. Refugees from Philadelphia crowded the roads, stopping to sleep beneath trees and in open fields because they’d nowhere else to go, only to be chased away from those modest shelters by farmers who were likewise frightened of the fever. The entries to New York City were blocked to us as well, and even the ferries denied us passage. It didn’t matter that Alexander was the secretary of the treasury, or that we carried letters from Dr. Stevens swearing that we’d been cured. We were pariahs, and no one wanted anything to do with us, our servants, our carriage, or even our luggage.
Even at Albany, within sight of our destination, we were forbidden by an edict from the mayor of A
lbany from crossing the river. I wept to think my babies were so close and yet denied to me, and forlornly I paced back and forth along the river’s edge as I longed for some way across. It took all of my father’s persuasive skills before we were finally permitted to cross, and at last be reunited with our children. Mercifully, not a one of them had contracted the disease, and our reunion was sweet indeed.
We returned to Philadelphia slowly. Although Alexander appeared fully restored to health, he found his mind had been left uncertain by the fever, and occasionally confused. Dr. Stevens assured him that this was not a lasting consequence and would pass, but it was reason enough for him to take his time before returning to his duties.
But as grim as the year had been, it did close with fortuitous news. Declaring himself sick of Philadelphia politics and their shameless corruption (of course meaning Alexander), Thomas Jefferson resigned from his post as secretary of state, and retreated to his home at Monticello.
CHAPTER 19
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
May 1794
“Perhaps you should play your piece one more time, Angelica,” I said, standing in the doorway to the parlor to listen as my daughter practiced. “You’ll want to be prepared if you’re going to play for our guests tonight.”
“Yes, Mamma,” she said without turning back to look at me. She consciously straightened her back and took a deep breath, the way her music-master had taught her, and then began the song yet again. “I promise it will be perfect.”
Angelica was only nine, yet she so loved music and playing that I never had to urge her to practice. To be sure, the new piano—now the centerpiece of our parlor—would inspire anyone. Alexander had charged my sister Angelica to find the best possible instrument in London for a young lady, and she’d happily obliged, sending an elegant rosewood instrument inlaid with scrolling vines that was as lovely in appearance as it was sweet in sound. All of our children, including Fanny Antill, had been given music lessons, but only Angelica had true talent. She’d always been a quiet child, small and dainty, and in our house filled with noisy boys, she’d found both her voice and her retreat in music.
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 39