I, Eliza Hamilton

by Susan Holloway Scott

  “But where were they from?” I asked anxiously. “Is it the French?”

  “Who else would it be?” he asked. “This afternoon a French privateer of fourteen guns captured the ship Rosseter from this port, and the Thomas from Bristol. It was the privateer’s guns we heard, for they were in our waters, less than a mile outside the harbor. Everything could be seen from the battery with a spyglass.”

  “But what does this mean, Alexander?”

  He smiled slowly, confidently. “What it means is that the time for talking is done, Betsey. It means that Adams can no longer mince his words like an old woman, and must instead put some teeth into them. Because I’m willing to wager that before the summer’s over, America will be at war with France.”

  CHAPTER 22

  New York City, New York

  May 1798

  Alexander had predicted that America and France would be at war before the summer ended. Although usually astute in such political guessing games, this time my husband’s prediction proved far too generous.

  Only weeks after Angelica and I had heard the French privateer’s cannon in the harbor, Congress authorized a new navy and commissioned a dozen frigates to be built, and further, had finally agreed to a provisional army of ten thousand men. Whilst all this building and recruiting and provisioning was taking place, American navy ships were encouraged to engage any French ships that dared threaten American merchantmen, and letters of marque were issued to enterprising American shipmasters who wished to try their hand at privateering against French ships. To be sure, no war had been officially declared, and so I suppose my husband’s prediction was still correct, but the effect was much the same.

  Almost overnight, war fever became the order of the day in New York. The city and harbor had suffered many indignities and losses at the hands of the French, so I suppose it was to be expected, but I still was not prepared for the sudden rush of patriotism and military fervor. The black silk cockades of the Federalists (for this was New York) appeared on every hat and bosom, the only music played by bands and orchestras were brisk marches, and even farmers in the market house made sure to drape a length of patriotic bunting above their stands of turnips and carrots.

  Alexander was beside himself with anticipation. Nearly twenty years of time had burnished a fine and golden glow upon his memories of the army during the Revolution, and he chose only to remember the camaraderie and the glory of those days, and conveniently forgot the tedium and depravations, the squabbling, frustrations, and suffering that had played a much larger part in the Revolution. He was once again as eager for war as he had been at twenty, and I could not fathom it.

  “It’s not so much the possibility of war itself, Betsey, as the creation of a permanent military force,” he tried to explain to me once again. “This country will never be regarded as a serious power without a permanent army and navy, yet the Democratic-Republicans have foolishly balked at their creation since the end of the Revolution. It broke Washington’s heart to disband his army then, and if it now must take a pack of overreaching Frenchmen for Congress finally to restore it, then already this war has served its purpose.”

  “Either way, Alexander, it should no longer be of any personal concern of yours,” I said firmly. “You served admirably enough in the Revolution, and there’s no need for you to involve yourself once again.”

  “But that’s the very reason I should,” he argued earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. “Most of the generals from the Revolution are in their dotage by now.”

  I paused, thinking of how this entire foolish discussion was likely moot. Any military appointment that would draw Alexander from retirement would have to come from President Adams, who so despised my husband that I believed I’d sooner be granted a commission than he would.

  “You’re forty-three years old,” I said instead. “You complain that a long carriage ride rattles your kidneys to an unbearable degree. How could you tolerate life in a rough camp?”

  He swept his hand expansively through the air. “Forty-three is young for a senior officer, and the bracing rigors of camp life would restore me completely. Besides, there are few men in the country with my experience and knowledge. It would be irresponsible of me not to serve if asked.”

  I sighed, folding fresh shifts and dresses for me and for our daughter, Angelica, into neat stacks on the bed. I was packing my trunk for a short visit to my parents in Albany; my father had been unwell, with digestive difficulties as well as the old and ever-worsening malady of his legs, and he had reached the age when each time that I was summoned to his side, I was prepared for it to be the last. The trip would benefit Angelica, too. After nearly eleven years in our family, Fanny Antill had gone to live with an older, now-married sister, and Angelica missed her sorely in our house filled with boys.

  I set the clothes into the trunk and turned back toward Alexander, my hands resting at my waist.

  “You should also recall that you’re a private citizen,” I said, “with a profession that claims all your time, and six children to support.”

  “And a wife,” he added. “You should not forget her, for I never will. I know it’s your duty to go to your father, Betsey, but I wish it weren’t necessary. You’ve no idea how much I miss you when you’re away.”

  Despite my irritation over his foolish talk of the army, I smiled. I couldn’t help it. Since the awful business last summer with his confession of the long-ago infidelity, he’d been even more attentive to me, and slowly, day by day, our marriage had been restored. Because of his renewed devotion and his determination to make things right once again between us, I’d grown to love him all the more, if such a thing were possible.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” I said fondly. “I always do. At least you’ll have the older boys here with you for company.”

  “Bachelor Hall, that’s what this house becomes when you’re away,” he said dramatically. “Philip, Alexander, James, John, and me. Meals at all hours, and no order anywhere. You’d scarcely recognize the place when you return.”

  “Excellent practice for when you all run off to join the army,” I said, closing the lid to the trunk. “It’s late, Alexander. Come to bed.”

  “I’m not jesting, Betsey,” he said, his voice again turning serious. “Congress will ask Washington to lead the new army as commander-in-chief, and he’s already told me that he’ll only accept if I’m his second-in-command.”

  “You would do that?” I asked, not wanting to believe him. “You’d give up everything again?”

  It would be everything, too. He’d only now begun to recover his law career after letting it go for all the years he’d been employed at the Treasury, and we’d just begun to climb to some small degree of prosperity. He’d had more time to spend with our children, and with me. For the first time in our marriage, we’d begun to talk of building a house that would be our own design, in the country and away from the city—a dream that would abruptly end if he were to accept this commission with its likely diminutive salary.

  And if he returned to the army, there would always be the chance that he could once again find himself at risk and in danger. It wouldn’t matter that this time the enemy was French, not English. My fears for his safety would be the same as they’d been twenty years before against the British.

  “You’d truly do that, Alexander?” I asked again, wanting us both to be sure of my question and his reply.

  “If I were asked,” he said, too promptly for my tastes. “I would, yes. Think of it, Betsey: I’d be a general. If Washington leaves Mount Vernon for the sake of the country, then I could hardly turn him down.”

  “You could for the sake of your family,” I said. “If you wished your sons and daughter to have any memories of you as their father, you would not even let your name be considered.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t, my love,” he said solemnly. “My duty to my country—”

  “No more,” I said, my patience gone. “Not tonight, Alexander. No more.”


  We did not discuss it then, nor in the morning before I sailed. Instead the issue of the army remained like an unwanted specter between us, unseen and unmentioned but relentlessly present.

  I understood the allure the army held for him, and always would. It wasn’t only a question of duty. As second-in-command to General Washington, he’d once more have the kind of far-reaching power to organize and create that he’d held as secretary of treasury. He’d again be in the thick of the government, with the respect and responsibilities that went with it. And exactly as his desire for advancement had led him to risk his life at the siege of Yorktown, now, for the sake of being a general he was willing to risk his family and his marriage.

  With all of this unsaid between us, I left New York and retreated to The Pastures. The distance made little difference. Through letters that came nearly daily, Alexander persisted, alternating declarations of his boundless affection with delicately worded hints regarding my health and the state of my mind. I understood: by my health, he meant he didn’t want me to worry about him and the army, and the only real question about the state of my mind was whether I’d yet changed it to favor his hopes.

  Nor did I find consolation this time at The Pastures. Despite my father’s pain and suffering, he was still able to take great pleasure in Alexander’s prospects. He’d already learned from his old friend General Washington of the plans for the new army, of how the general would again be commander-in-chief with Alexander his inspector general, and Papa was overjoyed by the prospect of another general in the family. The anger he’d felt last summer toward my husband had faded, and in its place he’d now only the highest praise for Alexander as an officer. Even my mother, who ordinarily cared little for politics, was delighted for Alexander.

  In fact, I seemed to be the only one made unhappy by my husband’s new prospects, and by the time I returned to New York in late June, the appointments were already in Congress awaiting approval. President Adams was not nearly so agreeable. He resisted Alexander’s appointment as hard as he could, contriving all sorts of impediments to try to keep him from the office (including, in one particularly preposterous accusation, that Alexander could not qualify to be an American military leader because he was a foreigner, and not a citizen!). But in part because of General Washington’s insistence and in part because Alexander truly was the most qualified gentleman for the job, his appointment was at last confirmed, and he was now officially Major General Hamilton. I’d no choice for the peace of my family but to swallow my objections and acquiesce to my husband’s seeming good fortune.

  As I’d expected, he threw himself headlong into his duties with his usual dedication and enthusiasm. There were few things my husband enjoyed more than creating systems and plans all the way to the smallest details, and inventing this army was no different. He devised everything from the most basic divisions of the planned army, the regiments, battalions, and companies, to the design of the tents, to the specifications of the weaponry, and even the most minute questions of military protocol. He lavished special care on the creation of the uniforms, and even before the army itself had been recruited, he was proudly wearing a uniform of his own design, lavished with gold lace and glinting epaulets that suited his military bearing.

  Exactly as I’d feared, however, the corps proved a monumental task, though perhaps made more so by my husband’s fastidious attentions to detail, and compounded by a federal bureaucracy that seemed to thwart him at every step. He’d had a sizable staff to do his bidding whilst secretary of treasury, but he’d only a single twenty-year-old aide-de-camp to assist him now. This young man was Philip Church, my sister’s eldest son, and a well-bred, handsome young fellow he was, too. He was also thoroughly charming, as any son of Angelica’s was bound to be, but it was clear that he was more attentive to the ladies of New York than to his duties. Not that Alexander would ever rebuke him, especially not to Angelica, but I did wish he’d a more conscientious assistant to help with his labors.

  I was hardly surprised when our own son Philip suggested that he might also serve as his father’s aide-de-camp: not surprised, but not pleased, either.

  “He could be most useful to me, Betsey,” Alexander said, after our son had approached him. “He’ll also learn a great many useful things in the process.”

  “No, Alexander,” I’d said firmly. “He is nearly done with his studies at Columbia, and then we’d agreed that he’d read for the law. The last thing I wish is for him to squander his talents in the army, toying with guns and squiring ladies about to balls.”

  Alexander had frowned. “You’ve a sorry impression of the career of an aide-de-camp.”

  “It’s an entirely accurate one,” I said, “formed from observing you in Morristown before you became attached to me.”

  He’d no argument to answer that, and Philip remained in college.

  Yet even Alexander himself couldn’t deny that he had spread himself too thin. As he built the army, he’d attempted to retain a handful of his legal clients to help with our finances. As a lawyer, he’d been earning over a thousand dollars a month, an agreeable amount to support a household of our size. But as inspector general, his income was reduced to a quarter of what it had been, and once again our family’s finances had tightened precipitously.

  To me, the worst part of his numerous responsibilities was the one I’d feared from the beginning. He worked constantly, and by the time he returned home from his office he was exhausted, and barely able to topple into bed. He was frequently summoned to Philadelphia, and he could be gone for weeks at a time. The plain truth was that I missed him.

  With Alexander so much absent and my children growing, I began to hunt about me for useful ways to keep my loneliness at bay. In the fall of 1798, I hadn’t far to look.

  New York was the country’s largest port city, with scores of foreign strangers arriving on its docks every day. In most ways, this was a fine and prosperous advantage to the city, but toward the end of every summer, when the heat gathered most fiercely, it also meant that there was a higher risk of yellow fever. Much like Philadelphia to the south, New York saw some years with only a handful of cases, and then others when the fever was so widespread and severe as to become a veritable plague upon the citizens.

  Thus was the case in 1798. The first cases began in the poorer neighborhoods near the docks, as was often the way, but soon spread north at an alarming rate. People took sick as they went about their work and collapsed in the streets, and died there, too, as all others fled. Because of the sweltering heat that lay so heavily upon the city this year, the fever took hold and progressed at a faster pace than was customary, swiftly claiming victims of every class of society.

  Like every other person of any means, we, too, left the city to escape the risk of the fever, taking lodgings in the country in September. I couldn’t forget how ill from the same fever Alexander and I had been in Philadelphia five years before, and I would do all that was necessary to preserve my children from such suffering. At least this time I prevailed upon Alexander to remain with us, and not venture back into the city as he foolishly had in Philadelphia, but he still continued to work, and through his associates reported to us that at the height of the sickness, a hundred people and more were said to be dying a day: a considerable number in a city of 60,000 souls.

  Shops and other businesses were closed, courts shut, and streets were deserted. Farmers who usually brought their wares to the markets to sell kept away, and there were shortages of food among those who remained. Still the sun blazed down upon the suffering city, with no relief for the ill.

  Finally, in late September, cooling rains came from the ocean, and at last the deaths began to subside. We returned to our home, and I had every inch of it thoroughly scrubbed with vinegar, just to be sure.

  But for many other families, it would take far more than vinegar to clear away the effects of the fever. While illness most often claimed the very young and the very old, it was the special cruelty of yello
w fever that it could devastate and kill even the strongest of men in a matter of days.

  The city was filled with fresh widows of every age, their sorrowful faces and clinging, fatherless children everywhere. Most of these women were abruptly left without any support, and were now forced to contend not only with the dreadful grief of a husband’s death, but the desperate realization that they’d no way to support themselves or their children.

  It was the sight of these poor women that inspired me. I had always been involved in charitable works; my mother had instilled that virtue in me, as the duty of a Christian lady. But now I presented myself to Mrs. Isabella Graham, a Scottish widow who well understood the plight of her sisters, and had ten years before founded the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children. Unlike many of the wealthier women who solely offered financial contributions (which were, of course, most welcome and essential), I gave myself over whole-heartedly to Mrs. Graham’s activities, calling on the widows with packages of food, clothing, and medicine. I offered solace and prayer as best I could, and perhaps most importantly, I listened to their melancholy recollections of the husbands they’d lost.

  “It’s a good thing that you are doing, Betsey,” Alexander said proudly as I described to him yet another sad case of a young woman with twin babies who’d never thought she’d be left in such a sorrowful state. “I’ve always known you to be kindness itself, and now the rest of the city shall see it as well.”

  “I don’t do it to be recognized,” I said. “You know that of me. Rather I’ve been so blessed in my own life that I feel it’s my obligation to help others who haven’t.”

  “As you do, dearest,” he said, smiling warmly before he kissed me. “As you do.”

  It was in a way one more interest we’d always shared, for he himself was extraordinarily generous by nature, and his own sad situation as a child had left him with special sympathy for unfortunate women and children. But as much as I wished it could be otherwise, his own kindness was now restricted to making contributions—the names of “General & Mrs. Hamilton” were prominent on many of the membership rolls of city charities—and his countless responsibilities with the army meant he was almost never at home.