I suppose my loneliness would have been easier to bear if Alexander had himself been happy. But the grander his schemes for the army became, the less support from Congress he had to enact them, and most especially from President Adams. The first bloom of enthusiasm gave way to increasing frustration.
After over a month of inconclusive meetings in Philadelphia, he came home to New York in December, the tail end of 1798. I knew from his letters that he hadn’t been well, but I was shocked by his appearance: he’d grown thin and weary-looking, and beneath the powder and pomatum in his hair, there was far more gray than there’d been before. He’d begun wearing his spectacles more often, too, their flashing lenses masking his eyes and making him appear older as well.
Our house was bedecked with greenery for the Christmas holidays and our children were wildly excited over the coming festivities, but for Alexander and me, alone together in the parlor the night he returned, there was little joy, and less cheer.
“I cannot help think that I am wasting both my time and my energies,” he said, standing beside the fire. I’d poured him a glass of his favorite brandy, but instead of drinking it, he’d merely swirled it within the glass, staring into the amber liquid like an oracle searching for signs.
“Perhaps there will be more interest in the new year,” I suggested. As much as I did not like the idea of the army, I hated seeing him like this. “People are often distracted by their own affairs in December.”
“It’s more than that, Betsey,” he said. “Adams has no interest in leading, and shrinks from his responsibilities. He retreats to Massachusetts, and lets Congress run wild. There is no hint of civility, no respect, no decency. Senators openly brawl on the floor as if they were drunken sailors in a tavern, and debates deteriorate into shouting matches.”
“Why doesn’t anyone stop them?” I asked, genuinely shocked.
“Oh, occasionally they do,” he said cynically. “But recall that they are all gentlemen, and in theory capable of regulating themselves. There will always be factions in any group of men, but the divide is so great now that I fear for the very government itself, let alone the army.”
I’d seldom seen him in this black a mood, nor could I think of much to say that could dispel it. “Could General Washington be persuaded to return?” I asked. “No one would dare counter him.”
“I would not presume upon his noble nature to ask,” Alexander said. “You haven’t seen him in several years, dearest. He’s much altered with age, much diminished, and though nothing will change his innate civility, he no longer possesses either the inclination or the stamina for taming jackals.”
“But he does still believe in the army, doesn’t he?” I asked. Just as I knew how much the army meant to Alexander, I was also aware that without General Washington’s leadership, it would be doomed to fail. “Surely you have his support.”
He hesitated, clearly thinking how best to answer, his distinctive profile silhouetted against the fire’s light.
“It’s not so much that he has withdrawn his support,” he said, “but rather he no longer perceives an army to be necessary. The antagonism that the French demonstrated earlier this year has faded to nothingness, and there are rumors that whatever differences may have existed will soon be resolved. With no threat of war or invasion, there’s no need for an army. And that will be an end to it.”
In this last year, I’d become accustomed to hearing him speak of the lack of support for the army with bitterness, even anger, but this resignation was new. He wasn’t ordinarily given to despondency, and it worried me. I rose from my chair and went to stand behind him, slipping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek against his back. He covered my hand with his own, finding comfort in giving it.
“It seems that I’m no longer fit for the military life,” he said ruefully. “To be here with you and the children suits me much better.”
“I’m sorry, my dearest,” I said gently. “I know how much you wished the military force to succeed, but even you cannot make an army by yourself.”
“No, I cannot,” he admitted with candor that was rare for him. “I still believe in the army, and I shall continue until I am released from my duties. I expect, however, that Adams will put an end to the endeavor as soon as he can from spite toward me.”
The spite lasted longer than I ever expected. By sheer force of will, Alexander continued to push the army forward with less and less support from Congress. General Washington himself urged him to step away, but my husband would not quit. All his life he had succeeded by hard work and his own innate brilliance, and it was, I think, inconceivable to him that he should fail at this, a project that had held such promise to him.
Yet as was always the way with Alexander, the army was not his only endeavor. Just as the last severe round of yellow fever had inspired me toward more charitable works, the same vile disease had led to the search for a better, more healthy source of water for the city, impure water being considered the major cause of yellow fever.
A plan was devised to bring fresh water from Bronx River, and the various city committees and officials were so pleased that they granted all manner of incentives and allowances to encourage it. The plan was called the Manhattan Company, and was supported by many of the city’s most illustrious gentlemen. These naturally included my husband and Mr. Church, but also Colonel Burr, who was the company’s leader.
To my considerable surprise, this time my husband saw the colonel as an ally, not an adversary.
“It’s a most welcome scheme,” he said. “If Burr can bring it all to completion, then he will have accomplished at least one honorable act in his life.”
For Alexander it was an honorable act, too, and he and I both viewed it as related to my work with the Widows Society. With his usual enthusiasm, he first produced a lengthy and detailed report on the region’s water supplies that he and the colonel presented to the mayor for approval. Next, he brought an act before the state legislature for approval. I was heartened to see him so cheerfully employed, doubly so because I was once again with child, and to have Alexander happy meant my own spirits were more agreeable, too.
Thanks to my husband’s persuasive talents, the act was easily passed by the legislature, and by April the Manhattan Company was a legal entity, signed into being by the governor. We all rejoiced, and I held a grand celebration at our house for all who had toiled so selflessly for the public good.
But before long, it became clear that the Manhattan Company had been designed primarily for the exclusive benefit of Colonel Burr and his friends, not the public. An over-looked clause in the act—carefully inserted by the colonel—permitted the Company to engage in all manner of business beyond providing water. Soon the Colonel announced the true plan for the Manhattan Company: to launch a bank that would cater exclusively to the needs of Democratic-Republican merchants, and rival both the Bank of New York and the Bank of the United States, institutions dominated by the Federalists, and initially conceived by Alexander. The new bank was launched, and the plan to bring fresh water to the city was abandoned entirely, and there was no legal recourse to undo any of it.
As can be imagined, Alexander was furious. He had not only succumbed to Colonel Burr’s false promises, but he’d been duped into doing much of the legal work that masked the colonel’s true purposes.
“The man has no conscience, no morals, no beliefs,” Alexander stormed. “He has tricked us all, and displayed his complete lack of character by creating an institution that was completely unnecessary, and will serve only to extend him for credit for his own personal extravagances—which, being the worst sort of spendthrift, he most desperately needs.”
The colonel’s extravagances were widely known; his house, Richmond Hill, was one of the finest in the city, and he denied himself nothing (including, as Angelica informed me, a veritable parade of beautiful and wanton mistresses).
“Does this mean there will be no fresh water for the city?” I innocently asked, thinking of m
y widows and children whose lives had been so altered by impure water and yellow fever.
“None at all,” Alexander declared with fresh outrage. “Piping in water was all a ruse, and I doubt from the first Burr ever intended it. He is a monster, Betsey, the worst sort of rogue who deserves to be publicly whipped for his audacity.”
I heard the too-familiar edge in my husband’s voice, enough to make me wary.
“Do not even consider it, Alexander, not even for a moment,” I said as firmly as I could. “It is not your place to issue public whippings, even to Colonel Burr.”
He sighed restlessly, enough to prove he had in fact considered doing exactly that. “Oh, I won’t, Betsey,” he said. “You have my word. He’s insulted the entire city more than just me. But I wish someone would take Burr to task for what he has done.”
Mercifully, he kept his word to me. But Colonel Burr did not escape entirely. When his actions became public, New York voters took notice, and the colonel lost his seat in the state legislature. That my husband helped this loss along with numerous well-placed conversations and letters in newspapers was most likely, but not to the degree that Colonel Burr blamed after the election. I believed it more a case of a wicked man finally being held accountable for what he’d done, and being punished for it.
But that wasn’t all. Later that summer, at a private dinner attended by us, the Churches, and a number of others, Mr. Church boldly accused Colonel Burr of bribery and a number of other misdeeds. He made these accusations decisively, and loudly, too, on account of having had his share of wine. No one at the table thought much of his words, it all being the truth, but in some manner his comments were repeated to the colonel, who challenged Mr. Church to an “interview” in New Jersey, where such affairs took place.
Needless to say, Angelica and I were not informed of any of this until after the event. Gentlemen will keep their secrets, especially the deadly, dangerous ones. I’m certain Alexander knew, but also knew better than to tell me.
But Mr. Church himself was not so reticent. I was with Angelica in her bedchamber, seeing a new hat that she’d just bought, when her husband came upstairs, his face flushed with high spirits.
“That was a good morning’s work,” he announced after he’d greeted us both. “You would’ve delighted in my marksmanship, Angelica. My shot clipped the button from the very breast on his coat, neat as can be, while his was so wide of the mark that it’s likely still flying through the clouds.”
Angelica frowned, the frothy new hat still in her hand.
“What nonsense is this, John?” she asked, though I suspected she might already have guessed, as had I. “What are you saying?”
His smile was wide with smug satisfaction. “That I met that scoundrel Burr on the field of honor in New Jersey, and easily got the better of him.”
He had, too, though according to Alexander he also admitted afterwards that he’d no real proof that the colonel had accepted bribes. The duel and Mr. Church’s superior marksmanship—as well as Colonel Burr’s deplorable shot—were all the talk of New York for perhaps a week, and then forgotten, as they so often were.
In less than a month, thanks to Colonel Burr’s greed, yellow fever once again returned to New York City.
CHAPTER 23
New York City, New York
September 1799
The end of one century and the beginning of another is a momentous thing, a special time that demands reflection and consideration. The papers were full of such discussions, of all that had happened in our country in the last hundred years, and what might lie in store in our future. Likewise the sermons from various pulpits could not refrain from imparting special significance to the coming century, with cautionary warnings balanced by rich promises.
Alexander and I were much the same, I suppose, for the final months of 1799 marked the end of some things in our lives, and the beginnings of others.
In September, Alexander learned that President Adams had gathered his cabinet together, and approved a peace settlement with France that went against all current Federalist policies. The latest outbreak of yellow fever had sent Congress scuttling away from Philadelphia, and the president and cabinet were meeting in a boardinghouse in Trenton.
Hoping to make one final plea for the necessity of the army (and in the process try to convince the president not to make peace with France), Alexander interrupted the cabinet meeting to demand to speak to the president. I do not know exactly what was said between them; I doubt that even the two men themselves did, for apparently tempers ran so high that those outside the room feared that they would come to blows. When Alexander returned home afterward, all he would admit was that the peace would be signed, and that the army would be shut down. Both those things had already seemed inevitable, and I wasn’t surprised. But whatever was said on that autumn morning sealed their hatred forever with a bitterness that lingered between Alexander and Mr. Adams long past the grave.
In November Alexander and I were cheered by the arrival of little Elizabeth Holly Hamilton, our seventh child, but only our second girl. Angelica was overjoyed to have a sister after so many brothers, and I was, too.
But even the joy of a new baby could not combat the sad news that arrived only a few weeks later. General Washington had gone out riding to inspect his properties on a cold, wet day. He’d taken a bad chill, and had dined without pausing to remove his wet clothes. His developed a putrid quinsy of the throat, and died two days later.
His unexpected death shocked Alexander. I doubt there was any other gentleman in the present government who was closer to the first president than my husband, nor who grieved him more deeply. My husband had lost much more than a former commander, a president, and a friend. Over the years, he’d also depended on the great man as something of a second father, and certainly a mentor, even a protector. President Washington had been one of the first to see Alexander’s enormous talents, and had been able to make the best use of them of anyone. We wept together when we learned of his death, for the man himself and for the times that were now forever gone.
Alexander traveled to Philadelphia to march in the funeral procession, and ordered the soldiers who remained in his army to wear black armbands in honor of their commander-in-chief. With that position now sadly vacant, he’d every expectation that he should fill it. As vindictive as ever, President Adams refused. By the middle of May 1800, he’d ordered the corps disbanded. Alexander reviewed them one last time, resigned his commission, and left off wearing the blue and gold uniform that he’d worn so handsomely. He’d given two years of his life and two years’ worth of energy to the army, and all he’d gained from his efforts was disillusionment and unhappiness, and the empty title of General Hamilton.
There was further disappointment in May as well. New York decided its votes for presidential elections based on the results of the earlier elections for the state legislature. New York City had long been a Federalist stronghold, and Alexander worked hard to keep it that way, canvassing in the streets and making daily speeches to all who’d listen. In a similar capacity for the Democratic-Republicans stood Aaron Burr, who was likewise much in evidence before the elections. But the results were shocking, at least in our house: for the first time, the Democratic-Republicans easily won the majority. As a reward for his efforts, Colonel Burr became the Republican candidate for vice president, to run with Thomas Jefferson against President Adams.
For Alexander it was a hellish choice, and he could endorse none of the three, preferring a gentleman from South Carolina, Charles Coatsworth Pinckney, as the Federalist candidate. But instead of simply supporting Mr. Pinckney for president, he began a sustained attack upon President Adams, in essays, in newspapers, and in letters to friends. As can be imagined, the letters were far more personal and sharp, and when choice excerpts were anonymously shared and reprinted in the Republican newspaper, the result was sensational.
As talented as my husband was, he was not without flaws, and ironically his greatest
could also be construed as a virtue. He could not refrain from telling the truth, no matter who or how that truth might wound. He had done it to me when he’d published the pamphlet with his confession regarding Mrs. Reynolds, and he did it again with another pamphlet. The Letter from Alexander Hamilton, Concerning the Public Conduct and Character of John Adams, Esq., President of the United States was fifty pages long, and revealed all of President Adams’s weaknesses and missteps in stunning, critical detail.
He presented it proudly to me, the way he did with all his most important writings, and I sat with him to read it in his library. I was pleased that he sought my opinion, but wary because he hadn’t asked for it earlier, while the piece was being composed. This would be entirely his work and opinion, without any tempering from another voice, and because I knew his hatred for the president, I was leery.
“Oh, Alexander,” I said as I finally turned the last of the fifty pages. “You cannot publish this.”
His brows rose sharply with surprise. “Can you deny that there’s a single word therein that’s not the truth?”
“But that’s exactly why you can’t publish it,” I said. “It’s too much truth, and not enough discretion.”
“Betsey, my dear,” he said indulgently. “There is no such thing as too much truth.”
“In this there is,” I said, tapping my fingers on the front page. “I know you believe that you’re showing President Adams in his truest light, but that light will reflect back upon you, and not well.”
“I believe I can withstand the glare,” he said, smiling. “It’s better for voters to benefit from my personal experience with the man, and judge for themselves exactly what manner of man they choose to lead them.”
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 48