Yet through it all, my husband himself seemed curiously unperturbed. I was the one who worried.
“You’ve said yourself that Colonel Burr is a dangerous man,” I said, “and all his friends say he blames you for what has befallen him. This foolishness attributed to you must only confirm his darkest fears.”
He smiled, that same sweet but maddening smile that he’d always possessed. “I won’t deny it, Betsey,” he said easily. “I’ve told you that before. I did say everything that was printed, and a great deal more besides. I am not ashamed of any of it.”
“He could sue your for slander,” I fretted. “He’d win, too, with proof like that.”
“My dearest love,” he said. “Surely you know by now how these things go. It’s the way of politics. I’ve said far, far worse of him in my time, as I’m sure Burr himself has said far worse of me. By the end of the summer it will all be forgotten.”
I shook my head, unconvinced. It was not my husband’s way to be so blithe about personal insults, and I worried that the colonel would respond in print with something equally slanderous in regards to him.
“I cannot believe he hasn’t answered you,” I said uneasily.
“Perhaps he has simply realized that I spoke the truth.” Gently he pulled me across his lap, holding me steady against the crook of his arm. “It’s not worth your worry, Betsey. If this little incident serves to bring Burr’s career to a permanent conclusion and remove him from the chance of any further harm, then I will have done the greatest service possible to the country.”
I sighed again, and settled against his shoulder. I’d have to trust him, as I always had. What other choice did I have?
And in fact as the days passed, the entire affair did seem to dissipate, exactly as Alexander had predicted. The papers moved on to new scandals, new slanders, and even our closest friends seem to have wearied of the topic.
Snug in our home at The Grange, we often dined outside on the porch during the long days of summer, and as Alexander had once promised, we lazily watched the boats on the river while the younger children tried to catch fireflies on the grassy lawns below us. Each evening Alexander and I sat with our chairs close together and our hands loosely linked, and while the tragedies of our lives would never be forgotten, we were still able to find a contentment and peace, here in this place with the new moon shining on the river below us.
“My own dear Betsey,” he said softly, turning toward me in the moonlight. I could scarcely make out his features, but I knew from his voice that he smiled, and I smiled in return.
“My own dear Alexander,” I said. “How fortunate I am to have you as my husband, and my love.”
He raised my fingers to his lips, kissing them fondly. “My love,” he said. “The best of wives, the best of women.”
He sighed, and turned back toward the river.
“I will be staying in town tomorrow night,” he said. “I have an appointment early the next morning in New Jersey.”
“Then come back when you are done,” I said. “We’ll expect you for supper.”
“I will,” he said with unexpected tenderness. “I will.”
* * *
The weather changed late Tuesday night, and by Wednesday the morning dawned clear and almost cool for July. I opened all the windows high to let the breezes clear away yesterday’s stale air. I made sure that Angelica was dressed for the day and that the little pet parakeets (a gift from Mr. Pinckney from South Carolina) that were kept in her room to amuse her were fed and their cage swept. The younger children were already in the barn, occupied with a new litter of puppies, and I carried my tea outside to sit on one of the porches and enjoy the blessing of the new day.
I heard a carriage come racing up the road, and leaned over the railing to look. It was likely too early for Alexander to be returning home from his appointment; whoever it was, however, was driving his poor horses at a breakneck pace.
To my surprise, the carriage drew into our drive, and Judge Nathaniel Pendleton, an old friend of my husband’s, clambered from the seat and hurried up our steps. He looked uncharacteristically distraught, and his dark clothes appeared rumpled as well.
“Good day, Judge,” I said, greeting him myself. “Isn’t it a pleasant morning? I’m sorry to inform you, however, that General Hamilton is not at home, and if—”
“Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, holding his hat in his hands. “I regret to inform you that the general is, ah, unwell with, ah, spasms, and requests you come to him at once.”
I gasped with shock, immediately reminded of the messenger who had come for me after Philip had been shot. I glanced down, hiding my confusion and fear, and noticed that the judge’s dark stockings and the hem of his coat were stained with blood.
“Tell me, Judge,” I said, my voice trembling. “Has my husband been injured in a duel?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes, madam,” he said. “He has.”
“Who was the other party?”
Another deep breath. “Colonel Burr, madam.”
Of course it was. It couldn’t have been anyone else, not this summer. I remembered what Alexander had said, of how removing Burr from the opportunity to do further harm would be the greatest service possible to the country. But not like this, not at this cost.
Dear God in Heaven, never like this.
I ran into the house to tell the servants to watch the children and then left with the judge.
Although he drove the horses hard, the drive seemed interminable, with every minute another chance for me to fear for Alexander. I tried to concentrate and pray for him, but my fear was so great that my mind would not keep still. I thought of all the times that Alexander had almost come to this point, but hadn’t, all the times he’d demanded satisfaction but had stopped before a fatal confrontation. My thoughts kept racing back to our son’s terrible death, and I resolutely tried again to pray that I wouldn’t find my beloved husband in a similar state.
At last we came to the home of Mr. Bayard, director of the Bank of New York and another of Alexander’s close friends. We were shown to an upstairs bedroom, and at once I saw it all for myself, no matter what pretty falsehoods the men would tell me.
Alexander was dying. He had always preferred the truth in all things, and this, then, was the most difficult truth he’d ever forced me to accept. They’d cut away his clothes and bandaged his side, but still there was so much blood, his very life spilling away. His face was as pale as old parchment, his arms contorted and restless with pain while his legs remained too still beneath the sheets.
Yet he knew me, and smiled as soon as he realized I was there. At once I broke down and began to sob, sinking into the chair beside the bed.
“My own dear wife,” he said. “Please, Eliza. Don’t distress yourself.”
“How can I not, my love?” I said, overwhelmed. “When I see you like this . . .”
“I am sorry for that,” he said. “It’s not how I’d wish you to remember me.”
“I’ll remember you in more ways than I ever can say.” I touched my fingertips to his brow to smooth his hair back from his forehead, his skin sticky and warm with feverish pain. “Oh, my love, I cannot bear to lose you like this!”
“You will,” he said. “You will, for the sake of our dear children. Remember, Betsey, that you are a Christian, and let that be your comfort.”
He closed his eyes and winced as fresh pain sliced through him. I drew my fan from my pocket, and fluttered it gently over his face to cool him, the only physical comfort I could offer. Dr. Hosack—ah, another old friend!—was in attendance, and I looked to him.
“Is there nothing that can be done to ease his suffering?” I pleaded.
Somehow the pity and sorrow in the doctor’s respectful expression made everything worse, and fresh tears spilled down my cheeks.
“I have given him sufficient laudanum to dull the worst of it, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said softly. “He has asked to remain lucid, and I have obliged.”
I nodded in agreement. Words had always been my husband’s joy, and he would want their use as long as he could.
“My love,” he said without opening his eyes. “When we first met, you said you’d pray for me.”
“I did,” I said, my voice breaking. “I still do. Oh, my dearest!”
But he’d drifted out of consciousness, or perhaps into the laudanum. It was like that the rest of that day, and all through the night. He’d rally and speak as clearly as if he were his old self, then the pain would pull him back. So many friends came to bid him farewell and many to pray, and he greeted them all by name, an agreeable host to the end. Bishop Moore from Trinity Church gave him holy communion for the final time, a solemn ceremony that brought my husband great peace. My sister Angelica came, too, so inconsolable that she could scarcely speak.
I never left Alexander’s side.
On the second day, he weakened precipitously, and the periods when he drifted away were more frequent. He no longer possessed the strength to move, and he spoke only with difficulty. I had been reluctant to have our poor children here, not wanting this sorrowful sight to be their final memory of their father, but on this day I relented, and had them brought to us. It was as agonizing for them as I’d feared, and all seven wept bitterly. Each in turn bent to kiss him in farewell, and I held Little Phil so that Alexander’s lips could press against his downy cheek. At last I bid them stand at the foot of the bed, clustered so that he might see them together one last time.
With great effort he opened his eyes again. He did not speak, but I knew from his expression—oh, most excellent of fathers!—that this was the most painful reminder of all he was leaving behind.
The day was so long, and yet time moved too fast. I’d never have guessed I’d so many tears to shed. For nearly twenty-five years, he’d been the other half of me, my constant support, my beloved husband, my dearest love, and I could not fathom what my life would be without him. I held his hand to the end, and told him again and again how much I loved him, and always would.
But love was not enough to hold him back, and at last, in the afternoon, he slipped away.
He was gone, and I was lost.
EPILOGUE
New York City, New York
August 1804
And now I’ve come back to where I began.
As much as I longed to die as well to join Alexander, I didn’t. As broken as I was with grief and loss, I survived. For the sake of our children and my husband’s memory, I continue.
Nothing has been easy. They tell me that the funeral was the most impressive in the city’s history, and the public grief deeper than even for General Washington. My husband would have been surprised to see how well loved he was.
I hadn’t the strength to go myself; my first raw grief was so harrowing that I feared I’d lose my wits. When I read the final letter that Alexander had written me the night before the duel, I did not believe I could bear my loss. But though God will test us sorely, He never gives us more than we can bear.
And I will bear this. I’ve too much to do for it to be otherwise. Already my husband’s enemies have begun to take the luster from his memory, to use him as a scapegoat for their own flaws and errors. It’s easy to blame someone who can no longer defend himself.
But they haven’t reckoned with me. I will make sure my husband and his achievements are not forgotten. I will see that he receives all the honor that is his due, and that he will always be remembered by the country he loved and served so well.
I, Eliza Hamilton, will do that: for the best of husbands, the best of fathers, and the best of men: my Alexander.
AFTERWORD
In the days after Alexander died, Eliza was so overwhelmed with grief that those closest to her feared for her sanity. She was too distraught to attend the funeral or any of the other events honoring her husband’s memory, and instead remained inside The Grange, shut away with her children and her sorrow. According to the few friends who did see her, her loss appeared unbearable, and she piteously longed for her own death as well so that she might be reunited with Alexander.
At the time of her husband’s death, Eliza was forty-six years old, and considerably stronger than she realized during that grim July in 1804. She not only survived her grief, but lived on another half-century, dying in 1854 at the remarkable age of ninety-seven. Her long life spanned American history from the colonial era to the eve of the Civil War, and she died as the last remaining widow of a Founding Father.
The years immediately following the deaths of her oldest son Philip and Alexander were filled with more sorrow, and considerable challenges. Despite being lauded as a financial genius during his lifetime, Alexander left his personal finances in a shambles at his death. His years of low-paying public service and living beyond his means had combined with the large amounts borrowed to build the Grange, and when he died he was $60,000 in debt, which today could roughly translate to between two and three million dollars. The country estate that he’d so lovingly built for his family now faced foreclosure and public auction, and only the intervention and combined generosity of his many friends kept Eliza and the children from losing their home.
Those same charitable friends also contributed to a trust to provide a small income for Eliza, a fund whose existence was such a deep secret that it was not revealed until the 1930s. Even so, Eliza often scrambled to make ends meet, living on the edge of poverty, and was repeatedly forced to seek small loans from friends.
Alexander had believed that Eliza’s father, Philip Schuyler, would look after her. But the old general’s long history of ill health, coupled with the deaths of his wife and his favorite son-in-law, soon claimed him as well. He died in November 1804, only four months after Alexander. The enormous Schuyler fortune proved to be a myth. Like many wealthy 18th-century families, the family’s wealth was tied up in land and credit, not cash.
The land that surrounded The Pastures was divided and eventually sold, with the profits going to the surviving children. The large brick mansion that had been the centerpiece of the Schuyler family for so many years was also sold. Eliza’s share translated into an income of only around $750 annually. Perhaps more importantly, Eliza lost both the support of her father and the childhood home that had always been her retreat and respite in difficult times.
Her sister Angelica remained at her side throughout it all, sharing Eliza’s grief for Hamilton, offering assistance with the children, and doubtless on occasion helping out financially. Angelica died in New York City in 1814, and is buried in Trinity Church cemetery, not far from Eliza and Alexander. Her husband, John Barker Church, returned to London, where he died four years later; at the time of his death, his mercurial fortune had been reduced to a mere £1,500.
Through the years, Eliza persevered. Two things drove her: her children, and her husband’s memory.
Despite her precarious finances, Eliza was determined to do her best for her children. While none of them achieved their father’s rare stellar fame, all grew to be men that clearly carried Alexander’s heritage. Four of the surviving sons became lawyers, and were active in state and federal politics and government. The fifth was a soldier who attended West Point and fought in the Black Hawk Wars on the western frontier.
Tragically, Eliza’s older daughter Angelica’s mental instability deteriorated to the point that she could no longer be kept at home, and lived out her life under the care of a private doctor. The younger daughter, also named Eliza, married Sidney Augustus Holly, and Eliza lived with them in the later years of her life. Eliza was justly proud of her children, and Alexander would have been so, too.
But while Alexander lived on through his children, Eliza was determined that posterity would not forget him in other ways as well. In New York City, that would never be the case. The entire city was swathed in black after his death, and he was mourned by people of every rank. The shock of his sudden death at a relatively young age made New Yorkers remember only his best qualities, and remember, t
oo, all the good he had done for the city, from his commitment to the merchant and banking communities, to his involvement in promoting education and civic matters, and to the countless small charities and good works that benefited from his care and attention. With his death, he had become their martyred hero.
One New Yorker did not mourn, however, and was in fact stunned and a bit disgusted by the vast outpouring of grief. From the instant he fired the shot that killed Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr showed no remorse, let alone guilt, for the duel or its aftermath. Already realizing the possible consequences, he quickly left New York for Philadelphia. Publicly he believed that he had acted entirely by the established codes of dueling that Hamilton had agreed to as well, and therefore was not at fault, nor deserved any blame.
The courts did not agree. A coroner’s jury handed down a verdict that Burr was guilty of murder, and arrest warrants were issued in New York. A grand jury in New Jersey did the same. Gambling that in time the warrants—and the sensation—would fade away, Burr returned to Washington, where the country was stunned by the sight of the current vice president presiding over the Senate while under indictment for murder.
But Burr’s political career was done, and he’d become a pariah to both parties. He was also bankrupt, and when he’d fled New York, his creditors had seized his house and belongings. As soon as his term as vice president was completed, he went to Europe. In time, as he’d predicted, the murder charges were dropped, and he was able to return to America. A misguided scheme to recoup his fortune in the west led to him being charged with treason. He was eventually acquitted, and returned to his law practice in New York, where he remained a social outcast, if not a legal one. Nor was he spared personal tragedy, either: his only grandson died as a child, and his beloved daughter Theodosia was lost at sea. Late in life, he married a wealthy widow, only to have the marriage end in a scandalous divorce after he’d spent much of his new wife’s fortune. He suffered a debilitating stroke in 1834, and finally died alone in a Staten Island boarding house in 1836.
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