My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  The quiet that followed was just as loud until I could no longer tolerate the space between us. Going to him, I rested my hands on his chest. I opened my mouth to tell him that of course he had the confidence and esteem of Washington. Why, the great man relied upon him more than any other. And hadn’t he heard Washington’s term of endearment at dinner?

  But sensing Alexander didn’t want to be thought of as anyone’s boy—not even Washington’s—I looked into his fiery blue eyes and simply said, “I love you. I admire you in every way a woman can admire a man. More than any other man.”

  I meant that sincerely. Though now, in the fullness of years, I realize that what I felt was only a fraction of all that I would feel for him. That the love I felt then was of a simple, unalloyed, untested kind. That like a captain navigating a new river, I didn’t know Hamilton yet.

  Not the breadths nor depths of him.

  Nor the rocks upon which we might run aground.

  He softened as he gazed at me, and then he tenderly leaned his forehead against mine. “Forgive me, my angel. You don’t deserve my ire.”

  “I will ease you however I can,” I said, realizing that this was one of the things Alexander needed from me as his wife, and something I could easily provide. Soft comforts against the hard realities of our war-torn world. An attentive ear. A warm touch. Kind, encouraging words.

  Heat slipped into his eyes again, but not the heat of anger. “You always do,” he said, kissing me like he did all those nights of our honeymoon. “And now I think it is time for bed . . .”

  * * *

  MUTINY! MUTINY! MUTINY!

  The shout carried to us from some crier in town, and my husband came fully awake, leaping from the bed to yank on breeches and boots while I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes. A moment later McHenry was pounding on the door, and my shirtless husband threw it open, perhaps forgetting entirely that I was in bedclothes, or in the room at all.

  Fortunately, Mac seemed not to realize it either. “It’s the New Jersey Line,” he said, grimly.

  “Where?” Hamilton barked.

  “Fifty miles out,” Mac replied. “They broke against their officers and are marching on Trenton to demand that the state legislature redress their grievances.”

  Fifty miles away. Better than here, I thought. Marching to demand the pay, clothing, and supplies they were rightly owed by a state that recruited them to war was better than deserting or going over to the British. Maybe my husband thought so, too, because his motions to dress became less frantic.

  But Mac clapped him on the back and said, “Saddle up, lad. The general thinks we made a mistake negotiating with the Pennsylvania mutineers. He means to go after them this time, before it spreads like a contagion.”

  Mac started to go, but my husband called after him. “Grab that crier by the ears and give him a knock-about, will you? The fewer people who know about the mutiny the better.”

  Mac nodded, then was gone as soon as he’d come. Meanwhile I found my husband’s shirt in the bed linens and tossed it to him, at which point he colored at realizing my presence and my state. “A thousand apologies, Betsy—”

  “Don’t make even one,” I said, understanding the urgency. “Did McHenry really mean that you’re going after them?”

  Hamilton nodded. “We’ll stop the mutineers before they get to Trenton. And this time we’ll make an example of them.”

  I bit my lip at the horror of American troops fighting American troops, feeling a little disloyal to my husband and to Washington, because it seemed to defy all notions of justice. These mutineers had sacrificed so much and suffered for so long. Did they not have the right, as free men, to petition their government for redress of their grievances? They wanted nothing more than what any human being seemed due—food, shelter, clothing.

  Freedom.

  The thought of punishing them for it unleashed a pain within my chest. A pain that worsened to know that my own husband might have some part in their punishment. And though I said nothing, he must’ve seen that pain in my eyes. Buttoning the collar of his shirt, Hamilton asked, “What happens when the mutiny isn’t fifty miles away, but here, at headquarters? As it is, Lafayette is afraid to leave General Washington alone for fear that disloyal troops might turn their coats and hand him over to the British.”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said, only because it was treachery too black for my heart to even contemplate.

  “Maybe not,” my husband said. “But we lost more than a thousand soldiers in the negotiations with the Pennsylvania Line when they were released from their enlistments. We can’t lose any more men. Not when Arnold is unleashing hell on Virginia.”

  Benedict Arnold. I couldn’t hear the name without erupting into a fresh rage. That traitor knew everything. Our strengths. Our weaknesses. Our strategies. Maybe even our spies. He’d already burned Richmond for the British, looted it, and sold off the plunder for his own financial gain. There was seemingly no end to the depravity of which Arnold was capable nor the damage he could do. I hated him for all that, for John André’s death, and for having compromised my father, too.

  But now I had further reason.

  Good patriots were going to hang or be shot, at least in part, because of Benedict Arnold, and my husband’s hands would be stained with their blood the rest of his life. As if to steel his courage against it, Alexander eyed me beseechingly and said, “I hate Congress. The army. The world. I hate myself. But we must hold this army together.”

  “I understand,” I whispered as he stooped to kiss me good-bye. And I did understand, after a fashion. I remembered that he’d said it before, at Morristown, when I asked him if it was right to torture that poor deserter. He’d defended himself then by saying that he hadn’t given the order. But this time, he might. He would, in fact, ride out that very same day with Lafayette and Washington for the trials that would condemn several mutineers to execution.

  But before he left, Hamilton stopped in the doorway and stared at me where I sat fighting back tears. And his own voice thickened with emotion. “When the fighting is done, I will make this a better world, Betsy. I promise you.”

  An audacious vow no mere mortal should make. A vow born as much of egotism as of idealism, as much self-justification as godliness. But young and hopeful as I was, I believed him. I put my faith in him.

  And at least in that, I was right to.

  Because whatever else he did, Alexander Hamilton did make this a better world.

  He kept that promise.

  In truth, he spent his life keeping that promise.

  Chapter Eleven

  February 16, 1781

  New Windsor

  IT WAS, AT long last, time to make a stand.

  After the mutinies had been put down and their leaders executed, all the men were weary and anxious for the coming—and hopefully decisive—battle with the British.

  For almost a year now, the French general Rochambeau’s fleet had been blockaded in Rhode Island. Now he was ready to abandon his ships and march his well-equipped and well-trained French soldiers with ours in what we all hoped might be the decisive battle for American independence.

  All that remained to be decided was when and where we would fight.

  In the deciding, Alexander was gone many nights until well after the fire had died and I’d fallen asleep. I’d taken a terrible cold, and so had poor Colonel Tilghman, who forged on with his work anyway.

  For myself, in the most secret part of my heart, I was terrified. I believed in our soldiers and our cause and our chances, but from what I overheard at headquarters, it seemed that we were now racing week by week headlong toward a battle from which there could be no retreat or stalemate. This time would be for all the world.

  Win, and nothing would ever be the same.

  Lose and, well, my husband, my father, my family, my friends—we stood to lose everything.

  Knowing what was at stake, I didn’t mind my husband’s late hours. What alarmed me was Alexander�
�s arrival to our room in the middle of the afternoon. I’d never before seen him so distressed. Sitting up in bed, where I’d been endeavoring to rest away a headache and sore throat, I ran my gaze over him, trying to determine what could be wrong.

  Slamming the door, he stomped inside and threw his satchel to the floor. His cloak followed in a great flourish of dark fabric, all the while he muttered and cursed to himself. Slipping out of bed, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and he came straight to me, his blue eyes stormy. “You shouldn’t get up. You need rest.”

  “But—”

  “There’s been an unexpected change,” he said, a strangeness to his voice, a wildness to his expression. “I am no longer a member of the general’s family.”

  I almost couldn’t make sense of the words. “I don’t understand.”

  He pulled me to sit on the edge of the bed. “General Washington and I have come to an open rupture. He accused me of treating him with disrespect.” My husband’s tone was equal parts anger and dismay.

  I took his hand. “You? Disrespect His Excellency? I cannot imagine it. Tell me what happened.”

  Alexander squeezed my hand and then rose. For a moment, he stared into the fire, and then he began to pace, as he so often did when agitated. “There is very little to tell. He asked to speak to me, and I nodded, then continued down to hand Tilghman a letter. The marquis asked me a question, to which I gave the most concise of answers because I was impatient to return to the general.” Hamilton heaved a breath, his hands raking at his auburn hair. “But instead of finding Washington as usual in his room, I met him at the head of the stairs. Do you know what he said? That I’d kept him waiting ten minutes and had treated him with disrespect. Can you imagine?” Alexander whirled on me. “I sincerely believe my absence didn’t last two minutes.”

  “Of course,” I said, my mind racing. “It was just a misunderstanding. Surely this can be remedied.”

  “No, it cannot.” He shook his head. “I argued that I was not conscious of any disrespect, but since he thought it necessary to tell me such we should part. He agreed. So here I am.”

  Alexander had barely finished recounting the tale when a knock sounded upon our door. My husband crossed the room and opened it, the rusted hinges creaking in protest. And I heard Tilghman’s voice from the other side. “General Washington has sent me. May I come in?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. My wife is indisposed.” Alexander gave a curt nod and made to close the door.

  I was aghast at his rudeness. “I am perfectly well,” I called, not willing to let him use me as a rationale for not resolving this disagreement. And I was becoming accustomed, at this point, to my husband’s colleagues bursting in upon us at any hour of day or night. “Invite poor Tilghman in to get warmed by the fire.”

  After a pause, my husband relented, and the colonel entered and gave me a bow, even as a coughing fit had him clasping his chest.

  “Let me get you some raspberry leaf tea with honey,” I said, pouring from the pot I’d made myself downstairs at the boardinghouse’s hearth.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. You’re too kind.” Tilghman accepted the cup.

  Meanwhile, Alexander seemed impatient at all the niceties, but I paid him no mind. “I hope you bring good news from headquarters,” I said, giving Tilghman a meaningful look, and I imagined I saw in his eyes a mutual understanding. This must be fixed. While it did sound as if His Excellency had been in ill humor, Alexander had never before responded with such stridency. They were both simply overworked. Overburdened by the weight of the war and the coming battle.

  Sipping at the herb tea, Tilghman addressed my husband. “Sir, General Washington bade me to reassure you of his great confidence in your abilities, your integrity, and your usefulness to him. He wishes nothing more than to reconcile. He explained that his terseness came in a regrettable moment of passion and that he is sorry for it.”

  Relief flooded me. Given the circumstances, how could tempers not flare from time to time? And how gracious for a man of General Washington’s stature to be the one to offer amends. But my husband remained silent and didn’t seem at all relieved.

  Not even when Tilghman continued, “He wants a candid conversation to settle this.”

  Alexander crossed his arms. “Neither of us would like what would be said in a candid conversation.” He shook his head, resolution settling into his handsome features. “I won’t refuse if he insists, yet I should be happier if he would permit me to decline.”

  I barely withheld a gasp at this outrageous reply. And Tilghman blanched, overcome with another coughing fit. “You won’t even speak with him?”

  My husband’s voice turned to steel. “I pledge my honor to you that he will find me inflexible. He shall, for once at least, repent his ill-humor.”

  At hearing this, Tench set down his cup hard on the side table and abandoned every last vestige of his usual formality. “Alex, what the devil can you be thinking?” It was precisely what I wished to ask. “For pity’s sake, man, you know the situation at headquarters . . .”

  “I do,” Hamilton replied, stiffly. “But don’t worry that I’ll leave it all upon your shoulders. Reassure the general that I won’t distress him or the public business by quitting before Humphreys and Harrison return from their assignments. I will comport myself with the same principles and in the same manner I always have. My behavior will be as if nothing happened. But I am quitting.”

  Poor Colonel Tilghman left wearing a stunned expression that must have mirrored my own. My mind raced for a solution. So much hung in the balance—for us personally and for the cause. Could it all be undone by my husband’s pride?

  “Alexander,” I said, cupping his cheek in my hand as I carefully chose my words. “Of course, you didn’t deserve the general’s shortness. But he recognizes his error. Surely you can forgive—”

  “It’s more than that.” As if trying to reassure me that he wasn’t simply caught in a fit of temper, he pressed a kiss to my palm and grasped my hand in his. “I never wished to be an aide-de-camp. I never wished to depend entirely upon any one person for my future. I had refused to serve in this capacity to two other generals for just this reason. But I got swept up in the enthusiasm of the war and an idea of Washington’s character and accepted his invitation.”

  I understood this. But now seemed hardly the time to change course.

  Before I could say as much, Alexander rushed to add, “Washington has always professed more friendship for me than I felt for him. You’ve seen how he calls me ‘my boy.’ I need to stand upon a footing of military confidence rather than of private attachment. So today has been a long time in coming.”

  Queasiness overcame me, for this stand seemed utter folly. Was there any other young patriot in the country who wouldn’t trip over himself to win Washington’s fatherly affection? And yet my husband apparently resented it as much as if it was offered by the father who’d abandoned him. Not knowing whether to feel sympathy or exasperation, I only managed a soft, “Oh, Alexander . . .”

  He shook his head again. “Worry not, dear Betsy. I will reenter into the artillery. Or perhaps a command in the infantry will offer itself. Either way, a command would leave me the winter to prosecute the study of the law in preparation for my future career in life. Either will leave me in a better position than if I stay in service in the general’s family.”

  I still couldn’t believe that my husband meant to abandon his crucial place in the war effort as Washington’s most trusted aide. Not with the war at a turning point. And yet, Alexander immediately set quill to paper to inform my father and a few close confidants of his breach with Washington—the sharing of which might well embarrass our commander, making their parting irrevocable.

  I tried to imagine Papa’s reaction, an endeavor that made my headache worsen. What would he think of his new son-in-law who, having achieved the security of our family reputation and fortune, nearly immediately, and in a moment of pique, insulted and aban
doned George Washington?

  There must be some way to fix this. So, despite the sharpening soreness in my throat, and the agony of facing Martha Washington when our husbands were now at odds, I went to headquarters with Alexander the next day, working with her as I always did and sitting in quiet observation. Hoping some opportunity might arise for me to smooth over this rift.

  True to his word, Alexander conducted himself that day as if nothing untoward had occurred. But Mrs. Washington knew better. Sitting beside me in the farmhouse’s parlor as we wrote letters requesting funds for the soldiers, she spoke quietly, never lifting her gaze from the parchment. “Have you had the opportunity to meet the woman in camp they’re calling Captain Molly?”

  Mrs. Washington was referring to the wife of a cannoneer who, during the Battle of Monmouth, had been bringing pitchers of water to the soldiers when her husband fell. To avenge him, “Captain Molly” took his place at the cannon with admirable courage and service. I’d seen the stout, red-haired, freckle-faced young woman in camp. But I’d never spoken to her. “I’m afraid we’re not acquainted. Should we be?”

  Martha’s lips pinched for a moment. “It’s just that she puts me in mind of something. If our independence is to be won, our husbands must be willing to put themselves in harm’s way. But achieving independence also relies on the support of our women . . . in whatever manner best supports the cause.”

  My quill paused, and I looked up at this wise lady from whom I’d already learned so much. “In whatever manner?” I asked, willing her to say more.

  Her brown eyes clear, her graying hair framing her round face under the plain mobcap, she said, “Even great men require advisers, and we have our husbands’ ears. Sometimes we encourage, sometimes we challenge, and sometimes we manage . . .”

  I couldn’t imagine how a man like Alexander might be managed, but perhaps she could. I returned my quill to the ink pot and sat back in my chair. “How?”