I loved him. I loved him so deeply and truly. Desperately.
And so I let him make this terrible mistake—toward Washington and me. That night, I said not another word. Quietly seething, I went to bed. I wouldn’t abandon him, as so many others had in his life, but I was no saint. And in the days that followed, I couldn’t manage more than polite conversation that felt stilted by the breach.
From a newly married Tench Tilghman, I later learned that Washington—notorious for his reserve—toasted his officers, invited them to shake his hand, and actually embraced them, weeping. I wasn’t there to see it myself, of course, but after it was done, I went alone with Philip to mingle with the crowds at Whitehall Wharf, holding my darling boy so that he wouldn’t miss the moment as the church bells rang and everywhere along the route people pressed noses to windows and crowded balconies to watch Washington go.
At nearly two years old, Philip was an uncommonly handsome little boy who laughed with delight and raised his little fists when the soldiers, still cheering, waved their hats as Washington boarded his ferry.
I laughed, too, at the joy in the moment, but also wept bittersweet tears.
Because I feared we might never set eyes upon the grand old man again as the river carried him away. And because, for days, I’d stifled emotion that now crested over at having uncovered another dark layer in my husband that I hadn’t known was there before.
I soldiered on and tried to distract myself with an upcoming dance assembly that week—a gathering of the city’s finest citizens at a grand ball that would effect a reconciliation between the patriots and any Tories still left in the city. I was eager to slip into my best gown—and the more genteel life that I imagined had preceded the war.
More importantly, amiable society so often brought out my husband’s playful wit and good humor, and I hoped the occasion might restore the tenderness between us. But then the poorer patriot citizens objected to the unseemliness of “dancing on the graves” of their comrades who’d died through the machinations of these very same Tories.
The ball was canceled, and we stayed in instead. And I could barely restrain the sadness I felt at the lost opportunity to restore our happiness.
Maybe Alexander sensed it, or perhaps he even shared it, for that night he climbed into bed next to me and wept apologies into my hair for his behavior, confessing a clawing loneliness I’d never fathomed.
“But we have so many friends,” I assured him, stroking his beloved face. “I couldn’t make an accounting of them all even using all our fingers and toes!”
“Your friends,” he said, hoarsely.
That much was true. Friends from my childhood. Friends of my father. Friends made only lately in the bustle of his ambitions. But I realized that the friends my husband had called the only family he’d ever known were his brothers-at-arms, now gone from his life, dispersed like chaff in the wind. John Laurens was dead. Lafayette had returned to France. McHenry and Tilghman to Maryland. And now George Washington to Virginia . . .
I realized the true reason my husband had not said good-bye.
Because he couldn’t bear to say good-bye.
Alexander Hamilton, the orphan, abandoned by those he loved and left to the mercies of this world, had no gift for partings. He’d left Washington’s side before Yorktown in what had seemed then to be a fit of pique and pride. But now I wondered if he’d left Washington before Washington could leave him. Before he could be abandoned by yet another father and separated again from brothers who he couldn’t claim by blood or law, but whom he loved just the same. And so I resolved from that moment on that I would draw closer to us my husband’s companions at war.
The soldiers here in New York. The officers he’d served with. Including Aaron Burr, who’d just moved to the city and seemed so much like Alexander to me that I hoped they might become more than law partners and friends, but maybe even confidants and kindred spirits.
Of course, I realize now how naive that hope truly was, for they were as different as night and day . . .
Chapter Fifteen
August 1784
New York City
HOW MUCH?” I asked, nauseated by the scent of the fishmonger’s wares.
As part of my project to reunite my husband’s military family, I was hosting a dinner for Lafayette, who’d recently returned to the United States, and the Baron von Steuben, the brilliant Prussian drillmaster who’d served with my husband, most crucially at Valley Forge.
It was said that Prussians loved smoked fish, though apparently my heavily pregnant body did not. So I was grateful to be accompanied to the fish market at Murray’s Wharf by Theodosia Burr, with whom I’d spent so many delightful days when our husbands were studying for the bar together. Separated as I was from my sisters, I cherished Theodosia’s companionship, for her worldliness and fearlessness reminded me of Angelica, and her brashness and willingness to say anything made me think of Peggy. With our husbands both lawyers and frequently gone riding circuit together from court to court, we spent much of our time together. Luckily, the Burrs lived not far from us on Wall Street, so it was easy to always be in one another’s houses, our children playing together.
And one of the things I appreciated about Theodosia, who was ten years my senior, was her ability to haggle. “No, that’s too much,” she said when the merchant barked an amount that was far more for a basket of smoked salmon than anyone ought to pay.
The merchant responded by giving a price in another currency altogether.
Truthfully, no one seemed to know what sort of money we ought to use. People tried to pay for goods with Spanish doubloons, French guineas, and Prussian carolines because the continental dollar was so worthless. To make matters worse, each of the states printed their own money, leading to such chaos that no one knew the rate of exchange.
We’d finally settled on a price in British shillings, when a man in a knitted cap and filthy homespun breeches spat at Theodosia from where he lurked behind us. “Tory scum.”
It was, of course, no small thing to be called a Tory in the days just after the war. Though our peace treaty had called for fair treatment, Loyalists had been stripped of their rights to serve in various professions and were subjected to the utmost suspicion. Even Theodosia sometimes got caught up in it. Everyone knew she’d previously been married to a British officer, that her sons were ensigns in the king’s service, and she’d once counted amongst her friends Peggy Shippen Arnold, wife of the traitor who’d fled to England within weeks of the British defeat of Yorktown. To some, it didn’t seem to matter that Mrs. Burr had supported the patriot cause and married a veteran in good standing.
Whatever the reason, Theodosia gasped as another knave loomed and said, “Their bodies are in America, but their heads remain in England. And their necks ought to be stretched.”
“Move on, now,” the fishmonger barked at the men with a scowl and a wave of his hand. “I’ll take whatever money holds value, and I’ll not have trouble here.”
“We’ll be back if you keep taking British money!” the rascals called as they moved on.
“How dreadful!” I said, my hand on Theodosia’s arm. “Please don’t let such ruffians wound your feelings.”
“They’re scoundrels. It would be bad enough were they driven by a mere thirst for vengeance against the British,” Theodosia said as we departed the stall. Rarely did I see her anything but entirely composed, but she shuddered now and released a shaky breath even as she was gracious enough to take the smelly basket of fish from me. She nearly kicked one of the snuffling pigs who were let loose to rove the streets and eat the garbage. “But they’ll accuse anyone for a fee. For any slight at all. Neighbor has to fear neighbor turning them in for profit.”
Fortunately, that night, Lafayette’s return and natural ebullience buoyed all of our moods and provided an occasion for celebrating. Seeing the two old friends reunite and witnessing such happiness come over Alexander as I hadn’t seen in many months made me forget the
unpleasantness at the fish market altogether.
“My dear Hamilton,” Lafayette said, grinning.
“My dear marquis,” Alexander said, both men laughing and embracing. Lafayette greeted Baron von Steuben and his aide, then next came to me, where I stood holding Philip’s tiny hand. At two and a half, he was up past his bedtime, but we couldn’t pass up the opportunity for our son to meet our good friend. Lafayette bowed playfully. “Madame Hamilton, how motherhood becomes you.”
Nearly eight months along, the lack of grace I was able to manage with my belly belied the compliment. But I was too happy to see him again to care. “Marquis, welcome to our home.”
“Bah.” Lafayette winked and gave a wave of his hand. “Please let us not stand on any ceremony of noble titles.” When I nodded and smiled, he crouched down to Philip’s eye level. “Mon dieu, he is your exact likeness, Hamilton.” My husband beamed while Lafayette addressed our boy. “Bonjour, young man.”
“Bonjoo, Laffy,” Philip said in his version of the words Alexander had made him practice.
Lafayette laughed and clapped his hands, and everyone joined him. “Oh, merci! You make me feel the absence from my own little Anastasie, Georges, and Virginie even more acutely,” he said of his children, the last two of whom he’d named for our commander in chief and the state where the war had finally been won.
Meanwhile, Alexander lifted Philip, gave him a proud hug, and then handed him off to be put to bed by Jenny, who Papa had recently lent to us as a servant. And I escorted everyone into the dining room.
Our experience at the fishmonger that day became a subject of conversation at the table I’d carefully laid with frosted wine glasses and festive table mats I’d woven for the occasion.
After complimenting me on the meal—the heartiness of which wouldn’t have been possible without the shipments of produce my mother sent from Albany every week to “ensure the baby’s health”—Lafayette asked, “Is it true that New York now has roving commissioners tasked with ferreting out secret enemies?”
The question had been addressed to Alexander, and yet it was a still-disturbed Theodosia who replied. “Oh yes. And when these so-called enemies are taken to jail, their bails are set so high as to shock the senses, and their fines even higher.”
“Governor Clinton encourages these levelers,” my husband ventured.
After they’d both served as delegates to Congress the previous year, Alexander had taken a loathing to Clinton, who was both a shameless self-seeker as well as an enemy to a strong federal government. “Like a populist demagogue he will have anarchy and bloodshed in the streets.”
The baron placed heavy elbows upon the table and spoke in his thick Germanic accent. “Ja. This is why the Society of the Cincinnati is so vital. In bringing officers of the war to prominence, we can hold together the public order!”
Sipping at my wine, I thought that the baron’s sentiments were exactly the kind of talk that had made some of our countrymen suspicious of the new Society of the Cincinnati. Though my husband would hear nothing against it.
And neither would the fiery baron, who added, “Wait until you see the gold eagle badges we’re having made for all our members to wear. They’re extraordinary.” As if for confirmation, he looked to his very attentive aide sitting beside him, who profusely attested to the beauty of the pieces.
Amongst our company, only Burr seemed to have reservations. “Perhaps it’s not wise to draw such attention to the Cincinnati just yet. Not when Sam Adams is calling it a creation of American nobility and some state legislatures consider denouncing us as a military aristocracy . . .”
I worried Burr might have the right of it. The controversy had already lost Hamilton a few clients. Indeed, while Alexander could rarely hold any opinion to himself, Burr seemed always reticent to make his known, even to us, his closest friends. I’d hoped the man’s more reserved nature might influence my husband’s.
But sensing the growing tension around the table, I changed the subject. “Dear Lafayette, tell us where your travels will take you.”
“Ah, of course. By way of New Jersey, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, I am to go to Virginia, where I will be reunited with our dear Monroe and finally with our dear general at Mount Vernon. And at some point, I go into the wilds to help America negotiate a treaty with the Iroquois at Fort Stanwix. Perhaps you should come with me, madame. For I recall how valuable you were at my negotiations with that great people so many years ago. And I remember our sweet talk over rum.”
Whereupon, to my embarrassment and delight, my husband raised a brow. “Sweet talk over rum?”
Lafayette laughed. “I would reassure you it was nothing, my friend, but I see you are jealous. And you deserve to be.”
Colonel Burr smiled and winked at me, raising his glass. “To what Hamilton deserves.”
Everyone laughed. Including Alexander, who then grinned and raised his glass. “To Mrs. Hamilton,” he said nodding at me, his blue eyes full of affection and amusement. “And Mrs. Burr, too. These ladies are more than either of us deserve.” The others joined in the toast, and the kind attention warmed my cheeks and heart in equal measure.
Returning his glass to the table, Hamilton told Lafayette, “You must pass on our regards to Monroe and General Washington. With my very sincere esteem. And compliments to Mrs. Washington as well.”
At long last, my husband seemed ready to set aside his quarrel with Washington. My heart lightened to hear it. And I believe Lafayette’s did, too. We shared across the table a secret conspiratorial smile as Lafayette proposed another toast. “To Washington: Savior of His Country, Benefactor of Mankind, the Pride of America, and the Admiration of Two Hemispheres. And, of course, my bosom friend and adoptive father.”
“Ja. Gut! To Washington,” the baron said, standing and lifting his glass as he struck an ostentatious pose. Everyone joined in the toast with enthusiasm, including my husband, proving once more my suspicions that his prior aloofness about Washington’s farewell had stemmed from missing the company of his brothers-at-arms.
“Will you have an opportunity to look into the matter of James Armistead while you’re in Virginia?” I asked when we’d all settled again.
And I was a little delighted when Lafayette’s eyes flashed with surprise at me for asking. “Oui, for it is an injustice, like so much about slavery, that cannot stand.”
Theodosia frowned. “Who is James Armistead?”
“Only the most vital American spy in the whole Virginia campaign,” the marquis replied. “An enslaved man who posed as a runaway so that the British would trust him. Without him, Cornwallis might well have reinforced Yorktown and then all would have been lost!”
The marquis recounted how Armistead, while enslaved, volunteered with his master’s permission to serve as a soldier in the war and was assigned to Lafayette, who quickly recognized that the man’s knowledge of Virginia could make him a valuable spy. Armistead gained the trust of both Arnold and Cornwallis, who allowed him to guide troops through the state, permitted him free access to British army headquarters, and even bade him to spy on Lafayette!
“I shall never forget the look on Cornwallis’s face when he came to our camp to surrender,” Lafayette continued, holding the whole company rapt with his storytelling, “and saw Armistead already there. Here Cornwallis thought the man his personal slave, never once suspecting the truth.”
“The problem,” Alexander explained, “is that Virginia’s law emancipating those slaves who served on their masters’ behalves applies only to soldiers, not spies.”
“So Armistead remains enslaved,” I told Theodosia. “It’s an outrageous injustice.”
“Saul Matthews faces similar difficulty,” the baron said, shifting in his seat with agitation as he fed scraps off his plate to the thin pet greyhound he took with him everywhere. “Many times he supplied us with the intelligence of crucial British troop movements, yet he remains enslaved. These men deserve the applause of their country.”
Women, too.
But my husband’s thoughts remained on the injustice of slavery and he sat forward, exchanging a glance with Burr. “There’s talk of a manumission society forming here in New York. We intend to join.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what Papa’s position would be about a society whose ultimate end was to abolish slavery, for the institution remained popular within the Dutch areas upstate, but I was proud that my husband planned to be involved. It might be controversial, but if my husband’s associations must be controversial, then let them be morally right.
At length, Theodosia and I excused ourselves to the kitchen to prepare dessert—stewed pears in spiced wine and fresh cream—while Jenny cleared away the dishes.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked Theodosia, who had seemed pale since our encounter in the market, and unusually subdued during dinner.
She merely waved off my concern. But later, when the men had gone to the parlor to smoke, Theodosia glanced at Jenny’s retreating form and admitted, “I’m so tired all the time that I don’t know how you manage with just one slave.”
Sometimes, I didn’t know, either, but the conversation at dinner had left me even more uncomfortable to have full command of Jenny on my own. All our lives, she’d waited on me and my sisters—helping us dress, fixing our hair, tending to our room. Even assisting her mother in the kitchen. And though we’d all agreed we couldn’t have managed without her, we’d never once, any of us, given the reality of Jenny’s serving us a second thought. It was just how things were. But I remembered those black troops at Morristown and imagined Armistead and Matthews, enslaved again despite their crucial service, and it all felt . . . wrong.
My Dear Hamilton Page 21