But while he’d conceded to Justice Jay in the election, he was not so forgiving in regards to the treaty the other New Yorker had negotiated, and with good reason, too. The Colonel had first objected strongly to John Jay’s appointment as a special envoy to the British the year before. The Federalists had had their way, and although the treaty that Justice Jay negotiated with the British was completed in the fall of 1794, the president and the Federalists kept the details of the treaty as well as their own villainy secret from Congress until the spring of 1795.
When at last it was shared with Congress, the Colonel, the Republicans, and many Federalists were appalled by what Justice Jay had conceded to the British, giving up nearly all the trade advantages won by the Revolution and sidling closer to the British against the French. It made no mention of protecting the American sailors who had been routinely kidnapped from their ships and forced to serve the British, or negotiating compensation to those who’d lost property during the war. Now known as Jay’s Treaty, so there was no mistaking who was to blame, it was an obvious affront to the French, but also, by its very secrecy, an insult to the American people.
The Colonel tried his best to stop the treaty as it stood, urging for a renegotiation. He met with every Federalist who might waver in his vote, spending so many hours in these discussions that there were days that it seemed he returned to his lodgings only to be shaved, wash, and change his linen. He scarcely slept and he made speech after speech. He broke the secrecy surrounding the treaty’s details, and shared it with newspapers and his constituents in New York. He even appealed directly to the president, who didn’t deign to reply.
As everyone now knows, Jay’s Treaty was passed, as it most likely was destined to be from the beginning. But because of the Colonel’s considerable efforts, he was hailed as the leader of the “Patriotic Ten,” meaning the ten senators who had gone against the Federalist majority and the president in their voting.
It made him a hero. Jay’s Treaty was even more wildly unpopular than the whiskey taxes had been, and there were public protests in every city with bonfires, marches, and pictures of Justice Jay being defiled and burned. To no surprise, some of the most violent gatherings were in New York. In the middle of one such “meeting” during the city’s Fourth of July celebrations, Colonel Hamilton himself tried to defend the treaty, and was showered with stones and catcalls for his trouble. Instead of withdrawing, his temper flared brighter, and he not only jumped into the rabble to battle them, but also ended his day issuing two challenges for two separate duels.
“The man has lost his wits,” the Colonel declared when he told me of this. “No gentleman brawls with drunken apprentices and sailors in the streets.”
“But consider poor Mrs. Hamilton, sir,” I said, pausing in my sweeping. “Colonel Hamilton is fortunate he wasn’t killed.”
“They say he was struck with a rock in the forehead,” the Colonel said, glancing back down at the letter that had brought the news. “A shame that the rock didn’t relieve some of the pressure upon his brains, or what’s left of them.”
“Colonel Hamilton can’t bear to be without power, sir,” I observed. I’d seen my share of white gentlemen, and how important it was to them to control their affairs and those of everyone else as well. “For nearly twenty years he had President Washington’s ear, and it clearly grieves him that he no longer does.”
“Oh, I suspect he’s still busily scribbling his endless missives to Washington,” the Colonel said. “Only death will stop that pen.”
“Don’t wish that upon him, sir,” I chided uneasily. His humor could often turn dark like this, and I didn’t like him tempting fate by speaking so lightly of death and dying.
“I don’t wish Hamilton any bodily harm,” the Colonel said, comfortably stretching his legs before the fire. “Nor need I do so, when he appears to be so determined to plunge toward disaster on his own. I expect his seconds will smooth the waters again so there’ll be no satisfaction demanded. This is far from the first challenges issued by that little gamecock.”
There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that he and Colonel Hamilton were of similar height, though through his more measured and confident demeanor Colonel Burr did appear to be the larger and more substantial of the two men. He’d always been richly somber in his dress, and had recently adopted the new style of a white waistcoat with his habitual black coat, breeches, and stockings, all contributing to his confidently elegant presence. By comparison, Colonel Hamilton preferred bright colors in his dress, and combined with his often-agitated movements and rapid speech, he did give the impression of a small, gaudy parrot—or a gamecock, as the Colonel called him.
“You know he’s jealous of you, sir,” I said. “Your star is rising, while his has tumbled clear from the sky.”
The Colonel didn’t deny it. “It’s Hamilton’s own doing,” he said. “That, and the other Federalists’. They’ve already decided that Adams will be their next man after Washington, not Hamilton.”
“And you, sir, are second only to Mr. Jefferson among the Republicans,” I said, being both loyal and truthful. “Perhaps your star may be even brighter than Mr. Jefferson’s, given that you appear on every horizon, while he has retreated to hide like a hermit to Monticello. Colonel Hamilton has every reason to be jealous of you.”
“Oh, Mary,” he said, smiling. “No one should be jealous of anyone until old man Washington finally expires. The presidency is as good as a throne so long as he’s in office. No one will ever dare run against him.”
I didn’t for a moment think that he believed that. I know there are many who believe ambition to be a cursed fault, and that the humble folk in this life are to be praised and admired over those who are driven to improve themselves and their fortunes. Certainly, ambition was often the greatest criticism that the Federalists leveled at the Colonel. I myself could never fathom how this could be considered such a grievous flaw. Where, indeed, would the world be without men who’d the ambition to better it?
No matter. Throughout the remainder of 1795 and into the summer of 1796, there was no denying that the Colonel acted like an ambitious gentleman. This might have been because he knew he’d lose his Senate seat at the end of the term, with Governor Clinton and the Hamiltonian Federalists deciding to swing back to support General Schuyler against the Colonel. He’d need a new challenge, and he didn’t like retreats.
He made journeys throughout New England, listening with special care to grievances regarding Jay’s Treaty, and then progressed southward, lingering for a full three months in Virginia. Because of Mr. Jefferson, as well as Mr. Madison and Colonel Monroe, Virginia had been the very heart of the Democratic-Republicans, and the Virginians gave the Colonel the warmest of welcomes. He met with Mr. Jefferson at Monticello, and he also visited another southern ally in his old friend Colonel Monroe, who had been ignominiously called home from France by the president for failing to persuade the French that Jay’s Treaty was a wondrous thing—which it wasn’t.
For me this time was bittersweet. There was no purpose to me accompanying the Colonel on his journeys, and only possible harm in us being observed together. I missed him while he was away, most keenly at night. As much as I longed to write to him, or have a letter of his for my own, the risk of discovery still made it impossible, as it always had. The only news of him came secondhand, from letters he wrote to Miss Burr or through the New York newspapers reporting his travels.
And yet there was a certain relief in being away from the attention that always followed the Colonel, and the constant fear of discovery that likewise shadowed me. If our friendship became known, my very presence would delight his political enemies, who wouldn’t hesitate to use me and our children as a weapon against him.
Thus while the Colonel traveled, I remained in New York, going back and forth between Richmond Hill and Partition Street, wherever I was most useful. The fact that the Colonel was away did not mean that entertaining at Richmond Hill had ceased. Far from
it. If friends or associates of his were visiting New York, he continued to extend invitations to visit and dine, with his daughter acting as his hostess. Miss Burr was now thirteen, and due to her rigorous education, she was poised and confident as a hostess, even with guests that ranged from American politicians to French philosophers to Joseph Brant, a Mohawk military leader from the Iroquois League. Just as I did for her father, I helped Miss Burr with her menus, oversaw the proper arrangement of her table, and made sure the service was as it should be, leaving it to her to charm her father’s guests.
But best of all, this time in New York meant that I’d be with my children. This was the longest the three of us had been together since Jean-Pierre had been an infant, and I intended to savor every moment.
Louisa was now eight, and though she continued to be a pretty child, she no longer much resembled her half sister, Miss Burr, for which I was grateful. I was less happy about another way the two differed. Despite my hopes, Louisa continued to show little interest in learning. She could read, and compose simple sentences in a serviceable hand, and cipher well enough, but that was the end of it. She preferred the kitchen to any books, and was already showing skill at baking and other cookery.
With a mother’s guilt, I blamed this on Peg’s care in place of my own while I’d been with the Colonel. Soon, however, I realized that this was my daughter’s true nature, and that Louisa was instead only following after me in cooking and housekeeping. I’d hoped she’d become a tradeswoman, but that had been my dream, not hers. I loved her as much as I ever did, and came to accept that this was where her future would lie, and to guide her gently in the direction that would make her happiest.
Jean-Pierre was entirely different. At four, he’d already learned to read, and would patiently work his way through whatever text I set before him. He was learning to speak French with the same ease as he did English. He was fearless and bold, both traits that delighted the Colonel. With Jean-Pierre held safely on the saddle before him, the Colonel would ride by the hour across the fields at Richmond Hill, and I couldn’t say whether father or son enjoyed it the more.
Yet I worried that my son would grow too attached to this father who wasn’t his. I saw how Jean-Pierre’s round-cheeked little face brightened whenever the Colonel appeared, just as I saw the tenderness and affection in his father’s eyes. To me, the likeness between the two was too strong to be ignored, and growing stronger as Jean-Pierre became less a baby and more a boy.
One Sunday afternoon in late August, my children and I sat on the low stone wall in the kitchen garden. I’d washed some old clay pipes that I’d come across in a cupboard, and made a dish of soapy water so that we could blow bubbles. As was to be expected, Louisa and I did all the blowing, while Jean-Pierre darted after the iridescent bubbles as they drifted over the lawn. As he ran over the grass, my son’s shock of unruly dark curls pulled free of the ribbon and queue I always tried to make of his hair, bouncing around his face like a lion’s mane.
It was a pretty game with much laughter and foolishness, and as I watched my two in the dappled sun I realized how happy and at peace I was. There were no secrets here, no demands, no expectations. I felt as light and unencumbered as the soap bubbles, and I laughed with purest joy. For the first time in my memory, I felt truly free, and it had little to do with the deeds of manumission that I kept in the locked box beneath my bed.
“Mrs. Emmons?”
I twisted around on the wall, shading my eyes with my hand. The young blond man in the wide straw hat smiling at me was Mr. Vanderlyn, another of the Colonel’s random guests. He was an artist, a former apprentice of Mr. Stuart’s, and the Colonel had granted him the use of one of the outbuildings as a studio for the summer. He generally kept to himself and his paints, and I’d seen little of him until now.
“I heard the children,” he said, glancing again at them.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding off the wall. “I didn’t mean for them to disturb you at your work. Louisa, Jean-Pierre—”
“No, no, please,” he said quickly. “Let them play. They didn’t disturb me. They inspired me. Here, permit me to show you.”
He opened the portfolio he had tucked beneath his arm, and spread the drawings he’d made out on the wall for me to see. He’d perfectly captured my children at play, and I covered my mouth, overwhelmed by my sentiments.
“This is my favorite of your son,” he said, handing me another sheet. “What spirit he has! The resemblance is quite remarkable, isn’t it?”
I glanced at him sharply, reminding myself in the last moment not to show my alarm. “The resemblance, sir?”
His smile faded into uncertainty. “Ah, yes,” he said. “To his, ah, father.”
“Yes, he is very much like my late husband,” I said, determined to protect my son however I could. “Mr. Emmons was a handsome man, and I’m thankful my boy so favors him.”
He gave me the drawing to keep, and the next time that the Colonel returned to Richmond Hill, at the end of September, I showed it to him.
He smiled. “Hah, that’s my Jean-Pierre, no doubt,” he said. “I believe Vanderlyn will one day surpass Stuart.”
“Do you know what your Mr. Vanderlyn told me, sir?” My voice shook with the anxiety that I’d been keeping back. “He said that the resemblance between Jean-Pierre and his father was remarkable. He said that, sir, and he drew it that way, too. A blind man could see that this picture shows your son.”
“No one cares, Mary,” he said, still looking at the picture. “I’ve told you that before, and I’ll tell you again. You worry unnecessarily.”
I shook my head. “Once I worried what your enemies would say and write of you in the papers if they learned about us,” I said. “But now I look at Jean-Pierre—my son, sir—and I fear for him. Do you think his innocence would matter to Colonel Hamilton, and the poisonous slanders he orders written for the papers? Do you think he’d pause even for a moment about how his words could forever ruin the reputations of me and my children?”
“Mary, my Mary.” He tossed the drawing onto his desk, and took me gently by the shoulders. “Listen to me. Now that Washington’s officially withdrawn his name for a third term, this has become a real election, with real issues. Adams, Jefferson, and me. That’s the choice, and men will cast their votes based on what affects them, like taxes, tariffs, and whether they can claim stake in a homestead to the west. No one will care if there’s a young boy in New York that bears a passing resemblance to me.”
He kissed me then, as he always did when he judged a conversation was done to his satisfaction. I let him, too: not because I’d accepted his argument, but because I knew he’d refuse to accept mine.
Less than a month later, and only weeks before the election, I’d all the sickening proof I required.
There on the fourth page of the Gazette of the United States, the most popular of the Federalist newspapers, was yet another editorial about the election and the Republican candidates by Phocion. When the first editorial had been published, the Colonel had explained to me that Phocion had been a statesman in ancient Greece, reputed to be the most honest man in Athens. The irony, of course, was that the writer now hiding behind this name for his despicable, name-calling editorials was Colonel Hamilton, whom no one considered honest in the least.
This week as Phocion he’d chosen to skewer Mr. Jefferson, calling him a coward, a feckless philosopher, and a score of other things besides. But he saved his most venomous attack for last: how Mr. Jefferson’s life at Monticello was one lascivious, illicit pleasure after another, and how he lolled in the arms of his dusky Negro mistress, Sally, surrounded by their grinning little bastard quadroons.
What assurance did I have that my children and I wouldn’t be next? I sank to my knees, and buried my head in my hands in despair.
I could postpone it no longer. It was time for me to make my preparations to leave in earnest.
CHAPTER 24
Philadelphia
State
of Pennsylvania
March 1797
Nothing about the presidential election of 1796 went as anyone expected.
According to the laws of that time, every candidate was running for president. Whoever received the most votes would become president, and whoever received the second-most votes would serve as vice president. After President Washington declined to serve again, three gentlemen stepped forward to run: Mr. Jefferson and the Colonel, both Democratic-Republicans, and Mr. Adams of Massachusetts, a Federalist.
The Federalists believed that Mr. Adams, having served as President Washington’s vice president, would handily win the presidency. The leaders among the Democratic-Republicans, however, were eager to secure both positions, believing that Mr. Jefferson and the Colonel would support each other in securing the majority. Later in the campaign, however, Colonel Hamilton feared that Colonel Burr might actually win the presidency itself, which would have been unbearable to him and other New York Federalists. To keep this from happening, he introduced a second Federalist candidate, Mr. Thomas Pinckney of South Carolina, with the hope of both bolstering Mr. Adams and blocking Colonel Burr.
That is the simplest version of the election. In reality, it was filled with intrigue and guile, promises made and broken, name-calling and accusations, and more shameful deceit than can ever be imagined now.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 50