Scandalmonger: A Novel

by William Safire

  Only recently had he learned that Jefferson was supporting the man’s book with his subscription, and perhaps some other gifts of money through third parties. He had left all the originals of documents gathered in his investigation with Jefferson, who at that time and now showed an intense interest in the potential scandal. Monroe presumed the Vice President still had them in a strongbox at Monticello. There was irony in that: only when Hamilton asked for copies for himself had John Beckley, Clerk of Muhlenberg’s House, become involved. Somebody—Beckley, probably—made an extra set, which Monroe presumed was the source of Callender’s exposé.

  There was always the possibility that Jefferson himself had passed the materials on to Callender, but Monroe set that disturbing thought aside. Most likely it was Beckley, acting on Jefferson’s behest or what he thought was his behalf.

  Evidently, the slandering pamphleteer did not have copies of all the documents. Monroe, the first installment of Callender’s book in his hand, noticed that a key postscript was left out: his assessment of Clingman’s testimony that would, if it ever saw print, prove most damaging to Hamilton. The unpublished memorial reported Maria Reynolds’s dispute of the excuse Hamilton was presenting; her stunning suggestion that her husband and Hamilton were forging and imposing false evidence; and Monroe’s own careful distancing of himself from any exoneration. He recalled writing that the investigators had only “left Hamilton under the impression” that all doubts were resolved. That, if published, would surely direct Hamilton’s ire solely at him. The Virginian was just as glad Beckley had not passed that inflammatory memo along to Callender.

  A messenger arrived from Hamilton with a note asking for an immediate meeting here in New York. Monroe replied he would be available at ten the next morning. Remembering Hamilton’s wisdom in arming himself with a witness at their last encounter—Wolcott was a trusted aide who would furnish a detailed account, drawn to his former boss’s specifications, five years later—Monroe wrote that Hamilton could bring anyone he liked this time as well, but made certain he, too, would have a witness of his own.

  Who? David Gelston, a republican Congressman from New York with no personal animus toward Hamilton, came to mind, but Monroe wanted someone of a craftier nature to help deal with the most brilliant adversary of the Jeffersonians. Aaron Burr had recently been defeated for re-election to the New York Senate. A man of quicksilver ideology, Burr was useful to the republicans. Years before, Monroe had recommended him to General Washington to be Minister to France, but the President didn’t trust him—some minor transgression during the Revolution cast a shadow over Burr in his mind—and that foreign assignment fell to Monroe. Jefferson was also wary of the man; Monroe remembered him cruelly calling Burr “a crooked gun whose aim or shot you could never be sure of.” But Burr was a New Yorker, a political ally, sufficiently anti-Hamilton though not a Jefferson acolyte, and Monroe knew he would be eagerly available.

  Hamilton strode into the room, introduced his brother-in-law, John Barker Church, and said, “I presume the motive and cause of this meeting is pretty well understood.” At Monroe’s nod, Hamilton sat, then rose again to pace as he launched into a lawyer’s presentation of the case he made five years before.

  After listening to twenty minutes of monologue, Monroe interrupted him. “Excuse me, but what does all this mean? I was there—all this history is unnecessary.”

  “Unnecessary?” Hamilton became visibly hot under his stiff collar. “I shall come to the point directly, then. I wrote you a letter. I expect an immediate answer on so important a subject, on which my character and reputation, and the peace of my family, is so deeply interested. Your delay is intolerable.” Hamilton took a few deep breaths to help contain his anger. “Your postscript of five years ago, which I had never before seen until this morning, casts doubt on my explanation that it was blackmail, not financial speculation, that was the cause of my commerce with Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “What postscript?”

  “Right here, in that scoundrel Callender’s latest installment. It arrived in the mail last night, probably on the same coach you took from Philadelphia.” He handed it to Church, who handed it to Burr, who handed it to Monroe.

  Reading the second installment for the first time, Monroe recognized the central document. Its postscript contained his line about leaving Hamilton “under the impression” that suspicions were resolved—but which in Monroe’s mind, at least, had not been resolved at all. No wonder the proud and sensitive Hamilton was up in arms; all these years, the former Treasury Secretary thought he had persuaded the inquisitors of the truth of his story.

  Callender had skillfully placed Hamilton’s freshly published assertion that the investigators had been satisfied with his explanation next to Monroe’s five-year-old memo with its damning postscript to the contrary. The effect of the juxtaposition was to catch Hamilton in a blatant lie. Monroe did not recall signing the postscript, but presumed he had, because his name appeared at the end of it in the printed version.

  “If you would be temperate and quiet for a moment,” Monroe rejoined, “I will answer you candidly. When I received your request in the post”—Monroe did not characterize Hamilton’s tart letter as an insolent demand, which he thought it was—“I thought it proper to meet with Mr. Muhlenberg and answer you jointly. Unfortunately, he has not been in Philadelphia. When we can get together, we will reply.”

  “After my reputation is ruined?”

  “I am not the cause of your present distress, Hamilton. After the meeting in Philadelphia that night five years ago, I sealed up my copy of the papers and delivered them to my friend.”

  “Who was—?”

  Monroe was not about to reveal it was Thomas Jefferson. “A respectable character in Virginia.”

  “And how did they just happen to come recently into the hands of a scurrilous newsmonger?”

  “I had no intention of publishing those papers.” The former ambassador went further: “I declare, on my honor, that I knew nothing of their publication until I arrived from Europe and was sorry to find they were published.”

  “That’s a totally false representation.”

  Hamilton’s words hung in the air. Monroe stood up, as did his adversary.

  “Did you just say I represent falsely?” Monroe had never in the thirty-nine years of his life been called a liar. And he had just made a declaration on his honor, which to a Virginia gentleman was as good as under oath. Normally a controlled man, Monroe felt a fury surge in him, and told Hamilton what he really thought of him: “You are a scoundrel.”

  Hamilton rose as well and stared at him for a long moment. “In your recording of Clingman’s last miserable contrivance, I think you were actuated by motives malignant and dishonorable.” He issued his challenge: “I will meet you like a gentleman.” Monroe was familiar with the code duello; those words meant a fight that often resulted in a death.

  “I am ready,” Monroe replied. Seeing himself as the challenged party, he took advantage of making the choice of weapons. “Get your pistols.”

  “Moderate yourselves, gentlemen, be calm,” said Church, interposing himself between them. Placing his hand on Hamilton’s chest, he told his wife’s sister’s husband: “I fought a duel last year, in England, and I can assure you it’s never a good idea.”

  Burr also stepped in, as Monroe hoped he would, putting his hand on Monroe’s shoulder and urging him to take a seat. “This is based on a misunderstanding. It need not become an affair of honor.”

  As Church managed to get his brother-in-law to a seat as well, Burr said, “If you please, Colonel, I would like to make a proposition.”

  Hamilton, ashen-faced, said to his New York political adversary, “By all means.”

  “Mr. Monroe has satisfied your inquiry as to that part of the business that relates to publication of the pamphlet,” Burr reminded him. “He has said unequivocally that he had nothing to do with it. Surely you, on the word of honor of a gentleman, accept that.”
When Hamilton was silent, Burr hurried on, taking the silence as assent. “As to your wish for a written reply, Mr. Monroe should soon return to Philadelphia and expeditiously seek out Mr. Muhlenberg. The two of them should then satisfy your request promptly.”

  Burr then provided a moment’s delay in a way that Monroe, regaining his composure and not eager to fight a duel, thought especially skillful. “Mr. Church, perhaps my proposition ought to have been made with more propriety to you.” In the code duello, a second did not address the other second’s principal; the momentary delay also reminded all the men in the room how close they had come to the presence of death.

  “No need,” said Hamilton, showing he understood Burr’s subtlety. By choosing to accept Burr’s direct address, rather than through a second, the former Treasury Secretary took a step back from the formal procedure leading to a duel. “When will you be returning to Philadelphia to see Muhlenberg?”

  Monroe said in three days, on Friday, because he had to begin work on his own book refuting the calumnies heaped on him by Federalists here while he was trying to represent the United States in Paris. Hamilton gave a grunt assenting to Burr’s proposition that his principal, Monroe, consult with Muhlenberg. He added he would be in Philadelphia on Sunday to get the inquisitors’ joint reply.

  “Any undue warmth that occurred here today,” added Church, “or unguarded expression that happened during this interview, should be buried. It should be considered as though it had not happened.”

  Monroe caught Burr’s quietly triumphant glance. He was relieved; though Burr was a crack shot, Monroe was not, and would have had to take lessons from Burr in the art of killing with a pistol if he had been required to face Hamilton. But now was not the moment to show relief; on the contrary, Hamilton’s desire to pretend that the meeting had never taken place was to be a point of pressure.

  “In that respect,” said Monroe, not wanting to be seen as backing away from a challenge, “I shall be governed by Colonel Hamilton’s conduct.” He left unsaid that if any report of that scoundrel Hamilton’s doubting of his word appeared in Porcupine’s Federalist sheet, then Bache in the republican Aurora—or even the vitriolic Callender—would have the accurate account from Burr promptly.

  “I think that any intemperate expressions should be forgotten,” said Hamilton.

  “Agreed,” said Burr and Monroe as one.

  “You understand,” Hamilton added in a civil tone, “that your postscript implied that your suspicions that I speculated in government securities were still alive. That is intolerable to me.”

  “Whether the imputations against you as to speculation,” Monroe replied, giving no ground on the key point, “are well or ill founded depends on the facts that appear against you and upon your defense.”

  “From that I infer a design to drive me to the necessity of a formal defense,” said Hamilton, “while you know that the extreme delicacy of its nature might be very disagreeable to me.”

  That was Hamilton’s problem and the anti-Federalists’ hope: that Hamilton would fall into the trap he set for himself five years before. He was now faced with the need to make public his private defense of confessing adultery to assert his financial honesty. Monroe shrugged and left.

  Chapter 7

  July 14, 1797

  PHILADELPHIA

  The full title was Observations on Certain DocumentsContained in No. V & VI of “The History of the United States for the Year 1796,” in Which the Charge of Speculation Against Alexander Hamilton, Late Secretary of the Treasury, Is Fully Refuted. Written by Himself. It immediately became known across a scandalized and titillated nation as “the Reynolds pamphlet.”

  As soon as he heard about it, Callender raced over to John Bioren’s print shop to buy two copies. There was Hamilton’s “confession” in excruciating detail. “The charge against me,” he began, “is a connection with one James Reynolds for purposes of improper pecuniary speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with his wife Maria, for a considerable time with his privity and connivance, if not originally brought on by a combination between the husband and wife with the design to extort money from me. This confession is not made without a blush.”

  Then followed thirty-five pages of self-justification, with a fifty-page appendix of letters and memoranda from the time of the investigation to the most recent contretemps between Hamilton and Monroe. Devouring it with his eyes, Callender grew more elated as the apologia went on and on. It excoriated Maria Reynolds as a “woman who could assume any shape”—no more than a conniving slut—and incredibly argued that his admission of adultery rather than dishonesty showed “the delicacy of my conduct, in its public relations.”

  Callender kept one copy to examine closely and refute the refutation, especially the passages that reviled him. He underlined “Does this editor”—Hamilton meant him—“imagine that he will escape the just odium which awaits him by miserable subterfuge?” Nothing could please Callender more than to be personally engaged by the object of his attack. He was no longer a mere historian; Hamilton had elevated him to the role of participant in the history of his time.

  The other copy he delivered to Thomas Jefferson’s lodgings with an excited note: “If you have not seen it, no anticipation can equal the infamy of this piece. It is worth all that fifty of the best pens in America could have said against him.”

  He underscored a footnote in which Hamilton slyly suggested that Thomas Jefferson, Vice President of the United States, had improperly corresponded with a distant Reynolds associate who was in debtor’s prison and asking for money. Jefferson had written back politely declining, but Hamilton insinuated that the very fact of the correspondence suggested that the source of his troubles was Jefferson. Callender noted: “The most pitiful part of the whole pamphlet is his notice of you.”

  The excited Scot found Beckley sitting behind a glass of rum and an open copy of the Reynolds pamphlet at the bar of Francis’s Hotel. Callender slid onto a stool next to his source for the documents that ignited Hamilton’s self-immolation.

  “This is good for President Adams, you know,” said Beckley.

  “How so?”

  “Hamilton was planning to challenge Adams for the support of Federalist voters in 1800. Now Hamilton can never be President. A man who carried on with a whore in his own home when his wife was away? And then brought shame on his wife and children by confessing to it publicly, just to save his precious financial reputation? Never.”

  “It’s immensely helpful to Jefferson,” Callender reminded him. That was surely his own and Beckley’s purpose behind the revelation of the corrupt speculation, now given ever-widening currency and an entire new dimension of scandal by Hamilton’s incredible Reynolds pamphlet.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Beckley. “What strengthens Adams is not good for Jefferson or the republican cause. It’s good for Aaron Burr, too—with Hamilton out of the way, he is now in position to carry New York by appealing to both Federalists and anti-Federalists.”

  “Quite a trick.” Callender doubted that any political figure could prevail by being all things to all men, but Beckley knew more about elective politics than he did.

  “Burr can be everybody’s friend, you know. He represented Maria Reynolds in her divorce suit, and must have used what happened here”—Beckley tapped the pamphlet on the bar—“as her grounds for divorce. Defamation of character by her husband, reported and endorsed by Hamilton.”

  “How could she afford Colonel Burr’s legal services? She’s penniless, isn’t she?”

  “Ah, James, ever the innocent on matters of human passion. You can see venality in every politician of every stripe, but you impute virtue to every young woman.”

  Beckley had it wrong, and Callender was determined that he not be taken in by Hamilton’s story. “I believe Maria Reynolds. Hamilton is lying about an affair with her and a blackmail plot. Don’t you see? That’s his way of covering up the damning evidence of his financial dealings with Reyn
olds at Treasury. So much correspondence by Hamilton could not refer exclusively to wenching. She’s telling the truth, not him.”

  “What about the letters from her that Hamilton publishes in this pamphlet?”

  “Forgeries, just as she claimed. He made them up himself to show he was the victim of a plot. Nobody’s seen the actual letters from Maria.”

  Beckley had a good idea. “Why don’t you ask Hamilton to show you the originals?”

  “I will,” Callender promised. The haughty New Yorker would probably reject any contact, but his very rejection of a challenge to produce the original letters from Maria would be part of Callender’s answer to Hamilton’s long rebuttal. “He won’t, of course, because he doesn’t have them. The so-called letters from Maria don’t exist. Do you know where Maria is?”

  “Burr stays in touch with his client. He says she’s living with Clingman in Maryland.”

  “That means Hamilton could produce her before a magistrate to prove she is lying,” Callender said. “He could force her to give a sample of her handwriting to compare with the notes from her that he claims he has. But he won’t do that.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because his notes are forgeries and she is telling the truth. Hamilton is lying in his teeth, Beckley, and you know it. You know how he traded in Treasury securities on behalf of his brother-in-law, Church, when he knew what the price of bonds would be. He was guilty of making money from his place at the head of Treasury, and dreamed up this adultery story to cover it up.”

  “Nobody in the world is going to believe that, James. Not even President Adams thinks the Treasury was run dishonestly. Just the opposite—I hear he’s telling friends that Hamilton suffers from”—Beckley took a breath, looking at the ceiling of the tavern to recall the exact phrase—“ ‘a superabundance of excretions which he could not find whores enough to draw off.’ ”