I smiled as I listened, touched by her solemn determination, and remembering how as a girl, I, too, had wanted my pieces to be perfect before I performed for my parents’ guests. Angelica was already dressed for our gathering in a white muslin dress with short puffed sleeves, and the ends of her pink silk sash trailed down over the piano bench. Her dark hair was knotted high on her head, although little wisps had already begun to escape as she played.
I turned as Alexander came down the stairs, and I pressed my finger over my lips so he wouldn’t interrupt Angelica’s playing. He smiled, and joined me to listen, and when our daughter finished, he applauded loudly. She turned and smiled shyly, blushing with pleasure.
“Bien fait, ma chère fille,” he said. “Bien fait en effet.”
“Thank you, Papa,” she said, sliding from the bench to join us. “I wanted to learn another but—”
“En français, Angelique, en français,” he said mildly, smiling as he corrected her. “C’est la règle pour ce soir, oui?”
She smiled, and curtseyed prettily. “Oui, Papa.”
I smiled, too, for though I’d never learned to speak French properly myself, I’d heard enough from Alexander over the years to understand much of it. He’d reminded Angelica (who, like our older sons, was learning the language at their father’s insistence) that tonight she was to speak only French as best she could. This was no mere display of genteel accomplishment, but a special consideration to our guests, one that I wished I could do as well.
I was certain our guests would appreciate it. Philadelphia had become a haven for French persons fleeing the Revolution in Paris—émigrés, they were called—and we were entertaining a dozen of them at our home tonight, as we tried to do at least once a week.
Like all good Federalists, Alexander and I had no sympathy for the barbaric Jacobins who were destroying France in the name of revolution, or the rule of the vengeful, violent mob with its guillotine. I couldn’t begin to imagine the horrors that many of these émigrés must have witnessed. Some had belonged to the highest ranks of French society and were known to my sister Angelica and Mr. Church from their time in Paris, and they sent these poor souls to us in Philadelphia, knowing that my husband not only could help ease their arrival, but also spoke their language.
In their haste to escape, many of the émigrés had been forced to leave their belongings behind, and they arrived on our shores nearly destitute. Once-grand ladies who had attended the martyred French queen now stitched men’s shirts, and former noblemen were reduced to teaching American children how to dance. To me the saddest were the new widows with children, often sent away as a last gesture of love by fathers who were later executed on the guillotine before the howling mob. The plight of these ladies grieved both Alexander and me deeply, and while I collected clothing and food, he contributed with his usual generosity to their welfare.
There was no such sympathy to be found among the Democratic-Republicans. Alexander had predicted that although Mr. Jefferson had left his post and the capital, he would still exert considerable influence on his party, and that prediction was completely accurate. From distant Monticello, he let it be known that he found no fault with the bloody reign of Madame Guillotine, and in fact encouraged it as a necessary purge of corruption. He dismissed the memory of how our own revolution would not have succeeded without the assistance of the old regime of King Louis or from nobleman like the Marquis de Lafayette, and instead pressed to make alliances with the bloodthirsty Jacobins.
As was usual with Mr. Jefferson, such blunt and wrongful thinking could only put America herself in peril. When the excesses of revolution forced Great Britain into a war with France, President Washington was wisely adamant that our country remain neutral, and refused to let us be drawn into favoring one side only to anger the other. Our country was still too fragile and without either a standing army or a navy to engage in a war. As Alexander urged, too, peace was the only course that made sense. To this end, the president had sent John Jay as an envoy to Britain, and James Madison as ambassador to France.
Briefly Alexander himself had been considered for the post in London, a possibility that had excited me no end. Angelica and I had often dreamed of such a reunion, imagining us together with our families in cosmopolitan London. I hadn’t seen my sister in nearly five years. Her letters made little secret of how being the wife of a member of Parliament held no pleasure for her and how much she envied me being wed to the chancellor of the exchequer (playfully using the English term for Alexander’s position), and we both longed for the day when our husbands’ lives might bring us back together. Alas for our giddy dreams: the president finally decided that my husband was too important to him and to the government here in Philadelphia, and could not be spared to go abroad.
Most likely he couldn’t. As disappointed as I was (and my sister was devastated), my husband’s talents were so varied, and spread so thin over so many different areas within the government, that his absence could well have been detrimental to the running of the entire machine of state. The Democratic-Republicans complained incessantly of how Alexander wielded too much control and made too many decisions for any single man, but I doubted they’d any true notion of exactly how many demands were placed upon his capable shoulders every day.
And yet he wouldn’t have wished it otherwise. Not only had he become indispensable to the president, but through his ability and relentlessly hard work, he had made himself the second most powerful man in the country.
I couldn’t miss the strain of this enormous responsibility. There were new lines carved deep around his eyes, and his hair was beginning to thin and creep higher on his forehead. He worked too late, took too little exercise, and seldom slept enough. While he’d always been a devoted father, he constantly regretted not being able to spend more time with his children and with me, and that, too, only added more pressure to his burden.
The summer of 1794 brought all this to a head, and tested us both in ways that we hadn’t anticipated. The excise tax on distilled spirits (commonly called the Whiskey Tax) that Alexander had initiated in 1791 had never been popular, particularly along the western frontier. The odious beliefs of Mr. Jefferson and other Democratic-Republicans were widely accepted among the farmers and other rough men who chose to live far from the eastern cities. Their dislike for the tax and their loathing of government in general had been fueled by tales of the Jacobins in France, until in the spring, it had boiled over into open rebellion.
Some of the government’s tax collectors were tarred and feathered. Others were threatened, their homes burned and their personal property destroyed. That old symbol of rebellion, the Liberty Pole, sprang up in small towns and settlements, and the Republican societies that had begun as a dozen disgruntled men now numbered in the thousands. There were even rumors that the western rebels had ordered a guillotine from France, and were intending to use it.
Mindful of the events in France, Alexander believed that a strong show of force was imperative to put down the rebellion, and urged the president toward this path. If the government appeared resolute, he argued, then most likely the rebellion would melt away without any real resistance. Yet because the army had been dissolved at the end of the revolution, the federal government had only local militia at its disposal. President Washington was reluctant to call them out, knowing this would be unpopular in every quarter; there was also the very real chance that the militia might instead choose to side with the rebels.
As if this grim news were not difficult enough for my husband, our youngest son, Johnny, not even two, had developed a mysterious and worrisome ailment. At first I’d thought it only a cold or chill of the kind so common in young children, but day by day he worsened, with a low fever and a persistent cough, and as his appetite faded, he began to lose flesh. What frightened me most was how he didn’t cry, the way most babies did, but instead lay too quiet and still. Dr. Stevens had no answers, and neither did any of the other physicians we consulted. Every remedy was
tried to no avail, and though no one would say it aloud, I feared that my baby was simply fading away.
I had his cot moved into our bedchamber to watch over him, his raspy breathing and rough little coughs waking me throughout the night. But on this night when I woke, the room was terrifyingly quiet. With sick dread, I turned swiftly toward his cot and reached for him.
The cot was empty and the sheets cold, and I gasped with uncertainty. Only then did I realize that Alexander’s side of the bed was empty, too, and that our bedchamber door stood open, and when I looked into the hall, I saw a sliver of light coming from beneath the door of his library. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and opened the library door as quietly as I could.
By the light of a single candlestick, my husband was sitting at his desk with the usual piles of papers and letters before him. His hair was a tangle and his feet were bare, and wrapped in a blanket and resting against his shoulder was Johnny, his eyes half-closed in drowsy near-sleep, his breathing still raspy. They must have been there for a long while, for the baby’s half-parted lips had made a large blotch of dampness on the shoulder of his father’s silk dressing gown.
“How is he?” I asked softly, closing the door so we wouldn’t wake the other children.
“The same,” Alexander said, blunt and sad at the same time. “At least he’s sleeping now.”
“Not quite, but almost.” I sat on the edge of the second chair, anxiously watching Johnny. “I’m sorry he woke you.”
“I was awake already,” he said, glancing down at the papers. “This business to the west, Betsey—I cannot keep my thoughts from what is happening in France, and what could happen here. When a rabble is allowed to defy and trample laws that were passed for the common good, then what meaning can those laws have? What manner of society will be left without order, without reason or respect?”
I was so accustomed to his usual brisk and energetic way of addressing challenges that his pessimism now unsettled me. Perhaps we’d listened too much to the harrowing stories of the émigrés, or perhaps we both realized that in this monstrous society he described, he would be one of the rabble’s first targets.
“I don’t believe that you and President Washington will let it come to that,” I said, striving to convince myself as much as him. “This isn’t France.”
He continued to look down at the papers, his fingers tracing gentle circles between Johnny’s shoulder blades.
“We’re preparing for war,” he said quietly. “It’s not widely known, of course, but at the president’s orders, we are placing requisitions for everything our soldiers will need.”
I was acutely aware of Johnny’s breathing in the silence between us. The president and his cabinet had just sent envoys to Europe to keep peace, while all the time they’d been planning a war at home.
“When?” I asked finally.
“That will depend on the rebels, Betsey,” he said. “If they choose to abide by the laws and disperse, then there will be no need for a military endeavor. If they don’t, then I would imagine a campaign will begin in late summer, to conclude before winter.”
“The season for war,” I said, remembering. “At least this time you will be here, and safe from danger.”
Finally he looked up at me, and I knew even before he spoke.
“The president will once again assume his role as commander-in-chief to ensure our success,” he said. “He will lead the troops, and I will accompany him.”
I held his gaze, and I didn’t look away. I wanted him to see how much his decision was hurting me. Because it was his decision: not the president’s, not Congress’s. There was no urgent need for the secretary of the treasury to be part of a military expedition. Not even General Knox, the secretary of war, was going. Yet because my husband wanted to be there at the president’s side and likewise wanted the excitement (I cannot call it anything else) of riding out into the country before a shining show of guns and men, he would willingly put himself in harm’s way, before men who hated him and wished him harm. If he went riding off on this fool’s errand of a war, it was because he wanted to go, and he would choose that instead of me and his children.
“I’m pregnant, Alexander,” I said, the words sounding harsh and flat even to my own ears.
He flinched as if I’d struck him. “Are you certain?”
I nodded. It was a fair question to ask—my courses were never regular, and I’d only just weaned Johnny three months earlier—but the inherent doubt to it wounded me.
He nodded, recovering as he considered the news. No matter the circumstances, my husband was seldom at a loss for words.
“That’s splendid news, Betsey,” he said. “Most excellent. Truly, I am the most fortunate of husbands.”
I tried to smile, and tried harder not to cry. I knew this was the sixth time I’d made such an announcement to him, but oh, how perfunctory and formal his response had been!
“I would have told you before,” I said, my voice breaking. “If it weren’t for Johnny . . .”
“Oh, my love, please don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’ll be back before the baby’s born. I’ll be here with you. You have my word.”
My anger crumbled. I could never remain angry at him for long, not when he spoke to me like that. I went to him then, circling my arms around him and our baby both, and finally, I let my tears flow: for him, for us, and for the entire foolish, foolish world.
* * *
Soon after, at the doctors’ insistence, I took Johnny with me to Albany. It was not just that they hoped the more salubrious air of the country would help my little boy; the doctors and my husband feared for my health as well. Even as I knew this was wise counsel, I hated leaving Alexander and our other children behind. Our two oldest sons, Philip and Alexander, were away in Trenton studying with Reverend Frazer, and Angelica, Fanny, and James would remain in Philadelphia with their father and the servants. My leaving was especially difficult on Angelica, who with a child’s intuition may have understood the gravity of my situation as well as her little brother’s.
This pregnancy was different from my previous ones. I was often ill and plagued by headaches, and weary to the point of exhaustion. As much as I hated to leave Alexander and my older children behind in Philadelphia, even I was forced to admit it was for the best, and by the time I reached The Pastures, I was so unwell that I needed to be helped from the carriage.
Both Johnny and I were given over to Dr. Stringer’s care. I was put to bed, and permitted to do nothing for myself, while Johnny was given yet another regimen that included limewater and laudanum. It fell to my mother instead of me to take my son outside each day for the fresh air that the doctors had prescribed, and I watched them together in the gardens each morning from my window. Alexander wrote to me almost daily, letters full of worry and concern and love for both me and Johnny.
But just as he’d done years ago whilst in the army, he carefully omitted from his letters all but the briefest mentions of the plans to confront the rebellion, not wanting to distress me or my unborn child. And just as before, I pressed my father for the details my husband wouldn’t give me. The rebels were variously estimated at six, seven, eight thousand men, all armed. To face them, militia forces were being summoned from as far away as Virginia. By most reports, the expedition would set out in September.
Slowly, slowly Johnny began to improve, growing stronger and more alert each day, and by early August I could finally write to Alexander that our prayers had been answered, and that Dr. Stringer considered him out of danger. I felt better, too, and well enough to travel. Although my parents and Dr. Stringer urged me to be cautious, I was determined to return to Philadelphia before Alexander left. But I soon discovered I was not nearly as recovered as I’d thought, and for the sake of my unborn child I was forced to rest for some time with friends in New York City before I finally returned home in October. By then, Alexander had left.
I was convinced my beloved husband would be killed by the rebels, and I h
ad terrible nightmares of his head on a pike, as if he’d been murdered by Jacobins. I wrote him frantic, desperate letters, and no matter how he tried to reassure me and tell me of their success in quelling the rebels, I still feared for him.
One night in late November, I woke in great pain. I summoned Dr. Stringer to my side, but his best efforts were to no avail, and I miscarried our child.
Alexander came home on the first of December, riding with an escort ahead of the army. I hadn’t been expecting him, and was sitting in bed, writing letters, when I heard his voice in the hall below and his step on the stair. I swiftly set aside my pen and writing desk, intending to meet him, but I’d only gotten so far as to be sitting on the edge of the bed when he rushed into the room.
I’d written to him of how I’d lost our baby, and I saw at once from his expression that he’d received the unfortunate news. He didn’t embrace me at once, as I’d expected, but hung a few steps back.
“My dearest wife,” he said, his voice filled with sorrow. “I never meant to do this to you. Everything that has happened is my fault. If I hadn’t gone away . . .”
His words drifted off, and he held his arms outstretched in grief and appeal, and then let them drop to his sides. He hadn’t paused to change his clothes, and I thought of how many times he’d been away and returned to me like this, his cheeks ruddy from riding in the cold, his jaw bristling with last night’s beard, and his clothes dusty from the road.
Yet this time was different. I still ached too much with loss. I’d no spirit left within me for rejoicing or celebration, and though I’d thought my weeping was done, at the sight of him fresh tears welled up from deep within me.
“Betsey,” he said. “I cannot undo what has been done, but as soon as I received your letter, I knew at once what I must do. I have resolved to go to the president directly from here and resign from the cabinet. I intend to return to the law, and devote myself to you and our children.”
I, Eliza Hamilton Page 40
