My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  “Is Burr to be prosecuted for it?”

  The din of mournful conversation fell utterly silent. The whole of New York society turned to stare. And I met their gazes, each and every one. Then, in a clatter of coffee cups, the gentlemen at a table beside me traded glances and made to rise.

  But I stopped them. “Please don’t stand for me unless you will stand by General Hamilton in bringing his assassin to justice.”

  A coroner’s jury had been empaneled on the night of Alexander’s death, but they were likely to dismiss it, as they did all affairs of honor.

  Unless I did something about it.

  My sister’s eyes flew wide at my impulsive declaration, but the blood in my veins flowed with pure rage, and I wasn’t finished. “I’ve heard the country is covered in mourning. I can see for myself the city is awash in black armbands. And at the dock, there was talk of burning down Burr’s house.” A hint of an approving murmur rumbled through the room at the threat of arson and mayhem, but that wasn’t what I wanted. “My husband helped make this a country of laws. Will we permit the vice president of the United States to stand above them?”

  “By God, the vice president ought not be above the law,” said the editor of my husband’s newspaper. “Witnesses must be summoned and examined.”

  Someone added, “Can we learn if it’s true that Colonel Burr has been practicing with pistols for three months past?”

  I winced, having not heard the rumor of Burr’s practicing to kill my husband.

  Burr had shown no remorse, no regrets, no mercy, and no fear.

  But I’d seen enough moments of popular emotion in my time to know there would never be a better opportunity to clasp my husband’s killer in irons than now.

  And I meant to see justice done.

  * * *

  IN THE BLUR of days following my husband’s burial, I donned a widow’s armor of black taffeta and lace, startling the owners of every prominent household with a visit, descending upon them with my orphaned children in tow, their eyes still red from crying.

  It made me ashamed to exploit my children’s grief, to expose Ana’s derangement to outsiders, but we needed everyone to see the hapless state in which Burr left my family.

  For, now that the Goliath of Federalism was slain, even Republicans found the decency to denounce Burr.

  And because I’d learned the importance, in politics, of reinforcing the beliefs of the voter, I confirmed suspicions. “It was murder,” I told anyone who would listen, stopping just short of suggesting that President Jefferson had ordered it. “Did you hear how Colonel Burr enjoyed such a hearty and cheerful breakfast that his dining companion couldn’t believe he’d just shot a man?”

  This bit of callousness never failed to elicit a gasp. Nor did the revelation that just a month before the evil deed, Burr had shown up at our door at an obscenely early hour and begged my husband for financial assistance to cover his debts. Alexander provided it and more, raising ten thousand dollars in cash for the man who met him at Weehawken bearing murderous intent.

  In days of old, Burr was the master electioneer, but now I could almost feel the tide turning when I carried my campaign against him to the lawyers, the judges, the bankers, and the captains of industry. No less the candlemaker who lived but a few doors down from us, the baker at the corner, the carpenter, and the newspapermen. Burr would never shame or silence me while a breath remained in my body.

  I wanted his scalp, and perhaps he knew it. Because less than a week after Alexander was buried, the vice president of the United States fled the city under cover of darkness, like a criminal, like the base assassin he was.

  And I took some solace in having routed him. I’d forced him to retreat, but it wasn’t enough. Oh, not nearly enough. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I forced him off the continent, if not this plane of existence.

  Then came the verdict of the coroner’s jury.

  Aaron Burr Esq. Vice-president of the United States, is GUILTY of the murder of Alexander Hamilton.

  There it was, in black and white.

  And when I showed my sister the verdict printed in the paper, I said, “If ever he dares step foot in New York again, he’ll be brought to formal trial.”

  Angelica warned, “Please don’t set your heart on this. Burr is a clever devil. He’ll argue that New York doesn’t have jurisdiction because the duel was fought in New Jersey.”

  “Well, then I must see that he’s indicted in New Jersey, too.”

  The first step is to gather the evidence.

  That’s what I imagined Hamilton saying. I could still hear the echo of his voice, instructing Philip on the finer points of the law. How I wished I’d listened more carefully . . .

  Burr was already trying to defend himself with the lie that my husband had fired at him and that he’d merely fired back in self-defense. But Mr. Pendleton had acted as my husband’s second in the duel, and said otherwise. Moreover, Alexander left a letter for me expressing his intention to throw away his shot; there were likely other letters expressing the same, and I wanted them as proof.

  Which was why I went, with my sister, to Alexander’s law office the next morning. Upon entering the chamber, I braced myself for the familiarity of it. The sight of his leather-bound law books kept in neat rows upon the shelf from floor to ceiling. The burgundy carpet, a little worn in the path he used to pace while working out his arguments. The sunlight falling upon a desk where his quill pen would never scratch again.

  Instead, I came upon clerks packing his things into boxes. And the esteemed executors of Alexander’s will—Mr. Church, Mr. Pendleton, and Mr. Fish—hovering over his belongings like vultures over carrion, thumbing through his papers, bundles opened upon every surface . . .

  For a moment, it felt as if I couldn’t get enough air. “What are you doing?” I finally demanded, my voice trembling with anger. Someone tried to greet me in polite acknowledgment, but I was too blinded with rage to see who.

  All I wanted to do was scream, Get your hands off his things. Get out, get out!

  Alexander’s leather chair was askew. Someone had been sitting where my husband used to sit. They’d even smoked here, for a faint trace of tobacco hung in the air. Yet, the greatest indignity was to see that the compartments in my husband’s carved desk had been unlocked. And my nostrils flared as I demanded to know, “Has someone taken papers from here?”

  The men stopped what they were doing but didn’t answer, only stared uncomfortably. And I might have shouted at them if Angelica hadn’t stepped forward. “Will you gentlemen please excuse us? Mrs. General Hamilton should like some privacy.”

  The men withdrew and closed the door behind them—all but for my brother-in-law, who’d been packing one of the boxes and now seemed puzzled by my reaction. As soon as we were alone, I rounded on him. “Where are the papers from Alexander’s desk?”

  “Here, somewhere, I’m quite certain.” Church motioned to the crates and poured himself a glass of port, though it was midmorning. As an executor of my husband’s will, he now held trust over my inheritance, whatever it might be. And he said, “I’m sure it’s all in these boxes excepting a few documents pertaining to existing legal matters and party business.”

  My husband’s law partner would need to take on Alexander’s clients. And, perhaps, matters of import to the Federalist Party. But none of this changed what felt to me a shocking violation. “How dare any of you take Alexander’s words from me without so much as a by your leave?”

  Church leaned against the desk, “Well, legally—”

  “Jack,” my sister snapped, gripping his arm to keep him from saying more.

  I knew he was going to explain that executors had the right to take and sell anything valuable for the payment of debts—my husband’s words being the most valuable things of all.

  I knew and didn’t care. Struggling for a calming breath, I said, “Sell the chair, the desk, the lamps, the carpets, even the books. But you must promise me that no one shall
ever touch my husband’s papers but me. Never again without my permission. I should like this expressly understood.”

  I’d never been the sort of woman to issue commands, not even with my children. And Church looked as taken aback as an Englishman would ever allow himself to be. “Now, Eliza, please be reasonable.”

  “I’m being perfectly reasonable. Alexander’s last will says that his things are to be disposed of at such time and in such manner as his survivor sees fit. And I am the survivor and heir.”

  “No one disputes that,” Church replied with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Then please tell Mr. Pendleton that I must have an inventory of every scrap of paper that was taken. Every scrap.”

  “If you insist,” Church said.

  “I do.” With that, I sat in the leather chair, put my trembling hands atop the desk, and took a moment to compose myself.

  My sister pulled up a seat beside me and slipped her hand into mine. “It’s only that such things must be broached softly with Mr. Pendleton. He is a man it wouldn’t do to alienate at this moment.”

  I knew she was right. Not because Pendleton was an executor, but because he was our only friendly witness to the duel. The only man who could establish that my husband was murdered in cold blood. Because Burr’s witness, William Van Ness, was telling a different story—that Alexander had fiddled with his glasses, sighted the pistol, and fired first at Burr, not in the air as he truly had. I hated hearing these details, dreaming of them, fearing that our children would hear them one day, too. But they were important to know, and to refute, in order to protect my husband’s reputation.

  “Then please broach it softly with him. In the meantime, I’ll take Hamilton’s papers with me to the Grange.”

  Church scowled. “Surely you realize you cannot return to the Grange.”

  I realized no such thing. “Why not?”

  “You have limited means without Hamilton’s income. It’s impossible for you to be at the Grange without horses, which you can ill afford. Besides, their expense would pay for your house rent here in town. In fact, the Grange might be let . . .”

  I blinked, having never considered the possibility of renting the house my husband had been so proud to build for us. Imagining strangers there was too much, on top of everything else . . .

  But now I realized that the decision wasn’t mine—it was yet another thing the executors might decide for me. Women had never been granted the right to vote in New York. We couldn’t hold office and were barred from certain occupations. Our ability to manage property and legal matters was circumscribed. So I should have expected that my fate might be entrusted to my brother-in-law.

  Certainly John Barker Church had always been indulgent with Angelica; she was as free as any woman I knew under laws that still made a husband his wife’s master. But I hadn’t married him and chafed at the idea Alexander should’ve left me even remotely under his power.

  Church, the man whose accursed pistols had killed both my son and my husband.

  My sister must have sensed my fury and resentment, because she gave her husband a sharp glance. “We didn’t think you’d wish to take the boys out of school in the city, Eliza. You can, of course, leave them with us if you prefer to live at the Grange.”

  It was a generous offer, but Alexander and I had determined that our children should never be without at least one parent’s care. And did I not owe it to the memory of my beloved husband to keep his children together?

  Church cleared his throat. “You might as well know, Hamilton painted a rather more rosy picture of the value of his assets than warranted.”

  I flinched, half in disbelief. “My husband was the architect of this nation’s economy. You cannot expect me to believe—”

  “He was careful with the nation’s money, but not his own,” Angelica replied, and given her expression, I realized that my sister wished to tell me this even less than I wanted to hear it.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, wanting to see the proof for myself.

  Church cleared his throat again. “I estimate the debt to be somewhere in the nature of fifty thousand dollars.”

  It was so staggering a sum, I lost all power of speech. Even if Hamilton had lived, it would have taken years of hard work and frugality to ever repay it.

  “You needn’t be frightened,” Church quickly added, affecting a smile that attempted reassurance and warmth. “Your father and I will see to your day-to-day needs, of course. And, if need be, the Grange can eventually be sold.” Now it felt as if the world fell out beneath me completely. A cry of anguish escaped me before Church hastened to say, “But you won’t lose it. After the auction, you’ll be able to buy the Grange back at half its price.”

  I took in a ragged breath torn between gratitude and confusion about the house. “You’re suggesting some financial trick.” Perhaps something that might lose me every last penny.

  “It’s a political trick,” my sister explained. “It seems there are people for whom your husband’s indebtedness is more embarrassing than it could ever be for you.”

  It took me a moment to guess her meaning. Then I understood. Federalists. It would hurt the party at the ballot box if it were to be publicly known that Alexander Hamilton, their founder—the man of American financial wizardry—had died in debt.

  We’d already lost one presidential election to Thomas Jefferson. The party couldn’t risk losing another, so the Federalists would pay a great deal to keep Alexander Hamilton’s children from being turned out of house and home. And I found that more reassuring than I ought to have. “They intend to make me a loan?”

  “A gift, actually,” Church explained. “A number of prominent men will establish a trust fund on condition of secrecy. It’s to be kept even from the children.”

  I didn’t like secrets. I’d been hurt by secrets. But I had no interest whatsoever in giving the public another excuse to dishonor my husband’s memory. So Alexander’s indebtedness was a secret I could easily keep. My uneasiness came in the realization of how dependent I was now upon the mercies of others. My brother-in-law. The executors. The Federalists.

  And even my sons . . .

  * * *

  “YOU LOOK DASHING,” I said, helping my eighteen-year-old Alex tie his cravat and turn up the corners of his starched white collar. “Your father would be so proud of you today.”

  Alex forced a smile past the grief for his father that cast its shadow over this occasion. “Dashing, but not a dandy?” he asked, buttoning his neatly tailored blue coat, but eyeing the plainer black one hanging on his wardrobe.

  “No, my sweet boy, not a dandy.” Like me, Alex was born unburdened with the expectations of an eldest but never pampered like the youngest. Whereas our Philip had been darkly handsome and rakish, young Alex was fair and freckled and gallant. And because he didn’t have his father here to take pride in him on this day, I must lavish praise upon him for the both of us. “To think, Alexander Hamilton’s namesake is graduating from Columbia College. Despite all your father’s many accomplishments, even he didn’t do that . . .”

  “Only because of the revolution,” Alex replied, then took a deep breath, as if he needed to steel himself against the world as bravely as his father had done before him. “And he was given an honorary degree later, wasn’t he?”

  I smiled softly, realizing how aware Alex was of the shoes he’d have to fill. He was now responsible for the support and care of six siblings and a broken-hearted mother. His father’s will had bade him to consider it his responsibility. Worse, I now had the unhappy duty of adding to his burdens. “Alex, I cannot allow you to go to Boston to take a position in the countinghouse as we’d planned.”

  My son blanched. “But I’ve already agreed. Uncle Church and Mr. Pendleton say that I cannot now decline.”

  “I know,” I replied, trying not to show how it vexed me that gentlemen all seemed to view me as an enfeebled creature, too broken by grief to know what was best for my own children. “But
my wish is for you to stay in New York.”

  Alex furrowed his ginger brow. “You worry I’ll fritter away my evenings.” A faint note of hurt underscored his words, as if he thought himself accused of gambling, drinking, or carousing. “Or that I might neglect church and not know right from wrong—”

  “No,” I reassured him. “You’re a good boy.”

  But Philip had been a good boy, too.

  I wasn’t worried about the evil that my son might get himself into in Boston. I worried about the evil lying in wait for a son of Alexander Hamilton. Especially one who shared his name. Every day Alex was out of my sight, I’d live in fear of him being lured into a duel or simply murdered somewhere far from his relations or anyone who could help him.

  Perhaps he, too, would be found floating facedown in a river like James Callender . . .

  Of course, I could say none of this to my son without provoking some show of Hamiltonian bravado. So I only said, “I’m a sorrowing mother overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for all your brothers and sisters. I can’t manage without you.”

  It wasn’t fair what I was asking him, a young man on the cusp of making his own future. Hadn’t we fought to ensure that young men like Alex could choose for themselves how and where they lived, worked, and made a name? And yet, he swallowed down his objections even if with trepidation. “Am I to . . . to farm at the Grange?”

  I smiled softly, knowing that none of Hamilton’s bookish boys were suited to working the soil. Nor were there resources at the Grange that might make us a profit. “We’ll take a house in the city so you can study the law,” I said. “A house big enough for all your brothers and sisters, and for Ana to have her privacy. And large enough to store all your father’s papers—perhaps with a library that a writer might visit.”

  Alex squinted. “A writer?”

  “I want to hire a biographer,” I explained.

  They’d murdered my husband. They’d taken him from me. But I still had his words, and they were my solace. Hamilton could still speak to me through those pages. His love letters. His ideas. His essays. Thousands of pages.