My Dear Hamilton

by Stephanie Dray

  “Is that so?” my daughter said, smiling shyly.

  Awkwardness hung between them, and he finally gave a little bow. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, apologizing again. And again.

  “That poor man,” Lysbet said once he’d gone. “There’s no cause for him to be so embarrassed for an accident.”

  “That was no accident,” I said, explaining what she’d have known if she’d attended as many balls as I had. “Bumping into a young lady is an old trick employed by young men lacking the means of obtaining a proper introduction. He’s embarrassed because, upon hearing your father’s name, he realized he blundered quite above his station.”

  “Truly?” Lysbet said, her eyes widening in apparent delight at his impudence. She turned to smile much less shyly in the direction of the man’s retreat.

  Just then, Lafayette appeared to the tune of “See the Conquering Hero Comes.” We found our seats, and the cloths that surrounded and enclosed the hall rose like a curtain at the theater to reveal the pure and brilliant moon shining on the harbor, upon which steamboats were plying in every direction.

  Several times that magical evening, dances were attempted, but every time Lafayette approached them, the dancers broke off and came to group themselves around him. Young ladies swooned when he kissed their hands upon introduction. And he obliged them all, except for one girl, who presented a gloved hand which he refused. “Your pretty glove is stamped with my face, mademoiselle, and I am not so egotistical that I can kiss myself!”

  When the laughter died down, mothers presented their children and, asking his blessing, feeble old men reanimated in talking to him of the numerous battles in which they’d been engaged with him for the sake of liberty. Free black men reminded him of his philanthropic efforts to place them in the rank, which horrid prejudices still denied them. And young men whose hard and blackened hands announced their laborious occupations stopped before him and said, “We also belong to the ten millions who are indebted to you for liberty and happiness!”

  Despite all the Republicans had done to ruin the country, I couldn’t help but be a little stirred by the plain evidence of how many of my fellow Americans now thrived.

  Before long, Georges made his way through the throngs of well-wishers sharing with him their admiration for his father to seek us out. “We wish to know if you and your mother will be pleased to share the berth across from our own, Miss Hamilton.”

  “A berth?” Lysbet asked, her nose pink from just a few sips of champagne.

  “On the steamboat,” Georges said, tilting his head. “We depart just after midnight.”

  Lysbet pulled her shawl around her in bewilderment. “Where to?”

  Now Georges was equally bewildered. “My father says you’re to accompany us on our journey up the river.”

  At this, my daughter gasped with delight. As, of course, Lafayette knew she would. What a wily man! Annoyed that the Frenchman should still be so sly as to wield my daughter’s excitement against me, I said, “I fear your father has misunderstood, Georges. We cannot join you.”

  Lysbet had perhaps sipped more champagne than I realized because she put a hand to her hip and demanded to know, “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed.

  At the age of sixty-seven, I didn’t go anywhere after midnight, much less on a journey up the Hudson. But before I could say as much, the old hero stole upon us and laughed. “She asks why not? Spoken like a Lafayette! Come with me, ladies, at least as far as West Point.”

  “General,” I began, aware of what felt like six thousand pairs of eyes now fixed upon us. “We are honored by your invitation and generous attention. But the hour grows so late—”

  “We accept,” Lysbet interrupted me, with extraordinary impertinence. “Gladly.”

  “Lysbet!” I hissed.

  Something had come over my daughter. I didn’t know if it was the ball gown, the idea of further conversation with her curly haired beau, or seeing the bust of her father. Whatever the cause, Lysbet grabbed my hand. “Wouldn’t my father go with Lafayette, and since he cannot, shouldn’t we?”

  Of course, her father would go. Alexander, the hero of Yorktown, would have every right, in justice, to ride in glory beside Lafayette. To deny it would be to deny his children the recognition and honor they craved all their lives. The cruelty of the world had denied them this.

  How could I deny it to them, too?

  “Ah, I see I have it wrong,” Lafayette said with a mischievous wink. “She is a Hamilton through and through.”

  Outflanked by the pair of them, I threw up my hands. “But . . . we have nothing packed.”

  Lafayette made an elaborate, twirling gesture with his hand. “And what of it? When we were young, you climbed into a sleigh with only a satchel and drove off with me into the wilderness.”

  This memory was a warm and delightful one. It was also a story my daughter didn’t know. As Lafayette told it, he made me remember the young and adventurous woman I used to be. And, quite unexpectedly, I yearned for her . . .

  “So I beg you,” Lafayette said. “Come with me tonight.”

  Despite his words, Lafayette was not begging. He was issuing a command. And though I had defied victorious generals before, I didn’t have the heart to resist or resent him for it. Especially when Lysbet looked happier than I’d ever before seen her, and multitudes clamored for the opportunity to take my place.

  Drunk on champagne and celebration, the whole city wished to climb aboard Lafayette’s steamship and chug away with him. And so, quite irregularly and recklessly, that is exactly what we did.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, A great number of prominent citizens, unwilling to part with Lafayette, crowded onto the ship deck with us until the captain was forced to refuse even one more.

  Then, to a setting moon, we lost sight of the Castle Garden amidst the noisy cadence of the steam machinery struggling against the waves and current of the river. The river that tied me to my past . . .

  Though the steamboat contained more than eighty beds, the crowd had not been foreseen and the greater part of the men slept upon the deck. Nevertheless, I don’t believe any of us slept much, because every few minutes cannons announced our passage by some village. So at sunrise, I abandoned my berth and went above deck to enjoy the view of the majestic banks of the Hudson.

  I was at Lafayette’s side when a group of old revolutionary soldiers gathered at the rail, sharing stories from their service. “There I wept for an enemy,” Lafayette said, pointing to the spot where he’d sat in court-martial over the British spymaster Major André, and seen him hanged. And I knew, should we keep chugging north, we’d pass Sugarloaf Mountain and the house on the shoreline from whence Benedict Arnold fled to the British Army, my husband in desperate pursuit.

  I heard the word traitor murmured by more than one man. And I nearly murmured it myself, remembering that I was with Arnold when I met Lafayette, though I hadn’t thought of that day in years. Now, those harrowing times of the war came back to me. Names of towns and soldiers and battlefields in this valley stirred memories for me, too. Fort Ticonderoga, the loss of which cost my father his command. Saratoga, where Burgoyne burned our home to the ground before being forced to surrender. Albany, where loyalists broke into my father’s home and nearly chopped us with a hatchet. New Windsor, where Alexander and I first lived as newlyweds and where I learned the story of Captain Molly.

  I had not, like Captain Molly, taken up arms or shed blood in the cause.

  But I’d stitched up and cared for those who did. I’d traveled with Washington’s army and shared some of its privations—and I imagined myself in fraternity with these brother soldiers, looking out upon the country we’d brought into being.

  And to my astonishment, I felt as if I belonged with them on this journey after all . . .

  As if to banish any doubt, Lafayette said, “When I first came to this valley, I found the high mountains, with their thick forests and naked rocks, all along this rive
r, so imposing. It was difficult not to share the superstitious terror of the Indians. Unless, of course, one has a Schuyler at his side . . . as I did then, and now.”

  I warmed at his praise and the way it earned me the deference of our fellows. And as the sun glinted off the river that day, dazzling my eyes with its brilliance, I realized how the country had grown past the wilderness of my youth under the rule of the British crown. Everywhere I looked, new towns and modern wharves grew up, all peopled by two generations who’d come of age thinking of themselves as Americans.

  And despite my anger and disappointments, my heart swelled with pride. Pride and love of country.

  Could I truly still feel such a thing?

  In seeking his oblivion, my husband had wrapped himself in his patriotism, thereby diminishing mine. Then, Jefferson, Burr, Madison, and Monroe had buried my family, captured my government, and claimed its flag. But it didn’t belong to any of them more than it belonged to me. And I should never have allowed them to steal it away.

  For they might be fathers of this unruly and flawed nation, but, surely, then, I’d been one of its mothers.

  As if sensing some change in me, Lafayette leaned in and pointed to the aft railing. “Shall I stand in Hamilton’s place and take up my ancient sword in defense of your daughter’s virtue?”

  I turned and frowned to see Lysbet in the crowd, flirting with Lieutenant Holly from the night before. “That impudent young man nearly toppled her into a tray of champagne at the ball just to secure an introduction.”

  Lafayette chuckled. “And yet, she is taken with him. It seems your daughter is very much like you.”

  “A fool for a man in uniform? Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I was going to say, a woman with a forgiving heart . . .” I stared at the presumption of his implication, and he actually laughed. “Forgive my friend, Hamilton,” Lafayette said, as if he’d sensed the softening in me toward the man without whom I suppose I could never have become what I was. “You see how, everywhere I go, people press gifts into my hands. Weapons, jewelry, Indian artifacts, things of great value to them. So why not give me this gift of forgiving Hamilton?”

  I peered around us, but no one paid any mind to our intimate exchange. “You take advantage, General.”

  He shrugged, incorrigible. “I cannot help myself, madame. After spending so many years in a prison, my mind becomes sharp to the things that truly matter in this world.”

  And Hamilton mattered.

  We didn’t have time to say more when another round of cannons fired as the steamboat docked for a day of ceremonies at West Point, where I would be Lafayette’s honored guest.

  Below, crowds shouted, Long live liberty! Long live Lafayette! Honor to Lafayette! Honor to him who fought and shed his blood for the peace and happiness we enjoy!

  With a wave, Lafayette shouted back, “Honor to Hamilton, too!” I put a hand upon his arm to stop him, but he only patted it. “He should be honored. As should you. Travel with me, madame. I like seeing this country with you, and I am to go west.”

  West. Even at my age, I was still unexpectedly tantalized by the idea. As tantalized as the first time Lafayette asked me to go off with him into the wilds. And he must have sensed it, because he pressed his advantage. “I will pass through the Oneida homeland. Together we can call upon some of our old comrades. We shall visit Grasshopper and Two Kettles Together.”

  I was taken by surprise that he did not know—that no one had told him—that he would not find many Oneida left in the world. Grasshopper had passed away long ago. Two Kettles Together, only recently. And the Oneida nation had dwindled. Despite all they’d done for the nation during the revolution, and federal treaties recognizing their service, the state government had all but defrauded the People of the Standing Stone of their lands. So I explained, as gently as I could, “Very few Oneida still reside amongst us. Like the rest of the Iroquois, they’ve been forced to migrate.”

  Lafayette’s usually sunny expression fell into such grave disappointment that I felt ashamed. Perhaps he was remembering how our time with the Oneidas changed the course of the war. Perhaps he was remembering his own role in helping to negotiate the Treaty of Fort Stanwix that secured the Oneida their lands. Whatever the thoughts in his mind, I knew he was one of the few persons present who cared about the fate of our allied Indians. And even those who’d been our enemies. “Then it is good we go west,” Lafayette finally said. “Perhaps we will see the Oneida there. We may travel as far as the wilds of Illinois.”

  “Two Kettles Together’s son is in the Illinois territory,” I said, musing on the idea. “And so is my son William.”

  I smiled at the notion of adventure and of seeing William again. Because I realized that I was not only capable of the trip, but also interested—for the first time in so long.

  But I’d come far enough.

  Far enough, at least, to recover, as the French would say, my joie de vivre.

  And I had Lafayette to thank for it all.

  Just as at the start of the revolution, this Frenchman was the lucky talisman who opened the way to a better future. As much as I desired it, I didn’t need to see the wilds of the country to find my place in it. I already knew. I had my work to think of, and a city full of orphaned children who needed me.

  “Bah,” he said, seeing that my mind was set. “While I am gone, at least agree you will think on all I’ve said. Hamilton’s story should be remembered. It should be told, and it should be written.”

  “A biography has been tried,” I admitted, remembering how I was hampered before by Federalists and Republicans alike. How Reverend Mason’s efforts ultimately came to nothing. “But too many of Alexander’s letters are scattered and too many people do not want his story told.”

  Lafayette’s eyes narrowed a moment. “His foes oppose you?”

  I chuckled a little bitterly. “With respect to his papers, it’s his friends who have created the greatest obstacle.”

  A few years earlier, just before he died, Nathaniel Pendleton confessed to stealing my husband’s drafts of the Farewell Address and conspiring with fellow Federalists to keep the papers “in trust and under seal,” which was simply gracious language for keeping them from me. But I’d learned of this at the depths of my fury at Hamilton and done nothing about it.

  Now, in defense of myself, I said, “I am refused even simple requests to see his papers.”

  “I think that I will not be refused. After all, you are the only person with the temerity to rebuff the Guest of the Nation.”

  I laughed, but also felt an ember of hope. “I don’t rebuff you, General. It’s only that I don’t wish to give false hopes.”

  “I have been reproached all my life for giving in too much to my hopeful disposition, but one would never try anything extraordinary if one despaired of success.”

  “No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” I murmured, his words working their way into my heart.

  “Then, my dear Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, leaning close, “no longer despair.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Spring 1825

  Harlem

  THE WINDOWLESS ATTIC didn’t make for a majestic courtroom. The only light to be had was from lanterns I hung from the wooden rafters. The only witnesses, the spiders. Perhaps that was best, since, pushing through the cobwebs of this place—and my memories—I alone would play judge and jury.

  And as for Hamilton, well, he would represent himself. He’d been a magnificent lawyer in life. But in death, the words he wrote would have to stand for him without addition or deletion or the animation of his voice or expression.

  And in seating myself before a trunk of letters—the personal ones, the painful ones—I prepared to review the evidence again. In the interest of justice, I told myself. Nothing more.

  Because Lafayette was right. Alexander Hamilton deserved to be better remembered by his country. His story deserved to be written. But neither would happen unless I became his champion again,
and I didn’t know if he deserved that from me.

  Thus, I examined the first charge against him. Did my husband take my sister for his lover?

  I’d so often heard him argue in court that I could well imagine what he’d say.

  It hasn’t been proven!

  What was the evidence, after all? There was no direct admission of guilt by either of them. Not in life nor in death. The most damning thing, in the end, hadn’t been the letters or tokens or gossip or befuddled utterances under the influence of laudanum. The most damning thing had been my husband’s accounting book, which proved he paid Angelica’s expenses and rented for her a mysterious apartment.

  And yet, if I took that for proof of an affair, must I not also note that, except for that one visit, nothing like it ever appeared in his books before or after? If there’d been an affair—

  If, Hamilton’s voice echoed in my mind with pointed reminder.

  Yes, well, if my husband took my sister for a lover, the intimacy was most likely confined to that one visit when Angelica was estranged from Church. When Hamilton was drunk on power—drunk enough to fall into bed with Maria Reynolds and pay a blackmailer besides.

  When he’d confessed that, I hadn’t asked him if there were other women.

  And yet you said you forgave me everything, Hamilton’s voice echoed again, and I glared at a dark corner of the attic where I could almost see him pacing, formulating his arguments.

  I had said that, hadn’t I? It was just like him to remember a finer point.

  When, thinking we were dying of yellow fever, I might have insisted that he confess all his sins. But I hadn’t demanded an accounting of his infidelities or vices, nor a listing of the things he said he’d done to imperil his soul. I’d merely accepted him, the whole of him, and forgiven.

  As if the yellow fever had burned us both clean of all our sins.

  Perhaps that’s what he believed. What good would it have done then to confess something that would’ve destroyed my relationship with my sister—the strength of which was sometimes the only thing that kept me alive?