Alexander owed a great deal to her judicious choice of physician. The leading physician in the city, Dr. Benjamin Rush, advocated a treatment of blistering, bleeding, mercury, and bowel purges that often left patients weaker than when he started. The West Indies, long plagued by the disease, favored a gentler approach of cold baths to reduce fever. Almost immediately, Eliza was struck down too. In her delirium, she wondered, Where is Alexander? Who is with the baby? Her muscles ached all over, and her head pounded. The feverish thoughts came and went in a haze, and then the nausea took her.
Eliza and Alexander were battling death, and the worst symptoms of the disease were gruesome. The disease began with the fever and jaundice and progressed until the victim retched up black vomit and bled from every orifice. When there was nothing left to vomit forth, the dry heaves and convulsions started. On the third day, the fever broke briefly, only to return with a vengeance, and, before the end of a week, the patient either died or began the slow road to recovery.
By the second week of September, Alexander and Eliza were being counted among the lucky survivors. Eliza’s brother-in-law Philip Ten Eyck sent off a letter to her brother, John Schuyler, reporting somewhat over-optimistically, “I must give you some information concerning the dreadful distress which prevails in Philadelphia, which is a species of the Plague . . . hundreds have fallen victim to this disorder. . . . Col. Hamilton & his lady, has both had it but by the great attention of Dr Stevens from the West Indies, they are perfectly restored. . . . I believe they will proceed to Albany to your fathers his children left this last week for Albany and were all well.”
When Edward Stevens did declare Eliza and Alexander out of immediate danger, he warned of a long, slow road to recovery. Dr. Stevens prescribed fresh air, carriage rides, and an immediate removal to the country. On September 15, a cool Sunday morning, Eliza, Alexander, John, his nurse, and their servants set off for Albany.
The journey was difficult. No town or city wanted to receive the contagion that was devastating Philadelphia. New York City was blockaded, and Alexander and Eliza fought to find a ferry that would take them across the Hudson. They traveled late into the night, trying to get as far from the city as possible, only to have the landlord of a roadside inn tell them that the other guests were terrified by their arrival. On September 23, after eight days on the road, they arrived at last across the river from Albany, where the city physician issued them a certificate, confirming, “We have visited Col. Hamilton and his lady at Greenbush, this evening, and that they are apparently in perfect health; and from every circumstance we do not conceive there can be the least danger of their conveying the infection of the pestilential fever, at present prevalent in Philadelphia, to any of their fellow citizens.”
The order required that Eliza and Alexander leave their servants behind, lodge at an inn, and abandon all their clothing and luggage. With the baby in her arms, they tried to enter the city at last on Tuesday morning. They were not warmly greeted. The citizens of Albany, outraged at the thought of contagion, demanded that General Schuyler’s entire estate be quarantined, and there followed several tense days, in which Eliza’s father and Alexander negotiated with the town leaders.
By the time they returned to their little country house outside Philadelphia, a month later, the restorative air had done its work and the fever had abated. Still, the children stayed behind with their grandparents, as a precaution. “Exercise & Northern air have restored us beyond expectation,” Alexander reported to George Washington the next morning. “We are very happy that Mrs. Washington & yourself escaped.”
Then, a week later, Alexander was sick again with fever.
Although this new sickness was not the yellow fever, Philip Schuyler, learning the news, put his foot down and refused to return the children to their parents. “It is very natural,” her father explained firmly, “that you and my Dear Eliza Should be anxious to have your children with you, but in this instance I apprehend your prudence has given way to your feelings. . . . I have concluded that It would be improper to Acceed to your wish.” General Schuyler was exasperated with his ambitious son-in-law and his headstrong daughter. In another month or so, if the fever had not returned and the city was properly recovered, either he or Eliza’s brother, Rensselaer, would bring down the baby and his nurse for Eliza. The “others we all agree must remain until Spring,” he informed their shocked parents. Eliza and Alexander knew better than to quarrel with the general, however.
Eliza was bereft without the children. But she would not leave Alexander. As a result, all the Hamilton children were in Albany in mid-November, during the slave uprising there.
Late on the night of Sunday, November 17, the town watchmen roused the citizens of Albany with the alarm of fire. Flames caught hold on the wooden rooftops, and the wind lifted the fire from building to building and then along the long back stables. Only a heavy rain at six o’clock the next morning saved the city from complete ruin, but twenty-six houses had been destroyed, including some of the most prominent homes in the city.
On the Monday, as the downtown core smoldered, residents tracked down the source of the fire. A tipped lantern was found in the stables of the Albany merchant Leonard Gansevoort, and the hunt for the arsonist quickly led to four African slaves, including a young female slave named Bet, owned by Stephen Van Rensselaer’s brother, Philip.
For decades, the rich city merchants had feared an uprising, and now the city committee issued an immediate emergency ordinance placing a curfew on anyone who was black or mulatto. It didn’t matter, in the end, that a vengeful young lover, refused permission to court Gansevoort’s teenage daughter, had bribed the Africans, who were not mounting a political insurrection. All four of the slaves confessed, and when they were hanged the next spring, Eliza heard the story of the whole affair firsthand from Peggy and Stephen.
In December, with no more reports of the fever, her father relented. Their oldest daughter, nine-year-old Angelica, who was studying French in Albany, wished to stay with her grandparents and numerous local cousins, but her father sent the other children home to their parents.
Despite the fortunate escape, Eliza and Alexander were sick off and on for much of the next year, and both their health had been permanently damaged. In January, Philip Schuyler was “alarmed at the state of my Dear Elizas health, nor are we without apprehension on your Account,” he informed Alexander. Angelica inquired of her sister, “When am I to hear that you are in perfect health, and that you are no longer in fear for the life of your dear Hamilton?”
Eliza was also frustrated when Alexander again put off his departure from the Treasury, citing the volatile situation in France. It now looked like he was not going to resign after all, and Eliza was frustrated. Alexander found it hard to let go of prestige and the reins of power. As one French aristocrat whom Angelica and John helped to flee to America reported back to Eliza’s sister, Alexander spoke too much of “grandes personnages.” The same aristocrat also observed—in a sign of the tensions brewing in their marriage and in a sign, too, that the gossip about Maria Reynolds was still circulating—that Alexander noted too little the beauty of his wife. Martha Washington was not the only person whose heart went out to Eliza.
The summer of 1794 meant the return of sweltering weather and fever, and Dr. Stevens again ordered Eliza and baby James to the country for fresh air and exercise. Alexander, committed to his work in the Treasury, planned to stay behind. All plans of resigning were brushed aside for the moment, to Eliza’s exasperation. Toward the end of July, Eliza and the two youngest children, James and John, set off for Albany, although Eliza was deeply unhappy about going. For the first time, at odds over Alexander’s broken promise about resignation and putting family first, their marriage was faltering. When the baby fell dangerously ill in her first weeks in Albany, Eliza sat up with the infant for long, sleepless nights, frightened and exhausted. She longed to come home to her house, to her husband, and especially to her older boys, who had stay
ed behind in Philadelphia with their father.
Alexander would not support it and reminded her of his authority as her husband. By August, Eliza was considering her own uprising, and Alexander’s response to her letters showed her to be feeling increasingly caged and desperate. Albany felt like punishment and exile. Finally, in mid-August, annoyed with Eliza but tired of her upsetting letters, Alexander relented. “You press to return to me,” he wrote. “I will not continue to dissuade you. Do as you think best. . . . But let me know before hand your determination that I may meet you at New York with an arrangement for bringing you or rather write to Mr. Seton who I will request to have things ready.” Alexander wasn’t even sure he would be able to meet her in person for the last stage home. Eliza’s eyes watered.
Hardly had Eliza settled back in at home that autumn when Alexander set off with the military to fight in the Whiskey Rebellion. An excise tax on distilled spirits had enraged farmers on the western frontier and sparked an armed uprising. The home of a tax collector was torched, and the federal government felt compelled to assert its authority. Nearly thirteen thousand federal troops marched toward western Pennsylvania, Alexander among them, at the end of October.
Eliza stayed in Philadelphia, dealing with sick children. She was overwhelmed and, within weeks of Alexander’s departure, began suffering as well from what she knew by now was morning sickness. Her mother traveled down from Albany to care for the children and called for the doctor when on November 24, a Monday afternoon, Eliza bent over double with cramps and bleeding, sure signs of a miscarriage. Losing a baby, at a moment of such coolness and distance in their marriage, felt especially lonely, and all her pent-up sorrow washed over Eliza now. She couldn’t stop crying.
Kitty Schuyler was worried. This was not like her tough-minded and resilient daughter. Someone needed to fetch Alexander. Whatever was going on needed to get worked out between Eliza and her husband. Kitty reached out to old wartime friends of General Schuyler. Henry Knox dashed off a letter to the president’s army headquarters. George Washington—who, like Martha, had vast reserves of affection and sympathy for Eliza—sent a rider for Alexander. “My dear Hamilton,” the president wrote, “[Mrs. Hamilton] has had, or has been in danger of a miscarriage, which has much alarmed her. . . . She is extremely desirous of your presence in order to tranquilize her.”
Alexander set off instantly for Philadelphia, arriving in the last days of the month. Whatever conversation passed between them remains private.
But on Monday morning, December 1, 1794, Alexander Hamilton sent President Washington his resignation.
All told, Philadelphia had been a disaster from Eliza’s perspective. Sickness, scandal, and slander had dominated their lives for three years, and Eliza had borne them patiently for as long as she could stand to. But now she needed it to end, and she would not regret leaving. She was a New Yorker at heart, and she did not want to spend one minute longer in this swampy capital than absolutely necessary. Angelica, still believing that every spring would bring her return to America, shared her sister’s dislike of the city. “I confess I should not like to settle at Philadelphia,” Angelica wrote, “and if my Brother resigns there will then be no reason for my not going immediately to New York and be under his and your care till Mr. Church can leave this country.”
Alexander’s business in Philadelphia was finished by the end of January, and this time there was no backtracking on the resignation from the Treasury. Eliza put down her foot now on another front as well. Enough with all the working. They all needed rest, and she wanted some quiet time with Alexander and the children. Alexander, committed to finding his way back to Eliza in their marriage, did not argue. They would arrange for accommodations in Manhattan for June. But her parents’ house in Albany was empty while her father was serving in the New York legislature, and the Hamilton family was going to spend the spring on the Hudson. Together. Relaxing.
Her father threw his weight in behind Eliza. Kitty Schuyler had seen enough in Philadelphia to know that something needed correcting, and General Schuyler almost certainly knew the gossip that Alexander had confessed to an affair with Mrs. Reynolds. Everyone knew that Alexander had been under investigation for financial corruption.
Alexander could hardly resist the combined forces of his wife and her strong-willed father. As soon as the snow lay thick enough on the ground, Philip Schuyler sent a sleigh down to carry them back north. The family left behind the capital in the first weeks of February, and Eliza got her wish. For three months, from mid-February until mid-May, the entire family—Eliza insisted they pull even the older boys from boarding school for the term—recuperated from years of sickness and political turmoil in the home where Eliza had been born and married. She wanted to step back in time, to that moment in the beginning of their marriage, at their small farmhouse in Albany, when Alexander had vowed to eschew ambition and fame and had been happy to rock his infant son’s cradle. She counted on the Hudson Valley to work its magic on them all. Slowly, she felt her tension unwinding.
James McHenry, Alexander’s best man, also threw his weight now behind Eliza’s arguments and vision of the future. Mac had a special investment in Alexander and Eliza’s marriage, and he had long thought that people underestimated the treasure Alexander had stumbled upon in Eliza. Mac sent Alexander a friendly letter of advice when he heard news of the resignation. “I have built houses,” he counseled his friend,
I have cultivated fields, I have planned gardens, I have planted trees, I have written little essays, I have made poetry once a year to please my wife, at times got children and at all times thought myself happy. Why cannot you do the same, for after all if a man is only to acquire fame or distinctions by continued privations and abuse I would incline to prefer a life of privacy and little pleasures.
It was just what Eliza wished for her family. Alexander himself would be the only obstacle.
When they returned to New York City in June, much of the damage had been repaired, and they all were happier. Alexander reopened a private legal practice, and Eliza celebrated the new beginning. Finances were not robust by the standards of their peers and especially not compared to the wealth of her sisters, but the family was not impoverished either. Eliza’s father assisted them in the purchase of a “Negro boy & woman,” for which Alexander reimbursed his father $250, and by summer they were settling happily into their new home in the city—all of them, that is, except Eliza’s orphan charge, Fanny Antill.
Fanny was now ten, a bright-haired and cheerful girl. Her older sister was the wife of a prominent Albany gentleman. During their long spring sojourn in the Hudson, Fanny had been reunited with her sister, and when Eliza and Alexander moved south, Fanny stayed. It was a bittersweet moment for Eliza. For more than a decade, the orphaned Fanny had been a second daughter.
Sometime later that autumn or perhaps that following winter, Eliza sat again for another portrait, with the British artist James Sharples. She looks out of her portrait now, a more subdued, self-contained, and informal Eliza. Gone are the powdered wigs and high fashion. Her rich, dark hair is left natural, and curls around her shoulders. In profile, she is still youthful, slender, and a slight smile on her lips says she was, at last, happy.
It was such a short reprieve for Eliza.
She did not know that the charges of financial corruption and self-interested dealing still dogged Alexander. She assumed—wrongly, as it turned out—that his leaving his post as secretary of Treasury would be the end of the bitter turmoil. But there was trouble on the horizon, and, as always, Alexander’s pride would play a part.
Alexander’s overreaction to the slights and gossip that still buzzed among the gentlemen in late 1794 and early 1795, especially, didn’t help matters. Engaged in the delicate work of repairing their marriage, Alexander didn’t tell Eliza what was happening. He didn’t want to upset her or the peace she was after.
The trouble had started in March, when Alexander traveled alone down to New York City from A
lbany to make some business arrangements, in advance of their return to Manhattan in June. James Nicholson, the chief commodore of the Continental army during the American Revolution, made the bold claim among some gentlemen that he had evidence to prove “that Hamilton had vested £100,000 sterling in the British funds, whilst he was Secretary of the Treasury, which sum was still held by a Banking house in London, to his use and Interest.”
Alexander’s supporters called it slander and called on Nicholson to prove it. Nicholson retorted that he was prepared at any time to lay the papers before a committee and threatened that “if Hamilton’s name is at any time brought up as a candidate for any public office, he will instantly publish the circumstance.”
Word of the accusations made their way to Alexander, and, determined to make the fresh start his family needed, he wisely did nothing. But on a Saturday afternoon toward the end of July in New York City, Alexander got caught up in a squabble. One of the parties was Nicholson, who insulted him as an “Abettor of Tories” and mocked him for refusing to prove he was innocent of fraud and corruption. Alexander had turned the other cheek. Now he was being told that he had done so because he was a guilty coward. Alexander, furious, demanded satisfaction. Letters flew between the two men, their friends, and their seconds for days in anticipation of a duel between the gentlemen.
It was not the first time that Alexander had reacted to the charges of financial speculation by calling for weapons. He and Aedanus Burke, the congressman from South Carolina, came near to dueling in 1790. Nor was dueling unfamiliar to Alexander. He had been involved, either as a principal or as a second, in at least two threatened duels before he and Eliza were married.
Now, unbeknownst to Eliza, Alexander prepared his will and set aside for delivery to his friend Oliver Wolcott, in the event of his death, a packet of letters. Those letters were marked with the initials “J.R.,” and Alexander asked his friend to look after the papers carefully.
Eliza Hamilton Page 19
