Page 13 of My Dear Hamilton
Chapter Eleven
February 16, 1781
New Windsor
I T WAS, AT long last, time to make a stand.
After the mutinies had been put down and their leaders executed, all the men were weary and anxious for the coming—and hopefully decisive—battle with the British.
For almost a year now, the French general Rochambeau’s fleet had been blockaded in Rhode Island. Now he was ready to abandon his ships and march his well-equipped and well-trained French soldiers with ours in what we all hoped might be the decisive battle for American independence.
All that remained to be decided was when and where we would fight.
In the deciding, Alexander was gone many nights until well after the fire had died and I’d fallen asleep. I’d taken a terrible cold, and so had poor Colonel Tilghman, who forged on with his work anyway.
For myself, in the most secret part of my heart, I was terrified. I believed in our soldiers and our cause and our chances, but from what I overheard at headquarters, it seemed that we were now racing week by week headlong toward a battle from which there could be no retreat or stalemate. This time would be for all the world.
Win, and nothing would ever be the same.
Lose and, well, my husband, my father, my family, my friends—we stood to lose everything .
Knowing what was at stake, I didn’t mind my husband’s late hours. What alarmed me was Alexander’s arrival to our room in the middle of the afternoon. I’d never before seen him so distressed. Sitting up in bed, where I’d been endeavoring to rest away a headache and sore throat, I ran my gaze over him, trying to determine what could be wrong.
Slamming the door, he stomped inside and threw his satchel to the floor. His cloak followed in a great flourish of dark fabric, all the while he muttered and cursed to himself. Slipping out of bed, I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and he came straight to me, his blue eyes stormy. “You shouldn’t get up. You need rest.”
“But—”
“There’s been an unexpected change,” he said, a strangeness to his voice, a wildness to his expression. “I am no longer a member of the general’s family.”
I almost couldn’t make sense of the words. “I don’t understand.”
He pulled me to sit on the edge of the bed. “General Washington and I have come to an open rupture. He accused me of treating him with disrespect.” My husband’s tone was equal parts anger and dismay.
I took his hand. “You? Disrespect His Excellency? I cannot imagine it. Tell me what happened.”
Alexander squeezed my hand and then rose. For a moment, he stared into the fire, and then he began to pace, as he so often did when agitated. “There is very little to tell. He asked to speak to me, and I nodded, then continued down to hand Tilghman a letter. The marquis asked me a question, to which I gave the most concise of answers because I was impatient to return to the general.” Hamilton heaved a breath, his hands raking at his auburn hair. “But instead of finding Washington as usual in his room, I met him at the head of the stairs. Do you know what he said? That I’d kept him waiting ten minutes and had treated him with disrespect. Can you imagine?” Alexander whirled on me. “I sincerely believe my absence didn’t last two minutes.”
“Of course,” I said, my mind racing. “It was just a misunderstanding. Surely this can be remedied.”
“No, it cannot.” He shook his head. “I argued that I was not conscious of any disrespect, but since he thought it necessary to tell me such we should part. He agreed. So here I am.”
Alexander had barely finished recounting the tale when a knock sounded upon our door. My husband crossed the room and opened it, the rusted hinges creaking in protest. And I heard Tilghman’s voice from the other side. “General Washington has sent me. May I come in?”
“I don’t think so, sir. My wife is indisposed.” Alexander gave a curt nod and made to close the door.
I was aghast at his rudeness. “I am perfectly well,” I called, not willing to let him use me as a rationale for not resolving this disagreement. And I was becoming accustomed, at this point, to my husband’s colleagues bursting in upon us at any hour of day or night. “Invite poor Tilghman in to get warmed by the fire.”
After a pause, my husband relented, and the colonel entered and gave me a bow, even as a coughing fit had him clasping his chest.
“Let me get you some raspberry leaf tea with honey,” I said, pouring from the pot I’d made myself downstairs at the boardinghouse’s hearth.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. You’re too kind.” Tilghman accepted the cup.
Meanwhile, Alexander seemed impatient at all the niceties, but I paid him no mind. “I hope you bring good news from headquarters,” I said, giving Tilghman a meaningful look, and I imagined I saw in his eyes a mutual understanding. This must be fixed . While it did sound as if His Excellency had been in ill humor, Alexander had never before responded with such stridency. They were both simply overworked. Overburdened by the weight of the war and the coming battle.
Sipping at the herb tea, Tilghman addressed my husband. “Sir, General Washington bade me to reassure you of his great confidence in your abilities, your integrity, and your usefulness to him. He wishes nothing more than to reconcile. He explained that his terseness came in a regrettable moment of passion and that he is sorry for it.”
Relief flooded me. Given the circumstances, how could tempers not flare from time to time? And how gracious for a man of General Washington’s stature to be the one to offer amends. But my husband remained silent and didn’t seem at all relieved.
Not even when Tilghman continued, “He wants a candid conversation to settle this.”
Alexander crossed his arms. “Neither of us would like what would be said in a candid conversation.” He shook his head, resolution settling into his handsome features. “I won’t refuse if he insists, yet I should be happier if he would permit me to decline.”
I barely withheld a gasp at this outrageous reply. And Tilghman blanched, overcome with another coughing fit. “You won’t even speak with him?”
My husband’s voice turned to steel. “I pledge my honor to you that he will find me inflexible. He shall, for once at least, repent his ill-humor.”
At hearing this, Tench set down his cup hard on the side table and abandoned every last vestige of his usual formality. “Alex, what the devil can you be thinking?” It was precisely what I wished to ask. “For pity’s sake, man, you know the situation at headquarters...”
“I do,” Hamilton replied, stiffly. “But don’t worry that I’ll leave it all upon your shoulders. Reassure the general that I won’t distress him or the public business by quitting before Humphreys and Harrison return from their assignments. I will comport myself with the same principles and in the same manner I always have. My behavior will be as if nothing happened. But I am quitting.”
Poor Colonel Tilghman left wearing a stunned expression that must have mirrored my own. My mind raced for a solution. So much hung in the balance—for us personally and for the cause. Could it all be undone by my husband’s pride?
“Alexander,” I said, cupping his cheek in my hand as I carefully chose my words. “Of course, you didn’t deserve the general’s shortness. But he recognizes his error. Surely you can forgive—”
“It’s more than that.” As if trying to reassure me that he wasn’t simply caught in a fit of temper, he pressed a kiss to my palm and grasped my hand in his. “I never wished to be an aide-de-camp. I never wished to depend entirely upon any one person for my future. I had refused to serve in this capacity to two other generals for just this reason. But I got swept up in the enthusiasm of the war and an idea of Washington’s character and accepted his invitation.”
I understood this. But now seemed hardly the time to change course.
Before I could say as much, Alexander rushed to add, “Washington has always professed more friendship for me than I felt for him. You’ve seen how he calls me ‘my boy.’ I need to stand upon a footing of military confidence rather than of private attachment. So today has been a long time in coming.”
Queasiness overcame me, for this stand seemed utter folly. Was there any other young patriot in the country who wouldn’t trip over himself to win Washington’s fatherly affection? And yet my husband apparently resented it as much as if it was offered by the father who’d abandoned him. Not knowing whether to feel sympathy or exasperation, I only managed a soft, “Oh, Alexander...”
He shook his head again. “Worry not, dear Betsy. I will reenter into the artillery. Or perhaps a command in the infantry will offer itself. Either way, a command would leave me the winter to prosecute the study of the law in preparation for my future career in life. Either will leave me in a better position than if I stay in service in the general’s family.”
I still couldn’t believe that my husband meant to abandon his crucial place in the war effort as Washington’s most trusted aide. Not with the war at a turning point. And yet, Alexander immediately set quill to paper to inform my father and a few close confidants of his breach with Washington—the sharing of which might well embarrass our commander, making their parting irrevocable.
I tried to imagine Papa’s reaction, an endeavor that made my headache worsen. What would he think of his new son-in-law who, having achieved the security of our family reputation and fortune, nearly immediately, and in a moment of pique, insulted and abandoned George Washington?
There must be some way to fix this. So, despite the sharpening soreness in my throat, and the agony of facing Martha Washington when our husbands were now at odds, I went to headquarters with Alexander the next day, working with her as I always did and sitting in quiet observation. Hoping some opportunity might arise for me to smooth over this rift.
True to his word, Alexander conducted himself that day as if nothing untoward had occurred. But Mrs. Washington knew better. Sitting beside me in the farmhouse’s parlor as we wrote letters requesting funds for the soldiers, she spoke quietly, never lifting her gaze from the parchment. “Have you had the opportunity to meet the woman in camp they’re calling Captain Molly?”
Mrs. Washington was referring to the wife of a cannoneer who, during the Battle of Monmouth, had been bringing pitchers of water to the soldiers when her husband fell. To avenge him, “Captain Molly” took his place at the cannon with admirable courage and service. I’d seen the stout, red-haired, freckle-faced young woman in camp. But I’d never spoken to her. “I’m afraid we’re not acquainted. Should we be?”
Martha’s lips pinched for a moment. “It’s just that she puts me in mind of something. If our independence is to be won, our husbands must be willing to put themselves in harm’s way. But achieving independence also relies on the support of our women... in whatever manner best supports the cause.”
My quill paused, and I looked up at this wise lady from whom I’d already learned so much. “In whatever manner?” I asked, willing her to say more.
Her brown eyes clear, her graying hair framing her round face under the plain mobcap, she said, “Even great men require advisers, and we have our husbands’ ears. Sometimes we encourage, sometimes we challenge, and sometimes we manage... ”
I couldn’t imagine how a man like Alexander might be managed, but perhaps she could. I returned my quill to the ink pot and sat back in my chair. “How?”
She smiled, shaking away the sand we used to dry the ink. Then she poured a circle of wax upon the page to seal it. “If I could tell you that, perhaps the war would already be done.”
I suspected she had somehow managed General Washington into offering an apology. And now it was up to me to get Alexander to accept it. But I felt ill-equipped for the task. Martha Washington was, in my mind, the ideal of a true woman. More amiable and diplomatic than my own beloved mother. Martha had, for more than twenty years, worn around her finger a plain wedding band that symbolized her devotion to—and perhaps her influence over—her husband. Whereas I was a newlywed and still learning how to influence mine.
Foundering as if in a canoe without a paddle while I did it.
And the one person who seemed as frustrated as I felt was Lafayette.
That afternoon when taking lunch to the back room where my husband labored over the general’s correspondence, I overheard the Frenchman cry, “ Mon Dieu , the feud I started by accident! My dear Hamilton, how I wish I hadn’t stopped you to talk when the general needed you. I make all the apologies.”
“No one blames you, my friend,” my husband replied.
“Better to blame me than His Excellency,” Lafayette said stoutly. I hesitated just outside the slightly open door, riveted by our friend’s effort to talk sense into Alexander. “Your being angry with him will pass, Hamilton. But trust in someone who has tender sentiments for you—if you quit this army now, you will be angry at yourself the rest of your life.”
I held my breath, because my husband had said nothing to me of quitting the army itself—only Washington’s service.
Whatever Alexander replied was too muffled to hear, but the marquis’s unusually soft tones were just audible. “Then make me a promise, do not resign your commission. If nothing better can be found, come fight beside me and Monroe in Virginia and command our artillery. Like old times. I will not go until you agree.”
I withdrew to the kitchen, not wishing to be caught eavesdropping. How was I to make all of this better when Hamilton seemed intent on making it worse?
Some moments later, Lafayette surprised me when he walked in, nearly banging his head on the copper pots hanging from the rafters. “Madame Hamilton, you marry a most obstinate man.”
“So I’m learning,” I said, immediately afraid I’d been disloyal. But how was I to save my husband from behaving with recklessness, pride, and even arrogance?
Lafayette gave a rueful smile as he leaned in. “Brilliant men are often the most stubborn, but to pick a quarrel with Washington.” He shook his head, and his amusement melted away. “Some would say this to be folies de grandeurs . But in Hamilton I know this to be a mask. And allowances must be made for his circumstances.”
“His circumstances?” I asked, fearing he might raise the issue of Alexander’s legitimacy.
Instead, he said, “Great pain and loss, madame . As I think you know.”
I did know, but I was a little amazed that Lafayette did, too. And even more so at the sudden intimacy of our conversation.
“My own father was killed when I was not yet two years old,” the Frenchman explained. “But still I had money and relations to look after me. Your husband had no one to look after him... small wonder he trusts no one but himself to care about his future. Not Washington. Not me. Not anyone, I think. Maybe not even you.”
I never wished to depend entirely upon any one person.
That’s what Hamilton had said. And I realized how well Lafayette understood his fears. Martha Washington had advised me to manage my husband’s self-destructive impulses. And now I hoped Lafayette might help me do that. “Maybe you could talk to him again in a few days, when he’s had time to reflect.”
“Perhaps we can conspire together to make him see reason, oui ?” Lafayette replied. “I can only write him letters because I march shortly to defend Virginia, with orders to capture Benedict Arnold and hang him dead by the neck.”
With a bloodthirstiness I’d never felt before, I said, “In that endeavor I wish you very well, sir.”
Still, Lafayette spoke of his new southern command a little glumly, for we all believed the final battle would take place somewhere in New York, and he didn’t wish to miss it. “It is probable I will be in the southern wilderness until the end of the war, so if Hamilton will not return to Washington, convince him to join me. We will share our exile.”
I wasn’t certain that a loving wife should convince a husband who had dedicated six years of his life to war that he should endanger himself even one more day. But I was sensible to Lafayette’s argument that Alexander would never forgive himself if he didn’t see the war to its conclusion.
Nor was I even sure we could win this war without Alexander Hamilton, for these weeks at his side in camp had revealed to me the military side of the man. He was forever identifying weaknesses in enemy movements, formulating strategies about which he convinced the general before communicating them to the commanders in the field; haranguing Congress for what support the army received; negotiating with the French, and finding clever ways to stretch the army’s resources—all while unburdening Washington so he could focus on the whole of the war.
So I agreed to give Lafayette’s suggestion long thought. “You’re a good friend,” I told the Frenchman. “And I wish you the fondest Adieu .”
“No, no!” Lafayette cried before taking his leave. “We will say only Au revoir ! Until we meet again. In the meantime, I wish you luck with your campaign to keep your husband from rashness. As for me, I would rather face the cannons.”