Page 8 of The Girl from Greenwich Street

Had it been true, that I had left every thing else to follow the Drum, my delinquency would not have been so great. But our military establishment offers too little inducement and is too precarious to have permitted a total dereliction of professional pursuits. The double occupation occasioned by these added to Military Duties, and the attentions which circumstances call me to pay to collateral objects, engage my time more than ever . . .

—Alexander Hamilton to Rufus King, January 5, 1800

New York City

January 18, 1800

“Forgive me for receiving you like this.”

Elizabeth Weeks made an effort to push herself up against her pillows, wiggling into something closer to a sitting position.

Her husband dove forward to help her. “You know what the doctor said. You’re to stay lying down.”

“I can’t lie down all the time.”

From the edge of annoyance in her voice, Alexander had the impression this wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation.

“We lost the last one,”

said Weeks bluntly. “The doctor says we’ll lose this one too unless she rests.”

“We will impose upon you as little as possible,”

Harison said soothingly. “General Hamilton and I both know what it is to be in a delicate condition.”

Elizabeth Weeks looked like she had thoughts about that, but she subsided against her pillows.

“Mr. Harison is here in his capacity of recorder of the city of New York to take your testimony in the event that you are unable to appear in court,”

Alexander explained carefully.

They all knew that what he really meant was that they were there to record Elizabeth Weeks’s testimony in the event that she die in childbirth before Levi’s case came to trial.

“I am happy to do whatever is needed to free Levi from this terrible charge,”

she murmured.

Alexander could hear the clock ticking, and not just the delicate porcelain clock on the mantel, decorated with gilt and cherubs.

It had been nearly two weeks since he had chosen to interest himself in Levi Weeks’s affairs, two weeks in which good intentions had bowed beneath the weight of obligation. What with planning a military academy, sorting out the shape of hats for his soldiers, berating James McHenry by letter, and plotting Burr’s political downfall, there had been very little time to hunt down witnesses to establish the innocence of Levi Weeks.

It was suicide, Livingston insisted, and Burr agreed.

But it wasn’t enough to assert that and leave it at that, even if Alexander agreed, which he didn’t. There were reports, more reports than could credibly be dismissed as imagination or scandalmongering, of cries of distress from the vicinity of the well at a little before or after nine o’clock on the twenty-second of December.

Levi’s time on that night needed to be accounted for, which was why Harison had accompanied Alexander here, to the Weeks house, on a Saturday, even though at the house on Broadway Alexander’s three middle boys and Eliza’s nephew were home from school in Staten Island for the day, bringing dirty linen and clumsy Latin translations and sending little William wild with the joy of having his older brothers at home.

It would, Eliza had made clear, be nice to have Alexander home while the boys were home, particularly since he meant to depart so soon for Albany and would be away for goodness only knew how long . . . but Elizabeth Weeks’s baby might arrive at any time, depriving them of a key witness, and Alexander keenly felt how little time he had devoted to Levi’s defense, how scattershot were his efforts, sandwiched between his other obligations, in the sleepless fog of the baby’s nightly howling.

Elizabeth Weeks’s testimony was crucial and her time limited.

Alexander pulled up a slipper chair by the bed. The upholstery was French silk, so rich that he could feel himself sliding off again. If the rest of the house was little more than an extension of the lumber yard, this room was an unexpected treasure hoard, in which Ezra Weeks had showered his bed-bound wife with all his growing prosperity could offer. Mahogany and fruitwood, gilt and silk; porcelain dishes holding candied sweetmeats and spiced nuts.

A one-legged wooden doll that lay forgotten on the brocade coverlet provided a homely touch amid the unexpected opulence.

“If I might?”

Harison flipped the tails of his coat, seating himself at a small table Ezra Weeks had placed close by the bed, with paper and ink set out for writing. After going rapidly through the business of taking her oath, he asked, “Can you tell us what you recall from the evening of the twenty-second of December?”

“Levi was here with us,”

Ezra said immediately.

“Mr. Weeks,”

said Alexander, striving not to alienate the future builder of Eliza’s house, “we must have it in Mrs. Weeks’s own words.”

Harison nodded reassuringly. “Now, my dear lady, you were saying?”

Elizabeth Weeks glanced at her husband. “We dined with my parents.”

“Daniel Hitchcock—the lumber merchant,”

Ezra interposed. Given the price of wood, it seemed likely Ezra Weeks’s father-in-law was a prosperous man.

“Levi came to us when we were drinking tea, just before candlelight. He often does. The children like to see their uncle.”

Elizabeth grimaced, shifting slightly.

Harison set down his pen, asking conversationally, “How many children do you have, Mrs. Weeks?”

“Two, George and Mary Ann. There was another boy before Mary Ann, but—”

Ezra Week took his wife’s hand. “There’ll be others.”

Alexander had children of his own waiting for him. “When did Levi leave?”

Harison gave Alexander a reproachful look.

Elizabeth Weeks recalled herself with an effort. “Levi drank his tea with us—and then John McComb and his wife came in. Levi stayed for a time, but the McCombs didn’t seem to be going, so . . .”

“The house clock had just struck eight when Levi left,”

said Ezra Weeks briefly. “The McCombs stayed for twenty or twenty-five minutes. I lighted them out, and by the time I returned Levi was at the table.”

“Mrs. Weeks?”

Alexander tried not to grit his teeth too audibly.

“Levi came back, oh, very shortly after the McCombs left.”

She exchanged a look with her husband. With the air of someone reciting a lesson, she said, “They left about twenty-five minutes after eight and Levi was back by the time Ezra returned from lighting them to the corner. He stayed with us for supper.”

“My apprentice, Demas, will say the same,”

said Ezra.

Alexander had no doubt he would. “How did Levi’s appetite seem to you?”

“What does that matter?”

demanded Ezra Weeks.

“He ate a hearty supper,”

said Elizabeth Weeks. “He talked about the work for the next day. My love—tea—do you think—for our guests? I ought to have thought . . .”

“You’re not to get up.”

“I didn’t mean to make the tea myself. Perhaps Sally . . . ? I’m so parched. . . .”

Ezra Weeks surged toward the door. “I won’t be a moment. Don’t overexert yourself.”

Through the thin walls, they could hear him shouting for Sally. Elizabeth Weeks, Alexander thought, might look mild, but she had her own ways of managing her spouse.

“Ezra thinks the troubles brought on my illness,”

she said softly. “He fears this business with Levi will make us lose the babe. Levi—Levi feels terrible to have brought this trouble upon us. Not that it’s his fault,”

she added quickly, looking alarmed. “Ezra wouldn’t want you to think this was any of Levi’s making.”

Ezra, thought Alexander, had a great many strong opinions. “How did Levi seem to you that evening?”

“As ever.”

Her brow wrinkled, as if thought were a great effort. “He’d cut his leg that morning—I believe it still pained him. George likes to grab him around the leg. It’s a game they have together. But other than that . . . he seemed cheerful. I think.”

“Why did he go back to the Ring house at eight?”

Elizabeth Weeks smiled weakly. “If you’re acquainted with John McComb, you know he can go on. Levi was waiting to get instructions from Ezra for the day’s work—he does that every evening—and when it looked like John would never leave he took his hat and went back to the Ring house. There’s so little space here,”

she added distractedly. “Ezra means to build our house . . . but he’s in such demand, and there’s so little time.”

The city was expanding rapidly and a good builder was hard to find. All the more reason to resolve the Weeks case speedily in Levi’s favor. “Did Levi say anything about being married to Elma Sands?”

Elizabeth Weeks looked at her swollen hands. The fingers had puffed so large that her rings were lost in the folds. “No. . . . Not to me. I had always thought—he seemed more interested in the other one. Hope. He brought her to us once.”

She showed a little more animation at the memory; Alexander could see a hint of the woman she must have been before this pregnancy sapped her strength. “She drank tea with us. Ezra—he had hopes Levi would look higher, but Miss Sands—Miss Hope—seemed a decent, well-mannered girl.”

There couldn’t be more than a few years between Hope Sands and Elizabeth Weeks—a few years and four pregnancies. They were all so young, thought Alexander ruefully. Young as he and Eliza had once been, a thousand years ago.

“Was Levi courting Miss Hope Sands?”

If they could make a strong case it was Hope, not Elma, who had attracted Levi’s interest, there went half of Colden’s case, right there.

“I had thought—Levi—he’s a kind boy, but not always—not the most firm-natured of souls. Ezra worries he’s easily led.”

Elizabeth Weeks seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. “He needs a strong-natured wife—someone with sense—who can guide him.”

Ezra strode in, his gaze fixing immediately on his wife. He didn’t like what he saw. “Sally will be in with the tea. What’s this about guiding him?”

“I was just saying—I had thought Hope Sands—the right sort of strong-minded girl—for Levi.”

“He could do better,”

said Weeks, but his concern was clearly for his wife, not his brother. “You’re not well.”

“My head hurts,”

she said apologetically. “I can’t seem to think.”

“This was too much for you.”

“We’ll just read the statement and have Mrs. Weeks sign it,”

said Harison quickly. “About candlelight, or a little after, John McComb and his wife came in; Levi Weeks was then in the room, and remained with the company until after the house clock struck eight and then went away; to the best of your knowledge and belief, Mr. and Mrs. McComb left the house about twenty or twenty-five minutes after eight; after your husband lighted Mr. and Mrs. McComb out, before he had time to sit down, Levi Weeks came in, and remained with you, conversing on the business to be performed the next day—appeared cheerful, ate a hearty supper, and went off to his lodgings—”

“It must have been about ten o’clock,”

Elizabeth Weeks said faintly.

“As you believe, about ten o’clock.”

Harison added a note. “. . . saw no particular difference in his conduct or behavior. . . . Is that all correct, Mrs. Weeks?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth Weeks wasn’t paying attention to Harison. She struggled to sit up, all her interest focused on the door, through which a high-pitched voice was shouting, “Pull me! Pull me faster!”

Levi Weeks came into the room with a small boy attached to his leg and a toddler girl clinging to his neck. “Look, I’ve got a shackle around my ankle.”

He laughed, making a game of dragging his nephew along behind him.

His smile faded as he saw Alexander and Harison. He stopped short, leaving his nephew to howl, “Pull me! Pull me!”

“Mama!”

The little girl wiggled to be put down. She made a dash toward the bed, and was firmly caught by her father.

“Don’t climb on your mother,” he said.

“I don’t mind it,”

said Elizabeth Weeks, holding out her swollen hands to her daughter. “I’ve got your dolly.”

Levi Weeks was staring horrified from Alexander to Ezra. “I didn’t mean— About the shackle—”

“That will be the only sort of shackle you need bear. Don’t worry. We have it all well in hand,”

Alexander said grandly, if not entirely truthfully. He was rewarded by Ezra Weeks’s fierce nod of agreement. “We’ll leave you now. I have shackles of my own home from school.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weeks,”

said Harison, and bowed gravely over her swollen hand. In a lower voice, he added to Alexander as they walked out of the house, “It seems hard to think that nice boy could have shoved that girl into the Manhattan Well.”

“We can only hope a jury will feel the same way,”

Alexander said wryly. “Walk with me a way?”

“How far a way?”

asked Harison warily. He had taken less exercise since Fanny had died.

“To the Manhattan Well. I want to see how long it takes to walk from here.”

If John McComb left the Weeks house at twenty-five past and Levi were back no more than ten minutes after that, then he would need to have gotten to the well, strangled his paramour, and made it back to his brother’s kitchen table in the space of under half an hour. The operation would require efficiency, dispatch, and sheer ruthlessness—and even then, it might not be possible.

Harison considered the matter from a comfortably stationary position. “At least fifteen minutes, I would think. Maybe more—if it were dark or the weather were ill. And no, I’m not pacing it out with you now, even if the day is uncommon mild. Didn’t you say you had promised to go home to your shackles?”

“I also promised Ezra Weeks I’d see his brother without one.”

Alexander had promised too many people too many things. “I leave tomorrow for Albany to argue for Le Guen before the Court of Errors.”

“Tomorrow? Merciful heavens, man! You should certainly go home to your family! I can hire someone to pace the length to the well and back.”

“That might be best. If an impartial party can show that it was impossible . . .”

Then Alexander could go off to Albany with a good conscience.

“I take it Burr and Livingston will be in Albany with you?”

“On either side of the question.”

Alexander and Burr had been retained by the Huguenot merchant Le Guen against the firm of Gouverneur and Kemble, represented by Brockholst Livingston. The litigation had been fought out, with increasing acrimony, over the course of four years and multiple causes of action. Alexander was looking forward to unleashing his spleen and collecting his fee. “At least it keeps them from their intrigues here.”

“Yes, but it also gives young Colden a free hand. You know he’ll be busy in your absence.”

“It doesn’t matter how busy he is if Levi Weeks couldn’t have got to the well and back,”

said Alexander firmly.