Chapter Thirty-Two
RICHMOND HILL
New York
The news from France was almost too dramatic to be believed. The Bastille stormed. Uprisings in the provinces. Officials hanged,
beheaded, and eviscerated by angry mobs . . .
We often read the latest dispatch aloud as we sat on the portico, enjoying the breeze from the Hudson. According to headlines,
the French were in rebellion against their king, and despite the violence, my fellow Americans welcomed the idea that our
revolution was now spreading across the world.
I was frightened for the safety of our French friends. My husband, even more so. “I hope this will end in liberty for the
people, but the way this moves forward I foresee great calamities.”
This was not, however, the great subject that concerned the United States under its new constitutional government. Instead,
our Congress debated the matter of titles—a controversy in which my husband played a central role.
And now his indignant shouts frightened a squirrel in a nearby tree.
“John,” I winced, wanting to cover my ears against his tirade. “I already said I agree with you.”
But he was still arguing with the Senate in absentia. “We cannot simply address George Washington without a title as if he
were any other citizen. It isn’t monarchical to insist on some distinction such as His Highness or His Majesty.”
“Yes, you’re right,” I said for the tenth time.
But on he went to the invisible jury. “Whenever mankind means to respect anything, we give some special ceremony to it. Why build monuments and erect gravestones? Why do children call us Father and Mother instead of our given names? I daresay we called George Washington His Excellency when he was our general—and that didn’t make him king. ”
Thankfully, a servant announced tea, and I seized the excuse to escape into the warmth of our carpeted parlor, where Charles
was already pouring a cup for his sister.
But John followed me, still on his rant.
Nabby had also been treated to her father’s arguments since his arrival in New York, and now she whispered urgently, “You
must make him give this up before people poke fun at him.”
“Too late,” muttered Charles into his cup. He was studying law under Alexander Hamilton—a man whose talents he much admired—and
because of his proximity to Mr. Hamilton, he oft heard news before the rest of us. “I’ve heard they’re calling my father His Rotundity, the Duke of Braintree.”
As my husband reddened, Charles added, “I fear I shall soon have to challenge someone to a duel.”
“I sent you to study under Mr. Hamilton, not to ape his youthful foolishness,” John snapped, for Hamilton had a reputation
for involving himself in so-called affairs of honor. “I thought you had better sense.”
Charles grinned. “Well, I have sense enough to know that Mr. Hamilton will not long be my master. He’s spoken of as Washington’s
choice for secretary of state.”
John blinked, genuinely surprised. “A fine soldier he might’ve been. A fine legal and economic mind, too. But secretary of
state? What foreign experience does that man have other than having been born in the Caribbean? The president should have
a seasoned diplomat for his minister of state.”
In the end, my husband lost the fight about titles. It was resolved that our leader would be called simply President Washington. But in the matter of the cabinet, John’s point of view prevailed.
Washington offered Hamilton the post of secretary of the treasury instead of state. Which was all right with me, because we were owed quite a bit of money from our time abroad, and Hamilton seemed just the man to set accounts right.
When I said so at some dinner party, Mr. Hamilton leaned over with blue eyes that gleamed almost wicked. “I shall take the
greatest pleasure in fulfilling your wish, madam.”
I merely smiled, having been flattered in foreign courts by men far more seasoned. But I understood why others found Hamilton
charming in company. It was his evident genius and the passion with which he presented his clever views. Not to mention the
intoxicating sense of power that he projected. Of course, it grated John’s nerves the way Hamilton strode about the capital
as if he were prime minister, and not merely secretary of the treasury.
But I thought indulgences must be made for men of genius.
Then one night, after one of Mrs. Washington’s levees, my husband returned home in a rage, tearing off his cravat. “Villainy!”
John had finally discovered why he received fewer votes for vice president than he expected. “Hamilton wrote to electors instructing
them to throw their votes elsewhere to avoid the procedural trouble of a tie, and embarrassment for Washington.”
I hated this obsession of my husband with how many votes he received. But I knew from experience that if I disagreed, it would
only prompt him to marshal his powers of argument. So I tried a different tactic.
Feigning shock, I said, “What corrupt intrigue. Why, John, they must have had real fears that you’d get the greatest number
of votes, defeat Washington, and win the presidency!”
My husband’s puffed chest deflated as reality struck his brain. “More votes than Washington? Surely not, my dear.”
I blinked as innocently as a doe. “Why else would Hamilton engage in such an underhanded scheme? Personal animus?”
“None that I’m aware of,” John grumbled. “No doubt, he did it out of simple loyalty to Washington, worrying about the mischief
a tie would make.”
I blinked again. “Do you think so?”
John threw up his hands. “Well, he could’ve been open and honest about it! But Hamilton has too much disposition to intrigue.”
I coaxed, “What will you do?”
My husband was too caught up in himself to notice the unnatural fluttering of my lashes.
His finger pointed in elocution, as if he were back in the courtroom.
“I could make an official inquiry into my election!” Then the fury leeched out of him, and the finger wilted. “Yet, in truth, it’s better forgotten.”
This was the conclusion I hoped he’d draw. Now I asked the only question about which I was still of two minds. “Can Secretary
Hamilton be trusted?”
“No. He’s too ambitious.” John sighed. “Still, I think he has good abilities and great industry. And I know not where a better secretary of the treasury
could be found.”
From all reports, Hamilton was a first-rate talent. A great deal more worldly and sophisticated than Congressman Madison,
whose bad ideas stacked up in the legislature every day. Among them, Madison had proposed to force buyers of government securities
to split the payouts with the original holders who had been forced to sell them during difficult times.
If that proposal passed, I stood to lose quite a bit of money. Thus, for the time being, I was for Hamilton. Charles was,
too.
But my son-in-law, Colonel Smith, was less impressed, which had everything to do with his frustration. Having gone without
employment for seventeen months whilst awaiting a federal appointment, Colonel Smith—bitterly disappointed—had been passed
over for lucrative offices. As a genuine hero of the American Revolution, and a Washington loyalist to boot, he’d expected
commensurate recognition from the new president. Instead, Washington named him to be a federal marshal—a position with vast
responsibilities and personal risk but very meager pay.
I was distressed to think how Colonel Smith could possibly support his family on the wages proposed, but I couldn’t let my
distress add to my daughter’s, so I tried to find the silver lining. “It’s a vitally important job,” I said to Nabby, for
as one of the first federal marshals in the country, my son-in-law would need to protect judges, ensure the smooth operation
of the courts, conduct a census, serve warrants, and make arrests. “President Washington couldn’t appoint anyone whose patriotism
he didn’t trust completely.”
“Well, he should trust my husband’s patriotism,” Nabby said, quietly. “For without it, he would’ve lost his army twice over during the war.”
I knew this was true. Colonel Smith got Washington on a barge at the Battle of Long Island. Later in the war, Colonel Smith
had destroyed a bridge to keep Howe from overrunning Washington’s army. My son-in-law never spoke of this heroism. He probably
felt as if he didn’t need to. That the public would remember. But in recent years Colonel Smith had been serving the country
overseas, where his accomplishments went unseen.
Years away had erased him from the public mind.
Nabby told me his pride was deeply wounded. “Both Hamilton and my husband were trusted aides-de-camp. Yet Hamilton is in the
cabinet, whereas my husband is to be a glorified jailer.”
On the one hand, it did seem unjust. Hamilton fought in fewer battles, was never injured in the cause, and once resigned in
a fit of pique during the war. Yet he was widely considered George Washington’s favorite son.
On the other hand, my son-in-law had ignored our advice to complete his legal education and boasted of no expertise in government.
He hadn’t done an honest day’s work since returning from London, preferring to wait for a choice appointment while hunting
partridges.
I gave my daughter an encouraging smile. “I’m sure it’s only a start. If Colonel Smith does well as marshal, surely he’ll
rise.”
Or at least I hoped he would.
My husband had written personally on Smith’s behalf, which may have hurt his prospects more than helped. For as cordial as
Washington was to us in society, appointing our son-in-law to a more prominent role in government might invite the criticism
that he was bringing men into his administration by way of heredity rather than merit.
If I were in Washington’s place, I might shy away from it, too. But none of this did I tell Nabby. “Well, we must simply do
what we can to advance our husbands in a different arena. The social one.”
In that arena, I was at least a little adept.