Chapter Forty-Two
PHILADELPHIA
Pennsylvania
“Mr. President,” John Marshall said, gravely. “I regret to inform you that George Washington is dead.”
We had only just arrived at the president’s house, where my husband took up his duties, and I took up mine in what would assuredly
be a grim term. For with Washington’s passing, every countenance was covered with gloom.
“I shall die,” Washington is reported to have said from his bed at Mount Vernon. “But death has no terrors for me.”
Remembering our former president and all he had meant to the country, I could scarcely collect myself. Though the survival
of the nation had never truly rested upon Washington’s breath alone, it had often felt like it did. And I didn’t blame citizens for being frightened about
a future without him.
But now every lady in the capital looked to me to set a mourning tradition for the republic, and I was hesitant to do so.
“Whatever length I choose will either be thought too disrespectful by the Federalists, or too monarchical by the Democratic-Republicans.”
My husband almost laughed at my complaint. “I am familiar with that dilemma . . .”
A state memorial service must be held for Washington. We’d have to set a precedent in this, too, about how the United States
should say farewell to her presidents. Important personages were coming from all over the country to take part, some of whom
might expect lodgings with us in the president’s house.
But we didn’t expect our daughter-in-law to appear at the doorstep with our two granddaughters in tow.
Charlie’s wife was dressed all in black, but her pinched expression was not public grief for Washington. In the privacy of
the parlor where we served tea and closed the doors against the curiosity of the servants, she said, “I’ve left Charles.”
“Left him?” I asked, blinking. “Oh, Sally . . .”
John narrowed his eyes. “What’s he done now?”
Sally sat as stiffly as possible, squeezing her hands between her knees to contain her anger. “I cannot live with a drunkard,
a gambler, and an adulterer, too.”
The shock was such that I sat down, hard. “Why would you suspect—”
“Charles was found at a brothel,” she said.
This news was mortifying. I was literally mortified into silence. How could I have raised a son who could betray his wife?
Meanwhile, John shot out of his chair. “I pity you, Sally. I grieve with you for the husband who must be dead to you now.
And I mourn for a son who is a mere rake. A beast! He’s no son of mine any longer. I renounce him.”
“John,” I said upon a gasp.
In answer to which my husband held up his fist and slammed it down on the table. “I renounce him!”
At that moment, a servant knocked timidly upon the door to announce that the secretary of war needed the president urgently.
Somehow John collected himself and strode out.
Meanwhile, I was left with Sally, wanting to die of shame. My daughter-in-law was waiting to know whether I, too, would declare
that Charles was no son of mine. But I couldn’t do it, not even as crushed with disappointment as I was.
Charlie’s good looks had become a curse, not only because of the temptations they drew to him, but also because he was used to relying on those looks
and dimpled charm. When looks and charm couldn’t solve real problems, like debt or failure, perhaps he had no other tools
at his disposal but drinking and dissipation.
No, no. I refused to excuse him. Or myself for not having raised a better man. My heart bled for his wife and daughters at
every pore.
“There’s no hope of reconciliation?” I asked.
“None,” Sally said.
Wincing to think of my daughter-in-law in the same position in which my brother left his wife, I asked, “What will you do?”
“Take in washing. Or become a housekeeper.”
“We won’t let it come to that.” We owed her support, since it was our son who caused this breach. Also, my husband was up
for re-election soon, and there would be political ramifications if it was learned that John Adams let his own daughter-in-law
resort to being a washerwoman.
“You think I’m wrong to leave Charles,” Sally accused. “But, madam, with such an upright man for a husband, you cannot imagine
what you’d do in my place.”
Oh, but I had imagined it once. When John was so long in France that I feared he’d taken a mistress, it nearly shattered me. My mind now
retreated to that long-ago day when Phoebe had so starkly reminded me of how few choices I had. If he has taken a mistress, do not imagine you’ll ever benefit by taking the slightest notice of it.
Well, Sally had taken notice. Yet not much had changed for women since then. It’s why, I suppose, Eliza Hamilton hadn’t sued
for a divorce, even though she had proof of adultery in a published confession by her own husband.
I should be proud that my daughter-in-law’s dignity forbade her from meekly allowing Charles to humiliate her. The trouble
was, she’d pay for that dignity. Indeed, it was likely to cost her all future happiness.
“My son is wrong, and I’ll beg him to reform and seek some way to earn your forgiveness. I’ll speak to him after the term’s
end on our way back from Philadelphia.”
I prayed this might be long enough for Sally’s anger to burn out and for my son to come to his senses. But that night, I told
John, “Whatever happens, we cannot let Charlie’s wife or children starve.”
John nodded. “Beyond that, I never wish to hear his name again.”
Perhaps John, too, would calm with time. For now, he retreated into the work of the country, urging me to do the same. And
amongst our most important duties was the funeral for George Washington.
“What will we wear?” John asked.
“It will be cold—your black coat might suffice,” I said. “But I’ll need a black cape and muff. We must look decent and suitably
dressed, but not too becoming, as the world’s eyes will be upon us.”
Thus, John and I stood together in the cold on the day after Christmas as the chief state mourners. A sixteen-cannon salute
was given along the parade route with a riderless horse and an empty bier. Citizens lining the way wept openly. The eulogy
called Washington “First in war, first in peace and first in the hearts of his countrymen.”
Though my husband would later feel frustration at forever being compared to George Washington and found wanting, John did
not bristle at this. On the day of the funeral, President John Adams was more than willing to give his predecessor his due.
As the eulogy reached its conclusion, I thought it was perhaps a blessing that Washington was taken before he reached the
age that bodily decay and imbecility effaced from memory his brilliant days. Washington would always be remembered as the
father of his country. His glory was secure.
Now others would try to rise up in the emanations of that glory—including, especially, Alexander Hamilton. “He thinks he’s
the heir,” John complained that night. “But Hamilton has not the greatness of spirit to be president. He does not care for all American citizens without regard to party. He’s only the High Pontiff of Federalism.”
There’d been a recent confrontation between the two men in Trenton, and John was still enraged by it. “Imagine my surprise
to be set upon suddenly, when, without invitation or summons, in strides Hamilton. Without so much as a by your leave.”
We all knew that a general ought to wait with his troops until he was summoned by the president. Nevertheless, my husband
explained, “He’d come to remonstrate against the idea of peace with France. War, war, war is what he demanded. And his vehemence wrought the little man up to such a degree of heat, and with such agitation, that
I really pitied him instead of being displeased.”
I doubted that last part very much, since John was still displeased. “Never before in my life had I heard a man talk like such a fool!” he fumed. “That insolent coxcomb has fixed his eye on the highest station in America and hates everyone who stands in his way.”
Well, John Adams was standing in the way. And my husband wouldn’t be easy to move. “I must disband Hamilton’s army. If I don’t,
he’ll defy my orders. And I’ll end up having to raise a second army to stop Hamilton from invading Florida or South America or some other place.”
My husband didn’t ask for my advice in this, but I questioned his course of action anyway. “Isn’t it a little mad to disband
the army when we aren’t entirely sure that the danger of war with France has passed? We may still need that army against Bonaparte.”
John’s nostrils flared. He knew that the French Revolution was over; that Napoleon Bonaparte was now France’s tyrannical dictator
on the march. Yet he said, “Without Washington to keep General Hamilton on a leash, I believe he’s the more immediate danger
to this republic. Either Hamilton is stark raving mad, or I am.”