Secretary Hamilton had been determined to stretch the limits of federal power, and Colonel Hamilton did just that. In the war, it is said, he longed to command an army, and in peace he created a conflict so he could have his wish. I cannot say if he took any satisfaction that the enemy he pursued was entirely of his own manufacture, and mostly in his own imagination.
I could not remain in Philadelphia or anywhere else I was known, but I was not done with revenge. I would not act so rashly as I had once, but I would act. Two years later, I delivered a series of anonymous letters, informing Hamilton’s republican enemies of his affair with Maria Reynolds, and if I embellished his crimes, suggesting he used federal money to pay off the lady’s husband, I will not apologize. Hamilton was not above dirty tricks, and I saw no reason to be above them either. The affair ruined Hamilton for public office and made it impossible that he could ever stand for President. It would be enough for the time being.
After more than ten years had passed, I dared to impose upon my friendship with an old associate of Hamilton’s, Aaron Burr, previously the senator from New York and now vice president of the United States. He and Hamilton had once been friends, but they had ended up on opposite sides of the Federalist divide. Burr was well known for showing preference for the ladies. He was a handsome man, though not tall, and already his hair was beginning to recede, but he never failed to charm, and I always enjoyed his company.
It had seemed for so long, particularly in the wake of the Maria Reynolds affair, that Hamilton would destroy himself. Yet, as the years went by, Hamilton moved from one disaster to another and always survived, always remained in the public eye, always voiced his long-winded opinions publicly and vociferously. I began to whisper in the vice president’s ear of the many wrongs Hamilton had done him, the terrible things Hamilton said of him. A man of Mr. Burr’s stamp could not long endure insults.
B urr arrived at my front door the afternoon of July 11, 1804. His hair was wild, his clothes stained with mud, his hands shook. “I ought never to have listened to you,” he said, standing on my stoop. “I’ve killed him.”
I could not suppress a smile. “Come inside.”
He stepped in but turned to face the door. “I cannot stay. I must flee. I’ll be wanted for murder.”
“Nonsense. You are the vice president.”
“This is a nation of laws, Mrs. Maycott. Being the vice president will count for nothing. Why did I ever listen to you and allow this petty squabble to escalate? He insults your honor, you said. He mocks you in print, you said. He will not duel, you said. Well, he did duel, and I’ve shot him.”
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Not yet. But he will be soon. He was shot in the hip and bled tremendously. It was a terrible wound. He cannot live long.”
“He was a monster. He is one, so long as he lives.”
“He threw away his shot,” said Burr. “My God, he fired first and threw away his shot, and I, cool as you please, aimed directly at him. I am not a good shot. I never thought I would hit him. I only wanted him to see my earnestness.”
“I will not have you regretting it. It is no more than he deserves for what he did to Andrew.”
“Who is Andrew?” asked the vice president.
“It doesn’t matter now. Not to you. Hamilton brought this upon himself, and you cannot be blamed. The world will not blame you. Hamilton is hated, and you will be loved for this.”
This turned out not to be the case at all. Hamilton’s scandals, his British leanings, his Federalist schemes, and his insane plan to march on South America at the head of an army, a New World Bonaparte-all these things were forgotten. Hamilton in death was recast as a hero. Once word of the duel circulated, one would think the vice president had dug up the body of George Washington and shot it full of holes at Weehawken.
“Why did you lead me to this?” Burr cried out. “Oh, never mind. I haven’t the time to hear why or how. I shall flee at once, to South Carolina, I think, to be with Theodosia.”
This was his daughter, whom he loved beyond all else. It is nice for him that he had someone to whom to turn in his dark hour.
And so he left me. I thought about seeking out the dying Hamilton, to confront him with what he had done and all he had to answer for, but if he were alive, he would be in pain and he would be prayerful. He would beg my forgiveness like a dying Christian, and it would only plant in me feelings of regret. I had no interest in that, so instead I returned to my sitting room, where I read a charming novel called Belinda by Maria Edgeworth. It was amusing but slight, as novels were becoming. I thought, as I often did, that perhaps I should attempt once more to write one of my own, but I could not help but feel that novels had missed their chance. They were but silly things, and nothing I had to say would rightly belong in one.
Historical Note
As with my previous historical novels, this is a work of fiction based on genuine events. Unlike the previous novels, this book intertwines fact and fiction more liberally. Necessarily this note contains “spoilers,” so I recommend holding off until you’ve finished your reading.
In previous novels I have always tried to focus more on major historical events and trends rather than on historical figures, but it is difficult to write about the Federalist period without including at least a few canonical figures. Though the principal characters in the novel-Joan Maycott and Ethan Saunders-are fictional, many of the people within these pages are real, and I’ve done my best to portray them with at least reasonable accuracy. Readers will, of course, be familiar with Alexander Hamilton, but other figures from history include William Duer, Hugh Henry Brackenridge, Philip Freneau, Anne Bingham, and James and Maria Reynolds. Aaron Burr, as most readers will know, did shoot Alexander Hamilton in a duel on the plains of Weehawken (thus becoming the first sitting American vice president to be involved in a scandalous shooting incident), though it is a matter of some controversy as to whether or not he shot Hamilton on purpose or if Hamilton threw away his shot.
Hamilton’s pet project was, indeed, the Bank of the United States, and while William Duer’s reckless trading habits brought about the first American financial panic in early 1792, I’ve fictionalized the matter of the plot against the bank. The historical buildup to the Panic of ’92-the machinations in government securities, the attempt to overtake the Million Bank, and Duer’s bankruptcy-are all a matter of record. I’ve merely made Joan and her Whiskey Rebels the cause of these events.
This novel, in many respects, details the events that led up to the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, which numerous historians and novelists have dealt with in much depth. The insurrection was indeed caused by an onerous tax levied upon whiskey, a commodity more used for trade and consumption than generating revenue, by Alexander Hamilton, who was eager not only to raise money but also to test the new power of a strong federal government. Conditions on the western frontier were every bit as brutal as I describe, and probably more so.