The Conqueror

VII

The let­ter from Gen­er­al Schuyler, giv­ing his con­sent to the en­gage­ment, has not been pre­served; but some time af­ter he had oc­ca­sion to write Hamil­ton a busi­ness let­ter, in which the fol­low­ing pas­sage oc­curs:--

You can­not, my dear sir, be more hap­py at the con­nex­ion you have made with my fam­ily than I am. Un­til the child of a par­ent has made a ju­di­cious choice, his heart is in con­tin­ual anx­iety; but this anx­iety was re­moved on the mo­ment I dis­cov­ered it was on you she had placed her af­fec­tions. I am pleased with ev­ery in­stance of del­ica­cy in those who are so dear to me; and I think I read your soul on the oc­ca­sion you men­tion. I shall there­fore on­ly en­treat you to con­sid­er me as one who wish­es in ev­ery way to pro­mote your hap­pi­ness.

Gen­er­al Schuyler was or­dered by Congress to Mor­ris­town to con­fer with Wash­ing­ton. He took a house, sent for his fam­ily, and re­mained un­til late in the sum­mer. The clos­est friend­ship was formed be­tween Schuyler and Hamil­ton, which, with com­mon po­lit­ical in­ter­ests and deep­en­ing sym­pa­thy, in­creased from year to year. The good fairies of Nevis who had at­tend­ed Hamil­ton's birth nev­er did bet­ter for him than when they gave him Eliz­abeth Schuyler for wife and Philip Schuyler for fa­ther and friend. And they had blast­ed the very roots of the chief im­ped­iment to suc­cess, for he tri­umphed steadi­ly and with­out ef­fort over what has poi­soned the lives of many men; and tri­umphed in spite of the fact that the truth was vague­ly known al­ways, and kept in the quiver of his en­emies.

As Hamil­ton was ab­sent from Head­quar­ters but sel­dom dur­ing Gen­er­al Schuyler's so­journ, the lovers met al­most ev­ery evening, and oc­ca­sion­al­ly Wash­ing­ton, who pos­sessed cer­tain sym­pa­thies based on long ex­pe­ri­ence, would give Hamil­ton a morn­ing free, and sug­gest a ride through the woods. Nev­er were two peo­ple hap­pi­er nor more in­her­ent­ly suit­ed. Hamil­ton's in­stinct had guid­ed him safe­ly past more bril­liant wom­en to one who will­ing­ly would fold her­self round his en­er­get­ic in­di­vid­ual­ity of many parts, fit­ting in­to ev­ery di­vi­sion and crevice. She was re­cep­tive, sym­pa­thet­ic, adap­tive, with suf­fi­cient in­tel­li­gence to ap­pre­ci­ate the su­perla­tive brain of the man whom she nev­er ceased to wor­ship and to re­gard as a be­ing of un­mor­tal clay. A bril­liant am­bi­tious wife in the same house with Hamil­ton might have writ­ten a pic­turesque di­ary, but the do­mes­tic in­stru­ment would have twanged with dis­cords. Hamil­ton was un­selfish, and could not do enough for those he loved; but he was used to the first place, to the un­ques­tioned yield­ing of it to his young high-​might­iness by his clever as­pir­ing friends, by the army of his com­mon ac­quain­tance, and in many ways by Wash­ing­ton him­self. Had he mar­ried An­gel­ica Schuyler, that in­de­pen­dent, high-​spir­it­ed, live­ly, adorable wom­an, prob­ably they would have boxed each oth­er's ears at the end of a week.

Hamil­ton made the dash on Stat­en Is­land with Lord Ster­ling, and in March went with Gen­er­al St. Clair and Colonel Car­ring­ton to ne­go­ti­ate with the British com­mis­sion­ers for the ex­change of pris­on­ers; be­fore the bat­tle of Spring­field he was sent out to re­con­noitre. Oth­er­wise his days were tak­en up bom­bard­ing the Congress with let­ters rep­re­sent­ing the ne­ces­si­ty of draft­ing troops to meet the com­ing emer­gen­cies.

He and Miss Bet­sey Schuyler had a very pret­ty plan, which was noth­ing less than that they should go to Eu­rope on their wed­ding tour, Congress to find his pres­ence nec­es­sary at the Court of France. The sug­ges­tion orig­inat­ed with Lau­rens, who had been asked to go as sec­re­tary to Franklin. He had no wish to go, and know­ing Hamil­ton's ar­dent de­sire to vis­it Eu­rope and grow­ing im­pa­tience with his work, had rec­om­mend­ed his name to the Congress. Gen­er­al Schuyler would have pro­cured a leave of ab­sence for his im­pend­ing son-​in-​law, and sent the young cou­ple to Eu­rope with his bless­ing and a heavy wal­let, but Hamil­ton would as soon have forged a man's name as trav­elled at his ex­pense. He hoped that the Congress would send him. He was keen­ly alive to the val­ue of study­ing Eu­rope at first hand be­fore he was called up­on to help in the mod­elling of the new Re­pub­lic, and the vi­sion of wan­der­ing in his­toric lands with his bride kept him awake at night. More­over, he was des­per­ate­ly tired of his life at Head­quar­ters. When the ex­pe­di­tion to Stat­en Is­land was in ques­tion, he asked Wash­ing­ton, through Lafayette, to give him the com­mand of a bat­tal­ion which hap­pened to be with­out a field-​of­fi­cer. Wash­ing­ton re­fused, part­ly from those mo­tives of pol­icy to which he ev­er showed an al­most nig­gling ad­her­ence, but more be­cause he could not spare his most use­ful aide. Hamil­ton, who was burst­ing for ac­tion of any sort, re­tired to his de­test­ed lit­tle of­fice in an­gry dis­ap­point­ment. But he was a philoso­pher. He ad­just­ed him­self to the In­evitable, and dis­missed the mat­ter from his mind, af­ter reg­is­ter­ing a vow that he would take ad­van­tage of the first ex­cuse which might of­fer to re­sign his po­si­tion.

The Schuylers re­turned to Al­bany. The French fleet ar­rived, and hov­ered well be­yond the range of British guns, hav­ing no de­sire to risk an en­gage­ment un­til re­in­forced. Its Ad­mi­ral, Count Rocham­beau, hav­ing a grievance, Hamil­ton ad­vised a per­son­al con­fer­ence.

“We might sug­gest that he meet us halfway--say at Wethers­field, near Hart­ford,” he added. “That would save us some­thing in trav­el­ling ex­pens­es.”

Wash­ing­ton sighed heav­ily. “We are worse off than you think,” he said. “I might scrape to­geth­er mon­ey enough for half the jour­ney, but no more. Lafayette and his aide must go with us--to say noth­ing of the es­cort. Think of the innkeep­ers' bills, for our­selves and hors­es. What to do I con­fess I do not know, for I should con­fer with this French­man at once.”

“Go we must, sir,” said Hamil­ton, de­cid­ed­ly, “if we have to take up a col­lec­tion--why not? If an ob­ject can­not be ac­com­plished one way, try an­oth­er.” He stood up and emp­tied the con­tents of his pock­ets on the ta­ble. “On­ly five hun­dred beg­gar­ly con­ti­nen­tals,” he said rue­ful­ly. “How­ev­er, who knows what trea­sures may line more care­ful pock­ets than mine? I know they will come forth as spon­ta­neous­ly. Have I your per­mis­sion to try, sir?”

Wash­ing­ton nod­ded, and Hamil­ton ran down­stairs, pressed Meade in­to ser­vice, and to­geth­er they made the round of the of­fi­cers' quar­ters. He re­turned at the end of an hour and threw a huge bun­dle of pa­per on the ta­ble. “On­ly eight thou­sand dol­lars, sir,” he said. “It's the best that any man could do. But I think it may car­ry us through.”

“It will have to,” said Wash­ing­ton. “Re­mind me, my dear boy, if you see me eat­ing too much. I have such an ap­petite!”

They set out on their jour­ney a week lat­er, hav­ing com­mu­ni­cat­ed with Rocham­beau, who agreed to meet them at Wethers­field. All went well, for the wretched inns were not ex­or­bi­tant, un­til they reached Hart­ford. They ar­rived late in the af­ter­noon, weary and ravenous. Af­ter a bath and a glimpse of lux­uri­ous beds, they marched to the din­ing room and sat down to a sump­tu­ous repast, whose like had greet­ed nei­ther nos­tril nor palate for many a day. The wines were mel­low, the to­bac­co green, the con­ver­sa­tion gay un­til mid­night. Hamil­ton sang “The Drum,” and many an­oth­er song rang among the rafters. Wash­ing­ton re­tired first, bid­ding the young­sters en­joy them­selves. The young men arose at their ac­cus­tomed hour next morn­ing, with ap­petites re­newed, but wait­ed in vain for their Chief. Hamil­ton fi­nal­ly knocked at his door. There was no re­sponse, and a ser­vant told him that the Gen­er­al had gone out near­ly an hour be­fore. He went in search, bid­ding Lafayette and M'Hen­ry re­main be­hind. As he had an­tic­ipat­ed, he found Wash­ing­ton in a se­clud­ed nook, en­gaged in prayer. He wait­ed a few mo­ments, then coughed re­spect­ful­ly. Wash­ing­ton im­me­di­ate­ly rose, his ha­rassed face show­ing lit­tle re­lief.

“Is any­thing wrong, sir?” asked Hamil­ton, anx­ious­ly.

“Alas!” said the Gen­er­al, “I won­der that you, too, are not driv­en to prayer, to in­ter­cede for help in this dis­tress­ing predica­ment. Think of that ex­trav­agant repast we con­sumed last night. God help me, but I was so fam­ished I nev­er gave a thought to con­se­quences. Un­ques­tion­ably, the break­fast will be on a like scale. _And we have but eight thou­sand dol­lars with which to pay the bill_!”

“It is true! I nev­er gave the mat­ter a thought--I am curs­ed­ly ex­trav­agant. And we must get home! I sup­pose we shall have to fast all the way. Well, we've fast­ed be­fore, and the mem­ory of last night's din­ner may sus­tain us--”

“But this man's bill! How are we to meet it?”

“Shall I speak to him, sir? Tell him un­re­served­ly our predica­ment--that these wretched eight thou­sand dol­lars are all we have in the world? Per­haps he is a good pa­tri­ot, and will call the ac­count square.”

“Do,” said Wash­ing­ton, “and come here and tell me what he says. I am too mor­ti­fied to show my face. I shall not en­ter the house again.”

Hamil­ton walked slow­ly to the house, lit­tle car­ing for his er­rand. He re­turned on a dead run.

“We are saved, sir!” he cried, al­most in Wash­ing­ton's arms. “Gov­er­nor Trum­bull has sent word to all the hostel­ries that we are to be his guests while we are in the state of Con­necti­cut!”

Wash­ing­ton said his prayers again, and ate two chick­ens for break­fast.

On the re­turn from this con­fer­ence, when ap­proach­ing the house of Gen­er­al Bene­dict Arnold, op­po­site West Point, where they were in­vit­ed for break­fast, Wash­ing­ton sud­den­ly de­cid­ed to ac­com­pa­ny Lafayette, who wished to in­spect some earth­works.

“You need not come,” he said to Hamil­ton and M'Hen­ry. “I know that you are both in love with Mrs. Arnold. Go on. We will join you present­ly.”

The young men were greet­ed with ef­fu­sion by the pret­ty host­ess, with ab­sent re­serve by her hus­band. Mrs. Arnold left the room to or­der that the break­fast be de­layed. While she was ab­sent, a note was brought to Arnold. He opened it, turned green, and ris­ing hasti­ly, an­nounced that his pres­ence was de­mand­ed at West Point and left the room. The sound of a smoth­ered scream and fall came from above. A mo­ment lat­er the aides heard the sound of gal­lop­ing hoofs.

Their sus­pi­cions aroused, they ran out­side. A mes­sen­ger, with a despatch from Colonel Jame­son, await­ed Wash­ing­ton's ar­rival. Hamil­ton tore open the pa­per. It con­tained the news that a British spy had been cap­tured with­in the lines. In an in­stant Hamil­ton and M'Hen­ry were on their hors­es and off in pur­suit of the fugi­tive. That Arnold was a traitor and had fled to the British war-​ship, _Vul­ture_, hov­er­ing in Haver­straw Bay, a slow­er wit than Hamil­ton's would have as­sumed. The ter­ri­fied scoundrel was too quick for them. He had rid­den over a precipice to the shore be­low, and un­der pro­tec­tion of a flag of truce was far down the riv­er when his pur­suers sight­ed him. They re­turned with all speed.

I shall not re­peat the oft-​told tale of An­dre's cap­ture, tri­al, and death. Nowhere has it been so well told as by Hamil­ton him­self, in a let­ter to Lau­rens, print­ed at the time and uni­ver­sal­ly read. It is on­ly nec­es­sary here to al­lude to his share in that un­hap­pi­est episode of the war. When Wash­ing­ton reached the house his aide was en­gaged in con­sol­ing Mrs. Arnold, who was shriek­ing and rav­ing, weep­ing and faint­ing; im­pos­ing on Hamil­ton a task var­ied and puz­zling, even to one of his school­ing. But she was very young, very charm­ing, and in a trag­ic plight. Wash­ing­ton him­self wiped away a tear, and for a mo­ment for­got the bare­ly avert­ed con­se­quences of her hus­band's trea­son, while he as­sist­ed Hamil­ton in as­suag­ing a grief so bit­ter and so ap­peal­ing. As soon as was pos­si­ble he sent her through the British lines.

But Hamil­ton quick­ly for­got Mrs. Arnold in his sym­pa­thy and ad­mi­ra­tion for the un­for­tu­nate An­dre. He con­ceived a quick and poignant friend­ship for the bril­liant ac­com­plished young En­glish­man, with the dreamy soft face of a girl, and a met­tle which had brought him to de­struc­tion. Hamil­ton did all he could to save him, short of sug­gest­ing to An­dre to ask Sir Hen­ry Clin­ton to of­fer Arnold in ex­change. He en­list­ed the sym­pa­thy of the of­fi­cers at West Point in the pris­on­er's be­half, gave up his leisure to di­vert­ing An­dre's mind, and per­suad­ed Wash­ing­ton to de­lay the ex­ecu­tion and send an in­di­rect sug­ges­tion to Clin­ton to of­fer the ex­change him­self. When all hope was over, he per­son­al­ly begged Wash­ing­ton to heed An­dre's re­quest for a sol­dier's death, and not con­demn such a man to the gib­bet. Wash­ing­ton glad­ly would have saved his in­ter­est­ing pris­on­er's life, and felt deeply for him, but again those mo­tives of pol­icy pre­vailed, and An­dre was ex­ecut­ed like a com­mon male­fac­tor.