Alex and Eliza: A Love Story(8)
As a child of the Caribbean, Alex had weathered dozens of hurricanes, but this was like nothing he had ever seen or heard of. Struggling to make sense of the destruction, of the puniness of man’s desires against the fury of the natural world, he sketched out a description of the storm’s fury in a letter to his father. Before he mailed it, however, he showed it to Hugh Knox, his pastor, who had served as an intellectual mentor to Alex since his father’s desertion and his mother’s death. Alex had only been looking for an adult eye to make sure that he hadn’t misspelled any words, but, far from criticizing the letter or correcting any errors, Knox extolled its virtues and even asked Alex’s permission to publish a copy in the Royal Danish American Gazette, which carried news of the Caribbean to the wider world. Alex was flattered, and consented. Even then he wasn’t thinking of any benefit accruing to him from his missive. Yet, when Reverend Knox told him that a group of wealthy residents in the province of New York had been so impressed by his account that they’d taken up a collection to bring the young writer north so that he could further his education, Alex thought his pastor was toying with him. But the offer and, more to the point, the stipend and the first-class ticket were all real, and less than a month after the hurricane devastated St. Croix, Alex left the tropical islands of his youth for the cold northern lands. At the age of seventeen he saw snow for the very first time. It was as white as sugar and, to Alex, just as sweet.
The following years were a blur, as he enrolled in King’s College to pursue a career in the law and then dropped out of college to fight for the cause of independence. The patrons who sponsored his journey came from some of the northern colonies’ most respected families, above all, William Livingston, a scion of the great New York clan, who took Alex under his wing and, often, into his home. Livingston’s daughter Kitty was a beautiful, vivacious girl, fully aware of her good looks and good fortune, and unashamed to flaunt both. Though unspoken, Alex understood that Livingston’s patronage didn’t extend to bringing a nameless Caribbean immigrant into his own family. Like Alex, Livingston could trace his lineage back to the lesser line of a noble family, but unlike Alex’s father, Livingston had done his family proud and had no interest in diluting its blood with unknown stock. This was the New World, where men made their own names. Alex would have to make the name Hamilton carry its own weight, rather than ride on the coattails of the name Livingston.
It was from Kitty that Alex first heard the name Elizabeth Schuyler. The Livingston daughters and the Schuyler daughters were all acquainted (and even distantly related, as were most of the families of New York). Though Angelica and Peggy were temperamentally more similar to Kitty, she’d always been closer to Eliza—most likely because there is only room for one flirt in any group of girls, and Kitty occupied that spot with pride.
Kitty knew marrying poor, penniless Alex Hamilton was out of the question, but was more than happy to trade witty banter with him at table and dance quadrilles until four in the morning. But between dances Kitty sang the praises of her friend in distant Albany.
As he made his dreaded way to the grand Schuyler mansion, Alex remembered what Kitty had said, even as he had already forgotten Kitty herself.
“Eliza’s bookish, like you. She cares about fresh ideas. Independence. Democracy. Abolition, they say. I think she’d even marry a man with no name and no fortune, if he cared about the same ideas she did.”
Hmmm, thought Alex, a girl with a prestigious family name who might be open to marrying a man with no name of his own . . .
4
Small Pitchers and Big Ears
Stairs Behind the Landing
Albany, New York
November 1777
Eliza followed her sisters down the stairs to the ballroom, where the musicians were playing a popular Italian violin concerto. At this point, there were still more servants than guests in the upstairs ballroom, and those who had already arrived were too busy plying themselves with food and drink to notice her entrance. Nodding at a few familiar faces, Eliza wove through the room and made her way toward the staircase at the rear of the house. As she descended to the middle landing, the lamps fluttered in a sudden breeze and she felt a rush of cold air around her ankles: Someone was coming in the back door.
Assuming it was a servant from the kitchens, she paused. She didn’t want her entry to be accompanied by a steaming mound of turnips or glistening side of beef. But instead of a servant appearing below, she saw dark coats— uniforms—and the murmur of deep voices. Her father was with a soldier.
“General Schuyler,” an unfamiliar voice said nervously, as a slender, square-shouldered young man came into view. His back was turned so Eliza could not see his face, but his voice was deep and sincere as it grew more concerned. “I must apologize again for being the bearer of such bad news. I want you to know that General Washington has nothing but the greatest respect for your military capabilities and even more for your character. But His Excellency must answer to all thirteen states now, and there are too many voices calling for a scapegoat for the loss of Ticonderoga.”
Eliza leaned over the banister a little more and saw her father next to the young man. If General Schuyler was stouter and shorter than his younger companion, his shoulders were just as square.
“There is no need for you to continue speaking, Colonel Hamilton,” her father said in a curt voice.