Jefferson and Hamilton (17 page)

Lee was convicted on several charges and suspended from command for a year. Incensed, the voluble Lee spent his year of penance openly assailing those whom he called the “dirty earwigs” surrounding Washington. Hamilton and young Laurens, he said, had joined in a “hellish plan” to destroy him, just as they had earlier sought to smear and annihilate everyone who questioned Washington. Lee was correct, though his own foolish and insubordinate
behavior in the wake of the court martial ultimately led Congress to dismiss him from the army forever.
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Given what had befallen Lee and others identified as disloyal to Washington, no one thereafter dared to openly criticize America’s commander.

Hamilton spent fewer years than Jefferson as a bachelor, but he too endured a lonely period when he ached for love and companionship. Jefferson was absorbed with his studies and for the most part secluded at Shadwell during his early adulthood. Hamilton was twenty-two when he moved into Washington’s headquarters. Unlike Jefferson, Hamilton hardly lived in isolation, but in some ways he was terribly alone. He had no relatives to visit, and he appears to have maintained ties with only those prep school and college chums whose stars were rising and who might someday be useful to him. Indeed, he seemed wary of close attachments, remarking at the time that he wished “to keep my happiness independent [of] the caprice of others.”
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His only truly close relationships were with some of his fellow aides. They called him “Ham” or “Hammie,” kidded and joked with him, and appear to have been drawn to him by genuine feelings of friendship and admiration.

The lingering image of Revolutionary War soldiers is that of grim men in the maw of extreme deprivation, like the hungry and shivering troops at Valley Forge. All too often that was true of enlisted men, but it was rarely the case for officers, and even less so for those at headquarters. In the northern states, where Washington remained until 1781, the campaign season more or less corresponded to today’s baseball season. From November until the spring, when the weather was cold and wet, and America’s unpaved roads were impassable, armies suspended offensive operations and went into winter quarters. That was the signal for the wives and children of many officers to come to camp, where some remained for months. While the families were present, camp life for the higher-ranking officers became more festive. The presence of women often added a spirited touch to the main mess in mid-afternoon. Furthermore, on many evenings, while the cold and at times malnourished soldiery huddled in rude cabins only a few hundred yards away, the officers enjoyed formal dinners at which bands of musicians played, gala balls that stretched deep into the night, and plays in which younger officers acted. During these surreal social seasons, older women and men might play match-maker, introducing eligible younger officers to the daughters of senior officers and civilian officials who were in camp. No one met, or became infatuated, with more women than Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.
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During the eighteen months after he returned to headquarters at Valley
Forge, Hamilton courted, or sought to woo, several young women who visited family members in the army. He so often flitted from one woman to another that Martha Washington named her tomcat Hamilton. Unlike Jefferson, Hamilton was hardly discomfited and tongue-tied in the presence of women. He boasted that he was a “renowned” lady’s man, equally at ease with “a goddess” or “a mere mortal,” and that “ALL FOR LOVE is my motto.” However, he confessed that he found each woman to be “a most complex, intricate and enigmatical being.”
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Hamilton may have fancied himself a lady killer, but he might more aptly be characterized as lovelorn and emotionally isolated even amid the social whirl at camp. He denied that he wished to marry. “I have plagues enough” without taking on “that
greatest of all
,” he said, though he admitted that he was “willing to take the
trouble
of [women] upon myself.” He may have been ambivalent toward marriage, especially given his mother’s sad history with both Lavien and James Hamilton. Yet, like Jefferson, young Hamilton was profoundly lonely. He dreamed of “that most delectable thing, called matrimony,” and the comforts and companionship it might bring. He yearned, he said, for a “young, handsome” woman with “a good shape,” one who was genteel with “a little learning,” sensible and good-natured, a believer in God, and with sufficient money “to administer to her own extravagancies.”

His ideal woman was slow to turn up, and not entirely because of Hamilton’s shortcomings. Whereas Jefferson had once feared that committing his heart would jeopardize the completion of his education and legal training, soldiering and warfare impeded Hamilton.
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Alone, overworked, and overwrought by the not infrequent pressure-cooker environment in headquarters, Hamilton drew closer to Colonel Laurens, his fellow aide, than he had ever been with any other person. When Laurens, a South Carolinian, departed in 1779 to fight in defense of his state, Hamilton was crushed by his absence and often sent him missives that pulsated with homoerotic yearning. Addressing Laurens as “my Dear,” Hamilton confessed that his heart was “set upon you.” He added that his friend had stolen “my affections without my consent.” Calling himself “a jealous lover,” Hamilton made known that he was “piqued” when Laurens did not write. He exhorted Laurens to fight hard, but not to take unnecessary risks, as he could not bear to lose him. Hamilton missed Laurens so badly that he requested a leave from his duties as an aide so that he might go to South Carolina and fight alongside him. “I am disgusted with every thing in this world but yourself,” he told Laurens. Washington turned down Hamilton’s request.
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It cannot be said with certainty that Hamilton was homosexual or bisexual. Many people used the term “feminine” in describing certain of his qualities,
though such a characterization hardly points to one’s sexual disposition. What is more, the use of overelaborate expressions of same-sex affection was not unknown in the letter-writing style of the eighteenth century. The one thing that can be said for certain is that the erotic tone in Hamilton’s missives to Laurens ended abruptly once he met Elizabeth Schuyler.

Young Hamilton had first met Elizabeth in the fall of 1777, but there had been no sparks. However, when she came to camp in the winter of 1780, Hamilton was swept off his feet. He was twenty-five; she was twenty-two. Betsey, as he soon began to call her, was petite, submissive, alluring, and the daughter of a rich and powerful New Yorker. She was everything that Hamilton had wished for. He found her attractive, especially her “fine black eyes,” and he was captivated by her beauty, frankness, “innocent simplicity,” “good hearted” nature, and the “sweet softness and delicacy” of her “mind and manners.” He told Laurens she was “not a genius,” but she had “sense enough to be agreeable.” He told Betsey that she had “a lovely form” and “a mind still more lovely.” Nothing was more important than her “tenderness to me,” which he probably had never experienced from a woman.

Hamilton spoke of the “apprehensive … nature of [his] love,” perhaps an admission that he was far from the self-assured paramour that he wished others to think. Or, he may simply have worried that things might not work out, especially as he could not get away to see her. They were engaged by the time she left camp late in the spring, but he did not see her again for seven months. He had often criticized other officers who left the army when an action might occur, and he would not consider such a step. In the early stages of their separation, he brooded over the meaning of her every phrase, each lapse in her correspondence, and the ever-present possibility of a rival suitor in Albany. He reminded her of his virtues—“I have talents and a good heart”—but acknowledged his shortcomings, including his immodesty and lack of wealth. He was not the most handsome man, he added, but he would bestow on her “a heart fraught with all a fond woman can wish.” He wrote to her about once each week. After dashing off crucial letters for Washington, he would find the time to carefully draft his own long missive, frequently probing uncertainly to discover whether Betsey had “abated [her] affection” for him. “
I would this moment give the world to be near you only to kiss your sweet hand
,” he told her after they had been apart for about a hundred days. A month later he confessed that she had given him something to live for, though he made it clear that, unlike many of his fellow aides, he would not leave the army until the war was over.
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Late in November 1780, accompanied by his fellow aide James McHenry, Hamilton made the long ride from Passaic Falls, New Jersey, to Albany.
Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton had been a slave to his duties. Other than trips on official business, this was his first time away from the Continental army since he had entered the service more than five years before.

On December 14 he and Elizabeth, surrounded by McHenry and members of the Schuyler family, were wed at the Pastures, the Schuylers’ two-story brick Georgian mansion perched atop a hill in Albany. Hamilton had written to his father, inviting him to come from the Caribbean for the festivities. James Hamilton did not make the trip, and it is not clear whether he even answered his son’s letter.
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The first years of war had been filled with crises of battle. After 1778, the army faced a new enemy—a great financial calamity. The value of America’s paper currency had depreciated by the end of 1777, though Washington was not at first overly alarmed. Congress was taking steps to solve the problem, including appealing for action by the states, which had issued nearly half the paper in circulation. Nearly every state addressed the problem, as did numerous regional conventions, local committees, and town meetings. Furthermore, France made the first of a series of loans to its ally. Although America’s economic woes remained stubbornly intractable, Washington was quietly confident through 1778 that the allies could bring hostilities to a swift end.

In January 1779, Congress summoned Washington to confer about his strategy for that year. His monthlong stay in Philadelphia produced a dramatic change in his outlook. He came away convinced that in a decentralized system that made the states sovereign, America’s economic distress would never be solved. The nub of the problem was that Congress had no authority to raise and collect revenue. For years, the states had printed staggering amounts of paper currency. It depreciated rapidly, losing 75 to 80 percent of its value during the initial four years of the war. The states also piled on taxes. This toxic stew nearly brought commerce to a halt. What is more, little of the money raised by the states reached the national treasury. Congress sent stirring warnings to the states that the war might be lost because of financial insolvency brought on by “broken contracts and violated faith,” but barely one-half of the $95 million that it requested was ever received by the national government.
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Congress had also been printing paper currency. By 1779, it had issued more than $241 million in paper. It began to depreciate in 1777, but the next year it went into free fall, the most rapid currency depreciation in U.S. history—faster than that which occurred in the Great Depression in the 1930s. By the time Congress summoned Washington to Philadelphia at the beginning of 1779, eight Continental dollars were required to purchase one dollar in specie; within a few months, the value of Continental money had
dropped to about two cents on the dollar. Congress’s only immediate salvation was to borrow from the public by selling loan certificates and to seek even more loans from France. Learning the magnitude of the financial crisis, Washington concluded that substantive change was essential. The “cure must be radical,” was how he put it.
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Washington also told Congress that the collapse of the currency tied his hands, making him unable to flesh out his battalions. He was left, he claimed, with no choice but to remain on the defensive. The economic crisis was real, though Washington exaggerated its impact on the army’s freedom of action. More money could have been printed, and though that would have piled up more indebtedness and not been fiscally sound, it would have been preferable to losing the war. Moreover, the states had some money to spend and, in fact, in both 1779 and 1780 several northern states urged an invasion of Canada. At one point during those years the president of the Continental Congress said that every congressman favored an immediate invasion of Canada. But Washington was unwilling to act unless the objective was to retake New York. Aware that many in Congress questioned the wisdom of his inactivity, Washington attributed it to the economic dilemma.
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Hamilton never mentioned the nation’s economic problems until shortly before Washington visited Congress, and at that time he seemed not to comprehend the deeper causes of the plight. He blamed the great scarcities on profiteering merchants and corrupt politicians who had acted on secret information to monopolize the flour market and make windfall profits. He was correct that “monopoly and extortion” and “arts of corruption” could produce great evils, but he did not see that the fundamental problem ran deeper.
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Initially, Hamilton may have derived his ideas from Washington, who believed that much of the problem was caused by big businessmen “preying upon the vitals of this great country.” Washington additionally believed that the nation’s economic ills were the result of a decline in the quality of the delegates to Congress. The composition of Congress had changed markedly since Washington’s departure four years earlier. Three-fourths of those who had been his colleagues in Congress in June 1775 were now gone. Some had left for the army, and some—Benjamin Franklin and John Adams, for instance—were abroad on diplomatic missions, but like Jefferson, most had gone home to serve at the state level. With considerable justification, Washington thought those who were not serving the nation were shortsighted. Early in 1779 he wrote to a fellow Virginian asking, “where are our Men of abilities? Why do they not come forth to save their Country?” About thirty months after Jefferson left Congress, Washington pointedly asked: Where are “Jefferson & others” in this time of need?
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