And I think he knows it, too.
“Mother,” he says gravely, planting a kiss atop my head. “I shall always be at your side, even as I make my own path here.” His voice is tight with emotion, and all I can do is clutch at his strong, calloused hands.
He’s happy here. And how can I want anything more for my children than to have the liberty to pursue their happiness? It’s what their father lived and died for.
And it is enough.
* * *
This aged petitioner, now numbering nearly fourscore and ten years, the widow of Alexander Hamilton, and the daughter of Philip Schuyler, still cherishing an ardent attachment for the husband of her youth, wishes, before she, too, passes away, to see his publications spread before the American people. Hamilton must be classed among the men who have best known the vital principles and the fundamental conditions of a government. There is not in the constitution of the United States an element to which Hamilton has not powerfully contributed.
—CONGRESSIONAL REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE LIBRARY ON ELIZABETH HAMILTON’S PETITION
Washington City
July 4, 1848
“Do you think they’ve patched up their quarrel?” I ask Mrs. Madison, who sits beside me in a carriage as it slowly rolls through streets lined with thousands of onlookers waving American flags.
We’re riding together to the ceremony celebrating both the Fourth of July and the laying of the cornerstone to the new monument to the memory of George Washington. We’re accorded positions of prominence in the celebration because we’re the only remaining icons of the founding age. The only dignitaries left who personally knew the Father of His Country.
Dolley and I are both turned out as elegantly as two aged widows can be. Me in my fanciest bonnet. The former first lady in a silk taffeta gown, black like my own.
I live in Washington City now. So does Dolley. And she’s still keen for gossip, leaning close enough that the white feather in her turban tickles my cheek. “Has who patched up which quarrel?”
“Why, our husbands in heaven, of course,” I reply.
She laughs and grasps my hand. “Oh, my friend. I’m sure they have.” Dolley pauses a moment before adding, “Mr. Madison never forgot that the Constitution owed much of its existence to yours. And he once confided in me that no one but Hamilton could match him, nor force him to work so hard to make an argument. It’s my belief that our husbands had no peers even amongst the other great men of their time.”
The truth of the sentiment lodges a knot of emotion in my throat. Indeed, it is their friendship that has brought us—and our country—to this day. For though the idea to build a monument to Washington was as old as the nation, and attempts to raise sufficient funds for the cause were nearly two decades old, it was not until the society behind the monument’s erection invited us to take up the mantle of memory that those efforts finally bore fruit.
Working alongside Dolley, I organized dinners, teas, fairs, and every manner of entertainment. Adopting the same martial spirit that I’d once used to raise funds for widows, I’d cajoled contributions from passersby and merchants on my daily two-mile walk about the city. And at my annual New Year’s Day open house—now one of the most anticipated and attended gaieties of the holiday season in Washington—I even required a donation to drink wine from the silver cooler General Washington gifted to us, raising a not insignificant sum for the honor!
I’ve used my newfound celebrity as a relic of the revolution to achieve a different end, too. Over teas with Washington’s ladies and in salons in my parlor and even at a dinner with President and Mrs. Polk at the White House, I won support for a petition I submitted to Congress requesting that its library purchase my husband’s papers and take over the task of preserving his legacy. I won from them, too, the long overdue acknowledgment that my husband was amongst this nation’s fathers.
I hope this victory means Alexander will be remembered when I am gone.
And so it is that we, all of us, have arrived at this great moment. Cannon fire echoes against the bright blue sky, part of a series of salutes that has been ringing out all morning, and church bells chime from every quarter of the city.
Amidst what appear to be tens of thousands of spectators, carriages deliver to the designated site representatives of America—from the president and cabinet, to military units decorated in their proud, bright uniforms, to fire companies and civic organizations with their colorful banners, to delegations of Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and other tribes wearing silver medals depicting Washington. So as to command a view of all the public buildings, the monument is to be built upon a hill overlooking both the Potomac River and the White House.
But all I can see, all I can hear, is the great crowd of my fellow countrymen. Singing, clapping, and chanting Washington’s name as our carriage comes to a halt.
Dolley is assisted down first by some notable, and then an exceedingly tall gentleman in a top hat comes forth to escort me toward the striped awning where we are meant to sit. He holds out his hand, and I grasp it, peering into dark intelligent eyes.
“Thank you, Congressman Lincoln,” I say.
“It is my honor, Mrs. General Hamilton,” he replies.
We make a comical sight walking together, as I’ve become so bent in my old age that he’s forced to stoop to speak to me. “I wished to mention, madam, that in recently rereading The Federalist, I am struck again, as one cannot help but be, by your late husband’s devotion to the national good. Though I fear that he possessed a prescience which too few of our contemporaries share.”
“Oh?” I ask, wishing
