And he does, intoning Alexander’s words, “‘If these states should either be wholly disunited, or only united in partial confederacies, the subdivisions into which they might be thrown—”
“—would have frequent and violent contest with each other,” I finish, for I know the words by heart. “Federalist Number Six.”
A smile brightens Lincoln’s rugged countenance. “Indeed. And ‘every man who loves liberty ought to cherish in his heart a due attachment to the Union of America.’”
“That was Mr. Madison,” I say, unable to suppress a smirk. “Federalist Number Forty-One. But I’ll give you another chance. What do you say of Federalist Number Nine?”
“Are you testing me, Mrs. Hamilton?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye.
“I am,” I admit.
“‘A firm union will be of the utmost importance to the peace and liberty of the states,’” he quotes, then leans in closer. “Have I passed?”
I cannot help but laugh. “You have, congressman.” He helps me toward my seat, located in the shade near the podium. As I sit, he bows then turns to take his leave. “Mr. Lincoln?”
He raises a craggy eyebrow. “Yes, madam?”
Because I know Lincoln to believe that the institution of slavery is founded on both injustice and bad policy, I’m emboldened to say, “The true test is making certain that those who died in this country’s service have not died in vain; in furthering the unfinished work our founders so nobly advanced.”
He bows again. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Finally, the assembly settles and the crowd hushes for the oration commemorating George Washington. Eyeing the block of marble that will one day form the base of a giant obelisk monument and grasping the pendant of his hair I still wear around my neck, I remember all we owe this great man.
But Washington isn’t the only patriot to whom a debt is owed.
And some of them may never have a grand marble monument, no matter how much they deserve one. I’ll make my peace with that, knowing that Alexander’s accomplishments are inextricably entwined with Washington’s. A monument to George Washington, I tell myself, is a monument to Alexander, too. And even to my father, in a way.
Both of them, I know, would be glad of this day.
Perhaps the speaker knows it, too, because he asks, “Which of us does not realize that unseen witnesses are around us? Think ye, that the patriot soldiers or statesmen, who stood around Washington in war and peace, are absent from a scene like this? Adams and Jefferson, by whose lives and deaths this day has been doubly hallowed; Hamilton and Madison, are present, visibly present, in the venerated persons of those nearest and dearest to them in life,” he says, pausing to turn and point at Dolley and me, bidding us to stand.
We do, hands clasped. And the crowd’s applause vibrates under my feet. I lift my eyes heavenward into the bright July sky, wondering if the orator speaks truly.
Are you here, Alexander?
As if in answer, at that very moment, the speaker recites a portion of the Farewell Address, calling out over the crowd: “‘Properly estimate the immense value of your National Union to your happiness and to your political safety and prosperity, watching for its preservation with jealous anxiety; discountenancing any who suggest it can be abandoned; and indignantly frowning upon every attempt to alienate any portion of the country from the rest.’”
Washington’s words. But Alexander’s, too.
Even a few of mine.
From the corner of my eye, I see Congressman Lincoln lean forward, listening intently. And warmth steals over me to realize that even beyond the grave, Alexander Hamilton still speaks to his country and his countrymen. That he’ll continue to speak to generation after generation of Americans. That he’s speaking to me, even now, as the sunlight plays warm over my cheeks.
And I nearly laugh for the unexpected joy of our reunion.
For nearly fifty years, I’ve searched for my husband. At the Pastures, on the river, at his gravesite, and in the empty rooms of the house we built together. In portraits and busts and the faces of his children. In letters, pamphlets, account books, newspaper clippings, and treatises. I’ve searched for Alexander, despairing that there was no part of him still in this world, and that I couldn’t be where any part of him is now.
But Alexander is here, as warm and alive as the day we renewed our marriage and made love in the sun. He’s inside me and all around me in the country that was created in his image. For there’s not one person in the crowd who would be here without him.
This city, this government, this nation, would not exist without his efforts.
Washington might be first in the hearts of his countrymen.
But this is Alexander Hamilton’s country.
A stone monument can crumble—all eventually do. But Alexander built a monument for himself of ideas and ideals, weaving himself into the fabric of the nation such that not a thread can be pulled without destroying the whole.
Oh, there are those who tried. And I supposed they might keep on trying. But, as the speaker says, we’ve put the great American-built locomotive “Liberty” on its course, and now people the world over examine the model of this mighty engine, and copy its construction and imitate its machinery. Alexander is everywhere people are heard calling their rulers to account. Alexander is everywhere the cry is raised for the right to vote, trial by jury, freedom of the press, written constitutions, representative systems, and republican forms.
Which means I’ve been looking for my husband, all along, in the wrong place.
Alexander once wrote, “The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for among old parchments or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.”
And neither can Alexander Hamilton be.
So, as the Marine Corp band plays “The Star-Spangled Banner,” accompanied by the voices of twenty thousand of
