“And that is outrageous,” Theodosia said, bewildering me altogether.
By the time our guests said their farewells, I was still stewing about Theodosia’s gossip. I was, in truth, so bothered by it that I feared to even confide what she’d said to my husband lest he suspect that his wife was the sort of creature who dealt in such vile whispers. But that night, before we went upstairs, I asked, “The baron is a man of high character, is he not?”
Hamilton smiled. “He has his imprudencies, but upon the whole the baron is a gentleman of real intelligence for whom I have a particular esteem. I recall that when he first came to America he could speak no English. And yet, he made himself invaluable. Upon all occasions, he conducted himself like an experienced and brave officer. Did he not impress you at dinner, my dear girl?”
The truth was, the baron had impressed me. I liked him—and his . . . companion. I even liked his dog. And most of all, I liked the salutary effect that he had upon Alexander’s mood. So I didn’t ask about the baron’s imprudencies. And I promised myself that instead of spreading Theodosia’s gossip, I’d instead bask in the success of our party.
“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” I whispered, leaning back against my husband where we paused in the doorway to watch our boy sleep in his cradle.
“I enjoyed myself very much.” Alexander’s hands rested warmly upon my shoulders. “You are a better hostess even than your mother.”
I doubted that. I didn’t have Mama’s perfect understanding of everything that must be done at the dinner table and the order in which it must be done.
But before I could express those thoughts, my husband continued, “I’ve found a precious jewel in you.” Alexander wrapped his arms around me, and then his hands drifted down to my rounding belly. “Have I told you how pleased I am that you’re giving me another child?”
“I shall never tire of hearing it,” I said.
He turned me in his arms so that he could kiss me. He tasted of wine and exhilaration as he lifted me off my sore feet. I remembered how happy he’d been at the birth of Philip, and it filled my heart with hope for the future.
But when we finally had our fill of kisses and turned down the bed, the watchman passed our window crying, “Past ten o’clock and Cranston, the fishmonger, is a vile hypocrite and an enemy of freedom.”
* * *
THE WAR HAD been won, but it had hardly brought peace.
Every day the clamor of the multitudes in the streets grew more menacing. While those streets were christened with new names—Crown Street became Liberty Street, Queen Street became Cedar, King became Pine—in coffeehouses, over bowls of grog, at the theater or wherever workmen struggled to clear away the debris and charred remains of war, we heard that no royalists should be suffered to live amongst patriots.
What right had men who, for eight years, had been destroying property, plundering, burning, killing, and inciting Indian massacres to expect kind and gentle treatment at the hands of a people they’d so deeply injured?
The next day, I heard a commotion outside the front window and looked out to see that the usual ebb and flow of carriages and well-dressed people on our wide avenue was now choked by an ill-clad mob, all pointing and laughing at some spectacle at their center. Heedlessly, I rushed onto the front stoop to catch the scent of pine tar, sharp in the air.
And there, to my dread, I saw Cranston the fishmonger—being forcibly stripped to the waist.
I shouted in alarm, but the ruffians ignored me completely as they slathered the warm tar over the poor fishmonger’s chest and back and tore open a pillow for the feathers with which to humiliate him. This was followed by placement of a cowbell round his neck, and a sign that read “LOOK YE TORY CREW, SEE WHAT GEORGE YOUR KING CAN DO.”
Fighting back nausea and defying all reason, I took hold of my skirts and waded into the crowd. “Stop this at once!”
“Get back, Mrs. Hamilton,” one of the men said, daring to lay hands on me as the crack of a whip elicited a shriek of agony from its victim. “We Sons of Liberty ask you to remember all the times your husband came so near to death at Washington’s side, and you’ll know these traitors deserve whatever they get.”
Oh, how easily any man could lay claim to the title Son of Liberty now that the war, and the danger of being hanged for it, had passed. “How do you know he’s a traitor?” I asked, pulling away from the grubby self-styled patriot. “How could anyone know without giving the man a fair trial? Why the poor tailor Hercules Mulligan was thought to be a traitor until Washington himself revealed that he’d been our spy during the occupation.”
“The fishmonger is no Hercules Mulligan,” another man called. Perhaps he was unused to being spoken to in such a fashion by a woman, because the man stared with such contempt I thought he might strike me.
Fortunately, moments later it was Alexander who had me by both arms, forcing a retreat back to our house. I hadn’t expected my husband to return from his law office so early, but oh how grateful I was to see him, even as he scolded me for being in the street. “I cannot have you risk yourself,” Alexander said, his hand pressed protectively to my belly. “Especially not in your tender condition. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that they’re
