An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Madison, March 1815
Madison swallowed, forcing his ears to pop as the coach finished climbing the mountaintop and swung into the drive before Monticello. Dolley stretched her arms and back on the seat in front of him, preparing to disembark after the long journey. The shifting of the baggage in the back of the carriage began simultaneously with the carriage door being opened for them.
Two of Jefferson’s young grandchildren came tearing across the lawn, shouting to each other as they chased a hoop. Dolley smiled at them and remarked, “Jefferson does like to keep his house full, doesn’t he?”
Madison chuckled, finishing a big stretch before reaching out to offer her his arm. Together, they moved towards the entrance. The walls were decorated with Native artifacts of all kinds, shipped to Thomas by Louis and Clark during their expedition years earlier. Thomas had turned his front room into a kind of museum to entertain visitors to his mountain retreat.
“Hail the conquering heroes,” Patsy Randolph greeted, sweeping from the main parlor towards them with a gracious smile. “Welcome to Monticello, Mr. President. Mrs. Madison.”
“Oh, stop you. We’ve had quite enough of that nonsense,” Dolley said, stepping forward to give Patsy a kiss. “Lovely to see you, my dear.”
“Is the great man in?” Madison asked.
Patsy laughed. “Father’s back in his office, still packing his books to ship to Washington. He says he's still organizing and indexing everything. In all honesty, I think he finished ages ago and he’s just saying his goodbyes now, though he won’t admit it.”
“I’m surprised he was willing to part with such a large portion of his library. Grateful, of course, but surprised.” After the Library of Congress had been burned during the British occupation of Washington, Jefferson had generously offered his own collection as a replacement. Congress had jumped at the offer.
“I was floored,” Patsy agreed. “I thought he’d part with me and the grandchildren before ever parting with his books.”
“Nonsense,” Madison said, though when he locked eyes with Patsy, they both grinned with mutual understanding.
“You can go right on back,” Patsy invited. “May I offer you some tea, Mrs. Madison?”
Madison took the first door on the right to cut through the family parlor and made his way into Thomas’s private office. Crates upon crates had turned the space into something of a maze. He pushed forward in the general direction of Jefferson’s desk and called, “Thomas?”
“Just in here,” Thomas’s voice called back.
Navigating through a narrow path in the boxes, he found an opening to where Thomas’s silvery-auburn hair was catching the sunlight from the windows. Thomas’s hand was stroking the spines of a stack of books near his desk; Madison had to force down a smile at the sight. When he managed to take the seat across from Thomas’s desk, Thomas asked, “I’m glad to see you finally escaped from Washington. Was it as exuberant as it sounded?”
“News of peace brought quite an explosion of joy from the populous,” Madison agreed.
Madison would never forget that blessed day.
Hamilton had been seated in his office, pouring over the latest dispatches about their victory in New Orleans along with Burr’s efforts to rally the people around a Canadian advance. New Orleans had greatly whetted the general appetite to attack the British on all fronts, relegating discussions about the report from the Hartford Convention to a mere secondary news item.
Edward Coles had opened the door to the office with wide, hopeful eyes. “Mr. Monroe and Mr. Carroll to see you, sir.”
Hamilton shifted up in his chair, spine straight with expectation. The same hope had begun to swell in his violet eyes. “Henry Carroll?”
Madison had nodded once, deliberately, his breath caught in his chest.
“Should I go?” Hamilton offered.
“No,” Madison said. “You, out of everyone in this country, deserve to hear this first.”
The large chest landed on his wooden desk with a decisive thunk. Coles did the honor of unlocking it and pulling out the cover letter from Henry Clay.
“There are omissions,” Monroe had cautioned. “Significant omissions that will raise more than a few eyebrows in Congress.”
“Eyebrows, perhaps, but not voices,” Hamilton had said. A smile brightened his features, the worry that had burdened his brow lifting as he considered what he’d heard. “You can defend this, Jemmy. This will pass the Senate.”
“I agree,” he’d said. “I agree most emphatically.”
Peace.
Good Lord, peace at last.
The news had traveled through the city like wildfire, popping the thick tension that had laid over every citizen like a needle to an overfilled balloon. Fireworks erupted into the night, music threaded through the air, and champagne poured freely in every house along the street.
“I expected nothing less,” Thomas said, smiling as he brought Madison back from his wandering thoughts. “Congratulations, Jemmy. You must be overjoyed to have completed your trials. Are you already preparing the way for your successor?”
“I’ve a bit more time left on my term, as you well know,” Madison said with a sigh. “But hopefully the most eventful occurrences are now behind us.”
“Hear, hear,” Thomas concurred. “Efforts are underway to unwind that beastly standing army, I hope?”
“Yes, indeed,” Madison agreed, though a tinge of sadness accompanied the thought.
Hamilton had been his rock, his steadying presence as the worst of the war unfolded. Having to shake his hand to bid him farewell had been unexpectedly emotional for him.
Hamilton had gripped his hand firmly, and remarked slyly, “I doubt this is the last you’ll see of me. At last count, I had fifteen different inquiries on my desk requesting advice regarding a Second National Bank.”
“That sounds more of a threat than a reassurance,” Madison had countered.
“Take it as you will,” Hamilton had shrugged, mischief brightening his eyes. With more sincerity, he’d added, “You’re always welcome at the Grange, Jemmy.”
Thomas was nodding in approval at the news that their army was being dismantled. “An unnecessary and dangerous force, to be sure. New Orleans proved that an assembly of volunteers can easily defeat an army when put to the task of defending their homes.”
Madison frowned. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
Thomas’s brow furrowed in return. “No?”
“New Orleans was a lucky circumstance, where Jackson could choose his battle ground. The entrenchment assured the men could be well protected while reloading their firearms, while the British were forced to fight on open land. Not every battle is so ideally situated.” Bladensburg still loomed in his memory; the smell of smoke, the screaming wrenching the air, the terror as that snake of red loomed ever closer.
Thomas gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “No matter. The need has passed, in any event. Although, the three-headed serpent will still need watching.”
Madison’s head cocked to the side, a moment passing before he understood Thomas’s meaning: Hamilton, Burr, and Jackson, the three military heroes to emerge from the conflict. “They are quite popular.”
“Jackson was a great apologist for Burr back in ’07,” Thomas noted. “Will loyalty keep him in second place, do you think? Or will he battle Burr for the honor?”
“I couldn’t say,” Madison said, pondering.
“I suppose the great unanswered question is, what will Hamilton do?”
“Surely, he would intervene if Burr took up the notion of public office again,” Madison said. Then again, he’d seen the two men together recently. Hamilton seemed easier with Burr, a camaraderie existing between them Madison never would have expected. And Burr had looked at Hamilton differently, a sort of gratitude and…loyalty suffusing his gaze.
Monroe had designs on the highest office, of course. His efforts to see the Treaty of Ghent through were meant to push him above the military exploits of the others who might try for the seat. But Hamilton’s position remained strong. Hamilton had been the country’s bedrock as much as Madison’s when it came to military matters, a steadying presence who had defended the capital with his very life. Hamilton had stayed in the city, had tried his best to repel the attack. Just as he’d assured Madison from his hospital bed later, people remembered that they’d tried, even where they’d failed.
Would Hamilton…no. Madison took a breath. He’d said more than once that he had no interest in returning to politics. But that gleam of mischief in his eyes…and his feeling towards Monroe were hardly a secret….
REDACTED: “No, Buzz, I DID NOT LIKE that Muppets/Haunted Mansion movie you recommended! It’s stupid and a mockery to the original ride. I mean, it’s WAY too lighthearted. Where is the implied murder? The dark and hopeless atmosphere? The- sh*t, I left my mic on. I’ll call you back later.” *beep*
Oh gosh I saw your mention of coming back tu writing?? And I swear the other day at work I remembered reading your story of life therein and I loved it so much and wish it was still updating!
Im very sorry if it sounds pressuring but I only meant to show how much of a good writer you are. You research and care deeply for your subjects
Aww, thanks so much! I am still working on getting a new chapter up for "Life Hereafter"! I've got a page of notes down and I'm working my way through plotting the next section, approaching the election of 1816.
Thinking about how that election would have been different had Hamilton lived was part of what made me think about writing Life Hereafter in the first place. I'm pretty sure whatever happened between the duel and that election, Hamilton would have been dead-set against Monroe ever being elected to the presidency. If you think the Adams pamphlet was bad, hoo boy, it would have had nothing on the 1816 election lol. Hamilton basically respected Adams--he absolutely loathed Monroe!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
December 1814
“Hush, darling,” Eliza whispered. “It’s all right.”
Angelica curled up further on the bed beside Eliza with a soft whimper. At least she was resting, finally, after hours of panic about invisible demons reaching out from the walls to take her away. Eliza had had to push the bed away from the walls before she’d been able to convince her daughter to lie down.
Eliza closed her eyes, the press of the day weighing on her already. Servants were bustling through the halls just outside the door, heaving trunks from little Eliza and Phil’s rooms. They were all bound for New York at first light tomorrow to celebrate Johnny’s wedding to his dear Maria. A joyous occasion to be sure, especially as she anticipated having their children together for the first time in years: William was meant to be coming down from West Point, and Alex and Jamie had secured time away from their posts, as well. Joyous, yes, even as it hurt that so much of her family wouldn’t be there, with Angelica and Peggy both gone, her parents, and Philip…. She swallowed around a lump in her throat at the thought of her eldest.
Her younger daughter shrieked suddenly from down the hall. “Give it back! Now!”
“I’m using it!” Phil yelled back.
“It’s mine!”
Eliza sighed, easing herself from Angelica’s bed to go see what all the fuss was about. Phil and little Eliza were engaged in an all out tug of war over a bit of ribbon in the hallway between their rooms. She watched silently for a moment, frowning, her arms crossed, waiting for them to notice her displeasure.
Phil noticed her first and abruptly let go of the ribbon. Little Eliza stumbled backwards, landing hard on her bottom. She yelped, glared up at her brother, and aimed a swift kick at his ankles.
“What are you two doing?” she demanded.
“She started it,” Phil said, jumping hastily out of the line of fire.
“He stole my best ribbon and he was using it to hang toy soldiers out the window.”
“I was going to give it back.”
“It’s got dirt all over it and you got it all wrinkled.” She held the ribbon up to show her mother. “See? I wanted to wear it to Johnny’s wedding.”
Phil stuck his tongue out at his sister. When she noticed, she aimed another kick at his ankles. He jumped back again, shouting, “Stop it!”
“What is all the yelling about?” Alexander asked as he slowly wheeled himself around the corner, to their collective surprise.
Despite the gathering dark outside the hall window, she was shocked to see him home; she’d hardly seen hide nor hair of him in the past days as they prepared to leave for their extended trip home. Both the children went quiet at his unexpected arrival, and little Eliza bounced up to her feet.
“Sorry Papa,” they both mumbled quickly.
“We seem to be having quite the disagreement over a bit of ribbon,” Eliza supplied when they failed to offer further explanation.
Alexander looked at her with a hint of a smile. “Want me to send them to help dig out the new latrine by the camp? That’s what I do with the men who mouth off. Very effective punishment.”
They both paled considerably, sending her matching pleading looks.
She made a show of considering for a long beat before smiling as well. “I think we can give them one more chance before we put them to hard labor.”
“We’ll be good,” Phil promised solemnly.
“I expect so.” Alexander tilted his head to the side to dismiss them. “Off you go. Stop making your mother’s life difficult.”
If only he’d take his own advice, she thought fondly.
They scampered off down the hall, both giving their father an affectionate peck on the cheek as they passed. He shook his head as he watched them go, then looked back at her, the laugh lines in his cheeks creasing. “Imps.”
“Well, we did complain the house was too quiet without them,” Eliza said. Indeed, when Alexander had sent them off to stay with family over the summer for their safety, the house had felt empty without their constant bickering and antics. She paced over to him and leaned down to kiss him, as well. “It’s good to have you home finally. You missed dinner again.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help getting ready for our trip. I’ve been in endless meetings. When I at one point raised the concern about the endless meetings, one of Jemmy’s secretaries quite unironically asked if I would like him to schedule a meeting to discuss it.”
She laughed.
He grinned at her, but his eyes turned serious when he glanced towards the door to Angelica’s room. “How’s Geli today?”
Eliza sobered as she, too, glanced back at her daughter’s door. “She’s been having a bad day.”
He sighed. “She’s been having a lot of bad days, lately. I heard her whimpering and muttering when I got home late last night. She was wide awake when I peeked in at her. I doubt she got much rest.”
Eliza hardly needed reminding, having been up much of the night with her. “She’s resting now, finally.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
His hands fidgeted on the wheels of his chair. She watched him a moment, sensing he had something else to tell her. The expression twisting his face usually signaled some sort of indigestion. When he failed to say anything more, she asked, “What is it?”
“Well,” he started, his hand going up to scratch at his neck uncomfortably.
Anxiety started to build up at his continued reluctance to speak. “If you say you can’t come to New York for your own son’s wedding—”
“No, no, it’s not that.” He sighed, resting his hands on the wheels of his chair once more, as though contemplating an escape even as he spoke. “It’s just, I need to meet with some people before I leave. And the only time they would both be available was tonight. So, I may have suggested they stop by the house before we leave. They’re on their way over now, actually. For tea.”
She felt her own expression twisting to match his, heartburn flaring in her chest as a suspicion about his guest list occurred to her. “Who?”
“Burr,” he said.
“Burr,” she repeated, disbelief in her tone even though that’s exactly the name she’d expected to hear. “You expect me to serve tea to Aaron Burr?”
“Well,” he started again.
“You promised me. You promised, when you suggested him for his position, that I wouldn’t need to be alone with him.”
“I said not just the three of us.” He fidgeted in his chair again, clearly not relishing delivering his next bit of news. “Someone else is coming, too.”
He seemed somehow more reluctant to tell her the next guest. How could it possibly get worse? “Who else?”
He gritted his teeth, hesitating again before saying, “Monroe.”
A wave of cold fury washed over her. “Monroe!”
“Shh,” he hushed, pointing towards Angelica’s room behind them.
Her nostrils flared as she forced a deep breath, jerking her head to indicate he should follow her down the hall before moving around him towards his office. He liked to praise her as an endless fountain of love and patience, she thought, but much as she might try, she simply wasn’t. Her nerves were already frayed from sleepless nights and managing ornery children and overseeing the packing and planning for their journey. Now he wanted her to cap off her night by serving tea to two of the most loathsome men on earth.
He rolled in to the office behind her, and she snapped the door closed.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Eliza—”
“No, Alexander. No. You ask too much, sometimes.”
He smiled softly, highlighting the dimples in his cheeks, and reached out for her hand. “You’d send me into the viper’s nest without my trusty mongoose for protection?”
“You can’t charm your way out of this,” she hissed.
“Betsey,” he sighed, expression turning serious. “It can’t be helped.”
“They’re not welcome here. Not in my home. Neither of them.”
“You know I try to keep them away as much as possible. I know how you feel.”
“Do you? Because sometimes, the way you act, especially around Burr—”
“I understand. I do. But I need to see them before I go. It’s important.”
“What’s so important?”
“Campbell submitted his budget, just before he conveniently resigned to see to his health. He estimated an appropriation of $25 million would be needed, which is far, far beyond the expected tax revenue of $11 million, and all that’s before factoring in the cost of rebuilding the capital.”
She sank into the chair near his desk, sensing a lengthy conversation. “Go on.”
“Then there’s this…this treasonous…convention.” She could hear the quotes around the last word as he spit it out. “Otis has called a meeting of Federalists all across New England to propose a radical change in our national compact. Because what we need in the middle of a war, apparently, is a new constitutional convention intent on gutting the Federal government.”
“Were you invited?”
He snorted. “As if I’d stoop to attending such a farcical proceeding.”
She smiled a little. She knew he’d have gloried in attending, monopolizing the conversation until his voice went hoarse telling them exactly why they were all idiots and cowards, had he been given the opportunity. “So no?”
He shot her a glare, but then smirked, caught red-handed by her knowing look. “I think they knew what my answer would be.”
She threaded her fingers between his. “I know how stressed you are about the war and fate of the country, sweetheart. But I don’t see what a meeting with those two—” she paused, hunting for a word, and, finding none, continued with only the empty space to define them, “—helps accomplish.”
“Monroe is acting Secretary of War, and, with Campbell gone, probably acting Secretary of the Treasury as well at this point. I need him to call on Congress to establish a new national bank, which in turn will help fund additional men. At least 100,000 to start.”
“And I’m sure he’ll take your direction with great enthusiasm.”
“Not with enthusiasm, perhaps, but he’ll take my direction, once I explain the need.”
“And Burr?”
“The Hartford Convention needs to be minimized. We need a shot of patriotism in that part of the country, a call to arms to rally flagging spirits. Since the Northern theater quieted, they’ve been shouldering the financial burden with none of the chance for glory. Meanwhile, the enemy is starting to gather with an eye towards New Orleans. If we can start mustering troops in New England, threaten an invasion of Canada, we might be able to press England into peace and herd New England back into the fold at the same time.”
“And you want Burr to head the effort,” she said, intuiting his plan now. Once Monroe agreed to call upon Congress to fund new troops, Burr would ride north to start mustering a force to take on Canada again.
“Exactly.” His eyes bore into hers. “And it needs to happen now. Immediately. Congress can’t be frightened into cutting back on the army, or we’ll be a British colony again by New Year’s.”
She squeezed his hand.
“So?” he pressed.
She held his gaze. “I suppose I’ll let them in when they knock. I won’t agree to more than that.”
He leaned over in his chair to catch her lips. “That’s all I need from you.”
**
That she managed to bring in the tea service without pouring the scalding water over either of their two unwanted guests ought to have qualified her sainthood, in her opinion. She didn’t stay in the room with them, didn’t even mutter a greeting. She did stay near the door, however, listening, while Alexander laid out his plan. She couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon him, even when he’d invited the viper’s nest upon himself.
“I wasn’t a particular supporter of your bank the first time around, Mr. Hamilton,” Monroe said. “Why should I call on Congress to re-charter it now?”
“How else are you going to pay for more troops, Mr. Secretary?”
Monroe answered in a measured tone. “We’re mere weeks away from a peace treaty, according to my intelligence in Ghent. Once that’s signed, there won’t be a need for more troops. We can cut back, limit spending to match our more limited revenue stream temporarily, until imports duties return to their pre-war levels.”
“You don’t think the British are also gathering intelligence?” Burr asked. “They’ll be watchfully waiting for our new budget proposals. If we’re seen dismantling the army before the war is over, why would they ever agree to a peace deal? Might as well take us for their own again.”
Monroe scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’ve practically already signed. And I think we’ve proven far too troublesome to bother with as a colony again.”
“Too troublesome thirty years ago,” Burr pointed out. “And we were lucrative. If we can’t mount a solid defense, no reason not to give it another try.”
Alexander added, “You need to get the dissent in New England under control. And you need funding. Even without the additional expense of more troops, rebuilding the capital will be an expensive endeavor. You need to do this.”
“I don’t like the bank,” Monroe said sourly.
Alexander laughter bitterly. “It’s me you don’t like, Mr. Secretary. And that’s quite all right. I assure you the feeling is mutual. But you have to do this. Don’t make me go over your head to Jemmy to force you into action. It will only waste time.”
There was a long silence, tension palpable. “Fine. I’ll propose re-chartering the bank and adding funding for more troops. But I can’t promise it will pass.”
“Oh, I think you’ll find the votes, Mr. Secretary,” Alexander insisted. “Necessity is a great motivator.”
Sensing the meeting was coming to a close, Eliza moved to summon the servants to bring the hats and coats. She didn’t want them lingering in the front room any longer than necessary. In the moments she’d stepped away, however, something must have happened, because she suddenly heard raised voices coming from the office. She hurried back, opening the door to the office to find Burr standing in between Monroe and Alexander.
Monroe was all but shouting, “You think just because you’ve blinded Jemmy with nostalgic appeals to a long-dead friendship that you can always have your way, just as you did with Washington. I’ll not be so easily taken in, Mr. Hamilton, I promise you that.”
Burr placed a hand on Monroe’s shoulder, trying to ease him away from Alexander.
Alexander looked blithely unconcerned, all but smirking at Monroe as he said, “I’ll remind you there is no guaranteed succession in this country, Mr. Monroe, however many hats you acquire during this administration. I wouldn’t be so assured of victory in the next election, if I were you.”
Color rose in Monroe’s face as he pushed around Burr, holding a finger out in Alexander’s direction. “Enjoy your influence while you have it. Your days are numbered.”
“That’s quite enough,” Eliza said, voice deadly quiet, fury taking wing in her chest at the implied threat.
Monroe spun around to face her. “Mrs. Hamilton—”
“You have nothing to say to me, Mr. Monroe.”
“I apologize for raising my voice,” he continued, bowing his head slightly.
“No. No. If you mean to offer anything other than a full and sincere apology, not only for the unforgivable words you just uttered, but also for all the slanders and stories you circulated against my husband in the past, I have no interest in hearing it.”
Monroe frowned. “If you mean…the business with the Reynolds papers was hardly my doing. Your husband—”
“What my husband did was a matter we have long since settled between us. But that the rest of the world was involved was very much your doing. He has earned my forgiveness. You’ve never even bothered to ask it.”
“Mrs. Hamilton—”
“And you now have the…the gall to come into my home, drink my refreshments, and then threaten the person I hold dearest in the world. Please leave, Mr. Monroe. Now.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Burr patted at his shoulder, encouraging him forward. Just before Burr himself stepped out, though, he glanced back at her husband. “You’re a real pain in the ass, Ham. You know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” Alexander had the nerve to look fond as he addressed Burr.
“Out,” she insisted.
Burr at least had the decency to avert his eyes as he passed her, collecting their coats and urging Monroe out the front door without another word.
When the door had closed, she looked back at Alexander, still sitting in the middle of the room. He gave her plaintive look. “I’m so sorry, Betsey. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. Or for you to be pulled into the middle of it.”
She pointed in the direction the two men had just disappeared, her hand shaking slightly from rush of rage and fear that coursed through her. “That man is never, ever setting foot in my home again.”
“Of course. Never again.”
Promises, promises—how he could make them. Her heart was still beating in her throat. He rolled forward and took her hand, placing a kiss to the back of her fingers.
She softened as she looked back at him, calming somewhat with his easy agreement and solid feeling of his hand in hers. The reason for his insistence on the meeting in the first place re-occurred to her, and she felt a niggle of concern despite herself. “Do you think he’ll still put forward the proposal to Congress?”
“Yes.” He sounded completely confident. “He doesn’t have a choice. Jemmy will back me if it comes to a contest, and he knows it. I just don’t want to lose time on the argument when every minute counts. We’re too close, balanced on the edge of a precipice. I’ll not let our experiment fail over pigheadedness and pride.”
She considered the exchanged she’d walked in on again, eyes locked on her husband. “You said that to him, didn’t you? You goaded him into shouting at you.”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “I do so enjoy winding him up with impotent rage.”
She wanted to be angry with him, but amusement was quickly outpacing the sensation. Damn him, his charm, and his sweet smile, she thought. She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head at him. Relief washed over his face.
“I really didn’t mean to drag you into it, though, my dearest.” He kissed her hand again, looking more relaxed. “Though I confess I enjoyed watching you kick him to the curb. My darling mongoose.”
His darling mongoose, indeed, she huffed internally.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
September 1814
“It’s an armada,” Madison fumed, pacing before his desk. “How can we not even know which direction it’s sailed?”
Silence filled the office.
Hamilton’s gaze was fixed on the view outside the ornate curved windows adorning Madison’s new office. The glittering chandelier overhead hadn’t been lit, unnecessary with the good light pouring in on all sides. The splendor was second, perhaps, only to President’s House, which lay some streets beyond, now little more than a burned husk.
His head still ached, a constant dull throbbing between his temples. The bruising on his face had faded to an ugly yellow in the intervening time since Bladensburg, though his arm was still wrapped tight and fixed in a sling. At least it hadn’t been his writing hand that had been injured.
Eliza hadn’t wanted him out of bed so soon, but after over a week of bedrest, he’d needed to feel useful again. The ride to Tayloe Mansion, where Madison had taken up residence, had been his first real glimpse of the horror and destruction wrought to their capital city. He stared out at the ruined homes beyond the window, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Richmond, Norfolk, Annapolis, and Charleston are all bracing for attack,” Monroe said, finally, when no one volunteered an answer.
The pause had been too long; a sure sign that the person designated to answer wasn’t present. Hamilton glanced around at the assembled statesmen, taking a count. The Secretary of War was notably absent. “Where is Armstrong?”
Madison huffed. “I suggested he might take a short leave, lest he wander down the wrong street into the waiting arms of a bloodthirsty mob.”
“You didn’t demand his resignation?”
“We have bigger problems to worry about than Armstrong.”
“Who is the acting Secretary?”
Madison gave him a considering look.
“No,” Hamilton said firmly.
Madison nodded. “Fair enough. I need you in command anyway. You’ve become quite the rallying point for the men in last week. Colonel Monroe has offered to shoulder the burden temporarily.”
“Shouldn’t you be monitoring the progress of the peace talks in Ghent?” Hamilton asked.
“I can do both,” Monroe said.
Hamilton gave a skeptical hum. “Well, it’s not as if you can be less effective than your predecessor, I’ll grant.”
Monroe straightened in his seat, offense plain on his face.
“Richmond, Norfolk, Annapolis, Charleston,” Madison repeated, stepping between them. “Which one do we anticipate the British striking next?”
“None of them,” Hamilton said. “They’re riding high on their victory. They’ll want the jewel.”
Madison frowned at him.
“Baltimore,” Monroe explained, nodding. “They’ll head for Baltimore.”
“Who is in command of the defenses at Fort McHenry?” Madison demanded.
“Major General George Armistead,” a clerk supplied after a short pause, papers rifling.
“Armistead is working with Major General Samuel Smith, commanding the Baltimore Militia. Smith has refused to cede command to General Winder,” Monroe added. “Winder was in my office yesterday pitching a fit.”
“I can’t say I blame him. We don’t exactly have a sterling record.” Hamilton cocked his outside to indicate the ruin of Washington City beyond.
“Sir?” A clerk poked his head into the office timidly. “Dr. Thornton to see you.”
“Not now.” Madison waved him away.
“Sir, he’s most insistent.”
“What is it about?”
“Something about an American prisoner of war.”
“A patriot of highest caliber!” The incensed shout came from the outer chamber.
Madison rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Let him in.”
Thornton stormed into the room, his finger already wagging. “I demand something be done immediately, Mr. President. William Beanes is a fine American, a veteran, who served under our most revered and esteemed General Washington during the war for independence. He helped bandage our brave soldiers after the Battle of Brandywine.”
“What’s happened to him?” Hamilton inquired in a bid to avoid a full recounting of Beanes’ war record.
“When word reached Dr. Beanes of the British atrocities in our capital, he arrested a group of British soldiers who had yet to return to their ships. General Ross immediately sent out a detachment. Dr. Beanes was accosted in his home, ripped from his bed in the dead of night, and treated most shabbily. Now they say he’s set to be tried for treason in Halifax. He’s being held prisoner on a British warship. I say, this cannot be allowed to stand.”
Madison sighed. “I’m inclined to agree. Who was that man, the navy pursuer – Skinner? He warned us about Cockburn?”
“John Stuart Skinner,” Monroe confirmed.
“Send him out after the British ship. Authorize him to negotiate for the safe release of Dr. Beanes.”
Thornton deflated somewhat at the easy victory. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Good day, Dr. Thornton,” Madison replied, nodding towards the door.
When Thornton had left, Richard Rush asked, “How exactly are we supposed to send Skinner after the British fleet, if we aren’t even sure where they are?”
Madison met Hamilton’s eye. “How sure are you about Baltimore?”
“It’s where I’d be heading if I’d just won a victory such as theirs.”
“Baltimore does seem the most tempting target available,” Monroe agreed.
“We’ll tell Skinner to head in that direction, then. If he’s successful, all the more support for our theory. Now, do we send Winder to reinforce Baltimore over the militia commander’s objections?”
“Does Smith have a strategy?” Hamilton asked Monroe.
“He’s already begun reinforcing McHenry for a siege. The key to keeping the city will be to keep the British out of the inner harbor.”
“What’s their fire power?”
“Fifty mounted guns and about a thousand men.”
Hamilton considered a moment. “I say we send men to help reinforce the militia, but leave Smith in command. The last thing we need is a squabble at the top wasting valuable time.”
Madison nodded. Sizing Hamilton up, he asked, “Can you ride?”
Hamilton gestured to the sling securing his left arm to his body. “I doubt it. I’m currently down to one working limb.”
“We can take a carriage, then. I’d like you to come with me to review the men before we give the orders to march for Baltimore.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Hamilton agreed.
“Sir, about the budget shortfalls,” Secretary Campbell began, before pausing to cough wetly into a handkerchief.
Madison heaved a sigh. “There’s nothing we can about that at the present moment.”
Campbell cleared his throat. “If we don’t have a treaty by year end, we may not have funds enough to continue paying our standing army.”
Hamilton gave Madison a significant look.
“I know, I know,” Madison griped at him. “The bank. The blasted bank will cure all our ills, and it never should have been allowed to expire in the first place.”
Hamilton held his right hand up, palm facing out, placating.
Madison collapsed into his chair, shoulders slumped. “I can’t even get Congress to agree to keep Washington as the capital right now, never mind agree to recharter your bank. They’re all crammed into the Patent Office arguing with each other about which of their cities is the obvious choice to be the seat of government.”
“Bank charters. Disagreements over the location of the capital. Is it possible I hit my head so hard I ended up back in 1790?” Hamilton teased. “This all sounds frighteningly familiar.”
Madison chuckled wearily. “If you did, you’ve brought me with you.”
“My sincere apologies.”
“Well, we managed it once before, didn’t we?”
Hamilton nodded. “We did, indeed.”
Madison gave him a fond look before casting his gaze over the assembled cabinet. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
**
Hamilton’s whole body tensed, alert, at the soft creak of the floorboards. No knock followed. His heart beat hard in his throat as he waited for more sounds in the dark.
“It was probably one of the children,” Eliza said wearily from beside him.
“What?”
She rolled over in bed and adjusted closer to him. “One of the children,” she repeated. “You need to relax. Get some rest.”
“I can’t.”
“Honey,” she sighed. Her fingers combed through his hair, gentle, mindful his bruising even in the dark.
“I should be there. Helping. Doing something. How can we have no word? Nothing, for hours now.”
“It takes time for riders to make their way from Baltimore,” she said, frustratingly practical. “You may not hear more until late tomorrow.”
“The bombardment had started. They must know something.”
“Torturing yourself all night isn’t helping.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” he repeated. He pushed himself up against the pillows with his one good arm, dislodging Eliza as moved. “Maybe if I leave now, I can be close enough to the city to hear word in the morning.”
He felt her sit up beside him. “The riders would go right past you, come here, and be obliged to turn around to go find you on the road. How would that help?”
“I’d be doing something.”
She sighed.
The mattress shifted, and he felt Eliza push the blankets aside. She lit a candle on the bedside table, and he blinked in the sudden light. Rising from the bed, she shrugged on her dressing gown.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to run you a bath,” she said.
“A bath?”
“You need to relax. You’re wound tight as a drum. A nice hot bath will help.”
He shook his head as she padded from the room. The fate of the nation hung in the balance, his mind spun at a dizzying speed, and she wanted to fix it all with a bath. Annoyingly, he knew it would probably work, too. His darling, dearest wife.
Some minutes later, she returned, and began to situate his chair into place. Wordlessly, she wrapped her arm under him to help shift him over into the seat, a task hugely complicated by having only one working arm. Candlelight glowed in the adjourning chamber. She pushed him inside, the tub set up in the center of the room, steaming invitingly.
She gently untied the sling at his neck, her fingers warm and soft as they tickled against the sensitive skin. Next, she unbuttoned his night shirt, sliding it out from under him and slowly pulling it over his head. His left shoulder ached when he lifted it, and the shirt grazed his bruised temple, causing him to let out a soft hiss.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t you.”
Carefully, she guided him over onto the strategically placed seat in the tub. She submerged his legs, then had him lean against her as she pulled the seat out from under him, letting him sink down into the blessedly hot water. He groaned with pleasure at the sensation, the tension in his muscles easing.
“How’s that?”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Heavenly.”
She gave him a smug smirk.
“Hush,” he cautioned.
She shifted around to sit behind him. A soft towel cradled his neck, and Eliza began to gently massage his shoulders. He melted at her touch. She leaned further over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
“Relax,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and obeyed.
She shifted him forward to wash his back, then had him lean back again. He drifted towards sleep under her tender ministrations, not eager to move even when the water began to turn tepid around him. The soft candlelight and her loving touch held back the visions of battlefield slaughter that had plagued him the past weeks every time he closed his eyes.
“Sweetheart?”
“No,” he moaned.
“Come on,” she insisted, prodding him. “Lets get you to bed. You’re half asleep already.”
His eyelids felt heavy, and he was pliant as a wet noodle as she began the process of extracting him from the tub. With little help from him, she dried him off, slipped his nightshirt back in place, and got him situated back in bed. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
**
The deep, dreamless sleep had helped ease the constant headache he’d been suffering, but he still found himself entirely on edge for much of the next day.
“You have to eat something, sweetheart,” Eliza insisted as he pushed a piece of mutton around on his plate at their afternoon meal. “You need to keep up your strength. You’re still healing.”
But a nervous squirming sensation had taken root in his stomach, and he couldn’t bear the thought of eating. He needed news. Something, anything to tell him how the fight was going in Baltimore.
A sudden knock at the door had him sitting straight up in his seat. He pushed at the wheel of his chair, but made little progress with one hand. Eliza rose from her seat while he struggled.
“You stay,” she directed, running a hand over his shoulders as she passed. “Eat.”
She hadn’t gone more than a step into the hall when the door burst open, however, the visitor evidently unable to wait for an answer. The aide hurried in past Eliza, breathless, holding a piece of paper out before him. “Fresh from the front, General.”
Hamilton grabbed the page, slid his finger under the seal, and unfolded the paper so hastily it wrinkled in his hand. A single line had been scribbled across the page. His eyes flew over the information, his brain a moment delayed in understanding.
Then he smiled.
“What does it say?” Eliza asked, nervous anticipation that had been carefully masked from him before now obvious.
He held the page up for her to read.
“September 14, first light - The stars and stripes still wave over Fort McHenry.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Eliza, August 1814
“Oh my word,” Dolley Madison whispered, her weight sliding against Eliza as the wheels of their coach struggled over the muddy, cannon-scarred road. The Capitol building loomed in the distance, glass blown out of the windows and once-white paint now dusty with ash and soot. The second floor appeared to have caved in from the fire, adding to it’s dilapidated, hollow air.
A message appeared to have been scrawled across the building in ash. Eliza squinted, struggling to read it through the fog. “What does that say?”
Dolley appeared to be struggling to read it as well. “I can’t quite make it out.”
Eliza looked over at her traveling companion. She’d grown used to seeing Dolley in bright clothing, all turbans and feathers and glittering jewels, always smiling, always quick with a witty retort. The woman beside her now was entirely changed. Huddled in a plain brown muslin gown, hair lank and face pale, she looked as empty and depleted as the city around them.
When their coach came to an abrupt halt, they both jerked forward in their seats, and Dolley let out a soft sound of alarm. “What is it?”
The coach jostled as their driver dismounted from the front, calling back, “An obstruction in the road, ma’am. Won’t be a moment.”
Eliza held a handkerchief to her nose as she leaned out of the coach window. The stink of charcoal and rot assaulted her even through the fabric. Trees were down all around them, chimneys toppled from houses, the result of not only the invasion, but the hurricane that had borne down upon them in the day following. The deluge of rain had been a blessing, in that it had put out the fire ravaging the city, but winds had brought even more destruction.
But it wasn’t a tree or debris blocking their way. It was a dead horse that lay sprawled across the road before them, left to rot in the hot, muggy air. “Oh,” she gasped, sitting back in her seat and closing her eyes, the awful sight of the dead beast still visible on the back of her eyelids.
“What is it?” Dolley asked again.
Eliza shook her head and pursed her lips. When Dolley moved to look out her own window, Eliza caught her arm. “Don’t look.”
Dolley nodded, her eyes going to the floor of the coach. Eliza let her gaze drift back outwards towards the gutted Capitol. She could just make out the words now that they had stopped moving: “What Washington built after seven years of war, Madison has lost in two.”*
Soon enough, they were moving again. They struggled down Pennsylvania Avenue, and soon saw the White House come into view. Dolley made a distressed sound as they passed. “Oh. Nothing but ashes.”
Indeed, the grand executive mansion was nothing more than four blackened walls barely standing around a now gutted, barren interior. All those fine furnishings, all that splendor, gone.
“You saved the most important treasures,” Eliza consoled. Some of the silver and more valuable goods had been rescued before they had fled, and, most importantly, the portrait of Washington. She'd taken comfort from the old General's calm, cool stare as his portrait was removed from the frame and smuggled to safety. “The rest can be replaced.”
Dolley nodded, but still held heartbreak in her eyes as they continued on towards F street, where they were to find shelter with Dolley’s sister.
“I do hope Jemmy is there when we arrive,” Dolley said, visibly forcing a painted smile. “And General Hamilton, of course.”
Eliza hummed in agreement. She could only pray that Alexander would be there to meet her. In the past days, she’d had no word, not even a hint of a rumor as to his whereabouts or actions. She wasn’t surprised exactly, and she knew it was probably better not to know whatever daring feats he was attempting in battle, but some word to put her anxiety to rest would have been appreciated. He’d been better about that in the last war.
Madison was out front when they pulled to a stop before the three-story townhouse on F street. “My dearest,” he greeted, holding out a hand to Dolley as she dismounted. “I tried to send word not to join me yet. The British have pulled back from the city, but the armada is still just downstream in Alexandria. It’s not yet safe.”
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Dolley argued. She was still looking around her, eyes wide with shock. “So much destruction.”
Madison looked around, too, face registering every bit as shocked.
“The most magnificent and melancholy ruin I’ve ever beheld,”* Richard Rush agreed from his place a step behind Madison.
Eliza scanned over the assembled faces of cabinet members and military officials for Alexander’s familiar features. “Where is General Hamilton?” she asked finally, failing to spot him.
“We’re…we’re still attempting to locate him, Mrs. Hamilton,” Madison replied.
Fear crashed over her. “You don’t know where he is?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him since I left him on the battlefield in Bladensburg.”
“That was two days ago,” she said. “The entire army retreated when the British charged. Where would he be if not with you, Mr. President?”
Madison looked down, almost guilty. He knew something, something more than he was saying. A lump formed at the back of her throat, adrenaline making her heart pound in her ears.
“What? Tell me,” she insisted.
“He was very brave in battle, I’m told. When the British charged, he rallied a force to hold them back at the bridge. They made an inspiring stand. When the line buckled, General Hamilton fell from his horse.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to hold back the threatening tears. “And?”
“No one has seen him since.”
No. No. That couldn’t be.
She’d lost so much already in recent years. Her beloved sisters, Peggy and Angelica both, her parents, her son. How much more could she possibly bear? God couldn’t possibly be so cruel.
Dolley moved towards her again, a warm, comforting arm wrapping around her shoulders.
Madison continued, “I’ve had no confirmation of anything. He’s not been reported as captured. No body has been found.”
That might have been a comfort, if she thought they’d had any chance to count the dead or receive communication from the enemy. Between the chaos of the retreat, the British invasion, and the devastating storm that followed, she doubted that were so.
Her voice was shaking and strangled with tears as she asked, “And how many bodies are lying still upon battlefield, Mr. President?”
Madison looked down again.
**
“Careful, ma’am,” a Captain urged, catching Eliza just before she landed flat on the muddy ground. Her ankle had turned after her foot sank into a water-filled pit in the road, and the limb throbbed slightly as she righted herself with the Captain’s aid.
She paid the pain no mind, surging forward again towards the tavern ahead. She outpaced the Captain, and the umbrella he was attempting to hold over her. Madison she’d left far behind, back nearer to the coach still. The fine mist of rain dampened her skin and hair. She couldn’t have cared less.
Pushing through the door, she paused for a moment to take in what had once been the tavern’s main seating area, filled now wall to wall with cots bearing wounded soldiers. So much suffering. So much pain.
A harried medic was changing a bandage on a soldier nearby.
“General Hamilton?” she asked, breathless.
The medic glanced back at her, and then gestured vaguely towards a set of stairs to the right.
She mounted them quickly, her heels clacking on the wood. More beds were lined up in the small rooms upstairs. She passed by each, scanning the beds and moving on when she didn’t find her husband. Finally, in what had once been the proprietor’s office, she spotted two soldiers standing at attention before a makeshift partition.
“Alexander?”
She pushed around the partition to find him in a similar cot to the others she’d seen. His head was wrapped in bandages, the faint brownish-red of dried blood visible under the white covering over his left temple. He had bruising down the side of his face. His left arm was wrapped tightly and held fast to his middle by a sling.
But for all the damage, his chest was rising and falling still. The motion brought the sting of tears to her eyes. “Betsey,” he whispered, voice hoarse with disuse.
“I’m here,” she said, reaching for his uninjured hand.
He looked up at her, a smile tugging at his lips as he said, “Look at the state of you. You look like a drowned rat.”
A tearful laugh forced it way out of her. “Shut up.”
His smile widened.
Shaking her head fondly, she said, “Don’t try to distract me. Look at you.”
“I’m fine. Just a little bump to the head.”
“They said you’ve been unconscious for two days.”
His shoulders shifted in an approximation of a shrug. She huffed and leaned over, kissing him gently. She felt him wince and pulled back.
“Sorry,” she said, her hand hovering over him fretfully. “Did I hurt you?”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Come back.”
She gave him a watery smile and sniffled, relief coming over her in waves as she squeezed his hand and kissed him again. “I’ve been so worried,” she whispered. “I didn’t know where you were, or if you were even alive.”
“I’m here. I’m all right. Everything’s all right.”
“General,” Madison greeted from behind her.
She turned back towards the door to find the president just entering.
“Mr. President,” Alexander answered, shifting slightly on his cot.
Intuiting his plan, she pressed her palm to his right shoulder to keep him in place. “Don’t you dare even try sitting up.”
He made a face at her. The sheer relief at seeing him playful and obstinate forced her to swallow back a sob. Alexander seemed to notice the swell of emotion, because he affectionately squeezed her hand.
“I should have you court martialed for disobedience,” Madison said.
Eliza narrowed her eyes as she turned back to face him, but saw, unexpectedly, a hint of amusement in Madison’s face.
“Whatever for, sir?” Alexander was teasing back, Eliza understood.
“I specifically ordered you not to get crushed by your horse.”
“You ordered me to try. Which I did.”
“Not very hard apparently.” Madison paced around the cot to seat himself on Alexander’s other side. “It was sheer luck a medic found you unconscious and not a British soldier. I was told your bravery at the front bordered nearly on recklessness.”
They were playing with each other. It had been so long since she’d heard them speak to each other like that, so fondly, she could only look between them, marveling.
“I was only doing what needed to be done.”
“You shouted to the men that death was better than retreat in the face of the enemy,” Madison said.
Eliza gripped Alexander’s hand more firmly. That was exactly the sort of conduct about which she preferred to remain ignorant.
“It got them to rally, didn’t it?” Alexander replied, though he did glance at her, almost apologetic.
“Briefly,” Madison granted.
“I’ve often found defeat is preferable to surrender. It sits easier on the soul to have tried and failed than to have given up without an attempt. It will do the people good to know the city didn’t fall without a fight.”
Madison paused, giving the statement thought. “Some people have suggested we surrender to the British now, rather than invite more suffering on the city.”
“Some people?”
“Dr. Thornton, for one. He says the people are exhausted.”
Alexander scoffed. “He thinks surrender will invigorate them?”
“He doesn’t think we have a choice. The armada is just down the river. They could relaunch an attack at any moment. We’ve already lost so much.”
“Then let’s not lose anymore.” Alexander released her hand to press himself up, ignoring her noise of protest. “We’re a proud nation, and we will defend our capital.”
“And if we lose again?”
“The people will remember that you tried.”
Madison nodded, seeming to draw strength from Alexander’s certainty. “No surrender.”
