“Dr. Stevens,” he insisted, and then bent to vomit again.
Terrified, I summoned servants at once to do as he’d bid, carefully issuing my orders at a distance from them. I could hear my poor children awakened from their sleep, weeping at the sad news and crying for me. I held firm and kept away from them, as Alexander had told me to do, even as it broke my heart. Then I rushed back to Alexander, staying with him as we waited for the doctor.
I’d mercifully never encountered yellow fever, but I’d heard enough not only to be able to recognize the signs in my poor husband, but also to know how the odds for his survival were not in his favor. Even Dr. Rush, who employed the most modern and aggressive treatments of bleeding and purges through enemas, had had limited success bringing patients through the fever.
“I wish you’d let me summon Dr. Rush,” I said softly as I sat beside him, changing the cool, damp cloth I’d placed on his forehead. Daylight was slowly beginning to show through the curtains, and though Alexander had ceased vomiting, he was sweating profusely, his breathing shallow.
“I trust Stevens more,” he said without opening his eyes. “We knew each other as boys on St. Croix.”
“You did?” I asked, surprised. Dr. Stevens was new to Philadelphia, having recently married a woman from the city, and though Alexander had mentioned him, I hadn’t realized their acquaintance was so old.
“He’ll have more experience with yellow fever than Rush,” he said raggedly. “Besides, Rush is one of Jefferson’s followers, and he’ll kill me if given the chance.”
“Oh, hush, Alexander, not now,” I said, appalled that he’d mention politics now.
“I was teasing you, my love.” He smiled, a ghastly grin, and opened his eyes, squinting painfully at the light from the windows. I gasped; I couldn’t help it. The whites of his eyes were bright red, made all the more shocking in contrast with his pale irises.
“Am I that horrid to gaze upon, Betsey?” he asked, and though I knew he was teasing me still, I fought back my tears. I couldn’t lose him; I couldn’t.
“You will recover, Alexander,” I ordered fiercely. “You will not die.”
He smiled again, his eyes drifting shut. “I won’t,” he said faintly. “Not to oblige Jefferson.”
By the time Dr. Stevens arrived, I couldn’t tell if my husband were unconscious, or sleeping. The doctor immediately began his treatment: a cold bath, Peruvian bark, and brandy with burned cinnamon, and a dose of laudanum at nightfall. There were no traditional purges, no blood-letting, which made me uneasy, but if Alexander trusted this physician, then I must as well.
“How do you fare yourself, Mrs. Hamilton?” he asked me as soon as Alexander was back in his bed. He stared at me closely, doubtless looking for signs of the disease. “In nearly all cases of a husband taken ill, his wife is sure to follow.”
I swore that I felt perfectly well, and determined to nurse my husband myself. That afternoon, I stood at the open window, and waved and called across the yard to our children to reassure them, and tell them their papa and I loved them. In this same way, I arranged for friends to remove our children from the area entirely, and find sanctuary at The Pastures. But three days later, I was dizzy with a grievous headache, and before long I, too, began retching.
When Dr. Stevens came to call upon Alexander, he could now count me as his patient as well. I’d never been so ill, passing in and out of consciousness and suffering from outrageous fever-dreams and deliria. But Alexander’s faith in his old friend was well placed. My husband recovered first, in a mere five days, and I soon after.
After several more days to restore our strength, our one goal was to travel to Albany to retrieve our children, and reassure ourselves that they’d escaped the fever. But our journey north proved a difficult and taxing one. The entire coast was terrified of the epidemic, and so many people had fled Philadelphia only to subsequently die that no taverns would admit Alexander and me once they learned who we were, fearing that we’d carry the contagion.
We weren’t the only ones, either. Refugees from Philadelphia crowded the roads, stopping to sleep beneath trees and in open fields because they’d nowhere else to go, only to be chased away from those modest shelters by farmers who were likewise frightened of the fever. The entries to New York City were blocked to us as well, and even the ferries denied us passage. It didn’t matter that Alexander was the secretary of the treasury, or that we carried letters from Dr. Stevens swearing that we’d been cured. We were pariahs, and no one wanted anything to do with us, our servants, our carriage, or even our luggage.
Even at Albany, within sight of our destination, we were forbidden by an edict from the mayor of Albany from crossing the river. I wept to think my babies were so close and yet denied to me, and forlornly I paced back and forth along the river’s edge as I longed for some way across. It took all of my father’s persuasive skills before we were finally permitted to cross, and at last be reunited with our children. Mercifully, not a one of them had contracted the disease, and our reunion was sweet indeed.
We returned to Philadelphia slowly. Although Alexander appeared fully restored to health, he found his mind had been left uncertain by the fever, and occasionally confused. Dr. Stevens assured him that this was not a lasting consequence and would pass, but it was reason enough for him to take his time before returning to his duties.
But as grim as the year had been, it did close with fortuitous news. Declaring himself sick of Philadelphia politics and their shameless corruption (of course meaning Alexander), Thomas Jefferson resigned from his post as secretary of state, and retreated to his home at Monticello.
CHAPTER 19
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
May 1794
“Perhaps you should play your piece one more time, Angelica,” I said, standing in the doorway to the parlor to listen as my daughter practiced. “You’ll want to be prepared if you’re going to play for our guests tonight.”
“Yes, Mamma,” she said without turning back to look at me. She consciously straightened her back and took a deep breath, the way her music-master had taught her, and then began the song yet again. “I promise it will be perfect.”