Although in theory Alexander had retired from the government, throughout 1797 he continued to be an unofficial advisor in ways I didn’t entirely understand.
When Mr. Adams had been sworn in as president, he’d planned to maintain the country’s strict neutrality with the French government. But as the year progressed, this became an increasingly difficult position to maintain since the French government itself seemed to change as fast as the leaves on the trees. The leaders in Paris who welcomed American diplomats one week were fresh victims of the guillotine the next, and were replaced with another set of Frenchmen determined to scorn everything American. The American delegates were denied access to the true men in power, and were forced to make their negotiations through three buffoonish underlings—Jean-Conrad Hottinguer, Pierre Bellamy, and Lucien Hauteval, whose true names were replaced with the coded initials X, Y, and Z, men who extorted bribes and made other outlandish demands to the Americans. Like characters in some silly French opera, X, Y, and Z became universally loathed and declaimed in American newspapers, the only French names that ordinary Americans could both pronounce and despise. As if this all weren’t enough, a powerful new general with no ties to past regimes had emerged, a man named Napoleon Bonaparte, who seemed to be the only leader in France with a definite plan of government, albeit one that had all the earmarks of a dictatorship.
French privateers plundered American merchant shipping, claiming their entitlement from the Jay Treaty with England. Merchants in the states of New England as well as in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, that contained the home ports of much of lost shipping, were justly outraged, and demanded that the president take action, while the southern states, with less to lose and led by Mr. Jefferson, continued their infatuation with the French Jacobins, preferring them as allies, no matter how volatile or violent their actions.
Making matters even more difficult for President Adams was the continued devious and underhanded behavior of the Democratic-Republicans, especially Mr. Jefferson. Not only did he illegally meet with French diplomats in Philadelphia, falsely representing himself as part of the current government, but he also sought to undermine President Adams and his cabinet by telling the French how weak the Federalists were, how they’d soon be out of office, and how if the French quickly declared war on Britain, America would come to their assistance.
Thus, while President Adams was attempting to maintain a neutral stance, he was also quietly creating an American military presence as well in the event that the country was finally drawn into a war with France. This, then, was where my husband proved so invaluable. He’d experience at building and supporting a military force that dated back to when he’d been an aide-de-camp for General Washington, and he’d continued his efforts through the Whiskey Rebellion. There wasn’t another man in the country with this kind of expertise, nor one who possessed the organizational skills combined with the ability to negotiate the twisted layers of bureaucracy with ease. He also spoke, wrote, and thought in French.
As a result, Alexander’s opinion was often sought by members of the cabinet and Congress, and his advice taken—likely far more often that President Adams himself ever realized. Alexander, too, being acutely aware of public opinion, wrote a fresh new series of essays called The Stand, in which he supported a standing army to defend the country. To accomplish so much would have been remarkable under any circumstances, but all this occurred during the same time as he was embroiled in his personal conflicts with Mr. Madison, composing the pamphlet regarding Mrs. Reynolds, and coping with the serious illness of our son.
The talk of war with France continued on with little or no resolution, and thoroughly agitating my husband in the process. I was grateful to see the end of 1797, and had hopes that 1798 would be much more fortuitous for everyone I loved most. I occupied myself with my family’s affairs, encouraged my children’s accomplishments, and cautiously rebuilt the love and trust with my husband.
But then in early May, the idle talk of war over suppers became a frightening reality. The afternoon was warm and sunny, that season when spring has just begun to cede to summer. The days were at last sufficiently warm to make the white muslin dresses that fashion demanded agreeable, and as my sister Angelica and I stepped from an apothecary shop, the straight skirts of our dresses fluttered around our legs and over the tops of our heelless slippers in the breeze. I don’t recall what our conversation might have been—some idle foolishness—but in the pause between our words, I heard the first loud explosion in the distance.
We stared at each other, startled and unsure.
“Was that thunder?” asked Angelica, holding her hand on her straw hat as she tipped her head back to study the sky. “I’d think it too fair a day for a lightning storm.”
“It’s not thunder,” I said slowly. It had been many years since I’d heard this distant, ominous, thunderous roar—all the way back to the Revolution—but once heard, it’s a sound not easily forgotten. It was also a sound I’d hoped never to hear again in my life.
“It’s gunfire, Angelica,” I said. “Cannons. I recall it from the army.”
Angelica’s eyes widened. “Gunfire! How can that be here in New York?”
Even as she spoke, the sound came again, the rumbling roar of great guns in unison, echoing from across the water. It wasn’t close—no ship was firing broadsides directly into the city—but it was still far too near for a country that claimed to be neutral.
Other people had paused as well, their conversations stopped and their business halted as together we all strained to listen, making the city strangely quiet and ill at ease.
It came again, echoing from the harbor to the east and the oceans beyond.
“The French,” I said automatically. “It must be the French.”
“But here?” Angelica said, her voice trembling with anxiety. “I cannot believe it.”
My sister and I parted then, she returning to her husband and family, and I hurrying to Alexander’s office. I didn’t doubt that he would know about the guns, and as soon as I appeared, he ushered me quickly into his own room, and shut the door.
“Did you hear,” I began, but he quickly finished my sentence.
“The broadsides.” There was a renewed energy to him that I hadn’t seen for years, an animation to his gestures and brightness to his eyes. “Yes, everyone in the city heard them, didn’t they?”
“But where were they from?” I asked anxiously. “Is it the French?”
“Who else would it be?” he asked. “This afternoon a French privateer of fourteen guns captured the ship Rosseter from this port, and the Thomas from Bristol. It was the privateer’s guns we heard, for they were in our waters, less than a mile outside the harbor. Everything could be seen from the battery with a spyglass.”