But the appointment as the state’s tax-receiver was every bit as difficult and frustrating as I’d feared it would be. Those who owed taxes had no impetus to pay them, while the law, such as it was, gave Alexander no way to compel them to comply. There was little remunerative return to him for all the effort he exerted in the position, and it seemed to me a sorry waste of his increasingly precious time.
Yet despite his complaints (and oh, yes, he did complain), the appointment gave him reason to appear before the state’s legislature with the goal of promoting a more effective way to collect taxes. He’d promised Robert Morris to do this, which would have been reason enough for him to make the three-days’ ride south to Poughkeepsie.
But he also had the encouragement of my own father, who was serving as a state senator. To my chagrin, Papa took Alexander under his wing, and showed him about to best advantage to the other members of the legislature. Ordinarily I would be pleased by Papa’s open affection and regard for my husband, but because of it, they both decided to lengthen their stay for several weeks. I will admit that they accomplished much, including the passage of a resolution calling for a new, national convention to overhaul the Articles of Confederation under which Congress weakly governed.
This should have been a resolution dear to Alexander’s heart, considering how often he declaimed about the country’s government, and likened it to every toothless and infirm beast he could name. Instead, however, he’d found the entire process disillusioning and discouragingly slow, and the members of the legislature a dull-witted and selfish lot whose main concerns were not for their constituents, but only for their own personal gain. He claimed he wished nothing more to do with it or them, and instead preferred to marvel over how much he thought Philip had grown in the time he’d been away, and how skilled his son had become at sitting upright unassisted. Of course I agreed on every count; how could I not?
But in August came news of the most sorrowful kind. I’d never had the honor of meeting John Laurens, but I knew how much his friendship meant to Alexander, and how, since Yorktown, they had strived to keep it aglow through letters. But while Alexander had returned to me in Albany after the last campaign, Laurens had been unable to leave behind the rigors and adventure of battle. Little actual fighting remained in any of the states, but Laurens had found it in a small and meaningless battle near his home in South Carolina. Leading a charge, he was shot from the saddle, and died soon after. The British left South Carolina less than a week later.
Like so many of our age, he was one more young man of promise and ability who’d been claimed too young, at only twenty-seven, and because Laurens had been so dear to Alexander, his death affected my husband deeply. He mourned not only the loss of his friend, but also the conclusion of the time they’d shared as soldiers, and his own youth with it. At twenty-six, Alexander himself was hardly old, yet Laurens’s death made him feel the gloom of his own mortality. Only Philip’s innocence and infant promise seemed to comfort him, our son’s cheerful gurgles easing his sorrow far more than any adult words of condolence.
I felt certain now that he’d devote himself to building his practice, and that the house he’d continued to promise would soon be ours. His associate Aaron Burr had also passed the bar, and the office he’d opened was prospering. But in October, amongst the many letters that came daily to The Pastures was one that set Alexander on another course entirely.
He came to me while I was at my music in the parlor, the open letter still in his hand. He was grinning, smiling more widely than I’d seen since he’d heard of Laurens’s death, and as I played the last lines of the little song I’d been practicing, he danced a small jig of joy that made me laugh.
“I’d guess that must be good news,” I said, “to make you caper about so.”
“Oh, only the best,” he assured me, “and all the more for being so unexpected.”
He took my hand and raised me from the bench, and made me dance a few more steps with him while he hummed the tune I’d been playing. He ended by giving me a loud, smacking kiss that made me laugh again, and swat at him for being foolish.
“Tell me, Alexander,” I said. “Or am I to guess you’ve been offered a position as a dancing master?”
“I could do that, you know,” he said, and winked. “But it’s something far grander than that. You recall when I came home from Poughkeepsie, convinced the entire legislature was nothing but a barn of incompetent dolts and nodding old fools?”
“I do,” I said. “You’ve made sure I wouldn’t forget, too.”
“You should forget it, because now I judge them to be only the wisest and most prudent of gentlemen,” he said, holding the letter out for me to read. “Read this, Betsey. They have chosen me as a delegate to represent New York at the next Continental Congress. I leave for Philadelphia next week.”
CHAPTER 13
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
January 1783
Journeys made in the winter months are never easy. Ice, snow, and winds are only part of the trial. Even when shod with ice shoes, horses seem to go lame more often in the cold, and roads that are hard-rutted with ice can break wheels and axles of even the sturdiest conveyances. If there is sufficient snow, the best mode of travel is a sleigh, which cannot be excelled for smoothness and speed, but leaves much to be wanted in regard to comfort.
No matter how many coverlets and furs are provided across the sleigh’s bench, the biting wind still manages to steal its way to any skin left uncovered, and the coals in the foot-warmer that felt so cozy when the day began lose their heat all too soon, and with it vanishes all feeling in the toes and feet. Swaddled like eggs for market against the cold, there is no opportunity for amusement whilst traveling by sleigh: blowing pages make reading impossible, and hands tucked in mittens or muffs can do no needlework. Even conversation can be difficult, with the wind tearing away each shouted word, and refreshment is best left for the next tavern.
For the sake of joining Alexander in Philadelphia, I made such a journey from Albany in January 1783. To every hardship I’ve listed, I added one more challenge of the most taxing, albeit charming, sort: at Alexander’s request, I brought with me our son, Philip.
Philip was nearly a year in age, bright-eyed and lively, with thick dark hair and round, rosy cheeks. He was accomplished at sitting, crawling, and standing, and was laboring mightily at walking without the helpful yet meddlesome hands of a larger person for support. However, he had next to no interest in being wrapped in thick clothes and tucked beneath furs, and in being made to sit still in a sleigh for hours on edge.