I sighed, remembering the burned-out shop of the poor paper seller. “We do have our share of ogres, particularly in the legislature.”
“Particularly in the Governor’s House,” he said with open disgust, and I realized from the tone of his voice that he was slipping from his prepared thoughts into personal opinion. “Clinton is a ringleader more than a governor. He ignores the peace treaty as if it holds no sway over New York. He panders to the lowest sort of ignorant rabble, and incites them to believe they are entitled to far more than they are. If he so much as glances at a prosperous gentleman and whispers ‘Tory,’ then that is permission enough for his followers to hector and destroy that gentleman and steal his goods and lands, without risk of repercussion.”
I nodded, for it was no secret that Alexander did not like (nor was in turn liked by) the present governor of New York, George Clinton. My father didn’t like him, either. In another time, they might all have been friends, or leastways amiable acquaintances, since they’d much in common. Clinton had served in the army and the militia, he was a friend of General Washington and an ardent patriot who’d signed the Declaration of Independence, and from his own pocket he’d supplied the Continental Army with supplies, much as had Robert Morris and my father.
But Clinton’s concept of patriotism included a deep and irrational hatred of Tories as a whole, as if every one of them, young or old, men or women, held the same beliefs and the same degree of evil. He dangerously condoned arrests, whipping, and even tarring and feathering of Tories. With his encouragement, the New York legislature had passed stringent laws to punish these people, and had encouraged the seizure of Tory-owned properties and goods as a way to fill the state’s coffers, and thereby reduce taxes. As can be imagined, Clinton was very popular for these policies, particularly among the farmers to the north of the state, and he had been reelected repeatedly because of them.
They also made the governor a very anathema to Alexander.
“I know you understand, Betsey, for we’ve spoken of this many times before,” he said. His voice was growing louder with urgency, his hand tapping restlessly on the tablecloth, and I was sure that if we hadn’t been sitting behind the table together, he would have already been on his feet and pacing.
Gently I covered his tapping hand with my own, hoping to calm him. “We have indeed spoken of this many times, my dear. Recall that I’m Mrs. Phocion as well as Mrs. Hamilton.”
Yet his fervor was so great, it was as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
“The people came together as a single country to fight the war,” he said. “But now that it’s over, Clinton’s petty vengeance and punitive extortions only serve to divide the citizenry into suspicious factions and mob rule. We can’t have that, Betsey. We can’t have that at all.”
“Will that be your argument in defense of Mr. Waddington?” I asked mildly. “That mob rule is not acceptable?”
He scowled and paused, then smiled as he realized what I was doing.
“I believe you know otherwise, Betsey,” he said. “My argument will be that Clinton’s Trespass Act illegally violates the treaty of peace ratified by Congress, and that Mrs. Rutgers has no grounds for her case.”
“Exactly so,” I said, and smiled in return, and in triumph, too. “You’re not only remarkable for your kindness, Mr. Hamilton, but you can be quite clever, too.”
“As are you, my dearest wife,” he said, leaning forward to kiss me. “As are you.”
*
In the following weeks, the case of Rutgers vs. Waddington was much celebrated. Alexander’s defense was lauded for its coherence, its brilliance, and its fairness, and everyone who was in the room to hear him was impressed by his sheer gift for legal argument and logic. Chief Justice James Duane (the same gentleman who’d given Alexander the freedom of his law library whilst he’d been preparing for the bar) handed down a split verdict as his final ruling. Mrs. Rutgers was entitled to rent from Mr. Waddington, but only for the time before the British occupied the city. The two sides agreed to the sum of eight hundred pounds, a tenth of what Mrs. Rutgers had originally sought, but more than she might now expect to receive.
But what pleased Alexander the most, however, was what Chief Justice Duane wrote in his ruling: that no state could change or abridge a federal treaty. New York could no longer set itself above Congress, or create new laws that ran counter to the treaty of peace. Governor Clinton and the legislature were being forcibly brought to heel. This was exactly what Alexander had been saying for nearly as long as I’d known him, and to his mind, it was the best vindication in the world. He was still crowing by the time he came home, and it had been a long time since I’d seen him so pleased by the results of his toil.
After this, I doubt there was anyone in the city of New York who did not know Alexander Hamilton. Of course, some knew it in praise, while others could only speak it in derision or scorn, or denounce him for aiding his onetime enemies. Governor Clinton was said to be especially displeased, spitting every kind of foul slander and epithet from Poughkeepsie toward New York. My husband didn’t care; I believe he gloried in it.
In fact, he’d crowed so much that my secret fear was that he’d once again discover a taste for politics. But this time, my fears were unfounded. When one of the newspapers put forth his name as a possible candidate for the legislature, he quickly made sure it was withdrawn. I was overjoyed, and delighted that he concentrated instead on his now-flourishing practice.
Cases came his way from similarly distressed Tories at a rapid rate, so many that he took on more clerks and law students to assist him, and his office hummed with activity as these newcomers attempted to match my husband’s furious pace of work. It wasn’t simply his legal work that occupied him. He also took on several other responsibilities that would have been all-consuming for a lesser gentleman, but for Alexander were simply more facets to his complicated life.