“Has the Convention proceded as I’d hoped? No.” He shrugged, and shook his head with resignation. “I’ve been called a monarchist and a traitor, and I’ve had my opinions twisted about and thrown back at me. The Constitution that is being wrought is not what it could have been, and yet, I will support it, for the good of the country.”
I didn’t need to ask more. In the last months, he’d once again turned to writing letters to the New York newspapers attacking how Governor Clinton sought to block the new Constitution, and his supporters had been quick to attack Alexander, focusing not on his political beliefs, but with personal slanders and name-calling. It had been very public, shameful, and ugly, and had wounded Alexander—who remained acutely aware of his parentage and past—more deeply than I’d expected. If the Convention had had any of the same elements, then I understood why he wasn’t eager to return, and why our family was his sanctuary.
“Before I leave, I’ve something else to ask of you, my love,” Alexander said. “Do you recall Colonel Antill?”
“I recall attending his poor wife’s funeral with you several years ago,” I said. It had been a heartrending sight that would always remain with me: the grieving widower and their six young children, one a mere babe in arms, sobbing and lost, as they stood over the yawning grave of their wife and mother. Alexander had served alongside Colonel Antill in the war, and had attended King’s College with him, too, and when in desperation the colonel had appealed to my husband for assistance, Alexander had of course given it to him. “Is he faring any better with his law practice since then?”
“He’s taken to farming now,” Alexander said, “and done as poorly at that as he did with the law, and appears to be a man broken in spirit and body. He has come to me to beg an extraordinary favor. He wants us to take his youngest daughter Fanny into our care.”
I remembered that tiny, wide-eyed baby who’d never known her mother. I thought of how desperate Colonel Antill must be to ask such a thing. In that instant I forgot all my uncertainties about adding another child to our family, and the next day, Fanny came to live with us, as completely and as loved as if she’d been another daughter of our own blood.
*
As imperfect as Alexander judged the new Constitution to be and as painful as the process had been, he was still among the thirty-nine delegates who signed the document in September 1787. His was also the only signature to represent New York, the other two delegates having left early in protest, and in union with Governor Clinton.
I rejoiced to have my husband home once again, and the children—our three plus Fanny Antill—couldn’t have been happier to have their father back. I waited until we were alone in our bed with the curtains drawn tight, to tell him my own news.
“I’m with child again,” I said softly as I lay beside him, his arm curled around my waist.
He rolled over to face me, propping his head on his arm.
“A springtime baby,” I added.
He smiled slowly, letting the happiness spread across his face, and gently placed his hand over my belly.
I smiled, too, and with relief as well. “You are pleased?”
“I am as pleased as a husband could be, my love,” he said, and drew me close to kiss.
It was a blissful homecoming, but by the next morning, the loving husband had vanished, and he was as grim-faced and determined as if once again going to battle.
In a way, that was exactly what lay ahead. The Constitution still had to be approved and ratified by a majority of nine states. The debates and approvals would be made directly by citizens in state conventions, not by the various states’ legislatures and their politicians.
The arguments raged in every state and likely every tavern, too, with some men seeing the proposed new government as absolutely essential, while others deplored it as an abomination based so closely upon British models as to be a return to the same tyranny of colonial times. As can be imagined, New York was one of the most contentious states, with Alexander as the voice for the Federalists (as supporters of the Constitution had become known) and Governor Clinton as the leader of the Anti-Federalists. The passions of both groups ran high, and debates of the state convention were angry and heated, and filled with ungentlemanly invectives.
But in the fall of 1787, Alexander turned to his favorite weapon, the written word. He imagined a series of essays in the form of letters, to be published in the three largest New York newspapers for all to read.
On account of his public services and his law practice, however, he was prodigiously busy, and no matter how much coffee he drank, even he required a modicum of sleep. He wasn’t able to find time to compose his thoughts with clarity until October, when together we sailed north by way of a sloop on the Hudson to Albany. He was presenting a case before the state court there, and I accompanied him so that I might see my parents.
Because of the uncertainty of the winds and currents, such a journey upriver was more like a short voyage, and could take as long as a week. But on board the sloop Alexander had no distractions, nor could further work be brought to his attention. In this relative peace, he could write as intensely as he pleased on his battered portable desk, the hinged mahogany box that accompanied him everywhere. In this fashion, his thoughts were interrupted only when he invited me to join him on the deck to discuss some particularly thorny question while he paced back and forth, dodging sailors and other passengers and ignoring the changing colors of autumn on either bank of the river.
The epistolary essays as he conceived them were intended not only to persuade, but to explain the need for the new Constitution with clear examples of how the old Confederation had failed, and of how the new plan would correct these errors and weaknesses in the future. He enlisted his fellow delegates John Jay and James Madison to write essays as well, with each gentleman concentrating on topics of his own expertise. The essays were addressed to the citizens of the state of New York, and to protect the authors’ identities, they would be published under the name of Publius, in honor of Publius Valerius, one of the founders of the ancient Roman republic.
The first of the essays was published at the end of October, and the last in August 1788. There were eighty-five in all; Mr. Jay wrote five, Mr. Madison twenty-nine, and Alexander fifty-one. Together they were known as The Federalist.