Given that Jefferson had ruled over the city for eight long years, it didn’t surprise me to find no monuments, statues, or even placards honoring my husband. But I searched in vain for even the equestrian statue that was supposed to have been erected in honor of George Washington.
Not enough funds for it, I was told by a passerby.
And I was to hear that refrain again, at least a hundred more times as we paid call upon legislators, one by one, asking them to take up the cause of reinstating my husband’s benefits. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hamilton. There aren’t enough funds for it.”
Perhaps that was true, since the most rabid Republicans always denied the reality that a government requires tax money to accomplish anything.
And yet they’d found the funds to refurbish and decorate the President’s Mansion. I believed it wasn’t the expense that prevented them from granting my husband’s benefits. It was the resistance of enemies who insisted, even now, that Alexander had never truly been American.
“The Republicans won’t give an inch,” Mac admitted after having spoken to a few friends on my behalf. “They might make an exception for another hero of the revolution. They’d feel a pang of sympathy in their hearts. But not Hamilton.”
Not Hamilton. Not the so-called arch-intriguer, grand master of mischief, and evil genius of America who had dared to forge a strong central government at the expense of the states.
“Thank you, Mac,” I said, trying to remain serene while sipping at my tea in the quiet of the boardinghouse parlor where we sat together. “Unfortunately, I’m long accustomed to the hostility of these Jacobins. Or Democratic-Republicans. Whatever they’re calling themselves now. Even New York has become infested with them.”
And they were so afraid my husband’s ideas might flourish that they were willing to deny me my widow’s pension. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or pleased that even in his grave, my dear Hamilton remained, in the minds of many, a dangerous man.
So I was surprised when Mac murmured, “It’s actually the Federalists that are your trouble.”
Startled, I set down my teacup before I dropped it. “The Federalists?”
Mac rubbed his sore knee, seemingly unable to meet my eyes. “There are those who still blame Hamilton for our party’s collapse. We’ve lost three presidential elections in a row.”
“And how precisely could that be my husband’s fault? Even his reach does not extend beyond the grave.”
“It does,” Mac explained. “They blame Hamilton for revealing that John Adams is a bit of a madman. They think he cost us the presidency. Then he gave it to Jefferson. Nearly all of the party leaders fear that so long as the Federalists are associated with your husband, we can never win another election, so they won’t take up your cause. They’d rather be the party of George Washington and they fear you’re going to spoil it for them.”
I took up my teacup again, with disdain. “By reminding the world that Hamilton existed?”
He shook his head. “The rumor in Federalist circles is that you’re trying to revive your husband’s legacy at Washington’s expense.”
That was preposterous. And deeply offensive. “A malicious lie! How could I do such a thing even if it were my aim?”
“It’s said that you intend to claim, in your husband’s forthcoming biography, that Hamilton wrote Washington’s Farewell Address.”
“He did write it. With the president’s notes, of course. How could that possibly put Washington in a bad light? You were an aide-de-camp, too. Did the letters you wrote for the man take away from his greatness?”
Mac raised his hands. “It’s not me you have to convince.”
I knew that. Mac had not only scoured his attic for Hamilton’s papers but ridden—or at least rolled—into battle with me here in Washington City. And yet, we hadn’t found even one congressman in either party brave enough to bring my cause to the floor.
Having listened, with seething disgust, to all McHenry reported to us, my eldest son had heard enough. “Mother,” Alex said, running a hand through his reddish hair. “We are not to have satisfaction here. Let’s go home.”
Perhaps he had the right of it. And yet, I couldn’t convince myself to surrender. The Republicans had killed Alexander Hamilton and the Federalists wanted to bury him. And now, it seemed, I’d have to fight them all, like the politician my husband had helped me become. “Well, if reviving Alexander Hamilton is bad for Federalists at the ballot box, perhaps I might find at least one Republican willing to help me.”