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December 1789
The letter came after Christmas.
John thought perhaps it was Thomas, complaining about Hamilton and the liberties he’d taken during his tenure as unofficial Secretary of State while Jefferson was sailing back from France. John had tried to explain that he had no interest in Hamilton’s machinations, but gossip was the binding force in Thomas Jefferson’s relationships, and he continued to detail his grievances at length. But halfway through the letter, John realized it wasn’t Jefferson’s pedantic scrawl. He flipped it over, looked at the signature.
Oh.
He took the letter into the parlor, where Henry and Mattie were listening to Frances practice the harpsichord. John waited until she finished and said, “Fanny, mind if I talk to your mother and Papa for a minute?”
She scowled at him. “I hate that nickname. I’m not a little girl.”
“Manners, young lady.” Henry fixed her with a milder version of the stern look that used to make John squirm with shame. It seemed to have no effect on Frances, who planted a kiss on his forehead before leaving the room.
John watched her go. For all she had his eyes and riotous hair, she took after Mattie: her stubborn jaw, her easy relationship with Henry, her fearlessness. He should have been glad his daughter was not subject to his failings, but the gnawing in his chest said otherwise, because he couldn’t remember a time when he had not been afraid.
“Jack? What did you want to talk about?”
Henry’s impatient tone snapped John out of his thoughts. He did that sometimes — drifted, lost in his head, until someone pulled him back. It annoyed Henry, who thought he was being obstinate, and scared Mattie, who thought he was having fits. John didn’t know what Frances thought; she never hung around him long enough to witness it happening, or else paid him no mind when it did.
He held out the letter.
Henry took it, eyes skimming over the brief lines. His fingers tightened on the page. “You’ve been appointed to the Senate?”
“What?” Mattie leaned in, trying to read over his shoulder.
“Ralph Izard died after the first session ended,” John explained. “Went home and had a massive stroke. Pinckney needed someone to fill the position. Who better than the son of Henry Laurens, former president of the Continental Congress?”
Henry gave him a sharp look. “Don’t tell me you’re going to refuse it.”
John shrugged.
“You can’t sulk around the house forever.”
“Oh, can’t he?” Mattie’s tone was sour. “What happened to becoming a lawyer, Jack? Or your correspondence with Jefferson. You spent weeks in Virginia, to what end? Told us you were considering a return to politics and nothing came of it after all.”
“I said the timing wasn’t right —”
“The timing will never be right,” Henry interjected, “you just have to act —”
“— and besides, the seats were filled.”
“Well, there’s one open now.” Henry’s face softened. “Jack. I didn’t raise you to be indolent, I’ve never known you to shy from work. This is an honor, a chance to represent the interests of our state —”
“This state can go to Hell for all I care. It should. If it doesn’t, then God isn’t just.”
“So you’re going to sit on your heels in the meantime? For God’s sake, be a man. Is it not proper to sacrifice oneself for the nation?”
John realized he was digging his fingers into his hip and stopped. He took a deep breath; the air felt thick as mud, filling his lungs slowly. “I tried —” He paused, restarted. “I have a wife and daughter to care for, and you can’t manage the estate on your own.”
“For the love of — just take the position.” Mattie brushed a stray curl out of her eyes, looking tired. “We’ll stay here. You will come back when the session ends, yes? Fine. It’ll be fine. We’ve got along without you before.”
She didn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. John thought that was fair: he had always been leaving her, putting his country, his idealism, his lovers first. And for what purpose? He hadn’t died in glorious battle, Congress rejected his plans for emancipation. Even yrs. forever turned out to be a lie. Perhaps Mattie would’ve fared better had he not come back.
But there was no undoing the past. And Henry was right: this represented a unique opportunity, a chance for real action as John could no longer obtain in the honeysuckle slowness of Mepkin. Wasn’t Pierce Butler the other South Carolina senator? He’d argued the most vehemently against John’s proposals to free Blacks and grant them full citizenship during the Convention. No doubt he was relieved when John went home with his tail between his legs, because then he could continue to promote the interests of slaveholders without opposition. Well, not any longer. John felt the ghost of an old beat stuttering under his ribs, a ratatat of anticipation, i am not throwing away my shot .
He said, “I’ll think about it.”
That night he wrote Pinckney accepting the seat.
***
The new Constitution hadn’t made Congress less of a disaster.
It took John over a month to reach New York: bad weather impeded him from reverting to his wartime habits and riding hard and fast to his destination. He chafed at the delay — delays meant death in battle, and this was a battle, of a sort, a battle for the survival of a nation that would uphold the ideals it had espoused in its conception. Now that he had committed to the cause, he couldn’t stand aside and watch the afterbirth, an impassive observer.
As it turned out, he needn’t have hurried.
Half of the Senate wasn’t present, not yet returned from the holidays, or begging off for various reasons. The roads were shit, so-and-so’s home state had issues that required immediate attention, someone else had fallen into debt and couldn’t scrape together the funds to make the journey back. The senators who were there bitched about doing their jobs, as though they got anything done. John had thought the Continental Congress useless but at least they’d known how to run from the British. These men couldn’t dodge the insults they lobbed at each other like grapeshot. Adams was the worst offender: he complained about not being with his Abigail (who sounded like a bitch from what John gathered), and he grumbled about not being given the respect he deserved. He got into moods — John could almost sympathize with those, because Hamilton used to have fleeting moments of a sulky, dark temper that came out of nowhere and dissipated just as quickly. But Hamilton never stomped across the Senate floor like a child pitching a tantrum, shrieking at the senators for passing around a limerick about him.
(And the whole limerick game was ridiculous — they should have been discussing real issues, instead of titles for Adams. Who cared? He’d go down in history as His Most Ineffectual Buffoon if the Senate continued to laze around.
…That being said, John felt proud of his contribution, a reference to Circe’s pigs. There was something satisfying about a solid Classical allusion.)
Riding up from South Carolina, John had worried about running into Hamilton — would they pretend not to see each other, would Alex be formal and cold? — but that, too, proved to be pointless. Hamilton was busy drafting plans for a bank and expanding his one-man cabinet position into a sprawling bureaucracy that spanned an entire city block. Instead, John saw Madison on an almost daily basis when they passed each other in the halls. Madison gave him a curt nod every time, which was more attention than he paid to anyone who wasn’t Thomas. William Maclay looked puckered with envy when he witnessed it, and tried to wheedle John into telling how he’d garnered Madison’s favor.
John resolutely did not answer because I topped his favorite. He didn’t think Maclay was Madison or Jefferson’s type.
Which, speaking of — Thomas started inviting John over for dinner once a week. These were formal, fussy affairs, or at least as formal as Thomas Jefferson was capable of being. He wore his pajamas, but otherwise they sat at the long polished dining table, they ate whatever courses James Hemings prepared, they retired to the parlor (Thomas had knocked out a wall to make this transition easier) and drank port out of shot glasses. Sometimes Thomas got on his knees and John pulled his hair. More rarely, John stayed the night, slinking out in the grey hours of dawn and walking around the city until the buzzing under his skin faded to something more muted and tolerable.
He hated those nights. Being held at a distance, dressing in the dark to exit like a whore. It was fine for Thomas, who had Madison and Sally and his correspondence with Abigail Adams. John was just another mind to explore ideas with him, another warm body to distract from the ghosts. But then John went back to the place he was renting, where letters from home waited unanswered, and the loneliness hollowed out his ribs.
This became his routine: fruitless days, sleepless nights. Then the dog appeared.
At first glance, it startled him: a large creature with a dirt-mottled coat, lurking around the back of the house. Like a bad omen. But it caught him staring and bolted, hips tucked low under its shrunken belly. Poor thing, John thought, and had the cook leave out some bones from supper’s roast.
The next time, he was returning from his early morning prowl around the city when he found the dog sniffing at the kitchen door. It flinched from him, pressing into the door jamb. John slowed, held out his hand. “Hey,” he said, quiet, friendly. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It’s all right.”
The dog stared at him. He waited.
It — he , up close — licked his lips, stretched out his neck to smell John’s fingers. “There you go, there’s a good boy,” John murmured. The dog gave him a reproachful look. Uncomfortable flash of memory, Hamilton frowning at him: But John, I haven’t earned it. Back then, Alex had been more of a stray; his current peacocked self did not resemble the boy John once knew.
The dog butted his square head into John’s palm, bringing him back to the present moment. John scratched his ears. The dog leaned stiffly into the touch, his limbs rigid with fear or malnutrition or both. “Shh, you’re okay, I’m not gonna hurt you. You wanna come inside, get warm?”
He moved to unlatch the door, and the dog startled and fled.
John sighed. Could he do nothing right, not even kindness?
But the dog returned the next morning, and the next. John fed him rashers of bacon, leftover roast, fresh eggs. They shared breakfast: the dog ate, John petted him for a bit, the dog gave him a gentle nudge and then trotted off. Maybe he returned to his owner, or maybe he had his own things to do. Whatever his situation, he always came back.
John named him Pythias.
December 1790
Despite the Senate’s cloistered isolation, and his own disinterest in social events, it was inevitable John would encounter Hamilton at some point. Their jobs overlapped at finances, as Adams liked to complain; after submitting his debt plan to Congress, Hamilton began making appearances in the hall outside the chambers, exchanging small talk or a friendly hand on the shoulder with some of the representatives. He didn’t approach John — whether because of their past or because he assumed South Carolina wouldn’t support the plan — but he smiled and said “Senator Laurens” when they passed each other.
John hated those encounters, though he came to expect them.
He did not expect to find Hamilton at Jefferson’s weekly dinner.
Hamilton was seated at the table, fussing with the napkin in his lap. He startled when John walked in. “Laurens. What are you doing here?”
“It’s Tuesday,” John said, confused. He regretted it when Hamilton’s mouth thinned: that knee-jerk response told him more than John had intended about his personal affairs. Although who knew what Jefferson might have said to taunt or unbalance him? Speaking of whom, “Where is Thomas?”
“Sorry to keep y’all waiting.” Thomas came up behind John, rested a casual hand on his shoulder. Possessive. “No need to wait for me, Jack, take a seat. Jemmy’ll be here shortly, I’m sure. Why don’t we get started on the wine? I have a bottle of grenache I’ve been saving for the right occasion.”
Hamilton’s eyes flickered between them. Thomas guided John to the chair opposite before sinking into his place at the head of the table. He made a poor patriarch, in his blue dressing gown with the sleeves that didn’t reach his wrists, his long frame bent awkwardly to fit the chair. Yet something about him exuded threat: the arrogant tilt of his head, maybe, or his relaxed attire, in contrast with Hamilton’s emerald green jacket and starched cravat. He was a lion in repose, a predator whose laziness made it no less dangerous.
“... got this one while I was in France,” Thomas continued, pouring their glasses overfull. “It’s got a hint of lavender that takes me right back to the countryside. Ah-ah,” he looked at Hamilton, who had immediately gone to take a drink, “you have to smell it first. Inhale the bouquet.”
Hamilton stared at him, then drained half the glass in one gulp.
Thomas made a disapproving noise. “I suppose I can’t expect better of you. The West Indies aren’t known for their manners. Was your mother too busy to see to your education?”
“If you invited me on a pretense in order to insult me —”
“Hang on,” John interjected. “Why did you invite him?”
“Thomas?” Madison called from the parlor.
“Jemmy!” Thomas unfolded from his seat to usher Madison into the dining room. No one who saw them together could deny there was something real between them: Thomas’s gentle hand on Madison’s shoulder, steering him towards the seat next to his; the way Madison curved into Thomas, both of them fitted together like links in a chain. “We were just having a pre-dinner glass, let me pour you some —” he presented the bottle for Madison’s inspection “— that red I was telling you about, I think you’ll appreciate it.”
The last part was paired with an unsubtle look at Hamilton, who took another long sip from his glass. John rolled his eyes.
“Don’t tell me we’re starting a dinner club,” he said.
“Nah, it’s more of a one-time thing.” Thomas sank down into his chair, fingers playing with the cuff of Madison’s sleeve. “Though, gotta say, I’m surprised Hamilton here didn’t try to snag his pal an invite. Is Burr doing something else tonight? Or someone else?”
“No,” Hamilton said, at the same time John sputtered, “ Burr? ”
Hamilton shot him an annoyed look.
“You haven’t heard?” Thomas feigned surprise. “Hamilton’s trying to get his boy into the Senate, guess old man Schuyler wants to step down. Gotta shove in those Federalists where you can.”
John hadn’t heard, in fact, because he’d drifted outside the Senate’s gossip circles, leaving as soon as the day’s session ended rather than joining the older men at the pub. He said, again, “You and Burr?”
Hamilton protested, “It isn’t like that —”
“Oh no?” Thomas cocked an eyebrow.
“It seems having a foothold in the House wasn’t enough,” Madison said. “Perhaps Mister Burr is out canvassing.”
Hamilton scowled. “Isn’t it proper to support one’s friend in a noble cause, namely, in promoting the welfare of the nation?”
“Since when is Burr your friend?” John asked, incredulous.
“Well,” Thomas said loudly, before Hamilton could respond, “this is an enlightening conversation, but we should have dinner before getting down to business.” He placed the emptied bottle of wine on the dumb waiter and sent it down to the cellar. “Ah, James, perfect timing — y’all are going to love this soup, what the man can do with a roux is magic.”
Thomas prattled on through four courses, deflecting any attempts Hamilton made at turning the conversation towards politics. Instead he detailed his time in France, going into dish after dish with excruciating recollection and giving away more than John had ever wanted to know about his lettres d'amour. John and Hamilton shared a look of pained commiseration as Thomas launched into the story of how he broke his wrist while on a walk with Maria Cosway. Only when the last dish had been removed did he lean forward, palms on the table: “So. Business.”
Madison cleared his throat. “What Thomas means is that we are aware, Hamilton, you have faced significant obstruction in getting your debt plan through Congress.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Yes, well. Until recently there wasn’t much benefit to the plan outside your own interests.”
“Besides improving our nation’s credit and ensuring we aren’t indebted to France for the rest of our lives.” Hamilton licked his wine-darkened lips. “But I’m thinking you’ve found a more personal benefit.”
“Man, we’re all servants of the people here,” Thomas drawled. “The needs of the nation above the desires of the self, yada yada. But you suggested an idea —”
“— a compromise,” Madison said.
“— and let’s just say we’re feeling agreeable.”
John gaped — he’d been invited to a back room deal? — but Hamilton nodded as though this was expected. Of course: he didn’t have dinner at Jefferson’s house without a reason. Or at least, a better reason than whatever masochism dragged John here once a week.
“We’ve got the banks, you get the Capitol. You have a location in mind?”
“The Potomac,” Madison said.
Hamilton grinned. “Looking to improve real estate values? Hey, I’m not passing judgment. Although I might’ve been less obvious about it, that move is blatant even for me.”
“It’s about ensuring state interests are being represented.”
“Sure, sure.” Hamilton waved a hand. “Washington is a Virginian, too. That’ll help.”
Thomas leaned forward. “What about the temporary Capitol?”
“What about it?”
“If the seat of government remains in New York,” Madison explained, “then it seems less likely to move South when the time comes. Laws can be amended, Hamilton, you know that as well as anyone else.”
Hamilton’s smile dropped away; he stiffened. “Fine. We move the government closer to the finish line while the permanent Capitol is being constructed. I can’t guarantee the temporary city, though. Did you have one in mind?”
“Philly,” John mumbled.
The others looked at him.
“Philadelphia,” he repeated, louder. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? City of independence, where you wrote the Constitution. Already has the buildings, too.”
Thomas smiled, teeth bared. “Jack, you’re a genius.” Then, to Hamilton: “You can sell that, can’t you? Put a shiny spin on it for your guys.”
Hamilton was staring at John as though he’d never seen him before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe all they’d ever loved in each other was an imagined thing, or maybe their love had only been that — love — unable to truly perceive reality.
“Yeah,” Hamilton said, after a moment. “You gonna back the debt plan?”
“I’ll tell the opposition to stand down,” Madison said.
“Deal.”
They shook on it. John stayed the night.
***
The morning of his departure for Philadelphia, John waited at the back door for Pythias. He held a new collar and leash in hand: he had determined to bring the dog with him. A selfish decision, perhaps, since he’d never found out whether Pythias had an owner, but they had spent mornings together for a year. What if the next tenant didn’t leave out food, or tried to chase him off? The dog wouldn’t understand that John was gone, that he’d needed to go.
He waited. Pythias didn’t come.
“Sir?” The maid hesitated on the threshold. “The carriage is here.”
His fingers tightened around the collar. He whistled.
“Sir?”
No sign of the dog.
December 1791
‘... the cruelest month... mixing memory and desire
… i could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, i was neither
Living nor dead and i knew nothing…’
December 1792
The cruelest thing about them was that Hamilton could move on from John — he could court power, pursue ambition, and return home to Schuyler’s black eyes and their continuously expanding brood — yet John could never seem to untangle himself from Hamilton.
Case in point: Thomas was bringing John to confront Hamilton with charges of embezzlement. Almost two years since the debt plan had passed and the national bank had been established, and last month that sniveling bootlicker Monroe found evidence of Hamilton giving funds to speculators. John felt certain there was a better explanation. Hamilton had gone to such lengths to get the bank in the first place — sure, he might be morally compromised, but he was pragmatic. He wouldn’t throw away control over the nation’s finances for quick cash. In John’s mind the meeting would go like this: Thomas and Madison would make the accusation, Hamilton would give a reasonable defense, all parties would be satisfied. Or, at least, none of them would end up imprisoned.
He should have known better.
Hamilton rose from behind his desk when the three of them entered his office. He must have known something was up; he had the look of a cornered animal, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn tight. “Secretary Jefferson. Mister Madison. Senator Laurens. What is this?”
Thomas’s grin widened. “We have the check stubs from separate accounts —”
“— almost a thousand dollars,” Madison interjected, “paid over the course of a year —”
“— to a Mister James Reynolds,” Thomas continued, “who is currently sitting in jail on charges of speculation.”
Hamilton visibly relaxed. “Is that what you have.”
“You realize,” Madison said, “that you are uniquely situated by virtue of your position to seek financial gain from artificial inflation of monetary values.”
Thomas crowed. “The evidence suggests you’ve been gambling with government funds!”
“Can you imagine the headlines? ‘West-Indian Immigrant Steals Honest American Dollars.’ Your career would be over. I hope you’ve set aside something for your children.” Madison chuckled, and over that sound Thomas drawled, “Ya best gwan’ run back where ya come from.”
Hamilton barked a short, harsh laugh. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to confess.”
John’s heart sped up.
“Look, your ‘evidence’ is flimsy at best. So I gave a guy some money. Friend of a co-worker. Did I get any returns? Do I look like I’m rolling in a sudden influx of cash? The records back me up, I’m still working my ass off for a government salary. I don’t have to tell you anything.” But something flitted across Hamilton’s face, and he paused. “Unless.”
“Unless?” John echoed.
“If I can prove that I never broke the law, do you promise on your honor as gentlemen not to let what I’m about to say leave this room?”
Madison and Thomas exchanged glances.
“Yes,” John said. “You have our word.”
Hamilton gave him a long, sad look. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and handed John the letter from inside.
John skimmed it quickly. His hands went cold. He read it over again, this time out loud: “Dear Sir, I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a generous position with regard to both your pockets and your sympathies. You see, that was my wife who you decided to —”
“Whaaaat —?”
Hamilton was talking, clipped sentences that tripped over themselves in their haste to get out. “She courted me, escorted me to bed, backed me into a corner and that’s when Reynolds pulled the extortion scheme. She said she loved me, but she was trapped in a bad situation. I couldn’t let him tell anyone, so I paid him to keep it close — sordid, I’ll grant you, but my papers are in order. Check the records, see —” he pulled out his ledger and slapped it on the desk “— I didn’t spend a cent that wasn’t mine. Was it shameful? Yes. But I’m no traitor; I’ve maintained my good name. Nothing here requires legal action. Is that enough, or do you need to see the other letters, too?”
He stopped for breath. The others stared at him.
“My God,” Thomas said.
Madison cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, let’s go.”
“None of this leaves the room?”
Thomas held up his hands, palms out. “Man, I don’t care what your hobbies are. Cross-stitch, fucking your neighbor’s wife, whatever. Keep the personal private, I’m all about that.”
Hamilton’s mouth twisted like he wanted to say something in response to that, but his shoulders slumped. “Good.”
Madison was already walking out. Thomas looked back at John. “Jack? You coming?”
“Give me a minute.” He waited until the door shut behind them. “Alex —”
“I’m sorry, John.” Hamilton’s eyes were huge and earnest and shiny with unshed tears. He’d always cried easily. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“Does Burr know?”
Hamilton bit his lip.
“Does Eliza know?”
A dark flush spread over Alexander’s cheeks, and John felt himself go hot with rage. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Me? I’m not the one sleeping with Thomas fucking Jefferson. Have you told your wife about that ongoing affair? Don’t try to act all righteous.”
“That’s not the same.”
“How?”
“I’m not paying Martha Jefferson for the privilege of sucking her husband’s dick. Jesus Christ, were they not enough? Eliza for your cock, Aaron for your mouth —”
“Don’t bring them into this.” Hamilton’s voice was low and furious. The tone of it made John half-mad — how dare he play indignant? “This had nothing to do with them.”
“Right. Because your terrible decisions don’t affect the people around you.” John swore again. “At least I’m not one of them anymore.”
***
The letter came after Christmas.
John read it once, twice. Each time the words made less sense, and his mind struggled to piece them together in such a way as would give them meaning beyond the strokes of Mattie’s pen.
His father was dead.
Mattie had mentioned Henry being ill but hadn’t given any indication it was serious. Or had John missed her hints, brushed them aside as womanish fretting? Perhaps he’d thought she was trying to get him to come back to Mepkin, under the guise of attending to his elderly father. As though Henry would ever approve of his son shirking the duties of a senator.
He passed on the Night of December the 8th; his Remains have been cremated according to his Final will. Their burial is left to your Discretion, as the Eldest and his chosen Heir.
Henry had died a week before John confronted Hamilton. John had cursed Hamilton for betraying his family, while his own father was dying, was being burned down to dust, and he’d had no knowledge of it.
John couldn’t breathe. He stumbled outside, where the rancid smell of Philadelphia filled his lungs, garbage and piss and rot clouding the winter air. Shaking fingers fumbled to unbutton his waistcoat, loosen his cravat. The cold stung his exposed skin but did nothing to ease the tightness of his throat. Head in his hands, he sagged against the back of the house, wheezing. Thoughts circled his mind like crows. Was this how Henry felt in his last moments? What place in hell was there for a son who ignored signs of his father’s coming death? When would this miserable, endless moment of Being end for him?
Something bumped against his leg. He raised his head and stared into a familiar face.
Pythias whined, pawed at him. John lowered his hands, and the dog scooted into his lap. He reeked of filth, ribs poking through his matted coat, but he was a warm weight against John’s torso. John wrapped his arms around the dog’s chest.
“You came back,” he said, voice hoarse. How had the dog found him? Maybe he was hallucinating, or some other starved stray came along. But then Pythias twisted around, head craning back to turn doleful brown eyes on him, and John knew this was his dog, this was real.
John buried his face in the dog’s fur and wept.