“We never met before tonight,” I assured her, “and though I owe him a debt, if he is odious to you, I shall remove him at once.” I did not know how I would do such a thing, but I hoped he would not take too much offense at my offering to do so.
She forced a smile. “He is not odious, merely persistent, which can be rather tiresome.”
Lavien bowed. “I do not mean to be so, but I serve a demanding master.”
“Hamilton is your burden to bear, not mine,” said Mrs. Pearson. “And Captain Saunders, you have obviously had a difficult night and would be much better served by going home and resting. I am a silly woman to have begun this business, and I hope you will forgive me.”
“I will forgive you,” I said, “as long as you are being perfectly direct.”
She looked away. “Of course I am.”
“Then why,” asked Mr. Lavien, “did you wonder if Captain Saunders’s injuries were the result of your attempt to enlist his help?”
“I said no such thing,” she said to him.
It was true that she had not, but she had certainly implied it. It was clear, however, that she did not wish us to stay and that no amount of badgering was going to alter her opinion on the matter. There would be time for further contact.
As though seeing my thoughts, Mrs. Pearson retreated a few steps. “I must ask you to leave, Captain Saunders, and not return.”
“Very well.” I thought it wisest to agree as quickly as possible before promises were extracted. The more said, the less able I would be later to pretend to have misunderstood. “Come, Mr. Lavien. We need not belabor the point.”
I held the door open for Lavien and Leonidas and turned back for one last look. “Good night, Mrs. Pearson.”
“Good night,” she said. She caught her breath, as if to say something more, but stopped herself. She blinked once and looked at me very directly. “And, Captain Saunders, it is good, very good, to see you again.”
Was it my imagination, or was there something pleading in her tone, in her looks? I did not think she longed for me or my company but for something else, to communicate something of import. I had loved her father as though he were my own, and he and I had been brought low together because of Alexander Hamilton. I had loved her, and perhaps still did, and now she was married to another man. Those children in the house, sleeping their quiet childish dreams, were meant to be my children. I could not have her or this life, but if she were in danger I meant to resolve it, and I pitied anyone who would stand in my way. I was not like Mr. Lavien, capable of miraculous feats of martial prowess, but I had my own methods, my own tricks, and I was eager to use them.
Joan Maycott
Autumn 1788
Andrew and I married. Not immediately, of course, for there was all that courting to tend to, which was interesting and emotionally rewarding enough that I did not wish to rush it, particularly not when it produced such excellent notes in my journal. All those sweet and awkward moments wanted describing: the long talks; the vibrancy of stolen moments in barns, and kitchens, and under a vast summer sky. I enjoyed one marvelous first after another. Less enjoyable, but perhaps equally novelistic, was the tedious gatherings of our families, full of forced conversation and compliments on cheeses and pastries, the excellence of eggs or the sweetness of apples. My mother, delighted at the prospect that I should marry into such a family, with so handsome a man, snapped at me constantly to remove my nose from my books and cease my endless writing in my journal. Andrew, however, loved me for these things. He admired my learning and my ambition. My mother said I was being foolish, for Americans—and particularly American girls—do not write novels. Why, Andrew asked her, should his Joan not be the first? This was a new beginning for a new country, and there was no reason I could not be the foremost woman of letters in the new republic.
At first I worried that I had somehow tricked Andrew into offering to marry me, that I had been too forward with him, that I had confused his emotions. Time, however, soothed these fears. He would greet me always with a decorative carving or a piece of jewelry he had made for me, a bouquet of flowers or even, on occasion, a new ribbon with which to trim a hat. At family gatherings he would contrive some means to secrete me alone, if only for a minute, to steal a kiss, full of passion and desire and a yearning to have me to himself, to take from me all I would yield. When we parted, I saw the yearning in his eyes, and I felt it too. I had begun my dealings with Andrew as a kind of girlish experiment, but it had changed, truly changed, into womanly love.
We spent two years in courtship, attending family gatherings, dinners, and dances in town, once he was able to make do without the cane, though he continued to limp in damp weather or when much put upon. Concerns of money wanted sorting, but his parents did not insist upon a dowry that my family could not afford, for they saw his affection for me and were content that their boy, who had seen so much horror in the war, should enjoy a portion of happiness.
Andrew was the third of three sons and so was not to inherit his family’s farm. This fact caused him some sadness, for he loved to work the land. He had spent little time in cities, but what he knew of them he did not like. Yet I, for my part, had always longed for city life, though I knew it only from novels, and it was my firm opinion that we should move to New York. Prejudices from the war, when New York was the British capital, colored Andrew’s opinion, and he at first resisted, but he had never been an unreasonable man. We were only six weeks married when we arrived in New York City, where Andrew hoped to set himself up as a carpenter—a trade he knew well from the farm and which he had honed during the war, building bunkers and fortifications and redoubts, and then, once he had studied under more capable men, furnishings for officers’ tents.
Our plans met with trouble almost from the first. We had less money than would have been ideal for such a venture, and we could not afford to live in any of the charming old Dutch homes off the Broad Way. Instead, we rented a house between the Collect Pond and Peck’s Slip. This was low-lying land, inhabited by immigrants and the desperate. The streets were muddy, often choked with dead dogs and cats. The horses did not last long before they were stripped of their hide and flesh and hooves. Sometimes, when it was dry, piles of bones could be found stacked alongside the decaying wooden houses. When it was wet, the streets were thick rivers of slow-moving mud that flooded our house. It was a poor place for a carpentry shop, but we could pay for no better. We had, however, our own house and our privacy, and though we could afford only the scrawniest of chickens and the thinnest of cheeses, we made do, happy to be alone and together.
New York had suffered under the occupation, and remaining everywhere were signs of careless treatment of a place that was never to the British more than a campground and a plaything. Much of the city had been burned, and even now some buildings were but charred beams; others had been left in terrible conditions of decay, and the people—so many of whom had sided with the British—were now reduced to penury. Those royalists who had not fled wandered the city as though dazed, unable to believe they had bet upon the wrong horse and lost everything.
Yet, for all that, New York was a city on the rise. Though the dominant argument in the air was whether or not the new Constitution would receive ratification by the states, many New Yorkers were so convinced that they were to be the center of a new imperial experiment that they had already come to think of their city as the “empire city,” their state as the “empire state.” Everywhere, decayed streets metamorphosed into rows of charming brick houses with tiled roofs. Great boulevards of shopping—Wall Street, the Broad Way, and Greenwich Street—became almost daily more refined. In the distance to the north were quaint villages and farmland and, beyond that, sublime outcroppings of mountain and forest. We walked the cobbled streets of the new imperial capital, the rivers filled with forests of merchant-ship masts, yet we were surrounded by the untouched sublimity of nature. There could be nothing more American.
Though I lived in this city of commerce
, I continued to have trouble writing my novel, principally because I still did not know what I wished to say. I sat, when I could find the time, with my books on finance: Postlethwayt’s Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce, Thomas Mortimer’s Every Man His Own Broker, Smith’s Wealth of Nations, and a thousand bone-dry pamphlets arguing on all matters from free trade to taxes to tariffs to pricing. Somewhere in all that reading, I was certain, was a novel.
Though women were not welcome, on a few occasions I made my way to the Merchant’s Coffeehouse on Wall Street, where commodities, bank issues, and government loans were traded in a kind of organized frenzy. Men shouted out prices, while others attempted to buy to advantage or sell before the price further declined. Here I thought was something else uniquely American. In England, jobbers traded their issues in London; in France, they traded in Paris; but in America, we traded in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Charleston. What effect did a decentralized market have upon prices and upon a trader’s ability to profit? It seemed to me, even then, that an unscrupulous jobber with a few fast riders in his employ could exploit the system and profit handsomely. This too seemed to me fundamentally American, for we were a land where cleverness and ingenuity bled quickly into chicanery and fraud. How easily, I thought, in an untamed land did the steady energy of ambition become the twitchy mania of greed.
That we had no child also lay heavily upon me. I became pregnant three times in the five years we lived in New York, but always I miscarried before the fourth month. The surgeons and midwives gave me all manner of medicines, but none served. As the years passed, I began to grow despondent. For no want of effort, I could produce neither book nor child.
I wish to make it clear that Andrew was perfectly capable as a carpenter and equally so as a man of business. He was thrifty and hard-working, skillful and exacting, and could we have afforded to establish ourselves upon a better street, I have no doubt he would have risen to prominence, but we were trapped in the horrible cycle of poverty made inevitable by our neighborhood. Andrew offered his services cheap, and we had business enough, but once we were done paying our rents and our bills, there was little left. Some months we earned less than we spent, and after years of trying to make the carpentry business pay, Andrew began to wonder if it would not be better if we gave it up and attempted something new, though what this would be, neither of us could yet say.
Like many soldiers, Andrew found that after his service the Continental government had no funds with which to pay him, but he had long held on to his promissory notes rather than, as had many others, sell them to speculators at a fraction of their face value. Then late in 1788, Andrew came home one evening in a thoughtful mood. After a spare meal, he told me he had something of great importance to discuss. He had met a man named William Duer, an influential merchant in the city and an associate of Alexander Hamilton, who was rumored to be the new Treasury Secretary when General Washington took office as the first president in April.
No one knew what future, if any, there might be for war debt held by the various states. Some said the federal government planned to assume these obligations and pay all promissory notes. Other said it would declare the debt void with magisterial apologies, and soldiers like my husband would be forced to accept that they would never receive their due. There was no way to tell, this Duer had said, but there were men who were willing to hazard the risk. They had acquired land inexpensively in western Pennsylvania, near the forks of the Ohio, and they were willing to trade this acreage for war debt, assuming the risk of its future payment.
I knew nothing promising or inviting of western Pennsylvania, but Andrew had always regretted leaving farming behind, so was this not our opportunity? The western land, Duer claimed, was wondrous fertile. Once we had been willing to put farming behind us, but after years of struggling in the city, perhaps what we required was something familiar.
I always believed Andrew to be more innocent than I and said I wished to meet with this Mr. Duer myself, so the next day we had him in the sitting room, such as it was, on the second floor of our little house. It rained outside, and all the while I was in a fret that the first floor would flood while there was company there to witness it.
Duer was a small man in build and stature, in his forties, well groomed, with delicate features that made him look vaguely girlish but not effeminate. He was too fussy for that, like a squirrel worrying a nut. His pale brown eyes darted rapidly but lingered on nothing for long. Andrew and I sat on a cushioned bench, while Mr. Duer sat in a finely crafted chair—Andrew had made it himself—across from us, sipping tea and smiling with a small mouth full of very small teeth. With the cup in his hand, he rocked slightly with what I supposed was enthusiasm or an excess of energy. “It is a considerable undertaking,” he said. His voice was slightly high-pitched, slightly whiny. It cracked upon long vowel sounds. “You must decide if you will move to western Pennsylvania, a land you have never visited, and start anew. The journey west is long, and it is far from everything you know. However, it is also a marvelous opportunity for many people, people who were never paid by the country they served, to exchange their intangible notes for land of real value.”
“If the land has value and the notes do not, why do you propose such a trade?” I asked.
He raised his teacup to Andrew in salute. I noticed the cuffs of his sleeves were unnaturally white. “This is a clever woman you have here, clever and observant. There are some small-minded men who regard a clever woman as a curse, but I am not one of them. I admire a clever woman prodigiously, and I congratulate you upon her.”
“And yet you have not answered her question,” said Andrew.
“My own wife, Lady Kitty, is also such a woman, and cousins, you know, with the wife of Colonel Hamilton.”
“You clearly have an excellent domestic arrangement,” I offered.
“Yes, thank you. Most excellent. Now, you see, Mr. Maycott, western land is fertile, but cheap because it is so plentiful; there is far more land than there are people to settle upon it. The land is cheap for me to buy, but for those who wish to live, to farm, to have a life of plenty away from the city, it is of real value, for the land will grow nearly anything and livestock will thrive. Winters there are mild; summers are long and pleasant, without being oppressive and unwholesome as they can be here.”
He handed Andrew a pamphlet entitled “An Account of the Lands of Western Pennsylvania,” which, we discovered when we later read it, described an agrarian paradise. Rows of corn and vegetables that grew almost without husbandry. Because the land was so easily worked, families there had more free time than they did upon other farmlands, and balls, with fanciful homemade gowns and suits, had become something of a passion. It was a place of rural refinement, unlike any other in the world, for only in this new country, where good land remained unclaimed, could there be such independence and success. The dream of the American republic might have been born in the East, but it was reaching full flower in the West.
“I shoulder the risk in this investment,” Duer said. “Should the new government decide to assume the war debt, then I will profit. If it chooses not to—well, the land was got cheaply, and the loss will not do me great harm. In any exchange of this sort, each side makes a wager that he will be better off than he was before, but a speculator must also look at the consequences of losing. In my case, I will be poorer for the loss, but I must lose sometimes, and I do not chance what I cannot bear to part with. In your case, if you hazard and lose—which is to say, you do not like your new circumstances—you have parted with paper notes, perhaps worth some cash someday, perhaps not. On the other hand, you will still have your lands, your wealth in food and crops, and your independence.”
Andrew wore a serious expression, but I knew it belied his enthusiasm. He would be imagining the farms of our youth, a table on which a suckling pig steamed, surrounded by bowls of cabbage and carrots and potatoes and warm bread, all arising from the work of his own hands. Maybe the land would
not be worth much to sell, but that was now. What of our children? Andrew believed the city air unhealthy. We would have children in the country, and they would inherit the land, which, as the nation moved west, would increase in value.
I was not, however, so eager. “I am concerned about Indians,” I said. “I have read more than one account of Westerners set upon by them. Men killed, children killed or abducted, women forced to become Indian brides.”
“It is a clever woman,” Duer said to Andrew, “who thinks of such things. And she is well informed, I see. I congratulate you, sir, upon her excellence.”
“Perhaps you should congratulate the lady directly,” Andrew suggested.
Duer smiled very politely—at Andrew. “Yes, the savages were a menace during the war, but that was owing to the influence of the British. Now the Indians have been run off—all but those who’ve embraced our savior. Just as their pagan brethren can be savage beyond imagination, the ones who accept religion become like saints. They live upon the most Christian principles, never raising their hands in violence. All say they make better neighbors than the white men. Not that white men have excessive faults, but the novelty of Christianity inspires the Indians to take its teaching to heart and to keep its doctrines foremost in their minds.”
“Perhaps we could go look at the lands,” I said. “Then we will let you know.”
“Your excellent wife proposes an excellent idea,” Duer said. “Many prefer to do so. I know of a group traveling out that way in two weeks. It should take them no more than a month and a half to make the journey, though it may take you some time more to return, for you will need an eastward-heading party. In the lands we speak of, the Indians have been quite quelled, but in the wilderness between it is still safe only to travel in large groups.”