Legacy: A James Alexander Hamilton Short Story

 

New York, 1862

I remember with clarity the day of my father’s death. My poor, dear mother lined up her children before the bed where he lie shivering and sweating, his skin like marble and eyes like pale fire. To this day, I wonder at the ease with which a man of such vitality and strength had been laid low. We children stood eldest to youngest with our heads hanging and shoulders slumped. At the tall end, my brother, Philip, was missing, having died under eerily similar circumstances almost three years past. At the short end, my mother stood, holding her youngest, another Philip. Two years old.

My place was near the center, though closer to the top than I had been. My sister, Angelica, though now the eldest, shifted to be between myself and my remaining older brother, Alexander. She floated uneasily between real life and figments of her imagination since Philip’s passing and had not grown accustomed to his absence. Her face grew ghostlike as our father’s, and I wondered if our mother had considered her inability to take in the scene.

Tears ran freely down Angelica’s face as her haunted eyes searched mine and Alex’s for salvation from the horrific truth before her. Our father also wept, something I had never before witnessed. My mother had primed herself for us to say our stoic farewells, but she had uncharacteristically not contemplated that the rest of us may not be so prepared to do this to her satisfaction. 

My brother, John, four years my junior, wrapped a slender arm about my waist as he resisted the urge to lean into me as carelessly as did our sister. The expectations of boys were different. Angelica wailed. John removed his arm to clasp his hands together and stiffen his spine, drawing himself almost as tall as myself. Little William next to him, mimicked John’s actions, while my mother firmly held the hand of her namesake, five-year-old Eliza.

We were crowded into the sweltering room where our father suffered within the home of Mr William Bayard, who had somberly welcomed us in with tear-streaked face and swollen eyes. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the floral wallpaper that seemed far too cheerful for the occasion, though the room was dark and the air thick with a scent I will always connect with death. My pulse skipped when our mother indicated that we would each kiss our father goodbye. She did so by lifting baby Philip to his face. Tears spilled from my beloved papa’s eyes as he struggled to purse his lips. The realization that he was gazing upon his seven surviving children for the last time seemed to be more than he could bear after a long night of excruciating pain and blood loss.

I dared to look down our pathetic little row at my sweet mama. Her face was haggard and her dark hair tumbling from its pins. I had rarely seen her thus, even in the privacy of our own home. Her arms visibly quaked as they held baby Philip toward our father like an offering, and I wondered if she would truly make us all go through with this. However, the decision was not left to her. My father gathered his strength enough to wave us away as sobs escaped his thin frame.

We boys tried to gulp down the tears that threatened to fall while our sisters cried enough for all of us, and we were directed to leave without kissing our dying papa.

It stirs sorrow within me as if it were yesterday, though I stand here now a man of great years. At times, I am still that sixteen-year-old boy, not quite a man but forced to sit upon a dais and pretend to be one at the most elaborate funeral New York City had ever seen. I couldn’t help thinking, then and now, that it was as if a king had died, just the sort of king my father had fought a bloody war against. I wonder still if he would have taken pride in the outpouring of devotion or if it would have caused him concern that so many liberty loving Americans could so obviously demonstrate their desire to be led by better, stronger men.

After the funeral, our family – and the young nation – was forced to forge a new future without the great Alexander Hamilton to guide it. My siblings and I knew what it was like to be the children of one of the most famous men in America, for we knew no other way, but we did not know how to behave as the offspring of a murdered man. 

Our mother taught us. She daily insisted that it was our duty to see our father’s name honored, and so we have tried to do so. This remained one of the key driving forces of her life until the Lord took her home not quite eight years ago. I attended her deathbed with much more manly composure than I had my father’s. This was, of course, easier to do as she faded away after a life that had lasted almost a full century and been well lived in the service of others. Until the end, she lovingly praised me for being a good son, expressed her joy at the reunion she had longed for with my father, and directed me to continue the work of preserving his reputation for posterity.

Today is my chance to do so.

I have made my small attempts to protect my father’s name as opportunities to do so arose. I even tried to save the great marble statue made in his likeness when the Great Fire of New York blazed through the Merchant’s Exchange in 1835. 

I had run through a night that appeared a scene out of hell, the air frigid and water frozen while flames tore through the town as if the devil himself guided them. It was clear that a firebreak was necessary, for the firefighters were too few and water insufficient. I sent for gunpowder and lit the fuse on barrels that had been placed below carefully selected structures. We managed to halt the progress of the flames, but that was not what I had been brought to the scene to accomplish. The Merchant’s Exchange collapsed as men who attempted to move the statue of my father ran from the falling timbers and flames. I had failed.

In this, I will not fail.

When I stand, I slowly smooth my waistcoat and straighten my hat. My father taught me a few things. He was always fit and fashionably dressed. I do my best, but he never had to cope with the challenges of advancing age. Alexander Hamilton is forever remembered as youthful and virile, while his son has grown old. I have no notes in my hand. Another gift I received from my father is the ability to write or speak with passion and, I hope, intellect on a wide variety of topics. I have kept my voice quieter than his, advising presidents but not seeking office myself. I saw firsthand what that fame cost him, and I have observed what it has cost others since his time.

But today, I do stand in front of a crowd for the cause is a worthy one. I move forward to say the words that I believe my father would have said had the Lord granted him more time.

The Cooper Institute is bursting at the seams with people gathered to hear me. My father’s name more than my own draws them in, even now, almost sixty years after his murder. To most of those gathered, his is the name of a legend for they could not remember him as a living, breathing mortal. 

I do.

I remember him feverishly writing or dictating to my weary mother as her quill scratched to keep up with his overflowing mind. I remember him standing next to the piano as Angelica played and they sang together in harmony in the days before her eyes faded into a cloudy daze. I remember the letter he wrote me when I was at Columbia. Having asked him to write a dissertation for me, I received a thesis on discretion with a note. ‘You may need it.’ I smile now at the memory, and I clear my throat to speak.

Some friends and many unfamiliar faces look at me expectantly. I used to concern myself greatly with whether my accomplishments would satisfy them and wonder if they thought, ‘that man is not a worthy son of our great Hamilton.’ Those worries no longer plague me. I am my own man and proud to bear my father’s name in my own way.

Charles King nods at me as I prepare to speak. He and I have a long history together, so I nod back and try not to allow my aged mind wander back to the days when we formed the New York American together, a newspaper that he published long after my involvement ended. The offices were lost in the same blaze that crushed the perfect marble form of my father.

The meeting had been brought to order, and it fell to me to state what others were reluctant to speak too loudly. This, too, I had learned to do – when necessary – from my father.

Our country heaves in the throes of a great Civil War that has already gone on longer than anyone anticipated it would. I believe wars are always that way. Rich men send poor men to die, claiming that they will be warm before their hearths within the year. Has it ever proven true? The eager faces before me plead for something that makes it all worthwhile – worth the loss of their sons and fathers.

My own son serves to preserve the Union that his grandfather helped to form. I am proud of my Alex but pray unceasingly for his safety. Those who revel in the idea of a glorious death in battle have often not been in combat. He is my only son. A man of my age grows used to burying those he loves, but I pray that my Creator does not ask that of me.

My mind has wandered again, but the people look at me with understanding rather than impatience. I clear my throat again and speak before another memory consumes me.

‘Slavery endangers the national life,’ I began. This hushed them as if a curtain had opened on a play. ‘The people of the loyal states have, with unequaled patriotism, devoted their lives to the service of the country. The government has the right to abolish slavery.’

During the applause that followed this statement, I kept my chin up and refused to be shamed by the knowledge that I had not always believed so. I recalled telling my host while in England that the federal government had no right to trample on state rights by making laws about slavery. The lesson to admit when I am wrong and fight for what is right is one that I learned on my own. Was it because my father was never wrong, or did he simply not live long enough to see himself proven so?

As their cheers quiet, I return to the present. ‘The Government, through its various departments, has formed an army and navy of vast proportions and the most efficient character, with a promptness and skill most honorable to them, now let the people require that this accumulated power shall be used, not only to crush out armed rebellion, but its malignant cause.’

I pause before their applause begins, knowing that this statement will bring them to their feet. Our Founding Fathers – my father – had been forced to tip-toe around the topic of slavery. Their focus had been union and defeat of Great Britain. It had seemed reasonable to them to leave some problems for their sons to solve. 

And so here I am.

‘Your military and naval forces with rapid blows are destroying the military power of your enemy, but unless the last blow that is struck strikes off the fetters of the slaves, the work of restoring the Constitution and the Union will be a mockery.’

I bow after this brief speech. It is enough, and I have not the strength to orate for hours. The words are concise enough for this crowd to remember, for them to consider as they kneel to pray and fall into this night’s slumber.

A nightcap and my bed are on my mind when Charles approaches me as I make my careful way down the rickety steps from the stage. We exchange handshakes and pleasant greetings. We are friends, as our fathers were, despite some disagreements.

Chiefly, we exchanged strong words over whether the truth should be revealed regarding my father’s part in drafting the great Washington’s farewell address. Charles and his father had, through a roundabout path that no longer matters, come into possession of the correspondence between our nation’s first president and his confidant, my late papa. Instead of turning them over to me, as I believed was the right and honorable way forward, they concealed and withheld them, fearing a stain on the reputation of the Father of our Country.

Charles and I have successfully repaired our relationship. Though I remained dedicated to preserving my father’s good name, I also valued the loved ones remaining to me on this earth enough to forgive trespasses.

‘Let me buy you a glass,’ Charles said by way of invitation to the tavern across the street from the meetinghouse.

I nodded and matched his step in that direction, quickly abandoning my plan for a quiet nightcap at home. It was in my nature to accept the call when friends requested my presence, even if my beloved wife lectured me for wearing myself out with the effort. This habit I inherited from my tireless mother, to give her credit where it is due. I felt fairly confident that Charles would be making no great demands of me and that the late evening would be spent in pleasant leisure.

Once we were settled at a table with mugs of ale in hand, Charles complimented my speech.

I waved off the praise, admitting, ‘It is nothing more than what should have been said long ago. We, as a nation, have taken too long to face this issue head-on.’ I shook my head, regretting my own part in this terrible delay to fight for the most vulnerable of our country’s people. ‘We spent too much effort on excuses and not enough on solutions. How many poor men, women, and children suffered as we deliberated and delayed?’

Charles tipped his head as he always did when considering his response. He was not one to speak lightly. ‘It was not long ago that we supported the free-soil party, allowing that slavery could remain where it was but that it should not spread to the west where plantation owners had the power to crush individual farmers out of existence.’ 

‘We did,’ I admitted. ‘And do you still take that part?’

After a few moments and several sips of his ale, Charles firmly stated, ‘No. I am of a mind with you, James. Our fathers may have not been able to stand up for the enslaved people when there was such great fear that the United States might not remain so united, but we are already fighting against secession. No reason remains to be obsequious to enslavers.’

‘Just so,’ I agreed with a nod as I raised my mug.

‘But how will it work? What shall our nation do with a population hated by some, avoided by others, and uneducated almost as a whole?’

These were serious questions to which I had no greater answers than my countrymen who had been avoiding them for almost a century. With a shrug, I confessed, ‘We will have to pray that, if we choose righteousness, God will open up a path before us.’

Charles nodded slowly, then his face brightened as he determined to change the subject. ‘How are your girls?

A grin spread across my face, not only for love of my daughters, but my amusement at my dear friend referring to women well into their middle age as if they were schoolgirls. Perhaps he hoped in keeping them young, our own ages could be reduced.

‘Mary and Eliza continue their work in Washington, putting their hands to any tasks that might assist the war effort.’ I tried not to think of what danger they might be in. I was old enough to remember the burning of our new capital by the British, and I prayed that Confederate forces would not repeat the destruction. Even as I spoke, I silently begged the Almighty to ensure the safety of those I loved. ‘Mary also serves as vice-regent for the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association.’

‘They must be having a hard time of it with the war at their doorstep just as it was during the War for Independence.’

I nodded. ‘One of Mary’s goals is to convince the commissioner to restore boat service to Mount Vernon for it is too dangerous to travel there by road. Some disagreement has arisen between the ladies how best to move forward in the face of current events.’

Charles grunted and nodded. We were contemplative as we finished our drinks, and I knew we each searched our memories for glimpses of Washington. I must confess that I wasn’t sure what memories I held that were my own and which were stories and images that I had grown up surrounded by. The only man Americans might have welcomed as king died when I was but a boy, five years before my father.

My mug empty and my eyelids drooping, I began the process of stretching and standing that one must go through after reaching a certain age – an age I was well beyond. Charles took the cue and started his own preparations.

When we reached the door, he rested a hand on my arm. ‘God go with you, my friend. You have given me much to think about this evening.’

I tipped my head and extended my own blessing to him and his family. We parted ways and I made my weary way home.

~~~~~

As morning dawned the next day, I rose and dressed with a mind to visit my brother, John, who was ambitious to join me in the crusade against slavery in our great nation. He had written extensively on our father’s work and therefore done his duty to papa’s memory, and I welcomed his skilled pen in the current fight.

Though he was my younger brother, John, too, was now an old man, and perhaps we both benefited from the lack of concern for the opinions of others that comes with age. If anything, John was bolder than myself, for I had a habit of encouraging other more public men to speak the words I thought should be said. It was long past the time that I should have been saying them myself.

I had written and edited speeches for presidents and other officials since General Andrew Jackson had lamented that he had great need of my mind and my pen and delayed my return to my family so that I could be at his side in Washington City. But now, I had decided that the cause of emancipation was worthy of putting forth my great father’s name in its support. My dear brother, John, agreed.

‘Even the backwards Russians have emancipated their serfs,’ John exclaimed once we were comfortably settled in his parlor.

I grinned at his bold exuberance, still seeing a lanky boy in the passionate gestures of the seventy-year-old man before me. ‘You make a good point,’ I said with a nod. ‘Can freedom loving Americans stand before the world as a great republic that holds people in fetters while tyrants free their slaves?’

‘We cannot!’ he exclaimed almost leaping to his feet. ‘Tzar Alexander is setting an example for us? The very idea!’

My hand lifted toward him in a calming motion, though I could not reach to touch him, and he settled back into his chair.

‘Our father would take up this cause,’ he said simply, and nothing more needed saying to convict us. Where we could discern the decisions our father would make, were he here, those were the paths my brothers and I took.

‘And so we have,’ I pointed out.

‘But we must do more.’

Now he did stand, unable to restrain the energy of his thoughts.

John walked to the window, though he seemed to be looking into his mind rather than out into the street. He spun as quickly as an old man can.

‘I am writing a pamphlet.’

Did he realize how he was an image of our father at that moment? It was a surreal picture of the great man at an age he had never reached, but the passion was the same. The energy and need to write. I could hear an echo through the ages of our papa insisting, ‘Eliza, take this down!’ as his thoughts poured out faster than he could write.

‘It is an honorable employment,’ I said, shaking my head free of ghosts.

‘Aristocratic slave power, professing Democracy only to make the Democracy the servile tools of its selfish, unnational ambitions can no longer be endured!’ 

I tipped my head in agreement, knowing that he required no response. The words may as well already be on the paper.

‘Our father wrote during the War for Independence that enrolling the black men as soldiers was the first step in their path to freedom. I will include that,’ he murmured.

‘“Give them their freedom with their swords,”’ I quoted in agreement.

 ‘Men used to claim that enslavement was a necessary evil – an unfortunate arrangement in our fallen world that provided needed labor to landowners and required food and shelter to those who were incapable of obtaining it for themselves. Now, our friends to the south, if we can still call them friends, embrace it as a good gift from God.’

‘It is the habit of evil to call itself good when attacked. The strong will always find ways to take advantage of the weak.’

John looked at me with a familiar fire in his eyes. ‘Do you know what Barnwell Rhett said recently?’ He answered his own question without waiting for my reply. ‘“I do not consider it unfortunate. I would establish slavery if it did not exist.”'

I could not suppress a shiver in the face of such bald-faced godlessness. It was true. The enemy was digging in its heels, and Satan was at work in the souls of some of our countrymen.

‘We must stand up for those who cannot do so for themselves.’

John nodded enthusiastically and shook a fist as if surprised to find his hand without a pen. He continued to write his pamphlet aloud.

‘We have seen fit to limit our Constitution for the benefit of states – states that now utilize that power to set limits on liberty. These limitations are injurious to the interests and inconsistent with the equal rights of all people. Any and all such laws should be erased from the Constitution in order to secure more perfectly those powers and rights of the Government and of the citizens, necessary "to form a more perfect Union and secure the blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our posterity."'

‘Here! Here!’ I shouted, or rather I meant to shout it. My words came out more as a groan as I stood to take my leave. ‘Brother, I will leave you to your writing before the words have a chance to escape you.’

We both knew that would not happen. He would write as he had spoken with perfect recall as though he remained a youthful student, but I also understood that he would not be content until he had documented his words for the printer.

‘Very well,’ John said without hesitation. ‘You have your own work to do.’

He did not elaborate. It was unnecessary. I would return to my own study to contemplate how to respond to the president’s request for a draft of an emancipation proclamation. It would, perhaps, be the most valuable work I had performed over the course of a long life in quiet public service. We brothers embraced briefly, and I took my leave.

The breeze outside was bracing, and I pulled my cloak closed around me. Despite the chill, I appreciated the opportunity to stretch my limbs and allow my mind freedom to contemplate. My wife would scold me for not riding if she caught me at the door. She did not believe it prudent for a man of my age to walk so far, but I thought it benefitted my health and raised my spirits.

The streets I strolled through had evolved much in my seventy-four years, and new structures stood where I remembered rolling fields and forests. When my father had first built his Grange, it had been a long carriage ride for him to journey to his law office each day, but he felt it worth the effort and dreamed of how he would improve the land around his beloved home – the only one he had ever owned.

He never had the chance to fulfill those dreams, and mama had long ago been forced to sell the family home, it being far too much for her to maintain in her old age. Thinking of the Grange caused my mind to travel to the day I learned of generous benefactors who had saved it for us from creditors upon my father’s death. It was many years before I discovered the pact that had raised donations to pay off my father’s debts. The selfless generosity of his friends still squeezes at my heart when I think of it. The cheerful, yellow house was filled with love and happiness, even as our family endured our fair share of grief.

As I reached my home, which I had named Nevis in honor of my father’s birthplace in the West Indies, my mind returned to the discussion with my brother, and I reflected upon mistakes that I had made. I recalled a letter I had written to Senator Lewis Cass and my cheeks warmed as if the event had not occurred six years hence. My thoughts had been for preserving the Union, and, thinking it was what my father would have done, I wrote the good senator and pleaded with him to restore the Missouri Compromise and save the country. I had been all too willing to allow slavery to flourish in those states that worshipped that peculiar institution. Cass had been correct to kindly but firmly disagree with me. Not until all hope of peace had evaporated had I given adequate consideration to what that meant for my black countrymen.

I tried not to dwell to long on my past sins, for all fall short of perfection and must rely on the grace of God. And I would make my own offering of repentance by speaking up now and for as long as the Lord gave me strength.

~~~~

Once I was seated before my writing desk, I sat back to contemplate my work before picking up the pen. I had been somewhat surprised by Lincoln’s request, for he had not frequently called upon myself – or anyone else as far as I knew – to draft documents for him. He believed it was his own duty and burden to form the words that guided our country at this unparalleled time. But now he had requested my assistance, and I was determined to make a good work of it.

I was sternly opposed to slavery because I knew it to be a crime and an evil to the oppressor as well as the oppressed. Great men throughout history have written of it thus. As I considered what I myself would write, the voices of philosophers whispered in my mind.

Socrates had called slavery a ‘system of outrage and robbery’ and Plato ‘a system of most complete injustice.’ My own father had written, ‘Natural liberty is the gift of the beneficent Creator of the whole human race.’ It had taken me too long to produce my own strong words on the subject.

My reluctance had found its source in our Constitution. Not believing it gave the Federal government the power to interfere with state laws, regardless of their immorality, I had defended the Constitution and those state rights as vociferously as many men greater than myself. But, with the war came a new legal case. This in combination with the clear moral argument had enabled me to become a firm abolitionist.

The slave-holding states were not just in rebellion. They were treasonous, and those guilty of treason forfeit their rights to the advantages they held as full members of the community. This was what I must clarify in the proclamation I was called to write.

I picked up my pen.

It was scratching across the paper as if my pen had a mind of its own when I was interrupted by a visitor softly clearing her throat. I had no concept of how much time had passed while I had filled several sheets which lay strewn across my desk. Placing the pen aside, I worked the stiff joints of my hand and turned to my sweet wife.

‘Will you break for supper?’ she asked without bitterness. My wife of more than fifty years was accustomed to my single track mind that did not like to be set off course with food or other essentials of daily life until I had reached my goal, but this time I was ready for refreshment.

I stood and nodded. ‘Yes, I will accompany you,’ I said and smiled at the happy surprise evident on her face. My dear one was not one for dissembling, and it was one of the things I loved about her.

We went to the dining room that was built for a large family but now held just us two. After saying grace, I shared a bit of news that could not stir up anxiety with thoughts of war.

‘Secretary Chase has had engravings made from the miniature of my father. He will use them on the five dollar notes.’

‘That is a lovely way to honor a great man,’ she said automatically.

It did not mean as much to her, of course, since she hadn’t known my father, but I was greatly touched that the Treasury Secretary not only often sought out my advice but that he wished to memorialize my father on the wartime treasury notes.

‘I have seen the images,’ I continued, ‘and they have been completed quite to my satisfaction. I have written as much to Chase along with encouragement to continue at his difficult but essential duties.’

Funding a war that had gone on far longer and become far more expensive than originally estimated was a burden on Mr Chase, but he found his strength in knowing the great good he was doing for those who had been long oppressed. But I did not say this aloud. Too much talk of war would cause us to remember our son and stir up our fears for his safety.

Instead, I listened as she updated me on the work of the women, essential but always dismissed by great men of every age. Having seen my mother work tirelessly for others, I was proud that my wife was also keen to do her part. The sewing circle she participated in to create needed clothes and bandages for the fighting men was not unlike what my mother participated in during the great war of independence. 

‘We had a letter from Eliza.’

I grinned, not needing to hear the details of her volunteer duties to be proud of my hardworking daughter.

‘She and Mary take up any tasks necessary with the Sanitary Commission,’ my wife said, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Her letter is a whirlwind of information, and a reminder that the supplies we send are ever inadequate.’

‘And Mary makes efforts on the behalf of Mount Vernon as well.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘They will likely have to sell. No one has the money to support the old place.’

I took a sip of the light ale at the table before responding. ‘The Ladies Association surprised everyone with their success in buying the place and with the work they have done so far. We should not underestimate them.’

My wife just looked at me and shrugged. She did not mean to insult our daughter’s project or abilities but couldn’t fathom how they could possibly save the home of our first president after it had fallen so far into disrepair and was surrounded once again by war.

‘We shall see,’ she murmured noncommittally. 

‘I should return to my work,’ I said and stood before I could eat enough that I became sleepy and lazy for the afternoon.

She tipped her head to me. I knew she wished to command me not to work too hard, but she bit her tongue on the words, knowing they would have no effect. I would write until the work was done.

I remembered staying up until dawn working on a draft of President Jackson’s annual address to congress. Some things, once started, must be kept at until completion.

Returning to my study and bringing my ale with me, I skimmed over what I had written thus far. While I pray to not be found guilty of the sin of pride, I was satisfied that it was better than anything Lincoln would write on his own, and I hoped he would incorporate it into his final proclamation. I knew the man better than to expect that he might use my work as written, but it was important only that the proclamation was finally made and the enslaved people freed at long last.

Some time after I had been forced to light a lamp to continue my work, I sat back and surveyed the result. A phrase caught my eye.

…shall be forever free…

The document contained all of my well reasoned arguments and legal statements, but these four words were the crux of it. I considered how long some had waited to see them. It was unimaginable to me to be a man unable to take charge of one’s own family because of the color of their skin and the circumstances of their birth. Now, they shall be free.

Would they have the courage to grasp this freedom? I knew of some men who had manumitted slaves in their last wills and testaments, only to have those freedmen remain where they were for the sake of family ties or physical security. What would they do as a society when none need remain where they were? I prayed the Lord would grant me time to see the result of what I had written.

None would know it came from my pen, just as none recognized my words when Andrew Jackson recited them and none had realized my father was behind Washington’s prose in his farewell address. It did not matter. 

My eyes found where I had written, ‘I, Abraham Lincoln, as President of the United States, in fulfilment of the solemn obligations and responsibilities imposed upon me by the Constitution and laws, and assumed by me in taking the oath of office; and under the profound conviction that so only can I save the country from disruption, and the overthrow of popular institutions, do issue this my Proclamation, declaring that, as a necessity of war and as essential to the salvation of the Republic, the condition of slavery is hereby forever abolished throughout the United States.’

Yes, he could take full credit, as long as it was done. I do believe my papa would be proud.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note

Enslaved people of the rebellious states were emancipated by Proclamation on 1 January 1863, and slavery was fully abolished on 6 December 1865 by the Thirteenth Amendment. Lincoln did write his own Proclamation, though he was provided with drafts by James Hamilton, Secretary Salmon Chase, and possibly others who were eager to see the peculiar institution dissolved. Also, readers may be interested to know that it was not a typo that Alexander Hamilton was originally pictured on five-dollar treasury notes. It wasn’t until 1928 that his image was used on tens. 

James Alexander Hamilton died on 24 September 1878 at age ninety. He lived to see slavery abolished in the country his father had helped establish, and, I hope, felt that he had more than adequately honored Alexander’s legacy. In this story, I have used as many words actually written by James and his brother as possible. Living to such a great age meant that James witnessed the entire Early Republic stage of the United States, an exciting and turbulent time! He served as District Attorney and temporary Secretary of State, but did most of his work behind the scenes, advising presidents from Andrew Jackson to Abraham Lincoln. His Reminiscences is loaded with great names of the age. Such a long life also means James said goodbye to many loved ones, including his wife, three of his four daughters, and five of his seven siblings. He was not, however, required to bury his only son. James’ Nevis is located in Irvington, now part of Columbia University, and would therefore not have been within walking distance of his brother’s house, but I took this small liberty in order to include more of his remembrances. I became interested in his life during research for my book, Women of the American Revolution, so I decided to write about James next. James Alexander Hamilton: Son of the American Revolution has been recently released by Pen & Sword History.