Love & War_An Alex & Eliza Story Page 25

  “They’re empty,” she said when they were back outside, “but they’re not actually available. They say speculators have swooped in and snapped them up for a song, and are sitting on them until prices go up.” She paused a bit. “Have you met Sarah Livingston’s husband, Mr. Jay?”

  “I have not. I was going to say that I hope they’ll be at the party, but the tone of your voice seems less … receptive.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to speak ill of them. I was just going to say that I have heard that John is one of the people purchasing properties for pennies on the dollar. I would say that he is going to make his fortune, but he already has one, so he will be merely adding to it.”

  “Still, Sister, it sounds as if you disapprove. After all, surely it is good business sense to buy low and sell high?”

  Another errand interrupted the conversation, this one at a bakery. “Rowena is a wizard, but she will not be able to provide for a houseful of revelers,” Eliza said as she ordered dozens of loaves and rolls, as well as half a dozen sweet and savory pies, again signing a note rather than paying in coin.

  When they had completed their errand, though, she took up Angelica’s question immediately. It was something that had been on her mind. She had come to love New York City, or, if not to love it, then to think of it as home, and she did not like to see it ill-treated.

  “From a business point of view, of course, it makes sense to maximize one’s profits. But from the point of view of society, it seems rather … limited, I’ll say. There is an opportunity for thousands of people to gain a toehold in New York. To buy a house or a shop that they can pass on to their descendants just as Papa built the Pastures for us. Instead a handful of men have snatched up nearly all the properties, and the poor people locked out of the deal are forced to rent rather than buy.”

  “Locked out of the deal?” Angelica seemed both shocked and dubious. “Do you think there has been collusion on the part of Mr. Jay or the other investors?”

  “Collusion is a serious word. I would say that it is simply a case of opportunity. The men who make the decisions and do the deals all come from a very slim section of society—perhaps one percent of the whole population. They live and work near each other, attend the same clubs, have each other over to parties.”

  “Like the one you’re about to throw,” Angelica couldn’t resist interjecting.

  “Oh, indeed. We are as blessed as they come. But by the time a poor man gets wind of an available property, it will have long since been snatched up.”

  “Pardon me, Sister,” Angelica said in a curious tone. “But since you and Alex move in that same circle of the ‘one percent,’ as you call it, how is it that you have not managed to purchase a house if they are so cheap? Not that the house you rent isn’t quite lovely, but it seems that the time to strike is while the iron is hot.”

  In answer, Eliza turned into another shop, where she purchased a crystal punch bowl and a set of embroidered, lace-edged napkins, again paying with a promissory note. Back outside, she shrugged. “A house that once cost a thousand pounds and now costs a hundred still costs a hundred pounds. Five pounds of credit here and there is easy to come by,” she said, waving a hand at the shop they had just come out of, “but for that kind of purchase one needs cash to hand, and we have almost none.”

  “But surely Papa—”

  “Alex refuses. Papa and Mama were generous with furniture and moving expenses, and of course they put us up, off and on, for over three years. Alex is determined to make it in New York on his own terms. My husband is a very proud man, and I have to support him in that decision. And I would rather be married to a man who cares more about what he does than what he has.”

  “I suppose I agree with you,” Angelica said doubtfully, “but I must say I’m happy to have found a man who has moral convictions that are financially lucrative.”

  Eliza laughed. “Between you and Peggy, I suppose I will always be known as the poor Schuyler sister. But I have no doubt that Alex will do well by us. Besides his law practice, his fingers are in virtually every pot. In finance, and trade relations, and alliances with European powers, and the military, and something that for want of a better word I would call general political theory.”

  Angelica frowned, unsure if she wanted to open this topic. “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.

  “He thinks we need a document, a charter similar to the Articles of Confederation, but more extensive and more binding. Something that will finally make a genuinely united nation of us, rather than a motley collection of states.”

  “Those sound like the words of man with political ambitions.”

  “No doubt, just like Papa, and Peggy’s Stephen, and your John. I expect he will make senator at the very least.”

  “At the least? What is higher than a senator?”

  “Alex thinks the United States needs an executive vested in a single person.”

  “A king?” Angelica almost gasped.

  “No, more like a prime minister. But not of the British variety—a toady who has to report to his monarch. More like the head of a corporation, whose only responsibility is to his shareholders.”

  “So much power granted to a single person can be dangerous.”

  “Alex agrees, which is why he thinks it needs to be balanced by other branches of government. A strong congress and an equally strong judiciary. Each branch can keep the other from crossing the line to tyranny.”

  “My word!” Angelica laughed. “Listen to you! The last time I saw you, you were helping to change Kitty’s diapers. Now you’re outlining plans for a whole new government!”

  Eliza laughed modestly. “Oh, it is mostly dinner party gossip,” she said, though the truth is, she was proud of herself. This was her future, after all, not just Alex’s. “It’s all anyone ever talks about in society. I look forward to the day when all we have to worry about is catching the fashionable play or opera and securing the best dress fabric.”

  “You liar,” Angelica teased. “You love it. But still … ?”

  “Yes?” Eliza prompted when Angelica’s voice trailed off.

  “All of this is man’s world, to which woman can only be spectator. Does it do to take too much interest in politics, rather than in, say, culture—music and painting and plays—over which we can have more sway.”

  “I suppose they are men’s things, in the sense that men make the decisions that keep things this way. But as Helena said, women don’t take a hand in politics, not because they can’t, but because they are shut out of it. When circumstances allow them in, they can do great things. Look at Queen Elizabeth—it was she more than any of her male predecessors or successors who made England the great power it is. Or Catherine of Russia. They say she is the most powerful woman on the planet, ruler of the largest empire the world has ever known. Why, under her reign, Russia has replenished its treasury and won a war against Turkey. Why should we not have a similarly powerful woman here in America?”

  “Let’s hear it for sisterhood!” Angelica said, making a fist. “But is it what you want to do, Eliza?” This last question came after yet another stop, at a distillery to procure some stout whiskey. Mrs. Childress had given them all the ale they could drink, but you couldn’t have a party with just beer and honey wine. “Don’t you want to start a family?”

  “I would love it but we have not yet been blessed,” said Eliza. “When we moved here, I thought it would happen immediately, yet with everything else that’s has been going on—finding new friends and work and just learning how to live on our own—I have to say that I am a little relieved that we have not had a child added to the mix. It might be too much. But still … ,” she added, her voice fading off wistfully.

  “It will happen,” said Angelica with a sympathetic squeeze. “Families are like rain showers. They always come in time, but they are not exactly a goal, if you see what I mean, any more than eating and sleeping are. They are just a part of life.”

  Eliza nodded, tryi
ng to stop the full feeling in her throat. She was glad to have her sister by her side to understand her pain so acutely. She took a moment to recover, then pulled up in front of a window through which could be seen an exquisite bolt of lace.

  “For now, all I want to do is buy that tablecloth,” she said, pushing open the door. “So I can throw my sister the best bon voyage party New York has ever seen!”

  26

  Closing Arguments

  New York State Supreme Court

  New York, New York

  April 1784

  Burr’s strategy over the next three days seemed to be to wear everyone down. He did so by calling a veritable parade of witnesses, all of whom said more or less the same thing: that Caroline Childress had operated a bustling alehouse on Water Street all through the occupation, serving any British soldier or sympathizer who came in. Alex didn’t know why this should be any more damning than the simple fact that Mrs. Childress, like her deceased husband, had herself been a loyalist, until he heard the increasing murmurs from the gallery. Burr’s witnesses made Ruston’s Ale House sound like a raucous establishment. Not improper, per se, but it seemed as if Mrs. Childress had partied through the war. Alex was able to counter the latter claim by getting Burr’s witnesses to admit that Mrs. Childress was in fact rarely if ever in the bar room, being usually occupied with managing inventory and production and staff, and when she did appear, she was dressed soberly in honor of her fallen husband. Still, the impression was that she was creating a festive space for the redcoats who had seized Manhattan. With each successive witness, the murmurings grew louder, till eventually they approached outright jeers. But even worse than this was the fact that Judge Smithson did not silence them, but only shook his head in tight-lipped anger at the account of the festivities.

  Alex knew he had to go on the counteroffensive. After Burr’s twelfth witness, a scruffy-looking man of about thirty named Robert Frye, had delivered his clearly rehearsed account, Alex was awarded cross-examination. He had eschewed any questions for Burr’s previous witnesses, but this time he all but leapt from his chair.

  “Mr. Frye,” he said as he strode across the room. “You seem to be very well acquainted with the goings-on in Mrs. Childress’s alehouse. Is that because you are a neighbor of hers?”

  “Why no, sir,” Frye said. “I live on a small farm just north of the city.”

  “Ah. So your accounts are hearsay then?”

  Alex knew this wasn’t the case, but he had an idea how Frye would respond. The farmer struck him as a proud man, and he didn’t disappoint Alex.

  “What I said I seen with my own eyes!” he said huffily, turning to the judge and nodding at him. “I don’t make up stories, and I don’t pass on gossip, Your Honor!”

  Alex dug the knife in deeper.

  “So I take it you are a loyalist then?”

  “Your Honor, please,” Burr said, standing up. “Mr. Hamilton’s question would seem to have no point other than to insult the good name of Mr. Frye.”

  “If it please, Your Honor, I do have a point in mind,” Alex rejoindered.

  Judge Smithson frowned at him. “Get there quickly, counsel.” He turned to Frye. “You may answer Mr. Hamilton’s question.”

  Frye had been squirming in his seat with his desire to speak.

  “I am absolutely one hundred percent not a loyalist, sir, and I resent the implication! I am a patriot through and through.”

  “Very good, sir,” Alex responded with feigned deference. “I myself served in the Continental army with General Washington, as did my estimable colleague Mr. Burr. Well, he did not work with General Washington, but he did serve somewhere.” Alex paused as a few snickers ran through the room. “But may I ask, Mr. Frye, why you as a patriot drank in a loyalist bar?”

  “I never said Ruston’s was a loyalist bar. Why, there were lots of us patriots who drank there!”

  “More patriots than loyalists, would you say?” Alex asked in an innocent voice.

  “I should say so. I don’t suppose we’d have felt comfortable otherwise.” Frye’s voice had lost some of its certainty, and he turned to Burr’s desk. Alex moved quickly to interpose himself between the witness and his lawyer. At last, his robes proved good for something. He was as wide as jib sail, and completely concealed the squirming lawyer from his nervous witness.

  “I just want to make sure that I understand you fully. You’re telling me that Mrs. Childress ran Ruston’s as an establishment for anyone who chose to enter, loyalist or patriot, but generally speaking more of her clientele were American patriots rather than redcoats.”

  For the first time, Frye seemed to realize what he’d done. His face fell, and he craned his neck to find Burr’s eyes.

  “Mr. Frye?” Alex prompted. “Did you understand the question, or do I need to repeat it?”

  “I, um, I believe you have described the place accurately,” Frye said, trying to sound formal, as if that would undo the damage of his testimony.

  “Oh no, sir,” Alex said. “I believe you have described Ruston’s Ale House accurately.” He turned to Burr. “No further questions.”

  As he returned to his seat, his eyes found Governor Clinton’s where he sat in the back row. The governor’s eyes were two tiny seething slits, all but lost inside his plump cheeks, but you could still see the bile from fifty feet away.

  *

  ALEX’S CROSS-EXAMINATION MARKED a turning point in the trial. After two and a half days of hammering, Burr’s spirits seemed to sag. He was barely halfway through his list of witnesses, but he called subsequent ones with less obvious glee. He put them through their paces quickly, even cutting them off when they waxed on about the loyalist crowds swilling Ruston’s ale, knowing that Alex was just going to get the witness to confess that he had rubbed shoulders with all the loyalists he had just been maligning. Peter Goldman, a cooper, admitted he had sold barrels and baskets to redcoats. Matthew Landesmaan, a smith, had shod their horses and sharpened their swords. Frederick Karst, a fisherman, had sold them cod and clams, and so on down the line. After running through five more witnesses in the time he had previously spent on one, Burr rose from his seat.

  “If it please, Your Honor, I would like to skip witnesses eighteen through thirty-one and proceed directly to witness number thirty-two.”

  Alex glanced at the list of witnesses. Thirty-two was the last witness. He kept his face as still as possible, but inside he was crowing.

  Judge Smithson, however, didn’t try to hide his relief. “By all means, Mr. Burr. It grows tiring watching your witnesses make your opponent’s case for him.”

  Burr visibly paled. He took a moment to compose himself.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. The State calls Antoinette Le Beau.”

  Caroline sat up. “Mr. Hamilton!” she hissed.

  Alex tried to reassure her as best as he could. He had told her Miss Le Beau was going to be testifying, but she was still trembling.

  “Take strength, Mrs. Childress,” he said. “Remember, the Le Beaus are not your enemy.”

  The doors opened and a girl of no more than seventeen entered the courtroom. She was dressed in smart but shabby clothing, as if, like Caroline herself, she had once enjoyed prosperity, but those days were even longer past than were Caroline’s. She walked down the aisle without looking to the left and took her seat in the stand. Her hand on the Bible was unshaking as she took her oath. Even Alex started to feel a little nervous.

  Burr rose from his seat.

  “I want to thank you, Miss Le Beau, for joining us here today. I know the court is not convenient for you.”

  “Indeed, it is not,” Miss Le Beau answered. “I live in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Passage by mail carriage and ferry is quite dear, and the cost of an inn is a burdensome expense to one such as myself.”

  As if she paid for her own trip. Alex had no doubt Burr had brought her over himself and paid for her room and board out of his own pocket.

  “Have you always lived in Ha
rrisburg, Miss Le Beau?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no. I’m a New York lass through and through.”

  “Ah, so you lived in the city then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I ask where?”

  “At Seventeen Baxter Street.”

  A murmur in the courtroom. Burr had set the stage perfectly.

  Burr retrieved a piece of paper from his table.

  “Your Honor, here is a copy of the property deed for Seventeen Baxter Street dated April eighteenth, 1769. It shows the property belonging to one Jacques Le Beau, having been paid for in full over the course of the previous ten years.”

  The judge glanced at the document and set it aside.

  “Miss Le Beau,” Burr continued. “Would you please tell the court your relationship to Jacques Le Beau.”

  “He was my father, Your Honor.”

  Burr grinned in feigned modesty. “I’m just Mr. Burr. Judge Smithson is the honorable one.”

  Antoinette turned to Judge Smithson. “Jacques Le Beau was my father, Your Honor. He died at the Battle of Monmouth.”

  Alex twitched. He had already known Le Beau had died during the war, but he didn’t realize it was at Monmouth, where he himself had nearly been killed.

  I may very well have been the person who wrote her informing her of her father’s death, he thought.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Le Beau,” Burr said. “And just so we’re absolutely clear, your father died fighting in the Continental army, yes?”

  Antoinette nodded. “Yes, sir. He was a corporal in the Fourth New York.”

  “His sacrifice will not be forgotten,” Burr said solemnly. “Now, Miss Le Beau, may I ask you why you left Seventeen Baxter Street, where you had lived since you were born?”

  “Are you jesting, Mr. Burr? My sisters and I left because the British captured Manhattan. With a father and three brothers in the Continental army, my mother and sisters and I feared for our safety, and fled across the river.”

  “Your brothers also served in the army?” Burr said, as if he didn’t know.