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Showing posts with label #AlexanderHamilton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #AlexanderHamilton. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

Alexander Hamilton's "Hurricane Letter"







Viewing clips of Dorian's destruction of the Bahamas, with 48 hours of pounding winds and storm surges, I remembered Alexander Hamilton's experience on St. Croix. He, aged 16-17, survived what must have been an extremely violent hurricane.




Christiansted, September 6, 1772
From the Royal Danish American Gazette—
By Alexander Hamilton

“I take up my pen to give you an imperfect account of one of the most dreadful Hurricanes that memory or any records whatever can trace, which happened here on the 31st of August at night. It began about dusk, at North, and raged very violently till ten o’clock. Then ensued a sudden and unexpected interval, which lasted about an hour. Meanwhile the wind was shifting round to the South West point, from whence it returned with redoubled fury and continued so ’till near three o’clock in the morning.

Good God! What horror and destruction! It is impossible for me to describe or you to form any idea of it. It seemed as if a total dissolution of nature was taking place. The roaring of the sea and wind, fiery meteors flying about it in the air, the prodigious glare of almost perpetual lightning, the crash of falling houses, and the ear-piercing shrieks of the distressed, were sufficient to strike astonishment into Angels.


A great part of the buildings throughout the Island are levelled to the ground, almost all the rest very shattered; several persons killed and numbers utterly ruined; whole families running about the streets, unknowing where to find a place of shelter; the sick exposed to the keenness of water and air without a bed to lie upon, or a dry covering to their bodies; and our harbours entirely bare….”


This is just sample of what was a much longer piece of teen prose, one which may have propelled this young literary up-and-comer out of the West Indies. The remainder of his discourse is as full of allusions to an All-merciful and/or All-punishing God as any 18th Century churchgoer might wish. Sometimes, however, unvarnished truth breaks through the flow of his pious public sentiments:

"But alas! how different, how deplorable—how gloomy the prospect—death comes rushing on in triumph veiled in a mantle of ten-fold darkness. His unrelenting scythe, pointed and ready for the stroke.—On his right hand sits destruction, hurling the winds and belching forth flames;—calamity on his left threatening famine, disease, distress of all kinds.—And Oh! thou wretch, look
still a little further; see the gulf of eternal mystery open—there mayest thou shortly plunge — ...

Hark! ruin and confusion on every side.—Tis thy turn next: but one short moment—even now—Oh Lord help—Jesus be merciful! 


Thus did I reflect, and thus at every gust of the wind did I conclude,—till it pleased the Almighty to allay..."


Alexander had been waiting to die; he now thanked God that he'd escaped.  At the end of the essay, he went a step further in his Christianity. He wrote an impassioned plea to his wealthy readers to help their less fortunate neighbors, the many who now had lost everything.

"—Look around thee and shudder at the view.—See desolation and ruin wherever thou turnest thine eye. See thy fellow-creatures pale and lifeless; their bodies mangled—their souls snatched into eternity—
...Oh ye, who revel in affluence, see the afflictions of humanity, and bestow your superfluity to ease them.—Say not, we have suffered also, and with-hold your compassion. What are your sufferings compared to these? Ye have still more than enough left.—Act wisely.—Succour the miserable and lay up a treasure in Heaven."

Hamilton, I think, truly wanted people to do the right thing, and he wasn't afraid to give men three times his age a lesson in scripture. It's an aspect of his personality that is endearingly boyish.


All I have is words, but for me they shall be a magical buckler and sheathe!



Juliet Waldron








Sunday, September 4, 2016

A Master Passion~~A snippet from the cutting room

I wrote and rewrote A Master Passion for a period of fifteen years, ending with a novel well over a 1000 pages long. Some scenes, especially those in the beginning which dealt with the far less well-known Elizabeth Schuyler, were cut. This scene, telling us more about the future Mrs. Hamilton, was among the ones that (sadly, I think) fell by the wayside.



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           Colonel Tench Tilghman had come north to Albany, an emissary from the Continental Congress, to attend a parley with the Indians.  General Schuyler and the Americans wished to obtain assurances of neutrality before the war with Britain broke out. 
            Today, though, as if there was no great war on the horizon, Tilghman and a group of young Albany gentry had taken a picnic to the falls at Cohoes, which he had been told was "one of the notable sights of the region."  The Colonel, accompanied Betsy in a steep climb to get a close up look at the top of the falls.


             The path Miss Schuyler elected was surprisingly bad. There were rocks to scramble over and briar patches to negotiate, but she appeared to enjoy this sort of rough ramble. At first Tilghman wondered if this was one of these feminine games which would end with her leaning helplessly upon his arm, but he was more than surprised when this dainty-looking miss kept pace with him. The way to the top was almost vertical, frequently necessitating an undignified down-on-all-fours attack. 
            At the breathless summit, they paused, panting and admiring the view. Tilghman experienced an unexpected rush of pleasure. The young woman's easy manner made him almost feel comfortable, even though they were now completely alone together.
            Pray God I do not have to reveal my wretched broken heart to another lady in search of a husband...
            The way she'd brought him to this splendid sight, agile and uncomplaining as a boy, demonstrated that she'd made the climb many times.


            "Come, Colonel Tilghman!" Betsy called over the noise of falling water.  "The best view is from here."

            Stockings flashing, revealing shapely calves, she scaled the last rock.  Tilghman, following her, had the insouciant thought that the best view might possibly be from exactly where he was. 

           When he reached the height, he found himself an arm's length from enormous quantities of green water hurtling over a narrow lip.  Falling, it became a spectacular white veil.  The ground beneath his feet shook alarmingly.

            Beside him on that rocky shelf, Betsy dropped to her knees, then stretched out on her stomach to get as close as possible to the roaring water. 

          "Do come, Colonel."

          Thunder sounded on every side.  The quick climb, vertigo, the sight of a lady young stretched at full length on the ground, left him almost giddy.

           The wind shifted and spray blew into their faces.   Betsy turned and smiled, a dazzling white flash against her nut-brown skin...



~~Juliet Waldron


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Saturday, August 6, 2016

HAMILTON PLANS

While baby #3, Alexander Junior, stirs in his sleep beside his mom, Daddy is awake and making big plans...



http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi    Books by Juliet Waldron
http://amzn.to/1YQziX0  A Master Passion  

...Betsy awoke. The newest baby, Alexander, grumbled in bed beside her, but her husband was gone. She knew he was not far, though, for she could hear him nearby. Lifting her head, she saw his outline against the moonlit window.


He was thinking aloud. Or, more properly, trying out a speech. Like the Iroquois, he often composed orations in this way, creating without benefit of pen and paper.


“Congress stands in a very embarrassing situation,” Alexander spoke into the darkness. “On the one hand they are blamed for not doing what they have no means of doing; on the other, their attempts are branded as encroachments and lust for power. It is the duty of all those who have the welfare of the community at heart to direct the attention of the people to the true source of the public disorders—the want of efficient government—and to impress upon them that the States must have a stronger bond of Union, one capable of drawing forth the resources of the country. This will be a more worthwhile occupation than complaining about a weakness which is built into the current constitution...”


He turned towards her, having divined that she was listening.


“I shall go to the Annapolis Convention after all. Something could happen, something that could finally pull this country together. We can’t leave untried any possibility.”


He returned to their bed, and took a seat beside her.


 “My Betsy.” He stroked her hair, “I shall soon be leaving you again.”


She slipped her hand through the open nightshirt to touch his chest. It was hard not to be cross. He seemed happy when he was home with her and the little ones, but he was also gone a great deal; he arranged his life that way.

She had a premonition that like his tenure in the Continental Congress, he’d return to her from this latest Convention in a state of rage, boiling over, like a neglected kettle...

The spectacle of thirteen states, creating trade barriers, warring over boundaries, with differing currencies and laws, all while the Continental army remained unpaid and with a huge war debt coming due, was not one which inspired confidence in either foreign lenders or in America’s more thoughtful citizens.

Hamilton and his father-in-law agreed that without a central government which paid its debts and soldiers, they were sure to come to grief. Some land-grabbing European power could easily appear on the scene to fragment and then gobble up the weak, separate states...


Autograph cover in his best secretarial hand




~~Juliet Waldron, A Master Passion




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Saturday, June 11, 2016

Battle of Monmouth




Next weekend, fellow historical author Kathy Fischer-Brown (author of Winter Fire) and I will attend a battle--a reenactment of the Battle of Monmouth Courthouse which took place in New Jersey during late June of 1778. For the last two years we have been happy voyagers to these history fests, first at the scenic Saratoga Battlefield and last year at the historical site at Fort Ticonderoga in upstate New York.  I love visiting that area, because my mother's family hails from there. This year, however, we chose to sate our thirst for  Revolutionary reenactments--and to have a chance to speak with, and learn from, the dedicated, knowledgeable participants--we're staying a little closer to our own neighborhoods.


Cannon overlooking Lake George at Ft. Ticonderoga

Upon checking into the reenactors' website for Monmouth Courthouse, I found a wealth of primary source in the form of excerpts from letters, official lists, and diaries concerning the battle and its aftermath. Among the testimonies from witnesses of the day and regulation doc army headcounts, I was intrigued by the one borrowed below. This was researched by John U. Rees, who is a member of Friends of Monmouth Battlefield. Further links -- to www.revwar75.com -- contain other eye witness accounts. Many accounts will be understandably conflicting. Current warfare is whole worlds beyond  the man/horse/letter tech of the18th Century. Troops became easily scattered, especially through rough/broken terrain or obscured by a black powder haze. Communication was either by messenger or dumb luck.  





The account that follows made a deeper impression upon me than the stories of battlefield action. I'll reproduce here courtesy of Mr. Rees/Friends of Monmouth Battlefield the account of a Georgia surgeon, Dr. Read, who tells, in some detail of what he encountered on the field after the day was over:
The evening at length came on, and the battle ceased, except some skirmishing at a distance, and some struggles to the left in arranging off prisoners … with the approach of night, both armies lay exhausted by fatigue and the heat of the day - a deep morass lying between them. They lay down, man and horse, just where they halted; Washington and his suit[e] lay upon the field. It was generally understood the battle was to be renewed at the dawn of day. Dr. Read, with his servant, rode on to the left of the line, seeing, in a few instances, regimental surgeons officiating, and administering to some wounded soldiers, and hearing the groans and cries of some men who crawled, or been brought off into the rear. They reached a wagon which stood in an inclined situation, having the fore-wheels shot away; this position afforded a comfortable shelter to the two adventurers … At the dawn of day they heard the shout of victory - ‘the British are gone!’ Dr. Read mounted, and rode down the hill which bounded the morass, and observing several men entering the low ground to cross over, he did so also. The bog was very deep, and required the utmost effort of his and his servant’s horse also, to get through it. As objects became visible, he saw several dead soldiers in the bog, mired to the waist, and probably shot. On the opposite side he saw an officer lying a few yards from the morass, nearly cut in two by a cannon shot; he was alive, and spoke, implored Dr. Read to lift him to a tree which stood near, alleging that he had been all night trying to do so, ‘that he might die easy.’ The clotted blood was piled up several inches on his front, and it had ceased to flow. Dr. Read, with the assistance of his servant, essayed to lift him tenderly, and, stepping backwards, they placed him against the tree. The blood now began to flow perceptibly, and in all probability terminated his life; they heard him utter a few words of thankfulness, and proceeded on. At the summit of the hill, dismal, indeed, was the scene; there lay fifty or sixty British grenadiers - some dead, some alive, calling for ‘help!’ ‘water!’ uttering the most dreadful and severe imprecations on ‘the rebels.’ Dr. Read and his servant ran down the hill, and found plenty of water; with his servant’s hat he administered many draughts of water to these poor, famished soldiers; it was busy occupation for an hour. Dr. Read … now proceeded to dress wounds and apply bandages. Tearing off shirts from the dead, he made bandages, and applied them, to the best of his skill, for remedying hemorrhage. Some country people and Negroes coming to the field of carnage, Dr. Read enlisted their feelings, and hired them to assist in lifting and turning these wounded men, and, at length, in procuring wagons and straw to remove them to the court-house … he was greatly assisted by his servant, Peter Houston … They succeeded in moving twenty-one grenadiers, all with broken legs, or muscles so lacerated as to render them helpless. Dr. Read, seeing no medical aid come to him, proceeded to amputate whenever the patient would consent to the operation. In these operations he was aided by lint and bandages being sent, he knew not from whence, and every article of nourishment. Dr. Read continued to dwell in the court-house, sleeping … in the Judge’s bench. There he was observed by sundry groups of officers, who came riding around on a tour of observation, and his name enquired into … [His servant sometimes informed the visitors that his master was working] ‘at his own expense.’ This explanation must have had an effect, as on the third day he received from the Secretary a special commission, which gave him rank in the medical department, and extra rations and forage...


Then or now, war is hell. With luck, there will be more stories to share after the upcoming weekend. I hope that the weather will be kinder to us than it was at the actual battle, when it ranged into the high 90's. Can you imagine fighting wrapped in all that wool and linen?
~~~


~~Juliet Waldron ~ All my historicals :  http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi



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Sunday, January 17, 2016

A Most Unsuitable Beau

Another Snippet from A Master Passion.
Here, Betsy's little sister Cornelia takes up with an unsuitable beau:

 
Betsy was not surprised when one morning her father and young Washington retired to the study.  In the broad downstairs corridor, on her way to fetch something for Mama, she heard the rumble of her father's voice, that most authoritarian tone, and knew, without catching a word, that a suitor was being rejected.

              Soon, Papa banged his cane on the floor and ordered the carriage.  From upstairs came the sounds of bags being packed, of doors slamming, of Cornelia sobbing.  The old General accompanied the young man to the wharf and stayed until he'd seen both the unwanted suitor and his baggage on board the noon sloop to New York.  Back at the house, Cornelia wailed and smashed china, much as her eldest sister Angelica had done twenty years before.

              "I'd just as soon marry you to some unlettered frontiersman.” The General roared back. “This Mr. Morton has no idea of responsibility, has done nothing yet except peacock about upon the foolish generosity of his father! Now, Cornelia, promise me you will have nothing further to do with him ‑ either by word--or by letter."

              "I cannot do that." Cornelia’s dark eyes were full of fire.  All too clearly, she saw herself as a heroine of one of those popular British romances.

              "What?!"  The General banged his cane on the floor.  "Do you mean to disobey me?"

              "I cannot bind myself, Papa.  I will not promise."

              "Disobedient girl!  Great God!  What have I done to deserve this? Go to your room at once and stay there!"

              Head high, Cornelia swept up the stairs.

              "Where does she get this language?  This defiant deportment?  It's those damned novels, isn't it?  I swear to God – if I find any of that trash in found this house it shall be burnt at once."
 
              Betsy thought it far more likely that the two earlier elopements had been the corrupting influence. As she watched the scene from the window seat, chair back embroidery in hand, she again wondered how it was that she—Elizabeth--was the only Schuyler girl who hadn’t had to climb out of an upstairs window for a husband...  








 
A MASTER PASSION
 
 

 
 

 
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