Page 101

The Federalists gathered at the Tontine Coffee House cheered lustily as General Hamilton exhorted them to fight the spirit of Jacobinism. Cadwallader skulked at the back of the group, partly because his height made him an impediment, and partly because he wished he had pleaded an ague and stayed home in bed with the covers over his head.

The slate of candidates had been unveiled, with Cadwallader’s name among them. A month ago, he would have been in the very height of elation at having been asked to represent the Federalist cause in the assembly; he could feel his grandfather, the esteemed colonial governor of New York, nodding in approval.

But now—Cadwallader could only feel how unworthy he was, both to win the assembly seat and to hold it.

Ebenezer Belden grabbed General Hamilton’s arm. “Sir, you have the energy of Demosthenes, the ardor of Chatham, the overpowering rapidity of Fox, the logic of Pitt, and the classical imagery of Burke! You have given a new pulse to public feelings. We can only hope to see its effect among all classes of men!”

Cadwallader lurked behind Belden, waiting until he had finished his effusions, before calling General Hamilton’s attention to himself with a strangled cough.

“Colden! Are you ready to lead us to victory?”

Cadwallader glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. “That’s just what I wanted to speak with you about. Are you certain you still wish me to stand for office?”

“My dear sir, you are essential for balance. We have a ship’s chandler, two grocers, a shoemaker, and a mason. You provide the aristocratic element. Your name reassures our old families that their interests haven’t yet been forgotten.” Hamilton grinned, looking with satisfaction at the assemblage, which had broken into small, excitedly talking groups. “There’s at least one spy for the Republicans among us tonight, if not more. Let Burr say now the Federalist party doesn’t stand for the common man!”

The name of Colden might once have stood for something grand, but now it represented only failure. “Are you sure my name might not be a liability?”

“Because your father was a loyalist? That was twenty years and more ago.”

Cadwallader sunk his chin into his cravat. “I was thinking of the Weeks trial.”

“That,” said Hamilton easily, “was weeks ago. The public has moved on to new sensations.”

“Only two weeks. The people haven’t forgotten,” said Cadwallader unhappily. “And the papers are still full of it.”

Some portrayed the trial as a travesty of justice, others as a vindication of innocence. Either way, Cadwallader came out poorly.

Only the day before, the clerk of the court, William Coleman, had released a ninety-nine page account of the trial, which had sold out as soon as it arrived at Mr. Furman’s shop outside City Hall. Cadwallader had known he shouldn’t read it, but he couldn’t help himself. He had sat up all the previous night, obsessively reading over all the testimony, trying to figure out what he had missed and how he had missed it.

There were two possibilities, neither of them good. Either he had had a murderer in the dock and so bungled his trial that he had gone free—or he had prosecuted the wrong man.

“I feel that I should withdraw my candidacy,” Cadwallader said, with painful dignity. “I can only be a liability to you in my current state.”

“Don’t do that! Your departure would throw our slate out of balance.” As an afterthought, Hamilton added, “I wouldn’t have asked you to serve if I hadn’t thought you were capable of it.”

“Livingston and Burr had me all hollow in the courtroom. I didn’t even get my precedent correct.”

Hamilton looked at him with resignation. “How old are you? A score and ten?”

“Thirty-two.” Old enough to know how to comport himself in a courtroom.

“Burr and Livingston and I have a decade of experience on you. That’s all it is. Experience.” General Hamilton’s eyes shifted past Cadwallader, fixing on someone else he wanted to speak to. “When you’ve stood in that courtroom as often as I have, the precedents will come quick to your lips too. And now—”

“But it wasn’t just that,” Cadwallader burst out, desperate to have it all out. “You produced evidence I never even thought to look for.”

“One of those lessons you learn with experience is that if something seems too simple, mistrust it. Probe for weaknesses as if you were your own most deadly opponent.” A frown creased Hamilton’s forehead. “If it makes you feel better, Livingston and Burr didn’t think to look further either. They would have been content to argue that Elma Sands did away with herself. And I—I was convinced for too long that the fault lay with Elias Ring. We all make mistakes.”

“It haunts me that I might have prosecuted the wrong man while the right man was before me the whole time,” said Cadwallader feverishly. “I should have seen it. You saw it. But Mr. Croucher seemed so convincing when he spoke of seeing Levi and Elma together. . . . How did you guess?”

Hamilton nodded politely, preparatory to taking his leave. “I had the advantage of you—I could speak to Levi Weeks. I knew from Levi that he had seen Elma and Croucher embracing.”

“There was another woman,” Cadwallader blurted out. “Rose Malone. She was strangled and stuffed into a cistern. Croucher told me—he told me he had sold her stockings. He said he felt responsible for her in some way. I can’t stop wondering—”

“Wondering does no good. Concentrate yourself on the present,” said General Hamilton, patting him briskly on the arm. “This election—”

Cadwallader shook his head. “It haunts my sleep that Croucher might have killed both those women and I never saw it. I believed every word he told me. I believed him when he told me he only wanted justice for Elma.”

“If your sin is being too trusting, that’s a failing we’ve all had from time to time. I made the same mistake with the Manhattan Company, with far graver consequences,” said General Hamilton. “I’d rather have a man at my side who is more wise than cunning, driven by good intentions rather than extreme and irregular ambitions. I have utter faith in your ability, Colden. Now, I must have a word with Philip Ten Eyck.”