Natalie Wexler
Copyright 2006 by Natalie Wexler
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Kalorama Press
Print edition ISBN 978-0-6151-3516-8
This book incorporates a number of historical documents, but it is essentially a work of fiction. Although most of the characters are based on real people, and many of the events described actually transpired, much of the plot and virtually all the dialogue are invented. Spelling and punctuation in the documents have been modernized.
Acknowledgments for permission to quote from various historical documents can be found in the acknowledgments section at the end of the book.
Cover art: Gilbert Stuart, Mrs. Thomas Bartlett (Hannah Gray Wilson), about 1805; bequest of Minna B. Hall. Photograph © 2006 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
For my own James
. . . Could you wish a more obedient Wife, my dear Mr. Iredell?
I wrote you last night, and am now attempting another letter . . .
—Hannah Iredell, September 15, 1790
A Note to the Reader
The genesis of this book lies in a treasure trove of letters I came across years ago, when I was an associate editor of a multi-volume documentary history of the United States Supreme Court in its first decade, the 1790s. I was particularly intrigued by the intersecting stories of two of the early Justices, James Iredell and James Wilson; but what intrigued me even more were the stories of their respective wives, both named Hannah. Although at first I contemplated a biography of some kind, I quickly realized that these women—like almost all 18th-century women—had left behind far too little documentation to support a work of nonfiction. If I wanted to get at their stories, I would have to use my imagination.
Although I did a little archival research—fingering with awe and reverence the same paper that some of my characters had actually held in their hands—the vast majority of the letters and other documents that I have relied on in constructing this story were painstakingly collected and photocopied, over a period of ten years, by the staff of the documentary history project before I joined it. Many of them have also been transcribed and published in the project’s volumes. But quite a few others were put aside as being concerned solely with personal or domestic matters, and thus irrelevant to the Court’s work. From my perspective, of course, these were often the most interesting letters of all. I spent many hours at a spare desk in the project’s office, sifting through boxes and filing cabinets to find documents that would help me reconstruct the details of my characters’ lives, my eyes aching from the effort of deciphering 18th-century handwriting (which often looks like chicken-scratches to the uninitiated) and contending with smudges, ink blots, and stubbornly illegible words.
At some point it occurred to me that I should use these documents not only as background research for the novel, but as part of the actual text. There is an immediacy to the letters that I find thrilling—candid glimpses written not for the historian or the public record but for a wife or husband or close friend—and I hope others will respond to them similarly. In addition, I hope that by including the letters side by side with my fictional imaginings, I have enabled the interested reader to separate the two—to distinguish the factual, historical skeleton from my novelistic addition of meat to those bones. Accordingly, I have put anything that is drawn from an actual historical document in italics. These passages are unaltered from the original, except for the omission of irrelevant material and the modernization of spelling and punctuation—and the occasional educated guess at an illegible word. And while I have omitted any number of real details in my fictional narrative, I have not consciously contravened any established historical fact.
Although the historical record has served as a basic road map to my characters’ lives, I have taken quite a few fictional detours along the way. And of course the thoughts and words I have placed in my characters’ minds and mouths are, with very few exceptions, entirely my own invention. It is quite possible that, were they magically to be revived and shown this book, the people whose lives I have appropriated here would be horrified at the way I have imagined them. But though I have invented freely, I have tried to be faithful to the glimmers and hints of character I have been able to glean from the few documents that have come down to us. Even if my characters did not do or say all the things I have attributed to them in my narrative (as is surely the case), I like to think that they could have.
London, England
March 1808
At the age of thirty-four, Hannah Gray Wilson Bartlett lay on her deathbed.
Shapes and shadows flitted across the walls and the coverlet, propelled by the dimming light from the window and the flicker of the fireplace—shapes that sometimes formed themselves into faces, the faces of people she had once known. She could hear voices—her husband’s, the maid’s—wafting up to her room from downstairs, but sometimes she was certain that she heard other voices, voices from long ago.
She reached for the book by her bed; perhaps reading would steady her. It was a volume of poetry that she had long treasured, but now she found the familiar words dancing away from her, their meaning just out of reach. As she closed the book, a letter fell from the inside cover, slightly yellowed with age. It was folded, and the outside was addressed, “Mrs. Wilson.” Smiling at the familiar handwriting, Hannah opened it.
My dear Madam:
Having accidentally met with a very neat edition of Thomson’s “Seasons,” I take the liberty of requesting your acceptance of it, in the hope … that it may sometimes be the means of recalling to your recollection the person who presented it. You will, I flatter myself, forgive this selfish motive … in consideration of the earnest wish I naturally feel to live with some esteem in your memory as long as I possibly can.
With the greatest respect,
Your obedient servant,
James Iredell
She gently tucked the letter back into its resting place, returned the book to the table, and picked up the hand mirror that lay beside it; her face was pale, but her complexion was still smooth, her neck still graceful, her auburn curls still lustrous, and her eyes—if anything—even brighter than they had been ten years before. But that was the fever, of course. She sighed and put the mirror aside. Suddenly exhausted, she soon fell into a deep but restless sleep.
Half an hour later, the maid entered the room with a cold compress, which she began to apply to her mistress’s burning forehead. Mrs. Bartlett’s head turned back and forth on the pillow, and her lips began to move. Opening her eyes, she caught the maid’s arm and said urgently, “Mrs. Iredell, there is something you must know.”
The maid dropped the compress and drew back in surprise. “But it’s only me, Ma’am—it’s Sally!”
Mrs. Bartlett seemed not to understand; she began speaking of things that made no sense: someone crossing a river and falling through the ice and being in mortal danger, and then something more that Sally could not quite make out—something about an “indiscretion.”
“Please ma’am,” Sally interrupted, “you must rest now, you must be quiet!”
“But you must let me finish!” Mrs. Bartlett insisted. “It is what Mr. Iredell said and did next that I must tell you.”
And so Sally, not knowing what else to do, allowed her mistress to finish, although it all came in such a rush of words and so low a voice that she could make neither head nor tail of it. At last the story appeared to come to an end, for her mistress clutched her once again.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Iredell, only please forgive me,” she pleaded, her eyes wild and bright. “There is no one in the world whose good opinion I crave more than yours.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I haven’t led an exemplary life, I know—there are others I have wronged as well as you. But if I could only have your forgiveness, it would all be put to right, somehow. Please, I beg you, don’t make me go to my grave without a kind word.”
Sally raised a hand and placed it on her mistress’s shoulder; a tear began to roll down her cheek. Poor Mrs. Bartlett: so young, and still so beautiful. Whatever it was she was on about, there was surely no harm in sending her to her rest with a kind word.
“Of course, ma’am, of course I … forgive you.”
Mrs. Bartlett’s eyes closed now, and her grip on Sally’s sleeve loosened. She sank back onto the pillow, her lips forming a smile.
1790
From Hannah Iredell to James Iredell:
Edenton, North Carolina, May 6, 1790
I have had the satisfaction of receiving your kind letter from Greensville. I hope you were as well as you said. Our dear Children continue quite well. Annie was much distressed at parting with you—she told James in a very doleful tone that Papa was gone. He clapped his hands and repeated very gaily, “Pa’s gone.” He is in a sweet sleep now, and our dear Girl sends her love to you and says please to come home soon…
When you think of your children, my dear Mr. Iredell, let it remind you to take care of your health, for to you they must look for everything under Providence… I should think nothing of this voyage if you were with us (or I was to meet you at the end of it), but it seems hard to be traveling to the very opposite points of the compass. However, I trust to the same good Providence which has never yet forsaken us, that you will return to us safe & well …
You will hear no more from me till I get to New York …, for we shall certainly sail I believe before next Tuesday. You may be assured that I will take every possible means to guard your dear Children from danger… They are both as lively & lovely as you could wish them. Annie has given me some kisses for you, her first conversation this morning was about you… There is no danger of her ever forgetting you. No Child can have a more affectionate disposition than she has…
Pray my dear Mr. Iredell, I must again repeat it: take care of yourself. You never had so much occasion for discretion as on this journey. Think of us often & come to us as soon as possible. I shall not know what to do with myself until you come. . .
From James Iredell to Hannah Iredell:
Camden, South Carolina, May 10, 1790
… I feel inexpressible anxiety about you & my poor Children. How hard it is to be so much out of the way of hearing from you! My imagination is continually at work, but can be never satisfied. I trust in the infinite goodness of God that you will have a safe & pleasant passage to New York, and that we may be all so happy as to meet there quite well… Kiss my ever dear Annie and my lovely James with the greatest warmth & kindness, & tell them no Father ever more doted on his Children than I do on mine. May God preserve them & make them useful Members of Society! Tell Annie I will come & see her as soon as I can …
From the State Gazette of Edenton, North Carolina, May 15, 1790:
On Tuesday last, the sloop Virginia Packet, Captain Andrews, sailed from the port for New-York, in which went as passengers the families of the Honorable Samuel Johnston, Esq., Senator in the Congress of the United States for this state, and of the Honorable Judge James Iredell, lately appointed to the Supreme Court of the United States. We unite our wishes with those of their numerous friends, that pleasant and propitious gales may waft them in safety to their destined port.
Diary of Hannah Iredell
New York, New York
Friday, May 21, 1790
All is confusion here. Never in my life have my ears been so assaulted by the clatter of wheels over stones, the squeals of pigs rooting in gutters, the shouts of vendors in the Markets. And the odors that afflict my poor nostrils! Edenton’s stagnant waters gave rise to their own repugnant Perfume, but the sheer agglomeration of people here yields something far worse. Surely Nature never meant for so many persons to congregate in one place. Oh, to be back on the vast empty expanse of Ocean that cradled us just days ago, the only sounds the lapping of waves and the keening of seagulls—mingled, of course, with the shouts and laughter of my Children and Nieces and Nephews, as they played about the deck.
It was never the Journey I feared, but the arrival, and all that would follow. When the ship was safely tied to the Dock, what I felt was not relief at our safe landing, but a creeping dread. Cramped and foul as the ship’s quarters were, I was loath to leave them for the ramshackle shanties and rough-looking Characters that lined the shore, so unlike the neat buildings and dignified merchants that greet the seafaring visitor to Edenton. But Mrs. Johnston and her family eagerly began to disembark, once they spied my Brother waving from the dock, and Annie hurried to follow her Aunt and Cousins; I hung back on the ship’s deck with Sarah and the other Negroes, who took their time gathering up our bundles—their faces betraying the wariness that was in my own heart, for neither they nor I have ever set foot outside of Carolina. If it had been my own Husband down below, gaily lifting his hat in welcome, I shouldn’t have hesitated for a moment. But my own Husband is hundreds of miles from here—in Charleston, if his plans have held, en route to hold Court in Savannah.
But little James cried in my arms to follow his Sister, so there was nothing for it but to go, my knees trembling and my legs feeling strangely not my own. They say this is the normal course after a sea Voyage, and that one must patiently await the return of one’s “land legs,” but in my case I fear it was something more, that my real legs, even my real Body, has been lost somewhere—perhaps at Edenton, perhaps at sea. Certainly my knees have not yet stopped trembling, and it has been two days now.
At least my Brother’s house here is well-appointed and large—befitting a Senator, I suppose, and convenient to the Federal Hall where Congress meets. It is made of red brick like its neighbors, and has a small Garden at the back that may serve me as something of a refuge, despite the clatter from the street. It is on Broadway, a thoroughfare that well deserves its name, many yards in width from one side to the other, equipped with raised walkways on either side and lined with fine buildings—Sam tells us the President himself lives on this Street, at Number 39. It seems several worlds away from the nearby clatter and menace of the Docks. But they say New York is like that—like some jagged mountain range, dizzy heights of extravagant wealth soaring right next to murky depths of depraved poverty, each seeming all the more extreme by the sudden contrast to its Opposite. Sam has already warned me against venturing into certain areas only a few streets away: a place called Canvas Town, where many unfortunates, routed from their homes by the Fire of ‘76, make do even to this day with flimsy cloth shelters; and an unsavory neighborhood surrounding The Collect, a reservoir whose water is said to be equally unsavory. But Sam needn’t worry about my venturing abroad in this place on my own—although, if Mr. Iredell (from whom I have had as yet no Letter, as I had earnestly hoped I might) does not make his way here soon, I daresay I shall have no choice.
Sam assures me that the courts in the Southern States will have little or no business (the idea of a Federal court being such a novelty, he says, that few will yet know what they may ask it to do), and that my Husband will be here in the Capital before the end of June. If only he were by my side, I flatter myself I could do nearly anything, even in this alarming City. But without him—with no News of him, with anxiety as an ever-present and unwelcome companion—I can do no more than peer out the window near the table where I sit and contemplate with horror the passing Show: an endless stream of proud-looking Gentleman, and Ladies wearing brocaded gowns and feathered bonnets such as I have seen only in the plates of London magazines. Indeed, the Tableau strikes me as one of those London novels come to life, with fashionable Society having nothing to do but promenade and greet their acquaintance. It is a World into which I cannot imagine inserting myself; and yet it is the World I must somehow contrive to call my own.
My true World, my very universe, is left behind in Edenton—a poor thing, as the Bard once wrote, but mine own. I yearn for the simple wooden houses, the narrow unpaved Streets, the familiar faces of home: for my few but faithful Friends, for Mr. Iredell’s brother Tom and all his merry foolishness, and—most of all—for Nelly, my own sweet Nelly, her eyes a-sparkle with gaiety and mischief.
I feared this Separation nearly as much for Nelly as for myself. Though she has an excellent Husband and no doubt will soon have Children to occupy her, it is less than a year since her Mother died—and now she must lose me as well! Though I remind myself I am by rights no more than her Aunt, I have since her birth felt such an attachment as though I were a second Mother to her. And yet, being but fifteen years her senior, I have also acted the fond elder Sister, sometimes gently correcting her youthful high spirits, and at other times allowing them to carry me aloft with her. There is no Word, in short, adequate to describe what Nelly and I are to one another, our lives being so closely braided that each Conversation seems but a continuation of the last. We have rarely been apart for more than a few days, till now; and now I cannot tell if we shall ever see one another again.
Just before I boarded the ship at Edenton, Nelly and I stood at the dock, saying our farewells, and trying mightily not to weep—an Endeavor at which both of us, I confess, failed miserably.
“Whatever shall I do without you?” I whispered to her as we embraced.
“Now then, Aunt,” she said in what was meant to be a playful scolding tone, but contained a tremble, “you know I shall be eager to visit, and see the Capital for myself.” She drew back and put her hand into the pocket she wore at her waist. “And in the meantime, you shall have this.”
She then withdrew a small Book, bound in red leather. “Not a book to read, though I know what store you set in those,” she said, as I opened it and saw the pages were blank, “but a book in which to write, to record your Thoughts and all that transpires. Think of it as a companion, a trusted Friend, ever eager to know how it is with you, and capable of keeping any confidence you may repose in it.”
“I shall think of it, then, as a Simulacrum of yourself,” I said, and kissed her.
She wrinkled her nose in that way she does whenever I employ a Word she deems too elevated, and told me saucily, “Think of it as you will—only write a few lines in it now and then, and let it remind you of me.”
And so I have, for what I have set down here today is very much what I should have told Nelly, if she were by me; and though the Book does not call me a “poor Lamb,” and squeeze me about the shoulders, as she would, I yet feel the better for having written in it.
From James Iredell to Hannah Iredell:
Charleston, South Carolina, May 23, 1790
… I arrived here last night in company with Mr. Rutledge, from whom I have received the greatest and kindest civilities, and at whose house I now have the pleasure of staying. He is one of the most agreeable men I was ever acquainted with; and his wife seems a truly respectable and amiable woman, who has received me in the most obliging manner … On Friday we are to set off for Savannah …
Thursday, May 27, 1790
Yesterday Doctor Romaine was here (I had not seen him since he was in Edenton to visit his relations, some years since) to put us all under inoculation against the Smallpox—all but Sam, that is, as he has already been inoculated. I had thought I should be brave, for I have heard and understood all the arguments in favor of the Procedure: that it nearly always produces an extremely mild case of the Disease (far milder than when it is contracted in the natural way, they say), and then confers a lifelong immunity. Certainly I don’t class myself amongst those who still rail against the idea of inoculation as a blasphemous interference with the ways of God. And yet—to voluntarily infect my precious Children, and myself, with a Disorder that yet may be fatal, or at least disfigure us permanently—it was a prospect that filled me with Trepidation. The Speckled Monster, I have heard some call it.
But the preparations had all been made: the Children given Rhubarb as a purgative, myself and Mrs. Johnston purged and bled two days before. Dr. Romaine had sent word that he had obtained fresh “Matter,” as he termed it, from the pustules of an infected Patient, and it would not retain its efficacy more than a day or two. Mrs. Johnston shared my Doubts, I know—I could see it in her eyes—but she dared not defy Sam’s wishes. Nor could I have faced my own Husband, were he to arrive and learn that, fearing a small risk of harm to our Children, I had left them exposed to one far greater.
But I confess I was quite paralyzed with fear, when the Doctor arrived at last, brandishing his Lancet; and the Children clung to me and whimpered pitifully. In the end it was Sarah who stepped forward, rolling up her sleeve to expose a smooth, dark arm. (Dr. Romaine glanced at me first, to make sure I meant to pay to have my Negro inoculated. I nodded to him, for of course Sarah must be protected as well as the rest of us.) After that, she held the Children on her lap for their turns, and they exhibited a commendable bravery, for a Girl four years of age and a Boy only two. I went last, with my fear well concealed—or so, at least, I flatter myself.
Odd, now, that we feel nothing; I have the sense that we are suspended above a deep Ravine, held by a rope which will shortly break. We are to expect chills and fever at the seventh day following inoculation, with the eruptions appearing several days after that. We are, of course, confined to the House and its grounds for the next few days, and may entertain no Visitors—restrictions which, I confess, are so congenial to my Mood that I view them as nearly adequate compensation for the Ordeal we may be about to endure.
From James Iredell to Hannah Iredell:
Savannah, Georgia, May 31, 1790
… I have been much better pleased with Savannah than I expected; it is really a pretty place, though on a bed of sand; but I cannot say I am sorry that the Court adjourned today, and that Mr. Rutledge & myself are to leave it tomorrow. I thank God, I preserve my health remarkably well… Tomorrow I shall begin to advance towards you…
Friday, June 4, 1790
We have all been suffering from Fever and headache and the like, some of us more than others; it is a good thing Sam thought to hire two Servants, already inoculated, to wait upon us until we are recovered, for the Negroes are as sick as anyone else.
James has weathered it better than Annie—they say younger Children feel it less, and that it’s best to inoculate while babes are still suckling, or at least before all the teeth have come in. And James is fleshy and robust, like his Father, while poor Annie (like her Mother, alas) is scarcely more than a stick of a thing. She gave me quite a scare, the Night before last, shaking and chattering so much with her Fever that I nearly sent for the Doctor. Surely we have kept these bedside Vigils over a sick Child many a night in the past four years, Mr. Iredell and I, praying fervently and wiping away our anxious tears. But it matters not how many times I sit and watch and pray, nor how many times my prayers are answered and the Fever breaks: each time I am seized with a cold Fear that what befell our first-born will strike us again—that a Child will once more be cruelly snatched from us.
Perhaps all Mothers who have lost a Child endure these torments—which is to say, of course, nearly all Mothers. But I cannot help thinking it is even worse for Mr. Iredell and myself than for most: after eleven long years of barrenness—during which I had prayed as earnestly as my namesake, the Hannah of the Bible, that a Child might be given to us—to have our little Thomas sicken and expire, after a mere two days’ taste of Life. Can it be six years since then? The Pain is nearly as sharp as though newly inflicted. I thought myself dead as well then; though Friends assured us we should go on to have more Children, I could not contrive to believe them. I considered that I was already thirty-six years of age; it seemed that if I were meant to have Children, the Lord would have provided them already. I never then imagined He would extend such mercy as to give us not one more Babe, but two.
And yet to be in such constant fear of losing them! Were it not for that Fear, indeed, we might be in Edenton still. For I was quite deaf to all Mr. Iredell’s entreaties, after the Letter arrived from President Washington. What cared I that the Federal government was like to fall apart, if men of Character and loyalty refused to accept posts in it? What cared I that the appointment of a North Carolinian to the Supreme Court might secure the allegiance of the State to this new endeavor? Surely there were others to answer the call. But when Mr. Iredell begged me to think of the Children, and their health—when he reminded me of how close we’d come to losing them to the intermittent fever last Summer, and laid out the evidence of a healthier climate in the North—when he urged that his acceptance of this post, and our removal from Edenton, might well save their very lives—how, then, could I refuse him?
But now, as I sit by my dear little ones’ sickbed and cool their burning brows, or pile blankets on them to ward off their chills, I cannot help but entertain my doubts. We never had Smallpox to worry us in a town as small and remote as Edenton! And there’s another Disease here that I have never encountered before, which they call the Influenza—such a pretty name, more suited I think to a musical instrument; as one might say, “Why yes, I play the Influenza.” But it nearly carried off the President himself last month, just about the time we arrived here, causing everyone the utmost Consternation. And they say that it has struck Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Madison, and that Mr. Adams’ entire household suffers from it, with the exception of the Vice-President himself.
And of course, when I agreed to remove to the Capital, I had thought my Husband would be here with me—I did not yet understand that Congress, in its wisdom, had decreed that Supreme Court Judges must not only hold the Supreme Court in the Capital twice a year, but must also roam the length and breadth of the Nation in Spring and Fall, holding Circuit courts! Sam assures us that the flaws in the Plan are clear to all, and that Congress will soon alter it. God grant that they alter it before the Fall, or Mr. Iredell will be required to set off once more over rutted roads and swollen Rivers, assaulted by inclement Weather, and no doubt forced to put up in verminous Taverns. Perhaps if I had remained in Edenton, I could have managed to bear this anxious Separation; but here in this strange place, with myself and my Children ill, I fear it is too much for me.
Ah, but Annie is waking now, and calling for me. We have still had no word from Mr. Iredell. I pray the Lord no mishap has befallen him!
From James Iredell to Hannah Iredell:
Charleston, South Carolina, June 7, 1790
… Mr. Rutledge and I returned here from Savannah on Friday last… Nothing can exceed the universal kindness I have experienced… I have had the honor of several visits, particularly in a high style from the British Consul in his chariot… I have met with such extreme attention and politeness in this country, that I cannot avoid feeling some degree of pain in parting from it, notwithstanding the delightful prospect I have in view…
Saturday, June 12, 1790
At last, a Letter from Mr. Iredell—written a full month ago, in Camden! At that time, at least, he was safe and well, and I can only trust to Providence that he remains so. So relieved was I, even at this stale news, that I could not help but shed a few tears—hiding them from the Children, of course, as I wouldn’t want them to realize what secret Fears I have been harboring. But they paid me no mind; I let Annie take the Letter, once I had perused it, and pretend to read it to her Brother. It was enough to divert all our minds—at least for a while—from these horrid spots our Bodies are covered in, oozing their foul matter.
I am greatly relieved that the Children have not only recovered completely from their Fevers, but also have had no eruptions on their faces. I myself have not been so lucky. Though I doubt anyone acquainted with me should consider me Vain, I cannot help but cringe and shudder when I accidentally catch sight of myself in the Glass. A Speckled Monster, indeed! They say the spots caused by inoculation generally leave no permanent trace, but of course it is too soon to be sure of that, and difficult not to fear the worst. Mrs. Johnston has far fewer spots on her face than I—and Fanny has fewer still—yet to hear her go on about her lost looks and Fanny’s ruined Marriage prospects, one would think their visages had been entirely ravaged.
“Look now, my dear Sister,” I said at last, when I could bear no more of her moaning and hand-wringing, “is not my Face more roundly attacked than yours?”
“Well, yes, but”—she started to say, then stopped suddenly and looked away.
I could tell what she had meant to say, before she thought better of it: that I had no looks to lose in the first place. It’s true, of course; I have nothing to rival her round blue eyes and plump, rosy cheeks, which Fanny has luckily inherited. But even a plain Woman can dread being made plainer. And though I am under no illusion that Mr. Iredell married me for my beauty, I wonder if he will not shrink from me in Disgust if he arrives to find my face not merely thin, sallow, and hatched with lines—such as he has come to expect—but disfigured as well by Pock marks.
Alas, even without the marks, I fear Mr. Iredell would have found me sadly wanting in comparison to the fashionable and alluring New York Ladies I have been spying at from my window. And who knows what youthful Beauties are paraded before him in the various Towns he stops at along his circuit, at dinners and balls and tea parties? Old fears and Questions, long buried (or nearly so) have begun to plague me once again: Why would a Gentleman like Mr. Iredell—a man who charms all he meets, and whose admiration for feminine beauty has been only too evident to me over the years—choose as his Bride someone like myself: four years his senior, timid and bookish and (as Mr. Iredell himself once described me, in a letter to his Father) “not what is generally called handsome”? Was it perhaps not for myself, but for the advantages that such a marriage might bring to a young man of keen Ambition? My Brother Sam (as Mr. Iredell, being his pupil in the law, well knew) was already one of the first Men in the Province, and my Family in general was not without importance, my Uncle having been a Royal Governor. No doubt Mr. Iredell believed, as well—seeing the Manner in which Sam lived, and which I then shared—that I would bring him a substantial dowry; alas for both of us that he was so sadly mistaken!
There is one Memory in particular—one image, or a series of them, that has lately persisted in taking up residence in my mind, try as I will to banish it forever. It is now a good ten years since that Calamity occurred, and yet the recollection, when it comes, makes me shudder and wince and catch my breath, and my Stomach begins almost to heave: A ball at the Courthouse in Edenton—Mr. Iredell gone out to take some air and not returned—myself stumbling through the blackness of a moonless night, seeking to ask him some Question I have now forgot. And then discerning a familiar Form, a laugh I know as well as my own. I move towards him, my mouth open to speak. But the darkness reveals another figure—a Lady of our acquaintance, one whose handsome face and figure and lively Conversation Mr. Iredell has often praised to me—their arms about one another, his lips pressed against her neck! And then a Scream, a Scream that must have come from me, a Scream that alerted them to my presence and all of Edenton to my Shame. And all my Suspicions, which he had ever dismissed as baseless Jealousy, confirmed in an instant!
But no more, no more; I tremble so as I write this that it becomes difficult to hold the Pen. I must rid myself of these ancient Miseries, these doubts that feed so unhealthily upon themselves. My Husband has, since that exceedingly painful Encounter, given me no further cause for grief, or at least none that I have been able to discern. And his protestations of Remorse after it occurred, his avowals that he loved me and me alone, are truly heart-rending to recall (although I nevertheless remained unyielding to them for some six Months, six long Months spent in blackness and despair). It is on those memories I must dwell, and not on the Circumstance that gave rise to them.
It would be far more prudent for me to muse on our first Meeting, and the very first words my dear Mr. Iredell addressed to me, when he and Sam surprised me in the parlor at Hayes Plantation with my nose in a Book (a novel, I confess—though I had intended to continue my study of the history of the Church of England).
“Ah, my Sister!” Sam said by way of introduction. “Quite the reader, she is. I daresay she prefers books to People.”
I felt tears rise to my eyes at what I knew was meant as a gibe; but before they could spill, Mr. Iredell rose to my defense. “And quite right, too, Mith Johnthton.” He had a pronounced lisp, yet he seemed untroubled by it, smiling at me with approval and Sympathy. (Such kind brown eyes, I noticed; such charmingly unruly hair; what an attractive countenance entirely! And his Manner was altogether so smooth and confident that I little suspected he was then but seventeen.) “A Book is far more reliable than a person. One needn’t worry about amusing or pleasing or making a good impression on a Book. A Book’s job, its mission in Life, is to entertain and instruct its reader. And if it fails, one can simply banish it back to its place on the shelf, with no anxiety about having wounded its feelings or offended its Pride. How many human companions would be so accommodating?”
I believe it was at that moment that Mr. Iredell won my Heart; for never had I heard someone put into such clever and precise words the very thoughts that had so often entered my own head (and the power of those words was such that, after a moment, I no longer heard the lisp). I knew that I had found a Gentleman who—though outwardly so different from myself, so affable and confident—possessed a Soul that was the very twin of my own. My Nerves were such that I found it impossible to utter a word (and indeed, for many weeks afterwards I remained nearly mute in his increasingly frequent Presence); but my eyes met his, and I thought I saw in them an exact reflection of my own Sentiments.
And yet, I cannot help but wonder, from time to time, if I was right.
From James Iredell to Hannah Iredell:
Wilmington, North Carolina, June 18, 1790
… I arrived here on the evening of the 15th, and received immediately the delightful intelligence of your safe arrival at New York, for which I am devoutly thankful to that good Providence to which we owe so many blessings… Had the weather not been so hot, my Circuit would have been quite a jaunt of pleasure, for I have been everywhere received, by everybody, with the utmost distinction & politeness, and by many of the first Families in South Carolina with a degree of unaffected kindness which was gratifying indeed…
Monday, June 21, 1790
A terrible Day!
This morning after Breakfast Mrs. Johnston observed that it was high time we ventured abroad: our spots are nearly gone (or hers are, in any case), and the weather was fine. She proposed a promenade down Broadway to the Bowling Green, where she was certain we should encounter many of the most fashionable Characters of the City. As I had no appetite for such an outing, I demurred. She said she would go herself, then, but insisted that I must go somewhere, for my health; and then, with a sparkle in her eye, declared that I should go to the Market with Mrs. Simmons.
“You must learn your way about the City, you know,” she said with mock sternness, “for you’ll soon have a House of your own to manage. And I know you: you’ll want to oversee the purchases yourself, so as to procure the best Victuals for the lowest price.”
A shudder of fear went through me at the thought of leaving this place, where I am safely tucked under my Brother’s wing. But of course Mrs. Johnston was right. The Plan was for us to stay here only while under inoculation, and to find a House to rent before Mr. Iredell arrives.
Mrs. Simmons is one of the Servants Sam hired to see us through the inoculation, but she has proven so valuable, with her knowledge of the City, that no one has yet made a move to dismiss her. I decided to bring Sarah along, as it was equally necessary for her to be acquainted with the Market, and Mrs. Simmons bustled us out the door with business-like efficiency, anxious to begin the day’s Purchases. We would go to the Fly Market, she announced, at the foot of Maiden Lane.
As soon as we left the house, my senses were assaulted, as they had been on my arrival weeks before: the glare of the Sun, the clatter of the hooves on cobblestones, the shouts of vendors in the street. It was if anything worse now, after so many weeks of confinement to the quiet dark of Sam’s house. I immediately felt Faint, but forced myself to follow Mrs. Simmons’ determined lead. She picked her way among the cobblestones and wove through the streams of people so quickly that it took all my Concentration to keep up with her. Sarah hung back a bit with me, but it seemed that she was as fascinated by the Tumult as I was repelled, her mouth slightly agape with amazement, her eyes open wide so as not to miss a thing.
We followed Mrs. Simmons from Broadway onto a street of more ordinary width, called Crown Street. The noise grew louder, and the Crowd, now packed into a narrower space, seemed to be crushing me from all sides. The people here were clothed with far less elegance than those on Broadway—a thing to which I would have had no occasion to object, which indeed I would have applauded, had not their Manners also been considerably less elegant as well. I was not moving quickly enough to suit some of them, and a number—both Men and Women—pushed me aside in their haste to get to the Market. Within seconds I had lost sight of both Sarah and Mrs. Simmons, and had lost as well all sense of which Direction I was to proceed in.
I began to feel a kind of Suffocation, as though the air too had abandoned me, and my head began to spin. I came to a dead stop, uncertain of where to go, and indeed of whether I could go on at all. My heart pounded in my breast, and my hands and knees were shaking violently; perspiration soaked my armpits and trickled down the front of my Chemise. A Man’s voice, coming from behind me, barked at me to move, and a rough hand pushed me aside so that I stumbled and began to fall. Terrified now, I staggered to the side of the Street and held on to the wall of a House until I could catch my breath.
I could not imagine begging directions of any of the Strangers hurrying by, their faces set, their mouths grim, their manner more suited to fleeing some natural Disaster than to shopping for the day’s provisions. I tried to call out to Sarah, in hopes that she would be close enough to hear me over the din, but I could make no sound emerge from my throat. I was close to tears of Despair when I saw them at last, Sarah and Mrs. Simmons both, scanning the crowd for me, Mrs. Simmons looking irritated and Sarah frightened. I mounted the front steps of a nearby House and waved my hand in hopes of attracting their attention.
They spotted me after a few seconds and pushed their way through the Crowd until they reached me, upon which I fell into Sarah’s arms and, much to my embarrassment, began sobbing onto her shoulder. I could feel people turning and staring, pausing at last in their hurry to wonder at the cause of this Scene, but I could not stop myself.
“It’s all right, now, Mrs. Iredell,” Sarah whispered in my ear. “I’m here, you ain’t lost no more.”
When I raised my head at last, I saw Mrs. Simmons standing beside me, hands clasped before her and her head cocked to one side. Her irritation had subsided, but she now looked alarmed and puzzled. When she spoke to me, she did so slowly and gently, as though to a Child afraid of Goblins.
“Shall we go home, then, Mrs. Iredell? I can come back to the Market later, on my own. Perhaps another day …”
But why should it be better any other Day than it was today? How shall I ever bring myself to venture out there again? And yet I must, I must. I promised Mr. Iredell I would endeavor to overcome my cursed Timidity, that I would comport myself as befits the Wife of a Supreme Court Judge: calling on the Wives of the other Judges and Government officials, attending the levees and teas and Dinners that we will as a matter of course be invited to, even acting as a Hostess myself—all those things that Mrs. Johnston is so eager to embark upon, and which I view as Ordeals that must somehow be got through. Mr. Iredell is so fond of Company, and eager to make a good impression here; why should he be constrained by a Wife who wants nothing more than to hide under the bed?
Before we parted he told me that he knows that I can overcome my Fears; for had not he overcome the anxieties caused by the Lisp that afflicts his speech? Had he allowed it to interfere with his ambitions in Law and Politics? Indeed, no; like Demosthenes, he had applied himself to correct it. But more important, he had shaken off his foolish concern with what others might think, trusting that if he treated the Impediment as no more than a minor matter, others would follow suit, and attend more to the substance of what he said than the way he said it. That is the Course I must follow, he advised; cease to dwell on what others might think, and be my own self. He was certain that once I relaxed my guard and spoke freely in Company, that others should admire me—for my Wit, as he said, and my benignity—as much as he did. “I only want the Gem I cherish in secret,” he said, “to sparkle as brightly in the presence of others.”
His words of praise fell upon me, as ever, like the Sun’s warmth upon a struggling bud. Smiling, pressing his hands in mine, I pledged to him that I should change my ways. In Edenton, in our own cozy Parlor, it seemed a Task I could surely master. But how am I to attend a dinner at the President’s House, or invite the Chief Justice’s Wife for tea, if I cannot even manage a walk to the Market?
From Nelly Tredwell to Hannah Iredell:
Edenton, North Carolina, June 22, 1790
… My last letter was such a complaining one that I reckon, my Dear Aunt, you will be afraid to read this; for you have so many troubles of your own it is a pity to seize you with idle complaints. I have always set down determined to write you word when I was satisfied and happy, but my spirits are always so affected I fall into a complaining way without intention—& indeed, your absence is all I have to distress me. Mr. Tredwell is as affectionate as you, my Dearest Aunt, who I know are more anxious about my happiness than anyone else in the world, could wish him to be—but I am continually wishing for you. It seems impossible for me to speak freely to anyone, & as I cannot bear to go abroad, nor do I feel the least inclination for company at home.
Before this time the small pox is, I flatter myself, happily over with you & my dear Annie & James. How did they bear the inoculation? Poor little Annie was frightened almost to death, I reckon. Oh, my Dearest Aunt, is it possible I shall ever again have the happiness of seeing you and them? …
Thursday, June 24, 1790
Not yet feeling sufficiently fortified to venture abroad again, I have endeavored to make myself useful about the House by means of a few modest Offices in cooking and cleaning (I find that Mrs. Johnston’s Servants, both White and Black, are unacquainted with certain rudimentary methods of protecting Silver against tarnish, and the like), and in beginning Annie’s instruction in her Letters and numbers. She is an eager pupil, for she hopes to show off her newly acquired Erudition to her Papa, when he arrives—which I am in hopes he will do within a fortnight.
I was fortunate enough to receive another letter from Mr. Iredell this morning, this one from Savannah some three weeks ago; I was relieved to discover that he is faring much better than I had feared, and seems to be thoroughly enjoying the hospitality so generously offered him along his route. It appears, indeed, that he is having a better time of it than I am here, and feeling rather less distress than I on account of our Separation. I confess (for why not confess my true feelings to this little Book, which can be trusted to keep my secrets?) that mingled with my relief was some Anxiety that he was perhaps enjoying himself a little more than he should.
Saturday, June 26, 1790
Sam has fallen ill—now that the rest of us are well at last. He insists it is nothing more than a severe Chill, but the Fever he has had for some days has worsened, and Mrs. Johnston has sent for the doctor. Sam appears concerned only that he be able to attend at the Senate, for he says the Residence question is soon to come to a head, and every vote will be needed. I have asked him repeatedly (or as often as I dare) when the Senate will take up the question of the Courts, and abolish this Cruel system of having Supreme Court judges risk life and limb in riding Circuits across the country. But he always dismisses my inquiries, and tells me that the Residence question must be settled first—that until the permanent location of the Capital is fixed, the Senate cannot turn its attention to less pressing matters.
The location of the Capital! Yet another thing that no one thought to mention to me. It seems that New York is only to be the temporary seat of Government, that in some period of time (some say ten years, some fifteen), the Government is to move to a location, somewhere on the Potomac River, that is now little more than a desolate Fen. But even before that time, any number of towns are clamoring for the Honor of becoming the temporary Capital: Baltimore, Annapolis, Philadelphia of course—and places that are far more obscure. It seems every miserable village has discerned in itself the attributes that uniquely qualify it to become the Capital of a proud new Nation; really, the spectacle is as unedifying as that of a pack of Brothers squabbling over the estate of a deceased Parent.
Sam says that he and the other Members from the Southward care only that the Capital ultimately be seated on the Potomac, closer to the Southern States; and that the prime consideration in choosing a temporary Residence is that it be a place unlikely to insist on becoming the permanent one. It is for this reason that he believes the Government must be moved from New York; no one seems to trust the New Yorkers, and indeed they have already begun building a grand, and very permanent-looking, mansion for the President down by the Battery, though the question is obviously far from settled. There have been a great many meetings, at this House and elsewhere, on the subject, and much plotting and whispering and covert accusation. Mr. Iredell’s friend Major Butler—now Senator Butler of South Carolina—has been here frequently, as he has taken a leading Role in the debate; indeed, he called on Sam this morning, and was much distressed to find his condition worsened.
It matters little to me whether the Capital remains here or is removed to some other equally strange place; unless it be put in Edenton (which is perhaps the only town in America, alas, that has not been advanced as a candidate), I care not. I simply want the question decided, so that Congress will be at liberty to turn its attention to the only matter that truly concerns me: whether my Husband will once again be forced to take to the Roads, come this Fall, leaving his Wife and Children bereft of his company and anxious for his Welfare.
But that is Dr. Romaine’s voice I hear now, in the Hall, come to see Sam; I must go and speak with him, for Mrs. Johnston cannot be entirely trusted to recount his symptoms correctly.
Friday, July 2, 1790
A most unpleasant Scene has just transpired. Mrs. Johnston went out this morning to pay some calls, leaving me in charge of Sam, who is still alarmingly ill (the Doctor, to our horror, has declared it to be the Influenza). Almost as soon as she’d shut the door, Sam rose from his bed and began ordering the Negroes to help him dress. I asked him what on Earth he was doing, and he replied that the Residence question was coming on for a vote in the Senate today, that it was expected to be exceedingly close, and that it was his bounden Duty to be there if he could. I pleaded with him to think of his Health, to think of what Mrs. Johnston would say when she found out, but he would hear none of it. Within a few minutes Caesar and Hannibal had hoisted him onto their shoulders seated in a chair from the Parlor (one of the new ones, another thing I knew would displease Mrs. Johnston); and out the door they went and on up Broadway, the amazed Crowd parting to let them through.
When Mrs. Johnston returned home to find him gone, her Wrath was indeed something terrible to behold, and the brunt of it, of course, fell on me. Knowing my Sister, she will repent of this (surely, in a calmer moment, she will realize how impossible it is prevent my Brother from doing a thing he has firmly set his mind to); and yet some of what she said reflects, I am sure, her resentment that I am still here in this house, trespassing on her Hospitality (though I have offered to pay my expenses and those of the Children, Sam has only waved me away), when by rights I should long ago have found a Situation of my own. And Mr. Iredell—whom I trust to Providence will be here soon, perhaps within days—will surely be most disappointed if he arrives to find that I have done nothing to procure us some independent Lodging.
And so I have resolved to find a House to rent, though I know not exactly how to go about it—and although, thanks to the vote on the Residence question, we will soon be forced to move again. Sam is quite satisfied with the Result: it appears that before this Winter the Government is to be moved to Philadelphia for a period of ten years, after which time it will take up permanent Residence on the Potomac. As for me, New York is not much to my liking, but I scarcely relish the thought of removing to another strange City—and one that is yet larger!
From Senator Pierce Butler of South Carolina to James Iredell:
New York, New York, July 5, 1790
… The House of Representatives are now debating the questions of Permanent and Temporary Residence … Mr. Johnston was really dangerously indisposed with [the influenza]; in this situation, contrary to my pressing recommendation, he suffered himself to be brought in a chair to the House to vote on the question of Temporary Residence. He is now recovered …
Friday, July 15, 1790
We have now removed to a House of our own, obtained through the assistance of Mrs. Johnston, who had heard of a likely place not far from hers. It is an odd little structure, built of brick in what Mrs. Johnston tells me is the old Dutch style: only one and a half storeys high, with a peculiar jagged roof that climbs like a set of stairs up to a central chimney. Inside, the house is low and dark and close, almost cave-like—not a thing like the houses in Edenton, built so as to take advantage of whatever breezes may come off the Sound. And yet, I was unaccountably charmed when I saw it; it seemed a den where I could burrow like a mole with my Family, a Refuge where I might contrive to forget, for a time at least, the world outside and all that was expected of me. The rooms were adequate to our needs, though small. Indeed, the size of it was such that even Mr. Iredell would have to agree that entertaining Company was out of the question, at least until we removed to Philadelphia. And the garden at the back was spacious enough to allow the Children, and myself, to take some exercise without the necessity of venturing abroad. At the back stood a handsome apple Tree that would provide us with an abundance of fruit come Fall; would we still be here then, I wondered?