He did not see-or, rather, he saw and could not stop himself.
Ethan Saunders
Hamilton had fallen victim to the pleasures of the flesh. I could hardly blame him for showing human frailty with a creature as lovely as Maria Reynolds, and I could hardly blame her, with her brute of a husband, for preferring a dalliance with one of the most powerful men in the nation. He traveled a dangerous course, however. I believed Washington, that Hamilton would never sacrifice the good of the nation to feed his own desire, but he might well destroy himself.
I would do what I could for him. He had proved he would do what he could for me, and it seemed only just. In the meantime, I would continue to pursue Cynthia and her husband. I had been unable to find anyone in the city who knew for certain where they had gone, and I needed to enlist someone who possessed connections I did not.
The next day, cloudy and dark and windy, I went to Southwark, where the bulk of the town’s Negroes made their home, and proceeded to ask directions, for I knew those streets indifferently well. Among the clusters of Negroes gathered by their market, hawking their roots and meats and bowls of pepper pot, white men such as myself are regarded with considerable suspicion, but I believe it is generally considered unwise to neglect their inquiries. Indeed, a few smiles and coins made it clear that I wished nothing but kindness, and within a few hours of beginning my project, I found the place for which I searched.
It was a neat little house of exceptional narrowness, but pleasing and well maintained. I knocked upon the door and was greeted quickly by a pretty Negress with large eyes and skin the color of drinking chocolate. She appeared momentarily alarmed, no doubt unused to white men on her stoop, but I smiled, removed my hat, and bowed. “You are Mrs.-” I stopped because I did not know Leonidas’s surname. It was customary for slaves to take the names of their masters, but I could not imagine Leonidas doing so. “You are married to Leonidas?”
She nodded. Then her face bunched in a spasm of fear. “Has something happened?”
“No need for alarm. I know nothing of him, good or ill. I had hoped to find him home, but I intuit from your words that he is not.”
Her concern melted away, and I admired again her attractive features, dignified in the Negro mold, and also her unmistakable strength of will. Leonidas had done well in marrying a woman who, I had no doubt, both appreciated and matched him.
“And who are you?” she asked. It was a rather strong way to talk to a white man she did not know, but I would not trouble myself over that.
“I do beg your pardon. I am Captain Ethan Saunders.” I bowed once more.
“You’re him?” she asked. She gazed upon my face. She looked me up and down the length of my body, like a side of beef presented for sale. And then she laughed in a way I did not like at all.
W e sat in her neat little parlor, sipping tea. She told me her name was Pamela but seemed reluctant to present to me the surname Leonidas had chosen. It was no matter, for she treated me graciously, even though I suspected something else lay just beneath the surface. Mrs. Pamela served an agreeable tea and some sweet oat cakes with bits of raisin in them. They were quite tasty and wholesome.
“These are good cakes,” I said.
She nodded her thanks.
“The raisins-a nice touch. Raisins make everything better, I think. Some prefer plums, or even apricots, but when it comes to dried fruit, I shall always take raisins.”
She said nothing.
“Pamela.” I tried again. “I like the name Pamela. It is very pretty.”
This kind observation solicited no response.
I tried again. “From Spenser, I believe.”
She stared at me.
“He is an English poet.”
She scratched the bridge of her nose.
“He wrote The Faerie Queene,” said I.
She blinked.
“It is,” I attempted, “a very long poem. Long and dull.”
More blinking.
I began to fear that I had misjudged blankness for determination and that my friend Leonidas had married a stupid woman. I supposed he knew best his own domestic felicity, but I feared Mrs. Pamela must make for dull company.
“My husband told me about you,” she said at last.
“And what did he say? Nothing too unflattering, I hope. Ha-ha!”
She took a sip of tea. “He told me you were a wastrel and a scoundrel, but that you have a sentimental heart for so selfish a creature.”
“Your husband has ever been an excellent judge of character,” I said, now feeling nostalgic for the Spenser discourse. And the raisins.
“He told me that you are, by nature, the sort of man who would despise the practice of slavery, but you held on to him for as long as you could because it was the only way you could conceive of to keep from spending your days alone. Is that true?”
“I cannot say,” I told her, suddenly feeling warm. “Mrs. Pamela, I did not come here to make you uneasy.”
“Then for what did you come? Why do you trouble us?”
“That is something I must discuss with your husband.”
This answer must have offered some offense, for the good woman did not trouble herself to respond. Thus we sat in silence for near the better part of an hour, though she was so good as to refill my teacup two times. By the time the front door of the house opened and closed and footsteps approached, I was quite ready for a chamber pot. Leonidas entered the room, still wearing his greatcoat, flakes of snow freshly melted upon it. He had removed his hat and still held it in his hand when he noticed me. I grinned at him. He looked at me, and never had I observed such a look of rage upon his face-and never on anyone’s face outside of warfare. His dark face twisted; his eyes widened and then narrowed.
“What are you doing here in my home?” His voice was calm; perhaps that was what made me so easy.
I stood. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to disturb your domestic peace. I should never have troubled you if it were not important-if someone’s convenience other than my own were not at issue.”
He appeared to give the matter some thought. He took another step toward me and sniffed like a beast. “You haven’t been drinking. Have you at last reformed?”
“I suppose I have. It is amazing how people can change for the better.”
“I’ll not believe it.”
“Leonidas, I know you are angry with me, and if I cannot truly understand the depth of your anger, it is only because I cannot know what you have known. I shall not attempt to justify my actions or place them in context, to help you see what justice must: that on balance I have treated you well, and better than you could have hoped for from another.”
“How dare you-”
I held up my hand. “I do not care to hear it. Not because it is just or unjust, but because Cynthia Pearson is in danger, and I need your help. Her husband has absconded with her and her children, and no one knows where. I had hoped you might inquire among the servants and see if you might learn what others cannot.”
“You come to me for a favor? I want nothing from you.”
“Can you not recognize a plea not for myself but for a woman’s life and for the life of her children? You would hold a grudge against the life of two children?”
“Leonidas,” his wife said softly. “You must not be stubborn to the point of cruelty. You need not like him to help him in this.”
“I will not have him stand here and pretend his motives are something other than selfishness. He claims to want to help others, but it is only desire that motivates him.” To me he said, “What are the names of these children?”