ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Creating and telling Mary Emmonss story was not an undertaking I could have completed alone. Ive been endlessly fortunate to have benefited from the assistance and support of many scholars, librarians, curators, interpreters, and other experts, and Im particularly grateful to those who shared their knowledge and research to help bring Mary and her world to life. I also could not have completed this book without the support and good humor of good friends.
Kimberly Alexander
Laura Auricchio
Anne Bentley
Kelly Bolding
Donna M. Campbell
Mary Hardy Carter
Loretta Chekani
Donah Zack Crawford
Christopher Davalos
Erica A. Dunbar
Linda Eaton
Tiffany Fisk
Sara Georgini
Annette Gordon-Reed
Victoria Harty
Linda Hocking
Neal T. Hurst
Carl Robert Keyes
Timothy Logue
Kathie Ludwig
Michael McCarty
Philip C. Mead
Christopher Moore
Barbara Scherer
Jessie Serfilippi
Matthew Skic
Mariam Touba
Mark Turdo
Michael W. Twitty
Janea Whitacre
Sarah Woodyard
Hope Wright
Additional thanks to the staffs of the following historic sites, libraries, and other institutions:
The African American Museum in Philadelphia
The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation
Columbia University Rare Book & Manuscript Library
The David Library of the American Revolution
The Earl Gregg Swem Library, College of William & Mary
Firestone Library, Princeton University
Fraunces Tavern Museum
The Hermitage
Independence National Historical Park
The John D. Rockefeller Jr. Library, Colonial Williamsburg
The Litchfield Historical Society
Monmouth Battlefield State Park
Morris-Jumel Mansion
The Museum of the American Revolution
The Museum of the City of New York
The National Constitution Center
The National Museum of African American History and Culture
National Museum of American History
The New York Public Library
The New-York Historical Society
The Pennsylvania Historical Society
Schuyler Mansion State Historic Site
Valley Forge National Historical Park
Winterthur Museum, Garden, and Library
EPILOGUE
Philadelphia
July 1829
I try to listen to the fine words that my son is saying, words that are leaving all around me in awe and wonder at his eloquence. I hope he hasnt looked my way, as sons do with mothers, and seen from my face how far my thoughts had wandered from him.
But because it is July, my thoughts will always wander back to the Colonel, and what he did on a sunny July morning in 1804. Everyone knows of it, even now. Dressed in black silk, he had himself rowed across the North River to New Jersey, and met General Hamilton on the dueling ground at Weehawken. The Colonel shot the General, and then returned to Richmond Hill to dine with a cousin as if nothing remarkable or untoward had occurred. General Hamilton died the next day, surrounded by his weeping friends and family.
My husband (for so he was, though few ever knew it) was reviled as a villain, a demon, a coldhearted murderer whod carefully planned to slay his rival. I dont believe that. Instead, I believe hed thought hed be the one to die. Why else would he have come to me as he had, only days before the duel? Why else would he have made that one final gesture for our children? Why else would my forgiveness matter to him as it did?
Yet it was the General who had died, and claimed his final revenge. By dying, hed destroyed the Colonel, and condemned him to a life that is, for him, no life at all. He became an outcast. He was forced to flee New York, where creditors finally claimed his beautiful home at Richmond Hill. There was no further place for him in politics; how could there be?
Still the Colonel tried his best to turn that wheel of fate to his advantage one more time. He went to the western frontier, and caused such mischief there that President Jefferson had the Colonelhis former friend and vice president!arrested and tried for treason. Of course the Colonel slipped free, as he always did, though now he is called a traitor as well as a murderer.
But the tragedy of his life grew darker still when his only grandson, the child Mrs. Alston had named after him, died of a fever. I grieved for her, poor lady. No mother deserves that sorrow. Soon after, Mrs. Alston herself was lost at sea while sailing to join her father in New York
They say the Colonel refused to believe her dead. They say he stood at the docks, day after day, a lonely figure in black waiting for her ship that never came.
They say he is cursed. They say he has outlived his wife and all his children, that he is alone, bitter, heartbroken, without comfort or solace.
They say he got exactly what he deserved.
Ive heard that he has wandered farther still, to England, to France, to Germany. Ive heard he has returned to New York, and that he even practices law again. Ive heard that his health is poor, and his circumstances are so diminished that he lives in a boardinghouse.
He has never written to me, nor do I expect him to. I do not see this as a fault, but rather one last gift, to spare me and our children the taint of his contact.
Jean-Pierre and Louisa are not as generous toward him as I. They are known by his name, as he wished, but their fathers later actions have pushed aside whatever gentle memories of him they might possess. They know only part of my story, but enough of it that they resent him for how he treated me. I regret that, for when they were young and we lived together he showed them both much love and kindness.
He would be proud of them, I think, of how they have prospered. Jean-Pierre is a barber by trade, with a shop of his own and a flourishing custom that caters only to white gentlemen, while Louisa is housekeeper to Mrs. Fisher, in one of the finest houses in Philadelphia. Both are married; both have given me grandchildren; both are respected by their friends and associates. I could not ask for more.
Jean-Pierres voice is rising louder now, drawing me back to this day. He must be close to the end of his speech, and I must pay attention now. If I can recall the ending to be able to praise it to him later, then perhaps he wont realize how much of the middle I didnt hear. Freedom: yes, he always speaks of freedom, and I am proud of him for it.