It had every sign, every hustle and bustle of an American Army camp. But it had no commission. Only the name and authority of Alexander Hamilton. A General in the War of Independence, a brilliant orator and expositor on political philosophy, the first Treasury Secretary of the United States, and a first-rate lawyer. But for all his accomplishments, he was also reviled by many as a dangerous man, a conniver. And mocked as the man who had been charged with corruption and mismanagement of his public offices, and then revealed torrid details of an embarrassing
private love affair he’d had with an attractive client in a futile attempt to clear his
public name!
Such a man had the hatred and contempt of twice as many as admired him. And his announcement by poster and in the daily press that he was raising an army of 2,000 men to put down a plot against the territorial integrity of the United States’ frontier brought catcalls and aspersions against him from many names, respected and otherwise.
But yet, they came. Surveying from his tent the lines of men and older boys lined up to sign on with his effort, it was obvious that he would have to turn thousands away, or else exceed the budget given to him by Caldwell, the private paymaster who Jefferson had sent to him with the federal government’s contribution.
“Old friend,” said Stephen Van Rensselaer, putting his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, “You cannot very well expect your mission to be a foolproof adventure unless you have all the resources you can muster.” Rensselaer, a close friend of Hamilton, had graciously volunteered his “Rensselaerswyck” estate for the assembly of Hamilton’s army. “I will cover the expenses for an extra two thousand, if need be.”
“Oh, Stephen,” Hamilton protested. “I cannot ask so much of you. That would put you in debt for a decade!”
“Is it so much, really?” Rensselaer asked. “Do you think me squandering a fortune, to offer to match the
vast endowment Jefferson has graced you with?” They both chuckled. “Jeremiah will give me good rates on a loan…” Rensselaer said, referring to his banker uncle, “so long as I can tell him you will give Solomon a commission.” He glanced at Hamilton for an answer.
“Of course!” Hamilton said, enthusiastically. “I would be proud to have Solomon serve with us.” He thought for a moment. “Please tell him I will make him a colonel, in charge of our artillery.”
“You can tell him yourself,” Rensselaer said. “I am certain he is here.”
“Very well, then. And thank you! I will always remain in your debt.” Hamilton shook Rensselaer’s hand with both of his. “For now, it appears I must assist with the administration.”
Hamilton first found young Robert Caldwell, who seemed quite surprised at Rensselaer’s extension of credit, and who expressed some frustration at having to refigure his books. Hamilton left him with exacting instructions, and went off to take over management of a processing table. Some in the crowd cheered, having recognized him, and the cheer was taken up. It only increased the mens’ impression of him when he sat down and began performing clerical duties.
An older man stepped up to Hamilton’s table, and Hamilton greeted him appreciatively. He seemed to be someone deserving of great respect – not difficult for Hamilton, as he regarded most with respect – but even the men behind him seemed to stand back to give him space. “General, Sir,” the man began, “My name is Fenwick, and I am a founder and metalworker. I have made and repaired cannon of every type, through the war and since. I hope that you can use me.”
“Most certainly, Mister Fenwick. Of course. Have you ever commanded men?”
“I was a sergeant in the New York Militia during the war.”
“Very good. And do you understand the employment of artillery, and not just the mechanics of them?”
“Oh yes, General.” He placed his hat over his heart in a gesture of modesty. “During the Battle of Saratoga, my Lieutenant was killed, and I was forced to take over in directing our fire.”
“Excellent!” Hamilton said. “Please sign on the roster, here.” He indicated the spot. “I shall make you a Captain of Artillery, Mister Fenwick, and you will assemble with Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer with my compliments.” He pointed up the hill behind them. “He should be on that hill, within the hour, and will begin the arrangements.”
Fenwick was beside himself. “General, I cannot begin to…”
“I’m proud to have you along, Fenwick,” Hamilton smiled. “Thank you.”
Hamilton made some notes on the page Fenwick had signed. As the man stepped away, Hamilton waited for the next man in line to advance. Instead, Hamilton’s eyes fell gradually to regard a young boy – perhaps about eleven or twelve – who stepped cautiously to the table. He had been hidden behind Fenwick, being so small.
“Good afternoon, young man,” Hamilton addressed the shy young boy. He had a smudge on one cheek, and an ugly bruise on the other.
Removing his hat and clasping it to his chest, head bowed, the pre-adolescent spoke. “General Hamilton, my name is Kendrick Cahill. Kenny,” he added. “I want to go fight with you, on the frontier.”
Hamilton remained astonished and speechless for a few counts. Then he took a breath, and patiently explained the difficulties ahead. “Kenny, we will be traveling for many weeks or months. The road will be hard.” He hesitated, noting that the boy’s expression hadn’t changed. He pressed forward. “You will eat biscuits, that by the end of the journey will be infected with maggots and rat droppings.” Hamilton knew he was exaggerating somewhat – they would be cooking most of their food from scratch, using supplies from the camp wagons – but he was trying to scare the child. He noticed the two men behind Kenny visibly reconsidering.
Kenny stood fast. “I really want to go, General. Please. I can do anything you ask of me. I’ll care for your horse.”
“Kenny, have you asked your parents about this?”
The boy flinched, ever so slightly, for the first time. “My parents are gone, Sir. Dead. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle…” He seemed to want to go on, but…
Carefully, Hamilton prodded. “Have you asked your uncle? He is responsible for you, yes?”
“General, I am sorry. But he’d beat me if I asked. I can’t do that.”
Hamilton’s heart clenched. His own upbringing had been difficult. His father’s delinquency and mother’s early death had left him with his own aunt and uncle at an early age, though they always treated him well.
“Kendrick,” he addressed the boy. “You will be responsible for caring for my horse. And for various other duties – a great many of them, mind – that I will determine along the way.” He caught Kenny’s suddenly excited gaze. “If you are certain, then you are welcome.”