The Room Where it Happened - 1. The Room Where it Happened

“Hamilton, what the devil are you doing here? And why do you resemble something the cat retched up?”

Startled from his introspective reverie, Alexander Hamilton, Secretary of the Treasury and President Washington’s right-hand man, glanced up in dismay at the smirking redhead who was largely responsible for his perturbation. Thomas Jefferson. Secretary of State. Long-time foe and political rival. A man he’d never seen eye to eye with, never agreed with, not once since the beginning of their acquaintanceship.

The last man on earth he wished to see him in his present sorry state.

And yet here he was. And here Hamilton was. Practically on his mentor, George Washington’s, doorstep. Caught on the horns of a terrible dilemma. Torn between the desire to speak to the president about his lamentable situation and the urge to retire to his study and produce vitriolic diatribes against his foes. Which, although pleasurable, would not help him with his current predicament: how to get Congress to approve his debt plan and establish a national bank.

Hamilton knew he looked less than his best. Of all people to happen upon him at such a time. He could think of just one person whose presence would be even more embarrassing—the ever dapper and always smooth-talking Aaron Burr.

It could have been worse, he thought, trying to put a good spin on things. They could have been together. Birds of a feather, after all.

Hamilton smoothed down the lace on his cuffs, which were a little bit dirty, he had to admit, and perhaps his coat was rumpled, and his trousers could use a good pressing. Normally, he was more attentive to his sartorial needs, but dammit, he had other things on his mind than his looks, for once. He had to get his plan through Congress, or… or… well, he’d just die, that was all there was to it. Of acute embarrassment, as well as the utter stupidity of the men who were entrusted with the welfare of this fledgling nation, many of whom were not fit to even shine his shoes.

Goddamn immigrant, they called him behind his back. Creole bastard. Hamilton knew and despised them for it. Well, someday they would get theirs. When he was President, he’d get rid of their sorry asses, and Thomas Jefferson could kiss his cushy job as Secretary of State good-bye. There would be no more Mr. Nice President then, he vowed.

But today, Jefferson just might prove himself useful. For once.

“What am I doing?” he parroted, while his brain began to whir in typical dizzying Hamilton fashion.

Jefferson cocked a red brow. “That was the question, yes. Are you ill? Shall I call someone to attend you?” The Virginian crossed his arms over his chest, taking up a firm stance which seemed as if he meant to take root rather than hasten to seek assistance for Hamilton’s perceived affliction, despite his protests of solicitation. So much for brotherly love within Washington’s Cabinet.

And as he gazed at the smarmy Jefferson, Hamilton got an idea.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“No, I’m not ill, Jefferson, but if I might beg a moment of your time?” Not waiting for a response, he hooked his arm through Jefferson’s, jerking him out of his complacence, and began to walk him up and down in front of Washington’s residence, dodging the other passersby attempting to traverse the same space. Perhaps Jefferson’s appearance in this place was fortuitous, after all.

“I cannot stress enough the importance of a national bank, sir, and let me explain why that is.” Hamilton was possessed of a razor-sharp mind, and his numerical acuity was truly astounding, begun at a young age when he was a trading clerk in the West Indies. He understood financial matters better than most people, and he wasn’t shy about showing off his knowledge.

He didn’t hesitate to pull out all the stops, pleading with Jefferson in an impassioned voice, as they strolled back and forth in front of George Washington’s home for at least half an hour. Never mind disturbing the president with his troubles— he’d take care of them himself. Hamilton was determined to do whatever it took to get his plan on the congress floor, and get it approved. Even if it meant lying down with Thomas Jefferson, although not literally.

Finally, Jefferson stopped in the middle of their endless perambulation and disengaged himself from Hamilton. “It’s possible I may be able to help you,” he conceded in his habitual soft-spoken manner.

Hamilton perked up at his words. “Really?” Was there a glimmer of hope at long last, where before he’d only perceived darkness and failure? Hamilton’s spirits began to rise to their usual euphoric levels, until Jefferson’s next words plunged him back into the slough of despair.

“Naturally, I will expect reciprocal consideration.”

“What do you want?” Hamilton asked defensively.

“I tell you what.” Jefferson pulled a dainty lace handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped at his arm where Hamilton had so desperately clung, an expression of distaste crossing his handsome face. “We can discuss this over dinner. Tomorrow night.”

“Dinner?” Hamilton frowned, not sure he’d heard the Secretary of State correctly.

“Yes, dinner. You do know what dinner is, surely?” Not waiting for the scathing response which sprang to Hamilton’s lips at the insult, he continued. “Be at my house at eight sharp. Madison will join us.”

Madison too? Hamilton groaned inwardly. If he must, he must. At this point, he knew his plan was a losing proposition without gaining the votes he needed for its safe passage. Jefferson and Madison were both outspoken critics of Hamilton’s ideas. If he could convince them to back him, then perhaps he had a chance. Washington had told him he had to convince more folks, although Hamilton hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time. These were two of the best folks he could think of, at least in terms of their influence in Congress, disregarding their personalities.

But what would they want in return?

He pushed the thought from his mind. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

* * * *

The following evening, looking much more presentable and better turned-out than when Jefferson had espied him the day before, Alexander Hamilton walked slowly and thoughtfully down Maiden Lane, going over the salient points of his argument in his mind. Lost in thought, he failed to notice a familiar figure headed in his direction until a hand fell upon his arm. He glanced up to find himself face to face with Aaron Burr.

Burr looked dashing as ever. Hamilton had never seen the man when he was any less than debonair, never so much as a hair out of place. Even on the battlefield, he maintained a certain elegance of manner which Hamilton attributed to Burr’s having had such splendid forebears. Hamilton strove to emulate him, whether he would admit to it or not, even though there were those who accused him of having bad taste, and once he’d heard Jefferson comment that Hamilton’s attire was the pits of fashion.

He put such remarks down to jealousy.

“Ah, Mister Secretary.” Burr greeted him with a smile.

Gathering himself, Hamilton returned the greeting with a smile of his own. “Mister Burr, sir.”

Burr turned and fell into uninvited step with Hamilton. “Have you heard the news? About good old General Mercer?”

Hamilton shook his head, baffled. He’d been too busy working on his plan to keep up with current events. “No.”

“Are you familiar with Clermont Street?”

“Of course.”

“They renamed it after him. The Mercer legacy is secure.”

Burr’s words had touched on a nerve. Hamilton’s own legacy was a subject very dear to his heart. He was more concerned with what future historians would think of him than he was with the opinions of his contemporaries, and most everything he did was done with an eye toward the future.

He mumbled something that might have been construed as heartfelt congratulations to the general. If one didn’t listen too closely.

“And all he had to do was die,” Burr continued, seeming oblivious to Hamilton’s less-than-pleased reaction.

“That’s a lot less work,” Hamilton said, doing little to disguise his sarcasm.

Burr matched his tone with, “Maybe we should give it a try?”

“Ha.”

Burr smiled. “So, are you making any progress with your debt plan?”

Everyone knew of Hamilton’s failure to get his plan through, apparently. Even Burr. But he wasn’t really surprised. Burr was good at being in the thick of things, knowing what was happening. Usually when it was to his own advantage.

“I guess I’m going to finally have to listen to you,” Hamilton conceded.

“Oh really?”

How many times had Burr told Hamilton he talked too much? He needed to slow down, talk less, smile more. He hated to give the younger man the satisfaction of knowing he was right; the idea was galling. Luckily, at that moment, salvation arrived in an unlikely guise.

“Hamilton!”

His one-time friend and collaborator, now opponent, James Madison. While Hamilton had been speaking with Burr, they’d reached Jefferson’s door, and there stood Madison, as if he’d been waiting Hamilton’s arrival. Hamilton couldn’t afford to keep Madison and Jefferson waiting. He had to play nice with them tonight.

“Sorry, Burr, I have to go,” he apologized.

Burr began to speak, but Hamilton didn’t have the time to listen. He cut him off with an enigmatic, “Decisions are happening over dinner.”

Burr seemed perplexed, but didn’t argue. Hamilton shrugged, gave Burr a quick nod, and followed an impatient Madison into Jefferson’s home, shutting out the world behind them.

                                                                         * * * *          

Dinner was excellent. Hamilton had to admit Jefferson set a good table, everything served on intricately patterned fine china, accompanied by delicate crystal stemware the Secretary must have brought back from France with him. Normally, Hamilton would be envious, but today his mind was engaged elsewhere. He ate perfunctorily to hide the fact of his unease.

They’d been waited on hand and foot by Jefferson’s slaves, the few he’d brought with him from Monticello. Hamilton was uncomfortable with slavery, being a firm abolitionist, but both Madison and Jefferson were slave owners, and that was beyond his ability to deal with at the moment. They should have dealt with the issue at the time of the Declaration, or even at the Constitutional Congress. But the damn South was too strong and had gotten their way. That would change some day, if Hamilton had any say-so in the matter.

Hamilton had tried to bring up the subject that was the purpose of this dinner meeting, but Jefferson had blown him off with, “Not while we’re eating, Hamilton,” so he was forced to hold his tongue. Now the three men sat in Jefferson’s study, enjoying brandy and expensive cigars.

“How was everything in Paris when you were there?” Madison asked. “Chaotic, I imagine.”

“Well, yes, but the people will restore order soon enough, once they’ve dealt with the matter of the aristocracy,” Jefferson said with confidence.

“Do you anticipate any problems in that regard?” Madison asked, while Hamilton maintained a wary silence. Not being the Francophile Jefferson was, he couldn’t afford to air his personal views and possibly engage Jefferson’s ire. Not right now, anyway. He didn’t care what the French people did, as long as they left the United States out of it.

“Lafayette is there, I have faith in him. Before I left, I helped him to draft a declaration similar to ours. The Rights of Man. Let there be no doubt among the French and the rest of the world who is in charge. The people have made their thoughts clear.”

The people are rioting, Hamilton thought, but he kept that to himself. He still thought the United States should have modeled themselves more along the British model of government, but better. George Washington should have been appointed president for life. To do otherwise was a travesty. He’d brought that very point up at the Constitutional Convention and had been roundly ignored, as had his ideas that the wealthy should control the government, rather than the great unwashed masses.

Momentarily losing the thread of the conversation, his ears perked up when he heard Jefferson say “game’. Being one of the most competitive men he knew, Hamilton thrived on games, and was always eager to learn new games. But couldn’t they discuss politics first?

“There is something I wished to bring up with the two of you, and since we’re all here—”

Jefferson held up one slender hand, cutting off Hamilton’s words. “First things first.”

What things? Hamilton threw Jefferson an apprehensive glance.

“The game,” Jefferson explained. “I’m sorry, am I going too fast for you?”

Hamilton quickly bit back the sharp reply that tried to escape despite his best intentions. He forced his voice into a honeyed sweetness which he was far from feeling. “Of course not. Go on, I pray you. What sort of game is this?”

“It’s something I began to develop while I was in France. A thinking man’s game. Something to engage the mind, but also relax it.”

That told Hamilton absolutely nothing.

“Of course, it’s still in its embryonic phases. I’m sure it will evolve, with time. What I have now is a mere prototype.”

“I’m sure it’s very clever,” Madison said, earning Jefferson’s smile.

Suck up.

“Allow me to show you.”

Jefferson lifted a small gold bell from the table by his side and rang it. Within moments a pretty young girl with café au lait skin had responded to his summons.

“Sally, be a lamb and bring me the project I’ve been working on. The game. You’ll find it on the table in my workroom.”

The girl curtseyed obediently and left without a word, to do her master’s bidding. That she was a slave, Hamilton had no doubt, but she was not a full-blooded Negress. That also, he knew. She was very pretty, and very young. He’d known girls like her back in the West Indies. Mulattos, they called them, being of mixed black and French or Hispanic descent. They were very highly desired women. Although married, he was not oblivious to her charms.

When she returned, she carried a medium-sized cloth bag, loosely tied at the top. Jefferson had cleared space on top of his desk while she was gone. She handed him the bag and dropped another quick curtsey.

“Thank you, Sally,” Jefferson said appreciatively. He gave her a warm smile. Warmer than any he’d ever bestowed upon him, Hamilton thought with a mental sniff. He’d heard stories about slave owners and their charges. Such relationships were common practice in the West Indies, and apparently were not unheard of here in the States.

Jefferson dismissed the young girl and she took her leave. Untying the bag, he drew out the contents bit by bit. First was what at first glance appeared to be a folded piece of some sort of soft material. Jefferson unfolded it and spread it out. Hamilton and Madison drew near, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity. At first glance, it appeared to be a floor plan of some type, painted in vivid colors, with each room labeled: Dining Room, Study, Kitchen, Ballroom, Conservatory, etc.

Next, Jefferson drew out some small wooden pieces, each of a different hue, and laid them in the center of the floor plan. Not thinking to request permission to do so, Hamilton picked up a bright red piece. He had no clue as to what it was meant to resemble, being somewhat amorphous. Jefferson plucked it from his grasp and returned it to lie with its fellows.

Now Jefferson held a deck of cards, unlike any he had ever seen. He spread them across the cloth in a display. Rather than hearts or pips or any of the normal suits to be found on such things, each card possessed the face and figure of a well-known personality. Among these, Hamilton noticed President Washington, General Lee, Doctor Franklin, Lafayette… and Colonel Burr. There was even one of Hamilton himself, although not exactly flattering, exaggerating his pale skin. And his nose was surely not as pointed as all that?

“These are excellent likenesses, Thomas,” Madison complimented him. “Did you do these yourself?”

“Somewhat. Sally helped a little. She has an artistic bent,” Jefferson said modestly.

A second set of cards were of the very rooms shown on the floor plan, while still others were of various types of weaponry: musket, knife, rope and the like.

“What is the purpose of these cards?” Hamilton asked, curious despite himself.

“The portraits belong to the suspects. The rooms are self-explanatory. And the weapons as well. The idea of the game is to determine what crime has been committed, who committed it, and how.” Jefferson seemed rather pleased with himself, Hamilton thought.

“What crimes?” Madison asked.

“Oh, the usual… murder, theft… embezzlement…. adultery.”

Good thing he was guilty of none of these, Hamilton thought.

Next, Jefferson drew out small pads of paper; the sheets were blank.

“Each player receives a pad of paper and a quill, with which to keep notes. I forgot to mention that four cards are removed from play at the beginning of the game. These contain the answers which the players seek. Until the final denouement, they are contained in this.” He drew one final item from the cloth bag—a smaller bag, which appeared to be velvet.

“This lacks organization,” Hamilton commented. “There must be a more convenient way of taking notes than giving a person a blank piece of paper, surely.”

Jefferson frowned. “As I said, the game is still in development. I will take your thoughts under consideration.”

“What are you calling this?” Madison seemed fascinated by what Jefferson was saying, so Hamilton forced a feigned interest of his own, attending to the Secretary’s every word.

“I have decided to call it The Room Where It Happened,” Jefferson said proudly.

Hamilton didn’t bother to tell Jefferson that his title lacked originality. He supposed it would do in a pinch. And with that thought, his interest in the subject was exhausted.

“I’m sure it will be well received when it is completed,” Hamilton said, “but in the meantime, might we discuss my debt plan?”

Jefferson smiled, looking to all the world like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “I believe I made my own views clear during our recent debate, did I not?”

Hamilton repressed a groan. Were they going to rehash all that? And if that was how Jefferson felt, why even bring him here in the first place? Despair filled his heart once more.

“Might I remind you of the benefits of a national bank?” He began his arguments once again. “If the federal governments assumes state debts, the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic. What don’t you get?”

Jefferson scowled, and Madison appeared to be nonplussed. The next moment, Jefferson’s face cleared. “You make some interesting points, Hamilton,” he said in a deceptively silky voice. “But you’re lacking votes, aren’t you? You don’t have enough to gain Congressional approval, do you?”

Hamilton shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“I have an idea,” Madison spoke up softly.

Damn these Virginians all to hell. He was about to learn the price he’d need to pay in order to promote something which should have been a no-brainer. Hamilton gritted his teeth and braced himself. “Yes?”

Madison went on, ignoring Hamilton’s discomfort. “I was just saying to Thomas recently, wouldn’t you like to work a little closer to home? Do you know what he said?”

“No, what?” Hamilton tried to curb his enthusiasm. That wasn’t hard to do.

“I said, actually I would,” Jefferson interjected. “This commute to New York City is too much. I yearn for my Monticello. To be closer to my own lands, my own people.”

Some of us don’t have lands… or people.

“Just what is it you want from me?” Hamilton asked bluntly.

“If you support our wish to locate the nation’s capital on the banks of the Potomac, then we can see our way clear to supporting your little bank.”

Little bank? Hamilton tamped down an angry response. He had no problem with settling on a permanent location for the capital. But the Potomac?

“What about New York City?” He was grasping at straws now. He’d never seriously believed NYC stood a chance, but he had to speak up for the city where he lived.

“Too far north,” Madison objected. “And Philadelphia is out because it already contains the state capital, and the Philadelphians do not wish to muddy the waters. Germantown is too small and no one knows where it is.”

“Besides, relocating to the Potomac would benefit our beloved President. Surely you would not wish to disappoint him?” Jefferson asked slyly.

And that was the most insidious argument of them all. George Washington had been Hamilton’s employer, mentor, friend and father. He was responsible for Hamilton rising to the level which he had. He would do anything for that man, and they damn well knew it.

Hamilton dropped into the nearest chair with a groan, putting his head in his hands. He knew when he was licked. He would be forced to go along with Jefferson and Madison, help them garner the votes for the Potomac in exchange for theirs for his debt plan. He dreaded having to give Eliza the news. Sometimes he didn’t think he deserved her. She was the best of wives and the best of women.

“So, do you agree, Hamilton?” Jefferson pressed.

Damn the man, did he need to hear it verbalized? Apparently so.

“Yes,” Hamilton hissed. “I agree.”

“How do we know you won’t renege on your promise?” Madison asked.

That stung, especially from a former friend. “I won’t,” Hamilton vowed.

Jefferson rang his bell again and Sally returned. “Bring me one of the bottles from my private cellar,” he directed. “And three glasses.”

She returned before Hamilton had time to even wonder why.

“Thank you, Sally. Will you put this up and return it to where it was?” He indicated the laid-out game with a wave of his hand. Once it was out of the way, and she had gone, he set the glasses on his desk, popped the cork on the bottle and poured out some of the vintage into each, handing them around.

Jefferson and Madison seemed pleased with themselves, and Hamilton attempted to match their gaiety, but in the back of his head, he couldn’t help but think there had to be another way. Perhaps he should have asked Burr’s advice. Too late now. The die was cast.

“What shall we toast to?” Jefferson asked.

Madison looked thoughtful. “We can hardly drink to our bargain, can we? How about to your game and its future success?”

“That would be splendid.” Jefferson raised his glass, and Hamilton and Madison followed suit. “To The Room Where it Happened.”

They dutifully echoed his words and drank to his future enterprise.

From now on, Alexander Hamilton knew that the room where it happened would have sinister connotations for him—it was the place where he made his deal with the devil and sold his soul for the sake of his country.