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 LEGACY

BLACKWATER PACK #3

HANNAH MCBRIDE
Copyright © 2021 by Hannah McBride

LEGACY
Blackwater Pack Series, Book 3
Original Publication Date: April 2021
Cover Credit: Book Designs EE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under

International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint
or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without
express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
The Author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without
permission. The publication’s use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated
with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
 For Vonetta,
Thank you for always pushing me into everything except a well.
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book is not intended for readers under the age of 17.

This book contains dark themes (including depictions of past

bullying, violence, and sexual assault) that may be mature or
triggering for some readers.

Also, if you’re related to me? This is your stop. Do not pass GO, do
not read ahead. I beg you.
 CONTENTS

Legacy

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue

Coming Fall 2021

Coming Winter 2022
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Hannah McBride
 LEGACY

Blackwater Pack #3

By: Hannah McBride

 1
SKYE

T he low , monotonous hum of the plane ’ s engine might have been

soothing and relaxing if I wasn’t currently feeling like a livewire with
the casing stripped away.
Shocked didn’t begin to cover the emotions zipping through me
like electric currents in my blood, sending it popping and fizzing as I
struggled to digest what Dimitri was telling me.
Dimitri, who had spent the last week pretending to be a dead
shifter named Daniel to infiltrate the Alpha Summit. The guy who
had pretended to be our friend apparently had a much bigger
agenda and a deeper connection to me.
“You’re my brother ?” There was no denying the hesitant
confusion in my voice as I studied him in the seat across from me.
He had dark hair like I did, but mine was more brown while his
was an inky black. My skin still held a soft tan from years spent in
New Mexico that hadn’t quite faded, and his skin was more olive
toned. We both had green eyes, but his were a pale, almost
translucent shade, and mine were the same emerald my mother
had. The same eyes almost every single member of the Markham
family had.
“Technically I’m your step-brother, I guess,” he amended with a
small smile that flashed two rows of even, white teeth. “Your dad
adopted me when I was a baby after he married my mother. My
father was killed in a border skirmish before I was born.”
 “So, your dad cheated on your mom with my mom?” I frowned,
trying to figure out the timelines. Dimitri was easily five years older
than me, maybe more.
I hadn’t stopped to ask for his birthday when we had met back at
the Summit last week.
Last week .
I swallowed around the knot of grief threatening to choke me.
Taking deep breaths, I focused on the man in front of me while
trying to figure out how to live the next few minutes without the
man I loved.
Remy wasn’t just my mate. He was my …
Just mine .
My best friend, my confidant, my protector, and my supporter.
Not knowing where he was, if he was hurt, was slowly killing me.
It was like someone had dumped acid in my veins, and I was slowly
being eaten alive from the inside. The caustic burn as my emotions
devoured me left an empty void in my soul.
I looked down at the bracelet encircling my wrist. The magic
bracelet that had muted the bond I shared with my wolf. Because
magic was an actual, real thing.
For the first time, I was actually a little thankful for the dainty
piece of unbroken silver that molded around the delicate bones of
my wrist.
The human pain I felt from the loss of Remy was almost too
much to bear. Each breath I sucked into my lungs was harder than
the last. Feeling the panic, fear, frustration, and grief from my wolf
would have pushed me over the edge.
“Again, technically, yes,” Dimitri answered my question, dragging
my attention back to him. The black t-shirt and torn jeans he wore
were rumpled and torn, stained in a few places. A cut on his cheek
was scabbed over. I hadn’t really paid attention to it before, but
clearly he hadn’t escaped unscathed from the explosion that leveled
the Spring Summit and likely killed the majority of the Alphas in
North America hours earlier.
Dimitri had saved me, and Tate, who had been with us.
Because I was his sister.
 He leaned forward with a small shrug. “Mama and our father
didn’t marry for love. They married for alliance. They grew up
together. Were friends. It made sense. My mother is the strongest
female in our pack. She married my bio-dad for love. They were
mates. Bonded like you and Remy. After he died, she went off the
rails a bit and Dad stepped in to marry her and raise me.”
I flinched at his name, and Dimitri had the decency to look away
with a grimace.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “As soon as we land, I’m
hoping Dad will have more info on … survivors.”
I cleared my throat, pushing down the fresh wave of pain. “I’m
sorry. About your bio-dad.”
“Don’t be,” Dimitri said with a small shake of his head. “I never
knew him. Nikolai Dashkov is my father. He’s the only one I’ve ever
had. He’s a great dad, and the best Alpha our pack has had in
decades.”
“He cheated on your mom.” Didn’t sound like such a great guy to
me.
“Like I said, they didn’t marry for love. They married because it
made the most sense at the time,” he replied. His mouth curled into
a rueful smile. “Besides, Mama has had her fair share of lovers in
their marriage.”
“That’s … weird,” I said after a second. Alphas weren’t exactly
known for their ability to share.
Dimitri smirked. “North American packs are different from
European packs. Hell, than most packs on every other continent.
Most of the Alphas I met at the Summit are small, simple minded
men that haven’t learned how to merge their wolf with their man.
They spend years battling their wolves into submission.” He snorted
and shook his head. “It’s no wonder they have the biggest issues
with declining birth rates.”
“How so?” I narrowed my eyes, admittedly curious.
“Females give life ,” he said plainly. “Smothering them isn’t
helping. In our pack, females are treated as equals. More than
equals, honestly. They’re to be respected and admired. Feared and
protected.”
 A ghost of a smile drifted across my face. “Katy would love that.”
He frowned. “Katy?”
“Remy’s sister,” I said softly. Pain knifed in my chest, my heart
bleeding out. “She’s one of my best friends. Her girlfriend, Maren, is
one of the females who went missing from our school.”
Disgust curled his lip. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Skye.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Before the world had literally exploded around us, Dimitri had
hinted he knew more about the missing shifters than he had told.
He hesitated. “I don’t. I’m sorry. We know women have been
missing from the American packs recently. We suspected Damien
Valois was behind it, and Elias was helping him in some capacity.”
“The Norwood Alpha.” Dread twisted my frayed nerves into knots.
He nodded.
I leaned back in my chair, looking out the window. “Maybe we’ll
get lucky and he was killed in the explosion, too.”
Dimitri sighed quietly. “Skye, the reason I was looking for Remy
was because I knew something was about to go down.”
My head snapped around, strands of dark hair that had pulled
free of my ponytail fell into my eyes. I pushed them back so I could
see him. “You knew about the explosion?”
His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. “I didn’t
know it would be that bad, but I overheard Elias on the phone that
morning. He was talking to Damien. Damien and his son left the
conference early in the morning. Elias was planning on leaving, too.
They had a plane waiting for him and your uncle and that Preston
kid.”
I couldn’t hold back the chuckle of complete loathing that
exploded from me.
Because of course Damien was behind this. Norwood hated
Blackwater. Damien hated Gabe, and Trace hated Remy.
It was a vicious cycle that had left more collateral damage than I
could count.
The only people I could possibly hate more than Damien and
Trace were my uncle and Preston.
 Which was why it made total sense that they were all friends and
allies.
“So, my uncle’s alive.” That left a bitter taste in my mouth.
“He is,” Dimitri agreed, watching me carefully. Likely waiting to
see when I would shatter.
“Elias?”
He snorted, his lip curling in disdain. “The doctor is also alive,
last I checked.”
“Preston?”
Dimitri frowned. “Him I don’t know about. Hopefully in pieces
spread out on that mountain in Wyoming.”
“He didn’t leave with my uncle?”
Now he grinned at me, a calculating glint in his eyes. “No. I
didn’t bring him along for the ride.”
It took a moment for his words to register, but when they did, I
sat up and looked around the plane with wild eyes.
It was still us, the four men I didn’t know, and a currently
unconscious Tate across the aisle from me. Panic and fear sent my
heart galloping.
“Relax,” Dimitri told me with a laugh. “They’re in the back, and
even more sedated than Tate.” He jerked his head behind me.
I twisted in my seat. There was a door at the rear of the plane,
two of the men I didn’t know sat in front of it.
“Why did you bring them?” I asked, slowly turning back to face
him.
“Because Elias screwed us over, and he’s going to pay for that.”
One of his large hands curled into a fist.
The dark look of fury that passed his face set me on edge.
“How so?”
“I told you before that he came to our pack?”
I nodded, remembering him mentioning that.
“My father,” he paused, “our father, has spent the last two
decades working with the packs in our region, and the Romani in the
area, to figure out the issue with the declining birth rates.”
“Did they figure it out?”
 “We’ve made progress,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “A lot
of progress, actually.”
“How so?”
“It’s complicated, but a lot of it has to do with the link we have
with our wolf. The more modernized the world has become, the less
time we’ve spent as wolves. This is especially true of younger
generations.”
That made sense.
Technology and life had evolved the world, and shifters evolved
with it. It was easier to remain human and smother our wolves. I
had perfected the art of silencing my own wolf when I shoved her
into the farthest recesses of my soul while living in Long Mesa.
“How can you fix that?” I focused my attention on the
conversation, clinging to any type of distraction to help me survive
the reality that the bomb going off at the Summit had completely
ended life as I knew it.
Even if Remy had survived, I knew that people I knew hadn’t.
Allies, maybe even friends.
My gaze drifted to where Tate was still unconscious.
She had just as much to worry about as I did. Her father and one
of her boyfriends were in that mess we had been pulled out of.
My stomach twisted violently, and I snapped my gaze back to
Dimitri.
I needed to focus on the here and now, starting with what he
knew about our people.
“We developed a system,” he said slowly, starting to explain. “It’s
complicated and rudimentary at the same time. The first step is
getting wolves, especially female wolves, back in touch with their
animal counterparts.”
I frowned. “Okay. How do you do that?”
“By keeping them in wolf form for a full lunar cycle,” he replied, a
small smile hooking up one corner of his mouth.
My brows shot up. “A month as a wolf ?”
He nodded. “Yeah. The point is to give complete control to your
wolf. To let them embrace what they are, so you can find who you
are.”
 “And they do everything as an animal?” My nose wrinkled. I
didn’t love the idea of hunting down and slaughtering animals for
food, and I didn’t even want to think about the bathroom situation.
He smirked. “Yes. Everything.”
“And people agree to this? What if they shift back?”
A ghost of a smile flickered in his eyes. His gaze dropped
pointedly to my bracelet. “We make sure they can’t. It’s a
commitment, and not one to be entered into lightly. It requires
absolute devotion to your wolf. And at the end? I’ve seen several
shifters who never regain control from their wolf.”
“They stay a wolf forever?” I whispered, stunned.
Another sharp nod. “It’s intense, but it puts you in harmony with
your wolf. Several mates in our pack have bonded during that
month.”
“Have you done this?” I asked curiously.
He nodded once again. “Several times. So has our father.”
“And you told Elias all of this?” His name tasted bitter and wrong
in my mouth now.
Anger flickered in my heart, dark and hot. I had trusted Elias
Samuels. Remy and Gabe had trusted him. And he had betrayed us
all.
Another swift nod. “Elias came to our pack a little over two years
ago. He seemed genuinely interested in our methods. Dad invited
him in, but we had a feeling there was more to him. We let him
observe what we were doing to an extent. The good doctor had a
reputation that was mostly positive, and Dad thought they could
form a partnership.”
A scowl overtook his face and he glared out the window. “We had
no idea he was going to take what we were doing and twist it
around.”
I swallowed hard. “Twist it how?”
His green gaze swung back to mine, hypnotic in his fury. I could
see the truth glittering there.
Elias had betrayed him, too.
“Elias told Damien everything that we had done, but you have to
understand, Skye, our methods take time. We only ever took
volunteers, and we’re careful about when and how often we do it.
Not every lunar cycle is ideal for people to spend a month as an
animal.”
The confusion must have been evident on my face because he
kept going, leaning forward in his seat.
“I don’t fully understand the moon shit,” he said with a mirthless
chuckle. “It’s something the Romani figured out, but apparently
different moons mean different things. There’s only two or three
moon cycles a year that work with what we’re doing. It has
something to do with the timing of when the first shifters were
created and a lot of other earthy shit I kinda tuned out.”
“Earthy shit?” I echoed with a skeptical snort.
His teeth flashed as he grinned. “That’s a technical term.”
“Clearly,” I muttered as I grimaced. His lack of understanding
wasn’t making me feel any better about magic or witches or
whatever.
“Anyway,” he said, his mood changing, “Elias and Damien didn’t
want to wait to figure out the best times of the year, and they sure
as shit didn’t wait for volunteers.”
“So, they started kidnapping people.” My jaw clenched as I
scowled.
He nodded grimly. “Yeah. And that didn’t give them the results
they wanted. They picked off lone females. Females who weren’t
strong enough to withstand being a wolf for a week, let alone a
month. The older the person, the harder it is to retrain them to
merge with their wolf. They’ve spent too much time as a human. It
literally breaks their mind, and they either die or become a vegetable
mid-shift. It isn’t pretty.”
“They started taking younger people,” I whispered, realization
slipped over me like an oily blanket until I shivered.
He dipped his head in affirmation. “Your school gave them the
perfect place to pick off girls. By the time we realized what they
were doing, they had already managed to take a few.”
“Maren, Kit, and Jayla.” Just saying their names made me flinch.
Norwood and Long Mesa were friends, so I highly doubted they
were being treated like royalty.
“Yeah.” He swallowed and heaved a long sigh.
“Can we get them back?” I demanded, my voice hardening.
He smiled at me. “I sure as hell hope so.”
 2
REMY

I braced my hands against the railing on the back deck , focusing on

the sounds of the wind whispering through the trees, rustling the full
branches heavy with new spring leaves. So much life thriving in front
of me as the morning sun warmed the yard and deck.
So much death in the house behind me.
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, feeling the prickle of stubble, but
shaving hadn’t been a priority. Fielding phone calls from betas from
most of the midwest and Canadian packs had taken its toll. Every
time I learned another Alpha had died, the hole I was standing in
got a little bit deeper and a little bit darker. Thank God for Michael,
who had stepped in a few minutes ago to give me a break.
How the fuck was I supposed to have answers for thousands of
shifters when I was still wrapping my head around what had
happened myself? Or, better fucking yet, when half of my damn soul
had been torn away from me.
My wolf rippled under my skin, pressing for answers I didn’t
have.
He wanted Skye.
We both needed Skye.
I swallowed the urge to kick the deck railing. Breaking shit
wouldn’t fix the epic fuckup of my life right now or help me find
Skye.
I needed a plan for my pack and my girl.
 The back door slid open and closed a second later.
I lifted my head and turned to see Katy step up next to me.
“We’ll find her,” she said softly, firmly. A breeze ruffled her red
hair. “We’ll find them all.”
Skye .
My eyes slid shut, the agony that gripped me every second since
I lost her fresh and raw. I almost reached into my pocket for the
broken necklace that I carried.
Finding that in the rubble had almost killed me.
Had it really been a little more than twenty-four hours since Skye
was still in bed with me? I would have given anything to turn the
clock back to that moment. If I closed my eyes, I could still smell the
citrus scent of the shampoo she used. It clung to her and our
sheets, the scent forever embedded in my brain.
Walking by the bowl of fruit Mom kept in the kitchen on my way
out here had nearly sent my wolf and I into a tailspin.
I inhaled deeply through my nose, filling my senses with pine and
woods and sunshine. Anything to cauterize the gaping hole in my
chest.
If Katy felt a fraction of the pain and panic that constantly clawed
at me, eating me alive, since Maren went missing, I was amazed she
was talking to me.
“I was an asshole,” I muttered, turning away from the rail and
leaning my back against it. “I’m sorry, Katy.”
I owed her a million apologies. I had done what I thought was
best for the pack, and part of me still knew that keeping her out of
the search for Maren had been the best move for us all. Especially
since the first chance she got, she almost was kidnapped by the
same people who had taken Maren and the others.
But I still felt like shit knowing it had broken her heart and
carved a divide between us bigger than the Grand Canyon. Katy and
I weren’t as close as our twin brothers, but we were pretty damn
close. That made the rift between us even harder to endure.
“We’re not focusing on that now,” she said, shaking her head
firmly. Her jaw was set in a way I knew since we were kids—she was
ready to kick ass and take names. “Right now we need to find Skye
and Maren and Tate. They’re out there.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little. The last few weeks had sucked
without her in them. I had missed her like hell. No one was more
loyal when it came to her friends.
She truly believed Skye and the others were out there. Her
confidence was comforting.
I knew Skye was out there, but not knowing where, or with who,
was what was killing me.
It wasn’t a coincidence that Linden and Damien had disappeared
before the explosion.
My stomach twisted at the idea of Skye being back with her
uncle, but Preston had confirmed Linden was around right before the
explosion. And Skye was missing when I went to find her.
It wasn’t a huge reach to know her uncle had taken her in the
chaos, and I hadn’t been there to protect her.
The first thing I had done was reach out to people we knew in
New Mexico when we got home hours ago. They had been watching
the Long Mesa pack for me since, and there hadn’t been a single
sign of Linden there. No one had come in or out of the compound,
so Skye wasn’t there.
But that still left a lot of the country, namely the Norwood
territory in New York. Damien and Trace were there. We had
confirmed their plane was landing as the bomb went off. But there
was no sign of Skye or her uncle yet.
At least Preston was dead. The metal I-beam that fell when the
lodge exploded had pinned him to the ground, half of his arm ripped
clean off and a piece of rebar speared through his leg.
Grim satisfaction settled in my gut, remembering the way he had
begged for his life before I impaled him on a piece of rebar. The
weak gurgling from his throat was the last noises he ever made.
It made me sick thinking about how many times Skye had
begged him for mercy.
His death was the highlight of the last twenty-four hours, which
was more than a little fucked up.
 The back door slid open again, this time Rhodes and Dante
stepped out onto the deck.
Dante gave me an indecipherable look. The only emotions he
gave away was the red tinge around his eyes from when he broke
down earlier when we got the news.
Luke’s death had hit him hard. Tate’s disappearance was hitting
him harder.
He cleared his throat and joined me at the railing. “I just spoke
to Ryder. The plane landed outside of Brooks Ridge an hour ago.
They’re working on getting the first group onto it.”
I watched him carefully, looking for cracks. He had lost his girl
and his Alpha on the same day. At least he still had Ryder, even if he
was a few hundred miles away for a few more hours.
“Good.” Rhodes rubbed his jaw with a nod, his dark eyes
sweeping across me. “The sooner we get everyone here, the sooner
we can make a plan.”
“Do we have a plan yet?” Katy asked.
“First we need to get everyone here, safe,” I said, my tone
calmer than I felt.
Dante and I had decided to move the Brooks Ridge pack here on
the flight back. They were too small and unprotected in Alaska.
Dante could have gone there, but right now we needed to pool our
resources to find Skye and Tate.
Any hesitation was squashed when Luke died in the early
morning hours.
It had been a miracle he had survived the explosion at all. By the
time Dante and I found him, he had been pinned under a beam that
crushed his pelvis for several hours. He never regained
consciousness, but we brought him back to Blackwater and prayed
for a miracle.
It seemed we were out of miracles.
Luke was dead. Skye and Tate were gone. And Dad was …
“Any change?” I asked Katy, knowing she had come from the
med center in town.
The medical team had met us at the airport, immediately
transporting Dad and Luke to their intensive care unit.
 She shook her head, her dark eyes big. Her throat worked as she
swallowed hard. “The doctor said that the longer he’s in a coma …”
Her lower lip wobbled as she trailed off. “It’s not good.”
“Skye was in a coma for almost a month and survived,” I replied
fiercely. “Dad will survive this, too.”
He had to. I wasn’t ready to be an Alpha yet.
“Mom and the twins are with him,” Katy said softly. “I told her we
would stop by later.”
“Do they need anything?” I shifted my weight, feeling the stress
of everything starting to press on my shoulders.
“Larkin and Addie were going to bring them lunch,” she replied.
I had only spoken briefly to Addie on the phone, but she was
handling Skye’s disappearance the same way I was—throwing
herself into the present and focusing on what she could do.
I just had to keep moving. As soon as I stopped, I remembered
what had happened and fear started to choke me. Moving was good.
Moving would keep me alive.
Rhodes cleared his throat, grabbing my attention. “The council
wants to meet this afternoon. It sounds like Norwood is making
waves on the east coast already. They’re worried about what that
could mean here.”
I rubbed my jaw, exhausted and anxious as the hits kept coming.
I was worried, too.
It wasn’t dumb luck that Damien and Trace had left the Summit
hours before the bomb went off. I would bet my pack on them being
behind the explosion, which meant they were responsible for the
deaths of dozens of Alphas.
Katy touched my arm and drew in a sharp breath. “There’s
more.”
I angled my head in her direction, waiting for her to explain.
She ran a hand through her red hair, the strands practically
shimmering in the sunlight. “I talked to Michael on my way out here.
Some of Dad’s betas are planning to offer to handle the pack for
you.”
“Handle how?” Dante growled for me, scowling.
“Take over,” she clarified weakly.
 My eyes narrowed. “I’m the Alpha. At least until Dad wakes up.”
“Dad’s in a coma, Skye’s … missing. Remy, you’re eighteen. No
one would fault you for stepping aside until we know what’s going to
happen,” she said kindly, her eyes watching me carefully.
I knew she was trying to help, but the more she spoke, the more
pissed off I got.
“No. This is my pack. If one of Dad’s betas feels the need to
challenge me for the pack, I’ll handle it.” I folded my arms across my
chest.
Hell, the way I felt now, I could go for putting my hands on
someone. I wouldn’t even need to shift to rip someone apart.
My wolf rumbled his approval. He was definitely onboard for
some gratuitous violence and bloodshed. He had been leashed for
too long. First through Skye’s testimony, then the explosion, and
now this.
“Okay,” she said simply, touching my shoulder. “We’re with you.
Come hell or high water, we’ve got your back.”
Rhodes gave me a grim look. “You’ll need to appoint your own
council. At least for the interim.”
I ground my molars together. I wasn’t supposed to pick my own
council for years yet.
My attention turned to Dante.
He gave me a short nod. “Until we know what’s happening with
our pack or if this merge turns permanent, I won’t challenge you.
I’m behind you, whatever happens next.”
I tilted my head back, my gaze unfocused as I looked up at the
tree canopy above. “Okay. Rhodes, call Will. I want him at the
meeting tonight, too.”
Rhodes nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. I didn’t need
to tell him to show up or make a formal announcement; Rhodes was
my beta and everyone in the pack knew when I became Alpha he
would be at my right hand. I knew my best friend would follow me
into hell.
Pretty convenient, since I had a feeling we would be walking
through it before this was all said and done.
 “He’ll be a good addition to your council,” Katy murmured, her
fingertips brushing her lips as she nodded in agreement thoughtfully.
“For now I’m merging Dad’s council and mine,” I said finally,
knowing in my gut it was the right call. I knew those people, and
they knew Blackwater.
We would all need to work together for whatever came next.
“It’s a good plan,” she said. “But you know these guys will
probably push back, Rem.”
I felt the smirk pulling at my mouth before I spoke. “They can
push all they want, but at the end of the day, they’ll fall in line or
they can find a new pack.”
Rhodes chuckled and grinned at me. “Hell yeah.”
Even Dante cracked a small smile.
I looked at my sister. “I want you there, too.”
She blinked, surprised.
“Most of the people I trust are standing right here,” I told her.
“I’ll need all of you for what comes next.”
Rhodes sighed hard. “Be a hell of a lot easier if we knew exactly
what was coming next.”
“We do,” I replied grimly, finally giving into the urge to pull the
chain from my pocket. I clenched it in my fist, the crescent moon
pendant digging into my palm. “We stop Norwood, we find the
missing shifters, and I get my girl back.”
 3
SKYE

B y the time the plane landed on a snow and ice covered runway , my
nerves were shot and my brain was turning faster than I could keep
up with. Whatever medicine Dimitri had given me was starting to
wear off, and the jarring jolt from the wheels touching down made
my stomach roll with nausea as my pulse hammered against my
temples.
The roaring inside the plane was deafening as the flaps lifted,
slowing our arrival. I glanced over, relieved to see that Tate was still
out of it.
The plane slowed, the noise receding, as Dimitri unhooked his
belt buckle across from me and stood up before the plane coasted to
a gentle stop. He jerked his head at the guys in the back and called
out a few words in Russian that I didn’t understand.
He looked down at me. “We’re switching to a helicopter.”
“Why?” I asked, looking out my window at the small building that
served as the airport. There was no one around. Dirty snow mounds
lined the airstrip, but a fine mix of snow and ice was still coming
down.
“The pack is located in the mountains. We can’t land a plane
there, so we have to switch. Usually we’d drive, but there’s a storm
coming in from the North that we won’t beat. The last place we
want to be is driving up a narrow road on the side of a mountain
when it starts coming down.”
 The mechanical beep of a lock behind me had me twisting in my
seat to see the door opening as the two men unlocked it.
I could make out a vague shape in the dim light. A man was
slumped over in his seat. From this angle I couldn’t tell if it was Elias
or my uncle, though. Still, panic made me stiffen in my seat, my
fingers curling around the armrest until my knuckles were white.
Dimitri’s hand touched my shoulder lightly. “They can’t hurt you,
Skye. They won’t wake up for several more hours. Besides, we won’t
all fit in one helicopter. They’ll be in a second one behind us.”
“Tate’s coming with us,” I told him, shrugging away from his
touch and unbuckling my belt as the plane coasted to a stop. I shot
a glance at her, not willing to be separated.
A smile tugged at his lips, a mixture of amusement and
compliance. “Okay.”
He turned to the front of the plane and snapped out another
sentence in Russian to the men in the front of the plane. One
headed for the small galley separating the interior of the plane from
the cockpit and the other came towards us.
I stood up, warily watching the newcomer as he headed towards
us.
He was tall enough that the blonde spikes in the front of his hair
nearly brushed the ceiling. He had to angle his large body to move
down the aisle to us, his icy blue eyes flicking from me to Tate and
then settling on Dimitri. He settled his massive hands on the
headrests of the seats on either side of the aisle, his tattooed
knuckles curving around the leather until it squeaked in protest.
“This is Alexei,” Dimitri told me, standing between us. “He’s going
to move Tate to the helicopter, okay?”
I narrowed my eyes at him before looking at Tate. I wished like
hell she was either able to walk on her own or I could lift her myself.
Something told me Dante and Ryder would have my ass for letting
some strange guy carry her around.
“No,” I said finally, giving Alexei another glance, trying not to
stare too long at the tattoo on his throat, before shifting my gaze to
my brother.
Dimitri shot me a look. “You want me to leave her here?”
 “No, you’re going to carry her,” I informed him coolly.
At least I knew Dimitri.
Sort of.
Okay, not really, but I definitely didn’t know this Alexei guy, so
that meant Dimitri was my only choice. Plus, he was my brother, so
that had to count for something, right?
“Me?” Dimitri pointed at his chest, his eyebrows lifting as Alexei
snorted behind him.
“Yes, you. Or is that beneath the prince?” I snapped archly. If he
said I was the princess, that made him the prince.
Judging by the way he glowered, my barb landed exactly where
it was aimed.
Behind him, Alexei outright laughed. “Oh, I like this one,” he said,
his rough voice accented and bemused. His smile made him seem
less menacing and almost boyish.
“Shut up,” Dimitri grumbled, shoving him back a step with an
open palm to his friend’s massive chest before looking back at me.
“Fine. I’ll carry Tate. That means you stick to Alexei’s side, got it?”
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.
“We’re on pack land, but I’m not taking any chances. I didn’t
save you only to have you kidnapped an hour before I bring you
home.”
Home .
Something about that rankled, but I let it slide. Russia, this place,
this pack , wasn’t my home. My home was an ocean away, and I
needed to get back to it as soon as possible.
Dimitri missed nothing, and noticed the way I stiffened when he
said home .
“As soon as we get to the pack, we’ll find out what’s going on
back there,” he said, his tone gentler. “If anyone could survive that
explosion, it’s Remy.”
I knew that. I did. I believed it with every broken fragment of my
heart.
But the not knowing was the worst sort of torture.
I pushed down the rising tide of anxiety that was cresting,
physically shaking my head to knock the thoughts away.
 “You think we’re not safe here?” I asked softly, watching as he
bent and gathered Tate gently into his arms before lifting her and
cradling her against his chest.
“I think the shifter world is currently being thrown into chaos,” he
admitted. “It would be stupid for someone to attack us, and the
likelihood is pretty non-existent. Then again, I never expected Elias
and his pack to blow a hole in the middle of Wyoming and kill
dozens of Alphas either. Until we’re with our—”
I flinched and stiffened up.
“—my pack,” he corrected easily, “I’m not taking any chances.”
I nodded reluctantly and waited for Alexei and him to turn and
head down the aisle before slowly following.
The air grew cooler as we moved to the now open door, but I
wasn’t expecting the frigid blast of arctic air that slapped me as I
stepped outside the plane. It ripped my breath from my chest, and I
almost ducked back inside the warm interior of the airplane.
I had only been wearing jeans and a t-shirt when the bomb went
off, and Dimitri definitely hadn’t stopped to grab my jacket.
Russia was freaking cold .
I tucked my hands under my armpits and ducked my head as I
headed down the stairs. At the bottom, my sneakers hit the tarmac
and a jacket was draped over my shoulders.
I glanced up at Alexei, his leather jacket more like a blanket on
me. He didn’t seem bothered by the cold air in his ripped jeans and
thin white t-shirt that showed even more inked skin. Aside from his
face, I wondered if there was any place on his body left unmarked.
“Thanks,” I murmured, falling into step beside him as we
followed behind Dimitri. I tried to focus on Dimitri’s back, and not
the fact that the jacket wrapped around me smelled like sandalwood
and smoke.
And utterly, devastatingly wrong.
My wolf would have pitched a bitch fit having another man’s
scent on me if she were around.
I glanced down at the bracelet, wondering how long it would
take until I was rid of it.
Another random document with
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of the government.’ ‘Ah,’ replied Freneau, welcoming the fight, ‘I will tell
a short story that will put the matter in a proper light. A pack of rogues once
took possession of a church ... held in high veneration by the inhabitants of
the surrounding district. From the sanctuary they sallied out every night,
robbed ... all the neighbors, and when pursued took shelter within the
hallowed walls. If any one attempted to molest them there, they deterred
him from the enterprise by crying, “Sacrilege,” and swearing they would
denounce him to the inquisition as a heretic and an enemy of the Holy
Mother Church.’[616] And Freneau persevered in his perversity. Right
joyously he returned to the scandal of speculation. ‘It is worthy of notice
that no direct denial has ever appeared of the ... multiplied assertions that
members of the general government have carried on jobs and speculations
in their own measures even while those measures were depending.’[617]

III

An interesting picture was presented the day after the appearance of this
attack: Emerging from the doorway of the Morris house was a distinguished
party. Washington himself, sober and stately, with his matronly spouse;
Hamilton, alert and suave, with little Betty; and a tall, loose-jointed man of
pleasing aspect whom spectators instantly recognized as Jefferson. Entering
carriages they drove away to visit Mr. Pearce’s cotton manufactory. No one
knew better than Washington that a crisis had been reached in the relations
of his ministers. But a few days before he had sat pondering over a letter
from Jefferson. It dealt with the reason for the growing distrust in
government, the fiscal policy of Hamilton, the disposition to pile up debt,
the corruption in Congress—and it announced a determination to retire
from the Cabinet.[618] Washington, greatly distressed, had earnestly
importuned him to remain. He had agreed to stay on awhile, but the
quarreling was becoming intolerable.
At the factory the little party entered, pausing to examine the machinery
and comment upon it, Hamilton the irreproachable gentleman, courteous,
amusing, pleasant, Jefferson observing all the amenities of the occasion. It
was their last social meeting in small company. But if Washington, who had
invited them, hoped thus to persuade them to drop their quarrel, he was
foredoomed to disappointment. The cause of their disagreement was
elemental and eternal. They returned to the Morris house after a pleasant
diversion—and the fight went on.

IV

In early June, Fenno and Freneau were lashing each other with much
shouting. But the editor of the Hamilton paper played constantly into the
hands of his opponent. He lamented the appearance of a ‘faction,’ meaning
party, because factions mean convulsions under a republican government. It
would not be so serious if there were a king, because ‘a king at the head of
a nation to whom all men of property cling with the consciousness that all
property will be set afloat with the government, is able to crush the first
rising against the laws.’[619] There must have been high glee among the
cronies of Freneau in the office on High Street when they read it. ‘King,’
‘men of property’—Freneau could not have dictated the comment for his
purpose better. ‘Your paper is supported by a party,’ charged Fenno. Yes,
agreed Freneau, if ‘by a party he means a very respectable number of anti-
aristocratic, and anti-monarchical people of the United States.’[620] But, not
to be diverted, the poet-editor returned persistently to his indictment.
‘Pernicious doctrines have been maintained’—‘Members of Congress
deeply concerned in speculating and jobbing in their own measures ... have
combined with brokers and others to gull and trick their uninformed
constituents out of their certificates.’[621]
‘The names—give us the names,’ demanded Fenno. ‘That reminds us,’
said Freneau, ‘of the impudence of a noted prostitute of London, who,
having a difference with a young man, was by him reproached for her
profligacy, and called by the plain name of her profession.... “I’ll make you
prove it or pay for it,” said she. Accordingly, she sued the young man for
defamation of character, and although half the town knew her character, yet
nobody could prove her incontinency without owning himself an
accomplice, and the defendant was lost for want of evidence and obliged to
pay heavy damages. Thus it is when any man talks of speculators—“prove
the fact, sir”—as if, indeed, the men who hired out the pilot boats and the
brokers who negotiated the securities would come forward to expose their
employers and themselves.’[622]
Thus with charge on charge, with sarcasm and satire, especially the
latter, Freneau constantly increased the intensity of his assaults. These
slashing and insidious attacks did not reach the citizens of Philadelphia only
—they were copied far and wide. The paper itself went into every State.
Men were discussing and quoting it on the streets, in the coffee-houses of
New York, on the stage-coaches jolting between the scarcely broken forests
of remote places, about the fireplace in the cabin in the woods. No one had
followed it with greater rage than Alexander Hamilton. One day Fenno’s
‘Gazette’ contained a short letter bearing the signature ‘T. L.,’ which started
the tongues to wagging all the way from O’Eller’s grogshop to Mrs.
Bingham’s drawing-room.
Mr. Fenno: The editor of the National Gazette receives a salary from the
Government. Quere—Whether this salary is paid him for translations, or
for publications, the design of which is to vilify those to whom the voice of
the people has committed the administration of our public affairs—to
oppose the measures of government, and by false insinuations to disturb the
public peace?
In common life it is thought ungrateful to bite the hand that puts bread in
its mouth; but if a man is hired to do it, the case is different.
Freneau’s paper had become dangerous, Fenno was unable to meet its
onslaughts, and thus, anonymously, Hamilton took up his pen.[623]

It was at this time that Hamilton first shocked his friends with the
disclosure of his temperamental weakness that was to destroy his
leadership. Persuaded that Freneau’s journal was established for the primary
purpose of wrecking him, he saw red, lost his customary poise and self-
control, and, throwing discretion to the winds along with his dignity as a
minister of State, he entered the lists as an anonymous letter-writer. We
search in vain through the correspondence of his friends for evidence of
approval.
The attack was met by Freneau with a certain dignity. Reproducing the
‘T. L.’ letter he wrote:
The above is beneath reply. It might be queried, however, whether a man
who receives a small stipend for services rendered as French translator to
the Department of State, and as editor of a free newspaper admits into his
publication impartial strictures on the proceedings of government, is not
more likely to act an honest and disinterested part toward the public, than a
vile sycophant, who obtaining emoluments from government, far more
lucrative than the salary alluded to, finds his interest in attempting to poison
the minds of the people by propaganda and by disseminating principles and
sentiments utterly subversive of the true republican interests of the country,
and by flattering and recommending every and any measures of government
however pernicious and destructive its tendency might be to the great body
of the people. The world is left to decide the motive of each.[624]
This controversy of mere journalists did not interest Hamilton. He was
out gunning for bigger game. Thoroughly convinced that Jefferson was
responsible for much of the contents of Freneau’s paper, he hoped to draw
his colleague into an open newspaper fight and, if possible, drive him from
the Cabinet. The relations of the two Titans had been growing more and
more hostile. They disputed across the table in the council room, and at rare
times seemed at the point of blows. Hamilton knew Jefferson’s opinions of
his policies—and similar opinions were appearing in the paper edited by a
clerk in his rival’s office. Nor were they slovenly, superficial articles. They
were the work of close observers and clever controversialists. Not only was
he ignorant of the fact that many of these were the work of Madison, that
Brackenridge wrote some, George Tucker, editor of the American edition of
Blackstone, some,[625] but he ridiculously underestimated the capacity of
Freneau. These articles were strong, stinging, effective, and therefore
Jefferson wrote or dictated them. He would drag Jefferson into the arena
and have it out.
Thus, in his letter of August 4, he contemptuously dismissed the editor
as ‘the faithful and devoted servant of the head of a party,’ and launched his
personal bitter attack on Jefferson. If he wished to attack ‘the Government,’
why didn’t Jefferson resign?[626] ‘Can he reconcile it to his own personal
dignity, and the principles of probity, to hold an office under it, and employ
the means of official influence in that opposition?’ Besides, he was an
enemy of the Constitution. He had been opposed to it and had written his
objections ‘to some of his friends in Virginia.’[627] Four days later, Freneau
denied in an affidavit published in Fenno’s paper that Jefferson had any
connection with the ‘National Gazette’ or had written or dictated a line. The
same day, in his own paper, he raised the curtain on Hamilton’s nom de
plume, with a comment that ‘all is not right with certain lofty-minded
persons who fondly imagined their ambitious career was to proceed without
check or interruption to the summit of their wishes.’ To which he added that
‘the devil rageth when his time is short.’[628] In his letter of August 11th,
Hamilton dismissed the denial unimpressively. At this moment he thought
himself hot on the trail. Elias Boudinot, he recalled, had once told him of
the part Madison had played. If he could get an affidavit from Boudinot!
Acting on an impulse, he wrote him that ‘a friend’ was writing the attacks
on Jefferson. He had mentioned the Boudinot conversation to that ‘friend’
who was anxious to have an affidavit. ‘It is of real importance that it should
be done,’ he wrote. ‘It will confound and put down a man who is
continually machinating against the public happiness.’[629] But Boudinot
does not appear to have had any stomach for the mess, albeit he, like every
one else, must have known that the ‘friend’ was Hamilton himself. No
affidavit was forthcoming.
While he was waiting vainly for the affidavit, an anonymous writer in
Freneau’s paper, referring to Hamilton’s assaults, made a counter-charge.
What about ‘the immaculate Mr. Fenno’? Did he not have the printing of
the Senate, ‘the emoluments of which office are considerable?’ Did he not
‘enjoy exclusively the printing of the Treasury department where it seems
he has rendered himself a particular favorite?’ Was he not already ‘making
his approaches to another office on Chestnut Street [the Bank],’ and in a fair
way to secure ‘if not already in possession of the business appertaining
thereto?’[630]
On August 18th, Hamilton appeared again to sneer at Freneau’s
announcement that he would pay no attention to the charges until the author
came forward to make them in the open. ‘It was easily anticipated that he
might have good reasons for not discovering himself, at least at the call of
Mr. Freneau, and it was necessary for him to find shelter.’
Freneau’s affidavit! scoffed a writer in Hamilton’s organ. He had no faith
in it. The editor had certainly not sworn upon the Bible. Had he taken the
oath on Jefferson’s ‘Notes on Virginia’?[631]
But Hamilton was already discovered. No one there was in public life
from Washington down who did not know the author. The amazing
spectacle was the talk of the taverns and the dinner tables, and was
beginning to assume the proportions of a scandal. Washington was shocked
and aggrieved. He would stop it.
 VI

On August 26th he tried his art of conciliation, appealing to both

Hamilton and Jefferson, albeit, as he knew, the latter had not written a line.
Both replied in September, Hamilton admitting the authorship of the
articles, and declared his inability ‘to recede now.’ He had been forced to
write. He had been ‘the object of uniform opposition from Mr. Jefferson’;
‘the object of unkind whispers and insinuations from the same quarter’; and
he had evidence that the ‘National Gazette’ had been instituted by Jefferson
‘to render me and all the objects connected with my administration odious.’
He had been most patient. In truth, he had ‘prevented a very severe and
systematic attack upon Mr. Jefferson by an association of two or three
individuals, in consequence of the persecution he brought upon the Vice-
President by his indiscreet and light letter to the printer, transmitting Paine’s
pamphlet.’[632]
Jefferson replied that in private conversation he had ‘utterly
disapproved’ of Hamilton’s system, which ‘flowed from principles adverse
to liberty and calculated to undermine and demolish the Republic by
creating an influence of his department over members of the legislature.’
He had seen this influence ‘actually produced’ by ‘the establishment of the
great outlines of his project by the votes of the very persons who, having
swallowed his bait, were laying themselves out to profit by his plans.’ Then,
too, Hamilton had constantly interfered with his department, particularly in
relation to England and France.[633] As to Freneau, he hoped he ‘would
give free place to pieces written against the aristocratic and monarchical
principles.’ He and Fenno, he said, ‘are rivals for the public favor. The one
courts them by flattery, the other by censure, and I believe it will be
admitted that the one has been as servile as the other has been severe.’
Then, turning again to Hamilton: ‘But is not the dignity and even decency
of government committed when one of its principal Ministers enlists
himself as an anonymous writer or paragraphist for either the one or the
other of them?’ As for criticism of governmental measures, ‘no government
ought to be without censors; and where the press is free no one ever will. If
virtuous, it need not fear the free operation of attack and defense. Nature
has given to man no other means of sifting out the truth, either in religion,
law, or politics. I think it is as honorable to government neither to know nor
notice its sycophants, as it would be undignified and criminal to pamper the
former and persecute the latter.’[634]
Thus ended Washington’s attempt to intervene. Hamilton had refused to
discontinue his attacks, and, within two days after replying to Washington’s
appeal, he was again appearing in the ‘Gazette of the United States.’

VII

Even while Hamilton and Jefferson were writing their letters, the fight
was proceeding merrily, if bloodlessly, in the papers. ‘Aristides,’ none other
than Madison, had gone to the defense of his leader in an article in Fenno’s
paper on Jefferson’s attitude toward the Constitution. No one was so well
qualified to know, unless it was Washington himself. He had sat in the
Convention, a leading figure, and listened to Hamilton’s speeches and
proposals, and had been in correspondence with Jefferson. It was not this
defense that made Fenno restive. It was a pointed attack. ‘It is said, Mr.
Fenno, that a certain head of a department is the real author or instigator of
these unprovoked and unmanly attacks on Mr. Jefferson—and that the time
of that gentleman’s departure from the city on a visit to his home was
considered as best suited to answer the design it was intended to effect.’
‘Unmanly attack’ and an insinuation of cowardice! Fenno took the
precaution to add a note warning that no further letters would be printed
containing ‘personal strictures’ unless the name of the author was furnished
‘in case of emergency.’ Coffee and pistols—was it coming to that?[635]
Freneau had no such concern, for on the same day a writer in his paper
referred to the ‘base passions that torment’ Hamilton, and called upon the
author of the anonymous articles to ‘explain the public character who on an
occasion well known to him, could so far divest himself of gratitude and
revolt from the spirit of his station as to erect his little crest against the
magnanimous chief who is at the head of our civic establishment, and has
on many free occasions since spoken with levity and depreciation of some
of the greatest qualities of that renowned character; and now gives himself
out as if he were his most cordial friend and admirer, and most worthy of
public confidence on that account.’[636]
Two days after refusing Washington’s request for a cessation, Hamilton
returned to the attack in answer to the charge of the ‘National Gazette’ that
he had not liked the Constitution, and had pronounced the British monarchy
the most perfect government. All this he stoutly denied. The records and
debates of the Constitutional Convention were then under secrecy, and
members who had heard his speeches were under the ban of silence. He felt
safe. This is the most amazing letter of the series.
And so the dismal affair dragged on. Another letter appeared reiterating
a connection between Jefferson and Freneau; another charging that
Jefferson was opposed to the Constitution and against paying the public
debt; still another complaining of Jefferson’s interference with the Treasury
Department. Then another on Jefferson and the Constitution, and finally,
two months after Washington’s appeal, demanding that Jefferson, who
remained in the Cabinet on the earnest solicitation of Washington,
withdraw. ‘Let him not cling to the honor or emolument of an office,
whichever it may be that attracts him, and content himself with defending
the injured rights of the people by obscure or indirect means.’
Meanwhile, Jefferson had refused to be drawn into the controversy
personally. The situation had become painful—the Philadelphia drawing-
rooms lifting their brows at him. His official associations were unpleasant,
but he never touched pen to a paper intended for publication. Only in his
personal letters did he pour forth his bitterness against his colleague. ‘The
indecency of newspaper squabbling between two public Ministers,’ he
wrote Edmund Randolph, ‘has drawn something like an injunction from
another quarter. Every fact alleged ... as to myself is false.... But for the
present lying and scribbling must be free to those who are mean enough to
deal in them and in the dark.’[637] He had hoped for an early retirement, and
the attacks had indefinitely postponed the realization of his desire. ‘These
representations have for some weeks past shaken a determination which I
had thought the whole world could not have shaken,’ he wrote Martha.[638]
Meanwhile, the small-fry partisans were busy in all the papers. The effect,
on the whole, had been favorable to Jefferson, making him the idol of the
democrats everywhere. ‘It gives us great pleasure,’ said a Boston paper, ‘to
find that the patriotic Jefferson has become the object of censure, as it will
have a happy tendency to open the eyes of the people to the strides of
certain men who are willing to turn every staunch Republican out of office
who has discerning to ken the arbitrary measures, and is honestly sufficient
to reveal them.’[639] To the ‘Independent Chronicle’ the ‘slander and
detraction’ of men like Jefferson seemed ‘a convincing proof of the badness
of the cause behind it.’[640] The onslaught had in no wise weakened
Jefferson’s faith in the effectiveness of the ‘National Gazette.’ The smoke
had not lifted from the field when he was rejoicing because it was ‘getting
into Massachusetts under the patronage of Hancock and Sam Adams.’[641]
Even Freneau found the democrats rallying around him.
It is a Fact [wrote a correspondent] that immense wealth has been
accumulated into a few hands, and that public measures have favored that
accumulation.
It is a Fact that money appropriated to the sinking of the debt has been
laid out, not so as most to sink the debt, but so as to succor gamblers in the
funds.
It is a Fact that a Bank law has given a bounty of from four to five
million dollars to men in great part of the same description.
It is a Fact that a share of this bounty went immediately into the pockets
of the very men most active and forward in granting it.
These, Mr. Freneau, are facts—...severe, stubborn, notorious facts.[642]

VIII

Thus Hamilton’s remarkable attack had only whetted the appetite of the
Jeffersonians for battle—and a national campaign was in progress. The
unanimous reëlection of Washington was universally demanded, but why
should the ‘aristocratic’ and ‘monarchical’ author of ‘The Discourses of
Davilla’ be chosen again? At any rate, efforts could be made to change the
political complexion of Congress.
There were mistakes, blunders, tragedies, that could be used to affect
public opinion. What more shocking than the humiliating collapse of the
General St. Clair expedition against the Indians in the western country?
Gayly enough had the unfortunate commander set forth with twenty-three
hundred regular troops and a host of militiamen. There had been a scarcity
of provisions and inadequate preparations. Hundreds of soldiers, consumed
with fever, shaken with chills, had vainly called for medicine. Many died,
hundreds deserted in disgust, and finally but fourteen hundred worn and
weary, sick and hungry men remained to face the enemy. It was easy
enough to blame St. Clair, and, as he passed through the villages en route to
the capital, the people flocked about to hiss and jeer.
 But why the lack of proper preparations? Why the insufficiency of the
commissary? Even the officials in Philadelphia were prone to find
extenuations for the failure of St. Clair. A correspondent of the Boston
‘Centinel,’ dining with some of the first official characters where the tragic
collapse of the expedition had been discussed, found ‘not one expression
dropped to his prejudice.’[643] The Jeffersonians were aiming higher than
St. Clair. There was Knox, Secretary of War—what had he to say in defense
of the honesty of the army contractor, to the negligence of the
quartermaster? The House investigating committee bore heavily on these
two in its report—but who was responsible for the cupidity of the one and
the inefficiency of the other? Soon the Jeffersonian press was attacking
Knox with distressing regularity, picturing him as the ‘Philadelphia
Nabob.’[644] Was he not squandering public money on ‘splendor’ and
‘extravagance’? Soon the more irresponsible of the gossip-mongers were
whispering that he had profited financially. ‘Infamous!’ screamed the
Federalist press. ‘The public monies have never been in the hands of Mr.
Knox.’[645] ‘But who made arrangements with the dishonest contractor?’
replied the Jeffersonians. ‘Who selected the quartermaster who let the
soldiers starve?’
All through the summer and autumn this was the talk in the taverns and
coffee-houses, but with the bursting of the bubble of speculation a far more
effective weapon of assault was at hand. To this inevitable outcome of the
gambling mania Jefferson had looked forward with the utmost confidence.
He had seen money ‘leaving the remoter parts of the Union and flowing to
[Philadelphia] to purchase paper’; had seen the value of property falling in
places left bare of money—as much as twenty-five per cent in a year in
Virginia. Extravagance, madness everywhere.[646] As a result in the remoter
sections the hatred of the speculator had reached the stage of hysteria.
‘Clouds, when you rain, bleach him to the skin,’ prayed a Georgia paper.
‘When you hail, precipitate your heaviest globes of ice on his ill-omened
pate. Thunders, when you break, break near him, shatter an oak or rend a
rock full in his view. Lightning, when you burst, shoot your electric streams
close to his eyelids. Conscience, haunt him like a ghost.... Ye winds, chill
him; ye Frost, pinch him, freeze him. Robbers meet him, strip him, scourge
him, rack him. He starved the fatherless and made naked the child without a
mother.’[647] Even the Worcester correspondent of the orthodox Boston
‘Centinel’ complained that ‘as soon as one bubble bursts another is blown
up’ and ‘we are in the way of becoming the greatest sharpers in the
universe’—all ‘assuredly anti-republican.’[648] When a town meeting was
advertised for Stockbridge, a village wit penciled on the poster the purpose
of the conference: ‘To see if the town will move to New York and enter into
the business of speculation.’[649] While publishing these letters and stories
the Federalist organ in Boston did it with the sneer: ‘They who are in—
Grin. They who are out—Pout. They who have paper—Caper. They who
have none—Groan.’[650]
Then in April, with the failure of Colonel Duer in New York the crash
came. Many went to ruin in the wreckage, and New York became a
madhouse, with business paralyzed, and Duer taking to flight. He had been
among the most favored of the beneficiaries of Hamilton’s policies, rising
from opulence overnight, and he was among the first to fall from their
abuse.[651] The brutality and cowardice of the speculators intensified the
general contempt for the tribe. ‘Instead of exerting themselves to preserve
some kind of moral character,’ wrote a New York correspondent of the
‘Maryland Journal,’ ‘they are endeavoring to lower themselves still more by
descending to the mean level of fish women and common street
boxers.’[652]
All this was viewed by Hamilton with indignation and concern. He had
sought in every way to discourage the frenzy of speculation, and had used
his office to protect the public wherever possible. But it began with the
funding system—and with thousands that was enough. Instantly the
Jeffersonian press was hot on the trail. ‘Business has not been benefited by
Hamilton’s Bank,’ declared the ‘Independent Chronicle,’ ‘for a merchant
can scarcely venture to offer his note for $100, while a speculator can
obtain thousands for no other purpose than to embarrass commerce.’ Look
around and see who have obtained wealth. ‘Speculators, in general, are the
men.’ Thus, ‘the industrious merchant is forced to advance to the
government thousands, while the gambling speculator is receiving his
quarterly payments.’[653] A Maryland correspondent of Louden’s New York
‘Register’ ‘could not help thinking Mr. Madison’s discriminating
propositions would have prevented in great measure the exorbitant rage of
speculation.’[654] Meanwhile, Fenno was denouncing the critics as
‘anarchists’ and enemies of the Government, which only intensified their
rage. ‘Our objection is not to paying off the debt,’ protested an indignant
critic, ‘but to ... the excise, failure to discriminate, the play to speculation’;
and if all who shared these views could be assembled it ‘would make the
greatest army that ever was on one occasion collected in the United
States.’[655] In the Boston ‘Centinel,’ John Russell was taking a lighter
tone. ‘The suffering yeomanry burdened with taxes? Why not simply
eliminate all State and National debts and forget them?’[656] The storm?
What of it? ‘The Six Per Cents, a first rate, belonging to the fleet
commanded by Admiral Hamilton, notwithstanding several hard Country
gales, and a strong lee current setting out of the Hudson and Delaware is
still working to windward and bids fair to gain her destined port.’[657]

IX

With such attacks and counter attacks in the papers, the campaign of
1792 was fought, with the bitter gubernatorial battle between John Jay and
George Clinton in New York setting the pace in the spring. The Federalists
had set their hearts on the crushing of Clinton, and but for the frown of
Hamilton, Burr might have joined them in the attempt.[658] The campaign
was spectacular, and class feeling and prejudice played a part. Jay was an
aristocrat by birth and temperament, and this gave the Clintonians their cue.
Up, Plebs, and at ’em! An aristocrat against a democrat, the rich against the
poor. Had not Jay said that ‘those who own the country ought to govern it’?
Had not Jay’s Constitution disfranchised thousands on the score of their
poverty? Were not the speculators, the stock-jobbers, the bankers, the
gamblers, swindlers, and the forces of privilege supporting Jay?[659] The
result was the election of Clinton, on a technicality,[660] and instantly there
was an uproar, broken bones and bloody noses, coffee-house quarrels and
blows, wild talk of a revolutionary convention and the seating of Jay with
bayonets, and serious bloodshed was prevented only through the efforts of
Hamilton, Jay, and King. Never had party feeling run so high, and several
duels were fought in the course of a week.[661] The defeated or cheated
candidate was accorded the acclamations due a conqueror on his journey
from his judicial circuit to New York where he was given a testimonial
dinner.[662] The democrats were none the less jubilant because of the
questionable nature of their triumph, and at a dinner in honor of Clinton, the
Tammany braves rose to the toast, ‘Thomas Jefferson,’ and gave their war-
whoop.[663]
The bitterness in New York spread to various parts of the country where
the Jeffersonians were fighting brilliantly, with clever strategy, to gain seats
in the Congress. Some of the Federalists, who were to prove themselves
generally inferior except in a smashing charge, and incapable of
maintaining their morale in a siege or in reverses, were even then growing
pessimistic. ‘Perhaps you are not informed,’ wrote George Cabot to
Theophilus Parsons, ‘that in Pennsylvania and New York the opponents are
well combined and are incessantly active, while the friends discover a want
of union and a want of energy.’[664] And Parsons, in melancholy mood, was
convinced that the Government had ‘seen its best days.’[665] Woe to the
politician who enters the reminiscent stage when confronted by a virile
opponent looking to the future. There was little in the New England of 1792
to depress the Federalists. Only a little evidence that among the working-
men in Boston ‘heresies’ were making their way; only reports that ‘itinerant
Jacobins’ were haranguing the curious in the bar-rooms of Rhode Island
and Vermont; only the strange spectacle of ‘drill masters’ meeting with
people of no property or importance to organize them to battle for
democratic principles.[666] Only this, and a strange doctrine creeping into
Vermont papers. In choosing members of Congress who should be selected?
asked a ‘Land Holder’ of that State. ‘What class of people should they
represent? Who are the great body of the people? Are they Lawyers,
Physicians, Merchants, Tradesmen? No—they are respectable Yeomanry.
The Yeomanry therefore ought to be represented.’[667] In Maryland a
ferocious fight was waged under the eyes of both Hamilton and Jefferson,
for both were interested in the fate of Mercer who had slashed right lustily
at the policies of Hamilton, making no secret of his belief that they were
bottomed on corruption. He had vitalized the democrats of Maryland,
extending his interest into districts other than his own, and arranging for
candidates to oppose the sitting Federalists in the House. McHenry, who
kept Hamilton informed of the progress of the fight, hoped to array the
German Catholics against the obnoxious Mercer through the intervention of
Bishop Carroll, whom he thought more influential than the better known
Charles Carroll of Carrollton.[668] A man was employed by the energetic
McHenry to circulate bills against Mercer, who fought back, and gave blow
for blow. He was charged with having said that Hamilton had tried to bribe
him in the Assumption fight;[669] that he was personally interested in the
contract for supplying the western army, and privately engaged in the
purchase of securities. This, Mercer was to disavow, and Hamilton’s friends
were to show that the conversation between the Marylander and the
Secretary had been in the presence of company and in jest.[670] Even so we
may assume that Mercer had painted the incident black. He let it be
understood that Washington wished his reelection, and the celerity with
which the President issued a denial was probably due to the importunity of
Hamilton who did not scruple to use him without stint to further the cause
of his party.[671]
In North Carolina the Jeffersonians, under the crafty leadership of
picturesque Willie Jones, contested every inch of the ground, determined to
retire all the Hamiltonians from Congress, and before the impetuosity of
their charge the Federalists were forced to fight defensively and under a
cloud.[672]
In the new State of Kentucky the Jeffersonians were thoroughly
organized under the leadership of John Brown, a Virginian, educated at
Princeton and at Jefferson’s alma mater, who had fought through the War of
Independence. ‘Brown can have what he wants,’ Madison wrote his leader
in midsummer,[673] and he took the toga. In Virginia the Democrats were
strongly in the ascendancy. The influence of Jefferson had been
strengthened by the acquisition of Madison, and Hamilton, in the course of
the campaign, wrote his famous letter to Colonel Edward Carrington
attacking both in an effort to satisfy the Virginia Federalists of the justice of
his own position, but it was blowing against a tornado.[674] An amazing
campaign document—this letter.
Thus, in 1792, if the Jeffersonians had not yet perfected their
organization, they had forced sporadic fighting, and the result of the
congressional elections was greatly to strengthen them in the House.

It was clear quite early that the Jeffersonians would not permit Adams’s
reëlection to go unchallenged. The press had teemed with controversial
articles on his books for more than a year. As early as March his friends
took up the cudgels in his defense. ‘Homo’ in the Boston ‘Centinel’ warned
that ‘a detestable cordon of desperadoes’ were trying to destroy public
confidence in Adams by vilification.[675] Within three months, Hamilton
convinced himself that the opposition, in dead earnest, had concentrated on
Clinton, and hastened to warn Adams, who was enjoying the placidity of
his farm at Quincy.[676] It is interesting to observe that this plan to displace
Adams was interpreted by Hamilton as ‘a serious design to subvert the
government.’ If the candidacy of Clinton was annoying to Hamilton, the
warning he received in September of the possible candidacy of Aaron Burr
was maddening, and he fell feverishly to the task of denouncing the
ambitions of this ‘embryo Cæsar’ in letters to his friends.[677] Clinton ‘has
been invariably the enemy of national principles,’ he wrote General C. C.
Pinckney in ordering a mobilization for defense in South Carolina, and as
for Burr, he was a man of ‘no principles other than to mount, at all events,
to the full honors of the state, and to as much more as circumstances will
permit.’ Was Jefferson behind the conspiracy against Adams—Jefferson,
that man of ‘sublimated and paradoxical imagination, entertaining and
propagating opinions inconsistent with dignified and orderly
government?’[678] To John Steele in North Carolina he wrote in the manner
of a commander, to inform him ‘that Mr. Adams is the man who will be
supported by the Northern and Middle States.’ Of course, he had ‘his faults
and foibles,’ and some of his opinions were quite wrong, but he was honest,
and loved order and stable government.[679] Meanwhile, painful
complications were threatened in Maryland where a number of
notables[680] joined in a public letter rallying Marylanders to the support of
Charles Carroll of Carrollton.[681] This gave James McHenry, an idolater of
Hamilton, and still tortured by a persistent, and, as yet, ungratified itch for
office, his opportunity. He assumed the responsibility for whipping the
rebels back into line. These signers of the Carroll letter had been imposed
upon. The fight against Adams was a fight against the Constitution—in
keeping with the plan of the enemies of government to drive able men from
office. Had not Hamilton ‘whose attachment to the Constitution is
unquestionable’ been assailed with virulence? Yes, from ‘the master
workman in his craft down to the meanest of his laborers,’ all were engaged
in the dirty work. Thus the submission of Carroll’s claims at so late an hour
wore ‘a very doubtful and invidious aspect.’ Was it done ‘to get ten votes
against Adams or to promote Carroll’s election?’ Was any one so foolish as
to think that the Democrats in New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia would
desert Clinton?[682] This letter, signed by ‘A Consistent Federalist,’ was
copied by all the Federalist papers of the country.
Meanwhile, Adams, lingering lovingly on his home acres, showed no
inclination to return to Philadelphia, and it was reported that he might not
appear to preside over the Senate until late in the session. This was an
appalling lack of tact. Hamilton, assuming the rights of the leader, did not
hesitate. ‘I learn with pain that you may not be here until late in the
session,’ he wrote the loiterer behind the firing lines. ‘I fear this will give
some handle to your enemies to misrepresent.... Permit me then to say it
best suits the firmness and elevation of your character to meet all events,
whether auspicious or otherwise, on the ground where station and duty call
you.’[683]
By November the press was hotly engaged in the controversy, but poor
Fenno was to have trouble with his correspondents who were to convert his
dignified journal into a cock-pit. Adams was both pelted and salved on the
same page. His writings proved him a monarchist at heart, wrote
‘Mutius.’[684] His writings would be appreciated more a century hence, said
a defender in the same issue. Had he not already been vindicated on one
point in the appearance of the ‘gorgon head of party’? Freneau cleverly
replied by quoting a laudatory article from an English paper paying tribute
to the governmental notions of ‘the learned Mr. Adams.’[685] Yes, wrote
‘Cornucopia’ in the ‘Maryland Journal,’ ‘it will require the whole strength
of the federalists to keep poor John Adams from being thrust out of the
fold.’[686]
And ‘poor John Adams’ was not entirely happy in his defenders. Why
not reëlect him, demanded ‘Philanthropos’ in a glowing tribute, for was he
not ‘a man of innocent manners and excellent moral character?’[687] ‘Why
not?’ echoed a scribe in Albany. He was ‘a reputed aristocrat, at the same
time an honest man, the noblest work of God.’[688] From ‘Otsego’ came a
more robust blow at Adams’s enemies as ‘the jacktails of mobocracy’
seeking the defeat of ‘the virtuous Adams’ because he was against ‘anarchy
and disorder.’[689] Wrong, wrote ‘Portius’ the next day, advocating Clinton.
‘Untinctured by aristocracy, and a firm republican, the patriots of America
look to him.’[690] ‘Titles, titles,’ sneered ‘Condorcet.’ ‘This rattle which so
peculiarly delights certain characters.... He never appears but in the full
blaze of office, as if every place he went was a Senate, and every circle
which he invited needed a Vice President.’[691] Thus, throughout the fall
and early winter the lashing and slashing went on, but when the time came
Adams was reëlected, albeit the result was a bitter humiliation to the proud,
sensitive spirit of the victor. Where Washington had been unanimously
reëlected, Adams had a margin of but twenty-seven votes. New York,
Virginia, North Carolina, and Georgia had moved en masse into the Clinton
camp, and Kentucky had cast her vote for Jefferson. Five States had gone
over to the Jeffersonians, and the Federalists had been unable to get a
unanimous vote in Pennsylvania. But if Adams was hurt, Hamilton could
bear his pains, for the brilliant, dashing chief of the party preferred that the
uncongenial man from Braintree should not become too perky.
Thus ended the first year of actual party struggle—Hamilton a bit soiled
by his descent to anonymous letter-writing, Jefferson greatly strengthened
by his silence under assault; the Hamiltonians triumphant, but not exultant
over the reëlection of Adams, the Jeffersonians, having tasted blood, and
tested their weapons, more than ever eager for combat and rejoicing in their
congressional gains.
Hamilton had tried to drive Jefferson from the Cabinet, and failed. It was
now the latter’s turn.
 CHAPTER IX

HAMILTON’S BLACK WINTER

T HE winter of 1792-93 was notable in many ways. Not within the

memory of the oldest inhabitant of Philadelphia had one so mild been
known. As late as February there had been no interruption in the
navigation of the Delaware, and the papers, making much of the catching of
shad, were predicting that ‘a considerable school may soon be expected.’ In
this, however, the sons of Ike Walton were to be disappointed, for a
snowstorm and a northwester soon put an end to fishing.[692] Even so, the
weather continued, for the most part, mild beyond the usual. Never had
society adorned itself with more frills and furbelows, danced more
feverishly, or pursued its pleasures with greater zest. The elegant new
Chestnut Street Theater threw open its doors for the entertainment the
mimic world can give, and the aristocracy, along with the plebeians, flocked
to the play, despite the pouting of the uppish Mrs. Bingham who had been
refused a box on her own terms. Even the venomous bitterness of the
politicians failed to dim the lights of the great houses, albeit the followers
of Jefferson were more and more given to understand that they were not
wanted among the elect. The events, moving rapidly in France, were
making a distinct cleavage here among the aristocrats and democrats. The
members of the old French nobility, who had left their country for their
country’s good, were giving the tone to the most fashionable dinner tables.
Out in the streets the ‘people of no particular importance’ were vulgarly
vociferous over the trials and tribulations of the King and Burke’s beautiful
Queen—and the Jeffersonians were taking their tone from the howlings of
this ‘mob.’
It was evident from the moment Congress convened that a tremendous
party struggle was impending. The incidents of the preceding summer had
left their scars. The Jeffersonians were embittered against Hamilton because
of his anonymous attacks, and nothing could have done more to unsheathe
their swords. The truce was over. Washington had permitted Hamilton to
continue his attacks by disregarding his request; they would not now permit
even Washington to interpose to save Hamilton from their assaults. The
elections had given them a confidence they had not had before. The next
Congress would not be so subservient to ‘the first lord of the Treasury.’[693]
The supercilious assumption of superiority on the part of the Federalist
leaders would henceforth be resented. The war would begin in earnest.
The line the attack would take was shown early when Fitzsimons, one of
Hamilton’s henchmen in the House, offered a resolution calling for the
redemption of so much of the public debt as the Nation had a right to
redeem, and asking Hamilton ‘to report a plan for the purpose.’ This was in
accordance with the custom which had grown up. From the moment he had
taken office, Hamilton had considered the members of the House,
constitutionally charged with the duty of framing money bills, as his
automatons. He would determine upon the plans himself, prepare the bills,
and call upon the House to pass them without too much discussion. He
would manage the finances himself and he would not be plagued by foolish
questions. For many months the committees to which his measures had
been referred had been of his own choosing. They were his followers, and,
not a few of them, beneficiaries of his policies.
The Fitzsimons Resolution was instantly challenged by the Jeffersonians
as a rather high-handed proposal under a republican form of government,
and Madison rose to suggest that the House should know the exact state of
the finances before measures were taken for the reduction of the debt. After
all, it was with the House, not with the Secretary of the Treasury, that
money bills should originate. At any rate, the House could not act
intelligently without having the facts in its possession. All too long had it
been patient without definite reports.[694]
The feeling of the masses over the by-products of the funding system
had by this time become deep-seated. Men who had voted to create the
Bank had been made members of the board of directors. The ne’er-do-wells
of yesterday were riding in coaches and building pretentious houses.
Hamilton was urging bounties or protective duties for manufacturers one
day and running over to the Falls of Passaic on the next to assist the
directors of a corporation, that was to profit by his recommendations, in
selecting the sites for the factories. Not a few honestly believed that he was
personally profiting through governmental measures. Almost from the
beginning, Senator Maclay had been suspicious of his integrity. This utterly
false impression grew out of the positive knowledge that some of
Hamilton’s closest political associates were speculating in the securities.
‘Hamilton at the head of the speculators, with all the courtiers, are on one
side,’ Maclay wrote in his diary.[695] Only a month before at Mount
Vernon, where Washington had begged Jefferson to reconsider his
determination to resign, the latter had charged the head of the Treasury with
creating ‘a regular system for forming a corps of interested persons who
should be steadily at the orders of the Treasury.’[696] In 1790, William Duer
retired from Hamilton’s office to become the king of the money-chasers,
and, going down to ruin in the financial crash of the preceding summer, was
sending out dire threats of startling revelations from the debtors’ prison.
Many honest men were quite ready to believe that these threats were aimed
at Hamilton.[697] It was under these conditions that a miserable creature by
the name of James Reynolds, in prison for a crime against the Treasury,
sought to blackmail his way out. He had papers in his possession to prove
some financial transactions with Alexander Hamilton. An obscure person of
a low order of mentality, he hinted at his use as a dummy in business in
which a member of the Cabinet did not care to appear. These facts reached
some members of Congress.

II

On December 15th, two sober-faced members of the House and one

Senator filed into Hamilton’s office in the Pemberton mansion. The
Secretary knew them all and knew two of them as enemies. Frederick
Muhlenberg had served as a Speaker in the first House and was to resume
that post in the third. A strong character, the recognized leader of the
Germans, the foremost American Lutheran minister of his time, he had
played a conspicuous part in the Revolution and in the constructive work
that followed. Abraham Venable was a Representative from Virginia. The
Senator was James Monroe whose fanatical devotion to Jeffersonian ideals
and ideas had long since made him the object of Hamilton’s contempt.
As they took seats facing the masterful little man at the desk, they had
the manner of judges confronting a victim. None of them were finished in
the art of tactful speech. Bluntly they blurted forth their mission—they had
evidence of a mysterious connection between the Secretary of the Treasury