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The little town of Christiansted, capital and metropolis of the island of St. Croix in the Danish West Indies, dozed in the noonday sun. Though it was mid-November, the heat shimmered on the sandy shore and on the white-painted buildings that straggled along King Street. Not a vehicle, not a human being disturbed the dusty silence. Even the blue Caribbean lay breathless under the sun, and the tall masts of the sloop tied up at the wharf did not move against the burnished sky.

On King Street stood the long, rambling building that housed the trading ventures of Nicholas Cruger, perhaps the wealthiest merchant on St. Croix. He dealt in everything—flour, apples, wheat, lumber, mules, sugar, rum, clothing, fish, candles, cheese, tea—everything in fact that the island planters had to sell and everything they needed to buy. His sloops and brigantines were familiar visitors in the mainland ports of Charleston, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, and ranged as far south as the Guianas on the coast of South America.

But at the moment his countinghouse seemed as slumberous as the rest of the town. Its windows were shuttered against the sun, and the door was tightly closed. Not a sound issued from within. Yet a small boy occupied the cavernous interior. He sat before a sloping desk, his feet barely reaching the upper rungs of the high stool on which he was perched. His slender frame hunched over an enormous ledger, and his quill pen moved steadily across the page. A vagrant sunbeam illuminated the reddish brown of his hair.

Suddenly the outer door swung open and a hearty voice boomed through the room and sent reverberations flying among the stored barrels and bales.

"Mr. Cruger! Mr. Cruger!" it bellowed. "Where are ye? It's old Cap Newton, back from Philadelphia with a fine cargo o' mules."

The boy stuck his quill into the inkhorn, dismounted from his stool, and faced the burly, pea-jacketed intruder. "Mr. Cruger," he said in a clear, precise voice, "has gone to Frederiksted to visit our branch store and left me in charge. You say you brought mules from the mainland, Captain Newton? Let me see the manifest."

The captain stared down at the little boy. Descended from his high perch, he seemed even smaller than before; thin, frail, with a fair, reddish skin. The captain stared—then burst into laughter. "So Nick Cruger left ye in charge, sonny? Ye're a mite young to fill his breeches, ain't ye?"

The lad flushed. He drew himself erect, his taut frame quivered. "I am not your sonny," he burst out passionately. "I am not young; I am twelve years old and a grown man. Now let me have the ship manifest, if you please."

His small hand extended with an imperious gesture. The sea captain squinted sharply at the outstretched hand, the tense erectness of the body, the snapping gray eyes. The grin disappeared from his own weather-beaten features. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a sheaf of documents, and turned them over without another word.

The grown man of twelve glanced rapidly through them. "Hmm!" he said. "Forty-one mules. I trust they are sound of wind and body. The last shipment we received were spavined, and nigh on a third of them died. You have also, I notice, 40 barrels of flour. If the quality proves good, I can get twelve pounds a barrel for them. There's a scarcity on the island and the planters will bid high. How soon can you sail for the mainland again, Captain Newton?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Good! You will load on board sugar, rum, and molasses for Curaçao, pick up a cargo of mahogany there for Philadelphia, and return here with as much flour as you can stow on board. But remember, the quality must be superfine. I want no mold or worms. And watch out for pirates. I understand they're lurking off the Guarda Costas. That is all, sir."

The captain gulped. "Y——yes, sonny——I mean, mister," he stammered. At the door, he turned. "What might your name be?"

"Mr. Hamilton——Mr. Alexander Hamilton."

A knowing look spread over the captain's face. "Ah yes, now I remember ye. Ye're Rachel Levine's boy, from the island of Nevis."

The gray eyes blazed, the small hands clenched. A fury shook the lad. "My mother's name was Rachel Hamilton," he cried, "and our private affairs do not concern you. Good day, sir."

As the door shut on the startled captain, young Alexander Hamilton marched back to his desk, mounted his stool again. But he did not pick up his quill. Instead, hands still clenched, chest heaving, he stared blindly at the ledger. Would people never stop smirking over that ancient story? True, the people of Nevis and St. Christopher, where it all had happened, and here on St. Croix, had been wonderful to both his mother and himself. But every so often someone, like this old sea captain, would rake it up and the wound would ache again.

His beautiful, warmhearted, passionately devoted mother! Divorced by her first husband, the elderly John Michael Levine, the wealthy Danish planter whom she had lovelessly married, she then was deserted by the dashing young Scot cadet, James Hamilton, with whom she had eloped when the marriage grew unbearable. Broken by her misfortunes, Rachel had gone to her grave.

It went back to 1685, when a French Huguenot named John Faucette fled his country to escape the savage persecutions directed against the Protestants of France. Glowing tales of the new life, the social and religious freedom to be had across the sea, determined him, as it did many another, to seek his fortune in the New World. The islands in the Caribbean Sea particularly beckoned. For there could be found a warm, soft climate, a fertile soil, strange and wonderful fruits, an ample supply of slaves, and an abundance of plantations from which came the sugar, molasses, and rum that all the world desired.

John Faucette—or Fawcett, as he later spelled his name—landed on the English island of Nevis. He soon discovered that the travelers' tales had not been exaggerated. After some medical study—a simple matter in those days—he set up his shingle and proved almost immediately successful. Within a few years he was able to purchase an extensive plantation in the interior and maintain a town house in the capital city of Charlestown. And there were sufficient excess funds to invest a substantial sum in London ventures.

Thus amply endowed with worldly goods, and by now well into middle age, he married a girl twenty years younger than himself. We know practically nothing of her except that her first name was Mary. She bore him three daughters; the first also named Mary, the second Ann, while the third, born in 1736, was called Rachel.

Shortly after Rachel's birth, however, Dr. Fawcett and his wife quarreled. Mary packed up her belongings and moved over to the neighboring island of St. Christopher or, as it was more familiarly known, St. Kitts. There little Rachel grew to young womanhood. By the time she was sixteen, her beauty and accomplishments had become the toast of the islands, and an elderly planter named John Michael Levine, from the nearby Danish island of St. Croix, proposed marriage.

There was no question of love on the part of the high-spirited and rather willful young beauty; but Rachel was poor and Levine was rich. The wedding took place in 1752 and, after a honeymoon voyage to Copenhagen, Levine's birthplace, the couple settled down in St. Croix. In due time a son, Peter, was born.

But the marriage between the old man and the girl bride proved no more successful than the one between Rachel's father and mother. One day in 1756 Rachel followed in her mother's footsteps: she packed her clothes, quit her husband and infant son, and went back to mother and St. Kitts. Eventually the deserted husband obtained a divorce.

One of her mother's friends on the island was a doctor named Will Hamilton. His family in Scotland boasted a proud lineage but, like so many ancient Scottish families, it had fallen on evil times. When reports reached them of Dr. Hamilton's prosperity in the West Indies, they shipped another of their number—a young man named James Hamilton—to his elder relative to gain a like fortune.

James probably landed in St. Kitts in 1756, where he was introduced by the doctor to his friends on the island—including Rachel Levine. The inevitable happened. Rachel was twenty now and her beauty had fully matured. James was in his twenties, handsome, easygoing, and—what was not yet evident—decidedly shiftless.

Almost immediately, however, after they had set up house together, James Hamilton ran into financial difficulties. He and Rachel moved to Nevis, an English island, where Rachel had inherited a house from her father. James tried his hand at trading, but he was not cut out for a merchant or indeed for anything else. All his ventures failed, and the aid which he received from Dr. Will Hamilton and Mary Fawcett eventually ceased.

In the midst of these troubles, a boy was born to them on January 11, 1757, who later became known to fame as Alexander Hamilton. In 1762 another son was born, named James after his father.

By this time the elder James had had enough. There had been financial and other quarrels with Rachel. One day he took a boat from St. Croix, to which the couple had gone after the birth of Alexander, and left Rachel and the two little boys behind. History was repeating itself.

Thereafter he vanished into obscurity, dragging out a shadowy existence in the Caribbean islands and emerging only many years later to seek aid from his son Alexander, when the latter had become famous. Alexander promptly furnished the aid and even invited his long-lost father to the United States to finish his life in comfort. But the old man refused to quit the islands, where he died in 1799, helped to the end by the son he had deserted so many years before.

Poor Rachel did not long survive this great blow. In spite of the shelter and kindly attention of her relatives, her health rapidly failed and, on February 26, 1768, at the age of thirty-two, she died. Thus, for all practical purposes, were left orphaned Alexander, aged eleven, and James, aged six.

Young Alexander's boyhood had not been unhappy, in spite of his mother's misfortunes. His maternal aunts and their families—the Mitchells and the Lyttons—did their best for him. So did Dr. Will Hamilton, no doubt humiliated by James's irresponsible conduct.

Among young Alexander's closest boyhood companions was a cousin on his mother's side, Edward Stevens, with whom he played and went to school. At first they received private instruction; then, as they grew older, it was decided to send them to Christiansted, the island capital, for more formal schooling.

There Alexander displayed that quickness of intelligence and keenness of mind which was to mark him throughout life. He learned rapidly and easily, and absorbed Latin, French, arithmetic, and even, it seems, a little Hebrew. He was a voracious reader, devouring every book on which he could lay hands—history, government, sermons. It did not matter as long as it was print.

At the time of his mother's death, Alexander's father had long ago disappeared, and no help could be expected from him. His mother's small estate was seized in behalf of her first son, young Peter Levine. Her family, too, had met with misfortunes and were unable to be of much assistance. There was, therefore, only one thing left for the two orphans—to go to work and make their own way in life.

At the age of twelve, Alexander accordingly found himself an apprentice clerk in the trading house of Nicholas Cruger, located in Christiansted on St. Croix. He entered upon his duties in the fall of 1769 and was given correspondence to copy into the huge copybooks, ledger entries to make, and orders to fill out.

It was confining work, to perch all day on his stool in the dim, stuffy warehouse, hardly knowing whether the sun shone outside or that nature was clad in warm, tropical beauty. Occasionally the sound of children at play would penetrate his cloistered retreat; but far more exciting—and more infuriating—came the news of the great world outside from the weathered sea captains and rough sailors whose business brought them at intervals into the Cruger store and whose talk breathed of far-off places, of teeming cities, and distant wars.

War! The word clanged like a great bell in the boy's mind. He had read in history of the great conquerors—Alexander of Macedon, Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Frederick the Great—and of the battles like Marathon that had changed the face of the world. Only a few years before, the world-wide war of England, France, and Spain—known in America as the French and Indian War—had come to an end. Many of the sailors who came into the warehouse had been privateersmen during the long struggle, and their tales of chases, sea fights, and rich booty were calculated to quicken the pulse of an ardent, ambitious youngster discontented with pushing a pen eternally over dreary books.

All these thoughts raced through the lad's mind as he sat on his high stool. The little thrill of his victory over Captain Newton faded, and a distaste took its place as he stared at the pile of letters that required copying. If only his playmate Ned Stevens were here now to share his private griefs and ambitions. But Ned had gone away to New York and King's College (later known as Columbia) to study medicine.

The thoughts swelled and almost burst in the boy's mind. Abruptly he seized a sheet of paper, dipped quill in the ink-horn, and raced the pen in bold, clear script across the white expanse.

"To confess my weakness, Ned," he wrote, "my ambition is prevalent, so that I condemn the grovelling condition of a clerk or the like, to which my fortune, etc., condemns me, and would willingly risk my life, though not my character, to exalt my station. I am confident, Ned, that my youth excludes me from any hopes of immediate preferment; nor do I desire it; but I mean to prepare the way for futurity. . . . I shall conclude by saying, I wish there was a war."

What a strange, precocious letter for a boy of twelve to write! Like many another small boy in those times (though perhaps not today), he panted for war and dreamed of glory; unlike most others, however, his ambition eventually found fulfillment.

In the meantime, the world was at peace; and no signs as yet appeared on the horizon of war or glamorous deeds of derring-do. With a sigh he picked up his pen again, and copied from Captain Newton's manifest into the ledger: "40 bbls. of flour at 11½. . . ."

War did not come, but the boy Alexander began to find compensations in his work. He was a strange mixture of two contradictory principles that continued to clash within him all through life. On the one hand, he was a romantic visionary, thirsting for glory and honor; on the other, a clearheaded, practical businessman, filled with contempt for all idealists who thought that human nature could be bettered. But perhaps it was this curious combination that sparked his genius and enabled him later to make such a tremendous contribution to America.

In any event, he sensibly thrust these longings into the background and devoted himself wholly to the business of his employer. So well did he labor that Cruger put him in full charge of the branch at Frederiksted. Then opportunity knocked loudly. Cruger became seriously ill and was compelled to voyage to New York for adequate medical treatment. Alexander was fourteen now, and such was Cruger's confidence in his business ability and judgment that he turned over to him complete control of all his affairs during his absence.

It was a heavy responsibility; for Nicholas Cruger's business extended over the Caribbean islands and the mainlands of North and South America and reached even to England and the continent of Europe. Ships sailed into port and departed, their crews had to be handled properly, and cargoes had to be loaded and unloaded. The proud and touchy planters of the islands required special attention. Foreign merchants must be dealt with. Cruger's partners in specific business ventures must be placated. Then, too, it was essential to be familiar with the needs of the market, the quality and prices of merchandise, and where it could best be obtained.

Young Hamilton had no assistants. He wrote each letter himself and made a clear copy for the files. He computed all bills, interviewed planters, sailors, and merchants, bargained, and sold—all on his own. And he had to keep his ailing employer on the mainland informed of every move he made.

The staggering load would have daunted a much older and more experienced man. But the boy of fourteen, going on fifteen, plunged into the mass of details with energy. "Your flour," he would write to a Philadelphia merchant, "is really very bad—being of a most swarthy complexion—& withal very untractable; the Bakers complain that they cannot by any means get it to rise." Or, Captain Gibbs had sailed with his cargo "stowed very Hicheldy-picheldy" and left behind him a mass of debts so complicated that young Hamilton was at his wit's end how to straighten them out. Then Cruger's new sloop, the Thunderbolt, came into the harbor with a cargo of mules and news of pirates roaming the high seas. The boy's military ardor kindled at once. "Arm yourselves," he commanded, "place cannon on board, and defend yourselves against the cutthroats."

So well did he attend to business that Cruger, returning in health again in March, 1772, found his affairs in a most flourishing condition. He could not have done better himself.

That August young Hamilton was sent on a business trip through the islands. He returned to Christiansted by the end of the month. It was late afternoon of the thirty-first when he finished his last report, entered the final order, locked up the countinghouse, closed the shutters, and retired to his tiny bedroom for a frugal meal and some reading in his beloved history books. Actual life in Christiansted might be dull; but on the printed page he found excitement galore: battles and sudden death, the tramp of armies, convulsions of nature, world-shaking events.

Night came with the usual swiftness of the tropics. He lit his candle and continued reading. It was almost midnight when he finally closed his book, blew out the candle, and went to bed. For a while he tossed restlessly. The night was hot and sticky. Not a breath stirred and there was a strange, leaden weight to the air. But at last the tired boy fell asleep.

Just how long he slept he never knew; but he awoke suddenly to the sound of a tremendous crash and a world of howling fury. His room was a shambles; a solid wall of water gushed through the open window; outside, the wind shrieked like a thousand devils; lightning flashed in continuous dazzlement and huge thunderbolts ripped the heavens.

As the drenched and frightened boy started up from his cot, new and more ominous sounds pierced the screaming din: the roar of the sea, the crash of collapsing houses, and the cries of the wounded and dying. It seemed to the startled lad as though the elements of nature itself were in their final dissolution and that the end of the world had come.

Gathering all his strength, Alec struggled against the wall of wind and water to the window, pulled the shutters tight. Then, for the remainder of that awful night, he crouched at the farther end of the room, whispering the prayers his new friend, the Reverend Dr. Hugh Knox, a recent arrival on the island, had taught him. Each moment he expected to hear the timbers rending underneath his feet and find himself precipitated to oblivion.

Fortunately, the solidly built structure remained intact. In the morning the wind died down, the sun came out, and the hurricane, the most disastrous in the island's history, had roared out to sea.

When Alec ventured out, it was to look upon a scene of unutterable destruction. King Street, Queen Street, Strand Street—the three main thoroughfares—were masses of twisted wreckage. The sea was still a foaming fury, and the beach was thick with debris. Not a ship of those that had been anchored in the harbor the evening before was visible. All trees were uprooted, houses were down, and white-faced people hauled frantically at the fallen timbers in search of the missing and the dead.

The sights and sounds, the memory of that dreadful night, moved young Hamilton to the depths. There was a strain of religious feeling in him that Dr. Knox had helped draw to the surface. That enthusiastic and devoted Presbyterian minister, a graduate of the College of New Jersey (later renamed Princeton), had taken a liking to the lad. He encouraged him in his reading, gave him books, and tutored him in the classics. He also prophesied great things for his protégé.

Alec's fingers had always itched for the pen; but so far he had written only business letters. Now, he felt, he had a subject worthy of his talents.

"I take up my pen," he commenced that night, "just to give you an imperfect account of the most dreadful hurricane that memory or any records whatever can trace, which happened here on the 31st ultimo last night."

In graphic phrases he described the horrors of that night. Then, remembering Dr. Knox, he launched into a series of religious apostrophes: "Where now, Oh vile worm, is all thy boasted fortitude and resolution? What is become of thy arrogance and self-sufficiency? Why dost thou tremble and stand aghast?"

When the composition was finished, he sent it to the Royal Danish-American Gazette, the leading English-language newspaper in the Danish islands. To his infinite joy it was accepted, and the "Hurricane Letter" appeared in the issue of October 3, 1772.

It made an immediate sensation. Actually, it was no great shakes as a literary effort, although the Danish governor thought it a masterpiece. Dr. Knox delightedly agreed, and so did the citizenry of the islands. Obviously, such talents should not be allowed to go to waste; the author must be given an opportunity to prepare himself for the splendid career that seemed to lie ahead.

That meant going for an education either to the American colonies on the mainland or to England. But the latter would have entailed considerable expense; and the merchants of the West Indies were accustomed to sending their sons to places like King's College in New York, Yale College at New Haven, and the College of New Jersey at Princeton.

Once the matter was broached, it was swiftly settled. Dr. Knox, the boy's aunts, and a public subscription provided the funds, and within a week, before the dazed youngster quite knew what had happened, he found himself on board a ship and land already out of sight. All his worldly goods were in an ironbound trunk, and in his pocket were letters of introduction from Dr. Knox and Cruger to important people in New York.

New York was his final destination. However, since no ship was clearing for there within the near future, it had been decided not to waste time in getting the budding genius directly to New York but to take advantage of a boat heading for Boston. From that New England port he could journey by stagecoach to New York.

As the vessel sailed slowly to the north, Alec had to pinch himself to make certain that he was actually awake. Because of a single literary effort all his hopes, his dreams, and ambitions were on the verge of realization. The great world lay before him, an oyster to be opened. Behind him, forever cast aside, was the dreary drudgery of the countinghouse—the endless details of boxes and bales, butter and flour, lumber and mules, pounds and shillings and pence. Adventure loomed ahead, adventure limited only by his capacity to dare and to master. Yet he had no fears or qualms as to the future. Alexander Hamilton was always to be blessed with an abounding confidence in his own powers and in his star.

The journey provided its own adventures. Midway to the mainland, fire broke out in the hold. All on board turned out to battle the flames and, with great effort, managed to put them out before they ate below the water line. Blackened and half-burned, the disabled vessel limped into Boston Harbor. It was near the end of October, 1772.