He hoped that in time Mr. Cruger would find it necessary to send him to New York; but his employer found him too useful on St. Croix, and recognized his abilities, not to the extent of advancing his intellectual interests, but of taxing and developing his capacity for business and its heavy responsibilities.  In the following year he placed him in temporary charge of his branch house, in Frederikstadt, and Alexander never wished for war so desperately as when he stood under the arcade on Bay Street and stared out at the shallow green roadstead and the inimitable ocean beyond.  Frederikstadt was a hamlet compared to Christianstadt, and unredeemed—­the arcades excepting—­by any of the capital’s architectural or natural beauty.  Alexander believed it to be the hottest, dullest, and most depressing spot on either hemisphere.  The merchants and other residents were astonished that Nicolas Cruger should send a lad of thirteen to represent him in matters which involved large sums of money, but they recognized young Hamilton’s ability even while they stared with some rudeness at the small figure in white linen, and the keen but very boyish face.  When they passed him under the arcades, and asked him what ship he expected to heave in sight, he was tempted to say a man-of-war, but had no mind to reveal himself to the indifferent.  He read from sundown until midnight or later, by the light of two long candles protected from draughts and insects by curving glass chimneys.  Mosquitoes tormented him and cockroaches as long as his hand ran over the table; occasionally a land-crab rattled across the room, or a centipede appeared on the open page.  But he was accustomed to these embellishments of tropic life, and although he anathematized them and the heat, he went on with his studies.  It was about this time that he began to indulge in literary composition; and although less gifted boys than Alexander Hamilton struggle through this phase of mental development as their body runs the gamut of juvenile complaints, still it may be that had not his enormous energies been demanded in their entirety by a country in the terrible straits of rebirth, or had he dwelt on earth twenty years longer, he would have realized the ambitions of his mother and Hugh Knox, and become one of the greatest literary forces the world has had.  But although this exercise of his restless faculties gave him pleasure, it was far from satisfying him, even then.  He wanted the knowledge that was locked up in vast libraries far beyond that blinding stretch of sea, and he wanted action, and a sight of and a part in the great world.  Meanwhile, he read every book he could find on the Island, made no mistakes in Mr. Cruger’s counting-house, and stood dreaming under the arcade for hours at a time, muttering his thoughts, his mobile features expressing the ceaseless action of his brain.

Sometime during the previous year Peter Levine had returned to St. Croix for his health, and he remained with relatives for some time.  He and Alexander met occasionally and were friendly.  As he was a decent little chap our hero forgave him his paternity, although he never could quite assimilate the fact that he was his mother’s child.