Burr was outraged. As if Hamilton’s nitpicking was not bad enough, he next received a separate paper containing a new explanation from Hamilton of the conversation Cooper had taken part in. Burr found this revised interpretation of that conversation a “worse libel” than the original Cooper letter, leaving “injurious impressions” in “full force.” As of June 26, further exchanges by letter struck Burr as a pointless exercise. Van Ness told Pendleton with a sense of finality that only a general disavowal would be accepted.94
To this, Hamilton responded angrily, insisting that Burr had made his initial grievance into something all-encompassing and impossible to reckon with. He now turned the tables on Burr and accused him of being motivated by a “premeditated hostility.” On June 27, the formal challenge was delivered. Van Ness carried one last clarifying message, in which Burr stated his position. He said that he had sought to place his grievance in unmistakable but not inflammatory terms, so that Hamilton could find a means of retracting his “expressions derogatory to [Burr’s] honor.” But Hamilton, he explained, had answered not with “magnanimity” but with “a sort of defiance”; and Burr, as a man of honor, had no choice but to reject all such evasive posturing. There was nothing left but to deliver to Hamilton “a simple Message.” The message—the challenge—was delivered verbally by Burr’s second.95
What had begun as a formal exchange of letters quickly grew into a jousting match between two unrelenting legal adversaries. It was, in that sense, a battle of “Syntax”—the crossing of verbal lances—and after the first clash neither combatant had fallen from his horse.
Later, it appeared to one interested politician, at least, that Burr had won that first round. After reading the published correspondence, the Virginia Republican John Randolph (who would years later duel Henry Clay) said that he felt the entire affair did Burr “honor,” and that Burr could not be “eluded or baffled” by Hamilton’s own legal parsing. Hamilton reminded Randolph of a “sinking fox, pressed by a vigorous hound, where no shift is permitted to avail him.”96
In the process, Hamilton and Burr learned how unalike they really were. Though they both fashioned themselves as “men of honor,” they followed different rules. Hamilton figured it was unavoidable that political rivals would come to insult one another; thus, one needed “latitude” in determining whether he had been insulted beyond what was customary in their world. Burr, on the other hand, considered that politics was already such a slippery slope that one had to exercise greater care in what was said about the opposition. Charles Biddle confirmed this: “I never knew Colonel Burr speak ill of any man,” he remarked after the duel, “and he had a right to expect a different treatment from what he experienced.”97
For Burr, honor began with sincerity. For Hamilton, it was protecting one’s public reputation—one’s public face—at all costs. Sincerity was not nearly as meaningful to Hamilton, who never once in his career appears to have worried that maliciously attacking an enemy might be dishonorable. Over the course of twelve years and probably longer, Hamilton had spoken of Burr in secret, in low and not so low whispers; he displayed little in the way of discretion, whether his target was Jefferson or Adams or Burr or even the loyal Robert Troup. He was accustomed to getting away with his abuse of Burr.
After a certain point in the negotiation, neither man could concede defeat or accept the humiliation of concession. The time for words, for arguments over syntax, was past.
“IF IT SHOULD BE MY LOT TO FALL”
Two weeks would pass before the duelists met at Weehawken on July 11. On the Fourth of July, incredible as it might seem, they socialized together. At a banquet held by the veteran officers of the Society of the Cincinnati, Hamilton stood on a table and sang a rousing military tune. But the gaiety of that evening concealed more serious matters: Death was rare in duels, yet it did happen. Hamilton’s eldest son, Philip, had suffered a mortal wound in a duel just three years earlier. So both Hamilton and Burr had to prepare for their interview with that prospect in mind.98
If Burr had won the first round, at least rhetorically, Hamilton made a meticulous effort to craft a document for posthumous inspection that would serve to dignify his behavior. To defend himself from the grave, if it came to that, he prepared what is now called his “Apologia,” which was later published by Nathaniel Pendleton in the Evening Post. Here, Hamilton explained the reasons for his action, but once again avoided yielding to Burr what was demanded: real regret for his behavior. Instead, Hamilton presented an idealized version of himself, while making use of one last opportunity to blacken Burr’s name.99
Hamilton was a skilled writer. In the “Apologia,” he opened with an appeal to men of the cloth, declaring that his “religious and moral principles” made him “strongly opposed to the practice of Duelling.” Though in life he had never conducted himself as a religious man, he certainly appreciated the value of establishing his moral purposes here. He referred to his beloved wife and children, and he acknowledged an obligation to his creditors. His following point, however, revealed how contrived and disingenuous the “Apologia” really was. Hamilton wrote: “I am conscious of no ill-will to Col. Burr, distinct from political opposition, which, as I trust, has proceeded from pure and upright motives.”100
Perhaps, if at this moment Hamilton had placed all of his vicious letters about Burr before him, he might have had to alter his plea to posterity. He was weaving a story to explain why the duel had to happen and how he had done everything within his power to avoid it. As Hamilton reconstructed the affair, Burr had made it impossible for him to escape. “There were intrinsick difficulties in the thing,” he wrote, “and artificial embarrassments, from the manner of proceeding on the part of Burr.” By “intrinsick,” he meant that it was already public knowledge that his “animadversions on the political principles character and view of Col. Burr had been extremely severe.” His views were shared by “many others,” he insisted, though he was willing to admit that his public statements had spilled over into “unfavorable criticisms on particular instances of the private character of this Gentleman.” He made his attacks on Burr’s character sound as if they had been incidental and nearly involuntary.101
Yet even this defensive pose is a cover story. It was Hamilton who had instigated gossip. It was Hamilton who had invented the decadent Burr. It was Hamilton who had attacked him first (as did his self-protective father-in-law, Philip Schuyler). Hamilton was not, as he pretended, a solitary voice within a large chorus of those denouncing Burr. The truth is that Hamilton began attacking Burr’s private character in 1792; and in 1800, he accused Burr of every crime he could bring to mind. Hamilton’s charges, all along the way, were outrageous, hypocritical, even hysterical, and not, as he rationalized at the end, occasional political criticisms enunciated with the utmost “sincerity.” Though his motives were political, Hamilton’s major form of attack was deeply personal, and he showed no constraint in leveling charges against every aspect of Burr’s private character. Why did he do it? Because he knew that Burr was an accomplished man of the law and of politics and that the only way he could defeat him was to malign him.102
To make himself appear nobler, Hamilton declared in his final public document that he intended to “reserve and throw away” his first fire (also his second, if Burr was not satisfied after a single shot). Hamilton’s avowal has confused many analysts—and is one reason that some have speculated that he had a “death wish.” Yet his real purpose was to envelop himself in an aura of moral authority; he believed his righteous bearing would serve to teach Burr a moral lesson: by withholding his fire twice, he would give “a double opportunity to Col. Burr to pause and to reflect.” Hamilton knew, too, that he had to justify himself. Why would a man who opposed dueling consent to a challenge? He had to acquiesce, he explained, because it was the only way he could retain the “ability to be in the future [politically] useful.” His public reputation mattered more to him than anything else at t
his affecting moment.103
Burr was no less concerned that he should settle his affairs. On the day before the duel, he drafted two letters: one to his daughter, and the second to his son-in-law. He arranged for four executors: John Swartwout and William Van Ness in New York, Theodosia and her husband in South Carolina. Both duelists took stock of their dismal finances. Hamilton was at least $60,000 in debt, which is why he mentioned his creditors as “sufferers” in his “Apologia”; Burr hoped his property would cover his debts, but expected that Alston would assume any that remained outstanding.104
Burr, like Hamilton, was thinking of posterity, yet he apparently felt no compelling need to explain his action to the world. He placed his private correspondence in Theodosia’s hands, and suggested that her husband might “think it worth while to write a sketch of my life.” In material terms, he was only able to leave his friends and family small tokens of affection: a painting of himself for William Eustis; a pair of pistols, some apparel, and his watch to his stepson, Frederick Prevost; and he urged Theodosia to give John Bartow “something—what you please.” At this time, Burr still owned slaves: to Peggy Gallatin, he left land worth $250, and implicitly her freedom; he encouraged Theodosia to keep Peter Yates as a valet to her son, since he was “the most intelligent and best-disposed black” he had ever known; and Nancy, “honest, robust, and good-tempered,” had to be disposed of as well.
Contemplating the possibility that the letters he was preparing might be his last, Burr felt assured that he could now face death calmly, knowing that his “dearest Theodosia” and his grandson would be cared for. He would live on through his family, he confided to his son-in-law, “if it should be my lot to fall.”105
“A SORT OF EXILE”
July 11, 1804, broke hot and humid. According to the protocol worked out in advance, Burr was rowed across the Hudson and arrived at the Weehawken dueling ground before Hamilton. He brought with him William P. Van Ness. Hamilton and Nathaniel Pendleton joined them shortly, along with Hamilton’s physician, Dr. David Hosack.106
The few firsthand reports agree on some of the basic facts. The two men were standing about thirty feet apart, and on Pendleton’s command of “Present!” they were then both allowed to shoot. Hamilton had provided the pistols, which were equipped with hair-triggers that made the fire unpredictable, and loaded with one-ounce balls that were quite dangerous if they hit their target. Both seconds later agreed that the duelists fired within seconds of each other. But they did not agree on one crucial point: who fired first.
Pendleton (influenced by Hamilton’s claim that he would withhold his fire) believed that Burr’s shot rang out first, and at that moment Hamilton fell forward. The ball entered inches above his right hip, passed through his liver, and lodged in his spine—the sudden shock, according to Pendleton, caused Hamilton to discharge his gun. Van Ness’s observations were more detailed and might be more accurate. He noted that after the first fire, Burr was jarred, as if he had been struck. His body moved. Then, after “several seconds” elapsed, Burr fired his pistol, and Hamilton “fell instantly.” As Hamilton collapsed, “Burr advanced toward Genl H with a manner and gesture of regret.”107
“Genl. H. . . . levelled his pistol in different directions to try the light.” Excerpt from Burr’s letter to Charles Biddle, July 18, 1804.
Both Burr and Van Ness felt certain that Hamilton had intentionally fired his weapon. Before the command to fire was given, he had unambiguously stopped the proceedings so as to test his vision. He leveled his gun from various positions, judging how the light hit from each. Then, finally, he put on his spectacles, presumably to improve his aim. It is hard to believe that Hamilton would have indulged in this behavior if, as his earlier prepared statement avowed, he had no intention of firing his pistol, or he planned to shoot in the air. If this were the case, why, then, was there any need to be concerned about the sunlight? The modern historians who see Burr as the aggressor and Hamilton as a man with scruples ignore this rather telling bit of uncontested information.108
Hamilton’s wound was fatal, but he did not die until the following day. He was carried back by boat to Manhattan. Burr sent a note to Dr. Hosack, asking about Hamilton’s condition, and expressing hope of his recovery. Given large doses of the opiate laudanum to ease his pain, Hamilton spent his last hours trying to convince a local minister to give him communion. He first appealed to Bishop Benjamin Moore of the Episcopal Church, a friend, and then to the Reverend John Mason, of the Presbyterian Church; both men consoled him but refused his request. Moore eventually returned and agreed to administer communion. Why the hesitation? Hamilton had never joined a church, and the ministers were wary of the motivation behind a deathbed confession, especially under the circumstances: dueling was a violation of church doctrine as well as civil law. For the sake of his wife and family, Hamilton wanted to die a “Christian.” And so, at two in the afternoon, on July 12, he did. In the weeks that followed, as numerous eulogies were given in his honor, ministers and statesmen alike declared him a religious man.109
News of Hamilton’s death spread quickly. Burr’s enemies mounted a new, even more vicious barrage of attacks. Stories circulated that he had practiced his shot often enough to ensure that his aim would be deadly; he was accused of wearing silk, which was believed to be more resistant to pistol fire—implying, of course, that he was really a coward. One especially ridiculous charge was that he had never even met Hamilton at the dueling site, but had instead, like a criminal, hunted down his prey. Even some Federalists who had previously treated Burr with respect, such as Hamilton’s protégé William Coleman, editor of the Evening Post, now classified him as an “assassin.” The Burrites were thus no longer a faction but a murder ring; and Burr, their leader, was driven by a narcissistic bloodlust: “Wrapt up in himself—to appease his resentment, and to gratify his ambition,” Cheetham wrote in his accustomed style, “he is capable of wading through the blood of his fellow citizens and laughing at the lamentations of widows and orphans.”110
A grand funeral was organized for July 14, in a manner unseen since the death of Washington four and a half years earlier. A military detail escorted the corpse; melancholy music sounded, as a long train of relatives, friends, and various local officials joined the procession. Atop the coffin lay Hamilton’s hat and sword, while his boots and spurs were displayed on his horse; his steed was dressed in mourning regalia as well, and led by two black slaves, who wore white turbans trimmed in black.111
A stage was erected in the portico of the Episcopal Church. Hamilton’s four sons stood beside Gouverneur Morris, who had been selected to pronounce the funeral oration. When Morris’s speech ended, Hamilton’s body was carried to the cemetery; there, Bishop Moore performed the last rites, and troops discharged three volleys of gunfire over the grave.112
Morris’s oration was powerful, yet proved even more successful in print. In his diary, he was surprisingly uninhibited in confiding how difficult it had been for him to draft an appropriate discourse for the occasion. He admired Hamilton, true, but he knew only too well the man’s flaws. Should he gloss over Hamilton’s illegitimate birth and his martial infidelity? Did it matter that, in Morris’s view, Hamilton was “indiscreet, vain and opinionated”? He could not, without real discomfort, reconcile himself to Hamilton’s final statement, which did not ring true to him—that the martyr was “in Principle opposed to Duelling, but he has fallen in a Duel.” Morris was aware of the growing hostility toward Burr, and having witnessed the French Revolution firsthand, he knew as well the dangers inherent in a mob mentality, and so he was conscious that his words should not excite an “Outrage.” How, he wondered, could he do “Justice to the Dead,” and at the same time, “not injure the living”?113
Burr was shocked by the mounting “persecution.” He wrote to Joseph Alston that “thousands of absurd falsehoods are circulated with industry” and the “most illiberal means are practiced to produce exc
itement”—and, he added, “with effect.” To Charles Biddle he sneered that “all our intemperate and unprincipled Jacobins who have been for Years reviling H[amilton] as a disgrace to the Country and a pest to Society” are now “the most Vehement in his praise.” Their motive was not to show their “respect to him but, Malice to me.” A New York coroner’s jury was called not once, but repeatedly, before it was able to obtain an inquest for murder. This was an unprecedented action: first, the duel had taken place in New Jersey, beyond New York’s jurisdiction; and besides, no duelist had ever been prosecuted in the past, despite the existing law against dueling. Even Governor Lewis found the proceedings “disgraceful, illiberal, and ungentlemanly,” as John Swartwout informed Burr. Burr was now able to comprehend the fate that awaited him. He admitted to Alston that the duel has “driven me into a sort of exile, and may terminate in an actual and permanent ostracism.”114
Unsure of what might happen in New York, he decided not to wait for the report of the coroner’s jury. On the morning of July 21, he crossed the Hudson, accompanied by his slave Peter Yates and John Swartwout. Swartwout returned to New York and went into hiding, as did William Van Ness. (Matthew Davis and Marinus Willett had been arrested for refusing to give up information about the duel, and Van Ness was subject to a possible indictment as an accessory to Burr’s crime.) Burr spent the night at a friend’s home in Perth Amboy. The next day he went by carriage to Cranberry, in south-central New Jersey, and from there headed to Philadelphia, where he stayed with Charles Biddle. Efforts to persuade Governor Lewis to extradite Burr from Pennsylvania failed. By the beginning of August, new rumors were surfacing that attempts had already been made to assassinate him. Burr informed Theodosia that these were “mere fables,” adding with wonderful sarcasm that those “who wish me dead prefer to keep at a very respectful distance.”115
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