Adams was able to avert a war with France, one of the great accomplishments of his administration, but Jefferson’s enmity was unrelenting. He secretly encouraged, and even helped finance, Republican propagandist James Callender’s scurrilous attacks on the president. Callender called Adams a “repulsive pedant,” a “gross hypocrite,” and “in his private life, one of the most egregious fools upon the continent.” The president, he wrote, was “that strange compound of ignorance and ferocity, of deceit and weakness,” a “hideous hermaphroditical character which has neither the force and firmness of a man, nor the gentleness and sensibility of a woman.”
Adams and Jefferson were once again in opposition during the presidential campaign of 1800, one of the most vicious in American history.6 Jefferson won this time, but Adams did not leave office without a last slap at his successor, making a rash of last-minute judicial appointments certain to rankle Jefferson. In this he was most successful. “I can say with truth that one act of Mr. Adams’s life, and only one, ever gave me a moment’s personal displeasure,” the new president later wrote to Abigail Adams. “I did consider his last appointments to office as personally unkind. . . . It seemed but common justice to leave the successor free to act by instruments of his own choice.” Adams did not bother to attend Jefferson’s inauguration, opting instead to leave Washington early that morning. Except for one brief bit of business after Jefferson took office, there was no communication between the once friendly Founding Fathers for more than a decade. It was a bitter silence.
But then something amazing happened in 1812. Adams and Jefferson, both now in retirement, began what historian David McCullough calls “one of the most extraordinary correspondences in American history—indeed, in the English language.” As the two great men discoursed over the years on philosophy, literature, and their own shared history, a terrible rift was healed. “Mr. Jefferson and I have grown old and retired from public life,” Adams said in 1820. “So we are upon our ancient terms of goodwill.” They died on the same day, July 4, 1826.
The clash between Founding Fathers Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr did not end quite so peacefully.
2
Showdown at Weehawken
Alexander Hamilton was as much a hater as John Adams ever was. Not surprisingly, the two despised one another. Hamilton even wrote a scathing attack on Adams, a fellow Federalist, while Adams was running for a second presidential term in 1800.7 Hamilton also had an active dislike for other Founding Fathers, such as Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, but his hatred for Aaron Burr bordered on the pathological. The simmering tensions between them would end tragically.
Although Hamilton and Burr maintained a superficial friendship—socializing together and occasionally teaming up as cocounsel on a number of civil and criminal cases in New York—Hamilton seemed bent on destroying his “friend” politically from the time Burr was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1791, if not before.
“[Burr] is unprincipled, both as a public and private man,” Hamilton wrote in 1792 in his first recorded attack on the future vice president. “He is determined, as I conceive, to make his way to the head of the popular party,” meaning the Republican party, “and to climb per fas aut nefas [“by fair means or foul”] to the highest honors of the State, and as much higher as circumstances may permit. Embarrassed, as I understand, in his circumstances, with an extravagant family, bold, enterprising, and intriguing, I am mistaken if it not be his object to play the game of confusion, and I feel it to be a religious duty to oppose his career.” Less than a week later, Hamilton was again railing against Burr, writing that he “as a public man . . . is one of the worst sort . . . secretly turning liberty into ridicule. . . . In a word, if we have an embryo-Caesar in the United States, ’tis Burr.”8
Clearly Hamilton did not think too highly of Burr, but did his animosity go beyond politics? Historians have long speculated on other factors behind Hamilton’s vitriol. Some have theorized that a romantic rivalry existed, with both men often competing for the same woman. (Hamilton and Burr were both unapologetic adulterers. Hamilton, in fact, even stepped out with his own sister-in-law, and was forced to make a public account of another affair he had with Maria Reynolds.) Other historians think Hamilton saw unflattering aspects of himself in Burr, and loathed him as a result. Hamilton himself maintained that his distaste was purely political. “With Burr I have always been personally well,” he wrote, a bit disingenuously, as if it were perfectly reasonable for a guy to call his pal the “Catiline3 of America,” as well as a man of “an irregular ambition” and “prodigal cupidity.”
Whatever the cause of Hamilton’s animosity, his criticisms of Burr were relentless. He was particularly venomous during the election of 1800, when Burr was running for president. (He lost by a hair to Thomas Jefferson in one of the most contested presidential elections in U.S. history, and, as runner-up, became vice president instead. John Adams, the incumbent, came in third.) “Adieu to the Federal Troy if they once introduce this Grecian Horse into their Citadel,” Hamilton warned fellow Federalists inclined toward Burr. In another letter, one of many during this period of uncertainty as to who would be the next president, he wrote, “Burr loves nothing but himself.” He followed this with another diatribe the next day, Christmas Eve: “[Burr] is sanguine enough to hope everything—daring enough to attempt everything—wicked enough to scruple nothing.” So much for the holiday spirit.
For years, Aaron Burr seems to have ignored, or at least forgiven, Hamilton’s invective, but that all changed in 1804, when Burr was running for governor of New York. He lost miserably, thanks in no small part to Hamilton’s efforts against him. During the campaign, a letter appeared in the Albany Register, a newspaper unfriendly to Burr. Though it wasn’t written by Hamilton, the letter attributed to him the declaration that, among other things, Burr was “a dangerous man . . . who ought not to be trusted.” When the letter writer, Dr. Charles D. Cooper, was challenged on this in another letter by General Philip Schuyler, Hamilton’s father-in-law, Cooper defended his position and stated, “I could detail to you a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has expressed of Mr. Burr.”
No one knows to this day just what “still more despicable opinion” Hamilton might have expressed, though some have ventured that he accused Burr of incest with his own daughter. In any event, Burr decided it needed clarification and called Hamilton out on it. He insisted on “the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgment or denial of the use of any expressions which could warrant the assertions of Dr. Cooper.” Hamilton’s response was quick but evasive. He wrote that having “maturely reflected on the subject,” he could not, “without manifest impropriety, make the avowal or disavowal you seem to think necessary.” He continued by saying “that the phrase ‘still more despicable’ admits of infinite shades, from very light to very dark. How am I to judge of the degree intended?”
Letters between Hamilton and Burr continued back and forth, resolving nothing and moving them ever closer to their fateful encounter. That came on a muggy Wednesday morning, July 11, 1804. Aaron Burr, the vice president of the United States, stood facing his opponent, Alexander Hamilton, one of the nation’s preeminent statesmen, on a wooded palisade overlooking the Hudson River in Weehawken, New Jersey. They were preparing to settle their dispute the way gentlemen had for centuries—in ritualized mortal combat, each man seeking to kill or maim the other in the “court of the last resort.”
Hamilton had spent the evening before the duel preparing for his very possible death at the hand of a far superior marksman. While settling his affairs, he penned a reasoned, five-point account of why he wished to avoid the ritual, citing his moral opposition to the practice of dueling and the detrimental effect his death would have on his family and creditors. He also noted that he bore no personal animosity, just political, toward Burr and concluded, “I shall hazard much and can possibly gain nothing.” Yet there he stood, at the very same spot on which his beloved son Philip had be
en killed in a duel several years before, holding the same pistol. Like Burr, he was accompanied by a second, whose prescribed role it was to ensure that the duel was fought honestly and fairly, to negotiate its terms, and, if necessary, shoot a principal who didn’t fight by the rigidly prescribed rules.
Perfect decorum was displayed at Weehawken. When Burr and his second, William Van Ness, saw Hamilton approaching the site with his second, Nathaniel Pendleton, they straightened, removed their hats, and saluted politely. Anything else would have been considered ungentlemanly. The seconds made their arrangements, measuring the distance between combatants, casting lots for choice of position, and carefully loading the pistols in each other’s presence. Then Burr and Hamilton took their assigned places. The instant the agreed-upon second called “Present!” Burr pulled his trigger. Hamilton drew up convulsively, spun to the left, and pitched forward on his face. At the same time his arm jerked upward, and his pistol discharged in the air. The bullet clipped a twig off a branch high over Burr’s head.
While Hamilton lay mortally wounded (he died the next day), his opponent was quickly ushered from the site. Burr had survived the encounter and received the satisfaction he sought, but he faced murder indictments in New York and New Jersey. He also faced the scorn of a nation horrified by Hamilton’s violent demise. Burr’s political career was ruined, giving Hamilton in death that which he had expended so much energy trying to accomplish in life.
3
Giving the Devil His Duel
Affairs of honor must be conducted cooly, courteously and steadily, as a contrary course serves but to aggravate difficulties, and leads to results harsh, passionate and discreditable to men of true and deliberate courage.
—CODE DUELLO, 1777
That Hamilton and Burr, two of the most prominent men in the nation, would engage in such deadly and seemingly pointless recourse is stunning, yet their duel was hardly an isolated event. Dueling usually evokes images of vaguely foppish European aristocrats sputtering insults, slapping one another in the face with embroidered gloves, and then drawing swords. America presumably had bid farewell to such conceits. Yet deadly duels were frequently fought throughout the country—from before its independence to well after the Civil War—by some of its most esteemed citizens. Future presidents, members of Congress, judges and journalists, governors and generals often found themselves on bloody fields of honor, settling real and perceived attacks on their dignity. Indeed, both Burr and Hamilton had been engaged in other duels, as had many of those close to them. Hamilton, for instance, once nearly dueled with future president James Monroe. (Ironically enough, it was Aaron Burr who stepped in and defused that situation.)
This violent method of conflict resolution had its formal origins 1,500 years ago in medieval Europe, where disputes were often adjudicated by a process called “Ordeal.” A defendant, for example, might have to walk over hot coals. If he was innocent, the theory went, God would spare him the agony of burned and blistered feet. Obviously, the usual verdict was guilty. Out of this tradition emerged trial by single combat, based again on the presumption that God would reward the righteous with victory. Although trials by combat declined by the middle of the seventeenth century, ritualized private dueling rose up to replace them.
Dueling became enormously popular over the centuries, especially in Ireland, where it was a sport as well as a means of settling disputes. The Code Duello, developed there in 1777, became the set of rules that would govern nearly all American duels. The code originally contained twenty-six provisions for all aspects of dignified and formal combat. Firing in the air or purposely missing an opponent, for instance, were strictly prohibited and seen as “children’s play . . . dishonorable on one side or the other.” Of course, dueling had been formalized since the sixteenth century and spread to the New World before the establishment of the Code Duello. In fact, the first recorded duel took place soon after the Pilgrims arrived. But Americans eagerly adopted the code, adding measures such as posting, a humiliating ordeal in which a man who refused a challenge might be called something like an “unprincipled villain, a cur, a coward and a poltroon” in newspapers and other conspicuous public places. Americans also tended to favor pistols over swords, and many a well-heeled man owned an elaborately decorated set.
From Dodge City to the Dueling Green of New Orleans, Americans enthusiastically killed one another with class. Nowhere was this more true than at the Bladensburg Dueling Ground just over the Washington, D.C., border. Here, on what became known as “The Dark and Bloody Grounds,” more than fifty duels were fought during the first half of the nineteenth century. One of the most famous victims was the naval hero Stephen Decatur. Hailed as the conqueror of the Barbary pirates, the man who famously proclaimed, “My country, may she always be right, but my country right or wrong,” was at the height of his fame when he was shot down by an embittered fellow officer, James Barron, in 1820.
Barron’s antagonism toward Decatur had a long history, stretching back thirteen years. Barron had been in command of the frigate Chesapeake when it encountered the British ship Leopold outside the Virginia capes. Britain was then in the habit of boarding American ships and taking, or impressing, sailors they claimed were British citizens. Barron’s ship was so unprepared for defense that he was compelled to haul down its colors, submit his vessel to search, and allow several of his seamen to be impressed—all without the firing of a single cannon. The encounter outraged America and was one of the events leading up to the War of 1812. Barron was court-martialed and suspended from the service in a degrading process presided over by Decatur. During the next several years, lengthy and rancorous letters were exchanged between the two men. For example, Barron wrote Decatur, “I am informed that you have tauntingly and boastfully observed that you would cheerfully meet me in the field [of honor], and hoped that I would act like a man,” to which Decatur responded, “I never invited you to the field, nor have I expressed a hope that you would call me out. . . . I stated that if you made the call I would meet you; but that, on all scores, I should be much better pleased to have nothing to do with you.” Yes, angry men once talked like this.
Barron wrote back: “It is true that you have never given me a direct, formal, and written invitation to meet you in the field, such as one gentleman of honor ought to send another. But if your own admissions, that you would meet me if I wished it, do not amount to a challenge, then I can not comprehend the object or import of such declarations.” Decatur returned the volley: “I do not consider it essential to my reputation that I should notice any thing which may come from you. . . . If we fight, it must be at your seeking, and you must take all the risk and all the inconvenience which usually attend the challenger in such cases.”
Barron did at last issue a challenge and Decatur accepted, but meeting on “fair and equal grounds” would prove difficult. Decatur was known as a superior marksman, while Barron had a handicap particularly troublesome in dueling: He was extremely nearsighted. Pistols at eight paces were finally agreed upon with the additional provision, in deference to Barron’s myopia, that each party would take deliberate aim at the other before the count.
Barron, Decatur, and their seconds met at the Bladensburg Dueling Ground on the morning of March 22, 1820. After they had taken their positions, Barron addressed Decatur: “Sir, I hope, on meeting in another world, we shall be better friends than in this.” Decatur, who reportedly intended only to wound Barron, responded, “I have never been your enemy, sir.” After the call, the shots were fired at almost the same time. Both men fell, and each believed himself to be dying. Lying in pools of blood, their heads not ten feet apart, they addressed each other. “I am mortally wounded; at least I believe so,” Decatur said. “I wish I had fallen in the service of my country.” Making his peace, Barron begged for forgiveness. “I freely forgive you my death,” Decatur told him, “though not those who have stimulated you to seek my life.” Decatur was taken back to his Washington home, where he succumbed to his injury
later that night. Barron, like Burr before him, lived to face the wrath of a nation plunged into grief over a fallen hero.
A year before the Barron-Decatur duel, Bladensburg’s “Dark and Bloody Grounds” was the sight of the fatal showdown between General Armistead T. Mason, former U.S. senator from Virginia, and his cousin, Colonel John M. M’Carty of the same state. Mason had questioned M’Carty’s right to vote at the Leesburg polls, an affront that so incensed M’Carty he instantly challenged his cousin to a duel. His challenge, however, prescribed the terms and conditions for their fight, which was heretical to the Code Duello. The code specifically stated that only the challenged party had the right to place conditions on the fight. Mason, therefore, declined, but advised his cousin he would gladly accept a proper dueling offer. M’Carty ignored him and posted Mason as a coward. Indignant, Mason now challenged M’Carty, but he was summarily dismissed due to his original refusal. Seething at the rebuke, Mason nevertheless took his friends’ advice and let the matter drop—that is, until some months later a future U.S. president convinced him otherwise.
A Treasury of Great American Scandals Page 5
