by John Ferling
That he wrote these essays was peculiar, grotesque perhaps, for his eldest son, Philip, had been killed in a duel scant days before Hamilton composed the first piece in the series. The fatal duel had arisen from Philip’s outrage at an Independence Day speech delivered in lower Manhattan by George Eacker, a Republican lawyer who practiced in the city. Eacker had censured Federalist policies during the XYZ Affair, including the creation of the army under Inspector General Hamilton. Months after the speech, Philip confronted Eacker during a play at the Park Theater, causing an embarrassing disturbance and provoking Eacker to issue a challenge. There was never the slightest doubt that Philip would accept, and the duel was fought two days later, on November 22, at Paulus Hook, New Jersey. Eacker shot and killed young Hamilton.
General Hamilton, who had not been present at the duel, was so “completely overwhelmed with grief,” according to an observer, that he attended the funeral only through the support of others. Hamilton described his loss as “the most afflicting of my life.”20 That he persisted in writing essay after essay of “The Examination” at such a time may have been because he saw it as a therapeutic distraction during his bereavement. But it may have been that his obsession with his crumbling political forces was such that nothing, not even the tragic death of his son, could stay his hand. The latter seems all too likely, and in retrospect, Hamilton’s character, his long-nourished hatreds, and his gnawing ambition provided the impetus that long since had placed him on the course leading inexorably to his own tragic end.
Hamilton’s foundering fortunes were the legacy of his intemperate behavior in the political contest of 1800. Aaron Burr found himself in a similar situation. He, too, had done great harm to himself through his unwise choices when the House resolved the election. The misjudgments made by these two during the campaign put them on a fatal collision course.
Burr soon found himself without power or even patronage in Jefferson’s administration. As the 1804 presidential election approached, he called on the president to learn where he stood. When the conference ended, Burr knew he would not be part of the Republican ticket in the coming election.21 On the outs nationally, he looked on the governor’s contest in New York as a restorative.
Early on, Hamilton sensed that the clash between Burr and Jefferson was “absolutely incurable,” thinking it “founded in the breasts of both in the rivalship of an insatiable and unprincipled ambition.”22 Hamilton saw the split as a double-edged sword. He welcomed it as likely to be ruinous to Burr’s political career, and he rejoiced at the prospect of ineradicable divisions among New York’s Republicans. Hamilton must have dared to hope for a Republican fracture that could pave the way for the Federalists to recapture the state in the presidential election of 1804.
His joy was tempered, however, by the fear that Burr, who had intrigued with Federalists during the deadlocked election, would be driven to do so again. When he learned that Burr had attended a Federalist banquet in the capital to commemorate Washington’s birthday in 1802, Hamilton was convinced that the vice president was exploring a switch to the Federalist Party. Should Burr change parties, and should that lead—as seemed certain—to the restructuring of New York’s Federalist Party, Hamilton’s influence in the party would decline even further. The possibility also existed that Burr might form a new party. That was not an idle concern. Burr had shot his bolt within the Republican Party, and like other astute politicos, he could readily see the dire plight of the Federalist Party in the face of America’s continuing democratization. After the congressional elections in 1802, for instance, Federalists held barely one-third of the seats in both the House and Senate. When Burr, in 1802, started his own newspaper in New York City, Hamilton was convinced that the vice president’s plan was to draw both Federalists and disgruntled Republicans into his camp.23
In 1804, Burr entered the governor’s race, running as a Republican. He was repeatedly slandered in the press, including by some Republicans who could not forgive his perfidy in the 1800 presidential election. Federalist penmen blasted away as well. Hamilton was active, slashing at his nemesis. Burr could not know who penned each tract, but some charges sounded strikingly similar to allegations that Hamilton had made earlier. For instance, someone averred that Burr was given to “abandoned profligacy,” a defamation that strayed across the line from criticism of political ideas and practices to matters of private character. It is not difficult to imagine Burr thinking that Hamilton, long his caustic rival, was responsible for the smear.24
That Hamilton played an active role in the campaign must also have struck many, including the vice president, as inspired solely by the wish to prevent Burr’s election. After all, the Federalist Party in New York was moribund. Having lost the state in 1800, and suffered worse defeats in 1802, the Federalists did not even nominate a candidate in 1804. Instead, large numbers of Federalists “embarked with zeal in support of Mr. Burr,” as Hamilton remarked with alarm.25 Without success, Hamilton beseeched Rufus King to run against Burr. When that initiative failed, Hamilton reluctantly supported Morgan Lewis, New York’s Republican chief justice, a candidate he did not think could win.
Hamilton spoke out in favor of Lewis and against Burr. Displaying his customary lancing invective, he portrayed Burr as given to “Jacobinic principles,” slavish to “popular prejudices and vices,” and having a propensity toward “pernicious extremes.” What really troubled Hamilton, as he divulged to a Federalist caucus in Albany, was his fear that if Burr was elected, Yankee High Federalists would rally round this “man of talents intrigue and address,” seeing him as the captivating leader who could form a confederation of several northern states separate from the United States. In private, Hamilton depicted Burr as “skillful adroit and able,” and sufficiently unscrupulous to lead a movement to dismember the Union.26
Hamilton’s comments were mild compared with some charges in the press. Burr, who had remained single since the death of his wife a decade earlier, was savaged as sexually promiscuous, a consort of prostitutes both male and female, and the host of racially integrated parties. Calling these soirées “nigger ball[s],” one writer alleged that Burr had turned his home into a bordello where he sometimes engaged in sexual relations with black women. One scandalmonger, James Cheetham, a newspaper scribbler who had immigrated to New York from England six years earlier, was the worst of the bunch. No sleazy charge was beyond the bounds for him, and Cheetham often dredged up questions that Hamilton had raised years before about Burr’s character, always carefully identifying the former treasury secretary as the first to have made the allegations.27
The mudslinging did its work. Burr was defeated, a crushing loss that likely spelled the end of his political aspirations in New York. Burr knew of Hamilton’s involvement in stymieing his vice presidential aspirations back in the 1790s. He also was aware that no one was more responsible than Hamilton for undermining his shot at the presidency in the House contest in 1801. Now, in 1804, Burr likely thought Hamilton had contributed substantively to his ruinous loss in New York’s governor’s race.
It was while in this frame of mind that Burr in June learned of malicious comments that Hamilton had purportedly made about him during a dinner party in Albany some five or six months earlier. Through newspapers, Burr discovered that Dr. Charles Cooper, a guest at the dinner, had written in a private letter in March that “Gen. Hamilton … spoke of [Burr] as a dangerous man … who ought not to be trusted.” Cooper’s letter somehow found its way into the press, prompting a rebuttal from Philip Schuyler, who observed that as Hamilton had chosen to remain neutral in the Burr-Lewis contest, he could not have made such a comment. Schuyler’s retort was unconvincing—after all, Hamilton had publicly denigrated Burr at the Federalist caucus in Albany in February. And it outraged Cooper, who responded publicly by defending what he said. Indeed, Cooper inflamed the situation further by adding, “I could detail to you a still more despicable opinion which General HAMILTON has expressed of Mr. BURR.”28
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p; Some sixty days later, having finally learned of Cooper’s letters, Burr wrote to Hamilton. He did not raise the matter of having been called dangerous. That was politics as usual. He was disturbed by Hamilton’s supposedly “more despicable opinion of him,” suggesting that Burr believed Hamilton had denigrated his character and private behavior, the very sort of venomous accusations that had been levied against him with devastating effect in the recent gubernatorial election. Burr demanded of Hamilton “a prompt and unqualified acknowledgment or denial.”29
Hamilton might have denied the allegation, as had Schuyler, and the matter would have ended. Or, he might have challenged the blabbermouth Dr. Cooper for having spread malicious stories, a step that almost certainly would have satisfied Burr. He did neither, probably because he knew that numerous individuals had heard him make the deleterious comments at the Albany dinner. Instead, Hamilton responded disingenuously, and in a quibbling, hair-splitting tone. For instance, he asked what exactly Burr meant by “despicable.” He refused to acknowledge or deny having said anything.30 Burr shot back that Hamilton’s reply was insincere. He spelled out that he would regard as despicable any comment that questioned his honor.31 Burr had given his adversary a second chance to bring the matter to an end, but Hamilton replied: “I have no other answer to give than that which has already been given.32 Surprised and outraged, Burr penned one final letter. He said he had expected Hamilton to display the “frankness of a Soldier and the Candor of a gentleman,” yet instead had received evasive responses, which Burr characterized as bristling with “defiance.” “[Y]ou have invited the course I am about to pursue,” Burr wrote.33
The correspondence had been hand delivered by intermediaries. William Van Ness, a blonde ruddy-faced New York congressman, acted on Burr’s behalf, while Nathaniel Pendleton, a former aide to General Nathanael Greene and an ex-federal judge who had (with Hamilton’s assistance) entered into private law practice in Manhattan, was the courier for Hamilton. Both men sought to defuse what was occurring, but when a peaceful solution proved elusive, Van Ness delivered to Pendleton the formal request for what contemporaries referred to as an “interview”—a duel. As Hamilton had legal cases pending before the state supreme court, the duel was scheduled for July 11, more than two weeks away.34
It is impossible to fathom the dark recesses of the souls of either Burr or Hamilton, but it appears that at the outset of this imbroglio, Burr never imagined a duel would be fought. He subsequently said that on two previous occasions, Hamilton, understanding that his “improper and offensive” remarks about Burr’s “character” might result in a challenge to duel, had prevented such an occurrence by coming “forward voluntarily” and making “apologies and concessions.” Furthermore, while serving as a mediator during Hamilton’s dust-up with James Monroe in 1797, Burr had advised his man that Hamilton “would not fight.” Sure enough, in that case Hamilton had found a way to avoid a duel that Monroe was prepared to fight. Yet, while Burr may not have expected this feud to end on the field of honor, there can be no doubt that he had been driven to the breaking point. He was weary of Hamilton’s “setled & implacable malevolence,” frustrated that his adversary had “long indulged himself in illiberal freedoms with my character,” and enraged by the former treasury secretary’s unrelenting “support of base Slanders.” Furthermore, Burr was convinced that Hamilton would “never cease in his Conduct.”35
Burr had ample reasons for hating this man who had played a considerable role in frustrating his political dreams, but Hamilton was not in the grip of a seething rage. He did not even seem to dislike Burr. He feared Burr’s political success, distrusted him, and saw deep character flaws that in his judgment rendered Burr unfit for the highest offices.36 But though Hamilton was, in Samuel Johnson’s phrase, “a very good hater,” remarkably, Burr was not among those he hated.
Duels were fought for all sorts of absurd reasons, but if one should have been aborted, this was it. Two years earlier, Hamilton had mused that “Men are … for the most part governed by the impulse of passion.” That might be the best explanation for what led Hamilton to the dueling ground.37 So, too, might be the explanation offered by Gouverneur Morris, who quipped in the aftermath of the interview: “If we were truly brave we should not accept a challenge; but we are all cowards.”38 Some have even fancifully conjectured that a suicidal Hamilton welcomed the duel. According to this theory, he kept the appointment on the dueling ground from the belief that he had nothing to live for, or that he wished to die in repentance for the harm he had done to Burr, or from the conviction that in death he would gain the glory that had eluded him in life.39
In fact, Hamilton wished to live, for his family and himself, but he was seized with the conviction that what Burr demanded put his honor at stake. He refused to display any sign of what he saw as weakness. He told his wife, in a letter that she did not see until after the duel, that it was impossible to “have avoided the interview … without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem.” He implied, too, that it would “unman me” to permit Burr’s challenge to pass uncontested.40 An obsession with honor was not new for Hamilton. Dishonored by the circumstances of his birth—or so many believed in his day—Hamilton was driven throughout his life to win acclaim, to act worthily, to defend his honor. When this compulsiveness was blended with his passionate, headstrong, manner, it could be a toxic brew. Indeed, for this man who was drawn to battle, given to daring intrigue, liberal with calumny, and increasingly reckless, the dueling ground seems almost to have been his inexorable destiny.
During the days before the duel, Hamilton prepared his will and put his affairs in order.41 He also drafted what he knew might be his final testament. Hamilton said that he bore “no ill-will to Col Burr, distinct from political opposition,” but he admitted having on numerous occasions said “extremely severe” things about Burr, including “very unfavourable criticisms … of the private conduct of this Gentleman” which “bore very hard on him.” He even admitted that some things he had said had been “falshoods.” To this, Hamilton added that while he deplored dueling on “religious and moral principles,” his honor compelled him to accept the challenge, as Burr’s “tone” had been “unnecessarily peremptory and menacing, and … positively offensive.” Nevertheless, as he could not “shed the blood of a fellow creature in a private combat,” Hamilton declared his intention “to reserve and throw away my first fire, and I have thoughts even of reserving my second fire.”42
Hamilton was a master at imagery. He could be harsh and cruel, as in his portrayals of Gates, Adams, and Burr. He could be sparklingly positive, as in his defenses of Washington during the war and his representation of Pinckney in the presidential election. In his last testament, Hamilton sought to project a flattering image of himself to contemporaries and succeeding generations. No one can ever know what was really in Hamilton’s mind, though readers of his apologia should be wary. For instance, Hamilton portrayed himself as an implacable foe of dueling who was being dragged reluctantly to the field of honor; yet, since 1779 he had issued ten challenges.43 All that can be known for certain is that he anticipated his testament being made public in the event of his death. If neither man was injured, or if he killed Burr, Hamilton would have the option of destroying his testament or, in the wake of adverse publicity, of issuing it as his vindication.
With considerable truth, Hamilton remarked that he could “gain nothing by the issue of the interview.”44 For that matter, neither could Burr. In fact, Burr seemingly stood to lose the most. In all likelihood, Hamilton’s public fortunes would not be destroyed should he kill his opponent. But Burr, whose slim hopes for political resurgence rested on fashioning an alliance with northern Federalists, stood to lose everything by killing a man who continued to be venerated by some party stalwarts in the northern states. Indeed, that realization may have lulled Hamilton into the belief that Burr would never shoot to kill.
During the interlude leading to the duel, Burr and Hami
lton saw each other on one occasion. They shared a banquet table at Fraunces Tavern during an Independence Day party. A day or two later, the Hamiltons hosted a ball attended by seventy guests. On the Sunday before Wednesday’s scheduled duel, Hamilton supposedly read the Morning Prayer and a liturgical worship service in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. Afterward, he and his family walked about the estate, then sat together for hours under a large shade tree. The next morning, after saying goodbye for the last time to his wife and the children, he rode to the city. Hamilton spent Monday and Tuesday at his town house, tending to his legal practice and writing letters. According to witnesses, Burr slept soundly on the night before the duel, but sleep eluded Hamilton. In the last hours before dawn, he composed a hymn to Betsey.
Wednesday, July 11, dawned humid and summery in the city. As New York tended to be more unsparing toward dueling, the prearranged plans called for the combatants to leave at five A.M. from separate docks, and to be rowed by unarmed oarsmen up the Hudson to Weehawken on the Jersey side of the river.45 Pendleton and Dr. David Hosack, a respected physician and professor of medicine and botany at Columbia, likely arrived at Hamilton’s Cedar Street home as the first blotchy pink rays of morning light splashed over Manhattan. A few blocks away, and at nearly the same moment, Van Ness, who was to be Burr’s second, called on his man. With little wasted time, both parties set off for the river, commencing the long journey to the dueling ground. Pendleton thought Hamilton appeared to be relaxed.
Burr was the first to arrive at the interview site, disembarking some twenty minutes ahead of Hamilton. Leaving the oarsmen at the river’s edge, Burr and Van Ness had a short walk across a sandy beach to a narrow, forlorn path that led to a flat, rocky shelf about twenty feet above the river. The ledge—the dueling ground—was a small area, perhaps thirty feet by fifteen feet. A cedar tree grew on the ledge, which was littered with dead branches, the legacy of winter and spring storms.
