Joseph J. Ellis (6 page)

With indictments pending against him for both dueling and murder, with newspaper editors comparing him to Benedict Arnold as the new exemplar of treachery, with ministers making his behavior the centerpiece for sermons against dueling as a barbaric throwback to medieval notions of justice, Burr fled the city in disgrace, not stopping until he reached Georgia.
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So there you have it: Hamilton safely buried and assuming legendary proportions as a martyr; Burr slipping out of town, eventually headed toward bizarre adventures in the American West, but already consigned to political oblivion. This seems the most appropriate closing scene in our attempted recovery of “The Duel” as a famous and eminently visual story.

T
HE MISSING
ingredient in the story, of course, is the four- or five-second interval when the shots were actually fired. Postponing the recovery of this most crucial moment was not only unavoidable—there is no agreed-upon version to recover—but also matches the historical timing of the debate that generated the only evidence on which any narrative must be based. Which is to say that, in the wake of the actual duel, there was another duel of words between witnesses to the event, chiefly Pendleton and Van Ness, and then the inevitable collection of pro-Hamilton and pro-Burr advocates who filled up the newspapers and pamphlets of the day with corroborating testimony for their own conflicting versions.

But before the after-action accounts of the duel degenerated into a duel of its own, the only two eyewitnesses, Pendleton and Van Ness, published a “Joint Statement.” Its chief purpose was to claim that both principals had conducted themselves in accord with the
code duello
, so that even though the practice of dueling was illegal, Burr and Hamilton had behaved according to the higher law of honor appropriate for proper gentlemen. Along the way to that principled point, however, Pendleton and Van Ness agreed on several significant particulars worthy
of notice because of the light they shed on the looming disagreement over what, in fact, had happened.

First, Pendleton and Van Ness agreed that both principals fired their weapons. There were two shots, not one. This was an important fact to establish, because several published accounts of the duel by friends of Hamilton, undoubtedly influenced by various versions of his preduel pledge not to fire at Burr, had preemptively concluded that Hamilton had withheld his fire; that is, had not fired at all. Since the sound of the gunfire was audible to Hosack and the oarsmen, even though they did not see the exchange, no misrepresentation or falsification of this elemental point was feasible anyway, unless the two shots occurred simultaneously. And Pendleton and Van Ness agreed that they did not.

This led to the second and most intriguing agreement—namely, that an interval lasting “a few seconds” occurred between shots. Just how many seconds they could not agree on. They did concur, however, that a discernible gap of time separated the two shots. One of the two principals had fired first; the other had paused for a discreet and noticeable interval, and then he had fired. The two shots had not gone off simultaneously.
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It is not easy to square what was to become the Hamiltonian version of the duel with this agreed-upon point. The crucial ingredient in the Hamiltonian account was that Burr fired first. If one began with the assumption, as Pendleton’s and Hamilton’s disciples insisted one should, that Hamilton arrived at Weehawken with a firm resolve not to fire at Burr, then it followed logically that Hamilton could not have fired first. Instead, Burr fired while Hamilton’s pistol was still raised in the air. The impact of Burr’s round then allegedly produced an involuntary jerk on Hamilton’s trigger finger, which sent a round sailing harmlessly above Burr and into the trees. Van Ness claimed to have revisited the ledge the following day and found the severed branch of a cedar tree about twelve feet high and four feet to the side of where Burr had stood. This rendition of the story was also compatible with Hamilton’s remark in the boat afterward, when he seemed to think his pistol was still loaded. He obviously had not realized that Burr’s shot had caused an accidental firing of his own weapon. On the other hand, if one accepted the Hamiltonian version of the exchange, how could one explain the interval between the shots? In the Hamiltonian account, the exchange would have been nearly simultaneous.

Although the Burr version of what occurred presents some problems of its own, it is more compatible with the agreed-upon timing of the shots. According to Van Ness, Hamilton took aim at Burr and fired first, but missed. Burr then delayed his shot for “four or five seconds,” waiting for the smoke to clear from around Hamilton and also waiting for Pendleton to begin the count—“One, two, three, fire.” But Pendleton’s attention had been fixed on his own chief and he apparently had lacked the wherewithal to say anything in this drawn-out moment of the drama. Burr then took it upon himself to fire rather than lose his shot. Hamilton fell instantly. Van Ness was adamant about the sequence of events: “It is agree’d I believe, by all who were within hearing, but particularly attested by Doctr. Hossack
[sic]
, that several seconds intervened between the two discharges; and it is also agree’d that Gen. H. fell
instantly
on Mr. B’s firing, which contradicts the idea that Mr. B. fired first.” Van Ness went on to provide additional detail about Burr’s behavior during the dramatic interval.

In other words, Burr’s instinctive reaction to Hamilton’s shot was a discernible flinch and an impulsive physical jerk that Burr, seeking afterward to emphasize his composure, blamed on a stone or piece of wood at his feet.
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While the palpable detail of this version has the ring of truth, and while the contours of the Burr story align themselves more comfortably with the timing of the shots, two pieces of evidence do not fit. First, how does one explain Hamilton’s obviously sincere conviction, delivered
to Hosack and Pendleton in the boat afterward, that he had never fired his pistol? And second, if Hamilton did fire at Burr, how does one account for the severed branch so high above and off to the side of Burr’s position?

There is a plausible and quite persuasive answer to the second question, which will then lead us to a plausible but more speculative answer to the first. The key insight, possessing the potential to unlock the mystery produced by the contradictory versions of what happened during the duel, is that both sides constructed their explanations around self-serving and misguided assumptions. The Hamilton side needed to claim that their fallen chief was a martyr who had arrived at Weehawken fully intending to expose himself to Burr’s fire without shooting back. The Burr side needed to claim that their hero had behaved honorably, in accord with the principles of the
code duello
, and, after exposing his own life to Hamilton’s pistol, had responded in kind but with better aim. The Hamiltonian story required a distortion in the sequence of the exchange in order to preserve Hamilton’s posthumous reputation. The Burr story required a distortion of Hamilton’s honorable intentions in order to justify Burr’s fatal response. Both versions misrepresent what, in all likelihood, really happened.

Hamilton did fire his weapon intentionally, and he fired first. But he aimed to miss Burr, sending his ball into the tree above and behind Burr’s location. In so doing, he did not withhold his shot, but he did waste it, thereby honoring his preduel pledge. Meanwhile, Burr, who did not know about the pledge, did know that a projectile from Hamilton’s gun had whizzed past him and crashed into the tree to his rear. According to the principles of the
code duello
, Burr was perfectly justified in taking deadly aim at Hamilton and firing to kill.
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But did he? This is not a question we can resolve beyond a reasonable doubt. In that sense the secret is locked forever in the vast recesses of Burr’s famously enigmatic mind at that most pregnant moment. But consider the following pieces of circumstantial evidence: By killing Hamilton, Burr had nothing to gain and everything to lose, as he almost certainly knew at the time and as subsequent events confirmed quite conclusively; Burr’s initial reaction to Hamilton’s collapse, as described by both Pendleton and Van Ness, was apparent surprise and regret, followed soon thereafter by an urge to speak with the wounded
Hamilton; moreover, in the latter stages of the preduel negotiations, when Hamilton’s side proposed that David Hosack serve as physician for both parties, Burr had concurred that one doctor was sufficient, then added, “even that unnecessary”; finally, when duelists wished to graze or wound their antagonist superficially, the most popular targets were the hips and legs; Burr’s ball missed being a mere flesh wound on the hip by only two or three inches, the damage to vital organs resulting from the ricochet off Hamilton’s rib.
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In the end, we can never know for sure. And it is perfectly possible that Burr’s smoldering hatred for Hamilton had reached such intensity that, once he had his tormentor standing helplessly in his sights, no rational calculation of his own best interests was operative at all. What is virtually certain, and most compatible with all the available evidence, is that Hamilton fired first and purposely missed. The only plausible explanation for his remark in the boat about the pistol still being loaded is that he was semiconscious, in shock, and did not know what he was saying. Or, less likely, that Pendleton and Hosack made it up to support their version of the story. What is possible, but beyond the reach of the available evidence, is that Burr really missed his target, too, that his own fatal shot, in fact, was accidental. Indeed, one of the most disarming features of the Burr version—a feature that enhances its overall credibility—is that it made Burr’s shot a more deliberate and premeditated act. (Why emphasize the interval if one’s intention was to diminish Burr’s culpability?) In those few but fateful seconds, the thoughts racing through Burr’s head would provide the ultimate answer to all questions about his character. But they are, like most of Burr’s deepest thoughts, lost forever.

O
UR INTENSE
focus on what happened on that ledge beneath the plains of Weehawken makes eminent historical sense, for the elemental reason that the Hamilton version of the story has dominated the history books, and it is most probably wrong. But by straining to recover the factual ingredients in the story, we have inadvertently ignored the most obvious question—namely, what were these two prominent American statesmen doing on the ledge in the first place? Granted, they were there because Burr challenged Hamilton, and Hamilton concluded
he could not refuse the challenge without staining his honor. But what had Hamilton done to so enrage Burr? And what was at stake for both men that was worth risking so much?

The short answer is that, just as there was a duel of words after the actual duel—won by Hamilton’s advocates—there was also a duel of words beforehand, which Burr won with equivalent decisiveness. The somewhat longer answer is that the exchange of words that preceded the exchange of shots was itself merely a culmination of long-standing personal animosity and political disagreement that emerged naturally, in retrospect almost inevitably, out of the supercharged political culture of the early republic.

In the verbal exchanges before the duel, there can be no question that Burr fired first. On June 18, 1804, he called Hamilton’s attention to a letter published almost two months earlier in the
Albany Register
in which the author, Dr. Charles Cooper, recalled a harangue Hamilton had delivered against Burr the preceding February. Burr was then running for governor of New York and Hamilton had attacked his qualifications. Exactly what Hamilton said was not reported in Cooper’s letter, but it concluded with the following statement: “I could detail to you a still more despicable opinion which General HAMILTON has expressed of Mr. BURR.” The offensive word was
despicable
. Burr wanted Hamilton to explain or disavow the word: “You might perceive, Sir, the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgment or denial of the use of any expressions which could warrant the assertions of Dr. Cooper.”
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Knowing as we do that Burr’s request triggered a chain reaction that eventually produced the fatal explosion at Weehawken, it is instructive to note that neither Cooper’s letter nor Burr’s request mentioned any specific or clearly libelous statement by Hamilton. To be sure,
despicable
is hardly a compliment. But precisely what it referred to, or what Hamilton allegedly said about Burr, is unidentified. The core of the complaint was hollow. Therefore, all Hamilton had to do at this propitious moment was deny having said anything that could possibly fit that description, then express his personal regret that such slanderous insinuations had been attributed to him in the press. Burr would have had little choice but to accept his explanation.

Hamilton, however, chose to pursue another course. In effect, he used the inherent ambiguity of the offensive statement to evade any
direct response to Burr. He could not, he explained, “without manifest impropriety, make the avowal or disavowal you seem to think necessary.” What’s more, the crucial word “admits of infinite shades, from the very light to very dark. How am I to judge of the degree intended?” After delivering a brief lecture on the vagaries of grammar and syntax, calculated to irritate Burr, Hamilton went on the offensive. He felt obliged to object “on principle, to consent to be interrogated as to the justness of
inferences
, which may be drawn by
others
, from whatever I have said of a political opponent in the course of a fifteen year competition.” Burr’s own letter, therefore, was a gross insult in its arrogant insistence “upon a basis so vague as that which you have adopted.” Hamilton was certain that, once Burr recovered his wits and sense, “you will see the matter in the same light as me.” If not, then “I can only regret the circumstances, and must abide the consequences.” If Burr’s intention was to threaten him with the possibility of a duel, Hamilton was not disposed to submit passively to such threats. He would issue his own.
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