- ANTONE PIERUCCI
- Posted On
This Week in History: The showdown between Burr and Hamilton
It was the morning of July 11, 1804, and Aaron Burr Jr. awoke with a start.
The soft gray light of predawn bled through the wood shutters covering the windows, bringing with it the quiet sounds of his upscale New York City neighborhood.
Lying still on the couch he had fallen asleep on, America’s third vice-president mentally went over his daily schedule.
In reality, only one appointment occupied his mind: his 7 a.m. “interview” with an impertinent political rival.
His lips tightened into a stern line across his face.
With a sigh, he swung his legs to the floor and, elbows resting on his silk pants, the 48-year-old pushed back the lank mass of dark hair that receded from his forehead. He straightened his vest and picked off an errant piece of lint from the cuff of his bone-white shirt.
He usually didn’t sleep in his clothes, but then again he usually didn’t sleep on his couch. He was giddy with anticipation.
After a quick bite to eat and a strong cup of tea, he called for his carriage and set out towards the docks on the banks of the Hudson River. After a brief, clattering ride through the already-crowded streets, the carriage clattered to a stop in front of Burr’s aid and protégé William Van Ness.
The younger man had secured their transportation: a low wood skiff that rocked with the waves and bumped against the stone pier. Lowering themselves into the small boat, the two men shuffled unsteadily along the bench before settling down.
Burr stared blankly at the distant shore of New Jersey. He hated New Jersey. But then, he really didn’t like any place other than his home of New York. With an irritated flick of his wrist, he urged the oarsman to begin the journey across the still surface of the Hudson. No point in delaying the inevitable.
Meanwhile, along a different part of the New York City shore, near modern-day Wall Street, another party of men had just arrived at a different skiff.
At the head of this group was a short, delicate-looking man of middle age. Even in the relative warmth of a New York summer morning, this man’s face looked pale around the eyes and mouth, as if sapped of blood from cold. But his cheeks flushed a warm red, a color to match what remained of the red hair in his fast-greying mane.
His small stature and delicate features belied a fierce character and unwavering will. He wasn’t called the Little Lion for nothing. Joining this red-haired gentleman in the skiff were his physician Dr. David Hosack and his good friend Nathaniel Pendleton. With little more than an exchange of glances, his companions grabbed the oars and began the trek over the river towards New Jersey.
The plan, thoroughly sketched out and agreed upon by both parties, was for Burr to arrive first at 7 a.m., which he did with his usual promptness, his small skiff running aground and its occupants clambering out.
The site of the “interview” was an isolated ledge overlooking the river near Weehawken, New Jersey. This was a favorite site for “interviews” since the location was relatively isolated and inaccessible, deterring most who happened to see it from the river. After picking their way up the bank from the river, Burr and Van Ness walked out onto a ledge roughly 10-feet-wide and 40-feet-long.
The second party arrived just as Van Ness began to clear away brush and tall weeds from the grounds. Their journey across the river had been spent in animated conversation, the red-haired man running through his plans for the next week and his friends adding their two cents of advice.
When they had arrived at the site, the doctor stayed in the boat while the other two proceeded up the slope to the ledge. Pendleton stepped forward in front of his red-haired companion and conferred with Van Ness.
All of this was done with textbook formality. After all, there were specific rules for this sort of “interview.” Of course, this was no “interview,” at least not in the normal sense of the word. “Interview” was a euphemism.
This was to be a duel.
Once the particulars were sorted out, Pendleton and Van Ness directed their respective friends to the proper positions. Because he had made the initial challenge, Burr was not able to choose which side of the field he stood on (part of the rules).
Oddly, his opponent chose the side facing the rising sun. Not one to question good fortune, Burr settled himself into a standing position opposite.
With his right shoulder facing his opponent, Burr sucked in his stomach to try to create as small a target as possible. He hefted the weight of the flintlock dueling pistol. The two opponents faced each other across roughly 10 yards of sun-parched weeds and dirt.
Warily, the two opponents eyed one another, waiting for the signal to commence. More than two decades of animosity, fear, and political differences electrified the space, crystalizing these two enemies into a moment that defined a nation.
In a voice loud enough to carry over the wind that scoured the ledge, Pendleton shouted “PRESENT!” and the concussive retort of first one shot and then another ripped apart the tranquility of the morning. The red-haired gentleman had fired his own bullet first, but intentionally shot over Burr’s head. Burr, on the other hand, had more lethal intentions in mind.
The half-inch lead ball raced across the gap between the two men at a rate of roughly 1,000 feet per second. Weighing about as much as two modern quarters, the 52-caliber ball hit the man opposite Burr in the lower abdomen, just above the right hip.
Lead is a soft metal, a quality that made it gruesomely effective on this morning. As the bullet ricocheted off the victim’s second or third false rib it mushroomed out, expanding to nearly twice its original size and causing devastating damage to internal organs. Finally, the now deformed lead mass lodged in the man’s vertebrae.
A grunt, an exhale of breath, and the red-haired man collapsed. He was dying, he knew that when he hit the ground. When Dr. Hosack rushed up the hill from the boat and to his fallen friend, the dying man calmly informed him, “This is a mortal wound, doctor.”
Before the smoke from the pistols cleared, Burr realized that his opponent had never intended to shoot him. “Damn,” he thought and started forward towards him. We’ll never know what he hoped to say to the man he had just killed because before he reached him, Van Ness stopped Burr short and hurried him away from the scene.
The red-haired man, Alexander Hamilton, died later that day, surrounded by his family and friends.
Antone Pierucci is curator of history at the Riverside County Park and Open Space District and a freelance writer whose work has been featured in such magazines as Archaeology and Wild West as well as regional California newspapers.
