Founding Brothers (5 page)

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.”
¹⁸

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.
¹⁹

Hamilton’s fate was effectively sealed once he sent this letter. Not
only did he miss the opportunity to disown the offensive characterization of
Burr; he raised the rhetorical stakes with his dismissive tone and gratuitously
defiant counterthreat. Burr’s response was incisively curt: “having
Considered it attentively,” he wrote, “I regret to find in it
nothing of that sincerity and delicacy which you profess to Value.” Then
he raised the verbal game to yet a higher level of insult: “I relied with
unsuspecting faith that from the frankness of a Soldier and the Candor of a
gentleman I might expect an ingenuous declaration.” But such expectations
were obviously too much for such a duplicitous character as Hamilton, who
lacked “the Spirit to Maintain or the Magnanimity to retract” his
own words.
²⁰

Moreover,
Hamilton’s complaint—that he could hardly be expected to remember
everything he had said over “the course of a fifteen year
competition”—inadvertently opened up a whole new and much larger
field of conflict. In his instructions to Van Ness, who had become his
designated representative in the exchange, Burr explained that the Cooper
letter was merely the most recent libel against him by Hamilton. While Burr
claimed that he had always restrained himself when criticized by his political
enemies, “in regard of Mr. H there has been no reciprocity—for
several years his name has been lent to the support of Slanders.” Two
years earlier, in fact, Burr had claimed to have confronted Hamilton with a
personal complaint about incessant vilifications of his character, and Hamilton
had acknowledged his indiscretion. Despite the apology and apparent promise to
stop, Hamilton had then resumed his back-stabbing campaign. According to Burr,
the immediate incident only proved that Hamilton’s libelous ways were
incorrigible. Now, however, “these things must have an end.”
²¹

As a result,
the form of satisfaction Burr now demanded expanded beyond one single utterance
reported in an Albany newspaper. Van Ness relayed the new terms on June 25,
1804: “Col: Burr required a General disavowal of any intention on the
part of Genl Hamilton in his various conversations to convey impressions
derogatory to the honor of M. Burr.” Burr was now demanding a general
apology for all past indiscretions. He acknowledged that this represented an
escalation, but given Hamilton’s arrogant evasiveness, “more will
now be required than would have been asked at first.”
²²

By now
Pendleton had entered the negotiations as Hamilton’s representative. He
attempted to exercise his influence, as in fact the etiquette of the
code
duello
required, to find a way out of the impasse. Under Pendleton’s
prodding, Hamilton agreed to a statement disclaiming any recollection of the
conversation as recounted by Cooper. That conversation, as Hamilton now
remembered it, “consisted of comments on the political principles and
views of Col. Bur … without reference to any instance of past conduct,
or to private character.” Hamilton saw fit to repeat his main point,
“that the conversation to which Doctr Cooper alluded turned wholly on
political topics and did not attribute to Colo Burr, any instance of
dishonorable conduct, nor relate to his private character.”
²³

Strictly
speaking, Hamilton’s concession should have been the end of it. Affairs
of honor were supposed to involve only
personal
charges. Political or
ideological disagreements, no matter how deep, lay outside the field of honor
on which a gentleman could demand satisfaction. Hamilton’s distinction
between personal and political criticism was designed to change the dispute
with Burr from an affair of honor to a political difference of opinion.
Technically, given the rules of the
code duello,
Burr should have felt
obliged to accept Hamilton’s explanation as the equivalent of an
apology.

Except that Burr’s blood was now up. If Hamilton had
presented his distinction between personal and political criticism earlier, the
affair would most probably have ended before it began. Now, however, Burr would
be satisfied with nothing less than a wholesale and unqualified apology for all
previous remarks about his personal and political character: “No denial
or declaration will be satisfactory,” Van Ness explained, “unless
it be general, so as to wholly exclude the idea that rumors derogatory to Col.
Burr’s honor have originated with Genl Hamilton or have been fairly
inferred from anything he has said.” There must be no room in which
Hamilton could maneuver; it must be a blanket apology. “A retraction or
denial therefore of all such declarations or a disavowal of any intention to
impeach Col Burr without reference to time and place,” Van Ness
concluded, “is the only reparation that can be made.” Later on,
when this part of the correspondence between the two sides was published, that
eccentric Virginia statesman and veteran of multiple duels, John Randolph,
observed that Hamilton came off as “a sinking fox,” while Burr was
“a vigorous old hound” resolutely determined to hunt down his prey
with “an undeviating pursuit … not to be eluded or
baffled.”
²⁴

Just as most
duels in this era did not end in death or serious injury, most negotiations
over matters of honor did not end in duels. The Burr-Hamilton affair was
destined to prove an exception on both counts. Once Burr extended his demands
to cover their entire public careers, and then also refused to recognize the
traditional distinction between personal and political criticism, Hamilton was
truly trapped. Several more letters were exchanged, as Pendleton groped for an
honorable exit. He protested that Burr’s terms “have greatly
changed and extended the original ground of inquiry,” requiring Hamilton
to assume responsibility for “any
rumours
which may be afloat
… through the whole period of his acquaintance with Col Burr.” But
Burr did not budge, repeating his accusation that “secret whispers
traducing his fame and impeaching his honor” over more than a decade
demanded an unqualified apology, and that Hamilton’s insistence on
distinctions and qualifications “are proofs that he has done the injury
specified.” On June 27, 1804, Burr’s patience ran out: “The
length to which this correspondence has extended only tending to prove that the
satisfactory redress … cannot be obtained,” Van Ness explained,
“he deems it useless to offer any proposition except the simple Message
which I shall now have the honor to deliver.” It was the invitation for
“the interview at Weehawken.”
²⁵

Hamilton
requested a brief delay so that he could complete some pending legal business
and put his personal affairs in order. Both men prepared their wills and left
sufficient evidence to piece together some, albeit hazy, picture of what was on
their minds. Burr wrote his beloved daughter Theodosia and her husband,
extracting a promise that she would be allowed to pursue her study of Latin,
Greek, and the classics. Then, in a typically bizarre act of Burrish dash, he
requested that, if anything unforeseen should befall him, his daughter and
son-in-law convey his respects to one of his former paramours, now a married
woman living in Cuba.
²⁶

On July 4,
at the annual Independence Day dinner held by the Society of the Cincinnati,
Burr and Hamilton actually sat together at the same table. The artist John
Trumbull, who was also present, recorded the scene: “The singularity of
their manner was observed by all, but few had any suspicion of the cause. Burr
contrary to his wont, was silent, gloomy, sour; while Hamilton entered with
glee into the gaiety of a convivial party, and even sung an old military
song.” The tune that Hamilton sang, called “General Wolfe’s
Song,” was supposedly written by the great British general on the eve of
his glorious death on the Plains of Abraham outside Quebec in 1759. It was,
therefore, an eerily prophetic song, especially the stanza that went:

Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy,
boys?
Why, soldiers, why?
Whose business is to
die!
What! Sighing? fie!
Damn fear, drink on, be
jolly, boys!
’Tis he, you, or I.
²⁷

Hamilton’s last days contained several other incidents of equivalent
poignancy, though they were only recognizable when viewed through the knowledge
of the looming duel. On July 3, the day before the Society of the Cincinnati
dinner, he had a dinner party of his own at his new country house, the Grange.
The list of guests included William Short, formerly Thomas Jefferson’s
personal secretary in Paris and a lifelong Jefferson protégé.
Also invited were Abigail Adams Smith and her husband, the daughter and
son-in-law of John and Abigail Adams. Since Jefferson was Hamilton’s
primal political enemy, and since Adams was his bitterest opponent within the
Federalist party, a man whom Hamilton had publicly described as mentally
deranged and unfit for the presidency, the choice of guests suggests that
Hamilton was making some kind of statement about separating political and
personal differences. About this same time, he drafted a “Thesis on
Discretion” for his eldest surviving son. It singled out discretion as
“if not a splendid … at least a very useful virtue,” then
went on to offer an obviously autobiographical warning: “The greatest
abilities are sometimes thrown into the shade by this defect or are prevented
from obtaining the success to which they are entitled. The person on whom it is
chargeable [is] also apt to make and have numerous enemies and is occasionally
involved … in the most difficulties and dangers.”
²⁸