Joseph J. Ellis by Founding Brothers: The Revolutionary Generation

regret, followed soon thereafter by an urge to speak with the woundedHamilton; 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. 17
    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 concludedhe 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