In the selection that follows, David Hosack, the physician who attended
Hamilton at the duel, describes the scene immediately after Burr fired
the fatal shot. He writes to William Coleman, editor of the New York
_Post_, the paper Hamilton had founded.
To comply with your request is a painful task; but I will repress my
feelings while I endeavor to furnish you with an enumeration of such
particulars relative to the melancholy end of our beloved friend
Hamilton, as dwell most forcibly on my recollection.
When called to him, upon his receiving the fatal wound, I found him
half sitting on the ground, supported in the arms of Mr. Pendleton.
His countenance of death I shall never forget. He had at that instant
just strength to say, “This is a mortal wound, Doctor”; when he sunk
away, and became to all appearance lifeless. I immediately stripped up
his clothes, and soon, alas! ascertained that the direction of the
ball must have been through some vital part. His pulses were not to be
felt; his respiration was entirely suspended; and upon laying my hand
on his heart, and perceiving no motion there, I considered him as
irrecoverably gone. I however observed to Mr. Pendleton that the only
chance for his reviving was immediately to get him upon the water.
We therefore lifted him up, and carried him out of the wood, to the
margin of the bank, where the bargemen aided us in conveying him into
the boat, which immediately put off. During all this time I could not
discover the least symptom of returning life. I now rubbed his face,
lips, and temples, with spirits of hartshorn, applied it to his neck
and breast, and to the wrists and palms of his hands, and endeavored
to pour some into his mouth. When we had got, as I should judge, about
fifty yards from the shore, some imperfect efforts to breathe were for
the first time manifest. In a few minutes he sighed, and became
sensible to the impression of the hartshorn, or the fresh air of the
water. He breathed; his eyes, hardly opened, wandered, without fixing
upon any objects. To our great joy he at length spoke: “My vision is
indistinct,” were his first words. His pulse became more perceptible;
his respiration more regular; his sight returned.
... Soon after recovering his sight, he happened to cast his eye upon
the case of pistols, and observing the one that he had had in his hand
lying on the outside, he said, “Take care of that pistol; it is
undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm.—_Pendleton
knows_ (attempting to turn his head towards him) _that I did not
intend to fire at him_.” “Yes,” said Mr. Pendleton, understanding his
wish, “I have already made Dr. Hosack acquainted with your
determination as to that.”... Perceiving that we approached the shore,
he said, “Let Mrs. Hamilton be immediately sent for. Let the event be
gradually broken to her; but give her hopes.”
Looking up, we saw his friend Mr. Bayard standing on the wharf in
great agitation. He had been told by his servant that General
Hamilton, Mr. Pendleton, and myself, had crossed the river in a boat
together, and too well he conjectured the fatal errand, and foreboded
the dreadful result. Perceiving, as we came nearer, that Mr. Pendleton
and myself only sat up in the stern sheets, he clasped his hands
together in the most violent apprehension; but when I called to him to
have a cot prepared, and he at the same moment saw his poor friend
lying in the bottom of the boat, he threw up his eyes and burst into a
flood of tears and lamentation. Hamilton alone appeared tranquil and
composed. We then conveyed him as tenderly as possible up to the
house. The distresses of this amiable family were such that till the
first shock was abated, they were scarcely able to summon fortitude
enough to yield sufficient assistance to their dying friend.
... During the night he had some imperfect sleep; but the succeeding
morning his symptoms were aggravated, attended, however, with a
diminution of pain. His mind retained all its usual strength and
composure. The great source of his anxiety seemed to be in his
sympathy with his half-distracted wife and children. He spoke to her
frequently of them. “My beloved wife and children,” were always his
expressions. But his fortitude triumphed over his situation, dreadful
as it was. Once, indeed, at the sight of his children brought to the
bedside together, seven in number, his utterance forsook him. He
opened his eyes, gave them one look, and closed them again till they
were taken away. As a proof of his extraordinary composure of mind,
let me add that he alone could calm the frantic grief of their mother.
“_Remember, my Eliza, you are a Christian_,” were the expressions with
which he frequently, with a firm voice, but in a pathetic and
impressive manner, addressed her. His words, and the tone in which
they were uttered, will never be effaced from my memory. At about two
o’clock, as the public well knows, he expired.