WHILE Aaron flourishes with Senate gavel, and Hamilton mourns his
downfall at the Grange, new men are springing up and new lines forming.
The Federalists disappear in the presidential going down of the wooden
Adams; Aaron, by that one crushing victory, annihilated them. The new
alignment in New York is personal rather than political, and becomes the
merest separation of Aaron’s friends from Aaron’s enemies.
At the head of the latter, De Witt Clinton, nephew to old
North-of-Ireland Clinton, takes his stand. Being modern, Clinton starts
a newspaper, the _American Citizen_, and places a scurrilous dog named
Cheetham in charge. As a counterweight, Aaron launches the _Morning
Chronicle_, with Peter Irving editor, and his brother, young Washington
Irving, as its leading writer. Now descends a war of ink, that is
recklessly acrimonious and not at all merry.
Under that spur of feverish ink, the two sides fall to dueling with
the utmost assiduity. Hamilton’s son Philip insults Mr. Eaker, a lawyer
friend of Aaron; and the insulted Mr. Eaker gives up the law for one day
to parade young Hamilton at the conventional ten paces. It is all highly
honorable, all highly orthodox; and young Hamilton is killed in a way
which reflects credit on those concerned.
Aaron’s lieutenant, John Swartwout, fastens a quarrel upon De Witt
Clinton, for sundry ink utterances of the latter’s dog-of-types,
Cheetham. The two cross the river to a spot of convenient seclusion.
“I wish it were your chief instead of you!” cries Clinton, who is not
fine in his politenesses.
“So do I,” responds Swartwout, being of a rudeness to match Clinton’s.
“For he is a dead shot, and would infallibly kill you; while I am the
poorest hand with a pistol among the Buck-tails.”
The bickering pair are placed. They fire and miss. A second, and yet a
third time their lead flies shamefully wide. At the fourth shot
Clinton saves his credit by wounding Swartwout in the leg. The stubborn
Swartwout demands a fifth fire, and Clinton plants a second bullet
within two inches of the first.
“Are you satisfied?” asks Mr. Riker, who acts for Clinton.
“I am not,” returns Swartwout the stubborn. “Your man must retract, or
continue the fight. Kill or be killed, I am prepared to shoot out the
afternoon with him.”
At this, both Clinton’s fortitude and manners break down together, and,
refusing to either fight on or apologize, he walks off the field.
This nervous extravagance creates a scandal among our folk of hectic
sensibilities, and shakes the Clinton standing sorely. He is promptly
challenged by Senator Dayton--an adherent of Aaron’s--but evades that
statesman at further loss to his reputation.
Meanwhile Robert Swartwout, brother to the wounded Swartwout, calls out
Mr. Riker, who acted for Clinton against the stubborn one, and has the
pleasure of dangerously wounding that personage. Also, Editor Coleman
of the Evening Post, weary with that felon scribe, goes after type-dog
Cheetham of Clinton’s American Citizen; whereat dog Cheetham flies
yelping.
This last so disturbs Harbor Master Thompson of the Clinton forces,
that he offers to take type-dog Cheetham’s place. Editor Coleman
being agreeable, they fight in a snowstorm in (inappropriately) Love’s
Lane--it will be University Place later--and the port loses a harbor
master at the first fire.
Aaron, gaveling the Senate in the way it should legislatively go, pays
no apparent heed to the smoky doings of his warlike subordinates.
He never takes his eyes from Hamilton, however; and, if that retired
publicist, complaining in his garden, would but cast his glance that
way, he might read in their black ophidian depths a saving warning. But
Hamilton is blind or mad, and thinks only on what he may do to injure
Aaron, and never once on what that perilous Vice-President might be
carrying on the shoulder of his purposes.
Hamilton devotes his garden leisure to vilifying Aaron. He goes stark
staring raving Aaron-mad; at the mention of the name he pours out a
muddy stream of slander. In talk, in print, in what letters he indites,
Aaron is accused of every infamy. There is nothing so preposterously
vile that he does not charge him with it. Aaron looks on and listens
with a grim, evil smile, saying nothing. It is as though he but waits
for Hamilton’s offenses to ripen in their accumulation, as one waits for
apples to ripen on a tree.
At last the hour of harvest comes; Aaron leaves Washington for Richmond
Hill, and sends for his friend Van Ness.
“You once marveled at my Hamilton moderation--wondered that I did not
stop his slanders with convincing lead?”
“Yes,” says Van Ness.
“You shall wonder no longer, my friend. The hour of his death is about
to strike.”
Van Ness breaks into a gale of protest. Hamilton, beaten, disgraced,
deposed, is in political exile! Aaron, powerful, victorious, is on the
crest of fortune! There is no fairness, no equality in an exchange of
shots under such circumstances! Thus runs the opposition of Van Ness.
“In short,” he concludes, “it would be a fight downhill--a fight that
you, in justice to yourself, have no right to make. Who is Alexander
Hamilton? Nobody--a beaten nobody! Who is Aaron Burr? The second officer
of the nation, on his sure way to a White House! Let me say, sir, that
you must not risk so much against so little.”
“There is no risk; for I shall kill the man. I shall live and he shall
die.”
“Cannot you see? There is the White House! Adams went from
the Vice-Presidency to the Presidency; Jefferson went from the
Vice-Presidency to the Presidency; you will do the same. It’s as though
the White House were already yours. And you would throw it away for a
shot at this broken, beaten, disregarded man! For let me tell you, sir;
kill Hamilton and you kill your chance of being President. No one may
hope to go into the White House on the back of a duel.”
About Aaron’s mouth twinkles a pale smile. It lights up his face with a
cold dimness, as a will-o’-the-wisp lights up the midnight blackness of
a wood.
“You have a memory only for what I lose. You forget what I gain.”
“What you gain?”
“Ay, friend, what I gain. I shall gain vengeance; and I would sooner be
revenged than be President.”
“Now this is midsummer madness!” wails Van Ness. “To throw away a career
such as yours is simple frenzy!”
“I do not throw away a career; I begin one.”
Van Ness stares; Aaron goes slowly on, as though he desires every word
to make an impression.
“Listen, my friend; I’ve been preparing. Last week I closed out all my
houses and lands! to John Jacob Astor for one hundred and forty thousand
dollars. The one lone thing I own is Richmond Hill--the roof we sit
beneath. I’d have sold this, but I did not care to attract attention.
There would have come questions which I’m not ready to answer.”
Van Ness fills a glass of Cape, and settles himself to hear; he sees
that this is but the beginning.
Aaron proceeds: “As we sit here to-night, Napoleon has been declared
hereditary Emperor of the French. It has been on its way for months, and
the next packet will bring us the news.”
“And what have the Corsican and his empire to do with us?”
“A President,” continues Aaron, ignoring the question, “is not
comparable to an emperor. The Presidential term is but a stunted
thing--in four years, eight at the most, your President comes to
his end. And what is an ex-President? Look at Adams, peevish,
disgruntled--unhappy in what he is, because he remembers what he was.
To be a President is well enough. To be an ex-President is to seek to
satisfy present hunger with the memories of banquets eaten years ago.
For myself, I would sooner be an emperor; his throne is his for life,
and becomes his son’s or his grandson’s after him.”
“What does this lead to?” asks Van Ness, vastly puzzled. “Admitting your
imperial preferences, how are they applicable here and now?”
“Let me show you,” responds Aaron, still slow and measured and
impressive. “What is possible in the East is possible in the West;
what has been done in Europe may be done in America. Napoleon comes to
Paris--lean, epileptic, poor, unknown, not even French. To-day he is
emperor. Also”--this with a laugh which, however, does not prevent Van
Ness from seeing that Aaron is deeply serious--“also, he is two inches
shorter than myself.”
Van Ness leans back and makes a little gesture with his hand, as who
should say: “Continue!”
“Very well! Would it be a stranger story if I, Aaron Burr, were to found
an empire in the West--if I became Aaron I, as the Corsican has become
Napoleon I?”
“You do not talk of overturning our government?” This in tones of
wonder, and not without some flash of angry horror.
“Don’t hold me so dull. The people of this country are unfitted for king
or emperor. They would throw down a thousand thrones while you set up
one. I’ve studied races and peoples. Let me give you a word; it will
serve should you go to nation building. Never talk of crowns or thrones
to blue-eyed or gray-eyed men. They are inimical, in the very seeds of
their natures, to thrones and crowns.”
“England?”
“England, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Holland are monarchies only in name.
In fact and spirit they are republics. If you would have king or emperor
in very truth, you must go to your black-eyed folk. Setting this country
aside, if you cast a glance toward the southwest, you will behold a
people who should be the very raw materials of an empire.”
“Mexico!” exclaims the astonished Van Ness.
“Ay, Mexico! There is nothing which Napoleon Bonaparte has done in
France, which Aaron Burr may not do in Mexico. I would have the flower
of this country at my back. Indeed, it should be easier to ascend the
throne of the Montezumas than of the Bourbons. I believe, too--for I
think he would feel safer with a brother emperor in the West--I might
count on Napoleon’s help for that climbing. However, we overrun the
hunt”--Aaron seems to recall himself like one who comes out of a
dream--“I am thinking not on empire, but vengeance. I have thrown out a
rude picture of my plans, however, because I hope to have your company
in them. Also, I wanted to show how utterly in my heart I have given
up America and an American career. It is Mexico and the throne of an
emperor, not Washington and the chair of a President, at which I aim. I
am laying my foundations, not for four years, not for eight years, but
for life. I shall be Aaron I, Emperor of Mexico; with my grandson, Aaron
Burr Alston, to follow me as Aaron II. There; that should do for ‘Aaron
and empire.’” This, with a return to the cynical: “Now let us get to
Hamilton and vengeance. The scoundrel has spat his toad-venom on my name
and fame for twenty years; the turn shall now be mine.”
Van Ness is silent; the glimpses he has been given of Aaron’s high
designs have tied his tongue.
Aaron gets out a letter. “Here,” he says; “you will please carry that
to Hamilton. It marks the beginning of my revenge. I base it on excerpts
taken from a printed letter written by Dr. Cooper, who says: ‘General
Hamilton and Judge Kent have declared in substance that they look upon
Colonel Burr as a dangerous man, and one who ought not to be trusted
with the reins of government. I could detail a still more despicable
opinion which General Hamilton has expressed of Colonel Burr.’ I
demand,” concludes Aaron, “that he explain or account to me for having
furnished such an ‘opinion’ to Dr. Cooper.”
Van Ness purses up his lips, and knots his forehead cogitatively.
“Why pitch upon this letter of Cooper’s as a _casus belli?_” he asks at
last. “It is ambiguous, and involves a question of Cooper’s construction
of English. If we had nothing better it might do; but there is no such
pressure. Hamilton, on many recent occasions, in speeches and in print,
has applied to you the lowest epithets.”
“You may recall, sir, that I once told you I was an artist of revenge.
It is this very ambiguity I’m after. I would hook the fellow--hook him
and play him as I would a fish! The man’s a coward. I saw it written on
his face that day when, following ‘Long Island,’ he threw away his gun
and stores. By coming at him with this ambiguity, he will hope in the
beginning to secure himself by evasions. He will write; I shall respond;
there will be quite a correspondence. Days will drag along in agony and
torment to him. And all the time he cannot escape. From the moment I
send him that letter he is mine. It is as if I had him in a narrow
lane; he cannot get by me. On the other hand, if I come upon him, as you
suggest, with some undeniable charge, it will all be over in a moment.
He will be obliged at once to toe the peg. You now understand that I
design only in this letter to hook him hard and fast. When I have so
played him as to satisfy even my hatred, rest secure I’ll reel him in.
He can no more avoid meeting me than he can avoid trembling when he
contemplates the dark promise of that meeting. His wife would despise
him, his very children cut him dead were he to creep aside.”
Van Ness goes with Aaron’s letter to Hamilton. The latter, as he reads
it, cannot repress a start. The blood rushes from his face to his heart
and back again; for, as though the blind were made to see, he realizes
the snare into which he has walked--a snare that he himself has spread
to his own undoing.
With an effort he commands his agitation. “You shall have my answer by
the hand of Mr. Pendleton,” he says.
Hamilton’s reply, long and wordy, is two days on its way. As Aaron
foretold, it is wholly evasive, and comes in its analysis to be nothing
better than a desperate peering about for a hole through which its
author may crawl, and drag with him what he calls his honor.
Aaron’s reply closes each last loophole of escape. “Your letter,” he
says, “has furnished me new reasons for requiring a definite reply.”
Hamilton reads his doom in this; and yet he cannot consent to the
sacrifice, but struggles on. He makes a second response, this time at
greater length than before.
Aaron, implacable as Death, reads what Hamilton has written.
“I think we should close the business,” he says to Van Ness, as he gives
him Hamilton’s letter. “It has been ten days since I sent my initial
note, and I have had enough of vengeance in anticipation. And so for the
last act.” Aaron dispatches Van Ness with a peremptory challenge. There
being no gateway of relief, Hamilton is driven to accept. Even then
comes a cry for time; Hamilton asks that the hour of final meeting be
fixed ten further days away. Aaron smiles that pale smile of hatred made
content, and grants the prayed-for delay.
The morning following the challenge and its acceptance, Pendleton
appears with another note from Hamilton--who obviously prefers pens to
pistols for the differences in hand. Aaron, smiling his pale smile of
contented hate, refuses to receive it.
“There is,” he observes, “no more to be said on either side, a challenge
having been given and accepted. The one thing now is to load the pistols
and step off the ground.”
It is four days later, and the fight six days away. Aaron and Hamilton
meet at a dinner given on Independence Day. Hamilton is hysterically
gay, and sings his famous song, “The Drum.” Also, he never once looks at
Aaron, who, dark and lowering and silent, the black serpent sparkle
in his eye, seldom shifts his gaze from Hamilton. Aaron’s stare,
remorseless, hungrily steadfast, is the stare of the tiger as it sights
its prey.
Dr. Hosack calls on Aaron, where the latter sits alone at Richmond Hill.
Wine is brought; the good doctor takes a nervous glass. He has a rosy,
social face, has the good doctor, a face that tells of friendships and
the genial board. Just now, however, he is out of spirits. Desperately
setting down his wineglass, he flounders into the business that has
brought him.
“I can hardly excuse my coming,” he says, “and I apologize before I
state my errand. I would have you believe, too, that my presence here is
entirely by my own suggestion.”
Aaron bows.
The good doctor explains that he has been called upon to go,
professionally, to the fighting ground with Hamilton.
“That is how I became aware,” he concludes, “of what you have in train.
I resolved to see you, and make one last effort at a peaceful solution.”
Aaron coldly shakes his head: “There can be no adjustment.”
“Think of his family, sir! Think of his wife and his seven children!”
“Sir, it is he who should have thought of them. You should have gone to
him when he was maligning me. What? You know how this man has slandered
me! He has spoken to you as he has to hundreds of others!” The good
doctor looks guiltily uneasy. “And now I am asked to sit down with the
scorn he has heaped upon me, because he has a family! Does it not occur
to you, sir, that I, too, have a family? But with this difference:
Should he fall, there will be eight to share the loss among them. If I
fall, the blow descends on but one pair of loving shoulders, and those
the slender shoulders of a girl.”
There is no hope: The good doctor goes his disappointed way.
The fighting grounds are a flat, grassy shelf of rock, under the heights
of Weehawken. The morning is bright, with the July sun coming up over
the bay. Hamilton, pale, like a man going open-eyed to death, takes
his barge at the landing near the Grange. The good Dr. Hosack and his
friend Pendleton are with him. The barge is pulled across to the grassy
shelf, under the somber Weehawken heights.
The good doctor remains by the barge, while Hamilton, with friend
Pendleton, ascends the rocky, shelving, shingly twenty feet to the place
of meeting. They find Aaron and Van Ness awaiting them. Aaron touches
his hat stiffly, and walks to the far end of the narrow grassy shelf.
Seconds Pendleton and Van Ness toss a dollar piece. Pendleton wins word
and choice of position.
Ten paces are stepped off. Second Pendleton places his man at the
up-the-river end of the six-foot grassy shelf. Aaron, pistol in hand, is
given the other end. The word is to be:
“Present!--one--two--three--stop!” As the two stand in position, Aaron
is confident, deadly, implacable; Hamilton looks the man already lost.
Seconds Pendleton and Van Ness retire out of range.
“Gentlemen, are you ready?”.
“Ready!” says Aaron.
“Ready!” says Hamilton.
There is a pause, heavy with death. Then comes:
“Present!-------”
There is a flash and a roar!--a double flash, a double roar! The smoke
curls, the rocks echo! Hamilton, with a stifled moan, reels, clutches at
nothing, and pitches forward on his face--shot through and through. The
Hamilton lead, wild and high, cuts a twig above Aaron’s head.
Aaron takes a step toward his slain foe, and looks long and deep, like
a man drinking. Van Ness comes up; Aaron tosses him the pistol, as folk
toss aside a tool when the work is done--well done. Then he walks down
to his barge, and shoves away for Richmond Hill, whose green peaceful
cedars are smiling just across the river.
“It was worth the price, Van Ness,” says Aaron. “The taste of that
immortal vengeance will never perish on my lips, nor its fragrance die
out in my heart.”