Something of Men I Have Known Part 14

In his reply the next day Hamilton said:

"I cannot reconcile it with propriety to make the acknowledgment or denial you desire. I will add that I deem it inadmissable on principle to consent to be interrogated as to the justness of the inferences which may be drawn from others, from whatever I may have said of a political opponent in the course of fifteen years' compet.i.tion. I stand ready to avow, or disavow promptly and explicitly, any precise or definite opinion which I may be charged with having declared of any gentleman. More than this cannot be fitly expected from me; and especially it cannot be reasonably expected that I shall enter into an explanation upon a basis so vague as that which you have adopted. I trust on more reflection, you will see the matter in the same light with me. If not, I can only regret the circ.u.mstance, and must abide the consequences."

The immediate response of Burr to the above, after repeating his former demand, contained the following:

"Political opposition can never absolve gentlemen from the necessity of a rigid adherence to the laws of honor and the rules of decorum.

I neither claim such privilege, nor indulge it in others."

Hamilton's reply being unsatisfactory, the formal challenge of Burr was soon thereafter handed to him by W. P. Van Ness. The last named was the second of Burr, and Nathaniel Pendleton was the friend of Hamilton.

Some days elapsed after the formal acceptance of the challenge before the fatal meeting. That Hamilton was anxious to avoid the conflict, clearly appears from a perusal of the many publications that immediately followed. A paper he prepared explanatory in character, the second of Burr declined to receive, on the ground that he considered the correspondence closed by the acceptance of the challenge.

It touches our sympathies deeply even after the lapse of a century to read the letter written by Hamilton to his wife to be delivered in the event of his death, in which he states that he has endeavored by all honorable means to avoid the duel which probably he would not survive. He begs her forgiveness for the pain his death would cause her, and entreats her to bear her sorrows as one who has placed a firm reliance on a kind Providence.

A few days before his death, he and Burr were guests at a dimmer given by the Cincinnati Society, of which both were members.

Few persons were aware of what was pending, but it was observed that Hamilton "entered with glee into all the gayety of a convivial party, and even sang an old military song." Burr, upon the contrary, was "silent, gloomy, and remained apart."

In his will, written July 9, Hamilton expressed deep regret that his death will prevent the full payment of his debts. He expresses the hope that his children will, in time, make up to his creditors all that may be due them. After tenderly committing to his children the care of their mother, he says, "in all situations you are charged to bear in mind, that she has been to you the most devoted and best of mothers."

The last paper that came from his pen was evidently intended as his vindication to posterity, his appeal to time. In this he says:

"I was certainly desirous of avoiding this interview, for the most cogent reasons. My religious and moral principles are strongly opposed to duelling, and it would give me pain to be obliged to shed the blood of a fellow-creature in a private combat forbidden by the laws. My wife and children are extremely dear to me, and my life is of the utmost importance to them. I am conscious of no ill-will to Colonel Burr distinct from political opposition, which I trust has proceeded from pure and upright motives. Lastly, I shall hazard much and shall possibly gain nothing by the issue of the interview. But it was impossible for me to avoid it."

He candidly admits that his criticisms of Colonel Burr have been severe. He says:

"And on different occasions, I--in common with many others--have made very unfavorable criticisms of the private character of this gentleman. It is not my design to fix any odium on the conduct of Colonel Burr in this case. He may have supposed himself under the necessity of acting as he has done. I hope the grounds of his proceeding have been such as to satisfy his own conscience. I trust, at the same time, that the world will do me the justice to believe that I have not censured him on light grounds, nor from unworthy inducements."

How strangely in the light of history sounds the following: "It is my ardent wish that he, by his future conduct, may show himself worthy of all confidence and esteem, and prove an ornament and blessing to the country."

That some lingering apprehension existed in the mind of General Hamilton that his criticisms of Colonel Burr might not have been altogether generous, appears from the following:

"As well because it is possible that I may have injured Colonel Burr, however convinced myself that my opinions and declarations have been well-founded, as from my general principles and temper in relation to similar affairs, I have resolved, if our interview is conducted in the usual manner, and it please G.o.d to give me the opportunity, to reserve and throw away my first fire; and I have thought even of reserving my second fire, and thus giving to Colonel Burr a double opportunity to pause and to reflect."

And then, before laying down his pen for the last time, he struck the keynote to the conduct of many brave men who, like himself, reluctantly accepted a call to "the field of honor." These are his closing words:

"To those who with me, abhorring the practice of duelling, may think that I ought under no account to have added to the number of bad examples, I answer, that my relative situation as well in public as in private enforcing all the considerations which const.i.tute what men of the world denominate honor imposed on me a peculiar necessity not to decline the call. The ability to be in future useful, whether in arresting mischief or effecting good in this crisis of our public affairs which seemed likely to happen, would probably be inseparable from a conformity with public prejudice in this particular."

At seven o'clock in the morning of July 11, 1804, at Weehawken, New Jersey, the fatal meeting took place. After the usual formal salutation, the parties were placed in position by their seconds, ten paces apart, the pistols placed in their hands, and the word being given both fired. General Hamilton instantly fell.

The statement subsequently given out by the seconds is as follows:

"Colonel Burr then advanced toward General Hamilton with a manner and gesture that appeared to be expressive of regret, but without speaking turned about and withdrew, being urged from the field by his friends. No further communication took place between the princ.i.p.als, and the barge that carried Colonel Burr immediately returned to the city. We conceive it proper to add that the conduct of the parties in this interview was perfectly proper as suited the occasion."

The surgeon in attendance states that after Hamilton was borne to the barge he observed, "Pendleton knows that I did not intend to fire at him." As they approached the sh.o.r.e he said, "Let Mrs. Hamilton be immediately sent for; let the event be gradually broken to her, but give her hopes." His physician adds:

"During the night his mind retained its usual strength and composure.

The great source of his anxiety seemed to be in his sympathy with his half-distracted wife and children. 'My beloved wife and children'

was his often used expression, but his fort.i.tude triumphed over his situation, dreadful as it was. Once, indeed, at the sight of his children, seven in number, brought to his bedside together, his utterance forsook him. To his wife he said in a firm voice but with a pathetic and impressive manner, 'Remember, my Eliza, that you are a Christian.' His words and the tone in which they were uttered, will never be effaced from my memory."

After indescribable agony, death came at two o'clock of the day succeeding the duel. Thus, at the age of forty-seven, perished Alexander Hamilton, a great man in any country or time. Cities and counties bear his name in almost every American State. The story of his wondrous life and tragic death will never lose its pathetic interest. His unswerving devotion to the country of his adoption, his untiring efforts in the establishment of the national Government, and his friendship for Washington, which knew no abatement, have given Hamilton honored and enduring place in American history.

As to Burr, the proverb found instant verification that "in duels the victor is always the victim." Had he, instead of Hamilton, fallen on that ill-fated July morning, how changed their possible places in history. A halo has gathered about the name of Hamilton. Monuments have been erected to his memory, his statue has been given high place in the Capitol. The hour of his fall was that of his exaltation.

The self-same hour witnessed the ruin of his antagonist. From the fatal field, unharmed in body, he turned away, henceforth to the followed by the execrations of his countrymen. Past services were forgotten, brilliant talents availed nothing. His desperate attempt to found a rival government by the partial dismemberment of the one he had helped to establish was thwarted, and after years of poverty and misfortune abroad, he returned to die in neglect and obscurity in his own country. As was truly said: "He was the last of his race; there was no kindred hand to smooth his couch, or wipe the death-damp from his brow. No banners drooped over his bier; no melancholy music floated upon the reluctant air."

The Hon. Hamilton Spencer, one of the ablest of lawyers, gave me an interesting account of an interview he had with Colonel Burr in Albany not long before his death. Notwithstanding his advanced age, broken health, and ruined fortunes, he deeply impressed Mr.

Spencer as a gentleman of most courteous manners, dignified bearing, and commanding presence such as he had rarely seen.

The one object of his love was his daughter, the beautiful Theodosia.

Her devotion to her father increased with his acc.u.mulating misfortunes.

The ship in which she sailed from her home in Charleston, South Carolina, to meet him in New York, never reached its destination.

In all history, there are few pictures more pathetic than that of the gray-haired, friendless man, with faded cloak drawn closely about him, day after day wandering alone by the seaside, anxiously awaiting the coming of the one being who loved him, the idolized daughter whose requiem was even then being chanted by the waves.

One of the men I occasionally met in Washington was Joseph C.

McKibben, a former representative in Congress from the Pacific coast. He was thoroughly familiar with the history of California from its cession to the United States at the close of the Mexican War.

He had been an active partic.i.p.ant in many of the stirring events occurring soon after the admission of the State into the Union.

"Men, except in bad novels, are not all good, or all evil."

Colonel McKibben was the second of David C. Broderick in his duel with Judge Terry. At the time of the duel, Broderick was a Senator of the United States, and Terry the Chief Justice of California. The challenge given by Terry was promptly accepted.

As will be remembered, in the encounter which immediately followed, Terry escaped unhurt and Broderick was killed.

I recall vividly the description given me of the meeting between these men in that early Spring morning in 1859. Both possessed unquestioned courage. Their demeanor upon the field, as in deadly att.i.tude they confronted each other a few paces apart, was that of absolute fearlessness. "Each had set his life upon a cast, and was ready to stand the hazard of the die."

Rarely have truer words been uttered than those of the gifted Baker over the dead body of Broderick:

"The code of honor is a delusion and a snare; it palters with the hope of true courage, and binds it at the feet of crafty and cruel skill. It surrounds its victim with the pomp and grace of the procession, but leaves him bleeding on the altar. It subst.i.tutes cold and deliberate preparedness for courage and manly impulse, and arms the one to disarm the other. It makes the mere trick of the weapon superior to the n.o.blest cause and the truest courage. Its pretence of equality is a lie; it is equal in all the form, it is unjust in all the substance. The habitude of arms, the early training, the frontier life, the border war, the sectional custom, the life of leisure, all these are advantages which no negotiations can neutralize, and which no courage can overcome.

Code of honor! It is a prost.i.tution of the name, is an evasion of the substance, and is a shield blazoned with the name of chivalry to cover the malignity of murder."

The tragic ending of the eventful career of Judge Terry, which occurred within the last decade, will be readily recalled.

Immediately following his a.s.sault upon Justice Field at the railway station in Lathrop, California, he was slain by a deputy United States marshal. The wife of Terry was at his side, and the scene that followed beggars description.

The name of Terry at once recalls the "Vigilance Committee" of early San Francisco days. The committee was composed largely of leading men of the "law-and-order" element of the city. Robberies and murders were of nightly occurrence, and gamblers and criminals in many instances were the inc.u.mbents of the public offices.

The organization mentioned became an imperative necessity for the protection of life and property. The work of the committee const.i.tutes one of the bloodiest chapters of early Californian history.

Nearly a third of a century ago, Colonel Thornton, a prominent lawyer of San Francisco, related to me an incident which he had witnessed during the time the famous Vigilance Committee was in complete control. A young lawyer, recently located in San Francisco, was arrested for stabbing a well-known citizen who was at the time one of the most active members of the Vigilance Committee. The name of the lawyer was David S. Terry, at a later day Chief Justice of the State. The dread tribunal was presided over by one of the most courageous and best known citizens of the Pacific coast.

At a later day, his name was presented by his State to the National Convention of his party for nomination for the Vice-Presidency.

When brought before the Vigilance Committee, the demeanor of Terry was that of absolute fearlessness. Standing erect and perfectly self-possessed, he listened to the ominous words of the president: "Mr. Terry, you are charged with attempted murder; what have you to say?" Advancing a step nearer the committee "organized to convict," and in a tone that at once challenged the respect of all, Terry replied, "If your Honor please, I recognize the jurisdiction of this court, and am ready for trial." He then clearly established the fact that his a.s.sault was in self-defence, and after a masterly speech, delivered with as much self-possession as if a life other than his own trembled in the balance, was duly acquitted.

Another California with whom I was personally acquainted, was William M. Gwin. He had long pa.s.sed the allotted three score and ten when I first met him at the home of the late Senator Sharon.

Few men have known so eventful a career. He had been the private secretary of Andrew Jackson. He knew well the public men of that day, and related many interesting incidents of the stormy period of the latter years of Jackson's Presidency. In his early manhood Gwin was a member of Congress from Alabama. At the close of the Mexican War he removed to California, and upon the admission of that State he and John C. Fremont were chosen its first Senators in Congress.

During a ride with him, he pointed out to me the spot where he had fought a duel in early California days. He was then a Senator, and his antagonist the Hon. J. W. McCorkle, a member of Congress.

A card signed by their respective seconds appeared the day following, to the effect that after the exchange of three ineffectual shots between the Hon. William M. Gwin and the Hon. J. W. McCorkle, the friends of the respective parties, having discovered that _their princ.i.p.als were fighting under a misapprehension of facts,_ mutually explained to their respective princ.i.p.als how the misapprehension had arisen. As a result, Senator Gwin promptly denied the cause of provocation and Mr. McCorkle withdrew his offensive language uttered at the race-course, and expressed regret at having used it.

To a layman in these "piping times of peace" it would appear the more reasonable course to have avoided "a misapprehension of facts"

before even three ineffectual shots.