Chapter Text
It wasn’t even six in the morning, the sun barely rising above the horizon line when the two men crossed the river to Weehawken, New Jersey. Uncomfortable silence settled between everyone as they rowed across the Hudson. The doctor whispered a quiet prayer that Alexander had heard but he didn’t say anything in response to it, silently thanking him even though he knew exactly what would be the outcome of this duel.
Across the Hudson River, the city of New Jersey stirred awake with life, unknown to the people of the city that the land beneath their feet would hold bloodshed from a man who would be important to them in history. No one would know about the duel between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.
Once friends a lifetime ago, and now enemies who were about to stand face to face with their guns drawn.
One would become the villain in the other’s history.
The weather was dreary and humid. Grey clouds hung above them. Mist clung onto the water as the two boats neared the shoreline of the Hudson river. The world seemed to understand what was going to happen. The water was eerily calm as if Poseidon knew exactly what was to come.
Alexander exhaled slowly as he looked beside him to see Aaron Burr in the adjacent boat. The trip wasn’t long but it felt like a lifetime. He pushed his glasses up with his knuckle. His other hand fiddled with the handle of his pistol that sat in his lap, barrel loaded with only one bullet.
He dropped his hand to his opposite wrist, his thumb brushing against the blue ribbon that he refused to take off. He never once did explain to his wife why he wore it, nor did he tell her the true meaning behind it. He wished he had had the courage to tell her.
The fabric was frayed and old. Memories worn well into the thin piece of ribbon. The only thing left of Alexander’s lover that was left of him that he held to his heart.
Alexander wrote it all in a letter. He wrote everything he wanted to tell Eliza in a letter that was left on his desk that very morning before he left.
He wasn’t sure if she would read it but he had a hunch she would. If not her, then Angelica at the very least.
With every stroke of the oar that hit the water, Alexander knew there was no going back now. One of them would have to face death while the other would have to live with the guilt.
It wouldn’t be explained why Alexander wore his glasses, but he did it deliberately and for a reason. That reason was so he could see his opponent and the other side of this war that was finally coming to an end. Alexander was deep in his head, the shoreline going unnoticed by him.
He thought of his son who died somewhere near these grounds.
He thought of Philip’s smile.
His laughter.
How he would always get his mother to smile.
He thought of how talented Philip was. Stubborn, but talented.
Alexander always did say that their son would blow them away someday.
And he did just that. Even if he had left a hole in their hearts.
Alexander then thought of General Washington and how hard he worked to be where he was now. He sent up a silent prayer to the general, thanking him for everything, including that he would see him soon.
He thought of Angelica. And Eliza.
He prayed that the two Schuyler sisters would take care of each other when he was gone from the world. His chest tightened with anxiety as he thought about what heartache his Eliza would have to go through now that he wasn’t going to be there anymore.
God, he wished her well in the next life when they saw each other again. Maybe then he could properly explain why he did what he had done with John when he saw her next.
There were so many ghosts around him that he couldn’t just focus on one specifically. He saw his mother, his sister in law- Peggy-, his cousin, General Washington…
Everyone he loved who had died was there.
Only they were there as a figment of his imagination.
Except one.
John Laurens
“Hamilton,” Burr spat bitterly, snapping Alexander out of his thoughts. One hand holding his pistol. His other hand remained loosely beside his side.
Alexander lifted his gaze towards the other man. A memory flashing before his eyes. It was the time when he first met Burr back in 1776. He had heard his name at Princeton and wanted to do what he did. Graduate in two. It was when he was given advice. The very same he had used on Burr not too long ago. “Talk less. Smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.”
“Burr,” Alexander spoke, his voice holding bitterness and melancholy, taking his coat off and folding it with precision. There was always something about him that wanted to treat things with a tender gesture. Such as when he was putting his affairs in order, this was simply another task to get done and over with.
He held his pistol next. The gun felt heavier than it had when he last held it in the battle of Yorktown. The cries and screams of the war rang in his ears. But that morning was different. It wasn’t another battle. It was a duel between two friends who were now memories. Blood stained Alexander’s hands from the war as he thought about the battle of Yorktown. They both had their lives on the line, the stakes high but now it felt like the stakes were higher than ever. Alexander breathed in through his nose, chest rising when he inhaled, stepping forward, all too familiar with the procedure.
He and Burr would meet in the middle, then they would walk ten paces apart, look each other in the eyes and shoot. Except Alexander wouldn’t shoot his pistol at Burr.
He would aim his gun at the sky and shoot.
Alexander’s head felt noisy with all his thoughts and his legs felt like lead as he walked those ten paces. A silent prayer left his mouth just as he reached the sixth count. It was quiet enough only for the man above to hear.
Forgive me, Lord.
Forgive my pride and stubbornness.
My temper.
Forgive me for all the pain that I caused everyone.
Alexander opened his eyes when he got to the eighth count, thinking of his wife again. When the picture of Eliza came to his mind, it reminded him of her gentleness and kindness. Her patience to deal with the man he was. He thought of how loving she was to him when he didn’t deserve it. He thought of his children. Of his unfinished papers and essays that were piled high on his desk in his office.
He thought of John.
John “Jack” Laurens.
His John.
The same man with that reckless smile and ideals that burned brighter than the stars above them. The letters that were disguised as friendship, camaraderie when in fact, it wasn’t. It was something more than that. The very man who took Alexander’s hand beneath the darkness of night and promised a future neither man could ever see.
They were lovers in the shadows.
Their relationship had survived on stolen glances, dark nights when they could slip away, secrets not even his sister knew, and ink-stained letters, confessing secretly in a language only they knew.
He thought about when John fell in South Carolina on his mission of trying to accomplish the all black military regime. They hadn’t heard from Yorktown that the battle was won. Eliza had came into his study with the letter and he assumed it was from his letter, but when she said it wasn’t, a wash of coldness had surrounded his body.
He asked her to read it.
She did.
That’s how he found out he was shot by the British who hadn't received word that the war was over in Yorktown. He had to force his grief down into a wound that he bound tightly with his heart. At the time, he couldn’t bear to let Eliza know why it hurt so much when he, Hercules Mulligan and Lafayette had received word about John’s death.
He tried to forget about it.
He really did but on those long nights when he was sitting by candlelight, feverishly writing papers, he would silently cry. His weeps were silent.
Tears would stream down his face into his hands, onto the ribbon that remained tied to his wrist. He longed to see the man he loved, to see him show up unexpectedly and assure him everything would be alright.
It never happened.
Alexander had known that. He used duty, marriage and reputation to hide his grief. He had whispered a vow or two beside the grave that no one else understood that very night ages ago.
And now?
It felt as though the mist had separated and then he saw him. Alexander saw John clear as day, standing behind Burr, waiting for him on the other side. The two stood separated by ten paces and by the recent years of bitterness and anger.
He saw him whole. Not as he was on his deathbed.
John was waiting for him on the other side.
A shiver ran through Alexander’s body as he locked eyes with his lover. John’s eyes felt real- more realistic than the cold gun in his hands.
That’s how he knew.
Death was near.
Then the command was given.
Look him in the eye, aim no higher.
Summon all the courage you require.
Then count-
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, number ten paces fire.
Burr had shot first and Alexander saw what seemed like everything in his lifeline flash before him.
Eliza.
John.
Washington.
Philip.
All the things he had yet to accomplish. He then, with what little time he had, aimed his pistol to the sky and his bullet shot upwards.
The sound echoed through the city right as Burr’s bullet tore its way right between his ribs, giving him little time to stay alive.
The recoil jerked up his arm, sharp and final. The smoke from his pistol curled slightly due to the humid morning. For a split second, time seemed to have frozen, stuck somewhere between the whistle of the bullet and the consequences that would soon follow through.
Ten paces ahead of Burr, Alexander Hamilton staggered. It wasn’t dramatic or overly theatric. It was small, a stunned inhale as though he had been tapped on the shoulder and he had turned too late to go back.
Hamilton staggered, using what energy he had left. He raised his arm, grip loose on his pistol as he aimed for the sky. His shot split the morning as the bullet ripped through the open sky, disappearing into the cloudy sky.
“Raise a glass to freedom…”
He aims his pistol at the sky- “WAIT!”
Then-
Burr’s bullet found its target.
Hamilton’s body lurched backwards with a sound that wasn’t a cry nor a word but just his breath leaving his lungs.
His hand opened and his pistol fell from his grip with a soft “clunk” against the soft earth beneath his feet. The sound it made echoed louder than it should have been. Not even for a minute, he remained standing. He swayed slightly, his legs threatening to give out from under him.
He tried to fight it, but in the end, he folded to the ground, knees buckling underneath him.
His hands went to his side. When he pulled his hand away, it was stained crimson red. Too red. The colour spread rapidly through his linen shirt and tailcoat, spreading like ink dropped on a piece of parchment.
Behind him, the river moved and a bird tweeted nearby from a tree.
His glasses slid down his nose as he struggled to breathe. His breaths become shallower with every intake. He lifted his eyes up, not towards his enemy, but towards the vast, endless sky. He blinked, memorising it.
Burr didn’t step forward, expression unreadable. His pistol remained lowered in his hand, resting at his side even though his mind was no longer aware he was holding it. Smoke still remained lazily from the barrel. The sound of the shot rang out in his ears.
Someone shouted Hamilton’s name.
Footsteps pounded over to the fallen man.
Alexander’s shoulders shook. His hands slipped weakly from his wound, streaking his white shirt with red even though he tried to hold himself together. For Eliza. He parted his lips but no one close enough knew what he was trying to say. His chest rose- shallow. Then fell.
He was becoming weaker by the minute.
Aaron Burr finally let his own pistol fall from his hand, the metal hitting the rocks with a hollow sound. He didn’t register the noise. Nor did he look down at the ground, nor the fallen man.
He remained where he had fired, his coat opened and unmoving in the soft breeze. His eyes burned a hole in the spot where Hamilton had stood once before.
He had expected to feel anger.
Satisfaction maybe.
Yet… it was everything but that.
It was pure disbelief and the silence was deafening.
“Alexander…” The name escaped his mouth too late as he watched the doctor and Hamilton’s seconds row urgently back across the Hudson. The oars struck against the water in desperate measures, leaving behind Burr with his own seconds and the sound of the echo of the shot. Burr remained on the shore of Weehawken, his eyes trained on the boat until it came out of his side.
Burr had faced Hamilton in the debate halls, argued with him in trials, in letters, and in public. Though, he never expected that he would ever be face to face with him with guns drawn.
It was only an hour when Burr reached the city, only short of when Alexander did. But he was too late to stand at his deathbed. Too late to hear any words spoken in those final moments. Too late to go back in time and undo anything.
He was told that Angelica Schuyler-Church and Elizabeth Schuyler-Hamilton were with him when he died.
“Eliza had held his hand”, he was told. Angelica whispered scripture before he passed. He was also told that Hamilton drifted in and out of consciousness, his breathing shallow and his body trembling against the inevitability of what was to come.
He was also told something else.
That Alexander’s final word wasn’t his wife’s name.
Nor “Angelica.”
Nor “Philip.”
It had been another name entirely.
Spoke so softly that neither woman understood why he had said it but he did. “John.”
Upon hearing that, Burr felt as though he too had been stricken by a bullet. He knew what Alexander meant from that name. He always knew about him and Laurens. He never said anything though, keeping the secret as one good friend does.
At the funeral, Aaron Burr stood at a distance. His daughter was beside him.
Her head rested on her father’s head. She would be Philip’s age had he lived. He always did say that she and Philip would get along together. Had it been true, both father and son might still be alive.
“Father-,” his daughter, Theodosia, spoke, seeing her father’s grief caused her to frown. He stood with his hat in hand, face pale and head bent in respect. Whispered voices followed him, but he didn’t dare respond to any of them. People’s eyes held furry. Some held disgust. He didn’t relent, didn’t defend himself either. His daughter frowned as she gave her father a hug before slipping away to say her condolences to Eliza and Angelica.
She returned to her father’s side just as the casket was lowered into the warm earth. Burr’s mind ran with many thoughts. One being that the world was wide enough for both of them.
Yet.
He had been too stubborn and blind to see that.
Burr left before the final hymn was said, his daughter followed behind him, her hand slipping into his. Instead of carrying triumph nor justification, he carried the knowledge that he ended the life of the only friend he ever truly had.
And he had to live with it.
Now he was the villain in Alexander’s story…
The same thought repeated in his mind and when his daughter asked what he was thinking of, he answered with nine simple words.
“The world was wide enough for Hamilton and me.”