Prologue 

 

 

 

Weehawken, New Jersey

July 11, 1804

 

 

The smartly dressed, older man came first, sitting erect and still as death in the rear of the long oar boat as it silently rowed across the wide river.  The moon cast an eerie glow across the fast-moving, silky, black current.

He was balding, middle-aged, and had dark features.  However, he was in a much darker mood, a murderous mood in fact.  He was the kind of man who never forgot anything, especially the stain on his honor.  His eyes bored holes in the back of the man sitting in front of him, and he did not notice his surroundings, as his mind was lost in thought.   He was there to right a wrong he had suffered.

To this end he was joined by two other men seated near him, as well as two additional young rowers and his dueling second at the head of the craft, a total of five. The only sound was the water lapping like a running brook as the oars slipped in and out of the calm, silvery surface.  Slowly the boat crossed the dark current. Preoccupied, the passenger did not hear.  He was focused only on the task ahead of him. 

They beached the long oar boat on the bank, and he and the three men quickly scurried into the woods as the rowers stayed behind.  Immediately the four gentlemen began to clear the brush along the ledge facing the water.  The birds awoke but no one heard.  Their singing cast an odd, joyful sound, contrasting eerily with the morbid events unfolding beneath them.

A man younger by a year arrived a half hour later in a similar craft with a smaller entourage.  He was a person of importance and seemed rather arrogant.  In fact, he had a brilliant mind.  Unfortunately he had a habit of taunting others with his brilliance, which is what brought him to where he was at this hour.  His pompous mood seemed out of touch with the somber circumstances.  

One of his party was a well-respected physician.  His second, sitting in the bow, carried an ornate box the size of a breadbasket.  Inside were two Wogdon dueling pistols, the finest in the world at the time.  The pair of weapons had already claimed the lives of a handful of men. One of those killed had been the younger man’s son.

The first party made themselves known, and the group who had just arrived made their way up the embankment to join them.  Salutations were exchanged. 

The seconds set marks on the ground for the two men ten paces from each other.  The younger man, since challenged, had the option of choosing his spot and had already selected to be facing the river.  The two antagonists loaded their pistols in front of the witnesses, which was the custom, and the seconds walked into the woods and turned their backs.  This way they would not be party to the scene and could not be charged with a crime, as dueling was now illegal.  The honorable gentleman was becoming a rare breed. Times were changing.

The blond man's second began counting down. Unknown to his charge’s opponent, the pistols had a secret hair trigger firing mechanism; just a slight application of pressure would ignite the powder.  This was a slight of hand to say the least.

A loud crack rang out. A few seconds later, another. Then a cry of pain.  Whether the younger man accidentally fired due to the hair trigger or intentionally wasted his shot, we will never know.  Historians have debated this point ever since.  His shot missed his adversary and ricocheted into the surrounding trees.

The return fire from his opponent, however, was deadly. The ball pierced his abdomen and did mortal damage to his internal organs before lodging in his spine.  He collapsed to the ground.

The acrid smell of gunpowder still hung in the air as the dark-haired man walked up to him writhing on the ground. He was confident in his errand as he stood over him and methodically reloaded his pistol.

"Where is it?" he asked as he calmly packed the powder down the barrel. 

The seconds stepped forward out of the brush, but the older man waived them off with his pistol.  The New Jersey woods were strangely quiet; the New York lights across the river twinkled in the background, soon to be obscured by the rising sun. Its rays would soon shine a bright light on the deadly events happening below.

"Where is it?" he said again sternly but softly, pointing his reloaded pistol at the man's head as he tried to lift it off the ground and speak.   The long, highly polished brass barrel reflected the early morning sun.

Blood poured from an open wound in his gut. Although mortally wounded and lying in the dirt, he held his hand over the opening to try and stop the flow.

"Go to Hell!" he gurgled as his mouth filled with blood.

"I probably will but I think you will beat me there." The darker gentleman chuckled and knelt down beside him.  He started going through the bleeding man’s pockets.  "I have heard you always carry it with you.” Aaron Burr knew he didn't have much time before the surgeon and seconds gathered and pulled him off.  Inside the man's blood-soaked coat, he found it.

"Ahh!" he gloated smugly.  He quickly hid the pouch inside his own vest and stood.  

"You will never find what you are looking for!" the wounded gentleman said in a whispering laugh.  His strength was ebbing. He was going to die.

"We'll see," replied Burr.

"He's all yours!" he called to the second, and the wounded man's supporter rushed forward and tended to Alexander Hamilton.