The clock over the mantel ticked out a mournful cadence as the last of Alexander Hamilton’s life bled away. Though he couldn’t move, and had trouble breathing, he retained his beautiful mind and his warrior’s spirit until the very end.
“If they break this Union, they will break my heart,” he said, eyes unfocused.
Finally, the chimes on the clock struck twice. Alexander breathed no more. And the silence of his passing stole what was left of mine.
For I knew that no breath I ever took again would be the same.
Chapter Thirty-Six
If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive. But it was not possible, without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem.
—ALEXANDER HAMILTON TO ELIZA HAMILTON
July 14, 1804
New York City
THEY’D MURDERED HIM.
First my son, then my husband.
Because they thought they could get away with it.
And I was sick to the depths of my soul. Sick and enraged. These furious thoughts echoed as church bells rang and flags lowered to half-mast and somber crowds gathered all along New York’s streets. And then a military procession wearing black armbands arrived to accompany my husband’s body to the church. To take him away.
Come back to me, I silently pleaded, as I’d done all those times he’d ridden off to battle.
But this time he would not return.
It was not the custom for women to attend graveside services, and I couldn’t have borne so many witnesses to my grief. So with my youngest children at my knees, and my sister Angelica’s hand clasped tight in mine, all serving to hold me up, the pallbearers lifted the mahogany casket topped with my husband’s hat and sword.
Two black servants in turbans followed with a dappled gray horse bearing my husband’s empty boots and spurs in the stirrups.
Empty boots, empty saddle, empty hat, empty world.
The sad staccato of drums brought a keening sound from my poor children, all of whom lurched for the casket, as if to tear it open and lay eyes upon their father one last time. But I had the absurd thought that the casket, too, was empty.
That Alexander Hamilton wasn’t there.
Not in the mahogany coffin I chose for him. Not in the empty hat and boots and bed he left behind. Not in the city he loved. There was no part of him still here in this world. And I couldn’t be where any part of him was now.
Clutching the letter he left—which purported to explain everything, but explained nothing—I could not shake from my mind his conviction that he must die this way or be rendered unworthy of my esteem.
My God, had I driven him to this?
He’d been content to putter about our flower garden. To learn about the fattening of our chickens. To go duck hunting with our boys.
But I had not, like my mother before me, told him that all I needed for my happiness was his presence. Instead, I insisted he take up that court case, making himself a greater thorn in President Jefferson’s side. And I’d gloried in seeing the leonine spark return to his eye as he battled to keep Burr from the governorship.
My God, my God, I did drive him to it.
Before we married, Alexander asked again and again if I could happily live with him were he to lay down his sword to plant turnips. I’d promised that I could. But when it came to it, I’d wanted my soldier. I wanted the glory of Alexander Hamilton. I’d encouraged him to fight.
And now he was dead . . .
How long had he known about the duel, and how many times must he have wished to broach it with me? Was he thinking it even as he planned the ball he promised—had that been his final parting gift to me? Had he believed he’d return, or had he longed to go to Philip? I’d thought he’d been happy, that we’d been happy, but again, I’d missed all the signs. And I let him face it alone.
But I was not the only one to blame.
Four years earlier, Alexander had said he didn’t expect to have a head still on his shoulders unless he was at the head of a victorious army. And in a way, he’d been right. Later—much later—I would succumb to anger at Alexander for taking part in an immoral ritual that had already robbed me of a son and now condemned the rest of our children to a life without their father’s love. But then? Consumed in grief, the only respite I allowed myself in self-recrimination was in blaming Aaron Burr.
Our family now lay shattered by the man my husband always warned me was dangerous. Dangerous and despicable.
While the papers speculated about which insult or offense had precipitated this final, fatal confrontation, I knew the duel was merely the fruition of the conspiracy Alexander had long suspected. The same conspiracy that had dogged my husband’s heels from the moment he rose to prominence in opposition to the Virginians. I knew, as deeply as I knew anything, that Burr would not, without encouragement or inducement from the Jacobins, have murdered my husband in cold blood.
After all, Burr did nothing unless there was something in it for him.
No. I was certain that he’d made me a widow to win back the good graces of Jefferson—a man who may not have brought the guillotine to our shores, but who had the uncanny good luck to have his most formidable enemies meet strange fatalities. It had been many years since I’d seen Jefferson last, but I could never recount him without a chill. Never forget the way he’d
