The feud between Hamilton and Burr preceded the election of 1800, in which Hamilton opposed Burr’s election to the presidency. The rivalry between these two New Yorkers actually had begun during the Revolution and had continued throughout their political careers, but it reached a special intensity in 1800. As Vice-President under Jefferson, Burr had reached the peak of his career, but Jefferson, realizing that Burr almost had schemed his way into the presidency, undermined his influence in the Republican Party. In 1804, Hamilton again thwarted Burr’s ambitions by helping to defeat him for governor of New York. The duel soon followed.

Hamilton had no intention of firing at Burr and seems to have expected to die, for he made his will and arranged his affairs before crossing the Hudson River to New Jersey for the fatal duel on July 11, 1804. Burr had great charm and undenied ability, but it might have been better for him if he had died that day instead of Hamilton. He was an unscrupulous intriguer, and his subsequent career tarnished his reputation. In 1805, he tried to establish a political empire in the Mississippi Valley but he was captured and tried for treason. Though he was acquitted, he had to spend the next four years in exile. He later returned to an obscure law practice in New York.

David Hosack Describes Hamilton’s Last Hours

In the selection that follows, David Hosack, the physician who attended Hamilton at the duel, describes the scene immediately after Burr fired the fatal shot. He writes to William Coleman, editor of the New York Post, the paper Hamilton had founded.

To comply with your request is a painful task; but I will repress my feelings while I endeavor to furnish you with an enumeration of such particulars relative to the melancholy end of our beloved friend Hamilton, as dwell most forcibly on my recollection.

When called to him, upon his receiving the fatal wound, I found him half sitting on the ground, supported in the arms of Mr. Pendleton. His countenance of death I shall never forget. He had at that instant just strength to say, “This is a mortal wound, Doctor”; when he sunk away, and became to all appearance lifeless. I immediately stripped up his clothes, and soon, alas! ascertained that the direction of the ball must have been through some vital part. His pulses were not to be felt; his respiration was entirely suspended; and upon laying my hand on his heart, and perceiving no motion there, I considered him as irrecoverably gone. I however observed to Mr. Pendleton that the only chance for his reviving was immediately to get him upon the water.

We therefore lifted him up, and carried him out of the wood, to the margin of the bank, where the bargemen aided us in conveying him into the boat, which immediately put off. During all this time I could not discover the least symptom of returning life. I now rubbed his face, lips, and temples, with spirits of hartshorn, applied it to his neck and breast, and to the wrists and palms of his hands, and endeavored to pour some into his mouth. When we had got, as I should judge, about fifty yards from the shore, some imperfect efforts to breathe were for the first time manifest. In a few minutes he sighed, and became sensible to the impression of the hartshorn, or the fresh air of the water. He breathed; his eyes, hardly opened, wandered, without fixing upon any objects. To our great joy he at length spoke: “My vision is indistinct,” were his first words. His pulse became more perceptible; his respiration more regular; his sight returned.

... Soon after recovering his sight, he happened to cast his eye upon the case of pistols, and observing the one that he had had in his hand lying on the outside, he said, “Take care of that pistol; it is undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm.—Pendleton knows (attempting to turn his head towards him) that I did not intend to fire at him.” “Yes,” said Mr. Pendleton, understanding his wish, “I have already made Dr. Hosack acquainted with your determination as to that.”... Perceiving that we approached the shore, he said, “Let Mrs. Hamilton be immediately sent for. Let the event be gradually broken to her; but give her hopes.”

Looking up, we saw his friend Mr. Bayard standing on the wharf in great agitation. He had been told by his servant that General Hamilton, Mr. Pendleton, and myself, had crossed the river in a boat together, and too well he conjectured the fatal errand, and foreboded the dreadful result. Perceiving, as we came nearer, that Mr. Pendleton and myself only sat up in the stern sheets, he clasped his hands together in the most violent apprehension; but when I called to him to have a cot prepared, and he at the same moment saw his poor friend lying in the bottom of the boat, he threw up his eyes and burst into a flood of tears and lamentation. Hamilton alone appeared tranquil and composed. We then conveyed him as tenderly as possible up to the house. The distresses of this amiable family were such that till the first shock was abated, they were scarcely able to summon fortitude enough to yield sufficient assistance to their dying friend.

... During the night he had some imperfect sleep; but the succeeding morning his symptoms were aggravated, attended, however, with a diminution of pain. His mind retained all its usual strength and composure. The great source of his anxiety seemed to be in his sympathy with his half-distracted wife and children. He spoke to her frequently of them. “My beloved wife and children,” were always his expressions. But his fortitude triumphed over his situation, dreadful as it was. Once, indeed, at the sight of his children brought to the bedside together, seven in number, his utterance forsook him. He opened his eyes, gave them one look, and closed them again till they were taken away. As a proof of his extraordinary composure of mind, let me add that he alone could calm the frantic grief of their mother. “Remember, my Eliza, you are a Christian,” were the expressions with which he frequently, with a firm voice, but in a pathetic and impressive manner, addressed her. His words, and the tone in which they were uttered, will never be effaced from my memory. At about two o’clock, as the public well knows, he expired.