A/N: Chapter 7 is here! Yes, Alexander's final decision will be revealed in this chapter (but please don't all skip down to the bottom of the page); and no, the story is not over yet. And yes, the letters mentioned are actual letters from that time related to the conflict.

Chapter 7: Choice, Part Two (Alexander)

No, I said to myself. I hadn't known Eacker at all when I had assumed the best of him then. However, I did know the Vice-President well and the two of us had been on friendly terms for quite some time. Surely he would not forget that?

Almost of its own accord, my mind began to travel back to the events that ultimately led to this place, this time, this situation...

It was a clear Tuesday evening when the first letter arrived.

I was inside my study, looking over the details of an upcoming case, when a knock sounded at the main entrance. As I knew for a fact that I was the closest to it at the time, I stood up from my desk, leaving the papers I had been perusing behind as I moved to answer the door.

I opened it to find a young man—likely no older than thirty—standing before me, a letter held in his right hand. Without a word, he handed the envelope to me.

Upon receiving the letter, I asked the man, "What exactly is this about?"

"Colonel Burr requested I deliver this to you," he replied.

Then and there, I broke the seal on the envelope and removed two documents from it. The first read as follows:

N York 18 June 1804

Sir,

I send for your perusal a letter signed Ch. D. Cooper which, though apparently published some time ago, has but very recently come to my knowledge. Mr. Van Ness, who does me the favor to deliver this, will point out to you the clause of the letter to which I particularly request your attention.

You must perceive, Sir, the necessity of a prompt and unqualified acknowledgement or denial of the use of any expressions which could warrant the assertions of Dr. Cooper.

I have the honor to be

Your Obdt. Servant

A. Burr

"If I may, Mr...Van Ness," I began as I refolded the first page and unfolded the second—which appeared to be a letter from the aforementioned Dr. Cooper written to my father-in-law—"which clause did Colonel Burr make reference to?"

Van Ness then pointed out, at the bottom of the page, this sentence: I have made it an invariable role in my life to be circumspect in relating what I may have heard from others; and in this affair, I feel happy to think, that I have been unusually cautious—for really, sir, I could detail you a still more despicable opinion which General Hamilton has expressed of Mr. Burr.

A "still more despicable opinion" than what exactly? I wondered as I looked the letter over from its beginning.

Near the middle of the page, I found the opinion on the other side of the comparison: I assert that Gen. Hamilton and Judge Kent have declared, in substance, that they looked upon Mr. Burr to be a dangerous man, and one who ought not to be trusted with the reins of government.

"I see."

Yet he does not mention what exactly the insult was, despite its supposedly being worse than the one attributed, at least in part, to me.

"Thank you, sir, for delivering this," I said.

"You're quite welcome," Van Ness replied before turning to depart.

As he left, I closed the door, letters in my hand, still wondering about the "still more despicable opinion" alluded to in Dr. Cooper's letter. Perusing Burr's letter a second time, I found no clarification as to what the insult was or when, where, or to whom it was spoken; yet despite that, he still demanded its avowal or disavowal without any qualifying statements whatsoever. Had he clarified what exactly he wished me to acknowledge or deny, I might have been willing to comply, but one cannot expect any sort of avowal or disavowal of a forgotten insult when the offended party fails to clarify what exactly it may be.

Especially if the last sentence before the closing of Burr's letter was to be read as a demand for a blanket retraction or denial of anything I myself had said, publicly or in confidence, to impeach his character.

I had just returned to my desk to begin a reply when I heard the call to evening meal. Sighing with slight exasperation at the timing of the matter, I dropped the letters and envelope on the desk, rose from the chair I had just seated myself in, and began walking to the dining room. My reply, it seemed, would have to wait.

Three days after the first letter arrived, and two after I had written and sent my reply, a second letter from Colonel Burr arrived. As I read that day's letter, I found my reply to the first letter from him had not served his intended purpose. There was no hint of the desired clarification; only a repetition of the initial demand, this time written with rage clearly emanating from every letter of every word on the page.

The moment I finished reading the letter, I began to craft a response:

N York 22 June 1804

Sir,

Your first letter, in a style too peremptory, made a demand, in my opinion, unprecedented and unwarrantable. My answer, pointing out the embarrassment, gave you an opportunity to take a less exceptionable course. You have not chosen to do it, but in your last letter, received this day, containing expressions indecorous and improper, you have increased the difficulties to explanation, intrinsically incident to the nature of your application.

If by a definite reply you mean the direct avowal or disavowal required in your first letter, I have no other answer to give than that which has already been given. If you mean anything different admitting of greater latitude, it is requisite you should explain.

I have the honor to be, Sir

Your Obdt. St

A. Hamilton

When I called on Judge Pendleton to discuss the matter with him and later requested he deliver my second reply to Mr. Van Ness, who would then deliver it to Colonel Burr, I believed my reply to be the only one I could give. However, it only appeared to feed the flames of Burr's fury—and by the time I realized this, it was already far too late to maintain even a semblance of control over the situation. Far too late to stop or slow whatever was to come to pass.

As I returned to the present time and place, I found myself wondering precisely why I believed my opponent would follow suit as I wasted my initial shot.

I told myself that I knew him well, that I knew he was not ruthless in this regard. Still, some part of me faintly wondered whether this was an attempt to convince myself of a misconception rather than the truth.

Even if I was, I could not worry myself over that. There was no point, as in this particular matter, Colonel Burr and I were past the point of no return. Besides, I could not stay without jeopardizing my reputation, my legacy, my ability to be useful in future—

What of your family, though? What of your children?

The share of my mind that had resolved to proceed—a smaller share than when I had first begun preparations for departure—found itself cut off by the part that wished to stay.

Your children are a part of your legacy as well—perhaps the one part you may be able to clearly see. If you chose to stay, that choice would by no means "jeopardize" them or their futures; your departure, in their case, could well do just that.

And since we seem to be on the topic of how your legacy will be carried on—how exactly you will be remembered—think about how your own children will remember you if you fail to return. Think about whether they even will.

My older sons—Alex and James and John—would clearly remember me, I knew that for certain. Angelica and William may, but as the former sometimes cannot recognize her own family, myself included, and the latter is not yet seven, their memories of their father would likely not be so clear. Elizabeth would have only half-formed memories of me, and Little Phil...if I did not return, I may as well be just another name in the family Bible to him.

The part of me that seemed to consider itself the voice of reason continued: In regard to future usefulness, you not only risk losing public usefulness by going—as you may by staying—you risk losing any sort of usefulness in this world, whether at home or in the public sphere.

Besides, you have been vehemently against the practice for quite some time, so why the hell did you even contemplate participating in one yourself?

Despite myself, I began chuckling slightly at my own seeming hypocrisy.

Yes, there may be something to lose by staying here, but not only will you gain nothing by departing, you risk everything if you choose to participate.

I reflected for some time longer on the issue after the supposed voice of reason fell silent. Eventually, half an hour after I was left alone with my thoughts, I finally came to a decision.

I found my wife in our bedchamber, kneeling beside the bed, her forehead pressed against her folded hands, her mouth forming words too rapidly and quietly to be heard or understood.

"Betsey?" I said as I crossed the threshold.

She looked up, startled.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all," she replied as she stood up. "...Have you made your decision?"

"Yes." Despite the space being dark save for what moonlight shone through the window, I could clearly see both hope and dread vying for prominence in her expression.

"I have decided to stay and miss this morning's interview."