A Historic Duel

The Duel

"Acquaintances claim that Alexander Hamilton had reportedly counseled his son before the duel to discharge his weapon in the air before his opponent to settle the dispute with honor. For the first minute of the duel, neither Eacker nor Hamilton lifted their pistols. At length, Eacker lifted his pistol, and young Hamilton followed suit. George Eacker then shot Philip Hamilton, the bullet entering above his right hip and lodging in his left arm. Philip too discharged his weapon, but this may have been from an involuntary spasm."

Phillip shivered in the boat; not sure if it was the cold wind or his nerves. He pulled his overcoat tighter and leaned backwards. If he strained his eyes, he could make out Weehawken. This was not the day for a duel. The wind was biting, and the waves began to splash into the bottom of the boat soaking his feet. His mom had got him those boots upon hearing of his graduation from King's collage. They were just like his father's, though Alexander was famous for wearing down the soles with his pacing. After a few tense minutes, the boat finally reached the shores. He and his seond left the small boat and made their way up to the shoreline. Gulls flew and screeched above them, circling like vultures. Phillip hoped it wasn't a sign. He thought back to his father's instuctions for the duel. "When the time comes fire you weapon in the air." He'd at least try to. 'Maybe I'll hit one of those seagulls' he thought. 'Wouldn't that make a story! Dad and James would love to hear about that. This could even top the Lee duel.' When he got over the hill, he saw George Eacker standing there with his second, fiddling with the hem of his coat. Phillip had to resist the urge to puch him right there, but he'd try this his father's way. What could go wrong? The seconds met for a short time, and to none of their shock, they could not reach a peace. 'I guess it's really on.' Thought Phillip. He had to fight every urge to run, but everytime he so much as glanced at Eacker the same rage he'd felt at the speech filled him again. He fiddled with the gun. Some of dad's war buddies had tried to teach him how to shoot stuff like it, but mom had never let them. What good would shooting skills be if he was just going to fire into the air anyway? He lined up, back to back with this man and took ten measured steps. Even the seagulls went silent, and the blood pounding in his ears was his only music. Their house had never been silent. Piano, singing, harp, and even debates at dinner were music to him. He couldn't wait to go to aunt Angelica and uncle John's house and play on their instraments for Christmas. He was so caught up in his head that when they reached ten, he froze, neither raising nor lowering his gun. When he finally opened his squeezed shut eyes, he found Eacker mirroring him, ten paces away. 'Dad never explained what to do if I freeze. He thought I was better than that. Do I fire it, or drop it? What do I do?' In the end he did nothing, standing there, arms lowered as the wind howled around him and the world stood still.

A thousand lifetimes later, George Eacker raised his gun, aiming it square at Phillip. Having no idea what to do, Phillip copied the glaring New Yorker. 'Is this when I raise my gun? Or am I gonna get shot? Dad, what should I do? I don't wanna die.' He kept gun at George, but restrained himself from squeezing the trigger. Phillip was ready to throw down his gun and declare the duel over when his world cracked into a gun shaped hole.

A pain tore through his hip and into his arm. On reflex, his his hand cleched and the gun was fired. 'If dad knows I fired, he'll think shot and missed. He'll think I didn't listen.' His knee's buckled and he collapsed onto the hard November ground with a dull thud, a contrast to then crack of the guns a second before. He could see boots running towards him. In a haze he could only make out muffled noises before he was hauled up and the world went to black.