“Thank God!” said Pendleton.  They were beaching.  A moment later he and Hamilton had climbed to the ledge where Burr and Van Ness awaited them.  It was the core of a thick grove, secluded from the opposite shore and from the high summit of the great palisade.

Hamilton and Burr nodded pleasantly.  The men were dressed in the silken finery of their time, and looked like a pleasuring quartette in that green and lovely spot.  Through leafy windows they saw the blue Hudson, the spires and manor-houses, the young city, on the Island.  The image of Philip rose to Hamilton, but he commanded it aside.

Pendleton had the choice of position and was to give the word.  He had brought with him John Church’s pistols, now in their fourth duel.  Their first adventure caused the flight of Church to America.  Since then, they had been used in his duel with Burr and by Philip Hamilton.

He handed one of the pistols to Hamilton, and asked him if he should set the hair-spring.

“No, not this time,” said Hamilton.

Pendleton gave the word.  Burr raised his arm, deliberately took aim, and fired, Hamilton lifted himself mechanically to the tips of his feet, turned sideways, and fell on his face.  His pistol went off, and Pendleton’s eye involuntarily followed the direction of the ball, which severed a leaf in its flight.  Often afterward he spoke of the impression the cloven leaf made on him, a second of distraction at which he caught eagerly before he bent over Hamilton.  Hosack scrambled up the bank, and Burr, covered with an umbrella by Van Ness, hastily withdrew.

Hamilton was half sitting, encircled by Pendleton’s arm, when the surgeon reached the spot.  His face was gray.  He muttered, “This is a mortal wound,” then lost consciousness.  Hosack ascertained, after a slight examination, that the ball was in a vital part, and for a few moments he thought that Hamilton was dead; he did not breathe, nor was any motion of heart or pulse perceptible.  With Pendleton’s assistance, Hosack carried him down the bank and placed him in the barge.  William Bayard had offered his house in case of disaster, and the boat was propelled over to the foot of Grand Street as rapidly as possible.  Before reaching the shore the surgeon succeeded in reviving Hamilton, who suddenly opened his eyes.

“My vision is indistinct,” he said.  In a moment it grew stronger, and his eye fell on the case of pistols.  His own was lying on the top.  “Take care of that pistol,” he said.  “It is undischarged and still cocked.  Pendleton knows that I did not intend to fire at him.”  He closed his eyes, and said nothing further except to enquire the state of his pulse, and to remark that his lower extremities had lost all feeling.  As the boat reached the pier, he directed that his wife and children be sent for at once, and that hope be given them.  Bayard was standing on the shore in a state of violent agitation.  It was in these pleasant grounds of his that the great banquet had been given to Hamilton after the Federalists had celebrated their leader’s victory at Poughkeepsie, and he had been his friend and supporter during the sixteen years that had followed.