You’ve heard of my father, Alexander Hamilton. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury and one of the Founding Fathers of the United States. What you probably haven’t heard was my story. My name is Philip Hamilton, and I am the eldest son of Alexander and Eliza Hamilton. Nothing really exciting happened in my nineteen years, except at the end. My story starts in 1801, just months before my passing.

You’re looking at the latest graduate of King’s College! It’s time to follow my father’s footsteps in law. He always is talking about how I am his legacy, and I am so proud to be his legacy. Everything was going perfect in my life. I’m making my father proud. Making a name with the ladies, all while keeping my socks on, and learning French with my mother all while changing the tempo. Then I read an article written by a Mr. George Eacker that soiled the good Hamilton name.

George Eacker is a lawyer who fully supports Thomas Jefferson. He made a speech at New York’s 4^th of July celebration, and had the nerve to say that Alexander Hamilton wants to use the army to intimidate our opponents overseas. He degraded my father and family name. How dare he say Jefferson saved the country? That my father is the reason for the small fight with France? He’s old friends with Marquis de Lafayette and wouldn’t betray a friendship like that. No one talks about my family name this way.

I walked the streets of New York in search of George Eacker with my friend and fellow graduate, Stephen Price. We found out that he was seeing a play, The West-Indian, in Manhattan’s Park Theatre. I mentioned to Price to help me make a negotiation for peace, but if not, I will have no qualms about fighting for my family name. Price and I made our way to the theater, but not before taking in a few drinks.

“George! You should have watched your mouth when you spoke about my father!” I exclaimed in a slight drunken stupor once we arrived to his box.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Eacker scoffed as he continued to watch the performance.

“You’re kidding?! It’s like that?” I sneered. This man was not going to act like nothing happened.

Eacker chuckled and glanced my way. “Your father’s a damned rascal and it seems you are too Hamilton. I’m not your little schoolboy friends. Move along.”

“You know what, I’ll see you on the dueling ground Eacker!” I challenged, red in the face. I started to explain where, but he held his hand up.

“I know where to find you, now piss off,” Eacker laughed as he turned his head back to the play.

I almost forgot we were in public because Stephen stopped me from fighting him right there, and helped me get home in my rage. As I slowly got sober, he left. When my father came home, he calmly called me to him.

"Care to explain why Burr told me about a duel between you and a Mr. George Eacker, son?" Alexander questioned.

“Your name was being raked through the mud! I doubt you would have let it slide, and I was not about to!” I explained. His friend, Aaron Burr, had heard about my duel already.

Dad sat down and sighed heavily, his hand rested on his face. "Did you attempt to negotiate a peace?"

"He refused to apologize, so we set a time and place. Across the river, in Weehawken," I explained with a rush in my voice. The rage slowly coming back.

"Son, slow down... Weehawken?" my father sighed deeply once more. "Of course. Everything is legal in Jersey."

"Pop, I need some advice. I didn't learn any of this in boarding school."

Alexander slowly stood up, grabbing his pistol. "Philip, there are some things you need to know," he started.

Turns out my father is no stranger to a duel. He had lost his position as Washington's right hand man due to being second in one. He told me to stand there like the man that I am, and when the time comes to fire into the air.

"If Eacker is truly a man of honor, he won't fire. To take someone's life... that is something you can't shake..." his voice trailed off slowly. He was getting a distant look, one I knew all too well. Taking his hands, "Pop, I promise everything will be fine,” I smiled reassuringly. “I’ll be home before dinner."

"Philip, your mother can't take another heartbreak. With her sister, Peggy, passing just a few months ago, she can't handle her son leaving her as well." He was shaking as he handed me his pistol. "Use this. Be safe. Be smart. Come home. Make me proud, son."

The next day came sooner than I wanted. It was time to face George Eacker. One of my good friends met me at the dueling ground: David Samuel Jones. He became my second. When Eacker appeared, I tried to make pleasantries. I asked how the rest of his play went, but he wasn’t having it. It was time.

“Grab your pistol Hamilton. Come on,” he said gruffly.

“The duel will commence after we count to 10,” I explained, for no one’s benefit except my own. Everything seemed to move slowly after that. I remember counting. I remember summoning all my courage. I remember raising my gun to the sky. I remember a sharp pain in my right hip. I remember everything going fuzzy.

The fuzziness stayed for a while. Dr. David Hosack took me to the nearest hospital. A familiar voice came soon: Dad. I heard the fear in his voice as he inquired about me. I heard the calmness in the doctor’s voice as he explained how the bullet ripped through my body, destroying my insides. I saw him walk in. “I did exactly as you said Pa, I kept my head up,” I tried explaining with as much strength in my voice as I could muster.

“I know, I know. Shh. I know, I know. Shh. Save your strength, son,” he whispered, stroking my hair. I tried focusing on him, but there was a commotion in the hall. A female voice.

“I need to see him! Is he alive?! Is he going to survive this? Alexander! Did you know? Who did this?!” my mother rushed. Her voice sounded so far away, but I could hear the hurt take over. I had to stay alive, I couldn’t leave my mother.

“Mom,” I coughed out, “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I am. Just a flesh wound,” I smiled softly. Against my father’s protests, I slowly sat up. The worry increased on her face as I took her hand, mine soaked with blood. Shaking, I kissed hers. “Remember when you taught me how to play piano? You would put your hands on mine…” I managed to get out slowly. She smiled. My mother smiled. Eliza Hamilton smiled. It had been a while. Since before Aunt Peggy’s passing.

“You were silly back then, my love. Always changing the melody,” she spoke softly against my temple. She laid me back down, still holding my hand. The blood was now on her dress.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, Cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,” she started. The song we used to sing at the piano every time. The same song where I would change the melody. I tried repeating her, as I used to, but I got distracted. There were some people in the corner of the room. Grandma, Washington, and Aunt Peggy. I closed my eyes for the last time.