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The last letter Hamilton writes is to John. How could it not be? After all these years, still, not a day goes by that Alexander's mind doesn't wander upon that name.
After all these years, what better day to write than the last day he may ever get the chance to? What better time than now, when the looming thought of a bullet hangs over his head like fruit hangs out of Tantalus’ reach?
Hamilton does not expect to die. Of all of the possible outcomes of the morning, him dying is not a plausible one.
And yet, Alexander writes. He sits at his desk, pen in hand, and he allows himself one final letter. Not to his beloved Eliza--no, that letter is already folded and sealed and sitting on the foot of their bed--not to his darling children, not to his political allies or rivals. No, this letter is written to a man who will never read it. It's written to smoke and dust and dreams of a distant ‘what might have been’.
It's written as the moon dips below the skyline but the sun has not yet slipped above the horizon. It's written in the quiet and the dark of a misty July morning, as the dew settles on the grass.
It is written;
My Dearest Laurens,
I often wonder, in such early hours as these, if the path I have chosen for myself is one you would approve of. So much has happened that I never would have expected. In all the fantasies we proposed beneath the stars so many years ago, never once did I imagine I would end up where I am.
I have done so much, dearest Laurens. I have watched this nation rise from the rubble and the ruin; I have watched as history was made; I have stood in a room and helped decide the Fates of our nation's’ citizens for both themselves and their Prosperity. I have done much, and yet I fear that when I finally stand before you again, you will not be proud but disgusted by the creature that I have become. A creature decorated in as many mistakes as achievements; a creature who has committed heinous Acts with little care for others; a creature who has forfeited much that is good and pure for the sake of Power. I have claimed, as always, that I have done my best for the good of the People, but I worry, deep in my heart, that while traveling along this treacherous road, I’ve lost more than you, my dearest companion; I worry I have lost all that is Good in me.
How cruel is our Lord that He would allow you to remain unstained by the world whilst I am left, battered and alone, to its few mercies? Could He have not seen it fit to take me with you, or to leave you here, that I may have a friend and a comrade with me through all these years of hardship? Could He have not looked down from His ethereal palace in the clouds and recognized that we are but one soul split between two and that without you by my side, I would stray from the righteous Path we had planned? He knows all, so surely He would have predicted all that has come to pass; as such, I have concluded that there is no warmth or love in His heart, only spite and contempt. And to think, ‘twas never expected that the Lord our God is such a bitter man as I.
I say all that to say this: today may be the day I join you, friend of my heart. ‘Tis not what I expect, but it very well may be what comes to pass. For so many years, I lived every day assuming it could be my last, and yet, now that I have grown confident and comfortable in my position, it could be stripped from me like rags from a beggar’s back. If I am to meet you at the gates of Zion, I pray that I am to be in your good graces. I pray that you will be able to find it within your heart to forgive me, though the Saints and Angels that are your company now know that I am far from deserving of your Benevolence. You have always seen and brought forth the utmost virtue in me, and I hold in my heart that when next we meet again, be it today or in a thousand days, you will not have removed me from your Affections, as I have never removed you from mine.
Yrs for ever,
A Hamilton
The address he writes on the heavy paper envelope comes to him as easy as breathing. It’s been decades, and yet his hand instinctively knows how to guide the pen, the movement ingrained into him as much as the beat of his own heart.
The quill clatters upon the desk, dripping ink onto the hardwood as he tucks the letter inside, sealing the envelope and watching the wax cool. He places the letter back on the table, the corner seeping in a small puddle of ink as Alexander reaches for the candle sitting on the mantle.
The window is open, the drapes fluttering in the cool morning air as Hamilton looks over the dark outline of his beloved city. It is here, in the stillness between the night and the dawn, that he holds the envelope over the flame. The corner soaked with ink is the last to catch as he places the smoldering letter in a steel tray on the window sill.
Alexander cannot stop the tear that slips from the corner of his eye as he watches the breeze carry away the ashes and the sparks. It is fitting, in a way, that this is how it ends – because no matter what happens later today, it does feel like an ending.