The Ocean Didn’t Call Back

December 30, 1812

Dear Father,



Just this week, we received a new tea set from our most gracious friends. The trees nearby are losing their leaves, and the snow will arrive any day now. Christmas has come and went, and we had such a wonderful time celebrating. My times of travel on the Patriot have almost arrived, and I know you must be worrying for my safety. It is no small feat to have a reputation such that the Patriot has, and I will be safe with Dr. Thomas Greene. I will have arrived in England within the next month and will be so glad to see you. Please do have some of that cherry pie to celebrate the late new year; it is simply delicious, and the best of all pies.

Love Always,

Theodosia B. Alston

Aaron tucked the letter within his coat jacket to keep it safe from any sudden onslaught of rain or snow. It was an overcast day, and the sky was brewing with the emergence of a storm. The dock was busy as usual, and they stood at the graying harbor, gazing sharply across the waters as if they could spot the Patriot from across the hazy ocean. The date at the top of the crisp newspaper read January 28, 1813 in bold, long letters, with more below to describe the impending war between the countries.

“You do think that the Patriot is still sailing, do you? I have heard there have been large problems with pirates lately, and they are quite late on such a journey. She is safe, isn’t she?” he questioned nervously. Aaron had asked in order to assuage the slight tremors in his fingers as he held the paper-wrapped cherry pie, though he knew that nobody would have any true answers for him.

The dockmaster had given an enthusiastically-worded response, though his monotone voice belied his true feelings about the matter. “Well, sir, she is as safe as can be in the murky depths of these waters. I have the greatest faith that she will return to you safe and sound! The Patriot’s work is no short of the best in the world.”

Aaron left the dockmaster’s office and retreated back to his chair at the café. Night came and went, and the next day, he returned once more, the cherry pie in hand. But the ship didn’t appear, and so he came back the day after that, and the next day after, and the next.

At every change on the horizon, Aaron leapt from his perch on the rickety wire chairs and rushed down, clutching the railing on the dock. Craning his neck and squinting his eyes, he watched and watched for the pale, yellowed letters on the side that spelled out “P-A-T-R-I-O-T.” But only the Marquise came, and then the Berrington, and more and more and more. He told himself that it would be the next ship- the next ship that would bring the tearful reunion with his daughter that he dreamed about from dawn until dusk, and even later through the night.

No such relief came. The pie went bad, and Aaron threw it away and went to buy another one.

When the newspapers began pushing into March, Aaron could take it no longer. He once again walked briskly down to the dockmaster’s office, the wooden docks creaking at his weight. 

“Dockmaster, my daughter was supposed to arrive one month ago on the Patriot. Would you happen to know if they have arrived? Have they redefined their destination? Why are they not here yet?”

The dockmaster sighed, reaching for his envelope. Being a dockmaster was his day job, and there must have been a million other people arriving at his desk to ask about their friends and family. He sighed once more in annoyance when he found that the Patriot’s newest arrival was not in his folder of papers, and stood up to face the man in front of him.

“Is she there? Will she come back?” Aaron questioned anxiously.

“I am sorry. They were supposed to arrive sometime at the end of January or the beginning of February, but it seems that the Patriot has been lost at sea.”

Aaron froze at the news. “But… surely there is something that you can do?”

“No, sir.”

Aaron stared at the ground, meeting none of the eyes that were finally on him from those also in the room. The old man glared at him, while his wife’s gaze was softened with pity. 

He could feel the stares on the back of his neck from across a continent, burning into the back of his head. They marked him forever as the demon who deserved no pity; the demon who had killed their son, their husband, their father, the great Alexander Hamilton himself. He would be known as the villain, but his daughter would never be known at all.

Aaron Burr rushed out to the docks, uncaring of who he pushed past him. An elderly lady almost tripped and fell, and the blubbering children rushed out of his way as he bolted towards the docks, cherry pie still in hand. It teetered precariously as the wind almost knocked it from his hands.

“Theodosia!” he cried, scattering the flock of seagulls as he reached the edge of the dock.

“Theodosia!”

The cherry pie splattered from his hands, landing face-down on the weathered planks of the ground. The filling spread in a pool of red next to him.

“Theodosia!”

But the ocean didn’t call back.