That cold winter night was once he would forever remember, the last night he found himself in Laurens embrace.
Such a thing was practically treason and could be punishable by death, he was always reminded by the guilty feeling when he awoke before dawn to make his way back to his own pallet. The markings cascading down his thighs and chest, sweet little promises. Sweet little vows to the other.
That night was supposed to be like any other, the cold air shaking the cotton of their tents. Small wisps of wind making its way through the cracks of the opening, the small fire atop the candle dancing in the moonlight wind. Condensation acting through the quiet breathing belonging to the man of myth and legend, the man revered as a hero of the revolution.
Though he did not know that yet, for now, he was a lowly soldier being put to work as the right-hand man to the general. Cursed to write and write as all around him be promoted to command, their battalion following those fools into battle without a plan. Believing they were tough shit for being selected to lead until they go toe to toe with death.
Staring him straight into his eyes where the damned souls reside, the screams echoing through their eardrums. Screams of the sons they have killed in the name of a country they were sworn to build, leading sons and husbands into a battle destined to lose as soon as the leader discarded the carefully built plan.
A plan made to perfectly avoid so many deaths.
The famed tom cat forced to write out the condolences to the mothers and wives of the too young to die, men, handing an endless stack to the general every single day to sign. He grits his teeth as he scrawled it onto every page, remembering the way this could have been avoided. How easy it would have been for all those men to come home with a grin on their faces to share the news of how they had won. The war is one step closer to be won. One step closer to leaving a country free for the generations after them to build.
Do you not know his name? The famed child who won the war.
Alexander Hamilton.
And he was just that, a child forced to write the diary of a general who stressed over the shits he promoted. The ones who sacrificed who they needed to win a losing fight. They never won.
Alexander slaved over the letter he was commanded to write, shooting back at the Congress. Men sitting on their asses commanding starving men to attack and push against the British forces while they invaded the east coast, pillaging villages and housing themselves in the homes of soldiers across the country.
'General, the Congress has voted on the act of pushing against the redcoats as they invade the state of South Carolina. Deposit soldiers immediately.'
How could Congress command that of them? Did they not know how badly they were starving? Were Hamilton's words meaningless when he told them of the causalities resulting from the idiotic plans they put into place?
God, it was like they had a child sitting there with the colorful crayons fighting out a battle where the revolutionists always won like a fairytale. Their tiny feet making a small pitter patter as they rushed past the nannies along the wooden floor to the luxurious office their daddy resided in. Stressing over the battle plans that would win the war in one sweep before taking one look at the colorful lines scratched along the parchment and thinking
"Ah, yes. The perfect plan scrawled by a child! Why would this not work?"
They seemed to have no remorse for those they have murdered with their own hands, diverting the blame onto the redcoats with the blood staining their bayonets. Warping the truth because it wasn't their children being slaughtered so why should they care?
From the beginning, America was never perfect. Alexander could only hope that as centuries passed it would become better.
A rustle of cloth brought his attention back to reality, his grip lack on his quill his fingers itching towards the small blade resting on the wood of his table. His gun across the tent beside his pallet, redcoats were snakes. Slithering in to kill as they slept like the cowards they were.
If the redcoats thought they were getting the jump on him they were wrong, now was his chance to prove himself. To gain a command of his own.
Wait…wait…get closer. Come on, get closer…that's it…now!
He threw the chair from under him as he lunged towards the shadow hiding behind the small opening, blade in his hand as he plunged it.
A hand on his wrist stopped him, gripping tightly and he moved to knee the intruder in the gut. He just needed to aim it correctly, alert the soldiers around him and it would be done. A laugh stopped him, a hearty laugh from the gut and he felt his heart stop. The grip on the blade going lack until it clattered to the ground, a small laugh finding its way out involuntarily.
How can someone not laugh along with him?
"Hey there tomcat, can you avoid taking my eye out just for tonight?"
The familiar voice called to him, the underlying southern tone that brought him to his knees cutting through the tension and paranoia that had unknowingly grown in his chest. In the cover of darkness, he leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, immediately pulling away. Even in the night, they had to be careful, who knew who could be watching them or could be sneaking out for any unknown reason.
"You're late Laurens, almost thought a redcoat managed to get the jump on you. Get in here."
Alexander's tone held authority, a tone necessary when battling with Congress. Though they both knew it would quickly disappear when his lips were on Laurens, battling for dominance as he laid on the pallet. Clothes rustling together before being discarded in the heat of the moment.
"Yes, dear."
There was that chuckle again, following those words as he followed Alexander into his tent. His eyes drifted to the burning candle, melted wax dripping down the sides until it found its self on his desk. Laurens smiled softly, it was comforting to see him as his usual self. Bustling around the tent to attempt to clean it as any housewife would do, except they weren't a married duo and Alexander wasn't his beautiful housewife.
They were soldiers in a war and could never be husband and wife due to being both men.
And this would be the last night of the love shared between the two.
"Alexander-"
He felt his eyes on him, finally catching sight of the uniform he was wearing. The musket strapped across his shoulder.
No…
"Laurens? What's going on?"
His voice was shaking, breaking at the thought. It wasn't as if John had never gone through battle before but right when the command came…did it mean…no…
"Alexander…you have fought with me to free the men in bondage. You stood with me when I created the first all-black battalion, you've made yourself a home within my heart. It's…I will be leading the battalion into battle. Against the redcoats, as they invade South Carolina. I leave at first light,"
Laurens tried to keep his own voice steady, taking steps towards Alexander. He needed to feel him in his arms, to hold him and be reassured that all will be fine. That he will return and be with him to watch their young country grow into something beautiful.
He didn't have to walk far before there were arms around his neck, a face buried into his shoulder silent tears streaming down his cheeks. Alexander had to have known it was inevitable, one day he would leave to go into battle once more.
They spent that night holding each other, making silent promises in the form of stolen kisses, bruised skin from the tight hold on his thighs as the drank in each other's presence just like before every battle. Before the moment came that one of them would take their last breath away from the other.
No…he wouldn't let it happen.
He couldn't lose him too.
Alexander couldn't lose anyone, never again.
The war was won, they could finally rest. They would finally be able to see each other without worrying that the other could be dead by the next morning at the hands of a redcoat. Now Alexander was left waiting, waiting for him to return. He tried to keep his silence, keep himself from writing letter and letter to Laurens as he made his way back home.
Though anyone that knew him would know that he was never one to hold back.
It was then that it happened, the words staring back at him as he wrote his first letter to him after the end of the war. The candle on his desk melting as every single second passed, wax dripping down the sides until it pooled at the base before dripping down into small puddles on his desk. He heard the small sound of footsteps belonging to Eliza but he didn't stop writing, she knew they were close and she knew they wrote letters frequently but…she would never know just how close they actually were.
"Alexander? There's a letter for you from South Carolina."
Eliza's tired voice called through the door as she creaked it open, he kept telling her to simply sleep. She knew he couldn't sleep as early as her and it made no reason for her to be kept up waiting for him. His sleep varying, she didn't deserve that. He worked hard to give her a life she deserved…she was such a stubborn woman. She needed sleep to care for their son.
"It's from John Laurens, I'll read it later."
Typical Laurens, taking him off guard. A few weeks of no letters, no word from him in any way yet the moment he sat down to write him the letter arrives. He'll have to give him a piece of his mind in this letter.
"No. It's from his father."
"His father?
Alexander felt his body freeze, blood running cold as all scenarios ran through his head. Did he find out about them? Was he simply unable to write? It should be fine, he wouldn't leave him.
"Will you read it?"
It took all of him to keep his voice steady, unwavering. He shouldn't be scared because everything was fine, everything had to be fine. He promised never to leave him alone, not like his mother. Not like his father.
"On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. The war was already over. As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting 3000 men for the first all-black military regiment-"
Eliza sucked in a shaky breath before continuing
"His dream of freedom for these men dies with him."
Fuck. Shit…oh my god…no no no this couldn't be happening. He had so much to do, so much to accomplish.
That was the reality, wasn't it? They all leave him. And when they leave this world so do their dreams, their legacy they were fighting to build. Would no one remember his sacrifice? Would no one remember himself? Maybe they were wrong, maybe the quill he held wasn't moving enough. Wasn't writing enough words, pushing his own legacy into the world for all to see. Never waiting for someone to uncover the letters and the essays left behind. Forgotten as soon as he draws his last breath.
He had to build his own legacy, he couldn't wait around for anyone else. Hoping that history will remember him.
It was up to him to be remembered.
"Alexander?"
The concerned voice cut through his thoughts, a small hand falling on his shoulder to pull him back down to reality. She did always say his head was always up in the clouds too much. Without looking at the concern that was bound to be in her eyes he simply laid his hand on hers.
"I have so much work to do."
Alexanders voice was soft, broken even. He built a life here, hoping to leave behind the sorrow on that tiny island of his. Now reality was back, he had to work harder than ever before.
"Hey, Phillip it's going to be alright…"
Tears were coming down at an alarming rate, he could taste the saltiness of the tears and the snot that ran from his nose down into his mouth as he spoke. Begging and pleading for the heavens above not to take him, not him too. He has made mistakes in his life, he's hurt his family and he's hurt the country. The two things he had sworn to protect, he had become just like his father. He wasn't gone but he may as well been, working endlessly instead of trying to hold onto the fleeting moments.
His son…it was his fault. It was his honor that had him lying here on the wooden floor of the doctor, the wood stained red with his blood. There had been enough bloodshed during the revolution, why did more have to be spilled after they had won?
"Pa?"
Oh god, …his voice. He was supposed to sound desperate, angry and desperate to live. Angry at his father for leaving such a legacy he felt the need to protect.
There was only sorrow and satisfaction…how could he be satisfied at this moment? When he was lying in his own blood and sick dying?
"I did exactly as you said pa…I held my head up high…"
He trailed off, his eyes at the sky. A smile on his face…why was there a smile on his face?
"I know…Shh, it's going to be alright. I know you did everything just right…"
"Even before we got to ten…"
His voice was broken, little Phillip Hamilton was broken. A small laugh left him as he said this
"I was…I was aiming for the sky…"
"I know…save your strength and stay alive my son."
Please…please not him…
A slam could be heard as the door was pushed open, panicking as she rushed to her sons' side. Another reminder that he failed, failed her and failed their family.
"Is he going to be okay? Alexander, is he going to survive this?"
Eliza's voice held the same desperation he felt, her eyes finding his red ones. His skin was paling as he felt the tears flow silently.
And for the second time in his life, he was silent.
"Who did this, Alexander, did you know?"
Her voice was accusing, unbelieving that he could once again fail them. It was enough that he had betrayed them by sleeping with that woman but now their son…
"Mom?"
At this point, Alexander was long forgotten and all that was left in the world was a mother, kneeling over her son. Her little boy. She nurtured him, she raised him.
"I'm here baby…"
"Mom, I'm so sorry for forgetting what you taught me…we played piano…do you remember?"
Another laugh came out, desperate to ease the tension but it died down as quickly as it came as he desperately reached out for his mother. His eyes found hers as she gripped his hand tighter and tighter, refusing to let go.
"I taught you piano…"
"You would put your hands on mine."
He smiled, remembering those stolen moments.
"You changed the melody every time."
"Ha…I would always change the line…"
Oh god, he was dying, he was dying. He was properly dying. He never got to tell that girl he met that he wished to court her, he never got to take Theodosia Burr to that play he promised they would see together. He would never be able to feel his mother's hands ghosting over his as she taught him piano while he stubbornly changed each line she taught him.
He would never see her smile as she laughed and told him
"You're just like your father…"
"Shh, I know, I know…"
Eliza couldn't do this, she couldn't let him go. Her son, her baby…he was supposed to outlive them all.
"I would always change the line…"
The shakiness in his voice shook her to her core, the desperate laugh, and the forced smile on his bloodstained lips. Tears finally falling from his eyes as he felt his mother swipe her thumb along his lip, removing the blood from its spot.
"I know…I know…"
It took all Eliza had in her to not cry, to not trade her soul for his. She inhaled a shaky breath, forcing a reassuring smile on her face.
"Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-six-sept-huit-neuf,"
"Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-six-sept-huit-neuf…"
Phillip followed along, his hand on his father side twitching as his fingers moved in a familiar pattern. Fingers gliding across the keys, his tiny fingers following his mothers lead for just a moment before diverging.
"Good…again. Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-six-sept-huit-neuf,"
Tears were now streaming down her cheeks, pressing her lips to his paling knuckles.
"un-deux-trois…"
No…no, no, no, no. The gods above, please bring him back. Bring her baby back, allow her to hold him in her arms once more as he crawled into her bed at night. Asking when daddy was going to return from Washington because he learned so much from the books in his library that he wanted to share…he wanted daddy to be proud of him.
"Sept-huit-neuf…"
Please follow along, just once…just once don't change the line.
"Sept-huit…"
Eliza couldn't finish her sentence as reality sunk in, pushing weight onto her soldiers as if an anchor was weighing her down until her body was lying on her sons. He was only nineteen years old and he was meant to succeed them all and lead this nation to greatness.
Her eyes met his, her husband and she wanted to accuse him. Accuse him of ruining her life, cursing him as the bastard he was. Wishing he had been killed in battle or even better that she had never laid her eyes on him at the ball.
Those words died in her throat as soon as she saw his eyes hung in a sorrow filled frame. They were wide as he gazed at her before finding their way back to her-no their son. How could she often forget that? Phillip wasn't only her little boy, she wasn't the only one he would crawl into bed with during the night.
Phillip was his son too, how could she forget the songs she dragged Alexander down from his study to watch their son perform. How could she forget the look of pride and love in his eyes whenever he laid his eyes on their son, they always showed what his words could not express.
It was then that she remembered the man she had fallen for and that he was sitting right across from her.
"Dear Alexander
I am slow to anger
But I toe the line
As I reckon with the effects
Of your life on mine
I look back on where I failed
And in every place I checked
The only common thread has been your disrespect
Now you call me amoral
A dangerous disgrace
If you've got something to say, name a time and place, face-to-face
I have the honor to be your obedient servant
"
"Mr. Vice President,
I am not the reason no one trusts you
No one knows what you believe
I will not equivocate on my opinion
I have always worn it on my sleeve
Even if I said what you think I said
You would need to cite a more specific grievance
Here's an itemized list of thirty years of disagreements
Hey, I have not been shy
I am just a guy in the public eye
Tryin' to do my best for our republic, I don't wanna fight
But I won't apologize for doing what's right
I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
"
"Careful how you proceed, good man
Intemperate indeed, good man
Answer for the accusations I lay at your feet or
Prepare to bleed, good man.
I have the honor to be, your obedient servant,
"
"Burr, your grievance is legitimate
I stand by what I said, every bit of it
You stand only for yourself
It's what you do
I can't apologize because it's true
I have the honor to be, your obedient servant,
."
"Then stand, Alexander
Weehawken. Dawn
Guns. Drawn
I have the honor to be, your obedient servant,
."
"You're on.
I have the honor to be, your obedient servant,
A. Hamilton"
This was really happening, the reality was sinking in as he watched the mail carrier ride off to deliver the letter that would inevitably be his downfall. His words and ideas would be the death of him, Burr always said that.
It was only right that it be by his hand.
It was the night before as he wrote and wrote as if he was running out of time, he was running out of time. This was the last letter he would ever write, the last strokes of his quill against the paper. The last night he would kiss his wife and children goodnight in the small glow of the moonlight.
"Alexander, come back to bed…
Eliza's voice carried throughout the room until it reached his ears from where he was sitting at his desk in their room.
"I have an early meeting out of town,"
"It's still dark outside,"
Her voice was accusatory and begging for him to come back to bed. His meetings were often long and she wouldn't see her husband for weeks on end.
"I know, I just need to write something down."
Always writing, he was always writing. Why couldn't he just spend time with their family? Did he really have to write every second he was alive?
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
"Shhh"
He shushed her, willing her to go back to sleep so he would not have to give her the letter and watch her face fall as she realized what had happened before he even got to Jersey.
"Come back to bed. That would be enough,"
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone,"
There was the soft rustling of paper followed by the legs of his chair gently scraping against the floor of their home as he went around their room to get ready and grab his guns.
A sigh left his wife,
"Come back to sleep,"
"This meeting's at dawn."
His voice held no room for arguments and it elicited another sigh from his wife as she fell back against their pillows to burrow back into the blankets to sleep peacefully.
"Well, I'm going back to sleep."
Alexander finally made his way over to where she laid, smiling down at his sleeping wife. She was peaceful, beautiful and peaceful. Untouched by all the wrong he has done and all the wrong the world had done.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, tears freefalling from his eyes.
"Hey…best of wives and best of women."
Then he was off without another word, kissing his children in their sleep and taking a moment to step into Phillips room. A room untouched by time, the clothes were still strewn across the floor from where he hurried to get dressed that morning, he always tried to remind him to clean up this room. His parents weren't his maids after all!
They rode across the Hudson at dawn, no words spoken between the two. Only stares that tried to convey their feelings and anger, Burr had his friend, William P. Van Ness, signed on as his number two.
Alexander arrived with his crew, his second being Nathaniel Pendleton and a doctor that he knew.
Now they stood across from each other, their seconds to the side trying to hash it out with low whispers. Equally desperate to end this fight before it began, the country could not lose those two. Their two heroes. And yet no compromise could be drawn from that conversation and they were both reserved to their respected companion.
Hamilton drew the first position after examining the terrain, all around him desperately trying to figure out what was going through his head. What was he thinking about? Was he thinking how to use the wind to his advantage or speaking his last prayers and begging to gods to take mercy on his soul? No man has ever been able to understand his brain and no man ever would.
Only after the duel was over did he find out the spot he had been, the spot he had chosen being only a few miles away from the spot his son had died.
Why was he examining his gun with such rigor? What could possibly hold his interest in the way the silver lining swirled into elegant patterns as he methodically fiddled with the trigger.
Confession time? Burr was a terrible shot, even during the war.
Now they won't teach you this as the country lives on, won't teach their children that Alexander had been wearing his glasses at that time.
Why? If not to take deadly aim?
At that moment it was only those two, this would end with only Alexander and Burr standing. The two who the world kept pushing together since that fated meeting in the bar where the then teen Alexander had begged for the connections he had with Princeton college to be pulled in favor of a small, scrappy, and hungry young man just like his country in the Caribbean.
Two orphans who had found their way to each other learned to trust one another during the bloodshed of the revolution.
Only one thought ran through Burr's head before the slaughter.
"This man will not make an orphan of my daughter."
So let them write in their history books, the last thought that went through his brain when the guns fired. When Burr aimed to kill and Alexander aimed to miss.
Why was he wearing his glasses at this battle?
Why if not to take deadly aim?
So he could be sure to throw away his shot.
Reality sunk in as his body dropped to the ground, the bullet lodging just between his ribs. The grass staining red at an alarming rate and yet…a smile was on his face as he stared at the sky.
What could he possibly be seeing in the few clouds in the orange sky?
He had taken a step and then a second towards him, towards Alexander. The kid in that bar who found himself a family with that ragtag crew that soon became his friend in the war. There were arms holding him back as he watched them carry his still breathing body to the boat they rode across the Hudson on, at dawn.
Let it be written in the history books, the last words that graced his lips as he stared at the sky. Angelica and Eliza at his side to bear witness to those words.
"Lauren's? Is that you?"