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calunk calunk the sound of the door knocker on the door startled Martha out of her fitful sleep. Alone in the grand old home, with just a simple rifle and her less-than-perfect marksmanship to protect her and her young daughter, Martha had every reason to wish this war over, so that her second husband may return to her, safe and sound, that he might protect them instead. Just as well, since he was not there, Martha gathered up the rifle she had under the mattress, put on a dressing gown and a brave face, and went to open the door. She opened the door and aimed to fire rather quickly, and found herself aiming at a young man of 16, in a nightgown and cap, with a robe wrapped haphazardly around his frame. Alfred, then.
Alfred was frantic. The stately mansion of his youth had too many memories that, on a night like tonight, would come out and make him think of Arthur. Memories of play fights and toy soldiers and cherry pies. On nights like these, Alfred needed to talk to someone. General Washington! He thought, forgetting in his sleepy franticness that the General was still on the front lines, struggling to rally the troops after the latest loss, sending Alfred, who had what were to a normal human life-threatening injuries, back to Virginia to recuperate. Alfred went to throw on a traveling outfit of some sort, but as the only clean outfit he had was the suit Arthur had given him nay on two months before the start of this war for independence, Alfred decided to forget social conviction and run to Mount Vernon in his pajamas and a robe and nightcap. He made short work of the distance between the two estates, and pounded twice on the door calunk calunk. Not two minutes later, the door opened to reveal Martha Washington, the General's wife, ready to shoot him with the rifle in her hands.
Mrs. Washington! It's me, Alfred! I beg you not to shoot, madame! Even a child could not miss a target this close! At those words Martha saw exactly who was calling at such a late hour and ushered the young man into the kitchens.
Alfred F Jones, what on EARTH are you doing calling on this house at such a late hour! I was just about to shoot, you silly boy! And why are you only in your nightclothes? Martha whisper-barked at Alfred.
I'm sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, M'am, but I was hoping to speak to your husband, but he is not home. My estate had me frantic and I had forgotten the time and place I was in.
Oh. And why was your ESTATE of all things making you frantic enough to come running over here in your nightclothes?
Memories. Of Arthur Kirkland. The one who raised me, though he was hardly ever there. He represents England, you know. One of a special breed of humans, blessed with long life and eternal youth. He represents THE strongest nation in EXISTANCE, and I don't know if this war is worth fighting or not, since he and his army have been winning so many battles lately. It doesn't seem worth the fight when I have a very good chance of losing, and a very BAD chance of winning my independence.
When you say YOUR independence, do you mean to say you are one of that breed as well? That you will live as long as this land does, and have as long as people were in these hills?
Essentially, yes, Mrs. Washington
Dear, call me Martha. But, staying on topic. You say you are one and the same essentially as Arthur Kirkland?
Yes.
And that would mean you represent WHAT exactly?
America, in any form. As colonies, a confederation, or a united mass from sea to shining sea.
Then we will win this war, Martha concluded with a triumphant smile on her face With a strapping young lad like you to represent us, I've not a though in my mind that says otherwise.