Out the window lay a look into a life of privilege. A life few were able to enjoy. Wheat blew in the wind, swaying in time with a gentle breeze. To an onlooker, the ripples in the wheat sea were hypnotizing. They had often put the young man looking out the window to sleep.
The man had to tear his eyes away lest he idly watch for hours as the crops were picked in the distance. As he exited the house, he walked between a baskets filled with anything from corn, to cotton, to his personal favorite, tobacco. There was a sense of security in plenty that put a satisfied smile on his face.
It was that smile that greeted William Lee as he came into view leading a beautiful brown horse by the reins. "I figured you were going for a ride, sir." He said with an easy smile. The other man smiled wider and pet the horse's main. "Thank you, Will. You have perfect timing, and for the last time, call me George or at least Washington if first name feels like too much."
With that, George Washington expertly climbed onto the horse and was off for town. He had a few things to buy, a few errands to run, and an idea of bringing back a nice new dress that would make Martha overjoyed. When he rode into town and tied up his horse, it was amongst many other colonist. Blue-collar men trying to make a living in the new world shouted out what they were selling. Sailors flirted with ladies and told stories of their travels. Women looked in the windows of tailor shops. Children rushed past sometimes being shooed away when their wide eyes stared at goodies just in reach of sometimes greedy hands.
And everyone seemed to stiffen each time a red coast was seen in the crowd, but there weren't many of those, and the mood was generally cheerful if not a tad hectic in the way of the colonies where many scrambled and raced for new life, new opportunity and the dream of wealth right in front of their hands.
And this was all normal, just another day in the New World they so loved.
The indignant screams of a Brit tax collector and the laughter of colonist as white wisps of feathers flew in the air was fairly normal too. George just couldn't resist at least a glance at a tar and feathering, and if the roaring laughter was anything to go by, the humiliating punishment for those that tormented them was going perfectly. He tried not to look too eager as he casually sidestepped closer, doing a very poor job of pretending to be interested in a stand that happened to be by the event.
And by God, it was worth taking a look.
The tax collector barely looked human anymore with the black spots of tar and the clumps of feathers on top of it like a half plucked chicken. The only part of him that nearly looked to be a human shade was his red face that was now closer to the infamous British uniform than skin. George had to bite the inside of his lip to keep a straight face, especially when an eager colonist child began to steal the show.
Thinking back, George wasn't sure how he could even hear the bright eyed boy's words. The youth must have had the loudest voice in the world, or more likely, the crowd quieted by some subconscious inkling that the words were worth hearing, but either way, all attention was on the boy that seemed to materialize out of the crowd into the center of the circle they were forming.
There was something off about him but not off putting. He moved in a way of someone older, hands in his pockets, head held high, and his smirk was a bit too knowing as he pronounced "Oh how the mighty have fallen!"
The boy wore a long coat that flowed around his ankles like a dress. It clearly was meant for someone larger, but he somehow he did not seem small.
The blonde child laughed then and spun to face the crowd. Those eyes... They were certainly unique. George imagined God had simply plucked a piece of the sky from the heavens to give to the boy to make the bright eyes to match an equally bright grin.
"My fellow colonists, will we follow the well..." He gestured to the man struggling against sticky tar and giggled in a way that portrayed his physical age of a boy just shy of teenage years. "-the birds that cannot fly? The Old World has no place here! This is our land, our rules. our laws! We are strong, stronger than they will let us think! And we will not be disgraced by the disgraceful that cannot even walk down the street without bringing misery upon us! We have been silent too long! No longer!"
George was sure his eyes were wide as saucers. It took some of the bravest men to speak of freedom so openly this early in rebellion when blood was still drying in Boston and the Redcoats showed no signs of backing down and not even signs of remorse, yet this boy shouted his truth to the crowd with open defiance.
Even he sometimes felt his voice trying to run to the back of his throat in fear as he professed his opinions on revolution. The word alone sent a thrill down his spine, but it was nothing compared to the shock that went through him when horse hoof pattered the ground and British soldiers cut through the crowd, seemingly uncaring when they nearly trampled the crowd.
It happened fast. There were men in handcuffs. There was shouting, and as much as his logical mind told him to move him away, he moved closer, because he couldn't see the boy, but he could hear him. The loud voice was yelling at the soldiers.
George shoved his way through those fleeing with many quick apologies, and the sight that greeted him when the world suddenly opened back up from the crowd sent his heart into his throat.
"You have no proof these are the men that tarred him!" the blonde snapped from where he was standing fearlessly in front of three very annoyed men with guns. He had placed himself between the soldiers and three now handcuffed men. He had to tilt his head back to stare into their eyes.
One of the soldiers who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but arguing with a colonist child took a deep breath that George easily recognized as the one many older men did when they were trying not to snap. "Alfred, the tar is all over their hands. Just because your father is the general doesn't mean you can go around causing all this trouble. You're lucky I'm not arresting you right now and dragging you home."
George stood there awkwardly now. It seemed he had stumbled into a family problem. It wasn't as uncommon as one would think for loyalists to have children longing for revolution. He knew serval brave men who had been kicked out of their homes for what their parents called dangerous beliefs. His code of ethics told him to it was rude to listen in and wrong to butt into another family's matters.
Yet, the youth -Alfred- stood on his tiptoes to get in the face of men with guns and yelled, "Then put them on trial the way you put your men on trial! Take them all the way to England, make a big show, and then let them go! That's what you do with the monsters you dare call men at the Boston massacre who spilled the blood of innocents!"
And that's when the situation spun out of control.
One of the man who had been charged with the crime of tar-and-feathering began to run. He saw his chance with Alfred distracting the Brits and bolted. One of the redcoats held up his riffle. At this point, George was running forward with the word stop on his lips, and Alfred did something incredibly stupid.
The young man reached out and grabbed the barrel of the gun to wrestle over the weapon. As a veteran of the French and Indian War, George knew what a bad move that was, because as expected, instincts took over in the battle-hardened man. George got there a second too late to stop the bottom of the riffle slamming into the blond with enough force to knock him to the ground with a sickening splat noise like a dropped canteen
But he did make it in time to put himself between the soldier and the boy after the blow. He wasn't sure what to say. Disgust coiled inside of him when he looked at the British soldier. He was a man out of his place, and George glared at him soberly, using his body language to say he better back off.
The soldier tried to look past him at the child, but George was having none of it, he calmly sidestepped to stand in front of him again. A large crowd was watching, so in fear of being mobbed, the soldier did not make a move to fire, he turned and left with the most dignified nod he could muster. The other Brits followed him.
George watched them go as adrenalin fled, leaving him feeling exhausted, but he snapped out of it when he heard a soft curse behind him. He turned to see Alfred with a hand gingerly on his split and bleeding cheek, and he knelt down in front of him with a hand outstretched to help. "May I see? We may have to get you to a doctor."
Alfred shook his head with a tiny smile that seemed a tad out of place for the moment. The boy looked bashful and shy as his eyes flicked up to the colonist. "Thank you, mister, but I'm fine really. Barely even broke the skin. I'm tougher than I look, so don't worry. Just have to walk it off." He got to his knees and stopped to register who was helping him.
Then, his eyes widened and he gasped. George whipped around, thinking something behind him had provoked the reaction. He found nothing out of place save for some people slowing down to stare at them.
"You're Mr. Washington!" Alfred exclaimed with hero worship that made George slightly uncomfortable and bashful himself. Really, he was just a man who had served his country like so many others.
"I am." He replied calmly and tried to get a look at the still bleeding cut, but Alfred was suddenly a blur of movement as he leapt to his feet. "Sir, I'm so sorry! I didn't want to meet like this! Gosh sir, I'm a mess!" His cheeks were rosy as he tried to adjust the coat wrapped around him in a way that made him look more dignified, and one hand still covered what was sure to be a nasty bruise.
It definitely wasn't working in the way he wanted, but it did make him look adorable in a completely hectic way that would have every mother in a hundred miles rushing to fuss over him, commenting on how he should be eating more and that he looked like he'd been on the run, and he should be at home or in school. George had a feeling this kid was going to give him a heart attack.
"Alfred, can you please just-"
"You know my name!" Alfred sounded positively delighted. "Mr. Washington, we have so much to discuss!"
George took a deep breath, thinking that was certainly true with much less enthusiasm. He wanted to know why there was a young man wondering the streets all by himself, apparently a British general's son who went around giving soldiers a tongue lashing but then turned into a sweet, well behaved boy the second a colonist helped him out.
"I think you're right. Come along. I have a horse tied up just outside the market." He began to lead the way and had to bite the inside of his cheek to hide an amused smile when Alfred bounced along next to him with quick, peppy steps. Whoever this boy was, he certainly had spirit. The dangerous situation barely five minutes ago did nothing to ruin Alfred's good mood.
It was only when the ride to Washington's house ended that the boy's mood began to switch. Alfred looked at the large manor and nervously wrung his hands. His bright eyes kept flicking to George as if he was guilty of something, acting like a sinner in church.
"Sir maybe we should speak out here first. I don't think you'll want me around if you don't believe me. You'll probably just think I'm crazy, but Arthur says that same people are just meant to believe people like me, and I really hope you're one of them." Alfred spoke quickly, not giving the man a moment to cut in.
And he kept going for a long time. George listened as the boy in front of him who wasn't quite normal explained why that was. Apparently, every nation had a personification, and this- this young man on the run who looked painfully young- was the Thirteen Colonies.
As crazy as it all sounded, he believed it, because something in him said every word from Alfred was absolutely true.
The man was silent for a long while, thinking of how to respond. His mouth opened a closed a few times before he settled on,
"Well, no nation of mine will be without a home. Come inside. You look like you could use a good meal."
AN: Thank you for reading! Would you like to see more one shots about Alfred and the founder fathers? And if so, which founding father should I do next?