September 16th, 1776 was a bleak day to say the least. Early fall drizzle sifted its way down from the clouds, turning dirt to mud beneath the scruffy boots of a volunteer militia soldier as he stood on watch beside his cannon overlooking Hollow's Way. Alexander Hamilton shivered in the chill breeze as scoured the landscape. Somewhere, beyond the thin line of trees at the foot of the hill, the British were advancing. He scowled at the invisible redcoats. They probably felt at home in this weather.
The Hearts of Oak- the company Hamilton had joined- had been at Harlem Heights for less than twenty-four hours and already Hamilton hated the place. It was drab and dreary. The Hudson River was a steel grey backdrop for miles of water-logged farmland. He felt depressed, downtrodden by the rain and the dull landscape. He'd joined the revolution to fight for glory and freedom, and this muddy field seemed far from the excitement of battle that he had imagined. He'd pictured huge swathes of cavalry charging quivering British troops, not huddles of volunteers camping in waterlogged farmland.
Musket fire crackled across the field, splintering the quiet. A flock of birds swirled into the sky, cawing madly. Hamilton's whole body went tense. He couldn't see any redcoats amongst the far trees, but he was certain that they would be there. Washington's army had been fleeing New York when Hearts of Oak had joined them; the British Navy had cost the Americans almost two and a half thousand men, and now royalist troops were pursuing Washington along the Hudson River. There was no telling how many English soldiers were concealed by those trees.
Hamilton began to pick out figures weaving amongst the trees. The last of a retreating scout party, holding out against the infantry. He watched as soldiers knelt in the mud, firing blindly through the freezing rain. He saw a man arch in pain as he was shot in the back. Another keeled over suddenly, gore spilling from the front of his jacket. The man standing at the cannon beside Hamilton cursed quietly.
The snaps of musket fire filled Hamilton's ears. Tramping, American soldiers were advancing towards the trees. Blocks of men, all firing their muskets in the arranged order. From what Hamilton could see of the English forces, the British were outnumbered. But numbers weren't anything in this war, and Hamilton watched helplessly as whole squadrons fell. What the British light infantry lacked in numbers, they made up for in the fact that they were not an ill-equipped rabble. Glorious cause or no, Hamilton could see the amateurism in the Americans as they stumbled forward. Orders were bellowed, but below the gunfire they had little effect. Listless and disorganised, the Americans laboured on.
The British were retreating. Orders drifted through the deafening sounds. Suddenly everything was upheaved as American soldiers trudged after them. Hearts of Oak were instructed to move, and Hamilton's heels sank into soft mud as he heaved his squad's cannon over the crest of the hill and down towards Hollow's Way.
The thin wheels of the cannon ploughed sludge onto Hamilton's boots as he pushed it forwards. One of the squad members wiped sweat from his brow with his cap. Gunfire echoed across Hollow's Way as infantry fired on the retreating British. The tramping of boots as they advanced was unruly and ominous.
Trees rose up either side of the Americans as they pursued the British to Buckwheat field. Crackling sounds of battle stung Hamilton's ears. The infantry- far ahead- had encountered more royalist troops. Reinforcements, if they were unlucky. Hamilton hauled the canon on, rain slicking the back of his neck.
A broiling mass of British infantry greeted the Americans in Buckwheat field. Men fresh from New York, armed and efficient. There was no turning back now. Hamilton loaded the cannon and braced himself.
Smoke billowed with each blast. The roaring war cry of the infantry was just audible below the booms of the cannons. Mud-splattered and outnumbered, the Continental Army sent a barrage across Buckwheat field. Clattering, the British retort brought men down either side of Hamilton. He flinched at the onslaught.
"Death or Liberty!" Hamilton's voice was hoarse from chanting, even as fear laced its way through his chest. Death or liberty; the phrase the Hearts of Oak had so lovingly embroidered on their caps. Death or liberty; the glorious cause that had woken Hamilton each morning for training before classes. Death or liberty; he didn't care which.
Desperate, the Americans fought wildly. They pressed forward, forcing the British back. And back they went, bellowing. Hearts of Oak rolled their cannon on until they held a high ground position. And then they rained iron upon the British. Not even half the continental army was here, and still they blasted the royalists into defeat. A mansion in the distance, gloriously lit by the midday sun, provided some shelter for the British as they fled. Jeers and shouts rose. Their first complete victory. The redcoats were fleeing, tails between their legs, and the Americans were cheering.
"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"
A chill went down Hamilton's spine. The world was about to be turned upside down.