DISCLAIMER: NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE. At all. Seriously, at all. Don't judge. This is NOT how the story actually goes. Also, not really sure where I'm going with this, but I had to write it down somewhere.
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The Battle of Yorktown.
It was chaos.
Blue upon red upon blue upon red, punctuated by screams and bangs and the flash of bayonets. There was no clear boundary between the two sides- Two men shot next to each other, spinning a full circle before realizing one was red and the other blue. Alexander couldn't tell which one fell first.
He scanned the battlefield from his vantage point. He caught a glimpse of Lafayette- even when all went to hell there he was, fighting through the mess. Where was Laurens? Lost to the mess. He could barely tell the living from the dead, blood and dust covering every man in a shell of death.
This was his last chance. He searched for his victim- Alexander knew he was the best shot in the army and he couldn't miss this chance. He could end the chaos. The blood. The storm.
Yes. There he was. General Clinton, that idiot.
He steadied his rifle, aiming carefully.
Took a breath.
Held it.
Pulled the trigger.
Breath out.
Clinton's head snapped back, a small red hole apparent in the side. The rest of him followed, slide off the horse in slow motion. Alexander saw him fall, saw his horse rear up, fall back. Saw the soldier nest to him cry out. Saw a ripple of fear spread out, out, out, until it was gone.
Saw his men cheer. Saw the American forces push forward, taking advantage of the redcoat confusion.
He didn't see the man behind him.
Didn't turn around until after he heard the gasp. Didn't pull up his rifle fast enough. Couldn't block the bayonet.
Alexander struck out with his rifle, knocking the man down, but didn't see where he fell to. He heard him scream. He put his hand up to his shoulder, and pulled it back off, wincing in pain. It felt warm and sticky. And red.
He saw Lafayette again, a splotch of blue in the chaos. He saw stars in the sky, like freckles. Was it daytime? Because everything was getting darker. "John?" he managed to get out.
But John wasn't there, nobody was there, to see him fall- not down, down, like the man with the bayonet- Alexander collapsed on the ground.
I imagine death so much..
The world went black.
/
We won. We won.
The cheer echoed through the ranks- not a cheer, actually. More of a whisper. Like if it had been said louder, it might break, shatter into a million pieces on the ground. The British had surrendered. They surrendered. The were going to negotiate the terms of surrender.
"Hamilton!" He called, almost on instinct. He didn't know what he'd do without Hamilton- after the war- now. They would build a new country together. This was a new country. They were free.
"Hamilton!"
He looked around, scanning for his face. The battlefield was so full of death. He couldn't tell which were the fallen and which were those fallen upon their knees. This would take a while to get over.
He was starting to get worried. That boy stuck to his side like a magnet- so eager to prove himself. Where was he?
He noticed a group of soldiers staring at him. Did he look too worried? He shook his head. Hamilton was probably fine, and he needed to be strong right now.
He straightened his coat, dusted it off. Do your job, George.