Drink With Me
A/N: I own absolutely nothing. Sherman Edwards owns 1776, and Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables, although Herbert Kretzmer and Alain Boublil wrote "Drink With Me" for the musical. I'm just an adoring fan. :-D.
Please Read and Review, but flames will only be used to toast marshmallows.
July 4, 1776
It's done. It's finally done. These were the only words that had crossed Thomas Jefferson's mind for hours. Early that morning, the Declaration-his Declaration-had finally been signed. It was over. And yet, judging by the sullen look on John Adams's face, it had really just begun. They were truly in rebellion now; they would win their rights to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness", or they would die in the attempt.
That second option seemed to be sinking in as many of the delegates sat in a local pub that night. The room was unusually quiet for such a vibrant group of men. Every few minutes someone tried to tell a joke or spur conversation, but all attempts had failed. Even Hopkins was sitting silently, gazing steadily into his mug. As fond of quietude as Tom was, he just couldn't stand this.
He raised his glass and sang quietly, "Drink with me to days gone by. Sing with me the songs we knew."
Thomson's voice joined his as the Secretary's glass was also held up, "Here's to pretty girls who went to our heads."
Ben Franklin's voice rang out from the corner of the room, "Here's to witty girls who went to our beds." Tom turned to look, and the man was smirking and had that infamous sparkle in his eye. He was seemingly unfazed by their impending doom. Tom remembered something he had once read, that to the well organized mind, death was merely the next great adventure. He was sure Franklin would see it that way.
The three men finished together, "Here's to them and here's to you," holding their glasses toward each other and then toward the other delegates in the pub.
Stephen Hopkins, the self-proclaimed oldest man in Congress (in fact, he was second to Franklin in that honor), took up the tune. "Drink with me to days gone by. Can it be you fear to die?" The men looked around to see whom "Old Grape and Guts" was addressing. Many were surprised to see that he was speaking, or rather singing, to the youngest man in Congress, Edward Rutledge. "Neddy", as Hopkins called him, looked a bit paler than usual, quite strange for a man of so much confidence.
The elder man continued, "Will the world remember you when you fall? Could it be your death means nothing at all? Is your life just one more lie?"
Rutledge looked up at Hopkins with a strange expression. A mixture of annoyance and what could possibly be anxiety crossed his face. Jefferson was forced to remember that Rutledge was seven years his junior (something the South Carolinian made it very easy to forget, with all of his manipulation and scare tactics) and Tom knew his type. Fear was a sign of weakness, and weakness was unacceptable. Honestly, Tom was starting to feel sorry for him, which was a radical change to how he had felt a few days earlier. At that point, Rutledge had been detailing the slave trade to the Congress, trying to discredit the slavery clause in Tom's Declaration. The fact was that nearly every word he had said that day was true. His words had successfully silenced the Congress; most of them had felt too guilty to speak. Even the usual talkers, Adams and Dickinson, had had very little to say.
Most of the room was singing now. "Drink with me to days gone by, to the life that used to be." Dickinson had always tried to stick to that old life, never changing. He learned in the end though. Tom realized that he had probably misjudged the conservative. He certainly loved his country if he was willing to fight for a cause that he didn't believe to save her. Also, Tom didn't have anywhere to talk about changing old habits.
"At the shrine of friendship never say die." Tom looked over at John Adams (Franklin had practically dragged him into the pub), who had finally looked up from his letter and to everyone's amusement, had rather reluctantly joined in. "Let the wine of friendship never run dry. Here's to you and here's to me." Tom raised his glass to Adams. For just one moment, he thought he saw the eternal agitator smile. John was obnoxious, disliked, and rather irritating. However, he cared about his country too. He believed strongly in his cause and would see it through, even if it meant ruffling a few feathers along the way. He meant well, even if he wasn't exactly what anyone would call a "people person".
The song ended, and the anxiety seemed to ease. Well, at least you couldn't cut it with a knife anymore. Tom looked one more time around the room. What he saw was a group of men, "no more, no less" as Franklin had said. These men could be cowards, liars, and manipulators. At the same time, they could be clever, brave, and surprisingly sincere. At this point, it didn't matter who was wealthier or which colonies were supposedly better. They were all in the same boat. If this went well, posterity would dub them heroes and founders of a new nation. If it went wrong, they would be traitors. At least they would be long gone before those history books that Franklin always spoke of were published. Tom couldn't help feeling relieved about that.
He glanced out the window and noticed that the moon was nearly full as it shined down over Philadelphia. It cast an eerie glow the streets, making people that Tom knew were perfectly solid look spectral. He shuddered, but he couldn't seem to look away. There was a haunting beauty in the sight, and as a writer, he supposed he could appreciate that. Surely it wasn't a bad omen...was it?