There was a knock at the door.
At first, Hercules ignored it. Small droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead as his large fingers gripped the tiny silver needle, a single piece of white thread about to go through the eye. He would get the door of course, but it could wait until after he threaded the needle.
Or perhaps it couldn't. After a few more moments, the knock sounded again, this time much louder. Letting out a groan of frustration, Hercules reluctantly dropped the needle and thread on the table and sat back, rubbing his hands on his face. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't seem to finish the coat.
"I'm coming!" Hercules called, standing up and mentally preparing an excuse for why the coat wasn't done in case it was the man who had made the order. Prying open the wooden door, Hercules expected to see the red hair and bushy mustache of the man who had ordered it, but to his surprise, it wasn't him at all.
Instead, a young mailman with a lanky frame and brown hair stood in the doorway. "Pardon me, are you Hercules Mulligan?" He asked, reading off his sheet of names.
Hercules gave a small nod. "Well, if I'm gonna be anyone, I would be him," he said giving a small smirk. The young man didn't smile back, only reached in his bag and pulled out a small folded sheet of paper. "I believe this is for you," he said, handing him the paper.
Giving a small nod, Hercules thanked the man and shut the door before finally looking at it. He brightened just a tiny bit when he saw the familiar red wax seal imprinted on it. A letter from John! Ever since he had left to join Nathaniel Greene's army, he hadn't heard as much from him.
The only things he did hear about him were from the letters he sent to Alex, but apparently he didn't send them to anyone else. Or at least, he thought he didn't. Grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, Hercules sat down on a small wooden chair , unfolded the letter, and began to read the first line.
And that was when time stopped.
It was as if all the atoms in his body had aligned and misaligned themselves at the same time. His grip on his glass loosened, and it feel to the floor in a shatter, exploding pieces of glass everywhere. Hercules barely noticed though. Now gripping the paper with both hands, he scanned the first part of the sentence again and again, hoping he had misread it.
On Tuesday the 27th, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed...
Hercules didn't need to read any more after that. Clenching his jaw, he dropped the paper and put his hands on his head. No. No. No. It had to be a mistake. They had just finished a battle; of course systems had gotten messed up. They must have put the wrong name.
But then, why did they still send it to Hercules? And why did he still have this deep, sinking feeling inside him that something was very, very wrong?
He didn't even think twice about it. Standing up, Hercules stormed off to the kitchen and threw open the cabinet, whipping out a large flask and beginning to chug it right there in the kitchen. He didn't give a fuck what happened.
After a moment, the flask was almost completely drained and Hercules staggered a bit, dropping the flask on the floor as he felt the effects of the alcohol rage on inside him. He already felt a bit dumb, but he had built up a large toleranc eto alcohol over the years, and this didn't do much.
Still, he slumped down against the wall clutching at his head. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. John Laurens, his friend, his partner, was dead. How could this happen? How?
Hercules was not a man to cry, but at that moment hot tears stabbed at his eyes, but standing up, he quickly brushed them away. Rushing over to the coat hook, he grabbed his velvet blue jacket with the golden buttons and burst out the door into the August air.
The day was perfect. A bright sun shone high overhead in a sea of blue sky dappled with pure white clouds, and every tree was filled with vibrant green leaves. Citizens milled about, talking laughing, having fun as if they didn't give single shit.
Well, Hercules did give a shit. And this? This perfect day? It seemed like a mockery, like the world didn't care what happened. It seemed just wrong to have such a perfect day on a day like this.
Turning a corner, Hercules stormed into the nearest bar, slamming the door behind him. Inside, it was the exact opposite of the world outside. Dark and dank, the Libery Tavern was where pure things went to die. Sunlight filtered in through dusty windows, and burly men with rippling muscles drank and arm wrestles throughout the whole place.
Not even speaking, Hercules laid some money are the counter and ordered a large cup, the largest size they had. Gratefully taking the glass, Hercules walked over to the nearest booth on the other side of the bar and began chugging the drink again.
As he felt the warm, bubbly liquid slip down his throat, he realized that none of it was wiping away the pain. Reluctantly, he took the letter out of his pocket and finished reading it.
On Tuesday the 27th, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina. These troops had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over.
He's buried here until his family can send for his remains. As you may know, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was engaged in recruiting 3,000 men for the first all-black military regiment. The surviving members of this regiment have been returned to their masters.
Hercules sat there, simply staring at nothing. For a moment, he gripped the paper with his large hands, crumpling it at the edges. Clenching his jaw, a single tear slipped down Hercules's cheek as he crumpled up the paper and threw it against the wall, as if that would make the news disappear.
Not only had John's death been wrong, everything about it had been wrong. If the British soldiers had been informed in time, John would still be alive! Why couldn't anyone tell them?
Everyone in John's regiment had been returned to their owners. Why? Couldn't they see that that was John's legacy? If they got rid of it, were they trying to make John disappear as well?
Unable to take it anymore, Hercules finished off the glass and stormed over to the counter, ordering refill after refill of the bubbly liquid. He couldn't take it anymore. After about six or seven drinks, Hercules began to feel a little sick. He found it harder to think, but he didn't care. If he couldn't think, then he couldn't be upset about John's death.
"Fill me up again," Hercules ordered the bartender, his words slurred. The bartender, a muscled man with a bushy mustache looked Hercules over. "You alright man?" He asked. "Maybe you should ease up on the drinks." Hercules clenched his fists together. His friend had died. Did he look okay?
"I didn't ask for your opinion, bastard," he snapped. "Stop being a dick and get me another drink." The man stepped out from behind the counter, his arm crossed. "Hey, who are you calling a bastard?" He growled, giving an ugly sneer. On most occasions, Hercules would have backed down. This was not most occasions. It felt as if nothing mattered, and pissing off this guy didn't matter either.
"I did. You got a problem with that?" He said, slamming his glass on the counter, and a few of the guys in the background went oooooooooo...
Before he knew what was happening, Hercules got up and shoved the man in his large chest, and sneered up at him.
And that was when he died.
Not actually of course, but it certainly seemed like that. A large fist slammed into Hercules's nose, and for a moment he couldn't feel it. Staggering backwards, he wiped under his nostril and saw blood on his finger, but he didn't have time to inspect it for long.
Suddenly, his arms were being pinned behind his back and we was slammed into a table, spilling a bunch of guy's drinks. Struggling to get up, Hercules swung a punch in the man's direction, but he was already drunk and felt woozy, and his punch missed miserably.
Laughing, the man held up his hands. "Look at this guy!" He said, picking up Hercules and slamming him into the floor. "Go on, get out of here before I throw you out," he said, kicking Hercules. Holding up his middle finger as he went, Hercules stalked out the door, painfully aware of the eyes on him, and slammed the door as he went.
As he stepped outside he realized it was almost evening. Maybe it had been more than seven drinks.
Whatever. It didn't matter. Too drunk to make his way home, Hercules staggered into an alley where he finally slouched down. Before he left, he picked up the letter and had stuffed it into his pocket. Now, he took it out and stared at it, reading the message over and over again.]
At the bottom, they had included a small picture of John, which looked like it had been a stamp. Feeling his bloody lip and nose, Hercules held the note to his chest and felt a tear slip down his cheek.
As he stared up at the darkening twilight sky, he thought he could just make out the shape of a man with long curly hair, a nice jacket, and smiling a familiar, freckled smile...