At some point during the next few weeks, Hamilton got a promotion.

The frost was drawing in as December beckoned, and everything felt numb. Boots that had been heavy and hot earlier in the year could not protect his toes from the biting cold. His leather cap did little to defend his ears from the icy wind. And at some point during all of this, Hamilton was made captain of the Hearts of Oak.

He was never quite sure what happened to the man before him- frozen, wounded, captured- but he set about picking up the pieces of what that man had left behind.

Administration, to Hamilton's ever-growing dismay, was one of his talents. By the time the Americans were camping along the Delaware river, he'd made a bit of a name for himself. His artillery was splendidly kept, his men as well fed as army rations could allow them to be, and almost every one of them had boots.

By December 24th, he found himself under a concerning amount of observation from army officials. The last thing he wanted was another promotion. Nobody would employ after the war him if he hid behind reams of paper instead of fighting.

It was that bloodthirsty need for gory was what drove Hamilton across the Delaware river on Christmas Eve night. Loaded in boats, the Continental army slipped across the freezing water and towards Trenton. Hessian troops- mercenaries for the British army- were encamped at the town, and Washington hoped to surprise them with a Christmas Day attack. Oak men grumbled at the cold. Nobody wanted to be rowing across dark Delaware waters on Christmas night. Barefoot in the snow, it took all of Hamilton's power to keep his company trudging onwards, hauling cannons over the frozen ground.

The instructions were for four pieces of artillery to accompany each column of soldiers as they swarmed Trenton. Hearts of Oak had been paired with Nathaniel Greene's company, attacking the far side of town. They had the longest to walk, and dawn had already begun creeping across the sky as the troops began spreading out to surround Trenton.

It was a remarkable moment, that dawn. To Hamilton it felt like the eye of a hurricane. Stars winked away as slowly the sky began to blush pink. Trenton stirred lazily, rooftops shining in the dawn. Pale and cold, Christmas Day unfolded. And with it came a battle.

The Americans rolled forwards, an attack on four sides. Greene's troops flooded the town. The Hessians, dazed, scrambled to organise themselves. Some of them were still in taverns, and came stumbling in groups along the road. Most were half-dressed and hungover, caught completely off guard by the attack. Someone smashed a window. Shouts rose up all over the city as regiments tried to form. Hamilton's artillery kept them scattered, bombarding the town from the hill. One and a half thousand German mercenaries, dazed and surprised, milled the city. Hamilton watched as the swarm of dark coats set upon the Hessians. Victory was swift and bloodless. Only four hundred Hessians escaped.

Hamilton received an invitation to become Nathaniel Greene's aide a few days later. He dismissed the offer. The last thing he wanted was a glorified desk job.

Not a fortnight later, Washington launched a similar attack on Princeton. News had not yet reached Princeton of the Hessian defeat, and he hoped to pull off a similar attack. Hamilton was again stationed on a hill with his artillerymen, and he watched as the Continental Army moved in.

There was a shout from the foot of the hill, followed by the chatter of gunfire. A squadron, sent to burn a bridge, had encountered a redcoat patrol, and fighting had ensued. Hamilton readied his men, bracing for an attack. Hearts of Oak cannons fired onto the British, hoping to defend the infantry patrol below. Hamilton's heart wrenched as he saw the squadron fall, and fear gripped him as the British soldiers began advancing. The last thing he wanted was a bayonet fight.

Hamilton ordered the cannons to fire again upon the oncoming British. A few were taken out but onwards they came, firing on the Hearts of Oak lines. Americans fell. Hamilton's guts twisted. Death or liberty. Death or liberty.

As a child, growing up in the Caribbean, Hamilton had wished for a war. Orphaned, impoverished, he'd always believed that battle would bring him glory. He had seen injustice and poverty and he wanted to fight against it. He would fight for the future, for America. Death or liberty. Was he ready to die for it?

The clattering of hooves told Hamilton he was not alone.

"Son, may I take this from here?"

Hamilton squinted up at the rider. A tall man, framed against the rising sun like some glorious painting. Like a campfire tale, burning and angelic.

"Sir,"

The rider's toothless smile told Hamilton everything he needed to know. Today it was liberty, not death. Reinforcements came pouring after the general, and suddenly the fight was turned. George Washington rode away, a figure of myth, and the troops rallied.

The cannons rolled forwards, Hearts of Oak the centre of a charge on Princeton. Unruly and disorganised, the men rushed forwards. They swarmed upon Princeton like flies upon a carcass. Captains and generals bellowed all they could in some hopes of controlling the army. Regiments broke off, firing down streets and slaughtered the retreating British. The British began to flee, two main American forces pouring into the city from either side. The Continental Army chased the British through the streets of Princeton.

Cannons blasted along main roads, carving holes in buildings and sending shrapnel ricocheting into British lines. Infantry charged, bayonets stained with blood. Somewhere across Princeton, a fire broke out. The smoke rolled over the town, adding to the chaos. Hamilton lit a cannon, firing into a block of redcoats, more men swarmed up behind their comrades. The cannon to one side of Hamilton took out a chunk of the advancing British. Desperately, Hamilton raised his musket and tried to pick off straggling soldiers. The cannons became useless at such close range. A few more redcoats fell.

Hamilton bellowed the order to switch to bayonets, and the Americans had barely finished affixing the blades when the British were upon them. Hamilton slashed at a redcoat, and his guts spilled onto Hamilton's jacket. An Oaks soldier fell behind Hamilton, gurgling as a bayonet ripped his throat. Hamilton swatted another redcoat with the butt of his musket, and the man collapsed. Another redcoat slashed Hamilton's arm before he could stake the man. Bayonet fights were short and bloody, and by the time the Oaks had finished off the remaining royalists, they were gore-soaked and low on numbers.

At some point, orders actually began reaching the people they were supposed to. Hearts of Oak, eyes shining and bloodthirsty, rolled their cannons a little way away from Princeton to Nassau Hall. They had received instructions from Nathaniel Greene that a few of the remaining redcoats were hiding in the Hall, and Greene requested artillery assistance. Hearts of Oak rolled their wooden cannons up the hill to Nassau Hall.

The sounds of battle were distant when the Hearts of Oaks reached Nassau Hall. The orchard leading up to the hall was shady and almost pleasant. It seemed a world away from the violence roiling in Princeton below. The house, low and long, seemed at odds with everything. Imposing in its own way, but tranquil.

As they drew closer, the Hearts of Oak heard shouts coming from the hall. Greene's soldiers milled about the base of the house, occasionally shooting up through windows as they spied redcoats. Greene greeted Hamilton gruffly, and commanded his men away from the house. The Hearts of Oak rolled a cannon parallel to the door, the artillerymen preparing to fire.

The first cannon blast rung in Hamilton's ears. The swaying afternoon surrounding Nassau Hall was broken by two shots. Barricaded doors buckled under the fire, and shrapnel fell into the marbled hallway. The American troops cheered, infantry rushing forwards into the mansion. Hamilton heard shouts from inside, and not moments later he spotted a white flag at one of the windows.

Two victories in such a small space of time bolstered American morale like nothing else did. Despite the January cold, Hamilton felt warm. The rebels sang as they marched. They shared their coats and their rations. Around campfires, there whispered a hope for a new America.