Author's Note: While this fic is set in an alternate history, relevant references to actual history will be explained in notes at the end of each chapter.
Enjoy.
Canada frantically searched the study, trying to find the spellbook. When he didn't find it, he ran back outside, hoping to catch the thief in his attempt to escape, but there was no one around for as far as Canada could see. He checked the rest of the mansion, wondering if the thief was perhaps still inside.
Again, no one.
There's no way he could have escaped already; I would have seen him at some point, Canada thought.
He double checked in the study, but got the same result as before. The spellbook was gone. Vanished.
Did England find out I had it after all? Canada wondered. He was the only one that could have known I had it, and he's the only one who could have wanted it…
Canada stared wide-eyed at the desk, and the letters scattered on it.
If he found out I had the spellbook, what else does he know? Canada thought. Does he know that I found surviving fugitives from the Revolution as well?
Canada picked up a handful of the letters, thinking. All of the letters' hidden messages were very carefully coded, but could still be deciphered by someone with sufficient skill in spy work.
Someone like England.
Canada hurriedly sorted through all the letters, checking to make sure none had been stolen or tampered with. To his surprise, none of the letters were missing, and there was no evidence of tampering. No one had touched them.
"Thank God," Canada breathed, setting the letters back on the desk.
However, the fact still remained that someone had managed to sneak into the house, steal the spellbook, and leave undetected. It ultimately didn't matter who the culprit was; this place was no longer safe. Canada needed to leave, and take all those letters with him, before someone else broke into the mansion and stole them.
Canada ran through the house, packing only items that he would need, and stuffing all the letters into a pouch. When he had everything he needed, he went outside, mounted his horse, and fled.
He rode for days on end, only stopping at night to rest in nearby towns or homes on his journey. For the first several days, the ride went smoothly. However, eventually, Canada's route required him to make a stop in New York.
As he made his way through the city, Canada noticed British regulars on patrol almost everywhere he looked. It had been two – almost three years since the end of the war, but England still insisted on keeping troops stationed all over the place. It was supposed to be a precautionary measure, to prevent rebellion from breaking out again.
Canada tightened his grip on the reins. He deliberately avoided eye contact with the soldiers, and continued on his way. He didn't want to stay in New York any longer than necessary. One night in an inn, and then he would be gone by the next morning.
That night, after finding a room, Canada found it unusually difficult to fall asleep. When he collapsed onto the bed, physically exhausted from the day's ride, he ended up staring at the ceiling for hours on end. More than once, he would unconsciously grab the sheets and curl his hands into fists, then realize what he was doing five minutes later and unclench his hands.
Cursing under his breath, Canada gave up and got out of bed. He paced the room for a while, trying to clear his mind. When he lay back down, he took several deep breaths, hoping to relax enough to finally get some sleep.
He didn't get nearly the amount of sleep he had hoped for. After a very short night's rest, Canada got up early the following morning, and prepared to leave New York.
Someone flagged him down just as he was leaving the inn.
"What? Who is this…?" Canada muttered to himself as he came to a halt, watching the figure approach.
"Alfred? Mr. Jones, is that you?"
Canada winced. This wasn't the first time someone had mistaken him for America. And, given the circumstances, Canada knew he couldn't blame them, but the reminder was still painful. He wasn't America; he was his replacement.
The figure came closer, and Canada noticed that it was a young man – probably in his late twenties – but try as he might, he couldn't recognize this individual from anywhere.
He sounds like he knew Alfred personally though, Canada thought. He must be another survivor!
The man came to a halt just a few feet away, looking at Canada expectantly. After a few seconds, his bright countenance darkened a bit, and he looked a little confused.
"You've changed," he said. "Your hair is longer, and your eyes look… lighter."
Canada shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "But I'm not Alfred."
The young man's face fell, and he stepped backward.
"My apologies, sir," he said. "But you looked very much like a man I know; I thought you were him."
"I'm his brother, Matthew," Canada said quickly, seeing the man was about to leave.
The man stopped.
"Matthew?" he repeated, his eyebrows going up slightly. He looked off in the distance for a moment, as if trying to recall something, but quickly refocused his attention on Canada.
"You are here to visit, then?" he asked.
"I am not visiting," Canada said. "I live here."
The other man frowned. "Strange," he muttered. "Alfred said you lived in Canada…"
Canada shook his head. "I used to," he explained. Waving his hand as if to dismiss the topic, he then changed the subject.
"May I ask what your name is, sir? You sound like were a friend of my brother."
"Alexander Hamilton. Alfred and I served under General Washington."
That name doesn't sound familiar, Canada thought. He must have been a lower ranking officer, if the British didn't bother to hang him after the war ended.
Hamilton cast a surreptitious glance at his surroundings, then added, with a lowered voice, "Forgive my impertinence, but I must ask: where is your brother? I… haven't seen him since the Battle of West Point. If you could take me to him, I would like to speak with him."
Canada inwardly winced again. He was there, and he didn't see what happened? he thought. Samuel Adams didn't know, but he wasn't there, so…
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hamilton," Canada said. "But, Alfred was killed in the Battle of West Point."
"Oh…" Hamilton lowered his gaze. When he looked back up, he gave Canada an apologetic look, then added, "I fought in that battle, but I didn't see… what happened to him. I had no idea…"
There was an uncomfortable pause.
I wonder if he knew what Alfred was… Canada thought. And, by extension, what I am. If he doesn't know yet, he probably will…
"I… had to move here after I received word of his death," Canada said. He looked down, thinking of how to word his next sentence.
America did say, early on in his Revolution, that he wasn't England's brother anymore. So, I suppose…
"I'm his only next of kin. When he died, I inherited his estate…" Canada continued.
Hamilton looked slightly confused. "So, you moved here to take care of it? What of your home in Canada?"
"I may return there, when I find the time," Canada replied. "But, for now, my priority is here."
Hamilton nodded his understanding, and turned to go again.
"Before you leave," Canada said abruptly, causing Hamilton to halt in his tracks yet again. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and continued, "Do you know of any… other men from the war, who knew Alfred?"
Hamilton's eyebrows went up slightly. "Men that escaped prison and execution, you mean," he whispered in response. He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"Just one," Hamilton said. "But he's in Spain."
Canada frowned. Who did America send to Spain?
"When will he return?" he asked.
"I don't know."
Canada looked away for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. There was nothing he could think of at the moment. Whoever this man was that had been sent to Spain, he was probably in similar straits with Adams and Franklin, which meant he was not likely to ever leave the country. There was little good that could be done if that was the case.
"Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I hope to see you again."
Hamilton nodded, and he and Canada went their separate ways.
(-)
Canada left New York and crossed the Hudson River, going at a much slower pace than he had taken over the past few days. This path was not part of his original route, but it was nearby, and Canada had decided, shortly after his meeting with Hamilton that he wanted to investigate something.
Canada rode on the road on the west side of the Hudson, and traveled north. As he rode north, he heard the sounds of a British patrol somewhere ahead of him. He pulled his horse to a sudden stop.
Fort West Point was just a few miles to the north. These were probably soldiers that had been stationed there, and were just patrolling the area.
I can understand why England keeps soldiers in the towns, Canada thought with disgust. But why does he insist on keeping soldiers in the forts too? The war's over; that's no longer necessary…
Canada steered his horse off the road, and continued riding through the nearby forest, finding a spot to hide, but where he could still see the road. When the patrol came into view, Canada stopped his horse again, holding as still as possible so as not to make any sound. He waited in tense silence while the patrol passed him, completely oblivious to his presence. After they disappeared from view, Canada waited a bit longer, listening carefully if they decided to double back, then resumed his northward journey.
As he neared West Point, Canada knew he would have to stay off the road completely. He would probably have to dismount as well. For now, Canada kept riding, until he reached a small clearing. There he dismounted, and tied the reins to a tree.
He was about to leave when he noticed something odd on the other side of the clearing. It didn't look like part of the underbrush.
"What is that?" he mused aloud.
Canada walked over to it, and noticed that it was actually a cross, made out of two pieces of wood.
A grave marker? In the middle of the forest, half a mile from West Point?
Canada had a terrible feeling he knew whose grave this was. There was something written on the horizontal piece, and Canada knelt down to get a closer look, trying to read it.
"Alfred F. Jones," he read aloud.
He was right.
It looks like England had the decency to give him a proper burial, at least, Canada thought. But he never told me…
It was quiet in the clearing for over a minute. During that time, Canada just sat there, staring blankly at the grave.
"It takes three years, and I end up finding your grave by accident," Canada said, shaking his head. "England never said a word, so I thought you'd just ended up with the rest of the casualties…"
Canada stood up, still shaking his head.
Why am I doing this to myself? I should've known that something like this might've happened when I decided to come here…
Canada went back to where his horse was tied and untied the reins. He'd been here long enough.
However, at that moment, just as Canada had mounted his horse and was about to leave, he felt a sudden surge of anger and adrenaline rush through him. He felt pain as well, but it was numbed by the adrenaline.
"What is happening…?"
Canada turned his attention inward, trying to pinpoint what had happened, and where. In Quebec, where he had a population of potentially rebellious French colonists, there was nothing. In nearby New York, one of the areas hardest hit by the failed Revolution, and was likely to have occasional sparks of rebellion, nothing. In the southern colonies, all was quiet. Canada looked further north, to the rest of his brother's colonies.
He found it.
Boston. There was a riot.
Of course, the British redcoats that England had left there were undoubtedly already on the scene – if they hadn't provoked the fighting to start with – and were trying to restore order. Canada wasn't there, and thus couldn't actually see what was happening, but he knew this was going to end in bloodshed.
Cursing under his breath, Canada dug his heels into his horse's side, and rode out of the clearing, but not without one last glance at America's grave.
Your rebellion started in Boston… Is this what your 'Boston Massacre' felt like, Alfred?
Ending notes: During the American Revolution, Alexander Hamilton was an officer serving under Washington's command. My personal headcanon is that, while he wasn't of high enough rank to be informed about the nations, he probably figured it out himself and never said anything.
The guy Hamilton says is still in Spain is John Jay. In actual history, he negotiated and signed the Treaty of Paris (along with several others, including Ben Franklin). Before that, he was an ambassador to Spain (and talked the Spanish into giving the Americans money to fund the war).
The Boston Massacre... was not really a massacre. It was a fight, started by colonists, who were throwing snowballs at British soldiers, who responded by opening fire, killing five men.
