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Chapter Eleven: Bleeding Kansas 1855-1861
Sacking of Lawrence, Kansas 1856
The Kansas-Nebraska act was tough on both America and South. They had completely stopped speaking to each other and only spoke to yell at one another. Washington was being brought to its knees over the issue of allowing slavery in Kansas between the congressmen and the two personifications. It spoke of a country at war with itself. The internal struggle showed between the two American brothers.
America was holding his chest when he burst into South's favorite sitting room. His eyes were searching for his brother and when he found him he stalked forward and plucked the book his younger brother had been reading and tossed it across the room.
"America! What in God's name are you doing!" South shouted half in shock and half in anger.
America pulled his hand from his chest revealing the blood staining his shirt. A laceration had manifested on the country and America knew exactly who was to blame for it. It had to be because of those damn ruffians of South's in Kansas. America shoved the hand onto South's cheek rubbing the sticky red substance on his face.
"This is your fault!" America shouted.
South leaned away from the bloodied appendage in disgust reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief well aware it was going to stain.
"Get that out of my face now!" South bellowed jumping up in fury.
"What? Don't wanna reap the benefits of your Missourian ruffians?" America questioned in contempt.
"Still angry that Washington backs my pro-slavery government in Lecompton?" South smirked as he wiped his face clean of Amerca's blood.
He was referring to the capital set up by his pro-slavery supporters in Lecompton, Kansas. At the moment, it looked like Kansas would be admitted into the union as a slave state by popular sovereignty. South hadn't gone about it in an honest way sending Missourians into the territory to outnumber the free soil supporters, but sometimes you had to do what you had to do.
America laughed bitterly, "Because you use dirty tricks! I didn't raise you that way," America argued loudly with a scoff.
South's cocky smile widened. The younger personification completely ignored America's words.
"You should get that looked at," South suggested nonchalantly gesturing to the wound.
Blood was slowly being absorbed into America's shirt.
America's rage was beginning to boil over. How dare South talk to him so condescendingly. America was the older brother. America was in charge. South was a part of him, America. South was his, not the other way around. He was not going to lose control over himself. America was not going to lose control of South.
America stomped toward South and went grab him by the lapels, but South was quicker. He ducked beneath the incoming hands and managed to get behind America. From there, South locked his arms underneath America's armpits to hold him in submission. South was tired of this constant argument. Every time any form of altercation occurred in Kansas America always came to yell at him. In South's opinion, America was just jealous that everything was working in South's favor.
"I am the center of the world's economy, America. You won't be able to bully me like you used to," South declared tiredly as America struggled in South's hold.
It was true. South currently held a monopoly on the world's supply of cotton, and had enough cotton to go around. Even America's industrialized north needed South's cotton. This made South extremely wealthy and by association America wealthy though America was loathe to admit it. America struggled in his brother's hold before finally going limp.
"Let me go," America said the fight drained out of him.
South let him go and America left silently. The Southern personification sighed gratefully before bending down to get the book America had flung. He returned to his seat and opened his book up to continue his leisure before he had to meet with South Carolina's senator.
Pottawatomie Massacre 1856
South was in the middle of a House of Representatives meeting when the pain started. Sharp, acute pain like a bullet wound in his gut made him grip the desk he was seated in with white knuckles. He gnashed his teeth together to contain the groans of pain that wanted to escape his lips. America was on the other side of the meeting. South didn't want America to know something had happened in Kansas, and for once it was in America's favor instead of South's.
The Southern personification looked down at his chest to see underneath his jacket a harsh red was staining his white shirt. A need to cough overtook South suddenly and he was unable to reach his handkerchief in time before he spewed blood across his desktop.
He quickly wiped his arm across the desktop desperate to hide his condition. America couldn't know that the anti-slavery side had hurt him. South could not let America know that he was still weak. He stood up carefully ignoring the stares he was getting from a few of the congressmen and casually exited the House chamber. The moment he managed to get outside he rushed to the side of the building out of sight to anyone who exited the building.
Carefully, South untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it to assess the damage. He hissed peeling the shirt from the jagged cut above his naval. South sighed and let his head fall back against the side of the Capital building. This was worse than anything America always complained about and South knew why. Someone had murdered his pro-slavery supporters and a panic was spreading across Kansas. South could feel the people's fear and it was causing him to sweat more than usual in the May heat due to his condition.
South removed his jacket and vest then his bloodied shirt. He took the shirt and made a makeshift bandage of the material to stop the bleeding. Next he replaced his jacket knowing full well he looked utterly ridiculous without his shirt and necktie, but it was his best option to get back to the White House without anyone spying his injury. Once back at the White House, South could stitch it up and wait for it to heal without anyone the wiser.
He stood up using the Capital building for support. The pulling of the broken skin was draining his energy and he breathed harsh breaths as he attempted to appear normal. Carefully, he took some experimental steps before giving himself a nod and returned to the public. The House meeting was letting out as South attempted his walk back home.
"Didn't like the way the meeting went?" a smug familiar tone questioned.
South wanted to die. Of all the people that spotted him, it had to be his brother. He honestly hadn't been paying much attention to the meeting.
"I didn't find it warranted my time," South answered his brother snootily.
America snorted with a winning smile, "Right, so the fact that the House is electing more Republicans doesn't bother you?" America questioned sarcastically.
"Yeah," South answered, his vision blurred and he stumbled but immediately righted himself.
America made a noise of confusion. South usually bickered with him and it made America feel strange to hear South agree with him. A feeling of concern wormed its way into America, but the country squashed it instantly. South was making his life hell. America should be glad that South wasn't fighting him for once, but the truth was America still cared a great deal for South and something was wrong with him.
"Why the hell are you dressed like that? You usually pride yourself on being a southern beau?" America questioned noticing that all South seemed to have on was his jacket.
South was breathing like he'd just finished a marathon and he didn't answer making America all the more worried. America grabbed South by his bicep, but was completely unprepared for South to fall into his chest. Instantly, America was assaulted by South's entire sixteen year old body.
"Jesus H. Christ," America muttered when he noticed the red bleeding through the jacket, "What the hell happened to you?"
South sighed, "Just get me home," he murmured defeated.
"Not until you tell me why you're bleeding! Who attacked you? Was it someone from Europe?" America was having a small hysterical attack.
If someone from Europe had decided to attack his brother, that would mean war and America needed to know.
"No, nothing like that," South responded as he tried to remove himself from America's hold, but America was currently stronger than him.
"South!" America demanded and glared at his younger brother.
South grit his teeth, "Fine! Someone from the anti-slavery side in Kansas has murdered some of my supporters. Are you happy now?" South shouted once more attempting to pull from America's arms.
America held him strong, "I can't say I don't feel some form of satisfaction, but I can't have my people murdering each other. Let's get you home and cleaned up," America responded, but he sounded anything but boastful.
The older personification sounded troubled more than anything and disappointed. It wasn't anything like South had been expecting. America helped South home, cleaned him up, and made him comfortable in his room. The entire time America had helped South he seemed almost in a trance. America barely spoke and seemed extremely lost in thought. Finally, South spoke up asking a question that had hung in his mind since America had helped him.
"Why'd you help me?" South questioned curiously, "It ain't like I've been a model brother lately."
America shook his head solemnly, "Because no matter what problems we have right now, I'm still your older brother. You are still my responsibility."
South had nothing to say to that.
America turned and left South in his room with one of his favorite pro-slavery volumes.
Boston Massacre 1770 flashback
This situation with South was eerily familiar only this time America was in the role as parent. He remembered it being one of the few times Britain had been visiting him. America had been anxious to tell Britain all the problems the Empire had been causing America with his Stamp Act. During their nightly tea time before bed, America had dropped the tea cup and it had shattered on the floor in front of the fireplace. America could still remember it clear as day.
"America! Lad, what's wrong? Don't tell me that frog had anything to do with this!" Britain had growled as he had brought his stained hand away from America's bloodied torso.
The Empire had instantly with concerned hands opened up America's gory clothing to reveal the terrible wound. A curse had dropped from Britain's lips and it was clear he was angry at whoever had done this to his colonies. Britain had not been one to play games when it had come to his little brother.
America had shook his head and coughed, "No," America had gasped out in pain.
The pain had been sudden and came out of nowhere, but Britain, even after their violent shouting argument earlier in the day, had been concerned and worried. Britain had easily picked up his colonies and took him to America's bedroom where he had dressed and soothed America. Britain had looked devastated that the attack had been his own military when America told him.
Britain had sighed sadly as he left his colonies, but before he left America had called out to him.
"Britain!"
Britain had turned with inquisitive eyes.
"Why did you help me? My people were harassing yours," America had questioned.
Britain had appeared surprised by the question before he had answered.
"Because no matter what problems we have right now, I'm still your older brother. You are still my responsibility."
America felt tears roll down his face as he remembered the Boston Massacre. That had been six years before the Revolutionary War. Was America on the verge of a Civil War with his brother? The very thought caused heavy sobs to shatter in his rib-cage. Had America turned into his mentor, Britain? Was America a failure as an older brother?
Was America going to lose South?
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