Alexander Hamilton arrived at the doorstep of his home still in a state of slight shock.
Only hours before, a shouting match had taken place between himself and George Washington after he defied orders and took part in a duel against Charles Lee. Things had spiraled out of control from there, and the argument had somehow transformed into Hamilton ranting his frustrations about the older man's unwillingness to give the aide de camp his own command.
Again.
A few more harsh words were said before Washington once again referred to him as "son", and Hamilton's already steaming temper boiled over, crossing over a clearly marked line with his commanding officer.
With a deadly voice, strangled with restrained anger, Washington had dismissed him without a second glance.
Hamitlon had staggered to his tent to collect his things in a daze, oblivious to the insistent questioning from both John and Lafayette. In one swift movement he had mounted his horse and quickly fled the camp without so much as a wave goodbye to his friends.
He rode for hours, only stopping to water his horse and give his cramping legs a break.
On one such occasion, Hamilton made the mistake of glancing down at his sleeves which were still stained with black ink from writing innumerable amounts of correspondents for the general. The Caribbean immigrant heedlessly stuck his hands into the chilly autumn water to rid them of the dried liquid.
The stains only served as a reminder of his recent failure.
When New York City finally became clear in the distance, the dark-haired man practically collapsed from off the back of his horse, his legs like lead from a ride that was supposed to take three days combined into one. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of his consciousness, but his desire to see his wife and collapse onto a soft mattress overrode any other needs that he may have worried about in another moment.
The New York streets were dark, only dimly lit by the sparse lanterns scattered across the sides of roads and buildings. Hamilton had arrived in town during the middle of the night so, predictably, the city was deserted except for a few questionable figures who, when they caught sight of the flash of blue from Alexander's uniform, decided he would not be easy prey and stayed their distance where they stood in their hunched positions against the wall.
An audible sigh of relief left Hamilton's lungs when his small home came into view and some of the previous day's tension immediately released from his shoulders. A few more fast-paced strides had him on his front steps, and he reached somewhat lethargically for the doorknob-
A hand grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked.
Unfortunately, his muddled brain didn't notice that some of the shadowed figures he had passed in the alleyways were wearing red coats.
He was pulled backwards off of his front step and gagged as his collar painfully dug into his trachea as the British soldier who held onto his coat did not release his grip but continued to let gravity take Hamilton to the ground.
After a few seconds he was dropped unceremoniously onto the cobblestone street and surrounded by men wearing red. He was hopelessly outnumbered and knew better from his time on Nevis to try to fight his way out. That is until one officer made to reach for the messenger bag slung across his right shoulder and a spike of adrenaline began to pump through the ex-aide de camp's veins.
In his hurry to leave the army behind, he had forgotten to return the missives that he was scheduled to deliver to Mrs. Washington the next morning. The information did not contain her location or any vital information on the war effort, but they were still personal to Washington, and dismissed or not, Hamilton was not about to let the letters fall into enemy hands.
If anyone who knew Hamilton was there to see the spark that suddenly appeared in his eyes, they would have fled the near vicinity at the sight of the fire that began to burn there .
With all the strength left in his leaden limbs, he dodged the grasping hand of the recruit and rammed an elbow into the gut of the soldier closest to him, took a moment to be satisfied at the soft grunt of pain it expelled, got unsteadily to his feet, and ran.
He could hear the redcoats shouting behind him as he turned sharply and slid into a nearby alleyway clutching his bag close to his side as he went. Something ricocheted off of the wall to the left of his head and bits of flying brick found purchase in the soft skin of his cheek, slicing the flesh there.
Shit. They had opened fire.
Hamilton figured that his pursuers decided it would be better to have a dead captive and blood stained missives rather than a runaway captive and no missives at all. He cursed his stupidity at leaving his gun with his horse in his half asleep state.
He sprinted through the channel of connecting alleys, dodging gunfire as he went, and as he rounded another corner, he stopped.
No, no, no.
It was a dead end.
He frantically looked for a way to scale the wall, the only thing between him as his freedom, and, in finding none, quickly spun around to look for another way out.
There.
The alleyway he just came out of was a t-intersection and if he had turned left instead of right he would have been led out onto the main street where he easily could have lost the British in seconds. He cursed his seemingly endless bad luck.
He increased his iron-like grip on his satchel and made a break for the now visible road, only to be sent sprawling backwards onto the dirt of the alleyway by a British soldier rounding the same corner he just had.
He scrambled to grab the dagger secured on his hip, determined to not go down without a fight as more soldiers flooded the cramped space, but his newly exposed stomach was met with the leather boot of a now angry red coat.
All of the air whooshed out of Hamilton's lungs in one movement and his fight for his dagger was forgotten as Alexander tried to force his protesting organs to once again operate.
Hands grabbed at his arms and none-too-gently pulled him up so he was resting on his knees. Before the young man could protest, his satchel was ripped off over his head by the officer who had shoved their boot into his stomach, now recognizable as the leader of the bunch. No longer dazed from the kick, his struggling began anew as he twisted almost animalistically in the unrelenting grip of the soldiers holding him on the ground. The man rifling through his bag simply glared at him before delivering another strong punch to his face.
Hamilton's head snapped to the side while stars flashed in front of his eyes from the force of the hit, and his vision went white for a few moments before he regained his composure.
Correction. Not a punch. A butt of a rifle to the side of his face.
Hamilton's brain cells reconnected just in time to see the head officer rip open the seal of the envelope on the letter to Mrs. Washington and start reading with barely concealed glee when his greedy eyes found the tell-tale signature of General Washington himself on the bottom. Glee gave way to confusion, then disappointment, and then a cheshire cat grin spread across his face as he glanced from the letter to Alexander to the letter and then back again.
A pit formed in Hamilton's stomach.
The commander gestured to his troops with a nod to lower the guns still trained at Hamilton's head, and even more alarm bells began going off in the revolutionary's head.
'Oh God,' thought Alexander, 'They are going to take me alive'
From the moment the soldier had grabbed him by his jacket, Hamilton was prepared for death. If he was being honest, he had been prepared for death throughout the entire war. Expecting it even.
But capture. Capture was not something he had prepared himself for.
Hamilton was tough, There was no denying it. He had been through more horrors by the age of seventeen than most men go through in their lifetime, but that did not mean that he wasn't the least bit petrified at the prospect of any type of suffering.
Death was his old friend. Suffering was his unwelcome life companion.
The letter was thrown on the ground in front of him, a clear gesture for him to read it, and as the soldiers released their death grip from his bruising arms, he hesitantly picked it up while throwing a suspicious glance at the smiling red coat and began to read.
...Martha I wish I could be in your arms once again…
Insignificant if not a little personal. Hamilton's cheeks flushed.
...No news has been delivered by Congress in quite some time…
Not important, but true. The troops were going stir crazy as weeks passed with no word on how the rest of the war was going. Tensions were running high in camp with foreboding as the band of revolutionaries feared the worst.
...decided to send Alexander home to his wife as she wrote to me weeks ago with the news she is pregnant. I cannot in good conscience give the man I consider a son a command for the sake of both his unborn child and my own decidedly selfish parental feelings…
Very, very significant.
The man I consider a son.
The man I consider a son.
The words echoed inside Hamilton's skull like a heartbeat and seemed to take over any other rational thought he may have.
He would be lying to himself if he did not admit that he was beginning to see Washington as a father figure against his own best efforts, but to read in the general's writing that he may feel the same way...
It was…
Alexander was…
He didn't know what to think.
"I'll take the half-witted look on your face as confirmation that the letter was talking about you,"
Hamilton was snapped back to reality by the nasally voice of the British officer cutting through his jumbled thoughts, and could have kicked himself for displaying his usually carefully guarded emotions so freely. He settled on scowling at the older man instead in retaliation for the insult of his intelligence.
"Alexander Hamilton. Washington's pet," the commander sneered, "I'm not surprised that you are his designated errand boy for his wife as well. It seems like traitorous scum like yourself would have no problem slipping into that bed- oh sorry- um- role,"
Hamilton had to bite the inside of his cheek to physically restrain himself from attacking the man in front of him as he knew it would only make the situation worse now that his identity had been revealed. He took to glaring at the ground instead, ignoring the blood that was now dripping into his eyes from his head wound.
"Nothing?" the man asked looking slightly put out that he riled no response out of his captive, "I expected more from you Lieutenant Colonel. Your reputation precedes you for being notoriously loud-mouthed. No matter, I'm sure General Washington," he spit the name out like a curse, "will be more than willing to do the talking for both of you,"
No longer willing to be nonchalant, Hamilton's head snapped up to look at the red coat. The man smirked at his reaction before explaining.
"This letter gives me all the evidence I need to know that Washington would bend over backwards for your worthless life in a heartbeat. I have a feeling all I have to do is have you call and he will answer,"
Cold dread seeped into Alexander's bones at the truth behind what the British commander was saying.
Hamilton would have to be blind to miss the fatherly gestures and protective nature Washington regularly showed towards him. Whether it be making sure he had something to eat during the days where the aide de camp was drowned under a pile of correspondents or the slight tensing of the man's broad shoulders whenever someone threw a whispered insult at the young secretary.
And if Washington was telling his wife the truth in the letters, Alexander had no doubt the general's protective streak would kick in, and the man would come running to his rescue.
It would spell death for not only Washington, but failure for the entire war.
With a deep exhale, Hamitlon realized what he had to do.
The relaxed grip on his arm gave him enough leverage to tug his wrist free from the soldier's grasp, and his trembling hand finally found his dagger, aimed for his own heart and-
A shot rang out and pain blossomed in his leg.
With a yell of agony, Hamilton instinctively dropped the dagger to clutch at the bullet wound lodged firmly in his thigh as white, hot pain crashed into him in overwhelming waves. The agony took his breath away, and it was all the young man could do to continue to gasp in gulps of air like a fish.
"My apologies," the commander said as he resecured his smoking gun, "Noble as that endeavour was, you can not escape that easily, my young friend,"
Blood ran freely from the wound, staining his pants, and creating a small river in the dirt below him. The sight of so much spilled blood made Hamilton feel dizzy. Or was that just blood loss?
He did not have to reflect on it much longer as another officer's rifle was once again slammed into the back of his head.
"Washington will be thrilled to hear from you, I'm sure,"
Darkness claimed him.