March 1775

Alfred's blue eyes watched as the British soldiers laughed and rambled inside their tavern, the same tavern they had taken from the Americans a month ago. It was dark outside, the sun had set seven hours ago as well as the people of Quincy, Massachusetts into the comfort of their homes. As the moon rose from its sleep, so did the rebels of Massachusetts rise from weeks of planning their revenge.

As a part of the Massachusett local militia, Alfred and a group of rebels decided to burn down a tavern that the redcoats were quartered in. Only a couple of years ago he had assisted in burning down the governor of Massachusetts' house and now, five years later, he was leading a group of his own followers. It was still a bit difficult for Alfred to believe how much his life had changed in a few years. Six years ago he was fatherless, homeless, and hungry with a fed hatred for the British. Now he was an established colonel and ready for revenge.

Raising his kerchief higher to cover his face as much as possible, Alfred turned to the members of his regiment. All twelve men were currently crouching in the garden of the tavern, waiting in the silence for the okay signal from their leader. His best man, Matthew, was carrying a pile of wood slabs and a fire striker with a look of unease on his face. After waiting patiently for another few minutes, Alfred noticed that the British soldiers inside the tavern were extremely intoxicated now. He chucked to himself, only the Brits are stupid enough to make themselves vulnerable in a country where everyone despises them.

"Matthew, set them on fire." He ordered finally, but quietly. Matthew nodded and began piling the wooden slabs on the side of the building like a bonfire until Alfred slapped him on the arm. "No, we're going to light each one individually and chuck them through the windows at the Brits. It'll hit them like a brick." He replied, massaging his arm like he was ready to throw a baseball.

"Yeah, they'll never see it coming!" Another one of the rebels answered.

Matthew turned to Alfred with a look of exasperation. "That'll attract too much attention! Let's just start a small fire outside and run away before the whole building catches on fire- hey!"

Alfred grabbed the wooden slabs from the ground and threw one to each member. He grinned as he took the fire striker and lit his piece of wood on fire, turning it into a torch and raising it up. Everyone else held their wooden piece near Alfred's to light their own on fire as well. "Let's show the Brits the Great London Fire again!" He cheered.

With a whip of his arm, Alfred pummeled his torch with so much force it shattered the window and landed somewhere inside the tavern with a large explosion. Cries of drunken shock could be heard now as well as the sound of glass shattering and chairs tipping over.

Then, everyone screamed.

Alfred watched as each one of his men projected their torches into the air, the torches lighting up like comets soaring through the sky. Some hit the other windows, shattering them as well, some ricocheted and flew back at them and one landed on the roof perfectly, engulfing the rooftop in a blanket of flames. While the British were screaming and calling for backup, Alfred had never laughed more in his life. He trampled on the bushes and threw rocks to disintegrate anything else that was intact. His extreme euphoria only lasted for a few minutes however.

Then he saw it.

Well, actually he heard them before he saw them, the sounds of gunshots. The light from the now burning building was enough to reveal the wave of red approaching swiftly.

"RUN!" He screamed as he jumped over the fence and began dashing through the forest, however, he panicked when he noticed Matthew wasn't by his side as usual. His blue eyes frantically searched for a familiar blonde man when he realized Matthew was long gone. The clever bastard took off without him.

However, he wasn't so angry. Instead, he was having fun. Having fun running away from the devils, the devils who wore red coats, brown boots and spoke in a heavy accent. Having fun running through the forest like a despicable yet desirable chap that the British so desperately wanted yet couldn't get. Having so much fun because some of the Brits would have to find another place to sleep besides the burning tavern. Having so much fun because the British's suffering was his pleasure.

Alfred paused briefly from running to catch his breath. He was panting heavily from both exhaustion and exhilaration, his heart beating like a marching drum. Unfortunately, the exhilaration was short-lived as gunshots rang through his ears and familiar voices screamed in pain. It brought the American back into reality, that he wasn't playing a game but trying to survive. Perhaps it was a bad idea to execute the plan at night but it was the only time of the day where they could take shelter in the darkness.

After deciding there was nothing he could do to save his men, he took one last glance behind to see the wave of red quickly trailing behind him.

He hated the colour red. The symbol of blood, danger, and destruction, the American associated all of that with the British. The very same people who were destroying his country, shedding blood, and being a danger overall. The very same colour that drained all the colour from his father's face when he was brutally shot left him to lay in his own blood. The colour red was the last thing his father saw before he died.

Hearing gunshots too close for comfort, he immediately ran left, heading for the Massachusett coastline. He figured most of the rebels would want to retreat closer to the mainland than out to the waters, and he figured the redcoats would know that too.

Without the aid of a lantern, Alfred was left running through the thick woods at night under the only guidance of the moonlight. Practically running like a blind man, he miscalculated his footing, sliding and tumbling down a small cliff into the wet rocks of the shore. He looked up, seeing the ocean and the illuminated freckly moon in front of him made him forget about the pain in his limbs. The ocean was beautiful. He had forgotten it's beauty ever since the British took control of the harbour.

Examining his surroundings, the rebel picked himself up, his ankle aching in pain. Alfred grit his teeth and examined his surroundings, looking for a safe place to take shelter. Noticing a large cliff nearby, the American sauntered tiredly over and sat down on the rocks, gripping his ankle. He picked up one of the stones from the ground, cold and wet from the night and rain, and pressed it against his foot. It wasn't ice but it'll do. For a second, it was all peace and quiet until a voice disrupted the tranquillity.

"Captain, the temperature is bitter tonight. We should return and find a new place to stay for the night instead of continuing the search." A shrill yet monotone voice said in the distance. It had a thick British accent and Alfred jumped at the sudden voice before running to hide under the cliff provided.

"No, we shall scavenge this area for a bit longer." A low, half-wasted voice grunted. His words sounded more like a gibberish grunt than words itself. "We have some of their men, but I'm certain their leader got away."

Alfred cursed under his breath. They were specifically looking for him. Gripping his musket that was now covered with dirt and grass, he listened carefully to the gradually fading footsteps of the soldiers. As quickly as they came, they were gone.

The only thing the American could think now was to hide and rest. He really didn't plan to run this far from town and he doubted he could get far before getting caught by the redcoats. Not only that, he would have to climb up the cliffs which were quite dangerous without a bright light source and an injured ankle. As so, the only thing he could do was sit and wait for daylight. Once the peak of the morning sun reached, it would give him just enough light to sneak off safely. Taking off his coat and placing it on the rocks he tried to even out, the blonde smiled to himself. Were the Brits trying to put off the fire now, or did they give up and let it burn? Are they angry that they have to find a new place to sleep? Alfred felt content as the Brits had forced many American civilians to relocate.

He took out his fire striker and found a random branch caught in between the big rocks. He lit it on fire, giving himself some light and warmth although it was challenging to do so as the strident waves of the ocean crashed violently against the rocks. He never had a fear of water but the waves looked so merciless and spontaneous he decided that jumping into the water would be his very last resort if the redcoats found him. After managing to light the branch for the fifth time as the harsh wind kept shutting it down, he laid himself down for a quick nap.

Alfred had been napping for about a half-hour when the rebel awoke to a noise. Not sure if it was the loud whistling of the night wind or the rustling of bushes above him that awoke him, he paused, ears gaping as he heard the distant rustling turn into soft footsteps that slowly got less obscure and closer. Someone was coming.

Quickly blowing out his fire and snapping out of his dream, the rebel got up, grabbing his musket, and hid deeper under the cliff, camouflaging himself with the rocks. The footsteps were clear now and Alfred prayed it was one of his men coming back to get him. However, the light footsteps stopped just above him, and Alfred estimated that the mysterious person was standing just above him on top of the cliff. Alfred couldn't see the person and said person could not see him. After a silent minute had passed he waited for the footsteps to start again and retreat but he didn't hear anything. Did the figure leave without him noticing? Maybe his senses weren't working well since he just woke up? Luckily Alfred had moved to hide under a taller cliff, if he was hiding under a smaller cliff, the figure would've spotted him for sure.

Using some of his courage, Alfred poked his head out a little to see who was standing above him on the cliff. From below, he caught a glimpse of a mop of blonde hair reflected from the moonlight. As the man stood closer, Alfred couldn't exactly make out his face but as the man's torso came into view, Alfred only saw one thing. Red. This man was a redcoat soldier and judging by the design on his coat, a lieutenant too.

Realizing this, the American dove back into his hiding spot. His back was literally pressed up against the cliff wall as if he was moulding his body into it. He suddenly realized how vulnerable his hiding spot was. All the redcoat had to do was peer downwards and he could see the injured rebel trying to conceal himself. Therefore Alfred knew he had to make the first move, he had to shoot this man before he spotted him and yelled for back-up. Gripping his firearm he cursed at his current situation. It was hard to aim at someone who was standing directly above him at an angle and there was barely any room for him to grasp and position his musket. Even now he knew the risk of shooting this soldier, whether he missed or not the firing sound would surely garner attention. And if more redcoats did come, the only escape for Alfred was to jump down from the rocks he stood on and into the jarring water of the sea.

However, something puzzled him next. From the corner of his strained eye, he saw the man take off his red coat and musket strap. Any man would not be as idiotic to take off any layers during such undesirable weather, it was freezing cold with a slight drizzle of rain. Had he spotted Alfred and taken the strap off his musket? But then why did he also take off his coat?

The man stood even closer to the cliff and Alfred could see what he was wearing. A white collared shirt with grey pants and wool stockings. It was the outfit of a typical enemy soldier. Alfred knelt down and aimed his musket up at the British soldier, the moment the latter looked down he would get a bullet between the eyes, and Alfred waited and waited and waited. But the soldier never once looked down the cliff, in fact, he almost seemed entranced by the ocean as he was staring directly ahead at it.

Alfred was confused out of his mind but moreover, angry. What was this man doing? Was he toying with him? As he got ready to press the trigger to gun down the Brit, the man suddenly retreated away from the cliff, disappearing from view. The injured American panicked, had the man left to gather more men? His thoughts were all shut down again when a shadow suddenly loomed over him like a bird soaring over. The soldier was jumping off the lofty cliff.

Blue eyes widened in shock when his mind suddenly comprehended what was going on. This man didn't come here to kill him, he came here to commit suicide.

His eyes followed as the body soared past him and plunged down below into the crashing waves. Alfred could not believe a suicide attempt was occurring right in front of his eyes, it was the last thing he expected when the very thing he expected was his own death. He watched as the silhouette in the water did not even struggle to stay afloat- he was drowning, no, he was sinking.

An unknown feeling sprouted in Alfred. Maybe it was because the man wasn't wearing his red coat, maybe it was because Alfred was a naturally righteous person with morals, or maybe because he once saw himself in that man's shoes because the next thing that happened was a step, a jump, and a fall.

He jumped into the dangerous ripples too.