As he paced the perimeter of Saint-Eustache beside Francis, Alfred began to realize that there was an entire world outside of America that he knew absolutely nothing about. It wasn't Europe, or Africa, or even Asia. This world was not a world of land and sea, but of customs and traditions spanning back to the dawn of time, from whence it'd evolved completely independent of human affairs. It was a world of celestial bodies in human form, orbiting and dancing around each other like eternal mercury.
"We are not humans, Alfred," Francis was speaking softly.
"I know," Alfred said. Even after hundreds of years of knowing, hearing himself admit it out loud made his skin itch uncomfortably. "But we… our people are us," he said, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. "How can we operate outside of them, their culture, their… rules?" He had no other word for it. Even if—when—Arthur gave him his independence, he would always be dependent on his people, it was a fundamental truth that he felt bone-deep.
"Oui, they are us," Francis agreed, "but you must remember, petite frére, that we are also us." Francis looked up at the slate-dark roof and shining buttresses that shaded their path. "This church," he gestured, "was built over two hundred and fifty years ago. Did you know that?" Alfred tried to remember what he'd been doing two hundred and fifty years ago. He could scarcely recall. He'd been alone, scavenging in the rivers and forests after losing his mother, brothers, and sisters.
"I remember it like it happened yesterday," Francis continued. "A few centuries before, there was just a small chapel, back in the 13th century. I remember them building that, too, as if it were
last month." He turned and fixed Alfred with a look that weighed tonnes. "Do you know how many generations of humans and their rules have come and gone since?"
Alfred could practically feel himself shrinking. He thought of Werowocomoco, Jamestown, Williamsburg, Philadelphia, and all the suffering in between. He knew how many generations could pack themselves into a century, and he'd always been good at maths. He could guess.
"No," he lied. Francis must not have been in an indulgent mood, for he didn't answer his own question. Instead, he heaved a sigh and looked at the river.
"Human generations rise and fall and take their memories to the grave. We enjoy them while they live, celebrate what they accomplish, and honor them—if indeed honor is due—in death, but we must never let ourselves become slaves to the trappings of their world. Can you imagine? To live only for humans, by human rules, for human ends, for eternity?" Francis shook his head. "The bravest among us would go mad, Amerique. If you do not understand this already, in a few hundred years, you will."
Alfred thought suddenly of Washington and Martha, of Lafayette, of the soldiers in his regiment and the wives and children they had at home. He looked resolutely at his shoes and tried not to let his vision grow misty. Thinking hundreds years ahead was daunting; it was more years than he could remember.
"We are our own people, despite everything," Francis said, unfazed by Alfred's glum mood. "Humans… they will never fully understand us, and that is alright. But we all understand each other, even when we're at each other's throats. When our heroes leave us, when our empires crumble, when new ones rise," Francis nudged Alfred's shoulder. "We remain. To humans, treaties are purely political, things written into existence for the sake of commerce, defense, and taxes, but to us, allies are the closest things we can have to lifelong friends. It is impossible to be friends with someone you don't know. This trip to Sweden is not for America, it is for Alfred Jones, and Alfred Jones alone." Francis slowed to a stop, near the tree where they'd had lunch.
Alfred looked up and saw that the sun had fallen well past its noonday pinnacle and was sinking fast in the spring sky. He looked over at Francis, and found the elder nation watching him with an uncharacteristically serious—and kind—expression.
"Treaties can last hundreds of years, Alfred, and you live an ocean away. If your friendship with Berwald should last so long, would you not like to return home knowing the sort of friend you've made?"
Alfred took in a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. He nodded, understanding.
"Good," Francis came over and gave the teen's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Viens. They will be expecting us for dinner—and you must let me examine your wardrobe. I've had a few things brought over for you just in case. Springtime is quite a different animal in the Baltic, and your Virginian handlers wouldn't have known to pack for such a trip." His last comment struck a nervous chord in Alfred's chest. He turned to look up at Francis, whose hand remained on his shoulder as they walked.
"What if they don't let me go?" Alfred asked. He was used to being bossed around by his people; he was, after all, little more than a child to their eyes. "The journey here was so secretive, they won't like the idea of me travelling alone, especially not so far." The sun danced mischievously across Francis' expression.
"You are their nation, mon ami. Sometimes, humans need to be reminded of that fact."
Alfred turned his attention back to their trek home, and said nothing in response. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that maybe, he was beginning to understand.
March 5th, 1783 was a mild spring morning in Paris, and dew was still visible on the front lawn and on the window when Alfred, Berwald, and their respective representatives assembled for the event. They gathered in a paneled room with a table and chairs occupying most of the space. There were a multitude of bookshelves along the walls, as well as a writing desk, which looked like it'd been pressed to one side to make room for the table.
Franklin showed Alfred to a chair, and the boy fought to remain seated while the humans arranged the parchment and quills. The room was filled with books, maps, and other curiosities that Alfred wanted very much to examine, but he kept his hands fisted at his thighs and tried his best not to look impatient. This must be Ambassador Creutz' study, he realized, and stared hard at the bookshelves, wishing he was close enough to read the spines. I wonder if he has studied the stars, too.
He was drawn from his thoughts when a shadow settled over him, and he looked to his right to find Berwald taking the seat beside him. The man gave him a curt nod, which Alfred reciprocated without quite knowing whether they were saying 'good morning' or 'stop staring'. He turned his attention back to the diplomats and hoped it'd been the former.
Since he'd arrived in France, this was the first assembly Alfred had attended where Francis himself had not been present. He felt bare in the room, and realized belatedly that he'd never actually interacted with European diplomats without Francis or Arthur telling him what to say and how to act. He side-eyed Berwald again and wished the man were easier to read.
At long last, everyone was assembled, and the reading of the treaty began. One of the Swedish aides, chosen for his particularly clear French, read aloud for the room:
"Traité d'Amitié et de Commerce conclu entre Sa Majesté le Roi de Suede et les Etats Unis de l'Amérique Septentrionale." Alfred's eyebrows shot down in a sudden, confused frown.
"Septentrionale?" he whispered, too quiet, he thought, for anyone to hear. He opened his mouth to speak up, but something slammed into the side of his right foot. He looked immediately to the source. Berwald was calm and straight-faced, watching his countryman with what appeared to be rapt attention. Quicker than a wink, he glanced at Alfred and subtly shook his head.
"But," Alfred began to whisper, and Berwald kicked his foot again. Alfred shut up, surprised by how forceful the older man could be without even blinking. He quietly rearranged his feet under his chair as far to his left as he could manage.
"et des Vandales etcetera Et les Treize Etats Unis de l'Amerique Septentrionale," the aide read, and Alfred flinched at the misnomer, "sçavoir, New-Hampshire, Massachusetts Bay, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New-York, New-Jersey, Pensylvanie, les Comtés de New-Castle, de Kent et de Sussex sur la Delaware, Maryland, Virginie, Caroline…" Wait a second. Had they… Did the Swedes think that Delaware was three different states? Delaware? Delaware was tiny. Of all the states, why the hell did they think that they'd split Delaware into thirds? His hand twitched uncertainly, and he raised a finger and opened his mouth to ask—
Berwald coughed loudly, drowning out whatever Alfred was about to say. The taller nation pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it, waving an apologetic hand to the assembly.
"Ursäkta mig," he choked out, ducking his head and giving one more cough for good show, "Snälla fortsätt." The reader gave him a quick nod and continued reading.
"devront être suivies relativement à la Correspondence et au Commerce que les deux Parties ont jugé necessaire de fixer entre leurs Pays, États et Sujets respectifs…"
Alfred seethed, shocked and annoyed. He watched Berwald carefully fold his handkerchief and put it away. He knew the Swede had done it on purpose, he just didn't know why. Surely being so rude to a new trading partner was frowned upon, right? Surely there were rules about that, even among nations. Unless Sweden hadn't actually changed since his days on the Chesapeake, after all…
A scribbling noise made Alfred's ears twitch, and he looked over to see Berwald writing a note surreptitiously on a small sheet of paper. After a moment, he set his quill aside, and when no one else seemed to be paying attention, slid the paper in front of Alfred. The teen looked down at the short, tidy handwriting.
Nations questioning a treaty just before it is signed will only cause trouble. They will sort out wording after, I promise.
Alfred's anger waned, and embarrassment swelled to take its place. No one had told Francis hadn't explained any of this to him, the etiquette of treaty signings. Maybe he hadn't thought to; maybe he'd thought it was so self-explanatory that even Alfred Jones would understand. The teen felt himself sinking into his seat, and he knew his cheeks must be bright red. Berwald took the paper away, and Alfred couldn't look at the man. A moment later, the paper returned with a new line of text beneath the first.
Your voice has great weight here. Object to small things, they will think you object to big things, too. Leave the semantics to politicians.
Alfred looked sheepishly over at Berwald, who did not acknowledge his existence. If the Swede was angry or annoyed or amused or bored, Alfred could not have said. He just stared straight ahead at the reader, attentive but expressionless. Alfred gave him a little nod anyway, and settled into his seat. He cast occasional glances over at the Swede, and tried to emulate his poise, statuesque posture.
"...les quels Plenipotentiaires, après avoir échangé leurs Pleinpouvoirs, et en consequence d'une mure deliberation ont arreté, conclu et signé les Articles Suivants."
Alfred listened and, in a monumental effort, refrained from mentioning the next three times they mistakenly referred to him as 'The United States of North America'.
The treaty was signed and then, much to Alfred's confusion, given the date of April 3. Before the ink could dry, the ambassadors stood and shook hands. Then, the two nations stood and shook each others' hands. Thatpart, at least, had been self explanatory. While Franklin and Creutz lingered to discuss the logistics of when and how the copies would be delivered to their respective capitals, Berwald invited Alfred aside for what he explained was a customary debrief. He led them down a quiet towpath in the back garden, where inquisitive staff would not be able to overhear what passed between nations.
"Tell me your questions," Berwald must've sensed that Alfred had many, what with the way he'd been fidgeting all morning. "I will do my best to answer."
"Why'd they date it like that?" Alfred asked as if he'd been holding it in for hours. "April third isn't for weeks. Surely you can't just sign a treaty into the future, can you?"
"Not generally, no," Berwald admitted, hands folded serenely behind his back, "But it is an unusual circumstance. Creutz is being recalled to Stockholm, and since this treaty is a secret, he cannot use it as an excuse to stay. April third will give the politicians ample time to quibble about wording over dinner without nullifying their signatures."
"Oh." Alfred was surprised by how practical it was. "Have you ever had a treaty signed like that before—into the future, I mean?"
"No," Berwald admitted. "But I've also never made a treaty with a brand new nation who starts to talk back upon hearing the title," there was a glint in his eye that Alfred recognized, with some surprise, as humor. "Everything must happen for the first time once," Berwald joked.
This one crack in Berwald's stoic mask opened the proverbial floodgates, and Alfred poured out his questions in rapidfire succession. Berwald answered them all as patiently as he could, until at last the young nation seemed satisfied.
"Thank you," Alfred said at length.
"For what?"
"For making sure I didn't embarrass myself in there," the younger explained.
"Vi är vänner nu," Berwald responded, "There is nothing to thank. Come. You are too young to celebrate with champagne, but Creutz's kitchen always has hot chocolate."
Alfred followed him back into the house, trying to translate what the taller man had said without the aid of his dictionary. He wasn't confident about most of the phrase, but he was pretty sure he remembered vänner—it was the Swedish word for 'friends'.
That evening, dinner was a celebratory affair, and while Alfred wasn't allowed (or inclined) to take part in the multiple bottles of wine that passed across the table and followed them into the parlor afterwards, he was allowed second helpings of dessert.
"Toutes nos félicitations, mon cher!" said Francis, draping an arm over Alfred's shoulder. "Berwald tells me you did marvelously, as I knew you would! A born diplomat, as I've ever said." Alfred cast a look over at Berwald, but the man was speaking with Franklin and not paying attention.
"I have good teachers," Alfred said.
"That you do!" Francis downed the last drink of his wine and gave Alfred a firm thump on the back. "And this one could use another glass. I've not been allowed near such a fine vintage since before le Roi Soleil."
"Well I have no intention of watching you flirt with my new allies while drunk," Alfred teased.
"Oh ho ho!" Francis leaned away with a smile, head already a bit fizzy from the wine. "So quick to grow into his britches. Your allies are our allies, mon ami."
"Well, you may tell our allies that I'm going to bed," he said, fighting a massive yawn. "I think I'm still worn out from the crossing."
"Of course. Oh," Francis caught his arm before he could retreat, "That reminds me, I had some clothes delivered to your room. You must try them on in the morning, and I will take care of any alterations you need made."
"I will—thank you, Francis."
"And at least say goodbye to Berwald before you go," he added on his way to the buffet where the house staff had left the wine. "It's good manners."
Alfred looked over at the Swede, who was still embroiled in what must've been a fascinating discussion with Mr. Franklin. Alfred was not inclined to break up their conversation, and did not want to cross the entire parlor to do so. He watched Berwald for a little while longer and, whether through chance or some sixth sense, the Swede looked over and met his gaze.
Alfred gave a smile and gave a short, polite bow, angling himself toward the door. Berwald seemed to understand, and gave the boy a cordial nod in response. It was not at all a French way to say goodnight to someone, and had Francis not been occupied with his favorite vintage, he surely would have reprimanded Alfred for such a conservative approach. Alfred, however, got the feeling that reservation was something Berwald valued more than continental flattery. He turned from the Parlor and climbed up the stairs, belly full and heart content.
Things adopted a fairly different tone the following day when Joseph Jones came up to fetch Alfred for lunch and found his bedroom door sitting ajar. Inside, Alfred stood beside a mirror, modelling a thick woolen great coat and leather gloves for Francis Bonnefoy.
"The coat seems a good fit, but the gloves… let me see," said France, taking Alfred's hand in his own and turning it over with a critical eye. Neither of the nations seemed to have noticed Joseph's arrival. "Hmm, they're a bit small. I'll have them send over a larger pair.
"They feel fine to me," Alfred said, clenching and unclenching his hands experimentally.
"They will be too small within a week, mon cher, we must leave you room to grow. Now take those off and see if your shoes will fit over these stockings." As Alfred set the gloves aside to roll down his cotton stockings, Joseph approached and gave the doorframe a light rap with his knuckles. Both nations looked up.
"Burgundy is a good color on you, Master Jones," Joseph commented cordially, leaning against the door jam. "But I admit it looks a bit warm for Paris." The Virginian had said it in good humor, so when Alfred's eyes snapped over to Francis like a child caught sneaking pudding, he frowned. Something passed between the two nations, unsaid and unseen. Francis abandoned Alfred's attire, and began folding shirts on the bed.
"It's not for Paris," Alfred said. Joseph had worked alongside the teen for long enough to think it strange how he puffed up his chest and clenched his jaw. "It's for Stockholm," the boy said. Joseph stared. He blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Stockholm," Alfred repeated. "It's still quite cold there, from what I hear, so Francis was kind enough to procure warmer clothes for my journey."
"Your journey," Joseph repeated. In the ensuing silence, Francis leaned across the bed to gather up a wool waistcoat to fold it. The floorboards creaked and in the silence, the sound was loud enough to make Alfred twitch. "Lee hasn't told me of any trip to Sweden," Joseph said.
"That's because Lee isn't going," Alfred shed his great coat and set it aside; the room was too warm as it was. He swallowed. "Neither is Franklin. Nor are you." Francis was not facing either American, but he could feel the tension rise until at last it found words and Joseph said,
"What?"
The Frenchman set his work aside and ducked toward the door, easing past Joseph with a taught expression.
"I'll leave you two to talk," he said. He heard Joseph close the door after he left. By the time he was at the bottom of the stairs, there were raised voices. He went into the dining room where the last vestiges of lunch were underway. Franklin had taken lunch in his room, complaining of sore feet from his gout, but Arthur Lee was there, napkin tucked into his neckline as he bit into a piece of soup-soaked bread.
"Monsieur Lee," Francis greeted, taking a seat. He reached across to carve himself a serving of bread and cheese from the table and did not look up when he said, "Your compatriots are having a discussion upstairs that you may want to be a part of." Lee paused his chewing and frowned at the nation. After he swallowed, he asked,
"And what discussion is that?"
"That is for Alfred Jones to tell you." At that moment, indistinct shouting echoed downstairs, and Francis cast a look up at the ceiling before returning to his snack. He set it on his plate and leaned back, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. "As I say," he broke the bread and folded it around a crumble of cheese. "I advise you to find Monsieur Franklin on your way up. He'll want to have a say, as well."
Lee took the napkin out of his shirt with a sigh and excused himself from the table. Francis tucked a napkin into his cravat and chewed in contented silence.
"It's absolutely preposterous—that they would even ask that of you—" Joseph Jones was red in the face; he'd been arguing with Alfred for many long minutes before Lee had found Franklin and marched towards the sounds of shouting to join the fray.
"They didn't ask, and they didn't have to," Alfred snapped back. "And anyway, the Ambassador didn't even bring it up, Berwald did."
"As if there's a difference—it's daft no matter whose idea it was," Jones said. Alfred sneered at him, surprised and offended on Berwald's behalf.
"There's every difference in the world, and it's not daft—" Alfred began, but Lee cut him off.
"Stockholm is nearly two weeks' worth of travelling, and through the Empire, no less—if any of those states learn you intend to travel there—"
"They won't," Alfred said.
"They would be upon you at a moment's notice,"
"Why?" Alfred insisted, growing tired of arguing. "Who am I to them?"
"A belligerent in a war in which your newest friend has sworn neutrality," Ben Franklin stepped in, voice calm but firm. Unlike Lee and Joseph, Franklin had been unsurprised by Alfred's announcement that he intended to accompany the Swedes back to Stockholm, but he was no less unhappy. He fixed Alfred with a stern glare over his bifocals. "A war that is not yet over, Master Jones. If the United States is seen in the company of Herre Svierge, all of Europe will know in a fortnight that Sweden is no longer neutral and has forfeited his protections by the League of Armed Neutrality. Any ship bound from a Swedish port may be subject to seizure and search by Britain. If you were to fall to British hands here, in Europe…" he let the silence speak for itself.
To Franklin's credit, Alfred had not thought of it in those terms. However, the pith in the back of his mouth refused to let him acknowledge any merit in the ambassador's words.
"Well, it's a good thing none of them know what I look like then, isn't it?" he snapped. "They'd know you at first glance, I'm sure," He looked at Franklin, at Lee. "But no one here knows me."
"Excepting Britain, of course," Joseph put in.
"I'm not going to Britain," God, Alfred was tired of this.
"Denmark is close enough," Lee retorted.
"France is damn well close enough, yet here I am," Alfred took sick amusement from how Joseph flinched upon hearing a child curse.
"Master Jones," Franklin's exhaustion was becoming evident as well. "You must understand,"
"No, you understand," Alfred snapped, angry and, for perhaps the first time in his life, certain that he understood himself better than his people did, "I am going to Sweden. In two days, I will leave with Lord Oxenstierna and his people and our treaty. I'm going without you, whether or not you agree with me, and if you try to stop me, I'll ignore you." He fixed them all with individual glares "Washington sent me across an ocean to establish relations with Sweden, and that is what I am here to do."
Joseph was steaming with frustration. "The treaty is already signed, you've accomplished your mission," the Virginian said, and Alfred felt a sharp stab of hurt at the idea that his life, his purpose, was reduced to nothing more than words on a page. Was that how Joseph truly felt about him? What about Lee, Franklin—Was that all he was to these people? "Why risk such a trip now, of all times?"
Alfred stood dumbstruck with anger. He thought of all the lonely decades he'd spent waiting for Arthur to visit him, just for one day. All the years of fighting with Francis, competing with Matthew. Years of waiting on Gilbert, on Govert, on Antonio, on someone to help him, to write to him, to know that he existed. Years of waiting, and watching, and having humans dictate to him his own best interests, when all he wanted, all he'd ever wanted was to find someone out there who understood. Finally, he was at the very cusp of seeing the world and learning what it meant to be whatever he was, and these humans had the gall to stand there and deny him something he'd waited for for centuries. Something snapped.
"Because I am your nation," Alfred burst, and all three men jumped. His cheeks were aflame not with embarrassment, but with a candor he'd never felt before. "Because I have been alive since before your great great grandfather was a thought in his mother's head, and because I will live to see the deaths of your great great great great grandchildren, if you're blessed enough to have them," he snarled, unintentionally baring his teeth. "Because your signatures have set in motion something that could affect my life for centuries. Because I am not your child to command, no matter what I may look like to you. Because this is the way of nations, and none of you—not a single one of you—will take that from me. Because I am the United States of America, and this is my decision."
Stunned by his own words, Alfred blinked his eyes and found three American diplomats staring at him in shock and, perhaps, fear. He realized that his hands were shaking, and gripped the seams of his breeches to make them stop. He must look a sight: an immortal boy standing in the middle of a guest bedroom, red-faced and shoeless, stockings drooping down his calves as he threw a tantrum in front of his country's finest diplomats. He knew he ought to feel ridiculous, but he didn't. He felt relieved.
The floorboards creaked as the men shifted their weight, regaining their composure. Joseph and Lee looked surreptitiously at Franklin for answers. The old man adjusted his glasses and leaned on his walking stick.
"And how long do you intend to be away, United States?" he asked pointedly.
The real answer was likely to be through sometime in late May or early June. He had discussed as much with both Berwald—who advised him on the weather and favorable times to set sail—and Francis—who advised him on his wardrobe. However, he was not in a mood to share these deliberations with any of the men.
"As long as I please," he said. "I'll send word to you before I leave for America, of course." When Joseph opened his mouth to speak, he added, "Under an assumed name." Joseph shut his mouth again.
Franklin was never so quiet when he was this irritated. Alfred realized after a moment that it was because, beneath the frustration, there was a new layer of respect there that kept the man's infamous wit in check.
"Very well," Franklin said at last, and both Joseph and Lee seemed surprised by the concession. "Far be it from me to meddle in such affairs. I ask only that you be careful, Master Jones. No matter what you may feel now, you are very dear to us all."
"I will be," Alfred said, heart going soft again despite himself. "You have my word."
Two days later, in the dark hours of Saturday morning, Alfred stood by while the Swedish coachmen dutifully packed up his luggage to the three coaches bound for Stockholm.
Alfred had offered to help after seeing one of the coachmen struggle with a particularly large suitcase, but had been summarily turned down on the grounds that it 'wasn't proper'. He'd always been annoyed by notions of propriety, they tended to give him headaches. He sighed and watched his breath cloud in the predawn air. It was cold enough to be wearing his new great coat, but he knew it would soon be too sunny and warm to bother.
"I wish you could stay," Francis' voice approached from behind, and Alfred turned to see the older nation bundled in a high-collared coat that concealed a nightshirt and hastily-donned breeches. "Next time you are in Paris, I will use this as an excuse to detain you for longer." Alfred smiled at him. He was sad to leave. Nevertheless, his stomach churned with excitement and anxiety over the road before him.
"After the treaty, I half expected you to sneak out in the middle of the night without telling your countrymen a single word," Francis confided, looking up at the moon and stars which were still visible in the sea-dark sky. "I'm glad you told them. Had you disappeared from my home in the middle of a night during wartime, it would become my problem quite quickly, and I know how you Americans like to make a fuss," he smiled and looked down at Alfred. "I heard all the yelling on Thursday. Good for you." Alfred flushed and was glad for the dark.
"You heardthat?" He asked, mortified. Francis chuckled.
"I heard raised voices, and rather a lot of them, but did not hear what anyone said." Which was not entirely true; he'd since gleaned much of the argument's substance from Cruetz' house staff, but he wasn't about to admit this to Alfred. Beside him, the boy sighed.
"I feel bad for yelling at them. Is it too risky? Me going, I mean."
"Everything you're doing here in Europe is risky, mon ami," Francis reminded him. "Sailing here under an assumed identity, meeting with Berwald, standing here with me in Paris. It's all risky. Too risky, perhaps, for wartime. But this is not just a war. This is your freedom, your independence." He winked. "I daresay I think it will be worth it."
Alfred looked down at the cobblestones, trying to contain his smile—and his excitement—but his dimples gave him away. Francis smiled upon seeing them.
"Det är det sista av det," One of the Swedes announced to the coachmen. Cruetz' entire household had gathered to see him off, and he was busy bidding them all farewell and giving last tips and well wishes before his departure. The rest of the Swedish contingent were stretching their legs one last time before their journey began.
"God morgen," Berwald's greeting produced a fog in the frigid air as he approached the two other nations. Unlike his companions, he was dressed in thin, cool clothes and seemed utterly unbothered by the cold. "It's almost time to go. Do you have all your things?" He asked Alfred, who nodded. Berwald then turned to Francis. "Merci pour votre hospitalité et discrétion, Monsieur Bonnefoy," he said, giving a slight bow. He continued in English, "I speak on behalf of all Swedes when I say I look forward to an end of this war, and an amicable friendship between us all."
Francis smiled, and returned the short bow in kind. "Tout le plaisir est pour moi," he assured. After a moment of deliberation, he switched to very rusty and accented Swedish to say: "Ta hand om min lilla bror, Nord,"
Sweden seemed surprised by the use of his mother tongue, but absorbed the request in silence before bowing again, a little lower than before.
"Som om han var min egen," he promised. Once he'd straightened, he glanced between Francis and Alfred, before taking a step back. "We will be in the middle coach," he told Alfred, and left the younger to his goodbyes.
Saying goodbye to Franklin and Lee had been fairly easy; they still seemed somewhat upset with him over the whole Stockholm affair. Saying goodbye to Joseph was unexpectedly more difficult. Alfred had spent weeks pretending to be the man's son, and his affection and concern—however misplaced—genuinely warmed the boy's heart.
"You'll be in America by the time I sail back, won't you?" Alfred asked.
"Yes," the Virginian assured, "assuming dear old Ben doesn't saddle me with more work here first." Alfred shared a laugh at this.
"I'll write you before I come home. I'm sorry to cause you more worry." Joseph gave a taught smile that told Alfred he still harboured plenty of concerns about the trip, but would keep them unsaid out of respect for the young nation. He reached out a hand instead.
"Safe travels, Alfred," he said. The nation beamed. He loved it when people who knew what he was still called him by his first name. He took Joseph's hand and pulled him into a hug.
"You too."
And then, it was only Francis left to bid farewell. Alfred paused in front of the older nation, struck with an unexpected and powerful sadness. He felt like he'd just said hello to the man after over a year apart, and now, it would likely be just as long if not longer before they'd see each other again. Francis seemed to understand, but had centuries of practice to take the bittersweet ambience in stride.
"Venez ici," Francis spread his arms, and Alfred stepped into the hug with abandon. He squeezed the Frenchman around the middle as hard as he could get without hurting him, ear pressed against his left breast so he could hear the steady beat of his heart. He closed his eyes and committed the sound to memory.
"I shall miss this," Francis said merrily, plopping his chin atop Alfred's head. "You're going to sprout up like a weed as soon as Arthur signs the papers, I can feel it in my bones. Sooner or later you'll be too big for me to embrace you without people staring." Why anyone might stare at two men embracing as he and Francis were now flew right above Alfred's head, but the idea of growing taller was of great interest. He pulled away and looked up at Francis.
"Do you think I'll be taller than you?" He asked through a wicked smile.
"You wound me with the very thought," Francis said melodramatically, pushing the boy out of his arms. "I'm not sure the world will ever be ready for that." Alfred laughed again, dimples visible in the light of the driveway lanterns. Francis took Alfred's smiling face in both hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Bon voyage, mon cher frère," he said. "Jusqu'à ce que nous nous revoyions."
Creutz, along with his chief aide (who guarded Sweden's copy of the treaty) took the first carriage, and the other aides took up in the third. This left Berwald and Alfred alone in the second car, though for the first several hours of their trip, Berwald had the space to himself as Alfred slept soundly on the seat across.
When the boy awoke, he was thoroughly disoriented, and embarrassed to discover he'd drooled on the upholstery. Across from him, Berwald looked up from his book, eyeglasses perched hear the end of his long nose.
"I never could get used to sleeping in these things," the older man said when he realized Alfred was awake. "I envy you."
"The states are pretty long, north to south," Alfred told him, trying his best to fight off a yawn. "If I'm not marching somewhere on foot, it feels like all I ever do is sleep in carriages."
"I've always found sleeping on boats far easier," Berwald said.
"Yeah," Alfred agreed, rubbing a new sore spot on his neck, "it's not been all that safe to travel up the coast by boat, with the war," he explained, "but it sure was nice when we could."
"You'll enjoy some of this journey, then," Berwald turned back to his book, adjusting his eye glasses. "We'll be taking the Rhine up into Prussia's territories. I'm sure everyone will sleep better once we're on a boat."
At the mention of Prussia, Alfred's ears perked up. He wasn't sure he'd call Gilbert a friend, or even an ally, but he was certainly a notable reason why Washington's army had been able to fight back the might of Great Britain without catastrophic losses. The prospect of seeing his home, even in passing, was a welcome one. Alfred looked out the carriage window.
"How long until we reach the Rhine?" he asked.
Berwald raised his eyebrows. "Another day and a half, I should think."
"Oh," Alfred's stomach fell. Europe was big.
They stopped every several hours, and overnight in whatever town was closest. They were making good time, but whenever Alfred drifted off in his hotel bed, he would still feel the shake and tumble of the carriage beneath him.
At last, they made it to the Rhine. They left their carriages behind in Strasbourg and boarded a short masted vessel that Berwald told him was called an Aak by the Dutch who made them.
"They're normally used to carry cargo, not people," Berwald had explained on the dock, "but the hold has enough room for our luggage and some straw mattresses. The elder nation peered down at the sheltered center of the deck and the very low roof that covered it. Alfred followed the man's gaze and measured the hold's entrance with his eyes. Alfred would likely have no problem maneuvering in and out—he was still quite short, no matter what Francis' predictions were. Berwald, on the other hand... Alfred turned and looked up, up, up at the northern nation and wondered if he were imagining the look of resignation on the nord's face.
"I'm sure you'll sleep easier," Alfred encouraged, looking back to the boat, "once you can actually get inside, I mean." Where Alfred couldn't see, Berwald turned and fixed his young companion with a rueful frown. He shook his head. Upstart.
Alfred remembered climbing into the hold to inspect where he'd be sleeping. The inspection must've gone better than expected, because he woke up some time later to the sound of water lapping at the ship's sides and quiet Swedish being spoken nearby.
"Han har redan missat lunch, ska vi väcka honom till middag?" Said one man. A second one chuckled softly.
"Han verkar vara en växande pojke," said another. "Behöver de sömn eller mat mer?"
Alfred groaned something indistinct and rolled over off his pillow.
"Ah," said one of the men, "We were just about to wake you, Herre Jones. We'll be eating soon."
"Oh," rolled himself upright, groggy but suddenly aware of how hungry he was. "Thanks."
He clambered out of the hold and emerged on deck to find that the sun was halfway down the sky. Berwald stood at the bow of the ship, and Alfred went over to join him.
"Sleep well?" Berwald asked, sounding amused.
"Better than a carriage," Alfred replied, rubbing one eye.
"You've woken at a good time. We're about to cross fully into the Holy Roman Empire."
Alfred was immediately more awake. Gilbert had told him stories of the Holy Roman Empire, (or as Gilbert called it, Holy Rome) mostly in the form of complaints about his many, many brothers. Back then, in the muddy, cold military camps in Pennsylvania, Alfred never would have guessed than in a few short years he'd be seeing Holy Rome with his own eyes.
Berwald was looking over his shoulder at the rear mast of their ship. He turned back around with a troubled expression.
"We're flying my flag, but we may be stopped, perhaps searched. If that happens, you go into the hold and pretend to be asleep. If anyone wakes or questions you, do not say a single word, understand?"
"I understand," Alfred frowned, surprised by the sudden gravity. "But… isn't Prussia part of the League?" He said.
"Prussia is," Berwald confirmed, voice even but firm. "His many brothers, however, are not. The only place the Holy Roman Empire is united is on a map. From now until we cross the Baltic, you'd be wise not to speak to anyone who isn't from our party."
"Oh," Alfred deflated a little, feeling wary and suddenly exposed. He rested his arms against the bow's railing and drummed his fingers. After a moment, he looked over at Berwald. "If I can't speak to anyone but you Swedes, do you think you could help me improve my Swedish?" he asked. The corners of Berwald's mouth twitched up.
"I'd be happy to."
And so the days wore on, with Cruetz' party whiling away the hours over cold rations, card games, and incessant Swedish lessons for Alfred. He began practicing exclusively with Berwald, but soon the rest of the party learned of Alfred's ambitions and began helping him by speaking to him in Swedish—albeit very slow Swedish—whenever they could. His progress was modest but it was difficult to judge the boy when even small victories sent him smiling as if he'd discovered the sun. Once, one of Creutz' aides teased that Alfred's accent sounded closer to that of a Dane than a Swede. Berwald had overheard this comment, and shot the human a dirty look that shut up all further comments on the matter.
They never were stopped or boarded, and sailed downstream for five and a half days until they reached a small village called Wesel in one of Prussia's western provinces. Alfred had expected they'd stopped to buy more food—they'd been eating the same cold rations for the last week—and was surprised to find three new carriages waiting for them on the shore.
"Are we not going downriver to the ocean?" Alfred asked. Berwald was selecting a few books from his luggage to take into the carriage with him.
"No further," he said. "The Rhine travels through the Dutch Republic from here, and they are, as I'm sure you know, allies of the American rebels." He glanced over to see Alfred's perturbed expression. "They were also barred from the League by the British two years ago. It's not safe to take you through there, even under my flags. We travel through Prussia, and later," the taller man heaved a sigh and stood up straight, "through Danmark."
Alfred tried to not let the long journey get him down. He enjoyed seeing more of Prussia and Holy Rome through the carriage window, and Berwald kept him on his mental toes with constant lessons in Swedish. Language aside, the older nation quizzed him in all manner of topics: of history, science, astronomy, and philosophy. Before another week had passed, Alfred was conducting entire conversations in Swedish, albeit with poor grammar. Berwald even lent him some of his books to keep the boy entertained, and if Alfred was bothered by the fact that they were written in a language he could only partially comprehend, he didn't let it show.
On the ninth day of their journey through Holy Rome, they stopped in Hamburg for an overnight stay to gather provisions and new horses. While the rest of the men laughed over beer and one of the nicer meals they'd had all trip, Berwald pulled Alfred aside for a quiet word at a corner table.
"Tomorrow or the day after, we'll reach Jutland," he said. "The border between Danmark is always near dispute. Chances are we'll start encountering Danish patrols before we reach the border itself. As before, if anything happens at the border, you aren't to say a word, understand?"
"Jag förstår," Alfred agreed. It was his way of telling Berwald he was confident that he could follow the conversation in Swedish, but Berwald stuck to English to make sure that the younger nation understood in precise clarity.
"We will cross Jutland as quickly as we can, and board a ship at Odense bound for Stockholm. We will stop only when we have to, and linger as little as possible. If anyone should ask, I am a senior aide to Ambassador Creutz, and you are an apprentice. Förstår?"
Alfred was frowning. "Ja," he agreed. "But… why are you so wary of Denmark?" He had to ask. Berwald drew in a breath and sighed.
"Because my brother is a self-serving, suspicious pain in the ass who sticks his nose and his axe where it doesn't belong with complicated regularity," he said. It was the meanest thing Alfred had ever heard Berwald say. Berwald's dark mood remained unaffected by the boy's visible surprise. "Danmark is a part of the League, but if he knows you are here…"
"He would hand me over to Arthur?" Alfred filled in, nonplussed. Berwald shook his head.
"No. Last I heard, Danmark is actually quite enamored with your Revolution, but his government is more enamored with neutrality." Berwald took a long swing of beer—Alfred wasn't used to seeing him drink so much—and sighed. "I admit, my worries are selfish. Danmark would not hurt you, but he would use you to hurt me."
"Europe will know in a fortnight that Sweden is no longer neutral and has forfeited his protections," Franklin had said. Alfred began to understand Berwald's anxiety.
"Why not sail from a Prussian port, then?" he asked. "They're neutral as well."
"By name only," Berwald reminded. "Van Steuben's involvement with the Continental Army is resented by the British, and their king Frederick has not exactly been quiet about supporting your success. The only reason the British have not retaliated is out of decades-old goodwill. But if they were to learn that you were here…" Berwald finished his beer and fixed Alfred with as apologetic an expression as Alfred could imagine the stone-faced nation could achieve. "Besides, I know Danmark's tricks better than Gilbert's. Unfortunately, Danmark is our safest option. Once we are in the Baltic, we will be safe, but until then… best to keep an eye open."
"Right," Alfred said, stomach churning, and not only from the greasy (but delicious) meal. "Let's hope tomorrow's horses are fast, then."
The following day's journey was quiet and nerve-wracking. The further they travelled, the more anxious Alfred became. They stopped for the night at the southern base of the peninsula, in a public house in an out-of-the-way Prussian village. The next day, their journey took them into Denmark itself.
Berwald, deprived of beer and the comfort of a warm hearth, was back to his usual taciturn self, and betrayed no emotion whatsoever as they travelled further and further into Jutland. Their coachmen relayed that they'd been within Danish borders for several hours now. As hours and fields rolled by, Alfred felt the tension ease from his shoulders. All of Berwald's fears regarding the border seemed to be well behind them, and the teen let himself relax back into the rhythm of the road.
Alfred was surprised, then, when their carriages came to a stop abruptly mid-afternoon. He looked out the window, but there was no town or village in sight. Berwald looked up from his book. He knocked on the carriage wall.
"Vad är fel?" he asked the driver. There was no response. Alfred could hear muffled voices outside, and what sounded like more horses, but could not see who was speaking. He pressed his face as close to the window as he could, and had leaned back to open it when Berwald reached forward and yanked the curtain over the window.
"Lärling," Berwald snapped, using the word "apprentice" to remind Alfred of their plan should anything go wrong. "Get away from the door, as far as you can."
Alfred wordlessly complied, pressing himself to the back of the carriage. Berwald stretched one long leg out in front of him, a physical barrier between Alfred and the door. Alfred was already confused as to what exactly Berwald expected to happen, but his confusion doubled when the man reached into the back of his belt and produced a flintlock pistol, which appeared to be loaded. Alfred's eyes bugged.
In the following seconds, three things happened almost simultaneously: Berwald cocked the gun, the carriage door opened, and Berwald levelled his pistol at perfect eye-level with a very tall blond man in a bright red coat. For a terrible moment, Alfred feared the British had managed to find him after all, but something about the buttons and the colors didn't look quite right.
For several long seconds, nothing happened. Berwald and the redcoat held a silent staring contest, until the redcoat glanced over at Alfred. His eyes lit up and he broke into a wolfish grin. He turned back to Berwald. In a language that was not Swedish but sounded almost like Swedish, he said:
"Really, Sverige," he reached out and flicked the barrel of the gun. "That's no way to greet your big brother, now is it?"
Translations, which are unfortunately generated by Google translate and not much else:
Ursäkta mig = Excuse me
Snälla fortsätt = Please continue
Vi är vänner nu = We are friends now
Toutes nos félicitations, mon cher! = Congratulations, my dear!
le Roi Soleil = The Sun King, another name for French King Louis XIV, or Louis the Great, who reigned from 1643–1715.
Det är det sista av det = That's the last of it
God morgen = Good morning
Merci pour votre hospitalité et discrétion = Thank you for your hospitality and discretion
Tout le plaisir est pour moi = The pleasure is mine
Ta hand om min lilla bror, Nord = Take care of my little brother, North
Som om han var min egen = As if he were my own
Venez ici = Come here
Bon voyage, mon cher frère = Have a good trip, my dear brother
Jusqu'à ce que nous nous revoyions = Until we meet again
Han har redan missat lunch, ska vi väcka honom till middag = He's already missed lunch, should we wake him for dinner?
Han verkar vara en växande pojke = He seems like a growing young boy
Behöver de sömn eller mat mer? = Do they need more sleep, or food?
Jag förstår = I understand
Vad är fel? = What is wrong?
Lärling = Apprentice