Chapter 3: The Capture Part 2

This was hell. Alexander Hamilton was in hell. He thought that the winter spent in Valley Forge was hell, but this place made it feel like heaven.

After he'd been caught, he was dragged to the smallest, dirtiest cell in the local jail. There was barely enough light to see his own hand in front of his face and was only ever brought out for questioning by redcoats. Ha, like he was going to tell them anything. He felt like the redcoats were starting to figure that out too since he hadn't been let it in... Well, he wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been imprisoned, but it felt like an eternity.

It did give him plenty of time to think, however. He spent most of his sleepless hours wondering over the well-being of his friends and family. He truly hoped Andrew was able to find Hercules and get to Eliza safely. He was a good kid, he didn't deserve to be dragged into this. He often thought of his wife and unborn child, hopefully, safe with the rest of his family in Albany. He could feel his chest clench at the thought of his child being born without him present. When he couldn't bear to think of them anymore, he thought of the war and his friends fighting in it. He wondered if Burr, Lafayette or Washington would hear of his capture before it was too late. He, personally, would never tell them about it, he had his pride to think of; if he survived to be asked about it, that is. He refused to think of John Laurens. He couldn't stand to think of how his dearest friend would react to this. He made sure to push the freckled man to the back of his mind when he came up.

When the guards came for him again, it might have been a day or so since the last time. Keeping track of time was difficult without the sun. As they half-dragged, half-walked him out they passed several other jail cells the held what could barely be called the living. Men that had committed crimes and were left to waste away in the dark. He was probably halfway there himself, honestly. The food that they'd given him was barely enough to feed a small child and it was always mostly inedible anyway.

They led him to the interrogation room and forced him into a small and uncomfortable chair that teetered unstably at a medium-sized table that unfortunately reminded him of the one he had at his home. The redcoat that usually interrogated him was leaning against the wall looking uncharacteristically smug. He never bothered to learn the man's name; he just called him Lumpy because of his very unattractive face, but he knew his cold demeanor well enough. He was in the typical redcoat uniform, he was a Lieutenant or something like that; he really didn't care about Lumpy. He was holding two pieces of parchment in his hand that Alexander couldn't help but find faintly familiar. Lumpy smirked and placed them down on the table for him to read.

Alexander barely got through the first paragraphs before his stomach curled in on itself. The pieces of parchment were letters that he had written. The first was a letter he wrote to the publisher of the newspaper he now worked for. The second was a letter to Congress with Washington's signature across the bottom. Even someone who was half blind could tell that they were written by the same person. Alexander could feel his heart ramming in his chest. They had connected all the dots between himself and the revolution. He felt sick. It would be better if he was with the army still, then they wouldn't be able to get to him, but with him in jail... This would be enough to have him hanged for treason to the crown. He looked up at Lumpy, a sadistically smug smirk on his face. He made an indicating gesture towards him and the young revolutionary finally realized what the redcoat was asking.

Sell out the Continental Army, or hang.

All the people this would affect rushed through his head like a lightning crack. His wife and child, his dearest friends, his commander, his fellow soldiers, the country he loved so much. What would happen to them if he did this? How much would Burr, Lafayette, Mulligan, Washington and John Laurens hate him? How disappointed would Eliza be? How would his child grow up in a nation he betrayed? Would he ever find a way to live with the guilt?

He clenched his fists as tight as possible, nearly drawing blood from his palms. How badly did he want to see his wife and meet his son? Was his want bad enough to sacrifice the lives of thousands of men? Men he worked and fought with for a country to call their own. Could he really throw away this shot? The chance to live and see his family grow.

He sat in silence, brooding over this choice for what might have been hours. When he finally looked up at Lumpy, his face was carefully blank. Lumpy smirked, well assured that he would comply.

"... You and your king can go rot in hell."

Lumpy's face fell immediately, he clearly wasn't expecting that answer. He glanced back at the guards and motioned for them to take him away. He spared Alexander a glance as he was dragged out and said, "... I look forward to seeing you at the gallows, Hamilton."

Alexander made what could be considered a growl as he was removed from the room. The guards lugged him back to his dark cell and tossed him in. He glared at what he could make out in the dark as their retreating forms as he forced himself to sit. He stared at the ceiling quietly, wondering about a future that he would never get to see. He would deny it until the end of his days, but that night, in the dark of his cell, Alexander Hamilton cried.

0-0-0-0-0

Alexander straightened his shirt as best he could with his hands bound behind his back. The guards allowed him to change into a plain white shirt and white trousers for his execution, which was oddly nice of people who intended to hang him. They also gave him time with a local priest, to confess any sins before the end, he supposed. He didn't say much to the priest, just a few last things he wanted off his chest.

Strangely enough, Alexander wasn't as tense as he'd thought he'd be at Death's door. He imagined death so much it felt more like a memory. He often wondered how or why it would get him. From peacefully and silently in his sleep after a long life to on his feet, from the barrel of a gun seven feet ahead of him. He did think of this scenario; the crack of his neck from the end of a rope. Though, he always imagined that he would have a friendly face or two at his side, having fought the war bravely and valiantly but lost in the end. He wouldn't have minded the end of him that much if he had a friend with him. Yet, here he stood alone.

That's life, he figured.

He shook his thoughts away while also causing his brown locks to fall across his face; the band that was containing his hair had come down some time ago, and leaned against the wall of his cell. He'd spent the last two or three weeks, or however long he'd been imprisoned, in silent misery against this particular wall. He even managed to etch "A. Ham" into it after some time and work; a little piece of him for other prisoners to look upon and wonder about who left it there.

The guards came for him at noon. He only knew it was noon because the guards said that was when they'd come to get him. They led him outside, the sun blinding him momentarily. He almost forgot how sunlight felt on his olive skin. As he was directed towards the gallows he noticed how quiet the people around him were. The residents of New York City weren't known for being this quiet. He looked around at people who were out and noticed that they kept glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes and immediately looked away when he looked at them. He guessed that news of his execution had spread.

The walk to the gallows was a short one, whether he was grateful for it was up for debate. He looked up at the rope that will end him with mixed emotions, none of which he showed. They walked him up the bottom of the stairs and waited. He was about to question why, when the bells of a nearby church started ringing. It seemed that they were going to make this as public as possible, make an example of him.

People stopped whatever they were doing and looked towards the gallows. There was an almost palpable tenseness in the air. Alexander could feel Death's cold hand on his shoulder. He drew a breath and allowed himself to be brought up the stairs. Lumpy and who Alexander assumed was the executioner. The guards moved him to the left of the rope while Lumpy and the executioner stood on its left.

Lumpy stepped forward and started speaking to the crowd, discussing why Alexander was being hanged, probably.

He ignored the redcoat, instead choosing to focus on the man that would be pulling the lever to the trap door, effectively killing him; hopefully. The executioner was a darker skinned man in his mid-twenties and he, unfortunately, reminded Alexander of Hercules Mulligan. The man was dressed simply, a black coat and black pants with a wide hat. He had about six inches and maybe ten pounds over himself. Coupled with his wide shoulders and healthy bulk made him seem like the kind of person who wouldn't have this sort of job. He looked more like a farmer or someone who should be serving in an army. He glanced at Alexander and the young revolutionary could feel something nagging at the back of his mind for attention. The man had deep black eyes that made his head itch with a long forgotten thought. He knew those eyes, but from where, he couldn't tell you.

Lumpy turned to him and motioned Alexander forward. The guards didn't give him a chance to refuse by pushing him forward. He looked out over the crowd, their faces showing a multitude of emotions, mostly somber ones. He figured this was the part where he was supposed to say his last words, his last statement to the world before oblivion, or whatever was after this life. He looked towards the sky; it was a rather nice day today; and thought about what to say. As much as he tried not to, his mind drifted to a distant night from a time long forgotten amidst the fire of war. A song that was once full of unity and strength and togetherness now rang out in his mind with a solemn cord. He unconsciously closed his eyes, tilted his head towards the ground and sang out to the crowd words from another time.

"I may not live to see our glory... "

He may have been standing on a gallows platform in reality, but he was in a small pub with his dearest friends in his mind, if only briefly.

"But I will gladly join the fight..."

He could almost feel the warmth of his friends, the smell of alcohol and the drunken chatter of other patrons.

"And when our children tell our stories..."

He felt a pair of arms pull him back until he stood over the trapdoor and the rope was touching the back of his neck. They clearly wanted him to stop talking and die already.

"They'll tell the story of tonight..."

He sang the last line as loud as he could as the rope was forced around his neck. It was just as uncomfortable as he expected it to be. He opened his eyes and looked up at the executioner. The man was silent as he adjusted the rope. Their eyes met again for a split second before he turned and walked to the lever that would drop him. Alexander turned to the crowd, many of the men, women, and children were gathering tears in their eyes. He glanced at the executioner again, he looked as though he was waiting for something to happen before he pulled the rope. A signal, maybe? It wouldn't matter for much longer. He raised his eyes to the sky and drew a shaky breath. So, this was it, huh? What should his final statement to the world be? It only took a few seconds to decide. He closed his eyes and sang out quietly, but the crowd was so quiet he wouldn't be surprised if they all heard it.

"... Raise a glass to freedom..."

The lever was pulled and the trapdoor fell away with a loud bang. He felt pressure on his neck for a split second before it disappeared. He wondered for an instant if he was dead, then he hit the ground. He blinked, disoriented, and wondered what just happened. Gunshots rang out above him and he looked up. He was under the stage. He'd been told that sometimes they use poor quality ropes that break under the person's weight, but he didn't think that they would spare an expense in hanging him, and the fact they did, irked him. The rope, however, appeared to have been cut. He examined the part of the rope that was still around his neck and, sure enough, it was a very clean cut. He was pulled from thinking of the implications of this by someone jumping down next to him. He was shocked to see the executioner crouching next to him. Before he could even get a word out, the other man pulled him to his feet and ran out into the crowd.

The crowd itself were in hysteria over the fight he figured was going on. It sounded like people decided they wanted him to live all of a sudden. He was lugged all the way to the main street and forced into a modest carriage. As soon as the door closed, the driver sped off. He quickly glanced around and immediately noticed something. Innocently resting on one of the seats was a neatly folded bundle of white and gray clothes. What really caught his attention was a familiar black symbol on the right of the chest, over the heart. Suddenly, a cold night from ages ago hit him, including a pair of recognizable black eyes. Before he could completely turn and question the executioner, he was hit in the head. Before he lost consciousness, he realized he'd been kidnapped by the same people from that night.

Figures, he thought before his world went dark.