Chapter 5! Ba-dam!
Due to a bit of writer's block I had for chapter 6, this chapter was majorly edited, and posted late today instead of a few hours ago... I hope it meets expectations!
Thank you very much to Mischief managed, Amelia Mills, WeAllFlyHigh, southern pride, and an anon for your lovely reviews!
Thank you as well to JoyOfSoul and again to Amelia Mills for your favorites and alerts!
Please note, this chapter is still rated T for language and blood. Just like last chapter. It'll go back down for chapter 6.
I disclaim, and own nothing.
The battle didn't take long to dissolve into chaos.
The British, evidently the better-trained of the two, consistently pushed Alfred's unit back, though the Americans resisted losing all control thanks to the maneuvers taught by von Steuben. But none of these thoughts occurred to Alfred.
Focused solely on loading and shooting, his ears rang with the constant bang of artillery as he aimed and fired into the red-and-white mass that was the British regulars. He could barely breathe, his lungs filled with the thick ashy smoke and nostrils overloaded with the acrid stench of gunpowder.
The clouds, once on the horizon, had collected above them, barely visible through the smoke, and the promised summer storm began.
The order to charge was given, barely registered in Alfred's brain before he found his body reacting automatically, leaping up from his crouch and sprinting forward with all he had, exhaustion in his limbs temporarily forgotten, ignorant of the downpour rushing around him.
Soldiers collapsed all around him, blood blossoming across their once-blue uniforms, washed pale by the rainfall. He felt a bullet graze his shoulder, but ignored the sting, charging blindly forward.
Someone fired from behind him, catching a British soldier just ahead of him in the leg. As he collapsed, still holding his torso upright, Alfred charged, bayonet pointed.
Alfred was about to run the man through when he noticed his eyebrows.
_V~-~-~V_
Thick and bushy, positioned above two clouded, but still emerald green eyes, looking not a day older than when he'd met him in Boston.
The noise of the battle faded into the background. There were hundreds fighting on all sides, but it felt for all the world like they were alone as the green eyes stared back, full of hatred and not a small amount of pain.
"A-Arthur?"
The green eyes widened, their hatred shifting to suspicion. "You—how do you know my name, bloody Yank?" he snarled back, clutching his leg in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.
"We met, in Boston, a couple years ago on the pier—do you remember?"
The Englishman looked momentarily confused, but then comprehension dawned. "You… you're Alfred?" He received a nod in reply.
Arthur threw his head back and laughed, a hollow, sarcastic sound that wouldn't stop. "Imagine that! That little boy, come to kill me, the great British Empire! Oh, if that frog could see me now, he would laugh!" He paused, peering through the rain to meet Alfred's shocked gaze.
"Why didn't you kill me? You've already killed thousands of my men, left me weak and bloody, so why don't you fucking kill me?"
Alfred was certain now that the other man was insane. He'd seen it happen to some of his own companions, the stress of war finally getting to them, leading them to forget their friends, family, and home, leaving them raving in a tent. But Arthur had said he had nothing to love but his country, which left Alfred confused.
"Arthur… get up. You've got England to go back to, right? So don't you have to keep fighting?" Alfred wasn't sure why he'd decided to be merciful to this Englishman, who was supposed to be his enemy just like all the others, even if he currently resembled a drowned cat. But the other would have none of it.
"Don't give me your sympathy, you traitor! All the men in this colony! I fed them, clothed them, gave them towns and a stable economy, and what do they do? Rebel, because I'm not good enough for them!"
Suddenly, Arthur staggered to his feet, bayonet leveled at Alfred, and charged.
Despite his injured leg, the bayonet's trajectory was true, and Alfred barely had time to raise his own musket in defense, staggering backwards as the other's bayonet made contact, flinging the weapon from his grasp.
He panicked, expecting another attack, but Arthur had collapsed once again, gun forgotten in the mud beside him.
"Why?" came the choked gasp, so quiet Alfred nearly missed it. "Why am I never good enough? Why do they all have to leave?"
Alfred stayed silent, watching the breakdown of the man before him, who once had been larger-than-life, yet now looked so small, rain mixing with the tear tracks on his pale face.
The bleeding in his leg continued and Arthur crumpled, unconscious, bringing Alfred back to the battle still raging around him. Casting one last glance Arthur's prone figure, Alfred lifted his musket from where it had fallen, absently noticing the scratch along its side from where it had saved his life.
As he made his way forward to where the rest of his company had gone, a single realization scattered any thoughts he was having about the broken man behind him.
Where's Zach?
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred ran, not worrying about the soldiers around him, searching for the familiar head of curly blond hair, mind full of the promise he'd made to always stay by his friend's side.
"ZACH!" he cried, shoving aside another British soldier that tried to attack with his elbow, not minding the bayonet's point as it slid across his ribs. The pain was secondary to his desire to make sure his friend was safe, no matter what. Something in the back of his mind reminded him that this was war, and there was no way he was completely safe, in fact, he was injured more likely than not.
Frantically scanning the crowd of soldiers, searching for that one blue uniform, Alfred's gaze finally lighted on the familiar profile of the youngest Wetherby son.
Sprinting forward, he was beside Zach faster than he thought possible, quickly thrusting his bayonet into the British soldier advancing on the other boy. "Zach! Are you all right? Please tell me you're okay!"
Quickly assessing him, Alfred saw only a scratch on his forehead, dripping blood across his face, and the accumulation of dirt that was on everyone. "Thank God," he whispered.
Zach's eyes widened. "Alfred!" he exclaimed, "I thought you were back there!"
"I was, but ran here when I realized you weren't."
The other's expression softened. "Thanks, Al—"
Alfred didn't hear him finish his sentence before the world exploded around them.
_V~-~-~V_
Opening his eyes, Alfred found the world a much brighter place.
Gone was the scent of gunpowder and the sickly humidity that had accompanied the battle, replaced by a cool breeze, an almost-forgotten aroma of wildflowers, and tall grasses that brushed his knees.
Looking around, Alfred realized he recognized the meadow. It was one he'd played in many times as a child with his buffalo friend and the rabbits, fairly close to where he'd lived with Nek.
Suddenly, he spotted movement in the grass. It was a little boy, looking no more than five, wearing long white playclothes, running barefoot through the meadow. His blond hair stood out in the sea of green, especially his distinctive cowlick.
With a start, Alfred realized he was looking at his younger self.
A pair of voices reached the meadow from a distance. Alfred remembered not knowing what they were saying at the time, but now he recognized the words spoken as English, some in a high, clear voice and others in a deep murmur.
"This is the place, Su-san!"
The other voice muttered something indistinct that the higher voice clearly understood. "The place where I saw that little boy, remember?"
There was another murmur, but it was definitely closer than before. Watching the smaller version of himself, Alfred saw the younger him panic at the sounds of the obviously white men. After all, he recalled being told many times by his various older brothers that the white men were not to be trusted.
The younger Alfred moved silently through the grasses, ducking low so his head was hidden. Alfred watched as the little ripple in the greenery arrived at the edge of the woods beside the meadow, and the little blond boy emerged and quickly scaled a tree.
Alfred followed, noticing that he didn't make a sound as he moved. It was like one of Nek's magic dreams, in which the dreamer was just an observer.
Turning, Alfred watched the strangers arrive. Dressed in the strange colorful clothes Europeans had been fond of at the time, they stood out like sore thumbs in the wild landscape, especially with their bright blond hair. One was smaller and looked rather injured, with bandages on his cheek. The other was much taller, and the expression on his face made Alfred shiver and wonder if perhaps he was the one who had injured the other, but the small one looked unafraid by his presence.
The smaller one was looking intently through the high grass, a small frown appearing on his face. "I was so sure he was here…" he said, "He was so adorable and small, and all by himself in such a big scary place…"
Suddenly, he perked up again. "Hey, Su-san? If we find him, can he be our little brother? He might be one of us, after all!"
The intimidating one muttered something again. "I've always wanted a child…" the small one sighed, which oddly enough made the other's cheeks redden ever so slightly. Alfred assumed it was a trick of the bright sun. He replied, saying something that apparently confused the small one. They began to walk away from the meadow, and Alfred watched his little self breathe a sigh of relief at their departure. Just as he was about to descend from the tree, another person appeared nearby, speaking in a language that Alfred hadn't heard in a long, long time.
"What are you doing up there, Mukki?"
Alfred sucked in a breath at the sight of the woman who had spoken. She had sun-bronzed skin, wearing a light brown deerskin dress and a gray fur over her shoulders, with an eagle feather tucked into a loose black braid. While she was frowning up at the child, her deep brown eyes twinkled.
"Nek!" the little boy cried, leaping out of the tree and into the woman's arms. Alfred dearly wished he could do the same, but found himself rooted to the spot. "There were strange white men in the meadow, Nek! I hid, 'cuz big brother always said you can't trust them, and they said things I don't understand..." The woman's frown deepened slightly.
"They're your people, you know, Mukki. Someday, when I have to leave, you'll need to stay with them."
"But I don't want to, Nek! I want to stay with you forever!" the boy cried plaintively, hugging her tighter.
"You can't do that. You're one who must remember, like me, and your people will need you. Our time together will grow short."
The boy sniffed. "But the big white man was scary! I don't want to go with them!"
"Was the little one?"
"No…"
"Then you know they are not all bad. You will be just fine."
The woman turned, walking deeper into the forest with the boy still clinging to her. As the world around Alfred began to dissolve, he could have sworn she'd turned to meet his eyes, smiling as she whispered:
"Kuwumaras, Mukki."
_V~-~-~V_
The first thing he saw was white.
Black and red spots on an empty white plane.
Then the white was replaced by black, and Alfred felt the pain return.
It hurt all over, fiery-hot stabs of pain shooting through his torso every time he breathed. He would have cried out, but found his throat dry, and all that escaped was a faint croak.
He heard sounds of voices, incoherent at first in his world of black and agony. He became slowly aware of a cloth surface beneath him, stiff and course, and a particular tightness around his torso, lower legs, and arm.
Fighting to regain consciousness, Alfred pushed the pain away as best he could, and attempted to open his eyes.
At first, the world was too bright, and he immediately had to close them again, blinking rapidly in an attempt to restore his sight. The incoherent voices slowly gained substance.
"—awake! He's awake, I saw him blink!"
"Who's awake?"
"Jones, sir! He's blinking!" A hazy form appeared above Alfred's head. "Jones, can you hear me?"
A second form joined the first, coming slowly into focus as a pair of men, one older and wearing a pair of spectacles, the other young and excited. Neither was familiar.
Alfred attempted to clear his throat and speak, but there was no moisture in his mouth. "Somebody get me some water," the older man said, and a cup was held to Alfred's lips. He drank greedily, almost choking as the effort to swallow brought another stab of pain.
"You made a miracle recovery," the young one was saying enthusiastically. "Your chest was nearly blown to bits by the artillery blast, but somehow you managed to avoid it enough that it didn't damage any vital organs."
It was Nek, he wanted to say, Nek saved me. She said I needed to live for you. But only one word reached his lips.
"Zach?" he asked, wincing at the grating sound of his voice.
"No, my name is Michael," the doctor replied, but Alfred shook his head.
"No… wher… where's Zach?"
The older man met Alfred's eyes. "Do you mean Zachariah Wetherby, son?"
The effort to nod was extreme, but he managed a slight incline of his head.
"I'm afraid he wasn't as lucky as you, son. You're the only one within a thirty-foot radius who survived that artillery blast."
The night is near for your friend.
Find him quickly.
Alfred moved his arms, heavy as lead by his sides, in an attempt to sit up. The young doctor instantly panicked.
"You can't do that, Jones! You're injuries are too severe to move!" But Alfred ignored his protests, pulling himself slowly into a sitting position, an action that left him dizzy and threatening to black out once again.
Pivoting in his bed, Alfred stuck his feet out over the edge, and tentatively placed them on the ground. This seemed to go well, but the instant he tried to put any weight on them, his muscles would recoil from the pain, sending him back to a sitting position. The young doctor was still freaking out, waving his arms about anxiously but doing nothing to help.
The older one returned, and gave the younger a look of disdain. "Can't you see you're not accomplishing anything by standing there like a brain-dead idiot? Honestly, Phillips, there are days when I wish I hadn't accepted you as my apprentice!"
The man, Phillips, folded sheepishly in on himself. "Sorry, sir."
"Good," the doctor replied gruffly. "Now help me get Jones over to Wetherby. That kid isn't going to last much longer."
Alfred heard the doctor's words, but they failed to properly register in his pain-fogged mind. He barely felt it through the dizziness when the pair hoisted him by his shoulders and carried him away from his bed, but he fought to keep his eyes open. They set him down again, in a chair this time, the older doctor holding his shoulders up until Alfred regained full awareness.
What he saw nearly made him wish he hadn't been so stubborn.
It was Zach lying before him, but it was not Zach. The Zach he knew was almost always cheerful, and when he wasn't he was worrying, eyebrows knitted in a small crease. He showered more than the average soldier (or average colonist, for that matter) ever did, and insisted on cleaning their clothes and bedrolls for nothing but the sake of sanitation. He was terrified of Davis and of getting lost, but loved his sisters more than anything. In the little more than half a year that Alfred had known him, he'd never been sick with more than a cold.
Yet here he was, that same once-childish face now harboring a stillness that it never had, even in sleep. He was still breathing, a shallow, harsh contortion of his lungs that rasped out of his slightly open mouth, his blonde hair matted to his pillow and curled against his cheek, sticky with sweat. He had a gash on his jaw that would surely leave a permanent scar, and a rust-colored bandage on his forehead that matched the others that were just visible beneath his tattered and stained uniform shirt.
Evidently, the doctors hadn't seen fit to change the bandages of a dying man.
Shakily, Alfred reached forward, and placed his own battered hand on Zach's.
The great effort it took was evident on his face, but at the touch, Zach opened his eyes. Chocolate-brown as ever, only a small remnant of their once-vibrant energy remained.
You can't do this to me, Zach.
A small smile graced his lips, just the barest twitch.
"Hey, Zach," Alfred said hoarsely.
We were going back home together, right?
"Ah…" The sound escaping Zach's lips was a cruel imitation of his still-young voice, sounding instead like an incredibly old man. "Al… fred…"
Didn't I swear to you that we would survive?
"Yeah… I'm here. Nek told me I needed to be."
Zach smiled. "She's… right."
"I never told you about her properly, did I?" Alfred continued shakily. "She's my mother, my real mother, but she's been around a lot longer than even the English. Sometimes, she just knows things." He laughed, a broken chuckle. "I miss her… she went west, following her people, with all my older brothers and sisters, and left me here, saying I needed to live with my people."
Zach closed his eyes, listening as Alfred told him his story, his real story. "I was found by the Joneses, when I was already somewhere around fifty. Funny, huh, how I don't look that old..." He continued, unfolding his life before Zach like he'd never done for anyone else. He told him everything, from leaving Emeline to the urge to go to Philadelphia, of Arthur Kirkland the strange young delegate and the Declaration of Independence, and detailed his love of the sea and the scent of St George's coffee beans.
Even as the pain-clenched expression on Zach's face slackened to one more peaceful, even when the rattling sound coming from Zach's lungs stopped, and even as the fingers Alfred clung so desperately to grew gradually colder, he continued his tale. Something compelled him to finish, to lay all his secrets bare for the best friend he'd ever had, for one whose innocence and life should never have ended so soon, and for whose existence he'd remember for the rest of his.
It was only after he finished that he allowed himself to cry.
_V~-~-~V_
It was weeks later when Alfred learned the details of the battle that took Zach's life.
They'd named it the Battle of Monmouth, something Alfred resented. The naming of the battles was something that took away the reality of the event, distancing the rest of the world from its struggles, blood, and loss. Alfred preferred to remember them by his experiences instead, bottling the pain so that it remained fresh forever. Even if Zach was one of four hundred casualties, Alfred would honor them all.
He wondered if this was what Nek had meant when she spoke of remembering things for his people.
The battle was also scored as an American victory, for managing to retain their ground. In reality, it was more of a draw because the British hadn't really lost anything either, and hadn't sought a battle in the first place, merely defended their baggage train. Zach had been killed for nothing but a tie.
It was probably a good thing Alfred was stuck in the army hospital, because otherwise, he would have gone out and given those generals a piece of his mind, insubordination or not.
Even though two months had passed since Zach's death, Alfred was still confined to the bed. The elder doctor, whose name he learned was Gibson Fuller, refused to let him out of his sight. Alfred was, after all, his miracle patient, who'd managed to survive what had blown everyone else nearby to pieces.
He also was continually getting reinjured, despite never leaving his bed. Almost daily, a fresh bullet wound or bayonet slice would make itself known, a phenomenon that even Dr Fuller could do nothing but scratch his head at and bandage. But these new maladies were preventing Alfred from leaving, which irritated him in the extreme. Here he was, a member of the Continental Army, sitting in bed while men were dying for their noble cause of American freedom.
He'd never in his life felt more useless.
_V~-~-~V_
Alfred spent three years transferred from military hospital to hospital, until the fall of 1781. At first he'd resisted this treatment, insisting he was well enough to be back on the front, but the blood that leaked down his chin had convinced the doctors otherwise.
His only solace in his captivity was his correspondence with Rose. Letters had been few and far between when he'd been fighting, and his access to stationary for a reply was even less reliable than their postal service. But in the hospitals, anyone he asked was completely willing to go out of their way to find him paper and pen, and always ensured that his letters were delivered as soon as they received them. Though convenient for Alfred, he felt rather bad for using people in this way, as if he was abusing his mysterious natural ability.
Rose's letters were always well-written, because her mother had always been adamant that good penmanship and grammar were essential for a proper lady. In them, she told Alfred about anything and everything going on in Philadelphia, from her mother's new blackberry cobbler to the political movements of those in Independence Hall. She got most of her information from the articles her father printed, ever since he'd moved from the books into the newspaper business.
Alfred felt that his replies were lacking in comparison, because the only thing he had to write about was the hospital, and much of went on there was either bloody or depressing. So instead he made light of his situation by telling her stories he'd heard from his oft-changing neighbors.
He learned Rose's opinion on his hospitalization very quickly, and heard about it again in nearly every letter. She was alternately worried about his perpetual injuries and delighted that he wasn't fighting, and thus in no danger of dying. Alfred chose not to remind her that his wounds could suddenly multiply and kill him at any time, instead just agreeing with whatever it was she said.
Her last letter arrived just a week before Alfred's final day in the hospital. On October 2nd, Dr. Fuller presented him with an off-yellow envelope, Alfred's name on the front written in Rose's usual loopy script.
Inside, he learned that Rose had decided to go to college at someplace called the Bethlehem Female Seminary, the only women's college in the country. She explained that they wouldn't teach her how to be a doctor, only a teacher, but she wrote that that was better than remaining uneducated forever. Alfred had the urge to tell her that most women didn't go to college and she was by no means uneducated, but he didn't even want to imagine her righteous indignation at such an opinion.
But as such, she wouldn't be returning to Philadelphia until her education was complete, and then she'd most likely find a profession elsewhere. With Ben off in France and Rose in Bethlehem (though at least that was still in Pennsylvania), Alfred found he now had little to no reason to return to the city he'd been calling home.
Smiling faintly, he re-folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope, adding it to the yellowing stack of her previous letters in his bag. He supposed he'd find a job somewhere. Farming again was always an option.
Besides, he didn't have the luxury of being able to stay in one place forever. Because for Alfred, that would be a long time indeed.
V/~-~-~\V
Wow... that wound up being longer than expected...
"Kuwumaras" means, "I love you" in Algonquin (that may or may not have been obvious). Again, online translations, so if I'm wrong, please correct me.
Originally, Finland and Sweden didn't make an appearance, but I wanted to write that scene somehow, so I completely rewrote Alfred's original dream sequence. Emeline was also supposed to be mentioned, and is now not (I'm saving her for later). And I killed Zach... which I hate myself for. I really liked his character. But it did add some angsty-ness and tragedy, which I have previously warned you that I would write. Also... England.
That's about it. If you have time, drop a comment or review, and please look forward to the next chapter!