1812

Chapter I

July 17, 1801

New York, New York

Thomas Mooreson's POV

               "So are you going to join the military, Thomas?" Father asked me again, for almost the thirtieth time. "We have plenty of money put aside for you to purchase a commission should you ever want to join, you know." 

               "I know that Father," I said to him once more, growing tired of having to tell him the same thing countless times. 

               "I'm aware that you know, after all, you've told me countless times."

               "I keep saying that because you keep asking me when I'm going to join the military!"

                I was starting to get annoyed with my father constantly asking me when I would be joining the military.

               "I will join the military when you and Mother finally flee this pathetic country like you've always wanted to do!" I yelled.

               Father cringed, which was a sign that I had hit him below the belt.

               "You're a coward," I said before walking away.

               "I killed William Hull, you know!" Father shouted at me as I walked away from him. I knew that he had killed Hull during his time in the British Military during the American War Of Independence. After all, he had told me countless times; it was the story that he had told me the most to put me off to sleep when I was just a child. In fact, so much so, that I have now memorized every detail of the story that my father had told me.

               My father was an Infantry Ensign (or a Rag Carrier, as my father had called himself many times) in the War Of Independence. He participated in the Siege of Boston, which had happened way back before my father had even met my mother. He was assigned to the King's 8th regiment, which was the regiment that was tasked with infiltrating the heart of Boston and killing General William Hull. My father's regiment had fought its way through Boston's with difficulty, but my father and five other soldiers were finally able to find their way into Hull's private quarters. It was there that my father shot and killed General Hull, which resulted in the British winning the Battle of Boston.

+ + + + +

               I was almost to my bedroom when I heard a knock on the door. For some reason, my father was able to know exactly who was at the door, just from the way that they had knocked on our door. 

               "It's the Jonathans!" he yelled at me.

               Sadly, I knew exactly what my father meant. 'Jonathans' was British Army slang for the Americans. That could only mean one thing. 

               The Americans had finally located us. 

               My family were Loyalists, which, naturally, made us a target for the Americans, and, since my father had served in the British military, that made us another target for them.

               I ran for a hiding spot as fast as I possibly could, trying to make it seem as if I did not exist, because, according to the Americans, I did not. My father had made me officially non-existent so that the Americans would, hopefully, never know of my existence should they discover my father's location. 

               Which they did, just now.

               I hid in a place where I could see and hear what was going on, but I made sure that the Americans wouldn't be able to see me. It was something that my Father and I have discussed many times. 

               "Make sure that you hide in a place that you are absolutely sure is out of the Americans' line of sight, but try to make sure that you are still able to see and hear everything that goes on in the room," my Father would often tell me, before he would start bugging me to join the military. 

               The Americans opened the front door and they walked in. I cowered in my hiding place as I watched the leader of this American squadron walk into my family's house.

               "How are you Johnathan?" the leader asked my father. His voice was calm as if he was speaking to an old friend that he hadn't seen in a long time.

             "As you can see Henry," my father replied. "I'm doing wonderfully." My father's voice was sounded as though he didn't have a good life, or maybe my father's voice was like that because he was already tired of Henry being in our house. That made a lot more sense than him not having a good life. After all, my father had me and my mother with him all the time.

               "You're right Johnathan, I can see that. Your life does look nice, but that's not why I'm here." Henry's voice was still calm and emotionless.

               "I know why you're here Henry," my father said, anger building up in his voice. "You're here because of Boston."

               That meant that Henry and the soldiers were here to arrest my father for killing General Hull.

               "You're right Johnathan, that is why I'm here." I thought that I heard Henry's voice crack a little, as though he was reminded of a painful memory. Was he close to Hull?

               "You abandoned us, Johnathan,"  Henry said. What did that mean? Was my father a Johnathan? That didn't make any sense. Unless he lied to me. But he wouldn't do something like that. Would he?

              "We both know that Jefferson wasn't doing anything for me," my father said. I could sense by his tone of voice that my father was about to explode. But, strangely, he still maintained his calm demeanor.

              "You're a loyalist Johnathan, you know what that means."

               I was beginning to hate Henry. I wanted him out of my home now.

              "I suppose that I have to do what I came here to do now," Henry said. "Although you should know that I don't want to do this, but I have to do; because I'm not a traitor, not like you are, anyways," Henry said. I knew what was coming, but I didn't want it to happen.

              "Go ahead then, Henry. Do what you have to do," my father said. It didn't make any sense for my father to say something like that, it wasn't anything like him, at least the version of him that I knew. But did I really know everything about my own father, could I have been fooled by the lies that he told me; was everything that he had told me a lie?

              "Do you have any last words?" Henry asked my father.

               My father only said four words.

               "Long live the king."

                And those were his last words.