America: 50☆Stars (Vol. 2)

Episode 14: Helpless

"I'm sure you'll do your best to raise many beautiful children."

New York rolled his eyes playfully at the lovey-dovey couple. "Well, I hate to intrude on your private discussion about babies. So, if you can excuse me, I'll be next-door to see when they'll be done preparing for the wedding reception." He slunk off, letting them blabber until it was time for dinner.

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February 2, 1780—Morristown, New Jersey

Every soldier longed for the hearth of a warm home, a hearty meal of lamb and savory broth, and a stuffy bed with enough room for two. Instead, they were fortunate to have a tiny empty room, a plate of rotten bread and mushy meat for their daily ration, and a cot that left their feet hanging above the bed; their toes frozen and numb by early morning. It was particularly bad for the American patriots for they were the ones not getting paid. The losing battles didn't help to settle their mutinous behavior, nor did it lift their spirits to continue fighting for a crumbling cause on the verge of collapse. There were sentiments from commanders who were just as frustrated as them. Lack of silver, lack of supplies, lack of support, many complaints continued to be jotted down in an endless list of woes sent to an inept Congress. Sadly, nothing else could be done to ease their minds. They could only rest until the return of spring and the resumption of war. Despite the ongoing bitterness and strife felt among Americans, somehow, there was hope—a sign of relief down the road.

A bright yellow light emitted from the Ford Mansion like a lighthouse in the dark cold night. Cheers of camaraderie and laughs full of love and lust, the jovial sounds came from Americans who distracted themselves from the hardships of war. A single night dedicated to dining, drinking, and dancing. Six hours that consisted of cigar smoke, chattering speakers, and orchestrated songs. It was difficult for any serious soldier not to get swept up in the celebration.

Alexander Hamilton was no exception.

A spy for both sides of the war, New York had to be particularly careful when it came to keeping and telling secrets. Yet, he couldn't help his racking mind with Alexander's most recent letters to him. They smelled of depression—tobacco smoke and strong whiskey. Dark sentences in pitch black ink, written out in elegant yet agonizing cursive. "I am chagrined and unhappy," he would write before taking him down a dark road that eventually became too dangerous for New York to continue further. Insecurities about being an outcast, labeled an opportunistic foreigner who didn't have a heart for American ideals by hateful peers, Alexander sadly thought he was "not fit for this terrestrial country." He considered making a "brilliant exit" which New York could interpret to mean one of two things: emigration or suicide...

"Don't scare me like that!" New York shook the bastard by the collar.

"I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Alexander chuckled.

He dropped the lieutenant colonel back in his chair and sighed, "This is no laughing matter. Do you have any idea how much sleep I lost because of your stupidly long letters? I could barely eat because of your last letter." He sat back in his chair and drank his glass of red wine, holding himself back from causing a scene.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you." Alexander awkwardly blushed. "At the time, I was bummed with Washington's decision. If not here, I would've been fighting alongside Laurens in South Carolina." He pouted while swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Sure, I'm Washington's right-hand man, hence I must stay here. Only I, out of all the men in his camp, am best suited to piss off Congress. No one else can do better than me to call Congress out on their ineptitude. I mean, I'm sure South Carolina doesn't need my help protecting them from British invasions. As long as I'm alive and able to tell Congress how a horse's ass tastes, I am more than happy to be of valuable use to Washington despite doing jack shit this winter."