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- The Telemachy (from Greek Τηλεμάχεια, Tēlemacheia ) is a term traditionally applied to the first four books of Homer 's epic poem the Odyssey . They are named so because, just as the Odyssey tells the story of Odysseus , they tell the story of Odysseus's son Telemachus as he journeys from home for the first time in search of news about his missing father.
“Hamilton!” an authoritative voice called out.
Alexander almost turned around at the sound of his name, but just barely managed to catch himself. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. Hadn’t gone by it in even longer.
It had been, god what, twenty years since his scouting party got ambushed far from camp. Twenty long years since the oldest member of their group, a veteran of the French and Indian War pulled him aside and told him frankly that they had to surrender, there was no way they were going to escape this one alive.
Alex had protested, arguing “Surely if we got the horses–”
“No,” the older man had responded. “Yes you could ride off, but then you’d simply get shot in the back of the head. They have enough ammunition. The only way to survive is to surrender. You’re good at that aren’t you, son? Surviving?”
Alexander bristled at the nickname, but he had bigger fish to fry. He gave a brisk nod but pursed his lips, “I see my reputation precedes me.”
The veteran rolled his eyes.
“Undoubtedly,” he responded with condescension. He inhaled, more serious this time. “Give them a different name. If they realize they have the general’s personal aide… it will be good for nobody but the British.”
Like it or not, Alex knew he was right.
And so, after they came out, hands raised, he gave his name as Alexander Harmond, footsoldier. That’s what he told the recordkeeper, and the officer who assigned him to his prison camp, and the warden there, and his cellmate, and his new cellmate after the previous was negotiated for, and the one after that one died of cholera, and so on.
Slowly he got further and further away from Alexander Hamilton. As the people he was captured with were sent to other camps or fell to illness. As the memory of his loved ones, his friends, his wife, grew fainter every winter. As the years passed on: never brought up in prisoner exchange talks, never causing a fuss, never being one of the dead counted after scarlet fever season ran through the camp. Just staying quiet and surviving, occasionally being noticed only as “Old Harmond”: the prisoner that’s just always been there, long as anyone could remember.
“Hamilton!” the voice called again, breaking Alexander from his thoughts. “I said get in here!”
Alexander finally allowed himself to look at the source of the voice, albeit with an obviously confused expression as if to nonverbally say "Why are you saying that name?". The guard was holding his cell door open, but he wasn’t looking at Alex. Instead, he watched sternly as a curly-haired fellow quickly shuffled in.
“New roommate,” he huffed at Alex before shutting the door, locking it with a click.
Alex had been expecting a new cellmate for a while, ever since his last one, Hopkins, died of consumption.
He examined the new arrival. The newbie didn't have much of a poker face. He was clearly very nervous. Fidgety too. He avoided looking Alex in the eye, and Alex didn’t blame him. “Old Harmond” had a reputation for being intimidating in camp.
The silent tension seemed to get to the newcomer and he glanced at the window grate instead, giving Alex a better look at his face and– Jesus, Alex swore the new recruits got younger and younger every year.
The man– the boy, really, was practically a baby. His cheeks were freckled and full with baby fat. His eyes had a skittish teenage innocence. Alex wasn’t sure if he was old enough to be in college, much less the army.
Eventually, the kid mustered the courage to look back at Alex.
“You’re the one they talk about aren’t you? Old Man Harmond, right?”
Alex raised an eyebrow, “If that’s what they’re calling me these days then yes. And you are…”
“Philip. Philip Hamilton.”
Hamilton, huh? Alexander wondered if he could maybe be a cousin or something. That's something he would’ve asked if he was still Alexander Hamilton. But Alexander Harmond didn’t care, and being Alexander Harmond was what kept him alive the past two decades.
Alexander Harmond didn’t talk, or write, or chat, or ask questions. And he certainly had no special attachment to anyone with the last name Hamilton.
He turned around, it was almost time for curfew.
“Well, Philip, you’re getting the bottom bunk.”