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Alexander heard the door of the tower cell screech as he faced the window. Turning, he saw a short, dry balding man enter the room. The middle-aged man was decked in blue trousers and coat and wearing a garish gold waistcoat.
“Mr. Hamilton?” The newcomer said in a nasally tone while he outstretched his hand. “I’m Samuel Jones, representative of His Majesty’s government.”
Alexander bristled at his rank not being used but took the hand and politely shook it. Jones continued, “I am here to inform you that you shall have an audience with his regal highness, King George III two days hence from today.”
Alexander pulled his hand away suddenly. “For what purpose?” he asked coldly.
“Now Mr. Hamilton,” Jones admonished in a good-humored way that was more than a little irritating, “‘Tis an honor to garner such a meeting with the head of our great empire!”
It hadn’t escaped Alexander’s notice that the man hadn’t answered his question, which mean he either did not know or would not tell him. He banked on the former, however and said nothing for a moment. Instead, he touched the ragged edges of his army coat. “I don’t suppose that I can make myself more presentable before meeting the King? I surely wouldn’t want to embarrass his Majesty as one of his subjects appearing before him like this.”
~*~
The next day, Alexander was presented to with a tailor who took his measurements and gruffly said that he would return the next day with a new uniform. The day before the meeting, Alexander met with a barber who trimmed back his beard to its normal appearance.
The day of the audience with King George was gray and drizzling as Alexander shrugged on his new military coat (without the green band or emblems that marked him as an aide-de-camp) and tied his hair back into a neat queue before the guards appeared. Manacles were placed on his wrists and ushered (more pushed) out into a carriage with its shades down. Alexander’s heart was in his throat as the carriage lurched into motion.
This meeting still felt a ruse for something still unknown to him. King George meeting with him, a mere aide-de-camp and Lt. Colonel seemed odd to say the least, unconventional at most. He had spoken out against the monarchy in New York, and he dimly wondered if anyone reported that he was the one to do so. He was an unknown student back in those days, so it seemed unlikely. But of course, being the chief of staff to Washington, especially arranging prisoner exchanges, put in in proximity to higher ranking officials.
The ride was not long, much to Alexander’s surprise. When the carriage stopped, he was shoved out of it onto a cobblestone driveway. He looked up to the white limestone and numerous wrought-iron windows. Alexander was pushed forward to a set of black double doors that were opened by palace guards. He could not help but look at the huge portraits of the Royal Family from history along with other works of art above the rich furniture of gold or marble as they walked down various halls. Alexander’s disdain for the King grew as he glanced at the luxuries. The monarchy of England taxed his colonists at every opportunity while enriching himself with splendors few could even dream of knowing. He was blatantly aware that guards were scattered down every corridor that they turned down.
They finally stopped at a set of gold handled double oak doors, and Alexander’s heart started to climb to his throat as the servants opened it and he was led into what could only be called a throne room. The young aide was staring at a man that was double his age wearing a fashionable white wig, a matching crimson silk coat and britches as well as a dark wine velvet cape lined with ermine. In his hand was a gold scepter that he seemed to be admiring his reflection in.
The guard ostentatiously kicked Alexander to his knees, growling, “Bow down before your monarch, boy!”
“Now, now,” the rather high-pitched voice of George the Third came, “That’s no way to treat our guest.”
Alexander looked up to see the King’s blared eyes, his nostrils flaring, and his lips pinched, though he looked as though he was trying to not smile. He was taken aback by the sheer madness reflected in the monarch's eyes, a sight he never anticipated witnessing.
King George waved his hand lazily. “Leave us.” he commanded, and the guards did withdraw, leaving the two men alone.
Alexander was still kneeling when he heard the footfalls of the other man and the shiny black shoes with diamond buckles came into his sight. The cold metal of the scepter found itself under his chin, lifting it so that he was eye to eye with the monarch. The man’s malicious expression made his insides turn cold.
“So you’re Alexander Hamilton? Stand, boy.” King George ordered. Alexander stood, observing as the King circled around him before eventually returning to face him, wearing a smirk of amusement on his face. “You’re quite small for someone aiding the towering ‘General’ (and here he used air quotes) “Washington.”
Hamilton seethed with anger. All his life, he had endured relentless mockery due to his small stature, though he could never comprehend how it could possibly hinder his accomplishments. “It’s Lt. Colonel Hamilton, sir.” Alexander snipped back.
The King’s expression flashed with anger at being spoken to in such a manner, but it was smoothed away in a nonchalant glance. “Ah yes, Lt. Colonel." His tone was mocking. “What does an orphan immigrant want in being a soldier for a country he hardly knows, one wonders.”
Hamilton tilted his head seeming to think of the question. “We yearn to build a nation where men are judged by merit, not birthright. I earned my rank through discipline and diligence. I went from a Captain to Lt. Colonel and-” He stopped himself short of saying that he was Washington’s right-hand man. Not that the British government wouldn’t know that perhaps. "But I'm not one to talk about it," he said. "I'm just a soldier doing my duty." He smiled and shifted on his feet, as if to indicate that the conversation about that was over.
King George leaned slightly towards him. “Ah yes, the little secretary to Washington.” Again, he alluded to Alexander’s height much to Hamilton’s annoyance.” He strode to a bowl of fruit on a sideboard and plucked out an apple, tossing it to Alexander halfheartedly who bent and caught it with ease despite the manacles on his hands. He glanced from it to the King quizzically, first for the ‘kind’ gesture, and second-
“It’s not poisoned.” King George snorted. “That would be quite rude, no?”
Alexander raised an eyebrow but bit into the flesh of the apple, chewing loudly on purpose, which made the monarch’s eyebrows crease and mouth purse with anger.
“Tell me, what drives this ‘revolution’ of yours? Do you really think you can win against us? Against me?” George asked nonchalantly though his voice gained steel at the end of his question.
Alexander allowed himself a perplexing smile. Bitch, please. “We are endeavoring to find out, aren’t we?”
The King’s anger was clearly visible and he turned his back and walked a few steps before turning his head. “What makes you think your ‘country’ will be any better off without me?” He snarled.
Alexander seemed to think about this for a moment still chewing his apple and speaking with his mouth full. “Self-determination, Your Majesty. We will set our own laws, our own import and export tax, and most of all, we will not have taxes from the mother country to send our goods elsewhere. Thus, burgeoning our own economy.” Really, he had thought about the economy after the war and how it could be consolidated with a strong government that represented all of the colonies, and perhaps other states to come in the future.
King George harrumphed and turned on-heel. “It seems winning the war might be quite a challenge for you, considering the reports of our troops routing you badly in recent months.”
"Rest assured, we shall emerge victorious.” The flames of determination burned fiercely in Alexander’s eyes, “And together, we shall liberate ourselves from the oppressive rule of both you and your government."
Wrath overtook King George’s face. With just three swift strides, he closed the distance between himself and Alexander. In a sudden motion, he pulled back his arm and struck the younger man with the piercing point of the scepter. Alexander felt blood streaking down his cheek even as he clasped a hand over the wound.
“KNEEL, TRAITOR!” The King all but screamed in his face. Alexander had not done so fast enough, for he reeled back again and hit him on the left knee, making the younger man crumple to the ground.
Alexander suppressed his urge to scream in agony as the scepter relentlessly struck his back and neck, over and over. He forced himself to remain still, his muscles rigid with pain. He could feel his blood boiling, and his heart pounding in his chest. He was determined not to give in to his tormentor. He slowly opened his eyes, feeling as if he had been hit by a stagecoach. The king was standing over him, his face unreadable. Alexander looked up at him, a feeling of loathing forming in the pit of his stomach.
“Guards!” King George roared. Three men appeared in his line of sight. Two had locked their arms under each of Alexander’s own, hauling him to his feet.
The monarch allowed a sinister smile to crease his face. “I think the traitor should die on the soil he thinks his little rebel army is going to win back from me.” He said dangerously, his voice low. Then louder spat, “Take him back to the Colonies and have him hung as a traitor, then drawn and quartered. Show that rebellious mob what will happen if they defy me.”
Alexander’s eyes widened at the sentenced passed by the King, but his eyes narrowed, his chin rose in defiance. In one motion, Alexander spat on the immaculate shoes of King George. The third guard punched him in the stomach, the pain making him double over. He was unable to fight as he was dragged from the throne room.