Chapter Text
Summer had never been the best season for a visit to the Chesapeake Bay. The last time Alfred had been here, Hampton Roads had been garnished with dull red oaks and sweetgums, and the soft October wind had wafted along the coastline, washing away the hectic pace drifting along from the ports. By the middle of June, however, the dusk breeze grew humid and salted, smudging that blonde stray hair of his with moisture.
All the tense coverage circulating throughout the coast only added to this unsettling pall. The Americans’ rage had accumulated to a certain point after the mishap of the frigate USS Chesapeake. Alfred could feel their anger throbbing, as keenly as his own resentment.
Some days ago, he managed a hasty escape from the federal clerks, and had since undertaken a ride on horseback away from the capital. Once out of the political centre, hardly anyone knew him. With his young and radiant appearance, Alfred could easily pass for a college freshman.
Humming a random rustic melody in hopes of soothing the wrath in his chest, Alfred tramped onto the cobbled lane leading toward the port of Norfolk. The harbour itself was packed with labourers and sailors at this hour of the day, the hot air tinged with burnt tar and cheap rum. Decades ago, Alfred had stood upon a much quieter site, waiting for Arthur’s boat to come ashore. By then, though, he would not have imagined his 1807 self carrying a disassembled musket in the canvas bag, looking into the sea and daring the British to approach.
He tried to rid himself of the thought and, unfortunately, failed yet again.
“Ahoy! Seeking a cutter? The Bahama Packet is parting in an hour.” Quite suddenly, a sailor looking boy tugged at his shoulder, and Alfred reflexively fixed a cheery expression upon his face.
“Where’s she heading for?”
Taken aback, the boy examined Alfred’s visage carefully. “Oh, you’re from the North aren’t you? Sorry, you looked kind of familiar, so I assumed you know—maybe it’s just the way you walk. Anyway, our ship is delivering cotton and lumber to Jamaica. A ten day trip, I’d say.”
Alfred laughed. “It’s alright, I’m indeed in want of a trip to the Caribbean. How much would the fare be?”
“Well, I can offer you a free passage.”
“You sure?” Alfred glanced at the boy, a little surprised. Yes, he had enjoyed a great extent of privilege from the instinctive attachments of his citizens ever since he had been toddling after Arthur—why was he thinking about that certain person again—but this time it seemed to be a bit overwhelming. Something about the boy’s aura made the whole conversation unnatural. “Ahh, then I owe you one. Call me John, John Washington.”
The boy grinned. “Elias, Elias Hale. That’s a great surname you’ve got, eh?”
That was one of Alfred’s most frequently used aliases. He desired to get first hand information about the Great Empire’s atrocity alright, but going with his true name, the name known to so many of his kind, would no doubt be a dangerous choice. “Yeah, a lot of people say that. Lucky me, I guess.”
Together, they took a small cutter to board the middle-sized brig. The cargoes were already loaded in neat assortments; the captain, who seemed to be on close terms with Elias, resembled an old-fashioned merchant, with an assuring temperament and a sum of twelve sailors, all of whom were American, in his crew.
Once had the canvas securely covered in the cabin aft he’d been assigned with, Alfred went back on the deck. Elias was nowhere to be found, but there were a few young ABs outside, chatting casually. Alfred leaned over just in time to catch a fraction of the exchange.
“Nice day out, huh?”
“Yeah, should be smooth sailing. So long as those British patrols keep their distance.”
“They oughta know better. I heard from Henry that Congress is thinking of doing something if they push it.”
“I don’t know, mate. Can barely read a word myself, remember?”
“At least you’re safe from the lobsters. Bet they’d rather grab someone literate!”
Everyone was talking about the British, the British and the British. When Alfred was accompanying Hamilton in writing the Farewell Address, he had specifically expressed his appreciation of the isolationist part. Now, however, his people were going to war with the UK. The second war of independence, as some of the Hawks had predicted.
Alfred did not know what to feel. He could envision himself standing before Arthur, both in their military uniforms, guns drawn. Or would it be in a different setting this time? Would they confront each other on the coast? On the seas?
Arthur had told him various stories about the sea and the life as a sailor back in the days when they were families instead of enemies. Alfred had yarned to voyage across the Atlantic, to see it all for himself, and to go to Europe for himself. Arthur never answered his pleas. He should have known from then, that the British did not want America to enter true international affairs. They had wanted America as a pet, as a remote reserve that proffered the Crown with gold and glory. But, excruciatingly, the expression Arthur had when he related the tales seemed to have imprinted itself somewhere in Alfred’s mind. No matter how hard he tried, it simply refused to budge or fade away.
Positively exasperated at no one but himself and his ill-suited prodigious memory, Alfred headed straight back into the cabin and soon lay wide awake on the berth, at a loss of the appetite to probe for information.
The Bahama Packet groaned softly as it eased free from the quay. Finally feeling assured that he had at least begun the rough journey ahead, Alfred waited in anticipation for the next daybreak.
Until tomorrow turned out to be far more than he had bargained for.
——
There were footsteps, hastened and ruffled, pounding overhead. Alfred stirred, his throat swelling from the stifling heat. He could hear people talking in the aisle now, though it was hardly dawn yet. Alfred blinked and rose up, and then, before he could get out of the bed, there came a sharp, thunderous sound, ringing through the air.
Alfred was on his feet before he knew it, hands instinctively seizing the bulge on the canvas bag where the barrel of the musket rested. Because that was a shot from a cannon. A fucking British cannon.
How could it be? How on earth could the British come this fast? This must be record-breaking.
The door banged open. “Who are you?” A seaman poked his head in and, apparently uninterested in Alfred’s answer, shouted, “The motherfucking redcoats are here!”
“Fuck them,” Alfred replied with full sincerity as he flung his coat and bag on. “I’m coming in a sec.”
Was there anything that slipped his notice? Alfred scanned the surroundings again as he ran up to the opening, but no, there was still nothing atypical about this ship. Not about its cargoes or its features. It was perfectly normal. The British patrols shouldn’t have noticed it within hours, unless—Alfred stared at the stern, startled. The twenty or so crates labeled for cotton, placed in the hold last night, had been relocated to the deck, and a blazing Stars and Stripes was hoisted in between them, flashing prominently. Alfred’s heart sank.
“Line up!” Up on the deck, a bearded British officer was speaking in front of the rowdy squad of American sailors. Behind him, against the dark water, a huge Red Ensign glowed from the brig-sloop that had fired the warning shot and obliged the Bahama Packet into a heave-to. Alfred could not help but sneer at the very sight of it.
“By order of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, this vessel is under a search for British seamen unlawfully absent from duty.”
The officer paused, waiting for the Americans’ uproar, partially because both sides knew his speech was merely a pretext. Only when the wave of muttered obscenities started to decline did the officer clear his throat and ask, “Who’s in charge here?”
The captain stepped out, head bowed. Alfred clenched his fists. Somehow, he noted that Elias Hale was nowhere to be seen in the pack of sailors.
“Produce the crew list, and no harm shall be made to your men.” The officer demanded in the same cold tone. “We are only interested in the suspicious ones.”
The crowd murmured, but dared not move under the soldier’s guard as their names were pronounced one by one. Knowing he must act swiftly, Alfred moved to the front row in silence and stooped down to fidget with his bag.
“Avast!” The officer’s attention snapped to him. “You there, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Sorry, sir, it’s the glass mirror I’m carrying. I’ve got to make sure it’s not jolted.” Alfred replied sheepishly. “Can’t afford to have it damaged, you know. It’s a gift from my brother.”
“Who is this man?” The officer inquired, a dubious frown upon his brow.
The Captain squinted. “He’s one of the passengers. Mr. Washington, if I recall correctly.”
“Passenger, hum? Not in your crew then?”
“No, sir.”
The officer gave a curt nod. A younger man accompanying him marched down at once, reaching out for Alfred’s arm.
“Get off me!” Alfred yelped, pulling up a panicked look while pushing the canvas bag tightly onto his chest to protect that imaginary mirror. “I’ve told you that mirror is fragile, just—just don’t touch it!”
“You’d want to be very careful indeed.” Said a voice from above.
Holy shit.
Alfred froze to the spot, halfway through his performance. Because that voice was a familiar one, familiar enough to send sharp throbs down his spine. Appalled and absolutely not willing to believe his own ears, his gaze shot upwards to look at the new arrival, and, sure enough, above that refined scarlet uniform and pale white collars, a pair of remarkably thick eyebrows arched as those emerald pupils glimmered with some mixture of contempt, surprise and—Alfred pursed his lips—a slice of fear.
Why on earth would Great Britain be afraid? Even for just a fraction of a second?
And why the hell would Arthur Kirkland himself appear in the middle of the night, on a patrol brig, abut the remote seas of North Atlantic, when his own lunatic of a King was raging wars with Napoleon all across the European continent?
“Captain Kirkland,” To Alfred’s distaste, that bearded officer stepped over and touched his hat as a salute, “We have this weird man here. He claims to be a passenger.”
“What kind of passengers would travel to the Caribbean at this time of the year?” Captain Kirkland said; the officer concurred at once. When his gaze swept past Alfred’s countenance on which the remnant of that stupid smile still lingered, Arthur’s lips curled in a way that sent chills to condense in the air. “I’m afraid I have to inform you that it is reasonable for us to question your incentives, sir.”
Alfred opened his mouth in sheer indignation, his hands flying up in defense, but three of the British sailors advanced at a nod of Arthur’s head, taking up the space around their subject. Alfred glared at his former overlord, regretting most dearly his earlier decision not to get that musket ready for operation last night.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Arthur said in a clinical and vapid manner, not even diverting his gaze to look Alfred directly in the eyes. “And do not make futile attempts.”
“Not that I can help it, sir.” Alfred jerked, eyeing the Brits. No, rationally speaking, he should not have provoked anyone, but, well, at times like this and in the face of an arrogant colonist like Arthur Kirkland—
“I see,” Arthur hummed softly. “So, I take it that you’d rather we offer you some help?”
Fuck. Alfred tensed up on reflection, although he knew it would not be wise to take action. This was an affair between the British Navy and the Americans as a whole. He could not afford to invoke a full-scale war against Britain by igniting another conflict like that of the USS Chesapeake, simply because Arthur Kirkland decided to show up here and now. It could not be him; the course human history took should depend solely on humans, as it always had and always would.
Yet, strangely, a vague voice inside his chest seemed to murmur otherwise. Alfred suppressed it with full might, though, for the Brits had already loomed over him. He struggled, purely out of instinct and the hatred of being touched by unknown people.
“I wonder whether you’re raised by savages, mister?” One of the young sailors mocked as he fought to seize Alfred’s flailing arms.
“Yes indeed,” Alfred answered with gritted teeth, shooting the British Captain a glance from the corner of his eyes, and was satisfied to see those brows twist when muffled laughter burst out among the British sailors. Nonetheless, Arthur evinced no other signs of recognition. He looked perfectly constrained, perfectly impersonal. Very well, if that’s how Arthur was planning to play this, Alfred supposed he could comply for once. After all, these people would be better off not knowing the fact that there existed the personifications of their countries in their world, not to mention the absurdity that America and England themselves were now standing side by side before them.
“So, Captain Kirkland, are you?” Alfred started, mind working fast. “I wonder—”
Abruptly, a sharp pain broke out in his palm, and he instinctively glared at Arthur, more out of shock than rage. Because the Brit had just pinched his flesh with such strength that Alfred was sure he bruised from it. Arthur, however, did not look as irritated as the pinch indicated. He seemed calmer, even, but his eyes were fixed, and Alfred could almost sense the tension radiating from his chest.
“Your name?” Arthur asked, not letting go of Alfred’s forearm.
Oh, so that was it. Arthur was scared he’d let it slip. Arthur had always been way more sensitive when it came to this matter. It was true that Alfred should not risk causing suspicion. But on the other hand, he would not mind giving Captain Kirkland a little headache.
“John Washington. And you, Captain?”