Chapter Text
A lone figure stands at the bow of a distant ship, rising and falling rhythmically on the ever-changing sea. The person stares off blankly into the distance, though their features cannot yet be made out. Miles off, another man clenches his free hand on the edge of the crow’s nest for balance, slightly shifting the spyglass held to his eye, seeking out the flag of the ship. Not government, but that of a common trader. The man sighs, lowering the glass. He doesn’t wish to attack the vessel, but the current circumstances make his normally merciful views far less so.
“Laurens! See anything?”
Laurens glances around foolishly for the speaker before sighing again and looking down. “A ship about 8 nautical miles southeast. Trade, not government. Do you think we should go for it, Angelica?”
The young woman tilts her head thoughtfully, looking towards the ship she cannot yet see. “I’ll go get Washington.”
George Washington is the captain of their ship, which is known simply as The Mutineer. More uneducated individuals would call their crew pirates. They’d be right, frankly, though the real purpose of the crew is basically just attacking the government. It’s not exactly a novel idea- hell, they share their waters with at least one other government-opposing pirates- but it’s also the best one any revolutionary’s got. Petty, some would say, robbing the ships of the government and army; it’s not as if they did any direct harm to the inhabitants of the ship, but the clear fact is that the people running the world are corrupt as all hell, and separately, there’s a lot of harm that comes from high-scale thieves screwing with finances and imports. Sometimes, Laurens feels a shadow of doubt that what they’re doing wasn’t quite right, but it takes a single coup, or a newspaper detailing the newest exorbitant tax, or even an execution of a crewmate or colleague to remind him exactly what has been done to him.
He shudders at the very memories and skims his way down from the crow’s nest. The first couple times the man attempted this, he fell and nearly killed himself, or at the very least slipped and gave himself nightmares for weeks on end. But now, he scales and descends the unforgiving wood, rope, and cloth light as a bird, and just as graceful. Laurens reaches the deck just in time for Washington to emerge from his quarters. He gives a cordial nod before snapping to attention as the captain begins to speak.
“You say it’s a trade ship, then?” the captains asks; it’s a rhetorical question, but Laurens responds with another nod anyway. “It’ll be carrying food, of course, and as much I abhor random attackings of civilian ships, this is a necessary cost. Besides, in all likelihood, the vessel has ties to the government, anyway, if it is traversing these waters so freely.”
“It did not have any colors on it, of the British monarchy or otherwise,” Laurens offers, though he knows Washington has already made his choice.
The captain sighs. “As I said. A necessary cost.” He fixes the unrelenting smaller man with a piercing stare. “We are starving, Laurens. We lack even the money to buy a loaf of bread from market, and even with the coins, the nearest port is miles away.”
A sigh from Laurens. “Yes, sir.”
As if clockwork, the crew flies into action, turning the old, creaking ship about and sailing her at a relatively formidable clip towards the traders. They’re a small group, really, composed of an immigrant Frenchman, Lafayette, an ex-tailor, Mulligan (he doubles as the cook; thank God, or they’d have starved to death long before now), and the three Schuylers, who were once noblewomen: Angelica, Eliza, and the youngest, Peggy. The ship’s officers are Charles Lee (Laurens can’t stand the man- he wasn’t at all supportive of the new laws, which were, in Laurens’s opinion, literally the only thing the government had ever done right. Legalizing marriage between all genders and declaring discrimination against such people illegal- what’s not to like?), Washington’s wife, Martha, Mercer, an ex-general, and a terrifyingly amazing woman known only by her last name: Reynolds. No one is exactly sure what the ship’s officers actually do, except that they’re generally superior at pirating and being slightly snobbish, except for Reynolds.
It isn’t long before they’re close enough to the other vessel to raise their flag- an ancient, tattered cloth emblazoned with red and white stripes lined up to a blue box enclosing a circle of thirteen stars. The flag is a symbol of fear throughout the government ships, not that they get much glory for it, but there’s a certain amount of pride in seeing the recognition and terror in the face of a tough commander.
Maybe that’s why Laurens does it.
Maybe he just wants people to be afraid of him, instead of the other way around.
The man refuses to let himself dwell on it. Instead, he draws his sword and cutlass, and prepares for his own storm.
xxx
Alexander Hamilton leaps from the bow of the trade ship, eyes narrowing as he tries to make out the flag of the vessel approaching him. He doesn’t recognize it- a splash of red, white and blue color- but gets the feeling that he should be afraid.
“Pirates!” screams the navigator from where he stands near the mast, and Alexander decides that, okay, maybe he should be afraid. He’s heard the stories, of course; who hasn’t? Pirates haunt the nightmares of every child. Ruthless men and women trying to play their savagery off as dignity and honor, murdering and stealing. Besides, this poses far too many issues to his own goals, e.g. joining the newest up-and-coming country of America. Granted, it’s not officially recognized as a nation yet, it being more of a group of towns, but goddamnit, Alexander could make it a nation, given about a decade and a couple men to count on. Though of course he’s heard the rumors of its scraggly government being half witted and at least as awful and murderous as pirates. He’s not going to let this group of armed idiots get in the way of him and his future.
So instead of yelling and scrambling around for pistols, Hamilton opts to just glare out at the pirate ship, as if they’re going to be deterred by a tiny 19-year-old without a weapon.
The merchant who allowed him on this vessel in the first places dashes out of his quarters. “What is this?” he spits furiously, sneering at his crew, who point wordlessly towards the pirates, who are growing closer by the second. Alexander watches with satisfaction as the blood drains from the merchant’s face; although the man was his salvation, his escape from hell, he’d never liked the young trader. The very limited power of a merchant had gone to his head, and he wielded that small amount of authority with an iron fist and a bad temper. One of the crewmen advance hesitantly towards him.
“Robert, please, while we still can, we need to flee-”
“We are men, not ants, and we will react to the situation as such!” And with that, Robert (So that’s his name, Alexander reflects; he’d never bothered to learn it even though Robert was technically the catalyst of probably the biggest change of his life: leaving St. Croix) pulled a pistol out of seemingly nowhere, squinted, and fired several shots at the pirate ship, face contorted into fury.
Distant yells break out, and someone screams; Robert laughs almost maniacally and fires once more into the air. An unnecessary, brutal warning.
xxx
Mercer drops to the deck, dead, and Washington’s regret-filled yet determined expression turns to grim rage before his officer even hits the ground.
They’re all going to die, Laurens thinks, a sinking feeling in his chest.
He’s never liked a massacre.
xxx
We’re all going to die.
Alexander straightens up and stands stiff, ignoring the pain that strikes through him. A taunting voice rings wrathfully in his head: So much for your dreams of the great fucking legacy. Say goodbye to dying like a martyr, earning a hero’s name. Bid farewell to the idea of changing the world. You are worthless, and not even yet an immigrant. You haven’t even made it to America, and you’ll already be slaughtered in a pointless coup.
No, he’ll stare death right in the eye, and hopes he doesn’t blink first.
The voice hisses again, Coward.
And then, in a mere moment, Alexander Hamilton’s world explodes.
Wood sprays from all sides; a quick look around tells him that the mast has shattered and is tipping. Cannonball, he’d wager, but there’s no way to be sure. Alex gasps raggedly, shrapnel in his side impedimenting his movements, and crawls out of the way, hyperaware of the grains of wood under his fingertips.
“Surrender or die,” intones a flat voice; though monotone, it is filled with the promise of death. Alexander begins to shake against his will, cowers behind the broken remains of the mast. A strange, quiet whining noise fills the air, and for a moment he wonders where it’s coming from and wants nothing more for it to stop before he realizes it’s coming from himself, and he closes his mouth and his eyes.
Heat begins to lick at the air, which is soon filled with the shrieks of terror from the crew as a rapidly burning fire devours the wooden ship and the people in it. “Please!” comes broken yell before dissolving into sobs and the noise of crackling flames. Around Alexander, it’s strangely quiet, like the world has come to a stop. Until-
“Get up.”
The voice is raw and even a little pitying, different from the one before. He doesn’t want pity.
“What?” Alexander rasps, slowly raising his eyes to meet those of the other person. It’s a man, a boy, even, at about his age, a year older at the most. He’s much taller than Alex is, and his eyes sparkle with the reflection of the flame so he can’t even make out the color or shade.
“You heard me.”
The other man offers a hand to him, and now Alexander can see the shame twisting his expression as he pulls Alex to his feet. For a moment, the pieces- mercy, salvation, but he doesn’t recognize the person- don’t add up, but then he catches sight of a small version of the flag sewn to the man’s lapel, and he pulls back.
“You’re burning up my ship.” Alex winces at the choking noise in his voice as he states the obvious, but stands his ground, trying to will away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes.
“I know. I… regret what my crewmates have done. Are doing.” A pause. “Please come with me.”
Alexander laughs roughly, a sound devoid of humor and emotion, as he gazes up at the man. “Are you honestly asking me to join your crew?”
He huffs and glares down at him. “No, I’m saving your life; there’s a difference. We’ll see about you joining up later.”
Contemplative silence. Alexander isn’t a foolish man. He knows about governments and he knows about corruption of power and he knows about unbalanced finances and he knows about foolish, deadly laws. America is no land of opportunity, no matter how much he tries to kid himself. And maybe… maybe this is how he’s meant to make his mark. Fighting back.
The pirate offers him his hand once more. “Come with me; this is your last chance. I swear to any God that may exist, you will be safe.”
That’s something new. Alexander doesn’t trust people who make promises, never have, especially not enemies who just slaughtered everyone in the general vicinity, but even though instinctively despises this man with a burning passion, one that equals the flames surrounding the pair, he also believes him enough to take him on his word. Even if that man has destroyed any future he may have had in the falsely-named land of opportunity,
Hamilton nods slowly. Takes the pirate’s hand. Smooth, but a little callused, probably from hard work. Freckled. Tanned by the sun. A little burnt from the fire. He doesn’t trust that hand, hates that hand, wraps his fingers around it carefully anyway.
“Very well.”
Alexander Hamilton allows himself to be led from the life that could have been, and into the life unknown.