"Just breathe."
The year was 1776, and a new era was just emerging. The Continental army hadn't had the most successful. Battles and soldiers lost. General Washington was trying to calm his men; they were riled up from a recent hanging that had happened.
A new ginger haired immigrant had shown up. He was more of the covetous type- or as he quoted: "young, scrappy, and hungry". Washington cherished his benevolent spirit and eager personality. A writer of sorts- hopefully a rather exceptional secretary.
Now, an immigrant coming to the Americas and immediately gaining power was pretty risky. The army had no idea what their general could get them into. To newcomers, the army was rather intimidating- almost alarming. The immigrant hadn't let anyone irk him, and wouldn't begin cracking at this minute. A tall, brown haired male stood before a tent. A huge grin was plastered across his features. He held a hand out.
"General Washington?" inquired the young man.
That is me," Washington nodded. "And you're-?" A puzzled expression crossed the recruits face.
"I'm Alexander Hamilton?" the boy responded. His violet eyes were ablaze with a twinkle. It was of honour and dedication. "Pleasure to serve for you. General."
Hearing his job, Alexander was shocked. He wasn't someone's pitiful scribe- he was a writer! The ability to persuade or swoon anyone was at his fingertips. A scribe? "What kind of respectable human being makes a writer a scribe?"
Alexander had been seriously engulfed in work. Four reports had a deadline of that very day. Elizabeth Schuyler, his beloved, had illustrated her clear feelings in a letter. Or so the messenger rambled. A light swoosh disrupted the Carribean boy. With a glance up, Washington's head of intelligence stepped in. Benjamin Tallmadge. "Sir," Tallmadge pressed. "Are those reports complete?"
Scribbling a few letters down, Alexander shoved each report into Tallmadge's hand. "I'll be sure to tell His Excellency about your benevolent skill in writing; he will definitely be sure to have a reason to be jubilant.
Now a few more weeks into the job, Alexander was drafting more plans down than ever. Overworked. Exhausted. At a moment, the young man sighed. It was a piping hot day, that could he confirmed. Most soldiers were sweaty and reeked, but who could blame them. No place existed to shower safely. Setting his quill and ink pot down, Alexander lay his head down on a half coated piece of paper.
"Alexander?" the General enjoined. "Why are you dozing?" Alexander groggily awoke himself. It took him a few moments to notice what was going on.
"Your Excellency!" Alexander yelped, startled. "The heat passed me out, if I'm honest." Washington slid the materials out from beneath the exhausted male's chin.
"Alexander," he boomed. "It is way more than that. You can be truthful with me." Ginger and violet flashed in Washington's peripheral vision before he sat.
"Fine, Your Excellency," groaned and moaned Alexander. "I'm slightly overworked and rarely get rest. The noise of the camp is excruciatingly annoying. And, if I may add: I'm not a scribe." That last sentence left Washington at a loss.
Washington's voice was loud. "Son," he began. "Don't overwork yourself. I can have myself, or any other qualified writer to... record for me." Washington signaled he hadn't yet completed his spiel. "Just, be reasonable. Don't be an imbecile." He wasn't complete yet, but he nearly was. Two words:
"Just breath."
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