Dear, Hamilton

I blow things up

My heart hammers in my chest, a steady beat in my ears, as I race into the trees surrounding the mansion. The sounds of shots firing reverberate in the air behind me. The only other sounds I can hear are my own jagged breaths and pounding heart as I shove low hanging branches out of my way. 

I hear a crash about fifteen feet to the left of me, and I immediately drop to the ground. I breathe through my mouth so my breathing isn't as loud, praying the dark will hide me within its shadowy fold as I lay flat on the crunchy leaves. 

One shift and those dry leaves beneath me with crackle and crunch, betraying my presence. 

When I don't hear any more noise from my left, I cautiously and quietly stand, those leaves mercifully quiet. I look hard at the dark spot huddled on the ground to my left, trying to decide if it's a person or simply a figment of my imagination. 

If it's a person, is it worth my life to find out if they're friend or foe? 

After some thought, I begin moving towards the blob. My reasoning is if they're huddled on the ground, then they are either injured or too scared to move. Either way, if it's an enemy, I'll have the upper hand. 

I approach them silently, my eyes squinting in the dark as if that will help me see better. When I reach the blob, I find it is a person, and I recognize the blue and buff uniform of a patriot soldier. 

I prod them with a slippered foot, and the man flinches in surprise. They roll over silently and stare up at me with fearful eyes before realizing I'm a woman, and the fear recedes from their gaze. I almost want to abandon the poor man just for making the assumption that I'm not a threat. 

"What happened to you?" I whisper. 

"I ran," he answers back, a hint of a southern accent in his voice. 

"Has the fighting ceased?" I inquire quietly, choosing not to comment on his abandonment. 

A shot, followed by three more, rings through the air, answering my question, and the soldier shakes his head as if he still needs to clarify my question. 

"Were there patriots fighting back?" I press him urgently, hoping he says yes because then it won't be just Hamilton against the British, but a group of patriots against them. 

The young man nods solemnly from where he remains on the ground. "I saw a few of them, but I was too busy running to really take any notice." He drawls out his vowels longer than normal, I realize, and that's what makes the foundation of his southern accent. 

I nod, but upon realizing he probably can't see me nodding in the dark, I reply quietly, "Okay."

He lays there while I stand there in silence, both of us listening to the echoing shots in the night air. "We have to do something," I finally say. 

The soldier simply rasps a laugh. "Are you kidding me?" he asks incredulously as he looks up at me. 

"Yes," I snap, angered by his cowardice. "You were the coward that ran away from a fight. The least you can do now is help the ones fighting to win it." 

"No way," he speaks, his voice veering on hysterical. "I'm not going back out there. My Ma and Pa need me back home to make money. If I die, they might as well die, too."

"Then why did they allow you to run off to fight in the war?" I hiss. 

He shrugs before admitting, "I did it in secret, so when I told them about it, they couldn't do nothin' about it." 

"Well, I'm going out there to help," I declare, making sure to keep my voice down. 

"And what exactly are you going to do?" he demands, not quite as successful in keeping his voice down. I shush him, and we settle into silence to listen for any approaching footsteps before I finally answer.