The Price of Love

Chapter 5

John's PoV

"Sir, you have a letter." A servant says, passing my father a roll of parchment tied neatly with a scrap of cloth. "From New York." The servant leaves and my father unties the letter, wrinkling his nose in slight disgust.

"What do those filthy rebels want now?" He mutters, his eyes darting over the letter. He snorts slightly when he finishes.

"What is it Father?" I ask quietly.

"Those damn rebels' fucking prince is begging for money." He sneers. He stops and turns thoughtful. "Although, what do I have to lose?" He muses. "I'm not entirely heartless. Only one to two thousand dollars, that's all he's asking for?" He re-reads the letter. "Yes, I can have that arranged. I don't want the blood of innocents on my hands."

"May I be permitted to read the letter?" I ask. He shoves it in my direction and I carefully take it and unroll it.

Your Royal Highness,

As you know, we are living in a time of war. I respect your decision to side with Britain but remain out of the war, as I know you respect my decision to fight. And although we are on opposing sides of the war, I am coming to you with a request, a plea. My country is in desperate need of money. My people are starving and dying, and I myself am not doing much better than they. If you don't believe me, I urge you to visit and view our conditions for yourself. All I am asking is for a small loan of between one thousand and two thousand dollars so I can afford to import my people more food. I can arrange for myself to come and collect the money, or send someone in my place should I not be able to come. Please bear in mind that I am in no way asking you to turn against Britain, or to join me. I am simply asking you that in my county's time of need, you can support your fellow kinsmen by sending us a small sum of just one thousand dollars. I thank you for your time and I respect your decision either way,

Sincerely, the Prince of New York,

Alexander Washington-Hamilton

I'm impressed. Respectful, formal, and well written. And his penmanship is beautiful. His image flashes in my head, the young man with fiery red hair and the crown of silver who so passionately spoke just yesterday. He's an interesting character in my opinion, and he seems to care very deeply about his people. "You! Get me parchment, ink, and a quill." My father barks at one of the servants.

"Father, might I ask why this letter is written by the Prince and not the King? Does New York not have a king?" I ask, desperate for answers to the questions that have been gnawing at me.

"Well, they do son." He says, taking a sip of his tea. "But his son, the Prince, is widely accepted in New York to be their leader. He handles everything that a king would. The King himself allows this and only intervenes occasionally, mostly in fighting battles." It doesn't make any sense to me.

"And why is that?" I ask, my head tipped to the side. "Is their King unfit to lead them?"

"No, no, he's perfectly capable of leading his people. I've heard he's a great leader in fact. But I've heard his son surrpasses him by quite a bit. From what I've heard of him, the boy's a genius. And if rumors are to be believed, then he's a mere nineteen years old and has been a general since he was eighteen."

"Wow." I say softy, knowing the part about him being a general is true. "So their king can lead but lets the Prince lead, and he's a general."

"Correct." My father says, grabbing the parchment, quill, and inkwell sitting at his arm and starts writing a letter. I finish my lunch and excuse myself to my room. I open my macaw's cage door and let him climb on top of his cage, where he squawks at me.