What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Twenty-One

 Thomas didn't leave the crates for at least half a day. He spent that time sleeping or tending to his wounds, which the rocking of the boat worsened. The only thing keeping him motivated was he was the closest to being home than he had ever been in the past six months. When he had summoned up enough courage to stand, he'd walk around the room, thankful there wasn't a window into the room. That being said, it was dark, and he could barely adjust to the absence of light at first. But the walking did him good, despite how minuscule the activity was. And as he slowly grew used to his situation, he started thinking about how he would approach the topic of his being onboard with the crew of the ship.

On one hand, he was worried they would throw him overboard for being a stowaway. Or jailed upon reaching land. He ran his thumb along the edge of Laf's letter explaining his existence upon the ship, praying that would be all the evidence he needed. He also had Washington's letters, along with Eliza's, that he hoped would spare him.

But then there was the manner of how he was going to approach someone. Sitting and waiting to be found would only seem suspicious, but then again it wasn't like he could go tap someone on the shoulder.

So he decided to lay in wait, as it couldn't bring him immediate harm, and he could have a moment to himself. Then again he'd had a lot of moments to himself, but what was one more? And again, his mind wandered to home, back to Virginia.

He thought about how Washington would react to his return. How Eliza and Philip would. And he was nervous. It had been over half a year since they'd seen each other, since he'd taken Philip on a ride across the Hamilton estate.

But he was also excited to see them again. To see Eliza's face and hear her words, rather than through the tip of a pen. He was looking forward to hugging Philip again, and even to see Washington. Alexander, even.

His thoughts drifted to Washington. The President had taken up much of his thoughts over the past couple of months. Was he mad at George? No, not really. No one could have expected France to throw the American diplomat into prison, or there to be a violent break-in there, too. When all was said and done, it wasn't Washington's fault what had happened to him. But he did regret taking Washington's offer to go to France.

He wondered how Eliza was going to react to his arrival, to what he looked like, the state he was in. Hell, he wondered if Philip would even recognize him. That's what made him the most nervous, the idea that Philip wouldn't know who he was.

A sliver of light cut through the room following the creaking of a door, that snapped Thomas to attention. Footsteps echoed through the small space, Thomas counted only one pair, and stopped in front of his hiding spot.

Did he get up? Did he clear his throat and announce his presence, or did he stay quiet? But the man spoke first.

"Where did I leave it?" he muttered quietly to himself, and it was strange for Thomas to hear English not accented by French. The man paced through the room, still talking quietly to himself.

Something drifted under Thomas's nose, and to his horror, he felt a sneeze tickle the back of his throat. Desperately he held his breath, praying that he wouldn't be heard. And he wasn't. At least, until the man pulled open the door again.

Then Thomas sneezed.

Dammit.

The man spun around. "Who's there?" he called, his voice gruff. "Come on, show yourself! It'll make life a hell of a lot easier for the both of us." He began to pace through the stacks of boxes, jaw set.

Thomas mentally kicked himself and began to stand. He stood up behind his fort of boxes, startling the man slightly.

"Who are you?" the sailor asked, and slowly began to walk over to him. His hand twitched by his waist, and Thomas wasn't sure he wanted to risk getting shot for the third time.