[Hetalia] Revolutionary Lines :: Chapter 5
Title: Revolutionary Lines
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 6,190
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Timeline: American Revolution
Warnings: Graphic, angst, dark, explicit
Summary: England becomes aware of changes in young America, making him begin to see the growing colony in a different light and leading to events that will forever change their relationship.
Author's Note: Special thanks to blulious for making this artwork based on Chapter 4!
The thunderous echoing of their horse’s hooves pealed through the still night. The air bit with a cold chill, their breathes rising through the darkness in small puffs. They were pushing the horses hard now, dashing through the countryside forest, America leading the way with Tomas trailing just to his right. They didn't waste any time once America had come from his house, they had to move now.
America knew he had been slow to leave and they were behind schedule, but as they passed the hilly countryside, he was confident that they would make their destination in time. Sunset had long since passed beyond the horizon and the moon was settled high in the sky, the only light that guided their path. Over the panting breathes of the horses and the clomping of their heavy hooves against the hard ground he couldn’t hear anything. He didn’t think, instead using all of his energy to focus on the path in front of them, weaving in and out of trees that kissed his shoulders and legs, too afraid to take the main roadways lest they were stopped by the patrolling redcoats.
It was bitterly dark, but America knew his lands like the back of his hand, and when they finally crested another hilltop he slowed his horse down. It was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
“What happened to your head?” Tomas asked when they finally slowed down. America could hear the slight nervousness in the other man's voice, but he knew it wasn't from seeing the injury he had incurred. He was just as nervous, you could almost feel it in the air. Something was stirring, something boiling just above the rim. America could almost taste it on his lips and it tasted bitter.
He glanced over at Tomas, flashing a reassuring smile even though he felt the edge of nervousness himself, could sense it coming from the ground itself. Part of him wondered if he was making a horrible mistake and the other part knew it was too late to turn back now. “From breaking up a fight in town today.” He explained, one of his hands reaching up to touch the bandage that England had affixed that afternoon. It was still snuggly in place and for the briefest moment reminded America of what he had left behind…his gaze lingered back beyond Tomas, pass the fields, through the forest before he roughly forced himself to look away.
“Are we on Frederick’s property?” Tomas asked, his voice a hushed whisper beside him even though they were at least a mile from the nearest road.
“Yeah,” America said as he nudged the horse forward into a steady walk. “Just down this way. There’s a back path that leads to the old farm house on the edge of his property.”
Frederick was one of the more wealthy landowners in the area and on the back of his property was an abandoned farm house that had long ago been replaced by the more lush establishment that he now lived in. He was a shrewd businessman, a shark of an old man with peppered gray hair and a slight limp from serving in the French and Indian War. He was also a member of the midnight assembly that few people knew about, meetings that America had attended on more than one occasion since the latest legislation had arrived from London.
The old farmhouse came into view just through the thicket of trees, and America could just make out it’s cracking blue paint and broken windows in the distance. There was a dim candlelight from within it’s sagging belly and he already knew there would be a huddled gathering around the single wobbly table, the only ordainment that adorned the abandoned building.
As they rounded the building they found several horses tied up to a post. Three horses, and America recognized one of them as being owned by an individual he had hoped to avoid on this night. Gritting his teeth, America and Tomas dismounted and headed toward the door. He could hear hushed murmurs as he reached for the rusted door handle, tugged it back, and looked inside as the wooden door creaked open. Several heads looked up as he strode inside, outlines illuminated by the pale moonlight and single wavering candle.
“America.” One man stepped forward and he immediately recognized him as Frederick. “We’re glad you could join us. We were just making final preparations.”
“Wait just a minute-why is America here?” It was another man, stepping forward from the group, the one that America was dreading. “How do we know we can trust him with such an important matter?” His thick voice was filled with alarm, but also heavily laced with anger.
Frederick shot the man a hard look, brow furrowed in irritation. “We discussed this Jeremiah.” It was more of a warning than a statement.
“Not to my satisfaction.” Jeremiah stepped forward to meet America half-way to the door. He was in his late twenties with deep chestnut hair and freckles. His deep brown eyes shone with distrust, a look that America was more than familiar with. It was no secret that there were some within the assemblies that didn’t agree with his involvement, that he was too close to England and the other loyalists that did not want rebellion against the homeland. “It’s a known fact that he is close with England himself! They are even living under the same roof. Can we really trust someone who dines at the same table as the enemy?”
“Are you trying to call me a traitor?” America asked as he took another step forward, not backing down, anger propelling him forward. His blue eyes narrowed and there was a menacing seriousness swelling in their depths. This was not something he wanted to deal with, not here and not now. He didn't want to deal with this oppression when he had risked so much just to be here.
“You can’t blame me.” Jeremiah's arms crossed over his chest. “After you were raised by the very person that we are going against.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do this with. We aren’t going against England or the Empire. This is about getting our voices heard.”
“For some people, for others this is a means for our liberation.”
America gritted his teeth. There were those among their midnight meetings that had come to believe that reconciliation with England was impossible and they had begun spreading ideals of independence. America understood their point of view, but he was sure that England and the colonists could come to agreement, that this argument would end, and maybe they could return to some semblance of normalcy. Independence, he thought, was far too extreme a thought. What would they do without the protection of the Empire? He was as angry as they were, but had it really reached the point where separation was inevitable?
“America,” Frederick said before he had a chance to reply. He looked between the two that stood only a shoulder-width apart. “We don’t have time for arguments. Jeremiah, you know full well from attending assembly that America agrees with our actions. He would not be here otherwise.”
“Unless he planned to betray us.” Jeremiah mumbled.
“What was that?” America shouted, speaking much louder than he intended. He could feel the other men tense in the room, even heard the creak of old wooden boards as Tomas took a step back. America's fingers curled into shaking fists at his sides, willing himself to calm down and not get emotional even if he was being personally attacked for his relationship with England. He was one of them, this was his home, nothing could change that. “Just say it Jeremiah, just see how far you can get without my support. You need me if you want this to work.” He finally said.
No one spoke but they all knew that without America’s support, without him on their side, they could accomplish nothing. The colonists believed and relied on America, and if he wasn't on their side then they would only be inviting difficulty to their plans.
His words were enough to silence Jeremiah and America was grateful for that. The tension was already too high and if things were already falling away at the seams then there was no way they would be able to pull together. “Frederick,” America said as he looked to the elder man, his voice calmer, almost tinged with sadness. “Are things ready?”
Frederick nodded, ushering America over to the table where the single candle sat, illuminating a small map that was spread out. “Yesterday we sent an order for the military stores in Concord to be moved to these towns and farms in the countryside.” He pointed to Concord and swept his hand across the sparsely populated area outside of the town. “We have people-even women and children-helping to move the ammunition and other goods. One of the farmers has newly plowed a field and is burying guns as we speak. The rest are being buried in the forest and hidden in homes and barns.”
“How good is the information about troops moving to Concord? Can we trust it?” America asked.
“Excellent. Several redcoats were boasting about it around the town. I even heard it with my own ears. And there are hundreds of additional soldiers that had been gathered in the last two days. We have riders waiting to see whether the British will move by land or river. One lanterns will be lit if by land and two if by the river.” Frederick looked at him closely. “Have you heard otherwise?”
America knew what Frederick was implying: had heard something different from England? After all, England had been sent here to do this very thing and if troops were moving to take away their military supplies then wouldn’t England know that? He thought back to the peacefully sleeping form, letting the image linger for only a moment before pushing it away.
The dim candle flickered, threatening to go out. “No, nothing.” He nodded his head as he looked over the map once more. “This is good. We can have a large group here-“ he pointed to Lexington. “-and then a smaller in Concord. We want to keep them from getting anywhere near Concord, especially if some of the storage is still being moved out.” Innocent people, merely trying to do their part by aiding in moving the weapons, could get hurt otherwise.
“No,” Jeremiah interrupted. He had been blessedly silent but he seemed to be unable to keep from holding his tongue. “We will have the larger force in Concord, a smaller one in Lexington.”
“Why?” America gritted his teeth. “That’s an unnecessary risk. We don’t want people to get hurt, and if possible I don’t want us to fight at all.”
“That’s a fool's dream.” Jeremiah crossed his arms over his chest. “We want them to think this will be easy, that they can merely wave their guns around and get away with it. If they defeat a small group in Lexington they will go onto Concord without a second thought-never expecting all the militia and minutemen we have gathered there.”
America’s blue eyes widened. “And the people in Lexington? Just leave them to be slaughtered?”
“Force is-“
Force is necessary sometimes, America.
Just like in Boston, when innocent people died because force was used. Force, according to England, was necessary.
The memory of England’s words ignited a fire in his azure eyes. He was sick of those words, those words that spoke about authority and never about compromise, never about understanding and trying to resolve. “No, it’s not right and not necessary!” He beat his fist down against the table, nearly knocking over the candle. “We need to send a rider out to Lexington.” He turned and looked at Tomas. “I need-“
“No, you won’t.” Jeremiah said. “This decision has already been made, America. The largest force will remain in Concord.”
Pleadingly, America glanced at Frederick but the man would not look him in the eye. “Damnit,” he cursed under his breath. “Then I’m going to Lexington. We’ll have them retreat back to Concord.” He spun on his heels, but Frederick grabbed him by the arm.
“No, America, you mustn’t. We can’t have you hurt. We need you.”
America yanked his arm away, not turning his gaze back to look at the elder man. “I’m not risking my life for nothing. If we’re doing this then I’m in all the way.” He strode to the door and was gone into the starry sky. Within moments the only sound penetrating the darkness was the hoofed beats of his horse fading into the night.
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England saw America, standing there in the afternoon sun, the wind whipping through his blonde hair, that perpetual fly away strand swaying back and forth. His blue eyes were intense, narrowed, almost strangled. He looked distraught as he stood there, with the shotgun in his hand, pointed at the sky as the world raged around him. And to England it really did feel like the world, even though it was only a shapeless brown mass that curled and whirled like a brewing tempest. But even among the mass America stood out, so clear and bright among the murky brown. Those eyes, England knew at once, could never be drowned out. They were intoxicating and baffling all at once, something that England felt he didn’t quite grasp yet yearned for just the same.
England realized this was not the first time he had felt this way. It was the same as that night, when he could no longer take the intoxication of that gaze, a memory that was more than his swirling mind could handle. But this gaze, the intensity of the one that he met now, was different. Before there had been confusion and a longing to comprehend, even a hint of fear, but here there was none. There was purpose, there was determination and resolve. And God was it so strong that he felt a shiver run down his spine. He felt his fingers trembling and looked down at them. His emerald eyes widened.
Why was there blood everywhere?
England looked down at his red stained hands. It wasn’t the lapping and pooling of blood, but more like they had been soaked and stained, like the blood had seeped into the very pores of his skin and sequestered itself there. And there was noise as well, a dull thud against his head.
Knock, knock, knock.
But it was the red that had garnered his attention, that caused his fingers to clench in agitation. He tried wiping it away on his clothing but it was still there. He became panicked, looking up to America as if the boy would hold the answer, but America was no longer there. He was gone and for a horrid moment England thought that darkness had taken him in and that blue gaze that he had so much faith in had been overtaken by the brown mass.
Knock, knock, knock.
It was louder now, a shudder against his temples.
Knock, knock, knock.
England grumbled as he rolled over, burying his face into his pillow.
Bang, bang, bang against a wooden frame.
The steady droning would not abate despite his mumbling protests. “What the bloody hell? Shut the hell up America!” He tossed the pillow aside, his hair a matted mess against tired green eyes. The knocking continued and England realized the sound wasn’t from America moving around in the middle of the night nor from a dream, but instead was someone knocking manically at the door.
England threw aside the covers, slipped on his robe and moved through the silent hallway. His eyes glanced toward the door of America’s room but there were no sounds of movement. America could sleep through anything, England thought with a sigh as he walked down the stairs. “I’m coming, I’m bloody well coming.” He yelled out and the knocking died down just as he reached the door and flung it open. His eyes widened in surprise at the red clad soldier at his door.
“England, s-sir, I’m sorry to wake you so late.” The young soldier began apologetically. He was young, maybe sixteen, and shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously, not quite meeting the nation in the eye.
“Since you’ve woken me up what is it that cannot wait until morning?” England said with a deep sigh, a hand reaching up to rub his forehead in slow circular motions, the lingering remnants of blood and America standing before the brown mass still hazy in his mind. Don’t get irritated, he reminded himself, because otherwise this kid wouldn't be able to babble out anything and then he’d really be standing here forever waiting to hear what was going on.
“Sir, it’s the rebels.”
Thick brows raised slightly at that. “Go on.” He urged.
“General Gage has ordered a unit to Concord to confiscate military stores.”
His hands dropped to his side, jaw slackening. “He did what?” The brief moment of disbelief passed and was quickly replaced with rising irritability. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
“Um,” the soldier mumbled, fingers fumbling together in front of him. “This was supposed be him informing you.”
England stared at the soldier, anger foaming from his depths but he pushed it down. It wasn’t this kid’s fault, but he could nearly ring the General’s neck for this. He supposed to have the final ruling on any actions taken against the colonists and if Gage…
England’s thoughts slowly drifted away as a bolt of realization caused his body to tense. Unless Parliament had told Gage to move without informing him. Was this soldier Gage’s way of spreading his own misgivings about Parliament's choice of action? He knew from Gage’s letters during his time in the colonies that he felt the way they were handling the situation would only lead to war, and after the brawl he had witnessed earlier England was inclined to agree. But perhaps Parliament had seen that-or perhaps they thought he would be too lenient because of his relationship with America-but either way this spelled disaster. The colonists were on edge and this may well tip them over.
He looked at the soldier who was nervously waiting for direction. “Go to the stables and have a horse prepared for me. I’m going to Concord.” The soldier nodded, thankful to be released from England’s demanding gaze. He scurried off before England had a chance to change his mind and was lost in the darkness of the night.
“Bloody hell,” England mumbled as he closed the door and hurried up the stairs. It was pitch black in the house but he managed to make it back to his room without running into any of the hallway furniture. Hastily, he clothed himself and tugged on a pair of riding boots, trying not to think about how horribly wrong this may go. Sneaking through the middle of the night to confiscate military arms was not the message he wanted to send to the colonists. Aggressive action would only backfire on them. He knew he had to stop this before it went too far and there was irrevocable damage.
He began to button up his shirt as he stepped out of the guestroom and turned to go to America’s room. He wouldn’t tell him what had happened but he would tell him he was called away for emergency business. If he wasn’t back by morning America would have even more questions so it would be better just to tell him something for now. He could figure out another story whenever he came back, one that would hopefully not lead to another argument. “This is for the best,” England said to himself, hoping that America didn’t fight him on this.
When he opened the door he could only stand at the entranceway, mouth slightly agape and hands falling to his sides from where he had been buttoning his shirt moments ago. The room was empty, the bed left untouched. “He didn’t…” But England already knew he did. With a sudden panic gripping him, England ran for the front door. This time he did hit furniture and sent something knocking to the ground that landed with a shatter, but he didn’t pay it any heed. The only thing he could think about was America, that bloody dolt, and how he couldn’t get his legs to move fast enough. He made it down the stairs, barely pausing to take a step and was out of the door within moments.
The soldier was waiting for him with a horse. Once he was outside he was able to see there were other men as well, a small group of maybe ten, all on horseback and ready. They were armed to fight.
“Are the men already on the way?” He asked as he mounted the horse and drew up the reins.
“There’s a group marching toward Concord by way of the river right now. General Gage thought you would want to come so he sent us to accompany you.”
England nodded, and without another word kicked his horse into a gallop and blazed down the dirt road, the dull thumping of the soldiers' horses roaring behind him.
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This was taking too long.
America cursed underneath his breath, galloping through a planter’s field and praying his horse didn’t trip and throw them both. The ground was unsteady and twice the horse almost stumbled but managed to regain its footing before tumbling to the ground. But he couldn’t risk the less rugged main roads because he was sure they were being patrolled or blocked, and if he was stopped then they could confiscate his horse and he would never reach Lexington in time.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically to his horse. The poor thing was soaked with sweat but seemed to understand the determination of its master and would not relent in speed.
Blessedly he hadn’t run into a single living soul since leaving the old farm house. He was riding by moonlight, steadily moving in the direction of Lexington. He knew the way by heart, every road and turn was burned into the back of his mind, his own personal map that never failed him. He sometimes used to wonder if it was the same for England, if he had the same uncanny ability to know the exact lay out of his home the way that America felt he had. Even in this darkness, dodging trees and urging his horse to leap over fences that marked off lands, he never once felt like he was moving in the wrong direction. His mind screamed Lexington and with almost no accord of his own it seemed like he was willing his body to move in that direction.
The field ended and America was forced back into the forest. Almost there, he thought, just a little bit further. His eyes narrowed a bit, the forest was heavy through this area and he wanted to move more to the right where it was less dense but he was worried that it was too close to the main road. A branch flew into his face and America closed his eyes as he felt the bandage that England had put over the gash on his head painfully tear off as the branch’s jagged edges raked against his skin. He hissed at the pain but ignored it, trying to focus on not running them into a tree.
The path in front of them was finally beginning to clear as the trees thinned out. He was getting close now and soon he would need to find a way to get the militia that had gathered in Lexington to retreat. But how was he going to do that? For a single gut-wrenching moment he wondered if they would even listen to him. Everything was in such turmoil with the British, some of them may not want to listen to reason even with a musket staring them in the face.
He could just make out the clearing that surrounded the town and he mumbled a thankful prayer under his breath when he saw he had finally made it. There were no redcoats in sight. He didn’t have long but if he could just tell the people there to leave…
And then he saw the redcoats coming down from the main road leading into Lexington. There was a group already gathered on the Lexington Green, a lawn in front of the town, and even from here it was unmistakable that they were prepared to fight. Soldiers still streamed in from the road, there must have been hundreds, if not thousands of them. And there, directly opposite on the lawn, were the small militia from Lexington, a group of less than two hundred.
He wasn’t going to make it time. He was still some distance away and his horse was ebbing in strength, their speed lessening. He could hear shouting over the thundering of his horse. The two groups were yelling at one another and even from the distance America could see the colonists were terribly outnumbered. The British soldiers were lined up, pulled together in ranks, while the colonists were scattered and unorganized even as they tried to line up as well. These people weren’t the hardened and trained soldiers of the British and it was painfully obvious.
“Run! Get out of there!” He shouted, yelled, screamed at the top of his lungs. If only they could hear him, somehow hear his pleads.
America's eyes widened when it looked like they were retreating. Some of the militia were moving back, seeing how they were hopeless outnumbered, and--thank God, America thought--it seemed like the Captain was the one ordering them. They would listen to the Captain, they would leave and then everything would be...
But it was too late. Shots filled the darkness, sparks of lightening shooting through the night with ear splintering cracks. America’s eyes looked on in dismay as people fell left and right. Some of the colonists managed to shoot back but they were going to be overwhelmed, they were going to die like this, slaughtered by the British.
He was so close now that his ears rung at the sound of gun blasts and he could smell the heavy aroma of gun powder fill the air. There would only be moments before the redcoats would charge forward with their bayonets and the colonists left standing only had seconds to start retreating before more were killed.
So America did the only thing he could think of. He gripped the reins of his horse tighter, prayed for one last burst of speed, and plowed the thousand ton animal right into the thicket of the soldiers.
He closed his eyes against the sounds he heard; the screams, the splinter and crack of bone, the hurried feet of scattering bodies as the horse clobbered through the crowd of soldiers. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the wails that reached his ears. Everything was so sharp; from the clanking of weapons, to the shouting of orders, to the throb of hoof beats against the ground. He had turned their numbers into disarray and he had plowed right into the center of the tempest and into that sharp that stung like a million paper cuts. And it stung worse because this was exactly what he had he feared and what he had prayed against as he chased Lexington through the night, but here it was right before him.
“Retreat! Get out of here!” The voice was far away but America was sure it was from the colonists and that they were fleeing. He just hoped his distraction had been enough, just enough to save any life and it would be worth it, damned be whatever happened to him.
And then America felt hands reaching for him, trying to knock him off his horse. They grabbed like tenacles out of the night, like the things he had read in all those scary stories that England told him not to read before bed, and here they were brought to life and they were reaching out for him to drag him into their dark place. He blinked his eyes, the red sea daunting and wholly terrifying, reminding him of the first time he had seen blood and the way it would pool so warmly together as it ebbed from a paper cut.
This isn’t some damn book, America reminded himself, and like a smack on the side of his face he came to his senses. These were people, not some horrid monster. They had been brothers once, fighting side by side, but now he barely recognized these faces. How had things changed so much in such a short time? Would he even recognize England anymore like this? And then he remembered that peacefully sleeping face, the softness of his jaw, the even and strong breathing, and those arms that looked so comforting and welcoming even in slumber.
He kicked his booted heel at one of the men that had grabbed onto his shirt, feeling the give as his face snapped back and his fingers relinquished their grip. He would have felt disgusted at any other time, but he didn’t have time to stop and think about that. He had to get away because more bodies were crowding around, and there were just too many of them, and even now he was beginning to feel himself slip…
And then he was falling to the side as more people grabbed on and start to yank him down. And he thought about that sharpness again, and the bayonets and how their sharpness would pierce him and hurt him in a different way than the yelling and the snapping of bone. “No, no, no…” He told himself as he plunged toward the ground. Somehow his hand found the stirrup leather and he grabbed on for dear life as his horse, terrified and distressed at the bodies slamming against him, bolted. The horse dragged him out, and he felt the grip around his legs and clothing slacken and then release, his legs dragged behind and desperately trying to avoid those heavy hooves that could crush them.
The horse was bolting down the street, heading in the same direction that the colonists had fled when the leather stirrup snapped under his weight and he hit the ground with a heavy thud that sent a painful groan from his lips. But he was okay, he was alive.
He winced, rolling over onto his back. The soldiers were moving toward him and in panic, America turned and pulled himself up to his feet. But he didn’t get more than a few feet before he tripped and tumbled back to the ground. He blinked and looked down at his feet, his breath hitching in his chest. It was a body he had stumbled over, a man whose body was ripped and torn by the penetration of bullets. He was bleeding everywhere. America had never seen something like this, so close that his nostrils filled with the rich irony scent that made him feel nauseous and dizzy all at the same moment.
“He….lp…pp…mmmm-eee…” The body mumbled, no, it gurgled. The words came out more as pops of bubbles than sounds resembling normal speech.
America looked at him horror, his mouth agape, his face feeling as if it were made of plaster. He pulled himself to the man’s side, his wide-eyed expression never changing even as he surveyed the injuries. He found it had not been multiple bullets that had hit this man but two, both very well placed; one in the chest that must have hit his lungs and the other disappearing somewhere into his middle where an artery had been severed. That had to be it because there was too much blood, far too much blood. It was everywhere all at once, soaking into his clothes and drenching them in that awful bitter smell even as he sat there next to the dying man’s body. Suddenly the redcoats and Concord all seemed so far away and all he could do was stare at those wounds and the small bits of flesh that had been broken away and how he was quite sure he could see inside parts of the man creeping out.
“Oh God…” America muttered, voice thick and quivering. The man was trying to say something, but it was gurgled and indiscernible now as he choked on his own blood. He shut his eyes tightly, knowing there was nothing he could do. He felt the man’s body twitched twice and then moved no more, the gurgling stopped, the world painfully quiet.
And it was then that he was filled with this awful dread and panic. He grabbed the man by his blood soaked clothes and shook him. “No, no…you can’t die. You can’t!” And he continued to shake the body even though the man was dead, but he just couldn’t accept it. He had never experienced death, not like this, not a person dying right at his feet. How did England do this? How could he send people here knowing that something like this could happen to people that were just trying to protect their rights?
There were sounds and they were getting louder. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t will himself up off the ground.
He looked down at the man's body, at the blood covering his arms and soaked into his clothes. And God, how it ached. This loss ached in a way he had never known. He didn't know this man but all he had to do was imagine the family, the children, the wife that he was going to leave behind or the future he was never going to have. It tore him to pieces.
There was more noise and finally his eyes looked up and he saw he was surrounded by a sea of redcoats.
“Get up!” One of them shouted, spittle spurting from his mouth as he pointed his musket down at him.
What were they saying? He heard their words but they were like a distant echoing drum in the back of his mind. He could only stare down at the lifeless body, and God how he wanted to weep but the tears would not come, they were too choked back by some other feeling that he couldn’t quite put to words. They were shouting now, but America was only moving slowly back to consciousness, back to a place where his mind could compute anything other than the glaring scene of death before him.
A hand grabbed him roughly by the upper arm, fingers digging into his skin, as he was pulled to his feet. It was then that he saw the other casualties, the other deaths from his faraway lens. There were more muskets trained on him, following his every move, waiting for the slightest flinch. But they didn’t fire and he wondered for a moment if they recognized him and that was the only reason why he was spared from the same fate as his people. He didn’t have a chance to see if the other people had escaped, but he hoped that they did. He could see at least eight bodies cowered on the ground, some moaning from near by, but not nearly as many as had gathered together on the lawn as he had come thundering into Lexington.
Slowly, reality felt like it was coming back. The distraught was becoming replaced by a much more tangible feeling, a feeling he was much more familiar with. It wasn’t anger, not quite rage, it was more calculated, more cold than those blazing emotions. It was an emotion laced with urgency and need. But whatever it was it was bringing him out of that dismal oblivion that death had dragged him into.
He didn’t look up as he heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. More re-enforcements? Wasn’t it already obvious that they were overwhelmed? He grabbed his arm, gripping the skin so tightly that he knew it was blanching underneath the blood stained clothing. Concord, he kept thinking in the back of his mind. Concord and all the innocent people. Even with a bigger militia and minutemen, did they really stand a chance against this type of slaughter? And then fear added itself to these emotions, but it wasn’t fear for his own safety. It was something deeper, not so selfish, but still just as concerning.
And then he finally looked up just as a group of men came bursting into Lexington. His blue eyes widened as they locked on the person leading the group.
England met his eyes and they didn’t need to exchange words, the intense glare of swirling green and blue between them was enough.
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-Lobsterbacks was a term used to describe the British army (and not a nice one at that)
-There were two types of American soldiers: militia and minutemen. Minutemen were a group meant to be ready to gather at a "minute's notice" in preparation for hostilities with the British.
-Boston Massacre was a conflict highly portrayed in the colonies as an event showing the tyrannical side of the British government when unarmed citizens were shot on by the British army (though it was highly believed to have begun as an accident)
-Parliament believed that a "show of force" would stop the resistance from the colonies. General Gage, who was in charge of the troops in America, was ordered to seize military stores in Concord despite his misgivings that it would lead to war and rebellion. Parliament, however, didn't believe that the colonists would resist nor fight back.
-The colonists were aware of the plan to confiscate the military storage in Concord from the boasting of the military around the towns and the increase in numbers that gathered in the area. However, before they were supposed to confiscate the arms, the colonists were ordered to move the storage from Concord. Men, women, and children worked through the night to bury the weapons in fields, homes, and the forest.
-First shots were fired at Lexington. Eight were killed and many more injured when the British army far outnumbered a group of about 160 American militia.
Author: masanami
Character(s): US x UK // UK x US
Word Count: 6,190
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Timeline: American Revolution
Warnings: Graphic, angst, dark, explicit
Summary: England becomes aware of changes in young America, making him begin to see the growing colony in a different light and leading to events that will forever change their relationship.
Author's Note: Special thanks to blulious for making this artwork based on Chapter 4!
The thunderous echoing of their horse’s hooves pealed through the still night. The air bit with a cold chill, their breathes rising through the darkness in small puffs. They were pushing the horses hard now, dashing through the countryside forest, America leading the way with Tomas trailing just to his right. They didn't waste any time once America had come from his house, they had to move now.
America knew he had been slow to leave and they were behind schedule, but as they passed the hilly countryside, he was confident that they would make their destination in time. Sunset had long since passed beyond the horizon and the moon was settled high in the sky, the only light that guided their path. Over the panting breathes of the horses and the clomping of their heavy hooves against the hard ground he couldn’t hear anything. He didn’t think, instead using all of his energy to focus on the path in front of them, weaving in and out of trees that kissed his shoulders and legs, too afraid to take the main roadways lest they were stopped by the patrolling redcoats.
It was bitterly dark, but America knew his lands like the back of his hand, and when they finally crested another hilltop he slowed his horse down. It was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
“What happened to your head?” Tomas asked when they finally slowed down. America could hear the slight nervousness in the other man's voice, but he knew it wasn't from seeing the injury he had incurred. He was just as nervous, you could almost feel it in the air. Something was stirring, something boiling just above the rim. America could almost taste it on his lips and it tasted bitter.
He glanced over at Tomas, flashing a reassuring smile even though he felt the edge of nervousness himself, could sense it coming from the ground itself. Part of him wondered if he was making a horrible mistake and the other part knew it was too late to turn back now. “From breaking up a fight in town today.” He explained, one of his hands reaching up to touch the bandage that England had affixed that afternoon. It was still snuggly in place and for the briefest moment reminded America of what he had left behind…his gaze lingered back beyond Tomas, pass the fields, through the forest before he roughly forced himself to look away.
“Are we on Frederick’s property?” Tomas asked, his voice a hushed whisper beside him even though they were at least a mile from the nearest road.
“Yeah,” America said as he nudged the horse forward into a steady walk. “Just down this way. There’s a back path that leads to the old farm house on the edge of his property.”
Frederick was one of the more wealthy landowners in the area and on the back of his property was an abandoned farm house that had long ago been replaced by the more lush establishment that he now lived in. He was a shrewd businessman, a shark of an old man with peppered gray hair and a slight limp from serving in the French and Indian War. He was also a member of the midnight assembly that few people knew about, meetings that America had attended on more than one occasion since the latest legislation had arrived from London.
The old farmhouse came into view just through the thicket of trees, and America could just make out it’s cracking blue paint and broken windows in the distance. There was a dim candlelight from within it’s sagging belly and he already knew there would be a huddled gathering around the single wobbly table, the only ordainment that adorned the abandoned building.
As they rounded the building they found several horses tied up to a post. Three horses, and America recognized one of them as being owned by an individual he had hoped to avoid on this night. Gritting his teeth, America and Tomas dismounted and headed toward the door. He could hear hushed murmurs as he reached for the rusted door handle, tugged it back, and looked inside as the wooden door creaked open. Several heads looked up as he strode inside, outlines illuminated by the pale moonlight and single wavering candle.
“America.” One man stepped forward and he immediately recognized him as Frederick. “We’re glad you could join us. We were just making final preparations.”
“Wait just a minute-why is America here?” It was another man, stepping forward from the group, the one that America was dreading. “How do we know we can trust him with such an important matter?” His thick voice was filled with alarm, but also heavily laced with anger.
Frederick shot the man a hard look, brow furrowed in irritation. “We discussed this Jeremiah.” It was more of a warning than a statement.
“Not to my satisfaction.” Jeremiah stepped forward to meet America half-way to the door. He was in his late twenties with deep chestnut hair and freckles. His deep brown eyes shone with distrust, a look that America was more than familiar with. It was no secret that there were some within the assemblies that didn’t agree with his involvement, that he was too close to England and the other loyalists that did not want rebellion against the homeland. “It’s a known fact that he is close with England himself! They are even living under the same roof. Can we really trust someone who dines at the same table as the enemy?”
“Are you trying to call me a traitor?” America asked as he took another step forward, not backing down, anger propelling him forward. His blue eyes narrowed and there was a menacing seriousness swelling in their depths. This was not something he wanted to deal with, not here and not now. He didn't want to deal with this oppression when he had risked so much just to be here.
“You can’t blame me.” Jeremiah's arms crossed over his chest. “After you were raised by the very person that we are going against.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do this with. We aren’t going against England or the Empire. This is about getting our voices heard.”
“For some people, for others this is a means for our liberation.”
America gritted his teeth. There were those among their midnight meetings that had come to believe that reconciliation with England was impossible and they had begun spreading ideals of independence. America understood their point of view, but he was sure that England and the colonists could come to agreement, that this argument would end, and maybe they could return to some semblance of normalcy. Independence, he thought, was far too extreme a thought. What would they do without the protection of the Empire? He was as angry as they were, but had it really reached the point where separation was inevitable?
“America,” Frederick said before he had a chance to reply. He looked between the two that stood only a shoulder-width apart. “We don’t have time for arguments. Jeremiah, you know full well from attending assembly that America agrees with our actions. He would not be here otherwise.”
“Unless he planned to betray us.” Jeremiah mumbled.
“What was that?” America shouted, speaking much louder than he intended. He could feel the other men tense in the room, even heard the creak of old wooden boards as Tomas took a step back. America's fingers curled into shaking fists at his sides, willing himself to calm down and not get emotional even if he was being personally attacked for his relationship with England. He was one of them, this was his home, nothing could change that. “Just say it Jeremiah, just see how far you can get without my support. You need me if you want this to work.” He finally said.
No one spoke but they all knew that without America’s support, without him on their side, they could accomplish nothing. The colonists believed and relied on America, and if he wasn't on their side then they would only be inviting difficulty to their plans.
His words were enough to silence Jeremiah and America was grateful for that. The tension was already too high and if things were already falling away at the seams then there was no way they would be able to pull together. “Frederick,” America said as he looked to the elder man, his voice calmer, almost tinged with sadness. “Are things ready?”
Frederick nodded, ushering America over to the table where the single candle sat, illuminating a small map that was spread out. “Yesterday we sent an order for the military stores in Concord to be moved to these towns and farms in the countryside.” He pointed to Concord and swept his hand across the sparsely populated area outside of the town. “We have people-even women and children-helping to move the ammunition and other goods. One of the farmers has newly plowed a field and is burying guns as we speak. The rest are being buried in the forest and hidden in homes and barns.”
“How good is the information about troops moving to Concord? Can we trust it?” America asked.
“Excellent. Several redcoats were boasting about it around the town. I even heard it with my own ears. And there are hundreds of additional soldiers that had been gathered in the last two days. We have riders waiting to see whether the British will move by land or river. One lanterns will be lit if by land and two if by the river.” Frederick looked at him closely. “Have you heard otherwise?”
America knew what Frederick was implying: had heard something different from England? After all, England had been sent here to do this very thing and if troops were moving to take away their military supplies then wouldn’t England know that? He thought back to the peacefully sleeping form, letting the image linger for only a moment before pushing it away.
The dim candle flickered, threatening to go out. “No, nothing.” He nodded his head as he looked over the map once more. “This is good. We can have a large group here-“ he pointed to Lexington. “-and then a smaller in Concord. We want to keep them from getting anywhere near Concord, especially if some of the storage is still being moved out.” Innocent people, merely trying to do their part by aiding in moving the weapons, could get hurt otherwise.
“No,” Jeremiah interrupted. He had been blessedly silent but he seemed to be unable to keep from holding his tongue. “We will have the larger force in Concord, a smaller one in Lexington.”
“Why?” America gritted his teeth. “That’s an unnecessary risk. We don’t want people to get hurt, and if possible I don’t want us to fight at all.”
“That’s a fool's dream.” Jeremiah crossed his arms over his chest. “We want them to think this will be easy, that they can merely wave their guns around and get away with it. If they defeat a small group in Lexington they will go onto Concord without a second thought-never expecting all the militia and minutemen we have gathered there.”
America’s blue eyes widened. “And the people in Lexington? Just leave them to be slaughtered?”
“Force is-“
Force is necessary sometimes, America.
Just like in Boston, when innocent people died because force was used. Force, according to England, was necessary.
The memory of England’s words ignited a fire in his azure eyes. He was sick of those words, those words that spoke about authority and never about compromise, never about understanding and trying to resolve. “No, it’s not right and not necessary!” He beat his fist down against the table, nearly knocking over the candle. “We need to send a rider out to Lexington.” He turned and looked at Tomas. “I need-“
“No, you won’t.” Jeremiah said. “This decision has already been made, America. The largest force will remain in Concord.”
Pleadingly, America glanced at Frederick but the man would not look him in the eye. “Damnit,” he cursed under his breath. “Then I’m going to Lexington. We’ll have them retreat back to Concord.” He spun on his heels, but Frederick grabbed him by the arm.
“No, America, you mustn’t. We can’t have you hurt. We need you.”
America yanked his arm away, not turning his gaze back to look at the elder man. “I’m not risking my life for nothing. If we’re doing this then I’m in all the way.” He strode to the door and was gone into the starry sky. Within moments the only sound penetrating the darkness was the hoofed beats of his horse fading into the night.
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England saw America, standing there in the afternoon sun, the wind whipping through his blonde hair, that perpetual fly away strand swaying back and forth. His blue eyes were intense, narrowed, almost strangled. He looked distraught as he stood there, with the shotgun in his hand, pointed at the sky as the world raged around him. And to England it really did feel like the world, even though it was only a shapeless brown mass that curled and whirled like a brewing tempest. But even among the mass America stood out, so clear and bright among the murky brown. Those eyes, England knew at once, could never be drowned out. They were intoxicating and baffling all at once, something that England felt he didn’t quite grasp yet yearned for just the same.
England realized this was not the first time he had felt this way. It was the same as that night, when he could no longer take the intoxication of that gaze, a memory that was more than his swirling mind could handle. But this gaze, the intensity of the one that he met now, was different. Before there had been confusion and a longing to comprehend, even a hint of fear, but here there was none. There was purpose, there was determination and resolve. And God was it so strong that he felt a shiver run down his spine. He felt his fingers trembling and looked down at them. His emerald eyes widened.
Why was there blood everywhere?
England looked down at his red stained hands. It wasn’t the lapping and pooling of blood, but more like they had been soaked and stained, like the blood had seeped into the very pores of his skin and sequestered itself there. And there was noise as well, a dull thud against his head.
Knock, knock, knock.
But it was the red that had garnered his attention, that caused his fingers to clench in agitation. He tried wiping it away on his clothing but it was still there. He became panicked, looking up to America as if the boy would hold the answer, but America was no longer there. He was gone and for a horrid moment England thought that darkness had taken him in and that blue gaze that he had so much faith in had been overtaken by the brown mass.
Knock, knock, knock.
It was louder now, a shudder against his temples.
Knock, knock, knock.
England grumbled as he rolled over, burying his face into his pillow.
Bang, bang, bang against a wooden frame.
The steady droning would not abate despite his mumbling protests. “What the bloody hell? Shut the hell up America!” He tossed the pillow aside, his hair a matted mess against tired green eyes. The knocking continued and England realized the sound wasn’t from America moving around in the middle of the night nor from a dream, but instead was someone knocking manically at the door.
England threw aside the covers, slipped on his robe and moved through the silent hallway. His eyes glanced toward the door of America’s room but there were no sounds of movement. America could sleep through anything, England thought with a sigh as he walked down the stairs. “I’m coming, I’m bloody well coming.” He yelled out and the knocking died down just as he reached the door and flung it open. His eyes widened in surprise at the red clad soldier at his door.
“England, s-sir, I’m sorry to wake you so late.” The young soldier began apologetically. He was young, maybe sixteen, and shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously, not quite meeting the nation in the eye.
“Since you’ve woken me up what is it that cannot wait until morning?” England said with a deep sigh, a hand reaching up to rub his forehead in slow circular motions, the lingering remnants of blood and America standing before the brown mass still hazy in his mind. Don’t get irritated, he reminded himself, because otherwise this kid wouldn't be able to babble out anything and then he’d really be standing here forever waiting to hear what was going on.
“Sir, it’s the rebels.”
Thick brows raised slightly at that. “Go on.” He urged.
“General Gage has ordered a unit to Concord to confiscate military stores.”
His hands dropped to his side, jaw slackening. “He did what?” The brief moment of disbelief passed and was quickly replaced with rising irritability. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
“Um,” the soldier mumbled, fingers fumbling together in front of him. “This was supposed be him informing you.”
England stared at the soldier, anger foaming from his depths but he pushed it down. It wasn’t this kid’s fault, but he could nearly ring the General’s neck for this. He supposed to have the final ruling on any actions taken against the colonists and if Gage…
England’s thoughts slowly drifted away as a bolt of realization caused his body to tense. Unless Parliament had told Gage to move without informing him. Was this soldier Gage’s way of spreading his own misgivings about Parliament's choice of action? He knew from Gage’s letters during his time in the colonies that he felt the way they were handling the situation would only lead to war, and after the brawl he had witnessed earlier England was inclined to agree. But perhaps Parliament had seen that-or perhaps they thought he would be too lenient because of his relationship with America-but either way this spelled disaster. The colonists were on edge and this may well tip them over.
He looked at the soldier who was nervously waiting for direction. “Go to the stables and have a horse prepared for me. I’m going to Concord.” The soldier nodded, thankful to be released from England’s demanding gaze. He scurried off before England had a chance to change his mind and was lost in the darkness of the night.
“Bloody hell,” England mumbled as he closed the door and hurried up the stairs. It was pitch black in the house but he managed to make it back to his room without running into any of the hallway furniture. Hastily, he clothed himself and tugged on a pair of riding boots, trying not to think about how horribly wrong this may go. Sneaking through the middle of the night to confiscate military arms was not the message he wanted to send to the colonists. Aggressive action would only backfire on them. He knew he had to stop this before it went too far and there was irrevocable damage.
He began to button up his shirt as he stepped out of the guestroom and turned to go to America’s room. He wouldn’t tell him what had happened but he would tell him he was called away for emergency business. If he wasn’t back by morning America would have even more questions so it would be better just to tell him something for now. He could figure out another story whenever he came back, one that would hopefully not lead to another argument. “This is for the best,” England said to himself, hoping that America didn’t fight him on this.
When he opened the door he could only stand at the entranceway, mouth slightly agape and hands falling to his sides from where he had been buttoning his shirt moments ago. The room was empty, the bed left untouched. “He didn’t…” But England already knew he did. With a sudden panic gripping him, England ran for the front door. This time he did hit furniture and sent something knocking to the ground that landed with a shatter, but he didn’t pay it any heed. The only thing he could think about was America, that bloody dolt, and how he couldn’t get his legs to move fast enough. He made it down the stairs, barely pausing to take a step and was out of the door within moments.
The soldier was waiting for him with a horse. Once he was outside he was able to see there were other men as well, a small group of maybe ten, all on horseback and ready. They were armed to fight.
“Are the men already on the way?” He asked as he mounted the horse and drew up the reins.
“There’s a group marching toward Concord by way of the river right now. General Gage thought you would want to come so he sent us to accompany you.”
England nodded, and without another word kicked his horse into a gallop and blazed down the dirt road, the dull thumping of the soldiers' horses roaring behind him.
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This was taking too long.
America cursed underneath his breath, galloping through a planter’s field and praying his horse didn’t trip and throw them both. The ground was unsteady and twice the horse almost stumbled but managed to regain its footing before tumbling to the ground. But he couldn’t risk the less rugged main roads because he was sure they were being patrolled or blocked, and if he was stopped then they could confiscate his horse and he would never reach Lexington in time.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically to his horse. The poor thing was soaked with sweat but seemed to understand the determination of its master and would not relent in speed.
Blessedly he hadn’t run into a single living soul since leaving the old farm house. He was riding by moonlight, steadily moving in the direction of Lexington. He knew the way by heart, every road and turn was burned into the back of his mind, his own personal map that never failed him. He sometimes used to wonder if it was the same for England, if he had the same uncanny ability to know the exact lay out of his home the way that America felt he had. Even in this darkness, dodging trees and urging his horse to leap over fences that marked off lands, he never once felt like he was moving in the wrong direction. His mind screamed Lexington and with almost no accord of his own it seemed like he was willing his body to move in that direction.
The field ended and America was forced back into the forest. Almost there, he thought, just a little bit further. His eyes narrowed a bit, the forest was heavy through this area and he wanted to move more to the right where it was less dense but he was worried that it was too close to the main road. A branch flew into his face and America closed his eyes as he felt the bandage that England had put over the gash on his head painfully tear off as the branch’s jagged edges raked against his skin. He hissed at the pain but ignored it, trying to focus on not running them into a tree.
The path in front of them was finally beginning to clear as the trees thinned out. He was getting close now and soon he would need to find a way to get the militia that had gathered in Lexington to retreat. But how was he going to do that? For a single gut-wrenching moment he wondered if they would even listen to him. Everything was in such turmoil with the British, some of them may not want to listen to reason even with a musket staring them in the face.
He could just make out the clearing that surrounded the town and he mumbled a thankful prayer under his breath when he saw he had finally made it. There were no redcoats in sight. He didn’t have long but if he could just tell the people there to leave…
And then he saw the redcoats coming down from the main road leading into Lexington. There was a group already gathered on the Lexington Green, a lawn in front of the town, and even from here it was unmistakable that they were prepared to fight. Soldiers still streamed in from the road, there must have been hundreds, if not thousands of them. And there, directly opposite on the lawn, were the small militia from Lexington, a group of less than two hundred.
He wasn’t going to make it time. He was still some distance away and his horse was ebbing in strength, their speed lessening. He could hear shouting over the thundering of his horse. The two groups were yelling at one another and even from the distance America could see the colonists were terribly outnumbered. The British soldiers were lined up, pulled together in ranks, while the colonists were scattered and unorganized even as they tried to line up as well. These people weren’t the hardened and trained soldiers of the British and it was painfully obvious.
“Run! Get out of there!” He shouted, yelled, screamed at the top of his lungs. If only they could hear him, somehow hear his pleads.
America's eyes widened when it looked like they were retreating. Some of the militia were moving back, seeing how they were hopeless outnumbered, and--thank God, America thought--it seemed like the Captain was the one ordering them. They would listen to the Captain, they would leave and then everything would be...
But it was too late. Shots filled the darkness, sparks of lightening shooting through the night with ear splintering cracks. America’s eyes looked on in dismay as people fell left and right. Some of the colonists managed to shoot back but they were going to be overwhelmed, they were going to die like this, slaughtered by the British.
He was so close now that his ears rung at the sound of gun blasts and he could smell the heavy aroma of gun powder fill the air. There would only be moments before the redcoats would charge forward with their bayonets and the colonists left standing only had seconds to start retreating before more were killed.
So America did the only thing he could think of. He gripped the reins of his horse tighter, prayed for one last burst of speed, and plowed the thousand ton animal right into the thicket of the soldiers.
He closed his eyes against the sounds he heard; the screams, the splinter and crack of bone, the hurried feet of scattering bodies as the horse clobbered through the crowd of soldiers. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the wails that reached his ears. Everything was so sharp; from the clanking of weapons, to the shouting of orders, to the throb of hoof beats against the ground. He had turned their numbers into disarray and he had plowed right into the center of the tempest and into that sharp that stung like a million paper cuts. And it stung worse because this was exactly what he had he feared and what he had prayed against as he chased Lexington through the night, but here it was right before him.
“Retreat! Get out of here!” The voice was far away but America was sure it was from the colonists and that they were fleeing. He just hoped his distraction had been enough, just enough to save any life and it would be worth it, damned be whatever happened to him.
And then America felt hands reaching for him, trying to knock him off his horse. They grabbed like tenacles out of the night, like the things he had read in all those scary stories that England told him not to read before bed, and here they were brought to life and they were reaching out for him to drag him into their dark place. He blinked his eyes, the red sea daunting and wholly terrifying, reminding him of the first time he had seen blood and the way it would pool so warmly together as it ebbed from a paper cut.
This isn’t some damn book, America reminded himself, and like a smack on the side of his face he came to his senses. These were people, not some horrid monster. They had been brothers once, fighting side by side, but now he barely recognized these faces. How had things changed so much in such a short time? Would he even recognize England anymore like this? And then he remembered that peacefully sleeping face, the softness of his jaw, the even and strong breathing, and those arms that looked so comforting and welcoming even in slumber.
He kicked his booted heel at one of the men that had grabbed onto his shirt, feeling the give as his face snapped back and his fingers relinquished their grip. He would have felt disgusted at any other time, but he didn’t have time to stop and think about that. He had to get away because more bodies were crowding around, and there were just too many of them, and even now he was beginning to feel himself slip…
And then he was falling to the side as more people grabbed on and start to yank him down. And he thought about that sharpness again, and the bayonets and how their sharpness would pierce him and hurt him in a different way than the yelling and the snapping of bone. “No, no, no…” He told himself as he plunged toward the ground. Somehow his hand found the stirrup leather and he grabbed on for dear life as his horse, terrified and distressed at the bodies slamming against him, bolted. The horse dragged him out, and he felt the grip around his legs and clothing slacken and then release, his legs dragged behind and desperately trying to avoid those heavy hooves that could crush them.
The horse was bolting down the street, heading in the same direction that the colonists had fled when the leather stirrup snapped under his weight and he hit the ground with a heavy thud that sent a painful groan from his lips. But he was okay, he was alive.
He winced, rolling over onto his back. The soldiers were moving toward him and in panic, America turned and pulled himself up to his feet. But he didn’t get more than a few feet before he tripped and tumbled back to the ground. He blinked and looked down at his feet, his breath hitching in his chest. It was a body he had stumbled over, a man whose body was ripped and torn by the penetration of bullets. He was bleeding everywhere. America had never seen something like this, so close that his nostrils filled with the rich irony scent that made him feel nauseous and dizzy all at the same moment.
“He….lp…pp…mmmm-eee…” The body mumbled, no, it gurgled. The words came out more as pops of bubbles than sounds resembling normal speech.
America looked at him horror, his mouth agape, his face feeling as if it were made of plaster. He pulled himself to the man’s side, his wide-eyed expression never changing even as he surveyed the injuries. He found it had not been multiple bullets that had hit this man but two, both very well placed; one in the chest that must have hit his lungs and the other disappearing somewhere into his middle where an artery had been severed. That had to be it because there was too much blood, far too much blood. It was everywhere all at once, soaking into his clothes and drenching them in that awful bitter smell even as he sat there next to the dying man’s body. Suddenly the redcoats and Concord all seemed so far away and all he could do was stare at those wounds and the small bits of flesh that had been broken away and how he was quite sure he could see inside parts of the man creeping out.
“Oh God…” America muttered, voice thick and quivering. The man was trying to say something, but it was gurgled and indiscernible now as he choked on his own blood. He shut his eyes tightly, knowing there was nothing he could do. He felt the man’s body twitched twice and then moved no more, the gurgling stopped, the world painfully quiet.
And it was then that he was filled with this awful dread and panic. He grabbed the man by his blood soaked clothes and shook him. “No, no…you can’t die. You can’t!” And he continued to shake the body even though the man was dead, but he just couldn’t accept it. He had never experienced death, not like this, not a person dying right at his feet. How did England do this? How could he send people here knowing that something like this could happen to people that were just trying to protect their rights?
There were sounds and they were getting louder. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t will himself up off the ground.
He looked down at the man's body, at the blood covering his arms and soaked into his clothes. And God, how it ached. This loss ached in a way he had never known. He didn't know this man but all he had to do was imagine the family, the children, the wife that he was going to leave behind or the future he was never going to have. It tore him to pieces.
There was more noise and finally his eyes looked up and he saw he was surrounded by a sea of redcoats.
“Get up!” One of them shouted, spittle spurting from his mouth as he pointed his musket down at him.
What were they saying? He heard their words but they were like a distant echoing drum in the back of his mind. He could only stare down at the lifeless body, and God how he wanted to weep but the tears would not come, they were too choked back by some other feeling that he couldn’t quite put to words. They were shouting now, but America was only moving slowly back to consciousness, back to a place where his mind could compute anything other than the glaring scene of death before him.
A hand grabbed him roughly by the upper arm, fingers digging into his skin, as he was pulled to his feet. It was then that he saw the other casualties, the other deaths from his faraway lens. There were more muskets trained on him, following his every move, waiting for the slightest flinch. But they didn’t fire and he wondered for a moment if they recognized him and that was the only reason why he was spared from the same fate as his people. He didn’t have a chance to see if the other people had escaped, but he hoped that they did. He could see at least eight bodies cowered on the ground, some moaning from near by, but not nearly as many as had gathered together on the lawn as he had come thundering into Lexington.
Slowly, reality felt like it was coming back. The distraught was becoming replaced by a much more tangible feeling, a feeling he was much more familiar with. It wasn’t anger, not quite rage, it was more calculated, more cold than those blazing emotions. It was an emotion laced with urgency and need. But whatever it was it was bringing him out of that dismal oblivion that death had dragged him into.
He didn’t look up as he heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. More re-enforcements? Wasn’t it already obvious that they were overwhelmed? He grabbed his arm, gripping the skin so tightly that he knew it was blanching underneath the blood stained clothing. Concord, he kept thinking in the back of his mind. Concord and all the innocent people. Even with a bigger militia and minutemen, did they really stand a chance against this type of slaughter? And then fear added itself to these emotions, but it wasn’t fear for his own safety. It was something deeper, not so selfish, but still just as concerning.
And then he finally looked up just as a group of men came bursting into Lexington. His blue eyes widened as they locked on the person leading the group.
England met his eyes and they didn’t need to exchange words, the intense glare of swirling green and blue between them was enough.
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-Lobsterbacks was a term used to describe the British army (and not a nice one at that)
-There were two types of American soldiers: militia and minutemen. Minutemen were a group meant to be ready to gather at a "minute's notice" in preparation for hostilities with the British.
-Boston Massacre was a conflict highly portrayed in the colonies as an event showing the tyrannical side of the British government when unarmed citizens were shot on by the British army (though it was highly believed to have begun as an accident)
-Parliament believed that a "show of force" would stop the resistance from the colonies. General Gage, who was in charge of the troops in America, was ordered to seize military stores in Concord despite his misgivings that it would lead to war and rebellion. Parliament, however, didn't believe that the colonists would resist nor fight back.
-The colonists were aware of the plan to confiscate the military storage in Concord from the boasting of the military around the towns and the increase in numbers that gathered in the area. However, before they were supposed to confiscate the arms, the colonists were ordered to move the storage from Concord. Men, women, and children worked through the night to bury the weapons in fields, homes, and the forest.
-First shots were fired at Lexington. Eight were killed and many more injured when the British army far outnumbered a group of about 160 American militia.