The Best and Worst of Us

"From Alexander Hamilton To The Royal Danish American Gazette"

Chapter 1

"From Alexander Hamilton To The Royal Danish American Gazette"

Alexander Hamilton

St. Croix

September 1772

Loss. That is the one word I would use to sum up my life thus far. It is a funny thing to think that after a tragedy there must come something good, for time and time again, this has been proven false for me, yet, I cannot help feeling that maybe, just maybe events will transpire in my favor. Perhaps it's because I have happened upon my first bit of good luck.

Though a hurricane has destroyed much of the island, the house of Mr. Stevens has come out unscathed. Not to mention that work at Beckman and Cruger's has been light and easy of late. Walking through the city now, though, crushes my luck into guilt. There's an overcast, not only over the island but over each person I pass. Everything from the distant cries of a child to partially destroyed homes is a reminder of the hurricane. Quickening my pace because of the increasingly darkening sky and my dismal surroundings, I arrive home.

It's taken a long time to call this place home, especially without James or Mama. But Ned and Mr. Stevens are my family now. For a while, it felt like just a prolonged stay at a friend's house but I've grown to call it home.

"Hammy!" Ned greets as I walk through the door. People have always said we look alike, even going as far as confusing us for brothers. I don't see it, especially now as he calls me that detestable nickname through a mouthful of some fruit.

"Hello, Ned. Your father still at work?" I hang my coat up, turning back around after.

He nods, fruit juice dribbling down his chin. "Want some?" He holds up an apple but I shake my head.

"I'm not too hungry. Especially after watching you eat like a slob." He narrows his eyes and reaches out to swat me but I duck away, shooting him a smirk before running off upstairs.

"I'll get you back, Hammy!" But he doesn't follow me upstairs. Rolling my eyes, I enter my room, deciding to write to my father to tell him of the hurricane and let him know that I survived it, not that he'll care.

The words have never flowed this swiftly from head to paper. Maybe it's something about tragedy, makes it easier to write about. Maybe it's something more powerful than I, fate, a muse, or God himself. Or maybe it's simply that if I don't pour all I've seen out on this already ink-soaked page then it will become all too much.

I almost wish I had drowned in the currents, one last momentous fight against life before giving in to the icy, dark repetition of wave after wave, but alas I've always been a good swimmer and as luck would have it, our house was spared. I'm not sure spared is the right word there. Spared only to bear witness to tenfold more miseries, the aftermath. Death would be sweet as to dull the echoing sounds of cries and screams that came from the island dwellers- the very people that curse my existence as if I chose to be born out of wedlock.

I don't blame them. It is easier to dehumanize something you don't understand than to attempt pity. I see it every day. People. Human people, in chains, shuttled in and out of this failing organ of an island. If Boston is a young beating heart, exporting and importing at a constant, momentous rate, then St. Croix is that of an old man, barely keeping up with standards, profiting off of the drug of immoral practices. The bones of the slaves are visible, bruises on their dark skin visible, the fact that they are painfully and utterly human visible. I've seen the faces of the men longer in the industry than I. It's all the same to them, whether the ship has grain or slaves, cows or slaves, sugar or slaves. I always try to look at people as people. But some days it's easier to only see cargo.

The gentle sound of a log collapsing in the fireplace draws me back to reality. I stare at the clumped uneven plumes of my quill and let out a quiet sigh. Where have the words gone now? I lost them in thoughts of slaves and birth and death.

I look down at what I've written thus far. It's fairly good. Maybe not my best, maybe not something you'd find in Shakespeare, but it's just for my father. And what are the chances of him actually reading it?

I shake the thought out of my head. It's not like I wrote it for him anyway. I wrote it to get the damnable images on paper and as far away from me as possible. Funny how my father's the first person that came to mind. If only Mama was still here, she would read it, critique it, maybe compliment the word choice...

Giving the page a final once over as the ink dries, I fold the letter, slipping it into an envelope. Mr. Stevens and Ned must be asleep by now. Time can pass swiftly when you aren't paying attention. Blowing the candle out, I climb into bed, lying on my back to stare up at the dark ceiling.

Surprisingly, I do feel better having written all of it down. Now lighter.

A/N: Hamilton's relationship with slavery is so complicated. From my research, I believe that he greatly opposed it in his younger years and throughout the revolution but when it came to founding the nation, he realized just how improbable the complete abolition of slavery was, thus why he helped form the New York Manumission Society to gradually work towards freedom. Hamilton was definitely not the strongest of abolitionists though.

Anyways, I hope y'all enjoyed!! Thanks for reading! :)