The Kings Have Won

Prologue

While time and the winds of destiny drew near,

The warnings I bestowed upon them,

The Kings ignored.

But as seasons passed, the worst I feared.

So, I dared repeat my plea,

Beware, my Kings, for you are the prey!

Troubled by such audacity, their scornful eyes met mine.

Dear Sir, it is gold, not counsel, we seek from our bankers.

Soon, the fires of fury raged on.

Spears lowered. Blood drawn.

In time, the Kings of old no longer ruled Nations.

But far from the limelight these Kings so cherished.

Unnamed, unseen, and unspoken for.

I,

The miserable creditor they abhorred.

I,

The wretched old banker they dismissed.

I

Became the King

The Pauper Made King

––––––––

Give all the power to the many, they will oppress the few.

Give all the power to the few, they will oppress the many.

— Alexander Hamilton

––––––––

We’ve become, now, an oligarchy instead of a democracy. I think that’s been the worst damage to the basic moral and ethical standards to the American political system that I’ve ever seen in my life.

— Jimmy Carter

––––––––

NEW YORK, 1804

This is a mortal wound, Doctor, I say to the frantic old man. His hands move from my wrist to my neck, desperately searching for a pulse. Footsteps surround me, heavy, rushed. They slowly fade. Dr. Hosack calls for help. More footsteps soon break the silence. Men arrive.

Hamilton has been shot, the Doctor shouts. Hurry up.

They lift me off the ground. We move through the tall grass and down the path. The gentle rush of the river stirs the waiting boat in which I am carefully laid. I sense the body I do not feel and fall out of consciousness.

The light drowsiness which had first appeared, I ignored, the logical response of an invincible thirteen-year-old boy. But the dull condition worsened. A high fever, intense diarrhea, and wrenching vomiting now inflict me. Weakened, I can no longer rise from the bed I share with my sick Mother. Our mortal bodies motionless, statues inadvertently discarded on a soaked and rancid mattress.

From my feverish dream, I wake to see my mother’s face. Her bright blue and immensely peaceful eyes stare tenderly back at me. It warms my heart. Within seconds I succumb to sleep once more, her gentle stare forever frozen upon my soul.

The sunlight casts familiar patterns on the wall. It is morning. Half awake, my head throbbing, voices echo all around me. Alex, the disease has taken your mother.

I straighten, panicked, as the unbearable truth hits me. What little strength I had regained deserts me. My head falls back onto the pillow. The strong woman who incessantly fought for our survival, the Mother I so loved, was forever gone.

Within a day, our house is taken away to repay our mother’s massive debt. Inconvenient witnesses to a life lost and the subjects to its immediate devastation, my brother James and I stand outside our home in disbelief.

Slaves with muscular bodies, their faces covered with rags to protect themselves from the disease that killed my mother, carry our furniture into the yard. When a carriage appears, the inventory from our mother’s small store is hauled away. Another carriage arrives, followed by another, and soon nothing of our life in this house remains—nothing but memories. The front door is slammed shut by an irritated landlord who scowls at us in disdain.

Helpless, I sit on the ground and lean back against the lone tree in our yard. Exhausted from my illness, I fall into a slumber, and the odor of medicine is replaced by the unbearable stench filling our house a day earlier. The pain in my throat, temples, and legs return as a deep sorrow fall upon me. Ours was a dark house full of sadness, lies, and despair. My Mother’s beautiful eyes stare into mine once more.

Mother! Oh, dear mother.

A loud burst snaps me out of this dream. I smell the gunpowder floating in the air. I now remember—Burr, Weehawken, and the duel. I look up at the branch I just shot. But instead of a clearing in the woods, I find myself in the middle of a rowdy tavern.

Rows of tables surround me. Shaken by the palpable reality of the dream I just had; I wonder what brought these memories back from such a distant past.

Out of the cacophony of voices filling the boisterous room, silence seems to surround a single man. Alone, in a dark corner of the room, the man holds a pint of beer before him.

My father. I wonder.

I recognize the features of the man who deserted us. But I am unsure. So much time has passed since I last saw him. I decide to go greet him.

As I sheepishly move forward, a hand grabs my right shoulder and holds it firmly. I turn.

This way, our table is right here, Sir, a man says.

Still in a daze, I comply, though quite unsure who my companion is. Perhaps he is a businessman whose appointment I have forgotten or a potential client needing legal counsel. I follow him.

The man is tall, with broad shoulders, long, black, wavy hair, a goatee, and dark, peaceful eyes. He wears a wide-brimmed hat, and his clothes are made of quality fabric.

He was a crooked son of a bitch, announces a postulant man at a table nearby. A repulsive skin condition ravages his face, his nose swollen from an excess of enormous pimples.

A damned soul lost in hell. I judge him to be.

Slamming his fist on the table, the man continues. Lies upon lies, upon lies. A pauper made king by the wealthy bankers who controlled him.

Across from this obnoxious man sits his identical, though healthy twin. Well-dressed and clean-shaven, he bears none of his companion’s repulsive attributes. I watch as he reaches out and lays his gloved hand on his companion’s forearm. Dear brother, it is the path of the vicious to judge, the ignorant to lecture, and the damned to accuse. Who are we to trust? Certainly not our reason, when false is the mind that leads it. And who are we to decide the rights and wrongs of others when we are ceaselessly at odds with truth, honor, and love? Alexander Hamilton, the man you so despise, was no different from you or I, for he embraced the gifts and opportunities God placed before him.

But his brother, furious, can no longer listen. Brother, your kind words warm my heart, but you are the ignorant who lectures me. Alexander Hamilton was a snake, the son of a whore.

How dare he speak of my mother in such a despicable manner? I say to my companion, who stares back at me blankly. When I turn to confront the insolent, of the two men, only one remains. Half of the man’s face is ravaged, the other half healthy. He is now both the clean and the dirty, the vile and the proper, the sane and the insane.

My companion reaches out. Sir, may I suggest we depart from this dreadful place?

I nod.

Suddenly, the voices around the room seem to grow louder, every conversation thundering in my head.

To the left, the distinct sound of a high-pitched and familiar voice startles me. Three rows away stands an Irish soldier I had befriended long ago and whose voice I recognize. The voice had strangely never matched the sturdy physique of the handsome and educated man I had gotten to know.

"How stupid could Hamilton be to share the lurid details of his affairs with that Reynolds woman? Hamilton wrote in his Reynolds Pamphlet; ‘...my real crime is an amorous connection with his wife...’ the soldier says mockingly, quoting me. What an idiot. Hamilton should have embraced a braver posture. It could have gone like this: I was approached by the most ravishing of women. She arrived at my house one evening. Unknown and uninvited, she begged for financial help. What is a good man to do, I ask? I offered the poor beauty the help she desired. She thanked me in the most appreciative of manner. The woman was, after all, irresistible. I assume you see nothing wrong with my behavior, Gentlemen, do you? Laughter grows louder around the table.

"Instead, Hamilton offers this ‘...confession is not made without a blush. I cannot be the apologist of any vice because the ardour of passion may have made it mine." the soldier continues. Hamilton was a horny bastard. No need to blush. Every man understands. But in the end, he was an easy prey for the shameless Mrs. Reynolds, who partook in this unscrupulous and sinful transaction to blackmail the poor idiot. The man concludes.

At the table, the men are now hysterical.

My confession had been made with the belief it would remain private. But a victim, I am not, and a guilty man must bear the label with which he is marked. True, I had fallen madly for the penniless Maria Reynolds, the woman who had mysteriously appeared at my door one evening to solicit pecuniary help. Her purse was empty, but her bosom was full, delicate, and inviting. So, with overflowing lust, I embraced this ill-fated affair.

I stand in the middle of the tavern, unresponsive as the memories come flooding back: Maria Reynolds’ porcelain skin, firm breasts, full lips, and gentleness in the heat of passion. I now long for her tender touch, for her body, for her kisses. I long to be with her once more.

A voice snaps me out of my reverie. I look to see an aristocrat sitting a few rows away. Proudly he interjects. "My dear fellow, allow me to impose upon you the words of John Adams, who faithfully described our famed Secretary of the Treasury; words I so dearly enjoyed at the time. John Adams said, ‘That bastard brat of a Scottish peddler! His ambition, his restlessness, and all his grandiose schemes come, I’m convinced, from a superabundance of secretions, which he couldn’t find enough whores to absorb!"

The group roars once more.

Adams, what a vile creature, I tell myself. Should I slap the aristocrat?

But the soldier’s high-pitched voice is heard anew. The husband was a crook who perverted his wife to collect the rewards of a nefarious plan.

As the man speaks, I feel anger growing within me. But the voice, which was so clear a second ago, blends with the many and disappears, lost in a sea of sound.

He was a thug working on behalf of the English bankers, someone says behind me.

You idiot! I made a fortune speculating on the Bank Scrip. Hamilton is my hero, another man exclaims excitedly.

Though comforted by the kind words, I feel dizzy. The room comes in and out of focus. I reach for the back of a chair and hold on.

Hamilton was a monarchist, another man says. "Jefferson was right when he said, ‘Hamilton was not only a monarchist, but for a monarchy bottomed on corruption."

I am not a monarchist, I scream across the room.

But no one reacts, no one blinks, no one stops. Instead, the tavern grows louder.

One of the men counters with, Hamilton believed the ruling class an essential part of the economy and thought to reward them; corrupt actors who benefited from the imperious Secretary of the Treasury. He was a traitor.

Overwhelmed, I turn to my companion, whose hand gently reaches over, tugging at me. This way, Sir.

I am disoriented and feeling faint. A slight pain has appeared above my right hip, and great sadness overwhelms me.

But as my companion turns left, I find myself staring at a man I knew—a man I believed I would never, ever meet again.

Surrounded by wealthy merchants, he sits among honored guests, and away from the commoners. I recognize the fine, black, leather gloves he wears. The red and gold threads cross each other the whole length of the fingers and merge to create a design of five gold arrows.

Dear Alexander, the man said to me years ago. These gloves were made by Silverio De Cartahina, the Spanish King’s glover, who secretly manufactured these for our dear patron.

I also recognize the three small letters sewn on the cuffs, C.I.I; Concordia Integretas, Industria; Latin for harmony, integrity, and industry, the Rothschilds’ family motto, and the five arrows symbolizing the unity of the five brothers.

But the ring, worn above the glove, confirms the identity of the man before me. A gift from Crown Prince Regent Frederick the VI of Denmark, the man had revealed.

The ring is stunning, and even in the darkness of the tavern, it could not be confused with another. A large square blue sapphire is framed by a line of slightly yellow diamonds. On each side, the line of diamonds was interrupted by a single ruby, cut in a square and mounted delicately into the thick, gold hoop. The wide rim of his black hat hides the man’s eyes, but I have little doubt of his identity. He remains quiet, immobile, head slightly tilted down.

How strange that he had promised we would never see each other again. But there he is, sitting quietly across from me, unperturbed. The gloved hand reaches for the pint, which he proudly raises. He looks in my direction, but I realize he does not see me.

My Lords, I hope you will forgive me, the man says, the exceptional ring catching the light. But I have ignored the formalities I was to confer upon you. The report on our stakes in the First Bank of the United States, I have not presented. But let me not bore you and just declare our bank has become the most powerful ever to exist, more powerful than the Medici, who only controlled Europe. The profits in America, through the implementation of our central bank, have been enormous. The powers we have acquired are immense.

Disheartened, I reach for a chair close by and sit. My thoughts drift back to my dear Mother, then to Eliza, the gentle wife I had so often betrayed, then to the Department of the Treasury, which I had built out of pure will. But all are eclipsed when the tender moments I shared with Maria Reynolds resurface but slowly disappear.

I now see the faces of my mother’s many lovers, and soon I am overcome by the memory of Thomas Stevens, the man who, upon my mother’s death, welcomed me into his home while my brother was left to fend for himself—the man who some believed was my birth father. For years, the question had emerged because his son, Edward, and I looked so much alike. Upon meeting Edward, many believed he was my brother. It was an unspoken but obvious truth. Thomas Stevens, I now believe, was probably my father.

In a flash, I remember my wish for a war, and the poem I wrote, for it attracted so much attention. I remember the donation which led me to America. I remember James Hamilton, the father who left us, and George Washington, the father figure I grew to dislike, and each step replays in my mind. I wonder, Have I surrounded all to exalt my station? Married into the Schuyler family for status? Embraced the shadows to elevate my stature?

But I did not. Or so I tell myself.

Suddenly, I see Burr and our duel. I see guns firing, the snap of the branch I hit, and the blurry scene before me as I fall to the ground. It all replays in my mind.

Burr shot me. "This is a mortal wound, Doctor."

My body is limp at the bottom of the small boat traveling back to New York City. I listen to the four men rowing frantically, their breathing heavy. I feel the hand of Dr. Hosack pushing firmly on my wound as the sky floats above me in a slow westward motion.

Concordia, Integretas, Industria, exclaim the men in the tavern.

It startles me.

The gloved hand rises. The extraordinary ring sparkles once more. Gentlemen, may I offer a toast? The man says.

The wealthy merchants around him turn to face him.

"Of the Founding Fathers, no dream was too grand to dismiss, and I salute them. However, I wish to dedicate all the honors to the builder of Nation, to the man who transformed ideas into realities, to the corruptible genius, to the man so blinded by honor it led him to his death, to the pauper made King; Alexander Hamilton, who helped us, in the words of Thomas Jefferson; ...form the most corrupt government on earth.

The men cheer, raising their cups.

I listen in disbelief, at once dejected and resentful. Suddenly weakened by the pain above my hip, I become dizzy.

My companion pulls me to my feet. As we exit the tavern, I pass by a few coastguards. The youngest of the three is emaciated; a thin scar covers the length of his left cheek, and part of his ear is missing. But his stare is powerful, profound; and strangely, I hear his voice within me. It says, I am neither here, nor there, neither you nor I. I am neither the water nor the air, the fire, or the earth. I am all and I am none.

Sir, my companion says sternly.

But I am unresponsive.

He pulls me away and outside of the tavern.

I sit on the ground, trembling. My head bowed, I fall into darkness, the pain throbbing.

Eliza, my Dear, in my final act, I have, once more, failed you. I hope you will find the strength to forgive me, my Love.

I can hear the oars battling the water in a constant and furious motion. The sound of bells in the distance rings softly.

I am a dead man. I tell myself.

This way, Sir.

I stand. The fresh air helps, and I regain strength. I realize we are on Whitehall Street in Manhattan.

We turn right onto Broadway. A crowd has gathered to witness a funeral procession. The mood is somber. The sorrowful crowd pushes me forward in the direction of Trinity Church.

In the middle of the street, eight dignified pallbearers march. On their shoulders rests the mahogany casket they transport wearily. Placed atop the casket, I recognize my hat and sword.

The scene strikes through my heart like an arrow. This time, I reach out for my companion’s arm. I squeeze it tightly, holding on to a reality that isn’t.

My horse follows. The boots and the spurs I had worn days ago reversed in the stirrups. At this sight, a hush falls over the crowd.

My three sons follow. James, John, and William solemnly lead a group of individuals I do not care to look at.

Where is Eliza? I wonder.

We must go now, Sir.

I spent my entire life in a constant battle for survival; my youth, the war, Washington, and the country I fought so hard to build. But I am exhausted from it all and no longer able to fight. I turn around and walk away from all I know, from all I love.

The cobblestones of Manhattan slowly turn into dirt. Silence has returned, a silence free of the sounds of men, free of the spirit of men. It is an unfamiliar stillness. The small road we travel on winds between two towering walls. At each step, I feel an unbearable weightlifting gently.

In the distance, a sliver of light pierces through the opened panels of a large door. The light is beautiful, and warm, penetrating my soul. We march on.

The door we have now reached is wide open.

My companion steps inside.

I follow.

We enter a long and wide colonnade. The walls, Corinthian columns, and ceiling are built of white marble. A line of the darkest black marble frames the floor, and within it is the most beautiful and asymmetrical design. The most delicate green, red, and white marble fills diamonds, rosettes, and circle shapes. Gold lines intertwine with each other.

Thirty feet away, an old man is hunched over a table covered with manuscripts. His long, white hair is pulled over his shoulders and down his back. I notice his wrinkled hands resting on a manuscript before him. The fingers are gnarled like dried roots. At once, his index finger moves down the page and onto the next in an agile motion, scanning each word deliberately and steadily.

As he carries on, page after page, I think of the letter I wrote Eliza a week ago. I see my hand scrolling down the page, asking for forgiveness from the wife I repeatedly betrayed. The words I then wrote come back to me: The will of a merciful God must be good.

The quiet individual leading me moves forward and toward the desk. He passes it and turns, now facing me.

The old man stops reading and straightens back into his chair. To my surprise, his face is handsome, stern but amiable, rugged but sophisticated, and his eyes are void of condemnation.

Alexander Hamilton, please do tell me, who am I to judge? The destitute or the lord, the husband or lover, and which of your machinations am I to overlook?

I am a sinner, My Lord. I beg for His mercy, I say.

The man smiles. A man who has not sinned is a God, Sir. My duties limit me to the concerns of men and, therefore, sinners. The man pauses as his finger scrolls down another page. The list of your deeds is so long. I am unsure where to start.

My Lord, if you would allow me, my companion begins. Alexander Hamilton was the son of Rachel Faucette Lavien, a woman of French Huguenot origins, who sadly possessed very questionable ways.

The old man waves his hand and says to me, You desired a war, Sir. Why?

I wished for a better life and a reason to escape the miserable conditions I suffered. In the end, the war I longed for defined the honorable steps I pursued. The war led me to the impotent Washington, to write fifty-one of the eighty-five Federalist papers, to create the Treasury Department, the Revenue Cutter Service, to compose a Report on Credit and a Report on Manufacturing which led to the creation of an entirely new American industry. Without a war, I may have become a scholar. Instead, I became a builder of Nation.

The old man stares into my eyes, a blank stare, his wrinkled face at peace within and without.

I say, But the carnal and promiscuous appetite I carried, the deceits, falsehoods, and corrupt schemes were all the fruits of my rotten youth—a childhood filled with greed born from the poverty and injustices I suffered. The misery, the violence, the sexual looseness, and the pernicious influence of my loving Mother, who, sadly, was indeed a woman of questionable morals, but a woman I loved dearly.

The man says, A builder of Nation. How so?

"America was like a complex child who knew not what it desired. The country was void of any of the functional systems it required. It lacked a real financial system, an army, or a modern industry. America was a house built on ideals by a pious and proud populace with little understanding of finance on the scale our country demanded. John Adams acknowledged this simple fact when he stated: All the perplexities, confusion and distress arise not from the defects of the Constitution, not from want of honor and virtue so much as from downright ignorance of the nature of coin, credit and circulation.

Tell me about the Bank of New York, the man says. Where did the money come from?

The Bank of New York was an attempt at creating a central bank located in Manhattan. Though the Bank of North America in Philadelphia had been created to serve as America’s central bank, it lacked the management and financial support allowing it to flourish. However, New York was the center of all commerce but lacked a strong bank. I fought with and lost to New York Governor George Clinton, who seemed more inclined to seek my failure than to act for the benefit of all. So, instead of a central bank, we settled for a common bank.

My answer appears incomplete, for only silence follows, so I continue.

At first, the bank failed to raise the initial capital we had hoped for. I owned one-and- half shares. Burr had three shares. Approximately 200 people owned shares in the bank; they were mainly wealthy individuals and foreign interests. Of course, British investors partook in this endeavor, and it certainly included the largest banks in London.

The man stares at me and says, You were repeatedly accused of having given too much to the elite, the financiers, the English Bankers. Were you corrupt, Alexander Hamilton?

I surely favored a certain class—one who deserved to gain from their financial investments. It is understandable some called the benefits of these transactions corrupt and undeserved. Though never did the ones who accused me of creating a corrupt system offer any solutions to the financial woes plaguing our young country. To me, these wealthy creditors, bankers, and businessmen were the engine that fed our economy. Their greed was of little concern to me because I believed a government couldn’t function without wealthy creditors. I was accused of corruption. But corruption was never found, and no discrepancies were ever discovered. I wondered if one could despise the British for trying to submit our country to its imperious orders yet admire their financial system. But I soon realized this view was not acceptable.

The old man couldn’t care less. His eyes fixed on mine, still and relaxed. Duer? he says firmly.

Duer, I repeat. I was a fool and now recognize the error of judgment it was to nominate William Duer to be the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury. He was a conniving profiteer who used secret information to speculate...

The man cuts me off, Sadly, the issue was not particular to Duer. Your father-in-law, Philip John Schuyler, benefited from private details known only to you.

I do not respond. The relationship between the government and the wealthy creditors was an intricate tool from which both sides benefitted. Our country relied on creditors to function. They, in return, desired nothing less than maximum return and cared little whether their profit was rendered in currency or access to power, for either satisfied their greed. Ultimately, I could not satiate their monstrous thirst. Had I given them too much? Probably.

I look at the wrinkled face before me and into the peaceful blue eyes. They stare back into mine. Behind him, my companion stands erect, silent, and patient. The sumptuous colonnade extends past him to infinity it seems.

Dear Alexander Hamilton, you were indeed the builder of a nation, the old man says. Brave during the Revolution, you penned most of the Federalist Papers. The United States Treasury and the First Bank of the United States were the results of your immense efforts. The Report on Credit, followed by the one on Manufacturing, spelled out the intricacies you desired to expose in magnificent ways. Your work gave birth to an entirely new American industry, which created the city of Paterson in New Jersey, where thousands were soon employed. When an issue arose from the smuggling and pirating off the American coast, you developed the Revenue Cutter Service. Your actions led to a period of economic prosperity. Upon returning to private life, you became one of the finest lawyers in your country, often taking righteous cases with little pecuniary benefit.

The old man turns a page. "The eminent Charles Maurice de Talleyrand considered Napoleon, Charles James Fox, and you, Sir, as the greatest men of this period. But had he been obliged to select ‘between the three, I would give without hesitation the first place to Hamilton’, De Talleyrand said. Oliver Wolcott, Jr, your successor at the Treasury, said, ‘Thus has perished one of the greatest men of this or any age.’ It is clear the gift you were given did not go to waste."

As if time had momentarily stopped, the old man pauses, motionless, his eyes locked on mine. The silence feels like the eternity I am about to face.

The old man continues, "And yet, here you are, Sir. Clouds of doubt remain over your intentions, over your association with the British Bankers, and over your honor. Your endless machinations, and your pettiness, especially toward Jefferson, justify every one of the criticisms you ever received. You once stated, ‘All communities divide themselves into the few and the many. The first are the rich and the well-born, the others, the mass of the people... The people are turbulent and changing; they seldom judge and determine right. Give therefore to the first class a distinct, permanent share of government.’ The old man leans back into his chair and asks.

Sir, over and over, you favored the wealthy at the detriment of the people you were to serve. The few chosen ones received inside information to further their speculations, while the rest lost their meager wages on your deceitful schemes. Soon the balance of power vanished from the government itself and into the hands of the few who pillaged all.

The spoken truth pains me. My body stiffens.

You were vain and opinionated, an elitist whose self-importance led you to accept corruption as a necessity, not a burden on the weak, the old man says.

My legs tremble, my heart races, and tears run down my cheeks. The scathing words, the truth exposed in such plain details. I fall to my knees.

The man readjusts his stare. Void of any expression or judgment, he continues: "you said; Has it not . . . invariably been found that momentary passions, and immediate interests, have a more active and imperious control over human conduct than general or remote considerations of policy, utility, and justice? Quite eloquent, Sir. You may have been one of the greatest men of your time but do tell me. If ‘monetary passions’ had such ‘imperious control over human conduct,’ why is it your wife is, at present, left to pay your debts?"

Tears fall uncontrollably. The burden I have caused Eliza to suffer is unforgivable. I lower my face into my hands. I try to console myself, to justify the misery I left behind. But I remember the man with the gloved hand, the unfulfilled promises, and the deceits I was subjected to; the 15,000 words I wrote on behalf of the hidden rulers to persuade Washington to approve America’s first central bank. Because of me, the Bank of North America became the Nation’s Central Bank, but I gained nothing.

I see the ring flash into the darkness of the tavern and realize what a failure I had been. A pawn in a game I was not meant to play. I recall the many clandestine communications with the British agent, Major George Beckwith.

The old man knew my betrayals had been too numerous to count.

I try to speak but cannot. My eyes flood with tears of shame, tears of guilt.

There are no excuses or justifications for my many failures. While lust controlled my senses, self-importance misguided me into complacency, and honor blinded my vision. I ignored those close to me to serve the people I knew not. I deserted my duties.

My companion leaves his post to fetch me. He pulls me to my feet.

The old man has returned to the parchments on his desk. Ignoring my presence, he writes. We walk further into the colonnade.

The landscape now appears clearer between the columns. To my left is a green pasture filled with joyous individuals frolicking among the colorful bushes of delicate flowers. To my right is a muddy land where scattered fires burn randomly. Men are shoved into mud pits. Others are pushed onto the fires they were forced to build while huge and hairless rats run free.

When the sound of bells appears, I straighten. Horns follow. An odd stringed instrument soon joins, playing an unending low note. It vibrates within me. Voices of angels singing in a mysterious language emerge as the instruments fade away. There must be a thousand angels singing in unison. The melody is simple, yet glorious; primal. My fears vanish, replaced by inner peace. Soon their melodic words become clearer.

In their strange dialect, they say my name, Alexander Hamilton. I freeze. The stringed instrument, a cello perhaps, has returned. Alone, it plays an endless and