The Foundation of Revolution

[K Man]

{Since Angel City is done and as I work on revisions for submission to publishers, I thought I would get my next idea up and running and test the response.}
__________________________________________________________________________________________

The Foundation of Revolution

Prologue

[/b][/center]

Yorktown, Virginia 1781

General Washington took a step forward; listening to the sound of the dried autumn leaves crunching under his boot. It was a refreshing auditory stimulation, helping to mentally flush the sounds of battle from his mind.

It was only moments ago that over two thousand men, most of them young recruits in the Continental Army, lost their lives fighting for independence from the oppressive forces of the British. General Washington had led the charge and directed the troops into battle, surviving with a victory only through the help of the French fleet and many of their conscripts. It was a victory, but not one without the sour taste of death and loss. Washington closed his eyes and leaned against a nearby tree, still trying to get the images out of his head.

The general kept his eyes shut for some time, listening to the leaves whip through the dead branches of the white ash trees on the field. It was only when a voice, a very low and raspy voice, touched his ears that General Washington was aware of anyone else near him. Spinning around, Washington saw the source of the voice, a young boy lying on the field dying from the wounds covering his body.

The boy could not have been more than half way through his second decade of life. Light blonde hair was crusted to his head in his own blood and it seemed as though the boy had lost an eye…and nearly the entirety of his left leg during the battle. The boy still grasped the musket in his hands, holding it to his body as though it were still necessary to his survival. General Washington leaned down and listened to the boy repeat his words.

“Di’…w’ …’in?”

The boys’ words were garbled, difficult to determine through the pool of blood that was forming in his mouth. General Washington understood the words, as he had more than ample experience with the sound of dying soldiers. Leaning down, General Washington placed a hand on the boys’ forehead to ease him.

“Yes boy.” The General responded. “We won. You fought well today.”

The boy smiled with glee, the dried blood on his lips cracking and flaking, much like the autumn leaves falling from the trees. Looking around, Washington could not find a field doctor to care for the boy. It was a moot point as the boys’ wounds were too great for his body…a surgeon could do little more for this, the boys’ final minutes of life.

“It’…a…goo’…’eapo’…”

The boy grasped the wooden handled musket in his small, pale hands even tighter, clutching it like a proud father would a child. The boys’ body began to spasm, rocking violently back and forth as death came quickly for the young boy.

Within a minute, the last bit of breath exited the boys’ body, transforming into a small white trail of steam…a fading testament to the existence of the young boy.

General Washington stood, gently closing the boys’ eyelids and removing the musket from his pale, now lifeless hands. The general held the weapon by the stock, looking down the length of the barrel towards a tree across the field. The general imagined firing the weapon, loading it with powder, projectile and wad before firing it again. The speed with which the musket was operated disgusted the general. He began to slowly formulate these thoughts into words, a response the to the young boy, who unfortunately would never hear it.

“It is not a good weapon boy. If it were, you and more than two thousand of your brethren would not have fallen today.”

The general grabbed the musket by the metal barrel, whirling around with amazing speed. The stock of the weapon shattered against the white ash tree behind him as General Washington finished his spin. With a huff, Washington cast the ruined barrel and remainder of the weapon aside, watching it roll down a nearby hill before it finally stopped as it rolled into another body of a young soldier.

Washington began his slow trek across the field back to his camp, unaware that within the next ten years, he would take the first position of power in the new states…

He would be President.

***

New York, New York 1791

Alexander Hamilton looked over his proposal for the finances of the nation with great pride. They not only detailed the establishment of a national banking system, but funding of a national debt, assumption of war-time debts and encouragement of manufacturing. Alexander knew that these plans would make the newly formed United States in a powerful nation quickly with the proper support…

…But that support would be hard earned.

Hamilton looked over to the printing press atop his desk, its templates and pressing mechanisms crusted ebony with dried ink. There was just no way, in Alexander’s mind, to get his ideas out fast enough. Slouching back in his chair, Alexander heard the door to his office open.

It was a young assistant, Nicholas Miles, if Alexander’s memory served him correctly. The young man looked comical. The powder wig barely sat correctly atop his head and his clothes looked several inches too generous in many places. Alexander knew they he was probably a young man entering the work force after the war in an attempt to support his family.

“Yes Master Miles?” Alexander huffed, unimpressed by the entrance.

“Sir.” Young master Miles responded. “The congress has convened and they request your proposal.”

“Now? It’s not due for another two weeks!”

Alexander had lost his patience with the young assistants’ comments. Alexander began to think of the cause for this inconvenience.

“Who requested the proposal? Jefferson? Madison?”

The young man nodded that both of them had requested the proposal simultaneously. Alexander slammed his fist on the desk, knocking the quill from its well and staining a portion of mahogany desk black. Sighing heavily, Alexander gave into the request.

“Very well. Tell them I will be there within the hour.”

Master Miles nodded and left, leaving Alexander staring longingly at his printing press. Even if he masterfully produced a dozen copies of his proposal before the congressional hearing, Alexander knew it would not give him time to gain the necessary support for his proposal to take footing in the infant nation.

Alexander gathered his parchments and stormed out of his office towards the congress, cursing beneath his breath…cursing the pace at which things must take place.

***

New York, New York 1800

Thomas Jefferson slowly took the last few steps to the summit of the podium. It had always made him nervous, speaking in public but Jefferson had something to say this day…something he felt was very important.

[K Man]

Looking around, Thomas could see every individual of importance in this floundering new nation looking at him with anxious eyes. Washington, Madison, Randolph, Lansing, Hamilton…

Alexander Hamilton.

There, sitting in the front row with a smug smile plastered across his face was Alexander Hamilton. Thomas knew that once, long ago, he and Master Hamilton had been good friends and even considered opening a business after the war had settled but political ideas and radical theories had split the two quickly. Hamilton had expressed interest in making the new states a superpower through financial gains and Jefferson had a different idea of making the new states great through territorial expansion.

The two had split apart as both friends and political forces, remaining at mental arms for the last few years. Thomas knew the smile was for his benefit as he had once expressed to Hamilton his fear of public speaking and the nerve it took for him to stand in front of an audience.

Still, Jefferson knew that Hamilton would not have this day…Jefferson had been gaining ground in the political arena with his charisma. The congress had gathered today to discuss important changes within the nation and Jefferson was to deliver a speech, one, in his mind, that would certainly secure his candidacy for president. Clearing his throat, Jefferson looked to the audience and decided to deliver his opening line.

“I have sworn, upon the altar of god, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man…”

It worked.

The room erupted in cheers with just the opening line of his speech. Jefferson felt pats on his back from all directions and heard comments and congratulations from all corners of the room. Jefferson saw Alexander Hamilton storm out of the room, apparently upset that he had failed to witness a public breakdown of someone he thought would be a poor speaker. Jefferson did not cast a second glance, elated that his hard work and nights of practicing this speech paid off.

The remainder of the speech was delivered in full to a fully attentive audience. When complete, Thomas moved to the rear of the room to allow for the next candidate to stand on the podium and deliver his speech although, in his mind, Jefferson believed that no speech would top the one he just delivered. Jefferson felt his presidency was secured.

As he stood in the back, Jefferson noticed another man moving to meet him. It was his officer of finance, Master John Forsmythe. Jefferson placed an arm around the shoulder of the young man as he approached, spinning them both around to face the wall and afford them privacy during their conversation. Master Forsmythe spoke in hushed tones.

“Sir. I’ve just returned from a meeting with Napoleons’ council. They agree to your terms of the purchase for the Louisiana territory, however, they feel it would be best that this event take place during your term of presidency to avoid any suspicious inquiries…” Master Forsmythe paused. “…that is of course, assuming you get the presidency.”

Thomas Jefferson smiled, listening to the bumbling speech of the next candidate.

“Make no mistake John…I will be president. I will have that land I will expand this infant nation into force to be reckoned with…tell them I accept and we will begin negotiations next year for the purchase.”

Master Forsmythe bowed low in respect, moving away from Jefferson as quickly and quietly has he had entered. As the young officer exited, Jefferson thought about his assured presidency and the elation he had for realizing that his dream for this nation was finally beginning to take shape.

***

Montpelier, Virginia 1809

James Madison managed to quietly open the door to the study in his mansion and close it behind him without being noticed.

It was a hectic night in the parlor and ballroom outside as the word of his succession to Thomas Jefferson as president reached Madison’s plantation. The party was almost instantaneous with dozens of guests from all over Orange County arriving to congratulate the new leader of the still infant nation and after hours of drink and discussion, Madison had to escape to his study.

As he quietly stepped around the solitary board that always creaked with the slightest weight, Madison silently thanked the fates for the moment of reprieve from the awesome responsibility he had just been elected to. Slipping into his oversized, comfortable desk chair, James turned it around on its pedestal and calmly gazed into the dark Virginian night.

“Massa?”

The voice nearly made Madison fall from his chair and draw the small dagger he always carried in his boot. Looking over while instinctively throwing his arms up in defense, James nearly yelled out loud to the speaker. It was Jules, a nearly illiterate Negro slave on the plantation.

Jules was darker than most of Madison’s slaves, probably why he was able to blend in so well with the pitch-black air of the darkened study. The slave moved to his belt, withdrawing a small piece of sealed parchment and holding it outwards with a shaking hand. Although nearly twice his size in stature, it was evident that Madison held a sway of fear over the slave with continual beatings. Jules spoke in lower tones thinking they were the cause of his masters’ reaction.

“Massa. Mista Jefferson gave this to me…fa you.”

The slurred and accented speech of Jules made James cringe. It was hard for the president-elect to think of anything more degrading than not being educated. The thought of educating his entire force of slaves had never crossed Madison’s mind, only his contempt for them did.

Pointing a finger to the desk, James silently indicated he wanted the slave to place the parchment on the desk so that he may pick it up and read it. Once the slave did this, Madison pointed to the mahogany door, indicating he wanted be alone with the new delivery. Jules silently backed out of the study through a separate door, closing it quietly behind him. Removing the silver letter opener from his desk, James opened the letter quickly and heard the words of its text run through his mind.

James,

Congratulations on your election, although it never really was in jeopardy. I wanted to send you this congratulatory note in advance and wish you the best of luck in succession of my office. I also wanted to give you a bit of advice, continue on the path myself and the previous fathers of this to-be-great nation have laid out for you and you will be a true leader.

T. Jefferson

[/right]

Madison crumpled the note and threw it into the fireplace, knowing it would burn to a crisp on the next cold night. Silently cursing Jefferson, James thought of a way to get in touch with his old friend Alexander Hamilton, one who he believed, had a true vision for his country. Unknown to Madison, at that exact moment he pondered it, Hamilton was already devising a way to contact him.

As Madison walked through his study towards the congratulatory party that still carried on his parlor, he was unaware that, less than three years later, he would lead his country down a path to war, depression and failed diplomatic battles…
__________________________________________________________________________________________

[K Man]

I.

Shanomoté felt his body shiver as the effects of the vision wore off.

He opened his eyes, for the first time in days, and felt the crust peel from each eyelid at an excruciatingly slow pace. Rolling onto his side, Shanomoté reached for his water canteen and brought it to his parched lips, drinking deeply to quench the days-old thirst. Still nursing the canteen, the young Native American rolled onto his back and pulled some jerky from his satchel and placed in into his mouth between deep gulps of water.

Rubbing the crust from his eyes, Shanomoté could see that he still rested on his back, atop the mesa of a low hill in the middle of the reservation. The red sand, prominent in every rock and hill in this area, covered his bare stomach and chest in little concentric circles, indicating it had rained at least once during his vision quest. Rubbing the dust from his body and finding the strength to rise, Shanomoté sat upright and took in the sight of the sun slowly coming up over the East.

It never failed to nearly bring a tear to his eye.

The beautiful hues of reds and deep crimsons as the rocks absorbed their first glimpses of the morning light always filled Shanomoté with a sense of love and connectivity with Etenoha or what most others would call Mother Earth.

In his dealings with anyone outside of his tribe the Haudenosaunee, or often called the Iroquois Confederacy by most, Shanomoté felt that they lacked the understanding of the true nature of Etenoha. The white man, a term Shanomoté hated using for it was derogatory to the spirit of the others outside his tribe but a common label used among his people, seemed to have no understanding of the way of life. The Haudenosaunee believed all things were spiritual things…that even the rocks and grass were spirits in their own right and needed to be treated as such.

The thought of spirits returned Shanomoté to his present situation.

Shanomoté never liked coming out of his visions, but he always awoke filled with a sense of direction and purpose that he felt few others could achieve. This last vision had been particularly powerful and vivid, filling Shanomoté’s mind with images of what, he felt, he needed to do…

Looking over the horizon, away from the dawn and towards the small camp the remainder of his tribe called home, Shanomoté could see a smoke trail lingering in the sky from a passing jet. Such things were commonplace in the world of today, but to the young Native American, they were things that never should have come to be.

Shanomoté stood and dusted off his buttocks, wondering how he would describe his vision to the elder…
__________________________________________________________________________________________

[Zarni]

hmm, well written as always
however, i shall wait a while to see where it goes before commenting on content.

[sonnetinkinston]

You're words have begun forming the outlines of a picture not yet fully formed, but intriguing none the less. Please continue...

[K Man]

II.

[/b]

Making his way into the meager collection of dusty and dilapidated buildings his tribe called the village, Shanomoté looked around for what had changed during his vision quest. Although only three days in length, the vision quest left Shanomoté in a state of complete ignorance to the outside world but forced him deeper into the real world…the spiritual world. Although not normally enough time for a significant change, Shanomoté often liked taking a longer walk through the dirt avenues between the broken homes and vacant trailers looking for changes from the way they used to be.

Shanomoté could see that ‘Polly’ still sat in her usual spot at the end of a rusted metal trailer home porch. Polly was the three-legged blind dog belonging to the village drunkard often just called ‘Johnny’. The dog lie on its side under a piece of cloth haphazardly hung for a porch cover that gently flapped in the breeze. Shanomoté tossed a small piece of beef jerky from his satchel, which landed before the dog with a slight slapping noise of the dried meat on the wood. After a moment, the only functioning sense of the dog, smell, picked up the meat and Polly moved forward with a grunt and flopped a tongue outward to find it.

Shanomoté smiled and moved on, seeing the round adobe structure that the elders from many tribes often used to meet in but had now fallen into disrepair as many of the elders were to elderly to make the tribe to his village anymore. The structure was once decorated with markings done in the old ways with paint mixed from the earth, but decades of nature and lack of attention had caused the building to now be nothing more than a smooth lump protruding from the ground.

The old warehouse, once a place where many of the men in the village worked packaging plastic toys for the larger white man cities still stood, but a few more windows were broken, their shards lying in the red dirt around the foundation. Shanomoté knew the glass had probably broken during the storm he missed, but did not put it past a few of the younger children in the village and their games of rock throwing. The children had little else to do in the village, aside from waiting for the day when their parents decided they had enough of living in the slowly dying reservation and finally making the choice to move to a bigger city where the was work and food.

The old gas station, the string of empty trailers that lay askew after a flood a few years back…little had changed during his vision quest and that made Shanomoté smile.

He really wasn’t one for change.

In fact, Shanomoté really despised it when he would return from the desert and things would be drastically different. Shanomoté was nearing his thirtieth year on Etenoha and he still did many of things he learned from his father, the village elder, when he was a young boy. Although physically he had changed greatly since he was a small boy, filling out his six foot four frame with muscles and toned skin, Shanomoté remained focused on the ‘old world’ ways…the way things were done before his tribe was sent to this forsaken reservation.

Shanomoté shook these negative thoughts from his head and picked up the pace towards home as he drank some water from his hide canteen. Rounding the pile of old and burnt tires that still filled the streets with their stench on hot days, Shanomoté paused as he saw a vehicle before his home. It was a large black shiny car, the chrome and darkened windows glaring in the afternoon sun like some hidden treasure that had just been found. Shanomoté recognized the car instantly, as he had seen it many times before.

It was Aileen’s…his sister.

Shanomoté began to think of why his sister, whom he had not seen in a little over five years, had made her way out here to the reservation. The only thing he could think of was that his father had become ill or died during his vision quest and the villagers contacted her instead of him. Darting towards the gate, which was locked, Shanomoté leapt over it and took a few strides towards the porch, bounding up to the flat summit of it in one massive leap.

Before Shanomoté could open the door, the solid glass and wood porch door was thrown open from within and, with his current momentum, collided with Shanomoté’s nose with great force. There was a period were Shanomoté could see nothing as his head was thrown back and his long black hair furled around his head to cover his eyes as his body rocketed backwards to the ground. It was only when he finished the short fall from the top of the porch to the bottom and his head recoiled back that he could see the reason for the door opening with such force.

Aileen had just come from within, storming outside with a scornful look on her face. Shanomoté’s sister noticed the collision almost immediately and threw her hands to her mouth and exclaimed her surprise.

“Oh my god! Shawn!”

Shanomoté hated it when Aileen called him by the phonetic pronunciation of the first part of his true name.

Rushing down the steps, Aileen managed to quickly kneel next to her brother and remove a cloth from her pocket and place it over Shanomoté’s nose. Through the cloth and the pressure, Shanomoté tried to ask a question.

“Id eberyting alright?”

“Huh?”

Shanomoté brushed the helping hand of his sister aside so that he could be heard clearly.

[K Man]

“Is everything alright? With father?”

Aileen helped her brother to sit upright on the ground, brushing the crushed grass and rocks from his back.

“What do you mean? Is something supposed to be wrong?”

“Well…you’re here. I just assumed…” Shanomoté looked at his sister with a puzzled expression.

Aileen looked to her brother with a sympathetic face. She stood and brushed the small amount of dirt from her business suit and heels then offered a hand to her much larger brother to help him stand. Shanomoté took the hand and nearly pulled his sister over when he stood upright. It was only upon standing to his full height that Shanomoté realized how much had changed between the two.

Aileen was well below his height, by almost a foot and she lacked the sheer bulk of Shanomoté’s muscle by almost half. This had always been the case between the two but Shanomoté noticed his sister had lost considerable weight since he had last seen her and she had cut her once long, raven hair into a cropped version of its former beauty and also dyed a platinum blonde in stark contrast to the dark family skin. While Shanomoté now wore little more than a loincloth, Aileen wore a full suit including the heels, blouse, skirt and jacket to match.

Aileen noticed the glare of her brother and immediately changed her sympathetic tone.

“What?”

“You look different.” Shanomoté responded coldly, a trait that often got underneath his sisters skin in a metaphorical sense.

“So? You look the same.” Aileen responded with equaled frigidity.

Shanomoté silently praised himself for remaining constant in his appearance and simultaneously, his ideals. Aileen melted slightly and steeled herself for her next statement.

“Shawn, we have to talk about father.”

Hearing those words, Shanomoté dropped the stoic visage and immediately frowned in concern.

“What is it?”

“Well…” Aileen moved and took a seat on the porch steps, slapping the plank next to her for Shanomoté to sit on. “…he’s old.”

“Over his eightieth year unless I’m mistaken.” Shanomoté responded, taking the invitation for a seat.

“Right. Don’t you think he needs…care?”

“What do you mean?” Shanomoté cocked his head slightly, a sign that he didn’t understand.

“Shawn…he needs to get out of the reservation and into a nursing home. It will make the last years of his life easier.” Aileen sighed, already anticipating her brothers’ response.

“You’re wrong Aileen. He has all the care he needs here.”

“What care? You? You’re always out on those damn quests.” Aileen sighed again, a sign that this was exactly what she expected.

“He’s fine…healthy as can be and you want to remove from his home? And take him where? Out there to live with them like you?” Shanomoté continued, motioning with an outstretched hand towards the horizon indicating he meant the world outside the reservation.

“And what’s wrong with the way I live?” Aileen seemed to take offense.

Shanomoté remained silent, knowing this was an argument that had been repeated countless times before and never seemed to have an answer. His sister felt that life outside the reservation was fine and Shanomoté felt that anything outside the reservation was blasphemous to Etenoha. Taking a moment to calm himself, Shanomoté reached behind his head and tied his back-length hair into a ponytail behind his head with a piece of leather. After finally calming himself and listening to his conscious, Shanomoté decided to change the conversation for the better.

“How is…Stephen?”

“Micah now.” Aileen corrected her brother on the name of her new companion. “It didn’t work out with Stephen. How about you? Any girlfriends yet?”

Aileen jabbed the muscled shoulder of her older brother but it was apparent to both of them that this was an awkward dance around a delicate topic. Shanomoté shook his head to indicate that there had been no one of the opposite sex in his life lately.

“No, but I’m headed to the next village tomorrow for a date.” Shanomoté lied.

“You always were a terrible liar.” Aileen smiled, seeing right through her brother.

Shanomoté shrugged comically, however he felt the reality of his lie sink in. There were no women even near his age in any of the surrounding villages…let alone the entire reservation. This was a small detail that Shanomoté felt gnawing away at him for the last few years. Aileen broke the conversational barrier that had been put in place moments ago.

“Why don’t you come with me? Micah and I are headed to back to Boston on Saturday…I think you’d like it. Maybe you could find someone there.”

“Aileen…” Shanomoté lowered his voice to a commanding growl. “I told you I wouldn’t…”

Shanomoté paused instantly as he repeated the place in his head…Boston.

That name. Shanomoté had heard it whispered by the spirits in his vision. It was the place that he had to journey to…the place that the spirits said he was going to find the key to revolution in. Shanomoté looked to his sister, straight into her brown eyes with a serious stare.

“Where did you say you were going?”

“Uh…Boston?” Aileen seemed almost apologetic when she spoke the name. “I moved there last fall with Micah. It’s a great place…”

“Can you come back to pick me up? Tomorrow is Friday right?” Shanomoté cut his sisters’ words short.

Aileen studied her brother for quite sometime. She silently looked over her larger family member with a puzzled yet delighted expression. It had been a sore topic for both siblings to discuss for ages but now it seemed as though Aileen’s brother couldn’t wait to leave the reservation and head more than halfway across the country to a new city. Aileen probed a bit farther into her brothers’ request.

“You’re serious? You want to go?”

“Yes.” Shanomoté nodded emphatically.

“Alright…I’ll be here tomorrow at noon. Have your stuff packed and we’ll…”

That was all Aileen could say before her brother turned and bounded up the remainder of the steps into the house and slammed the door shut behind him. Aileen shrugged and stood, removing her keys from her purse and deactivating the cars’ alarm with an audible beep. She moved towards it, still shaking her head in confusion.
__________________________________________________________________________________________