Alexander Hamilton: A Short Story

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Alexander watched in agony as John Laurens was carted away, bleeding and groaning, on a ragged, stained stretcher. The battlefield scene around him was grotesque; enough to make grown men, trained soldiers even, vomit and turn green with its putrid sights, sounds, and smells. But Alexander Hamilton was focused on only one thing. “John?” Alexander called weakly. He felt his hand stretching towards the limp form, fingers groping the empty air in futile attempts to reach his friend. “John,” he called again, louder. “John, John, John! Laurens!” He choked back a rising sob in his throat and bit his lip, drawing a speck of blood. He yelled again and a few people turned, puzzled. The majority, however, remained focused; their expressions unaltered
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