benjamin lam

Y'all Need to Stop

I’ve noticed this trend where if someone even begins to say something that is a fact about the Founding Fathers that isn’t well known, people will get shit for it almost immediately because, and here’s the kicker, it makes them seem human. They were human, no? It gets worse when.. We say something about how the bastard in office should be impeached the response is immediately, “Oh, it’s too late/won’t happen/can’t happen.” There’s a long list, but what I’m saying is, you’re bitching at people about the Founding Fathers when a majority of them aren’t even presenting them as model individuals, when they’ve all long since died, but when it comes to your own day and age, you can’t do anything? At all? I might get shit for this but the moral of the story is this, don’t hate on someone for giving you knowledge you didn’t know beforehand because believe it or not, this becomes an immediate issue with respect because y'all feel the need to disrespect someone because of one post about how James Madison was the most suicidal bastard out there and you’re so quick to call racist when, and trust me, I’ve seen it, half y'all voted for Trump who is not only an actual racist individual, he’s literally what albeism would be if it was personified.
Drunk on the Taste of Your Lips. - fearless_seas - American History RPF [Archive of Our Own]
The night before John Andre's execution, he finds solace in learning of Benjamin Tallmadge's broken heart.
By Organization for Transformative Works

Relationships: Nathan Hale (1755-1776)/Benjamin Tallmadge

Series: Part 2 of the Early American History | Stories They Won’t Tell

Words: 6,188


October 1st, 1780.


         Benjamin Tallmadge did not see the drawing until the prisoner lifted it up to him from where he sat. The prisoner set the charcoal stick down on the table, the ash leaving the creases of his fingerprints and smudges across the paper. He wouldn’t admit he recognized who it was at first. Their was a horse with a mane of blonde, and somehow although there was not color to the art, Benjamin recognized the light shading. Every hair in place, and his eyes caught on the gentleman riding the mare. The man’s hands were tied behind his back and strands of rope hung off under the rawing of his wrists. As he stood, under his collar he began to sweat, not raising a finger to loosen the buttons around his neck. Ben shuddered, mind hammering to the notice of the familiar facial features. The same as the prisoner he was guarding at the desk.

         John Andre let out a chuckle, “Quite a comical parade, is it not?”. The second guard at his right, Lieutenant-Colonel Alexander Hamilton, did not smile in reply, and neither did Ben. Silence perpetrated the room. A stranger fear pierced through him as if the cutting of a knife, the state of tension between love of natural beauty and the consternation of natural meaningless or absurdity. It was not surprising when the guilty verdict rang out across the courtroom, and it was not surprising when there was a pang of guilt that riveted throughout his chest. Tomorrow was the day, his life will hang as an unfinished sentence with a dismal comma sliced after the words. He could be thirty-one next year, he gambled with dice, on what mattered most. He lost.

        Out of the corner of his view, the edges of Hamilton’s rose lips were screwed up, tight with pity. Ben’s ear twitched and he diverted his secret glance, the constriction in his shoulder building and he shifted footing. He could feel his eyes water and he blinked rapidly to mask; what use would it be? Would his tears somehow change the jury’s verdict? Would his pain somehow steal from the Andre’s death? He’ll rendezvous with death, at some disputed barricade. The silhouette of life’s shattered dreams, broken hearts and tearful streams. Ben was always too sensitive, overthinking every little piece; at least that’s what he was once told.

         He once wondered why he didn’t look as any of his four brothers did. His mother always told him that there were no nightmares underneath his bed, they were all inside his head. Somehow, with every bed time story, the wisps of his mother’s resemblance to himself told him stories of beautiful girls he would one day marry. Her lips failed to mention to him about boys with sunshine trapped in their hair, ice in their eyes and laugh that seemed to stop time itself and crack the empyrean. He would trade every one of his joyous memories for one last moment with that boy.

         Nathan Hale.

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Gold Flecks in Ink. - fearless_seas - 17th Century CE RPF [Archive of Our Own]
Alexander Hamilton found out why Benjamin Tallmadge couldn't look at the sky on a starry night.
By Organization for Transformative Works

17th Century CE RPF, American History RPF, American Revolution RPF

Relationships: Nathan Hale (1755-1776)/Benjamin Tallmadge, Alexander Hamilton/Benjamin Tallmadge, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens

Characters: Benjamin Tallmadge, John André, Alexander Hamilton, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Nathan Hale

Part 4 of the Early American History | Stories They Won’t Tell series

Word Count: 6,384


“Among the extra ordinary circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his enemies, he died universally esteemed and universally regretted.”

- Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, October 11th, 1780.


October 2nd, 1780.

        The sun rise just peeked over the tops of the mountains, scarcely brushing the leafless trees at the edge of the valley. Benjamin Tallmadge arched his shoulders stretched them back before raising a hand to rub his heavy eyelids. In the circular motion, he revolved his tongue in his throat, running it across his chapped lips, cracking from the cold in a seemingly endless winter. Every few minutes he’d shut his eye- just for a moment- his body would jolt just before he collapsed onto the floor- catching himself just on time and resuming his position. Ben shifted his weight and winced, a stiff and sore back from being seated for the entire night. He blinked his eyes, liquid registering to them as they watered from sleep deprivation.

        His vision was searching for something to keep him occupied in the prison cabin that was still exasperated in the darkness, for the moon had folded into the sun and sunk below the horizon. The bister of his watch caught on a spinning trail of crimson wax that had dried and turned cold as it hit the surface of the table. They followed it up to the candle holder and of course, to the candle- in the wick he could still see the ghost of the flame as it danced and nicitated across the wooden walls. It had been out for hours. Ben sat up straight and felt sleep stretching the corners of his eyes down to his cheeks. He revolved his neck finding the desk chair still occupied by John Andre’s seemingly life-filling form. Andre hadn’t shut himself all night- and Ben tell that the window was not yet tired from having the Englishman regard painting the glass with different shades of misery.

           Benjamin turned his neck, running a hand along the back of his skin and fluttered his glare over the corner where a cot was occupied. The man who took the spot was curled up against the wall, legs lounged out in front of him and his cocked hat drifting a shadow across the slant of his face. Ruby hair poking out and sticking to the man’s forehead. What a strange sight it was to see Alexander Hamilton in such a peaceful state. Even from across the room, it was unmistakable to trace the silhouettes that had shredded into his cheeks from last night. Perhaps he fell asleep in the arms of a dream so beautiful it caused tears to contaminate his bones on the surface of his ivory skin and in the flecks of flames scattered across the hues of his freckles.

          Ben almost contemplated waking him up but before he could there was a shudder and Hamilton spread his arms around him and sat up, tapping the brim of his cockade up out of his face, lids half drawn. The major didn’t fear sleepless nights; nobody knew how lengthy the dark lasts when you cannot close your eyes to it. Although he was clearly breathing, his chest felt hollow as a bird’s wings, only in contrast he could not fly- kept down on soil by the water swimming weight in his lungs. A sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, barely able to see through the mist of fog that was clouding his dreamless tinges of the leaves. The moon, vacant from the sky had retreated to solitude while the sun hadn’t risen yet to meet the day in celebrating illuminations.

         His eyes had just began to drift into slumber once again when the door to the cabin busted open. Hamilton’s boots sunk to the floor and he took off his hat setting it beside him, and Ben just adjacent, lifted his chin off the palm of his hand and stretched his eyelashes across his forehead in confusion. His vision cleared and Ben almost stood up- perhaps it was General Washington. The familiar tight set of the hips and a lean, childish figure stepped into the room. The visage, not cursed in an unparalleled wrinkle, or a minuscule marking or scar was pure as snow and they immediately spun their concentration towards the the prisoner who was seated at the desk.

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