He wakes up and the first word he hears is wait! and his lips start to form the word burr? but then he sees the speaker: a woman with red hair wearing something obscenely, splendidly tight and he wonders if this is heaven and God is more of a tomcat that he suspected – but then he tries to move and pain flares down his spine, one greedy white jag, and he amends his original assessment: this is Hell, surely. “Pray tell,” he says, “where am I?” and the woman is joined by a sandy-haired man with some strange flesh-coloured apparatus curling around his ears. “New York,” says the man, “who’re you?” The man has a bow. The arrow is notched and aimed at Hamilton’s face. It is frightfully, laughably primitive – but then again the Indian braves have done much damage to westbound farmers with less and so Hamilton bites his tongue on some of his more hysterical questions and says, “My name is Alexander Hamilton. I’m at your service, sir.”
They tell him where he is. He does not believe them. They tell him when he is and he does not believe them – just a moment ago, just a moment ago, there was Burr, the gunshot, the smoke and the blood and I died I died I heard my heart lurch to a stop I saw God, the great beyond and –
They say a lot of words. There is a man in a slim black suit with obnoxious facial hair and he talks far too much and Hamilton is too quivery and out-of-place to understand the absurdity of such a condemnation (Hamilton says Tony Stark talks too much; in other news, a garden pond accuses the Atlantic of being overly wet.) He understands. He weeps. His children are dead, his grandchildren are dead. His legacy is –
there’s a musical, says Stark in a hush to Captain America (tall and blonde and how ridiculous, how perfectly absurd, this nation should not have saints or idols or – )
There is a musical. There are books and television and the internet – God help the modern world, Hamilton learns about the internet and the first thing he does is write a twenty five thousand word blog on why the memory of Jefferson is overrated and false. He gets Jarvis to proofread it. He gets Jarvis to stick it on the New York Times and there’s a mass panic about someone hacking into the website for the sole purpose of slagging off a long-dead Founding Father. Nick Fury explains about firewalls and internet security. Hamilton rants at him – the Avengers listen through the door, hear things like Sally Hemings and how would you feel if the worst person you knew was remembered a hero and the article is taken down but somehow, somehow Hamilton learns what a blog is.
Things Hamilton loves about the modern world: twitter, blogging, Lin Manuel Miranda, swearing, loose sexual morality, Starbucks, minimal slavery (it still counts, he says hotly, in Africa and Asian it’s still there it isn’t gone yet – )
Yes he meets Lin Manuel Miranda. He rebukes him at length about inaccuracies. He thanks him. He sees his own play fifteen times and starts thinking about a sequel.
Oh yes. There’s a sequel.
Because the fact of the matter is this: Clinton’s corrupt and Sanders is well-meaning but doesn’t have the support and Trump is just…well. Hamilton breaks his nose and writes op-eds for every paper in the country declaring why he was right to do so.
Look: American politics is a mess. And in comes the Founding Father Without A Father, the Bastard Son of a Whore and he says: so what did I miss?
And he claps his hands and grins and says I’m not throwing away my shot and the internet goes mad and the public goes mad and no one is saying he’ll win this election but the next one, oh the next one. Four years is an eternity in politics and Senator Hamilton has the one thing he needed most: more time.
“To fly higher than the eagle, to run faster than the deer, to swim as freely as the fish, to have the cunning of the coyote and the sleekness of the lion ― this is to possess the spirit that sings in the wind and cries in the fire, the spirit that shall never leave my home.”
May 24, 1916 - Volunteer Pilot William Thaw becomes the First American to Receive the
Pictured - Thaw poses with Whiskey, one of the Lafayette Squadron’s two lion cub mascots (the other was named Soda). He survived his wounds from the day’s battle and made it through the war. He returned home to Pittsburgh, but the war had killed his love for flying.
. A German reconnaissance plane flew lazily home from a mission on May 18 when a biplane swooped onto it from out of the morning sun. On its wings it wore the blue and red French roundel, but it also bore a device never seen before on its fuselage, the face of a yelling Indian brave. Before the German observer could fire back, he and his pilot were dead, their plane spinning towards the ground.
It was an ordinary aerial kill, but for the nationality of the pilot in the French plane: Caporal Kiffen Rockwell from Asheville, North Carolina. Rockwell’s victory was the first for the Lafayettes, the American volunteer squadron flying for France. The Lafayette Escadrille was an odd mixture of New England blue-bloods, southern boys, college men and soldiers-of-fortune. Most of them strongly disagreed with America’s isolationist streak, many had fought in the trenches with the Foreign Legion in 1915. All of them were devoted to the Allied and the French cause, but also to having fun: whenever they threw a party (which was all the time), it ended with the sacking of the local hotel.
Among them was William Thaw, a former student at Yale who had developed a passion for flying and bought his own flying boat during college. Now a Lafayette, Thaw became its next hero after Rockwell’s victory. On May 24, flying support for the ground attacks on Douaumont, he got in a bitter scrap with four Fokker monoplanes. A bullet from a German fighter severed the artery in his arm, fixing it forward permanently for the rest of his life, but Thaw managed to down one of his attackers and escape the other three, landing on the French side of the lines in his bullet-ridden machine. For his day’s exploits, he became the first American to win France’s highest honor, the