Chapter Text
Valley Forge – March 5th, 1778
The rations had long ago run low, morale among the men was even lower, and most days the Baron von Steuben’s fiery temper was hovering somewhere dangerously in between. Extreme pressure produced different effects on all the officers; Washington was withdrawn and brooding, likely putting off a guilt that threatened to deeply affect him every time another report arrived of his men catching another disease or another case of frostbite. Richard Meade became loud and boisterous, too much so, as if to make up for everyone else’s quiet resignation. Alexander Hamilton became so absorbed in the mountains of letters, bills and orders waiting for his quill that sometimes it was unclear if he even realized the exact volume of his own stress, or if he had already resigned himself to it. (His lack of sleep was worrying, given the terrible fever he had suffered through in New York, but everyone else was half-nocturnal as well, and so in no position to dispute.) Du Ponceau grew quieter, Harrison complained of headaches, and even the Marquis de Lafayette was not his usual optimistic self.
Whatever the effects were on John Laurens, he hoped to keep to himself. Some days it felt as if the stiffness of his boots was the only thing holding him upright. Others it was simply the fact that Washington needed him, thus the Continental Army needed him, thus this new country that they were laboring so hard to haul out from the cavern where it had been chained by colonialism, also needed him. This was a newly terrifying and encouraging sentiment for Laurens, as causes to fight for had been few and far between in his younger days.
In the years before he knew the world, John had grown up in the cool tree-shadows of South Carolina, pretending to be a different storybook hero every day. Sometimes he was Theseus, with a stolen spool of his mother’s embroidery thread trailing behind him through the garden. Others, he was Jack, and every second tree was the infamous Beanstalk. Some of the best days were just spent peacefully with a paper and pencil, sketching the shapes of the clouds before they moved on. It was not long before he too moved on, to studies of the words and numbers and sciences that make up this world, and the reality of his father’s business became apparent to him.
John Laurens knew that keeping slaves was wrong. He was fairly sure his father knew this too, but unlike his son, Henry Laurens did not let idealism intrude upon the daily workings of his plantation. Beneath that sun that was so pleasant when John was climbing trees, or inside working away at his lessons, human beings just like himself, only from a different continent, were toiling and sweating away without the rights that he and his family took for granted. And this, he knew, was cruel and abhorrent and… not something the world seemed willing to change.
That was, until one crossed the ocean. There seemed to be a lot more people who shared John’s abolitionist point of view as he took up more studies in Europe. In fact, he had never felt more at home than among his colleagues there. Intrigued by his studies, cordial with those around him and eternally impressed that a place could have such history, Laurens found that Geneva, with its surrounding mountains and beautiful blue waves had quickly become something akin to home.
The rest of his life, up until this point, seemed quicker. London, a painful letter, the lovely Martha Manning, and an education in law had all happened in rapid succession before he had taken to a ship once more, bound for Philadelphia and the War of Independence. This was the cause he had waited for so long to fight for, the injustice he just couldn’t ignore a second longer, resulting in the young revolutionary charging headlong into… General Washington’s office.
Perhaps vigorous translation and letter-writing had not been John’s first thought when he volunteered as an aide for the Continental army, but he recognized the importance of information in such an endeavor, and resolved to give it his all. And the company was admirable – the other aides, Harrison, Meade, Fitzgerald, Hamilton and the Marquis de Lafayette – the way Washington cordially referred to them as his “family”… Laurens couldn’t really place the feeling, but he wanted to fall under that name too.
The recollections sped up. The camp had moved, long lines of marching soldiers, longer meetings of officers and decisions hastily made. A sudden cry – “The redcoats are coming! We are surrounded!” Laurens had charged their ranks with his men, bayonets fixed, yelling loud enough to be heard over the blood pounding in his ears. What John had seen flashed again before his mind’s eye, the lingering gun-smoke, the thundering of horse’s hooves, the sickening noise of his sword as he sheathed it between the ribs of another man… one gunshot had been louder than the rest, loud enough to fill his shoulder with pain – he had been shot! – wounded soldiers were yelling, or perhaps it was him, he was pressing the heel of his hand into the pain, trying to stifle it but it was only getting redder, his brain was screaming about Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori but his limbs didn’t want to obey. He fought on, but his attention was held captive by the blood… him and his men were bleeding, so were the British, the same blood was flowing through all of them, so why did it feel so right to want to spill theirs? A part of him felt compassion, but that was buried so deep now, beneath the clash of swords and the battlefield cries and the dry, rasping cough of a dying man –
John Laurens gasped himself awake, his heart pounding, and his eyes inches from the good-natured and heart-shaped face of Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette. What he had supposed to be the gasping of a man in his last moments on earth was simply Alexander Hamilton, on the other side of their lodgings, propped up on one elbow and sleepily coughing into a handkerchief. A dull flush was just fading from the other revolutionary’s cheeks. The sky, or what he could see of it from inside, was hardly lightening around the edges – it was well before dawn.
Lafayette’s curious gaze followed as John sank back down onto his pillow, thickly muttering “qu’est-ce qui se-passe?” before rubbing his eyes.
« Bonjour, ma chère Laurens, » the Marquis replied. « Je suis très désolée pour te-réveiller, mais il-y-a un problème à la tente du General Washington… »
Hamilton pushed an auburn lock from his eyes, and coughed again before asking “What sort of a problem demands action this early?”
Laurens was afraid he knew what the nature of this problem was. Lafayette was evidently nervous, picking at his nails and looking imploringly at Hamilton first, then Laurens. John sighed and threw back his covers, beginning to dress.
It became apparent to him immediately after coming out from under the blanket that the night had not been kind to the camp at Valley Forge. Even indoors his breath was lightly visible, and hastily pulling on the cold fabric of his uniform as Hamilton dressed across the room caused his limbs to prickle with cold. The Marquis was rubbing his hands together to keep warm, gloved as they were.
They emerged into the still-darkness outside, Lafayette and Hamilton striding purposefully while Laurens stumbled a bit, trying to lace up his boot whilst walking. Though it had not snowed for a long time now, the temperature was still cold enough to freeze a crust atop the white flakes, making everything glitter. Typically John enjoyed a snowfall, but then again, he was typically indoors while it was falling. Out here, the weather was your enemy, and all of its previously poetic qualities ceased to hold much importance. What had looked pure before now looked desolate, and what used to glitter like diamonds now glittered like the edge of a sabre. There were other worries – men didn’t have shoes, coats, or much motivation. Some soldiers politely impressed upon their officers that they needed more supplies. Others simply waited for their terms of service to finish, and left for good. Still others deserted or spoke out brazenly about the general. The list of these was growing much too fast for the officers’ liking.
They halted in front of the tent, Lafayette’s so-called problem glaringly evident. « Voila… » he said quietly.
“Good Lord…” said Hamilton.
Scrawled across the slanted, taught fabric in black ink were the words: HELL HAS FROZEN OVER! WHY DO WE REMAIN?! Somebody had evidently brushed away the snow during the night and written the slanderous declaration by dipping their fingers in the ink. The three revolutionaries stood in silence for a while longer, attempting to work out suspects and solutions just by staring down the words. Finally:
“Conway.” said Hamilton, at the same time as Laurens said, “Lee.”
« Excuse-moi? » Asked Lafayette.
Sharing a look from either side of him, Hamilton and Laurens raised their eyebrows at one another and silently resolved to put off debate until a later time. Hamilton coughed quietly. “I do believe we have found the rascal who stole my ink on Thursday,” he said, attempting a half-smile, “In fact, he’s made it easy for us. All we have to do is track down the man with ink-blackened fingers and that would be our culprit.”
The Marquis was not so easily consoled, it seemed. “I can not believe that these men would do such a… a repugnant thing!” he exclaimed. “General Washington is our leader, and he is wise, and we must all trust him so that we are united! In France, a soldier would never-”
Laurens placed a hand on his shoulder. “In France a soldier would have food. Gilbert, je comprends que cette action as te dérangé, but these are far from ordinary circumstances. Nous pouvons commencer par manger le petit déjeuner. There will be time to find the scoundrel with the ink-blackened fingers after that.”
“A scoundrel with ink-blackened fingers?” Laurens whipped around, only to note the approaching figure of none other than Major General Thomas Conway himself. His dark eyes had taken on the glitter of the surrounding ice and John couldn’t help but note that his necktie was done up so tightly he seemed (from an observer’s view) on the point of strangulation. “I dare say that would not be hard to find.”
The tips of Hamilton’s ears had gone red, whether from the cold or from dislike of Conway, it was impossible to tell. “And why would that be, Major General?”
Conway shrugged. “I happened across a spare bottle of ink some days ago, and inquired about its ownership – it was good ink after all – but when no one came forward, I thought I might give it as a gift to some of the men for the purpose of writing home or whatever they might do with it.” Hamilton’s ears reddened further. “Well, as it turns out, the poor fellows were in such a state of cold that the bottle slipped, broke, and they spent a good deal of time trying to clean it off the surface of the desk. The entirety of that cabin, a good dozen men, I’d say, are all ‘scoundrels with ink-blackened fingers’ as you put it.” Despite the stiff tightness of his posture, Conway was smirking.
“That is a shame,” said Laurens, biting back some stronger sentiments, “But we still must endeavor to find our man, whomever he might be, Major General.”
“Best of luck then,” Conway continued past them, and it was only when his footsteps faded away that John realized that his palms were aching. He had been clenching his fists so hard his knuckles were white.
“I hate to say it,” said Lafayette, “But the Major General is in the habit of being an unsavory fellow sometimes.”
Hamilton gave a dry laugh. “I don’t suppose you could have said it better. He is, unfortunately, correct however. We shall likely never find the perpetrator now.” They set out, absent-mindedly trampling Conway’s footsteps, towards a cook-fire where the smell of something baking was warming the air. “A wickedly good ruse,” Alexander muttered to John, partially in a state of disgust but partially in grudging admiration towards the lengths that Conway would go to make his point.
“Up so early, sirs?” asked the man at the fire, handing over their share of firecakes, which in itself was a quiet reminder that rations were down again.
John bit into the flavorless biscuit. “You may blame that on Monsieur Lafayette, I’m afraid,” he joked, “Though the poor fellow has to be up this early in any case just to arrive on time.”
Lafayette rolled his eyes. “Had I known that Monsieur Havard’s house was on the Rue de Wilson, I would have rather invaded your lodgings.”
“Nonsense,” Hamilton smirked, “I never knew you as one to relinquish your morning exercise!”
The cook laughed and Hamilton thanked him as their party split – Lafayette to General Washington’s headquarters and Hamilton and Laurens (the latter still picking his teeth of the overcooked firecake) to the tent of the newest, loudest, and most influential addition to their ranks: Baron von Steuben.
The Prussian Inspector General was seated behind his desk, scratching the ears of a small greyhound by the name of Azor and muttering in German at his secretary, Pierre Etienne du Ponceau, as they entered his tent. Von Steuben and du Ponceau made a contrasting pair, the former being very tall (nearly the height of General Washington), and barrel-chested, with a deep, booming voice, while the latter was smaller even than Hamilton, always quick and bowed over several papers at once, peering out at the world from behind thick, wire-rimmed spectacles. While du Ponceau was a soft-spoken, studious youth, the Baron always spoke as if calling out a drill, and was forever a man of action with a truly sanguine temperament. Upon a first inspection, Laurens had not thought that the pair would get along quite so amicably, but it seemed that the slight secretary always knew the exact words for what von Steuben was thinking, and the Inspector General, in turn, seemed to inspire a patriotic rebelliousness in the youth that took the serious look out of his bespectacled eyes.
John had translated the Baron von Steuben’s initial interview with General Washington, finding a common tongue in French, as the Prussian man didn’t have much of a grasp of English. Initially his thought was that the vacant Quartermaster General position would suit him well, and perhaps take a burden off the shoulders of the other aides who had been struggling to fill it, but Washington seemed to favour that of Inspector General. This proved to be good reason, as every day since, von Steuben had been drilling groups of soldiers mercilessly, attempting to form something of a professional army from their tired and starving ranks. So far, John was tempted to say that they were improving.
Hamilton and Laurens stepped through the tent opening, shoulder-to-shoulder to accommodate for the lack of space, and saluted the Inspector General. Azor padded over to investigate the newcomers, sniffing at Laurens’s hand before curling up once more beside its master. “Why does he like you best?” Hamilton muttered, taking mock offense. Von Steuben nodded in greeting, smirking slightly. Laurens found that smirk unnerving, as if the drillmaster knew something he didn’t.
“Guten morgan, monsieurs. J’espère que vous avez bien dormi.” He asked, still retaining his smirk.
« Oui, monsieur, merci, » Alexander replied, more of a courtesy than truth. Shuffling a pile of lists and draping his customary long, double-buttoned coat about his shoulders, the Baron stood, placing a hand on du Ponceau’s shoulder in farewell and following Hamilton and Laurens from the tent. Outside, in a clearing, a group of twenty or so men had already gathered, awaiting the day’s instructions.
It would have been folly to state that these men looked well-rested. Hungry-eyed and dressed in tattered uniforms that were smudged with dirt because it was too cold to wash, they simply looked more dejected with each passing day. A third of them didn’t even have shoes, and were rocking back and forth on feet bound up in scraps of fabric.
Laurens could smell something in the air that was getting closer and closer to the scent of mutiny. Horse-dung and gunpowder, firecake and alcohol, already it had overpowered countless deserters who had fled from their ranks. Today, however, the most affected seemed to be a man in the second row (was his name Wainwright?) who was glaring sullenly out at the world and moving slowly, as if against his will. It was on account of him that von Steuben shouted at their ranks to perform several maneuvers again, up to speed and in time with one another.
« Moins néglige! Dépêchez-vous! Vous avez l’air des manteaux-rouges néglige! Encore!! »
“Less sloppy!” Laurens translated, not without a thought of pity. “And with haste! The Inspector General describes you as sloppy redcoats. Again!”
If there was one French word that all the soldiers knew by this point, it was the infamous « Encore! » John had stopped having to translate now, because as soon as von Steuben bellowed « Encore! » the soldiers all knew to repeat the maneuver again, or else face his rather stormy temper.
They moved on from marching drills to close-quarters bayonet attacks once they had warmed up slightly. Laurens and Hamilton stood before the ranks, demonstrating the technique and translating most of what von Steuben said (some words were decidedly inappropriate to say in such a setting).
Stamp. Twenty men mirrored their image, smacking their rifles sideways into the chest of an imaginary redcoat. A man in the front line stumbled.
« Zut! » The drillmaster huffed. « Encore! »
Stamp. The men repeated the action, all except the sullen fellow in the second row, who had folded his arms across his chest, grumbling. It was impossible not to notice.
« Si vous êtes sourd, j’ai clairement dit ENCORE! » Von Steuben roared. There was silence from the assembled soldiers.
That’s too far, John thought. “Monsieur…” he started.
“Apologies,” said Hamilton, addressing the group as a whole, as opposed to Wainwright himself. “I shall demonstrate encore. One simply holds one’s bayonet like this, approaches the fearsome redcoat, and-”
Before John realized what was going on, Hamilton had crossed the two paces between them, just slowly enough for him to catch the look of mingled humour and apology in his widened eyes, before slamming his bayonet sideways across Laurens’s chest. The blow wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it did send him sprawling backwards onto the frozen ground with a crunch. There was a brief silence, long enough for Laurens to fill his winded lungs once more and wobble to his feet, and then the men began to laugh uproariously.
Laughter was not a sound that was often heard in Valley Forge. It seemed like the valley didn’t approve, and the trees and frozen earth were trying to swallow the offending noise. This, however, did not deter the soldiers, and Laurens noted, with a certain degree of humiliation that lingered somewhere close to his bruised chest, that he must have cut quite a funny figure. Hamilton was doubled over, his slight shoulders shaking, the men were all howling with laughter, and even von Steuben was chuckling with schadenfreude at John’s clumsy state.
Hamilton straightened up and brushed the frost from Laurens’s shoulder. “Thank you for your good humour, Colonel… I mean, good humour for a fearsome redcoat, that is.” Another riotous round of snickering. Even Wainwright was grinning.
« Calmez-vous, soldats, » von Steuben said, his laughter fading to that same prying smirk that he had worn previously. « Encore. » Stamp.
~
“What in the hell was that?!” Laurens gingerly rubbed his collarbone through the fabric of his coat, an injured expression on his face. Hamilton was facing the window, away from him, watching the dirty grey clouds crowd the sky. The forever-talkative revolutionary was, for once, just as quiet as the workroom they had set up in the drawing room at headquarters. John folded his arms. He had always admired Alexander, even upon arriving in Philadelphia he had found that they got along amicably, as if they had known each other for years. With his combination of wit and humour, Alexander somehow just understood. He knew what it was to want so desperately to prove yourself, albeit for completely different reasons. He could make sense of politics, economics, and military strategies with such prodigy that John nearly envied him, but made such grand and pompous speeches when he thought no one else was listening that he became more endearing than competing.
At first Laurens had been cautious. He felt his eyes drawn to Hamilton’s hair as the other absent-mindedly tied it back, to the sharp angles of his nose and cheekbones that made him look like a statue from days long ago, and in this admiration he also found a fear within himself. These were not sentiments he was supposed to harbour. Especially not for a friend such as Alexander was. He was no longer the impressionable young lad he had been in Geneva, and Hamilton, he was certain, was by no means of that sort of character.
But John had not known he was of the character to push others around with the side of a bayonet. He failed to understand why such an embarrassing attack was necessary. “I repeat, sir, what in the name of wonder was that?” he asked again.
Alexander sighed, his breath frosting the glass in front of him. “Alright,” he admitted, “It was an action committed in very bad taste. And that I apologize for. But surely you must see how it was needed?”
“You hit me with a bayonet in front of the entire training company. Forgive me if I require but a little explanation.”
Finally, Hamilton turned around. “You saw Wainwright. He was ready to run. I doubt he would have even cared if he’d been court-martialed as of now. The men have long past the mark that they should have broken at, and in all likelihood, they will continue to break. We are holding together the remains of a sinking ship at this point in time. I needed their attention, good humour, and loyalty, so I pulled a farce, and I am truly sorry that you had to be on the receiving end.”
The ink dripped from the end of Laurens’s quill and onto his paper – he hadn’t realized that he had been holding it suspended without writing for so long. Hastily he blotted the stain. “It serves me right, I suppose,” he said. “Here I sit, so wrapped up in my own bruised pride that I couldn’t see the mutiny we so narrowly avoided.”
“Well…” Alexander held back a laugh. “In truth, you should have seen your own expression!”
“What did he look like?” neither of them had noticed the sudden intrusion of the Marquis de Lafayette after his meeting with General Washington, swinging on one foot around the bottommost column of the staircase. A visible change in thought passed over Hamilton’s face, pointing his sharp nose in Lafayette’s direction and an attentive glint in his eyes.
“What is His Excellency’s opinion?” Hamilton asked, searching out a pocket-handkerchief and coughing into it.
“Ne vous occupez jamais,” Lafayette dismissed the question, “What did ma chère Laurens look like and why are his ears so red?”
Hamilton was not content to let the point drop. “He resembled something of this sort:” he made a surprised expression that did absolutely nothing for the condition of Laurens’s bruised pride, and barreled onwards. “I must hear, however what General Washington thinks of this Northern Expedition, if you would be so kind, chère Marquis.”
Lafayette relinquished the banister and pulled up a chair at the table beside Laurens, facing Hamilton. He picked at his fingernail thoughtfully. « Asseyez-vous. »
Hamilton obliged, sliding into the straight-backed chair and folding his legs up beneath him in a distinctively catlike manner. Lafayette retrieved a letter from some hidden pocket and spread it on the table atop the countless other piles of letters, bills and orders that were obscuring the tablecloth.
“’Tis from Captain L’Enfant in New York. Vous vous souvenez, I requested he inspect the troops of the Northern Expedition, as General Washington needed some lettres spécifiques for les aristocrates en France. This is his letter… which does not seem so promising. He writes that they are cold and hungry, and most are bitter for being so.”
Laurens made a noise halfway between a laugh and clearing his throat. “That does not sound so unfamiliar…”
“C’est vrai, but in this case, the expedition was promised two thousand five hundred men, you recall. Captain L’Enfant counts only one thousand two hundred.” Hamilton bit down on his lip, furrowing his brow. He nodded at Lafayette to continue. “With so few men it would be terribly difficult to capture Montreal-” he pronounced this with about half its usual consonants, a fact which Laurens stored away with the rest that he knew about the French language. “- and even harder to hold it. Despite Congress being so… catégorique…?”
“Adamant,” Hamilton translated.
“…so adamant, General Washington and I have decided that it simply can not be done at the moment.”
Alexander visibly relaxed. John felt relieved as well. This, at least, was one way in which any conspirators would not ensnare them. “Additionally, it’s well in your interest to inspect who the Expedition would serve,” Laurens said, measuring every word carefully. “If there are those who would want to separate you and the General, we ought to wonder why.”
« Suggérez-vous-? »
Before the argumentative expression on Lafayette’s face could develop any farther into speech, Hamilton cut in. “We suggest no names, dear Gilbert, simply that there are some in Congress who…” he glanced around. They were sufficiently alone. “..Seek to discredit the General, even replace him.”
John gave Alexander a look. This seemed a bit far, considering the love that the Marquis bore for their country and their cause. But, understandably, Hamilton chose not to treat Lafayette as a child. There was every difficulty imaginable in revolution; their current position (shivering around a table that was surfaced with letters and receipts, the frosted grey lines of the Valley marching into the distance outside the window) could attest to that. There was no time or practicality for being formal or coating details in honey for anyone.
Lafayette digested this information, his pale cheeks flushing a little with indignation at the thought of a plot against Washington, perhaps remembering the events of that morning. Whatever the case, he collected himself admirably. “Merci beaucoup, ma chère matou. I am glad we shall not be playing into the hands of traitors. I must bring this to the Baron von Steuben,” he tucked a letter under his coat, “alors, au revoir!”
“Mm, I forgot,” Alexander was already arranging papers, “Du Ponceau sends his regards. He says he has a particularly good piece of word-play for you, as he attempted to explain to John and myself. It passed us latecomers to the French language by, however.”
“Merci!” Before Laurens could raise his head again, Lafayette had already sprang from the porch and was gone.
Rubbing absent-mindedly at the ink-spot he had unwittingly made, John readied his quill again and set about translating the first page of bayonet positions and drills which would make up the next morning’s exercises. The growing volume, titled Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United States, was something the Continental army would forever be in debt to Baron von Steuben for. With his skill, a good deal of translation, and hopefully some sort of Providence, they would be better prepared to face the British forces, assuming they were able to survive the bleak conditions in the meantime.
Hamilton, his slight frame still somewhat curled up, was pursuing a letter. He frowned, slapped it down onto a pile, and began to scratch out an agenda for the next officers’ meeting. There would evidently be no help from Congress today.
Not a quiet quarter of an hour passed in the headquarters before the door opened again, letting in a freezing draft and Richard Meade. “Fellows,” he said by way of greeting, and proceeded to shake the snow from his boots. Hamilton hummed in response.
“Hello,” said John, blowing on his translation to dry the ink. “You might be better served doing that outside; I doubt Mrs. Hewes-”
This came slightly too late. “Richard Kidder Meade, what harm has my doormat ever done to you?” Mrs. Hewes, though more than a head shorter than Meade and rather stout, still managed to look imposing. She had a tendency to appear out of nowhere – a remarkable feat in so small a house. Meade deflated slightly while Hamilton and Laurens stared fixedly at their respective letters, certain that one mutual glance would send them laughing.
“My apologies ma’am,” he took a step outside, scraped the last of the snow off in one movement, and returned. “I was simply in a hurry.”
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, and her footsteps faded away towards the kitchen. Laurens stifled a laugh as long as he was able.
“You were in a hurry?” Hamilton smirked.
“Indeed,” said their fellow aide-de-camp. “Have you seen the ancient secretary?”
This was in reference to Harrison, the oldest of the General’s aides. “He will be upstairs I assume,” said Laurens, “Washington wanted to speak to him about boot shortages or something of the like. Will you stay? It’s at least warmer in here than out.”
“I can’t for long,” Meade was already on the stairs, “We’ve just had a report of another deserter. You might as well start writing up his warrant, but it can’t go without a mention to the General and Harrison.”
Hamilton was already drawing up a fresh sheet of paper for the warrant as Meade gained the upper floor and was lost to their conversation. “This is, no doubt, linked to the cause of insufficient rations again,” he muttered. “Before you ask-”
“That was not something I planned-”
“But if anyone were to ask, I wrote to Congress on the selfsame subject less than a fortnight ago. They appear incapable of anything besides dishonest responses,” he brandished the expensive paper like a sword, letting the cramped, curly handwriting flash before John’s eyes. “Honestly, I am beyond comprehension of their nonsense. They suggest encore that we might find “creatures and vegetation of an edible nature in the surrounding woodlands which would furnish the army with provisions in the meantime” whilst they eat biscuits and drink...” he blustered for an offending enough choice of beverage.
“Tea?” Laurens suggested helpfully.
“Tea!” Hamilton spat, as if it were a curse.
“Tea?” asked Meade, confusion written all over his wind-burnt features. Having returned he glanced at the document Hamilton was writing, shuffled through a few tall columns of paper, and procured a blueprint. “Afraid I can’t stay for tea, Ham. Apparently I am to survey the conditions of the older cabins. But by all means, save me some.”
“Would that I had any,” muttered Alexander, coughing somewhat quietly into his sleeve.
“Best of luck with the cabins,” Laurens looked up just as Meade gave a mock-salute and left headquarters.
Laurens was finishing the bayonet positions and moving on to marching formations when he felt it. It wasn’t so much that he could see it, but there was a tangible difference in the air, even from inside the makeshift study. A moment later it was audible. It was raining. Hamilton froze, his quill still poised over the last flick of the arrest warrant, and cursed quietly. Within moments, everything on the opposite side of the pane of glass across from Laurens seemed to become soaked. Harrison, from where he had come down to sort through a pile of receipts, sighed quietly.
By the time the clouded sky became dark, Meade had returned, his sodden coat dripping on the floors. This caught Mrs. Hewes’s attention, and he was forced to wring out the fabric out-of-doors before entering again.
“Perhaps,” Hamilton suggested in an undertone once she had retreated to a bookshelf she was re-organizing, “Her attentions are so drawn because she fancies you…”
“Oh please, tomcat,” Meade snickered. “You would be hard pressed to find a respectable lady that does not!” This was amusing, but not as amusing to Laurens as the nickname, which had shown up without really being started by anyone in particular. “In any case, I’m afraid we shall be needing two more arrest warrants. This rain has been the last straw for a few it seems.”
“Remind me again how many times it is that a coward supposedly dies?” Hamilton sighed, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.
“About a thousand, I believe,” John chipped in. “Luckily the brave one dies only once, otherwise there might be no incentive for this sort of work.”
Hamilton smiled, which warmed the study. “All jesting aside,” he said, “It is terribly difficult for one to remember a thousand cowardly deaths. One brave one is far better to leave behind, for then they will remember y- where are you off to?”
Meade stopped with his hand on the door. “One inspection left. I won’t be gone long. By all means, continue being dramatic for when I return!”
They scratched away in silence for a few moments. Paper swished as Laurens added the final page of marching formations and filched a piece of paper to aid Hamilton on the arrest warrants. The rain kept up a constant drumbeat outside.
Suddenly the door slammed open, causing all the aides to leap in surprise. Mead had returned, dripping and framed against the dark hills, obviously in a wild panic. Almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder behind him, he roared over the sound of the weather, “Get your coats!”
The study dissolved into chaos. Harrison upended a basket of papers in his haste to reach his coat, and Hamilton was pulling the stiff fabric over his shoulders while Washington peered down from the top banister. They dashed out into the rain and made it to the edge of the property before Meade sent Harrison back. “Tell the General that a cabin has collapsed.”
The rain lashed against Laurens’s face. It was difficult to keep up with such an outdoorsman as Meade, and he could only imagine how Alexander’s smaller legs were coping; his friend was looking remarkably pale. “Were there men still inside?”
“Five,” came the grim reply.
They dashed through the slick grass that was starting to run with little rivers of rainwater. Nearly losing their precious footing multiple times, the three officers reached the cabin in question at about the same time as a dozen others. It was in a bad state. The timber roof had caved in, taking one of the walls and an entire carpeting of snow with it. At least one harsh cry could be heard from the rubble.
People were already there, pulling away the splintered wood of the cabin. Amidst the yelling and confusion Lafayette was attempting to force the door open. Laurens seized the other side of a log and helped another figure tip it away from the ruins, only to be taken aback. The other figure was a woman, not possibly more than twenty years and with a hungry expression that John might have seen on any number of occasions washing clothes or patching uniforms in odd corners of the camp, if he had been looking. “Ma’am, allow me,” he attempted to take the next splintered board from her hands but she wrenched it away.
“Keep your chivalry,” she cried, “and help me save my husband! I don’t need it!”
The cries increased. Lafayette had managed to force the door open a crack, and Hamilton was the only one able to fit through. Laurens was now shoving aside blocks of hardened snow while Meade pushed an entire log out of the way. The woman practically threw the remains of a desk from her path, her mousey hair dripping with rainwater.
Hamilton made it out, coughing and dragging one of the soldiers out with him. The man’s head was bleeding and he was covered in chips of wood, but certainly alive. Du Ponceau held a sash to his head while someone ran for a medic. Hamilton slipped back in.
Laurens and the girl unearthed a pair of feet, then knees, then most of a soldier from the rubble. His shoulder was bent at a strange angle, but he could see clearly enough to wrap his arms around the girl’s shoulders and let her drag him somewhere safer as John pulled on another piece of timber. This must have been her husband.
Another man made it out with Hamilton. He now lay on the ground some ways away letting the air back into his lungs. Meade found another survivor, hardly more than a boy, who curled up in his arms to be carried to safety. Soaked to the skin, Laurens tried to keep his hands from slipping on the slick wood. Something was wheezing a few feet ahead of his vision. A man, pinned under the main log of the roof, became visible.
Gasping, John lifted the log. “Du Ponceau! M’aide un moment!” Thought the young secretary was soaked and shivering, his glasses running with rainwater, du Ponceau seized the man by the lapels and dragged. The log slipped an inch in John’s grip. “Rapidement, si vous pouvez!” He pulled harder, swinging the soldier around and out of harm’s way. The log crashed to the ground.
Half in a daze, Laurens and du Ponceau pulled the man onto the grass and tried to make him comfortable. His breathing was ragged. “Peut-être c’est une nervure casée…” muttered the secretary.
Beside them the girl was tending to her husband, easing his injured shoulder from his coat. Her hands were bleeding but she didn’t seem to notice. Laurens wondered about her. How many times had he seen her, and others like her, but never given them a second glance? There were certainly women at Valley Forge, but somehow it had taken one to nearly put him to shame in her energetic rescue attempt for him to notice. He had thought himself polite, offering to lift the board for her, but she hadn’t wanted it – she was just as strong.
Ladies bear children, he reminded himself. That is a feat just as dangerous as going into battle, and possibly more painful. He was wrong to think of her as less strong, perhaps. His mother had been strong, so was his dear Martha, somewhere across the sea. As a medic arrived and began to clean the wound on one soldier’s head, he thought of his wife.
It was strange to think of Martha like that, even now. Much better that she was his friend, long-suffering and good and kind. Her heart was strong, somehow enduring such a reckless husband as he was who went gallivanting off to fight in wars and freeze in far-off valleys without her. Would she follow him even here, he wondered, to this frozen-over hell if he hadn’t insisted she stay? His head hurt, or perhaps that was just the cold.
More medics arrived. They confirmed that all five men that they had pulled from the wreckage were battered but likely to live. Du Ponceau was shivering so violently that he could hardly stay a moment longer and retreated to his room in the house von Steuben had rented. The quiet was broken by the medics muttering and Alexander’s harsh coughs. Laurens folded his arms against himself.
“You would find it more comfortable, I believe, in dry clothing,” somehow General George Washington had approached without John’s knowledge.
“Your Excellency,” Laurens nodded. “I do not know what happened to bring about this collapse, but if you spoke to Richard Meade…”
“I do not doubt he would have an excellent explanation,” the General nodded. “But for the moment being, we all need to get some rest. A full investigation can be conducted tomorrow once our heads are cleared.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Goodnight, Colonel.”
Laurens and Hamilton retreated to their cabin. Until recently they had shared a garret room at headquarters, but the increasing amount of paperwork lead to a morning in which General Washington awoke to find every available surface in the study covered in paper, even to the point of encroaching on the sacred boundaries of the kitchen. That afternoon the two aides-de-camp were assigned a cabin and instructed to ‘take a good quantity of that damn paperwork with you’.
The cold, which seemed a nuisance in the drafty garret quarters, was elevated to the status of a problem within the cabin. Most nights Laurens was still shivering under two blankets and a greatcoat spread over top of him, and dreaded the cold boots he would inevitably awake to. The cold could not have had any good influence on Hamilton’s health either, having narrowly survived a malicious fever in New York and returned to tell the tale between coughs.
Tonight Hamilton seemed almost worse. Knowing his friend hated to be treated as a child, John pretended to sleep, while Alexander muffled his coughs and pretended the same on the opposite side of the cabin. The combination of worry and damp cold had an ill effect on him, keeping him awake but exhausted until he finally lapsed into shivering dreams. Tonight there was no reenactment of battles, but simply a collapsed house, its marble columns in ruins and splintered walls becoming coated with snow as his mother helped him search through the rubble, calling for his brother. Even in his dreams it was cold.