AN: This was written as a 7th Grade school assignment, and frankly, I don't like it that much. The lines are choppy and the historical inaccuracies make me cringe... But nevertheless, I figured it should be the first story I upload. There are some referances to the musical Hamilton towards the end, so disclaimer: I do not own any lyrics to Hamilton, Lin Manuel-Miranda does. There's no history category, so I guess I'm putting it under these ones. Enjoy!
WOUNDED
Lafayette gazed out the large square windows of the carriage at the green rolling hills of Virginia. Swirling red and golden leaves flew past the carriage as the sound of galloping horses filled the crisp autumn air. He absent-mindedly fumbled with the 5 purple flowers he clutched in his hands - an odd arrangement of flowers, though all with meaning. An Aster for patience, a Heather for admiration and solitude, a purple Iris for eloquence and wisdom, a Hydrangea for the gratitude of being understood, and at last, a Hyacinth for sorrow. The traits that Washington possessed. Lafayette's heart sank when he thought of him; he was the reason Lafayette was in Virginia, headed to Mount Vernon, and not heading straight to Monticello to visit Jefferson.
He shifted uncomfortably on the soft cushions of the carriage. As a marquis, he should be used to this luxury by now, but he was what the French townsfolk called, anormal. He much preferred the hard leather saddle on horses with the cool wind whipping past him; it was better than a small enclosed space sinking into a too-soft cushion. He always stood up and fought for what he believed in rather than sitting back and watching everyone else act. This is what differed him from other aristocrats. The only things that brought them to their similarities with the others were his looks and his name. Pale white skin, a long slender nose, curly auburn hair, light eyes, and a name too long for anybody to remember; Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. His parents attempted to name him after every saint that would keep him safe on the battlefield, and up to now, it seemed to work. The only attribute in his appearance that differed him from the others, was that he was strangely tall and slim. Other noblemen had a horrible habit of gluttony and were rather short. He remembered when he was younger, the boys at Collège du Plessis would constantly say that he was not how a proper man should look.
The carriage abruptly halted, breaking his train of thought. He looked out the clear panel once again and saw the familiar sight of a large white building in the middle of a blanket, of green grass with several large oak trees. Mount Vernon. Lafayette sighed and gripped tightly onto the bundle of flowers in his hands and slowly made his way towards the carriage doors. He bade a quick thanks to the coachman and made his way out. His coal-black leather boots made a soft thud on the ground as he took a step forward.
As he passed by countless trees, one particular tall oak caught his eye. It was the only tree that still possessed its rich green leaves despite the season. The large trunk pushed out of the ground protected in light brown bark covered with splotches of sickly green moss. Tiny, brown acorns lay scattered around the tree like seeds sprinkled on top of bread. The tree reminded him fondly of a special tree that opened his mind many years ago. While slowly strolling forward, Lafayette's memories came flooding back to him in a crashing wave.
The oak above him provided refreshing shade from blazing June heat. Lafayette miraculously got away from the humid camp without anyone noticing he had gone. He knew he would be in trouble with the general, but he needed this. After the events of today, he was completely exhausted. The Battle of Monmouth in New Jersey resulted in many deaths from the over 100-degree heat and a special someone named Charles Lee. Lafayette frowned at the thought of him; the story was, Washington appointed Charles Lee to second-in-command. Afraid, Lee declined, so in result, Washington assigned Lafayette to command. A few moments later, Lee came back to accept the offer and Lafayette gladly stepped down to give the general a chance. Whence the battle began, Washington ordered to attack, whilst Lee gave the command to retreat. Washington upon hearing this, replaced Lee with Lafayette once again. Charles Lee then told anybody who would listen that Washington couldn't be trusted as a general during the Revolution.
Lafayette's heavy eyelids dropped once again and tried to get the drama of Charles Lee out of his mind. In the darkness of his closed eyes, he heard soft footsteps of someone large approaching. He suddenly scrambled to his feet and started to walk towards the figure, despite his eyes being blurred by the bright sun. When his eyes focused, his heart stopped when he made out of the figure of General George Washington.
Washington smiled and greeted him, "Monsieur Lafayette."
"General Washington," Lafayette mimicked the same smile, hoping that the general didn't notice he had been slacking. "What do I owe the pleasure?"
"Sit back down, son. We all could use it." Lafayette widened his eyes and Washington chuckled softly. "I could see you from the camp borders; I'm confident any soldier within 100 feet knew where you were."
Lafayette's cheeks grew flushed with embarrassment. He knew he would get teased by other soldiers once again. They constantly teased him about anything they could get their hands on about Lafayette ever since he first arrived in America from France. They teased him about his French accent, how he was too young and naïve to be fighting in a war, and even about simple things such as how he refused to drink strong ale and much preferred the taste of wine. He knew the other soldiers hated how close he was with Washington, and this wouldn't help ease the tension. He gently sat down under the large oak with Washington following his suit. The soft grass cushioned him from the slate ground, relaxing his stiff body.
His moment of relaxation once again got interrupted by Washington suddenly speaking up. "Tell me, Lafayette, you never told me why you joined this," Washington stated. "Why did you leave behind your peaceful life in France, only to join this chaotic revolution in America?"
He swallowed and began to give the answer he had been practising since he stepped foot in America. "My father died when I was 1, shot in the abdomen in the 7 years' war," Lafayette began. "My mother moved to Paris to deal with her grief, leaving me with my grandmother. Eventually, she returned and took me along with her to Paris. She taught me to act like a proper marquis and sent me to Collège du Plessis when I was 11. I never agreed with the boys at school; they seemed immature to me. My mother and grandparents died, once again leaving me with nothing except for their riches. 12, I was commissioned as an officer in the King's musketeers, though all I did was march. At 14, François de Noailles introduced me to his daughter Adrienne, who was 12 at the time. He wanted us to marry, but the others said we were too young and waited two more years for us to know each other properly and married at 16. I indeed did love her with all my heart, despite what some people may think; we had 2 children afterwards."
"When I was 18, King George III's brother taught us about the American Revolution and it convinced me to join. It is odd, how he would do that to his own brother, yes, but he did it in a tone that made me dream about how it would be like in America without a monarchy. I absolutely loved it. At 19, I started my mission to come to America to aid the rebels. I saw they were sending French officers to America, so I enlisted. Everyone said no; my Adrienne, the townsfolk, and King Louis XVI denied it. I took the guise of a commoner and snuck out on a cargo ship headed for America, and here I am now." Lafayette finished.
Washington raised an eyebrow at him. "You joined the Revolution because you believed in it? Not because you wanted glory dying as a soldier on the battlefield?"
"No," he responded softly, "I never cared what they thought, my heart was dedicated to the cause. And you and I both know that dying is easy, living is harder."
At this George Washington smiled and spoke once more. "Go to sleep, Lafayette. You'll need it."
Lafayette nodded and started to doze off once again, this time with a soft, warm fleece draped over him.
His eyes brimmed with tears as he longed for the days with Washington back. Lafayette snapped out of the sudden flashback when he realized his slow pacing had finally led him to Washington's grave. The beauty of the scene disguised the darkness of what lay behind it; a marvellous marble tombstone glistening in the sunshine, beside an identical one. On it, were engraved:
GEORGE WASHINGTON
BIRTH: FEBRUARY 22, 1732
DEATH: DECEMBER 14, 1799
SPOUSE: MARTHA WASHINGTON
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE CONTINENTAL ARMY
He slowly kneeled down to the cold slab of stone, gently palming at it. A single tear rolled gently down his cheek. This was the man who treated him as if he was his own son; Washington was like the father he never had, and Lafayette was the son Washington never had. All of the days where he experienced true joy, were his days with Washington and Adrienne. He choked back his sobs as the thoughts of those days punched his mind once again.
Lafayette knew he couldn't die now. Not in such a pathetic way in his first battle, getting shot in the leg by a British Redcoat. He was only 20, and still had a life to live with both Adrienne and freedom. He was assigned general along with John Sullivan, and he was not going to leave the world like this. His bicorn had fallen off long ago, leaving his once pristine white wig dishevelled, loosely tied with an onyx ribbon. Crimson blood stained his white breeches, ripped where the bullet entered his flesh with mud splotches covering his blue uniform. The sharp pain coursed throughout his leg as he summoned his strength to mount back onto his horse. Despite the condition he was in, he managed to command an orderly retreat. He put weakly held his arm grasping his sabre in the sky as thousands of rebels' eyes awaiting an order snapped towards him, their bayonets still trying to plunge into the enemy's chest.
"Hold!" As he shouted this, the rebels' eyes flooded fear at the realization that this was hopeless; the British were guaranteed to take Philadelphia. They had more men experienced with weapons. The rebels huddled together, holding their bayonets firmly in their hands with their eyes still shining with fear. From across the field of dead and wounded men, Lafayette saw British general Howe smirking, his eyes dancing with joy. He glanced at Sullivan for approval of what he was to say next. The other general reluctantly nodded his head after scanning the field of dead recruits.
"Fall back!" His voice rang in the air as the remainder of his army marched back into their lines. They mounted their horses, some glaring at the general Howe as the British impaled their bayonets in any wounded soldier that may have had any chances of surviving. He winced the way back to their camp near Brandywine, blood crawling its way down his leg.
When they arrived at camp, he stumbled down against a tree, gasping for air. He clawed at his cravat, desperately trying to loosen it. Sullivan caught sight of him and hollered for a medic. A man in a green uniform emerged out of a tent and rushed over to Lafayette's side, cursing under his breath. He hissed in pain as the doctor ripped open his breeches to see the wound. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sullivan mount back on his horse, racing off.
"It's not infected yet," the medic began, "but I would need to remove it before it could."
Lafayette grasped onto the grass, closing his eyes tightly bracing for what was to come. Upon seeing this, the medic promptly tossed him a bottle of rum only quarter full from his satchel.
"Drink this. It'll numb some of the pain, and do try not to move." The doctor muttered.
Lafayette nodded a thanks and quickly unscrewed the cap. He held his breath; one arm ready to bring the bottle to his mouth, the other arm gripping the rich green grass like it was his only grasp on reality.
Suddenly, frigid cold metal touched his flesh and adrenaline shot through his veins. He grit his teeth, as he heard the squelching of the tool digging into his leg trying to clasp onto the bullet. Pain swelled through his leg and he desperately whisked the bottle of rum to his mouth, almost chugging the bitter liquid. He wheezed as he felt the object move deeper into his flesh, nudging the bullet every time. The rum was too weak and only numbed the pain for a few seconds, leaving him in unbearable pain most of the procedure. The medic narrowed his eyes as he fumbled with the rod, his eyes only widening as he finally had a hold on the bullet. Lafayette yelped in pain as the doctor slowly tried to pull the intrusion out of his limb. His hold on the grass grew even tighter, ripping out several green blades. His arm started to shake and the doctor looked up at him.
"Calm down," the man said reassuringly. "Breathe."
The doctor stopped and allowed him to breathe for a brief minute. He started to slowly breathe, his chest heaving up and down. His heart raced as he saw the medic move the utensil once again. He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut as the burn embraced his leg again. He breathed heavily, for once in his life taking someone's advice. He gulped down the last of the rum, easing the pain for the last time. Tears formed in his eyes as the medic managed to pull the bullet out with a sickening pop, blood running down his leg. He bit his tongue, trying not to shout in pain as the medic wrapped a bandage around the cerise mess. He clipped them together and Lafayette sighed, slumping against the tree closing his eyes out of fatigue.
2 figures made their way towards the wounded man and the medic, which Lafayette made out as John Sullivan and George Washington. Apparently, Sullivan had ridden south of the Brandywine to Washington's camp just to inform him Lafayette had been injured. It touched his heart to see Sullivan do that, especially after this exhausting day, and it touched him even more to see Washington actually abide.
Washington saw Lafayette resting, and instead walked up to the medic.
"Is the general alright?" Washington asked.
"Yes," the medic responded. "He took a bullet in the calf, but within a few weeks in resting the marquis de Lafayette should be fine."
Through the dark abyss of his eyelids, he heard George Washington sigh. He then said the words that Lafayette would remember for the next coming years.
"Get James Monroe to keep him company. Treat him like he was my own son."
That sentence lingered in his mind for a while. Did Washington see him as a son? He found that extremely hard to believe. Lafayette, a 20-year-old immigrant from France, only knew Washington for about a year. Yes, he had been next to the general for quite some time, and they agreed on many things, but was that enough to be declared as a son?
By the time he came to, tears were streaming freely down his face. After Washington died, his beloved Adrienne went as well; only 4 years later, she died of lead poisoning. Je suis toute à vous. I am all yours. Lafayette both loved and hated those words. These were the last words Adrienne had uttered out her mouth and the last words Washington wrote to him.
He remembered seeing the life drain from Adrienne's eyes, her once beautiful skin getting duller each day. He remembered the heartache of burying his wife on Christmas day. The day where he was supposed to be in church, celebrating with his family, was spent instead mourning the loss with his 3 children. He remembered waiting each day for another one of Washington's letters to arrive, but another one would never come. The pain of hearing the news that Washington had passed away finally arriving to him after months of hoping.
Sometimes that was the problem; he remembered too many things, even at 67. Every joyful and dreadful moment. The pang of guilt every time he killed a redcoat, knowing they too had families, and just fought for King George III. The joy of his 2 other children being born into the nation they've made; naming his son Georges Washington Louis Gilbert du Motier, after his 'grandfather' in a sense, and his daughter Marie Antoinette Virginie du Motier, after Marie Antoinette and Washington's home state, Virginia. The excitement of his first-time meeting Washington.
Lafayette couldn't mess this up. He always felt the need that he had to make a good first impression, especially if it's to the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army. With Alexander Hamilton by his side guiding him towards Washington, it would be impossible to get lost. If he did manage to make a fool of himself, at least he knew he couldn't die of embarrassment. If he so, he would have done so long ago when he tripped in front of the Queen. He tried to block out Hamilton's constant rambling about God knows what, and instead tried to practice what he was going to say in front of the general. Hamilton then suddenly pointed towards a man seated at a table, much too small for him surrounded by multiple men laughing while eating and drinking. He had dark brown tresses braided tightly together with a black ribbon, sharp calculating gray eyes, and a strong jawline with lips pursed into a thin line; instead of eating like the others, he lightly tapped his fingers on the table as if he was deep in thought.
"Your Excellency, this is the marquis of Lafayette. I figured I should introduce you to our newest officer."
Washington glanced to Hamilton. "Thank you son, that would be all." At this, Hamilton frowned and stalked past Lafayette muttering something that sounded like 'for the last time, I am not your son.'
Washington smiled to Lafayette and grabbed his hand, shaking it firmly. "So, you're the famous Lafayette?"
His eyebrows furrowed when he heard the word 'famous'. He was not famous by any means. Only a few people knew him back in France; why would anybody in America know him? Regardless, he nodded his head, and it was Washington's turn to furrow his eyebrows.
"How old are you?"
"19 years," he responded softly. He was always hesitant of telling people his age. It would always change their opinion of him. How was this with the general any different? How would Washington react to the newest over-ranked French officer that was only 19 years of age?
Instead, Washington looked at him with wide eyes. Suddenly he stood up, slightly bumping the table, and clutched Lafayette's shoulders. He grabbed two shots on the table and handed one to himself, and one to Lafayette. He smiled at him and said, "Welcome to the Continental Army," he clinked his cold glass to Lafayette's. "Longue vie à la France."
Lafayette fumbled with the cold glass in his fingers and finally responded, "Long live the United States of America."
He sometimes went back and thought about if this was really all worth it. If it was worth all the bloodshed and tears. He used to tell people it was, he used to tell his children that they'll bleed and fight for them, though that was all they seemed to do. They would come back from missions with nothing, no success on either side, but with hundreds of dead men, lying lifeless in a wagon.
It appears as though life hated him; almost all his friends and family had died. His mother, his father, grandparents, Adrienne, Washington, Hamilton, John Laurens, Henry Laurens, Marie Antoinette, and countless others. After they passed, he had one question left in his mind; when his time was up, has he done enough? Will they tell my story? When he went, would he have left his mark on this world? Or would they forget him? And if he did, more importantly, who would tell his story? He only had a handful of people left that he could turn to; Jefferson, Monroe, and his children. They had freedom from Britain, but was it worth it? Was it worth all the heartache?
Jefferson, Monroe, his children… his nation, those were the reasons he still fought. The reasons why he hasn't stopped yet. He still has people in his life, and he will fight for it. He remembered what Washington had always told him, "History has its eyes on you" and he was determined to be remembered in both America and France. He was determined to be written down in history books as the man that made a difference, the man that moved on. He wiped his eyes as he laid down the flowers he was still clutching in his hands, adding spots of colour to the pale stone.
He wouldn't spend the next years of life crying. Washington wouldn't want this. Washington would want the nation to move on, he resigned, after all, to teach the nation how to say goodbye, and that was what Lafayette was going to do. He was going to learn to say goodbye. Adrienne would want him to make both France and America a better place for people, for him, for their children. One last tear trailed down his face as he stood up. He stood up in the darkness that had once overwhelmed him and it grew into a blossoming light. He bade a goodbye one last time to Washington, with a bright smile on his face. He sauntered back to the carriage, ignoring the questioning look from the coachman, ready to face for whatever was awaiting him in Monticello.