Alexander Hamilton follows Tench Tilghman and Richard Kidder Meade into the newest headquarters of the Continental Army, carrying a bag over his shoulder and a pair of collapsible chairs in his hand. Moland house, as their new headquarters on their march toward Philadelphia, is certainly well furnished but they cannot take every chair of the residence, especially when they have seven aides, not to mention the General himself, requiring seat for their work. The shiny wood floor beneath Hamilton's feet shows signs of mud tracks from their in and out path with supplies.
"No, no, not on the table," Tilghman says to Meade as he starts setting a crate down. "Harrison emphasized not causing any scratches this time in the house furniture."
"You blame me for that?" Meade says. "I recall yourself attempting to write on a city tavern table and punching through the paper to leave a gash in their wood."
Tilghman's mouth drops open in offense. "You are mistaken, sir."
Hamilton and Meade say at once, "It was you."
Tilghman frowns as he puts a cloth bag on a chair beside the cleared off table ready for the aides in this parlor turned office. "Perhaps once." Meade makes a disbelieving noise. "Would I waste such paper?" Tilghman insists.
"As you write far more than the rest of us," Hamilton says, "perhaps you do."
Tilghman sighs heavily. "I think you two simply conspire to deflect any future damage toward my quarter."
Meade laughs once, the crate safely on the floor as he pulls out inkpots. "Now, Tilghman, I would never give you guilt you did not deserve."
"'Deserve' is a choice word," Hamilton says as he sets up the chairs around a small side table brought in by one of their staff nearer the fireplace.
"Yes!" Tilghman catches on as he pulls out one of their green baize to spread over the table. "'Deserve' does not wholly mean actual truth in guilt."
Meade sighs, picking up the inkpots quickly so Tilghman may lay the cloth first. "You need not dissect my words so. I shall not do you an injustice. There, is that fine?"
"Yes," Tilghman says, smoothing out the lines of the cloth so the table is fully covered. "I am appeased."
Hamilton chuckles again at the pair as he lays the bag over his shoulder, full of correspondence, onto one of the chairs he just placed.
"Hello."
Hamilton turns to see Robert Hanson Harrison and John Laurens in the doorway. Harrison carries a number of books and ledgers while Laurens beside him carries a small crate.
"I see our 'large' table is less than one would hope," Harrison says tersely.
Meade shoots a look at Tilghman but says nothing.
Tilghman looks at the circular table then up at Harrison. "It is still larger than a lone writing desk."
"Yes, and one we must share." Harrison sighs. "Ah well, I am used to all your elbows now."
Meade barks a surprised laugh and grins. "Oh Harrison, you do surprise me at times."
Harrison walks to the table putting down his burden while Laurens remains in the door, watching their exchange.
Hamilton walks toward him, glancing in the crate. "And what do you bring, Laurens?"
Laurens' eyes slide to Hamilton and he clears his throat. "Wax of various kinds."
Hamilton raises his eyebrows. Laurens only joined their ranks of aides–de–camp a few days past and Hamilton still learns about the man's character. They seem to be of a similar mind in many matters, the two of them having spoken of their stances on slavery at their last encampment. They both speak French and Laurens appears to have a zeal for the fight Hamilton admires. Still, he does not know much yet about the man's humor, or possible lack thereof, and cannot tell if he jokes.
"Various kinds?"
Laurens smiles. "Well, all melt for sure but some are candles while others shall seal letters."
Hamilton chuckles. Humor then, good. "Ah well, perhaps we should find a spot to put them away as we do not need every one at present."
"Indeed."
Laurens walks into the room, glancing around at the furnishing. He walks to the yellow door of a closet in the left corner. "Are we free to use this?" Laurens asks over his shoulder.
"I think we have commandeered the whole room," Tilghman quips as he opens Hamilton's correspondence bag, rifling through.
"But is the closet not its own room?" Meade asks with a mock questioning expression on his face.
"No, it's a closet," Harrison retorts as he weaves around Hamilton out of the parlor once more.
Hamilton sees Laurens smile in the same moment Hamilton does. They catch each other's gaze and smile more. Laurens glances at the closet then back to Hamilton.
"Oh." Hamilton walks around the table and chair to help Laurens with opening the closet, the man's hands still full of crate. Inside the closet are linens, candleholders, a few plates with chips in the edges.
"Is it better we remove the household items?" Laurens asks.
Hamilton shakes his head as he pushes the items in the closet into as small as space as possible. "We should not be here long enough to require the extra time spent in moving them. We may simply take the space available."
"And what if we should break something?"
Hamilton flashes Laurens a smile. "Then we shall blame Tilghman."
"I can hear you!" Tilghman snaps.
Hamilton and Laurens smile at once again. Laurens balances the crate against the edge of the door and the two of them pull out all the candles and sealing wax, some candles stands as well, and shove them into what space they can on the shelves there. No doubt, they will go through much of it during their stay. Hamilton wonders how much more they have and if he should ask Caleb Gibbs, captain of the lifeguard as well as manager of the household, about obtaining more. Once the crate is emptied, Laurens steps back and Hamilton closes the closet now cluttered with their supplies.
"Is there more?" Hamilton asks.
Laurens shakes his head. "Not for our office. I believe Fitzgerald brought some for General Washington's office."
Hamilton nods. "Better to not share, I see."
Laurens makes a face. "I would prefer not to take anything His Excellency should need."
Hamilton purses his lips, taping the crate. "But who writes more of the letters, Laurens?"
Laurens frowns but he does not appear displeased with Hamilton's mirth. Laurens stares at him a moment then clears his throat again and walks away toward the parlor door. Hamilton follows him. He know they still have a bag or crate full of needed paper in the luggage carts.
As Hamilton follows behind Laurens, he stares at the man's hair. Laurens hails from the south, not so southern as Hamilton's own origins of the Caribbean and St. Croix, but more mainland based in South Carolina. As might be expected of a southern gentleman, Laurens wear his hair powdered. It was so when Hamilton met him and has been every day since Hamilton has known him, few though they may be. Hamilton finds himself wondering at the true color of Laurens' hair. He would think it should be light, as how much powder might the man have to bring on their march? Then again, Laurens only just arrived and might not have thought of the need to ration it just yet. Hamilton frowns as they exit the front of the house and trot down the four front steps. Perhaps he should simply ask?
"Come come!" Joseph Reed suddenly snaps as he appears with a bag in hand. "There are crates of gun powder that need housing and if it should rain..."
"It does not look like to," Laurens says with a tone Hamilton thinks borders on terse.
Reed sighs as he hikes the bag over his shoulder. "And I think that a grand excuse if it should."
"The gunpowder is now our charge?" Hamilton asks. "Is there not paper which also –"
"Hamilton, anything which should fear the rain I would prefer indoors."
Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other but Reed continues up the stairs without more comment.
"I wager he is simply in want of refreshment and rest."
Hamilton turns at the female voice to a young woman holding a pitcher and glasses. "Sir?"
Hamilton grins, tilts his head in his most fetching manner and takes one glass from her. "Ah, I cannot speak for sullen Reed but I would be most pleased for whatever you might offer."
Her lips twist but he sees she still smiles. "I can offer you water now." She pours some into his glass.
"And later?" Hamilton asks boldly, though he mostly jests.
She laughs once. "Dinner, sir, or perhaps even tea if you should all hurry with your unpacking."
"Oh, then I shall move at all speed."
She smiles at him again, laughing once. Then takes two steps past Hamilton and addresses Laurens. "You, sir?"
Hamilton turns to Laurens standing beside one of their carts, pulling a chest from within. He looks at her quickly, his eyes ticking to Hamilton once then back to her. He smiles thinly and shakes his head. "No, thank you, miss."
Then Laurens turns and moves up the stairs. The girl looks back at Hamilton. He tips the glass to his mouth and drinks a gulp. She purses his lips and he winks at her. She laughs again then moves on past him toward a captain and two other men unhitching the horses. Hamilton chuckles once to himself, watching some of her hair flutter with the wind then chugs down the rest of the glass. He puts the glass on the seat the cart and pulls out another trunk he knows full of previous correspondence and quills. Hamilton carries the trunk into the house, a pair of servants swerving around him, one carrying a uniform coat and the other, saddlebags. Then Hamilton turns into the front parlor. Harrison crouches beside the trunk Laurens brought in, Laurens standing beside him. Tilghman sits at the main table, shuffling through letters while Reed speaks with Meade near the table by the fire. Hamilton catches Laurens shoot him a look but Laurens looks away once more before Hamilton may question his expression.
"All accounted for?" Reed suddenly asks as Harrison stands.
"It seems all the paper we had," Harrison says, a stack in his hands. "I do not think any trunk or otherwise missing."
Hamilton steps closer beside Laurens so he may set his own trunk down beside this one, the similar supplies within. He stands up straight once more, Laurens taking a step back from him. Hamilton watches the side of Laurens' face. Would it be possible that Laurens bears red hair just as Hamilton does? He does not appear to have any freckles but there is not a definite need in those with red hair, certainly.
"Gentlemen."
Hamilton and the other aides turn to General Washington just stepped into the room. John Fitzgerald stands behind him with an open letter in hand.
"I have had a letter from John Handcock. He tells of an enemy fleet fifty miles south of the Delaware Capes." Hamilton looks sharply at Laurens who stares back at him. "We do not know their intentions now but we do know their force some 260 vessels."
The feeling in the room shifts instantly, postures growing tense and looks exchanged. The General nods at their unease.
"Get yourselves settled at once. We will remain here longer until we can determine what their plans may be."
The room replies with, 'yes, sir' and 'yes, Your Excellency.' Then the General leaves the room once more, Fitzgerald staying behind.
Fitzgerald walks further in, holding up the letter. "I have some of the General's notes for a reply."
Hamilton holds out his hand. "I shall write a draft."
"Oh now, Hamilton." He turns to Meade, leaning one arm on the mantel over the fireplace. "Why not allow, Laurens? He is new and must practice more."
Tilghman clearly fights a grin as he shakes his head. "Oh, but certainly he can craft a letter. We need not over burden him so soon."
"I am here to work," Laurens cuts in, glancing at each man in turn. "I would be happy to do more, writing or otherwise."
"Oh no," Hamilton says, trying to give a subtle look at Meade and Tilghman. "We must not task you so just yet."
Hamilton knows the habit of many of his fellow aides, and himself to be fair, of tasking the newest members of their group with more work than any other during the first days or weeks of their employment. In most cases, it serves as a bit of fun and a sort of trial by fire as to their workload and jobs. Meade's first days saw quite a bit of the man laden with perhaps some undue stress and more misspelling then he is usually want to. Hamilton did quite a job of correcting Meade's work at the time both for practicality and introductory purposes. Why should Laurens not bear the same?
Laurens shifts toward Hamilton. "I have no fear of the work when it is but at a desk." Laurens holds out his hand. "If I may –"
"No," Hamilton interrupts, holding fast to the letter and notes. "In this instance I must favor my experience over your exuberance." He grins. "But do not fear, we shall not leave you as a dunce in the corner." Hamilton looks to Reed standing beside the bag of correspondence. "For there is plenty of letters which must be sorted through and read at present."
Reed smiles just a bit then picks up the bag, walks around Hamilton and drops it into Laurens' surprised arms.
Hamilton nods and winks at Laurens. "There, task enough."
Laurens' mouth gapes for a moment, an expression more like embarrassment than anger or worry that Hamilton might expect. But he then ducks his head and moves to the small side table with a quick, "As you wish."
The troop of aides spend the remainder of the day working on pertinent letters, accounting for all the supplies they need and finalizing arrangements with the house. Tilghman and Meade work on drafts for other generals while Hamilton writes to Handcock. Laurens, near the fireplace, stands and continually shifts from side to side while he creates piles of letters from different quarters on his table, opening some which Reed assists in reviewing. Harrison and Fitzgerald move in and out of the room almost constantly as far as Hamilton marks. They trade off reporting into the general, disappearing upstairs and Fitzgerald finally leaving to survey the encampment and report back.
"There will be a council of war," Reed says.
"Not this very evening," Tilghman says, "but no doubt soon."
"Do they expect a battle here?" Laurens asks, some evident eagerness in his tone.
"And what else should 260 ships be planning?" Reed retorts. "I expect troops onboard, do not you?"
Hamilton looks up from his fair copy to see Laurens' frown.
"I can imagine any manner of things," Laurens replies. "A blockade perhaps but the question I meant was as to the field of our fight. If their intent is Philadelphia then where might we meet them be it here or closer upon the city?"
Reed opens his mouth but Hamilton cuts him off. "No doubt the war council will speak on this." Hamilton looks at Laurens with a supportive smile. "We must wait."
Laurens lips twist. "Wait."
Meade chuckles. "Our ranks or position should include this in the name, wait–de–camp."
"Aide–de–sit," Tilghman tries.
"I ride often, thank you," Meade says.
"Sit in which seat?" Tilghman quips.
"Might we try aide–de–quiet?" Harrison says with a pointed look and a smile. "Practice makes perfect."
Meade and Laurens both laugh. Hamilton glances at Laurens and feels himself smile at the unguarded amusement on Laurens face. He thinks Laurens must not be a redhead. He is unsure why.
That evening, dinner is a lively affair. The General often insists all the aides join him for a dinner at table. It is familial in nature and helps keep all the relations within their office congenial with such a regular, stable activity. The new Marquis de Lafayette joins them for the meal, having been here as little time as Laurens and still in want of a proper place among their ranks. Hamilton, Laurens and Tilghman sit nearest him, all three being fluent in the French the Marquis speaks, though he does have a small amount of English. The conversation circles mostly around the ships waiting not far enough away anchored off Delaware, though the Marquis is able often to turn the conversation to more jovial topics of his journey here or accustoming one's self to American solider life.
"Je me suis déplacé du sud et j'ai craint que mon uniforme ne convienne pas."
"The Marquis worried of his uniform when traveling here," Tilghman translates.
The General raises his eyebrows and Reed says. "He need not have."
"Mais ensuite, je trouve que la variété uniforme me permet de bien m'intégrer."
Lafayette smirks as Hamilton and Tilghman both laugh.
Laurens grins. "The Marquis says our 'variety' of uniforms let him feel quite at home when he arrived."
Meade laughs breathily and takes a big gulp of his wine.
The General takes a sip of his wine as well, though he does not laugh, and the Marquis's expression falls somewhat. "I eh... do not... causer une offense?"
The General shakes his head, clearly understanding the French well enough, close to English in this instance. "No, Marquis, I simply feel akin to your situation in that the question of proper uniform is still heavy on my mind. Your own is quite flattering and impressive. I should perhaps suggest the army style our own off it."
Tilghman translates as Laurens and Hamilton glance across the table at each other. Hamilton, and clearly Laurens as well, cannot decide if the General jokes or not.
Harrison shakes his head and gives the General a look. "Sir, do you wish for less blue?"
"I wish for a new hat."
Harrison huffs. "I shall find you a new cockade. Will this do?"
"Thank you, Harrison, you are certainly cost minded."
Harrison nods as he twirls his fork around in his potatoes. Hamilton wonders why the General seems to be in such good spirits this evening. Perhaps the clear approach of a battle, a chance for another victory, raises him up.
"Eh now," the Marquis continues, "Now, I... Je m'inquiète pour mes cheveux."
"Your hair?" Tilghman comments before any of them translate about Lafayette's concern for his hair.
Laurens raises both eyebrows, glancing up at Lafayette's immaculately powdered hair, Hamilton doing the same. You would think Lafayette born with white.
"Comment un homme peut–il garder de la poudre fraîche ou une perruque dans l'armée?"
Laurens huffs a laugh. "Oh, yes indeed as fresh powder and wig is of our most concern in this fight?"
"As though you may remark in any fashion," Tilghman says, his eyes ticking up Laurens' head. "I shall bet on how long your hair may last compared to the Marquis."
Laurens makes a face at Tilghman but keeps smiling. Hamilton glances at the Marquis then to Laurens. "Perhaps you shall have to stop."
The following day, General Washington holds a council of war with his top generals and brigadier generals. Harrison and Reed attend the meeting itself while the other aides remain at the ready to make copies of whatever Harrison and Reed bring them. They all must help in wrangling the other aides which come with each general and act as hosts whenever the meeting breaks. Meanwhile, their work focuses on their forces further north, New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. There is debate over the importance of New York versus Philadelphia and what if both should lie in British hands?
"And what of the fleet?" Laurens asks as he sits beside Tilghman. "Have we any idea of their plans as yet?"
"What did we say of waiting?" Meade jokes.
"I worry more of the state of our troop further north," Hamilton comments. "It sounds as though the General Schuyler should be replaced."
Fitzgerald and Tilghman look up.
"And with whom?" Tilghman asks.
"I merely report as I am written," Hamilton says, dipping his quill in ink.
"Lies," Meade hisses.
Hamilton frowns. "I am not pleased to admit this truth but a stronger command is needed for our northern force."
"May we not worry more about the ships at our door?" Laurens says.
"We worry on everything," Fitzgerald says.
Meade sits up straighter and looks around Hamilton to Fitzgerald at the small table. "And what do you worry on now, sir?"
"Boots." Fitzgerald gestures to his page. "I write and worry on boots. How else might we march?"
"We could ride instead," Laurens says making Meade laugh. "But alas, I have not a proper horse for even myself yet, so boots it must be."
Hamilton laughs once quietly so Laurens looks up at him. Hamilton raises his eyebrows at Laurens' humor and Laurens only grins back.
The day is a busy one, drafts written, the council inciting intense debate and more people in their headquarters than is usual, and their headquarters are rarely calm. Their hosting is not long, however, lasting only a day with little decided beyond 'prepare and wait,' opinions being too widely spread as to action.
After the council, their work returns to its usual course of letters to reply to and orders to send. For now, they wait for news of the British ships and possible advance. Though the decision was not unilaterally met, there can be little doubt the threat falls upon Philadelphia. So, they wait and work as usual.
"Laurens." Meade drops a set of three letters and notes onto the table in front of Laurens. "Drafts for you to begin."
"For each?"
Meade grins wide. "Yes, please, and do recall, if you are able to emulate some of the General's style of address."
"Oh yes," Hamilton supports.
"That is what we strive for in all our correspondence," Meade continues, "so as to sound as though it is the General who speaks."
"Just as the General," Hamilton echoes.
Laurens frowns, looking back and forth between the men. "The other Generals surely know he may not pen each word."
"Do they?" Meade says with a slow smile.
"Have no fear, Laurens," Hamilton says, picking up a pencil and holding it out for Laurens. "We shall review your drafts before any fair copies are made. Indeed it may require multiple iterations of your phrases to reach words of our General."
Laurens takes the pencil. "I see."
Fitzgerald looks up from his book at Laurens. "Best get started. Better to have them done today."
Laurens opens his mouth then shuts it again suddenly with a nod, sitting up straighter as he starts to read through the first letter. Fitzgerald leans back in his seat and significantly turns a page as he shoots a look at Hamilton and Meade.
Meade bumps his shoulder with Hamilton's. "Tea?"
The pair of them turn out of the parlor, leaving Laurens and Fitzgerald to their work. Out in the hall, Meade laughs quietly. "One would think we would tire of such games."
"Oh Meade, we would not send any finished work were it not up to standard."
"How many times do you plan on making him write the same draft?'
Hamilton's mouth drops open in feigned offense. "Why Kidder, I only value quality in our work, so orders and information may be sent without any error. It would be disastrous should an order be misunderstood."
"Hmm, I see."
"Are you giving too much work to Laurens now?"
Hamilton and Meade turn to Tilghman descending the stairs.
"Well," Meade says, his voice low to avoid any overhearing. "We had little chance yesterday."
Tilghman 'tut tuts' but grins as he walks back toward their office.
Meade looks at Hamilton. "Tea still?"
Hamilton nods. "Or coffee."
Hamilton spends much of his day with Harrison, mapping out needs for the army. Their army is made up of untrained men armed with a lack of adequate supplies from Congress. As Fitzgerald mentioned, boots and other basic needs are continual. Thus, their work of supply usually takes longer than expected. By the time Hamilton returns to the aide office it is late afternoon. Laurens sits in the same spot where Hamilton left him that morning.
Hamilton stands in the doorway for a moment. Laurens writes diligently, his hand a steady flow over the page. Hamilton sees more than the three letters of this morning near his hand now. Hamilton smirks and wonders which aide saw fit to add to Laurens' stack. Perhaps more copies to be made or even ledger reports? Hamilton suspects it will not take Laurens long to notice the uneven work flow and speak to it.
Laurens sits straight backed, his head cocked just slightly to the left. The powder of his hair oddly catches in the light, like the sunlight chooses to put itself in place. Hamilton thinks blond would suit Laurens well. But what shade? There is a far cry of difference between a white blond and an amber or deeper dirty blond and a champagne. Hamilton cannot decide which he would prefer. Hamilton clears his throat half for himself to think on more pertinent things than Laurens' hair and half to alert the other man. Laurens turns his head toward the door.
"Why, Laurens," Hamilton says. "Have you been at work all day?"
Laurens gestures to Hamilton with his pencil. "Have you not?"
Oh dear, may Laurens suspect so soon?
"Quite, but I have moved about, where it appears you have remained in place."
"Well," Laurens says, "it is a smaller table and it would be better not to lose my place. With so much paper, I had thought to remain here."
Hamilton nods and walks into the room, no other aide present just now. He knows Fitzgerald sits with the General while Tilghman helps the Marquis with his English. The others he does not know of. Hamilton pulls a chair around from the end of the table and shifts it beside Laurens. Laurens sits up straighter, if this were possible, and stares down at Hamilton. Hamilton holds out his hand. Laurens picks up two folded pieces of paper and hands them to Hamilton. One is the original letter from a William Malcolm, the other is the draft from Laurens of a reply.
Hamilton reads carefully through the letter. He leans forward as he reads and picks up a quill from the opposite side of the table. He shifts one ink well and dips in the quill. He glances back to Laurens. "A few notes."
Hamilton crosses out lines on Laurens' page, writes some notes in the margins. "You are perhaps too blunt here. I understand your desire to reach the point but this letter is representing His Excellency."
"I was not ignorant of this fact."
Hamilton frowns though it is mostly in mirth. "Then perhaps you must recall so when writing."
Laurens raises his eyebrows but he does not appear put off.
"And here," Hamilton points out, circling one word. "I do believe that a misspelling."
Laurens frowns. "Certainly not."
"You put an 's' here that should –"
"It is an 'n.'" Hamilton gives Laurens an incredulous look. Laurens mirrors the same look back almost making Hamilton laugh. "I believe I should know my own hand."
"But should others in reading fare the same?"
Laurens smirks. "Well, as it is but a draft. I felt my best penmanship was perhaps not required in lieu of speed, what with so much other work at hand."
"Certainly each letter requires your best work."
"And so it shall be."
Hamilton nods. "Yes, with these corrections added." He holds the page out to Laurens who takes it.
Laurens nods back. "As you wish." He puts the one draft down and picks up the others in his pile. "And I imagine you have more to add?"
"You are still in your first week, Laurens, you cannot expect perfection yet."
"I imagine perfection something each man would continue to strive for as there is always room for improvement."
Hamilton grins as he takes the pages. "Ah, you think it unattainable?"
"In our work or in life?"
"Now you border on philosophy when I but mean to change your address in more becoming with our General's tone."
Laurens shifts in his seat, more facing Hamilton. "Did you bemoan philosophy?"
Hamilton shakes his head as he circles spots on Laurens' second draft, changing a word or phrase. "No, indeed. I might comment that the pursuit of perfect is both a superiority of mankind and a failing. While we strive for perfection, we may continually make ourselves better and improve society in our process. However, the pursuit of perfection is inevitably one in vain, as perfection on earth cannot be reached. Should God have wished his creation to be without flaws, he would have made us so." Hamilton slides the one draft with his corrections to the side and picks up the next one. "Thus, as we attempt to reach perfection we must know that we will never reach it; so should that makes us fools to try or noble in the quest of a lifelong goal?"
Hamilton sees Laurens watch him from the corner of his eye as Hamilton reads the third draft addressed to Israel Putnam.
"Perhaps," Laurens says quietly. "We may not find perfection in ourselves but others may find it in us?"
Hamilton glances away from the page to Laurens. Laurens watches him, a small smile on his face. Hamilton wonders at brown hair, some shade dark as mahogany or perhaps chestnut?
"But those who view us, perfection they see or not, would not know the inner workings of oneself. I cannot know your thoughts or you mine unless I voice them. Thus, perhaps while what you may see as perfect may hold fault within you are not privy to."
"But is not a man measured by his actions more so than his thoughts?" Laurens retorts. "The rest of the world cannot rank you on what you should think but on what they see you to do."
Hamilton thinks he and Laurens may become better friends than Hamilton expected.
"If that be so, then we must be seen to do our best." Hamilton taps the page with his quill. "As in our writing. I would suggest you work more on your phrasing. It is not as the General might say. I believe you wish to make these sound as an order, which is quite sound, but the General would phrase it less brusque. Politics still plays, even in the army."
Laurens nods and takes the notated drafts back from Hamilton. "Thank you."
Hamilton looks at Laurens. He feels a desire to continue their conversation in some manner but cannot decide what to say. He also must allow Laurens to redraft each letter and not distract from his work. Hamilton clears his throat and stands up. Laurens looks up at him. Hamilton peers at Laurens' hairline, tries to find a gap in the powder but sees none.
"Well," Hamilton finally says, "I shall leave you to it."
In the following days at Moland house, the army and General's office continue to wait on news of the movement of General Howe's troops. They know a conflict shall come soon but when and exactly where are still uncertain. They continue to write of the need to raise further troops in the north, Fitzgerald and Reed are sent to attempt and recruit more men in Philadelphia; Gibbs appears often on his way to the General's office with more matters of accounts; while Hamilton writes to officers further north about enemy strength in their quarters.
Meade, Tilghman and Hamilton continue to pile work in front of their new friend Laurens, most often circular letters which are merely copies and require less review. He is also sent out several times with Meade or Harrison to reconnoitering the surrounding region. The General always prefers firsthand accounts from his aides over letters from others. Hamilton continues to review Laurens' work before any draft may go to the General for his approval. Hamilton forces Laurens to rewrite one draft at least four times before he deems it satisfactory.
"It must have the most polished phrasing."
Laurens gives him a withering look that Hamilton has begun to recognize as still in good humor. "One would think you deemed no quality in my schooling with how much you must teacher to me."
"No, indeed, only that our headquarters is another world entirely and one cannot expect you to think just as the General and this office so soon."
"Perhaps I should play the part of pupil to you then?"
Hamilton laughs – he thinks of himself at the front of a classroom and Laurens alone among the many seats, Laurens' eyes intent upon him. "Only the part of aide–de–camp is needed, I assure you. It shall not take you long to adjust."
"No." Laurens taps the pile of papers in front of him. "And with most the letters of this office before me, I shall have ample chance to do so."
Hamilton guesses at only one or two days more before they must halt their game of overburdening Laurens. In fact, he feels some surprise that Laurens has not protested yet as the man seems so very perceptive to their methods.
"Then perhaps you shall reach that perfection we spoke of in your writing?"
Laurens purses his lip. "Only if you should see so, as I would not think myself the same." His expression shifts at his looks down at his papers again, Hamilton thinking perhaps he saw a flush on the man's face.
Hamilton looks at Laurens' profile from where he stands beside the seated man. He thinks a dark brown would not fit so well with Laurens' pale complexion and the shade of his eyebrows. If it were brown then it would be something lighter, perhaps a beige or mousey–like. Hamilton frowns to himself, 'mousey' is not a word he would think becoming of Laurens as he knows him so far. No, 'gallant' seems a better word come to mind and what color of hair should pair best with gallant Laurens?
"Hamilton?"
Hamilton blinks at Laurens looking up at him. Hamilton shifts backwards and picks up a ledger from the sideboard somewhat hastily, causing the wine carafe and glasses on top to clink together. He puts the ledger down on the only free space on Laurens' small table against the wall.
"If you would also check the accounts for what supplies we have left for this office, paper and ink and the like for the staff, and see what we may need more of; Gibbs should require a list for our next purchase order."
Laurens shifts the ledger around and nods. "Of course."
It only takes Laurens five days of practice, training and review before Hamilton reads a drafted letter and finds nothing to mark or correct, the tone much like the General and his hand practiced even when writing this penciled version.
"Why, Laurens, one would think you the General himself here."
Laurens stands as he crosses the room to obtain more paper. "I would not say just like, but I have read much of the past correspondence to attempt as you all are able."
"Not as well as Tilghman though, I should hope," Meade asks.
"Why yes," Fitzgerald says as he flips through a copy of the 'Military Dictionary.' "One cannot hope to become as diligent as our Tilghman. It would be impossible."
Tilghman smiles. "You flatter me."
"Yes," Meade and Fitzgerald say together.
"I flatter Laurens," Hamilton retorts as he walks toward their office parlor door. "He is the one who has adapted so swiftly."
"Tilghman likely attained such on his fist day," Meade says with a shake of his quill.
"Now, Kidder, you must not forget Hamilton." Fitzgerald replies as he leans one arm on the book to keep it open as he writes. "Hamilton's turn of phrase compared to our General's is almost incomprehensible in their likeness. Perhaps you should award him first place."
Hamilton smirks. "Do you need something from me, Fitzgerald? Is that why you flatter me so?"
"I need you to ride the dispatches tonight in place of me, perhaps?"
"I ride them tonight," Meade interjects.
Tilghman snorts into his letter but does not look up. Hamilton raises his eyebrows at Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald shrugs. "Perhaps only your favor then."
"You have it."
"Are you certain the letter requires no amendment?" Laurens asks Hamilton. "I would not wish any fault of mine to be blamed on you."
Hamilton shakes his head. "Accept our banter of favors as given, Laurens." Hamilton then turns from the room and walks down the hall to the General's office.
While the aides–de–camp overtake the formal parlor of Moland house, General Washington works in the real office of the house toward the back. Mrs. Moland is a widow and her late husband used the room as his study. She uses it less so now expect in her own balancing of the household accounts and the like. Thus, it makes a perfect place for the General with privacy and less strain on the household they overtake.
Hamilton taps on the half open door. "Your Excellency?"
"Come."
Hamilton walks into the office, the General seated at the desk against one wall and Harrison seated with a travel desk on his lap beside the General.
"I have a letter draft for your review, sir."
General Washington looks up. "Yes?"
"To Governor Clinton, on service of his state's militia."
The General holds out his hand and takes the letter, reading it right away.
"I would mention," Hamilton says, as it appears the General reaches the end of the draft. "This letter was composed by Laurens and required no alteration."
The General makes a noise of assent. "It would appear adequate." He turns and holds the letter up for Hamilton to take once more. "I have nothing to add." He smiles once. "Our new aide learns quickly which comes as no surprise what with his schooling and father."
"Indeed, Your Excellency," Hamilton says as Harrison gives Hamilton a pleased look over the General's shoulder. "He is fervent in his desire to complete the best work among us."
"Just as is needed." General Washington turns back to the map on his desk. "You may instruct him to make the fair copy and send it with Meade this afternoon. I would also see a report from Reed, if he is able, on our recent monies from Congress and what Tilghman has gathered from our scouts. Also," the General holds out a folded piece of paper. "When he has completed his letter, tell Laurens he may leave on his mission and return as speedily as allowed."
Hamilton takes the second page, shooting a look at Harrison. Harrison mouths 'information' and nods once in some sort of assurance. Hamilton nods back and salutes quickly as he exits the office. His curiosity peaks over whatever Laurens' extra mission may be.
"Lieutenant Colonel?"
Hamilton stops in the hall, the General's door closed behind him, as one of the household servants waits before him. She is not the same girl he met on their first day, less pretty, but she does make up for such a defect with other ample assets. Hamilton feels himself stare too low for a second longer than he should then clears his throat. "Yes?"
"I am to bring some refreshment to your office. Would you all be wanting wine or coffee or tea now?"
Hamilton smiles at her, shifts his weight closer so she blushes and dips her head. "Well, my lady, why not all three?"
She looks up at him once more. "We could do that if you wish."
Hamilton purses his lips. "I think a man likes many delicious options." She laughs quietly once, clearly nervous. "But." He cocks his head. "I would worry at you carrying so much at once."
"No certainly," she replies quickly, "Not a problem, sir."
"Ah no, I apologize. I would not think to demean your abilities." He grins. "You are no doubt a most capable girl in many areas."
She laughs once high in her register then her face freezes in surprise. "Oh no, I... did not..." she says in clear embarrassment. "I was not meaning offense, sir."
"What is your name?"
"Mary," she replies looking concerned.
"Mary." Hamilton grins. "A woman as beautiful as you could give no offense."
She laughs again, the tone charmed and nervous at once. Hamilton steps languidly toward their office so she is forced to follow him. "Perhaps the wine and coffee to start, Mary, and we may save the tea for a true tea time in the afternoon."
She nods once. He reaches out and touches her fingertips. "And save your poor hands from too much to lift."
She smiles truly and nods. "As you wish."
Hamilton holds her hands a second longer then releases them. She curtsies once then turns away toward the back of the house, a distinct blush to her cheeks. Hamilton smiles to himself then turns around and walks back into the aide office.
"Cad," Reed says as soon as Hamilton enters, now returned from wherever he was about.
Hamilton shrugs. "Would you have preferred tea?"
"I would have preferred decency."
Meade and Tilghman laugh together.
"Then don't listen," Fitzgerald says as he puts one book from his small table onto the windowsill instead. "I preferred to hear of the wine and coffee."
"Together?" Meade says.
"Not a good mixture," Tilghman adds.
"Too hot?"
"No, the wine should cool the coffee."
Tilghman seems to consider. "Not much."
"I shall have a glass and a mug each," Meade says.
"Quite a good plan, not in the same glass," Tilghman counters.
Meade nods sagely. "Certainly not."
Fitzgerald and Hamilton both chuckle, Meade looking very pleased as Tilghman pretends not to think anything funny about the exchange at all.
"And what if the General should hear you accosting housemaids?" Reed hisses, standing from his seat near Meade in clear annoyance at the pair's banter.
"Accosting?" Meade says indignantly as Tilghman says, "not even close to," and Fitzgerald adds, "do be serious, Reed."
Reed gives all three of them sour looks then huffs, picks up a stack of finished letters from between Meade and Tilghman. "I see to the rider." Reed passes Hamilton without a glance and leaves the parlor toward the front door.
Hamilton shakes his head as he walks to where the thus far silent Laurens sits at his small table by the fireplace. He holds out the draft and the note from the General. Laurens' eyes tick up at Hamilton then he sits up straight and takes both.
"No changes from the General on your letter." Laurens smiles. Then Hamilton points to the second paper. "He does, however, ask you to fulfill your 'mission' once your letter is complete."
Laurens opens the paper, reading quickly. "Ah." He grimaces slightly then closes the page. "I see."
Hamilton waits a beat but when Laurens does not clarify anything more, he sighs. "And you a man on secret missions so soon? Have you been with us but a week?"
Laurens laughs once and glances away. "It not so my merit or skills, I assure you."
Hamilton nudges his hip against Laurens' arm. Laurens looks up sharply in surprise. Hamilton raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. Laurens clears his throat and obviously fights a smile.
"I may only say that my father's name allows some people to feel more free in speaking to me of what they know than others."
Hamilton makes a 'hmm' noise. "Well then, lucky man."
Laurens shrugs. "We shall see."
Hamilton pulls his arms down and takes a step toward the free chair at Meade and Tilghman's table, then he stops and turns back to Laurens. "And you, Laurens? Did you hear me as one accosting a lady?"
Laurens looks up slowly at Hamilton. He breathes in once then smiles wide and shakes his head. "Certainly not, Hamilton. I am sure you are a proper gentleman."
At the table behind Hamilton, Meade and Tilghman both snort. Hamilton cannot say why but he thinks perhaps Laurens means something more.
Late that evening, Hamilton works in the aide–de–camp office alone. He finished a letter for Colonel Dayton some hours earlier but not in time for Meade leaving with the dispatches north. He will have to send it come morning with the next rider. Now he attempts to organize the various reports from their different regiments about uniform needs. As expected, boots are much wanted as well as more military items like powder horns and rifles; even an absence of buttons was mentioned by more than one letter.
"Such simplicities we should have more readily available," Hamilton groans to himself.
He needs to make a full list so they can submit their needs to the Quartermaster Crops and the Clothier department. However, as they often return only half or worse of what the army requests, Hamilton wonders that they might not just ride to Philadelphia and purchase all needs themselves.
"If we but had the money." Hamilton rubs a hand over his face. He feels he despises money more and more each day with the lack of it for their force. He pulls his hand away again. "And we the men sent out to fight and die, but why give us money for boots?"
He sighs and squints in the darkness. He looks at the one candle on his table and knows he should stop for the night. This will do his eyesight no good. Hamilton looks up at the candelabra above the table. They have not used it yet in any night here but Hamilton sees candles set in each sconce. Hamilton would prefer to finish this report tonight. He stands up, picks up his lone lit candle, and walks to the closet in the corner between the windows. He opens it and looks inside for a tinderbox. He finds more candles, a candle holder coated in wax, some table liens but not the tinderbox he may wish.
"Fine." He closes the closet with nothing to show for it.
Hamilton turns back to the room and marches to the table. He then pulls out one chair. He steps up onto the chair with his present candlestick so he stands now at eye line with the candelabra. He is forced to lean forward over the table somewhat to reach the candelabra centered over it. Hamilton puts lit wick to unlit wick while trying to catch any falling wax with his hand. His chair wobbles for a moment but Hamilton manages to light one candle before much wax burns his palm. He reaches for another candle but it remains further out of reach. He then plants one foot on a free space on the table to give himself more purchase.
"There," he says as he turns the candelabra. "Perhaps two more."
He holds out his candlestick and leans closer to a further candle down the line.
"Hamilton?"
Hamilton turns his head so his feet shift and his chair slides an inch. Before Hamilton marks who said his name, Laurens stands close beside him, one hand grasping the chair and other against Hamilton's hip steadying Hamilton's shake before he even realizes his unbalance.
"Careful!" Laurens hisses.
Hamilton looks down at him. "Why, Laurens."
Laurens looks at his hand on Hamilton's hip and pulls it away sharply. "My apologies... I did not intend to..."
"You only startled me."
Laurens blinks once. "Oh."
"I needed more light and could not find a proper tinderbox."
"Oh," Laurens says again.
"I shall not fall, I assure you."
"This chair may think otherwise." Hamilton laughs once and turns back to the candelabra. "Also." Hamilton looks back down at him. "It is near one in the morning."
"Is it?" Hamilton pulls his hand back. "Have you just returned?"
"Hamilton," Laurens says, "Get down."
Hamilton puts both feet back on the chair. "One candle is not enough, Laurens."
Laurens tilts his head so he may look up at Hamilton. "No, it is not. I should think that would mean you must rise above stairs to sleep instead."
Hamilton laughs once. "Perhaps, but I had hoped to –"
"I know we have known each other little time yet, Hamilton," Laurens interrupts, "But I can guess you will be able to finish the work you have begun tomorrow without impeding what work you shall have then." Hamilton raises both eyebrows. Laurens smiles tentatively. "I think you skilled enough. After all, you compose essays in your free time, do you not? How could this one task finished on the morrow slow you down?"
Hamilton smiles at the praise and nods. "I see your point."
"Then?"
Hamilton feels some weariness now in his senses and nods once more. "I concede to your logic then."
Hamilton turns and blows out the one candle he lit. Then he shifts on the chair and holds out his hand to Laurens to steady his step down from the unreliable chair. Laurens takes his hand then Hamilton steps down off the chair to the floor. Laurens stares at Hamilton for a moment, Hamilton's hand still in his. Hamilton thinks the yellow light from the candle he holds now against the powdered white of Laurens' hair makes a fetching color.
Then Laurens pulls his hand away and clears his throat. "Well then." He bows once. "I bid you goodnight, Hamilton."
Hamilton watches Laurens as he turns and leaves the office, hands clasped behind his back. Then Hamilton turns back to the table, puts his report documents into a neat pile, and follows where Laurens led above stairs to rest.
It is several days later, the sun near set and the sky making a pattern of reds and oranges against the sparse clouds, that finds Hamilton, Laurens and the Marquis de Lafayette trading fast and pleasant French in the back garden of Moland house.
What began as a spirited discussion and debate at their portion of the table at dinner, lasted beyond the meal and tempted the three men to take their conversation outside so as not to disrupt those men still at work with their noise and exuberance. The Marquis may not be fluent yet in English but fortunately for him, Hamilton and Laurens are both fluent in French, so the three are able to keep their conversation flowing quite well in French and possibly in some manner of privacy, though it is not needed as they only speak on politics.
"Do you not think Philadelphia of more import than New York, the seat on congress –" Lafayette says before Hamilton cuts him off.
"New York is one of the most profitable trading ports in –"
"If you say that then what of Boston?" Laurens interrupts him.
"No longer under British control and not a worry as now," Hamilton interrupts right back. "However, if we leave the British in New York City then they have a port to command."
"All of the colonies are on the sea board," Laurens says, gesturing with his hand holding a teacup. "Any place they may attempt to fortify would have their sea advantage."
"More areas of sea are better than others." Hamilton thinks to mention his knowledge of an island versus mainland portage but holds this back. "New York is a stable and large port city."
"And Philadelphia not?" Lafayette says, sipping his own tea. "I do say river access to be different."
"Very," Hamilton and Laurens say together.
"But it is the most prosperous cities of the colonies and the very seat of your revolution. Your declaration was signed here. Would not the taking of Philadelphia be a moral victory as well?"
"They would not take congress too," Laurens says, "if that is what you fear. We should be certain to ensure their escape."
"Your father?" Lafayette says quietly.
Laurens makes a face Hamilton cannot interpret and gulps down the rest of his tea.
"I understand you both," Laurens says, "And I would certainly rather the British manage no city as their strong hold."
"That is not a possibility, my friend," Hamilton replies, "As they currently occupy New York and as yet we do not seem like to dislodge them."
Laurens grins. "Give me a horse and we shall see about that."
Lafayette and Hamilton both laugh at once.
"Not a battle yet and you think to take on the whole force?" Lafayette asks.
"I should use more than strong words," Laurens says, moving to sip from his teacup again then stopping when he clearly notices it is empty.
"Then which should you favor?" Hamilton asks Laurens. "After all Philadelphia need not remain the seat of Congress. If we win back New York, it could rest well there."
"But must we think in such theoretical a manner?" Lafayette asks. "When Philadelphia is here before us and New York since lost."
Hamilton bristles. "It was not lost without much fight and blood."
"We do not doubt that," Laurens says quickly. He smiles reassuringly at Hamilton from the other side of Lafayette. Hamilton's hands relax against the grass beneath them and he smiles back. Laurens' eyes tick to Lafayette. "As to your question, I say we must not think of cities to favor but the colonies as a whole. We must imagine each loss or gain as an effect on each. At times, we remain too much of our own states."
Hamilton raises his eyebrow. "Do you say this out of concern for your own South Carolina?"
"In that I think it too neglected? No. Simply that if we ourselves care less about one colony or city over another then how should we expect other men to care when we need them to for our own city and colony?"
Lafayette holds up his teacup. "Well said."
"Huzzah," Hamilton replies quietly. "Were that the whole of our army and congress thought as you."
Laurens chuckles. "I can only hope I keep to my own convictions. No doubt where the British ships in port outside Charles Town I would have more fears than I do at present."
"And you would rather fight?" Hamilton asks.
Lafayette looks over at him, eyebrows raised. "Give you a horse for New York?"
Laurens nods. "Yes."
Hamilton watches him. "You would rather be upon the field than our desks, I should think?"
"If I wished to change our colonies' fate through pen and paper I could have remained with my father. You see where I sit now."
"But not on the field, still at a desk."
Laurens looks away. "My father has influence and you know General Washington's desire for good penmen in his office." Laurens looks back at Hamilton quickly. "I do not think the position unworthy at all."
"No."
"Only... only that I should prefer the sword."
"The fight over your position?" Lafayette says.
Laurens frowns at Lafayette. "I did not come to the army to attain some rank or higher position."
"Some men do," Hamilton says quietly, wondering for a moment if Laurens can truly see whom Hamilton is, where he has come from. If he did, would he say such? Would he decry Hamilton and his ambitions here?
Lafayette huffs, the sound so very French on his lips. "You do not think of glory?"
Laurens smiles slowly. "Ah, my Marquis, glory is wholly different than rank or position. Glory transcends all ranks and status of men. Glory is a sword and a field and a winning battle. It does not require a title to make it so."
"And if glory should not be enough," Hamilton says, unable to stop himself. "Glory is fine for a moment and the annals of history, but glory does not sustain a man after the battle and the war. What should help him then but rank and position?"
Laurens looks at Hamilton, his lips pressed tight.
Hamilton continues. "A man may give his service to his country as his country needs, be it by the fight and glory or by his pen and supporting the very head of the fight. If a man may serve and rise then he should deserve that life which follows the fight where a position and situation in society is secured. A higher rank in the army can do this, a command and glory on the field, or attached to General Washington; there are many ways. I do not think glory can be a man's sustenance in life for it is fleeting. Position, by all rights, should be lasting."
The other two men simply watch him, so Hamilton continues. "When well-deserved and used, wealth can be obtained through rank or position, much as inheritance or birth in wealth brings position with it. The goal of our revolution is to free ourselves from the subjugation of an unjust king so we may govern ourselves. I do not know what our colonies or country may rise to from this but I should wish to be a part of that after this war." He gestures to the unseen future. "Thus distinguishing oneself in the army is some way is path along this road."
"And you think to bring your rank with you into this new country?" Lafayette asks.
Hamilton grins at him. "I think to bring my mind and my voice and that some higher position will be needed to do so. I do not dismiss my position here and now but perhaps not so for always. And yes," he points at Laurens, "glory will entrench my status, whatever it may be. I may be a man of dreams but I think them attainable, by desk or field."
"Or both," Lafayette adds.
Hamilton laughs once and nods. "Indeed."
"Perhaps my dreams lie not so far ahead," Laurens says quietly in English. "I confess the field and glory more on my mind than what may come after."
Lafayette looks at Laurens with a frown of incomprehension but Laurens keeps looking at Hamilton.
"Then perhaps you must dream further," Hamilton says and feels greatly like Laurens is trusting him with something Hamilton does not yet understand.
"Et maintenant?" Lafayette says.
Hamilton smiles at him and switches back to French. "Only our Laurens wondering on dreams."
Lafayette gives Laurens a look but Laurens shakes his head and shifts his eyes to the sky, the sun now set and the stars visible above.
Lafayette looks back to Hamilton once more. "Ah me." He looks down at the cup in his hand, empty as Laurens' now. "I think I will now retire."
He stands up swiftly, graceful as a leaping deer or dancing woman. Hamilton looks up at him, leaning back on his hands behind him now. Lafayette holds out his hand for Laurens' teacup. Laurens passes it up to him.
"Do not, eh..." Lafayette attempts in English. "Éveillé too long."
Hamilton chuckles. "We will not."
"Good night," Lafayette says, grinning and clearly proud of his English here.
"Bon nuite," Laurens replies as Lafayette turns and walks down the slight hill back to the house.
Hamilton and Laurens sit in silence for a minute or two as they watch the diminishing form of Lafayette until he ducks under the overhang of the back door then disappears into the house. Hamilton looks up at the sky, the moon now visible, though not even half full above them. It is not pitch out, certainly, but the stars, the moon and the dim lights still lit in the house do not give as much to see by.
"I did not know yet of your aims." Hamilton turns to Laurens as he speaks. "The army as a stepping stone."
Hamilton's jaw clenches. "You think less of this?"
Laurens' eye widen. "Certainly not! It is noble and perhaps more respectable than those born into their place in society or handed high commissions."
Hamilton huffs out a laugh. "You surprise me, Laurens."
"Why? Because I am such a son?"
"Yes."
Laurens nods and turns away again. He does not speak for a moment then tilts his head. "Perhaps at times I feel undeserving of such a name as I have done little yet to fulfill it."
"We are still young." Laurens looks at Hamilton. "I wager time on our sides in this."
Laurens smiles. "A war might not always make that so."
"Perhaps but, as you bemoan, we do sit at desks with pens."
Laurens huffs once, shifting his legs around so his knees pull up close to his chest. "If a battle should come I hope to be able to fight in it. I may guess we will need every man."
They sit in the quiet a moment, insects buzzing, Laurens curling his arms around his shins loosely.
"But as to what you said," Hamilton unable to keep his thoughts away from his own ambition on Laurens' words. "A military man may make much of himself through rank and the course of a war. Do you not have plans of your own? To fulfill your name, perhaps?"
Laurens looks at him. "I do not think the Laurens name would be fulfilled by a military rank. I have other hopes, you know of my feelings on slavery, something that might change from this war." Laurens rocks his head minutely. "But perhaps I am too much influenced by my father's congress position in mind. His is not the only opinion.
"Did your father wish –"
"And what of you," Laurens interrupts. "You speak with such desires, such forward motion. Is your family desirous of your accession or is it you?"
Hamilton looks away, his throat feeling tight. "My ambitions are my own."
"Then your family –"
"It is not something I would speak on," Hamilton says tersely.
"Do they disapprove of –"
"I would prefer not to speak on it," Hamilton says again, his tone chiding. "If you must question me, choose another line."
Hamilton stares at the stars, a frown on his face. He does not look at Laurens. He wonders if he should tell Laurens, if he should talk about working so young, of missing his mother, of wishing for his father, of losing person after person, of forcing his way forward despite wave after crushing wave, what would Laurens say?
"My apologies," Laurens says quietly. "I should not force an intimacy."
Hamilton's features ease once more. He turns his head. Laurens does not look at him now. "I am not offended."
Laurens gazes at Hamilton once more, his knees lowering slightly from his chest so Hamilton's sees just a bit of moonlight on polished jacket buttons. Hamilton cannot see Laurens' face as clearly as he would prefer in this light. His eyes have adjusted but it is still dark now. Laurens' hair looks darker, yet still pale from the powder. Silver maybe, a color a man would never be born with.
"How do you find the army?" Hamilton asks suddenly.
Laurens purses his lips. "As any group of men may be, busy and driven. It is not so different from school."
Hamilton laughs once. "You think so?"
Laurens shrugs. "It has been little time yet and no battles. I am certain it shall change."
"But we moving so often, you in two places in but a week among us. Perhaps not so fine as you are accustomed to?"
"Do you mean the company or something more? Certainly there is all sort of the swath of man here but I would not have expected anything else."
"Ah, you only spent one night in an encampment. I imagine you shall find more to fault when we continue the march and have no house around us."
"Do you think me pampered?"
"Are you not so?" Hamilton gestures to Laurens' head, giving in to his curiosity with too much forwardness. "Still with powdered hair now in the army and nothing like the Marquis' French excuse."
Laurens chuckles once, one hand moving up reflexively to his head before he drops his hand to the grass again. "Do you think me wrong? Do we gentlemen of the army stray from society this way?"
"You see the red of my hair."
Laurens smiles at him, the expression different somehow and he sighs almost so Hamilton cannot hear. "I do."
"Even our General spends most days without wig or powder. With the pace of military life and fighting on the field, it does not do well, no matter what the British may choose."
"I do not attempt to align myself this way with my dress."
Hamilton smirks and shakes his head. "Certainly not."
"Perhaps I merely show my southern nature. Do they powder less further north?"
Hamilton shrugs. "The same in New York I can say. I merely think, and I do not fault you your sophistication now, but that with the pace we must keep, the time allowed to powder one's hair may not be lasting."
Laurens smiles, his legs flat on the ground now and his one shoulder leaning closer toward Hamilton. Hamilton thinks he should shift closer so they might converse better, so he might guess more at the hair under that white.
"Do you mean to give me advice now, Hamilton, or do you only jest with me for your own amusement?"
Hamilton smirks. "And yours."
"Hmm." Laurens smiles still. "Well, I shall think on your jest then and pull what truths I can from it."
"Certainly do."
Hamilton pulls at the grass, ripping some from the ground and absently dropping it over Laurens' nearer hand. Laurens looks down at his hand then up at Hamilton. Hamilton 'hmms' once and looks away, his hand brushing back over and over the grass. He sees Laurens' hand move out of the corner of his eye, blades of grass falling off it once more.
"It is dark," Laurens' says, drawing Hamilton's eye. "Were my hair not powdered how should you know the color regardless?"
"I suppose you would have to tell me then."
"Ah." Laurens picks up some of the grass Hamilton uprooted and flicks it toward Hamilton, none reaching its mark.
"And what of my hair?" Hamilton asks suddenly – wishing to just ask Laurens of his own but feeling foolish for such a thought. "If I were to powder or wig then would that not be a loss?" He smirks. "How many men might you find with such a red?"
Laurens laughs and looks away sharply. Hamilton sees his hands fist in the grass for just a moment before they ease back again. Hamilton shifts around, picks himself up just enough so he sits closer to Laurens. Laurens looks up at him sharply, do doubt in surprise with the land quiet around them, the house below them with most abed.
Hamilton raises eyebrows, reaches up and flicks a curl of his hair away from his eyes. Laurens huffs and clears his throat. "Indeed, Hamilton. Not like to find such red in any wig shop, why cover such?"
Hamilton nods and looks back toward the house. "Indeed. Perhaps even it shall be a fashion."
"Hair without powder?"
"Red hair."
Laurens laughs once. "But how should other men craft such a beautiful shade as yours?"
Hamilton grins and looks at Laurens again. He catches a frown on Laurens' face just as he turns away. Hamilton wonders if Laurens' perhaps has red hair too, could he think is own lacking somehow?
"It would be a challenge," Hamilton says, continuing their humor. "But something to aspire to."
Hamilton chuckles to himself then nudges Laurens' shoulder with his. Laurens looks at him again, the way they sit on the grass making their height and eye level the same. Laurens has blue eyes, even in this light.
"After so little time here perhaps it is too soon to ask, but have you found here what you expected?"
Laurens stares at Hamilton for a moment, silent, then he breathes in deeply. "Yes and no."
Hamilton gives him a look. Laurens turns away, looking down toward the house. "In only a few days I cannot say just yet, but I will say I am glad to be here."
Hamilton makes a 'ha' noise. "Then that is enough." Hamilton bumps Laurens' shoulder again. "And we glad to have you with us."
Laurens glances at him and smiles. Hamilton thinks they may become good friends.
The following morning, Hamilton descends to the aide–de–camp office ten minutes later than he should have wished. He knows of some correspondence he must respond to and hopes they have received more word of the British march or more of a plan toward their own movements as well.
"Ah, Hamilton." Tilghman appears in front of him with a letter in pencil and some paper, "Might you make a fair copy?"
Hamilton takes the papers as he stifles a yawn. "Anything for you, Tilghman."
"Do not speak so quickly," Meade says.
"I shall have to think up more interesting requests," Tilghman adds as he sits down across from Meade again.
"Also some letters from Nishaminy camp to review," Reed says, as he drinks his coffee. "Many an angry gentleman at his rank."
"What?" Hamilton says.
"Oh, they ask to resign out of their own insult."
"How many?" Hamilton asks.
"Five, I believe," Reed says.
Hamilton sighs. "And they find rank of most importance?"
Meade, Tiglhman and even Reed laugh.
Hamilton sighs. "Yes, you need not remind me of the arrogance of men."
Hamilton looks at the letters on the sideboard from Nishaminy. He purses his lips. "Perhaps another would be better suited to review such – no, all – of these?" He smiles in a wicked manner. "Someone new?"
"Ah." Meade raises his head. "You may have lost your chance there."
"Oh?"
"Well, a man cannot do all the work of an office with so many compatriots in need of some pursuit."
Hamilton turns his head to Laurens as he walks in the door. He carries two mugs in hand, one which he holds out to Hamilton. Hamilton takes the mug, staring despite himself.
Laurens takes a sip of the coffee in his own mug and smiles. "A fine jest, I grant you, but with so many letters from the courier arrived this morning, I felt I must finally put you out of it for fear of my own cramping hand."
Hamilton smiles, wants to joke back but he cannot because he finds himself too transfixed, too surprised; for this morning Laurens, unlike as he has done every day prior, today he has neglected to powder his hair. Laurens' hair is certainly not red – not Hamilton's red or the General's auburn. It is not dark, far from black nor any shade of brown. Laurens' hair is blond. It is not so blond as to be white, not a platinum or wheat, nor is it nearing brown, a dirty blond or a beige. It is a shade in the middle, so perfectly blond as to have no question of some other hue. It seems like... Hamilton cannot put a finger on the color, a blond being not yellow nor tan.
"Hamilton?" Laurens asks, his expression turning to one of confusion.
Fitzgerald walks into the room, handing a portfolio to Laurens. "The gun powder too on the list, please."
Laurens nods at Fitzgerald as he walks by, light from the windows catching on his hair, so close to gold, sweet as a girl's with the look of something silky. "Honey," Hamilton says aloud so Laurens turns back to him.
"Hamilton?"
Laurens' hair looks like honey, honey blond. Hamilton grins as he takes a first sip of his coffee. "Your hair is blond."
Laurens opens his mouth, closes it again then smiles in an embarrassed manner. "It is."
Hamilton smiles more and nods. He taps Laurens' arm with his free hand. "Far better, I say."
Laurens laughs once and looks away. Hamilton grins, thinks 'honey hair' a perfect phrase then turns and walks to a free seat at the table with Meade and Tilghman. "Oh, and good morning, thank you for the coffee."
"Oh well, I imagined with so much work back on your desk you would need more a rousing to reach to it."
Meade and Tilghman laugh, Meade saying something to Laurens about his hair free of powder bringing out the humor while Tilghman drops a letter on Hamilton's pile remarking on more letters this day than they should trust Laurens with regardless.
Hamilton only shakes his head, drinks his coffee as he leans back in his chair, watching honey blond Laurens smiling, tapping a letter on his knuckles. Hamilton thinks Laurens shall fit in perfect with their office in all respects, skill and manner and humor. Hamilton also thinks he and Laurens are certain to become close friends.