There Is No Need

by TheSupremeLeaderOfChaos

Hamilton wasn't the only one kicking butt at the Battle of Yorktown. This the story of Deborah Sampson, a woman who actually fought at the Battle of Yorktown in the guise of a man, as told by a French soldier named Ahndray Duran. This is a historical narrative, so nearly every event detailed in this was real. See if you can catch all the Hamilton references.

The sun's rays shone down on Rochambeau's troops as we marched through one of the many fields in Maryland. Though cloudless skies brought endless sun, the chill in the air seeped through our pristine blue and white uniforms, warning us of yet another harsh winter approaching. With any luck, by December the war would be over and we would be long gone, sailing back to France when the heavy snows came. In fact, in mid-September, it was a miracle it wasn't snowing right now.

I was quite thankful for that as I trudged through the dirt and mud of the road. Though at first glance, the colonies seemed a wilderness paradise, one could quickly get a different opinion of it when forced to march at double time through some seven odd states. We had started in Rhode Island, excited over our recent victories and rearing for another fight.

The excitement had dimmed by now.

There was a rock in my shoe. The thought of stepping out of formation to get it out was laughable, so I resigned myself to counting my few blessings instead. At least I had shoes. That was good. And I had a uniform. It was horrible at keeping out the chill, but it was more than the colonials had. And I have the rock. In my shoe. It hurts.

"Duran!" A cry rang out over the heads of the many troops. I faltered in my step and the man behind me, Taillefer, I believe his name was, ran right into me. "Ahndray Duran! Sortez des rans!( Get out of the column!)" came the cry again as I slipped out of line, mumbling quick apologies to Taillefer, who was cursing quietly under his breath.

Rochambeau's secondary aide, de Closen, came whirling up in a swirl of dust. At a loss, I saluted. He waved my arm down and signaled for me to approach. He cleared his throat and looked down his nose at me. In a horrible mangling of the English language he hesitantly asked. "You speak the English, yes?"

I blinked. "Yes. Uh, yes, I speak "the" English, mon colonel.(Colonel.)"

"Bien. Suivez-moi(Good. Follow me.)," He drew his horse around and galloped off, leaving me coughing and brushing dirt off my uniform. I followed as quickly as I could without getting another mouthful of dirt.

As we approached the front of the line, Axel von Fersen, Rochambeau's interpreter and right-hand man, greeted us. Being one of the only other people in the battalion that could speak English, Fersen and I had had many a conversation when we happened to run into each other. He smiled at me and offered me de Closen's horse. The look on de Closen's face was priceless as he hopped off the beast and handed me the reins before stalking off to grab one of the lesser ranked cavalry's horses. I clambered onto the horse uncomfortably; I had never quite been one for riding. Fersen, to his credit, didn't blink at my fumbling. He simply waited for me to settle down before beginning.

"The Général de corps d'armée(Lieutenant General) has asked for you personally," Fersen glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "He's in dire need of assistance. More specifically, he needs someone who can speak English as well as I can," He smiled. "I told him I knew a guy."

"Wait, you mean Rochambeau knows my name?" I exclaimed, laughing. "Me?"

"You, my good friend," Fersen smiled. "Look, here he comes now."

Up strode Rochambeau's horse, complete with its blue and white ribboned mane. The General always had a flair for the decorative side of the military.

Fersen and I saluted, and Rochambeau saluted back promptly. "Repos. Vous êtes done la personnel olont il parle beaucoup, oui(At ease. You are the one that he talked so much about, yes?)?" Rochambeau grinned. The man was always too happy about something. He was a wonderful general, but it was unfortunate that for a man fighting a war in a British colony, he didn't know a lick of English.

"Apparemment, mon général(Apparently, general.)," I nodded respectfully.

"Good," He replied. He smiled widely at Fersen, clearly proud of his use of one of the few English words his aide had managed to teach him. "You are to... Ack!" Rochambeau gave up on English again. "Partez en avant et annoncez au génèral Washington notre arrivée imminente (Go in advance and announce to General Washington our imminent arrival.)," He ordered in rapid-fire French. "Ensuite, vous suivez ses ordres(Then you will follow the orders he gives you.)."

"Oui, mon génèral!" What have I gotten myself into.

"Allez! (Go!)"

And so that was how I found myself, with only the vaguest memory of nodding goodbye to Fersen, on the road, by myself, galloping towards Yorktown on a horse. Did I mention I don't ride horses? There's a reason. Despite the intense workout for my backside, I rode day and night for six days, making it there just as the sun was rising on the seventh.

I arrived in Williamsburg on the 11th of September, three days before Rochambeau was to reach the town. I ran immediately into the outer pickets of Washington's army. Thankfully, the militia men recognized my uniform and didn't attempt to drive me off. I was taken promptly to the camp of the greater part of the Continental army. A rag-tag bunch of rebels indeed. Tents scattered everywhere with seemingly no sense of organization. No uniforms distinguished friend from foe. Everyone seemed to be wearing their everyday farm clothes, which disturbed me greatly. The French take great pride in a pristine uniform. As I moved further into the camp, however, I passed through the militia's area and into the army itself. There I saw uniforms, which was relieving, though I daresay mine looked better. American flags hung all over the place and many men were crouched by their fires, chatting with one another, eating, and in some cases, sleeping right there on the grass. I received several strange looks as I passed. I can only imagine the impression of the French they had gotten from Rochambeau at Valley Forge.

The officers' tents were set off from the rest by a hastily constructed wood fence. It was here that I first met the great General Washington. The man, as all the newspapers describe, was certainly intimidating, and I remember the distinct feeling of being under a looking glass as he turned to greet me. We talked pleasantly for a moment and introduced ourselves, him perhaps a little unnecessarily. He studied me for a moment, smiled at the uniform, then motioned for me to walk further into the tent. I dipped my head in thanks and sat across from him at the table in the middle of the tent.

Washington poured some wine out of a brightly colored flask and handed one of the glasses to me. "Merci," I thanked him quietly. He pulled a large map out of a drawer. As he unfolded it and laid it on the table, I took a sip of the wine and he began to speak.

"You speak English well, Lieutenant?" Washington questioned. "Or has Rochambeau sent me another man I can't understand as a personal joke?"

I smiled and reassured his fears. "I certainly speak plenty of English, General. I have been told to inform you that Rochambeau will be arriving in about four days, on the 14th."

Washington sighed and leaned back. "I hope that won't be too late. The French fleet nears, but the British are closer. I am afraid they will attack before too long."

"Is there anything that you need me to do, mon génèral? The Général has told me to assist you in any way I can before his arrival." I placed my wine glass back on the table, leaning in eagerly. This was without a doubt one of the most important moments of my short military career. After all, this was the George Washington. If I left a good impression on him, Rochambeau would be pleased. He might even promote me.

Washington interrupted my thoughts by standing and rifling through some papers on a desk in the corner. "If you're willing, Colonel Henry Jackson's regiment needs any spare men they can get. Not only that, but a French-speaking soldier would be helpful to him if the French decide to send an indecipherable message, as they so often do," Here I had to smother a smirk. "Would you ride to Annapolis, Maryland? I am afraid it is back the way you came, but you will probably meet them on the road there. Give this letter to Jackson and help him in whatever way possible."

"I would be honored, sir," I took the letter and tucked it into the breast pocket of my uniform.

"Good. You had better get a move on then. Godspeed, Lieutenant Duran," Washington dipped his head and waved me out of the tent.

After a brief meal, some freshening up, and a rather rowdy conversation with some militiamen, I turned my horse north once again. I was getting pretty good with that horse at that point. I was considering giving it a name, but I wondered if that would be too sentimental.

The woods whipped by once more as I rode towards Annapolis. Days passed without a sign of Jackson's regiment. On the 15th of September, however, I received news from locals passing down the road that a great naval battle had been won by my countrymen off the coast of Annapolis. The British fleet had been beaten back and the French had begun sailing towards the coast between Jamestown and Williamsburg. I began to wonder if perhaps Jackson had gotten orders to go some other way towards Williamsburg, but thankfully another local informed me that Jackson had been waiting for the French to prevail before starting the march. I, therefore, ran into the regiment on the 16th, two days after Rochambeau had arrived in Williamsburg.

I was once more led by the picket line men to their commanding officer. Colonel Jackson greeted me warmly and received Washington's letter with great thanks. Within the missive were orders on where to entrench around Yorktown to complete the trap they were building for Cornwallis. What a ploy this was! Cornwallis was to have no idea what hit him. The French blockade was to keep the British navy miles away with no chance of reinforcing Cornwallis's troops with ammunition, medicine, or food supplies. All of the land around Yorktown was to be blocked off by Washington's own forces from the south, Rochambeau to the left, and several small regiments in a row farther north, including Colonel Jackson's.

Jackson was eager to get there and begin entrenchment, so he thrust the letter back into my hands, patted me heartily on the back, and shoved me back onto my horse with enthused mutterings. An excitable man, he was. He barked orders to the men to march on the double-quick. This was the first time I was truly thankful for my horse. It was not the first time I was thankful for my uniform. Those men running alongside me looked miserable in every way. But run they did, with a dull fire in their eyes. I had a sense that I was watching history form before my very eyes.

I came to know some of the men during the march. As a little gift, one of them, Robert Shurtlieff, presented me with some things the group had found for me: a water pouch, a pistol, and a small American flag. Very patriotic, these people.

Two days before we were to reach our destination, we stopped for the night. It was to be too quick of a night to set up tents, so men threw themselves to the ground left and right. Some went to eat, while others took to the stream to wash up. I was rather repulsed by how badly some of them smelled, so I moved farther away to wash. Behind a few trees, the stench had reduced somewhat, and I began removing my garments for a wash. Movement flickered farther in the trees, and I froze. In my undershirt and short- how horrendously underdressed, honestly- I inched towards the movement I had seen. I pushed a few fronds of a fern aside as my mind's eye imagined a sudden attack from a hidden redcoat.

However, it was only Shurtlieff washing in the stream. I chuckled at my own foolishness, as he must have also found the smell of the others disquieting. As I turned, the soldier removed his shirt and something caught my eye.

I may have shouted a little louder than necessary, causing Shurtlieff to turn towards me in shock, leading me to crouch down and cover my eyes in surprise and utter embarrassment.

As it turns out, he was a she, so Shurtlieff was a woman. Imagine my mortification.

Shurtlieff, though I doubted that was her name, had put her shirt back on and had frantically run over to quiet me. "Hush! Hush, my good man! If you make much more of a ruckus, the others will investigate!"

Shurtlieff seemed considerably more worried about being discovered than about my poor eyes. Which I still had covered. She dragged my hands off my face and placed hers firmly on my cheeks. Tears were welling in her eyes. At least, I think they were. I was trying my hardest not to meet her eyes. It's not everyday you accidentally get an eyeful of woman and she doesn't try to beat you round the head for looking.

"Look at me, Ahdray!" She patted my cheek. "Listen, please, you mustn't tell anyone! I know you must be thinking, 'I must turn her in'-"

I was thinking nothing of the sort. I had other things to be worrying about. Like what my mother would think of me now.

"-But I have fought in this army for too long now to miss this final installment. I believe this next battle will win us the war and I will not be refused a place in these ranks because I am a woman!"

Was that what she was worried about? One would think she would have her priorities straight. I had just gawked at her in the woods. I told her such and she shook her finger at me. It was quite clear she was a woman when you looked at the way she scolded.

As for turning her in, I thought that was a little ridiculous. I hadn't cared that she had been in the army when she was a man, it was hardly different now that she was a woman. Americans are strange when it comes to who fights and who doesn't. My mother could whack the life out of me with a frying pan, and guns are much easier to handle than cooking utensils. I told her that as well and she threw her arms around my neck. She was a rather strange woman. I had been expecting to be slapped at some point, but she only whispered her fervent thanks into my ear as her tears fell on my uniform. I would have asked her to calm down, but that felt a little out of place. She was rather distraught after all and I might have ended up getting slapped despite everything.

In the days that passed, Shurtlieff and I didn't have much time to talk about anything more than the battle at hand. We shared significant looks at times because of our shared secret, and our loaded gazes started many a foul rumor around camp. If they had only known. It became clear to me that Robert Shurtlieff could not possibly be her real name, but as there was not a chance to ask her, I resolved that it was of no importance and moved on.

We arrived at the outskirts of Yorktown, two miles from where the British General Cornwallis was thoroughly bunkered down. Jackson ordered the troops to begin entrenchment and I joined in the miserable process of constructing breastworks. It took us five days, day in and day out, cutting down trees, hauling them to the barricade, and laying them in a precise manner to create a sort of bunker.

Not only was the work heavy and difficult, Mother Nature decided to be incredibly unhelpful. The nights were filled with rain, making the soil slippery, muddy, and incredibly dirty. My uniform was nearly stained brown.

I also forgot to mention that a day in to the construction, the British started firing their cannons at us. Talk about difficult working conditions. Despite the cannon fire and occasional holes being blown in our work, we completed the barricade.

I worried about Shurtlieff. I knew she could handle herself, but I saw her come down with a horrible cold as we built up the defense. She sniffled and informed me stiffly that it wasn't smallpox when I politely brought it up, which I suppose was a small blessing. I still wasn't too convinced she was alright when she sneezed all over my jacket and I ran away to wash it off. I may have avoided her after that until she got better.

On October the 6th, we were told by Colonel Jackson that a stealth mission was to be performed that night. Our regiment, along with several others, were to sneak to within six hundred yards of the enemy's outer walls and dig trenches by the morning. Cannons would be placed in the ditches and we would shell out the British.

That night, as cicadas called and lightning bugs floated in the air, half of the Continental army snuck forward and dug trenches as quickly as they could in the dead of night. Shurtlieff and I had become quite inseparable, so we dug the trenches right next to each other, swearing under our breath, her in a surprising array of English and me in an admirable mix of English and flowery French. She congratulated me on a few of my more creative ones, while I admired her large arsenal of words at her command. Maybe she had once pretended to be a sailor as well. I wouldn't have been surprised.

As the sun rose, I am sure we caused those lobsterbacks great alarm as they looked out of their large stone walls to see us sitting not six hundred yards away. In the light of the new day, as the cannons began to ring out their merry tune to the utter annoyance of the British, Shurtlieff showed me her hands and I showed her mine. Great red blisters had been worn into both of our hands. I wrapped mine in the only cloth I had and, despite her protests, ripped the edge of my uniform to make two scraps of cloth for her to use on her own. Under her breath, she promised to sew my uniform up after the war if she ever got the chance. I, for my part, simply tried not to laugh hard enough for anyone to ask what was so funny. I had learned that Shurtlieff's elbows were pointy when she was trying to keep a secret.

Soon, Colonel Jackson relayed the newest orders from Washington and Rochambeau. There was to be a second set of trenches dug parallel to the first. However, in order to dig these, two British redoubts had to be captured. It was decided that one would be stormed by the French and the other by the Americans. Shortly after the announcement, Colonel Jackson strode up to me and asked if I would like to join my countrymen in taking the other redoubt. I replied, "I feel it is my duty and my honor to remain with the regiment I am assigned to."

I think he liked that, as he simply saluted and said, "And it will be my honor to fight alongside you."

My blisters had just healed when October the 14th arrived. At sunset, we prepared for battle. Orders from on high dictated for us to fix bayonets. I had always had a good arm for hand-to-hand combat and I personally couldn't wait for the fierce fight. My only reservation was that Shurtlieff was to be in this charge too. I didn't doubt her strength; I doubted her training. I quietly resolved to stay as close to her as possible during the battle without her actively noticing my watchful eye.

At eight o'clock, the owls had just started hooting when we broke down the front gate. It crashed open with a clang and the battle began. I was surprised to see two women immediately when I entered the fort. In their floor-length dresses, I didn't think they were quite suited for a battlefield.

They definitely weren't.

Upon the incoming rush of the rebel army, one of the women screeched "Yankee!" at the top of her lungs, alerting every British solider from here to London. I'm sure mad King George the III heard it in his fancy palace and looked around in anger and confusion before spitting in his wine glass in fury.

Upon hearing the cry, one battle-crazed colonial bounded over like a feral dog and thrust his bayonet through her chest. She crumpled like a rag doll, blood gushing onto her blue dress, her scream still echoing on the walls even after her soul had left the fort.

I saw Shurtlieff out of the corner of my eye stiffen in anger and outrage, and she too ran towards the women as the soldier drew his bayonet out of the one mademoiselle and rounded on the older woman. She looked about to faint and in no shape to run as she looked death in the eye and found herself wanting. However, Shurtlieff was having none of that, and she swung her gun forward to whack the soldier's long blade off target.

Red in his eyes, the soldier turned towards Shurtlieff. I let out a strangled yell, drew my sword, and charged over towards them. He had just swung his gun back to plunge it into her when I rapped him so hard over the head with the butt of my sword that he nearly crumpled to the ground. I don't quite remember it, but Shurtlieff later told me that I cursed at him quite lengthily in French. I evidently was still cursing when he had slunk away and she was dragging me back into the fray.

Overwhelmed and with far too few men, the British quickly fell back and the fighting ended. Shurtlieff and I leaned against a wall, watching the men who hadn't gone into battle in the redoubts roll the cannons with some difficulty into the newest trenches. We said little, lost in our thoughts. I am sure we were both mostly thinking about that woman.

After we had stood there for a little while, she turned and pressed two pieces of cloth into my hand. "The blister cloth?" I exclaimed and almost dropped them on the ground in shock and disgust.

She simply smiled and kept my hand folded around them. "No, you silly French man, I washed them first. I know how you are about blood and sickness. Do not think I did not notice how you avoided me for days after I sneezed on you."

I looked away, embarrassed. "Pardon. It was just... It was very disgusting."

She laughed very hard at that and I had to fight to keep a straight face. "I'll wash your uniform too when I sew it back up with those pieces of cloth," She motioned to my hands.

I opened my hands and examined the very beaten looking tatters from my previously pristine uniform. I took one and gave it back to her. She looked very confused. I explained. "You will have one piece and I will have the other. That way, I will have to come find you after this war if I ever want my good old uniform back in one piece, oui?"

A smile grew on her face. "Oui," she replied, with a very bad accent. "That sounds good to me."

We were silent for another moment, looking over at the horizon where the sun was rising steadily over Yorktown, where Cornwallis and his men were still hidden within the city. We could feel it in the air, the victory within our grasp. There was a tangible feeling of a precipice that we were all standing on, looking over the edge, but not quite able to see the bottom. The British worried that there were sharp rocks down there, but the French and the Americans? They were pretty sure it was a deep pool of water with paradise at its edges.

"Deborah Sampson."

I turned and looked at Shurtlieff in confusion. "Quelle? (What?)"

She looked sheepish. "That's my name. Deborah Sampson," Her voice was quiet.

"Oh."

We looked at the horizon some more.

"That's a nice name."

"Thank you."

"Pas de quoi, il n'y a pas de quoi."

She looked at me strangely. "What does that mean?"

"No need, there is no need." She stared at me with increasing gratitude and I could almost see the waterworks forming. I had to get out of there before she started crying. I patted my hand on her shoulder. "Come on, let's go win a war," I grinned and walked back towards the redoubt.

Even as I strode away, I heard her whisper one more time, "Thank you," and I wondered what exactly she was thanking me for this time. I rather think it was for everything.

The next three days brought loud explosions and destruction to Yorktown as the rebel army unloaded every artillery shell they had upon Cornwallis's men. I didn't fancy being in that town. It was largely known that if the bombs didn't drive the British force to desperate measures, starvation would. There hadn't been enough food in that city for the British army before the siege had begun.

As the world fell over the precipice, a young man in a red coat stood on a parapet. We lowered our guns as he frantically waved a white handkerchief. I wonder if he found rocks at the bottom of his fall, for it certainly felt like we had found our paradise.

As the sun rose on October the 19th, George Washington rode to a neutral field on his great white horse and negotiated the terms of surrender with the British, though it was said Cornwallis was too sore of a loser to do the negotiating himself.

As the British emerged from Yorktown, battered, beaten, and bruised, men lined up for over a mile to see them trudge out of the city. The French stood on the left and the Americans on the right. I stood directly across from Sampson, me standing with my countrymen and her with her own. As the British drums straggled by, I recognized the military tune they were beating on their instruments.

"The World Turned Upside Down," I called over to Sampson, gesturing towards the drums.

"Quite fitting, I should think," She replied, a weary but fierce smile on her face. Church bells began to ring and American townspeople from miles around flooded the streets. I made my way to Sampson and we stood and watched and listened to the screams of a newborn nation.

Though the war did not officially end with that battle, that day always remained as the first day that I saw a nation, not a rag-tag group of people fighting like animals for their freedom.

Soon after that day, Sampson and I parted ways. I was promoted and ordered back to Rochambeau and she was sent to fight at West Point and beyond. We kept in contact with letters, myself being always careful to avoid any pronouns and to refer to her strictly as Shurtlieff. Through these letters, I became the only person privy to the extent of some of her injuries throughout the war.

At West Point, the doctors began smallpox inoculations, which required a physical. Which required removal of clothes. So she lied and said that she had had smallpox as a child. I worried for her perhaps more than she worried for herself. For months, I expected her next letter to inform me that she had contracted the deadly disease out of her own stubbornness.

When she was near the Hudson River, she actually led a small group of men- imagine that- to get provisions out of a cave. There they were ambushed, and to my horror, I discovered that she had been shot in the upper thigh. Her letter described in excruciating detail how she dug the bullet out of her own leg to avoid detection. I highly doubt that I will underestimate the constitution of a woman in distress and pain ever again. That said, I still think she was an idiot for hiding something of that extent.

I was almost relieved, therefore, when I received word that she had finally been discovered. She was most angry about it in her letter. She had become ill yet again from an epidemic in Philadelphia and had lost consciousness in the hospital. When the doctor discovered her true sex, he surprisingly agreed to keep it a secret. However, in a rather amusing turn of events- for me, I'm sure, not for her- as 'Shurtlieff' stayed in the hospital, the doctor's niece developed a bit of a crush on 'him' and with that, the truth had to come out.

While she thought this a ridiculous way to finally be discovered, General Washington seemed to be quite impressed with the whole charade. She received an honorable discharge, as well as quite a few letters of testimony to her "gallantry" in combat, including one from Colonel Jackson, which I thought was quite sweet of the man. I can only imagine how hard he laughed when he found out the fierce young lad he had commanded was actually a lady. I am sure the colonel thought it priceless.

In the end, it took four years for us to see each other again. She invited me to her wedding to Benjamin Gannett on April 7th, 1785. I graciously accepted. When I approached the pavilion, a young woman came down to greet me. I will admit, it took me a second to recognize her. We embraced and she tugged me down the path to meet her soon-to-be husband. He seemed a very nice man and he treated her respectfully and as his equal, which I dare say she deserved. We separated ourselves from the crowd in the fancy drawing room where the reception was being held and she led me to their slightly plainer living room, with a nice big window and lovely curtains, which I am pretty certain she sewed herself.

She drew out a box from under a table and handed it to me, grinning despite herself. As I opened the gift, she prattled on beside me, "Now, I can always just sew the old uniform up if you don't like it. I know it's nothing like those pristine, perfectly sewn French uniforms you go on about, but, well, it's blue and white and I had to go off memory of your uniform for the pattern, but-"

"I love it. It is absolutely perfect."

And it was. Sampson had sewn me an entirely new French lieutenant's jacket by using her memory of mine and the humble fabric in her own home, as well as her own piece of fabric from mine. There was just one thing missing. Right next to her piece, a space was missing. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my square of fabric.

"I suppose this is supposed to go there?" I handed my cloth to her.

"Well, that was the idea," She was grinning from ear to ear. She picked up a needle and thread and deftly sewed my last piece of fabric onto the jacket. Cutting the thread, she handed the completed jacket to me. I took off my old jacket and put the new one, made of two pieces of dirty cloth and American-spun French colors of blue and white, onto my shoulders.

It fit like a glove.