Chapter Twenty Three

John Laurens

John and Marty's journey back to South Carolina was a safe, but arduous trip. John and Marty spent one night staying at the home of a family that Marty knew. They were all very pleased to meet John. They made a great fuss of his participation in the war. John did not like being fussed over.

Once John and Marty had retired for the evening, John was again reduced to tears. Marty tried to suggest to John that Hamilton was not worth the heartbreak that John was causing himself. She did not understand - she could not understand. She did not know what it was to love Hamilton.

The next day, John and Marty arrived at the camp in South Carolina. The men appeared to be in good spirits. John addressed them formally, struggling to remain cheerful, then was forced to greet them individually. Marty was better at winning over the soldiers than John was. She distributed treats that she had gotten at the Schuyler mansion. They appeared to be leftovers from the wedding feast. She had the good graces to tell the men that the treats were courtesy of Colonel Hamilton and his beautiful new bride.

John might have appreciated Marty more, had he not been overwhelmed by thoughts of Hamilton. He wished to do nothing but dwell on the melancholy that his separation from Hamilton caused. He wished to be left alone, where he might cry and pour over all of the letters he had ever received from Hamilton. He had kept them - all of them.

"He is just a man." Marty whispered to John whenever she noticed his attention fading.

John shook his head.

Hamilton was not just a man. Hamilton was the only man.

My Dear Colonel Laurens,

I thank you most sincerely for your honorable attendance at my wedding. I wish that we had more time to converse before you were to return to your command, but I wish you great success in your endeavors.

Though our exchanges were short, I hope that I was able to impress upon you the value and esteem to which you are held in my heart. Would that I could demonstrate in my actions rather than my words how sincerely I love you.

Know that, though my obligations may create a doubtful appearance, it is you alone who have overturned my grave thoughts about mankind. I had entered the war quite cynical about the nature of man and believed myself content to proceed through life without forming attachments. You have stolen into my affection quite without my consent. It is a trespass I forgive you for most readily. There is none more worthy of my affection than you.

I end this letter with pleasure, as I have gratified my desire to lavish praise upon you through the only kind of intercourse now in my power.

Adieu.

Yours,

A. Hamilton

John's hands trembled as he held Hamilton's most welcome letter. Hamilton had expressed his love beautifully, as he always did. Though it was not the same as hearing those wonderful words from Hamilton's mouth - Hamilton's mouth...John had to banish those thoughts, for fear of Marty walking into his quarters at an inopportune time - John was glad that Hamilton had written them for him to read over and over again.

John picked up his quill. He did not wish to lose the warm feeling of adoration blooming in his chest; at least, not until he had written a similarly warm response to Hamilton's letter. He was not as good at expressing his feelings as Hamilton was. He did not possess the special skill of combining words in the perfect string to form something beautiful.

My Dear Colonel Hamilton,

Your letter has reached my person at a most welcome time. I find myself the victim of irrepressible melancholy in your absence. Were fate a gracious lady, she would permit me the favor of lying in your arms once more. I have never felt so safe as when I am in your arms.

Rain is constant here. It dampens the spirit, as well as the earth. My men are moving slower than they would on a sunny day. I can only pray that the British are facing similar lethargy due to the weather. Otherwise, I fear a battle in which my men will move very slowly, much to General Washington's detriment.

On the subject of General Washington - have you heard rumors of Congress' displeasure with the current posture of the war? While you and I recognize that the losses suffered are through no defect of character on General Washington's part, there is a very real chance that he may be replaced. According to my father, Congress favors General Horatio Gates. My father continues to publicly favor General Washington, but cannot alone ensure General Washington's happy tenure as our favored commander-in-chief. I pray you inform General Washington of these tumultuous circumstances. Perhaps he would heap favor upon you for informing him so. Perhaps he would permit you to join me in South Carolina.

As winter melts away and it once again becomes an appropriate season for battle, you must remember the promise you made to me as I departed the magnificent Schuyler estate. Jealousy guard your safety, if not for yourself, then for me. I would rather your head remain on your shoulders. It is a nice head.

I am not so talented a writer as you, I must profess, but the feelings which you spoke of in your letter are reciprocated, if not elevated, in my own heart. I love you - better than I love anyone else, and better than I could love anyone else. It is my dearest wish that you be returned to me, be it at the close of the war, or, heaven permitting, at some nearer time.

Be true.

Yours,

John Laurens

"Husband, I am being met with constant questions about winter clothing." Marty entered the quarters before John could seal his letter.

John scrambled to hide both letters - his and Hamilton's. Marty's perception of Hamilton had not improved since the fated night when she realized just how expansive Hamilton's ability to break John's heart was. She had advised John to avoid Hamilton as best he could while maintaining professionalism. John did not have the heart to tell her that, though her advice was likely sound, he did not have the strength to rid himself of Hamilton.

"Oh, are you writing a letter to Congress?" Marty stepped forward before John could think of a way to hide the letters. She snatched the letter that John had freshly penned. Her sharp eyes scanned each line. After a mere few seconds, her face clouded over with disapproval.

"John." She said.

She did not need to expand upon her iteration of John's name - her tone made clear all that she wished to convey. John's ears burned with embarrassment.

"You have no right to read my correspondence without my consent." John reminded her icily. "Kindly refrain from doing so in the future."

He snatched the letter out of her hand. The parchment crinkled in protest, threatening to rip if it was further manhandled.

"You are wasting your time with this...correspondence with Colonel Hamilton that you should be devoting to your men. There are men freezing in the cold, without adequate clothing and food. Instead of writing to Congress on their behalf, you would waste away your days writing a man who does not care for you! Where are your priorities, husband? Where is that patriot spirit that used to move you? Has Colonel Hamilton robbed you of all of your sensibilities?" Marty berated him, keeping her voice low enough that John's men would not overhear.

John's face turned a dark shade of red.

"How dare you address me in such a way?" He demanded. He did not take similar care to govern his volume. "You are my wife, not my master. You will mind your place."

Marty's eyes widened in surprise. John had never dared to speak to her in so rough a manner before. Beyond that, she had seemed to lull herself into a false sense of marital bliss following Hamilton's wedding to Eliza Schuyler. She had believed that, because she had seen John suffering from heartbreak caused by Hamilton, she now enjoyed a closeness to John which she had not enjoyed before. John had permitted her to believe such, as it made her easier to manage around the camp.

"It is true, I am your wife." Marty finally said, her voice an angry whisper. "If I am not permitted to object to your infidelity, then who should be?"

"No one," John said, decidedly. "You must grin and bear it as your betters have done before you."

Marty slapped him.

John had heard of women slapping men when they were too fresh, but he had never considered that he might be struck by his wife. He would have never guessed that such an assault might hurt. His cheek stung from Marty's slap. His pride stung from her presumption.

As John stood there, blinking at Marty in a stupor, Marty turned on her heel and exited John's office. John watched her go. He was left standing where he was for a very long time, considering every choice that had led him to that exact exchange.

Marty went into labor six hours after her argument with John. The wife of one of the enlisted men under John's command stepped into his office to tell him so shortly after it began.

It was a long labor. The wives who had followed their husbands, like Marty, tended to her. The camp physician was present among the ladies, but had confessed to John that he knew very little about childbirth. John sat outside of the bedroom, waiting.

After the first few hours, one of the wives emerged from the room, her face pale. John watched as she fetched a pail of water. He could not command his limbs to move. He was stricken with fear. The length of time and the expression on the woman's face spelled out an upsetting reality: something was wrong.

"Is my wife well?" He heard himself ask as the woman returned with the pail of water. "I-is she...?"

"We are all doing our best, Colonel Laurens." The woman replied mildly before hurrying into the room.

John let out a ragged sigh, then dropped his head into his hands.

He knew of many women who had perished during childbirth. It was not an uncommon cause of death. He knew that Marty's body had incurred much abuse since she had fallen pregnant - this increased her chances of dying in childbirth.

He wished that he had shared a much more pleasant conversation with her before she had gone into labor. He wished that he had forgiven her for her trespasses. He wished that he had said something kind. He wished that, for the first time in their marriage, he had uttered the words 'I love you'. He did love her, he realized. He did not love her the way that he loved Hamilton, but he loved her the way one loved the familiarity of one's own home.

He would have preferred Marty to die with kinder words committed to her memory.

Frances Eleanor Laurens was born on a cold morning after a very long, very difficult labor. She had a swollen leg. The physician cut some excess flesh from the leg after assuring John that the process would be safe and beneficial to the child.

John entered the room as soon as the wives and the physician had looked over both Marty and Frances and guaranteed that their lives were no longer in danger. He looked first to Marty. Her palor was frighteningly inhuman. She looked at him, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

"I'm sorry." She said weakly.

"Sorry?" John echoed, uncomprehending. "Wife, all of the faults are mine, I -"

"She is apologizing for the condition of the child, sir." One of the wives stepped in, carrying a heap of cloth that must have been John's child. "It is a girl."

John shook his head, dismissing this criticism.

"Let it be a girl." He said, taking the baby from the woman. "So long as she is healthy."

There was a small spot of blood on the bundle, where the physician had cut the excess from the swollen leg. The baby was now asleep, her face still red from the screaming and squalling she had done to object to the physician's treatment of her. She was so small. Her tiny lips pursed in her sleep. Her dark eyelashes dusted her cheeks. Her small, wrinkled hands curled into tight fists. Soon she would be using those fists to injure men, just like her mother.

John turned to look back at Marty. He was certain that she would be proud of creating such a thing. Instead, she was asleep. John turned to look at the physician.

"She will recover?" He demanded.

"Well, Colonel, nothing is certain…" The physician tried to demur.

John stared at the physician, waiting for him to continue.

"I believe that she will recover nicely." The physician continued. He may have been lying for John's benefit purely out of fear for his position, but John did not care. He contented himself with the physician's words, false or not.

"I will retire to my office to allow my wife to rest." John said.

He did not wish to do anything which might injure Marty's chances at recovery. He nodded towards the women and the physician who assisted Marty by way of thanking them.

"Uh, Colonel Laurens." The physician hesitated. "The baby must stay with its mother. I I will ensure that your wife and child are monitored throughout the evening while you are in your office."

"Oh." John had not realized that he could not bring the baby with him. "Oh, well...there's no need for that, Dr. Merryweather - though I thank you for your diligence. If someone must remain with Mrs. Laurens and my daughter, I suppose it should be me."

The physician bowed his head to John.

"Colonel Laurens." He said. He then ushered the wives out of the room, affording the new family some privacy.

John sighed, taking a seat in one of the wooden chairs in the corner of the bedroom. Marty sat in that chair when she read at night. She was currently reading something by Shakespeare. John did not care much for Shakespeare's writing, based on what Marty read aloud.

He looked down at the newborn child in his arms. He wondered whether he ought to be disappointed that the child was a girl. He knew that his father would be disappointed. His entire family - Marty, included - would expect a son to follow this daughter. John did not much care whether he had a son or a daughter. In some ways, a daughter was easier than a son. A daughter would be free from the responsibilities of school, politics, and money. John did not have to spend nights agonizing over ensuring his daughter's success. He only had to love her.

The baby had fallen asleep while John considered her gender. John gently placed her in the bed beside Marty. He knew that Marty would want to see her once she awoke. He left the room just long enough to retrieve a quill and two pieces of parchment - the first was his letter to Hamilton, the second was blank.

John ripped up the letter to Hamilton. He set the quill to the paper and began to write a new letter.

Alexander Hamilton

Alexander found that, while he had not expected to enjoy married life, he liked being a part of Eliza's family. He enjoyed the way that General Schuyler would pat his shoulder and call Alexander 'son'. He liked the way that Peggy would joke over breakfast. She had the most infectious laugh that Alexander had ever heard. He liked lounging in the library and arguing over the merits of books and theories with Angelica. He liked the way that Mrs. Schuyler would encourage him to eat more at every meal.

He had never had a family before. He enjoyed the one that he had married into very much.

As much as he enjoyed his new family, though, Alexander did miss the war. He missed the sense of purpose he received from completing a series of grueling tasks each day. He missed the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers. He missed John.

A letter had arrived for him one morning. One of the servants placed it underneath Alexander's plate before breakfast. Alexander recognized John's meticulous handwriting straight away. That morning, Alexander did not laugh at Peggy's jokes as much as he usually did. He found that it was agonizing, having to wait to read the contents of John's letter.

After breakfast, Alexander quickly excused himself to the library to answer John's letter. Angelica offered to join him. Alexander lied and told her that he was handling confidential material, far too sensitive for her eyes. It was clear that no one quite believed his reason, but the excuse permitted Alexander to read John's words in peace.

Colonel Hamilton,

It gives me great pleasure to inform you that my wife and I have welcomed a daughter into the world as of January 10th. We have decided to name her Frances Eleanor. Though I am informed that it is far too soon to tell, it appears that Frances favors her mother in appearance.

I appreciate the generosity of your last letter, and the pledges you made within. Trust that my sentiments resemble yours, though my new obligations must adjust them appropriately.

I trust that by the time you return to General Washington's camp, you will become aware that there is a shift in the Congressional attitude towards General Washington. My father remains a loyal friend to the General, but other members cannot boast such loyalty. They think to replace General Washington with General Gates. Additionally, General Lee has made indiscreet comments which would suggest that he believes himself to be the natural replacement of General Washington. No one who has met you would dare accuse you of disloyalty to General Washington, which is why you must take care to promote his interests as best you can in the position you have been entrusted with. General Washington's downfall will be your downfall, too.

Have care for your safety.

Your obedient servant,

John Laurens

Alexander set John's letter down on the desk, frowning. He had been smiling when he had begun the letter. His heart sank to the bottom of his chest.

John had not returned Alexander's professions of love - not in the slightest. He had attempted to state that Alexander's feelings were returned, but had then said that his own feelings were muted by his new obligations as a father. Alexander might have expected John to retract his love, had he been granted a son, but Alexander had not expected to be ousted over a daughter.

There was a knock on the library door. Eliza cracked open the door and poked her head through the crack before Alexander could say anything.

"Are you almost finished working?" She asked with a shy smile. "Angelica and I are going to play with the new puppies. We would love little more than your company."

"I'll be right there." Alexander murmured, still studying John's letter.

He did not know how to respond to such a letter. He did not even know if he wanted to respond to such a letter.

Instead, he stood from his chair and followed Eliza out of the library.

Alexander returned to Washington's camp after a short furlough.

Two days after his return, Alexander requested a command. Washington rejected his request. Alexander found that he was not surprised, but he was angry.

"How would it look, Hamilton?" Washington reminded him, exasperated. He paced the length of his quarters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How would it look if you were to return from a longer furlough than the enlisted men could dream of, to receive a promotion? I cannot reward your idleness."

"You were the one to recommend I take a longer furlough following my wedding!" Alexander exclaimed. "I believe it is slander for you to accuse me of idleness. I work harder than anyone else at this camp."

Washington paused to look in Alexander's direction. His eyes were narrow.

"I said no." He ground out.

Alexander glowered at Washington. He did not understand why Washington promoted others before him. He did not understand why he, who was the best at his job, was held back from realizing his potential. It seemed that Washington wanted nothing more than for Alexander to remain in obscurity while everyone else muddled forward. Washington wished to keep all of the glory for himself.

"Yes, sir." Alexander spat out, the words tasting like vinegar.

Washington nodded, placated by Alexander's humble acceptance of his rejection. His vanity was astounding, especially when contrasted to the letters and accounts of people who described Washington as humble and respectful.

Alexander stormed out of the room before Washington dismissed him. It was a small act of disobedience, one which Alexander knew that Washington would tolerate. While holding Washington's favor did not seem to grant Alexander any leverage in attaining a command, it permitted Alexander to defy Washington more than any other man dared.

Once he reached his quarters, empty without John, he plopped down at his desk. He grabbed a piece of parchment, and, without addressing it to anyone in particular, wrote out the words:

I hate General Washington.