Horatio Gates, Charles Lee, Thomas Conway and company all decide that they want to seize New York from the British, despite Washington's orders that instructed them otherwise. They decide to head in with troops, lying and claiming that the General George Washington approved the likes of their plan; they negotiate with the committee of New York. The British boats will either blow New York to pieces in any way, but if the men and their troops win, they can dictate New York or destroy it themselves.
General George Washington placed his index-finger upon the old map which was yellowing with age, placed near the edge of Rhode Island, he then slowly dragged his finger across said map, pushing a pawn that was no bigger than that of the average chess-piece across the map. The small red pawn represented that of the lobsters, the Redcoats that every honest Patriot wished were damned to the pits of hell. A soft sigh escaped Washington's lips, shaking his aging soul slightly to summon such a blow of wind from his lungs. The general averted his gaze from the map, looking up, he glanced at his Colonel before over at his generals, he hummed softly, "the British have surrounded new York, not blocking all trade--merely regulating it," he commented. Washington slowly leaned back, "the ability to trade is precious at this time, it's valuable and having that surrounded is rather dangerous," he added. General Washington furrowed his thick, bushy eyebrows, waiting for a response from his head of intelligence, from his Colonel, from one of his generals, anyone.
Colonel Alexander Hamilton inhaled sharply through is not, preparing to speak, thinking for a moment; wondering if he could continue, "Marquis de Lafayette could consult the French," he started, gesturing towards Lafayette as he spoke. He hesitated for another second before continuing, "then summon them out on boat to surround the British, late in the night and shoot down the British," the short, 5'7" Caribbean man suggested.
Within the corner; standing at the edge of that table, Charles Lee stood, currently in high-spirited, causing him to simply bite his tongue, managing to hold a poker-face in doing so, despite the idea that thundered at his brain and beat upon his tongue.
Colonel Hamilton looked to General Washington before he looked up towards the ceiling, all he could do was think as to how his plan would go and what Washington thought of it. All he hoped was that Washington would instantly take his plan, he had thought it out on his feet and was rather proud of the fact that he had done such a thing. He smoothed down the dark-brown hair that was wildly dancing about from the inability to take care of it on a regular as he would before.
General Washington pressed his elbows onto the table, pursing his lips for short second before slowly shifting in his seat, the general reached forwards, he took hold of one of the red pawn and picked up said pawn. He placed his pawn down in the water drawn out on the map beside the other he had placed a little before,. George then brought in a sturdy blue pawn, placing it in the water and little ways behind the red pawn, the general grabbed several pawns of each colour, "how many boats do the British occupy?" he questioned.
Nobody in the room spoke up to answer that question, as no one knew the answer; not even Benjamin Tallmadge, who had intelligence serving in New York as they spoke. He hadn't a response from anyone in New York, which was what was keeping progress in New York from pushing any further, in his personal opinion.
General Washington bit his lower lip, then he nodded, "find out," he demanded coldly in response to the answer; which was that of silence, he placed his hands on the table, slowly pushing himself to his feet.
Charles Lee cleared his throat, "I oppose a new idea, we could send in one of our men to the shoreline, such as Gates or Conway to figure, of course, with the aid of a troop or that of multiple; then they will feed us information upon the number of boats, we then would proceed to attack; attempt to stretch out the battle and then we bring in the Marquis de Lafayette, who would come in with boats and fire upon them, or if we wish for a quicker way that'll cut down on time, the troops go up there and quarter thyselves and rest while they wait for that of Marquis's services," Lee finished, glancing at the poor-excuse of a hand. This hand was missing two fingers from a duel with an Italian Officer; a story he rarely spoke of, even when asked.
General Washington kept silent for a few moments, looking at both plans mentally, viewing them, though time was of essence, he breathed in softly, "though, equally good tactics, Colonel Hamilton's plan would be accomplished in half of the time yours would be, troops being guided on foot to possibly quarter for a month in the homes of citizens who can't even provide for thyself would be devastating, and then to wait for Marquis's boats?" he asked calmly, unable to piece together the logic within the plan upon the thought of time.
Charles Lee leaned forwards, his high-spirits dropping quickly, his black, unkempt hair falling into his face as he leaned forwards, he looked down, managing to hold his tongue. Though, his quill would not be held like his tongue in only a matter of time, he had much anger to lash out on General Washington to that of Horatio Gates or Thomas Conway. He remained leaned against the table, spacing out for now, finding none of the orders important, as none were directed to him. Lee stood there for a long while, few times shifting his weight from one foot to the other, though, he found himself returning to high-spirits when Washington and Hamilton wrapped up their conversations and other members besides those two began to head out. Lee gripped the black hat that sat upon the table, he lifted it, guiding himself towards the entrance of the tent, he ducked underneath the peak, pulling the material aside; he stood to his full height and made his way through the tents. He scrunched up his nose as he left, the smell of blood filtered the air; he could assume someone was gutting a bird elsewhere or something edible that could bleed out. The Irish General placed the hat against his chest; pressing it there, as if he were mourning the loss of a loved one, he could smell oncoming rain; which wouldn't be good for many.
Charles Lee marched himself through the camp, weaseling past tents that stood taller than he did, not that he was all that tall, he trudged through the mud created due to the rain the night prior, his shin-high boots carrying him through it all, luckily enough, Once he spotted his tent, he stopped before it, he threw his hat inside with a low sigh, ducking underneath the triangle-shaped entrance, he stopped right there, pulling his boots off; as the ground he had settled upon was obviously dry due to the erect tent stopping rain from pouring onto it. Lee made a mental-note to clean the mud off of his boots later, though, now was not the time. What it was time for, though? It was time for him to gain fellow Irish General, Thomas Conway's attention on concerns dealing with Washington.
Now seated before his desk, Charles Lee sat, thinking as hard as he could, not to waste much daylight without the quill moving and dancing upon the paper to create his thoughts. He had few candles to spare and he wished not taste a single one unless the were absolutely needed, he brought his fingers to the paper, fixing this paper so it was straightened; steadying his hand along with the quill. He glanced at the tip of the quill before he lifted it, dipping it into the rounded pot that was known as an inkwell, patterns were traded into this small bowl-like object, it made up for the ugly bronze-like colour to the inkwell. He gripped the quill tightly to steady his shaking hand yet again, moving the quill back over the paper; he was refusing to make the letter look sloppy.
Dear Sir,
forgive me, your dear Charles Lee, for bothering you amidst perhaps that of importance, though, shan't we discuss and ramble upon the topic of no other than George Washington? He refuses to listen to me and my excellent plans, using time as an excuse, this as of a forty-so year old man is focused on that of time, and time only. Not to mention his inability to birth songs; sterile bastard that treats that poor fatherless immigrant known as Hamilton as his child due to this disadvantage, preforming an act of favortism. Resulting in that of a parent-less General, known as your dear Charles Lee, to be ignored frequently. My idea of heading North from this shitty location in Philadelphia to New York, with your or the lovely Gates leading a troop of one or multiple to view the house of boats, then wait and/or rest untill French troops arrive to aid the scene, hopefully you can respond and we can speak, verbally, of going against Washington's ideals, and burn this correspondence with one another.
Signed, you most obedient and Humble servant, Charles Lee of Ireland.
Lee finished with the usual ending of one's letters; he signed it with a soft hum, taking a formerly white-handkerchief; which was now dotted with black splatters from cleaning off his quill before. He pinched the tip of the quill, dragging downwards to rid of the ink upon the quill, a soft noise echoed from the quill as he dropped it onto the desk. Charles lifted the paper carefully, opening a drawer in his desk; being careful to keep the paper flat, so the ink didn't run or smear with one another. Charles spun around, turning his body towards his mud-crusted boots with a soft sigh of tiredness, he could clean themselves or drop them off near the river. Down near the river, the wives that were dragged along, or the ones that willingly came along, set up a shop to get pay and serve a purpose, under Washington's orders. They sold pots, pans, items to keep one warm, and they washed clothes, like most women did nowadays, as they are supposed to. Grabbing a new pair of boots from beside the bed; he only had two pairs of the same shin-high boots, he slid them out in-front of where he would sit. He seated himself before these boots, he pulled them onto his feet with a soft hum, he forced himself to his feet. Charles moved over toward the desk, picking up a bundle of correspondence, he moved towards the triangle-shaped exit that would lead out to the oh-so lovely camp. He grunted lowly, taking his correspondence with him, he moved out of the tent, starting forwards, through the fallen leaves and the mud yet again, prepared to head down to the river and drop his correspondence off.