Work Text:
September 18th, 1777
General George Washington sat inside a large tent in the center of his headquarters, pouring over intelligence letter after letter. The British troops were advancing. Soon they would reach the Schuylkill River—and the flour mills. Though the general's expression didn't betray his emotions, rage and concern simmered beneath his calm facade. The flour mills lining the Schuylkill River could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Washington would rather have them destroyed than see them come under British control, and there was simply no possibility that he could hold them. Not after so many losses.
Washington crumpled the letter he'd been so focused on, and threw it across the tent in one of his rare displays of anger. It was at that exact moment that twenty-one-year-old Alexander Hamilton strode into the tent... only to be met with a face full of paper. The young man flinched in surprise, looked down at the crumpled page, and then up at Washington. “Have I done something wrong, Sir?”
Washington might have found the incident amusing if not for his current predicament. “No, Alexander...” His tone was haggard as he waved away the young lieutenant colonel's concern.
Hamilton knelt and picked up the paper, glancing at Washington for a brief moment before reading the page himself. “The flour mills can't be allowed to fall into enemy hands, Sir.”
“No. Indeed, they can't.” Washington's expression grew speculative.
With enthusiasm Washington was beginning to expect from him, Hamilton instantly volunteered. “Assign me a small force, your Excellency. We'll burn them before the British can cross the river!”
For several long moments, Washington considered this. Though he'd never told Hamilton, he was fond of him—and concerned for his safety. Then again, the mills had to be destroyed, and there were few—if any—who would complete the task with as much conviction as Hamilton. “Very well—go. Captain Lee will accompany you. I leave it to your discretion to choose whom else you will need.”
“Yes, Sir!” Hamilton—now thoroughly preoccupied by the chance of some excitement, chucked the crumpled up letter back at Washington and darted out of the tent.
The letter bounced off Washington's chest and landed on the floor again. Washington's lips curved slightly upward in the barest hint of a smile. Hamilton—as intelligent as he was—had a tendency to act sporadically.
That very day, Hamilton, Captain Henry Lee, and eight cavalrymen chosen by Hamilton headed down river. Lee, Hamilton and the men rode quickly down to the mills. They took to their task with ease, meeting no resistance at the start.
The sun was low on the horizon when they reached Davesers ferry. Having set a sentry on the road to Sweedes ford with orders to fire a single shot into the air if he should spot British troops, Hamilton, Lee, and the others set about destroying the flour. The task went by quickly, with each man working at a break-neck pace.
They had nearly finished when the shot rang out. The men looked up, surprised. Half looked about to run, while the others quickly finished the task of destroying the flour, at Hamilton's insistence.
“We need to leave,” Captain Lee urged.
Without argument, Hamilton and the others streamed out into the open. Darkness was setting in as a young man—their sentry—dashed up the slight incline toward them. Breathless and wide-eyed, the young man began his quick report. British dragoons were marching up the road toward the mills even now, and were less than a minute behind him.
The men raced to the trees where they'd left their horses, but before they'd reached them, gunfire rang out. They'd been spotted. A brief exchanging fire with the British dragoons did little to discourage them from advancing. Having come with very little ammunition, the cavalrymen were at a disadvantage.
One of the enemy aimed at Hamilton and fired. The fellow’s shot flew wide, and whizzed by Hamilton’s ear. He spun toward his horse, then watched helplessly when the animal stumbled, wounded by the bullet meant for him. His heart fell when the loyal creature didn't rise. Hamilton fell to his knees beside the horse, knowing it wouldn’t survive the wound… The gelding’s legs flailed, and he grunted in pain. Blood sprayed profusely from the wound. He wouldn’t die quickly, and he was in agony.
Surrounded by the sounds of battle, Hamilton quickly reloaded his flintlock. This was his last bullet. His vision blurred with hot tears as he held the gun to his beloved horse’s head and fired. Instantly, the creature stilled.
He fought the feeling of pain and regret, knowing he had to get his men to safety. Three of the remaining horses, now panicked, tore loose and bolted. In a daze, Hamilton stood, rubbing a grime-coated sleeve across his eyes and forcing his mind back into a logical state.
Hamilton glanced down at the ferry where two boats bobbed quietly in the water at the small dock. The boats were his only option now. “Get to the boats!” he yelled over the chaos.
Captain Lee, with five of the men, mounted their horses with Hamilton's orders to get back to Washington as quickly as they were able. He and the three men whose horses had fled would take one of the boats, and catch up as soon as they were able.
Hamilton and the remaining three men ran for the boats, dodging enemy fire the whole length. His men leaped into the closest boat, while he untied the other one—which looked capable of carrying nearly fifty people. If the British ended up in possession of that boat, they could easily cross the river... and if they did that—they would be able to march into Philadelphia, where the Continental Congress resided. With steady hands, Hamilton freed the second boat then jumped into the one his men occupied, still under attack. Hopefully, the boat would drift far enough away, pulled by the strong current, that the British would be unable to use it.
A bullet slammed into the man across from Hamilton, and Alexander watched as the soldier tumbled overboard. How had things gone wrong so quickly? “Get down!” he yelled, even as he pulled one of the oars from the bottom of the boat and shoved them away from the dock.
The others obeyed his command, but not before another of his men took a musket ball to the shoulder. Screaming in shock and pain, the man threw himself into the bottom of the boat.
They were sitting ducks in the boat. The dragoons could fire into it easily, and the small rails of their vessel provided little to no cover. Only halfway across the river, Hamilton knew they had to abandon the boat. “We have to go overboard! Can you swim?”
His injured man nodded, but his eyes were screwed shut, and the expression he wore was pinched with pain. The uninjured man jumped out of the boat, splashing into the frigid water and paddling toward the other side. Hamilton helped the other over to the edge, and went over with him, helping him along.
The current was strong, tugging at them. Supporting both his own weight, and that of his wounded comrade, Hamilton struggled to stay above the surface. More than once, he slipped under, and inhaled cold water, only to immerge sputtering and coughing.
The sound of gunfire died down once Hamilton and his two cavalrymen reached the other side. Cold, wet, and miserable, they reached the cover of trees and collapsed.
Once at a safe distance, Captain Henry Lee slowed his horse and watched from the rise on the opposite side of the Schuylkill River. Through the darkness he saw the dark figures of his fellow soldiers’ race to the boats... and then he saw them collapse into the bottom of the boat one by one. His gut clenched. Hamilton—the bright, young aide-de-camp to General Washington—was dead. Their simple mission had turned into a deadly tragedy.
“Sir?” one of the men whispered.
“We have to reach Washington.” With a grim face, Lee spurred his horse into a gallop. Casting one last look over his shoulder, Henry wondered how he would tell Washington... How could he soften the news?
With a sinking feeling, Lee realized he could not. He simply had to tell him the hard truth.
Riding through the dark, Lee and the five remaining men of the expedition raced for Washington's headquarters.
They arrived shortly, and the camp buzzed as only six of the original ten men rode into camp. Lee was told Washington was in a meeting, and so, he quickly penned a letter informing the general of the night’s success... and tragedy, then sent it off with another one of Washington's aides. He hadn't the heart to announce the disaster aloud.
Washington stood at the head of the table, surrounded by several of his aides and generals. They were looking down at an incomplete map of British forces in New York when the young man carrying Lee's letter strode in, walked quietly up to Washington, and handed him the letter. The general nodded, offering quiet thanks to the fellow, and opening the page, began to read…
Sir,
The company of men which you sent led by myself and Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton had almost successfully completed the mission at Davesers ferry with which you entrusted us, when a troop of British dragoons approached. With little warning, we were unprepared and forced to flee.
Colonel Hamilton's horse was incapacitated by a British bullet. He and three others were forced to abscond with a boat moored at the ferry. I and five others rode to a safe vantage point, from which I watched Hamilton and three others attempt to escape by boat. The British dragoons gunned them down when they were aboard. I regret to inform your Excellency that Alexander Hamilton was killed in the service of America.
Washington grew still as his eyes retraced the last sentence again, and then a third time. Alexander was dead... It was nearly impossible to imagine the fiery young man—eyes filled with so much life—gone. Washington blinked rapidly, a hollow feeling of disbelief settling over him. Hamilton and three others, dead in one night...
The men at the table must have seen something in his posture change, for they shifted uncomfortably before one spoke up. “General?”
Voice choked with poorly disguised regret, Washington spoke, “Dismissed. I will recall you all tomorrow to continue this matter.”
An older general looked as though he would question this, and opened his mouth to speak.
“Go back to your tents.”
At that, the group all strode solemnly out, leaving Washington alone. He sank heavily onto an old crate, letter in hand. He'd lost men before; it always affected him, though he did his best not to show it. But he'd been particularly fond of Hamilton's quick wit and honesty. Only that morning, the boy had been in his tent, discussing military strategy with him...
Washington ripped the letter apart, letting the torn pieces float to the ground as he silently cursed King George for this bloody war.
Time seemed to evaporate as Washington sat with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. The candlelight illuminated the emptiness of his tent, and Washington finally stood, gathering his will and tamping down feelings of sorrow. Perhaps there would be time to mourn the dead after the fighting ceased. He needed to focus only on the present; and on those still alive to win this war.
But for now, Washington wanted to rest. He had only just stood to prepare for the night, when the tent flap behind him opened. Irritated by the disturbance, Washington spun on the intruder, prepared to dole out a verbal lash or two... Only to stop and gape.
Standing in the doorway, soaked and shivering, stood none other than Alexander Hamilton; back from the dead. The young man looked grim, but he was alive.
Washington—though generally not prone to show emotion of any kind—let his relief roll out in a sharp laugh.
“Sir..?”
Washington all but swept across the room, throwing his arms around the young man in a nearly bone-crushing embrace.
Hamilton's eyes widened, and he asked—in a still more concerned voice—“Sir?”
Washington pulled away, barely noticing that he too was now soaked. “Captain Lee informed me of your death. Obviously, this was exaggerated.” The general's eyes shone with relieved tears.
Hamilton took on a baffled expression for a long moment, taking in this new information. “I'm all right, but another man was injured.” Hamilton looked down, studying his mud-coated boots. “I lost a man,” he sighed “...And m-my horse.” Shock seemed to flow from him.
“We'll discuss it all in the morning,” Washington said, putting a hand on Hamilton's shoulder in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture.
“Yes Sir, but...” Hamilton drew a paper from his pocket, “This needs to be sent out now. It's a letter to John Hancock. I feel the British may march on to Philadelphia. Congress would be in danger...”
Washington took and read the letter.
To John Hancock
Warwick Furnace, Pennsylvania, Sepr. 18th 1777
9 O'Clock at night
Sir,
I did myself the honor to write you a hasty line this Evening giving it as my opinion that the city was no longer a place of safety for you. I write you again lest that should not get to hand. The enemy are on the road to Sweedes ford, the main body about four miles from it. They sent a party this evening to Davesers ferry, which fired upon me and some others in crossing it, killed one man, wounded another, and disabled my horse. They came on so suddenly that one boat was left adrift on the other side, which will of course fall into their hands and by the help of that they will get possession of another, which was abandoned by those who had the direction of it and left afloat, in spite of every thing that I could do to the contrary. These two boats will convey 50 men across at a time so that in a few hours they may throw over a large party, perhaps sufficient to overmatch the militia who may be between them and the city. This renders the situation of Congress extremely precarious if they are not on their guard; my apprehensions for them are great, though it is not improbable they may not be realized. The most cogent reasons oblige me to join the army this night or I should have waited upon you myself. I am in hopes our army will be up with the enemy before they pass Schuylkill. If they are, something serious will ensue.
I have the honor to be with much respect Sir, Your Most Obedt servt
A. Hamilton
Washington looked back at Hamilton, proud that—even in the midst of disaster, he’d done the best anyone could do; perhaps better. “I will have this sent out. You need rest.” He took off his own cloak and slung it over Hamilton's quaking shoulders.
“Thank you, Sir. But...”
“It can wait.” Washington chided gently. “You need to recover.”
Hamilton nodded slowly and headed for the door, still seemingly in a daze.
“Alexander...”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You did well.”
“Thank you, Sir.” He smiled—a hint of his usual spirit behind it—then turned and disappeared into the darkness outside, leaving Washington much relieved, and holding a foreboding letter he needed to send out.