Work Text:
Hamilton drew a deep calming breath, schooling his countenance lest it betray the thoughts and emotions which surged through him. It wouldn’t do to present himself to his commanding officer at less than his best. This situation, although not of his choosing, could be the making of him, and Hamilton could not afford to let the opportunity pass.
As he headed up the hill toward the stately manor known as Richmond Hill, he couldn’t help but think back on the encounter which had upset his equilibrium, attempting to analyze what had happened, as well as his own reaction to it. He had known Aaron Burr since before the start of the war, when they had both happened to be in Elizabethtown one summer. Introduced by mutual friends, they had discovered they had something in common—they were both orphans. That had provided a starting point to their acquaintance, which had developed into something of a friendship. Hamilton had to admit Burr was intelligent and charming and very well read, and they could discourse together on a variety of topics, much to Hamilton’s delight. He loved to have an opportunity to show off the knowledge he had acquired through his extensive reading to the younger man.
But Hamilton was only too aware of the differences that lay between them as well, which outweighed any similarities. Hamilton had grown up in the West Indies. His father had abandoned the family when Alex was ten. His mother had died two years later, leaving him all alone in the world. Burr practically came from nobility, at least in the American sense of the word. His father had been the first president of New Jersey College, his grandfather the second. Not to mention, his grandfather was Jonathan Edwards, well known fire-and-brimstone preacher who’d had a way of scaring his congregation through the threat of eternal damnation. No doubt this relationship was what enabled Burr to enter the university at an early age, a feat which Hamilton had been unable to duplicate. Rejected by his first choice, he’d ended up at King’s College instead, from where he had entered the military.
And maybe, he had to admit, a little of that resentment toward Burr’s alma mater had manifested itself when he fired his cannon during the fighting that took place at Princeton. There had been a certain satisfaction in the deed.
Then there was that other matter, the one that made him uneasy, and gave rise to speculation as to what Burr might do about what he knew. At one time, he’d managed to convince himself that Burr was a gentleman, that he would honor his promise to say nothing about what he’d seen. Even now, Hamilton wasn’t sure just what that was, but he knew it was enough to damn both him and Laurens in society’s eyes. He trusted Burr’s agreeable nature and winning smile. But then today Burr had made a point of asking about John, reawakening all of Hamilton’s previous insecurities.
Not the least of Hamilton’s worries was that if anyone found out about his relationship with John Laurens, and its true nature, then he would have a devil of a time securing a wealthy wife.
“Ah, mon ami.”
A familiar voice roused Hamilton from his reveries. He looked up and had to smile. Coming down the steps of the mansion was the man who was, after John Laurens, his best friend. The Marquis de Lafayette. An impressive title for one who was only a couple of years younger than Hamilton. But Lafayette, despite his blue blood, made no pretensions of being better than other people, a practice which he’d lately begun to ascribe to Burr. Lafayette was a true man of the people.
“I’ve been awaiting your arrival in great… how do you say? Ah, yes, antici…pation.” He hesitated only slightly over the long word, his vocabulary having increased immeasurably since Hamilton had first met him, when it was questionable at best, his thick accent sometimes difficult to comprehend. “Ever since my dear General informed me of the good news of your appointment. And now you are here.”
Hamilton found himself pulled into a warm Gallic embrace, a familiarity he would endure from few people. But from Lafayette, he allowed the gesture. It was good to see the Frenchman again. He’d missed him.
Lafayette drew back and regarded him. A slight frown puckered his forehead. “Something is wrong, I can tell. What is it, my dear Alexander?”
There were things he could not say, even to Lafayette, but it warmed his heart to hear the inquiry. “Nerves, I imagine.” He laughed briefly and hoped that he sounded more sincere than he felt. “I had hoped to be going into battle, you know, not bookkeeping, or secretarial work.”
“Ah, but what you will do… that is very important too. As important as firing the gun, or jabbing the bayonet.”
“How so?” The two men paused on the porch, standing aside to allow others to enter freely. None paid them any heed.
“An army such as this must be able to communicate,” Lafayette insisted. “So the head will know what the hands and the feet are doing, no?”
Hamilton gave Lafayette a puzzled look.
“Let me think, let me think.” Lafayette fell silent, tapping one finger against his lips, as he struggled to translate his ideas from French into English. Finally, he removed the finger. “I think I have it now. When you want to walk, let us say, you tell your brain and your brain, it sends the message to your legs and feet, yes?”
Hamilton understood how nerves worked, he’d read about them. He nodded to Lafayette, trying to think ahead to figure out what point he was making.
“But let us suppose, mon ami, that your brain, he does not want to cooperate and do as you wish and he does not send the message. Then how will your poor legs and feet know what they are supposed to do? Where they are supposed to go? Who will direct them, without communication? The nerves, they carry the message. You will help our dear general, who cannot be everywhere, to direct the legs and feet of the army. To be his eyes and ears in all things. To be sure the nerves carry the messages. To know what is happening at all times. And while that may not seem very brave or dangerous to you, it is very important to all of us. And he trusts you to do this. You, Alexander, whom he esteems so highly.”
Lafayette’s words were as balm to Hamilton’s wounded pride, soothing away the sharp edges of his prickliness as they brought everything into focus. Hamilton was not a particular admirer of General George Washington, but he was shrewd enough to know the general, who was not one to become close to many people, was partial to him. He had accepted this post with a careful eye on his future in the military… and beyond. He couldn’t let the fact that Burr had gotten an actual military post mar his own accomplishments. With Washington as a mentor, Hamilton knew he could go far in this fledgling nation. He would show them what a man like him could do, despite the odds that had been against him, despite the hardships he’d had to overcome. And in the end, his success would be all the sweeter for having been worked for, rather than handed to him.
He clapped Lafayette on the shoulder and flashed him a brilliant smile. “As usual, you have made me feel better, my friend,” he said. “Come, let us report to our General, shall we?”
“Oui,” Lafayette agreed with enthusiasm.
As they entered Richmond Hill together, Hamilton was already thinking ahead. Ideas for effective organization, keeping proper records, and checking everything twice, to make sure it was correct. So much to do, and so little time. He’d better get started now. Pushing thoughts of Burr aside for now, Hamilton headed up the stairs to find his commanding officer.