Work Text:
May 6, 1778
Hamilton pulled his coat over his shoulders as he took the stairs up to the General’s quarters two by two. While the warmth of spring had finally graced them the past few weeks, relieving them from a truly miserable winter of privations and starvation, the nights were still chilly, and Hamilton had yet to gain back weight after his winter illness.
It had been an evening of celebration. The news had reached them five days ago of the treaty signed between France and the Congress in Paris, and the General had ordered a feu de joie for the troops, which had been followed by a joyous dinner where they had been joined by most of the officers currently stationed at Headquarters. After many toasts, the General had retreated into his office with Lafayette to handle the last urgent matters of the day.
While the usually taciturn General had been rather joyous since the good news had arrived, the marquis, on the other hand, had been surprisingly despondent. He’d whooped in joy and embraced the General, in his usual manner, when he’d first read the letter announcing the treaty, but after that first night, he’d retreated into himself in a most uncharacteristic manner. Hamilton hadn’t found a chance to talk to him yet, but he wondered at the reason for his melancholy. Did he simply miss his homeland? Coming directly from Paris, the ship that had brought them the news also delivered a package of letters for Lafayette, who Hamilton knew hadn’t received any news from his family in several months. He’d talked several times of sailing back home before the end of the year, if he was given the chance. France joining the war, as relieving as it was for the Americans, would force Lafayette to stay for this year’s campaign at the very least, and likely for the remainder of the war.
Hamilton, who had not once missed his island since he’d first set sail for New York, could nevertheless empathize with his friend’s homesickness. Lafayette was an outsider here, a stranger even among the diverse army camping at Valley Forge, and contrary to Hamilton - who had assimilated easily with the other aides-de-camp and officers - he was faced with reminders of his status daily. He was the Frenchman, who would bring them French aid or die with them for his adoptive country, but who would never be American. And he had left behind a wife and two daughters, one of whom he hadn’t even had a chance to meet, as she was born several months after he had set sail. Lafayette had been effusive in celebration when he had received the news, but he’d confessed to his friends how much he longed to go back and be with his family.
Hamilton reached the top of the stairs to find the door to the General’s office half-open. The General and Lafayette were standing by the desk, conversing in whispers, and neither of them noticed Hamilton as he raised his hand to knock.
Before he could, though, the General did something that Hamilton had very rarely seen him do: he opened his arms and embraced Lafayette. Lafayette had his back to Hamilton, but his body shuddered in what looked like a sob as he returned the embrace. Unwilling to interrupt the moment but embarrassed at witnessing such an intimate display, Hamilton averted his eyes and shifted from foot to foot. The embrace didn’t last long, and soon enough the two men parted, Lafayette turning on his heels and heading for the door. Hamilton hurriedly knocked, letting the door open fully by the pressure of his knuckles.
The General met his eyes briefly before going back to staring after Lafayette, who passed Hamilton with only a sad smile in acknowledgment. “Hamilton, what is it?”
Hamilton showed him the papers in his hand. “You need to review this before I can send your orders to Colonel De Hart, sir,” he answered.
“Yes, come on in.” The General gestured for Hamilton to give him the papers. He skimmed through the documents and sighed. “The Colonel can wait until morning,” he decided. “The hour is late, and we’ve both had more than our fair share of wine. You should go to bed.”
“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said, a little surprised. From up close, the General looked tired and worried, like he had for most of the winter, a weight that had seemed to grow lighter with the news of the French treaty. It was back now. “Is the marquis well? He’s been… subdued.”
Hamilton saw in the General’s face that he’d hit the mark. “He could use a friend,” the General said, a little uncomfortable, as he often was when the private life of his soldiers came into play.
Hamilton didn’t ask what was wrong – if the General was going to tell him, he already would have. “I will talk to him,” he promised instead.
“Go. We’ll take this up in the morning.”
“Good night, your Excellency,” Hamilton saluted.
“Good night, Colonel.”
Hamilton walked back down the stairs and paused in front of the aides’ room, where he could still hear them laughing and talking. He hesitated over whether to fetch Laurens, but he didn’t know if it was a good idea to crowd Lafayette. Instead, he headed out on his own and quickly crossed over to the hut that Lafayette was using as his command tent and lodgings. It was past dusk, but many soldiers were still seated outside around fires, celebrating with the extra gill of rum that had been given them at the General’s orders.
A commotion answered his knock. “It’s Hamilton,” he called in French. “Mon ami, will you let me in?”
“Entrez,” came a weary voice from inside. Hamilton could barely recognize his friend’s voice for how hoarse it was.
“Monsieur le marquis?” Hamilton asked as he stepped inside.
Lafayette was sitting on his cot, his boots removed, his head in his hands. He looked up when Hamilton approached, and Hamilton could see the redness of his eyes.
“What do you want, mon ami?” Lafayette asked, his tone flat. “If it is simply the pleasure of my company, I’m afraid that you will find none with me tonight.”
“I merely wish to offer my own presence and aid for whatever ails you,” Hamilton responded softly. He crossed over to his friend and knelt by him. “Do you wish to tell me what it is?”
Lafayette sighed and handed him a sheet of paper. It was a letter, obviously from his wife, Adrienne. “I received this along with the news of the treaty. Read,” he added when Hamilton shot him a questioning glance.
Hamilton skimmed over the letter, worried at intruding into something so personal, but the cause of his friend’s distress was immediately evident. The letter informed him of the death of a child, his child, his oldest daughter Henriette, from illness. It was dated from November, but correspondence across the Atlantic was notably unreliable in the current climate.
“Oh, mon ami,” Hamilton murmured, his heart going out for his friend. He reached out to clasp his arm, and Lafayette swallowed a sob. “How old was she?”
“She would have turned two in December,” Lafayette whispered. “But she was barely one year old when I left Paris. My little Anastasie is all I have left, and I haven’t even met her.”
“I’m so very sorry.” Hamilton closed his eyes. He couldn’t even imagine his friend’s pain, and that of his wife all the way in Paris.
“I am truly glad that France sends us aid, but faking this cheer has been difficult,” Lafayette said slowly, in English, like speaking his second language would allow him more distance from the situation. “I can no longer.”
“The General was concerned,” Hamilton said, switching back to English as well.
“He is kind. I did not mean to worry him.”
“He was right. You should not be alone tonight.”
Lafayette shook his head, taking back the letter and folding it to place it on his nightstand. “I am tired, I will sleep. I have not slept well.”
“Allow me to stay with you,” Hamilton clasped his friend’s arm once more. “A friendly presence might help you find rest.”
Lafayette met his eyes briefly. His own eyes were shining with tears. “Perhaps,” he says, though he didn’t look like he believed it. “Thank you.”
Hamilton rose. “I should warn the others that I will not sleep at the house. I will be back presently. Allow me to bring back Laurens? He loves you very much, he will want to help as well.”
Lafayette gave him the ghost of a smile. “Our kind Laurens. I would welcome his presence, although there is no need to disturb him if he is differently occupied.”
“Last I heard, he was boasting about his exploits in boarding school,” Hamilton shrugged. “We have all heard these stories too many times to count.”
“Eh bien, go rescue him from his own vanity.”
Hamilton laughed. Lafayette was by far the vainest of the three of them, and he knew it well, so the quip was friendly. Lafayette smiled a little wider, though it vanished just a moment later.
“Get ready for bed, I will be back,” Hamilton said, glad that he had managed to make his friend forget his sorrow, even for such a short while.
He found Laurens in the aides’ room, still drinking and laughing with the others. He pulled him aside briefly to explain the situation, as succinctly as possible.
“Of course I will come,” Laurens assured him immediately. “Poor Lafayette, it must be a hard blow for him.”
Hamilton nodded. “He seems defeated.”
Even in the heart of the winter, when everything seemed bleak and men were dying from hunger, Lafayette had always remained hopeful. Laurens and Hamilton had had their moments of despair, especially as Hamilton kept falling ill, but Lafayette was a master at boosting their spirits and making them smile. He’d been angry after he’d come back from the north, hurt by the knowledge that the command that the war council had offered him hadn’t been much more than a scam, but even then, he’d remained good-natured and friendly. Hamilton had never seen him as depressed as tonight.
Hamilton only knocked perfunctorily on Lafayette’s door this time before he and Laurens walked in. Lafayette was already lying on his cot on his side, his gaze far away. He rose onto his elbow when they entered, his attempt at a smile coming out as a grimace. “Mes amis,” he murmured, then he fell back onto the bed like he had lost all energy.
Laurens went to one knee by the bed and grabbed his hand. “My heart goes out to you, my friend,” he whispered in French. Lafayette clasped his arm without a word, turning his face away as tears once again shined in his eyes.
Laurens exchanged a glance with Hamilton. They could both remember siblings who had passed in infancy, and their grieving parents, although the subject was seldom spoken of. Like Lafayette, Laurens had left behind a pregnant wife when he set sail from Europe, but Laurens showed little attachment to his wife and daughter, and Hamilton knew that he had only married Mrs. Laurens out of a sense of duty.
But his lack of paternal affection, just like Hamilton’s childlessness, didn’t preclude him from being moved when Lafayette spoke of his wife and daughters with tenderness and love. Little Henriette had been his pride, and he had fretted many times to his friends over whether she would forgive him for being away for so long upon his return, even though the child was really too young to have much of an opinion.
Hamilton diverted himself from his boots and his outer clothes and carefully laid down next to his friend on the narrow cot. Lafayette moved a little to accommodate him, then some more when Laurens joined them on his other side. It was a tight fit, as the cot was made for one, but they had slept two or more to a bed all winter, and the intimacy was more familiar than stifling. Lafayette relaxed noticeably under the pressure of his friends’ bodies.
“Do you wish to talk, or only to sleep?” Hamilton asked softly.
“My mind is too pained to sleep,” Lafayette sighed, in English once again.
“How is the marquise holding up?” Laurens asked. “Did she say?”
“She is with her family, and for that I am grateful,” Lafayette answered. “But news takes so long to come here, and so much could happen in that time. I cannot help but fear for Adrienne and our little Anastasie.” He paused. “It is like losing Henriette has changed something inside of me, and I am afraid for them constantly.”
There were no words to reassure him. For all that their own situation seemed far more dangerous, with the summer campaign and its share of battles and death looming ahead of them, fatal childhood illnesses were an unavoidable tragedy that neither Hamilton nor Laurens could deny. Lafayette only confirmed it further with his next words. “One of the other letters I received was from my brother the vicomte,” he said. “My beloved nephew Adrien also passed early in the year. I wish that I am there to share their pain. My poor Adrienne must be devastated, and I do not even know when she will hear from me. But with the treaty, I cannot go home.”
Hamilton gripped Lafayette’s arm tighter. The death of not one but two children in his immediate family had to be crushing. “I’m sure she knows that your spirit is with her, if not your body.” It sounded like an empty reassurance even as he said it, but for all his way with words, Hamilton had none for his friend in this moment.
“I know it is a poor consolation, but we will be here for you through this grief,” Laurens said.
“Merci, mes amis,” Lafayette murmured, switching back to his mother tongue in his exhaustion.
He stared at the ceiling for a long while, obviously tired but unable to let his mind rest. Hamilton unconsciously rubbed soothing circles into his broad shoulder, while Laurens let his head rest against Lafayette’s. Eventually, Lafayette’s eyes closed of their own accord. He seemed to struggle to stay awake for a moment more, but he finally let go and fell asleep.
Careful not to jostle him, Hamilton reached over him to grasp Laurens’ hand, and they exchanged a sad look. Their friend would be alright, eventually, but it would take time.
The three of them went to sleep in the same position, huddled together on the narrow cot. In the morning, Hamilton and Laurens tactfully didn’t comment on the wetness of the pillow or Lafayette’s red, puffy eyes and if they held their friend a little longer than strictly necessary before rising to attend their duties, it went similarly unmentioned. It was neither the first nor the last time they shared a bed and an embrace, during the enduring hardships of the war, and the bonds between them would only grow.