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Baron Von Steuben raised his shot glass into the air, the liquid splashing onto his shirt sleeve in his unstable grasp. “Another, men?” he asked, his loud low voice slurring only slightly.
Cries of affirmation rose from the crowd of intoxicated spectators, and the Baron grinned, striking a match against the table, sparking a glorious blue flame. He brought it to the shot glass slowly, the spectators leaning in to snag a better view. He cleared the last few inches quickly, noises of astonishment flying from the crowd as a fire erupted in the alcohol.
Stuben searched the crowd with semi-alert eyes, landing on just the pair he wanted. “Come, come,” he motioned to two young aides, one a petite fiery redhead, the other a tall muscular blond. “Hamilton, Laurens. You two are up.”
The pair stumbled through the crowd, Hamilton leaning against his larger less drunk friend. “There’s only one,” the shorter man complained weakly, “we can’t both drink one…” he trailed off, eyes closing, head falling heavily down, only to snap back up the second his ching touched his chest.
“We need two,” Laurens grinned at his tired companion, “If only to keep this one awake.”
The Baron nodded at them, retrieving another shot glass, pouring a mix of cocktails into it, lighting it on fire. Laurens helped Hamilton to a bar stool, pushing one of the flaming cocktails to him.
“On one,” Steuben stepped back to get a better view, “three...” he motioned with his hand, and the group joined in the counting.
“Two…” Laurens and Hamilton readied their hands.
“One!” They grabbed the fiery glasses, Hamilton shrieking slightly at the heat, and threw them into their mouths, fire and all. Laurens started coughing immediately, turning around, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Hamilton closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. He placed a hand on the bar counter, standing slowly, eyes shut. Laurens, done coughing, approached him slowly, placing a hand on his arm. He leaned in close, pressing his mouth close to whisper in Hamilton’s ear.
“How are you, darling?”
Hamilton opened his eyes, speaking to the whole group. “I feel simply marvelous.” A cheer burst forth through the group of onlookers, breaking the spell of the moment.
Everyone mingled with each other, Steuben poured another couple of shots, and the party continued in the chaotic fashion it was designed for. The men scampered about in their ripped, and in some cases completely absent breeches, all having a gay old time.
As the hours ticked by, marked by the large grandfather clock in the corner of the spacious room, guests trickled out, going back to their tents or tavern rooms. Soon enough, only the Baron and Washington’s men remained.
Meade, Tench, and McHenry were deeply engrossed in a conversation about the best way to pet a horse, Fitzgerald was attempting cartwheels in the middle of the room, and Harrison and Reed held a pitcher of ale between them, slowly draining it. Laurens and Hamilton sat in the corner, whispering and giggling, occasionally exchanging a quick, and other times not so quick kiss, but no one minded.
Abruptly, Steuben stood, drawing everyone’s attention to the table in the corner of the room. “Gentlemen,” he slurred, his accent making it even harder to understand him than it usually was, “come over. We must play a game before we retire to bed.”
The men stood slowly, bringing stools to sit on. “Will we need our purses for this game of yours?” Tench asked.
“But of course!” the Baron held his own jangling bag up for all to see, “for what fun is there if no risk is involved?”
The men chuckled gamely, clinking filling the room as coins were extracted from pouches. Steuben pulled a deck of cards from the pocket of his breeches, unboxing and shuffling it. He motioned for Fitzgerald to bring over a table, dealing three cards to each player when he had it in front of him.
“Does everyone know the game Brag?” he asked the group. All nodded, and the Baron commenced with the dealing.
It was a simple game. Every player got three cards, and all bet around the table, matching, raising, or dropping out. Once it came to the final two, a bet of twice the original amount forced a showdown, and whoever had the better hand won. A three of a kind was the best combination to have, followed by running flushes, runs, flushes, pairs, and then the high card.
“Shall we have betting limits?” McHenry asked, fingering the cards in front of him.
“No!” the group coursed, putting an end to the debate.
“Well alright then,” he chuckled, “if you lot want to blow your money, who am I to stop you?”
“The most sensible of all of us,” Harrison interjected, “myself excluded of course.”
Mac scoffed, “Go off old man, you know you’re just as foolish as the rest of us.”
“Good good,” Steuben cut in, “enough with the games of wit now, aye? Let's get to our game.”
They all laughed through the first six rounds, exchanging joyful commentary. Hamilton won the first one, Laurens the second, Tench the third, Laurens the fourth, Meade the fifth, and Hamilton the sixth. By the time they were through, it was well past one in the morning, but the drunk men were still plenty rowdy.
Harrison stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. “How’s about we head to bed, aye?” He reached out a hand to the table in front of him to steady his body. “Well past time to turn in, I believe.”
“No!” The Baron exclaimed, “we can’t simply leave on a tie, now can we?”
“We most certainly can not,” Tench grabbed Harrison’s hand and pulled him roughly down to his seat, “Just one more old man. Then you can go to bed.”
Harrison grumbled in acceptance, Steuben delt, and the betting began again.
Reed and Fitz dropped out in the first round, Tench, Harrison, and McHenry following not long after. Meade tried to keep up, but he too eventually had to give in, leaving just the Baron, Laurens, and Hamilton. The betting was up to 12 shillings, making even one round costly.
It was Hamilton's turn. He glanced quickly at his cards, looking up and smiling deviously at the remaining players. He slowly, decisively, counted coins from his own pile, pushing them into the middle.
“Twenty.”
Tench let out a long whistle from where he lay spread out on the floor. “Gettin’ real now, ain’t it?”
Steuben was next in the order. He glanced between his cards and the large pot, down to his own coins and then back again. With a disgruntled grumbel, he threw his cards face down into the center, signaling his defeat.
Hamilton smiled, turning his gaze to Laurens, who narrowed his eyes.
The blond man placed his cards face down on the table, and the red head’s face lit up, but the smile quickly vanished when Laurens, instead of pushing his cards to the middle, pushed his coins.
“I’m all in,” he grinned. “Tis’ a showdown.” Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go first,” Laurens’ smile widened.
“No,” Hamilton interjected, “I will.”
He flipped his first card over, showing a queen of clubs. The table oohed and aahed. His next was a king of clubs, and more noises of astonishment escaped from the group. Finally, he flipped an ace of clubs, laying them out amid clapping from the eliminated players.
“Royal running flush,” his friend whistled, “That is good. Too bad,” He flipped over his cards, all three jacks. “Mine is better.” A chorus of noise rose up from the table, Hamilton threw his cards to the ground, pouting.
No one but McHenry was sober enough to hear the footsteps in the hall, but he was too drunk to connect that to any possible trouble that could be headed their way, so the aides were all wildly unprepared for the door that came flying open as Laurens celebrated his victory.
The sight of the general in only his sleep shirt, unpowered hair hanging limply around his shoulder quieted the room, though a smattering of chuckles still escaped from the intoxicated men.
“What,” he hissed, eyes full of spitting rage, “is the meaning of this? Have you all gone mad?”
“Yes, quite!” Meade laughed, grabbing a shot glass from the bar and dumping something into it. He handed it to Tench, who in turn shoved it into Washington’s hands. “Have a drink, won’t you. You look awful stressed.”
The general looked down to the glass in his hands, then back up to the room of happy men, then back to the glass. “Oh,” he mumbled, “to hell with it.”
He threw back the drink, and the room erupted in applause.
“Well mates,” Washington said, a rare smile invading his features, “the night is still young. What do you say to a game?”