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John Laurens raised his hand above his eyes, using it as a visor to shield himself from the sun's rays. He squinted in the light, his other hand itching to loosen the cravat that hung akin to a noose around his neck. Hamilton scribbled furiously next to him upon a travel desk, while Meade and Tilghman were having a conversation about the weather.
“I am sure to burn in this heat” Tilghman grumbled to the man next to him.
“I must agree with you my friend, the top of my head feels like the sun itself.”
Laurens turns his attention to General Washington, who rides slightly ahead, accompanied by Harrison and Fitzgerald. McHenry hung back, riding slower than the rest to write in his journal about the day's events.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Laurens?”
Laurens turns his attention back to Meade, who sits waiting patiently for a response to his question.
“Pardon?”
“I wondered whether or not you agree that Southern life could not prepare any man for heat such as this?”
Laurens frowned, the heat having put him in a foul mood. “You know nothing of my Southern living, Meade, and we shall keep it that way.”
Meade cocked his head to the right, shrugged and turned his attention back to Tilghman.
In the distance, gunshots could be heard from the battlefield. General Washington halted, and the rest of the party quickly followed suit.
All, except Hamilton, whose horse had to be stopped by Laurens before he rode into the back of Fitzgerald.
“Meade, I require you to ride ahead and gain some information from General Lee as to what is happening.”
Meade nodded once, adding a “Yes, Sir” before riding toward the battlefield. Laurens envied this, as he wished to be nearer the field instead of stranded in the safety of being by the General’s side. He huffed a breath of annoyance, louder than he intended to, which caught the General’s attention.
“Go, Laurens. We all know you have a flair for danger on the battlefield.”
Laurens sat, staring blankly at the General, as though he had misheard him.
“That is an order, Lieutenant Colonel. Now go.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Laurens cast a look over to Hamilton as he urged his horse forward, taking note of Hamilton’s expression. He read it easily as he rode away.
‘Stay safe, Jack.’
And for Hamilton, he would try.
***
Hamilton felt restless with unease as he remained in his saddle. His instincts told him something was wrong.
What it was, he did not know.
Harrison, seated next to the General began “Your Excellency, if I might suggest-”
“We will not take action until Meade or Fitzgerald have returned with news.”
“But, Sir, Meade has been gone for a long time, we must know whether the enemy advances.”
“I said no, Harrison, and that is final.”
Harrison nodded once, respectfully. “Yes, Sir.”
Hamilton and Tilghman were busy writing correspondence upon their travel desks, when it suddenly occurred to Hamilton that Meade had not yet returned since his dispatch. He shook his head, trying to focus on his work.
After a brief period of no more than 5 minutes, the sound of hooves snatched Hamilton’s attention away from his work, in the hopes of the sound being dear Meade’s return, or His Dear Laurens returned unscathed.
A pit formed in Hamilton’s stomach when his eyes confirmed the rider to be Fitzgerald. Sweat clung to the man’s forehead as he rode with haste towards their party.
“Your… Excellency…” Fitzgerald wheezed out, still trying to catch his breath.
General Washington held up his hand to stop him “Catch your breath first, Colonel.”
Fitzgerald nodded, gulping in a few deep breaths before trying again.
“Your Excellency, General Lee has ordered a full retreat.”
Both Hamilton and Tilghman stopped writing, looking up in shock at Fitzgerald’s words. The General’s face was set, emotionless yet outraged.
Harrison took the opportunity to ask “What of Meade? Have you seen him?”
“I have not. General Lee reports the same, that Meade never arrived to find General Lee.”
The words strangled him, his throat ready to burst. Sickness and dizziness washed over him all at once. The quill in his hand began to splinter from the pressure applied by Hamilton’s thumb and forefinger.
As if to add emphasis upon Fitzgerald’s tale, a stray horse bolted toward their group from within the trees. Even from afar, the group instantly recognised the mare cantering towards them. Small, black, and, even without a rider, fast.
Meade’s horse.
The General dismounted quickly to stop her from bolting any further, succeeding in doing so. With the mare calmed, the General offhanded her to Harrison, before mounting his own horse once more.
The aides sat in silence, Fitzgerald not having moved from facing the General, and Hamilton nor Tilghman have returned to writing.
“Blast.”
Fitzgerald’s eyebrows shoot up momentarily in shock at General Washington’s language; something unheard of in their office.
“Hamilton, ride out to the field and return with Laurens, provided he is still in one piece. Tilghman, you are to locate Meade and bring him back.”
Tilghman nods silently, Hamilton noticing his complexion to be far paler than usual.
Tilghman soon rode off in the same direction as Meade had an hour prior. Hamilton too, swallowed thickly, and set off toward the battlefield.
***
“Fire!”
Laurens rides among the lines of men, commanding them to fire upon the enemy. He himself had slaughtered a handful of Redcoats in his path, each of them falling within seconds under his sword.
Smoke fills the air, mixing with the stench of blood and death.
“Reload, men!”
Laurens looks to his right, seeing General Wayne not far away, commanding his own line of troops, who soon fire in turn.
Ahead, the British army advances towards them, brandishing their banners and playing their music as they move.
“Prepare to fire!” Laurens shouts, his voice hoarse and throat scratched.
The soldiers prepare arms, and when all are ready, he shouts again, “Fire!”
Shot fills their surroundings. Laurens moves to ride to General Wayne to come up with some sort of battle strategy.
Pain rips through his right shoulder, a feeling both akin to and worse than Germantown shoots through his arm. The impact of the bullet throws him from his horse, and he hits the ground.
***
Hamilton rides toward the battlefield, eyes scanning hastily for any sight of Laurens.
Up and down the lines he rides his horse, sweating and panting with the effort. Panic building in his stomach, stewing like a poison designed to kill him instantly.
Every head of blond hair he sees builds his hope, only for it to crumble within seconds when each man turns his head to reveal he is not his Laurens.
Hamilton hears faintly the shouts and screams of men, of bullets being fired from muskets, of men and horses dying around him. His ears are filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, which is quickening with every second he spends searching. Searching for a man who could be dead or alive. His lover, whom he does not know what he would do without.
Laurens, whom he does not know if he can continue without.
Hamilton’s horse suddenly whinnies loudly as he rides, pitching forward and sending Hamilton towards the ground.
That was the last thing he remembered before darkness fell.
***
Hamilton shot up, the feeling of a soft mattress beneath his hands and body. He looked wildly around his surroundings, startling when a younger man sat next to his bed on a stool.
“You are awake, Mon Ami.”
Lafayette.
“Tell me what happened?”
“You fell from your horse, hitting your head. You’ve only slept for 2 hours.”
“Laurens, is he alright?”
“Oui, he should be.”
Lafayette leans to his left, and Hamilton looks behind him to see Laurens asleep in the cot next to him.
His shoulder bandaged, his torso bare except for the bed sheet covering him. Warmth spreads through Hamilton’s body, a small smile gracing across his face.
Lafayette cleared his throat, grinning at Hamilton’s stupid expression.
“Pardon me, I have some… things that need attending to.”
Lafayette took his leave through the tent flap, leaving Hamilton alone with Laurens.
Hamilton slipped his legs out of the cot, making his way over to the stool Lafayette had sat on. Hamilton perched cross-legged on the seat, looking down at Laurens.
Laurens’ eyes were shut, his lashes visible against his skin. His skin was neither pale nor flushed, his features were completely still in his slumber. His mouth hardly moved, his lips only twitching to exhale air from his lungs.
He was beautiful.
Hamilton reached up to move some loose strands of hair from his forehead, running his fingertips gently down Laurens’ face, over his eyebrows, down over his cheek, tracing his jaw, and coming to rest upon Laurens’ chest, near his bandage.
Hamilton laid his hand flat and allowed it to linger there for a moment, before withdrawing it slowly to reduce the risk of being caught touching another man in such a way. He dragged his fingers across Laurens’ upper arm, when a hand caught his just before it left.
Laurens stroked Hamilton’s knuckles, every gracing touch making Hamilton’s senses tingle. Hamilton looked into Laurens’ eyes, which had fluttered open- though barely remaining that way- and couldn’t stop a grin breaking through.
“John.”
“Alexander.”
The two gazed at one another, losing themselves in one another. They stayed this way for some time, as Laurens regained consciousness.
They heard shouting outside, but it did not matter.
They were together.
“Make way!” A man screamed from outside.
Tilghman.
Laurens let go of Hamilton’s hand, as both turned to face the tent flap, which burst open to reveal a panic-stricken Tilghman, accompanied by Fitzgerald, whose expression matched that of Tilghman. Between them, they were carrying someone, which evidently took a lot of strength and effort, based on the pair’s lack of air and energy. McHenry followed behind them, hands smothered in blood.
Blood that wasn’t his own.
“I need a surgeon! Please!” McHenry called out into the tent, and sure enough, a man emerged, as if from nowhere, directing Tilghman and Fitzgerald to place the injured man on a nearby table.
Fitzgerald gave a countdown from 3, and they, with McHenry’s help, hoisted the man onto the table.
McHenry got to work aiding the surgeon in preparing whatever was necessary, while Fitzgerald hovered nearby, staring down at the scene before him. Tilghman was almost inconsolable, trembling with tears spilling from his eyes.
Hamilton looked back at Laurens, who stared with wide eyes at the scene. Hamilton squeezed Laurens’ hand once, then rose to walk over to Tilghman.
Tilghman looked as Hamilton approached, mouth gaping like a fish and eyes wide as he tried to find words to explain.
“Tench, whatever is-” Hamilton stopped in his tracks, both physically and verbally, as he realised who lay upon the table.
Tilghman let out a wail, flinging himself at Hamilton, who stood still in shock, wrapping his arms around the older man.
In all his endeavours to find Laurens, Hamilton had completely forgotten his troubles, and instead relished in the bliss of himself and Laurens.
He hadn’t even given Meade a second thought.
“I found h-him lying on the ground and he w-wasn’t moving.”
As Tilghman half-sobbed, half-screamed these words, Hamilton found he had no response.
There was no colour to Meade’s face, his eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. The surgeon tore Meade’s coat from his back, revealing a once white shirt underneath, now smothered in blood.
As the surgeon cut the shirt from Meade’s back, McHenry fumbled with Meade’s wrist, which lay limp in his hand.
“He has a pulse, Sir. It is weak, but it is there.” McHenry sniffed hard.
The surgeon nodded, quickly examining the wound near Meade’s left shoulder.
“The bullet is lodged in his shoulder blade, clear as day. It should be easy to extract, but it will be painful. You may want to give him something…”
“Whiskey, perhaps?” Fitzgerald suggested, shrugging his shoulders absently.
“I meant something to bite for the pain but… alcohol wouldn’t hurt him.”
Fitzgerald reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask, which he handed to McHenry. Meade made some incoherent mumbling sounds from the table, but it was a sign he still had life left in him. McHenry raised the flask to Meade’s lips, which he drank some of, before his head slipped back onto the table.
Fitzgerald had also found a random strip of leather, which McHenry placed between Meade’s teeth, clamping his jaw shut.
“If he’s asleep now, he won’t be in a minute.” The surgeon said this, before reaching into the wound and clamping his fingers onto something.
Meade screamed, though it was muffled by the leather between his teeth. He thrashed about on the table, his legs swinging about violently.
“Hold him still won’t you? I almost have it!” Hamilton let go of Tilghman to pin Meade down to the table. Meade growled viciously at everything and everyone, his eyes screwed shut in pain.
The surgeon sighed in triumph as he pulled out a small metal ball, and Meade went limp on the table, his bare back rising and falling with the effort he had just exerted.
“I trust you can patch him up, McHenry?”
“Yes, Sir.”
The surgeon nodded once, placed the ball on the table, and darted off to help more wounded men arriving.
McHenry got to work immediately, as Fitzgerald took Tilghman out of the tent.
Hamilton watched McHenry work, mesmerised by his skill. Once finished, Hamilton and McHenry hoisted Meade off the table and carried him to Hamilton’s cot next to Laurens, who by now had sat up to watch.
Meade’s head flopped against the pillow, as he was already fast asleep.
“Keep an eye on him, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
McHenry nodded, and he too left the tent.
***
Days passed, and Meade and Laurens’ conditions slowly improved. Both were now back at headquarters, though only Laurens were permitted to work, as he could use his left hand to write. Meade, instead, arose each morning to ‘bug’ each and every one of them- according to Harrison, at least.
Meade had told them all the epic tale that he had crossed paths with a small group of British soldiers on horseback, whom he had attempted to approach to converse with. Much to Meade’s surprise, the British had opened fire on him instead, and was unfortunately hit, knocking him from his horse, who managed to ride away to safety.
“Bloody Lobsterbacks weren’t clever enough, though, as they never truly saw me dead.”
Tilghman smiled at his friend and fellow aide.
“Thank Heavens for that, Meade, for we do not know what we would do without you.”