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The truth is I am an unlucky honest man, that speak my sentiments to all and with emphasis. I say this to you because you know it and will not charge me with vanity. I hate Congress—I hate the army—I hate the world—I hate myself. The whole is a mass of fools and knaves; I could almost except you and Meade. Adieu
Alexander Hamilton to John Laurens, 1780
Alexander had barely heard his wife's words, asking him if he was alright. As though he had not just lost one of the most important people to him. Outside of his wife and child, John Laurens was perhaps the person he loved the most.
He'd pushed past her, leaving the room claiming he had work to do. Knowing full well he wouldn't be able to do any of it.
When he had closed the door of his study and locked the door he had sunk to his knees, tears in his eyes.
He never cried.
He knew people saw crying as a sign of weakness, and given everything that had happened in his life – how he'd worked twice as hard as everyone else to get to where he was – the last thing he needed the world to see was any sign he was weak.
But that didn't matter, because he was alone now. Because John…
John's dead. He's gone.
Only an hour ago, he had almost thought the exact opposite; he had seen the letter before Eliza read it to him. He was hoping for good news. He wanted to tell John all about everything that had happened since they last spoke. Wanted to tell him all about his son.
John would've loved Philip. He was sure of it. They would've been kindred spirits; and nothing would've made Alexander happier.
He had seen Laurens on the envelope and assumed it was from John; not his father. But as soon as he heard his wife say that, he knew something was wrong. He knew he couldn't bring himself to look at the letter; it needed to be something he heard.
With one letter, Alexander's entire world had shifted on its axis.
That had happened too many times before. His mother; his cousin; the hurricane that brought him to the colonies; when they'd won the war.
Stupidly, he'd thought that would be the last one.
But apparently it wasn't.
A host of memories he'd shared with John suddenly overwhelmed him. It was like his life with Laurens was flashing before his eyes.
He saw the day they had first met. He'd been so awkward and uncomfortable back then. Even though he'd been over in the colonies for a few years at that point, it wasn't until the day he'd met Hercules Mulligan, and Lafayette, and John that he'd truly made some friends.
How much Sam Adams had the four of them drunk that night? He didn't remember much; but he did remember being happier than he'd been since he left St. Croix.
He had jumped at the chance to have the three of them join him when Washington asked for some help right after he'd joined the general's military family. He hadn't wanted to be an aide-de-camp – he'd been writing all his life; he wanted an opportunity to jump into the action – but with John by his side, suddenly it was enjoyable, rather than merely tolerable; an experience rather than merely a stepping stone to greater things.
Then there was the duel with Lee.
He'd honoured Washington's order about not fighting Lee, but hadn't stopped John when he'd jumped in saying he'd fight him. In a way Alexander had been somewhat relieved. They could confront Lee, without him disobeying the general. It was the perfect loophole.
It hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped.
He'd snapped at Washington afterwards, saying John should have shot Lee in the mouth. He didn't know how much he meant that, but in that moment, he'd wanted to punch Lee.
There were so many other moments as well. Less action-packed moments that were just as, if not more, meaningful. They became as close as brothers. Closer even; Alexander had never been so connected to his actual brother, who disappeared for an apprenticeship after their cousin had killed himself.
He hadn't seen James since.
He'd known Laurens for not even half the amount of time he'd spent with his brother, and yet their connection had grown twice as fast.
But it had been more than that.
In the privacy of his study, with no one else around, he could admit the truth; thoughts he barely allowed himself to even think about.
In the past, on occasion, he had found himself attracted to men.
Not that he wasn't drawn to women – he loved Eliza with his whole heart and every part of his being. But John…
He'd bared his soul to John.
As a child, back on St. Croix he had so badly wanted a war. As a man, he'd received it. And still, there were moments during it where he hated it all. Including himself.
No one but John had known that. And not once had John judged him.
Alexander had long ago lost count of how many times he'd told Laurens he loved him.
And he had. His relationship with him had been pushing the limits for what was platonic. He'd had somewhat of a schoolboy crush on him.
He'd never known a man so handsome.
He likely never would.
He thought of the final letter he'd written to him: Yrs forever, he signed it.
Laurens hadn't replied.
He would never reply.
Yrs forever.
That sounded like a good-bye. It was almost as if his brain knew Laurens wouldn't return.
He knew there was another letter, unfinished, somewhere in the room. But he didn't bother to try and find it. He didn't know if he would even be able to look at it again, much less finish and mail it.
Not that there was a point in mailing it now.
John would be buried in South Carolina until his family sent for his remains. But would that even happen? It might not be possible for his father to do that. Henry Laurens had been imprisoned in the Tower of London for the better part of the past two years. Would it even be possible for him to do that? Alexander could only imagine what that kind of imprisonment could do to one mentally.
And the letter had held a sense of resignation; an air of defeat.
Then there was John's wife and daughter – both of whom he'd kept a secret from Alexander; they were in England. He had all but abandoned them to return to fight in the Revolution; they might want nothing to do with him.
Alexander didn't think John would mind staying on American soil, but to be given such an insignificant resting place…
He deserved so much more. He was a hero.
No one was more passionate about ending slavery that John. Even Alexander, disgusted by the institution after seeing the effects firsthand throughout his formative years, was floored by John's determination.
John's dream of the first black battalion seemed to have died with him. Those who had survived had been returned to their masters.
Had he died for nothing?
Alexander wanted to tell himself he hadn't – that he would continue Laurens' efforts as best he could. we have fought side by side to make America free. Let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy.
It was something else he'd written in that final letter Laurens would never read.
Alexander would have to do enough of that for both of them.
John made him want to be a better man. Wanted to make him do more. But right now, he couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about anything.
He couldn't do anything. He was still in…denial? Shock? The only thing he could feel was something that paralysed him. The world spun around, while he was frozen to his seat. It did not care that he'd just lost the most intimate friend he'd had in his life. It spun on without him.
He recalled a specific letter he'd written John. In the throes of the war he'd been as close to his breaking point as he'd ever come, and told the only person he could how unhappy he was, how much he hated the world. He'd said it felt like a mass of fools and knaves.
Truthfully, he'd been preparing for death from the time he was around fourteen. At times he almost felt like it had happened; like he'd lived through death. Maybe it was because of how many people he'd lost.
Now there was another loss to add to that list. And it hurt more than the others.
He hated the world again. Hated everyone but a handful of people in it. But maybe, just maybe, he understood something. He was a fool for John Laurens. For he loved John Laurens.
Love makes us all fools and knaves.