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The stone floor was not comfortable, nor dignified for ladies of noble rank in France. Adrienne de Lafayette was lying near the side of her husband Gilbert, as the sun rose on another day in the prison where she and her daughters were staying alongside him. Weakly she rested a hand on her beloved’s knees. The Marquis lovingly ran his hand through her hair.
Gilbert's youngest daughter, her voice tinged with a hint of sorrow, interrupted their quiet moment. "Papa," she spoke up, her eyes filled with longing, “can you tell us another story?”
With a tender smile, Gilbert gently scooped her up and settled her on his lap, planting an adoring kiss on the top of her head. "How about I share with you the thrilling account of my very first battle fought on American soil?"
“Yes, Papa.” She leaned on her father’s chest, her dark eyes looking up lovingly at him.
He ran his hand softly on her pale cheek. “I had just arrived in America….”
*~*
September 11th, 1777
As they charged towards the impending battle, General Washington turned to Lafayette and posed a question, "Are you truly prepared to lead, General Lafayette?"
The young general, with unwavering determination, responded with a confident nod. His eyes fixed upon the vast expanse of the battlefield as the sun gracefully ascended over the rolling hills. Despite his tender age of 19 and the fact that this would be his first fight on this foreign land, Lafayette felt no trace of apprehension. “Yes, Monsieur General.”
Acknowledging Lafayette's resolute answer, Washington issued a directive, "Then assume position alongside Greene." With a courteous gesture, he bid his younger counterpart farewell, "Wishing you the best of luck."
In a display of mutual respect, Lafayette reciprocated the sentiment, "And to you, Monsieur General Washington."
~*~
Gilbert watched in dismay as the hours ticked away, realizing that victory was slipping further from their grasp. It became painfully clear that they were far from prevailing in this fierce battle. To their utter disappointment, the command to retreat was swiftly issued, as their forces were overwhelmed by the enemy's relentless onslaught.
Nathaniel Greene rode up, his eyes tired and filled with worry, “Mr. Lafayette, our troops are retreating. Washington ordered that we be a rear guard while the others withdrawal.”
Lafayette shifted in his horse’s saddle with disappointment his lips pursed. “Very well, General Greene.”
He rode in front of the troops that were perched behind a rickety fence. “Gentlemen, we are tasked with holding the line while our forces retreat. We will hold them off as long as we can then retreat ourselves. Understood?”
The soldiers swiftly readied their guns, responding in unison with a resounding chorus of "Yes, General!"
He felt a pit in his stomach as the redcoats charged, their number enormous compared to their own. The men fired, the air becoming putrid with the smell of powder and smoke. Soldiers fell on either side as chaos overtook the field while the men charged over the fence and attacked. Lafayette did the same, a searing agony surged through his leg, almost causing him to lose balance and nearly caused toppling off his horse. He righted himself, the pain radiating up his leg.
“Let’s go men!” Lafayette exclaimed as loudly as he could so that his soldiers could hear. “Retreat!”
The men of his regiment began to run back toward the woods and cover. Lafayette rode heavily, the troops following until they heard the roar of the British who cheered at their victory.
Exhausted and defeated in more than one sense, Lafayette’s troops finally completed their retreat to Chester. Lafayette gave them permission to be dismissed for the day. The men took their leave and retired.
Washington galloped up to Lafayette, his face filled with chagrin and disappointment. “Well done, General Lafayette. We may not have won the day, but the entire campaign was not wholly a disaster.”
Lafayette's head bobbed in affirmation, even though a fog was slowly descending upon his thoughts, rendering him oblivious to most of his comrade's words. His brows knitted together as he struggled to focus.
It was only the shout of “Oh Lord, Gilbert, you’re wounded!” From Washington that finally garnered his attention. He looked down to see blood filling his boot.
In a haze, Lafayette felt himself being helped off his horse and lifted onto a litter by several strong men.
After being administered laudanum, the French General was plunged into a deep abyss of darkness that he vaguely wondered he would return from.
~*~
Gilbert did in fact awaken not long after to low murmurs and pain from his leg where he was sure a doctor was using his fingers to find the bullet lodged in it.
“Non….non...Ne pas. Ça fait mal! S'il vous plaît…..” he whispered between the leather in his mouth, the pain coming in waves as the doctor worked. Another voice was hushing him. He could comprehend the voice through his pained haze was that of Alexander Hamilton.
“Nearly done, Gilbert,” the voice called gently, squeezing his hand, while pressure was applied to his shoulder to keep him from moving.
“Mon ami, make them stop….” he whispered, Ça fait mal!”
His friend’s eyes were glassy with tears nearly falling as he gripped Gilbert’s hand tighter. “Je sais. Desole, mon ami.”
“Got it!” A more mature voice called gently. “We’ll wrap the wound now.” The doctor appeared in his line of sight, wiping his hands with a bloodied white cloth. “You’re going to be fine now, Monsieur Lafayette. It will just take time for your leg to heal, and they’ll be no damage to impede you in the future."
“Dieu Merci.” He whispered, unable to speak any louder. “Merci, Doctuer.” With a trembling inhale, he surrendered to the embrace of oblivion.
`*~*
Gilbert found himself utterly bewildered by his surroundings. His thoughts were disjointed like the autumn leaves loosed from the trees. The Frenchman's head throbbed relentlessly, and every fiber of his being in agony, as if a thousand tiny needles were pricking his leg, causing the most torment. He felt as though he were burning from the inside while chills ran through him despite the heat plaguing his body.
His eyes slid opened to the bright light overhead. Someone placed a cool hand on his sweat-soaked forehead. He felt the hand removed, replace by a cool cloth, giving him some relief to the heat rising through his body. Finally able to focus, He saw the face of Alexander who looked down at him slightly terrified.
“Petite...lion…” he muttered while trying to look up at his friend that appeared disheveled in the chair next to him. His leg engulfed in flames, his stomach churning, and his mind consumed by the agony, he struggled to gather his scattered thoughts.
“Just lay still, mon ami,” Alexander hushed. “I know, it hurts. Tu vas bien, d’accord? Reposez-tu.”
As Alexander's gentle French filled the air, a blanket was delicately draped over his shoulders, lulling him into a peaceful slumber.
~*~*
He heard a deeper, more sotto voice that he could not place for a moment. The fever must have been slackening because he understood what the General was saying now.
“Gilbert, you’ve done so well. But you must get better. I think Alexander might cry if you don’t get well soon from this fever.” He heard the General murmur with an inkling of humor. Washington’s voice was now cracking. “Never mind Hamilton, I might, my friend. You are like a son to me, and I’d hate to lose you.”
A bigger, more calloused hand squeezed his. “I’ve written Adrienne and told her you were wounded in the leg, but nothing more than that. You can write her again when you’re better.” A hand was lifted to the back of his head. Instead of a glass pressed to his lips, a cloth served to dampen them and a few droplets wet his throat. Exhaustion closed in on him as the General put his head back on the pillow. Gilbert slept.
~*~
His fever truly broke a day later, though constant fatigue kept him asleep for many hours that day and the next. He awoke to hear Alexander babbling about something.
“The damn flour mills went up faster than we imagined, Laff. You should have seen how tall the flames went. Then the British shot at us as we got into the boat. One of the men was shot dead and the other was wounded, though I didn’t know it at the time. I rescued him out of the river a mile down and had to push the water out of his lungs. That damned Captain Lee said that I was dead because I jumped out of the boat. Can you believe that idiot? Later, I came back to camp, and everyone was surprised to see me alive. It was rather hilarious. Laurens nearly cried when I appeared at headquarters!”
Yes that was definitely Alexander talking at his usual frenetic pace. He opened his eyes to see le petite lion no worse for wear considering his adventure in the river, from all accounts. But his friend's eyes were darkened underneath with shadows and his hair stuck up at random angles making it look as if he had not seen a brush that day.
“You...get into the strangest situations, mon ami.” Gilbert said with a gravelly tone, a smile filling his face at seeing his friend.
Alexander beamed and leaned near him. “Laf! I’m glad you’re awake. You scared us! Don’t ever do that again, do you hear me?” His voice carried a playful yet admonishing tone, a mix of relief and gentle scolding.
“I will try not to get wounded again, mon petite lion.” Lafayette said with a gentle laugh and sheepishly nodded.
Alexander felt his heart swell with relief. With tears in his eyes, he uttered, "I'm glad you're okay, Gilbert."
Lafayette chuckled, “You know, Monsieur le General said that you would cry if I didn’t overcome my fever. And you are crying because I have!”
Alexander's cheeks turned a rosy shade that extended all the way up to his ears. The aide-de-camp impishly punched him in the arm. Despite the embarrassment he caused his friend, Gilbert couldn't help but chuckle at the playful gesture.
~*~
Marie's curious gaze fixated on the stocking that concealed her father's old wound. "Papa, did you get the scar on your leg from that?" she inquired.
“Gilbert's head bobbed up and down in agreement. "Oh, absolutely," he affirmed with a touch of French charm. "I had to summon every ounce of courage, mon petite cher. And now, it's our turn to do the same, d’accord?”
Marie rose to her feet and squared her shoulders, determination etched on her face. "I will be brave, General!" she declared, her voice ringing out with conviction.
The sound of laughter echoed through the prison cell, filling the air with a warmth that rivaled the morning sun.