Work Text:
George Washington understood what losing was like. He had lost men horrifically when he was led into a massacre. He still could hear those men even in his sleep years later. He vowed to never allow such a thing to happen again, and he was determined to always be valiant in battle. He was known for his courage and bravery and for the numerous times he led his troops.
These last few months of the Revolution had been nothing but losses, both perceived and real. He needed a victory to reestablish his credibility and morale. He knew that the next battle would be crucial. Washington needed to make sure his troops were prepared and ready for the challenge.
The Brandy Wine campaign had ended in a draw, his beloved Major General Lafayette was shot in the leg as they retreated. And days ago, he thought his right-hand man Hamilton had perished in the Schuykill River, only for the young man to re-appear when they were drinking to his memory. The solemn atmosphere soon turned to laughter at their youngest appeared in the door, sopping wet from the river with a scowl.
“Why won’t it stop?” George sighed, tapping his quill, the ink making messy, uneven splotches on the parchment.
Sighing, Washington stood and pushed his chair out from the desk, its screech loud as it slid on the floor. He paced, thinking. The number of victories didn’t balance with the losses they had this year in battle. These could not go on.
Despite the training from Von Stuben and the improved military discipline, their defeats had still been humiliating, their victories costly, and the enemy seemed as numerous as ever. He had done his best, he knew. And that, after all, was all God and men could ask of him.
George took a step towards the door and taking a candle, strode down the hall towards the aides' room. Opening it quietly, as it was past midnight. He peered in and found, surprisingly, that Alexander lay asleep on his camp bed, snoring softly. Washington knew the young man worked too hard; the work piled on his shoulders like snow on a roof. In the other bed was Laurens, also sleeping soundly, if not more loudly by the sound of the snores.
He next took steps towards the second to last door of the wing and opened it slightly to reveal a lantern burning bright, a figure slumped in a chair next to the occupied bed. Stepping in, he saw Lafayette-Gilbert shifting uncomfortably in his bed, his face shining with sweat as he twisted in dreams. The Marquis twisted his head to the side, the flannel sliding from its place.
Washington stepped in, placing the candle on a sideboard before turning to his young French friend. Taking the cloth, he dipped it in a nearby basin of water, squeezed out the excess, and returned it to Lafayette’s forehead.
Hazy brown eyes opened as the Frenchman formed a smile on his lips as he whispered, "Mon General." Weakly, he lifted his hand, attempting to reach out to Washington. Graciously, George took hold of Lafayette's hand and gave it a reassuring pat. "Rest now, my friend. Sleep well and recover for me."
George let go of Lafayette's hand, carefully placing it back on the plush mattress. Lafayette's eyes, the color of rich chocolate, fluttered shut as he drifted back into a peaceful slumber. Picking up the candle again, Washington stepped back into the hallway and silently closed the door behind him. He returned to his quarters, setting the candle back down on his desk and opened a missive about military strategy from South Carolina.
He would work harder, vowed to put in extra effort, refine his military strategies, and ultimately emerge victorious, ensuring the safety of those entrusted to his command.