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It’s late afternoon. The pale sun is high, but it does nothing to alleviate the biting chill. There’s the thin pattern of lace on the ground, courtesy of the light powder they’ve received, scattered throughout the days. The camp is the picture of tranquility.
Like ripples on a disturbed lake, a gunshot breaks the calm surface of silence, spreading throughout the camp and hitting General Washington’s tent. She’s quick to act, leaving the tent hastily in fear of attack. Thankfully, the muted beiges and creams of the camp aren’t being ripped apart and splashed with red. She rests a hand on her hip and walks towards the cluster of men in the clearing, yelling and hollering.
Lee, Burr, Laurens and Hamilton ( Why is it always Hamilton? She thinks in exasperation) are stood in a cluster, surrounded by other soldiers. Lee’s face is twisted in pain as he leans heavily on Burr, clutching his side and groaning.
“What is the meaning of this?” She asks, her clear, loud voice carrying over the din of chatter.
The noise ceases immediately. The ring of soldiers step back, giving the others space. Guilt is written clearly on their faces as they all look to the tall, formidable figure of General Washington.
Nobody seems willing to offer an answer.
“Mr Burr, get a medic for the General.” She orders, almost tiredly.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
A doctor is called over, and he begins to attend to the wound on Lee’s side.
“Lee, you will never agree with me but believe me, these young men don’t speak for me.” She sighs, kneeling as Lee is pushed to lay on his back, “Thank you for your service.”
“Let’s ride.” Burr nods.
Georgia pushes herself to her feet, watching the doctor’s skilled hands for a moment.
She knows exactly what this is about.
“Hamilton.”
“Ma’am?”
“Meet me inside.”
She turns on her heel and marches towards her tent. She doesn’t have to look back to know that Hamilton is following behind her, head down in a sulk.
Once they reach the tent, Georgia stays standing, leaned against the desk and she regards Hamilton, who stands with his chin raised in defiance.
“Son-.” Georgia begins.
“Don’t call me son.” Alexander interrupts.
A stern glare quiets him.
“This war is hard enough without infighting.” She continues.
“Lee called you out, we called his bluff.” He retorts.
“You solve nothing, you aggravate our allies to the South.”
“You’re absolutely right. John should’ve shot him in the mouth, that would’ve shut him up.”
“Son-.”
She’s surprised by that answer, full of venom and hatred for the young man currently bleeding into the dirt outside.
“I’m not your son.”
“Watch your tone.” She scolds, “I am not a maiden in need of defending, I am grown.”
Georgia had come to expect slander for being a woman of her rank, comments about how she must be treated delicately. She doesn’t expect that from Hamilton, somebody who has never seen her like that.
“Charles Lee, Thomas Conway, these men take your name and they rake it through the mud. ” He argues, the passion clearly audible.
“My name’s been through a lot, I can take it.” She shakes her head.
“Well I don’t have your name, I don’t have your titles, I don’t have your land, but if you-.”
“ No. ”
“If you gave me command of a battalion, a group of men to lead, I could fly above my station after the war.”
Never have her thoughts about Hamilton been so correct. His ambition will be the death of him.
“Or you could die, and we need you alive.”
“I am more than willing to die.”
“Your wife needs you alive, son, I need you alive.” Her voice becomes incredibly fond, then.
“ Call me son one more time. ”
The anger lingers for a moment, set in Hamilton’s jaw and burning in his eyes. It dissipates quickly, however, and it’s just Alexander, standing hurt and defenceless in front of Georgia, stripped of her titles and equally pained.
Maybe it is the maternal instinct she’d never indulged before, but she wants to protect Alexander. She wants him to live. She wants him to live so he can go on to do the great things she knows he’s capable of. He can’t throw that all away simply for a few moments of recognition.
And then there’s the matter of Eliza. The letters still sit in Georgia’s desk, tucked away in a drawer Alexander wouldn’t bother to look in. Eliza, the dutiful wife staying at home and praying that her husband will come home. Eliza, the pregnant woman sitting at home, vulnerable as she longs for her husband to stay beside her.
“Go home, Alexander.” Georgia orders, her tone harsh.
“Ma’am I-.”
“Go home. ”