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They march all morning, and they’ve dug into a good strong position by midday. The South Valley Hills rise around the army, the landscape a natural fortress for them at either side. At two p.m., they’ve made contact with the enemy.
By three p.m., when word comes that Wayne’s militia has fallen back under Cornwallis’ attack, the rain that began prickling the field half an hour ago has increased to the point where it’s beginning to impede visibility. Washington wonders if he should wait it out, or call a retreat. By around three-fifteen, the rainfall has grown both steadily and rapidly into a torrent, such that Washington wishes he’d called for the retreat earlier, when it was still easier to see. He stays, frustrated, at the command post, so his aides will be more able to find him, and waits for them to come in one by one, so they can ride back out carrying the new order to all the troops. Retreat, retreat.
Hamilton is the last of his aides to report. He looks shaken. No matter, as long as he’s still alive. George would never admit such thoughts during a battle, but he’d been starting to worry after all of his staff had appeared but one.
The retreat is as orderly as it can be, given the prodigious quantity of rain now pouring down on them from the sky. The ground has turned wholesale into mud, with both the ruts carved by the cannons’ wheels and the churning of the horses’ hooves creating even more treacherous a surface. The rain bears bodily down on every man in the line of march, weighing their clothes down with water and attempting to beat them head headfirst into the ground.
As if the rain weren’t enough, then, the winds also pick up, so that Blueskin fights not only slippery terrain but also buffeting gusts as he strains, step by step, across the field. Washington plasters himself tightly to the horse’s neck, holding on despite the snorts of displeasure, so that the wind won’t blow him off.
Still: it’s a difficult retreat, but not a dishonorable one, not disgraceful. They weren’t bested by the British but by the weather, and surely no Congress could fault him for that. They’d catch up with the British forces again after the rain, and, God willing, they’d beat them then decisively.
When they get back to the Whitehorse tavern, the sky’s near as dark as if it were night. The clouds make a solid shield wall that blots out the sun. The men are soaked and shivering, but in an orderly line, which Washington’s proud and relieved to see as he watches them file into the building. He waits for them all to go in before he enters the building at last.
The first order of business inside is to take roll call. No one’s lost - everyone’s there - every member of Washington’s staff, that is, except for Alexander Hamilton. Who would be his favorite aide, if he had favorites, which he doesn’t.
He’s not worried. Hamilton must have mistaken his orders, or else decided that he knew better, and gone with the other division of the Army. Or maybe he’d conceived a brilliant and necessary plan on the battlefield, and ridden off to achieve some objective he’ll tell George of when he returns. Even if he was, God forbid, lost or stuck in the rain, he’d have no difficulty finding shelter, or making some if need be.
In any case: Hamilton’s not in danger. Hamilton’s disobedient. And George isn’t worried, he’s angry, or he would be if he cared at all.
In fact he’s engaged in listening to reports from every one of his present aides and staff officers. Knowing the conduct of each regiment is essential for deciding best where to place it and how to use it in the next battle.
The storm rattles the doors and windows as if there were a mob outside, seeking their way in with flashes from burning torches rather than lightning. No search party could find anyone in this weather, or be assured of a safe return.
Eventually all the reports have been given. A makeshift supper’s been eaten, of salt pork and dry bread. Washington takes himself to bed early, the best to subdue his gathering headache there.
~
He doesn’t see Hamilton at first. Even after he’d been looking for him! He’s not laid out sleeping - or sitting, unspeakably impudently - on George’s bed. No, if only. In fact George has removed not only his mud-encrusted boots but also his breeches before he sees the man curled up in the corner of his bedroom at all.
“Hamilton?” he says, but it’s not a question. Though the boy’s in a ball for all the world like a cat, though his sodden and mud-drenched coat covers almost every inch of him, and the bedraggled black hair fallen from his queue covers the rest, there’s no mistaking Hamilton, no matter what condition he’s in. The only question is why he’s lying in a pile on George’s floor.
At least he’s safe, and alive -
Well, of course. Did you ever expect anything else?
“What do you think you’re doing,” he demands. There’s no response, no sound, no movement. George sighs heavily, and returns to undressing. Stockings, ruff, and neck stock: none of the garments he removes, no matter how protected by outer layers, are dry. “Hamilton,” he calls out, again, “you need to get up. Dry off. You’ll catch your death of chill in that coat, and then where will I be?”
“You’ll find someone else to do my job,” Hamilton says.
Aha! He can talk!
“Be that as it may,” Washington says, “I’m asking you to get up. I don’t want you to die.”
There’s no response, again. It’s maddening, now that he knows Hamilton could respond but is choosing not to. What’s more: it’s a childish sulk, and Washington’s not going to humor it. No matter if they boy is almost a child, scarcely older than Jacky, he’s an officer of the Continental Army, and Washington expects him to act the part. He’s not going to tussle with one of his aides on the floor, risking insult to his dignity and perhaps even bodily injury, depending on the strength of Hamilton’s attachment to his unusual place.
Washington finishes undressing and dons a clean and dry nightshirt from his chest and then blows his candle out. The moonlight that filters in through the rain and clouds is weak and confused, shifting in patterns that mimic no shape he’s ever seen.
And even in the frail moonlight, he sees the boy curled up in the corner. For that’s indisputably what he is: no proud officer now, no precocious genius arrogantly waving off sleep night after night. He’s a boy who’s almost certainly exhausted and soon likely to be sick, he’s George’s responsibility, and unlike all the boys much like him sleeping in tents - this one, at least in theory, George ought to be able to do something about.
“Hamilton,” he calls once more, “come on. Up, and, and into bed.” He holds the covers up by his side, so there’ll be no mistaking his meaning - if by some chance Hamilton takes heed.
“I’m comfortable where I am,” the boy says. Of course he can’t possibly be. But George doesn’t have much of a gift at persuading people. Commanding, yes. Debating, no - that’s what he has Hamilton for. That, among other things.
The wind groans and the thunder grumbles as he tries to drift off to sleep. Hamilton in the corner or no, he’ll need his rest to regroup their forces tomorrow. And he’ll need Hamilton’s help, too, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with the man -
A particularly loud lightning strike startles George back awake just as he’d begun to dream of Martha and Mount Vernon, a strange dream in which he was a field and Martha was walking over him looking for him. At the sound, he’s bolted straight up in bed. And looking over at the corner, he sees that Hamilton’s sitting up too. On his face, thenceforth hidden tonight, is an expression of sheer terror. George has never seen the like when they’ve charged into battle together.
“Promise me something,” Hamilton says. He’s gasping, as if he’s run himself out of breath, though he’s done nothing but lie on the floor for God knows how long.
“Anything,” George says, heartfelt, “if you’ll remove your wet clothes and come to bed.”
As Hamilton obeys - miracle of miracles! - Washington has time enough to realize what a bad idea saying that was. What if Hamilton’s chosen this occasion to renew his request for a battalion? Washington can’t give it to him, he can’t lose him from his staff, and yet he never breaks his promises. Will Hamilton break him, now?
When Hamilton slides into bed beside him, wet and shaking, as George had predicted, he doesn’t ask for anything. George, too, could hold his peace. But his sense of honor compels him to ask, “What did you want?”
He’s not expecting Hamilton to gasp again, sharply this time, like a beached fish. He’s not expecting him to flail about in the bed, to kick George’s knee or clasp his arms about his stomach or to bury his too-wet face in between his shoulder and his neck.
“Don’t die,” Hamilton says. “Promise me. Promise me that you won’t die.”
“I won’t,” George says, feeling absurd. Hamilton’s not a child. He’s a soldier, for God’s sake! They both know there are things that can’t be promised.
“We need you,” Hamilton says. His voice is coming more solid now. Is he more in control of himself? George isn’t sure. “I’m not only asking for myself,” Hamilton continues. “I’ll survive. I’ll find a way - or I won’t. It’s not important.” George wants to object, but Hamilton, characteristically, doesn’t leave any room to. “The country needs you,” Hamilton continues, like an oracle in his ear, no one else to witness and the storm raging around outside. “The army needs you, the people need you. Promise me, promise that you won’t leave us. Promise me you won’t die.”
“I won’t leave you,” George says. It’s true. That’s something he can control. And though he doesn’t know how he got here, this wild genius half-boy half-man hanging off his neck as if he were the only piece of wood in a wreck at sea, he knows there’s no way he could leave now. “I won’t leave you,” he repeats, like a lullaby, until Hamilton fall asleep.
~
When George wakes up the next morning, his ears are still filled with the sound of rain. It’s less violent now than it was last night, steadier, but still a drumbeat stronger than any marching army’s.
Hamilton’s head lies unaccustomedly still on the pillow next to him. The better part of his face is obscured by dark flyaway hair, but even so, George can see that he looks relaxed in a way he never does while awake. Then Hamilton stirs in his sleep, and George feels an inexpressible aching upwelling of tenderness. He can’t be all things to all men, he’s learned that long ago, but still, when someone comes to him….
“You’re hooked like a fish,” he can hear Martha’s voice say in the back of his mind, and his own remembered chuckle in reply.
He regards Hamilton pensively. He still has no idea what possessed his aide to curl up in the corner of his room last night, or what prompted his unsettling utterances once he’d crawled into bed. And as long as such behavior doesn’t persist, he has no need of explanations. What he does know is this: that as the Commander in Chief of the Army, and as Hamilton’s commander in particular, he can afford to look on last night as simply one among many of the odder incidents in his life. But for Hamilton, it’s likely to be a different matter. He’s so prickly in his pride, so reticent to show fear or weakness, and now, in the eyes of his commander, he’s lost all of these things in one blow. Furthermore, George adjudges, he’s done so without any conscious intent. George imagines sympathetically the pain that he must feel at accidental exposure, and determines to act for the rest of their time together as if none of the more unusual events of last night had ever happened.
That settled, he falls back to thinking about the troops, and orders of battle. The British are across the river; when the rain subsides, would it be wise to cross again? Or should they move towards Philadelphia, to take a stand there defending the city? Many factors influence the probable success of each plan, and require prolonged consideration.
Eventually Hamilton rouses himself. First he lets out an awful sigh, and then he stretches out his arms over his head, and then, when he meets Washington’s gaze, he looks so completely nonchalant that Washington can barely believe he’s the same person who was so distraught that he wouldn’t even get into bed last night.
“Hamilton,” he says, “good morning.” He feels surprisingly at a loss.
“Good morning, General.” Surely Hamilton can’t be so unaffected as he seems! George wonders for a moment if they should be using him as a spy - but, no, he’s witnessed Hamilton’s inability to hold his tongue on more than one memorable occasion. That would be a disaster in the making. And now he notices that Hamilton is glancing back and forth between the sheets over his feet and the General’s face. Almost as if - oh, he’s naked, he hadn’t put on a shirt to sleep in last night. And he doesn’t wish to be linger in bed with Washington, but neither does he wish to get out of bed without the benefit of clothes.
That problem’s solved easily enough. George gets out of the bed, and though he’s now standing over Hamilton, Hamilton does look slightly more comfortable. “About last night,” George says, and as he pauses, the complex acrobatics routine of Hamilton’s facial muscles confirms for him everything that he needs to know. Hamilton doesn’t want anything from him so much as whatever remnants of dignity and privacy can still be retrieved. “We’ll both act as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred,” George says.
“Thank you,” Hamilton breathes, and then his mouth snaps tightly shut. It’s as if after having said so much more than he wanted to say, he’s now reluctant to admit to even the smallest degree of opinion. Very well; and also George would like to see just how long this could last.
Hamilton is still in the bed, eyes now stuck to the floor, and George recalls the logistical issue that had caused him to leave the bed in the first place. “I’m going to have breakfast,” he says, abruptly, “and then I’m sure I have more work to do. I trust that I’ll find you at your desk, later, as usual?”
“Yes, sir,” Hamilton says. There’s nothing George can do but trust him. And Hamilton has never let him down yet.