Chapter Text
The faces of the men in the General’s office tell a story of their own. I find I cannot restrain myself from an inquiry. “Gentlemen, whatever is the matter?”
Colonel Hamilton bears a letter in his right hand. “Colonel Young. I discovered this in the drifts near the encampment of the 1st Pennsylvania—your own regiment, I may add—and, upon seeing the contents, saw fit to deliver it to His Excellency.”
At this, the General’s brow furrows marginally further. “Let us hear it, Hamilton.”
"To His Majeſty the King,
I have infiltrated the Encampment of the Rebels at Valley Forge, and I believe the Intelligence I have gathered in doing ſo may be of uſe to Your Majeſty. The State of the Rebel Army is truly pitiful—the men are in want of everything, ſtarving, freezing, loſing arms and legs, and dying of moſt Foul Diſeaſes every day, without proper Barracks for the majority to reſt in, and plagued by all manner of Bitterneſs and Rancour toward their commanding Officers. My own living conditions are moſt piteous that I may not be detected.
Mr. Waſhington is ſcarcely ſeen as of late, a great many deſertions thin their ranks, talk of a Plot to depoſe the ſame Man abounds, and even the little French boy, Lafayette, who was wounded by the men of Howe or Cornwallis this late September, is in low Spirits and ſuffers with his own troops. I may venture to ſay, with great Confidence, that this Army of Rebels ſhall meet their utter ruin before the end of this Winter.
I leave no ſignature leſt I be identified, ſhould this Letter be intercepted."
The Marquis is the first to react, bristling. “A ‘little French boy?’ This man… he speaks as though I lack l’esprit!”
Colonel Hamilton, however, sets his sights on me. “The syntax of this letter bears a striking resemblance to that of one… educated,” he starts. “One who spent his youth with tutors, and the likelihood that these should be Loyalists…”
I step closer to him, my hand resting on the pommel of Esperanza and my voice lowering dangerously. “What are you suggesting, Colonel Hamilton?”
“I am suggesting, sir, that such a letter may have been written by a man reared by the enemy who has much more to lose on the side of the Cause and a serious grievance with our General.”
“Monsieur Hamilton, you cannot seriously believe-” the Marquis starts, but Hamilton cuts him off. “Au contraire, Gilbert, I have every reason to believe a wealthy Southerner might turn traitor to save his own neck.”
That is when the General rises from his desk. “Hamilton, may I see the letter?” The young man hands off the offending letter to His Excellency.
I, however, find I am at a loss.
On the first day of the new year, Alexander Hamilton would accuse me of treason?