Dear, Hamilton

Confounding the British Henchmen

 I walk past several grime-covered soldiers, most of them clustered in groups around campfires. The rest are either sleeping or walking around as well. Lit torches staked into the ground light the little paths that run through the huge camp. 

I'm walking down one particular path when I hear someone say in a surprised voice, "Eliza?"

I stop in my tracks and turn around towards the voice, a frown gracing my features as I find myself staring at Hamilton, who stands not ten feet away from me. His face is smudged with dirt, and his uniform and boots are splattered with a mixture of mud and blood. 

I find myself alarmed as I think to myself, is that his blood or someone else's? 

I quickly compose my face into indifference before I say coolly, "Hamilton."

He stares at me wide-eyed as if unsure what to say now that he has my attention. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and stuffs his hands into his pant pockets. "How have you been?" he finally asks, his voice tinged with concern. 

I huff a laugh. "Splendid," I say sarcastically. 

Hamilton laughs too, but it's stiff. "Same." 

I can't tell if he caught on to my sarcasm or not. 

"I'm about ready to go home," he continues, looking longingly towards New York City, where I can see a few lights twinkling in the night. 

I nod. "Same," I parrot his earlier words. At his amused look, I know he noticed my word choice. I jerk my chin at him as I state, "You look a little worse for wear."

His answering laugh conveys his embarrassment at his state, and I catch him discreetly rubbing at his face as if to wipe the dirt off. I want to tell him I don't care what he looks like, that he'll always look handsome to me, but I push the traitorous thought away as I remain silent and wait for his answer. 

He rubs at the back of his neck as he replies, "Laurens told me you've been working really hard in helping the wounded." I notice his change of subject.

I nod as I sit down on a nearby upturned barrel and prop my head in one hand. "I try, but most of them seem to die," I confide in him with a humorless laugh. 

Hamilton walks a little closer until he's about six feet away. "Don't let it discourage you, Eliza. It's only practical that most soldiers are going to die from the wounds they are getting here," he tries to comfort me. 

I nod my head a little in reluctant agreement. I notice my eyes getting heavier with exhaustion, and I widen them so as to keep them open, even as the action makes my eyes burn more tiredly. 

"I suppose I shouldn't be so upset," I admit glumly. "But those people died, and they're never coming back. They're never going to get another chance in this world, never participate in what we're doing now ever again. They woke up this morning optimistic and thinking they were going to go to sleep in their bed this very night. Instead, they died, and now they're laying in piles, waiting to be burned."

Hamilton's brow is furrowed in shared sadness, and he looks like he wants to come over and comfort me, but stops himself short. Instead, he laughs humorlessly as he says, "Well, now you have me thinking that it could be me tomorrow."

My eyes widen more at this. "No!" I exclaim in horror. "You are not dying, Alexander." I say this last part firmly, his first name slipping past my lips before I can stop myself.  

He lifts a brow at me as he replies smoothly, "I didn't realize you cared at all what happened to me anymore."

I furrow my brow in frustration and purse my lips as I respond sharply, "I don't want to care, but I can't help but care anyways."