Hamilton's POV
I have never seen the General so despondent. I have taken up writing all his correspondence. Congress writes, "George, attack the British forces," like we're not already doing the best we can. I shoot back, "We have resorted to eating our horses! Local merchants deny us equipment, assistance. They only take British money, so sing a song of sixpence!"
Washington stumbles into the room grimy and covered in mud, and for a moment, I fear he's been shot. As I rush forward to offer assistance, I realize that he's simply suffering from exhaustion.
Wiping sludge off his face, he tells me, "The cavalry's not coming."
I start. "But sir--"
He cuts me off, still breathing heavily as he looks me right in the eyes, begging me to pay attention. "Alex, listen. There's only one way for us to win this. Provoke outrage, outright."
"That's right," I nod, seeing his reasoning behind the order.
"Don't engage, strike by night. Remain relentless until their troops take flight."
I finish his line of thought, cheering up considerably. This is the General I know! "Make it impossible to justify the cost of the fight!"
"Outrun!" He says again, and I echo him.
"Outrun!"
"Outlast!"
"Outlast!"
Washington emphasizes the most important instruction. "Hit 'em quick, get out fast!"
"Chick-a-plao!"
"Stay alive until this horror show is past," he says, looking at me with tired eyes. "We're going to fly a lot of flags half-mast."
Laurens, Lafayette and I repeat our catchphrase in a monotone, in respect to the fallen soldiers, and the ones who haven't yet. "Raise a glass."
Hercules has gone to back to New York and his apprenticeship, which is a huge relief to me. I don't know what I would do if we lost him. He's no soldier, and the best place for him is in his shop.
Lafayette's asked for French aid, but we have no way of knowing if France has sent a ship. All we can do know is pray for the best.
Laurens stays at work with me, writing essays against slavery, and every day is a test of our camaraderie and bravery. And my commitment to Elijah. The traitorous thought snakes into my head, and I shrug it off, focusing back on the war.
We cut supply lines, we steal contraband. We pick and choose our battles and places to take a stand. And every day, I say, "Sir, entrust me with command." And every day...
"No." he dismisses me out of hand.
Instead of me, he promotes Charles Lee. Makes him second in command.
When Lee gets promoted, he runs through the camp, yelling, "I'm a General! Whee!" It's insulting. He's not the choice I would have gone with. He shits the bed at the Battle of Monmouth!
Washington leads the assault. "Everyone attack!" he yells, and our men surge forward, united as one.
Until Lee, the coward that he is, shouts, "Retreat!" and our troops wheel, leaving them vulnerable to the British.
Washington yells again, this time louder, "Attack!"
"Retreat!" orders Lee, sending our small army into a state of confusion, milling around aimlessly as the British shoot men down left and right, howling in pain.
Red in the face, Washington figures out the cause of the chaos, and screams at the general, "What are you doing, Lee, get back on your feet!"
The response comes, and it's absolutely the wrong one. "But there's so many of them!" he whines.
"Oh, I'm sorry, is this not your speed?" Washington screams, then turns to me. "Hamilton!"
"Ready, sir!" I call out, saluting. This is it.
Apparently not. "Have Lafayette take the lead!"
It's fine. Lafayette's great at military strategy. He's the logical choice, I think, but it stings nonetheless.
A hundred soldiers die in a hundred degree heat as we snatch a stalemate from the jaws of defeat. Charles Lee was left behind without a pot to piss in, which is more generous than he deserved. Then he started saying this to anybody who would listen.
"Washington cannot be left alone to his devices! Indecisive from crisis to crisis!" I'm pretty sure that was you, Lee. "The best thing he can do for the Revolution is turn and go back to planting tobacco in Mount Vernon!"
I launch myself at Lee, but General Washington holds me back. "Don't do a thing. History will prove him wrong," he says. I know history will, but it won't punch him in the face. I want to reserve that honour for me.
"But sir!" I protest. Surely he can see that this insubordination will spread through the troops if it's not obliterated immediately.
He looks at me with steely eyes, and says, "We have a war to fight. Let's move along," and I know the discussion's over, but it doesn't stop me from smoldering.
John walks up to me, and I read anger in every line in his body. "Strong words from Lee, someone ought to hold him to 'em," he spits out, gesturing rudely to Lee's retreating form.
I sigh. "I can't disobey direct orders," I explain.
"Then I'll do it," John says, grabbing my hand. My breath hitches in my throat as he continues, putting his other hand behind my neck. "Alexandra, you're the closest friend I've got."
When he moves, I finally allow myself to breathe normally. Clearing my voice, I say, very professionally, "Laurens, do not throw away your shot."
John nods and walks away, and I wonder what I have done with my life.