Becoming A Founding "Father"- Historical Hamilton

Chapter Forty: The Way She Was

*TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of suicide and heavy suicidal thoughts all throughout the chapter. Go to the bottom of the chapter to get the summary if you are sensitive to such content.

"Clinton ( the British Commander-in-Chief) left South Carolina [...] and ordered his second in command, Charles Cornwallis, to stay put in South Carolina [...]  Cornwallis essentially ignored this directive and began his own overland campaign into the interior of South Carolina and invaded North Carolina in 1781" - Sir Henry Clinton, Washington's Mount Vernon.

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I'm finally allowed to see the ginger. As I walk into the medical tent, everyone's conversations cease when they look at me. They must have heard of me by now. They must have heard of-

It doesn't matter. I step closer to the bed, taking the white sheet off of his face. His bright smile is nowhere to be seen, and his freckled face is now a disgusting blue. Green eyes look at the ceiling, unseeing.

Dead.

What a shame. I didn't even know his name, yet he saved my life. As I fell into a pit of hysteria, he was the one to push my out of the way of of a bayonet.

We travel at dawn, with bayonets fixed and muskets unloaded

After asking and getting scissors, I grip a long lock of red hair and cut it right off. I can feel eyes on me as I tie those strands over my wrist- sometime soon I shall braid a bracelet of it, but my eyes catch the thick black bracelet above and I can't breathe again.

I don't know if I have any tears left to cry. 

I barely have enough energy to return back to Lafayette's quarters. My legs drag behind me heavily, and I do my best to ignore the sad glance General Knox sends my way. All of staff have been informed of my stay with Lafayette- apparently, he was to make sure I was not a 'danger to his own self'- Washington's orders. 

I have no clue where he got such an idea from, but maybe I shouldn't have been trying to absentmindedly rip my hand open with my quill at my desk.

My stupid hand that can't do anything right. Just like me.

When I crack the door open, Lafayette is sitting there on his chair, eyes trained on a very long letter. His lips form a natural pout, he is in a rough undershirt and dirtied breeches- he was probably getting dressed for bed before that piece of parchment caught his attention. A dirt streak paints his cheek, which contributes to a look so unusual to the Marquis.

Though now that I reside with him, I see this sight more and more- under the bravado and manners resides a mortal man, after all. As he comes back from a day of horse-riding, commanding, drilling, running, talking, translating, eating, drinking and much more, it is no surprise he looks as grimy as any other soldier under his uniform.

Yet this is not a sight he lets anyone see- back slouched, legs spread in a provocative and ungentlemanly manner, twisting a greasy curl around his thin finger. He looks comfortable, vulnerable, human. Out of all people, I know I deserve to see such a sight the least.

When door clicks shut, his eyes flit to mine- by instinct, his legs cross, posture tightens- and a relieved smile crosses his face. "There you are, mon cherí. I was getting worried."

"I'm not a child, sir," I mutter, shrugging off my coat. I don't understand why everyone suddenly cares.

"I did not say you were." I feel his gaze burning my back. "Well?" I wordlessly raise my wrist in his direction, ginger hair swaying lightly, and he sighs. "...Unfortunate. He really did not deserve to die."