During the height of the American Revolution, young men Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens meet in the service of General George Washington. The two men become aides-de-camp, working alongside General Washington and his staff to manage the correspondence, intelligence and secrets needed to propel a ragtag army through a war with the greatest power on Earth.
Hamilton and Laurens quickly form a friendship, sharing similar ideas against slavery and a desire for glory on the battlefield. Yet they soon discover a passion for each other beyond their paperwork and swords. But when the war calls Laurens south and Hamilton learns of a wife left in England, the differing priorities and values between the two men begin to reveal themselves causing both to question what their love and future can be.
Based on true events and personal letters, Duty and Inclination follows the romantic relationship between two men, during one of the pivotal moments in American history, who will leave their mark on their future country and on each other.
Unexpected
John Laurens listens to the gentle clop of his horse’s hooves over packed earth, a quiet hum of bird song and the whisper of the wind. The summer woods feel peaceful, almost serene, nothing to indicate that a war rages through every corner of the American Colonies as it has for nearing two years now. With years away from his native land in Geneva and London for his schooling, Laurens missed the sound of real nature, but he is not here to enjoy the scenery.
The dense woods of Pennsylvania soon part to reveal the sea of white canvas tents arranged in parallel rows which make up the current encampment of the American Continental Army and his destination.
“Halt!” One of a pair of sentries stationed at the edge shouts. “Who goes there?”
“John Laurens.” Laurens slows his horse and pulls a letter from his cloak. “I have a summons from General Washington.”
The man who receives it scans the page. Laurens notices the sharp cut of the man’s jaw and fullness of his lips. Laurens grits his teeth and looks away until the sentry hands the paper back. “Welcome to camp, sir. Follow the main line down, you will see the General’s tent.”
Laurens nods. “How should I know it?”
Both men chuckle. “You shall know it, sir,” the one man says, “largest of the lot.”
“And very French at present,” the other quips.
Laurens frowns. “Speak plainly, sirs.”
They both gesture down the main drive through the encampment. “Ride straight.”
Laurens sighs and pushes his horse on slowly into the lines of tents. He keeps his horse on the straight line they indicated but cannot stop his eyes sliding from side to side over the camp. He takes in the straight rows, most of the tents the same size and make but occasionally larger ones that are perhaps officers. Part of the land looks recently cleared with some stumps between tents with the rest twisting as lines will allow through the breaks in the trees. He observes soldiers stoking small fires, men cleaning rifles, and the sound of chopping wood.
It takes but five minutes before Laurens sees the tent the guards must mean. It is indeed larger than the personal tents of the soldiers and other supply shelters, rounder in construction with its own pair of guards in front of what must be the entrance. Laurens sees the flaps open and hears some voices inside.
Laurens swallows as he stops his horse. He is not truly apprehensive, but a man cannot help some nerves in such a moment. He has not met General Washington before, and he is legendary throughout the colonies. Laurens dismounts and hands his horse off to a Private. Then he walks to the entrance of the tent, letter in hand.
“John Laurens,” Laurens says, holding out the letter.
A guard nods at him then shifts around and steps into the tent. “Sir? A John Laurens to see you. He bears your seal in hand.”
Laurens has little time to think upon the efficiency of the enlisted men before he walks through the flap and into the tall tent. Of the three men in the tent, there is no mistaking His Excellency George Washington, commander of the Continental Army in their fight against the British. He stands taller than all the men present, though Laurens is by no means short. His face appears stern yet somehow warm, enough that while Laurens feels he should stand stiff, he does not feel off put. The General's hair is a red Laurens did not expect, certainly not the burst of Irish red he has seen in England but there is no mistaking the auburn there. Laurens would call his uniform, his manner, his simple presence in the space resplendent. He looks every bit the army commander.
Laurens takes off his hat, shoving it under one arm, and slides off his gloves, looking quickly around the large tent – one long table with several chairs, some maps hanging off ropes of the tent canvas and a pair of side boards along either edge of the tent walls. Then Laurens looks back to the General with a deferential bow.
“Ah,” the General says, “Mr. Laurens, thank you for accepting my invitation and position of aide-de-camp.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Laurens walks forward toward the trio on the other side of a long table taking up most of the tent. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. My father has always spoken well of you.”
The General smiles and makes a small noise of assent. “He is an honorable man.” The General then turns to the two men beside him, indicating the man wearing a green riband across his chest. “My military secretary, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Hanson Harrison.”
The man nods at Laurens and shakes his hand congenially, a fatherly bearing to his expression accentuated by the gray strands in his brown hair, likely ten years older than Laurens himself. “Of South Carolina, are you not?”
“Yes,” Laurens replies. “Though lately of England in pursuit of my law degree.” He does not mention the hurriedly married wife and new daughter he gladly left behind in that country.
Then the General turns to the obviously youngest man in the room, nearly as tall as General Washington with powdered hair, and much red trimming to his coat. Laurens knows he is French even before the General introduces him.
“A recent addition, such as yourself, to our ranks, The Marquis de Lafayette.”
Laurens smiles, taking the man's hand. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour,” the Marquis replies, “is good to.... eh... meet.”
“Je suis heureux de vous rencontrer aussi, Marquis.”
The man's face changes at Laurens' French greeting, relief or joy, Laurens cannot truly tell.
“Ah, oui, merci beaucoup...”
“The Marquis comes to us with a commission of Major General from Congress,” His Excellency explains.
Laurens raises his eyebrows in surprise; the Marquis appears as young as he. “Impressionnant!”
The Marquis nods once with a modest smile. “Je ferai de mon mieux pour le mériter.” He turns to General Washington and nods, “Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Laurens,” His Excellency continues, “is a volunteer aide to my office and comes highly recommended by Congress.”
Laurens looks down and nods. “By my father at least,” Laurens corrects as tactfully as he may, “who is a member of Congress.”
“Oui, Henry Laurens, he, I have heard,” the Marquis replies.
Laurens smiles appropriately. With a father as wealthy and connected as Laurens’, such remarks are a litany well known in Laurens’ life.
“Now we should proceed,” the General says turning to Harrison hovering nearby. “Harrison, if you would fetch Colonel Hamilton and Tilghman for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Harrison says as he moves toward the tent exit.
“Laurens, I shall be taking the Marquis on a tour of the camp while you become settled into your new responsibilities here.” The General gestures to the Marquis. “Unfortunately, I am not versed in French as I should wish and, though I know of your own fluency, I would not put you to such work so quickly.”
“Sir, if you should wish –”
The General holds up his hand to stop Laurens. “Thank you, but you are not the only man among my staff who speaks French, though we are quite pleased to have you as another. I plan to put you toward much of the French translation work we have.”
Laurens nods. “Of course, sir.”
“The Marquis has already begun his education in our language,” General Washington continues. “As you have heard.”
The Marquis smiles gratefully, if also embarrassed. “Je suis encore lent à apprendre.”
“You shall learn fast enough,” Laurens says.
He thinks he should offer to help teach the Marquis, but he cannot determine if this should be out of the bounds of propriety. Perhaps there will be time in the future; Laurens should not expect so much of one day. Still, he cannot help but feel eager to serve in any manner.
“I am confident,” His Excellency continues. “And at present I have at least one other aide who may accompany us.”
Laurens nods.
“You, sir, shall need to learn more of your duties and find a place for yourself. It may feel short lived, however, as we shall be moving again tomorrow.”
Laurens frowns. “So soon?”
“Such is the nature of army life, Mr. Laurens.”
“Sir?”
Laurens turns at the sound of a new voice from the entrance to the tent.
A man with sandy blond hair and a wide smile walks into the tent. “Ah, you must be our extra aide.”
“And you must be attending myself and the Marquis, Tilghman.”
Tilghman smiles. “Oui, I shall.” He nods to the two of them. “As you wish, Your Excellency.”
“You also surmise correctly,” the General continues with a gesture to Laurens, “Tench Tilghman, this is John Laurens.”
Laurens shakes hands with the boisterous man who says, “Welcome to the army, Laurens!”
“Is this our new aide?”
Laurens' eyes shift past Tilghman at the second voice to see another man walking into the tent. The man ducks his head under the flap as he removes his hat then looks up at their party with a wide smile. Laurens swallows once and tightens his hands around his gloves as he stares.
While the General's hair is an auburn – more autumn than fire – this man's hair is as close to Irish as one might expect, all oranges and reds and almost a shock of color that matches perfectly with his blue and buff uniform. Despite the tight braid laid against his neck, Laurens sees this man’s red hair bears a natural curl causing a wave against the pale skin of his brow. He stands shorter than Laurens, shorter than all in the room, but the way he walks – confident and almost cocky, like those in the room should be answering to him – offsets what another man might fear censure of. His face, his expression, appears smooth and youthful, certainly of an age with Laurens – still a few years from twenty-five, with narrow points and delicate cheeks bearing an almost feminine blush to them. And his eyes. His eyes are blue, a dark blue like the sea, deep and dangerous and Laurens thinks they are beautiful.
Laurens pulls one hand free of his own tight grasp as he catches the end of what General Washington says, “... of my aides, Alexander Hamilton.”
Hamilton grips Laurens hand and shakes it once. “A pleasure, sir.”
“John Laurens.” Laurens shakes his hand back. “And it is mine.”
Hamilton lets go of Laurens' hand and Laurens' curls his fingers back up tightly by his side.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” His Excellency addresses Hamilton. “If you would be so good as to acquaint our new Laurens here with our protocols, find him his tent, and have him set to work. I am sure you have some French which he could assist you with.”
Hamilton nods. “Of course, Your Excellency.”
“I shall be taking Tilghman away from you for much of the day, I imagine.”
The General looks at the Marquis again as Tilghman repeats the General's words in French, though it appears it may have been unnecessary. Laurens suspects it will not take long for the Marquis to master their language.
“Your Excellency?” Laurens glances at the tent flap once more to see the first aide, Harrison, poking his head in. “Your horses are ready, sirs.”
“Thank you, Harrison.” The General looks at The Marquis and Tilghman in turn. “Gentlemen, if you will follow me.”
They both say, “yes sir,” then follow the General outside with nods of farewell.
Then Laurens and Hamilton stand alone in the tent.
Laurens shifts his hat down from under his arm into his hand, clearing his throat. “Lieutenant Colonel, please lead on, I am at your service.”
Hamilton smiles at him with a shake of his head. “You need not address me by my rank, Laurens, we are of equal footing. Hamilton is well enough.”
Laurens shakes his head. “I have no such rank yet. I am but a volunteer.”
Hamilton looks him up and down. Laurens' hand clenches around his hat. He has the urge to fidget or tap his gloves on his leg, but he keeps himself still.
Hamilton stares Laurens in the face again then nods. “You seem a man of conviction, to come as a volunteer, and immediately into the General’s office, I think it should not be long before a rank shall be yours.”
Laurens clears his throat. “Should I distinguish myself and earn some import on the field as to deserve it, I shall be glad to accept it then.”
Hamilton laughs once. “A modest man, are you?”
“Merely a practical one. Why should I deserve a rank now?”
“Well, if you have a dedication to the patriot cause and your father is a member of our Congress, is that not enough?”
Laurens frowns. “Do you think it enough? Would you rather lesser men with better names advance before you?”
Hamilton purses his lips and his expression changes. Laurens thinks he must have said the right thing.
“No, I would not, but not all men think as I.”
“I am not all men.”
Hamilton smiles so it looks like a smirk then gestures toward the tent flaps. “Shall we?”
Laurens nods and follows Hamilton from the tent once more, swooping his hat back on his head and shoving his riding gloves into his coat pocket.
“At present we are confined to our tents and the command tent as you saw for our work,” Hamilton gestures behind them, “but, when able, we will commandeer a house for the General and we his staff. I am afraid you may find it cramped and crude at times, but such is the army with limited supplies and space.”
“I understand,” Laurens replies as they walk down the line of tents.
“As you may imagine, our work is much bound to the page and ink. The General mentioned translation, as you may know we have many Frenchmen rallied to our cause. It is myself, Tilghman and now you who are fluent.”
“I am adept in some other languages as well, but I would not say fluent in any but French.”
“English, I hope?” Hamilton flashes him a smile, the two of them now walking side by side with matching strides.
Laurens cannot help a chuckle. “I am so fortunate as to have mastered English even with schooling in England to attempt to put me off.”
Hamilton laughs too. “Ah ha, better to return where we speak it best.”
“No comparison, of course.”
They glance at each other, Hamilton's smile shifting into something companionable.
“Well,” Hamilton looks away ahead of them. “We are also called upon for many other tasks as the General's most trusted men. We are involved with intelligence, prisoner interrogation, supply, of course paperwork, reports and correspondence. Meade is the best rider among us and sent most often. You shall meet him soon, I should imagine. Our tasks are more numerous than I am able to list now but we attend the General in any way he sees fit. Your hand shall tire of writing within a fortnight.”
Laurens smiles again. “Stains upon my fingers?”
Hamilton smirks back. “Undoubtedly.” He holds up his right hand where Laurens spies an obvious blot of ink.
Laurens purses his lips and speaks without thought. “A shame to waste it.”
Hamilton laughs once again. “Ah yes, we cannot afford to waste any supplies we have, even ink.”
Laurens ducks his head and watches the grass because he truly meant Hamilton's hands, not the ink.
“And,” Hamilton says with an audible inhale of air, “we are required to entertain all manner of guests, General's wives for one; less than you may believe but more than you should hope.”
Laurens nods as he watches their boots match pace.
“Ah, what else?” Hamilton's hand brushes against Laurens' and Laurens pulls his hand closer to his side. “Writing out His Excellency's letters; I have at times been able to draft my own replies.” He continues with pride in his tone. “As well as copies. You would think our army comprised more of paper than men.”
Laurens glances at Hamilton again as he speaks. Hamilton flashes a look at Laurens, all teeth and lips. “And when upon the battlefield, we are to relay messages between officers, often recoonoitering ahead of the fray.”
“And to fight?”
Hamilton frowns. “But little.”
Laurens suspected such before his arrival, but he had hoped for a different reality. “Have you seen battle yourself?”
Hamilton nods. “I was at Trenton last year and New York before joining the General's office.”
“And now?”
“Now a desk occupies much of my time, but it is needed work as much as the sword.”
Laurens whispers, “I should prefer the sword...”
“I understand you.” Laurens looks at Hamilton sharply not intending for him to have heard. “But it is where you are now, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“You are still an extra aide, perhaps something different shall lie ahead of you.”
Laurens thinks Hamilton forward in his predictions on Laurens' station and advancement, but he finds himself unoffended. “I think my name puts me here, but I know myself and know what a call to arms feels like.”
They walk three steps with no words then Hamilton says. “Our pen is our sword until it may change into that which we seek. If our ink will not steer the way, then how should our victories occur? How should these men find their fights?”
Laurens looks up at Hamilton. “You think not of glory?”
Hamilton's lips twist as he walks, his stride quickening. “I do.” Then he glances at Laurens. “But I am here now and by the General's side, I do not call that lacking. If I am able to serve, be it by pen or sword, then I should do so in defense of my country. Do you not agree?”
Laurens nods. “I do.”
Laurens worries now that Hamilton will be a problem or worse, a pleasure far more than he should be in Laurens' eyes.
Rebecca Dupont has had a passion for writing for twenty years which often teams up with her love of history. As a member of the queer community, she wants to use her pen to bring queer history to life. Dupont believes historical fiction, especially based in fact, is a way for many people to understand and see themselves in a past that often prefers to erase them. Dupont is a history and museum studies major who lives with her partner in Washington D.C.
