The rocking of the Languedoc underneath Alexander’s feet did nothing to sooth his churning stomach. The fact that d’Estaing’s desk kept swaying from side to side, making papers and candles begin to tip off the edge of it, only made things worse, and the chandelier moving like a pendulum made Alexander nearly throw up his breakfast. Not like near-rotten scrambled eggs and warm water from a nearby tavern amounted to much of a meal, though.
D’Estaing sat behind his swaying desk, his hеad resting on his two hands whose fingers were laced together and his elbows resting so close to his things that they nearly upsetted his inkpot. He had been without powder from his weeks at sea, making his chestnut brown hair show at his hairline. He had almost black eyes that stared into his soul questioningly and lips too tiny for his quite large chin. Apparently he had some type of family ties to the Marquis de Lafayette, though Alexander saw no resemblance between the two.
“Hamilton,” he said slowly as if Alexander were a child and not over twenty, “please explain to me again what you’d like to happen with the men on board here.”
Alexander wanted to tear his hair out. He’d explained this to d’Estaing some ten times and he was still acting nonchalant and playing an innocent role as if he didn’t understand. “I proposed that some men go to shore, sir. We need to know of the British’s movements, need to know what they’re planning, need to know the movements of their ships the soonest we’re able.”
“Mr. Hamilton, I cannot bear to lose any more men as it is,” d’Estaing said, dragging his words long and slow.
Alexander resisted the urge to smack his palms down on the table, to yell at him until his lungs were scratched raw. The only thing that kept him from clawing the Frenchman’s face off was Laurens’ voice in his ear: Calm yourself, dear boy. “Sir, your men remain here, idle, doing nothing but rotting away. Surely some sun will at least be good for them!”
“My men are fine, Mr. Hamilton. If it is anyone who is not in good health, it is your army on the mainland.”
The immigrant couldn’t stop his upper lip from curling in disgust. “Sir, you mock me and my countrymen! We are perfectly fine as it is! Your men are the ones whose only exercise is picking at their rotting food day after day after day. Just take one man—and that is all we need, sir, only one man—and bring him to shore. Let him see what the British are up to and give us the upper hand.”
“Hamilton, spying is a waste. It is but a suicide misson and nothing more. Have you Americans already forgotten about the death and mistakes of Nathan Hale?” Alexander opened his mouth to retort but d’Estaing was already continuing. “I will not be wasting able bodied men just because you have a tiny hunch that it may somehow benefit your cause.”
“It is not a hunch, I tell you! I know that spying on these Lobsterbacks could give us valuable information!” Alexander wanted to add something about the Culper Spy Ring, wanted to mention how they already had men and women out there risking their lives and bringing them much-needed intelligence, but what with it being classified information, he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing more.
“And what if I do send a man out to shore to spy? What would I do with the information then?”
“You could be able to have enough time to intercept a British ship—or even possibly a British fleet—while it’s evacuating New York.” Alexander paused, a grin growing on his face, an idea in mind. “And think of how much glory you’ll procure. Think of all the fame and songs that will proudly boast your name: d’Estaing, savior of the Americans, the one who intercepted a British fleet after he sent out one mere spy.” Alexander lowered his voice to a whisper. “How would you like that?”
It looked as if d’Estaing was going to respond when a man rushed into the room. Immediately, he straightened, his hand brought up to his forehead in solute. “A man approaching the boat, sirs!”
D’Estaing’s head snapped up in order to send the messenger a venomous glare. “What?”
“A man approaching the boat, sirs! Continental uniform, dirty blond hair, green ribband. Must be an aide-de-camp to Washington, sirs!”
While d’Estaing was muttering, “Why is there another aide-de-camp?” Alexander’s whole face lit up. Continental uniform… dirty blond hair… green ribband… aide to Washington… It could only be…
“What does he say his name is?” d’Estaing demanded to know of the messenger, bringing Alexander out of his thoughts.
The man uttered two beautiful words: “John Laurens.”