Dear, Hamilton

Here Comes the General

I'm surprised at the number of men walking around in the same uniform that Colonel Hamilton wears. I hadn't been aware that so many were fighting for the Continental Army. 

The only difference between Hamilton's uniform and the other mens' uniforms is that Hamilton wears a green sash that crosses diagonally across his waistcoat underneath his uniform coat.  

"What does the green sash mean?" I ask, indicating to it with a finger.

Hamilton smiles as he answers, "It's just a symbol of my rank as Washington's aide-de-camp." 

I nod in understanding as we walk side by side through the downtown of New York City. I search the storefronts for any sign of a calendar or any other indication of what year it is.

"What are you looking for? I didn't know you were on an errand of your own," Hamilton remarks with humor when he notices how searching my eyes are. 

I try for a smile. "Just a calendar. It helps me keep track of the days." And year.

Hamilton lights up. "I know just the place," he says before gently grabbing my hand and turning us around. "This way," he tells me, his eyes glancing at me with amusement at my surprise.

"Won't this take time away from your errand?" I protest. "Aren't we going back the way we just came?" I can't help the questions as they spring from my mouth. 

Hamilton laughs at me as we turn a street corner. "I don't mind. Whatever the lady desires, she shall receive," he states grandly before stopping before a store and opening the door for me. 

I walk inside and am overcome by the stacks of paper littering every inch of every table inside. There's a small aisle to the right side of the room that showcases wells of ink and pens for sale. The scent of paper fills the room. I turn around to ask Hamilton where the calendars are when I find myself shifting face first into him. 

"Oh, sorry!" I apologize, quickly backing away. I discreetly rub at my stinging nose. His body is all muscle. 

Hamilton laughs at my reaction, saying, "It's okay," before guiding me to a small corner in the back of the store where a few calendars are on display. "There aren't that many options," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand as he shifts on his feet, his eyes critical as he looks at the few options.

"Oh, it's perfect," I assure him quickly. My eyes land immediately on a simple calendar with cute little flowers elegantly embellishing the sides of the paper. The year says 1778. 

Now that I know the year, I don't necessarily need a calendar, but for appearance's sake, I snag it from the shelf and say, "This one will suit me just fine."

A look of relief passes across his face before he says, "Good. I'll be back real quick. I, uh, need to talk to the publisher while we're here." 

I frown in confusion before finally realizing we're in a publishing building. That explains all the paper everywhere. Hamilton must be wanting to give the publisher some of his writings to print out in the newspaper. 

I remember learning he was an avid writer, spitting out pages and pages of writings to be printed for the public. 

I nod in understanding. "I'll be waiting around here," I tell him before walking aimlessly towards the front of the store. 

I'm examining the drying newspaper scattered on the tables when the bell above the front door rings, signaling someone has entered the store, and I look up to see a man walk into the store. 

In my eyes, he seems unremarkable. Slightly slouched shoulders and ordinary, brown hair and eyes. Like most of the men outside, he wears a blue and buff uniform. He's someone I would have easily looked over.