What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Twenty

As Thomas slowly began to heal over the next few days, he would sit in bed with Lafayette seated on a chair next to him. He would refuse to talk about politics, and only settled for stories from his friend. In turn, he'd tell him about Virginia and what he had missed.

The stories Laf would tell nearly left Thomas in tears from laughing, and although it hurt his sore ribs, it was the only thing keeping him entertained here.

He had never been more thankful for someone, either. Thomas would have surely died without him, and he never would have made it out of the Bastille if it hadn't been for Byron and Isabelle's sacrifice and Andre's loyalty.

He had so many people to thank, but no means to do so. He didn't know where Andre lived, didn't even know where to start. Byron and Isabelle were dead, but he swore he would never forget them. How could he? They'd saved his life more times than he could count, and for that he would always be grateful. Their legacy would live on with Jefferson, he would make sure of it. And Lafayette, the person he was perhaps the most indebted to, would refuse everything Thomas offered in thanks.

"Non, monsieur. You can thank me by surviving. By making it to America. And you stood for France when you first came. Just staying alive is enough."

Thomas had let out a chuckle at that. "A fine job I've done at that."

Lafayette also chuckled. "We'll get you home, my friend. I promise."

At the end of that week, the man had come into the room with a grim, yet anticipating, expression on his face, and Thomas raised his eyebrow.

"Well, my friend, let's get you on the boat."

Thomas' breath caught in his throat. "I'm going home?"

Lafayette smiled. "You're going home."

It was something Thomas had dreamed of ever since he'd stepped foot in France six months ago, and now that he was finally on the brink of freedom, he half expected Leon or Josue to jump out and declare the whole thing a joke. But no one popped out, and Thomas was allowed the tentative hope that he was, indeed, going home.

It was pitch black outside when Lafayette had written a letter for Thomas to keep with him and deliver to Washington. They dressed him in dark clothes and threw a hood over his head. They wouldn't cut his hair or beard, saying it was needed to further disguise him.

So he'd have to wait to get to America to cut his hair.

The maids had packed him a satchel of food and water, non perishable items that would be safe to eat on the journey home. Thomas thanked them, and was ushered out of the house as best as he could with his injured leg. He had healed remarkably well, considering how well he had been taken care of. The graze had begun to scab over, but he was still in a considerable amount of discomfort. His left arm was in a sling and bound to his chest to restrict movement.

The doctor had visited the day before, and said that as the bullet had been a through and through, he should be safe enough to travel. But seeing that there were a few bullet fragments in the wound, Thomas would need surgery as soon as possible once he hit American soil. Thomas had sighed, and hoped he'd be over with the pain quickly when he arrived home.

 Lafayette was embarrassed to admit that the only way to smuggle him onto the ship would be by crate, and he'd had his workers take a few days to assemble an inconspicuous crate labeled "fragile."

Which wasn't a lie.

When Thomas saw it, he nearly snorted. But being shipped by crate across the ocean wasn't the most ridiculous thing to happen to him by now. Lafayette assured him that he'd be taken out of the crate before the ship left the docks, but this was the only way to get him out of France.