1779, summer, July 21st.

The commander in chief sat at his desk in the headquarters that him and his aides have so graciously been leant,

his quill was the only sound that could be heard other then birds chirping, the scratching of the quill, occasionally he’d dip it in ink and continue.

The 47 year old colonial sighed gently at the aching in his back reminding him that he is indeed, not getting any younger sitting the way he was, so he stretched his back out straight, causing it to make popping noises, “dear me.” he mumbled, his eyes shutting for a moment, his ginger, albeit, graying hair fell upon his shoulders and his face, he did not have energy or time to put it in a queue.

He looked down at his pleas to congress for more supplies, I mean, he has already done his daily checks to his camp. Now he must plea for rations his soldiers deserve.

the commander in chief signed the date, July 21st, 1779, and then he blew on the ink, sealing the letter into an envelope and standing from the chair, putting his coat back onto his frame and walking out the office, down the stairs, and out the headquarters, riding to camp since it was nearby and he wished to try and raise the men’s morale.

When he arrived he got off his horse, a slave coming to go stable it. The men guarding the camp allowed him in and he looked around, fixing his triconre hat.

He greeted a few officers and generals that were lingering and doing their jobs.