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There is shouting outside of headquarters, and Washington lifts exhausted eyes to the door. The aides, the boys who were toasting to Alexander’s memory (his memory- because he was dead. Shot and drowned in the Schuylkill), glare at the door when it interrupts the rather depressed mood to let a sentry fall through.
“It’s Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, Sir, he made his way back to camp, Sir!”
Washington moves even before the boy is done speaking, and from the clatter of chairs behind him, the others have all jumped to their feet as well. He’s out into the cold air and sprinting towards the entrance to camp as fast as his feet will carry him, leaving his coat behind. He schools himself a few paces from the sentry-point; it may be that there has been a mistake after all. It may not be Hamilton. His boy may truthfully be dead at the bottom of the Schuylkill.
What he sees as the two men on the path come into focus is a still form laying flat against the dirt and another kneeling next to him, hand at the other’s wrist, as if looking for a pulse. And the body on the ground IS Hamilton. His boy seems so still, and Washington falls to his knees next to him.
“He’s freezing cold, sir,” the boy says, but Washington does not respond except to gather the, indeed ice-like, boy into his arms.
“I will bring him to the medical tent,” he says absently, and makes his way back to camp. As cold as Alexander’s skin was, the boy had ceased shivering; Washington knew how dangerous that was, and moved all the quicker.
Still, for all the dread that the boy’s stillness and freezing temperature, joy warmed his heart. Alive and weak was so much better than dead in Washington’s selfish heart. And if Hamilton were to die from this, as seemed all-too possible, at least now there would be a body to burry, a body to mourn. ‘Selfish,’ he told himself, ‘how selfish a man you are to wish more suffering just to ease your grief.’ But he had never claimed to himself not to be selfish.
The doctor moves fast when Washington bears his aide through the tend flaps. “Put him in the bath,” Doctor Mann orders, “the water is barely lukewarm, otherwise it would shock his system too much. We need to warm him up slowly.”
“Have you precognitive abilities, doctor, to know so well what he would need?” Washington asks, but the familiar banter with the doctor falls a bit flat in his worry.
“Private Thompson came to me right after headquarters,” Doctor Mann dismissed as he helped to lower Hamilton into the water, which seemed cool to Washington’s skin. “I knew that if the boy had indeed fallen into the river and then walked back to camp at these temperatures, hypothermia would be the best we could hope for.”
“The worst being death,” Washington said absently, watching the doctor cut away Hamilton’s clothing, which seemed to have frozen to blocks of ice themselves.
“And so close to his goal, and to safety,” Mann agreed. “He is breathing well at the moment, but we will need to keep a lookout for delayed drowning, it can happen in these temperatures.”
“Delayed drowning?” Washington asked, brows drawing together.
“The lungs have taken on water, but the boy’s exhaustion and decreased metabolism have kept the signs from showing. If we are lucky, none ever will. If we are not lucky, his throat will swell and close up in the next few hours.”
There was a sudden movement at the mouth of the tent, and Laurens and Lafayette stumbled in. “Is he alive?” Laurens asked, breathless.
“For now,” Doctor Mann said, removing Hamilton’s jacket and shirt now that the water had melted some of the ice. “Now that you are here Mr. Laurens, perhaps you will assist me with Mr. Hamilton and let the General get back to more important matters.”
“I would stay-” Washington begins, but Doctor Mann silences him with a wave of his hand.
“Mr. Laurens knows a little of the art of doctoring, General, and too many bodies in this tent makes moving about difficult.”
“Mon General,” Lafayette says quietly behind him, “the least we can do is rest and be ready to help Alexandre in the morning.”
George nodded sharply and swept from the tent, the young Frenchman following him. What seems to be the whole of headquarters is waiting not far from the tent, and Lafayette nods at them and smiles, and they let out a collective sigh of relief. George wonders quietly whether they had all been as worried as he had been. No, he did not think so. No worry eclipsed that of a father for his son.
He waits to collapse into true thought until he is alone with Lafayette in his office. “My God,” he says, and leans against his desk. “The boy does not know when to stop, and apparently not even death can teach him.” He is not sure whether the manic feeling rising in his chest is going to come out in a laugh or a sob, so he swallows it down.
“I ‘ope ‘e never learns then,” Lafayette says behind him. “Regardless, it is good that he is alive.”
“Is it?”
Lafayette looks scandalized, and Washington hurries to explain.
“If he ends up dying anyway, would it not have been more merciful to let him die before the suffering he must have gone through to get back here?”
Lafayette is silent for a moment. “To die among friends is better than to die alone,” he says finally, “and notre petite leon would much prefer not to die in a river. ‘e ‘as told me that a hurricane once nearly killed him, it is why ‘e is so unfond of storms.”
Washington breathes in and holds it, then breathes heavily out. “If he dies, after all of this-”
“If ‘e dies, we shall mourn ‘im, and bury him,” Lafayette said, moving to wrap his arms around George. Washington allowed it from Lafayette where he would not from any other. The young man was exuberant in everything he did, even in a somber mood. “But I do not think ‘e will die.”
“I hope you are right,” Washington said, looking out the window to where the medical tent glows with a strong inner light. “I hope he survives this further trial.”