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Hamilton did not regain consciousness by the time the carriage stopped outside of Thomas’ New York residence, and he had to pay the driver to assist in moving the near-comatose secretary to a guest room.
The man’s fever was considerably higher than could be healthy, and Thomas waited impatiently for the doctor whom Washington had said he would send. He did not like to care for those struck with illness; ever since his Martha . . . . With a huff, he set about ordering that dinner be made and fires stirred. No need to wait in discomfort, after all. He went to Hamilton and divested the man of his cravat, coat, and waistcoat. His hands fidgeting for want of something to do, he folded the articles of clothing and set them on the small desk in the room.
Hamilton really was far too skinny, maybe he should order that broth be made for the man. As he was leaving the room however, the other man’s voice reached him.
“Please, no . . .”
“Beg pardon?” Thomas asked, quite perplexed as to what, exactly, Hamilton was asking him not to do. But when he turned back to the bed, the man seemed still to be asleep.
“Please, no, you mustn’t, please, let me go-”
The whimpers really were very nearly pathetic, and Thomas moved to check the man’s fever. Was it truly so high as to encourage hallucinations? It appeared so.
“Run! You have to run, please. . .” a choked sob passed dry, pale lips. Before he could ask himself what he was doing, Thomas had sat at the edge of the bed and began carding his hand through Hamilton’s dark hair, trying to offer some kind of peace to the man.
“Hush,” he said, in a voice he had only ever used for his and Martha’s daughters. “Wherever you think you are, you are not. You are safe, in your beloved New York, be calm.” His entreaties went unheard and unheeded, because of course Hamilton was a difficult patient. He let his annoyance overshadow his worry, because he did not want to worry for Hamilton, thank you very much. He had enough cares as it was, no need to add a sickly, manic insomniac to that list.
“Let them kill me Sir, save yourself, run, please, sir please, please-”
Dear God, Hamilton did not even cease his speaking when he was ill beyond sense. (Whatever the younger man was seeing, it must be connected to the war. Thomas had to admit that he felt a sense of morbid curiosity about the horrors the soldiers must have endured during the war; he had the feeling that bloody footprints at Valley Forge was not even the worst of it.)
A knock sounded at the front door, and Thomas snapped that it be opened as he made his way onto the second-floor landing. The doctor who entered was younger than he had expected; he looked as if he were only a few years out of his schooling.
“I’m here to see to-” there was a momentary pause as the man seemed to gather his words “Secretary Hamilton, Sir.” Thomas motioned the man up the stairs and led the way back into the sickroom.
“I did not think to see you in this state again, Hamilton.”
“He appears to be quite out of his mind with fever,” Thomas supplied stiffly.
“Indeed,” the doctor said. Then: “Have you any ice? I would suggest a cold bath to bring the fever down; Doctor Stevens had good trials with that treatment with Mister Hamilton during the pandemic.”
“I will see a bath filled,” Thomas agreed, and hurried from the room. He ordered a tub brought, and water fetched. Then he ordered that ice be brought to the sickroom as well.
Hamilton was stuttering frightened words again when he returned, but the man did not seem surprised. “What is it that he speaks of so?” he asked, unable to control his curiosity; the doctor seemed to know Hamilton well.
“It is not uncommon with soldiers, to have vivid memories of stressful situations from the war,” the doctor said. “Quite a few have a prescription of Laudanum to allow them rest even when they are otherwise healthy. I was working under Doctor Mann during the war, Mister Hamilton was once taken hostage. He came back to the medical tent a few days later with the General and a new bullet in his shoulder. It very nearly cost him the use of his right arm. I believe that this is the memory that the Colonel -sorry, Secretary- is haunted with the most.”
“Have you treated many of his fevers?” Thomas asked.
“A few,” the man said quietly. “They get bad, and then they get better. But one may easily kill him one day. I will do my utmost to ensure that that day is not near us yet.”