Chapter Text
June 1778
Focus, Alexander. Focus, get the report for Washington, and get out.
He’s trying to do that, he really, really is, but his mind is somewhere. It’s lucky he can write without looking, because his eyes are scanning the cots and floors, searching for someone.
Alexander can do two things at once. He can not do three. So he’s writing, and looking around, and he bangs skulls with one of the nurses.
She scowls at him, dark eyes flashing. For an instant, he wonders what Angelica is doing here. Then, she stands up, and says, through gritted teeth. “Please watch where you’re going.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Nurse…”
“Ferrier.”
“Miss Ferrier. I’m looking for someone. An officer.” He names the regiment, tries to give a brief description. “Have you seen him?”
She tilts her head at him, looks down, and laughs. “You have a good timing. The man you’re looking for? I was just bringing water for him.”
He follows her back. Ferrier says, “Peter, this is Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton. He knows our man.” She kneels down beside the medic, who is crouching over Aaron Burr.They’ve stripped off his jacket, and his vest. Peter, looks up at Alexander, nods to him, then unbuttons and peels back his shirt. It’s completely wet with sweat. His lip is bleeding.
Alexander knows the signs and symptoms like the back of his hand. He’s seen it a hundred time before, and he’ll see it a hundred time again. “Sun stroke?”
Ferrier is unlacing Burr’s pants. She looks up at him, and nods. “It seems like half the army’s falling down sick."
Half the army…
“How is he?” he asks. “I mean, how will he be?”
Peter says, “We need to cool him down, quickly. After that, we’ll see.”
Burr gasps through weeping lips, dried out passageways. Peter soaks a cloth in water Ferrier brought, wrings it out, lets Burr suck on the edge. He gently dabs the clean corner inside his nose, cleaning out the dried pus. “It’s all right, sir. You’re going to be all right.”
Alexander feels out of place, itchy, useless. He wants to get back to Washington. He wants to reach out and hold Burr’s hand. He wants...there’s so very many things he wants.
Peter looks up at Ferrier. “How’s our water situation?”
“We’re doing our best.”
“Get me some more wet cloths. Cold if you can. Please.”
Ferrier stands and heads out onto the field. Peter looks up at Alexander. “Sir, perhaps…”
“I’m staying.” He sits down on the ground. He lifts his chin, resolute, looks him straight in the eye. “I’m staying.”
Peter meets his gaze for what feels like a long time. Alexander holds steady. Peter blinks, smiles. “Yes, sir.” He soaks the cloth with the remaining water, presses it to Burr’s forehead. “Hundreds of men are suffering just like this. It’s insanity.”
“Lee.” Alexander grinds his teeth. “This is his doing.”
“Maybe.” Peter shrugs. “Maybe it’s just bad luck.”
Bad luck. Terrible, awful luck. God, don’t let this be a theme.
Peter motions to Alexander. “Help me get him onto a cot.”
Alexander lifts Aaron’s feet. HIs skin is hot and clammy. With care, they lift him from the floor to a thin and low, but sturdy cot. Alexander lets his hand linger on his ankle, before grabbing his canteen and taking a long drink.
Ferrier bursts in, wet clothes layered over her arms. In silent conversation, she and Peter lay them over Burr’s body. Peter mumbles, “Still cool, good job,” and Ferrier smiles.
Knees pulled to his chest, Alexander watches, He pulls his glasses out of his pocket, opens up a small notebook. “You say heatstroke is a problem.”
“All across the army,” Peter says. “It’s bad. I can’t say I know what’s to be done, but something’s gotta be.”
Aaron moans.
Alexander starts to inch a little closer, then stops. “Is there anything you want the general to know?”
Peter and Ferrier both look up at him, hollow eyed, worn out. Ferrier tugs at the ties ho“Tell him we need supplies. Bandages especially, real bad. Alcohol. Fresh uniforms.”
“Tell him we need to rework our strategy in light of the heat,” Peter says. “Tell him… we can’t last much longer in our current state..”
Reaching out, Alexander places his hand on Aaron’s wrist. “Lieutenant Colonel Burr?”
Aaron’s eyes open. They meet Alexander’s. He swallows, gasps a breath through mucus. “Tell the General...tell him I would have completed my mission, if he’d let me.”
“I’ll make sure he knows.”
Ferrier places a canteen on Aaron’s lips. He sips, cautious at first, then desperately, hungrily. She lets him get one big gulp, then take it away.
“Thank you,” Burr says.
“Of course.”
His eyes are already closed. It’s still boiling hot, but he’s shivering. Maybe trembling would be more accurate. Peter drapes the last wet cloth across his throat. Aaron turns his head from side to side, tries to get comfortable.
Alexander squeezes his wrist, feels his pulse press against his fingers. He lets it beat a few times, then stands up.
“I’ll tell the General everything you told me.” He meets and holds Peter’s eyes. “Thank you for your service.” He turns the piercing gaze to her. “And yours, Miss Ferrier.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He looks down at Aaron, looks up at the light filtering in the cloth of the ceiling, sighs. “Goddamn Lee.” Turning on his heel, he storms out into the main camp.
Peter turns to look at Ferrier. Ferrier is looking down at Lieutenant Colonel Burr. She adjust the cloths on his throat, his chest, his head.
Aaron tries to speak, coughs, swallows hard. Ferrier gives him some more of the canteen. He clears his throat, then says, “Be sensible, Alexander.” He looks up at her. “Make sure you tell him to be sensible.”
“I will, sir. I promise.” She eases him back onto the cot. “You need to rest, sir.”
“Rest. Rest when there’s still so much to be done.” He closes his eyes, sighs. “Alexander will be so disappointed.”
“Mr. Hamilton is very worried about you, sir.”
“Alexander? Worried?” He smiles, shakes his head. “Never.” He frowns, drags his attention to Peter’s face. “I’m very tired. Is that bad?”
“You’re talking and oriented. That’s good.”
He looks at Ferrier. She ducks her head. “He’s cooling down, but he’s still too warm.’”
“Keep it up with the wet cloths, as much as you can. Make sure he drinks, just make sure he doesn’t accidentally induce vomiting.” Peter stands. “I have other patients to attend to. Emma will take good care of you.”
“Emma.” Aaron close his eyes. “You’re a sensible woman, aren’t you Emma?”
“I suppose, sir.”
“Always be sensible. Don’t let your impulses get the best of you.” He squints his eyes open, blinks at the bright lights and swirling shadows, and closes them again. Weakly, he throws his hand over his face. “Be sensible. Think things through. Be patient.”
“I understand, sir.”
She goes outside to get more cloths, to get a breath of fresh air. When she comes back, he’s unconscious, sleeping restlessly.
Damn thsi war. Boys like that should be studying together at Princeton, not sweating and bleeding in the fields of upstate New York.
They were built for quills and desks, not guns and bayonets.
With a sigh, she peels the cloth from his throat replaces it with a fresh one. It'll be a long night, before the danger has passed.