Chapter Text
December 10, 1776. Near Basking Ridge, New Jersey.
The sun had barely begun to rise when Alexander was already gathering his things, prepared to follow Washington's orders to the letter. Upon opening his eyes that early morning, he realized he would not have much time before departing. The fact fell upon him like a bucket of icy water. He managed to have a bit of coffee before new information arrived.
His superior already had a task prepared for him.
After the recent failure with the battalions in New York, it was evident they needed a new plan. The general decided the best course was a reorganization of his troops, dividing them into several units.
Washington had given clear orders to meet with him, which only one person had had the audacity to ignore: Charles Lee.
That man in charge of a separate detachment, who, with his well-known arrogance and ineptitude, apparently believed his plan was better and ignored the general's direct orders.
Alexander had the task of communicating his superior's message in person, as a tactic to impose pressure.
Hamilton was not happy about it.
Being sent suddenly, without even a sliver of time to prepare, was annoying in itself. As if that weren't enough, now he would have to endure the pride and arrogance of someone like Lee. It wrested several dissatisfied snorts from him.
He took the reins of his horse, prepared for a journey that would, at the very least, be long.
The cold pierced his bones. He was dressed for a trip to the outskirts in the heart of winter, with blizzards, snow sticking to his clothes, and gloves that did little to improve the numbness in his fingers.
It was an understatement to say the chill was uncomfortable.
They moved forward. He had no choice but to endure all of that for many more hours.
A bit of snow got in his eyes, and he shook his head to get rid of the sting. He cursed Charles Lee again.
The tip of his nose was frozen; he noticed this while trying to suppress the constant shivers threatening to run from head to toe.
The sound of the gallop was the only thing he could focus on, tuning out the sound of the air roaring around him.
He was used to this kind of travel. He had no problem having to do it. However, knowing it would have been simpler to avoid all this inconvenience annoyed him greatly.
The horse's pace quickened, and he had to squeeze his thighs. It was partly to not fall off, but also in an attempt to eliminate the stubborn sensation in his lower belly.
He had been ignoring it for a while.
Upon waking, he hadn't given it enough importance. Shortly after, with the immediate call from his general, he only had one chance before departing.
With the full awakening of the entire camp, the line was long. He couldn't afford to lose so much time, knowing he had to deliver the message to Lee as soon as possible before he could cause more havoc.
He felt it when he contracted his abdomen.
He decided the best thing would have been to leave it. He could take care of it later. Either upon arriving at the camp, or even—though Hamilton knew it wouldn't be necessary, he had to consider every possible option—further along the journey. He soon dismissed this last option upon realizing the bad weather. It would be impossible for him, and anyway, every minute lost could have serious repercussions.
Regardless, he had no problem waiting. It wasn't the first time he had had to face minor physical obstacles. It never became relevant, and in this instance, it wouldn't be either.
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed based solely on the sun's position.
The weather left much to the imagination, rendering the landscape a whitish hue that obstructed the view ahead. The sky soon turned a dull gray, making it impossible to guess the time. Despite that, it was fine, as Alexander had a watch, though he refused to use it so soon, knowing he would find that not much time had passed since his departure.
He was aware it would be a long journey and didn't need to be impatient.
He sighed, causing an ephemeral little cloud under his warm breath that vanished in the blink of an eye. He couldn't help wishing Laurens had accompanied him.
It wouldn't have been a bad idea: Washington wouldn't have refused, and surely his best friend would have been happy. However, John had a separate task that kept him tied to his own camp.
It wasn't hard to imagine him there, keeping him company. He could have kept warm more easily with John behind him, chatting about trivialities and lightening the weight of that annoying journey.
Maybe next time, he thought bitterly. He himself would drag him along if necessary.
Time began to slip through his fingers like water. It was impossible not to become immersed in a sea of thoughts with the monotony of the journey. Hamilton didn't even notice when he began reviewing combat strategies and ideas he had reserved only for Washington. Having time to think without any distractions wasn't so bad.
The horse slowed its pace when the path became difficult. Steep rocks, frozen mud, and bends that under those conditions could be dangerous.
It was expected. He knew these roads.
He decided enough time had passed to look at the small pocket watch he carried on trips like these.
A few hours. Not much, but a considerable amount of time had passed. He was halfway there.
It was thanks to his horse's gallop that the cold gradually began to lessen. He still felt it: bothersome and invasive as could be, but no longer as pressing as it had been at first. It became bearable.
He was grateful at first, however, it didn't take long for him to notice that the extreme cold had pushed another bodily discomfort into the background. One he knew was there but had remained inactive.
His jaw tightened. There was still about half the journey left. It wasn't a transcendental concern or something he had to ponder too much. He was accustomed.
Perhaps it would be unsatisfactory for the remainder of the journey, but it didn't signify a problem.
Something like that couldn't become a problem.
He took the reins of the animal, forcing it to gallop a little, just a little faster.
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A couple more hours passed. He didn't check, but he could assume it was so. He didn't want to glance at the watch, fearing disappointment. Still, he dared to trust his verdict.
His back was beginning to hurt, the hard saddle was starting to chafe him, and he felt his throat drying out.
Some parts of his clothing felt damp from snow that had somehow managed to melt; he intuited thanks to his own body heat. It might have been an illusion from the cold, but it didn't take away from the unpleasant sensation.
He readjusted in the seat hoping to get rid of the unwanted stimuli that were slowly fraying the edges of his patience.
The further he advanced, the more discouraged he felt regarding that mission the general had entrusted to him.
He was happy to receive orders from Washington. He tried to satisfy his superior whenever he could, finishing the work impeccably and outstandingly. It was exciting to write, participate in strategies, and be called frequently by Washington to give his opinion. Later, when he began serving as an aide-de-camp, he couldn't feel more satisfied.
He aspired to more, however he knew that position wasn't to be taken lightly and that it was a good way to climb. He still didn't have the official post, despite functioning in that capacity.
He knew that if he continued as he was, it would soon be his.
Still, he hated functioning as a messenger. Of all the people in his service, was he the one who had to be sent? Didn't he have more relevant places where he could contribute? Anyone would have served the same function. Delivering a message was easy for any military position, and of all of them, Washington decided to send him, his captain of artillery and technically aide-de-camp.
He sighed again. He couldn't say it was an irrational decision. In reality, he understood the reason for the task. It wasn't the first time he was used as a messenger. Nevertheless, he knew Washington was taking advantage of his position. He wasn't a colonel yet, but it was well known that he was Washington's favorite. He had a position high enough to be respected and listened to; an eloquence that would make it difficult for Lee to find excuses.
The general knew he wasn't an easy person to bend, and sending him, his best man, was a good tactic to pressure him.
Alexander thought he was having too much faith in Lee. That man wouldn't respect him. Even if it were the general himself, Lee didn't have a shred of human decency to respect anyone.
His bladder grumbled, offended by the lack of attention. Hamilton began to wonder if skipping taking care of that need in the morning in an attempt to save time had been a bad idea.
He pressed against the leather seat, trying to calm his body, but the position was wrong, leaving a void over the point where he craved pressure.
He swallowed another sigh, now aware of how recurrent they were becoming.
He didn't want it to come to that, but if necessary, he could make a stop. He was alone, after all. He left it as an option in the back of his mind. One he would only take if it were paramount and not while it was more than a dull tingling that pulsed without further ado. He had better self-control than that, and anyway, he had to avoid delays as much as possible.
He could hold out until he reached the camp.
The gentle rise and fall of the gallop served to lull his unattended need.
He felt the tingling move with the horse, and the sensation was more bearable than it should have been. The movement, though uncomfortable, protected him from any urgency his body tried to send.
The position continued to frustrate him, but in that way, he managed another hour without inconvenience.
He yawned. The lack of stimuli was tiring, and combined with how early he had woken up, it was taking its toll.
If someone had been in front, he would have tried to rest, but since he was alone, he forced himself to set aside the tiredness and focus. He knew that although everything seemed calm at that moment, he had to be alert to the possibility of encountering British troops, especially in those days.
It was well known they were preparing to attack. That was the primary reason Lee should be following orders. He squirmed again.
He began to toy with the edge of the missive. It couldn't be much longer now.
The cold had worsened once more, and this time it didn't help to numb his abdomen.
Electric currents ran through his body from the cold. He felt his skin prickle in response.
The winds lashed as if angry, and the horse had no choice but to slow its pace, walking against the air currents.
His throat hurt, debating with himself about drinking water in an attempt to dissipate the sting. Drinking water didn't sound like a good decision at the moment, however minimal. A part of him feared the problem would worsen.
He moved a hand, but the discomfort of the cold freezing his bones made him desist. Not for now.
His breathing and heart rate accelerated as a natural response from the organism to create heat. It made the task of breathing more difficult.
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Only a few hours remained. Hamilton wanted to sigh in relief, however, he decided he would only do so upon arrival.
The changing weather of that geographical location was detestable. Unpredictable and abrupt.
He was grateful when the wind returned to its previous calm.
Still, his pulse didn't slow down as before.
He hated to admit it, not only because it was humiliating in itself and a show of weakness that his anatomy could be affected by any kind of need, but because that need had always left him more frustrated than any other.
It was hateful how it took over his body, managed his nerves at will, and took control of his mind. It was as invasive as could be and as infuriating as nothing else.
It had been a while since he last felt that. Restless and beginning to wish to be there as soon as possible.
It still wasn't urgent. It couldn't become so.
But one of his feet began to bounce, detesting the feeling of fullness.
As if things couldn't get worse, his throat was still dry from hours before.
He exhaled forcefully while taking out the small pocket watch.
Well, that wasn't so bad.
With luck, it would only take another hour.
He could handle that. He had endured much more before.
He swallowed saliva, clearing his throat from the dryness. He made a decision, with an hour left to reach Lee's camp.
He took his canteen and had a sip. No more than that. It was enough to make it bearable again.
Even if it were more than an hour, he doubted a sip of water could fill his bladder more.
He tried to release the tension in his shoulders, wishing to finish the last hour; when his horse stumbled a little. It was enough to make him lean forward, and the movement triggered an immediate response from his bladder.
He bit his lip, feeling regret hit him hard.
Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea.
The reins tightened under his hands. He leaned forward, longing for the saddle to be different.
He blushed thinking about what he was doing. About what he was feeling.
Wishing with all his being for that missing hour to pass quickly.
But, oh, the world did not hold him in high regard.
His lips were pressed into a tense line. He didn't want to move more than necessary, but little by little, adjusting became more of a kind of rocking.
He tried to change posture, moving more forward or more backward; ending up leaning to one side, and after a few seconds of maintaining the position, beginning to feel like he was falling.
He forced himself back into position, but not before a snort from his horse. Alex realized he was pulling on it. He whispered an apology to the animal, letting out the air he had been holding for some time. The chill was replaced by heat.
Things were reaching an unacceptable point. Wasn't it supposed to be only an hour left?
It had passed. Apparently, he wasn't so lucky, as he still hadn't reached his destination and the expected time had already ended. A pang reminded him of this fact, and, already fed up, Hamilton decided he would put an end to the matter.
It wasn't appropriate, it wasn't the best. He told himself it didn't mean he was at his limit. It was just annoying and an avoidable, unnecessary distraction. Making a stop would signify a strategic move, not a desperate one.
His horse began to walk slower at his command, scanning the place with his gaze in an attempt to decide where to stop.
Not long after, he found a place that convinced him and made the horse slow its pace. He made a move to dismount, without even managing to do so before being interrupted.
A distant shot, the sound of more horses.
Adrenaline was catapulted through his veins, making him abandon any plan he had before to take the reins and leave as soon as possible. He couldn't know if those sounds came from allies or enemies, but he couldn't verify it either.
He changed the route a little, circling around the path he was taking. It was protocol.
He panted minutes later, the fear dissipating the farther he was from what could—or could not—be British troops. His belly remained uncomfortable, reminding Alexander of what he was about to do. He cursed under his breath.
He had missed his chance.
With the risk of encountering British soldiers, it was no longer plausible or reasonable to take that kind of risk. He couldn't stop until Lee's camp. The alternative would be risking his life, at the mercy of an ambush catching him vulnerable by surprise.
He took a breath. He wanted to eliminate the chill fluttering in his chest as he pondered it. There was no need to stress, it was fine. The camp wasn't far away now, and surely he had endured much more before.
His thighs came together, the buckle of his boot dug into his steed, provoking another protest. Immediately Alexander stopped.
It wasn't much further. Hamilton nervously observed his surroundings, raising and lowering his legs as much as possible. He made a new attempt at pressure, and upon failing once again, he gave up and began to settle for tensing his body.
He bit his tongue to avoid starting with the sighs again.
He wished the horse could go faster.
How much extra time had been stolen from him? He checked again. He was perplexed to see that, in reality, not too much. Two extra hours were usually nothing on trips like these, in extreme conditions and over a considerable distance.
At first, he couldn't wait for the moment to confront Lee, but his bodily situation wasn't improving, and fantasies of relief began to seep into his mind with increasing frequency.
He thought he would arrive in good time. At an acceptable and expected hour given the blizzard.
He decided it was enough. He couldn't keep acting like this: like a desperate child asking over and over if they were almost there.
He resolved to think of something else.
He recited things from books in his head or recalled things Washington had once said to him. He was close to being a lieutenant colonel. He should be up to the task.
Time continued. Alexander tried to stop moving. It was more complicated than he thought.
He made a face.
He didn't want to think about it, it wouldn't help him at all, but when was the last time he went? Could he even remember? Why would he? It was irrelevant. He didn't go through life timing that sort of thing, but, God, it wasn't easy for him to become desperate.
The night before? He had gotten up in the early morning, hadn't he? Laurens wanted to show him something. He didn't remember how late into the night it had been.
He began to glimpse the camp and was about to throw his head back in a sign of relief. The frosted roofs, the smell of smoke and wood. He could even see some soldiers there already. He had made it.
He thought about the last part again. Of course he had made it. How dare he suggest it was possible he wouldn't?
His mind raced at the idea of obtaining relief. He knew where the latrines were, didn't he? All camps had a similar location. He was sure it wouldn't be different.
Not only could he relieve his bladder, but he would finally be in a warm environment. He could rest. He felt ashamed of how much he yearned to deliver the message and be done with it all. Even, perhaps, he would consider enduring Lee afterward.
Trips like that always left him exhausted to the marrow.
He arrived at the entrance, falling into the error of believing they would let him pass without more.
"Name and purpose of your visit," a soldier immediately interrogated. Alexander couldn't contain a sigh of frustration at being delayed further.
"Captain Alexander Hamilton. I bring a message directly from General George Washington to General Charles Lee." Hamilton toyed with the edge of his coat. Upon realizing the action, he stopped, reluctant to show his unease.
"A personal message?" Why did this soldier have to question him?
"Urgent. Direct orders."
Alexander showed the letter drafted by Washington. The other man gave a final nod before letting him pass.
"Sealed?"
"Sealed. It is my duty to deliver it personally."
"You may dismount. General Lee is in his tent."
"Thank you." Hamilton moved forward, reaching the stable. He dismounted his horse quickly, wishing to finish the task as soon as possible. His feet touched the ground, and at that moment, he couldn't help but hiss in pain.
It wasn't just his full bladder, but his back and bones still aching from the cold.
The soldier, who had been following him, gave him a confused look to which Alexander did not respond.
May Charles Lee hurry. For God's sake.
The soldier guided him to Lee's tent. Alexander walked behind him with controlled steps. Some kind of placebo effect flooded him, suppressing the urgency he had felt before. It must have been some sort of social instinct or unconscious self-control in front of people, because his need, though still there—like a coiled snake ready to strike—calmed down in front of those soldiers.
"Do you wish to be announced, Captain?"
"It shouldn't be necessary," Alex answered without thinking. He didn't need to be announced like any ordinary messenger. He thought to himself that if anyone should be presented, it would be Lee.
Hamilton approached with measured steps. Just enough to be heard by Lee, who didn't show much interest. Merely observing him, with that haughty air, made Alexander's blood boil. He did his best not to show his disgust.
Upon entering, the first thing he noticed was the warm air compared to the outside. He relaxed a little, feeling one of the many discomforts leave his body.
"Captain Alexander Hamilton, on behalf of General George Washington."
Charles turned without haste. A beast savoring its prey. He looked him up and down. His eyes went from his slender face to his muddy boots.
Alexander tensed his jaw in response. He already expected the disdain in what he would say.
"Has Washington decided to distrust the messenger service and instead opt for errand boys?" said Charles as if he enjoyed the venom accompanying every word he spat. The captain sharpened his gaze, tension forming in every aspect of his posture. Partly from fury, partly not. Lee continued without mincing words: "Or did he just want to send me a reminder of his esteem for his prodigious subordinate?"
Hamilton raised his head. It was only the shift in weight that lessened the impact of his gaze. He decided to ignore the general, unwilling to fall for provocations. The faster they finished, the faster he could leave and the less time he would have to endure Lee.
"I bring a communication from the Commander-in-Chief. These are instructions for you, General." The last word came loaded with contempt.
"Instructions?"
"Orders." Alexander paused before continuing. The pause on his bladder was temporary, and he felt that in a while it wouldn't have the same effect, even being in front of Charles Lee. He continued without hesitation. "The general requests your immediate presence and the mobilization of the camp as soon as possible. It is imperative that it be done this way," Hamilton explained before handing Lee the letter.
Lee ran his hand over the envelope with a slowness that frustrated Hamilton.
He swore he saw Lee look at him mockingly at the moment he examined the letter. He wanted nothing more than to strike that unhappy bastard. To wipe that little smile off his face and teach him a lesson he couldn't forget.
"Hmm... How appropriate," Lee whispered, feeling the paper. He opened it and began to read.
Surely not too much time had passed, but Alexander felt Lee was taking hours. He couldn't help shifting his weight from one foot to the other again. He swallowed an impatient lament. He began to tug at the beige linen of his breeches in an attempt to calm his bladder. The moment Lee finished reading, Alexander straightened up and stood motionless again.
"This requires some tactical consideration. I will have to consult with one of my colonels." The title felt even insulting, as a way of reminding Alexander of what he still wasn't. Hamilton tried not to get frustrated. What did that mean? Damn it.
Lee thought a little more before taking the envelope and leaving.
"I will be back shortly. Remain in your position, Captain Hamilton," he said as a final remark before exiting.
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Alexander was convinced he had been left there. There could be no other explanation.
That bastard Charles Lee left him waiting for an eternity to rot.
Hamilton, alone, hunched over. He brought a hand to his knee. He cursed under his breath, wishing he could have gotten relief on the way. If only that shot hadn't sounded.
He felt his spine ignite with a shiver. His bladder throbbed in his abdomen. It tingled and contracted, seeking to rid itself of what it no longer needed.
He closed his eyes and looked upward, crossing his legs. He should leave.
A voice whispered. It told him to leave before Lee returned, if he ever did. It exclaimed that no one would have to know; that it wouldn't take long, and upon returning, he could wait an eternity for Lee to deign to show his face again.
He wanted to do it. Leave and go look for the latrines.
He let out a gasp.
He knew he couldn't.
He had to hold out until he had delivered the message. When he had nothing left to do there and Lee gave him orders that he could leave. That was precisely what he most wanted to avoid.
He was in a place where he was despised, in a rank lower than Lee, at his disposal and orders. Captain. So unfair.
He had no power there. No authority and no respect. Lee hated him. Despised him. The feeling was mutual, but it was Hamilton who was bound by the other man's orders without being able to do anything about it. He had to wait for Lee to give him the implicit permission to leave after completing his mission.
Otherwise, the other option was worse. If that situation dragged on much longer, he knew he would have no choice.
There was something Alexander wanted to avoid at all costs, something he couldn't permit himself to do in a million years: asking for permission.
All his life he considered it one of the most bothersome things. Even with Washington, his pride meant he rarely asked for permission to leave, though he had come to have to do it.
But in that place, the situation was different.
Asking Lee for permission to relieve himself.
No matter how he ordered the words, even wishing to preserve his dignity. Anything sounded unthinkable when directed at Charles Lee. Thinking about it made him dizzy.
Even though he wasn't Lee's direct subordinate. Even though he was under Washington's command. If his rank was lower, he had to do what he was ordered. At that moment, Lee was his superior. That's how the military hierarchy worked.
Charles Lee was his General and would be as long as he was in that camp.
So vulnerable and at his mercy.
He needed his enemy to authorize Alexander to take care of his needs. It was sickening.
He couldn't just leave. He had trouble convincing himself of that, even knowing he was much better than Lee in every field.
Lee's orders were for him to stay there, and even if he hadn't given them, a Captain couldn't just leave without his General's permission.
It would be disobeying orders, which could earn him a reprimand, at the very least. Lee had the power to report him to Washington if he didn't follow his orders, and that could affect his reputation. It would be political and military suicide.
He would risk staining his record; being accused of insolent and undisciplined. It was risking not achieving promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. He couldn't take the risk of giving Lee, who hated him to death, reasons to attack his honor.
These were not consequences he could take lightly.
Alexander waited, as the only thing he could and should do.
He breathed as slowly as he could.
As if his suffering weren't enough, he was still cold and his feet were beginning to ache. How long had he been waiting for Lee? He leaned against one of the tent walls, breathing in a controlled manner. He allowed himself to cross his legs and close his eyes, relieving some of the weight on his body. He was tired. He needed all of that to end as soon as possible.
Just when Alexander felt on the verge of shivering, he was forced to compose his posture. He moved away from the wall and straightened into a military stance: legs slightly apart and arms behind his back. The position was difficult to maintain, and his feet were perhaps closer together than they should have been.
The sound of the tent moving was heard. Lee returned with that unbearable attitude that characterized him. He didn't even look at Alexander.
He went straight to pour himself a glass of Brandy. Hamilton shuddered at the sound.
Lee looked for some papers with disinterest.
"Ah, where were we?"
Alexander didn't respond. He took advantage of the moments when Lee turned his back to press and rub his thighs together. Lee turned to face him, looking at him as if he were some waste unworthy of attention.
"The general trusts in your immediate cooperation. Your presence is expected as soon as possible." Lee raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.
"Don't think I don't give importance to this, Captain. It is of absolute importance to me that Washington's orders be carried out exactly as he wishes," he exclaimed in a tone of false loyalty. Alexander took a breath while Charles Lee thought.
"Very well," upon hearing this, Alexander felt a wave of relief so overwhelming he fought not to gasp, "if Washington wants movement, that is what he shall get."
Lee called one of his aides, who was passing by: "Summon a political meeting here, right now. We will discuss this matter with extreme care so as to arrive at the decision that benefits us all the most." He proclaimed. He turned to look at Hamilton, smiling.
No, no, no, no. Please no.
Hamilton felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of cold water. He froze, feeling as if suddenly everything was in slow motion. His plan was no longer viable.
What he feared had become reality.
He soon decided it was the best moment to withdraw, whether he wanted to or not. He swallowed his pride and ego, making as if to speak, to ask for permission, when he didn't have the chance before Lee's close associates began to arrive. Everything happened so fast that Alexander barely had time to think.
Shit.
Alexander observed the faces, looking to see if he knew any of them. James Wilkinson. They were almost the same age, and although they had never spoken, Alex recognized him from meetings or spaces they had once shared.
He was the only one Alexander recognized, as the others were new faces. He wondered if they knew him. One by one they took their places around the table. Lee, of course, in the center.
He felt gazes, not sure if curious or disdainful from the people there. He swallowed nervously.
Soon the room was full. Alex remained standing, observing, unsure of what to do next.
"Captain Hamilton, do not leave. Stay at the back." At the same time, Lee pointed to the empty space. It was no surprise to discover they wouldn't offer him a seat. After all, the goal was to keep him uncomfortable.
His bladder protested, but Alexander was forced to ignore it. He followed orders with a monotonous gaze. He wouldn't give Lee the satisfaction.
He knew Lee wanted him there as his trophy. A way to demonstrate the power he had over him, keeping him in a corner, without a voice, without any power.
To stay there as Lee's pretty prize and follow his instructions.
His mind clouded, frightened and uncertain. He didn't know what to do.
Was there a possibility of him making it to the end of the meeting? His stomach churned at the thought. He had already held on for too long. Lee had made him wait half an hour or more after a long journey. The sensation in his abdomen was gradually transforming into something different. Painful.
His chest ached with humiliation.
Under Lee's orders.
If he tried, Charles could deny him. Would he? Did he hate him that much? He feared the risk. Staying desperate and humiliated, denied like a child. It wouldn't be hard to intuit the situation and then, Lee would know. Would the others as well? He already had enough with the curious gazes on him.
He couldn't be that cruel. He couldn't be that desperate to humiliate him. He couldn't be that irrational in his desire to feel he had some kind of power over Washington. He would be seen as imprudent. Unethical in front of his team. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't.
It would be stupid for him to do so.
Alexander had a feeling that yes, he was deliberately wasting his time. Wearing him down on purpose, delaying his chance to be free.
Lee had no idea what he was actually doing, not yet. He didn't know what he was denying him, but Hamilton didn't know how much longer it would be before he did know.
No, not yet. He could still hold out. It wasn't that bad. He wouldn't lose anything by trying.
Lee cleared his throat and then dramatized his voice:
"Gentlemen, I thank you for your commitment in attending here as soon as possible. I have convened this meeting unexpectedly to discuss the request, so kindly brought to our table by Washington's young prodigy."
Alexander gritted his teeth, aware of the sarcasm with which his name was said. He didn't want to show that Charles did have some kind of power over him. That his comments provoked some kind of reaction in him. A boiling torrent in his chest, even amidst his attempts to smother it. Heat spread across his face due to the way they referred to him, treating him more like a child than a Captain.
He could do nothing about it.
"The general demands our immediate mobilization. Not as a suggestion, but as a direct order," said Lee, looking at Hamilton. "We are meeting to determine what response we will give to such an urgent communication."
Anger bubbled inside Alex. Urgent communication? It was an order. There was nothing to discuss. It wasn't something Lee could choose to obey or discard. He had to obey. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"We need to analyze whether such mobilization benefits our troops or..." Lee began to speak. He gave details that everyone already knew. An introduction, unnecessarily long, which could have been omitted.
It was an automatic movement to look for pen and paper for note-taking. He felt foolish remembering that there he not only didn't have to do it, but he couldn't. He was just a messenger, nothing more. Not aide-de-camp, not colonel. Somehow, that detail discouraged him a little more amidst all the horrible foundations of tension around him.
He knew that little of what was said in that meeting mattered. It was a waste of time. Even some of Lee's allies seemed to realize it. There were no significant details, and whatever the conclusion might be, it would have no relevance. A commander's order was not a topic for discussion.
Soon he diverted his attention. He gained nothing from listening to Lee.
The moment he ran out of distractions, his need returned, hitting harder than it had before.
His self-control had lasted too long, the urgency smothered by social anxiety or the distractions he had been getting. This time it was completely exhausted.
He hunched over abruptly, having trouble straightening up immediately. His skin took on a reddish hue from the shame. He didn't want to check if they had seen him. It was far too soon to start making a fool of himself.
He raised his gaze, self-conscious. Only the person closest to him was looking at him with curiosity. Upon being caught looking, he turned his gaze back to Lee, who luckily hadn't noticed.
He knew he wouldn't be so lucky later.
He abandoned the military posture. Lee had never ordered him to maintain it. The only implicit thing was to stay there, without any extra indication. A sort of legal loophole.
He stood up straight with his legs together. He crossed his arms. Lee's voice became a distant and unimportant echo. From time to time, he felt some of his subordinates turn to look at him.
He knew they knew his name. Hamilton.
Most had heard of him, knowing of his position as Washington's right-hand man.
His reputation as the young genius that was well known among all American troops.
They had never seen him in person, and now that he was there, they were curious to see who all the fuss had been about.
It didn't bother him. They didn't emanate the same sullen and disdainful air as his irritating superior.
It made no sense to get defensive about it. They had no choice but to serve that coward.
"The commander Washington has the virtue of demanding without consulting. I must admit I am impressed by the zeal with which certain young men serve the general."
Alex knew he was talking about him. He wasn't even looking at him. He concentrated on giving some kind of solace to his lower belly. His arms crossed over it as if trying to protect himself. He applied a little pressure, convinced that if he didn't pay attention to it, it would disappear.
He took care that his posture didn't look abnormal, and although he felt the tension in his shoulders, he believed it was easy to confuse with anger.
He let Lee talk by himself.
He understood what he was trying to do: provoke him.
It wouldn't happen.
The general wasn't offended by the redhead's indifference.
His silence was enough to establish authority over the boy.
For once, to show him he wasn't worth as much as he thought.
"And if we wait for another part of the left flank? The information from three days ago is, under these conditions, little more than superstition," interrupted another unknown soldier.
"Not every urgency needs new confirmation if the risk is constant. Prolonged inaction costs us more than the mud."
His thighs squeezed together. He was distracted by the automatic movement of his body: tensing and relaxing. It wasn't noticeable at first glance and was quite functional in preventing his bladder from starting to contract. His gaze seemed lost, not very focused on what was being said. He observed a fixed point on the beige cape.
Charles fixed his gaze on Alexander. The young man's gaze was lost. He didn't seem to be listening.
"Captain Hamilton, I trust you honor us with your attention. I would prefer your full concentration on the table."
Alex froze. Was that idiot really calling him out? The gaze of the entire room settled on him.
He answered with more firmness than was appropriate:
"Yes, sir. I am present."
He pinched one of his arms in order to stop moving his legs. By that point, he should have been accustomed, but it had been a while since he was treated with such disdain. He hadn't come this far just to become the jester of a jealous upstart like Lee.
"Then remain so," he finished saying, showing the edge in his teeth. Hamilton takes a breath. He wished to take a chair and break it over his face. How dare he? Every second made his hatred for Lee increase.
He should challenge him to a duel. Perhaps he would decide to do it. The anger swirled so viscerally within him that he didn't know what to do with the feeling.
They changed the topic again. They were wasting time, circling irrelevant aspects and giving way to absurd strategies.
A small puff of vapor came from his mouth as he snorted. He couldn't make a fool of himself. As if the way Lee had been humiliating him since he set foot on his lands wasn't enough, adding his own ridicule would be the last straw.
He tapped a foot impatiently, the earth muffling the sound. As time passed, he swore he felt fuller.
A few more minutes passed, and staying still ceased to be a simple task.
Every so often he had to shift his weight from one foot to the other, leaning one knee over the other.
A thin layer of sweat was beginning to form on his skin. He didn't believe it possible with such cold weather, and yet the moisture accumulating at the nape of his neck made his need an undeniable fact.
He pressed his palm against his belly, yielding to the sensation. He crossed his legs again with an exhalation.
"Stirling, any recent report on the conditions between here and Morristown?"
He took a breath. It tingled and pulsed. He felt full and needy.
No matter how proud he was, he knew he was being dragged toward desperation.
He looked at Lee warily, fighting against an intense wave. He straightened up again. His foot rose before descending again.
It was constant, like the tick-tock of a clock.
The urgency caused his face to flush with discomfort. Lee was distracted talking, however, out of the corner of his eye he caught glances.
He had to control himself before the general noticed.
He brought a hand to his mouth and began to pinch his lower lip, distracting himself with the dryness caused by the weather.
It hurt again. He exhaled more forcefully than he had planned, hunching over again.
Frenzied, he tried to see if anyone was paying attention to him, meeting the gaze of one of the colonels. They made eye contact even as Hamilton made another pained grimace. He received an interrogative look.
Alexander ignored him, turning to pretend to pay attention to Lee. He knew it. He must have known.
He dragged his feet, looking around with envy. It would be easier if he could sit.
Standing did nothing but worsen his situation and expose it to everyone. If he had been offered a seat, the urgency wouldn't be so pressing, the sensation wouldn't be so acute, and he himself wouldn't be drawing so much attention.
"Ah," Lee responded with a thoughtful expression. "It is always a matter of choosing between clarity or comfort. What would you choose, Captain Hamilton?"
Alexander turned his attention. It was clear he was confused and disoriented. He had no idea what they were talking about.
His thighs rubbed together. There was an awkward pause in which he tried to compose himself enough to answer.
"I have not been summoned to give an opinion, sir," he said cleverly.
If he had been paying attention, he would have gladly given his opinion. He was just a messenger, but if it was Lee asking for his opinion, who was he to refuse his commander?
Except he hadn't been listening. The most logical response had been to defer to his position as messenger. Lee laughed.
"Of course. Always so disciplined.
You see, gentlemen? Washington knows how to choose his voices." Lee enjoyed humiliating him openly. No one responded. He wasn't sure if out of respect or because no one knew how to answer. He caught a smile at the corner of some lips, a grimace of discomfort on others. It was good to know not everyone despised him.
A sharp pang forced him to lower his head. He shifted from side to side without being able to help it. The general interpreted it as submission and felt a delight seeing Hamilton so docile.
Alexander bit his lip to keep from groaning in pain.
He still didn't know how his face seemed to burn even more than before. It was painful how the blood pressed against his incandescent skin.
He felt vulnerable and inferior. The feeling of loss of value was barely overshadowed by the constant affliction of his overflowing bladder.
He felt his legs weaken and his breathing was noisier than it should be. He feared someone might think he was crying from the agitated sound.
When he composed himself, he glared at Lee. The hatred with which he looked at him didn't have the same effect he wanted with his contrite posture.
When the general returned to the topic of the meeting and eyes moved away from him, he crossed his legs more forcefully, aware that his posture was no longer as natural as he wanted.
Desperation was clouding his mind.
He let out a soft gasp that only he could hear, and the realization hit him so hard it left him stunned.
He wasn't going to make it. There was no way he would make it to the end of the meeting.
He was going to have to ask Lee for permission.
He blushed at the thought.
No matter how much he wished to swallow his fear and anxiety, put on a mask of false confidence, and insist he would hold out until Lee dismissed them, he knew it wasn't rational.
No matter how proud he was, aware of his strengths, it seemed a lack of judgment to keep telling himself the same thing.
He had needed to urinate for hours. In the morning he didn't go, and he knew evening was approaching. The meeting wasn't anywhere near ending, and, knowing Lee, enduring its duration would be inhuman.
He swallowed his pride and dignity because the alternative would be worse.
It didn't have to be something humiliating. Asking for permission casually, going and coming back. Lee couldn't be so messed up as to deny him.
He swallowed.
When he found the right moment, he would say it. A moment when he wouldn't have to interrupt anyone, make it as casual as possible, and not draw too much attention to himself.
He looked at Lee. He was listening to his aide's opinion. He thought about how it would be, what he would say. What would be the best way? Perhaps he was pondering too much over something he shouldn't, however, he knew Lee. He had a bad feeling. Something that made him meditate on every step he took next as if it were the most important decision of his life.
He just had to find the right moment.