Chapter Text
With the British now occupying Philadelphia, Washington’s army and consequently me, made the trek to winter quarters. In the weeks and months after the defeat at Brandywine we had desperately fought to keep control of Philadelphia, but alas, the British forces had prevailed, taking the city and forcing congress to flee to York. Thus in early December, the decision was made to make camp for the winter. The location chosen was Valley Forge and the march to that place was easily one of the most miserable military endeavors I ever had the joy of participating in. The winter wind bit into my skin, stripping it of any potential heat as I rode atop my horse. The frigid weather had taken a toll on all of the army as the men I was riding along all looked far more downtrodden than they had three months previous.
With another gust of wind, I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders. Having never seen the valley, I could only pray that it would provide some sort of shelter from the elements. The days were shorter now than they had been and we were nearing the solstice. Thus the sun had already begun to slip behind the mountains of eastern Pennsylvania as a multitude of men, all devoted to one cause, plodded on towards the place that was to serve as our headquarters for the next few months. Picking my pace up a bit, as to catch up to my fellow aides, yet another bout of wind lifted the hat off of my head. Quick as a flash, I caught it and firmly pressed it back onto my head. If there was anything invaluable in this climate, it was protection from the weather. Within a few moments I had managed to reach one of the other aides, and he was an aide I knew quite well.
Hamilton was riding a rather ornery bay horse that we had plundered from a farmhouse a few days back. The horse was rather reminiscent of its rider as it refused to obey him and Hamilton’s cheeks were red with exertion by the time I reached him.. He had to yank the reins quite hard in order to keep the beast of burden he was atop from veering off into a nearby field and I got a glimpse at his hands. The wool gloves he wore were both nearly black with ink and so threadbare that I could see the pale flesh beneath them. Said hands were clearly reddened from the elements, and it was painfully obvious that they hurt.
“Quite lovely weather today is it not Laurens?” He grumbled, yet again having to yank the horse so that the beast would stay on the old farm road.
“Some of the best this year.” I remarked as my teeth chattered. There was nothing more alluring in that moment than a roaring fire and true bed. Although there was absolutely no chance of that being in my future.
“Last year was nearly as bad. Our only casualties that winter were men frozen to death.”
“Seems like that ought to be our fate again.” As I spoke, the light blue scarf Hamilton had wrapped around his neck became undone and fluttered in the wind.
Noticing this, he stopped pulling his horse’s reins with all of his might and lifted one hand in order to fix it. Due to the harshness of the cold, this was a necessary action. The troublesome steed took its rider’s brief distraction as an opportunity to bolt. The horse veered off into a field and as it did so, managed to throw its rider. Hamilton landed on the frozen ground only a few steps from the road and as he did, it became clear that something was off. Thus I bade my horse over to him and quickly dismounted in order to assist him. If it had been several months prior, I would have not bothered, fearing the rebuttal from Hamilton, however he had been courteous to me ever since the battle of Brandywine and had ceased cursing me under his breath when I moved his papers along with making less pointed comments on my translations.
Within a moment I had tied the reins of my far more behaved horse to a fence post and was lightly jogging over towards Hamilton. He had not made any effort to chase after the offending horse and his face was twisted into a grimace. Given that his hands were wrapped around his right ankle, it was quite easy to deduce the injury he had sustained. Grabbing a small satchel from where it had landed in a snowbank, I reached him quickly.
“Are you alright?” I pried as I attempted to assess the situation.
“What do you think?” Hamilton grunted as he rubbed his right ankle and winced. It was odd seeing an expression of pain on his face and I was filled with an overwhelming desire to alleviate his pain. My heart ached a bit and whatever the feeling that was coursing through my body was, I could not say. But there was one thing that I did say:
“May I help you up?” I stretched out my hand and Hamilton took it. A grimace spread across his freckled face the moment that I got him upright and in that moment we both simultaneously realized that the ornery horse had severely injured his ankle. With one arm around my neck and one of mine under his ribs, we managed to get him to a nearby stump. Although to say that “we” did it would be rather generous, I supported the shorter man’s weight while he attempted to not cry out too loudly in front of the columns of soldiers marching by us.
Once I deposited him on the stump, I glanced around to see if any other of Hamilton's possessions were in sight, along with to search for a medical officer who might be able to properly assess the injury. Within a moment it was obvious that none such officers were in sight, although I could have sworn I glimpsed the horse that had thrown my fellow aide across a field, saddle nearly falling off. We were nevering getting it back. Thus it seemed that the best course of action would be to yet again turn my attention to Hamilton, in hopes that he might be able to formulate a plan to get him to Valley Forge, or at the very least to Washington and the other aides.
I looked down at Hamilton as yet another freezing gust of wind assaulted us. He had pulled his scarf tight around his neck and was gazing off down the road, in the direction that the endless parade of soldiers were heading. A few paces behind us a soft grunt of annoyance came, and I suddenly remembered my horse, having paid far too much attention to the misbehaved one in the last few moments.
“Do you think you could mount a horse?” I asked my injured comrade.
Hamilton glanced down at his ankle, then back at my horse before replying, “I highly doubt that I would be able to make it up by myself.”
A quick glance over at my horse confirmed this fact. Given that I was fairly lanky, the steed was a fine size, however Hamilton’s diminutive stature meant that he would have had a slightly difficult time mounting under regular conditions, not to mention with a sprained ankle.
“But,” He continued after seeing my slight frustration, “if I stood on the stump and you aided me, I might be capable of doing so, thus preventing us from being stranded all the way out here.”
I could have kissed him when he presented his plan, and Hamilton looked as though he was rather pleased with himself for figuring out a way he could get back to camp. The sun was still lowering itself behind the mountains as quickly as ever, so we had to hurry in order to not be left behind by the army, all of whom had passed by us, far too absorbed in their own misery to bother inspecting our situation. But nevermind that. Within a few moments, I had managed to bring my horse alongside the stump and also convinced the beast to stay still for a moment, as to allow its new rider to mount. Hamilton’s pale fingers dug tightly into my arm as I helped him stand. Whatever had managed to do to his ankle was quite bad and would in all likelihood keep him in a splint all winter. He drew in a sharp breath as the two of us worked together in order to get him to the point where he was standing atop the stump.
However, that was when we encountered a rather troubling fact. Hamilton had injured his right ankle, the exact foot that he would need to lead with in order to mount the horse. Even moving the leg seemed to cause him pain, so with a quick glance to each other, I placed my hands around my companion’s concerningly thin waist and boosted him up, as to allow him to settle himself atop the horse. After plenty of squirming, a half dozen curses, and me nearly being kicked in the face twice, Hamilton was atop the horse and looked back down at me.
“My plan was a success Laurens.” He noted a triumphant note in his voice.
“So it was Hamilton, so it was.” With that I stepped off of the stump and made for the side of the horse in order to walk alongside it.
“Do not dare tell me you are planning on walking to Valley Forge!” Hamilton protested the moment both of my boots were on the hardened ground.
“The enlisted men are doing so.”
“They march day and night, of course they are doing so.” He scoffed, “You sir have no experience marching, and besides, the sun shall set before long.
He was not wrong, night was fast approaching and I did not fancy spending the entire ride to camp swaddled in darkness. With a sigh, I waited while Hamilton took himself off of the saddle and rested directly behind it, then swung myself up onto the saddle, this time no stump required. It took a moment for me to settle myself properly, mainly so that I could assure myself that Hamilton was still behind me. When that was confirmed, I clicked my tongue and the horse jolted forward. Clearly unprepared for the sudden motion, Hamilton pitched forward into me and the effort of such an action also pushed me forward. Due to the only bit of good fortune either of us still possessed, neither of us fell off of the horse, although that was just barely.
As the horse trotted towards Valley Forge, we both righted ourselves, and I could not help but notice that Hamilton seemed to have grabbed my coat in order to right himself. The most notable part of this action was in fact where he had chosen to grab. Instead of holding onto the back of my coat or even the side, Hamilton had instead chosen to nearly wrap his arm all around my front, hand resting only a few inches from my stomach. A sort of electric spark ran through my limbs and I realized that I would have very much liked for him to be touching me in far more places. After a moment of hesitation, I switched the reins to one hand and gently placed my free one over Hamilton’s. I braced for him to move away, but he stayed and intertwined his fingers with my own. Within a few moments, he was also leaning against my back and the weight of someone against me was the exact sort of physical contact that I had been unconsciously craving for years.
Thus the ride into camp was strangely enjoyable, even though the wind still howled in my ears, and the cold seemed to bite at every inch of my skin. The sun was nearly almost all gone by the time we reached the old farmhouse that was to act as Washington’s headquarters for the winter. It was not the nicest place, but there was a lantern in the window and a stable for the horses, which was nearly full. Enlisted men continued to file into the winter camp as I dismounted. In order to help Hamilton down, I had to grab his waist again, and yet again I noticed how concerningly thin he was as he practically fell on to me. We were both far too exhausted from weeks of maneuvering around the British behemoth to have considered any other way for Hamilton to dismount, and a little voice in the back of my mind told me that he probably enjoyed being touched as much as I did. But the moment the thought came up, I banished it back down. I was ill, Hamilton was not.
With help from Meade, who for some reason was outside, presumably in order to locate us missing aides, we managed to get Hamilton inside, with him limping and me supporting the majority of his weight, a mass far less than I assumed it to be. He sat before the fire while Meade sent Fitzgerald to go locate a doctor to assess Hamilton’s injury, and I brought in our satchels, the majority of our belongings still a day's march away. Pretty much the entire farmhouse was filled with officers who ought to have had their own tents but did not, all the entirety of Washington’s staff. Since the house was so full, the only free sleeping space was on a makeshift cot in the attic, which I claimed. To call it a cot would be generous, it was far more akin to a nest of quilts on the ground which must have been seized from the previous occupants of the house, but it was far superior to sleeping in a chair, which I feared might have been my situation for the night.
By the time I had managed to locate a place to sleep, which I was sure I would share with Hamilton, Fitzgerald had located a surgeon. The surgeon was the same man that had “assessed” my injury at Brandywine and seemed to know Hamilton. It only took one look at Hamilton’s ankle for him to declare that it was broken and to recommend that we acquire a splint for it. As soon as he finished he left the headquarters, without even bothering to describe how to acquire a splint. It was later explained to me that there was an excess in cases of frostbite following the march, and Dr. Hale was urgently required at the makeshift hospital that had been set up, meaning that Fitzgerald grabbing him to assess Hamilton’s ankle was leaving the hospital quite short staffed. Luckily, one of the officers had experience with creating splints for broken bones and quickly fashioned one for Hamilton. He did it so fast and left so quickly that I never even caught the man’s name. But nevermind that.
After a quick supper of hard bread and salted meat scavenged from the basement of the farmhouse, I was presented with the daunting task of figuring out how on earth I was going to manage to get Hamilton up to where we were to be sleeping. The stairs presented a daunting challenge, but with a few minutes of deliberation between the two of us, we finally agreed that if I got my arm under his and essentially supported all of his weight, nearly in the same way I had managed to get him into headquarters, it would be possible for the two of us to mount the stairs. Once we did so, a process which required me essentially carrying Hamilton at one point, we reached the bedroom, and while Hamilton stripped off his army jacket and remaining boot, I silently prayed that we would not be required to stay in such quarters for very long, although that annoying sick part, in the very very back of my mind, did not mind if we slept in the attic for the rest of the war, so long as I could have Hamilton so close to me, and our bodies pressed together so much. To stave off these sinful thoughts, I removed my coat and boots and slipped into the makeshift cot, where Hamilton was already laying, and put out the single candle that illuminated the attic. Within seconds we were engulfed in total darkness, and an overwhelming desire for sleep began to wash over me.
“Good night Laurens.” Hamilton sleepily murmured from my side, head already cradled in a pillow.
“As to you Hamilton.” I replied, already slipping into a sound sleep.