Eyeful, August 1953. At this point Bettie was modeling for Robert Harrison exactly two years. Her first appearance for Harrison? Aug. 1951. The magazine? Eyeful.
Chapter 15 is posted!! There is some content from the show in this chapter, but it is mostly more aide de camp bonding!! If you like this please give it a like, reblog, and/or comment!
"I knew her father. I met her when she was only 13 years of age, at her family home,” Harrison explained. “When I first joined the army, I joined as a part of the Fairfax militia.”
The Marquis was quiet as he stood before the door of the small guest room, a short ‘oh’ begging spoken as he twisted the knob. Lafayette turned to face the old secretary, giving his good nights, “Then I do believe you might know her even better than I, sir.”
“I am unsure of that much confidence,” Harrison deferred, offering his own good night, “I simply knew her. She appears to be much changed.”
Lafayette spoke thoughtlessly as he entered the room, “So it would appear, but I assure you, it is the world that has changed, Colonel Harrison. Lady Fairfax has not.”
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Thank you to @tallmadgeandtea and @culper-spymaster for beta editing this chapter for me!!
On his mission to Schuykill river Alexander gets injured and barely makes it back to camp, where everyone thought he had died. Luckily they are there to catch him.
On AO3.
Ships: none
warnings: medical proceedures and wounds not graphically described. Tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alexander watched the mills burn. They’d just started to catch and he wanted to ensure they wouldn’t blow out after they left.
On their way to their target on the other side of the Schuykill he had spotted British troops moving and he was mulling over what their plan would be. Mentally he pulled up a map before his eyes as he attempted to estimate their enemy’s movements.
One possible target became clear: Philadelphia.
He turned to two of the cavalrymen with him and called them over as he quickly penned down a message for John Hancock of Congress. As he pressed the message into their hands, he said: “You need to get this to Congress, tell them it is urgent and that I send you under orders of the General. There is a bridge further up, use that to cross.”
The two saluted and sped off.
“What was that about, sir?” Captain Lee asked.
“The British are moving towards Philadelphia, they’re planning to march into the city,” he explained, “No matter useless they can be, it’ll be bad if Congress gets taken.”
Captain Lee nodded grimly, turning back to the flames. He commented: “It seems to be burning well, sir, but it’s a bit of a beacon.”
Alexander was about to agree when the first bullets sped over their heads. He cursed, turned to Captain Lee and ordered: “Take two man, go over the bridge,” that way if one of them became a target, the others had a better chance to get back and report to the General.
“Yes, sir,” the other saluted, ordering two men with him while Alexander ordered the twoback to their boat, hoping they would get away in time.
Luck was not on their side and they weren’t even halfway across when the British ceased their chase of Captain Lee to focus all their fire to the little boat with three men in it, managing to take out Hamilton’s horse and wounding a one soldier with him.
If they were to survive, they would have to jump.
He looked at the water with disdain. He hated the water with all his might. With the cold rain he had made his peace – it seemed it was unavoidable in this country – but he did not fancy taking a swim in the turmoiling water.
One of his men made a gurgling sound that cut off his scream as he died. With the other man already wounded, it was the last push Alexander needed to make his decision, he could not let his own hatred for the water get his last mankilled.
“Into the water, swim to the other shore,” he ordered, watching as it was folllowed.
He hesitated himself. He’d done everything to keep the people under his command safe, but he really didn’t wish to follow his own orders and jump into the cold swirling mass before him that looked so unappealing.
The moment of hesitation proved to his detriment, because a bullet hit his left arm and he let out a scream as he fell into the water.
It took a while before he had a grip on himself again. During that time the water had swept him away, tossing him around as he gained more bruises. The only luck was that he had resurfaced while our of sight of the redcoats, meaning no more bullets were whizzing around his head.
His arm hurt and the shore seemed so far away. However, he couldn't stay in the cold water either, he had to let Washington know what had happened and he couldn't do that if he was frozen at the bottom of a river.
He started to swim to the shore. It was a painful and tedious process, but he managed to drag himself onto the riverbank.
For a moment he just laid there to catch his breath as he thought of what to do now. He had drifteddownstream, which meant a longer walk, but the General did need to know about his message to Congress.
With his mind made up, he groaned as he got up from the ground. He was lucky his legs were still in working order as he started his track.
His arm was slowly oozing blood and he had wrapped his cravat around it as a makeshift bandage. His ribs felt bruised as well, but there was nothing he could do about that now, except hoping the shivering would stop as to not agitate them further.
God, he was cold.
It had seeped into his bones and he wanted it to stop. He was aware that he should probable take off his heavy, sodden coat, but the army was already low on supplies and the weight was a comfort, so he kept it on.
He was barely seeing anymore, his jaw was sore from his teeth clattering together, but he couldn't focus on anything but getting his one foot in front of the other.
Alexander hoped Captain Lee had made it out with the other two men and that they would make it back safely to camp. He prayed the same for the young man who had been in the boat with him, not wanting to have been the one to send him to an early grave.
Somewhere he thought he should take a detour to avoid any redcoats following him to keep his trail, but he was too slow and weak to actually do it.
A few miles had passed under his feet already the first time he fell. He scraped his hands and knees and just sat there for a moment. God, he wanted today to be over. He wished for a fire and warm clothes, but he couldn't have that until he was at camp.
With a groan he pushed himself off the ground and continued his journey.
The next time it had happened, he’d managed to catch himself on a tree, leaving a bloody hand printin his wake from the blood that had seeped down his arm from the wound.
Alexander was so numb, he could barely feel the bullet wound. He would have been more concerned about thatfact if he could still feel his fingers and toes or his lips.
When it happened a third time, he almost gave up. He had stumbled over a root and hit his face on the way down, breaking his nose and shaking up his head.
As he lay on the ground, watching the sky get darker, he thought about closing his eyes and taking a break. The shivers had almost stopped and his eyelids felt so so heavy. Just a break, he thought, a small break couldn't hurt.
A nap would do him good.
It would only be a moment.
Just for a little while.
He coughed, hurt shooting through his already hurting ribs and nose as he startled upwards. Though it probably saved his life, Alexander wasn’t mentally aware for that now and just cursed, before getting back up onto shaking legs.
His vision swam, but with a few blinks it became clear again. He was still in a forest, but it was familiar. He was near the camp!
Why was that a good thing again?
Oh, yes. He had to report his success at Schuykill, Lee’s probable death and his letter to Congress to the General. He kept repeating it in his mind.
Schuykill.
Step.
Success.
Step.
Lee.
Step.
Dead.
Step.
Congress.
Step.
Letter.
Step.
After about fifteen minuteshe saw the camp. He stumbled with relief, but managed not to fall as he walked the last leg of his journey back to camp.
The sentries stationed at the gate looked at him like they’d seen a ghost, which wouldn’t be so far off with how he was looking. Pale from the cold and blood loss, with it streaming down his arm and coating his face.
They did let him pass when he uttered the password and he nodded gratefully to them as he staggered over to the General’s headquarters.
It seemed there was a fire going inside, though it was strangely quiet as Alexander disregarded all protocol and just slammed open the door as he called out: “I need to talk to the General. Where is Washington?”
He immediately found the man he was looking for, because he was sat with the other aids and Lafayette with a drink in their hand, all looking quite somber instead of everyone being productive as usual.
Alexander wondered what could have gotten them into that state, before blinking heavily and focusing on the General and rattling off: “Schuykill success, Lee dead, Congress letter.”
The words he had used to keep himself walking, spilled out, before he realized who he was talking to andsheepishly added: “Sir.”
Beneath him the floor swayed and he waited for a reaction, though it seemed they were all in shock about something. He wanted to set a step forwards, maybe come shake them up, but he stumbled, causing Lafayette and Laurens to jump up and catch him.
Later, he would swear he wanted to fight them off and he could stand on his own easily and just did it to please them, but in reality, he just grunted as he slumped forwards and lost consciousness.
“Medic!” he heard the General’s distraught voice call and wondered what had gotten him so upset when there was nothing of import happening.
When he came to a bit later, he was sitting near the fire, jerking awake as someone rudely punched his nose. He protested: “Wha-”
“Oh thank God, Hammie.” Hmm, that was Laurens. What was Laurens doing here? He was- where was he?
A familiar French voice answered his unasked questions: “You made it back to camp, mon ami, but you are hurt. Laurens set your nose. It was broken. The doctor patched up your arm and ribs, but you are still so cold.”
With Lafayette’s reminder, he did feel more cold. He wanted to curl into his coat, but found his was in nothing but his, no, newer and not soaked breeches. No wonder he was cold. Though his back did feel warm.
He leaned back against the warmth and two hands came around his waist. He tried to turn his neck to see who it was when the General’s voice stopped him: “Stay calm, Alexander.”
A flush overtook Alexander’s features when he realized he was sitting on the lap of a shirtless Washington like he was a schoolboy cuddling up to his father in the middle of the night after a nightmare.
He started to struggle to get away, but was stopped by Harrison, who draped a blanket over the pair and said: “We need to get you warm, Hammie, or you won’t make it. Stop struggling.”
That stilled him in his tracks: “Not make it?” his voice sounded small and scared despite himself.
Harrison got a slap from Tillghman as he scolded him for scaring Alexander. Under normal circumstances he would protest the childish treatment, but now he just welcomed Laurens at his side who assured him: “He’s being dramatic, you just scared us all. Now stay still and it’s all going to be okay.”
Alexander sniffled and nodded. His head hurt, his arm hurt, his ribs hurt, actually his entire body just hurt and he was cold.
The General was warm behind him and there was a big hand stroking through his hair as a deep rumbling voice kept up comforts. Later Alexander would be highly embarrassed at being treated like this, but he was so exhausted and it was nice to be safe for a moment.
Everyone was safe.
Then it hit him again: Congress. Congress wasn’t safe. He’d send word to them to move, because the British were advancing and Washington needed to know that.
“Congress!” he gasped, trying to get up, “They’re under attack, probably. The red- the redcoats were coming.”
“Mon petit lion, stay still!” Lafayette exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders to keep him down,“We know, your message got through, we know. Stop struggling.”
“You know?” he checked again.
“Yes, Alexander, you can rest. We know, you did your work well, son,” Washington told him.
And with those words he relaxed again. He’d had to get the message to the General and the General had got it. He had said it was okay for Alexander to relax, he’d done well. With those reassurances he fell back asleep.
~
They’d been toasting to Hamilton’s memory, his memory because he was dead and he was not coming back, when the door had slammed open to reveal a ghost. All had sat in shock as the ghost yelled: “I need to talk to the General. Where is Washington?”
His eyes zeroed in on the General as he blinked heavily, his eyes were hazy and he sounded congested, probably due to the state of his nose as he slurred: “Schuykill success, Lee dead, Congress letter.”
He was quiet for a beat then he sheepishly added: “Sir,” as if that was the reason everyone was staring instead of his sudden resurrection.
Then he started to sway as he stumbled, lips starting to move, but no sounds came out as he started to pitch forwards.
Lafayette and Laurens were the first to react, jumping up to catch the young aide, who grunted when they made contact with him, their hands being coated in his blood. With their movement the rest started to come to and Washington yelled: “Medic!”
Hamilton was lowered to the ground, he was cold to the touch but no longer shivering. He was closer to a corpse if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
His face was smeared with blood and his nose was crooked at an unnatural angle, but Washington was more concerned with the blood on his left arm and the noise he’d made when he’d been caught by Laurens and Lafayette.
He inspected the arm and found a bloody cravat tied around it. He swallowed heavily as he got the arm out of the sleeve and inspected the wound. It looked like a gash, but upon closer inspection it had both an entrance and exit wound with just a sliver of meat keeping the arm together.
That would need stitches.
Washington moved on to Hamilton’s ribs and found them battered, heavy bruising forming and a sickening slump at his lowest rib that was clearly visible on the malnourished body.
A doctor had entered and ushered Washington away from the boy as he started with stitching up the arm, ordering the fire to be stoked higher, a task Lafayette and Tilghman jumped on.
Once the arm was taken care off the doctor turned to the ribs, ordering Washington to help prop him up to wrap the bandages. While he did, the doctor said: “He needs to get warm and fast. He stopped shivering and while that is good for his ribs, it might take him down if we don’t get his temperature up. Skin on skin contact is best.”
Washington nodded and ordered Harrison to set a chair close to the fire and get new breeches for Hamilton, while he divested himself of his coat and shirt. He would save the boy the embarrassment of stripping theirbreeches, but Hamilton needed dry ones.
He let Laurens change Hamilton’s breeches, before the young aide was set on his lap. He felt warmer to the touch, though still freezing, and he had began to shiver, which was good.
The doctor dismissed himself after telling the others Hamilton needed as much bed rest as possible and double checking if Laurens was capable to straightening Hamilton’s nose.
Laurens apologized softly to his companion, before snapping the nose back in place with a wet pop. In Washington’s lap, the boy stirred as he exclaimed: “Wha-”
“Oh thank God, Hammie.” Laurens sighed in relief when Hamilton opened his eyes, looking very confused.
The boy mumbled: “Hmm, that’s Laurens. What’s Laurens doing here? Here in- Where am I?”
“You made it back to camp, mon ami, but you are hurt,” Lafayette informed his friend, “Laurens set your nose. It was broken. The doctor patched up your arm and ribs, but you are still so cold.”
It seemed that reminded the boy of where he was and he frowned, before leaning back against Washington and the warmth provided. Washington steadied him with two hands and he tried to turn his head to see. Soothingly the General said: “Stay calm, Alexander.”
Hamilton blushed and started to struggle, but was stopped by Harrison, who dropped a blanket over him, tucking them both in together as he said: “We need to get you warm, Hammie, or you won’t make it. Stop struggling.”
Immediately Hamilton stilled and his voice was so fragile when he asked: “Not make it?”
At the scared tone that they didn’t recognize on their small fierce lion, their hearts broke. Tilghman gave Harrison a harsh slap as he scolded: “Don’t scare the boy, he just woke up, you idiot.”
Laurens was at their side in no time and softly assured his friend: “He’s being dramatic, you just scared us all. Now stay still and it’s all going to be okay.”
The boy in his lap seemed even younger as he sniffled and nodded his head. He seemed to sag completely into the General’s comforting touches and whispers, with which he hoped to keep the boy still.
Suddenly Hamilton gasped and shot up. “Congress!” he exclaimed, “They’re under attack, probably. The red- the redcoats were coming.”
The struggling was hurting his ribs, he needed to be still dammit.
Lafayette jumped in: “Mon petit lion, stay still! We know, your message got through, we know. Stop struggling.”
“You know?” it seemed Hamilton had to be sure.
“Yes, Alexander, you can rest,” Washington assured him, “We know, you did well, son.”
It spoke loudly that there was a silence from Hamilton at the moniker he despised so much as he merely relaxed and slipped under again, his teeth only faintly clattering.
They sat there in silence for a long moment.
Laurens broke it: “At least it’s in line with him,” when no one responded he elaborated, “Over the top and too dramatic. He’s going to love that he crashed his own funeral when he wakes up.”
It startled a laugh out of Harrison and soon the others followed. Washington tried to keep himself from shaking too hard with laughter, afraid the fragile kid in his lap would wake up from it. He felt warmer already and his breathing shallow but even.
Some laughs turned into tears as they sat there until Hamilton was completely still and warm.
Gently Washington moved the blanket until it tucked in just Hamilton, before he moved the boy in his arms so that he could carry him comfortably.
He’d send Laurens to ahead to Washington’s own quarters to light the fire a while ago and he had come to report that the room was now warm. So now he took the injured aide there to rest until he was healed.
The General’s room was the only room with a hearth and it was closest to the offices in the building, meaning everyone could easily check up on him and everyone was close by in case something happened.
He looked small, lying in the big bed. He was pale and he’d never seemed more fragile without the fire in his eyes to give him presence.
Of course, he looked so much better that when he’d arrived. Washington didn’t think he would ever be able to shake the image of him dripping blood before pitching forwards. And, judging by the way everyone stood in the doorway unwilling to leave, he didn’t think the others would either.
That night they all slept on the floor surrounding Hamilton’s bed, taking comfort in each other and the soft breaths from their companion.
~
Alexander woke slowly, grunting against the light trying to stab into his eyeballs. He attempted to move away from the light, but that hurt even more and he grunted again.
Groggily, he took stock of his body. His ribs were throbbing and his left arm hurt like hell, his nose also felt tender at every breath and it seemed he had a muscle ache everywhere.
How had that all even happened?
Slowly then all at once the memories of the daybefore came back. The mission at the river, the bullets, the water, the walking, how he’d collapsed, the General- oh my god, he had sat in Washington’s lap, barely clothed.
He whined loudly and opened his eyes to check if he was clothed now. He was, just an undershirt and breeches, but better than nothing. He didn’t recognize the room he was in, butthe bed was warm and piled with blankets.
Before he could think about it, the door was slammed open by Laurens, who took in his open eyes with glee as he called out: “He’s awake!”
More footsteps hurried towards them and soon the whole Family was piling into the room as they talked over themselves in an effort to inquire about his health.
They fell silent when Washington walked in and asked: “How are you doing, son?”
“Not your son, sir,” came the standard reply and everyone smiled with relief to see their Hamilton back.
He asked: “Where am I, sir? How did I get here?”
“In Washington’s room,” Laurens told him with a shit-eating grin that promised no good, “He carried you here like a maiden.”
Alexander felt a blush take over his features, but one look at everyone told him his friend hadn’t been lying. He groaned and hid his face: “You’re the worst.”
“Ahw, you love me, Hammie.” Laurens teased.
“Sadly,” he commented, before asking, “How long have I been out?”
“Just a day and a half, little lion,” Harrison informed him, “You clearly needed the rest.”
Lafayette pushed through to the front and jumped onto the bed, being careful of Alexander’s ribs as he pulled him into a hug and cried: “Don’t ever scare me like that, mon ami.”
Startled Alexander hugged back, gently patting the Frenchman’s back as he placated him: “I’m fine, Laf. It’s all good, just a few bumps and scrapes, I made it.”
“You almost ne l’a pas fait, Alexander,” Lafayette cried, “We were all so worried sur toi.”
Alexander paled slightly, he had already gathered it had been worrisome, but hearing how they all thought he would die really hit it home. He was suddenly reminded of the men, who had been with him and he asked: “Captain Lee? Did he make it? He had two others with him.”
“Yeah, he made it,” somehow Laurens sounded mad about that.
“That’s a relief,” Alexander smiled, then he asked, “And Philadelphia? Do the British have the city? Is Congress safe?”
“Congress has fled the city, but the British haven’t taken it yet,” Washington told him, “We’re hoping to get as many supplies out of the city as we can, but you know how delicate that situation is. I would send you, but I don’t think you’ve recovered enough.”
Alexander wanted to protest that, but he was stopped by the pain in his ribs, so he just sighed and said: “I would recommend taking careful inventory, make sure the people know we’re keeping track of what they lost. Take all the horses that are non-vital to jobs, show them we care about their livelihood.”
He hesitated: “Sir, I know you have a distaste for the man, but Burr would probably be the best to do this. We can’t risk sending anyone foreign or brash.”
Washington sighed and rubbed his brow: “You’re probably right, Hamilton.”
“When am I not?” Alexander grinned cheekily.
“Well, I faintly remember you telling me that you we’re going to be back before dinner, but that didn’t exactly pan out either,” Laurens groused.
“Oh come on, that was hardly my fault,” Alexander whined, then he realized, “I was hardly much later, either. It was barely dark when I came back. Why were you so worried anyway?”
“Because we thought you were dead!” finally the quiet anger brewing in Laurens exploded, “We were fucking drinking to your memory, because fucking Lee said you were dead. He said you got shot and disappeared into the water. What the hell were we supposed to think?”
Alexander’s eyes widened at the revelation.
They had thought he was dead. They’d gotten word that he died. And then he’d showed up on deaths doorstep, collapsing like a damsel.
‘Or you won’t make it’
Harrison’s words from before floated through his head and he tried to imagine how he would feel if this had happened to Laurens. God, he probably would scream and want to fight everyone, anyone to get him back.
Everyone must’ve been so worried.
Guilt bubbled up in his stomach and he didn’t dare to meet anyone’s eyes. Laurens started to say something, but he cut him off: “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Like you said, it was hardly your fault,” Washington told him gently.
“But still,” tears of frustration were building up in his eyes and he hated that he couldn’t gesture wildly with his hands, “I messed up. I lost at least two of my men and worried everyone, incapacitated myself enough that I’m bound to a bed, not even my own and- and I just messed up. I want field command so bad, but I completely ruin it, the moment I get it.”
The tears were now falling and Alexander scrubbed them away with his right hand, hating that he was crying over this.
He looked up when the bed dipped and saw the General sitting on the edge. The man smiled gently and said: “You didn’t mess up, Alexander. You ran into some obstacles and acted in the way you saw fit, saving almost everyone in your party. You even managed to report back to headquarters despite being injured. You did well.”
Alexander sniffed again, but he did feel better: “Thank you, sir.”
“No problem, son,” Washington assured him, before patting his head and standing up again, “Now, I think Lafayette and Laurens won’t mind taking a break to get you settled with everything you need. For now rest, you’ll get to work from bed in two days.”
“Really sir?” Alexander’s eyes shone with excitement, he hadn’t thought the General would let him work so fast.
Washington sighed fondly and explained: “We both know that if I said you couldn't, you would do it anyway. I’d rather you do it safely and where I can keep an eye on you.”
It made him blush as he ducked his head, grin pulling on his lips despite the small scolding. But then Laurens jumped onto the bed next to Lafayette and pulled him into a conversation.
He smiled at them both as the others filed out of the room to let him be. It was good to be home again.
Vincent Van Gogh in his letter to his brother Theo, Cuesmes, mid August 1879, featured in Van Gogh's Letters (translated by Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, and Robert Harrison)
