The baby is due any day, any moment. Hamilton is gone half-wild with worry, and that's what keeps him moving even when the cold wraps him in some strange muffled, still feeling, like he could go numb in mind as well as body. Men will freeze to death that way, he thinks. He wraps the wool closer around him, and rides.
He (reluctantly, painfully) has replaced the books in his saddle bags with materials they might need for the baby. Spare clothes. Small blankets. Swaddling cloth. And he finds that he can hoard food in the extra space: a little jar of honey, twisted, snow-made ropes of maple candy, pickled cucumbers. And some of the rest of the fish, smoked for the last couple of days.
He isn't by the river when the disaster happens; he's already passed it, managing mostly unscathed by the icy water. He doesn't even hear it, peering ahead into the snow to see the return of the scouts. Only when the commotion makes its way up the ranks and a halt is called that he thinks -- Burr, no -- and urges the horse into a trot back through the lines. Can't go any faster, not with the thick ranks of men in between.
When Hamilton gets there, a handful of men are trying to hold back a panicking horse, somehow tangled with another wagon's team, and that other wagon already half-submerged and pulling downstream. Burr, where is Burr? Hamilton and the horse dash into the stream again, rushing to the back of the wagon, where Burr is.
"Aaron!" Over the shrill sounds from the horses and the shouting, Hamilton dismounts, plunging up to his waist in the freezing water. It actually winds him, how cold it is, the breath rushing out of his body. But with this angle, he's able to help Burr onto his horse, and then able to go straight to the commotion.
"Hold it!" he shouts, and takes his knife to the hard leather harness. He has to flinch back to avoid kicking hooves, and then applies himself to it again. The leather begins to part, the wagon makes a terrible cracking noise, and Hamilton renews his efforts; the leather is sliced through, and he attacks the last strap holding the horses together.
It snaps suddenly, lashing him across the face. The sudden release of tension throws a handful of men fully into the water, where it's deeper -- Hamilton goes after them, dragging two, three thrashing forms out onto the snow-grimy bank. It's only then that he realizes his legs are almost fully numb, when he trips and falls and skins his palm on a branch.
He twists around, looking for Burr. A touch to his cheek confirms that the harness that snapped drew blood. Not much, though, and it missed the eye completely. It's trivial.
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He (reluctantly, painfully) has replaced the books in his saddle bags with materials they might need for the baby. Spare clothes. Small blankets. Swaddling cloth. And he finds that he can hoard food in the extra space: a little jar of honey, twisted, snow-made ropes of maple candy, pickled cucumbers. And some of the rest of the fish, smoked for the last couple of days.
He isn't by the river when the disaster happens; he's already passed it, managing mostly unscathed by the icy water. He doesn't even hear it, peering ahead into the snow to see the return of the scouts. Only when the commotion makes its way up the ranks and a halt is called that he thinks -- Burr, no -- and urges the horse into a trot back through the lines. Can't go any faster, not with the thick ranks of men in between.
When Hamilton gets there, a handful of men are trying to hold back a panicking horse, somehow tangled with another wagon's team, and that other wagon already half-submerged and pulling downstream. Burr, where is Burr? Hamilton and the horse dash into the stream again, rushing to the back of the wagon, where Burr is.
"Aaron!" Over the shrill sounds from the horses and the shouting, Hamilton dismounts, plunging up to his waist in the freezing water. It actually winds him, how cold it is, the breath rushing out of his body. But with this angle, he's able to help Burr onto his horse, and then able to go straight to the commotion.
"Hold it!" he shouts, and takes his knife to the hard leather harness. He has to flinch back to avoid kicking hooves, and then applies himself to it again. The leather begins to part, the wagon makes a terrible cracking noise, and Hamilton renews his efforts; the leather is sliced through, and he attacks the last strap holding the horses together.
It snaps suddenly, lashing him across the face. The sudden release of tension throws a handful of men fully into the water, where it's deeper -- Hamilton goes after them, dragging two, three thrashing forms out onto the snow-grimy bank. It's only then that he realizes his legs are almost fully numb, when he trips and falls and skins his palm on a branch.
He twists around, looking for Burr. A touch to his cheek confirms that the harness that snapped drew blood. Not much, though, and it missed the eye completely. It's trivial.