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amrev_intrigues2022-04-27 08:34 pm
slowtoanger) wrote in amrev_intrigues2022-04-27 08:34 pm
Private storyline 5!
They stay at the inn for two days after the wedding, celebrating their union and waiting for the snow to pass. For once, Burr and Hamilton both eat their fill--of fat fish and fresh bread. Gifts trickle in, from the nearby town, overwhelmed with patriotic sentiment even if they are not overwhelmed with joy at being paid in continental currency when the time comes to refresh their rations. They receive gifts for the baby--clothing and blankets and other odds and ends, a few bottles of cheap liquor. For Hamilton and Burr's part, they spend much of their time in bed.
It is October, when they leave. Burr is nine months pregnant, likely should not be moving, but there is nothing for it. They continue to be pursued by Cornwallis, and soon they are urging wagons through thick snow, over shallow, fast-moving rivers. Burr once more is relegated to the wagon, laying down amid crates and bags of supplies, rocked with each bump and dip of the road. Hamilton is somewhere ahead, riding through the snow, though he could even have been sent to meet with nearby scouts, towns, and Burr would not know. Days of travel, with no information or update, until they stop moving and he can make his way to the head of the column.
It is snowing once more--no longer light and fluffy but thick and wet. The wind is blowing--a wretched howl, that cuts through clothing to freeze men's bones. Like the wind on a mountain pass, working its way towards Quebec. Burr is bundled beneath every spare blanket they own--Hamilton's and Lauren's and even Washington's, but still he shivers as they rock along, damp creeping through layers that will not be dry before the next day. A miserable, wretched journey.
They do not stop for anything--at noon, men eat their rations as they march, and jovial banter has given way to eerie silence, a kind Burr knows too well, a feral focus on putting one foot in front of the other. One wagon loses a wheel, but the army does not stop, taking only enough time to shuffle what supplies can be salvaged to other wagons before abandoning the damaged wagon to the snow. Cannot burn it, to keep it from falling into British hands, for the wind.
Burr manages to doze, for some time of this, but wakes again rocked with pain, a sharp stabbing in his abdomen. Each time the wagon rocks it grows worse, till he is rising to heave his paltry lunch over the side. Burning cramps, so much worse then, as he collapses back into the wagon. He can feel something--liquid, thick and warm. Not melt, he thinks, though he is numb enough to not be sure. Too cold to remove his cover, he reaches a hand into his breeches blind. He cannot be going into labor--not here, not now. The baby will freeze, and if they stop they could be captured by the British.
He feels sticky on numb fingers, pulls his hand out. Blood. They cannot stop the wagon. He can handle pain, until they reach some safe haven. Telling someone will change nothing, will only make their march that much worse. Another jolt, and he gasps, clutching at the swell, falling back against the blankets.
It is October, when they leave. Burr is nine months pregnant, likely should not be moving, but there is nothing for it. They continue to be pursued by Cornwallis, and soon they are urging wagons through thick snow, over shallow, fast-moving rivers. Burr once more is relegated to the wagon, laying down amid crates and bags of supplies, rocked with each bump and dip of the road. Hamilton is somewhere ahead, riding through the snow, though he could even have been sent to meet with nearby scouts, towns, and Burr would not know. Days of travel, with no information or update, until they stop moving and he can make his way to the head of the column.
It is snowing once more--no longer light and fluffy but thick and wet. The wind is blowing--a wretched howl, that cuts through clothing to freeze men's bones. Like the wind on a mountain pass, working its way towards Quebec. Burr is bundled beneath every spare blanket they own--Hamilton's and Lauren's and even Washington's, but still he shivers as they rock along, damp creeping through layers that will not be dry before the next day. A miserable, wretched journey.
They do not stop for anything--at noon, men eat their rations as they march, and jovial banter has given way to eerie silence, a kind Burr knows too well, a feral focus on putting one foot in front of the other. One wagon loses a wheel, but the army does not stop, taking only enough time to shuffle what supplies can be salvaged to other wagons before abandoning the damaged wagon to the snow. Cannot burn it, to keep it from falling into British hands, for the wind.
Burr manages to doze, for some time of this, but wakes again rocked with pain, a sharp stabbing in his abdomen. Each time the wagon rocks it grows worse, till he is rising to heave his paltry lunch over the side. Burning cramps, so much worse then, as he collapses back into the wagon. He can feel something--liquid, thick and warm. Not melt, he thinks, though he is numb enough to not be sure. Too cold to remove his cover, he reaches a hand into his breeches blind. He cannot be going into labor--not here, not now. The baby will freeze, and if they stop they could be captured by the British.
He feels sticky on numb fingers, pulls his hand out. Blood. They cannot stop the wagon. He can handle pain, until they reach some safe haven. Telling someone will change nothing, will only make their march that much worse. Another jolt, and he gasps, clutching at the swell, falling back against the blankets.
no subject
Theodosia detaches then and begins to make little unhappy noises, perhaps preparing for a cry, and Burr leans down to pepper her face with kisses, which seems to render her momentarily into a state of shock.
"Here," Burr says, holding her out to Hamilton, "she will need to be burped, and perhaps the walking will help divert your blood to somewhere more useful."
Burr cannot yet walk to perform the action himself, and before the birth Mrs. Smith had counseled him on breastfeeding--Theodosia should be kept upright to keep her from bringing all the milk back up, and Burr is bed bound and sleepy.
"You might find some time, when you wish it, to--" a blush, a small stutter, "to bring Laurens here, if someone were to watch darling Theo."
no subject
He scoops her up, and settles her against his shoulder, moving to his feet.
"Did you hear what I said about the Pennsylvania militia?" he asks, as he pats her on the back. "They have brought supply wagons. I've even been able to repay the Smiths and Lindens for a fraction of their kindness, in flour. If we wrap the both of you up, we can keep you safe long enough to get into winter quarters. We plan to conduct a raid on Trenton."
no subject
"Yes, I am afraid I was distracted, but it is good news, what you were able to accomplish." And he is proud, but once again Burr will be confined for his health and child, in the traditional role of omega, while Hamilton marches out for honor and glory. Burr itches to distinguish himself, worries that his chances are slowly diminishing, that every day he is more concretely affixed to his current role as mother and husband.
"I should like to walk again--oh, don't look at me like that! I know very well I cannot get out of bed, but I should like still to move around some, to take little Theodosia to meet everyone, more proper an introduction than I am sure you have given. It is not right that I did all the work yet no one has paid me the compliment of a visit--" of course, Burr would hate to be visited here very much, yet still he wishes to end his isolation. He is not so frail to not see anyone.
"You could carry me, could you not?"
no subject
He can see how that cage presses so on Burr, and reminds himself, here, that he must take care to ensure it does not weigh so heavy. It is his responsibility.
Theodosia spits a bit of milk on him, which he dabs up, as he knows well enough to expect it after the first five or six times.
"This is as though you have been struck with a bullet in the side, or a bout of dysentery. You need to recover, Aaron -- even the General himself had to be carried in a wagon for a month or two in the Seven Years' War, when he was struck ill." He hopes the other message in his comparison is clear: Washington recovered so that he could once again be the formidable soldier he was meant to be. Though Hamilton hasn't the slightest idea how they'll make it work, they have to, for Burr's sake.
no subject
Burr will be careful not to roll over--blankets tucked around his sides.
"The general is a six two beast of man, I am sure even recovering in a wagon he was intimidating, yet I myself am commonly mistaken for a woman in stature, even in breeches! Ah well, at least I will get to watch darling Theo while you are riding in the line--are you not jealous? Give us both a kiss before you go."