Private storyline 5!

[slowtoanger]

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.

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[non_stop]

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.