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sweetprettygeek · 1 year ago

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Whumptomber 2023: Prompt 1

No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Fandom: Hamilton

Whumpees: Alexander Hamilton (and Philip Hamilton off-screen)

Alexander Hamilton considered himself a man of strong mental fortitude. During his two-score tenure on the earth, he had borne witness to destitution, injustice, and fatality in all its forms. He had seen catastrophic forces of nature obliterate dozens of lives in an instant. He had seen mankind do the same with slavery, only much more slowly and cruelly. He had seen corpses pile up in bloody battlefields and in streets through which plague had swept with an uncaring hand. He had learned the realities of death at a tender age, waking in the icy embrace of a corpse that had been his mother hours before. Every subsequent loss he endured had further fortified him against the terrors of mortality.

Lytton. Laurens. Washington. Neighbors. Comrades. Men he had shot or bayonetted with his own hands. Death never became less ugly to experience, but he learned to bear it. He accepted that it could come at any moment, for any person.

He had seen many young soldiers fall in the war. He had almost been taken by illness, himself, as a boy.

He knew that children could die.

And yet all his theoretical knowledge, all his peripheral experience would leave him woefully unprepared on Doctor Hosack’s doorstep.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hosack’s negro servant—slave; a sensitive topic—informed him. “Doctor’s out right now.”

“Please.” Despite their urgency, the words he needed were difficult to produce. “Do you know where I might find him? It is a matter of the gravest importance.”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir. He went out in a mad hurry, not long ago. Such a rush, he almost forgot his coat.”

Anxiety and impatience tumbled together in his gut. Should he persist in seeking Hosack, whose knowledge and methods he knew to be beyond reproach, or should he conserve precious time by seeking a different doctor whose person and practice were less well known to their family? The sound of blood drumming in his ears made it impossible to concentrate on logical thought. He made an aborted movement either to rest a hand on his chest or to rub his temples and settled for clearing his throat instead. He drew the action out, trying to buy time to decide on a course of action.

Perhaps he dithered too long, as the doorkeeper began to regard him with a look teetering between wariness and concern. Conscious of appearing quite unbalanced, Alexander grasped for some kind of response. Words, which had always flowed from him like water, seemed quite dammed up now. But he needed to produce something or risk the label ‘lunatic’. He had just drawn the prefatory breath when another figure appeared beyond the doorway.

“General Hamilton?” The doctor’s younger brother stopped short, frozen, before lunging to the door to throw it wide. “What are you doing here, sir? I would have thought you on your way to Manhattan by now.”

The other man’s frenetic energy sparked life back into Alexander’s maelstrom. Mind whirling and rushing to catch up, it latched onto the initial question and completely disregarded the supplementary statement. “I must find Doctor Hosack. My son was called out to New Jersey this afternoon on a matter of honor. I fear the affair may have been taken to its most severe conclusion. If we need the services of a doctor, Hosack is the man I would have.”

The younger Hosack stared at him, blinking. At once the color drained from his face. His chest expanded, lungs filling with air, then deflated. There was a pause, then he took a new breath and tried again. “We’ve already had word from the Church’s, sir. David is travelling there with all possible haste.”

“To…the Church residence?” Alexander backtracked, picking up the information he had fumbled before. “In Manhattan?”

“Yes, sir. That was where your son was taken.”

“Taken? To the Church’s?” He took refuge in confusion, unwilling to accept the horrific dawning realization until he had confirmation from a source other than his panicked imagination.

The younger man finally took pity on him. He drew his shoulders back and reached out to put a hand on Alexander’s elbow, steadying him. His expression creased with compassion—a doomed look Alexander recognized from a bygone time. “General Hamilton, your son has been shot. It was a serious injury.”

How many times had Alexander written letters on Washington’s behalf to that effect? Dear Sir, I regret to inform you that your son has been…

Young men could die. He knew that, intimately. He had seen it. He had been the cause of it. Boys could die. Children could die.

But his child?

The ground underneath him gave way. Darkness swallowed his senses.

He felt heavy, bogged down, as though he were deep underwater and heavy waves were preventing him from resurfacing. On the other side of this stupor, several muffled voices spoke back and forth.

Something touched his lips. A sweet, woody flavor filled his mouth. His body remembered first how to swallow, then how to cough when the liquid came too quickly. The flask was withdrawn and Alexander caught his breath enough to groan and pry his eyes open.

He had been moved from the doorstep to inside the doctor’s home. His cravat and collar had been loosened to allow him more air. As his blurry vision focused, he recognized the face of Mrs. Hosack next to her brother-in-law. They regarded him, with both expression and posture, as one might a frightened animal.

Alexander’s aversion to inaction and powerlessness took control. He gripped the arms of the chair and attempted to pull himself up. A rush of wooziness spread through his head and limbs, knocking him back down. Two pairs of careful hands rushed to prop him up.

“Steady there, General.” The younger Hosack offered him another sip of brandy. “You’ve had a shock. You need to sit down.”

Alexander shook his head. He certainly did not need to sit down. He needed to be in Manhattan. He needed to be with his son.

Dear God. His son. Philip had been shot.

A strangled gasp burst from his lips. He collapsed in the chair, arms unable to support him.

He had built an impregnable fortress around his heart—all his past sorrows the brick and mortar—to protect himself from grief. Several misfortunes of these last years had not touched him as keenly as they otherwise would have. On these occasions, there were many who had termed ‘coldness’ what he knew to be self-preservation. If he poured his soul out for every adversity he faced, there would be nothing left of him.

However, his stronghold could not stand in the face of Philip’s mortal danger. It crumbled to dust, his whole heart laid bare for the world to see. What did any of his other tragedies or triumphs matter, compared to this? For Philip to be hurt was bad enough, grave enough. What would he do…how would he muster the strength to go on if…

The possibility was unfathomable. He could not hold back, this time, from placing a hand over his heart to stem the pain.

“Mr. Hamilton?” Mrs. Hosack called to him in a gentle voice, so like his own dear Betsey. Oh God, how would he tell his wife about this?

“Philip…” he rasped. “I must go to my son.” Nothing was more important than that. Everything else could be dealt with later.

His caretakers shared a look. Some message was conveyed by way of head gestures and eye movements. The exchange ended with Hosack’s brother standing. “I will go see about a carriage.”

The promise of action, of progress, gave Alexander succor. He tried again to rise, but Mrs. Hosack’s hands guided him back down. “My dear sir, you must recover some of your strength first. You are not fit to travel in this state.” He began to protest but she cut him off. “I must insist. You are barely able to sit upright at present. On those roads, in this weather, you might incur an injury. Then you might not make it to Manhattan at all. And poor Mrs. Hamilton! It would not do, to have two of her boys wounded. I will not have it, sir. Not on my watch.”

So, Alexander was compelled to take a few more minutes in the chair. He even accepted some food, which Hosack’s sister-in-law graciously brought from their dinner table. She came trailed by a curly-haired little duckling, who grasped onto her skirts and peeked at Alexander curiously.

His heart ached at the sight of the boy.

It seemed just yesterday that his own Philip was that age: still small enough to be held and protected from the world.

Now his little boy, who had tottered about the house and clapped while his mother played piano, was suffering cruelly, miles away.

Alexander’s throat closed up and he set his fork down with more force than was necessary. Mrs. Hosack, who had pulled up a chair beside him, endeavored in vain to coax more meat pie into him. The child crawled into her lap and she ran a hand absently through his curls.

The boy was her first child, but not Hosack’s. The doctor had been married once before, and widowed. His firstborn son had been a sad victim of the yellow fever epidemic. Two years after this tragedy, Philip had taken ill with an infectious fever of his own. That was when the Hamiltons were first introduced to Hosack, and he had seen them through the crisis. He had saved Philip’s life, sparing him from the same fate as the doctor’s own son.

And that was how Alexander had, so selfishly, seen death until now: something that took other men’s children. He had been arrogant enough to believe that his deeds and accomplishments were a guarantee paid against the safe and happy future of his posterity. He had thought so highly of himself and the position he had achieved that he believed he could shield his children from any danger. Death might dog him at every turn, but it would not touch his precious little ones.

What godless pride and presumption. What callousness.

And all for nothing, because Philip had been injured despite his paternal affections. Philip was shot despite, even partially because of, his father’s grandiose feats and public renown. Alexander had thought he was doing the honorable thing by advising his son not to fire at Eacker, when he should have counseled against the duel all together. He had allowed Philip to be caught up in a squabble of vicarious honor, one such as Washington had always forbidden his aides from taking part in. Only now did Alexander understand the general’s mind. Not even the vilest of slander, the like to make Callender blush, would justify Philip dying for an insult that was never meant for him.

This had been Alexander’s fight, from the very start. He had acted unforgivably thus far, but he was done watching the battle from the hilltop.

“Ladies,” he cleared his throat, “I thank you for your hospitality, and for your concern. Your attentions have had a great reviving effect.”

Mrs. Hosack sensed his intentions; it was clear in how she tried to rise, though she was encumbered by the child who had begun to doze on her lap. “Are you certain you can stand?”

“Positively.” Alexander knew he possessed the determination, even if his physical faculties were not fully restored. His dominant hand grasped the chair arm with a white-knuckled grip and he pulled himself to his feet. For a moment he perceived the floor to be rocking and listing as the deck of a ship would. He closed his eyes tightly and allowed his sense of equilibrium to settle. When he opened his eyes, the room had stopped spinning and his legs felt more sturdy.

He handed his plate back to Hosack’s sister-in-law with a word of thanks. He tidied his clothing and bowed to the women. “Thank you again for your many kindnesses.”

“Godspeed.”

“You are in our prayers, sir.”

He dashed out of the house to where the younger Hosack and two negros were loading several items into a carriage. The former almost dropped the bag in his arms when he glimpsed Alexander over his shoulder. “General!” He came leaping up the front steps to offer his assistance. “Do you need a hand, sir?”

“I am fine now, thank you,” Alexander politely waved him off, climbing into the carriage. “I apologize for the dely.”

“No apologies necessary. It gave me time to gather the necessary provisions.” His companion made sure all was accounted for and gave directions to the driver before seating himself opposite Alexander and shutting the door firmly. “We should have everything we need to make ourselves comfortable. I also brought some extra linen and alcohol, for your son’s care.”

“Your whole family has done us extraordinary service. Words cannot express how grateful I am.”

“Do not even think on it.” The younger Hosack gave him a comforting smile and set his hand on a pile of blankets. “We are happy to be of service. You just rest and steady your mind, General. David will see to your boy until we get there. He could not be in better hands.”

“None better,” Alexander agreed, returning the smile with a weak, polite one of his own. He turned out the window, watching the sky as the carriage began to rumble along the streets. The evening was gray and dismal: a reflection of his own spirits. Rest sounded an easy enough prospect, and perhaps it would be to a man whose whole world did not hang in the balance.

Nevertheless, Alexander did close his eyes. Dear God, he prayed, hands cupped tightly together. Please watch over my son Philip. Please prolong his life. Please, have mercy dear Lord. This is a cross a cannot bear to carry. Please do not take my son.

#whumptober2023 #no.1 #swooning #hamilton #fic #slavery tw #blow us all away #alexander hamilton #philip hamilton #david hosack #brought to you by:#an unnecessary amount of research

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