Chapter Text
September 1780
He awoke to a dull straining ache in his arms and shoulders and a burning in his wrists, his brain foggy. There was a low throb at the base of his skull. He shook his head to try to clear it. Bad idea. The throbbing intensified. His senses began to click into place one by one. He couldn’t see anything. Why? He blinked several times. Blindfolded. His mouth felt dry. Gagged. The ache in his arms? Chains, holding his hands above his head. He tried to push himself up to relieve the stretching, his feet barely scraped the ground. Where are my boots? My stockings? As he became aware of his bare feet, he also realized the room was cold, damp, and smelled musty. Some sort of cellar then? His jacket and waistcoat were gone too, leaving him in just his breeches and long shirt, which was untucked and allowed the cool air to breathe along his back. How had it become untucked? That had to have been done deliberately.
He fought the urge to gag on the dry cloth stuffed into his mouth. He would have spit it out, but it was apparently secured around his head. He desperately needed to remember what had happened to him. The memory would not show itself. He remembered Washington sending him on a secret mission into New York to meet with the rebel leaders still in the city, Benjamin Tallmadge and many others in the Culper Ring. He remembered delivering Washington’s orders to them and drafting their responses and insights on the issues. There was also a very important piece of intelligence that had just come in right as he was preparing to leave. It was imperative that Washington be given this information. The trip itself was supposed to be quick. Only two days in the city and then sneaking back out to meet back up with Washington. Clearly, he hadn’t succeeded in this last leg. Where was his satchel? Thank God the correspondence was coded. He was pretty confident in his own cleverness of the code. Only three people knew how to read it: Washington, Laurens and himself. Still, if Washington wasn’t alerted soon, the consequences could be disastrous.
He could have kicked himself. Even though he couldn’t remember what had happened, he had to have made a mistake. Been careless in some way. How long had he been here? Was he missed yet in Washington’s camp? So many questions and unknows swirled around in his still foggy brain. How could he have let this happen?
He heard a door open somewhere above him. Footsteps crossing the floor, several footsteps. Then another door, nearer. There was a slight draft that wafted through the room. The footsteps on the stairs came closer, down into the cellar.
If he could keep his identity hidden maybe there was a chance he could get out of this. If they knew who he was, he would probably find himself facing the noose. Secretary to the Commander and chief of the rebel army. Would they torture him? Who was he kidding? Of course that was coming. Look at where he was. He steeled himself for the pain he knew was coming, probably sooner than later. For now, keep still and quiet and listen, Alexander, he warned himself.
The men were chatting amiably amongst themselves. The weather, the fresh chill in the air meaning that winter would be settling in soon. There might be snow tonight. Great. He hated the cold. He could distinguish at least three voices so far. Three on one and the one chained up. Cowards. Not a fair fight then. Again, who was he kidding, they had no intention of this being a fight, let alone fair.
“So, do we start by actually questioning our guest, or should we tenderize him a bit first?” asked the first voice he had heard, it was rather soft and ingratiating in tone, London accent.
“Is he even awake?” asked the second voice, more forceful and distinctly not British. Maybe a native? Whatever it was, his accent was thick and rough.
Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back while at the same time slamming a fist into his kidney. He couldn’t stop the gasp and the sudden twist his body made to get away from the pain.
“He’s awake.” Said the third voice. Deeper, more commanding than the others. So, this was the man in charge. Their leader. Alexander, breathe, just breathe and don’t make any other movements or sounds. Don’t give them the satisfaction. He bit down on the foul gag in his mouth and tried to center himself again.
Fingers were in his hair again, caressing his face and neck. God it was hard to be still. It took everything in him to not react.
“I think, we might work him over a bit. Show him what’s in store for him if he later chooses not to cooperate," the Leader continued speaking. The one holding his hair and stroking his face. Oh, he did not like this man at all. “Put those irons in the fire, that way, if we need them later, they’ll be ready.”
Breathe, Alex. Just breathe. You’ve been hurt before. You may be smaller than others, but your scrappy. You can take it. Don’t let them intimidate you. He stayed still. He didn’t struggle. He couldn’t keep the slight tremor out of his breathing though. Especially when his hair was released only for the leader to pull up the hem of his shirt over his head and ball it up in front of his neck. The cold, damp air swirled around his bare skin causing goose bumps to break out all over his body. Damn it! Why did his body have to betray him like that? The leader was still pressed up close to him, his hands running across his back, chest, and down his sides. All he wanted to do was get away from this man. Every touch made his skin crawl. The leader fisted his hand into Alexander’s hair again and pulled his head back until he was resting against the lower part of the man’s shoulder. Damn he’s tall. He had to be at least a foot taller than Alexander.
“You’re small for an officer. I wonder if that means you’ll scream easier. You should know that I am very good at what I do. When they told me they’d ambushed and caught a rebel officer, I was delighted at another chance to put my skills to work. I do so enjoy breaking people.” The Leader’s face was pressed against his and as he finished speaking in licked Alexander’s cheek.
Alex couldn’t stop the shudder that went through him at the feel of the man’s breath in his ear and his tongue on his cheek. Get on with it, damn it! Quit playing with me. He was angry at himself again.
Washington looked up from his desk as his door opened. He looked back down at his work with a disappointed frown on his face when Laurens walked through his door instead of Hamilton.
“Still no word from Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton?” He asked dismissively.
“No, sir, not a word.” Washington could hear the worry in Laurens’ voice. Hamilton was two days overdue on his return for New York.
“Reach out to Tallmadge in New York and see what he has to say. And send out a search party on the route he was most likely to have taken. But, do this with as much discretion as you can. If the Lieutenant Colonel has been compromised, we don’t want the other side knowing.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Laurens saluted and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, worry still etched all over his face.
Washington knew his expression matched Laurens’ line for line. Hamilton was so young and so eager. He’d jumped at the chance to be the one to go to New York. He had laid out a thoughtful, reasoned argument sighting his familiarity with the terrain and he prided himself on being able to get in and out of the city undetected. His first communications had indicated that all went well. He’d made it in, they’d had their meetings and the directives had been well received. The last communication had stated that he was bringing some personal correspondence from the upper leadership to Washington and an urgent message that would require Washington’s immediate attention. The final message asserted that he had made it out of the city and was on his way. Washington had breathed a sigh of relief when the aide had reported he was safely out of the city. And then nothing. Not a single word for the last four days. The journey should have only taken two.
Despite his age, the Lieutenant Colonel was more than capable. His contagious, confident, and occasionally arrogant smile endeared him to Washington. The young man never stopped. He seemed to be overflowing with a desperate thirst to prove himself. His confidence did occasionally and frustratingly cause him to behave in ways that others would view as insubordinate. However, Washington recognized it as the passion that young Alexander Hamilton wore on his sleeve which drove him to be the best. He didn’t want to stifle what made him so successful. Washington gave himself a wry smile as he thought of the many time’s he had to rein his young aide in and even reprimand him. Washington was always careful to do this in private, so that it didn’t hinder Hamilton’s ability to carry out his duties among the other soldiers.
Still what Hamilton lacked in decorum, he made up for in sheer brilliance. He had a way with a pen unlike anything Washington had ever seen. He kept a detailed journal, maintained George’s dictations for his own journal, and handled countless missives. He was always writing. And when he wasn’t writing he was talking. He was just as skilled with his spoken word as he was his written word.
Washington sighed heavily and tried to return his focus to his work.