The closer Ben edges toward consciousness the more appealing death becomes. It feels as though someone has thrust an axe into his skull and left it there. The throbbing starts in his head and works downward to his toes, until every muscle is pulsating. His throat burns and his tongue feels thick. It sticks to the roof of his mouth. He longs for water, but the thought of moving sickens him. A voice reverberates in his ears. He scrunches his brows together.

"Come on, Benny," the voice pleads. "I know you're awake."

Caleb. The voice belongs to Caleb. Ben tries forcing his eyes open but his lids are heavy, and crusted shut. He tries again, somehow managing to crack them into slits. Light floods his vision, turning the pounding in his head into a searing pain. Slamming his eyelids shut, he pants against the explosion in his brain. Bile rises up, and his throat closes around it. He swallows again and again.

Knowing what's coming next, Caleb forces his forearm under Ben's shoulders, thrusting him into a seated position. Holding Ben in place with one hand, he reaches for the wash bin with the other. Ben's arms snake around it as Caleb places it in his lap.

Folding over, Ben begins to retch, and Caleb's own stomach clenches sympathetically. He rubs tiny circles on Ben's back until the heaving subsides. When Ben collapses against the pillows, Caleb squeezes his shoulder before stepping to the window. Grabbing hold of the curtains, he draws them tight. Turning back, he finds Ben watching him through narrowed slits.

"Where?" Ben croaks.

It's the first lucid thing he's heard from Ben all week, and Caleb takes a moment to look him over before answering. He has to admit, Ben looks a bit like death warmed over, which is a marked improvement from the night before. "Welcome to the Ford mansion, Benny," he says with a grin.

"Wh..at..." Ben's voice cracks. He runs a thick tongue over cracked lips and tries again with a different question. "Why?"

Caleb's face falls. "You don't remember?"

Raising the heels of his hands to his eyes, Ben presses at the dull ache behind them. Gingerly, he shakes his head.

Caleb winces. "We can talk about that later. How about we get some liquid in ya first," he says, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. When Ben doesn't answer, he clasps a hand around Ben's, and gently pulls them down and away from his face.

Ben eyes the glass of water in Caleb's hand, trying to decide if he wants to drink, sleep, or curl up and die. He takes a tentative sip. The water is cool, and feels like heaven passing through his lips. He drinks the rest of the glass greedily. It isn't long before the liquid loses all of its comforting properties, and his stomach churns, angry at the sudden invasion.

"No," Ben moans, twisting his body towards the wash bin.

Caleb beats him to it; bringing it to Ben's chin as water mixed with bile bubbles up in his throat and passes through his lips. Thankfully the episode is blessedly shorter than the last. Sitting back with a groan, Ben raises watery eyes in Caleb's direction, his face-hardening into a murderous glare.

Caleb's mouth drops open. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I said get some liquid in you.. Not, here Benny, chug this whole glass."

Ben's face softens, knowing Caleb is right. Sinking deeper into the pillows, he sighs, body spent after ridding itself of the offending liquid. His eyelids grow heavy. He's too tired to fight them. Blankets being pulled to his chin is the last thing he remembers as he drifts back to sleep.

The rest of the day passes by miserably as Ben battles to hold down water and bites of food, losing more times than he can count. Between bouts of nausea and sickness, his addled mind works to piece together the events following Caleb's rescue, unaware of how much time has passed. The gaping holes in his memory disturb him, but he's too sick to ask Caleb to fill them.

…

The following morning the sun slips through the tree line to the east. Sitting on the steps of headquarters, Caleb watches the light spread across the horizon, chasing away the last of the stars and darkness with its brilliance. Dewdrops reflect the sun's rays, turning the front yard into a bed of diamonds. He breathes in deeply, enjoying the freshness of morning, until a familiar figure draws him to his feet.

"Ah, good morning, Lieutenant," Sackett greets him breathlessly.

Caleb smiles. "And a fine morning at that."

"The Major is doing well I take?"

"Better than yesterday, even slept the whole night through."

"Good," Sackett says with a smile. "I don't suppose he would be up for some company?"

Caleb shrugs. "I don't see why not. He's awake, or at least he was a few minutes ago."

"Well then, shall we?"

"We shall," Caleb replies, mounting the steps.

Ben's voice greets them as they enter the foyer.

"Sir, please. I'm well enough to read over the reports."

Peeking his head around the corner, Caleb finds Ben standing before Washington, well, halfway standing. His friend leans heavily against the wall, as though he finds the act of remaining upright exhausting. Despite his ailments, Ben's jaw sets with determination and Caleb tries not to laugh. Leave it to Ben to drag himself out of bed and demand to work while looking like a corpse.

Washington's face is a mixture of frustration and concern, and he appears torn. Finally, he sighs. "Very well. You may look over these reports," he says, handing Ben a stack of papers.

"Thank-you, sir," Ben whispers, taking the reports.

"And you shall remain in bed while you do so," Washington adds pointedly.

Ben mouth drops open. "But, sir…"

Washington's gaze hardens. Dropping his head in defeat, Ben nods, agreeing to Washington's terms.

Stepping around Caleb, Sackett clears his throat as he enters the study.

"If I may interrupt, your Excellency, I have a pressing matter to discuss with the Major."

Turning to face Sackett, Ben misses the leveling stare Washington casts on his Aide-de-camp. Sackett is looking down, examining the contents of the leather binder he's brought with him, and appears to be ignoring the General.

Washington shakes his head. "How important is it?"

"I wouldn't ask if it weren't," Sackett advises, raising his eyes.

"Fine. Major Tallmadge, you will see Mr. Sackett in your room."

"Thank-you sir," Sackett replies. Shoving the binder beneath his arm he smiles at Ben and Caleb before ushering them down the hallway.

Ben sways and Caleb reaches out to steady him. He shoots Sackett a look and Sackett nods, agreeing to keep the discussion short.

…

Later that afternoon Caleb is lying on his bed dozing in a stream of mid afternoon light. His unconscious mind takes him far from camp, back to a time before the war. Traveling down a wooded path he knows like the back of his hand, he arrives at his whaleboat, and is soon racing across the sound. Ben and Abe are with him; rays of sun and sprays of ocean kiss their faces. Abe says something that he can't make out over the wind and crashing waves. He's about to tell his childhood friend to speak up when a sniffle cuts through the dream, and everything fades to black. Cracking his eyes open he looks about the room blearily and finds Ben propped up in bed, papers and maps strewn across his lap.

"You're supposed to resting."

"There's something wrong with these reports. The numbers, they don't add up," Ben replies hoarsely before swiping at his nose with a handkerchief.

"Jesus Ben, don't tell me you're getting sick."

"What? " Ben sniffles again. "I'm fine."

Tossing his legs over the side of his bed, Caleb pulls his body to the edge. Leaning over, he places the back of his hand to Ben's brow, finding it warm to the touch. "Ben, you gotta slow down. Ya only just got your wits back."

"I'm fine."

Caleb stares at Ben. His friend's cheeks are flush, and his blue eyes are rimmed red and shimmery. "Funny, you don't look fine."

Ben doesn't respond.

Rolling his eyes, Caleb stands. "Alright, time for a break," he says, snatching at the papers in Ben's lap.

Ben's mouth falls open, but his shock quickly gives way to frustration. "Stop," he commands, pressing both hands down on documents in his lap.

Caleb looks Ben dead in the eyes, silently challenging him as his inches his hand back and eases the papers out from under Ben's hands.

Ben presses down harder. "Stop! This isn't a game Caleb, it's important."

Caleb rips the papers away from Ben. "So is your health." He glares at him with more anger than he means to. "I didn't spend a whole week acting like a bloody nursemaid just to have you go and kill yourself the second you start feeling better."

Ben's expression hardens. "I'm trying to do my job. Now give me back the reports."

Caleb stares back evenly as he continues to hold the reports just out of reach.

"Caleb please," Ben pleads. "There's something wrong with the numbers. I have to figure it out."

"How do you know Ben. Hmm? You've been out of it for over a week, numbers can change, ever think of that?"

Ben's eyes narrow and his jaw sets, and Caleb knows from experience his friend isn't going to let the matter go. Sighing he tosses the papers at Ben's feet. "Fine, have it your way." Turning on his heel, Caleb exits the room, slamming the door behind him.

…

Stalking across the front lawn of the Ford Mansion, Bradford heads in the direction of the officer's tent. It'd been two days since they'd given their reports to Washington, and still no word. Thrusting back the flaps of Lee's tent he enters without knocking. "Did you get the General the new reports?" he asks, before Lee can chastise him for his abruptness.

Lee is hunched over his desk, drafting a report. Startled by the intrusion his hand and ink pen remain frozen in midair. "If by new, you mean false reports than yes, I did," he replies as he lowers his hand.

"Surely he would have called a meeting by now."

"You know the General, he pours over every detail before making a decision."

"What if he's discovered the numbers are wrong?"

"He hasn't and he won't," Lee replies, in a tone that says the conversation is over. To further his point, he waves Bradford off with a flippant hand while turning his attention back to his report.

Folding his arms across his chest Bradford glowers at Lee. "I hope you're right," he growls.

...

As the sun begins to set, General Washington enters the back room of the Ford Mansion, currently serving as Major Tallmadge's quarters. He is greeted by pair of unfocused eyes. Above them, beads of sweat cling to a fevered brow, and the cheeks below are flushed. His body covered in a sheen of sweat, the Major appears to glow in the candlelight. Alarmed, Washington crosses over to the bed and rests the back of his hand on younger man's forehead. The boy seems not to notice.

"He's burning up," a voice calls out from behind.

Glancing over his shoulder he finds Sackett standing in the doorway with fresh cloths and a water pitcher. "Infection?"

Sackett shakes his head as he moves to stand alongside the General. "No sign of it."

"Perhaps he has fallen ill?"

"Perhaps."

Washington doesn't miss the pensive look that crosses the Aide de Camp's face as he places the cloths in a basin and begins pouring the pitcher of water over them. He steps forward, placing a hand on Sackett's shoulder. "What is it?"

Sackett's brows knit together. "I'm not a doctor, but…"

"You've seen this illness before?" Washington asks, removing his hand.

"Yes," Sackett whispers, his expression growing dark. "My brother John was thrown from a horse when he was a younger man. His arm was shattered in the fall, and the doctor who tended to him was a drunkard. He tried to set bones that needed surgery and the arm never did heal quite right. It caused him a great deal of pain. He was given laudanum of course. But, as the pain began to decrease his use of laudanum began to increase at an alarming rate. We pleaded for him to stop taking it all together, and when he finally did, he became very very sick."

"As Major Tallmadge is now?"

Sackett nods. "The doctor who treated John's sickness told us he'd seen this before in patients who use laudanum in excess."

Washington lips form a thin line. He releases a long exhale through his nose. "You feel the Major has been given too much laudanum?"

"He was certainly heavily medicated, and now he is presenting symptoms identical to those of my brother."

"And your brother, did he recover?

"Yes," Sackett replies. "But if my suspicions are correct, the Major is going to get worse before he gets better."

A low moan wafts up from the bed, as if to confirm Sackett's theory. Washington looks down as Tallmadge begins tossing his head from side to side. He shudders at the pain etched in the Major's pale features. "What do we do?"

Sackett dips his hands into the basin. "Right now, we have to control the fever." He pulls out a cloth and wrings it out before placing it across Ben's forehead. Repeating the process, he places one rag after another across Ben's chest, wrists, and ankles.

Washington watches Ben shift away from the cloths with a weak moan of protest. Reaching deep into the basin, he pulls out the remaining rag and wrings it out. With a gentle hand, he wipes it across the Major's much too warm neck, praying somehow the simple act will offer some relief.

Billy appears in the doorway with a fresh pitcher of water and Washington feels his own fear rise up inside him when his servant regards the major with a worried look before setting the porcelain down.

"Billy, would you advised Doctor Jackson that I wish to see him first thing in the morning?"

"Yes, sir."