The British were about ready to call it quits and return Hamilton to the revolutionaries before they finally made camp for the night.
Two days had passed since the British had captured him in New York, the travel time much longer due to Alexander's continued escape attempts while they were on the road. The young revolutionary had managed to annoy every last officer between his constant struggling and endless tangents that left every one of them wanting to throttle their prisoner.
But Alexander waited for his opportunity to strike.
Success came to him during a simple rest stop to water the horses when Hamilton was left unattended where he was left standing tied to a soldier's horse while the men took care of their duties, most likely desperate to escape the never ending flow of words that had been spilling out of the young man's mouth since they had begun to move. His wrists, already slick with blood from the constant tugging and chafing of the ropes due to the walking speed of the horse, were easily able to slip out of the rushed bindings, and he disappeared into the nearby forest.
He probably made it about two miles before the British predictably realized he was missing, and the sound of pounding hooves found him about three hours later despite his best efforts at putting distance between himself and the British commander that had captured him.
Though the blood trail and crippling limp because of the bullet still lodged in his thigh did not help him much in his attempt.
The commander had simply chuckled with an expression on his face that an adult would use when laughing at a foolish child and ordered that the men travel at a canter for the next three miles due to the wasted time spent looking for him. The order was given with a maniac gleam in the man's eye, and Hamilton felt his stomach drop at the concealed malicious intent behind that demand.
After three miles down the rough, uneven road, Alexander was left with a bruised ego and also ribs once the horse mercifully slowed. His body, throbbing with a multitude of deep cuts freshly marred into his arms, legs, and stomach from being dragged across the rock-lined terrain, was forced upright by jeering redcoats as they made him continue their relentless pace set by the redcoats' mares as every new injury screamed at him and the newly tightened ropes tugged on his now sprained wrist.
As they finally made camp for the night, a second opportunity presented itself.
The irritated commander had decided that it was becoming too dark to travel any farther, immediately glaring at Alexander after his announcement, when the shorter made a cheery comment at the news, knowing he was fully responsible for their delay.
They settled in a nearby clearing, and Hamilton was bound and propped up against a tree that was just within the ring of light created by the smoldering fire to keep him in a line of direct sight, but of course not close enough that he could feel its warmth or his endless commentary could be heard.
His drab looking night turned in his favor, however, when a brave foot-soldier came to bring his meager dinner of a small slab of most likely spoiled meat. The young man had quickly retreated back to the safety of his comrades around the fire, unnerved by the dark-haired man's moody glare that had followed his every movement, and Alexander turned his dark look onto the disgusting food that was presented to him, not planning on eating any of it, when something caught his eye.
A knife and fork was sitting there neatly next to the chipped and cracked plate.
Hamilton stared dumbly at it for a second, not believing his luck, before quickly snapping into action. With bloodless fingers from lack of circulation to his hands, he snatched the knife up, quickly concealing it in the space between his legs. Sparing a quick glance to check that the British were occupied, he grabbed the knife by the hilt, facing the blade towards himself, and began to saw at his bindings.
After what seemed like hours, a quiet snap could be heard as the ropes finally lost their battle against the dull knife and broke. Uncaring of the blood seeping into his jacket from where the blade accidentally sliced into the flesh, Alexander began working on the ropes binding his ankles, trying not to think about how much blood he had, at this point, actually lost.
Suddenly, he froze, hearing the yell of one of the men gathered around the fire. The blood he did have left turned to ice with the fear that he had been spotted, but it was simply one redcoat shouting rather obnoxiously as it seemed at some point during his ministrations they had foolishly broken out the alcohol.
When at the last his numb fingertips managed to untie the last knot of the rope, he couldn't help but let his lips twitch into a small smile at the redcoats' obvious stupidity at both giving him a weapon and drinking on the job.
Knowing another slow run into the forest would most likely once again lead to his capture, his sharp gaze landed on the horses gathered about one hundred feet to his right, and adrenaline began to pump like wildfire through his veins at the promise of an escape route. Glancing warily at the now inebriated soldiers once more, he slowly began to rise on his only operable leg before vanishing into the nearby shadows.
Whatever luck that was with him seemed to run out as the commander emerged from his tent, most likely intent on yelling at his men for their insubordination, but before he could utter a word his eyes were drawn to the now prisonerless tree.
Hamilton's heart began to beat wildly in his chest as the enraged looking man began to march purposely towards his position, and the revolutionary crouched behind a large bush in an attempt to conceal himself, ignoring the branches poking uncomfortably into his face and chest knowing any movement would give him away. When the man finally made it to the tree-line where he was hidden, Alexander was sure that his location would be given away simply by the sound of his heart pounding out of his ribcage, but the redcoat was oblivious to his presence, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see through the inky blackness that had fallen over the forest.
The ex-aide-de-camp shot a helpless look towards the waiting horses before stealing himself and taking a careful step towards them when the officer's gaze shifted to his left.
A twig snapped.
Rage filled eyes immediately found his crouched figure and a startled breath left Alexander as large hands reached for him.
But he still had the knife.
With a swing that was not as clean as he would have wanted it to be, the younger man swiped at the commander's outstretched hand, eliciting a hiss of surprise as the flesh there was shallowly sliced. That was all the distraction Alexander needed as he bolted towards the closest horse on unsteady legs, determined to escape the murderous look that had appeared in his captor's eyes. With a shout of pain caused by the weight on his injured leg stepping in the stirrup, he began to swing his other leg over the side of the saddle-
Fingers dug into his bullet wound and a breathless scream escaped his mouth as he stopped mid-movement and fell off the horse.
Static flashed in front of his eyes as his body hit the ground, clutching uselessly at his left leg as he desperately tried to relieve the hot electricity racing up and down the limb as the wound flared with a wave pain, while spouting strained curses at his attacker. A hand grasped at his hair, forcing his head up, and he was left gasping for breath as the pain in his leg finally subsided, and dread filled him as he realized he dropped the knife in his agonized haze. Again.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt?" the commander said sweetly in his ear though Alexander was not oblivious to the rage that was simmering dangerously underneath the surface of the words. Still reeling from his latest maltreatment, the only thing that the blue-coated man could do was shoot him a half-hearted glare and spit at the man's boots while saying something that would have even King George blushing on his behalf.
"Perhaps we should take a look at that wound for you," the older man once again whispered but this time all pleasantness was gone from his voice and instead was replaced with all the frustration the commander had been bottling up all day at Hamilton's defiance. Slightly startled at the man's mood swing, Hamilton finally made lasting eye contact with his captor and was met with a hardened gaze that held a promise of bloodshed.
"Bring me the forceps, a needle, pieces of cloth, and be useful for once and hold the brat down!"
The barked order had the less intoxicated men stumbling over, and that's when Alexander began to struggle.
He escaped from the commander's hold, retching his hair painfully out of the man's hand, but before he could make it to so much as a sitting position, hands were harshly pushing him onto his back, holding his arms and ankles down with bruising grips. Rationally, Alexander knew that the bullet needed to come out as infection would set in with it sitting there, but he knew that the surgery would be closer to torture than actual healthcare.
An unwarranted punch to his previously rifle whipped cheek had him gasping in shock, and a piece of cloth was jammed between his teeth while another was tied hastily around his head, keeping it in place, and he gagged on the intruding fabric as it scraped against the back of his throat. His protests at his lack of vocals were muffled against the rough cloth and the commander smiled at the displeasure clear in his eyes at being silenced.
"Ah finally, some peace and quiet. I should have done that hours ago," The men around him laughed openly at the joke, they too happy to see his suffering.
If looks could kill the man would be dead.
At the appearance of more soldiers, this time carrying the other things that the commander had asked for, he broke off his glare, putting all his focus on struggling anew as the soldiers doubled their efforts at holding him down. During his feral movements, he caught a glance of the forceps gleaming in the firelight as they were handed to the commander of all people (definitely not a qualified surgeon) before his world erupted in agony.
It was not a surgery.
It felt as though the man had simply grabbed a piece of the angry flesh inside the wound and twisted, and as Hamilton buckled wildly against the hands keeping him from escaping the blazing fire ripping through his leg, his neck strained to look at the wound and realized that was exactly what the commander was doing. Alexander screamed and screamed behind the gag, uncaring that the enemy might think that he was weak, unable to even spare them a thought as the anguish of his torturer's ministrations encompassed all his senses.
Hamilton's head felt like it was underwater; the only sounds filtering through were the hooting of the men holding down his limbs, and his own muffled screams that ripped at his throat and transformed into silent cries when his vocal cords eventually gave out on him completely. The muscles in his arms and legs bulged in his efforts to escape the unrelenting restraint of the soldiers' hands while the commander still mercilessly pulled and prodded at the open wound in his thigh like a mad scientist. Alexander's world became a landscape of agony as he writhed on the clearing's floor, helpless to put a stop to the crude operation as his vision simply faded to red haze, leaving him in a world made only of fire and pain.
With a final harsh yank the bullet was removed from his leg, and Alexander let out one more soundless noise of pain before he went completely boneless, shaking like a leaf on the ground and panting like he had run to Philadelphia and back. As time passed the world did not clear like he expected it to, and he belatedly realized that he had worsened his concussion in his attempts to escape, having thrown his head back unconcernedly onto the ground while he was lost in his torment.
Several drawn out moments passed where he feared he would lose his stomach as the world swam around him in nauseating waves in time with the crescendo pounding in his head until he finally was able to glance to his left to see the commander calmly writing on a piece of paper, Alexander's blood still staining his hands, with a content smile on his face. The younger man came to the conclusion that the man must be clinically insane, and he could not squash the small spike of fear that was planted into his heart at the sight of the obviously unhinged man.
"Ah, back with us I see," the commander said cheerfully when he felt Alexander's bloodshot gaze slide to him. Hamilton looked to his right and was startled to see that the fire had died down substantially, signaling that a large amount of time had passed in his state of semi-consciousness. He was able to prop himself up on a shaking arm just long enough to see his leg where an alarming amount of blood bleed freely onto the ground, creating a large puddle that had pooled next to his leg in the grass. At the sight, his face paled multiple shades as the other cause of his disorientation was explained.
"Don't worry," the commander said, interrupting his unusually sluggish thoughts, "that will be taken care of in due time. Right now, however, I thought we could be civil and write a letter to General Washington,"
Hamilton didn't know whether to laugh at the fact that the man wanted him "to be civil" after he had barbarically dug a metal instrument into his leg or rage at the implication that the man wanted to contact his general.
"Keep in mind that I am not asking," the redcoat added with a warning glance and Hamilton knew that he could not take another session like the surgery if he wanted to remain at least semi-coherent, so he reluctantly reached for the quill and parchment offered to him and, to his growing horror, realized that the ink collected on the writing instrument's tip was not ink at all but his blood.
After getting over his initial disgust and shock at the discovery, he gestured with his other hand towards the cloth in his mouth with a pointed look towards his captor.
The commander laughed. "Writing does not require speaking I'm afraid," and the man's simpering smile told him he knew that silencing him was the worst punishment he could dole out.
With a glare sent in the man's direction that probably looked more like a tired glance, Hamilton hovered his shaking hand over the parchment held unsteadily in his other hand to signal he was ready.
"Boston,"
Alexander copied the word that should have been much easier to write than it was, and began handing over the paper.
Benedict Arnold
The signature jumped off the page at him, and all the pieces clicked together.
Why the man looked slightly familiar, his obvious vendetta against Washington, and the man's psychotic tendencies. Back at camp, he had not met the man first hand, he had only caught a glimpse of him during a routine visit before news had later reached them that he had become a turncoat.
But he remembered the day that his betrayal was revealed. Unconcealed pain had appeared on General Washington's face at the news, disbelieving that one of his dearest friends had stabbed him in the back and betrayed their cause. Apparently the man's change of heart was due to the jealousy Arnold felt towards Washington himself in some twisted way.
That was the day that Benedict Arnold became another name on the aide-de-camp's hit list.
Throwing the finished letter aside, Alexander used whatever strength he had left to launch himself at the British commander- no general- intent on wrapping his hands around the traitor's neck, but his target seemed un-phased at the movement, and the smaller man once again found himself trapped on his back.
"I see that you recognize my name, lieutenant. You should feel honored that Washington cried over my betrayal with you in his presence. Though I would expect he would do nothing less with his pet," Arnold spat, anger coloring his words as he was forced to wrangle the ex-aide's squirming body into submission.
Alexander's anger spiked at the confirmation of the man's identity though it was immediately followed by fear as he recalled every single horror story that he had ever heard about the man that had been shared quietly by the other aide's when the general was not around.
He was right in his assumption that the man was crazed, but it was in that moment he realized exactly how insane the man imprisoning him was. He had the blood of countless innocent women and children on his hands, killing them in despicable ways with methods that Alexander was sure that even the British frowned upon.
Arnold must have seen some of the ill-concealed fear reflected in his eyes as he smiled at the younger man's apparent distress. The much larger man moved to flatten himself against the struggling aide to pin him in place and Hamilton froze immediately at the positioning, lungs stopping mid-breath in panic.
"I guess you've heard about me from other sources, as well," Arnold whispered and Hamilton could feel the man's warm breath against his ear. The two laid like that for a painfully drawn out moment while each waited for the other to make a move until Arnold finally relented and moved to his former position at the smaller man's side seemingly satisfied. Hamilton was ashamed to realize that a tear of terror had tracked its way down his face during the stalemate.
The previously discarded letter was picked up by the turncoat before Arnold dropped it into the blood puddle still forming by the ex-aide's leg.
"Oops! How clumsy of me. I hope George does not get too concerned on your behalf," Arnold said while holding the slightly dripping letter with a smug look on his face that told Hamilton that was exactly how the man wanted Washington to feel.
"Now, my young friend, I will leave you to get patched up while the letter is swiftly delivered," And to his dismay, a British soldier dressed in a blue coat galloped away with the blood-covered letter while another approached with the needle that was asked for earlier.
With one last deranged looking grin, Arnold let his subordinate officer take his place at Alexander's side and walked calmly back to his tent. The needle plunged into Hamilton's leg and agony once again sparked inside him as he internally cursed Benedict Arnold to hell.