Life and Liberty: A Hamilton Fanfic

Author: Sirius7 on (Sirius_Writings on AO3)

Rating: M for disturbing subject matter

Summary: Historically, James Hamilton, Sr., may have been an absent father, but he never disclaimed paternity of his sons and did not lack affection towards them. What if that wasn't the case? In a world where Hamilton Sr., was Alexander's father in name only, there are even more atrocities in Alexander's childhood that his friends and chosen family don't know, and the knowledge of them makes an appearance at the worst possible time – in the middle of a war. While I do bring in historical fact when it enhances the tale, and intersperse it with background as provided by the musical, this is fanfiction and I do not pretend to actual historical accuracy. Historically, there were no women in the Western World certified as physicians at this time, and I'll be blatantly ignoring that. Other individuals who died during the course of the American Revolution may die earlier or later than they did in real life, I bring in a few original characters, and Hamilton's date of birth in my mind is 1757, not 1755 (as only one official document ever noted his birth-year as 1755, and there were several other proven inaccuracies in it).

Chapter One: Memories and Philosophical Discussions

February 1777 – Valley Forge

Alec! Alec, no, I don't want to go! With a soft groan, Alexander Hamilton opened his eyes, wiping the cold sweat from his face that always came with the dreams. Even after sixteen years, they refused to fade, but he wouldn't want them to. They were the only memories he had left now and he wouldn't sacrifice them for anything, even if the subject was his greatest failure. The memories burned endlessly, a wound that never healed because he wouldn't let it, because somewhere deep inside there lived hope still. That tiny spark drove him to his feet to ready himself for the day and anticipate the overwhelming riptide of work that doubtless awaited him. Alexander wouldn't complain, welcoming the distraction this day just as much as any other. Breakfast was a thought only inasmuch as he did not trust that it would stay in his stomach, and elected to miss it altogether.

If he also worked straight through lunch… he didn't notice.

Washington's gaze tracked his swiftly-writing aide-de-camp, the young man's hand showing no indication of the disquiet the General had noticed in him throughout the day. Alexander Hamilton – for all his words – rarely said anything directly pertaining to own past or well-being. Though Hamilton had been his aide only for a few short weeks, Washington had quickly grown fond of the young man. The General acknowledged, though only to certain other interested parties, that he would be pleased if Hamilton would deign to mitigate his lack of knowledge regarding what made the younger man who he was. His impatience, he admitted only to himself.

Of course, Martha, knowing her husband well and possessing the cooler head in such matters, wisely advised that the General not push for answers Alexander did not wish to give.

Alexander's frantic pace continued throughout the day, as the General grew ever more concerned, that concern easing only somewhat as Laurens and the young Marquis came to drag him to a late dinner and force him to his rest. He dissuaded Hamilton's protests at the interruption by the simple expediency of ordering his aide to comply with his friends' wishes, and watched with undisguised fondness as the three young hellions left the office.

Washington kept a keen eye on his senior aide over the course of the next several days, noting how freely Hamilton threw himself into his work, seeming to relax in inverse proportion to the amount of work on his desk. The busier he kept his mind and his hands, the less haunted he appeared. The General realized within just a few days that the best times to gain a true gauge of his aide's mood was at first greetings in the morning, before either one actually started on the day's work… and late at night when the work had dwindled somewhat and his aide scrabbled for more to do before Washington ordered him to rest.

Washington held his temper over the issue for three weeks while they gathered intelligence, planned campaigns and corresponded with Congress and their loved ones, the General never failing to be grateful that Martha had chosen to come winter with the troops. Grateful, he was, and no mistaking it, though he would have preferred her safe – and better provisioned – at Mount Vernon. It was his own life experience and Martha's that helped him place that look in Alexander's eyes for what it was… haunted grief.

And he was more than ready to have done with Hamilton attempting to handle it alone. "Hamilton… put aside your work and sit with me. The correspondence will not disappear overnight."

Alexander's head came up slowly, and it was obvious to Washington that he'd been focused on his work to the exclusion of all else. That in itself was not an uncommon state of being for the younger man. His silent willingness to do as Washington had directed, without protesting the need to continue his work, was a much greater surprise. The silence was, to no small extent, unnerving in its rarity.

Hamilton sat in the chair across from him, carefully cradling a cup of tea almost as if his very life depended upon it, and Washington reined in his own impatience to maintain the not-quite-comfortable silence of the quarters. All the same, though he was expecting Alexander's patience with the silence to fail before his own, he would not wager that he would hear what was truly disturbing the younger man.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the sound of Alexander's voice, quieter than any other time the General had ever heard it, though their first meeting came a close second to it. "I know I've not been entirely successful in maintaining my composure, Your Excellency, and that you've noticed… and been patient with my failures in this regard. You have my apologies, though I know you'd prefer an explanation."

Hamilton paused for a moment, inhaling deeply, taking a sip of tea, and gathering his courage. Washington sorrowed at the thought that someone he was quickly coming to view as a son would in turn view him as a threat in need of facing. Still, he kept his face blank of his emotions, his own voice silent and listened closely as Hamilton's – still strangely quiet – filled the room.

"Old memories haunt me when the nights grow colder, and there are truths demanding to be told when I write anti-slavery essays with Laurens. Admittedly, I've told the darkest of those truths not even to John, though he would bear them well. And though I have a great deal of respect for you, General, I am… conflicted… over the idea of sharing them with you."

The reason for Hamilton's reticence sliced through the General's mind with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt and – for the first time since setting out the tea – he finally spoke. "Your uncertainty on the matter is because I own slaves. You've debated the topic with me on several previous occasions even in the short time we've known each other, Alexander; I'm well aware of your viewpoint. What makes this issue different?"

What Hamilton said next appeared to have no initial bearing on Washington's question, but he began to make the connections with each additional word escaping Hamilton's mouth.

"I was born and raised in the Caribbean, sir; you know this. In the Islands, there is no guarantee of freedom, even if you're born free. Any poor child – or indeed, any careless child, should they be away from their caretakers at an opportune moment – can find themselves in chains in a slave ship with relatively little effort on the part of the ship's crew or captain. A gifted pen could create the appropriate paperwork with little trouble, with a few scant sentences, bonding a freeborn child. That they were previously free would mean nothing, whether they were black, white or any shade in between, for the paperwork could declare even the most light-skinned child a mulatto. The truth of the matter was inconsequential." Alexander paused for a breath, and Washington mentally flinched at the scene being painted by his aide's words.

"While some of the children were taken, with their family – if they had one – being little the wiser for their imminent fates, other children were willingly handed over by the very family that should've protected them. It was, in fact, not uncommon that an adult in debt, finding himself with too many mouths to feed, would divest himself of one or more of them, decreasing the cost of care for his household and increasing the amount of coin in his purse. I've seen this, Your Excellency, and can discern nothing of righteousness, compassion or Christ in any of it. Even here, children are sold away from their parents and because they are slaves there is viewed no more ill-intent in the action than selling away a weaned foal from its dam, in complete disregard of the humanity involved. It is business, and many who participate in it do not even consider it distasteful, much less concern themselves with putting an end to the practice."

"It came close to you personally..."

"In many different ways, Excellency. Children I knew well disappeared when I was young, most I am certain to the holds of those ships. My family being what it was, I was well aware of my own risk for ending up in chains – this, in one part, due to my mother's concerned warnings, and in another part to my father's own spoken wish to have been rid of me before he walked out the door for the last time. We cannot be free if we hold the chains of others, and should I find myself in chains, I would separate myself from my limbs or indeed this very mortal coil before remaining in them. This time of year, I hear nothing but the screams of those I knew. Should that engender discomfort for you, Excellency, I apologize, but there is no light, cheerful manner in which to approach these memories – it is either in this manner or not at all."

The words Hamilton spoke seemed to drain his remaining energy as they left his lips, leaving behind them ghosts of the past that were ever-present in the young man's eyes now. Washington was himself conflicted – he had wanted to know more about his aide's childhood, but there was no happiness in it and a great deal more strife than anticipated… and he had never been blind to Alexander's half-starved look and well-honed ability to ignore his own needs. Even with the turmoil inherent to the conversation, the General knew there was more that Alexander was not saying… yet, as he saw the warmth of the tea settle into his aide's too-thin frame, and the shivers ease for the first time in several days, he could not bring himself to push.

"Your concerns are always welcome here, Alex, even should I indeed be disturbed by the topic of discussion. However much or little you reveal is your choice in its entirety." Standing, he removed the empty cup from his aide's hand, placing it on the table between them before laying a comforting hand on Alexander's shoulder and allowing it to linger for a moment. Rather like taming a feral cat, he kept in mind always the limits of what affections Alexander would allow from him, and knew the penalty for breaching those limits would be words as sharp as knives from his right-hand man. There would be no disrespect intended, but the automatic response would have the appearance of it, regardless of intent. Now, he suspected every last hesitation to accept such overtures led back to a childhood that was much harsher than he'd anticipated.

"It's rather early, yet, Alex. I expect you to engage in the basics of caring for yourself – eat, spend some time with your friends and remember to sleep. I'm certain the chaos will resume without pause at dawn."

And indeed it did, the work growing even as winter faded into a slushy, mud-filled spring. Barely a day passed that patrols did not return spattered – if not covered in their entirety – in mud, or soaked through and chilled by early spring rain still holding more than a hint of ice. Though the shadows in Alexander's eyes waned with the season, they did not vanish entirely, and the General felt compelled to ensure that the workspace occupied by his aides remained the warmest room at headquarters aside from his own personal quarters. If he had to be subtle about it or frame it as necessary for the health of any aide other than Alexander in order for Hamilton to accept it… so be it.

Martha was his primary source of comfort during this time. They had been through so much together in life already, and his wife was his partner in all things. While some men might deem their wives too delicate to hear of such things as Alexander had confided in him, George was not of like mind. While he would not discuss military tactics with her, that had far more to do with her distinct wish to avoid those specifics than any lack of trust on his part. In all other areas of life, her counsel was invaluable. In dealing with the son of his heart – even if that son was not keen to accept the title – such counsel was also incomparable.

She understood even George's silences, how much he conveyed when he said nothing. He knew she saw his perhaps overly careful looks to Billy Lee, his own manservant – his slave, if he wished to call it what it was. After he explained what he'd learned of Alexander's past, he noted her own similar looks in the direction of her maid, Ona.

Though we believe ourselves beneficent, how much damage is done solely by the act of eliminating their choice, their free will in all things? Punishments are rare at Mount Vernon, but those punishments meted out to the enslaved would not be imparted upon freed servants. Freeborn, paid servants risk only dismissal for a lack of care in their assigned duties… not the whip. Slave or free, rich or poor, we are one in the Lord. Their pleas to God have no less worth than my own. When I stand before the house of the Lord, how will my soul be judged in my treatment of them? "How can we be free if we hold the chains of others?" Should we free them, they may leave; that is a matter of simple fact. But if they stay… of their own free will, how great would be our nation for their devotion added to our own? And a small, hopeful voice in the back of his mind whispered, if I do what is right and just… will he finally trust me?

And then a patrol returned with captured redcoats – one officer and two enlisted men – and George Washington learned far more of Alexander's past than ever he thought the younger man would be comfortable revealing.