Dear, Hamilton

The Reynold's Pamphlet

The next morning, Dr. Stevens has us both drink a herbal substance he'd concocted. It's bitter tasting, and I almost spit it out involuntarily before I force myself to swallow it.

After that, though, I lose all sense of awareness. I'm stuck floating in a thick fog, hearing voices around me, but not understanding who they are, where they are coming from, and what the voices are even saying. 

It's maddening, but at the same time so... peaceful. I feel myself letting go, drifting off into a brighter fog, a sense of peace and acceptance rushing through me. I'm sure I would've died right then and there if someone hadn't shaken me.

The fog vanishes and is quickly replaced by a bedroom. I blink rapidly as my vision returns, and I realize Hamilton is hovering over me, his arms trembling from the energy he's expending to hold himself up over me. 

"Eliza," he breaths, his eyes edged with panic. "I thought I lost you for a minute."

I can't answer, though. My tongue is thick in my mouth, and I find I don't have the energy to bother talking, let alone to think. Hamilton must have understood because he collapses back down on the bed beside me, exhaling heavily.

The door opens, and Dr. Stevens enters the room, holding a tray of cups and two pieces of paper. He forces us to drink a cup each of another concoction before he hands me the letter and says, "Mrs. Hamilton, two letters arrived with your name on it."

 I blink in surprise and manage a mumbled, "Thank you," through my exhaustion, and he nods before leaving.

I force myself to grab the first letter and rip it open. I unfold the paper with shaking fingers and read the note.

Dear Mama,

We've arrived at The Pastures safely. Grandpa was very unhappy that you didn't come with us, but he understands that you had to be with father. I wish you well, and I pray that father will get better. Send him our regards.

Love,

Your Son, Phillip Hamilton

I breath a sigh of relief at his words. I'm relieved that Phillip and the other children aren't aware that I am sick as well-- I'm sure the news would've caused them much unnecessary anxiety. I hear another breathe of relief beside me, and I turn my head to see Hamilton reading the letter over my shoulder. I hand it to him wordlessly before ripping open the other letter.

Dear Mrs. Hamilton,

I have heard the unfortunate news that Mr. Hamilton has fallen ill with yellow fever. I went to visit your house the other day, but your servants informed me that you and your family had left the city. I pray for his swift recovery. Send him my regards.

Yr Obd Srvnt,

G. Washington

I hear Hamilton chuckle quietly beside me, and I give him a bemused look as I ask with a raised brow, "What's so funny?"

He only shakes his head and says, "Nobody assumes that you're sick, too, my poor Eliza."

I can only muster enough energy to roll my eyes. This small moment is the only time I am conscious before I slip back into a fitful sleep of thick fog.

***

Two days later Hamilton and I both wake up feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that Hamilton insists upon walking outside and taking a turn around the meadow. While Hamilton is upbeat about feeling better, I'm wary.

I can't help but recall how people reportedly feel much better before dying two days later of the fever.

But, if I'm going to die soon, I might as well feel the sun on my face before I take my final leave. So, I pack a picnic basket with food before Hamilton and I set outside-- with Dr. Stevens permission, of course.