I may not live to see our glory

3 ~ Philip

After Alexander had left the room, I dragged myself away from his desk, towards the dimly lit room where his child was sleeping. Staying and watching himself work himself into insanity wasn't going to do anyone any favours. The child's room was warm, heated by the fireplace, its comforting crackle occasionally piercing the silence between us.

I shuffled towards the crib, peering in as I noticed the uncanny resemblance to my own looks. He too had a freckled face, and his light brown curls framed his face so he looked like an angel as he slept.

This boy, son of ambitious Alexander Hamilton and kind Eliza Schuyler, is going to do great things. I can feel it, sure as I can feel the ground beneath my not-there feet and feel the fire on my blood-stained jacket. I was going to do great things too, at least that was what my father used to say. Mother would say that too, until she died.

I sat in the chair Alex had sat in before, watching his little tummy rise and fall. We stayed like that for a while, until he blinked his big, greenish-brown eyes open and opened his little throat, wailing like his little heart had broke.

Sh!t sh!t sh!t! I cursed under my breath as I jumped out of the chair and frantically tried to calm the baby down all the ways I knew how. I hated the sound of babies crying, I was familiar to it with many siblings, but it didn't mean I hated it any less. I hated not being able to comfort them and not being able to ease their pain, most of all. Frances was a calm and mild girl, she rarely woke up in the middle of the night and if she did, Martha would always go calm her.

Stroking his copper curls, I cleared my throat and sang:

I may not live to see our glory

He seemed to stop crying a little, calmed by the presence of my singing.

But I will gladly join the fight

His tiny arms reached up toward my curls, as if to say, oh look! We look the same!

And when our children tell our story

I pushed his arms down gently, patting him and rubbing circles on his belly.

They'll tell the story of tonight

His eyes closed once more. Peace had been restored.

Eliza walked into the room, curious as to the source of the noise.

"Miss Schuyler- I mean, Miss Hamilton? What is going on, do you know? One moment I'm dying on the battlefield, the next I'm here? Why here, of all places?"

However, she took no notice, almost like she couldn't hear me, just like Alexander. Can no one see me? Then why am I here, except to suffer?

"Philip...did something wake you, dear? Oh, I see you're asleep now, that's good. Go to sleep now my little angel, mother loves you and always will."

A stray tear fell from her cheek, and Philip curiously put his hand on her face as to wipe it away. Just like his mother, kind, sweet and loyal.

"Everything's gonna be alright, ok?"

Even though there was no way Eliza could have seen me in the room, I still felt as though that statement was directed towards me, and couldn't help but think, will it really? Can anything possibly be okay? I dared to hope once, and look where it got me. Still...

Philip looked over his mother's shoulder, straight at me. A sudden realisation struck me. Oh my god. He can see me! He can truly see me! But how?

He reached out with his little sausage arms, grabbing towards me, hiccupping slightly as he did so. My god, this child was an absolute bundle of cuteness.