by Rachel Hauck
Hamilton dropped his shirt to the ground and gasped for air. Soot tainted his skin. His trousers smoldered where tiny embers had burned through the broadcloth.
The townspeople watched, aghast, huddled together, the glow of the fire against their faces.
At his feet lay Uncle Laurence’s still, charred body.
“Here . . .” A woman with cool hands handed Hamilton a ladle of water and a damp cloth. “Put the towel over your eyes.”
He dropped to the dirt, pouring the water over his face, gripping the cloth in his fist, then raising up, hammering his chest with a roar of grief.
Aunt Mary collapsed in the dust, wailing over her husband.
“Laurence, no, Laurence . . . no, no, no.”
Uncle’s hands and forearms were burnt black, his face contorted with red skin and seething blisters.
One of the trappers, Burt Newton, tossed a horse blanket over him as Hamilton slipped his arm around Aunt Mary.
Behind him, a voice boomed, “Is this what you want, Ninety Six? To let the king’s men run roughshod over us? Reverend Lightfoot was a man of God. Look what Huck and his dragoons have done.”
Hamilton locked onto the one speaking. Captain Irwin. Walking among the stunned, the angry, the weeping, and the trembling.
“We are neighbors and friends. We’ve aided one another during the sowing and reaping. We’ve lent bread and money to the poor and sick. Now we are at the mercy of men who show no mercy. We are no longer their brethren.” Captain Irwin moved among them. “Who’s with us? Who will join the cause of independence? For freedom?” He pointed to the building opposite the town square. “If you are brave enough, and I hope you are, meet me in the tavern.”
The captain clapped his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. “Join us. Avenge your uncle’s death.”
Some of the women knelt by Aunt Mary, grieving with her. Slowly Hamilton stood, his shirt dangling from his hand.
Spitting on the ground, he faced the townspeople. “Captain Irwin is right. This is our town, our land, our colony, and we don’t need to be oppressed by a greedy king four thousand miles away.”
Esther burst through the crowd, her hair flowing wild over her shoulders, her cheeks red and glowing. Kitch trailed along with her, panic in his eyes. But Hamilton paid her no mind. Any passion, any softness he felt in her presence had died with his uncle.
“If not King George, then it’ll be the Continental Congress,” a voice called from the crowd. “God save the king!”
The crowd stirred.
“Long live the Declaration!”
Ben Quincy and John Brown stepped forward, their hands resting on the pistols lodged in their belts.
Behind them, the church beams began to crumble. The crowd cried out, backing away.
“For now”—Hamilton turned a slow circle—“can any man lend me his wagon? I must get Aunt Mary and my uncle home.”
“Take mine.” Jacob Broadway, a saint and a deacon in Uncle’s congregation, took Aunt Mary by the arm. “Frank, Burt, help Hamilton with the body.”
As they loaded the wagon, the church collapsed. Hamilton’s gaze fell on Esther. She took a step toward him, but an arm cinched around her waist. Sir Michael. She struggled, but he whispered in her ear and she submitted, turned, and walked away with her father. Just before disappearing into the throng and the shadows, she turned and raised her hand in condolence to Hamilton.
Of course she must go with her father. He was a Loyalist. The land agent of a powerful and wealthy aristocrat.
“Hamilton, we’re ready to go,” Jacob said.
He climbed on to the buckboard, his hands, his feet, his heart dull and numb. Across his viewing plane, a line of trappers, hunters, and farmers traipsed toward the tavern.
Aunt Mary clung to him, weak and moaning. “Oh, Hamilton . . . oh, Hamilton.”
He slapped the reins, and the wagon jerked forward. As he passed the tavern, Captain John Irwin stood on the side of the road, hat over his heart, his dark eyes pleading with Hamilton to join the fight.
ESTHER
Was it possible every able-bodied citizen of the upcountry had traveled to Ninety Six to bid Laurence Lightfoot good-bye?
Walking among the mourners toward the cemetery under a dark, heavy sky, passing the church rubble, she knew their world had forever changed.
A sharp cut of wind tugged at the reticule swinging from her gloved hands. Lightning slithered down from a blue-black cloud. Esther tugged her hat over her brow, shrouding her face from the impending rain and obscuring her tears.
Ninety Six seemed empty, lost, without Reverend Lightfoot. He was a good man deserving mercy, not death. She loathed the colony’s politics and the hatred it spawned. Men fighting men, brother against brother. For what? Money? Power? Taxes and tea?
Didn’t they all want the same? A home, a family, food in their cupboards, and a better life for their children?
Since the church burning, anxiety had settled over Slathersby Hill. For three days and three nights, Father, Isaac, and Kitch sat in watch with a loaded Brown Bess for errant patriots seeking revenge by setting a Loyalist home ablaze.
Lieutenant Twimball had paid a call, offering additional security. Father welcomed him into the library with a slap on the back and a glass of port.
His presence put Esther ill at ease. Despite his uniform, musket, and attentiveness, she saw the devil in his eyes.
But what burdened her heart was her friendship with Hamilton. She feared its end. How could he trust her when Father welcomed those responsible for his uncle’s death?
Her toe caught a rock in the street, and she stumbled forward. Pippa Farthing steadied her, but in truth there wasn’t an inch to move. An inch to breathe. So great was the crowd.
At the head of the line, six men carried Reverend Lightfoot to his earthly rest. Behind the coffin, Hamilton, dressed in black, escorted his aunt. How frail she’d grown in the three days since the reverend’s death. Every few minutes her sorrowful wail bled into the stormy atmosphere and sent chills through Esther.
Surely the truth was as Reverend Lightfoot preached. “We are not as those without hope. For we believe Jesus died and rose again.”
A song rose from among the mourners. “When I survey the wondrous cross . . .” Esther’s tears spilled over as she joined the verse.
What trouble this conflict has wrought.
The pallbearers stopped at a deep, black hole. Thunder rumbled, and Esther flinched when an angry cloud appeared to drop down to the earth.
Reverend Potts, a blustery man from down Charles Town way, stepped forward, a worn Bible in his hand.
“We are gathered for a sad occasion. Our hearts are filled with sorrow. Our friend, a devoted husband, uncle, and man of the cloth, has met an untimely and cruel death.”
Around her, the crowd rustled. Someone shouted, “Here, here.”
“What can we do, my friends, in this dark hour?” As if moved by his words, the thunder responded. The mourners oohed and aahed, clustering closer. The reverend cleared his throat and continued. “Forgive, my friends. Pray to God to love your neighbor—”
“Boo! ’Tis folly, I say.” Another male voice resounded from deep within the crowd. “If ye want to avenge this innocent man’s blood, then join with the Ninety Six Militia and fight our foe. Be ye a coward or be ye brave?”
“Listen to the reverend.” Richard Sloan, farmer and father of Esther’s friend Maggie, addressed the crowd. “He knows of what he speaks.”
“Hush yerself, Sloan. You know not of what you speak. Lousy Loyalist.”
“My good men.” Reverend Potts raised his thick, black book. “Do as you see fit before your Maker, but Loyalist or rebel, you must forgive. We are nothing without it.”
Nay, the crowd was restless, stirred up, unwilling to yield to sentiments of forbearance and love. The men began to argue and divide. Tory from Whig.
Esther huddled close to Mrs. Farthing, who, more lost in grief than revenge, whispered pr
ayers for Mrs. Lightfoot.
“We must forgive, yes, but there is no law against resisting our oppressors.” This came from John or Jacob Brown. Esther could not tell. “The reverend stood for the cause, for a new nation. America. Why back down now with his blood crying out from the ground?”
“God save the king!”
The men stirred, the rumbling louder, the division deeper. Mr. Farthing collected his wife. “Come, make haste.” With their heads down, they escaped down the wide avenue.
Esther stood alone, exposed, the townspeople responding to the reverend with both rebellion and submission.
She moved toward Hamilton, longing to offer her sympathies. Father had not let her out of his sight since the burning. He even thwarted her attempt to send a letter to Quill Farm through Kitch.
She hesitated when Captain Irwin reached Hamilton first. “Won’t you join us? For your uncle’s sake?”
Hamilton shook his head, his shoulders slouched under sadness and despair. Esther clutched her reticule to her chest.
“Do what you must,” Hamilton said. “As for me, I leave this debate for another hour. Show respect for the dead.” He gave the captain his back, giving again his support to his aunt.
Captain Irwin shook his head and conversed with several other men.
Now, perhaps, she could speak with him.
A disembodied voice cried out, “I say fight!”
Captain Irwin and the men whirled around. Esther withdrew into the crowd as men flocked toward the militia leader.
Then a push from behind, and she stumbled forward. More shouting. More men gathering, muskets and pistols in hand, at the cemetery’s edge, where the heady stench of charred beams still rose from the death of the church.
Patriots and Loyalists faced off. Friend against friend. Riley Hough, among the patriots, stood against his brother, Eric, who was a Loyalist.
“No, no, this can’t be.” She spun around, trapped between the two sides.
“Miss Esther.” Mrs. Trenwith stood near the churchyard oak. “Move yourself from harm’s way.”
Suddenly she was on the stormy sea, hovering in the bows of the ship, crying out for Mother, who never came.
The hammering sound of horses rammed against her. Dust swirled up from the thirsty ground as British militia rode through the divided factions.
The snort of a gelding brushed her ear.
Covering her head, she wailed from her belly, “Hamilton!”
A hand yanked on her arm, tripping her sideways. When she looked up, Lieutenant Twimball stood over her.
“Does your father know you are here?” He walked her toward the oak tree. “You have placed yourself in danger. These rebels have no care for our kind.”
“Our kind? Do not lump me in with your deeds. Your kind has no respect for them either. You killed Reverend Lightfoot.”
Lieutenant Twimball bent toward her. “He was not supposed to be at the church.”
Esther removed herself from his shadow. “You knew of the scheme? And let it go on?”
“I had orders from Captain Huck. Now, be a nice English girl and stand clear of this brawl.” Twimball spun, firing his pistol in the air. “You are gathered unlawfully. By order of Major Ferguson, you must disband immediately.”
“Have a care, man.” Captain Irwin came forward. “We are burying our friend and neighbor. ’Tis not unlawful to gather for a burying. His widow grieves not twenty yards away.”
“Yet I say disband.” Twimball kept a steady gaze on Irwin. “Now do as you’re bid.”
But the captain would not be dissuaded. He paced toward the waiting, braced patriots. “Do you see what he’s doing? Wielding authority he does not have. Today it is Mary Lightfoot’s husband, but tomorrow it may well be you and yours.” He assessed Twimball and the mounted militia. “Reverend? Doesn’t Scripture remind us there is a time for war and a time for peace? Well, suffice it to say, thanks to our king and oppressor, we find this to be a time of war.” His declaration gripped Esther, and she peered toward Hamilton. “Join the Ninety Six Militia,” Irwin said. “Stand up to this tyranny! Take courage, men.”
“Captain, are you recruiting in the town square while we observe? ’Tis all but an act of aggression.” Twimball slipped his pistol into his holster and retrieved his musket from his waiting horse. “I demand you remove yourselves from the square.”
Half the men remaining at the funeral gathered with the captain. The others remained behind, grumbling, hurling insults, casting a tense gaze toward the lieutenant.
They were Loyalists, scared, eager to save their own hides. It was a wonder the wolves had not detected their scent and gathered.
But what of Father? He was a Loyalist. Yet he was brave and kind, a man of honor. Decorated for his valor during the Seven Years’ War.
From the tree, she had a clear view of Hamilton. He tipped his hat toward her, his slow, deliberate action a balm to her heart. She understood his intent without words.
Thank you for being here.
“Men of Ninety Six.” Twimball mounted his horse, riding among those gathering with Captain Irwin. “If you do not join with the Crown, you will face a traitor’s death. Isn’t the death of your reverend enough of a warning? What more do you need?”
“Don’t listen to him, men. He’s using tactics of fear and intimidation.” Captain Irwin showed no fear. “He’s the devil in a red coat.”
From the heavens, the clouds responded with a loud clap.
“Enough!” Hamilton left his aunt Mary, barging forward without care between the factions. “Let us have no more of this today. Lieutenant Twimball, with regard to your duties, can you not see your way clear to stand down? You are a stranger here and—”
“I am no stranger to the commands of my major. I cannot stand down when disgruntled enemies of the crown are gathered.”
A musket boomed. Feminine screams swam through the air. Masculine commands ordered every man to battle.
Twimball raised his musket. “Fire!”
“No, stop! Stop!” Esther ran forward without pause or consideration, arms flailing, crying out from her heart. “You cannot . . . Stop! At once.”
“Esther!” Hamilton. Racing toward her.
“Hamilton!”
Musket fire bandied in the air, but a near, distinct sound that reverberated in her ears caused her to swerve to see Lieutenant Twimball on his mount, musket raised . . .
Crying out, she gripped her shoulder, a fierce burn shooting down her arm and through her torso.
She could not breathe. Above her, the clouds expelled a flash of light, then a raindrop, a heavenly tear, splashed against her face.
Hamilton . . .
9
HAMILTON
He carried her up Slathersby’s high, stone steps, drenched from the rain, Esther’s blood draining down his hand and soaking his white sleeve. He kicked the door with his booted foot.
“Sir Michael!”
The door swung open, and Sassy stood on the other side. “Lord have mercy, what happened?” Inhaling a throaty gasp, she headed toward the staircase. “Come this way, Mr. Hamilton. Isaac! Bring the doctoring kit. Kitch? Boil some water!”
“Twimball shot her.”
Sassy paused on the stairs. “On purpose? Sir Michael! You best come quick.” She hurried toward the second floor. “Esther’s done been shot. Mr. Hamilton, here, in here, set her on the bed.”
For a moment Esther’s eyes fluttered open, then closed, a sorrowful moan in her chest.
“Sassy, what the devil is all the yelling and stomping?” Sir Michael barged into the room. “Lightfoot, what are you doing—Esther!” He shoved Hamilton aside and sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed. “What has happened? Who did this?” He whirled to Hamilton, grabbing his coat collar with his big fists. “You? You did this?”
Hamilton inhaled but did not jerk away. “Would I be here if I did?”
“Then who? Which rebel fired upon my daughter?”
Isaa
c hurried into the room with the medical kit. “Dear Jesus above, help us.”
Sassy took the leather pouch from him. “Out! All of you. Let me get her undressed and doctored up. Sir Michael, you know Mr. Hamilton would never hurt our Esther. Now, out!”
Sir Michael released Hamilton and stepped from the room. “I’m sending for Dr. Rocourt.”
“He’s tending other patients,” Hamilton said, his tone low, controlled, denying his brewing ire. “Twimball and his band fired upon Uncle Laurence’s funeral procession.”
“Never. The British soldiers are gentlemen.”
“Ask any man, Sir Michael. Men you’ve known for years.” Hamilton started for the door with a final glance toward Esther. She seemed so weak and pale, a dark stain on her black gown. “Lieutenant Twimball shot her. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Perhaps he was aiming at you? Did you move Esther into harm’s way?”
“Perhaps his bullet was meant for me, but I was trying to save her.”
“Do you want her to bleed to death?” Sassy shoved them from the room and slammed the door behind them.
Hamilton descended the steps, the terror of Esther being shot mingling with his anger.
“Lightfoot! Do not walk away from me.”
The British redcoats were no gentlemen. He knew firsthand what atrocities they could perpetrate, and in thirteen years, not a lick had changed.
Hamilton shoved through the front door. He’d kill Twimball with his bare hands if he ever saw the lieutenant again. The man was a criminal, make no mistake.
“Lightfoot!” Sir Michael maintained his pursuit. “I demand an explanation.”
Hamilton’s foot slipped on the wet stone, the rain thick, falling fast. He caught himself on the wide, square porch post.
“An explanation? No, you demand your will. My reason was not to your liking, so you deem me a liar. But upon my word—”
“The word of a Lightfoot is folly.”
“—Lieutenant Twimball raised his musket and fired when your daughter was clearly in sight. How loyal are you now, sir?” Hamilton stepped near the man he had loved when he and Esther were younger. The man who had invited him, Uncle Laurence, and Aunt Mary to sit by the fire on winter nights, playing games and drinking cider. “You believe the king’s men have the corner on honor? Then you do not know men. For every soldier of honor on your side, there are two on ours. And every man of dishonor fighting the cause? You’ll find three or four wearing the king’s red, or the green of a dragoon.”
