by Rachel Hauck
But in truth, it would only be a matter of time before they were discovered. Surely the soldiers would inspect the cellar. Esther tugged on her father’s sleeve, motioning up. She’d be safer returning to her room.
But he shook his head, patting Brown Bess, and continued down. One step creaked under his weight.
“Father—” He must not engage these militiamen. He was not the young, virile soldier of the past. Esther pressed her hands into the thick, plaster wall covered with a gold and red paper. She’d chosen the pattern herself at fifteen. If only she could disappear into it now.
“Father.” She dug her fingers into his sleeve. “We are trapped. We must go up—”
“To where?” His hot whisper brushed her face. “They will find us.” Father raised his musket and dashed down the remaining stairs and into the kitchen. “Stop or I will shoot. You are trespassing.”
A chorus of musket clicks answered. Esther flattened against the wall, perspiration beading over her brow and down her neck. Should she go back up? Leave Father to defend himself? If only she had a musket. Though Father had taught her to shoot, Hamilton had schooled her further in the summers after the planting was done.
“Lower your weapon, sir. We merely want food and ammunition.”
“My food and ammunition are for those in the king’s army. You are trespassing. I demand you depart at once.”
More footsteps, more soldiers traipsed through the house. Father! He was outmanned.
Drawing her robe closer, she tiptoed down, easing toward the kitchen. She should run for Isaac and Kitch, if they were not already alerted and on their way.
Hesitation may cost Father. Haste, however, earned her a bullet wound. Her pulse rushed, stirring her adrenaline and nerves as she inched around the kitchen door.
The click of a musket hammer ignited her courage, and she barged into the room, into the silvery, eerie light of the moon.
“Please,” she said, arms around Father. “Take what you want, but let there be no killing.” She scanned the dark and ghostly forms of the patriot militia, four unwelcome men in her home.
“Esther!” Father pressed her behind him just before ramming the butt of his gun into the chest of the nearest man, a boy really. He stumbled back, flailing to steady himself. “My daughter bears the scar of a rebel bullet. Haven’t you done enough damage? Shown dishonor to your cause?”
“We heard it was a redcoat what shot your daughter.” The soldier leading the charge towered over Father, and for a moment Esther thought her strong, forceful, proud-warrior papa would capitulate. “Lower your weapon.”
“Father, let them take what they want and be away.” Esther pressed her back to the wall, the wound in her shoulder pulling and throbbing.
“Take nothing,” Father said, “and go.”
A sound echoed from outside, and the kitchen door opened with a fresh burst of night air, followed by the smack of a fist, the moan of a man, and the thud of a body hitting the floor.
The four militiamen swung around, guns raised. There stood Lieutenant Twimball, a British soldier on either side of him, bearing arms. “So, we have rebel prisoners without firing a shot.”
“We only came for food and—”
“We’ve prisoners without firing a shot,” Twimball repeated.
At once, the militiamen, in their buckskins and moccasins and tricorn hats, charged Twimball and his men, knocking Father on his heels and into the cupboard. The kitchen became a brawl, a blasted battleground.
Esther sank to the floor, covering her ears from the crack of a wooden chair and the shatter of a china plate. “Stop! Won’t you stop!”
A shot rang out, and the brawling instantly ceased. Footsteps slipped over the floorboards, followed by the click of another musket being cocked.
She could not breathe. She could not. Was there to be more fighting and now killing in her house?
“Lower your firearm, Twimball.”
Esther lifted her head, the flickering flame of a lantern falling across the floor. Hamilton? His long, lean form emerged from the melee. A sharp light glinted off his rifle’s steel barrel. He was well. He was home!
“Lower yours, Lightfoot,” Twimball said, moving forward.
“Shoot him, Lieutenant!” Father commanded. “Shoot him and all these rebels.”
A steel-like hush settled over the kitchen.
“Well,” Hamilton said, setting his light on the table. “Shoot me if you have any courage.”
Esther shot to her feet and moved between the men, their faces shadowed and stern. “No! There will be no killing in my house.”
Twimball mocked with a throated laugh. “Once again she puts herself in harm’s way.”
“Then lower your weapon,” Hamilton said.
“After you’ve lowered yours.”
Hamilton lowered his gun with a side glance at Esther. “Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes.” She wanted to sound confident, but her simple answer waivered.
“The troops need food. Had I known they’d aim for Slathersby, I’d have diverted them.”
“Food or intelligence,” Twimball said. “Perhaps your commander wanted to spy on Sir Michael.” The lieutenant angled toward Father, who remained pressed into the corner as more rebels trailed in behind Hamilton. “Unless Sir Michael has changed his mind and now sides with the rebels.”
“Indeed not. This household is wholly devoted to Britain and the Crown,” Father fired back. “We aid and abet no rebels.”
“Still you swear allegiance to those who nearly killed your daughter.” Hamilton inched across the room, parting the arguing factions, going nose to nose with Lieutenant Twimball.
“She acted a fool,” Twimball declared. “Running into the fray. To save you perhaps? Are you a boy in need of a woman’s aid?”
“Does your Inspector General, Major Ferguson, know about your underhanded tactics?” Hamilton asked. “Disrupting a funeral? Firing on an innocent woman? Perhaps the British must kill women and children to gain victory.”
Twimball raised his chin. “Shall we take our fight outside?”
“A duel perhaps?”
“Duel? Are you mad?” Esther shoved between them, her entire body trembling. “Go your own ways. Save yourselves for the real battlefield.”
Hamilton took up his lamp, and she saw in his expression what he’d never confessed. Love. And fear. “Please,” she begged. “Each of you, return the way you came. Let this night pass in peace.”
He bore the slightest smile on his lips, along with a glint of pride in his eyes, as he nodded toward her. “You look well. Your shoulder has healed?”
“Yes, yes, but promise me, Hamilton. You will not—”
“Yes, promise her, Hamilton,” Twimball mimicked. “Surrender to her feminine wishes.”
Hamilton slowly turned. “I’ll see you on the battlefield.”
The two men stepped toward one another, shoulders back, chins raised. Esther released an involuntary sigh.
“Please, I beg of you, just go your way. Leave my father and me in peace.”
Except Hamilton, he could stay. She wanted to examine him in the light, ensure her heart he was well, with no wounds or scars—no harm from this mad war.
“Let us do as she bids.” Hamilton reached for Father’s Brown Bess. Raising it to his eye, he examined the frizzen in the flickering light. “If you aim to defend this house, I suggest you load your musket next time.” He tossed the gun back to Father, then tapped Twimball with the barrel of his rifle. “Until then, Lieutenant.”
“Where you will meet a coward’s end, I assure you.” Twimball knocked the rifle away, then roused his men. “We leave only on account of Sir Michael’s loyalty and that of his household.”
Grabbing his lamp, Hamilton disappeared into the shadows, departing with the militiamen.
“Lightfoot!” Father jumped forward, chasing him down the hall to the foyer. “Stay away from Slathersby Hill. You are not welcome here, Lightfoot!
Do you hear me? You and yours are traitors.”
Esther listened for his reply. ’Twas nothing more than the clap of a closing door.
When Father returned to the kitchen, Twimball and his men had also departed. Father lit a candle and aided Esther to her feet.
“He saved us, Father. You could be more gracious.”
“For all I know he sent those men here—”
“For all you know he did not.” Esther looped her arm with Father’s, her pulse slowing, the surge of cold anxiety ebbing.
“Confess to me at once,” Father said. “What is between you and Lightfoot? He says he loves you.”
“And I love him, Father. Though he be a Whig and a rebel, I cannot deny my affections.”
“Then gather your heart, daughter, because you won’t be wedding a Lightfoot. Not as long as I breathe.”
“Why? I may do as I please. I am of age and—”
“Esther!” Father’s voice boomed with a cannon’s force. “Be still. You will never have my agreement or blessing.”
She drew back, pulling her arm from his. “Never? But the Longfellows have been your friends for twenty years. You employed them, dined with them, worshipped with them. The sweat of Laurence Lightfoot is in the very house.”
“Leave it be, Esther.” Father started for the stairs. “Upon his death, Laurence and I were long since parted by politics and land.”
“Land? What’s this about land? Does it have anything to do with why you hover over your ledgers?” A gentleness replaced Esther’s frustration as Father paused on the second-floor landing, his shoulders drooping. “Is everything well with Lord Whatham?”
Father sighed, patting her hand, his thick palm warm and firm. “I’m suddenly quite weary. Haven’t we had enough excitement for now?”
Esther kissed Father good night. “You must know, Father, you are my papa and my dearest friend. I would never do anything without your blessing.” There, she assured him. Eased a bit of his angst.
“Of this I am assured, my darling.” His eyes glistened as he gathered his words. “Your mother wrote to me before you returned from England. She had hoped you would stay in Grosvenor Square and take your place in society. But I rejected her proposal. How terribly I missed you while you were gone. But now I wonder if I should’ve left you among your peers.”
“Neither she nor you could have made me stay. I planned to sail home with or without anyone’s consent.”
He raised his chin and gazed beyond the dark window, candlelight reflecting in the glass. “Yet you’ve come home to a war. And what do we offer a young woman of your breeding and station? Backwoods men, farmers, trappers, and traders? Half-breeds and traitors. In London, you’d be among your peers, perhaps court a man with a title and a Cambridge degree like your dear papa.”
“While I am British, a Loyalist, I am also a South Carolinian, Father. I love the upcountry. The land, the hills, the streams are my home. London is a jungle I do not know or wish to know.”
And yes, South Carolina gave her Hamilton. She’d bide her time with Father, let the war move on, but she would marry Hamilton Lightfoot. What was her future without him?
“Then I have failed you. The plan was never for you to remain here.”
“But here I am. You cannot make me return to London.” Her brash speech contained sufficient courage, but Esther knew well her submission to Father and his wishes. “As for Mother, she must deal with her own decisions. She was the one who decided I should sail to you at ten while she remained behind.”
“Her own mother was ill.”
“Grandmama had nothing more than a summer cold. If Mother cared about my place in society, about a possible marriage to a peer, then she never should have sent me away.” This was not her first conversation with Father about Mother’s distance from them.
“I believed you’d discover her love for you while you were with her,” Father said. “Never doubt her affection and devotion. But she was raised with certain comforts and privileges that one cannot find in the backwoods of an American colony.”
“She loved herself more than us. How can you defend her?” Esther turned toward her room yet caught something unusual in Father’s expression. A sentimental smile. A jolly glint. “Father, what is it? Something I said? Something about Mother?”
“I know I’ve never spoken of this with you, Esther, but I love your mother. With every ounce of my being.”
“You are still married, but, Father, surely . . . You’ve not clapped eyes on her in seven years.”
“No, and I shall do my best to remedy our distance when this war is over. The upcountry demanded more of me than I originally imagined. But your mother and I, we . . . correspond.”
“Correspond?”
Father nodded once, facing away. “You’re an adult now, as you so pointedly like to tell me, so I suppose you will understand. We pen love letters. Often, I receive a dozen or more from her when the post arrives.”
“Love letters?” Esther stepped back, as if she’d peered into a forbidden intimacy. “Then I don’t understand why—”
“Good night, Esther.” Father handed her the candle, adjusted the Brown Bess in the crook of his elbow, and slipped away. “I best load this gun in case Hamilton returns.”
“How can he? You forbade him.”
Father paused in the moonlight. “He loves you, and I suspect he knows you love him. A man armed with knowledge is strong, driven. He will return.”
“Then you are coming around to my view?”
“No, my dear, I am as against you as before. In fact, I’m starting to come around to your mother’s way of thinking. Perhaps I should send you home once and for all.”
“Good night, Father.” Esther slammed her door and set the candle on her night table with a clatter.
Send her home. Indeed. She’d refuse to go. Why, she’d run away. With Hamilton.
Taking stationery from her desk, Esther dipped her quill in the ink bottle and wrote a brief note to the man she loved.
Are you home for a season? May we meet at the willow?
Allowing for the ink to dry, she tucked the missive under her pillow with plans to send Kitch on an errand tomorrow.
After blowing out the candle, she whispered her prayers, the events of the night already drifting away, slumber claiming her as the voice of her beloved called from her dreams.
14
HAMILTON
October 15, 1780
He wore the battle of King’s Mountain like a millstone, heavy and suffocating. Struggling to hold his head up, Hamilton urged Tilly toward home. Rounding the bend, the old girl moved from a trot to a gallop.
Yet he reined in the horse, patting her gently on the neck. “Easy, we’ll be home soon enough.”
He’d not seen Quill Farm since the night he disarmed the threat at Slathersby Hill. He’d meant to lodge with Aunt Mary for a short season, check on the dealings with the farm, meet Esther at their willow . . . but Captain Irwin urged him to stay with the Upper Ninety Six, so he moved north with them, scouting, preparing, and awaiting orders.
He’d received Esther’s short note well after he’d departed, replying with his own brief letter.
I trust you are well. I’ve moved on with the Upper Ninety Six. Tell your Father to keep his Musket loaded and take care, My Friend. Hamilton
But tonight he was coming home. The light of the October dusk spread a purple haze over the burnished countryside, the last of the day’s warmth beginning to fade.
Breathing in, Hamilton could almost smell Aunt Mary’s baking bread and roasting chicken.
In the aftermath of King’s Mountain, he was bruised, worn, and torn. His right arm had taken a saber slash, which the field surgeon mended, though he had more pressing demands with the dead and dying.
He needed a clean bandage and one of Aunt Mary’s poultices. And a solid meal. Hot and hearty.
King’s Mountain. A bloody brawl he longed to forget, but he feared his actions there would haunt
him forever.
After the enemy’s surrender, ’twas nothing but sheer brutality. By his patriot brethren, not the green-vested British dragoons who murdered and pillaged their way through the south.
No, this destruction was wrought by his countrymen. A seething revenge for the destruction done at Hill’s Ironworks and the torching of churches.
And Hamilton, who had fought with honor until then, almost lost himself in his brothers’ savagery.
Coming round the bend, Tilly tossed her head with a whinny. Aunt Mary’s gelding, Achilles, stuck his head out the stall window and returned her call.
“Pray God there’s hay for you, girl.” And forgiveness for me. And a washing. For both body and soul.
Hamilton reined in Tilly as he passed the shortcut to the willow. Esther. How he missed her, longed to see her.
He’d tried again to write her a love letter after the Slathersby confrontation, but the words would not come. The course of putting his deepest emotions down on paper, exposing his heart for any and all to see, revealed vulnerabilities he cared not to navigate.
Besides, how could he pledge his life to her now when he’d pledged his duty to his country? Again Captain Irwin prevailed upon him to stay with the Upper Ninety Six, and Hamilton had agreed. He must finish what he started.
But for now he was going home. Tilly broke into a run, and Hamilton leaned into her motion, ducking as she ran straight into the barn and to her stall, touching her nose to Achilles’.
He found the sack of oats and scooped her a hearty dinner, grateful to find the barn stocked. Moses and Ox were skilled workers with resources even Hamilton did not have. They kept the hay loft full and the oat buckets brimming.
His stomach growled for his own dinner as he wiped her down, but first he needed a washing before he went inside Aunt Mary’s clean home.
Hamilton crossed the barnyard, the chickens clucking out of his way, then dropped his rifle, dagger, and cartridge belt by the well. His haversack slipped from his shoulder.
With care, he removed his shirt, the wind skirting past with the scent of fall, stirring the red, gold, and orange foliage—a beauty he once treasured. But now it was tainted with the blood of men. Of what he’d almost done.
