He exhaled, falling against the pillow. “Ralphie. He must have done as I bid and carried the letter to her.”
“Of course, there is your answer. Now, let me bring you sustenance. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner we can go home and stop burdening the surgeon and his wife.”
When she’d gone, Hamilton tried to read the paper, but his thoughts drifted to the battlefield, to Twimball lowering his sword.
The day beyond the window was bright—clear and hopeful. A bit of food to strengthen him and he’d be himself again, able to ride home and claim Esther.
Having done his bit for the war, he’d return home a free man. A free, American man. Free to fall in love, to marry, to raise Lightfoot children.
What he must do was reacquire Quill Farm. Blast if he’d pay ten pounds a month to rent his own land.
His letter. He must check for himself among his coat and haversack. To be sure Ralphie indeed carried the note to its intended.
Struggling to sit upright—his legs were stiff and uncooperative—Hamilton pushed from the bed, swung his legs over the side, and planted his right foot on the cold floor, then his left, stretching against his aches and pains.
As he stood, his arms flailed as he toppled forward, desperate to catch himself before slamming down on the floor.
But he crashed with a thud.
“Blast!” He gripped the edge of the bed and sat up, a dull, aching pain seizing his left leg while his toes tingled with a fiery sensation.
Pressing up, he tried again to stand, seeing then a vacancywhere his left leg used to be. No knee, no shin. No foot. Only a bloody bandaged stump.
His cry burst his lungs. “What have you done to me?” He hammered the floor with his fist. “Surgeon! Surgeon! What have you done?”
The clock on the desk ticked the time. One second. Two seconds.
“Surgeon!” Again, he hammered the floor, the pain against his knuckles a fair price to pay. “Where is my leg?” A fresh crimson stream of blood stained the bandage. “Someone! Tell me where my leg has gone. Aunt Mary!”
The door burst open and the surgeon, along with an ambulatory private who had only a bandage around his head, grabbed Hamilton under his arms.
“Where is my leg? I demand an answer. Why do my toes tingle when they are not there?”
“Let me settle you in your bed, Hamilton. On three, Private. One, two, three.”
Blood stained the sheet where his leg, hisstump, had rested. The sight, the realization swarmed him.
“I believe I’m going to be sick.”
The surgeon sat him on the edge of the mattress and reached for a pail. Hamilton wretched but expelled nothing from his empty insides.
Nothing but his fear. His disgust. His poverty of being.
“Your aunt is coming with broth.” The surgeon situated him against the pillows. “What were you trying to do? Didn’t she tell you to remain in bed?”
“She said nothing.” He caught the surgeon’s hand as the man tried to install a blanket over him. “My leg. Where is my leg, you butcher?”
“You took a sword slice and it could not be saved. Your friends tried, but the damage was too great.” The surgeon sat next to the bed. “Do you remember the events of the battle?”
“No... some... yes. I remember Lieutenant Twimball. His sword is responsible for the wounds on my arm and face.”
“And your leg.”
“He swung at me, though I did not believe he’d done much harm.”
“Your brothers-in-arms say you were valiant, and when you had opportunity to fire upon him, you lowered your pistol. It was a young Ralphie Standish who shot him.”
“Ralphie. And what of Twimball?”
