“He’s buried in the field.”
Hamilton sighed, collapsing against the pillows with a surge of emotion. He had no use for Twimball. None. But now that he was gone...
“I wonder if at any other time we might have been friends.”
“You did your duty,” the surgeon said. “On that you can rest assured.”
His tears slipped to the corners of his eyes. “Rest assured? ’Tis a dream. I’m not sure I will ever rest again. Let alone with any assurance. I have lost my leg. How am I to work? To care for my family? My aunt is a widow. Her farm has recently been stolen from her, and I am all she has to keep her from shame and starvation. If I cannot work, I cannot eat. If I cannot eat, I starve. We all starve.”
“Surely there are charities—”
“Charities? For the rest of my life? I cannot expect nor accept it.” He grabbed a fistful of air. “I want to work, to farm, to marry and raise a family. But with one swipe of an Englishman’s sword, ’tis gone. All of it.”
“You will heal. The leg will support a prosthesis, a peg. I’ve seen—”
“A peg? What work can a man do with a wooden leg? The work will take twice, nay, three times as long.”
“You’ve workers, don’t you?”
“Do you mean slaves? We do not. We are abolitionists. We hire laborers, but such an expense will eat into my profits, should there be any.” He fixed on what remained of his leg with loathing. “And what of Esther? How can I marry her now?”
“I saw your Esther when she arrived with your aunt. She seemed most devoted. Do not discount her loyalty.”
“Hamilton, you must be famished.” Aunt Mary came through the doorway, a tray in her hand, anxiety in her eyes. “Dr. Nelson, your wife prepared the concoction and poultice you wanted.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lightfoot.” The surgeon reached for the cup on the tray. “Drink this. Then you must take the broth.” He settled the cup in Hamilton’s hand. “When I was your age, I too believed I had the world sorted out. But indeed, I did not. I never imagined myself living in the backcountry of South Carolina. I was Harvard trained and educated. The southern colonies were for despots and the poor. But life, or the good Lord, had other plans for me.”
“What sort of good Lord would do this to a man?” Hamilton peered into the cup, then downed the golden-brown brew, the liquid both sweet and sour, burning as it went down. A warmth flowed through him as he took up the heady broth. “I depend on myself now. The ways of the Lord are not good. He took my pa and ma, my sister, my uncle. Now my leg, which will cost me more than I can afford.” He gulped the hot broth, caring not how it burned his mouth. “I used to say, what good can come from redcoats? Now I wonder, what good can come from God?”
The surgeon patted Hamilton’s good leg. Dare he say, his only leg. “You must endure this trial of faith. You’re not abandoned in your hardship. All the more to look to the Almighty.”
“I’ve had my fill of trial. Will faith give me a leg? A wife and children? The return of Quill Farm? Nay, f-f-faith is... for... f-f-fools.” He struggled with his protest as sleep began to overtake him. “Wh-what was in your concoction... Surgeon?”
The cup slipped from his fingers, and as he drifted down, down, down and away, a voice called to him through the haze, “Come, follow me.”
MARY
She pressed her forehead against the door, tears dripping from her chin. Her boy, Hamilton, the closest she’d ever come to a son, was broken, crushed. From the outside in.
How could God be so cruel to him? Losing his parents and sister, then his uncle, and now his leg. How much must one man be required to bear? She patted her pocket, where she’d stowed Esther’s letter.
What of her own pain? Barren, called to raise another woman’s child, which she did with joy! Let it not go unsaid. She welcomed young Hamilton into her heart without reservation.
But now she was a widow with nothing but her small farm and lame nephew. She lived amid a war both public and private. Whatever Laurence had done to acquire the land by the creek, it stirred Sir Michael’s ire and set him on a war path.
Then the man tricked her into signing a document surrendering the farm to him. What a fool she’d been.
Mary needed Hamilton, his masculine presence and wisdom. And he needed her.
So she must gather her wits and contend for what was hers. She’d not be left to live in squalor, a barren, old widow.
Pressing her fist to her lips, sensing herself yielding to selfish darkness, she fought the tug within her breast.
She carried Hamilton’s tray down to the kitchen, thanking Mrs. Nelson for her good broth. Walking outside, she found the Nelson boys building a fire, tossing on clothes and bandages that could never be washed clean.
She patted her pocket as a thought flashed. No. She could not.Mary, you are of better character.
What she and Laurence had built from the ground up out of the wild backcountry of South Carolina was proof. But they were young and in love, full of dreams. They left Virginia with hope in their hearts of preaching the gospel to the heathens and unsaved.
