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 duringthe 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 herfather. 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?
