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 SlathersbyHill. 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 movedby 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 knownotof 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 prayers 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?”
