“Don’t listen to him, men. He’s using tactics of fear and intimidation.” Captain Irwin showed no fear. “He’s the devil in a red coat.”
From the heavens, the clouds responded with a loud clap.
“Enough!” Hamilton left his aunt Mary, barging forward without care between the factions. “Let us have no more of this today. Lieutenant Twimball, with regard to your duties, can you not see your way clear to stand down? You are a stranger here and—”
“I am no stranger to the commands of my major. I cannot stand down when disgruntled enemies of the crown are gathered.”
A musket boomed. Feminine screams swam through the air. Masculine commands ordered every man to battle.
Twimball raised his musket. “Fire!”
“No, stop! Stop!” Esther ran forward without pause or consideration, arms flailing, crying out from her heart. “You cannot... Stop! At once.”
“Esther!” Hamilton. Racing toward her.
“Hamilton!”
Musket fire bandied in the air, but a near, distinct sound that reverberated in her ears caused her to swerve to see Lieutenant Twimball on his mount, musket raised...
Crying out, she gripped her shoulder, a fierce burn shooting down her arm and through her torso.
She could not breathe. Above her, the clouds expelled a flash of light, then a raindrop, a heavenly tear, splashed against her face.
Hamilton...
9
HAMILTON
He carried her up Slathersby’s high, stone steps, drenched from the rain, Esther’s blood draining down his hand and soaking his white sleeve. He kicked the door with his booted foot.
“Sir Michael!”
The door swung open, and Sassy stood on the other side. “Lord have mercy, what happened?” Inhaling a throaty gasp, she headed toward the staircase. “Come this way, Mr. Hamilton. Isaac! Bring the doctoring kit. Kitch? Boil some water!”
“Twimball shot her.”
Sassy paused on the stairs. “On purpose? Sir Michael! You best come quick.” She hurried toward the second floor. “Esther’s done been shot. Mr. Hamilton, here, in here, set her on the bed.”
For a moment Esther’s eyes fluttered open, then closed, a sorrowful moan in her chest.
“Sassy, what the devil is all the yelling and stomping?” Sir Michael barged into the room. “Lightfoot, what are you doing—Esther!” He shoved Hamilton aside and sat on the edge of his daughter’s bed. “What has happened? Who did this?” He whirled to Hamilton, grabbing his coat collar with his big fists. “You? You did this?”
Hamilton inhaled but did not jerk away. “Would I be here if I did?”
“Then who? Which rebel fired upon my daughter?”
Isaac hurried into the room with the medical kit. “Dear Jesus above, help us.”
Sassy took the leather pouch from him. “Out! All of you. Let me get her undressed and doctored up. Sir Michael, you know Mr. Hamilton would never hurt our Esther. Now, out!”
Sir Michael released Hamilton and stepped from the room. “I’m sending for Dr. Rocourt.”
“He’s tending other patients,” Hamilton said, his tone low, controlled, denying his brewing ire. “Twimball and his band fired upon Uncle Laurence’s funeral procession.”
“Never. The British soldiers are gentlemen.”
“Ask any man, Sir Michael. Men you’ve known for years.” Hamilton started for the door with a final glance toward Esther. She seemed so weak and pale, a dark stain on her black gown. “Lieutenant Twimball shot her. I saw it with my own eyes.”
