“I will obtain the land, Hamilton. One way or another.”
“The farm is mine and Aunt Mary’s now.” Hamilton backed away from the house with a tip of his hat. This exchange was over. “Your quarrel, I’m afraid, is with a dead man.”
“Then you can forget your affections for my Esther,” Sir Michael called after him. “And I blame you, Lightfoot, for her being shot. She’d not have been in town save for you. Keep your distance from her. I say,keepyour distance.”
Hamilton walked on, the rain cooling his rage. Sir Michael was right. He must bear the blame. He had not protected her, nor rushed her to safety when the funeral turned to fighting. He cared only for his own grief.
Now his hands were stained red. With her blood. Twimball and his men would answer to the Almighty, make no mistake, but he would not escape judgment either.
Coming to the road, he paused. To his left, Ninety Six and the tavern where Captain Irwin recruited for the cause.
To his right, Quill Farm, where Uncle Laurence and Aunt Mary had taken him in as their own child. It was a place to think and pray, if he dared. With a sigh, he glanced back at Slathersby Hill, then took the road toward home.
The house was dark and quiet. Sorrow filled the emptiness.
“Aunt Mary?”
He ran upstairs two at a time. She’d not yet returned home. Back down in the kitchen, Hamilton filled the wash basin with cold water from the well, then stripped off his shirt. With soap scooped from the tub, he scrubbed his hands, his face and neck, his arms, then his hair. He must... must... must wash away the sorrow and bloody stain of the day.
Memories from his childhood surfaced. Scenes of his pa’s quarrel with an arrogant Englishman in a red coat.
Snapping a towel from the rod, he dried off and paced, echoes of his conversation with Sir Michael resounding.
Was everyone he held most dear to be killed? Wounded? Was he cursed in some manner? First Papa by a bayonet, then Mama andlittle sister, Betsy, by a fire. And Uncle Laurence, also by a fire. Now Esther, shot, bleeding.
He sat at the kitchen table. “Will you forever chase me, death? What must I do to escape your tendrils?”
Hearing a sound outside, he jolted to his feet to find young James Carter standing in the lean-to with wide, blue eyes.
“There’s a meeting at the tavern. My pa sent me to fetch you.”
“What for?”
“Don’t know, sir.” With that, the boy was gone, the rhythm of his pony racing down the muddy road leaving a heavy echo in the wind.
Propped against the door, Hamilton stared toward the barn. If he had any gumption, any energy, he’d saddle Tilly and get to it. But his body felt like lead, as if a chain of despair anchored him to something he could not see nor feel.
“I see they sent the Carter boy for you.” Aunt Mary entered the kitchen, her face ashen, her dress soaked and clinging to her frail frame. Her silver and gold hair fell from its pins and curled about her face. Mud clung to the hem of her skirt.
“They did, but I won’t go.” Hamilton helped her to her chair. “How do you fare?”
“He’s gone, Hamilton.” Circles of grief rimmed her eyes. She tried to smile, but there was no truth in it. “I cannot remember a time without him.” She rose up, taking a meat pie from the larder. “We were as you and Esther, friends from childhood.”
“You don’t have to prepare a meal. You’ve just laid your husband to rest.”
“We must eat. Going hungry will not bring him back. I did not feed the mourners. So I must feed my nephew.” She pressed her hand to his cheek. “You should go to the tavern.”
He recognized the shadows in her eyes. He saw the same darkness whenever he peered into the looking glass.
“I won’t go with them.” His confession rang familiar, but not so true. Was he merely being stubborn? Choosing passivity from achild’s perspective and not a man’s? Was he giving due respect to the cause? But could he... fight with honor?
“Do you stay away from the war because of your pa? And now your uncle? They would want you to fight. Laurence was just saying he intended to speak to you about going along with Irwin and the militia. He was, as your pa, an ardent patriot.”
“How can I go? Leave you, a widow, alone? Who will tend the chores and—”
“Excuses, my boy. I’m strong and able. I have Ox and Moses. They’re too old to fight and they have their freedom, such as it is.” The mulatto brothers had a home down by the creek, their manumission papers framed and hung over the fireplace. “Mrs. Reed will come and assist me. I’ll not be alone.”
“You sound as if you want me to go.”
