She was young in her faith, and Mr. Crumbly’s wisdom helped her navigate the truths she could not always see or feel.
At the window, she peered toward the guesthouse. A silhouette passed through the long, evening shadows. Two male forms carried boxes from a car into the small house.
In a few seconds every window beamed with yellow light. Chloe dived for her phone and texted Dad.
Is someone moving into the guesthouse?
One of the men walked out to the car for a final load.
Her phone pinged an answer from Dad.
Yes.
Who? Mr. Crumbly?
He’s gone for a year.
She waited. When Dad offered no more explanation, Chloe started toward the guesthouse to find out for herself. Dad was generous. He often opened up the main house for people to stay, but the guesthouse, well, it was special to Mr. Crumbly. Chloe teased Dad that he hoped the kind missionary would put a good word in to the Almighty for him.
“Never hurts to have a connection,”he’d say.
Voices bounced within the guesthouse as she knocked on the door, slightly ajar. After a second, Chloe pushed in.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
A familiar form came from the bedroom. Jesse.
He paused, staring at her, blue eyes wide. She exhaled and fell against the door. Then, in unison they said, “What are you doing here?”
ESTHER
August 1780
Esther.” Father roused her from sleep, his Brown Bess tucked under his arm, the moon’s glow spilling into her room. “Wake up.”
“W-whatever is the matter?” Esther shoved aside her thin blanket and reached for her robe, the scar tissue stretching beneath her healing wound.
“Rebels are approaching the house.” He offered his hand and led her quietly down the hall. “Take the back stairs to the cellar. Can you make it, love?”
“Rebels? Coming here?”
Father left her for a moment to peer out a second-floor window. “Do not make a light. And mind your movements.” He took hold of her hand once more. “Isaac is on alert, and I see no light in their cabin. They may well have gone to their cellar.”
Esther paused on the first step. “How do you find your loyalties so devoted after what they did to Reverend Lightfoot? After Lieutenant Twimball shot me?”
“Please, Esther, I cannot argue with you now. Hurry now, love. The rebel militia from the lowcountry has arrived, and we can be most certain they are not our friends or neighbors.”
Rough, masculine shouts rose from the front lawn. A chill slithered down Esther’s back as the eerie glow of torchlights flickered through the windows.
Had they come to burn Loyalist homes in Ninety Six? To burn Slathersby Hill? As revenge for what happened to Reverend Lightfoot?
Holding on to the railing, she inched down the narrow stairwell as heavy footsteps sounded on the veranda. She froze, holding her breath, fearing she’d cry out.
“Check the kitchen. Gather all the food,” a man said. “You, Private, check for weapons and gunpowder. A Tory home is bound to have a stockpile.”
No... no, we do not.Food, yes, but Lieutenant Twimball recently acquired all Father’s ammunition. He had to plead for enough reserve to fill his Brown Bess.
Father tiptoed past her, finger to his lips, motioning for her to follow. There was a cellar entrance from the parlor just to the right of the back stairs.
