But in truth, it would only be a matter of time before they were discovered. Surely the soldiers would inspect the cellar. Esther tugged on her father’s sleeve, motioning up. She’d be safer returning to her room.
But he shook his head, patting Brown Bess, and continued down. One step creaked under his weight.
“Father—” He must not engage these militiamen. He was not the young, virile soldier of the past. Esther pressed her hands into the thick, plaster wall covered with a gold and red paper. She’d chosen the pattern herself at fifteen. If only she could disappear into it now.
“Father.” She dug her fingers into his sleeve. “We are trapped. We must go up—”
“To where?” His hot whisper brushed her face. “They will find us.” Father raised his musket and dashed down the remaining stairs and into the kitchen. “Stop or I will shoot. You are trespassing.”
A chorus of musket clicks answered. Esther flattened against the wall, perspiration beading over her brow and down her neck. Should she go back up? Leave Father to defend himself? If only shehad a musket. Though Father had taught her to shoot, Hamilton had schooled her further in the summers after the planting was done.
“Lower your weapon, sir. We merely want food and ammunition.”
“My food and ammunition are for those in the king’s army. You are trespassing. I demand you depart at once.”
More footsteps, more soldiers traipsed through the house. Father! He was outmanned.
Drawing her robe closer, she tiptoed down, easing toward the kitchen. She should run for Isaac and Kitch, if they were not already alerted and on their way.
Hesitation may cost Father. Haste, however, earned her a bullet wound. Her pulse rushed, stirring her adrenaline and nerves as she inched around the kitchen door.
The click of a musket hammer ignited her courage, and she barged into the room, into the silvery, eerie light of the moon.
“Please,” she said, arms around Father. “Take what you want, but let there be no killing.” She scanned the dark and ghostly forms of the patriot militia, four unwelcome men in her home.
“Esther!” Father pressed her behind him just before ramming the butt of his gun into the chest of the nearest man, a boy really. He stumbled back, flailing to steady himself. “My daughter bears the scar of a rebel bullet. Haven’t you done enough damage? Shown dishonor to your cause?”
“We heard it was a redcoat what shot your daughter.” The soldier leading the charge towered over Father, and for a moment Esther thought her strong, forceful, proud-warrior papa would capitulate. “Lower your weapon.”
“Father, let them take what they want and be away.” Esther pressed her back to the wall, the wound in her shoulder pulling and throbbing.
“Take nothing,” Father said, “and go.”
A sound echoed from outside, and the kitchen door opened with a fresh burst of night air, followed by the smack of a fist, the moan of a man, and the thud of a body hitting the floor.
The four militiamen swung around, guns raised. There stood Lieutenant Twimball, a British soldier on either side of him, bearing arms. “So, we have rebel prisoners without firing a shot.”
“We only came for food and—”
“We’ve prisoners without firing a shot,” Twimball repeated.
At once, the militiamen, in their buckskins and moccasins and tricorn hats, charged Twimball and his men, knocking Father on his heels and into the cupboard. The kitchen became a brawl, a blasted battleground.
Esther sank to the floor, covering her ears from the crack of a wooden chair and the shatter of a china plate. “Stop! Won’t you stop!”
A shot rang out, and the brawling instantly ceased. Footsteps slipped over the floorboards, followed by the click of another musket being cocked.
She could not breathe. She could not. Was there to be more fighting and now killing in her house?
“Lower your firearm, Twimball.”
Esther lifted her head, the flickering flame of a lantern falling across the floor. Hamilton? His long, lean form emerged from the melee. A sharp light glinted off his rifle’s steel barrel. He was well. He was home!
“Lower yours, Lightfoot,” Twimball said, moving forward.
“Shoot him, Lieutenant!” Father commanded. “Shoot him and all these rebels.”
A steel-like hush settled over the kitchen.
