Chloe slid over next to him, lifting his arm around her shoulders and cradling herself against his chest, resting her cheek over his heart, and together they sat in silence and simply breathed.
18
HAMILTON
Hannah’s Cowpens
South Carolina Colony
January 16, 1781
It was an eve like none other. A victory at dawn could very well turn the tide of this tense conflict.
Hamilton warmed himself by the fire, the cold settling in his bones. The men with him, Georgia militiamen, said little as they stretched their hands toward the flames, shivering, perhaps more from fear than cold.
Next to him, Ralphie Standish, no more than a youth of seventeen, stared into the darkness, breathing into his cold, cupped hands. “Do you think we’ll sleep tonight?”
“We should try.” But Hamilton doubted he’d catch one wink. Not the way his adrenaline ebbed and flowed.
Other than the small stand of trees where he and the others sat, Hannah’s Cowpens was open ground. Perfect for cattle grazing. Perfect for battle.
The field appeared to be level, but a survey revealed the terrain sloped just beyond the maple swamp. General Morgan had built his strategy accordingly. Earlier that day he’d declared, “On this ground I will defeat the British or lay my bones.”
Hamilton had cradled his rifle in his arms, the barrel resting on his shoulder. Morgan made his duty, along with the other skirmishers, most clear.
“Let the enemy get within killing distance... fifty yards... then blaze away, especially men with epaulets.”
Imagining how he’d execute his duty, Hamilton felt at once both old and young. At twenty-two, his life stretched before him. Yet this may well be his last night on earth.
He reached into his haversack for his stationery and the stub of a pencil he’d brought along.
In the firelight, he began.
My dearest Esther,
But his thoughts drifted to Pa and Ma, to Betsy. To Uncle Laurence and Aunt Mary. To the Twenty-Third Psalm.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He wished for the eloquence of the psalmist David to express his longings. But he was a warrior. A deviant. Sweetness was far from him.
After the Christmas confrontation with Sir Michael at Slathersby Hill, he wrote to Esther, asking her to meet him at the willow. This time she declined. Hamilton didn’t blame her. Not when he added it all up. His contemptuous attitude toward her upon his return from King’s Mountain and his rude intrusion on Christmas Day.
Sir Michael sent Aunt Mary a lease—a lease!—allowing her to rent her own farm from the Whatham holdings for ten pounds a month. Ten pounds! ’Twas free and clear before his shenanigans.
Hamilton stirred, kicking another log onto the fire. Just thinking about it made him boil. When this battle was over, he’d devote every waking moment to discovering the truth.
Wilson Howard joined the circle. “Am I the only one wondering what we’re doing here facing a bunch of trained redcoats?”
Bradley Holmes, from Ninety Six, was a man of virtue and courage. He fought like the dickens at King’s Mountain yet did not participate in the murder of surrendered troops. “You were at King’sMountain, Howard,” Bradley said. “We defeated trained redcoats there and then some. Isn’t that right, Lightfoot?”
“Do not remind me.”
The voice of General Morgan brought the men to their feet. “Hello.” Hamilton’s letter drifted to the ground as the officer emerged from the trees.
“Be of cheer. You can do this, boys,” the general said. “Just hold your heads up and fire three shots. Then you’re free. When you return to your homes, the old folks will bless you, and the girls will kiss you for your gallant conduct.”
Around the fire, he shook each man’s hand before indicating Hamilton should follow him. When they were out of earshot, Morgan said, “Colonel Pickens tells me you fought valiantly at King’s Mountain. Assures me you’re a fine shot.”
