“I hit a captain.” His voice was rushed and high-pitched.
“No time for glory. Reload.”
Dragging in a steadying breath, Hamilton waited for the next group of men to fire. Upon their retreat, he’d take his second shot.
As the third line fired and turned, Lieutenant Twimball rode into the trees, his saber raised, riding toward Ralphie.
With a shout, Hamilton leaped to his feet, exposing his position. He fired as Twimball turned his mount and rode toward him.
The bullet clipped the lieutenant’s shoulder, and he fell back with a cry. Hamilton retreated, his senses on fire, every bone blazing.
Back to the tree, he reloaded his gun. Then a shadow crested over his body, and he looked up to see Twimball lowering his sword, slashing through Hamilton’s left arm.
With a cry, he lurched backward, his rifle soaring through the air. “Twimball!”
“Come from your hiding, Lightfoot. If you’re soldier enough.” The lieutenant bolted away in retreat, riding along the right side of the field, finding cover among the trees as the next round of skirmishers took aim.
Shaking, Hamilton gripped his arm, blood oozing through his fingers, and tried to assess the magnitude of his wound. And where had his gun landed?
“He got you good.” Ralphie knelt next to him, tearing the edge of his blouse and making a tourniquet for Hamilton’s arm.
“Leave me be. Go to your duty. Fire your final round.”
“I can’t leave you—”
“To your duty, Ralphie.”
The boy scrambled away. When the last volley ended, the skirmishers were done.
“Retreat!”
“Hamilton, make haste.” Ralphie urged him to his feet. “They are upon us.”
“My rifle.” Hamilton pointed to the open spot among the trees. “Where’s my rifle?”
“You’ve no time. Come! We’ve lured them in.”
So he ran with the skirmishers, leaning against Ralphie, drawing the charging redcoats toward General Morgan and the waiting Continentals.
The air popped with musket fire, scenting it with gunpowder.
In the race toward the waiting troops, Hamilton swerved around a stand of trees toward the maple swamp. Once again he was confronted by Twimball on his steed, rising up and pawing the air.
With a roar, Hamilton leaped toward him, yanking him from his horse.
The lieutenant kicked and struggled, and he landed headfirst on the ground. When he hopped to his feet, Hamilton jerked his pistol from his belt and aimed. His left sleeve was soaked with blood and his right hand unsteady.
Twimball retrieved the pistol lodged in his own waistband.
“Shall you kill me as you killed my uncle?” Hamilton said, taking one slow step forward. “As you tried to kill Esther?”
The men circled one another, the sounds of clashing sabers and musket fire the music for their dance.
“Shall I listen to you? A traitor, a man of no honor? You think I didn’t learn of your actions at King’s Mountain?”
“My actions?” But Hamilton knew he was just as guilty of wanting to kill the surrendered as those who actually did.
Hate, the Good Book said, was the same as murder.
