She and Mrs. Lightfoot left at dawn, pushing brave Gulliver to his limit to make the journey in a day. Eighty miles.
Last night, after Father had gone to bed, Esther gathered food and supplies, loading them into the wagon herself. But she did not escape Isaac’s notice.
“If Father asks, tell him I’m taking Mrs. Lightfoot to see Hamilton.”
“He ain’t going to be pleased.” Isaac hoisted the baskets of bread, dried fruit, and meat into the wagon, followed by the bedding and blankets, bandages, and a few of Father’s old shirts and trousers.
“I’d like at least a day’s lead, if you can manage it.”
“If I can manage it.”
Now Esther faced the surgeon’s home. “Shall we go in?”
Mrs. Lightfoot took the first step. She’d been silent most of the trip, yet confessing every hour or so, “He’s all I have, Esther. He’s all I have.”
Before they reached the porch, a small, weary-looking woman opened the door. Her blond hair, frayed and dull, needed a wash and a comb. Dark stains smothered the apron covering what may have once been a vibrant, blue dress. “We’ve no room. No food. None that can be spared. You’ll have to move on.”
“No, no, ma’am, we came to help.” Esther made the introductions. “We’ve brought food, supplies, bandages, and poultices.”
“What?” Her voice broke with gratitude. “Who sent you? Where are you from?”
“Down Ninety Six way,” Mrs. Lightfoot said. “My nephew is here. So I’ve been told. Hamilton Lightfoot. A militiaman.”
“He’s here, yes. Please come in. My husband is with him now. You say you have food? Supplies?”
“In the wagon. Is there anyone to help unload?”
The house was small, cold, and pungent with body odors. Soldiers in soiled uniforms slept in a row along the parlor floor. Several more—militiamen—languished on the stairs, bandages around their hands or arms, sipping broth from clay bowls.
“My sons, Bobby and Simms, can unload when they’ve finished in the barn. We can’t keep up with all the chores around here.” She untied her apron and ran her hand over her hair. “Since the wounded arrived, I’ve not had time to wash or clean. I’m not sure I can even offer you a cup of coffee.”
“Mrs. Nelson, do not trouble yourself,” Mrs. Lightfoot said. “We want to be no burden.”
“I brought tea and coffee, along with cider,” Esther said.
“Tea?” One of the soldiers perked up.
Another echoed, “Cider?”
But Esther remained intent on her mission. Another moment of anticipation and she would burst. “Is it possible, Mrs. Nelson, to see Hamilton?”
“Of course, of course. He’s upstairs, first door on the right.” Mrs. Nelson seized Esther as she started forward. Emotion moved across her eyes.
“Steel yourself.”
Esther swallowed. “What will I find?”
“He’s weak, thin, hasn’t bathed in a good while, and his injury... quite severe. He’s in and out of consciousness. But he’s alive. Only on the battlefield for thirty minutes, but that day will live with him forever.”
“Mercy.” Mrs. Lightfoot swooned. “I believe I need to sit down.”
A Continental soldier with a bandaged head offered his spot on the settee.
Esther hesitated, then started for the steps.
“You kin to Lightfoot?” The man on the bottom step spoke. “Hamilton Lightfoot?”
“The woman on the settee is his aunt. I’m his... friend.”
