Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (8 page)

Parker interrupted him with a shake of his head that might have been general or specific. “Don't think about it. The situation was bound to come to shooting sooner or later. Either way, the Redcoats owe us a debt for what they did once the shooting started, and we plan to make them pay back every cent with interest.”

Proctor stared at his feet. The sounds of drums and muskets were much closer. He opened his mouth, unsure what he wanted to say, but Amos sidled between them.

“Being that's how you are with loans,” Amos said, “I
guess I shouldn't ask to borrow lead from you, though I don't have more than three shot left.”

Captain Parker laughed at that, and his laugh turned into a cough. Once his coughing stopped, he signaled for one of his men to come over. “We won't loan you shot, but we'll give it to you, how's that?”

“That'll suit just fine,” Amos said.

Proctor put his hand into his hunting bag and counted the lead balls—he could fire nine more times if he didn't double-shot. Then he checked his powder horn and saw that he didn't have nine measures left.

Gunfire peppered the road just west of them, and smoke from muskets marked the imminent arrival of British troops. Proctor scooted downslope and took cover behind a tree that none of the Lexington men had claimed yet.

The Redcoats rounded the bend, a jangled mass of men with bare bayonets followed by battle-scarred carriages bearing wounded soldiers trying to return fire despite their injuries.

Only one mounted officer proceeded as if everything were orderly, one man untouched by the hail of shot aimed at him. Even before Proctor saw the golden spark flashing near the officer's throat, he recognized Pitcairn. The major was holding the Redcoats’ retreat together by the example of his courage and the sheer force of his will.

“Fire!” Captain Parker shouted.

Proctor aimed but didn't pull his trigger. As the smoke thinned, he saw Pitcairn still untouched, though men around him had fallen.

While the militia reloaded, Pitcairn ordered his marines to take the hill. Militiamen in the first ditch screamed out as they were bayoneted. A thin red line moved into the trees.

Seeing a minuteman die on the hillside below him, Proctor thought about Munroe, and Everett, and that little blond fifer from Acton. As long as Pitcairn stayed mounted, he'd hold the British troops together and more good men
would die. And it wasn't right, wasn't fair, not with Pitcairn using witchcraft to protect himself. It was the same way some bullies wrapped themselves in a title like
Lord
and did as they pleased, and it made Proctor's teeth clench in anger.

But Pitcairn could be stopped.

Proctor grabbed Amos by the shoulder. “Pretend you're an ax cutter and clear a lane for me through the trees. I mean to cut the head off that long red snake.”

Without waiting for Amos's answer, he started down the steep slope.

A marine, hatless, wild-haired, raging, charged up the hillside with his bloody bayonet. Amos's musket cracked behind Proctor and the Redcoat dropped, shot through the leg.

A second marine lunged at him from the right, bayonet extended, and Proctor discharged his own musket point-blank before he recognized the huge Scot from the British Coffee-House. As the other man fell, Proctor dropped his weapon, ran off the edge of a large gray boulder, and leapt into the road.

He fell short of Pitcairn's horse, stumbling and falling. A marine with a broken bayonet swung the butt of his musket at him; Proctor rolled out of the way, freeing his hatchet from his belt. When the musket butt came at him a second time, he knocked it aside and rose to his feet.

The horse snorted, stamping at Proctor, pushing between himself and the marine. Proctor grabbed the bridle with his free hand and swung the hatchet at Pitcairn; his eyes were blurry, wet from the sting of musket smoke.

Pitcairn caught Proctor's wrist on the downstroke.

Grappling face-to-face, there was nothing extraordinary about Pitcairn—he smelled of sweat and dust and powder, like anyone else. Proctor dragged him half out of his saddle, tearing at his collar. There, beneath the shirt—a gold medallion, hanging from a gold chain. The charm.

Proctor tried to rip it free, keeping his feet as the horse
spun in a panic. Pitcairn let go of the hatchet and grabbed Proctor's other hand with both his own.

Fire flowed through Proctor's palm, and he felt the heat race up his arm with every pulse of his blood. He tried one last time to wrench the charm away, and glimpsed the underside of the medallion—an angel with a shield, and letters, though he didn't recognize them, just like those his mother wrote on the bowl of water.

Light flared in the medallion, and fire speared up his arm, and then it went dull the same moment that his arm went numb.

Pitcairn pried the charm free. “What did you do—?”

A musket fired, striking the horse, which whinnied in fear as it stumbled sideways, tearing Pitcairn from Proctor's grasp.

A fist grabbed Proctor's jacket, yanking him back toward the ditch, and Amos was there, one arm under Proctor's elbow, dragging him up the hillside. He was stumbling, trying to go back, yelling, “I didn't get it, I didn't get it!” But a black man was there, pulling him away, and then one of the Lexington men, and he was halfway up the hillside, with someone shoving his musket back into his hand, which closed on it, even though he couldn't feel it.

“You don't understand,” he tried to say.

“I understand you're a damned fool,” Amos said.

“Nah, I didn't care for that Lobster either,” the black man said.

Turning, Proctor saw that Pitcairn's horse was down. Pitcairn had regained his feet, and, throat naked at the collar, called the marines to him, ordering a full assault up the hill.

Proctor ducked as a round of lead whistled overhead, tearing through bark and leaves, and then it was bayonets, and one of the men dodging out of the way for safety, and Amos doing the same, and Proctor running through the trees, from cover to cover, until he was alone, unsure where he was. He paused, back against a boulder, to reload his musket,
stopping in mid-action to wipe his bloody hands—where had the blood come from?—across his breeches.

He had his chance and failed. He'd done something to the charm, felt some of the power drain out of it, but Pitcairn was still standing, and the British continued their retreat.

When he peered over the boulder, he saw that he'd become separated from the other men in his company. He made his way carefully back toward the road. With their last mounted officer unhorsed, the British were routed and simply ran, leaving a trail of abandoned cases and clothes and weapons behind them.

He gave pursuit, thinking he might have one last chance at Pitcairn, but he was exhausted and the sound of gunfire always cracked ahead of him, all the way past Fiske's Hill. He made his way down to the road to follow the Redcoats into Lexington.

One Redcoat lay dead in a ditch that lined the road. He looked like a man who'd fallen down drunk on his way home, but the ground beneath him was soaked with blood.

A hundred yards farther, two wounded regulars sat abandoned by the side of the road. Their empty weapons had been dropped nearby, with the bayonets removed and thrust harmlessly into the soil. One man patched the other's bloody leg while the second bound the first one's arm. When they saw Proctor approaching, they put their hands up in the air.

“We surrender,” the first man said. “We—”

Proctor stumbled by them. Pitcairn was still ahead somewhere, and Proctor was the only one who knew his secret. He tried to explain that, but the words disappeared before they found his tongue.

A few splashes of red were still running in the distance, surrounded by the crack of gunfire.

This, he told himself, was the scene he'd scryed. His mother had been right, in seeing men dead; and he'd been right in seeing a retreat to Boston.

His legs wobbled beneath him, and he staggered to a
stop. He would never catch up with them now. Thirst sandpapered his throat. He fumbled for his father's tin canteen and lifted it in his unsteady, bloody hands, uncapping it for a drink.

Nothing came out. The metal felt cool on his lips, but it was dry. He shook it, but nothing. A jagged edge snagged his sleeve. He turned it over—shot had smashed through the bottom of it. He had no idea when.

And where did that yellow ribbon come from?

Emily.

He still had to make things right with Emily.

Her house was just ahead, before he reached the burying ground. He willed his legs to move again, forcing himself to run despite the dizzy swimming of the world around him.

His feet pounded across her porch and he beat on the front door, calling her name, asking if she was all right. There was no answer. The windows were shuttered. He peered through them and saw sheets thrown hastily over all the furniture.

He leaned his head against the shutters, slats creased against his forehead, and hit the frame hard enough to rattle the glass. The house was shut up tight. No doubt, Bess and the rest of the house hold had packed up and headed for Boston and safety first thing that morning, after the shooting on the green.

His heart was as empty as the house.

He rolled over, back to the wall, and slid down into a sitting position. Staying upright became a challenge, and so he gave in to gravity and slumped over. The porch rose up to smack his head.

A few feet away a door opened.

“No, I tell you, it
is
Proctor.”

The voice was both hushed and insistent, familiar and far away.

“He's bleeding, Bess. I don't care. Come help me this instant.”

His lips moved in an attempt to explain how he'd tried to make things right. It hadn't been enough.

“Shhh, don't try to speak, not now. Hurry!”

Hands grabbed him, fists knotted in his clothes, dragging him inside. He hurried, just like she demanded, kicking his legs to help as much as he could. But he didn't seem to be moving anymore. He hoped it was enough.

Proctor was aware of cushions and damp clothes, drawn curtains and whispered voices.

From the voices, he gathered that a splinter or piece of lead had cut his neck. He knew from the voices that it had missed the vital arteries though he'd still lost significant amounts of blood. He tried to explain that he was fine, that all he needed was some rest. And a good dinner. He was hungry. Now that the battle was over, he and Emily could be together. The battle happened because of his talent, because of what he saw, but he used his talent to stop Pitcairn too, so he'd tried to do the right thing, and now he could be with Emily, and they could have the farm they wanted. His voice sounded far away to him, and nobody answered him, so he spoke louder.

Emily was there, placing her fingers across his lips, her curls tied back under a plain cap. “You must be quiet, Proctor.” Her voice was hushed and trembling. “We don't want anyone to know we're here.”

He tried to explain everything to her, wanted to assure her that everything would be fine, that she had nothing to worry about, but then Bess was there, squeezing his nose shut and making him swallow a huge dose of medicinal rum. It burned his throat, and he coughed some of it up, and then it burned his neck. But Bess mopped it up, and then made him swallow more. After a while, he fell asleep.

He woke again when it was dark. Emily and Bess were arguing nearby.

“We must leave in the morning, Miss Emily. We don't dare wait another day.”

“But Proctor's not well enough to leave alone yet.”

“He'll live, which is more than is likely for me, if any harm comes to you and Mister Rucke lays hold of me after.”

“We could send word to his mother at the least.”

“And let that murdering rabble know we're here? No, ma'am, not a chance. When that wagon comes around, we're going to get on it, and we'll be on our way out of Lexington before dawn comes and anyone realizes we're still here.”

They were afraid because of her father's ties to the governor. He pushed himself up on his elbow. “I'll be fine,” he rasped. The words sounded like a file scraped over rough wood, so he wasn't sure they understood him.

“He's awake,” Emily whispered. “Light a candle.”

“I don't think we ought to be doing that, Miss Emily. And you can see for yourself, he's well enough to leave alone.”

Emily came to his side, a shade in the darkness. She smelled like soap. He reached out toward her shadow, but she pulled away and his hand fell back to his side. “I'll be fine,” he said.

“It was madness out there, Proctor.”

“I saw some of it,” he mumbled. The words filled his mouth like rocks. “You'll be safe in Boston with your father.”

“They meant to kill all of them,” she said, her voice choked with shock and fear. “If Lord Percy hadn't marched out from Boston with the rest of the regular army, every one of them would have been killed.”

“The Redcoats started it,” Proctor said, and then caught his tongue. He'd started it too. If he hadn't shot at Pitcairn, would they have avoided the carnage that followed?

Bess whispered from across the room, and Emily rose to go speak to her. His throat hurt, inside and out. He reached up and felt a bandage under his fingertips. When she came
back, she sniffled before she spoke, as if she had failed in holding back her tears.

“I begged you not to go, I begged you, and you marched out with that mob anyway,” she said.

She
had
begged him. But he had to go. It was his duty. And if he hadn't acted, Pitcairn would have shot Captain Parker, and that wasn't right.

“Emily—”

“I don't know how I could ever rely on you if you don't listen when I beg you, for both our sakes, to do the right thing and avoid those rebels.”

“I thought it would end peacefully—”

“Because you have
magic
?”

“I have magic.” He'd meant to say it as a question, but the last word fell out of his mouth as flat as the truth. What exactly had he said to her? He remembered his driving need to explain things to her, but he couldn't recall his exact words.