Another tiny brush made his lungs solid and he readied his pistol, his skin hot with rage. “Show yourself!”
He stepped forward. If it were an animal, it would scamper to safety. A fugitive, however, might stay and pray the fog would prolong its cover.
“I know you killed that boy.” He stepped again. Nothing moved.
Slow and deliberate, William took another step. His prey darted and William’s instinct consumed. The swift figure raced over the leaf-covered ground and William charged after. Chest heaving, he gripped the ready pistol. Dodging branches and bushes that jumped out from the mist, William’s breath matched the desperate pace of his pulse. Deeper into the wood, farther from safety.
Could this be a trap as well? A ruse to lure him away and finally bring him to justice? Nay, that mattered naught. The pace of the one he pursued quickened and so did William. The boy had been killed and this was the murderer. There was no doubt.
The distance between their crunching steps lessened and a muted gray figure began to take form through the fog. William pushed harder, almost feeling the skin of the man’s neck beneath his fingers. His legs burned as he strained to close the remaining gap. Though he could run full-out for much longer, the rage pooled in his limbs. Flashes of memory scarred his eyes. That innocent, freckled face. Pain. Fear. So much blood.
With a roar he skidded to a stop and raised his weapon. A burst of fire and thundering crack snapped against the trees. Even shooting into the fog, he couldn’t have missed. Not at this distance.
Silence consumed once more. Only the heavy in and out of his breath echoed in the unearthly stillness. He’d done it.
Racing forward, William hurried to the place the body had fallen, studying the ground as wisps of white swirled around his boots. His fingers twitched against the pistol.
It couldn’t be…
He stood motionless, grinding his teeth. How could the man have gotten away? How could he have disappeared with not so much as a telltale footprint?
William’s limbs grew heavy and his grip on the pistol turned to iron. The grayish-white fog dimmed a measure as the sun slipped farther down. Staring into the mist, resolve plastered into the tiny fissures of his will. The boy’s courage, his fearless sense of duty, knitted into William’s soul. More than ever the cause needed him. More than ever the British needed defeat—to be taught they could not demand a person’s loyalty. Or their life.
This was not the end. Nay, only the beginning.
~~~
Paul’s chest burned. Allowing only the thinnest thread of breath to his starving lungs, he pressed his back against the base of the tree. So, the boy had been killed after all. Well then. One less patriot. Refusing even to blink until the sound of his pursuer’s boots could no longer be heard, he pressed his fingers against the gushing wound in his middle.
Entombed in silent fog, Paul gasped and leaned his head against the bark of the tree. Staring at the unseen sky, his mind replayed the sound of the voice he’d heard. Could it have been?
He rubbed a hand over his face. It sounded so much like him, Paul would have wagered his weapon. This was Sandwich, was it not? Donaldson could be here, as he’d surmised, so the probability of such an encounter was not without reason. And good Samaritan that Donaldson was, meant where trouble could be found, the traitor was not far distant.
Paul winced and breathed hard through clenched teeth to keep his mind formulating the sorry tale he must produce. He pushed to his feet just as it lighted his mind. He’d seen the man who shot the boy. Aye. ’Twas the same man who pursued and nearly killed him as well. The murderer must be caught and brought to justice. A felon didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as honest men.
Black hatred charred
the edges of his weary mind. Stumbling from his hiding place, he stopped only long enough to catch his bearings and started toward Plymouth. Recovering in Sandwich could put him at risk of being found by the man whom he must find first—and bring to justice. Once he reported to the townsfolk the crime of the murdered child, and the butchering fugitive who was surely abiding in their midst, he would have their loyal support. Donaldson would get a piece of lead in the chest. And Paul would put it there. Today or tomorrow or next week, it mattered not. His pursuit was nearly over.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In front of the fire, only minutes after returning from the Watson’s, Anna stared. The golden glow faded in and out as the flames popped and snapped. She was numb, struggling against the image that continued to plague her. The motionless boy on the floor, covered in blood and with a face so white he looked almost stone-like. The fierce look in William’s eyes affirmed he would do more than find the killer. But he had not found him, and the tension billowing from his shoulders caused a pang in her middle.
Her throat ached and she blinked to keep the stray tears from falling. Eliza and Kitty, though devastated, seemed as though their determination against the British now heated instead of cooled. She looked to her hands and picked at the skin around her nail, remembering how at the sight of the boy she’d nearly collapsed and was forced to spend the remainder of the time resting above stairs while the two men took the child’s lifeless body away. Shame spilled over her like sap, slow and thick. Where was her courage? These people seemed to be strengthened by trial, not destroyed by it. Was it their ignorance, like her father had always said? Or was it truth that shattered the shackles of servitude, giving way to their unbridled courage? She looked forward again and studied the flames as they licked the far end of a log. Eliza had said the truth had done that for her—given her an understanding that carried her forward in the cause of freedom, despite the difficulties, despite the risks. For truly, there were risks. Today proved that in a way Anna wished more than ever to forget. But she never would.
The door clicked behind her and Anna turned in her seat. William entered and removed his hat, resting it and his coat on the peg by the door.
He flung her a sideways look, “I expected you to be abed.”
She looked back to the fire. “I could not sleep.”
The gentle stomp of his boots against the wood floor neared until he took the seat beside her. He sat with a humph and rested his elbows on his knees, wiping his hands over his face. “’Twas the soldier, I fear. But impossible to know for certain.”
“Will he be punished?”
A curt, quick laugh left his lips. He slumped back in his seat. “The British will do whatever they like, when they like.”
“You mean the man who shot that poor boy will never be charged, never forced to pay for such a crime?”