The gash across the boy’s head trickled rain-soaked blood down his face and across his eye. Nathaniel looked between Roger and Caleb, chest pumping. “Has he said what happened?”
Roger shook his head. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he met Nathaniel’s gaze. “I should have been here, Dr. Smith. ‘Tis my fault.”
Nathaniel yanked open his bag. “We are all to blame. He was too young to guard this place alone.”
Brushing a strand of hair from the boy’s face, he scanned Caleb’s body for obvious signs of injury. No gunshot wound, no apparent stabbing. Only the blood dripping down Caleb’s head drew his concern. Nathaniel inched closer and cradled Caleb’s neck and jaw as he examined the weeping gash. Immediately his muscles released a portion of distress. Whoever had hit him, hadn’t intended to kill, that much was clear. The superficial wound had knocked the boy unconscious, but not injured his skull. Nathaniel reached into his open medical bag and removed a strip of linen that the rain instantly doused. Lifting the boy’s head, Nathaniel continued to make visual assessments as he wrapped the cloth around the wound. “Wake up, Caleb. Tell me what happened.”
Roger squirmed and Nathaniel looked up when the man spoke. “All I can gather is that someone attacked him and stole some of the powder.”
Nathaniel frowned as he knotted the bloody bandage. That much is obvious. But why? He gave his patient one last evaluation before he pushed off his knees and squeezed Roger’s shoulder. “God be thanked, your son’s wounds are not serious. I believe he will soon recover fully.”
Roger bowed his head and sighed, mouthing a silent prayer. With a grunt he scooped his boy in his arms and stood in a single, swift motion. He glanced down before meeting Nathaniel’s stare as the heedless rain continued to fall. “We are indebted to you, Doctor.” A tight smile pulled at his mouth as if he wished to say more, but couldn’t.
Nathaniel smiled and nodded toward the road. “Take him home and get him dry. Wrap a new bandage around his head and have Martha prepare a bowl of warm liquid for him when he wakes. I’ll assess the damage here and return within the hour to inquire after him.”
Roger started to move, then stopped. His strained voice attested to the heavy burden he carried in his arms. “I shall be at my post tonight.”
Nathaniel cupped Roger’s shoulder and prepared to protest, but Roger turned and started down the abandoned street, speaking over his shoulder as he left. “Martha will care for Caleb. I won’t neglect my duty.”
God bless you, Roger.
Nathaniel squinted against the rain and stared after them. The weight of his watered-down greatcoat matched his heavy spirits. Who would attack an innocent boy, then—
“Nathaniel. You’ll want to see this.” Thomas’s hollow voice echoed from inside the small stone building.
Nathaniel turned and rushed forward. He swung the door open and charged in, scouring the ravaged scene. The pungent scent of black powder permeated the damp air. Muskets were strewn across the floor and all but three powder barrels rested on their sides, though most of them remained sealed, still protecting their precious contents. The largest barrel in the far corner stood upright and slightly open, as if dispatching its report of a lost battle.
Thomas stared motionless as the rain continued to drum on the roof. “I cannot believe this.”
Restrained wrath cankered Nathaniel’s twitching muscles. “Leave it to the British. I have no doubt this is General Gage’s doing. He has attempted such around Boston, has he not? He will stop at nothing to fulfill the King’s demands.” Nathaniel’s boots clanked along the w
ood floor as he judged the damage. “The last thing they want is for us rebels to store munitions. The munitions we need to defend our freedom against the very people who wish to destroy it.”
Thomas rubbed his chin. “But someone from Sandwich has done this. Not the military.”
“Of that I have no doubt. The British have spies in every corner of this colony. Marvelous way to start the morning, is it not?” Nathaniel gave a sarcastic smile before kneeling down and fingering a small trail of gunpowder that twisted across the floor. He rolled the black powder between his fingers, the light of his spirit dimming as if the very blood of the people of Sandwich had been drained from the building. He stood, following the trail with his vision, until it disappeared in the mud a few feet from the door. Whoever stole the powder should have at least made sure they didn’t drop the precious reserves on the way out.
He released an audible breath, motioning for Thomas to help as he righted the toppled barrels and replaced the fallen muskets. The gray morning light crawled in through the clouds, blanketing the abysmal surroundings in the faintest of light while the rain tapped ever harder on the roof.
Nathaniel turned to Thomas, his stomach churning the raw hate that swelled. “I know who is behind this and I intend to bring him to justice.” The presence of one Cyprian Wythe lingered in the room like a phantom.
Thomas raised one brow. “We don’t know who did this, let’s not start casting blame. We must show restraint or we will surely make things worse by pointing fingers until we know more.”
The comment fueled the growing fire that billowed behind the temperate exterior Nathaniel failed to present. He all but yelled. “Don’t pretend you’re not as irate—I see the red in your face. Our munitions are raided, a boy has just been attacked. Where’s your passion, Thomas?”
“My passion for this cause is as vital as ever, but I tend to have more sense than you when it comes to matters such as these.” Thomas’s volume rose as he pointed at Nathaniel’s chest, his voice as sharp as his gaze. “Watch yourself or your impetuous nature will do you in.”
Nathaniel glared and straightened his shoulders. Impetuous? Nay. Able to make judgments and take command when needed? Aye. Hadn’t the town appointed him as Chairman of the Committee of Correspondence for those very reasons?
He clenched and released his fists, choosing not to argue the point. Instead, he picked up the broken piece of chain that rested in a shallow puddle by the door. “I wonder how long it would take for Joseph to repair this?” Nathaniel’s childhood friend, Joseph Wythe—himself a valiant patriot—could best anyone in blacksmithing for sixty miles. Too bad he had such an unfortunate man for a brother.
“Not long, I’d suppose.” Looking over the reorganized space, Thomas plucked a long musket from a shadowy corner. “Do you think it is still safe to keep everything here? Should we not move the stores immediately?”
Nathaniel shook his head and tenderly ran his hand along the fractured lid of the top of the largest barrel, feeling the same as if human flesh had been mutilated. “Why did they not take it all? From what I can surmise, whoever did this got away with only several bags worth. And all the muskets are accounted for. ‘Tis strange. Alarming.” He brushed the dust from his hands and locked eyes with Thomas. “Some might assume this was simply a thoughtless act of youth, but I cannot see it as such. This is a threat to our independence and to the safety of the families of this county.”
Thomas pressed his tricorn onto his head. “Well, you certainly weren’t selected as the Chairman of the Committee for your lack of zeal.” Pulling his jacket around his neck, he stepped out into the rain with the hint of a smirk.
Nathaniel grinned and followed him out. “How thankful I am for your overwhelming support.”