Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch by C.C. Finlay Read Free Book Online Page A

matter if there were ten thousand. These are our homes. Somebody's got to go out to meet 'em.”
    Proctor sank into silence as they marched. It wasn't going to be a fair fight, not with one of the British officers using sorcery to protect himself. Proctor wondered if Pitcairn was the only one, or if others carried similar charms. There was no way to know, not from any distance.
    And he was the only one who knew about the charm. He didn't know how to defeat it—it was becoming clear to him how little he knew about magic at all—but he had to atone for the harm he'd brought on Robert Munroe and Everett Simes and all the others. If he had a chance to take it from Pitcairn, he had to do it.
    The companies left the road, threading their way among the weeds and rocks to take up a position along the hilltop overlooking Tanner's Creek, where they were joined by a dozen or so Merriams. Proctor reloaded his musket. All around him men arranged their lead, powder, and flint in the manner they preferred for fast reloading. Proctor kept his ready for another quick retreat. There was no way a hundred and ten men could stand against that many Redcoats.
    The sun was up now, the sky blue and clear, with a brisk wind drying off the last of yesterday's rain. Birds flittedthrough the air, singing their spring songs. Proctor reached for his canteen. He curled the yellow ribbon around his finger while he sipped, thinking of the curls in Emily's hair.
    Would it make any difference if he explained the magic to these men? He doubted that they would believe him, or that it would change their resolve if they did. Here they stood, outnumbered, in full knowledge of their choice, ready to face the most efficient and deadly military force in the world.
    The “deadly” aspect was chief in his mind.
    The sound of drums came over the hills ahead of the Redcoats. Some of the birds fell silent.
    “Let's bow our heads in prayer,” Captain Barrett called out. Proctor realized the deadly aspect wasn't chief in his mind only. He put both hands around the barrel of his musket, propped butt-end in the soil, and bowed his head.
    “Heavenly Father,” Barrett said. “You bring these tribulations upon us as a chastisement because we fall away from Your Holy Word. Use Your rod to guide us back into Your safe pastures. And beat off the English wolves. Amen.”
    “Amen,” Proctor said, echoed by a hundred other voices.
    He knew what some of the men would say; they'd say that talents like his, skills they'd call witchcraft, were part of any falling away from the Holy Word. Were they right? If he knew how to fashion a charm like Pitcairn's, would he make it for himself? Was it a Christian gift, made with God-given skill, like his mother insisted their talents were? Or was it made with some other kind of magic?
    Sunlight glinted sharp off movement at the far edge of the horizon, and the faint sound of drums strengthened into the rattle of a quick march. The double line of British regulars crested the road. The morning sun behind them turned their coats as red as blood.
    Amos didn't change his expression, but he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
    “Them's the ones who stabbed my uncle,” Arthur said.
    A British officer rode ahead, twisting in his saddle to shout orders. Pitcairn. The drummers changed their cadence and the Redcoats spread out over the fields, forming a skirmish line opposite the minutemen. Men around Proctor began to speak up.
    “Cap'n, there're too many of them.”
    “We could hold this hill for one or two rounds, Cap'n Barrett, but they'll flank us for certain.”
    “Don't care for the looks of that, sir.”
    Proctor agreed with them. His first resolve to do something to make amends melted away like the dew.
    “We'll stay here until they get within a hundred rods,” Barrett said finally. “Delay them that long, give more men time to muster in Concord. Then we'll make an orderly retreat back to the other companies.”
    Proctor tightened his