He nodded. “I seen two o’ your friends marching off last night,” he said. “All our crew was asleep on the raft when the bells begun to go, but when we got into town and heard the news, ’twas no surprise. I was over to Johnny Stark’s sawmill just before I started down river, and he said he figured Boston had stood about all they could o’ the British, and the British had stood about all they could o’ Boston. Said he expected to be taking his gun down any day. Well, if he’s got the word, he’s likely there, him and the rest o’ the boys, and I aim to join them, only—”
Kitty could feel her hair turning dank and the raindrops thickening on her lashes. She thought of her sodden hat, and sighed inwardly, but she made no move to excuse herself and leave the stranger.
“—only I left my musket at home in Derryfield, and the gunsmiths here ain’t doing business today. Has any o’ your menfolk got a spare gun, Miss Kitty?”
She hesitated. He held out his lean hard hands with freckles on the backs of them. “I suppose I could use these on the varmints,” he muttered. “But powder and ball’s the quicker way.”
“There is a gun in the barn loft that belonged to my father,” she said slowly.
“You speak like your daddy’s dead,” he answered, not looking at her.
“Yes. He drowned in the river just below here, not long after I was born.”
“I don’t remember much o’ mine, either. Killed when we took Quebec in ’59. Shooting shoulder to shoulder with the British then we was, and now we’re shooting at ’em.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “Well, I’d sure like to borrow your daddy’s gun, if your mother don’t object none to the idea.”
“My mother’s dead, too, and Granny would likely make a fuss, but I don’t think we’ll ask Granny.”
Kitty had finally made up her mind. “Come on,” she said, flicking her fingers lightly against his sleeve.