Arnaud braced himself against the window frame. “I know. And I have no trouble crediting Him with the miracles, but seeing Him in the hours of tedium is…” He squinted out the window as he cocked his head to the side. “That looks like—But it cannot be.”
Thad gained the window with two quick strides, his eyes going wide at the figure riding down the street who looked to barely be keeping his saddle. “Whittier?”
“It cannot be. Last I heard, he joined up with Barney’s flotilla after the British sealed the harbor. He ought to be well up the Patuxent.”
The river’s name, along with the way the man in the saddle listed to the side, lit a spark of urgency within Thad in the same place that warned him against Arnaud’s disastrous trip to the Mediterranean. He ducked his head through the open window, his left leg following.
Arnaud loosed a questioning grunt. “What in blazes are you doing?”
“That man needs help.” His left leg on the ground, he swung his right over the windowsill. “And will likely be a heap on the road before I could find a door.”
Though he muttered something under his breath, Arnaud was pulling himself through the frame as Thad sprinted across his lawn toward the now-halted horse.
By the time he reached the lathered beast, all question of the man’s identity had been answered. ’Twas Joseph Whittier all right. Though with a face white as sea foam, and tinged with green. “Witty? Are you ill?”
His old friend turned unfocused eyes his way. One hand held the limp reins while the other arm remained folded across his unfastened uniform jacket. “Lane. I made it, then.”
Thad made sure his smile was calm and reassuring, even though the wisp-thin voice sounded so little like the robust man he knew. “Aye, you did. Come, Witty. Let us help you down.”
“I…” Whittier clutched the arm more tightly to his stomach and blinked too heavily. “Hurts.”
Arnaud came to a halt beside the horse, his frown well justified this time. “Your arm?”
Witty listed further to the side, his arm shifting along with him, and Thad got a glimpse of the filthy shirt under the jacket—the shirt stained a dark, rusty red. “Nay, ’tis his stomach. Look at all the blood. Inside with him. Hurry.”
Their friend moaned as they pulled him off the horse as gently as they could. Because he couldn’t support himself, Thad lifted him with a shake of his head. “Will you get the door? And have Rosie clear the table?”
Arnaud ran ahead as Henry appeared beside him, brows drawn. “What can I do?”
“Would you see to his horse?”
His friend nodded and headed for the street while Thad continued toward the house. Whittier let out a low grunt of pain, but his eyes opened again, and they were fired with panic. “You must warn them.”
Thad’s throat went tight. “We will, Witty, but first we must see to this wound. What happened?”
He shook his head, nearly thwacking it against the door frame. “Shot. Not important. Cockburn is…Cochrane coming from Bermuda.”
Clenching his teeth until the muscles in his jaw twitched, Thad drew in a long breath and aimed for the kitchen. Tantalizing as any information on those two British admirals was, he must first tend his friend. “Save your strength, please. You can tell me about it afterward.”
“Nay. Now. Before—” A cry of agony interrupted the words, and Whittier’s face contorted.
Thad lengthened his stride. “Rosie! Are you ready for us?”
“Get him on in here, Thaddeus.” Rosie had spread a length of old canvas on the table, onto which he lowered Whittier. His housekeeper hissed out a breath when she saw the stained shirt. “Lawd o’ mercy, help us now.”
“Amen.” Thad pushed the jacket away and gently rolled up the ruined cotton shirt. His own stomach cramped when he saw the wound seeping deadly, nearly black blood. Though his medical expertise was limited, he had seen enough to know that this was bad. Over his shoulder, toward the sound of footsteps, he said, “We’re going to need Dr. Miller. Fast.”
Whittier seized Thad’s shirtfront, strong enough at first to bring his head whipping back around, though then his hands loosened and fell away. His chest rose slowly, as if the effort to fill his lungs required all his strength. “No time.” His voice was even thinner than a minute earlier. “Cockburn, Lane. He…soon as Cochrane arrives…attack. Awaiting…orders on where. Annapolis or…or Washington.”
The knot in his stomach twisted. “Are you certain?”
“Heard them.” Whittier’s eyes went shut again. “Thought I…dead. Talking. Crawled away and…took a horse. You must…warn…”
Calm descended, loosening the twist in Thad’s gut and bringing him down into the chair by the table. Purpose took the place of urgency, though it was sorrow stained. He gripped his friend’s forearm. “I will take care of it.”
“I know.” Another quavering breath, another raising of his eyelids. “My parents. Jill. My love.”
“I will go to them myself. I will tell them.”
Whittier’s other arm lifted slightly and then fell again. “Samuel. Proud of him. And of little Jilly.”