To my surprise, the interior is a well-lighted, spacious, multi-room apartment with windows, paneled walls, carpets, and paintings on the walls. As we pass through a hallway into what appears to be an office or library, she asks, “If I place you on the chair near the desk, can you hold on for a moment?”

I can only nod my head at this point for fear of passing out. She gently sits me down and pulls the draperies over the windows. She then goes to a bookcase and pushes a book on the middle shelf. I can hear a quiet “click” and the bookcase pivots open to reveal another small room with a bed and a chair in it and says, “My father built this years ago for a time such as this.”

As she helps me up and into bed, she says, “I will be right back after the search party leaves. I know you must be in pain.” When I’m prone, she strikes a match, lights a lantern on the table next to the bed, and hands me a damp towel with the distinct scent of witch hazel. “Your head wound is beginning to bleed again. Hold this against it until I return. There is a cup of boiled water on the table and a chamber pot beneath the bed.”

She goes to the rotating bookcase, points to a button on the wall and says, “I must clean up the drops of your blood leading from the front door to here. If the British take me away for questioning, this is how you open it.” She then locked me inside.

Alone, I try to do an assessment of my injuries but am quickly overwhelmed with pain and fatigue. Just before I doze off, I look at my watch: 11:15. I recall thinking William and I were gunned down before 8:00 a.m.

I’m suddenly grateful not to have bled or frozen to death. And I say to myself, Thank You, Lord, for keeping me alive and for . . . Only then did it occur to me, I don’t even know the name of the beautiful angel with the dark hair.

The heavy banging awakened me, disoriented. The first thing I did was check my watch and suddenly realize my vision is blurred. By closing my right eye, I can see the hands of my watch. It looks like 1:25. Is it afternoon or morning?

Now, there are voices getting closer.

Man’s voice: (A British officer?) “Governor Carleton insists we thoroughly search every building for rebels, alive or dead. Did you provide refuge for the one at the front of the warehouse?”

Female voice: (My dark-haired angel?) “No, sir. He was there, dead when I first opened the door after all the shooting stopped. Will someone be coming to claim his body?”