Here Comes a Candle

ONE

“
For God, and King George!
”
The rifle dropped from the old woman
’
s hands and she fell slowly, loose-jointed, to the ground, a puppet in a gray, flannel nightgown. Hurrying forward to kneel beside her on the cold, half
-
thawed earth, Kate Croston felt the pulse in the thin wrist flicker and go out. The Americans
’
aim had been too true. There was nothing more she could do for her only friend in Canada—in the world. Except blame herself bitterly, uselessly, for those few moments of exhausted inattention that had let old Mrs. McGowan find the rifle and get out of the house. To her death. She found she was muttering to herself, a strange mixture of prayer and apology. Very gently, with a hand that shook, she closed the staring eyes and came back from the shadow of death to the facts of her own position.

Only a thin straggle of trees and bushes at the end of the garden screened Mrs. McGowan
’
s house from the center of York, and part of her mind had been aware,
all the time, of the sounds of marching feet, of command and counter-command, as the Americans took over the town. Now a small group of American militia burst through the trees and paused for a moment, in oddly unmilitary conference, staring at her.

At last one of them pushed forward, plump and furious in his gray uniform.
“
Who fired that shot? Who winged my sergeant?
”
And then, seeing the rifle that lay under the old woman
’
s hand,
“
Her, was it? Don
’
t you know York capitulated an hour ago? What do you mean
b
y letting the old crone loose with a rifle? She
’
ll be lucky if she ain
’
t strung up here and now.
”

“
She is lucky.
”
Kate faced him across the limp body.
“
She
’
s dead
.
You
’
ve killed her, gallant soldiers that you are. An old woman, ill, a little mad, who didn
’
t know what she was doing. She thought it was the other war, George Washington
’
s war.
”

“
Dead is she?
”
He confirmed it with a casual glance.
“
Well, so much the better, I guess. It don
’
t much matter which war it is,
’
75 or 1812, when it comes to breach of truce. Maybe she was old and mad, but that don
’
t help my sergeant. He won
’
t be walking for weeks, will Sergeant Mackelford. I reckon you
’
ve got something to answer for, if you were in charge of her. What were you
thinking
of, letting a mad woman loose with a rifle?
”

“
I thought she was asleep.
”
The long, anxious nights of nursing had left Kate too tired to think, too tired to care. Anyway, he was right. It was her fault. I
’
m a Jonah, she thought; I bring disaster wherever I go. I infect whatever I touch. She raised tired brown eyes to the militia captain
’
s.
“
Shoot me, then,
”
she said.
“
Why not? It
’
s all of a piece with killing a woman old enough to be your mother.
”

“
That
’
s about enough out of you!
”
And then, the fatal comment she had been expecting.
“
You speak kind of queer. You
’
re English?
”

“
Yes. And proud of it.
”

“
Proud! A fine lot you
’
ve got to be proud of. Impressing our sailors, searching our ships, sinking them when it takes your fancy. The Canadians are one thing—they
’
re
our kin, misled maybe, but we
’
d as lief not fight them, if they
’
d just have the sense to join us, but you bloody English are another matter. I
’
ve hated you since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. What d
’
you say, boys? I reckon she put the old dame up to shooting Sergeant Mackelford. Just the kind of thing a dirty Britisher would do. Shall we string her up, and be done with it?
”

There were shouts of
“
yes
”
from several of his men, but others demurred.
“
After all,
”
said one,
“
she
’
s only a girl. It was the old one did the damage. I don
’
t reckon this one had much to do with it. Dearborn
’
s orders was mighty strict, remember, about respecting civilians.
”

“
That was before they blew up General Pike,
”
said the captain.
“
I reckon that
’
s a breach of the rules of war, and once they
’
re broken, anything goes. Well, look what we
’
re doing back there, firing the Assembly
B
uildin
gs.
”

“
Yes, and I guess old Dearborn will just about blow his top when he gets out of bed and hears about that.
”
This was a man who had not spoken before, and Kate found herself thinking, with strange detachment, how oddly these American soldiers behaved. Imagine an English private speaking up to his captain like that.

“
I tell you what, boys,
”
said the captain now.
“
Let
’
s do it the American way. Let
’
s vote on it.
”

This precipitated a hot argument as to how the vote should be taken. Listening, Kate was amazed to care so little. In ten minutes, five perhaps, she would probably be dead. Well, and why not? It would only
finish
here what Charles Manningham had started and Fred Croston prevented in England. Poor Fred. It was she who ought to be dead, not he, not Mrs. McGowan. I should never have run away, she thought
.
It was waiting for me, all the I time. And yet, oddly, now at this last moment when, she saw, her captors had agreed on a secret vote, she felt a sudden urge to go to them, to plead for her life, to try to I escape
...
The spring sun was warm on her back; somewhere in the trees an unknown bird was
sin
g
in
g
;
eighteen is young to die.

Hurrying toward his grandmother
’
s house, Jonathan
Penrose slowed
hi
s pace at sight of the little group of militiamen busy casting their votes in their captain
’
s hat. Beside them, the girl looked so tiny that he thought her a child at first until, getting closer, he saw the widow
’
s weeds and the thin, brown face so drawn into hopelessness that he stopped for a moment, despite the urgency of his errand.

“
What
’
s going on here?
”
He had recognized the militia captain as a fellow passenger on the crowded American transport that had brought them across Lake Ontario from their base at Sackett
’
s Harbor.

“
Oh, it
’
s you, Mr. Penrose.
”
The militia captain was delighted to see him. On board the
Madison
this tall, bronzed New Englander had been treated
with the respect due to an old friend and fellow captain of Commodore Chauncey
’
s. Now, meeting the piercing gaze of blue eyes under bristling brows that should have belonged to an older man, he thought he saw how to avoid a difficult decision.
“
You
’
re a civilian, sir, and a friend of the Commodore
’
s. Maybe you might know better than me what
’
s best to do. It
’
s a question of truce-breaking, see? That old hag down there got loose and shot my sergeant. He won
’
t be walking for months. Well, we
’
ve disposed of her all right and tight, as you can see. But. what
’
s to do with the young one who let her do it? There
’
s half of us says string her up, here and now, as an example. But the other half ain
’
t so sure. And nor am I.
”
Oddly, he found he had changed his opinion under the stare of those penetrating blue eyes.
“
We say she
’
s just a young thing and mebbe it would be best to let her go with a caution. So if you
’
d just give us your casting vote, Mr. Penrose, I reckon we
’
d be almighty obliged to you
...”

His voice trailed off. Jonathan Penrose had stopped listening and moved forward to stare with horror at the corpse.
“
Dear God,
”
he said.
“
It
’
s old Mac.
”
And then, to the girl:
“
Liz! What happened?
”

She raised dark-shadowed brown eyes to gaze at
him
dully.
“
I
’
m not Liz McGowan,
”
she said.
“
I
’
m Kate Croston. Not that it matters. And you?
”

“
Jonathan Penrose. Mrs. McGowan
’
s grandson. The American one.
”

“
At last! But why didn
’
t you get here sooner? She was so sure you would. She said she
’
d written ages ago. After Liz went, she looked for you all the time.
”

“
Liz gone? I don
’
t understand anything. I
’
ve had no letters. When I heard how things were on this front, I came as fast as I could
.
Too late. My dear old Mac.
”
He brushed a hand across his eyes.
“
I was going to take her home. Her and Liz. To look after them. But what happened? The fighting
’
s over. York surrendered an hour ago.
”

“
That
’
s just it.
”
The American captain sounded anxious now.
“
I
’
m mortal sorry, sir, if the old lady was kin of yours, but she still shot my sergeant in the leg one whole hour after the truce had been signed. I reckon the young lady
’
s got some explaining to do.
”

“
She was ill.
”
Kate Croston said it wearily, as if noth
in
g mattered any more.
“
She
’
d been ill all winter. Liz told me. She said she thought it was as much misery over this war between her two countries as anything. You should know about that.
”
She turned almost accusingly to Jonathan Penrose.
“
Liz said that even though she
’
d lived in Canada ever since the other war, she still loved America, loved you particularly. Every time there was news of another raid across the St. Lawrence, Liz said, she
’
d be worse. And not hearing from you was the last straw.
”

“
But I did write. Of course I wrote. I suppose she never got them. But where is Liz? What
’
s she thinking of, to leave her grandmother alone with a stranger at a time like this?
”

Something flashed in the tired brown eyes.
“
What else could she do? You didn
’
t
c
ome. Nobody came. But, of course, you say you
’
d not heard.
”
Doubt in her voice. Did she believe him?