Paxton's War (19 page)

Restless and troubled with an excess of pent-up energy, he donned breeches, blouse, boots, and the great woolen peasant's cape from Parma, then crept silently out of the house without waking Piero and Robin. In the carriage house, he saddled Cinder and rode out into the darkened streets, past the many churches, past the silent marketplaces and the multitude of shops, past the wharves and fishing boats. A circuitous route of back alleys and hidden paths led him past the sentries guarding the roads leading out of the city, and within an hour, he urged Cinder into a gallop as he left Charleston behind and rode deep into the night, into the countryside where, he knew, he would find the solitude he needed.

On he rode into the marshlands and along the dense coastal swamps that he'd explored and loved so well during his school years in Charleston. With the storm far behind, the sky was brilliant with radiant, silver-white stars. The smell of rain-saturated earth, wet moss, and the nearby salt marshes mingled and became a single perfume that cleared his head. Moonlight lit his path as he ventured farther and deeper into the wilderness with only the heavy breath and drum of the dun stallion's hooves on the damp ground breaking the wondrous silence.

How long did he ride? How many times did his thoughts turn to Colleen, to his father, his sisters, to Peter Tregoning, and to the filty cell that Allan Coleridge was forced to inhabit? Nothing made sense, and yet he kept riding, riding through the night, riding until the first hint of dawn faded the smaller stars and brushed a thin coat of gray over the eastern horizon. And then, suddenly, he saw it—the eerie phosphorescent glow of swamp gases, a magical lumination that had been as much a part of his childhood as the morning sun. What was it that they called the ghostly, flickering light?

Will-o'-the-wisp! His heart pounded as he repeated the words aloud. “Will-o'-the-wisp. Will-o'-the-wisp!” He drew rein. Whinnying in protest, Cinder came to a sudden halt. The night silence closed around as Jason watched, waited, and found his answer.

The harmless, illusive will-o'-the-wisp—always to be chased, never to be caught. That was the game that boys loved to play, chasing thin air, chasing the mysterious, magical light. Well, it was a game, he realized, that deserved playing again, only this time with deadly serious intent, and not nearly so harmlessly.

“Yes!” he shouted, his voice ringing out, shattering the silence before being swallowed by the swamp. He clutched the gold Paxton amulet that hung on the chain around his neck, and he knew, knew, knew that it would work. “Yes!”

Suddenly, filled with the thrill of purpose, he whipped Cinder toward the already vanishing glow. He'd wanted to become a part of the struggle for freedom, had wanted to dare and die, if need be, but on his own terms, as his own man. He had searched and, chasing the intangible, had at last found …

The will-o'-the-wisp, will-o'-the-wisp, no one can catch, the will-o'-the-wisp!…

Dawn was breaking over Charleston's bay just as an officer of the British Army, flushed from a bawdy night in a house of ill repute, happened by the Fierce Lion Inn, whose doors and shutters were closed tight. On the door, however, he caught sight of a newly printed broadside, and despite his great fatigue, he stopped to read. A minute later he ripped the paper from the door with great fury and berated a private patrolling the streets.

“Why hasn't this slanderous piece of sedition been long removed?” demanded the officer.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm not much of a reader, so I wouldn't know what's on the paper. If it helps, though, sir, I can tell you that I've seen a good half dozen of the same posted 'round about. I can't tell you who's done it, but there's more than a few of 'em, you can be sure.”

“Well, damn it, man,” barked the officer, ripping the broadside in half, “I want you and everyone else on patrol to tear every last one down—I don't care how long it takes.”

“Yes, sir,” said the private, saluting.

But by then, most of Charleston was slowly awakening, and from East Bay Street to Logan and Murray Boulevards, from one end of the city to the other, among the fishermen along the Ashley and Cooper rivers to the clergymen opening their rectory doors to the newborn sun, dozens of copies of “The Battle of Brandborough” were being passed from hand to hand. If one listened hard, one could hear muffled giggles and chuckles. Some folks tried to control themselves, others couldn't, until, like a soft white cloud above the city, a low roar of laughter seemed to arise everywhere from large clusters of citizens gathered on street corners, in front of candlemakers' shops and bakeries, even on Meeting Street, where, from her second-story window, her face, hands, and arms smudged with fresh, black ink, and her mouth broadened in a wide, triumphant smile, Colleen Cassandra McClagan had the supreme satisfaction of watching her readers react with alacrity to her labor of love.

PART II

Chapter 1

It was the second week of June as two Tory soldiers rode swiftly along a trail ten miles outside Charleston. The night air was sticky and hot, their horses tired and thirsty, but the greencoats pushed on. They had been instructed by Major Embleton to arrive at Fort Santee by daybreak with a vital communiqué for the commanding officer. The road was bordered on the west by the dark, putrid-smelling swamp. Thick clouds danced across the moon, blocking the silver light and turning the mood of the dark night somber and stark. The men knew the countryside well and weren't disturbed by the strange sounds coming from the wilderness—the buzzing insects, croaking frogs, screeching birds. Nothing, though, could have prepared them for the sudden swoop of what seemed a flying figure leaping from the swamp.

A few feet in front of them, the mysterious will-o'-the-wisp blocked their way, moving quickly, knocking the first Tory from his horse and skewering his chest with a quick rapier's thrust. The man fell helplessly to the ground, crying in pain. By then the second soldier had unsheathed his own sword and moved to challenge the masked Wisp. Both horses neighed and reared as the men slashed at one another, the sound of steel striking steel ringing out in the night. Jason fought furiously, surprised at his opponent's strength. He took a blow powerful enough to throw him from his horse, spilling him in the gooey, soft edge of the swamp. He scurried to retrieve his rapier, lay low, and emerge at the very moment the Tory was approaching. Jason was able to return the favor, spilling the soldier from his horse. The man recovered his sword in time to accept the Wisp's challenge. On foot, a brutal battle ensued. The Tory was larger and stronger than the reed-thin musician, and with the tremendous force of two thunderous blows, he knocked Jason back to the ground. The musician realized he was foolishly unprepared and clearly outmatched. He saw his patriotic mission coming to a quick and lethal end. Natural agility, however, enabled him to regain his footing. Toe to toe against the Tory, he breathlessly held off the strikes as best he could, but it was useless; he knew he couldn't last long. In that very instant, Jason heard the voice of his father reminding him that any two brutes could bang blades together. Panting, he dropped the tip of his rapier, and the Tory went for the bait, lunging and throwing himself off balance. In a moment of composure, the Wisp took his advantage, plunging his sword through his adversary's heart. Both relieved and sickened by another man's death, Jason turned to the first Tory, whose life had also drained from his body. With no time to waste, no time to think, Will-o'-the-Wisp searched the pouches of the Tories' horses and found the secret message he had overhead Embleton discuss. Within hours, the parchment, containing specific battle plans against rebel forces, was anonymously placed under the door of the home of one of Charleston's most reliable and effective military strategists, a Patriot of singular dedication.

Shirtless and soaked in sweat, Jason raised the ax and lowered it on the massive log with all the strength at his command. Chips flew. The blazing summer sun beat down mercilessly as the musician feverishly labored in the enclosed backyard of his patrons' town house. Again and again, he attacked the wood with impassioned tenacity. The sinewy muscles in his back and arms ached with exruciating pain, but Jason pressed on, not allowing himself a minute of rest. He worked the tough wood for a good half hour. When he was through, he chinned himself on a long, solid branch of a giant oak tree, raising and lowering his torso again and again until he was ready to fall with fatigue. Yet he wouldn't fall, he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied that his morning routine had sufficiently taxed his hardening body. In the afternoon, he'd repeat the process, adding a number of strenuous exercises—climbing, running, diligently practicing his swordplay for hours on end. When he grew tired or bored, he redoubled his efforts, pledging never again to ride as Will-o'-the-Wisp in anything but a state of absolute preparedness. As he pushed himself on, grunting as he lifted weights of greater and greater bulk, he moved to a stirring, marching melody inside his head, an obsessively rhythmic cadence that had him pulling and straining until he felt his stomach tighten into a slab of iron, his legs and arms turning to cords of steel.

The city of Charleston was clutched in a paralysis of political tension. Its narrow streets seethed with intrigue, its citizens weary of a scrutinous and heavy-handed military presence. Unrest could be felt, liking a rising fever, in taverns, public parks, and private homes. In one such home, deep in the damp recesses of his candelit basement, Ephraim Kramer spoke in whispers to Colleen Cassandra McClagan.

“Have you heard what he's done now?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “Tell me.”

“He's a madman, he is, but he's got courage—I'll say that. Single-handedly, in the dead of night, he raided the English arsenal at Mason's Swamp. They chased him till dawn, but not a trace. They say he vanished into the swamp like thin air. Will-o'-the-Wisp—that's what he calls himself. And this time he got away with a bushel of pistols and a barrel of muskets that he delivered the next morning to the Continental Army at Colonel Buford's doorstep without even bothering to introduce himself. Snuck into camp, left the guns on the ground, and rode off before anyone knew he'd been there.”

Colleen's amber eyes were all afire. “If the Sandpiper devises something about him, Mr. Kramer, can we print it and put it out?”

“If I say I'll deny you, I'd only be fooling myself again, eh?”

She kissed his cheek and left quickly, hurrying back to her aunt's house, where quill and parchment awaited her.

That night Captain Peter Tregoning and Joy Exceeding Paxton strolled along East Battery under the silver light of a pale half moon. English warships, like floating forts, guarded the harbor. The June night was humid and still.

Joy took Peter's hand, felt the perspiration, and saw in his eyes the unmistakable look of anguish.

“You didn't want to see me, did you?” she suggested.

“Of course I did. I was truly pleased to see that you went to the trouble to learn that I'd been reassigned here. But for you to come to Charleston might have been a mistake. Your father must …”

“I told him I wanted to be with Hope. She won't leave Charleston until Allan is freed. Father hasn't seen your letters, nor does he know you're here.”

“Joy …” Peter began, but interrupted himself with a deep-throated sigh belying the stiffness of his military posture.

“What is it? Please tell me, Peter. It's as if you're a thousand miles away tonight.”

“I just returned from Waxhaws.” His voice was whisper-quiet. He could barely speak. “I went with Tarleton and Embleton. Buford led a band of four hundred Continentals against our two hundred fifty. The Patriots fought poorly, though. They were inexperienced and inept on the battlefield. We trounced them thoroughly, but then …” He hesitated, forcing back what actually looked like tears. “Then …”—he swallowed hard—“… Tarleton and Embleton went mad. We'd captured more than two hundred men and they ordered us to …” Again he stopped, closed his eyes, and finally said the words, “They ordered us to run the prisoners through with swords and bayonets.”

“Peter!” Joy threw her hand over her mouth and gasped. “Could you … did you …”

“I was one of the commanders,” he said. “I relayed the orders. I watched it happen.”

Now his eyes flooded with tears as Joy took him to her breast. Silently, the proper English soldier wept in her arms.

“I must say—he was quite fabulous,” Rianne reported, all aflutter in a silver-threaded burgundy gown and a sky-high powdered wig decorated with clusters of tiny white pearls.

“How could you have possibly gone?” Colleen was outraged as she confronted Rianne in her own workshop.

“How could I have possibly missed it?”

“For all practical purposes, you were consorting with the enemy.”

“Nonsense. Many a music-loving Patriot was there, though Colonel Tarleton and Major Embleton were too glassy-eyed from their English sherry to take note. What pompous fools they are! But, oh, the music was divine!”

“He played?”

“I thought you weren't curious,” Rianne teased.

“I'm not,” Colleen insisted.

For the next few seconds Rianne slowly removed her white silk gloves and let silence prevail. Finally, her niece surrendered.

“Well, did he or did he not play?” Colleen asked.

“Like an angel, my dear. An absolute angel.”

“I really don't want to hear about it, Aunt Rianne, but if you must tell me, I'll force myself to listen.”

Rianne removed remnants of fabric from a wicker chair and sat majestically, folding her hands on her lap, making herself comfortable before she cleared her throat and spoke in carefully measured phrases. “To begin with, poor Alex Sitwell's manor will never be the same. The major stripped it of its furniture and replaced the fine pieces crafted here in Charleston with extraordinarily vulgar new rubbish from England. But no matter, the parlor's still a lovely room, with its bay windows and the light from the south garden falling so gently on the assembled guests. In the first row, naturally, were Tarleton and Embleton themselves, as well as a whole assembly of decorated British officers. Before the recital began, I saw Jason speaking with a red-haired officer. From what you've told me, I gather that was Captain Tregoning. A handsome lad, I must say. I also saw that Joy Exceeding was in attendance, and I was most pleased that she wore a floral-designed gown of my own making. A dear child, that Joy. Robin Courtenay and Piero Sebastiano Ponti were very much in evidence. Robin wore a remarkable yellow-and-black turban as tall as my wig, while Piero donned a red vest and a waistcoat as white as freshly fallen snow.