Paxton's War (21 page)

“I don't understand.”

“Who informed on Ephraim? How do I know it wasn't you? Or Robin? Or Piero? How do I …”

“Oh, my sweet angel,” he declared, meeting her accusation with even deeper understanding. “My heart cries for you.”

“I don't need your pity. Just let me be.”

“Please, Colleen, surely you see …”

“I see nothing and trust no one, least of all you.”

“Then I'll see you home.”

“You needn't bother. I know the way.”

“Let me just …”

“It's useless, Jason. You can't begin to fathom what I feel. If only I had helped Ephraim. No one can understand my remorse. Please, just let me be.”

Jason turned and walked away, his head down, his pace agonizingly slow. It was what he wanted. He had no room for love. His steps might also lead to the gallows. Why drag her with him? Better to let Colleen live with the cruel lesson of that heartless morning. Still, he worried about her more than ever. There was no use in denying it. He cared, cared deeply about this fascinating and fragile woman.

It was only after he was gone that Colleen suddenly remembered the lyrics that she had hidden between her petticoats early that morning. She searched for the paper, but to no avail; the broadside was no longer there. Panic and fear welled in her breast. Had someone noticed her drop it? And if it was gone, she had no copy.

An image of Ephraim. She wavered, fought back the tide of revulsion and sorrow that threatened to engulf her, crushing the last vestige of her spirit.

She could have saved him.

Her fault, not Jason's or anyone else's.

Oh, God in heaven, her fault …

Chapter 3

Jason was drained of emotion as he rode back toward his patrons' home. He went over the scene in his mind—how he had spotted Colleen in the crowd, stood behind her and held his breath as he waited for Ephraim to speak her name. He, too, had considered charging the gallows, protesting with words or action, doing anything to stop the hanging and Colleen's incrimination. At a certain point, though, he sensed that Kramer would neither betray her nor could Embleton retreat from this public threat. All he could do was catch Colleen when she swooned and, in the confused and shocked aftermath of the execution, carry her to the carriage loaned to him by Robin and Piero.

Now he brought the carriage back to Easy Bay Street. Robin was in his shop at the back of his house; Piero had gone to market seeking the ideal eggplant for the evening's dinner. Jason went to the music library, shut the door, and for the next several hours emptied his heart onto the virginal in what became an improvised requiem for Ephraim Kramer. The motif was mournful and slow, the tear-stained notes filled with pain, as if nothing but this dirge could express the sorrow in Jason's soul. He made no attempt to notate the composition, but merely allowed himself to cry through his music as he bent and swayed with the heavy, minor chords.

At sunset he found himself walking from the house, through the garden, across the street to stare at Charleston Bay. The sight never ceased to fascinate him—ships of commerce, ships of war, the islands and vast ocean beyond. With Ephraim's death, the miracle of the changing light seemed especially poignant. Why had he died? Was there really a point to it all? Jason thought of the two Tories he had killed—his countrymen—and wondered whether his own exploits were worth the bloodshed. Or was it all, as the bard had said through the lips of a bereaved Macbeth, “a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing”?

The beauty of light, the way in which the majestic clouds caught the gold and pink of the setting sun over the untamed lands to the west, filled Jason with inspiration and troubled awe. How was one to respond to a world in which a decent man was dragged to a twisted, tormented death under a sky that hours later sang a symphony of breathtaking colors? What was one to say? What to think? And what of Colleen? Jason wanted to see her and hold her for as long as it took to convince her—and himself—that, yes, there was some sense to it all, that beauty would prevail in the end. But would it? And would the view of stark brutality, the awakening to a new reality, break her spirit and render her forever fearful of a world too cruel to abide? Still, as much as he wanted to speak with her, he knew he couldn't. Responsibility demanded that he leave her alone, forget her. There was nothing to do but walk.

Walk along the long battery wall of this war-weary city, walk away the doubts and insecurities, walk until he came upon the darkening docks and glanced out toward sea to watch the arrival of a ship. At first he thought it might be one of the two vessels owned by the proud Paxton consortium. But instead he made out the Somerset coat of arms. It was the
Bountiful
, whose longboats, Jason could now see, were delivering a shipment of black human flesh. In from Africa by way of New Orleans, the huddled men and women, for all the wonder in their eyes, seemed of great nobility to Jason. As the first of many boats neared shore, he couldn't help but speculate whether one man in particular, of wide nose and high cheekbones, was not a prince among his people. Yet his hands and legs were chained, his chest and back scarred with the marks of a brutal whip. Who knew of the culture of these people, their religion or language? Who cared? The absurdity, the inhumanity, the horror of it all! And that woman—climbing from the boat, in chains like the others, yet unlike them, for her flesh was shiny and scrubbed, not encrusted with filth like her fellow prisoners; her long neck so thin and supple, her hands so delicate—who was to say that she was not a queen? And why, on a slave ship, had she been kept in such a delicate condition? And what was this? The captain of the ship was approaching the woman, setting her free from her chains and bringing her over to an admiring Buckley Somerset.

Jason strained to hear the conversation, but he was too far from the two men.

“Here she is, Mr. Somerset,” said the amicable, hook-nosed captain. “Just as I promised you, sir. Pick of the lot. She was one of the tribal chieftain's wives, and the prettiest of them all. I'd say even prettier than that beauty I brought you last summer. You can see that we've fed and bathed her. Even splashed on a bit of perfume. I know you like them to smell sweet. Can't say that I blame you.”

Buckley, regally attired in dark velvet, looked her over lasciviously as if she were a side of beef. The captain did indeed know his taste. Her long limbs and thrusting breasts were much to his liking. It was delightful, he thought to himself, how he could have any woman of his choosing. Women were brought to him from around the world, and yet he couldn't forget that damned doctor's daughter. Why couldn't he lose this obsession for Colleen? Why couldn't he strike her from his mind? Was it because she had refused his every advance. No matter, he decided, he'd lose the image of that cold-hearted damsel by treating himself to this luscious, dark-skinned beauty.

Generously tipping the captain and thanking him for his courtesy, Somerset led the young woman, shoeless and frightened, to his carriage, parked inconspicuously inside a narrow alley, shoving her inside and then following, pushing closed the curtains.

Seeing all this, Jason was incensed at more than the fact that Somerset was indulging his lust at the expense of a human being who had been torn from her home, thrown in the bowels of a boat, and shipped halfway around the world in order to pick cotton and so enrich an already rich man. He felt sickened by the very greed and cruelty of mankind. Without thinking, he ran to the carriage, responding to the cries of the African woman, and, with full force, slapped the rears of Somerset's team of steeds. The horses bolted, charging off wildly, blindly, with a dazed Buckley cursing and flinging open the door to see what had happened. Jason had ducked out of sight, though he could see that Somerset's fancy breeches were at his ankles, his swollen member shrinking fast.

Three weeks after Kramer's hanging, Rianne sat in the privacy of her bedroom as night fell upon the troubled city. Designing a flamboyant costume on a pad placed upon a small, delicate table facing a window overlooking the courtyard, she found concentration impossible. Her mind went back over the past twenty-one days. For all her worldliness and bold demeanor, she was deeply disturbed and concerned for her niece's welfare.

She remembered the awful morning. Having heard from a neighbor of Kramer's hanging, she assumed immediately that her niece, too, had been imprisoned, and until Colleen arrived home that afternoon in a state of emotional collapse, she was closer to panic than at any point in her life. She considered going to the Old Customs Exchange, yet that very act could be seen as incriminating. She saw no choice but to stay home and wait. And, oh, the relief she felt as Colleen finally walked through the door! Her peace of mind, though, was frightfully short-lived; the fact remained that the officials were searching for Kramer's collaborators. Were they on Colleen's trail? Had someone spotted her at Kramer's house? And which neighbors could and could not be trusted? Rianne felt responsible. She knew that it was largely her influence that had pushed Colleen into action. Never had she guessed that events could take such a wicked turn. Just as painful was the emotional condition of her ailing niece.

Colleen's eyes revealed the fact that she had looked death in the face, and not recovered from the sight. She was sick. She slept for hours on end, late into the morning and often into early afternoon. She couldn't face the day with its bright summer sunshine and blue sky, the same conditions under which Kramer had been hanged. She blamed herself for his murder. She couldn't forget that it was she who had convinced him to print her propaganda. His face, his open eyes, his lifeless head fallen upon his right shoulder—the image haunted her awake and asleep. Where once she felt the energy of hope, she now felt only despair.

There were moments when she conjured forth the old images of bravery. She tried to read Thomas Paine and think of Nathan Hale, but they seemed heroic figures from another lifetime. She had lost touch with the woman who had responded so passionately to those men's courage. Oh, to regain that faith! But faith, like her love for Jason Paxton, had come to seem almost childish to her. She had seen what the world was really like. Poor Ephraim, kind Ephraim, gentle Ephraim, publicly humiliated, brought to his knees, made to suffer and die on her account.

The thrice-daily rap on her door never failed to startle Colleen. Her first thought was that the soldiers had come to arrest her. Someone, a neighbor of Kramer's, had turned her in. Her breath shortened, her heartbeat quickened, only to have her aunt's firm voice assure her that she'd brought a tray of nourishing food. Colleen ate very little, and her loss of weight was apparent. She hadn't been out of the house since the morning of the hanging. Her coloring had transformed from vibrant tan to pale white. Every day Rianne considered removing her niece forceably from the bed, sending her home, or making her work. She understood, though, that Colleen's anguish was deep, and it would take time for the wounds to heal. Not indulgent by nature, the aunt nonetheless found herself mothering this motherless, guilt-ridden child—at least for the time being.

Leaving her thoughts behind, Rianne put down her design—it was useless trying to work—and walked slowly to Colleen's room. She rapped gently on the door. “May I come in?”

“Please,” replied a frail and faraway voice.

Colleen was still in her nightgown. Rianne began to protest, but reminded herself to be patient before she spoke. “I hope you remember that by this time tomorrow, your father will be here. We've exchanged any number of letters. I've tried to put him off, but he'll wait no longer. He's coming to bring you home, Colleen.”

“No, no … I can't go back … I can't leave!” Colleen cried.

“I myself prefer that you stay. But it's conceivable that you'll be better off in Brandborough.”

“I can't be with my father. He can't—he won't—understand. No one understands except you. Don't you see? If I leave this house, I'll be followed. They probably already know, and they're just waiting.”

“No one knows anything. If they did, they'd be here already.”

“No matter what, I have to stay with you. I must! I'm … I'm …”

“I'll do what I can, child, but you, too, must find the fortitude to speak to my brother rationally and with composure. If he sees you in this condition, he'll take you home, no matter how forceful my pleas. I'll say that you've suffered from a slight flux. That will explain your loss of coloring. Beyond that, though, you must present yourself as normally as possible.”

Some twenty-four hours later, Dr. Roy McClagan stood at Rianne's door wearing a thin, battered cloak and tired expression. His salt-and-pepper whiskers were unkempt, and he appeared even more stooped than usual. His straight-backed sister, taller than he, bent down to kiss him on both cheeks.

“Where's my Colleen?” he asked.

“Where she usually is, dear brother. In her room reading. You've raised quite a scholar. Night and day she pores over the classics.”

“The classics, or the seditious tripe of which you're so fond.”

“Perish the thought! It's Ovid and Virgil, Dante and the mighty Milton. I tell you, I can't get her out of the house. She's devoted herself to the study of fine literature and lofty poesy. I know you're proud of her, Roy.”

“She's a smart lass, she is.”

“And she's missed you.”

“And I her,” he said, sinking into a wing-backed armchair in Rianne's parlor. “'Tis lonely without her. I've come to bring her home.”

Rianne didn't protest—at least not for the time being. All things considered, she felt that going home would only exacerbate her niece's ailment. Eventually—and soon—Colleen needed to be brought back out into the light of reality. The isolated farm would only deepen her retreat. And with every passing day, Rianne was convinced that Colleen's involvement had not, and would not, be disclosed.