Paxton's War (22 page)

That evening Colleen appeared for dinner, and Rianne was relieved to see how hard her niece worked to create a semblance of normality. She nearly succeeded. She treated her father affectionately and tried her best to satisfy his inquiries. Yes, she had been reading a great deal, studying her Latin and Greek; yes, she had learned to appreciate the ancient poets as never before; and no, she wasn't getting out much. She was over her mild flux and felt fine. She was simply enjoying a period of quiet reflection.

Her father knew that something was wrong, but couldn't quite identify the ailment. Her speech was lifeless and her dimpled cheeks drained of their glow. She smiled hardly at all. Where was her old energy and spark?

“Well, then,” he finally said to her while sipping on his after-dinner port, “you'll be packed and ready to leave on the morrow.”

Colleen's eyes darted toward Rianne, looking for hope. “'Tis something your father and I will discuss tonight,” Rianne assured her. “You look tired. I think a wee bit extra sleep might do you good.”

When she was gone, Roy lit his pipe and turned to his sister. “What's wrong with my child?” he asked with genuine concern. “She acts as if there's been a death in the family.”

“She's matured. Charleston has matured her. That's why she must stay.”

“Out of the question.”

“'Tis her preference.”

“No doubt to see young Paxton.”

“On the contrary. I'm the only one who sees him. Weeks ago he gave a recital for Major Embleton.”

“Glad to hear it. But she leaves with me in the morning nonetheless.”

“The riders who ruthlessly raid the countryside do not give you pause for thought?”

“We've not been bothered by them in Brandborough.”

“Which doesn't mean the danger's any less.”

“I'll run the risk. Has she packed her trunk?”

“Then I'll simply have to tell Buckley Somerset to change the arrangements,” Rianne announced, ignoring her brother's question and feeling pleased with herself for having improvised this fabrication. While it was true that Somerset had sent messages and had come to the house at least a half dozen times, Colleen had consistently refused to see him.

“What arrangements?” asked the doctor.

“To escort her to the costume ball at Somerset Hall here in Charleston at the end of August. He so had his heart set upon taking Colleen that I naturally insisted that she accept.”

“Has she?”

“She most certainly will.”

“And so Buckley can fetch her at Brandborough.”

“'Tis an impossibly long way to travel for a ball, and I doubt if he'll agree. The lad's here for the remainder of the summer, tending to family business. He was most pleased to learn that Colleen will be staying. He seems to enjoy visiting her often.”

“If my daughter isn't pulling me in one direction, you're pushing me in another. Something's amiss, Rianne, and methinks you're to blame.”

“Physicians, gentle brother, can be such fools. You look for maladies where none exists. For the next five weeks I shall be preoccupied with the design and creation of dozens of costumes. 'Tis a nearly impossible task, and in addition to enjoying my dear niece's company, I dare say I could also use her invaluable assistance.”

“You've taught her to sew?” Roy was surprised.

“There's nothing, absolutely nothing,” Rianne assured him as she straightened her wig, “that a McClagan woman cannot do.”

Chapter 4

Taking a break from his afternoon work at the pianoforte, Jason entered the Roaring Lion, a popular coffeehouse filled with men engrossed in intense conversation. He knew that the patrons were rebels—this was a well-known gathering place—and as much as he wanted to share his thoughts with them, enjoy their camaraderie and shed his mask as a loner, he said nothing. He sat by himself and looked around the room, thick with smoke. The walls consisted of bare, worn bricks, and the floor was covered with sawdust. At the table next to his, Jason overheard the whispers of two men deep in a dialogue they both seemed to relish.

“I'm willing to wage that he'll strike again by week's end,” said the first man, whose broad, bald head seemed connected to his shoulders by a series of ever-widening chins. “He'll go after that supply post outside Bentfork; I'd bet my mother's soul on it.”

“Would be far too rash an act,” disagreed his companion, who spoke through a rugged toothless grin. “The Wisp's too smart for that. He knows they'll be waiting for him at Bentfork. No, I think he's gone back to the swamps. Biding his time, he is, waiting for the moment when the moon's high and the guards are down.”

Jason was amused and pleased that his actions had stirred such passionate interest. For a moment, he was able to take his mind off his new composition, which, in spite of his best efforts, was going slowly. There were certain sounds he was trying to incorporate into formal musical structures, as unorthodox as they might have seemed—the sound of hoofbeats, a horse galloping across the marshes, the incessant buzz of the Carolina cicada—sounds he associated with his midnight rides, the most recent of which saw him intercepting a secret transport of military weapons from Brandborough to Charleston after seeing a letter regarding the shipment on Embleton's desk during one of his visits to the major.

Dividing his life in half was not conducive to productive creative work. Composing by day and raiding by night was a bit of madness he found hard to accept. Yet he couldn't stop. For a week after the execution of Ephraim Kramer, he had eased off and even considered retiring his disguise, the costume of Hamlet's ghost that he had borrowed from Piero—the deep gray breeches and blousy shirt, the gray cloak and mask that covered his head. He had almost been swayed by the pleadings of his patrons—the only people aware of his dual identity. For them, it wasn't a matter of politics. They argued solely out of concern for their friend's welfare. They feared his capture and execution, and yet when he rode off at dark, they said not a word. Instead, they stayed up all night, unable to sleep until they heard the sound of Cinder returning to the carriage house.

Seated in the Roaring Lion, Jason also thought of Colleen. She had never left his consciousness, day or night, whether he sat at the harpsichord or rode through the swamps. Once he had stopped by Rianne's to ask after her well-being, and to see whether she was still in Charleston. The seamstress had said yes, she was there, but he could tell by the look in Rianne's eyes that all was not well. Assuming that Colleen's frightened guilt had deepened, he didn't bother to ask to see her. He knew she'd refuse, and, besides, he was determined to keep his vow to romantically disentangle himself from her. None of that, though, could speak for the longing in his heart. Only music could convey such feelings, and yet reaching her with music was impossible. He thought of her fiery spirit, and then the fearful look in her eyes in King's Park. Would that he could cross the barrier and carry her back, back to his secret ravine, away from Charleston, even America, back with him to faraway Parma or the palazzi of ancient Venice.

Daydreams! Fantasies! He ordered coffee and sighed. His eyes burned from the smoke. He felt isolated and alone. Oh, how he longed to share his thoughts with an understanding soul! He glanced out the front window and studied the people passing by: a beggar; another group of chained slaves; fishermen; farmers; merchants; a steady stream of humanity passing through this crowded city … and then Peter Tregoning.

“Peter!” Jason ran from his table out to the street, where he hugged the soldier, in full view of the Roaring Lion's curious patrons. A great outpouring of emotion on the part of both men was instantaneous, and yet when the embrace ended, the musician and captain were left with an extraordinarily strained feeling. Their lives were bound up in secrets far too intimate and dangerous to exchange.

Could Jason dare mention that which troubled him most—Kramer's hanging, Colleen's disturbance, his veiled double identity? It was unthinkable. And as much as Peter had come to appreciate Jason's sympathetic ear, as often as he had confided in the American while the two lived in London, he, too, couldn't possibly divulge matters of his secret heart. The massacre at Waxhaws and his growing love for Joy Exceeding were not issues that he felt free even to mention. The conflicts and contradictions in both men's characters made them painfully wary of each other. They had never known a time in their lives when they needed a friend more, and yet that friendship, a source of such satisfaction for the past four years, choked on the words that neither of them could utter.

“Will you be in Charleston long, Peter?” Jason asked.

“I'm not prepared to disclose the secret plans of my superiors,” he replied, using jest to cover his discomfort. “You jolly well know that the military mind is as fickle as a woman's, and there's no telling where they'll push me next. 'Tis rather like a chess game, isn't it? We're no more than mere pawns.”

“I'm very glad you're well, Peter,” Jason said, sensing the pain beneath his friend's inscrutable demeanor. “You're looking fit.”

“And you seem to have developed bags under your eyes, old boy. If I didn't know you so well, I'd assume that the local ladies have been tiring you out.”

“It's my music.”

“Please, spare me that same lame excuse. I heard enough of it in London. Isn't your Miss McClagan about? I didn't see her when you played for Major Embleton.”

“I haven't seen her myself. I've been concentrating on composing.”

“To the exclusion of all else?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And what, may I ask, are you working on?”

“A suite in a somewhat experimental vein.”

“I presume this is going to be the startlingly original American music of which you often spoke.”

“It will certainly be startling.”

“And when can I look forward to hearing you perform this masterpiece?”

“Upon completion, I assure you.”

“That is, if the rival factions in this bedeviled colony don't decide to use your harpsichord for firewood.”

“Things surely aren't that bad, are they?” Jason tried to sound nonchalant.

“I'm afraid it's getting a bit uncivilized around here.”

The chitchat continued for several minutes more, with both men realizing the ways in which they were skirting the real issues between them. In spite of this, they couldn't help but feel the genuine and strong affection they held for one another. They promised to meet again soon, though neither specified how that would be accomplished.

“It was good seeing you, chap,” said Peter.

“Take care, my friend,” Jason replied.

Feeling profoundly frustrated and unsatisfied by the encounter, Jason watched Peter walk stiffly out of view. Sighing, the musician turned back and reentered the Roaring Lion, only to be pelted in the face by a raw egg. The impact stung him, and as the dripping yolk stuck to his eyes and eyelids, he couldn't possibly see who had thrown it. He heard only a roar of laughter followed by a rousing chorus of the “Liberty Song.” The sound of Colleen's own lyrics ringing in his ears along with the profanities of the rebel patrons who had witnessed his friendly meeting with an English officer filled him with deep despondency. He was enraged and humiliated. Yet whom could he charge? Whom could he fight? He swallowed his fury and left, walking a short block to the river, where he soaked his face clean. He knew he needed to get out of the city.

Without explaining to Robin or Piero what had happened, he changed clothes quickly and saddled up Cinder. He had no plans, wore no disguise, and rode off into the late-afternoon light without a thought of where he might be going or why. He carried papers given to him by Embleton himself—identifying him as an artist with privileges to move freely around the colony—and thus the sentries guarding the roads leading outside Charleston let him pass. The countryside seemed to call to him, as it did so often, as a friend who asked no questions and made no demands.

Enchanting stretches of wilderness awaited him. Aging willow trees shaded his face from the sun, and wept for him. Faster and faster he rode his steady steed, wishing that the wind in his face and the fragrance of the land could clear his throbbing head. For all the blinding speed with which he raced across the landscape, there was no escaping the terrible ache in his heart. He was tired of being despised, despised by his father and his sister, despised by the woman he loved, despised by the very compatriots he strove to aid. Yet there was no way out. His plan had been perfect, had indeed worked wonders, with even greater potential ahead. To continue, though, meant further misunderstanding and required a depth of unrewarded courage that Jason wasn't sure he possessed. He wanted to quit, resign from the whole bloody business of living. Never before had he felt so depressed, and the very fact that he fell into such reveries filled him with remorse. What was happening to him? What was this God-awful war doing to him and everyone he loved so dearly?

Riding through groves of trees and patches of swamp, Jason passed through a section of one of the Somerset plantations. The sight of slaves bent over in the vast fields of cotton did little to lift his sagging spirit, though the song they sang stopped him in his tracks. He climbed off Cinder and, standing under a solitary cypress at the edge of the field, listened. One worker in particular caught his eye and ear.

A man well into his seventies picked but a few yards from Jason. His hair was dove white, puffy bags sagged beneath his eyes, and his large hands were callused and swollen. His spirit, however, was undeniably happy. His hypnotic baritone voice was soothing, rich, and honey-soaked. He sang of despair, but also of joy. There was no doubting the message of his song: his troubles would be transcended, there'd come a better, brighter day, a more loving way, a time when man and his God would be joined as one, forever, glory hallelujah! And despite the tedium of his work and the abjectness of his condition, his golden voice was filled with hope, so much so that Jason felt his eyes swell with tears. His heart was touched, his soul stirred. This, he understood, was the miracle of music, the strength of the human spirit: despite everything, beauty would survive—if man sought it, if man sang it.