Paxton's War (33 page)

“They're my patients,” Roy heard himself saying, “and I'll do what I can.”

Shortly before dawn, a caravan of two buggies and two stallions arrived unnoticed at the McClagan farm. By nine that morning, in the back rooms of his house, with the help of Hope, Portia, and several other servants, Roy had set up temporary beds for all six rebels.

Part of McClagan's mind was in a panic. Wondering how in the name of God he could be taking such a foolhardy risk, he was glad that Colleen had decided to stay in Charleston. At least he hadn't involved her in this great danger. In the pit of his stomach, he felt the awful, gnawing fear of being discovered. Stronger than that fear, though, was his sense of obligation to his patients, whom he treated with ointments, salves, and herbs, gently wiping their perspiring brows and cooling their feverish skin with fresh spring water while reassuring the men he would heal them; to the best of his ability.

Chapter 3

On the way to Rianne's shop, on the street Jason saw a discarded copy of the Sandpiper's broadside concerning Buckley. He picked it up, read it quickly, and threw it back down as four Redcoat soldiers hurried by on horseback.

“What is it?” Joy asked.

“Propaganda,” Jason answered, reflecting on Colleen's persistence in publishing the tracts. He frowned and felt his old anger and fears for her safety return. Another group of British military men, these on foot, marched by, their muskets resting against their shoulders. It seemed as if there were more soldiers than civilians in Charleston. The city, once open and inviting, had turned inward and anxious. The streets had been given over to the army, to the greencoats as well as the red, and on this humid September afternoon, normally a time when the citizenry found any and every excuse to congregate in the city's many markets and parks, those public gathering places were half deserted, creating a forlorn and forbidden atmosphere.

Joy slipped her arm into the crook of her brother's elbow and gave him a soft, loving squeeze. “Thank you for seeing me through this, Jase,” she said. “You're the one person who doesn't demand explanations or apologies from me about Peter. I don't have to say a word, and yet I know you understand. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“You've done as much for me,” he answered, knowing that in his family, Joy alone accepted and supported his affection for Colleen without question or judgment. “If families can't help one another, Joy …”

“If only Father felt that way,” she interrupted.

Jason reflected upon the twisted misunderstandings that so cruelly divided his family. “Perhaps one day he, too, will understand,” he said, searching his own soul for optimism. “I just hope that day comes soon,” he added wistfully.

At the seamstress's shop, a servant led the Paxton siblings into the parlor, where they seated themselves in stiff, wing-backed chairs and awaited Rianne's arrival. A few minutes later, she appeared with a buoyantly curious Colleen at her side. Seeing Colleen's sparkling eyes and ready smile, Jason's anger about the broadside quickly fell away. He arose courteously and kissed the hand of the aunt as well as the niece, noticing that Colleen's fingers were smudged with printer's ink.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” the seamstress asked.

“I'm afraid,” Joy answered before her brother had time to speak, “that we've come here under rather embarrassing circumstances.”

Joy and Jason related the story together, careful not to interrupt one another or put their father in too unfavorable a light, demonstrating both discretion and compassion in telling their tale of family distress. Captain Peter Tregoning was never mentioned.

“Why, naturally you may stay here, my dear,” Rianne offered the minute their case had been stated. She'd always been extremely fond of Joy and—like her brother, Roy—had a soft spot in her heart for souls in distress. “Your faith and trust in me,” she told Jason and Joy, “is highly flattering. I'm sorry for the unfortunate conflict with your father. Alas, I've a similar situation, somewhat in reverse, with my own brother.”

“You presume we're Loyalists, Miss McClagan,” Jason said, “but I want you to understand that, apart from appearances …”

“Fret not, Jason Paxton,” she broke in. “It matters not to me how you view this bloody conflict. I know you and your sister to be people of good conscience. We'll care for one another as human beings, not as political entities. Now, if I can persuade my niece to share her bedroom with Joy …”

“Most gladly!” Colleen exclaimed, delighted to have an opportunity to get to know Joy better, a person she, too, had always liked and admired.

“Then the matter is settled you'll move your garments in …”

“I'm afraid,” Joy said with fresh embarrassment, “that most of my clothing is back in Brandborough. What remained in Charleston was taken from our house by the greencoats. I have a few things, but lack even essential …”

“You'll lack nothing here,” Rianne stated. “Of all the places in this colony to arrive
sans
wardrobe, you've chosen the ideal establishment. Why, we have garments of every stripe, for every size, figure, and taste.”

“I hope you'll allow me to help you with the household duties as well as the sewing,” Joy offered. “I'm quite handy with needle and thread.”

“You're a dandy, I'm sure. I'll put you to work within the hour if you're not careful,” Rianne responded, realizing that allowing Joy to work would make her feel useful and wanted.

A servant entered the room and whispered something into Colleen's ear. Colleen thought for a few seconds—Jason could hear her thinking—before she said, “Aunt Rianne, could you show Joy around the house? She hasn't seen the living quarters before. There's an old musical score in the basement that I wish to show Jason it won't take but a minute.”

“Of course, my dear,” Rianne said, eyeing her niece with suspicion but content to go along with what seemed a harmless plan.

Jason followed Colleen through the shop to a door that led downstairs. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“Shh!” she said, putting a finger to her lips. “You'll see in a second.”

She led the way down the staircase into the dark, damp basement. Jason tripped over a bolt of fabric, but Colleen was there to catch his fall. He felt embarrassed, allowing her to lead the way as she held his hand. “I was told he's at the trapdoor,” she said, lighting a candle.

“Who?”

“Frederic Pall.”

“Wait, Colleen,” Jason said with some alarm in his voice. “I don't think it's a good idea …”

“Nonsense. You were suspicious of him. Well, now you'll see for yourself the sort of rebel he is.”

Several mice scurried over Colleen and Jason's feet. She shuddered, squeezed the musician's hand, regained her composure, and walked to the back of the basement, where she found a small stepladder that she ascended and expertly opened a trap door leading up to the backyard. Daylight flooded the basement. The startling light caused Jason to take a step back. Seconds later, though, the same light was blocked by an intense face peering into the opening.

“Colleen?”

“Yes, Frederic. There's a ladder beneath you. Lower yourself carefully.”

He did so, as Jason noted the snakelike dexterity with which the slim, slithery figure negotiated the steps of the ladder. Before Colleen replaced the trapdoor, Jason had a few seconds to examine Pall. His shoulder-length blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, and his sunken chest all gave the printer a singular, almost bizarre, appearance. Jason's suspicions grew. Perhaps it was jealousy, Jason thought; perhaps it was the fact that Colleen had called Pall by his first name. No matter, with the door back in place and another candle lit so that the basement flickered with long yellow shadows, Colleen introduced the men to one another.

“'Tis a rare pleasure indeed,” Pall said, turning on all his theatrical charm. “I've heard much about you from my friends in Europe.”

“Oh?” Jason asked with studied wariness.

“Indeed. You're a musician and composer, if I'm not mistaken, and the son of Ethan Paxton.”

How does Pall know so much?
Jason wondered.

“Here's the printing press that I told you Frederic brought last week,” Colleen said as she drew back several enormous pieces of fabric that had been thrown over a worn but operative press. “Isn't it marvelous?”

“Where did you get it?” Jason asked, aware of the fact that by merely being introduced to Pall, Colleen had let this stranger know that he—a musician and friend of Major Embleton—knew the Sandpiper's true identity. What else had Colleen told Pall? Jason wondered.

“The press is a loan from a rebel friend who shall remain nameless,” Frederic said cautiously. “But if I may say so, Mr. Paxton, I sense that you don't trust me.”

“I don't, Mr. Pall.”

“Then perhaps my letters of recommendation would put your mind at ease.”

Frederic produced the documents, which Jason read carefully by candlelight before saying, “I have no way to authenticate the handwriting.”

“If my sources are correct, Mr. Paxton,” Pall retorted haughtily, “I might remind you that for the last several years you've been off in Europe pursuing a musical career while many of us have stayed home to fight a war. My efforts on behalf of this revolution are a matter of record. Nonetheless, I'm pleased to learn that you're a supporter of our cause, if indeed that's the case.”

“I'm a friend of Colleen's.”

“A very close friend, I see,” Pall commented as he saw Colleen take the musician's hand. Even at this early moment, there was no doubt in the actor's mind that he had his man. He'd been certain that Colleen would introduce him to the Wisp, though he hadn't thought she would do so this soon. How simple the task! How sweet the reward! Still, he was able to suppress any flush of victory from appearing on his face. He knew he had to be careful not to tip his hand.

“And from where do you hail?” Jason asked, still digging for information.

“From wherever our great revolution has last led me,” Pall replied, ready to meet the challenge of Paxton's questions. “I've no home, save where duty calls. I've been in Philadelphia, I've been in Atlanta, and now I'm needed here, where the Crown's vicious stronghold tightens about our necks with each passing day.”

“'Tis strange,” Jason added, “that you knew of my reputation as a musician.”

“Not in the least,” Pall said casually, twisting his face into an expression of thoughtful sincerity, speaking as if the words had been written out beforehand. “I'm a printer, but also something of a thespian. I've friends throughout England and the Continent who keep me abreast of the latest artistic developments. You've been mentioned many a time. I'm also aware that you performed at Major Embleton's home here in Charleston. I'm sorry to have missed the recital.”

“Purely an artistic event,” Jason said defensively.

“A convenient camouflage,” Colleen added.

Jason shot Colleen an angry look that Frederic did not fail to see.

“Might I ask about your European friends who mentioned me?” Jason turned the questioning back on Pall.

“Why, of course.” Frederic paused, placing his right leg upon the first step of the ladder, his chin resting upon his hand. “Let me see … could it have been my good friend Luigi Boccherinir?”

“The musician?” Jason asked in amazement.

“The same. When last in Tuscany—several years back—we struck up a rare friendship and have corresponded ever since. I'm a great admirer of his string quartets.”

“Then you know music.”

“I love music. And musicians fascinate me. I can't pass through Paris, for instance, without seeing my good friend François Barthelemon.”

“The violinist?”

“And composer. His
Pelopida
is among the loveliest operas in the French language.”

“But what brings you to Charleston, Mr. Pall?” Jason asked, still not satisfied by any of Frederic's answers.

“My work in Atlanta was discovered by the British. They didn't look favorably upon the patriotic pamphlets I was printing. Consequently, I was forced to leave Georgia in something of a hurry. Fortunately, my network of friends led me to this press and, I might add, to a part in a Shakespearean comedy as well.”

“But won't the English officials from Atlanta have an easy time tracing you to Charleston, especially as an actor?”

“Oh, but there's little chance. You see, I'm quite an expert at changes in identity. The true rebel must go by many names, and under many disguises. In Atlanta, with the aid of a multiplicity of wigs and a great deal of greasepaint and rouge, you would not have recognized me as the man who stands before you.”

The more they spoke, the more suspicious Jason became, in spite of—or because of—Frederic's glib responses. For all his surface charm, Pall had too many ready answers for Jason. He seemed to know every well-known revolutionary in the colonies. “He knows Thomas Paine himself,” Colleen said, giving Pall an excuse to relay stories of his friendship with the famed writer. He spoke of the revolution with singular zeal, and Jason could see how Colleen's openheartedness and patriotic fervor led her to believe this man's many tales. Jason did not believe him. He found the man unctuous and cunning. Yet the musician knew himself to be in a most precarious position. Pall now knew he was a confidant of Colleen's. Jason had no choice but to go along—and find out what he could later.

“You've arrived just in time, Frederic,” Colleen said. “I wrote a new broadside early this morning. If you could print it now, I could have the boys put it out tonight. Our people will be heartened, I know. 'Tis a verse of hope and needs to be read by all in despair.”