Paxton's War (35 page)

“You've captured your brother-in-law and wonder whether to shoot the bastard yourself or turn him over to us?” Embleton laughed heartily at his own joke, his oversized ears twitching with merriment.

“No, not quite.”

“Go on, go on.”

“My father's home here has been appropriated and I was wondering …”

“Oh, yes, I saw something about that pass over my desk. At first I thought it might inconvenience you, and then I … was reminded that your father has given us nothing but trouble from Brandborough. He openly defies the military command in the region and refused to pay a farthing of taxes. Were it not for you, Jason, he'd have been behind bars long ago. However, we've decided to let him be. I know that you and he have been on the outs ever since your return, and I concluded that the house would serve you no purpose. Was I wrong?”

“Not really.” Jason decided to back off, increasingly convinced that he was really in no danger of being discovered. Embleton still believed firmly in his Tory sentiments.

“I would have thought that by now you'd have your family convinced of the inevitability of British rule,” the officer continued, pleased with the sound of his own voice. “Having lived in our fair land, you were privileged to see with your own eyes the invincibility of our mighty empire. But, alas, these rebels are stubborn by nature, and I can no more blame you for your father's misplaced patriotism than for your colony's pathetic absence of refined culture. Which brings me, dear Jason, to a musical note. When can we expect another recital? Ah, but I've missed the sound of music ringing through the rooms of my Charles Town home!”

“Whenever it pleases you, Major,” Jason offered, deciding to drop the subject of his father's town home and placate Embleton any way he could.

“A week from tonight would be most pleasant. It would give me time to issue invitations. When would that make it? The third Wednesday in September. I'd like to plan something special, particularly in view of the fact that our military fortunes are so secure. It will be an important sign to the citizenry that cultural life, in spite of our presence—indeed, because of our presence—is flourishing. Tonight, for instance, I plan to attend a performance of
All's Well That Ends Well
, another example that this city is functioning quite well on every significant level.”

Jason was alarmed to hear the play mentioned. He wondered immediately whether there was a connection between Embleton and Pall, but knew he couldn't possibly ask the question.

“So will you agree to this concert, Jason?”

“Most definitely.”

“And what will you play?”

“A composition of my own making, something I've been working on ever since I returned from London.”

“Most commendable. An original composition. I applaud your ambition. It will be an honor to host a recital in which a new musical creation will be debuted. Might I suggest that you dedicate your work to King George the Third himself and his enlightened sovereignty over this land?”

Jason took a deep swallow of his sherry, covertly bit his lip, and looked Embleton in the eye. “A suggestion well made, Major. It will be my honor to do so.”

Robin and Piero left their home before Jason returned from his meeting with Embleton. They had been invited to dine at the home of a friend and then planned to attend the evening's performance at the Dock Street Theater. It was Jason's suggestion that they see the play, and they agreed most readily. The musician wanted a firsthand report on Pall's theatrical abilities without showing up himself.

Dinner was quite pleasant, and at seven-thirty their servant, Ned, drove them to the theater in their elaborate coach. Dressed in contrasting outfits—Robin's coat, blouse, trousers, and wig were snow white; the wiry Piero was decked out in solid black, from head to foot—they made a noteworthy entrance into the theater, with their canes, their capes, and their extravagantly bejeweled slippers. Piero was especially proud of his new moustache.

The intimate auditorium, which seated no more than two hundred fifty spectators, was divided into boxes, pit and gallery. The proscenium arch framed a scenic area twenty-five feet deep, with only five feet of off-stage space on either side. The stage was tilted toward the audience. The raked pit consisted of eight wooden benches painted bright red. Raised above the pit level and surrounding it in a semi-ellipse was a single row of boxes where individual chairs accommodated the theatergoers. The highest-priced tickets were for this section. The gallery, where the cheapest seats in the house could be had, was located above the boxes.

Naturally, Robin and Piero were seated in one of the choice boxes, close to the stage, decorated with thin gilt railings. The half-filled theater was dimly lit by small six-branched chandeliers hung on the back of each box, while the stage was illuminated by oil lamps that would be raised and lowered, depending upon whether the scenes depicted night or day.

Just as Piero inconspicuously took a snort of snuff and was enjoying the pleasant effects, he felt a gentle nudge from Robin's elbow against his waist. There, being seated in the box next to them, was Major Randall Embleton and two of his aides. Piero began to whisper something to Robin, who, the more discreet of the two, put his finger to his lips, quieting his Italian friend as the players took their places upon the stage.

Throughout the comedy, both men couldn't help but feel anxious by their proximity to the British commanding officer, remembering how earlier Jason had confided his fears to them. He'd expressed his concern that Pall was a spy and was perhaps connected to the British high command. In light of that statement, Embleton's bulky presence kept both men in a state of extreme tension.

Yet, in spite of their nervousness, Robin and Piero were vaguely bored by the production. It was not their favorite Shakespeare play. Lacking the festive aspect of the bard's other comedies, it neither sang nor soared with the sort of wit that was Robin's particular delight. Piero recognized the plot from an old tale of Boccaccio and preferred the original Italian narrative to this watered-down adaptation. There was, however, no denying the extraordinary talent of Frederic Pall, who enacted the role of Parolles with singular concentration and conviction, easily overshadowing the other characters. Robin also saw exactly why Jason had been concerned: the man played the part of an imposter and poseur with uncanny verisimilitude. Could this be mere acting? He thought not. It took a rogue to play a rogue this convincingly.

At intermission, as was the custom in the colonial theaters of Philadelphia, Boston, New York and Charleston, the players entertained the audience with entr'acte diversions. It was at this point that Pall stepped forward and, much to the spectators' delight, juggled various colored objects in the air and recited love poems in German and French. What's more, he sang a few English ditties and did something of a dance, moving from the ridiculous to the sublime back to the ridiculous in the wink of an eye. Robin and Piero were impressed and did not fail to see the utter enthusiasm with which the pudgy major applauded the man's efforts.

After the play itself was over, the musician's mentors applauded lightly and then left quickly before Embleton turned around. He hadn't noticed Robin and Piero. They'd met the major at Jason's last recital and had no desire to renew the acquaintance. Instead, they went directly home to report to Jason that Embleton had attended the play and to relay their concern about the thespian's alarmingly true-to-life portrayal.

“I, too, am concerned,” Jason said as his fingers danced over the pianoforte in the cavernous music library, “but after seeing Embleton, I'm certain there's no present danger. I'm not under suspicion—I know that for a fact—and next week's recital will give me another several weeks of unhampered freedom.”

Chapter 5

“Yes, yes, quite satisfactory, dear boy,” Randall Embleton said, seated behind his office desk, as a white-wigged Buckley Somerset sat in the major's office in the Old Customs Exchange and described the work of his Continental Tory Militia. In a series of lightning-fast raids, he and his men had burned a half dozen rebel farms in the area. There was great excitement and pride in his voice as he described the bloody work of his two aides, Jack Windrow and Sam Simkins. “My men,” he informed the major, “instinctively go for the jugular. They understand that it requires nothing less than a quick knife in the abdomen or a cold bullet to the brain to convince these Patriots that theirs is a lost cause.”

“Precisely. I'm pleased to see that the noose around the rebels' necks is tightening.”

“We're choking them to death,” Buckley added with a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips.

An aide entered to announce the arrival of a certain Mr. Parolles in the outer office.

“Ah, it's Pall playing theatrical games again. Yes, yes, send him in at once. Perhaps he has news for us.”

Frederic Pall entered in the guise of an agricultural worker. Wigless, his mouse-brown dyed hair was in wild disarray, and his rubbery elongated face, covered with splotches of mud, resembled a horse. He wore garments of coarse fabric and covered two of his front teeth with a black gummy substance in order to appear partially toothless.

“Brilliant!” Embleton said, slapping the thespian on his back. “You were brilliant last night. And this morning I'd not recognize you for all the tea in Boston Harbor. Surely you remember Buckley Somerset.”

“Indeed,” the thespian said through a toothy grin.

“Have you the name of the Wisp?” Somerset arose from his chair and approached Pall. Embleton leaned forward and sat up alertly.

“Have you my hundred pounds?”

The major opened a side drawer and pulled out a bulky pouch. “In silver, Mr. Pall, if it so suits you.”

Frederic's eyes lit up. “It suits me just fine.”

“But first the name, and the proof,” the Englishman insisted.

“'Tis so obvious, I must admit to feeling somewhat guilt-ridden in relieving you of so substantial a sum for so simple a deduction.”

“Guilt-ridden or not,” Somerset said, “tell us the name, man, before we change the conditions.”

“Calm yourself, Buckley,” Embleton advised. “Mr. Pall is an actor, and actors are inclined to present information in dramatic form. A good actor—and our friend here is indeed good—understands the subtle element of suspense. Let us just enjoy his performance. There's no doubt the Wisp will be named, for it's certain that Mr. Parolles will not leave without his remuneration.”

“A keen mind have you, Major. You understand me well. Would, though, that you understood all artists as well.”

“I pride myself in thinking that I have a rare and, might I say, refined affinity for the arts.”

“But the arts and artists are two different things,” Pall added.

“For God's sake!” Buckley shouted as he impatiently paced the room, nervously playing with the bridge of his broken nose. “Get to the point, Pall. Name the Wisp once and for all.”

“We were talking of art,” Frederic continued, speaking slowly, enjoying tormenting Somerset a little longer, “and art, you will see, is most relevant to this morning's revelation.”

“Your train of thought eludes me,” Embleton confessed.

“'Tis precisely your affinity with artists that has blinded you to what otherwise would be an inescapable conclusion.”

“What are you saying?” the major asked.

“That you've been fooled.”

“By whom?”

“An artist, a sensitive soul who's been in your very home and …”

“Jason Paxton!” Buckley's voice rose as his heart sank. “You're saying that the Wisp is Jason Paxton!”

Pall's mouth widened into a devilishly sly smile.

“Impossible!” Embleton insisted, bolting from his chair, storming around his desk and standing nose to nose with Pall. “You're saying this to embarrass me. Why, I know Jason Paxton as well as my own blood brother. The man's a Loyalist through and through. He harbors nothing but contempt for his mindless rebel family. They don't even speak to one another. He's a cultivated and brilliant composer who …”

“… happens to be a brilliant spy,” Pall finished the major's sentence.

Buckley sank into a chair, his eyes glazed, his mind crazed with thoughts of violent revenge. He was speechless in the face of what he understood to be the absolute truth.

“But Paxton was in this very office yesterday,” Embleton continued in dismay.

“As he's been here time and time again,” Frederic reminded the officer, “learning what he can about the British military effort.”

“Damn it, man!” Embleton slammed his fist on his desk. “What proof have you?”

“He was introduced to me by the Sandpiper herself, in the basement of her aunt, the seamstress Rianne McClagan. To be with Paxton and the young poetess is to understand in a minute's time that they are not only conspirators, but lovers as well. I've not the slightest doubt that he kidnapped her from Mr. Somerset's farm, that he was responsible for the raid on this prison that freed his brother-in-law, that he …”

“Enough!” the major said, looking slightly sick as he returned to the chair behind his desk. “What say you to this, Buckley?”

Somerset found speaking difficult. His stomach was in knots, his brain on fire. Finally, in a pained voice, he spoke barely above a whisper: “I never thought he was man enough. I never thought he had it in him. But, yes, this actor is right. It all makes sense. He knows these swamps, he's had access to information, he's used the camouflage of his music. Deep down he's no different—no better—than his outlaw rebel father. Both bastards, both scum. He and the whorish McClagan woman, hanged together, side by side …” Buckley's breath quickened, his eyes widened. “I'll be there, by God! When their necks snap I'll be the last thing they'll see on this earth, and I'll be laughing, oh, I'll be smiling at them both …”