Paxton's War (37 page)

The faster Ethan rode, the greater his concern grew. Why hadn't McClagan sent him a message? He had great confidence in McClagan's competence as a doctor. He knew the gravity of Allan's condition, but hadn't Roy been optimistic that constant medical attention would bring him back? Ethan knew that the doctor's apolitical outlook was based upon a certain cowardice, but he also knew that when it came to the care of his patients, McClagan exhibited rare devotion and skill. Then why hadn't he received a progress report? Ethan would have made this trip earlier if he hadn't been concerned with rumors that the Tories were planning raids throughout the countryside. It made him uncomfortable to leave his home, uncomfortable to ride in the open. To be safe, he followed a hidden path a quarter-mile inside the swampy woods that ran roughly parallel to the coastal path. Perspiring and feeling out of sorts in both body and mind, Ethan nonetheless rode full force. He was a rugged man, powerfully built and not easily deterred, no matter what his mission. Life hadn't been easy in the colonies. Nothing was easy, Ethan reflected—nothing, perhaps, save surrender.

As he rode up the hill leading to the McClagan farmhouse, he immediately smelled the stench. Was it the awful flesh of dead animals? No, it couldn't be.…

Having heard the approach of Ethan's horse, Roy McClagan hurried to his front porch. Tied around his head was a makeshift mask, a piece of white cloth with sections cut out for his nose and mouth, giving him an eerie ghostly appearance. Thin, wild strands of long white hair fell over his near-bald scalp. His eyes were horribly bloodshot, more red than white. His mouth was tight-lipped and drawn, his arms limp. Bent over, he seemed even more stooped than usual. He removed the mask to reveal a four-day growth of sparse, uneven beard.

“Where are they? What's this awful smell?” Ethan asked even before he dismounted.

“Turn around and come no farther.”

“Where are they, McClagan? Where's my daughter?” Ethan dismounted and started toward the farmhouse.

“In the name of God,” Roy urged, holding up his hand, “stay away!”

“Tell me.”

“They're gone.” The physician sighed, looking down at the wooden slats of his porch.

“Gone?… Who?…” Ethan forced the questions from his lips.

“All.”

“Impossible.”

“Unspeakable horror. The worst I've seen.”

“And Hope? My Hope?”

Roy raised his tear-stained eyes to meet Ethan's. “I lost her last night. I tried … dear God, I tried.…”

Out of control, Ethan ran to the porch and grabbed Roy by his bloodstained blouse. “You said you could save them. My daughter, my Hope, you said … you promised.…”

“A deadly typhus took them all,” Roy whispered. “The fever came over them all like a hurricane. There was no hope … none.…”

“Fool! Incompetent idiot!” Still grabbing him by the blouse, Ethan lifted Roy's frail body as if it were a sack of potatoes. He began to strike the man with his free hand before his senses returned. Seeing the pain in the doctor's weary eyes, Ethan could no longer hold back his own tears. He released Roy.

“Allan, Hope … all of them?” Ethan asked again, still trying to fathom the enormity of the loss.

“She was the last to go. She was so brave, by my side, helping me with them all. With no strength of her own, she created strength from sheer will. Her last words before she passed …”—Roy stopped, choking—“… were to thank me.”

“My Hope,” Ethan muttered, his face moist with flowing tears.

“You must go,” Roy said. “I sent my few servants and slaves away two days ago to their friends and relatives, paying them wages for the month to come.”

“What about you? Were you affected?”

“It seems that the infection's spread was limited to those who had banded together in Solitary. There were no signs that either I or my servants have been touched by the typhus. I've disinfected the house as best as I can. The only safe course, though, is to evacuate and stay away for a day or two.”

“Then you'll come to Brandborough with me.”

“My presence would be a burden.”

“Where will you go? You can't stay here.”

“I haven't even thought of where I'd …”

“The matter is settled. You'll return with me.”

“That's very kind of you.”

“Where's my Hope now?” Ethan asked, his voice cracking. “Can I bring her home and place her beside her mother?”

“I'm afraid not. I buried her myself in the middle of the night. To expose us would only …”

“I understand,” Ethan said, recognizing the extent of Roy McClagan's enormous courage. “Can you show me to the graves? I need to be with my Hope this one last time.”

Roy nodded, then led Ethan behind the house, in back of the great oak tree where seven graves had been dug. The doctor stood in front of the grave on the extreme right where the dirt was still fresh. Not a word was spoken. Roy left the father alone to kneel in front of his daughter's remains, his face in his hands. The physician, who had reached his back porch, stopped and turned around, looking at the bereaved father. He thought of his own precious Colleen and prayed for her safety. He nearly walked back to the grave to comfort Ethan, but he stopped himself, realizing that this was a moment when Ethan Paxton needed to be alone.

Fifteen minutes later Roy emerged from the house. He had packed two bags—the larger one with medicines and instruments, the other with a few clothes. Ethan hadn't moved, still kneeling before Hope's grave, still burying his face in his hands.

Roy walked toward him. “We'd best be leaving,” he whispered.

Ethan didn't answer.

A few minutes later, they rode silently down the hill, Roy on his steed, his head bent toward the ground, Ethan atop an old beat-up buggy. To the east, the blue-green ocean spread to infinity, though each man, consumed with the pointed images and heart-rending emotions of death, failed to notice.

Chapter 7

Buckley Somerset's attitude bothered Colleen a great deal. On Jason's suggestion, she agreed to see him, but as they sipped tea in her Aunt Rianne's parlor, she grew increasingly uncomfortable, and not for any of the old reasons. Sitting there in his white wig and red velvet waistcoat, he wasn't in the least forward. His demeanor had changed. He expressed gratitude that Will-o'-the-Wisp hadn't harmed her, but asked no questions about the abduction. Before, he had always seemed so sexually hungry in her presence, about to pounce at any moment. On this late morning, though, he appeared especially self-satisfied. Why? Colleen couldn't help but wonder.

“I was wondering if next Wednesday evening you might enjoy accompanying me to a recital that Major Embleton is hosting in his home,” Buckley said, his voice untypically calm.

Colleen was hoping that he'd ask, yet she was still put off by his casual tone. “Yes,” she answered after a brief pause. “I'd like that very much.”

“Without even knowing the nature of the recital?” Somerset inquired, pleased to have caught Colleen off guard. He knew that she knew Jason was to perform.

“I'm sure the program will be delightful, whatever it is.”

“Indeed.” Buckley smiled smugly. “In fact, our old friend Jason Paxton is to perform a new composition. I understand he's dedicating it to the king.”

How did he know that? Colleen wondered. Embleton, of course. Buckley and the major were friends. What was so strange about that? Nothing, and yet … “It should be fascinating,” Colleen commented.

“Most fascinating, in fact so fascinating that I was hoping your aunt could attend as well. I know she's a lover of the arts and would certainly enjoy it. Might I invite her myself?”

Another strange turn of events, Colleen thought. Why would Buckley bother to invite Rianne, a seamstress? And how was he authorized to do so? Was he speaking for Embleton? Or, after the grief he had given Colleen at Marble Manor, was he simply trying to make amends and act the part of a considerate gentleman?

“I might add that it's been reported to me,” Buckley continued, “that Joy Exceeding Paxton is staying here. It appears as if both she and her brother cannot abide by their father's rebel sentiments. In any event, please tell her that she will not be excluded from the recital. I know how she adores her brother, and an invitation will be sent to her as well.”

“She'll be well pleased,” Colleen answered, amazed that news of Joy had spread so quickly.

“Until Tuesday, then,” Somerset said, standing at attention. “I'll be honored to take all three of the ladies of this household in my carriage—that is, if you don't object, Colleen.”

“Why … not at all,” she said, still perplexed by his curiously solicitous manner.

Outside, with the door closed behind him, Somerset couldn't help but smirk.
Oh, the beauty of it all! The absolute glorious beauty! Trapped. The rats were trapped
.

The next day Hanford S. Windsor, a colleague of Peter Tregoning's in the British Army, sat atop a military carriage and directed two proud steeds on a circular tour of the city. He had nowhere in particular to go, but as an English officer, he would not be questioned. In the carriage below, the curtains drawn, sat his friend Peter, for whom he was doing this favor, and Peter's paramour, whose name Hanford had sworn not to reveal.

“Must we ride about in circumstances this mysterious, Peter?” Joy asked. “It seems silly.”

“It would be silly to do otherwise,” Peter said nervously, opening the curtain a few inches in order to peek outside. “This city is seething with intrigue. 'Tis unwise to trust a soul.”

“Why this sudden suspicion?” she asked as she moved her body next to his, taking his hand in hers, looking into his freckled boyish face with eyes filled with sympathy and love.

“A change of climate,” he reported, “at the Old Customs Exchange. There's great movement about, high-level meetings which, for the first time, I've not been privileged to attend. Embleton had fallen into the habit of seeking out my opinions on certain key maneuvers, but no more.”

“Do you know why?”

“I have not the slightest clue. Suddenly I've been excluded from everything. I have no present assignment. And there's absolutely no explanation.”

“Do you think it has to do with me? My father's reputation as a rebel, and the business with Allan …”

“Yes, for all our discretion, we may have been seen. We can't chance it again.”

“And what of your friendship with Jason?”

“'Twas widely known. In fact, Embleton once complimented me on my choice of companions. He has the highest respect for your brother. In fact, I've always presumed that it was my relationship with Jason that first put me in Embleton's good graces.”

“These webs are far too intricate to be fathomed.”

“Yet fathom them we must if we're to survive.”

Joy sighed before asking, “Can't we ask your friend to keep riding until we reach some land, some place, some paradise where men have learned to treat one another with love and respect?”

“Oh, dear Joy.” He responded by putting his arm around her shoulder and bringing him closer to her side. “Your heart is so pure. When I think of what lies ahead, I wonder whether my own heart can endure.”

“Why do you speak so sullenly?”

“A week ago, before I was shut out from the strategy sessions, I learned some of the impending plans. It seems that after his victory in Camden, Cornwallis is convinced that South Carolina is permanently secure. He's moving into North Carolina, having instructed Major Patrick Ferguson to protect his left inland flank. Ferguson may need help.”

“Is that the same Ferguson whom my father so constantly cursed?” Joy asked. “The man who invented some weapon or other?”

“The same. His breech-loading rifle can be fired five or six times a minute. Like Tarleton and Embleton, he's something of a mad butcher. He and his men have set on a course of ruthless pillaging—burning homes, killing whole families.”

“They must be stopped!”

“The Scot-Irish frontiersmen who man the mountains west of the Carolinas are said to be fierce fighters. They're basically apolitical by nature, but Ferguson is doing his best to alienate them, thus turning them into rebels. There have been reports of massacres, and now there are fears that the frontiersmen will soon retaliate. Embleton's been told—at least as recently as a week ago—to be prepared to reinforce Ferguson if necessary. Cornwallis wants his flank protected—at whatever cost.”

“So you'll be leaving?” she asked fearfully.

“I've no idea. That's exactly why I'm so out of sorts. For what purpose are they keeping me in the dark? And even were I asked to join Ferguson and the pillaging, I'm no longer sure I could stomach the task.”

“Perhaps your superiors have sensed that, Peter.”

“I doubt it. I've voiced these views to no one except you and Jason. These are attitudes I've kept locked in my heart. This arbitrary maiming and slaughtering of innocent people, perpetuated by the greencoats as well as the Redcoats … why, it's nothing I could have ever imagined possible.”

“You accuse me of idealism, my dear Peter, but you're as pure-hearted as any creature on God's green earth.”

As the carriage ride continued, so did their conversation, with Joy expressing fear for her father, for Allan, and for Hope. She told Peter about the invitation from Somerset through Embleton, and that, too, alarmed the soldier. Why was Joy being given a special invitation? And why hadn't he been asked, as was the case for the first recital, by Embleton himself? He'd been told nothing of the concert. Questions, questions, his head was full of uncertainties. In spite of his doubts, though, he was unable to think further as Joy brought her face to meet his. There, as they rode through the captive city, their mouths and hands sought one another's soft comfort. They escaped from the fearful puzzles of the outside world into the heat of a warm embrace. Unable to do what they would have done on the dewy grass or upon a great feather bed, there in the darkness of the carriage—the wheels steadily turning, the vehicle bouncing to what seemed a sensual rhythm—they satisfied each other with their tongues and fingers, probing deeply, stroking sweetly, allowing their passions, at least for the moment, to chase away their fears.