Paxton's War (41 page)

“Will there be a hanging tonight?” Peter asked the Tory in charge as he rode his horse.

“Can't say a word about it, Captain. Just following orders.”

“I see,” Peter said, convinced that the secrecy, the decision to wait till the last minute, the fact that the construction was to be done within an hour all had some connection with the event to which he had managed to invite himself. Taking one last glance at the bustling crew, he walked slowly back toward his mount. A humid, misty film had fallen over the city, lending a swampy feel to the moonless night. Riding through Charleston, Peter saw danger in every alleyway, danger behind every door. His mind filled with images of the massacres he had witnessed, he felt strangely disconnected from his past as, with greater speed, he rode on, as if on a mission of desperate urgency.

As soon as Billy Hollcork's two-horse wagon pulled up to the front door of the Embleton town house, the same red-coated guard who had escorted the Somerset party smartly stepped forward and helped Rianne step down. Billy rode on farther down the street to tie his horses to a post.

“I'll take you inside, Miss McClagan,” the soldier said.

Shocked that she had been identified by name, she nonetheless replied coolly. “Thank you, but we had best wait for my escort.”

“Escort?” the Redcoat asked. “I wasn't told you'd be attending with anyone besides your niece. She's already inside.”

“Well,” she said snappishly, wondering why this party was so carefully planned, “I happen to be attending with Mr. Hollcork, who will be here presently.”

“I'm afraid, madam, that I won't be able to admit him.”

“What! Why, that's outrageous!”

“I have my orders.”

“You have your nerve. If you don't want me standing out here shouting to the heavens and disrupting this affair, I suggest you admit my friend at once.”

“What's wrong, Rianne?” Billy asked as he joined her at the front door.

“They say you can't come in.”

“If you'll excuse me for a moment, madam,” said the soldier, “I'll see what can be arranged.”

Tapping her foot as she watched the guests arriving—several of whom had been customers—Rianne grew testier by the minute. It didn't matter to her that many of the other attendees smirked at the sight of Billy Hollcork and presumed that the seamstress and tanner, try as they might, couldn't gain admittance to the exclusive recital. She was furious that her choice of an escort was being questioned.

At that moment, Captain Peter Tregoning arrived. Having met Rianne at the costume ball, he greeted her warmly and shook hands with the broad-shouldered Hollcork. “Shall we all go in together?” asked the Englishman.

“We're waiting for orders,” Rianne said wryly.

“I don't understand.”

The guard reappeared. “Seat her in front and keep him in back,” the Redcoat announced, relating Embleton's orders. “We don't want to cause any commotion.”

“If you'll follow me, madam,” the Redcoat said, “I'll be honored to seat you.”

“And my gentleman friend?”

“He's welcome to view the recital from the foyer.”

“Listen here, lad,” Peter interjected as the soldier sharply saluted.

“Good evening, Captain.”

“I'll be taking Miss McClagan and Mr. Hollcork inside as my guests.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I've instructions that you, too, are to view the recital from the foyer.”

“What!”

“We'd better stop arguing,” Rianne said with relief that Billy was being allowed inside. “The recital is about to start. At least you and Billy can keep each other company, Captain.”

Astounded and alarmed, Peter knew that further arguments wouldn't help.

Rianne was escorted to the front row of the parlor, where all the straight-backed chairs were now occupied. The room buzzed with excited conversation as Rianne accepted her greetings and sat next to Miranda.

“Where's your mountainman friend?” Mrs. Somerset asked.

“Apparently there's a shortage of seats.”

“I'm not surprised they didn't let him in. At least some standards still remain intact.”

“In fact, he's here,” Rianne replied while an interested Colleen leaned over to listen to her aunt's conversation. “He's in the back.”

At that point, the entire front row—Joy, Rianne, Miranda, Buckley, Colleen, Piero, and Robin—turned around. At the very rear of the long room was a small foyer in which stood a dozen or so spectators—people of obvious lower class. Peter and Billy towered over the others.

Buckley laughed to himself; that Jason's dear friend was relegated to the back was a source of great amusement. He was even more pleased when he saw that his men had finally arrived. The wall-eyed albino, Jack Windrow, and his stocky sidekick, Sam Simkins, joined Hollcork and Tregoning in the foyer.

Joy had to fight herself from going to Peter. They looked at each other with a mixture of pained concern and deep desire. Since the afternoon in the military carriage, they hadn't seen one another. Joy felt a series of frightening questions running through her mind. Why wasn't he allowed in the parlor? And why were those sinister former employees of her father standing next to him?

“The house looks stunning,” Miranda said to Rianne. “A fine example of how good breeding can restore even the most banal decor.”

“When this manor belonged to its rightful owner, Alex Sitwell,” Rianne said loud enough for the five British officers seated directly behind them to hear, “I considered it a model of distinguished taste. This English-made furniture has the look of another time and a different place—a foreign place. I greatly preferred the pieces that were crafted here in Charleston.”

“
Charles Town
,” Miranda corrected, “has its would-be artists and artisans. They're little more than pretenders. To the eye of a European, this land is still barbaric, as are its artifacts.”

The banter between the women would have continued if Major Randall Embleton had not entered the parlor through a side door. He had waited until the last minute, hoping that Pall would deliver the broadside he so badly wanted. Thus far, there was no sign of the actor. Smiling nonetheless, walking erectly, the major looked around for Jason. For a moment, he panicked. Had the bastard escaped? Quickly, though, he spotted him in the garden and, with great relief, motioned him inside. Jason came in and sat himself at the pianoforte bench, only a few feet from Colleen and the others who sat in the first row. He looked out into the audience, at the officers and the mannered ladies and gentlemen, and then, unexpectedly, in the back, he saw Peter, Hollcork, Windrow, and Simkins. Why wasn't his friend seated in the parlor? What was going on?

“I'm glad that each of you is here tonight,” Embleton said, appearing resplendent in his dress-white uniform as he stood directly in front of Jason and faced his audience. “You will be witness to not only a cultural event of no small significance, but a number of astonishing revelations that go beyond the realm of music. In fact, this evening's activities will be divided into two discrete sections, only the first of which will be conducted in my home. Alas, I hope my remarks are not confusing. The suspense will be lifted to everyone's—well,
almost
everyone's—satisfaction. First, we shall be treated to an original composition by Mr. Jason Paxton, and then I shall have more to say about the second half of tonight's entertainment. Before Mr. Paxton plays, however, I'd like to acknowledge the presence of another artist in our midst, Miss Colleen McClagan. Miss McClagan”—Embleton paused, gallantly gesturing toward the lady—“we are honored to have you here, as well as Mr. Paxton's sister, Joy Exceeding, Miss Rianne McClagan, aunt to the artist, and Mr. Paxton's distinguished patrons, Mr. Piero Sebastiano Ponti and Mr. Robin Courtenay.”

The major stepped aside and sat in a chair that faced the audience a few feet from Jason. Now that he had let this rebel gang know that the game was up, he wanted to enjoy looking at them, one by one, as the anxious musician exercised his fingers briefly before placing them on the ivory keys.

Already Embleton saw terror in the Sandpiper's eyes. He smiled at her sweetly. Her aunt seemed no less anxious. Randall nodded at the extravagant lady. Joy Paxton looked confused. Not for long, Embleton thought. And Paxton's absurd champions, those effeminate fops, oh, how they began to perspire! Give them time to think about it! Let them enjoy their maestro's recital! Let the music play!

Chapter 11

The smell of kerosene, then a series of sudden explosions. Heat everywhere. Fire! The house was on fire! Roy McClagan leaped from the bed and looked out the window of the Paxton home in Brandborough. He saw two of Ethan's farmworkers strewn across the grass, their faces up, their backs stained with blood. The house was surrounded by greencoats, excitedly setting torches to the kerosene-drenched porch, flames licking a dark, misty sky. In a volley of gunfire, three of Paxton's house servants running from the house were shot—one in the stomach, another in the neck, a third in the head. They fell to the ground, bleeding, screaming.

Run!
Roy thought to himself.
I've got to run!

Ethan Paxton ran into the room, his eyes blazing with fury. “Follow me! Hurry! We've got only seconds!”

How long have I been sleeping?
Roy thought to himself as they scurried down the smoke-filled staircase through the house to the kitchen. He vaguely remembered that he and Ethan had tried to leave for Charleston earlier that day, but fatigue had overcome the physician, and Ethan, fearing Roy was growing ill, considerately suggested that he rest a few more hours before they made the trip. Now this.

As they ran into the kitchen they heard a violent pounding at the front door—the butt of muskets against wood—and then gunfire, windows smashed, the shouts of angry men. With the greencoats in the house, greencoats running down the hallway, Ethan watched Roy push a small section of the kitchen wall that magically gave way, leading to a secret passageway. Immediately, Paxton pushed the wall back in place and led McClagan to a narrow wooden staircase. “Take my hand,” Roy whispered as he reached out behind him and made contact with Roy. They were in total darkness. “One step at a time. Slowly.”

The men descended into a space that was more the size of a large tomb than a basement. Surrounded on four sides by hardened dirt, Roy felt a rodent nipping at his naked toes. He kicked the animal, and the rat scurried off. The hole in the ground stank of feces and mildew, and breathing was difficult. The men stood next to each other, smelling the burning wood from above, hearing the wild hoots of the raiding party.

A lifetime, thought Ethan Paxton, a lifetime up in flames. He had been in the fields when the Tories came, and by the time he arrived at the house, his half dozen employees had all been killed. Realizing there was nothing to do but save the doctor and himself, he forced himself to maintain this defensive posture, although inside he was half mad with the urge to go up and fight, to shoot, to kill the bastards who had murdered his people and burned his home.

Death and destruction, thought Roy McClagan. When would the murdering stop? And what of Colleen?
Dear God
, he prayed,
nothing else matters, if only my Colleen is safe
.

Colleen saw her life ending. Hers and Jason's. She understood that they were trapped. Embleton's words; the soldiers; the invitation to Rianne and Joy; being seated in the front row—the signs were everywhere. Would they be shot? Or hanged like Ephraim Kramer? Either way, there was absolutely no escape. She tried to think of Nathan Hale. If she were to die, she would try to do so bravely. But the knowledge that her exploits might also lead to her lover's demise filled her with shame and horror. How had they found out? Where was the leak? Squirming in her chair, she had her answer immediately as she glanced toward the back of the room where, in the corner of the foyer, she saw a figure who resembled Frederic Pall handing something to one of the soldiers who, in turn, slipped him what looked like a money pouch.
Pall has betrayed us! Jason has been right all along! How could I have been so stupid, so naïve? I've killed him! The one man I loved! The one love of my life!

Meanwhile, Jason silently prayed for a moment of bravery as he prepared to play, for he knew he had to play. There were no other options, at least not now. Playing for the next forty minutes would at least give him time to think, and to postpone the inevitable. Meanwhile, before touching the ivories with the tips of his fingers, he looked at Colleen one last time. If his eyes could speak, they'd have said, “I love you, no matter what. I love you with all my heart.”

Mere seconds before Jason began to play, Embleton suddenly arose and lifted his hand. Jason, Rianne, Colleen, Robin, and Piero all knew that the end had come even earlier than expected. Given the screaming panic reverberating inside their heads, they each remained remarkably composed, even though Piero, with the palm of his hand covering his nose, sniffed an especially large quantity of his special-blend snuff.

“You'll excuse me, dear maestro,” the major said, “but I was led to understand that this piece was to be dedicated beforehand. You'll not disappoint me, I know.”

Jason sighed, his heart heavy with fear, yet pounding with a strange sort of unvanquished pride. He looked the officer in the eyes with fierce determination, said nothing, defiantly lifted his fingers, and began playing a music that was, at once, so startling, so amazingly original that even Embleton—who, after all, was still a music lover—allowed his request to go unanswered. Let the musician play, he reasoned. The bloody encore would come soon enough.

The composition was in three sections. Colleen understood that Jason had written this opening movement out of the fabric of his childhood. She could picture the swamps and woods—oh, his secret ravine!—where he had romped and played as a child. She felt all the innocence of youth in the whimsical motifs, the cascades of notes, the playful arpeggios. There was a suggestion of Irish, German, and French folk melodies and a strong flavor of the haunting songs sung by the Africans who had been brought to these shores in bondage. It was sympathetic music, open to an astounding variety of sounds, and quite unlike anything the audience had heard before. Watching Jason rock his upper torso back and forth to the lilting rhythms, Colleen was almost able to forget about the doom that awaited them. Never had she felt closer to this extraordinary man.