Paxton's War (44 page)

“You have information to sell?”

“And hour by hour it grows more valuable, Mr. Somerset.”

“Then state your case and be gone with you. We've important work tonight.”

“I don't trust this man, Buckley,” Miranda said.

“Quiet, Mother.”

“If Mr. Somerset's suggestions had been adopted by Embleton, the major would be alive this very moment,” Pall informed the officers while ignoring the woman's accusations. “You see, he wanted Paxton and the girl arrested at once—in fact, the very moment I revealed their identities. He was right. It was your leader, I'm afraid, who favored the theatrics that led to his downfall.”

“That's correct,” Buckley confirmed, no longer quite so anxious to be rid of Pall. “And it's paramount that we use every available man to catch them—which is exactly what I've been arguing.”

“We've done all we can,” said one of the officers. “Every road in and out of Charles Town is blocked. They'll not escape. But given the crazed spirit of the city, we can't sacrifice a large number of men to go chasing after a small party of rebels. Besides, until word comes from General Cornwallis as to who's to take this command, we simply have no choice but to wait.”

“And simply let them slip from under your fingers,” Pall said, aiming his remarks at Buckley.

“No!” the Carolinian exploded. “I'll not have it! They must hang, every last one of them!”

“Then you'll be interested to learn that they've divided into two groups—the tanner and the one-eyed pirate have all three women and the two womanly men,” said the actor as he straightened his gown, “while Paxton and the captain have escaped in the carriage of the musician's mentors.”

“How do you know this?” Somerset asked excitedly.

“My eyes do not lie. Besides, what motive have I for fabrication?”

“Where did they go? Where are they hiding?” Buckley wanted to know.

“They've no choice but to employ the resources of that surreptitious connection that binds the rebels throughout this colony. Even if they don't get through the lines, there are dozens of places they could be hiding within the city. And if they've managed to escape, there are only a certain number of places to which they'd flee—Patriots known by Darney and Paxton.”

“We have those names,” Buckley said. “My Tory Militia has been assaulting rebel bands with deadly accuracy.”

“You have the
obvious
names. You've burned out those rebels silly enough to have made their sentiments known. But Darney and Paxton will no doubt seek refuge in the underground, with people not unlike myself, whose identities are known to no one save the true believers.”

“Then you'll give me those names,” Buckley insisted.

“You'll need more than the names,” Pall explained as he sat down and crossed his legs, revealing his petticoats. “If you're going to dispatch your Tory Militia after Paxton and his people without the assistance of the Redcoats … and apparently they're not willing to help”—Frederic paused to nod at the English officers—“then you'll require my aid and advice on a daily basis. Given my deep knowledge of the rebels' complex web of contacts, we could catch your fugitives as early as tonight or tomorrow.”

“Or I might well catch them without you.”

“I invite you to try, kind sir,” Pall said as he placed the gray wig upon his head and prepared to exit.

“Wait. What would you charge?”

“I've thought of nothing else for the past several hours and have concluded that there's but one equitable system of payment. Twenty pounds a day is my price, beginning today—that is, if you're willing to start the hunt tonight.”

“I am. My men are already combing …”

“You might as well call your men off. They've no idea where to look. This chase requires a distinct artistry, a finesse which …”

“How do I know that you won't protract the hunt in order to up your earnings?”

“Because I've other work that could be just as profitable, and, besides, if after a fortnight you haven't captured both your Wisp and Sandpiper, I'll refund all you've paid me.”

“That seems most reasonable. You're that confident, are you?”

“The man's a liar and a thief!” Miranda leaped up and pointed her finger at Pall's bulging paper bodice. “Trust him not, I say. He'll lead you nowhere save to your own destruction. I'll lead you to the rebels.”

“I've warned you before, Mother …”

“I'll not sit idly by and see you taken in by this charlatan!” she screamed.

“Jack, have a couple of your men escort Mother back to Marble Manor tonight. Father needs her.”

“Father needs only the warmth of the coffin to lend him the comfort he so pitifully seeks. The man is worse than dead; he's half alive. I'll not go back and …”

“You'll do as I say.”

Within a few seconds, two greencoats came in and forcibly led a struggling Miranda out the door. “You'll regret this,” she said to her son, “and you'll see that I'm right, just as I've always been right. Besides, without me here, you'll start eating the corpses of dead animals again and …”

Once Miranda was forced outside the office, Buckley slammed the door in her face and sighed in relief. “We were discussing fees, Mr. Pall.”

“You put twenty pounds sterling upon the table and I'll lead you to your friends,” the actor promised.

“Fourteen days,” Buckley ruminated as he looked over the calendar hanging on the wall, “takes us to October Seventh. If by then you haven't succeeded, you'll give me more than the small fortune back that I will have paid you; you'll give me your life.”

Pall smiled, not in the least put off by the threat. “I understand that these fugitives have been somewhat of an embarrassment to you, Mr. Somerset, and I've no doubt that with my cunning and your resources—your tenacious Tory Militia—we'll achieve our common aim. But there's no reason to carry this conversation any further if you're not willing to show me your silver, sir.”

Much to the amazement of the English officers, who had been listening to the exchange with fascinated interest, Buckley reached into a hidden section of the wide leather belt supporting his green woolen scarlet-edged breeches and fished out a handful of British coins, dropping them on the table before him.

“Good,” Pall said, counting the money with his eyes. “Now you can hear the plan I've formulated for going after them … this very night!”

Ethan Paxton and Roy McClagan arrived at Solitary just as dawn was breaking. The great green meadow rose out of the swamps like a magical island sprinkled with the fresh dew of morning. The slightly hazy sky—now gray, now purple, now faded blue—suffused the land with a mysterious and misty light. To both men, whose heads were filled with the images of brutal murder and the stench of burning death, Solitary appeared before them like some lost and innocent dream.

After waiting for the Tories to leave McClagan's house, which lay in ruins, they had paused for a few moments. The doctor's most precious holdings—his records, his library, his daughter's belongings—were all gone. His fields were devastated, crops burned, animals either slaughtered or driven off by the fire. Numb from the trauma of so much shared tragedy in so short a period of time, the men felt a growing bond between each other, like two travelers going through hell. Would another human being ever have believed what they'd witnessed? How could they have explained the suffering they'd seen? Such scenes were more than enough to have driven sane men mad. Were it not for the company of the other man, Ethan and Roy might have cracked. Together, they somehow had kept going, riding through the night, duplicating the journey they had made once before, through the woods and the swamps until, both riding bareback on the single horse, they had reached Ethan's hidden oasis. Without a tent or a supply of food, they stopped in the midst of a grove of oak trees.

“We're safe here,” Ethan said. “This land hasn't been plotted on any map. There are enough berries, nuts, and fruits to keep us alive—at least for a while.”

Ethan had stolen some rope and a few blankets from the Tory stable. He tied the horse and spread the coarse woolen blankets on the ground. As the sun inched its way up into the hazy sky, the men lay upon the blankets only a few feet apart from one another. Despite their tremendous fatigue, they were unable to sleep—at least not right away—for all the aching grief in their hearts and thoughts of their children whom they couldn't dare hope to see alive again.

Chapter 14

Piero Sebastiano Ponti had never seen so many pigs in his life—hundreds of pigs, baby pigs, mama pigs, papa pigs—pigs in their pens, pigs running loose around the yard, pigs inside the old farmhouse wandering about as if they owned the place. Their snouts and squeals and grunts and curly tails, their constant search for food scraps or garbage, their pungent piggy smell, their swollen bellies and squinty eyes—Piero was nearly beside himself. He loathed the little beasts. Yet there was absolutely no escaping them. Out in the barn, for the few hours that Piero, Robin, Colleen, Joy, Jeth, Rianne, and Billy Hollcork had slept in the hayloft last night, they had been joined by pigs. This morning at the breakfast table, the pigs were underfoot. In fact, the proprietors of the pig farm, Happy Coltin and his wife, Pamela, themselves bore a resemblance to the animals. Short, obese, and red-faced, the jovial couple seemed to have taken on the characteristics of the creatures with which they lived. In fact, Happy's nose was slightly upturned and pressed against his face. He even spoke with something of a grunt.

Shaky from the trip out of Charleston during which he and the others hid in the wagon beneath a blanket as Jeth and Billy blasted their way through two different roadblocks, Piero's head still reverberated with the sound of ringing gunfire. His nerves were shot as he tried to eat the porridge set before him. He was further upset by the realization that he'd lost his supply of snuff during the escape. His nose hungered for his special mixture. How could he get through this ordeal without his snuff?

No matter. They were alive—he and Robin and the women, conducted here by Hollcork and Jeth, who said he'd known these people for years as true if somewhat reticent rebels, people whose farm five miles outside the city would be beyond suspicion. They had been quick to put them up last night and ready in the morning to help them any way they could. They knew of Ethan Paxton, were happy to meet his daughter Joy, and thrilled to learn that her brother was Will-o'-the-Wisp, whose exploits they had secretly applauded for months. Colleen was proud to learn—and acknowledge—that it was her verses that had first informed them of the Wisp.

As everyone picked at their porridge, the silent questions around the table were nearly loud enough to be heard, though no one wished to articulate them: Robin, Piero, and Colleen prayed that Jason had been able to escape, though there was no evidence that he was alive or dead. Joy fought back images of his fellow soldiers murdering Peter as he tried to escape. Both she and Colleen wanted to believe their fathers hadn't been killed, but in the light of what Buckley had said at the recital, weren't they just fooling themselves? How and when could they know? Robin and Piero presumed that by now their house and all its priceless contents—the instruments, the paintings, the tapestries, the rare furniture, and the fabulous library—had all gone up in smoke. Rianne presumed the same about her shop. They were left with the clothes on their backs and an army on their trail. Where were they to go? How long could they hide here?

“I realize,” Robin Courtenay said in his calm and dignified manner, “that this is not the time to panic. Each of us feels an enormous debt to you, Mr. Darney, to you, Mr. Hollcork, for your daring and bravery in saving our lives.”

Piero, who was sitting next to the one-eyed sea cook, couldn't have agreed more, though never had he encountered a man with such strong breath and body odor.

“If I therefore question you gentlemen,” Robin continued, “about our future plans, I hope you won't think me either unappreciative or naïve. I realize our options are limited.”

“That they are,” Jeth said. “We did some double turns and back-trailing that might have thrown them off our path, but one way or another they'll be out here. Happy's been good enough to post a man down the road to give us some warning, but, believe me, they're a-coming just as sure as I'm sitting here.”

“I've places to hide you,” Happy said in his bass-bottom voice.

“You're a good man, Happy,” Jeth replied, “but they'll have ways to find us.”

“Returning to my question, then, Mr. Darney …” Robin interjected.

“I'm thinking. I've been thinking every minute. A place where they wouldn't find us … a place that the bloody bastards wouldn't even know about.”

“I may know of such a place,” said a faint-hearted Joy, thinking of Solitary.

“Ain't necessary,” Pamela Coltin said. “We'll provide for you, we will. Why, we've had rebels stay here for months without a soul knowing. Ain't that right, Happy? How long was that Pall fella around?”

The guests froze. Piero dropped his spoon, splashing porridge on his shirt, trousers, and shoes. From under his chair a pig started licking him before he shooed the beast away.

“Frederic Pall?” Jeth asked.

“That's the man,” Happy said. “He works as an actor, I believe, but he's a true Patriot. When he stayed with us, he discussed many a plan to undercut the British in Charleston.”

Darney bolted out of his chair. “We've got to get out of here, and we've got to go now!”

“What's wrong?” Happy asked.

“Pall talks out of both sides of his mouth. He's the one who set us up last night.”