Paxton's War (8 page)

The urgent plea in her voice broke Jason's heart and compelled a reply. He wanted to reassure Hope and Allan that he was indeed on their side. But because his plans were still only half-formulated, and because, even in their formative stages, he knew they would require absolute secrecy, he couldn't speak his heart. Instead, he answered in what he himself knew to be silly-sounding clichés. “Music's become my whole life, Hope. The pain that you've suffered wounds me as well, but I've come home to be with my family, and to compose and play music. Isn't that enough?”

“No, it's not!” Allan hissed. “This is a time when every man jack has to choose sides. There's no in-betweens. Anyone caught sitting on the fence will be shot by both sides, I guarantee you, 'cause I'll be one of those doing the shooting—brother or no brother.”

“Allan!” Hope gasped. “What are you saying?”

“It's all right,” Jason assured her. “I understand how he feels.”

“Understand all you want,” Allan shot back, his eyes flashing, “but remember. If you ain't with us, you're agin' us. Come along, darlin'.”

“No!” Hope gasped, plucking at his sleeve. “You can't, Allan. Any one of a dozen men out there—”

“Let cowards stand in the shade,” Allan spat.

“Now look here!” Jason protested. “You have no—”

“I've looked,” Allan said, cutting him off. “And my eyes have seen what there is to see. Now you look, and see how bold men dare stand in God's light!”

“Allan, please!” Hope pleaded, and then, as her husband strode out of the forest and into the open of the meadow, she whirled on Jason. “This is your fault!” she hissed. “And if he's turned in …”

The sentence hung ominously on the air. Left alone when Hope raced off, Jason sighed and leaned against the hickory tree. Everything had happened too fast, he thought, closing his eyes and smelling the deep green of the Carolina forest, a fragrance he'd dreamed of for so long. Too fast …

The setting was peaceful, but his mind was troubled. Should he have taken Coleridge into his confidence? But how, when he'd only just met the man? And how, when he himself didn't know what he was going to do? Did they truly expect him—or any man—to give himself over to them without question, and if he didn't, to cast him out like so much rotten fish? Who gave them the right to decide he was against them simply because he didn't march in with rifle in hand and immediately beard the British lion in its den?

It was too much. Too much for a day or a week, much less an hour. What a homecoming! Buckley, as much the fool as ever, pompously throwing his weight and fortune around. Coleridge, with his brittle temper and quick accusations. Colleen … Ah, Colleen. Colleen on the dock, her amber eyes burning as they stared into his. Colleen in the carriage, the song on her lips, which had tasted sweet as clover, or honeysuckle. Colleen, whose beauty, whose smile, whose touch was enough to drive away demons and—

“There you are!” Joy's soft, lilting voice interrupted his meditation as, with Peter at her side, she approached him. “We've been looking everywhere for you.” She glanced back at the picnic. “You've met Allan?”

Jason nodded. “Yes.”

“A hard man to like. He's very …”

“Opinionated?” Jason asked. “Quick to judge? Sure of himself? Hard-headed?”

Joy smiled wanly. “All of those. But he's a good man. Father thinks the world of him.” Knowing something was wrong, but not sure what, she hesitated before she went on. “Father knows you're here,” she finally said. “It might be best if you saw him now. If you like,” she added as a measure of comfort, “I'll go with you.”

With no reason to refuse, Jason followed her back to the picnic through the crowd, which was busy quaffing tankards of ale and flying brightly colored kites while children chased after pet puppies and mothers chased after children. A merry confusion was the order of the day. The meadow in which the picnic was held was a huge circle, in the middle of which a section had been set aside for a horseshoe-throwing contest. Stakes had been hammered into the ground, shallow pits dug, and teams organized. Jason's first view of Ethan Edward Paxton, his father, whom he hadn't seen in four years, was of a man, his small teeth clenched and his dark eyes squinted, heaving a rusty horseshoe through the air. The pitch was magnificent. It cut a long, lovely arch and landed with a satisfying thump before neatly surrounding and clanging against the stake.

“Fifty points clean!” someone shouted as a cheer went up from the spectators.

Money and goods changed hands as bets were paid off. Ethan's teammates crowded around him and slapped his back, finally letting him go to retrieve his tankard of ale from a nearby table.

“Now's as good a time as any,” Joy suggested.

Ethan Edward Paxton was one of those men who never seemed to age. At fifty, he looked fit and stronger than ever. His hair was thick and wavy and only slightly gray at the temples. His eyes were the same deep brown as Hope's and they shone with the same determination Jason had seen in Allan's. His rolled-up sleeves revealed great bulges of hardened muscle, and it was said he could still, when occasion demanded, fell a mule with one blow of his fist, an impressive feat for a man of any age. No matter how important his position as a landowner and merchant, it was obvious that he hadn't forgotten that he came from a sturdy, stubborn stock of pirates and pioneers.

It seemed an eternity, but no more than ten seconds passed as the two men looked at each other. “Good afternoon, Father,” Jason finally said in a measured voice.

Ethan slapped the dust from his hands, then took a long drink of ale. Was there tenderness in his eyes as he gazed at his son? Was there a longing to embrace him? For a fleeting second, Jason thought his father would extend his hands, his arms, and that he might actually take him to his bosom. But he didn't, and when he spoke, his voice was dry and harsh, and his words were free of sentiment. “Did you come back to fool with your music,” he asked, “or to fight for your land?”

As he had been with Allan, and as he could see he would be more than once again before the afternoon was over, Jason was trapped. Unbidden, anger surged through him, and it was only with effort that he kept his voice neutral. “I came back because I missed my home,” he said noncommittally.

Ethan peered at his son, then shifted his eyes toward Peter Tregoning. “A British officer.” He wiped the foam from his lips with his forearm. “A friend of yours?”

Accused, tried, and hanged. No questions asked, no defense allowed. What has the war done? Is my own father, my own flesh and blood, as obdurate and quick to judge as Allan? Can he have so little faith in me? Can he truly think, even for a second, that I would sell out all I love so dearly? Father, Father …

“Yes,” Jason said stubbornly.

Ethan's eyes narrowed and his hand balled into a fist. “You'd best entertain him, then,” he finally said, getting control of himself. He drank, then spit a stream of ale into the dust. “I know you want to make him feel right at home,” he finished, and without looking back he turned and stalked away.

“Father is sometimes … blunt to a fault,” Joy awkwardly tried to explain to Peter and Jason. “He means no harm.”

“I'm terribly sorry if I've bungled your reunion, old man,” Peter apologized with genuine regret. “Perhaps it would be best if I—”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Jason consoled his friend. “It's an old matter between my father and myself.”

“He'll feel different tomorrow,” Joy promised. “The excitement of the picnic has everyone overwrought. He's glad to see you, Jase. I know he is.”

Shaken by the exchange between father and son, Colleen found herself questioning Jason's politics. There had been so little time—virtually none—for them to talk. Could his father be right? There was the matter of Peter Tregoning, after all. Was it possible that Jason harbored Tory sentiments or was, God forbid, an out-and-out Tory? The possibility stunned her and left her knees weak, but there was no time to question him because Buckley and a large group of his friends, their mugs raised in fellowship, had begun to sing an altered version of the spirited “Liberty Song,” one of the most popular songs of the day. Their voices were directed at the rebel sympathizers at the picnic who, with Hope and Allan in their midst, stood defiantly and listened.

Come shake your dull noodles, ye rebels, and bawl,

And own that you're fools at fair Liberty's call;

No scandalous conduct can add to your fame,

Condemned to dishonor, inherit the shame.

In folly you're born and in folly you'll live.

To madness still ready

And stupidly steady,

Not as men but as monkeys the token you give.

The challenge was not to go unanswered. With Ethan—and Colleen, Jason noted with alarm—at his side, Allan lifted his arms and conducted the Patriots in their own original, and louder and lustier, version of the same song:

Come swallow your ale, ye Tories, and roar

That sons of fair freedom are hampered once more.

But know that no cutthroats our spirits can tame,

Nor a host of oppressors shall smother the flame.

In freedom we're born, like the sons of the brave,

We'll never surrender

But swear to defend her,

And scorn to survive, if unable to save.

The Tories retorted by repeating their version, only to be drowned out by still another rebel rendering, this time with Colleen's voice and defiance growing even angrier. At one point, she looked to Jason, who could only shrug as if to say, “I don't know the words.”

The rebels gathered to the west of the horseshoe pits and the Tories to the east, splitting the picnic virtually in half. With other members of the community who, for a variety of reasons, were reluctant to commit themselves, Jason, Peter, and Joy stood off to one side. Louder and louder, more a brawl of voices, the words mixed in a grand cacophony of shouting that bore, with flat notes, off key and sour, little relationship to singing.

“Beautiful voices,” Peter said, wincing at one particularly sour note. “A veritable choir of angels.”

There were hints of violence in the voices, and daring, taunting looks in the eyes of the singers. “You'll have to admit it's lively,” Jason quipped, trying to maintain his humor even as he worried that the musical struggle would soon turn physical. All semblance of patience vanished as the warring versions of “Liberty Song” clashed disonantly. Louder and louder, angrier and angrier, until it seemed as if all the sounds of the natural world—children's cries, chirping birds, whining puppies, croaking frogs—had been drowned out by voices intent on victory until the explosion of a single musket shot broke the spell and turned the heads of the feverish singers.

There, where the carriages had been left and attended to by servants and slaves, stood Major Randall Embleton, accompanied by a dozen red-coated English soldiers, one of whom lowered the Brown Bess that had just announced the Crown's military presence. Not yet forty, Embleton was a man whose ambition shone in his enormous jet-black eyes. His reputation as a ruthless warrior had been won in Scotland and was being hardened during his tour of duty in the colonies. The son of a wealthy London banker, Embleton was not an attractive man. His bug eyes and floppy ears were too large, his neck too thick, his lips far too protruding. He nonetheless looked formidable as he sat firmly upon a black steed. His uniform was graced with fringed epaulets the color of gold, and an impressive array of medals. His highly polished boots matched his eyes and his horse. He removed his tricorn to reveal a short white compaign wig that was braided in the back into a ponytail secured on top and bottom by black velvet bows. On his appearance, and without causing notice, Hope and Ethan quietly moved Allan to the back of the crowd and into the dense woods.

“I mean not to disturb the festivities,” the major announced in a voice laden with murderous restraint. “I've recently arrived from Charles Town”—he was careful to separate the two words—“where I'm most happy to report that the king's forces, as you might well expect, continue to be handily in control. Furthermore, I've been asked by Colonel Tarleton to ensure the peace and political tranquility that the Crown has brought to this colony. We've had, however, some reports of trouble in your fair community of Brandborough, and therefore I think it appropriate that I take this festive occasion to state that under no circumstances will insurrection be treated with anything less than swift and severe rebuke.”

The Tories cheered, the Patriots jeered, and Embleton raised his hand to still the crowd. The thin veneer of civility peeled away from his voice, revealing a harsh, strident undertone. “If I must set an example, mark me well, I'll welcome the opportunity. It should be clear to all that these colonies are the king's. To think or, more foolishly yet, to act otherwise is a hopeless endeavor. My mandate is to keep this great colony secure and, no matter the cost, I do not intend to fail. If any of you has any questions in this matter”—his smile resembled a shark's open-mouthed gaze—“I shall be glad to answer them—in the more … felicitous surroundings of the Old Customs-Exchange building in Charles Town.”

There was a great stir from the crowd, a mumbling of more muffled jeers from the Patriots and a swell of hearty cheers from the Loyalists. “I've got a question I want answered right now,” an unidentified voice shouted. “Why don't you pack up and go home?”

The corner of Embleton's mouth twitched and his hand tightened around his reins, but he maintained control of his temper. His eyes swept over the crowd and, one eyebrow raised, stopped on Peter. “You're Tregoning?” he asked.

“Yes, sir! Captain Peter Alfred Tregoning, commanding, New Dunston—”