Surrender the Night (45 page)

Rose laid a hand on Mrs. Madison’s silk sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“But I did manage to save the portrait of dear George Washington.
It used to be displayed there.” She pointed to the wall where a magnificent gilded frame hung empty like a vacant eye. “Jean managed to extricate it intact on its inner frame.” Mrs. Madison’s eyes regained their sparkle. “We gave it to some reliable friends who promised to take it away to safety. God knows what the British would do to it.”

The pounding of horses’ hooves drummed outside, and Mrs. Madison darted to the window. Rose followed and peered below to see a Negro man waving his black hat through the air.

“Clear out! Clear out! General Armstrong has ordered a retreat,” he shouted, his voice heightened in fear.

“Why, that’s James Smith.” Mrs. Madison gripped the window frame. “He accompanied my husband to Bladensburg.”

The man dismounted and rushed toward the house. Mrs. Madison swung around just as he barreled into the room and handed her a note. Breaking the seal, she unfolded it and began reading. Her face paled. Even the heavy rouge on her cheeks seemed to fade. “Mr. Madison orders me to flee.” She swallowed and glanced over the room. “So that’s the end of it. I must leave my home in the hands of those implacable British oafs.”

She turned to Rose. “Please come with us, Miss McGuire. I promise you’ll be safe.”

Rose grasped her gloved hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Madison, but I have a horse outside. I promise I’ll leave for Baltimore posthaste.”

“Very well. Godspeed to you, dear.” She squeezed Rose’s hands. Her eyes glazed with tears. “Pray for our country. This is a dark day indeed. But our God is bigger than any force on earth, even the British.” She lifted one cultured eyebrow and drew a deep breath.

Releasing Rose’s hands, she swept past the dining table, snatching as much silverware as she could hold along the way and stuffing it into her reticule. Jean followed her out the door, leaving Rose all alone.

Hugging herself, Rose moved to the window. Mrs. Madison leaped into the waiting carriage with a servant girl in tow. The driver snapped the reins, and Rose watched as the vehicle dashed down the street until darkness stole it from her view. Thunder roared from the east. A chill struck her.

She had saved the president’s wife!

That must have been the important thing Daniel had said she
would do—her destiny. Despite the fear, the terror, she had pressed through and done what God had asked of her.
Thank You, Lord
.

And yet it appeared her country was about to fall under tyranny once again.

Turning, she gazed at the fine fare set on the table. A shame it would all go to waste. Releasing a ragged sigh, Rose headed toward the door. She must leave the city and head back to Baltimore before the British arrived in full force. Head down, pondering her best escape route, she rounded the doorframe.

And ran straight into a British soldier.

The same soldier she had knocked unconscious. He tossed the remnants of ropes from his wrists to the floor and lifted a hand to touch the wound on his head. Dark eyebrows bent above eyes that smoldered with hatred.

Shifting his weight, Alex winced at the pain from the blisters on his feet. His glance took in the band of two thousand troops, mostly redcoats, milling about among lit torches on the east lawn of the Capitol building.
In the heart of Washington DC
. Doffing his hat, he ran a bloody sleeve over the sweat on his brow and gazed up at the nearly full moon that drifted in between masses of dark clouds. Thunder bellowed. Or was it cannon fire? He couldn’t be sure. His ears rang constantly with blasts of guns from earlier that day. Would the pounding ever cease? Or would it always drum in his ears as a reminder of the day he’d helped to defeat freedom?

As quickly as he wiped it away, sweat beaded once again on his brow. Though the sun had long since set, its oppressive heat remained. Only a slight evening breeze offered any relief. He supposed he should at least be thankful for that. Unavoidable anger swelled inside him. Anger that the British had won. Anger that they now intended to strip this great nation of its freedoms. And anger that he was being forced to partake in such a travesty.

Tugging off his cravat, he ran it over the back of his neck as he listened to the excited chatter of the men around him. Voices, once stinging with fear, now buzzed with the excitement of victory.

They’d entered the capital city of America without opposition,
save for a volley of fire from a house when they’d first marched down Second Street. A house Admiral Cockburn had immediately torched, much to the dismay of anyone who had remained within. Now, as they waited before the seat of American power for someone—anyone—in authority to come out and discuss the terms of surrender, Alex began to wonder if a single soul remained in the city at all.

Boom!
An enormous blast lit the eastern sky. The soldiers snapped to attention, gripped their muskets, and stared aghast at the yellow and red flames flinging into the darkness at the end of Virginia Avenue. Fear silenced every tongue as they waited to be attacked. But no bullets whizzed past them, no cannon blasts thundered. Finally, a scout galloped off on horseback to investigate. No doubt, the Americans had destroyed something they didn’t want the British to confiscate. Which meant the city, indeed, belonged to the British.

Several minutes after the scout returned, Admiral Cockburn leaped on his horse and ordered the men to storm the Capitol building. As Alex filed in behind the troops, sharpshooters at the front of the line fired a volley through the windows of Congress. Admiral Cockburn thrust his sword into the air. “Storm the rebel bastion!” And the troops dashed forward in a chaotic wave of hatred and greed, breaking windows and bursting through the front door of the House of Representatives. With a heavy heart, Alex followed them inside. His defiance of the order would be too obvious.

The Senate chamber was a stark contrast to the rustic appearance of the city streets. Velvet-curtained balconies circled the room above a marble trim on which some words had been etched. Rows of rich wooden desks and chairs lined a red and gold embroidered carpet. Ornate white columns guarded the main floor that opened to a painted oval ceiling above.

While the troops scoured the building for objects of value, Alex took a spot just inside the chamber doors and watched as Admiral Cockburn sauntered through the impressive room, his face a mask of shock. “Indeed,” he turned to the officers following him. “I am all astonishment. This American senate chamber is a much more imposing spectacle than our own House of Lords.” He gave a sordid chuckle, straightened his coat, and mounted a platform. He sank into an elaborate wooden chair from which, Alex assumed, either the
president or some other important government official conducted business.

The admiral banged the gavel for attention. “Shall this harbor of Yankee democracy be burned? All for it, say aye.”

“Ayes!” rang through the room like gongs of doom.

General Ross marched into the chamber and halted. Frowning, he folded his arms across his chest, and Alex got the impression he was not at all pleased at the way Cockburn conducted himself. Yet after a few minutes, the general slipped out, doing nothing to stop the insolent mayhem.

As the men began gathering furniture to burn, Alex’s gaze landed on a large black book atop a curved mahogany desk at the front of the room. It seemed to beckon to him, and before he knew it, he had eased from his spot by the door and inched closer, trying to avoid attracting the attention of Admiral Cockburn still sitting in the elevated chair. The closer Alex got to the book, the faster his heart beat. A Bible. And beside it on a placard, were painted the words, “In God we trust.” He raised his eyes once again to the unfinished engraving on the marble trim lining the room. “In God …” it began.

Alex retreated to his spot by the door and scratched his head. Mr. Drummond had told him that the government in America prided itself on staying out of religion. Alex had assumed that meant that the government had nothing to do with religion and faith. But from the presence of the Bible in their Senate chamber and the words engraved on the placard and started on the trim above the room, the truth of the matter appeared to be quite the opposite. Americans deemed that government should stay out of religion, but they in no way wanted religion to stay out of government. In fact, this government appeared to embrace faith in God.

Vile laughter shook him from his thoughts as the men flung burning lanterns on top of a massive pile of desks, tables, and chairs in the center of the room. Alex’s throat went dry. He fingered the hilt of his sword. He must stop this madness. But how? He was one against thousands.

Cockburn marched from the room, laughing. Alex resisted the urge to plunge his sword into the admiral’s heart and instead, ground his teeth together as the flames began to lick the
wooden legs and arms of the furniture. A swarm of troops fled the room behind the admiral, flinging obscenities in their wake. Soon, the whole chamber blazed with a heat so intense the glass of the lights began to melt. Alex darted out the door and stepped outside for some air only to see more flames leaping from the Senate chamber’s windows. The temporary wooden bridge that separated the two wings also burned, as well as a few nearby homes and the Library of Congress across the way. In truth, the whole city seemed ablaze as red and orange flames reached their flickering fingers up to God pleading for mercy.

Blood rushed to Alex’s head as a wave of nausea struck him. He stumbled to his knees beneath a tree and tried to collect himself. Tears burned in his eyes. This honorable, God-fearing, free nation had seen its last days. It didn’t seem right.

Cockburn and Ross mounted their horses, and Alex gleaned from the excited chatter around him that their next target was the American president’s home. Was nothing sacred? Alex gazed toward the distant forest, longing to return to the Drummond farm—to beg their forgiveness and forget that he once knew a nation of proud, free people.

But he couldn’t. Tensions were too high. He’d never make it alive.

Instead, he struggled to his feet, rubbed his eyes, and fell in behind the raucous crowd. The city that only moments ago had been shrouded in darkness now lit up as bright as day. Waves of heat from the flames swamped Alex as he dragged his feet over the sandy street. He hung his head, wanting to pray but not finding the words.

Clearly God had deserted them all.

CHAPTER 27

C
lutching her throat, Rose backed away from the British soldier. Though he was not much taller than she, the broad expanse of his shoulders beneath his red coat spoke of great strength. A white baldric crossed his chest and disappeared beneath the red sash tied about his waist. The bloodstains on his red coat and gray trousers were the only marks on his otherwise pristine uniform.

She opened her mouth to ask him what he wanted, but her words emerged in a pathetic squeak. It didn’t matter. She could tell from the hatred and fury storming in his blue eyes that he wanted to kill her. Once again, he dabbed the blood-encrusted patch of hair atop his head. “You churlish American chit!” He reached for a sword that no longer hung at his side then glanced down at his belt for what she assumed were his pistols.