Just Jane (28 page)

 

As Jane ran back to look for Cuba and Mrs. Morley, Omar emerged from the darkness and smoke in the house behind him.

“You not go in there, miss,” he commanded.

“But Cuba, and Mrs.—”

“Omar found 'em.” His voice was low, his noble features calm. “Ain't no use, miss. They both dead.”

Jane froze in shock.
Please
, she thought desperately,
let this be just another nightmare to be endured
. “No, Omar,” she cried. “They can't be!”

“Your friend gone, miss. Cuba gone, too. Now, time for Omar to go.”

“W-what do you mean? Go where?”

“Yonder.” The black man gazed westward beyond the wall. “Over the far mountains, where the sun goes down.”

Jane, who had once urged him to run away, now clung to his arm in a frantic effort to prevent it. “Omar, don't! You'll die out there!”

“You not worry, Omar find his way.” Gently freeing himself from her grasp, he gave her a light pat on the cheek. “You good little lady, Miss Jane. Heart full of kindness. May blessings fall down upon you, all your days. Good-bye.”

Blinded by brimming tears, Jane could only stare helplessly after him as he strode away, quickly disappearing from view. Then, just as she had when Brandon died, she sank down on the steps and rocked back and forth, lost in grief.
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart
. . . Those words of anguish kept coming back to her. Buffeted by the terrible tempest of the times, her heart was blown desolate and bare.

 

In the yard, Robert was trying desperately to rally his troops once more. “For God's sake, are you all cowards? Get up on the wall. Return fire!”

“How can we return cannon fire with no cannon of our own?” one of the men shouted at him.

“You have muskets!” Robert shouted back. “Use them! Use whatever you have—sticks, stones, your bare hands if you have to—but fight!”

Another man, clutching a flag made of a piece of tattered white cloth tied to a pole, spoke up. “Sir, we have done what mortal men can, but now it's time to—”

“To what?” Robert bellowed. “Submit, and cover ourselves in shame? Out of my sight!” He struck awkwardly at the despised white flag. As it spun out of the man's hands, the cannon's thunder rolled across the sky again.

The ground shook. The east wall quivered, and when the cloud of dust and debris settled, a huge crack zigzagged from top to bottom.

“The wall's going!” the men cried, running for cover. As he watched his men scatter, something snapped deep within Robert's fevered mind.

“Run, you yellow dogs!” he raged like a madman. “You may be beaten, but not I—never! Look how a true king's man defies the rebel horde!”

Brandishing a musket, he ran toward the east wall.

 

Scanning his target through a spyglass, Major McNeal could hardly believe his eyes. “Some lunatic's up on the wall waving a musket!” he told his gun crew. “Set your sights five degrees to the right, and fire away.”

The great gun roared for the fifth time. When the dust cleared, the wall was cracked in another place, and the “lunatic” was no longer there.

“Now we'll let them think about it for a while,” the major told his crew. “Perhaps they've had enough.”

 

Jane was the first to reach her uncle, who was lying senseless at the base of the badly damaged wall. George Warren, the militia's physician, and another man were coming with a stretcher. Jane watched in an agony of suspense as Robert was carried off to the makeshift hospital. Unsure whether he was dead or alive, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw his eyelids flutter. Barely conscious but still defiant, he mumbled, “Got to keep fighting. Never give up . . . never . . .”

 

An eerie silence had fallen over the grounds. In one corner, Clarissa lay very still on her pallet, either unaware of what was happening or no longer caring. In the yard, the remaining militiamen, leaderless and bewildered, milled about aimlessly. Jane's wandering gaze fell on the white flag lying a few feet from where she stood. And as she stared at it, a dreadful weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. Suddenly she knew exactly what to do.

When George Warren returned a few minutes later, he stopped short in astonishment to see the militiamen lined up behind a new leader, all heading straight for the gate. The guard drew back the bolt, and as the great gate swung open, the first rays of the rising sun glinted on its iron bars.

With the white flag fluttering high in the morning breeze, Jane Prentice led the vanquished defenders of Rosewall out to surrender.

Although greatly pleased with his conquest of Rosewall, Major McNeal did not feel particularly generous toward its former defenders. He spent the morning restoring some order to the war-torn Rosewall grounds. In the afternoon, flanked by several junior officers, he set up his own “military court” in the dining room. Now he was grilling George Warren.

“I'm rapidly losing patience, Mr. Warren. Mr. Lambert, who's been in our custody since yesterday, has been most uncooperative. And my company doctor says that Mr. Prentice is unfit to appear before this court. That leaves you, as third in rank. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Standing stiffly correct, Warren replied with dignity. “I can say only that I cared for all the wounded as best I could. Yours, as well as ours.”

“For which we are most grateful, sir. Nevertheless, the criminal refusal of this garrison to submit to our authority has cost many lives. You and everyone else involved will be held responsible. We will therefore—”

A soldier interrupted him to whisper a short message.

The color drained from McNeal's face. “Damn!” His mind raced. “All right, tell him to wait. I'll see him as soon as I . . .” His unfinished sentence hung in the air as he stared at the stranger who strode in.

“You will see me
now,”
Simon Cordwyn said coldly.

There was dead silence as McNeal jumped to his feet. “I—I don't think we've met, sir.”

“Then this will serve as my introduction.”

Simon handed him a letter, then turned to the prisoner. “Mr. Warren? I'm Simon Cordwyn, assistant to the governor's deputy, Arthur Ainsley.”

“Honored, sir,” Warren replied with a nod.

“I'll want to speak with you later. Guard, escort this gentleman out.”

Seeing the guard hesitate, McNeal hastily nodded to him. “Yes, we'll take a recess now.” He handed Simon's letter back with a glassy smile. “It's a great pleasure to have you join us, sir. Indeed, we welcome your—”

“Major McNeal.” Simon cut him off. “We must talk in private.”

McNeal blinked. “Well, I've taken the parlor as my headquarters, so—”

“That will do.” Simon strode out, and McNeal, his fellow officers staring in amazement after him, meekly followed.

Behind the closed doors of the once-grand parlor, Simon's simmering anger boiled over. “How dare you set yourself up as a minister of justice? You have no such authority, and you know it!”

“We suffered heavy losses here, Mr. Cordwyn! These criminals deserve to be punished!”

“They fought for what they believe in—just as you did. That doesn't make them criminals. Now, where is the Prentice family?”

“Mr. Prentice is in our field hospital. He fell from the wall during the fighting, and he's out of his head besides. The ladies are confined to their rooms upstairs. And lucky they are to have such comfortable quarters.”

Simon's fierce look burned into the other man. “Major McNeal, you have inflicted wanton destruction on this house and caused needless loss of life, all in defiance of instructions sent to you in a letter from Mr. Ainsley.”

“The devil you say!” McNeal pretended outrage. “I saw no such letter!”

“Didn't see it? Or chose to ignore it?”

“Look here, I resent your—”

“Either way, McNeal, I'm instructing you now. Your so-called court is disbanded. The Prentice ladies will be released from confinement and allowed free movement within the house. You and your men will immediately vacate.”

This was too much for McNeal. “Dammit, Cordwyn, I'm in command here, and I'll not take orders from the likes of you!”

Simon drew a weary sigh as he thought back over his hectic career as a Continental agent. Why did the worst trouble so often come not from the British but from out-of-control fellow Americans?

“A word of advice, Major.” His low voice carried an unmistakable threat. “When Mr. Ainsley and other officials arrive here tomorrow, they're not going to be pleased with what they find. You're already in trouble. Don't make it any worse for yourself. I'm going to interview Mr. Warren—and you're going back in there to tell your men to clear out.
Now!
"

McNeal scowled, but he knew when to quit. “As you say,” he grumbled.

 

After his interview with George Warren, Simon started up the ruined stairs. On the second floor, everything was desolation—shattered glass, cracked walls, fallen plaster, overturned tables, massive roof beams jutting crazily through gaping holes in the ceiling. Stepping carefully through the rubble, he looked in at the first open doorway.

Pale and drawn, with a heavy woolen shawl over her shoulders, Clarissa looked nothing at all like the elegant lady she had once been. She sat in an armchair by the window and stared wide-eyed in disbelief when Simon stepped into the room. “Simon Cordwyn, as I live and breathe! I never expected to see you again.”

“Hello, Clarissa. I'm sorry to hear you've been ill, and about the terrible things that have happened here.”

“I'm getting better, thank you. But you can't imagine what we've been through! First we lost Brandon—”

“I know. I've just come from Goose Creek. It was shocking news.”

“And now we've lost our Cuba, and sweet old Mrs. Morley. Poor dears, they died together.”

“Yes, Mr. Warren told me. It's very sad. And where is Jane?”

“In Mrs. Morley's room. It's just down the hall, last door on the right. She's spent most of the day in there, seems to find comfort in it. There's no life left in her eyes, she's in such pain. Go on, don't let me detain you. Hurry and find her. And, Simon . . .” Her grave eyes held him a moment longer. “This time, never let her out of your sight again.”

 

He found Jane curled up on Mrs. Morley's bed, fully dressed but apparently asleep. Kneeling beside the bed, he studied her face. She looked strangely peaceful. Then, as if sensing another presence, she opened her eyes and gazed at him. But her face was blank, her dull eyes, as Clarissa had said, showing no spark of life.

Simon greeted her with a smile, hoping to see a smile in return. “I hope I'm not disturbing you,” he said softly.

She sat up with some effort, still blank-faced, staring at him. “Simon?” she murmured. “Is it really you?”

“Don't you know me?”

“You've been gone so long, I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes, I have—far too long, and sick with worry about you every minute of it. But I'm back at last, and thank God I've found you safe!”

Her empty gaze drifted across the room. “I shouldn't be, you know. So many have died here. Why shouldn't I have died, too?”

“Don't say that, Jane! We've both survived this war somehow, and the survivors have to carry on.”

“I don't feel like a survivor,” she said bleakly. “But if I am one, then you are doubly so. Being banished to the far north—was it awful?”

“Only because I was so far from you. But I was lucky. Some good people took me in and helped me to get back here. I'll tell you all about it later. Right now we need to talk about something far more important.” He sat down beside her and took her hand. “I keep thinking of our first meeting, so long ago. That day you wandered into my classroom, you remember? You were so charming, I wanted to pat you on the head. Little did I realize, you'd eventually take possession of
my
head—and my heart, soul, and whole being. I don't know if you have any such feelings for me or not, but if you do . . .” He paused, waiting for some response. “Do you, Jane?”

She was slow to reply, gazing intently at him. “I'm thinking back to a long-ago day, too,” she said finally. “To that day here at Rosewall, when you told me you were leaving, going back to Pennsylvania, Not a day has gone by since then that I haven't thought of you, wishing you were here with me. And yet . . . I've always felt that I hardly knew you.”

“Well, there's a remedy for that now, and that's exactly what I want to talk to you about. We have the rest of our lives to get to know each other—in the best possible way—as husband and wife. That is, if you'll consent to marry me. And someday, when all this terror is over, we'll know what it feels like to be together permanently. Happily. In peace.”

Still he waited. And looking into her eyes, he began to see a spark of will to go on living, faintly glimmering, gradually returning.

“Could it be, Simon? Could it really be?”

“It could if you say so, my dearest. And who knows?” He drew her into a sheltering embrace. “If our luck holds, maybe someday can even come soon.”

“Someday
. . .” She whispered the word—a word she had hated for so long but that now suddenly sounded like the promise of a golden dream. For now she finally knew what it meant. It meant her future life with Simon.

At last, they were almost there.

Tragically, the Battle of Rosewall occurred weeks after the British surrender at Yorktown had already made all further fighting poindess. The British continued to occupy Charlestown for another year, not leaving for good until December of 1782. But long before that, it had become clear to everyone that British rule in America was at an end.