Paxton's War (14 page)

They rode first to Brandborough to pick up Jason's trunk and bags, and Colleen, not knowing how she buttressed his resolve not to include her in his plans, rattled on about the war and what it meant to her. “Surely you can see the desperate straits we're in,” she said, pointing to a burned-out house for emphasis. “The English couldn't defeat us in the North, so they've swarmed over us down here. That's why it's absolutely critical that—”

“I know the situation, Colleen. There's little doubt that the fall of Charleston is the colonies' greatest defeat of the war.”

His faint sarcasm—what of Québec and Manhattan and Brandywine, to name only three of many devastating setbacks?—fell on deaf ears. “But what will you do about it?”

“Ride to Charleston to see for myself.”

“And then?”

He laughed at her impatience. “And then … we'll see what we see.”

Sunlight highlighted Colleen's hair with streaks of gold—the color of her gown, the color of her eyes. “We should put out a broadside, that's what we should do,” she argued, exasperated by his aloofness. “We should tell the people just what a damned fool this Embleton is, how pompous and how—”

“He's no one I'd want to antagonize right now.”

“But he's precisely the sort of—”

“Man who fancies himself in complete control, which, I might suggest, he is.”

Trying not to be distracted by the sight of his wild curls blowing in the breeze, Colleen thought for a few seconds. “You wouldn't for a second entertain the notion of accepting his invitation to perform your music for the English warlords who rule Charleston, would you?” she finally asked.

“I don't know what I might or might not do,” Jason answered, finally becoming peeved by her ceaseless questioning.

“You're maddeningly circuitous, Jason Paxton, and I wish for once you'd simply and plainly state your intentions.”

“I intend to praise beauty.” He took a deep breath of the cool, fresh ocean air. “And that means praising you.”

“You're avoiding an honest reply. I therefore will not accept your praise.”

“I therefore will not withdraw my praise,” he answered, teasing her with a smile.

Determined not to be undermined by his charm, she sat silently, defiantly, her arms folded, her eyes gazing out toward the immense ocean. He was infuriating, but he was also irresistible as he hummed a soft, rhythmic melody to accompany the surf's great roar. Colleen wanted to tell him to be quiet, but the sound of his voice was both soothing and hypnotic, and it left her content to let the argument end as they pulled up in front of the Paxton warehouse where he'd had his things taken. “It won't take but a few minutes,” he assured her and, leaping down and tying Cinder to a hitching post, he disappeared inside.

Less than fifty feet down Market Street, a crowd of churchgoers was gathered around the commons, where, in full dress uniform, the newly arrived company of British soldiers led by Peter Tregoning was arrayed on parade. A snare drum rattled a slow beat. “Present … arms!” came the sergeant's crisp command, followed by the crack of almost a hundred hands simultaneously slapping their musket stocks.

Colleen watched with rising anger. The taking of Charleston had been a grievous blow, but distance had mitigated the effect and the local rebels had been free to act with relative impunity. The picture changed radically, however, with a whole company of British regulars on hand. Would, for example, Embleton have dared to arrest Allan Coleridge without ready resort to such a force?

“Miss Colleen?”

Colleen jumped, twisted about to see a disheveled old man dressed in sailor's canvas standing at her side. His left cheek was horribly scarred, and his left eye was covered by a black patch. “Jeth! You gave me a fright!”

Jeth's grin was toothless. His good right eye twinkled merrily as he reached up to touch her hand. “Like ticks in springtime, ain't they?” he said, nodding in the direction of the commons. “Everywhere you look. How's your daddy?”

“Well enough. But you must go see him. He'll be—”

“Don't have the time,” Jeth said, raising his hand to stop her. “We're in a cove down the beach. Put in long enough to fill our water barrels, and then it's back to playing fox and hare with the British Navy soon as the sun goes down. Bloody business, this blockade-runnin'. I just come into town for news.”

“And brought some, too, I hope.”

“Aye, as always, but I've little time. The bare bones, though, is …”

Gone longer than he'd expected, Jason emerged in time to see Colleen squeeze Jeth's hand in farewell, after which the old sea dog slipped around the corner and out of sight. His trunk and bags safely tied down in back, and the warehouseman paid off with a coin, he climbed aboard and took the reins. “Who was that?” he asked as Cinder headed away from the commons and back to the coastal road heading north.

“Jeth Darney, a friend who sailed out of New York harbor on a blockade runner only a fortnight ago with news of the war.”

“He doesn't look like a sailor.”

“He's a cook and a surgeon, and a good one. He's sailed on merchant ships under a dozen flags and a dozen names.”

“How does a young lady of good breeding happen upon such an unsavory character?” Jason asked with a combination of concern and amusement.

“My father saved his life three years ago. He'd been in a bloody knife fight and stayed with us a month after he'd healed to show his appreciation by cooking all our meals. Portia was upset, but she learned to love his beef stew. Father was amazed to discover that in spite of his wild manner, he had a good working knowledge of surgical methods—and anything else he set his mind to. In some ways, he reminds me of Aunt Rianne. He despises the English and has a hundred tales to tell of their unfair tariffs. Whenever he moves in and out of the colony, he carries news. Just now he told me that two regiments of General Washington in Connecticut have protested to the point of near mutiny. They've complained of insufficient food and the fact that they've not been paid for months. Pennsylvania troops sympathetic to him disarmed the malcontents, and the last word is that the situation is under control, but how long can we go on like this?” Colleen sighed and stared at the passing scene, fields newly plowed, cleared ground, patches of forest offering shade to the weary. “How can we continue fighting the Crown and ourselves at the same time? If we could only write a song, Jason, telling the men to be patient—that food and compensation will soon be coming—I know we'd reach their hearts and …”

“Spend the rest of the war in a British jail—or be hanged for our troubles.”

“Is that your fear?”

“It's a thought that's crossed my mind, yes.”

“I don't believe you,” she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. “I believe you to be a brave and fearless artist who will use your art toward the cause of freedom. That's why God has brought us together.”

“Please don't blame God”—he smiled—“for any imbalance in my character.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” he said, playfully nipping her fingertips, “that when I'm with you, all semblance of common sense seems to vanish into thin air.”

“Are you scolding or complimenting me?”

“I'm merely confessing to a beguiling affection I feel for you.”

“Would you call such affection love?” she wondered. “You did at the ravine. You spoke the words. You said, ‘I love you, Colleen.' Why do you hesitate to repeat yourself?”

“Perhaps I shall compose something to describe exactly what I feel. I will perform it for you alone, and you will hear, and know.”

“Jason,” she said, turning, offering him a smile as radiant as the mid-morning sun, “I don't mind saying it at all. I love you.”

The sun was hot, the sea breeze cool. Jason was full of questions and listened avidly as Colleen regaled him with four years of accumulated news of births and deaths and marriages and the myriad of trivia that made up life in a small town anywhere in the world. They stopped for a leisurely lunch that Portia had prepared, and when they resumed their journey, it was Colleen's turn to ask questions, and Jason's to talk.

They bore inland to skirt the great marshes on Charleston's southern flank. Jason related tales of his European sojourn: of stag and boar hunts in England; of wild rides on horseback through French forests; of the precarious journey over the Alps to Italy; and the incredible sights he had seen. Most of all, though, he talked of the great composers he'd met and how they had inspired him and filled him with awe. He couched his narrative in modest terms, but Colleen knew him well enough to realize the importance of his triumphs, and while he spoke of the work of others, she urged him to speak of and even sing some of his own. Much to his delight, Colleen learned his motifs quickly and, her arm through his, her breast pressed against his arm, she harmonized with him to the rhythm of Cinder's smooth, easy pace.

“Marvelous!” Jason laughed when they finished an occasional piece he'd called “Dawn's Hush!” “You're a fast learner. Have you thought of becoming a musician?”

“Heaven forbid! I should be as clumsy as a carp on land. Words are my forte. Listen.” Inspired, she recited an Italian poem, “La Liberià,” which Rianne had given her in translation some months earlier. “Well?” she asked as the first spire of Charleston appeared above a line of trees. “What do you think? Isn't it beautiful?”

Not wanting to seem pretentious, Jason hesitated, but then confessed that he not only knew the poem, but the poet as well. He had met Pietro Metastasio, a wonderful old man, in Cremona, and had promised to put the stanzas of his great poem to music.

“Will you so honor me, Jason, by writing music for my poems?”

“In London, I heard talk of a young Scottish poet by the name of Burns who has a great gift for setting words to music. Does that interest you?”

“Yes, of course. You know it does. But certain feelings of my own, already set down on paper, naturally seek musical expression that only you could give. Tell me you will.”

“Only if I can find notes sweet enough,” he replied as, in the far distance, the chimes of St. Michael's Cathedral rang out the hour to the citizens of Charleston, the Queen City of the elegant South.

Chapter 9

Nearly five years had passed since Jason had been in Charleston, and his first impression was one of shock. Soldiers were everywhere. The red-coated English were constant and irritable reminders of their recent victory, just as the numerous green-coated colonials served to illustrate painfully how many American men were willing to fight for a foreign king. To see both factions patrolling the narrow cobblestoned streets and pathways caused Colleen and Jason considerable pain. And yet the quiet charm of the city could not be destroyed, not even by the presence of an occupying power.

Charleston was a miracle of natural and man-made detail: intricate ironwork on doorways and gates, pastel-painted town homes, high-walled gardens, the rotund, exotic presence of palmetto trees, bright sunshine playing with heavy shadows in alleyways green with fern, yellow with bignonia, air fragrant with a hundred breeds of blossoms cultivated and wild, wisteria and velvety violets, red-flowered pomegranate trees, brilliant splashes of azaleas and pure pink roses—and everywhere the strong scent of the open sea. A Huguenot church sat next to a small Jewish synagogue. Dozens of miniature verandas and piazzas dotting the city gave it a decidedly European flavor that clashed with a climate and ambience more akin to the West Indies. There was something tropical about Charleston, something cultivated and refined.

The buggy bounced down South Battery and came to a halt at the foot of East Battery, facing the Charleston harbor. A low red brick wall separated the narrow thoroughfare, lined with two- and three-story homes that were among the city's most stately, from the water. Jason took in the magnificent view of the harbor, the open water where the great Cooper and Ashley rivers met. The crystal-clear day had turned quietly misty, and as Colleen and Jason left the buggy to stand before the panorama, the bells of St. Michael's rang six o'clock. The ride from the McClagan farm, with the stop at Brandborough and the rest for lunch, had taken nearly all day. For all their disagreements and doubts, they had moved closer together, and momentarily forgetting his resolve to terminate their relationship, Jason took Colleen's hand in his as their spirits soared above the fleet of massive English warships that might have otherwise marred the beauty of the moment.

The harbor was protected by two bodies of land—James Island to the south, Sullivan's Island to the north. In 1776, in that proud, hopeful period during which Jason had set sail for Europe, no more than four hundred South Carolinians had stood firm at Fort Sullivan against the fire of over one hundred British naval guns, even though the fort, half built, consisted of little more than piles of palmetto logs and sand. There were those who claimed that if the Crown had succeeded in taking Charleston so early in the conflict, the colonial rebellion would have fizzled and failed to grow into a full-fledged revolution. Yet this was the same scene where, only weeks before, the Royal Navy had ultimately triumphed by taking advantage of General Lincoln's tactical mistake: reasoning that the populace would be best protected by committing all his troops to the city itself, he had allowed the forts to deteriorate. As a result, Major General Henry Clinton's fiery siege could not be withstood, and the gracious Queen of the South had fallen into foreign hands. The obviousness of the current situation—English ships, English soldiers, English flags flying wherever the eye turned—was reason enough for Colleen and Jason to fall into a mood of quiet melancholy.

They returned to the buggy and rode the short distance up South Battery to 32 Meeting Street, which served as both domicile and business establishment of Miss Rianne Mary McClagan. The hand-painted sign that swung from a metal bar extending from the rose-colored building was decorated with graceful needles and swirling threads announcing Rianne's handicraft. Colleen walked ahead into the shop as a bell above the door tinkled softly. Following half a minute later with her trunk, Jason entered in time to see Colleen enveloped in an embrace by a woman who, at six feet, was as tall as he.