Paxton's War (17 page)

For the better part of an hour, she stared out the window and wished for the relief of rain. Too soon, though, the thunder and lightning moved off to the west, leaving in its wake a still-stifling humidity that served only to increase her frustration. “Damn him!” she whispered, pulling on a light wrap. Silently, she crept downstairs to light her candle; stealthily, she slipped back up to her room. She was her aunt's niece, was she not? And damned if she'd be intimidated by a pair of macaroni peacocks or, for that matter, Jason. Quivering with rage, she extracted paper, ink, and quill from the small portable secretary Rianne had left in her room, propped herself up in bed, and set to work. She'd show them, she mumbled as the first words spilled out and onto the paper. She'd show them all what one person could do in the name of the cause that tugged so insistently at her heart: the cause of independence and liberty.

Jason saw the same lightning, heard the same distant thunder, but felt a much different sort of confusion. Like Colleen, he was unable to sleep as he sat on the side of the bed in the room he had always considered his hideaway. He'd taken off his nightgown, and his nude, lean frame was bathed in sweat. He breathed the heavy night air with difficulty. How long had it been since he'd had a decent night's sleep? Time blurred as a myriad of thoughts and feelings competed for his troubled attention. He was happy to be back in the house which, in the past, had provided him with so much comfort. In certain ways, Piero and Robin understood him better than anyone else, even his sister Joy. In other ways, though, they understood him not at all, and it was difficult to speak to them of the mental turmoil that had brought him back to America.

Colleen. His mind filled with thoughts and images of Colleen. Her words and spirit ran through his memory—that and her soft, gentle skin, the silky ease with which they had negotiated the dance of love. Never before had he felt such intensity. He thought of her, alone in bed, and the gnawing hunger returned, the excitement arose. “Damn it!” he cursed aloud, angry at the recurrence of such confusing and private thoughts. Still, the confusion would not quickly be laid to rest.

After all, her reflected, staring out the window at the pale yellow moon, Colleen was right. They lived in troubled times when art must follow action. It was not a time for composing music or falling head over heels in love. It was a time for planning—and acting. His position was unique. The high esteem in which the British held him was an invaluable weapon not to be wasted. That very image of himself as a political naïf content to mingle with representatives of the Crown allowed him vital access to the headquarters and homes of Loyalists and English officers. He had to take advantage of that image, he decided, and quickly. He sighed when he thought of the word and considered the dangers. Yet the word was inescapable—spy. He was going to spy. He was going to live two separate lives, have dual identities. More and more, his plans jelled and the inevitability of his mission became clear. He needed time to think and plot and work out the details by himself. He needed the seclusion that Piero and Robin could supply. And mostly, for all her good intentions, he needed to stay away from Colleen, before their wreckless, passionate affair brought calamity to them both. Yes, he vowed to himself as he reclined on the bed, as his ardor faded and a worrisome sleep finally triumphed over his anxious thoughts—he had to force himself to stay away from the beguiling, altogether too lovely and alluring Colleen Cassandra McClagan.

“Miss McClagan is at the door,” Ned announced as Piero, Robin, and Jason enjoyed a late breakfast at the dining room table.

“A most persistent young lady, is she not, Maestro?” Piero asked Jason.

“Most persistent,” Jason agreed, not certain whether he was sad or glad.

“Please see her in, Ned,” Robin instructed without a moment's hesitation as he fluffed his loosely tied white embroidered neckerchief.

Moments later Colleen swept into the room with the energy and grace of a bright-eyed deer. She wore a forest-green gown and snow-white bonnet, and was smiling as though the war were already won.

“Methinks I see a vision of eternal youth,” offered Piero. “You must sit down and share our food. We've a rare syrup and …”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I've come to read you something I wrote last night. Would I be troubling you if I recited these few lines?” She glanced up, fearing rebuff.

“Not at all, my dear,” Robin was quick to say.

Jason feared the words to which she referred was the love poem she had sung the night before, but he was wrong. Without further ado, Colleen cleared her throat and made the announcement. “I've written this conceit to a melody that is on everyone's lips—‘Yankee Doodle.' I shall half sing, half recite, so that none of the meaning will be lost:”

Major Embleton came to town, he hoped to be a hero

But stormed upon a picnic fare where ruffians numbered zero.

Randy Embleton, keep it up, Randy, you're a dandy,

Beat the rebels at their game, and with the food be handy.

He made an arrest with regal pomp, most certain of his peg-o,

In reaching for his pistol true, he drew a turkey leg-o,

Randy Embleton, keep it up, Randy, you're a dandy,

Beat the rebels at their game, and with the food be handy!

Piero laughed uproariously, and Robin managed a tight smile as Colleen read and sang three more stanzas, each more biting than the last.

Jason was impressed, but also alarmed. “What do you intend to do with this?” he asked.

“Print it as a broadside and post it on the streets of Charleston. Let the people know what a pompous fool this Embleton really is.”

“I think it's something we should discuss,” Jason suggested, paling.

“We?” asked Colleen with indignance and surprise. “Why, the deed's practically done.”

Seeing that it was neither the time nor place to engage himself in an argument, Jason asked Piero and Robin to excuse him and Colleen. Learning that she had walked to the Georgian town house, he offered to accompany her home.

Annoyed at being rushed out of the house, Colleen was also pleased at the prospect of spending more time alone with Jason.

Ned brought the buggy from the carriage house, and once behind the reins of Cinder, Jason felt a bit more in control of the day's events. He decided to ride around the city for a while and take the occasion to, as gently as possible, break off his relationship with this baffling woman.

Happy to learn Jason wouldn't be taking her directly home, Colleen returned to the discussion of her broadside. “I've decided to call it ‘The Battle of Brandborough,'” she said. “I think that's a wonderful title, don't you?”

“No.” Jason was frankly annoyed.

“You're cross.”

“Quite.”

“Why?”

“Satire doesn't suit you,” he said as the buggy made its way toward Market Street, which was filled with the cries of vendors hawking vegetables and flowers. Black women carried baskets of ferns atop their heads as clean-shaven English soldiers bartered with big-bellied merchants. The air was scented with the aroma of roasted chestnuts, the sky a miracle of contrasting light—powder blue mixed with menacing clouds of sinister gray, the sun dancing in and out, the ocean breeze now tame, now frisky.

“Satire,” Colleen contended hotly, “is a most potent tool for political retaliation. Are you forgetting Mr. Dryden and Mr. Pope? Surely they …”

“… were men of the world,” Jason finished, interrupting Colleen.

“That's unjust!” Colleen complained with mounting anger. “Criticize my verse if you will, but not my gender. Would not these words have the same effect on their readers as those composed by a man? Would, in fact, the gentle reader know, from the language itself, that it was penned by a woman? I think not. Nor would the reader care.”

“'Tis not the point,” Jason said as they rode by the Dock Street Theater, which, in spite of the British occupation, was advertising the celebration of its forty-fourth anniversary with a gala production of, ironically, Shakespeare's
All's Well That Ends Well
.

“Then sir, what
is
the point?” Colleen asked.

“That you can be indiscreet, Colleen, and, if you'll permit me to say, foolhardy.”

“I've told no one of this broadside.”

“Save Piero, Robin, and myself.”

“And neither you nor your dearest friends are to be trusted?”

“I trust them with my life,” Jason said with frustration. “But I'm not so sure about the servant who was listening outside the door. Not to speak of your judgment, which I'm sorry to say I'm beginning to suspect.”

The remark struck home. Jason saw that he'd wounded her far more than he'd intended and, as they passed by the porticoes, belfry, and towering spire of St. Philip's Church, by the tiny shops of silversmiths and cabinetmakers who displayed their smaller pieces on the street, he tried to explain himself. “I fear for you,” he admitted. “I understand the English. I lived with them for three years. I know how they approach war. 'Tis no game, Colleen.”

“And neither is my verse!” Colleen snapped, her rage flaring anew. “I can't speak for you, Jason Paxton, but I fear neither the British nor any other tyrant who would take from me what's rightfully mine. And this,” she said, pulling out the paper on which her broadside was written, “is mine, my free expression, my heartfelt conviction that …”

Suddenly Jason grabbed the paper and quickly crumpled it in his fist. Colleen watched in disbelief and was on the verge of registering violent protest when she saw, facing them in front of the Old Customs Exchange, Major Randall Embleton. Having just dismounted from his horse, he had noticed Jason and was approaching the buggy. Four of his red-coated aides, men whom Jason and Colleen recognized from the picnic, accompanied him.

“How nice to see you in Charles Town, Mr. Paxton,” the major said, greeting him with a salute.

“Good morning, Major,” offered Jason, inconspicuously dropping the crumpled parchment at his own feet. “You remember Miss McClagan, I trust.”

“'Tis my honor once again.” He bowed, but not before lustily eyeing her.

Colleen stared coldly into space. The sight of Embleton, with his oversized features and ostentatious medals—the very man she had spent a part of the night parodying—filled her with contempt.

“I was actually on my way to see you, Major,” Jason said, alighting from the buggy. “I was wondering if you'd object to my visiting my brother-in-law. I presume you're caring for him in there,” Jason said, pointing to the fading brick and peeling wood of the Old Customs Exchange building, currently being used as British headquarters and a high-security prison.

“Object? Why, sir, I'd be pleased,” Embleton replied slyly. “For anyone gracious enough to provide us Europeans with a taste of the culture we so sorely miss, why, it's a small enough request. Besides, who better than you might be able to enlighten the poor bloke with some sane Tory reasoning. Yes, certainly, go in and see the lad. In exchange for the favor, I know you'll be pleased to grant me a request of my own. I've spoken to Tarleton about you, and he'd be pleased to know a date when you'd be free to give a recital at his home. There are many more English gentlemen here who appreciate fine music than you might imagine. As you may have heard, he's taken over the Sitwell mansion, on Logan Street. Seems like the old man keeled over and died last week. Accommodating of him, wasn't it?” Embleton chuckled.

Colleen was appalled by the officer's attitude—Alexander Sitwell had been one of Charleston's bravest Patriots—and equally appalled that Jason would permit himself to prostitute himself before the warlords who held the city captive. “He called you a Tory,” she whispered to Jason as Embleton marched off toward the building. “Are you going to allow that? Aren't you going to …”

“Shh!” Jason put his finger to his lips.

Colleen's face had turned scarlet. She was furious; she could no longer tolerate what she considered Jason's sickeningly obsequious behavior. How else could she look at him but as an effete musician whose only interest in life was pleasing the powerful and rich? “I'll say and do as I please,” she snapped, “and leave you to your friends!” She reached down, snatched up the crumpled parchment, took the reins, and rode off indignantly.

Jason started to call her back, but Embleton's remark stopped him.

“What troubles Miss McClagan?” asked the bulbous-nosed major. “She seems frightfully upset.”

“I don't have to tell you, Major, of the wiles of women,” Jason answered coolly.

“Indeed you don't.” Embleton smiled. “I've been known to have something of an accurate eye for various female dispositions, and I'd therefore place Miss McClagan in an especially hot-blooded category. What say you, Paxton?”

“I'd say that the major knows his ladies.”

The men went through the huge paneled doors engraved with figures of cotton, tobacco, and other symbols of commerce. Inside, the Old Customs Exchange building was a combination of decrepitude and charm. Dozens of regular English soldiers in their scarlet uniforms and Embleton's own elite green-coated colonial guard monitored the hallways and worked at scattered desks. A large portrait of a drowsy King George III had been placed on a wall in the high-windowed central room from which Embleton, eliciting smart salutes from everyone he encountered, veered to the left and, with Jason close behind, threaded a winding path, a virtual maze.

The section reserved for prisoners had been used as a carriage house attached to the main building. It smelled of stale food and fresh urine. The air was damp; the light was dusty and grim. Rodents scurried up walls and along filthy ledges. Jason noted each turn, then fixed the location of the many windows and doorways in his mind. He continued following Embleton, past cramped cells with men collapsed on the floor, men groaning in pain, men who appeared to have been abused or beaten. In the corner in a tiny cell, Allan Coleridge slept on hard dirt.