Paxton's War (18 page)

“You've a guest, Coleridge,” Embleton barked.

Allan opened his luminous gray eyes, and at the sight of Jason, he spang to his feet and spat at him. Jason turned away barely in time. The spittle clung to his sleeve like a milky, oozing badge of shame.

“Get the bastard traitor out of my sight,” Allan said with contempt, “before I break through these bars and strangle him with my bare hands. I'd rather be visited by Satan himself than by a man who'd betray his own family. The sight of him makes me sick.”

“I hoped I might be of some help, old boy,” Jason said, playing a role for Embleton even as Allan's curses drowned him out.

“'Tis no use,” Embleton sighed with some amusement. “At least you tried, my good man.”

Jason endured his brother-in-law's abuse for a few more minutes, all the time memorizing as much of the prison's layout as he could.

“You see,” Embleton remarked, leading Jason out, “reasoning with these heathens is quite impossible. I learned long ago that the lash, not the tongue, is all they understand. It's become a policy for which I've gained a deserved measure of fame here in the colonies.” With that, he called his aide, “Benson, you're to administer a strong two dozen lashes to the first man who gives the guards the slightest bit of trouble today. Bring all the prisoners into the courtyard so that they witness the punishment and see for themselves what insubordination will bring them.”

“Don't you think that's a bit excessive, Major?” Jason asked, fighting the urge to tell Embleton exactly what he thought of him.

“To the contrary, Mr. Paxton. I appreciate your artistic sensitivity, but these are stubborn people. Word will go out as to what awaits the rebels in the Old Customs Exchange. One way or another, their spirits will be broken.”

The major escorted Jason to his office, where, he suggested, they have a spot of sherry. Jason accepted. The room was large, and Jason was surprised to see that Embleton worked in an atmosphere of no small disorganization. A slew of dirty cups and mugs, half-emptied teapots, and wine bottles was scattered on the tops of tables and desks. Maps were strewn everywhere. Battle plans hung from the walls by small nails. Bits of food—bread, slices of pork, and a variety of fruits—sat in baskets and upon platters. While the English officer sipped sherry and waxed eloquent on his favorite European music of the day, Jason cast furtive glances at the strategic maps and plans. The musician encouraged Embleton to expand upon his views and talked at length in order to buy himself time, all the while casually moving about the office, reading upside down when necessary, organizing the great bulk of information in his mind, much as he organized the notes of a symphony on the pianoforte. Before Jason left, Embleton had made him commit to a definite date—ten days hence—for a recital.

Outside, his head dizzy with a strange swirl of confidence and despair, Jason looked around, hoping that Colleen might have returned with the buggy, but saw instead another familiar carriage pull up in front of the Old Customs Exchange.

When Hope emerged, her eyes met her brother's. She looked stunning but distant in an outfit of deep purple as she heard Jason explain how he had come to see Allan.

“Did they allow that?” she asked coldly.

“Yes, but he wasn't overjoyed at seeing me.”

“Will they let me see him?”

“I can speak with Embleton and—”

“Never mind,” Hope cut him off. “I can do that myself.”

“I might have more sway and …”

Hope began walking toward the entrance to the old building. “Please,” Jason continued, “if you're staying at Father's apartment here I'd like to visit with you and explain …”

Hope never turned around, never bothered to acknowledge her brother's pleas. She proceeded straight ahead through the open doors, into the building.

Jason could do nothing more than walk away through the narrow cobblestoned streets of the city. The morning had turned even more humid. The sun was hidden behind a bank of dark gray rain clouds. He felt a few drops on his head and hands as he walked not by design, but by instinct, watching the flower sellers running for cover as the wind and the rain came down. It didn't matter if he got wet. He welcomed the relief from above. Let it rain! Let it pour! The row of small, French-looking buildings on stately Queen Street seemed like a painting to him. In his mind, he heard a symphony—the angry roar of firing cannons, the plaintive song of soaring birds, the formal meter of measured minuets. He struggled to put them all together, and yet he couldn't. He realized that he would have to live with the disonance until a structure of sense, a manageable motif, prevailed. Meanwhile, he walked in the rain and thought, walked through lovely, troubled Charleston, walked and told himself that, yes, it was a cruel way to break off the relationship, but at least the deed had been done. And if, an hour later, soaked to the bone, he turned a corner and found himself on Meeting Street, quickly approaching the home and shop of Rianne Mary McClagan, it was only because the house was directly on the path back to Robin and Piero's. He had no intention of stopping, no intention of offering any further explanations. Neither, though, had he expected to be greeted by the sight of a resplendent carriage that stopped him dead in his tracks. With a shock of recognition, he knew that the carriage sitting directly in front of Rianne's belonged to Buckley Somerset. He didn't even consider going inside. He couldn't face another confrontation, not at that moment. Instead, his heart filled with jealousy, he turned on his heels and walked way, taking a longer path back to the home of his patrons.

Chapter 12

Buckley had arrived at a most inopportune time. Colleen was in a rage—angry at herself for having left Jason, angry at Jason for having courted Embleton, angry at the world for being so unjust.

“I must tell him something, dear,” Rianne insisted from the hallway outside Colleen's bedroom.

“Tell him I died of consumption during the night.”

“Really, Colleen!”

“Tell him I can't see him today.”

“I've already done so and he insists on waiting. He says you promised to see him here, and while I sympathize with your plight, I must say that a brief appearance shouldn't be all that painful. I hold no affection for the young man myself. Still, it doesn't hurt to be civil. May I tell him that you'll be down?”

“You may say whatever you please, Aunt Rianne,” Colleen replied stiffly.

“Good. Then we shall see you in the parlor in a very few minutes.”

Silence. Blessed silence. Colleen thought about her situation, about Jason and Major Embleton, about Buckley Somerset and his family fortune, about her new lyrics, which she had recopied and presently held in her hand. She read the piece again. The more she read, the more she considered her state, the less she wanted a scene with Buckley. Too much had happened. Too much, especially with Jason. Her words to Rianne forgotten along with her polite intentions, she threw on a hooded cloak, stole down the back stairs, and quietly slipped out the rear door. She was off to see Ephraim Kramer, and the fact that it was pouring rain did not deter her one bit. She placed the parchment inside her blouse, next to her breast, protecting it from the wet with the warmth of her body. She walked quickly down the darkening streets as the frightened whinny of horses responded to the sudden crack of thunder. The farther she went, the braver she grew, the more exhilarated she felt. The air was alive with the excitement of electrical change. Several times she looked over her shoulder, half wishing that she were being followed. Nothing could stop her! Just let them try! She turned up one alleyway and hurried down another until, on a tiny side street, close enough to the harbor to hear the sound of waves crashing against the battery walls, she reached her destination. The overhead sign read:
EPHRAIM KRAMER
:
PRINTER
. Out of breath, seeing that his door had been padlocked, she felt her heart beat even faster. When there was no response to her insistent bangs, she cupped her mouth with her hands and screamed, “Mr. Kramer! It's Colleen! Please, open your door!”

From the second story, a small head, wrinkled as a raisin, raised a window. A raspy voice chided Colleen. “Get out of the rain, child, before you catch your death of cold! Go back home! Get!”

“I must speak with you!” she pleaded.

“There's nothing to speak about,” he said, nervously looking up and down the street. “Now go home.”

“If you don't let me in, I'll continue to scream until King George himself hears my cry.”

“Be still, be still. Come 'round back and I'll let you in,” Ephraim Kramer conceded, mumbling something about the madness of women.

Once inside, Colleen began to take off her drenched cloak. “Not so fast,” said the elderly man in a quivering voice. “I've let you in, not invited you to stay.”

In Kramer's cramped kitchen, Ephraim was dressed in rough work trousers covered by a large ink-smeared smock. He was a diminutive man, much shorter than Colleen. His hairless hands were small, and his tiny ears looked as if they had been pressed against the sides of his head. In his beady brown eyes, despite what seemed an apparent hardness, Colleen saw a special kindness and courage.

“You've been nothing but a pain to me, young lady,” he said to her, “and I'll have no more of it. I've decided to stop all this secretive printing. I've toyed with my luck long enough.”

“What are you saying?” asked Colleen, not quite prepared for still another disillusionment.

“That the Sandpiper has chirped her last. 'Twill chirp no more. Listen to me, Colleen. I'm an old, feeble widower who has but a few years to live. And, with your permission, I'd like to live them in peace, or, for that matter, live them out of prison. Things have changed since the British seizure. Things have worsened. I've been visited twice in the past week by Embleton's men. They searched this place high and low for signs of seditious material. I told them that for the past thirty years I've printed nothing more substantial than the notices of local merchants and a modest letter of inconsequential activities among the citizenry. They didn't believe me, though. They compared all my type to that used to print the Sandpiper's pages, and they made a mess of the place in the process.”

“They didn't find the spare set of type, then?” Colleen asked, relieved.

Ephraim's face broke into a toothless smile. “Not so much as an ampersand.” He tapped the grain bin, in whose fake bottom the incriminating type was hidden. “Not a single
e
or
m
. Or period, for that matter.”

“Then what's stopping us?”

“My good sense. I'm closed for the summer and will stay closed until the climate changes for the better. Heat's an affliction for an old man like me. Along with floggings and hangings. And mind you, they're afflictions that can strike the young as well.”

“You aren't old, Mr. Kramer. You're young as spring itself, and I love you,” Colleen said, kissing him on the cheek.

Ephraim backed into a chair and grumpily brushed off the kiss. “We'll have none of that,” he warned. “I'm no longer tempted by women, not even one as pretty as you.”

“But I'm sure you'll be tempted by this,” she said, pulling out her satire and presenting it to him.

Ephraim fished out a pair of rimless spectacles from his vest pocket, put them on, and read, and in spite of his best efforts, he couldn't fight back a wide grin and several rich chuckles. “Damnation! But you're a mischievous female!”

“It's for the love of freedom, Mr. Ephraim. The love that beats in all our hearts.”

“Oh, but I'd love to see Embleton's bloated face when he lays eyes on this.”

“Then you'll print it?”

“Not on your life. This one could cost us our necks.”

“You
must
print it. I'll help you, no matter how long it takes. I'll follow all your instructions, just as I did last time. We'll work through the night if we have to.”

“We'll do nothing of the kind, Miss McClagan. For all your wit and winning ways, I'll not risk my life and my livelihood.”

“You've already risked it. We risk it every day that we continue allowing them to imprison us in our own homes. Dear Mr. Kramer, can't you see that?”

“I can see only that I won't be persuaded this time. I dislike the Crown's impudence as much as anyone, but I've worked all my life to build this small enterprise, and I'll not see it destroyed. No, Miss McClagan, the answer is a definite and unalterable no!”

Colleen nodded as if in complete accord with the elderly printer. Without further ado, she pulled the grain bin away from the wall and stooped to remove the backing strip, in front of which lay the tray that held the Sandpiper's type. There wasn't, she explained, a moment to lose.

Sometime during the evening, Jason remembered Piero knocking at his bedroom door and announcing that Cinder had been brought to the carriage house by one of Rianne's servants. The Italian had also asked whether the young maestro cared for dinner. Not presently, Jason had replied, and he retreated once again into himself.

It was close to midnight. The sudden squall that had sprung up an hour earlier had subsided and, from his window, he could see a few stars twinkling through a sky of broken clouds. Cinder's return without a note or message was discouraging. It was evident that Colleen was convinced, as was seemingly everyone dear to him, that he was conspiring with the enemy. She no longer trusted him and, by her silence, was obviously ending their friendship. The brief union was broken. Well enough, Jason thought. That was what he'd wanted. Finally, his mind was clear to concentrate on action. It was time to formulate a precise plan, find someone he could trust to pass information to the rebels—a difficult task, as scattered and disorganized as they were—and then get to work.