Paxton's War (20 page)

“As to your Mr. Paxton … well”—she shook her head as if all description were futile—“he appeared wigless and terribly somber. His gray greatcoat and white blouse were as undistinguished as they were proper, more befitting of a schoolmaster than a musician. Not in the least dashing. Naturally, the unusual curliness of his hair lends great dramatic effect to his person, particularly when he sits down to play. And, oh, my child, play he did! Before the music began, the man looked … I would say … troubled. Of course, he was charming to all in attendance, but he seemed, beneath the surface, out of sorts. When his fingers danced o'er the ivory, though, it was as if the room had been raised upon a soft cloud and lifted toward blissful heaven. His instrument was a chamber organ newly arrived from London, an enormous piece, which at first glance I took for a sideboard. Even Robin seemed impressed. The elongated silver pipes were encased above the keyboard in a chamber of bejeweled cut glass. And when Mr. Paxton played, the sound seemed to emanate from the very soul of the composers—a sonata by Muzio Clementi, brief pieces by Martini and Giacomo Puccini, a delicious opus by Johann Christian Bach.”

“And nothing by Jason himself?”

“No, which was strange, I thought. And it did appear, on reflection, that he was holding part of himself in careful reserve. His execution was divine, and yet, oddly enough, one waited for something more.”

“His conscience—that's what it was. The guilt of betrayal! He's a monster, Aunt Rianne, he's a scoundrel and a …”

“Well, then you'll not care to learn that the monster and scoundrel asked to be remembered to you.”

“What did he say?” Colleen had to know.

“Only that he very much regretted not having seen you this past month. He wondered whether you were still in Charleston.”

“And what did you say?”

“What any respectable aunt would say under the circumstance. I spoke the truth. I said you were here.”

“And then what did he say?”

“My dear, 'twas a brief encounter indeed. Many others were waiting to congratulate him on his performance. He kissed my hand and bade me a good afternoon. I curtsied and wished him well.”

“He's a scoundrel!” Colleen cried, running from the room, “a monster!”

While Tarleton murders our innocent lambs

And Randy hosts recitals sublime

The Will o' the Wisp continues to prey

Upon those who would foster these crimes

In pursuing his capture, the English fox

Gets lost in the woods and the swamps

The more futile his attempts to find his own tail

The more our Wisp laughs and romps

—the Sandpiper

With one violent stroke, Major Randall Embleton ripped the broadside in half. “Has Tarleton seen this slander, Benson?”

“I'm not certain, sir.”

“Well, I want it stopped, and I want it stopped now!”

“Referring to the broadsides, sir,” Benson asked cautiously, “or Will-o'the-Wisp?”

“Both, you bloody fool!” the major exploded. “With no mercy shown to printer, poet, or bandit. I'll make examples of them, I will. I'll break the neck of this pesky Sandpiper and cut the throat of this wispy pest. Their blood will flow in the streets so that all can see what awaits those who mock and defy the king's authority in this godforsaken colony.”

Chapter 2

Colleen awoke at dawn. Rays of sunlight peeked through her window and, even at the early hour, the heat of summer had begun to build. It was the first day of July. The air was humid, and the sky, while not threatening, was filled with fabulous formations of billowing white clouds. It took her a second to remember where she was—not at home at her father's farm, but in Charleston, at her aunt's house. Where had she been in her dream? Angrily, she remembered Paris, and that Jason had been there, and he had taken her to the opera, and afterward, in his secluded studio he had … She blocked the rest of the dream from her mind. Such dreams were frivolous, and though they haunted her night after night, she was determined to erase them from her mind.

Getting out of bed, stretching and yawning away the fatigue that clung to her eyes like morning dew, she remembered the powerful thoughts with which she had fallen asleep the night before. Late that afternoon, Jeth Darney had paid her a visit and reported that, in spite of rebel losses at Mock's Corner, Lenud's Ferry, and the already infamous battle of Waxhaws, British brutality had inspired an unprecedented number of new recruits to join the Continental Army. “Never seen anything like it before,” Jeth had said while downing a glass of Rianne's sherry. “The revolution's turned into a bloody civil war, leastways in this colony. Friend agin' friend, family agin' family.”

The news of the growing bands of volunteers had been encouraging, and with morning light, she dressed quickly in an orange frock of patterned gauze that lent her hair a misty, golden glow. Downstairs she left a brief note explaining that she'd be home no later than noon. It was not yet seven
A
.
M
. Once outside, a sense of optimism, even gaiety, sang through her heart. Hidden within the multilayered petticoats of her skirt was her newest lyric, which, she was certain, would do even more to encourage men to join the fight for freedom—men unlike Jason Paxton who could be made to see that nothing, not even their own private gain, was more important than the struggle against the Crown. The shopkeepers mopping the sidewalks in front of their stores suggested a fresh metaphor to Colleen. The English would be washed away, she told herself. Hope burned within her, and, even more, a certain faith that, if it were a game the occupiers were playing, she would win. In the past month since being in Charleston, the Sandpiper had written and, with the help of the children of jailed patriots, distributed no less than a half dozen biting broadsides. At night, in taverns and homes wherever Patriots assembled, the words, sung to familiar melodies, soared defiantly from one side of the city to the other.
A game indeed!
She smiled to herself as she picked up the pace of her walk, threading her way through the narrow streets and tiny alleyways, not bothering to see whether she was being followed, not caring, knowing that, no matter what, her mission would be accomplished because, in spite of their warnings and ridiculous posters threatening the arrest of those involved in seditious activity, people like herself or Ephraim Kramer or the wondrous Will-o'-the-Wisp would be neither frightened nor silenced.

She thought of a story she had heard of the campaign in New York at the outbreak of war in 1776 when a Patriot, surveying British troop movements for General Washington, had been captured and ordered hanged. He had been denied a trial, a clergyman, and even a Bible. Yet with the noose around his neck, his eyes were clear and calm, and his brave words were never to be forgotten. “I only regret,” said the young Nathan Hale, “that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

The memory of that story set Colleen walking even faster. Now she couldn't wait to reach Ephraim and show him her newest call to arms. Oh, how he'd love it! For all his initial hesitation, he, too, had proven a brave and hearty soul, a splendid man who …

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. When she turned the corner on Legare Street and began to walk the few paces down to Kramer's shop, she saw four Redcoats posted at his door. What were they doing there at that hour of the morning? Her heartbeat quickened and her throat turned dry. Quickly, instinctively, she ducked into one of his neighbor's gardens. There, among beds of flowering pansies and petunias, she found herself waiting, listening, staying flat against the side of the brick wall, out of sight. Minutes later she heard a struggle, then the sound of her friend's voice, the old man's voice, crying, “It's a mistake, you're making a mistake, it's not my press, it's not my doing!” Never before had she heard such utter terror trapped inside a human voice. She wanted to break out of her hiding place, step forward and fight for her friend—how, she wasn't certain—but instead remained frozen, unable to budge for fear of recognition. Fear had her paralyzed.

Seconds later, when she heard the soldiers take him away, she slowly, cautiously emerged from the alleyway to see that a large crowd had formed and was following the arresting party. She slipped in among the several dozen people, feeling protected in their numbers. As they trailed behind Ephraim and the soldiers, their ranks grew. Soon a hundred or more citizens had formed something of a parade. Colleen hoped they'd understand the injustice of the arrest and demand Kramer's release. Instead, they merely gossiped among themselves, curious to see where the soldiers were taking him. Colleen grew even more frightened as she realized they were heading toward the Old Customs Exchange. Once they were there and she saw that a gallows had been constructed in front of the main doors, she desperately tried to awaken herself from this nightmare:
This wasn't happening! This couldn't be true!
She was nearly sick to her stomach, her mouth parched with panic.

She edged her way toward the front of the now enormous crowd. Hundreds watched. The event had been timed to coincide with the hour when Charlestonians were up and about, engaged in early morning activities. Colleen thought of making her way to the first row, but stopped at the second, partially hidden by a tall gentleman in a fancy wig who stood in front of her. She looked around the man and saw that Embleton was on the platform, and that Ephraim's eyes mirrored the specter of sheer terror.

“So that the more critical among you,” declared the major, his saucer eyes bulging with purpose, “be satisfied that there's English justice even during the bloodiest of wars, this man, this rebel printer, will not be hanged. He has only to reveal the name of his accomplice, the would-be poet whose insidious and silly rhymes have done so much to rile the more rebellious factions among this otherwise civilized community. The gallows will be dismounted, the affair brought to a quick end. The printer will be imprisoned, but his life spared. What say you, then, Ephraim Kramer? Will you name this Sandpiper?”

For a second, Colleen considered running, screaming, racing to the gallows and strangling the major herself. But instead she did nothing except hold her breath and fight for control. Her hands shook and her heart beat madly against her chest.
How had they found out? An accident. A horribly cruel twist of fate. A surprise visit by English troops. Perhaps he had been working in the basement
. She hid behind the tall man, her eyes closed tightly, her hands clenched in fists. Silence, long seconds of silence.
Who knew why? Only that it had happened
. She dared to peek around the man to see Ephraim and—dear God!—she was certain he had spotted her. She shut her eyes again, as if that would make her disappear, only to hear a cry from the gallows: “I'm an old man! Spare me! Spare my life!”

“You know the condition,” Embleton pronounced loudly.

“I don't want to die … please, please … I'm … I'm afraid to die …”

“Then speak,” ordered the major.

Suddenly Ephraim was silent, defiantly silent. Not a word, not a sound from him or the throng of people assembled. Colleen's eyes were still closed—
this isn't happening, this can't be happening
—and when she opened them against her will, she saw only a flash of images: soldiers struggling with the frail printer, the noose around his wrinkled neck, Ephraim's sweet, harmless neck. His eyes, widened with terror, more alive than any eyes she had ever seen. His voice, now pleading for mercy. Then a sound she'd never forget—a release, a thump, the hideous crack of bone, an anguished groan. His neck broken, his head slumped to one side. She opened her eyes to see that his were also still open. His pupils were frozen in a silent scream. Would that death erase that gaze! Would that death shut his eyes, eyes that still stared into hers! And then, all control vanishing, she suddenly felt herself falling, falling into a deep, dark abyss of quiet and solitude.…

She opened her eyes to the sound of chirping birds and the sight of spreading vines. She was in a secluded section of King's Park, seated on the ground beneath a great oak tree, nestled in his arms. The face of Jason Paxton had never seemed more compassionate or loving.

“What … where …” she began to ask.

He calmed her with a gentle kiss. “You fainted,” he explained. “I caught you, and brought you here. 'Tis nothing more than that. I was standing near you all the while.”

She looked around and saw a white gazebo beyond which a pair of swans swam upon a still, small pond. In the distance, church spires extended into a sky still crowded with clouds.

“Ephraim!” she suddenly remembered. “He was so afraid.”

“He was a man of singular courage. His silence was courageous.”

“And I …”—her breath quickened—”… I'm nothing but a loathsome coward.”

“There was no way to help, Colleen.”

“But I … I …” And the tears streamed from her eyes. Finally, she exploded with a series of body-wrenching sobs, weeping uncontrollably, as a child, a small infant, lost, afraid and filled with unspoken pain. All the time, Jason held her, kissing her forehead and assuring her that she'd be all right, that life would go on, that her friend hadn't died in vain.

For a great while, she let his words of kindness soothe her wounded heart like a salve. She felt protected, loved, and understood. He never reminded her of his earlier warnings, never chided or rebuked her for foolish behavior. He was merely there for her to lean upon. She allowed herself to be comforted for a few additional moments before standing up suddenly, wiping the tears from her eyes, and walking quickly to the latticed gazebo. Jason came to join her.

“No!” She stopped him before he entered the gazebo. Her mood had changed drastically. “Don't come any closer.”