Paxton's War (34 page)

“You're an angel of good faith, Colleen McClagan,” Pall declared. “Souls such as yours will keep the fire of revolution burning bright. Am I right, Mr. Paxton, or am I not?”

Jason remembered his many meetings with Embleton and the goodly amount of acting that had been required of him. He recognized in Pall an actor of far greater ability, but someone whose facial expressions, poses, and smiles appeared shallow and forced. “Miss McClagan has only the best intentions,” Jason replied finally.

“We'll leave you alone to your work, Frederic,” Colleen said, “and wish you well. My aunt will be looking for me.”

The two men shook hands before taking their leave. Pall held Jason with his eyes for several awkward seconds. “It was a privilege to met you, Jason Paxton, and a comfort to realize that you are so close a friend of so great a patriot. I trust you'll come to see me as Parolles in
All's Well That Ends Well
, just as I hope the next time you perform your music, I'll be among those privileged to attend.”

Jason nodded without replying. He felt a growing alarm spread through his heart and mind as he followed his lover from the basement, up the stairs, and back through the shop, where Joy was already working, under Rianne's watchful supervision, on an elaborate gown.

“The girl's an absolute gem,” Rianne announced. “With two nimble helpers, both of whom refuse to accept even the most modest wages, I'm sure to have a markedly profitable year—despite the ravages of this endless war.”

Jason wished his sister good-bye. “You're upset about something.” Joy sensed the concern in her brother's eyes.

“Only your well-being.”

“'Tis my concern now,” Rianne informed them. “So you go back to your friends and your music. This home is secure.”

After wishing the women a good day, Jason walked with Colleen to the front door. She stepped outside with him and asked, “Well, wasn't I right? Isn't it marvelous the way Frederic came into my life, just as I needed a printer? Don't you see how he and people like him are guaranteeing our victory? I didn't even know that he had lived abroad and knew so much about music and …”

“I wish to God, Colleen,” Jason said with pointed irritation in his voice, “that you hadn't said that about my camouflage. You might as well have called me Will-o'-the-Wisp right then and there.”

“And if I had, there'd be no harm done. Frederic Pall's someone we can trust.”

“I don't like the man,” Jason said flatly.

“What?”

“I said I don't like him. And I don't trust him—not one bit.”

“What about his letters?”

“Who's to say they're not forgeries?”

“Jason Paxton,” Colleen drawled as she looked at his troubled eyes. “If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were jealous.”

“I'm not in the least jealous. But I do worry about someone who just happens to appear from nowhere, with so many names on the tip of his tongue. I suspect he's both a brilliant actor and a brilliant fraud.”

“For God's sake, Jase, help arrives and you're too suspicious to believe it's really help. Or is it because Will-o'-the-Wisp wishes no competition, no other man who has the courage to …”

“Please, Colleen, you're making me angry. I welcome all help. But there's something about that man that …”

“That what? If anything, he reminds me of your trusted patrons, Piero and Robin, only with real revolutionary conviction. He's erudite, but he's also brave.”

“And Piero and Robin aren't?”

“This man is printing my broadsides. That's the simple fact of the matter. He's printing them when no one else has been willing. I'd say that's proof.”

“Proof of the fact that he's learned the Sandpiper's identity and now may have some fairly accurate notions about the Wisp.”

“You're imagining this. In truth, I didn't say a word about the Wisp.”

“There was no need to. Introducing me was enough.”

“
That's
enough, Jason! Were he a spy, I'd have been arrested days ago.”

“If he were a spy he'd string you along, hoping you'd lead him to the Wisp.”

“All this to tell me to stop writing my verses! Well, I won't stop. You needn't invent any more stories about secret spies in my basement, Jason, because you won't convince me. My work is vital, and my work goes forward, with or without your support.”

And with that, she stormed into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Chapter 4

Jimmy Morris stared at Roy McClagan, his eyes filled with terror. The teen-ager knew he was dying.

Since returning from Solitary two days ago, the doctor had turned Colleen's room and his back study into a temporary hospital where all six men were confined to cots. Jimmy was in the most critical condition of all. The physician had isolated him from the others and had brought him into his own bedroom. He had stayed by his side all night, giving him a series of emetics that had induced vomiting, but there had been no sign of progress. The fever raged unchecked, Jimmy's pulse was feeble, and the awful yellow-green crust coating his tongue had hardened. Still, Roy mixed his herbs and ointments, steadily toiling for six straight hours, pushing himself beyond endurance. Black night had turned to charcoal gray, and as the gray turned light, as the tip of morning sun met the horizon, the frail lad began speaking in a barely audible voice.

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

The physician, kneeling at Jimmy's side, put his arm around the feverish boy and spoke gently to him. “I've not met a man—no matter how brave—who wasn't afraid, lad. But you, you're braver than most. I see it in your eyes. You've done what you've thought was right, haven't you?”

“Dear God, please don't let me die, not now, not this soon. I've still never known a lady. I want to live … I want …” But he was too weak to speak the words.

“You're strong and you're young and your spirit won't be broken, Jimmy, not for an instant.” Roy took the boy's hand in his.

“Stay with me … I'm afraid … please stay …” the teenager whispered.

“I'm with you, laddy. I'm not going anywhere.”

Filled with frustration and anger that there was nothing left to do—his mind exhausted, his own body at the point of collapse—McClagan felt the teen-ager's hand go limp as his life expired with the first rays of a new day. The doctor's eyes filled with tears as he stood up, looking at his patient for a few silent seconds, only to have his mournful concentration broken by the frantic cry of a woman's voice.

“Hurry!” Hope screamed. “Allan's having convulsions! Run!”

The stooped-shouldered doctor ran to Colleen's room, where Hope, Allan, and two of ther other rebels were staying. Coleridge was twitching and shaking like a pathetically wounded bird. He flayed his arms and kicked his feet in writhing paroxysms of pain. “Do something, Doctor, for God's sake!” Hope urged, dressed in a cloth robe, her long hair streaming wildly down her back.

For an hour, Roy struggled and labored over the once powerful and fearless rebel. It was no use. By the time the radiant sun had burned off the scattered morning clouds and the sky appeared as clear and blue as the ocean, Allan Coleridge was gone, and his wife, Hope Ellen, was beside herself with grief. She sobbed, she threw herself upon her husband's lifeless body, she screamed at the heavens for the injustice of it all.

Roy swallowed hard, fighting to maintain his composure, feeling his heart thumping wildly against his chest. His house stank of medicines and death. Portia and the other slaves were petrified. One grave was being dug, and now another. Ethan would have to be notified. These other men would have to be watched even more carefully. There was no time to fall apart; ther was work to be done. Roy put his arms around the grieving Hope, whispering in her ear that God worked in mysterious ways. Trying to comfort the widow, though, his heart beat even faster; for, on Hope's hands, he saw the faint markings of purple spots, a telltale sign that the typhus's lethal spread had yet to be stopped.

Frederic Pall had awakened at noon in the small room he occupied in a boardinghouse on the northern edge of the city. The day before, he'd completed the printing of Colleen McClagan's latest broadside and spent much of the night supervising its distribution by the children of rebel prisoners. He sat on his bed, amid his rumpled sheets, and read over his part in
All's Well That Ends Well
for a solid hour. Nothing pleased him more than to lose himself in one of Shakespeare's psychologically complex roles.

The lines still ringing in his ears, he selected his outfit for his afternoon outing—a green waistcoat, black trousers, black boots, a high white powdered wig, and a feathered orange tricorn. He expertly painted his pale complexion a deep olive, adding several beauty marks around his mouth. Pleased with himself at having done such a superb job in uncovering the identity of the Wisp, he walked briskly to King's Park. Jason Paxton indeed! It was all so clear to Pall. The musician cleverly camouflaged (wasn't that the Sandpiper's very word?) his rebel sentiments by hiding behind his musical notes. Who would suspect a composer who had lived abroad for most of the war? Frederic knew, though, that Ethan Paxton had a reputation as a hotheaded rebel. Like father, like son.
Ah, yes, Jason Paxton, your days are numbered, your game is up
.

Secluded in a corner of the park, Pall spent another hour rehearsing his lines—this time aloud—his heart thrilling to Shakespeare's relentless iambic pentameter. At three o'clock, pleased with his practice for the day, he left the park and headed for the Old Customs Exchange. He planned to surprise Embleton with an early visit. It was a pleasant afternoon indeed to collect his hundred pounds.

He was just about to walk through the front gates of the Exchange when he nerly bumped into Jason Paxton. Deftly, Pall turned his head and walked away. The actor was certain that Jason hadn't seen him, and even if he had, the wig and heavy makeup would have hidden Pall's identity. Grateful for avoiding what might have been a most unfortunate confrontation, Frederic made his way to the Dock Street Theater. Why was Paxton going to the Old Customs Exchange? To steal more information? It mattered not. By tomorrow morning, the major would be informed. For the time being, Pall decided to concentrate on tonight's performance. He would rehearse his lines for a third time. He knew he would be brilliant—brilliant in depicting this character, brilliant in earning his bounty. As he walked along Charleston's narrow alleyways and cobblestoned streets, in the silence of his mind he recited that single sliver of Shakespearean wisdom he cherished most: “All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts …”

At the moment that Jason walked through the gates of the Old Customs Exchange, his mind was on Frederic Pall and, more pointedly, the play,
All's Well That Ends Well
. After spending three hours at the pianoforte that morning—three frustrating hours when, in the light of political events, his music continued to seem less and less relevant—he took down a folio from Robin's vast library shelf and reread the play. The part of Parolles was nothing short of extraordinary, especially in light of yesterday's meeting with Pall. The character, a worthless companion to Bertram, the play's hero, was variously described as “a snipt-taffeta fellow,” “a red tail'd bumblebee,” and “a damnable both-sides rogue.” The more Jason read, the more concerned he became. He knew his negative reaction to the actor was more than mere jealousy. No, this man, like the character he portrayed, was rife with duplicity.

So great was Jason's concern that by mid-afternoon he was unable to sit still any longer. He would have to take action. He decided to visit Embleton to see for himself whether the major harbored suspicions about him. He understood the Englishman well enough to know that, whatever his military talents, the man was incapable of hiding his doubts. Jason would be able to tell in very short order whether the British command was aware of his secret rides.

He had no trouble gaining entrance. Embleton was in a jovial, expansive mood. He'd just received a report that the opposition had been relatively quiet in and around the city of Charleston. His campaign was working. With the certain capture of the Sandpiper, along with the impending arrest of the elusive Wisp, the two great romantic figures of the local rebel movement would be hanged publicly, thus crushing the very symbols of the Patriots' hope. No more broadsides, no more midnight raids.

“Paxton!” he said. “Why, you're just in time for a spot of afternoon tea. Or if you'd prefer sherry, I'll drink along with you, my good man.”

Prepared for a greeting of considerably less warmth, Jason accepted the offer of sherry and took a seat across from the major's wildly disorganized desk. He was careful not to snoop, as was his usual practice, and instead kept his eye on the bug-eyed officer himself for any signs of mistrust. Embleton poured them each a full glass of sherry, after which they lifted their glasses and toasted one another's good health.

“I've pleasant tidings,” Embleton said, placing his feet upon his desk and stuffing several small macaroons into his mouth. “I've been looking at maps, plans, and casualty counts all bloody day and can happily report that we're slaughtering these rebel beasts like pigs. 'Tis only a matter of time before resistance completely collapses. But enough thoughts of battle. It will do my heart good to speak to a true artist whose spirit soars above such worldly matters.”

Jason searched the Englishman's shining black eyes and friendly tone for a hint of sarcasm, but found none. “'Tis always a pleasure to converse with you, Major, though today I've come with an inquiry I hope you won't find troublesome.”