Paxton's War (4 page)

The friendship had ripened with each passing day. Peter stood in awe of Jason's talent: Jason was Peter's apt pupil in the ways of a society new to him. Together often, their favorite hours were those they shared strolling along the Thames. On one such stroll, on the day after Jason had conducted his concerto for two violins at the Court of St. James—astoundingly, the king had stayed awake for the entire performance—Peter had seemed disturbed. “Doesn't it bother you at all,” he'd finally blurted out, “that your father can't be here to witness your success?”

Jason had laughed. “Father? My God, no. He's the last one I'd want here. The very notion that I'd conducted before the English monarch would appall him.”

“But he's the king!”

“You have to understand,” Jason had said gently. “My grandmother was a pirate—an incredible woman who any one of three kings tried, in vain, to hang. My grandfather, her husband, and for whom I was named, was a renegade Scottish nobleman who was outlawed and whose properties were confiscated by a king. With a father and mother like that, you can understand why my father doesn't hold much with kings.”

“But what's that have to do with music?”

“Your brother manages your family's estates and is a member of Parliament. What would your father have said if Charles had given up all that for music?” Jason had asked in return.

It was Peter's turn to laugh. “He wouldn't have said anything,” he chuckled. “He'd've either choked Charles—or choked on his own bile.”

The chimes of St. Paul's rang out over the London landscape. “Father enjoy's music,” Jason had gone on in the relative silence that followed, “but he considers my talent somewhat of a curse. Music might be tolerated as an avocation, but when it interferes with work, he becomes furious. Of more importance are cotton and tobacco—and shipbuilding these past few years. He's a businessman, you see, and Paxton business—and profits—comes before all else.”

“I've noticed that the colonists tend to be a wee bit tight-fisted when it comes to money,” Peter had replied dryly.

“That's not the point. Father feels that our holdings have been earned through the sweat of our brows, and must be protected. Against everyone, including kings.”

“I'll drink to that,” Jason had replied, just as relieved as his friend to quit the subject. “And the one best able to walk a straight line two hours from now pays for dinner after next Sunday's hunt.”

For all the satisfaction that their friendship brought, however, the sticky issue of politics and the American revolt could not be avoided entirely. One winter night, shortly after they'd met, Jason seemed unusually glum.

“You're acting distracted, old chap,” Peter had said, pulling up his collar against a freezing wind that nipped at his ears. “Something bothering you?”

“A letter from Father. This time he's irritated about the corn.”

“The corn?” Peter had asked, not understanding.

“Aye. They had a wet fall, there was mildew, and they didn't get the crop in on time. It's my fault, of course, since I wasn't there to help.”

Incredulous, Peter had stopped short. “Surely, old boy, you don't actually work in the fields yourself.”

“But of course I do. Or did,” Jason had said.

The very thought was appalling for one of an aristocractic family, and Peter said so. “I should've thought he'd have simply gone out and bought another slave or two. Surely—”

“Slave?” Jason had snapped with surprising anger. “No Paxton has
ever
owned another human being.”

“I only thought—”

“It's the freedom of the colored people who work our lands that enables us to compete so successfully. Free men work harder—that's one of the Paxton creeds.”

“So you're a proud Paxton, after all,” Peter had said, stepping back to regard this new aspect of his friend.

“I'm proud of the accomplishments of my forebears, if that's what you mean. I'm equally proud of our colony. You'd like Brandborough, Peter, and you'd be impressed with the cultural life of Charleston.”

“Charleston or Charles Town?” Peter had asked. “I was under the impression that the city was named for one of our illustrious sovereigns.”

“And so it was. But the locals pronounce it Charleston nonetheless.”

“Locals?” Peter had inquired with a raised eyebrow. “Or rebels?”

“Names change, Peter. Just like everything else.”

In the months that followed, though there were differences of opinion, the friendship grew. Jason studied hard, learned his way around the music world of London, and increased his reputation. Peter's father, under pressure from the crown, bought him a captaincy and outfitted a company for him to lead. Both men enjoyed the hunt, and they were superb riders and marksmen. Both, in the manner of their time for gentlemen, were avid readers and conversationalists, and they educated themselves in a wide range of disciplines. Each learned to respect, as well as like, the other. And when, after Jason's return from Italy, they learned that they were to sail on the same ship, both were intrigued as well as delighted: Peter because he had seen Jason live and work as a foreigner in England, and was curious to see what would become of his friend once he returned to his native soil; and Jason for exactly the opposite reasons.

Excitement rippled through the ship as the call came from the masthead, and a quarter-hour later America became a thin line of blue-green on the horizon. Word was sent below to Peter's men to prepare to disembark. Sailors rushed about polishing brightwork and greasing the anchor chair and capstan. Alert, the pungent smell of salt water assaulting their senses and the sea's fine spray refreshing them with a cool, pleasant mist, Jason and Peter stood at the rail and stared hungrily at the growing line of land.

“A hot day ashore,” Jason said finally, breaking the hypnotic melody that he couldn't get out of his mind. “Not too muggy, though, I shouldn't think.”

“Mosquitoes?” Peter asked, having heard too many exaggerated stories about the American variety.

“Shouldn't be too bad during the day, as long as the shore breeze keeps them in the swamps. Tonight, though …” Jason shrugged. “Who knows? You'd best be ready to sleep under your netting.”

The conversation seemed inane to both, but perfectly suited to relieve the growing tension that gripped them. “An American song, I gather?” Peter commented waspishly, tiring of it.

“I suppose so.”

“Based, of course, on your long-standing conviction that there really is some musical tradition in your homeland.”

The best of friends could argue when nerves were strung too tightly. “Why you insist on maintaining this skepticism, I'll never know, Peter. We'll see it shattered soon enough, though, mark my word. Tomorrow I'll take you on a tour of Brandborough, where you'll hear flower vendors selling their wares with charming songs. On the plantations, you'll hear workers sing of their toil and sorrow with—”

“Must I hear again your veneration of the musical genius of the American coloreds? Spare me, please, the—”

“All I ask is that you accompany me through the fields just once. When you hear those extraordinarily talented people sing, you'll understand that God has blessed them with a gift—”

“Really, Jase—”

“A gift that even the greatest European musician would envy. They sing neither from scores nor notations, but from the depths of their souls.”

Peter shook his head. “The same old argument. You've come home to write American music, to move out of the shadow of Vivaldi and recast yourself as native son! And I still say balderdash!”

“Say what you will,” Jason countered. “You'll know what I mean about missing things after you've been away from home for a couple of years. With me, it's music—the music I heard as a boy—the spicy rhythms, the bawdy ballads, the enchanting songs sung by the Irish and French and Dutch.”

“You're the only person I know who stoops to exalt a hodgepodge,” Peter said with a derisive snort.

“As music, and as a country, yes. You might say that America is a hodgepodge, but a delicious one at that.”

“A country? Please, Jase. I wish you'd get it right for once. A collection of British colonies.”

“Call us what you will. Our music is primitive, I'll grant you. But it has a fascination and beauty all its own.”

“Damn it, Jase! You're infuriating. You've the heart and soul of a European, and a cultivated European at that. You said so yourself. The Viennese swore you were born in Vienna, and the Italians were convinced you were one of their own.”

“When I write, I tend to take on the artistic characteristics of my surroundings. That seems perfectly natural.”

“You can explain it any way you see fit, but I doubt very much that you'll abandon the musical culture of Europe. Not for a minute.”

“You do, eh?” Jason snapped, his homecoming forgotten in the heat of the moment. “Well, perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Peter said, equally miffed. “And now if you'll excuse me,” he added, spinning on his heels and stalking away, “I have a great deal to do before we land.”

Not perhaps, Jason thought, dejectedly turning back to the rail and staring down into the water. Deception was difficult for one who'd made honesty a point of personal honor. His anguish had begun one night in Emilia, shortly after his arrival there. The night was balmy, with a soft breeze wafting the scent of flowers to him through the open window, and it had reminded him of home. As his fingers wandered over the keys, he realized he was playing the songs of his childhood and of his native land, and suddenly he was filled with a great sadness, out of which had grown a determination, in the months that followed, that he could no longer sit idly by. Sooner or later, he had to return, and do his part in the struggle to bring freedom to America.
What
, however, had taken him many months more to determine: not until two weeks earlier had he known. As usual he and Peter had been dining with the ship's captain, Henley Boswell, and, as usual he had been forced to be a deft diplomat when the conversation had turned to politics. That night, however, whether because the captain had consumed a large quantity of plum brandy, or perhaps because of the suspicion he bore of all native-born colonists, he dropped a shocker.

“Pardon me for saying this, Paxton, but wouldn't you just make the perfect spy for the bloody Patriots?” he ruminated as he drew on a long cigar. “With all your aristocratic British friends, with this image you choose to cultivate of yourself as an artist above the political fray, you've invented the perfect camouflage. Who'd ever suspect Jason Paxton, composer
extraordinaire
, as a fiendish worker for the revolution?”

The perfect camouflage. A fiendish worker for the revolution
. That was it! But how? His heart racing wildly, a great exultation filling his very being, he'd smiled as he leaned forward to replenish his glass. “No one but you, Captain,” he'd drawled, even then aware that he'd have to be very, very careful around Peter. “And even you, if you think about it, have no more reason to suspect my motives than my fugues.”

It had been an awkward moment, but he'd gotten through it well, and Peter had had the good grace never to mention it. The suggestion was there, though, and grew as an acorn grows into a great oak. Whatever form his actions took, the broad outline was clearly set in his mind. Even if it meant deceiving his best friend, he would fight for freedom.

Freedom for my country, for the land and people I love
.

Love? The lilting song grew within him, the love song which, despite the hundreds of thoughts tumbling chaotically through his mind, sang so seductively to, and in, his heart.

And with every minute, the land, and home, came closer.

Chapter 3

“'Bout time ya git out of that bath 'fore ya turn into a prune, Miss Colleen.”

Portia's voice shocked Colleen from her reverie, in which she'd floated off and washed herself in a dream of memories, reliving that farewell kiss that had stretched from a few seconds to a few years. How long could such kisses last? How long could a dream endure?

The water was decidedly cool; the sun had crept far enough across the sky to slant through the lower corner of the single ventilation window high in the wall. Colleen stepped from the tub into the waiting sun-warmed towels Portia had prepared. She put on a long, comforting robe of green satin, a Christmas gift from Rianne, and walked to the east side of the house, where she stole another glimpse of the shimmering sea. The ship was still there, much, much closer. As she stood and stared, shivering slightly in the cool sea breeze, she heard the song, and though she wanted to stay, to look and listen, she turned away and hurried to the house.

When she opened her bedroom door, her father, his eyes filled with rage, was waiting for her. In his hands was her copy of
Common Sense
—and Jason's letter.

“How dare you?” Colleen flared, instinctively taking the offensive. “Not even a father has the right to rummage through a woman's private possessions.”

“Private!” His voice quivered with anger, pain, and shock. His eyes were red, his hands shook. “This
Common Sense
is the most public nonsense I've ever laid eyes upon! It's rubbish, I say. My sister and her scatterbrained ideas be damned, but you, you'll have none of this, do you hear? None of this!” he swore, ripping the book and the letter with one quick movement.

Colleen ran to collect the torn papers from the floor. “You have no right!” she cried, tears springing from her eyes. “No right at all!”

“In heaven's name, daughter, can't you see that you're endangering our very lives? This is no childish game, as your aunt would have you believe. This is war, child. Have I not told you often enough of the Battle of Cullodeen? Need I paint more pictures of the maiming and murdering? The English think themselves cultivated gentlemen, but I've seen them on the field of war and they're animals, raving beasts without mercy or sense. When it's territory they want, no barbarian has ever slaughtered with more vengeance. And this is their territory, lass. They wanted Charles Town, and, by God, they took Charles Town. Wasn't that enough to convince you and that daft aunt of yours? They'll keep these colonies, and there's nothing we can do, nothing we should do, to stop them. Try and we'll be trampled like helpless kittens.”