Paxton's War (42 page)

Jason paused at the end of the fifteen-minute opening section, breathed deeply—staring at the keyboard, maintaining his concentration against the invasion of a thousand thoughts—then began the next movement just as one of the Redcoats handed Embleton a rolled piece of parchment. Colleen underwent the terrifying experience of watching the major read her latest broadside—she recognized the paper—and enduring his gleam of satisfaction as he looked up at her, a sinister smile playing upon his lips.

“Would that there were words to this composition,” Buckley whispered to Colleen, letting her feel the tip of his tongue against her ear. “Perhaps you could set lyrics to Mr. Paxton's music.”

Colleen said nothing in reply.
Dear God
, she prayed silently,
give me courage; give me strength
.

“If you ask me,” Miranda said loudly, “it's not even music. It's barnyard clucking.”

If other members of the audience shared Miranda's opinion of the first movement, the second quickly won them over. It was here where Jason paid homage to his European training. In the tightly mannered structure of his phrasing, he reflected the courtly demeanor of old-world Europe. In a series of charming minuets, the influence of Haydn and Mozart was most apparent. In the delectably pleasing melodies, Piero could hear the sonorous echoes of the great Italian operatic masters. Jason had applied all the aesthetically satisfying symmetry of, say, a French formal garden to this section, and the audience—even the major himself—was not only charmed, but impressed with the musician's technical ability both as writer and performer. At the movement's end—a flourish of sixteenth notes rippling up and down the keyboard—there was even a smattering of spontaneous applause, though it was apparent that the piece was not yet complete.

Again, a brief pause, as Jason looked at Colleen, his eyes saying, “Be strong, my love.” Amazingly, he had the heart to go on.

Watching the exchange between her brother and Colleen, Joy couldn't help but turn around to seek out Peter's eyes. He nodded to her, as if to confirm Jason's sentiments.

The final movement was bizarre and dissonant. It began with a literal bang, and from then on Jason launched what sounded like a musical attack. His body jerked back and forth and his curls shook violently upon his head as he seemed to be expressing the turbulence of his homeland in war. The section was played in a radically minor mode, with no attempt to please the ear. As he stomped through the instrument's lower register, one could hear the thud of horses' hooves and the thunder of night. The rhythm was uneven, reminiscent of a frantic swamp chase. Colleen understood that this was the emerging spirit of Will-o'-the-Wisp. In fact, she detected a distinct anger at the music itself, as if Jason were expressing his frustration with mannered art in the face of life-and-death issues. Music, he was saying, was useless, ineffectual. If in the second movement he had charmed his audience with the soothing syncopations of a distinguished and mature civilization, he suddenly turned the tables.
Fortissimo
was the volume, unrelenting in its pace and improbable ear-splitting chords, one more grating than another. Guests turned to one another in puzzlement. “Rubbish,” said Miranda in a voice that traveled at least a dozen rows back. It wouldn't be proper under the circumstances, but many were on the verge of walking out. Still, Jason played on, running his thumb down the keyboard, banging his fists on a block of notes, doing virtual battle with the instrument.

Colleen understood, as did Peter, as did Piero and Robin. His hair wildly askew, his face beaded with sweat, his fingers beet-red, he was playing out his heart, his fears, and his determination. Louder the music grew, and louder still, until, at the very end of this firestorm of crashing notes, a simple single-line melody emerged like a sweet baby duck emerging from a devastating flood. It was “Yankee Doodle” that Jason played, much as a child would play it, and while he played, he hummed along. After striking the final, plaintive note, Jason lowered his head, which all the while had been filled with desperate schemes to escape this trap. He had thought of nothing. He was prepared to die the death of a rebel—with dignity and defiance to the end—but he was still not prepared to watch Colleen die beside him.

Embleton slowly arose from his chair and, with Jason still seated on the bench before the pianoforte—the bewildered audience could offer him only the most meager applause at the end of his performance—the major cleared his throat.

“I have in my hand,” he said, “another original composition that I'm also pleased to present to you for the first time. Much shorter than Mr. Paxton's work, it expresses some of the same bold sentiments. You'll be gratified to know that its distinguished author is with us tonight.”

Holding the parchment in front of him, the officer read with a mock heroic tone:

The summer of 1780, so bloodstained and long—

Finds Fishing Creek and Camden in foreign hands.

Yet in the hearts of fighters for truth

These months are but grains of shifting sand.

Our will is steady, our resolution strong,

And like the sun rising o'er the swampy mist

Freedom will shine on this American soil,

Tilled by the spirit of our Will-o'-the-Wisp.

“The signature,” Embleton continued, switching to his normal voice, “is marked ‘The Sandpiper,' a name with which we're all quite familiar.”

The major walked over toward Colleen and stared at her intensely. “Yes,” he said. “Our poetess, no less gifted than the fabled Sappho herself, has kindly accepted the Crown's invitation to be here tonight. I welcome this opportunity, Miss McClagan, to publicly acknowledge your cultural contributions.”

There was a gasp from the audience. The friends desperately searched their minds for a course of action, but each of them—Colleen, Joy, Rianne, Robin, Piero, Peter, Jason—felt maddeningly impotent. Buckley beamed, relishing the moment. Joy's head reeled with shock and confusion. Peter felt as if his pounding heart would burst through his chest. The guards against the wall took several steps forward. A side door opened and the dozen soldiers who had been stationed outside suddenly marched in and lined up against the front wall, behind the pianoforte.

“Indeed, this is a double pleasure,” Embleton continued, “for not only do we have the Sandpiper in our midst, but her illusive friend as well, for, you see, her romantic counterpart in this city's seditious activities for the past several months has been none other than … our distinguished composer … Mr. Jason Paxton, who prefers to call himself Will-o'-the-Wisp.”

The audience of British officers and Loyalists couldn't be contained. They bolted from their chairs, pointing to Colleen and Jason, whose composition had just brought them such displeasure.

“Traitors!” they shouted.

“Rebel scum!”

“Spies!”

“Hang 'em!” Buckley Somerset screamed.

“Tonight! We'll see them dead this very night!” his mother joined in.

The major calmly lifted his hand. “Please, please. I under stand your vexation and share it entirely. But as I promised you earlier, the evening's entertainment is only half over. You see, for weeks I've known about these two. I've let them have their fun so that we might learn as much about their devilish plans as possible. Patiently—oh, so patiently—I've set this little trap so that everyone in this fair city can see for himself the result of these brilliant rebel schemes. Even as I speak, my men are rousing the citizenry of Charles Town to congregate in front of the Old Customs Exchange, where gallows have already been constructed.…”

A lusty cheer went up, Miranda standing and waving both her hands, shouting, “Yes, yes, I knew it all along! To the gallows! To the gallows!”

The rest of the gathering joined in, having metamorphized from a polite audience to a bloodthirsty mob.

“These gallows will accommodate not only our poetess and musician, but his entire crew of assistants—Miss Rianne McClagan”—Embleton sternly pointed to each one—“Miss Joy Exceeding Paxton, and the honorable Piero Sebastiano Ponti and Robin Courtenay. Now that the musical party is over, you're each invited to a hanging party. In the name of King George the Third, we will march together and see to it that our devious Sandpiper and her vile Will-o'-the-Wisp meet the end they so richly deserve.”

With that, the major put his hand inside the crook of Jason's elbow and jerked him up from the bench. With his other hand, he did the same to Colleen as he prepared to lead them both to certain death.

Chapter 12

Two hours had passed when Ethan decided it was safe to come out of hiding. It had been a long while since he'd heard the sound of the raiding Tories, though the crackle and smell of burning wood hadn't died.

“Are you all right?” he cautiously whispered to Roy.

“A little weak, but still breathing.”

He took the physician by the arm and led him back up the stairs, opening the trapdoor. The sight made Ethan sick to his stomach. He fought back an urge to vomit. Beams had fallen, walls had collapsed, windows were smashed, and furniture lay in mere piles of ash. Slowly, Paxton and McClagan walked along what had been the hallway. Ethan swallowed hard, reflecting how he'd built this now useless structure with his own hands. Outside, the corpses of his people—his helpers, his servants, his friends—were strewn about like so much refuse.

“I can't leave them here,” Ethan said, standing in front of his house, smoke rising around him, the night misty and humid, the foul stench of human flesh and burned particles of every sort floating upon the polluted air.

“I'll help you bury them,” Roy said in a whisper.

Paxton found an old shovel in a shed out back. Despite the doctor's offer to assist, Ethan dug the half dozen graves himself. He allowed McClagan to help him dump in the bodies. When Ethan was through covering them with dirt, Roy said a prayer.

“Dear God Almighty, we know Your ways are beyond human comprehension. We know the suffering we see has purpose and meaning we cannot hope to understand. We beseech Thee for patience, Heavenly Father. If our faith is weakened, strengthen our resolve. If we are afraid, assuage our fears, as we lay these, Your children, to rest. In the name of our Savior, Christ Jesus, Amen.”

In acknowledgment of his sentiments, Ethan placed his hand upon Roy's shoulder.

“What now?” asked the doctor.

“We should try to get to your place. They've slaughtered my animals, but somewhere in Brandborough I'll find us a horse, even if I have to steal one.”

Roy nodded in agreement.

Creeping along Brandborough's dirt streets, ducking into alleys and crawling behind the backs of low-level buildings, the men saw that every rebel home in the city had been burned. It was midnight before Ethan was able to gain entrance quietly to the stable of a Tory banker and sneak out his prized gray stallion. Bareback, with Roy's arms around Ethan's waist, the two men rode out of Brandborough in the dead of night, avoiding the coastal road and heading through the swamps. They were halfway to the McClagan farm, a mile and a half away, when they saw the red night sky. Roy knew. The closer they came, the brighter the light—the fearful yellow and orange glow, the radiant flames. Out of the swamps, into a clearing, Ethan brought the horse to a halt. From the bottom of the hill, with the sound of dark ocean waves rolling to the shore from the east—they were but a quarter of a mile from sea—their view was uncluttered: dozens of Tories setting the McClagan house afire with burning torches, dancing flames everywhere, the deep-throated boom of musket fire piercing the air.

“Before we march with you to the Old Customs Exchange”—Buckley suddenly stood and began to speak, his ego bruised for not being recognized before by Embleton—“as commander of the Continental Tory Militia, I want to announce that while these infamous rebels are being dealt with in the city of Charles Town, in my own territory, on this very evening, I have seen to it that these two renegades' fathers—themselves traitors to the king—have met the same end that faces their children.”

Joy gasped. Rianne, rife with rage and grief, went to Colleen's side. Jason brought up his elbow in an attempt to free himself of Embleton's grasp, but the major squeezed harder, shouting, “Guards, put this row of people under arrest!”

“You do, and you'll be sentenced for treason along with Embleton!” Captain Peter Tregoning spoke up in a voice ringing with assurance and clarity. From the foyer, he had walked down the aisle and stopped in front Embleton, Colleen, and Jason.

For a moment, the soldiers froze.

“Arrest this man as well,” Embleton ordered as he pointed to Peter.

“This whole affair is a hoax,” the captain explained to the astounded audience. “Just as it's now widely known that the American officer Benedict Arnold has sold his secrets to our army, so has Major Randall Embleton been working for the rebels. This evening's extravaganza is but a clever ploy to conceal this man's vile treachery.”

“What!… why …” Embleton tried to interrupt, but Peter carried on.

“Yes,” he said, pointing right between the major's eyes, “he knows the identity of Will-o'-the-Wisp—in fact, he has worked hand in hand with him. You officers have seen him there, time and again, conferring in Embleton's office in the Old Customs Exchange. You, Buckley Somerset—you're the secret rebel. And your mother—she's the one who's been writing those slanderous verses. You've paid the major hundreds of pounds; you've promised him a plantation of his own after the war. Shame, I say! What nonsense to lay the blame on a mere musician and schoolgirl. What a sham! General Cornwallis himself instructed me to follow Embleton's every move, knowing the man for what he is. In fact, the general and his men were to have been here by now to make the arrest themselves, but apparently they've been delayed. Therefore, in the name of justice, I must make the arrest myself. Fellow officers, fellow soldiers, fellow servants of the king, arrest this traitor before he escapes into the night like a common thief!”