Paxton's War (43 page)

“You'll hang with your friend Paxton, Tregoning,” the major sneered.

“To the gallows!” Miranda screamed.

“Now!” Buckley insisted, sensing a confusion among the soldiers.

The guards did not move until Embleton gave the order again. “Arrest Tregoning!”

The soldiers hesitated. The group of officers who had been seated in the second row were standing. At first, Peter's argument seemed ridiculous to them, but so did the entire evening. A musician, who in reality was a spy, performing under the sponsorship of the major before his identity was revealed? It was all wildly unorthodox, especially contrary to the British sense of logic and order. Embleton's biting sarcasm and superior demeanor had made him a favorite with no one, but a traitor? Hardly. And why should they believe Tregoning?

“Yes,” said one of officers, backing up Embleton, “arrest Tregoning.”

Peter knew his options had run out. In a flash, he reached beneath his blouse and brought forth a pistol, already loaded and cocked, holding it inches from the major's head.

“Call them off, Embleton,” he said coldly, “or so help me God, you'll hear no more music on this earth.”

The major was forced to balance the fear of death with the fury of seeing his plans disintegrating before his eyes. “You wouldn't,” he said to Tregoning. “You're an officer of the Crown … you're …”

“Quick, Jason,” Peter said, holding the pistol steadily against the skin of Embleton's temple. “Get them all out of here. Hurry!”

Colleen and Jason broke free of Embleton's grasp as they, Rianne, Joy, Robin, and Piero turned and began to run up the center aisle. Seeing what was happening, Buckley Somerset lost control. He reached out to grab Jason, calling for Windrow and Simkins. “Jack! Sam! Shoot 'em! Shoot 'em all!”

More confused than ever, the soldiers made a move toward Peter, who saw he no longer had any choice. He squeezed the trigger.

An ear-splitting explosion. A groan. The major crumbled. Blood splattered everywhere—on Miranda's gown, in Rianne's eyes, on Colleen's blouse. Screams. Pieces of flesh, sections of ear, hair, brain matter, bone, and cartilage. Embleton's all-white uniform was stained with huge blotches of dark, dripping red. The horror of witnessing the head of their commanding officer blown to smithereens paralyzed the soldiers and officers—at least for a second. In that second, Jason decided on another escape route, leading his people into the garden. As they ran, pandemonium broke loose. From the foyer, Sam Simkins took out a gun, loaded it, and was ready to fire on the escaping band when Billy Hollcork plunged a knife into his heart. Simkins fell, gasping his last breaths. Seeing what had happened, Jack Windrow turned on the tanner with a knife of his own, but Billy was too fast for him, cutting him in the muscle of his left arm. Writhing in pain, the albino fell into his dead colleague's pool of fresh blood. Hollcork stormed down the aisle as he saw a group of soldiers, along with Buckley, pursuing the fugitives into the garden. Suddenly from the rear of the foyer, one-eyed Jeth Darney announced his arrival with a bloodcurling “Yoooeeeeeeeeee!”

A gun in each hand, he opened his coat to expose a holster that extended from his left shoulder to his right hip and housed another half dozen pistols. “All right, you rebels!” he shouted behind him to an imaginary band of men. “Start shooting and aim straight! Make those Red-coated hearts bleed, for Christ's sake!”

With both guns blazing, Darney shot an officer in the eye and another guard in the gut, all the while looking for Frederic Pall, who had managed to slip away. Jeth's call to his make-believe comrades had the Redcoats taking cover. An army of extreme discipline, the English military reacted poorly to chaotic situations. This makeshift mayhem had them baffled. Miranda grabbed Buckley and forced him down under a seat, afraid there'd be shots from the rear. Thinking that in this instance Mother did indeed know best, he crouched down next to her. In the meantime, Billy had reached the others in the garden, where he and Jason climbed atop the short wall and helped everyone over onto the street. Rianne's petticoat got caught on a brick and ripped. Piero's supply of snuff fell from his waistcoat. Darney and Peter kept the rest of the room at bay.

“Go with them,” Tregoning ordered Jeth, amazed to find himself fighting on the side of a pirate. “They'll need you.”

Jeth did so, dashing into the garden and leaping over the wall, still looking for Pall. Oh, how he wanted that man's neck! By then Hollcork had run after his wagon and brought it back to the street side of the wall. Lifting them as if they were sacks of potatoes, he practically threw Rianne, Joy, Colleen, Robin, and Piero into the rig supported by two large wheels and driven by Billy's two trusty duns.

“Hurry, Jase!” Colleen cried, squeezed between her aunt and his sister.

“Peter! Tell Peter to come!” Joy begged her brother.

“Go with them, Darney,” Jason ordered. “They'll need you.”

“What about you?” Jeth asked as he joined Billy on the riding board behind the horses.

Still standing atop the brick wall, Jason glanced back into the room where the soldiers had positioned themselves behind the pianoforte, beneath furniture, aiming their muskets at nonexistent rebels. “Come on, Peter!” he shouted.

Seeing that Jason had safely gotten everyone over the wall, Peter headed for the garden just as the white flame of gunfire chipped his right ankle. He fell. Before the attacking soldier could reload and shoot again, though, Jason took a knife Jeth had slipped him and, even from that great distance—through the open doors of the gardens into the parlor—threw the blade with dead accuracy, piercing the Redcoat's Adam's apple.

In a split-second, Jason had to decide whether to leap over the wall and escape with Colleen and the others, or to go back for Peter.

“Go on!” Jason shouted to Billy and Jeth as he spotted another group of soldiers running down the street toward the wagon. “You can't wait any longer! Go now!”

“No, Jase … not without you!” Colleen cried.

“Peter … where's Peter?” Joy wept.

Seeing the Redcoats, Billy let his horses feel the reigns against their broad backs. “Whoa!” he yelled, but not before Jeth, who had been reloading his weapons while his good eye continued to search for Frederic Pall, threw Jason two ready-to-fire pistols.

Jason took one last glance at Colleen standing in the wagon, her arm extended toward him, as she was surrounded by her aunt, his sister, and his patrons. With Darney and Hollcork riding up front, they vanished into the night. Would he ever see his friends or his Colleen alive again? With no time to reflect, Jason leaped from the wall and was back in the parlor, his eyes darting everywhere, the cocked guns held out in front of him. As the sound of Darney's gunfire rang from the street, the Redcoats, with the mangled corpse of their leader in plain view, still imagined themselves under seige. The non-military guests scurried for cover, screaming bloody murder. Jason reached Peter and grabbed him around the waist, dragging him toward the foyer while shooting the musket out of the hands of a Redcoat who was prepared to fire from under a portrait of King George III. Hoisting Peter upon his back, stooped over, dodging bullets, his blazing pistols clearing a path to the front door, Jason was somehow able to escape the confused melee.

Outside the chaos was perhaps even more intense. Even during the recital itself, interested citizens had gathered by the front door to catch the music as it wafted through the open windows. Once the gunfire erupted, though, hundreds of people had appeared, taking cover behind horses and houses. With the hysterical guests and baffled soldiers streaming out the door of the late major's residence, no one knew who was who. With Peter still on his back, Jason was able to locate Robin and Piero's carriage, though the driver had run off. He placed his English friend inside.

“'Tis madness, Jason. This whole bloody business is madness,” Peter said as his ankle throbbed with pain.

“You were magnificent,” Jason replied, his eyes filled with admiration. “Give me a little time to get out of here and I'll see to your wound. You've the courage of a lion.”

“Wouldn't you think it'd be a good idea to exchange clothing?” Peter asked.

“Yes, let's do it in a hurry.”

Undressing in such close quarters was tricky—bringing Peter's trousers over his swollen ankle was especially difficult—but they were able trade outfits. In the uniform of an English captain, Jason leaped onto the wooden board from which he drove the two horses through the back roads of a city where, in taverns and homes alike, word of Embleton's assassination and the revelation of the Sandpiper and Will-o'-the-Wisp spread like wildfire, exciting the rebels into a revelry of amazement and hope.

Chapter 13

In the tiny dressing room of the Dock Street Theater, Frederic Pall adjusted the petticoats, gown, and great gray wig atop his head. He checked his purse; the twenty pounds was there. He whitened his clean-shaven face with powder and applied a goodly quantity of rouge to his cheeks and artificial coloring to his lips. The long sleeves and frilly high-neck blouse covered his hairy arms and chest. With his makeup freshly applied and his bodice stuffed with crumpled advertisements for future theater productions, Pall took his leave. As he walked through the streets, his outfit afforded him a measure of comfort and security, even given the fact that citizens, still unsure of what had happened on this wild night, were milling about, nervously exchanging gossip and news.

The fact that during the melee outside the theater he had killed a woman by plunging an ice pick through her heart bothered Pall not in the least. In urgent need of another disguise, he had covered her mouth with his hand, dragged her back into an alley, murdered her, put her clothes over his own, and easily made his escape as he noticed Jeth Darney and Billy Hollcork riding away with a cartload of important personages. Such observations, he understood, were of inestimable value. He congratulated himself for having the presence of mind to stay close to Embleton's house, for just a few moments later he wondered what an English captain would be doing riding atop—and not inside—a gentleman's carriage. Given the circumstances of the evening, everyone else was far too agitated to notice. But as a master of subterfuge, it didn't take Pall more than a second to recognize the musician's face under the British tricorn, just as the actor also caught sight of Peter inside the carriage.

Having observed the recital from a secluded position in the entryway behind a large palmetto plant, Frederic was intrigued by this man who had betrayed his country. Betrayal was something Pall understood. He admired Tregoning's tactic—the impassioned speech and accusation of Embleton and Buckley had been a neatly improvised trick. But what were the man's motives? Certainly not money. The rebels were as poor as church mice. They hadn't an extra shilling to pay truly professional spies—at least Frederic hadn't been able to get a cent out of them. No, this Englishman's sentiments lay elsewhere, in the area of pure sentiment. Such a notion seemed not only silly to Pall, but disturbing as well. There was something about this entire rebel gang—the musician, the silly girl, the aunt, the English captain, the two fops—that Frederic found repugnant. Their self-righteousness was despicably cloying. He wanted to see the whole lot of them dead.

With the certain knowledge that his talents were undoubtedly worth more than ever, Pall sashayed his way to the Old Customs Exchange, relishing his feminine role. The actor recalled that the middle-aged woman to whom these fragrant clothes had belonged wasn't especially attractive, but at least she had superb taste in perfume. Attaining French cologne during times such as these was no easy task, and Pall appreciated her efforts.

It took him a while to gain entrance into the Old Customs Exchange, but with a series of hysterical shrills and shouts about how “she” had information about the escaped rebels, Pall was finally admitted into the building and then forced his way into the office that had belonged to Embleton.

As expected, Buckley Somerset was there, accompanied by Jack Windrow; his arm had been bandaged and he had changed out of his blood-soaked clothes. Also present was a group of high-ranking English officers, all hovered over a map illuminated by two long candles. Miranda sat in the corner, compulsively playing with the ribbons on her wig. It was nearly midnight.

“Who allowed this woman in here?” Buckley snapped.

“Well, sir,” explained the aide who had shown Pall inside, “she insists that she …”

Miranda suddenly arose from her chair and pointed a finger at Frederic.“'Tis no woman. There's a man beneath that gown. Take heed, Buckley! He's here to harm you!”

Somerset quickly drew his sword, but Frederic just as quickly doffed his wig and shook loose his hair. “‘And yet, believe me, good as well as ill,'” the actor recited in an hypnotically singsong voice, “‘woman's at best a contradiction still.'”

“Pall?” Buckley asked suspiciously.

“Alexander Pope,” Frederic replied, nodding his head toward Miranda, “from his illuminating
Moral Essays
.”

“This is the man,” Somerset explained to the British officers, “who gave Randy and myself the information about Paxton and McClagan.”

“Yes, of course,” said one of the Englishmen, lifting his eyebrow, “the infamous Frederic Pall. He's been selling us information here in the South for the past two years.”

“For sums, I might remind you,” the actor added, “far below true market worth. Such, though, is the price of loyalty.”

“What are you doing dressed as a woman?” asked Buckley, whose fierce gun-metal-gray eyes appeared crazed with frustrated energy.

“Many are the disguises of the Loyalist and thespian,” he explained. “Moving around this troubled city grows more perilous hour by hour.”