Paxton's War (47 page)

“Let's not enrage ourselves with thoughts of what
might
have happened,” said the musician, who saw a mental picture of Colleen. “Having seen Jeth Darney and Rianne's tanner in action, we've at least some reason to hope that they all may have escaped. These are strong women, Peter, stronger than I had ever imagined. Were it not for Colleen, I would never have found the strength this summer to do what I've done. My manly pride prevented me from saying that to her, but now that she's gone, I know it for a fact: she was my inspiration. She showed me the path to courage. It was Colleen, Peter, my sweet Colleen, who led the way.”

For several long minutes, the men remained silent, the images of their loves filling their minds and hearts.

Finally, Peter declared, “Well, we'd better stop daydreaming, my friend, and move forward. There's no looking back. But tell me, Jase—those rebels we met on the road yesterday … did you trust them? Did you believe what they said?”

“They had no reason to deceive us. They seemed sincere, and, besides, this news confirmed what you'd been hearing around the Old Customs Exchange. I'd be surprised if Jeth and Billy didn't have the same information. We need to head northwest, toward the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina. Even if we weren't being pursued by Somerset, we'd follow the same course. Darney must be thinking like us. It's a simple matter of survival. The strongest rebel force in these parts—perhaps the last rebel force with any hope to resist the Tories—are the mountain men. They're intimidated by no one, and they will not be chased from their homes without a bloody battle, the likes of which neither of us can truly imagine. For Major Patrick Ferguson, operating under Cornwallis, is no coward. He'll do his best to destroy them.”

“Strange Scotsman that he is,” Peter said. “I met him once in Charleston two months back. An angry man, to put it mildly. Angry that his rapid-fire rifle has never been accepted by the Crown's military command, and angry that he still hasn't made his name. Ambition seemed to race through his nervous body like a raging fever. Recently other officers have told me that he resents safeguarding Cornwallis's flank while the general remains in Charlotte. Not only that, but he's not overjoyed with the command of a Loyalist militia. 'Tis a commission more suitable for a Tory like Buckley Somerset, not an English officer. Still, Ferguson's a servant of the king, and he'll fight like a man possessed. With a thousand or so greencoats at his disposal, he'll be ruthless, knowing that to destroy the last remnants of resistance in the South is to demonstrate to these Patriots once and for all that the Crown is invincible. I know men of his ilk. In his mind, he sees that under his personal charge this entire war might be won …”

“… or lost,” Jason added.

“Either way, if my memory serves me well, we've some one hundred fifty miles to travel before reaching those mountains.”

“Slightly more. It won't be an easy trip.”

“I imagine you know the route, Jase.”

“You've studied the maps and know it as well as I. There's but one sensible way. We'll follow the rivers. The Congaree will lead to the Broad, which flows to the foot of the great mountains. Let's ride!” Jason shouted, striking the horses into action as, with one last forlorn sigh, he allowed his eye to roam over the extraordinary land that had so touched the heart of his father, his sisters, and himself.

With Miranda riding on his right and Jack Windrow and Frederic Pall on his left, Buckley Somerset, in a custom-made forest-green uniform, his polished black boots reflecting a gray overcast sky, led a cavalry of two dozen crack Tory soldiers out of Solitary. As expected, he had found no one there, was unable to pick up a trail, and thus began heading northwest. He suspected that the fugitives would follow the rivers to the border and try to hide among the rebels in the hills. He'd catch them; he knew he would. In his mind, he was convinced of his force's invincibility. The price of victory no longer mattered. He'd put up with anything to catch Paxton and the girl—even Pall's daily ransom of twenty pounds, even his mother's constant harassment. Informing his soldiers that their swift pace would allow little time to rest, he paid them inflated salaries in addition to what they'd normally receive as militiamen, and he promised them bonuses if the culprits were caught. “There's to be no discussion, no questions, no mercy. If you spot any of them”—he had described each member of the rebel band in exact detail—“shoot on sight. For the man who brings me the corpses of Colleen McClagan and Jason Paxton, there's an extra forty pounds on each head.”

The vast sums of money astounded the men. Bounties of such proportions were unheard of, but Buckley was determined to motivate his men by any means possible. He was beyond caring that this foray was taking a decidedly personal turn. He'd chase this band of rebels into the flaming gates of hell if need be. The men themselves could see in Somerset's eyes the gleam of a man possessed. His front-line riding companions were bizarre—his mother, the albino, the quixotic actor—but all was tolerated in the interest of money. As they stormed out of Solitary, the hooves of their horses raising a great cloud of dust, the image of the mutilated bodies of Colleen and Jason never left Buckley's mind. He wanted them dead, all right, although the idea of slowly torturing them haunted Buckley's imagination like an endless dream.

She was pregnant and in the throes of her final contractions, alone in the green fields of Solitary under a sunless sky, screaming and frightened, with armies attacking from all sides, when she awoke. In the dream, Jason had been by her side. She still felt the strength of his loving presence as she slowly opened her eyes, relieved that the armies had been imagined, but dismayed that Jason no longer held her in his arms.

How long had Colleen been asleep as the wagon rattled on, bouncing and shaking, the dust from the road in her face and mouth? Robin and Piero were seated on the floor of the wagon, their cotton robes covering their legs and feet. Seated next to them was Rianne, looking out over the passing river, with the head of a sleeping Joy nestled in her lap. Up front, on the riding board, were Roy, Jeth, and Billy. Ethan Paxton, his eyes searching in every direction, listening for every sound coming from the woods, rode his stolen horse alongside them.

Squeezed in a corner of the wagon, Colleen remembered her dream and felt her stomach. For four days, ever since the arduous trip had begun, she had occasionally dozed off into the same dream—always involving Solitary, always involving Jason. Sometimes the images were frightening—burning brush and murderous assaults. Sometimes they were gentle—she and Jason living in a large, comfortable house, the doting parents of sweet, smiling infants. She understood that she, like the others, used sleep to escape the cruel and frightening reality that surrounded them. Covering ten—sometimes twelve or even fifteen—miles a day was grueling. So far they'd been lucky. Through the combined cunning of Jeth, Ethan, and Billy, they had averted one Tory position and encountered a band of rebels who advised them that the river course was indeed the safest. They knew they were on the right track, but they could also feel the hot breath of Buckley behind them. All the while, Colleen held the image of her love steadfast in her mind's eye.

At night they'd travel into the thick of the woods, maneuvering the wagon as best they could. There they'd camp and eat their meager supply of food, picking berries and fruits along the way. Jeth shot several rabbits, whose meat gave them welcome sustenance. Billy skinned the animals, and the doctor helped his sister cook. Rianne and Roy worked well together, and for the first time in years they actually enjoyed one another's company. Having whittled a piece of wood into a recorder, Robin played soft, lilting melodies as Piero sang along. Ethan sat next to Joy, his arm around her shoulder, a gesture of affection he'd never before extended. On the morning of the fifth day out, with only one eye open, Colleen saw Rianne and Billy adjusting their clothing as they returned to the campsite.

Without wigs or gowns, without perfumes or jewelry, Robin and Piero—with their bearded faces—and the three women began to take on the appearance of improbable pioneers. The circumstances brought out their fundamental character. Piero was still terribly frightened, but less so as the journey went forward. Jeth, Billy, and Ethan exuded a feeling of strong self-confidence, and having a doctor along made Piero feel that much safer. For the most part, the weather had been benign—especially cool for early October. The cloud-covered skies made the going easier, and by the sixth day out, having traveled nearly eighty miles, Piero began telling fantastical stories of his European journeys, an imaginative mixture of fact and fiction as, with flamboyant detail, he described exotic backdrops of castles, palaces, and courtly kingdoms. Accompanied by Robin's magical music, his tales proved to be as comforting to the group as Roy's medical expertise or Ethan's sharp-eyed surveillance.

As they rode on, everyone assumed—just as Jeth's rebel contacts along the way confirmed—that they were moving in the right direction, out of the colony, toward the rebel-held Appalachians. Still, the question that no one wanted to ask—or answer—was: What then? Their lives in shambles, their houses pillaged or burned, they felt themselves in the cold hands of fate, hoping that around each bend of the dirt road they would not find an army of murderous Tories.

They prayed in their own ways, silently, sometimes aloud, growing more stoic as the hours and days went by. Colleen wrote verses inside her head, memorized the lines, and, at night, shared her hopeful spirit with the others. Before falling asleep, though, her unspoken poetry focused on Jason as, closing her eyes, she saw the curls atop his head, his wistful smile, and the gentleness of his loving eyes:

I prayed you'd return, and return you did,

A different man, a deeper soul

While the storms of our passion brought us closer

Till two halves were forged into a whole.

Now the mystery of night has us searching

As time and distance keep us apart,

But, oh, my love, my faith is boundless,

As strong and true as your loving heart.

Chapter 17

Jason and Peter peeked over the great boulder and looked down upon the river road below. They counted twenty-four green coated cavalrymen, each armed with a musket. The soldiers were resting, watering their horses and talking among themselves. A few feet farther ahead, Miranda, Frederic Pall, Jack Windrow, and Buckley Somerset were speaking to a family of rebels—a young father, mother, and a blond ten-year-old girl—who had just advised Jason and Peter that they, too, were heading toward North Carolina after having been burned out by the Tories. Their worldly possessions tied atop a small canvas-covered wagon, they'd invited the musician and red-haired Englishman—who, not wanting to alarm the family with his accent, hadn't said a word—to join them on their journey. Jason had thanked them but had said they needed to rest for an hour or so before pushing on, and would probably meet them farther up the road.

Soon after, Jason and a hobbling Peter led their horses up the little hill where, behind a boulder, they sought shelter and a bit of sleep. Minutes later, the thundering hooves of Buckley's band turned their heads back toward the road below.

They struggled to hear, but were too far away. Frederic was questioning the family closely. Miranda was apparently interfering. It looked as if Buckley was trying to keep his mother quiet. The rebel father was obviously shaken and nervous, and the more Pall spoke, the more frightened the family appeared. Someone must have said something, because Pall pointed his finger at the rebel. Buckley grabbed the man by his throat and started shaking him. Suddenly, out of control, the rebel slammed his fist into Buckley's face. At that point, Jack Windrow, his left arm still bandaged, stuck his knife in the man's heart, and blood gushed forth in thick spurts. The girl screamed, the wife lunged for Somerset, there was confusion and a gunshot—from Buckley's smoldering pistol. The mother fell dead and the terrified child ran ahead. Another shot from Buckley and the girl collapsed, a circle of red forming on her back. Miranda's shouts, villifying her son, rang through the air. Pall seemed to be laughing while the albino calmly cleaned the blood from his knife. Many of the cavalrymen witnessed the slaughter, their faces filled with horror.

Peter and Jason were numb. To have taken their rifles and tried to save the family by shooting Somerset or Windrow would have meant their own deaths; Buckley's brigade would have captured them in a matter of minutes. It had all happened too quickly; there hadn't been time to stop the killings. Still, Jason and Peter were overwhelmed with frustration, outrage, and grief. They had witnessed cowardly men murder innocent people in cold blood. Only Somerset's half-mad mother had issued any protest. No matter how intense their feelings, they were forced to lay low until Buckley moved on. Instead of being slightly ahead of their pursuers, they'd have to stay slightly behind.

An hour after the Tories had gone, they descended the hill and returned to the road along the river. Renewed by a sense of fury and purpose, loss and determination, they realized that, no matter what, they had to go on, toward their destination, their destiny—King's Mountain, on the border of the Carolinas.

On the thirteenth day out, Frederic Pall was increasingly wary of the behavior of the ill-tempered Somerset. Buckley never tired of reminding Pall that the actor hadn't yet turned up the fugitives. Thus, to free himself temporarily of Somerset and the nagging Miranda, and to see what could be learned, Frederic managed to sneak six miles ahead while the company was resting. Arriving in a small rural community, he came across a notice nailed to the door of a small general store.

Gentlemen:

Unless you wish to be eaten up by an inundation of barbarians, who have begun by murdering an unarmed son before the aged father, and afterward lopped off his arms, and who by their shocking cruelties and irregularities give the best proof of their cowardice and want of discipline; I say, if you wish to be pinioned, robbed, and murdered, and see your wives and daughters abused by the dregs of mankind—in short, if you wish or deserve to live and bear the name of men, grasp your arms in a moment and run to camp.