Paxton's War (49 page)

“Damn you, you greedy bastard!” Buckley shouted before shooting him again, this time straight through the heart. With a final spasm, Pall fell dead.

Somerset blew the smoke from the pistol, reloaded, and aimed it at Colleen, smiling into her eyes. “Shall I?” he asked. “Perhaps not, perhaps not right now. 'Twould be a shame to ruin the fun this soon. Besides, I'll have my pleasure with you tonight. No, no … love should never culminate too early in the evening.”

He untied her legs and, with her hands still bound, led her back to his horse. Avoiding the rebel encampments by retracing Pall's route, he rode back through the rain up to the mountaintop, his prize catch riding in front of him, bouncing against his crotch.

Chapter 18

Smoke from scattered campfires atop King's Mountain Ridge rose through the dewy morning air. The rain had stopped and the day was moist, the air refreshed, the countryside hushed. For hours, the red-coated Loyalists had been in position, waiting. They knew it was only a matter of time before the mountain men made their charge.

Buckley Somerset, at the northwest corner of the ridge, had yet to emerge from his tent. Never before had he felt more frustrated or enraged. The problem was that there was no one—least of all his mother—in whom he could confide. Perhaps it was the way in which the chilling rain had soaked through both his outer and inner garments, freezing his hands, fingers, and legs while rendering inoperative—at least that was his reasoning—the one organ that had been waiting for this moment for years. Never before had this happened to him. He had been with wenches and the wives of diplomats, all with smashing success. It had to be the fault of the rains or, he was less likely to admit, the fact that this prize had been so long awaited. Either way, after he'd warmed her by the fire, dried her skin and hair and studied her naked body as the light from the small fire's flames caught her delicate curves and angles, he could no longer deny the sad, soft truth. Infuriated, he began slapping her, aware that violence was his only hope of satisfaction. One fist to her jaw had nearly knocked her out. But she would be no fun unconscious. Discipline, he told himself, was the road to pleasure, and he was proud of the way he had restrained himself during the night—an occasional lash of a whip against her naked backside, the sight of the red strip of skin giving him almost, but not quite, enough delight to raise his limp spirit.

Several times he had toyed with the idea of murdering her, but always the notion seemed too rash. He still wanted to play. Besides, he didn't believe her claim that she knew nothing of Jason's whereabouts. No, these two had been in cahoots too long not to have anticipated a meeting place. He didn't trust her for a second. Holdig on to the Sandpiper—keeping her alive—would undoubtedly bring forth Will-o'-the-Wisp. And in that regard, her life still held value for Buckley Somerset.

Colleen hadn't lost faith. Humiliated and beaten, she nonetheless thanked God for Buckley's inability to take her. She would have laughed and spit in his face if she hadn't feared his gun and sword. She had understood that her slim chance for survival had rested in being quiet and reacting not at all. Somerset was a madman, and all she could hope to do was not agitate him. Covered with bruises, aching with pain, terrified, Colleen still clung to a thread of hope, calling up a reserve of strength she never knew was there.
Jason!
she silently repeated over and again.
Oh, my Jason!

“The battle's about to begin,” Miranda announced as she burst into the tent. Buckley had instructed Jack Windrow to keep his mother from his tent the past night, and this was the first time Miranda had seen Colleen, whom her son had put in a bright red velvet robe—the same robe Miranda had given him for Christmas.

“My God!” Miranda said, regarding Colleen with shock and disgust.

“When I parade her around the battlefield,” Buckley explained defensively, half apologizing for letting her wear the robe, “I want to make sure the Wisp sees her. She's taking me to Paxton.”

“She's taking you to hell!” Miranda screamed before turning and running from the tent. “You're doomed, my son … doomed …” Her voice rang out in the damp morning air.

“Shout like hell and fight like devils!”

The mountain men, who had been the target of savage Indian attacks, began their assault by borrowing a tactic from their red-skinned enemies. They announced their presence from behind trees and brush situated up and down the hill by screaming war whoops and provoking the Loyalists from their positions atop the ridge. The rebels aimed their flintlock pieces, shot, and charged—from here, from there, from everywhere, with no apparent organization or scheme.

Ferguson had correctly guessed their crude strategy. He was ready. In retaliation, he had his men chase them down with their Brown Bess muskets, stabbing them in the back as they ran to recharge.
Let them feel the icy chill of British resolve
, the Scotsman told himself;
let them charge again
.

The rebel band—Roy, Ethan, Rianne, Billy, Jeth, Piero, Joy and Robin—steadily made their way through the fields to the base of the King's Mountain Ridge, where they joined up with more than a thousand mountain men just as the first shots of the battle began exploding like fireworks. The Irish and Scotish zealots were happy for the help and greeted the group with grateful encouragement.

Roy arrived at this point only with great trepidation. Part of him felt as if he was leaving his daughter behind. But what else could he do? They had searched the woods all night, and he reasoned that there was at least some chance that she'd be at the battle. He thought of how brave she'd been, a tribute to his family, to the very blood that flowed through her veins. A month ago, the notion of charging into battle would have paralyzed him with fear. But on this day, the crack of gunfire ringing in his ears, Roy went forward, not with the fury of Ethan, Billy, or Jeth, but with a steady tenacity, a resignation that he had already seen the worst and faced his fears. Grief-stricken by the loss of his daughter, he was nonetheless inspired by her own courageous example.

The fact that they were facing a Scotsman in Pat Ferguson gave Dr. McClagan even more pause for reflection. That his countryman had chosen to fight his own people—the Scots who had come here and settled this land—was a point of sharp and painful irony. For the first time since the war began, Roy felt a rising sense of patriotism. Along with his old doubts, his equivocation dissipated. This was his land, this was American land, and there came a time when a person took a stand. A time when one fought.

“You'll stay with Joy,” Paxton had suggested to Robin and Piero, who, in spite of the search through the woods, had successfully fought off his fever and was feeling better, although he still suffered with a wildly nervous stomach.

“I'm going with you, Father,” Joy had insisted. “I can reload the guns and care for the wounded,” she said bravely, not willing to stay back while her heart told her that Peter would be there on this day of destiny.

“We're not expert shots, but if there's one thing we've learned on this journey, it's how to load a rifle,” Robin had said. “It's a task we will be honored to carry out.”

“We will?” Piero had asked, his voice cracking with the question. After a few seconds of reflection, he added, “Yes, of course we will.” Robin was right. They hadn't come this far to hide. A lover of theater, Piero saw the enormous drama in this situation. They had reached the climax of the play, and he wanted to be there for the most dramatic moment. The courage was contagious.

While hiding in the swamps, Rianne had sewn crude clothes—coarse shirts and pants for Roy, Ethan, Jeth, Billy, Piero, and Robin; she had fashioned tent dresses for herself, Joy, and Colleen. She had assured Billy that'd she be there during the fight, reloading his gun. And so she was.

Their thoughts filled with fears for the missing Colleen, the group threw themselves into the heat of battle, forgetting their fatigue, mixing in with the rugged mountain men, moving up from the base of the hill as shrieking war cries pierced the air. The fight raged on.

On horseback, Ferguson circled around the top of the horseshoe-shaped ridge, shouting encouragement to his men. For all the vigor in his voice, however, he didn't like what he saw. The battle was chaotic, and the chaos was growing. The mountain men's helter-skelter charges were maddening. English-trained through and through, the Scottish captain disliked disorderly combat. So did his men. Battles were battles, not brawls. In any event, the rebels would be thrown back. It would simply take more time than Ferguson had anticipated. “Chase 'em down, boys!” he exhorted. “Let 'em feel your blades! Huzza, brave boys, the day is our own!”

Hidden in a grove of trees, Jeth, Billy, and Ethan burst out into the clearing, kneeling, aiming their rifles at the Tories on top, firing and then racing to the next cluster of trees, a bit farther up the hill where Joy, Rianne, Robin, and Piero had managed to crawl, offering them rifles and pistols that were already loaded. Their plan was that in between volleys, the gun loaders would try to stay a few feet ahead by scurrying up the hill, protected by the brush.

For all his panic, Piero couldn't help but feel exhilarated by the phenomenon. People shooting one another—actually shooting!—these fearless men charging their way up and onward, always onward, in spite of the downpour of bullets. Coughing, he never before realized the density of smoke caused by gunfire that covered the hill and ridge, blocking visibility and bringing burning tears to his eyes.

“They might as well throw mud rather than fire those blasted muskets!” he heard one ruffian rebel shout. “They can't hit the side of the trees with those things.”

Feeling more confident as Ethan, Jeth, and Billy burst out into the clearing for still another charge, crouching as they ran, Piero, along with Rianne, Joy, and Robin, raced toward a cluster of trees, higher on the hill, twenty yards or so away. Robin, the heaviest among them, ran with great difficulty. Naturally quicker, Piero nonetheless stayed by his friend's side. The boom and crack of gunfire shot over their heads. In the chaos of this unfocused battle, Piero felt strangely safe. In fact, when Robin fell, the Italian was certain that his companion had simply tripped. It was only when Piero hurriedly bent down to help him up that he saw the circle of blood on Robin's blouse.

“No!” Piero screamed, bending over Robin, watching his eyes slowly close, listening to his gasping breaths. “No! Get up, Robin!” He tried lifting his friend while, with no thought for their own safety, Joy and Rianne rejoined Piero, unprotected by shrubs or trees. As they all huddled over Robin, Rianne spotted a Tory charging them on horseback, his bayonet pointing their way. She raised the loaded rifle she was carrying, aimed, and shot the man directly in the head. He fell, his horse reared, then ran back up the hill where, for the first time, Rianne caught a quick glimpse of Miranda, her gray hair blowing in the breeze, shouting orders to men who seemed to be paying her no mind. If the rifle had been loaded, the seamstress would have shot the madwoman. As it was, Robin demanded her attention.

Yet there was nothing to do. Cradled in Piero's arms, the instrument maker thanked those who surrounded him for their loving attention and then struggled to speak further, as if his last words were the most important message of his life. “Beauty …” he whispered as Piero wiped his perspiring brow with a cloth, “… beauty …” Robin repeated, “goes on forever … here on earth, so much beauty … be brave, my Piero …”—he reached up and touched the Italian's cheek—“… there are other worlds … worlds without end …”

His hand fell; his life expired.

“Hurry!” Rianne urged Piero. “Those trees over there—quickly now.”

“I can't leave him.”

“He's gone. You must.”

Seeing that words would do her no good, Rianne took a weeping Piero by the arm and pulled him to safety. “He's gone!” the Italian cried. “Robin's gone!”

Buckley stuck Colleen, her hands tied, in front of him on his horse as he rode back and forth along the ridge, hoping that Paxton would go for this red-robed bait. Having her in front of him allowed him to trot about in the midst of the battle with a distinct feeling of protection. If any rifleman's bullet headed in his direction, he was shielded. Confidently, then, he raced around the ridge's edge, pistol in hand, searching below for his lifelong nemesis.

For a moment, with bullets whistling around her, Colleen fought her unspeakable terror as she gazed upon the scrambling and fallen fighters below—their limbs torn, their cries of anguished pain. She asked herself how fate could have brought her to this point. Why was she being inflicted with such punishment? At any moment, a bullet could pierce her heart and extinguish her life. Only the thought of Jason kept her from begging Buckley for mercy; only that same faith that had endured for five long years—the faith in their eternal love—kept her from going stark raving mad. Again she looked below, searching the field for her lover, her friend, her man. All she saw were the blurred images of rebels and Tories, running, shooting, falling, bleeding, crying, dying.
Jason!
her silent heart screamed.
Dear God, where is Jason?

“Enjoying the view?” asked Buckley, who continued to comb the territory below, looking for the man whom he wanted with every bit as much passion as Colleen.

Ethan Paxton, catching his breath and reloading his gun, was nearly two-thirds of the way up the ridge when he thought he saw his son. His heart beat madly.
Jason! Could it be Jason?
The thick smoke cover impaired Ethan's vision, though, and seconds later the image vanished as quickly as it had appeared—behind a shrub, out of sight.

Was he hallucinating, or had he really seen Jason? There was no time to think, no time to look for him. Firing at a Tory who stood at the very edge of the ridge, Ethan found his mark. The greencoat fell, tumbling down the hill as Ethan reloaded expertly, moving a few more feet up the ridge, searching for another target.