Paxton's War (32 page)

“I'm not sure they have the room,” Jason said.

“Rianne's house isn't small,” Joy observed.

“Whatever you do, hurry,” Peter urged. “Embleton's assigned a rough lot of Torries to close down this house. According to the schedule I saw, they're due within the hour. You don't want to be here when they arrive.”

“They're not going to damage the property, are they?” Jason asked.

“Since the house can be put to good use, I doubt it. These are men, though, who aren't given to restraint. Some of them have had their own houses destroyed. In every part of this colony, emotions are out of control. I've just returned from Fairview, where we fought in conjunction with a brigade of Greencoats. We stormed the village, which, as you know, had been a rebel stronghold. My orders were to capture and hold the town, but the Tories couldn't be controlled.” Peter paused to sigh. It was obvious that he was trying to maintain his composure, though the fresh memories still racked him with pain. “The Tories went wild, burning down every home and village in sight. Our soldiers followed suit. I tried to stop them, but it was impossible. The order from Embleton was to drive out the rebels at any price, but, believe me, Jase, when you see a forty-five-year-old man shoot a twelve-year-old boy in the back, you start wondering why and what in the name of a merciful God …” Realizing he had gone too far in confessing his equivocation about his service of duty, Peter stopped himself.

Jason sensed that his friend wanted to go on and relieve himself of the torturous guilt. “I understand,” the musician said, moving toward the archway where Joy and Peter were standing. He put a consoling arm upon the soldier's shoulder before going on. “In war there are atrocities on both sides.”

“I realize that,” Peter replied. “I've seen the horrors of battle before, but there's something about this conflict that chills the civilized soul. Perhaps because I'm so far from my own soil, in a land that seems remote …” He lowered his voice and, finally uttering a thought that had been locked in his mind for months, said in a choked cadence, “… a land that seems so clearly fated to cast its own destiny.”

“You've recognized that?” Jason asked, marveling at his friend's changing spirit.

“It would be hard for a sensitive soul not to, Jase. Never before have I encountered a people whose sense of individuality is so powerful. I fear … I know in my heart that our mission here is doomed.”

“In spite of the strength of your position in the South?”

“I can't help but see beyond the temporary positions of the opposing forces. Something large, extraordinarily large, is happening in these colonies. I feel as though I'm witnessing a great birth. The horrible part is that I've been ordered to murder the child.”

“Oh, Peter …” Joy gasped as she felt the excruciating dilemma in which her lover found himself.

Jason's eyes filled with tears as his friend's words touched his heart. “And yet …” he began to say, but found himself unable to speak.

“Yet I'm duty-bound,” Peter completed the thought. “I'm an Englishman with sworn royalty to the Crown.”

“Even if …” Joy started to speak.

“There are no conditions to a soldier's loyalty,” Peter said firmly, trying to bring himself back to his former bearing.

“You've come here to alert us to leave our home,” Jason spoke up. “I'm touched by your devotion to my sister and myself, Peter. But isn't that, in and of itself, an act of questionable loyalty?”

“'Tis a question I prefer not to ask myself,” he answered. “I know I care for your safety. I cherish your lives.”

“And we cherish yours, Peter,” Jason added, realizing that the discussion should go no further. “You'd best leave before us. Now, more than ever, it's important that we not be seen together. I'm afraid that's especially true for you and Joy.”

“One way or another,” Joy whispered as she hugged her man, covering his face with tear-stained kisses, “we must see each other, we must talk.”

“I'll do whatever I can,” he promised. Looking directly into Jason's eyes, the young Englishman extended his hand. The musician grasped it in his, but the emotion of the moment brought the men into one another's arms. They embraced for a few intense seconds before, without another word, the soldier left the siblings to their wistful thoughts.

“I don't like this, I don't like it at all, Ethan Paxton,” Dr. Roy McClagan said as they sat side by side in the buggy, Paxton's strong hands on the reins. Slowly they rode through fields, forests, and swamps going west from Brandborough. They had been traveling through the starless night a full hour, their silhouettes in stark contrast—the erect, athletic farmer and the stooped, wizened physician. They had another hour to ride before reaching their secret destination.

“I promised you'd be well paid, Doctor,” Ethan assured him.

“'Tis not the money, but the danger.”

“The message I received today was unmistakably urgent. These men are sick. They've no hope for help save you, so put your doubts and fears in your back pocket, and be comforted that you're a vital part of a noble cause.”

“Some comfort! Some cause!” Roy scoffed. “I'm making this trip, Ethan Paxton, only because you've assured me these men are patients of mine from Brandborough. I want no part of your rebel uprisings, but I can't allow a patient to die for lack of care, no matter how foolish his political persuasions.”

“While your head is hard, your heart is wise. Eventually, you'll cheer as we throw these tax-mad British off our land.”

“Save me the pain of your convictions, Ethan Paxton, and quickly lead me to the wounded. I want this night's work concluded as quickly as possible.”

For the rest of the arduous ride, barely a word was spoken between the two men. They were both preoccupied with thoughts of their daughters. Again and again, Ethan reviewed the painful scene between himself and Joy. He had all but disowned her, yet what else could he do with a woman who'd slept with the enemy?

In his coat pocket, Roy carried a letter from Colleen. He had to admit that she sounded more like her own self. In these violent times, though, he wanted her home. In his last letter, he had again raised the question. She replied by mentioning her pleasant weekend at Marble Manor, failing to add a word about her capture and “escape” from Will-o'-the-Wisp. Fortunately, news of the escapade had not reached Roy. “I shall be coming home soon, dear Father,” she had written, “but for the present time, I'm content helping Rianne in the shop and continuing my study of classic literature. To be a scholar or a seamstress—that is the question.” Roy smiled when he read that, knowing full well his daughter felt no such conflict. Still, Colleen's words had successfully charmed her father into not pressing the issue of her immediate return, for even if he had, he realized, there was no guarantee that she or her stubborn aunt would pay him the least mind. Most of all, he wanted Colleen to be happy. If staying in Charleston for a while longer gave her pleasure, then so be it. At least Rianne would see to it that his daughter stayed out of mischief.

Worriedly, Roy watched as Ethan slowly guided the horse and buggy though a shallow swamp. But for the steady slush of dark water, the buzz of mosquitoes, and the occasional sound of a slithering, hissing snake, the night was silent. The doctor began wishing that he'd never been persuaded to make this journey.

“I presume that, were we lost,” said the doctor, “you'd so inform me.”

Ethan laughed. “I could no more be lost in these swamps than in my own bedroom. Be assured, Dr. McClagan, that we'll be arriving soon. Solitary lies just behind the other side of that cypress grove where the swamp ends.”

“Solitary?” Roy asked.

“It's land, wonderfully rich and perfectly hidden.” As Ethan spoke of Solitary, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “Nearly four square miles of flat, fertile meadow, a virtual island surrounded on all sides by swampland and acre upon acre of tall, sturdy cypress. I discovered this place when my children were infants, and we've been going there ever since. They love it as well as I—at least they
did
. 'Tis where we Paxtons will finally root ourselves in the earth. The moment we've won this war and chased the British home, I intend to build a commodious house there and cultivate substantial fields of cotton and corn.”

“A dream, Ethan Paxton. You're a man given to dreams.”

“It's as real as the medicines in your case, Doctor. The swamp ends here, and in a few minutes we'll be through these trees.”

Even in the dark night, Roy could make out the beauty of the land. Slightly elevated, it arose from the swamp and trees like a hidden paradise. Here and there stood groves of tall oaks, but, for the most part, Solitary seemed a natural lawn of mammoth proportions. The doctor could well appreciate Ethan's affection for the land. “Where are the wounded?” he asked the farmer.

“In a moment, you'll see for yourself.”

In the dense center of one of the larger groves of oaks, Roy spotted a group of tents. By prearranged signal—a cry simulating the hoot of an owl—Ethan announced their arrival. Within seconds six men and one woman emerged from the tents. Roy recognized Hope Paxton, her husband, Allan Coleridge, and the other five men, each of whom he knew well. He had treated all of them at various periods of their lives, some since they were children. Hope, in a coarse gray robe, greeted the doctor with gratitude and warmth. The others, ranging in age from twenty to fifty, followed suit. Among them were Ned Flats, the paunchy bread maker, and Tom Jobete, the silversmith whose wife's first baby Roy had delivered only a month before.

“You must do something, Doctor,” Hope urged, her brow wrinkled with worry and fatigue. “I've tried to bring down their fevers, but to no avail.” She pointed to the men most in need of medical attention—Jimmy Morris and her husband, Allan.

A fire was made as Roy went about his examination. One man displayed all the signs of dysentery; he complained of painful cramps and bloody stools. But Coleridge and Morris had symptoms far more severe. They shook with a feverish chill, their tongues were covered with a yellow-green crust, and their hands trembled. The doctor detected purplish spots spread over their peeling skins.

“What is it, Doc?” Jimmy Morris asked. He was a slight, gawky lad in his late teens. Roy had brought him into the world and remembered every detail of the stormy night when the miracle had taken place. The doctor never forgot a birth, carrying the joy of a healthy baby in his heart forever after.

“Is it bad?” asked a frightened Jimmy.

Roy knew it could well be typhus, but didn't say so, wanting to avoid panlic. “Courage, my boy,” he responded. “We'll see what we can do to relieve your discomfort.”

“I chill easily,” Allan said in a voice straining for strength, “but I expect it's nothing more than fever blisters and a nasty cold. Am I right, Doctor?”

“Your attitude is the correct one, Mr. Coleridge. Determined mental defenses have been known to beat these maladies back. Be of good cheer.”

After the examinations, Roy took Ethan aside and spoke directly. “Three of these men, including your son-in-law, must return with us. They require beds and continual supervision.”

“Impossible,” Ethan answered. “It was hard enough to make our way at night. During the day we'll be unable to move about without being observed. Three times last week my property was searched for escaped prisoners. Because of Allan, I'm highly suspect.”

Roy brought his voice to a whisper. “It could be typhus.”

“The devil be damned!” Ethan said disgustedly. “Will it spread. Has it already?”

“I think not. I'll examine the rest of the party, but these are the early stages when, with conscientious and continual treatment, the men could be saved and the malady checked. This surrounding doesn't help a bit. They must be brought to Brand-borough—immediately.”

“You know as well as I that it's swarming with Tories and Redcoats. We might as well bring them to the hangman himself.”

“Mr. Paxton, I warned you before I came that the patriotic cause is one that fills me with dread. We are subjects of the Crown. Theirs is the brute force that rules this region. But I came here out of humanitarian concern, and now that I've made my diagnosis I can only tell you what is absolutely necessary. Ignore me and these men, along with your daughter, may not survive another two weeks.”

“Then we'll take them back tonight.”

“I'm glad you understand.”

“We must take them to your house. You must care for them there.”

“What! I've risked my neck just by being here now, but under no circumstances will I …”

“You speak of risk, Dr. McClagan, but these men have risked their very lives so that you and others like you might keep what's rightfully yours. You're a fortunate man. Your services are always in need and the English haven't yet decided to tax your practice. But your farm has been taxed, and your crops are selling at a third of the price they're worth. Whenever they like, they'll appropriate your land, and then it's only a matter of time before …”

“I will not involve myself in your scheme, Ethan Paxton.”

“Scheme! Is saving the lives of honest men a scheme? Are you a physician, Dr. McClagan, or a cynic? You call yourself a humanitarian, but no true humanitarian would leave these men alone to die in the wild.”

Ethan stopped talking as he saw Hope approaching.

“Please be candid with me, Doctor,” she said. “I must know the truth.”

“The situation's grave,” her father whispered.

“But not without hope,” McClagan added, glancing over at young Jimmy Morris, who, sitting upon the ground, shivered beneath a thin blanket.

“Then you'll care for these people?” Ethan asked.