Paxton's War (10 page)

“I can see how the forest resembles a cathedral.” Colleen looked at him with admiration—for his worldliness, his sense of beauty, the way his long, delicate fingers gripped her basket lightly, as if he were holding a violin. “The trees are so majestic and the presence of God can be felt everywhere. But please, Jase, tell me more about France. Are the women very beautiful?”

He laughed. “I hardly noticed.”

“You did,” she protested good-naturedly. “Of course you did.”

“I was far too busy reading your poems,” he continued in jest.

“You're making fun of me. There were only four of them, and you thought them childish to boot, didn't you?”

“On the contrary. I thought them quite accomplished. The keen observation of nature—”

“I'd have sent you the love poems I wrote you, if I'd been more courageous.”

Love poems? It's too soon to talk of love. It takes time for these things. It takes thoughtful consideration
.… Nervous, Jason found himself walking faster. “You flatter me,” he finally managed to say. “And yet you hardly know me.”

“I know you well enough. Long before you left, I knew I loved you.”

Jason was taken aback. Her candor surprised and confused him. Her kiss had stunned him; her touch set him afire. Every time he so much as looked at her he wanted to shout and sing and dance. But love? Did he dare to call it love? They'd been together only a few hours. His homecoming had thrown him into a state of emotional upheaval, and it would be irresponsible to tell her how deeply she'd touched him. As if trying to escape his thoughts, he began walking even faster, until Colleen could hardly keep up the pace. “Are we to walk together, or am I to chase you?” she asked.

Her easy sense of humor saved the moment. Laughing, Jason slowed the pace to a more relaxing stroll. “You aren't afraid of saying what you think,” he said. “I'll grant you that.”

“Or writing it either,” she announced.

“May I see the poems you wrote about me?”

“I'm afraid they're too overwrought to show anyone. Aunt Rianne had given me the love verses of John Donne and Andrew Marvell, and I was convinced I could emulate the style.”

“Your aunt's taste for poetry covers a wide range.”

“She's been wonderful to me, Jase. She's the one who encouraged me to write my broadsides.”

“Your what?”

“Broadsides. Printed sheets that one posts up about town.”

“I know what broadsides are, but what's written on yours?”

“That's the most glorious part. My words! Words to songs that everyone knows. Like today at the picnic? Those words were mine. Didn't you see the fury on those greedy Tory faces? They hate our version of that song. It's such a wonderful invention! Not that I've perfected the art, but I work at it every day. I'm thankful to be able to be doing something to help push the brutes out of here. It was Thomas Paine who inspired me. His words sing so! And Alexander Pope and John Dryden. They're masters of satire, aren't they? And, of course, Shakespeare, but he's too great a genius to emulate, even though I adore his sonnets. I read them all the time. Do you know them? Have you read them?”

Who
was
this woman by his side? Jason wondered, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Her spontaneity and exuberance were contagious, and utterly charming. Her intelligence sparkled as enchantingly as her luminous amber eyes. But revolutionary verse? Published in broadsides? “Do you have any idea of how dangerous that sort of thing can be?” he asked.

“We live in dangerous times,” she replied, dismissing his concern, “and must use whatever gifts God has given us to ensure our own freedom. Besides, they'd never suspect a woman, nor would they harm me even if they did.”

“I wouldn't be so certain,” Jason warned. “As far as the English are concerned, sedition is sedition, no matter what the sex of the offender. And jailors are by nature an ill-sighted lot, blind to the contents of their cells, however wretched the poor prisoners within.”

“I'm not afraid. I do what I please, and what I think is right. I may be just a beginner, but I'm determined to become unmatched at the form.”

Her spirit excited him, and yet he felt obliged to voice his skepticism. “Who knows about these … activities of yours?”

“Only Aunt Rianne. And Ephraim Kramer. He's a master printer. He—”

“Ephraim Kramer?” Jason asked. “In Brandborough? I know of no—”

“In Charleston. He has a shop on Legare Street. He grumbles every time I ask him to set type for me, but he gives in eventually. He's a brave man, courageous and true. I admire him greatly.”

“He is, I take it, a Patriot?”

“All men of good conscience are Patriots.”

Jason had been gone for four years, and for almost every day of those years, war had raged in the colonies. Family and friends had written him, and he'd read accounts and commentaries in the British and foreign press, but to experience the reality of friend opposed to friend, of brother to brother, of father to son, had shocked him to the core. It was, he thought, as if everyone he'd ever known had become strangers to whom he hardly dared speak without first ascertaining where his loyalties laid. Suddenly tired, he shifted Colleen's basket and his coat to his other arm, and massaged his eyes. “And that includes your father, too, I assume?”

“My father …” Her face reddened, and she appeared near tears.

“I've been gone, Colleen,” he gently reminded her. “I don't know who's on whose side. I honestly didn't mean to offend you if … that is, if …”

“It's all right. I understand.” She took a deep breath and smiled bravely. “Father's suffered greatly in his life and wants nothing to do with either side. He has a good heart, and I shouldn't expect him to be something he's not.”

Jason thought of the great gulf that separated him from his own father, and he nodded sympathetically. Several long minutes passed before Colleen could abandon thoughts of her father and return her attention to Jason. “So what are your plans?” she asked, as they ambled on. “I know you've come back to help the revolution. You must have. Living abroad for all those years, hearing of our bravery and our fortunes—often losing, but never surrendering. That's what inspired you to come back didn't it? We could work together, Jase. And we shall! I'm certain of it. With your music and my words, we'll help spread the message from colony to colony, from—”

“I think we should stop and enjoy this lovely luncheon you've prepared,” Jason interrupted.

She looked at him quizzically. “You can't be … you aren't … I won't even say it. Tell me, Jase. Swear you're not a—”

“Tory?” He finished the sentence for her. “No, I'm not. But neither am I about to declare myself for one side or another.”

Her face turned scarlet, her voice jumped a whole octave. “You sound like Papa, like a man completely devoid of—”

“Food,” he interrupted again. “I'm famished. Haven't eaten a thing all day. Can't you find enough mercy in that hard revolutionary heart of yours to feed a hungry man?”

“No. I—”

“Listen to me, Colleen!” He dropped both basket and coat, grabbed her arms more roughly than he'd meant to, and turned her to him. “I've been gone four years. I just spent eight weeks at sea, and only three hours ago stepped off the ship and into a world that's upside down. My father treats me with contempt. Half the people I know seem to be at each other's throats. The town I was born in and raised in is occupied. What do you expect of me?”

“I expect—”

“No. Don't say it, whatever it is.” His voice gentled. He let go of her arms and, his fingers light as feathers, brushed the hair back from her face. “I won't stand on a commons and shout songs at the top of my lungs, nor will I remake myself in Allan Coleridge's image, but I'm not a Tory. But that's something you'll have to take on faith, because there's no way to prove it to you—at least for the time being.”

Colleen closed her eyes, breathed deeply in and out, and shuddered. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn't have—”

“Don't be. You had every right. And now?” Smiling, he touched the corners of her mouth to make her smile. “Enough of politics. It's time to laugh and to eat.” He drew himself up in a comic declamatory posture and spoke in a deep, booming voice. “Speak to me, woman, of food!”

Colleen melted. His sloped, hooded eyes, gleaming merrily, were impossible to resist, and his humor was infectious. “I trust you like fried chicken, sir?” she asked with a coquettish curtsey.

“Fried chicken!” Jason exclaimed. “Four years and not even the suggestion, the slightest hint, of that delicacy. How many were the times I'd have traded an arm for a single morsel of real Carolina fried chicken! Fried chicken! The very words are music to my ears.”

“What about cinammon rolls and a cucumber-and-onion salad?” Colleen asked, laughing.

Jason ducked under a branch, held it high so Colleen could pass without snagging her hair. “There is,
mademoiselle
,” he said with mock seriousness, “no question that the three go together as naturally as Aristotle's unities. Philosophers, as well as men of action, agree that … Let me see … Is this it?” he asked, stopping and searching about to left and right.

“What?” Colleen asked, confused.

“Yes! Right there by that tulipwood tree, if I'm not mistaken.”

Colleen took his hand and hurried along at his side, only to stop, seconds later, at the edge of a narrow, brush-choked ravine.

“Damnation!” Jason cursed in obvious disappointment. “See how time can plot against a man? Well, let's not give up yet. C'mon.”

“Where in heaven's name are you?”

“Aha! I was right. There! Can you think of a prettier spot for a picnic?”

It was beautiful. Some eight to ten feet below the level of the forest floor, the small, choked ravine had broadened out and silted in. Perhaps twenty feet wide and carpeted with a lush grass, the floor was cut by a tiny brook no more than a foot across. “It's exquisite!” Colleen exclaimed as Jason helped her down the steep bank. “But how did you know about it?” Laughing, she spun about, ran to the brook, and dipped her fingers in the clear, cool water.

“Like it?” Jason asked, looking for a level spot.

“You were bringing us here all the time, weren't you? You had me believing that there was no plan to our walk, but you're a schemer, Jason Paxton. Indeed you are. You robbed Buckley of his purse, and now you've lured me into your secret den.”

Jason set the basket down and dropped his coat next to it. “You're right. It is mine. I discovered it when I was a boy and used to explore these woods with a vengeance. Did you know that I've been over every inch of the land inside and outside Brandborough, halfway to Charleston? I'd go hunting with my father, and then I'd hunt by myself. You might not know it by looking at me, but I was a wild child. I'd get carried away making up all sorts of ridiculous games, pretending I was chasing or being chased.” He laughed softly in recollection. “I was convinced that I'd be a pirate, like Grandmother and Grandfather had been. I even drew elaborate maps of the entire territory.”

“You? A pirate?” Colleen laughed.

“Ruthless and cunning, fearless and wild. Yes, this is the region of my youth, when I'd memorize every last detail of forest and swamp, hill and valley, with the precision of a mathematician.”

“Musicians, they say, are also said to have an aptitude for mathematics.”

“Music was the furthest thought from my mind. I wanted only to please my father by showing him my mastery of the land and my undying bravery.”

“Then how did you come to music?”

“By sitting alone in this ravine, among other places. Here and in a hundred other secret dells and sheltered meadows. Listen! Is there a more enchanting song than the one sung by sparrows and blue jays? Is the lazy buzz of the bumblebee not an enticing sound? Are the bass-voiced frogs not figures of deep percussive delight? And is the cool rustle of leaves kissed by the breeze any less thrilling than a viola kissed by a bow? I considered this delightfully noisy silence for hours, as a boy. For the first time I listened to the thump of my own heartbeat. It was then that I knew the essential rhythm was within us all, and that to create music was my real destiny.”

“You understood that at so young an age?” asked Colleen, intoxicated by the manner of his speech and sound of his melodious voice.

“I heard music then—here, for the first time. Just as I'm hearing music now … with you.”

Nervously, she spread a white cloth on which she placed the food while the morning's melody began replaying within her head, thrilling her wildly beating heart. Jason ate and hummed at the same time. He made small, gracious sounds of satisfaction and complimented her on the succulent chicken. He noted the way a single beam of light crossed her face and fell upon her breast. For a hungry man, he didn't eat ravenously, but rather delicately, patiently, savoring each morsel. Unable to take her eyes from his, experiencing strange and new sensations along the most sensitive sections of her body—her back, legs, thighs—Colleen barely ate at all.

“Wonderful.” Jason finally sighed. “Never have I tasted anything … Your cooking?” he asked.

Colleen blushed. “The chicken, aye. Portia made the rolls and the salad.”

“Portia? Old Portia? Tall and thin as a rail?”

“Still with us.” Colleen laughed.

“Well, you make a fine pair of cooks.” Satiated, he lay back on the grass and stared up into the trees arching over the secluded ravine. “Maiden and maid … but only the maiden at my side. What man could ask for a better … better … What rhymes with side?”

“Bride?” Colleen blurted out before she could stop herself.