Surrender the Night (44 page)

Ignoring his throbbing thigh and the ache spanning his back, Alex rose and scanned the scene. Exhausted from the stifling heat and the harrowing battle, soldiers had dropped to the ground wherever their weary legs had deposited them. A group of men cleared the British dead from the field while another band picked greedily through the pockets of the dead Americans. From what Alex could tell, more British than Americans had been killed, although neither total reached one hundred.

Plucking his keg from his haversack, Alex uncorked it and poured tepid water down his throat. Despite the temperature, the liquid cooled his parched mouth and filled his empty belly. He lifted his arm to wipe his lips and jolted at the sight of blood splattered over his sleeve. Not
his blood, thank God. But someone’s blood. Perhaps Mr. Kennedy’s or another unfortunate soldier who had slipped from earth into eternity. He prayed they’d gone in the right direction.

To his left, a pair of hollow blue eyes stared at him from within a face blackened by soot. Seaman Miller sat among a group of sailors and offered Alex a sad smile. Despite the horrific chaos raging around him, he had remained at his post by the six-pounder Alex had ordered him to command. Not once had he hesitated in his duty. Alex nodded his approval toward the man of a job well done.

A shout of orders drew Alex’s gaze to a large group of captured Americans being led by a colonel who pranced before them in the pomp of victory. He hoped they would be treated humanely but knew they’d probably be either impressed into the Royal Navy or transferred to prison hulks for the remainder of the war.

Tugging off his stained cravat, Alex mopped the sweat from his neck and brow and glanced at the sun halfway on its descent in the sky. He guessed it to be about four in the afternoon, which meant the battle had lasted three hours. Three hours that had seemed like mere seconds—terrifying, agonizing seconds. Though Alex had been in many battles at sea, there was something different, something far more gruesome about fighting on land. Everything moved slowly and methodically upon the sea; on land, everything occurred with such intolerable rapidity and chaos. At sea, as the ships maneuvered for the next broadside, the men had time to clear off the wounded and catch their breath, even say a prayer. But on land, the bullets had never stopped whizzing past Alex’s ears, the cannons never stopped firing, the explosions never stopped blasting.

And the men never stopped screaming.

Two soldiers lifted a wounded man off the dirt and placed him on a stretcher. He groaned in agony. Nausea bubbled in Alex’s belly, nearly forcing it to spew the water he’d just consumed. He corked his keg and placed it back into his haversack. Bowing his head, he thanked God that he’d not been forced to fight face-to-face with any of the Americans, for he doubted he could have looked straight into the fire of freedom burning in their eyes and willingly extinguished it.

In the end, it must have been the British Congreve rockets that had sent the enemy fleeing. The rocket’s shrill screech still rang in
Alex’s ears. Despite their ominous sound, they were grossly inaccurate, and Alex doubted any of the rockets had met their mark. But the bone-chilling howl—a roar that Alex imagined sounded like a legion of demons escaping from hell—was sufficient to invoke terror in the staunchest soldier.

Certainly terrifying enough to send the untrained, undisciplined American militia into a panic. Even so, their rapid, chaotic retreat surprised Alex. And disappointed him. He had hoped for more bravado from these Americans he had come to know as both courageous and determined. Of course slipping away and joining them in the heat of battle had not been an option. He’d have been shot on the spot. And now the Americans were gone again. Alex was beginning to think that he wouldn’t be able to desert the British until the entire war was over. At least it seemed that way until a minute ago when Admiral Cockburn had stormed up to Alex and selected him to join the march into Washington.

Rose dashed through the open door of the White House and halted, listening. Another scream blared from the right. Clutching her skirts in one hand and plucking her pistol from her sash with the other, she sped up the stairs, slowing when she reached the top.

“I order you to leave my house at once, sir!” A lofty female voice, tainted with a slight quaver, drew Rose down the hall to the right.

“Not a step farther, sir. Do you know who I am?” the woman shouted.

“Yes, madam, the mistress of this rebellious squalor of a country.” The man’s strong British lilt coupled with his invidious tone sent a wave of dread over Rose.

Ducking beneath lit sconces and framed paintings, she inched over the ornately woven rug toward an open door at the end of the hallway. Her legs shook like branches in a storm.

“How dare you?” the woman’s superior tone resounded through the hall.

Lord, help me
. Rose stopped at the side of the open door and dared a peek inside. A soldier in a red coat and white breeches stood with his back to her, leveling a sword at an elegantly attired lady wearing
a feathered turban. From what Rose had heard about the president’s wife, the lady had to be Mrs. Madison.

Mrs. Madison took a step backward and nearly bumped into one of the high-backed chairs surrounding a long dining table at the center of the room. A flick of her eyes told Rose the woman had seen her. Ducking back beside the doorframe, Rose leaned against the wall to quell her sudden dizziness. She had the advantage of surprise.

And a gun. She should shoot him.

But she couldn’t.

Not again. But she could hit him with it. Knock him out. Her hands shook. The pistol slipped in her sweaty palms. She tightened her grip, gulping for air that seemed to have retreated with the rest of Washington’s inhabitants. If she failed to rescue Mrs. Madison, the soldier would no doubt turn on Rose and then kill the president’s wife anyway. Closing her eyes, she silently hummed her father’s song, hoping to find solace in the words.

Rose shook her head. It wasn’t working. Terror kept her frozen in place. Yet hadn’t she just declared herself to be free of fear’s bondage?

“I hate to inform you, madam, that we have taken your capital and that you are now a prisoner of war.” The man chuckled. “Or should I say, prize of war.”

“I am no one’s prize, sir.”

“We shall see, madam.”

Rose closed her eyes.
Why has my fear returned, Lord? Where are You? “Trust me.”

I can’t
.

“I love you. I will never leave you.”

Rose drew a deep breath. She wasn’t alone against this British soldier. The Creator of the universe was with her. Pretty good odds, she’d say.

If she believed it.

Rose lifted her chin.
I do believe it. I do believe You, Lord
.

Clutching the barrel of the pistol with both hands, she held it above her head and charged through the door. Before the soldier could turn around, she slammed the handle of the weapon on his head. He dropped to the floor in a heap. A red puddle blossomed like a rose on his blond hair.

The gun slipped from Rose’s hands. It fell onto the wooden floor beside him with a
clank
. She raised her gaze to Mrs. Madison.

The lady’s wide eyes softened, and a smile grazed her painted lips. “Why, thank you, my dear. The buffoon was becoming quite annoying.” Opening her arms, she gestured for Rose to enter as if welcoming her to an evening dinner party.

As if there weren’t an unconscious British corporal lying on the floor.

Rose stepped over him. Her legs shook and she stumbled. Mrs. Madison clutched her arm to steady her. “There, there, dear. It is all over now.”

Rose glanced at the soldier, then back at Mrs. Madison. “It appears the British have already arrived in the city. You should leave at once.”

Releasing Rose’s arm, Mrs. Madison flapped a gloved hand over the man as if to brush him away. “Just a scout of some sort.” She sighed. “Now, pray tell, who are you, and how did you come to be in my home?” The woman smiled, lifting the circles of red rouge painted on her cheeks. Candlelight sparkled in her eyes and glimmered off the gold jewelry around her neck.

Rose glanced at the long, elegant dining table behind Mrs. Madison. Exquisitely painted china plates framed a white linen cloth that held candlesticks, pitchers, crystal glasses, and platters upon platters of food. Candlelight reflecting off the silverware and brass brightened the entire room. Only then did the scent of beef pudding, wild goose, cornmeal, and sweet pickles reach her nose. Rose shook her head at the odd sight.

“I am Rose McGuire from Baltimore, Mrs. Madison. I was riding past your house when I heard your scream.” Rose’s heart refused to settle, and she pressed a hand over it. “I beg your pardon for entering uninvited, but the door was open.”

“You beg my pardon?” Mrs. Madison’s laughter bounced over the room with a friendship and gaiety at odds with the situation. “My dear
Miss McGuire, your boldness saved my life.” She studied Rose from head to toe. “And such a slip of a girl too. But so full of bravery.”

Brave? Rose found the compliment difficult to swallow.

Mrs. Madison glanced at the open door. “I do wonder where Jean ran off to, as well as Mr. Jennings. If they had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Plucking a telescope from the table, she glided toward an open window. The swish of what Rose assumed to be a silk Parisian gown—for she’d never seen anything so exquisite—drifted through the dining hall.

“I haven’t seen my husband all day.” Mrs. Madison lifted the glass to her eye and peered out the window into the darkness beyond. A night breeze ruffled the red plume atop her embroidered turban and fluttered the rich damask curtains. “He left early this morning to meet with his Cabinet at the navy yard. Pray don’t think poorly of him.” She glanced at Rose over her shoulder before lifting the scope to her eye again. “Mr. Madison did leave a troop of men to guard me, but they ran off to Bladensburg. Who knows what happened to them? God, be with them.” She lowered the telescope and released a sigh. “All day long, I’ve been watching with unwearied anxiety, hoping to discover the approach of my dear husband and his friends, but alas, I can descry only groups of military wandering in all directions, as if there is a lack of arms or of spirit to fight for their own firesides.”

“Mrs. Madison.” Rose moved to stand beside her. “I hesitate to relay such bad news, but I’ve heard our troops were defeated at Bladensburg.”

She waved a gloved hand through the air. “Yes, so I heard, though I can hardly believe it. Major Blake has come twice to warn me of the danger, but how can I leave my own house?” She faced Rose and shrugged. But then her jaw tightened and fury rolled across her face. “Ah, would that I had a cannon to thrust through every window and blast those redcoats back to England.”

Rose couldn’t help but smile. What a charming, courageous woman. She lowered her chin. “Mrs. Madison, how can you be so brave when you are all alone, defenseless against the British troops that are surely heading your way?”

Mrs. Madison smiled and grasped one of Rose’s hands. “Please call
me Dolly. And I am not alone, Miss McGuire. God is always with me.”

Her statement jarred Rose while at the same time bolstering her own convictions. Hadn’t God said the same thing to her only minutes before?

A shuffle at the door sounded, and Mrs. Madison released Rose’s hand. “Jean, there you are.”

A tall, wiry man with short-cropped brown hair stared down an aquiline nose at the British soldier on the floor.

“Yes, remove him, if you please, Jean. Tie him up and set him on a sofa somewhere.”

“What happened, madame?” The man’s French accent was unmistakable.

Mrs. Madison turned toward Rose. “Miss McGuire, may I introduce Jean Sioussa, my doorman. Jean, this is Miss Rose McGuire out of Baltimore. She saved my life when this”—she pinched her lips together—“man tried to accost me in my own dining room.”

“Mon Dieu.” Jean’s curious gaze drifted from the soldier to Rose, and finally landed on Mrs. Madison. “I am sorry I was not here.”

“It is nothing, Jean.”

“Madame, I have loaded everything onto the carriage: the trunk of cabinet papers, documents from the president’s desk, the large chest of silver, velvet curtains, clocks, and the books we packed earlier.”

“Thank you, Jean.”

Shaking his head, he knelt, grabbed the soldier beneath the arms and hoisted him up. The injured man emitted a low groan, and a wave of relief spread over Rose. In the melee, she hadn’t thought to check if she’d killed him.

“I’ll attend to this man and be back for you, madame,” he said before dragging the soldier off down the hall.

Mrs. Madison set the telescope on the table and glanced over the elaborate meal. “I serve dinner promptly at three o’clock, you know.” Sorrow stung in her eyes. “Though Mr. Madison often complains, I always invite as many distinguished guests as I can.” She ran her finger over the carved mahogany of one of the chairs. “But no one came today.”