The Patriot's Conquest (34 page)

His wife drew back with a small gasp. “Jeffrey, you do not think that I had anything to do with this?”

“Who else then, Amanda? Or did my cane walk over to Merton’s house and plant itself?” he shot back. He slumped wearily against the wall. The brief tirade expanded all his energy.

“Jeffrey, please, you must believe I would never...” She touched his shoulder. Her touch was warm and he jerked away.

“Leave me be. Please go now.” Then he turned his head as she called for the gaoler.

Jeffrey did not turn back as the door opened and she left.

Jeffrey thought her guilty. Long after her visit, Amanda still felt stunned by this new twist of events. How could she convince him of her innocence?

The greater deed lay in proving
his
innocence. Trusting the court system, she faithfully attended each proceeding in the following days. First the preliminary hearing in the county court where Jeffrey made a statement of his innocence and signed the document. Then the examining court at the county courthouse where Jeffrey stood before two justices and answered to the charges brought against him. Again, he pleaded innocent. Then the grand jury, which heard more testimony and indicted him for arson.

Final justice awaited Jeffrey at the General Court. If found guilty by this jury, he’d hang. He would stand trial tomorrow. She had to be there. Amanda went to her parent’s store and confronted her father.

“Papa, I need your help. Jeffrey is being tried for arson tomorrow and I have not the strength to go to the Capitol alone. Meg is too shaken. Now is the time to make up for all that happened in the past. Will you be there for me?”

Her father looked downward with a guilty expression.

“Clayton was right. I have sorely mistreated you, Amanda, and for that I am deeply sorry. He is of a good heart, I think. He told me he had deep feelings for you for some time and desired only to make you happy. And he could easily have married you without relieving my debts.”

Papa apologizing? Amanda smiled softly. “He does wish to make me happy.”

“Is he a good husband to you?”

“Yes.” Jeffrey had told her father he cared for her. He must love her. Such a love could not be eradicated by a misunderstanding. Her hand drifted down to her abdomen, as it had often these past days.

“’Tis all that matters. I do wish for you to be happy. I wish you could believe that.” He seemed to grow in stature. “I have not touched a drop of the drink since he and I talked.”

Amanda licked her lips. “If you truly desire my happiness, will you come with me then? I dare not ask Mother.”

He nodded. Remorse shaded his expression. “About your mother, Amanda, please do not judge her so harshly. She only wanted the best for you.”

Bitter words came to mind, but she held her tongue.

“She was strict with you because she did not want you making the same mistakes she made. Mistakes of, er, youthful passion.” Papa gave wry smile. “Mistakes I am certain she still regrets, for otherwise, she would have married nobility instead of a mere merchant.”

Amanda stared at her father in astonished shock. For a moment he looked sad and lost, a man who also had regrets.

She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”

“I have tried to be a good father to you, though I have failed at times.” He patted her hand. “I will not fail you now.”

Amanda smiled, hiding her anxiety. Jeffrey would hope to be a good father as well, she thought.

But if the Court found him guilty, he wouldn’t live long enough to find out.

“Clayton, ’tis time for your trial.”

Pellam unlocked the heavy cell door. Jeffrey tugged at his waistcoat, smoothing it. He stared with distress at the heavy shackles the gaoler held.

“Must I be chained?” he asked.

“No choice,” the gaoler replied.

Jeffrey drew in a breath and obediently held out his wrists. Pellam shackled his hands and ankles and then dropped his hands, the chains weighing upon his arms.

He followed the sheriff and Pellam out of the cell, his eyes watering from the harsh daylight. He blinked rapidly, cursing under his breath. Damn if he’d let the public think he’d been crying like a woman!

Down the steps outside the exercise yard, he shuffled, movements restricted by metal. Shuffle, clank, shuffle, clank. Jeffrey gave a mirthless smile as he thought of how this dance step would look in Lord Dunmore’s grand ballroom. Too bad he couldn’t teach it to his lordship. Why, he’d adore seeing that pompous ass in chains.

How utterly ironic. Jeffrey had forged metal and it now bound him tightly. Were these chains ones he had fashioned? He shuffled up the path cut through the green yard behind the Capitol. Fresh air, sunlight and trees. A bird sang merrily upon a white oak branch. He bitterly resented its freedom.

The sheriff led Jeffrey inside. The burning hatred of the townspeople pierced his skin. Jeffrey filed into the capitol courtroom, the spectators making a human tunnel as he shuffled past. The sheriff opened the gate that cordoned off the area separating jury and lawyers from bystanders.

He darted a glance at the twelve seated men who would decide his fate. None looked kindly upon him. He steeled his resolve, reminding himself he was innocent until proven guilty. God grant George the ability to find some chink in this mad scheme to convince them he was innocent. To his right, John Randolph, the King’s attorney, and George sat side by side at a table, making notes and studying papers. George gave Jeffrey an encouraging smile. Jeffrey flashed George his old, cocky grin, hiding his trepidation.

“Will you step up?”

The sheriff opened the gate leading to the bench where the justices and Dunmore sat, presiding over the courtroom. Back to Dunmore, Jeffrey stood and faced the public. He could imagine what image he presented. Grubby beard. Clean shirt, blue waistcoat and matching breeches, thanks to George. But his face was dirt-streaked and his hair matted. He probably looked guilty simply through his scruffy appearance.

Jeffrey felt like a pig roasting over a spit, seared on both sides. Dunmore’s gaze burned into his back. The public stared hostilely at him in front. He clutched his hands, proudly stiffening his shoulders. Now he knew what a slave felt like on the auction block. Only at this auction he faced a fate worse than losing his freedom.

If the court found him guilty, they’d sentence him to hang.

He prayed he’d never hear that word. Guilty.

In the upper galley reserved for gentry, Amanda leaned over the railing, peering down anxiously. Murmurs indicated Jeffrey approached. Double doors swung wide open. Her husband walked in, clinking and clanking in his shackles. She gasped, shocked at his appearance. Jeffrey had lost weight. His thick, black hair was bound back in a queue, but locks fell over his forehead in tangled disarray. A rough beard and mustache stubbled his hollow cheeks and it angered her that he’d been denied the simple decency of a shave. The growth made him look dangerous. As if he were already deemed guilty.

Her heart ached as he stumbled forward, chain links swinging to his slow gait. ’Twas like watching a condemned man walk his last mile. But he lifted his chin bravely. Even shackled, he had dignity. Pride surged through her at his defiant stance, his set shoulders. She wanted to shout her association with him, not shrink in shame as was expected.

Amanda’s gaze darted to Lord Dunmore. He exchanged a look. Deliberately, she turned, gave a tiny sniff and looked down again at Jeffrey. She prayed he’d be found innocent.

The court clerk stamped his cane. “Oyez, Oyez, silence is commanded in the court while his Majesty’s Governor and Council are sitting, upon pain of imprisonment.”

“How do you wish to be tried, Jeffrey Clayton?”

“Upon King and Country,” he replied. Jeffrey rubbed his wrists.

Slowly the drama unfolded. Witnesses questioned by Randolph swore they’d seen Jeffrey flee Merton’s house, “like a thief in the night,” said one. Even Captain William Christopher testified against him.

“Why I overheard Clayton myself, as did others, tell Mr. Merton that he’d see him, excuse my delicate language, burn in Hell, maybe even put him there himself.”

“But why, sir, would Mr. Clayton say such a thing?” Randolph questioned.

“A desire for revenge, good sir. Mr. Merton openly said he refused to sell Clayton a slave he wanted. I have heard from some of my men of Clayton’s foul temper. Indeed, his very savagery at St. Francis with Robert Rogers. He massacred several Indians in cold blood, as was the wont of that band of Rangers.”

Never a finer performance had she seen before. Amanda felt torn between anger and applause.

George cross-examined Christopher, reminding him, and the jury, that Jeffrey served the British and that the Indians were not innocents, but had taken hundreds of scalps of white settlers. He stood throughout the endless questioning of witnesses, pressing his hands on the bar. With every question flung at him, her husband stood straight and tall, though she knew the process must weary him. Finally, it was Jeffrey’s turn. Randolph was skilled, brutally clear and direct.

“Do you recognize this, sir?” Randolph held up his silver eagle’s head cane.

Amanda’s heart beat faster. Jeffrey stared at the cane, then glanced upward at the gallery.

The dull look of resignation on his face made her feel sick.

Seeing Amanda and her distressed expression, Jeffrey forgot all his hurt and mistrust. He wanted to give her a reassuring smile and let her know he was fine. But if he smiled, he feared he’d lose all control. Instead, he tightened his jaw, looking straight ahead.

“Mr. Clayton, I asked if you recognize this.” Randolph repeated.

Jeffrey swallowed hard. “’Tis mine.”

“And pray tell, sir, how did it come to be found outside the burned ruins of Mr. Merton’s home? Unless you yourself dropped it there in your haste to flee the scene!”

“I did not put it there,” Jeffrey stubbornly insisted. His shoulders sagged from exhaustion. He longed to slide to the floor. With all his strength, he forced his legs to lock and hold him upright.

“Oh? You did not place the cane there? Mayhap an angel swooped down from Heaven and dropped it there in your stead?”

Laughter rang out at Randolph’s remark. A red-headed angel had stolen away the cane, Jeffrey thought in weary resignation.