If William had set the fire, and came in smelling of smoke with a burn on his hand, it surely made him look guilty.
Still, Julie’s word wasn’t good enough. Even if the girl worked up enough courage to testify against William, it would not be enough to demand a new trial. She must have the written proof!
“Julie, let us go to William’s room. I must have that journal.”
Her gaze darted around the garden grounds. “Yes, Miss Amanda. I think I can sneak away.”
She led the way to the outbuilding next to the palace. The two women opened the door with great caution. Amanda glanced at the stairway. No one was about. When they reached the top of the stairs, Julie approached a closed door.
“’Tis his room,” she whispered.
Amanda jiggled the knob. Desolation stole over her. “’Tis locked.”
“No matter,” Julie offered.
Astonished, Amanda watched the girl reach beneath her cap and pull free a hairpin, then reach for the door lock.
The scullery maid gave her a sheepish look. “’Tis what I was forced to do, having been left with no income once my husband died. I fell in with a rather disreputable lot.”
“’Tis a good thing you did not fall into gaol as well,” Amanda murmured. “Though I am glad of this skill now.”
The downstairs door banged open and loud footsteps sounded upon the stairs.
Julie shoved the pin back into her hair as Amanda glanced around the hallway. She tried several doorknobs. One opened. She yanked Julie inside. It was a servant’s bedroom, probably the cook’s.
Leaving the door open a crack, Amanda watched a British officer walked past. She recognized him as William’s assistant. He opened another door and vanished inside.
As soon as his door closed, they crept downstairs. Outside, Amanda bit her lip with frustration as they slipped their shoes on. She shook her head.
“’Tis no use. There are too many people about. Julie, you must secure the key and go into William’s room and get that diary for me.”
“I’ll try. I don’t know how, but I promise I’ll try.”
“I shall try as well.” Amanda grimaced. “Perhaps even visit William myself. Maybe I can find a way to the journal.”
For the next four days, Amanda did not visit Jeffrey. Instead she spent time at the Governor’s palace. Swallowing her pride, she chased William, saying she feared the future, for who would care for her now? Nothing too overt, not batting her lashes, nor crying on his shoulder. He swallowed the bait, taking her on carriage rides, walks in the Governor’s garden. He took her everywhere, except his room.
Julie had not succeeded either. Early on the morning of Jeffrey’s hanging, Amanda stole into the kitchen to find her crying while peeling onions. She knew the onions did not cause the tears.
“I’ve failed, Miss Amanda. I couldn’t get the key. Everyone is leaving at ten for the hanging. Lord Dunmore has graciously allowed the staff to have the time off. I told cook I had no stomach to see a man hung.”
Hope rose again. If everyone, William included, left for the hanging...
She knew they’d come for Jeffrey at noon. That left two hours to search William’s room, retrieve the journal and race to the gallows.
Exactly at ten, after the staff left, she and Julie stole into William’s room. Hatpin in hand, Julie picked the lock. The process took longer than Amanda had anticipated. Searching for the journal, they tore the room apart, but found nothing.
Grief and rage filled her. Jeffrey would die. She must be calm and logical. Where would William keep such a private book? She closed her eyes, imagining all the naughty times William stole a kiss, imaging him gloating and licking his fat lips as he recorded those kisses in the book, dreaming of even sweeter victories, such as bedding her...
In frustrated rage, she stomped her foot.
A board rattled. Amanda stared at the pinewood floor. Dropping to her knees, she wrestled with a plank and lifted the board free.
“Julie, look!”
Inside a small hollow was a red leather book. Amanda grabbed it and scanned the pages. Tears of joy and relief flooded her eyes.
“It’s here!” She snapped the book shut. “I must flee. I brought Liberty with me, for he’s the fastest horse we own. I must ride hard to the gallows to save my husband!”
Julie stared. “But how can you stop a hanging? Who will listen to you?”
She smiled grimly, thinking of the pistols hidden in Liberty’s saddlebag. “I have two very special friends people will listen to. Oh aye, they will indeed listen.”
Chapter Twenty-three
HE HEARD THE creaking of the death wagon before it pulled to a halt outside the gaol. They had come for him at last.
With a trembling hand, he finished penning his last words to his beloved Mandy. Four days he had waited, cursing his stubborn pride that had banished her from his side. He could not erase his love, no matter if Mandy did betray him. So he waited in hope for her sweet face to show once more. But she did not come.
George visited, bringing Jeffrey’s fiddle. When pressed, his lawyer grimly confessed that Amanda spent time with William Christopher. Seemed the whole town saw how she already sought a new husband.
His heart twisted in his chest, but his writing did not slow. He finished and scribbled his name, ruefully noting the large inkblot, like a black tear, upon the last letter. When Peter Pellam came to fetch him, he handed him the note. Pellam promised its delivery.
Jeffrey did not resist as they led him from the cell. Just yesterday, they’d come for William Pitt and John Watkins, also found guilty and sentenced to hang. Watkins offered no resistance but Pitt screamed and kicked. Jeffrey’s stomach clenched as the men dragged his cellmate away, Pitt fighting and sobbing and pleading. Not for him. Jeffrey vowed to go in dignity.
As they rode to the gallows, he sat atop a rough wood coffin, the reverend next to him. Dust eddies kicked up by the wind swirled and danced. Jeffrey smelled the pungent odor of fresh manure, the freshness of newly-mown grass.
He watched a horse crop grass with such peace, he wanted to capture that feeling, hold it tight and never let go. A leaf broke loose from an oak tree, drifted down and settled at his feet. He picked it up and thumbed its texture, feeling the veins, jagged edges and smooth surface. Lifting it to the wind, he released it. It drifted, fluttering, skittering toward the azure sky. Heaven must be this blue.
He breathed deeply, feeling life-giving air fill his lungs. Sorrow rippled through him. No fear rode his shoulders this day, only a deep, piercing sadness he’d never walk this way again.
’Twas a fine day to die. As he inhaled the scent of delicate wild flowers and fresh earth, keen regret stabbed him. Meg would lose another she loved. Her children, whom he loved as his own, would be left without a man to guide them. He tried not to think of Amanda.
The bell atop the Capitol clanged mournfully, accompanying the creaking cart wheels in a macabre melody. Jeffrey felt an aching need to overcome this deep depression. Turning to the chaplain, he asked for his fiddle.
The chaplain glanced at the sheriff and his man riding up front. “It would do no harm, and I’ll not deny a man his last request.” He shifted off the coffin and retrieved the instrument. George Wythe had insisted the sheriff place the fiddle inside for Jeffrey wished to be buried with it.
Smiling his thanks, Jeffrey tucked the fiddle beneath his chin. Its familiar shape provided a small comfort. Bow in hand, he tried to play, but could not summon a lively tune. ’Twas as if his hand resisted, recognizing the somberness of the ride. He closed his eyes and struck up a mournful rendition of “I Once Loved a Lass.” The haunting ballad told the story of man so unhappy over his beloved wedding another man that he only wanted his grave dug to forget her.
He thought of Amanda’s lovely, haunting voice. Softly he began to sing the words. Tears burned the back of his throat. He’d had no chance to bid good-bye and confess his love. If only he’d not been so stubborn and told her to go. If only he
had one last embrace, one last kiss. She was the light of his life. Now the flame had been extinguished. Only a fierce darkness was left in its place.
He opened his eyes and saw the good reverend’s cheeks stained with wetness. “’Twas quite lovely, my son. Very sad.”
“Aye,” Jeffrey agreed. “Too sad. ’Tis a sad enough occasion, do you not think? I’ll try for a merrier tune.” He summoned his strength. He’d not ride to the gallows feeling sorry for himself. These were his last moments. He wanted them to be filled with life’s little joys.
Though his fingers trembled, he struck up another tune. A wide smile split his face as he began to bellow out the words to “Nottingham Ale.” The reverend’s gaze widened, but he joined in the lusty song.
The sheriff turned with a look, then turned back, shaking his head.
As they finished, Jeffrey grinned and set down fiddle and bow. Then his smile fled as the wagon of death rambled down Hangman’s Road.
At the end of this journey, he would die.
Tree branches stretched over his head like long brown arms. The growing noise of a crowd greeted him. As the cart rolled through the woods to a clearing, his heart banged hard. Now he could see the tall, three-cornered gallows, a single rope dangling from its center. In front were masses of people, sitting in the grass and munching on food.
’Twas a picnic. The smell of roast duck and Virginia cider drifted toward him. He wanted to retch, but forced back the nausea rising in his throat.
Even the reverend blanched. “Dear Lord, ’tis as if the entire town has turned out for your execution.”
Jeffrey offered a cocky grin to disguise his mounting despondency. “And why not? ’Tis not every day they get to see a rebel hang.”
The coffin beneath him felt hard and unyielding, reminding him of how he’d ride back in the wagon. He hoped his family and friends would not weep too much. He dared not scan the crowd’s faces, fearing he would not see his Mandy.
The cart pulled up beneath the gallows rope. Jeffrey clenched his teeth, rose from his coffin and placed fiddle and bow inside with a sorrowful heart. He knelt at his coffin for the reverend’s blessing and prayer, and then the sheriff read the official warrant. He could scarce hear for the loud buzzing in his ears.
He stood, shaking off the reverend’s offer of assistance. Resisting the impulse to recoil as the rough rope was slipped around his neck, he closed his eyes instead.
“Sheriff, I am here as his lordship’s personal representative to ensure this prisoner is properly executed.”
His eyes shot open. Jeffrey stared in dawning horror at William Christopher. As with many other spectators, the man was eating. He finished the pastry, licked his fingers.
The sheriff grumbled, but stepped aside. Christopher grunted as he climbed into the cart. He scrutinized the rope around Jeffrey’s neck. Desperately, Jeffrey fought to control his trembling hands as the sheriff bound them in back.
“Have you any last words, Clayton?” Christopher’s sneer scraped against Jeffrey’s raw skin. Frustration and keen rage filled him as his arch enemy gloated.
Nay, he’d not give him satisfaction of seeing fear. If it took every last ounce of courage, he’d stand tall and proud. Jeffrey prayed for dignity. For bravery. For a miracle.
“Aye, I have last words, but they will be lost on dumb ears such as yours,” he stated, straightening his spine.
Christopher stiffened, but the reverend held up a calming hand. “Let him speak then. A man deserves some last words before his spirit leaves this earth.”
“Thank you, Reverend.”
He lifted his head and stared at the crowd with fierce intensity. He fought back emotion as he spotted Meg in front, tears streaming down her cheeks. A stricken George stood next to her, a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders. Jeffrey felt a stab of intense pity for his friend. ’Tis not your fault, George. You fought the good fight.
No sign of Mandy. His heart ached. Jeffrey set his shoulders like flint.
“I die an innocent man, framed for arson. There are those here who know my innocence and think they can silence me through death. But I say this. Kill me now and I shall rise up in the people. My voice will speak from beyond the grave. My life is but one. You cannot kill us all. We, the people of America, have a spirit of freedom you cannot crush. Nay, you try and we will rise up and claim liberty. May she long ring out every time injustice is committed, every time a tyrant imposes his will upon the people. Freedom is our God-given birthright. May freedom live long in the spirit and will of the American people. God save America.”
The last sentence rose on a fever pitch, uttered in a deep, sonorous tenor. Though Patrick was miles away, he could almost hear him applauding.
The reverend looked upon him with admiration, Christopher with distaste. The crowd applauded. Some women began to weep.
“God grant you peace, my son,” the clergyman said, laying a hand upon his shoulder. Jeffrey bowed his head as the reverend read from the 23rd psalm.
“Say what you will, Clayton,” Christopher’s cold whisper scraped across his raw nerves. “Know you go to your grave, Amanda will be nestling in my arms this night. She will be my wife and bear my children. Why you’ve probably wondered why she’s not gone to you these last few days. She’s been with me. She’ll not come even to bid you farewell. I shall know the delights of bedding her while your body lies rotting in the earth. Indeed, I shall take my pleasure with her while you burn in the bowels of Hell with the other patriot scum who will join you after His Majesty’s forces gather together.”
Jeffrey squared his shoulders, determined not to show the aching agony Christopher’s words caused.
In louder voice Christopher said, “This rope is too loose.”
With a gleeful sound, he tightened the noose. Jeffrey coughed, feeling the rough rope close around his life. His heart thudded like Indian war drums, making blood pound in his ears. Fear filled every pore. As soon as the wagon rolled forward, he’d hang. Terror threatened to dishonor and humiliate him.
Beg for clemency, it whispered. Not too late. Throw yourself at Christopher’s mercy. Anything is better than this noose.
From deep within, he found a glimmer of courage. He fed it with hope his death would proclaim a message and stir others to action. Perhaps his death would spark the very action needed to fight the British for freedom.
“Time to blindfold the prisoner.” Christopher dangled a black silk cloth before him.
Jeffrey shook his head. “Nay, I shall not hide from death, but look at it straight away. I die proclaiming my innocence. My death shall be on your conscience.”
Christopher shrugged. “So be it. Makes no difference to me.”
The sheriff hesitated. He seemed reluctant to do his duty. Jeffrey eyed him with pity.
“Any last requests?”
He thought rapidly. “Just one more minute. I’ve one more prayer to send to Heaven.”
Closing his eyes, Jeffrey prayed to feel his Mandy’s arms around him one last time.
His wife. If only one last kiss, one last feel of her soft white arms wrapped around him, one last look at those lovely violet eyes. With an anguished sigh, he opened his eyes and saw Christopher gloating look.
The pompous ass. Courage filled Jeffrey. He squared his shoulders and steeled his spine and sang a liberty song. His voice sounded scratchy because of the rope’s pressure, but he sang louder still. The song rippled through the crowd. One by one, they began to sing along. His spirits lifted. Damn, he’d die today, but at least die like a man, a radical to the end.
Through the singing, came distant hoof beats. A last minute miracle? Christopher jumped off the wagon as the sheriff made ready to crack the whip over the horse.
As the newcomer drew close, Jeffrey’s gaze widened with shock. Pleasure. Wild disbelief and uncertain hope.
Christopher followed his gaze and uttered a loud choking cry. “’Tis not! Cannot be!”
“’Tis most certainly so.�
��
Jeffrey grinned as Amanda rode up and dismounted in a fury. She charged toward the wagon. His grin widened at what she held in both hands.
She aimed both pistols at Christopher. A wave of fierce pride filled his heart at the magnificent sight of his wife, unbound rose gold tresses flowing in unkempt glory, cheeks stained with color. She looked like an avenging Greek goddess. Her voice was pure nectar poured from Olympus.
“Remove the noose from my husband’s neck, William, or I shall be forced to put a bullet hole larger than the size of your conscience in your head. Can you imagine how painful it will feel?”
Jeffrey had a noose about his neck. Amanda swallowed fear and let rage take over. She balanced the heavy dragoon pistols, praying William would listen to reason.
Jeffrey, her beloved. Standing at the back of the wagon, his broad shoulders squared, he waited for death. His song had filled her with overwhelming love and pride as she spurred Liberty toward the gallows. Jeffrey’s deep voice filled her with courage. The cocky grin she adored replaced his look of astonishment.
She brandished both pistols, praying her aim and hands held equal steadiness. “I have proof of his innocence and I’ll not have you hang an innocent man before I present it.”
Rage contorted William’s face, but the sheriff hastily obeyed her request. He loosened the hard knot and slid the rope from Jeffrey’s neck, then untied his hands. Stepping far away from the rope, her husband heaved a huge sigh of pure relief.
The captain glowered at her and stepped aside. Amanda tracked his movements. “What possible proof could you present that would prevent us from carrying out the deed? Your husband will hang. ’Tis certain, no matter what you say. And you yourself are in danger of arrest for threatening a British officer.”
“Sheriff, when you hear my words, you will not arrest me, but another.”
Amanda lowered the pistols, placed them on the wagon, then withdrew a slim volume from her skirt pocket. William’s face paled. The sight delighted her.
She never stopped surprising him. George and Meg approached the sheriff, but he scarce saw them, his gaze focused on his Mandy.
The Patriot's Conquest Page 26
