“One for one is not an acceptable exchange, Louis. They have far more men than we do! Now forty-nine has become forty-eight.”
Jane seethed as Robert strode back to the house. “I heard all that, Uncle Robert. Good men have died, and you talk only of numbers!”
“This is war,” he snapped. “Numbers mean the difference between victory and defeat. If that bothers you, perhaps you should have left with Arthur.”
“Perhaps I should have,” she replied sharply, and turned away.
A steady rain fell throughout that second day. There was no further sign of the enemy. Some militiamen declared that the big-talking rebels were discouraged and had slunk away defeated. Robert knew better. But he tried to sound optimistic when he visited the ailing Clarissa. It grieved him to see her laid low by her stubborn illness.
“Believe me, my dear, if I could choose between vanquishing our foes and having you back in the bloom of health, I would gladly choose the second.”
“Thank you, Robert, but I fear you have no such choice,” she said with a wispy smile. “Now tell me, how is it going out there?”
“The men think we’ve seen the last of the rebels. They could be right. We will prevail. That much is certain.”
“No, it isn’t,” Clarissa replied. “What is certain is that whatever happens will happen to us together. And that’s all that matters.”
Coming in to bid her aunt good night, Jane paused in the doorway. Robert was kneeling beside the bed, Clarissa’s arms around his neck. Jane turned away, unseen. Something good comes from something bad, she thought. The worse things get, the stronger their love becomes.
At that moment, in a forest clearing half a mile away, Captain Jacques Lambert stepped into the tent of Major Thomas McNeal, commander of the forces besieging Rosewall. “You sent for me, sir?”
McNeal, a burly man with brick red hair and a square jaw, handed him a letter. “A courier left this with my orderly this afternoon. It’s from Arthur Ainsley.”
Jacques began to read, mumbling aloud. ‘“As Governor Rutledge’s representative for this district, I am authorized to instruct you regarding the campaign against Rosewall Plantation. Maintain your siege, but do not attack until my assistant arrives in a few days to instruct you further—’ ”
Scowling in anger, Jacques broke off. “Why, this is outrageous, sir! After sweating blood to capture this place, we should stand aside while one of Ainsley’s cronies comes and takes all the credit?”
“Ainsley’s a powerful man. We can’t afford to ignore this.”
A cunning glint came to Jacques’s eyes as he handed the letter back. “But we could lose it. Since it wasn’t put directly into your hands, it could’ve been soaked by the rain or blown away by the wind before you saw it.”
“That’s true, it could,” the commander agreed thoughtfully.
“The next attack is ready, sir. Just say the word.”
McNeal slowly tore the letter in half. “The word is dawn tomorrow.”
At dawn the next day, the full horror of war burst upon the defenders of Rosewall. First came another assault at the gate. Suffering no casualties, the defenders quickly congratulated each other, convinced they had driven off the enemy. But the action at the gate was only a diversion. The real attack came in the rear. The turret on the south wall was set ablaze, and the guard was forced to abandon his post. Within seconds, rope ladders were flung over the wall. The unthinkable was happening: The great fortress was being invaded. Rebels, shrieking like demons from hell, swarmed over the wall to be met by other demons, the fierce-eyed defenders.
The two Rosewall commanders screamed themselves hoarse, urging their men on to valiant action. Their voices could barely be heard over the explosions of muskets, the clash and clang of swords and bayonets, the shouts and cries of soldiers in hand-to-hand combat. Men who had been neighbors just a few months before were now fighting a desperate battle to the death.
Inside, Omar calmly watched the battle through a crack in the boards he and Robert had nailed over the downstairs windows. The entire downstairs was now cloaked in a dusky gloom. Upstairs, Clarissa lay motionless in her bed, listening. In her room down the hall, Mrs. Morley cried hysterically, “Dear Lord, those bloodthirsty savages will slaughter us all!” Jane tried to calm her, but to no avail. Thank God for Cuba, she thought. Only Cuba, with her unquenchable cheerfulness, could keep Mrs. Morley from dissolving in panic.
After twenty minutes of ferocious combat, the Rosewall militia succeeded in repelling the invaders, who scrambled back up their ladders and away. But there was no celebrating among the victors. Dazed and exhausted, they surveyed a bloody battleground strewn with fallen soldiers, then turned to the grim task of separating the wounded from the dead, their own from the enemy.
Jane, who had come out to help, shuddered at the gruesome scene. Soon, kneeling beside a man lying facedown near the base of the wall, she turned him over—and drew back, gasping in horror. It was Jacques Lambert, barely alive, his shirt blood soaked, his tanned and weathered face unearthly pale.
“My God!” Cradling his head, she called frantically to a militiaman, “Get Mr. Warren, quickly! And tell Mr. Lambert his brother’s here!”
“Do not trouble yourself, mademoiselle.” Jacques smiled weakly. “To die in the arms of a charming young lady . . . What more could a soldier ask? Although . . .” His voice, and the light in his eyes, were fading rapidly. “I would have preferred . . . the lovely . . . Clarissa . . .”
Jane stepped back as Louis Lambert rushed to Jacques’s side. He dropped to his knees beside his fallen brother. “Hold on, my boy! Warren will look after you. I beg of you, stay with us!”
But Jacques had floated away. Bending over the lifeless body, Louis bowed his head and sobbed in uncontrollable grief.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lambert,” Jane said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. But her words were as useless as the tears filling her eyes.
The rest of the day was spent burying the dead. It was hard for men saying farewell to fallen comrades to give the same respectful treatment to their enemy. But Robert had ordered it, so they did their best. Robert presided alone over the burial ceremonies held in the southwest corner of the garden—Louis Lambert was nowhere to be seen. Jane gazed dully at Robert as he stood next to the shallow grave prepared for the dead soldiers—exactly where a glorious row of camellias had once bloomed. She knew the horror of this day would haunt her in nightmares forever. She also knew something else: It was time for Uncle Robert to face the truth.
Late that night when the house was quiet, she found Robert at his desk in the study, frowning over a list of figures. “Come in, Jane,” he said. “I’ve just been calculating our losses. Six dead, ten wounded, three deserted. One of the deserters, I regret to say, is Louis.”
“Really!” Jane exclaimed. “So that’s why he wasn’t at the burials.”
“Yes. Losing Jacques just took his heart out of it, he said.” Robert shrugged. “Well, every man must make these decisions for himself. So we’re down to twenty-nine now, but the other side left nine dead and fourteen wounded today. In the end, we hurt them more than they hurt us.”
“That must please you very much,” Jane said acidly.
Robert sighed with long-suffering patience. “Jane, I know you think I’m made of stone, thinking only of numbers. But names and faces no longer mean anything to me—not since we lost Brandon. I used up all my grief on him.”
“I grieve for Brandon, too, but that doesn’t make me forget about everyone else. How many men must die for no good reason before you realize—”
“No good reason!” Robert’s voice hardened. “You still don’t know what we’re fighting for? What have you been doing for the past five years?”
Fire came to Jane’s eyes. “What have I been doing? Slowly, painfully realizing that I’m an American—that’s what I’ve been doing! I now see many things very clearly, and for everyone’s sake, it’s time you saw them, too!”
Robert stared at Jane as if he had never seen her before. “Good God! You, too? Well, if it’s all so clear to you—tell me, what should I see?”
Drawing a long breath, Jane answered in a sad, gentle tone. “That for you, Uncle, the war is over. It’s over, and you’ve lost.”
He glared at her. “Arthur was right,” he muttered. “I should have sent you all out before. But it’s not too late. Tomorrow out you go, all of you.”
Jane shook her head. “That’s impossible. Aunt Clarissa’s too ill, and Mrs. Morley would die of fright. Besides, I’m not going to turn my back on you at such a time. Please, Uncle. Can’t we discuss this reasonably?”
He rose slowly to his feet. “Tomorrow, with or without you, I continue the fight,” he said between teeth clenched in fury. “That is all I have to say to you. Good night.” And it was he who turned his back on her.
They say it’s darkest just before the dawn, she thought, standing at her window hours later, staring up at cold stars that studded an intensely black sky. Dear Lord, will the dawn ever come? Soon, as she often did when standing at her north-facing window, she focused her gaze toward far-off Pennsylvania. Simon . . . will I ever, ever see you . . . ? The question was unanswerable—except, perhaps, with that ever-elusive someday.
Chapter 37
Major Thomas McNeal was angry. Angry at himself for allowing a foolish over-the-wall invasion that cost him twenty-three good men, including the excellent Captain Jacques Lambert. And angry at the stubborn master of Rosewall, whose defiance had cost so many lives. Now, however, McNeal finally had the ultimate weapon at hand. It had taken days to arrive, and backbreaking labor for a dozen men all night long to haul it into position. But at last, at the favored hour of attack—just before dawn—Robert Prentice would pay for his stubbornness.
“Ready, sir,” the gun crew sergeant reported.
“Fire,” snapped McNeal.
Within seconds, the cannon roared.
Jane, who had just fallen asleep after a restless night, sat bolt upright in bed. She had heard that earthshaking sound before, but never so terrifyingly close. A moment later, Robert shouted at her from the hall.
“Jane, I’ve got Clarissa. Call Mrs. Morley and get out! Quickly now!”
Major McNeal grimaced in annoyance. The first shot had sailed harmlessly over the plantation house. “Too high!” he barked at the gun crew. “Lower your sights fifteen degrees and prepare to fire again.”
With Cuba’s help, Robert established his sick wife in a makeshift bed beneath a tree far from the house. Suddenly he realized that Jane and Mrs. Morley had not followed.
“Where are those women?” he growled.
“I go get ’em,” Cuba said, quickly returning to the house.
As Cuba reached the central staircase, the cannon boomed again. This time the great house took a direct hit, shaking all over.
Cuba peered into the gloom above. “Miss Jane? You up there?”
Jane’s anxious voice came back to her from the top of the stairs. “Yes, but I can’t find Mrs. Morley!”
Cuba hurried upstairs. “I find her, you go on out.”
“Not till she’s—”
“I find her, I said! Go on now, scat!” Cuba’s sharp tone permitted no dispute. She took Jane by the shoulders and pointed her down the stairs.
Robert roamed the yard, warning his frightened men against their worst enemy—panic. He cursed the enemy outside. “Damn those villains! Cannon, for God’s sake! Who would have dreamed they’d resort to such a cowardly, dishonorable . . .” Fury choked him into silence.
Upstairs, Cuba groped along the dark, dust-filled hallway. “Mrs. Morley!” she called. “Where are you, ma’am?” She got no answer, but her keen ears picked up a pitiful wail coming from somewhere up above.
“Lordy, not up there!” she groaned. Cuba climbed the narrow staircase to the lofty room she had never before entered—the master’s observatory. Mrs. Morley stood before the tall windows, arms uplifted as if appealing to heaven for salvation. A pearl pink dawn tinted the eastern sky. It was a pretty sight, in its way—and it was the last thing Cuba saw before the next cannonball struck.
Through his spyglass, Major McNeal studied the jagged ruins at the top of the house. “Excellent.” He turned to his crew. “Now set your sights five degrees above dead level. We’ll let the gun cool down a bit, then we’ll go for the wall.”
As Jane ran back to look for Cuba and Mrs. Morley, Omar emerged from the darkness and smoke in the house behind him.
“You not go in there, miss,” he commanded.
“But Cuba, and Mrs.—”
“Omar found ’em.” His voice was low, his noble features calm. “Ain’t no use, miss. They both dead.”
Jane froze in shock. Please, she thought desperately, let this be just another nightmare to be endured. “No, Omar,” she cried. “They can’t be!”
“Your friend gone, miss. Cuba gone, too. Now, time for Omar to go.”
“W-what do you mean? Go where?”
“Yonder.” The black man gazed westward beyond the wall. “Over the far mountains, where the sun goes down.”
Jane, who had once urged him to run away, now clung to his arm in a frantic effort to prevent it. “Omar, don’t! You’ll die out there!”
“You not worry, Omar find his way.” Gently freeing himself from her grasp, he gave her a light pat on the cheek. “You good little lady, Miss Jane. Heart full of kindness. May blessings fall down upon you, all your days. Good-bye.”
Blinded by brimming tears, Jane could only stare helplessly after him as he strode away, quickly disappearing from view. Then, just as she had when Brandon died, she sank down on the steps and rocked back and forth, lost in grief. Blown with the windy tempest of my heart . . . Those words of anguish kept coming back to her. Buffeted by the terrible tempest of the times, her heart was blown desolate and bare.
In the yard, Robert was trying desperately to rally his troops once more. “For God’s sake, are you all cowards? Get up on the wall. Return fire!”
“How can we return cannon fire with no cannon of our own?” one of the men shouted at him.
“You have muskets!” Robert shouted back. “Use them! Use whatever you have—sticks, stones, your bare hands if you have to—but fight!”
Another man, clutching a flag made of a piece of tattered white cloth tied to a pole, spoke up. “Sir, we have done what mortal men can, but now it’s time to—”
“To what?” Robert bellowed. “Submit, and cover ourselves in shame? Out of my sight!” He struck awkwardly at the despised white flag. As it spun out of the man’s hands, the cannon’s thunder rolled across the sky again.
The ground shook. The east wall quivered, and when the cloud of dust and debris settled, a huge crack zigzagged from top to bottom.
“The wall’s going!” the men cried, running for cover. As he watched his men scatter, something snapped deep within Robert’s fevered mind.
“Run, you yellow dogs!” he raged like a madman. “You may be beaten, but not I—never! Look how a true king’s man defies the rebel horde!”
Brandishing a musket, he ran toward the east wall.
Scanning his target through a spyglass, Major McNeal could hardly believe his eyes. “Some lunatic’s up on the wall waving a musket!” he told his gun crew. “Set your sights five degrees to the right, and fire away.”
The great gun roared for the fifth time. When the dust cleared, the wall was cracked in another place, and the “lunatic” was no longer there.
“Now we’ll let them think about it for a while,” the major told his crew. “Perhaps they’ve had enough.”
Jane was the first to reach her uncle, who was lying senseless at the base of the badly damaged wall. George Warren, the militia’s physician, and another man were coming with a stretcher. Jane watched in an agony of suspense as Robert was carried off to the makeshift hospital. Unsure whether he was dead or alive, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw his eye
lids flutter. Barely conscious but still defiant, he mumbled, “Got to keep fighting. Never give up . . . never . . .”
An eerie silence had fallen over the grounds. In one corner, Clarissa lay very still on her pallet, either unaware of what was happening or no longer caring. In the yard, the remaining militiamen, leaderless and bewildered, milled about aimlessly. Jane’s wandering gaze fell on the white flag lying a few feet from where she stood. And as she stared at it, a dreadful weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. Suddenly she knew exactly what to do.
When George Warren returned a few minutes later, he stopped short in astonishment to see the militiamen lined up behind a new leader, all heading straight for the gate. The guard drew back the bolt, and as the great gate swung open, the first rays of the rising sun glinted on its iron bars.
With the white flag fluttering high in the morning breeze, Jane Prentice led the vanquished defenders of Rosewall out to surrender.
Chapter 38
Although greatly pleased with his conquest of Rosewall, Major McNeal did not feel particularly generous toward its former defenders. He spent the morning restoring some order to the war-torn Rosewall grounds. In the afternoon, flanked by several junior officers, he set up his own “military court” in the dining room. Now he was grilling George Warren.
“I’m rapidly losing patience, Mr. Warren. Mr. Lambert, who’s been in our custody since yesterday, has been most uncooperative. And my company doctor says that Mr. Prentice is unfit to appear before this court. That leaves you, as third in rank. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Standing stiffly correct, Warren replied with dignity. “I can say only that I cared for all the wounded as best I could. Yours, as well as ours.”
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