Surrender the Night

by Marylu Tyndall

  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.

  O can’t you see yon little turtledove

  Sitting under the mulberry tree?

  See how that she doth mourn for her true love

  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.”

  Rose laid a hand on Mrs. Madison’s silk sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

  “But I did manage to save the portrait of dear George Washington. It used to be displayed there.” She pointed to the wall where a magnificent gilded frame hung empty like a vacant eye. “Jean managed to extricate it intact on its inner frame.” Mrs. Madison’s eyes regained their sparkle. “We gave it to some reliable friends who promised to take it away to safety. God knows what the British would do to it.”

  The pounding of horses’ hooves drummed outside, and Mrs. Madison darted to the window. Rose followed and peered below to see a Negro man waving his black hat through the air.

  “Clear out! Clear out! General Armstrong has ordered a retreat,” he shouted, his voice heightened in fear.

  “Why, that’s James Smith.” Mrs. Madison gripped the window frame. “He accompanied my husband to Bladensburg.”

  The man dismounted and rushed toward the house. Mrs. Madison swung around just as he barreled into the room and handed her a note. Breaking the seal, she unfolded it and began reading. Her face paled. Even the heavy rouge on her cheeks seemed to fade. “Mr. Madison orders me to flee.” She swallowed and glanced over the room. “So that’s the end of it. I must leave my home in the hands of those implacable British oafs.”

  She turned to Rose. “Please come with us, Miss McGuire. I promise you’ll be safe.”

  Rose grasped her gloved hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Madison, but I have a horse outside. I promise I’ll leave for Baltimore posthaste.”

  “Very well. Godspeed to you, dear.” She squeezed Rose’s hands. Her eyes glazed with tears. “Pray for our country. This is a dark day indeed. But our God is bigger than any force on earth, even the British.” She lifted one cultured eyebrow and drew a deep breath.

  Releasing Rose’s hands, she swept past the dining table, snatching as much silverware as she could hold along the way and stuffing it into her reticule. Jean followed her out the door, leaving Rose all alone.

  Hugging herself, Rose moved to the window. Mrs. Madison leaped into the waiting carriage with a servant girl in tow. The driver snapped the reins, and Rose watched as the vehicle dashed down the street until darkness stole it from her view. Thunder roared from the east. A chill struck her.

  She had saved the president’s wife!

  That must have been the important thing Daniel had said she would do—her destiny. Despite the fear, the terror, she had pressed through and done what God had asked of her. Thank You, Lord.

  And yet it appeared her country was about to fall under tyranny once again.

  Turning, she gazed at the fine fare set on the table. A shame it would all go to waste. Releasing a ragged sigh, Rose headed toward the door. She must leave the city and head back to Baltimore before the British arrived in full force. Head down, pondering her best escape route, she rounded the doorframe.

  And ran straight into a British soldier.

  The same soldier she had knocked unconscious. He tossed the remnants of ropes from his wrists to the floor and lifted a hand to touch the wound on his head. Dark eyebrows bent above eyes that smoldered with hatred.

  Shifting his weight, Alex winced at the pain from the blisters on his feet. His glance took in the band of two thousand troops, mostly redcoats, milling about among lit torches on the east lawn of the Capitol building. In the heart of Washington DC. Doffing his hat, he ran a bloody sleeve over the sweat on his brow and gazed up at the nearly full moon that drifted in between masses of dark clouds. Thunder bellowed. Or was it cannon fire? He couldn’t be sure. His ears rang constantly with blasts of guns from earlier that day. Would the pounding ever cease? Or would it always drum in his ears as a reminder of the day he’d helped to defeat freedom?

  As quickly as he wiped it away, sweat beaded once again on his brow. Though the sun had long since set, its oppressive heat remained. Only a slight evening breeze offered any relief. He supposed he should at least be thankful for that. Unavoidable anger swelled inside him. Anger that the British had won. Anger that they now intended to strip this great nation of its freedoms. And anger that he was being forced to partake in such a travesty.

  Tugging off his cravat, he ran it over the back of his neck as he listened to the excited chatter of the men around him. Voices, once stinging with fear, now buzzed with the excitement of victory.

  They’d entered the capital city of America without opposition, save for a volley of fire from a house when they’d first marched down Second Street. A house Admiral Cockburn had immediately torched, much to the dismay of anyone who had remained within. Now, as they waited before the seat of American power for someone—anyone—in authority to come out and discuss the terms of surrender, Alex began to wonder if a single soul remained in the city at all.

  Boom! An enormous blast lit the eastern sky. The soldiers snapped to attention, gripped their muskets, and stared aghast at the yellow and red flames flinging into the darkness at the end of Virginia Avenue. Fear silenced every tongue as they waited to be attacked. But no bullets whizzed past them, no cannon blasts thundered. Finally, a scout galloped off on horseback to investigate. No doubt, the Americans had destroyed something they didn’t want the British to confiscate. Which meant the cit
y, indeed, belonged to the British.

  Several minutes after the scout returned, Admiral Cockburn leaped on his horse and ordered the men to storm the Capitol building. As Alex filed in behind the troops, sharpshooters at the front of the line fired a volley through the windows of Congress. Admiral Cockburn thrust his sword into the air. “Storm the rebel bastion!” And the troops dashed forward in a chaotic wave of hatred and greed, breaking windows and bursting through the front door of the House of Representatives. With a heavy heart, Alex followed them inside. His defiance of the order would be too obvious.

  The Senate chamber was a stark contrast to the rustic appearance of the city streets. Velvet-curtained balconies circled the room above a marble trim on which some words had been etched. Rows of rich wooden desks and chairs lined a red and gold embroidered carpet. Ornate white columns guarded the main floor that opened to a painted oval ceiling above.

  While the troops scoured the building for objects of value, Alex took a spot just inside the chamber doors and watched as Admiral Cockburn sauntered through the impressive room, his face a mask of shock. “Indeed,” he turned to the officers following him. “I am all astonishment. This American senate chamber is a much more imposing spectacle than our own House of Lords.” He gave a sordid chuckle, straightened his coat, and mounted a platform. He sank into an elaborate wooden chair from which, Alex assumed, either the president or some other important government official conducted business.

  The admiral banged the gavel for attention. “Shall this harbor of Yankee democracy be burned? All for it, say aye.”

  “Ayes!” rang through the room like gongs of doom.