General Ross marched into the chamber and halted. Frowning, he folded his arms across his chest, and Alex got the impression he was not at all pleased at the way Cockburn conducted himself. Yet after a few minutes, the general slipped out, doing nothing to stop the insolent mayhem.
As the men began gathering furniture to burn, Alex’s gaze landed on a large black book atop a curved mahogany desk at the front of the room. It seemed to beckon to him, and before he knew it, he had eased from his spot by the door and inched closer, trying to avoid attracting the attention of Admiral Cockburn still sitting in the elevated chair. The closer Alex got to the book, the faster his heart beat. A Bible. And beside it on a placard, were painted the words, “In God we trust.” He raised his eyes once again to the unfinished engraving on the marble trim lining the room. “In God …” it began.
Alex retreated to his spot by the door and scratched his head. Mr. Drummond had told him that the government in America prided itself on staying out of religion. Alex had assumed that meant that the government had nothing to do with religion and faith. But from the presence of the Bible in their Senate chamber and the words engraved on the placard and started on the trim above the room, the truth of the matter appeared to be quite the opposite. Americans deemed that government should stay out of religion, but they in no way wanted religion to stay out of government. In fact, this government appeared to embrace faith in God.
Vile laughter shook him from his thoughts as the men flung burning lanterns on top of a massive pile of desks, tables, and chairs in the center of the room. Alex’s throat went dry. He fingered the hilt of his sword. He must stop this madness. But how? He was one against thousands.
Cockburn marched from the room, laughing. Alex resisted the urge to plunge his sword into the admiral’s heart and instead, ground his teeth together as the flames began to lick the wooden legs and arms of the furniture. A swarm of troops fled the room behind the admiral, flinging obscenities in their wake. Soon, the whole chamber blazed with a heat so intense the glass of the lights began to melt. Alex darted out the door and stepped outside for some air only to see more flames leaping from the Senate chamber’s windows. The temporary wooden bridge that separated the two wings also burned, as well as a few nearby homes and the Library of Congress across the way. In truth, the whole city seemed ablaze as red and orange flames reached their flickering fingers up to God pleading for mercy.
Blood rushed to Alex’s head as a wave of nausea struck him. He stumbled to his knees beneath a tree and tried to collect himself. Tears burned in his eyes. This honorable, God-fearing, free nation had seen its last days. It didn’t seem right.
Cockburn and Ross mounted their horses, and Alex gleaned from the excited chatter around him that their next target was the American president’s home. Was nothing sacred? Alex gazed toward the distant forest, longing to return to the Drummond farm—to beg their forgiveness and forget that he once knew a nation of proud, free people.
But he couldn’t. Tensions were too high. He’d never make it alive.
Instead, he struggled to his feet, rubbed his eyes, and fell in behind the raucous crowd. The city that only moments ago had been shrouded in darkness now lit up as bright as day. Waves of heat from the flames swamped Alex as he dragged his feet over the sandy street. He hung his head, wanting to pray but not finding the words.
Clearly God had deserted them all.
CHAPTER 27
Clutching her throat, Rose backed away from the British soldier. Though he was not much taller than she, the broad expanse of his shoulders beneath his red coat spoke of great strength. A white baldric crossed his chest and disappeared beneath the red sash tied about his waist. The bloodstains on his red coat and gray trousers were the only marks on his otherwise pristine uniform.
She opened her mouth to ask him what he wanted, but her words emerged in a pathetic squeak. It didn’t matter. She could tell from the hatred and fury storming in his blue eyes that he wanted to kill her. Once again, he dabbed the blood-encrusted patch of hair atop his head. “You churlish American chit!” He reached for a sword that no longer hung at his side then glanced down at his belt for what she assumed were his pistols.
Also gone. Thanks be to God.
Rose drew a breath. “I’m sorry I had to hit you so hard, sir, but I could hardly have allowed you to murder my first lady.”
He grunted and surveyed the room.
“If you’re looking for Mrs. Madison, she has left.” Rose lifted her chin and met his gaze with defiance, though she felt none of the bravery that Mrs. Madison had attributed to her. Instead, her legs quivered like wet noodles.
“Dashed off like a coward, no doubt.” He sneered. “Like all the cowards in this city.”
Rose gripped the back of a chair to keep from crumbling to the ground. “What do you expect, corporal? We are but innocent women and children.”
His gaze wandered over the food-laden table, and he licked his lips. “None of you rebels are innocent.”
He took a step toward her, staggered, then shook his head. A spark lit his eyes, and he bent over and plucked up a knife tucked within his boot. Twisting it in his hand, he grinned with delight. Rose cast a harried gaze over the floor for her pistol. There it was, by the door where she’d dropped it. Out of her reach.
She would die soon. An odd peace settled upon her at the realization. She had fulfilled her destiny, and now God would take her home. It was for the best. Without Alex, and with the prospects of forever living under Mr. Snyder’s threats, she had no reason to go on. She prayed only that her passing would not be too painful.
The corporal advanced. This time there was no wobble in his step.
Rose squeezed the back of the chair until her fingers hurt. “I could have killed you, sir.”
He tugged at his white collar and grinned. “You should have.”
Reaching behind her, Rose groped across the table, seeking anything with which to defend herself. Her fingers latched onto a fork.
The corporal took another step toward her. The candlelight glinted off his knife.
Lord, help me. Rose clutched the fork and started to swing it forward when the sharp cock of a gun behind the corporal cracked the air. The soldier halted.
“Ah, just as I suspected.” The male voice bore no British lilt. But its familiar cadence caused Rose’s heart to collapse nonetheless. She peered around the soldier.
Mr. Snyder’s stylish figure filled the doorframe. His pistol swerved between Rose and the British soldier.
The corporal’s eyes narrowed, more with disdain than fear. Tucking the knife beneath his coat, he turned to face this new threat, slowly raising his hands in the air.
Rose stared aghast at the councilman. She blinked, thinking her eyes must surely be playing tricks on her. “What are you doing here, Mr. Snyder?”
His brows rose above icy blue eyes. “Why, I followed you, Miss McGuire.”
“Followed … my word.” Rose’s head spun. She dropped the fork onto the table. “Thank God you arrived in time. As you can see, this soldier—”
“What I see, Miss McGuire”—Mr. Snyder seethed between clenched teeth—“is that you are consorting with the enemy.”
The British man moved, and Snyder snapped the pistol toward his chest. “Ah, ah, no you don’t, you odious redcoat. I’d have no qualms about shooting you where you stand.”
Rose’s thoughts whirled in shock and confusion. “Consorting with … are you daft?” Anger tossed her fear aside, and she fisted her hands on her waist.
The corporal lowered his gaze to the floor.
“Quite the opposite, I assure you. Wasn’t it bad enough you fraternized with one of them on your own farm? Now, I find you here in Washington”—he gave an incredulous snort—“in the White House of all places, delivering vital information to this officer.”
“Deliver …” Rose slammed her mouth shut to cool her temper and collect her chaotic thoughts. “I came here to warn the president of an impend
ing attack, you buffoon. And this man was about to kill me.”
“Yet, I see no weapons in his hand. Or on his person, for that matter.” Mr. Snyder smirked. “No, my dear, this time, I have caught you in the act. And if justice is served, you will be tried as a traitor to your country. Even I cannot overlook such bold treason.”
The soldier lifted his gaze. A bold, malicious look flashed in his eyes.
Ignoring the shiver that ran down her back, Rose stepped toward Mr. Snyder. “Don’t be absurd. Now, if you please, let’s bind up this man and be on our way. I fear the British are marching into the city as we speak.”
“No thanks to you, I’m sure.” Mr. Snyder eyed her with disgust. “I daresay, I am quite disappointed to discover that you are, indeed, a traitor, my dear. I was willing to lower my standards in order to gain your land, but I could never endanger my career as councilman by marrying a British spy.” He sighed. “More’s the pity. Now I shall have to find someone else to marry.”
Frustration bubbled in Rose’s gut.
An explosion thundered in the distance. The floor quivered. Mr. Snyder’s wide eyes flew toward the window, and the corporal darted toward the door and stooped to the ground. Rose’s gaze followed the reach of his hand, but before she could react, he grabbed the pistol Rose had dropped earlier. In one fluid motion, he leveled it at Mr. Snyder and fired.
Rose screamed.
Shock rolled over Mr. Snyder’s face. The pistol shook in his hand. He fell backward through the open door and the corporal leaped toward him. Mr. Snyder’s weapon discharged. The soldier halted in midstride, let out a shriek, and clutched his chest. Crumpling, he toppled to the ground. Mr. Snyder stumbled backward. Red blossomed on his silk waistcoat.
Dashing past the soldier, Rose grasped Mr. Snyder’s arm to steady him. He glanced down at the blood bubbling from his chest. His breath rasped in his throat. His legs gave out, and Rose eased him to sit on the floor.
“My word.” She scanned the room for anything to stop the bleeding. Dashing to the dining table, she grabbed a bundle of napkins and ran back to Mr. Snyder. He slumped to the wooden floor. Placing the cloths over his wound, she pressed as hard as she could. “We have to stop the bleeding.”
Mr. Snyder moaned.
“Never fear, Mr. Snyder. It’s just a bullet wound. I’ve dealt with them before.” Her mind drifted to Alex and the wound in his thigh. Beneath her fingers, the maroon circle advanced on the cloth like an unrelenting army. Her stomach knotted. This was a much more serious wound. Dear Lord, please help him.
Shouts blared in through the window from outside. British voices. Jubilant voices accompanied by the bray of horses and the ominous thud of many boots.
Mr. Snyder’s wide eyes locked on Rose’s as he whispered, “The British are here.”
Amassed in a crush of exultant soldiers, Alex entered the American president’s house. Each step of invasion into the private home of the great leader forced his shoulders lower in shame. His comrades were not of the same mind. In fact, Admiral Cockburn, who had sauntered in ahead of Alex, seemed quite giddy as he declared to the poor young American bookdealer he’d corralled for a guide, “Ah, Jemmy’s palace at last!” He tipped up the front of his cocked hat. “Do give me a tour, lad. I wish to collect souvenirs that I may presently give to the flames.” He faced the troops standing in the foyer and waved a hand through the air. “Men, at your pleasure.” His release sent the soldiers scattering like ants from an anthill in search of treasure.
Alex wanted no part of it. Instead, he ambled behind the twelve officers who followed the admiral upstairs. Best to keep his eye on Cockburn and salvage anything of import during the mayhem, for Alex could think of no other reason God had allowed him to partake in this madness. If simply to witness the cruelty of his nation, he’d already seen enough. What other purpose could there be for his presence here besides to save some important document or national artifact from the angry flames?
The band of imperious men sauntered down a long hall to an open door from which spilled bright, flickering candlelight. The scent of beef and goose along with the metallic smell of blood and stench of sweat formed a malodorous blend that made Alex cringe. Thunder bellowed outside, mimicking the fury storming within him. As they approached the door, a dark shadow halted the admiral. A dead British soldier lay crumpled in the corner. Alex made his way through the crowd. No, not dead. A faint lift of the man’s chest and flutter of his eyes gave evidence of a lingering, yet dwindling life. A large crimson stain darkened his red coat. Kneeling, the admiral gazed at the man. “Crenshaw, go fetch the surgeon.” One of the men dispatched from the group and darted down the hallway.
“You.” Cockburn stood and pointed at Alex. “What is your name, lieutenant?”
“Reed, Alexander Reed, sir.”
“Stay with this man until the doctor arrives.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As the men filtered through the open door, Alex knelt beside the poor fellow. His ashen face, blue lips, and the gurgling sound in his throat, did not bode well for his surviving the night. Leaning back on his haunches, Alex peered into the large room, which from all appearances must have been the president’s formal dining room.
Cockburn surveyed the table with a hearty laugh. “Egad, how thoughtful of Jemmy! Up until now, I had considered him to be nothing but a fatwitted ruffian.” He took a seat at the head of the table and gestured for his officers to join him. As each man sat around the elegant spread, Admiral Cockburn snapped his fingers for the bookseller. “Pour me a drink, good fellow.” The thin, timid man filled the admiral’s cup from a pitcher of ale on the table.
He raised it in the air. “To Jemmy’s health.”
“To Jemmy’s health,” the men repeated before they all burst into a bout of devilish laughter.
Alex tore his gaze from the scene and closed his eyes. Such insolent lack of respect. The sounds of glass breaking, wood splitting, and raucous laughter drifted down the hall as the soldiers ransacked the mansion from cellar to garret. The clank of silverware and the moist slap of lips from the dining room told Alex the men now brazenly partook of the president’s meal.
The soldier mumbled, and Alex opened his eyes to find the wounded man staring at him. The intense look on the man’s face nearly sent Alex backward. He opened his mouth and seemed to be trying to speak. Leaning forward, Alex brought his ear near the soldier’s mouth. “Rebels in the house. I shot one. The other’s a lady,” he managed to squeak out between strangled breaths.
Alex nodded and squeezed the man’s hands. “Hold fast. The doctor is on the way.”
The corporal shook his head. “They couldn’t have gotten out.”
“Another toast to Jemmy, gentlemen.” Admiral Cockburn’s insidious voice slithered over Alex from the dining room. “For being such a good fellow as to leave us such a capital supper.”
“Here, here,” the men chanted as another bout of pretentious laugher ensued.
Alex’s stomach churned.
The wounded corporal’s hand went slack in Alex’s and fell to the floor by his side. He released one final ragged breath, and Alex brushed his fingers over the man’s vacant eyes. Then bowing his head, he prayed for the violence to end. For this night to end.
Alex had seen enough death for one day.
Rising to his feet, he peered at the admiral and his officers shoving food into their mouths and drinks down their throats as they regaled each other with bombastic anecdotes.
Rebels in the house? Alex headed down the hall. Perhaps that was why God had sent him here. If there were injured rebels in the house, Alex had better find them before the British soldiers did.
With one hand, Rose dabbed her handkerchief over Mr. Snyder’s slick brow and cheeks while she kept the other pressed over his wound. He moaned, and Rose adjusted the pillow she’d made from his overcoat. The hollow thud of boots and the bone-chilling screech of laughter echoed through the thin walls of the small unfinished chamber Rose had d
iscovered at the other end of the house. Intended to be servants’ quarters or perhaps a storage area, the room was barren of furniture—save for the velvet-upholstered sofa she and Mr. Snyder hid behind. No rugs covered the wooden floors, no desks or chairs stood about, nothing hung on the walls, and no curtains framed the two large windows. The dark, empty chamber seemed to accentuate the noises around her: ominous footfalls, glass shattering, drunken laughter, crashes and thumps that kept her heart tangled in fear.
It had taken every ounce of her strength to haul Mr. Snyder to his feet and then—with him draped over her shoulder—assist him down the long hall in search of a hiding place. She had lugged him toward the back of the house and then up another flight of stairs before she could go no farther.
“Rose,” he whispered, his voice as ragged as his breathing.
“Shhh, Mr. Snyder. I’m right here.” She dabbed his forehead and looked at his blue eyes in the shadows—eyes that had lost the sting of arrogance and determination. Though she pressed as hard as she could on the wound, Mr. Snyder’s once gold waistcoat had transformed into a brown pond. Too much blood.
He was losing far too much blood.
Boots thumped nearby, and a door slammed in the distance. Rose swallowed a lump of terror. If any of the soldiers entered the room, she prayed the obvious lack of valuables would force them to leave. Unless, of course, they took the time to walk over and peek behind the sofa. If they did, perhaps the Lord would make her and Mr. Snyder invisible. Why not? Surely the Creator of the universe could perform such a simple task.
Despite the mad thumping of her heart and the sweat trickling down her back, Rose felt an inner peace. Whether God saw her through this harrowing night or took her home, she was content that His will would be done. And that it would be for the best. What a wonderful change God had worked in her heart from just a few days ago! Yes, some of her fear remained, but God’s peace had removed the sting from it, rendering it impotent.
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