Читать книгу Home In Time For Christmas - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 5

New York City

Christmastide, 1776

Perhaps it was fitting that it should be such a cold and bitter, yet stunning, day.

Jake Mallory took a minute to appreciate the awesome glory of the morning. The heavens were an extravagant shade of blue. Light puffs of soft white clouds were slipping by. The sun, a golden orb, was en route to a high point in the sky as the early hours of the morning defied the darkness of the passing night.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

A fine day to die.

They had all known it, known they might be called upon to die, all of them who agreed that the colonies must break from Mother Britain. All those who had set pen to paper and signed the Declaration of Independence. All those who had led the armies. All those who had fought.

And spied.

Not that spying had actually been his intent. He was a soldier. Well, he hadn’t exactly wanted to be a soldier, either. Such an enterprise had not been his intent in life. He was a newspaperman—or, at least, that was what he had intended to be. Writing was his passion. His home was the small town of Gloucester, but even there, as in all the surrounding towns, the talk had been about politics. About breaking away. Then, there had been the Boston Tea Party.

Blood had been spilled.

He believed deeply in the freedom and equality of man. That and, of course, the editorials he had written regarding the need for the colonies to break free, were what had brought him to stand here today. In the taverns of Boston he had gotten to know many a man handy with a pamphlet, such as John Adams, who in turn had introduced him to another John—Hancock. He had become involved with men to whom the written word was a weapon. And handling such a weapon …

Had led to his carrying a different kind of weapon. And—quite sadly, really—to getting caught.

Ah, there was the rub. Getting caught. Men far too old to be soldiers knew that they would hang if captured by the British, if their cause failed.

So here he was today.

Upon the scaffold.

Truly, such a deplorable state of affairs.

Ah, well. He had written well, and sewn rampant seeds of rebellion. He had taken to the field, running missions; he had picked up a gun, as well. He was guilty of sedition, so they said. Words on paper could shout loudly, and his had been heard, far and wide.

There was a precedent for his death. He wouldn’t be the first to die here, hanged for his loyalty to a fledgling nation. Nathan Hale had died just a few months back. Hale had died heroically. Jake could only hope now that he could do the same.

Looking at the sky, one could almost pray for a miracle. There was such awe and wonder in the beauty of the sky. But there weren’t going to be any miracles. The British were firmly entrenched in the city. No sudden horde of rebels was suddenly going to break through the ranks of Lobsterbacks and save him. Nor was it likely that Hempton, the British major in charge of his fate, would find any way to suggest that they pardon their captive for the holiday.

The holiday …

It was almost Christmas.

Well, he was a God-fearing man, so maybe that was a good thing. He didn’t blame God for his fate. Things were what they were. It was a war, perhaps an ill-advised one, considering the might and power of the British war machine and the truly pathetic manpower and munitions of the Patriots. It was being fought on dreams and ideals. This morning, especially this morning, he had to keep believing in the dream. He had been in over his head, cast into a desperate position, and he had chosen the high road.

Of course, he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that it was just a wee bit difficult not to regret that choice right now.

“Sorry!” Captain Tim Reginald said to him. The British officer charged with the duty of slipping the noose around his neck had chafed his cheek with the coarse rope. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tim was a good enough fellow; they’d played cards together and shared a few drinks during the last days. He was young enough himself, a true Brit, following the way of the British army as his family would have him do. He was a man willing enough to fight for king and country, strong, intelligent and brave.

But executions were not his forte.

“Quite all right, good friend,” Jake said.

Poor Tim. A good man, yes. War was so strange. Men became enemies when they did not know one another. If he and Tim did not give their hearts, souls and loyalties to different drummers, they might have been good friends in truth.

It almost looked at if Tim would give way to tears. Ah, a good British officer could never do so. “Friend,” he said kindly to Tim, “don’t fear. I do not hold you responsible for my impending demise, nor does God above.”

Tim swallowed hard, just appearing more ill.

He could hear the Anglican minister droning on in prayer, advising him to pray, as well.

Jake prayed.

Jake did not pray for a miracle.

He did not waste prayers on what could not be. God helped those who helped themselves.

Therefore, there was just one prayer to make.

Dear God, do not let me falter; let me be the best man I am able in this moment. May it be quick; may I not dangle at the end of this rope. May I not cry out, but die with dignity in thy Grace!

As if in answer to his prayer, Major Hempton strode center on the scaffold. A hush fell over the crowd. Oh, and there was a crowd. Church bells pealed because it was almost Christmas, and folks should have been home cooking and thanking the good Lord for their loved ones, but hell, Christmas or no, a good hanging was a good hanging.

And in the sea of faces before him, there were those who cried—blessed, lovely women with their tearstained faces, those who rued his fate. Those who believed in the sovereign rights of America, and, of course, there were also those who thought he deserved his fate as a traitor against the mother country.

Hempton was a puffed-up peacock of a man. His position in the army had been bought through family ties. He did well enough making the occupied city of New York bow to its knees; he could drink well and lock his jaw in silence when he realized his gambling losses, but he was not the kind of man that the British military hierarchy wanted in the field.

“Good people of New York!” Hempton announced. “You see before you a gift for this Christmas season. A traitor! A man who would cast you into years of want and death and hardship! You out there who might think to make such a treacherous move against your mother country and the goodness of King George, beware! This is the fate that will meet all traitors!”

Really, it did help that Hempton was just a pompous ass. He was little, and therefore, wore very high boots. He was balding, so he took elaborate care with his wigs. He had a huge gut from overindulgence in food and wine, and thus truly gave the impression of a lobster in his red uniform. At least his appearance made for a last amusement Jake could enjoy on earth.

Trying for dramatic effect, Hempton swung around. “Any last words of regret, traitor?” he demanded.

“I regret that I failed my country, the United States of America,” he said. “I regret that I leave behind my family and good friends, and the future of freedom that will be in this great land!”

I leave behind family….

Suddenly, to his astonishment and dismay, his “family,” his adopted sister, was there before him.

Serena.

Sweet Serena, the little girl he had protected so fiercely ever since she’d lost her parents when they were young, and even more fiercely now that he’d lost his own. Little girl grown up now, furious, and facing the enemy. Serena, with her beautiful, wide, iridescent blue eyes. Her hair, like a raven’s wing.

But she couldn’t be there. Home was far away. Far up the coast, in Gloucester.

Someone had to get her out of here before she infuriated the wrong person. Good God, the British couldn’t hang a woman! Could they? This was war. Atrocities had occurred. No, no, no…

Stay silent, Serena, he begged in silence.

“Oaf! Traitor! “ Hempton stuttered out. Apparently, he had no ready argument.

Oh, dear God, Jake thought, I prayed for help to die well, and you have brought this woman who is the closest I have to kin left in the world to see the spectacle of my jerking limbs and dangling feet….

But she couldn’t be there, she couldn’t; word couldn’t possibly have reached her in time for her to make the journey to New York, it was impossible.

Not impossible. She was there.

“You are the oaf, sir!” she shouted to Hempton. “You would kill a man as Christmas comes?” Dear God, but that sweet voice of hers which could resound with such charming laughter could also peal out with the resounding sharp clarity of a bell.

He winced. She would get herself arrested. And with such a man as Hempton, he sincerely feared even a woman could ride a gallows and meet a hangman’s noose.

“Get it over with quickly, I beg of you!” he said quietly to Tim.

But Tim, like the rest of the throng—including Hempton—seemed to be caught up in the spell created by the ringing tones of Serena’s mockery. Hempton’s lips were puffing, but now he really seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Let goodness be, blessed be, let crimes against the heavens be not against man!” she cried out. She raised her arms. And she dropped rose petals.

Rose petals. In the middle of winter. Against the white of snow still upon the ground, and the crystal blue of the morning. Rose petals, like blood drops on the snow.

“Let Christmas be!” she cried out. “Christmas, and God’s grace on man, and woe to the enemies of love and peace. Shame on those who forget that we come into a season of love and forgiveness. What fool of a mortal fails to honor the likes of Christ, or those who teach us how to live in kindness and charity with our fellow men?”

The crowd was beginning to stir. There was something about the passion in her voice, and the sweetness. Those who wanted a spectacle of pain and death were shamed.

Hempton found his voice. “Hang him!” he shouted to Tim.

And Tim indeed looked as if he would cry.

“For the love of God, Timothy, now!” Jake agreed. “Please, my friend, I beg you. Now, before my sister meets the wrath of that wretched oaf, as well.”

Tim understood. His eyes were filled with the agony of his duty.

The noose was tightened. Jake looked at Serena. “I love you, dearest sister, sweetest friend. Go home!” he whispered. She shouldn’t have seen him; she never should have been here. When had she come to New York? It was impossible for her to be here.

But he could see her; she was there.

Crystal-blue eyes were upon his. “I love you,” she mouthed in turn. “And we will both come home for Christmas.”

There was a drumroll. Tim whispered with tears in his voice, “God forgive me!”

And he pulled the lever, and the trapdoor beneath Jake’s feet was sprung.

He fell….

And fell and fell..

He felt no pain.

Only the rush of the wind.

He saw the blue sky.

Then, at first, it seemed that Serena disappeared. Disappeared into a fine mist with only her smile seeming to linger as a vision in his heart.

Then, he felt a rose petal against his cheek. The sky was filled with falling rose petals.

A bloodred caress in the midst of a beautiful and snow-white day.