Traitor to the Crown (44 page)

Deborah shoved Proctor aside. “Please, Lydia.”

Lydia hesitated. “Did you see what she did? What she did to me? What they did to Abigail?”

“I won’t make you drop it,” Deborah said. “But I’m asking you to. There’s been enough violence. Enough
killing. We can only begin to heal these wounds with love.”

“No.” Lydia shook her head. “No, absolutely not.” She pulled the log back over her head. “I will never love that woman. I will never forgive her.”

When she brought her arms forward, she hurled the log into the darkness instead of bringing it down on the still form at her feet.

“Thank you,” Deborah whispered. She walked over and embraced Lydia.

“I did it for you,” Lydia said.

“You did it for yourself,” Deborah answered.

Proctor grabbed them both by the shoulders. “We must hurry,” he said. “Before the demons spread too far. We must call them back and return them to their own realm.” He took Dee’s position at the point of the star.

“What about Maggie?” Deborah asked, startled into the moment. Her head turned frantically in the dark. “We need to find her.”

“We must do this first,” Lydia said. “I don’t want those creatures free in this world, not even one of them.” She took Cecily’s point in the star.

Tarleton stepped up to the prince-bishop’s point. The bloody saber trailed from his hand, scratching a line through the rain-slicked grass. “I want to help.”

“Throw away the sword,” Deborah said.

Tarleton lifted the saber and looked at it. “I’ve trusted you for months. You protected me from that demon, even when you couldn’t free him or me. I’ll trust you in this.”

He cast the weapon aside.

They only had four points of the star covered, but it would have to do. Proctor closed his eyes and stretched out his hands, trying to remember the words that Deborah had spoken in the orchard at home before he left for France.

When he opened his eyes, Abigail’s spirit stood at the fifth point
What do we do now?
she asked.

She still didn’t seem to know that she was dead. Perhaps that was appropriate. He lifted his face toward the sky and felt the rain falling on him. “Let us confront evil with justice and mercy,” he answered. “Let us always answer fear with love. Let us turn every mark of destruction into a garden of hope.”

A cool light, pure and white, flowed out of Proctor’s right hand. It soothed the ache in his scarred finger, and for the first time in years he felt no pain in it. The light flowed from his hand around the circle and returned to him again, magnified to the fifth power.

“Yes,” Deborah whispered.

The star and circle glowed like ice in the moonlight, healing the marks made in the earth by Dee and returning it to its natural condition.

“Let this world be for the creatures born to this world,” Proctor said. “Let the world of spirit belong to the creatures born there. Let those who passed through the gateway here tonight be returned through the gateway to the world where they belong.”

The thin line of light that hung above the center of the circle began to vibrate and glow. As it widened into an oval, it started to spin. When it stopped spinning, it was a door of pure light that felt both close and far away, as if it waited at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Abigail’s spirit gasped.
That is so beautiful.

“Call them back,” Proctor said. “Call back all those who passed this way once already.”

From the open door of the house, a clock began to chime. From the portal, a second bell also chimed, deeper and more resonant. The hour was midnight. By the third stroke of the bell, the demons began to flow back through the gate. By the sixth stroke, whole files of the legion flowed through it, wailing and gnashing their
teeth. On the ninth stroke, Balfri appeared from two opposite directions, dragged against its will. The two halves beat wings against the air, trying to slow down. They grew in size and strength as they came closer together, and the more they grew, the stronger they resisted.

“If they’re not through by the twelfth stroke …?” Tarleton asked. He eyed his saber.

“Take them all,” Proctor said. “Take them all back.”

On the eleventh stroke, Balfri was sucked into the portal. Each half stuck out a hand and gripped the edge, refusing to go through. Both of them started clawing their way back out of the gate.

Abigail stepped into the circle and, spirit-to-spirit, pried their fingers loose as the twelfth stroke fell.

Balfri flew into the portal and the light snapped shut.

The five of them were all standing in the sudden darkness, in the rain, while the wind swirled and twisted around them. Tarleton squinted into the rain and said, “Well, this is the end of the war. Cornwallis meant to escape across the river tonight, but in this weather he won’t be able to. He’ll have to surrender to Washington tomorrow.”

Abigail dusted her hands and had opened her mouth to say something when she suddenly noticed that she, alone among all of them, glowed.

She blinked out of existence on the lawn and reappeared the next second on the steps of the mansion, where she’d been standing when the prince-bishop killed her. She turned and looked for Maggie.

Maggie, hiding in some bushes near the house, ran out with her arms open, yelling, “Abby!”

Abigail, grinning, reached down to pick her up. The toddler slipped right through her spectral arms. With a confused face, she looked at her hands and blinked out of existence. A second later she appeared again, looking for Maggie.

Deborah sprinted toward the stairs, followed by Proctor. She grabbed up Maggie and held her tight to her chest, rocking her back and forth.

“She’s beautiful,” Proctor said. She looked just like Deborah.

The mansion stood with lights in every window and the door wide open. Inside, the residents, all finely attired, stepped to the door and looked at the sky as if surprised by the rain. They looked dazed, like people waking from a sleep. The finely parqueted floors gleamed. Oriental rugs with elaborate designs filled the halls between rooms. Finely carved furniture lined the walls; fine paintings hung over them while elegant draperies framed the windows. Candelabra filled every room with light. One of the musicians coughed and nervously plucked at the strings of his cello.

“May we help you?” asked the mistress of the house.

“If you have any scotch, that would be a welcome blessing,” Tarleton said, stomping up the stairs. “You have a lovely place, but I would like to forget that I was ever here.”

Deborah and Proctor stood on the bottom step, with the ghost of Abigail shimmering in and out of existence above them and Lydia in the flickering shadows below. Deborah hugged Maggie close, rubbing her face against the little girl’s cheek until she was annoyed. “Here, say hi,” she said and tried to pass Maggie to Proctor.

Proctor held out his hands, but Maggie squirmed back into her mother’s arms and hid from him.

“Go on,” Deborah said and tried again.

Maggie shook her head and clung to Deborah. She peeked over her shoulder at Proctor, and said, “Who man?”

“That’s your father.” Deborah’s eyes met Proctor’s. She started to apologize, but he stopped her.

“How would she know who I am?” he asked. “She’s
never spent any time with me. I’ll have to make that right.”

Inside, the band struck up a lively song and people began to whirl and dance across the high-ceilinged room. Proctor stepped in close and wrapped his arms around Deborah and Maggie, hugging them both while the rain poured over them.

It was mid afternoon and Proctor and Deborah had been waiting since noon for the British army to arrive. Proctor had shaved and cut his hair. Deborah had found a cap and tied her hair back under it again. Both of them wanted to look their best for Cornwallis’s surrender.

The American and French armies lined the road out of Yorktown. The Americans were as mixed as the colonies: some were in uniform and others were not, some carried their issued weapons and others carried their own, some were clean and neat while others looked like they had just crawled out of a swamp. But in their countenance they were unified. Every man stood at attention and every face beamed with open joy. The French stood on the left of the road, an unbroken line of men in full and matching uniforms, their weapons as regular and even as fence-posts. Their expressions filled a range from impatient to happy to smug satisfaction.

In one item, the two lines were identical. The French soldiers had pinned the black cockade of the American uniform onto their own cockade, and the Continental army reciprocated by pinning the white French cockade onto theirs. All hats on both sides were adorned with the black-and-white ribbons as a sign of union.

The hats—and both lines of soldiers beneath them—stretched a mile down the road, toward the English fort. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers. They were surrounded by thousands of civilians—old farmers in
straw hats, poor women ringed by broods of children, young ladies in their finest hats and dresses, men and women slaves with bare heads and free blacks in homespun clothing, red men in the coats and trousers of local laborers, Chesapeake fishermen still wearing their weather gear, veterans on crutches or with their sleeves pinned up, wives in widows’ clothing.

Proctor leaned over to Deborah and whispered, “I think there are more civilians than soldiers.”

She glared at him and placed a finger to her lips. He looked over at Lydia, but she glared also.

They had a point. For two hours, not one of the thousands of soldiers had spoken, shifted out of line, or made another noise. Their joyful solemnity was contagious, and the crowd had fallen into the same mood of anticipation.

Only the horses seemed bored. Comte de Rochambeau sat astride his courser at the head of the French line, surrounded by his suite of officers. Their sky-blue-and-white uniforms matched the color of the autumn sky. His horse twitched its bobbed tail and seemed ready to run off to the next fight.

Proctor and Deborah had taken a position on a hill behind the French line so they could watch their friends and countrymen across the road. Washington sat astride his white horse, Blue Skin, the one he preferred for parades. He was surrounded by his closest officers and aides. Alexander Hamilton was there, still followed by his ghost. The Marquis de Lafayette stood with the American forces instead of the French. Proctor tried to catch the eye of his former commander, Tench Tilghman, who had been at Washington’s side the entire time that Proctor had served, but Tilghman stared straight ahead, a model of military pride.

Maggie was quietly snuggling against Deborah’s shoulder. At two years old, she was nearly too big for Deborah
to carry for long periods of time. Proctor was going to offer to hold her when Maggie’s head popped up and she twisted around. Pointing down the road, she said, “Dum!”

Proctor had his fingers to his lips to shush her when he heard it too. The melancholy
dum-da-dum
of drums at slow march. The soldiers in line continued to stand at attention, but the civilians all around them strained to see the British.

As the troops came closer, and the beat grew clearer, an old Irishman behind Proctor began to hum a tune. As it came to the end of a verse he mumbled the words of a song.

“… Yet let’s be content, and no more lament, you see the world turn’d upside down.”

Proctor almost laughed. “I didn’t recognize the music with only the drums. Is that the song they’re playing?”

The old man shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, then tapped his ear. “But that’s the song I’m hearing.”

That did make Proctor laugh. Although in his head, the world had stayed right-side up. Only if it fell to the Covenant would it be upside down.

As the British soldiers came closer, Proctor saw that they had their flags furled in surrender. They marched with their heads turned to face left, so that they were only acknowledging the French army. It was a petty slight against the Americans, or a sign of respect for their ancient enemy. Proctor accepted that there was nothing to be done about it, but suddenly pipes and timbrels sounded along the French line. Within a few bars, the French had started playing “Yankee Doodle,” the closest thing to a true national anthem the young country possessed.

The British heads snapped face-forward. They would not acknowledge the French if it meant honoring the Americans. At that moment, Proctor loved France more than he had at any moment since he’d left the country.

Maggie started to bounce along with the song. “Yank we doodle came to down,” she sang. Deborah’s face lit up, and she started bouncing along with Maggie.

“I think that’s the closest thing to dancing I’ve ever seen you do,” Proctor said.

“Maybe you need to bring a French band home more often,” Deborah whispered.

As the British troops approached within a couple hundred feet, their red coats stood out against the autumnal landscape. Every man was dressed in a bright new uniform that was clean and neat enough to outshine the French. The contrast with the American soldiers in their various gear could not have been more marked. The single general riding at the head of their troops seemed beaten and dejected.

As the rider came closer, the crowd pressed in behind Proctor and Deborah. They all wanted to see the expression on General Cornwallis’s face. He was known for his noble features, and for his calm and steady disposition. It was impossible to guess what effect the loss would have on him.

And impossible to see. The British troops were led not by Cornwallis, but by his second in command, General O’Hara, a choleric man doing his best to appear stoic. Proctor was disappointed.

General O’Hara finally came to the end of the line. The British drums stopped. The army of Redcoats stretched out along the road for a mile behind him, all of them standing at a sort of restless attention as if they were eager to be done. The French and American musicians stopped their music also.

For a brief moment, there was perfect silence.

Into the silence rose Maggie’s voice. “All gone song. More song!”

Deborah whispered something in her ear and gently bounced her. General O’Hara cleared his throat and
dismounted, holding a sword and scabbard in his right hand. He turned neatly toward the Comte de Rochambeau.