“A letter? Here?”
“Two, in fact. One from Halifax, addressed in your father’s hand. Accompanying that was one from a lady in England.”
“Anne!” cried Nicole. “She has written! And it has arrived!”
“It has.” The pastor gave the smile she remembered so well, shining with compassion and welcome. “Might I hazard a guess that you are in need of some good news?”
“Oh, sir, if only you knew. We have endured endless days of rain and mud and distant gunfire. This after a week of traveling west, only to discover that my home has been destroyed and is now occupied by deserters!”
“How tragic for you.” If the old man failed to understand her trembling words, he showed no sign. Instead he reached for her hand. “Come inside and rest yourselves. All of you.”
Only then did she realize she had forgotten to introduce Gordon. “Oh, please forgive me. It is all just too much. And with the letters . . .” She gestured to Gordon. “Might I introduce my escort and friend, Captain Gordon Goodwind.”
“You are most welcome in my humble abode, Captain.”
“An honor, sir.” Gordon gave his stiff bow and asked, “Might you also have room for my men?”
“Of course, of course. Nothing fancy, mind you. But clean and dry—that much I can offer you all.”
“If there’s enough space for them to hang their hammocks and rest in safety, we will all be more than content.” The captain took a step back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, first I will help see to the horses.”
Pastor Collins ushered Nicole inside. “Come in, my dear. Come in,” he welcomed her.
Everything was as she remembered. The same stonefloored entrance gave way to the dining room with its long table and simple chairs. Beyond this was the hallway and then the pastor’s small office. The same wooden cross hung on the wall, the same lead-paned window, the same clutter of books and papers. Nicole took a deep breath and could smell the familiar mixture of dust and candle wax. She said softly, “I am back.”
“Yes, and what a joy this is for me, I cannot begin to say. Will you have tea? Are you hungry?”
“Tea would be wonderful, if it’s not too much—”
“Nothing is a bother, my dear. Nothing. Sit yourself down. Here, read these while I see to the tea.” Pastor Collins led her to the room’s only padded chair, handed her the letters, then hurried out.
The two missives were bound together with blue ribbon and sealed with wax. She released the bond and first inspected the letter from her father. She felt his closeness through her fingertips, the warmth of his smile, the force of her mother’s love. She slipped the letter into her pocket to be read a bit later and focused her attention on Anne’s letter. Now her hands began to tremble, so much so she feared tearing the delicate paper as she broke the seal. Nicole laid the letter in her lap. The writing was so familiar she could almost hear her sister’s voice. “Oh, Anne,” she murmured.
Only after she’d composed herself did she pick up the letter and break the seal. Weeks of damp and briny air had turned the paper fragile as tissue. She held it close to the candle, her eyes capturing every word.
“Your sister wrote me such a lovely letter,” Pastor Collins told her, returning with the tea. “She wrote to me as though we had been friends for years.”
“Forgive me, sir, but this is the first letter I have received from her since leaving England. The conflict—”
“Yes, yes, of course. I understand completely.” He set the cup down on the small table at her side. “You rest yourself here as long as you like, my dear. We can talk later.”
In places the words had streaked and run, as if even the script itself had suffered from the turmoil. But Nicole knew her sister’s words even before she read them. The solace they brought was tinged with regrets, though. The span of time, the vast distance, the fact that their countries were at war all added to the bittersweet feelings swirling within.
Having scanned the contents, Nicole set the letter aside and gathered herself. She needed to take a long breath before reading the words more carefully. Anne’s letter forced her to contemplate questions for which she had no answers. Nicole felt the inner conflict—happiness for Anne and Thomas, for Charles and Judith and their coming marriages. But when was the wedding? Nicole quickly reread the letter. In truth, the double ceremony had already taken place. This in itself came as yet another shock. To learn of their shared joy after the events had taken place only intensified the emotional blow. Anne would be staying in the safe world of Charles’s home and wealth with Thomas to love her and baby John. For a brief moment Nicole longed to be back there herself. But, no, she sighed, and to her own ears it sounded resigned. No. She couldn’t go back. She’d left because it was not her place, not her home, not where she belonged.
But where was her place? Where was her intended home? What was to be her life’s course? What was she to do here in America? Should she declare her loyalty to this land? And what about Gordon—where did she stand with him? Was she right in requiring him to share her faith? He was clearly a good man for whom she had deep feelings. Was this not enough?
Nicole stared down at the letter in her hands. These pages she held formed a mirror. It was as if she were looking down at all her doubts and worries, all reflecting back at her with a clarity and intensity she could hardly bear. She needed to resolve these issues in her life. But how? She had prayed and studied the Scriptures, and what had she discovered?
She put the letter down beside the teacup she hadn’t yet touched. Rising from the chair, she stepped over to the door, turning once to look back at the table and the letter. No, she couldn’t think about it just then. It was too much. She needed . . .
She swung the door open and walked down the hall. Gordon was seated alone in the dining room. He stood slowly, looking tall and stalwart and alone. The light filtering in through the side windows was gray and cold, and rain beat steady against the glass. She could hear the wind rush across the roof and echo throughout the stone-walled chamber, a blustering sound that only added to her loneliness and bewilderment.
Gordon must have sensed her dilemma. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, the letter . . . I expected to find Pastor Collins.”
“He had to see to some matter.” Gordon took a step toward her. “Was there news from England?”
“Yes, everything is . . . well, Anne is married.”
“Your sister? My hearty felicitations.” But there was no indication in either expression or voice of finding any pleasure in the news. “Nicole, we must speak.”
“Gordon, please, I . . .” Her heart thudded within and she could not go on.
He squared his shoulders and spoke in a voice that didn’t require much volume to command. “Yes, it must be now.”
She nodded once and sank into a chair at the table. Now it was to be. And why not? She’d had weeks and weeks to decide. What could be gained in delaying the matter any longer? And yet her heart fluttered within her chest like a frantic bird in captivity.
Gordon returned to his seat. Now that the moment had come, he seemed unable to collect himself. He took several deep breaths. “My dear Nicole, you must be aware that more than mere obligation has compelled me to accompany you on these journeys.”
She nodded. Not because of his words, but because she already knew what he was about to say. Just as with Anne’s letter, Nicole somehow sensed the message even before he said it. She turned inwardly to God, crying, begging Him for an answer. A direction. A moment of calm and clarity.
“I have accepted these responsibilities out of my growing affection for you.” Gordon spoke with the quiet forcefulness of one who had thought long and hard over his words. “I have sought to show you through my deeds just what sort of man you have encountered. A man whom you can trust to uphold your concerns as his own. A man who seeks nothing more than your joy and your trust. And, God willing, your love.”
“God willing,” she echoed in a whisper
. God, please speak to me. Tell me what I should do here, what I should say.
“The longer we are together, the deeper my affections have become.” Gordon reached across the table. “I have hoped for some sign from you, some beacon that, were I to pay suit, you would respond favorably. I have waited and hoped through many trials. But I can wait no longer. The world is turning, Nicole. Times are harsh and pressing in from all sides.”
“Gordon—”
“Please, I beg you, let me finish. You have not asked me to do so, but I should be willing to give up the sea. Even with the chance for advancement and a future, I would put my career aside. And willingly. Without hesitation or provision.” Then he took her hand, held it with both of his, and said, “If only you will accept my suit and agree to become my wife.”
There it was. The words she had dreamed of, yearned for. And dreaded. She clenched her eyes shut for a long moment and pleaded once more for God to make His will known to her.
When she opened her eyes, it was to find Gordon eyeing her with the bleak countenance of one who already knew he’d been denied. “Is it such a hard thing that I ask?” he said.
“No. No, it is not.” In fact, it was so easy that to say anything but a wholehearted yes left her quaking with fear that she would be making a terrible mistake. She searched the silent chamber, the stone walls, the roof, the rainspattered windows. And found nothing.
“You may as well speak it aloud,” he said dismally, withdrawing his hands from hers. “I can see it already upon your face.”
Nicole stared across the table. The anguish in her heart lay between them. “Why are you not able to believe with me?”
Of all that she might have said, this clearly was what he least expected.
“I beg your pardon?” said Gordon.
“Believe!” The word echoed back at her, its starkness shouting that perhaps she was trying to convince herself as well. “To share my life with you means you must share my faith in God! I have tried to make that clear to you. You speak of commitment and obligation. So do I. You say you have tried to show me who you are. That I have done too. And yet you have refused me, time and time again.”
“Refused you?” His voice was incredulous.
“But you have! Every morning and evening, each time I invited you to join me in reading the Scriptures, in prayer. I begged you. And your constant response was no. How else can I answer you now?”
“My Nicole,” Gordon began slowly, “I shall speak frankly. Strong woman that you are, I fail to see why you insist upon being so enamored with religion.”
“I—you—”
“Wait, I beg you. I have no problem with the church, with faith, in its proper place. But all of life must be kept in reasonable balance. Wind and sail and tide and season, all must be brought into harmony. Then will the ship run taut and true and hold to its correct course.”
“Impossible,” she murmured. Not at his words but at the dilemma she faced. “It is impossible.”
“On the contrary,” he argued. “I speak with the reason of one who has survived troubles and storms that I doubt you could scarce imagine.” Again he reached for her hand. “This I promise you, on the power of our love and the future I desire to give you. No captain can doubt the power of God. Yet this must be matched by a will tested and seasoned by the sea.”
This time it was Nicole who withdrew her hand. She finally said, “I fear I have nothing more I can say to you.”
“Indeed.” Gordon rose from the table, his expression downcast. “Then I have no choice but to bid you a good day.”
A good day? Her heart echoed the words with a pain so deep she clasped her hands to her breast.
Chapter 12
The harbor master conducted his business from a stone hut positioned at the wharf ’s most seaward point. A squadron of fourteen longboats had been drawn up alongside the hut, the oars laid out in proper military fashion to await their next call. The harbor wasn’t particularly busy, as the blockade squadron was out to sea and the war delayed the onset of spring trading.
This much Gordon had picked up from tavern scuttlebutt over a glum lunch. His men had settled at another table, one closer to the door, leaving their captain well alone. Officers were granted unquestioned isolation at times, and never had Gordon needed it more than now. A black rage had swept over him, only to depart and leave him so miserable he had longed for the fury again just to keep him from drowning in despair. He’d tried to focus on the talk from other tables so as to avert his attention from the storm within.
The table across from him held a group of merchants up from New York, quaking in their boots over the prospect of being caught up in a battle. Things had been fairly quiet all winter. Yet there were signs of coming conflict, especially on the roads leading north. And word had it the Americans were preparing likewise. This meant the merchants had received top price for their goods. If only they now could return in safety to their homes.
Gordon left the inn and crossed the rocky beach toward the harbor master’s quarters. His men continued to hold well back. Gordon hadn’t spoken a dozen words to them since departing the hostel, only that they would be bunking on board the vessel. When one of the soldiers dared ask if Nicole would be joining them, Gordon had resisted the urge to raise his fists to the rain-drenched sky and rage at the futility of everything. His negative response prevented any further questions.
He knocked on the stout oak door of the hut. Hearing a call from within, he opened and said, “A good afternoon to you, Master,” determinedly courteous in spite of his inner anguish.
Like most good harbor chiefs, this one was retired navy. His grizzled, weather-beaten features born of countless watches before the mast matched a voice that was the bark of one long used to hailing the topgallants. “Do I know you, sir?” he rasped out.
“No, but I hope and pray you know my vessel. Captain Gordon Goodwind at your service.”
“Goodwind, Goodwind, where have I heard that name. . . ?” Bushy silver eyebrows shot up until they disappeared beneath the brow of his cap. “One moment, Captain.”
He went to the open window, peered into the distance, and shouted, “Avast there, Tyler! I say, Tyler!”
A stocky youth came bounding across the rocky beach. “Aye, sir?”
“Run, do what I told you. Don’t just stand there, lad! Hop to it!”
“He’s here?”
“Just you do as I said, and be right smart about it!” The master slammed the window shut, then scrambled about his desk till he came up with a long-stemmed clay pipe. “Will you join me in a bowl, Captain?”
“Thank you, sir. But the pleasures of tobacco have thus far eluded me.” Even while he stood there with the sounds and smells of the sea all around him, Gordon felt none of the anticipation that normally accompanied a new voyage. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, we have just journeyed from the back of beyond. My men and I are quite exhausted and eager to get on board.”
“Certainly. Won’t keep you a moment.” But the master refused to meet Gordon’s eye as he spoke. Instead he searched the potbellied stove for tinder, then made a studied business of lighting his pipe. Through wreaths of smoke, he finally continued, “There’s just the matter of some documents not left in my care.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I fail to understand. We sold and off-loaded all our stock prior to heading inland.”
“Yes, well, that is . . .” The master moved back to the window and looked with some consternation through the glass. “Here they come!” he cried. “Now we’ll have it all out and done!”
But before the harbor master could reach the door, it flew open and Carter exclaimed, “Captain, a dozen or so redcoats with arms at the ready are headed this way!”
“Aye, and they’ll sort you out right smart if you try anything!” the harbor master said, shoving his way outside. He waved frantically to the rapidly trotting soldiers. “This way, lads! This is them here!”
At a barked command from the lead officer, the
troops split into two lines and flanked the stunned and confused men. Once the soldiers were in position, the officer ordered, “Hands off your weapons!”
Instantly Gordon realized what was afoot. He felt his mouth tighten with his gut. “You men there, do as the officer says.”
The officer watched them obey Gordon with the steely-eyed mien of one ready for bloodshed. “All right, now drop your arms and step away!”
“Excuse me, sir,” countered Gordon firmly, “but you haven’t the right to do this.”
“Are you Gordon Goodwind?”
“Captain Goodwind, yes. And who are you?”
“Lieutenant Driscoll. I fear you are captain no longer,” he sneered.
“Of course,” Gordon said with a calm born from one who had over the years learned to recognize the quiet before great storms. “You have commandeered my ship.”
Gordon’s matter-of-fact acceptance rattled the officer. “You knew?”
“Not until you arrived, sir. But it is evident, is it not?”
“You—” The officer and the harbor master exchanged glances. “You are not surprised?”
“Our nation is at war. It is only natural that—” A slight motion caught the corner of his eye. “You! Wilkins!
Hold hard there!” Gordon shouted. One of the other men moaned the protest. “But, sir! Our ship, she’s—” “Hold hard, I say!” Gordon turned back to the officer but directed his words to his men. “The king’s official representative is the garrison commandant. If he has requisitioned our ship, there’s naught we can do. Is that not the lay of the land, Lieutenant?”
“Indeed it is.” The officer kept one eye on Gordon’s sword hand as he reached into his pouch and extracted a bundle of papers. “Here are the proper documents, including your payment voucher.”
Gordon took his time with inspection of the papers, knowing the longer he remained calm, the less risk there was of a violent exchange. Then his eye fell on the second sheet, and dumbfounded, he said, “You have press-ganged my men still on board the ship.”
The Distant Beacon Page 9
