“The hardest part.”
“It does seem so,” she agreed, sounding surprised at his understanding.
Pastor Collins retrieved his glasses and book. The lamp beside him flickered as a wisp of air current brightened the flame.
Nicole rose to her feet. “I do thank you for the wise counsel, both now and in the past. It seems that by now I should be able to untangle these complexities of faith on my own. But—”
“Never be afraid to seek counsel, my dear. We have been put here to be of help to one another. If anything this poor servant of God can say is of use in strengthening your f aith, then I feel both deeply humbled and rewarded.”
Nicole looked as though she would step forward and place a kiss on his bearded cheek. Instead she again expressed to him her thanks.
Just as she tur ned to go, he spoke once more. “Patience,” he repeated. “God always has His answers ready and in plenty of time.”
Chapter 15
A day’s journey inland from Boston revealed every river crossing to be closely guarded by British soldiers. But then just before nightfall, Gordon and his men happened upon a fisherman who was only too willing to row them across in exchange for two of Gordon’s remaining gold sovereigns. They waited till the dark of night, then crossed in two groups. Once on the other side they quickly set up camp and, exhausted, slept where they were. The next morning Gordon spent another sovereign on a farmhouse breakfast for everyone, consisting of eggs and fresh bread and dried fruit.
Downr iver they found the Amer ican gar r ison encamped in and around Cambridge. Before entering the village, Gordon gathered all their weaponry except for the long knives, wrapped them in an oilskin bundle, and buried it near a huge elm tree. A hundred paces later they were hailed by an outer sentry. After searching them for weapons, the sentry allowed Gordon and the others to pass through. Neither their dress nor their purpose caused any great interest. Gordon had the distinct impression that a great number of men were straggling into Cambridge, their goal being to enlist in the American cause. What was left of Gordon’s gold was spent on bread, cheese, and a jug of winter cider. With these packed away, they bivouacked beneath a sheltering maple.
The following day they made their way toward the village common. There was a certain unfamiliar quality to the army’s main garrison, something Gordon noticed almost as soon as he set eyes on it. Yet he couldn’t say exactly what it was. A few glances at his men told him they were equally confused. The soldiers they encountered looked weary and far less equipped than the British.
But the garrison itself seemed in good spirits, however, with the music of fife and concertina and mouth harp rising from several groups. It was only after he’d stopped two soldiers and asked directions to the garrison headquarters that Gordon finally said, “I have it.”
“Sir?” said Carter.
“The difference. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.”
“Aye, there’s a feeling to this place I can’t put my finger on,” the bosun agreed.
“These are free men.” Gordon waved a hand about the place. Every stretch of green was covered with motley tents and men. “Point out to me the officers.”
His men turned and searched. Carter said, “They have to be here, sir.”
“Of course they are. But there’s none of the stiffness you’d expect within a British compound. You see, these are free men, none of them press-ganged and brought here against their will. They’re here because they want to be here. They’re fighting for a cause they believe in.”
He watched his men try to wrap their minds around the utterly foreign concept. Most had come into the service as boys and done so because they had little choice in the matter. It was either through the merchant service, the navy, the army, an apprenticeship to someone born into wealth, or a guild. Gordon moved toward the redbrick building that was pointed out as the garrison headquarters. “You men stay here while I get a glimpse of the lay of the land.”
The stark contrast between the British and American attitudes was even more apparent inside the headquarters. Men came and went here in easy liberty. The officers held command, yet they didn’t boast in their superiority. They ordered and the men obeyed, simple as that. A structured military system had definitely been put in place. And yet as Gordon stood in the anteroom and waited for someone to address him, he saw indications that here was something entirely different from anything he’d ever seen before. Finally, as an aide ushered him to a side office, the word came to him. These soldiers were volunteers.
“Captain Goodwind, do I have that correct?”
“You do. At your service, sir.”
The officer didn’t bother to rise or introduce himself. He indicated a chair across from his desk, using a leatherhilted dagger as a pointer. A blue longcoat with the stars of senior rank was tossed over a gun rack in the corner. “Have a seat, Captain. Now then, do I understand you and your men wish to join us in our cause?”
“That’s correct, sir. I admit it may sound a bit unorthodox, but we wish to formally declare for the colonies.”
“You mean the former colonies,” the officer corrected sharply.
“Of course. Forgive me.” Gordon glanced over to where the aide stood. Almost slouched, really, showing none of the deference Gordon would have expected. The man observed him with undisguised curiosity.
The officer inquired of Gordon, “You have military experience?”
“Of a sort. I was raised through the ranks of His Majesty’s merchant navy.”
“And now you intend to join with us. Interesting.”
Gordon gave a brief overview of all that had happened. The man listened intently without attempting to hide his skepticism. When Gordon mentioned his family ties to the Virginia militia, the officer asked his aide, “Do we have anybody about here from that far south?”
“I believe Samuels is from Richmond, sir.”
“See if you can locate him.”
The conversation between Gordon and the officer turned to the inconsequential until the aide returned with a bearded dark-haired man who wore a tattered longcoat with a colonel’s markings on it. The man took one look at Gordon and exclaimed, “Saints above, you could only be a Goodwind!”
“That’s right, sir. Do you happen to know my brothers?”
“Aye, count both as friends.” He pumped Gordon’s hand. “Isaac Samuels, from Richmond.”
“Gordon Goodwind. An honor, sir. What can you tell me of my family?”
“Your brothers are well, last I heard. Their families are growing. They tend towards daughters, the both of them. Eldest was born the same week as my middle boy, going on twelve now.” A pause, then, “There’s been some heavy battles down our way as of late.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He clapped Gordon on the shoulder. “Never you mind. If any will walk away sound in mind and limb from this mess, it’s your two brothers.” To the officer behind the desk he said, “If this man is cut from the same cloth as his kin, we’re well served if he will join our cause.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.” For the first time, the officer stood from his chair and offered his hand to Gordon. “General Phillip Mitchell, Captain. Welcome to the ranks of the American Colonial Army.”
“Nay, that won’t do, not do at all.” The bearded man clapped Gordon’s shoulder a second time. “What the man means to say is, Welcome home.”
“Your arrival couldn’t have come at a better time, Captain.” The officer signaled to his aide and said, “Go find that liaison fellow.”
“Right away, sir.”
General Mitchell turned back to Gordon and continued, “Our navy, such as it is, is scattered to the back of beyond. The ships are located at smaller ports from Maine down to the Chesapeake.”
“Not that we don’t have some good men and fine ships,” Colonel Samuels added. “We’ve just laid keel to a new one by the name of Constitution. To be built from Georgia live oak, I’m told. A wood hard as old ir
on.”
“Be that as it may, our problem is supplies,” said the general. “The British are choking us off, most especially by sea. We don’t have enough clothes, food, powder, lead, artillery, even men.”
“But there’s good news!” an excited Samuels interjected. “At long last.”
“Aye, that there is,” said Mitchell. “We’ve just received word that the French have declared for America.”
“That could make all the difference,” Samuels said, and Gordon nodded agreement.
“What I need to know from you, Captain, is how familiar you are with the coastline.”
“Quite well, sir. I’ve sailed vessels about these waters for a dozen years now.”
The two American officers exchanged a silent communication. Mitchell said, “Very well, then. I understand a French fleet is making its way down the coast and carrying much-needed supplies. I want to assign you a boat. It’s not much for a man of your talents, no more than a fishing vessel that’s used to hugging the coast.”
Gordon was quite certain it would be rather primitive.
“No doubt it will do us fine, General,” he said.
“The boat will serve the purpose we have in mind and little else. We must connect with this fleet before they encounter the British blockade. You will be sent north with instructions to guide the French away from the Boston harbor and lead them up the coast to Newbury. Do you know it?”
“I confess not, sir.”
“No matter. It’s a hamlet, nothing more.”
“But it won’t be known to the British.”
“Precisely. We’ll have runners at the ready, and as soon as you signal, we’ll send up a brigade to cart the supplies down to us here.” He scribbled on a square of parchment, dusted the page, then handed it to Gordon. “The officer in charge of our efforts is one Captain Langford. But there’s every chance you won’t see him at all. He and his ships are all stationed along the New Hampshire coast, hoping to locate the Frenchies before they ever draw near.” He inspected Gordon with a keen eye. “You and a few others will be our final line of warning before the Frenchies sail right into British hands.”
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
“We’ll all be glad of that.” At a knock on his door, the general said, “Come in!”
The general’s aide reentered, escorting a warrior. At least that was Gordon’s immediate impression.
“Captain Goodwind, may I introduce you to Henri Robichaud. He is French by way of Louisiana, and will act as your translator and go-between.” Gordon reached out to shake his hand and found a grip as hard as iron.
Chapter 16
The vessel was just as Gordon had envisioned, a floating hulk with rags for sails. He halted his sailors’ protest by saying, “Never you mind, lads. We’ll do our stint, help guide the newcomers to shore and safety, and be off to better things.”
The Frenchman, Henri Robichaud, was certainly an enigma. The way he twisted his frame so as to look back over his shoulder, his features set in scorn, left Gordon wondering if the man hadn’t spent a lifetime perfecting the manner. Hate seemed to smolder in the dusky eyes. Not just fury at Gordon, but at life in all its bitter forms. “So . . . the British officer finds the boat not to his liking? Too much sweat and hard work for the gentleman? No place for him to set his cup of tea?” he flung out in his French-accented words.
“Hold hard, men,” Gordon commanded, not needing to look over his shoulder to know how his men were responding. “I am the same as you, Robichaud. A man seeking a country.”
“You’re not like me at all, Captain. We have nothing in common, you and I. You have heard perhaps of the Acadians?”
Gordon chose to turn away without response. The shoreline was too exposed for his liking, the British side barely out of rifle range. There was the faintest glimmer of daylight left, enough to reveal the mist rising from the waters and drifting shoreward. The wind had died, though the night remained overcast and far too cold for late April. The other side of the river was quiet. Gordon had the sense of unseen eyes holding steady upon him. He looked back to find that Robichaud had moved silently forward and was alongside him now.
“The Acadians, Captain. They are my people. Theirs is my story. It is a tragic tale, one I am sure will not be to your liking. A tale of treachery and woe, of how the British swept up an entire people from their homes and flung them to every corner of the globe.”
“I know the Acadian saga,” said Gordon. “I even know someone who has endured as you have.”
“There are any number of the poor wastrels wandering about.” Robichaud’s hand continued to knead the sword’s hilt as if desperately hungry to pull the blade free. “All because of you and your kind, English Captain.”
Was the man actually seeking to call him out? Here and now, after they had been given a direct command by garrison headquarters? Gordon studied the tightly drawn face opposite him and realized there were no words that would reverse this situation. Easing his feet farther apart, he readied himself to unleash a first hard swing of his own weapon.
Robichaud no doubt caught the subtle shift, another sign of an experienced swordsman. He gave Gordon another of his taunting scowls, then wheeled about and stomped out onto the boat. “Are we to remain standing here upon the shore all night?”
Gordon could scarcely believe the encounter had ended without a fight. “All right, men! Heave hard! Let’s get this lady afloat.”
Robichaud didn’t offer to assist them, which was not altogether a bad thing. It had reached the point where even his own men looked ready to do the man in.
The boat slid easily from the bank and rested steady in the thigh-deep water. Like many such fishing vessels never meant to leave sight of land, her draw was shallow and her keel but an extension of the rudder. Gordon ordered six men to places at the oars, while Carter and two others rigged the lateen sail and sent it aloft.
All the while Robichaud sat at the very peak of the bow, looking out across the fog-draped river, the long dagger taken out now and resting in his hands. The oars were well greased and moved quietly up and down within their locks. Once the sail was set to catch what little breath of wind there was, the only sound was that of the oars dripping and sighing softly as the men put their backs into the work.
Then, to Gordon’s astonishment, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn along a whetstone. In the silent air the grinding noise rang out as exaggerated and harsh. Gordon breathed, “For the sake of us all, Robichaud, cease with that racket!”
There was a subdued hiss in reply, but the noise halted.
The mist rose about them in billowing waves until Gordon could no longer see the way ahead even while standing on the center stanchion, using the mast to balance himself. He was about to order the slightest of his men to climb the mast and see if a light could be spotted, but decided first to whisper to Robichaud, “You are certain of our course?”
“Of course I am!” The man’s rough voice sounded loud as a foghorn. “Don’t tell me the British are frightened by a bit of night mist.”
Gordon was thinking about having the man either silenced or tossed overboard when out of the thickening fog there arose apparitions from his worst nightmares. Three vessels, all of them filled to the brim with soldiers armed with muskets, all aimed straight at their chests. British soldiers. British muskets. Aimed at them.
“Avast there!” The officer’s cry was triumphant as if a victory were already theirs. “Keep your hands up high or face a broadside!”
“Hold fast!” Gordon shouted to his men. To the opposing officer he called, “We surrender.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t the darling Captain Goodwind and his band of merry men.” The same officer who earlier had confronted Gordon at the harbor now stood at the bow of a longboat. “Colonel Grudge will be delighted to know he finally has you within his grasp. You men there! Lift your hands higher or we’ll bury you right here in the river!”
Two of the longboat
s pulled up to either side of Gordon’s vessel, which soon swarmed with marines brandishing pikes and sabers. As their mates in the longboats watched down the barrels of muskets, the marines lashed Gordon’s arms behind his back, then did the same to his men. The officer clambered aboard then, and Gordon protested, “I am a British officer, sir. You have accepted my surrender. There is no need for these bonds.”
“You are a spy and a traitor, sir.” A torch was lit, and it seemed to Gordon that the officer’s features contorted in angry glee. “I shall soon delight in seeing you dance a merry tune from the end of a rope.”
Gordon watched as the officer turned and handed Henri Robichaud a hefty sack. “Fifty sovereigns, as we agreed. You can do more for us?”
Robichaud slipped the pouch into his pocket. “I will deliver both news and men into your hands, so long as you pay me in gold.”
“Excellent. I shall have one of the boats row you ashore.”
“No, it is better that I swim, in case there are any spying.” Robichaud moved to the gunnel. “Give me three minutes, then fire a fusillade into the night.”
“Very well. You have my gratitude and my government’s.”
Robichaud gave no sign he had even heard the officer’s thanks. Instead he offered Gordon’s silent rage another sneer. “You are wondering how I could do such a thing, yes? I have starved, Captain. That is something you can never understand. I made a new home in the south, only to lose that as well. I have almost died more times than I can count. And I have learned that money has no loyalty, nor country.” He leaned closer to Gordon and added softly, “These British will also pay, but in my own time.”
As he draped his legs over the boat’s side, he said, “I shall go back to the Americans and say how I barely escaped from this Captain Goodwind, who proved to be nothing more than a turncoat. I shall say that no doubt he is now back with his own kind, laughing and drinking with the other rich officers, making jest over how blind and trusting and foolish the colonial soldiers were.”
The Distant Beacon Page 11
