The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  Then Robichaud slipped into the mist-clad waters and was gone.

  Chapter 17

  Nicole came from the seminary kitchens where she’d been giving a hand to the elderly cook. She hadn’t found much to do to make herself feel useful, but at least she could pare the shriveled turnips or sort through the potatoes from the root cellar.

  She certainly didn’t enjoy the task. She looked at her stained hands with a measure of despair. They were no longer the soft hands of a lady. But Nicole had given up feeling like the lady of her recent memory. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her even to recall what had occupied her days while at Uncle Charles’s mansion in England.

  Still, what troubled her now was not the stains on her fingers. It was the fact that she had heard nothing—nothing in many days—about Captain Goodwind.

  She’d spent the first several days in anticipation of hearing some word from him, then later, at the least, of him. But no word had come. Surely he hadn’t gone off to sea without even a good-bye. . . .

  The very thought left her feeling bereft and deserted. She had no place to call home. Her trunks full of her personal belongings were not at her disposal. She was forced to cover her dress with a borrowed laborer’s apron. It would not have been so hard had she some assurance that this was to be for only a season, but Nicole had no way to free herself from her present dilemma. The future looked bleak. Was she to spend the rest of her days trapped within a seminary, peeling half-wasted vegetables? Quite a different life than what she’d envisioned, that of being in charge of a large and magnificent estate. Now she wasn’t even in charge of her daily existence.

  Never had Nicole longed so intensely for family. If only she could seek the counsel of her parents, whether Henri and Louise or Andrew and Catherine. If only she could pour out her broken heart to Anne. But the prospect of seeing any of them again was off in a very distant future. To make matters worse, her last link with all she’d known and depended on was gone with the passing from her life of Gordon Goodwind, leaving her alone, frustrated, and forsaken.

  I guess he was not the man I thought him to be, her sorrowful heart grieved. There was no place to go for solace; everywhere she turned there were seminarians or servants busy with various chores. Her own room, with its walls of stone, felt too small, dark and confined to offer a place of refuge. How she longed for her cliffside retreat in Georgetown. She hastened forward along the quay, lifting her face heavenward and wondering whether God was still there, still listening when she called out to Him.

  The horrid dream of the night before came back to haunt her. It had been of a vacant dark face. At first the figure was masked, hidden in misty shadows, then long, tendriled swamp moss. The eyes came sharply into focus—dark, steely, and menacing. And taunting her, even as they drew her forward. She seemed hypnotized. For it was against her will that she’d moved forward, until the eyes were all she could see before her. They danced with laughter, then flashed anger so intensely she shivered. Suddenly the eyes turned blood red, oozing forth some vile substance that began swallowing her up in a quagmire.

  She had awakened with a cry, her hand pressed against her mouth until her lips hurt. Though the room was chilly, she felt the sweat dampening her body. With a whimper she clung to her one meager blanket, pulling it tightly about her, seeking some kind of protection against the terror.

  It was Jean again. She knew the eyes all too well. After being free of nightmares of him for so many years, she was at a loss now as to why he’d returned to haunt her dreams once again. Anger took hold of her. She wished he were actually there so she might rail against him, fling her fury in his face as he had done to her.

  But he was just an apparition. Even so, it all had left her unsettled. In the light of day it wasn’t hard to understand that she had no cause to fear a dream. But in the dark desperate hours, he was all too real.

  Her only defense was to sort through this while the midday sun blazed within a summer sky. There had to be a reason for the recurring nightmares, some way she could fight against them and win. Was it because she had come to suspect that the man she’d fallen in love with was another like Jean Dupree? Was Gordon just a more refined, more sophisticated version, of Jean—an arrogant and self-seeking man? When might the dark eyes of Jean become the eyes that Gordon had once turned upon her? Would they haunt her just as surely?

  She needed to think. In the brightness of day she needed to pray. To work it through so that her nights could be peaceful again.

  Nicole had ventured farther along the harbor than she intended, yet still hadn’t found a desirable secluded spot. She cast her eyes around to be sure she was within shouting range of the seminary gardens should the need arise, then turned inland to look for a place where she might sit down.

  A grove of hardwoods stood beyond the last house on the lane she walked. The tangled shrubbery around the outer rim made access a challenge, but in her determined state, she lifted her skirts above her ankles and threaded her way through. Briars caught at her heavy stockings, threatening to tear them further. It was a problem she wished to avoid, for she was down to her last pair, this one already bearing much mending. She picked her way more carefully.

  Once beyond the outer briars, the foliage thinned. Thankful, she dropped her skirt back to the tips of her dusty shoes and looked around for a likely spot. A sharp cough brought her head upright, and she prepared to take flight.

  She was relieved to see Pastor Collins, eyes wide with surprise as he peered at her over spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

  Nicole’s hand had flown to her throat. It still fluttered there, trembling from the scare. “You frightened me almost to death!” she told him with a shaky laugh. She didn’t say so, but she had half expected to stare into those haunting dark eyes of her nightmare.

  “My apologies,” begged the pastor, “but I was not expecting any company.”

  “I—I did not know anyone was here,” Nicole said. “I was but seeking a quiet retreat to do some thinking and praying.”

  “The chapel would not suffice?”

  “I needed some air, something—.” She motioned with her arm. “It seems I am in great need to sort through some—” she groped lamely for words, “some inner searching.”

  He smiled, then patted the fallen tree that served as his bench. “Well, since we have interrupted one another, why don’t you come sit down? Perhaps we can do our searching together.”

  Nicole still trembled as she accepted the proffered seat.

  “Is this your first time to the grove?” he asked, and she felt he was trying to put her at ease.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I usually stay much closer to the buildings.”

  “And so you should. It isn’t safe for a young woman such as yourself to roam too far afield.” There was no scolding in the words but more of a concerned warning. “But should you decide to come again, there is a path, halfway around the copse to our right. Not totally clear of brambles anymore, though still much more conducive to walking than the way you came.”

  Nicole nodded in silence.

  “Tell me, what has driven you from the scullery on such a fine day?”

  Nicole swallowed and dipped her head. “I’m afraid that my faith still is not what it should be,” she said frankly.

  “And what leads you to this conclusion?”

  “I have been having terrible nightmares of late.”

  “So it is you who’s been crying out in the dark hours.”

  Nicole was alarmed. “Have I been disturbing—?”

  “Only the laundry lass in the next room. She spoke of it to me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You needn’t let it upset you. She seemed not to be troubled by it—only concerned. But she didn’t know from whence the cries had come.”

  Nicole was relieved that at least her secret had not become a subject of gossip at the seminary.

  “Nightmares, you say. I would think the da
ys in which we live would merit nightmares for all of us.”

  Nicole picked some burrs from the hem of her apron. “It’s not just that I am having nightmares; it’s the kind of nightmares.”

  He waited for her to go on.

  “There was once this man,” Nicole began slowly. She took a deep breath, deciding to bare her soul. “He was

  Acadian. I thought at one time that I loved him. No, that is wrong. I did love him. Fiercely. But it was all wrong. He couldn’t come to terms with what the British had done to us. Not like my father. Jean was never able to forgive. Which turned him bitter and angry. So angry that he vowed revenge. He frightened even me. He became consumed with getting even. I had to end the—the courtship.”

  “But you love him still?”

  “No, no. I’m quite sure I am over the infatuation. It is not that which haunts my dreams.”

  “Then what?”

  “I do not know. That is what disturbs me. All I see are his eyes. His eyes always full of hate and evil, always seeking to draw me in. To destroy me.”

  “Hatred. Bitterness. Revenge. They seek to destroy and too often they accomplish their goal.”

  “I know that. But I am a follower of Christ. There is no room in my life—my heart—for such evils. I cannot understand why now, after these years of walking with my Lord, I should be subject to such passions once again. Why must they haunt me?”

  “You bear no malice toward the British?”

  The question caught her totally off guard, but she was quick to respond. “None.”

  “Not even toward the young British captain?”

  “Well, that . . . that certainly isn’t because he is British,” responded Nicole, her cheeks flushed.

  “What is it, then?” the pastor asked.

  She’d been caught in her own trap, exposing an anger she would have denied if questioned outright. “I’m puzzled,” she stammered. “He declared his love for me and then he left, without so much as a good-bye or a trace of where he was going.”

  “Puzzled? And angry?”

  Nicole could not deny it. “Perhaps. A little. I thought, you see, that we could at least remain friends.”

  “But friendship was not what the young man sought.”

  “You know I could offer nothing more. We spoke of this. He refused to accept my faith.”

  “Your faith. Not his faith.”

  “Well, it would have been his faith, of course. Faith is personal. Not something handed from one to another.”

  “But you wanted to hand it to him, did you not?”

  “I merely wished to lead him. To introduce him to my Lord. Is that wrong?”

  “My dear, my entire life has been lived to introduce others to our Savior. Nothing could be more right.”

  “Then what did I do wrong?”

  “I have not said you’ve done anything wrong, my child. I am simply saying that the road we travel toward faith can take us through different valleys and around different twists and turns. What brings one soul to his knees might be a stumbling stone to another. We cannot expect another to travel our personal pathway. In our past conversations, you have spoken of your own struggles. Adversity brought you to our Lord. Another’s faith might come because of unsolicited joy. God’s holy goodness might burst out suddenly, exposing all the glories of a life walked in harmony. That might be enough to make one fall to his knees in deep gratitude. Paul walked the Damascus Road. It was the light that felled him, the voice that drew him. For James and John, Peter the fisherman, it was the simple invitation to ‘Come, follow me.’ So to some the invitation might come as a clarion call, to another a soft whisper.”

  “But surely hard times and coming to the end of one’s own resources must soften a soul,” Nicole dared respond.

  “Soften? Not always. Some souls respond to the rains of adversity by becoming pliable, while others are hardened into unworkable clay. Some grow in faith, are strengthened, honed, harmonized, while others turn bitter, angry—like your former friend Jean. Either we shape Janette Oke / T. Davis Bunn our adversity into something of beauty, or it shapes us into something vile.”

  They sat in silence. Above their heads a crow cawed and was answered by a second crow from farther down the grove. A squirrel chattered angrily. Apparently the crows had invaded his private territory.

  Nicole picked at another burr. “What am I to do?” she asked. “I do not want to be hardened by the heaviness of the load I carry. How does one make sure that the treading, the beating down, is used for good?”

  The kind old gentleman shook his head. “I have no answers for you, my child. That is not a simple question, and has been asked before in many a heart. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that needs to be led by the hand in relation to your faith. You have sought, and found, many answers already. Only God can help you to find the rest. I am your friend, here for you whenever you need a listening ear. I cannot tell you the answers to life’s complexities. But with God’s help and through prayer and the Scriptures, you will find the way. His divine wisdom is as available to you as it is to me.”

  It was a troubling yet glorious thought, and Nicole found herself reaching for it, claiming it as a sacred promise. She had free access to a holy, all-powerful, loving Father.

  “It is ever our challenge to draw closer to the Master’s heart. To search for His way through life’s maze. With each step that we take with Him, our faith deepens, our steps become more certain. Take your dreams, your fears, your struggles, and use them for stepping stones to Him, my child. Let every issue of life be a means of bringing you closer to the Shepherd.”

  Nicole fought against tears, but not ones of sorrow. Once again her soul felt comforted, strengthened. She was ready to move on.

  Pastor Collins stood. “Come, my dear,” he said. “I shall show you the path so your skirts might not catch any more burrs and brambles.” He led the way to an opening at the edge of the tree line. Nicole noticed that his step was rather slow and lumbering. She wondered for a moment how many more years he might have left to serve. And also, how they ever would get along without him.

  Chapter 18

  The only cheer in Gordon’s endless first day of imprisonment came with the evening meal. He was being held separate from the others, confined in what resembled a cowshed, with rotting branches and tarred paper for a roof. But at dusk he was permitted to join the line and take up a bowl of gruel and hardtack with the other prisoners. Most were wastrels and ne’er-do-wells, and it galled him terribly to be counted among them. What hurt even worse, what truly ravaged his mind and spirit, was to see his good, fine men standing in line with these others, reduced to prison and chains by his own miscalculations and poor leadership.

  Yet even here the men made a place for him, sidling about until Carter was able to whisper unseen by the hovering guards, “Word has it, we’re to be shipped off day after tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Press-ganged. Two ships from the blockade are headed into port. A bout of scurvy has laid waste their ranks.” Carter’s ankle chains clinked as he shuffled forward in the meal line. “They’re in dire need of men who know one end of a rope from the other.”

  Though being press-ganged was not good news, Gordon felt his heart lift that his men would not hang with him. “You don’t know what it means to hear this.”

  “Aye, sir, we thought you’d be pleased.” But Carter’s grimy features showed no joy. “If only we could do something about your situation.”

  “No hope there, I fear.” Gordon worked to put a brave face on it all. “But knowing you lads won’t be climbing the scaffold as well, that will send me off content.”

  As the sun fell below the parapet the day’s dankness worked its way into the prisoners’ bones. Gordon followed the example of the more experienced captives and ate his gruel slowly, letting the warmth of each spoonful work against the discomfort of his wet clothes. As the air chilled, the wet earth on which they sat in their prison clothes produ
ced the effect of steam emanating from their shoulders and shirt sleeves. Faint tendrils rose up from the bodies of his men, as though all hope were being drawn from them and dissipating into a gray and uncaring twilight.

  Through the deepening gloom there came something new. Gordon turned and searched before his mind registered precisely what it was he was seeing.

  The man in the rector’s collar was barely more than a youth, or so it seemed against the backdrop of chains and mud and miserable prisoners. His boots and the hem of his longcoat were caked with the prison yard’s red mud. But in the flickering torchlight he seemed to carry a special atmosphere with him. The prisoners responded with but a few words. But they seemed to sit a bit straighter after he passed. When the pastor came upon their little group, he greeted them with, “You men are new here, are you not? I don’t recall seeing any of these faces before.”

  “That’s right, Reverend,” said Gordon, answering for them all. Then he said quickly, “Might I ask where you hail from?”

  “New Haven, originally.”

  “No, sir. I meant, which church?”

  “Ah. Well, actually, I am still attending seminary.” When he smiled he appeared even younger. “If my professors are to be believed, I may be there still when I am old and gray.”

  Gordon rose to his feet but addressed his words to the soldier standing guard nearby. “I would beg a word with the pastor in my cell.”

  “But you have not finished your meal,” the reverend pointed out.

  Gordon handed his bowl to Carter. The barrelchested man clearly understood what was afoot, for his eyes gleamed as they met Gordon’s gaze. When the soldier waved them on, Gordon said, “Might I speak with you privately, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  Evidently the pastor was expecting the penitent lament of a man facing the gallows, because his first words after entering the place where Gordon was held were, “Do you know our Lord and Savior, sir?”

  “Not as well as I should.” Gordon remained quiet while the guard refastened his ankle chains to the shackles embedded in the wall. After he left, Gordon lowered his voice and said, “I must get word to someone staying at the hostel by the harbor seminary.”