The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You look nothing of the sort,” replied Nicole. It was a good thing Pastor Collins chose that moment to join them. “Please, sir, a moment of your time. Does my new manservant appear proper and fitting to call upon the garrison commandant’s residence?”

  The old man caught the undercurrent in Nicole’s tone, so he gave John Jackson a careful inspection. Jackson looked even taller now, standing as he did in his knee breeches and tricornered hat and high-backed shoes. His dark stockings were drawn up tight, the frills of his shirt spilled from the top of his vest, and the buttons of his longcoat and vest and those at the knees of his breeches glinted in the light. Pastor Collins declared, “He looks every inch the proper gentleman butler.”

  “There, you see? Now tell me once more what you are to do.”

  “First I go to the commandant’s private residence,” Jackson began. “I am to ask for the chief manservant and present him with your card.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “Compliments of the Viscountess Lady Nicole Harrow, and might she pay a visit upon the general’s wife on the morrow.”

  “Yes, and then?”

  “I am to inquire at the stables near the waterfront where your wagons and goods are stowed. I am to bring back the large trunk with the three leather straps and the iron lock. But I still say I should carry it myself.”

  “Nonsense. No proper lady’s chief servant would be seen in such an endeavor. You shall find a pair of urchins and promise them a silver penny each. Now off with you.” Jackson went over to the front door and reached for the sword that hung from the door strap. Nicole protested, “Must you go out armed?”

  “This is a city at war,” Pastor Collins reminded her. “He would look odd otherwise.”

  John Jackson strapped on his saber, whose well-worn hilt reminded Nicole of the risk they were taking. He reached for the door, then spun around and said gravely, “I won’t let you down, my lady.”

  “I believe you,” she said, feeling both exhilarated and full of anxiety.

  Again he hesitated. Twice he started to speak, but when he did it was only to say, “I will do my best to earn the trust you have placed in me.” Then he was gone.

  She offered a fervent prayer heavenward and turned from the door to find Pastor Collins staring at her, a serious look on his face. Though it cost her dearly, she had no choice but to ask, “Would you have me leave?”

  “Finding accommodations in this town is nigh on impossible,” the pastor said, his tone indicating he had been considering this very thing. “Can you give me your word that you will not endanger us or our work here?”

  Nicole took a deep breath and said, “No, good sir. In all honesty, I cannot.”

  He nodded slowly. “Then I must spend this night in prayer.”

  Chapter 23

  The night wasn’t nearly as dank as the previous one, and the day’s warmth meant Gordon could air out his clothes and bedding. Now, as he lay on his blanket and rushes, he could gaze upward and see stars through the decaying roof. As the moon rose, it cast a silver mantilla through the barred window and door. Gordon felt as though the day was not altogether against him, a strange sensation for someone in ankle chains and fettered to a ring set on the cell’s back wall. Yet he had a most remarkable sense of not being alone. He lay and drifted gradually away, and whispered to the stars and the night, “Nicole.”

  Then he heard the sound, quickly choked off.

  He came up on one elbow and whispered urgently, “Who goes there?”

  When there was no reply, Gordon wondered if fatigue had played a trick on his ears, that perhaps the sound hadn’t been human at all, but rather a faint mewling from some distant creature.

  Soon it came again, and this time he recognized it instantly. No man who had heard the sound would ever forget it. There always was one just before a battle, usually a youngster who was shipping out and facing naked steel for the very first time. Standing at his gun because there was no safer place aboard ship, with the adversary bearing down under full sail and nowhere to run. The young man—or, most likely, boy—would peer out across the sea and catch the reflection of sunlight off cannon and musket and saber. If the wind was right, he would smell the heated pitch of the smoky battle to come. He would catch a whiff of sulfur and saltpeter mixed in the gunpowder, which was being dragged up from the holds by the powder monkeys. He would hear the shouts from the enemy officers, who ordered their men to take no quarter, show no mercy. At that moment, from his place on the quarterdeck, Gordon would often hear the whimper of terror. The youngster usually wasn’t aware he had even made the sound.

  “Avast there,” Gordon said in a low voice, repeating words he’d said countless times before. “Steady as she goes, sailor.”

  “Oh . . . sir,” the broken young voice came through a crack in his side wall. “They are to hang me in two days.”

  “Nothing to be gained by wailing now, soldier. Did you do the deed you are accused of?”

  “I was hungry, sir. Our supplies had not arrived, and I had not eaten since the morning before. The leather bag was there upon the table. How was I to know it belonged to an officer’s wife?”

  A terrible thing, justice in the forces. Particularly when at war. Gordon had said it often enough when faced with having to mete out punishments. But he had never endured the hanging of one of his own. And to have it happen to one so young. “Tragic,” he murmured.

  The word was enough to break the young man down entirely. “I’ll never see my home again,” he choked out.

  Gordon moved back so that he leaned against the wall. He searched his mind for some comfort to offer. “Where is home for you, then?”

  “S-Somerset. By the sea.”

  “I know it well. Your family are farming folk?”

  “Aye, sir. Freeholders.”

  “Sheep?”

  “And a few cows. My mam makes the finest butter in the county.”

  “Tell me about your home, lad.” Gordon listened as the young man spun bittersweet tales of green pastures he would never see again and a family he had never missed so much as now. In his heart of hearts, Gordon felt an emptiness that was worse than anything he’d ever known before. His own coming demise he could handle. He knew he would climb those rickety gallows stairs and stand looking out over the gathered company, watch the hangman’s sack come down over his face, and not flinch. But here and now, as he sat and listened to this young man, he felt bereft. Not for himself, but for what he could not offer this poor soul.

  Gordon heard himself make comforting sounds, yet in truth he was struck by the realization of just how hollow was his own reserve of strength. At this point of direst need, his good right arm meant less than nothing. He was a leader unarmed.

  The young man talked for hours, until finally his voice grew softer and softer and he slept. But Gordon was far from sleep himself. He sat there smitten by his utter lack of answers and any truth that was meaningful in this crisis.

  The moonlight rose to where it pierced through the roof ’s largest hole. It fell upon his chains, as if even the night were intent on showing just how feeble his arguments were, how wrongheaded he had been in his final conversation with Nicole. She had been right all along.

  Gordon slid around so that he knelt in the mud. The chains clinked together as he leaned over his knees and clenched both hands and eyes. It was too late to tell his beloved. But at least he could speak with God.

  Chapter 24

  Nicole spent the morning in whatever activities came to mind, so long as they kept her in public view. Her intention was for word to filter back to the garrison commandant’s wife of a new lady in town. She knew from her experiences in London that there were few acceptable places for ladies with social standing to gather. Theirs was a tightly circumscribed world where they would not be forced to look too closely at the harsher aspects of life.

  She had instructed John Jackson to ask about venues where the highborn ladies met together—the finest millinery
, the proper tearoom. Her first stop was the Boston branch of Charles’s bank, where she presented her papers and obtained a sizeable sum, paying an outrageous wartime premium for coin. She then went shopping and bought items she didn’t need, allowing the money to slip through her fingers like water. She ordered hot chocolate merely because it was the most expensive item listed on the tearoom’s menu, and, because of her nervousness, almost choked on the syrupy liquid. She sent John Jackson on a variety of errands, all of them issued in the manner of one who had ordered servants about all her life. She used her title at every occasion, and let it be known wherever possible that she was the niece of one of the richest men in England.

  Her worst moment came while having lunch that day, just as the waiter set down her plate. She was chatting gaily with some ladies at the next table, agreeing with them that the war was a horrid nuisance, and the sooner the colonists were taught their place in the world, the better. Then a glint of light caused her to look up and see herself in the mirrors that lined one of the walls. She saw a lovely young lady with her chin held high, the face held in a mask of false smiles and empty words. But what captured Nicole’s attention were the eyes. They held a look of desperation, of a lost and frightened child.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  Startled, Nicole looked around in surprise. John Jackson stood at respectful attention by her side. “Oh, excuse me . . .” She caught herself before she could be seen apologizing to a servant. “Where on earth have you been for so long?”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but it’s been hard to make progress on any front.”

  “Don’t bother with excuses.” There was something about the way Jackson held himself, or perhaps it was a new glimmer in his eyes, that caused her own heart rate to surge. “You have found what I sought?”

  “It’s hard to say, ma’am.” He dropped his voice. “I fear they will not even discuss the matter unless they can see the weight of more coin.”

  “What?” This genuinely shocked her, for she had already that morning loaned the man thirty gold sovereigns, which was more money that most commoners would see in a year.

  “It’s the war, my lady. Everything costs more. Including what you wished me to obtain.”

  “Oh, my word, such prices!” the lady at the next table exclaimed. “Forgive me for overhearing, Lady Harrow. But the cost of things these days is out of sight. Why, just the other morning, I—”

  “Yes, thank you.” Nicole studied the man before her, hardly more than a stranger. She had no reason to trust him. And he gave off a certain tension that suggested the same thought might be going through his own mind. Could he be intending to take whatever more money he could receive and then vanish?

  Nicole reached within her mantle and withdrew two leather sacks. A third she took from the little purse. “You will have to pay the gentleman by the door as you leave. I have nothing more.”

  Whatever John Jackson had expected, it was not this. His respectfully servile demeanor slipped away and he stared round-eyed at the weighty sacks she now held out to him. “My lady!”

  “Go now.” She pressed the pouches into his hands. “And hurry.”

  After Jackson had left, the woman seated at the neighboring table said, “My, but you are fortunate to have a servant you can trust with a king’s ransom!”

  “And so handsome,” her neighbor’s companion added. “In these awful times, how did you manage to keep him at your side?”

  “Oh, he is most loyal,” said Nicole weakly, wondering if she had not just made the most foolish decision.

  Chapter 25

  Nicole lingered a long while over a final cup of tea. In truth, there was nowhere else she could think of to go. Either the commandant’s wife had heard of her expeditions, or she had not. Either John Jackson would return with progress, or he would not. She could not gather her strength to play the terrible charade any longer.

  She sat and watched the folks strolling by outside the tearoom’s front window and decided she could not at this point concern herself over questions of her future. She wasn’t doing this in hopes of marrying Gordon. She had prayed, she had revealed her heartfelt concerns to him, she had received no answer, and so nothing had changed. Yet she must act to save this good man. It was that simple. Gordon Goodwind had done everything in his power to help her, and it had cost him his ship and many of his men. She had no course but to do likewise in his hour of most desperate need.

  Then began the signs that her efforts were bearing fruit. First a soldier in the sparkling dress uniform of royal household cavalry stomped up the tearoom stairs, inquired of the gentleman at the door, then walked over to stop directly in front of Nicole’s table and bow deeply. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Viscountess Lady Harrow?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  The soldier now saluted smartly. “My lady, the General Sir Gerald and Lady Weakes request the pleasure of your company this evening for a banquet in honor of the birthday of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

  “Yes, I see.” She pretended to consider this. “At what hour?”

  “Seven of the clock, if it pleases my lady.”

  “Please convey my sincere gratitude to Lord and Lady Weakes. I accept their invitation with pleasure, sir.”

  The man gave another bow so precise it might have been formed with measuring rod and plumb line. “Very good, my lady.”

  Scarcely had the soldier departed than John Jackson appeared at the door. A single glance at his expression was enough to lift her from her chair. The waiter scurried over to pull back the table, but she was already moving across the floor to Jackson. “What have you found?” she whispered.

  Jackson glanced quickly around the room and then said for everyone within range, “The shopkeeper has but one left, my lady. And the price he wants is ferocious.”

  “You will pay him.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “Must I take care of this myself?” she said loudly.

  “Perhaps it would be wise if you had a look, my lady. The price, well . . .”

  “Oh, all right. Show me the way, then.”

  The gentleman was ready by the door. His bow was less grand than the soldier’s, though far deeper. “It has been an honor to serve you, my lady. Please do come again.”

  John Jackson led her down the cobblestone lane, away from the finery atop Beacon Hill, and into the back alleys leading to North Point. They turned into a narrow, odorous passageway, where John Jackson finally halted and reached into his pocket. He handed over two of the leather sacks, saying, “One proved enough, ma’am.”

  “Never mind that.”

  Jackson glanced at her face, then shoved the sacks back in his longcoat. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Long for what?”

  He tensed. “Quiet now. Not a word.”

  She heard the shuffle of footsteps, then the distant clank of chains and the murmur of exhausted men. Jackson pressed her back into the shadows and plucked a long-bladed knife from an unseen sheath.

  A line of prisoners on work detail passed the alley. Nicole almost cried aloud as she recognized two of the men from the ship’s company, who now carried shovels and pitchforks. They looked bedraggled, filthy, and hungry.

  A guard flanking the final prisoners took one step into the alley, then another. John Jackson moved up alongside him and used his free hand to place something into the soldier’s hand. Nicole heard the clink of sovereigns, followed by a quiet hiss from the soldier.

  Clearly one of the final prisoners had been waiting for just that signal. He stepped into the alley, where instantly Jackson pulled him into the shadows beside Nicole.

  The guard whispered, “Ten seconds only, or I’ll be swinging alongside the captain.”

  The bosun’s face was alight beneath his coating of grime and fatigue. “Miss Nicole!”

  “Oh, Carter, whatever are we to do?”

  “I wish I could tell you, ma’am. But whatever it is,
you’ll need to be moving fast. The captain is to breakfast with the hangman at dawn.”

  “Soldiers!” The guard reached and yanked on Carter’s sleeve. “Move!”

  Carter shook the man’s hand away. “Get in touch with us through the guard here. He’s a good enough sort.”

  The guard said frantically, “Come now—or it’s both our necks!”

  Nicole moved toward Jackson, who had anticipated her thought and had the purse ready. She took the purse and gave it to Carter. “Tell Gordon I will do my utmost.”

  Chapter 26

  A new guard came along to release Gordon for the evening meal. He gave his prisoner a sideways glance, nothing much in and of itself. But something in the cast of the man’s eyes, or perhaps the way his lips folded in upon themselves, raised Gordon’s heart rate. He was alert and ready for the new light he spotted in Carter’s gaze.

  The bosun and his remaining men were well accustomed by now to forming a human barrier around Gordon. They moved as one toward the steaming barrel of gruel, shuffling along with the other prisoners, blocking Carter’s quietly spoken announcement, “I spoke with Miss Nicole.”

  Gordon felt the words as a lance straight into his heart.

  The bosun had clearly been expecting this, for he gripped Gordon’s arm and drew him forward by his own strength. “Steady, sir,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “There’s only one set of eyes we can trust among the guards, and him only so long as our gold holds out.”

  Gordon nodded. “What did she say?”

  “That she would try to help us. And you were to know that she would do her utmost.”

  Gordon fought off the urge to shout, to sing out loud. “Carter, this news has lifted me up to the heavens.”

  “Aye, sir, I thought you’d be pleased. I reckon we’ll see results of her handiwork any moment now.”

  “Hold there.” Gordon’s sudden lightheartedness left him able to speak of doom with calm and directness. “We are friends, Carter. And at such a time as this, friends should not be anything less than clear with one another.”