Gordon’s senses had been trained by years of constant vigilance while at sea. A shift in the wind, a change in the tide’s running, these and many others marked time for him as precisely as the ticking of a clock. Even though it was still black as ink outside his window, the sky blanketed with thick clouds and the air filled with a stationary mist, he knew that dawn was not far off. Young Harry had drifted to sleep hours before. He, however, hadn’t budged from his spot against the wall. He found comfort in listening to the young man breathe as he slept. But more than this, Gordon found a rightness to it, too, as though the act of praying with him had brought them so close he could care for him as he might a son—a son he would now never have.
Moments later, while the mist crept in and obscured what little light might have entered from the torches and campfires, Gordon’s own internal vistas remained brilliant and clear. He sat there with his eyes opened wide and stared straight ahead. But what he saw was far behind, all the way back to his early days on the open sea.
He recalled the moment when he stood on the quarterdeck as captain of his own vessel for the very first time. It had been a magnificent day. He had risen with the dawn watch and ordered the men to send aloft all sails. The rising canvas had snapped and caught the wind and drawn up tight—billows of white that ascended ninety feet and more. Leaping forward, the ship cleaved the sea like a great wooden ax. An albatross then appeared as if from nowhere and hung there alongside his head, its wings motionless. The sun had emerged behind him, turning the great bird into a phoenix of flames and eternal beginnings, and the sea into crimson and gold and white. From the mainmast’s pinnacle, the watchkeeper had piped with his pocket fife a merry salute to the break of day, to all new days everywhere. And it had seemed to Gordon that this was as fine as life could be, sailing toward a boundless horizon, aboard a ship filled with jolly Jack-tars, with nothing ahead of him but a wealth of adventure.
In his cell Gordon detected a whisper of sound, but he resisted releasing the vision. Instead he lifted his eyes toward the roof. I have never thanked thee for that dawn, he confessed. In fact, I have never acknowledged thy place in it at all. But I see thee there now, Father. And I thank thee.
The sound drew closer still until soon there was the sibilant rustle of metal on metal, and his cell door was pushed gently open. Two shadows flitted inside without benefit of torch or lantern. Gordon watched them with the calm of one who had already taken his leave and observed, “It is not yet time.”
“Quiet, you. For all our sakes,” hissed a stranger’s voice. “Where’s the latch to your wall chains?”
Chapter 30
Not even after his ankle chains dropped away and he took his first free step in days could Gordon believe it was actually happening. Not even after the jailer thrust a moth-eaten red coat into his hands and rasped out, “Put this on.”
But then he stepped outside the cell to see Carter grinning there before him and heard the man breathe, “God bless the lady, sir. God bless her.”
Gordon felt his heart grow wings and leap from the gallows. “Nicole?”
“Who else? We—”
A hiss silenced them both. They were pressed over to the stockade’s east wall, where the cluster of men grew one by one. Soon all Gordon’s mates were there with him, smiling and rubbing wrists and ankles, barely able to take in the fact that they might be making a run for it.
The jailer came by once more and handed out ragged soldiers’ coats to each of the prisoners. Gordon stepped forward, grasped the jailer’s arm, and whispered, “There’s one more.”
“Ten plus you. That was the—”
“Eleven,” Gordon said and drew him over to the door next to his own. “Here.”
The jailer seethed but then did as he was bidden. It was dreadful entering death’s cage again, but Gordon steeled himself and moved forward with the jailer. The clink of chains signaled that Harry was awake. This was followed by the soft cry of terror.
“Quiet now, lad.”
“Gordon?”
They waited by the stockade’s inner gates for what seemed eons, but in fact was less than an hour. The morning gathered slowly, as though night itself were trapped within the heavy fog’s grip and kept there long against its will. The air clogged tight with a cold wetness, and several men buried their heads in their borrowed greatcoats to stifle coughs.
Two jailers stood with them, the ones Carter had pointed out the previous day as having aided in talking to Nicole. They were a brutish pair, and it left Gordon with a foul taste to have to put himself in the hands of soldiers who could be bought.
Harry turned out to be a goodly enough fellow, lean in the way of many foot soldiers who didn’t have enough coin to add to their meager diet. Tall, he had the reddish blond hair of good English stock. In the faint light Gordon could see how his eyes had retreated back into dark caves, from which they now watched the dawn with feverish intensity. Clearly he still feared he would more than likely be cut off from breath and life in but an hour’s time.
The morning’s first thrush chirped in the distance. Gordon took this as a signal of hope. Beyond the wooden stockade walls came a faint murmuring, sleepy men reaching the end of a cold night’s watch. The jailers exchanged anxious looks. Gordon then gave a single nod and a flicker of hand motions, and the men moved with haste into double file. Prisoners they might be, with limbs weak as water, but they had lived and breathed military precision all their lives. Their hats and coats were the dregs, taken from the military mess. Not even the poorest soldier would be inclined to try to repair the many holes, most of which were surrounded by dark stains. Two of the hats were missing corners. But in the murky half-light, with the mist draped over everything, hopefully they could pass unnoticed.
They stepped forward, marching in weary unison. One of the jailers called, “Open up, you!”
“Who goes down there?” The mist thickened until it was almost impossible to make out the figure who peered at them from the stockade parapet. Gordon knew that with the sun rising behind him, it was unlikely the man would see anything at all.
“That you, Derek?” asked the jailer.
“Who else would be out in this gloom and cold?”
Try as he might, the jailer couldn’t keep his voice from skittering up and down. “Open the door and let us get to our beds.”
“There’s a good half hour left to the watch.” The figure overhead shifted to one side. “Light the torch, will you? I can’t see my hand before my face.”
“Couldn’t. Everything down here is wet as rainwater. Open the door, I tell you.”
Reluctantly the guard moved toward the latch, then suddenly stepped back and said, “Where’s your officer of the watch, then?”
Gordon felt the night press down, the gloom holding them tightly in place. Their way forward was blocked, and he could do nothing to break free. Nothing, except . . .
His heart thundering, he slipped back a few paces and then came stomping forward. In his sternest quarterdeck voice he rapped out, “What’s the holdup here?”
The two jailers jerked backward in surprise, and the soldier overhead snapped to attention and said, “Begging pardon, sir. But it’s not time yet for the watch change.”
“Indeed not! But we have a nasty business ahead of us today, and I want the graves dug and the preparations in order before the prison comes to life!”
“Right you are, sir.” The soldier ran down and unlatched the inner gates. Tugging on the rope, he swung the door open wide. He then turned and barked, “You there, open the outer gates! Officer and his men coming through.”
Chapter 31
The stockade was situated on the boggy terrain that separated the marshland from the pasture now housing the British garrison. As light strengthened to the east, the hills of Boston rose up like islands in a distant golden sea. The mist clung tight to the earth yet lifted with each footfall, surrounding the marching men with mystery and safety.
They passed by the first clu
ster of houses, inns, and taverns that catered to the foot soldiers. Then, where a narrow lane split and led to some farm dwellings, a man stepped from behind a tree and whistled once.
“That’s our man,” the jailer said. Relief and the tense march caused his breath to catch in his throat.
“Make haste, men,” Gordon murmured. “Double time.”
The men trotted over to where the stranger stood waving urgently. They turned the corner to find a rope line holding the reins of fifteen horses. The stranger counted swiftly, then hissed, “We’re one horse shy!”
Gordon demanded, “Who might you be?”
“John Jackson is the name. In the employ of the finest woman I have ever had the honor to meet.” He offered his hand. “And you, sir, are a most fortunate man.”
Gordon accepted the man’s grip. “Aye, I can’t argue with you there.”
Off in the distance behind them could be heard the tinny trumpet sound of alarm. “Fly!” John Jackson leaped into the saddle of the nearest horse. “For the sake of the Lady Nicole, fly like the wind!”
Gordon mounted his horse and then pulled Harry up behind him. “Can you ride?”
“Since I was eight.”
“Then hold tight and lean into me!”
They careened out of cover and thundered down the empty road heading west, away from both Boston and the soldiers. Over the sound of pounding hooves, Gordon thought he heard musket fire, though it might well have been his imagination. John Jackson was ten lengths ahead and pulling away fast. Carter and two of the other men slowed to stay apace of Gordon’s doubly laden horse, but then Gordon waved them forward. “Hold hard to our guide!” he shouted.
They raced through a fog that seemed to part before them and close up behind. Three times Gordon glanced behind them and could make out nothing but a brilliant white veil. Then he stopped looking back, for it caused his laboring horse to falter. Instead he leaned down till his chin rested on the horse’s nape and shouted, “Hyah!”
They galloped on until he could hear the horse’s breath rasping raw and he could sense the legs carrying them begin to weaken. The closest man to them was now so far ahead Gordon could only see but a faintly shifting shadow. John Jackson and the front-runners were lost to the fog and the distance. Gordon was about to call to the men and order them to continue on without him, when the man ahead reined in and turned sharply to the left, leaving behind the river and marsh. Thankfully Gordon did the same. A narrow track opened and began snaking through the trees. His horse was stumbling heavily now. Harry slipped off the back and said, “I’ll run from here.”
“Well done, lad. We’ll wait for you farther on.”
The Distant Beacon A half mile ahead, the forest gave way to raw pastureland. Gordon then spied a ramshackle house, obviously no longer occupied. A huge man stood awaiting them. John Jackson strode from his horse to the porch. Gordon rushed forward and, to his astonishment, realized he was facing the stockade’s cook.
“That’s far enough!” the cook said, showing them the business end of a loaded musket. “Now I’ll be seeing either the color of your wares or your innards.”
“First show me that the lady is in good straights,” demanded Jackson.
Gordon dismounted and stepped forward. “What’s this?” he asked.
“It was the Lady Nicole’s idea,” Jackson explained as the cook moved to the door and shoved it open. “We could not pay until you were free. But we had to prove to them we would do as we promised.”
“She gave herself as hostage?”
Jackson was a tall man, almost matching Gordon’s height, and had the look of one who knew how to handle himself in a fight. “For you, yes,” he said with a challenging stare.
“Gordon!”
The young woman who stepped through the doorway was, in Gordon’s eyes, the most beautiful of God’s creations. He was there in a flash, holding himself in check as he grasped both of her outstretched hands.
“Oh, thank the good Lord above!” exclaimed Nicole, gazing into his eyes as her own filled with tears.
“Amen,” he said, and for the first time he felt he was well and truly free. “Amen.”
“Yes, all the amens are fine,” the cook sneered. “Now let’s be seeing the payment.”
John Jackson reached into his saddlebags and came out with three heavy purses. The jailers eagerly received theirs.
Gordon was shocked. “Are those sovereigns?”
In reply the jailers untied the purses and spilled a flow of gold into their hands.
Gordon protested, “But that is more than I earned from the entire ship’s voyage!”
“Let’s be having the rest, then,” said the cook, his hand outstretched.
Gordon watched as John Jackson pulled two more purses from a different saddlebag and handed them over.
The cook waited till all the contents had been inspected, then demanded, “And the bauble?”
Reluctantly Jackson took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out toward the cook. The man walked forward, slipped back the folds, and lifted out the emerald pendant. “There’s my beauty.”
Gordon started forward but was halted by Nicole’s hand on his arm. He looked into her eyes and felt the anger fade. She said nothing, but he understood.
“Aye, this here’s enough to see us well rid of stamping and saluting and other men’s wars.” The cook pulled himself into the saddle, waited for his two mates to mount up, then gave the group a final leering grin. “Looks like some of you lot will just have to hoof it.”
Nicole straightened and said, “Go with God, sir.”
All three men stared at her from their saddles. The cook responded with a mock salute, and then he and the jailers rode off without looking back.
Chapter 32
Their progress was as swift as could be, given the men’s exhausted state. They each took turns walking or trotting alongside the horses carrying those fortunate enough to ride. The weather remained with them, however, and blanketed the road with a mist so heavy the whole world appeared as myriad shades of gray. Keeping to the roadside and off the main trail, the men forged ahead, being careful to stay nearby the sheltering woodlands.
At one point they happened upon a company of men and so, just in time, disappeared out of sight. The soldiers rode by like fierce shadows, officers on stallions prancing before and after. Hands clamped around their own mount’s jaws, Gordon’s men didn’t breathe till the sound of the horses had drifted into the gray and windless distance.
Before long Jackson led them into a forest that cut between the road and the river. They stopped for a short rest and to drain the single canteen, just enough for a few swallows each. Jackson said, “The Charles River is over a mile wide at this point. Either we find us a boat or we will be forced to send some men back to Boston to steal one.”
Gordon’s frown was the only response. “You have an idea where we might find us a vessel?”
“I might. Although vessel is hardly the term I would use.”
“If it floats, it will serve us.” Gordon rose wearily to his feet and signaled to his men. “Lead on.”
The Boston side of the Charles River was lined not with a proper bank but with marshland that made it difficult to tell precisely where the river began. Muddy grasslands spread in patches wider than the river itself. How John Jackson could find his way back through the fog, thick marsh and woods, Nicole would never understand. To her, the low-hanging branches and foul water all seemed identical. But Jackson guided them onward, every step taking them farther into the muck. She kept hoping to see some measure of a trail that might look familiar. It wasn’t until they came to the natural corral, where the trees formed a kind of overhanging tent, that she could say with certainty, “We have arrived.” She looked around for the boat in which she had previously crossed the river at this same location.
The men let out sighs of relief, and Gordon said, “Well done, sir. I say, well done.”
“Let us hope the
boat is on this side,” Jackson said, sliding from his horse. “Else all will have been for naught.”
Gordon joined Jackson in searching for the launch. Quickly the men unsaddled the horses, but they abruptly stopped, heads up. At first Nicole couldn’t determine what had alerted them. Then she heard it. The faint sound of a trumpet. The baying of hounds.
John Jackson and Gordon must have heard it as well, for they came rushing back through the thicket. Breathing hard, Gordon announced, “The vessel is there. But she will not hold us all.”
“But we can’t delay, not by a minute!” said Jackson. “They will be on us in a flash.”
“You are certainly right about that. I have hunted with hounds and have seen how swift they can move.” Gordon’s forehead creased. “There is but one way out of this.”
John Jackson nodded sharply. “I recall seeing some rope in the corral.”
“Good man.” Gordon motioned the others toward the river. “Let’s be off.”
Nicole waited until they were near the boat before asking, “Gordon, what is happening?”
“We will put our stoutest oarsmen in the boat. The others will hold on to lines and swim with all their might.” Gordon pointed to Carter and three others. “You there. Leave room in the bow for Nicole.”
“No,” she protested. “I will swim as well.”
“My dear, that is quite out of the question. The river still holds to winter’s chill.”
“And there are men here who are nearly falling down with fatigue.” She gestured to the tall young stranger who stood with arms wrapped around his chest, leaning against a tree. “Look at that one there.”
“Yes, I had thought Harry could perhaps steer the boat.” Gordon called to him, “Lad, can you handle a tiller?”
“I fished with my father since I was a small boy,” he answered. He made a feeble attempt to straighten himself. “But I can swim, sir.”
The Distant Beacon Page 17
