The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  “No doubt,” Gordon said kindly. “But today we shall require your skill at the helm.”

  John Jackson appeared then, two large coils of rope over his shoulder. “I believe the hounds have gotten wind of our scent!”

  “Let’s be off. We’ve no time to waste.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Carter said. “We’ve got two men who cannot swim, and both are too weak to do much on the oars. And another has a festering shoulder wound.”

  Gordon rubbed his forehead. Nicole knew how very few seamen could swim. The opinion of those belowdecks was that, with the seas being so vast, learning to stay afloat would only postpone the inevitable. Better still was never to get wet. This knowledge caused her to declare, “Gordon, please, I must insist.”

  Gordon studied her, then said, “I have no cause to order you about. But I must warn you, if you fall away there is nothing any of us can do.”

  “I understand.”

  “All right then.” He turned back to his men. Choosing those worst off would be next to impossible, for all were haggard from the experience of the past few days.

  “Which others of you cannot swim a lick?”

  Two more raised their hands.

  “That settles it. You’ll bend your backs to the oars instead.”

  Jackson pulled two battered paddles from the underbrush. “They can ply these and speed our crossing,” he said.

  “A measure of good fortune,” said Gordon, adding, “If there were only a canoe to go along with those.” As the men tied the ropes to either side of the stern, Gordon said to Carter, “You are in charge. Row with all your might. When you grow too tired, change over. No heroics, just strong and steady.”

  “We won’t fail you, sir.”

  “We’re counting on precisely that.” He clapped the bosun on the shoulder and said to the others, “Give yourselves plenty of space. No bunching up. We’ll lash you about the middles. You’ll need to hold the line with one hand and push hard with the other.”

  “Off with your gear,” John Jackson instructed. “Overcoats and boots and belts. The works. Toss it all into the river.”

  Without being asked, Nicole shed her outer mantle and vest. She did as the others and rolled up the excess clothing. Stepping into the river, she flung the bundle as far out as she could. She bit her lip to stifle the gasp when the water came up around her knees. It felt as if tiny blades of ice were raking her skin.

  She walked over to where Gordon was fashioning a loop and let him fit it around her waist. “Don’t rely on the loop alone, for it may become too tight and cut off your breathing,” he said.

  “I won’t fail you either, Gordon.”

  Fitting his own loop around his body, Gordon smiled. “Of that, my dear Nicole, I have no doubt whatsoever.”

  They paused then, all of them staring out to where the river faded into the mist. There was no way of determining the distance, nor aiming exactly for their destination. All of them knew a moment’s shared fear, of wishing they could turn back. But behind them they could hear the barking of hounds. The fog and marsh played tricks on their hearing, for one moment it sounded as though the dogs were yet a mile or two away, the next they seemed just out of sight.

  “Everyone ready?” Gordon said, his voice light and measured.

  Together they launched the vessel, allowing the oarsmen and the fast-flowing current to draw them away. Nicole could not suppress a small cry as the water rose higher—to her waist, chest, and then neck. The cold took hold of her. Ahead the oarsmen pulled hard, while the two men in the bow dug deep with the canoe paddles. Nicole was standing and walking farther out when suddenly her feet were swept out from under her, followed by a wave flipping over her face. She went under and came up gasping for breath.

  “Swim!” Gordon called out from behind her. “Stay warm and keep the boat from dragging so!”

  She would never be warm again. The water reached with merciless fingers through her skin and pierced her lungs, her very bones. She swam, yet could feel a heavy lethargy spreading throughout her body. The only thing encouraging was the speed at which the water shot past her. Those with the oars and paddles strained, each stroke bringing steady grunts of effort as they attempted to drag forward the water-borne train.

  From the riverbank where they had launched came a harsh shout and then muskets fired. Nicole could not turn around and didn’t know if they could be seen or if the British soldiers were merely firing into the fog. Concentrating on the one vital task of swimming was all she could do. She kicked her legs and felt the dress wrap tightly about her body like a trap. With her free hand she forced herself to pull forward. The pain in her other arm and wrist where the line was coiled was almost welcome because it made her alert. It helped her to focus and breathe, to keep swimming.

  But despite her hardest efforts, the cold continued to sap her strength, entering her lungs with each breath and penetrating her muscles. The weight of her sopping dress dragged her down and caused her limbs to ache. Soon she was left with hardly any feeling at all.

  Each breath now ended in a tight muffled sob. She could hear herself make these noises, though her mind seemed unable to accept they were originating from her. Catching sight of the men in the boat, how they strained and fought, she realized at one point that the oarsmen had switched positions. Those who had before been leaning against the oars were now slumped over their benches, so drained they couldn’t hold their heads upright.

  Where were they? Had they reached the midway point? Each question formed more slowly, the cold now working its way into her mind so even thoughts occurred to her as impossibly heavy.

  Nicole heard the men in the boat let out a cry. She saw Harry turn from his position at the tiller and shout out words to them in the water. But she couldn’t make out what the sounds meant. It was all too much bother to her.

  Then her feet brushed up against something. The opposite bank. But she was unable to draw her legs up under herself. Ahead of her, men leaped from the boat into the river. She knew this was important, that it signified something. Just what it was she couldn’t say. All she could think of was how warm the water had become. How easy it would be to lower her head and let herself sink beneath the softly lapping waves, to drift away.

  Strong hands grabbed her and hauled her forward. She opened her eyes, yet couldn’t tell who it was that held her. Feeling tugs on the rope around her middle, she thought how this must hurt, but still she felt no pain.

  She was pulled from the water by two men. They slipped the rope from around her before moving her farther up onto dry land. She struggled to move her arms, then legs. Again she felt nothing. She heard gasping and was frightened to realize it was her own. Then, as they laid her gently down on the grassy bank and rubbed her hands and feet, a new sensation arrived. The pain that struck her limbs was so fierce she almost wished she could return to the river. It was difficult even to cry out, for she began shivering violently, trembling so much that her breath came in clipped whimpers.

  Nicole heard then what the men were saying. One of them—Carter was his name, she remembered this now— repeated the same words over and over. To her surprise it sounded like the man was crying. Which was impossible, she knew. Carter was a sailor, and such men never wept.

  “Bless you, Miss Nicole. Bless you, ma’am! You’ve done the impossible. You’ve given us God’s miracle. We’re alive; we’re here among free men. Bless you.”

  She wanted to ask about Gordon and to ask why Carter’s face was wet, since he hadn’t been in the river. But her eyelids felt as if pressed down by a great weight. Her last thought was an echo of Carter’s words. Miracle.

  Chapter 33

  Nicole awoke to find herself surrounded by fire and warmth. The sun was struggling to come out from behind the fog and clouds, while to the left and right of her burned great campfires. She lifted her head and discovered Gordon seated by her feet, staring at her. The look in his eyes warmed her as much as the flames, perhaps more. “I was wro
ng,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I thought I would never be warm again.” Nicole tried to sit up and was grateful when he moved to aid her. “How is everyone?”

  “Fine. We are fine. All of us safe and sound. Thanks to you.” He handed her a cloth piled with bread and cheese. “John Jackson might have cast aside boots and belt, but he kept hold of your coin. He foraged this from a nearby farm.”

  Nicole took the bread with one hand and the cheese with the other but was restrained from devouring both instantly by Gordon’s hands. “Steady there,” he cautioned. “You’ve had a terrible shock. Take it slow and easy, that’s my lady.”

  She did as she was told, though it was hard to chew and swallow and wait. The bread seemed the finest she had ever tasted, the cheese too. When the worst of her hunger had been averted, Nicole was able to look up at Gordon and search his face. What was he thinking?

  Gordon stretched out his legs, easing muscles that were clearly still cramped from the day’s exertions. “There’s so much I need to tell you, Nicole,” he said, his voice low.

  “And I you. And so many questions.”

  “Then we shall take turns,” he said. He smiled at her with features still taut with the woes and worries he’d been carrying. “As I watched you sleep, I found myself wishing the old reverend from the mission was here with us. I know him hardly at all, yet I was thinking he would be a good man to talk with right now. Someone who would listen with more than his ears. A man with a lifetime’s worth of experience.”

  “He is all that,” Nicole replied, “and more besides.”

  “To tell the truth, I wish for him now because I have much I would like to say to you, and I do not yet hold the proper words.”

  Nicole set aside what remained of her meal. Though she still felt hunger, she could not have anything else on her mind or within her vision just now. “Please try,” she said.

  “Very well.” He stared at the flickering flames, and his voice crept lower still. “I should like to tell you of my dark night there in the prison. But not now. We must be off before much longer, and this event is too vital to be hurried in the telling. For now I must simply say that you were right, and I was wrong.”

  Nicole could not speak, but he seemed to understand and took up his narrative again.

  “I have been brought to realize that strength taken to an extreme becomes a weakness. Anything which keeps me from relying upon God becomes a barrier to eternity. I am incomplete. I see that now. Being strong, even holding a leader’s wisdom, does not end my need for what canonly come through the divine.” He looked at her then. “Forgive me. I have chosen my words very poorly.”

  “On the contrary, they are most meaningful and beautiful. I believe you now understand why faith is so vital to me.” She looked away then, and she could feel his eyes studying her.

  “What troubles you?” he asked finally.

  Nicole looked directly at him. “I must ask you of how you came to be captured.”

  His gaze darkened, like a storm had become trapped in his eyes. “A mercenary working for the British led us straight into their waiting arms.”

  Nicole drew her legs up close and folded her stiff, dry dress around her. “Tell me about him.”

  “Acadian, like yourself. A tall man, strong, dark of hair and features. Has a small scar beneath his left eye.” He must have seen alarm mounting in her eyes. “Do you know this man?”

  “Perhaps . . .” She was panting again, as if different waters had reached out to grip her with a cold even fiercer than the river. “What—what was his name?”

  “Henri Robichaud, he said. I will never forget it. Never.”

  From their small camp’s perimeter, Jackson gave a quick shout. “Horses coming this way!”

  Nicole rose with Gordon. “That was not Henri Robichaud.”

  Gordon was already searching the horizon. He turned quickly to her. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because,” Nicole replied, “Henri Robichaud is my father.”

  Chapter 34

  Gordon stared at her as horses thundered toward them. “But . . . you are a Harrow.” He obviously was having trouble fitting his thoughts around her words. “He is too young to be your father.”

  “Henri Robichaud would never do such a thing as you described. Believe me on this, if ever you have believed me at all. I cannot explain it all now, but I am telling you the truth.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Carter said. “But perhaps you should call the men to arms.”

  “Arms? With what?” Gordon glanced in the direction of the approaching horses. “We have naught but our fists, and they that come are carrying lances and muskets both.” Turning his attention back to Nicole, he asked her, “So who was it that betrayed me and my men?”

  “I have much to tell you, so very much. My guesses will mean nothing until I have spoken with you fully. Believe me now when I say I wish to tell you everything, and that the man you met was not Henri Robichaud.”

  “I say!” The American officer rode a dappled stallion with a mane of silky black. The horse pranced and snorted when the officer reined it in. He used his saber and directed his men into two enfilades, which spread like arms to encircle the gathering. “Who might we have here?”

  “Captain Gordon Goodwind, the Viscountess Lady Harrow, and a bevy of hardy soldiers seeking service under the banner of all free men.” For once, Gordon’s stiff bow lacked its customary finesse. He was barefoot and bedraggled, beltless and unshaven. “Your servant, sir.”

  “You don’t say.” The officer’s mustache quivered with barely suppressed mirth. He cast a sardonic eye on Nicole, who was busy attempting to brush meadow grass and seaweed from her ruined dress. At least I am dry, she thought as she gathered up her tangled hair as best she could.

  “A viscountess, did you say?”

  “That is correct, sir. You must forgive our appearance. We have just recently escaped from the clutches of the British by swimming the river.”

  The officer’s adjutant cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir.”

  “A moment.” The officer pointed with his saber to the bosun. “I bid you, lift your trouser leg.”

  Carter glanced at Gordon, whose jaw was knotted with tension, but who nodded agreement. Carter pulled up the hem of his pants, revealing coarsely abraded sores from the leg chains.

  “You and your men are jail rats, I take it,” the officer said, his humor now gone.

  “Aye, sir, we were incarcerated by the British. We escaped because of the lady’s help. We scarcely made it away with our lives.” Then Gordon stopped speaking because the officer in charge was no longer listening. His adjutant had sidled his horse up close to the officer and was whispering intently.

  “You don’t say,” the officer murmured. He turned back to Gordon, a new light in his eyes. “Goodwind, did you say?”

  “Aye, sir. Gordon Goodwind.”

  “Well, you have some nerve, I will give you that.” He motioned for his men to close in. “I can’t say I quite understand your motives for returning, Captain. But you and your men are bound to trade one set of chains for another.”

  “You can’t!” Nicole cried out. “These men have information that is vital to the American cause! You must take us to the garrison commandant.”

  “The men here are headed for the stockade. As for you”—the mustache quivered once more—“you are welcome to address the commandant if you wish. Although I imagine he has more important things on his mind than to have a camp follower join him for tea.”

  Gordon’s men jerked forward with such ferocity the officer’s steed snorted and pulled back. The opposing soldiers held their lances at the ready for attack. “Hold hard there!” Gordon roared, stilling his men’s anger at the aspersion on Nicole’s character.

  Jackson quickly stepped forward and saluted. “Hard as it may be to believe, sir, these men are telling the truth. They were falsely accused as spies by both sides. But they are
with us heart and soul.”

  “And just who,” the officer grunted, “might you be?”

  “John Jackson, sergeant with the Pennsylvania’s Seventh.”

  “Then I shall arrest you for consorting with the enemy, which is a hanging offense.”

  Nicole was beside herself with anger and dismay. “This is absurd! You can’t possibly think we would come up with such a preposterous—”

  Gordon halted her with a hand on her arm. “You know the realities of wartime, my dear.”

  “But, Gordon—”

  “There is nothing to be gained by a frontal attack,” he countered, his words as much for his men as for her. “Do what you can, and come for us as swiftly as you are able.”

  Despite frustration and his weakened condition, he smiled with his eyes. “It appears I shall soon be placed even further in your debt.”

  “I will do anything—.”

  “Of that,” he said, signaling his men into line, “I have no doubt.”

  Chapter 35

  In spite of the overlong hike that left Gordon and his men limping badly, nothing seemed to affect his good humor. Gordon found reason to smile in the smallest of things. A robin saluted their passage, a warm southwesterly breeze blew aside the sky’s final veil, and the pastures rippled with waves in greeting. When they stopped for a midday respite of well water, Gordon felt he had never tasted anything so fine. His men cast him questioning glances, and John Jackson eyed him with outright disbelief. Even the officer who stood nearby as they entered the stockade watched Gordon with a sideways glare.

  Once they were processed and each handed a blanket and a tin meal bowl, Gordon threw himself down in a shadowy corner with only soiled hay for bedding. He watched the sky’s two remaining clouds chase each other across a sea of open blue. He sighed with contentment. He was weary in his bones, yet for the moment his heart was too full to permit him to sleep.

  John Jackson and Carter walked over together, bearing tins of gruel and battered cups of hot tea. “There’s grub of a sort, Skipper.”