The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  It proved to be only an island. But soon they were sailing past more and more islands, some only an outcropping of rock and barren snow-covered turf, others larger and wooded.

  As they sailed by the larger islands, Gerrit spotted small inlets, their harbors lined with boats of many sizes—sloops, schooners, dories—and a half-dozen white clapboard houses with black shutters and dark shingled roofs rising above them on rugged slopes.

  The mainland appeared at last on the horizon. Gerrit looked at everything in wonder. Great gray rocky boulders, stony beaches, dark green wooded hills interspersed with snow-covered meadows and fields, an occasional farmhouse visible in the distance, or a bobbing boat moored at a private landing. Behind the large, white farmhouses, the many outbuildings were attached to the main house, creating the look of long buildings standing alone on the harsh landscape.

  The ship navigated the mouth of a wide river and continued upstream. A sailor told him it was the “Penobscot.” The river wound its way from the rocky coast inland, past ever hillier terrain. Farmland soon turned to fir-covered mountains, just as Hester had described to him. The land was breathtakingly beautiful, like nothing he had ever seen, but it also looked primitive and lonely.

  Soon, cleared land and farmhouses began reappearing. Several three-masted ships and two-masted schooners edged the river as they approached Bangor harbor, with its companion town, Brewer, which Gerrit would call a village, visible across the river.

  What caught his attention at these two harbors were the logs. They floated in special enclosures at the river’s edge, they were piled onto the quays, and they lay on the sandy banks opposite, where frames of ships’ hulls stood in stocks.

  He turned his attention back to his destination, the town of Bangor. It appeared more of an outpost to him. Although there were at least a dozen ships and schooners moored along its wharves and several brick buildings along its waterfront, beyond them the town soon disappeared into more fields and scattered farmhouses.

  Where was Hester Leighton in this quaint setting? he wondered. He gripped the gunwale, more and more nervous with each passing minute.

  Would she even remember him? Or was England some distant memory now? Was his coming here nothing but a fool’s journey? The fears he’d fought to ignore during the many monotonous days and nights at sea now barreled him like a cannonade.

  As soon as the ship was brought quayside, a small crowd of men gathered. Amidst shouts, ropes were thrown down and the gangplanks lowered. Confusion reigned as the cargo from Britain was unloaded. Gerrit took up his satchel. The time of reckoning had arrived.

  His gaze scanned the area. He’d already learned that there was no hotel in town. The cheapest and most plentiful rooms were to be found right there at the harbor, nicknamed the Devil’s Half Acre. They couldn’t be any worse than the places frequented by seamen in London. He gripped his satchel tighter, making his way down the gangplank. For the first time in his life he was truly alone, answerable to no one.

  Just as he stepped onto the Quay, a winch swung a netted cargo overhead. As it was lowered onto the dock, one of the ropes broke loose and the wooden crates within it began tumbling out.

  A lone boy bent to lift a bundle, oblivious to the danger above him.

  Dropping his satchel, Gerrit lunged toward the youth, hauling him away by the arm just as the crates came crashing down.

  Men clamored around them and the split crates. “Are you all right?” came from all sides.

  The boy, his eyes wide with fright, could only nod. Gerrit stared at him now, feeling his own cheeks drain of color. The young French cadet stared back at him from wide blue eyes.

  Gerrit blinked, erasing the image. Of course it wasn’t the same boy. He could see how he’d been mistaken. The two appeared about the same age—perhaps fifteen—with the same physique and coloring. As he stepped back, he saw the differences. This boy’s face was slightly longer, his nose a trifle larger. Mostly, this boy was very much alive, his cheeks ruddy and full of health, not the ghostly white of a corpse.

  This youth was tall for his age, reaching almost to Gerrit’s height and his shoulders were broad. But he was still a boy, Gerrit could see from the scant whiskers on his cheeks. What continued to startle Gerrit was the color of his eyes. It was the same shade as the dead French boy’s—bright and blue as the cloudless sky over Waterloo after the previous day’s rain, which had turned the battleground into a field of mud.

  “You s-saved me,” the boy stammered.

  “I just happened to be at the right spot at the right time,” Gerrit replied, uncomfortable with the boy’s look and tone of awe.

  The boy glanced past him at the damaged crates on the wharf, and with the resiliency of youth, began to laugh. “I would have been as flat as a flapjack if you hadn’t come along just then.”

  A smile tugged at Gerrit’s lips, relief beginning to flood him, now that the danger was over.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Jamie?” an older man asked, clapping him on the back.

  Jamie? Where’d he heard that name?

  “I’m fine, Ethan.”

  “We’d better tell your father.”

  Alarm filled his powder blue eyes. “No! Please don’t. He won’t let me come down here anymore if he knows what happened.” Seeing the man’s hesitation, he grabbed his arm. “Please, Ethan. You know how I want to go to the camp, and if he hears about this, he’ll keep me home.”

  The man scratched his grizzled head, shaking it back and forth. “All right, I won’t say a word…though I’m sure he’s bound to hear about it from someone else.”

  The boy grinned. “Thanks. It’ll at least give me some time to think how I can reason with him.”

  The boy turned back to Gerrit, a frown clouding his young features. “You won’t say anything either, will you, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Who’s your father?”

  “Jeremiah Leighton. He owns the ship.”

  So…this was Miss Leighton’s baby brother, the one she spoke of with such love. “No, I won’t say anything.”

  The boy smiled in relief. “Thanks, mister.” He shoved off a wool glove and stuck out his hand. “I haven’t thanked you properly. Jamie Leighton, at your service. And I mean that.”

  Gerrit had to smile at his earnest tone, although he still had to fight his reaction to the boy’s uncanny similarity to the young Frenchman. He clasped Jamie’s hand in his. “Gerrit Hawkes.”

  “Glad to make your acquaintance. You sound British.”

  “That’s because I am.” Thankful his own name didn’t seem to mean anything to Jamie, Gerrit disengaged his hand and stepped back. He wasn’t ready yet to reveal his purpose here to this boy. “Can you direct me to a rooming house nearby?”

  “They’re all along the street behind here,” the older man indicated with a gesture.

  “Thank you. Well, I’d best be on my way.” His tongue itched to ask about Jamie’s sister, but he held back.

  The boy, too, seemed to want to delay him with more questions, but Gerrit turned away with a wave. “I expect I’ll see you around in a town of this size.”

  “Yes, I hope so.” His voice sounded eager.

  Gerrit strode quickly from the area and began to look for an available room. He ended up at a large tavern which several sailors had recommended.

  It didn’t take him long afterwards to find the offices of Jeremiah Leighton. It seemed Hester’s father owned half the wharves and ships lining the banks of the Penobscot River.

  He faced a square brick building, its brass plate etched with the straightforward name of Jeremiah Leighton Logging & Shipping on its shiny surface. Taking a deep breath, Gerrit opened the door, ready for his first real test in the New World.

  The jingling of a bell above his head announced his entrance. Several clerks, working on stools at tall narrow desks, looked up. He approached the nearest, a young man who peered at him over wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “May I be of service, sir?�
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  “Yes. I’d like to see Mr. Jeremiah Leighton if he has a moment. You can tell him—” he hesitated only an instant, still not used to his plain, civilian name “—Gerrit Hawkes is here to see him.”

  “Very good, sir.” The young man set down his quill pen and slipped down from the stool. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He disappeared through a door at the rear of the room.

  Good to his word, he came back a few minutes later. “This way, if you please, sir.”

  Gerrit followed him through the door, where the man left him, closing it behind him.

  Mr. Leighton sat behind a wide, polished mahogany desk. He gave Gerrit no smile of greeting nor stood at his approach. His brown eyes measured him as Gerrit crossed the distance between them.

  Gerrit debated extending his hand but thought better of it. Mr. Leighton would probably ignore it.

  “Major Hawkes.” Mr. Leighton sat back, laying down his pen. The creak of his chair was the only sound in the room.

  “Mr. Leighton.”

  The older man didn’t offer him the seat in front of the desk.

  “What are you doing in Bangor…or is the answer the obvious one?” he asked dryly.

  The man wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Gerrit cleared his throat. “I’ve come to ask you for work.”

  Gerrit could see he hadn’t expected that reply. Mr. Leighton pursed his lips and made a pyramid of his fingers. Finally, he said, “You want to work in my company?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “What do you know of the shipping or lumber business?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Mr. Leighton rubbed his chin. “In that case, you’d have to start at the bottom.”

  “I’m prepared to do that.”

  Mr. Leighton eyed him up and down. “You might change your mind about that in a few weeks—if you last that long.”

  The silence hung between them.

  “I’m only asking for an opportunity to prove myself.”

  “And if…by some unforeseen miracle, you manage to do that, what then?” The older man tapped his fingers together, the challenge clear in his brown eyes.

  Gerrit lifted his chin a fraction. “If I succeed in proving myself to—er—your satisfaction, then I would like to ask for your elder daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Leighton nodded slowly, as if saying this is what he’d expected to hear all along. “You know what I think of you, Major?”

  “I have a fair idea.”

  He harrumphed. “Whatever it is you think, you can double it.” With a loud scrape of his chair, Leighton stood and leaned his fists against the desk. “I don’t like you, Major, never have.”

  “I understand that…sir,” he added softly.

  “You’re the last man I’d wish for my daughter.”

  “I’m in complete agreement with you there.”

  The older man seemed taken aback for an instant. “I’m glad we can agree on one thing.” Leighton came around the desk and stood face-to-face with Gerrit. “I’ve prayed to the good Lord for the future spouses of my four children since the day they were born. I want them to have the kind of marriage I’ve been blessed with—to a faithful, loving, godly partner. Do you have any notion about the kind of union I’m talking about?”

  Gerrit swallowed, taken aback in his turn by the man’s words. “I confess I’ve never seen one like that.”

  Mr. Leighton looked at him for an inordinately long time. “My instincts haven’t failed me yet. And right now, it goes against all my instincts to give you this opportunity to destroy my daughter’s future happiness.” He sighed and turned away from Gerrit as if he couldn’t stand being so close to him.

  “You came back a decorated soldier from your war with the French. Obviously you can kill and survive.” He made a dismissive sound. “It’s easy to destroy. It’s much harder to build something.” He stared hard at Gerrit from under his heavy brows.

  “I always give a man one chance when it comes to working for me. Your medals must have meant something. Your attitude coming here today says something more. Now show me if you’re any good at building anything. You have one chance to prove yourself to me, Hawkes. If you destroy it, you can leave this city…without my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Gerrit nodded. “To the utmost.” He paused a fraction of a second. “Thank you, sir.”

  Leighton grunted. “You won’t thank me in a few weeks.”

  Gerrit faced him down although inwardly he was quaking. “That remains to be seen.”

  Hester’s father moved away from him. “You can report back here tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Ask for Henry. He’ll put you to work.”

  With a nod, Gerrit turned to leave. At the door, he paused. “May I—” He cleared his throat, hating himself for his trepidation “—may I see Miss Leighton?”

  Mr. Leighton was already sitting back at his desk. He looked down a second before replying. “My inclination is to say no, but this is a small town. She’ll soon find out you’re here and probably visit you herself. I’d rather you call on her openly and honorably like any—suitor.” He seemed to swallow on the word as if it had a bitter taste. “You may come to our house for supper tonight. Six o’clock. Anyone will tell you where it is.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gerrit left then, feeling the biggest hurdle of his venture was behind him.

  He returned to the tavern. It was not the best inn he’d been to but neither was it the worst. Most of all, it was warm, with a large fire going in the great room. He went up to the bar and requested a bath. The middle-aged woman who’d taken his money looked at him as if he had asked for champagne and caviar.

  “The men usually have their bath on Saturdays.”

  “As I’ve just come from a voyage of two months at sea, I’d appreciate if I didn’t have to wait until Saturday.”

  She pushed a graying ringlet away from her face, then turned to the door behind her. “Daryl!”

  A towheaded youth appeared in the doorway.

  “Haul up some hot water to this gent’s room.”

  The boy stared at him a moment before nodding. “Yes’m.”

  As Gerrit walked toward the stairs, he noticed a tavern maid standing behind one of the rough-hewn tables, a rag in one hand. She stared at him boldly and put her hands behind her hips, thrusting out her chest as he passed. He only gave a nod and continued on his way, recognizing the look of invitation in her eye.

  If she only knew how futile her attempts at flirtation were, she’d laugh him to scorn.

  At least that was one area he didn’t have to worry about failing in his test to win Hester Leighton. A sudden fear gripped him. What if he never was a man again on that score?

  Hester looked up from the pillowcase she was embroidering, when her father came home from his warehouse.

  After he’d greeted her mother with a kiss and some soft spoken words, he turned to Hester and her sisters. They all looked up from their work and smiled their welcome. “Hello, Papa,” came a chorus of female voices.

  “Hello, girls. You appear very industrious,” he said in approval.

  “Did a ship come in today?” Katie, Hester’s next-youngest sister asked, eagerness lighting her features.

  “Yes, and I’ve a box full of lovely things from England sitting out in the hallway.”

  “Oh!” she and her younger sister squealed and hurried out of the room.

  Her father turned a look of inquiry to Hester. “Does the thought of lace handkerchiefs and bolts of French silk no longer interest you?”

  Hester shook her head with a smile. “I’ve scarcely been able to wear all the beautiful things you gave me when we were in England.” Nor had the heart to.

  He sat down beside her on the love seat. “A few weeks in London and you’re jaded already. What a pity. I can no longer surprise you with pretty gifts and baubles.”

  Hester patted his hand, glad to have him home. She always enjoyed the news from the
ships in port. And if there was ever a slight chance that someone might have sailed in from England who knew Major Hawkes…well, maybe someday his name would slip out in their conversation. She sighed as she put aside her sewing, knowing her secret hope was but wishful thinking. “You know you’ve never been able to tempt me with anything I’m obliged to sew.”

  He chuckled and continued to regard her with a thoughtful expression.

  “What is it, Papa?” she asked.

  He shook his head and shifted his gaze. “Nothing…” He turned to his wife, who sat in a rocker beside the Franklin stove set out from the brick fireplace. “We’re having a guest for supper tonight.”

  Mrs. Leighton raised her head from her sewing. “Oh, who?” she asked with a smile.

  “No one you know…except by reputation,” he muttered. “A young gentleman,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Hester.

  Hester wondered who it might be. Her heart quickened. Maybe this time her dream would come true. But no, Papa was always bringing home young men from the office or warehouse. “Is it someone off the ship?” she asked.

  “Yes…as a matter of fact.”

  Her mother knotted the end of her thread. “One of your employees from London? I hope he’ll enjoy our simple fare. Perhaps if you’d invited him for dinner instead of supper…”

  “Oh, he’ll enjoy it fine. I don’t believe he’s coming for the food, at any rate.”

  Before either of them could ask him any more questions, he stood and retrieved the day’s edition of the Weekly Register he’d brought with him when he’d come in. “This paper is not half-bad,” he said, settling in an armchair on the other side of the stove, and unfolding it. “We’re becoming a first-rate city, with our own newspaper. Now that all the blockades are finally ended, there’s no limit to what we’ll be able to bring in.”

  Hester knew better than to press her father when he changed the subject so decisively. If he wanted to surprise them, so be it. She picked up her embroidery with a sigh, hoping supper would be called soon, so she could put her work aside for the evening.