The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “How old is he?”

  “Only fourteen.”

  “He seems older.”

  “Yes, he’s tall for his age. He takes after Papa.” She smiled. “Papa has a hard time justifying his protectiveness, since he was already on board a ship at Jamie’s age, heading for America. When he arrived here in the Maine Territory from Boston, he signed on with a logging crew.” She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the cold. “Well, I’d better let you go and get some rest. I know you have hard work tomorrow. I hope you had an enjoyable evening with us.”

  “Thank you for your kind invitation.”

  She handed him the reins. “With your own horse now, you have no excuse not to come every evening. I shall come fetch you again if you don’t come on your own.” She looked down. “That is, if you want to come. You mustn’t feel obliged.”

  He lifted her chin with a fingertip, loving the combination of shyness and boldness in her. Grudgingly, he had to admit to himself that she must have inherited the latter quality from her father. “I’d love to come. There is no amusement sitting in a tavern by myself each evening. But I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

  “You couldn’t ever do that.” Her eyes held so much promise, again he longed to bend his head and kiss her. But he held himself back. It was premature. With a long sigh, he straightened and took a step away from her. “Until tomorrow then.”

  When Gerrit arrived at the inn, there were still a few sailors sitting at the tables, drinking from their pewter tankards and playing cards. A couple of them looked up as he passed and he nodded, but they ignored him and went back to their cards.

  He walked up the dark stairwell which had a musty odor. The higher it got, the colder it became. Only the ground floor was heated. By the time he reached his door, his steps heavy with fatigue, the air was frigid.

  He opened his door and stepped immediately back. The stench was like a thick wall. He used the taper he’d gotten from the taproom to shine it around the dark room.

  “What in blazes—” He stared at his bed. The middle held a pile of…he stepped closer. Lobsters! The black shells of raw lobsters glistened in the candlelight, their large claws ferocious. Their beady eyes and long thin antennas made them look like ugly armored insects. But they were harmless, dead at least a week by the smell.

  The homespun sheet and straw ticking underneath were soaked with a large round wet spot where the pile of lobsters had been dumped.

  Suddenly his blood boiled. Who would play such an ugly trick? He marched back down the narrow stairwell, determined to find the culprit and have it out with him.

  He stared at the men at their game of cards then walked to the bar where the tavern owner leaned. “I want to know who had access to my room this evening.”

  The man looked at him bored. “What’s the problem? The maid not make your bed to your liking?”

  He heard a snicker behind him. He turned slowly and narrowed his eyes at the group of men. His boots thudded on the wood planked floor as he walked over to them. “Whoever thought it a joke to soil my bed with rotten shellfish can own up to it and we can settle this outside right now.” He stared each one in the face, but they all looked away from him in turn.

  He heard the innkeeper come up beside him. “What’s that you say? Shellfish in your bed?”

  One of the men looking down at his cards smothered a laugh.

  “Lobster to be precise,” answered Gerrit, his words clipped.

  A swarthy looking fellow in his forties finally addressed him. “We don’t take kindly to lobsterbacks in these parts. I suppose someone was just making that clear to you.”

  Lobsterbacks, the same term Hester had used earlier.

  “The war is over and you’ve beaten the British twice over. I would think that would be sufficient,” he told them quietly. “If not, I hope you’re man enough to tell me to my face.”

  “’Tweren’t me that did it. I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout it,” came the mumbled words from a few of the men, none of them meeting his eye. He noticed one was silent, his dark glare malevolent.

  “I don’t want no trouble in my tavern,” the innkeeper said.

  “There’ll be no trouble if no one messes with me,” Gerrit told the men.

  The innkeeper turned to the open door to the kitchen. “Liza! Emma!” The tavern maid and the older woman who had first served him came out with a slow gait.

  “Get this man’s bed cleaned up!”

  “It’s a bit late for making beds,” the woman, whom Gerrit assumed was the innkeeper’s wife, began in a whiny tone.

  “I don’t care if it’s midnight. See to this man’s needs.” With that he strode back to the bar.

  Gerrit ordered a tankard from the bar and took it to a lone table. All he wanted to do was sleep. Instead, he sipped at the ale and watched as the women came down carrying the fouled bedding. The smell permeated the taproom as they passed to the back of the inn. The men chortled as the women walked by and more jokes were traded with them.

  How he’d love to have it out with the culprit. That’s what he needed, a good fight to relieve himself of the mixture of stress, fear, frustration and exhaustion pent up inside him.

  By the time he was finally able to retire for the night, the younger woman, whose name he’d learned was Liza, followed him up the stairs. Too tired to give her a setdown, he ignored her as he opened the door and went to inspect the bed. If he so much as sniffed the slightest whiff of rotten fish, he’d demand a new room.

  But the bed appeared freshly made. He turned down the quilt and sheet. Everything looked and smelled clean. He turned to the young woman, somewhat mollified. “Thank you. I appreciate all your work.”

  She sidled up to him and put her hand on his upper arm, and he saw with alarm that she’d mistaken his gratitude for an invitation. He gently pried her hand off his arm. “I’m very tired tonight and am sure to get a good night’s sleep on this clean bed.”

  She eyed the bed. “It gets cold here at night. I know an excellent way to keep warm.”

  “I’m sure you do, but as I said, I’m exhausted.” As he spoke, he steered her towards the door. “And in no shape for anything but sleep.”

  Her eyes hardened when he managed to maneuver her outside his door. “Think yer too good for the likes o’me, is that it?” She tossed her stringy ringlets, which appeared none too clean, “I know where you’ve set your sights. You want to catch one o’ those Leighton girls. Hah! Bible-toting temperance ladies. All they know is how to keep a man from having a good time. You’ll see, and then you’ll know what you’ve missed.”

  With a flounce of her skirt, she turned from him and stomped down the stairs, her candle the only light illuminating the cold, dark passageway.

  With a sigh, Gerrit shut the door and latched it behind him. He hoped for no more intrusions that night. Once he lay between the icy cold sheets, the anger he had felt earlier that evening fizzled to a heavy gloom.

  What was he doing in this forsaken land, away from all civilization, performing a menial job for a mere pittance, most likely? He would never amass a fortune this way. He had worked hard to earn the rank of major; he was used to leading a troop of men who depended on him and trusted him in battle. And he’d come to this. Being an underling—a mere sawyer working in a mill, hated by those around him because he’d represented the other side in war.

  The only bright spot in his life was Hester. The only thing that kept him going hour after hour at his task of chopping wood was knowing he’d see her for a few hours in the evening. But even those moments were tinged with frustration. They rarely could be alone together, as they had in England. Her family hovered around her like a protective cloud. They were good people and he envied her their love and warmth.

  But he despaired of ever amounting to enough to offer for her hand. Certainly not in his present position of lowly lumberer as they called them here.

  And there was that even scarier condition. If th
e offers of a tavern wench like Liza elicited no desire in him, how much less was he confident of his manhood around a pure, untouched lady like Hester?

  What if his abilities as a man were finished for good?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jeremiah Leighton tossed and turned in his bed. It had been a fortnight now since Major Hawkes had arrived at his office. He’d never thought the man would last more than a week.

  But the man was still here, working at the sawmill. The foreman had no complaints about him. Although inexperienced, he’d known how to follow commands and seemed to have learned how to handle an ax and saw. Jeremiah punched down his feather pillow. Well, there was more to wielding an ax than squaring a few timbers. He who’d spent many a season in the woods could tell him that.

  So, Hawkes was a diligent worker. Still, he couldn’t be satisfied working as a lumberer at a low wage, sleeping in a lowdown tavern. That was another thing. Jeremiah turned onto his back, his hands behind his head, seeking a more restful position. He hadn’t heard anything negative about the major’s behavior at the inn. With all those sailors berthed there for the winter, the waterfront could be a rowdy place on a night. But the major seemed to be a very quiet guest, who kept to himself.

  Of course he could keep out of trouble. He was at Jeremiah’s table most nights of the week! And that was another thing. For a womanizer like Hawkes, Jeremiah hadn’t seen any untoward behavior with all the young ladies who’d surrounded him at the house. Not even casual flirting. His wife and daughters had organized several parties, and his wife had obediently invited many a comely young lady.

  But the major hadn’t seemed overly interested in any of the young females. He might talk with them a few minutes, or dance one dance with each girl, but he always came back to Hester’s side. The major even attended services with Hester each Sabbath!

  Jeremiah should be pleased. Wasn’t this what he wanted for his daughter? Wasn’t this the kind of man who would make her happy? Steady in his work habits, moderate in his appetites, and most of all, attentive to the woman he’d chosen?

  But Jeremiah wasn’t convinced. Not yet. He’d always hated the British aristocracy, seeing them as useless parasites who kept the majority of the population landless and near starvation. Major Hawkes epitomized what was worst in that privileged class—a selfish disregard for anyone beneath them.

  What would happen a year or two down the road, once Jeremiah gave his blessing and the major had what he wanted? What would keep him true to Hester? Jeremiah finally got up from the bed and went to stand by the window. He pushed aside the heavy velvet drapes and looked at the dark night. The moon cast a luminescent glow onto the white snow. He spied a fox slinking across the field. He’d have to organize a fox hunt with some of the men before it got into the henhouse.

  Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. Jeremiah feared for his eldest daughter. She was innocent and always thought the best of people. How little she knew of men! Jeremiah was well acquainted with what beasts they could be. Hadn’t he been one himself in his youth? Drinking, wenching, gambling. It had taken a series of strong setbacks to bring him to his knees before the Almighty and make him change his ways.

  A thought he’d been avoiding since it had first come to him a week ago now pushed its way to the fore. The logging camp. He let out a breath. Soon the river would freeze up and there would be no more access to the camp until spring. Sending Major Hawkes upcountry might solve two problems pressing on him. If Hawkes survived the next few months at the logging camp, and still wanted to have Hester, well, that would certainly bespeak a depth of feeling and a strength of character Jeremiah hadn’t credited him with up to now.

  And if he sent his only son, Jamie, along and asked the major to look after him…

  Jamie had pleaded with him all summer and autumn to go along with the lumberers to the camp. Jeremiah had been adamant up to now in his refusal. He well knew the dangers to even the most experienced loggers. He shuddered to think of his impetuous son.

  But he knew he could only postpone the danger a short time longer. If not this year, then next year he’d have to face letting his only son go. If he didn’t, Jamie was liable to run off without his permission. He’d have done the same at his age. Hadn’t he run off and shipped aboard an America-bound vessel?

  But if Jamie went along with the major…The way the boy hung around him every time he came to the house attested to the admiration he had for the major. Whatever else he might be, Hawkes was an officer used to being responsible for the men under him, some of whom were probably Jamie’s age.

  The thought of the blind leading the blind filtered into Jeremiah’s mind. What if he were sending his only son, barely out of babyhood, to his doom? And what of the major? Was Jeremiah being reckless and cruel, playing with another man’s life like that? Could he ever forgive himself if anything happened to the man his daughter loved? Would she ever forgive him if he caused her that kind of pain?

  He remembered the teamster at the camp. Orin Barnes. He was a good man. If Barnes kept an eye on the major…Jeremiah left the thought unfinished as he turned back to his bed. Instead of getting beneath the covers, he lowered himself to his knees at the edge. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head onto the thick coverlet.

  Dear God, show me the way…

  It was the week before Christmas. Instead of spending that holiday in Hester’s company, Gerrit had just been told by the foreman to get some gear together because he’d be leaving the following morning for the logging camp a few days’ journey up the river.

  “Who else is going along?” he’d asked, having thought that the loggers were already all at the camp and wondering what this new twist meant in his life.

  “Young Jamie and your guide, Pierre Portneuf. You’ll take supplies up to the camp before it gets snowed in and while the waterways are still passable.”

  It sounded as if he was going to penetrate the vast wilderness he’d seen edging the horizons of this outpost. He felt a glimmer of excitement. Then he remembered who was sending him. Mr. Leighton. Was this his method of getting him out of the way for good? He thought of Hester and of being parted from her yet again. “How long will I be gone?”

  “Till spring,” Baxter replied, “when the ice melts.”

  His heart sank. To be separated from Hester so long? How would he survive it? She was the only one keeping him going day in and day out.

  “What’ll I need for the trip?” he asked the foreman, a man he knew he could trust to give him adequate information.

  The older man eyed him up and down. “The warmest garments you have. A stout pair of boots. Go down to the cordwainer on East Market Square and get a studded pair. A rifle if you have one, with enough shot for a few months. Tobacco. A flask of rum, for medicinal purposes. Your ax.”

  “What about a bedroll?”

  “You’ll get your own fir boughs once you’re up there. We’ll supply you with blankets.”

  After work, Gerrit went to the bootmaker and got outfitted. Returning to the inn, he repacked his few things in a knapsack and settled his bill, then headed to the Leighton place, his heart heavy at the thought of leaving Hester again so soon after he’d found her.

  “What are you saying, Papa?” Hester didn’t want to believe what she’d just heard from him.

  Her father leaned forward in his armchair. The two sat in the little room off the front parlor that he used as his home office. A warm fire burned in a small iron stove in one corner. Her father sat in front of the rosewood tambour desk he’d brought over from England a few years back.

  “What I’m saying is simply that I think it would be good to have Major Hawkes accompany Jamie up to the camp.”

  “B-but I thought Jamie was too young….” How could her father have decided to do this? Neither one was prepared for this kind of work. Her heart plummeted at the thought of not seeing the major again for at least three months…and if anything should happen to him…No! She wouldn’t think such a thing
. The Lord had brought him to these shores for a purpose.

  “He is too young. But with the major here, it might be the best thing for both of them.” He covered her clasped hands with one of his own. “I haven’t come to this decision lightly, my dear. Believe me, if there were a better way…” His gaze slipped past hers to the window beyond. “I know what a winter of logging means, especially for an inexperienced man.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a better way?’” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. How many tests was Gerrit expected to pass?

  Her father blew out a breath, removing his hand from hers and using it to rub his face. “Even though Baxter has given me a good report of Hawkes’s performance at the mill, I can’t help but wonder how long he’ll be satisfied with the most menial tasks assigned to him. Don’t forget, Hester, he’s a man used to being in charge of no small thing.”

  She considered her father’s words, realizing what he said was true. Even though Gerrit had seemed perfectly content when he’d visited at her house, he rarely mentioned his days. She had preferred not to think about his situation, trusting that everything would come right eventually. But now her father’s words threw her into doubt. “Do you think he’ll want to go…back to England?” She voiced the question she most dreaded to hear the answer to.

  Her father looked at her steadily. “It’s possible. To be perfectly honest, I expected him to have hastened back there by now.” He glanced at the items on his desk. “But it’s early yet.”

  Hester stifled an impatient sigh. “Why do you think so little of him?”

  Her father looked startled for a moment. “Well, I’ve told you the obvious reasons before we left England. Now…I can’t say I haven’t seen things to admire…and yet, I am doubtful of a person’s ability to change overnight…not unless the Lord takes a hold of a body as He did in my case.

  “I admit I have some prejudices.” He pursed his lips, his expression thoughtful. “I can’t help looking at him from the point of view of someone who rose from the lowest ranks of British society by sheer hard work and sees a person who was given the command of men just by benefit of his birth and the payment of some coin. The major comes from a class to whom everything comes easily. And what does that lead to?” His eyes demanded an honest answer from her.