That evening as they sat around the supper table, her father turned to her. “Hester, I need your help.”
She put down the dish of Indian pudding she was serving herself from. “Yes, Papa, what is it?” Did he need a button sewn on a coat?
“There’s a report of wolves in the forest a few miles up. Would you like to join me on a hunting trip?”
She stared at him. It was always Jamie he took with him. A trip into the snow-covered woods? Maybe it would help her feel closer to Gerrit. “Yes, Papa, I should like that very much.”
“Good. We’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.” Her father turned back to his pudding. “Perhaps you’ll come back with some bloom in your cheek.”
So, her pallor hadn’t gone unnoticed.
They left two days later on snow shoes, their camping things piled onto a sled. Hester turned to wave a final goodbye to her mother and sisters who stood at the barn door. One of their dogs barked his farewell.
The air was crisp and cold, but she felt cozy in her thick layering of clothes. She’d borrowed a pair of Jamie’s breeches and a fur-lined cloak covered her down to the knees. She hadn’t felt so alive…since she’d last seen Gerrit.
She and her father trudged through the woods for some miles, their snowshoes supporting them on the surface of the snow. Hester loved the silent forest with its hoary trunks rising toward the sky, their scented boughs looking black against the vivid blue far above.
Her father straightened from the prints he’d been studying in the snow. “They’ve been here. I shouldn’t think they’d be too far. Let’s make camp.”
Hester shivered, knowing how dangerous a pack of wolves could be.
They fashioned a tent beside a gurgling brook, its flow almost obscured by a cap of ice and snow.
Leaving the camp, they took up their rifles and followed the trail of prints as the shadows began to lengthen.
Hours later they returned from an unsuccessful foray into the woods and now sat around the campfire. Hester felt satisfied and warm after a supper of roast rabbit and some of her mother’s still fresh biscuits.
Her father poked at the fire with a long stick. “They’ll probably show their noses here tonight.” He patted the rifle leaning against the tree trunk at his side. “We’ll be ready.”
She hugged her knees, glad for her father’s company. Darkness surrounded them. Only the fire and the guns kept the dangers at bay. The Lord’s presence would protect them, she reminded herself, with a glance at the black branches forming a canopy above them.
She had felt abandoned in a sense by Him in late weeks and was now glad she’d come on this trip. Witnessing the wild beauty around her had heightened her awareness of God’s silent presence.
“You’re very quiet, my girl.”
She roused at her father’s voice and smiled at him. “I was thinking of the verse, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’”
“That He is. Even when one cannot hear His voice or perceive His presence.”
She gazed in wonder at him. “Ho-ow did you know?”
Her father poked at the burning logs once more. “I know a lot about the girl I’ve raised for the last twenty-three years. I know when she’s downcast about something. My heart goes out to her, even when I can’t seem to help her.” He sighed heavily, his eyes both tender and sad. “I have to trust the Lord at those times to see her through.”
She pressed her lips together, her chin against her knees. Her father saw so much about her, and yet…how could she make him understand her despair over the separation with the one she most loved on earth? “Papa?”
“Yes, dear?”
She sighed. “Nothing.”
“You’re thinking about him.”
It was a statement, and she knew whom he meant. “Yes. Gerr—Major Hawkes is never far from my thoughts, even when he seems so far away. Just the way I’ve felt the Lord so far away, and that has made it all the more unbearable. I’m glad I came on this trip. Being here in the woods has helped me feel closer to both of them. Thank you, Papa.”
“You have seemed a little lost of late.” He set down the stick and clasped his hands between his knees. “It’s made my heart heavy.”
“It’s not your fault.” Her gaze returned to the fire. “It’s no one’s fault.”
“Nevertheless, I do feel responsible.” His mouth curled upward in a bittersweet smile. “It’s my burden to carry as your father.” When she said nothing for a few moments, he grunted. “You shouldn’t let that major trouble you. He’ll be back soon enough.” His voice was grim.
She swallowed, unsure how to explain, knowing whatever she said would add to her father’s burden. “I worry how he is. It’s hard to keep one’s faith when there is nothing but silence.” She paused and in the crackle of the fire, whispered, “I miss him.”
Once again, her father took up his stick and prodded at the remnants of a log. It cracked in the middle and fell into the fire in a shower of sparks. “You love him.” The words held no pleasure.
She raised her eyes to meet his troubled ones. “Yes, Papa, very much.”
Chapter Eighteen
April 1816
Gerrit stood high on a ridge overlooking a lake. The sun was just edging the tall firs on the horizon, casting them into black silhouettes of rising and falling jagged points. The opposite side of the lake was bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun. It lightened the trees to a gray green. Here and there, a birch tree’s slim trunk broke the mass of thick green in a startling flash of white. The sunlight began to transform the black surface of the lake to a deep blue. Chunks of ice floated in it and edged its border, but slowly the ice was losing its battle to the sun.
His gaze roamed over the scene, captivated. The place where he’d spent the entire winter was untouched, wild, inhospitable, but so excruciatingly beautiful it caught his breath. Forgotten for the moment were the days of backbreaking labor, the barely disguised contempt of his fellow logging mates, the biting cold, the filth of living in suffocatingly close proximity in such primitive conditions. During the peninsular campaign, Gerrit had had to endure many rough conditions, but usually an officer was bivouacked with some regard to his higher status. His batman would set up his camp bed, procure some local provisions, see that his linens were washed and his boots polished to a high glow.
But here he’d had to fight just to prove himself an equal. For the last four months, Gerrit had endured the crudest conditions among men. He tried to picture one of the lumberers reclining on his sister’s gilded Grecian chaise longue or another handling all the silver plate and Sevres china at an evening’s dinner party. He had to smile; everything they touched would probably be broken within minutes.
Gerrit felt the sun on his face. A deep sense of satisfaction welled inside him. He’d endured the winter. He’d made it. He looked to the near edge of the lake far below him. A thousand logs covered that curve of the water, displacing the remaining ice floes on the lake’s surface. Today, some of the men were moving out, taking back the first load of provisions from the camp. Tomorrow, the rest of them would follow, beginning the annual log drive.
Gerrit drew himself up. One more test he must pass before he could stand before Hester’s father and ask for his daughter’s hand.
He spent the rest of the day helping to roll the remaining logs from the stacks at the lake’s edge, into the water. He could feel the men’s excitement at the prospect of soon going home.
That evening, after his last supper eating off a shared tin plate, Gerrit retired to his bed. He opened his satchel to dig out his writing things.
His heart lurched. Nothing was there! He pulled out his clothing, his hands searching the deepest recesses of his bag, yet he found nothing but his ink bottle and a couple of feather quills. He looked around his bed and under the deacon seat. What had happened to all his letters?
“Lose somepin, Lobster?” Deke asked from his place by the fire.
Gerrit turned around slowly to face
the remaining men. He noticed they’d all fallen silent. One of the larger men sniggered. Gerrit dropped his hands from the satchel he’d been about to search through again. It would be pointless. He heard a chuckle from another part of the cabin.
“Whatcha’ spend all that time writin’ anyway?” Weasel asked him.
“Love letters?” Another logger picked at his teeth with a sliver of pine.
“You’d put a woman to sleep with so much writin’!”
The men laughed as each one offered his opinion.
So, someone had taken his stash of letters—letters which he’d never intended to mail and which no eyes had a right to see. Well, he’d have to put up with a lot of ribbing on top of everything else. Gerrit threw down his pack in disgust. Fitting end to his time among these uncouth, unwashed barbarians. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of letting on that he cared a whit.
He thought their teasing was the worst he’d have to endure, until he heard Cookee say, “The men should reach town in a few days if they don’t run into any trouble. They’ll post any mail we’ve given to them.”
One of the men who’d left that morning had taken his letters! The thought made him sick to his stomach. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. For all he knew, the letters would probably fall into Leighton’s hands.
The next morning, the crew set out. Gerrit sat in one of the bateaux, long, slim double-enders carrying their provisions. A man stood at either end with a pole to guide it over any rapids. When the logs jammed against anything, they’d bring the boats alongside so the men could use their pikes to loosen them.
They left the placid lake and guided the logs down the wide stream. Soon they encountered their first rapids. Gerrit watched how the men beside him wielded their metal-pointed pikes. Whenever the jam was too difficult, some of the men would have to leave the bateau and jump onto the logs, leaping nimbly from log to log with their spiked boots, jabbing at the stubborn logs with their pikes.
Gerrit glanced over at Jamie. He could see by the boy’s eager countenance and rigid stance that he was itching to join them. “Easy, Jamie. Just stay in the boat. These men know what they’re doing.”
Jamie huffed. “But I’m lighter and quicker than most of ’em. I could get that jam cleared in no time.”
Gerrit could feel the tension rising in him. He would not only have to keep his own body from drowning but also try to ensure that Leighton’s offspring made it home in one piece.
Soon, they were soaked to the skin from the icy rapids, but they didn’t stop their labors until nightfall. The men who had traveled with the team of oxen had made camp and Cookee had a hot meal waiting for them. Among them was Farraday. His wound had healed, but he’d spent most of the winter helping the cook or the teamster with any chores they had. Gerrit was still amazed each time he saw the other man walking, remembering Orin’s bending over him and praying for him.
At the evening’s camp, the men changed into dry clothes and ate their meal before bedding down under tents. The next morning the day was repeated. At one juncture they had to guide the logs over a falls. The bateaus couldn’t approach the falls too closely, so they had to rely on the men who jumped from log to log to guide the logs down. Gerrit watched in fascination as they jumped aside just in time to avoid being hurtled down the falls. The great logs fell with resounding crashes below and were once again swept downstream toward another lake.
Five days after leaving the woods, they arrived at the Penobscot. The great river flowed swift and black, wider than any of the smaller waterways they had traversed so far. Other loggers had joined them at different points, adding their logs to the growing drive. Each log had been carved with the owner’s mark. They’d be sorted once they were placed in the booms at Old Town, where buyers would come to negotiate a sale.
Gerrit marveled at the sight of the logs floating down the wide river. The entire surface was covered with them like a brown pavement.
Their last challenge would be the rapids at Old Town.
As they neared it, the roar increased. Gerrit could see the first logs piling up against the rocks. He stood in the bateau and wielded his pike, breaking up jams, but it was in vain, as more and more logs became stuck at the mouth of the rapids. It was useless to stay in the boat. As the bateau neared the area of logs stuck fast, he took a decision and turned to Jamie.
“You stay put. That’s an order!” Then before he could rethink his decision, he stepped out of the bateau onto a log. Thinking he’d roll off immediately, he was surprised that his boots held fast. This log was securely wedged between others, so it was stationary, which helped his balance. He’d watched enough of the other lumberers so he knew what he had to do. He had to get as near the head of the rapids as possible, where the first logs had jammed.
Using the pike as a walking stick, he trod onto the next log and then the next until reaching one that was bobbing free. Now would be his test if he could stay upright.
He was deafened by the thunder of the river and the shouts of the men. He managed to jump from a rolling log back onto a jammed one. Finally he reached the head of the logjam. Coming alongside another man, he helped him pry the logs apart with his pike. He strained to lift and push the logs away from each other, all the while aware of the plunging rapids only yards away. When two great logs suddenly broke free and were carried downstream by the current, Gerrit felt a surge of triumph. He looked across and smiled at the other man and was surprised when the man lifted his pike in victory.
“Come on, I see another one!” the man shouted and indicated a pile-up ahead. The two men sprinted across the logs until reaching the area.
After clearing the jam, which took a lot more maneuvering and all the strength he possessed, Gerrit glanced back from where they’d come. Panic rose in him as he saw Jamie out in the water, his pike in his hand, sprinting from log to log.
He was going to shout at him when the name died on his lips. He’d only endanger the boy even more if he called out to him now. Futile rage rose up in him at the boy’s deliberate disobedience. Didn’t he know how dangerous this was?
Well, he’d go to his side and carry him bodily back into the boat if he had to. Resolved, Gerrit began making his way back up the river. This proved much harder than going with the current. Before he reached Jamie’s side, he had to assist another logger in breaking up a jam.
He looked with relief to see Jamie closer to him by this time. His relief was short-lived as he saw how much nearer the boy was to the rockiest part of the rapids.
Gerrit jumped a few more logs, this time coming dangerously close to falling into the icy water. He looked at the frothy black current, knowing if he did, it would be minutes before he’d be carried over the side and onto the rocks below.
A shout rang out above the raging noise. Gerrit whipped his head up to see Jamie lose his balance and topple from his bobbing log backwards into the water.
Rivers of fear rushed through Gerrit’s veins. “No!” he shouted, his own stance on his log faltering. Jamie’s terrified face and upraised arm was the last thing he saw. Dear God, the boy was going to drown. Gerrit leaped off his rolling log into the river.
The raging flow of icy water sucked him under immediately. Pushing his arms forward, he managed to surface. He grabbed onto a log, hoping Jamie had been able to do the same. He couldn’t see him past the log the boy had been treading. The log was too heavy to use as a raft, so shoving himself off it, Gerrit began swimming toward the place he’d last seen Jamie. Glad he’d learned to swim as a boy, he fought the current with every ounce of strength, his limbs growing numb, his muscles pulled taut, but he refused to admit defeat.
Reaching the log Jamie had stood on, Gerrit gulped in air before diving under and searching the dark water. Jesus, don’t let him die. Please, God, don’t let him die. Frantic, his lungs beginning to burst with the need for oxygen, Gerrit strained his eyes, looking for his charge. Imagining the worst, having to bring the boy’s father back the dead b
ody of his son, Gerrit begged God for a reprieve. Let him live, God, let him live!
The logs above him obscured the sunlight which would have helped him to discern the objects under the surface. He swam deeper then surfaced again, taking in more air.
Again he dove under. Then he saw a bulk ahead of him. Swimming for it, he experienced such overwhelming relief when he felt the heavy wet clothing of a man.
Locking one arm around his torso, Gerrit made his way to the surface again. Let him still be alive! Please God! His face broke the surface, and he heaved Jamie’s body upward. The boy’s face looked deathly pale.
By then, a bateau rocked alongside him. Strong arms lifted Jamie’s body from him, then others came to grab Gerrit by the armpits and bring him over the side and into the boat. Blankets were wrapped around him. He watched, his heart pounding in fear and exhaustion. One of the men laid Jamie facedown and pressed his stomach in. A gush of water came out of his half-opened mouth.
A second later, Jamie began to cough and sputter. A cheer went up around him. They turned Jamie over and covered him with blankets.
Gerrit slumped over in such profound relief he could hardly breathe. A hard slap on the back brought his attention back to the men around him. “Well done, Lobster. Thought you were both goners there.”
The other men in the boat came over and thumped him on the back as well. “Few men can swim against that current…. If you’d been a second later, you’d both have found yourselves thrown against the rocks…. Leighton’s gonna kiss your feet!”
Jamie looked up at the mention of his father. He coughed a few more times, then gasped out, “Do—don’t tell my—my father.”
One of the men wrapped his brawny arm around the boy. “Don’t fret about it, lad. The old man’s gotta know. But it could’a happened to any one of us. There’s a rare log drive when one man doesn’t go down. Even the most experienced of us.” He looked across at Gerrit. “Thank the good Lord, Jamie, he sent you that guardian angel sitting there at the other end of the boat.”
The Rogue's Redemption Page 28
