The Beloved Land

by T. Davis Bunn

  Anne stood in the doorway, listening to John’s wails recede in the distance. Her heart felt as if it were held in place only by the stays of her corset. If it was this painful—for both John and her—to depart for just a few days, how on earth could she bear leaving him for an entire season?

  “I must say, every time I read Catherine’s account of her father’s revelations, I grow all the more astonished.” The letter lay open in Charles’s lap, held in place by a hand as the carriage rocked and swayed over the winter’s ruts.

  The three travelers had joined the Great Trunk Road running the entire way from Bristol to London. The battered carriage itself, a far cry from the polished brougham Charles had used before the war, resembled the local postal carriages to avoid unwelcome attention. The driver was accompanied up top by two stout and well-armed footmen, for the roads were increasingly unsafe from highwaymen and other vagabonds taking advantage of the unsettled times.

  Charles had no interest in calling attention by raising questions about his movements. Now that the tides of war were turning in the Americans’ favor, Charles’s previous declarations of support for their independence drew suspicion and malice from those allied to the king. The Harrow position and holdings were kept safe by only two factors. First, the merchant class and the religious among the commoners were growing increasingly strident in their call for an end to the conflict, and Charles was seen as their representative within the landed gentry. Second, Charles did not flaunt himself or his perspectives. Thus he managed to avoid becoming a target. Thus the last thing he would do would be to travel the main roads in a shining carriage with the family crests emblazoned upon both doors.

  Thomas leaned forward in his seat. “Please read again the portion about the grandfather’s search, will you?”

  “Let me see, where does that begin? Ah yes, here we are.” He looked up before reading. “The letter speaks of Celeste,” Charles explained, “the name by which Edwin referred to his first wife in the diary. Shortly after returning to England, though, he never used her name again, simply stating ‘my dear’ or ‘my love.’ ” Charles adjusted his half-moon spectacles and began to read. “ ‘Celeste’s brother, a fisherman, risked his life to take Edwin across the Channel to England and safety.’ ”

  “I still can’t fathom his leaving his wife behind,” Thomas remarked.

  “Pray you never have to make such a decision,” Charles said without lifting his eyes from the page. “But Catherine explains here that the gendarmes were onto his presence and were about to arrest him again. Which would have meant a hanging. Celeste was ill, probably related to her pregnancy, but no doubt neither of them were aware of it at that time. John’s father had no choice, as far as I can see.”

  Anne stared distractedly out the window of the jouncing carriage. The letter had been read and discussed so often she supposed any of them could have recited its contents by heart.

  Normally she would have found such discussions fascinating. But this trip to London merely brought their eventual departure for the transatlantic crossing that much closer. Charles took the opportunity to accompany them to London; then he would travel on to Southampton. His connections— and wealth—would help to arrange berths on a vessel to transport them to Nova Scotia. He also would meet with the man he had assigned the task of hunting down evidence of John Price’s family in France.

  Anne and Thomas would remain in London for the better part of a week. She was planning to make the rounds of the apothecaries, searching out the elements known to aid in easing the strain upon an ailing heart. There were garlic and alfalfa, of course, and others far more difficult to obtain—hawthorn and turmeric and ginger and gingko and perhaps some of the oriental herbs she had heard of but never used. She would also need to find the components for a strong emetic. There was nothing like a thorough purging of the body, followed by a carefully measured bleeding, to ease the heart’s labor. All these items were best obtained before they embarked on their mission.

  Then there were the items required for the voyage itself. All passengers were expected to bring their own victuals— which meant organizing at least a month’s worth of salt beef and apples in brine and tea and sugar and salt and smoked fish and cider and chickens, perhaps a few goats for milk, and a barrel or two of the unleavened sea bread known as hardtack. Articles of clothing were needed as well—a good heavy cloak for herself and an all-weather for Thomas. And, of course, clothes for the child if he was coming. Here again she was consumed by the lack of decision. Anne clasped her hands together and stared unseeing out the side window. What on earth was she to do about John?

  “ ‘After agonizing months of trying to make contact with his wife’ ”—Charles’s voice broke through her anxiety—“ ‘Edwin discovered that she had died in childbirth. Along with the anguish of his loss, he learned he was father to a baby girl. Frantic for more news, he found out that on the return trip after delivering Edwin to England, his wife’s only brother had been lost at sea. But that was all he learned till much later. Edwin spent years trying to locate his daughter, to no avail. He could not get back into France himself, as the war dragged on and on.’ ”

  The war. Anne knotted her handkerchief in despair. Were it not for the war, she would without question be taking John with them. Andrew and Catherine would be thrilled to see their only grandchild. With Andrew’s illness, the young boy’s energy and boundless joy would bring its own healing. But how could she risk taking him in such conditions as they were facing? What if the ship were to be attacked and—? But Anne shook her head against such a thought and concentrated once more on the letter.

  “ ‘Every effort to discover the whereabouts of his child only led to more despair,’ ” Catherine’s letter explained. “ ‘In the meantime, Edwin Price married a fine English girl who was very understanding of his sorrow and predicament. She in fact supported his efforts to find the child. But the search remained unfruitful. They soon had a son, my father, John Price, and as the years went on, though some inquiries continued, Edwin’s life was filled with his army career, family concerns, and the rigors of raising a son. My father was never told of his half sister.’ ”

  “But what of the child?” Thomas interjected.

  “After John entered military service and married, Edwin picked up the search in earnest and was given a faint gift of hope, though too late received.” He shuffled the pages and picked up the story from Catherine’s letter. “ ‘Edwin’s last entry in the diary relates that he had finally found a faint trail. The baby girl had been turned over to a Catholic orphanage in La Rochelle. He immediately arranged for someone to follow the new lead, sure that this was the one piece of information that would unite him with his daughter.’ ”

  “Only it was too late,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “And all came to naught.”

  “ ‘The next diary entry was made in a woman’s script,’ ” Charles read. “ ‘Tearstains still show upon the page. Edwin was killed in a hunting accident. His wife shipped his personal effects, including his diary, to my father, who was still reeling from the death of my own mother. He was so shocked when he read the story those pages held that he buried the diary in a chest and put the revelation from his mind. So the matter of the child’s whereabouts was lost in the sorrowing widow’s grief and her widowed son’s bitterness, until now.’ ”

  Charles peered at the page a long moment, then said, “I fear the carriage and my poor eyesight make this next portion illegible.”

  “That is where John writes in his own hand, is it not? Here, let me see the page.” Thomas took the letter, squinted, and read, “ ‘My dear Charles, I am asking your help. Forgive an old man and his musings. I do fully understand if you care not to involve yourself in such a futile undertaking.’ ”

  “On the contrary,” Charles said, looking from Thomas to Anne, “nothing could give me more pleasure. I count it an honor and a duty to aid the gentleman in any way I can. You will tell him that, will you not?”

  “I
ndeed so.” Thomas kept his eyes on the page to read. “ ‘Strange as it may sound, I feel God’s hand upon this undertaking. I doubt you will understand this, but the words need saying. Much of my life was ruled by rancor and bitterness. God has changed my heart, and I need to accept my ties to the land and people who were long my enemy. Perhaps my request to you is part of this healing of my soul. I wish you well, sir, and close with prayers that God will guide you if you should decide to accept this task. Your servant, John Price.’ ”

  Charles murmured, “What worthy sentiments this man has penned. Tell him that as well, I fervently request. He has touched my heart. I count it an honor to know him. An honor. Please pass that along to him when you see him.”

  The leaden clouds finally released their burdens. Rain pelted the carriage with such force all conversation ceased midsentence. The deluge swiftly transformed the road to muck, and the horses slowed to a laborious gait.

  It was then that the brigands attacked.

  Anne heard the sound of drumming hooves, at first assuming merely a change in the rain’s tempo. She then heard the wheezing huff of horses driven hard through the wet and clinging earth. She was about to question why someone chose to ride so close to their coach, when from above came the first cries of alarm.

  The highwaymen had chosen well. The driver cracked his whip and shrilled a loud “Hyah!” But the horses could respond with little more than high-pitched whinnies. The carriage wheels, gripped by fetters of wet clay, refused to spin faster.

  A wet-gloved hand gripping the stanchion by the right door, followed by a bearded face streaked with rain and mud, appeared in the open window. The man roared words lost in the tumult as he kept his hold on the carriage with one hand and struggled to free the pistol in his belt with the other.

  But Thomas was faster. He slid down far into his seat and hammered the gloved hand with his heel. A cry of rage and pain marked the man’s disappearance. Thomas hurled himself over Anne, pressing her into the corner of the seat. He yelled at Charles, “Guard the other side!”

  The two bully-boys riding on top proved to be such ferocious fighters the next wave of attackers could not mount the running boards. Anne cowered beneath Thomas, flinching with each shout and blow. A blunderbuss boomed just outside her side of the coach, splintering the wood above her head, and to her terrified ear it sounded like a cannonade. Thomas pressed her even closer into the cushions.

  A pair of flintlock pistols fired from either side, and the stench of burning sulfur poured through the carriage window.

  A voice from above then shouted, “They’re climbing up the rear!”

  In time to the warning, Anne felt as much as heard the scrape and pounding of boots clambering over the rope netting that tied their luggage to the rear of the coach. Overhead came shouts and thunderous clubbing as the drovers rushed to their defense.

  Sounds of rage and struggle came from every side. Hoofbeats drummed alongside, a pistol shot from behind, the driver yelled and cracked his whip and urged the horses to greater speed.

  The road’s turning caught them all unawares. The horses wheeled the carriage about so sharply, they could feel two of the mud-clad wheels lift off the earth. A roar of surprise sounded from directly above Anne’s head as a body was flung off the roof into the rain and the mud.

  Two great booming crashes, then a clatter and rumble. Charles cried, “The luggage! They’ve chopped the catch ropes!”

  In response, the carriage instantly caught speed as the weight of their baggage was released. A second figure leapt past the side window, tumbling in a practiced manner as he hit the mud. The men overhead shouted words lost in the rain and the thunder of boots. The driver cracked his whip once more, urging the steeds to fly down the long straightaway.

  After some moments of silence, Anne was able to draw in a deep breath. It was over. The rain lessened a notch just as the coach wheeled through another broad turn, finally slowing to a halt.

  The driver shouted down, “We must give the horses a breather, sir.”

  “Of course.” Charles was already working at the door latch. “Who’s hurt up top?”

  “Young Harry caught a bullet through his greatcoat, milord. Barely missed his heart.”

  “Felt the tug on me like a claw reachin’ out of the sky!” The young man’s voice broke with the excitement of danger now passed. “Look here, sir! Went clean through.”

  “Good thing it didn’t stray an inch to your right,” Charles said grimly. “I’d not want the duty of taking such news back to your dear mother.”

  Thomas helped Anne straighten in her seat. “Tell me you are all right, my love.”

  “I’m … I’m not injured,” she stammered. But her limbs felt like water and her heart pounded with both fear of what they had lived through and relief that it was over.

  “Highwaymen attacking on the Great Trunk Road. And in broad daylight.” Charles walked around front to inspect the horses. “What a sorry state of affairs.”

  The elder of the two guards said, “Sorry about the baggage, milord. There were too many for us to guard the coach and the gear both.”

  “Never you mind. We’re safe and that’s what matters most.” But Charles continued to stomp around the carriage, outrage in his demeanor and voice. “With every able-bodied man off fighting the conflict, it’s no surprise the brigands feel free to attack at will.”

  Anne leaned back in her seat, weakened by the realization that the decision had been granted to her. Strange that she would think of her son when she had barely escaped with her life. But there was no question to her mind now. She could not risk putting her young child in harm’s way. This was not merely a matter of the sea voyage and the danger. She would risk her life for her father’s sake, and go for the sake of offering help to her mother. But she could not risk young John.

  She leaned out the door to share the news with her husband and Charles. But the two men stood alongside the lathered flanks of the nearside horse, deep in somber discussion. Anne settled herself back into the seat. She would wait. Let them put this latest crisis behind them. Then she would tell them of her decision.

  Chapter 6

  Anne had assumed that once the decision was made, her calm would be restored. But she was shocked and dismayed to find herself even more distraught than before.

  The eight days they spent in London proved agonizingly long. Charles sent word twice, first to say no berths were yet available for the voyage, then that news might be arriving from France and he felt it necessary to delay his return until he heard what had been discovered. Thomas was busy with a multitude of legal and business affairs, put off since their last visit to London many months before. Which left Anne with more time than was healthy to pine over her son. She knew that though John would miss them, he would be well cared for with enormous love and attention from Charles, Judith, and the entire household. But herself and Thomas … She could not imagine how they would cope with the separation.

  Because Charles’s London house had been rented out, they stayed with friends of Thomas belonging to a church in the fields beyond Shepherd’s Market. In medieval times, when London’s mighty walls had ended some five miles farther east, drovers had brought their flocks to Shepherd’s Market. Now it was a den of licentiousness, anchoring the farther end of the new, elegant road called Piccadilly. From the Circus at one end to the Market at the other, Piccadilly had become home to London’s emerging young society. The pastor of the Farm Street Church made heroic attempts to turn the attention of the local revelers to spiritual matters.

  By English law, King George III was also the head of the Church of England. This had Christians up and down the country seeking either a change to the law or a change to the monarchy.

  Twenty miles across the Dover Straits, France was in political and cultural turmoil. The cry of Liberté Egalité, Fraternité was on everyone’s lips, and revolution was in the air. All of this news was very troubling to the English monarchy. French cities were in fl
ames. The rule of law was in tatters. The masses were breaking free of their fetters.

  So long as Anne had remained in their small village in the north, it had been possible to ignore most of this upsetting news. But now it came at her from every direction. The English rulers’ response to these threats, both from within and without, was to outlaw public protests, and any criticizing the king or the prince regent were declared criminals and imprisoned.

  The result was that churches such as the Farm Street Church became one of the few places where people who disagreed with the nation’s current course could safely gather. Members did their best to draw no attention to themselves. They dressed plainly. They spoke quietly. They avoided contact with a society they considered depraved. But their presence remained a thorn in the king’s side. As a result, these churchgoers had been given a new name. They were called Dissenters.

  The Dissenters constantly lived under the threat of oppression and worse. They decided, as the Quakers and Mennonites and Anabaptists before them, to leave England forever.

  Anne could tell the longer Thomas remained in London, the more troubled he became. It was difficult for Anne and him to talk freely, however, for the house where they stayed was always full. Since many Dissenters refused to stay in the uptown establishments where the society’s looser ways were on full display, several homes like this one had been transformed into unofficial inns. Only when Thomas and Anne huddled in their tiny room, the scrape of boots heard overhead and the din of conversation below, could they have any privacy.

  “I fear I am doing Charles and his estate no good whatsoever,” Thomas quietly confessed.

  “Why is that, Thomas?” Anne asked. “Who else does he have to whom he can trust his affairs?”

  “Doors are closed to me everywhere. I am classed as a Dissenter, which means I cannot even speak to many officials.” Thomas looked as worried as Anne had ever seen him. “There are scores of pressing matters. The new Land Enclosure Acts, the village taxes, the state of our roads, our crops, permits for our markets—the list is endless.”