by RITA GERLACH
A gray-haired man staggered forward. His brown coat was faded and torn, his shoes worn and old, his hat full of holes. He drew it off as he looked up at Wesley, trembled and fell to his knees.
“Help me, Brother Wesley!” he cried. “I’ve been a wicked, unforgiving man. My wife and child died because of my neglect. God, have mercy on me!”
He gripped his hands together until the knuckles turned white. Then he pressed them to his teeth and wept. The crowd was silent, motionless, waiting to see what Wesley would do. The preacher stepped down. He laid his hands on the man’s shoulders, brought his head closer.
Astonished, Rebecah saw Wesley’s lips move and his eyes close tight as he prayed. Others went on their knees. The penitent man dragged his hands over his eyes. Presently, he rose to his feet as Wesley lifted him up to face him.
“Repent of your sin,” Wesley told him. The man bowed his head. Others poured forward.
“Pray for me also, sir!” they cried. “Help me, Brother Wesley. What must I do to be forgiven?”
The crowd pressed upon the women. Rebecah drew Lady Margaret up close beside her. For a moment, she stood stark still. Then she rushed forward. Her limbs felt like water as she moved through the crowd and approached Wesley.
“Please. I’ve found it hard to forgive someone,” she said upon reaching Wesley. “Would you help me?”
He nodded and took her hand in his. It felt warm, his grip strong and gentle. Without asking any questions, he prayed for her. She closed her eyes and the words flowed into her soul. Her lips moved and she found herself praying with him.
Something broke at that moment. Love breathed again. It was as if she had been in a dark room. Now, the windows were thrown open and the light flooded that dark place, and dispelled the lonely gloom.
* * *
That same moment in a forest far from England, John Nash walked alongside his Indian brother. The sun drew near to setting along the western hilltops, the lowland still bright in the waning light. Mountaintops turned inky black against a clear magenta sky.
Nash paused and looked up. “There’s a color we shall soon see plenty of.” The hue deepened, and his heart grew heavy along with his tired body.
The Potomac scented the breeze as they hiked along the banks. Swallows darted above rapids and dove for insects near the surface. Cascades were tinted pink from the setting sun.
Black Hawk bent down. Nash did the same and looked through the trees to the other side. Elms mingled with a hedge of willows along an inlet of shallow water. The sun poured over a pool bright green with algae. Standing on the bank stood five whitetail deer. Wind blew from upstream, and the stag threw up his head and sniffed the air, stomped one hoof, and sprang away. His does followed and vanished into the sanctuary of the woods.
“What frightened them off?” Nash whispered.
He kept his eyes fixed on the distant shore. Behind a thick row of cattails moved warriors painted with streaks of black, their faces and chests striped with yellow. Eagle feathers dressed their dark hair, and their leggings were adorned with scalplocks. Through their belts gleamed knives, and upon their backs were quivers full of arrows and a bow. Out from the shadows and into the glare of light they stepped over rocks that littered the river. The leader paused, glanced about, then stooped to drink.
Nash’s breath hurried. “Now we know.”
“They will go.” Black Hawk waited beside him. “They have not seen us.”
They watched the Indians slip into the forest.
Troubled by what he had seen, Nash stood and brought his horse deeper into the woods at the foot of a towering limestone cliff. A stream sang over the rock ledges and he cupped his hand and drank. The cold water tasted sweet on his tongue, and soothed his throat. Yet the bitterness of Logan’s War remained.
As they moved on, sunlight streamed through the trees, and Nash felt it graze across his shoulders. The old hunting trail twisted and turned, dipped and rose as Nash rode Meteor along it, Black Hawk keeping pace. A mile down river they splashed across Catoctin Creek. Black Hawk stopped and pointed at the sky. Nash looked up. Vultures circled above the trees and it was an ominous site to behold, for where vultures flew, death was certain.
Farther along they saw smoke rising above the trees, and so Nash dug his heels into Meteor and climbed the slopes. Black Hawk ran ahead, and soon they came into a glade of tall grass. The smoldering remains of a cabin arrested Nash’s senses, struck fear into his heart for the souls within it. He reined in his horse and slid off. He and Black Hawk drew near, saw the bodies of a man and woman lying side by side. They’d been scalped, their limbs mutilated by tomahawks.
Black Hawk outlined a moccasin footprint with his finger. “The prints are fresh.”
Nash turned away, his heart lurching. Meteor whinnied, ears pricked back straight as arrows. Nash turned.
“Black Hawk! Hurry!”
No sooner did he shout than the whistle of an arrow sliced through the air. His leg surged in pain. He gripped his thigh, fell back. He clenched his teeth, moaned in agony. Blood oozed hot between his fingers. He struggled to his knees. A warrior rushed toward him, tomahawk raised. Nash lifted his musket to his shoulder and shot him dead.
Black Hawk drew his knife. An Indian threw himself forward, swung his tomahawk. Black Hawk leapt back. Nash feared for his friend’s life, and pulled the plug from his powder horn, making haste to reload.
Black Hawk yelped, and then plunged his blade into the bare chest of the painted brave.
* * *
With Nash slumped over the saddle, Black Hawk led Meteor up a steep hill, over moss and lichen, leaves and twigs, until they reached level ground. Sweat covered Nash’s face, and his hair hung limp and wet against his neck. His hands trembled as he gripped his leg. Dizzy with pain, he looked out at the line of trees below and saw the river. The surface churned and foamed and swallows swooped above the peaks.
Black Hawk helped Nash dismount. He set him on the ground, his back against a tree. He took out his knife and cut away Nash’s bloody legging.
“The arrow has not gone deep, my brother, across the surface of a muscle. I will break it and pull it out.”
“We must hurry. They’re right at our heels.”
Black Hawk pushed Nash back. “No, my brother, the storm has not yet come. Your God has given us a moon to see by. We will travel by night until we reach the valley.”
“Pull the arrow out.” Nash clenched his teeth.
“My brother must not shout.” Black Hawk set a firm hand on Nash’s shoulder. “If others are near, they will hear, as will the wolves.”
A ravenous howl crossed the river. Soon the pack would prow and move to the other side by the lure of blood. Black Hawk pressed his hand against Nash’s chest to hold him down. Nash moaned and sank back. Feeling nauseous, he opened his eyes and saw the trees sway, then his vision blurred.
Black Hawk reached around and broke the arrowhead off the shaft. Then he put his hand around the shaft where it met Nash’s flesh and pulled. Nash stifled a cry and twisted against the pain as he drew the shaft free.
“My brother’s courage is strong.”
“Not strong enough.” Nash groaned.
From his medicine pouch, Black Hawk took out herbs.
“What is that?” Nash asked.
“Bloodroot. It will keep your wound pure and end the bleeding.” He laid the herb over the wound and bound it with a strip of cloth torn from Nash’s shirt.
“My brother is a great warrior.”
Nash’s smile twitched. “Even though my heart is racing like a buck’s?”
A smile lifted Black Hawk’s mouth, and he helped Nash up and mount his horse. Black Hawk pulled the horse along and glanced back at his friend.
“He makes my feet like hinds’ feet, and sets me upon my high places.” Nash’s face grimaced and slumped forward in the saddle. “He teaches my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by my arms.”
The cub, which had foll
owed at a distance, stood on a limestone shelf above. Black Hawk spoke a blessing to it in his Indian tongue. The cub narrowed its eyes, stood and walked off into the forest.
“I shall not see him again,” Black Hawk said.
By moonlight, they traveled the mountain trail until coming into lower hills and vales. Mountain springs murmured and ran clear. Lush grass and moss cushioned the travelers.
An hour later, they reached the top of a cliff. The moon rode high and flooded the forest. Nash looked down upon the sleepy valley. Flickers of light beamed in the town.
On clear summer nights, when the sun touched its fiery rim along the horizon, the clustered spires of Fredericktown’s churches appeared incandescent as amber glass. In the cool and colorful autumn, the valley turned golden brown and crimson. In winter it turned gray, the mountains stretching heavenward against pale skies filled with clouds, the town looking like a red and white patchwork quilt.
What right did any man have to disrupt the peace of such a place? To Nash whatever bloody strife boiled elsewhere between patriot and loyalist, Indian and settler, could stay far away. But tyranny had crept into the frontier like a slow moving sludge. Heavy burdens had been bestowed upon the people. It was not only the shackles of stamp acts and three pence payments on tea that encumbered the lowly folk. The iron heel of dominance struck and bruised the souls of men, from Boston to Baltimore, down the Eastern Shore to Annapolis and up along the Potomac into the far reaches of the frontier.
Black Hawk paused beside him. “I will go to the town with you, then to the mountains. There I will seek the path I must take.”
“I’ll pray you find it, Black Hawk.”
The throbbing in his leg caused his lungs to heave. Yet his mind turned to the town nestled in the valley.
CHAPTER 26
The Belgian clock on the mantelpiece struck out the hour. The whirl of carriage wheels could be heard coming to a halt in front of the house. Closing the book she’d been reading, Rebecah stood and peered out the window. David’s partner, Edward Deberton, had arrived.
Drawing back the curtain, she watched him step out of the carriage. How funereal he looked in his all black attire. His Grecian nose gave him the look of a much older man, and his eyes were dark brown and forlorn. He was a prosperous respected lawyer, and what he called a misfortune, others called a privileged bachelor’s life.
Dropping the curtain back in place, she returned to the book she’d been reading, The Vicar of Wakefield the story of a benevolent clergyman and his large family facing devastating circumstances.
How sad it was for Arabella Wilmont and George Primrose, the vicar’s eldest son, that a sudden revelation of poverty prevented their wedding. Arabella’s father and the vicar, who at the last moment discovered his misfortunate and felt it only honest he should reveal the news to all, both insisted the match unsuitable.
Rebecah knew how painful lost love felt.
Thinking it would serve as a distraction, she attempted to finish the last paragraph in the chapter she was reading, when she heard voices out in the hall. It would be rude not to speak to Mr. Deberton and so she set the book aside once more and stepped out into the foyer.
Morning sun poured through the windows, cast a golden glow throughout that touched her face. If no one had noticed a change in her, she felt it. Her heart was light as a butterfly’s wing. Her eyes sparkled like sunshine on oceanic waters. At last her smile had returned.
When she entered the sitting room, eyes turned. “Mr. Deberton, you remember my cousin Rebecah Brent?” Lavinia drew Rebecah beside her.
“I do indeed. How are you, Miss Brent?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Rebecah is visiting us with Lady Margaret Nash.”
Deberton drew off his spectacles with long nimble fingers and tucked them away. “Yes, David informed me of that fact.”
David put his hands behind him. “I’ve asked Edward here because we have something to discuss with you.”
She smiled. “Business? What could you want to discuss with me?”
Deberton fixed his eyes on Rebecah. “A woman’s intuitiveness brings prudence to business affairs.”
“How so, sir, seeing we are forbidden to have a profession of our own?”
“You participate in ways you are not aware of, dear lady. More men have been advised by a look, a gesture, a sweep of the lashes.”
“Or led astray by them.”
Lavinia was startled by Rebecah’s comment. She reached for Rebecah’s hand and made her sit beside her on the settee. “Rebecah,” she whispered. “You dare to cross propriety?”
“Your cousin meant no impropriety, Mrs. Harcourt,” said Deberton. “I completely agree with her. ‘But she considereth a field and buyeth it.’ Is that not how the scripture goes?”
“Yes, Mr. Deberton,” Rebecah answered.
He nodded his approval. “Well, may we disclose the nature of our business?”
“Please do.”
Rebecah pushed a stray lock away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. Perhaps the action was more from nerves, for the anticipation had built and she wondered what this business meant for her.
“Rebecah, I know your feelings toward Mr. Nash haven’t been favorable ones,” David said.
She frowned. “So this business concerns him?”
“It does. Bear with us.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Please understand it is not my intention or Mr. Deberton’s to stir up your feelings. We will not tread were we should not.”
She raised her eyes, wistful at the mention of the man she still loved. “Forgive me for sounding harsh. I’ll listen.”
“Mr. Nash has left you a sum of seven hundred pounds.”
Deberton leaned forward. “We want to advise that you accept it in good faith. Do not allow it to collect cobwebs.”
She stared at the floor in disbelief. “I fail to understand. Mr. Nash should have known I would not accept it. What about his mother? What about Sir Rodney?”
“They are well provided for through their own means, and through Mr. Nash.”
“But how, David? John Nash is not a rich man.”
“He is wealthier than believed. He sold his land up north, a large estate of good farmland. He came to us with his wishes. He did not want you to have the money until he had gone, and only if you did not marry Lanley. He hoped it would get you away from Endfield.”
She pressed her fingers against her temples. “I’ve done that on my own.”
“Nevertheless the money is yours and…”
“Did he think I would not survive without his help?”
“He did. However…”
“Oh, David, you should have advised him differently.”
“He was very firm, and nothing would have changed his mind. You see, he was afraid if you did not marry Lanley, Sir Samuel would cast you out and you would be impoverished.”
Lavinia reached over and squeezed Rebecah’s hand. “And you know my father would have done it.”
“Yes, March told me she had overheard his plans to send me away. I knew he would eventually.”
“I am not surprised. Look how he has disowned me. Do you think he would treat you any better?”
“How can I accept it, Lavinia? I would feel kept.” She lowered her head. “You should know the reasons.”
“Whatever they are, Miss Brent, do not feel obligated to take the money,” said Deberton.
“I disagree,” David said in a raised voice.
“I have heard of his behavior, David. It is up to Miss Brent what to do. We must allow her time to think this over.”
David shifted on his feet. “The likelihood of seeing Mr. Nash again is slim, Rebecah. He is in America. You are in England. Perhaps, this is his way of saying how sorry he is, and if you do not wish to use it to live on, you could give it to a charity.”
Settled by his suggestion, she engaged his gaze. “Your advice is well taken. But I must
have time to think about it. I do have that option, do I not?”
“Of course you do.” Deberton stood and pulled at the bottom edge of his waistcoat. “We will not speak of it again until you’re ready. So for the moment, will you accompany me into the garden? Let us see what flowers have bloomed.”
* * *
When the evening’s light descended and bathed the land in a ruddy glow, a special dinner was prepared, for in the morning Lady Margaret and Rebecah were to leave for Standforth. Rebecah waited in the dining room with the others. Mr. Deberton was late. When he entered, he stopped short by the door, bowed to Lady Margaret and Lavinia, then looked over at Rebecah and inclined his head to her.
She was dressed in a gown of silk linen. He complemented her on the color. “Such a soothing shade of blue, Miss Brent. It heightens your complexion.”
Tiny pearls were in her hair, hair that cascaded down her throat and shoulders in ringlets. He pulled out a chair for her, and his hand lightly touched her back, his fingertips brushing over her locks.
As the ladies talked among themselves before the food was brought in, Deberton sat next to David.
“There sits an angel,” Rebecah heard him whisper. “I’m indebted to you.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw David look at him curious. “How so?”
“For bringing me and the lady together.”
“You imply we meant to match you up? Edward, it was just business that needed to be taken care of, if it was taken care of at all. You should not have delayed her.”
“She should not be pressured into taking money from a man who is neither her relation nor her friend.”
David curled his lip in a smile. She looked away, but heard him say, “She still loves him, I believe.”
