Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

  “You’ve earned your wage. Here.”

  Laban looked at the coins in Sir Rodney’s hand. He frowned. “No, Sir Rodney, this is more than we agreed.”

  “You’ve worked hard for me, Laban. We’ve known each other many a year. Take it and say no more.” Sir Rodney reached out and took Laban’s hand. He then slapped the coins in his gritty palm.

  “I’ll be taking what we agreed on, sir. The rest is charity, and I’ll not be takin’ charity.”

  “Ah, ‘tis your pride speaking, man. Accept it, so your children will have more on the table to eat. ”

  Laban raised a somber face and acquiesced. “Thank you, sir. But just this once.”

  Sir Rodney pushed back the tip of his hat. “How many children do you have besides the two?”

  Laban shifted on his feet. “I’ve four in the ground. Two were gone at birth, the others from the fever when they were babies.”

  “Death will reap its due reward in the Judgment. I’m sorry, Laban.” Sir Rodney pulled his black cloak over him and went to his horse. “Does your wife know what you’re doing?”

  “She thinks I’m doing work up at Standforth. She asked me if I’m doing something I shouldn’t, because she’s afraid I’d go to prison if I were.”

  Sir Rodney climbed into the saddle and looked at Laban with a reassuring smile. “Tell her not to worry.”

  Laban frowned. “But what we’re doing’, sir, is it considered smuggling? Peyton, he’s a smuggler, right?”

  “You let me worry about Mr. Peyton, Laban. You need not discuss what you do for me with anyone. Besides, you’ve only been my courier, and know nothing of my business. Now, it’s time you headed home to your good wife and little children.”

  Stepping back through the portal, Sir Rodney drew his horse out onto the road, nodded to Laban, and rode off toward Standforth.

  * * *

  Laban waited several minutes after he could no longer hear Sir Rodney’s horse. Then he scanned the stretch of grass before him to the road and the woods beyond. It seemed safe to go, and so he trudged back home with money in his pocket.

  He’d have his wife go to market in the morning, buy a fat goose and flour for bread. A happy smile lifted his otherwise unhappy mouth. He picked up his pace with a little skip in his stride and made his way down the road toward his house.

  The wind pitched the branches of the trees. He paused at the top of the hill, looked at the cottage where his wife and children were sound asleep. A candle burned in the window, and he headed down the slope thinking how pleased his wife would be to see the coins he had earned.

  When he opened the door, he drew off his hat. He placed his foot on the first step of the staircase. He heard movement, turned and strode from the tiny hallway into the little parlor. There he found his wife in tears, his children huddled in her skirts, and soldiers waiting inside.

  * * *

  Not long after sunrise, Sir Rodney sat in his study penning a letter. If something were to happen to him, he wanted his wife to know the depths of how he felt about her. He dipped his quill in the inkwell, hesitated, and then set it down to rub his eyes. Toby lay on the braided rug in front of the fire looking at him.

  “I must choose my words with care, old girl. For if they’re the last words I ever write to her, they must be lasting.”

  Setting his hands on the sides of his face, he looked out the window. The hills were dotted with sheep. The sky above the horizon looked pale. In his memory, he saw his son at play as a boy. He heard him whistle to his dog, race across the field without a care in the world. Sir Rodney’s heart ached with missing him.

  Lady Margaret entered the room. “Good morn, my love.”

  He made no reply.

  “Are you feeling alright, Rodney?”

  Sir Rodney raised his head and looked up. “I fair well, Margaret.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. What a glorious day.”

  “Indeed, yet I think it shall rain. Where is Rebecah? Is she up?”

  “She is. I’ve asked her to arrange a vase of flowers for our breakfast table.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “You must have breakfast, my love.” She moved over to the window. “How can you work in here with it being so stuffy?”

  “Margaret.” He held out his hand and she came to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist. It was still pleasing.

  “What is it, Rodney?” She ran her fingers through the front of his hair. “Is something troubling you. You miss Jack?”

  “We must talk.”

  “I’m listening, my dear.”

  He touched her face. Then he dropped his hand. “You’ve found a great deal of peace in your faith, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve found assurance. I wish you would come to a meeting with me. But I’ll not harp on you, for that would be wrong.”

  “I love you, God knows.” He snatched up her hand, squeezed her fingers, pressing them against his lips.

  She looked at him troubled. “Something is wrong. I can see it in your face.”

  “I should have told you long ago. But I felt it best to keep you out of it. I’ve never wanted you to worry. But now I feel I must tell you. I’ve been involved in a business that is against the King’s law.”

  Her mouth fell open and her hand trembled in his. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe in America’s cause. I believe our son has the right to be free.”

  “So do I, my dear.”

  “Then you’ll understand. I’m involved in sending goods and money by way of privateers. They take what they can to the patriots.”

  Anxious tears filled her eyes. “Why must you tell me this?”

  “So you will know what to do if I’m found out.” He took her hands and squeezed them. “My will is drawn up. Mr. Harcourt has the original copy.”

  “Rodney…”

  “Also,” and he opened a drawer to his desk, “I’ve money for Rebecah’s passage. You must promise you will try to convince her to leave England and go to our son. The key will be kept in the vase over there on the mantelpiece.”

  She stared at him, then at the contents in the drawer. “Yes, my husband. You know I’ll do whatever you ask. But God forgive us if we are meddling where we should not.”

  He pulled her close against him. “Do not weep, my love. Perhaps I’m over dramatizing things. Perhaps nothing will happen and life will go on like always.”

  She lifted her head from off his shoulder and gave him a grave look. “If you stop what you’ve been doing, then no harm will come.”

  “I promise to be careful for your sake.”

  Outside an unbroken rhythm of horses came up the drive.

  “Someone has come.”

  “Let us hope it is some of your friends.” He stood with her. “I’m in need of assurance. Perhaps I shall join your group, Margaret, if they will have me.”

  He moved to the window where he had a clear view of the front drive. Leaves on the trees were twisting in the breeze. Some fell from the willows and floated to the ground.

  Rodney Nash thought his heart would stop when he saw Laban Huet being pulled by a lengthy rope held by a mounted soldier in glittering scarlet. Laban’s wife and children were staggering behind him.

  Lady Margaret drew up beside Sir Rodney. He heard her gasp, her breath hurried so much so she could not speak.

  Lottie Huet’s forlorn eyes turned to them. She stretched out her hands. She cried out, ran toward the house. A soldier grabbed her. She fought back and fell. The children rushed to her. She pulled them into her arms.

  “God, help us,” Sir Rodney uttered in a heavy breath. “On my life, they have Laban Huet.”

  CHAPTER 30

  LaRoux was a hunted man, and enjoyed it with a morbid kind of pleasure. After murdering Tobias Johnston, he joined his band of thieves. The Indians among them had no attachments to Logan, no allegiance to Cornstalk or Blue Jacket, no loyalties to any tribe.

  The day Tobias was eulogized a
blanket of blue sky hung above the earth. Not a dry eye sat among the mourners in Saint John’s Church. The sun beat on the dome and the cross of the steeple, and slipped through the windows like a heavenly veil. The town had gone silent, except for Mrs. Cottonwood’s dog Caesar, a fox terrier. It ran up and down Market Street chasing squirrels and barking at anything that moved.

  Old Tobias’s last request would be granted. After the service, a fife and drum preceded the crowd. A pine box sat in a wagon pulled by two of Sam Evan’s black horses. Townsfolk walked toward the giant sycamore that stood in the center of Mount Olivet Cemetery and gathered around.

  Six men bore the box on their shoulders. Andrew Clarke first to the right and opposite him was Captain John Nash who walked with a slight limp without the pain showing on his face. He kept to the steady slow pace. The men strained against the weight as they lowered Tobias’s body into the ground. Then he stood back a pace and watched with angry eyes the dirt shoveled into the hapless grave. He wrestled with the idea God had called Tobias home this way. He could not accept it. Something born of darkness had done this. The sting of death twisted and turned in his heart like a knife. He felt his chest tighten. Grief demanded tears, but he fought them back.

  For a moment, he glanced away and saw a man with red hair and pronounced features swat a fly away from his face. His eyes were large, round, and pale blue. A mantle of highland plaid draped over his right shoulder. The man shut his eyes, bowed his head as the priest read from the prayer book.

  Nash had not seen this man before. He watched him. With the confidence of a prophet, the Scotsman came forward and stood over Tobias Johnston’s grave. Everyone’s’ eyes were upon him. He lifted his face to the sun along with a deep resonant voice.

  “Vengeance is mine. I will repay, says the Lord!”

  Nash felt his heart lurch. The scripture reminded him, God did not approve of this murderous act. Payment would be inevitable. The crowd stood silent a moment. Then everyone walked away.

  Nash stayed behind, holding his tricorn hat between his hands and leaning up against the tree. The Scotsman stared at the red mound of earth, a single tear in the corner of one eye.

  “You knew him?” he asked.

  The Scot nodded. “Aye. He was a relative, a cousin on my dear mother’s side. She was English ya see. I sailed all the way from Scotland to see him. He sent me word saying I should come live with him and start a new life. I learned of his death upon my arrival.”

  “I’m sorry you were too late.”

  “So am I. I’ve made an oath if I find this LaRoux fellow I’ll haul him by the scruff of his dirty neck to the jail in town and have him pay for his crime.”

  “We all feel the same as you.”

  Maldowney thrust his large hand out to Nash. “Robert Maldowney is my name.”

  “I’m honored.” Nash shook Maldowney’s hand. “I’m Captain John Nash. My friends call me Jack.”

  Staring at the grave, Nash picked up a handful of earth. He squeezed it tight in his hand, then let it fall. “Rest in peace, Tobias. I’ve no doubt we shall meet again.”

  Maldowney sighed. “Aye.”

  Lifting his hat to his head, Nash stepped away. “Well then, Robert Maldowney. Will you join me for a mug of ale and a good meal? I would enjoy your company.”

  Together they walked on across the grass. Meteor munched tender blades and shook his withers beside a brown horse with black mane and tail. Nash cursed the limp in his leg, wondering if he slowed the sturdy highlander’s pace.

  “Tell me, where in Scotland do you hale from?”

  “I was born into a poor life near Loch Maree, in the Highlands. I’m son to a chieftain, though I don’t lay much brag to it.”

  Nash ran his hand down Meteor’s nose. “Why not? To a Scot a chieftain is higher than King George.”

  Maldowney laughed. “Aye, and a wit saner too. But I serve neither, unless it is as one brother to another.”

  “Your meaning?”

  Maldowney held out his hand. “To love my neighbor as myself ‘tis hard at times, especially when it comes to the British soldiery. Yet I try best I can.”

  Nash smiled at his comment. “You’re a wayfarer?”

  “Of sorts. I’m a man bent on preaching to the poor and outcast whenever, wherever I can.” I’m heart in hand with Wesley as well as the Protestants. I listen to them all.”

  “You’re an ordained minister.”

  “No, just a humble disciple of Christ.”

  Nash climbed onto Meteor’s back. The horse shifted beneath him. “Well, you’re welcomed in my house. I could use some conversation on the subject.”

  “Thank you. The last man I spoke the Gospel to pelted me with stones.”

  “Were you badly hurt?”

  “The Lord blessed me with a large frame and I took them easy. But see here, one gave me a scar,” and he pointed to a place above his left brow. “It proves I’m flesh and blood. Keeps me in my place.”

  Nash nudged his horse with his knees and it stepped forward. “Logan has turned against us, and with good reason. Some settlers in our county have been killed by war parties. So I would suggest you go no farther west, unless you plan to lose your scalp.”

  Maldowney looked at Nash and nodded. “I’ll heed your advice. I’m acquainted with the ways of savages.” They passed along the road under a canopy of trees.

  “How?” Nash asked, curious to hear how a highlander so far from his homeland met up with Indians.

  “I was travelin’ and stumbled into a village. I was greeted warmly and the people gathered around me. For an hour, I stood upon a log and preached to them the Kingdom.”

  “Did they listen?”

  “Some. Others stared right through me. When I ended my sermon, they led me to the center of the village. There I was put face to face with the most vicious Indian. A leather strap was tied to each of us upon the wrist, and I was given a tomahawk and told to fight. Are you acquainted with that ritual, Mr. Nash?”

  One corner of Nash’s mouth curved into a smile. “Indeed I am, among others. Thank God, I’m here today to say so.”

  “You’ve had some close shaves, I take it.”

  “Yes, within an inch of my life.”

  Maldowney kicked a stone from the path to the woods. “I’m afraid of very little. But when I looked into the eyes of that warrior and saw he meant to kill me, my heart plunged to my boots and my blood turned to ice water in my veins.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Only what could be done.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I let him live.”

  There was a sparkle in Maldowney’s eyes, a kind of pride that he did not take the Indian’s life. It meant the warrior was now indebted to him, and no doubt he had won the respect of the village. It caused him to think of Black Hawk, wonder if he had found his path, and if he’d see him again.

  Maldowney went on. “I could have killed him easy. Instead, I snapped the leather throng that bound us together and threw my body against him, knocking him to the ground. For a moment, I held the tomahawk at his throat. The villagers carried on something fierce, cryin’ and shoutin’ until I thought I’d go deaf. I stood, and when they tried to hold me, I threw them off like Samson. I left that village and went on, they thinking’ I was something special. That brave knows he owes me his life.”

  Nash felt a great deal of admiration for this man. “You were delivered.”

  Maldowney gazed up at the sky. “Hmm, clouds are gathering and it looks like rain. Are you a believer, Captain Nash? Are ye born again?”

  “I would say I am.”

  “You’re English by your accent. Had you ever heard John Wesley preach?”

  “No, but he converted my stepmother. She attempted to persuade me into attending a meeting, but I was distracted.”

  Maldowney winked his eye. “Ah, a lady.”

  Nash smiled. “How did you guess?”

  “What else causes a man to think of nothin
g else?”

  Nash slid the reins through his hands. “What else indeed? That’s my place over there. Come. We shall have a huge supper.”

  * * *

  When Rebecah heard hurried steps outside in the hall, she went to see what was going on. Sir Rodney stumbled over the runner past her and rushed to the front door. He threw it open and went outside. His dog carried on at the strangers on horseback, snarling and barking until Angus took Toby by the collar and put her inside the house.

  Lady Margaret stood in the doorway with Rebecah beside her. Soldiers, Laban, his wife and children, were out on the lawn. “Rodney, do something to stop them.”

  Rebecah clutched her trembling hand. Sir Rodney met a man in uniform.

  “Good day to you, Sir Rodney. My apology, my men have trampled over my lady’s flowerbed. May we go inside? I’ve some questions to ask.”

  Sir Rodney drew back his shoulders. “Why is that man being dragged like a common criminal? He’s done nothing wrong.”

  Captain Neil Donley stood erect and raised his bows. Not a speck of dirt or grim on his cream-colored breeches. His powdered wig hadn’t a hair out of place. He drew from his pocket his handkerchief and wiped his nose.

  “That, sir, has been proven otherwise. He confessed to his crime. Now, tell me what you know about it.”

  Sir Rodney sharpened his eyes. “Laban Huet would never soil his hands in the affairs of criminals. He works for me, here at Standforth, as a laborer.”

  Donley raised one brow. “So he has told us. I suppose he had you duped as well.”

  Sir Rodney stiffened. “He is neither a liar nor a cheat.”

  “Then you agree with what I said.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, Captain.”

  “Did you hear of the sea battle that occurred last night outside these shores?” Donley asked, inspecting the ground he walked over.

  “I had not heard of such,” Sir Rodney answered.

  “An American privateer escaped out to sea with tattered sails and smoke billowing from her stern. It’s unlikely they shall reach America now. We know certain men have been supplying these ships. We believe you’re one of those men. You’ve been followed from time to time.”