by RITA GERLACH
“He’d never come here.” Turlane placed his handkerchief over his nose.
“Watch your step, ladies,” cried the gaoler. “For there goes a rat!”
Lady Margaret cried out and buried her face against Dr. Turlane’s shoulder. The gaoler cursed the hairy rodent and kicked it with the toe of his shoddy shoe. It squeaked and scurried off through a crack in the wall.
Lady Margaret murmured. “How long can a man last in here? Oh, my poor Rodney.”
“I’ll be glad when some of these scamps meet their maker. Five are to hang next Tuesday.” The gaoler put his hand around his throat, bulged his eyes and pretended to choke. Lady Margaret gasped.
Rebecah held on to Lady Margaret. “Executions are hardly something to make fun of,” she scolded.
The gaoler leaned forward, showing a row of blackened teeth. “Makes ya uneasy, don’t it?”
Turlane stepped up to him. “Be silent and lead us to Sir Rodney.”
Swinging around, the gaoler moved on, paused outside a door and peered through the bars of the small square window in it. “You got company, Sir Rodney—your wife and two others to see you.”
Rebecah took note of how kind the gaoler spoke to Sir Rodney as he shoved the key into the lock. Perhaps his standing afforded him a little more respect than the other inmates.
“They have treated him kindly, I think,” she whispered to her ladyship.
The rattle of chains came from within, and when the gaoler shoved the door open, Rodney Nash hurried forward. He looked pale, his face scruffy with a day’s old beard and his clothes dirty.
“My love! My lady!”
Tears brimmed in his eyes. Lady Margaret fell into his arms. Their hands held fast together. He kissed her.
“Margaret, I’m so happy to see you. Ah, but for you to have come to such a place.”
“Are you well, my love?” Lady Margaret caressed his cheek. “Are they feeding you enough?”
The gaoler stepped beside her. “I’ve seen to it Sir Rodney gets the best of everything, milady. For a few coins my wife can bring him something hardy of her own cookery every day.”
Lady Margaret looked over at him with a smile that spoke of desperation. “I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
The gaoler bowed and stepped out.
“I never thought to see you again, Rodney,” Lady Margaret said.
“Nor I you.”
“You can thank Rebecah. She persuaded David there was a way. Upon her urging he pressured the judges.”
Sir Rodney’s eyes turned upon her and he held out his hand. “I would call you daughter, Rebecah.”
She went to him. He kissed her cheek as a father would. He looked over at Dr. Turlane. “I see you’ve brought a gentleman with you.”
“The name is Turlane, sir. Dr. Alec Turlane.” And he bowed low.
“He has come to see if you are in good health,” Rebecah told him.
“I’m in fair health, I believe.”
Turlane nodded. “Yes, Sir Rodney. You appear to be so. May I?” and he held out his hand to take hold of Sir Rodney’s wrist. He timed his pulse, looked into his eyes and mouth, felt his throat, and put his ear to his chest.
“Shall I live another day?”
Turlane smiled lightly. “Indeed you shall, sir.”
“Then could you both excuse us? My wife and I are given so short a time.”
“Certainly. Come, Miss Brent.” Turlane held out his arm, and together they stepped from the cell into the corridor.
Out of the hearing of the others, Rebecah turned to Turlane. He leaned against the wall, and dug at the floor with the heel of his shoe.
“He is not well, is he?”
“His pulse is weak. I shall do everything possible to keep him alive.”
She lowered her head. Her eyes filled and she blinked the tears away. Turlane picked up her hand and squeezed it.
“It’s complicated, is it not?”
Rebecah nodded. “It is, sir. It all seems so unjust.”
* * *
The gaoler was kind enough to give the couple one quarter of an hour together. Sir Rodney then asked for Rebecah. Five minutes would due. Standing outside the grim cell, beneath smoky torches, Rebecah waited while the couple said their goodbyes.
“Before I go,” Lady Margaret said, “I must give you these. Now, promise you’ll wear them, and you will care for your health. I’ve included two books.”
Sir Rodney took the bundle from her hands and opened it. In it were woolen stockings, a clean shirt, and knit cap. “I love you, Margaret. Pray for me.”
Rebecah’s heart ached seeing the way Lady Margaret touched his cheek.
“Times up, milady,” the gaoler said, wiping his nose across his sleeve.
Reluctant arms slipped apart. Lady Margaret paused at the cell door. Then, with her hands folded at her breast, she turned and left.
Inside his cell, Rebecah looked at Sir Rodney with searching eyes. He held out his hand and she took it. He asked her to sit on the bench beside him.
“She loves you, you know.”
“I’ve broken her heart,” Sir Rodney said. “It seems we men in the Nash line have an unintentional way of doing that.”
Rebecah shook her head. “Lady Margaret does not feel that way.”
“Thank you for saying so, Rebecah.” He squeezed her hand. “And I cannot tell you how pleased I am you are with her. I’ve something to ask you. Our time is short, so I must speak quickly.”
Rebecah gripped his hands harder. “I’m listening.”
“First, tell me what your feelings are for my son.”
“I love him. I believe he told me the truth.”
“If there were a way, would you go to him?”
“Only if I knew he would have me.”
“I know he would.”
“Tell me what I must do.”
“At Standforth I have left instructions. A sum of gold is laid aside—a portion for your journey to Jack. The rest you must give to him. He will know what it is for.”
Rebecah got to her feet. “For the rebels?”
Sir Rodney nodded.
Her mind reeled with what he was asking. A moment she paced the room.
He got to his feet. “Do not decide now. Think on it, and send me word through Margaret. You’ll be in my prayers.”
Rebecah kissed his cheek. “I will give you my answer now by thanking you.”
“Time to go, miss,” the gaoler said, poking his head through the doorway.
Outside the light of day was fading. The sky hung gray now, thick and forbidding, pressing and silent. The howls of the prisoners ceased to echo in Rebecah’s ears, and her lungs took in the pure air.
Dr. Turlane climbed inside the coach with Lady Margaret. He leaned his head out the window. Rebecah stood a few yards off.
“Come inside the coach, Miss Brent,” he called. “A chill of rain is in the air and we must be on our way.”
She did not move or turn to him. Instead, she lifted her face to the wind.
“In a moment,” she answered. “Let me breathe in the air a while longer.”
The Everlasting Mountains
He stood, and measured the earth: he beheld, and drove asunder the nations; and the everlasting mountains were scattered. . .
Habakkuk 3:6
CHAPTER 1
Annapolis, Maryland
Rebecah’s heart trembled as she gazed up at the stark white sails of the ship that had brought her across the Atlantic to the King’s colony of Maryland. Canvas billowed in the salty breeze, shook with the gusts and softened. Clouds mellowed to dark hues of blue and purple. Seagulls flew above the water. In chorus, they screeched and glided against the sky now magenta along the horizon. Wings of white tipped with gray spread wide and lifted in the wind. She watched them work against the breeze. Impatience seized her. Awe filled her.
Her hands felt moist as she held to the sides of the boat. The oarsmen pulled against the current. Her fingertips touched th
e water. It rippled cold against her skin. She could not see beyond the trees, beyond the town nestled along the shore, to a wilderness where the man she loved dwelled, but she tried to imagine it in her mind.
Dusk fell. Shadows deepened. The air grew crisp. She glanced back to see The Rearguard anchored in the Bay, a merchantman with luck enough to make it out to sea under the cover of night.
When the dinghy glided to a halt along the wharf, a sailor jumped out onto the planks and coiled a rope over a piling. One by one, the passengers were handed up. At last, Rebecah stood on solid ground, her valise in hand. The breeze felt cool against her skin, smelled of saltwater.
Holding her bag tighter, she walked on determining which way she should go. She wore a homespun dress the color of gingerroot. Splinters from a plank roughened the hem and she inched it up with a quiet moan. A dove-gray cloak chased away the cool evening air. The hood covered her hair.
Her stomach growled, and her back ached from weeks of sleeping on a cot in the passengers’ quarters. She grew to hate the sea. The memory of rations, of being tossed about, the weeks of seeing nothing but water and sky made her head spin. But now, the thought of soap and water and a warm bed with clean white sheets sounded heavenly.
She stood beside a fish stand. The owner spoke to her and Rebecah turned. A middle-aged woman with button eyes and a bit of whisker on her chin gave her a broad smile.
“The White Swan Inn is where you should go.”
“It is a good inn?”
“Has the best rooms, good food, and a fair price.”
Returning the smile, Rebecah thanked the woman. She handed her a pence for her troubles and looked in the direction she pointed out. At least people were helpful in the Colonies. That much encouraged her. Getting to Fredericktown would be easy with good people to travel with and a friendly colonial to drive the coach.
Annapolis seemed similar to the towns back home. A barking dog, a merchant hawking his wares, wagon wheels lumbering over the street were familiar sights and sounds.
She gathered up her skirts and quickly crossed the street, careful not to step where the horses had been. On the corner stood a red brick building. Chimneys were on each side, and a lawn surrounded the foundation. The sign read The White Swan. Upon it, a painted trumpeter swan skimmed over blue water, and evergreen boughs and pinecones made a halo.
Before she could make it to the door, a crowd gathered. She craned her neck to see what they were looking at. A long coil of human tragedy came trudging up the street. Each soul bore iron bands and chains upon wrist and ankle. Compassion, sadness, and utter dismay seized her. How could one man own another? How could they enslave another human being, shackle and command them against their will? How could their conscience be clear before God?
“What a shame.” A man reached for the door to open it for her. He was an elderly gentleman, dressed in black clerical garb. His silver hair hung to the shoulders, and his gray eyes sparkled beneath wispy brows. He motioned for her to step inside.
“I had not expected…”
“To see such a spectacle?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“As troubling as it may seem, you must put it from your mind. There is naught you or I can do for those poor wretches except pray for them.”
Troubled, she paused to look around the inn. Tables were polished, with candles in glass domes upon them. A huge hearth hugged the center of a western wall, and above it hung a painting of a marshland with geese in flight.
“My name is Filmore, Reverend Allen Filmore.” He glanced at her valise. “You’re newly arrived to our country?”
“Yes. My name is Rebecah Brent, of Ashburne House, England. Do you know it?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Brent, but I’m intrigued. Why would a young woman travel so far from home alone?”
“I grew anxious for adventure.” She smiled hoping he understood. “And I am here to see a friend.”
“Ah, as a bride to be, perhaps?”
She lowered her eyes with a flush of her cheeks. “I’m unsure, Reverend. Do you know where I can board a coach heading west?”
“West? Not too far into the wilderness I hope.”
“I am not sure. It is a place called Laurel Hill.”
He wiggled his head with a small laugh. “You must think me very ill-traveled. I haven’t heard of Laurel Hill, nor have I been far into the frontier. Some of my acquaintances say it is a very fine part of the country.”
Rebecah set her valise down.
“You will find they have comfortable rooms here.” Reverend Filmore rang the silver bell on the innkeeper’s desk. She noticed how clean and white his hands were. There were no sign of labor. The lace trim of his cuffs were faded to a soft yellow and worn along the edges. He was not a man of means.
A thin man in a buff coat stepped out from the back. “You need something, Reverend?”
“The lady is in need of a room.” Filmore made a gesture in her direction. “She has come a long way.”
“She’ll have to sign the register.” The innkeeper turned the ledger toward her and handed her the quill. She dipped it into the ink and signed her name.
“The lady needs passage west,” Filmore said. “Will you see to it?”
“The coach will be coming in tomorrow morning. My wife will bring up a tray of food and get anything else you need, miss. A weary journey causes a person to steer clear of crowded dining rooms.”
Rebecah welcomed the hospitality. Then the old feeling of dread stole up inside. She was on her way to John Nash¾and the dangers he faced. She thanked Reverend Filmore for his kindness, as the innkeeper came around the desk and picked up her bag.
A horn blared, and a man poked his head inside the door. “Coach headed for Baltimore coming in. News from Boston and Philadelphia.”
Filmore turned to Rebecah with a gracious bow. “My transport, dear lady. I do not know what path you are on, but I wish you Godspeed.” He put on his hat and left.
Rebecah hoped with all her heart, her path would be an easy one and her journey to John Nash swift.
After having supper in her room, and a good washing, she settled beneath a bedcover stuffed with goose down. It was quiet out on the street. Already this land had brought strange sights to her eyes—the slaves she could not forget, the patriotic verve that permeated the air. She lay there thinking what more would she see—Indians—men in buckskins—women is homespun garb—vast mountains and wide rivers?
The moon climbed high and shone through the curtains over the window. Pale blue light painted the walls. She watched the shadows play across the ceiling. Her heart trembled that the man she loved was so close, that she would see him soon. She prayed he would not reject her and closed her eyes to fall asleep, listening to ship bells clang in the harbor.
The next day before the noon hour, a note was sent up with the maid. A coachman named George Mac waited outside.
CHAPTER 2
Ruts in the road rocked and jolted the coach as it lumbered west. Towering elms shadowed the ground where dry leaves blew and whirled against the coach wheels.
Being the only passenger, Rebecah had room to stretch her limbs. In some ways she regretted being alone. She had no one to talk with. The time would have passed quicker with at least one additional passenger. Maybe a bit of conversation would have helped the flutter of nerves in her stomach.
Hours later, looking out the window, she gazed at the sky and smelled the hint of rain in the air. George Mac slowed the horses. They stopped to rest at a trading post. A porch stretched across the front and beside it stood the owner’s log cabin. Oak barrels were stacked out front. A brass horn hung from a nail in a post. Sunlight sparkled against it like a shooting star.
There were several men lounging around that day smoking their clay pipes and talking. When Rebecah alighted, the men stood and pulled off their hats. A boy ran forward and tugged on her dress. He had bright blue eyes and freckled cheeks. His long blond curls and round face reminded her of Hug
h. She missed him, wondered if she would ever see him again, hoped he was well. But how well could a young boy be away from his family?
A terrier heeled beside the lad. Rebecah looked at the pup, and imagined Hugh had to be missing Jess.
The boy thrust his hand up to her. In it was a single wild daisy, the edges of the pedals tinted brown.
“For me?” Rebecah said.
The boy nodded.
“My thanks, kind sir.”
A man in a worn overcoat, brown leather breeches, and tricorn hat, placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “My son, ma’am. He’s had only his mother to give flowers to.”
“He’s a kind, boy. And very handsome.”
The man agreed with a smile. “My name is Davies, the proprietor of this place. The men here are curious.”
She glanced at the gathered group. “Over me?”
“You ride the coach heading west.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s been sometime since we’ve seen it come through. The Indians out in the frontier are on the warpath, and most folks are coming away, not going.”
A chill raced through her. What kind of danger was she heading toward?
The man seemed to notice her worry. “Don’t worry, miss. Your coachmen go armed. You must have a good reason for traveling that way.”
Emerging from the door, a woman stood with her hands over her hips. Her skin was browned by the sun. Creases hugged near her eyes. The boy skipped up the steps and took hold of her soiled apron. His dog followed, his tail swishing.
The woman scowled. “Leave off the talk of Indians, my husband. No need to make the lady fear. Give her ease and let her be. And the rest of you—you may be men of the backwoods, but that don’t make ye forget to use your manners.”
The mistress of the trading post, showed Rebecah inside to the cool shade of the room. A few men lingered in the doorway.
“We men,” said one, “are loyal to our Glorious Cause. Up that way, we hear powder and shot and parts for muskets are going to be made. You know what for?”
Another leaned on a birchwood cane and nudged the farmer in the ribs. “Don’t go wagging your tongue to a British lass.”
