by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“I’ll do anything to keep unscrupulous men from taking what I’ve built. Even if I’m not around to enjoy it, I don’t want them to have my property!”
Murray scratched his chin. “You want to sell your place?”
“What? Right now, on the spot?”
Murray shrugged. “Someone would buy it, I’m sure.”
“You, sir?”
The big man shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think Katherine would be pleased if I gained from another’s misfortune.”
“Well, I won’t sell to Charles Dole.”
“He wouldn’t have the money.”
Jack leaned back against the wall. “If I sell my place, and they kill me, someone else would take the money. The court or the constables.”
“Likely so.” Murray let out a long, soft sigh. “Of course, if you was married, that would be different.”
“How?”
“They wouldn’t turn your wife out.”
Jack’s mind raced. “If I were married, my wife would keep my estate if they hung me?”
“I expect so. Part of it, anyway, if you stated so in your will. And if she were a good woman, the court might look more favorably on you, allow you to bring character witnesses, that sort of thing. Though not many in this town would speak for you, I’m afraid. Most have made up their minds.”
“Would you put in a word for me, sir?”
Murray hesitated. “Is your soul right with God, boy?”
Jack nodded. “I was bitter when my mother died, but that’s changed, sir. I’ve been attending services since last February.”
Murray peered into his eyes. “What brought about the change?”
Leaning back against the damp wall, Jack sighed. “You recall the storm?”
“Aye.”
“For nearly a week, I was cooped up in my house. I dug a tunnel to the barn to tend the stock, but I never saw a soul for days, and I began to wonder if the snow would ever melt.”
Murray’s wry smile told him the captain understood.
“One night,” Jack went on, “I thought I’d go crazy without someone to talk to or something to do. We had but one book—my mother’s Bible. I was desperate, sir, and I began to read.” He smiled. “I read the whole book of Job. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. When I ran out of lamp oil, I kept throwing logs on the fire so I could see.”
Murray chuckled. “There’s no better pastime than reading God’s Word.”
“True enough. By the time I finished the book, I realized how wretched I was. It was no use going on the way I had been. I … I knelt there on the hearth and begged the Almighty’s forgiveness.”
The captain nodded. “Glad to hear it.”
Jack stretched out his long legs and sighed. “Over the next few weeks I kept reading, and pretty soon I began to see how God wanted me to live. It was like my pride was stripped away, one layer at a time.”
“You were a rebellious lad, I expect.”
“Yes. All my life, I kicked against authority—my father, the pious villagers, even Reverend Catton and the church.”
“Still feel that way?” Murray asked.
Jack shook his head. “Now I just want to be like Christ.” He glanced at the captain to see if the older man found him ludicrous. He’d never been so open with anyone.
Murray was nodding. “That’s the best move a man can make.”
“So I started going to meeting again,” Jack said. “I knew they all thought me an infidel, but I had to make a beginning somewhere.”
The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll speak for you. I can tell the court you’ve been faithful in your duties to the militia and you were a good son to your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“It won’t change the verdict, I fear.”
“But it might make them more favorable on the distribution of my estate?”
“I don’t know. I’m not versed in law.”
“If they’re set on hanging me and there’s no way to stop it, I know how I’d like things to end up.”
“How’s that?”
Jack inhaled deeply. “I started working on my house again this spring. I was thinking … if things went well …” He smiled sheepishly. “There’s a young lady I thought to court, sir.”
The captain’s eyes glittered. “Ah.”
Jack ducked his head. “Her father didn’t like me, but he’s dead now. I prayed for the Lord’s guidance and decided to work hard this spring and get the house ready. If God allowed it, then I’d speak to her.”
“But you haven’t spoken yet?”
“No, sir. It’s been a dream of mine. A longing, you might say.” Jack swallowed hard. That dream could never be realized now, but perhaps he could show his esteem for her before he died. “Do I get a last request, sir?”
“You mean like a last meal?”
“No, I mean like …” Jack took two deep breaths. “They sent for you when I asked. If they’ll let me, I’d like to request another visitor.”
Murray nodded. “I’ll tell the jailer, and we’ll see what he says about that.”
Lucy jumped at the peremptory rap on her door. It was nearly sunset, and she had laid down her shuttle to prepare the evening meal. Neighbors came to fetch her mother at all hours, and normally she wasn’t afraid. Still, if there was a murderer loose in these parts … She went to the door and cautiously lifted the latch.
On her doorstep stood Gideon Rutledge, the constable’s youngest son. The boy favored his mother, with fair hair and freckles. She judged him to be about twelve, too old for her school.
“Excuse me, miss.” The lad looked at his shoes. “But my father sent me to say you’re wanted at the jail.”
Lucy stared at him. “Is someone in need of healing? My mother is the one—” Lucy glanced toward where her mother’s basket usually sat, ready for when she was urgently summoned to the bedside of an ailing neighbor or an expectant mother.
“No, ma’am, it’s not that. The prisoner asked to see you.”
“Prisoner?” Prickles of apprehension began on the back of her neck.
“Jack Hunter,” Gideon said.
“Jack Hunter is in the jail?” Dread and incredulity assailed her. “Whatever for?”
“For the murder of Goodman Trent, miss.”
Lucy’s mouth went dry. “Are you making up tales?”
“It’s true.” The boy’s face was grave. “Mr. Trent was found hacked to death this morning.”
She leaned against the doorframe. “I’d heard he was dead.”
“Father says it were Jack Hunter’s ax that done the deed.”
“I don’t understand.” She felt ill. Could this really be happening? She didn’t want to walk nearly two miles to the jail, and she didn’t want to find out that the boy was telling the truth. She didn’t want to see Jack confined and accused of a heinous crime.
The boy eyed her anxiously. “Father said I’m supposed to bring you back.”
Lucy took a deep breath, weighing her options and trying to grasp what Gideon had said. All afternoon she’d been imagining that a savage Indian or a maniacal cutthroat had slain the surly farmer. But Jack? It was unthinkable. She knew him better than to believe that. She also knew she could not forego the chance to go to him when he’d asked for her in his time of distress.
“Give me a moment.” She hurried to bank the fire, trying to think what she could take to the jail that might be useful to Jack, but nothing came to mind. It was nearly dusk and the moon just past new. It would be very dark when she started home again. She stuffed a short candle and two pennies into the pocket tied around her waist and grabbed her knit shawl from its peg by the door.
What good could she do Jack in this muddle? No matter. He’d asked for her. She was going.
Chapter 4
Jack heard other prisoners come in, one or two at a time, all evening. They were ordinary men who had fallen into debt and were serving their sentences. They were generally allowed the freedom of the village duri
ng the day so they could work to pay off what they owed, but had to report to the jail at sunset and were confined every night. They were herded into the more comfortable cells upstairs. Jack didn’t mind being denied the company of his poor neighbors. He didn’t want to talk now. He wanted to think.
He went to the recessed window in the outer wall and peered out. At the end of the square tunnel in the stonework he could see the barred opening, and beyond it the twilit sky. He inhaled deeply and caught the smells of wood smoke and the mud flats at low tide.
Although a death sentence had not been formally issued, the constables had made it clear that it was only a matter of time. Murray’s pessimism had further weighed him down. Even his captain, who was a fair and honest man, was sure Jack was headed for the gallows. The flicker of hope Jack had felt while Murray was with him gave way once more to a heavy hopelessness.
The prospect Angus Murray had held out to him was not a possibility of saving his life. But perhaps he could have a say in the matter of who claimed his farm after he was dead. That was not much consolation, however. Jack felt the constricting panic threaten to engulf him again.
There were people who wanted his property, he was sure. Trent had openly coveted the homestead, and he’d seen the way Dole eyed his sturdy barn and snug house that morning. And Tristram Drew, whose land abutted Jack’s on the other side, had approached him and his mother a few years back and asked if they didn’t want to sell out.
If Murray’s plan worked, Jack could give something of value to the only woman he had ever loved. Lucy wasn’t destitute, but he was sure she could make use of his possessions. Much better her than someone else.
But what if she refused to see him?
He closed his eyes in prayer and waited.
Lucy stopped on the threshold of the jail. She looked around to speak to the Rutledge boy, but he was fading into the darkness, heading for home, no doubt. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. Reuben Stoddard rose from a bench by the wall. The big room was drafty, but beyond him was an open doorway through which she could see a cheerful room, where a woman stooped before the fire burning on the hearth.
“Well, now. Good evening, Miss Hamblin.”
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She’d never been inside the building and found the experience unnerving. Jack was here somewhere, locked away in some remote corner of this cold, dark place.
“Here to see the accused murderer?” Stoddard’s face was grim as he reached for a large ring of keys.
“Y–yes. Mr. Rutledge’s son said Goodman Hunter asked for me.”
Several flickering candles illuminated the room, and she saw a large man sitting in the far corner, whittling. Lucy recognized Captain Murray at once. No mistaking the huge man. He said nothing but tended to his whittling as though it were the most important thing in the world. A long clay pipe protruded from his lips, and he sent a lazy puff of smoke out the corner of his mouth. It floated toward the ceiling and hung there. She supposed he must be here to help guard the prisoner or to keep the angry townspeople from forming a mob and menacing the jailer.
Stoddard scowled. “I must say I’m surprised you agreed to see a dangerous man like Jack Hunter.”
She swallowed hard. “I wasn’t aware Goodman Hunter had been tried and found guilty already.”
She saw Captain Murray throw a quick glance their way. His dark eyes glinted, but he remained silent.
“He’ll stand trial soon enough,” Stoddard said. “Come on. There’s nothing you can do to help that one. But I suppose there’s no sense trying to tell you it’s foolish to see him.”
He unlocked a door in the side wall and picked up a candlestick. Lucy saw a shadowy passageway beyond. Before she ducked through the door behind Stoddard, she noticed movement in the corner. The captain rose, shoved the small stick he’d been whittling into his pocket, sheathed his knife, and headed for the front door.
The jail smelled damp and earthy. Lucy shivered and gathered her shawl about her.
Stoddard led her into the darkness and stopped before a dark door. The closed portal had a barred window about a foot square just above her eye level. “Ho, Hunter,” the jailer cried.
“I’m here.” Jack’s low voice was so near that Lucy jumped.
“You’ve got another visitor.”
Lucy heard a soft movement beyond the bars and peered through them. She could see a dark form but couldn’t make out his features.
“Can we speak in private?” she asked Stoddard.
He grunted and placed the candlestick on a rough bench beside the doorway. “Not long, miss. Ten minutes, same as I gave the captain.”
Lucy gulped in the musty air. So the captain was here as a visitor. She hoped that meant he was displaying support for Jack. “Thank you.”
The jailer turned to go, and Jack called urgently, “Wait! Goodman Stoddard, can’t you let the visitor in?”
Stoddard looked back. “That’s not a good idea, Hunter.”
“You let Captain Murray in here.”
“Captain Murray is … the captain. I can’t let a woman in there with you.”
“Why not? She’s only here to speak to me.” Jack leaned close to the barred window in the cell door as he spoke, and Lucy caught the glint of his eyes in the flickering light.
“Sure, and it would only take you a second to strangle her, now, wouldn’t it?”
“Mr. Hunter is not a violent man,” Lucy protested.
Stoddard grunted and turned away, muttering under his breath.
When he was out of sight, she peered at the door, trying to see inside the dark cell. “Jack, I’m so sorry. How did this happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“They can’t believe you killed Trent. That’s senseless.”
“Ah, Lucy.” Jack gave a deep sigh and grasped the bars in the window. A chill ran down Lucy’s spine as she heard the clink of chains against the bars and realized he was fettered. “Thank you for saying that. You must be the only person in the province of Maine—no, in all of Massachusetts—who doesn’t think I’m guilty.”
“But why?” She stepped closer and squinted up at him through the small window.
“They say they found my ax beside the corpse. Lucy, this is a nightmare. I’ve done nothing.”
She retrieved the pewter candlestick from the bench and held it closer to the window. At last she could see his mournful face. There seemed to be a bruise around his left eye, or was it just shadow? His eyes were filled with sorrow.
In spite of their surroundings, she drank in the sight of him. It had been years since she’d been this close to him. He’d matured, and very nicely, she thought, except for the anxious, haggard air that clung to him.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
Jack sighed. “I …” He lowered his head.
“There must be something.” She tried to insert normalcy into her tone. “Do you need anything? Have they fed you tonight?”
“Yes, I’ve had food, and they’ve given me a wool blanket.”
“They’re keeping you overnight, then?”
He hesitated. “I believe that’s the plan.”
“But they’ll release you in the morning.”
“They’ve sent for a magistrate,” Jack said.
“That’s good. He’ll straighten this out and release you.”
He didn’t answer.
“Jack?”
“I don’t think they’ll let me go, Lucy.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why …?” She couldn’t give voice to the terrible thoughts that were bombarding her mind.
“Lucy,” he whispered.
She caught her breath and looked up through the hole in the thick, oaken door. Jack slipped his hand between the bars, as far as the short chain would allow. She leaned toward him. His cold fingers touched her cheek, and a thrill shot through her.
“
Will there be a trial?” she asked.
“Of sorts, I suppose.”
Her pulse pounded. “Jack, you are an Englishman. Surely they’ll let you defend yourself.”
He winced. “I’m told things look bad, Lucy. Most folks are determined I did it. They want …”
“What?”
“They want to see me hang.”
“No!”
He ran his finger along her jaw and tipped her chin up so that they looked directly into each other’s eyes. “It’s true, I’m afraid. Charles Dole is making preparations. They expect the magistrate to pronounce sentence.” He retracted his hand. “Dole, Stoddard, and Rutledge have it all planned. They say it’s to be in the morning.”
“Not … tomorrow morning?” Her voice squeaked, and she gasped for breath.
Jack leaned his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes.
Her knees felt weak, and she reached for the doorjamb.
“They can’t.”
“They can.”
She swallowed hard. “I saw Captain Murray out there.”
“The captain thinks nothing I can do will help. I’m doomed, Lucy.”
Her eyes stung with tears. “I can’t believe this.” She took a deep breath and asked the question that had plagued her since Gideon Rutledge showed up on her doorstep. “Jack, why did you send for me?”
He looked away for a moment. “I don’t want to upset you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”
She raised her hand, then drew it back, frustrated by the thick door between them.
“Don’t say that. We’re friends, Jack. I’m glad you sent for me. If it’s only to say good-bye, though, I shall be disappointed. There must be something I can do for you. Is anyone caring for your livestock?”
“Rutledge promised he’d ask Sam Ellis to tend them tonight. After that … well, I’m not sure.”
“I could go over in the morning,” she said. “I could milk the cow and—”
He shook his head. “You’ve enough to do at home.”
“There must be something….”
Jack watched her for a long moment, knowing the minutes were fleeting. One moment he was ready to blurt out his request, and the next he was certain it would be unconscionable to make such a proposal.
