Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  Gareth was no longer pretending to sleep. Erica gave her husband a long look. This one saying that she was both confused and very concerned. But she could not bring herself to ask anything more of poor Serafina. Instead, she reached her arm around the shaking shoulders and drew the girl close.

  They traveled on for a time, until the silence grew strained. For all eyes remained upon Serafina as she struggled to regain her composure. Falconer found himself filling in all that remained unsaid. He did not know everything, but he knew enough to see her future. Serafina was at heart a very good woman. She would eventually be reconciled with her family. Her parents, however angry and hurt they might be now, would reunite with their daughter. Serafina would be drawn back into the fold of a rich and powerful clan. A clan within which he had no place. Falconer would be seen as merely another usurper. A man scarcely better than this Luca. And in truth Falconer understood the thief. That was how he thought of Luca now. A thief who had ripped the heart out of this beautiful young woman. Falconer felt drawn by the same hunger the thief had no doubt felt. That he restrained himself was of little worth. Falconer felt gouged by the fact that Serafina deserved a man far better than him. One who was not dogged by such a dark and desperate past.

  Gareth shifted, as though coming awake. He spoke to Falconer, clearly wishing to divert the attention away from Serafina. “I don’t believe you have ever told me where you hail from.”

  “I come from nowhere and nothing.” Falconer heard the acid of disappointment etched into his every word. But he spoke just the same, talking of what had not been revealed for years. He spoke not to Gareth but Serafina. Now was as good a time as any to remind them both that he understood he was not for her. “My beginnings form a wretched story that does not deserve the telling.”

  “Nonetheless I would like to know.”

  “My mother was a serving wench in a roadside tavern. My father left when I was four. I am told he was a blacksmith. I remember him not. When I was seven, I was apprenticed to a wandering chimney sweep and ratter. He paid my mother five silver pennies for eight years of my service. When he beat me he always claimed he had overpaid.”

  It was Falconer’s turn to seek solace out the window. “When I was twelve or thereabouts I ran away to sea. The merchant navy isn’t so particular about where they recruit their midshipmen. They took me for a likely lad, lied about my age on the signing-up papers, and sent me aloft. What education I received was at the hands of my skippers. I served under ten of them. Six were good men. Four were not. Two of these I hope and pray never to set eyes upon again, for to be in their company would strain the fabric of my oath to God.”

  He stopped then and realized the entire cabin was watching him. “Have you prayed on this?” Gareth asked.

  “Aye. And asked for a healing of wounds that pain me still.”

  Hannah surprised them all by asking, “Is that why you have nightmares? What those two men did to you?”

  Falconer leaned across the compartment. “No, lass, it is not. And I apologize for speaking of them at all. It was a mistake.”

  She tilted her head slightly and inspected him for a time before saying, “You are very hard on yourself.”

  He found himself rocked back into his seat. “Another friend once told me the very same thing.”

  It was Hannah’s mother who asked, “Why is that, do you think?”

  Falconer retreated to another inspection of the vista that rattled along outside their window. Only now Serafina’s face was within sight, and he felt captured anew by his helplessness. “I can only suppose it is because of all the wrong I have done.” He could not help himself. He met the loveliest gaze in all the world. He felt her pain as his own. Falconer stared at her so intently he felt able to reach across the distance and touch her cheek with his eyes alone. “And all the mistakes I continue to make.”

  “It wasn’t wrong asking me to help you.” Serafina’s voice remained hoarse with her tears and confession.

  Falconer could only respond with a sigh.

  “They were intent upon attacking our daughter,” Gareth quietly pointed out.

  “We have been through all that.” Erica’s internal distress was revealed in her voice and the way she drew Hannah close. “Even Falconer recognizes he was in error.”

  Gareth coughed. “I personally have always seen our own efforts as a battle against evil.”

  “But with the pen, Gareth. Not with violence.”

  “Just so. Just so.” And yet it was to Falconer that he looked before closing his eyes and resting his head upon the side wall.

  Chapter 26

  Within the first hour of their arrival, Falconer understood why Gareth Powers had initially refrained from coming to Wilberforce’s home. Though the great man himself lay isolated in his chambers, the manor pulsed with energy. Even before they had finished unloading the carriage, word had spread far and wide that Gareth and Erica Powers had returned. People began drawing near, offering a report, seeking a word, a bit of advice, a request for them to help with one matter or another.

  Erica saw the large group developing around her husband and took charge. “Daniel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You are to escort my husband to our assigned chamber.” She pitched her voice loud enough for all to hear. “Please see that he is not disturbed.”

  “That I will, Mrs. Powers.”

  By the time Falconer had dropped his meager belongings into his upstairs room and had a walk around the home’s interior, the staff was being called to dinner. The manor was a far cry from Harrow Hall in every imaginable way. All the folk, whether staff or guest or notable, gathered together in no particular order. The dining hall opened into the front parlor to accommodate the one long table. Everyone helped serve the meal, and then they all took their seats together. The prayer was long and ardent. Fervent murmurs of agreement arose as the prayer moved on to a request for healing for Gareth and for Hannah and for Wilberforce himself.

  The meal itself was a lively din of animated chatter. Falconer retreated into his customary shell, observing Hannah, who sat across from him, her cheeks flushed with the pleasure of being included among the adults.

  As they were cleaning up, Hannah said to him, “Serafina is in the room directly above yours. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “Lass . . .” Falconer felt the heat in his face. He couldn’t help but glance over to Serafina, surrounded by six other young ladies, in hopes she had not heard the comment. He also noticed the young men who gaped in her direction. Serafina chose that moment to look his way and offer her sorrowfilled smile. Falconer’s flush deepened. He said to Hannah, “Shouldn’t you be in bed like your father?”

  “I rested upon our arrival. And I feel fine. See?” She twirled about, all shining eyes and flowing tresses. “I do think Serafina likes you immensely.”

  Falconer ducked his red face and lowered himself down to her level. “What I see is a young imp who talks when she should perhaps remain silent.”

  This only made Hannah’s smile grow more brilliant. “Do you suppose that you are falling in love?”

  “I—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Falconer?”

  “Eh, yes?” He rose to his full height. “Mr. Powers is wishing to have a word, sir,” a young man said.

  Falconer made his way to the room at the rear of the house overlooking an untended garden. A small fountain was almost lost to the weeds. Yet the vista held an air of contented welcome, as though part of its very charm lay in how little care it was given. Gareth sat in a velvet robe, obviously borrowed from someone else in the house, upon a horsehair settee drawn up close to the tall windows. The drapes were drawn back to reveal the slowly waning light. The clouds overhead were colored a riot of golds.

  “Draw up a chair, please,” Gareth invited.

  “You look stronger.”

  “It is exhilarating to be here once more. If only my friend were better.”

  “You have seen Mr. Wilberforce?”<
br />
  “Briefly. We had a few words only, Erica and I.” Gareth clenched his jaw tightly. “He is not well.”

  Falconer understood both the meaning and the pain it caused. “I am very sorry, sir.”

  Gareth nodded. The two men sat and watched the sunset. As darkness took hold, Falconer used a flint to light candles. When he returned to his chair by the window, Gareth said, “I am a soldier at heart. Neither faith nor my work with the pen have changed my perspective upon our struggle.”

  “Sir, I am grateful for your words. But nothing you can say will change my opinion that your wife is correct.”

  “Perhaps so.” Gareth smiled. “That is the problem we men face. Being confronted with our secret intentions by the women in our lives.”

  “Aye,” Falconer sighed.

  “Be that as it may, it is about something else that I wish to speak. There is another battle awaiting you.”

  “Sir?”

  “One fought with words. Yet one that will carry the fate of a multitude of voiceless and despairing souls in the bargain.” Gareth straightened in his chair. “There are two responsibilities that only you can fulfill. Parliament we have already discussed. I believe Serafina has already mentioned the other matter. My wife hopes you will describe to them both your experiences within the slavery business so that these may be captured in drawings for our pamphlet.”

  Falconer felt the hand of bitter memories grip his chest and squeeze very hard. “I have spent years begging God to help me to forget.”

  “Falconer, I speak to you now as an old soldier. One who carries his own burdens of dread recollections. We do not seek to know about your own personal sins. We wish to have you describe your eyewitness accounts of the current slave trade. But it is precisely because of your own previous actions that your account will carry force. You know the evil first hand, agreed?”

  “Aye,” he said, the word drawn from a well of memories. “I know it.”

  “And so you shall speak as one who has seen the core of this wicked trade. Your words will carry the weight of one who has been confronted with the magnitude of this horror.” Gareth’s features showed that he understood Falconer’s distress. “You must remember the Lord’s promise to turn the dross of our past into gold. He does not promise that it will be easy. But He promises to use us for His glory. Is that not enough?”

  “I would like to think so,” Falconer said to his hands.

  Gareth let the silence linger a moment longer, then asked, “Are you ready to go and serve our Lord?”

  Falconer’s nightly enemy attacked with a ferocity that surprised even him. He awoke to the utter dark, far earlier than normal. He sat up in bed, chest heaving, and stared out the narrow window to his right. Moonlight cast the front drive into a river of silver. But despite the dream’s vivid intensity, he did not feel the normal sense of woe. Instead, he felt strangely calm. He slipped into his clothes, wondering at the welcome sensation. Normally a man of action, he was not given to introspection. Yet here was a quandary worth considering. How could he have just arisen from his worst nightmare in years and yet feel at peace?

  Fully dressed, he pulled a stool out from beneath the narrow window table. He seated himself and placed his elbows upon the table’s smooth wood. He did not pray so much as wait.

  It came to him then. The words Gareth had spoken the day before, of battle and of responsibility and of a charge being placed upon him alone.

  With shocking awareness, Falconer now saw his nightmares from an entirely different perspective. He clenched his hands the tighter, willing himself to hold to the course, to understand.

  He saw how the nightmares revealed all the forces he struggled against. It was not merely the past that hounded him. It was the present. It was the future. A new future. One where he stood in defiance of the evil that had once dominated his every day.

  The recurring dreams took on a different meaning then. For now Falconer saw it from the perspective of a willing servant. That was how he viewed himself. A flawed and failing man, a being for whom a myriad of daily thoughts and actions were tainted by all he wished he was not. Yet a servant just the same.

  A servant who sought to do his duty. A servant who was attacked every night by all that was evil and demonic, all that wished him to fail.

  A servant armed by his Master. A servant who would follow the Master’s call.

  Falconer lowered his head to the cool wood. He stumbled over his words, as was often the case with him. Yet he knew God heard not only the words but the humble and thankful heart behind them as well.

  Then he heard the scream.

  Chapter 27

  Serafina finally managed to break free. She flung herself upward and away from the terrifying darkness. When she opened her eyes, it was to see alarmed faces in the open door of her little chamber. She sighed and slid down farther into the bed, her heart racing such that it caused her every breath to tremble. But she did not mind. She was awake and safe.

  An older woman held a candle in one hand and asked with deep concern, “Are you all right, child?”

  “Yes. Truly. I’m fine.” And she was. Remarkably, all she felt was the compassion filling this creaky old house. “It was a dream.”

  A thundering of steps up the stairway resounded through the wall opposite her bed. Before she heard the voice, she knew. Oh yes. He would be there, of course. To shelter and protect.

  “Is the lass safe?” Falconer called.

  “A dream,” the older woman replied as she met him at the door. “Only a dream. And you, sir, are in the women’s hall.” Others in nightgowns and sleep bonnets melted away to their rooms.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He raised his voice. “Serafina, would you care to join me in the kitchen for a cup of sailor’s tea?”

  She slid her feet to the floor. Outside her door the woman protested, “As you can see, sir, it is still dark outside, far too early for anything save rest.”

  “I shall be in the kitchen in case she feels otherwise,” Falconer said and thumped his way back down the stairs.

  The stairway was narrow at that level, for the high floor now used by the women had originally been intended for servants. Serafina’s legs trembled as she pulled on a robe and prepared to go to the kitchen. She steadied herself with one hand upon each wall as she descended.

  The middle floor held what had been family rooms, just as in her own house in Venice. The thought brought an aching lump to her throat, causing her to grip the handrail tightly to keep from stumbling. When she arrived at the ground level, Serafina paused to wipe her eyes, then followed the hall back to the kitchen.

  The kitchen in Wilberforce’s manor extended like a brick appendage. There were windows on three sides, and two sets of double doors separated it from the main house, keeping smoke and odors and noise away from the formal rooms. Serafina entered and found Falconer seated at the central worktable with a hot mug and a candle and a Bible set before him.

  “Sit yourself down, lass.”

  She did as she was told. Falconer rose and prepared a mug with sparse motions and set it before her. He did not ask about her welfare, as she expected. Instead, he recharged his own tea, seated himself once more, and sat quietly with the mug between both hands.

  In the candlelight she could see characteristics she had not noticed before, such as an aquiline nose and silver traces woven into his hair. Yet he did not appear old. His features were weather beaten and sun darkened in the manner of one who would never again be pale. There were scars about one wrist, as though a rope had burned into his skin, and crisscrossed white scars about his other palm. She sipped her tea and determined that she would like to draw those hands.

  “For three years and nine months I have suffered from a dream,” Falconer said, speaking to the candle and not to her. “It is always the same. I am chained in a long line of slaves, locked inside the hold of the ship I used to command. There is a great storm. I can hear the sailors arguing. I cannot hear their words, bu
t I know what they are saying. In order to survive, they must lighten the ship. They must throw their cargo overboard. That is all I am to them. I and all the other slaves chained within the central hold. We are cargo. Ballast.”

  Serafina was surprised by her own reaction. She was not frightened by the image, nor repulsed. Instead, she found herself studying not just the physical man seated across from her. She felt she was inspecting the interior man as well. A man who sought both to share his secret weakness and reveal the depths of his being.

  “The hold opens,” he continued in a low, soft tone. “The sailors use a pike to grip the chain. I am pulled up and into the storm. In the light I see the other slaves.”

  Falconer stopped and lifted his mug, using both hands. His breath shook slightly. As though in sympathy, the candle’s light shivered.

  He set down his mug and went on, “Every slave wears my face. I look at the sailors. They all have my face as well. I cannot halt it as I am pulled over and dropped into the sea.” He lowered his head until he was facing the scarred wood between his hands. “I am undone, for I am unclean. . . .”

  Serafina’s glimpse into the heart of the man seated before her drew forth a realization that caused a soft gasp. He loves me.

  Falconer misunderstood her intake of breath. “Those words are spoken by an ancient prophet, one who had come before the throne of the Almighty.”

  He loves me. The realization whirled through her mind. She also understood he was doing his best to hide it. This was why he had avoided speaking her name. How she knew these things did not matter, but she was sure Falconer was reluctant to speak her name because it drew his feelings too close to the surface.

  A tear dislodged itself and coursed in heat and sorrow down one cheek.

  Falconer noticed that, though he did not appear to be looking her way at all. “I did not tell you this to upset you, lass.”

  She shook her head but found herself unable to speak. Her tears were coming more freely now. She wiped her face but could not stop the flow.