Acadia Song 04 - The Distant Beacon (16 page)

“Hold hard, men,” Gordon commanded, not needing to look over his shoulder to know how his men were responding. “I am the same as you, Robichaud. A man seeking a country.”

“You’re not like me at all,
Captain
. We have nothing in common, you and I. You have heard perhaps of the Acadians?”

Gordon chose to turn away without response. The shoreline was too exposed for his liking, the British side barely out of rifle range. There was the faintest glimmer of daylight left, enough to reveal the mist rising from the waters and drifting shoreward. The wind had died, though the night remained overcast and far too cold for late April. The other side of the river was quiet. Gordon had the sense of unseen eyes holding steady upon him. He looked back to find that Robichaud had moved silently forward and was alongside him now.

“The Acadians, Captain. They are my people. Theirs is my story. It is a tragic tale, one I am sure will not be to your liking. A tale of treachery and woe, of how the British swept up an entire people from their homes and flung them to every corner of the globe.”

“I know the Acadian saga,” said Gordon. “I even know someone who has endured as you have.”

“There are any number of the poor wastrels wandering about.” Robichaud’s hand continued to knead the sword’s hilt as if desperately hungry to pull the blade free. “All because of you and your kind, English Captain.”

Was the man actually seeking to call him out? Here and now, after they had been given a direct command by garrison headquarters? Gordon studied the tightly drawn face opposite him and realized there were no words that would reverse this situation. Easing his feet farther apart, he readied himself to unleash a first hard swing of his own weapon.

Robichaud no doubt caught the subtle shift, another sign of an experienced swordsman. He gave Gordon another of his taunting scowls, then wheeled about and stomped out onto the boat. “Are we to remain standing here upon the shore all night?”

Gordon could scarcely believe the encounter had ended without a fight. “All right, men! Heave hard! Let’s get this lady afloat.”

Robichaud didn’t offer to assist them, which was not altogether a bad thing. It had reached the point where even his own men looked ready to do the man in.

The boat slid easily from the bank and rested steady in the thigh-deep water. Like many such fishing vessels never meant to leave sight of land, her draw was shallow and her keel but an extension of the rudder. Gordon ordered six men to places at the oars, while Carter and two others rigged the lateen sail and sent it aloft.

All the while Robichaud sat at the very peak of the bow, looking out across the fog-draped river, the long dagger taken out now and resting in his hands. The oars were well greased and moved quietly up and down within their locks. Once the sail was set to catch what little breath of wind there was, the only sound was that of the oars dripping and sighing softly as the men put their backs into the work.

Then, to Gordon’s astonishment, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn along a whetstone. In the silent air the grinding noise rang out as exaggerated and harsh. Gordon breathed, “For the sake of us all, Robichaud, cease with that racket!”

There was a subdued hiss in reply, but the noise halted.

The mist rose about them in billowing waves until Gordon could no longer see the way ahead even while standing on the center stanchion, using the mast to balance himself. He was about to order the slightest of his men to climb the mast and see if a light could be spotted, but decided first to whisper to Robichaud, “You are certain of our course?”

“Of course I am!” The man’s rough voice sounded loud as a foghorn. “Don’t tell me the British are frightened by a bit of night mist.”

Gordon was thinking about having the man either silenced or tossed overboard when out of the thickening fog there arose apparitions from his worst nightmares. Three vessels, all of them filled to the brim with soldiers armed with muskets, all aimed straight at their chests. British soldiers. British muskets. Aimed at them.

“Avast there!” The officer’s cry was triumphant as if a victory were already theirs. “Keep your hands up high or face a broadside!”

“Hold fast!” Gordon shouted to his men. To the opposing officer he called, “We surrender.”

“Well, well, if it isn’t the darling Captain Goodwind and his band of merry men.” The same officer who earlier had confronted Gordon at the harbor now stood at the bow of a longboat. “Colonel Grudge will be delighted to know he finally has you within his grasp. You men there! Lift your hands higher or we’ll bury you right here in the river!”

Two of the longboats pulled up to either side of Gordon’s vessel, which soon swarmed with marines brandishing pikes and sabers. As their mates in the longboats watched down the barrels of muskets, the marines lashed Gordon’s arms behind his back, then did the same to his men. The officer clambered aboard then, and Gordon protested, “I am a British officer, sir. You have accepted my surrender. There is no need for these bonds.”

“You are a spy and a traitor, sir.” A torch was lit, and it seemed to Gordon that the officer’s features contorted in angry glee. “I shall soon delight in seeing you dance a merry tune from the end of a rope.”

Gordon watched as the officer turned and handed Henri Robichaud a hefty sack. “Fifty sovereigns, as we agreed. You can do more for us?”

Robichaud slipped the pouch into his pocket. “I will deliver both news and men into your hands, so long as you pay me in gold.”

“Excellent. I shall have one of the boats row you ashore.”

“No, it is better that I swim, in case there are any spying.” Robichaud moved to the gunnel. “Give me three minutes, then fire a fusillade into the night.”

“Very well. You have my gratitude and my government’s.”

Robichaud gave no sign he had even heard the officer’s thanks. Instead he offered Gordon’s silent rage another sneer. “You are wondering how I could do such a thing, yes? I have starved, Captain. That is something you can never understand. I made a new home in the south, only to lose that as well. I have almost died more times than I can count. And I have learned that money has no loyalty, nor country.” He leaned closer to Gordon and added softly, “These British will also pay, but in my own time.”

As he draped his legs over the boat’s side, he said, “I shall go back to the Americans and say how I barely escaped from this Captain Goodwind, who proved to be nothing more than a turncoat. I shall say that no doubt he is now back with his own kind, laughing and drinking with the other rich officers, making jest over how blind and trusting and foolish the colonial soldiers were.”

Then Robichaud slipped into the mist-clad waters and was gone.

Chapter 17

Nicole came from the seminary kitchens where she’d been giving a hand to the elderly cook. She hadn’t found much to do to make herself feel useful, but at least she could pare the shriveled turnips or sort through the potatoes from the root cellar.

She certainly didn’t enjoy the task. She looked at her stained hands with a measure of despair. They were no longer the soft hands of a lady. But Nicole had given up feeling like the lady of her recent memory. In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her even to recall what had occupied her days while at Uncle Charles’s mansion in England.

Still, what troubled her now was not the stains on her fingers. It was the fact that she had heard nothing—nothing in many days—about Captain Goodwind.

She’d spent the first several days in anticipation of hearing some word from him, then later, at the least, of him. But no word had come. Surely he hadn’t gone off to sea without even a good-bye. . . .

The very thought left her feeling bereft and deserted. She had no place to call home. Her trunks full of her personal belongings were not at her disposal. She was forced to cover her dress with a borrowed laborer’s apron. It would not have been so hard had she some assurance that this was to be for only a season, but Nicole had no way to free herself from her present dilemma. The future looked bleak. Was she to spend the rest of her days trapped within a seminary, peeling half-wasted vegetables? Quite a different life than what she’d envisioned, that of being in charge of a large and magnificent estate. Now she wasn’t even in charge of her daily existence.

Never had Nicole longed so intensely for family. If only she could seek the counsel of her parents, whether Henri and Louise or Andrew and Catherine. If only she could pour out her broken heart to Anne. But the prospect of seeing any of them again was off in a very distant future. To make matters worse, her last link with all she’d known and depended on was gone with the passing from her life of Gordon Goodwind, leaving her alone, frustrated, and forsaken.

I guess he was not the man I thought him to be
, her sorrowful heart grieved. There was no place to go for solace; everywhere she turned there were seminarians or servants busy with various chores. Her own room, with its walls of stone, felt too small, dark and confined to offer a place of refuge. How she longed for her cliffside retreat in Georgetown. She hastened forward along the quay, lifting her face heavenward and wondering whether God was still there, still listening when she called out to Him.

The horrid dream of the night before came back to haunt her. It had been of a vacant dark face. At first the figure was masked, hidden in misty shadows, then long, tendriled swamp moss. The eyes came sharply into focus—dark, steely, and menacing. And taunting her, even as they drew her forward. She seemed hypnotized. For it was against her will that she’d moved forward, until the eyes were all she could see before her. They danced with laughter, then flashed anger so intensely she shivered. Suddenly the eyes turned blood red, oozing forth some vile substance that began swallowing her up in a quagmire.

She had awakened with a cry, her hand pressed against her mouth until her lips hurt. Though the room was chilly, she felt the sweat dampening her body. With a whimper she clung to her one meager blanket, pulling it tightly about her, seeking some kind of protection against the terror.

It was Jean again
. She knew the eyes all too well. After being free of nightmares of him for so many years, she was at a loss now as to why he’d returned to haunt her dreams once again. Anger took hold of her. She wished he were actually there so she might rail against him, fling her fury in his face as he had done to her.

But he was just an apparition. Even so, it all had left her unsettled. In the light of day it wasn’t hard to understand that she had no cause to fear a dream. But in the dark desperate hours, he was all too real.

Her only defense was to sort through this while the midday sun blazed within a summer sky. There had to be a reason for the recurring nightmares, some way she could fight against them and win. Was it because she had come to suspect that the man she’d fallen in love with was another like Jean Dupree? Was Gordon just a more refined, more sophisticated version, of Jean—an arrogant and self-seeking man? When might the dark eyes of Jean become the eyes that Gordon had once turned upon her? Would they haunt her just as surely?

She needed to think. In the brightness of day she needed to pray. To work it through so that her nights could be peaceful again.

Nicole had ventured farther along the harbor than she intended, yet still hadn’t found a desirable secluded spot. She cast her eyes around to be sure she was within shouting range of the seminary gardens should the need arise, then turned inland to look for a place where she might sit down.

A grove of hardwoods stood beyond the last house on the lane she walked. The tangled shrubbery around the outer rim made access a challenge, but in her determined state, she lifted her skirts above her ankles and threaded her way through. Briars caught at her heavy stockings, threatening to tear them further. It was a problem she wished to avoid, for she was down to her last pair, this one already bearing much mending. She picked her way more carefully.

Once beyond the outer briars, the foliage thinned. Thankful, she dropped her skirt back to the tips of her dusty shoes and looked around for a likely spot. A sharp cough brought her head upright, and she prepared to take flight.

She was relieved to see Pastor Collins, eyes wide with surprise as he peered at her over spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose.

Nicole’s hand had flown to her throat. It still fluttered there, trembling from the scare. “You frightened me almost to death!” she told him with a shaky laugh. She didn’t say so, but she had half expected to stare into those haunting dark eyes of her nightmare.

“My apologies,” begged the pastor, “but I was not expecting any company.”

“I—I did not know anyone was here,” Nicole said. “I was but seeking a quiet retreat to do some thinking and praying.”

“The chapel would not suffice?”

“I needed some air, something—.” She motioned with her arm. “It seems I am in great need to sort through some—” she groped lamely for words, “some inner searching.”

He smiled, then patted the fallen tree that served as his bench. “Well, since we have interrupted one another, why don’t you come sit down? Perhaps we can do our searching together.”

Nicole still trembled as she accepted the proffered seat.

“Is this your first time to the grove?” he asked, and she felt he was trying to put her at ease.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I usually stay much closer to the buildings.”

“And so you should. It isn’t safe for a young woman such as yourself to roam too far afield.” There was no scolding in the words but more of a concerned warning. “But should you decide to come again, there is a path, halfway around the copse to our right. Not totally clear of brambles anymore, though still much more conducive to walking than the way you came.”

Nicole nodded in silence.

“Tell me, what has driven you from the scullery on such a fine day?”

Nicole swallowed and dipped her head. “I’m afraid that my faith still is not what it should be,” she said frankly.

“And what leads you to this conclusion?”