Acadia Song 04 - The Distant Beacon (20 page)

“I know your sort,” the general snapped at Jackson. “Your lot wouldn’t volunteer for guard duty for General Washington himself.”

“I suppose that’s true enough, sir,” said John Jackson slowly. “All I can say is, I’ve had myself a change of heart.”

Nicole rose to her feet and said, “It would only be natural for a titled woman to arrive with a servant.” She looked at Jackson. “I would be honored to have you accompany me, Sergeant Jackson.”

Chapter 21

The day was spent in feverish activity. Within the first hour, Nicole was certain she had made the proper choice in agreeing to work with Sergeant John Jackson.

The officers were scornful in their dismissal of Jackson, speaking with him only because General Mitchell had ordered them to do so. They asked him a series of specific questions they needed answered—about horses, artillery, supplies, troop placement, signs of movement. But they clearly expected nothing from the man, not even that he would return. John Jackson glanced at Nicole from time to time during these interviews but did nothing to defend himself. Instead he seemed to draw strength of purpose from the mission—even from her. He endured the officers’ contempt and said little.

Afterward Nicole insisted they acquire for him proper clothes as befitting the attendant of a titled lady. Walking the streets of Cambridge together, John Jackson was time and again greeted by his fellow soldiers with ribald familiarity. And the fact that he walked near a lovely young woman was evidently nothing unusual.

Here again John Jackson made no attempt to hide himself or defend his past. He endured their comments with a stoic grimace.

However, when she’d located a gentleman’s clothier, Nicole found it difficult to draw Jackson inside. “What is the matter?” she asked him.

“I dare not go in there, ma’am.”

“And why not?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am. But if I’m to act the part, I need to be starting now.”

“Yes, very well. But come along inside.”

“I’d best stay out here.”

“How are we to determine the sizes if you remain outside?” Nicole pushed the door open and was welcomed by a sharp little chime. “Come along. There is hardly time for us to waste out here talking.”

But as soon as Jackson stepped inside with her, Nicole understood. A young woman wearing the starched frilly apron and matching dust cap of a shop mistress gave an angry stare as she dropped into a sullen curtsy. “Good day, madame,” the woman said.

“Good day. I have need of some clothes for my servant.”

“Your servant, is it?” she repeated, her glare directed at John Jackson. “Your servant indeed.”

A man’s voice came from the back room, saying, “That will do, Matilda.” A gray-haired shopkeeper appeared through the rear curtain. “Go and help with the sorting. Clothes, did you say, madame?”

“Yes, an entire ensemble,” said Nicole, enduring a final fur ious glance from the young woman before she departed. “Which must all be ready in four hours.”

The older man halted in the process of taking down a bolt of broadcloth. “I beg your pardon?”

“Four hours,” Nicole confirmed. “Longcoat, frilled shirt, vest, breeches, stockings. Silver buttons on vest and coat and breeches.”

“Silver buttons,” the man repeated numbly. He glanced at the rear of the shop as there came an angry mutter. But he stiffened his shoulders and said, “Madame does of course realize there is a war on.”

“I will pay handsomely,” Nicole said and took out a small bag from under the folds of her dress. She untied the drawstring and spilled sovereigns into her hand. “You must be on time, sir. I hope that is quite clear.”

Next they entered a boot shop farther along the lane. Here Nicole insisted on paying extra for a pair of buckled shoes on display to be refitted for Jackson’s smaller feet, and done while they waited. It was only as they sat in the front room and listened to the shoemaker mutter and snip and hammer that the worries began to return. Hearing the name of Henri Robichaud spoken by the general was a hammer blow to her chest and returned each time she recalled the moment. But there was no time for such concerns. Not now. Nicole pushed away the anxiety as best she could, looked up at the grandfather clock standing in the shop’s corner, and said to Jackson, “I do so hope we have time enough for you to have a proper bath, haircut, and shave.”

Jackson protested, “Is that all necessary?”

“Most certainly.” She cut off further comments by inquiring, “What does your family do back in Philadelphia, Jackson?”

He cleared his throat before answering, “My father is a minister.”

“Indeed.”

Jackson’s expression was desolate. “You remind me of my sister. She was the one who held to our parents’ chosen course.”

“And you?”

“More like the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“I admire your honesty, Sergeant. Most men would try to mask what you have chosen to reveal.”

A flicker of something new entered Jackson’s eyes. “You’ll excuse me for asking, but you are a believer?”

“I am.”

He nodded. “I thought as much. Something in the way you hold yourself reminds me of everything I left behind.”

Perhaps this was the answer, Nicole reflected. To meet this and every other encounter with faith. “None of us have moved so far from the Lord that we cannot return.”

He searched her face. “You are certain of this, ma’am?”

“With every part of my being,” Nicole replied. “I am convinced of this truth. As I am that your good parents would approve of how you and I have met this day.”

Chapter 22

Nicole’s sense of the rightness of joining forces and traveling with John Jackson was only strengthened on their journey to Boston as they left Cambridge with the westering sun. His strength of character and upbringing gradually became more and more evident.

The boatman scowled when Jackson came into view, but the sergeant met this with a steely-eyed frown that left the boatman silent. The two men held the boat for Nicole, then stowed two bundles of clothing and clambered aboard.

They sat and waited there till the night had fully gathered. The boatman then poled them from the creek, fitted the oars into their locks, and put his back into the crossing.

But he had scarcely dipped the oars a half-dozen times when Jackson issued a sharp hiss.

Instantly the oarsman held the oars in deep, bringing the skiff to an abrupt halt. He searched the dark, as did Nicole. She saw nothing, and given the oarsman’s grunt, he didn’t either. But when he slid into his backward position and began to draw out the oars, John Jackson reached over and gripped his arm without stopping his search of the water.

At the oarsman’s protest, Jackson turned and gave the man what Nicole could only describe as a sergeant’s eye. So commanding was Jackson’s expression that the other man immediately fell silent. They sat there, the fast current drawing them ever farther downriver. Finally Jackson lifted one hand and pointed. Nicole strained hard, but still she saw nothing.

Then there came the sound. Softer than the splash of a small fish. It would have been missed entirely had not all her senses been so tightly fixed in that direction. A swift glint of metal on metal. An even softer hiss in response. Then nothing.

But this was enough to have the oarsman backing them toward the American shore. They pulled into a draw created by two overhanging trees. Again they waited.

Overhead the clouds floated like dark islands in a silver-flecked sea. One of the clouds moved aside, and a rising quarter moon emerged. Instantly the river’s tableau altered from empty black reaches to a trio of longboats. In each bow stood a man holding a musket. Oars dipped and pulled upriver as the hunters sought their quarry. But the moon was their enemy as well, and with its arrival orders were softly murmured. The boats were piloted about and aimed for the English side.

The three remained as they were for a long time still, the oarsman watching John Jackson now as much as the water. Only when Nicole’s companion gave the signal did the oarsman pull them out into the swift-running river.

After they had arrived back at the seminary, Nicole paced the front chamber, impatient now for the next step. Thankfully Jackson didn’t tarry, although he did reenter the hall with shamefaced chagrin. “I look like a regular fancy man,” he told her.

“You look nothing of the sort,” replied Nicole. It was a good thing Pastor Collins chose that moment to join them. “Please, sir, a moment of your time. Does my new manservant appear proper and fitting to call upon the garrison commandant’s residence?”

The old man caught the undercurrent in Nicole’s tone, so he gave John Jackson a careful inspection. Jackson looked even taller now, standing as he did in his knee breeches and tricornered hat and high-backed shoes. His dark stockings were drawn up tight, the frills of his shirt spilled from the top of his vest, and the buttons of his longcoat and vest and those at the knees of his breeches glinted in the light. Pastor Collins declared, “He looks every inch the proper gentleman butler.”

“There, you see? Now tell me once more what you are to do.”

“First I go to the commandant’s private residence,” Jackson began. “I am to ask for the chief manservant and present him with your card.”

“And what do you say?”

“Compliments of the Viscountess Lady Nicole Harrow, and might she pay a visit upon the general’s wife on the morrow.”

“Yes, and then?”

“I am to inquire at the stables near the waterfront where your wagons and goods are stowed. I am to bring back the large trunk with the three leather straps and the iron lock. But I still say I should carry it myself.”

“Nonsense. No proper lady’s chief servant would be seen in such an endeavor. You shall find a pair of urchins and promise them a silver penny each. Now off with you.” Jackson went over to the front door and reached for the sword that hung from the door strap. Nicole protested, “Must you go out armed?”

“This is a city at war,” Pastor Collins reminded her. “He would look odd otherwise.”

John Jackson strapped on his saber, whose well-worn hilt reminded Nicole of the risk they were taking. He reached for the door, then spun around and said gravely, “I won’t let you down, my lady.”

“I believe you,” she said, feeling both exhilarated and full of anxiety.

Again he hesitated. Twice he started to speak, but when he did it was only to say, “I will do my best to earn the trust you have placed in me.” Then he was gone.

She offered a fervent prayer heavenward and turned from the door to find Pastor Collins staring at her, a serious look on his face. Though it cost her dearly, she had no choice but to ask, “Would you have me leave?”

“Finding accommodations in this town is nigh on impossible,” the pastor said, his tone indicating he had been considering this very thing. “Can you give me your word that you will not endanger us or our work here?”

Nicole took a deep breath and said, “No, good sir. In all honesty, I cannot.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I must spend this night in prayer.”

Chapter 23

The night wasn’t nearly as dank as the previous one, and the day’s warmth meant Gordon could air out his clothes and bedding. Now, as he lay on his blanket and rushes, he could gaze upward and see stars through the decaying roof. As the moon rose, it cast a silver mantilla through the barred window and door. Gordon felt as though the day was not altogether against him, a strange sensation for someone in ankle chains and fettered to a ring set on the cell’s back wall. Yet he had a most remarkable sense of not being alone. He lay and drifted gradually away, and whispered to the stars and the night, “Nicole.”

Then he heard the sound, quickly choked off.

He came up on one elbow and whispered urgently, “Who goes there?”

When there was no reply, Gordon wondered if fatigue had played a trick on his ears, that perhaps the sound hadn’t been human at all, but rather a faint mewling from some distant creature.

Soon it came again, and this time he recognized it instantly. No man who had heard the sound would ever forget it. There always was one just before a battle, usually a youngster who was shipping out and facing naked steel for the very first time. Standing at his gun because there was no safer place aboard ship, with the adversary bearing down under full sail and nowhere to run. The young man—or, most likely, boy—would peer out across the sea and catch the reflection of sunlight off cannon and musket and saber. If the wind was right, he would smell the heated pitch of the smoky battle to come. He would catch a whiff of sulfur and saltpeter mixed in the gunpowder, which was being dragged up from the holds by the powder monkeys. He would hear the shouts from the enemy officers, who ordered their men to take no quarter, show no mercy. At that moment, from his place on the quarterdeck, Gordon would often hear the whimper of terror. The youngster usually wasn’t aware he had even made the sound.

“Avast there,” Gordon said in a low voice, repeating words he’d said countless times before. “Steady as she goes, sailor.”

“Oh . . . sir,” the broken young voice came through a crack in his side wall. “They are to hang me in two days.”