Acadia Song 04 - The Distant Beacon (24 page)

“Well done, lad. We’ll wait for you farther on.”

The Distant Beacon A half mile ahead, the forest gave way to raw pastureland. Gordon then spied a ramshackle house, obviously no longer occupied. A huge man stood awaiting them. John Jackson strode from his horse to the porch. Gordon rushed forward and, to his astonishment, realized he was facing the stockade’s cook.

“That’s far enough!” the cook said, showing them the business end of a loaded musket. “Now I’ll be seeing either the color of your wares or your innards.”

“First show me that the lady is in good straights,” demanded Jackson.

Gordon dismounted and stepped forward. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It was the Lady Nicole’s idea,” Jackson explained as the cook moved to the door and shoved it open. “We could not pay until you were free. But we had to prove to them we would do as we promised.”

“She gave herself as hostage?”

Jackson was a tall man, almost matching Gordon’s height, and had the look of one who knew how to handle himself in a fight. “For you, yes,” he said with a challenging stare.

“Gordon!”

The young woman who stepped through the doorway was, in Gordon’s eyes, the most beautiful of God’s creations. He was there in a flash, holding himself in check as he grasped both of her outstretched hands.

“Oh, thank the good Lord above!” exclaimed Nicole, gazing into his eyes as her own filled with tears.

“Amen,” he said, and for the first time he felt he was well and truly free. “Amen.”

“Yes, all the amens are fine,” the cook sneered. “Now let’s be seeing the payment.”

John Jackson reached into his saddlebags and came out with three heavy purses. The jailers eagerly received theirs.

Gordon was shocked. “Are those sovereigns?”

In reply the jailers untied the purses and spilled a flow of gold into their hands.

Gordon protested, “But that is more than I earned from the entire ship’s voyage!”

“Let’s be having the rest, then,” said the cook, his hand outstretched.

Gordon watched as John Jackson pulled two more purses from a different saddlebag and handed them over.

The cook waited till all the contents had been inspected, then demanded, “And the bauble?”

Reluctantly Jackson took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out toward the cook. The man walked forward, slipped back the folds, and lifted out the emerald pendant. “There’s my beauty.”

Gordon started forward but was halted by Nicole’s hand on his arm. He looked into her eyes and felt the anger fade. She said nothing, but he understood.

“Aye, this here’s enough to see us well rid of stamping and saluting and other men’s wars.” The cook pulled himself into the saddle, waited for his two mates to mount up, then gave the group a final leering grin. “Looks like some of you lot will just have to hoof it.”

Nicole straightened and said, “Go with God, sir.”

All three men stared at her from their saddles. The cook responded with a mock salute, and then he and the jailers rode off without looking back.

Chapter 32

Their progress was as swift as could be, given the men’s exhausted state. They each took turns walking or trotting alongside the horses carrying those fortunate enough to ride. The weather remained with them, however, and blanketed the road with a mist so heavy the whole world appeared as myriad shades of gray. Keeping to the roadside and off the main trail, the men forged ahead, being careful to stay nearby the sheltering woodlands.

At one point they happened upon a company of men and so, just in time, disappeared out of sight. The soldiers rode by like fierce shadows, officers on stallions prancing before and after. Hands clamped around their own mount’s jaws, Gordon’s men didn’t breathe till the sound of the horses had drifted into the gray and windless distance.

Before long Jackson led them into a forest that cut between the road and the river. They stopped for a short rest and to drain the single canteen, just enough for a few swallows each. Jackson said, “The Charles River is over a mile wide at this point. Either we find us a boat or we will be forced to send some men back to Boston to steal one.”

Gordon’s frown was the only response. “You have an idea where we might find us a vessel?”

“I might. Although
vessel
is hardly the term I would use.”

“If it floats, it will serve us.” Gordon rose wearily to his feet and signaled to his men. “Lead on.”

The Boston side of the Charles River was lined not with a proper bank but with marshland that made it difficult to tell precisely where the river began. Muddy grasslands spread in patches wider than the river itself. How John Jackson could find his way back through the fog, thick marsh and woods, Nicole would never understand. To her, the low-hanging branches and foul water all seemed identical. But Jackson guided them onward, every step taking them farther into the muck. She kept hoping to see some measure of a trail that might look familiar. It wasn’t until they came to the natural corral, where the trees formed a kind of overhanging tent, that she could say with certainty, “We have arrived.” She looked around for the boat in which she had previously crossed the river at this same location.

The men let out sighs of relief, and Gordon said, “Well done, sir. I say, well done.”

“Let us hope the boat is on this side,” Jackson said, sliding from his horse. “Else all will have been for naught.”

Gordon joined Jackson in searching for the launch. Quickly the men unsaddled the horses, but they abruptly stopped, heads up. At first Nicole couldn’t determine what had alerted them. Then she heard it. The faint sound of a trumpet. The baying of hounds.

John Jackson and Gordon must have heard it as well, for they came rushing back through the thicket. Breathing hard, Gordon announced, “The vessel is there. But she will not hold us all.”

“But we can’t delay, not by a minute!” said Jackson. “They will be on us in a flash.”

“You are certainly right about that. I have hunted with hounds and have seen how swift they can move.” Gordon’s forehead creased. “There is but one way out of this.”

John Jackson nodded sharply. “I recall seeing some rope in the corral.”

“Good man.” Gordon motioned the others toward the river. “Let’s be off.”

Nicole waited until they were near the boat before asking, “Gordon, what is happening?”

“We will put our stoutest oarsmen in the boat. The others will hold on to lines and swim with all their might.” Gordon pointed to Carter and three others. “You there. Leave room in the bow for Nicole.”

“No,” she protested. “I will swim as well.”

“My dear, that is quite out of the question. The river still holds to winter’s chill.”

“And there are men here who are nearly falling down with fatigue.” She gestured to the tall young stranger who stood with arms wrapped around his chest, leaning against a tree. “Look at that one there.”

“Yes, I had thought Harry could perhaps steer the boat.” Gordon called to him, “Lad, can you handle a tiller?”

“I fished with my father since I was a small boy,” he answered. He made a feeble attempt to straighten himself. “But I can swim, sir.”

“No doubt,” Gordon said kindly. “But today we shall require your skill at the helm.”

John Jackson appeared then, two large coils of rope over his shoulder. “I believe the hounds have gotten wind of our scent!”

“Let’s be off. We’ve no time to waste.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Carter said. “We’ve got two men who cannot swim, and both are too weak to do much on the oars. And another has a festering shoulder wound.”

Gordon rubbed his forehead. Nicole knew how very few seamen could swim. The opinion of those belowdecks was that, with the seas being so vast, learning to stay afloat would only postpone the inevitable. Better still was never to get wet. This knowledge caused her to declare, “Gordon, please, I must insist.”

Gordon studied her, then said, “I have no cause to order you about. But I must warn you, if you fall away there is nothing any of us can do.”

“I understand.”

“All right then.” He turned back to his men. Choosing those worst off would be next to impossible, for all were haggard from the experience of the past few days.

“Which others of you cannot swim a lick?”

Two more raised their hands.

“That settles it. You’ll bend your backs to the oars instead.”

Jackson pulled two battered paddles from the underbrush. “They can ply these and speed our crossing,” he said.

“A measure of good fortune,” said Gordon, adding, “If there were only a canoe to go along with those.” As the men tied the ropes to either side of the stern, Gordon said to Carter, “You are in charge. Row with all your might. When you grow too tired, change over. No heroics, just strong and steady.”

“We won’t fail you, sir.”

“We’re counting on precisely that.” He clapped the bosun on the shoulder and said to the others, “Give yourselves plenty of space. No bunching up. We’ll lash you about the middles. You’ll need to hold the line with one hand and push hard with the other.”

“Off with your gear,” John Jackson instructed. “Overcoats and boots and belts. The works. Toss it all into the river.”

Without being asked, Nicole shed her outer mantle and vest. She did as the others and rolled up the excess clothing. Stepping into the river, she flung the bundle as far out as she could. She bit her lip to stifle the gasp when the water came up around her knees. It felt as if tiny blades of ice were raking her skin.

She walked over to where Gordon was fashioning a loop and let him fit it around her waist. “Don’t rely on the loop alone, for it may become too tight and cut off your breathing,” he said.

“I won’t fail you either, Gordon.”

Fitting his own loop around his body, Gordon smiled. “Of that, my dear Nicole, I have no doubt whatsoever.”

They paused then, all of them staring out to where the river faded into the mist. There was no way of determining the distance, nor aiming exactly for their destination. All of them knew a moment’s shared fear, of wishing they could turn back. But behind them they could hear the barking of hounds. The fog and marsh played tricks on their hearing, for one moment it sounded as though the dogs were yet a mile or two away, the next they seemed just out of sight.

“Everyone ready?” Gordon said, his voice light and measured.

Together they launched the vessel, allowing the oarsmen and the fast-flowing current to draw them away. Nicole could not suppress a small cry as the water rose higher—to her waist, chest, and then neck. The cold took hold of her. Ahead the oarsmen pulled hard, while the two men in the bow dug deep with the canoe paddles. Nicole was standing and walking farther out when suddenly her feet were swept out from under her, followed by a wave flipping over her face. She went under and came up gasping for breath.

“Swim!” Gordon called out from behind her. “Stay warm and keep the boat from dragging so!”

She would never be warm again. The water reached with merciless fingers through her skin and pierced her lungs, her very bones. She swam, yet could feel a heavy lethargy spreading throughout her body. The only thing encouraging was the speed at which the water shot past her. Those with the oars and paddles strained, each stroke bringing steady grunts of effort as they attempted to drag forward the water-borne train.

From the riverbank where they had launched came a harsh shout and then muskets fired. Nicole could not turn around and didn’t know if they could be seen or if the British soldiers were merely firing into the fog. Concentrating on the one vital task of swimming was all she could do. She kicked her legs and felt the dress wrap tightly about her body like a trap. With her free hand she forced herself to pull forward. The pain in her other arm and wrist where the line was coiled was almost welcome because it made her alert. It helped her to focus and breathe, to keep swimming.

But despite her hardest efforts, the cold continued to sap her strength, entering her lungs with each breath and penetrating her muscles. The weight of her sopping dress dragged her down and caused her limbs to ache. Soon she was left with hardly any feeling at all.

Each breath now ended in a tight muffled sob. She could hear herself make these noises, though her mind seemed unable to accept they were originating from her. Catching sight of the men in the boat, how they strained and fought, she realized at one point that the oarsmen had switched positions. Those who had before been leaning against the oars were now slumped over their benches, so drained they couldn’t hold their heads upright.

Where were they? Had they reached the midway point? Each question formed more slowly, the cold now working its way into her mind so even thoughts occurred to her as impossibly heavy.

Nicole heard the men in the boat let out a cry. She saw Harry turn from his position at the tiller and shout out words to them in the water. But she couldn’t make out what the sounds meant. It was all too much bother to her.

Then her feet brushed up against something. The opposite bank. But she was unable to draw her legs up under herself. Ahead of her, men leaped from the boat into the river. She knew this was important, that it signified something. Just what it was she couldn’t say. All she could think of was how warm the water had become. How easy it would be to lower her head and let herself sink beneath the softly lapping waves, to drift away.