Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (26 page)

Meg
was crying.

“Quiet,
Meg. You’ll only make things worse.”

Tobias
choked. “Turn away, Meg, so you don’t see me die.”

Andrew
Clarke tightened his grip. “You’re not gonna die. You’re made of cast iron.”

“I
did well though.”

“Aye.
Didn’t know you had it in you. Every lad in the county will talk for years how
Tobias Johnston fought the French-Shawnee bravely—another tale to add to the
ones from the last war.”

Tobias
blinked his glazed eyes. “A legend is it?” He withered in pain, and settled
back against Clarke’s arm with a look that said he was afraid.

“Hold
on, my friend.”

Sam
Evans stood at the door watching for the doctor.  “He’s coming up the road. I
see his horse.”

“I
shouldn’t have started it with LaRoux. Look what I’ve done.” Clarke moved his
head back and forth.

 Tobias
gripped his arm. “Ain’t your fault, Andy.”

“You
saved my life, you old fool.” Clarke held him harder. “You hold on.”

Dr.
Cole rushed inside the tavern and knelt beside Tobias. He lifted the
bloodstained cloth and a look of dread spread over his face.

A
light smile crossed Tobias’s mouth. “Tell them to bury me under the sycamore
next to my dear Jenny, up at Mount Olivet in the peaceful hills. You keep my
musket and powder horn, Andy.”

A
slow breath slipped from his lips. Then the light within them faded. Tobias
closed his eyes and died in Andrew Clarke’s arms.

The
ruins of a church were in darkness. Moonlight broke through the clouds, bathed
the ancient stones in variegated hues of blue and purple, flowed through
glassless windows. No one was certain of its history. But legend had it Queen
Elizabeth had once made a secret rendezvous there with the man she loved.
Torched by the Parliamentary Army, its walls stood as a testimony against the
pride of man and a memorial to those who had worshiped there.

Rodney
Nash slid off his horse and pushed aside a low branch that hindered his view. He
looked up. Stars flickered against the cold black sky. He entered the place that
had once held the church door. The breeze blew against him in a single breath.

A
tall figure of a man stepped out of the shadows to meet him. The look in Laban
Huet’s eyes touched a part of Sir Rodney most men of his time ignored—a lost
and stricken gaze that spoke of poverty and struggle.

Long
cries in the wilderness concerning the plight of the poor had fallen on deaf
ears. The rich and powerful said the poorhouse, debtors’ prisons, diseased
streets, and country shacks were enough. Some went so far as to support the
kidnapping and transportation of the penniless to the Colonies, no matter what
age or gender.

Yet
there were charitable men like Sir Rodney, who made the poor one of his causes.
His soul stirred while looking at Laban. The fellow clutched a tattered hat
with dirty and callused hands, and even in the gloom, Sir Rodney could see
beneath his well-worn coat bony shoulders.

“We
must be quick, Sir Rodney. The sun will be up soon.”

Sir
Rodney put his hand on Laban’s shoulder. “Do not fear. No one has seen us. Do
you have what I asked for?”

Laban
nodded and handed Sir Rodney a packet.

“You’ve
earned your wage. Here.”

Laban
looked at the coins in Sir Rodney’s hand. He frowned. “No, Sir Rodney, this is
more than we agreed.”

“You’ve
worked hard for me, Laban. We’ve known each other many a year. Take it and say
no more.” Sir Rodney reached out and took Laban’s hand. He then slapped the
coins in his gritty palm.

“I’ll
be taking what we agreed on, sir. The rest is charity, and I’ll not be takin’
charity.”

“Ah,
‘tis your pride speaking, man. Accept it, so your children will have more on
the table to eat. ”

Laban
raised a somber face and acquiesced. “Thank you, sir. But just this once.”

Sir
Rodney pushed back the tip of his hat. “How many children do you have besides
the two?”

Laban
shifted on his feet.  “I’ve four in the ground. Two were gone at birth, the
others from the fever when they were babies.”

“Death
will reap its due reward in the Judgment. I’m sorry, Laban.” Sir Rodney pulled
his black cloak over him and went to his horse. “Does your wife know what you’re
doing?”

“She
thinks I’m doing work up at Standforth. She asked me if I’m doing something I
shouldn’t, because she’s afraid I’d go to prison if I were.”

Sir
Rodney climbed into the saddle and looked at Laban with a reassuring smile. “Tell
her not to worry.”

Laban
frowned. “But what we’re doing’, sir, is it considered smuggling? Peyton, he’s
a smuggler, right?”

“You
let me worry about Mr. Peyton, Laban. You need not discuss what you do for me
with anyone. Besides, you’ve only been my courier, and know nothing of my
business. Now, it’s time you headed home to your good wife and little children.”

Stepping
back through the portal, Sir Rodney drew his horse out onto the road, nodded to
Laban, and rode off toward Standforth.

*  *  *

Laban
waited several minutes after he could no longer hear Sir Rodney’s horse. Then
he scanned the stretch of grass before him to the road and the woods beyond. It
seemed safe to go, and so he trudged back home with money in his pocket.

He’d
have his wife go to market in the morning, buy a fat goose and flour for bread.
A happy smile lifted his otherwise unhappy mouth. He picked up his pace with a
little skip in his stride and made his way down the road toward his house.

The
wind pitched the branches of the trees. He paused at the top of the hill,
looked at the cottage where his wife and children were sound asleep. A candle
burned in the window, and he headed down the slope thinking how pleased his
wife would be to see the coins he had earned.  

When
he opened the door, he drew off his hat. He placed his foot on the first step
of the staircase. He heard movement, turned and strode from the tiny hallway
into the little parlor. There he found his wife in tears, his children huddled in
her skirts, and soldiers waiting inside.

*  *  *

Not
long after sunrise, Sir Rodney sat in his study penning a letter. If something
were to happen to him, he wanted his wife to know the depths of how he felt
about her. He dipped his quill in the inkwell, hesitated, and then set it down
to rub his eyes. Toby lay on the braided rug in front of the fire looking at
him.

“I
must choose my words with care, old girl. For if they’re the last words I ever
write to her, they must be lasting.”

Setting
his hands on the sides of his face, he looked out the window. The hills were
dotted with sheep. The sky above the horizon looked pale. In his memory, he saw
his son at play as a boy. He heard him whistle to his dog, race across the
field without a care in the world. Sir Rodney’s heart ached with missing him.

Lady
Margaret entered the room. “Good morn, my love.”

He
made no reply.

“Are
you feeling alright, Rodney?”

Sir
Rodney raised his head and looked up. “I fair well, Margaret.”

“I’m
glad to hear it. What a glorious day.”

“Indeed,
yet I think it shall rain. Where is Rebecah? Is she up?”

“She
is. I’ve asked her to arrange a vase of flowers for our breakfast table.”

“I’m
not very hungry.”

“You
must have breakfast, my love.” She moved over to the window. “How can you work
in here with it being so stuffy?”

“Margaret.”
He held out his hand and she came to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
It was still pleasing.

“What
is it, Rodney?” She ran her fingers through the front of his hair. “Is
something troubling you. You miss Jack?”

“We
must talk.”

“I’m
listening, my dear.”

He
touched her face. Then he dropped his hand.  “You’ve found a great deal of
peace in your faith, haven’t you?”

“I’ve
found assurance. I wish you would come to a meeting with me. But I’ll not harp
on you, for that would be wrong.”

“I
love you, God knows.” He snatched up her hand, squeezed her fingers, pressing
them against his lips.

She
looked at him troubled.  “Something is wrong. I can see it in your face.”

“I
should have told you long ago. But I felt it best to keep you out of it. I’ve
never wanted you to worry. But now I feel I must tell you. I’ve been involved
in a business that is against the King’s law.”

Her
mouth fell open and her hand trembled in his. “What do you mean?”

“I
believe in America’s cause. I believe our son has the right to be free.”

“So
do I, my dear.”

“Then
you’ll understand. I’m involved in sending goods and money by way of
privateers. They take what they can to the patriots.”

Anxious
tears filled her eyes. “Why must you tell me this?”

 “So
you will know what to do if I’m found out.” He took her hands and squeezed
them. “My will is drawn up. Mr. Harcourt has the original copy.”

“Rodney…”

“Also,”
and he opened a drawer to his desk, “I’ve money for Rebecah’s passage. You must
promise you will try to convince her to leave England and go to our son. The
key will be kept in the vase over there on the mantelpiece.”

She
stared at him, then at the contents in the drawer.  “Yes, my husband. You know I’ll
do whatever you ask. But God forgive us if we are meddling where we should
not.” 

He
pulled her close against him. “Do not weep, my love. Perhaps I’m over
dramatizing things. Perhaps nothing will happen and life will go on like
always.”

She
lifted her head from off his shoulder and gave him a grave look.  “If you stop
what you’ve been doing, then no harm will come.”

“I
promise to be careful for your sake.”

Outside
an unbroken rhythm of horses came up the drive.

“Someone
has come.”

“Let
us hope it is some of your friends.” He stood with her. “I’m in need of
assurance. Perhaps I shall join your group, Margaret, if they will have me.”

He moved
to the window where he had a clear view of the front drive. Leaves on the trees
were twisting in the breeze. Some fell from the willows and floated to the
ground.

Rodney
Nash thought his heart would stop when he saw Laban Huet being pulled by a
lengthy rope held by a mounted soldier in glittering scarlet. Laban’s wife and
children were staggering behind him.

Lady
Margaret drew up beside Sir Rodney. He heard her gasp, her breath hurried so
much so she could not speak.

Lottie
Huet’s forlorn eyes turned to them. She stretched out her hands. She cried out,
ran toward the house. A soldier grabbed her. She fought back and fell. The
children rushed to her. She pulled them into her arms.

“God, help us,” Sir
Rodney uttered in a heavy breath. “On my life, they have Laban Huet.”

LaRoux
was a hunted man, and enjoyed it with a morbid kind of pleasure. After
murdering Tobias Johnston, he joined his band of thieves. The Indians among
them had no attachments to Logan, no allegiance to Cornstalk or Blue Jacket, no
loyalties to any tribe.

The
day Tobias was eulogized a blanket of blue sky hung above the earth. Not a dry
eye sat among the mourners in Saint John’s Church. The sun beat on the dome and
the cross of the steeple, and slipped through the windows like a heavenly veil.
The town had gone silent, except for Mrs. Cottonwood’s dog Caesar, a fox
terrier. It ran up and down Market Street chasing squirrels and barking at
anything that moved.

Old
Tobias’s last request would be granted. After the service, a fife and drum
preceded the crowd. A pine box sat in a wagon pulled by two of Sam Evan’s black
horses. Townsfolk walked toward the giant sycamore that stood in the center of
Mount Olivet Cemetery and gathered around.

Six
men bore the box on their shoulders. Andrew Clarke first to the right and
opposite him was Captain John Nash who walked with a slight limp without the
pain showing on his face. He kept to the steady slow pace. The men strained
against the weight as they lowered Tobias’s body into the ground. Then he stood
back a pace and watched with angry eyes the dirt shoveled into the hapless
grave. He wrestled with the idea God had called Tobias home this way. He could
not accept it. Something born of darkness had done this. The sting of death
twisted and turned in his heart like a knife. He felt his chest tighten. Grief
demanded tears, but he fought them back.

For
a moment, he glanced away and saw a man with red hair and pronounced features
swat a fly away from his face. His eyes were large, round, and pale blue. A
mantle of highland plaid draped over his right shoulder. The man shut his eyes,
bowed his head as the priest read from the prayer book.

Nash
had not seen this man before. He watched him. With the confidence of a prophet,
the Scotsman came forward and stood over Tobias Johnston’s grave. Everyone’s’
eyes were upon him. He lifted his face to the sun along with a deep resonant
voice.

“Vengeance
is mine. I will repay, says the Lord!” 

Nash
felt his heart lurch. The scripture reminded him, God did not approve of this
murderous act. Payment would be inevitable.  The crowd stood silent a moment.
Then everyone walked away.

Nash
stayed behind, holding his tricorn hat between his hands and leaning up against
the tree. The Scotsman stared at the red mound of earth, a single tear in the
corner of one eye.

“You
knew him?” he asked.

The
Scot nodded. “Aye. He was a relative, a cousin on my dear mother’s side. She
was English ya see. I sailed all the way from Scotland to see him. He sent me
word saying I should come live with him and start a new life. I learned of his
death upon my arrival.”