by Barbara Dan
"Yes," Lydia said and glibly rehearsed her speech: "'We have been sent by the Right Reverend Father Paul of St. Matthew's to propagate the Gospel among the heathen, and wherever poor lost souls are perishing without benefit of God's Word.'" She ran out of breath and grinned. "How was I?"
"Too glib. I suggest you keep your mouth shut whenever possible." Andrew scrutinized her appearance. "Oops. Kneel down, Sister Lydia," he said in pseudo-solemn tones.
Puzzled, Lydia knelt on the deck. Between her empty stomach and the baby kicking beneath her ribs, she felt awkward and a trifle vexed. "I warn you, Andrew, I don't find this at all amusing," she said crossly.
Andrew laid his hand gently on her bowed head. "I want you below the gunwale. You never know what the English might spot, even at this distance. Now, remove your wedding ring," he said, "and slip it unobtrusively in your pocket."
"Oh, how careless of me!" Quickly Lydia removed the ring.
Andrew made the sign of the cross and helped her rise.
"Now that I have your blessing," she said, "when do we eat? I'm starving!"
"I believe the cook's about to dish up breakfast. Why don't you hide your ring first? I don't expect they will search a nun's personal effects, but if they do, it should not be easily found."
"Good idea. I'll take care of it right away." Lydia started across the crowded deck, dodging crew members as they prepared to weigh anchor.
"Bless me, sister," grinned Seth, coming up behind and opening the door for her. "You certainly look the part. Just don't break your concentration."
"Thanks, Seth." Lydia nodded, grateful for the advice. "See if you can hurry breakfast along, will you?"
"Aye, aye, Sister Lydia!" He bowed himself out of the cabin backwards, going through such comical gyrations, crossing himself, even his eyes and legs, that she couldn't help but laugh.
He is so impossible, she thought, searching for a place to hide her wedding ring. Finally she put it under the rim of an old whale oil lamp, where the British weren't likely to look.
An hour later, British inspection officers boarded the tiny craft. They swarmed all over it. They inspected the ship's papers. They questioned Captain Burton, who replied tersely and scowled at his crew, who went silently about their duties.
Only the pious Anglican couple at the rail seemed pleased to have arrived in Halifax.
Fondling his cross, Andrew gave the British major a constipated smile. "We are but God's servants. When our own ship, the Glad Tidings, ran aground off the coast of Cape Breton, we thought surely our mission to Canada had been blocked by the powers of darkness."
"If I may be so bold, Father Andrew," Lydia interrupted, "by the mercy of God, this fishing boat rescued us from the rocky shore, and here we are at last, at our proper destination."
His brows lowered in suspicion, Major Prescott cleared his throat. "Why are there no fish on board?" he demanded, his brass buttons blazing in the sun.
"Ah, but we are fishers of men, my good man." Lydia gently inclined her head toward the crew. "If my eyes do not deceive me, there are dozens of men just ripe for harvest."
At this pious folderol, the major rolled his eyes. His nose told him that the Isobella was a fishing vessel. "You want me to believe this ship doesn't make its living fishing?"
"On the contrary, Major." Andrew's sharp blue eyes sent Lydia signals to keep silent. "Sister Lydia and I would have been content to remain aboard and preach the gospel while these men pursued their livelihood, but Captain Burton, being a selfless man, insisted on taking us to Halifax without delay."
An understanding smirk spread over the major's tanned face. "I take it Captain Burton is not one of the faithful?"
"Alas, sir, he is not," Lydia broke in. She lowered her eyes and, opening her prayer book, thumbed a few pages. "Excuse me, while I say a proper prayer for a hardened sinner." So saying, she seated herself primly on a crate. Beneath its religious tracts were stashed a short broadsword, a loaded pistol, ammunition, and a map for Bruce.
After a thorough search of the hold, Major Prescott felt satisfied as to the reason for the ship's unscheduled arrival and called off his watchdogs.
"Except for fishing nets, the crew's gear, navigational maps and equipment—the usual, sir—all I found are several crates of Bibles and religious pamphlets," his assistant reported.
"Very well, Mr. Cripps, prepare to lower away." The major spoke briefly to the captain, then turned to Andrew. "I shall be happy to escort you both to the mainland."
"Certainly, Major. If we might, I'd like to take a small chest of pamphlets and tracts ashore?" Andrew caught Seth's eye. "I'm sure we can prevail upon Captain Burton to send along the rest of our baggage later."
"I mean to be away on the afternoon tide, I do," Burton growled, his manner anything but friendly.
"I'm afraid it may take us a day or two to contact local church officials and get our bearings." Andrew met the Isobella's skipper's glare with unruffled benevolence. "Sorry for the delay, Captain, but it cannot be helped. We'll send word shortly where to deliver our belongings."
"Nothin' but a damn bother, that's whut them two are." Cursing under his breath, the Isobella's captain walked off in a huff.
Andrew picked up the chest Lydia had been sitting on and handed it to a British limey. "Take care, lad. Many souls are depending on its contents." Armed with two loaded pistols under his cassock, Andrew smiled broadly at the major. "Ready when you are, Major!"
Steadied by the waiting hands of British seamen, Lydia began her descent, hand over hand over the side. Allowing two young sailors to help her from the rope ladder and into the longboat, she settled between two oarsmen.
"Praise be!" Beneath her warm robes her heart beat quickly from excitement. "I hope you men receive communion regularly?" She surveyed the British lads, not unkindly. "If not, Father Andrew will be happy to hear your confessions."
"Aye, lads, be sure to look me up," Andrew Graham affirmed, dropping into the boat.
Lydia crossed herself and buried her nose in her prayer book. She preferred not to think about the deep water bouncing them up and down as the sailors rowed them to shore.
Once they were free of British officials on the wharf, Andrew and Lydia took a rented carriage through the center of town. Passing along gravel streets lined with drooping willow trees, she saw rows of neat clapboard houses, quite similar to New London houses. She was craning her neck to look at a grey stone mansion near the south end of the Grand Parade grounds, when the carriage driver stopped unexpectedly in front of an elegant mansion with brick pillars behind a wrought iron fence.
"The Guv'nor lives there." Situated on opposite sides of the street were two churches. "Yonder is St. Mathers," the driver said in a bored voice. "An' this 'ere is St. Paul's."
"Please wait while we pay our respects at the rectory," said Andrew Graham, and helped Lydia down.
As it turned out, the minister was delighted to learn that reinforcements had been sent to begin a ministry of "edification" among the men at the fort. He soon confirmed that a large number of unchurched—and unwashed!—American prisoners were detained next to the military fortifications on Citadel Hill.
Father Andrew listened, nodding gravely, while Father Timothy Spenser described the prison population's deplorable spiritual condition. "So you believe the men may already be beyond all hope," Andrew echoed ponderously. Sipping a cup of Mrs. Spenser's tea, he exchanged a glance with the mousy nun seated beside him on the settee.
"One must never give up, but—" Father Timothy sighed, clearly discouraged. "I barely find time to conduct christenings and funerals among my flock, let alone preach to the men on the hill."
"Who knows what could be accomplished, Father Andrew, if these poor men had regular visits from a man of God such as yourself," Lydia suggested.
"They need a chaplain badly," agreed Mrs. Spenser, clucking her tongue.
Graham studied the dregs in the bottom of his teacup, as if lost in thought. "If you will all
ow me to take this burden of ministry from your shoulders, Reverend Father, I would be pleased to preach a message of hope to the captives."
The Reverend Timothy Spenser's spectacles nearly dropped into his lap. "Father Andrew, you are truly manna from heaven!" he exclaimed, making no secret of his joy at being relieved of such an unrewarding task. "How may I assist you?"
Andrew accepted a piece of crumb cake from Mrs. Spenser. "Thank you, Sister," he said in sanctimonious tones. "I am honored that you should ask, Father Timothy. Could you perhaps write a letter of introduction to the prison commander? Your endorsement would mean so much."
Lydia sat listening, as the two men worked out the details. She and Andrew would have total freedom to come and go in the prison! This went far beyond her wildest expectations. She should be ashamed of herself for pulling the wool over the vicar's eyes, but all was fair in love and war! Barely able to keep from jumping up and dancing a jig, somehow she remained in character, conversing quietly with Mrs. Spenser until it was time to leave.
At last Andrew arose, and the two men shook hands. "Pray for the success of our mission," he urged the vicar. "From what you've told me, we shall need God on our side."
"It shall be my privilege to pray for you," Reverend Spenser said with a bow.
Leaving the rectory, Lydia and Andrew again climbed into the hired carriage. They headed straight up Citadel Hill. "I can't believe you got Reverend Spenser's help!" she enthused.
Andrew shot her a warning glance and nodded toward their driver's back. "Your zeal is commendable, sister," his voice was full of quiet warning, "but we must never lost sight of the enemy. There may be opposition to our work."
Lydia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Andrew had left a wife and six and one-half children in order to help her. Without him, she would never have gotten this far. She mustn't lose sight of the danger, or drop her guard.
"Thank you for reminding me," she whispered, her eyes spilling over with gratitude. "We shall not fail. I vow it, by all that is sacred."
Andrew's eyes twinkled mischievously. "We still have many obstacles to overcome. Watch and pray," he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Sobering words, indeed, she realized. As they drove up to the Citadel gates and got out, she observed the deep defensive trenches surrounding the fort and prison. A cold chill settled in her heart, as they entered between two stone-faced guards. This was a place of suffering and horror and death; Lydia felt it in her bones.
After sitting in an anteroom for three-quarters of an hour, they were escorted in to see General Sommers' personal assistant. A short man with a perpetual scowl on his face, the adjutant, barely civil, glanced up from the clutter on his desk. "How may I help you?"
Andrew pushed the letter under the official's nose. "I bring a letter of introduction from Father Timothy Spenser of the local parish."
Reluctantly the man scanned the letter, then tossed it aside and resumed scribbling busily, ignoring their presence.
After a few minutes of being kept standing, Andrew cleared his throat, his face a study in controlled impatience. "Come, Sister Lydia, let us wait outside until we're provided with a proper escort into the prison."
Lydia, fearing their journey had been all for naught, followed meekly.
Andrew gave her a reassuring wink. "Now for a little gentle coercion." He picked up his worn King James Bible and strode over to confront a nearby guard. "Young man," he said loudly, "let me share what the Good Book says." He opened his Bible and began reading at the top of his lungs, making sure the General's staff was getting an earful.
Lydia stood quaking. Surely Andrew went too far! His voice rang out, pear-shaped tones reverberating against stone walls. He read on, pausing occasionally to expound upon holy writ.
Fearing any minute that they'd be thrown out—or found out and arrested as spies!—Lydia closed her eyes and clutched her prayer book to her bosom. She made no attempt to look pious. Indeed, the thoughts racing through her mind were anything but religious. All she could think was that Andrew was ruining any chance of her ever seeing Bruce again. How could he? she fumed. They had come all this way, only to make complete fools of themselves.
Suddenly she heard a door bang open at the end of the hall, followed by the heavy tread of boots. Cracking one eye, she found herself fixed by the scowling face of a high ranking British officer.
"What is the meaning of this?" he barked.
Not the least bit intimidated, Andrew grabbed the officer's hand and shook it.
"You must be General Sommers. I am Reverend Andrew Graham from Dover, newly assigned chaplain to the Halifax Prison. At your service, sir!" He bowed.
"The devil you say!" Sommers curled his lip, regarding the pair with disdain. "What happened to Father Timothy? Has he given up so quickly?"
"Not at all, sir. Owing to the pressures of parish business, Father Timothy has asked me to assume his duties here immediately."
"I see." The general scowled at the red-haired cleric and his female companion. "I presume you think you can do better?"
"I have ministered in prisons before, General," Andrew said. "God willing, we shall save some."
"We? You mean—you and this female?" Sommers lifted an eyebrow, clearly disapproving.
"I am Sister Lydia," Lydia explained. "I assist by distributing religious pamphlets."
"Well, I suppose I have to admit you, Reverend Father, but a woman? Absolutely not! The men would eat her alive." General Sommers scratched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. He wasn't against the clergy per se, but this nun looked far too young to work among hardened men. Even in a nun's habit, what chance would she have among such horny devils? He'd as soon send his own daughter!
Lydia stood aghast. Would she be forced to remain outside? She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against disappointment.
"I believe, after seeing Sister Lydia minister to the prisoners," Andrew smiled persuasively, "you will agree that she has a profound effect upon the men's morale."
The general looked skeptically at Sister Lydia, who appeared locked in the throes of private communion with her God. "Well, I don't know—"
Andrew began to wax eloquent. "She has strange spiritual powers, sir. Why, I've seen hardened criminals weep like babies after she has prayed with them."
Lydia's eyes popped open wide. What was Andrew saying! She knew nothing about praying with sinners! "Oh, Father Andrew, you mustn't say such things!" she stammered.
"You see, General?" Andrew said convincingly. "Here she stands, a humble vessel, ready to do the Lord's bidding. Is it any wonder souls are saved under her gentle exhortation?"
Lydia knew this was all playacting, but it sounded like blasphemy to her!
"General Sommers, you mustn't listen to him," she pleaded. "I do want to visit the prisoners, but the last thing I want is to go against your wishes—"
General Sommers took in the scene. Here was an Anglican priest, praising a simple nun. She in turn denied any special powers. She seemed sincere enough. Her shining eyes gazed up at him, the most innocent, haunting blue-violet he had ever encountered. She was compellingly beautiful, with delicately chiseled features framed by a severe headdress.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sommers recalled a simple peasant girl in France who had altered the course of history. Jeanne something-or-other, if memory served him correctly. Perhaps he had been too hasty. Discipline in the prison was hard to maintain. Maybe Father Andrew knew something he didn't.
"I've changed my mind," the general said, doing an abrupt about-face in garrison policy. "Sister Lydia can go with you. I'll send along a guard for protection."
"Oh, bless you!" exclaimed Lydia, and fervent tears sprang to her eyes.
Strangely moved, the general cleared his throat. "I just hope I'm doing the right thing," he said gruffly and strode into the adjutant's office. "Bradley, get someone to escort them inside."
"Right away, General Sommers." The same man who wouldn't move a muscle
to help before now came forward, beaming. "This way, Father."
Andrew Graham took his companion by the arm and followed the general's assistant. He gave her arm a little shake. "All it takes is a little holy boldness," he told her in a low voice.
"It's a miracle," Lydia breathed. "I never thought we'd get in."
"Never doubt." He chuckled softly. "Now let's go rescue a few souls."
They passed through two heavy wooden doors, fortified with iron bars and locks. To the right and the left in the open area between the prison and the fort's offices were the common barracks and a mess hall. A separate building housed gunpowder and other explosives. Well situated to provide a stout defense of the harbor, the Citadel was buttressed with large carronades facing the water. In the harbor below several ships lay at anchor.
Andrew pointed them out. "Those five are captured American ships, probably used to confine prisoners. Or the British may be refitting them for their own use."
Lydia nodded, hoping Bruce wasn't aboard any of them. What she had learned of prison ships from Richard and Jeremiah and Enoch made her blood run cold.
As she and Andrew moved deeper into the dank prison, the stench drove any hesitation to pursue this charade from Lydia's mind. She was more determined to free prisoners than ever.
Heavy tension hung unmistakably in the air, as scores of prisoners milled about in the prison yard. After an uncomfortable night on hard wooden pallets, they shuffled along in a stiff dog trot, trying to restore circulation. The weather was on the sharp side for mid-June. Gusty winds cut through threadbare trousers and jerseys.
As Lydia and Andrew reached the open area, she saw a number of unkempt, bearded faces turn her way and then look furtively away, as if a woman seeing them in their scruffy condition brought their pride as men even lower. It nearly broke her heart to see them thus, yet for all that, she felt a deep abiding love for these men, who endured so much for love of country.
* * *
Pacing in a remote corner, Bruce MacGregor kept his eyes on the gate in the exercise yard. Used to the guards' routine, he was ever on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. When he saw two figures in religious garb enter the compound, he turned aside with a low curse. Damn Sommers anyway! Now he’s sending in a couple of psalm-singing Anglicans!