“What are you talking about?” rejoined Powell. “We’re safe now. Let’s wait till first light and see what we can find.”
“Are you crazy? What if one of them stayed behind to guard the loot?”
“Have it your way, but I’m staying.”
Powell lay down and covered himself with his overcoat. Rutherford hesitated a moment. As afraid as he was of the pirates, he was just as uneasy about heading back out across the Devonshire downs alone. He knew someone would come after the stash, and probably soon. He didn’t want to meet them. Reluctantly he sat down with a sigh. Fitfully both boys dozed off.
When Rutherford next became aware of himself, the thin grey light of a frigid morning had arrived. He opened his eyes and glanced around. He was alone.
He stood and stretched, glancing down toward the sea. The water was still, quiet, and empty. He could make out but twenty or thirty feet of it before the grey-green of the channel disappeared in a wall of white mist. The only sounds reaching his ears were the gentle splashing of the tide against the rocky shoreline mingled with the cry of gulls soaring about in search of breakfast.
Glancing around further, he saw his friend scrambling back down the bluff. Rutherford rose and began easing his way toward where they had been the night before.
“What are you doing?” he said, hurrying after him.
“Finding out what they unloaded,” replied Powell. “There’s a cave under that ledge. It’s got to be the place.”
“What if someone’s there?”
“I don’t hear anything,” replied Powell, though at the words one of his hands went unconsciously to the knife at his belt and unfastened its buckle. “Run back up and get the lantern.”
Four minutes later, with Powell in the lead holding the light, the two ducked their heads and ventured tentatively into the blackness of one of hundreds of such caves along the southern coast of England. This particular one—not easily visible from above or from the sea, and with a large dry inner chamber—was singularly well suited for the purpose.
“Look at this!” exclaimed Powell.
Rutherford followed around a protruding wall of stone and now beheld what had prompted the outcry. The dancing light from his friend’s hand illuminated a booty of what seemed a fabulous wealth. Already Powell had set down the light and begun to examine the contents of the cave.
“We’ll be rich if we can get this out of here!”
“We can’t just . . . steal it,” objected the younger of the two, remembering vividly the frightening images and voices of the previous night.
“Why not? They don’t even know we exist.”
“Somebody is bound to find out. What if someone sees us carting it away?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know—whoever they were delivering it to.”
“We’ll be careful. I don’t know about you, but I’m taking all I can!”
He had already located a heavy chest and began lugging it toward the mouth of the cave.
“What I can’t get on my horse’s back,” he said, “I’ll hide up there somewhere. There are plenty of places where it will never be seen.”
His friend knew from the gleam in his eye that there was no dissuading him. Almost as if resigning himself to the inevitable, Rutherford glanced about so as not to leave empty-handed himself. In the time it took Powell to make three or four eager trips back and forth to the bluff, he had finally located a somewhat modest-sized metal chest whose weight of some fifty pounds he thought he could manage.
“I’ve got what I’m taking,” he said.
“Is that all!” laughed Powell. “Look around, Broughton—we can set ourselves up for the rest of our lives!”
“This is all I want. If we take too much—”
“Don’t be a coward,” interrupted Powell, his hands already full again.
“I’m getting out of here,” said Rutherford. “I’m nervous being here so long. I’m going back to the horses and starting for home . . . with this chest and nothing else.”
He headed for the mouth of the cave.
“Suit yourself,” laughed Powell. “But wait for me. I’ll be along in a minute. I still say you’re loony for not taking all you can.”
As he bent down to deposit his latest haul with the rest, Powell’s knife, still loose, fell to the ground, along with several other small items he was carrying. But without noticing, he was already off for more. His friend saw them, stooped to pick up the knife, compass, and spyglass—he could take no chances of anything being found; he would give them back to Rufus later—and deposited them in his coat, where he quickly forgot them for the rest of the day.
Twenty minutes later, to young Rutherford’s great relief, the two were riding on their heavily laden mounts back the way they had come the previous afternoon. Fortunately, they saw not another soul on their way, and managed to get their goods safely hidden at their respective homes without detection.
————
When the news came to Heathersleigh Hall three weeks later, it was with difficulty that sixteen-year-old Broughton Rutherford disguised his disbelief and horror.
“I am afraid I have some dreadful news, son,” his father said as he dismounted his horse outside the Hall. “I’ve just learned that your friend Rufus Powell is dead.”
“What!” exclaimed Broughton, turning pale.
“His body was found south of here, on the moor near the coast.”
“But . . . how did he die?”
“No one knows. Murdered apparently, and brutally from the reports. There were numerous knife wounds.”
Broughton staggered back half a step.
“No one has any idea what could be the motive,” William Rutherford went on as he led his mount toward the stables. “When is the last time you and he rode together?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know . . . a week or two ago,” answered Broughton vaguely.
“Well, it’s a mystery . . . everyone’s talking about it.”
That night, alone in his room and afraid for his life, young Broughton Rutherford crept to his closet and withdrew the chest he had taken from the pirates’ cave.
He had to get rid of this. What if they found him too!
Luckily he had removed nothing but two or three small ships’ logs, written in English, that were probably stolen anyway and of no interest to anyone. He might keep them out and look through them to see what he could learn. But the rest of it, he would stash good and out of sight, for fear someone might accidentally run across it.
Rufus had obviously been careless. He must have talked and been overheard by the wrong people, or else tried to go back to the cave for more.
The Turks or their accomplices surely knew he had not acted alone. They were probably scouring the countryside even now, watching Rufus’s friends. He would have to guard his every move.
The greedy fool, he thought to himself. Everything would have been fine if Rufus had just been satisfied. Now Broughton would be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life. He could never divulge that he possessed anything unusual of value. Pirates, they said, had long memories.
Not only did he have to hide it, he could never make use of it, never look at it, and never let on that he knew a thing about it. He couldn’t let slip so much as a look or a glance to indicate other than that he was just as mystified at Rufus’s death as everyone else. He could not even tell his father or his twelve-year-old brother, Robert.
No one must ever know, or eventually those same knives would split his skin too.
Origins
1629–1789
Construction on the stately grey mansion known as Heathersleigh Hall began in 1629.
Its original owners, a certain Jeremiah and Mary Rutherford, were in fact a relatively simple man and woman of deep spiritual convictions. An older cousin of the Scots minister and covenanter Samuel Rutherford, Jeremiah migrated south from Scotland to England as a young man—bringing with him a reminder of his native land, a variety of heath
er plants which he determined would always bloom wherever he lived.
There his strong religious beliefs led him into association with the Puritans, resulting in his meeting and later marrying his wife, Mary. When the migration of Puritan separatists began to Holland and Massachusetts in the late 1620s—at about the same time Jeremiah’s cousin was graduating in divinity from Edinburgh and embarking on the preaching and writing career that would bring him fame—Jeremiah and Mary Rutherford made the decision to not join the exodus of Pilgrims across the sea, but rather to live out their own “separation” from the world in the rural wilds of Devonshire.
To this end they purchased an enormous tract of land, prayed and dedicated it to the glory of God and his purposes, and then set about designing the edifice that would become their home and would house the generations of these English Rutherfords for centuries to come.
When the site for the building was established, even before a stone had been laid, Jeremiah next decided on the location to grow the wiry reminders of his beloved homeland. He proceeded to set his heather plants in the ground just east of where the house would soon rise, asking God, still on his knees as he lovingly patted down the soil, to cause them to flourish, then rose with a smile and turned to his wife.
“Mary,” he said, “I think the Lord has just given me the name for our new home. We shall call it Heathersleigh.”
————
The initial building of what came to be known as Heathersleigh Hall was personally overseen by Jeremiah Rutherford and lasted eighteen years. He and Mary and their young family, however, were able to take up residence in their new home in 1631 while the rest of the building progressed slowly about them. In time Jeremiah and his three sons completed most of the later work themselves. Mary and her two daughters, meanwhile, cultivated and developed the surrounding landscape, planting lawns and hedges, flower gardens and ornamental trees, and enlarging the original heather garden with many new species.
By the time the structure was at last completed in 1647, Heathersleigh had become one of the stateliest and most beautiful estates in Devon.
Even as mortar on the final stones was drying, the sixty-four-year-old visionary whose dream this had been from the start—head grey with the wisdom of obedience, hands rough with years of hard labor, and heart tender from a lifetime spent seeking his Master’s will—gathered his family about him with a smile of weary contentment. He shook each of their hands, after which numerous hugs followed, and tears flowed from the eyes of father and mother as they stood in the great open meadow to the north and gazed upon what they had accomplished.
“You did it, Jeremiah,” whispered Mary.
“No, Mother,” he replied, “we did it . . . with the Lord’s help, we all did it together.”
He sank to his knees on the sun-warmed earth and was soon joined by wife, sons, daughters, two daughters-in-law, a son-in-law, and seven grandchildren.
“Gracious heavenly Father,” he prayed, “thank you for your faithful provision, and for carrying out your work in the raising of these beautiful stones. Thank you for giving us strength to do what you gave us to do. May your will be done in this place, and your purposes fulfilled. May this home and all who inhabit it live to your glory, their lives a light, a witness, and a testimony to your goodness. May your Spirit never depart from this land and this home that you have provided, and may all who dwell here be given life by that Spirit. May that life deepen and spread and draw many to you. As the years go by we pray that Heathersleigh will be a place where men and women, boys and girls, all whom you lead, will find faith, hope, and love through those of your people who make this their home. Amen.”
Soft “amens” followed from all the rest. Slowly they rose.
“Well, Mother,” said an exuberant Jeremiah, “what have you and the girls prepared as a celebration feast for this family of hungry laborers!”
————
Throughout England’s tumultuous seventeenth century, Heathersleigh Hall became an oasis of light and spiritual refuge for many. Jeremiah and Mary’s eldest son, David, added the east wing to the Hall between 1661 and 1678, and moved the family’s quarters to the new wing. Much of the ground floor of the vacated north wing was thus converted from living space and made suitable for more formal use. A sizeable gamekeeper’s cottage was added at the northern edge of the estate in a wooded region between the Hall and the village in the 1730s.
But in the mystery of the generations and a divine plan that is difficult to apprehend amid life’s heartaches, sons and daughters and those who come after them do not always follow the dictates of their parents’ consciences, the convictions of their faith, or even the principles they have been taught. Surely it would have been a grief to this patriarch and matriarch of the Rutherford clan of Devon to see what weeds would later grow in the family garden as the centuries advanced, and what greedy motives of self would come for a time to dominate this place.
Their prayers, however, would not die out altogether, but would return after many years. Indeed God’s will would be accomplished again at Heathersleigh as it had been during their own time, and during the years of their sons and grandsons.
The title “Lord of the Manor” was first bestowed on David’s son Nathan Rutherford in 1710, and was then passed down from father to son. The peculiarities of the unique appellation dictated that both title and property would always pass to a following generation at the death of the titleholder—son, daughter, even nephew or cousin—but never transfer laterally to a spouse.
Anxious to make his own personal stamp on the Hall, and without wife or family to consume his time, Nathan’s great-grandson Broughton Rutherford, shortly after his assumption to the title, began work on the third and final portion of the great house, the west wing. There was little need to add to the already massive structure, for by then the family in residence had dwindled and the number of workers and servants was in decline, and most of the new rooms added would sit vacant throughout the year. But Broughton was fond of an occasional party of lavish proportions, inviting half the gentry and aristocracy of London and southern England, and thus always felt cramped for space.
Meanwhile, his younger brother, Robert, married and had a son, Henry, in 1783.
A freak hunting accident took Robert’s life suddenly and prematurely just six years later. His wife, Wallis, never entirely recovered from the shock of his death and, as she had no means of her own, retired to live out the remainder of her days at the Hall in relative seclusion with her young son. Broughton Rutherford, therefore, became the male guardian for his nephew, a wild boy whom the passage of years did little to tame.
As the generations of a legacy ebb and flow according to the character choices made by its members, the family Rutherford now entered a murky era, when secrets, rather than the light prayed for by old Jeremiah Rutherford, came to predominate the spiritual mood within Heathersleigh’s walls. Weeds, therefore, began to grow in the soil of the Rutherford family garden, gradually covering over and forcing into dormancy the seeds of light and truth planted by its founders.
The prayers of the old patriarch would be heard again in the fullness of time, though much darkness would have to be endured before the Son of Truth would again rise over the estate of Heathersleigh.
Season of Secrets
1799–1854
Broughton Rutherford, now Lord of the Manor of Heathersleigh Hall, climbed the stairs to the garret and looked around. The year was 1799.
Yes, this would be perfect, he thought. He had explored these upper regions of the house as a boy. Now he would put them to good use for his own protection.
The old metal box had haunted him for thirty-seven years.
Rumors abounded throughout the region, and he had been tormented since his youth with a fear that the pirates and their smuggling associates had never given up their search for him. He became obsessed with the idea of having to make an escape from their clutches at a moment’s notice, convinced that the day would su
rely arrive when they would come for him. Thus, he remained ever on the lookout for new and cleverer means that would enable him to hide and elude their grasp. He had to find a place to stash the box and its contents where he would have access to what it contained should he need it, but without his being seen. The Hall’s upper regions were perfect.
To this end, as the west wing grew, he devised various cunning doors and intricate passageways to include in its construction, eventually leading into the other two wings as well. If ever he saw unfriendly faces approaching, he would be able to take refuge behind walls and in secret chambers and then get completely out of the Hall and to safety while they were still busy searching his quarters.
Secrecy remained imperative. His nephew Henry was not one he could trust with the knowledge of what he was doing. He had a loose tongue and was a braggart. If he knew the secret, it was only a matter of time before the young fool let something slip. They could all wind up dead just like Rufus Powell. Later, when the boy was older and in a position to inherit, perhaps then Broughton would tell him everything.
In the meantime, he would again employ Webley Kyrkwode from the village for his new garret project. The man was a hard worker, possessed skills with unusual mechanisms, and had always proved reliable. But he would have to keep Henry away from Kyrkwode’s daughter, Orelia. He didn’t need that kind of a scandal to go along with his other troubles.
————
Broughton Rutherford’s fears did not materialize. He never saw pirates around Heathersleigh. Nor did he ever confide his secrets to his nephew. When he died suddenly of a heart attack in 1801, the west wing not yet complete, his brother’s now eighteen-year-old son became lord of the manor.
Though rumors of amorous affairs circulated for years concerning Henry, he neither married nor produced offspring during all the years of his youth and young adulthood. He became more interested in the Hall itself as he grew into adulthood, gradually resuming construction of and eventually completing the west wing. With Kyrkwode’s help, he discovered and added to many of the secret passages contrived by his uncle. But though he had long suspected his uncle the possessor of something of enormous value, the garret’s secret forever remained a sealed book to him.
A New Dawn Over Devon Page 2