Whispers from the Shadows

by Roseanna M. White

Their guns blazed and roared. Thad ran to the major. “Sir, I—”

  “Lane, good. I am worried about our powder magazine. ’Tis nothing more than a brick shed. One lucky shot, and this whole place could go up.”

  He swallowed. “Sir, my wife is in danger—”

  “All our wives are in danger if we do not repel these ships.” The harried man met his gaze, new lines in his face and the weight of the city visible on his shoulders. “Distribute the barrels of gunpowder around the fort. Take all the men you need.”

  Thad turned away, aware of the many sets of eyes on him, waiting for his word. Aware of the men feeding the next rounds into the guns, of the shouts reporting where they had hit. Aware that if he disobeyed, it would undermine the fragile unity they had so carefully crafted.

  To whom do you answer?

  He heard the whisper in that corner of his spirit where the Lord always spoke. Heard it and felt a thrill. “You, Lord,” he murmured under his breath. “Tell me to go. Tell me to save her.”

  But instead he felt that hand upon him, holding him in place. Am I not able?

  The next round blasted from the guns and shook them. Shook him. Of course the Lord was able. He was able to protect the fort, the country, these men he called brothers and neighbors. He was able to repel the British.

  Arnaud stepped in front of him, his brows, as always, drawn. “Thad?”

  “We need to empty the magazine and distribute the gunpowder.” The words came out strained, clipped.

  His friend stepped nearer. “What about Gwyneth?”

  Lord, what about Gwyneth?

  A rumble of thunder crept across the sky. Am I not able? Must it be you?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Lord, please, don’t ask this of me. Ask me to do anything, to say anything, to go anywhere, but not to do nothing while my beloved needs me.

  Lightning flashed in the distance, a flicker compared to the muzzle flash from the British guns. I knew her before she was in her mother’s womb. I loved her before her lips could form My name. I called her beloved, just as I called you.

  “Thad?”

  He couldn’t speak, afraid that if he tried, he would choke on his words. But he strode toward the magazine. And he saw Gwyneth’s eyes, frantic and terrified. God!

  A return blast from the bomb ships, another quake through the fort’s foundation. Can you love her more than I? Can your hand save her better than the one that formed you?

  He lifted his hand to the door of the magazine. It trembled. “Will, Reggie, give me a hand. Alain, gather a few more men.”

  The room was large and dim, but he knew Armistead was right—the single layer of bricks between the shells and the three hundred barrels of gunpowder provided no real protection. He grasped the nearest one and rolled it out the door. He has come for her, Lord. He has come and I am helpless.

  Reggie, his jaw ticking and worry in his eyes that went well beyond the screech of an incoming shell, took the barrel from him. Philly. Thad whispered a prayer for her as he caught his brother-in-law’s gaze. “Reg?”

  He swallowed. “There is nothing I can do there that I cannot do here. I will pray.”

  Thad released the barrel to him and turned back inside. I know You can keep her safe, Lord. Keep us all safe. But I also know You do not always choose to. Like Peggy, like Alain for those terrible years. And I…I cannot bear if Your will is to take her from me. Please. Let me help.

  He rolled another barrel out. And the clouds must have parted, for a shaft of light angled through…the roof? He moved further in, to where the sun reflected off something metallic. Something long and shell shaped and taunting in its presence. “Ordinance.” Panic pounced until he realized that if it were going to explode, it would have done so long ago.

  The entire fort, all these men, could have—rightly should have—been destroyed already. The major’s concerns ought to have been proven right in a fiery explosion.

  But the Lord had preserved them.

  You do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world. So how do you fight them?

  Amid barrels of gunpowder and that one terrifying shell, he dropped to his knees. “I know You have it all in hand, Father God. I do. Us here, Gwyneth, Philly. But it is so difficult to practice what I believe. To give it all to You when I want so much to act.”

  Footsteps gathered outside. “We are ready, Thad.”

  ’Twas as if the Lord chuckled in his ear. Then act, my child. Where you have been placed. Do what you have been called to do. And trust Me.

  He touched a hand to the enormous shell and then rose. Much as he wished he could, he could not claim any unnatural peace. His heart still strained toward home, toward Gwyneth. The shot still whistled overhead, the noise still filled him till he feared he might burst.

  But he rolled another barrel out, and he whispered a prayer.

  When darkness fell and torrents of rain came, he hunkered down with his brothers and recited a prayer.

  When the night refused to end and the British refused to halt their shelling, he led the men in the hymns that joined the deafening thunder as a prayer.

  And when at last dawn broke and silence descended, he stood with the men again to see what was left of Fort McHenry. His gaze went up as morning light broke through the storm clouds, and he saw their flag fluttering in the wind.

  They had survived. The fort still stood strong. They had made it. As Gwyneth had said they would. But what of her? He would come home, but where would she be?

  “Look! Look!” Arnaud actually smiled as he peered out over the wall. “They are retreating!”

  And into his spirit came the word for which he had been waiting all these long, sleepless hours.

  Go.

  Thad burst into his house, his heart out-galloping any speed Electra could ever achieve. “Gwyn? Gwyneth!”

  But it was Mother who surged from the hall, tears in her eyes and everyone else close behind her. Everyone but the one he so desperately needed to see. “She is gone, Thaddeus. We just returned from Philly’s. We were afraid to leave during the night. Rosie said Gates was here, that he took her. He threatened to kill Jack if she left the kitchen until morning.”

  “Where?” He spun to Rosie, whose red-rimmed eyes gleamed with apology.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. But he said he had men outside who would kill us if we went for help. I wanted to help her, but I had Jack—”

  “You did the right thing.” The only thing she could have done. He strode to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then put his arms around his mother. “We will find her. How is Philly?”

  “There is hope, I think. ’Twas the fear that broke her, not pain as with the other times. Thaddeus, I am so sorry. We should not have left Gwyn.”

  “Had you not, they may not have stopped with the threat of violence.” He pulled away and looked to Father. “Did she leave anything behind? Any clue?”

  Father held out a sheet of paper with her familiar touch upon it.

  His gaze devoured it line by line, curve by curve. Gwyneth’s figure, her expression full of love and pleading and yet peace. And then his parents, ready to leave. Their wagon behind them with Father’s laboratory equipment. As if…

  As if they were going home.

  “That’s my girl.” Pivoting on his heel, he flew back out the door.

  Father ran after him. “Where are you going?”

  His lips turned up as he sprinted toward the stable and Electra. “Annapolis.”

  Thirty-Four

  Gwyneth blinked awake, amazed she had slept at all. She was lying on a couch in the parlor of Mrs. Mercer’s Annapolis home, the same one she had fallen onto when they had finally made it here last night, drenched and shivering and exhausted from the harrowing journey over battlefield and through storm. She sat up and stretched, expecting sore muscles, a headache, something to tell of her night’s travails.

 
; All in all, she felt quite well.

  A claim it didn’t look like Uncle Gates or Sir Arthur could boast. The younger man sat hunched over in a chair, head on his hand in what seemed a fitful sleep. Her uncle stood at the window, his eyes ringed in shadows. When she stirred, he snapped around to face her.

  “Are you feeling more reasonable this morning, niece?”

  She smiled. Largely because she knew it would irritate him. “I am feeling quite reasonable indeed, Uncle. Because I have every confidence that Baltimore would have survived the night quite well, that Thad will come for me, and that justice will be done.”

  “Justice.” He narrowed his eyes. “You sound like your father. Always so concerned with some heavenly justice.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked fit to snarl as he strode her way, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her to her feet. “Open your trunk. I believe your father packed something in there meant for me.”

  “No, I do not believe he did.” She went where he shoved but sat upon the trunk rather than opening it.

  His hand flashed and caught her across the cheek. “I said open it.”

  Sir Arthur jerked up, his eyes still bleary. “See here, what is all this?”

  “Sit back down, Hart. ’Tis a family matter.”

  Instead, his hand settled at his side, where his pistol rested. “Did you strike her?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She spoke, not to Sir Arthur, but to her uncle. “I can open this trunk and take out every article of clothing and every drawing and letter. I can unpin the cloth and remove the false bottom. I can spill each coin upon the floor. But you will not find what you seek. All the evidence my father compiled against you is gone.”

  Granite overtook his features one by one. “What do you mean, gone?”

  Was that what his face had looked like when he asked the same question of Papa? Had the hatred, the violence spewed so hot from his eyes? Had that been the moment when her father knew he would never join her?

  Yet he had done the noble thing, the right thing. He had sacrificed himself to give her a chance to get away and to bring all that evidence with her so that someone else might achieve what he could not. So that someone might stop the monster before it devoured them all.

  She drew in a breath far calmer than she had expected. “Just that. It is out of my hands and on its way to those who can put a stop to what you are doing before you destroy two nations in the name of avarice. The authorities here as well as those in London. The game, as they say, is up.”

  A cry tore through the room, guttural and animalistic. Light flashed on something metallic as he drew the blade from its sheath, the same blade she had seen him draw in the study five long months ago. And now that she was closer, she could see it was not just any sword, was not one he had brought with him that day.

  It was Papa’s.

  She blinked away the tears. “You killed him with his own sword? And then you stole it?”

  A wicked smile touched the corner of his lips. “I didn’t have to steal it, you idiot girl. I merely had to ask Lord Fairchild after the funeral if I might keep it for you.” He held it out so that the tip touched her chest. Right under the three pearls of her necklace. What was it Thad and Winter had said about them?

  That they were a symbol for how God’s path could be found in the most unlikely of places.

  She could think of no less likely a place than this. God of my end, You have brought us back to the beginning. Your will be done.

  “You were there.” Her uncle shook his head, a low, menacing chuckle in his throat. “I wondered, when Sir Arthur said you tore from the house as you did. And you are too much your father’s daughter to be bargained with. So I am very sorry, my dear. Very sorry indeed. But I have no choice.”

  Gwyneth gripped the trunk and closed her eyes. She could pray nothing but Father!

  A shot, and then another shattered the single pulse of silence, so shocking that she jumped and slid and landed in a heap on the floor. Her breath came in gasping heaves, her hands did a quick investigation of her limbs, but she felt no pain. No injury. Which meant—She scrambled up enough to glimpse her uncle on the floor and then sat again.

  She had had enough of violence. This was a sight she had no desire to behold. But from here she could see the smoke coming from both the end of Sir Arthur’s pistol and, in the doorway, Mr. Mercer’s.

  Arthur glanced to the newcomer. “I thought you were fleeing to Virginia.”

  Mercer tucked his gun back into his belt and advanced into the room. Heading straight for Gwyneth, he pulled her up. “Are you well, cousin?”

  She may not have been, had he not made a point of blocking her view. But she nodded.

  He offered a tight smile. “I had a feeling my father would not take you peaceably back to England. And I had a feeling, too, that you and Thad would have already contacted the authorities. I plan to flee farther away than Virginia and had to stop here first.”

  Arthur lowered his arm but didn’t put the pistol away. “Then I suggest you hurry.”

  “And leave my cousin with you? I think not. I’ll see her safely back to her husband first.”

  Gwyneth wrapped her arms around her middle. Unlikely paths, indeed. Who would have thought that Mercer, of all people, would end up her champion?

  Though from the way Arthur’s face crumpled, he was no threat. Not anymore. “I am sorry.” It came out no more than a whisper. “I never meant—He swore you would not be harmed, that taking you home was best, and I…I ought to have known better. I will submit myself to your authorities here.”

  Gwyneth loosed a long breath. “Go home, Arthur.”

  He shook his head and rubbed at a temple. “I assisted in kidnapping you.”

  True. And yet he had done so believing she had been mistreated and had come to begin with in fear for her life. Then he had been rewarded with her scorn. She shook her head. “You came here to save me. And you did save me, just now. Please. Go home. Live your life and be happy. As I am.”

  “Gwyn?” Thad’s voice came in a muffled shout from the street outside. Seeking and eager and so very precious.

  Gwyneth took a step forward, but Mr. Mercer stopped her with a raised hand. “Allow me.” He disappeared into the hallway.

  She looked to Arthur once more. “I say it again, sir—go.”

  Though he hesitated, at length he gave a nod. “I wish you all happiness, Gwyneth. If you are certain it is to be found here—”

  There was commotion at the front door, Mercer’s voice, and Thad’s in a low threat. She smiled and moved toward the door. “Thad!”

  A moment later she was in his arms, and his hands were running over her hair, her shoulders, as if checking for injury. His eyes, when she tipped her head back to look into them, were ablaze. “Are you well? If they so much as…” he halted as he glanced over her shoulder at where her uncle lay. “Gwyn.”

  “I am fine, darling.” She held him tight, praying her smile conveyed the truth of that. “Sir Arthur and Mr. Mercer both intervened when Uncle Gates’s intentions became clear.”

  He angled her toward the door. Then he paused and regarded first Sir Arthur and then Mr. Mercer. “There are no words to thank you.”

  “Letting me leave will be thanks enough.” Her cousin took a step away but halted and sighed. “I thought it was only about the money. Even so, you will say I ought not have done business as I did. But know that I never intended to harm my country. Whatever else you believe about me, believe that.”

  Thad, his arm now snug around Gwyneth’s waist, made no response for a long moment. “You were feeding him information. All these years you provided him exactly what he needed to undermine us. And now you think to tell me you meant no harm?”

  Mercer shook his head. “Call me a fool if you like. I did not realize—He was my father. I thought his interest simply that. Interest. In my life, my world, my business. I did not…perhaps I should have seen his hatred for us. If I had, I would have
sealed my lips. I certainly would not have let him use me to divide my own nation.”

  Thad measured him, staring at him as if peeling away the layers until he could see his motives, see his heart. She felt it when her husband relaxed. “I suppose you proved your loyalties just now. I will not stop you from leaving, but that is all you will get from me. If you linger, I will not intervene with the authorities.”

  Mercer cleared his throat and motioned behind them. “I’ll take her trunk out first, shall I? So you needn’t go over there.”

  Gwyneth slid to the side, out of the way, smiling when Sir Arthur stepped nearer.

  His hand extended but then fell to his side. “Mr. Lane, I…I too must beg your forgiveness. I would never have harmed her, but I could not accept—My thoughts concerning you were not gracious.”

  Thad, in typical form, snorted a laugh. “If we are apologizing for thoughts, then I must beg forgiveness of you as well. I confess I had a few sour ones from the very first mention of your name.”

  “Unfortunately, mine were followed by actions.” His head hanging low, Sir Arthur drew in a deep breath. “Gwy—Mrs. Lane said I ought to leave as planned. But at your word I will submit myself to your authorities.”

  “My authorities will be busy enough, I think.” With a glance over his shoulder, Thad urged her to follow Mr. Mercer out the door. “I will explain this to them in simplified terms. You should listen to my wife.”

  Gwyneth paused to see his response to that. Sir Arthur’s face looked tormented. “Are you certain?”

  “Certain that I would have done much the same to find her and bring her home, yes. Sir Arthur.” Thad shifted in that way he had, the one she had learned accompanied his intuitions. “There is more than what you think. To life, to love. More within you than for what you give yourself credit.”

  One corner of Sir Arthur’s lips moved up. He put his hat on, slowly and with more care than it called for. “I suppose we shall see, sir. Good day. Best wishes.”

  “Godspeed.” Gwyneth stepped aside so he could pass and then wove her fingers through Thad’s. “I suppose we had better call for those authorities.”