The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I require a guide, sir. But I shall bestow my affection upon none save the lifelong companion chosen for me by my Lord.”

  The man seemed taken aback by her poise and her response. “Then he is a lucky man.”

  “Will you guide me?”

  “That depends upon where you are headed.”

  “I seek a word with the American military commander.” The man was no longer smiling. “You have business at garrison headquarters?”

  “I do.”

  “I make it a point not to get within cannon range of the officers. But for you, my fine lass, I will make an exception.”

  The man dispersed his companions with a single motion of his hand. As he and Nicole walked toward the center of town, the soldier asked her, “From where do you come?”

  “That, sir, is a difficult question to answer.” After a pause, she said, “Acadia to begin with, then by sea and overland to Louisiana. From there to Nova Scotia, and then to England. Then back to Nova Scotia and now here.”

  “A lady who carries mystery in every word.” He pointed to a brick structure alongside a village green. The square was nearly lost beneath a neatly cordoned company of tents, weapons, flags, campfires, and men. “There’s the commandant’s quarters. What is your business there, if I might be so bold?”

  “My true love—” Nicole said and had to stop. For saying it had brought a burning rush of emotion to her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She quickly blinked them away and said, “Forgive me, good sir.”

  “It’s been a long time since a pretty lass called me good. Tell me, has your beau run off for the army?”

  She wondered if this man could perhaps help her.“May I trust you, sir?”

  “Ah, now, if only you would,” he replied, but the smile was no longer rakish.

  “My beau, as you call him, is being held at the British stockade as a traitor. I have come seeking answers. And help.”

  The news pushed him back a step. “He was caught working for our boys—for us Americans?”

  “That I do not know. But I think so, yes.” She struggled to form the words. “He is due to hang the day after tomorrow.”

  “That is hard news. What is his name?”

  “Captain Gordon Goodwind.”

  “And yours?”

  The question silenced her. What was her name? Who was she? Again tears threatened to force their way out. Questions and more questions.

  The man moved in close and removed his hat. “It’s not an easy world, is it, miss?”

  Nicole gave a tiny shudder in agreement. “No, not easy at all.”

  “There’s something about you that makes me miss all the things I’ve lost since, well, since all this started.” The man looked down to where his fingers fumbled with his hat’s brim. “It’s a strange thing to say about a man facing the noose, but I’d count myself lucky to stand in his boots.” He then looked her in the eye and said, “You can trust me with your name, miss.”

  “Very well,” she whispered. “I am the Viscountess Lady Nicole Harrow.”

  By the time the soldier returned to escort her inside, there were faces in every window and more watching her from the front portico. “This way, your ladyship.”

  “Please, I decry such titles. I used it only because the matter is so pressing.” She did her best to ignore all the eyes fixed on her. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not even know your name.”

  “John Jackson, most recently of Philadelphia. And many’s the day I wish I never left. But today is not one of them.” He cocked his head and with a solemn look on his face said, “There’s something about you that makes me wish I was a far better man.”

  “I sense there is more goodness about you than you give yourself credit for, Mr. Jackson.”

  He led her up the stairs, through the throng of officers, and into one of the front rooms. “This is the lady herself, General.”

  “Mitchell’s the name,” the man barked, not rising from his desk. “So you’re a duchess, do I have that right?”

  “Viscountess, sir, but please—”

  “And what might you have about your person to confirm this claim of yours?”

  Nicole fumbled with the clasp of her cloak. Jackson was there to help her. Underneath she wore a day frock of emerald green, mud spattered and damp despite the cloak’s covering. Even so, the officer’s eyes widened at the evident grandeur of her gown. Nicole opened the leather carryall she had hung over her shoulder and extracted an oilskin pouch. From this she withdrew the oft-folded document. “Perhaps this will help to answer your questions, sir.”

  The general eyed the document for a long moment before murmuring, “You carry a treaty signed by our Continental Congress. Why, I see here the signature of General Washington himself.”

  Only when the whispered exclamations were heard did the general realize his door was still open. “I say there, get back to your duties! Shut that door, will you? What did you say your name was?”

  “Jackson, sir. Sergeant Jackson.”

  The general glanced down at the treaty again. “Harrow. Harrow. I know that name.”

  “My uncle wished to help establish hostels for those made widows or homeless by the war.”

  “Of course. I remember now. Sir Charles Harrow spoke up for us in the British Parliament.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yes, I had the honor.”

  “Wish I’d seen it myself.” He stood and gestured to the chair. “You must excuse me, ma’am. To have a beautiful young lady arrive on my doorstep and declare herself to be both a viscountess and the champion of a man I thought a turncoat, well—”

  Nicole cried, “You know Gordon?”

  “I’ve met him, yes. Know him, no. Not at all. My first impression was that of a good man, an officer we could trust with a difficult and vital mission. Then the Frenchie we had assigned him as liaison returned to say that the man was nothing more than a spy, sent here to study our ranks and gather information for the coming British attack.”

  “Please, sir, you must believe me. I do not know precisely what has happened, or even why Gordon came to you. But one thing I can say with all the certainty this heart can muster. If Captain Goodwind declared himself for you and your cause, he can be trusted with your life and the lives of all your men.”

  The general appeared uncertain, even anxious. He said to Jackson, “Have my aide come in.”

  The young officer must have been standing just outside the door, for he appeared at lightning speed. “You wanted me, sir?”

  “What’s the name of that Frenchie we sent off with the English captain?”

  “Robichaud, sir. Henri Robichaud.”

  Nicole only managed to aim her collapse so that she fell onto a nearby chair and not the floor.

  “A trustworthy chap, wouldn’t you say?” Then he must have noticed Nicole’s state. “What on earth’s the matter?”

  “I . . . that is . . .” She felt the room swirling about her. “Forgive me.”

  “You’ve gone white as a ghost.” From a side table the general poured her a glass of water. He brought it over and said, “Here, now.”

  “Thank you,” she managed through stiff lips. Her mind raced frantically as she sipped.

  “Do you know this Frenchie fellow?” the general asked.

  “I . . . I am not certain. What was his name again, please?”

  “Henri Robichaud,” the aide offered, eyeing her Janette Oke / T. Davis Bunn carefully. “He’s a good man, sir. Hates the British with a passion. Fine a fighter as they come.”

  It could not be her father. It wasn’t possible. Yet her mind couldn’t escape the horror-stricken question that followed. What if it was? What possibly could have happened that might persuade her father to leave Louisiana and join the battle? Was her information false and had the British attacked the bayou country? What of her family?

  Nicole realized the general was watching her. She handed back the glass
and forced herself to present a calm fac ade. “Might I have a word with this—this French gentleman?”

  The general turned to his aide, who responded, “He’s off to the north, sir. You sent him yourself. To await the arrival of the French troops.”

  “Ah, yes, so I did.” He turned back to Nicole. “You say you know this Robichaud?”

  “No, perhaps the name only sounded . . .” She let her words trail off. It just could not be!

  “Right, then.” The general returned to his desk. “Much as I hate to see a good man swing, there is little we can do to rescue your officer gentleman. We are at war, and things are only going to heat up further once the spring season takes hold.” He picked up a silver letter knife and jabbed idly at his leather portfolio. “Don’t suppose you could give us any idea of the state of the British army.”

  Focusing on the general and his words proved to be a difficult task. Finally Nicole answered, “I’m sorry, sir, but all I can tell you for certain is that Boston is swarming with troops.”

  “That’s no help at all, I’m afraid.”

  “Begging the general’s pardon,” Sergeant Jackson piped in. “Perhaps I could travel across with the lady here and have a look around.” He glanced over. “That is, if you’ll be returning to Boston.”

  “At dusk,” Nicole confirmed. She had a thousand questions. But they would have to wait. She had no choice but to force these new worries to the back of her mind. Gordon’s life was what mattered at the moment.

  “I know your sort,” the general snapped at Jackson. “Your lot wouldn’t volunteer for guard duty for General Washington himself.”

  “I suppose that’s true enough, sir,” said John Jackson slowly. “All I can say is, I’ve had myself a change of heart.”

  Nicole rose to her feet and said, “It would only be natural for a titled woman to arrive with a servant.” She looked at Jackson. “I would be honored to have you accompany me, Sergeant Jackson.”

  Chapter 21

  The day was spent in feverish activity. Within the first hour, Nicole was certain she had made the proper choice in agreeing to work with Sergeant John Jackson.

  The officers were scornful in their dismissal of Jackson, speaking with him only because General Mitchell had ordered them to do so. They asked him a series of specific questions they needed answered—about horses, artillery, supplies, troop placement, signs of movement. But they clearly expected nothing from the man, not even that he would return. John Jackson glanced at Nicole from time to time during these interviews but did nothing to defend himself. Instead he seemed to draw strength of purpose from the mission—even from her. He endured the officers’ contempt and said little.

  Afterward Nicole insisted they acquire for him proper clothes as befitting the attendant of a titled lady. Walking the streets of Cambridge together, John Jackson was time and again greeted by his fellow soldiers with ribald familiarity. And the fact that he walked near a lovely young woman was evidently nothing unusual.

  Here again John Jackson made no attempt to hide himself or defend his past. He endured their comments with a stoic grimace.

  However, when she’d located a gentleman’s clothier, Nicole found it difficult to draw Jackson inside. “What is the matter?” she asked him.

  “I dare not go in there, ma’am.”

  “And why not?”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am. But if I’m to act the part, I need to be starting now.”

  “Yes, very well. But come along inside.”

  “I’d best stay out here.”

  “How are we to determine the sizes if you remain outside?” Nicole pushed the door open and was welcomed by a sharp little chime. “Come along. There is hardly time for us to waste out here talking.”

  But as soon as Jackson stepped inside with her, Nicole understood. A young woman wearing the starched frilly apron and matching dust cap of a shop mistress gave an angry stare as she dropped into a sullen curtsy. “Good day, madame,” the woman said.

  “Good day. I have need of some clothes for my servant.”

  “Your servant, is it?” she repeated, her glare directed at John Jackson. “Your servant indeed.”

  A man’s voice came from the back room, saying, “That will do, Matilda.” A gray-haired shopkeeper appeared through the rear curtain. “Go and help with the sorting. Clothes, did you say, madame?”

  “Yes, an entire ensemble,” said Nicole, enduring a final fur ious glance from the young woman before she departed. “Which must all be ready in four hours.”

  The older man halted in the process of taking down a bolt of broadcloth. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Four hours,” Nicole confirmed. “Longcoat, frilled shirt, vest, breeches, stockings. Silver buttons on vest and coat and breeches.”

  “Silver buttons,” the man repeated numbly. He glanced at the rear of the shop as there came an angry mutter. But he stiffened his shoulders and said, “Madame does of course realize there is a war on.”

  “I will pay handsomely,” Nicole said and took out a small bag from under the folds of her dress. She untied the drawstring and spilled sovereigns into her hand. “You must be on time, sir. I hope that is quite clear.”

  Next they entered a boot shop farther along the lane. Here Nicole insisted on paying extra for a pair of buckled shoes on display to be refitted for Jackson’s smaller feet, and done while they waited. It was only as they sat in the front room and listened to the shoemaker mutter and snip and hammer that the worries began to return. Hearing the name of Henri Robichaud spoken by the general was a hammer blow to her chest and returned each time she recalled the moment. But there was no time for such concerns. Not now. Nicole pushed away the anxiety as best she could, looked up at the grandfather clock standing in the shop’s corner, and said to Jackson, “I do so hope we have time enough for you to have a proper bath, haircut, and shave.”

  Jackson protested, “Is that all necessary?”

  “Most certainly.” She cut off further comments by inquiring, “What does your family do back in Philadelphia, Jackson?”

  He cleared his throat before answering, “My father is a minister.”

  “Indeed.”

  Jackson’s expression was desolate. “You remind me of my sister. She was the one who held to our parents’ chosen course.”

  “And you?”

  “More like the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “I admire your honesty, Sergeant. Most men would try to mask what you have chosen to reveal.”

  A flicker of something new entered Jackson’s eyes. “You’ll excuse me for asking, but you are a believer?”

  “I am.”

  He nodded. “I thought as much. Something in the way you hold yourself reminds me of everything I left behind.”

  Perhaps this was the answer, Nicole reflected. To meet this and every other encounter with faith. “None of us have moved so far from the Lord that we cannot return.”

  He searched her face. “You are certain of this, ma’am?”

  “With every part of my being,” Nicole replied. “I am convinced of this truth. As I am that your good parents would approve of how you and I have met this day.”

  Chapter 22

  Nicole’s sense of the rightness of joining forces and traveling with John Jackson was only strengthened on their journey to Boston as they left Cambridge with the westering sun. His strength of character and upbringing gradually became more and more evident.

  The boatman scowled when Jackson came into view, but the sergeant met this with a steely-eyed frown that left the boatman silent. The two men held the boat for Nicole, then stowed two bundles of clothing and clambered aboard.

  They sat and waited there till the night had fully gathered. The boatman then poled them from the creek, fitted the oars into their locks, and put his back into the crossing.

  But he had scarcely dipped the oars a half-dozen times when Jackson issued a sharp hiss.

  Instantly the oarsman held the oars in deep,
bringing the skiff to an abrupt halt. He searched the dark, as did Nicole. She saw nothing, and given the oarsman’s grunt, he didn’t either. But when he slid into his backward position and began to draw out the oars, John Jackson reached over and gripped his arm without stopping his search of the water.

  At the oarsman’s protest, Jackson turned and gave the man what Nicole could only describe as a sergeant’s eye. So commanding was Jackson’s expression that the other man immediately fell silent. They sat there, the fast current drawing them ever farther downriver. Finally Jackson lifted one hand and pointed. Nicole strained hard, but still she saw nothing.

  Then there came the sound. Softer than the splash of a small fish. It would have been missed entirely had not all her senses been so tightly fixed in that direction. A swift glint of metal on metal. An even softer hiss in response. Then nothing.

  But this was enough to have the oarsman backing them toward the American shore. They pulled into a draw created by two overhanging trees. Again they waited.

  Overhead the clouds floated like dark islands in a silver-flecked sea. One of the clouds moved aside, and a rising quarter moon emerged. Instantly the river’s tableau altered from empty black reaches to a trio of longboats. In each bow stood a man holding a musket. Oars dipped and pulled upriver as the hunters sought their quarry. But the moon was their enemy as well, and with its arrival orders were softly murmured. The boats were piloted about and aimed for the English side.

  The three remained as they were for a long time still, the oarsman watching John Jackson now as much as the water. Only when Nicole’s companion gave the signal did the oarsman pull them out into the swift-running river.

  After they had arrived back at the seminary, Nicole paced the front chamber, impatient now for the next step. Thankfully Jackson didn’t tarry, although he did reenter the hall with shamefaced chagrin. “I look like a regular fancy man,” he told her.