“Well done, Carter. I fear my belly is becoming far too well acquainted with my backbone.”
The two men looked at Gordon with the uncertainty of mates left out of a good joke. Carter said hesitantly, “The men were wondering if you—well, if you are all right, sir.”
“Never been better.” Which, given the circumstances, was good for a chuckle.
“What Carter here means to say,” added Jackson, “is we’re wondering what it is that has you in such fine fettle.”
“Well, let’s see.” Gordon pivoted around so that his back rested against the stockade’s timber-and-wattle wall. Across the yard, two soldiers walked the parapet with muskets in their hands. But not even the sight of more armed guards could negate the fact that at least here he sat with mates to either side and a beautiful blue sky overhead. “I’m no longer bound for the gallows,” he said. “And none of us are wearing chains.”
Jackson pointed out, “But we are being held prisoner, and in the foulest stockade I’ve ever seen.”
“Aye, but that’s only because you haven’t been where we last were,” said Carter, catching a hint of his skipper’s mood. “The British prison makes this one look like a field of posies and daffodils.”
“And do not forget, we have an ally on the outside,” Gordon said. “To speak personally, I’d rather have that solitary lady on our leeward side than a ship of the line with all her guns primed.”
Carter grinned. “Truer words were never spoken, sir.”
Gordon knew the moment demanded that he make one further confession. It heartened him to find the words coming steadily as he said, “And then there is the greatest gift of all, one I must also credit to Nicole. The gift of knowing that whatever I face, I do so with God and His Son.”
John Jackson’s expression was full of painful introspection. “I have many reasons to envy you, sir. But none so much as the ease with which you spoke those words.”
Gordon reached over and gripped the man’s arm. “At least here I can offer you what I have, and only be enriched myself by the gift. For this gift was freely given, that I might share it with all who seek as I do.”
At that moment, however, Gordon’s confidence in her would only have made Nicole more miserable than she already was. When she presented herself to the sentries, they wouldn’t permit her into the garrison compound, much less convey her name to someone at headquarters. “But I tell you, I am the Lady—”
“And I am telling you to be gone!” The sentry was growing red-faced, both because of her insistence and the way his mates were having a good laugh over his discomfort. “We don’t want the likes of you consorting with our troops! Now off with you before I clamp you in the public stocks!”
Nicole could see he meant what he said and so fled in distress. She limped into town, the walk leaving her so footsore that even crossing the slick cobblestones proved painful. She was filthy, frustrated, and hungry. And she had not a single answer, nothing whatsoever she could think of that might change the circumstances. Gordon was once more behind bars, locked up like an animal, like the enemy. She felt helpless, without hope or a single complete thought, and so tired she couldn’t form a decent prayer. She had only two empty hands reaching heavenward, a silent plea from a woman overwhelmed by the task in front of her.
“Excuse me, madame.”
She was so weak that her turning around caused her to wince. “Do you speak with me, sir?”
“In fact, I do.” A young man in a vicar’s garb doffed his hat and walked forward. “You look in need of rest.”
“Yes,” she murmured, and couldn’t help but let go the tears. “And so much more . . .”
The white border to his black cassock shone almost gold in the bright daylight. “We run a mission not far from here. Can you walk?”
“Barely,” Nicole replied as she wiped below her eyes.
“It’s not far. May I take your arm?”
The words of kindness caused more hot tears to trickle down her face. “I would be ever grateful.”
He matched his longer strides to her halting steps while taking a great deal of her weight in his firm grip. “You will forgive me for saying so, madame, but you speak as one highborn.”
“I am not married, sir.” Nicole’s words were so slurred she doubted whether he could understand her. “Nor could my beginnings have been any more humble.”
“But you have suffered from the distresses of war?”
“Distresses,” she repeated and would have wept had she still the strength. “Suffered.”
They rounded a corner and faced a wood-slat church with a simple white steeple. Several newer buildings had been erected to the north—long, low establishments with open porches. The smaller of the two buildings was clearly a cookhouse because out of its tall chimney wafted an aroma so fine Nicole almost cried out from the pain awakened in her stomach.
“Not far now,” the vicar said, helping her onward.
In the square formed by the church and its sister buildings a number of young children were playing. While poorly dressed, they appeared shiny clean and very happy. The vicar led her over to a long trestle table, eased her onto the bench, and motioned to one of the women standing near the cookhouse doorway. “A bowl of your soup and some bread, if you please, Mother.”
“I’m afraid the soup’s not quite done yet.”
“I doubt very much,” said the young vicar, “that our new guest will mind.”
Nicole’s hands trembled so she had difficulty holding the spoon, much less lifting it to her mouth. The first spoonful sloshed back into the bowl and onto the table. She looked up in dismay to find the woman from the cookhouse and the vicar both eyeing her with such compassion that Nicole found herself fighting back tears again.
“Just lift the bowl and sip, dearie,” the woman said. “There’s more than you who’s come in here not able to manage them spoons.”
She lowered her head so that all she needed to do was tip the bowl to her lips. She continued to shed tears as she drank the broth, all without understanding the reason why. Only after the last of the broth was down and she had used the spoon to scoop out the vegetables did she lift her gaze again. She didn’t try to match the pair of smiles facing her, for to do so would release the floodgates of her weary heart. She merely whispered, “Forgive me.”
“Ah, lass, there’s not a thing on God’s green earth you need to beg for less than forgiveness. Not from us, right, Father?”
“Perhaps the lady might care to tell us a bit of her story before you show her to a bed,” the vicar said. “At the least her name.”
“My name is Nicole Harrow.”
For some reason, this caused both of them watching her to laugh out loud. “That’s a fine name if ever I heard one,” the woman declared. “Not a night goes by that I don’t thank our Lord for another who shares your name. Charles Harrow, a saint I shall look for the instant I arrive in heaven.”
“I have an uncle by that name.” Her mind seemed gradually to disconnect itself from her body. It took all her effort to focus on the one task most important, which was to tear pieces from the bread. Her stomach was already becoming full, but still she managed to take in the bread in small bites. “And he is indeed a saint. I miss him terribly.”
The two of them sat silent across the table from her. Nicole paid this no mind. Her entire self concentrated on the taste of the freshly baked bread, the feeling of good food settling into her stomach. Not to mention the feeling of being off her feet, seated now among smiling people. And the vicar had mentioned there would be a bed for her as well.
Clearing his throat, the vicar said, “You can’t possibly be referring to the Lord Charles Harrow, Earl of Sutton?”
“Yes, that is my uncle Charles.”
“And that would make you—”
Nicole gestured with the next to last piece of bread. “Yes, Lady Harrow. My uncle put the documents in my bag, and I didn’t find them until we were at sea.” She looked up at them, b
oth now gaping at her openmouthed.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked.
“This . . . this is Harrow Hall,” said the vicar.
Nicole would have laughed had she the energy. As it was, she could scarcely manage to say, “Impossible.” She looked at the two before her. “Har row Hall is in England.”
The woman hurried into motion, scurrying around the table. “We’d best find this one a bed before she falls flat on her face.” She lifted Nicole by the arm. “Come along, my dear. We’ll have time for all these mysteries once you’ve rested and collected yourself.”
Chapter 36
General Mitchell had experienced a truly dreadful day. Reports were coming in from all sides, so much of it conflicting information that he had no choice but to discount it all. One account had the British sending boatloads of spies ahead of a full-fledged invasion. Another suggested forays were preparing to extend right around the American garrison and move inland. He had reports that said the entire British garrison at New York was headed north, others claiming the regiments from Fort Ticonderoga were going down the Connecticut River to attack the colonials from Massachusetts all the way to Delaware. His French supply ships were weeks overdue, his men restless, and he was still awaiting orders from Philadelphia.
It was approaching midnight when he finally emerged from his office. The garrison headquarters was still a hive of activity, though most of the men bore the signs of bone weariness. Finding his adjutant likewise at his desk, the general barked, “Did I not order you away?”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant pointed to a lone man seated by the front door. “This vicar has been waiting for almost six hours.”
He vaguely recalled the man from when he attended a few Sunday services with the community. “Why haven’t you seen to him?”
“He insists that he has information for your ears alone.”
“Not another,” the general groaned, then stumped over and stood in front of the man, towering over him. “Forgive me, Father, but this is not the best of days for a visit.”
“I understand, sir.” The vicar was the senior cleric of Cambridge and showed the hardship of war across his broad features. “I would not have dreamed of bothering you, except for something my younger associate came upon today. Something I have decided requires your urgent attention.”
“Yes, all right, what is it then?”
“He found a young woman wandering the streets today and so brought her back to the hostel. She was much the worse for wear, I can tell you. So much so, I scarcely wished to question her at all. But she knew things, General. Things which left me speechless. She claims, well . . .” The vicar fingered his watch chain uncertainly.
“Speak up, Father! You can’t begin to believe the fables I’ve already been told this day.”
“Precisely, sir. That is what I thought as well. Mere fables. Only this lady, she says she’s a friend of Pastor Collins, who runs our Boston seminary. And when I inquired further of her, she knew things that led me to believe she spoke the truth.”
General Mitchell stifled a yawn. A hot meal and his bed were what he needed at the moment. “So she knows this pastor on the wrong side of the Charles River.”
“No, sir. Well, yes, that is true. But it is what else she claims to know that has brought me here to you.”
By now the adjutant and men from several other offices were moving in closer toward General Mitchell and the vicar.
“Such as?” the general asked.
“Sir, she claims to have dined the night before last with the British commandant and all the officer corps of the British army!”
The general and his men found this a reason for latenight mirth. “Please forgive us,” he said. “It has been a long day. The high command dined with her, did you say?”
“And their wives too. In honor of the prince regent’s birthday.”
That stilled all laughter. The general glanced at his number two man. They had only learned of the gathering earlier that very afternoon. “You don’t say.”
“I do indeed, General. I probed as deeply as I dared, sir. She described things about the commandant’s private quarters that, well, they baffled me. Plain and simple. Utterly baffled me.”
The general was now hemmed in on all sides by his men. “What else did she tell you?”
“That the British are in disagreement among themselves. She heard two specific arguments as to what they should do with the troops marching down from . . . wait, I wrote the name out so as not to mistake it.” From his cassock the vicar pulled out a scrap of paper. “Ticonderoga. Did I say that correctly?”
The general spun about and ordered, “Have my horse saddled at once.”
“The lady says this information is given as a sign that she is who she claims, which is another amazement, I don’t mind telling you. She also says that men with even more important information are being held in the Cambridge stockade as spies. And that you have another man among your company, someone close to you, who is actually spying for the British.”
The general saw his men exchange astonished looks. They too had heard rumors of a spy operating around headquarters. “What did you say was this lady’s name?”
“I did not say, sir. Purposely I did not, to avoid being laughed from headquarters.” The vicar fumbled nervously with the cross hanging from his neck. “She . . . she claims to be the Viscountess Lady Nicole Harrow.”
The general’s roar caused the chandelier to shiver. “Where on earth is my horse?”
Chapter 37
The night turned out to be an interminable wait. Gordon’s earlier calm had given way to as great a temptation as he had ever faced, to worry and seek to vent his anger at being imprisoned again. But this time he found himself in a quiet corner, one where he could sit and reflect on all that had happened. He was weary, yes. But it wasn’t just a question of getting enough sleep. That afternoon he had dozed and woken and yet felt the same as before he slept. He wasn’t a man given to reflecting that much. Gordon had always lived for action. But there was something he sensed about himself now, an inner compass working that he could describe only as some connection to God. He felt himself being drawn inward.
With the stars for companions and the music of hissing torches and crackling campfires around him, he looked at himself. He permitted the questions to surface, those questions no man could answer and from which all strong men sought to flee. Where was he headed? What was he to do with his life? Was there a reason for his strength and his gift of leading others beyond that of satisfying his own ambitions? What of all that had brought him to this point, the hard experience of being a young man at sea, alone and bullied by those bigger, his gradual rise up the ranks, his command of as fine a vessel as ever floated, only to have it stolen out from under him? Had all this been gradually bringing him to this point, so that he might sit imprisoned within a foul military stockade and ask himself these questions? If so, what was the purpose for tomorrow? The only basis for meaning in this tide of wonder seemed that he was to do something. Accomplish something. Achieve that which, without these experiences and realizations and questions, would remain beyond him.
Yet he had no idea what that new purpose might be. He didn’t feel any more aware of the road ahead than he had before. In fact, he felt even less sure than before. The strangest component of this entire night was how much at peace he felt in spite of all the floundering.
There could only be one answer, he decided. One course that made any sense at all. And although it galled him mightily to admit it, he knew he must continue to wait. He must pray and seek what the Lord would have him do.
Close to dawn Gordon felt the chill enclosing him as tightly as the prison walls. However, this too seemed unable to penetrate the cloak of peace, the armor of strength that was most certainly not his own. Even here he could sense the Lord’s hand. He wondered how often before he had ignored what he was convinced now could only be a gift from above.
The stars remained br
ight, then came the first hint of dawn. A hue and cry alerted the guards walking the parapet to a change in the making. There was a clatter of many horses and the angry shouts of an officer being made to wait.
While Gordon couldn’t make out the words, he somehow knew. He crossed to where his men slept huddled together on a bedding of straw and filthy blankets. John Jackson and the bosun were the first to notice him, and they nudged the others awake. A good man, Gordon decided, this honorable soldier, despite his scoundrel-like appearance. Nicole had most definitely chosen well.
Gordon crouched down and whispered, “I think it is time. We’d best make ourselves ready for inspection.”
Together they went over to the horses’ drinking trough and one by one washed their hands, faces, and necks. Gordon watched as they tried to clean their ratty clothing of straw and mud, then tied their hair back in the fashion of jolly Jack-tars. Fine men, he reflected, the thought full of gratitude for their company. Too much to keep inside, he murmured, “I owe each and every one of you a debt I can never repay.”
The men were no doubt unaccustomed to such words, especially the tone of quiet affection Gordon had used. As one they left it to the bosun to reply, “We’re just going about our duty, sir.”
“No, you are not. I don’t know what lies ahead, but whatever it is, I would count it a blessing if I could remain in your company.” He repeated, “A blessing,” the power of its meaning resounding within him.
Behind him the stockade doors creaked open. Carter stiffened and said, “It’s the same ones as arrested us, Skipper.”
“Go and gather your belongings,” said Gordon.
As Gordon started to turn away, John Jackson halted him. “I’m understanding what it is Miss Nicole has found in you, sir.”
Gordon offered the man his hand. “I would hope to count you among us.”
“Ho there, you prisoner!” The chief jailer stomped across the yard while buttoning his vest. “The officer wants a word right away. Step smartly!”
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