The Distant Beacon

by T. Davis Bunn

  Gordon strode over to the waiting officer and offered a salute. “Good morning, sir.”

  The officer held to none of his humor of the previous day. “It appears I owe you an apology, Captain.”

  “Accepted,” Gordon said.

  But the officer didn’t seem to be finished. His mustache twitched under the strain of forming the words. “I have heard from the general himself how critical it is that I ensure there are no hard feelings and that—”

  “You did your duty, sir.”

  “So I thought at the time,” the officer said stiffly.

  “So I would have done as well,” said Gordon. “Which is precisely what I will tell the general if he asks.” He ended the discussion by pointing to the horses brought over by the officer’s men. “Are those mounts for us?”

  “They are.”

  “Then let’s be off.”

  But when Gordon and his men were all mounted, the officer held his ground. He looked Gordon straight in the eye and saluted smartly. “Your servant, sir.”

  Gordon returned the salute and then extended his hand. “Gordon Goodwind, formerly of His Majesty’s merchant navy.”

  “Lawrence Harries, Major, New York Mounted Rifles.” The man’s grip was firm as iron, a sign of one long used to the rigors of cavalry. “The general’s compliments. He finds himself in a serious quandary.”

  “A request, Major. I would prefer to carry on this conversation beyond these prison gates.”

  “Most certainly.”

  But as Gordon urged his horse about, the chief jailer suddenly appeared. “Just a minute here! Where do you think you’re going with this lot?”

  “They are yours no longer.” Major Harries produced a paper from his greatcoat pocket. “General Mitchell has personally requested their company.”

  Gordon left the jailer standing there studying the document as he raised his hand and called, “Forward, men!”

  The major proved a decent sort by not speaking again until they’d put a goodly stretch of road and forest behind them. He finally said, “Your pardon, Captain.”

  “Not a captain anymore,” Gordon corrected, then wondered at how he could make this admission without feeling a stab of pain. Fifteen years of his life he had given to gaining that post. Fifteen years. “Gordon will do quite well.”

  “I have no doubt the general will have something to say about this,” the major predicted. “Be that as it may, the general finds himself, shall we say, at odds with a certain lady.”

  “Then,” Gordon replied wryly, “I pity the general.”

  “I would have to agree. And General Mitchell has learned from the lady that there is a spy among us.”

  Gordon felt the icy knot in his gut. “That is true,” he said.

  The major obviously noted the change in his tone and called out, “Rider!” Immediately one of his men broke ranks and cantered forward. The major carefully continued, “The lady also said that once you were free, you would give us the spy’s name.”

  Gordon couldn’t hide his smile, and he heard several of his men chuckle. The major asked him, “Have I said something humorous?”

  “We are all admiring the lady’s talent,” Gordon answered. “She has saved us yet again.”

  “And the name of our infiltrator, sir?”

  Gordon lost his smile. “Henri Robichaud,” he said.

  “Spell that, please.” Major Harries used his pommel to steady the parchment on which he penciled the name. He then crammed the paper into the rider’s hand and ordered, “Take this straight to the general. Ride!”

  Chapter 38

  Nicole spotted Gordon just as he returned the guard officer’s salute and guided his horse into the headquarters’ courtyard. Instantly she left the side porch where they were seated and flew through the general’s office and out the front door and down the stairs. Gordon slid from his horse to greet her. The dress she wore was too large, and she tripped on the bottom step. She would have sprawled in the dust had he not been there to catch her fall.

  “I say,” the major drawled, “I wouldn’t mind having such a salute upon my own arrival at headquarters.”

  The general stepped through the portico. “That might be a trifle difficult to arrange, Major. But I shall see what I can do.”

  Major Harries sprang to attention and saluted his superior officer. “Mission accomplished, sir.”

  “So I see. And all misunderstandings corrected, I hope,” he said, wiping his hands on his breakfast napkin.

  “Aye, sir. The apology was accepted by the captain.”

  “None was required,” interjected Gordon from the bottom step, “not from an officer doing his duty in wartime.” Gordon couldn’t very well salute the general, as Nicole was holding his arm. So he made do with a bow instead. “Your servant, sir.”

  “Perhaps you will be willing to accept my apology as well.”

  “Not necessary, as I have said.”

  “Ah, but it was my word that put you on the list of enemies.” Then the general’s expression turned sour, and he asked his adjutant, “Any word on that Robichaud fellow?”

  “Not yet, sir.” The young officer’s tone sounded distressed. “But squads are scouring the region this very minute.”

  “Well, bring Robichaud here as soon as you locate him.” The general waved Gordon and Nicole inside. “Perhaps you might care for a bite of breakfast.”

  Gordon replied, “I’d prefer to see to my men first, General.”

  The general’s gaze sharpened. “Major Harries will see to it they’re all fed, bathed and clothed from the slop chest.” He squinted at the man on the horse behind Gordon and asked, “Is that one of our men I see there?”

  “Aye, sir,” Jackson said, dismounting. “Sergeant John Jackson.”

  “Well met, Sergeant. It appears I also owe you an apology. Would you care to join us?”

  Gordon objected, “We are in need of some cleaning up, sir.”

  “We’ve all eaten more road dust than is good for us, Captain.” The general returned through the front door, calling as he walked, “Three more places for breakfast!”

  Gordon turned to Nicole and whispered, “That is a most interesting frock.”

  “It was the smallest they had on hand at Harrow Hall.”

  “Where?”

  “Never mind. I’ll explain later.” She looked around at the company of men watching them and grinning. “You are well?” she said, still holding his arm.

  “At this very moment, seeing you and the dawn together and as a free man, I am as close to health and happiness as a mortal might ever hope to come.”

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Major Harries said, tipping his hat to Nicole. “Ma’am, I can’t begin to say how much I regret my words earlier.”

  Her smile and nod said more than words.

  Carter cleared his throat and said, “On behalf of all the men, my lady, we’d like to offer you our thanks. For everything.”

  “It is none less than what you would have done for me,” Nicole replied, addressing them all. “And have done numerous times in the past.”

  The men offered her and Gordon both salutes and farewells as they departed. With John Jackson on one side and Gordon on the other, Nicole walked through the crowded main hall and entered the side veranda. The general waved them over and said, “Please, sit down and take your fill.”

  As Gordon and Jackson shifted their attention to the welcoming repast, the general continued, “Miss Nicole has refused to discuss the matter until you gentlemen arrived. But now, with your permission, the matters of war can wait no longer.”

  “Most certainly, sir.” Gordon said, holding back from saluting the general with a biscuit in his hand.

  “My initial inquiries have proven futile. I have yet to find anyone who has ridden with this Henri Robichaud. The man has a reputation as a fighter and a loner with a fierce temper. He is shunned by one and all.”

  “I am not the least surprised,” said Nicole. She pushed
aside her plate. The excellent meal now sat like a stone in her stomach.

  “Why do you say that, ma’am?”

  “For one thing, the name itself is a falsehood.”

  The general and his retinue all fastened their eyes on her. “I beg your pardon?” the general said.

  “It is not this man’s real name,” she confirmed. “The real Henri Robichaud is my father.”

  She watched consternation grow among the gathered men, and she sensed more officers crowding in from behind. The general required a moment to collect himself. “Forgive me, but you have said your name is Harrow.”

  “That is correct,” Nicole said. Her regret now became a physical pain. The collection of strangers viewing her and hearing every word couldn’t stop her from looking to Gordon and saying, “You cannot imagine the sorrow it causes me to have you hear certain new portions of my history in such a manner.”

  Gordon took her hand in his and said, “Before all men and before God, I tell you I will always be grateful to have met you and to have come to care for you as I do.”

  “I say,” the general murmured.

  “Tell them what you must,” Gordon quietly urged her.

  Nicole took a breath. “I was born the daughter of Andrew and Catherine Harrow, in the province now known as Nova Scotia. My mother’s closest friend was a Frenchwoman from the neighboring Acadian village. She had a daughter, Anne, who was both very weak and constantly ill. There was no French doctor available, and the British doctors refused to treat a French baby. So the mothers traded babies so that Catherine could take Anne to Halifax. While they were away, the British concluded a series of raids. Every Frenchman, woman, and child was expelled from their homeland.”

  “Forgive me,” the general interrupted. “How old were you?”

  “Twelve weeks.” She held her gaze on Gordon, who knew this much and strengthened her resolve with the care in his eyes. “The ships took my people to every corner of the earth. Families were separated, never to be reunited. We were at least fortunate enough to remain together, and alive. Of the seven ships bound for Charleston, only ours and one other ever made it. We spent almost eight years living from hand to mouth, begging work wherever we could. Finally we heard that the Spanish were offering land and seeds and tools to any Acadians willing to go and settle the bayou territory of the Louisiana province. The trek south took us over a year, for we had to stop often and labor for food and supplies.”

  She glanced at the general and saw a man who looked like he had been struck a blow. “My father, Henri Robichaud, is one of the finest men who has ever walked the earth. It is only because of his strength, and the strength of his faith, that I am alive today. I, my family, my village, and many other villages besides. He is more than mayor of our town. He is a leader who should be wearing a crown. Henri would never be party to such a cruel betrayal. I feel ashamed that I even doubted this.”

  It took the general a long moment to find his voice. “Then who is the imposter?”

  “We must wait till the man arrives to find that out,” she said.

  “But you suspect someone?”

  “From the description Gordon gave me,” Nicole said slowly, “I fear so.”

  A hail from the front sentry drew them all around. Several of the officers rushed out, and one returned to announce, “It appears the Frenchie is here, sir.”

  The general was already up. He tossed his napkin on his plate and offered Nicole his hand. “If you please, my lady.”

  She was unable to answer nor give adequate strength to her legs. Although she wanted all this behind her, still it was terrifying to rise and face what she thought might lie ahead.

  The general remained still a moment, a compact and battered warrior whose outstretched hand had been molded by years of reins and saber and command. “While I battle against everything that British nobility symbolizes, just now I can think of no other title for you than ‘my lady.’ ” He gave a military bow. “My lady, if you will accompany me, please.”

  The squad filling the headquarters’ courtyard was spread out in the casual manner of men who had spent far too long in the saddle. The horses and riders were coated liberally with dust and muck. Three men stood well back from the others, stationed to block the only way in or out. The man at their center was neither a prisoner nor free. He sat easy and low atop his steed, the leather slouch hat concealing the upper two-thirds of his face. But what Nicole could see clearly—the indolent mouth, the handsome chin, the broad shoulders, the long raven black hair—was enough to freeze her soul.

  “Steady there, my lady,” the general said, his grip now firm on her arm. “Remember, you are among friends here.”

  The general’s words were muffled by Nicole’s rising fury. This man had not only lied about his identity, he had stolen her father’s good name and taken money in return for the casual destruction of her beloved. Nicole’s body shook with rage.

  The squad leader saluted General Mitchell. “Lieutenant Rightly, sir. I’ve brought him straight here as ordered.”

  “Well done, Lieutenant. You and your men remain as you are.” The general then raised his voice and barked, “You there, whoever you are, remove your hat!”

  With an arrogant sweep, the rider flipped his hat back so it hung from his neck by a leather braid. The dark gaze slid across Nicole’s face. He drawled in French, “Still wearing castoffs and hand-me-downs, I see.”

  “Enough!” The general’s face had gone brilliant red. “Do you know this man, my lady?”

  “My lady,” mocked the man, his English heavily accented. “My lady, indeed! She is nothing more than an ignorant village lass, who will sing any tune you wish so long as it earns her a meal and a bed!”

  “Hold hard there!” Gordon stepped to the forefront, his eyes blazing.

  The Frenchman rocked back in his saddle. “You!”

  “That is right, traitor, it’s Gordon Goodwind. And if you have a mind to see tomorrow, you will address the lady as such!”

  The Frenchman made an obvious attempt to recover. “General, you cannot possibly accept the word of a spy and a trollop against my—”

  “Enough of that!” General Mitchell rapped out again. “My lady, do you recognize this man?”

  “Yes I do, sir.”

  “His name, if you please.”

  Nicole swallowed, her eyes steady on the man. “His name is Jean Dupree.”

  Chapter 39

  Major Harries offered a gloved hand and said, “I will be happy to hold the reins, Miss Nicole.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She waited for Gordon to dismount and come around. She needed no assistance, but it felt good to draw from his strength at this time. “It is most kind of you to see us out here.”

  “General’s orders, ma’am. And my pleasure.” The major lifted his voice and called up to the stockade’s parapet, “Ho there! Official visitors from General Mitchell to see the prisoner Jean Dupree!”

  Soon the tall prison gates swung open, and she and Gordon started forward. Gordon commented shortly, “Never did I think I would willingly pass through these portals again.”

  The stench of overcrowded men wafted out. “I could never do this without you,” she said weakly. “Never.”

  “You need not do this at all.”

  “Yes,” she replied, walking through the gates and nodding to the waiting chief jailer. “I must.”

  “Very well, then.” Gordon addressed the startled jailer, “Gordon Goodwind and the Lady Nicole Harrow to see Jean Dupree.”

  “He’s back in the cage with the others doomed as traitors.” The jailer gave Gordon a wary look, but when

  Gordon said nothing, he merely pointed them toward the guard hut. “I’ll ask you to wait in there while I bring the prisoner out.”

  The wait seemed to last forever, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Jean Dupree towered in the doorway. “Come to gloat over me?” he demanded.

  Nicole debated whether she should ord
er him to speak in English, then decided it didn’t matter. She could translate for Gordon later. “I have come to say that I have begged the general for your release,” she said in French, “and Gordon has aided me in this.” She motioned him to the seat across from them. “Sit down, please.”

  Reluctantly Jean lowered himself down, while three armed guards stood careful watch nearby. His chains clinked when he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. His next words were in English and directed at Gordon. “You know what she has just told me?”

  “I don’t know much French, but from your expression I imagine she has said how she has asked the general for your pardon. And I have added what weight I could to the request. But he’s having none of it, I’m sorry to say.”

  A hint of Nicole’s former ire remained with her still. The taste of ashes was bitter in her mouth, not only from the anger she had felt before, but also because of the love she’d wasted on this man. All night she had prayed, and once again God had seemed silent. Yet this time the stillness had been answer enough. For through this nighttime vigil had come a sense of rightness. She carried it with her even here. “We will do all we can to have your sentence lessened. For the moment, they are remaining very severe.”

  “Then there is little hope of success,” Jean Dupree responded with a smirk. He seemed altogether unfazed by what she’d just said. “Seeing as how I am to hang in four days’ time.”

  Nicole studied the man who had first stolen her heart, then robbed her nights, her mind, of peace. “What brought you to such a grievous betrayal?”

  “Your father had me banished.” Although his speech held to a casual tone, there was fire in his eyes. “In revenge I took his name and besmirched it everywhere I possibly could.”

  “Besides his faith, his good name is what my father prizes most,” she reproached him.

  “Well do I know it.” The smile was tainted with bitterness, anger. “I cannot tell you what pleasure I have had in building him a new reputation that stretches now from Louisiana to Boston.”