The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Dear child,” he whispered, wiping one away and bringing his finger up to his mouth to taste it.

  “You speak as if you were so ancient, as if your life is half over,” she said, trying to figure some way of refuting what he was telling her.

  “I am and it is.” He wore such a sad smile. “I feel all dried up inside—as if I’d been all used up.” He brought a handkerchief up to her cheeks and wiped away the dampness. “You mustn’t cry. I can’t bear it if my being here causes you more pain.”

  “Your coming here brings me joy, but your saying goodbye fills me with grief. I…I’m so afraid I’ll never see you again.” Her lips began to tremble.

  He shushed her with his fingertip. “You have to go back to your family, your life…You are too good for this place.”

  “I’m not ‘good!’” she cried, her fingers clutching his cloak.

  “Yes, you are. You are all that is goodness and light. The people here have been too blind to see that.”

  “I’m not like that,” she insisted, half laughing, half crying, despair filling her as she realized what she hadn’t before, that this really was the end.

  “Don’t ever change,” he continued softly, his hand once again cupping her cheek, his thumb pad stroking it. “Maybe then, when I think about you, all the way across the ocean, it will help me to stay the course.”

  “Don’t speak that way,” she said, not caring that she was openly crying now.

  “Hester!”

  They both turned as they heard her father call from the foot of the gangplank.

  “You must go,” the major told her. When she made no move, he gave her a little push away from himself.

  Hester put her hand to her mouth. Why must she choose? The two men she loved best were at opposite ends of the quayside.

  “Go, Hester,” the major urged her. She took a step back from him, and reluctantly disengaged from his embrace.

  He gave her a little salute.

  There were so many things she wanted to say to him. Write to me. Come to me! Ask me to stay! I love you! But she said none of these things. Instead she reached out one last time with her bare hand to his stubbly cheek.

  “Remember that Jesus loves you.”

  His only reply was a twisted smile, which smote her heart. It showed her he would give anything to believe that but was unable to.

  “He has called you friend,” she told him. “I call you friend. Goodbye.” Though there was much longing in her heart to remain, she finally turned away and began her slow trek back to the ship. Her father was standing only a few yards away, but he didn’t approach her, letting her come to him of her own will. She gave him a grateful look for not having interrupted her time with the major.

  Now he only took her arm silently and helped her back up the gangplank.

  “Goodbye, my friend,” whispered Gerrit to Hester’s departing back.

  He didn’t leave the quay until Hester had reboarded the ship. He stood watching until he saw her tiny figure high above him, leaning against the rail. He knew when she’d spotted him, although neither one waved to the other.

  He waited until the first sails were unfurled and he heard the shrill sound of the boatswain’s whistle. Slowly, aided by the departing tide, the great ship began to move. The rain had stopped and a light breeze filled the foremasts.

  He knew Hester watched him as he watched her until the ship disappeared at the bend at the Isle of Dogs and the East India Docks.

  “Goodbye, Hester,” he whispered to the foggy air enveloping the now empty quay.

  “Time to get up, sir.”

  Gerrit mumbled something and turned away from the stern voice.

  Next he was roughly shaken.

  “What the—”

  “Up and at ’em,” Crocker said firmly, as he had each morning at what seemed only a few minutes after Gerrit’s head had touched the pillow.

  Gerrit rubbed his face, wanting only to bury it in his feather pillow and disappear back into sleep. But his faithful batman was already thrusting a cup of coffee at him. Gerrit pulled himself up, every muscle sluggish, and took the cup in a hand that had a slight tremor to it.

  As he sipped at the strong hot drink, he watched Crocker get his shaving things together.

  “All right, sir, get yourself over here so I can make something of that ugly mug o’ yours.”

  Gerrit set the half-empty cup on the bedside table and stretched. He felt a hundred years old. With a shudder, he stood and, picking up his cup again, ambled over to the chair Crocker indicated, knowing it was only with Crocker’s prodding that he was able to face each day as the commander of a troop.

  As soon as he sat down, a hot towel was wrapped around his face. Then lather covered his whiskers and next Crocker’s sharp razor was scraping away at the previous day’s growth.

  “You know you can’t keep this up,” Crocker began as he wiped the razor against the towel draped over his shoulder.

  “Keep what up?” he asked, his eyes closed, knowing full well what Crocker was about to say. He was amazed the man had kept quiet until now, although every morning and every evening he’d eyed him with that look, which said more than a shake of a head.

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about it, so don’t treat me like a flat. You can’t get jug-bitten every night and stay out till the wee hours, then expect to be at drill by eight the next morning.”

  “I seem to be doing fine.”

  Crocker gave a loud humph as he scraped the razor down Gerrit’s jaw, just missing his earlobe.

  “Watch you don’t slit my throat.”

  “Why not take you out o’ your misery and be done with it?” was his only reply.

  They spoke no more. Gerrit stood and splashed cold water on his face. After he’d washed the rest of himself and donned the freshly pressed uniform Crocker held out to him, he felt once again that perhaps…just perhaps, he could get through one more day.

  To what purpose, he didn’t know.

  “Well, I’m off to the parade grounds,” he said to his man as he was ready to leave.

  “Maybe you should take a fall off that horse o’yours and break your neck. Put us both out of our misery!”

  Gerrit chuckled and closed the door after him.

  Knowing Crocker was right didn’t help Gerrit change his ways.

  Since Miss Leighton’s departure, he found he couldn’t face his free time alone. As soon as his duties of drilling and reviewing his troops were over, he headed to an out-of-the-way tavern, having no desire to be with any one of his former drinking companions, and began to drink. It was the only way he knew to blunt the edge of his memories and to avoid thinking of the future. Even the next day was too daunting to face.

  It was only in the hours after midnight that he was able to stumble home and collapse in bed. Sometimes, he miscalculated. He’d thought his mind was sufficiently benumbed, but when he lay in his bed, the images would come. Hester, Lady Gillian, the French cadet…every bloodied soldier on the battlefield…all colliding on the panorama of his mind until he thought he’d go mad.

  He tossed and turned on his bed, wanting to shout for it to stop, but knowing nothing would help. He clutched his temples and buried his head in his pillow to stifle any sounds. Finally he’d have to rise, although his body protested with fatigue, and go to his table and pour himself another drink with shaking hands. He drank like one parched, the liquid spilling down his chin.

  Why don’t you kill me, Lord, kill me and be done with it? His mute scream went unanswered, as he knew it would.

  Scarcely more than a fortnight since Miss Leighton’s departure, Gerrit stood at the same quay and looked down the Thames. This day was a crisp September afternoon, the sun bright against the water, enough of a breeze to cause a light chop to the waves.

  He’d come to a conclusion the night before. Either Crocker was going to find him one morning drowned in his drink, or he could take the only salvation offered him.

  He c
ould go after Hester.

  She was the only one who could save him. If she couldn’t, then there was no hope for him. It was that simple.

  He kicked at a piece of debris at his feet and watched it fall into the river. It bobbed a few seconds in place before it began to float down the river toward the sea.

  Yes. He had to follow that same course. Leave England and head to America. Discover if it was possible to make a new start.

  Putting his plan in place took more effort. As he sat that evening totaling his debts and figuring out a way to pay for a passage to America, he realized it was nigh on impossible.

  On his next free day, he went to visit his father.

  “Off to America?” he said, pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He lifted it before Gerrit, but Gerrit shook his head in refusal. “No? Well, no matter.”

  His father took a sip. “Fine Madeira. Had it from a fellow in town last time I was there.” He sat back in his armchair with a satisfied sigh. “So, tell me more of this venture. Duns after you? You could go to France, you know, now there’s the peace. Fellow can live a decent life in Calais, I’ve heard, on a pittance.”

  “I’m going to sell out. Use the funds to pay off my debts. I may still be shy for my passage.” He stopped short of asking his father for any help. He needn’t have bothered.

  “Sorry I can’t help you with anything. In a bit of a fix myself at the moment. You know how it is.”

  Gerrit looked at his father, his once handsome face slightly bloated, the bags beginning to become more pronounced under his eyes, the black hair now streaked with white, but heavily pomaded.

  “No, I didn’t expect you to,” Gerrit assured him. “Just thought to stop by and tell you and Mother my plans.”

  “Well, let us know when you’re leaving. Maybe we can host a send off. Any excuse for a party will cheer your mother.”

  Gerrit left a short while later. After pawning anything of value—every miniature of any lady who had given him one, his gold watch and cuff links, he stopped short at his Waterloo medal. That should bring in some money from some collector, he admitted, weighing it in his hand. It was either that or sell Royal.

  He sighed, having to face the prospect of giving up his horse. That turned out to be harder than all the rest.

  Finally, he visited his sister to tell her the news.

  Delia stared at him when he told her of his departure. Instead of crying out a protest as he’d expected, she reached out a hand and squeezed his. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”

  He gave a grunt. “My senses?”

  “Go after her. She’s what you need.”

  He turned away from his sister. “I’d have to win her first.”

  Delia touched him on the elbow. “I don’t think that will be so difficult.”

  “I won’t come to her a ne’er-do-well or pauper.”

  She considered. “I see. You don’t want things easy this time, do you?”

  He shook his head.

  She sighed. “I wish you Godspeed then.”

  He finally told Crocker.

  “Are you mad?” were his faithful man’s first words. His look of disbelief was almost comical.

  “Most likely,” he answered cheerfully. Since he’d sold everything of value, beginning with his commission, he’d felt a certain lightening of the heaviness that had seemed to weigh down on him since returning from the Continent.

  Crocker scratched his head. “Well, when do we leave?”

  Gerrit braced himself for what he must answer. “I’m going alone this time.”

  The older man looked at him. “You’re serious.”

  Gerrit nodded.

  Crocker’s shoulders seemed to slump the tiniest bit. Then he turned away, busying himself with straightening a chair.

  “I want you to have Royal.”

  Crocker swung around to him. “You’re giving her up?”

  Gerrit shrugged, having come to terms with the reality of it, and comforted by the fact that he could trust Crocker with his horse. “I want you to have her. You saved my life more than once on the battlefield…and now, these past few weeks…” Gerrit swallowed, his throat suddenly thick. He turned away from the older man. “Anyway, consider it barely a recompense for your services all these years.”

  Crocker was rubbing his face, as if still trying to digest what Gerrit was telling him. “But…but you could…sell Royal to pay off your debts.”

  “Those are taken care off. There are plenty of young gentlemen eager to pay a sizable sum for the glory of an officer’s uniform in peacetime.”

  “But that money’s your capital. What’ll you use for blunt to start your new life in America?”

  He gave a slim smile. “My wits, as always, I suppose.”

  Crocker fell silent a moment. “I sure hope the lady is worth all this.”

  Gerrit answered without hesitation. “She is. The question is, am I?”

  Crocker approached him and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s a much harder question for a body to answer about himself.”

  Gerrit sat down on his bed, suddenly feeling the reality of leaving all that was familiar. “I’m burning my bridges behind me this time.”

  “Well, they say America is the land of opportunities.”

  “Just because the Almighty saw fit to spare me on the battlefield and allowed me a few victories, doesn’t mean I’ll be any good in that wilderness over there.”

  Crocker sat down beside him with a heavy sigh. “I’ve been with you a long time, sir. Seen you do a lot of crazy things. Once the notion takes you to do something, there’s none can stop you.” He paused. “But, I daresay, many’s the time that’s what’s saved the day on the Peninsula—when you dared what no one else would. If you ask me, you’ve got what it takes to make a go of it off the battlefield, in that new land.”

  Gerrit smiled, appreciating Crocker’s kind words. He shook the old man’s hand, squeezing it gently in his. “I pray you’re right.”

  The morning he left, Crocker was the only one he allowed to see him off. As promised, his family hosted a party for him the evening before, and when he’d left it, he’d had another send-off by his military comrades at a tavern, until dawn had tinged the horizon.

  Now he stood with his former batman in the gray light of morning. It had been almost a month since Miss Leighton’s departure, and the air was chillier, the breeze stiffer.

  Crocker, his arms folded tightly against his chest to ward off the cool, said, “Thanks for arranging things with your sister to board Royal at her stables and to give me a job as groom.”

  “Think nothing of it. She was more than happy to do it.”

  “Who knows, maybe I’ll prefer serving horses to serving men.”

  Gerrit grinned. “They’ll be a darn sight more grateful, I’ll warrant.”

  Crocker eyed him, not bothering to contradict. He cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of packing some writing paper in with your gear. Once you’re settled in, drop me a line occasionally just to let me know you’re still alive.”

  Gerrit nodded.

  “Just send it to your sister’s address for the time being.”

  “Don’t expect any news for a while.” Gerrit hesitated. “If you never hear anything, it means I’m dead…or that I failed.”

  “You’re not going to do either, sir, so I expect word some day.” He glanced up at the ship Gerrit would soon be boarding. “You certainly didn’t give me trouble with packing. You’re hardly taking a thing with you.”

  “I haven’t need of much.”

  Crocker eyed him with approval. “I must say, you look just as fine in a gent’s togs as in an officer’s.”

  Gerrit fingered the cloth of his new greatcoat. “It feels funny not to be in uniform anymore.” He felt naked in some ways.

  “By the way,” began Crocker, “I didn’t see your Waterloo medal—nor any o’them for that matter—when I packed your things. Hope you gave them to Delia for safekee
ping.”

  “I took them to Farley, as a matter of fact.”

  Crocker stared at him open-mouthed. “You hocked them! Are you loose in the haft? If you have no use for ’em, maybe your future grandchildren might have a thing or two to say about your throwing away the most honorable thing you ever earned!”

  Gerrit looked away with a sigh, not wanting to be reminded of what he’d done. “Well, many a fine gent who’s never been near a battlefield will probably find good use for them. At least Farley seemed to think so. He gave me a good price. Enough to pay my passage at any rate, with a little left over for provisions.”

  Crocker shook his head at him in disgust. “You could have asked your family to tide you over.”

  Gerrit’s father had made it clear to him how matters stood in that department. He had not applied to Delia, knowing how delicate things were with Lionel at the moment. And his brothers…one was too far away to visit and Gerrit wasn’t close enough to either one to beg for funds. But he told Crocker none of this, just shrugged once more. “What’s done is done.”

  Finally the two shook hands. “Don’t forget to write me once you see your way clear,” said Crocker. “You’re more like a son to me—” His voice broke then and with an oath, he pulled Gerrit to him. The two embraced, Gerrit feeling as if he were letting go of his last mooring in a perilous sea.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bangor, Maine Territory

  December 1, 1815

  The voyage from Liverpool, England to Bangor, Maine was not something Gerrit wanted to repeat—ever. In closed, dark quarters on a merchant ship crossing the “Western Ocean” as the sailors called it, through gales so fierce, the ship seemed ready to sink any moment and there wasn’t a dry spot on the entire vessel, the voyage lasted a grueling eight weeks. It had been much longer and more harrowing than the crossing to Spain in his younger years, despite the threat of French frigates then.

  Gerrit had never been so thankful as when the lookout shouted “land-ho” from the crow’s nest. Shading his eyes and peering into the distance, the wind whipping at his greatcoat, Gerrit saw it at last—the slim edge of coastline.