Beyond the Fire

by Dewayne A Jackson

  Men looked sheepishly at one another. “It would be nice to have a say in things,” said one man.

  “We already do,” said another.

  “Well,” shouted Jan DeKlerk, “who will rule? Stafford or you?”

  “We will!” was the reply, but it was mostly the men dressed in crimson and white who responded. “We will,” they cried again, and a few more voices joined their ranks.

  “Who?” Jan DeKlerk shouted.

  “We will!” The response was stronger this time. “We will, we will, we will!”

  “Who will rule Amity?” DeKlerk shouted, waving his sword in the air.

  “We will! We will!” the men shouted, and their voices nearly shook the ground.

  Heims tapped DeKlerk’s shoulder. “Sir, they’ve sent a parley.”

  Jan whirled about to see a boy racing up the slope, waving a white flag as he ran. “Sir!” the lad shouted as he ran. “A message for the commander!”

  Jan rode forward to meet him. “I’ll take that,” DeKlerk said, reaching for the note.

  “Shall I wait for a reply?” the boy asked anxiously.

  Jan nodded and opened the note. Slowly his face grew red. Philip was not surrendering. He was granting amnesty to all who threw down their weapons.

  Standing in his stirrups, Jan screamed, “Death to you!” across the valley. He ripped the paper to shreds and tossed the pieces into the wind.

  The lad turned pale and saw his chance of escape dwindling fast. Turning, he fled toward the stream and the relative safety of Philip’s small band of soldiers.

  “Kill that boy!” DeKlerk screamed. The men of Amity looked at one another in dismay. The boy had come under a white flag and was carrying no weapons, but two men dressed in crimson pulled arrows from their quivers, placed them on the string, and took aim.

  The lad had nearly reached the stream when he caught his foot on a stone and fell headlong to the ground. Two arrows zipped over his head. In a flash the lad was on his feet and racing toward the men behind Philip Stafford.

  Philip ran forward. “Come on, lad.” Grabbing the boy, he steered the lad through the men to the rear. “Are you all right?” Philip asked.

  The lad sank to his knees and began to weep. “I’m so ashamed!” he sobbed. “I shouldn’t have run.”

  “You did the right thing,” Philip said gravely. “I was wrong to send you. Jan DeKlerk is more treacherous than I realized. You can run like the wind. If we survive today, I will have much need of your speed and courage.”

  “Really?” The lad looked up in surprise.

  “Absolutely!” Philip smiled and ruffled the lad’s curly hair. “You are a good man!”

  Their words were cut short as Peter Sikes shouted, “Here they come!”

  Philip pushed his way to the front to witness several hundred crimson-clad horsemen forming ranks to begin their charge.

  Peter Sikes ran toward his own company, shouting orders as he ran. “Archers, arrows to the string, and wait for my command!”

  Philip heard a man near his right shoulder mutter, “I want the one carrying their flag!” He glanced over his shoulder to see an old man with a long sharpened stick in his hand. A fierce light shone in the man’s eyes, and age seemed to have fallen from his shoulders.

  “He’s all yours!” Philip replied, and he braced himself for the onslaught.

  The cavalry was dressed in red, and Philip was glad. He would not be fighting against men from Amity, at least for the moment.

  Away to Philip’s right, Sikes watched as the cavalry came within range. “Fire!” he shouted, and the sky turned dark with deadly projectiles.

  One could prepare for life’s trials, but until tested, he could never be sure he had learned the right lessons. Philip knew the art and theory of war, but this was the first real test of his skill. With one hand he gripped his sword, with the other his shield. Philip watched the ranks of horsemen thin, and then suddenly they were upon him. There was no time to think, only to react: step, slash, thrust; step, slash, thrust. There were deafening shrieks as horses plunged mindlessly into the fray, casting their burdens wherever they might fall. Men who were whole one moment, were limbless or lifeless the next.

  All was chaos for a few moments, and then it was over. The cavalry withdrew to regroup. Philip surveyed his losses. “You!” he shouted. “Move the wounded to the rear.” Old men surged forward, and willing hands reached for those in need.

  Men were still moving the maimed to the rear when Peter Sikes shouted, “Here they come again!”

  Disheartened, Philip returned to his position. He had so few troops. He could ill afford to lose any more.

  Jan DeKlerk watched as Philip’s men turned the cavalry once again. “It’s impossible!” he raged.

  Heims merely shook his head.

  They were not the only ones watching. The men of Amity serving under Jan DeKlerk stared in disbelief as the cavalry’s dwindling numbers gathered to charge again.

  “It’ll be our turn soon,” one man said. “If the cavalry fails, they will call upon us!”

  “If horsemen can’t get through, how can we?” one man asked.

  “Sheer numbers,” said another. “Philip can’t kill us all!”

  Men grew somber. “Should we even fight Philip Stafford?” one man asked. “Does it really matter who rules Amity?”

  “Quiet in the ranks!” a crimson-clad horseman shouted nearby. “Get in formation, or I’ll put you on report!”

  The horseman rode on down the line, and one man spat on the ground. “I’m so sick of that line. Do this or that! If you don’t, I’ll put you on report! I’m tempted to see if he would!”

  “Don’t do it!” another man warned. “They’ll send you back to work on the wall.”

  “Boy, I wish I’d never joined DeKlerk!” another man said.

  “Time’s up!” a man hollered. “We’re about to receive marching orders.”

  The men watched what was left of DeKlerk’s cavalry retreat across the stream and climb the hill toward their commanders. Their numbers were few, and though they had made a valiant attempt, they had failed to route Philip.

  Within minutes the orders came. There was a massive shift of companies. Men from Amity moved to the front while crimson-clad recruits fell in behind.

  “I don’t like the way this is shaping up,” one man near the front commented. Others nodded, and then they were on the move.

  Fifty men abreast, they marched down the hill with Jan DeKlerk and the cavalry in the lead. Their feet trampled the sod and sullied the stream. Scrambling through the muck, men surged up the hill.

  Brothers Lance and Loren Newcastle found themselves on the front lines. Strangely, their pace slowed with each step. Ahead of them, the cavalry charged into Philip’s lines yet again, and they heard the screams of battle.

  Suddenly Lance grabbed his brother’s arm. “Loren, there’s Dad!”

  “Where?” Loren asked.

  “Right beside Master Philip,” Lance responded.

  Loren studied the scene before him and tried to see through the horses and men. “I don’t …” he began, and then he shouted, “You’re right! I see him!”

  Philip had taken the few minutes between battles to rearrange his men. He had losses, but not as many as he had feared. He was wondering how long they could hold out when he spied an old man with long white hair standing among his men. He did not recognize the man, but he could see that the man was armed only with a silver trumpet in his hand. Before he could ask any questions, he heard Peter Sikes yell, “Here they come again!”

  Philip positioned himself for battle and heard Peter shout commands. Arrows flew, and horsemen once again thundered upon the intrepid gathering. Suddenly Philip heard the most beautiful sound: a clarion call, clear and shrill, resounding across the meadow. The enemy advance slowe
d, and Philip felt a new sense of purpose. He’d been called to take his stand, and he determined in his heart that no one would pass beyond this point.

  Every man on the field of battle felt an expectancy in the air, as if something were about to happen, though no one knew just what it would be.

  Lance and Loren Newcastle stared as if they had awakened from a dream. They looked at the weapons in their hands, and Lance, being the more outspoken, threw his to the ground. “I ain’t fighting my dad, Loren! They can’t make me!”

  For thousands of men, there was a terrible moment of indecision. Loren watched his brother and suddenly knew what he had to do. He wasn’t going to fight with his father either. There were men loyal to Jabin fighting alongside him on this hillside, and he knew it. He’d left Sebring months ago to keep these very men out of Amity, and now, though he had marched beside them for weeks, he would do so no longer.

  With sword in hand, Loren turned and hurled himself at the nearest crimson-clad officer. Lance watched in horror—and then grabbed his own blade and followed his brother.

  Within seconds, every man on the hillside was fighting for his life. As a reaper gathers wheat into a barn, so war gathers men into the winepress of judgment. On the gentle slopes of Amity, the grim reaper swung his scythe.

  Jan DeKlerk stood in his stirrups. The braying trumpet grated on his nerves, and he knew something was wrong—dreadfully wrong.

  There was a shout and the clash of steel behind him. Turning, he was dismayed to see his army fighting amongst themselves.

  What should he do? He tried to think, but only one plan came to his mind: destroy Philip Stafford. He had lived it, breathed it, and planned it for so long that it was part of the fabric of his soul. His army could wait. Philip Stafford had to die!

  “Heims!” he shouted above the clamor of battle. “Kill Philip!”

  His henchman nodded and lowered his spear for the attack.

  Philip heard a battle cry, but he had no time to consider what it might mean. Two horsemen bore down on him. He leaped to one side and stabbed at the first to pass. The horse reared, and its rider nimbly jumped to the ground, landing on his feet, sword and shield in hand. Philip rapidly scanned the field for the other man on horseback.

  With one sweeping glance, Philip saw his men rushing down toward the stream into the teaming hordes of Jan DeKlerk’s army. “Wait!” he called, but no one heard his call. Suddenly he was alone with one enemy he could see, and one he could not!

  Darting to one side, Philip barely escaped a blow to his exposed legs. Sidestepping another slash, Philip recognized the man with whom he fought. Christopher Heims was from Sebring. He was the only man to best James in a tournament years ago. They had used wooden sticks that day, but today it would be a fight to the finish.

  Philip circled. Steel clashed as he caught Heims’s blow with one of his own. Both men fell back, waiting. Heims was playing for time. Philip stepped over a body and struck at Heims’s legs. The man leaped away and delivered a blow that sent Philip reeling.

  A horse nickered nearby, and Philip turned to see Jan DeKlerk. Sunlight reflected from Jan’s spear, and before Philip could move, its steel point slid between his ribs. Twisting away, Philip felt something warm soak his shirt.

  Stepping back quickly to keep both Heims and DeKlerk in view, Philip tripped over a body and fell. Laughing aloud, Jan DeKlerk dropped his spear and swept his sword from its scabbard.

  Philip rolled quickly to one side, just escaping a blow from Heims, and then scrambled to his feet. DeKlerk urged his mount into the fray and came between Heims and Philip, blocking his henchman from the action. Philip ducked DeKlerk’s blow and in return stabbed upward at the man. His sword was yanked from his hand as DeKlerk’s horse reared, throwing Philip backward to the ground. Heims came at Philip with blows left and right, and Philip maneuvered his shield up and down to ward off Heims’s attack.

  Philip was growing weak, but with a desperate kick, he caught Heims in the belly and sent him reeling. Rolling away, he pulled the shield over his body, waiting for the next blow to fall, but it never came.

  Panting, Philip rose to one elbow and surveyed the carnage around him. Slowly he rose to his knees and then to his feet. Heims lay staring into heaven with a fixed gaze several feet away. He had tripped and fallen backward upon a broken spear shaft. The jagged handle had run through his body.

  Turning, Philip searched for Jan DeKlerk. A movement caught his attention, and he stared in horror. Jan DeKlerk was struggling to rise to his feet, but the point of a sword was protruding from his back. Jan dropped to his knees, looked at Philip with wide eyes, and fell facedown on the sod. Stepping closer, Philip realized that the blade in DeKlerk’s body was his own.

  CHAPTER 53

  A Different Battlefield

  It was midmorning before Katherine awoke in a wing of Stonewall’s barracks that had been converted to a hospital ward. She was bruised, sore, and covered with bandages from the many cuts she had received in Northglen Forest. Though her wounds were severe, she felt very fortunate upon seeing her newfound friend. Exposure and multiple lacerations on Mary’s weakened body had sent her system into shock. Her breathing was shallow, and her heart was fluttering with a weak, rapid pulse. It was clear that Mary might not survive. Katherine immediately began to mop Mary’s forehead with a damp cloth to cool the fever that raged within her body.

  Hours passed as Katherine fretted and worked to cool Mary. Occasionally she thought of Philip and wondered what was going on in the outside world. If only she could get free long enough to find Master Rhoop and learn what Philip was facing! Another long hour passed before a hospital aide came to assist with Mary and give Katherine a few moments of much-needed rest.

  Stepping outside the hospital, Katherine saw a very large number of people entering Stonewall from both the Waterfront ferry and the ferry from Sebring. What is going on? she wondered. She had to find Rhoop.

  Hurrying across the courtyard to Stonewall’s great house, she rushed through the crowded hallways, hoping to find Rhoop in his room. When she rapped softly at his door, there was no answer, but when she turned around, he was standing only inches from her. “Master Rhoop!” she cried.

  The old man smiled. “Yes, Lady Katherine?” he asked.

  “What is happening?” Katherine asked bluntly. “Why is Stonewall filling up with people from Waterfront and Sebring?”

  The old man seemed aged beyond his years. “Katherine,” he began, “I’ve had a message from Philip.”

  Rhoop handed Katherine a ragged piece of paper, which she grabbed and began to read. Overwhelmed by the words she read, she fell to her knees. The note ordered Rhoop to bring everyone who was willing inside the fortress for protection, while Philip would lead about three hundred men west to face Devia’s army of fifteen thousand. “The odds are not good,” Philip wrote, “but God used three hundred men with Gideon to route a far larger army of Midianites. If all goes well, people can leave the fortress very soon. If not, hold Stonewall as long as you can and pray Father comes to your rescue.” Philip had signed his note, “In God’s hands, Philip.”

  All this happened while I slept! Katherine thought. Where is Philip now? Is he all right? Will soldiers be encamped against us tomorrow?

  In a daze, Katherine left Rhoop and returned to the hospital to find that Mary was better. Her fever had broken, and she was resting comfortably. Now Katherine sought a quiet place to gather her thoughts. Refugees filled the chapel and library. It seemed that every corner of the big house was full. Remembering the balcony, she rushed through the corridors, hoping to find solitude among the plants and ferns overlooking the river.

  Reaching her destination, she carefully lifted the latch and opened the door. Thank heavens! she thought. There’s no one here! Closing the door, she sank to her knees in relief.

  Folding her arms atop a rough wooden bench, Katherine res
ted her head in her hands. Not everything is going badly, she thought. Mary is better. Suddenly, she stopped. “Oh, no!” she whispered. “I’ve forgotten to pray.”

  Chiding herself, Katherine recalled Philip’s warning that the devil was a master at derailing prayer. She had become so caught up in her work that she’d forgotten to pray at all. Falling prostrate upon the floor, she cried out, “Oh, Lord, forgive me!”

  A thousand images raced through her mind. Trying to pray for each one, she found that her mind strayed quickly back to Philip. “Oh, Lord!” she whispered. “Protect Philip!” Tears stung her eyes, and a lump formed in her throat. In her mind she could see swords glittering in the morning sun. Suddenly she saw dead bodies lying on the ground, and among them was the pale face of Philip Stafford.

  “No!” she whispered. “Philip!” she cried. Suddenly she stirred. Opening her eyes, she noted that the shadows of evening had grown long. “Oh, no!” she groaned. “I’ve slept!”

  CHAPTER 54

  Mercy

  Clutching his side, Philip stumbled toward the battlefront. His officers, Peter and Andrew, had gathered many among the opposition into their own ranks and were now driving a large number of Devia’s army back up the opposite hill. Though Philip should have been elated by the sight, he was not. Bodies lay strewn across the hillside in alarming numbers. Somehow he had to stop the killing!

  Resolve drove him forward, but he misjudged his step and fell headlong over the bodies of Lance and Loren Newcastle. He knew the brothers. They were good men, as was their father who had stood by him today. It was clear from the bodies surrounding them that they had turned on the redcoats in the end. Philip wanted to cry. How many others had been deceived until the very last moment?

  “Master Philip?” a small voice sounded above him.

  Philip looked up into the startled face of the lad who had delivered his message to DeKlerk.