The Beloved Land

by T. Davis Bunn

One bright spot of an otherwise difficult season had been Gordon’s appointment as the Boston harbormaster. Up to that point, Nicole had known weeks of silent anxiety. Gordon had proven his worth to the garrison officers, and there had been several small coastal vessels lacking experienced commanders. She knew his yearning to be seaborne once again, doing his part for the effort, yet she dreaded the thought of seeing him depart. Still she had said nothing, for they remained surrounded by the tensions of war. She had been nearly afraid to pray, for there remained the question of what God intended.

  She wanted to believe the dear Lord would not tear them—and her heart—asunder. Yet she only needed to observe her beloved’s face whenever he walked along the harbor quayside as he studied the wind and the tide and the set of ships upon the waters, or see the way his features worked when discussing the seaborne world with other officers, to know how much it cost him to be landlocked. Especially now.

  Gordon’s appointment as harbormaster had been one enormous relief to Nicole. And she secretly hoped that the proximity to the sea would be of at least some satisfaction to Gordon.

  The hillside leading up to the commandant’s private quarters was lined with tightly packed row houses. Most were of timber and wattle, but some of the stodgier neighbors were dressed with close-cut stone. The candlelight from their windows gleamed wet upon the cobblestone and the surrounding wrought-iron fencing. In the night’s rising chill, in what seemed a stubborn and endless winter, the warm colors burning ruddy against the windowpanes left her with the faint promise of something beyond the woes of war. She glanced into the passing windows and imagined that one day there would be for her as well a home and family and comfort. She held more tightly on to Gordon’s arm. Would that it indeed come, and soon.

  As they approached the hill’s crest there came the sound of rolling thunder. “A storm? Now?” Nicole wondered.

  Gordon responded with a noncommittal murmur and raised his chin, as though sniffing the mist and damp for signals.

  The fog clamped about them made the sound seem to come from everywhere, great rolling booms more in tune with high summer. “Can it truly be thunder?”

  She could feel Gordon’s tension through his arm. He kept his face turned toward the houses on the seaward side. All Gordon said was, “I fear not.”

  She wanted to question him further, but they were nearly at the commandant’s home. The road had leveled off as they approached the hilltop. Now the wind struck hard, rising out of the south as Gordon had forecast and dispersing the clinging fog.

  The house was of red brick with granite cornerstones and window frames. The formal gardens before and behind had been transformed into picket lines of tents and soldiers. Their campfires created sparks now caught by the wind and flung carelessly into her face. Nicole squinted against their sting and saw that every man in the company was on his feet. At the portico clustered another dozen or so officers. All of them, every face she saw, was directed seaward. As was Gordon’s.

  She knew what she would see.

  The city hill dropped down from where she stood in a series of stairlike rooftops. The garden’s crest was fronted by a stout iron fence, high metal stakes with arrow points directed at the newly revealed sky. Beyond the slope and the roofs spread the narrow peninsula separating the safe waters of Boston Harbor from the north Atlantic. And out there, upon the inky wash of sea, the battle raged in fire and thunder.

  Nicole saw great blasts of flame spurt from guns on ships she could glimpse through the curling smoke. There in the garden, not a man spoke, not a sound rose save the wind, the crackling campfires, and the distant boom of cannon. Then one central vessel caught fire, glowing ruddy as a torch of pure terror.

  She did not realize she had cried out until Gordon gripped her shoulders and turned her from the seaborne calamity. His hand under her arm gave her strength to move toward the house. Her heart felt squeezed by grief as she thought of those fathers and sons now lost forever to their families.

  Gordon guided her to the brick path and up the front stairs. The commandant greeted her with a formal bow, then looked searchingly into her face. “It is a good sign, my lady, to find one who still has the sensibility to mourn.”

  “I begged the captain not to take to sea,” Gordon said from behind her. “If only I had had the power to forbid him—”

  “But you did not. And nor did I.” The commandant raised his head and looked at the sky. “If only I had forecast the changing weather.”

  Nicole gathered herself together enough to murmur, “Gordon did.”

  “Ah.”

  “Not with any certainty, General. I merely mentioned it as a possibility,” Gordon acknowledged.

  “That and more. Gordon all but stated it as definite,” Nicole put in quietly.

  The general turned to face Gordon, eyebrows raised.

  “A lucky guess, sir. Nothing more.”

  The wind rose to a new pitch, causing several of the tents to billow. The soldiers shouted warnings and leaped to hold down their gear and dampen the fires. At that same moment another thunderous explosion rolled across the harbor. Nicole’s was the only face that did not turn seaward.

  “The powder room has gone,” Gordon noted soberly. “Broken her back, I warrant.”

  “Those men,” the commandant said. “I hope they had time to put out their boats and …”

  Nicole pushed through the group and entered a side room. Three officers were gathered by the open front window. The wind had blown out the candles, and Nicole used the shadows for cover as she attempted to gain control.

  Gordon came into the room, soon discovered her in the corner, and walked over to take her arm. “Shall I take you back?” he whispered.

  “No, but thank you.”

  He tilted his head to catch a glimmer of light on her face. “Yes, well, the officers are waiting.”

  “Then let us join them.” She used her kerchief to wipe her eyes, and the two moved across the hall toward the parlor.

  The garrison commandant chose not to notice the shadows of Nicole’s distress, and his collection of officers took their cues from him. The general held out his arm to Nicole and offered to escort her in to dinner.

  As they walked through the side parlor, now given over to maps and charts and paper-strewn worktables, the general said, “Upon my word, do my senses deceive me, or is that goose roasting?”

  Nicole nodded appreciatively. “I cannot remember when I last tasted goose,” she acknowledged.

  The general made a small ceremony of pulling out a chair for Nicole. Gordon seated himself to her left, remarking, “If I did not know better, sir, I would say you had something in mind beyond entertaining us with a fine meal.”

  The general was caught midway in the process of seating himself to Nicole’s right. “How so, Goodwind?”

  Gordon turned so as to rest one hand upon the back of Nicole’s chair. He pressed firmly against her shoulder. “Roast goose in the midst of the direst spring I have ever seen. I can’t even recall the last time I tasted a mouthful of fresh meat,” he said to the general.

  Nicole understood then. The exchange was not for the general, but Gordon sought to draw her to full alert. She turned to face him and found in his features a warning born out of a lifetime of skirmishes and danger. “Surely you remember,” she said, attempting with her tone to say that she not only understood but was ready. “Easter Sunday. We shared that haunch of venison with those at the seminary.”

  “Ah, so we did.” Gordon eased back in his chair. “How could I forget?”

  Nicole turned to the general. From beneath bushy, silvertinted eyebrows, he studied her with piercing alertness. She gave him as unrevealing a smile as she could manage. “But that meal was weeks ago. I am so grateful for this invitation and the opportunity to enjoy this meal with you.”

  Dinner was brief and rather silent. Nicole did not mind. The goose was tough and had been cooked over a too-hot fire. Even so, her hunger proved a savory spice, and sh
e concentrated on chewing each leathery bite.

  Eventually the general set his cutlery aside and declared, “I fear we saved the poor birds from their last remaining days.”

  Nicole and Gordon both murmured polite rejoinders. “I found it to be most excellent, General,” she added. “Particularly during this time of scant provisions.”

  “Well, then, I too am delighted.” A brief gesture drew his officers to their feet. “Gentlemen, perhaps you would retire and grant me a moment alone with our guests.” To his aide he added, “Ask Cook to leave the table as is.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Only when the door closed behind the last departing officer did the general lean toward Gordon. “Captain Goodwind, you will be pleased to hear that our American Revolutionary Forces have recently extended our hold of coastal territories to include two of the harbors between here and New York.”

  Gordon also leaned forward. “Well done, sir.”

  “Thank you.” The man reached to the sideboard behind him and hefted a silver box. “A runner brought a selection of cigars. This year’s crop. Virginia’s best. Do take your pleasure.”

  “Thank you, sir. But the delights of tobacco escape me.”

  The general took his time selecting a cigar and lighting it with a candle. “You have heard of our newest vessel, the Constitution?”

  “Rumors only. She is said to be a mighty ship.”

  “Mighty indeed. She was fashioned from sheaves of the hardest wood known to man, live oak timber from southern Georgia. She saw duty in these recent battles. I have it on good report that English cannonballs bounced off her side.”

  “I would like to have seen that, sir,” Gordon said, obviously intrigued.

  “Fired well within range, yet they bounced off and fell back into the sea.” The general’s tone held the satisfied air of knowing he had hooked his prey. “We’ve heard rumors the English sailors have renamed the vessel Ironsides. Well put, I would say. Our own sailors have adopted the name as their own.”

  “I hope I have opportunity to view the vessel myself,” Gordon said. Nicole leaned farther back in her chair so the two men could converse more freely. She had no desire to see any ship called Ironsides.

  The general harrumphed quietly. “Indeed. But there is a purpose behind this little tale. In the second harbor, Captain, we captured your old vessel.”

  Gordon smiled. “That is good news indeed, General. Her owners will be most delighted. …” The general’s fingerwaving denial stopped him. “Of course,” Gordon quickly said. “The spoils of war. Forgive me.”

  “Your allegiance to distant obligations and owners is commendable, Captain. And your loyalty to America is not questioned.” The general puffed upon his cigar, eyeing Gordon through the smoke. “As a matter of fact, I am quite willing to return the vessel to your command.”

  Nicole stirred, and Gordon looked at her before asking, “And in exchange?”

  “Let me review for you the situation we face. This has been the longest and harshest winter on record. Our supplies are dwindling fast. Unless we can convince GeneralWashington to send the fleet north, the British blockade will continue to keep us trapped. I wrote Washington about this very fact. The runner who brought this fine tobacco also brought his response.”

  He paused to roll his cigar about the ashtray. “Washington has informed me that we have been promised provisions from the French government of Louisiana. But the battles in Georgia and the Carolinas have cut off all land routes.”

  Nicole was beginning to realize where the conversation was headed. A dangerous mission through the blockade to Louisiana … She shut her eyes in an attempt to work through the tumult within her mind and heart. Behind closed lids she was once more deep within the bayou country of her growing-up years.

  She opened her eyes to find both gentlemen watching her. She understood this as well. Nicole was both surprised and assured by her own calm tone. “You require my presence on the mission.”

  “I confess, it would help matters greatly,” the general nodded. “There is no doubt that Captain Goodwind will need an intermediary with the French. We are seeking not only one vessel’s worth of supplies, you see. We would like to have the captain establish a regular trade route for supplies.”

  Gordon said, “Such a venture in wartime will be expensive.”

  “If you agree to this assignment, we will send with you letters of credit drawn upon banks that operate in both territories.”

  “I see you have thought this through.”

  The general put his cigar down and leaned forward even farther. “I cannot overstress the gravity of our situation. Our supplies are so depleted we shall be forced to send you away with virtually nothing in the way of provisions.”

  Gordon could not hide his astonishment. “But we are facing a voyage of several weeks! And foraging on the way will be impossible with the British on the ground.”

  “I am well aware of that. But the fact is, sir, my men are starving.” He waved an angry hand. “I have heard the rumors around Boston and Cambridge—that the army is hoarding all foodstuffs for the push against Cornwallis and his men down York way. That is simply not true.”

  “Things are that bad?”

  “Things could not be worse. I have learned that some of my men garrisoned farther out have taken to boiling down their belts for soup.”

  Nicole knew what had to be done. There was no question. She said, “We will not require provisions from here, General.”

  Gordon’s shock was on his face.

  “My fiancé and I shall need to discuss this. But if he agrees to take on this task, we can make do with whatever provisions you are able to spare.” Nicole turned to Gordon. “Before we travel south, we shall first go north.”

  “North?” queried the general.

  “To Nova Scotia.”

  “But, ma’am, forgive me, the Canadian colonies are firmly within British hands.”

  “That may well be, sir.” She rose to her feet and offered the general her hand. “But I can assure you, we will be well received in Nova Scotia.”

  Chapter 5

  The days since Catherine’s letter arrived had taken on a subtle undercurrent of energy and preparation. Little was said. But in fact the household could sense that decisions had been made. Charles’s brother in far-off Nova Scotia was ill. Anne would soon travel to work her healing skills upon the man who had raised her as his own. Of course her new husband, Thomas, would accompany her on this perilous journey.

  But what of their precious John?

  Anne knew the matter of her son was discussed by all. She observed conversations trail off as she entered the kitchen or rear workrooms. She saw how the servants gathered about Thomas when they thought she was elsewhere.

  But nothing was said to her. Not directly. Not even Thomas pressed her. The two occasions when she had attempted to lay out the issues, he had heard her out, then merely commented, “Whatever you decide, dearest Anne, I shall accept as the right course to take.”

  “But I want you to help!”

  “This is the aid I feel I should give,” he responded, stepping closer and taking her hand.

  “But this is no help at all!”

  “He is your son, Anne,” he said, looking at her face.

  “He is yours now as well.”

  He did not disagree. “You know I love little John. I never dreamed it would be possible to love anyone so totally as I do you. And now I find it is not you only but John as well.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me what I should do?”

  “You have just answered your question. What youshould do.” Thomas turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. “In this situation, Anne, you are the only one who can decide.” He led her over to a settee and they sat down together.

  “You are the child’s mother,” he continued, still holding her hand. “I would like to think that even were John my own flesh and blood, I would be able to remain objective about this. Th
is is a decision for his mother.”

  She lowered her face and began rubbing her forehead with her hand. “I don’t understand—” “No. And it is difficult for me to explain. But I shall try.

  Should John remain here, I will miss him terribly. But you are his mother. I can scarcely imagine what it could cost you to take such a step.” Gently he stroked her bowed head. “This is one decision you must make yourself. Only know that whatever it is, I shall second it and have full confidence it is the right decision.”

  This is England in spring, Anne mused as she prepared to accompany Charles and Thomas to London for a few days in preparation for the journey to Nova Scotia. All the world seemed poised to burst into birdsong and blossoms. But just as she put the final item in her valise, then came the clouds outside her bedroom window. Very soon the dark was so thorough it seemed to fill the bedroom with its gloom. Anne fastened the straps on her case and listened to Thomas play with little John in the sitting room of their private quarters. The large Harrow manor was indeed gracious and lovely, but Anne felt truly at home when she and Thomas and John were behind the apartment’s door.

  She heard a knock on the large double door and Thomas’s voice greeting Charles.

  “My apologies for rushing you, but we really must try to beat this storm,” Charles explained.

  “I am ready,” Anne called, opening the bedroom door. She let Charles come in and take her leather case. She walked into the sitting room and stooped down to hug her son. “Now, promise me you will be a good little lad and do everything Nanny tells you,” she whispered in his ear.

  John shook his head, his face drawn into a frown.

  “We will be back so very soon you won’t even know we are gone,” Anne said, hugging the child again, then setting him down. “All right, then.”

  “Let’s be off, then,” Thomas said.

  John’s face began to cloud like the sky outside their home. “Mama and Papa stay!” he cried.

  “Come, child, let’s go see if Maisy can’t find you a little gingerbread man.” Ignoring his tears, the big woman scooped up the child and headed for the back stairway.