The Beloved Land

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Surely you can—”

  “I tell you, Anne, I can do nothing. I have spent days going hat in hand from one place to another, scarcely receiving so much as a by-your-leave. I am unable to even approach the officials, much less request a private appointment.”

  The murmuring voices below their room increased in volume, and Anne paused till it was quieter, then said, “What will you do?”

  “The only thing I can, given the circumstances. I have sought out another to represent Charles here in London. Someone well removed from the Dissenters and their foment.”

  Anne started to protest, but realized Thomas would not have taken such actions lightly. “I am sure you did what you had to.”

  “It was agony just the same. All my life I have sought to give my clients my best. To represent them fairly and uphold their interests as though they were my own. I have not just failed Charles. I have failed myself.”

  Anne sat up in bed and said, “Thomas, hear me out.”

  The face he turned toward her was grim.

  “Thomas, you are the most honorable man I know. You have a servant’s heart, a leader’s mind, and a prophet’s will. But sometimes you are too hard on yourself. You expect too much. You want all you do to be faultless.”

  Thomas pushed himself higher against the headboard, his gaze glimmering in the room’s single candlelight.

  When he did not speak, Anne continued, “Life is not like that. Christ calls us to be willing servants. He commands us to accept our humanness and the thorns which this world presses into our flesh. …”

  Anne stopped. For the first time since Catherine’s letter had arrived, she came face-to-face with her answer. She could feel the impact of this realization and the sense of peace which accompanied it. Both together rolled through her soul.

  “Please, Anne. I pray that you continue.”

  She took a breath. “We are called to accept the imperfections life casts upon us and look to Him for strength and wisdom. We must accept that we cannot arrange the world as we would like, and that at times logic will not supply the proper course, nor will our deepest desires be entirely met. This is life in a fallen world, where wars come and go, where nations rage and people cry in torment. We must be strong, not in ourselves, but in Him. And trust that His love and His wisdom and His light will see us through.”

  He nodded slowly. “You are right.” Thomas reached over and took her hand. “I sense that you have reached a decision of your own.”

  “I have.”

  “About John?”

  “Yes.” She gripped his fingers. “I cannot risk his life in such a voyage.”

  “No.” Thomas’s voice was low. “You cannot.”

  “You have known this?”

  “I have hoped and prayed you would come to this decision. But I meant what I told you before we departed. If you had decided otherwise, I would have accepted it.”

  She raised his hand to her cheek. “You are such a good, dear man.”

  “I must be,” he replied softly, “to deserve you.”

  Chapter 7

  Gordon went through the laborious process of handing over his post to the new harbormaster, then sorted through his charts and papers to determine those that would be of value upon open waters. But the entire time, he occupied two spaces. His exterior world held to military precision. He ordered out a longboat and rowed the new master through the anchorage, talking of tides and currents and ships and the blockade. He signed the required documents, bid farewell to the harbor pilots, and invited one lieutenant pilot and a few of the best landlocked sailors on harbor duty to join his new crew.

  The majority of his thoughts, though, remained hidden away behind the stern mask of a busy officer. Inside, down deep where none save Nicole and God might detect, he remained in turmoil.

  Gordon was marrying a noblewoman. She might eschew the title, but Nicole Robichaud Harrow was a woman of wealth and holdings. Yet by giving her allegiance with him to the American colonies, Nicole was cutting herself off from her position and inheritance. The land in western Massachusetts was hers because it had been granted by the Continental Congress to Charles and he had deeded it to her. But the house had been burned to the ground during one of the battles that had raged through the colony. She had no funds with which to rebuild. All British holdings of colonials, including their bank accounts, had been taken over by the British crown. She was penniless. Despite her best efforts to convince Gordon that she would have it no other way, he could not help but question his own unwitting involvement in this loss of Nicole’s wealth.

  Gordon saluted the final cadre of harbor soldiers, thanked them in his best quarterdeck voice, then turned his face directly into the rain-drenched wind. His papers and instruments had already been sent back to his quarters. Scheduled to leave at dawn, his own men were busy with last-minute duties. Soon he would be standing upon the heaving deck of a ship under sail. He was engaged to the love of his life. He had every reason to be happy.

  Gordon was expected at the seminary for a last meal with Nicole and Pastor Collins. But his feet took him in the opposite direction. Gordon pulled the gold chain attached to his pocket watch. As soon as he opened the latch the face was spattered by the whipping rain. He wiped the face clean and shut the case without taking note of the time. In truth, he was not going to take his present anxiety to dinner with Nicole. If need be, he would make his apologies on the morn.

  His thoughts drummed out a dirge in time to his footsteps. She is losing everything—because of me. He had fought all his life to rise from humble beginnings and live according to a code of honor. It did not matter to him that Nicole was willingly giving it all up. Were it not for him, what reason would she have for giving herself to the American cause? None. It was that simple.

  Gordon found himself standing near the same point they had passed that morning on the way to Merchant’s Row. But now something else snagged his attention. Across the North Square from where he stood rose Christ Church, renamed by its parishioners the Old North Church. It was from this whitecapped steeple that the sexton had placed two lanterns to warn the Charlestown garrison that the British were marching on Lexington and Concord.

  Gordon crossed in front of Paul Revere’s silversmith shop and climbed the church’s steps. To his great relief, the doors were unlocked. He entered the sanctuary and seated himself midway down the central aisle. A number of others were there, scattered about the hall in silent communion. He studied a few of the faces and wondered at what struggles might be hidden behind closed eyes.

  He found it not enough to sit. Gordon slipped to his knees on the scratched wooden floor. He rested his forehead upon the pew before him and closed his eyes. Suddenly he found himself sensing a clarity of thought, and words formed of their own accord.

  I beg you, Lord, give me the vision to properly understand. Strengthen me so that I might see with the wisdom of heaven and not of men. Hold me to the passage of your choosing. Chart my course through the storms and torment of this life, and let neither pride nor my past come between me and your divine plan.

  Gordon went on with his prayer, asking for direction concerning his marriage to Nicole and their future together.

  He lifted his eyes to the cross hanging above the nave and said aloud, “Amen.”

  He knelt there for a time longer, though there seemed no need for further words. A deep sense of harmony filled the silence within and without.

  Eventually he pulled out his pocket watch and now made careful note of the time. If he hurried, he might still make the evening meal.

  As he rose to his feet and started back down the aisle, he spotted a familiar figure kneeling in the back pew. The face was so unexpected in this place and time it was not until the man rose to his feet that Gordon recognized him. “My good fellow!” Gordon exclaimed. When a score of faces turned their way, Gordon raised his own hand to his lips and ushered the man from the sanctuary. Once they stood upon the front steps, Gordon wrung the man’s hand
with both of his own. “John Jackson, as I live and breathe. What a delight! What a genuine delight.”

  “It is good to see you again, Captain.” Clearly the man did not expect such a welcome.

  “Don’t let’s stand upon formalities, man. I insist you call me Gordon.” He pointed at the brevets sewn into the man’s greatcoat. “Besides which, I see you have been promoted to first lieutenant.”

  “Yes, despite my best efforts to the contrary,” he responded with a wry grin.

  “Nonsense. Both Nicole and I found you to be a man of great potential. It is good to see you have finally been recognized as such.” He could not help but notice the gaunt features, the pale skin above the man’s unkempt beard, the sunken eyes.

  “You have been ill?”

  “Consumption, I’m afraid.”

  “I am indeed sorry to hear this.” Gordon looked more closely at this sergeant who had helped Nicole enter the garrison at Cambridge, then rescued Gordon and his men from the British stockade. But the man’s former ebullience was not to be seen. “Are you recovering?” he asked.

  “Slowly.” A pause, then he added, “I wintered with General Washington at Valley Forge.”

  The twilight wind gripped Gordon harder still. “My poor man. I have heard it was most terrible.”

  “Good and bad both, sir. Good and bad. The conditions were fierce, as you have heard. But General Washington took us raw colonial recruits and whipped us into a true fighting force.”

  Gordon leaned closer still. “What brings you to Boston?” he asked.

  “My family left Philadelphia during the battles, intending to come here and stay with relatives. My father learned only at the last minute he was slated for arrest as a traitor.”

  “A patriot,” Gordon corrected quietly.

  “My family has left for the West. I have neither the funds nor the strength to follow.”

  “See here now. You must come and let me arrange quarters. And a meal.”

  Jackson drew himself up as straight as he could. “I did not come seeking charity, sir.”

  “Look here, Jackson. I owe you a debt I can never repay. Were it not for you, I would have swung from a British yardarm and been buried in a paupers’ field. You know this is truth.”

  “The debt is due to Miss Nicole, not I.” He coughed, wracking his entire frame. “Forgive me. The lady, she is well?”

  “She is residing at the seminary guesthouse. The lady will be as delighted as I to see you again.”

  “I should not visit Miss Nicole in this sorry state.”

  “Nonsense, she will not mind in the least.”

  But Jackson merely shook his head. “I would ask a boon of you.”

  “Anything, my man. But let us first see to your wellbeing.”

  “This will not wait. Follow me, please.”

  The tenuous hold Jackson maintained upon strength and resolve was evident in the way he moved. The slightest cough seemed ready to topple him. But Gordon knew better than to offer aid. “How did you find me?” he questioned his guide.

  “I asked about and learned you were the new harbormaster.”

  “Today was my last day.”

  Jackson stumbled on the rough cobblestones but kept himself erect. “I was headed down to find you when I saw you entering the church.”

  John Jackson now turned down a murky alley. Other than the torch marking the entrance, there was no light. Gordon hesitated a moment, peering into the gloom. “Where are we going?”

  “This way,” Jackson urged.

  Gordon eased his sword in his scabbard and followed. The way was so narrow he could reach out and touch both walls. Rain dripped and puddled, and wind gusts blew foul odors into his face. Jackson halted before a door and banged loudly.

  “All right, all right,” shouted a voice. “I’m coming. No need to wake the dead with your racket.” The door opened and a gray-bearded face poked through. He held a candle up to inspect the visitors. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, you’re too late. We’re closed for the night.”

  Jackson shoved his way past the old man and entered the shop.

  “See here! This is no way—”

  Jackson took the candle from the old man and began searching the walls. Gordon stepped through the doorway and stood alongside the old man. The entire shop was scarcely the size of a closet and was lined floor to ceiling with glass-fronted shelves. The candle’s flickering light illuminated piles of every imaginable item. Faded medals were stacked like coins along with pistols and silverware and watches and figurines. There were clocks and goblets and stuffed birds and toys. In the corners, muskets and swords were stacked like so much firewood.

  “Here.” Jackson stabbed a finger at a dusty glass. “This is what I saw. Tell me this is what I think it is.”

  Gordon moved quickly across the room to stand alongside Jackson. In the uppermost cabinet, directly behind the shopkeeper’s table, was a tray of jewelry. The centerpiece was an emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. “Let me have the light,” Gordon said, keeping his tone even, though his heart had lurched a recognition.

  “You’re a buyer, are you? Well, that changes things, it does.” The shopkeeper shut and locked the door. “Let me get a better light going.”

  He scrambled around the back rooms, where he no doubt lived, and emerged with a whale-oil lamp. He turned the wick up high. “You’ll walk a score of miles and more to come across an item as fine as that!” he said.

  There was no denying the truth of those words. Even coated with dust, the emerald shone with brilliance.

  John Jackson moved up alongside. “It is Miss Nicole’s?” he whispered.

  “There is no doubt,” Gordon returned. The stone had been a gift from Charles Harrow and had been his mother’s favorite. Nicole had exchanged it for Gordon’s freedom. “None whatsoever.” Jackson coughed again. “I am glad.”

  “Ah, a special lady’s, was it? A friend of the officer’s?” The shopkeeper held the lamp higher still. “No question about it, good sirs, the lady has fine taste. Either that or she kept good company.”

  Gordon turned to the shopkeeper and demanded, “What 68 are you saying?”

  The shopkeeper cringed in the face of Gordon’s ire. “No offense intended, good sir. None at all. You’d think it was the real thing, that’s all I meant.”

  Gordon realized with a start that the man thought the stone was fake. And why not? How else would the item land in such a place as this? He demanded, “How much for the necklace?”

  The hand holding the lamp trembled slightly. “A great amount, good sir. A great and vast amount. I suppose you’ll be wanting the chain as well as the pendant.”

  “Of course the chain. And don’t beat about the bush, man, or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

  “The gentleman was the one who roused me from my bed.” Despite his nervousness, the shopkeeper studied Gordon with a shrewd eye. “Most officers who darken my door come seeking coins for their next meal.”

  “Which you are no doubt reluctant to give,” Gordon shot back.

  “No need for such a tone. No, my good sir, no need at all.”

  “The price!”

  “Ah, well, the price.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “I could hardly set a price on such a piece as this.”

  Gordon laughed shortly. “Then I bid you good night.”

  He turned for the door, motioning John Jackson ahead of him.

  “Wait a moment now, good sirs.” The shopkeeper hastened toward the two. “Wait a moment. I might have been too hasty—”

  “You and I both know,” Gordon said in measured tones, “that in such times you could hold this item for a hundred years and not find a buyer.”

  The old man attempted indignation. “I’ll have you know a fine lady was in here not two days hence—”

  “Hear me out.” Gordon unbuckled his belt and laid its sword upon the counter between them. “Do you know what it is I have here?”

  The gleam in the shopkeeper’s ey
e said it all. Before him lay a ceremonial sword, presented to Gordon by grateful shipowners when he had returned from a journey laden with spices and profits. The scabbard was chased with silver, as was the twined guard to the pommel. Gordon had imagined he might be buried with this at his side.

  When the shopkeeper hesitated, Gordon laid a silversheathed dagger and a powder horn decorated in the same ornate style beside the sword.

  Gordon did not speak again. He merely pointed to the locked shelf. The shopkeeper misunderstood his silence as a threat and withdrew the pendant with a trembling hand.

  Gordon gathered up the goods, waited for John Jackson to unlock the door, and wordlessly stepped into the night.

  Though the wind remained damp and biting, the rain had ceased. As the two men stepped to the end of the narrow lane, the moon emerged from behind a cloud.

  Gordon stopped in the square and faced the newly discovered cohort. “I had entered the church where you found me seeking answers from God. And you, my friend, are the clearest evidence of a miracle I have seen in many a day. I feel in my bones that your coming here was ordained by our Lord.”

  Slowly Jackson lifted his gaze to meet Gordon’s. “You are speaking as your lady does, about—” he struggled for words— “about matters of faith.”

  “Yes, I am learning to listen to the voice of God.” Gordon clapped the man’s shoulder. “And I believe you are the answer to our prayer. Nicole has a piece of land west of here, granted to her by her uncle. Armies from both sides have swept through, razed the house, burned the fields, driven off everyone who once called the place home. I am wondering if you would be willing to go there and make a start of refashioning a homestead.” When Jackson did not respond, Gordon added, “This is not charity, my man! Who else might Nicole and I entrust with the responsibility? You can go and work at your own pace until your strength returns. The place should not be left alone through another planting season.”

  John Jackson studied the cobblestones at his feet, then raised his head and nodded slowly. “I am your man.”