The Beloved Land

by T. Davis Bunn

  The men before him were absolutely silent, gripped by the power of the story and the fervor of its delivery. Nicole sat with her hands clasped before her, spellbound by this new facet of her husband’s gifts and leadership of men.

  “This slave trader made dozens of crossings from Africa to the Americas with his human cargo. He became renowned on seven seas for his strength, savvy, and wisdom. He was also vicious and spiteful, but utterly courageous and successful. Wealthy and feared, he was counted as a triumph by the entire world.” Gordon gazed out over the railing for a moment, then said, “And then, in the belly of a dark sou’wester, with the storm raging and the heavens splitting, John Newton came face-to-face with his Creator.”

  Gordon now looked around the group. “John Newton gave up his success, his ship, his career. He returned to England to begin the study of the Scriptures and of Greek and Hebrew. In 1764 he was ordained and took a church in Olney.” He hesitated a moment, this time glancing quickly at Nicole, then back to the men. “Some of you know of my own dark night of the soul, not in a storm but in British captivity. I was destined to hang as a traitor. I turned to the same Lord as Newton, asking for deliverance of my soul from eternal death. He granted my petition and also delivered me from the hangman’s rope, so that I am able to stand before you and declare my allegiance to God for time and eternity.”

  The silence hung over the deck, and then Gordon’s strong baritone took up Newton’s latest hymn: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” As the men’s voices joined in, tears filled Nicole’s eyes at the evidence of God’s grace all around her—in her husband, in these hardened men singing this song of redemption, in her own gropings for inner peace and having found a home for her heart.

  She joined her voice with the rest in the last triumphant verse, “When we’ve been there ten thousand years … we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise …” And give thanks to the Lord for His goodness, she finished in silent reprise of her earlier reading of the psalm.

  Chapter 24

  Although the new nanny was young, she was most conscientious about carrying out her duties with utmost care. Judith was very relieved each time she reported to Charles on the young woman’s abilities.

  “So you are telling me,” he quipped as Judith described how Mistress Paige had quietly and firmly handled an obstinate John at breakfast, “that God did not make an error after all in bringing her our way?”

  “We should have made a mistake—a dreadful mistake—had we sent her back. She is really quite mature—very bright and quick to learn.”

  “She has not had an easy lot, I am thinking.”

  Judith shook her head. “I think John is good for her. She seems really taken with the wee lad.”

  Charles made an abrupt change in the conversation. “I have had another letter from our man. This time he is back on the coast. He has finally located someone who knew someone who had worked for an orphanage there in France. It seems that one truly did exist.”

  “So at last, some good news.” Judith moved closer to Charles as he sat at his desk fingering the letter.

  “Not much, I am afraid. But at least a small lead that encourages me. There were records, but no one seems to know if they still exist. He is trying to locate them. If he should fail, he is not sure what the next step should be. Since this search is getting to be costly, he wonders if I wish to drop the matter.”

  Judith stood quietly waiting. “And do you?” she finally asked softly.

  Charles finally stirred. His thumb and forefinger moved to his brow to massage his forehead. “No,” he said. “Not as long as there is any shred of hope. I want to do this for John Price. For his daughter, Catherine. For Nicole. And in doing it for them, for my brother Andrew as well. It is strange. I can’t really explain it, but I guess, in some way, I want to do this for myself. I think I will find pleasure in tying up this thread in their family heritage. I keep thinking, what if I had discovered that I had a sister—somewhere? A sister whom I had never had the privilege to know? I would want to find her. I truly would. And it seems—a mission of sorts to help them discover her identity.”

  He looked up and the fingers dropped again to the desktop. “Do you understand?”

  Judith nodded. “I would want to find her too,” she agreed. “With all my heart.”

  Days later Charles hurried into the room, waving another letter. “He has found her,” he exclaimed, causing Judith to relax against the damask chairback, full of relief and excitement.

  “Well—not ‘found her’ exactly, but he has information. An old man from the village had a sister who worked for the orphanage. He remembers her speaking of the young girl who was brought there under very unusual circumstances. It was whispered that the father was British and that he had fled the country. The young mother had died in childbirth. The date tallies with the one given by John Price.”

  Judith found her voice. “That is wonderful news. Does she still live?”

  “We do not know. The child did not remain there. By some means, she was sent away by sea—he thinks to the New World, as best he can tell from the fragments of information. Whether she was adopted beforehand or if she was to be adopted on the other side also is not known.” He looked again at the pages he held. “There is also the possibility that she was merely transferred to another orphanage. All we know thus far is that she had been in France and she was sent out, probably to the area of Nova Scotia because of the French connections through the Acadians.” His face became serious. “Nor do we yet know if she ever arrived at the destination.”

  Judith did not need to be reminded of the dangers of shipwreck or disease on an ocean voyage, nor of the number of young children who succumbed from one cause or another. “What do we do now?” she wondered.

  “I am sending immediate orders for him to try to procure passage. If it is impossible to find a ship on which to sail, then I will urge him to discover someone in Nova Scotia or even Boston who can pick up the search over there.”

  “It seems so impossible,” Judith acknowledged over her previous enthusiasm.

  “We cannot give up now. We have found her.”

  Judith slowly shook her head. They had not found her.

  “At least we have confirmed her existence.”

  “We already knew that.”

  “But we now know where she existed,” Charles argued.

  “You are right,” Judith agreed. “It is an amazing discovery, and after all these years. Your man has done remarkably well.”

  “And now we need more. One more part of the mystery. We know where she has been. We must discover where she is now.”

  Mistress Paige soon won the hearts of the entire household. In spite of her small stature and plain features, it was not long until the kitchen chatter was only about her beautifully expressive eyes and engaging smile.

  As for John, he quite adored her. She sang to him morning and night, and in between as often as he requested a song. And the evening ritual was to gather in the front parlor to listen to another short concert on the pianoforte. John was now able to recognize some of the pieces well enough to make his own requests. His aptitude for music pleased Judith to no end. “I do think he has a gift,” she informed Charles on several occasions, to which Charles always smiled and nodded his agreement. He told Judith his intention was to nurture that gift to its fullest potential. They encouraged Lenora Paige in her singing and playing. The latest in music was ordered from London, with instructions for the academy there to keep them supplied in the future.

  It was concert hour, and Mistress Paige and John were already gathered in the front parlor, she selecting pieces from a new music book, he touching the keyboard with his small fingers. Charles had instructed the child that he could “play” the instrument one note at a time. He would plink a key, bending his head over and to the side so that he might listen carefully. Drawing the heavy draperies before night fell, Judith smiled to herself as she watched the little boy w
ith the serious expression.

  The tinkling notes continued as Judith moved to take her customary chair. Suddenly she paused, her full attention turned to the boy and the piano. The random pressing of the keys had gradually changed. It sounded like a nursery rhyme tune coming from the keyboard. Surely not, she quickly dismissed the idea.

  Then the melody came again.

  “Mistress Paige,” Judith whispered. The young woman’s head lifted from the music. “Listen.”

  Judith saw the girl lean forward and a smile spread across her face.

  “It’s the little song I sing to him at bedtime,” she whispered back in excitement.

  John seemed totally oblivious to their presence. Over and over one tiny finger of his right hand picked out the few lines of the song. He did not stop until they were played without fumbling.

  Suddenly he lifted his head and turned to his nanny. “I cannot remember what comes next. Would you sing it?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she sang the little song. A smile lit his face, and his finger went once more to the keyboard. He soon found the rest of the song.

  Judith immediately went to find Charles. “You will never believe this,” she said excitedly when she found him in the library. “John is playing the pianoforte. Really. He is playing all by himself.”

  When Charles looked dubious, Judith repeated the news and urged him to come hear it for himself. He did not require a second invitation.

  Later in their bedroom, Judith said, “I can’t help but think about Anne and Thomas—how much they are missing. …” But her voice caught.

  Charles moved to put his arms around her. “They are indeed missing this, but I have an idea that they will quickly make up for lost time when they are back with their little boy.”

  Judith nodded against his shoulder. She would leave it all in the hands of God.

  Chapter 25

  The cavalry officer drew his horse nearer to where Anne and Thomas sat in a drover’s wagon, one of several transporting the ship-weary band inland from Halifax Harbor. He touched a gloved hand to the polished brim of his helmet and announced, “Georgetown is beyond the next ridge, my lady. Brigands don’t operate this close to a settlement. Especially not in daylight.”

  “You have been most kind, Captain.” Anne tried to place some warmth into her words, but the British officer rode a stallion bred for combat, and neither beast nor rider elicited emotion other than fear from her. “Please convey my thanks to your master for providing an escort.”

  “As my lady wishes.” He wheeled his horse about and shouted a command, and he and his company galloped away without a backward glance.

  The drover in whose wagon they traveled was usually a taciturn man, but he now muttered through his mustache, “Them’s glad to be rid o’ the likes of us. Cavalry’s the proudest of the lot, and this here’s the governor’s own men. Being sent to shepherd a bunch of pilgrims must gall them something mighty.”

  “That was their duty,” Thomas noted shortly.

  The drover’s shoulder lifted in humorless mirth. “Sir, them cavalry officers would far rather be spreading havoc than keeping the peace.”

  The drover turned to look square at Thomas. “Don’t know what clout you had with his lordship back Halifax way. But it must be something powerful, him sending the cavalry out to watch our passage like he did.”

  Truth be told, neither Thomas nor Anne had wanted to make their presence known to the authorities. But their arrival in Halifax had come at a time when virtually every able-bodied soldier had been sent south for the coming summer campaign. And with them had gone almost all available supplies.

  Two days spent walking about the town’s markets had revealed just how difficult it would be for the Dissenters to equip themselves for their westward jaunt. There were no wagons. Nor horses or mules. Foodstuffs and dry goods were priced out of reach if it hadn’t been for the secret Harrow bequest through Thomas and Anne. Fortunately they were able to find seeds, farming implements, axes and nails and building supplies. Anything not required for the war was there in abundance. But tents were impossible to locate. As were cooking implements.

  Anne and Thomas had finally agreed to make an appeal directly to the governor. Invoking Charles’s name had resulted in instant action, for London politics had not filtered across the water. As far as the governor knew, Lord Charles Harrow, ninth earl of Sutton, remained in full royal favor, one of the richest and most powerful men in the realm. The wagon train of settlers and goods was soon on its way with Anne and Thomas riding along as far as Georgetown.

  Finally, finally, they crested the ridgeline. Up ahead a white cross atop a narrow steeple hung over the surrounding forest. Anne felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight.

  She slid from the lumbering wagon to walk on ahead. Thomas climbed down as well and in three strides was beside her.

  “Oh, Thomas, I’m so anticipating this, but I’m so afraid—”

  “Yes, I understand,” Thomas said, tucking her arm in his. “But whatever we find, my dearest, the Almighty has been before us.”

  Anne drew a fraction closer and matched her stride to his. Light and shadow filtered through the tall pines and hardwoods onto the lane, far broader than she recalled. Georgetown’s edges now reached toward the outlying farms.

  Even in her uncertainty about her father’s condition—or even if he was still with them—she felt her heart surge with anticipation. They turned down the central lane heading toward the market square and the town’s heart. The market square was packed and bustling. A murmur began in one corner by the vegetable stall. Fingers pointed her way. A woman in black and gray broke away from the others and hurried over with a small cry, then, “Do my eyes deceive me?”

  The voice sparked a memory. “Goody Newton,” Anne moved quickly toward her, “it is so wonderful to see you again.”

  The old woman raised her hands toward the cloudless sky. “Praise be to the Lord of all,” she cried. “This is indeed a miracle.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  When the woman hesitated, Anne took a desperate hold upon Thomas’s arm. “Tell me!”

  “It’s your dear, saintly father, child. He took a terrible turn not two nights ago.” The old woman pointed a trembling finger down the lane. “Hurry now, there’s not a moment to lose. May you arrive in time!”

  Chapter 26

  Anne had used every device in her meager stock, willing her father to regain strength and health as she bent over his bed. The herbs had been made into a series of hot infusions, and every time Andrew regained consciousness he had been urged to drink. She had prepared a strong emetic, saying the age-old words as she helped him swallow—that first it would make him feel much worse, then it would make him better. With flange and knife and bowl, she had bled him twice. When she had used the same treatments for Charles, he had improved. She had nothing else to go on, save that these were the ministrations that had helped bring her father’s brother back to vigor.

  Even at the worst moments, when Andrew was so weak he could barely raise his hand and her remedies were only making him feel worse, he would whisper to his beloved daughter, “I am so glad you are here.”

  After four endless weeks of tending Andrew’s sickbed, Anne emerged from the cottage to a Sabbath morning awash in warm air and rosy hues. She walked to the gate and stood leaning upon the post, staring out at the empty lane. She lifted her face to the sky and heard the cottage door open and close behind her. The rustle of skirts signaled Catherine’s approach.

  “He is talking with Thomas,” Catherine noted as she joined Anne at the gate.

  Thomas knew nothing of nursing, but he would sit for hours beside Andrew, sometimes talking, sometimes listening patiently as Andrew attempted to converse.

  “Thomas is a promise,” Andrew had earlier told Catherine as she had stroked his hand, willing him to live.

  “A promise of what?” Catherine asked, then wished she had not.

  “A pr
omise of tomorrow,” Andrew had managed to say. “A beacon for all the morrows yet to come.”

  Catherine had gazed down at her husband, grasping at the hope in his words.

  Now she said to her daughter, “He asked Thomas to take the pulpit today in his place.”

  Anne pointed out, “We have traveled here with two pastors from England. From what I’ve heard in the marketplace, they have preached most effectively these past three Sabbaths.”

  “That is what Thomas told Andrew.”

  “What did Father say?”

  “That he would not insist, but he would consider it a great blessing if Thomas would agree.”

  Anne pushed hair back from her forehead. “Knowing my husband, I think I know his answer already.”

  The two women smiled at each other. Catherine stepped in closer. “I have been afraid to speak the words, but I think the critical corner has been turned—”

  “He had no fever last night,” Anne agreed. “His breathing is easier, and his pulse remains steady.”

  “The week after you arrived, I was seated at his side after you had gone to get some rest. I looked into my beloved husband’s face,” Catherine said, her whisper cracking, “and I saw death’s door open before my eyes.”

  Anne reached for her mother’s hand. “I was thinking of another illness—”

  “When you lost your dear Cyril,” Catherine said immediately. Her arms enfolded Anne. “My dear sweet daughter.”

  “All that first week, I feared you would lose your husband also.” Her voice sank to barely a whisper.

  They held each other and felt the sun warming their backs and necks. When the cottage door opened a third time, Thomas called out, “Grandfather is in here burning the husks and turning the morning tea black as night.”