Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  When the doctor left, Serafina rose and cast about the cabin. She moved almost without conscious thought. She knew what she needed, had known it for some time. But it was only now, as the doctor’s tincture offered her this chance, that her plan took full form.

  Her father’s clothes hung from two pegs on the side wall. Serafina found his coin purse in the inner pocket of his long coat. The clasp made a loud noise when she opened it. She glanced over at the bed, but her father remained motionless with his back to the room. Carefully, so as not to permit the coins to clink, she took out four of the gold ducats. There was a slight difference to the weight of the purse, but not so much as to be noticed. Or so she hoped. Serafina rolled the coins up tightly into her handkerchief, knotted the ends together, and pocketed the money. She slipped the purse back into the coat and resumed her seat. She forced her hands to remain still in her lap. She took several unsteady breaths. Only now that she had done it was she nervous. Only now did she feel a gnawing sense of guilt over her deed.

  The following Sunday, Serafina accompanied her mother to the shipboard service. Her mother spoke what she called an adequate English. But today she insisted that Serafina translate. It was a subtle means of drawing her out of her internal world, and Serafina tried to object. But her mother merely chose seats on the rearmost bench and pointed her face determinedly forward.

  The shipboard vicar was a young English priest returning from a sojourn in Rome. He was bright-eyed and jocular as he spoke first a few words of welcome in halting Italian. But when he started his sermon, it was in English.

  The vessel was four days beyond Gibraltar and three from Portsmouth. The North Atlantic was a far cry from the gentle Mediterranean. The ship cleaved through great waves of froth and slate-gray water. The air was biting. But that was not why Serafina shivered.

  “Why have you stopped translating?” her mother inquired softly.

  “I—I . . .”

  “Hurry, now. I want to understand what the Englishman is saying about our Lord.”

  But Serafina’s tongue seemed unable to shape the words. In fact, the vicar’s words left her speechless.

  “I came to Rome a stranger in a strange land,” the young man was saying. If he noticed the cold reserve with which most of the Italians received his presence, he made no sign. Instead, he seemed filled with a brisk good cheer that matched the wind-swept day. “I came seeking to learn and understand. I feared I would find only hostility, for I am an apostate in many of your eyes, an Anglican in a Catholic world, a breakaway. But I found only a Roman welcome, only offerings of peace, only a desire for harmony. And that is what I wish to speak with you about today. Harmony amidst life’s impossible conflicts.”

  The vicar was able to balance himself against the ship’s swinging motions with an ease that suggested he had lived shipboard for years, rather than spending his time in a Roman seminary. His eyes were as bright as the sky overhead, his voice bell-like in the clear air. “Our churches have spent years and years quarreling over so many issues. Take absolution, for instance. I could add my own voice to the centuries of argument. But for just this one moment, let us try and search out areas where we are in harmony.

  “The Scriptures tell us that the Lord offers forgiveness to all sinners. As far from the east is to the west, so the Bible tells us. So absolution, or the forgiveness of sins, is something we all can agree upon, yes? Good! Excellent!” He beamed over the silent gathering as though they had all joined with him in joyful accord. “So what must we do in order to be forgiven, or as you say, absolved? Here again the Scriptures are clear. We must address the Lord with a contrite heart, yes? Is that not true?”

  Serafina’s mother turned and began to say something. But whatever her mother saw in Serafina’s face caused Bettina to remain silent. She simply stared at her daughter for a moment, then turned back to face the speaker.

  “A contrite heart,” the vicar repeated. By now the whispered translations were being greeted with nodding heads among the Italians. Many remained stone-faced, with crossed arms and an attitude of resistance. But all were now carefully listening. And the vicar’s smile grew larger. “And what else? Well, we are told that we must turn from our sins. That we must repent in our hearts. Only then, when we are contrite in our confession and earnestly seek to sin no more does our confession have meaning.

  “And to whom must we confess? Why, to Jesus, of course. So what happens when we kneel in the confessional? Do we speak to the priest or do we speak with God? Jesus says clearly that we must place no man, no human authority between ourselves and our Lord. But sometimes we are weak, yes? Sometimes we need another who will aid us in seeing clearly the truth within our own heart. Sometimes we need a human friend who will help guide us first to confession and then to true repentance.”

  There was nothing new in what the vicar was saying. Serafina had heard similar sermons any number of times before. But this was the first time she had heard a message since Luca’s visit. And it was the very first time she had heard such in English. The lesson was clear in a way that spoke directly to her aching heart. Serafina tried to argue that her love made everything all right. After all, did not the same Scriptures say God was love? And was her struggle not all about her one true love? A gust of wind blew her hair free from its braid and cast it across her face. As Serafina fitted her hair back into its comb, still it seemed as though the veil remained before her eyes.

  “So my friends, I urge you to remember these points when you next enter the confessional. Fall upon your knees before God, not man. Speak with a contrite heart, addressing the Most High God. Ask for our Savior’s forgiveness. Then turn away from your wrongdoing.” The vicar raised his hands high over his head. “Go and sin no more.”

  Chapter 10

  Again the nightmare awoke Falconer in the gray mist before dawn. But this day he did not mind. Not even its lingering dread could compete with the thought that greeted him upon awakening. This was the day! They would depart for England with the tide.

  The gathering and stowing of cargo had taken far more time than expected. Or so Reginald Langston, Gareth’s brother-in-law, had claimed. In truth Falconer suspected the doctor’s pleas had convinced the merchant to be cautious and slow with his work, granting Gareth more time to recuperate. Though the patient had chafed with impatience, he could not complain. After all, the trading vessel’s departure had already long been delayed on his account.

  During his eleven days within the household, Falconer had entered into a pattern of sorts. He clambered downstairs to the empty kitchen, where he used flint and steel to light the cooking stove. After breakfast he retrieved a pail and implements he had claimed as his own. The aged handyman was unwell, so without being asked Falconer had taken on the old man’s early day duties. He filled the pail from the well and began mopping down the coffeehouse floor. He then proceeded to clean the emporium’s floors, starting at one end of the long building. In the process, he admired the fine wares gathered from right the world around, displayed upon tables and in the shop-front windows.

  By the time Falconer completed the stairs leading to the second-floor offices, the house was awake and bustling. Falconer greeted the earliest clerks and shopkeepers, then slipped through the empty café into the courtyard. There he began cleaning and polishing the bay windows of the café’s rear alcove.

  “Ah, I thought I’d find you here.”

  Falconer recognized the voice. “Good morning, Mr. Langston. I trust you’re well.”

  “Well enough, what with my friend and brother-in-law off for England today.” Reginald Langston was a tall gentleman with ruddy features. His easy manner matched his strong vein of common sense. Falconer liked the man immensely. “Don’t tell me you’ve been cleaning the floors again,” Langston said.

  “I am most uncomfortable with idle hands, sir.”

  “You and I share that trait. I have always felt happiest when I am busy, no matter how lowly the task.” His face creased in worry. “I ho
pe you have not been out on the street. Those wretched fellows hunting you only need a few seconds to do their worst.”

  “I have remained indoors as promised. But I deem an assault most unlikely this time of day, Mr. Langston. The street is empty. Any attack would be easily spotted.”

  The proprietor of Langston’s Emporium had a keen gaze. “I gather you’ve been attacked before.”

  Falconer studied the glass and used the dry towel at his belt to polish off a fleck of dirt. “More often than I care to count.”

  A woman’s voice said, “Reginald, the merchant is ready for you to count the coffee sacks.”

  “Have one of the clerks see to it, would you, my dear?”

  “If you wish.” Lillian Langston was well into middle age yet retained an astonishing beauty. “Mr. Falconer, I know our old groundsman is most grateful for your assistance.”

  “Thank you, and a very good morning, ma’am.”

  “Have you spoken with him yet?” she asked her husband. “I was about to, when you arrived.”

  “Please do continue then.”

  “Very well. Mr. Falconer, I’m a plainspoken man, sir. My wife and I share Gareth’s impression of you.”

  “And Hannah’s,” Lillian Langston added.

  “And the child’s. Of course.” A shadow crossed his features. “How I shall bear seeing her sail away this very day is beyond me.”

  Lillian Langston slipped her hand through her husband’s arm. “Let us remain upon the subject at hand, my dearest.”

  “You are right, of course. Mr. Falconer, I have desperate need of good men. It would be an honor to have you join us when your duties are completed.”

  Falconer looked from one shining face to the other. “Sir . . . I hardly know what to say.”

  “Say nothing, or say yes.” Lillian Langston was an active member of the emporium’s management and could draw a smile from the grouchiest clerk or customer. “We know you must complete your mission. We are speaking of afterwards.”

  Falconer found it necessary to clear his throat. “You have opened your home to me, a complete stranger. And now this . . . I am at a loss.”

  Reginald turned formal in the face of Falconer’s gratitude. “I shall supply you with a letter of introduction. Show it to any of our agents or ship’s officers. Whatever you need, it will be granted.”

  Lillian Langston reached over and patted Falconer’s arm. “And when you are ready, return and join us.”

  The farewells were difficult for Gareth Powers, Falconer could tell. Not because of any sorrow he might have felt over separation from family and friends. Rather because his illness continued to leave him drained. Falconer knew the man was suffering. But he had also seen in the man’s eyes a silent appeal for Falconer to say nothing. So Falconer quietly added his strength to his new employer and friend.

  Gareth tended to speak very little these days. He measured out every word as though wondering whether it was worth the energy required to form it. Falconer had no idea whether it was right for the man to journey across the Atlantic. He also knew any advice he might offer would be tainted by his own fierce desire to further his quest. So he remained silent and helped Gareth with whatever the man sought to do. Their communication sharpened to where Falconer could often gauge the man’s need before he even lifted a hand, much less spoke.

  And Falconer remained utterly enchanted by tiny Hannah.

  Falconer dressed carefully in his new traveling clothes. The Langstons had insisted he take a pair of fine coats and matching dark trousers from the Emporium’s best stock. He packed his new valise with his remaining articles and carried it down to the courtyard. After stowing the final packets into the carriage, he returned to the floor above his own bedroom and knocked on the young girl’s open door. “I see that you are ready.”

  “I have been ready since yesterday. I was awake before you this morning.” She lay on the bed as ordered, dressed in a pearl-gray traveling frock. The kitten was asleep on her hip, a tiny bundle of golden fur. “Can I get up now?”

  In reply, Falconer sat upon the bed. “I want to ask a favor.”

  “Of me?”

  “None other. I have never had experience with young ladies, you see. I do not know how to speak with them. So I would like to address you as I would an adult.”

  Hannah’s eyes went round with surprise.

  “In return,” he continued, “I ask that you be utterly honest with me. A very long voyage awaits us. And I am concerned about your father’s health. There, you see, I am trusting you with something that I should only share with an adult.”

  “He’s very sick. But he misses Mama terribly.”

  “I agree with you on both counts. What I need to know from you is, how are you feeling? We have a busy and trying day ahead, with many new experiences. If you come downstairs on your own, will you be strong for all we face? Or should I carry you?”

  She studied his face very intently. “I suppose I should be carried.”

  “I think that is wise.”

  “But I shall be so ashamed.”

  “I can understand that. If I were in your position I would feel exactly the same.”

  Her face had the translucent quality of fragile porcelain. “Most people would tell me there’s no reason to be embarrassed.”

  “I imagine they would.”

  “I think I shall like talking with you like an adult. Can I ask you questions in return?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Will you answer me the same way?”

  He hesitated. “To be truthful, I rarely speak of myself to anyone.”

  “Will you speak to me?”

  He took his time responding. “I shall try.”

  She pointed at the scar on his face. “How did you get that?”

  Falconer found himself unable to meet her gaze any longer. He slipped his hand into his pocket and extracted a length of pink ribbon he had purchased in the emporium. He prodded the kitten with one finger. “Wake up, little beast.”

  “Does that mean you won’t answer me?”

  Falconer watched the kitten yawn and stretch luxuriously. It greeted him with a rusty little meow and tried to nestle against his hand. “It was a pike.”

  “What is that?”

  “A pike is a weapon. Like a spear, but with a shorter handle. It has both a pointed end and a hook. So an attacker can gouge and then rip.” With practiced skill he tied the ribbon into a little noose. “I shouldn’t be speaking of this to you.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “At the time I was rather too busy to notice. But afterwards it burned like someone had doused my face with fire.” He slipped the ribbon over the kitten’s head, fitted it behind its ears, and tightened it slightly. Then he tied an additional knot so the noose could not constrict any further.

  “Who did it to you?”

  He continued to avoid her gaze as he tied the ribbon’s other end to her wrist. “One of my own men. It happened during a dreadful storm. There was . . . trouble.”

  “Is that why you have bad dreams?”

  He lifted his eyes to look at her. “How did you know about those?”

  “I hear you.” She pointed with the hand now attached to the kitten at the floor by her bed. “At night.”

  He started to deny it. But could not. “The days before I came to ask God for help and forgiveness were very bad. I dream about them sometimes.”

  Falconer sat and waited, dreading the next question. How this tiny wisp of a child could leave him stripped bare and defenseless was a mystery. But he knew that whatever she asked, he would answer.

  Yet Hannah’s response was merely to raise her arms up and say, “I’m ready for you to carry me now.”

  A thunderhead loomed on the eastern horizon by the time the farewells were done. Falconer sniffed the air and detected the faint tendrils of a rising wind. Cat’s-paws, the sailors called such faint gusts. Landlubbers tended to fear storms. But a good sailor knew the real question was the
wind’s thrust. And these cat’s-paws were drawn from the proper quarter. They could clear land by nightfall if the captain was ready to bear sail.

  But the farewells lingered still. Falconer called a warning, “We must be off.”

  The cook was the last to release little Hannah and back herself from the carriage. “You be well, my heart. And remember your old Mavis from time to time.”

  “I miss you already,” the child replied, wiping at tears.

  “Oh my darling lass, don’t you go weeping on me. My heart is already fit to burst.” The cook turned from the child and used the apron’s corner to dry her eyes. Then she gripped Falconer’s hand with both of hers. “If ever I was wrong about a man, it was you, good sir.”

  The lady smelled of dough and vanilla and had arms as strong as old iron. “I shall miss your laughter and your wisdom, ma’am.”

  “Take good care of these two, promise me that.”

  “With my life.”

  “Then they go in safety.” She patted his face, though it was doubtful she managed to see him clearly. “Of that I have no doubt.”

  The last to bid him farewell was Mrs. Lillian Langston, who offered her hand and the words, “I shall look forward with great anticipation to your return, sir.”

  “Ma’am, you must understand, I cannot promise anything. But if it is in my power, I could think of nothing finer than to accept your husband’s offer.”

  “My husband is as excellent a judge of men as ever I have known. He eagerly awaits the day you shall work alongside him.” She stepped closer. “A word of advice. At the first sign of trouble, seek out his agents. The list in your pocket may prove a great shield against danger of any kind. I know from firsthand experience that his reach is great and his allies loyal.”

  Falconer bowed formally over the hand. “I feel far stronger now than even a few moments before, ma’am.”