Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (34 page)

“News
from Boston!” He slid off his lathered horse.

Interested,
Nash leaned through the window to listen.

“By
the bones of George Calvert it was no easy ride, people. Storms rolling to the
south every day, storms so fierce my horse bolted off the road into the woods
and stood frozen with fear. I couldn’t make him budge for the life of me. I
would’ve been here four days ago, if it hadn’t been for the weather. Roads were
muddy. Where’s the tavern? I’m hungry and thirsty.”

He
headed off in the direction pointed out to him. The townsmen talked among
themselves. Some gathered in front of the window.

“Says
here the Port is closed by order of the Crown,” one man said.

“Aye,
and to enforce the law, it says reinforcements of new regiments were sent in
May backed by the Royal Navy in the harbor.” An old man shook his gray head in
utter dismay. “Those poor folk up in Boston. May God have mercy.”

“The
citizens are forced to suffer,” said another, “until every pence and duty is
paid up for the soggy tea rotting at the bottom of the harbor. What’s King
George mean to do, starve every last one of them?”

The
old man scratched his beard. “And look here. Says Quebec Act. What’s that? What
we need another
Act
for? Says boundaries for Quebec are to extend far
south into the Allegheny Territory.”

Fists
were raised in angry protest. “They can’t do that,” a farmer said. “We have
grants out there, treaties with the Indians. What about the settlers?”

Nash
saw Mr. Boyd, the town clerk, step from his house across the street. It was a
red brick building of two stories, with narrow mullioned windows and a double chimney.
He shut the door behind him and tugged on the cast iron latch. He then squashed
on his hat, and for a moment stood watching the crowd across the street.

“What
goes on, gentlemen?” he said, approaching with a steady stride.  “What’s that
you have there?”

“Postrider
from Baltimore, Mr. Boyd. News from Boston. They’ve closed the harbor and are
starving the people.”

“Let
me see that.” Boyd began reading. “May God have pity on the good people of
Boston. How much does the Crown think we shall tolerate?”

“We
won’t,” Nash said from the open window. “Good day, Mr. Boyd. Come inside. We
men have things to discuss.”

A long,
polished mahogany table stood in the center of the meeting room. The floor was
bare, the walls empty. Seated was Mr. Thomas Johnson who had come up from
Annapolis. Mr. Boyd, looking grave due to the news from Boston, took a seat
next to him. The chairman John Hanson and a number of prominent citizens set
their hats down and took their places.

These were
troubling times. The day had brought worry and anxiety over the future. Hanson
held a handbill in his left hand. Dread covered his face.

“Before you
begin, Jack, we need to hear this.”   

Thomas Johnson
leaned back in his chair. “Read it to us, sir.”

Hanson read the
news aloud, then slapped it on the table. “Does the King intend on starving
every town that stands against him?”

Johnson leaned
on the table. “You men know I only arrived home last night. I heard this while
in Annapolis. Tensions are running high.”

“What can be
done for the people of Boston?” said Nash.

“Philadelphia has
promised full support,” Johnson said. “Charleston, Wilmington, and Baltimore
have joined in giving them aid. New York guarantees a ten-year supply of food.
Certainly there will be some kind of resolution.”

“That is
comforting to hear.”  Hanson wiped his face with a handkerchief and stuffed it
back into his pocket. “Would it not be simpler if Boston paid what the Crown
demands?”

Nash stood
against the wall, his good leg bent with the sole of his boot against the
whitewashed timbers. 

“It would, Mr.
Hanson. But try to suggest it to the Bostonians. They’re taking a stand against
the oppressors.”

“You speak the
truth, Jack,” Johnson said. “Tell us—is our county secure?”

“Our town is too
large for the Indians to make war here.” 

He pulled away
from the wall, walked over to the table and sat down. “The Indians have proven
themselves to be merciless and tireless. Our settlers are scattered, and that
put them at a disadvantage. By the time we saw smoke rising over the trees or
over some hill, and made our way to them, they were dead and their cabins
burned to the ground.”

“These are sad events
indeed,” said Johnson. “You saw as you came into town the large amount of
refugees we have?”

“I did.”

“The good people
of Fredericktown have opened their hearts as well as their homes and churches. 
In speaking to some of the men, they mean to move their families east once
they’ve rested.”

Nash stood. “I
must be getting back to Laurel Hill, gentlemen. I’m not too far from town, and
beyond the war parties.”

“Well, I say we
recess, gentlemen,” Hanson said.  “But before we do, let us bow our heads in
prayer for our country.”

After a brief
but moving prayer, the men gathered up their hats and stepped out of the
courthouse.  Mr. Boyd and Nash walked out together.

“Why not come
and stay a few days at Richfield, Jack? And you too, Mr. Boyd.” said Tom
Johnson, stopping them before climbing into his carriage. “I would enjoy your
company.” 

Mr. Boyd raised
his brows and thought a moment. “Well, I suppose my daughter can do without me
for a while. I haven’t been to Richfield in a very long time.”

“Excellent. You
can ride out with me.”

“Gladly. But there’s
Theresa at the door. A moment and I’ll return.”

While Mr. Boyd
crossed the way to inform his daughter he would be away, Johnson squashed on
his hat. “Jack? Will you come? Can you resist my table?”

Nash smiled. “I
cannot, sir.”

“You know my cook
is heralded the best in the county, don’t you?”

“I do. I haven’t
had home cooking by female hands in ages.”

The memory of
his stepmother’s feast at Standforth flashed in his mind. He took up the reins
of his horse and climbed into the saddle.

“I accept your
invitation, Mr. Johnson. Thank you.”

With a click of
his tongue, he turned Meteor into the street and galloped ahead of the carriage
unaware the coach carrying Rebecah turned onto the track that led straight to
Market Street.

Fredericktown, Maryland

Though
a bit battered, the coach rumbled across the bridge spanning the Monocacy River
and rolled over the broad dirt road leading into town. Log homes came into
view, and then brick row houses with yards crowded with hollyhock and larkspur.
A black dog ran alongside the coach and barked. The horses were slowed, and
Rebecah put her head out the window and shoed him away, for fear he’d be caught
beneath the wheels.

Her
heart pounded. Nash had no idea she was coming. She wondered what he would do
and say. She pushed back the glad tears forming in her eyes, and then smoothed
her dress with nervous fingers. There wasn’t anything she could do about her
torn sleeve.  The pin she attached to it would have to do.

The
horses came to a halt. Some townspeople gathered around, speaking to the driver
and to Stone, handing them the bills, asking questions.

“Battered
and bruised, gentlemen,” said Mac. “We ran off the road in the storm. But we’re
here in one piece, praise be. Me and Stone, and the lady we bring, were held up
by a band of ruffians. But we took shots at them and they ran like frightened
rabbits into the woods. We’ll tell you more over a pint of ale after we see to
the horses.”

Eyebrows
were raised at the mention of such surly fellows, of Stone’s marksmanship, and
the mysterious lady they had risked life and limb for. 

“She’s
a young lass and pretty as a picture. Brave a lady as ever I saw. English,” she
heard Stone say.

Rebecah
shut her eyes, wishing he had not mentioned she was British. She might be
unwelcomed. And why did he lead them on to think she was pretty? To her she was
nothing of the kind. Her hair was an unruly mass of curls, her eyes too large
for her liking, and her nose too small. But in reality, Rebecah was winsome to
look at, able to set men’s hearts at a gallop.

“British!”
a man spat. Rebecah’s heart sank.

“Take
it easy,” Mac said. “Most of our mothers were British. Besides women don’t care
about politics.”

Mac
opened the coach door, lowered the step, and held out his hand. She asked, “Is
it safe to do so?”

“Of
course it is, miss.”

Men
stared at the pretty foot that stepped out. The slipper that concealed it was
beige satin with a strap; the stocking, with an inch showing, was opaque white.
The brim of her hat dipped over one eye and shaded her face. She could see it
in their faces, how their prejudice melted like wax to flame.

“Good,
sirs. Do you have an inn where I may find lodging?”

The
men drew off their hats. An old man stepped forward. “Mrs. Cottonwood takes
lodgers. That’s her house at the end of the street.” 

Rebecah
looked at the red brick house with the English style garden in the front. She
lifted her bag in one hand and her skirts with the other. Offers were made to
help, but instead she handed her valise to a boy. As she strolled away, she
heard them talking behind her.

“Who
is she?”

“Don’t
know, but she’s mighty pretty.”

“Did
you hear her voice? Like an angel.”

A
young woman stood on the street corner. A basket filled with peaches hung from
her arm. “Miss! Wait. I wish to speak to you.”

Rebecah
stopped as the girl hurried to her.

“My
name is Theresa Boyd. My father is the town clerk. We have a large house, and I
heard you ask about lodging. Mrs. Cottonwood hasn’t any space left since taking
in so many refugees from the frontier.”

“Refugees?”

“Yes,
because of the Indians. But not to worry, we are safe here. We have a spare
room with a nice view.”

Rebecah
felt touched by Theresa’s kind offer, as well as relieved. If there were no
rooms in the town, she would have had to rely on the charity of the church.

“But
you don’t know me.”

“Perhaps
in England, people are more wary of strangers. But in Fredericktown, we believe
in helping our neighbors, strangers or not.  Billy Wallens, bring the lady’s valise.”

The
boy grinned from ear to ear when Theresa handed him an enormous, bright yellow
peach as payment. The valise was light, and he carried it ahead of them without
effort.

Rebecah
looked at her gown. “I’m afraid I have made a poor impression, Miss Boyd. I
shall be glad nonetheless, to be out of this gown. It’s ruined.”

Theresa
gazed at it. “It looks perfect to me. I shall clean it for you, and stitch up
that sleeve. Your journey was difficult?”

“Some
of it, yes. I’ll tell you about it later,” Rebecah said, as they walked beneath
a wisteria. “My name is Rebecah Brent by the way.”

“Yes,
I know who you are.” Theresa smiled at Rebecah’s bewildered look. “Captain Nash…”

“Captain?”

“He’s
Captain Nash now, appointed to lead the rangers. He told me about you. Well, he
didn’t actually tell me, he was wounded and . . .”

“Wounded?
He is alright?”

“Don’t
be alarmed. He survived his wound, although he walks with a slight limp—barely noticeable.”

Theresa
paused, a cautious but anxious look on her face.

“Is
there something else you wish to tell me, Miss Boyd?”

“Yes…He
spoke your name in his sleep.”

Rebecah’s
heart leaped. “Did he?”

“Yes
and with great feeling, Miss Brent. I offered to write to you for him. But he
evaded all conversation dealing with matters of his heart. He is wretched inside.
He did not say why.” 

“I
know the reason.” Hopeless grief grew in her heart again. “I need to see him. Is
there anyone who could take me to Laurel Hill?”

Theresa’s
eyes lit up. “I can. My papa has a carriage, and I’m an excellent driver. He
allows me to use it whenever I want.”

“May
I speak to him?”

“I’m
afraid he has gone to Richfield Plantation and won’t be back for a few days.”

“Is
Laurel Hill far?”

“Not
too far. Come inside and refresh yourself while I hitch the horses.”

Rebecah
stopped walking. She had never imagined a woman hitching horses. “You can do
that on your own?”

“Certainly
I can.”

They
entered the cool foyer. Rebecah was shown to a room kept for guests—and wounded
friends. She washed her face and hands, brushed out her hair. All the while,
butterflies danced in her stomach. Her hands trembled, and the thrill of seeing
the man she loved again gave her joy she had not felt in a very long time.

* * *

Theresa
snapped the reins and the horses went faster. Rebecah held her breath and gripped
the edge of the seat. As they came to a bend in the road, Theresa slowed the
carriage. A stone house came into view. Sunlight sparkled in the windows, and
an oak bowed its branches over a broad porch.

“We
are here.” Theresa drew the horses to a stop. “Are you ready?”

Staring at
the door, Rebecah swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m going to say or do.  He may
be glad to see me, but then he may shut the door in my face.”

“Why would he
do that? He’s a gentleman.”

“You’re
right.” She adjusted the ribbon of her hat. “I should not give into my nerves.”

Lifting her
skirts, she climbed down and walked up the steps. Her hands felt moist and her
stomach jittery. With Theresa standing beside her, she swallowed and rapped
upon the door.

Any moment he
would answer. She would see his face and he hers. She would smile and so would
he. He would be happy to see her. She stood back, bit her lip between her teeth
and waited.