Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains

Thorns
in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

Copyright © 2013 by Rita
Gerlach. All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Paul S
Gerlach

Layout by Paul K Gerlach

Photograph of scenery by Rita
Gerlach

Model and Photography Used By
Permission / Photograph of model by Patrick YoBorg

Model and Costume –
SomiumDantis - http://somniumdantis.deviantart.com/

ASIN:
B00CIV5IRO

No part of this publication
may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews,
without the written permission of the author.

Scripture from The Holy
Bible, King James Version (KJV)

  Persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction
are the creations of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons
living or dead is purely coincidental

Printed in the United States of America

On the corner of Bentz and 2nd
Streets across from the majestic stone Methodist church in the historic
district of Frederick, Maryland, is a plot of ground where the remains of
Revolutionary War patriots lay beneath green sod.

Their chiseled
tombstones are buried with them, their names now unknown to those whose feet tread
over them while visiting the War Memorial and the Ten Commandments Stone.

This book is dedicated to those
brave patriots who fought for America’s liberty, whose names are written in the
Book of Life.

And…

To all those in need of courage in the face of danger, peace
in the midst of trouble, comfort in a time of loss, and hope in moments of despair.

Be of good courage, and he
shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord.
 
Psalm 31:24 KJV

The Maryland Wilderness

 1773

John Nash shoved back the brim of his hat and gazed up at the night sky
to find the North Star hoping he would make it to the border before dawn. He urged
his horse on and drew near a sycamore marked with three notches, its mottled
bark bright in the moonlight where it had stood for a hundred years or more as
a guide.

He touched the grooves and looked down the road to see the Monocacy.
The river, called by the tribes
the river with many bends,
ran troubled
and lapped against the deeply cut banks. Age-old trees shadowed the water with
dark quivering forms.

The rider with him drew his horse alongside. “It’s hard to believe three
hours ago we were sitting in a corner of Mrs. Charlton’s tavern in Fredericktown
discussing over a pint of ale the trail we should take.”

Nash nodded. “Less, talk. We are not out of danger yet.”

“You don’t mind me calling you Jack, do you?”

“Everyone else does. Now, please be quiet.”

The man shifted in his saddle. “Right you are. Sorry. Not another word.”

Nash moved his horse at an ease gait, aware the letters tucked into the
lad’s saddlebag would implicate men good and true if confiscated. Franklin
wanted the allegiances of the Frederick County gentlemen who opposed English
rule. Men like Thomas Johnson and John Hanson guaranteed the leaders in
Philadelphia powder mills along the Monocacy and Antietam Rivers, as well as an
iron furnace for cannon and gunlocks in the Catoctin Mountains. In addition to
these, Frederick County would provide an arsenal, military prison, and the best
musketmen in the Colonies.

They had gone a quarter mile when the horses flicked their ears. Nash’s
horse, Meteor, raised his head, snorted and pawed the ground. In the distance,
lights trembled through the trees, and campfire smoke drifted in the breeze.

The courier sniffed the air. “British soldiers. I can smell their dirty
uniforms a mile away. Why their foulness floats on the wind.”

Nash put his hand against the hilt of his flintlock and steadied his
horse with the other. “Unless you want them to see us, be quiet.” He spoke in a
firm whisper, then nodded for his charge to follow.

They turned their mounts in another direction. The horses stepped over
the path’s soft ground. A torch rounded the bend. The coats of two soldiers
appeared red as garnets. In their white breeches and crossbelts, they stood out
in the dark like marching phantoms. Moonlight struck the brass of their muskets.

Nash released a long breath. “God, help us.”  He halted his horse, and
laid his pistol against his thigh. His eyes locked onto an officer on
horseback.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

A soldier raised a musket. Another
rushed forward and ordered them to dismount. A cold sweat broke out over Nash
when a soldier stepped up to him and shoved the tip of his musket into Nash’s
ribs. He clenched his teeth, kicked the musket aside. The soldier stumbled back
and his musket fired.

The officer’s saber swung toward him, sliced through
his sleeve, grazed his skin as if it were butter. Cold blue eyes met his in the
moon’s eerie glow. The sword swung high again. It arched toward Nash with a
whoosh
.
He turned his horse and fired his pistol. The officer dropped his sword and slumped
forward.

With no time to lose, Nash dug in his heels and
galloped his horse past the officer. At the break of a ridge, he looked back.
The courier shook from head to toe and followed him for his life.

Ashburne House, Cornwall, England

September 1773

Rebecah
Brent drew her legs beneath her and glanced over at the jittery servant sitting
in the armchair next to the fire. She tried to appear unmoved by the storm’s
rage thinking it would calm Margery Holmes, but every time thunder boomed, her
breath snatched and she gripped the letter harder in her hand.

“Oh,
this storm…my poor nerves,” Margery muttered. “Dear me…the wind…It seeps straight
through the windows.”

“I’m
sorry, Margery. What did you say?”

Margery
pulled her woolen shawl tighter across her shoulders and shivered. “The wind—it
blows through the windows.”

Rebecah
folded the letter closed that had come earlier. “Ashburne is an old house.
Drafts are to be expected.”

Sighing,
Margery stood and tidied the room though it was already neat. Everything was in
its place, with a place for everything. Rebecah knew the woman’s nerves were on
edge and keeping busy gave her ease. But when lightning flashed, she jumped.

“Heavens!”
Margery dropped a pillow on the floor, retrieved it and held it against her
bosom.

Thunder
shook the windowpanes. Wind whistled down the chimney. The room grew colder, the
fire smaller. The old retainer set a log in the hearth, stirred the ash and
embers until it caught. Flames grew. Wood crackled.

Orange
light flickered over the bricks, over the floor. Now she would be warm. If Margery
would light more candles and close the curtains the lightening would not overtake
the darkness. It would appear less fierce with more light in the room. But
candles were a luxury they could not afford to waste. She had to make do with
the one on her bedside table.

The
warm glow touched Rebecah’s face and eased through the blanket over her lap. She
glanced at the window. A flash and then darkness and a candle flame.

The
storm frightened her, yet she hid her fear by opening her father’s letter again.
The words blurred as she listened to the wind and rain. Dread rippled through
her. Perhaps she needed to read his missive again—search between the lines.

Time
to settle down and enjoy his estate, he wrote. She knew what it meant. She
would be married off to the highest bidder—to a man she did not love.

Is
there such a thing as true love? What choices do I have other than Lanley?

Indeed,
for no one else had asked for her hand.

How
can I go against Papa’s wishes? I hope he listens and allows me to explain.

After
a second read, she set the letter on the table beside her. Rain streaked the
windowpanes. For a moment, she fixed her eyes on a single drop. She watched it
rivet down the glass, melt at the bottom. The mantle clock ticked on. The
minutes dragged closer to the hour he said he would arrive.

By
the hour strike, she stepped to the window, leaned against the jamb and
searched the sky. A cold ebony vault, then an illumined violet cavern hung over
Ashburne like a heavy hand.

The
clatter of coach wheels rolling over the high road, mingled with thunder. Between
the lightning flashes, she saw horses pounding their way toward the house. She
leaned closer, watched the brass lanterns sputter. The coach slowed, pulled to
a stop. The horses pawed the gravel, shook the rain from their manes.

“Margery,
come look. My father is home.”

She
hurried away from the window, took Margery by the arm and drew her back. They
stood side by side gazing below. The coach door opened. A man dressed in a
black cloak stepped out. He turned back, reached inside to aid another—Sir
Richard.

“My
father is wearing the red cloak I made him.”

“Aye,
he is…That man is helping him up the stairs.”

“It
must be because of the wind.”

“I’ll
go down, Miss Rebecah. You stay here.”

Rebecah
frowned. “I remember the rule. Whenever Papa arrives home I must wait to be
called.” 

She
sat on the side of her bed when Margery left, listened and waited. She gripped
both arms as if cold air rushed over her. Then she crept to the door. Grasping
the handle, she opened it, drew in a breath and peered out.

Huffing
and puffing, Margery came up the staircase. Rebecah watched three men lag behind.
Grave faces. Dripping wet cloaks. Muddy boots.

Before
she saw her father’s eyes she shut the door, though she wanted to rush out to
him, throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. But he would chastise
her for any emotional greeting shown to him in front of others. 

Margery
turned back inside. Candlelight from the candle she held spread over her plump
face. “Not a pleasant evening for a homecoming.”

“Did
he ask for me?”

Margery
gave her a look of sympathy. “No.”

It
hurt. Perhaps he needed time. She handed Margery her brush, and the older woman
glided it through Rebecah’s long tresses.

“I
didn’t see Lanley with him. I’m relieved. I have not seen him in three years…I
hope he stays away forever. He has as much appeal as an undertaker.”

Margery
twisted a lock and fastened it behind Rebecah’s ear. “Your father desires you
to speak well of the choice he’s made.”

“You know as well as I, Lanley does not love me.”

“But
his gifts and letters say he has an extreme fondness for you.”

“Shall
I mention his indecent morals and lack of charity? He has no faith in God.”

“Would
you rather be a missionary’s wife living in some heathen country, than be wed
to the lord of the manor?” 

Rebecah laughed. “Can you imagine Lanley a missionary? The heat would
cause him to swoon. The food would upset his delicate constitution. The natives
would frighten him to death. In a week, he’d pack up and head back to England
to his creature comforts.”

“You paint a vivid picture, miss.”

 “I would marry a missionary for love.”

“I cannot see you marrying such a man. Life would be too harsh for you
living among the tribes.”

“Perhaps I shall find myself such a man.”

“Poor? Is that what you want?” Margery looked appalled.

“No. I wouldn’t wish to starve. What I mean is I want a man with a noble
heart.”

Margery smirked. “It is not good for a young woman to be so wishful.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Rebecah glanced over at her door. “When is Papa
going to call me?” Anxious, she slipped on her shoes. “He must realize I am a
grown woman now. Not a child.”

With a touch of her hand, Margery stopped her from going on. “Go softly.
He is unwell.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“He said I mustn’t upset you.”

While Margery spoke, Rebecah hurried out the door. She rushed down the
corridor toward her father’s bedchamber. Mucky boot prints led from the
staircase right to the threshold. The door sat open, and she paused outside it.

“The infection has grown worse?” she heard her father say.

“It’s very bad,” an unfamiliar voice said. “What’s the army getting for
field surgeons these days? Village butchers, or Indian witch doctors? You
would’ve been better off to have stayed in America, then to have made the sea
voyage back to England and gotten into trouble. There must be at least one
competent doctor in the King’s army.”