Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (32 page)

“Time
to go, miss,” the gaoler said, poking his head through the doorway.

Outside
the light of day was fading. The sky hung gray now, thick and forbidding,
pressing and silent. The howls of the prisoners ceased to echo in Rebecah’s ears,
and her lungs took in the pure air.

Dr.
Turlane climbed inside the coach with Lady Margaret. He leaned his head out the
window. Rebecah stood a few yards off.

“Come
inside the coach, Miss Brent,” he called. “A chill of rain is in the air and we
must be on our way.”

She
did not move or turn to him. Instead, she lifted her face to the wind. 

“In a moment,” she
answered. “Let me breathe in the air a while longer.”

The Everlasting
Mountains

He
stood, and measured the earth: he beheld, and drove asunder the nations; and
the everlasting mountains were scattered.  .  .

Habakkuk
3:6

Annapolis, Maryland

Rebecah’s heart trembled as she gazed up at the stark white
sails of the ship that had brought her across the Atlantic to the King’s colony
of Maryland. Canvas billowed in the salty breeze, shook with the gusts and
softened. Clouds mellowed to dark hues of blue and purple. Seagulls flew above
the water. In chorus, they screeched and glided against the sky now magenta along
the horizon. Wings of white tipped with gray spread wide and lifted in the wind.
She watched them work against the breeze. Impatience seized her. Awe filled
her.

Her hands felt moist as she held to the sides of the boat.
The oarsmen pulled against the current. Her fingertips touched the water. It
rippled cold against her skin. She could not see beyond the trees, beyond the
town nestled along the shore, to a wilderness where the man she loved dwelled,
but she tried to imagine it in her mind.

Dusk
fell. Shadows deepened. The air grew crisp. She glanced back to see
The
Rearguard
anchored in the Bay, a merchantman with luck enough to make it
out to sea under the cover of night.

When
the dinghy glided to a halt along the wharf, a sailor jumped out onto the
planks and coiled a rope over a piling. One by one, the passengers were handed
up. At last, Rebecah stood on solid ground, her valise in hand. The breeze felt
cool against her skin, smelled of saltwater.

Holding
her bag tighter, she walked on determining which way she should go. She wore a
homespun dress the color of gingerroot. Splinters from a plank roughened the
hem and she inched it up with a quiet moan. A dove-gray cloak chased away the
cool evening air. The hood covered her hair.

Her
stomach growled, and her back ached from weeks of sleeping on a cot in the
passengers’ quarters. She grew to hate the sea. The memory of rations, of being
tossed about, the weeks of seeing nothing but water and sky made her head spin.
But now, the thought of soap and water and a warm bed with clean white sheets
sounded heavenly. 

She
stood beside a fish stand. The owner spoke to her and Rebecah turned. A middle-aged
woman with button eyes and a bit of whisker on her chin gave her a broad smile.

“The
White Swan Inn is where you should go.” 

“It
is a good inn?”

“Has
the best rooms, good food, and a fair price.”

Returning
the smile, Rebecah thanked the woman. She handed her a pence for her troubles
and looked in the direction she pointed out. At least people were helpful in
the Colonies. That much encouraged her. Getting to Fredericktown would be easy
with good people to travel with and a friendly colonial to drive the coach.

Annapolis
seemed similar to the towns back home. A barking dog, a merchant hawking his
wares, wagon wheels lumbering over the street were familiar sights and sounds.

She gathered
up her skirts and quickly crossed the street, careful not to step where the
horses had been. On the corner stood a red brick building. Chimneys were on
each side, and a lawn surrounded the foundation. The sign read
The White
Swan
. Upon it, a painted trumpeter swan skimmed over blue water, and
evergreen boughs and pinecones made a halo.

Before she
could make it to the door, a crowd gathered. She craned her neck to see what
they were looking at. A long coil of human tragedy came trudging up the street.
Each soul bore iron bands and chains upon wrist and ankle. Compassion, sadness,
and utter dismay seized her. How could one man own another? How could they
enslave another human being, shackle and command them against their will? How
could their conscience be clear before God?

“What a shame.”
A man reached for the door to open it for her. He was an elderly gentleman,
dressed in black clerical garb. His silver hair hung to the shoulders, and his
gray eyes sparkled beneath wispy brows. He motioned for her to step inside.

“I had not
expected…”

“To see such
a spectacle?”

“Indeed,
sir.”

“As troubling
as it may seem, you must put it from your mind. There is naught you or I can do
for those poor wretches except pray for them.”

Troubled, she
paused to look around the inn. Tables were polished, with candles in glass
domes upon them. A huge hearth hugged the center of a western wall, and above
it hung a painting of a marshland with geese in flight.

“My name is
Filmore, Reverend Allen Filmore.” He glanced at her valise. “You’re newly
arrived to our country?”

“Yes. My name
is Rebecah Brent, of Ashburne House, England. Do you know it?”

“I’m afraid
not, Miss Brent, but I’m intrigued. Why would a young woman travel so far from
home alone?”

“I grew
anxious for adventure.” She smiled hoping he understood. “And I am here to see
a friend.”

“Ah, as a
bride to be, perhaps?”

She lowered
her eyes with a flush of her cheeks. “I’m unsure, Reverend. Do you know where I
can board a coach heading west?”

“West? Not
too far into the wilderness I hope.”

“I am not
sure. It is a place called Laurel Hill.”

He wiggled
his head with a small laugh. “You must think me very ill-traveled. I haven’t
heard of Laurel Hill, nor have I been far into the frontier. Some of my acquaintances
say it is a very fine part of the country.” 

Rebecah set
her valise down.

“You will
find they have comfortable rooms here.” Reverend Filmore rang the silver bell
on the innkeeper’s desk. She noticed how clean and white his hands were. There
were no sign of labor. The lace trim of his cuffs were faded to a soft yellow
and worn along the edges. He was not a man of means.

A thin man in
a buff coat stepped out from the back. “You need something, Reverend?” 

“The lady is
in need of a room.” Filmore made a gesture in her direction. “She has come a
long way.”

“She’ll have
to sign the register.” The innkeeper turned the ledger toward her and handed
her the quill. She dipped it into the ink and signed her name.

“The lady
needs passage west,” Filmore said. “Will you see to it?”

 “The coach
will be coming in tomorrow morning. My wife will bring up a tray of food and
get anything else you need, miss. A weary journey causes a person to steer
clear of crowded dining rooms.”

Rebecah
welcomed the hospitality. Then the old feeling of dread stole up inside. She
was on her way to John Nash
¾
and the
dangers he faced. She thanked Reverend Filmore for his kindness, as the
innkeeper came around the desk and picked up her bag.

A horn
blared, and a man poked his head inside the door. “Coach headed for Baltimore
coming in. News from Boston and Philadelphia.”

Filmore
turned to Rebecah with a gracious bow. “My transport, dear lady. I do not know
what path you are on, but I wish you Godspeed.” He put on his hat and left.

Rebecah hoped
with all her heart, her path would be an easy one and her journey to John Nash
swift.

After having
supper in her room, and a good washing, she settled beneath a bedcover stuffed
with goose down. It was quiet out on the street. Already this land had brought
strange sights to her eyes—the slaves she could not forget, the patriotic verve
that permeated the air. She lay there thinking what more would she
see—Indians—men in buckskins—women is homespun garb—vast mountains and wide
rivers?

The moon
climbed high and shone through the curtains over the window. Pale blue light
painted the walls. She watched the shadows play across the ceiling. Her heart
trembled that the man she loved was so close, that she would see him soon. She
prayed he would not reject her and closed her eyes to fall asleep, listening to
ship bells clang in the harbor.

The next day before the noon hour, a note was sent up with
the maid. A coachman named George Mac waited outside.

Ruts in the
road rocked and jolted the coach as it lumbered west. Towering elms shadowed
the ground where dry leaves blew and whirled against the coach wheels.

Being the
only passenger, Rebecah had room to stretch her limbs. In some ways she
regretted being alone. She had no one to talk with. The time would have passed
quicker with at least one additional passenger. Maybe a bit of conversation
would have helped the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

Hours later,
looking out the window, she gazed at the sky and smelled the hint of rain in
the air. George Mac slowed the horses. They stopped to rest at a trading post. A
porch stretched across the front and beside it stood the owner’s log cabin. Oak
barrels were stacked out front. A brass horn hung from a nail in a post.
Sunlight sparkled against it like a shooting star.

There were
several men lounging around that day smoking their clay pipes and talking. When
Rebecah alighted, the men stood and pulled off their hats. A boy ran forward
and tugged on her dress. He had bright blue eyes and freckled cheeks. His long
blond curls and round face reminded her of Hugh. She missed him, wondered if she
would ever see him again, hoped he was well. But how well could a young boy be
away from his family?

A terrier
heeled beside the lad. Rebecah looked at the pup, and imagined Hugh had to be
missing Jess.

The boy
thrust his hand up to her. In it was a single wild daisy, the edges of the
pedals tinted brown.

“For me?”
Rebecah said.

The boy
nodded.

“My thanks,
kind sir.”

A man in a worn
overcoat, brown leather breeches, and tricorn hat, placed his hand on the lad’s
shoulder. “My son, ma’am. He’s had only his mother to give flowers to.”

“He’s a kind,
boy. And very handsome.” 

  The man
agreed with a smile. “My name is Davies, the proprietor of this place. The men
here are curious.”

She glanced
at the gathered group. “Over me?”

“You ride the
coach heading west.”

“Is that unusual?”

 “It’s been
sometime since we’ve seen it come through. The Indians out in the frontier are
on the warpath, and most folks are coming away, not going.”

A chill raced
through her.  What kind of danger was she heading toward?

The man
seemed to notice her worry. “Don’t worry, miss. Your coachmen go armed. You
must have a good reason for traveling that way.”

Emerging from
the door, a woman stood with her hands over her hips. Her skin was browned by
the sun. Creases hugged near her eyes. The boy skipped up the steps and took
hold of her soiled apron. His dog followed, his tail swishing.

The woman
scowled. “Leave off the talk of Indians, my husband. No need to make the lady
fear. Give her ease and let her be. And the rest of you—you may be men of the
backwoods, but that don’t make ye forget to use your manners.” 

The mistress
of the trading post, showed Rebecah inside to the cool shade of the room. A few
men lingered in the doorway.

“We men,”
said one, “are loyal to our
Glorious Cause.
Up that way, we hear powder
and shot and parts for muskets are going to be made. You know what for?” 

Another
leaned on a birchwood cane and nudged the farmer in the ribs. “Don’t go wagging
your tongue to a British lass.”

Rebecah heard
Davies whisper behind her. “She could be a spy. You want Redcoats to come down
on the frontier like bats out of hell, do you?”

She sighed
and turned to face them. “I may be English, gentlemen, but I’m no spy. A gentleman
sympathetic to your
Glorious Cause
sent me to visit his son who lives
near.” She pulled off her gloves, revealing hands clean and soft. 

“Pay no mind
to the men, miss.” Davie’s wife stepped beside her. “They haven’t had this much
excitement in quite a while.” 

After a brief
stay, it was time to resume the journey. The horses were rested, the coachmen
refreshed. Rebecah’s skirts whispered along the rough-hewn floor as she walked
to the door. The men stepped aside, hats in hand. She turned, one hand upon the
jamb and smiled to the woman.

“Thank you
for your hospitality.”

The woman
nodded, her hand over her son’s shoulder, as the locals gathered on the porch.

After Rebecah
boarded, the coachmen climbed into their seats. With a snap of the reins, the
horses moved on, and the coach rolled away leaving a cloud of brown fog behind.

Rolling
fields banked each side of the road. It turned and entered the forests, thick
and lush, dark and cool. Trees entwined overhead. Sunlight spotted the brown
earth with ovals of light. Each passing moment, each turn of the coach wheels,
brought her closer to the man she loved. And he had no idea she was on her way
to him.

She had been
brave thus far. But now she felt she was losing her courage. There was the
chance he no longer loved her. For all she knew he could have married. Nevertheless,
she would keep her promise to Sir Rodney, deliver the gold, and inform Nash his
father had been arrested. If he rejected her, she would return to Annapolis and
return to England.