Acadia Song 04 - The Distant Beacon (17 page)

“I have been having terrible nightmares of late.”

“So it is you who’s been crying out in the dark hours.”

Nicole was alarmed. “Have I been disturbing—?”

“Only the laundry lass in the next room. She spoke of it to me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You needn’t let it upset you. She seemed not to be troubled by it—only concerned. But she didn’t know from whence the cries had come.”

Nicole was relieved that at least her secret had not become a subject of gossip at the seminary.

“Nightmares, you say. I would think the days in which we live would merit nightmares for all of us.”

Nicole picked some burrs from the hem of her apron. “It’s not just that I am having nightmares; it’s the
kind
of nightmares.”

He waited for her to go on.

“There was once this man,” Nicole began slowly. She took a deep breath, deciding to bare her soul. “He was

Acadian. I thought at one time that I loved him. No, that is wrong. I did love him. Fiercely. But it was all wrong. He couldn’t come to terms with what the British had done to us. Not like my father. Jean was never able to forgive. Which turned him bitter and angry. So angry that he vowed revenge. He frightened even me. He became consumed with getting even. I had to end the—the courtship.”

“But you love him still?”

“No, no. I’m quite sure I am over the infatuation. It is not that which haunts my dreams.”

“Then what?”

“I do not know. That is what disturbs me. All I see are his eyes. His eyes always full of hate and evil, always seeking to draw me in. To destroy me.”

“Hatred. Bitterness. Revenge. They seek to destroy and too often they accomplish their goal.”

“I know that. But I am a follower of Christ. There is no room in my life—my heart—for such evils. I cannot understand why now, after these years of walking with my Lord, I should be subject to such passions once again. Why must they haunt me?”

“You bear no malice toward the British?”

The question caught her totally off guard, but she was quick to respond. “None.”

“Not even toward the young British captain?”

“Well, that . . . that certainly isn’t because he is British,” responded Nicole, her cheeks flushed.

“What is it, then?” the pastor asked.

She’d been caught in her own trap, exposing an anger she would have denied if questioned outright. “I’m puzzled,” she stammered. “He declared his love for me and then he left, without so much as a good-bye or a trace of where he was going.”

“Puzzled? And angry?”

Nicole could not deny it. “Perhaps. A little. I thought, you see, that we could at least remain friends.”

“But friendship was not what the young man sought.”

“You know I could offer nothing more. We spoke of this. He refused to accept my faith.”

“Your faith. Not his faith.”

“Well, it would have been his faith, of course. Faith is personal. Not something handed from one to another.”

“But you wanted to hand it to him, did you not?”

“I merely wished to lead him. To introduce him to my Lord. Is that wrong?”

“My dear, my entire life has been lived to introduce others to our Savior. Nothing could be more right.”

“Then what did I do wrong?”

“I have not said you’ve done anything wrong, my child. I am simply saying that the road we travel toward faith can take us through different valleys and around different twists and turns. What brings one soul to his knees might be a stumbling stone to another. We cannot expect another to travel our personal pathway. In our past conversations, you have spoken of your own struggles. Adversity brought you to our Lord. Another’s faith might come because of unsolicited joy. God’s holy goodness might burst out suddenly, exposing all the glories of a life walked in harmony. That might be enough to make one fall to his knees in deep gratitude. Paul walked the Damascus Road. It was the light that felled him, the voice that drew him. For James and John, Peter the fisherman, it was the simple invitation to ‘Come, follow me.’ So to some the invitation might come as a clarion call, to another a soft whisper.”

“But surely hard times and coming to the end of one’s own resources must soften a soul,” Nicole dared respond.

“Soften? Not always. Some souls respond to the rains of adversity by becoming pliable, while others are hardened into unworkable clay. Some grow in faith, are strengthened, honed, harmonized, while others turn bitter, angry—like your former friend Jean. Either we shape Janette Oke / T. Davis Bunn our adversity into something of beauty, or it shapes us into something vile.”

They sat in silence. Above their heads a crow cawed and was answered by a second crow from farther down the grove. A squirrel chattered angrily. Apparently the crows had invaded his private territory.

Nicole picked at another burr. “What am I to do?” she asked. “I do not want to be hardened by the heaviness of the load I carry. How does one make sure that the treading, the beating down, is used for good?”

The kind old gentleman shook his head. “I have no answers for you, my child. That is not a simple question, and has been asked before in many a heart. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that needs to be led by the hand in relation to your faith. You have sought, and found, many answers already. Only God can help you to find the rest. I am your friend, here for you whenever you need a listening ear. I cannot tell you the answers to life’s complexities. But with God’s help and through prayer and the Scriptures, you will find the way. His divine wisdom is as available to you as it is to me.”

It was a troubling yet glorious thought, and Nicole found herself reaching for it, claiming it as a sacred promise. She had free access to a holy, all-powerful, loving Father.

“It is ever our challenge to draw closer to the Master’s heart. To search for His way through life’s maze. With each step that we take with Him, our faith deepens, our steps become more certain. Take your dreams, your fears, your struggles, and use them for stepping stones to Him, my child. Let every issue of life be a means of bringing you closer to the Shepherd.”

Nicole fought against tears, but not ones of sorrow. Once again her soul felt comforted, strengthened. She was ready to move on.

Pastor Collins stood. “Come, my dear,” he said. “I shall show you the path so your skirts might not catch any more burrs and brambles.” He led the way to an opening at the edge of the tree line. Nicole noticed that his step was rather slow and lumbering. She wondered for a moment how many more years he might have left to serve. And also, how they ever would get along without him.

Chapter 18

The only cheer in Gordon’s endless first day of imprisonment came with the evening meal. He was being held separate from the others, confined in what resembled a cowshed, with rotting branches and tarred paper for a roof. But at dusk he was permitted to join the line and take up a bowl of gruel and hardtack with the other prisoners. Most were wastrels and ne’er-do-wells, and it galled him terribly to be counted among them. What hurt even worse, what truly ravaged his mind and spirit, was to see his good, fine men standing in line with these others, reduced to prison and chains by his own miscalculations and poor leadership.

Yet even here the men made a place for him, sidling about until Carter was able to whisper unseen by the hovering guards, “Word has it, we’re to be shipped off day after tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Press-ganged. Two ships from the blockade are headed into port. A bout of scurvy has laid waste their ranks.” Carter’s ankle chains clinked as he shuffled forward in the meal line. “They’re in dire need of men who know one end of a rope from the other.”

Though being press-ganged was not good news, Gordon felt his heart lift that his men would not hang with him. “You don’t know what it means to hear this.”

“Aye, sir, we thought you’d be pleased.” But Carter’s grimy features showed no joy. “If only we could do something about your situation.”

“No hope there, I fear.” Gordon worked to put a brave face on it all. “But knowing you lads won’t be climbing the scaffold as well, that will send me off content.”

As the sun fell below the parapet the day’s dankness worked its way into the prisoners’ bones. Gordon followed the example of the more experienced captives and ate his gruel slowly, letting the warmth of each spoonful work against the discomfort of his wet clothes. As the air chilled, the wet earth on which they sat in their prison clothes produced the effect of steam emanating from their shoulders and shirt sleeves. Faint tendrils rose up from the bodies of his men, as though all hope were being drawn from them and dissipating into a gray and uncaring twilight.

Through the deepening gloom there came something new. Gordon turned and searched before his mind registered precisely what it was he was seeing.

The man in the rector’s collar was barely more than a youth, or so it seemed against the backdrop of chains and mud and miserable prisoners. His boots and the hem of his longcoat were caked with the prison yard’s red mud. But in the flickering torchlight he seemed to carry a special atmosphere with him. The prisoners responded with but a few words. But they seemed to sit a bit straighter after he passed. When the pastor came upon their little group, he greeted them with, “You men are new here, are you not? I don’t recall seeing any of these faces before.”

“That’s right, Reverend,” said Gordon, answering for them all. Then he said quickly, “Might I ask where you hail from?”

“New Haven, originally.”

“No, sir. I meant, which church?”

“Ah. Well, actually, I am still attending seminary.” When he smiled he appeared even younger. “If my professors are to be believed, I may be there still when I am old and gray.”

Gordon rose to his feet but addressed his words to the soldier standing guard nearby. “I would beg a word with the pastor in my cell.”

“But you have not finished your meal,” the reverend pointed out.

Gordon handed his bowl to Carter. The barrelchested man clearly understood what was afoot, for his eyes gleamed as they met Gordon’s gaze. When the soldier waved them on, Gordon said, “Might I speak with you privately, sir?”

“Of course.”

Evidently the pastor was expecting the penitent lament of a man facing the gallows, because his first words after entering the place where Gordon was held were, “Do you know our Lord and Savior, sir?”

“Not as well as I should.” Gordon remained quiet while the guard refastened his ankle chains to the shackles embedded in the wall. After he left, Gordon lowered his voice and said, “I must get word to someone staying at the hostel by the harbor seminary.”

The young seminarian looked stricken. “That is not possible.”

“I beg of you, sir! Lives are at stake here.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Gordon Goodwind.”

“Ah. Certainly. I have heard of you.” The pastor glanced behind him at the barred doorway, then whispered, “Sir, I have given my solemn word to speak of nothing here save the gospel.”

“Then I cannot, I shall not, ask you to break your word. But if you see it within your reach to simply mention to a certain Miss Nicole Harrow—”

“The Lady Harrow? I saw her just this morning.”

“She is well?”

“Most certainly. She . . .” The young man bit down hard on his lip. “Sir, I beg you. My oath.”

“Yes. Of course. Only if you were to perhaps mention that we have met, you would receive my undying gratitude.”

The young man retreated toward the doorway as he said, “Sir, I urge you to think anew of your Savior and
His
undying gift.”

Chapter 19

Around midnight Nicole got up from her rumpled bed. She couldn’t sleep with her mind so full of questions. She pulled on her robe, lit a candle, and sat down at the little table. Just above her head, a simple cross hung on the stone wall. She found herself talking in her mind to God, asking why solutions were so hard to find. The answers seemed further from her now than when living in England. She sought with all her might to do His will. How could He remain silent for so long, and in the midst of such a troubling time?

She yearned for her sister’s companionship. Her thoughtful, wise counsel. Anne’s most remarkable ability was how she could genuinely live the moment with another. During the times they had spent together, Nicole had the impression of speaking to another side of her own self. She desperately needed this gift now.

Nicole drew out a quill and sheet of paper from her trunk. Fortunately the table’s inkstand was almost full. Even as she began writing, she knew full well she would not be sending the letter, at least not any time soon. According to what she’d heard in the dining hall, mail on its way to England was notoriously slow, if it arrived at all. Yet instead of feeling frustrated, Nicole found herself invigorated by the thought that, while writing to her sister, the words might come in a way that would help bring understanding for herself, perhaps revealing truth.

So it was that she began her missive with one of the hardest questions of her entire life. What would have happened if she and Anne had not been exchanged as infants? What if their assumption had been wrong, the surmise that made it possible for Nicole to find a certain reason in all the pain and hardship that had followed: What if Anne had indeed been strong enough to survive the long journey to Louisiana? Did that mean that everything Nicole endured in her stead was only the result of happenstance, of life’s uncaring hand?

She paused there, marveling at how there was no anguish in her soul at such considerations. She felt as if the night blanketed her with a comforting closeness, as if it sheltered her heart so that her mind might explore forbidden pathways. This was the clearest sign she could have received from an otherwise silent God—at least seemingly so. Maybe she was in fact not alone. She dipped the pen into the inkstand and continued.

Nicole imagined how it might have been for Anne if she had traveled her road and, later on, helped to build their home in the Cajun country. In truth, she knew and so wrote, Anne would never have been a fighter. Her spirit didn’t contain Nicole’s restless impatience, her challenge to circumstance. She may have lived through the road’s travails, yes, but emotionally she would not have thrived. Wilted and weak, she would have silently moved through a life too severe for her gentle spirit. The constant struggle to adapt and survive would have overwhelmed her. The internal battles, which had only sharpened Nicole’s desire to grow and travel and see and experience, would most likely have proved too much for Anne.