Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains Read online

  Thorns in Eden

  &

  The Everlasting Mountains

  By

  RITA GERLACH

  Revised 2 in 1 Collection

  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

  Dedication

  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.

  CHAPTER 1

  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.”

  “It was my choice. England is home. My daughter is here.” Her father’s raspy voice distressed her. He did not sound the way she remembered, strong and disciplined.

  “True. Nevertheless, it will cost you dearly, Sir Richard. The infection will spread.”

  A chill rippled over Rebecah’s skin. Her heart sank to her soles. A pause followed, then, “In the name of heaven, what did they use for stitches—horsehair?”

  “Leave me alone. Call my daughter.”

  Stepping through the door, Rebecah entered the room. Her father lay in the four-poster bed he once shared with her mother, pillows piled behind him, a counterpane covering him up to his chin.

  With the utmost care a man in a tight gray wig, unraveled bloodstained bandages. She shuddered when she saw the infectious lesions invading her father’s bicep. The shriveled arm streaked red and molting, shook at the physician’s touch.

  Beads of sweat glistened on Sir Richard’s forehead. Rebecah wanted to save him, heal him, take away the pain. She went on her knees at the bedside and held her father’s hand.

  “Papa?”

  The physician glanced at Rebecah over the rim of his spectacles. “Young woman, it is best you leave the room.”

  “He needs me, sir. I will stay.”

  In the past, Rebecah’s father had always returned hale and hearty, blustering through the front door, barking out orders to servants, with his hounds leaping and baying around him. When she first read his letter saying he meant to come home, she thought he was in good health. But now to see him mortally wounded, she repented of her feelings, of thinking of herself, of what his homecoming meant for her.

  His eyes were closed. Did he not hear her, feel her hand close over his? His face ashy, his breathing shallow, his movements stilled. The surgeon asked if he could speak with her outside in the hall.

  “I did not want your father to overhear in case he woke.”

  Rebecah’s throat tightened. “Is my father dying?”

  “He’s in danger.” He removed his spectacles. “The bullet was removed carelessly in my opinion, a sloppy job, and the wound sutured with I know not what. Infection set in and inflamed the arm. It is amazing he lasted this long.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “I’ve been asked not to divulge the details.” He held out his hand. It had blood on it. “I’m Dr. Harvey, by the way.”

  “Forgive me for not shaking your hand, sir.” She glanced at his hand and he withdrew.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon.” He placed it behind his back.

  “If you remove the arm, will my father live?” she asked.

  “He has a better chance. I’ve administered mercurial ointment, wrapped the arm in warm cloths soaked in vinegar, and bled him before we made the journey here. There has been no improvement.”

  “You mustn’t let him die. He is all I have in the world. I lost my mother a few years ago. I’ll do whatever you ask. Money is not an issue. I must go to him.”

  “I promise to do all I can. I’ll bleed him again from a larger vein and draw out a substantial amount of
blood. It will help purge the infection from his body.”

  “That you’re willing to try, sir, gives me ease.”

  “Pray for your father. It’s the best thing you can do for him.”

  Together they returned to Sir Richard’s room. With each step she took, Rebecah made an anxious plea to God.

  * * *

  Night grew old and Sir Richard’s fever grew more intense. Wind groaned against the house. Rain pelted the windows. A candle sputtered and his mouth moved in silent speech.

  With his condition worsening, Dr. Harvey wished to go on with the procedure. He shook his head as he examined the wound.

  “I cannot wait any longer, Miss Rebecah. Your father has passed into a stupor and will not feel it. If we wait any longer, I fear he will die.”

  The horror of losing her father gripped her. She lifted the candle from the table and moved closer. “I pray God will lead your hand, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best. Please have your servant bring in a bowl and pitcher of water.”

  Margery hurried out, her rapid footsteps tapping down the stairs. With dread, Rebecah watched Dr. Harvey apply a tourniquet. She bulked at the putrid smell coming from her father’s arm. Listening to his labored breathing brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to cry, but managed to hold them back.

  Dr. Harvey opened a leather box lined with red velvet. He lifted the felt cloth covering his surgical tools. The amputation saw, the curved knife. The instruments reflected the quiver of the hearth fire. Distraught, Rebecah scanned her eyes over them. A chill rippled up her spine, passed like ice water through her veins.

  “Fill the bowl, if you please,” Dr. Harvey told Margery. She poured water from the pitcher, and brought the bowl to the bedside.

  “Hold the candle closer, please,” Dr. Harvey said when she stepped back. “Hold him down, Ralph.”

  The assistant laid the weight of his body across Sir Richard’s chest. Then Dr. Harvey bent his head and leveled his tool. Forced to be strong so not to be put out of the room, Rebecah fought the faint feeling in her head. She took in a breath, released it and drew in another. But nothing could calm the rapid beat of her heart.