Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive by T. Davis Bunn Page B

time.
    Charleston harbor did indeed hold two European vessels—one British and one French. But the ships were little more than floating hulks. Both had lost their masts and managed to reach port only by jury-rigging a spare boom as a lateen sail. The harbor was filled with news of a storm so massive none had found its eye. Not even the oldest sailor could recall a storm so large this early in the tempest season.
    Four days later, the storm had abated somewhat. At least, the dark wall no longer climbed against the horizon. But no ship was willing to attempt an Atlantic crossing. So Falconer took berth on a vessel headed even farther north, to Georgetown and Baltimore. Anything was better than this idleness, he thought.
    Three days out, they caught a small taste of the storm they had missed. The sky darkened and a light rain fell. Then out of nowhere they were slapped by a careless hand, a wind so strong it heeled the two-masted vessel over until the gunnels were drenched. The captain feared his vessel would flip and cried aloud to God. It seemed that God heard them, for as swiftly as the wind came, it passed. They arrived to find Georgetown mourning four of their own fishing fleet that had not been so blessed.

    Boots in hand, Falconer slipped down the stairs andentered the main hall. The seaman’s mission was located in the Georgetown harbor and offered simple berths to crewmen and laborers. Falconer seated himself in the farthest corner from the entrance, his back to the wall. He had given the mission hosts only his first name and assumed he was safe. But old habits died hard, and he eyed every new guest who found his way into the hall.
    The church bells struck six in the morning, and already the day felt oppressive with heat and summer damp. He sniffed the air wafting through the open window. He smelled sweet river water, distant storms, and the surrounding city. Falconer had never felt comfortable very far from the sea. The air seemed empty and strange without its taste of salt.
    By the time the others awoke and the room had filled, Falconer had finished his breakfast of tea and gruel. He returned to the task he had begun the previous day—the repair of a hole in the kitchen wall. He had never shied away from work. Putting his hands to such an undertaking as this had a calming effect upon his mind. He could lose himself for hours, praying from time to time and drawing close to God through honest toil.
    A minister from the neighboring church came into the hall, greeted the men, and led them through a hymn and a brief homily and prayer. Afterwards Falconer resumed work. Time and again his mind returned to the quandary that had ended so many of his recent prayers. Why was God allowing circumstances to place so many barriers between him and his quest? Had not his Maker called him into the crusade against slavery wherever it was found?
    “Are you well this morning, Brother John?”
    Falconer started at how the pastor had managed to approach him unnoticed. “Well enough, Father. Thank you for asking.” He had a hunter’s trained ability to sense any approach, yet this man had walked over casually as he pleased and settled unnoticed into the seat next to Falconer. Hisinstincts had obviously been dulled by his frustrating lack of progress.
    The young man smiled. “I am Methodist, Brother John. Our Lord Jesus referred to the Lord of all as Father. We prefer a more modest title.”
    “Pastor, then. Yes, thank you. I am well.”
    “You look fit enough. And the women speak of little else save how you help them. Is there no task you consider beneath you?”
    The pastor no doubt referred to how he had spent the early part of the week on his hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen slate floor as he had holystoned many a deck. “I have never shirked from work or duty, sir.”
    “I only know you as John. Might I ask your surname?” When Falconer did not reply, the pastor eased back in his seat. “You carry secrets, I