page. Edwin was killed in a hunting accident. His wife shipped his personal effects, including his diary, to my father, who was still reeling from the death of my own mother. He was so shocked when he read the story those pages held that he buried the diary in a chest and put the revelation from his mind. So the matter of the child’s whereabouts was lost in the sorrowing widow’s grief and her widowed son’s bitterness, until now.’ ”
Charles peered at the page a long moment, then said, “I fear the carriage and my poor eyesight make this next portion illegible.”
“That is where John writes in his own hand, is it not? Here, let me see the page.” Thomas took the letter, squinted, and read, “ ‘My dear Charles, I am asking your help. Forgive an old man and his musings. I do fully understand if you care not to involve yourself in such a futile undertaking.’ ”
“On the contrary,” Charles said, looking from Thomas to Anne, “nothing could give me more pleasure. I count it an honor and a duty to aid the gentleman in any way I can. You will tell him that, will you not?”
“Indeed so.” Thomas kept his eyes on the page to read. “ ‘Strange as it may sound, I feel God’s hand upon this undertaking. I doubt you will understand this, but the words need saying. Much of my life was ruled by rancor and bitterness. God has changed my heart, and I need to accept my ties to the land and people who were long my enemy. Perhaps my request to you is part of this healing of my soul. I wish you well, sir, and close with prayers that God will guide you if you should decide to accept this task. Your servant, John Price.’ ”
Charles murmured, “What worthy sentiments this man has penned. Tell him that as well, I fervently request. He has touched my heart. I count it an honor to know him. An honor. Please pass that along to him when you see him.”
The leaden clouds finally released their burdens. Rain pelted the carriage with such force all conversation ceased midsentence. The deluge swiftly transformed the road to muck, and the horses slowed to a laborious gait.
It was then that the brigands attacked.
Anne heard the sound of drumming hooves, at first assuming merely a change in the rain’s tempo. She then heard the wheezing huff of horses driven hard through the wet and clinging earth. She was about to question why someone chose to ride so close to their coach, when from above came the first cries of alarm.
The highwaymen had chosen well. The driver cracked his whip and shrilled a loud “Hyah!” But the horses could respond with little more than high-pitched whinnies. The carriage wheels, gripped by fetters of wet clay, refused to spin faster.
A wet-gloved hand gripping the stanchion by the right door, followed by a bearded face streaked with rain and mud, appeared in the open window. The man roared words lost in the tumult as he kept his hold on the carriage with one hand and struggled to free the pistol in his belt with the other.
But Thomas was faster. He slid down far into his seat and hammered the gloved hand with his heel. A cry of rage and pain marked the man’s disappearance. Thomas hurled himself over Anne, pressing her into the corner of the seat. He yelled at Charles, “Guard the other side!”
The two bully-boys riding on top proved to be such ferocious fighters the next wave of attackers could not mount the running boards. Anne cowered beneath Thomas, flinching with each shout and blow. A blunderbuss boomed just outside her side of the coach, splintering the wood above her head, and to her terrified ear it sounded like a cannonade. Thomas pressed her even closer into the cushions.
A pair of flintlock pistols fired from either side, and the stench of burning sulfur poured through the carriage window.
A voice from above then shouted, “They’re climbing up the rear!”
In time to the warning, Anne felt as much as heard the scrape and pounding of boots clambering over the rope netting
Charles peered at the page a long moment, then said, “I fear the carriage and my poor eyesight make this next portion illegible.”
“That is where John writes in his own hand, is it not? Here, let me see the page.” Thomas took the letter, squinted, and read, “ ‘My dear Charles, I am asking your help. Forgive an old man and his musings. I do fully understand if you care not to involve yourself in such a futile undertaking.’ ”
“On the contrary,” Charles said, looking from Thomas to Anne, “nothing could give me more pleasure. I count it an honor and a duty to aid the gentleman in any way I can. You will tell him that, will you not?”
“Indeed so.” Thomas kept his eyes on the page to read. “ ‘Strange as it may sound, I feel God’s hand upon this undertaking. I doubt you will understand this, but the words need saying. Much of my life was ruled by rancor and bitterness. God has changed my heart, and I need to accept my ties to the land and people who were long my enemy. Perhaps my request to you is part of this healing of my soul. I wish you well, sir, and close with prayers that God will guide you if you should decide to accept this task. Your servant, John Price.’ ”
Charles murmured, “What worthy sentiments this man has penned. Tell him that as well, I fervently request. He has touched my heart. I count it an honor to know him. An honor. Please pass that along to him when you see him.”
The leaden clouds finally released their burdens. Rain pelted the carriage with such force all conversation ceased midsentence. The deluge swiftly transformed the road to muck, and the horses slowed to a laborious gait.
It was then that the brigands attacked.
Anne heard the sound of drumming hooves, at first assuming merely a change in the rain’s tempo. She then heard the wheezing huff of horses driven hard through the wet and clinging earth. She was about to question why someone chose to ride so close to their coach, when from above came the first cries of alarm.
The highwaymen had chosen well. The driver cracked his whip and shrilled a loud “Hyah!” But the horses could respond with little more than high-pitched whinnies. The carriage wheels, gripped by fetters of wet clay, refused to spin faster.
A wet-gloved hand gripping the stanchion by the right door, followed by a bearded face streaked with rain and mud, appeared in the open window. The man roared words lost in the tumult as he kept his hold on the carriage with one hand and struggled to free the pistol in his belt with the other.
But Thomas was faster. He slid down far into his seat and hammered the gloved hand with his heel. A cry of rage and pain marked the man’s disappearance. Thomas hurled himself over Anne, pressing her into the corner of the seat. He yelled at Charles, “Guard the other side!”
The two bully-boys riding on top proved to be such ferocious fighters the next wave of attackers could not mount the running boards. Anne cowered beneath Thomas, flinching with each shout and blow. A blunderbuss boomed just outside her side of the coach, splintering the wood above her head, and to her terrified ear it sounded like a cannonade. Thomas pressed her even closer into the cushions.
A pair of flintlock pistols fired from either side, and the stench of burning sulfur poured through the carriage window.
A voice from above then shouted, “They’re climbing up the rear!”
In time to the warning, Anne felt as much as heard the scrape and pounding of boots clambering over the rope netting
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