Crossing the River

Chapter 3, Pages 37-39

 

     It had been the cruelest day of Henry De Berniere’s young life.

     He and Browne had walked sixteen miles in the teeth of a blizzard. They had had but the preamble of sanctuary before they had been forced back into the storm. Having no other recourse to evade arrest, they had traveled half the distance back to Weston not daring, except for one brief detour, to stop.

     Not one rider had passed them.

 They had run from Henry Barnes’s house, found the Sudbury Road, and hurried on until, thoroughly spent, they had turned into a wood near a causeway to devour the apple-jack merchant’s bread rolls. Back on the road, not having gone twenty rods, they had been challenged by an elderly man who had rushed out at them from a white-shrouded house.

     “What do you think will become of you now?!” he had shouted.

     They had deigned not to answer. Or inquire.

     De Berniere knew all he needed to know. While they had been eating in the wood, Marlborough militiamen had ridden past. Having gone this far, would they not ride to the Sudbury causeway to lie in wait? The image of a crouching cat -- eyes iridescent, chin on paws, haunches tensed -- appended his thoughts.

     A prayer? However dire their circumstance he would not, like the Sunday psalm singer, implore divine intercession. He had seen in the hovels and the taverns of his father’s parish enough of the meanness of life not to countenance a benevolent Father. Man made his own way, cunningly, stupidly, reaping apposite consequences. He, De Berniere, had acted rashly. Nothing else but happenstance, utter coincidence -- their stopping in the wood to eat -- could rescue them.

     Kinetic indefatigability brought them finally to the stretch of road that De Berniere feared most. Approaching the dreaded causeway, he saw appearing out of the darkness four tightly grouped horsemen. First would come pistol shots, immediately thereafter, searing pain.

     The distance between De Berniere and Browne and the horsemen shortened. Thirty feet … twenty … ten …

     Moving to De Berniere and Browne’s left and right, the riders passed.

 

 

     Very late that evening the two soldiers entered Isaac Jones's Golden Ball Tavern.

     “All the way back!” His arms folded across his chest, Jones wagged his head. “Nit ‘n’grit! I say. Amazing luck!” The two men were pulling off each other’s clothing. “You must tell me all, once you’ve rested!”

     De Berniere’s friend disappeared behind the closing door. Friend he was, as was this room, the very room in which he had agonized about the pitfalls that he had predicted had been awaiting them.

     Anxieties verified. Safety achieved. He could now be charitable. Browne seemed even the most valued of companions. In this room all that was animate and all that was not merited his approval. Soon he would lie upon the left side of their bed, wrap himself in many blankets, and sleep, hours later to awake analytical and confident.

     They had been valiant! He would detail their intrepid endeavors. If his service were not immediately rewarded, it would be remembered. The door to promotion would remain open. Worthy officer that he was, he would analyze his mistakes, most of which, given their circumstances, had been unavoidable. (He sensed that he had already begun) He would examine them all tomorrow, allow his sharp mind to draw conclusions. Tomorrow, he would begin anew.

     “To walk thirty-two miles in a snow storm, in one day!” the innkeeper had marveled.

     Just so.

     Using pitchers provided by Jones, they bathed. Attired in borrowed robes, they savored hot mulled Madeira wine. Ensconced in woolen blankets, they drifted into a lengthy sleep.