Читать книгу Love Thine Enemy - Louise M. Gouge - Страница 13

“Papa, the heel of my shoe has loosened.” Rachel would not mention that she had helped it to that condition. “May I go to the cobbler?”

Seated behind the store counter, he took off his spectacles and peered over his logbook. “Aye, ’tis best not to delay such repairs, else it’ll cost more. We’ve no customers, so hurry along.” He glanced down the length of her skirt, which covered her shoes, and wrinkled his forehead.

For a moment, Rachel thought he might have comprehended her ruse. She shifted from one hidden foot to the other and gave him a bright smile. “Thank you. I shall return as quickly as possible.” She turned to go before he could change his mind.

“Avast.” He stood and crossed his arms.

“Yes, sir?” Her pulse quickened.

“Whilst ye’re there, see if the cobbler can make ye some slippers to match yer new gown.” From his tone, he could have been ordering her to swab the deck. He sat down, put on his spectacles and studied the logbook again.

Yet his words brought a blush of confusion and shame to Rachel’s cheeks. “Slippers?”

“Aye.” He did not look up. “I’ll not have ye tramp through a fancy plantation house in yer old shoes.”

Surprised again by his generosity, she nonetheless hurried from the store and up the street, glancing at the various structures as she passed. While much needed to be done to transform the settlement into a true town, the streets had been laid out and cleared, and tabby foundations now supported numerous wooden buildings in various stages of completion.

In the distance, Rachel noticed a group of people loitering in the village’s common. One tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat stood above the crowd. Mr. Moberly! Her feet—and her heart—tried to carry her toward the gathering, but she forced herself to turn aside at the cobbler’s building two blocks from Papa’s store.

As she stepped inside, the heavy smell of oiled leather almost pushed her back into the street. She inhaled shallow breaths and glanced around the small front room, where lasts, buckles, buttons, needles and countless other shoemaking supplies covered three tables.

The middle-aged cobbler looked up from his work and acknowledged her with a nod. “Miss Folger, what can we do for you today?” He rose to greet her.

“Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker. Would you be so kind as to fix my heel?” She slipped it off and held it out.

He turned it in his hands. “Tsk. Looks like someone tried to pry the heel off with a nail.” Carrying it back to his workbench, he began his repairs.

Rachel moved across the bench from him. “Is Mrs. Shoemaker well?”

“Yes, thank you. She and the children are working in the kitchen house. Shall I call her?”

“No. No doubt she is too busy to chat.” Rachel glanced around and saw no fabric for slippers, but another matter held priority. “Tell me, sir, what prompted your removal from Savannah to this wilderness? Surely the city had sufficient work for a cobbler.”

“Humph. Let those rebels look to their own feet.” He hammered her shoe with considerable force. “After they tarred and feathered Judge Morgan for speaking against their wicked rebellion, any sensible man would take his family elsewhere.” He held up the repaired shoe and rubbed it with an oil-stained cloth. “Just let those rebels dare come to East Florida. We’re raising a militia here, and there’ll be no mercy for any who rise up against the Crown.”

Rachel gulped back a tart reply. Clearly this man was not the unknown patriot seeking to stir up sympathy for the cause. She would have taken her shoe and left, but Papa would only send her back. Ordering the slippers helped her collect her emotions. Mr. Shoemaker agreed to send his oldest daughter to Papa’s store for the needed fabric, and the two men would negotiate the payments.

Glad to leave the stuffy shop, she breathed in the warm, fresh breeze drifting down the street. To her right, loud voices drew her attention to the common. She glanced at Papa’s store and back toward the crowd. Once again her feet seemed determined to carry her there. This time she did not deny the impulse.

To her relief, several women from the settlement and nearby plantations stood among the men on the newly planted grass poking through the dark, sandy soil. She stayed at the edge of the crowd, surprised to see Mr. Moberly seated at a rough table beneath a spreading oak tree. He was writing in a leather-bound ledger. So this was how he dispensed his duties as magistrate. Rachel’s feet once again seemed to move of their own will, drawing her closer to him.

In front of Mr. Moberly’s table stood a barefoot young man in rags with his hands tied behind his back and fear in his eyes. Nearby stood a man whom Rachel recognized as the owner of a small plantation close to the village. He held in his arms a plump pink piglet that wiggled and squealed until he covered it with a burlap bag.

Laughter and rude comments from the crowd nearly sent Rachel on her way, but she could not bring herself to leave. Surely the Lord had directed her steps to this place so she might learn more about Mr. Moberly through his judgments.

She noticed two red-coated soldiers beside a hangman’s noose that dangled from a branch of the vast tree, and an icy shiver ran through her from head to toe. Several yards away, out in the sun, newly made wooden stocks suggested a less severe sentence. But in this East Florida heat, who could endure even that?

A storm of emotions swirled through Rachel. The young man must have stolen the piglet. Such a crime must not go unpunished. Praying for justice and mercy, she found herself barely able to breathe.

Frederick felt the urge to squirm like the hapless young man who stood bound and trembling before him. He hated holding court, hated making judgments, hated having the eyes of everyone in the settlement look to him for wisdom. Why Father had arranged for him to be the magistrate, he could not guess. And with Oliver leaning against the trunk of the oak tree, arms crossed and chin lifted, Frederick felt certain whatever he did would be reported to the earl…and would be wrong.

Heretofore, the disputes had been easy to solve: uncertain boundary lines, drunken brawling, that sort of nonsense. But the theft of a pig must be dealt with severely. In England this thief most likely would be hanged. Surely in this remote part of East Florida, where men sometimes were forced to do desperate things in order to survive, English law need not be enforced to its fullest extent. And after reading of former Governor Grant’s harsh decision in a similar case where he sentenced the hapless servant to death by hanging, Frederick shrank from inflicting such an unforgiving sentence. Should a Christian not offer mercy and redemption to the miscreant?

Frederick surveyed the crowd, glad that the broad brim of his hat shielded his eyes from their view. He kept his mouth in a grim line and assumed a stiff, formal posture. In the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Folger approach, and his heart sank. He must not look at her, must not care what she thought of his coming decision. He must forget her, forget Father, forget Oliver, forget everything but the men in conflict before him.

Lord, grant me wisdom as You have promised in the Holy Scriptures.

“Mr. Baker, come forward.” Frederick beckoned the pig’s owner.

Shifting the sack holding the pig, the man snatched off his hat and then stepped up to the table beside the accused. “Yes, sir.”

“This is your indentured servant, John Gilbert? And that is your pig?” Frederick pointed to the sack.

“Yes, sir.”

Frederick noticed that Baker’s expression held more worry than anger. Interesting. Did he hope for leniency or vengeance?

“Now, John, you have been accused of stealing this pig. Did you do it?”

Misery clouded the lad’s blue eyes. “Aye, sir. ’Twas not just fer meself. Mr. Baker don’t feed us aught but gruel. A man’s gotta have meat now and then or he can’t work the land.”

Frederick saw color rush to Baker’s cheeks. He did not deny the charge.

Lord, grant me the wisdom of Solomon. Frederick recalled that Governor Grant had required one man under judgment to hang his more blameworthy friends.

“Well, Mr. Baker, this man belongs to you to do with as you will. If you want him hanged, you will do it yourself.” Frederick pointed his quill pen toward the noose hanging from the oak tree.

A great gasp and much murmuring rose from the crowd, some approving, some grumbling. Frederick would not permit himself to look at Miss Folger to see what her reaction might be.

“Now, Mr. Moberly, sir,” Mr. Baker said, “if I hang him, I’m out a servant to work my land. I paid his fare to these shores, and he owes me six more years.”

Frederick shrugged. “Then what do you consider a just punishment?”

Baker scratched his head. He glanced toward the stocks. “Forty lashes and a week in the stocks should teach ’im a lesson.”

And kill him in the process. Frederick set down his quill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Three days in the stocks and ten lashes afterward. And you will scourge him yourself.”

Baker’s posture slumped, and he hung his head. After several moments, he gave John Gilbert a sidelong glance, then raised his eyes to Frederick. “That’ll do justice. Thank you, sir.”

The crowd burst into cheers and applause. John Gilbert slumped to the ground on his knees. “God bless ya, Mr. Moberly, sir. God bless ya.”

Emotion flooded Frederick’s chest, but he managed a gruff dismissal. “Are there other quarrels?”

With none coming forward, Frederick made notes in his ledger, blotted the ink, and closed the book. As the crowd dispersed, he cast a hasty glance at Miss Folger and barely contained a smile. Her head was tilted prettily, and a look of wonder filled her lovely face. Once again he swallowed a rush of emotion. Whether or not his judgment had been correct, her obvious approval was all he required.

Rachel knew she must turn and walk away like the others, but her feet refused to move. To her relief, Mr. Moberly approached her. She struggled to think of a Scripture verse to relate to him in praise of his decision. But she could think only of some words from Shakespeare that nonetheless imparted an eternal truth: The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

“Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly gave her that boyish smile of his that belied his august position. “What brings you to the common on this lovely day?”

Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at his well-polished black boots, now covered with sand. “Just a trip to the cobbler.”

“Ah. And did Mr. Shoemaker serve you well?”

She looked up to see a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Indeed he did.” At least with her shoe.

“Very good.” He nodded his approval. “If I am not being too bold, may I escort you to your father’s mercantile?”

Happiness swept through her. On the way, she could recite her Shakespeare to compliment his judgment. “That would be—”

“Moberly.” Mr. Corwin approached them with a determined stride. He barely glanced at Rachel. “The tavern keeper had a visit from that rabble-rouser last evening. He can give us a description.”

Mr. Moberly drew in his lips and shot a cross look at his friend. “I am certain he can wait for an hour.”

Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. The patriot was still at work.

“No, he cannot wait.” Mr. Corwin’s frown matched Mr. Moberly’s. “He must meet his suppliers on the coast before nightfall.”

Mr. Moberly blew out a cross sigh. “Miss Folger, will you forgive me?”

“Of course.” A riot of confusion filled her mind. How could she long to become better acquainted with this gentleman when he represented everything she opposed?

For the briefest moment, she thought to delay him so he would miss learning more about the patriot. Or she could follow him and try to discern the man’s identity herself. But both actions would be shocking improprieties. She would wait until next Saturday’s party at Mr. Moberly’s plantation. Surely there she would learn something useful to the revolution.