Beyond the Fire Page 4

  As the day for their departure approached, supplies were loaded onto rafts, and farewell parties were held. Six men, including Gaff, and nearly thirty women prepared to set sail. Since no one knew what their reception at Stonewall would be, no children were allowed to go.

  When the day finally arrived, hugs were abundant and tears were shed as the pilgrims set sail. Things ran uneventfully the first day, but on the second afternoon, black clouds began to build over the Guardian Range. An eerie sense of doom hovered over the travelers. The day had been uncommonly still, and birds forgot to sing as the rafts drifted lazily along the river. The air was filled with expectation.

  Listening for sounds of wildlife along the river and hearing nothing, Gaff’s boatswain commented, “It’s the calm before the storm.”

  “I think you are right. We’d better get to shore and try to set up some kind of shelter.”

  “Sure glad there aren’t any children with us. It looks like it could be a rough one!”

  After guiding their rafts toward a clearing along the river, the women scrambled ashore and began to unload supplies while the men anchored the rafts and began cutting trees for makeshift shelters. Supplies were brought into the shelters, and limbs were gathered for firewood.

  The sky grew dark, and though it was the middle of the afternoon, the light of the sun could not penetrate the thick clouds. An eerie quiet settled over the land.

  Everyone ate sparingly and then covered the supplies as best they could. Without warning, a sudden blast of wind swept hot ash and dust into their camp. Lightning smote the trees in the forest. Thunder roared, and the wind rose to a scream.

  Dust clogged everyone’s nose and eyes. They huddled together tightly under what shelter they could find. Trees toppled, and limbs crashed around them.

  Soon the wild wind brought driving rain. Each drop splashed like mud upon the earth, and in moments everyone was soaked to the bone. Lightning lit the sky in a dizzying display, and the roar of thunder kept the group paralyzed with fear.

  The rain-soaked earth began to rise and fall. Even the hardiest trees lost their grip on the soil and with sickening groans toppled over. An ancient oak towering over one of the shelters suddenly came crashing down. Screams filled the air between the terrifying claps of thunder.

  CHAPTER 4

  Judgment

  The black clouds filling the sky could not compete with the dark mood among the prisoners at Stonewall. Ever since Gaff had escaped, things had gone downhill. Food and water were routinely denied the prisoners, and a misspoken word would incur a beating. Prisoners were executed for the slightest infraction of the rules.

  Chained to the wall, the prisoners watched as an old man was beaten for asking for food.

  “Stop it!” Eli Cotton screamed. “He’s just an old man! You’re going to kill him!”

  “Shut up, or you’ll taste the same!” a guard ordered and then spat at Cotton.

  The club rose and fell again. This time the old man did not move.

  “No!” Cotton screamed. He twisted his arms frantically, trying to get free.

  “I told you to shut up!” The guard whirled about to face Cotton. “Do you want of a taste of this?” he said, leering as he raised his club for all to see.

  “You wouldn’t be so brave if you unchained me from this wall,” Cotton taunted the guard.

  “I told you to shut up!” the guard yelled, and he swung his club at Cotton’s head.

  The room was nearly black when Eli Cotton began to stir.

  “Cotton, are you all right?” The voice of Josiah Stafford came from somewhere in the room.

  Cotton groaned. “I think so. How’s the old man?”

  “He’s dead,” Stafford responded.

  “It’s a wonder we ain’t all dead!” another voice chimed in.

  “Where are the guards?” Eli asked as anger fueled new life into his limbs.

  “The storm sent them running for the guardhouse.” Stafford chuckled.

  “What storm?” Eli began to ask, when a sudden flash of lightning lit up the sky.

  Thunder crashed, and the floor began to sway. The walls began to shake, and the chains anchoring the men began to rattle. One man suddenly shouted, “I’m free!” Others yanked on their chains, and most fell away from the wall.

  “I’m free! I’m free!” voices cried from nearly every corner of the prison. “Hallelujah!”

  Just then, the stones along the wall shifted dangerously, and shouts of joy turned to cries of fear. Stronger men pulled weaker comrades from the walls while others searched for a way out into the courtyard. Great drops of rain began to fall from the sky, and those who had wanted to flee the stone prison now cowered in its relative safety.

  Peeking through doors that had been shaken open by the earthquake, the prisoners saw the lanterns in the guardhouse dim and then disappear behind a wall of rain. Water poured into the cells.

  All that night, men were torn between fear and rejoicing. What would the guards do to them in the morning? What should the prisoners do with their new freedom? Debate raged as the sea crashed against the heavy gray stones surrounding Stonewall. But for those stones, not one man would have survived. However, if the storm didn’t abate soon, even the stones would not see the light of a new day.

  It seemed that morning would never come. Heavy-laden clouds poured their contents upon the earth in an unending torrent. No guards came when night’s black turned deep gray at dawn. No one appeared all that day or that night—or the next day.

  Though the prisoners were free to move about, they became restless. They were hungry, and anxiety mounted as the rain continued. They collected water in basins as it poured off the roof, but it was so black that none even tried to wash their wounds in the liquid.

  After six days of pouring rain, despair crept into men’s hearts. But with the dawn of the seventh day, the rain eased to a steady drizzle. The water running off the roof was clear, and men drank deeply from the collection bowls.

  A discussion arose over what should be done next, and debate raged for some time. Josiah Stafford grew weary of the bickering. He was hungry and knew that there was food stored in the guardhouse.

  “Gentlemen!” he called out. “Who wants to go with me to the guardhouse?”

  There was a brief silence followed by a chorus of dissent. “You can’t go. They’ll kill you on the spot. They hate you more than anyone.”

  Gesturing for silence, Stafford reassured them. “The Lord has saved me this far. I can trust Him for the next step. Will anyone go with me?”

  He did not go alone. Nearly thirty daring souls followed their intrepid leader across the courtyard. The area inside the great gray wall stood partially under water. It looked like a devastated swamp.

  Sloshing across the water-laden earth, the prisoners became aware that there was no activity inside the guardhouse. When they reached the doorway, Stafford turned and glanced at the men who had followed him. All were nearly naked, gaunt, and weaponless. Looking into the sky, he offered a prayer: “Help us, Lord Jesus.” And then he lifted the latch.

  The room inside was dark except for what light filtered through the windows. Nervously, the prisoners started across the room but stopped when they became aware of movement in one corner. Three guards stood with their backs to the wall, swords drawn.

  “Stay back,” one guard yelled, “or we’ll kill you!”

  Stafford walked forward until the tip of the man’s sword rested against his chest. “We’ve come looking for food, not a fight. Put your sword away.”

  “Stay back!” the guard yelled again. “I’m warning you!” His sword brushed against Stafford’s hairy chest.

  “Kill me if you wish,” Stafford said, “but you cannot overpower all these men who have come with me. Why not lower your weapons, and lead me to your master?”

  At this, the yo
ung guard dropped his blade and his head. “Alas, we are without a master.”

  “What?” A chorus of voices broke out.

  “It’s true,” said another of the guards.

  “What happened?” Stafford demanded.

  “Come and see.”

  The guards led Stafford and the prisoners into a large room that served as the guard’s dining hall. Bodies of prison guards and officers lay scattered about on the floor. Some looked as though they had fallen in battle, and some might have killed themselves. The scene was grisly enough, but it was worse for being seven days old.

  “When did this happen?” Stafford demanded.

  “We found them like this the night the storm hit. We rushed in from the cell block, and this met our eyes.”

  One guard suddenly knelt before Stafford, laying his sword at the startled man’s feet. “Please, sir!” he begged. “I have been harsh with you and the prisoners. Please forgive me and treat me with mercy.”

  The other guards knelt in like fashion, each laying his sword at Stafford’s feet and asking for forgiveness.

  “All right,” Josiah Stafford said. “You are forgiven. Now, leave your swords and show us the larder! We’ll bury these men after we feed the others.”

  To everyone’s relief, most of the goods in the larder had survived the storm. Food was rationed out with care, and after the needs of everyone had been met, the cleanup began.

  It took several days to restore some sense of order within the prison, and sentries were posted on the walls. The prisoners feared that fresh troops from Shingmar would arrive on the next ship and they would lose their newfound freedom.

  The river that separated Stonewall from the mainland was still overflowing its banks, and though sentries watched for ships from Shingmar, they kept their eyes on the river as well.

  One afternoon when the sun was trying to peek from behind thick clouds, a lookout on the western side of Stonewall shouted, “There is something on the river!”

  Men ran from every corner of the courtyard to investigate. Two large rafts rolled and swayed upon the raging river current, and as the rafts neared the prison, someone shouted, “There are women on those barges!”

  Men threw open the gates of Stonewall prison. Muddy water lapped at the prison’s foundation, but men ventured into the current to get a better view.

  “Catch hold!” boomed a voice as the first raft approached, and a rope sailed toward shore. Eager hands pulled the raft to the prison gate and tied it tightly to the wall. Soon both rafts were secure.

  “It’s Gaff,” Stafford whispered. “He’s fulfilled his promise.”

  Though supplies at Stonewall were running low, there was a celebration that night, which continued into the early hours of the morning. Everyone knew there were many things which must be decided, but for a few hours, they did not deny themselves the chance to rejoice.

  It was late the next morning when Gaff, Stafford, and a few other men gathered in the guardhouse to discuss their next move.

  Gaff surveyed the men gathered in the room. “As you now know, we have a fairly large colony several days upriver from here. Many of these men’s wives and children are there. The land we have seen coming downriver appears beautiful and unsettled. I think we should empty the prison, reunite our families, and then settle this new land.”

  “Shouldn’t we return to Shingmar and demand what is ours?” one man countered.

  “How would we get there?” another asked.

  “Maybe we could build boats,” another suggested.

  “What if Shinar should send troops to control this new colony you propose, Gaff?”

  “Gentlemen!” Stafford said. “I fear that much of what we once knew is no more. Does it not seem that the storm we endured was from the hand of God? We are reminded in God’s Word that the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah became so great that the Lord finally sent judgment in the form of fire and brimstone to destroy them. Is it possible that God has sent His judgment upon the land we once knew as our home?”

  The room grew silent, and Stafford watched as men looked from one to another. Many turned their eyes upon the floor as they pondered his statement. Finally, Gaff looked up and nodded. “I have wondered the same thing.”

  “All right,” said another, “but how are we going to know? We have no ships to sail back to Shingmar, and the Guardian Range blocks our view.”

  The room grew quiet. Josiah Stafford said quietly, “There is a man sitting right here who has explored the Guardian Range extensively. What if Gaff leads some of us to the top of the mountains where we could survey what has become of our home?”

  Heads began to nod as people considered the idea.

  A small expedition soon set off from Stonewall to follow Gaff into the mountains north of the Crescent River. As they traveled, Gaff told them of his wanderings and the first time he had stood at the top of the Guardian Range and observed Shingmar shining like an emerald, lush and green below him.

  They climbed for several days, and as they neared the top of the Guardian Range, Gaff rounded one final turn only to stop in disbelief. He knew this was the right place. He’d marked a stone on his first visit here, and that mark remained. He remembered the lush green beauty of Shingmar, but all that met his eyes was water.

  Stafford and the others struggled up the slope to join Gaff. Everyone stood in silence, surveying the scene below them as an icy wind tossed their hair. There were no pastures, no fields, and no lush green forests. All they saw were whitecaps dancing on a sea of water.

  Turning his back on the ocean, Josiah Stafford surveyed the mountains, hills, and valleys through which they had climbed. Far below them he could see Stonewall Prison surrounded by the muddy water of the Crescent River. A smile touched his lips. “Gentlemen,” he said with a sweeping motion of his arm, “let’s make this new land our home and call it Amity.”

  Back in the Cotton Home

  “But, Grandpa, how could that be? A whole nation can’t just disappear, can it?”

  “Well, I can’t explain it, Grandson, but nothing is impossible for the creator of heaven and earth!”

  “So that’s why we live in Amity?” another grandchild asked.

  “It is!” Bill grinned.

  Robbie sat up in Bill’s lap and with wide eyes looked full in his grandpa’s face. “Was Eli Cotton your father?”

  “No, Robbie. Eli Cotton was my great-grandfather. I was very young when he died, so I didn’t know him very well.”

  “Was he a hero, Grandpa?”

  Bill stared at his grandson. “I don’t know, Robbie. I always thought of him as a good man because he loved God and wanted to do the right thing, but I never thought about him being a hero.”

  “Aren’t heroes people who do the right thing?”

  “I guess they are.” Bill smiled and ruffled Robbie’s curly hair. “You’re a thinker, aren’t you, young man?” Bill could see Robbie’s mother trying to hide her embarrassment, but he feared things were going to get worse for Destry.

  “You’re a hero, aren’t you, Grandpa?” Robbie asked.

  Bill laughed. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Didn’t you lose your hand trying to do the right thing?”

  “Robbie!” Destry exclaimed, her face aflame. “How could you ask such a question?”

  “It’s all right,” Bill said, waving Destry’s concern away.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” another grandchild said, “tell us how you lost your hand.”

  Destry hid her face in her hands. This was one of the many reasons she had not wanted to make this trip. She was embarrassed for Bill and was horrified to think that the children, especially her own Robbie, would want to hear about something as grim as the severing of a hand from the body.

  Bill studied the group settled in the parlor. “I could tell you my story, but I play
such a small role that it’s not very interesting unless I include some of the others involved at the time.”

  “That’s all right, Grandpa!” several children chorused. “Tell us the whole story.”

  Bill glanced toward the fireplace where his lovely bride of many years sat. Her head was bowed, and her knitting needles clicked furiously. Mary looked up, met his gaze, nodded her head, and returned to her labor. Bill smiled and heaved a great sigh. “Well, it began like this …”

  CHAPTER 5

  Turmoil in Amity

  “I was a young man,” Bill began, studying the grandchildren in the room. “Your grandmother and I had not been married very long, and we lived on a farm not too far from here. Some good things were happening to us, but we were young and unsure of what we wanted from life. We were also a bit naïve and thought that the world revolved around us. We did not know about the terrible things taking place far away, and we certainly did not think anything so distant would ever affect our lives. But I’m going to start this story by telling you about a man I came to know and love during that time in my life. His name was John Stafford, and he lived at Stonewall.”

  “Is that the same Stonewall that Josiah Stafford and the prisoners from Shingmar built?” one grandchild asked.

  “Yes, it is.” Bill smiled. “But it wasn’t a prison anymore. It had become the home of the Stafford family. The people who escaped Shingmar and came to Amity looked to the Stafford family for leadership, beginning with Josiah Stafford and following through to Josiah’s grandson John. Though Amity had no king, John Stafford was widely recognized as its leader.

  “Just close your eyes and let your mind imagine back to the days before your parents were born. Picture a man standing by the eastern window of a room up high in a castle. That castle sat beside the sea, and the man kept looking into the darkness over the water.

  “That man was John Stafford, and he could not sleep. He paced the floor of his room, only to return again to the window. John Stafford was unsure of a decision he had made months earlier. He’d sent his two oldest sons and a thousand men to Green Meadow to provide protection on Amity’s western border. He knew that the steward of Green Meadow, Master Devia, had not wanted the army of Amity on his doorstep, but a battle had been fought the summer before only miles from Amity on the Great River in the land of Emancipation. John had felt he could not leave Amity unprotected on the western border, but tonight he was no longer sure he had done the right thing. Will this night ever end? he thought, looking out the window for the hundredth time. Finally, he saw a faint glow in the east, and before long he could discern a definite line between sea and sky.”