Resting on his side with the gifted pistol loaded at his fingertips, he was wedged between mountains of rough, nubby hemp cloth, each bag tied at the top.Already the seam of one dug into his back and another, into his stomach.Perfect.
“If we get stopped, don’t move, don’t make a sound,” Wilhelm said, beginning to cover him, starting with his boots.“There are checkpoints, but they know me.Usually, they just wave me through.”
“Usually?”Jonathan asked, lifting his head.
The farmer’s weathered face creased in something that might have been a smile.“In these times, my lord, there are no certainties.Only God and chance.”Then he peered at him.“Hang on.”
Grabbing an empty grain sack from up front, under the dickey, he wadded it into a ball.“Put that under your head.Elsewise, in that position, you’ll be a cripple by the time I get you to the Elbe.”
The man laughed again, and Jonathan couldn’t fathom his macabre sense of humor.But he was grateful nonetheless for the crudely fashioned, scratchypillowto support his head.
When Wilhelm was finished piling sacks on top of him, Jonathan could barely draw breath and darkness surrounded him completely.A moment later, the wagon rocked as the farmer climbed aboard, and then it lurched forward.
For three days, Jonathan existed in a twilight world of discomfort and occasional blood-chilling apprehension.The sacks pressed against him from all sides, and at least for the first half day, they seemed to grow heavier with each hour.His legs cramped.His back ached.Dust from the rye filled his nose and mouth, making every breath a labor.
He dozed fitfully, waking each time the wagon stopped, his heart hammering while he listened for French voices, for the sounds of soldiers searching the load.
Thrice, they stopped at official checkpoints.Jonathan heard Wilhelm’s cheerful greeting, the grumbled French response of guards who’d been standing in the sun too long.The third time, he heard footsteps approaching the wagon, felt the shift as someone climbed up to inspect the cargo.Holding his breath, his fingers slowly clasping the handle of the pistol, he was certain discovery was imminent.However, the soldier merely kicked one of the sacks near Jonathan’s feet and jumped back down.
“Move along.”
They ate meals on the road, Wilhelm uncovering him every six hours or so.Jonathan took the opportunity to jump down and relieve himself before eating bread, hard sausage, and apples the farmer provide and ate along with him.They had no water, only small beer for the duration.
After each stop, Jonathan would return to the hated position, where he’d be swiftly covered and hidden again.
At night, Wilhelm pulled off into a copse of trees.Jonathan could finally emerge from his grain-prison for more than five minutes and stretch his cramped limbs.But they stopped only long enough for the farmer to take a two-hour nap while Jonathan kept a look-out.Then back into the wagon, under the suffocating weight, back to the endless jolting and swaying.
Through it all, his mind kept circling back to Lise.The look in her eyes before she’d walked away.The way her body had felt beneath his, around his.The terrible choice she’d made, putting duty above any future they might have, her family above her own happiness.
A terrible yet admirable choice,he had to admit.
He’d been an idiot to have expected anything less.He ought to have understood she would never abandon her responsibilities, any more than she would have broken her marriage contract when she believed marrying Albrecht was the best way to keep her family safe.
In the darkness beneath the grain sacks, Jonathan tried to be honest with himself.If their positions were reversed — if England were occupied, if his parents were under threat from foreign soldiers, if his brother had been wounded trying to save him — would he leave them all behind for a girl from Holstein, no matter how much he loved her?
He didn’t like the answer.
On the afternoon of the third day, the quality of the road changed.Smoother beneath the wagon wheels, more level.The sounds around them multiplied, with voices, other carts and horses, the general bustle of commerce.After another seemingly endless half hour, they reached Glückstadt.
Jonathan’s pulse quickened.The Elbe River port was one of the last stops before freedom.From here, ships departed daily for Heligoland, the British-held island fortress in the North Sea.About twelve hours, if the tide was with him, and he’d be safe.From the island, passage to England would be simple.He was so close.
The wagon rolled to a stop.Wilhelm’s voice came quietly through the hemp sacks: “We’re at the edge of the port district.I’m going to a warehouse on the river.I’ll be driving directly inside where my wagon will be unloaded.You had best not be in there when I do.I’ll stop in a few minutes in an alley, two strikes if it’s clear, and you must be ready to jump out.Can you free yourself?”
“Yes,” Jonathan insisted, not going to let a few hundred pounds of rye get the better of him.
“Good.From the alley, go to the quay directly below the warehouses.Look for a tar-black sloop, Danish flag.”
Jonathan wished he could remain quiet and not draw attention to talking grain sacks, but he had to ask for more.“Won’t there be many sloops like that?”
“I wasn’t finished, my lord.Your vessel will have what’s left of the nameMargarethepainted on her stern in red.Captain Thomsen is expecting you.”
“How will he know me?”The wagon was moving again, and Jonathan started to slowly shuffle sacks off his legs.
“You’ll be the English fool trying not to look English,” Wilhelm said, and Jonathan heard his familiar chuckle.“Go with God, my lord.”
Very soon, they halted, and he heard two hard stomps of the farmer’s boot against the footboard.
Jonathan pushed at the grain sacks still covering his side, and then squeezed out the back of the wagon.His legs nearly buckled when his feet hit the cobblestones.It had been too many hours that day without a break, leaving him stiff.
