Epilogue

Michael sat before a warm fire in the small island cottage, contemplating the ring about his finger. It had remained there since the night of the escape, and he had vowed not to take it off until his mother had been freed, and he gave it once more to his betrothed, this time in marriage.

Both he and the girl had fallen ill during the long sail to Rona, a lonely island of the Hebrides, and a place as far removed from English control as one was likely to find in the whole of Britain. Their first days there, in the care of the fisherman’s brother, had been spent bedridden, fighting fever and exhaustion alike. Mary, with her natural vigor and stubborn optimism, had been up and about some days now. But Michael’s hurts were deeper, of longer duration. Only now, after more than a fortnight, did he feel his body beginning to respond.

The fisherman had returned to the mainland after seeing them settled in, and had promised to do all he could to secure the widow’s release, including hiring a solicitor, and filing for clemency under the new articles of Reconciliation. But he cautioned that patience and prudence were still needed: that they must lie low, and make no plans without him. In any event, he had said, he would return with news as soon as it was safely possible.

But each day that passed left Michael more in doubt. For what had become of the hornet’s nest they left behind---Earl Arthur dead at Lord Purceville’s hand, Purceville himself murdered by a subordinate, and Stephen half mad with rage---he could not imagine. Surely after a time a new Governor would be appointed, and some kind of stability return. But where that left his mother..... It was beyond contemplation, almost beyond hope.

And this was what galled him. He had done all that a man could do, winning freedom for himself, and for the chosen of his heart. And yet he could not think of joining her life to his own, because the other half of his devotion remained imprisoned and destitute. . .for the crime of loving her children. Try as he might, he could not swallow this last bitterness, nor put it from his mind.

The cottage door opened suddenly and in burst the girl, breathless and in tears. He tried to ask her what was wrong, as dark fears of pursuit and capture raced through him. But she shook her head emphatically, unable yet to speak.

“You must come with me,” she finally managed. “Put on your coat; something wonderful has happened.”

He did as she asked, wrapping himself warmly, then walked with her out into the bracing, December morning. And as he took those first steps along the path, it occurred to him that he had not seen the sun, nor felt the free wind across his face, for what seemed an eternity.

The brisk Fall air was invigorating, the long sweep of rocky hillside magnificent. He thought he had never seen a sky so deep and blue. Real hope stirred in him, tormented him. He tried to stay the girl and make her speak. But she only clutched his hand more tightly, and urged him down the broadening track toward the sea.

Looking out across the blinding sparkle of blue-green waters, he saw a single sail approaching the tiny harbor. Shading his eyes he made out a smallish vessel, with a weathered pilot standing at the wheel. And beside him stood another, a woman..... He fell to his knees, unable for a time to continue.

At length he rose, and walked with his beloved the remaining distance to the landing. There, drawing nearer, the fisherman met his gaze with a smile that seemed to melt away the years, and make them both children again. The older man threw the mooring line to his friend, who tied it to the dock with a trembling but joyous hand. Anne Scott stepped off the boat, and mother and son embraced.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Michael Scott stood aboard the deck of the merchant brig ‘Dauntless’, watching with deep emotion the nearing coastline. It was now nearly June, and they had been at sea for two months. A single word resounded in both their hearts, as the burly captain approached them, and clapped his fellow Highlander on the back.

“America,” he said to them, “and God bless her. America.”

When he had gone, Michael put one arm about his young wife’s shoulders, and drew her near. With the other hand he touched the growing swell of her womb, as if to caress the unborn life inside it. He looked at her with glowing eyes and said simply, truthfully.

“Now the work really begins.”

For he knew that his mother had been right. The story never ends, it only changes characters. They stood at the end of one road, and the beginning of another, holding firmly to the roots of their past, sending hopeful and determined branches into the future.

Anne Scott remained in her native Highlands and eventually remarried, living with her husband in a modest home near the place of her birth, until her death in 1776. She was buried in the gravesite of her clan, and on her tombstone, these words:

“Those who have left something beautiful behind them never die. They live on in the hearts, the minds, the very souls of those who loved them.”

And on her grave a single, glorious rose.

The End

Acknowledgements

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the help of Dr. Daniel Szechi, Professor of History at Auburn University, who so unselfishly read, and made historical notations upon the entire work, without thought of acknowledgement or reward. While for artistic reasons I was not always able to correct the inaccuracies he pointed out, I am aware of them, and remain deeply grateful for his assistance in making the book as authentic as the needs of the storyteller would allow.

Christopher Leadem was born in Arlington, Virginia in 1956, the second son of an Air Force Intelligence officer and a schoolteacher. Shortly after his birth, his father transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency, and the young family moved frequently, adding two daughters along the way.

Leadem’s primary education was in Catholic schools, where he earned the reputation of a gifted student. Attending public high school in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of James Michener, he displayed a talent for writing, and a love of history and science. At the age of fourteen, he saw a short film by Ray Bradbury about the life of a writer, which galvanized his desire to be an author himself.

Burned out by a stifling high school environment, he did not immediately attend college, but launched headlong into his writing. This began with a spiritual novel, "In Search of the Evermore," until poor health and relative poverty left him injured and dispirited.

After a difficult recovery he attended Penn State and the University of Colorado, excelling at English Literature. He resumed his writing career and completed his first novel, "Within a Crimson Circle," at the age of 22. He has since completed five other novels, five volumes of poetry and nine screenplays. Three other novels are in progress.

He currently lives in Colorado with his three children.