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Joseph almost stumbled backward. More answers, and yet at their side came more questions. “What do you mean he lives?”
“If he has not yet been called to heaven, you will find him at the home of Nathaniel Smith. I cannot watch your family grow in joy, but perhaps he can.”
A rustling at the door made Joseph’s breathing stop. “I would stay with you until the end.”
“I refuse it.” Loving anger made Philo’s tone heavy. “Stay, and you risk destroying the very thing I wish to give you. You cannot be discovered.”
Just then the back door opened and Higley rushed in and whispered through closed teeth. “Come now.”
Philo reached out for Joseph’s arm. “Tell her I love her. Tell her how sorry I am. Tell Ensign—”
The large doors opened, and Higley jumped back. Joseph pressed his shoulders against the wall, where the shadows were thickest.
“Where are you, prisoner?”
Philo turned. “I am here.”
The soldier pushed the door fully open and stood motionless, the glow of the torches giving his frame a dark silhouette. “Ready to meet your maker?”
A hand gripped Joseph’s arm, forcing him into the pitch of the shadows.
“I am.” Philo stepped forward, not once glancing back. Though as he moved away, his shoulders and straight posture were like a petition, a secretive message that only Joseph could see. Go, it seemed to say. I am not afraid.
Holding tight to the hope that reached across the space, Joseph collected it in his heart and prayed God would grant him the strength to share that peace with the woman he loved. If only he could hurl out of the shadows and bring the man to safety.
But that was not to be. Philo’s future was decided. And there was naught Joseph could do but pray.
* * *
The soldier stepped forward and yanked Philo by the arm. “Get a move on.” With a crisp jerk, he shoved Philo out of the barn and into the yard where the gallows loomed, high and hateful. Torches flickered. A smattering of soldiers littered the otherwise empty space. Some with lanterns, others motionless, arms crossed.
“Major Stockton doesn’t want to wait.” Reaching for his arms, the soldier tugged Philo’s hands behind his back and tied them into place just as Stockton exited the house.
Hat affixed, sword at his side, the man carried his shoulders high and chest out. “Is there anything you wish to confess? Any last words you want spoken before you can speak no more?”
Philo shook his head. Thanks to the mercy of the Almighty, he had said all he wished to. He now prayed God would carry Joseph to Hannah, that he would give her the message Philo had so wanted to give himself.
With a brusque exhale, Stockton turned and nodded to the man beside Philo. “Prepare him.”
Pulling him forward, the soldier held him at the elbow, Philo’s vision bound to the rope that in moments would unwittingly be the means of his escape from this mortal travail. It hung motionless, almost as if it drooped in sorrow for what it knew it must do.
r /> Philo put his foot on the first step when a movement beyond the group caught his attention. Somewhere in his heart, a cry went out—a beseeching he hadn’t wished to expose but that refused to be withheld. A friend, Lord, I pray thee. In these last moments.
He blinked away the hot threat of tears as the soldier led him to the platform, pushing him to stand upon the stool. As Philo stared forward, the rough rope circling his neck, his vision found him. There, far in the back, almost at the trees and illuminated by the faint light of the torch-lit yard, was Joseph atop his horse. He kept there, a clement witness to Philo that God had heard his prayer.
Across the yard, through the darkness, Philo poured his love through his gaze, not moving, not blinking. Though he could not discern Joseph’s eyes, he imagined—hoped—he felt a strength whispering through the wood toward him. The rope tightened, and a quiver snaked down his back.
Closing his eyes, a tear wet his face.
Lord, forgive me. I have sinned against thee and against those I love. If only he had been granted a chance to read God’s word before this moment.
Then like the breath of an angel, the passage he’d read only one night past rose through his soul.
Offer the sacrifices of righteousness, and put your trust in the Lord. The tears flowed, his neck cording as Stockton ordered his face covered with a sack. This must be, but how could he die with such regrets? Would Hannah forgive him? Would God?
All his senses faded as he narrowed his mind upon the only thing that would give him comfort. My Lord, my God. And ’twas there, as Stockton called for the stool to be kicked free, that God’s warm voice opened the heavens.
My son, greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends.
