Julie said quietly, “Why, Curtis, Jesus died to save you. There’s nothing God longs for more than to see us trust Him for salvation.”
He lay back down and the silence ran on. There was an ache in Charity’s throat, and she clenched her fists together until they hurt. Then she heard him say, “Would you help me, Julie?”
Julie sat there reading scripture after scripture, pausing to answer his questions, and finally she said, “I think you’re ready to put your faith in Jesus, Curtis.” She put the Bible down and got awkwardly to her knees, saying, “I’m in poor shape for this, but God is waiting. Let’s pray—and you simply tell the Lord you have sinned, and that you want Jesus in your heart—”
She began to pray, and Charity went to kneel beside her, both of them bending over the thin form of Curtis. Charity never knew what happened. She found herself weeping uncontrollably, and with that, a sudden desire to pray. She tried, but there was something within her resisting.
Finally she looked up to see Julie struggling to get up. “Give me a hand, Charity,” she gasped. As she was pulled to her feet, she laughed freely, tears running down her cheeks—but there was a light of joy in her eyes. “Your brother is in the family of God, Charity! Look at him!”
Curtis had tears in his eyes, but there was a smile on his lips as he exclaimed “Bless the Lord! Bless the Lord!” over and over again.
Julie put her arms around Charity. “It’ll be your time one day. God has promised me that!”
Charity could not speak, but the peace that had come to the thin face of Curtis brought joy to her own heart.
Curtis died in his sleep the next day. He had awakened at dawn, and his eyes were clear as he held up his arms to kiss his sister for the last time. He gave a few messages for family and friends, said his farewell to Nathan and Julie, then looked at Charity, a quiet smile on his lips. “I’ll be waiting for you.” As he closed his eyes, Charity knew with a startling clarity and an aching heart that her brother would never open them again—not on this earth.
CHAPTER THREE
BACK TO BOSTON
“Charity, I wish you’d change your mind.” Nathan had come inside, slamming the door against the blast of freezing air that rattled the entire shack. His eyebrows were crusted white with ice, and there was a worried look in his eyes as he moved to where Charity sat beside Julie. “If this snow keeps up, you’ll never make it through.”
“I’ll be all right, Nathan.”
“Just wait until tomorrow, please, Charity,” Julie whispered. Her voice was weak, and pain was dulling her eyes. Ever since Curtis’s death, she had seemed to weaken, taking to her bed with a fever. Charity had grown to love the Winslows, but a plan had formed in her mind, and she smiled and leaned over to kiss Julie, saying, “Don’t fret yourself about me, Julie Winslow.” She felt the girl’s arms close round her neck, and allowed herself to be held, then drew back and forced a smile, saying with artificial conviviality, “Now, you just take care of yourself and that big boy—if you’re good, maybe I’ll have a surprise for you!”
She pulled away, snatched up the small bundle containing her clothes, and dashed outside. The freezing cold bit at her lungs, causing her to catch her breath as the wind whipped tiny crystals of snow into her eyes.
“Everything’s ready, Charity,” Nathan informed her, motioning to the waiting buggy. “We had to do a little carpentry work to make the coffin fit, but it’s all secure.”
“Thank you, Nathan.” Charity forced herself to walk toward the buggy, which had been stripped to accommodate the pine coffin that bore Curtis’s body. When she had announced her intention of taking her brother back to be buried in the family plot, there had been incredulous looks on every face. But no persuasion could change her mind, so Nathan had made provisions for her trip. The back seat of the buggy had been ripped out, and an extension built on the floor, so that the coffin protruded past the rear wheels, and was tied down with ropes. The canvas top had been roughly sewn together to make a shelter over the front seat, providing at least some protection from the stormy weather. Most important, the wheels had been removed and a pair of runners thrust under a crudely built undercarriage, transforming the buggy into a sleigh. “If the snow gets deep,” Nathan had told her, “you’ll have a better chance with a sled than a buggy.”
“Looks shipshape, Nathan,” Charity stated, tilting her head back to smile up into his face. “Now, you listen to me! I’m going to make a record trip to Boston, and I’ll be back here with a good doctor and supplies quicker than you can think!”
His mouth dropped open and he exclaimed, “Why, you can’t do that, Charity!”
She slapped him on the chest and laughed shortly. “I never let any man tell me what I can or can’t do! Now, you take care of your wife until I get back!”
Nathan stared at her; then a smile broke across his broad mouth. “Well, devil fly off! I reckon you’ll do just that, Charity Alden! However,” he added, his eyes twinkling, “you can argue all you like—but I’m sending a man with you.”
“I don’t need—!”
“This is Daniel Greene,” he went on, ignoring her protests. “He’s a preacher, but don’t put too much stock in that. He appreciates a pretty woman well enough.”
“Pay no attention to him, Miss Alden,” the man who had stepped up interjected quickly. He was, Charity saw, a wellbuilt individual, just under six feet. He had wide shoulders and warm brown eyes, and his voice was deep as the bass on an organ. “I need to get to Boston, and if thee would permit me to join thee, it would be most helpful.”
“See? He can charm the birds out of the trees,” Nathan grinned. Sobering, he added, “But most important, he’s a chaplain in the Continental Army and a nephew of General Greene’s. You get that pass from the general, Dan?”
“Yes, right here, Nathan.”
“All right.” Nathan hesitated, then reached out and hugged Charity. “Bless you, girl! God keep you.”
Charity returned his hug and climbed into the buggy, noting that the chaplain did not attempt to help her but settled himself beside her as she took the reins. “Watch for me, Nathan,” she called out. Turning her head back, she raised her voice, “Hup! Pompey!” and the sleigh lurched ahead so fast that Greene, giving her a startled look, had to grab at a brace.
Except for sentries and one squad bringing in firewood, there was no one stirring; all were buried inside the huts seeking relief from the biting cold. The sky was a clear gray, scored on the horizon by the naked black branches of trees, and the tiny crystals of snow bit like fire on Charity’s face as the two made their way out of the camp. The smooth ride and the hissing sound of the runners over the frozen snow was so different from the lurching of a buggy over rutted roads that she delighted in the experience.
Looking at her from under the rim of a black-brimmed hat, Dan Greene noted her confident handling of the horse and the eager thrust of her firm chin. Likes to have her own way, he thought. There was an independence about her that was in abrupt contrast to the feminine grace of her face and figure. Might give a husband a hard time! was his first judgment, but as the miles spun on and the bleak sun rose feebly and she said nothing, he began to be interested, for not many women could hold their tongues like this one.
They were stopped twice by armed patrols—ragged Continentals who gave them a queer look, but let them through at once when they saw the pass signed by General Greene. “Better watch yourself, Chaplain,” one of them warned. “Looks like a blizzard brewin’ for sure.”
As they drove on, Charity turned to look at him, and there was a directness in her glance that searched him thoroughly. “You’re a Quaker, I take it?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought Quakers didn’t believe in fighting.”
“Well, that’s what I thought, Miss Alden,” Dan said wryly. “But my uncle somehow found his way into this war—and now I’m in it, too—though I can’t say just how I reconcile my views as a man of peace with being in a
shooting war.”
She smiled at him quizzically, and then laughed out loud. “Maybe you’ll have to find some way to kill the Redcoats in a good Christian way!”
He shook his head sorrowfully as he murmured quietly, “Don’t know about that.”
She gave him a quick glance, feeling embarrassed at her satiric remark. “I didn’t mean to make light of your beliefs, sir.”
“No offense.” He pointed at a deadfall down the road and asked, “How does some hot soup and tea sound?”
“Wonderful!”
She pulled the sleigh up to a line of trees and got down, stamping her feet to restore circulation.
“I’ll build a fire if thee will get the food out of that box,” Dan offered, and began at once breaking off small branches. He made the fire swiftly and efficiently, using a wad of punk lit by a spark from some flint and steel he carried in a small leather pouch, and soon the crackling fire had put some color and warmth into the bleak day. The singing of the small kettle sounded like a tiny trumpet on the cold air, and they sat down on a log to sip the scalding soup and coffee.
The intimacy of the meal and the warmth of the steaming food made them both more talkative, and as they ate, Charity learned more about the Winslows. The muscular chaplain, she discovered, knew their history well, and as he ate he spoke warmly of the couple. The solidness in his speech matched that of his body, but despite the slight strangeness of his Quaker speech, he had a way with words—managing somehow to convey a great deal with simple, direct language.
Finally they finished the meal, and she accepted his offer to drive. As they made their way down the desolate road, she asked abruptly, “What about Charles Winslow? Didn’t I hear Julie say that he lives in Boston? I’ve heard of him, I think. A rich man?”
She did not miss the hesitation in Greene’s manner nor the dubious quality in his deep voice as he replied slowly, “Well, yes—that’s Nathan’s uncle, his father’s brother—or half brother.”
“They don’t get along?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose they do, but ...” Dan searched for a phrase, then shrugged. “I really don’t know much about it, Miss Alden. They had trouble at one time—but I heard that it’s gotten better now. Why does thee ask?”
“I’m wondering why these Boston Winslows don’t send some help to Nathan and Julie.”
“Oh, Nathan would never ask! In the first place, I reckon Charles is a Loyalist.” He guided Pompey skillfully around a fallen tree before continuing. “Well, there was some trouble between Paul and Nathan.”
“Paul?”
“Paul Winslow—that’s Charles’s son.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Woman trouble!” The brown eyes of Dan Greene met the green eyes of Charity, and he grinned sourly, adding, “Both of them were in love with the same woman.”
“This was before Nathan married Julie?”
“Yes.” He sat silently. The restraint in his manner made her wonder. Finally he spoke. “Guess thee heard about the way Julie dressed up like a man and joined the Army?”
“I heard. Hard to think a woman could get by with that in the Army.”
“Well, she did—mostly because she was General Knox’s aide and didn’t have to be around the troops. But the thing was, Nathan was in love with this rich girl named Abigail Howland—and so was Paul.”
“Did she marry Paul?”
“No. She turned out to be a wench—and Paul Winslow was no better. The way it was, Nathan and Paul were both after her; but when it turned out she was a deceitful baggage, why, neither of them would have her.”
“What about Julie? How did Nathan come to marry her?”
“She loved him.” As the bleak words rolled from his lips, Charity shot a glance at Greene and read something in his square face that gave him away. Why—he had been in love with Julie! she thought.
She said only, “But, that’s no reason for the Winslows to refuse to help their kin.”
“Can’t say. Nathan told me once that his uncle was pretty sick, so he may not even know about it. But they won’t talk much about the rest of the family.”
He changed the subject briefly, and then they settled down in silence for the long drive. As darkness fell, they found shelter at the home of a farmer. Charity fell asleep as soon as she hit the bed in the small room at the back of the house, but Greene sat up late talking about the war. They left at dawn after a good breakfast.
“I’m right sorry about your brother, Miss Alden,” the farmer’s wife said gently as she bade Charity goodbye.
“Thank you,” she nodded.
The next two days were like the first, but the snow held off and they managed to find a place to sleep both nights. Late Wednesday afternoon, each lost in his own thoughts, Greene broke the long silence by saying, “I will leave thee here, Miss Alden.”
Charity looked around in surprise, seeing only a small cluster of houses off the road ahead. “Aren’t you going into Boston?”
“No. I have to find a man—and I can get a coach out of here.”
She stopped the horse, and he reached back and pulled his small valise from where it was lodged. He got out and stood there looking up at her. “The rest of the journey will be safe now. I hope to see thee again.”
She smiled warmly and thrust her hand out like a man, and he took it. “You’ve been a comfort, Chaplain Greene. Will I see you back at Valley Forge?”
He stared at her. “Thee is really going back with that doctor?”
“Didn’t you hear me say it to Nathan?”
“Yes.” Then he squeezed her hand, saying loudly, “Thee is a fine girl, Charity Alden! God bless thee!”
He stepped back, and she left him standing beside the road staring at her. As she closed the distance to Boston, she thought long about what he had said—and about what he had not said. “He was in love with Julie,” she murmured as Pompey pulled the sleigh into the outskirts of the city. “But he loves Nathan—and Paul Winslow, why, he hates Nathan.” She shook her head, remarking aloud, “Love sure is a messy thing!”
People turned to stare at the sleigh with the coffin protruding out of the rear, but she paid no heed. Charity dreaded her arrival, and as she drove along the waterfront, she sought for a way to make the news easier for her father. The harbor was a forest of icy masts, the pale sun reflecting in glittering flecks, dying them a deep reddish hue. She rode past the shops lining the shore, expertly guiding Pompey through the traffic. A mile farther she glanced out and saw The Gallant Lady. Seeing the ship should have lifted her spirits, for she had spent most of her life on board the three-masted schooner, the happiest part of her existence. But it brought no joy to her now as she caught sight of the weathered salt-box house perching on a high dune-like hill back off the rocky shore.
Her heart almost failed her then, but the lights gleamed in the low windows, and she straightened her back and set her jaw as she approached the house. The night was quiet except for the clopping of Pompey’s hooves and the hissing of the runners along the icy road. She pulled the horse up at the picket fence, tied the reins, and stepped stiffly down. As she turned she saw the door open and her father framed in the lamplight. She could not see his face, and she could not move. There was no way to help, no way to shield him from the truth, so she stood there watching helplessly as he came slowly down the steps and walked down the path to the gate in his peculiar rolling gait, as if he were walking across the deck of a ship.
William Alden opened the gate and came to stand beside her. He was short and stocky, but not fat. His weathered red face, she saw, was pale in the fading light, and she leaned against him, suddenly weak, and whispered, “Father—I’ve—I’ve brought Curtis home!”
He did not answer, and she could feel his powerful heart beating. He stood there looking over her shoulder at the coffin, and when she pulled back, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears—the first she’d ever seen there in all her life.
In his erect frame, the heritage of
the sea was noticeably strong in him. He came from a race that was all too familiar with the loss of sons, for the sea takes its toll of those who live on it. He had lost two brothers, and his own father had gone down in the South Seas when William was but a boy.
Now he slowly nodded and stated stoically, “We’ll lay him beside the others tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
As his eyes returned to her, he asked, “Did he die well, Charity?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears; but not wishing to seem weak, she dashed them away and spoke in a strong voice. “Yes. Yes, he died well.” Taking his arm she said, “I’ll tell you all about it.” Then she hesitated, holding his arm firmly. “And I’ll tell you why I have to go back to Valley Forge.”
He stared at her in surprise and nodded, with just the touch of a smile on his lips. “All right—you’ll do as you please, Charity. It’s a way you have.” Then they put the horse and the sleigh in the barn and went into the house.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BAD SEED
Charity pulled Pompey to a stop in front of the large white house with the eight pillars. She had passed by it often, for it was only two miles out of Boston, perched on a ridge of high ground, but as she got down from the buggy she considered it thoughtfully. Not a poor man’s house, she thought as she wrapped the reins around an iron ring set in a huge oak. The freezing rain had put a bluish glaze of ice on the house, and she almost slipped once on the glassy surface of the tiled walk leading up to the front porch. A heavy brass knocker, sheathed in ice, was set in the center of the massive oak door. Breaking the ice, Charity lifted the knocker and gave a series of heavy blows on the door.
As she stood there waiting, she glanced back toward town, as if she could see the small cemetery where they had buried Curtis earlier in the day. It had been necessary to break up the frozen ground with steel crowbars to get below the frost line, and the memory of it now sent a quiver across her face as she seemed to see again the small group of mourners as they circled the stark hole in the frozen ground. The words of the minister had sounded thin on the cold air, and only the thought of how Curtis had called on God in the Winslows’ rough cabin at Valley Forge kept her from giving way to the grief that had shaken her terribly.
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 3
