The Gentle Rebel

by Gilbert, Morris

  Paul lifted his eyebrows; then a saturnine smile crossed his lips. “Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. And I forgot to tell you, Nathan, you two are kinfolks.”

  “What?” Nathan stared at Paul in confusion.

  “Oh, I’ll explain all that to you while we dance,” Abby smiled up at him brilliantly and drew him into the dance. “My! It’s so nice to dance with a really tall man!”

  “What—what’s this about our being kin to each other?” Nathan’s thoughts were disjointed, for he had never seen a girl half so lovely. She wore some scent that seemed to paralyze him. As they moved through the dance, from time to time her body would brush against him, and he could not keep his thoughts straight.

  “Oh, that’s true enough,” she said, and she spoke so softly that he had to bend down and put his face close to hers in order to hear. “Paul explained it to me once—he didn’t want me to think that there’d be any—problem, with us being close kin.” She laughed, and let her hand rest on his arm where it seemed to leave a mark. “Let’s see, now—my grandmother was Rachel Winslow. She was your grandfather’s sister. His name was Miles Winslow, I think. Oh, Nathan, that was ages ago.”

  As they floated across the floor, Nathan felt somewhat bewitched. He had spent little time with girls, and never with one this attractive, so he moved like a man in a dream for the next hour.

  Paul was standing beside the wall, looking on when Emily came up and claimed him. “There are too few men here for you to be an observer. Dance with me!”

  He agreed readily, and soon she had him laughing. She was a witty young woman, and it was not long before he found himself telling her of Nathan. Finally she said, “Well, he’s a most attractive man, Paul. I’m surprised you let her dance for so long with him.”

  “Well, you know Abby, Emily. She’ll do what she pleases.”

  “A woman should do what her man pleases, I think!”

  He nodded. “I’ll vote for that, but look, Nathan may not last long. Abby’s taking him over to meet the officers. That’s sort of like introducing the sheep to the wolves!”

  Nathan did feel intimidated, for he was surrounded by a group of scarlet coated British officers. Miss Howland knew them all well, it seemed, and one by one he shook their hands; then they began shooting questions at him. A fine-looking man of forty, Major John Pitcairn, asked at once, “Well, Mr. Winslow, how blows the wind in the South? I know Mr. Washington. Is he going to get involved in this rebellion that seems to be brewing?”

  Before Nathan could answer, a short, fat man with small, squinty eyes grunted, “Nonsense, Pitcairn! There’ll be no rebellion! These Colonists are stupid, but not stupid enough to go up against the strongest power in the world—the British Empire!”

  “Colonel Smith is correct!” A portly man with a bluff manner and bright brown eyes spoke up. This was General Thomas Gage, commander of the King’s forces in Boston. “Washington is a gentleman, and I believe he’s a loyal man. It’s Sam Adams and Hancock who keep the pot boiling!”

  “What do you think, sir?” Major Pitcairn asked Nathan. “Will there be a rebellion?”

  Nathan felt every one of the King’s officers watching him closely, and he cleared his throat before saying carefully, “As for me, I believe a revolution would be a disaster. I have to add that not all my family thinks in this way—”

  “Good man!” Smith said at once, and the others nodded agreement.

  “You must come with Paul to our mess, Mr. Winslow,” Major Pitcairn said warmly. “He’s there often, and we’d like you to join him.”

  “At your service, Major,” Nathan said; then he felt a small hand close on his arm, and turned to find Abby.

  “It’s time for the refreshments you promised me, Mr. Winslow.”

  He followed her to the table, and she asked with an arch smile, “I understand you are a clergyman. Does that prevent you from taking a little wine?”

  Actually it did, for Adam felt that wine was the first step to being a drunkard, but looking into her eyes, Nathan could not refuse, so he took a glass of wine and she toasted the King.

  The one glass was a mistake, for it seemed to have so little effect that soon he was taking another. Dance followed dance, and each was punctuated by sparkling glasses of wine.

  Nathan had never felt so wonderful in all his life! He was a fine fellow—a devil of a chap, really! And as the wine went down, his shyness fled, and soon he was laughing and talking with the most beautiful woman in Boston as if he’d done it all his life.

  Hours later, he found himself with Abby in some sort of alcove, where she was showing him a picture of their mutual ancestor. He gazed into the strong face of Rachel Winslow, and then when he looked down to comment, Abigail’s face was lifted. Her lips were red and she swayed against him. His head was swimming, but he could not stop himself. He took her in his arms, lowered his head, and then he kissed her. It was a powerful moment, for she did not draw back, but shared his kiss.

  Then, she pulled away, and her voice seemed to come from afar as she said, “For a minister, you are quite a man, Nathan Winslow!”

  Then she vanished into the crowd of dancers, and he suddenly discovered that for the first time in his life, he was drunk. He found that he had difficulty walking, for the floor seemed to shift and tilt under him, and he was acutely conscious of too much wine rolling around in his stomach.

  Paul came to his rescue. Seeing his cousin’s difficulty, he got him out of the house just in time for him to lose his supper, bundled him into a buggy, and finally helped him stagger upstairs. And it was Paul who said gently to the sleeping giant with the flushed face, “I think, Nathan, that Boston has been a little too much for you—or maybe I should say that Abigail Howland has been too much!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A BOY NAMED LADDIE

  Despite the severe cold, Nathan had to push his way through heavy traffic that flooded the square. The bright scarlet coats of British soldiers added a dash of color to the somber old buildings, but he was jostled by chimney sweepers, sawyers, merchants, laddies, priests, carts, horses, oxen, and his ears buzzed with the talk that floated over the square.

  He arrived at the British Coffeehouse, which occupied the first floor of a four-story, frame building painted a bilious yellow, and as soon as he pushed his way through the door, he heard his name called: “Winslow! Over here!”

  Major John Pitcairn, seated at a small round table near the far wall, had to raise his voice to be heard, for the large room was packed with officers and their guests. Nathan threaded his way across the crowded room, nearly reeling from the scent of pipe smoke, stale whiskey, and unwashed male bodies.

  Pitcairn pushed a bottle and a pewter cup toward him, saying, “Cold as the devil out there! Take some of that, my boy—it’ll warm your insides!”

  During the two weeks he’d spent at Boston, Nathan had learned how to handle the problem of drink. To say “No” created an instant problem, for almost everyone in the country drank some sort of liquor. Even ministers frequently received part of their pay in the form of kegs of beer, and all British officers drank a great deal. At first Nathan had refused, but that action had created such a discomfort on the part of the soldiers that he had learned to take a glass and simply give the appearance of drinking. He took the glass and sipped at it, but the sharp eyes of Pitcairn caught it, and he smiled. “Haven’t done too much drinking since that night at Howlands’, have you, Nathan?—or before either, I’d venture.”

  Nathan scowled and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and finally he looked straight at the major and said, “I made a fool of myself that night, Major!” A flush touched his high cheekbones, and he shook his head, adding, “Shakespeare said ‘God forbid I should put an enemy in my mouth to take away my brain’; I reckon that’s what I did that night.”

  “It wasn’t so bad as you remember it, Nathan,” Pitcairn said with a sympathetic smile. “As I think on it, you may have been the most sober man in the house that
night! At least three that I know of had to be carried out.”

  “That’s them and not me!”

  “Oh? Well, I wasn’t watching you all the time. Maybe it was something you did with Abigail Howland that’s got you as sensitive as a man without a skin?”

  “I won’t listen—!” Nathan half rose from his seat, his face twisted with anger, but looking at Pitcairn’s honest face, he swallowed, sat down, and ducked his head. He drew a figure in the moist surface of the oak table, then looked up and there was a weak grin on his wide lips. “You’re too sharp for me, Major.”

  Pitcairn sat there quietly, saying nothing until he refilled his clay pipe. Picking up the candle, he sucked the flame into the bowl until it glowed cherry red, then put it down carefully, a characteristic thing with him. He had learned to like this tall young man with the startling blue eyes, and for the past two weeks had spent several hours with him. He had not pried, but the young man had been open, and he had learned how his family was split by political opinion—Nathan’s parents in Virginia strongly behind the patriot cause, while his Uncle Charles and his family were staunch loyalists. He had something to say to Nathan, and was hesitant.

  “Well, you must have done something right with the young woman. You’ve been a pretty frequent guest at her house—and poor Paul must be cursing the day he ever took you there!”

  “I—I’m sorry for that—about Paul, I mean.”

  “Oh, they weren’t engaged.” Pitcairn shook his head and added, “She’s a real catch, my boy—looks and money. But I don’t know if she’d suit your family.”

  Nathan shook his head sadly. “You’re right about that. She’s got little use for the rebel cause.”

  Pitcairn studied young Winslow, then made a quick decision. “Nathan, I sent for you because there’s something you need to know.”

  Pitcairn’s serious air was disturbing. “What is it, Major?”

  “It’s about your brother. He’s getting involved with a radical group, and I think you ought to know it.”

  “Caleb? But he’s just a boy!”

  “That may be, but nonetheless he’s taken up with a young man who works for your uncle—Moses Tyler, he’s called.”

  “Why, I know Moses,” Nathan said at once.

  “We’ve had our eyes on him for some time. He’s joined to the Sons of Liberty—perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

  “Yes, but I thought they were harmless enough.”

  A rare anger touched Major Pitcairn’s face, and he said, “Let’s get out of here, Nathan. Too many ears to hear in this place.”

  He laid a coin on the table and Nathan followed him outside, both of them pulling their coats high to protect their faces from the bitter cold. “You ever hear of the Boston Massacre, Nathan?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, this is where it happened.” Pitcairn waved his hand toward the square. “It was most unfortunate, Nathan. A band of unemployed laborers attacked a British sentry right over there, and a mob collected, throwing oyster shells and snowballs. In the confusion, somebody called out ‘Fire!’ and our men fired. Five men were killed and six were wounded.”

  “They shouldn’t have fired on unarmed men, Major.”

  “No, certainly not, and a better officer would have prevented that. But it was a great opportunity for Sam Adams and James Otis! They got Paul Revere to do an engraving of the riot—you’ve probably seen it.” A bitter smile touched Pitcairn’s lips and he pointed at the Custom House, which was next to the British Coffeehouse. “Revere put a sign in the engraving on that building. Know what it was?”

  “It was BUTCHER’S HALL.” Nathan remembered the engraving well, for copies of it had been carried all over the Colonies. “But that’s not treason, what Adams did.”

  “No, but it gave Sam Adams a beginning! And the next thing he did was organize the Boston Tea Party—that was a criminal act, Nathan.”

  “I suppose so,” Nathan said slowly.

  Pitcairn took the arm of the tall young man, his grip like steel, saying, “Nathan, Sam Adams was a business failure, one of those whining, nagging malcontents you want to poke in the nose—but just the sort you’d want on your side in an eye-gouging fight. He’s a burr under the saddle, blast him! Such men breed revolutions, and they don’t give a hang who has to die for it.”

  “And you say Caleb’s been going to their meetings?”

  They had just turned a corner and a blast of cold air struck them so hard that both men gasped. “See that old red brick building—the one with blue shutters?”

  “What about it, Major?”

  “That’s Sam Adams’ house—where they meet. The rest are no better, Nathan. Otis was a Massachusetts lawyer who couldn’t handle his liquor. He was a Tory once, then switched over to a Whig position because he saw a dollar to be turned. And there’s John Hancock—and he may be the worst of the lot—though he’s smooth enough!”

  “Rich, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, and how did he get that way? By smuggling tea! And that’s why he got in on the tea party in the harbor—his profits were in danger. Nathan, the man’s a criminal, and sooner or later the Sons of Liberty are all going to dangle from ropes.” Major Pitcairn stopped fifty yards away from the red brick house. “I’d hate for your brother to be one to hang with them, Nathan, and that’s why I’ve told you this.”

  Nathan thrust his hand out impulsively, and grasping the officer’s hand, he burst out, “Thank you, Major!”

  “Well, well, now you know—but what will you do about it, my boy?”

  The question struck Nathan hard, for his mind was a total blank as to what could be done. He set his jaw, and there was a fire in his light blue eyes as he said, “I’ll do something, Major—and you can bet on that!”

  Major Pitcairn gave him a clap on the shoulder, but added a final word: “Our informer tells me they’ll have a meeting tonight. I should try to keep the boy away if possible—but be a little careful, Nathan. These men are revolutionaries—they’d think nothing of snuffing you out! Well, let me know if I can do anything.”

  Pitcairn wheeled and marched down the street, a trim, erect military figure, and Nathan moved to the shelter of a tiny inn across from the brick house. He took a seat and ordered a meal as an excuse for his presence. The food was slow in coming, and was badly cooked, but he never noticed. His brain was racing as he tried to think of some way to get Caleb free from trouble. He thought of sending him home, but knew at once that Caleb would never go. Maybe if I write father—? But he’d probably be proud of Caleb, feeling as he does.

  He finished his meal, then realizing he couldn’t stay in the inn until the group met, paid his bill and returned to the street. Snow lay in white stripes everywhere, and the flakes were getting larger. He looked up into the sky, then turned and walked slowly in the direction of the harbor. I’ll go to the warehouse and stay warm until later—then I’ll do something.

  By the time he had covered the distance from the center of town to the waterfront, the snow was coming down as thickly as if some unseen giant were dumping it out of huge baskets. The flakes were huge, almost the size of a tuppence, and lay in drifts several inches deep along the shopfronts. The temperature had plummeted; by the time he turned off High Street and began walking along the docks, his cheeks were numb and his feet had no sensation as they struck the carpet of white that covered the wharfs.

  Nathan moved closer to a long tobacco warehouse to avoid the icy blasts that stung his face. He glanced out at the harbor where the ships seemed to be frozen carcasses—their sharp outlines of masts and spars rounded into smooth curves by the blanket of snow.

  But as he glanced out at the fleet, his half-frozen feet struck something. He tried to jerk his hands out of his pockets to catch himself, but he failed and his long body fell headlong into the snow!

  “What the devil—!”

  He yanked his hands out of his pockets and swept the snow from his face with a forearm. He rolled over and saw what ap
peared to be a bundle of rags under a white mound, and he lifted his heel to give it a savage kick, for the fall had knocked out his breath and one cheek was bleeding, scraped raw against the rough wood of the wharf.

  “What—?” he gave a startled look, then lowered his boot, for he thought he saw a tiny movement beneath the mound. Scrambling to his knees he reached out and brushed the snow away and saw at once that the bundle was alive!

  Fear struck him in the belly, and with hands that shook more from nervousness than cold, he tugged at the figure, which seemed to be swathed in some sort of ragged blanket. Pulling it to one side, he could barely make out in the gathering darkness a pale white face, eyes shut tight. “Hey! Wake up!” He shook the small figure, but there was no response.

  “Got to find help!” he muttered. He got to his feet and looked wildly around, but he knew there was no doctor in the area. Got to get him out of this cold! He stooped and lifted the still figure, and was shocked at how light the lad was. Then it came to him what to do, and he plunged along through the snow. The warehouse, he thought—it’ll be warm there, and I can send somebody for the doctor!

  It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the company warehouse, and his lungs were on fire by the time he stopped, gasping in front of the door. There was no light inside, and he groaned as he saw the heavy padlock in place. Carefully he placed his burden down, extracted his key, then with numbed fingers managed to open the lock. Picking the boy up, he kicked the door open and stumbled inside. Even inside, the cold was bitter, but he made his way through the high-ceilinged area lit by a single lamp to the office at the rear. It was dark, and he felt his way to a small cot used by the foreman for quick naps. He groped along the desk, found the small candle, then ran back to the lantern in the warehouse area to light it. Cupping a hand around it, he hurried back to the office and stood there looking down at the small form he’d brought out of the storm.