The Gentle Rebel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “It’s all right, Caleb,” Nathan said, tears running down his cheeks.

  “No—no, it’s not all right—for brothers to have bad feelings.” He lifted a hand and Nathan took it; then he said, “I know you don’t believe in this war—” He paused and his eyes fluttered so that Dr. Warren leaned forward quickly, but then he seemed to grow stronger. “I guess I got shot, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Caleb!”

  “It hurts bad—Nathan.” Then Caleb asked, “Am I going to die?”

  Nathan sobbed, and Dr. Warren said quietly, “I’m afraid so, my boy.”

  The words did not seem to disturb Caleb. He lay there quietly, and the room was still. Finally he said, “Nathan, you tell Mother and Father about how I died—and say that I wasn’t afraid!”

  His eyes closed then, and Laddie’s heart leaped, but he wasn’t gone. He lay there, and for the next hour he seemed to float between two worlds. He would lie still for a time; then he would open his eyes and take up where he had left off. His mind was clear; he gave messages for some, and once he said, “Nathan?—it’s a good thing I was converted at that meeting two years ago, wasn’t it?” He smiled and said, “I’d hate to die if I hadn’t found Jesus that time—I sure would be afraid to die . . .”

  Finally he said, “What are the Minute Men doing, Moses?”

  “Gettin’ ready to fight the British, Caleb.” Moses said. He had kept back to the wall, but now he came to reach a dirty hand out to his friend. “I—I wisht it was me ’stid of you that got shot!”

  “No, you gotta go on and fight, Moses.” He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger, his eyes fully open. “Oh, I can’t help! I can’t help you fight!”

  “Caleb!” Nathan caught his brother, and the boy’s eyes fixed on him.

  “Nathan—they’re going to fight the British! I got to help! I got to help!” He began to struggle and Nathan held him fast, and then suddenly he fell back. His chest pumped as he fought for breath; then he reached up and put his arm around Nathan’s neck, whispering in a voice that rattled, “Nathan—I can’t help!” Then suddenly he looked up at his brother. “You have to do it for me, Nathan!”

  Nathan stared into Caleb’s eyes and saw the life draining out, but again the arm around his neck tightened, and Caleb pleaded, “Nathan—you’re my brother! Please—please, Nathan—go help them! Help them!” And then he opened his eyes and asked: “Will—you help—Nathan? For me . . . ?”

  And Nathan cried with a loud voice that shook the room, “Yes! Yes, Caleb, I’ll fight! Don’t be afraid—I’ll fight for you!”

  He held the body close, and then he heard the words so faint that he barely caught them: “Nathan! Thank you, brother!”

  Then Caleb went limp, and when Nathan laid him back, there was a smile on his lips. Dr. Warren reached out and closed his eyes, then said in a tight voice, “Brave boy! Brave boy!”

  Nathan laid his hand on Caleb’s hair, brushed it back, then rose and walked out of the room, his face a mask. He turned at the door, saying, “Laddie, stay with him till I get back.” Then he was gone.

  * * *

  “They’re a’comin’!” the rider shouted as he crested the hill. He was a small man, but he had a big voice, and he pulled his fine horse up with a flourish, filled with self-importance as the militia crowded around him. “I been to Concord, and I been watchin’ the Redcoats comin’ out of there—and they’re shot all to pieces!”

  “The Redcoats?” Dr. Warren demanded. He stood there, his gray eyes intense in the midday sun. “Who fought them?”

  “Why, the Minute Men, ’course!” the rider said. He begged a drink and after a long pull from a bottle, he wiped his brow and said, “The British can’t leave the road, and our men been shootin’ them to rags from behind stone walls—must a’killed a hundred of the suckers at least!”

  A shout went up, and Warren smiled. He had been hard put to it to hold the men together, for none of them were ready to face the British regulars in open battle on a field. But this was different! He got up on a stone, called for silence; then when it came, he said, “Well, here we are, and none of us thought we’d be fighting a war on a fine spring morning here in Lexington—but we are. It was not of our making. They shot our men down without mercy.” A cry of anger followed this and he said, “We’ll have the cost of that blood out of the Redcoats, won’t we, men?”

  “Tell us what to do, Warren!” a single voice yelled, and an echo of consent rose.

  “All of you with muskets go over there—” He waited for the group to form, then said, “Mason Bates, you’ll be captain of these. Those of you with rifles, I’ll be your captain.”

  “Why don’t we stay together?”

  Warren smiled patiently at the tall man who asked the question. “Because a musket shoots one hundred paces and a rifle carries four hundred. Now, they’re coming, so listen carefully. The Redcoats will have to stay on that road. They’re hurt already, and we’ll hurt them worse on the next ten miles. At least half that stretch is lined with stone walls. Get behind those walls, let them get twenty feet away, then rise up and cut them down!”

  “But they’ll fire a volley at us!”

  “Fall down as soon as you shoot and let the volley go over your heads—then get up, run down the road and do it again!”

  “There they come—just like I said!” the rider yelled. “I gotta ride some more!”

  He tore down the road, yelling at the top of his lungs, but nobody watched. They were straining their eyes, trying to see the approaching Redcoats. Warren said, “You musketmen, get going! Riflemen, we’ll wait here and give them a welcome.”

  The men with muskets scurried off, and Warren said, “We’ll get behind that pile of logs next to the road.” He led them to a pile of walnut logs that had been felled and trimmed, then said, “Keep down until they’re in range—” He stopped suddenly and every man in the group turned to see what had stopped him. He was staring at a tall man who carried a fine Kentucky rifle in his hands—a rifle that the doctor had last seen on the wall of Silas Lewis’s house. Dr. Warren studied him, then said quietly, “Mr. Winslow, I think you should think before you do this thing.”

  The men saw the tall man stare at the doctor, and his eyes were like blue ice. “I’ll leave if you say so, Dr. Warren. But I’ll be fighting whether you take me or not!”

  Warren gazed steadily at Nathan, and finally he said, “As God wills then.”

  “No, as I will, Dr. Warren! I’ll fight in this thing, but I won’t blame it on God.”

  Warren’s eyes flashed, but he only said, “Can you use a rifle?”

  Nathan stared at him, and there was no trace of pride in his voice as he said, “I can shoot better than any man in your group.” Then he waved the muzzle of the rifle toward the distant figure of a rider who had just appeared on the road. “I intend to prove that right now.”

  “It’s too long a shot!” someone complained.

  But Warren said, “If you want to be in this war, Winslow, you can begin right now.”

  Nathan nodded, and his face was pale. The officer was tearing down the road, and was yelling something. He stopped three hundred feet away, made his horse rear, then swung around and started back the other way. He had not gone twenty feet when Nathan’s bullet struck him between the shoulder blades and he fell like a broken doll into the dust.

  A yell went up, and one man struck Nathan on the shoulder, shouting, “You got him, Winslow!” But there was no joy on the young man’s face, Warren saw, and he commanded, “Take cover! They’ll be here in ten minutes!” As the men scattered, he came to stand beside Nathan and said, “I’m sorry about your brother.” He gave a curious stare at the silent young man, then shook his head and moved behind a tree.

  Nathan Winslow reloaded and stood there in the fine summer air of April and waited for another target.

  * * *

  Major Pitcairn looked up wearily into the pale face of Charles Winslow. He had not slept all night, and the
nightmare he had gone through had drawn deep lines into his face. “What is it, Mr. Winslow? I have to report to General Gage, so I can’t—”

  “Pitcairn, what happened out there?” Charles demanded. “We’ve heard rumors, but they can’t be true!”

  “Did you hear that we got shot to pieces?” Pitcairn rasped in anger. “Did you hear we lost over 250 men? Did you hear that some of the King’s finest troops were routed by a bunch of farmers?”

  Charles stared at him, dumbfounded, then said quickly, “I’m sorry to bother you, Major, but I’ve had word that my nephew might—”

  “Nathan was there,” Pitcairn said wearily. He passed a trembling hand over his face, then groaned, “Oh, my God, what have we done? What have we done?”

  “You saw him?”

  “He was right in front of our troops, Charles—and his brother was with him.” He shook his head, whispering, “I pray God they survived!”

  Then a voice called out that General Gage was waiting, and he left, saying only, “I can’t tell you anything.”

  Charles wandered around a town gone mad, but could find no word of Nathan, so finally he went home. All that day he waited, but there was no word. The family had supper, and once Martha uttered something about “rebels.” Charles snapped instantly, “Mother—shut your mouth or leave my table!” The old woman had stared at him, but he had stared back with an intensity that drove her to silence.

  He was walking the floor after midnight when he heard a wagon come across the small bridge, and he threw down his cigar, picked up a lantern and ran outside. He ran to a small wagon that was pulling up in the yard and held the lantern up. He saw the haggard face of Nathan, and then his eyes went to the coffin in the rear, and the words stuck in his throat.

  Nathan got down, and Charles saw that Laddie was there, too. There was nothing he could say, so he waited for Nathan to speak.

  “I’m taking my brother home—to Virginia.” His voice was dead, and so were his eyes, Charles saw. “I had Murchinson take care of him at the funeral parlor.”

  “Why, Nathan—” Charles began, but he was left alone with Laddie. He asked quickly, “What happened, Laddie?”

  The dark eyes looked even darker in the yellow light of the lantern. “Caleb was killed at Lexington.” And then she, too, walked away into the house.

  Charles did not know what to do, so he stood there in the darkness. But fear touched him, and he retreated quickly inside. He paced the floor, and in a few minutes Nathan came down the stair with a bag. He stared at Charles, then said, “Goodbye.”

  Charles followed him out to the wagon, trying to reason with him, but it was useless. Nathan pulled himself up into the seat, and turned the team around, but a voice cried out, “Wait, Nathan!”

  He pulled the team up, and Laddie, carrying an awkward bundle, pulled herself up into the wagon, sat down and looked full into Nathan’s eyes. “I’m going with you to take him home. He was my friend.”

  Nathan looked at her, and for the first time since the shot had killed his brother, the emptiness that had filled him seemed somehow bearable. Laddie’s eyes were huge in the darkness, but there was a stubborn set to the wide lips, so he nodded.

  “All right, Laddie. Let’s take Caleb home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “HE’S A MIGHTY FEARSOME MAN!”

  Spring washed over Virginia in a way that Laddie had never seen in New England, and after Caleb’s funeral it became her habit to spend the cobwebby mornings roaming the open country that lay just over the ridge of Westfield. The columbines and wild violets perfumed the cool paths that wound in aisles beneath the gnarled oaks, and the cold spring-fed brooks, plump with sun perch, were shrill with the cries of peepers in the late afternoons.

  Adam Winslow had brought Laddie to one of those swift streams that flung up fingers of white where the smooth green water struck an outcropping of rock. There was an abrupt elbow in the stream where the waters had gouged out a deep still pool under a huge white oak, and he had smiled at her, saying, “There’s so many hungry fish in that pool, Laddie, you’ll have to get behind that oak tree to bait your hook!”

  Laddie thought of that moment as she sat with her back against the scaly trunk of the tree, and paused before putting a grasshopper on her hook, thinking as she often did of Nathan’s father. That was just three days after Caleb’s funeral, she thought, and the memory of that stark moment when the plain pine coffin bearing the body of Caleb had been lowered into the red Virginia clay came back vividly. Adam Winslow was suffering himself—but he saw how out of place and miserable I felt.

  The grasshopper she held between thumb and forefinger kicked his powerful hind legs, then registered its protest by spitting what looked like tobacco juice on her thumb. Ignoring this, she placed the point of the tiny hook just inside the hard collar forming the neck and threaded the struggling insect through the soft parts of the body. She took the limber cane pole, lifted it and dropped the bait into the green waters. One tiny round lead bullet was fixed a foot above the bait, which pulled him below the surface in a slow and natural way.

  Mr. Winslow showed me that, too. As the thin line drifted down the stream close to a clump of willows, the scene from that time came to her.

  “See—you just slip the hook in like this,” Adam had said, and she had watched carefully as his thick fingers handled the delicate hook and the tiny grasshopper deftly. She had seen him pound a thick bar of white-hot steel at his forge with a fifteen-pound hammer, and his dexterity amazed her.

  “Doesn’t it hurt them, Mr. Winslow?” she had asked shyly. She had been uncomfortable in the presence of Nathan’s parents since they had arrived. Nathan had been so stricken he had only mentioned that Laddie had been a friend of Caleb’s; it had been Molly Winslow who had arranged a place for her to sleep and seen to her meals.

  “Got no idea, son,” Adam had answered, and he had suddenly paused to look at the struggling insect. He lifted his eyes and looked very much like his dead son at that moment, to Laddie at least, and then he had said very quietly, “Guess we don’t ever know how much another creature is hurting, do we?”

  “No, sir,” she replied, then added, “But I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since I came how I grieve for you.”

  Adam Winslow was not a man that hung his emotions out for all to see, but Laddie saw his guard drop, and the pain in his dark eyes was so stark that she had dropped her gaze, unable to endure it.

  She sat there watching the line arch into the swift water. As her grip tightened on the pole, she remembered how at that moment, he had gently let his thick hand rest on her shoulder, and he had said, “Molly and I—we appreciate your coming, Laddie. It means a lot to know that Caleb had a good friend who’d come all this way to see him home.”

  Suddenly the line snapped taut, and she cried out, “Gotcha!” The lithe pole bent nearly double, and the line sliced wildly through the water as the fish tried to make it to the roots where it could shake off the hook. But she had too much skill. Slowly she played it, until finally she led it exhausted to the smooth bank. Carefully she reached into the water, slipped her hand inside its gaping gill, then lifted it out. “Oh, what a beauty!”

  She admired the brilliant colors of the sun perch—deep blue, with green and red scales that glittered in the sunlight. “Must weigh a pound, at least,” she said happily, then with a deft motion removed the hook before adding it to a string of at least fifteen others about the same size.

  Plenty for all of us, she nodded; quickly she untied the stringer and tossed the few remaining grasshoppers into the stream. As they disappeared, snapped up by hungry fish, she picked up her Bible, stuffed it into a small canvas sack with the remains of a lunch, then quickly made her way up the creek. Twenty minutes later she was walking into the backyard of the Winslow house, and seeing Nathan’s parents standing outside the forge, she held the stringer up with a whoop.

  “Looks like Laddie fished the creek out again, Molly,” Adam said, and a s
mile touched his broad lips. “Reminds me of how much Caleb liked to fish in that spot.”

  “Yes. He did.”

  Adam glanced quickly at Molly, and the look in her eyes made him move to her side and put his arm around her. “Sorry. I don’t mean to keep mentioning him.”

  “No, that’s as it should be,” she said, and though her eyes half-filled with tears, she nodded and forced a smile. Patting his hand, she said, “He’s still our son, even though he’s with the Lord Jesus now. I won’t let grief destroy my son for me—the way I’ve seen some do.” She dashed the tears from her eyes, and two elements of her Scottish blood—the quiet beauty and the rock-ribbed faith—were very real to Adam as he stepped back, an approving light filling his eyes.

  Passing through the gate, Laddie caught a glimpse of this fragment of drama, and felt as though she were intruding. She hesitated, but Adam moved toward her, saying, “That’s a good mess of fish.” He took them from her, admired them, then said, “Molly, Laddie and I will clean these if you’ll cook them for us.”

  “Fish would be good,” Molly smiled, then added, “Maybe Nathan will be back in time to eat supper with us.” She turned and disappeared into the house.

  “I’ll clean the fish, Mr. Winslow,” Laddie said quickly.

  “All right.” He walked alongside her toward the side of the forge, and as she stripped the fish from the stringer and put them on a rough slab nailed to a stump, he sat down, saying, “I always did like to watch another man work.”

  She looked nervously at him, for his dark eyes were so sharp that at times she was sure he would see through her masquerade, but there was no guile in his broad face. Unsheathing her knife, she began cleaning the fish—a job which she’d hated at first, but Adam had taught her how to do it easily. Holding the fish with one hand, she raked the scales off with a few quick strokes of the blunt side of the knife. Putting the knife down, she took the head, broke the backbone with a twist, then pulled head and entrails free with a quick jerk.