The Gentle Rebel

by Gilbert, Morris

  He put his hand out, and her small hand was swallowed in his. “That’s the way it is, then,” he said as he released her. “Now, where you think we better go?”

  “Why, I forgot to tell you, Nathan, we’re on our way to catch up with General Knox. He’s on his way to Fort Ticonderoga to get enough cannon to run the Redcoats out of Boston!”

  He grinned at her, and said, “Guess I better change clothes, too, Laddie, or he’ll shoot me for a lobsterback!” Then he laughed and said, “Ticonderoga, here we come!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CRISIS AT HALF MOON

  Laddie and Nathan caught up with General Knox three days later, and after he had listened to their story, he had stared at Laddie, finally saying, “I’m glad you’re going to be along on this trip, Sergeant Smith. Getting this character out of jail took courage and initiative—but I’ve got the feeling this job we’ve got now is going to be worse!”

  They pushed on as fast as the men could go, and at first the journey had been a joy to Laddie. She had reveled in the unexpected vistas of mountainous country, the vast, silent forests of New York State blanketed with fluffy, fast-melting snow. Nathan was never far from her side, and the two of them shared the campfire at night. He said little about Abigail; his close brush with death seemed to have freed him from the heaviness that he had carried, and at the same time made him more thoughtful. Often they would read Laddie’s Bible long into the night, and Knox sometimes would stalk by, stare down at them, a puzzled light in his sharp eyes. He cared for nothing but guns and his idol, General Washington, so he was fascinated at the pleasure they seemed to get out of the old book.

  The trip was uneventful until just outside of Albany. As they crossed a stream, a section of thin ice gave way, and Laddie plunged into the freezing waters up to her waist. Nathan had helped her out, saying, “We better build a fire and get you into some dry clothes.”

  “Oh, we’ll camp in an hour,” she had said. “I can wait until then.”

  It had been a poor decision, and all night she shivered, unable to shake off the biting cold that gripped her bones. The next day she had a slight fever and by night had begun to cough. Nathan watched her silently, unable to help, and on the second day, her temperature jumped and she couldn’t eat. By late that afternoon, when they arrived in a small village called Half Moon, where the Mohawk and the Hudson met, she was so weak that Nathan practically carried her the last two miles. He wrapped her in blankets beside a fire that some of the men made, and sought out Knox.

  “Sir, Laddie’s got to have a doctor.”

  Knox shook his head, and gave a dubious look at the small settlement consisting of no more then twenty houses. “Not likely there’ll be one here—but go see what you can find.”

  Nathan went into the village and asked a tall man who was chopping wood, “Is there a doctor in this town?”

  “Doctor? No—nearest one is up river at Saratoga.” He looked carefully at Nathan and asked, “You an army man?”

  “Yes. This is Captain Knox’s company.” He studied the man carefully, for they had encountered quite a few ardent loyalists who hated them on sight. “We’re going to Ticonderoga to get guns for General Washington.”

  The level gaze of the tall man did not waver; then he smiled and said, “Is that a fact? Wal, I hope you git enough to blow them lobsterbacks clean back to England! I’m Ezra Parker.”

  Nathan shook the hard hand that was offered. “Nathan Winslow. Most of the village feel like you do?”

  “For a fact. We had a few Tories, but they felt so out of place they moved out. Whut’s this about a doctor? You sick?”

  “No, but we got a sick sergeant. Needs help bad.”

  Parker said slowly, “Wal, now, most of us use Sister Greene when we get hurt or sick.”

  “Sister Greene?”

  “She’s the preacher’s ma.” Parker laughed at Nathan’s doubtful look, then said, “Don’t blame you much for lookin’ like that, Winslow, but I tell you true I’d trust Sister Greene’s doctorin’ a heap more’n I would most o’ these sawbones! I got a wagon here, if you want a hand.”

  Nathan warmed to the man and said, “That’d be a kindness, Ezra.”

  Parker hitched his team and called to his wife, “Martha—I’m goin’ to take a sick soldier to Sister Greene’s house!” On the way to the camp, he listened avidly to the news about the war. “Some of our young fellows went when we got word about Lexington. I thought to go myself, but then Martha said to let them as had no children take care of the fighting.”

  They pulled up beside the fire, and Nathan said, “Stay where you are, Ezra. I’ll get the boy.” Then he reached down and picked Laddie up in his arms and carried her to the wagon. “Got to get you out of this weather, Laddie,” he said, then added cheerfully, “This is Ezra Parker—he says they got a lady in this town that’s good as a doctor.”

  Laddie smiled weakly, but her face was flushed and there was a hoarse rasping in her voice when she said faintly, “Glad to meet you.”

  Parker glanced at her, then whipped the horses up. “Young feller does look right peaked—but I got a heap of faith in Sister Greene.” A thought struck him, and he exclaimed, “It just come to me, Nathan, Miz Greene, she’s got a brother who’s a general in the army.”

  “Nathanael Greene from Rhode Island?”

  “That’s the one. He’s one of them Quakers, you know? And so is Sister Greene, and so is her boy, Dan.”

  “They don’t believe in war, I hear?” Nathan said, and cast a doubtful look at Ezra. “They might not favor doing anything for a soldier.”

  “Ha! You don’t know much ’bout them folks! They won’t pull no trigger, but I guess Sister Greene would doctor ol’ Slewfoot if he turned up at her door sick!”

  “You a Quaker, Ezra?”

  “Me? No, I’m a varmint!” Parker grinned. “They ain’t many Quakers here—maybe thirty. But lots of the rest of us sort of look at Friend Daniel as our preacher. He don’t stand fer being called Reverend nor no fancy name, so we just call him Friend Dan, even us sinners—of which we got a overabundance in Half Moon.”

  He drove into the village, down the main street, then turned off into a lane, pointing at a half-timbered house sitting back under a small grove of tall firs. He jumped down, nodded to Nathan as he tied up the team. “Bring ’im on in.”

  Nathan picked up Laddie, and as he walked up the path, the door opened and a woman came out. “Got a sick man fer you, Sister,” Parker said. “This here is Nathan Winslow, and his sergeant has got the ague.”

  “Bring him in, Friend Nathan,” the woman said. She was a tall woman in her fifties, straight and well-formed. Her hair was auburn with just a trace of silver, and there was a calmness in her brown eyes that Nathan liked at once. “We’ll put him in the spare room.” Nathan walked behind her down a short hall, turned into a small room, and then set Laddie down.

  “Get into that bed, young man,” Sister Greene said. “I’ll come back in a spell with something that’ll do thee good.” She stared at Laddie and asked in that same even tone, “Thou art a man of God?”

  Laddie looked quickly at her, nodded and said, “I’m a Christian.”

  “Good. Then we both know where thy healing’s got to come from.” Sister Green turned and opened a drawer, pulled a night shirt out, and handed it to Laddie. “Get into that.”

  As the woman left, Nathan said, “I’ll be back tonight, Laddie, after roll call. You mind Sister Greene, now!”

  He turned and left. As he passed Sister Greene, he said, “I don’t like the way he looks, Sister.”

  “I should think not—he’s got pneumonia.”

  Nathan swallowed and stared hard at the woman. “You—you real sure about that?”

  “Yes. How long is thy unit staying here?”

  “We’ll pull out at dawn, but—!”

  “Well, thee can leave the young man here.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “He’ll die if
he’s moved.” Then in the same calm, even voice, she asked him exactly the same question she had asked Laddie: “Art thou a man of God?”

  Nathan turned red and threw an awkward glance at Ezra, who seemed to be enjoying the scene. Finally he shook his head. “I thought I was once, Sister—but now, I guess I’m just kind of a seeker.”

  The door opened and Nathan was relieved at the interruption. The man who walked in had the same chiseled features as Sister Greene—the same warm brown eyes and generous lips.

  “Friend Dan,” Ezra said, “this here is Nathan Winslow. He’s done come to dump a sick soldier on you while he goes to play army.”

  Dan Greene glanced at Parker, and humor lit his eyes and drew a smile to his wide mouth. “Friend Ezra, when thee gets right with God, thee will have a little more tact.” He had a deep baritone voice, and there was a solidness in his shoulders, a thickness in his chest that most ministers lacked. He shook hands with Nathan, his grip like a vise, and said, “I trust the sickness is not too bad.”

  “Pneumonia, Daniel,” his mother said. “We’ll keep him until Friend Nathan can come back for him.”

  “It’s a lot to ask . . .” Nathan said uneasily. “I know you folks don’t hold with armies and fighting—”

  “We hold with helping those who need it, Friend Nathan,” the man interrupted. “Thee can be assured your friend will get good care.” His eyes studied Nathan, and he asked, “Is he your kin?”

  Nathan quickly explained how he’d found Laddie, trying to soften the part he’d played, then said, “I lost a brother at Lexington—and Laddie Smith is . . . !”

  He paused, and seeing how disturbed he was, Dan said, “Easy to see thee does care for the young man. But even if I say so, he’s in the best hands for a man who’s bad sick.”

  Nathan nodded, unable to speak, so he whirled and said, “I’ll come back tonight.”

  Ezra followed him to the wagon, and said little on the way back to camp, for he saw that his new friend was tormented with doubts. When he stopped to let Nathan get out, he said with a plaintive note in his voice, “Guess it’s times like this that sinners like you and me wisht we wuz Christians, Nathan. But reckon you got the boy in to folks who know how to get hold of God.”

  Nathan was worried and depressed all day, and finally when he came back after visiting the Greenes’ house that night, he went straight to Knox. “Captain, Laddie’s got pneumonia.”

  “Is it bad, Nathan?”

  “I just came from there.” His lips were tight and his eyes were miserable in the lamplight. “He was delirious, General—didn’t even know me!”

  Knox stared at him silently. “I’d like to let you stay with him, Nathan—but I need every good man I’ve got.”

  “I know—I’ll be leaving with you in the morning. But it’ll be so hard—not knowing if he’s dead or alive.”

  He had left then, and the next morning as the brigade filed through the town in the gray dawn, Nathan cast one last desperate look down the lane to the small house just barely visible in first light, and prayed fervently, God—help Sister Greene!

  Even as he prayed that prayer, Daniel Greene was looking down the street at the troop. He turned and said to his mother, who was sitting at the table with a Bible open before her, “They’re leaving. Don’t think they’ll be back for weeks, if what I heard is true. With this weather and these roads, those men are in trouble.”

  Sister Greene looked up at him and said, “I think we’re in trouble, too, Daniel.”

  He gave her a quick look, for he could not remember many times when his mother had admitted having a problem. Her faith was unchanging, like a rock, and he went over to sit down across from her. “What is it, Mother?”

  “That young man in there, Daniel.”

  “Thee thinks he’ll die?”

  “No. The sickness won’t be unto death—but Sergeant Smith has a worse problem than ague or pneumonia.” She paused and he waited. Waiting came easy for him, for the Quakers did much of it. Sometimes they would sit for two hours on hard, backless benches waiting until one of the Friends had the Inner Light touch his soul and a message was delivered.

  Finally she lifted her eyes and said, “Sergeant Laddie Smith is living a lie, Dan.”

  “A lie? What sort of lie?”

  “About an hour ago I went in, and the fever was so bad I knew I had to use cold packs to bring it down. That’s when I found out—when I took his nightshirt off. Sergeant Smith is not a man, Dan. We’ve got a sick young woman to care for.”

  He stared at her, unable to believe what he heard. Finally he said, “That’s bad! A woman with all those men!”

  He got up and walked to look out the window as the last of the troops passed over the hill and disappeared; then he turned and said quietly, “I was mistaken about Winslow. He didn’t seem like the sort to do this sort of thing—keep a loose woman.”

  “Loose or not—we’ve got to seek God, Daniel, or she’ll be a dead woman. I’ll get the body healed—but thee must see to her soul.”

  Friend Daniel Greene said nothing, but doubt filled his brown eyes. Finally he said heavily, “God help her—poor child!” Then he got up and left the warmth of the fire, walking for the rest of the morning in the freezing cold.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  FRIEND DANIEL AND LADDIE

  Sometimes the cold gripped so fiercely that she shook in every joint, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of blankets; then the heat would rise like a tide of fire and she would struggle feebly to throw off the covers. She was down in a cold, dark hole sometimes, being pulled deeper and deeper into an even blacker depth, and she wanted to sink into it—to escape the alternating agony of fire and ice that racked her body.

  But every time she began to sink into a welcome oblivion, an insistent voice would come to her, just when she seemed about to slip into the utter depths; it would grow loud and the sound of it would draw her back to the light.

  Time was not for her a stream that moved from one point to the other, but a vast ocean with no beginning and no end. Seconds, days, years had no meaning; the only things that marked time were the hands that touched her, bathing her with cool water and holding her head to put a cup of water to her parched lips. And even the voice and the hands were confusing, for in her delirium she somehow came to distinguish between one voice that was soft and quiet and another that was deep and powerful—and sometimes the touch of hands had that same difference.

  At last she came out of the darkness, and the bright sunlight streaming in from a window across the room hurt her eyes. She closed them quickly, having glimpsed only a white ceiling and a wall covered with paper ornamented by yellow flowers. Lying there with her eyes shut, her other senses were flooded with signals—cool sheets against her body, the pressure of cool dampness on her forehead, a sour taste in her mouth, the smell of fresh bread baking, the acrid scent of camphor—and the sound of a man’s voice.

  The voice was very close but so quiet that she thought at first he was speaking with someone else in the room, but suddenly she realized with a faint shock that he was praying. Accustomed as she was to elevated language from ministers in pulpits (which she unconsciously imitated in her own prayers, to some degree), she was caught by the fact that whoever it was spoke with God on most familiar terms!

  “ . . . and so, Lord, it’s been a hard fight, hasn’t it?” The deep voice suddenly chuckled, and added, “I came pretty close to doubting Thee a time or two—but Thee never fails. Well, now, it’s clear that Thee has pulled this young woman out of the pit as a brand plucked from the burning, and I thank Thee for keeping her alive—but Lord, we’ve got to do something about her soul! Lord, I’m not much of a preacher, but nothing is too difficult for Thee—so now that Thou has taken away the disease, I’m going to believe that the soul of this sinner will be made whole. And, Lord, when there’s—well, friend, so thee is awake?”

  He broke off suddenly as he found himself looking directly into a pair of black eye
s that had opened and were regarding him intently. He had been holding a damp cloth on her head, and the position had brought his face within inches of hers, so always after that when she thought of him, she saw him this way, framed in her vision, his square face brown and tan. He had thick brown hair and heavy eyebrows the same color over deep-set brown eyes, and she could see clearly the dent in his straight nose and wonder what had broken it. He was a handsome man with very regular features, and a serene expression characterized both his face and his manner.

  “I’d guess thee’s a little dry,” he said when she tried to speak and found her mouth parched. He removed the cloth from her head, picked up a cup, then put his arm under her shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. “Drink as much of this as thee can.”

  She was so thirsty that she put both her hands on his, and in her eagerness spilled water down the white gown she was wearing. When it was gone, he gave her more; then she said in a voice rusty with disuse, “Thank you.”

  “Well, how does thee feel?”

  She considered the question, then nodded. “I—feel weak.” She looked around the room, then turned her eyes back on him. “How long have I been here?”

  “How long? Well, they brought thee here five days ago. Does thee remember that?”

  She suddenly remembered the room and nodded. “It’s not clear—wasn’t there a woman here?”

  “My mother. She’ll be back soon. Are thee hungry?”

  The question hit her like a blow, activating her appetite, and she said urgently, “Yes!”

  He laughed and got up. “I’ll fix some eggs. It’ll be nice not to have to pour broth down thee with a spoon for a change.” He got up, adding as he left, “Don’t try to get up yet. Thee would probably fall and break thy neck!”

  He was gone for some time, and Laddie tried once to get out of bed. The room seemed to tilt, and she fell back and lay with her eyes closed, appalled at her weakness. He came back with a wooden tray containing a plate of scrambled eggs and a large glass of milk. “Can thee sit up and eat, or shall I feed thee?” he asked.