The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’m a fool, Uncle Edward!” he said bitterly, his lips twisted into a grimace of pain. “What kind of man would leave his mother behind, sick as she is?”

  “A young fool, I suppose,” the older man said gently. He put his arm around Matthew’s shoulders in a gesture of affection, which was unusual for him, and added, “Never grieve over past decisions, Matthew. There’ll be no end of it if you do—and it never changes things.”

  His uncle’s words stayed with Matthew in the three weeks that followed, as the Fortune nudged her way across the rutted surface of the gray Atlantic. For a few days he kept to his cabin, surfacing only to eat, then to stand beside the rail, his eyes fixed on the unseen land they were leaving far behind. He made a lonely figure, but his uncle was wise enough to let time heal the worst of the parting grief. Finally, since no emotion can be sustained forever at such a pitch, Matthew began to recover, and day by day as the ship drew closer to England, his spirit lightened.

  He spent the days watching the sailors scamper like monkeys up the shrouds to trim the sails. He listened for hours to his uncle tell of the first voyage in the Mayflower, of the hardships of that terrible first year when half the colonists died. “We finally had to bury our dead at night—so the Indians wouldn’t know how we had dwindled to nothing,” he told his nephew one night as they stood at the stern watching the broken reflection of stars shatter like diamonds in the wake of the ship.

  “I marvel any of you ever had the courage to go,” Matthew said.

  His uncle thought about it, then raised his fist and struck the rail with a sudden sharp blow. “We had to have God, Matthew!”

  “I—I thought it was land and freedom.”

  “No! It was God that we hungered for!” The older man paused, then smiled gently in the silver moonlight. His eyes gleamed and he gave a small laugh. “We were all fools for God in those days!” Then he told more about how Matthew’s father had found God, and had turned down a life of ease in the service of Lord North to become a poor preacher. “He could have married Cecily, Lord North’s daughter,” he added idly. “He was quite a ladies’ man in those days.” A thought struck him and he said slyly, “Like you, I suppose.”

  Matthew flushed and was glad for the covering darkness. He changed the subject quickly. “Tell me about Bedford.”

  For the rest of the trip the two talked a great deal, but after they landed at Southampton, made the trip by coach toward the north, Matthew’s spirits were dashed by his first view of the small village his uncle indicated. “There it is, boy. That’s Bedford.”

  “It’s... small, isn’t it?” Matthew said. Perhaps if he had not seen Southhampton first, he would have not been so disappointed. Bedford was composed of a scattering of half-timbered houses, all with thatched roofs. They followed only a very slight sort of plan, seeming to have been thrown like a group of dice to rest at random where they landed. The one road more or less connected many of the houses, but in the center of the village, Young Winslow saw, was a more structured look. “That’s the Mote Hall,” his uncle said, indicating a large two-story building with high-pitched gables crowning the over-hanging second stories. “Most of our large meetings take place there.”

  The coach stopped in front of a tavern with a large red lion on a sign, and they got out. “Let’s have something to eat before we get you settled.” Edward gave orders concerning their trunks, and they went inside the Red Lion where they were met by a snaggle-toothed man with a white apron tied around his prodigious stomach. “Mr. Winslow! Yer back again ter see us?”

  “Just a brief visit for me, Williams, but my nephew here will be staying in your town for a time. Now, can you feed us?”

  The question insulted the innkeeper and he sniffed, saying, “And did yer ever go hungry in the Red Lion, sir?”

  “No, indeed not, Williams!” Master Winslow laughed, and the two sat down at a huge oak trestle table and talked until the meal was brought. After the ship’s diet, the fresh meat and vegetables set before them were delicious. They were wolfing down portions of cold beef, chunks of fresh bread larded with fresh yellow butter, and boiled potatoes when a man entered the inn.

  “Mr. Winslow, welcome back to Bedford!” He was only of average height, but held himself so straight that he seemed tall. His hair was brown, coming down low on his forehead, and his thick brows shaded intelligent brown eyes that held a quizzical look. He moved his head with quick, sharp movements that matched his words, a curious jerking as if his neck were caught in a tight collar and he was attempting to free it.

  “Well, it’s good to see you, Pastor.” Winslow rose and the two gripped hands. “This is my nephew, Matthew—my brother Gilbert’s son, from America.” He watched as the two men shook hands, and added, “This is Pastor John Gifford, Matthew. You’ll be a member of his congregation while you’re here.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Pastor.” Matthew liked the sharp-featured preacher at once and added, “I trust not to be an additional burden to your cares.”

  “Oh, I expect young men to be troublesome!” Gifford’s eyes twinkled and he gave a slight wink at both men. “When I was your age I was studying for the gallows—but I trust you’re a more settled young man than I was.”

  “Nay, that’s past praying for, Pastor Gifford!” Edward laughed. “Fast horses, pretty women, and a duel now and then to put a little spice in the day—that’s our boy!”

  “Now, Uncle Edward!”

  “All in jest, my boy!” Winslow laughed, holding up a hand. “Matthew will be living with Asa Goodman, an apprentice, to learn some of the world of business.” He glanced out the door then added, “It’s getting a little late, by the way. Will you walk with us as we go to Mr. Goodman’s Pastor?”

  “I can fill you in with the news on the way,” Gifford agreed. The three men left the Red Lion and threaded their way through the maze of cottages in the dying light of the sun. Matthew listened as Gifford spoke somewhat gloomily of political conditions. When the pastor mentioned the possibility of the restoration of Charles to the throne, Edward broke in quickly, “It’s coming, Pastor. We may as well get ready for tribulation.”

  They turned down a dirt lane and Gifford hailed a man sitting in front of a low-roofed cottage. “Ho, John, here’s someone for you to meet!”

  As the three men approached, the man arose, releasing the small children he had been holding in his lap. He was a tall, portly man, perhaps thirty years of age, Matthew judged, with broad shoulders and a full, round face. His eyes were not large, but had a penetrating quality, and Matthew felt that he was being carefully weighed in the balances as the large man gave him a direct stare.

  “John, this is Matthew Winslow, Edward’s nephew. Edward, this is Mr. John Bunyan—one of our more promising lights among the ministry.”

  “Why, I’ll deny that, Mr. Winslow!” Bunyan said looking at Edward, a smile touching his full wide lips beneath a reddish moustache. “I’m just a tinker with a longing to speak of Christ.” Bunyan had one of those clear tenor voices that carry over long distances without losing any clarity, and there was some sort of magnetism in the man, Matthew saw—a quality he had observed in Governor John Bradford of Plymouth. It had nothing to do with attractiveness, for neither man was particularly well favored. Neither was it a quality of voice, for though both men spoke clearly, they did not thunder as some men felt compelled to do to exert their authority. Whatever it was, Matthew knew that both men had that indefinable quality of leadership; men would listen to them and be led by them.

  “John’s become quite a traveler since you left, Edward,” Gifford said. “He’s been preaching all over the country—and with very good response.”

  The praise bothered Bunyan and he shifted uncomfortably. “Well, if Charles comes back as king, we’ll none of us be doing much preaching, will we now?”

  “Too true, John,” Edward said heavily. “He’ll clamp down on our churches—especially men like Pastor Gifford here.”

  “Perhaps yo
u could come to America, Pastor Gifford,” Matthew suggested. “And you, too, Mr. Bunyan.”

  “We can’t all leave England!” Gifford snapped. His quick eyes flashed fire and he jerked his head in a series of quick motions as he added, “I was on the Royalist side in the war against the Crown—but this time it’ll be different.”

  “There’ll be no new war, Gifford,” Edward said at once with a shake of his head. “The English want a king—demand one, in fact. And no matter what Charles promises—and I’ve heard that he’s promised no revenge against those who executed his father—there’s a host in France who fled the country one jump ahead of Cromwell. And it’s their turn now, mark my words!”

  There was a sense of gloom in the older men that galled Matthew, but he said nothing. He had come to England to find an escape from the boredom and monotony of Plymouth, and it appeared as if he was jumping into a very hot fire. Excitement and adventure were on the horizon, and these friends of his uncle spoke as if Doomsday had been announced!

  “Well, you must come with me on some of my preaching engagements, Mr. Winslow.” Bunyan interrupted Matthew’s thoughts with a nod and a wide smile. “You won’t hear much in the way of a preacher, but you’ll see some very fine countryside and meet some choice saints.”

  “I will indeed, Mr. Bunyan,” Matthew answered.

  “Come, we must go,” Edward urged. “Good night, Mr. Bunyan.”

  As the three men walked away, Gifford stated, “He’s a rare one, John Bunyan. Born to preach!”

  “Aye, I’m sure he is,” Edward agreed. “But he’d better stick to mending pots and pans if Charles comes back.”

  “John? He’ll not do that!” Pastor Gifford shook his head and indicated a house set off in a clump of towering yew trees. “There’s Asa Goodman’s house.” He was silent until they reached the steps, then added quietly, “No, Bunyan is just the sort of man that the Royalists will hunt down. He’s a man the people listen to. He’s got a gift of moving people—just what the King will be dead set against!”

  Winslow knocked on the door, and it was answered at once by a short man with weak eyes who peered at them suspiciously, then as he recognized them, cried out, “Why, it’s you, Mr. Winslow. Come in! Come in!”

  The three men entered, and Matthew made the acquaintance of Asa Goodman, his wife, Ruth, and their two daughters, Chastity and Faith, ages sixteen and eighteen respectively. He was shown to his room, a small one on the second floor, containing little other than a bed, a desk and a washstand. As they came down, he saw his uncle making for the door, but he stopped long enough to say, “I must make another call, Matthew. Mr. Goodman will lay out your duties.” He left with Pastor Gifford, and Matthew spent the next hour explaining to Ruth Goodman that he had just eaten and could not hold another bite.

  As he sat at the table, sandwiched between Chastity and Faith, he told them about America, but had great difficulty convincing them that elephants were really not a danger to the population. All the family had been reading travel books, and they hung on his every word as he told them of the Indians; the girls were especially avid for blood-curdling stories about their savagery. Matthew knew of none, but they were so pitifully anxious that he invented several to satisfy them.

  He escaped to his room as early as possible; removing a small book from his pocket, he sat down at the desk and dipped a pen into an ink bottle, then began writing:

  The year of our Lord, 1659, 6 August, Bedford.

  My first night in Bedford, and I have purposed to keep this journal a record of my new life—and to be as brutally honest as a man can be!

  My poor mother! Shall I never see her face again? I fear not. And I shall carry the picture of her face that last time on the Fortune to my grave! How much capacity we have to hurt the ones we truly love!

  If there is such a price then, to my leaving home and parents, I resolve to make it worth the candle! The future is a book whose pages I may not read, save one at a time. The times are troubled. Fear is already in the air. Bunyan, Gifford, my uncle—all are like men standing on the brink of an awful chasm, blindfolded, not knowing what lies before them, but convinced it is a dark day for England—for the Puritans, at least!

  And what will I do? Little enough, I suppose. Perhaps I will be a dry and dusty man of business like Asa Goodman. At any rate, I am here, and it is an adventure—I will not be bored to death!

  But Matthew was, in fact, terribly bored after the excitement of living in a new land wore off—which was about one month. Bedford was, he admitted ruefully, much the same as Plymouth. He soon learned his duties with Asa Goodman, and since his uncle had left for London two days after depositing him in the small village, there was no one to talk to. Oh, Goodman was not a hard driver, but he had no thought of anything except business. Pastor Gifford was a man of wit, but he was a busy man, ranging far in his pastoral duties. He enjoyed the meetings on Sunday, thinking Gifford the best preacher he’d heard, by far, but the days grew long and the nights grew lonely.

  He wrote a bitter note in his journal:

  I might as well have stayed in Plymouth! When Uncle Edward returns, I will make him send me to London or somewhere else on some sort of business. I will be bored out of my head with this place if nothing turns up this week! Please, God, Give me something to do in this place!

  The day after this plaintive prayer, Matthew sought out John Bunyan in desperation. “Take me with you next week when you go to preach!”

  Bunyan gave him an understanding look, then nodded. “Bored with it, are you, Mr. Winslow? Well, it’s a small village. Nothing exciting now. Let’s see, I go to Elstow next Sabbath. It’s my old home, and there’s a goodly congregation with no real pastor. Would you like to go there?”

  “Yes! Tell me the time and the place, and I’m your man, Bunyan!”

  The tall tinker laughed and punched Winslow on the arm, “Well, you might be a help. Can you sing?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Matthew grinned. “Anything for a little variety.”

  “Be here at dawn next Sabbath, lad,” Bunyan nodded. “And be in much prayer for the service, you mind?”

  That was on Thursday, and it was with a spirit of release that Matthew met Bunyan as first light began to bathe the little village. “Come now, we go long shanks!” Bunyan said with a smile, and the two set out at a fast pace for Elstow, which lay only eight miles from Bedford. As they walked, Bunyan spoke quickly, sharing with the younger man some of his early history. He had been a terrible sinner as a young man, had served in Cromwell’s Model Army, and after the war had been converted to Christ by John Gifford’s preaching, then had begun preaching himself a few years earlier.

  The sun was bright as the two men entered the small village of Elstow, and Bunyan greeted everyone they met, leading Matthew to a large barn-like structure on the north side of town. To Matthew’s surprise, the place was full. He found himself a seat on one of the backless benches, and for the next three hours, listened spellbound to this mender of pots preach the most powerful sermon he’d ever heard in his life!

  It was a strange sermon, and at first he could not tell why it seemed so different. Finally he realized that it was the strange quality of imagination that linked the Scriptures and the message together. Bunyan had the gift of the storyteller, and he employed it in a masterful manner, yet so simply that even the small children that sat there through it all must have understood it.

  And it was when he spoke of Jesus—mostly as “the Man”— that Matthew was most moved, for Bunyan had such a love for Jesus Christ that it communicated itself to his hearers. Matthew had never heard such poetic figures, and such plain devotion in a preacher!

  He was carried away with it, and when Bunyan called a halt at noon, he moved forward to stand with him. Twisting his head to look at the preacher he felt his foot step on a soft object, then heard a faint cry of pain.

  “Oh—pardon me!”

  Then he found himself looking into the eyes of the most beautiful woma
n he’d ever seen!

  She was not tall, her black curls not reaching far above his shoulders, and the tear-filled eyes so black that the pupil could hardly be discerned. She bit her lower lip, and swayed helplessly, so that he took her arm without a thought, saying, “Oh, what a clumsy oaf I am! Here, let me help you to a chair.”

  “It’s ... all right.” Her voice was low and husky and there was a trace of an accent which seemed to Matthew quite charming. She tentatively tried her foot, winced, then said, “Perhaps I’d better sit down.”

  “Let me help you!” As Matthew guided her through the crowd, he could not help noticing that in spite of the drab gray gown she wore, she had a splendid figure. He helped her ease herself down onto a bench, then stood there feeling like a fool. “I say, can I get you anything?”

  “No, it will be quite all right.” She looked up at him and he thought that he had never seen such coloring! Her lips were like crimson petals against her pale skin, and the enormous eyes and arched brows were bewitching. She suddenly laughed and said, “Don’t be so silly! You only stepped on my foot.”

  He let out his breath in relief, then shook his head. “It’s such a small foot, my lady, and mine are so large.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m all right—oh, here comes my aunt.” As she pronounced her words with a distinct French accent, Matthew turned to meet the woman who came to stand beside them.

  “Are you all right, Lydia?”

  “Yes. I just twisted my ankle, Aunt,” she said, turning her large dark eyes on Matthew, who quickly explained, “My fault completely. I’m so clumsy!”

  Then John Bunyan appeared, saying, “Ah, have you met?”

  “No.”

  “This is Miss Smith and her niece, Lydia Carbonne. This is Matthew Winslow. I believe you are acquainted with his uncle, are you not?”

  The mention of his uncle softened the rather severe look on Miss Smith’s face, and she nodded. “Of course.” She gave Matthew a direct look and said, “You resemble him greatly.”