“It was all right.” Tink helped his father, a wool carter, and if he ever complained about the long hours or the arduous work, Gilbert had never heard him. The idea of using the boy as an informer somehow still lingered in Winslow’s mind but it would be difficult now, for he had developed a genuine affection for the lad.
“Mr. Bradford says that in the New World it won’t be hard to make a living like it is here,” Tink said enthusiastically. “My father will have his farm like everyone else and they do say that the ground is so rich that the fruit falls off the trees all year round! Won’t that be wonderful, Mr. Winslow—just to have apples—or even bananas—anytime you want one?”
Gilbert shrugged his shoulders and said, “That will be good, Tink, but is it all settled? I mean grown-ups talk a lot about things like this—about moving, about finding a new place and bettering themselves, but often it never happens.”
Tink shook his head violently. “Oh, we’re really going! I heard Mr. Carver tell my father that the ship to take us there has already been bought!”
Winslow saw that the boy was in deadly earnest about the journey to the New World. If the departure was to be soon, that meant to please Lord North he had to find Brewster at once. It made no sense to think that Brewster, one of the founders of the Green Gate congregation, would be left in England while the rest of the flock went to seek new homes. He would somehow make an attempt to get aboard one of the ships.
He was so deep in thought that when a man standing beneath a dimly flickering light at the intersection of the main street called his name, he did not hear. Tink caught his arm and said, “Mr. Winslow—I think he wants you.”
Winslow came to himself with a start and turned to see a large burly man dressed in dark clothing approach. “Mr. Winslow, is it?”
“I’m Winslow—and who are you?”
The husky man stepped even closer and by the flickering light Gilbert saw that he had a broad face with one eye turned outward in such a fashion that it was difficult to keep from staring at it. He had huge hands, thick, broad, and short stubby fingers—butcher’s hands, they seemed.
“May I have a word with you, Mr. Winslow?” The straight eye glanced quickly at the boy, and he added in a high tenor voice, “Alone, if it’s all the same.”
Curiosity touched Gilbert, and he said, “Run along, Tink. Here, take these fish and leave some of them with Mrs. Winslow for tomorrow—off with you, now!”
Tink took the string of fish, gave the stranger a quick glance, then nodded at Gilbert and turned to move off quickly down the darkening streets.
“What’s your business?” Gilbert asked sharply. The man did not seem to be dangerous—but at the same time he was a stranger and there was a furtive air about him. Gilbert thought perhaps he was a beggar of some sort, but his clothes were not worn enough. A gold ring on one thick finger of his right hand and a gold watch chain gleamed dully in the light of the lantern.
“I’m Johnson.” He nodded his heavy head quickly three times, searched the dark shadows with one eye suspiciously, turned back and said suddenly, “My business is the same as yours, Winslow—Brewster!”
Gilbert stared at him and said cautiously, “Brewster—which Brewster is that? I know no Brewster.”
“You’d best know one and quick or your master will be displeased, Winslow!” Johnson winked his good eye, bared his large teeth in what passed for a grin, and again nodded sharply with a firm movement of his chin. “You’ve wasted too much time, and they’re getting restless.”
“Who is they?”
Johnson reached into the recesses of his coat, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Gilbert. “It’s all in here, Winslow. But I’ll tell you what it says—it says that you’re to be on that ship that came in this morning and report in person to Tiddle in London.”
Opening the letter, Gilbert scanned it and saw that it was indeed a short note from the lawyer instructing him to return as soon as possible and give a report. Characteristically, the lawyer made no eloquent pleas, but phrased the request in blunt language, and signed his name simply—Tiddle.
Johnson said, “Ship weighs anchor tomorrow at three. Be sure you’re on it, Winslow!”
“But I’ve got to stay here, Johnson! I’ve got to keep an eye on a girl that may lead us to Brewster.”
Johnson nodded his head savagely, and winked his glaring eye. “Aye—I know the wench! You get to Tiddle and I’ll watch her! If I have to, I’ll break her neck to find out what we need to know!”
Gilbert reached out, and although Johnson was a massive man, he was jerked up on his toes by the powerful grip that gathered the front of his coat. “Keep your hands off her—you hear me!” Thrusting Johnson back, Gilbert turned and walked away, throwing over his shoulder the words, “I’ll be at the ship when it leaves!”
As he walked swiftly toward Edward Winslow’s house, Gilbert’s mind swam and he tried to make some sense out of Tiddle’s request. He did have some business affairs to report on, but there was an urgency in the lawyer’s reply that seemed uncalled for. He somehow felt it had more to do with Brewster than with business.
It was not late when he got to the house, and as he entered, Edward greeted him, saying, “Come in here, Gilbert—we need a word with you.”
Gilbert followed Edward into the dining room and saw that Bradford and Carver were seated at the carved oak table. “Why, good evening Mr. Bradford—Mr. Carver.”
Edward moved to his chair, sat down, and motioned for Gilbert to do the same. There was an air of tension in the room, and Bradford’s craggy features were set in lines of discouragement. Looking across the table, he said, “Mr. Winslow, we have decided to accept you into the fellowship of our congregation.”
Gilbert’s heart leaped—his mission was accomplished! He covered this exaltation by nodding his head and saying humbly, “I am honored, Elder Bradford. I trust that my devotion to the church will be proved by my faithfulness in service.”
John Carver spoke up at once. He was in his sixties and his hair was a beautiful silver. There was a placid air in Carver that Gilbert had noted and envied, and now the older man said evenly, “You have heard, Gilbert, of the voyage to the New World, I suppose.”
“Have you obtained a charter, Elder Bradford?” Gilbert inquired.
“Of sorts,” Bradford admitted, nodding his head slowly. “At this very moment we have two men making the final arrangements for the voyage—Elder Robert Cushman has arranged for a ship called the Mayflower that is being fitted out even now in Southampton. Another ship has been purchased called the Speedwell, which will take our people from Leyden to Southampton.”
Gilbert said, “It is a tremendous undertaking, gentlemen! I know that you have sought the will of God in the decision.”
“Indeed we have, Gilbert!” Carver said, and his face lit up with a holy light. “And we have wondered if perhaps you could be of some service at this time to the congregation?”
Gilbert said at once, “Anything—anything at all.”
“There is an urgent necessity for getting the mission underway,” Edward said, striking the table with his fist. “This is the fourteenth of June and we must leave in July or we will come to the New World in the dead of winter.”
“Do you plan to make a visit to England soon, Gilbert?” Carver asked.
“Why, yes, as a matter-of-fact—my business calls for me to return home tomorrow.”
“Wonderful! Surely it is the hand of the Lord!” Carver cried out. “Could you perhaps go to Southampton and carry this message to Elder Cushman?”
Gilbert reached out and took the bulky envelope that Bradford held, looked at it, then said firmly, “It will be my pleasure to be of some small service. We weigh anchor tomorrow afternoon, and I should be able to convey the message instantly upon arrival.” This agreement made all three men beam and when he left the room, a warmth and a friendliness shone in the face of Bradford that exceeded anything Gilbert had seen before.
Gilber
t slept fitfully that night and was up early getting his few belongings packed. He spent the morning working on the reports of business that Tiddle would expect, then went shortly after noon to find Humility, only to discover that she was gone. He was disappointed, but there was nothing he could do but to take ship without saying goodbye.
As he walked up the gangplank that afternoon, Winslow heard his name being called. He turned to see Humility approaching the foot of the gangplank carrying a small box. When he turned and went quickly to meet her, she shoved the box at him, saying, “It’s a lunch for you for your crossing, Gilbert. I’m sorry I missed you earlier today, but I thought you might like something to eat.”
Gilbert laughed and tucked the box under his arm, then shrugged his shoulders. “Many thanks, Humility, but if I’m as sick as I was on the way over, all your efforts are for naught.”
Humility looked up at him and smiled. “It will be different this time—I’ll pray for you to have a good crossing.”
Gilbert looked down and saw that her hands were trembling. “I’ll miss you, Humility,” he said gently. “Every foot that ship takes me away from Holland will be like a million miles.”
He was speaking the language that he had learned to practice on young women, and as she had done often before, she caught him off guard. Looking up straight into his eyes, her lips trembling slightly, she said, “I’m learning to love you, Gilbert.”
Gilbert Winslow’s jaw dropped and he felt as if someone had struck him a solid blow in the pit of the stomach. Twice he tried to say something, but the words that came to his lips seemed silly and futile and unworthy. He looked down into Humility’s sea-green eyes, noting the steadiness of her gaze, and the firmness of her lips now that she was under control, and he knew what it had cost this girl to say those words. She was not, he knew, a woman given to light language—what she said represented the very depths of her heart. Now as never before, he felt the heat of perfidy and despised himself thoroughly. But he said only, “And I’m beginning to love you, too, Humility.”
“I’ll pray for you that you won’t be sick, and I’ll pray for you to come back soon, and I’ll—I’ll pray for our life together.” Humility did that which would have been impossible for her only a short time before. With a swift gesture, she reached up and pulled his head down, kissed him lightly on the lips. Then with a bright smile and tears in her eyes, she whirled, ran down the gangplank, down the street, and around the corner. Even as he stood there, Gilbert saw the burly form of Johnson suddenly appear and follow her, and the appearance suddenly brought all the sordid details of his life into focus.
* * *
As the ship crossed the channel, the waters grew rough, and the winds drove the ship hard—but so deep was he in thought that he took no notice. It was only when they came within sight of England that he suddenly stopped dead still, looked wildly back toward the land across the channel, and said out loud: “Why, I wasn’t sick a bit this time!” And quite unreasonably, he was angry and ashamed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BACK TO BABYLON
Great skeins of tattered clouds were drifting raggedly across the horizon as Gilbert disembarked and made his way along the Southampton quay. He took little note of the fishermen unloading their catch of cod, stopping only long enough to ask of the ship he sought.
“Mayflower?” a barrel-shaped sailor pulling a small dinghy up on the beach scowled. He jabbed a stubby thumb at a ship sitting low in the green water, then asked, “Take ’ye aboard for a shilling?”
“Good enough.” The price was high, but Gilbert had determined to have an interview as quickly as possible with Cushman, the elder from Green Gate.
The Mayflower, he judged, was not more than eighty feet long. Being a typical apple-cheeked boat, perhaps twenty-five feet across in the beam—only a little over three times as long as she was broad—she had a stubby, awkward appearance. She would have a crew of about twenty, he guessed, and being low in the waist, would certainly be a wet ship. Carrying the usual three masts, the fore and main were square-rigged in the simplest manner, while the short mizzenmast behind on the poop was rigged to fly a lateen sail. Built across the foredeck was a roomy forecastle, like a small house that had been forcibly jammed forward. A set of steps were rigged on the flat down the sloping side, which the outswelling curve of the ship caused to stand out from her several feet at the bottom.
The two crafts touched, and Gilbert said, “Wait for me! I’ll not be long,” then scrambled aboard. Swinging over the low bulwark, he stepped onto the deck. Three of the crew standing at the rail had been watching him, and the tallest of them—a thin blade of a man with sharp features and a huge beak of a nose, snapped querously, “What’s yer business?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Cushman.”
“Another one of them holy psalm-singers, Coffin,” a thick-bodied tar grinned. He spat over the side through a large gap in his teeth, and added, “Looks like a proper parson, don ’e now?”
“Belay that, Daggot!” the man called Coffin snapped. He stared at Gilbert then said in a surly tone, “In the Great Cabin—up there.”
“Better hold ’is hand, Coffin,” Daggot jibed. “He might fall overboard!”
“No great loss if the whole pious bunch drownded,” Coffin said with a glare at Gilbert. “Too many parsons in the world, I say.”
Gilbert gave a curious look at the man, then shrugging, he made his way up a short stair to the poop deck and knocked firmly on the heavy oak door that led to the captain’s cabin.
In response to Gilbert’s knock, a voice called, “Come in!” The Captain’s Cabin, or Great Cabin, was shaped to fit the rounded swell of the ship’s side, and a row of windows along the stern allowed the last rays of the sun to light up the low-ceilinged room. A brass lantern hung from one of the ribs overhead, and there was a Spartan simplicity in the furniture—a single bed in one corner, two chairs and several stools ranked along one bulkhead. Pegs driven into the sides of the inward sweep of the ribs served as a wardrobe for shirts, oilskins, and various items such as a highly polished sextant and a broadsword of the old style.
“Well? Have you got a tongue, man?” Gilbert took in the man, whom he took to be Captain Christopher Jones, sitting behind a mahogany desk—a solid, tightly built man in his early thirties. Bronzed to a ruddy color, he had a full head of brown hair, slightly curly. “Speak up, man!”
“My name’s Winslow. I have business with Mr. Cushman.”
“I’m Robert Cushman.” A slight man dressed in brown broadcloth was standing beside the desk. He had a thin face, and a tic in his right eye drew up that side of his face from time to time. “You come from Leyden?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Cushman said tentatively with a trace of suspicion in his thin face.
There was a tension in the room that Gilbert didn’t understand, but he needed to assuage any doubts if he were to get any information. “I’m new to the Green Gate, Elder Cushman. But you know my brother, Edward, I think.”
The name had the power to remove all doubt, and Cushman smiled at once, stepping forward to offer his hand. “Of course, of course. You’d be Mr. Gilbert Winslow. I’ve heard much from Edward about you! Come with me, Mr. Winslow,” he said quickly, then walked to the door and stepped outside, closely followed by Gilbert. He walked with quick nervous steps to the far rail of the poop deck, then asked, “How are things progressing at home?”
“I have this letter from Mr. Bradford and Mr. Carver.” Gilbert took the large envelope from his pocket, then watched while Cushman eagerly slit the seal, opened it, and read the contents with darting eyes.
“You know the contents of this?”
“No. I was coming to London on business and the elders asked me to bring it. It has to do with the voyage, I assume.”
“Yes. In order to hire the ship to take us to the New World, we must have a full company. Mr. Thomas Weston has organized a group of Merchant Adventurers who will pro
vide the funds for our venture, but he also insisted that the new colony be sufficient in number.”
“Aren’t there enough volunteers from the Leyden church?”
“Not half enough—and Mr. Weston has recruited a group to fill out our number.”
“Are they of the Brownist persuasion?”
“Mr. Winslow, they’re nothing! Many of them are poor—weavers, tanners, shopkeepers, and the like. But that’s not the trouble. They have no faith! Most of them are members of the Established Church—just what we are sailing across the ocean to escape from!” A wry smile creased Cushman’s thin lips and he added, “Why, already there’s a name for the two groups—saints and strangers!”
A smile touched Gilbert’s lips, and he repeated the phrase. “Saints and strangers—I’d lay a gold angel to a lead shilling there’ll be trouble between those two groups!”
“I do fear it, Mr. Winslow! But, let me ask, do you return to Leyden soon? I must send an answer as soon as possible.”
Gilbert hesitated, then said, “I’ll see it gets there, Mr. Cushman. But I’m pressed for time at the moment.”
“It will take only a moment.” Cushman scurried off to find writing material, and Gilbert spent twenty minutes struggling with his conscience, for he had decided to open the letter on the off chance that it might have valuable information concerning the whereabouts of Brewster.
He took the envelope which Cushman handed him, but when the thin man said, “God bless you, Mr. Winslow! I am grateful to God for your help in this matter!” a wave of shame swept through him. He mumbled goodbye hurriedly, and as the sailor oared him back to shore, he almost decided not to read the letter.
“Fie on it!” he said to himself angrily as he sat down in the small room he hired for the night. But after tossing and turning for two hours, he got up, lit the candle and read the letter. It said nothing of Brewster, being a plea from Cushman to make all haste possible in winding up the affairs at Leyden. The postscript added, Mr. Gilbert Winslow is a welcome addition to our small fellowship. He will be one of the saints—not a stranger!
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 8
