The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  He closed the Bible, and the service closed with a long prayer from Bradford. Edward said, “William, there’s a meeting called by Martin. You had better come.”

  “More complaints, I take it?”

  “What else?” Edward growled as he led the way toward the stair.

  The meeting was to be in the section of the poop house used by several of the passengers, and by the time Brewster and Winslow got there, Bradford was ringed by Billington, Martin, Hopkins, and several others, none of them from the Green Gate congregation.

  Billington, a tall, heavy man with thick features and only one tone of voice—a half shout—was waving his thick forefinger under Bradford’s nose, saying, “. . . Let no mistake be made, Mr. Bradford; we won’t be put upon! Your man Cushman found out I’m a man wot’s gets ’is rights! I got me rights, see?”

  “No one denies that, Mr. Billington—” Bradford tried to interrupt, but was overpowered by the weight of Billington’s foghorn voice.

  “We ain’t in Leyden, I says, so don’t think we a’goin to be like them sheep wot you brought with yer!”

  “Not likely,” Steven Hopkins piped up. He was as small as Billington was large, and his small, pointed face was in contrast to that of the larger man. He waved his hands about as he talked, his features working nervously as he insisted, “I been a traveler, Mr. Bradford, all the way to Virginia. Was shipwrecked and made my way home safe despite it all.” He nodded and looked around proudly, and then he said shrewdly, “What it comes to, Mr. Bradford, is this: on a trip like this there’s got to be some ’justments made!”

  “Adjustments?” Bradford asked quietly. “What sort of adjustments?”

  “Why, ain’t it plain? All this talk about who’s the governor and such! When that time comes, it’ll be up to all of us to have a say, won’t it?”

  “Certainly you are entitled to have a voice in the government,” Bradford nodded, but then he added with a trace of iron in his voice as well as in his dark eyes, “but we began this voyage under the hand of God—and God, Mr. Hopkins, is not a democratic leader. He is a Sovereign King.”

  “Oh, that’s the way it’s going to be!” Christopher Martin, tall, cadaverous, and usually angry over some imaginary slight to his dignity, grew red and swelled up. “Why, I didn’t leave England for a New World to be lorded over by nobody! No more lords and nobles for me!”

  “That’s treason!”

  Every man in the group started at the loud voice that cut through the argument, and the crowd parted to allow the captain of the Mayflower to stand in the center.

  Captain Jones was a solid, tightly built man, though neat and short, in his early thirties. He had a pair of direct gray eyes that ran around the crowd with no attempt to conceal the anger in them.

  “I warned you, Mr. Bradford, there’ll be no treason on my ship!”

  “There is none, Captain Jones,” Bradford said quickly. “Mr. Martin was speaking in general terms.”

  “I heard what he said!” Jones snapped. “And I heard what you said as well. Did I not warn you there’d be no fanatical treason preaching on my ship? Why did you ignore my order?”

  “Sir, it was Sunday. We merely had our usual worship.”

  “You spoke against the King!”

  “Not against the King, Captain Jones.”

  “Did I not hear you talk of freedom for every man? What would that be if not treason? Is not every Englishman under the King?”

  “I spoke of the soul of man, Captain, not politically.”

  Jones stared at him, then shook his head stubbornly. “The King is the King—no matter about souls!”

  “I must disagree. Only God can rule over our souls.”

  “I am the master on this ship. Every soul ’board ship stands under the master, and likewise every Englishman stands under the King!”

  “Their souls?”

  “Yes!” Jones nodded emphatically, sending his curly black hair wildly bobbing. “Know, sir, that I am aware of your views. I am not unaware that some of your group offended the King and are fleeing his wrath! Deny it not to be so. You would lead people away from their duty to the King under your pretense of holiness. Beware, Mr. Bradford, for you will not do so on my ship!”

  “Captain Jones!” Edward Winslow moved to stand directly in front of the captain. “There is no treason here. You are not unaware that I have been for many years in the King’s service. Would such a man as I be a part of any group bent on treason?”

  Jones faltered, for there was an air of distinction in Winslow’s bearing, in addition to which Jones was aware of the service of this man to the King.

  “I make no accusation against you, Mr. Winslow,” Jones said in a calmer voice, “but you are not in good company. I urge you to take heed to yourself!”

  The captain felt that he had made his point, so saying bluntly, “I have my eye on you—do not provoke me!” he left the hold.

  “I see no point in this meeting,” Winslow said, looking with distaste at the group of dissidents. “We are bound to one another, and we must have a ruler. Otherwise we are no better than beasts!”

  “But who’s to say who’s to be the ruler?” Billington asked loudly.

  “God will always raise up a man,” Bradford said at once. He nodded and said, “I have nothing to say to you on this matter.”

  He turned and left, followed by Brewster and Winslow.

  When they got up on deck again, Winslow said moodily, “That’ll not satisfy them, William.”

  “It will have to be prayed about, I fear.” Bradford looked across the rolling ocean, then down toward the hold, saying sadly, “If we cannot agree on matters before we reach our land, how will we manage there?”

  “God will make our way plain!” Brewster said at once. “One step at a time, William!”

  William Bradford nodded, but there was a break in his intense air of faith. He finally looked up and said, “God is all!” and then he walked away to stand beside the mizzenmast staring moodily into the west.

  * * *

  Humility had not felt easy over her failure to visit Elder Brewster. He was as much of a father as she had known, but to avoid contact with Gilbert, she had kept away from the sail locker for nearly a week.

  Now it came to her that she was being unfair, so she made her way toward the galley to wheedle a goody or two from Hinge for the pair.

  She was by now familiar with the manner of cooking aboard ship. Every third day a charcoal fire was lighted over the sand on an iron hearth, a cauldron of porridge made from soaked oats and another cauldron of stew; the porridge was eaten hot every third morning, cold every other two. Fumes from the bad charcoal made them cough, but this was thought a small inconvenience in return for a steaming bowl of food. The porridge was eaten for breakfast with a lump of biscuit-bread and a cup of beer or water, everyone sitting down around the hold with their bowls on their knees. The midday meal was usually cold stew or mush, or biscuit-bread with a slice of smoked bacon or smoked beef.

  In the evening their frugal meal was again mainly biscuit-bread, with which they could have a small portion of cheese, heavily smoked, and salted sausage meat, soaked peas, raw onion, finnan haddie, kippered herring, or dried tongue, and a mug of beer.

  The few delicacies—apples, prunes, raisins and pickled eggs, of which the store was small—were given only to the children, the sick, and the pregnant. All food was carefully rationed out by the orderlies. Meals took a long time; the food was small in bulk but tough in substance. Most of the meat had to be chewed at great length, and even then was hardly digestible. They were always hungry, but it lay in their own hands; they could eat well now, if they chose, while idle, and starve later on when perhaps they would have heavy labor to perform.

  Humility had made a fast friend of the little gnome of a cook, Thomas Hinge. He was a lonely fellow, twisted in his legs, and most of the crew looked upon him as a menial servant.

  She found him stirring a pot of stew over a small fire,
and with a smile she said, “Hello, Thomas.”

  “Why, here you are, miss!”

  “We have a sick man who would get well on a bowl of this wonderful stew.”

  He squinted at her, grinned and gave her a helping in a large vessel. “See you bring that bowl back, now!” Then as she rose to go, he teased her, “Sure that ain’t for some young gentleman you’re sweet on, miss?”

  She looked at him directly, her green eyes suddenly losing their light. “No,” she said evenly. “No, there’s nothing like that, Thomas.”

  After she left, the little cook stared after her for a long time, then said, “Scratch me now—I reckon I said the wrong thing, but bless me if I know what it was!”

  Making her way down the dark stairs, Humility bit her lip to keep back the tears. She had never cried a great deal, but lately she had found her eyes flooded for no reason, and now she forced herself to blink the stinging tears away.

  The odors of the ship were rank, thick with the air of unwashed bodies, stale bedding, night soil, and the old grease. On land it would have been unbearable, but it had become part of the world for her and she paid no heed.

  She had reached the cargo hold, and as she made her way along the dark passageway, a man moved out of the darkness ahead of her.

  “Well, if it ain’t my gal!” Jeff Daggot grinned broadly, moving to block her way. His massive body completely blocked the passage, and she drew back at once. He had taken every opportunity to force himself on her, brushing against her whenever they happened to meet, and more than once reaching out to touch her face with a blunt finger or give a tug to her clothing. She had heard him make a coarse remark about her to Mr. Coffin, and had tried to avoid him.

  There was an unholy gleam in his small eyes, and she took a step backward, only to have him reach out and take her by the arms.

  “Let me go!”

  “Not likely!” he grinned through his broken teeth. “It took me a while to figure it out, but finally it come to me. I been watching you come down here, and so here I am.”

  He pulled her forward; in his massive arms she was powerless. His arms went around her, and she cried out, “Let me go!”

  “Why, sure—in a while!” Daggot said. He put his hand behind her head and forced his huge lips on hers—fear shot through Humility in a way she’d never known. She dropped the bowl of stew, and with both hands beat against Daggot’s broad chest, trying to break free from his embrace.

  “That’s right!” he grinned, holding her even tighter against his body. “I likes it when a gal fights a bit—makes it all the sweeter!”

  He pulled her to one side of the corridor and attempted to force her to the deck. With both hands she reached in blind fear for his face, raking as hard as she could with her nails.

  “Ow!” he cried out, and instinctively released her, his hands flying to his eyes. “I’ll show you . . . !”

  She realized the door leading up to the next deck was too far, so she ducked under his arms and plunged straight down the dark hall. She heard his heavy footsteps right at her heels, and he was cursing in a vile way as she reached the door of the sailroom, opened it, and fell inside with a gasp.

  Brewster and Gilbert had heard the noise of the struggle, but had not dared open the door. Now the older man stood there and as Humility fell against him, he held her protectively as Daggot plunged into the room.

  The huge sailor stopped abruptly, for he had not supposed anyone was on the cargo deck. “What’s this!” he shouted. “Who are you?”

  “I think you’d best be going,” William Brewster said. The frightened girl was weeping in his arms, and his face was stern as he said, “I think the captain would be most severe on you if he were to discover your treatment of this young woman!”

  Daggot stared, his piggish eyes suddenly filled with apprehension. He knew what the old man had said was true. All the crew made fun of the pilgrims, but it went no further, for Captain Jones had made it clear that any of the crew actually molesting the passengers would be flogged.

  But then Daggot had a thought. “Wait a minute,” he growled. “I ain’t never seen you—nor him either.” He stared at Gilbert who had risen to a sitting position and was standing up, his face pale with the strain of standing on the wounded leg. “What you doin’ here?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Brewster said. “Just be on your way and we’ll forget this.”

  Daggot shook his head, a frown on his face. “Stowaway, ain’t you?” He caught the look that the older man and the younger man gave one another, and then he laughed hoarsely, “Well, I caught you fair, didn’t I? Come on, up with you!”

  Daggot grabbed Brewster by the arm, and the power of his grasp shot the frail body of the older man toward the door. Humility quickly took his arm, saying, “I’ll report you to the captain, Daggot!”

  “Haw! We’ll see who gets reported,” Daggot sneered. “Come on, now. You’re all goin’ to the Great Cabin!”

  “Why, you can’t take this man up those steep stairs!” Brewster protested. “He’s got a severe wound.”

  “Ain’t that a shame!” Daggot grinned. He shoved Brewster and Humility out of the compartment and grabbed Gilbert by the arm. “Now, you can walk topside, or I can drag you!”

  Pain ran down Gilbert’s leg, but he said steadily, “I’ll walk.”

  It was one of the most difficult things he could remember, climbing the three flights, even with Brewster and Humility helping him. By the time they got to the Great Cabin, and Daggot rapped sharply on the door, his leg was aflame and a red mist had dropped before his eyes.

  “What’s this, Daggot?”

  “Stowaways, Cap’n!” Daggot said. “I been seeing this gal take food down to the cargo hold, so I sets me a trap, and these two is what I caught!”

  “What’s your name?” Jones demanded.

  “William Brewster.”

  The name meant something to Jones. He nodded and said, “Wait outside, Daggot.”

  When the burly sailor was outside, Jones said at once, “You are a fugitive from the King’s justice, Mr. Brewster.”

  “Yes.”

  The simplicity of the reply caught Jones off guard, and he said angrily, “You think I will shelter you on my ship?”

  “Will you put about, Captain Jones?”

  Christopher Jones reddened and snapped, “You know I can’t do that—but I can take you back with me—in irons! And you, sir, what is your name?”

  “Gilbert Winslow.”

  Captain Jones stared at the young man, shook his head and said in wonder, “It seems I have a pair of fugitives. You, too, are sought by the King.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Jones stared at Gilbert, and there was a guarded admiration in the captain’s eyes at the courage of the two men.

  “Well, you are more likely to bleed to death than to hang, if I’m any judge.” He looked at Humility and said, “Get that Fuller who passes for a doctor.”

  As they waited for Fuller, Captain Jones seated himself in the chair behind his desk and stared at the two men. There was a vague air of wonder in his face, and with a hint of humor he said, “I’ve hauled many a cargo in this ship, but none that gave me so much trouble as you good Christian folk. Why do you suppose that is, Mr. Brewster?”

  Brewster smiled at him, and said with a touch of wry humor in his thin voice, “Why, I suppose that people are always more trouble than things, Captain Jones. Souls are, after all, troublesome things!”

  “True, sir,” Jones nodded and added under his breath, “and in the future I will haul a cargo that does not have such pesky souls!”

  Brewster heard him, however, and said, “The real trouble, Captain Jones, is that you have a soul of your own.”

  Jones stared at him, and said nothing to that, but there was a nervous air in the way he ran his fingers up and down the cord that looped his neck, and he did not speak again to the old man.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ON DECK
>
  Christopher Jones sat in the Great Cabin munching on an apple. He swallowed a tot of gin and ran his eyes over his log.

  Log: September 12.

  Yesterday two stowaways were discovered. One of them, Mr. William Brewster, has been a fugitive from the King’s justice for some years as a result of certain writings. The other is a young man named Gilbert Winslow. Since there is no possibility of escape, I have not placed them under arrest, but on the return to England, I will do so and turn them over to the proper authorities.

  A knock on his door interrupted his reading, and he closed the log, saying, “Come in.”

  Edward Winslow entered, nodded and said, “Good morning, Captain Jones.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Ignoring Jones’s gruff reception, Winslow said evenly, “I want to speak to you concerning my brother, Gilbert, and Mr. William Brewster.”

  “There’s naught to be said!” Captain Jones snapped. He slapped his palm hard on the desk and there was an angry light in his gray eyes. “They are criminals and will be so treated!”

  Winslow shook his head, saying mildly, “I realize you have been put in a difficult position, but as you get to know these two men, I’m sure you’ll realize that they are not criminals in the strictest sense of that word. Mr. Brewster is a godly man of impeccable character with years of faithful service to his King and his country. His crime is a matter of a fine theological point.” Winslow was a trained diplomat and used his full powers of persuasion as he spoke. “There was a great theological argument, I believe, among the Pharisees in the Lord’s day, over how many angels could dance on the point of a needle.”

  “The charge against Brewster is not so frivolous as that—he is charged with sedition and plotting against the King of England!”

  “Technically, that is true, but as you get to know Mr. Brewster—and my brother—you will see that they are both honorable men. Since you are an honorable man yourself, Captain Jones, I feel sure that you will find their true qualities.”