Gagging and gasping, Billington stood there, and then Governor Carver said gently, “I believe you received a command from our captain, John.”
That settled the question of the captain’s authority, and one by one they took their turns, loading and firing the weapons.
Most of them had no experience at such things, but when Gilbert loaded the gun with practiced ease and got his shot off in a remarkably quick time, Standish glowed with pleasure. “Well now, Mr. Winslow, you’ve done that before!”
“I’ve had some experience,” Gilbert said diffidently.
“Good! We can use some of that! And is it possible that you’ve handled a sword as well?”
“A bit of that, also.”
“Splendid! Perhaps you might be willing to help the others with that part of the training?”
Gilbert shrugged, but said, “Well, I would be willing, Captain. As to whether the others would accept . . . ?”
“I’ll plant my foot in their backsides if I hear one word!” The words were rough, but there was a kindly twinkle in the little man’s eye, and he clapped a friendly hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. He lowered his voice, saying, “I’ve heard all the gossip about you, Winslow—but it’s my way to judge a man on what I see—not on scandalmongers!”
Gilbert warmed to the man, admiring his bluff honesty, and for the next three days he spent much time in his company. Standish’s wife Rose was a tiny, silent woman who seemed oddly mismatched with her firecracker of a husband. They had no children, and Rose Standish spent much of her time caring for the children of the settlers.
“She loves the little ones,” Standish said to Gilbert while they were sitting on deck late one afternoon. “Lost three of them, and none has come since.” He shook his head sadly. “Nothing a man can do to help a woman in that way.”
Humility Cooper, Priscilla Mullins, and Bess Tilley were sitting by the mizzenmast, laughing and talking, a pretty sight to the captain, who had been quite a dandy in his younger days. He caught a glimpse of Gilbert looking at the women, and asked softly, “Now any one of those three would be a fine wife for a young fellow, would you agree?”
“I suppose so, Miles,” Gilbert said. He moved his shoulders nervously and added, “I don’t think about such things.”
“And why not?” the fiery little man demanded. “I’d like to hear your story, Gilbert—if you’d care to tell a stranger.”
“You really would?”
“I would, lad. I’ve taken to you.”
Gilbert had kept his own counsel, but Miles Standish, for all his toughness, had a good heart, and for the next hour Gilbert spoke steadily, reliving the history of the past few months.
He faltered at first, but Standish simply waited, and then it began to flow. They were alone on their corner of the deck, and as the wind luffed the square sails, slapping them with powerful gusts that drove the little ship along swiftly, he lost himself in the story. He made no attempt to defend his actions; indeed, there was such bitter self-accusation in his words that more than once Standish stared at Gilbert and gave a silent shake of his head.
Finally he ended, almost out of breath with the effort. “And here I am, a fugitive with a guilty past—and no future to speak of.”
Standish did not speak at once. He dug into his pocket, found an old pipe, then a black tobacco pouch, slick with age. Filling the bowl, he rose and walked over to where some of the matches were still glowing from the day’s practice, lit the pipe, then returned to sit beside Winslow.
Finally, he said, “Boy, you can’t scare me with your tales of a misspent youth. When I was your age I was studying for the gallows.” He smiled at some fleeting memory, and there was a furry soft quality to his voice as he said, “I’m not a man for preaching, but one bit of scripture I think is straight . . . how does it go? Oh, yes: ‘Though a just man should fall seven times, the Lord will lift him up again.’ Now that’s good sound walking around theology!”
Gilbert stared at him, seeking to understand what the soldier was saying. “Are you telling me that it doesn’t count—what I did?”
“Not that!” Standish protested. “I guess what we do stays with us—in some ways. But I’m one of the roughs, lad. Maybe I’ve had to be. And I don’t rightly know as I understand much about the God these preachers keep talking about. I read the Bible, right enough, but only about the Man.”
“The Man? You mean Jesus Christ.”
“That’s it. Oh, I know what they say, that He’s God. And so He is, but what strikes me is that when the good Lord on earth gave himself a title, it was ‘The Son of Man’! Now, that’s what I’m putting my hope in—the Son of Man!”
“I—I guess I’m too dense to understand, Miles.”
“Not you, Gilbert,” Standish smiled. “You’re maybe too smart! Get yourself all tangled up with all kinds of high thinking about God! What I say is, Jesus Christ came here to be a man! And that meant He found out what it was like to be in the middle of this life! Don’t you know He got dirty, got tired? People let Him down, didn’t they? He bled and died, just like I’ve seen many a fellow do!”
Gilbert nodded slowly. “That’s all true, Miles, but . . .”
“Well, that’s my religion, lad! Jesus Christ was a man who knows what this world’s really like. So when I fall, which is pretty often, I just say something like, Lord, you were a man, so you know all about this!”
Seeing that Standish was finished, Gilbert shook his head, saying stubbornly, “That’s too easy, Miles. There’s got to be more to it than that!”
“See? I said you were too smart! But I’ve been there where the last drop of blood was dripping out, lad, and men who are dying get simple—they just come down to one thing. Have they served God or not?”
The words of Standish caught at Gilbert. He had heard of repentance many times, but as he stood there, he experienced a stab of remorse at his past sins in a way that was almost a physical pain. He yearned suddenly for a new heart—a cleanliness of spirit. And he felt with all his being that this was to be found only in Jesus Christ! But how? He shook the thought off regretfully.
Then Standish laughed and slapped Gilbert on the shoulder. “Bless me, lad! We got a ship packed with preachers, and here’s a reprobate of a soldier preaching to you! A plague on it now!” He saw that Winslow was biting his lip with a worried scowl on his smooth brow, and added, “You’ll be all right, Gilbert. I know men, and you and that brother of yours are two I’d stand for!”
They sat there talking, unconscious of the glances that touched on them from the three young women on the deck.
“I wonder how Captain Standish ever came to marry such a pale little creature?” Bess Tilley mused. “He’s so full of fire and she’s so drained and pale.”
“Maybe she was pretty when she was young,” Priscilla shrugged. “I think being the wife of a soldier would be very hard. Always traveling to strange places.”
“No,” Bess shook her head vigorously. “She’s never been pretty, you can tell.” She was a girl of strong opinions and often got into trouble for voicing them. “Lots of good-looking men marry women that are homely. Look at Edward Winslow. Why, he’s so handsome it’s a sin—and there he is married to poor Elizabeth!”
Priscilla pulled at a strand of her honey-colored hair and argued in a dulcet voice, “I don’t think looks are very important, Bess. It’s what’s in a person’s heart that counts.”
“Oh, you little tease!” Bess laughed. She looked at the shining hair, the startling violet eyes, and the flawless complexion of Priscilla, saying, “That’s what the preachers say, but I notice you won’t have anything to do with that ugly little man Richard Warren. He follows you around like a lap dog, and you don’t even know he’s alive! You’re too busy keeping your eyes on that beautiful figure of Mr. John Alden!”
“Why—” Priscilla’s mouth opened and her cheeks flushed scarlet. “You mustn’t say things like that, Bess!”
“Why not? Everybody on board knows yo
u’re moonstruck with him!”
“Bess, don’t tease her,” Humility said quickly. She patted Priscilla’s hand and smiled at her, adding, “Don’t mind Bess.”
“Why, you’re just as bad, Humility,” Bess began and then thoughtlessly prated on. “Didn’t you fall head over heels in love with that Gilbert Winslow?” Instantly Bess clapped her hand over her mouth and her eyes flew open wide.
Humility did not say a word, but her face went pale, and then she got to her feet quickly and said, “I promised to take care of Resolved for Susanna.”
The two girls watched her go, and as soon as she was out of hearing, Priscilla said in exasperation, “There, you see what you did, Bess! I declare you ought to have your tongue cut out!”
“How can I be so stupid?” Bess mourned. “She never liked any man before.”
“No, she didn’t, did she?”
“And she’s the kind who sticks to things! If she were flighty like some, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I’m afraid she’s the kind you see sometimes who never get over a first love.”
“It’s too bad! He’s such a handsome man, and his brother Edward is so nice.” Priscilla rose and said, “You’re right about the way I feel about John, Bess.” She laughed and added, “I just get goose bumps looking at him!”
Bess rose with a laugh. “Isn’t it awful? I do the same thing with my John! But I’d never let him know it!”
They left the deck, giggling and talking. After they disappeared, the sound of coarse laughter rose from the poop deck. Salterne, Daggot, and O’Neal had been lying down flat, invisible to the young women, and they had kept silent, eavesdropping.
“Now we know why you ain’t never been able to get a hand on that Humility Cooper, Jeff,” O’Neal crowed. “She’s pinin’ away for her true love—that Winslow fellow!”
Daggot’s gap-toothed smile was savage, but he laughed and said, “This voyage ain’t over yet, mates. I’ll have her eatin’ out of me hand before we drop anchor!”
“You’ll get yourself a flogging, Jeff. You know how the captain is.”
“Oh, I knows that, right enough,” Daggot said with a wave of his meaty hand. “But all I got to do is show that little gal how much more of a man I am than that stick of a Winslow!”
“Aw, you’re just sounding off, Jeff!” Salterne said. “You ain’t got the guts to do nothin’!” Salterne looked thin and pale, and he loosed his customary string of blasphemy adding, “I feel like a dying buzzard. You reckon I ought to see that sawbones?”
“Drink a quart of gin, Salterne!” Coffin’s voice grated behind them. Then he warned Daggot, “Do what you want to that Winslow—but be slick, Jeff!”
“Oh, I got me a plan, Coffin. You know how Winslow’s teachin’ them to use swords every day?”
“Yes. What then?”
“Why, I’m gonna wait until he’s doing that—and until Miss Humility Cooper is watchin’—and then I’m gonna give him a lesson of my own!”
Coffin said, “You’ll hang if you kill him, Jeff.”
“Who said anything about killing him?” Daggot spread his hands expressively. “But if I’m letting him teach me, why, you know how it goes, Coffin—a man can get pinked through the shoulder—or maybe even in a bad leg, eh?”
“Now that’s an evil thing!” Coffin said, but there was a cruel smile on his lips. “And besides, you don’t know but what he’s a better blade than you.”
“No fear, Coffin! I been watchin ’im, and I can touch him anytime.”
Coffin liked the idea. Winslow was not unlike the man he’d killed in a duel, and there was a perverse hatred in the pilot for all aristocrats.
“Do it then, Jeff!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE STORM
The storm that struck on the morning of September 17 was like nothing Captain Jones had ever seen. Coming out on deck, he stopped dead still, so suddenly that Sam Fuller rammed into him. “Look at that!” he breathed in a small whisper.
“What is it?” Brewster asked.
“Storm coming—faster than I’ve ever seen!”
A black cloud dropped down, making a shelf across the horizon and moving so fast across the choppy waters they could trace its progress.
“All hands!” Jones shouted. “Man the sails! Batten down! Batten down!” As the crew came tumbling out of the ship, Jones said, “Get to the passengers, Brewster! This is going to be pretty bad!”
In a matter of minutes the main top sail ripped up one side and blew out in ribbons, cracking like gigantic whips.
The ship began beating back and forth before the terrible force of the headwind, like an animal running up and down. The light of day failed as the blackness of the cloud wrapped a sable blanket around the plunging ship, and the last flag of daylight, a thin streak of silver-white, was blotted out by the rolling cloud. The dull roaring rose at times to a high-pitched scream, drowning out the creaking of the timbers and the fluttering of the tattered sails.
The seamen fought their way along the tilting decks, grabbing desperately to rails, masts, lines as they tried to control the ship.
“Take in sail! In with your top sails. Lower your main sails, lower the foresail . . .” Jones shouted.
Stripped of all canvas, the Mayflower was thrown about like a ball. “Get a few feet of canvas up on the poop or she’ll founder!” the captain shouted, and Coffin was nearly washed overboard as the crew rigged a small sail.
The masts swayed crazily against the dark sky, and the bow lifted over mountainous swells, a terrific shudder shaking her as she plowed into the head of the mountain of water. She was flooded below as wave after wave broke over her.
Below deck there was bedlam. Water ran everywhere—through the hatch covers, under the two doors opening out onto the waist deck, and through many loosened seams in the main decking, trickling and seeping down from deck to deck till it reached the bilge in the bottom of the ship.
William Brewster peered through the darkness cut only by the occasional glow of a single candle through panes of an opaque lantern, thinking with the others that each roll of the ship might be the last.
Many of the women were crying as well as the children, but suddenly William Bradford’s voice rang out over the screaming wind, “Lord, do not grind our people and let them be lost! Deliver us, as you delivered Jonah and Daniel!”
Then he raised his voice in a psalm, and there, in the depths, the voices of others joined in:
Jehovah feedeth me, I shall not lack
In grassy folds he down doth make me lie
He gently leads me quiet waters by
He doth return my soul, for his name sake
In paths of justice leads me quietly.
But still the wind thundered and the ocean smashed at the ship; then as their quaking voices began the next verse, with a crash like a cannon shot, a main beam amidship cracked and buckled!
Dorothy Bradford raised a face pale as death, and cried out, “Oh, God! The ship is breaking up!”
Pandemonium broke, both from men and weather. The captain and mates rushed below to gaze up from the gun deck at the sagging beam, the splintered deck around it. Water gushed from the new openings, and the terrified passengers huddled against the ship’s sides to escape it. Half a dozen of them put their shoulders to the job while the freezing water poured down on them. It was like trying to raise the roof beam of a house. The massive piece of timber only sagged a little more. A spare beam was dragged up from the hold, and the men tried using that as a ram. No success.
For two hours they fought the waves, and the carpenter exhausted his resources trying to pull the ruptured beam into place.
“We’ll have to go back to England, Captain!” Mr. Clark insisted. “There’s no hope of a repair where we’re headed!”
“We’ve come too far,” Jones said grimly. “She’ll never make it—to the New World or the old.”
A great cry went up from many of the passengers to turn back, while forward in the hold, out
of the way, Bradford, Carver, Brewster, and Edward Winslow held a conference.
“We must not turn back,” William Bradford said quietly. He was the type of man who performed better under pressure, and now there was a rocklike set to his craggy features.
“I agree,” answered Brewster. “It will be the end of our dream. Ruin for all of us!”
Gilbert had not been invited to the meeting, of course; it was mere chance that he happened to be in the hold close to where the men met. He sat on a box, and his eyes met those of his brother. Edward said, “It’s beyond the power of man, brethren. We must seek God!”
Gilbert’s lips turned up sardonically, and he did not bow his head as the three men began to pray for deliverance. He got up and left, hearing William Brewster pray fervently, “Oh, God, give wisdom to deliver this ship!”
Shaking his head, Gilbert thought, Too late for that. We’ll never make it back to land. He made his way to the spot where the carpenter, together with John Howland and John Alden, was trying to lift the beam with a long board for a lever. Putting his hands on the lever, he threw his weight on it, and the sudden strain snapped the piece.
Howland and Alden sprawled out as the deck collapsed, then got to their feet. The carpenter said, “I didn’t think it would work—that beam must weigh two tons!”
“Where are the others?” Alden panted, his huge chest rising and falling with the effort.
“Up there . . .” Gilbert nodded, then added, “praying for a miracle.”
“You don’t believe in miracles, Winslow?”
Gilbert whirled to see the captain, his face a mask, standing behind him.
“No.”
“Well—neither do I,” Jones said, biting his full lower lip. “But that’s about what it’s going to take to get that beam in place!”
They stood there racking their brains, trying to find a way to lift the beam. In a few minutes William Bradford and Brewster came in followed by Carver and Winslow.
“We have had an answer from the Lord, Captain.”
Jones started, and almost looked overhead for the Deity, but quickly covered this with a sardonic smile. “Well, it’s good to have men on the ship with a direct line to God. What is the answer?”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 17
