“We will now proceed to elect a governor who will serve for one year,” Bradford said. He stared straight at Stephen Hopkins and John Billington, daring them with his dark eyes to speak, then added, “I offer the name of John Carver.”
“I second that name,” William Brewster said, and almost before Carver knew what was happening, he was the first popularly elected official in the New World.
Brusquely Bradford dismissed the meeting, and they all trooped up to take a look at their New World.
Captain Jones had invited himself to the meeting, and since it was his cabin, there had been no way to exclude him. Now he sat with his back against the bulkhead watching as William Bradford remained to gather up the documents and writing materials. Rising to his feet, he walked to the table and stared down at the long sheet of paper the men had just signed.
Finally he looked up with sober eyes, saying, “This is an unusual thing, Mr. Bradford.”
“Yes, Captain, it is—but then, we are leaving the usual behind in our venture.”
“A Civil Body Politic,” Jones read aloud. “That would not be pleasing to His Majesty, I think. Nor would your manner of choosing a governor. The Crown has always appointed governors of the colonies.”
Bradford gave the captain a curious smile, saying, “It is the way we choose our pastor for our congregation—by popular vote.”
Jones laughed suddenly. “Well, that doesn’t sit too well with the King either, you know.” Then he added, “Carver is a good man—but it is obvious, Mr. Bradford, that you are the natural leader of the group. Why were you not elected?”
“I would be unacceptable at this time,” Bradford said. “Carver is not as—” he sought for a word, then found it. “Not as direct as I.”
“He is a meek fellow,” Jones agreed. “But you will be the power behind the throne, so to speak?”
“I will serve as best I can,” Bradford said slowly. “But the heart of our government will lie in this: the people will elect their own rulers.”
“That is a dangerous practice!” Jones said. “What if they elect a man who is not able, or who is dishonest?”
“Then others may get together and elect a better man in his place!” Bradford smiled at the perplexity on the captain’s face, and added gently, “The Greeks called it ‘democracy.’ ”
“Sooner or later the King will realize that the end of this ‘democracy’ is the abolition of his own power. What then, Mr. Bradford? Will you deny the power of the Crown?”
“We will follow God’s leading, Captain.”
Jones stared at him, then shrugged, “Well, I wish you well, Mr. Bradford. I had little use for your ideas when we first met—but I have been most favorably impressed by the behavior of your people.”
“Thank you, Captain Jones,” Bradford nodded, and then with a look of rare humor in his sober eyes, he asked suddenly, “Does this charitable spirit extend to allowing Mr. Brewster to remain with us when you depart?”
“You are a polititian, Bradford!” Jones laughed and slapped the table with his hand. “Well, officially he does not exist on the Mayflower—at least under that name. I feel safe enough on that score, so he may stay.”
“And Mr. Gilbert Winslow?”
Captain Jones bit his lip and shook his head. “Ah, that’s different. He is a violent man—as Mr. Brewster is not.”
“He is not really one of us, Captain,” Bradford said slowly. “I suspect that you have found out most of his story . . .”
“I have some of it—and it does him no credit.” Jones looked inquiringly at Bradford, asking, “He betrayed you—and yet you intercede for him, Mr. Bradford?”
“ ‘If the Lord should mark iniquities, who should stand?’ ”Bradford quoted. “I behaved in a very uncharitable manner to the man when he betrayed us—but there is something good in him. His brother Edward is one of the best men I have ever known, and I see some of him in Gilbert Winslow.”
“The business yesterday with Daggot—!”
“Surely you of all men will not hold that against him? Your man gave Winslow no choice, did he?”
“No—the fellow was always a troublemaker! And I would have done the same,” Jones admitted. “I have noted in my log that he was lost overboard—which is the truth, in a way.”
“You must follow your own way in this matter, Captain,” Bradford said. “But it is a serious matter to hold a man’s destiny in your hands. I suggest that you pray much before you commit yourself to any action.”
“Pray?” The suggestion came as a shock to Jones. “I’ve not been accustomed to praying about such things.”
“It is not a bad way,” Bradford nodded. He rolled the May-flower Compact into a tight roll, and there was a stoop to his shoulders as he turned to go topside.
* * *
Preparations for the first exploratory voyage were underway. Miles Standish scurried around the deck, seeing to the arms of the men selected to participate, and the crew labored to swing the longboat over the side.
From the crowded decks, the passengers gazed out at the long white sandhills that reminded them of the dunes of Holland; on the other side, bristling forests marched to the water’s edge. They roamed from port to starboard, from stern to stem, studying the land before them, their faces a mixture of joy at the arrival and apprehension of what was to come now.
Humility did not join those that watched. She was in the galley begging Hinge for some broth for William Butten.
“Ah, well, we can have a real fire now!” the little cook grinned. “Plenty of firewood instead of this cursed charcoal!”
“This is good, Thomas!” Humility said, taking a sip of the steaming broth. “It may help the boy.”
“How is he now, miss? The doctor was none too hopeful yesterday.”
Humility bit her lip, and there were diamonds in her wide green eyes as she said, “He is very bad, Thomas. Very sick.”
“Ah, too bad! Too bad!”
She hurried down the ladder past the crew’s mess, then down one more flight to the cargo hold. Balancing the bowl carefully, she pushed the door open and entered.
“Hullo, miss.” Tink was sitting in the gloom of the tiny cabin, and he had a frightened look on his face. “William—William is real sick, miss!”
Humility took one look at the pale face of the boy under the blanket, and put the soup down. She knelt by the sick boy and laid her hand on his chest. It did not move, and she was suddenly paralyzed with the thought that he was dead! Then the frail chest heaved, and there was a rasping rattle in William’s chest and his eyes opened. He moved his lips and she had to lean forward to catch his words.
“Are—we there? Are we—at—the New World?”
“Don’t try to talk, William,” she said. Then she rose and whispered, “Has Dr. Fuller been here?”
“No, miss.” Tink wiped a tear from his eyes, saying, “William, he keeps askin’ for Mr. Winslow. Do you know where he is?”
“I’ll get help, Tink,” she said quickly. She ran along the lower deck, then up to the waist deck where Fuller was busily engaged in getting ready to go ashore with the party.
“Sam! You’ve got to come with me! William is dying, I think!”
Fuller stopped probing at the musket in his hands, then he looked directly into Humility’s eyes and said, “The boy, he don’t need me, lass.” Then he dropped his eyes and fumbled with a button on his frayed black coat. “I can’t do anything for him now.”
“Sam!”
“You ain’t blind, lass,” Fuller said. “He’s been sinking for two days now—I expected to see him go last night.”
“But you can’t go with him dying!”
Fuller looked haunted, then he sighed and shook his heavy head. “I’m a coward, lass. I just don’t have the heart to see the boy go. Get one of the elders to go—Carver would be good. He can pray for the boy—” He broke off abruptly and stepped away from her, joining the small group at the weapons cabinet.
Humility stared
at him, angry and frightened. She turned blindly and tried to think, but her mind was spinning.
I can’t go back and see him die! she thought wildly, but there was no other way. With the faint hope that Fuller might be wrong, she turned and went down the ladder.
When she got to the cargo deck, a thought came to her, and she turned to enter the water cask room. Directly behind it was a tiny room where a few things were stored, including spirits—mostly beer and ale. Maybe some wine will help him, she thought, and with a faint hope she opened the door and began feeling around blindly for a bottle.
She had been there before, watching Alden as he checked the water barrels and the stores, but there had been light then. Now the only light was a faint glow from a lantern that swung halfway down the cargo deck.
The wine—it was in a case by the wall, she thought, and she groped her way along the wall.
She was almost there when her extended hand touched warm flesh!
She gasped as a pair of strong hands grasped her and pulled her into a hard embrace. Blank terror filled her as the smell of alcohol on the man’s breath came to her, and the pressure of his body on hers was like fire.
“Let me go!” she cried out, and with both hands she beat at her captor, but she was helpless against his strength. “Help me!” she screamed, and then he spoke.
“Go on—scream all you want, Humility!”
She stopped struggling and whispered, “Gilbert? Is it you?”
“Who else would be getting drunk and attacking innocent girls in the wine cellar?”
The reply was bitter, and his voice was slightly slurred with the wine. He pulled her even closer and suddenly kissed her before she knew what he was doing.
The touch of his lips was a shock that ran along her nerves, and suddenly she felt herself yield to his embrace! There was no reason in it, and her mind was screaming, No! Don’t let him touch you! but her body rebelled and she felt herself relax as he pulled her closer; to her horror she felt herself raising her arms to put around his neck.
With a cry of disgust—not at him, but at herself—she pulled herself back and slapped his face with a quick blow.
“You—you beast!”
He laughed, and pulled her closer. “The scum of the earth!—and he’s holding you in his arms, Humility.” Then he added, “And you don’t hate it as much as you pretend, do you?”
She felt her face burn, for he had sensed her response to his embrace. She ceased to struggle, and said quietly, “All right, Gilbert, shame me if you will—you can’t say anything to me I haven’t said to myself.”
At once he dropped his arms, and they stood there in the darkness, memories of the past brushing against them.
Finally he said, “Don’t blame yourself, Humility—you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“The way I let myself love you—that was wrong!” she cried out.
“No, you just didn’t have any defenses against a scoundrel,” he said wearily.
She could not bear the scene, so she said, “William is dying—I came to get him some wine.”
“All right.” His voice was dead, and he said only, “Let’s go to him.”
They left the room, and she saw by the pale amber light of the lantern his face was swollen, the raw wound made by Daggot’s thumbnail crusted with blood that he had not bothered to wash away.
“You’ll get an infection if that cut isn’t taken care of.”
He had a brown gall bottle in his hand, and he looked at it, saying, “This may help him.”
She stared at him. “You could die from that kind of infection. Don’t you care?”
“No.”
She stared at him, then wheeled and led him swiftly to the sail room. William lay still, his breath coming in a short, choppy rasp. He opened his eyes, and whispered, “Are we—home—Mr. Winslow?”
Gilbert knelt beside the boy, lifted the thin body hot with fever and poured a few drops of brandy into the trembling lips.
“You’re almost home, William.”
“Mr. Winslow—I—I—” He broke off, and his eyes rolled backward for a moment, then they came back to fasten on Winslow’s face. “Me—and Tink—we’re going to—to have—” He faltered again, and his body was suddenly rent by a racking cough.
“We’ll have us a place, William!” Tink cried. He wiped the streaming tears from his thin face and patted the dying boy’s hand. “We’re home.”
“Will you—take me—to see it—Mr. Winslow?” William gasped.
Gilbert looked over the boy’s head and met Humility’s tearstained face. The anger toward him was gone, and she nodded numbly, her lips forming a yes!
Gilbert scooped the thin form up, and Humility tucked the worn blanket around him; they made their way along the dark corridor and up the three flights of steps.
The sky was dark, but William closed his eyes tightly. “It’s so bright!”
Everyone stopped to stare at them, and a quiet fell on the busy deck. Gilbert’s bloodstained, beaten face, Humility’s expression of grief, and the thin form of the dying Butten threw a blanket of silence over the deck.
Gilbert carried the boy to the bow, and he felt Humility close beside him. When they got in the very apex of the deck, he turned and held the boy high, facing the shore.
“There’s your New World, William,” he said gently.
The boy’s eyes opened slowly, and as he stared at the shore, a smile came across his parched lips.
“Ain’t it—ain’t it—good—Mr. Winslow?”
“Yes, William,” Gilbert said hoarsely, his voice breaking so that he could say no more.
As the sea lifted the Mayflower gently, Gilbert felt Humility press closer, and Tink grabbed him by the waist sobbing uncontrollably.
The sky was gray as ashes, featureless and stark. Gusts of cold wind swept across the deck, and the shore seemed alien and hostile where it touched the sullen breakers. The harsh cry of a gull seemed an evocation of doom, and there was a brittle, fragile quality about the ship thrown into relief against the eternal whisperings of the sea.
Bradford saw that the scene was evoking sharp fears in the spectators. He raised his voice, piercing the gloom with his words, “Put away your fears, dear brothers. It is true we have no friends to welcome us. We have no shelter at hand, and winter is nigh. We hoped for a paradise, but we will be content with a desert if God so wills.”
The sharp wind caught at his words, making them weak and ragged, so he cried out in a powerful manner, like an Old Testament prophet, “One day our children will say, ‘Our fathers were Englishmen who came over this great ocean and were ready to perish in this wilderness. But they cried unto the Lord and He heard their voice and looked upon their adversity.’ Let us therefore praise the Lord because He is good and His mercies endure forever!”
As Bradford began to pray, Gilbert felt a slight movement in the frail body he held, and then heard a single brief sigh.
“William?” Humility whispered. She gripped Gilbert’s arm tightly and then looked up into his face.
He looked down into William’s still, pale face, now relaxed with no trace of strain—then he looked back into the face of Humility and spoke in a gentle voice, the tears running freely down his scarred face:
“William has gone home, my dear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FIRST LOOK AT EDEN
They buried William Butten at sea, sewn into a canvas tarp with a bag of sand for ballast.
Gilbert’s face was set like flint as the tiny body slid off the board, making a small splash in the sea, and as he turned to go, he met Humility’s eyes, but she at once whirled and turned to avoid him.
The next day was washday, the women being put ashore early under an armed guard to do the family wash. While they were beating, scrubbing, and rinsing heaps of dirty clothes and bedding, the children ran wildly up and down the beach under the watchful eyes of sentries. The men brought in the shallop stored between decks on the Mayflower and beached her
for repairs, for she had been badly battered and bruised by the storms at sea and her seams had been opened up.
As a gang went to work under the direction of Francis Eaton, the ship’s carpenter, the rest prowled the beach and tidal flats in search of shellfish. Ravenous for fresh food, they made a great feast that night on tender soft-shell clams and succulent young quahogs, and also put away many large mussels—which proved to be a grave error, for the mussels made them deathly sick.
That night, against Governor Carver’s will, they decided to send an exploring party inland. “There is a river, the captain says, and it would be safer to take the shallop in by that means.”
“The craft won’t be ready for days,” Edward Winslow objected at once.
“And the weather is getting foul,” Bradford added. “We must find our ground as quickly as possible.”
“But what about the savages?” Carver asked.
“And the wild beasts?” William Mullins shook his head fearfully. “There may be elephants!”
“Elephants?” Standish snorted in derision. “Nonsense, Mr. Mullins—there are no fabulous beasts here.”
Mullins triumphantly lifted a book, crying, “But here is proof!” He opened the book and showed them a crude picture of very fat animals being hunted by savages. “This is the book by John White, his pictures, the first ever made in Virginia!”
The men crowded around to stare, and he flipped the pages proudly. “See, there’s the prince of the savages, Saturiba, walking with his queen!” He pointed to an engraving of mostly naked figures of noble-looking Indians. By the chief’s side walked young men carrying great fans, while behind him walked another wearing gold and silver balls hanging from a little belt around his hips.
“I’ve seen those books!” Miles Standish growled. “They’re made to sell—not to tell the truth.”
They argued back and forth, and finally Bradford said waspishly, “Well, we can’t sit here in this ship waiting for a royal welcoming committee. Tomorrow, Captain Standish, you will take fifteen men on an expedition. We must locate as soon as possible!”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 21
