I have prayed and wept and tried to feel that I have forgiven him, for has not God said we must forgive if we would be forgiven?
The worst of it is that I hate him not because he planned to betray Mr. Brewster, which was the real evil. No, I must set it down—I hate him because he made me love him—and he did not love me!
Now, it is down, and I look at it, read the words. But Hope, he had done me more wrong than he knows, for I gave him my love—my first love—and when the discovery came that he cared not for me, something happened deep in my soul. I do not know how to say it right, but I know that never will I be able to love a man again!
Peter Brown was satisfied. There had been a drawing for the position of lots, and he had drawn one at the foot of the street, right next to William Brewster and his large household, which included Bradford and others.
He drew Humility down to see it, and she smiled at his excitement.
“It’s the best lot of all, Peter,” she smiled. “It’s very close to the brook, isn’t it?”
She listened as he drew in the air with his hands the plan of the house, and he went on to outline how he intended to have his fields and his stock just over a rise to the east. He had been talking rapidly, his eyes bright with excitement, and suddenly he gave her a look, then laughed shortly, his face reddening. He picked up a large stick and broke it in two. Throwing half of it away, he began to trace lines in the hard earth. There was a shyness in him that drew his eyes down, but finally he looked up and said quietly, “You know why I wanted you to see this, Humility?”
She stirred and shook her head, but there was a knowing light in her green eyes. “Why?”
“Because a house without a wife in it is just a pile of sticks.” He threw the stick away and pulled her to her feet, holding on to her shoulders and there was a rough insistence in his voice. “You must know that I’ve thought about that!”
She said slowly, “I—I’ve seen your interest, Peter.”
He bit his lip, then said quickly, “Is there any hope for me, Humility?”
She did not move, did not stir. Far away there came from the deep woods the cry of a hunting bird, and over the cold air she heard the sound of someone chopping a tree down.
When she did not move, he suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
She did not resist; indeed, she moved forward to meet him. He was an attractive man, full-blooded and strong. He stirred her in a strange way; whatever Gilbert Winslow had done to her, he had not destroyed or warped that side of her nature.
“Humility!” Brown smiled and nodded his head. “You care for me a little, I know.”
“Peter . . . I can’t say . . . !” she began, then bit her lip. With a quick shake of her head, she added, “You must not ask me to marry you, Peter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think I’ll ever marry.”
With a laugh, he seized her hand and kissed it. She had shared his kiss, and he had caught a glimpse of the passion that lay beneath her smooth, even ways. “I know—I know,” he laughed. “You women have to be courted. I’ll ask, and you’ll say no. But finally, I’ll ask often enough and you’ll say yes—maybe just to hush me up.”
The two of them were often together, and soon they were firmly linked in the minds of most.
Gilbert heard of it, of course. Alden asked him once, “Did you know Brown is courting Miss Humility?”
The question did queer things to Gilbert. He had noted the pair, but to hear it said made him restless. “No, I didn’t know that, John.”
“I suppose they’ll get married. Won’t do for a girl not to get married in this place.”
Gilbert had met her later, at the beach. It had been almost dark, and the wind was cold as they encountered each other on a short walk—he coming from the north, she from the south.
They were both looking down at the sand, and were startled when they glanced up. Each waited awkwardly, a silence that comes when two alienated people are forced to speak.
Finally she said, “Your brother got a nice lot. I suppose you’ll be staying with him?”
“No, Humility, I’ll be going back with Captain Jones to be hanged.” Her trivial remark irritated him, and he planted his feet firmly, and looking down on her, added, “That should make you very happy.”
“That’s—that’s not fair!” she cried, and a wave of anger colored her high cheekbones. “I wouldn’t want anyone to hang!”
He felt a stab of remorse, but there was a perverse spirit in him that made him declare, “You’ve not been much of a Christian, have you now?”
She stared at him, and her face grew agitated. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“It sticks out like a sore thumb!” he snapped. Taking her arm in a strong grasp, he said, “You’ve hated me from the second you found out what I’d done!”
She grew pale in the fading light, and the streak of honesty that ran deep in her surfaced. “Yes! And I always will!” Then tears filled her eyes and she broke his grasp and ran sobbing along the beach, nearly stumbling over the driftwood.
“Nicely done, old boy!” Gilbert nodded. He kicked viciously at a half-submerged log, and the pain gave him a savage sense of delight. He stared at the figure of the sobbing girl fading into the twilight and shook his head.
Why shouldn’t she hate me? She can’t despise me any more than I despise myself!
He slept on the shore that night, walking the beach, and the chilling wind was a match for his spirit.
* * *
By January 3, New Plymouth was beginning to take shape, but the progress was slow. Fieldstone had to be gathered for fireplace and hearth, two-inch planks had to be sawed for walls, and the joints and cracks had to be daubed with clay.
One of the most difficult and time-consuming tasks was thatching the roofs. They were made as they had been for generations in England, but thatch was hard to come by in Plymouth. It meant miles of tramping through the meadows and along the creek banks to gather it, with the constant possibility of being cut off by a surprise Indian attack.
“Have you seen the columns of smoke over to the west, Miles?” Gilbert asked one morning.
“I’m taking a small party out this morning to have a look. Come along, will you, Gilbert?” Standish asked.
Sick of the grinding labor, Gilbert readily agreed, and an hour later Standish took four men on a scouting expedition. They stumbled onto a few abandoned Indian huts, but saw no fresh signs. Gilbert shot a fish hawk, and they stopped long enough to cook and devour it.
“Not bad,” Standish said. He licked his fingers, adding, “Once in Spain we had nothing to eat but an owl for six of us. Made a pretty fair soup.”
Gilbert grinned, tearing at the tough meat with his strong white teeth. “You soldiers are a rude bunch. You’d eat anything.” He got up, wiped his hands on his shirt, and asked, “You think we’ll be attacked sooner or later, Miles?”
“Probably.”
Gilbert grinned at the stolid pessimism of the soldier; then a sober light crossed his face. “I suppose Jones will be taking the ship back to England soon.”
Standish was whittling a toothpick out of a twig, and he finished it carefully, then began probing his teeth before he gave the younger man a sharp glance, saying, “You going back with him?”
“What choice do I have?”
Standish waved his hand in a wide circle and shook his head. “There’s a million square miles in this land. Our royal sovereign King James may be an idiot in many ways, but even he has enough sense to realize a man couldn’t be caught by ten regiments if he wants to hide out.”
“You mean go native?”
“There are worse things, old boy—hanging is one of them.”
Gilbert stood up, stared out at the rugged woods that rose up to the west, then shrugged. “Get mighty lonesome out there.”
“Take a woman with you,” Standish grinned.
“Oh, yes. Why didn’t I think of that?” Gilb
ert answered cynically. “There’d be a long waiting line, wouldn’t there, Miles—women just dying to go into the wilds of America with a fugitive. Have to beat them off with a stick!”
“Don’t know about a line, but all you need is one.” Standish studied Gilbert intently. He had a real affection for the young man, and finally he said, “You wouldn’t have to go native—not altogether. We’re a long way from the King’s justice out here, Gilbert—a long way.” The dark eyes of Standish grew thoughtful, and he mused on an idea that had been forming in his mind for some time.
“This land—America—it’s not going to be like people think. Everybody seems to think that it’ll be another little colony that the King can put in his pocket. But it won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too big, too far away from England; and the wrong kind of people are coming here.” He threw the toothpick away, stood up and stretched hugely. “By the wrong kind of people, I mean the wrong kind who won’t rest easy under authority. Look at this bunch, these saints. Why, they left England to get away from having their necks stepped on by royal authority. You think they’ll be more humble now that they’re thousands of miles from that authority? No! There’s something in the air of this place, Gilbert, something that makes a man feel—oh, I don’t know! Bigger, I guess.”
Gilbert had been watching Standish curiously, for something of the things the little soldier was trying to say had been in his thoughts. Finally he said, “In most of that, I’d say you were right, Miles—but I can’t see running away into the woods.”
“That’s what I’d do if I were in your shoes,” Standish shrugged. “Get that Cooper girl and go build her cabin. Raise a bunch of kids.”
“Not her. She’s looking at Brown.”
“Is she now? Well, women are pretty much alike, boy, so just pick another. That Desire Minter, now, she’s after anything in pants.”
Standish got to his feet, called the other men from the woods where they were looking for signs, and as they came, he said, “Think on it, Gilbert. This won’t be the last colony. You can change your name and start a new life.” In a rare gesture of affection, he threw his arm around Gilbert, having to reach high to do so, and said, “I’ve not got so many friends, boy, that I can spare you for the gallows!”
As they made their way back to the settlement, the words of Standish kept coming back to Gilbert’s mind.
He was still turning it over when they got back to the settlement. “Something’s happened,” Standish said.
A crowd was milling around the beach, and when they got there, Bradford met them with a tense look on his long face. “Did you see anything of Brown and Goodman?”
“No,” Standish said. “Haven’t they come back?”
The two men had left on a thatch-gathering trip the day before, and had not returned before dark. “Have you looked for them?” Standish demanded.
“Only in places close by,” Bradford admitted. “All the thatch close by has already been pulled. They were going over toward those hills.”
“That’s where we’ve seen smoke the last few days, Miles,” Gilbert said.
“Well, we’ll have to search for them.” He looked up at the lead-gray sky and grimaced, “Too late to do anything today. I’ll take five men out at dawn.”
That night the snow that had been lurking in the biting air began to sift out of the sky. By dawn it lay in strips of white on the ground and capped the treetops. Standish led the party out, and they circled through the woods all day, returning at dusk with no sight of the pair.
“We’ll try more to the north tomorrow,” he said. “But it’ll be fool’s luck if we run on to them.”
“You think the Indians may have taken them?” Humility asked. She had stayed overnight to help with the work, and she fed the scouting party, filling their plates with a stew made from herring Tink and John Alden had caught that day. When she gave Gilbert his plate, she kept her face averted and did not speak.
“I hope they’re just lost,” Standish said. “That’s not hard to do in this place.”
On Saturday at midday, Brown and Goodman came stumbling into camp, almost too weak to walk. Humility saw them first, staggering out of a clump of pines to the west of the camp, and she cried out, “Peter!” and flew to meet them.
Brown was half-carrying Goodman, and when he saw Humility running toward him, he stopped, put Goodman on the snow, and waited for her.
“Peter!” she cried and grabbed at his arms. His face was raw with the cold and exposure, and his hands were blue and stiff. “I’ve been half crazy!” she exclaimed.
His lips, flaked with a coat of thin ice, turned upward into a faint grin, and he whispered in a cracked voice, “Have you now? Then it’s all worth it.”
She touched his cheek, and then Allerton and Mullins came running up, and there was no time to say anything. Alden and John Howland came, and they picked Goodman up and carried him to one of the huts. Brown waved aside all efforts to help, leaning on Humility. “I think John’s feet are frozen—but I’m all right.”
As he wolfed down the fish stew, Brown told them what had happened: they’d seen a deer and gone after it, getting lost in the process. Then the snow had come, wiping out all familiar landmarks and they’d wandered around the entire time, wet and miserable. “I think I’ll sleep for a week!” he declared.
Humility walked with him to the hut, and at the door he paused and looked down at her. Snow was still falling—just a few flakes, but one of them fell on her cheek and he touched it with a finger. “I thought for a while we wouldn’t make it.”
“What did you think about then?” she asked seriously.
“Why, I thought about you, of course,” he said, surprised that she had to ask. “I thought: ‘The worst thing is we’ll never have a life together!’ That was the worst of it all!”
She was moved by his words, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she lifted her face. It was a good kiss, not demanding, and when he lifted his head he said, “Is it all right, Humility? About us, I mean?”
She did not speak for a moment, and he was afraid she was trying to think of some gentle way to refuse him. But finally, she lifted her face; when she spoke, there was a resignation in her tone, like the turning of a key in a lock.
“It’s all right with us, Peter.”
His face lit up, then a thought sobered him. He said slowly, “About Winslow—that’s over?”
She nodded and said evenly, “Yes, that’s over.” Then she added, “I was in love with him, Peter. You have a right to know that.”
“But no more?”
She turned her face away, looking down gathering darkness toward the beach, then came back to him. “No more, Peter. Whatever I felt for him is gone.”
He studied her face, then nodded and said, “We’ll have a good life, Humility.”
He did not kiss her again, but touched her cheek with his hand, then ducked inside the hut. Humility wheeled, but before going back to her cabin, she looked up into the tiny flakes crisscrossing the sky, and she said intently, as if to convince herself, “It will be all right!”
Then she hunched her shoulders against the cold and made her way to her cold bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE GENERAL SICKNESS
Log: January 14th
Follows the order of deaths since landing: Edward Thompson, the first to die in the New World; Jasper Moore, James Chilton, Dorothy Bradford, 11th December; Richard Britteridge, 21st December; Degory Priest, 1st January; John Langemore, Christopher Martin, 8th January, Mrs. Martin the following day. Weather continues cold, with snow and ice in abundance. Crew is restless, desiring to return to England while supplies permit. My decision is to remain at least until shelter is completed for all settlers.
“Mr. Winslow . . .”
Gilbert turned to see William Bradford looking up at him from where he sat with his back against one of the huts.
“Yes, Mr. Bradford?” Gilbert went to him at on
ce. Snow was falling in occasional flakes, and Bradford’s hair was hoary in the fading light.
“Would you have a moment for me?” Bradford looked frail, and the sickness had drained his strength. “I find myself a little weak . . .”
“Why—of course,” Gilbert said. “Can I take you to your hut?”
“That would be most kind of you.” Bradford put out a hand and Gilbert helped him to his feet. He led him down the hill toward the hut, and Bradford clung to his arm, almost stumbling over the rough ground. Gilbert suddenly reached around Bradford with his right arm, letting the older man hold to his left, and held him tightly, “Let me be your legs this once, sir,” he said gently.
Bradford didn’t answer as they moved along, and Gilbert thought he had offended the man’s tremendous sense of self-sufficiency, but then he felt the body of Bradford surrender and lean close, accepting help with an uncharacteristic mildness.
When they reached the cabin, Gilbert helped the sick man inside and lowered him onto his bed. He lifted his feet, and Bradford lay back with a sigh. He closed his eyes, but as Gilbert turned to go, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Winslow—or perhaps I can call you by your familiar name—since you’ve practically carried me like a baby.”
A small gleam of humor touched Bradford’s dark eyes, and he smiled suddenly, the first Gilbert had seen since they left Holland.
“It’s hard for a man like me to accept help,” he said.
“You’re more accustomed to giving it, Mr. Bradford.”
He waved his hand and said, “That’s not always a virtue, Gilbert. It can be a form of pride—the sin of Lucifer.” He opened his eyes fully, musing almost to himself, “If I would change one word of Holy Scripture, it would be to make the verse read, ‘It is more blessed to receive than it is to give.’ ”
Gilbert thought that over. “Doesn’t sound right.”
“That’s because you’re a strong man—and a proud one, like me,” Bradford answered at once. There was a calculating look in his eyes not unmixed with kindness as he went on, “I never liked to have things done for me, even when I was a child. I liked to dress myself, cut my own food—all the things that parents do for children, I wanted to do for myself.”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 24
