He saw that she was locked in, incapable of understanding anything he might say. He nodded once, and said, “Don’t marry a man who can’t make you angry—or one who can’t stir your blood.”
“I’m marrying Peter Brown,” she said steadily. “Please don’t ever make any of your foolish advances to me again!”
“I can promise you that,” he said quietly. He stepped back, and she left the deck, walking unsteadily down the ladder to the first hold.
Blindly Humility went to the cabin she shared with Bess Tilley, and for a long time she sat on her bunk, fists clenched tightly together, staring at the wall.
Finally she got up, lit the lantern, and began to add to her letter to Hope Stewart.
February 28, 1621.
Dear Hope,
I cannot tell you how dark the future is for us. Over half our number lies sick, and the rest of us are half dead with fatigue.
Only one thing makes life bearable, at least for me. I have agreed to marry Peter Brown. This will be difficult for you to understand, since only a few weeks ago I expressed my intention never to marry. That was false pride on my part. I see clearly now that marriage is a duty ordained by God. I am only grateful that my earlier delusions about “romance” and “love” have been replaced by a more sensible and mature attitude.
Peter Brown is a good man, and I will make him a good wife. Neither of us expect the “romance” some people put such stock in. Thank God that it’s all settled!
A knock at the door interrupted her, and she started up, thrusting the small notebook into a chest and shoving it under the bunk. Opening the door, she saw Sam Fuller, who said at once, “Can you help me, Humility? Susanna’s baby is coming.”
“Of course.” She followed him to Whites’ cabin, and for the next four hours they were both very busy.
Edward Winslow was getting ready to go to shore at dawn when Fuller approached, his face lined with fatigue. “Well, the first baby in the New World is here.”
“Susanna?” Winslow asked quickly.
“Very well. She had a hard time.”
“Sam, would it be all right if I saw her?”
He went quickly to the cabin and entered; Susanna looked up at him with eyes like diamonds. Out of a bundle of white, a tiny black crown stuck out, and he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than the two of them.
“His name is Peregrin,” she smiled.
“An odd name,” he murmured softly. Pulling the blanket back, he asked, “What does it mean, Susanna?”
“It means ‘pilgrim,’ ”she said.
“A little pilgrim,” he mused, and the tiny fist waved in the air and grasped the tip of his finger. “Peregrin White. That’s a fine name—and he’s a fine boy. Now Resolved will have a little brother to play with.”
“Yes—but no father.”
Winslow started and cried out, “Susanna, no!”
“You didn’t know?” she said. In a gesture old as the world, she held the baby to her breast and kissed his head. “He and Mr. Mullins went together yesterday.”
Death had become so common that the chilling shock should have passed, but Winslow’s mind was numb. “Both of them gone! I—I can’t grasp it!”
Susanna rocked the child slightly, and he began to cry feebly. “He hated to go before the baby came—but he knew it was time, and he endured his going better than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“He was a good man, Susanna—no, he was a noble man! Great courage!”
She nodded. “I think he knew he’d never stand this trip—but he wanted the little ones—and me, to have a better chance.”
He rose and stood over her for one moment. “I must catch the longboat.” He leaned down and touched the tiny crop of hair in a gentle caress. “Peregrin, may you be as good a man as your father and a blessing to your good mother!”
Then he nodded and left her. She stared at the door, listening to his footfalls, then looked at the child. As he began to cry, she smiled a secret smile, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MIRACLES ARE TROUBLESOME
February was Plymouth’s worst month. Seventeen of their number perished, and work came to a complete standstill. The weather continued to be miserably cold and rainy. Gilbert had worn himself to a fine edge, working in all kinds of weather during the day and caring for the sick of the Mayflower’s crew and for Tink through the nights.
He had finished his chores one night and gone to the galley to see if there was anything to eat. To his surprise he found Captain Jones and Samuel Fuller sitting before the small fire talking.
“Come in, Winslow,” Jones said. He took a heavy pot and scooped some of its contents into a bowl. “Have a little of this warm soup.”
“That would go down well,” Gilbert said wearily.
Jones turned to Gilbert, considered him with a direct glance, then said, “You’ve been a great help, Winslow, with the sick men.”
Gilbert answered, “I think French will make it now.”
“How’s the boy?”
Gloomily Gilbert said, “No better. Would you have a look at him before you go to bed, Fuller? I couldn’t get him to eat much.”
“The boy’s parents died last week, didn’t they?” Fuller asked, getting to his feet. “Maybe he’s grieving for them.”
“Perhaps. But he’s had that fever for so long!”
“I know. I’d bleed him, but he’s so weak already,” Fuller said. He left the galley, saying, “I’ll look in on him.”
The two sat there, not speaking for some time. Winslow was an enigma to the captain. He had failed completely to find an answer to his problem: what to do with him when the ship left.
Jones got up, stretched and then gave Gilbert a long look. “Been expecting you to make a run for it, Winslow. Hide out in the woods until after the ship left.”
“Thought about it.”
“But you haven’t gone.” The fact brought perplexed lines across Jones’s forehead, and then he slapped his leg and said, “This is a rough crew; it wouldn’t be hard for the mutineers to take over and sail the ship back to England themselves.”
“What about you?”
“Maybe washed overboard in a storm. Maybe just put ashore. They’d be long vanished by the time I could file a report against ’em.”
Gilbert asked suddenly, “Why haven’t you left, Jones? You’re not getting rich sitting here in this harbor.”
“Scratch me if I can say!” Christopher Jones exploded, and there was a strange mixture of wonder and anger in his gray eyes. “I think I must be getting old!”
Gilbert smiled wryly, humor lurking in his face. “I think you’re getting religion, Captain.”
“No, it’s worse than that, Winslow,” Jones said shaking his head. “I’ve had religion for a long time. What I may be coming down with is a bad case of whatever fanaticism these people have.”
“It can be dangerous to your health.” Gilbert got to his feet, started for the door, then paused to look back. “Best be on your guard, Captain Jones. I’d hate to see you lose this ship to Coffin and the rest.”
Leaving the captain to stare at the fire, Gilbert trudged wearily down to the cabin. The single candle guttered low in its own pool of wax, stretching his shadow, grotesque and malformed, from deck to ceiling. Fatigue dragged him down; he moved like an old man and his thinking was sluggish. He took a long drink from the waterjug, replaced it, and went to look down at the boy.
Tink was so thin he could see the pulse in his throat, beating irregularly. He put his hand on the boy’s forehead. Burning up! He’ll die if that fever doesn’t go down!
Despair ran through him, and he sank down on his bunk, throwing his arms over his face.
Sleep eluded him, and when he dozed he had fitful dreams that flitted across his mind like stones skipping across water. Once he dreamed of a dog he’d had when he was ten—then of his mother, whom he could barely remember. Finally he drifted off into a fitful half sleep, tossin
g and turning on the narrow bunk.
Gilbert awoke to Tink’s coughing spasm. He held the helpless boy in his arms, trying to get a swallow of water down the dry throat, but the racking coughing did not stop until it seemed even a strong heart would burst.
The words of William Bradford came floating into his mind: “You’re not desperate enough to trust God.”
Sitting there in the murky darkness with the dying boy, the hopelessness of his life settled on him like a leaden blanket. He put his head back on the bulkhead and closed his eyes, trying not to think of the future, to block everything out completely, hearing Tink’s labored breathing and rasping cough.
He had almost dropped off to sleep when he was awakened by a sound from Tink. He sprang up and was beside him in a heartbeat. The boy’s eyes were rolled back in his head, his chest was heaving wildly, and the cabin was filled with a rattle that came from his throat.
Then there was a clicking sound and the boy’s body went completely limp, the arms and head flopping down nervelessly.
“Tink! Don’t die, Tink!” Gilbert cried wildly. He leaped to his feet and holding the motionless boy up high in his arms, he called on God as he never had before.
“O God! Don’t let Tink die!—Please!”
The tears streamed down his upturned face, and even as the echoes of his plea died out, he called again, “I love him, Lord God—don’t you love him, too?”
He stood there in the murky darkness listening to the echoes of his own voice fade away until there was no sound at all save his own sobbing.
Then something happened.
Gilbert had never been a mystic, never believed in such things. When people had said, “God told me to do this,” he had scoffed.
He realized suddenly that his wild fear was gone; his trembling had ceased and the racking sobs had stopped. His breathing slowed and then there was a faint ringing in his ears, like little silver bells far, far away. The cold of the cabin seemed to fade, and he felt warm. His eyes were closed, but he had the sensation of light surrounding him.
Somehow he was aware of words coming together in his mind. At first they were blurred and distorted. Then they began to come together forming a complete thought—but still not his own thought. Of that he was very sure, both then, and for the rest of his life.
Standing there holding Tink, with his mind cut off from fear and the terror of death, the words came before him:
Yes, I love him, and I will give him life. One day you will love me even more than you love this boy. You will love me more than your own life.
The cold and the darkness came back with a rush, when Tink’s body twitched suddenly. The boy caught a great gulp of air, then expelled it like a swimmer surfacing after being too long under water.
“Tink!” Gilbert said huskily, and the boy’s eyes opened slowly, and then he smiled.
“Hello—Gilbert . . .” he said; then he closed his eyes, and for one dreadful instant the man thought he was gone. Then he saw the boy’s even breathing, and put him gently on the bed.
Two hours later, Sam Fuller came in yawning and scratching. “You better eat a good breakfast this morning, Gilbert. It’s going to be cold out there. Well, let me have a look at—”
He had stepped beside Tink and bent over to look at the boy’s face, placing his hand on the forehead at the same time.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, then turned wildly to Gilbert, he cried, “Look at this, man! It’s a miracle!”
Gilbert came to look down at Tink. “He’s better, isn’t he, Sam?”
“Why, his fever is completely gone—and his breathing is—why, I can’t hear a thing in his chest, Gilbert!”
Tink opened his eyes then and saw the two men bending over him. “Hello,” he said cheerfully though in a weak voice. Then he licked his lips and said, “I’m awful hungry! Could I have something to eat? And a lot of it, please?”
Fuller gave a burst of roaring laughter and rubbed his hands together with pleasure, “I should say so, my boy! Well, I must be a better doctor than I’ve been thinking lately, eh, Winslow?”
Gilbert was staring at Tink’s face, and he murmured quietly, “I’ll get you something right away, Tink.” He touched the boy’s cheek with his hand, and there was wonder in his blue eyes.
As he walked toward the galley with Fuller, the doctor could not contain himself. He clapped Gilbert on the back and cried, “I told Edward last night the boy couldn’t last two days—and now look at him! Good color, clear eyes, and a ravenous appetite! Thank God! We’ve lost so many I was about to lose my faith, but this boy is a miracle, Winslow!”
Gilbert stopped so suddenly that Fuller stumbled. He put one hand on the rail, then with the most sober look the doctor had ever seen on his face, he said, “I never believed in miracles. But now I’ve seen one.”
Fuller stared at him, then said, “Well, what will it do for you, son?”
Gilbert rubbed his jaw, stared out over the rail at the rolling tide, and then finally said softly, “A miracle, now, can be a pretty troublesome thing, Fuller. Once you’ve seen one, you can’t ever go back to the old ways of thinking.”
“Would you want to?” Fuller inquired gently.
Gilbert thought it over for a long moment, then said, “No, if there’s something like that in this universe, I wouldn’t want to miss it.” Then he moved along the deck toward the galley, leaving Fuller to stare at him with open eyes.
“Well, now,” the physician said in wonder, “What’ll be the end of that, I wonder?”
* * *
March brought the end of the general sickness—and the Indians.
On March 16, Standish had called a meeting to reorganize the men into a more efficient body when they were interrupted in a most astonishing manner. Armed with bow and arrows, a tall powerful warrior emerged from the wood, crossed the clearing, and came striding down toward the Common House where the meeting was in session. He walked right up to the astonished group, raised his hand in friendly salute, and said in English, “Welcome.”
There was a sudden burst of activity, and the men surrounded the Indian, everyone trying to talk at once. Finally Standish shouted, “Silence!” Then while the others listened, he questioned the Indian.
His name, he said, was Samoset. He talked for a long time, answering freely all questions put to him. He was an Algonquin and had spent much time with an English sailor named Captain Dermer, a name they all knew well. He had been sent out by the Council for New England to explore the coast but had not returned when they had sailed from England.
When they asked him about Plymouth, he explained that the place was called Patuxet in his tongue, but that a terrible plague had wiped out the tribe that had planted the corn they had found. He told them the Wampanoags ruled by Massasoit were the most powerful tribe in the area.
Finally he ate a meal of biscuit, butter, cheese and pudding washed down with beer.
There was some disagreement about what to do with him. Billington and others thought he should be held lest he be a spy come to discover their strength, but Bradford demurred, and the next morning, he left, promising to return soon with some of the leaders of the surrounding tribes.
A week passed and Gilbert met Edward as he came in from working on Standish’s emplacements. There was such a pallor on his brother’s face that Gilbert was alarmed. “Edward, what’s wrong?”
“Elizabeth is dying.”
Gilbert stood there helpless to say a word; then he put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and walked with him to their little house. Inside they found Fuller, Priscilla, and Humility watching over the dying woman.
Gilbert took a seat on a stool, his back against the wall, while Edward slumped in a chair holding his wife’s hand.
Fuller came over and sat down by Gilbert, whispering, “She’ll not see another day, I’m afraid.”
She died an hour later without awakening. One minute she was laboring for breath, then she coughed once and the breathing stopped.
Edward stood up as Fuller went quickly. He searched for life, and then turned and said softly, “She’s gone, Edward.”
Edward Winslow stood there, tears in his eyes. For a long time he looked down at the dead face; then he whispered huskily, “I was not a good husband to you, Elizabeth. God forgive me!”
At once Humility, who had been standing with her back to the wall, went to him. She took his arm, turned him to face her, then said, “You were a wonderful husband, Mr. Winslow! You cared for her these last months as no other man in the world would have done! I—I never knew a man could be so loving and kind to a woman!”
She turned her head and looked directly at Gilbert as she ended, then whirled and left the room.
Later that week, Samoset returned with another Indian named Squanto. His story made that of Samoset seem pale and insignificant.
He had been to England with Captain George Weymouth, and returned to Plymouth with Captain John Smith. He spoke better English than Samoset, and informed the men that Massasoit with about sixty of his braves were on their way to Plymouth. None that were there that day ever forgot the sight of the great chief striding out of the woods, wearing about his neck his badge of office, a great chain of white bone beads. His face was dyed a deep mulberry, and he was oiled from head to foot so that his body gleamed in the sun. Behind him came sixty tall, grim-looking warriors, all painted on the face and body, some black, some red, some yellow, some white, decorated with crosses, and some with grotesque loops and squares. A few wore skins. Many were naked. All were tall, muscular men.
Captain Standish and William Brewster met him at the Town Brook with a half dozen musketeers as a guard of honor. They exchanged salutes and marched together down the little main street to an unfinished house. There they had spread a green rug and three or four cushions. The chief and his most important warriors sat on these, and then Governor Carver appeared, preceded by a drum and trumpet. Miles Standish was the stage manager for this performance. He was determined to impress the Indians with all the military pomp and bravado that his handful of soldiers could muster.
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 27
