He woke up some time later to find clear light streaming in through the open window. A bird was singing, and the room seemed stuffy. He sat up in bed, swung his feet to the floor, then stood up. The room swung round in an alarming fashion, but he held to the wall until it stopped.
He was wearing only a pair of short underpants, and could not find his clothes, so he wrapped the blanket around him and staggered outside. He sat down at once on a rude bench against the side of the hut and looked around.
Spring had made an assault on Plymouth during his sickness, driving out the cold winds and clammy air. He took a deep breath of the warm April breeze, smelling of the sea and of green trees and warming earth, and for a long time he sat there, enjoying the warmth.
A slight figure was wending up the steep hill, and he recognized Captain Christopher Jones. There was an odd look on the seaman’s face, Gilbert saw, as he came closer, but he smiled when he came up to the cabin, saying with energy, “Why, you’re not dead, are you, Winslow?”
“I guess not, Captain.”
“You came pretty close, I can tell you! I sat with you a few times with Edward, and it looked like you weren’t going to make it.” His face crinkled in a smile and he added, “If it hadn’t been for that young woman caring for you like a sick baby, why, I reckon you’d not be sitting here enjoying this sunshine.”
Gilbert stared at him. “She did that?” he asked.
Jones cocked his head, suddenly sober as he remarked. “I tell you, it’s hard to figure these folks out, Winslow. I got the idea she had nothing but hate for you after what you did; then she goes and pulls a stunt like this!”
Gilbert bit his lip, then shook his head. “These folks believe in turning the other cheek. Humility believes in doing her Christian duty.”
“That so?” Jones asked, and there was a light of humor in his gray eyes. “Well, I guess there’s more to it than that—but in any case, you’re looking better.”
Something in Christopher Jones’s face made Gilbert consider him more closely. He finally asked, “I think you’ve got something to tell me.”
“Well, I didn’t know how I’d find you . . .”
“What is it, Captain?” He glanced toward the sea, and it came to him. “You’re taking the Mayflower back home?”
“Well, yes. Today’s the fourth—we’ll set sail tomorrow.”
Gilbert dropped his head and considered it. He was still weak and his thinking was confused. Finally he said, “I’ll be ready.”
“Well, the thing is . . .” Jones cleared his throat, and seemed to be having trouble with his words. Then he slapped his thigh and cried out, “Oh, a plague on it! Why didn’t you stay sick!”
“What?”
“Why, I couldn’t take a dying man on board, could I? I had my plan all made to get away while you were still unconscious—then you have to wake up and spoil it all!”
Gilbert smiled at his red face, and said, “Sorry to be such a bother, Captain.”
Jones stared at him, gnawing at his lip. “You saved my ship, Winslow. Chances are those roughs would have piled her up or sold her for scrap when they got home. It was you that gave her back to me. What do I do about that?”
“You might make me a partner,” Gilbert said.
Jones grinned. “Well, that would be going a little too far. But you won’t be going back with me to England.” He grew serious then and said, “I’d never be able to look myself in the face if I took you back to face a rope—and it’s not only that you saved the ship. You’re not the same man that stowed aboard, are you?”
Gilbert shook his head. “No, I’m not—but I’m still a fugitive and you can get in trouble for concealing me.”
“I’ll be careful to keep myself clear,” the captain said. “But you have to realize that the next ship that comes will probably have someone aboard with a warrant from the King.” He shook his head then added, “I’ll do this for you; let me take you. When we’re in the Channel and I touch at Calais, you can hide yourself in France.”
Gilbert shook his head at once. “I’m grateful to you, Captain—but I’ll take my chances here.”
Jones rose with a puzzled look on his face. “Scratch me! I knew you’d say that! I’ve offered to take anybody who wants to go back home, and you know how many have accepted my offer?”
“Not many, I’d venture.”
“None! Not a bloody one!”
“I’m not too surprised. Even Billington and Hopkins have found something here they’ll never give up.”
“Found what?” Jones demanded.
“I guess it’s freedom, Captain.” Gilbert knew that was not altogether right, but he shrugged, and then a thought struck him. “Could you take a letter for me to England?”
“I’m taking one for everybody else, so why not?”
The next morning, despite dire warnings from Sam Fuller and Edward, Gilbert insisted on walking down to the harbor to see the departure.
In the morning light fifty-six people stood watching as Captain Jones stood on the poop deck of the Mayflower waving his hand. Gilbert studied them as the sails were being run up. “Why are they all staying, Edward?” he asked quietly. “Only fifty-six people, and twenty-five of those are children. Just thirty-one adults perched on the edge of a continent so big we can’t even imagine how far it stretches!”
Edward nodded, and his eyes sought out Susanna White where she stood holding the baby in one arm and Resolved with the other. His cheeks were hollowed, making his large nose seem even larger, but there was a satisfaction in his clear blue eyes. “I know, Gilbert. It looks foolish to the world, but I tell you, there’s a victory here! The sickness got half of us—but not a one accepted Jones’s offer to go back to an easy life in Holland or England. Listen—” He broke off as Bradford raised his voice in a hymn of thanksgiving. They sang, their thin faces tear-marked, but radiating a joy that could not be denied. “The God of this universe has not let us go unnoticed!”
The women’s headcloths flapped in the breeze and men’s hair and beards ruffled as they sang. Old John Carver, Brewster, Bradford, and Allerton sang at the top of their lungs as the wind puffed the sails of the ship; soon only the declining speck of the Mayflower could be seen, then nothing broke the flat plane of the wide horizon of the sea.
The firstcomers were alone in their New World.
* * *
Gilbert regained his strength quickly, and only Edward commented on his remaining in Plymouth instead of returning with the Mayflower. “Jones couldn’t take you back. He talked about it quite a bit while you were ill.”
“I’ll have to go back sometime, Edward. They won’t forget about Lord Roth back in England.”
But he put that in the back of his mind, working hard with the others at planting their corn under Squanto’s direction. He often hunted and fished with Tink, the two becoming proficient at finding both game and a variety of ocean and freshwater fish. The boy was happy, but from time to time he got a worried look, and Gilbert knew he was worried about the next ship which might separate them. Gilbert forced the thoughts of that from his mind.
He saw Brown often. The first time they’d met, Brown had been awkward. “You saved my life on the ship. I’m—grateful to you, Winslow.”
“You did a good job, Peter. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
The tall young man ducked his head, his neck red with embarrassment; then he looked up and said quietly, “I’m sorry about—about the way it turned out for you. About Humility, I mean.”
“You’re getting a fine woman, Peter. Any man would be proud to have a wife like her.”
“Yes—but what . . . ?”
Gilbert cut off his question. “I wish you both the best, Peter.”
Humility had met his gaze with her steady eyes the first time they’d met, but she avoided his company whenever possible.
On Sundays the entire town assembled in the main street, and with every man carrying his musket, they followed Governor Carver to the Common
House, where they worshiped. They wore their best clothes for the occasion, Carver having on a fine red cloak. The blues, red, and greens of their coats and smocks made a splash against the plain walls, and William Brewster had a violet suit that almost hurt the eyes. The bands, flat white collars worn by the men, were white and glistening, and some of them wore high-crowned hats.
Elder Brewster served as pastor. He did not give communion since he was not ordained, but he was an excellent preacher. Bradford recorded of him in the history he was writing: “In teaching he was very stirring, and moving the affections; also very plain and distinct in what he taught; by which means he became the more profitable to the hearers. He had a singular good gift in prayer, in ripping up the heart and conscience before God.”
They suffered a loss that month, in Governor Carver. The old man had insisted on working alongside the younger men in the fields, and on a very hot day he suddenly dropped his hoe and complained of a terrific pain in the head. Everyone assumed he had too much sun, but after lying down for a few hours, he lapsed into a coma and died two days later.
After the old man was buried with a guard of honor, the next order of business was the election of a new governor. William Brewster was the most obvious choice, but he was eliminated by his position as ruling elder of the church.
“We must always keep the church and the state separate,” Brewster said, when asked to serve. “We have seen the disastrous effects of its union in England!”
Unanimously, the choice fell on William Bradford, and from his first days in office, a new vigor entered Plymouth’s public affairs. Up to this time affairs had rested largely in the hands of Elder Brewster, Pastor Robinson, Deacon Cushman, and Deacon Carver—all older men. Now this group was scattered—one was dead, another in London, a third in Leyden, so the thirty-two-year-old Bradford picked up the reins firmly.
Edward Winslow worked as hard as any man, but something drove him to walk in the woods in the twilight hours. He became absent-minded with Gilbert, his attention hard to hold.
He was walking back to the town late one night, tired and dissatisfied with he knew not what. The spring peepers in the brook made a shrill chorus as he walked slowly, not looking up at the moon that was beginning to peer with a silver face through the velvet sky.
“Edward.”
He lifted his head instantly, knowing the voice at once. “Susanna . . .”
He hesitated, then stepped to her side. She stood before him, watching his face in the close and personal way she had; and the warm light of her eyes grew and her face was changed in a way he could not describe. Suddenly she was a shape and a substance before him, and a fragrance and a melody all around him, so that the loneliness that had lived in him so long grew insupportable. The wall he had built against tradition and ritual went down. She was before him, and there was nothing between them. But still he hesitated.
“Edward, would you think of marrying me?” she asked quietly.
He was caught by her direct honesty, and he moved ahead and put his arms around her. Watching her lips lift, he saw that she was smiling—and so he kissed her.
When they broke into the cabin to find Gilbert sitting at the table reading, their faces shone. He rose at once, a wide smile on his face, and put his arms around Susanna, saying, “Well, I have a new sister!” and they all laughed.
Edward Winslow and Susanna White were married in May when the wild plums put on their white blossoms. The soft, sweet warmth of New England’s spring was all about them, and everyone was delighted to have something to celebrate after the long winter of sickness, disaster, and gloom.
They were low on some food, but Gilbert and Tink saw that there was enough fish to cover a wide table in the Common House, and Peter Brown brought down two fat deer.
As Gilbert watched the festivities, he remarked to Bradford, who had joined him, “I remember how I once thought all you people sat around dressed in black and hated mirth and singing . . .”
Bradford gave Gilbert a smile and said, “You have changed many of your ideas recently, haven’t you?”
Gilbert said soberly, “I can’t believe what a fool I was, Elder! I can’t think of a thing I was right about!”
Bradford studied him, then asked, “What will you do with your life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you go back to England?”
“ To the gallows?” Gilbert stared at the people moving along and piling their plates high with food. There was a strong streak of fatalism underneath his light manner, and he said thoughtfully, “Only a little while ago I was headed for a promising career under Lord North. Money, pleasure—and maybe even a marriage with his daughter. Now I’ll probably spend the rest of my life waiting for a door to open and some officer to come through it with the warrant to drag me back to a rope.”
Bradford’s dark eyes fixed on the face of the younger man, and he let the silence run on before he said, “You think that would have brought you happiness, Gilbert?”
The question raked against the young man’s nerves. “Why, I don’t know. Why wouldn’t it, Elder? Aren’t those the things every man wants?”
“And were the people you met in the higher realms of society happy? Did they have peace and contentment?”
Gilbert was suddenly silent, for he knew that such was not the case. “No, they weren’t. Most of them wore themselves out chasing after money or pleasure.”
“If you were free to do so, would you go back and take up that life?”
Gilbert did not answer; he was glad that John Alden had stood up suddenly and called for quiet.
“Friends, we celebrate the wedding of our good friends, and we all wish them long life and happiness.” A chorus of “amen’s” met this, and when they subsided, John continued, “I want to invite you to another wedding—mine and Miss Priscilla Mullins!”
This came as no great shock to anyone, but there was a wave of applause and there was much hugging of Priscilla by the women and much beating on John’s broad back by the men.
Then Peter Brown moved out from the side of the room where he had been standing with Humility, and with a slight pallor under his tan, he said, “Friends, since weddings and marriage is the purpose of our gathering, I congratulate Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, and I wish Mr. Alden and Miss Mullins joy.” He cleared his throat before he added, “And Miss Humility Cooper and I invite you to share in our joy as well.”
He moved back to take Humility’s hand, and the two were surrounded at once by a wave of people crowding around to congratulate them.
Gilbert was startled to hear a voice in his ear, “It would be nice if you would join in with the well-wishers, Gilbert.”
He turned to see Edward standing beside him, and Gilbert at once said, “Thank you, Edward.” He moved forward slowly, and finally stood before the two. A silence fell on the room, and all eyes were fastened on the three.
“You are to be congratulated—both of you,” he said quickly. Humility took Peter’s arm in a quick gesture. She was not smiling as she had been, but her voice was steady and clear as she said, “Thank you, Mr. Winslow.”
Brown put his hand out, and when Gilbert gripped it, he said, “I appreciate your good wishes, Gilbert.”
Then it was over, and someone started a song. “That was well done,” Edward said quietly as Gilbert returned to stand beside him.
“All my loose ends tied up, eh, Edward—” Then his wide mouth turned up in a sudden wry smile as he added, “. . . except the one the hangman’s probably getting ready for me at the tower!”
* * *
Gilbert discovered that it was impossible to maintain his spirit of apprehension. As the weeks went by he was less and less likely to gaze at the sea and wonder if a sail would appear with the law on board.
The work kept him busy. He helped all the other families finish their houses, and since he had no house or fields of his own, he got to know all of them. The three families still intact were allotted houses, and they each took
in several single men and women. Young Priscilla Mullins lived with Elder Brewster and his family, while Humility and Bess stayed with the Allertons.
Gilbert had seen Humility practically every day for months, but had said nothing more intimate than, “Would you pass the water jug?”
He had gone down to the creek to fill two water buckets and met her, awkwardly trying to fill one of the large, wooden kegs from the stream. The brook was deep only in the middle, and she was trying to shove the keg out to deeper water without getting her shoes muddy.
“Let me help you.”
She whirled at his words and dropped the keg, which would have floated downstream if Gilbert had not abandoned his buckets and plunged in to retrieve it. “This is too heavy for you,” he remarked as the cool water spilled into the container.
She stood there watching him, and finally she said, “I have something to say to you.” She spread her hands over the front of her dress, looked out across the woods, then brought her gaze back to meet his. “You said something to me once that I feel is unfair.”
“I know.” He filled the keg, carried it back to the bank, then turned to face her. She took a step back as if he meant to attack her, and he smiled. “I said you were afraid of life.” A loon gave his eerie cry, and then in the silence that followed, he said directly, “I still say it.”
She was a tall girl, and the strong lines of her body were outlined beneath the plain dress she wore by the pressure of the October wind. Her high cheekbones and wide-spaced eyes gave her face an Oriental cast, but the firm chin and green eyes were English. She had been hurt by this man, more than she had dreamed a woman could be hurt, and often she had found herself feeding on her bruised pride, greedily hoping that someday she would find a way to pay him back in kind.
Now she cried out, “You’re wrong! So very wrong!”
“I’ve been wrong about almost everything—but not about this.” He asked her suddenly, “When are you marrying?”
The question flustered her, and she raised one hand to tuck a blonde tress under her cap. She was restless under his gaze, and finally burst out, “Oh, I don’t know! Why do you ask?”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 30
