“Paul’s right! We’ve got to act as though we were in here for the rest of our lives.”
“I promise to be as miserable as ever,” Laurence Conrad predicted, but his eyes were gleaming. “If this comes off, Winslow, I fail to see how I can remain an atheist—because only the hand of God can open the locks of Dartmoor!”
****
The air was cold as the tall man and the girl left the house and got into a wagon pulled by a sturdy pair of roan horses. A large brown canvas covered the top, raised by steel hoops. It looked no different from many such vehicles used by merchants to haul their wares from the country to the port of Plymouth. The man helped the girl onto the high seat, climbed aboard, and gave the horses a slap with the reins. They broke into a brisk walk.
Charity said nothing for a time, but she was so nervous her hands twisted in her lap, and finally the man noticed it. “You don’t have to worry, Charity. It’ll be all right.”
She looked at him, and the sight of his smile reassured her. She had instantly seen the Winslow look in William the first time she stepped inside the little house where he lived with his wife and five children. He was taller and more fair than Adam, but the family resemblance was there. He favored Nathan more, but when he’d read the long letter she had brought from Adam, he had smiled and set her fears at rest by saying, “We believe God for the deliverance of our men.”
She had spent the next weeks with his family, posing as a distant relative from America. She’d been amazed to find that the congregation of the Methodist church where William was pastor was passionately opposed to the American war. It was not a popular war anywhere in the country, she was to discover, and William had encouraged her. “If Washington can hold out, America will win. The people here are angry at the whole thing. They’ll quit if they can find a way.”
Working out a plan to free the crew had been a matter of many meetings with many people. Charity had sold her house, and Charles had sent her what seemed to be an enormous amount of money—but getting it into the right hands was the problem.
William had proposed, “We’ll ask God for wisdom—and I think I know a thing or two that might help.” Charity never was sure how he did it, but she found herself at a luncheon in an inn in Plymouth with a man named Thomas White. He was some sort of official at Dartmoor—she never learned his exact position—and after the meal the conversation drifted to Dartmoor. William finally mentioned casually, “I understand there’s no way for the prisoners to escape, Thomas.”
“Quite impossible!” White shrugged. “And if they did, where would they go? There’s no place to hide; we’d have them back in a few hours—or dead, more than likely. The guards are really callous. Just as soon kill a man as look at him.”
They talked about that for a time, and then William commented, “Miss Alden here is quite saddened. Some of her people are in your charge at Dartmoor.”
“Oh?” White suddenly stared at her with fresh interest. At William’s direction, she had purchased expensive clothing just for the meeting and she felt the man’s eyes on the diamond necklace that had been bought for an enormous price in London. “How is that, may I ask, Miss Alden?”
She told him of the Lady, and he listened carefully as she ended by saying, “I intend to buy a new ship, and I’ll miss my crew.” She looked carefully at the massive ruby ring that glowed on her finger and gave a little laugh. “It’ll cost a fortune to train a new crew—and I was so fond of them. As a matter of fact, Mr. White, one of the men is my fiance. I am sick over it.” Then she sighed and said in the saddest tone she could muster, “If it were only a matter of money, there would be no problem!”
White did not take his gaze from her, and replied, “How sad! We’ll all be glad when this war is over. I as much as anyone.” Then he sipped his coffee and remarked without emphasis, “I would be glad to do anything I can for you, Miss Alden. Let me know if I can be of any service.”
After Charity and William had bidden their farewells and were on their way home, William chuckled and repeated White’s statement, “I would be glad to do anything I can for you.” He laughed aloud and put his arm around Charity, saying, “In translation, that means I am for sale! How much will you give me to let them go?”
And that had been the key. There had been many meetings, much bargaining, for White had to buy off others and at the same time protect himself. It would have taken the assets of Lloyds to give him what he demanded, but Charity, for all her tender appearance, proved to be a hard bargainer.
Finally the deal had been made. Half the price was in White’s hand, the rest with William, to be paid when he received a letter from Charity saying they were safe in America.
Now as they headed for the prison, Charity wished it were over. “There are so many things that could go wrong!” she worried to William.
“O ye of little faith,” he chided her. Then he asked, “You are engaged to this man Greene?”
“Well—we had an understanding once...”
He turned to stare at her, for they had grown close. She had told him much of her life, and he struggled to put into words what he wanted to say to her. They would not meet again after the escape, and he wished to make something clear. “Charity, you have said more than you meant about Paul Winslow.”
“Paul?”
“Yes, my nephew.” William thought hard, then spoke frankly. “I think you’ve grown attached to him without being aware of it—and I want to warn you about him.”
“What about Paul?”
“The Winslows are a good family—but there are some bad seeds—and I fear that Paul is one of them.” He talked about how the young man had been nothing but grief to his parents; and he ended by saying, “I am happy that you have found the Lord, Charity—but don’t make the mistake of getting involved with a man like Paul. He would ruin your life.”
Then he changed the subject, but his warning had not left Charity, and for days she thought about it, never easy in her mind, for she trusted the judgment of William greatly.
They reached a side road not far from Dartmoor about noon, and waited anxiously until late afternoon. Both of them were nervous, but at three o’clock William exclaimed suddenly, “There they come!”
A line of prisoners dressed in faded yellow uniforms appeared, and she counted six of them, with only two guards. William advised her urgently, “Be ready to leave.”
The guards were on horseback, and as the line came forward, the two men watched the wagon intently. Not a word was uttered until they got even with where Charity and William were waiting, and then one of them ordered the men, “Here they are! Get in there!” As the six men scrambled inside with wild haste, the guards whirled their horses and dashed down the road at full speed.
“Let’s go!” William yelled, whipping the horses and driving like fury. As soon as the wagon began moving, Charity pulled back the canvas and jumped into the back with cries of joy. “We made it! Oh, I was so worried something would go wrong!” The crew members of The Gallant Lady closest to Charity threw aside all restraint toward their captain and embraced her, joining their tears with hers.
The happy reunion was an emotional time for all of them. Even Laurence Conrad made no attempt to staunch the tears, and there was none of his usual cynicism as he embraced Charity and murmured with fervor, “God bless you, girl!”
Only Paul and Dan held back, and she had to turn to them, holding out her hands. They each took one, and stood there staring, unable to express what was in their hearts. Finally she said, “Let’s go home!” and then whirled and left, saying, “Get out of those clothes! You’ll find new ones in the chest.”
As the men changed into new clothes, Dan remarked, “I was worried a bit about getting back across the ocean, Paul—but with a woman like that—what’s a little thing like the Atlantic?”
And Paul Winslow responded with utter and complete sincerity: “Amen.”
****
Two months passed before they could leave England, for
the men had to be hidden until the uproar over their escape died down. Then they had to obtain passage to America, and that was not a simple matter.
But on the third of March, Paul Winslow walked up the steps to his home, entered and announced to Charles Winslow, who stood there staring at him: “Father—I’m home! You brought me out of it as no one else could have.” He turned and took his mother in his arms, and then the three of them wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHARITY HAS A PLAN
Spring had come early to Boston, the freezing winds of January turning almost warm by the first of April. The fruit trees were deceived by the bright sun and the life-giving breezes, and all around the country the brown hills were spotted with white and pink blossoms of wild plum and pear.
Since his return to his father’s house, Paul had done little but stay indoors. It was a strain on him, for he still had only flashes of memory, but he was conscious that he was needed there. His mother clung to him, and he had grown very close to his father. The two spent long evenings together in front of a fire. Charles did most of the talking, and to Paul it was fascinating, for the Winslow name went back to the Mayflower and even further. One evening Charles had handed him a book richly bound in red leather, saying, “This is my favorite book—your great-great grandfather’s journal.” He held the book, running his hands over the smooth cover, and looked up with a warm light in his blue eyes. “Gilbert Winslow was his name. I never knew him, of course, but his granddaughter Rachel stayed at our house a great deal while I was growing up. Adam was her favorite, which didn’t always make me happy. But I never forgot her stories of how her great-grandpa had left England to come to this land on the Mayflower.”
Charles stopped and looked intently at his son, then smiled and remarked, “You have something of him in you, Paul.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Gilbert Winslow was the best swordsman in England in his day, or close to it. I believe you got that gift from him. Adam has his sword, and you’ll want to see it. It’s a fine piece of craftsmanship, and you’d appreciate it. Ought to be in a museum, but then perhaps not. Maybe Gilbert would like it better if one of his seed carried it.”
“I—I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll tell Adam to bring it next time he comes.” Charles hesitated, then said, “Take the book, Paul. Read it, for it’s got the heart of this new country in it. He lived for a long time, and he saw something here that’s haunted me. Adam sees it better than I—he’s broken with England and is an American.”
“I’ve wondered what to do—but I have no decision to make, really,” Paul stated slowly. He took the book, opened it and read a few lines. “I’m a traitor to the English. I’ve got no choice now but to be an American.”
Charles nodded. “You are right, and you know, Paul ... I’m glad of it!” He slapped the desk, saying, “By the Lord, I’m going to do the same! Here’s one Tory who’ll never be an Englishman again!”
“Major Winslow will be happy.”
“Yes, he will. I’m not so sure about Dorcas—but from the latest signs in Anne, she’s not going to be far behind me.”
Paul looked at him, and a smile touched his lips. “You mean that crush she’s developed on Dan Greene...?”
“Just that.” Charles shook his head. “Of all the men in the world she’d be attracted to, that Quaker is the one I’d put last.”
“He’s a fine looking fellow, Father. Strong as a bull—and he’s not only smart, he’s as good a man as you’d want for a son-in-law—if it comes to that.”
They thought about it—how Greene had come to stay with them when the crew had gotten back from England. He had spent much time with all of them, but Anne at the age of seventeen was captivated by him. Greene never noticed, for to him Anne was a child.
He found out different quickly enough when they were taken to a ball one evening. Charles had asked him to watch out for Anne, and he’d agreed. But when she’d come down the hall wearing a pale green dress that set off her red hair and molded itself to her fully developed young body, he had gazed at her speechless. She had left her arms and shoulders bare, and as she stood looking up at him, smiling and taking his arm, he had almost stuttered when he said, “Thee—thee does look beautiful, Anne. I never knew—” He broke off quickly, but she finished it for him with a teasing tone.
“Thee did not know I was a woman, did thee, Friend Greene?” Anne was a natural mimic, and he had to smile at how she used the Quaker words. They sounded strange dropping from her full rounded lips, and he had been very conscious of her womanhood from that day.
Anne had approached Charity with all the blunt manner of youth. “Are you in love with Dan, Charity?”
Charity had stared at her, a slow smile forming on her lips. “No. He thought he was in love with me—but he wasn’t really.” A touch of humor surfaced in her eyes, and she asked innocently, “Why are you asking, Anne?”
“Oh! I—I just wondered.” Anne’s face turned pink. “You’re too quick for me, Charity,” she laughed. “But isn’t he something?”
“He’s not very showy, Anne,” Charity had warned her. “He’s a Quaker, and his religion is very important to him.”
“I know. We’ve been talking about that.” The girl had paused and a look of wonder came into her eyes. “I didn’t know people could enjoy being Christians—the way he does.”
Charles and Paul had watched this relationship grow, and now Charles remarked with a smile, “Looks like this house is going to be turned upside down, Paul. From Tory to Patriot, and from Anglican to Quaker—or maybe even worse. Adam will make shouting Methodists out of us if he has his way!”
****
Paul had read Gilbert Winslow’s journal, then read it again, and one warm afternoon, he spoke of it to Charity. She had come to spend time with Anne, and he had encountered her as she was walking across the yard from the barn with a basket of eggs in her hand.
“Breakfast, Charity?” He took the basket, saying, “Look up there—the first of the purple martins. They’re early.”
As she lifted her head she saw a pair of bluish birds circling the house. “Purple martins. I’ve seen them but didn’t know their names.”
“I built that house up there—see, on that pole?”
She studied him for a moment. “You’re remembering a lot, aren’t you, Paul?”
“Well, more all the time. I met a fellow in town last week whose face was familiar, and I remembered that when I was just a boy he came to our house and plowed our garden. His name was Tom Tillis and he loved to sing folk songs. I remembered that—but other things just aren’t there.”
“It’ll come, don’t worry.”
He sat down and pointed to the seat, “Rest for a minute, Charity. You work all the time.” He looked at her as she sat close to him on the small bench, then said, “I’ve been reading my ancestor’s book. He came over on the Mayflower.”
“Yes. I’ve read it. It’s a wonderful book.”
“ ‘He was a man, all for all. I shall not look upon his like again.’ ” He flushed and wrinkled his brow. “I can remember lines from Shakespeare, but can’t tell you what my first teacher’s name was! Anyway, they don’t make men like that anymore.”
“Oh yes, I think so.”
“Name one!”
“All right,” she responded with a saucy light in her green eyes. “Adam Winslow.”
He thought about Adam, smiled, and nodded. “You have me there. He’s some man! My father thinks there’s nobody like him.”
She traced the design in the pattern of her dress for a moment, then looked up at him and said with a rush, “You could be like him, Paul—if you wanted to.”
“Me?” He stared at her incredulously, threw back his head, and laughed. “I thought you were a bright girl, Charity—but that’s crazy!”
“No, it’s not.” She had bathed that morning, and he caught faint whiffs of lavender as she moved; her skin was almost translucent in the sun. He
had never seen such lashes, long and thick, shading eyes that were sometimes blue-green like the sea. She put her hand on his arm, and if she did not notice it, he did, and his arm tingled under her touch.
“You could be anything you wanted to, Paul. Look what you did on the Neptune. You rose from a battered pressed man to become an officer in the Royal Navy. Why, some men try for years and never manage that!”
He looked at her unbelievingly, still conscious of her touch, and stated flatly, “I didn’t have any choice.”
“Well, you have a choice now, Paul Winslow!” She snatched her hand away, adding, “You could do as much for America as you did for England—but you won’t!”
“I won’t what?” he asked, taken aback by her flash of anger. He didn’t understand her reaction, but he saw that her face was pink with indignation.
“You won’t be an American—because of Blanche Rommey!”
She was sorry the moment the words slipped out, and a wave of scarlet touched her neck and crept into her cheeks. “Oh, Paul! I had no right to say that!”
He grinned at her, saying ruefully, “You do have a temper, Charity! But you’re wrong.”
“You don’t love her?” The question leaped to her lips, and she waited for his reply, a shade of doubt in her eyes.
“Why, it’s not that easy, Charity,” Paul returned. He stripped a splinter from the wooden bench, bent it into a U, then dropped it. “It’s not like I am only one man, is it? Blanche fell in love with Lieutenant Hawke—and now I’m just half of that man. I’m half Paul Winslow. Why, I’m a traitor to her country, Charity! How do you think she’ll feel about that?”
“If she loves you, it won’t matter,” she answered warmly. “A woman doesn’t fall in love with a man’s politics!”
He smiled. “It would be a little awkward, wouldn’t it, for the daughter of a British captain to be in love with a traitor? Play havoc with the social life, I’d venture.”
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 29