The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  American Family Portrait

  Book 1

  The Puritans

  By Jack Cavanaugh

  Copyright 2010 Jack Cavanaugh

  Smashwords Edition

  THE PURITANS

  Copyright 2010 by Jack Cavanaugh

  epub-ISBN 978-1-4524-6175-5

  First edition published by Victor Books Copyright 1994.

  Reprinted by RiverOak Copyright 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations in books and critical reviews.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The King James Version and Geneva Bible of 1560, both which are Public Domain. Author has modernized some terms for easier understanding. Italics in Scripture quotations are added by the author for emphasis.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  This series about an American family is dedicated to my family:

  William J. Cavanaugh = Marjorie Ellen Pepper

  Sandra Cavanaugh = Mike Cvercko

  Nick

  Kelly

  Jack Cavanaugh = Marlene Rae Brand

  Elizabeth

  Keri

  Sam

  David Cavanaugh = Frances Strong

  Patrick

  Joshua

  Jessica

  Chapter 1

  The best thing that ever happened to Drew Morgan occurred as a result of the worst thing he ever did in his life. Drew Morgan found love and faith when he caused godly people to suffer.

  For most of his life he agonized under the weight of his guilt— even after the people forgave him, even after he married one of them. It wasn’t until the last months of his life that he found relief from his torment.

  Drew Morgan’s feelings of guilt vanished the day he received a revelation from God. It was a simple revelation, comprising a single sentence:

  GOD IS AT HIS BEST WHEN MAN IS AT HIS WORST

  As revelations go, it couldn’t begin to compare with the one received by John the Apostle on the Isle of Patmos. However, for Drew Morgan it meant the release of a lifelong burden.

  For centuries after his death, the descendants of Drew Morgan kept his revelation and his legacy alive. Once each generation the Morgan family held a special ceremony to appoint a new guardian of the family faith. At the ceremony the previous guardian and keeper of the Morgan family Bible would appoint an heir to preserve the family’s spiritual heritage, just as Drew Morgan, their founding father, did in 1654. The heir’s name would then be added to the list of former guardians of the faith in the front of the Bible. It would become his responsibility to ensure that the faith of the Morgan family survived another generation.

  The highlight of the ceremony was the telling of the story of the Morgan family faith. By tradition, it always began with the same words, “The story of the Morgan family faith begins at Windsor Castle, on the day Drew Morgan met Bishop Laud. For it was on that day that Drew Morgan’s life began its downward direction.”

  Drew winced as the massive wooden door groaned and popped on its iron hinges, sounding like an old man’s bones after a long night’s sleep. He glanced behind him. Nothing. The guard with the large jaw was nowhere in sight. Holding his breath, he tugged again, as if by holding his breath he could silence the door’s complaint. With just enough room to stick his head through, Drew leaned into the doorway. A long hallway spread before him. At the far end a floor-to-ceiling cathedral window stretched proudly where the passageway split at right angles leading to other parts of the castle.

  Nothing stirred. Drew pulled his head out. The vast courtyard that lay between him and the castle walls was clear of activity. Good. Everyone was still at the reception. He was sure he’d slipped away without anyone noticing.

  Clutching his bundle under one arm, Drew yanked open the door with the other, leaped across the threshold, and pulled the door closed behind him, quickly but quietly.

  For a long moment he stood with his back against the rough timber of the door, cradling his cloth bundle against his chest. The scene before him was magnificent. Exactly what he was looking for. Drew Morgan found himself standing in a different world.

  The scene was one of glorious chivalry, unlike the shallow realm that was currently prancing about in St. George’s Hall. They were a fellowship of the self-important—crusaders of flattery, wealth, and status. The world represented in this hallway was of a more noble England—the age of Camelot when men believed in courage, virtue, and honor, and women were beautiful and chaste.

  The soft, late afternoon sun streamed through the imposing window, bathing the hall in a sacred light. Drew felt as if he were walking on holy ground.

  Artifacts of the Arthurian era were exhibited the length of the hall, interrupted only by a pair of double doors on each side. Mounted shields heralded the past glory of noble families: a moorcock with wings extended represented the family Hallifax, a lion brandishing a battle-ax atop a castle turret announced the family Gilbert, and the Swayne family’s griffin raised its sword triumphant in victory. These were crests a man could be proud of, not like the Morgan family crest—a collared reindeer. What evil knight would be intimidated by a collared reindeer? To make matters worse, the reindeer had a sneer on its lips. Who ever heard of a sneering reindeer?

  Something on the Gilbert shield caught his eye. He stepped closer to examine it. There were four long indentations on the lower right quadrant. Drew’s fingers reverently explored the gouges. The scars of battle. Did the blow that made these marks fell the warrior? Did the next blow end his life?

  The click of a latch startled Drew. It came from around a corner at the end of the hallway. He heard a door open, then steps and voices. His eyes darted back and forth. Which way should he go? Back out to the courtyard? No, the guard with the large jaw might be out there. The voices grew louder. Drew ran to the hallway door on the left. Locked. The voices grew louder. He dashed across the hallway and tried the other door. The latch yielded. The door swung inward. Drew slipped through the opening and closed the door behind him, but not completely; he didn’t want the click of the latch giving him away.

  “I will meet her tonight in that little room next to the buttery,” one voice said. A young male voice.

  “Really?” The second voice sounded younger than the first.

  “Of course! She wants me to kiss her.”

  Drew peeked through the sliver of an opening. The bodies of the voices came into view as they passed the doorway. Two servant boys younger than Drew. Both carried large silver trays covered with silver lids. Each lid had the figure of a stag’s head for a handle. The aroma of venison drifted through the sliver in the doorway.

  “Did she say she wanted to kiss you?” the younger boy asked.

  “Of course not, horsehead!”

  “Then how do you know?”

  The older boy’s voice deepened. “When you get to be my age, you just know when a woman wants to be kissed.”

  Drew watched as the younger boy balanced his tray with a shaky hand and fumbled for the door latch leading outside. The older boy told him to hurry up but offered no help. A moment later, they were gone. Only the smell of the venison remained.

  Drew heaved a s
igh. Then, turning around, he gasped at what he saw.

  The shields in the hallway had inspired him, but the contents of this room overwhelmed him. Standing erect against the gold inlaid walls and stretching around the entire perimeter of the room was an army of medieval armor lined elbow to elbow. In awe Drew’s gaze glided from one suit to the next all the way around the room. There was armor of many styles from England, France, and Germany. Gazing from suit to suit, Drew moved to the center of the room in circles, like a ballet dancer pirouetting in slow motion.

  Drew’s bundle fell to the floor with a thud. He was awestruck. It was as if he were surrounded by knights. So this is what it was like to be King Arthur, he thought. Suddenly, he became Sir Morgan, knight of the Round Table.

  “Fellow knights,” he boomed in a voice he was sure King Arthur would use in a similar situation, “thank you for answering my call. I have it on good authority that the location of the Holy Grail has been revealed to us. As you know, the search for the Grail is no ordinary quest; only he whose heart is pure and upright will succeed.”

  Sir Morgan scanned the armor until he found a French suit. Strutting toward it, he said, “Lancelot, you are without doubt the most accomplished knight among us. However, you failed to control your lust for Guinevere. You are not worthy to make the quest.”

  “Sir Gawain—”

  Drew scanned the room looking for a Gawain. When his eyes fell on a black suit of German origin, he halted midsentence. It was so exquisite that it pulled the imaginary knight to it as to a magnet. Not only could Drew see himself in the highly polished surface, but he could make out the details of the room behind him. The armor was flawless, the legacy of a master craftsman who had died hundreds of years earlier. Drew ran his fingertips lightly across the breastplate and lance rest. He lifted the visor and was almost disappointed not to see the face of a knight staring back at him.

  This helmet needs the head of a knight!

  Drew solemnly lifted the helmet from the shoulders of the empty suit of armor. It came off with surprising ease. Then he ceremoniously raised the helmet over his head and tried it on. There was a moment of darkness, and then Drew viewed the world from the perspective of a knight. With only a small slit in the visor, the view was restricted, but to Drew it was glorious. He laughed with excitement, and the sound echoed around his head. He looked at the other knights surrounding him. Looking at the now headless suit of armor, he grinned and thought, Why not?

  Placing the helmet on the floor, he took the suit of armor apart. He stripped down to his underclothes, piling his waistcoat, doublet, and breeches in a heap. Not knowing how to proceed, he decided to work toes to head. First, he placed the plate covered sabaton on his feet, the greaves on his lower legs, and the curved cuisses on his upper legs. He swung the hip defense, the skirt of tasses, around his waist and fastened it on the side. Then he donned the breastplate. He wrapped the upper pauldron and lower vambrace on each arm, joining them at the elbows with small cupped couters. The gorget was placed around his throat like a necklace of small curved plates chained together.

  With each piece of armor, Drew felt a transformation taking place. The armor gave him a feeling of authority and courage he had never experienced before. There was no doubt in his mind that if a dragon entered the room, he could slay it. If a maiden was in danger, he could rescue her. Single-handedly he could defeat any enemy who dared challenge king or country.

  The transformation was almost complete. All that was lacking was the helmet. The room echoed with the clanking of armor as he reached for the headpiece. To his dismay, he couldn’t get past his knees. He straightened up, adjusted the armor, and tried again, but he got no closer to the helmet. Some knight, he thought. I can’t even dress myself!

  With great effort, Drew got down on his knees, picked up the helmet, and placed it over his head. His vision narrowed to a slit. There. I did it. Getting up again, however, proved to be an even more difficult task. Steadying himself with his left hand, he managed to swing his right leg forward. With his foot planted, he pushed himself up. He gained his footing, but not his balance. He staggered around the room like a stunned combatant who had just received a heavy blow. Finally, he was able to steady himself. Sir Morgan the Brave stood tall and proud in the company of his fellow knights.

  Now for a weapon and shield. After all, a knight is naked without his sword. Drew clanked over to a broadsword mounted on the wall below a shield bearing the coat of arms of the Buckingham family.

  Just then the outside door slammed. Someone was coming! He heard voices again, this time much older than the boys who had passed by earlier. Although the person who was speaking was without doubt a grown man, there was a noticeable whine in his voice.

  The voices grew louder. “Let’s go in here,” another voice said. “I don’t want anyone overhearing us.”

  Drew quickly clanked toward the wall and joined the ranks of his fellow knights lining the perimeter of the room. On the way he did his best to kick his pile of clothes behind the armor.

  At that instant, the door of the room swung open. Drew did his best to suppress his breathing and calm his racing heart. The slightest fidget would cause the armor to creak.

  He could hear what the men were saying but couldn’t see them at first, his vision restricted by the helmet. There were only two voices. The second voice was pitched higher, but it had an unmistakable sound of condescending authority in it.

  “Are you certain Lord Chesterfield is loyal?” the high-pitched voice asked.

  A moment of silence. Drew guessed the answer to the question was a nod because of the next question.

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard him talking to Lord North during Holy Week,” the whiny voice replied. “They talked about the trouble those … those Puritans were causing in Essex. I heard him tell North—”

  “—Lord North,” the high-pitched voice corrected.

  “—Lord North that the Puritans in Devonshire were hard workers and that as long as they produced good quality wool serges he would leave them alone.”

  The two men entered Drew’s field of vision. The man with the whining voice was a commoner; his clothes were clean, but those of a servant. He had huge black eyebrows that bobbed up and down when he spoke. The other was a clergyman. He walked with his hands clasped in front of him, resting on a rather large paunch.

  It was then that the cleric noticed the cloth bundle in the middle of the room. Drew suppressed a groan. He’d forgotten about his bundle! With no little effort, the clergyman bent over and picked it up. Turning the bundle over several times, he examined it and then began peeling away the layers of cloth. At the center, he found a book. He flipped the pages. As he did, a wry smile crossed his face.

  “What is it, Your Grace?” the commoner asked.

  “Nothing of consequence,” replied the cleric. He began to rewrap the book, then stopped, frozen a moment in thought. He scanned the perimeter of the room, beginning with the wall opposite Drew. His eyes traveled along the wall to the corner, then down the back wall. Drew leaned his head as far back in the helmet as he could without moving the armor. The cleric’s scan traveled down the row toward him. A shiver shot up Drew’s spine. Was it his imagination, or did the cleric’s gaze hesitate when it passed him?

  With a sharp intake of air and a slap of the book, the cleric said, “Well, Elkins, we had best get back to the reception before we’re missed. Lord Chesterfield’s statement isn’t enough. I want proof of his loyalty. I’ll expect another report when I come to Devonshire for the hunt.”

  Drew watched the men until they were out of his field of vision. He listened as the door opened and closed. Still, he didn’t move until he heard the outer door open and close. All was silent again.

  For the second time that afternoon, Drew had escaped detection. He let loose a long sigh and stepped forward to give himself maneuvering room. He’d better get out of the armor and return to the reception. He felt good about himself. He’d
handled two near captures with the cool dispatch of a seasoned knight. Actually, not too bad for someone with no real train—

  “Halt, Sir Knight!”

  Drew wheeled to his left and came face-to-face with the clergyman who was still holding his book. An instant later the door swung open, and the man named Elkins charged in, “You was right, Your Holiness!” he yelled, pointing at Drew.

  The two men advanced toward him with unconcealed amusement. Drew backed away, but as he did, his heel caught on a piece of clothing that hadn’t been kicked back far enough. With arms flailing, Drew tumbled backward, falling against the suit of armor next to him. A series of crashes followed. First Drew, then a cascade of armor crashed to the floor as one suit hit the next in domino fashion. With a single misstep the valiant Sir Morgan was felled, taking a fourth of his fellow knights with him.

  Lying on the floor, with the perspective of his visor all Drew could see were the vaults on the ceiling. He struggled unsuccessfully to get up. He was helpless, like a bug on its back.

  There was a rustling of cloth before a round red face entered his field of vision. The cleric was on his hands and knees, peering into the slit of the visor.

  “Now then, let’s see if our fallen knight has a face,” said the cleric.

  The visor on the helmet was raised, and Drew came face-to-face with the clergyman. The man’s eyes bulged slightly but otherwise were clear and sharp. He sported a wide mustache streaked with gray and a fashionable beard, the kind worn by the king, covering only the chin and combed to a point at the tip.