The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

“Told you this would be good,” Eliot poked Drew with his elbow.

  Drew didn’t respond.

  The entertainment began after the spectators were ushered into a natural amphitheater along the side of a large ditch that had been cleared of all shrubbery. A large wooden pole stood in the center.

  Suddenly, a wretched donkey bolted in from the right side of the ravine, chased by four dogs. A terrified, screaming monkey was its jockey.

  The crowd roared with laughter as the curious sight streaked in front of them, Eliot the loudest of all. His laughter was as odd as the rest of him, an explosive series of high-pitched bursts.

  Drew thought he sounded like an agitated hyena. Workers at the far end of the ravine scared the donkey into reversing its course and making another pass in front of the crowd, monkey still screaming and hounds nipping at its legs.

  It took several burly men to remove the bear from its cage and chain it to the pole. As they finished, one of them lit some firecrackers and tossed them at its feet. As they exploded, the old bear howled and danced in terror, much to the delight of the crowd. Fresh dogs were loosed, and three of them charged at the bear.

  The spectators grew increasingly animated, shouting obscenities at the bear, urging the dogs on as they dodged the bear’s ferocious swats.

  Drew glanced over at Eliot and saw barbaric anticipation in his eyes as he repeatedly bit his lower lip. A trickle of blood crept down his chin. Drew scanned the crowd. He was surrounded by Eliots—wildeyed, frenzied beasts hungry for violence, crying for blood, anxious for death. It made him sick.

  The bear was holding his ground against the dogs.

  “They send out the old dogs first,” Eliot shouted to Drew, wiping the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “They don’t want the bear to die too quick.”

  The dogs barked and lunged at the bear, occasionally catching a bit of fur. More frightened than hurt, the bear held them off with wild swipes of its enormous paws. For the most part the dogs stayed out of the bear’s reach. One grew a little too careless, and one ferocious swipe sent it sprawling across the dirt. The dog let out a yelp, a few convulsive spasms, and then it was still. Its entire side had been ripped open by the bear’s claw.

  The crowd screamed curses at the bear and demanded more dogs. Three more were released—mastiffs specially trained to attack and kill bears and bulls at such events. They charged the bear as if possessed; their eyes fixed with rage, they snapped and tore at things indiscriminately—the bear, the older dogs, even each other.

  The old brown bear began to tire. There were just too many adversaries. Just as it would swat one dog away, three would tear at its legs. Sensing its fatigue, the dogs began jumping at its head and shoulders, trying to drag it to the ground. The bear flung one of the mastiffs clear out of the arena. The crazed dog hit the ground and rolled several times, but was quickly back on its feet and into the fray, oblivious to its wounds.

  All around Drew spectators began chanting for the bear’s death. Their faces were scarlet, their necks strained, veins bulging, and their eyes were blood red and frenzied. These were ordinary people who worked at a variety of trades in London every day. But on this bright afternoon they were death’s fanatics. The only thing that would satisfy them was the demise of a bear.

  Suddenly, the bear threw off two of the mastiffs that had fastened themselves to its upper torso. Slowly, majestically, it rose to its full height. It was as if it were oblivious to its surroundings. Tall and strong again, it surveyed the sky above the ridge of the amphitheater and let out a long roar. It wasn’t a cry of pain; it was a proud roar, strong, clear, the kind of noble cry it might have made as young cub alone in a field on a spring day.

  The dogs weren’t impressed. They tore at the bear unmercifully. The crowd came to its feet when the dogs managed to pull the bear to the ground. Their mouths red with the bear’s blood, the dogs attacked with even greater frenzy. The people clapped and jumped and cheered.

  “Didn’t I tell you it would be great?” Eliot was ecstatic as he and Drew walked back toward the city.

  Drew couldn’t find it in himself to respond.

  “Wasn’t the best I’ve seen,” Eliot said, mentally comparing it to previous events, “but it was good. Sometimes the bulls fight better than the bears. Why, last summer I saw this one bull stick a dog and throw it all the way—”

  Drew quickened his pace and walked ahead.

  Eliot stopped and stared after him.

  “Guess bearbaitin’ ain’t for everyone.” Catching up with Drew, he said, “But I was right about Rosemary, wasn’t I?”

  Monday morning dawned bright, and Drew was up early with an emotional hangover. On the one hand, he was excited because he would receive his first assignment from the bishop today; on the other, he had dreamed of bearbaiting all night and was still haunted by the bear’s death. In his dream the bear always looked directly at him, as if Drew could do something to prevent its death. Drew was disgusted with himself for not being able to shed the uneasy feeling, but he couldn’t get the bear’s face out of his mind.

  Bishop Laud was already in the garden, on his knees, wielding a trowel, fashioning wells around the base of his roses.

  “Andrew!” the bishop greeted him enthusiastically. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  Drew’s response was politely unenthusiastic.

  The bishop sized up his condition. “Been out with Eliot again, have we?”

  Drew nodded.

  “Hangover?”

  Drew shook his head.

  “None of my business, huh?” The cleric rose, brushing the dirt from his knees. He was obviously disappointed. “Well, we won’t get into that now. You know how I feel. On another subject, I received a letter from your father.”

  This got Drew’s attention. He had not had any direct communication with his family since he ran away.

  “He was responding to my letter. The one I sent when we returned Pirate.”

  When Drew left Morgan Hall after his grandfather’s death, he rode straight to London House. When he arrived, he explained to Bishop Laud the circumstances that prompted his return to London. Upon the bishop’s advice, Pirate was returned to Lord Morgan the next day. That way Drew could not be accused of horse theft. Otherwise, the bishop was delighted to receive Drew into his house, even under less than ideal circumstances. He had listened in rapt attention as Drew described how the bishop’s book had saved his life. Bishop Laud showed no anger that his book had been damaged. In fact, he was thrilled that the book was the instrument of Drew’s salvation.

  In the days that followed, the bishop kept Drew constantly by his side. He even had a bed for him moved into his bedchamber. Drew felt strange with all the attention the bishop was giving him. Yet never in his life had he been given the attention and care the bishop showed him, and he liked it.

  Late at night in the darkness of the bedchamber they would talk of the days of King Arthur and of the Crusades and of life at Cambridge. To Drew’s delight, the bishop would reveal dirty little secrets about some of the prim and stodgy professors at Cambridge who had intimidated him.

  When Drew began carousing with Eliot, he was given his own bedroom. But the other bed was not removed from Laud’s bedchamber, and Drew still slept there whenever the bishop and he got carried away discussing the days of chivalry.

  For the most part, Drew had never been happier. The thought of his grandfather’s death and losing Morgan Hall to Philip was still painful, but he was very content with his new life and home. The large round cook who had greeted him during his initial visit to London House still giggled and bubbled every time he saw him. Drew thought him strange but came to love the meals he fixed. And Timmins was his usual stoic self, not speaking to Drew unless necessary, which suited Drew fine. In short, London House had become his home, and Drew hadn’t thought of his family or Morgan Hall until the bishop mentioned the letter from his father.

  “Don’t you want to know what he says?” the bish
op asked.

  “Not especially.”

  “Well, he doesn’t say much,” the bishop continued, ignoring Drew’s remark. “Your grandfather’s funeral was well attended.”

  “I’ll bet it was a real celebration for my mother.”

  “And he thanks us for returning the horse.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, me actually.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me directly at all, did he?”

  The bishop hesitated.

  “I thought so,” Drew said. “It doesn’t matter. I have a new life now, and I’m anxious to start on my first assignment.”

  The bishop stared at Drew. He looked as if he was about to say something pastoral but then changed his mind.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s get started. I have something for you in my study.”

  Bishop Laud’s private study was impressive, much like Admiral Morgan’s library at Morgan Hall except that the titles were more theological.

  Bishop Laud handed him a Bible. “I want you to have this,” he said. “It’s a gift.”

  Drew leafed through the pages of the Bible.

  “Have you ever read the Bible before?”

  “No. This is the first time I’ve even held one.”

  If the bishop was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to read this one, but that’s not why I’m giving it to you. Look at the front matter.”

  Drew turned to the title page.

  “This is the version King James printed, oh, let’s see—” the bishop paused while he calculated in his head, “—almost twenty years ago. I want you to have this specific Bible for two reasons: First, it will drive the Puritans crazy. They’ll think you are a heretic for using it and will try to convert you to reading the Geneva Bible. They are an unreasoning, stubborn people when it comes to this new translation. If you pretend to be won over by their arguments, you will gain their sympathy. Use that to your advantage. But the second and more important reason I’m giving you this Bible is that you will use it to communicate with me secretly.”

  Drew looked up, confused.

  The bishop explained. “I’ve developed a simple code for you to use whenever you send a message. The code is based on this version of the Bible. I’ll be able to use the same version to decode your messages. To anyone else, the message will look like nonsense.”

  The bishop proceeded to teach Drew the encryption method he had devised. His method was based on assigning numbers to the various parts of the Bible. First, the books of the Bible were numbered, Genesis being number one and Revelation number sixty-six. The chapters and verses were already numbered, and, if necessary, the words in each verse could be numbered. Based on this system, any message could be relayed by stringing words from the Bible together as if they had been cut out and pasted to a separate sheet of paper.

  “Ideally, you will use entire verses or phrases from the Bible,” the bishop continued. “For example, say you uncover someone we’re looking for. Your message might look like this.”

  The bishop handed Drew a scrap of paper. A series of numbers was written on it: (43/1/45/8–11).

  “Now remember,” the bishop prompted, “book, chapter, verse, words.”

  Drew opened his Bible to the table of contents and counted down to the forty-third book. “The Gospel According to John,” he said aloud.

  “Correct.”

  Drew turned to the page number indicated in the table of contents. “First chapter, verse 45,” he said aloud again. He counted past the first seven words. “The message reads, ‘We have found him.’”

  “Excellent!” the bishop exclaimed. “The better you know the Bible, the easier it will be for you to form messages. Here, try this one. It’s a message from me to you.”

  The bishop handed him another scrap of paper. Printed on it was this encrypted message: (6/1/17/20–23) (40/5/14/13) (5/1/7/5–6).

  Drew wrinkled his brow and set to work. The sixth book of the Bible was Joshua chapter 1, verse 17, words 20–23 read, “God be with thee.” He jotted these down on the piece of paper. Then, from the gospel of Matthew came a single word, “on.” He added the word to the previous phrase. Next came two words from Deuteronomy, “your journey.”

  “Read it aloud,” the bishop instructed.

  “God be with thee on your journey.” Without looking up he said, “This is great! But why didn’t Eliot teach me this?”

  “Eliot doesn’t know about it,” the bishop said, putting his hand on Drew’s shoulder. “This is a personal code. You and I are the only ones who know about it.”

  Drew tensed. The bishop felt his reaction and changed the subject.

  “Your first assignment is in Norwich. See what you can find out about a man named Peter Laslett. He’s the curate of Norwich, and I suspect him of being a Puritan sympathizer.”

  The curate of Norwich was a humorless man of fifty who took his faith seriously; in fact, Peter Laslett took everything seriously. He was convinced that too much fun was not a good thing and seemed determined to provide a counterbalance in his church services. The hymns plodded along at a miserable pace, their tempo slow enough to reduce the heartbeat of everyone singing them. But the hymns galloped along compared to Laslett’s sermons.

  When the curate of Norwich preached, he paused at the end of every phrase. His eyes rolled back as if he were searching a dark closet in the back of his head for his next words. After enduring one of Laslett’s services, Drew was confident that if he was successful in removing this man from the pulpit, all of Norwich would rise up and call him blessed.

  Following the first service he attended, Drew approached the curate, requesting assistance. For his first assignment, Drew chose one of Eliot’s most successful schemes. He arrived in Norwich dirty, ragged, and hungry. In preparation for his arrival, Drew had worn the same clothes for a week and hadn’t eaten for two days. Nothing gets ’em more than hearing your belly growl, Eliot had said. It’s something you can’t fake.

  Drew told the curate his mother and father had died when he was young and the only life he knew was begging on the streets of London. But times being the way they were, beggars couldn’t live on handouts anymore and were forced to steal in order to eat. Some hardened criminals caught him working their territory and beat him up, forcing him to steal for them. Tired of all the thieving and lies, he ran away from London. All he wanted now was to find a place where he could earn a decent, honest living.

  Laslett bought it.

  The more miserable you are when you come to them, the more they like it, Eliot had instructed Drew. That way it makes a better story come testimony time.

  A widower, Laslett invited Drew to stay with him. However, in Norwich Drew didn’t use his real name. Laslett knew him as Gilbert Fuller. When the church ladies heard there was a second eligible bachelor living with the curate, they had no end of dinner invitations from lonely women and mothers with daughters of marrying age. One such invitation came from an elderly spinster named Mistress Adams.

  Drew made a few slips at Mistress Adams’ house during dinner one Sunday afternoon. Her brother Orville, a London undertaker, was visiting her, and he grew suspicious when Drew couldn’t recollect the names of some of London’s backstreets. Drew claimed brain deprivation from a prolonged lack of food, or possibly his forgetfulness was due to the life threatening mystery malady he barely survived the previous winter. Everyone seemed satisfied with his explanation, and Drew forgot all about it. As the days continued, Drew began to feel a strain from remembering the lies he was weaving.

  A few weeks later when Drew rose and dressed for church, the curate was absent from the house. It seemed odd to Drew, but he figured something important had arisen. He was sure he would learn the reason for the curate’s absence at church. The moment he walked through the doorway, Drew saw that several violations that he had noted for his report to Bishop Laud had been corrected. The most noticeable was the sanctuary altar. It had been moved to the far east
end of the church, and there was a crude, hastily built railing around it. Then, when the service began, Peter Laslett appeared wearing a minister’s surplice. It was the first time he had worn one since Drew arrived. Drew was surprised but not alarmed.

  As was the custom in Norwich, the hymns droned on as they did every Sunday. Drew settled in for another ministerial marathon as the Reverend Peter Laslett began reading his text from Jeremiah 9. As he read, he shot quick glances at Drew when he paused at the end of sentences.

  “Let everyone take heed of his neighbor,” the curate read, “and trust you not in any brother, for every brother will use deceit, and every friend will deal deceitfully.”

  Laslett wiped his brow, then continued.

  “And everyone will deceive his friend, and will not speak the truth: for they have taught their tongues to speak lies, and take great pains to do wickedly. Thine habitation is in the midst of deceivers; because of their deceit they refuse to know me, says the LORD. Therefore thus saith the LORD of hosts: Behold, I will melt them, and try them, for what else should I do for the daughter of my people? Their tongue is as an arrow shot out, and speaketh deceit: one speaketh peaceably to his neighbor with his mouth, but in his heart he lieth in wait for him.”

  The curate looked up. It was several moments before he spoke, but when he did, his tone was measured and deliberate. “Brothers and sisters, you have heard the Scriptures speak of the slandering neighbor. I believe we have such a neighbor among us today. A neighbor of deceit. One who lies in wait, hoping to trap us.” Laslett spoke in his usual turtle pace, but he had the attention of everyone in the congregation.

  “This false neighbor is one who sought our help, and we took him in. He shared the hospitality of our homes and ate from our tables, but he is not one of us.”

  Peter Laslett looked straight at Drew, his courage building as he spoke. “Claiming to be the product of London streets, he knows not the street names. Claiming to have received no education, he uses the vocabulary of a person who is well read. Claiming he has no family but street dwellers, he shows remarkable table manners. Brothers and sisters in Christ, I fear we have in our midst a neighbor who is in league with the Devil, that master deceiver.”