The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  Drew refused to be discouraged by the setback. His spirits bolstered with his first convert, he was determined not to give up. He was confident there was an answer; all he had to do was find the right question. He began quizzing Jenny, asking her to describe the townspeople’s response to the new order of life in Edenford.

  She told him they felt like they were living in a prison with guards watching them all the time. They were disgusted with the church services and longed to hear someone preach to them. Some people stopped going to church all together, feeling God had deserted them. Of course, there was no longer any need for town meetings, since everything was decided for them.

  “Meetings!” Drew exclaimed. “Are there any meetings at all?”

  Jenny hesitated.

  Drew pressed. “There were secret meetings before. About Justin pamphlets and things,” he said. “Are the meetings secret? Is that why you’re reluctant to tell me?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “I’m not even supposed to know about them. But James Cooper has a big mouth.”

  A pang hit Drew at the mention of James. There was still the unanswered question of James’ presence in the Matthews’ house. But now was not the time. He let it pass.

  “Jenny, what happens next depends entirely upon you,” Drew said.

  A select group of Edenford men held covert meetings in old Cyrus Furman’s home. Among them were some of the veterans of the previous secret order—David Cooper, Charles Manley, and James Cooper, a recent addition. Since the curate’s arrest and the resulting seizure of the cobbler shop, David Cooper’s back room was no longer available to them. Jenny didn’t know the subject of their meetings, but she knew that only faithful Puritans were invited, a remnant of Edenford believers.

  The shades were pulled as ten men huddled around a single candle, talking in low voices. There was a soft knock on the door. Everyone froze.

  “Relax, men,” the elder Cooper said. “Armed guards don’t knock before busting up a meeting.” To the owner of the home he said, “Cyrus, answer the door.”

  “Why, Miss Jenny,” Cyrus said, “what brings you out so late at night?”

  “May I come in?”

  He opened the door. It swung wider than he’d planned and two people entered the room.

  “You again?”

  James was on his feet, fists at the ready.

  Jenny stepped in front of Drew.

  “James!” the elder Cooper shouted. “I’ll take care of this!”

  “I whipped him once for showin’ his face, and I can do it again!”

  Father grabbed son by the arm, holding him back.

  “You beat him? You didn’t tell me that. You only said you’d seen him.”

  The cobbler took a good look at Drew. Even in the dim light, scrapes and bruises were still visible.

  “What do you want from us?” he asked.

  “I have a message for you.”

  “From?”

  “From Christopher Matthews.”

  “I think you’d better leave,” Cooper said, restraining two people now, his son and himself.

  “Listen to him!” Jenny cried. “He’s telling the truth!”

  “What have you been filling this girl’s head with?”

  “Master Cooper!” Jenny shouted. “I’ll not have you talking about me as if I was some empty-headed mule! At first I didn’t believe Drew either. But he told me something that could have come only from my father. I believe he’s telling the truth.”

  “He probably got whatever it was by torturing the curate!” James said. “I’ve heard about them racks and the scavenger’s daughter where they bind a man’s neck and hands and feet with a piece of iron so he’s pulled into a ball and can’t straighten himself!”

  “That’s enough, James!”

  “Jenny, lives are at stake. Are you sure he’s telling the truth?”

  Jenny looked at Drew.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”

  The elder Cooper studied Drew for a long moment, and in the moment the lives of an entire town hung in the balance.

  “What’s the message?”

  Drew said, “‘Fly to the wilderness.’”

  For over an hour Drew told of his meeting with the imprisoned curate, the failed rescue attempt, and Bishop Laud’s ultimatum, the deadline long since past.

  “It’s just another trick!” James Cooper cried.

  From the stony expression on their faces, it was obvious the younger Cooper was speaking for them all.

  Drew said, “What do I have to gain from being here? How can I hurt you any more than I already have? Of all of us in this room, I have the most to lose.”

  “You got that right,” James said, balling his fists.

  Drew said, “Bishop Laud still has spies in Edenford.”

  That got their attention.

  “His name’s Eliot Venner.”

  “No one in town by that name,” Cyrus Furman said.

  Drew described his former tutor—wild hair, buggy eyes.

  “Mitchell!” Cyrus said.

  The others agreed.

  “His name’s Eliot Venner,” Drew corrected, “He’s looking for me. If he catches me, he’ll kill me, like he killed Shubal Elkins.”

  “How do we know you’re not just makin’ this up?” It was James again.

  “If you don’t believe me, hand me over to Eliot Venner. You’ll never see me again.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me!” James said.

  “Shut up, James,” his father said. To Drew, “I’ll check your story to see if you’re telling the truth. If you’re not, you’ll have to answer to me.”

  Drew nodded.

  For two days Drew hid in the castle ruins. He agreed not to contact anyone in town during that time while the secret committee checked his story. Drew spent the time reading the Bible, praying, and dreaming of Nell. On the second night, as instructed, he slipped into town and knocked on Cyrus Furman’s door, not knowing what to expect on the other side.

  The door opened and he was ushered inside.

  The same men were there as before. James looked no friendlier and the other men were expressionless. The first clue to his fate came in David Cooper’s first words.

  “Have a seat, son,” he said.

  Son. It had a nice sound to it. A man doesn’t use a term like that if he’s about to kill you.

  The cobbler described for Drew how he told Mitchell—or Eliot—that he thought he saw Drew Morgan loitering at the foot of the north bridge.

  “You should have seen that boy’s eyes light up,” Cooper said. “He went running down to the river like a hound after a coon.”

  Cooper hinted that Eliot’s actions alone wouldn’t have convinced them. Something, or someone else, swayed the balance in Drew’s favor. The elder Cooper didn’t elaborate. Instead, he began telling Drew the reason for the secret meetings.

  They were already making plans to flee to the New World.

  Initially, Cooper explained, they approached Lord Chesterfield, telling him of their desire to join John Winthrop’s expedition. Chesterfield responded by threatening them with reprisals and ordering the high constable to post more guards to prevent any attempt to leave. He told them that once the ship tax and fines were paid off, he would hear them again on the matter, but not before.

  “An excuse,” the elder Cooper said. “The king’s determined to rule without parliament, which means he has to find other ways to raise money. If it’s not a ship tax or a fine, it will be something else. We can’t take it anymore. Besides, we’re dying spiritually. Christopher Matthews gave us a vision of a land where we can build a city based on our beliefs, free from the tyranny of tax and Anglican regulations. Ten families have made a covenant. Somehow, God willing, we’re going to the New World.”

  Drew learned that John Winthrop had a fleet of eleven ships. Four would sail from Southampton in March. The other seven would follow a month later. The second fleet would sail from Southampton to
Plymouth where it would pick up colonists from Devonshire and other western counties.

  Drew asked, “Does Lord Chesterfield know when the ships are leaving?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “That means he’ll probably increase the guard in April.”

  “That’s what we were thinking,” the cobbler said.

  “I think I know how to get you to the New World,” Drew said.

  James bristled. “Don’t listen to him. He’s betrayed us before.”

  “Let’s hear your plan, son,” the cobbler said.

  “How many horses and wagons were you going to use to get to Plymouth?”

  “We have no horses or wagons. We’re not a wealthy people, Drew.”

  “Then can you get two horses and wagons on loan? Preferably skittish horses, horses that spook easily.”

  “We might be able to get some from Lord Chesterfield. We could tell him we need to transport a special shipment of serges to Exeter.”

  “Good. One more thing. I’ll need James to help me. It’ll be dangerous, so you might want to think about it first.”

  “You’re gonna do it too?” James asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If you can do it, I can do it.”

  Drew grinned. “I thought you might feel that way.”

  He outlined his plan to the men. They thought it risky for a bunch of wool workers but agreed it was their only hope.

  As always, they left Cyrus Furman’s house one at a time at staggered intervals. Drew was the last one to go, besides David Cooper.

  “I know how much Christopher Matthews loved you,” he said. “I only hope that someday you will forgive me for what I did.”

  The burly cobbler nodded solemnly.

  “I didn’t want to say this while everyone else was here,” Drew said. “But the curate asked me to do one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He asked me to look after Nell and Jenny, to keep them safe.”

  Cooper put a hand on Drew’s shoulder.

  “They’re no longer your concern, son,” he said.

  Drew started to say something. Cooper cut him off.

  “They’re no longer in Edenford. For their safety, I already sent them away.”

  “Where?”

  The cobbler shook his head. “Like I said, they’re no longer your concern.”

  “What’s this?”

  The oversized high constable held a crumpled slip of paper in his hand. A series of numbers were printed on it. Eliot Venner stood opposite him across the high constable’s desk.

  “That dimwitted cobbler’s son was trying to hide it from me. I caught him translating it when I walked in on him at his shop.”

  The high constable rested both hands on his paunch, the note stretched between them. His belly complained. It was still two hours before lunch. He’d never make it until then.

  The message on the paper read: (13/9/22/10/12/18/17/5) (2/24/15/9/6/2/15) (17/5/24/11) (16/26/5/2/1/18/9/2/1) (2/24/15/9/22) (24/13/15/6/9) (10/12/15/2) (9/24/17/2/15).

  The number 3 had been printed and circled in the upper left-hand corner, and there was a P under the first number of the coded message.

  “That’s James’ writing.”

  Eliot leaned over the desk and pointed to the circled 3 and the first letter.

  “And one more thing. Drew Morgan is part of this.”

  “Morgan? He’d have to be out of his mind to come back here.”

  “I recognize the code. He and the bishop used it to communicate with each other.”

  “Then you know how to translate it?”

  Eliot shook his head. “The bishop didn’t teach it to me. As far as I know, only him and Drew used it.”

  The high constable rubbed the middle of his three chins. This was proving to be an interesting morning, something to divert his attention until lunchtime.

  “The numbers stand for letters,” he said. “And number 13 is the letter P.” He sat up. “I’ve got it!” he cried. “The number 1 is the letter A, two is B, and so on.”

  Fat fingers flew upward on his hand as he counted the alphabet to P. He slumped back.

  “That doesn’t work,” he said. “P is the sixteenth letter of the alphabet, not the thirteenth.”

  “Like I said, James Cooper is a dimwit,” said Eliot. “Maybe he got it wrong.”

  The idea sounded reasonable to the high constable. Fingers flew again as he began translating.

  “What do you have?” Eliot asked.

  “MIVJLRQE” said the high constable. “What does the circled 3 mean in the corner mean?”

  “It could be James’ code number,” Eliot suggested. “Drew is 1, someone else is 2, James is 3—”

  “No. James wrote the 3, remember?”

  “It has to be something easy. James ain’t too bright.”

  “That’s it!” the high constable bolted upward. “He wrote the number there because he’s a dolt! It’s a translation aid!”

  Eliot wasn’t following.

  “P is number 13 on the note, right?”

  Eliot nodded.

  “When we counted, P was number 16 in the alphabet.”

  Another nod.

  “Don’t you see?”

  The high constable was relishing the fact that he had solved the mystery before Eliot. Which, in his mind, was not surprising. One of the things he disliked about his job was the continuous association with intellectual and cultural inferiors.

  “Let me make it easy for you,” he said. “What’s the difference between 16 and 13?”

  “Three.”

  “Exactly!”

  A fat, stubby finger poked repeatedly at the circled 3 in the upper corner.

  Eliot’s eyebrows shot upward. He understood.

  The high constable translated the first word again, this time adding three to each number before counting on his fingers. After the first word, he grinned the grin of a triumphant sleuth. When he was finished he read the note aloud.

  “Plymouth. Earlier than scheduled. Early April. More later.”

  “They’re going to bolt!” Eliot cried.

  “Not while I’m high constable. Send the chief guard to me. Come April, there will be more guards in this village than residents.”

  Chapter 22

  Friday, March 19, 1630.

  Ten o’clock at night.

  Two wagons rolled slowly down the road at the end of High Street, between the houses and the cornfield. Holding the reins and walking the horse of the first wagon was Drew Morgan; James Cooper held the reins of the other horse and wagon. A large sheet of canvas covered the cargo of both wagons.

  From beneath the canvas of Drew’s wagon the bald head and scarred face of little Thomas Cooper stuck out. His father, David, sat on the back of the wagon to be driven by James. Drew and James worked to keep their skittish horses quiet. It was too early to make noise.

  Drew patted his side pockets. They were heavily weighted with rocks.

  If the high constable and Eliot had successfully translated the coded message (how could they not? It was obvious), they didn’t expect the townspeople to bolt until April. This was crucial to the success of the plan for three reasons: first, the number of guards would remain low in anticipation of the influx of additional troops in April; second, the timing would be a surprise; and third, the port of departure would be a surprise. The earlier date made the port of departure Southampton, not Plymouth.

  Drew led his horse past the house and out into the open where the road intersected Market Street. Edenford’s major artery stretched before him—to the left was the heart of the town, the village green, and the church building; to the right the south bridge led out of the village. Drew took one last look at the village that held so many memories for him. Then, he turned toward the south bridge. James followed close behind with the other wagon.

  Drew’s horse whinnied. This time he made no attempt to quiet him. They crept slowly toward the bridge. Drew looked back toward t
he village.

  Where is he?

  They were almost to the bridge.

  This won’t do! What good is sneaking out of town if nobody notices?

  Just then, Eliot Venner stumbled out of the town house at the far end of Market Street with a bottle in his hand. He shouted angrily at the people inside and slammed the door.

  Right on time, Eliot, Drew thought.

  Eliot may have been on time, but he wasn’t on course. He turned the wrong way and didn’t see them.

  Where’s he going? His house is this way!

  As loud as he could, Drew coughed. As he did, he stood away from the horse so the staggering Eliot could get a good look at him.

  Eliot turned and squinted his direction.

  “They see us!” Drew shouted.

  With Eliot staring at them, the elder Cooper counted to three, then ducked under the canvas that covered his wagon. Little Thomas lifted his canvas up, counted to three to give Eliot sufficient time to see him, then he ducked under too.

  “Guards! Guards!” Eliot shouted. He ran unsteadily toward the wagons. “Drew Morgan, your mine! It’s just a matter of time!”

  Drew shouted at the wagons.

  “Keep your heads down, everybody, it’s going to be a rough ride!”

  Drew and James jumped onto the wagons, grabbed the reins, and urged the horses on. In a cloud of dust, the wagons quickly disappeared over the south bridge toward Exeter and Plymouth.

  They traveled about half a mile before Drew reined the horses in. Little Thomas and his father jumped out of the backs of the wagons.

  Drew joined them. “They should be close behind,” he said. To Thomas, “Thanks, friend. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Thomas smiled a toothy smile. The burns had left him bald and scarred from head to toe. His joints were stiff; he’d probably never have the flexibility in them he had before the accident. But tonight his spirits were high. He gave Drew a bear hug.

  “He insisted on helping,” said his father, “and riding in your wagon.”

  Cooper and Thomas stepped back.

  “God be with you, Drew.” The cobbler said. To James, “I’ll see you in Honiton.”