The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You come like locusts, you white men,” he said staring hypnotically at the visitors. “Soon the People will have no place to put their feet. You talk about Great God in the sky, but is He only the white man’s God? Does He not make the People as well?”

  “He is the God of all men, King Philip,” Winslow answered quietly.

  “Then does He let one of His children rob the other? The Wampanoag fathers are not so cruel to their sons! He is cruel, this Jesus God!”

  John Sassamon spoke up then in his clear baritone voice. “No, Jesus is not unjust. He died for the sins of all men, red and white. He longs for all His children to walk in love with one another.”

  Philip shot a malevolent glance at the young man, and fairly spat out his next words: “The white man robs us, takes our land and pushes us into the sea! How can you call this love? You have forsaken the People, and can see only the white man’s way!”

  Philip’s thinly veiled hatred of Christianity, especially of the Christian missionaries who were pulling away some of his best warriors, was no secret. To Philip, John Sassamon was a turncoat of the vilest sort, and from that moment, he turned from the young Indian, ignoring him completely.

  “You have been paid for your land, King Philip,” Winslow said, but he knew the words were meaningless to the man. Indians never understood ownership of land in the English sense. Their idea of signing a deed to real estate, usually in return for a specified number of axes, kettles, matchcoats, or mackinaws, was to share it with the palefaces, not to move out; they regarded the price as rent, to be repeated every so often.

  Philip listened sullenly as Winslow pleaded with him, stating the case for the white man in the fairest terms, but finally when all was said, it was obvious that the smoldering hatred in Philip was not quenched.

  “We must go before it gets too dark to travel,” Winslow said, and they took their leave of the surly chief, to hurry along the trail.

  “We’ll not get back to Middleborough by dark,” John remarked.

  “No, but we can stay the night with Alden,” Winslow said.

  They walked as fast as Rachel could go for two hours, but the sun was behind the low range of hills to the south when they turned off the trail to Jude Alden’s farm. He was not expecting them, but when they came into the clearing cut out of the large oaks where his snug house was set, he came out at Winslow’s hail.

  “Mr. Winslow—” he said, then peering behind caught sight of the two behind him. “Well, Rachel, this is a surprise.”

  He did not acknowledge John. Rachel went up to him and said, “Hello, Jude. Can you take in three tired travelers tonight? You remember John Sassamon.”

  Alden hesitated, glaring at the Indian, then nodded. “Of course! Come in and we’ll have some tea and a little bite of food.”

  They filed into the small house, and he put his musket down and busied himself with the food. He talked steadily, mostly with Winslow, but he was very conscious of his other two guests.

  He could not disguise his suspicion of Sassamon, and Rachel was grieved to see the covert glance of distrust he gave the Indian who stood silently with his back against the wall.

  But he was most aware, she saw with some pleasure, of her. He listened to her grandfather, even made replies, but he could not keep his eyes off her. Rachel was accustomed to attention from young men, but as he poured the tea and they sat down to eat, she felt a sudden pride that he was so captivated by her.

  “God, we thank you for this food—Amen!” Jude said quickly, and they were all caught off guard by the brevity of it.

  Gilbert laughed and said as he cut a slice of beef from the large portion in the platter, “That’s your grandfather speaking there, Jude.” He referred to John Alden who had courted and won Priscilla Mullins on board the Mayflower. “He was a devout man, but had no time for long prayers—or sermons, either! I recall he said once to Governor Bradford’s face after a three-hour sermon, which was not one of the governor’s best: ‘Yer pardon, Governor, fer goin’ to sleep, but yer should take note of the oyster.’ Well, Bradford stared at him, completely mystified, and finally he asked, ‘The oyster? Why the oyster?’ And John looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Because, sir, the beast knows when to open—and when to shut!’ ”

  Jude laughed louder than the others and said, “I believe it of him, Mr. Winslow. I miss him very much.”

  “So do I, Jude,” Winslow said quietly. He traced a figure on the table with his finger, then looked up and said, “They were a goodly people, the Firstcomers.”

  “Yourself, too, Mr. Winslow,” Alden nodded at once.

  “No, I was the black sheep, John.” Gilbert Winslow shook his head sadly. “I could tell you some of my sinful past that would curl your hair, if I so chose.”

  “I’ve always wanted curly hair, Grandfather,” Rachel piped up suddenly. “Please tell us about those times.”

  Winslow seldom spoke of his part in the settlement of Plymouth, but he did that night. He did not spare himself, for he had not been aboard the Mayflower voluntarily, but was fleeing from the King’s Justice. He told them how he had entered the service of Lord North, fleeing the life of a ministerial student at Cambridge to pursue fame and fortune with one of England’s most powerful lords. He told of Lady Cecily North, the beautiful aristocrat he had fallen in love with, and Rachel longed to ask him more about her, but was afraid to interrupt.

  “I joined Bradford and the Pilgrims in Holland with one idea in my mind,” Gilbert said with a sad look in his fine eyes. “I was to ferret out William Brewster, one of the founders of the congregation, so I became a spy.”

  “A spy, sir? I can hardly believe it!” Alden exclaimed.

  “Then you do not know the depravity of the human heart,” Winslow smiled. “But there is a worse thing; I gained the love of a pure young woman in the group in order to get myself into the inner circle.”

  He went on to tell how when the choice had to be made, he had fought a duel with Lady North’s admirer, Lord Roth, and had killed him in a duel to protect the young woman and the congregation.

  “So I fled England on the same ship with the congregation, but I hated God!”

  “What happened then, Grandfather?”

  Winslow spoke slowly, seeming to live over the days when they had fought for survival, with what they called simply the general sickness, killing over half their number the first winter. He told how he had been profoundly influenced by the sacrificial lives of Bradford and others, and how he had finally found Jesus Christ as his Savior in a blinding blizzard, as God revealed himself.

  “Tell about the young woman, about Grandmother,” Rachel insisted.

  Gilbert Winslow leaned forward, put his chin on his folded hands, and thought. Finally he said, “She was the loveliest thing on God’s earth.” Then he turned his head and there were tears in his eyes as he said, “You are very much like her, Rachel. Very much. Oh, you don’t look like her at all, but her spirit has come to you.” He hesitated so long they thought he was finished; then he said quietly, “All that was good about your father came from her—his generosity, his sympathy with the downtrodden, his wit—and all that was wrong came from me—from the Winslow blood!”

  “No! I don’t believe that!” Rachel reached over and took his hands in hers, gripping them fiercely. “You mustn’t say that!”

  The candle was guttering in the pewter holder as he finished, and he looked around in shock. “I can’t believe it! I’ve never told some of this to a soul!”

  “I’m glad you did!” Rachel said, putting her arms around him. “It’s wonderful to have a hero for a grandfather!”

  He laughed in embarrassment and got up, “Well the ‘hero’ is dead on his feet. Shall I sleep in the loft, Jude?”

  “Yes. Rachel can have the bedroom. But there’s only room for two in the loft—” he turned a hostile eye toward Sassamon.

  “I will sleep in the barn,” the Indian replied impassively.

  Jude hesitated
, then continued blandly, “I’ve got to see to the new calf first. Just a few hours old, and can hardly eat.”

  Rachel glanced from Jude to Sassamon, whose face betrayed no hint of anger at Jude’s rudeness. She hesitated, as if making a decision, then turned back to Jude.

  “Let me go with you, Jude!” she pleaded, just as he’d known she would. She loved all animals, especially baby ones, and she skipped over to go outside the door, calling back, “You sleep well, Gilbert Winslow; I want to hear more about this Lady Cecily North!”

  She heard her grandfather’s loud laugh as they stepped outside and took the path that led to the small hay shed fifty feet from the house. He opened the door and held the candle high so that she could see.

  “Oh, what a darling!” she cried, and ran at once to stroke the tiny calf wobbling across the straw. “How beautiful!”

  Jude Alden put the candle on a stool, and came to stand over her. “Yes,” he said with a smile. “A darling—and very beautiful.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm, and confusion swept her. Alden reached down and pulled her to her feet, and she felt his strong arms go around her. As he pulled her close, she whispered, “No—Jude!”

  But he said again, “You are very beautiful, Rachel—more so all the time!” She was intensely aware of his male strength as he tightened his arms, pressing her even more closely to his chest. “I think about you all the time, you know. Stuck out here by myself in this wilderness! Every night I go to sleep thinking of you.”

  She began to tremble, filled with a fear of wrongdoing, but at the same time dizzy with the raging emotion that had suddenly risen in her. She lifted her head, and in the flickering light of the candle, he saw her lips frame his name: Jude! She felt her arms go around his neck, and she wondered at her boldness, but it was almost as if it were another, and not she herself, who was responding to his kiss.

  He released her slowly, and as she slipped from his arms, he said, “I’ve never known a woman like you, Rachel.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he did not. Suddenly she remembered what she had heard said of him, that he was something of a ladies’ man, and the thought shamed her. “I’d better go inside, Jude,” she said quietly.

  Then he said, “Have you ever thought of marrying, Rachel?”

  She stared at him, then said, “Every girl thinks of that.” Then the quick sense of humor came to her and she quipped, “You’d better ask Betsy Small, Jude. Her father’s got a big farm he’s going to give for her dowry—big enough that you won’t mind her being so thin!”

  He smiled but said at once, “I’ve got a bad reputation, haven’t I, Rachel? About women and about being ambitious.”

  “There is talk—about both.”

  “About the first,” Alden said easily, “I must confess that I’ve been lax—but that’s over. About the second, I plead guilty. I see nothing wrong in having things. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It depends on how you prosper—and what you do with the money when you get it.”

  “I’ll spend it,” he smiled. “You think I’d enjoy sitting around counting it? No, I’ll work hard for a few more years, then I’ll live the good life—travel, go places, meet people!”

  He had touched on a longing that she had never let another soul know of—her desire to travel, but she did not let a flicker of this yearning show in her eyes.

  Then he said, “What about you, Rachel? What do you want?”

  She bit her lip, then shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Jude. I suppose I’m trying to find out.”

  He looked at her in the darkness and said, “Maybe we can help each other to find our way, Rachel.”

  “Maybe, Jude.” She turned and they walked out into the night; then she went to her room and tossed fitfully on the straw mattress.

  The next morning they left early and on the way home, Gilbert said to her out of John’s hearing, “You decide on Jude?”

  She stared at him, then laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past you to climb out of the upstairs window and creep on your hands and knees to eavesdrop on us.”

  “I would if I thought it would help you,” he said simply.

  She took his hand and squeezed it, saying, “Tell me about Cecily North.” Then she added with an odd smile, “I don’t know about Jude. I’ll tell you as soon as I know.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OUT OF THE PAST

  Lydia said nothing to Rachel, but for several days after her return from the Indian village, she was aware that something was troubling the girl. Finally when she and Gilbert were alone in the church after a service, she approached him about it.

  “You haven’t said much about your trip to see King Philip,” she said as they sat down on one of the benches. “Were you discouraged about him?”

  “Yes. He’s sour, and sooner or later he’s going to give trouble.”

  “Rachel’s been very quiet since you came back.”

  “Oh, that’s a different matter,” he said. “She’s all tangled up about what to do with young Alden. They had some sort of meeting out in the barn, and she’s been all het up ever since.”

  “In the barn!”

  He laughed and patted her shoulder. “Now, don’t get your feathers ruffled, Lydia. She told me some of it, and there’s nothing to worry about. They’re just circling around trying to decide whether to make a match of it or not.”

  She shook her head. “I wish she would marry him, Gilbert.”

  He shrugged and bit his lip. “I’m not so sure I agree. He’s a good match, I suppose—he’s got land, and he’s a hard worker, but his walk with God isn’t much. Pretty much of a Sunday man. And he’s got a rather unchristian attitude about this Indian issue. Snubs John Sassamon dreadfully. I’d like to see Rachel get a man who puts God first.”

  They talked for a long time that night, and it was on the following Wednesday that Sassamon came by. It was late afternoon, and they did not hear his step. A knock at the door startled them all as they sat reading in the front room.

  “Who can that be?” Gilbert muttered, as he went to answer it. “Well, John, come in!”

  Sassamon entered and said, “Hello, Mr. Winslow—and how are you, Mrs. Winslow?”

  “Hello, John,” Lydia smiled. “Come in, come in.”

  “No, I have to go see the governor right away.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like for you to go with me, Mr. Winslow. He may not believe what I have to tell him.”

  Gilbert looked hard at him, then at Lydia and Rachel. “What’s the trouble, John?”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then burst out, “It’s Philip, sir!”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s organizing for war against you!”

  “I knew it!” Winslow cried. “The fool! He’ll set the frontier on fire!”

  “Will you come with me to see Governor Bradford?”

  “Yes, of course, but is it certain, John?” He pulled his coat from a peg and was shrugging into it. “How did you find out?”

  “My brother, Matthew, has been to see me. He says that he was there when Philip came to his village. Philip promises that if the tribes all rise up together, the settlers will be wiped out and the land will be back in the hands of the People!”

  “Come along!” Gilbert barked, plunging out the door. “I don’t know if we can convince the governor or not, but we’d better!”

  Rachel and Lydia stayed up until midnight, waiting for them to come back. They had talked fearfully about the possibilities of a war, but it was late and they were sitting quietly, busy with their thoughts, when Rachel suddenly said, “I kissed Jude Alden in the barn, Mother.”

  Lydia almost laughed out loud at the confession; it was much like those times when as a small child Rachel would think over some small misdeed for a long time, then come marching in to look her straight in the eye and announce it boldly.

  “Did you now?”

  “Are you angry?”

  “No, I
don’t think so,” Lydia said with a smile. “Did you think I would be?”

  “Oh, I suppose not. But it made me feel a little wicked, Mother.” She turned her clear hazel eyes on Lydia. “How do you know you’re in love with a man?”

  “Why ...” Lydia was caught off guard. She finally cleared her throat and said, “I don’t think there’s any rule about that, Rachel. You just have to be sure you want to spend your life with him and that you respect him.”

  But that was not enough for Rachel, and she asked insistently, “But how did you know you were in love with my father?”

  Lydia was trapped, and the pulse in her throat beat more rapidly as she said at last, “I can’t put it into words, Rachel. You’ll just have to—to—”

  Rachel was staring at her mother, disappointed that there was no simple answer coming. Just as she was about to pursue the subject, they heard voices, and they got up as Gilbert and John entered.

  “What did he say?” Lydia asked at once.

  “The governor can’t believe that it’s so serious as John says,” Gilbert shrugged. “He wants John to keep an eye on the situation and let us know if there’s any danger.”

  John was angry, and Rachel saw it. “There’s danger right now!” he said grimly. “When Philip attacks, he won’t send any announcement, I tell you!”

  “I’ll work on it, John,” Gilbert said, and he put a restraining hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Governor Bradford is getting on, but I may be able to bring him around.”

  John shrugged. “It will have to be that way, I suppose. But be quick, Mr. Winslow.”