The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  As they hurried to the house, Gilbert said, “We’ll have to raise a militia, Matthew.”

  He said nothing, but when they went inside the house he went to Lydia and took her in his arms. “The Indians have raided Swansea—and Rachel and Mercy are captives.” He looked into her eyes and said, “I’ll bring them back, Lydia. Do you believe that?”

  The shock weakened her, but she looked up into his strong face, trembling and whispered finally, “If you say so, Matthew. I’ll wait for you.”

  There was no time for long partings, but as Matthew gathered his musket and dressed in old leather clothing used on the trail, Gilbert argued with him.

  “You can’t go alone, son. Let me go to the governor. He’ll have to act now!”

  Matthew picked up a bedroll and started for the door, then turned and looked at Gilbert. They were so much alike, yet now there was a hardness in his son that the old man had never seen. Always he had been the strength of the family, and now he saw that his time was past. “What can you do, Matthew?”

  The blue eyes glowed with the light of battle, and Matthew said, “Militia will never catch up with Philip’s band or any other Indians. But there’s one bunch who can catch them!”

  Gilbert asked blankly, “Why, who can do that?”

  “The Praying Indians!” Matthew smiled grimly. “I’ll pick up a group of them and we’ll find out where the women are. It may take a year, but I don’t think so. Some of the Praying Indians have family who haven’t come over, but they hear things.”

  Gilbert nodded, then said, “That may find them, but how do you plan to get them out of the camp?”

  Matthew dropped his bedroll, walked to the wall and reached up. He pulled down Gilbert’s sword, the one he’d used to fight Lord Roth and the mutineers who took over the Mayflower. He pulled it out of the sheath, held it up, and looked along the line of light that gleamed on the cold steel.

  “I’d like to borrow this, Father,” he said quietly.

  Gilbert smiled, his eyes burning with a longing to go along. But knowing that he would be far too slow, he said, “Take it, my boy—and God go with you.”

  Matthew suddenly knelt before his father and huskily said, “Give me your blessing, Father!”

  Gilbert Winslow prayed over this son, the last of the House of Winslow—and then Matthew rose and was gone.

  * * *

  The Praying Indians had learned to trust Matthew, but they were slow to respond to his call. “We are but a few, and Philip has the largest army of Indians ever seen since the beginning,” James Bearclaw said.

  “God will provide a way, James. He has preserved the lives of the two women, and I know that He will help us. Will you go if I promise there will be no battle—not for you?”

  After discussion with the others, finally James said, “We will find the women—but you must take them yourself.”

  “A bargain!” Matthew smiled, and later he told Pittman, “We have a chance, Praise God.”

  “How we gonna do it, Matthew? The two of us against all them savages?”

  “Not by might, nor by power—but by my Spirit!” Winslow quoted. “Let’s find them first, then we’ll see.”

  It took only four days to get wind of the camp. One of James Bearclaw’s relatives, a young man named Rookna, brought word, and James came immediately to Winslow and Pittman.

  “We know where they are, but the band is moving soon. Rookna says they are going to the Nipmuck band, and you’ll never find them if they get there!”

  “Take us to the place!” Matthew said, and in two hours they were on their way toward the west. They traveled hard all night and at dawn, one of the scouts came back with a word. “They are not two miles away, in a little canyon. Not very many warriors—but Fox is there.”

  “Did you see the women?” Matthew demanded.

  “Yes. They are there.”

  Winslow gave some instructions and they moved out silently. Praise God asked nervously, “I don’t think it’s going to work, Matthew. This Fox, he’s not stupid, is he?”

  “No—but he’s proud, and that’s what we’ve got to play on. You just keep your hammer down on that musket. We’ll have to win by something other than muskets if we win this one, Praise God!”

  * * *

  Rachel was walking down the path toward the rear of the band when she heard the shout; she looked up to see Fox and the other warriors spanning out with their weapons drawn.

  “What is it, Rachel?” Mercy asked.

  “I don’t know. Let’s get closer.”

  They approached the head of the canyon they’d been walking through, and Fox gave them a savage look and waved them to a halt. He looked up at the sides of the cliff on his right, and then to the left. A thick growth of oak covered the lips of the canyon, and he could see nothing.

  Then a voice came from somewhere, a ghostly voice that floated on the morning air.

  Fox—you are a Woman! It was the same insult that Rachel had offered to him, but this was no frail girl that called so strongly!

  “Come down—and you will see what Fox is!” the stocky Indian shouted.

  There was no answer for a moment, then suddenly an Indian called out something, and Fox whirled to see a man standing on the edge of the canyon wall—a white man.

  Instantly, Fox gave a command and several of his men leaped to go after the intruder, but halted abruptly when a volley rang out, plowing the dust at their feet!

  Fox stared at the dust, then raised his eyes to the man on the wall of the canyon. “What you want, white man?”

  “I want the two women, Fox!”

  Rachel suddenly gasped, and shielding her eyes she stared at the man and breathed a word: “Father!”

  Fox whipped his gaze around, then stared back at the man. “I have the women. We will have you, too, white man.”

  Again a shot rang out, and the dust kicked up at Fox’s foot, not two inches away. He jerked the foot back involuntarily and then scowled.

  “That shot could have been in your head, Fox,” Matthew shouted down at the Indian.

  “I am not afraid to die!”

  “I say you are!” Winslow challenged. “You are a Woman, Fox, and all your men are cowards, able only to fight women and children!”

  A yell of rage went up, and Fox raised his hand for silence. “We soon see who is coward!”

  “I will prove you are a Woman.” Matthew said, “Choose your four best warriors, give them a blade, and I will fight them by myself!”

  Instantly a cry went up, and Fox knew he had no choice. He was leader as long as the others knew he was not afraid. If he did not take up this challenge, he would be challenged by every warrior in the band.

  “Come down, big wind!” he said. “You will not say anything for long.”

  The silence was broken only by the far-off cry of a bird. Rachel’s pulse quickened, beating like a hammer.

  Matthew disappeared, then in a moment came walking out of a group of trees a hundred yards down the road. He carried no musket, but there was a sword in his hand that flashed in the sun like silver fire. He wore no hat, his auburn hair catching the sunlight.

  Every eye was on the tall man as he walked easily along the trail, as blithely as if there were no band of armed savages lined up against him.

  “Fox, I give you good day,” he said, and then he smiled and nodded at Rachel. “You are all right?”

  Rachel caught her breath, answering quietly, “Yes, we have been well treated.”

  Matthew nodded, then said, “Fox, you have been good to my people, and it hurts me to destroy your warriors. Give me the women and we will part like men.”

  It was a good try, and Fox smiled briefly. “That not what you say. Are you liar like other white men?”

  Winslow suddenly whipped the blade through the air. It made a whistling sound and the suddenness of it startled the Indians. “This is a magic blade, Fox. It was my father’s blade, and he has used it to destroy our enemies. It is not like ot
her blades, and I do not like to see young men die like sheep. But you are the leader. I wait for your men.”

  He turned, took five steps, then wheeled, with the sword held high over his head.

  Fox asked, “Who kills this man for our People?”

  Every single warrior cried out, but Fox was cautious. He saw something in the white man he did not like, and he wanted no mistakes, so he named four names—all of them tested warriors, not a beginner in the group.

  The four men yelled and tossed all their weapons to the ground except for their knives, then began to advance on Winslow, who did not move except to lower his sword, leveling it at the group.

  As they approached one of them spoke, and they began to spread out as Matthew had known they would. It was what he himself would have done, had he been one of them. And it was the problem he had pondered night after night, for this plan had been born of desperation—the only thing he could think of with even a slight chance of success.

  He had no plan except to have no plan. The only thing he had in his favor was that these men had never seen a swordsman in action. They had no concept of the speed with which he could lower a blade and send it home, faster almost than a striking serpent.

  But not if they were behind him, and not if they threw their knives. But knife-throwing was not an art that Indians practiced.

  Now, like wolves, they began to circle, and the scene drew a sob that Rachel had to choke off. Her father looked so alone out there! The savages who moved like cats to encircle him were strong, quick and totally devoid of fear, she knew well. How could he hope to win? And he came for me—after all my hatred! her heart cried out, and she uttered a mighty silent prayer to God for him!

  Now was the time, Winslow knew; the two braves on his flanks were almost out of his line of vision, while the other two before him stood three feet apart, their weapons ready if he turned to face either one.

  Always do the unexpected! The words had been spoken years ago by the master who taught him his lessons with the sword. The best swordsman in the world—if he gets rattled— can be taken!

  He did the one thing that could be done. Ignoring the two Indians who were moving to flank him, and paying no heed at all to the man on the left, he suddenly lowered his blade and with his right toe lunged his entire body toward the large Indian on his right!

  The distance was critical, for if his enemy was too far away the sword would never touch him, and he would stand at full stretch, helpless. If the man were too close, the sword might catch in his flesh, and he would be cut to pieces trying to get the blade free.

  Now the power flowed through his leg, and with the speed of a lifetime of practice the tip of his blade leaped through the air with all the force of his body behind it! The Indian was leaning forward balanced on the tips of his toes, tilting forward, and he could not believe that the white man was moving at him. Desperately he tried to reverse his feet, but it was too late!

  The stroke brought the sword into his body, penetrating the heart—then it was withdrawn as Winslow whipped his blade back, stained crimson and shouted, “You see, Fox! The blade is magic!”

  The man he had run through dropped his knife, and stared down at the small puncture on his breast in disbelief. He looked across at Matthew and tried to say something, suddenly dropped to the ground—dead.

  Matthew saw that the savage on his left was paying no heed to him, and he did what he never would have done if the lives of the two women had not been at stake. He shouted and lunged with the same speed. The man had time to get his knife up, but the tip of Matthew’s blade rasped over it, entered the fleshy side of the brave who grabbed his wound and gasped. But he was made of strong stuff, for he threw himself at Winslow, who had no choice but to strike the final blow.

  But as the second Indian fell, he knew that he had turned his back too long, and even though he made a wild lunge to his left, he felt a line of fire run along his back as a blade ripped through his flesh. A cry of victory went up from the Indians as he went down, and he knew that both men would be on him like animals.

  He had time only to roll over on his back before the sweaty body of one Indian fell on him. By catching the man’s forearm with his left arm, Matthew managed to divert the knife thrust that would have driven straight to his head.

  The sword was useless at close range, so he dropped it and with a mighty lunge of his body, threw the Indian off, and rolled to his feet just in time to see a shape to his left. He had no time at all to think, but simply reached out and grabbed for whatever part of the man he could get. The flesh was slippery but his hands closed on a muscular arm and with all his might he whipped the man around in a giant swinging motion and released him.

  As the savage went flying through the air, Matthew reached down with one motion and picked up his sword, fell to his left in time to avoid the wicked slash that would have slit his throat, found an opening, and drove the blade into the body of the Indian who was off balance.

  As the Indian went down, Matthew whirled to find his last opponent rushing in, blade out before him. But suddenly he stopped short when he realized that his three companions were on the ground, dead or dying.

  Winslow could have killed him where he stood, but he lowered his blade, and in the silence that suddenly fell on the scene, he looked at Fox and said, “There is no need for this man to die, Fox. He has proven that he is no coward.”

  The man cried out and ran toward Matthew’s blade in a suicidal rush, but Fox shouted to him, and he stopped.

  Fox stood there staring at the tall white man, then looked at the men on the ground. Matthew knew that if this small Indian gave the word, he would die with an arrow in his heart, but he did not move nor speak.

  The Fox said, “Take the women.”

  Rachel came forward half-supporting Mercy, and Fox gave her one look. He moved closer to her and said in a voice only she and Mercy heard.

  “This Jesus man is strong. Few more like Him—maybe Fox become Jesus man, too!”

  Then he said, “You go now.” For a long time he stood there watching Matthew and the two women as they faded away into the woods.

  They did not speak until Praise God and James suddenly appeared, and as Mercy wept in her husband’s arms, Rachel turned to her father.

  He was smiling at her. Suddenly she threw herself into his arms—and it was like coming home! For a long time they stood there. Finally he kissed her cheek and said, “Your mother has forgiven me and we’re together now.”

  She smiled through her tears and nodded. “Forgive me, Father, for being so—”

  He put his hand on her lips and said, “I’ve found a daughter now—and we must start from this day.”

  “Yes!” she cried. Great joy filled her heart as she said, “Oh, Father—let’s go to Mother now.”

  Three days later Lydia heard the sound of steps on the porch.

  “Mother! I’m back! Father brought me back!”

  As Lydia held the girl in her arms, she looked over at her husband and said with a smile, “I knew he would.” Then she held out her free arm and as Matthew came to her, she added with misty eyes, “These Winslow men—they do what they say!”

  PART THREE

  SALEM

  1691

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A NEW MINISTER

  Miles Winslow raised himself high in the stirrups and, shading his eyes from the brilliance of the midday April sun, stared down the road, then yanked his hat off, exposing a thick shock of yellow hair. “There they are, Howland!” he yelped, and spurred his startled bay into a hard run toward a small clapboard house.

  His companion, though, only shook his head and continued the steady pace of his horse. Not an impulsive man, he looked with amused tolerance as he watched young Winslow pull his horse down, spring to the ground with the ease of a natural rider, and throw his arms around the pair who stood outside the neat white fence that enclosed the house.

  Not very dignified for Harvard’s newest scholar, Rober
t Howland thought. A minister ought to be a little more restrained. Howland was a solidly built man with heavy shoulders and a muscular neck. His square face and strong chin revealed a stubborn streak, which he tried unsuccessfully to curb. His light-gray eyes were wide set deep beneath a broad forehead. His light-brown hair was cut short, and his features were more durable than esthetic. He looked, in fact, more like a strong, active gentleman squire than an intellectual scholar.

  He came up to the fence, swung easily from his saddle, then waited patiently while young Winslow finished greeting the couple. There was in Howland a strange mixture of deliberate thought and a sort of ponderous behavior, which covered a quickness of mind and easily stirred emotions kept carefully in check.

  “Come, now, Robert,” young Miles said, turning the attention of the couple toward the visitor. “This is my father and mother—and this is my friend and teacher, Rev. Robert Howland.”

  “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Salem, sir,” Matthew Winslow said warmly, and the hand he gave in greeting was as hard and strong as Howland’s own. “We’ve heard nothing but your name since Miles arrived at Harvard.”

  Howland took in Winslow’s strong figure with approval. He had heard of Miles’ father by reputation, and the man’s appearance was impressive. He was six feet tall with the strong, athletic figure of a man in his late forties. He was an older edition of Miles, the resemblance between the two so sharp that it caught Howland off guard. They both had the same sharp features, the light hair with the trace of reddish gold when the sun caught it, as it did now, the broad mouth and bright blue eyes that revealed the Winslow blood.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Winslow—and you, ma’am,” Howland said in a deep, prideful voice that would shake the rafters had he cared to lift it. He nodded to the beautiful woman who looked small in the presence of the three large men. She still appeared too young to be the mother of a sixteen-year-old son.