“It came to Brother Brewster and Brother Carver almost simultaneously,” Bradford smiled. “A word of prophecy based on Acts, chapter 27 and verse 24: “Fear not, God hath given thee all them that sail with thee.”
“Yes, and then the 25th verse says, ‘I believe God that it shall be even as it was told me,’ ”Brewster nodded.
Captain Christopher Jones stared at the wreck of the beam, settling slowly, knowing that it would sooner or later snap, and that when it did the Mayflower would break in two. He heard the cries of the women and children, and the shouts of the seamen on deck trying to keep the ship aright. The look he gave to Brewster was filled with unbelief, and he grated out in a harsh voice, “You are like all prophets that I’ve met—filled with pompous words that have nothing to do with living in this world!”
At that moment the ship spun her head out of the wind and lay broadside to the crested swells, instantly battered by a gargantuan wave that tore its huge weight over the deck, snapping cleats and ropes and heeling the ship so far onto her beam-ends that her spars almost entered the water and the men in her hung on a vertical wall.
Tons of water muffled the screams and cries of the women and children, and Gilbert was flung so hard against the bulkhead his head rang and pain shot through his bad leg.
Pulling himself upright, he waited for the ship to right itself. There was a long moment when he was sure that the slow roll would continue, but the Mayflower came upright. He shook his head and left the first hold to go to the sail locker.
He passed through the cargo hold, went to the sail cabin, pulled on a heavy coat that was drenched already, then left. As he passed through the cargo hold, there was a tremendous groaning as the timbers creaked, and only a feeble light from the swinging lantern gave any illumination.
His eyes running over the barrels and equipment, he wondered how long it would be before they slipped loose and went crashing through the planking.
Back in the first hold, he found the captain urging the carpenter to come up with a solution, and it was clear to Gilbert that Jones was a desperate man.
He joined the others as they tried to wedge a piece of heavy timber under the ruptured spar, but it was evident there was no hope.
Then something happened in Gilbert’s mind. He could never explain it afterward, but it was as close to a vision as he ever came in all his days. Suddenly he saw an object—as clearly as he had ever seen anything in his life with physical eyes.
Then—the sound of the breaking sea rolled back into his head, and he looked up, startled to find himself still pushing at the futile timber.
“Wait!” he shouted, and the strident tone of his voice brought the crew to a halt.
“What is it?” Edward asked at once. “Are you all right, Gilbert?”
“I know how we can brace that timber, we can . . . !”
“Mind your business!” Coffin rasped acidly. “This is ship’s matter.”
“What’s your idea, Winslow?” Captain Jones asked quickly. He stared at Gilbert with a faint glow of hope in his eyes. Not much, perhaps, but he realized more than anyone there, unless that timber was braced immediately, they were doomed.
Gilbert said quickly, “Alden, you remember you were showing me the equipment in the cargo hold?”
“Yes, but . . . ?”
“I wasn’t very interested, but now I remember one thing—that big iron jack!”
“That’s it!” Alden shouted. He struck himself in the forehead with his palm and started for the ladder at a run.
“What are you talking about?” Jones demanded.
“It’s some kind of device used for jacking up boats for repairing the hulls—that’s what Alden told me. It’s big enough to do this job, Captain.”
An optimistic hubbub of talk ran through the hold, and when John Alden came back bearing the heavy black jack in his powerful arms, Jones shouted, “That’s the thing! Get it under this beam!—Where’s that timber, Mr. Clark? All hands bear on here!”
“Put this timber crossways, to rest it on,” Alden said. “Otherwise it’ll shove right through the decking.”
They laid a heavy timber down, put the jack on it, then balanced another timber on its flat lip. “Get a short piece to put under this thing!” Jones urged, and when that was done, he commanded, “Raise the jack, Coffin!”
A cheer went up as the upright jack pressed against the beam and slowly pushed it up until it was even.
“That’ll hold until calm weather,” the carpenter said. “Then we’ll spike a splint across that break and repeg it to the upper deck.”
Suddenly William Brewster’s voice cut through the hold like a trumpet—feeble, perhaps, but reaching every ear: “The Word of the Lord has come to pass! He has sent deliverance!”
Christopher Jones was flooded with relief. The Mayflower was his livelihood, his love, his security. Five minutes ago, he would not have given a farthing for the chances of saving her; now it was a matter of riding out the storm.
He raised a hand that was not entirely steady to wipe the water from his face, then he turned to face Brewster who was standing knee-deep in water with his hands raised to heaven and a light of joy on his thin face.
“I think Mr. Winslow really deserves some credit,” he said softly. “It was quick thinking, man, and I’m in your debt!”
Gilbert stood there, staring at the jack, saying nothing, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see William Bradford standing beside him.
“Mr. Winslow, we are all in your debt.”
Gilbert was caught off guard. Bradford had said not one good word to him since he had come aboard, and yet the honesty of the man was not to be doubted. He looked at the angular planes of Bradford’s face, and asked impulsively, “Surely you can’t think the Lord would use a sinner to do his work—with so many saints around?”
William Bradford was a strong man, but he bowed his head at that question, and there was a look of pain in his dark eyes as he looked around at the people in the hold—saints and sinners.
“I am not as certain as I once was in some things. When I was younger, I felt that it was a simple matter to identify God’s children. Lately, I have wondered if I was not often hasty in my youthful judgments.”
Gilbert stared at him, then said in a hard tone, “Well, there’s no doubt in my mind about this business. I saw the jack, and when we needed it, I remembered it. Nothing of God in it!”
He sounded like a man trying to convince himself, but Edward put a hand up and said quietly, “There’s some of God in everything, Gilbert—as you’ll know before He’s finished with you!”
Gilbert made a brief entry in his journal:
September 17
I am not sure of anything. I suppose a man has two sides and there never will be a world which will please both sides. One side of him is going to be hot and the other side cold. Maybe this earth is for right-handed folks—maybe for left. In the world of right-handed people, the left-handed ones will cry in it!
Which is my world? England seems as alien as Venus. Would I go there, get rich, marry Cecily? Why do I still look in Humility’s eyes and think of New Testament verses?
I guess there is God and the devil in me—maybe in everyone.
What happened today in the hold? They prayed and I thought of a jack. Did the God who flung those millions of stars in space give a hang for this fragment of a ship on an insignificant journey to savage land? Brewster says God stepped in. He claims that I was given the answer, and that may be true—but I can’t believe it! Whatever God is up there has forgotten about us long ago. But how comforting it would be to believe in Brewster’s God!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANOTHER KIND OF STORM
The sun breaking through the next day brought calm weather, but there was a taste of snow in the air. For the next three days Miles Standish drove the men hard at musket practice. His sharp voice harrying the settlers rang out for long hours, and more than once, one of the elders fou
nd it necessary to reprove him for his language.
“Aye, Reverend Bradford, it’s not best for a man to use foul language, but do ye realize we’ll be moving through enemy territory in a few days? Our lives will depend on these butter-fingered yokels! Why, sir, the whole colony could go down if these men don’t do better!”
“I’ll pray about it, Captain,” Bradford said; his giving way marked how determined he was to plant a colony for God. He spent night and day going about the ship, encouraging the weak, nursing the sick, and for long hours he retreated to the lower deck to pray.
Standish gave Gilbert, who was standing by, a sly wink, saying, “Right! You do the praying and I’ll do the drilling!”
The first day of sword drill, Gilbert had been challenged by Standish, who said, “Let me see what stuff you have, Winslow!” There had been astonishment in his eyes, however, when Gilbert toyed with him, balancing on his good leg. Time and again Standish had tried to drive through for a touch, but Gilbert had smiled and with the tip of his blade sent that of Standish wide. It was obvious that the younger man could have won at any time, and finally Standish stood there puffing with effort. It was a tense moment, for the little man fancied himself a fighter and did not like to lose.
Then he had smiled and said, “I’m not much on religion, Winslow, but if I get around to prayers any time soon, I’ll give a thanksgiving for you! I’ve never seen a better blade—where’d you pick up the skill?”
Gilbert had not gone into details, and no one had seen the encounter, so Standish had not been shamed before the crew.
Most of the men were on deck for the drill, as were many of the women and children. There was no danger from flying lead, and quite a bit of rivalry had sprung up. The saints, Gilbert had learned at Leyden, loved simple games; and the fencing and drill, pitting man against man, took their fancy, breaking the dull monotony of the long days.
As Gilbert gave a few instructions and stood back to watch the participants, he glanced around the deck, noting that the voyage had not dissolved the factions and sects on the Mayflower.
The saints were crowded together in a group over on the starboard rail—the Allertons, Carvers, Tilleys, Tinkers, Whites.
The strangers, perhaps not by chance, took station on the port deck—the Billingtons (the largest family on board), Chilton, Eaton, Hopkins, and Mullins families.
Ranging around the poop deck many of the ship’s crew lounged, taking in the sight with half-whispered jokes from Daggot and O’Neal. Captain Jones and First Officer Clark leaned against the mizzenmast.
Jones had requested that those members of the crew who wished might be instructed, and Standish had agreed. It was obvious that of the crew only Daggot had any skill, though there was a light in Coffin’s eyes that warned Gilbert that he was no beginner.
Daggot had clowned through the basic instructions, entertaining his mates and some of the passengers with his remarks. He had attempted several times to engage Gilbert in a debate, but had been disappointed.
“He’s not bad, Winslow,” Standish had said, watching carefully as Daggot ran through the preliminaries with careless skill. “And he’s not in love with you, I see.”
“No.”
“He’ll try to show you up. Don’t let him have a chance.”
Although there was no doubt in Gilbert’s mind about his ability to meet any challenge from the seaman, he knew only mischief could come of a direct conflict with the man.
As he called the men off from practice, he saw a glint in Daggot’s eyes, and followed his glance. He saw Humility watching from the rail, and the sudden swagger in Daggot’s walk warned Gilbert that he was going to have trouble from the man.
“All right, heed this now,” he said clearly. “You’ve not got to face skilled fencers or trained swordsmen . . .”
“Which is a good thing, ain’t it now?” Daggot said loudly, with a wink at O’Neal. “ ’Cause if any of these babies ever did face a real man, they’d run ’ome to their nannies!”
Gilbert ignored the laugh from the crew, and continued with his lesson.
“But the principles are much the same. If you have a sword in your hand in a fight, your man will come at you with something—a rock, a spear, a stick. And you need to be so familiar with your blade that you don’t even have to think about it . . .”
“Ain’t no need to warn these babies not to think!” Daggot called out, casting a contemptuous look at the passengers.
“. . . your blade must become like a member of your body . . .”
Daggot laughed and made a rude remark, and a ribald laugh went up from the crew, even from some of the strangers.
“Must we put up with this?”
Gilbert looked around to see that Peter Brown, his best pupil, was glaring at him. Brown had had some training in the use of the sword, and in the man-on-man exercises had easily won. He gave one quick glance over his shoulder to where Humility was standing, and then looked back to Gilbert. “Mr. Winslow, I think we might do without the crew for the exercise.”
“Why, you ain’t very polite!” Daggot spoke up, again winking at O’Neal. He took an aggressive step forward, adding, “But I guess you preachers ain’t used to bein’ around real men.”
Gilbert saw the thing getting out of hand. He shot a quick glance toward Captain Jones, who merely shrugged his shoulders. The affair amused him, and he whispered something to Clark that made the First Officer nod and smile.
Miles Standish, his face red with anger, stomped up to Daggot and stared up into the large seaman’s face. “You want a little action, Daggot? Come on, then!”
Daggot shook his head as the fiery little soldier whipped out his blade. He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence, protesting, “Why, Captain, you’re a professional soldier! You wouldn’t take advantage of a poor ignorant sailor boy, would you now?” There was an arrogance in his tone, but the words were nothing that Standish could challenge.
“Well, I’m not a paid soldier!” Peter Brown cried. He whipped out his sword, and lifted it in the air. “Let me have a bout with the fellow, Winslow—if you won’t do it yourself!”
He’s calling me a coward, Gilbert thought. But I’m no boy to rise to a foolish dare. I know more about my courage than he does.
He was about to dismiss the men when Daggot suddenly whipped out his blade and said, “Why, then, sonny, let’s just find out who’s the real man!”
A circle was formed when the others drew back, and as the two men touched blades, Gilbert had an evil thought. Dag-got hates me and will sooner or later try to kill me. Brown is in love with Humility and will do what he can to show me up for a coward as well as a traitor. No matter which one of them wins, or even gets pinked with a blade, why, it’s no problem of mine!
He shook his head at the wicked thought and stepped forward to prevent the match, but was stopped by Standish’s iron grip. “Let ’em have at it, Gilbert!” he said. “They can’t hurt each other much with those blunted tips—and it wouldn’t matter much if they did! These lads need to see a little blood to get ’em ready for what’s to come!”
Gilbert shrugged and watched as the two men circled each other. The space was small and there was a vivid contrast in the antagonists. Daggot was broad as a door, bulging with muscle, while Brown was tall and lean as a sapling.
The blades rang again and again as the two met, engaged, then stepped back. Ordinarily Gilbert would have picked Brown to win easily. He had the reach and some formal training, but they did not serve him well.
Daggot’s bulk did not allow him to cover ground as fast as his smaller opponent, but his reflexes were amazing, Gilbert saw at once. His blade ran in and out like the tongue of a serpent, and he had been well taught in the art of defense, probably by Coffin, Gilbert decided.
The contest soon became uneven, as Brown weakened, no doubt, from the bad food and inactivity of the voyage. He began to breathe with a rasp, and his arm began to droop with fatigue.
Gilbert moved quick
ly forward, seeing the young man about to be humiliated, but Daggot saw him coming and with a lightning parry drove home a stroke straight at Brown’s face—a violation of the rules.
The blunted tip of the blade caught the young man in the mouth, splitting his lower lip and breaking off a tooth.
“Enough!” Gilbert cried, springing forward furiously. “You swine! I ought to run you through!”
Daggot stared at him, malice in his hot eyes. He said softly, “Why don’t you, Winslow?” He waited, then when Gilbert hesitated, he raised his voice loud enough to carry to the poop deck, “Come on! Are you a man or not?”
There was a silence then, broken only by the rasping wheeze of Brown’s breath, filled with pain as he held a handkerchief to his broken mouth.
Gilbert had come upon a stag once, worn down by the chase and surrounded by a pack of red-eyed wolves, their eyes cruel as death. Something of that was in the faces of the onlookers—some of them, at least. The quick look showed him that most of the crew of the Mayflower wore that cruel lupine expression, wanting only to see a good fight. Billington, among the strangers, looked much the same, even crying out, “Go on, Winslow, give the scoundrel a foot of steel in his belly!”
Brewster and Bradford, standing together, seemed struck dumb by the violence that had exploded in their faces, but Edward’s face was red with fury, and he nodded at Gilbert, saying, “Have at him, boy!” in a voice shaking with anger.
The one face that seemed to leap out at him was Humility’s. Her green eyes were enormous in her wide face, and her lips were stretched tightly against her teeth. She was not a girl to let her emotions show, Gilbert knew, but now she was holding back her feelings so strongly that the knuckles pressed against her wide mouth were white with strain.
Gilbert felt the pressure on his back, and suddenly he was tempted to cut the man down. It would not be difficult, he knew, for while Daggot was a good journeyman with the sword, he was not in Gilbert’s class.
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 18