The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  But he waited, and as he did, a mutter went across the crowd, and he heard the word coward several times.

  It raked across his nerves, and he looked around the deck, hating the look in the eyes of most of the spectators.

  I won’t put on a show for you! he thought grimly, then put up his sword, saying, “Put your weapon away, Daggot. You know better than to make for a man’s face. Even with a blunted tip, it’s possible to blind or cripple. Stay clear of the drill in the future.”

  Daggot waved the sword in his hand in front of Gilbert’s face, his voice filled with contempt, “And if I don’t?”

  Gilbert said, “Captain Jones will have something to say about it, I would think.”

  He looked up and saw something like disappointment in the captain’s face, but Jones said, “Daggot, stay away from the passengers. I’ll not warn you again!”

  Angrily, Daggot threw his sword to the deck, glared at Gilbert and said, “You’re a coward, Winslow! Hiding behind the captain!”

  “Daggot! Did you hear me!” Jones bellowed. “One more word and we have a keelhauling!”

  Fuller stepped forward, a bleak light in his face, but he said nothing to Gilbert. “Let me have a look at that mouth, Peter,” he said, and he led the wounded man off to one side for a closer examination.

  Standish waited until the deck had cleared, then said, “Bad business. I thought for a minute there you were going to skewer the rogue!”

  “That’s what everyone seemed to want!” Gilbert said wearily. “And didn’t you warn me, Miles, not to let the man trap me?”

  The answer came slowly. “Aye, you did the wise thing—but it must be hard to be labeled a coward.”

  Gilbert smiled grimly down at Standish. “I’m getting used to it, Miles. First a traitor, now a coward. Not much left, is there?”

  “You’re none of that!” the doughy little soldier snapped. “Why didn’t you cut the man to ribbons?”

  Gilbert stared out at the sea, watching the gray expanse unbroken and creased by myriad whitecaps. There was no more expression on his face than on the blank sky that stared down on the little ship bobbing on the waves.

  “It didn’t seem to matter much, Miles.” He lifted his cornflower blue eyes, startling in his tanned face, and there was a sadness that ran deep in his husky voice that caught the attention of Standish.

  “Why, you’re too young to be so tired of life, Gilbert Winslow. You’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you!”

  Gilbert gave him a short, bitter smile before turning to leave the deck. “I know, Miles—and do I dread it!”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LAND!

  As the temperature outside fell, so did the strength of Young William Butten, Samuel Fuller’s servant. He had remained in the sail cabin with Brewster and Gilbert instead of returning to his bed behind the shallop, Fuller hoping that the relatively warm, dry conditions would help him.

  “He don’t seem to get on,” he said to Humility as they ate the meager portion of beef passed along by the cook. “I wish I’d not brought him on this trip.”

  Humility said quickly, “You meant well. It’s the late start that’s brought us into this cold weather.”

  “Maybe—but it’s a rough life we’re heading into, lass.” He chewed on the tough piece of stringy beef thoughtfully, and there was a rare discouragement in his voice as he added, “We’re in bad condition, Humility. Half the passengers are down with some ailment now—and what it will be like when we’re put ashore in the dead of winter, I hate to think. I’m going to see to Dorothy.”

  “I thought she was better since she got over her seasickness.”

  “There are worse things than upset stomachs, lass,” Fuller grunted. He pulled his hand through his tangled beard, and added, “Dorothy has problems in her mind.”

  “I know, Sam.” Humility got up, took the man’s dish and added, “She sometimes talks—well, in a peculiar way.”

  “She’ll lose her mind if something doesn’t happen.”

  “Sam! No!”

  “I know you work hard, lass, but I wish you’d spend all the time you can with her. Try to encourage her if you can. She needs a friend.” He paused and said tightly, “Far as I can see, she opens up more to that Winslow fellow than to anybody else—which is not right!”

  They parted and Humility, passing across the deck, saw that Dorothy was talking to Gilbert Winslow in the bow section. She hesitated, then made her way forward.

  “Oh, there you are, Humility,” Dorothy said brightly. The cold air nipped at her cheeks, grown thin during the voyage, and she smiled faintly. “Sit with us, won’t you? Gilbert was just telling me about a ball he attended at St. James Place.”

  “I can’t stop now, Dorothy, but later on maybe we can read some more out of the book you liked so well.”

  “All right,” Dorothy said, and added as the girl disappeared down into the lower parts of the ship, “Humility’s such a sweet girl! I hope she gets settled with a good man who’ll take care of her.”

  “What book is that she spoke of?”

  “Oh, a book of poetry. I don’t understand much about it, but Humility reads so well, I just love to listen.”

  “How’s your husband?”

  Her face, which had been lively, tensed as if in fear. “He’s very ill.”

  “He and I are not well acquainted, but I admire him greatly.”

  “Oh, he’s very admirable. I—I sometimes wonder that he married me. I mean, he was older and a great scholar and I was just a silly girl—only sixteen.”

  Gilbert hesitated, fearing to go too far, but he had a brotherly feeling for Dorothy, and he finally asked, “Have you been happy?”

  “When I was a little girl, I was very happy!” she said, and her small face lit up with pleasure at the memory.

  “I mean since you married.”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. And then a strange thing happened, something that Gilbert didn’t understand. Dorothy was staring across the rolling sea, apparently thinking of her past as a child, and suddenly she turned and said in a voice very different from her normal voice, “I want some melon, Papa!”

  A chill ran over Gilbert. She had a blank look in her eyes, and her features sagged, making her look older, but the voice was that of a child.

  “Can I please have some of the melon, Papa? Robert has had two pieces already!”

  Gilbert had never encountered a disturbed mind, at least not in such a form, and he sat there petrified. There was no danger, of course, from this frail woman, but a streak of fear cold as ice ripped through him. He wanted nothing so much as to get up and flee from her, but could not move.

  He said carefully, “Dorothy—are you all right?”

  Instantly her eyes cleared, and she said in a normal voice, “Why, yes, Gilbert, I’m fine. A little cold, perhaps.”

  At once he said, “I’ll get you a coat.”

  “No, I must go inside and see about William.” She rose, and there was a terrible fragility in her face that Gilbert understood. She patted his arm, saying, “If I didn’t have you to talk to, Gilbert, I think I’d lose my mind!”

  He sat there, his mind in a whirl, and finally he rose and sought out Elder Brewster. But he found him deep in conversation with Governor Carver, and feeling that he must say something to somebody, he made his way to the small cabin that Edward and Elizabeth shared.

  “Gilbert? Come in—if you can get in, that is.” Edward’s face was lined, for he had lost his cheerful expression. His tremendous vitality had been sapped by the illness of his wife, and he had a haunted look as he turned to say, “Gilbert’s here, Elizabeth.”

  There was no answer from the woman who lay on her back covered to the nose with a mound of blankets. She was staring at the ceiling dully, and did not respond when her husband said, “I’ll just go along with Gilbert for a time. You try to sleep.”

  “How is she?” Gilbert asked as they stepped out on deck.

  Edward
filled his large chest with fresh air, lifting his head to meet the stiff breeze. “Ah, that’s good after that foul cabin!” he exclaimed. He began walking vigorously up and down the deck, swinging his arms and stamping his feet. His face grew flushed and the tension left, smoothing his features. “Elizabeth is as well as she’s going to be, I suppose.”

  It was as close to a critical word as Gilbert had heard from his brother concerning his wife, then Edward paused and said in a softer voice, “She’s not fitted for this life, Gilbert. I shouldn’t have brought her.”

  “I think there are several who shouldn’t have come. Fuller is much afraid for William Butten—and I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Bradford.”

  “Dorothy?” Edward shook his heavy head, muttering sadly, “She’s not doing well, is she?”

  Gilbert hesitated, then told his brother of the incident that had so shaken him. He saw that it disturbed Edward greatly.

  “It’s not the first time, Gilbert. All of us who are close to her have had forebodings.”

  “Something must be done!”

  “What?” Edward shook his head sadly. “Fuller can give her a purge or a blood-letting, but who can minister to a broken heart—save the Lord himself?”

  “Does her husband know?”

  “Why, William knows she’s unhappy and not well, but he’s been so busy ministering to the needs of others, he’s had scarcely a word with her. I’ve tried to tell him, as has Elder Brewster—but he’s such a single-minded man it’s almost impossible to catch his attention.”

  Gilbert’s anger flared out suddenly. “Doesn’t he know the Scripture says that he who doesn’t care for his own is worse than a heathen?”

  Edward frowned and there was a puzzled look in his eyes. “I tell you the truth, Gilbert, I think that William Bradford is a great man—greater than we know. If this venture succeeds at all, it will be his doing. Others have been more visible, but he’s been the hub on which the whole thing has turned.”

  “But his own wife . . . !”

  “He’s a great man, but great men can destroy others with their dreams!”

  Edward struck the rail with his hand, and there was a fire in his blue eyes as he said angrily, “Bradford can see a New World and all its destiny—but that vision so fills his eyes he can’t see that his own wife is going insane!”

  “Tell him!”

  “He’s a great man, Gilbert; you don’t simply tell that breed something. It’s like trying to reason with a glacier that’s slowly moving along, taking everything with it—trees, rocks, hills. William must love his wife—but his vision fills his heart and his soul. He won’t allow anything or anyone to come before what he sees as God’s will for his life!”

  “Well, I’m happy that I’m not one of the great men,” Gilbert said moodily, then grinned at his brother. “Like you.”

  Edward spat over the rail and stared moodily at the horizon. “I’m in worse shape than Bradford in a way, Gilbert.”

  “I don’t believe that!”

  “No? You aren’t blind, so you must have seen that my marriage is a farce.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh, don’t bother to be polite!” Edward said, almost angrily. “It would be a relief to have somebody say just once, ‘Edward Winslow, you are a fool!’ ”

  Edward’s passionate speech broke off abruptly. “I’m—sorry, Gilbert,” he said finally, and managed to dredge up a smile of sorts. “Don’t usually let myself go like this.” Then he said, “It’s too late for me—but not for you. When you marry, Gilbert, be sure you get a woman who won’t bore you to death—better to have one who’ll smash your head with a chamber pot!”

  Gilbert had to laugh at the idea. “Not much for me to worry about, I suppose. Can’t see myself married at all.”

  “You’re thinking about being hauled back to England? God won’t let that happen. You’ll marry, and I’d give anything if you’d find a woman that could keep you entertained for a lifetime in two ways.”

  “Two ways?”

  “In body and in mind!” Edward nodded. “Now, you’re not a blabbermouth, so you just keep what I’ve said about myself under your bonnet.”

  Dorothy Bradford sat below deck with the Whites, playing Fox and Hounds with Resolved, listening to Susanna and William with part of her mind. They were talking about the problems that would beset them when they arrived, and Susanna was trying to encourage her husband.

  “I can’t see how we can get anything planted before May,” White was saying. He coughed almost constantly now, his weak lungs unable to stand the harsh air of the Atlantic. “Then we’ll have to wait for the harvest—if there is one.”

  “God will provide for us.” Susanna was close to her time, and most women would have been in need of support, but there was no fear in her eyes. She leaned forward, still graceful in spite of her girth, and held William’s thin hand. “Remember the Scripture cautions us to trust in God, not in the arm of flesh.”

  White lifted his arm and stared at it, saying with a wry smile, “This arm hasn’t got much flesh on it, has it, Susanna? Not much to trust in!”

  “You’ll get better, William.”

  “I wish I had your faith.” He stared at the emaciated arm, coughed sharply, then said in a low voice that Dorothy could barely hear, “It’s not myself I fear for—you know that. It’s you and Resolved, and the little one. Who will care for you if I die?”

  “God.” Susanna smiled and put down her sewing to move to his side. “If it did come to that—God would be my help. He is the father of the fatherless.”

  Dorothy looked at them, and thought, Why can’t I ever talk to my husband like that? Then she looked down at Resolved and the sight of his face brought memories of her boy John, and she began to cry. She was always crying it seemed, and she was ashamed, but there was no help. She rose and left before the Whites could see, thinking, If only this journey were over! But then the thought struck her, What then? And terror filled her, for she realized that when she got off the Mayflower, she would not leave the dark fears behind, but would take them with her, ghastly things that pulled at her mind and dragged her spirit downward. Why can’t it all end? she cried out in her heart over and over, but there was no relief.

  “How’s the boy, Fuller?” Captain Jones asked. He was attempting to shoot the sun with his cross-staff, a graduated bar of wood about thirty-six inches long, with a sliding bar about twenty-six inches long attached at right angles.

  “Bad, I’m afraid. The miserable diet of salt meat, biscuit, and dried peas we’ve had for weeks hasn’t been any help.”

  Jones did not take his eye from his staff. Absently he remarked, “Try a little extra of dried fruit and lemon juice.”

  “He can’t keep it down.” Fuller stepped closer and watched as the captain jotted down a figure in a small notebook, and asked, “Does that thing tell where we are?”

  “Not exactly. Gives the latitude pretty well, but there’s no way to get the longitude.”

  “Well, doesn’t that thing the seamen fool with every day tell how far we’ve come? If you know how far the New World is, seems as though you could subtract and tell when we’d get there.”

  “All that does is judge the speed.” The log line was a quadrant of wood weighted on one side with a line about 150 fathoms long attached to it. The line was knotted at regular intervals, and by counting how many knots ran out while the line ran through the log glass, the number of knots or miles per hour could be roughly figured. But in heavy weather such as they had experienced it was useless.

  “We must be getting close!” Fuller insisted.

  Jones suddenly grinned, and jibed at Fuller, “I thought you people all believed that God was in control—fall of the sparrow and all that?”

  “So He is—but He gave us intelligence to look to our ways. ‘A wise man looketh well to his going,’ the Scripture says.”

  “Well, I’m keeping the Scripture then,” Jones argued good-naturedly. “I’m looking well to
our going—that’s what a captain does.” He leaned against the mast and studied Fuller, wondering for the hundredth time what went on inside the Separatists. At the beginning of the voyage he had been adamantly certain that they were only another crew of wild-eyed fanatics, but his views had changed. He had discovered that the leaders were better educated than he, and men like Edward Winslow always excited his admiration. William Bradford he did not like, but William Brewster and Governor Carver were men of such evident piety he had to believe in their sincerity.

  “We’ll get there, Fuller,” he said gently. “I know it seems long to you—the sea seems evil at times, even to me. He waved his hand at the rolling swells, and went on in a soft voice, “What can we know about the sea? We seem to be caught in the same old circle, always the same in every direction. Sometimes it seems that no matter how we feel the ship move through the water, we haven’t made any progress—just glued in place while the sky and sea moves under and over us!”

  Fuller stared at him, then smiled. “Well, now you know how we feel about God, Captain Jones.”

  “What’s that?” Jones asked in surprise.

  “Why, you sail your ship toward some spot you may have never seen and you have plenty of doubts, I see. Wonder if you’ll make it? Get to looking at that huge, trackless ocean and it all seems very unlikely you’ll ever arrive?” Fuller’s broad face broke into a smile and he said, “That’s what we call ‘faith,’ Captain Jones!”

  Jones shook his head and mused, “Sounds dangerous to me, Fuller—I mean the way you people are leaving hearth and home. I have my charts and the stars to steer by, but what do you have?”

  “We chart our course by the Word of God, Captain Jones—which is more stable than all your stars. ‘The Word of the Lord changeth not, it endureth forever!’ ”

  Jones considered this, then said seriously, “You will need all your faith, Fuller. It’s very late for an endeavor such as yours. You should have timed your voyage to arrive on site in May or June. Winters in this latitude are fierce as tigers, I understand. How will you live—what will you eat?”