The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  Fuller dropped his head and for one instant he looked tired and defeated, but then he looked up at the rolling banks of clouds that raced overhead, and then back to Jones.

  “God is not dead, brother.”

  The simplicity of the reply was exactly the sort of thing that both disturbed the captain and paradoxically drew him to the settlers. Being a practical man, he was irritated at what appeared to be improvident planning—yet he longed to possess that serenity of soul that kept them secure.

  “We cannot be many days out,” he said firmly. “You’ll be in your new Eden in a week, I’d venture.”

  Fuller nodded, then a figure caught his eye. Gilbert Winslow had appeared on deck and was making for the poop deck. “What will you do about that fellow?”

  “Take him back to England.”

  “And Mr. Brewster?”

  The captain hesitated, then was spared making an answer as Gilbert approached. “Mr. Fuller, I think you’d better come.”

  “Is it Butten?” Fuller asked quickly.

  “Yes. He’s having some sort of spell.”

  Fuller left without a word, and Gilbert turned to follow, but paused when Captain Jones caught his arm. “Is the boy dying, Winslow?”

  Gilbert gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes cloudy, and he said briefly, “He looks very bad, Captain.”

  “Too bad! Too bad! I wish I could do something.”

  Gilbert stared at the captain curiously. His impression had been that the seaman was a rather hard specimen, but now there was a concerned furrow on the face of Jones. He said, “It does you credit to be concerned, Captain.”

  Jones gave him a direct look. “You think I am a heartless man, I take it.”

  “I don’t know you, Captain Jones,” Gilbert shrugged.

  “No, nor I you. And with a certain matter between us, we may never get to know one another.”

  “You mean the matter of a gallows in England to which you will take me?”

  Jones bit his lip, then nodded. “I could wish it were otherwise, Winslow. But as captain I am accountable to the Crown. If it became known that I allowed a fugitive to go free, it is not inconceivable that I might take your place on the gallows.”

  “I believe our Royal Sovereign is quite capable of such an action,” Gilbert remarked with a grim smile; then he said, “I hold no malice toward you, Captain. But surely you must have some feelings about returning Mr. Brewster to the executioner?”

  The question stung Jones and he said defensively, “He is an enemy to the Crown!”

  “You know how false that is, Captain, I think.” Gilbert shrugged and added, “You have spent much time with him on this voyage. I know that, for he has told me. Now can you, on your honor as a gentleman, say that there is anything in William Brewster that could possibly harm King James?”

  Jones struggled for an answer, then rapped the deck with his staff, saying fiercely, “No! On my honor, he is no threat to anyone on earth!” Then he paused and there was pain in his gray eyes as he turned to leave. “I wish the two of you would sprout wings and fly off my ship!”

  Gilbert watched him leave, then descended from the poop deck. He was turning to go below when a small body shot up the stairs and collided so abruptly with his legs that he nearly fell.

  Gaining his balance, he saw Tink, his face white with fear, trying to scramble around him. Catching his arms he said, “Tink—what’s wrong?”

  At that moment the huge form of Jeff Daggot appeared on the landing below. He was evidently chasing Tink, but stopped abruptly when he saw Winslow.

  “What’s this about?” Gilbert said.

  “That boy stole me tot!” Daggot said. He advanced up the stairs in a threatening position, pointing a dirty finger at Tink. “See? That’s me own ale—and I’ll have a piece of ’is skin! Teach ’im to steal from Jeff Daggot, I will!”

  “Hold it right there, Daggot,” Gilbert said at once. “What about this, Tink?”

  Tink kept his small body behind Gilbert. He held up a pewter tankard and said in a frightened voice, “Dr. Fuller sent me to get some ale—for William. And I found this—but I didn’t know it was his!”

  “Liar!” Daggot spat out. He reached out a thick hand for the boy which Gilbert knocked away. “Keep your hands off this boy, Daggot! Tink, give me the ale!” Taking the tankard from the boy, he handed it to Daggot, saying, “There’s your property.”

  Daggot stared at it, then suddenly threw it straight into Gilbert’s face, shouting, “You can ’ave it yourself, Mr. High-and-Mighty!”

  Gilbert gasped as the ale caught him open-eyed, and as he threw his hands reflexively to his face he felt Daggot’s mighty hands close on his throat, then a smashing blow caught him full in the mouth driving him backward to sprawl helplessly against the steps. He cried out, “Run, Tink!” at the same time kicking out with his good leg.

  He had guessed that Daggot would follow up and, blinded though he was, he caught the sailor a solid kick in the groin. Daggot yelled and staggered backward, and Gilbert wiped his eyes free and leaped to his feet.

  Daggot’s face was a red mask of pain and rage as he started up the stairs with his hands held out like claws. “I’ll pop yer eyeballs out like a pair ’o grapes!” he yelled, and with a curse threw himself up the stairs.

  Gilbert was struck in the stomach by Daggot’s huge head, and the back of his legs struck the top stair. He fell backward, rolling his head to one side just in time to avoid the jabbing thumb which Daggot drove toward his eye. It caught him on the cheek, the dirty nail slicing a gash as neatly as a blade along his cheekbone. He felt the blood well up, but ignoring the pain he drove a knee into the man’s belly. It was tough as a board, but it gave. Daggot’s wind belched out and he went lax just long enough for Gilbert to roll free and get to his feet.

  Daggot was up instantly, and drove a hard blow that crushed Gilbert’s mouth against his teeth. He was hit in the belly and lost his wind, then fell backward as he took a low blow. Great sheets of pain flowed upwards and he pulled his knees up to protect himself from the kick he felt sure was coming. It caught him on the bad leg, and when he scrambled to his feet, he was in bad shape.

  Daggot was a barroom brawler, and he was out to kill or maim. Gilbert backed away, knowing that he had no chance in such a fight. Someone cried out, but he could not make out the words. Daggot did not hear; he had lain awake nights thinking of this time, and now he would smash the man before him even if he were flogged for it. “I’ll smash yer pretty face so she won’t love you no more!” he grated between clenched teeth, and he drove toward Gilbert in a rush of flailing fists.

  He battered Gilbert’s tipped-down head and his fist scraped along the smaller man’s chin and nose. He hooked into Gilbert’s temple, and then the blows came like deadly rain, starting up a blaze of lights in Gilbert’s brain. He felt them and he heard them, but could not stop them and was driven back against a hard object.

  His hand closed on an object, and when he pulled at it, it came loose in his hand—a belaying pin. He had only strength enough to lift it, and as Daggot came roaring in, he brought the heavy weapon down, catching Daggot on the side of the head.

  It was a blow that would have knocked a lesser man unconscious, but Daggot’s matted hair and thick skull protected him. He went to one knee, his head down, and blood sprinkled the deck from the gash over his left ear.

  Gilbert backed away, and Clark came running up. He grabbed Daggot’s arm, yelling, “You fool! You’ll be . . .” He was not able to finish, for Daggot came to his feet and striking out blindly, caught the First Mate in the stomach with such a powerful blow he fell to the deck gasping for breath.

  Daggot stared at the belaying pin in Gilbert’s hand, then his eyes drifted to the oak cabinet to his left, just under the rim of the poop deck. It was a small closet used for gear, but Standish had persuaded the captain to let him use it as a storage place for the weapons of the settlers. It was locked, but Daggot ripped the door open with a might
y heave, and when he turned, he had a sword in his hand.

  Other voices were crying out, and Gilbert thought he heard the captain, but his vision narrowed until he saw only the glittering blade in Daggot’s hand. A silence fell on his ears, and he heard the ragged breathing of the man who was moving toward him with murder in his eyes.

  Daggot lunged, blade lowered, and it was a good thrust. Only barely did Gilbert manage to turn the blade aside with a quick movement of the belaying pin, and Daggot recovered quickly, saying under his breath, “That’s all right—that’s all right—Daggot will get you—that’s all right!”

  To stand was to die, so Gilbert took his only chance. As Daggot fell into position for another thrust, Gilbert waited until the last possible moment, then threw the pin straight into the man’s face. It caught Daggot in the chest, and Gilbert whirled and ran around the longboat making for the bow.

  Daggot laughed then, and Gilbert heard the sound of bare feet close on his heels! He reached the forecastle and in one mad leap scrambled on top, hearing the hiss of Daggot’s blade as he made a cut.

  He rolled over, and looked wildly around, but there was only the sea in front, and now Daggot was on the deck, his sword poised.

  They stood there outlined against the sky, Daggot crouched in the classic pose of the fencer ready to drive home the final thrust; Gilbert standing on the edge of the deckhouse, his hands widespread and waiting.

  Daggot laughed, ignoring the voice of Captain Jones. “I’m a’goin’ to kill you now,” he said, and moved forward.

  Gilbert awaited the thrust, knowing that Daggot was too good a swordsman to miss, and there was no fear in him—only regret that it had to end like this. Then a voice cut across the air like a trumpet.

  “Gilbert!”

  Looking up, Gilbert saw John Howland’s head just over the lip of the forecastle deck—and in his hand was a sword!

  “Here!” Howland yelled and threw the blade toward Gilbert.

  It cartwheeled in the sun, sparkling like glass as it rose. Twice it turned and Gilbert thought, It’s too high! but he gave a leap and the hilt slapped into his palm with a solid sound.

  His feet touched the deck just as Daggot made his lunge, and it must have seemed like magic to the man’s eyes.

  One second he was driving his blade toward the body of an unarmed man—the next moment he was facing a sliver of steel that drove his own blade to one side and rammed through his chest like an icy dart.

  Daggot’s lunge carried him face-to-face with Gilbert, and for one moment he stared into the blue eyes, and then the incredible pain wrenched at him. He opened his mouth and said, “You—you ain’t . . .” and then his body arched over backward, ripping the sword out of Gilbert’s hand.

  His body twisted as he fell, and he seemed to be trying to reach the hilt of the blade that nestled against his chest. His own sword hit the deck with a clatter, then he fell.

  His lower body hit the top of the forecastle deck, but the heavy torso cleared the side, and he turned a complete somersault, striking the deck a lifeless hulk.

  Captain Jones was on the far side of the deck, and he rushed around to find John Alden standing there, but no Daggot.

  Alden’s eyes were blazing, and there was blood on the front of his jerkin. As the captain stopped short, Alden nodded toward the sea, and there was a challenge in his face as he said calmly, “Man overboard, Captain.”

  Log: September 20

  Sighted land at dusk. It appears to be Cape Cod, somewhere off the high bluffs at Truro. It being late, we will search the coast for a harbor on the morrow.

  Seaman Jeffery Daggot was lost at sea after falling overboard. Attempts to recover his body were in vain. May God have mercy on his soul.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MUTINY ON THE MAYFLOWER

  They were sixty-five days out from Plymouth, ninety-seven from Southampton. Shouts of joy and tears of relief rang on the morning air as the entire company met to view their new home.

  They were close enough to see high brown bluffs and the tops of tall trees, but all was in outline. Captain Jones dared not venture too close to shore, and the leadsman was hard at work feeling for the bottom. “Forty fathoms, thirty fathoms, twenty fathoms.”

  For half a day they continued this cautious progress down the coast, and it was late when the lookout from the maintop shouted, “Breakers ahead!”

  “We’ll find a harbor tomorrow,” Jones said to the anxious group, and then there was an anticlimactic lull. Passengers wandered over the small deck interfering with the work of the crew, and had to be driven below by orders from the Cabin.

  Far into the night the leaders talked, planned for the coming days, and they were caught off guard when a group led by Billington demanded an audience.

  “We ain’t satisfied with the way things is going, Mr. Bradford,” Billington said bluntly. “And we have come to a decision.”

  William Bradford lifted his head slowly, taking in the group, and he asked quietly, “What is your decision?”

  “Why, when we come ashore, we intend to use our own liberty.”

  “That’s right!” Stephen Hopkins piped up, his rabbit-like face twitching eagerly. He nudged Billington, adding, “There’s none with the power to command us—not if we land at this spot.”

  “And why not?” Bradford asked.

  “Because this ain’t Virginia like we signed for.”

  “In that you are correct,” Bradford nodded. “The charter calls for us to settle south of latitude 41. But we are hundreds of miles north of the Hudson River, and the captain informs us that to beat our way there would be very dangerous. In addition, the captain insists on taking the ship back to England as quickly as possible.”

  “What this amounts to,” Carver said gently, “is that we really have only two choices—settle here, or go back to England.”

  “We signed for Virginia!” Hopkins said stubbornly. “And if we stay here, we don’t see as how we’re under your authority.”

  “It’s all Virginia,” Bradford said steadily; “this part is called New England.”

  “I don’t know anything about New England,” Billington said loudly. “We won’t be bound by any power if we don’t settle in Virginia.”

  “We’ll elect our own governor!” Hopkins said.

  “And you are a candidate, I take it?” Bradford asked acidly.

  “Why . . .”

  “You were on a voyage to Virginia once before, I believe.” Bradford pinned the little man with his eyes.

  “Why, yes, I was, and . . .”

  “And there was a rebellion against the authority of Sir William Gates, was there not?”

  Hopkins’ mouth dropped open, and he wiped his chin with a nervous hand. “I don’t remember . . .”

  Bradford’s voice chopped at the little man relentlessly. “And there was a trial in which the members of the conspiracy were convicted of mutiny and rebellion.”

  “Yes.” Hopkins’ face was sallow now, and his voice could hardly be heard.

  “And all were executed—with one exception, I believe. The man who organized the entire affair was let off because, as the record says, ‘He made so much moan alleging the ruin of his wife and children in his trespass.’ And the name of that man is—Stephen Hopkins!”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Hopkins began to cry, his face contorted with shame. “They made me do it, I didn’t want to!”

  “And are they making you lead this mutiny?” Bradford asked sternly. He pointed his finger at the group, saying, “You will drop this matter at once, do you hear me!”

  He did not wait, but pushed by them, saying, “Mr. Carver, Mr. Brewster, come with me.”

  The rest of the day they spent in the captain’s Great Cabin, and the ship was abuzz with rumors. When Bradford stood on the poop deck late in the afternoon and called for a meeting, there was a rush to get a place.

  The cabin was crowded, for although no women were there, most of the able-bodied men were.
Discontent was in the air, and the faces of the leaders were gray with strain. The thing was settled when Brewster said to Bradford, “William, some sort of terms must be offered to all, strangers as well as saints. We must have a written document embodying the idea that everyone would have fair treatment under the new government.”

  That paper was in the hands of William Bradford, and he waited until the room grew quiet, then in a steady voice read the Compact:

  IN THE NAME OF GOD, AMEN

  We whose names are underwritten, the loyal subjects of our dread Sovereign Lord King James by the Grace of God of Great Britain, France, Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith:

  Having undertaken, for the Glory of God and advancement of the Christian Faith and honour of our King and country, a voyage to plant the First Colony in the northern parts of Virginia, do by these presents solemnly and mutually in the presence of God and of one another, covenant and combine ourself together into a Civil Body Politic, for the better ordering and preservation and furtherance of the ends aforesaid, and by virtue hereof do enact, constitute and frame such just and equal law, ordinances, acts, constitutions and offices from time to time, as shall be thought most meet and convenient for the general good of the Colony, unto which we promise all due submission and obedience. In witness whereof we have hereunder subscribed our names at Cape Cod, the 11th of November, in the year of the reign of our Sovereign Lord King James of England, France and Ireland, the eighteenth, and of Scotland the fifty-fourth. Anno Domini 1620

  “This will be the foundation of our government,” Bradford said. He put the paper on the captain’s desk, picked up a quill and signed it. Those that were entitled to the term “Master” stepped up, led by John Carver, followed by William Brewster, Edward Winslow, Isaac Allerton, Miles Standish, Samuel Fuller, William White. Then the leaders of the London group signed—Christopher Martin, William Mullins, Richard Waren, Stephen Hopkins.

  Then the goodmen were invited to sign—the next social rank below master. Twenty-seven of these signed; then four servants signed on orders from their master. A total of forty-one of the sixty-five males aboard signed. The women were excluded, of course, for they were not free agents, being legal chattel and servants of their husbands.