The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  The next day Edward put a hand on Gilbert’s arm. “I want you with us on this exploration.”

  “Why? I’ll not be staying here.” There was a bitter light in Gilbert’s eyes, but Edward ignored it.

  “You need to get away from this ship. And who can say about what’s to come?”

  Gilbert stared at him, then smiled. “All right. I’ll come.”

  Fifteen able men joined on deck at dawn, including Miles Standish, William Bradford, Edward and Gilbert, John Alden, Stephen Hopkins, William White, John Billington, Christopher Martin, Isaac Allerton, Sam Fuller, and the three hired sailors, English, Trevore, and Ellis.

  The distance from the Mayflower was something under a mile, a matter of thirty minutes’ pulling. The men piled out on the sandy beach, sending the boat back with the sailors.

  The party turned down a gully where the growth was sparse and proceeded up through the trees. There were evergreens here and there, but otherwise the dead hand of winter had stripped the trees. Nevertheless they managed to identify a goodly number of species: boxberry, shrub oaks, oaks, aspen, beech, wild plum and cherry, holly and juniper.

  As they filed across a stretch of marshy ground, a huge crane rose into the air, followed by the quicker flight of a cloud of waterfowl. Early winter dusk was already darkening the air, and they had seen no sign of human life. Confused in the wasteland, they unwittingly turned north and came upon the beach again, and decided to advance, hoping to find a better path inland. Again the men began to straggle so that Gilbert and Standish forged ahead about four hundred yards.

  Suddenly Gilbert lifted his head, and squinted into the falling darkness. “Look, Miles!” he said, pointing down the beach.

  Three quarters of a mile away Standish saw the black dots of human figures. Five or six men were coming along the shore toward them, and they had a dog with them. “Come up! Come up!” Standish called to the party, and as they halted, he passed his smoldering slow wick and each set a glowing tip to the end of his own cord and clipped it into his gun in readiness.

  “Tightly, now,” Standish commanded, and led the little troop forward. As they progressed, the figures in the distance suddenly turned and disappeared.

  Standish led the group to the spot, pointing down at imprints of bare feet in the sand.

  “We’ll follow,” he said, and stalked up the incline toward the sand hills. The men plunged over the dunes, and Standish called out, “Be ready for attack!”

  “This is a little dangerous, Miles,” Gilbert panted as they slid and stumbled through the undergrowth. “A perfect spot for an ambush.”

  “So it is, but I want to make contact—find what we’re up against.”

  They found nothing, though, and by noon when they were permitted to rest, they were hungry as bears. Washing down their cheese and biscuit-bread with water from a spring, they rested for almost two hours, then Standish roused them up, and they thrashed around all afternoon, coming back to the beach to make night camp. William Mullins was so afraid that he slept little, muttering deliriously and crying out in fear at every owl hoot, but most of them lay like stones. The stars came out, and Gilbert rose once to feed the fire with juniper sticks. He relieved Standish who was standing guard, and the two talked quietly for a short time sitting under the distant stars. So the night passed.

  They were up at dawn, and traveled a long distance, but mostly in wavering lines; they never got more than five miles from the beach, and it was about two in the afternoon when they found the cornfield.

  Standish spotted it first, and called to the others, “Here’s something!” He was standing on the edge of an irregular field of stubble. It was a large-stalked, thinly spaced stubble, but obviously not wild. “A planted field!” Bradford exclaimed. They spread out and found another field adjoining, and there, half buried in the sand, were four weather-beaten timbers—ship’s planks, obviously the remains of some sort of man-made hut.

  “See here!” John Alden cried, stooping to scoop something up. “A kettle!” He held up a rusty iron pot, and insisted on taking it along as they continued their exploration.

  At the edge of the field Billington found a small mound, and called them over, saying, “Maybe it’s buried gold!”

  “Looks more like a grave to me,” Mullins muttered.

  They fell into an argument, Billington leading those who felt they might find something valuable, and Bradford reluctant to disturb a grave. Finally, he agreed, and they began feverishly throwing the earth high in the air.

  “Who knows?” Billington cried out. “Maybe an Indian king with jewels in ’is ears! Maybe gold nuggets!”

  Finally they came against a hard surface, and scooping out the last of the dirt, Billington pulled out a woven basket. He instantly turned it over and a shower of yellow fell to the ground.

  “Gold!” Billington shouted, and they all took it up.

  “Corn, you fool!” Standish said in disgust.

  Bradford picked up a handful of the grain and there was a prophetic gleam in his dark eyes as he said quietly, “To think that God led us to this very spot—out of all the vast empty spaces in this land!”

  “We ought to put it back, cover it up as we found it,” Edward said.

  “No!” Billington shouted. “It’s ours now.”

  “Take it,” Standish said at once, and there was a sharp debate; Gilbert exchanged amused glances with Edward as the men wavered between greed and their holy duty. They finally dug farther into the mound and found a larger basket also filled with corn.

  Finally Bradford said, “Very well, we’ll take what we can carry—for seed corn. But we’ll make every attempt to find the natives and explain our intentions—to pay for what we have taken.”

  Since such a thing seemed highly unlikely, Billington’s faction agreed, and they left with bulging pockets filled with corn.

  They got sick of the kettle, for it was heavy and awkward, and by nightfall they were glad to make their second camp. The next morning they wandered back toward the shore, discovering the river mouth that had been seen from the Mayflower, and later on a sandy bank, a dugout canoe, consisting simply of a tree trunk shaped by fire into a long narrow boat. Mullins suggested they might put the heavy iron pot in it and paddle back to their starting point, but Bradford insisted on leaving it in place, and Standish led them back toward the harbor. Night overtook them, and they were forced to make camp again. The next afternoon, Friday, the seventeenth of November, they reached the harbor and fired the signal shot that brought the longboat to return them to the Mayflower.

  As they were on their way back to the ship, Edward leaned forward and said quietly, “Not the paradise most people are expecting, is it Gilbert?”

  The sober look on Gilbert’s face was broken as a wry grin drew his broad lips upward, and he murmured, “As Edens go, I expect it’s about average.”

  “You’re right, but dreams don’t follow logic,” Edward mused. He cast his eyes back toward the barren shore, then shook his head sadly. “This place is likely to break the spirit of the fainthearted.”

  “Are you having second thoughts, Edward?”

  “Second thoughts!” Edward frowned. “Man, I’ve had a hundred thoughts, wondering what in God’s name brought us to this place!”

  “A dream, Bradford says.”

  “Aye, a dream, but is it a good dream—or will it turn out to be a nightmare?”

  “I wonder if Bradford or Carver ever have doubts?” Gilbert asked. “They seem so certain that God is in all this.”

  “I doubt they ever think of it,” Edward snorted. “They’re visionaries, Gilbert. Prophets who’ve heard from God. The rest of us are risking everything on their vision.”

  A cold wind stung Gilbert’s face, and he stared at the rolling water that tossed the longboat like a chip. All morning the sun had been muffled with fat, dark clouds, and even now there was an ominous keening as the winds gathered up and cut across the sea. He stared at his hands, red with cold, and the
n looked up, saying, “I’ve never been much for dreams, Edward. Right now the whole thing looks pretty grim to me. I won’t be here if Jones has his way, but if I were staying, there’d be some fear in my heart, I think.”

  “Don’t give up, Gilbert,” Edward said instantly. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and added, “I’m not much on theology myself, but I can’t think God brought you this far for no purpose.”

  “You think God is in such dire need of men He has to use a traitor and a murderer to build a New World?”

  “Ah, Gilbert!” Edward shook his head and said energetically, “Forbear that, I beg you! You’re no murderer, nor traitor either, not in your soul. You’ve taken a fall—well, what young man doesn’t, I ask ye?”

  As the men piled onto the deck, there was an excited hum of voices, and Priscilla Mullins caught at John Alden with her eyes wide, saying, “John, what was it like?”

  The big cooper smiled down at her, and pulled her off to sit beside the rail. He did not note the hard look that her father gave him, but began spinning the tale to the delighted girl.

  Bradford smiled at the crowd, but shook his head. “We have good news. The land is fertile.” He reached into the kettle held by Allerton and Billington, allowing the golden grain to trickle through his fingers. “See, the grain of the new land!”

  As everyone crowded close to see, Brewster came close and said in a low tone, “William, you’d best go see Dorothy.”

  “Dorothy? Why? Is she ill?”

  “I think so.”

  Bradford nodded, and leaving Edward to tell of their findings, he followed Brewster into the first hold. “What’s wrong with her, William? She was fine when we left.”

  Brewster stopped so abruptly that Bradford bumped into him. “No, she was not. She hasn’t been well for some time.”

  Bradford stared into the eyes of William Brewster, perplexity scoring his craggy face. He tried to think, then said, “I hadn’t noticed she was ill.”

  “You must pay more heed to her, William. She’s not strong.”

  “Why, I hadn’t thought . . . !”

  “No, you’ve been so caught up with the people, it’s escaped your notice. But she needs your love and assurance more than anyone else on this ship.”

  They found her in the tiny cabin, sitting on the bunk with her hands folded in her lap. The light of the flickering candle threw a shattered light over her face, and the sight of her drew a sudden gasp from William Bradford.

  She was staring emptily at the wall, her face etched by the rigors of the journey. She had been plump and pretty, but there was a cadaverous look about her as she sat there. Her cheeks were drawn in, and the outline of her teeth could be seen through her thin lips.

  But it was not that which shocked Bradford so much as the emptiness of her eyes. She had always had bright eyes, her best feature, but now they were dull, almost as if filmed with some opaque material.

  She was singing under her breath, so faintly that Bradford had to lean forward to hear. It was a nursery rhyme, one he had heard her sing often to John when he was an infant.

  Bradford leaned forward and caught the faint words: I’m a little lost lamb—a little lost lamb—Far, far away from home!

  “Dorothy,” he said gently. “Dorothy, are you all right?”

  She did not respond, but kept her eyes fastened on the wall, and sang again, I’m a little lost lamb . . .” Then she smiled and murmured softly, “I found the doll you made me, Papa. It was under my bed.”

  Shock raked across Bradford’s face, and he could not seem to move. He stood there, leaning over his wife, his eyes wide, his heavy lower lip drooping. Finally he straightened up and stared blindly at William Brewster. He formed the words with his lips: “She’s mad!”

  William Brewster’s face was filled with pain as he nodded.

  “She is indeed a little lost lamb, William. A little lost lamb!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DOROTHY

  Log: Friday December 4

  Cape Cod. Weather continues to worsen. Temperature falling, and rain threatening to turn to snow. Settlers have been in conference daily trying to make a decision on place of final settlement. Many want to settle at Corn Hill, while others cite its want of adequate water supply. They would have to depend on fresh-water ponds which would dry up in summer. Coffin has volunteered to guide an expedition to a good harbor not far across the bay. Much weakness among people. Thompson, servant of William White, dies.

  The news of Edward Thompson’s death came as no shock, for he had been failing for days. The men were in one of the endless debates on where to settle when Sam Fuller entered the hold, sat down heavily, his head bowed.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Fuller?” Hopkins asked.

  “Edward just died.”

  A silence settled on the group; then Billington shrugged, saying, “He’d not have lasted the winter.”

  The death of Thompson sobered both sides, and they finally agreed to make one more exploration. Coffin, the man who knew the coast best, vowed there was a navigable river and a good harbor less than twenty-four miles around the coast.

  O’Neal asked the pilot why he was giving aid to the settlers when he’d never had anything but contempt for them.

  “Because I’m interested in my own hide, that’s why!” Coffin cursed and went on, “The captain, he’s bewitched by these whey-faced psalm-singers! You ain’t heard him say nothin’ about going home, have you? No! Gone soft, ’e has! He’ll stay around this cursed place all winter, and what’ll we have to eat on the way home, I ask you? We’ll starve, that’s what! And that’s why I’m gonna’ show ’em a good spot; then they’ll be off the ship and we can get away from this place!”

  As soon as the expedition left, the weather began playing diabolical games with the Mayflower. Rolling swells and gusty blasts of freezing rain combined to roll the ship till she heaved and strained at her anchor. There was no possibility of going ashore, and what was happening to the small force caught in such weather, they dared not think.

  Gilbert had not gone on the expedition, his place being taken by Peter Brown. The only warmth on the ship was in the small galley, and he had joined Tink there on the second afternoon after the departure.

  They were hugging the small fire when Samuel Fuller came in and poured himself a cup of the hot tea that Hinge kept for a favored few. The burly physician was thinner than when they had left England, and Gilbert noticed that his hands were not steady.

  He drank the tea silently, not seeming to taste it, then looked at Tink and said, “You know the forecastle, lad?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, there’s a small leather bag in a wooden box under my bunk. Go fetch it, and I shouldn’t be surprised but what there was a treat in it for you. Run now!”

  Waiting until Tink dashed away in search of his prize, Fuller stared moodily at the fire, then lifted his broad face to Gilbert. “I’ve no liking for you, Winslow.”

  “That’s clear enough, Mr. Fuller.” Gilbert stared at him, shrugged, and said, “I can’t blame you.”

  Fuller slapped his thigh angrily, and said loudly, “I’m too hard—too hard! That’s what I am!”

  Gilbert asked, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” Fuller turned the cup over in his hands nervously, then looked up and said, “It’s Mrs. Bradford.”

  “She’s worse?”

  “Every day she slips a little deeper into that black pit that’s swallowing her up. I told Bradford not to go on that expedition!”

  “Doesn’t he know how sick she is?”

  “He don’t know anything but his New World! Blind—blind as a mole!”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  “You’re a smart man, Gilbert Winslow. You know doctors can’t do much, even for physical ailments. What can we do about a mind that’s dying?”

  Gilbert stared at Fuller. “It frightens me, Fuller. I suppose I have as much courage as the average man
, but this is—well, it sends cold chills all over me when I look into her eyes.”

  “Ay, that’s the way it strikes all of us.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  Fuller squinted at Gilbert, nodded slowly, and said, “Stay with her, man. I know it’s hard, but she likes you. You and Humility—she seems less likely to go into one of those spells when someone she likes is there.”

  “All right.” Gilbert stood up and gave a long look at the physician. “I’ll go see her now.”

  Fuller mustered a small smile. “Good man!” and there was a warmer light in his brown eyes than Gilbert had seen for some time.

  Leaving the galley, Gilbert made his way along the deck slippery with rain, then down the ladder to the first hold. With an effort of will he knocked on the door, and when Dorothy said, “Come in,” he entered the small cabin.

  She got up and put her hand out, a smile on her face. A wave of relief swept through him as he saw that she was herself—pale and wan, but without the blank expression he had dreaded to find.

  “I thought you went with the others,” she said. Her hand in his was fragile, like a tiny bird’s bones, and her face was hollow and sunken. Only her eyes were alert, and she pulled him toward a chair. “Sit down and put that cover over you. You must be frozen!”

  They sat and talked for thirty minutes, mostly of things they had left behind in England. She seemed to have blocked the new life out of her mind, for she spoke only of her garden in Holland, of her friends she had left, of the activities of the Green Gate Church—never of anything in the future.

  When the conversation lagged, Gilbert spotted a folio on a shelf and picked it up.

  “Ah—Mr. Shakespeare’s play, The Tempest, have you been reading it?”

  “Oh, I don’t understand such things,” she answered. “Mr. Bradford says that such things are dangerous.”