The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Most children are like that,” Gilbert argued. He pulled a chair over and sat down beside Bradford. He’d never liked the man—had despised him, in fact, for the way he’d treated his wife. But there was something in him now that had been lacking, and he wanted to discover what it was.

  “When I became a man I should have put away childish things,” Bradford quoted. “But the older I got, the more I prided myself on being strong enough to handle anything that came to me—without help.”

  He drew his knees up suddenly and placed his bony hands on them. They were roughened by the grueling labor of the past days, but they were the hands of an artist, a scholar—long, tapering, sensitive. He raised them to his face, made a pyramid of them, and touched them with his lips. A cloud passed over his eyes, and there was an unsteadiness in his voice as he met Gilbert’s gaze and said, “If I had not been so independent, my wife would be alive.”

  Gilbert felt the force of the simple statement like a blow. He blinked and licked his lips, unable to answer. Bradford had confessed his guilt without apology, direct as a stone.

  “You can’t know that, Mr. Bradford,” he said finally.

  “No. We can never know what would have been had we taken a different course.” Then he looked at Gilbert and forced a smile. “You are not a priest, are you, Gilbert?”

  “A priest?”

  “It occurs to me that I am making my confession to you like a loyal Catholic. And I could not say this to your brother—or to anyone else in this place. But you and I are much alike, so I burden you with my guilt.”

  Gilbert suddenly was struck with the incongruity of the thing. He grinned widely at Bradford and said, “No one would ever believe such a thing. You’re a saint—I’m the sinner!”

  Bradford did not smile. Instead, he put his thin hand on Gilbert’s wrist. “There was a time when I cataloged men like that—saint or sinner; heaven or hell. But I was wrong.” He sighed deeply. “And what about you, Gilbert?” Bradford continued at last.

  “Me?”

  “I have it in my mind that you are like the man mentioned in the Scripture—the one who was not far from the kingdom of God.”

  Gilbert shrugged, but an angry light suddenly smoldered in his blue eyes. The weight of Bradford’s gaze became uncomfortable and he said, “I’ve tried that way—it may be all right for you, but not for me.”

  Bradford closed his eyes, and then opened them, saying, “You have tried religion, Gilbert. But you have been too strong to try Jesus Christ. You have to be desperate.”

  Gilbert laughed bitterly. “Desperate! I’ve killed two men, betrayed my friends—I’m on my way back to England to hang—and you say I’m not desperate?”

  Bradford stared at him, shook his head, and murmured, “You’re too strong, my boy. Tell me the truth; you are thinking that somehow you’ll get out of it. That by some means you’ll escape and everything will be all right for you, isn’t that so?”

  Gilbert opened his mouth to deny it, then suddenly realized what Bradford said was true. “Well—I suppose that’s so, but . . . !”

  “You see? You haven’t come to the place where you can ask for help.”

  Suddenly Gilbert felt stifled in the small hut. He got to his feet, stopping long enough to say, “I’d better help the others, Mr. Bradford.” He left, but not before he heard Bradford say, “Run away as hard as you can, Gilbert—the day will come when you’ll be caught in a trap with no place to run!”

  All that week Gilbert avoided Bradford. The weather cleared and he threw himself into the work with all his strength. Tink was with him every day, and he often had to say, “You’re working too hard, Tink.”

  “Oh, I ain’t tired, not a bit!” the boy would say. But he had developed a hacking cough and his cheeks were often tinged with an unnatural red.

  On Saturday the 20th of January the Common House was finished, and on the next day the entire company of the Mayflower came ashore, as many as possible crowding into the small structure.

  The largest building in Plymouth was only about twenty feet square, of wattle and daub construction with a high steep roof. Against one side was a lean-to for tools and supplies.

  Gilbert did not go inside, but from the door he had a good view of the congregation—many of them too sick to stand, lying on beds. Humility, he saw, was with the Tilleys, and at her right was Peter Brown. She met his eyes once, and there was an adamant expression on her face, marring its softness. Brown caught the glance and stared at Gilbert intently for a moment, then ignored him.

  Bradford looked around, opened his little Bible and began to read. “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations . . .” and as he read the 90th Psalm a hush fell over the congregation. He closed the Bible and began to speak, and there was none of the harsh directness which had been part of his manner in Leyden.

  “This is the psalm of Moses, and it is now our psalm. Where is our dwelling place? Is it in Plymouth?” He smiled and lifted his hand toward heaven. “No, the Lord is our dwelling place—for when this Plymouth is no more, when the earth ceases to be, we will not be wanderers, for the Lord is our home.”

  As Bradford went on, encouraging his flock, Gilbert saw that his hearers were struck by the new humility of his manner. They were not bound to this man as people in England were bound to their ministers, but there was a power in him that held them all. People believe him, Gilbert thought. That’s the secret of being a leader.

  The sermon was short, and the boat returned to the May-flower at once. As soon as Captain Jones’ feet touched the deck, he sensed something was wrong. Wheeling around, he saw some of the crew advancing. Instantly, he recognized their purpose; he had been expecting it for some time.

  “Cap’n Jones, we needs to have a word with you.”

  “Yes, what is it, Coffin?”

  “We’ve been talking, sir, and what it comes to is—we think it’s time to go back home.”

  “Why, so it is time,” he nodded easily. “And I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave this shore. Of course, we must wait just a little longer. You wouldn’t throw sick people off the ship without a roof, would you, men?”

  “And what about food, Captain?” Coffin asked at once.

  “You won’t starve—I’ll see to that!”

  Coffin shrugged, and glanced at his followers. “How can you feed us, Captain? There’s only so much food to be had, and the longer we stay here the more of it goes to these psalm-singers. Can’t deny that, can you?”

  Jones forced himself to smile. “Why, I think you’ve sailed with me long enough to know that I’ve never let a man starve, Coffin! Just a few more days, and we’re off—and here’s the best of it—” A thought came to him, and he smiled broadly, winking at the men lined up behind the pilot’s lean form, “You’ll all be getting a bonus for the time you spend here.”

  He noted the smiles of the crew, and before Coffin or O’Neal could speak, he closed the matter in his usual dogmatic fashion. “Now, to work with you—and think about what that bonus will buy in England.”

  Coffin did not try to argue, but Jones knew he had only postponed the matter.

  Sooner or later I’ll have to keelhaul that man! he thought as he went to his cabin.

  * * *

  The last week in January wore the work force down, some of the workers taking to their beds with what was called the general sickness.

  “What is this thing, Sam?” Edward Winslow asked in despair.

  “It’s not one thing, I’d say, but half a dozen—scurvy, pneumonia, tuberculosis, bad diet, lack of sanitation—take your pick.”

  “And not the least is the fact that sick people are working in the worst weather imaginable when they ought to be in bed.” Winslow shook his head and added, “But how much worse can it get? Half of us are sick now.”

  “And some of the crew are pretty bad as well, so Captain Jones tells me,” Brewster said.

  “That man is a marvel to me,” Edward mused. “Many men would
have thrust us off on this shore and made for home.”

  “God’s hand was in his choosing,” Brewster said simply. “He will be rewarded for his faithfulness to us.”

  Fuller gave him a heavy glance and shook his massive head. “I been listenin’ to some of the crew—Mr. Clark, mostly. He says if Captain Jones don’t haul anchor soon, the crew will mutiny.”

  “No, I can’t think they’d do that!” Winslow stated flatly. “They’d hang.”

  “According to Clark, they’d rather risk hanging as a maybe, than starving as a sure thing,” Fuller grunted. He rose heavily to his feet and said, “I’m going to try a new medicine on Rose Standish.”

  “What is it?” Brewster asked.

  “Some red berries that grow in the scrub oaks. Maybe they’ll do her some good.”

  “You mean you’re going to give her some medicine, and you don’t know what it is!” Brewster was horrified. “Why, Sam, you might kill her.”

  Fuller stared at him, and said quietly, “She’s going to die anyway, William. I’m just doing it to make Captain Standish feel better.”

  His blunt assertion caught both men off guard. They looked uneasily at each other, then back to Fuller. Winslow asked, “Is it that certain, Sam? There’s no hope?”

  Fuller dropped his head, then lifted it, and there was a finality in his eyes as he said, “She’s lived a week longer than I’d thought, Edward. It will be a blessing.”

  “Does Standish know?”

  “The funny thing is, he doesn’t,” Fuller mused. He pulled at his bottom lip, and added, “He’s such a sharp fellow in so many ways, but he’s like a child where she’s concerned. I tried to tell him once that it might be well to consider the possibility of losing her—and he just stared at me as if I’d said something he couldn’t understand.”

  “Poor fellow!” Brewster said. “I’ll go with you, Samuel. Maybe I can comfort them with a scripture.”

  Brewster and Fuller made their way to the Common House, and found Miles Standish sitting beside Rose. He asked eagerly, “Did you bring the new medicine, Dr. Fuller?”

  “Aye, right here, Captain.” Fuller held out a small glass bottle and said, “Can you pull her up long enough to swallow this?”

  “Sit up, Rose,” Standish whispered, pulling her thin form up. She was semiconscious, and when Fuller ladled some of the medicine into her mouth it ran down her chin and off onto the cover.

  “Now that will do you good, Rose,” Standish murmured. “You’ll be up and around in no time; isn’t that right, Dr. Fuller?”

  “We must pray much for her, Miles,” Samuel Fuller said. “Mr. Brewster came to do that—for both of you.”

  “Why, there’s nothing wrong with me!” Standish protested, but he moved back as Brewster came to kneel beside his wife and began to pray.

  When the prayer was over, Brewster turned to Standish and said gently, “She’s a godly woman, Captain. I know she’s made her peace with God.”

  “No! I won’t have that kind of talk!”

  Standish got up and left the room at once, his face pale and there was a madness in his eyes.

  Brewster shook his head. “He’s not a Christian man, Samuel. It’s going to go hard with him when she dies.”

  “Somebody must be here at all times, William. She could go at any moment.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  Brewster got several of the women to stay with the dying woman, and she seemed to improve the next day. Standish went to get some sleep about seven o’clock, for he had not left her side.

  It was long after midnight when all three men—Gilbert, Edward, and Standish—awoke instantly when a woman’s voice called out, “Mr. Standish!”

  Miles leaped out of bed, pulled the door open and found Humility standing there with a lantern. He stared at her, unable to say a word. Finally, she said gently, “You must come now, Mr. Standish. She’s going.”

  “No!” Standish whirled and ran across the room. Putting his forehead on the wall, he rolled his head from side to side, saying, “No! No! No!”

  Edward glanced at Gilbert and then went to the soldier. “It’s hard, Miles—but you must go!”

  Slowly Standish straightened, and when he turned, his face was shattered with fright. He moved like a man in his sleep, and before he reached the door, he turned and said, “Gilbert—will you go with me? I can’t bear it alone!”

  “Of course—but maybe you’d like one of the elders . . . ?”

  “No—you come!”

  Edward nodded, and Gilbert took Miles’ arm and followed Humility as she went forward holding up the light.

  Fuller was inside standing beside Rose, but he moved at once to come and whisper, “She’s not got long, Miles—be quick!”

  Standish did not release the grip he had taken on Gilbert’s arm, so the younger man was practically forced to advance and kneel with Standish. Humility came forward, her face highlighted by the lantern she held high, and Fuller stepped back into the shadows.

  “Rose?” Standish put his hand on the woman’s brow, and for a moment Gilbert thought she was dead. But then her eyes opened, and for the first time in days, her mind was clear.

  “Miles—” she whispered, and she tried to raise her hand to touch his face.

  “Sweetheart mine!” he said, the tears running down his face. He began to shake so violently that Gilbert feared he might fall, but then he caught himself and leaned forward, his lips almost touching her ear. “I love you more than life!”

  Rose’s face was drawn by her illness, but there was a peace in her countenance. She managed to raise her hand and put it around the neck of her husband, and he fell on her breast.

  “Don’t leave me, Rosie!” he sobbed.

  She smiled and pulled his face up so that she could see his eyes. “I’m so tired, Miles—so very tired.”

  The light moved and Gilbert looked up to see Humility swaying from side to side. Her eyes were filled and her free hand was held over her mouth to stifle the sobs. She began to fall, and he leaped up, took the lamp and held her upright with his free hand. He dared not move, for the tide was going out for Rose Standish.

  “Do you remember the roses you gave me—the first time—we met?” she asked, and the words came harder, “And—what you—told me?”

  Standish reached down and pulled her up, holding her with both arms. “Aye! I said it was a shame that the flowers were forced to look so bad—next to your face!”

  “And—you said—you loved me!”

  “And so I have—so I have!”

  Once more she pulled back, and looking right into his face, she whispered, “I—have loved you—always—but now, I—must go—I must go to my Lord.”

  She tried to touch his face, but suddenly she took one deep breath, then her hand dropped, and her head fell back.

  “She’s—she’s gone, Miles,” Fuller said. He came forward and put his heavy hand on the soldier’s shoulder, and added, “She’s with the Lord God.”

  Standish remained silent, unmoving, and Gilbert was afraid of his reaction. But carefully lowering Rose to the bed, he folded her hands, leaned over and kissed her, then stood up. His eyes were filled, but there was no panic in his voice as he said, “I never loved another woman in my life!”

  Humility suddenly realized that she was being held in Gilbert’s embrace, and she pulled away at once, dashing the tears from her eyes. “I’ll take care of Rose, Captain Standish,” she said.

  Gilbert walked outside with Miles and Sam Fuller, and as they stood there looking up, a star broke through the winter sky. “See that?” Standish said quietly. “That’s what she was to me—like that point of light in the dark sky.” He reached up as if he could touch the star, then added, “Now my sky is dark—not a speck of light in it, Gilbert.”

  Gilbert Winslow wanted to say something to comfort his friend, but there was nothing in him, for his own sky was dark also.

  It got darker when Fuller came to him early at dawn. “The T
inkers—they’re all sick.”

  “Even . . . ?”

  Fuller knew how much Gilbert loved Tink, and his face was grave as he nodded and put a hand on Winslow’s shoulder.

  “He’s the worst of all, Gilbert. I fear for him—he’s in God’s hands!”

  And since Gilbert had given up on God, who was there for him to pray to? The skies overhead were blank as he stumbled across the frozen ground to the Tinkers’ hut, with not a single star to break the dull arch of the heaven.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “LOVE IS NOT COLD!”

  None of the firstcomers who survived ever forgot the month of February. Whatever visions of a summery Eden remained were drowned by the rain, the sleet and snow, and the keen winds that whipped across the sea to scrape faces raw and cut the lungs with a razor’s edge.

  No one was ever wholly dry, and the sickness claimed new victims almost daily. There was a fever to get houses built, for the Mayflower could leave any day. Indians were never seen, but smoke signals were visible and more than once they came to scream at the settlers in the night.

  Death became such a common visitor that the first morning thought of Fuller was, Who will lie dead in their beds this morning? Rose Standish’s death surprised no one but her husband, and there was great grief at her funeral and afterward concern for her husband. But as soul after soul slipped off into death, it became a ritual that had lost its primeval power.

  “They go different,” Edward remarked to Gilbert as they were digging the graves for Edward Fuller and his wife Ann. “There was Christopher Martin, like a bull roaring and thrashing—but he had to go. And the Fullers, why they slipped away so quiet! No final words to anyone.”

  Gilbert paused to rest, and looking across the open field to the row of half-finished huts, he shook his head. “How many died this month?”