The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

  All afternoon the business went on, and Tink finally got his fill of watching. “Do we have to stay for all this?” he asked.

  “Why, you’re seeing history made, Tink!” Gilbert said in amusement. “What would you rather do?”

  “Catch a fish!”

  Gilbert nodded and said, “Me too, son. Let’s let these folks make history while we try our luck at that deep pool by the big elm.”

  Late that afternoon when they came back with a stringer of fish, the Indians were gone.

  “What happened, Miles?” Gilbert asked as he pulled off his shoes and went to bed.

  Standish rolled over and gave him a roguish look. “Same thing that always happens at these meetings. We agreed to be nice to them, and they did the same.”

  Gilbert closed his eyes and asked, “Think it’ll work?”

  “Certainly—until one side gets a better offer! Not much different here than in the courts of Europe.”

  Gilbert lifted his head at that, then shook his head. “Think you might be wrong, Miles. These people are different. They’ll do what they say.”

  Standish thought about that, then let his head fall back, as he muttered, “Well—that will be a change, won’t it now?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A NEW SERVICE

  Tink grew better every day, but now that others were getting out of their beds and making rapid recoveries, Gilbert developed a nagging cold accompanied by a dry cough and a ringing in his ears. He said nothing about it, but Edward noted it.

  Since the night in Tink’s cabin, he’d been quieter, spending his time alone, walking in the woods. He read a great deal from William Brewster’s small library—mostly books of sermons and from the Bible. He hadn’t told anyone about the experience, but it was impossible for him to forget it; rather, as time went on, the memory of it burned more deeply into his consciousness.

  The closest he came to speaking of it was once when he’d been sitting late one night reading, and Edward had sat across from him writing a history of New Plymouth.

  His eyes began to burn, and he coughed and put the book down. Edward looked up and said, “You ought to get some rest. You look terrible!”

  “I’m all right.” Then he leaned forward and stared at his brother, and asked suddenly, “Edward, do you love God?”

  “Do I love God? Of course I do!”

  “Tell me how it is.”

  Edward looked confused. He started to speak once, then cleared his throat and thought hard. Finally he said, “Why, man was made to love God. I’d be a heathen if I didn’t!”

  Gilbert rubbed his eyes, then shook his head. “I don’t love Him.” He looked across at Edward with a strange expression in his eyes, and said almost to himself, “I love people that I can see and touch and hear. But God is far away and I’ve got no picture of Him in my mind. It’s like trying to love a dim fog.”

  Edward put his pen down, folded his hands and put them on the table as he considered what Gilbert had said. “You’re not the first to have a problem with that. The Scripture says, ‘No man hath seen God at any time.’ And that’s what the gospel is all about, Gilbert. Did you ever hear the word Emmanuel? Well, that means literally ‘God with us.’ And that’s what Jesus is—the God who cannot be seen became flesh and dwelt among us.”

  “And do you love Jesus Christ?” Gilbert asked at once. “You haven’t seen Him either.”

  “In one way I have—or rather, in two.” Edward touched the Bible in Gilbert’s hand, saying, “In the Gospels we have the picture of the Lord Jesus. As I read about His life—how He went about giving sight to the blind, healing the lame, it soaks into me and I get an impression of Him that way.”

  “I can understand that,” Gilbert nodded. “He isn’t like any other man, is He? I mean can you imagine any other human being saying to another, ‘I forgive your sins’? And not sins done against Him, either—just sins.” He paused then asked, “What’s the other thing that makes you love Him?”

  Edward shifted uncomfortably, and there was a trace of embarrassment in his eyes. “Well—I don’t know exactly how to put it without sounding like some sort of wild-eyed prophet. It’s something that some people go into error on quite often.” He searched for a way of putting it, then shrugged. “I can only say that in some way I can’t explain, since I gave my heart to God, there’s been a—a presence inside me.”

  “A presence!” Gilbert’s head came up and there was a sharp light in his eyes.

  “That sounds fantastic to you, I suppose, but I can’t think of any way to explain it.”

  Gilbert stared across the table, then asked tensely, “Do—have you ever heard anything?”

  Edward laughed and slapped the table. “Do I hear voices, you’re asking! Well, not really, but several times I’ve had what you might call impressions. Thoughts that came from somewhere outside my own mind—and that keep coming back.”

  He glanced at his brother, “Having quite a struggle with God, aren’t you, lad?”

  Gilbert retreated behind the Bible and nodded, “Just thinking about things, Edward.”

  He never missed the services held in the Common House, and it came to him once as he sat there listening to Bradford preach, how much more real God was in his life than ever before. Always before, God had been something academic, a vague force that had to be acknowledged. But as he listened to the sermons and the day-by-day conversation of the people around him and as he immersed himself in the Scripture, the figure of Jesus Christ loomed ever larger in his thoughts.

  One day you will love me with all your heart.

  A hundred times a day that flickered through his mind, but he still had not sense of what it all meant.

  Two days later he was eating a quick breakfast with Miles and Edward when they heard footsteps approach; then a knock sounded on the door, loud and urgent.

  “Come in!” Edward called, and they looked up to see the door open and Captain Christopher Jones enter.

  He had been there often, seeming to enjoy the company of the three men, but now his eyes were burning with anger, his lips white and compressed.

  “What’s wrong?” Standish demanded, as all three of them got to their feet.

  “The crew’s taken the ship,” he said tightly.

  “Mutiny?” Edward breathed, then shook his head. “I didn’t think they’d dare!”

  “They dared, right enough,” Jones said. “And they’ll get away with it, too!”

  “We’ll put a stop to this nonsense!” Standish said angrily. “Get the men up, Edward—we’ll send a boarding party and take that ship!”

  Jones shook his head, saying bitterly. “Not a chance of that, Standish. Coffin is in charge, and he was a gunner in the navy. He’s got your cannon in place, and he says he’ll blow any craft out of the water that comes near enough.”

  Standish stood there, breathless with rage. He blustered and swore, but Edward said, “We must have a meeting at once! When will they leave, Captain? A week or so?”

  A bitter light gleamed in Jones’s gray eyes. “They weigh anchor at dusk tonight—when the tide rises enough to get them over the shoals.”

  “Tonight! Why, we’ll have to do something right away!” Edward said.

  “Nothing to do, Winslow,” Captain Jones shrugged. “There’s only about fifteen of them, and only about six who are mutinous. But Coffin knows his business. He can navigate and he can do what he says with the gun. They’ll be on their way at dusk.”

  In less than half an hour every man who could walk was crowded into the Common House. Edward asked Captain Jones to repeat his story, which he did, adding only, “It’s bad luck, for me—and for you, too. I wish we’d gotten all your tools and supplies off the ship before this happened.”

  “Why, most of our seed corn is on the ship!” Governor Carver said in a shocked tone.

  ‘‘And my cannon! How can we defend ourselves without arms?” Miles Standish cried, his face red with anger. “And most of our powder hasn’t
been moved to the powder house.”

  Everyone began talking at once, and finally Bradford held up his hand for silence. “We are helpless—but God is not. Let us pray that God will help us as He has done so often in the past. And let us be specific in our prayers. The Savior said, did He not, ‘Whatsoever things ye ask believing, ye shall receive’? We are His people and the sheep of His pasture, so let us call upon the Great Shepherd to meet our dire need.”

  Gilbert was familiar with this method. He had seen it often used in Leyden, and it took one specific form. A need would be voiced, the people would pray, and then after a time of waiting, quite often someone would stand and give a simple message of some sort. Sometimes no one did, but often one of the congregation would give a “word of exhortation” in which the congregation would be encouraged to have faith until God answered.

  Expecting something like this from one of the leaders, shock ran along Gilbert’s nerves when out of the long silence he heard the voice of William Brewster say clearly, “The Lord will deliver us from this calamity—and He will do so by the hand of Gilbert Winslow!”

  A wave of silence filled the room and Gilbert’s face flushed as every eye turned toward him. He leaped to his feet.

  “I’m not one of your number, Mr. Bradford.” He took a deep breath and added so softly that those in the back had to lean forward to catch his words. “I—I am not a man of God like the rest of you.”

  The silence ran so deep that the sound of a woodpecker far off rang clearly through the room, and Gilbert coughed twice, then lifted his head and stared straight at William Brewster, saying, “You must be mistaken in this instance, sir. I am not a man that God would care to use.”

  “God longs to use all men, Gilbert!” Brewster nodded, and then he added with a fine smile, “Especially those men who are willing to confess their inadequacy. I ask you plainly, do you have anything to say concerning this trouble we are in?”

  Then William Bradford said, “Perhaps this time you are desperate enough, Mr. Winslow.”

  Suddenly Gilbert raised his head and he said clearly. “I make no claim to being God’s agent—but a way of taking the ship has been taking shape in my mind.”

  A hubbub of voices began, but the voice of Christopher Jones rose above it. “For God’s sake, man, out with it!”

  A burden lifted from Gilbert’s shoulders, and from where she stood, Humility saw his wide lips break into a reckless grin, lightening the gloom that had rested on his face for so long.

  “The thing is impossible,” he began, “but you of all people should not be put off by that. One thing is clear, they’ll watch the shallop like a hawk!”

  “That they will!” Jones nodded. He had his attention fixed on Gilbert, and added, “There’ll be no using that craft to get on board.”

  “No, but there’s a way to board the ship,” Gilbert said.

  “How do you propose to get on board?” Bradford asked, his face perplexed.

  “The only way there is—swim.”

  “What!” Jones yelped. “Why that’s insane, Winslow! The ship is half a mile out—and you’d have to circle behind—!”

  “It’ll be about a mile and a half, Captain,” Gilbert said quietly. “I’ve done that distance and more many a time.”

  “That he has,” Edward said. “But not when you were sick. That water is icy still with the winter’s chill.”

  “Besides, what could you do if you did get there?” Standish asked. “You couldn’t carry a pistol of any kind in the water.”

  “I could take my sword.”

  Something about the way he said the thing—so simply and so quietly—caught at them all. He made a flat high shape outlined against the shadows of the lanterns; there was a tough and resilient vigor all about him, a hard physical power to his body. Discipline lay along the pressed lines of his broad mouth, but a rash and reckless will was in his eyes, struggling against it.

  “One sword against a crew of armed men? It makes no sense!” Samuel Fuller lowered his head, staring at Gilbert steadily, doubt in his face.

  “Not the whole crew,” Gilbert said. “Get to Coffin, and the rest will be easier.”

  Standish said, “Man, I’d go with you in a second—but I can’t swim no more than a nail!”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Not too many can, Miles.” He looked around the room and asked, “Any of you men think you can make it to the ship?”

  “I can.”

  Peter Brown stepped forward to stand in front of Gilbert. “I grew up on the sea, Winslow. Once I swam three miles to a reef, then back five hours later.”

  There was a challenge in Brown’s face, and Gilbert met it directly. “There’ll be a little more to it than a long swim.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Winslow. I’ll do my share of the fighting.”

  William Bradford stepped in to say, “I am not at all certain of this. Captain Standish, you must decide, since this is a military affair.”

  Miles Standish stared at Gilbert, his eyes stern, and he nodded. “It’s the only way, Mr. Bradford. If Mr. Winslow has luck, it could work.”

  “I dislike the word luck,” Bradford insisted, “I would much rather he had the favor of the Lord.”

  “Amen—Amen!” A wave of agreement swept the crowd; then Standish said, “All right, we’ll do it, but with one change in your plan. We’ll make a run at the ship with loaded muskets and grappling hooks in plain sight. We’ll carry all the loaded muskets we can handle and keep up what fire we can. Probably won’t hit anything but it’ll keep those scoundrels’ attention, I’ll warrant!”

  “What about the cannon?” Jones asked.

  “If we keep the bow of the shallop straight, she’ll be a mighty small target. They won’t be able to get off more than two or three shots.”

  “But they’ll be firing at us with muskets as well,” Edward said.

  Standish gave him a tight grin. “Yes, Mr. Winslow, that’s what happens when men fight in a war. You get shot at—and sometimes you get killed.”

  Bradford said, “I feel that the thing must be attempted. Mr. Brewster, Governor Carver, do you agree?” Receiving their nods, he turned and went to Gilbert. Putting both his hands on the young man’s head in a gesture going far back in history, he blessed him, then turned to Peter Brown and did the same.

  “God will be with you,” he said softly.

  Gilbert looked into the older man’s eyes, and there was a peace in his face as he murmured with a tone of wonder, “He already is, Mr. Bradford!”

  * * *

  All day the preparations for the attack kept the men busy. The skies were beginning to turn dark when Gilbert came to look at the shallop. Howland had made, in effect, a shooting platform in the prow of the craft.

  Gilbert stepped in to stand on the platform with Standish, and the little captain’s face beamed as he picked up one of the muskets from the rack built midway in the shallop. “Look! Just the right height to rest a musket on—and only my head’s exposed to their fire!”

  “Can’t hurt you with a shot to your head,” Gilbert grinned. “Just so they don’t shoot you in the foot, where your brains are.”

  Standish gave him a wide grin, then, leaning the musket against the rail, he grew serious.

  “It’s a wild thing, Gilbert—and your chances are not good. According to Jones those rascals are a pretty tough bunch, and if there’s one slip they have you.”

  Gilbert stared out at the Mayflower sitting quietly in the harbor half a mile off. “Miles, one thing I’d like to be sure of—in case I don’t make it.”

  “Name it, boy!”

  “Watch out for Tink, will you?”

  “Like he was my own son!” Standish said instantly. “Have no fears on that score.” He hesitated and then with some difficulty asked, “Have you any fears about what happens if you die?”

  Gilbert rested his hand on the upper plank of the barricade, then put his chin on it. A squadron of gulls wheeled by, dipping down to touch the long,
low swells of gray water, then with cacophonous screams, rose high in the sky. “I’ve thought of that, Miles. Most men do before a thing like this, I suppose.”

  “Always before a battle,” Standish agreed.

  “I’ve never had much use for deathbed confessions—seems like a cheap way for a man to act. Live like the devil, then when death comes, go whining to God making promises to be good.” He lifted his head, turned to face Standish and there was no strain in his wedge-shaped face. His eyes were steady and his broad lips were half smiling. When he spoke his husky voice was even, as if he were talking about fishing instead of his own death.

  “I’ve not given God much thought, Miles—but these people have forced me to it. You know, I’d always thought that getting into heaven was a matter of accounting. I’d stand before some angel, and he’d put all my good deeds in one arm of the balance and all my sins in the other—then if the good weighed a pound or so more than the bad, why, I was all right.”

  Standish nodded. “Aye, I’ve thought about the same most of my life.”

  “It’s not like that, Miles,” Gilbert said soberly. “I’m not sure about many things, but I have learned this from Brewster and Bradford: getting to heaven is tied up with where you stand with Jesus Christ—and right now all I can say, I guess, is that I’m looking for Him.”

  “From what I get from the preaching of these men,” Standish said, “I think Christ is looking for you—even more than you’re looking for Him.”

  Gilbert nodded, then said, “God be with you when you make the attack, Miles.”

  “And with you, boy!” Awkwardly Standish threw his arm around the taller man, gave him a fierce hug, then wheeled and leaped out of the boat, embarrassed by his own action.

  Gilbert grinned, then saw Brown standing by watching. “Ready?” he asked.