Miles away, the object of their concern was trudging along, head down and tired to the bone. He had taken a message to Massasoit for Bradford. It had given him an excuse to leave town, and he had carried out his mission with no problem. Massasoit had attempted to convince him that he should delay his return to Plymouth, but Gilbert ignored his warning and had reached the halfway mark when the snow began to thicken, falling in chunks from an iron-gray sky.
He had thought about Cecily and England and a new life until it made his head ache. The worst thing was that he took no joy in the prospect, and he could not understand why.
“It’s all there, Miles, all I’ve ever dreamed about,” he had told Standish. “All I have to do is reach out and take it—but when I think about it, I just feel—I feel empty!”
Night was closing in, and a streak of fear ran through him as the power of the sudden winter storm rocked him with a blast of freezing wind that seared his lungs. Got to get some shelter! he thought, and as the last shreds of light flickered from the west, he cut a few saplings and managed to tie them together at the top, then cut evergreen boughs to make a top.
It was a pitiful sort of thing, but there was nothing else. He managed to make a fire in the small space between a tree trunk and the door to his shelter, and all night long as the rain changed to snow, he kept feeding it with small twigs.
With a shock, he realized he had only a handful of hard-baked bread and a little dried bacon. “Should have been more careful,” he murmured.
When morning came, the snow turned to freezing rain, and he had to make several attempts to get to his feet. His muscles were slow to respond to the commands from his brain, and he knew then that he was in trouble.
He was halfway between Massasoit’s camp and Plymouth—at least twenty miles to either, probably more. He considered heading back to the Indian camp. Might run across some Indians, he thought, but then realized that no one would be out in this storm.
All afternoon he floundered through the falling snow, stopping just before dark to make another shelter. He was moving so slowly that it took him a long time, and by the time he got a small fire going, he was half unconscious with cold and fatigue.
He ate the rest of the small portion of bread as slowly as possible, saving the handful of bacon for morning.
The temperature fell quickly, and he forced himself to get up and jump in the snow until the slugging blood pumped through his body, but each time it took longer. He was using up the energy he would need to fight his way through the drifts when morning came.
Some time before dawn, he drifted off to sleep, and as the cold seeped into his body, he began to lose body heat. The small fire died to a single glowing stick, and he did not move.
He never knew why he awakened, if an animal made a cry or a snow-laden branch crashed to the ground nearby.
It was like coming out of a warm bed into an icy room—there was the intense desire to slip back into the warmth, to flee from the biting cold.
You’re freezing! part of his mind said, but when he tried to move, his limbs were powerless. Desperately he tried to roll over, even to lift one arm, but it was as if he were frozen in ice.
Over and over he tried, then he stopped. He knew he was dying. Part of his mind was awake enough to tell him that. He could not feel anything—neither cold nor pain.
A great regret came to him. He thought of all the things that he would never do—simple things, like watching Tink’s face when a thumping fish jerked the boy’s quill under, or the first bite of food after a long hunger.
Then in the midst of these last thoughts, he was conscious of something different—something that was not within. He was suddenly thinking some words that came from outside, somehow. For a long time they seemed to come and go, floating around his head, and he could not understand them.
Then he heard inside his head the words he’d thought of a thousand times: Someday you’ll love me. He saw no figure; there was no strange light, but his mind suddenly became sharp and clear as a steel blade.
He began to think of all the sermons he’d heard from the pilgrim ministers, and the words of the Scripture beat against his consciousness. “Except you repent, ye shall all likewise perish . . . Come unto me and I will give you life . . . except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God . . . confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus . . . he that hath the Son hath life . . .”
Then he was conscious that he was in the presence of God, and he remembered how Standish had told him the same thing had happened to him when he had gone deep into the woods after Rose’s death.
He lay there thinking of his misspent youth, spotted with sins of the flesh, and he knew that even if he survived, he could not go on living as he had. He opened his eyes, blinking against the light. Gathering his strength, he pulled himself to his knees, and then he lifted his hands toward the lead-gray heavens. His voice was feeble, but the cry that came through his cracked, frozen lips sounded loud in the silence of the forest: “Oh, my God . . . I—I am lost! Lost!”
Tears scored his cheeks, and in an agony of spirit, he lifted his head and with utter despair, cried, “I can’t help myself, Lord God! I am only a sinner . . . but I believe you care—that you love me. I want to love you, God!”
Raw grief shut his throat, but he ignored it, and dropped face downward in the snow, crying out, “In the name of Jesus Christ, O God, save me!”
A wolf howled far off, and then there was silence. As Gilbert Winslow lay with his face pressed into the snow, something strange was happening. The agonizing bitterness in his spirit seemed to move away, and he was filled with a sense of such complete peace and joy that he was unable to move. He lay there for a long time, and finally he was aware that his tears were flowing, but they were tears of joy! He climbed to his feet, lifted his face toward heaven, and with wonder in his voice, cried out, “O God! I love you!”
Then not in words, but with a gust of knowledge, came the thought, You love me now as a babe—but you will grow in the faith and will be my servant.
Gilbert finally stood upright, his face stiff, his eyes slits, weaving like a tall tree cut almost in two at the base and about to topple.
He stared out into the first light, a sickly gray feebly staining the ink-black sky, and knew he could never make it back to Plymouth.
But something inside said, “Walk!” and he left the shelter, staggering through the drifts, wallowing and falling often, but always floundering to his numb feet and beginning again. He could not make a mile, he knew, and Plymouth was almost twenty miles—but there was always the feeling that he could take one more step. Don’t quit—just one more now—that’s the way—good!
Thirty minutes later he ran blindly into what he thought was a tree. His eyes had been shut, and when he opened them, he saw that he had run into one of the pine supports for the small cabin that Miles Standish had insisted on building as an outpost the previous spring.
As Gilbert fell inside the door, he remembered with a grim streak of humor he had told Standish, “It’s a waste of time, Miles! The Indians will tear them down and steal the supplies.”
But they hadn’t. Not this one.
He stumbled around, getting a fire going in the small stone-and-clay fireplace, melting snow to make water, and cooking the best meal of his life—boiled corn that tasted like ambrosia to him.
As he sat there eating and soaking up the heat from the fire, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black book—the Bible.
He stared at it until he finished his meal, then put a few branches on the fire.
Settling with his back to the fire, he opened the Bible and said softly, “God, I’ll not leave this place until I find your will!”
He stayed there for two days, going outside only three times for wood. The rest of the time he was either reading from the Bible or praying.
The snow fell intermittently, but he paid no heed. Sometimes he would eat a little food, but he didn’t sleep at all, or not for lo
ng.
He could never tell anyone much about what went on in that cabin, any more than he could tell them how, out of all the directions he might have gone, he’d taken the only one that had led to the outpost.
What he did say to a few people later on was simple and to the point: “When I went inside that hut, I didn’t love God much. When I came out, I loved Him with all my heart!”
When he came walking into camp, he was met with a great shout by the first man he saw, John Howland, who ran and caught him with a wild embrace.
“Gilbert! You’re alive!”
He gave a shout, and soon Gilbert was inside the Common House telling his story to all that could get inside. His shoulders were sore with the thumping they had taken, and looking around at his friends, he got a lump in his throat and his eyes burned.
“Here, let the lad be,” William Bradford said, seeing the trouble Gilbert was having. “It’s a miracle, but we don’t want to kill him with kindness, do we now?” He patted Gilbert’s shoulder fondly, which was unusual for him, and added in a gentle voice, “You’re home now, Gilbert. We’ve been praying for you constantly.”
Gilbert raised his head, and there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. He looked around the room and noted each face, dearer to him now than anything in England.
“Mr. Bradford, He heard your prayer—and He saved more than my body—Jesus Christ is now my Savior!”
A cry went up from Bradford’s throat, and that stern man threw his arms about Gilbert, and someone began to sing a song of praise as they all tried to get closer—to touch the newest pilgrim.
* * *
The hull of the Fortune dipped below the horizon two days later; the sails followed, and finally she was gone, leaving nothing but a smooth, clean line for Gilbert to watch.
He had climbed the hill to watch her clear the harbor, and now stood beside one of Miles’ guns. He had left early, and for a long time he’d stood there after the ship left, his mind going over the last few days.
“Gilbert!”
He wheeled, startled, and there she was, her face flushed with the exertion of the climb, her sea-green eyes wide and her lips parted as she stood before him.
Gilbert looked past her, but saw no one. “You came alone?”
Humility didn’t answer, but came to stand so close that he could smell her hair. She faced him squarely, tall and slim in the bright November sunshine. Her face was filled with wonder. “You didn’t go back!”
“No. There’s nothing there for me to go back to.”
She shook her head and asked with a catch of her breath. “But—I thought you and Lady North . . . ?”
He laughed and his eyes crinkled as he said, “Well, I thought so, too, but she told me that she’d never be satisfied with half a man!”
“She said that?”
“Yes—and she was right,” Gilbert said. “I told her that something had come into my life, something wonderful, but that it would make a difference in our plans. Then when I told her that the New World was for me, she couldn’t believe it.” He laughed and said, “I guess living in a cabin with a minister didn’t appeal to her much.”
Humility stared at him. “With a minister!”
He seemed embarrassed, and the smile he gave her wasn’t very strong. He dropped it, and his face was honest and open in some new way. “I’m so ignorant, Humility! Here I’ve wasted my life, and now I stand here saying I’m going to be a minister! Isn’t that the most insane thing you ever heard of!”
“No.”
He stared at her. “You—you don’t think so?”
“Gilbert Winslow!” Humility said with a gust of emotion, “I expect you can do just about anything you set your mind to!”
His mouth dropped open, and he stared at her. “Why, I’ve never done anything right in my whole life, Humility! Look at what I did to you, and—!”
She put her hand on his lips, and he felt her tremble. “Hush! I want to ask you a question. Do you love God with all your heart?”
He took her hand from his lips with his own, but did not release it. “Yes!” he said firmly.
She nodded, and made no attempt to reclaim her hand. “Then you’ll be His man, Gilbert Winslow!”
He stared at her, stirred as always by the clean beauty of her face. “Humility, I wish that you and I—” he broke off suddenly, then dropped her hand.
“I have another question for you,” she said, and her voice was so unsteady that he looked up quickly.
“Another question? What is it, Humility?”
She swallowed and her voice trembled as she whispered, “Would—would you marry me?”
He stared at her, thinking he had misunderstood, but she returned his look, her eyes shining like diamonds.
“But—what about you and Peter Brown?”
She shook her head, saying, “He told me he needed more than half a woman! He said . . .” She turned away from him, then, and her voice was so soft he had to lean forward to hear it—”. . . he said that any fool could see I was still in love with you—just like I’ve always been!”
A great joy filled his heart, and he turned her around. He looked down at her, and she tried to smile, saying with a sob, “And he was—he was right! I’ll always love you!”
She tried to turn and run, but his strong arms made her captive, and he waited until she grew calm.
“I love you, Humility Cooper!” he whispered in her ear. Then he kissed her, and there was a union as they held each other, their lips sealing what they felt in their hearts.
Finally he pulled his head back, and there was light of pure joy in his brilliant blue eyes, and a wide smile on his lips. “What a life we’re going to have!”
Humility leaned back to gaze into his face, and her lips curved into a beautiful smile, then she asked quietly, “Will you ever miss it all, dear?”
He shook his head, “Never! I’ll have you and I’ll have my sword! What man could ask for more?”
“Your sword?” she asked. “But . . . !”
He pulled the worn black Bible from his pocket and held it high, as if it were his Clemens Hornn blade.
“The Sword of the Lord, Humility!” he cried out gaily.
“The sword that gives life,” she murmured, “and a man who wields it well. Who could ask for greater adventure?”
GILBERT MORRIS spent ten years as a pastor before becoming Professor of English at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkansas and earning a Ph.D. at the University of Arkansas. A prolific writer, he has had over 25 scholarly articles and 200 poems published in various periodicals, and over the past years has had more than 180 novels published. His family includes three grown children. He and his wife live in Gulf Shores, Alabama.
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 34