Honor in the Dust (34 page)

Stuart said, “Are you ill, sir?” Only a groan came to him, and at first he fought an impulse to walk away. He remembered suddenly the scripture that he had been reading in his Bible about a Samaritan who found a man wounded and dying. The Samaritan took the man to an inn and saw that his wounds were dressed and made arrangements for his care.
Maybe I'm the Samaritan in this case.
He knelt down. His eyes were now more accustomed to the dim light.

“What's wrong with you?” he asked quietly.

“Ill—I'm ill. …” The voice was faint, but it was English that the man was speaking.

In an instant Stuart made up his mind. “Come along, old fellow. We'll see you right.” He picked the man up and was shocked by how light he was. He was a very small man with almost no flesh on his body. He could not walk, so Stuart simply carried him as he would carry a child. As he walked down the street, he noticed some staring in curiosity, but he paid them no attention. His landlord saw him as he entered the inn. “Who's that?”

“An old man. He's ill.”

“You can't bring him in here.”

“Yes, I can.”

Stuart did not like the innkeeper. He was a bulky man with a perpetual scowl on his face. For a moment Stuart thought he meant to forbid his entrance, but then he grunted. “You'll have to pay extra.”

“That's all right. Is there a doctor around here?”

“Yes. He's down the street. Ask for Doctor Heinrich.”

Stuart mounted the stairs, scarcely feeling his burden. He shoved open the door to his room with his shoulder and put the man down on his bed. He lit a lamp and turned to get a better look at him. What he saw was an elderly man, his hair dirty but
plainly silver. His face was lined, and he had lost his teeth, which made his cheeks sunken.

“What's your name?” he said.

“Nathan—Nathan Kent. And who are you, sir?” The voice was weak, but the eyes seemed to grow clearer.

“Stuart Winslow. I found you in the alley.”

“A good thing. I believe I would have died there if you hadn't helped me.”

“Lie still. I'm going to get a doctor and something for you to eat. Doctor first.”

Twenty minutes later Stuart was back with the doctor named Heinrich.

Doctor Heinrich stood up from his examination. “He doesn't have the sweating sickness.”

“Well, that's a relief. What does he have?”

“He's plainly starving as well as suffering a fever. No trouble in the lungs yet. If he did, as thin as he is, he wouldn't survive.”

“How do we aid him?”

“Give him good food. Just broth at first. Give him some good ale. Maybe even a little brandy once in a while.” Doctor Heinrich stared at him. “Is he kin to you?”

“No, not a bit of it.”

“Why are you helping him?”

“Because he's a human being.”

Heinrich laughed. He was a small man, well-dressed, with keen hazel eyes. “You're right about that, but not many believe it. I'll stop by and see how he's doing tomorrow. Get some good food down him.”

“Thank you, Doctor. How much do I owe you?” The doctor named a small sum, took the coins that Stuart gave him, and left.

At once Stuart said, “Well, Nathan, I'm going down to get you something to eat. Don't go to sleep on me, now.”

“No, sir, I won't do that.”

The burly innkeeper was alone, and he had no objection to selling an extra bowl of broth and a stein of ale. “That old man—what is he to you?” he asked, as he gave the food tray to Stuart.

“Nothing, really. I found him in the alley and couldn't let him die.”

“He's been hanging around for several days now. I didn't think he'd make it through this cold spell. You're paying for him, are you?”

“Put it on my bill.” Stuart returned to his room and set the tray down. He pulled the single chair up, straightened Kent in bed, and said, “Now, let's get some food down you.” Kent's hands were too unsteady to hold the spoon without spilling the broth, so Stuart fed him.

He managed to eat half and then shook his head. “That's all, sir, for now.”

“You did well. Now, see how much of this you can put down.” Stuart gave him the stein of ale and watched as he drank it slowly. When he had finished most of it, his eyes were closing.

“Why … are you doing this?”

“I don't know. I think it's because I read a story once about a Samaritan who—”

“The good Samaritan. I know that story.”

“You know the Bible?”

“My father did. He read to us every night.” Suddenly Nathan Kent simply closed his eyes and slumped. This alarmed Stuart, but he found, over the next few days, that it was not uncommon. Kent would be wide awake, and then weakness would strike him, and he would simply go to sleep sitting up or lying down.

Easing the man back in the bed, Stuart wondered,
What have I taken on here?
He looked down at Kent, shook his head, then went down and made arrangements for an extra room. His money was not all that plentiful, but he felt that God was telling him to do this. When he went to bed that night after
checking on the sick man, he lay awake for a long time wondering about it.

“Well, you're going to live after all, Nathan.”

“That I will, sir. All thanks to you and the good Lord.”

“Mostly the good Lord, I think.” Stuart studied Kent, who now sat across from him in the dining area of the inn. They had eaten a good meal, and Stuart was glad to see that over the last week, the old man had put on some flesh and there was color in his cheeks. “What are you doing in Germany, Nathan? You're English.”

“Yes. I've been a rolling stone, Mr. Winslow. My father wanted me to be a scholar, and I should have been. But I had wild ideas. I took a hard road too.”

“What did you do?”

“I became a strolling actor, a player, as they're called in our country. That's a precarious profession, sir.”

“How did you wind up in Germany?”

“I came with a troupe, but I got sick, and they left me behind. I need to get back to England.”

“Well, I can help you do that.”

“Oh, are you heading home? That would be grand. What brought you here, Mr. Winslow?”

For a moment Stuart hesitated. There was no one else in the dining area, just the two of them. He leaned forward suddenly and began to tell the old man his story. He did not know why he did this, but it seemed to come naturally to him. He related the whole thing, including his immoral life at the court of King Henry and God touching him and giving him a commission to help William Tyndale bring the Bible in English to the people of England.

Nathan smiled. “That's a big job you've got there. I understand the king's not in favor of such things.”

“No, and if I get caught, I'll probably get burned at Smith-field.”

“Indeed you might, but it's a fine thing, for the Bible is a wonderful book. Maybe I can help you, sir.”

“Well, I'd be glad of any help.

He did not see how this weak old man could help anybody, but during the next few days he was aware that Nathan Kent was studying him carefully. Finally Kent was well enough, and Stuart said, “I'm going to pay your passage to get you back to England, Nathan.”

“Not yet, sir.”

Stuart was surprised. “Why not? Don't you want to go home?”

“I have a debt, Mr. Winslow, and I intend to pay my debt.” He leaned forward and said, “I told you that I was going to help you. I've been seeking the Lord and racking my brain, and I've found the way that I can help pay back some of the goodness you have shown me.”

Without any idea of what the man meant, Stuart was touched. “Well, that's good of you, Nathan. I would appreciate any help I can get, but the best help would be to help me find William Tyndale.”

“You're not going to find him through the way you're doing it now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're an Englishman. Obviously the friends of Tyndale would expect you to be an agent of the king. The enemies of Tyndale would suspect you of being his friend. You must look like something other than what you are.”

“I'm what I am, Nathan. I can't become another man.”

Suddenly Kent laughed. “Yes, you can. That's exactly what an actor does. He becomes another man. And that's what I'm going to teach you, Mr. Stuart Winslow. You're going to become an actor.”

Stuart blinked in surprise. “I don't understand you.”

“Suppose you didn't look like an Englishman or sound like an Englishman. Suppose you looked like a Dutchman or a Frenchman.”

“Why, I can't do that!”

“You'll be able to do it well enough after I've trained you for a few days. We need to get away from this place. We need to study every day.”

Stuart had never thought of such a thing, but he listened as Nathan began to explain his plan. “If you're going to help Mr. Tyndale, the help you'll get him will be getting Bibles into England. That's what you've told me. He's having them printed here in Germany and other places, and he must get them to England?”

“That's right.”

“Well, suppose you were a merchant from Amsterdam with a load of silk. Those looking for Bibles wouldn't be likely to examine you too closely, would they, now?”

At that instant a part of Stuart seemed to come awake. He thought for a moment, and he said, “That would be wonderful, Nathan, but can you really teach me? You must be clever to be an actor.”

“Not too clever or I wouldn't be one,” Nathan said cynically. “Well, come along. We'll have our first lesson.”

The days went by quickly. Stuart was amazed to find that a month had gone by. He had been studying hard under the tutelage of Nathan Kent. He had learned a great deal about false hair and cosmetics, makeup, how to pad the body to look like a hunchback, or whatever the role called for. He had thrown himself into learning the art that the old man had spent his life in. One day Nathan said, “That's all I can do for you, sir, but now you can become anything you want. You have a natural flair for it.”

“It's been a revelation to me, Nathan. Now, I'm going to get
you on a ship for England. You have family there? Someone who will take you in?”

“I have two brothers in business there, and they'll take me in. They think I'm a foolish man, which I am, but they're kind. I wish you would come and see me upon your return.”

“Give me their names, and I shall.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If God smiles, I'll bring you a Bible in English.”

Two days later Stuart waved good-bye to Kent, who had boarded a freighter as it left the harbor. The old man waved at him and said, “God be with you, Brother.”

“And with you, Nathan.” Stuart waited until the ship disappeared, and then his mind began to work.
It wasn't an accident that I met him. I must put his instruction to work.

Hans Bruker looked across the table to where his friend William Tyndale was writing. He had not moved except to push the pen across the page for almost three hours. Bruker could never understand how a man could concentrate for so long. He said, “You must stop now, my friend.”