The Gentle Rebel (18 page)

“So do I.” Laddie knew that the death of Caleb had brought tremendous pain to this woman, and there was a desire to give some sort of comfort. There was a reticence in Molly Winslow that would never bring her to ask favors, but she needed someone to talk to. Laddie had learned during the weeks she had spent with the family that Molly Winslow was a woman of genuine Christian faith. It was not just that she was faithful in her duties to her church; there was an unmistakable spirit of love and joy in her that even the pangs of grief could not dim.

Laddie stood there, longing to say something. She looked at the pie crust taking shape. Suddenly she said, “Mrs. Winslow, if I wash my hands real good, maybe you’ll let me help you fix supper?”

“Why—can you cook, Laddie?”

“I’m not really a cook,” Laddie shrugged, “but anybody can fry fish, can’t they? And somebody’s got to peel those potatoes.”

“I’d be pleased with your help.” A smile touched Molly’s lips. “Most men would die before they’d do a thing like peeling potatoes or cooking supper.”

Laddie picked up a potato, drew her knife, and sitting down on a stool, she smiled and answered, “Except out camping—then all of us cook.” She began paring thin strips from the potato, speaking of nothing important, but ten minutes later she had touched on the subject of Caleb. Then for the next half hour she told Molly Winslow of her son, how she had known him and admired him. She had not known him well, but thanked God for those times when Caleb had spoken with her for long hours, for now she had those times to share with the quiet-eyed woman who sat across from her, drinking in every word.

The pendulum clock ticked slowly, and as the meal took shape, the older woman began to speak. Grief had been so sharp within her heart that she had turned from every thought of Caleb, stifling memories as they rose within her, but now she began to speak of him—of simple things he had done as a child, of his quick mind and how it had often led him into mischief. And she laughed—for the first time since the funeral—as she told some of his pranks.

Finally the meal was ready, hidden beneath white napkins on the table, and suddenly Molly Winslow walked to stand beside Laddie, who was looking out the window. “You’ve been a blessing, Laddie,” she said quietly; then she asked, “Are you a Christian?”

“Well, yes, Mrs. Winslow, though not a very good one . . .”

“I knew that you were. You have a gentle spirit, Laddie, and you’ve given my boy back to me somehow. I praise the Lord for sending you to me.”

Laddie felt very awkward, but was spared having to
respond, for there were footsteps on the porch, and looking up she said, “Here they are.”

Molly turned quickly to see Nathan and Adam enter, and she said quickly, “Just in time, you two! Sit down before it gets cold!”

Laddie never knew exactly what Adam had said to his son at the cemetery, but Nathan, she saw at once, was not the same. He had been under a rigid constraint ever since he had come home, but now the bitter lines that had scored his lean face were softened. A new light shone in his eyes as he came across to give his mother a squeeze, saying, “Smells good, Mother. Hope you cooked enough.”

Molly looked up with a startled expression, and gladness leaped into her gray eyes. She reached up and touched his cheek, saying, “There’s plenty.”

They all sat down and ate—especially Nathan. He had picked at his food for weeks, but now he attacked the fish and potatoes so avidly that Adam commented, “Laddie, you may have to go back to the creek and get another mess of fish for this boy.”

Nathan said little, but finally after he put down the last of his pie, he leaned back and said, “Best meal I ever had.”

“You need it, Nathan,” Molly said. “You’ve lost weight.”

He nodded and then said suddenly, “I’ve got something to say to you.”

Adam looked up quickly, glanced at Molly, then said, “What is it, Nathan?”

A quiet settled over the small group, and suddenly, Laddie, feeling that this was family business, rose to leave. But Nathan said, “Sit down, Laddie. You’ve got a right to hear what I have to say.” He clasped his fingers together, then began to review those last few weeks in Boston. He spoke evenly, without emotion, telling of his feeling for Abigail, his rivalry with Paul. He spoke of his friendship with Major Pitcairn and his admiration for some of the King’s officers.
Molly and Adam sat motionless as he spoke of how he had tried to get Caleb to stay out of politics.

“I should have tried harder with him—I see that now,” he said quietly. The candle sputtered in the holder, and its flickering flames threw his wedge-shaped face into high relief, deepening the caverns of his eye sockets. “God knows I should have done
something!
” And here he paused and stared down at the table.

“Nathan,” Molly returned, and she leaned over and put a hand on his. “You can’t blame yourself for your brother’s death. We always think of things we might have done—when we lose someone. But we know you tried.”

“He was a strong-minded lad, you know that, son,” Adam stated. “He would do what he thought was right. You can remember a time or two when there wasn’t a thing
I
could do with him. He was a Winslow, right enough, and I never heard of any of that breed being very easily led. Don’t blame yourself.”

Nathan looked up with a smile trembling on his broad lips. “I—I know that, sir, but it’s not going to be easy to live with.”

“Life goes on, dear,” Molly said. “You know we’ll see Caleb again.”

Nathan suddenly gave her a peculiar look. “This thing has changed me in more ways than one. For one thing—I’m not going to be a minister.”

If he expected to shock his parents, Laddie observed, he was due for a disappointment, for neither of them were upset. Molly said only, “Nathan, I’ve always felt that you took up the calling too suddenly.”

He stared at her, then laughed shortly, saying, “I’ve always known you felt that way, Mother—and it just made me more stubborn.”

Adam was staring at his son, and a thought arose in him. “The Winslow men—most of ’em—have had this kind of a battle with God. You remember reading about Gilbert Winslow—how he wrestled with God from Europe to Plymouth
Rock, vowing he’d never preach. But he did—and that’s happened over several times.”

“Well, that’s out of my system.”

“God will have His way with you, Nathan,” Molly said firmly. “I promised you to God the night you were born—and God agreed to take you!”

Nathan gave an impatient shake of his head, but said only, “I don’t have much faith—but all this is not what I wanted to tell you.”

He got up and stood behind his chair. Silently he stared at them; then he told them about Caleb’s death, and how he’d promised to fight for the cause. He went on quietly. “I don’t feel as you do about all this—as a matter of fact, I think we’ll all wind up either in jail or on a gallows.” Then his lips grew firm, and he squared his shoulders in a way that Molly and Adam had seen a thousand times, and he said, “I don’t believe very much in this fight that’s coming—but Caleb did—and I’ll do what I can for him, for my brother.”

A silence fell on the room, which was broken when Adam said quietly, “That’s not a real good reason for joining a revolution, Nathan—but I’ll not try to change your mind. There’ll be men fighting in this war for every cause under heaven—and not all of them will be good and pure.” Pausing, he took a deep breath and went on slowly. “I guess going to war to keep your word to a brother is a reason that will do—until you get a better one!” Then he asked suddenly, “How you figure to get into this war, son?”

“Why—I have no idea, Father.” Nathan suddenly was struck with a thought, musing quietly. “Can’t just ride out and take potshots at the lobsterbacks from behind a tree, I suppose.”

“No, I think there’ll be a little better way than that,” Adam said. He looked up and added, “I haven’t told you, but Colonel Washington has sent for me.”

“Colonel Washington? Do you know why?”

“Only one thing I can think of. Over the years he’s asked
me several times to join the Virginia militia—and I reckon he’s going to ask a little harder.”

“Will you do it?” Nathan asked.

“Well, I’ve told you some about the time I was a scout for him with Braddock.” Adam shook his head, then said slowly, “He’s a mighty fearsome man! If there’s any man in this world I’d follow blind, I guess it’d have to be George Washington!”

“Colonel Washington—they’s two gentlemen heah—name is Winslow.”

The man at the writing desk looked up and studied the black man’s intense face. “Send them in, Billy.”

He stood up, a tall man with big bones, wide in the shoulder and wide at the hips. He brushed his hand across his pock-marked face in a gesture of weariness. His nose was large, his chin an ungainly wedge, and his reddish hair was thin in the back. He studied the door, then when it opened and the two men entered, he said, “Winslow, come in.” Stepping forward, he extended his hand, and a smile softened the hard lines of his mouth. “Took a revolution to get you here, didn’t it, Adam?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Adam studied the tall man, noting that the years had aged him too much, but said only, “This is my son, Nathan. I thought you might like to hear firsthand about Lexington.”

Washington’s eyes did not leave Adam’s face. “I heard about your boy. It was a hard thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Washington stood there, something rock-like in his expression; then without warning his manner turned gentle. “I have no sons—but I can feel your grief, Winslow.” The gentleness retreated again, and he said, “God only knows how many other young men will pay for this thing.” Then he turned to Nathan and offered his hand. “You were there, Mr. Winslow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.”

At first Nathan felt uncomfortable, for he was acutely aware that this was the richest man in Virginia, the top of the social heap. The most famous son of Virginia, his fame from his part in the French and Indian Wars had reached even Europe. But that passed, for Washington listened with such an intensity that Nathan lost himself in his tale.

Finally he finished, and the tall man sat there silently.
You can almost hear him thinking—putting it all together,
Nathan thought.

“It sounds like Braddock’s last fight, Adam,” he said finally. “You remember how they pinned us down and caught us in that murderous cross-fire?”

“If General Braddock had listened to you, sir, we’d have beaten them. He wanted to fight a European war—but the Indians wouldn’t line up and let him shoot at them.”

“That’s what General Gage wants, I expect.” Washington stood up and began pacing the floor. Finally he came and sat down again, and he asked at once, “Will you help with the militia?”

Adam shrugged. “I’ll do whatever you want, Colonel. It’s going to be a bad war, though.”

“There is no good war,” Washington murmured. “I’ve prayed that it would not come . . .” He fixed his eyes on Adam. “You’ll be needed,” he added quietly. He turned to Nathan. “You were in Boston on business?”

“Yes, Colonel. With my uncle.”

“Do you intend to return, may I ask?”

Nathan swallowed, and shook his head. “I’d like to go into the militia with my father.”

Washington stared at him, and Nathan grew uncomfortable under his eyes. “I would take it as a favor, Mr. Winslow, if you would go back to Boston—at least for a time.”

“Sir?”

“The Congress will meet soon, and I have no doubt that it will declare hostilities. An army will have to be raised and arms collected. In the meantime, the British are in Boston.
What will they do while our Colonies are trying to get ready to fight?”

“Why—I don’t know, sir!”

“Neither do I, Nathan—but I would very much like to know.” A gleam of humor touched Washington’s cold gray eyes, and he said, “We are the fox—and the fox needs to know a great deal about the pack that’s on his trail.”

Nathan glanced at his father, then shook his head. “You want me to be a
spy?
I don’t care for that at all. I want to be in the army.”

“There
is
no army!” Nathan had heard of how Washington’s temper could explode, and the evidence rose up before him. “As for being a spy, every man and woman in the Colonies will have to be a ‘spy’ if we are to win!”

“Sir,” Nathan asked quickly, “just what
exactly
would you like me to do?”

The calm question seemed to please Washington. He lifted his hands and answered, “Rumors are worthless, Nathan. I will need to know
exactly
what the British are doing.” His face grew suddenly glum, and he said, “It’s asking a lot—but it’s the job that needs doing right now. Later on, there’ll be a place for you in the army.”

Nathan looked at the tall man and replied quickly, “Yes, sir. I’ll go back to Boston, if that’s what you want.” He had heard his father say many times that Washington could make men do what he wanted, and now he knew what that meant!

Washington smiled. “It will be most helpful.”

An hour later, Adam and Nathan were on their horses headed home, each thinking of what was to come. Nathan finally broke the silence. “He didn’t ask me if I believed in the cause, Father.”

“No, he didn’t.” Adam thought back over the years, then shook his head. “Well, the colonel, he’s got a way of taking men the way they are—and more times than not, he manages to use up whatever’s in them to get what he wants done.”
Then he said, as he had before: “He’s a mighty fearsome man, that big Virginian!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

A MAN’S LOYALTY

“I hate to see him go back to Boston, Adam,” Molly said. “He’s all we have left now—and if half what we hear is true, fighting will break out there soon.” It was two days after the meeting with Washington, and Nathan was leaving for Boston as soon as the team was hitched.

“That’s right enough,” Adam agreed. “The thing is spreading like wildfire. Don’t guess there’s a man who’s not got wind of what happened in Lexington.”

This was partly due, he realized, to a veteran postrider named Israel Bissel, who took a bulletin from Colonel Joseph Palmer of the news of Lexington. Bissel was not content with riding to Connecticut; he pushed on to the Sound, then west along its sandy borders, showing his news to all committeemen, shouting his news on greens and in taverns. April 23, Sabbath or no Sabbath, found him pelting into New York, where people clawed at his stirrups, demanding news and more news. Then he was off again, across the Hudson, across the Jersey flats. The last of his message was terse: “For the good of our country, and the welfare of our lives, and liberties, and fortunes, you will not lose a moment’s time!”