The Captive Bride (24 page)

He turned, took five steps, then wheeled, with the sword held high over his head.

Fox asked, “Who kills this man for our People?”

Every single warrior cried out, but Fox was cautious. He saw something in the white man he did not like, and he wanted no mistakes, so he named four names—all of them tested warriors, not a beginner in the group.

The four men yelled and tossed all their weapons to the ground except for their knives, then began to advance on Winslow, who did not move except to lower his sword, leveling it at the group.

As they approached one of them spoke, and they began to spread out as Matthew had known they would. It was what he himself would have done, had he been one of them. And it was the problem he had pondered night after night, for this plan had been born of desperation—the only thing he could think of with even a slight chance of success.

He had no plan except to have no plan. The only thing he had in his favor was that these men had never seen a swordsman in action. They had no concept of the speed with which he could lower a blade and send it home, faster almost than a striking serpent.

But not if they were behind him, and not if they threw their knives. But knife-throwing was not an art that Indians practiced.

Now, like wolves, they began to circle, and the scene drew a sob that Rachel had to choke off. Her father looked so alone out there! The savages who moved like cats to encircle him were strong, quick and totally devoid of fear, she knew well. How could he hope to win?
And he came for me—after all my hatred!
her heart cried out, and she uttered a mighty silent prayer to God for him!

Now was the time, Winslow knew; the two braves on his flanks were almost out of his line of vision, while the other two before him stood three feet apart, their weapons ready if he turned to face either one.

Always do the unexpected!
The words had been spoken years ago by the master who taught him his lessons with the sword.
The best swordsman in the world—if he gets rattled— can be taken!

He did the one thing that could be done. Ignoring the two Indians who were moving to flank him, and paying no heed at all to the man on the left, he suddenly lowered his blade and with his right toe lunged his entire body toward the large Indian on his right!

The distance was critical, for if his enemy was too far away the sword would never touch him, and he would stand at full stretch, helpless. If the man were too close, the sword might catch in his flesh, and he would be cut to pieces trying to get the blade free.

Now the power flowed through his leg, and with the speed of a lifetime of practice the tip of his blade leaped through the air with all the force of his body behind it! The Indian was leaning forward balanced on the tips of his toes, tilting forward, and he could not believe that the white man was moving at him. Desperately he tried to reverse his feet, but it was too late!

The stroke brought the sword into his body, penetrating the heart—then it was withdrawn as Winslow whipped his blade back, stained crimson and shouted, “You see, Fox! The blade is magic!”

The man he had run through dropped his knife, and stared down at the small puncture on his breast in disbelief. He looked across at Matthew and tried to say something, suddenly dropped to the ground—dead.

Matthew saw that the savage on his left was paying no heed to him, and he did what he never would have done if the lives of the two women had not been at stake. He shouted and lunged with the same speed. The man had time to get his knife up, but the tip of Matthew's blade rasped over it, entered the fleshy side of the brave who grabbed his wound and gasped. But he was made of strong stuff, for he threw himself at Winslow, who had no choice but to strike the final blow.

But as the second Indian fell, he knew that he had turned his back too long, and even though he made a wild lunge to his left, he felt a line of fire run along his back as a blade ripped through his flesh. A cry of victory went up from the Indians as he went down, and he knew that both men would be on him like animals.

He had time only to roll over on his back before the sweaty body of one Indian fell on him. By catching the man's forearm with his left arm, Matthew managed to divert the knife thrust that would have driven straight to his head.

The sword was useless at close range, so he dropped it and with a mighty lunge of his body, threw the Indian off, and rolled to his feet just in time to see a shape to his left. He had no time at all to think, but simply reached out and grabbed for whatever part of the man he could get. The flesh was slippery but his hands closed on a muscular arm and with all his might he whipped the man around in a giant swinging motion and released him.

As the savage went flying through the air, Matthew reached down with one motion and picked up his sword, fell to his left in time to avoid the wicked slash that would have slit his throat, found an opening, and drove the blade into the body of the Indian who was off balance.

As the Indian went down, Matthew whirled to find his last
opponent rushing in, blade out before him. But suddenly he stopped short when he realized that his three companions were on the ground, dead or dying.

Winslow could have killed him where he stood, but he lowered his blade, and in the silence that suddenly fell on the scene, he looked at Fox and said, “There is no need for this man to die, Fox. He has proven that he is no coward.”

The man cried out and ran toward Matthew's blade in a suicidal rush, but Fox shouted to him, and he stopped.

Fox stood there staring at the tall white man, then looked at the men on the ground. Matthew knew that if this small Indian gave the word, he would die with an arrow in his heart, but he did not move nor speak.

The Fox said, “Take the women.”

Rachel came forward half-supporting Mercy, and Fox gave her one look. He moved closer to her and said in a voice only she and Mercy heard.

“This Jesus man is strong. Few more like Him—maybe Fox become Jesus man, too!”

Then he said, “You go now.” For a long time he stood there watching Matthew and the two women as they faded away into the woods.

They did not speak until Praise God and James suddenly appeared, and as Mercy wept in her husband's arms, Rachel turned to her father.

He was smiling at her. Suddenly she threw herself into his arms—and it was like coming home! For a long time they stood there. Finally he kissed her cheek and said, “Your mother has forgiven me and we're together now.”

She smiled through her tears and nodded. “Forgive me, Father, for being so—”

He put his hand on her lips and said, “I've found a daughter now—and we must start from this day.”

“Yes!” she cried. Great joy filled her heart as she said, “Oh, Father—let's go to Mother now.”

Three days later Lydia heard the sound of steps on the porch.

“Mother! I'm back! Father brought me back!”

As Lydia held the girl in her arms, she looked over at her husband and said with a smile, “I knew he would.” Then she held out her free arm and as Matthew came to her, she added with misty eyes, “These Winslow men—they do what they say!”

PART THREE

SALEM

1691

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A NEW MINISTER

Miles Winslow raised himself high in the stirrups and, shading his eyes from the brilliance of the midday April sun, stared down the road, then yanked his hat off, exposing a thick shock of yellow hair. “There they are, Howland!” he yelped, and spurred his startled bay into a hard run toward a small clapboard house.

His companion, though, only shook his head and continued the steady pace of his horse. Not an impulsive man, he looked with amused tolerance as he watched young Winslow pull his horse down, spring to the ground with the ease of a natural rider, and throw his arms around the pair who stood outside the neat white fence that enclosed the house.

Not very dignified for Harvard's newest scholar,
Robert Howland thought.
A minister ought to be a little more restrained.
Howland was a solidly built man with heavy shoulders and a muscular neck. His square face and strong chin revealed a stubborn streak, which he tried unsuccessfully to curb. His light-gray eyes were wide set deep beneath a broad forehead. His light-brown hair was cut short, and his features were more durable than esthetic. He looked, in fact, more like a strong, active gentleman squire than an intellectual scholar.

He came up to the fence, swung easily from his saddle, then waited patiently while young Winslow finished greeting the couple. There was in Howland a strange mixture of deliberate thought and a sort of ponderous behavior, which
covered a quickness of mind and easily stirred emotions kept carefully in check.

“Come, now, Robert,” young Miles said, turning the attention of the couple toward the visitor. “This is my father and mother—and this is my friend and teacher, Rev. Robert Howland.”

“It's a pleasure to welcome you to Salem, sir,” Matthew Winslow said warmly, and the hand he gave in greeting was as hard and strong as Howland's own. “We've heard nothing but your name since Miles arrived at Harvard.”

Howland took in Winslow's strong figure with approval. He had heard of Miles' father by reputation, and the man's appearance was impressive. He was six feet tall with the strong, athletic figure of a man in his late forties. He was an older edition of Miles, the resemblance between the two so sharp that it caught Howland off guard. They both had the same sharp features, the light hair with the trace of reddish gold when the sun caught it, as it did now, the broad mouth and bright blue eyes that revealed the Winslow blood.

“I'm happy to meet you, Mr. Winslow—and you, ma'am,” Howland said in a deep, prideful voice that would shake the rafters had he cared to lift it. He nodded to the beautiful woman who looked small in the presence of the three large men. She still appeared too young to be the mother of a sixteen-year-old son.

“Come inside, Rev. Howland,” Lydia Winslow said. There was a trace of coquetry in her voice and in her black eyes. Her dark beauty and expressive features still bore evidence of the French blood of her father.

They entered the house, and for the next hour sat around the oak table, where Howland discovered the source of his young pupil's wit and intelligence. He had “discovered” Miles three years earlier when the young man had come to Harvard at the age of thirteen. In their first meeting he had been astounded at the breadth of Miles' scholarship and at the same time warmly approving of the modest charm of the
young fellow. For three years he had nurtured the boy, who had become known at the school as “Howland's Student,” for the older man had been jealous of the lad, not trusting other instructors to do the finishing he felt necessary.

Ordinarily this sort of monopoly would have been forbidden, but Robert Howland himself was on a special footing at Harvard. He was a close friend of Cotton Mather, and such prestige was enough to permit Howland to do pretty much as he pleased. In all fairness, it was not his friendship with the titular head of the Puritan world, but his own brilliance that had made him a legend at the school. Cotton Mather had graduated from Harvard at the age of fourteen, but he had said often, “I got an early start, and Robert Howland got a late one—but if we had begun together, I have no doubt he would have eclipsed my record.”

Sitting there at ease as he had rarely been on a first visit, Howland noted that Matthew's intelligence and his wife's ready wit and charm were combined in their son.

“I'm surprised you'd think of leaving your position with Harvard to pastor a small church, Rev. Howland,” Matthew said at last.

“It was a difficult decision,” Howland admitted. “But I've grown too bookish over the last few years. The Lord has instructed me to go out where the harvest is white. Except for the time I've preached for Rev. Mather, I've been rather tied to my desk.”

“Aye, a man needs to be with the people,” Winslow nodded. “My father says that there are too many people at universities who have more degrees than they have temperature!”

“Matthew!” Lydia said sharply, “you shouldn't say such things to Reverend Howland.”

“Oh, Father can say anything!” Winslow laughed. “He's ninety-one, you know, and he never was noted for his tact.”

“I've been anxious to meet him, sir,” Howland smiled. “Miles says he has more brains than all of Harvard combined.”

Matthew threw back his head and reached over to pound his son on the shoulder, “Son! You've got no more tact than any other of us bull-headed Winslows! Imagine telling your teacher a thing like that!”

“It's good to see a young man who honors his parents, Mr. Winslow,” Howland remarked, smiling at the young man.

They talked a little longer and then Miles looked out the bay window and jumped to his feet. “There's Grandfather and Rachel!” he yelped and dashed out the door. Howland heard him talking excitedly and was amused at how the young man, who had gone to great effort to be dignified at Harvard, had now reverted almost to a wild, puppyish excitement in the presence of his family.

As they entered the cabin, Miles said, “This is my grand-father—and this is Robert Howland, sir!”

Howland looked at Gilbert Winslow, and was in some awe of the man, for this one, after all, was the last living member of the Firstcomers—that intrepid band of Pilgrims who had come on the
Mayflower
so many years ago!

“I'm honored, Mr. Winslow. I believe you knew my grandfather, John Howland?” the minister said at once, and the hand that gripped his was still strong and without a tremble despite the years.

“John Howland!” The old man stared at him. “I did, indeed, and a fine man he was, too! Your servant, sir. My grandson speaks highly of you.”

Time had taken a fraction from his height, so that he was slightly beneath his son and grandson, but he still stood straight as a pine sapling. The cornflower blue eyes were undimmed, and the tapering face was browned by the sun. His voice was not strong as it had once been, but there was no tremor as he spoke in a thin, clear tone, and his movement, if not swift as those of his tall descendants, was sure and still graceful.