The Gentle Rebel Read online

  © 1988 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7031-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg

  Cover design by Danielle White

  This one is for my redheads—

  Alan Blake Morris and

  Zachary Alan Morris

  POWER IN THE BLOOD

  Alan, my son, quite without intent

  Wheeled around as I came in and bent

  His head to one side grinning crookedly—

  And from his eyes, my father looked at me.

  A thousand times I’d seen my father twist

  His head just so (sort of a starboard list)

  Squint-eyed, as though peering through a haze,

  Just as he looked at me through my son’s gaze.

  I saw my father clear in my son’s light,

  O, there is power in the blood all right!

  That father’s blood that cools and slows its pace

  Will glow again in a grandson’s face.

  One day, perhaps, when I am gone from here,

  I’ll come again to look at Alan plain and clear;

  Then he will halt, will stand in shocked surprise

  To see me smile at him—through Zachary’s eyes!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  FIRST BLOOD—LEXINGTON

  1. Alone!

  2. Runaway

  3. A Family Divided

  4. Country Cousin

  5. A Boy Named Laddie

  6. Sons of Liberty

  7. A New Clerk

  8. “A Man in Love Is Bound to Be a Fool!”

  9. Death at Lexington

  10. The Vow

  PART TWO

  BAPTISM OF FIRE

  11. “He’s a Mighty Fearsome Man!”

  12. A Man’s Loyalty

  13. A New Commander

  14. “The Whites of Their Eyes!”

  15. Laddie in Love

  16. Escape!

  17. Crisis at Half Moon

  PART THREE

  GUNS OVER BOSTON

  18. Friend Daniel and Laddie

  19. New Year

  20. The Guns of Ticonderoga

  21. Message From Boston

  22. At the Red Lion

  23. “I’ll Do What I Have to Do!”

  24. Out of the Past

  25. Julie Goes to a Ball

  26. A Matter of Honor

  27. The Fiery Trial

  28. “As Long As We Live!”

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  ALONE!

  If Julie Sampson had been born two years earlier or two years later, she would not have been in such a trap—or so she thought as she stood trembling in her small room, her back pressed against the wall.

  If I were only twelve or thirteen, he’d leave me alone—or if I were seventeen, I’d be old enough to leave here!

  She held her breath as heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs, came down the hall, then stopped abruptly outside her door. She suddenly pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to shut off the cry of terror that rose to her lips. The silence grew thick, so thick that between the solemn tickings of the clock she thought she could hear heavy breathing. Her eyes were riveted on the door as she waited for the pewter knob to turn. When the thought of escape through the small window beside her pierced her mind, she cast a quick glance at the snow that was drifting gently outside the glass.

  She edged cautiously to her right. I wonder if I would break my legs on the cobblestones? she thought fleetingly, looking down at the walk that ran in front of the shop. She didn’t really care—all she wanted to do was escape. She touched the catch on the window; then suddenly the footfalls retreated, going down the hall, and echoing down the stairs.

  “Thank God!” she breathed, and then discovered that her legs were trembling so violently she could hardly stand, let alone make the jump to the walkway below. Dropping into the chair beside the small oak table, she hid her face in her hands and tried to think. She struggled to choke back the sobs that rose in her throat; finally, with great effort, she shook her shoulders, rose from the chair and walked to the washbasin at the foot of her bed. Dashing her face with cold water, she dried it with a thick, white cloth that hung at the end of the stand, then began to pace back and forth. Her mind whirled, filled with insistent but ineffective thoughts. She couldn’t seem to sort them out, and any prayer she tried to utter seemed meaningless, an empty formula, a ritual learned from childhood.

  She walked to the window, looking down over the wooden sign that said SILAS SAMPSON—CARTOGRAPHER in crimson letters, carefully scrolled. The sight of it evoked an image of her father, and as she thought of his slight figure bent over his desk, the tears flooded her eyes, and she dashed them away almost angrily.

  I can’t cry for him anymore! she thought. And then she looked across the street, resolutely past the sign swinging in the stiff January breeze, and saw a man wearing a heavy fur coat. Her lips grew firm, and snatching a heavy coat and a bonnet from the pegs on the wall, she stepped outside her room, walked down the hall and descended the stairs.

  Her hope of passing through the shop without being noticed was dashed as a voice said, “Julie—where you going?”

  Aaron Sampson suddenly appeared, interposing his bulk between her and the door, and as always she had to restrain herself to keep from flinching as he put his meaty hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want you to go out in this weather,” he said, and his grip changed to a caress that made her flesh crawl.

  “Rev. Kelly asked me to come by today,” she said quickly.

  “The preacher? What’s he want with you?”

  “I—I think he wants some work done on his books.”

  “Oh, work is it?” Aaron Sampson cared nothing for preachers, but he dearly loved a dollar. Reluctantly, he let his thick hand slide off Julie’s shoulder, stepped aside, and a sudden grin pulled the corners of his thick lips up as she slipped by him. “Might ought to tell that preacher that he’ll be needed right soon, Julie!”

  She closed the door quickly to shut off his words, but his coarse voice penetrated the three-inch oak with ease: “Might have a marrying job, ain’t that right, girl?”

  The hard lines of Philadelphia had been blurred by soft folds of new snow, and the rough street felt like thick carpet as Julie hurried to catch up with the tall minister. Her feet made no sound, and flakes as big as wafers stung her face. When she called out, “Rev. Kelly!” there was an echo in the icy air, as if her voice were frozen, too.

  “Why, Julie!” Rev. Zachariah Kelly’s skeletal thinness was disguised by the bulk of the fur coat, but the face that peered out from under a tri-cornered hat seemed even more pale and bony, framed as it was by the black hat and coat. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

  “Oh, I—I just thought it would be good to get some fresh air.” Julie’s face flushed sudde
nly. She had lied to Aaron, and whatever the man’s designs, her lack of truthfulness troubled her. Then she lifted her face and said quickly, “Rev. Kelly, you told my father once that you wanted him to make a map for you—of County Cork, I think it was?”

  “Why, bless me, child!” He stared at her with kindly blue eyes, and then nodded. “I’d almost forgotten that—but so I did.”

  “Could—could I go home with you so we could talk about it? I can make the map—almost as good as Father could have done it if he . . . !”

  Kelly’s vision was weak, but he did not miss the sudden tears that rose to the girl’s eyes at the mention of her father. He reached out, took her hand, and said gently, “It’s very hard to lose a dear one, Julie—hard for anyone. But doubly so when we only have the one to lose.” His mind went back two months when he had tossed the handful of dirt into the ground, hearing it strike the wooden coffin containing Julie’s father with a dull thud, and he remembered that she had flinched at the sound as if the earth had struck her in the face—or as if a musket ball had smitten her in the heart. “You were very close to your father, Julie,” he murmured. Then briskly, he took her arm and said, “Why, I think that’s a splendid idea—that map of the old country! We’ll just pop along to my study and I’ll show you where I came from—and did you know, my dear, that all Irishmen are descended from kings?” He chattered away lightly, and was rewarded to see the lines fade from her smooth brow.

  They passed under the shadow of Christ Church, an imposing virgin clothed in winter white, then walked around the path to the small cottage in the rear that almost touched the graveyard. Rev. Kelly bustled Julie inside, and asked his wife to fix some tea and bring it to the study.

  “There’s no tea, you mind,” Mrs. Kelly said with a mischievous smile. “Don’t you remember, Zachariah?”

  He stared at her blankly; then a grimace of annoyance swept his thin features. “Blast!” Then he laughed, and a twinkle lit his blue eyes. “When the Crown put that tax on tea, I got carried away with some of Sam Adams’ talk—and when the Sons of Liberty dressed up like Indians and threw the King’s tea into Boston Harbor, why, I joined the rest of the Bedlamites and threw all my tea in the fire!” He shrugged ruefully, then added as he guided Julie to his study, “That’s the way it is with that sort of repentance—a man gets carried away with something, then has to live with it after the parade’s over!”

  Julie followed him into the large study lined with books. “Now, let’s see,” he muttered, staring at the two large tables against the wall almost buried with papers, drawings, books, and other scholarly material. “Ah! Here we have it!”

  The minister extracted a large book from the midst of a stack of papers, opened it, and soon he and Julie were chattering away about longitudes, latitudes and other matters of the business. Rev. Kelly was not thinking of mapmaking, however, but of the young woman who stood beside him. Since the death of her father, Julie had been grappling with a problem that he could not quite identify. She had been a member of his church all her life, as had her father, and the two of them had been inseparable. Since his death, however, she had become more and more silent and her ruddy cheeks had grown pale.

  He looked down on her, thinking not for the first time what an attractive girl she was. She was tall, and Kelly guessed that her five feet eight inches came from her mother’s side, for her father had been slight—only a little over five six at best. She was no lightweight, and her transformation from childhood to womanhood was obvious—her blossoming figure was revealed by the simple gray gown she wore. Her shoulders were square, her arms rounded and strong. She had very black hair, thick and slightly curly. Her eyebrows, thick and dark, arched over eyes so dark that the pupils were difficult to see—eyes wide and almond shaped with long curling lashes. Her nose was straight and her rather square face and firm chin announced more than a hint of stubbornness.

  She looks well enough, Kelly thought, but after they had talked of the map, settled the details of the price, he ventured to ask, “Now, Julie, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She looked startled; then a flush touched her cheeks. “Why—Rev. Kelly . . . !” Actually she had asked for this visit to try to tell him of her desperation, but now that he stood there, she could not force herself to say it.

  “You know, Julie, I promised your father on his deathbed that I’d take care of you. As a matter of fact, if it weren’t for your uncle, my wife and I would have had you come to live with us. We talked about it.”

  “Oh, could I do that, Reverend?” she asked quickly. Her eyes pleaded with him as she said nervously, “I’d do all the work! And I’m a very good cook, you know!”

  Her quick response caught Kelly off guard, and looking into her face, he wished he had not mentioned the matter. “Why, my dear, we would love it—but Mr. Sampson is not at all sympathetic to the idea.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Why, yes, I did. It was only a few days after the funeral. I told him that it might be better for you to stay with us, but—”

  “He said he wanted to keep me, didn’t he?”

  Aaron Sampson had said much more than that, Rev. Kelly remembered grimly. The burly man had cursed, his beefy face red, ending up by saying, “You preachers is all alike—out for all you can get! That milksop of a brother of mine, you pulled the wool over his eyes, but you don’t get nothing off me, see? The girl stays here, and I’ve got the law on my side!”

  Kelly’s pale, thin face grew red at the memory of how the big man had practically thrown him out of the house, sending him out the door with a shove. “I’m afraid there’s little hope that your uncle would permit you to come here, Julie,” he said regretfully.

  “I—I’m afraid of him, Rev. Kelly!”

  “Afraid of him? Has he hurt you, Julie?”

  “N-no.”

  “Mistreated you, has he?”

  Her face burned, and she said in a whisper, “He—he won’t leave me alone!”

  Kelly felt a quick thrill shoot along his nerves—half anger and half fear. There was no mistaking the girl’s meaning, but he stood there feeling impotent, having no clue as to how he could help her. Her father was a fool! he thought angrily.

  Silas Sampson had been a good man, but weak in many ways, Kelly recalled. His wife had died when Julie was only six, and he had never remarried. Some had thought it wonderful the way he had let his daughter fill the place of a wife, but Kelly had thought it abominable, seeing that the child had been robbed of much that all children ought to know. But to be fair, he would have to admit that Silas had been a loving father; nothing had been too good for his Julie!

  A year ago, he had fallen ill, very ill, and as his condition worsened, he became almost frantic. Kelly remembered well his visits, when the sick man had cried out, “I’m not afraid to die—but what will happen to my girl when I’m gone?”

  The thought had tormented him, and nothing the minister or anyone else could say gave him any peace. Finally, he had surprised them all with a solution. He had sent for Rev. Kelly, and with fever glazing his eyes, he had said, “I—I have one relative, Reverend—a younger brother. We’ve not been close—in fact, Aaron and I haven’t spoken in many years. But now I must call on him! He’s all I have left!”

  It had been, in Rev. Kelly’s judgment, a bad decision. When Aaron Sampson had come to Philadelphia to live with his brother, he had been so unlike the frail cartographer that it was difficult for Kelly to believe they were related. Aaron was overbearing, arrogant, crude—in every respect the opposite of Silas. He had moved in, taken over the affairs of the business, and, with unbelievable callousness, waited for his only brother to die. Indeed, by the time Julie’s father had slipped away, Aaron Sampson was spreading his elbows wide on the board.

  Now looking down into Julie’s pale face, Kelly was appalled. He knew only too well the power of men over women in the courts. No girl of Julie’s age would have a chance against a full-grown man like Aaron Sampson. And the m
inister knew for a fact, having been told by that babbling fool of a lawyer, Will Spelling, that Julie’s father had given Aaron Sampson everything! Nothing for the daughter. The man was a fool! Kelly thought again, but he only said gently, “Try not to worry, child. God is not unaware of our problems. I’ll have another talk with your uncle.”

  “Please try to get him to let me come here!” Julie whispered, and the fear in her eyes was a living thing as he nodded.

  After she left, Kelly walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table with his wife. She was a large woman, as thick as he was thin, a condition that gave rise to some ribald talk from the cruder elements of the town. But she was wise and had lived long enough with the tall preacher to know his thoughts. “You’re worried about Julie, aren’t you, Zachariah?”

  He picked up the glass of cider she placed before him, tasted it, then set it down. “That man is after her, Bess!”

  She stared at him, her lips growing white with pressure. “What will you do?”

  He suddenly smote the table with his fist and shouted, “Nothing! Not a blasted thing!” Then he stared at her with a hopeless anger in his blue eyes, adding in a whisper, “There’s not one blessed thing anyone can do, Bess!” He rose to his feet, and there was misery in every line of his tall body, for he was a true shepherd, and he loved this girl. The thought of Aaron Sampson’s gross figure drew his lips together into a grimace, and he said bitterly, “The only hope—and it’s a foul thought—is that he’ll marry the poor child!” Then he left the kitchen, and went to the church, praying long—partly for the child and partly for himself, for forgiveness. For he was filled with a raging hatred for Sampson, and he well knew that until that changed, he could pray for nothing else.

  * * *

  Business was booming, and for the next month Julie was kept so busy (as was her uncle) that her fears subsided. Her father had trained her, and although it had been necessary to hire an assistant to fill the gap her father had left, the shop had prospered. Perhaps it was the constant talk of war with England that created a demand for maps, but whatever the cause, Julie had worked long days and many nights to keep up with the orders.