The Indentured Heart Read online

  “You think this generation needs regeneration, I take it, Mr. Winslow?” the printer asked quickly.

  “All most people care about these days is making money and building fine houses!” Miles Winslow snorted in contempt, and for the next ten minutes he railed at the younger generation, leaving no doubt in Franklin’s mind that there was precious little hope for any of the upstarts in charge of the New World. His children had heard it all before, but there was a force in Miles that struck William afresh, and he found himself caught up with it all.

  “What you’re saying, Father,” he said, “is that we need a revival. Get the people back to God.”

  Miles nodded, then shot a quick look at his son. “Well, we need that—but not the sort that your Whitefields will bring.” That set him off again, so that for the next ten minutes he went on about the sad state to which the world had come.

  Franklin, William noticed, found it possible to talk about vellum and printing styles (after Miles finally finished his tirade) while at the same time paying close attention to Mercy. The printer hovered over her, finding more than one opportunity to pat her shoulder and pay her effusive compliments.

  “The man’s a born womanizer!” Miles said in disgust as he and William left the shop after all the arrangements were completed.

  “Oh, I think he’s just practicing, sir,” William said with a faint smile.

  “A man his age with a wife has no business practicing that sort of thing!”

  “I agree. It’s strange, Father, but beneath those smooth manners and for all his interest in Whitefield, I have the impression that the man has no feeling at all about God.”

  “In that you’re right, I dare say,” Miles nodded. “He’s a clever man—interested in how things work, you know? And I think he’s just interested in Whitefield as some sort of freak.”

  “Yes, I think you’ve hit it.” William stared at his father and shook his head, saying, “I wish I could see into the hearts of men as clearly as you, Father. It’s a gift every preacher ought to have.”

  Miles looked fondly at his son, pride in his fine clear eyes; then his smile turned bitter. “I’ve not always been so wise about people.”

  They had been to the harbor to see a ship owner, and now they came back to Franklin’s shop. Going inside they found Mercy and Adam in the owner’s office. Franklin got up at once and said cheerily, “I’ve just heard that Whitefield will be preaching in a large field just outside of town. I think we’ve agreed on the printing job—suppose we go hear the good man?”

  “I’ve heard him!” Miles growled.

  “That’s like saying, ‘I’ve already seen a sunrise!’ ” Franklin laughed. “Come along, Winslow; it’ll do us both good.” He turned suddenly and put his hand on Adam’s shoulder, saying with a smile, “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to leave this good fellow here with me, could I?”

  “Leave my son here?” Miles stared in amazement at Franklin.

  Franklin laughed and held up his hand. “Only jesting—but I tell you, sir, if I could have this one in my shop for a year, you’d see a thing or two! Look at this, Winslow!” He turned and picked up a handsome rifle with silver insets in the stock and pointed at the matchlock. “See that? It’s a new approach to the art of musket making. I designed that new matchlock system myself.”

  “Looks complicated,” Miles said.

  “So it is. I had it all apart, and while your daughter and I were talking, that boy of yours put it together in no time!”

  “Adam is very good with his hands,” Miles shrugged. He did not say so, but he was disappointed that his younger son was not as good with books as his other children. Being good with the hands was not a trait Miles Winslow valued. He did not notice that Adam’s eyes dropped when he said this, but William and Mercy exchanged glances.

  Franklin’s sharp eyes caught the byplay as well, and he gave Adam’s shoulder another pat, saying warmly, “Well, my boy, if you ever need a profession, come to me and I think we can work something out!”

  Adam looked up quickly, and seeing the kindness in the eyes of the printer, ducked his head and muttered, “Thank you, Mr. Franklin.”

  William reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, saying fondly, “Well, now, don’t suppose there are many thirteen-year-old boys who get an offer from a great man like Mr. Franklin! Wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t outshine us all, brother!”

  Miles looked at the clock and said sharply, “If we must get preached at by this Britisher, I suppose we’d better get at it.” It was not an unkind remark, but it seemed suddenly to William that his father had cut short Adam’s little moment of triumph—as if he did not like to hear the boy praised. I must be mistaken, he said to himself, for he knew no man on earth kinder than his father.

  Franklin joined them in their buggy, directing them to the large saucer-shaped field about a quarter of a mile from town. Whitefield was at one end of it, standing on a stone outcropping waiting for the crowd to gather.

  He began his message, and William was amazed to discover that though they were hundreds of feet away, he could hear as if he were standing right next to the man! “Amazing, isn’t it?” Franklin whispered. “I measured this field once, the first time he spoke, and by calculation, I discovered he could be heard by thirty thousand people!”

  Whitefield spoke first of a work for orphans he was trying to establish in Georgia, and after a brief but moving plea, an offering was taken. After it was over, William heard Franklin grunt, and turning he saw that the rotund printer had a crestfallen look on his round face. Then he laughed and shook his head. “Amazing! Just amazing! I was determined to put a shilling in the box—”

  “How much did you put?” Mercy asked with a smile.

  Ruefully Franklin patted his pocket, saying, “Four gold sovereigns—all I had!”

  “You’d better be careful, Mr. Franklin!” she smiled archly. “A little more Whitefield and you may become an enthusiast!”

  “I dare say!” Franklin replied. The whole matter seemed to amuse him considerably, and he smiled at his own weakness.

  Then the preacher began speaking of hell and the punishment of the damned, and he was so graphic that little cries began to go up from some of the listeners. Directly in front of the Winslows there were two young women, both attractive and well dressed. One of them looked back and saw William, and her eyes took in his handsome features and tall athletic form. Franklin’s hand closed on Mercy’s arm as the young woman looked back again at William.

  As Whitefield’s words grew stronger, thundering like a storm over the open field, suddenly a man close to the front seemed to fall in a faint. Mercy gasped; then a woman not ten feet in front of them gave a piercing scream, her body arching as she fell to the ground senseless.

  “What utter foolishness!” Miles said between clenched teeth. He turned to go, but just as he did, the young woman in front of them suddenly screamed and began swaying backward. William leaped forward and caught her as she folded up; carefully he eased her to the ground, and as he did so, Mercy felt Franklin’s hand squeezing her arm, and she saw that there was a wry smile on his lips. “The pretty ones always manage to hold off until a handsome young chap is there to break their fall,” he murmured so quietly that only she heard it.

  Mercy looked at the young woman William was supporting. She seemed to be breathing deeply in some grip of agitation, and Mercy whispered, “You think she’s a fake?”

  “I never judge people, my dear,” Franklin said piously, but there was a smile in his small eyes as he looked down at the pair.

  Adam had not missed any of this, but as he looked around, he saw that many were not being “caught” by anybody. Some were on the ground crying, tears pouring down their faces, and many were on their knees holding their hands up to heaven. The boy took his eyes off them and looked at the minister, listening to his words.

  “God is angry with the wicked every day!” Whitefield called out, his boyish face stern. “His bow is
bent! He will in no wise spare the guilty, and hell gapes for those who will not heed His Word!”

  Adam felt lightheaded, and there was a cry somewhere deep inside, but he clamped his lips together and stared stonily at the preacher until the sermon was over.

  It ended with a different note, for Whitefield, after holding the crowd over the pit of hell, suddenly changed his tone. Holding his hands toward them, he cried out, “This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus died to save sinners, of whom I am chief!”

  Strangely enough, as he left the themes of hell and judgment and began to speak of God’s love, more people were moved to tears than ever!

  Miles said suddenly, “Come—enough of this!” And they had no choice but to follow him as he picked his way through the crowd, stepping over some who were on the ground weeping.

  William carefully put the young woman’s head down on the grass, and her eyelids suddenly opened. “Thank you, sir!” she said sweetly, and her hand plucked at his sleeve.

  “You’re—quite welcome, I’m sure!” he managed to say, then rose and followed the others to the buggy.

  On the way back, Miles spoke harshly of the wild scene, and then he said, “Surely you don’t believe in this sort of thing, Franklin?”

  For once the face of Franklin was utterly serious. He thought about it, then said evenly, “I am not a religious man—but I am, I believe, an honest one. And I must in all fairness say that it is wonderful to see the change made in the manners of some of our inhabitants. From being thoughtless or indifferent about religion, it seems as if all the world here is growing religious, so that one cannot walk through the town in an evening without hearing psalms sung by different families in every street.” He paused and added gently, “Some of it is, I fear, not genuine. But I cannot deny that many lives have been changed for the better as a result of Mr. Whitefield’s preaching.”

  Miles was silent for a few moments, then shook his head. “All well and good, sir, but it could be done as well in a church!”

  “Ah, I fear that you cannot put new wine in old bottles,” Franklin said with a shrug. “You may discover something about that, William, in your new charge.”

  William had told the printer that he was on his way to pastor the church at Amherst, east of Boston, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Mr. Franklin, I may indeed. Mr. Whitefield says that many of our clergy preach an unknown and unfelt Christ. If he is right, we shall soon see.”

  “You would not have that man in your church, William?” Miles turned to stare at his son, alarm in his eyes. “Why, he will divide the people!”

  William Winslow turned to look at his father, but he did not answer for a moment. He seemed almost to have forgotten the question as he watched a red-tailed hawk rise up from the warped branch of a dead tree. Finally he took a deep breath, then looked back at his father. “If this thing is not of God, it will die—but if it is of God, I will not fight against it!”

  Sitting in the back, Adam listened to his brother and his father, and he was afraid, for never had he heard anyone stand up to his father!

  Then he felt an arm go around his shoulders, and he looked up to see Mercy looking at him with a gentle expression in her eyes. She said nothing, nor did he, but as they rolled along, he was very glad that she had put her arm around him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WINSLOW CLAN

  The Winslows arrived in Boston on Saturday, their ship dropping anchor in the late afternoon. The pulsing trade of the busy city was symbolized by the forest of masts in the harbor, for the invention of the Yankee Schooner in 1713 by Captain Andrew Robinson had brought faster travel and a boom in commerce. Masts were the product that linked the great American forests with the ocean, tying the New England colonies to the rest of the world. A good mast 100 feet high could bring as much as ninety pounds sterling on the market after it had been cut in deep snow, dragged behind oxen from a forest, then floated downriver to a shipyard.

  “Good to be home!” Miles grunted, leading the group down the gangplank. He paid no attention to the tangle of sloops, schooners, whalers and fishing ketches, but Adam’s dark eyes were everywhere, taking in the scene and reveling in the smell of fish. He gazed at the sedan chairs and brightly painted wagons of red, yellow, and blue along the streets, and the signs of taverns and shops fascinated him.

  “I’ll miss all this, I suppose,” William murmured, gazing out the carriage window at the busy marketplace. “Amherst is quite a tame little village.”

  “I wish we were all going with you!” Miles said sharply, giving a contemptuous wave of his hand at the busy streets. “Be better off to get away from this Babylon of a town! For two pence I’d sell out and move to the backside of Virginia!”

  Mercy caught the sudden look William shot at her, and shook her head slightly. They both had realized long ago that their father would never leave Boston—not as long as Martha lived. He’d really like to do it! William thought, caught suddenly by the sadness in his father’s eyes. Just sell out and go to the wilderness—but it’s too late for him. The happiest days of his father’s life had been those years when he’d accompanied his own father, Matthew Winslow, on long trips to the west, establishing the fur business that had prospered the family. Miles had loved the woods, the lost trails and the cathedral-like quiet of the timbered woods. He used to talk about that all the time—and how he’d do it again someday, William thought. But that was when Mother was alive—he’s given up on all that now. Martha’s burned all his dreams!

  It was almost dark when they pulled up in front of the large white house, a salt-box style with two stories in front, and the roof sloping down sharply in the rear over the kitchen and storage rooms. The ground floor was composed of four rooms—parlor, dining room, library and kitchen. Above, on the second floor, there were four bedrooms with sloping ceilings. Below was a cellar for storage, and just behind the kitchen, with a door opening into it was the woodshed—a dark, roomy place in which a whole winter’s supply of wood for heating and cooking might be kept.

  The town had not yet caught up with the house, which stood alone beside the dirt road surrounded by large locust and poplar trees. Behind the house was a garden, an orchard of pear trees, a stable, and a press for making cider. A dovecote and a dozen beehives were just behind the garden.

  “I see Rachel’s here,” Miles remarked, waving toward the buggy drawn up underneath a large oak. The sourness that had marked him earlier was replaced at once by a smile, for his sister was a treasure to him. He pulled the team to a halt and got out of the buggy quickly. A short, strong-looking black man neatly dressed in brown homespun came running out of the stable, a smile lightening his dark face.

  “You home, Mist’ Winslow?” He took the reins and added, “Miss Rachel here!”

  “Put the team up, Sampson,” Miles said. “Did Saul and Esther come with my sister?”

  “Yas, they’s here, Mist’ Winslow—come early dis mornin’. And Rev. Chauncy, he here, too.”

  Miles led them around to the front of the house.

  “You’re late, Miles,” Martha Winslow said sourly. She was an imposing woman, somewhat heavy in figure, but her face was sharp-featured. Her brown hair revealed no sign of the white that marked her husband’s, and her slate-gray eyes flashed with displeasure. She had a thin, hawkish nose, and her lips were rather thin and narrow, a small mouth for such a large woman.

  “Ship was late,” Miles explained with a shrug. The two made no gesture of affection, and he looked over her shoulder toward the parlor. “Rachel’s here?”

  “We’re waiting for you in the dining room; the food’s getting cold.”

  Miles moved past her and gave a nod at the others, saying, “Hello Saul—Esther.” Martha gave a sharp look at Adam, who was slowly moving indoors, and said sharply, “You’re not eating with those filthy hands, Adam! Go wash!”

  As he scurried toward the kitchen, Mercy and William followed their stepmother into the dining ro
om where their father was embracing a woman with pure silver hair, saying, “You’re looking more beautiful than ever, Rachel!”

  William could not help noticing that his father was much more like a loving husband with his sister than with his wife, and he saw the bitter twist of Martha Winslow’s small mouth as she took in the scene. “Sit down, Miles,” she said sharply. “The food is cold.”

  Miles stepped back, his fond glance resting on the face of Rachel Howland. She was eighty years old, but her back was straight as a ramrod, and her eyes, bright blue, unfaded by the years. She was wearing a simple gown of blue silk that matched her eyes, and somehow it made Martha’s ornate dress look cheap and overdone.

  “I’ve missed you, Miles,” Rachel said quietly. “How was the trip?”

  “Fine! Franklin will do us a good job, I think.” He felt the pressure of his wife’s eyes then, and moved to shake hands with the short, portly man dressed in a somber suit, who had risen. “Pastor Chauncy, I’m glad to see you.”

  “You’re just in time, Miles—I was about to eat your dinner!” Charles Chauncy was thirty-seven years old, and as pastor of First Church, Boston, was one of the most influential men in the colony. The office of the minister, while not as prestigious as it had been in the days of Bradford, was still a potent force in the political as well as the theological arenas of the day.

  They all sat down, and as the food was served, Miles gave them a report of their dealings with Franklin. Even Chauncy was impressed with this, for the printer was one of the best known men in the Colonies. “It will be an edifying work, Miles,” the preacher said, pausing between bites long enough to comment. “Your grandfather and the others on that ship were a different breed of men—yes, sir, a wonderful group.”

  “We heard Mr. Whitefield while we were there.” William’s face was smooth, and he looked very innocent as he added, “He preached most powerfully, Rev. Chauncy.”