Honor in the Dust Read online

  “All right, Mead, but what about that other snare?”

  “Let it go, Stuart. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I thought you said Mr. Hyde was gone.”

  “He’s got gamekeepers, though, ain’t he? Anybody caught poaching will get the whip or be put in the stocks. Remember what it was like when they put Fred Jimmerson in the stocks? He had his head sticking out, and everybody pelted him with dead rats. Somebody threw a rock and knocked his eye out. No, it ain’t worth it.”

  “You go on. I’ll check and see if I got another rabbit.”

  “Better not.” Mead shook his head doubtfully, then turned and made his way out of the field.

  Stuart knew exactly where the snare was, and he wriggled through the tall grass until he found it. His heart gave a lurch when he saw that there was a rabbit in the trap. He broke the neck with one expert blow of the heavy stick he carried, shoved the rabbit into his sack, and felt a sense of victory and satisfaction. He played games with himself sometimes, and now he was pretending that he was a noble knight who had overcome some fierce mythical beast. Perhaps his mind was too much on that imaginary scene, for he was not aware of the man who stood before him until he was less than five feet away.

  “Poacher, eh?” The speaker was a tall, heavyset man with cruel eyes and a twist to his mouth. “I know what to do with poachers. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Stuart Winslow.”

  “Come along. I’ll go tell your people you’ll face a poacher charge. You know what poachers get, don’t you?”

  Stuart could not even answer, he was so terrified. The man took him by the arm and dragged him along.

  Grace watched Rolf Hyde’s eyes. They were a murky brown, and she read in them the lust that she had often seen in the eyes of men. She had heard that Hyde took advantage of his young female servants and also some of the older women at his country manor. He was a wealthy man, and now there was triumph in his look.

  “So I caught him red-handed, and here’s the evidence,” he said, lifting the two dead hares. “I’m going to take him to the sheriff.”

  “Please, Mr. Hyde, don’t do that. He’s only ten.”

  “That matters little. Poaching is poaching.”

  Grace forced herself to plead. She saw that Hyde was moving closer to her. Still holding Stuart with his left hand, he reached out with his right to trace her chin and said, “Of course, maybe I could forget some of the boy’s lawbreaking—if you’d show a man some kindness.”

  Disgust swept through Grace. “There’s nothing for you here, Mr. Hyde,” she said in a determined voice.

  Hyde’s face flushed. “Then I’ll take the boy down to the sheriff.”

  Grace watched them go, helpless. “If only Claiborn were here!” But he was not. Once again he had gone to serve with a small army that was engaged in one of the innumerable wars that the Irish seemed to carry on at all times. He’d promised to return to them here, at her aunt’s farm … a month ago. “I don’t know what to do. They can’t put Stuart in jail or in the stocks. They just can’t!”

  The hearing was held in a relatively small room built for several purposes. Linton Stowe was the justice who was listening to Hyde’s charge. Stowe was an older man with silver hair and clear blue eyes. He had the reputation, Grace knew, of being a fair man.

  “All right, Mr. Hyde, what is your charge?”

  “Well, I caught the boy red-handed, and there’s the two rabbits he poached from my land. No excuse, Justice.”

  Stowe studied Stuart, and Grace followed his gaze, swelling with pride over her fine-looking boy. He was tall for his age, with a thatch of auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She thought she saw the justice’s eyes flash with compassion.

  Hyde threw a malevolent glance at Grace and said, “I went to tell his mother, and you know what she dared? She offered herself to me if I would let the boy off! Of course, I wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be right,” he said with false morality.

  “Mrs. Winslow, you may speak.”

  Grace stood on her feet. She faced the magistrate, her voice not loud but filled with certainty. “My boy did break the law, and I have the money to pay the fine. The vile thing that this man said of me is a lie.”

  “She’s a whore and a liar!”

  Stowe hesitated, then said, “In view of the youth of the young offender, I’m going to take the fine and release him to his family.”

  “She’s naught but a whore!” Hyde roared. He turned and shoved his way out of the room. He was followed by a short man with hazel eyes who grabbed him by the arm and turned him around while he was still within earshot of Grace.

  “Are you looney, man?”

  “What are you talking about, Tillford?”

  “You know who her husband is?”

  “Some kind of a soldier fellow,” he said dismissively.

  “Claiborn Winslow. He’s a demon with a sword, and when he comes home and finds the man who’s called his wife a whore and a liar in public, why, he’ll cut his heart out!” Tillford glanced back at Grace. “You’d better go back and make it right.”

  Hyde hesitated a moment. With a curse he turned and walked back over to her. The justice looked up, and Grace remained silent.

  “Sir, I fear I let my anger get the better of my judgment.”

  “And how is that, Mr. Hyde?”

  “Well, I said some things about the lady here that weren’t true. I have a bad temper, and sometimes my mouth seems to have a mind of its own. So, Mrs. Winslow, I’ll ask your pardon.”

  “Granted,” said Grace carefully.

  “Very well, then. I think it’s wise that you made this right,” the justice said. He turned back to Grace. “Take the boy and go home. But, Son, if I ever see you here again, it won’t be as easy for you. Mind that you never appear before my bench again.”

  “Yes, sir. Never again,” Stuart said.

  Grace and Stuart made their way out, but she felt Hyde’s eyes on her, and when she glanced at him, she saw that their family had a new enemy.

  When they were outside, she said, “God was good to us, Stuart. It could have been very bad indeed.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mother. I won’t ever do that again.”

  “That’s good. I believe you.”

  “Will we have to tell Father?”

  “Oh, yes, he would hear it anyhow. Better he hears it from you.”

  Grace was forced to hire men to hay when Claiborn had not returned in time. Worley, one of the men she had hired, came over to her. He wiped the sweat from his face and said, “That son of yours can do more work than some grown men.”

  Grace was pleased with that. “He is strong, is he not?”

  “I thought Master Claiborn was due back by now. When do you expect him?”

  Grace found she could not give a full answer to that, for indeed it was far past the time when Claiborn should have returned. She turned and walked into the house, and for the rest of the day repeated the man’s words in her mind. “I thought Master Claiborn was due back by now.”

  That night when Stuart came to the table, he saw that his mother seemed worried. “Are you worried, Mother?”

  “A little bit.”

  “It’s about Father, isn’t it?”

  “I wish he’d come home. He’s been gone so long.”

  There had been no more trouble with Hyde, other than one unpleasant visit. He had come to the door and said, “I’ve bought the mortgage on your place from James Widell, the man who let ’im borrow on it. You’ll make the payments to me now and not to him.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hyde, I’ll tell my husband.”

  “Not home yet, I hear.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t killed in battle?”

  “He wasn’t, Sir. I will tell him what you said about the mortgage.” She shut the door, thinking, He’ll take our farm if he ever gets the chance. She was not a woman who was greatly afraid of things, but this particular fear she could not put as
ide.

  A month after Hyde’s visit, Stuart ran in. “It’s a man in a wagon, mother! Somebody’s in it!”

  Grace’s heart suddenly seemed to stop beating for a moment. She ran outside.

  A small man with sunburned, leathery skin and only one arm was standing by a horse and wagon. “I’m looking for Mrs. Winslow,” he said.

  “I’m Mrs. Winslow.”

  “I’m Yale Wyatt. I done brought your husband home, Mrs. Winslow.”

  She hurried to the wagon. Claiborn was lying wrapped in a blanket on a bed of straw. “Claiborn!” Hastily she climbed into the wagon and knelt beside her husband. “Claiborn, it’s me, Grace.” His face was uncovered, and she could see that he was emaciated and flushed. His eyes were unfocused and he did not respond to her.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

  “Well, besides his wounds, he’s lain out in the open in the rain. His leg is pretty much healed up. We didn’t have to cut it off like we thought, but he got lung fever or something. He ain’t got no strength at all, ma’am, and for the last few days of our journey, he hasn’t said a word.”

  Stuart climbed up on the wagon wheel to look down at them. The sight of his father’s face frightened him. “He’s so sick, Mother!”

  “Yes, Stuart, but we’ll see him back to health.”

  “I’ll help you take him in, ma’am, if you’ll show me the way.”

  “I’ll go make a place in the house.” She turned and went inside the house and made up the bed. She went back and saw that the soldier had pulled Claiborn upright. Claiborn’s eyes were filled with fever, but suddenly he gave her a weary smile. “Well, I’m here, what’s left of me, Grace.”

  Her heart surged with hope. “Claiborn, I’m so glad you’re home!”

  “Where’s Stuart?”

  “I’m right here, Father. I’ll help you take him in, sir.”

  “That’s good. Two of us can handle it. I lost my flipper in the same battle.”

  Wyatt and Stuart helped Claiborn stand. When the blanket fell back, Grace saw the dirty clothing hanging on him as though on a scarecrow. Her stomach turned as she considered the miseries her husband had endured.

  They laid him on the bed, and she helped him put his feet up. He winced at the movement, growing more pale with every inch he crossed. But at last he was settled.

  As for Stuart, he could not believe this was his father. Claiborn had left months before, the very picture of a strong, active, and healthy man. This scarecrow that had returned clearly frightened him. He hung back. But when Grace fixed a quick meal, and Yale sat and ate, telling how his father had been wounded, he listened intently.

  “It was a bad battle. A cannonball landed near us. If it had been any closer, I think it would have taken the leg off. As it was, none of us thought he’d keep it. He laid out two days and nights with nothing to eat or drink. We didn’t know where he was. Finally one of our men found him, and we got him back. The doctor, he done what he could, but it took a long time for that leg to heal, and he’s still coughing a lot.” Yale suddenly looked up and nodded firmly. “He was the best of us, ma’am. Always looking out for his men, he was, me in particular.”

  “Will you stay the night?” Grace asked.

  “No, ma’am, I need to get back to my own family.” He rose, and she followed him out.

  “Thank you so much for bringing him home. It was kind of you.”

  “Well, he’s a good man. He’s talked about the Lord a lot, since he was wounded. He’s got a good kind of religion, he has.”

  This puzzled Grace, and she questioned Yale more closely about it. As best as she could make out, her husband had indeed found a fellowship with God that he had not known when he left home.

  “Well, I’ll be thinking of your husband. You put me in your prayers.”

  “I shall.”

  Stuart was silent. When he went back, his father was in a fitful sleep. He sat beside him for a long time, looking as though he feared Claiborn would disappear if he didn’t keep a close watch on him. Finally Grace pulled him away and said, “Let him sleep, Son. You’ll see—it will be the best medicine possible.”

  Claiborn smiled at Grace. “I feel like a new man already. All washed and in nice, fresh, clean clothes in a nice, warm cottage with my wife and son.”

  “I’m so glad you’re home. I prayed for you every day.”

  “Father, tell us about the battle,” Stuart begged. He sat as close to Claiborn as he could get, and his eyes were lively.

  “Not a pretty story, Son. We were outnumbered almost two to one, and I saw some good men die.” Claiborn’s eyes grew sad, but he continued his story. “I grew close to the men, especially a man named Mullins. We had some long talks. He’d wanted to be a minister, but his family was poor, so he received no education. He loved God with all his heart, and when he died, I wept for him.”

  “You cried?” Stuart was shocked. “Grown men don’t cry!”

  “Yes, they do. When the world falls in on you or when you lose something precious, you’ll cry.” He fell silent, then said softly, “Hawkins shouted for us to charge, and we did—right into the teeth of the enemy. The fire was so heavy our men were leaning into it, like men leaning into a stiff breeze. Men dropped all around me, shot to pieces.”

  “Was that when Mr. Mullins got killed?” Stuart asked.

  “Yes. He fell, and I stopped to see if he was badly hurt. He was bleeding and knew he was dying. He said, “I’m going to be with Jesus, sir. I hope to see you in heaven.”

  “How awful!” Grace whispered.

  “What did you do then, Father?” Stuart asked.

  “What I had to do, Son. Hawkins was calling for us to charge, so that’s what I did.”

  “Were you afraid?” Stuart asked.

  “We were all afraid, Stuart. No shame in that. When men are about to possibly face God, they suddenly understand how fragile life really is.”

  “I prayed for you every day,” Grace said.

  “I know you did, Grace. And I’ll have to tell you that something happened to me out there on the battlefield. I went down when a cannonball cut my leg from under me. You know, if it hadn’t been for Wyatt, I’d have died. I was practically dead when they found me, but I had already called upon God. And I suppose you might know what I was saying to him.”

  “What was it? Tell me.”

  “I promised I’d serve him as best I could the rest of my life. I told him that I would follow Jesus no matter what it cost or where it took me. But you know, Grace, I didn’t pray for a long time, because I thought it cowardly.”

  “Why would you think that, Claiborn?”

  “It always seemed to me wrong that a man could serve the Devil all of his life, and then, when he was on the brink of death, try to make good with God. It just didn’t seem the manly thing to do.”

  “But you have heard of the dying thief.”

  “Yes, the one that was crucified beside Jesus.”

  “And appealed to him and was saved,” she whispered.

  “Yes. I thought about that, and I called on God just like that thief did. ‘Remember me, Jesus,’ I said.”

  Grace sat there enthralled, holding Claiborn’s hand in both of hers. It was a bony hand, not at all the strong and vigorous hand to which she was accustomed. She felt her eyes fill with tears when he finally whispered to her, “I’m going to do exactly what I said. I’m going to serve our God.”

  The two sat there talking, with Stuart listening in. When Claiborn asked about the farm, how the crops were faring, she had to tell him about the new owner. “He’s not a kind man, Claiborn.”

  “You’re saying he would be hard on us if we didn’t make the payments?”

  “Oh, we’ll make the payments. God will see to it. He’s seen us this far.”

  “He must heal me so that I can work.”

  “Yes, but in the meantime, your son has been doing a man’s work.”

  Claiborn turned to Stuart and smiled. “You�
��re a fine lad, my son. I hate it that you must work so hard.”

  “I don’t mind, Father.”

  Claiborn’s weakness was evident in his drooping lids, and now he muttered as he dropped off to sleep, “God will take care of us. We’re his now.”

  “He went to sleep so quickly,” Stuart whispered.

  “Yes, he’s very weak. We’ll have to feed him a little food at a time. Just broth until we get him on something solid. I’m afraid you’ll have to do most of the work. We have little money to hire help.”

  “I can do it all.”

  Grace’s heart suddenly filled with pride. She looked at Stuart and then pulled him forward and put her arms around him. “You’re a fine boy, a true Winslow! Your father and I are very proud of you.”

  6

  The winter of 1511 brought blasts of cold air that swept across the barren landscape and closed like an iron fist on the land. Men stayed indoors close to their fire as much as possible, sitting out the cold weather and doing only work that was necessary.

  Claiborn bent over to pick up a square of peat bog, and as he did, he swayed, for his leg had never recovered from the wound that he had taken in battle. He had prayed, and Grace had prayed, but Claiborn realized with bitterness that he was not the man that he had been—nor, indeed, would he ever be. He stood there for a moment looking over the gray, barren landscape, watching as the winter wind whipped across the fields and bent the dead grasses and weeds. It was about a dozen years since he had dug peat for a fire on Christmas Day and discovered Grace had come up with a baked rabbit for their Christmas dinner. That seemed long ago, but he noticed that the older he got, the quicker time seemed to pass. He stood there thinking long thoughts, his face stiff with cold and his hands raw from the work that he had tried to do.

  Grace had taken care of him so well that physically he swiftly improved. She fed him good meals, saw to it that he did not do too much, and insisted that he exercised his leg regularly, keeping it from getting too stiff. Within a couple of months he moved from a crutch to a walking stick. Now he could do without that, except when he had to stand for long periods.