Honor in the Dust Page 6

  Despite the bitter cold, pride warmed his heart as he stood thinking about his wife and son. Stuart had been a help to him from the beginning, just as he was for his mother, doing anything he asked of him. He and Grace had had no more children. Although they were both young enough to have a larger family, it appeared that God had given them Stuart and then said, “No more.” This thought troubled Claiborn for some time, but he had prayed, and God had given him great peace on the subject. It was as if God said, “I have given you a good son who will be a blessing to you and to many others. Pour yourself into him, and hewill make the House of Winslow proud with his life.”

  This thought had come often to Claiborn, and he sighed heavily as he bent over to pick up another square of sod. How was this place to bring Stuart or the House of Winslow any glory at all? He pulled at the frozen sod. It tore at his fingernails, which were already bleeding. He tried to straighten up, but the mass of muddy, frozen earth that he held tenaciously clung to its birthplace and roots brought an abrupt halt. Claiborn, caught off balance, threw his weight onto his bad leg; it gave way instantly. He fell heavily to one side, and for a moment lay there panting like a dog. He knew his lungs had weakened and that they would never be what they once were. He was aware that he could never endure the hardship of a military life, and for a while this had been a grief to him, for it had been through his earnings as a soldier that he and Grace had managed to keep the farm together.

  “Well, now, this is a pretty thing.” His voice was raspy.

  As he struggled to rise, he heard the sound of footsteps on the hard earth and looked around to see Stuart running across the field, concern on his youthful face. He was verging on manhood now, this son of his. Even as he lay on the ground trying to pull himself up, the warmth of pride returned to Claiborn as he looked up at his son’s face. Stuart was wearing a doublet his mother had made for him out of old material. It was too small, and his wrists were out of it; his short breeches were made of wool and were patched. The boy’s growing like a weed. He may be as tall as my father. Surely as tall as I.

  “Father, are you all right?”

  “Yes. I just slipped and fell, son. I’m fine.”

  Stuart leaned over him. Although his face was thin and his body was lean, there was good strength in the lad. Losing the roundness of childhood, he was poised on the brink of all the things that would transform him from boy to man. “Let me help you up.”

  “Thank you.” Claiborn struggled to his feet and looked down into his son’s anxious face. “Don’t you worry, boy, I’m fine. Just slipped a little.”

  “Why don’t you go into the house and get warm? I can get the rest of the peat.”

  “Suppose we do it together. I won’t be much help but maybe can help you a tad. While we work, you can tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  Loading the cart, Stuart told his father of the fish he had caught in the river. “We’re going to have it for supper tonight.”

  “When did you go fishing?”

  “Oh, early this morning. It was still dark, and you were asleep.”

  “It was cold out on that river, wasn’t it?”

  “I pay it little heed.”

  Indeed, Stuart did not seem to be troubled by the temperature. Whether the weather was hot and others were sweating or it was freezing, and others shivered, he seemed to endure it without a qualm.

  “Maybe you will go with me some morning, Father.”

  Claiborn knew that he would not, for the river was too far for him to walk on his bad leg, but he smiled and said, “I hope so. If not, maybe we’ll try to catch us some fine plump conies.” He smiled down benevolently. “Would you like that, Son?”

  Stuart’s face glowed for a moment, and then a thought passed through his mind and he dropped his head. “I did wrong, poaching on Mr. Hyde’s land.”

  “That you did, Son, but it turned out all right.” Claiborn reached out and clasped him by the shoulder. “Mind you, I believe it’s just like stealing a man’s money when you steal his game. Poaching is bad business. But we won’t do any more of that, though, will we now?”

  “No, indeed!”

  The two continued to load the cart, with Stuart putting in two or three chunks of peat to his father’s one. As they worked, Claiborn suddenly said, “You work too hard, Son.”

  “No, sir, I don’t mind it at all.”

  “You need to have more time for the things that are fun.”

  “Oh, I go fishing and hunting, and I go to the village when there’s a festival.”

  Claiborn was conscious of failing in some way. He’s missing his childhood. He seldom gets to have fun with the other boys his age. When I was eleven I was in every kind of game and sport there was. I must find a way to help him and Grace!

  “Well, that’ll do enough for now. Let’s go in and see what your mother has for us to eat.”

  Stuart at once took the tongue of the cart and dragged the wagon free. He was strong for his age and moved it easily over the hard ground.

  Claiborn’s mind was working hard, thinking of the future. The crippling blow he had taken had thrown his dreams out of order, and he could not see how they would make it. Money was scarce, and the payment on his debt would be due very soon. And Rolf Hyde was not known for his mercy.

  Grace sat beside a flickering candle that threw dim yellow light over her needlework. She made a little money by sewing fine things for the wives of the wealthy men of the village. It was not much, but every little bit helped, and as she sat there stitching, she thought how different her life was now from the one she had had before marriage.

  In all truth, she had led an easy life as a young girl. There were no pressures on her to do anything except learn the things a young woman ought to learn. While her father was gruff and showed little affection, her mother had been a loving woman; until her death, she and Grace were inseparable. It was her mother who had taught Grace how to sew, and she remembered their cozy parlor, a roaring fire in the hearth, candles all about the room. Here it seemed there was a chill to her home the year round, and with winter closing in, it would become even more of a battle to ward off the cold.

  Now, as always, when thoughts and doubts and fears came, she called out to God in her spirit. Jesus, forgive my dour thoughts. You are the mighty Savior! Watch over us and keep us!

  It was little prayers like this that she prayed almost every hour. She could not understand those who at the end of the day when the body was tired and the mind was fatigued, could offer only a mumbled devotion, usually a memorized piece. To her, faith was a living, active, vital thing, and she had learned to send up little prayers many times a day rather than saving it all up.

  Her neighbors had learned this about her. When one of them said, “Grace, I want you to pray for my son,” they perhaps expected that she would go to church to pray, but Grace never waited. She would say, “Of course I will. Let’s pray right now for James.” And she would bow her head and often take the hand of the woman who had spoken to her. God did answer many of those prayers, but the act of spontaneously praying startled those who had asked. Yet it was a blessing to them, and she encouraged others to adopt this method of prayer.

  She heard the sound of voices and put the sewing down. Opening the door, she saw Stuart and Claiborn pulling the cart full of sod. The wind was blowing, and the temperature was dropping. “There’ll be snow soon,” she said, and even uttering the words discouraged her. Life was hard enough without trying to survive the deep piles of snow that sometimes came and locked them in their home.

  “Come on in. You’re both bound to be frozen stiff.”

  Claiborn hobbled in, using his cane, and dropped into a chair. Stuart was right behind him. He said, “Mother, can I stir the fire up?”

  “Of course, Stuart. We need to get warm.” Grace took a pitcher out of a cupboard and poured a glassful of weak ale. She gave it to Claiborn, saying, “Drink this up. I think I’ll make some hot punch out of the rest.”

  �
�That would go down well, indeed.”

  Claiborn sat while Grace fussed over him. He was exhausted from his struggle with the iron-hard earth. As he watched her busy herself, he thought that God had blessed him in a wife. He looked around and saw that the house was plain enough but Grace had made it warm and comfortable. Another thought ruined his first: Rolf Hyde will be by soon—and he’ll take this place if he can get it.

  Grace came over and sat down beside him. He said, “We must pray, Grace, that we’ll have the money to make the payment on the land.”

  Grace was always happy when Claiborn expressed his faith. He was a praying man now. She reached over, as was her custom, took his hand, and said, “We’ll pray right now. Lord,” she began, without changing her tone, “we need your help. Actually, Lord, we need a miracle. You know all things. We’re asking you to provide for us what we can’t provide for ourselves. Furnish us the money for the payment on this place. We will always remember your gracious kindness and your tender mercies in watching over us. I ask this in the name of Jesus.”

  Claiborn, as usual, took great pleasure in Grace’s simple faith. “Amen.” He turned and smiled. “God won’t fail us. Nothing is impossible with him.”

  “That’s true,” Grace smiled too. “He can furnish a table in the wilderness.”

  As soon as Claiborn opened the door and saw Rolf Hyde standing there, a cold hand seemed to close around his heart. It was a disagreeable thing to feel fear, and he knew from reading his Latin Bible that the spirit of fear did not come from God. In battle he had known little fear and seemed to have courage that others lacked. But now, injured, with his family’s welfare in the balance and Rolf Hyde standing at his door, he knew fear at its worst.

  “Will you come in, Mr. Hyde?” he managed to ask.

  “No, I’ll not do that. I simply came by to remind you, Mr. Winslow, that the payment on the land is due in two days.”

  “I’m very much aware of that, sir.”

  “I don’t want to be hard, but the payment must be made. You understand?”

  “More than you can imagine.” Claiborn paused and said, “I doubt you’d consider an extension, seeing that—”

  “Indeed not! This is a matter of business. Nothing personal, but I must have my money or I will have to take legal action.”

  “You would put us out in the middle of a bitter winter?”

  Hyde did not smile. His eyes narrowed, as if he was homing in on his prey. “As I say, it’s a matter of business. Nothing personal. I’ll be waiting. Unless you’d care to make the payment now.”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “You don’t have it, do you?”

  There was such triumph in Hyde’s voice that hatred rose in Claiborn’s heart. As a Christian he knew he was supposed to love his enemies, but if he had trouble doing that with any man, it was with Rolf Hyde! Claiborn had never forgotten that Hyde had called his wife a vile name in public, and though he had withdrawn it, Claiborn knew it was because he was afraid of his sword. He was not afraid now, for he had the upper hand. “I’ll bid you good day, Mr. Hyde.”

  “Day after tomorrow. Not an hour after sundown.”

  Standing at the closed door, Claiborn knew there was a duel going on in his heart. One part of him wanted to believe that God would answer the prayers that he and Grace had uttered, asking for help to pay for the land—but part of him doubted.

  That night after supper as the three of them sat around the table, he read to them out of the Bible.

  Grace loved this. “I’m so glad your father made you learn Latin.”

  “I hated it. My master had to beat it into me with a cane.”

  “I believe you’re the only man in the village aside from the priest who has a Bible.”

  “Why don’t we have a Bible in English, Father?” Stuart was sitting with his hands clasped before him. His eyes had that inquisitive look that his parents had often seen. He was an imaginative boy full of questions and always interested in learning.

  “Well, the leaders of the church feel that only the priests are able to interpret the Scripture.”

  “But that’s not so!” Stuart protested. “I can understand it. It’s easy when you read it to me and explain it.”

  “Perhaps I ought to go into the church’s employ as interpreter.” Claiborn smiled, for he knew nothing was further from his mind. The tragedy was that many priests could not read Latin, even if they had access to a Bible. Claiborn shook his head and said, “Someday there will be a Bible in English, but it will be over the protest of the church in Rome.”

  “What if we don’t get the money?” Stuart asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  “God will help us,” Grace said. She reached over and patted Stuart’s hand and then held it. “We have to believe God.”

  “That’s right. You remember the verse I’ve read to you several times. ‘Without faith it is impossible to please God.’ When you come to God you have to believe that he exists and that he’s going to provide the help that we need. That’s what we’re hanging on to, Stuart.”

  It was one thing, Claiborn had learned, to speak words of faith, but another to face harsh realities in a world that seemed to be filled with such things. He had been full of assurance when Stuart had asked his question, but when he’d gone to bed, doubts came trooping in like armed men, and he found his faith challenged. It took all of his spiritual strength to cling to what he believed was truth.

  The day before the payment was due, there was still no money. No one in the Winslow household mentioned the deepest fear or the struggle with doubt. Each of them cried out to God. Claiborn spoke to God throughout the day and knew Grace did the same. It was harder to read Stuart, for he did not share everything. He had a depth, this boy who had had to grow up before his time. Claiborn often found it difficult to gauge Stuart’s spiritual life. He was fascinated by the Bible stories that Claiborn read to him, but who could really know what went on in the heart of an eleven-year-old.

  There was little work to do now. They had plenty of sod, and the cow had been milked. They had had an early afternoon meal, and afterward they sat around not mentioning the danger that they faced on the morrow.

  Suddenly Stuart lifted his head. “Somebody’s coming.”

  “You have the hearing of a horned owl, boy! I don’t hear a thing.”

  “I think I can,” Grace said. “Though I can’t imagine who could be out in this kind of weather.”

  Indeed, it was bitter outside. The house itself was scarcely bearable, even with the peat burning at an alarming rate.

  “He’s stopping outside.”

  Claiborn heard hooves ringing on the iron earth. He hobbled across the room and opened the door before there was a knock. A man stood there. Claiborn did not recognize him. “Good day, sir.”

  “Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “My name is Oliver Butler. You might have heard of me.”

  “I—I think I have, but I can’t sort the memories out. Come in, Mr. Butler. You must be frozen.”

  Butler stepped inside. He was wearing a long, thick wrap lined with fur and a fur cap that covered his ears. His nose was red with the cold, but he seemed hale and hearty for an older man. His hair was silver, and the lines in his face spoke of years of life.

  “I take it this is your good wife and son.”

  “Yes, sir. This is my wife, Grace, and this is my son, Stuart.” Uncertain, Claiborn finally said, “Sit down, sir. My wife has been brewing a drink out of a root. She’s the only one who knows how to make it, and you might take a liking to it.”

  “Something hot would be good.” Butler sat down and smiled at Stuart. “How are you this morning, young Winslow?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “You’ll never have to wonder what your father looked like. Just look in a mirror or in still water and you’ll see his face.”

  “Most of my family are like that,” Claiborn said, picking up the idle conversation. “Th
ere’s always a family resemblance in Winslow men.”

  “Well do I know that. I knew your grandfather, you know, and your great-grandfather too.”

  Instantly a memory came back. “I remember you now!” Claiborn exclaimed. “I met you when I was a small boy.”

  “Ah, you remember that, do you? It was Christmas, if I remember, and I gave you a fine knife.”

  “I do indeed remember that.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose you kept the knife.”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry to say it wore out years ago, but I kept it for a long time.”

  “Try this, Claiborn. See if it’s to your liking.” He handed Claiborn a knife from his belt.

  Grace set down a cup of the root tea she had brewed. Butler picked up the cup, sipped it cautiously, then nodded and smiled. “This is very good.”

  Butler seemed to be studying Claiborn in an intense way. “You’re wondering why I’m here in the middle of this bad weather. Well, I came at the command of an old friend of mine.”

  “Indeed, for what purpose?”

  “To bring you something. Two things really. One is the good word from a lady named Leah Winslow.”

  “My mother! You are in contact with her, sir?”

  “As much as possible. As a matter of fact”—a smile suddenly turned the weathered lips up at the corners, and his eyes seemed to sparkle—“I did my very best to persuade her to marry me instead of that rascal of a father of yours.”

  “You courted my mother?”

  “With everything in me,” Butler said. The memory seemed to please him, and he turned his head to one side. “If I’d had my way, you’d be a Butler instead of a Winslow. I would have liked that very much indeed.”

  “My mother sent you, then?”

  “Yes, she did.”