The Gentle Rebel Page 7

  Ought to be doing something! he thought, but it’s Saturday night. For an instant he stood there in the cold silence, irresolute, still winded from his run through the storm.

  Then he did something that was not customary, an involuntary reaction, something that just welled up in him. “God, don’t let this lad die!” he prayed—then he blinked, surprised at what he’d done. Most of his praying was public, a form of rhetoric that he’d mastered by listening to others pray. Solitary prayer he’d given up on years before, for although he knew some—such as his mother—who spent much time praying, his own prayer life was a matter of form.

  Then it came again, involuntarily: “Oh, God! I didn’t bring him here to die! Let him live! Please—let him live!”

  Again he was shocked at the emotion that drove his prayer, and at that instant he saw a flicker of an eyelid on the still pale face, and at the same time a moan passed through the lips turned blue by the cold.

  “He’s alive! Thank you, God!” Nathan rejoiced, and the pressure of fear lifted. He whirled and quickly built a small fire in the fireplace, set a kettle of water over it, then carefully added larger pieces to the fire until it crackled and began to drive the bitter cold out of his hands.

  A small sound came from behind him; he turned from the fire to see the lad’s arms moving, and he leaped to the cot. “All right, now, don’t be afraid—you’re all right!”

  A pair of eyes, black as pools, suddenly peered up at him, and the blue lips moved painfully. “What—what—?”

  “Don’t try to talk, lad,” Nathan said quickly. He stripped off the dirty blanket so thin it was no protection at all, and whipped off his own thick wool coat. Wrapping it around the boy, he noted the thin arms and hollow eyes. Half starved, he thought, then said, “I don’t know much about taking care of frozen people, lad. Not much snow down in Virginia.” He smiled as the huge almond-shaped eyes stared at him owlishly, then added, “I heard somewhere that you’re supposed to rub snow on people who are just about frozen, so maybe—?”

  He got up to go get some snow, but the dark eyes widened, and a thin hand clutched the coat closer. “No! I—I’ll be all right.”

  The voice was weak, but color was coming into the thin cheeks, so Nathan said, “Well, guess we’ll just let you thaw out, lad. Maybe pretty soon you can have a sip of tea—that sound all right?” He saw one quick nod, then the eyes closed, but he saw that the thin body was beginning to shake as feeling came back. “I’ll see if I can find a doctor.”

  He got up, but to his surprise a hand flashed out and grabbed his sleeve, and there was fear in the dark eyes. “No—please—don’t leave me!”

  He hesitated, then said, “Well, I won’t leave until we see how you do.” The eyes closed, and the hand fell, as if that one effort had drained all strength from the cold flesh.

  There was little he could do, then, but keep the fire going. He knew enough not to build up a roaring blaze, but slowly allowed the tiny fire to bring the temperature of the room above freezing. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, and several times he got up and went to lean over the cot.

  He saw a thin face with a set of thick, arching brows black as a crow’s wing, the same color as the hair that looked as if it had been crookedly hacked with a blunt knife. He took in the straight nose, the square face and the firm chin, and thought, A good-looking boy, but just about played out. If I hadn’t stumbled over him, he’d have been gone by morning.

  The kettle began singing, and once again the eyes opened. “How about if you try to sit up and have a swallow of tea?” He put his arm around the boy, helped him to sit up, then said, “Might be good to get rid of this coat now—” He paused and asked, “What’s your name, lad?”

  There was a brief silence; then the boy slowly licked his cracked lips and said in a feeble voice, “Laddie. Laddie—Smith.”

  Nathan did not miss the hesitation over the last name, but he ignored it, saying, “Let’s have the coat, and you try to get down a mite of this tea. I’m Nathan Winslow.”

  Laddie nodded, slipped out of the coat, and reached a thin hand for the huge cup that Nathan had found. The odor of the tea was rich in the cold room, and he had to use both hands to hold the cup, but when he began to drink, it was not in tiny sips, but in long swallows that made the thin throat contract.

  “Hey, you’ll founder yourself, Laddie!” Nathan reached out and pulled the cup back, then stared into the black eyes over it. “I found some biscuits and a bit of cheese. Why don’t you come over to the desk and have just a little?”

  The hunger in the dark eyes flared up, and at once he swung his legs from the cot and stood up—only to sway like a sapling in the wind.

  “Easy, now!” Nathan put his arm around the thin shoulders and, guiding him to the chair, eased him down carefully, then put one biscuit and a thin slice of cheese on the top of the desk. “Eat that—real slow,” he said, and sat down to watch. The boy wanted to thrust the whole morsel in his mouth, but with a struggle, took a tiny bite and sat there chewing it slowly, then washed it down with a swallow of scalding tea.

  As Laddie ate, Nathan talked easily, telling how it was that he’d stumbled across what he thought was a sack of clothes. Then as the boy’s eyes brightened with the food and tea, Nathan began trying to find out something about the waif. He saw at once, however, that it was not going to be easy, for his probing built an instant wall, and the dark eyes seemed to say “No Trespassing!”

  Finally he got up to say, “Well, Laddie, I think I ought to roust a doctor out of his warm bed to have a look at you—and a good one, too!” He looked critically at the thin wrists and the hollow eyes and added, “We better have him strip you to the buff and be sure everything’s—”

  “No! I’m fine, Mr. Winslow!” Laddie lowered the cup so abruptly that some of the scalding liquid fell on his lap, but he did not seem to notice. “I don’t want a doctor! Please, just let me stay until morning and I’ll be able to take care of myself. I won’t be a bother to you!”

  There was fear in the dark eyes, but pride as well, and Nathan stood there perplexed. The lad was on the verge of starvation! Finally he said with a shrug, “Laddie, that storm out there is mighty likely to get worse, not better. You go back outside and you’ll freeze.” He hesitated, then asked, “You got any family? Anybody I can write to?”

  “No. I got no folks.”

  The barren look in the dark eyes raked against Nathan’s nerves, and he wondered if he’d have the nerve to make out as well as this youngster. His life had been easy; he’d never been hungry in his life, and suddenly he knew that he had to do something. The prayer he’d prayed came back to him, and he thought, Well, if God’s done His part, I’ve got to do mine!

  He looked down and asked quietly, “You need a place to stay, Laddie?”

  The thin shoulders squared, and the full lower lip trembled ever so slightly, but the answer was clear: “I need a job, Mr. Winslow. I’ll do any kind of work at all.”

  Nathan looked at the thin arms and said, “Well, guess you won’t be loading bales of cotton right away, but I’m wondering if you can write and do sums?”

  “Yes, sir!” Hope softened the youth’s face, and he swallowed and added, “I’m very good with books.”

  “Why, that’s good, because we need someone around here to help with that.” Which will come as a surprise to Uncle Charles! he thought with a flash of humor. But he had worked with his uncle at the business for two weeks, and knew that there would be plenty for a clerk to do. Laurence Strake, the manager of the business, had even said something to that effect, hadn’t he? “Got to have a little help with the books, Mr. Winslow.”

  “I—I’ll work hard!”

  “Sure, Laddie, but there’s no hurry. We got to get some meat on your bones. Say, how old are you—twelve or thirteen?”

  “At least.” There was a glint in his eyes as he answered; then he smiled for the first time, and Nathan marveled at the even whiteness of perfect teeth. “Actuall
y, I’m fifteen, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Pretty young to be alone, Laddie,” Nathan said, and he laid his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. It surprised him when the boy drew back instantly, and he thought, Someone’s been mistreating him! He stepped back and stroked his chin, saying, “Let’s see, I’m staying with my Uncle Charles, and in that big old house of his there’s got to be a place for one small clerk.”

  “Couldn’t I just stay here? I could fix up something.”

  “No, no, that won’t do,” he shook his head. “Well, we’ll stay here tonight; then I’ll talk to Uncle Charles Monday. Maybe we could find a little room close by the business.”

  “I’ll take anything, Mr. Winslow.” Then Laddie stood up and went over to stand by the fire. As the frail figure looked down into the leaping flames, Nathan took in the ragged shirt, dirty, and so torn that he could see the heavy cotton undergarment beneath. He looked at the ancient trousers, so old and worn that they had no color left, and he smiled at how Laddie had to keep them up by a piece of string. The shoes, he saw, were far too large, and one of the soles flapped loosely as the boy moved.

  “Tell you what, Laddie, I’ll find some blankets somewhere, and we’ll stay here until morning.” His face lighted up and he added, “First thing, we get us a big hot breakfast; next we find you a room to rest up in for a day or so—then we hit my uncle up for a job. That sound good?”

  The small figure did not move at first, then he turned and faced Nathan, dark eyes glittering with tears. It was a struggle to speak, but finally Nathan caught the words that came so softly he had to lean down to hear them.

  “You—you saved my life, Mr. Winslow.” The lower lip trembled, but the soft voice went on. “I heard a story once about people in some far-off place—I think it was maybe India. It said that when somebody saved a person’s life—why, that person was supposed to serve the one that saved them as long as they live.”

  The fire crackled and spat in the silence that followed, and Nathan said, “Well, Laddie, this isn’t India—so you don’t have to serve me all your life.”

  He smiled at the earnest face, trying to make a joke out of it, but the boy said quietly and directly, looking right into Nathan’s eyes, “I’ll always want to serve and honor you, Mr. Winslow—as long as I live!”

  It embarrassed Nathan, so he laughed; then a thought came to him, and he spoke before he thought: “I forgot all about Caleb and the Sons of Liberty!” Then he went to get the blankets, and Laddie stood there staring at the door he passed through. A thought came, bringing a strange smile—but whatever it was, there was no mention of it to Nathan when he returned with the blankets.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SONS OF LIBERTY

  As soon as a weak gray light came through the small window, Nathan painfully rolled out of his blankets and got to his feet. He had slept fitfully, not being able to get Caleb out of his mind, and the hard floor in the cold room had stiffened his muscles. He had banked the fire, so the water in the basin had a skim of ice on it.

  “Laddie?” He walked over to the mound of blankets on the cot and gave one of the protrusions a slap. Instantly there was a muffled cry, and he laughed when the boy’s head appeared from the opposite end, eyes startled with fear. “Couldn’t tell that was your rump, but guess it’s not the first swat you ever got on your backside, is it?”

  Laddie stared at him, and finally gave a tiny nod, saying, “No, it’s not.”

  “Well, pile out of there.” He picked up Laddie’s thin coat and considered it. “This won’t do. You better wear mine.”

  Laddie got up and stood there unsteadily, then with a shake of his head reached for the ragged garment. “No, yours would be way too long. I’ll make out.”

  “Well—we’ll try it. There’s an inn just down the street. Think you can walk, or you want me to carry you?”

  “I can walk—but can we go by where you found me? I’ve got a sack with my things in it.”

  “It’s on the way.” He led the boy outside, locked the door, then put his hand on the thin arm, moving slowly down the empty street. They had not gone over a hundred yards before he felt the boy weaving. “Here, you can’t make it like this, Laddie.” He swept the small figure up into his arms and picked up his pace.

  Once he glanced down and saw that the thin face was red with embarrassment, he gave a short laugh, saying, “Aw, Laddie, don’t be so touchy. You’re weak, that’s all—you don’t weigh no more than a bird! Why I’ve packed deer out of the woods for ten miles that weigh twice what you do!”

  “I—don’t want anyone to see me!”

  “Well, they won’t. In a couple of hours there’ll be lots of folks going to church, but it’s too early now—anyway, what if they do see?” Nathan had his left arm under the boy’s legs, and with his right hand supported his side, and he gave him a quick grin. “I can feel every rib you got, Laddie—but we’ll get you fat and pretty as a suckling pig before long!”

  There was no answer, and he saw that the youth had buried his red face against his coat, and felt the thin form tremble both with cold and shame. He shrugged, then walked quickly to the spot where he’d found Laddie, knocked the snow from a mound, and swept up a small, lumpy cotton sack. “Got it! Now, let’s get out of this weather.”

  The Blue Boar was one of the lesser inns of the harbor, a tiny place squeezed between a large tobacco warehouse and a ship repair yard. Laurence Strake, Charles’s manager, had taken Nathan there for a meal or two. It was run by James Nelson, a former foretopman in the Royal Navy, before he had turned to innkeeping.

  Nathan set Laddie up right, then banged on the door loudly, calling out, “Nelson! Nelson! Open up!”

  A window overhead popped open, and a man’s red face appeared, “Wot’s this?”

  “Can you fix us up with a room, Nelson—and some breakfast?”

  The burly innkeeper scratched his bald spot, then nodded and said, “We got a place—be right down.”

  An hour later they were pushing away from the table, having filled up on a kidney pie, hot bread and butter with dollops of jam, and a rasher of bacon, all washed down by draughts of strong, hot India tea. Laddie had begun by eating ravenously, but soon had enough. “Stomach’s shrunk, I expect,” Nathan said. “Better eat lots of little meals, rather than stuffing yourself.”

  “I think so—but it was so good!” The food had brought color to Laddie’s cheeks, and his eyes were much brighter.

  Nathan got up and led the way up the crooked, narrow stairs to the room he’d arranged for. He pushed the door open, and Laddie followed him inside. “It’s not much, but it won’t be for long.”

  It was a small room, not over ten feet square, and most of that was filled by a massive bed with ropes supporting the shuck ticking. A small pine table with a cracked basin and a pewter pitcher completed the furnishings—but it was warm, for the heat from downstairs moved into it. “Have to keep your door open to keep warm,” Nathan said.

  “It’s—nice.” He looked at Laddie quickly and saw that the worn face was pale and beads of perspiration covered the smooth forehead.

  “Maybe you ate a little too much,” he frowned. “Look, you need to get cleaned up and into bed, Laddie. Why don’t I get you out of those old clothes, give you a good wash? You must have something to sleep in, in here!”

  He started to empty the bag on the bed, but was surprised when he heard, “Oh no, Mr. Winslow, you—you don’t have to do that!”

  “Why, it’s no bother, lad! You’d do the same for me, I take it?”

  Laddie looked at him strangely, then reached out and took the sack from him. “Please, I’m all right, really I am. I’ll wash up and get into bed like you say.”

  He stared at the boy, then shrugged, “Well, be sure you do. I’ve got to get going. I’ll tell Nelson’s wife to feed you lots of broth and soup.” He cocked his head, looked down with a frown. “I’ll be gone all day and all night. But I’ll be back first thing Monday morning, and you ought to feel
a lot stronger by then.”

  “Yes, sir, and—thank you again!” Hesitantly, Laddie extended a hand. When Nathan’s big paw closed around it, he was very careful not to press hard—it was such a fragile hand—and withdrew it quickly. “God bless you, Mr. Winslow.”

  Nathan was always embarrassed by gratitude of any form, and the look in the lad’s dark eyes made him grunt, “Oh, nonsense!” Then he turned and left quickly. He paused only long enough to say, “Nelson, the boy’s not well, so keep an eye out for him, will you?”

  “Aye, sir, I’ll do that—have me ol’ woman make a spot o’ fresh chicken broth fer the lad, I will.” He rolled his eyes upward and shrugged a set of massive shoulders. “He ain’t wot yer’d call a hearty lad, is he, now?”

  “I’ll make it worth your while, Nelson,” Nathan said, then hurried out of the inn and looked around for a carriage. There were none stirring so early, but he managed to catch a ride with a farmer going his way. He washed, dressed in his best clothes and got downstairs just in time to have a quick breakfast with the family.

  “You may be a little critical of Rev. Lockyear, Nathan,” Charles said later as they got out of the carriage in front of a massive old church on the south side of town. “You’re more in the line of Jonathan Edwards—the old school.”

  “I’ve heard that Rev. Lockyear is pretty high church,” Nathan said.

  “Oh, as to that, any Anglican minister would seem rather popish to you.” He chuckled and lowered his voice so that the women who’d gone ahead couldn’t hear, adding, “Your father went to school with Edwards and was converted under Whitefield, so you’ve pretty well grown up with a hell-fire and damnation sort of preaching. But it’s different with the Church of England.”

  “They don’t believe in hell?”

  “Hell’s not dignified enough for most of ’em.” Charles laughed at the thought, then sobered. “You won’t get much theology today, I’m afraid. Lockyear spends most of his pulpit time preaching the gospel of reconciliation—not man to God, but Whigs to Tories. If he did believe in a hell, he’d populate it with the likes of Sam Adams and his Sons of Liberty!”