The Gentle Rebel (10 page)

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!”

They had reached the door, and once inside Nathan felt intimidated by the rich trappings: the massive altar in the fashion of Catholic churches, the silver and gold of the cups that reflected the glittering chandeliers overhead, and the rich walnut panels and pews carved by a master.

Not much like our plain little church back home.
He followed the family down the aisle, noticing that the scarlet coats of British officers were liberally scattered throughout the congregation. He smiled at Major Pitcairn, sitting with General Gage and Colonel Smith, and then found what he was seeking: Abigail sitting with her parents in a pew close to the front. She turned and caught his eye, and the smile that came to her lips made him miss a step—until he felt Paul beside him, and then was uncertain as to which of them she was smiling at.
Keeping us both running at her heels,
he thought, then sat down and took it all in.

The service was, indeed, strange to him. A trained choir hidden from view in a loft did most of the singing, and much of the service involved a ritual that called for the worshipers to respond, sometimes in Latin, and there was much standing and some kneeling on special pads. But the preaching was what he had come for, and he forgot the exotic surroundings when Rev. Lockyear mounted the pulpit, much in the manner of the captain of a ship of the line taking charge. He was a massive man, well over six feet, with a full face that reeked of authority. His voice was as big as the rest of him, and for the next hour the congregation was informed on the near-divinity of King George the Third, and how that the most powerful
evidence of total depravity lay in the traitorous behavior of those who challenged any law of the British Parliament.

After thirty minutes of this, Nathan began to feel that he had been hit on the head once too often with a single idea, but looking around he saw that the congregation was drinking it all in. General Gage was leaning forward, his face intent, but Pitcairn was less intent. He caught Nathan’s glance, gave a careful wink and a shrug, as if to say,
He does go on a bit, doesn’t he now?

Finally it was over, and Nathan outmaneuvered Paul neatly. He managed to place himself by Abigail, shook hands warmly with her parents, then drew her off to one side as soon as they were outside. “You’ve not forgotten about tomorrow night?” She had agreed to attend a lecture with him, a boring affair, but one which he felt safe inviting her to.

“I’ve thought of nothing else, Nathan.” Her words were sweet to his ears, but he thought there was a mocking light in her eyes. She kept him off guard constantly, for she had more experience in courtship than he. She saw his face redden, and put her hand on his arm, saying softly, “I really have, Nathan. Oh, I don’t care about the lecture, but it’ll be good to have some time with you.”

Warmth flooded him, and he opened his mouth to answer, but it was too late. The crowd came flooding out of the church, and Nathan was caught up with the small entourage that surrounded the general. Gage spotted him, nodded vigorously and said, “Well, now, Mr. Winslow, that was a most inspiring address by Rev. Lockyear, was it not?”

“Very powerful, General,” Nathan answered dutifully.

Colonel Smith edged slightly between Nathan and Gage, as if the general were his personal property, not to be approached by a mere civilian. His small eyes narrowed, and there was a malevolent expression on his round face. “Not strong enough—not by half!”

“Why, Colonel, the Reverend practically delivered the rebels into hell—what more could you ask?” Pitcairn’s handsome
face was bland, but there was a glint of humor in his blue eyes. Nathan had noticed that he had no respect for Smith and lost no opportunity to poke fun at the man.

Smith’s face grew crimson and his voice rose in real anger. “Ought to hang the lot of them!”

“Take a good deal of rope,” Pitcairn answered mildly.

“Let me get them in front of a troop of British soldiers with loaded muskets, and I’d show you what I’d do!”

“Now, now, Colonel,” Gage said with a shake of his head, “we must hope it doesn’t come to that.”

He went on speaking, but Pitcairn caught Nathan’s eye, and giving a motion of his head, left the group. Nathan did not want to leave Abigail, but felt impressed to go. The officer made his way to a vacant spot, then said quietly, “There’s a meeting of the Sons of Liberty tonight, at the place where I showed you.”

“Thanks, Major,” Nathan said. “Are you sure?”

“My informant has been accurate so far.”

“I’ll try to keep Caleb away.” He paused, then asked, “You don’t think Colonel Smith meant what he said, do you?”

“About shooting the rebels? I think it’s possible. Most of us would have more sense, but there are enough like Smith to set the thing off, Nathan.” He hesitated, then reached up and put a friendly hand on his shoulder, saying quietly, “You’re putting yourself in a very bad place, I fear. You’re being pulled in two directions, aren’t you? Your family is one thing, and yet you’ve made some good friends—like me, I trust—on the other side. I hope it won’t ever come to the point where you have to choose one way or the other.”

Nathan looked down into the eyes of the officer and saw the honesty and simple honor written there. “I—I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Major!”

“Nor I you—but I’m about in the same boat as you, Nathan. I’ve learned to respect Americans, most of them, and yet I’m a commissioned officer in the King’s army, and I must obey orders.”

“It’ll work out, John.” Nathan spoke with the optimism of a young man who had never seen his dreams turn to dust. He did not see the sudden compassion in his friend’s eyes, for he had turned to go with Charles who was hailing him to the carriage.

Pitcairn turned to his friends, but there was a sadness on his face as he thought about the tall American who had come to mean so much to him.

Moses Tyler was fully satisfied with Caleb’s reaction. He had taken his new friend to a simple Congregational church, then out to an inn for a good lunch, and now they were about to start a Sons of Liberty meeting.

Moses was a thin pock-marked boy of fifteen with faded blue eyes, but a strong chin and firm mouth. The eyes glinted out of an angular face, and his whitish hair was so long he brushed it away from his face with a habitual gesture.

He’d had a hard life, so there was an adult quality in him despite his slight form and youthful features. Born out of wedlock, he’d grown up as a bound boy—more a slave than a servant—and had never had a friend, at least not until Caleb Winslow had come to town. Moses was bound to Charles Winslow for another two years, and did the menial work at the company warehouse. He lived in a small room over a shop, and his only pleasures in life were found in his church activities and in the meetings with the Sons of Liberty. He’d been hired by one of the leaders to clean the place they used for a hall, and he’d stayed to listen at the meeting. Nobody paid him any heed, but he’d come back every time the society met, cleaning the place and being of general help, until finally Sam Adams had noticed him. “Boy—you are a patriot?” he asked directly.

“Yes, sir—that is, I wants to be.”

“Then you shall be!” Adams had quickly found out that Moses had no family and plenty of free time, so he’d used the boy for chores and let him attend the less important meetings.
Moses had never dared to say a word at any of these meetings; indeed, most of the time he had not the faintest notion what they were talking about, but once he said shyly to Adams after the fiery leader had addressed the group, “I liked what you said—about men being free, Mr. Adams.”

“Did you now?” Adams was a stern man, slovenly in his personal habits and not given to light talk. He had a harsh way about him that kept most people at a distance, but there was a friendly light in his brown eyes as he looked at the boy. He put a hand on the thin shoulder, a most uncharacteristic gesture for him—and the first time any man had ever done such a thing to Moses. His shoulder seemed to burn under the weight of the hand; then Adams had nodded and said quietly, “When the trouble comes, Moses, it’ll be boys like you, not old men like me, who’ll have to make it work. Old men can make speeches, but it’ll be you who’ll have to look down a musket at a British soldier. And I think you’ll be up to it!”

From that time on, Adams had always noticed the boy in small ways, and once had encouraged him to keep his eye out for any young fellow who might make a good Son of Liberty.

Looking around the crowded room, Moses leaned over and whispered “That’s him, Caleb, that’s Mr. Adams! And that’s Mr. Revere with him.”

“The silversmith? I’ve heard of him. Who’s that coming in?”

“That’s Dr. Warren. He’s a real big shot in Boston.”

Adams had turned from his talk with Revere, and seeing the two, came over and said, “Brought a guest, did you, Moses?”

Moses beamed, proud to be noticed. “Yes, sir! This is my friend Caleb Winslow.”

Adams gave Caleb a straight look, then asked directly, “You’re interested in our group, Mr. Winslow?”

“Well, I don’t live in Boston, Mr. Adams, but I sure would be if I lived here.”

“Where’s your home?”

“I come from Virginia.”

Revere had come up to listen. He was a full-faced man, with a heavy lower lip and sharp black eyes. “Virginia? Well, welcome to Boston!” He shook Caleb’s hand and asked idly, “Don’t suppose you know Colonel Washington?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, my father knows him pretty well.” Caleb tried to keep his tone casual as he said, “My father was a scout with him and Braddock.”

“Indeed!” Revere said, and he exchanged a quick glance with Adams, who looked more closely at Caleb. “Your name is Winslow? Any relation to Charles Winslow?”

“My uncle, sir.” Caleb saw a dark look cross the faces of both men, and added hastily, “My father is his half brother—but they don’t agree on politics.”

“I see.” Revere was rubbing his chin, a thought nibbling at him. Then he looked up with a smile and said, “Why, I’ve got it now! It was a few years ago, but I met your father—and your grandfather, as well.”

“Really, sir?”

“Yes, I remember it now quite well. Your grandfather had come to Franklin to get a book printed, and I was in the shop. Matter of fact, I did the engraving for the frontispiece. It was quite a book—” He turned to Adams and said, “Here’s a
real
American for us, Sam! This boy is a descendant of Gilbert Winslow from the
Mayflower.
You must have read that book of his; it was a bestseller for Franklin.”

Adams stared at Caleb. “I am impressed, very much so.”

“Wait now!” Revere said, and again struggled to remember; then it came. “Isn’t your father a metal worker like myself?”

“He’s a fine gunsmith, Mr. Revere.”

“Ah, now, that’s what I’d like to hear!” Adams’ face was alive with interest, and he began to throw questions rapidly. In ten minutes Adams had his life history, the fact that he himself was a good gunsmith and that his family was strong for the cause. Finally he looked around and said, “Well, we must have more of your time, Mr. Winslow. I think you have a place in the Sons of Liberty.”

“Why, that’s kind of you, Mr. Adams,” Caleb said. His heart was beating fast, and he was lightheaded.
Me—a friend of Sam Adams and Paul Revere! Just wait until I tell Father about this! He’ll let me stay in Boston, I’ll bet!

The meeting began soon, but Caleb heard little of it. He was too engrossed with the personalities to listen to ideas. One thing he knew—for the first time in his life, he felt more like a man than a boy! “It’s just great, Moses!” he said as the last speaker, Dr. Warren, ended and they all stood up. “I want to join with you.”

“Let’s go tell Mr. Adams.”

They started toward the front, but at that instant there was a loud knock at the door. Revere was closest, and he moved to open it; there was caution in his face, and Adams said quietly, “Remember, we’re just a group meeting to study history!” A small laugh sounded, but Adams frowned and they took their cue. “Open the door, Mr. Revere.”

Caleb was never so surprised in his life, for there in the open door stood his brother Nathan!

“I’m looking for Caleb Winslow,” Nathan said loudly, looking like a giant in the doorway, drawn up to his full height. There was a hard look on his face, and he suddenly met Caleb’s eyes. “I see he’s here.”