The Saintly Buccaneer
Read The Saintly Buccaneer Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 1988 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7056-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Danielle White
To my special granddaughter—Laura Michelle Smith
All children are “special,” of course, and all grandchildren are
extra
special—because all of them come from God; they are the fruit of the womb—the reward of the Lord. No two have the same laugh, the same fingerprints, and each of them forges a special golden chain to bind himself to the heart of a parent or a grandparent.
You are “special,” Laura, because you have “special” parents. If it were not for their faith, you would not be alive on this earth! Stacy—my “special” daughter, the handmaiden of the Lord—and the light of her father’s eyes! Ronnie, my “special” son-in-law who walked by faith!
You are “special,” my Laura, because God has used you to increase the faith of others.
You are “special” because although God has not yet made you complete, He has given His promise that what He has begun he will complete.
And you are “special” because you exactly fill that space in my heart that no other child or grandchild could fill. Without you, I would be incomplete.
CONTENTS
5. Christmas Comes to Valley Forge
9. I’d Let the Devil Himself Man the Guns!
CHAPTER ONE
VISITOR AT CAMP
The bitter cold probed with icy fingers beneath Charity’s thick fur coat, and it took an effort of will for her to ignore its grip. Her face had been stiffened by the bite of the frigid December wind, and despite the thick woolen gloves, she could not feel the reins that guided her rangy bay.
“Come on, Pompey!” she called out as the horse stopped suddenly. She was surprised at how weak her voice sounded, and her lips were stiff as wood as she spoke. Pulling the whip from the socket, she gave the tired animal a cut; and as he broke into a trot, she muttered, “Better find that camp pretty soon—else I’ll be froze solid!”
The small black buggy careened along the frozen ruts, but in less than twenty minutes it crested a long hill, and there between a sweep of frozen meadowland on one side and a thick forest on the other, Charity saw with relief the campfires blossoming in the quick-falling darkness. An elderly woman with a wrinkled face but the body of a young girl had told her four hours earlier: “Ye’ll find them soldiers at Valley Forge.” Pointing toward the hills she had added, “Over there’s the Schuylkill—ain’t but a leetle ways to whur they is—was a forge thar once—but ain’t nothin’ there now—’cept Washington and them soldier fellers.”
The horse sensed the end of the long journey and picked up his pace, so that she had to hold him back as she drew even with the first fires. Her first clear look at the men who stood around the feeble blaze brought a shock. She had pictured
in her mind rows of sturdy tents with men dressed in neat uniforms; what she saw was a group of scarecrows! Their faces were blue with the cold, and their eyes looked enormous as they stared at her. And the clothing! Not a good coat or a pair of boots among the lot. Parts of the body showed through huge rents—one man even exposed a portion of bare, blue buttocks where the pants had worn away! Most of them looked deformed, elephantine, with their feet wrapped in blankets.
She saw them stare at her. Then several of them started toward her, their voices thin on the cold air. “Hup! Pompey!” she commanded quickly, and as she sped down between the ragged tents and flimsy huts, she heard their raucous, obscene cries fade behind her. She was not a girl given to idle fears, but there was a wolfish hunger in their faces.
Now the dusk was closing in and she grew a little desperate, searching for an officer. The huts grew closer together, and somewhere somebody was singing:
“Yankee Doodle went to London,
Riding on a pony—”
The space narrowed, forcing her to guide the horse between two rows of shacks that seemed to rise out of the ground, specter-like. Suddenly there was a shrill cry, and she caught a startled glimpse of a figure that darted from the shadows, rising up to grab Pompey’s harness and pull him to an abrupt halt.
“Get out of my way!” she cried out, but even as she snatched the whip from its socket to slash at the man, she felt a pair of hands grab her and drag her off the buggy seat.
“Well, now! Whut we got here?”
Charity found herself in the grip of a huge man with yellowish teeth. He was grinning down at her, and his rank odor almost paralyzed her. He kept an iron grip on one arm and ran his free hand over her body, laughing in a shrill manner. “Looky here whut we done got us for a Chrismus gif’, Sam!”
“Ain’t that a fact, now?” Another man thrust his face close
to hers, a thick-bodied man with a huge bulbous nose and small gleaming eyes.
“Let me go!” Charity tried to pull herself free, but the first man merely laughed at her struggles.
“You can take the wench first, Charlie,” the one called Sam grinned. He nodded at Pompey, saying, “I’ll cut us some steaks out of that there horse. Blast my eyes, but we’ll have us steaks and a woman tonight—but keep her still so’s them other fellers won’t know ’bout it!”
Terror ran like fire through Charity, and she opened her mouth to scream, but the tall man named Charlie promptly clapped his dirty paw over her face and said, while dragging her to the shack to his left, “You take that beast and dress him out, Sam. Time you get back, you’ll ’preciate a pretty leetle thing like this!”
Charity kicked and tried to claw at his face, but he laughed in evil delight. “Thet’s right, honey, you keep it up! I likes a gal with some fight in ’er!”
Desperately she fought, and just as he was dragging her through the low door, she wrenched her head and his little finger slipped into her mouth. Instantly she bit down with all her might and tasted blood!
“Owww...!” The soldier instinctively shoved her away, yanking his hand free and sending her sprawling on the ground. But she was up like a flash and let out a piercing cry, “Help! Help me, somebody!”
She darted toward the buggy, but Sam grabbed her, and with a curse Charlie came racing after Charity, shaking the blood from his wounded finger. There was an ugly expression on his dirty face, and he snarled, “Bite me, will you? Well, maybe you need a lesson ’fore—!”
“Get away from that woman, both of you!”
Charity looked wildly toward her left, her eyes lighting on a very tall man dressed in a loose-fitting, shapeless gray smock. He had reddish hair curling out from beneath his fur cap, and the bluest eyes Charity had ever seen. A long rifle
rested loosely in one hand. “I said let that woman alone,” he commanded as the men around Charity began moving in.
Sam Macklin gave a quick look around and was reassured as he saw the ranks closing in, much like wolves circling a wounded deer. “Why, you fool!” he snarled and took one step forward, pulling a knife from his belt. “You git back there with the rest of your kind!” He gestured with the knife, the cold steel glittering in the fading light. “I’ll cut your gizzard out, Winslow!”
“Do it, Sam!” Charlie urged wickedly. “Like to see one of them Virginia men cut right down the middle like a hawg!”
A chorus went up from the men and they closed around Charity, but the man named Winslow said evenly, as though he were making a remark about the weather, “I’d rather shoot a lobsterback than one of you; but I’m telling you now, one of you is going to die if you don’t let that woman go.”
“Aw, he’s only got one shot!” Macklin shouted. “Git him!”
“Only one—want it, Sam?” Quick as a flash, Winslow brought the rifle up, and Macklin found himself staring down the cold steel muzzle. The blue eyes above it did not waver, but the voice matched the steel in his hands. “You think this is a good day to die? No? I didn’t think you would. Miss, you come over here.”
Charity jerked free of the hands holding her and ran to the tall man who seemed to hold the others with his eyes.
“You ain’t gonna do it, Winslow!” Macklin breathed heavily, his face pale. He moved forward and said, “If he gets me, you boys cut him to pieces!”
With terror Charity saw he was not going to stop, that he was willing to take the bullet, and she knew the tall Virginian would not be able to resist the rest—but suddenly, there was the sound of a horse approaching, and a sharp voice cut through the air: “What the devil? What’s that woman doing here?”
A man in a blue uniform pulled up, looking down at
Charity. He had cold blue eyes, and she sensed the hurried withdrawal of the ragged men.
“I—I’ve come to see my brother,” she answered quickly. “My name is Charity Alden.”
He stared at her, a frown on his face. Then Winslow spoke. “I know him, General Wayne. He’s in the hospital.”
“All right. Take her there, Winslow.” The steely eyes moved to Sam Macklin, and he said evenly, “I’ll cut the heart out of any man who touches a decent woman. You understand that?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Winslow. “See to Miss Alden.” He wheeled his mount and rode off swiftly into the maze of huts.
“I’ll kill you for this, Winslow!” Macklin threatened.
“Sam, you can’t even kill the lice that’re crawlin’ all over you,” the tall Virginian grinned. Then ignoring the angry stares, he said, “I’ll take you to your brother, Miss.”
A lump seemed to have lodged in Charity’s throat, and her legs wanted to give way. She had never known such terror, and without Winslow’s help, she would have been lost. “I—I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Winslow! But, won’t those men try to get at you?”
He looked down at her from his great height and smiled. “Oh, they’ll cuss and rare, but they’re too beat to fool with revenge.” He took Pompey’s bit and laughed, “I think you’d better watch this horse day and night, though. We’ve eaten most of ours—and this one would be prime cut!”
“You know my brother—Curtis?” she asked, trying to keep up with his long paces.
“Sure. He’s right down the line from one of my friends.” He glanced at her curiously. “How’d you hear about him being hurt?”
“He sent word by a friend of his—Malcolm Ruggle.” She bit her lip and asked the question that had been gnawing at her ever since the raw-boned Scot had come to Boston with his message. “Is he hurt bad?”
Winslow nodded slowly. “Bad enough.” He hesitated, then
added, “You see, it has to be
very
bad before we go to the hospital. Most things we take care of ourselves.”