The Saintly Buccaneer (33 page)

“That would be too dangerous,” he replied immediately.

“But not if you went as Paul Winslow,” she urged. “I’ve brought your clothes and plenty of papers. After all, you
are
Paul Winslow, so if we’re stopped, what can they say?”

He hesitated, shaking his head doubtfully, “The ship will be leaving soon. I might not be able to get back—besides, I’m not sure it’s the best thing—I mean, for my family.”

“They love you—that’s what your father told me to tell you.” She studied his face, not missing the longing in his dark eyes, and she put her hand on his arm. “Do this one thing for them, Paul. You’ll never be at peace until you do!”

He smiled at her, saying quickly, “You know me too well, Charity. For that is what’s been on my mind.” He thought rapidly, then replied, “I’ll have to go back to the ship and get leave. You wait here, and I’ll see if it’s possible.”

He had gone back and, as he expected, he found Captain
Rommey willing to grant his request—but somewhat surprised. Blanche was not there, having gone to the country house to be with her mother, where they stayed when the ship was anchored in America. “You’ll go by and check with her, of course?”

“I have a short trip to make, sir, but as soon as I return, I’ll make my apologies.”

“Well, take ten days,” Rommey suggested. “You deserve it, Hawke. I feel we’ll be having some hard service when we ship out again—perhaps we won’t touch shore until this mess is over in America.”

“Goodbye, sir, and thank you.”

He had hurried back to the inn, changed clothes, and a few hours later, Winslow and Charity were on the Boston coach. It was a fast journey, and the coach was crowded. A burly man propped himself upright and went to sleep at once. A young woman with two children who were difficult to handle furnished some diversion. Charity, seeing her dilemma, took over as playmate for the two girls, allowing the exhausted mother to rest.

A small man, who gave his name as Samuel Wilkins, said little at first, but as the trip went on, he and Paul talked from time to time. At one of the stops for the night, they were forced to share a bed in a very dirty inn, and Wilkins remarked with a smile, “Not much your habit, Mr. Winslow. I can see you’re used to better accommodations.”

Before he thought, Paul answered, “On the contrary, this is not bad at all. It’s about ten times as large as my cabin aboard ship.”

He bit his tongue, but Wilkins did not react; and when Winslow added, “Oh, well, when we travel on a ship, we all have to take small space,” he breathed a sigh of relief. He determined to say nothing more to the man, and managed to keep to his vow.

They got to Boston in the late afternoon and Winslow stepped down, giving a hand to the young mother and to
Charity. Wilkins left immediately, and Charity and Paul rented a buggy from the stable that served as coach station. As he drove the team along the road that led out of town, she observed, “You drive well; you’ve done it before.”

He looked at her and shrugged. “Yes, it’s familiar—but I guess most men can drive a team.”

They didn’t speak again, except when Charity gave him directions. He was in a concentrated study, thinking of the strangeness of his position and wondering what the next hour would bring.

Finally they drew up in front of the big house, and he looked carefully at it, noting the huge pillars and the ornate structure. He said nothing, but got down and helped Charity out of the buggy. He tied the reins to a post, turned and took her arm, and they walked to the door. But before he knocked, he faced her and said, “Charity, no matter what turn my life takes, I want you to know how much you’ve meant to me.”

She stared at him, her heart beating faster as he reached out and took her hands in his. “Oh, Paul—I’ve done nothing!”

“Not true,” he murmured. He shook his head and gave her a fond look, and there was a quality in his voice—gentle and longing—that he’d never used with her. “You can’t know what it’s been like—being what I am. No past at all. No friend to think of from the old days. But you’ve helped to fill that gap. We
are
friends—aren’t we, Charity?”

“Oh yes, Paul!” she responded quickly and squeezed his hands. She felt such compassion for him at that moment, yet she realized it was not altogether pity, for her heart would not race so madly if that were all. She tried to speak, but could not. Instead, she reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him. Then she gave a short laugh and dashed the tears from her eyes. “Now, don’t you dare say
that
kiss was your fault, Paul Winslow! And you just remember, no matter what happens, we’ll not lose each other!”

His eyes were moist as he lifted the knocker on the door. When it opened, he was confronted with a small, thin black
woman who stared at him with eyes that widened like moons in her dark face. Her jaw dropped and she cried out, “Lord God! It’s Mistuh Paul!”

She swayed for a moment, then whirled and ran down the hall, crying out, “Mistuh Charles! Mistuh Charles! It’s you boy! He’s done come back from the grave!”

Paul was unnerved by the scene, and he gave Charity a nervous smile. “I guess this
is
the right place!”

Soon the woman came back, saying breathlessly, “Go on to the study, Mistuh Paul—you folks is dere!”

Charity felt her arm gripped so tightly that it was painful, and looking up she saw Paul’s ashen face. The strain made him compress his lips until they were a thin line, with beads of perspiration across his brow.

“Do you remember the way to the study, Paul?” she asked.

“No! I can’t even
think,
Charity!”

“It’s this way.” She led him down the hall and Cory reached out and touched his arm as they passed, whispering, “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!”

The door was open, and Charity heard Paul take a deep breath as they went through it. She got a quick glimpse of the family—all looking as if they were posing for a portrait. Charles sat in his chair with his foot raised, his eyes wide; Dorcas stood by his side with her mouth twitching; Martha sat on the edge of a hard-backed chair, her dim eyes peering at the man who stood before them. And Anne, grown into a young woman with the Winslow look, stared at her brother silently.

“My boy!” Charles cried brokenly, “you’re alive!”

He held out his hands and Paul moved across the room to take them. He may have intended to shake hands, but Charles gave a sob and reached up and pulled him down into an embrace. Charity saw that the cold formalism was broken; Charles Winslow was a man who prided himself on never showing emotion, but now his face was twisted as if in pain, though she knew it was joy. Tears ran down his cheeks
and his eyes were tightly shut. He kept saying, “Thank God! Thank God! You’re alive!”

Then he released his grip, and Paul straightened up in time to catch his mother, who fell against him, weeping, and she was soon joined by Anne and Martha. Paul stood like a statue, not knowing what to do with his hands. But Charles, wiping his eyes, saw his embarrassment.

“Dorcas, let the boy alone—and you, too, Anne and Mother!” He spoke roughly to cover the emotion that had welled up in him. Gazing up at Paul, he tried to smile as he said, “Well, sir, Charity has told us of your affliction. You must forgive us—because though you don’t remember us, we remember you.”

“I understand,” Paul replied. He looked into the face of his father, then to his mother, his sister, and grandmother. “Somehow I feel as if I’m being very unfair—not knowing you.”

“No, you mustn’t think that!” Charles protested. “It’s been horrible for you, Paul, but certainly not your fault.” Turning to his wife, he sputtered, “Well, don’t just stand there! Give the boy a chair, Dorcas—and one for Charity.”

There was a bustle as the chairs were brought and everyone was seated. An awkward silence fell on the room as they stared speechless at Paul. He laughed lightly, attempting to break the stilted atmosphere. “I feel like a prize exhibit at the county fair, sir!”

“I don’t wonder!” Charles exclaimed. “But let me look at you. You’re so brown. And I’ve never seen you looking fitter!”

“You look so handsome, Paul!” Anne burst out in wonder. “I wish I could see you in your uniform!”

“That will have to come later, Annie,” Charles stated gently. Then he turned back to his son, feasting his eyes on him hungrily—as if he could never get enough of the sight of him. “Now, tell us everything! You can’t think how we’ve grieved over you—and now you’re here! I don’t ever intend to doubt the mercies of the Almighty again!”

With a certain trepidation, Paul spoke, telling them of his recovery. They all listened avidly—drinking in the details, exclaiming over some of his trials and smiling in appreciation over the tale of his rise from seaman to lieutenant.

Finally he stopped and uttered, with a short laugh, “I can’t tell you how strange I feel.”

“Do you recognize anything at all, son?” Dorcas asked quietly. “Any of us? Anything at all?”

He looked at her, saying carefully, “It’s so hard to tell. I—I seem to feel
different.
But this is so strange and bizarre—it could be that.”

He seemed despondent, and Charles broke in hastily, “You’re tired. Why don’t you rest, and we’ll have a good dinner—and you must stay, too, Charity!”

She protested, but he overrode her and held his hand out. When she rose to take it, he pulled her down and kissed her, saying with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m getting to be as emotional as a Methodist! But I just don’t feel responsible—everything is so bright!”

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Cory stepped in with an angry expression on her face. She was stuttering with rage, trying to say something, but was roughly pushed aside by a short man, who was followed by a burly man in a black coat.

“Who the devil are you?” Charles demanded. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Mr. Charles Winslow?”

“That is my name!”

“My name is John Mackley. I am an officer of His Majesty’s forces. My superior is Major Charles Locke.”

The room had grown ominously quiet, and suddenly Paul cried, “Why, I know this man—his name is Wilkins!”

“That is not my real name—just as your real name is not Hawke.” He stared at Paul coldly. “You needn’t deny it—for we have proof that you are indeed Paul Winslow. He is your son, is he not, Mr. Winslow?”

“I won’t answer any of your questions! Get out of this house!”

“I am leaving—but I am taking him with me.” He turned to Paul and announced, “In the name of our Royal Sovereign, I arrest you, Paul Winslow.”

“On what charges?” Charles broke in.

“On the charge of high treason.”

A deadly silence fell, and then Mackley declared, “I’ll have to ask you to come, Winslow.”

“You can’t take him!” Charles protested loudly. “This is Boston, not New York. You have no authority here!”

“This is my authority, Mr. Winslow.” Mackley drew a pistol from beneath his coat, and the other man did as well. “We have a carriage outside, and if you try to stop us—or have us stopped—the first bullet will go into this young man’s brain.” He glanced at the large man, and added quietly, “See to that, will you, McCoy?”

“I’ll shoot him at the first sign of trouble, sir.”

Charles started to protest, his face pale, but Paul stepped forward, “No use, sir. I’ll have to go.”

“Well, try not to worry,” Charles said quickly. “It’s all a mistake. We’ll get lawyers—”

“It will be a military court, sir,” Mackley interrupted. “No civilians will be admitted to the court martial. Put the irons on him, McCoy.”

He spoke sharply and McCoy drew a set of heavy manacles from his coat and fastened them on Paul’s wrists. Paul looked at the others, saying sadly, “I’m sorry I’ve caused you such trouble—twice now.”

As they left, led by Mackley, Dorcas collapsed on the chair, trembling in every limb—and weeping helplessly. “It’s my fault! I never should have asked him to come! Charles, we must
do
something!”

Her husband replied quietly, “We must try—but I know these courts, and the way things are now in this country, he doesn’t have a chance.”

“Will they ... hang him, Father?” Anne asked weakly.

He did not answer, his body slumped in the chair, his face a picture of abject fear and hopelessness—his son alive, and now facing certain death! Charity looked at him with compassion and murmured gently, “I’ll go now. Call on me if I can help.”

Charles stared at her blindly, and whispered hoarsely, “Only God can help, Charity! Only God!”

The next day, Charles had himself carried to a large coach that had been fitted with a bed. He had asked Charity alone to go with him, insisting that his family stay at home. His lips were white with pain as the carriage bumped over the road, but he uttered no word of complaint.

A week later he returned, weak and grim, and was helped back into the house by two servants. They put him in the study, and as soon as they were gone, Dorcas asked, “What happened?”

Anne was there, and Martha, the old woman looking as grieved as the rest of them. Paul had been her prize, and now he was gone. She sat rigid, her eyes fixed on her son.

“It’s not death,” Charles explained, but when they all gave a glad cry, he held up his hand. “No, listen to me—it’s not death. Captain Rommey saved him—so they say. I wasn’t there, but we heard that it was the captain’s plea that kept the court from handing down the death penalty.”

Burns had sat in on the court, and he had sought Charity and Charles out to give them the verdict. “He’s nae goin’ to die—but it’s prison for life.”

“Dartmoor?” Charity whispered.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Burns bit his lip, and there was real grief in his eyes. “They’re wrong! Wrong! There’s nae treason in him! But he is an American who put on a British uniform—and that’s all the court could see.”

“Can we go to him?” Charles asked.

“No, sir—they say not. Some of the members of the court are still screaming. Your son will get to Dartmoor with a
bad recommendation, I fear.” Then he added, “But God is still merciful. I am goin’ to pray that somehow this will nae be the end o’it.”