The Saintly Buccaneer (5 page)

“I’d like to see Mr. Winslow.”

The slave looked at her, shook her head doubtfully, but opened the door wider, saying, “Mistuh Charles Winslow—he sick—but Miz Winslow will mebby see you.”

The interior of the foyer was dark, but Charity’s eyes adjusted as she followed the woman down a broad hallway. “Miz Winslow? Kin I come in?” the servant asked. A voice answered faintly, and she opened the door. Stepping back to let Charity in, she said, “Lady wants to see Mistuh Charles.”

Charity entered, and as the door closed behind her, she walked toward the far side of the room where two women were sitting in chairs beside a large bay window. The younger of them was fashionably dressed, and she rose slowly, saying, “Yes? What is it?”

“My name is Charity Alden. I came to see Mr. Winslow, but I understand he’s ill.”

“What is your business with my husband?” There was a hardness in the woman’s voice, as there was in her face. She spoke sharply as she would have to a servant. “I’m Mrs. Winslow.”

Charity hesitated, not certain how best to speak of her errand. There was nothing in the face of the woman who stood opposite her that gave encouragement, but she was a direct girl accustomed to dealing with business.

“I’ve just come back from Valley Forge, Mrs. Winslow.” She saw a flicker of interest in Mrs. Winslow’s dark eyes and added quickly, “I was there to visit my brother, and I met Nathan Winslow and his wife.”

“I suppose they sent you to beg for help?” The other woman was almost hidden by the large overstuffed chair she sat in, but
the flickering light of the fire suddenly threw its beams across her face. She was, Charity saw, shrunken with age, and had the same hardness in her old eyes as in the countenance of the younger woman. “We’ve nothing for them,” she rasped. “Let them get help from their precious ‘Patriots’!”

“Don’t upset yourself, Martha,” Mrs. Winslow said; the words were a command, void of compassion. She gave Charity a direct look, saying, “This is Mrs. Martha Winslow—my husband’s mother.” Then she asked, “Do you have a message from my husband’s people?”

“No—but I think you ought to know that Julie is quite ill, Mrs. Winslow,” Charity told her. “The Army is starving—and if she doesn’t get some decent food soon, I don’t think she’ll live. At best, she could lose the baby.”

A strange angular light seemed to flicker in Dorcas Winslow’s eyes, and as soon as she began to speak, Charity realized there was no hope of help from this person. She was an attractive woman, but it was not a gentle beauty; there was an adamant quality to her features, and even her figure was somehow rigid as she spoke in clipped tones: “I’m sorry you’ve made the trip for nothing, Miss Alden, but my husband is quite unable to have visitors. Even if he were, there’s nothing he can do. We have nothing to do with this insane rebellion—and on the day when the King’s power is once again in place, what you’re asking us to do could be called treason!”

When Charity saw that neither of these two women would give any help, she prepared to leave. As she turned, a thought struck her and she faced them again. “If I can’t speak with your husband, could I speak with your son?”

“Paul?” The request caught Mrs. Winslow off guard, and she lifted her head with a haughty anger. “I don’t think you know very much about my son, Miss Alden. He has no reason to love Nathan Winslow!”

“I see.” Charity considered the faces of the two women, then said, “Thank you for your time; I’ll not intrude on you any longer.”

She turned and left the room, almost running over the slave who had apparently been listening outside the door. She hurried down the hall, the black woman racing to open the door. There was a peculiar look on the servant’s face as she said softly, “You kin fin’ Mistuh Paul at the Black Horse Tavern.”

Taken by surprise, Charity paused, searched the black face of the woman, and asked, “Why do you tell me that?”

A secretive air shrouded the woman’s face, but there was a bright look of intelligence in her eyes. “Mistuh Adam—thet’s Mistuh Nathan’s pa—he wuz good to my pa. They is bof’ good men, missy. I don’ know if he’ll help you. Mistuh Paul—he ain’t good like Mistuh Charles and Mistuh Adam—but if he takes a notion to help you, he do it!”

Charity tried to remember what the burly chaplain, Dan Greene, had told her about Paul Winslow. “I heard he had trouble with Nathan. It doesn’t seem likely he’ll want to help him.”

“Mistuh Paul—he do whut he want, missy! Him and Mistuh Nathan, they fight over that Abigail wench—but if Mistuh Paul ain’t drunk, he mebby will remember dat it wuz Mistuh Adam who kept Mistuh Charles and all de rest of dis fambly from bein’ put in jail when dem Redcoats got run outta Boston!”

“The Black Horse Tavern? That’s down near the wharf.” She smiled warmly and reached into her pocket to get a coin.

“No, missy!” the woman objected, drawing herself up. “I don’ wants nuthin’ fo’ helpin’ none of Mistuh Adam’s folks! He was real good to me and my pa!” Her eyes opened in surprise as the young girl held out her hand, but she took it timidly. Then as she heard a call from inside, she lowered her voice. “You go see Mistuh Paul!”

****

The Black Horse Tavern was nearly full, even though it was only late afternoon. Jacob Spelling, the owner, looked with satisfaction across the low-ceilinged room that took up
the entire first floor of the half-timbered building. Ordinarily he could have counted the customers on the fingers of one hand at such a time, but the cold weather had stopped all outdoor work, and most of the shops were closed for lack of business. The warmth of the tavern drew men, and Spelling smiled, calculating his profits; liquor and talk flowed freely as the men downed the potent ale and brandy.

Spelling moved with alacrity toward a table set in front of the wide window that provided a view of the harbor crowded with ships. He deftly removed an empty brown bottle, wiped the table, then poured a fresh drink into the pewter mug of the young man who sprawled carelessly in his chair. “Another bit, is it, Mr. Winslow? Just to keep this cold off your bones.”

“Leave the bottle, Spelling.” The speech of Paul Winslow was only slightly slurred, although he had been drinking for several hours. He picked up the tankard, motioned to the three men seated at the table, and offered languidly, “Drink up.”

“What’ll we drink to, Paul?” The speaker was a heavy young man with piercing eyes and a mouth like a catfish—wide and ugly.

“Didn’t know you had to have something to drink to, Ralph.”

“That’s right, I don’t!” Ralph Courtney grinned and downed his drink, then filled it again.

The other two men were obviously brothers, for they bore a strong family resemblance. They were both tall and rawboned, and both had the same shock of sandy hair and hooked nose. Mason Bright was twenty-eight; his brother Moses, two years younger. Like the other two men, they were well dressed and had a general air of prosperity that set them off from the rest of the men in the room.

“Let’s drink to a timely demise of General George Washington,” Paul suggested with a wicked grin, and leaned back waiting for the warnings he knew would follow his words. There was a raking look in his face, a dissatisfaction on his lips and in his eyes that dared trouble to come.

“Not so loud, you fool!” Mason Bright hissed, giving a nervous look around the room. “You want to get us all thrown in the hulks?”

“That’s right,” Moses spoke up. “I’d hate to spend Christmas in one of those things.” He spoke of the rotting ships used as prisons for captives taken in battle.

Paul looked around the room and spat out contemptuously, “I don’t see anybody here who could put any good Englishman in jail, do you, Ralph?”

Ralph Courtney had a boldness of his own, but it was mixed with a wily sense of self-preservation. He did not miss the sullen looks on the faces of the men sitting close enough to hear Winslow, and he put a restraining hand on Paul’s arm. His wide mouth scarcely moved as he spoke quietly. “I reckon Mason’s right this time. Our turn will come soon enough, Paul!”

There was a reckless light in Winslow’s eyes, but he shrugged and growled, “Bunch of old women!” then took a long pull at his ale. He slumped back in his chair and stared out the window at the forest of masts that scored the harbor. “I’d like to get on board one of those and take a voyage to the South Seas.”

“You better watch out, Paul,” Ralph grinned, “or the press gang will get you!”

“They’re not taking anybody now,” Moses said. He shook his head and added in a low tone, “The rebels don’t have enough ships to need more men.”

“Different with the English,” Mason went on. He glanced out at the ships and shook his head. “Got a letter last week from my cousin who’s a second lieutenant on a King’s ship. He said they’re so short of men they’re having to take the dregs out of the prisons to keep full crews.”

“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about getting pressed into His Majesty’s Royal Navy here in Boston.” Paul shrugged.

“No, but when you get to New York, you’d better watch yourself,” Ralph insisted. “You done a lot of sailing, Paul,
but from what I hear the lot of a sailor in the Royal Navy is pretty grim!”

“So I hear, but—” Paul Winslow stopped abruptly as a young woman in a heavy fur coat walked in through the front door and after taking a quick look around the room, went up to speak with Spelling.

“Well, what have we here, gentlemen?” he grinned. “Haven’t seen a morsel that juicy in some time.”

“She don’t look like a tavern wench, for sure,” Ralph leered. “Look at that!”

The girl had spoken with the burly Spelling who had motioned toward the table where the four young men were sitting. She had followed his gesture, then made her way toward them.

“Mr. Winslow?”

The four men all rose, and Paul stated, “I’m Paul Winslow.”

There was a direct look in the young woman’s eyes, but she hesitated slightly. “Could I—speak with you a moment, sir?”

“Of course,” Paul agreed quickly, and giving a wink that she could not see, he said, “Would you gentlemen mind giving this lady a little privacy?”

She waited until the others left. “My name is Charity Alden, Mr. Winslow. I’ve just come from your home.”

“Oh?” Winslow was not drunk, but his wits were moving rather slower than usual. He could not imagine why this beautiful creature had been to see his family, but he was bored, and any attractive woman he looked upon was a challenge to his skill. “Will you sit down, Miss Alden?”

“Thank you.” She sat down and gave her attention to him, trying to think of the best way to gain his help. He was one of those men who have a neatness about them both in feature and in figure. He was of average height but there was a natural grace in his body, and as he took his seat, she knew he would do most things well. He was not massively built, but there was a depth to his chest that hinted of strength. He had a handsome face, his dark hair smoothly in place like a
cap. His eyes were large and dark brown, the planes of his face smoothly joined to form a pleasing picture.

He came very close to having a feminine beauty—but there was nothing feminine about Paul Winslow, Charity saw at once. On the contrary! There was something of the predator in his smile, and she stirred uncomfortably as she forced herself to explain her mission. Quickly she told him of her trip to Valley Forge, and when she mentioned Nathan and Julie, his head shot up and he stared at her, an unreadable thought in his eyes. When she finished by telling of her visit with his mother and grandmother, he leaned back in his chair, a sardonic smile on his face.

“I don’t imagine you got much encouragement from either of them, Miss Alden?”

“Well...”

He laughed and leaned across the table to put his hand on her arm, saying, “We have our family problems—Father would help you like a shot. But neither my mother nor my grandmother have any time for Nathan or his father.”

The pressure of his hand made Charity uncomfortable. Not only was his touch too intimate, but she was aware that they were the target of all eyes in the crowded room. She pulled her arm free, her eyes flashing. “I’m going back with a doctor to help Julie, Mr. Winslow—with or without help!”

He looked at her with interest, then suddenly laughed. It was an easy laughter, the laughter of a man who finds amusement in many things. “Well, that’s speaking right out,” he remarked. “What do you want me to do?”

“I—I thought you might help get some supplies for me to take back.”

“What kind of supplies?”

“Food, blankets, shoes—anything! They have nothing!”

Paul Winslow was a creature of impulse, and he blurted out without thinking, “I’ll do that.”

Her face lit up, showing an openness in her expression—a sudden trust. Winslow added, “When will you need the food?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I have to find a doctor who’ll go with me, though.”

“I’ll get on it, Miss Alden,” Winslow promised at once. “Maybe you could stop by here in a couple of hours to check over the supplies?”

“Oh, yes, I can do that,” Charity said. She rose quickly and after an instant’s hesitation put her hand out and gave him a firm grip. “I—I know you and Nathan have had ... problems in the past. It’s good of you, sir, to put it aside.”

“Nothing at all, Miss Alden,” he protested.

She gave him another smile. “I’ll be back by six, Mr. Winslow.”

As soon as she left the room, Winslow’s friends came rushing back to pump him for details. When he told them what she wanted, Ralph’s catfish mouth drew tight, and he gave a sharp look at this friend. “You’re going to help him, Paul?”

“Why not?”

“He gave you a hard time with that Howland girl, didn’t he?”

“Well—that’s over.”

Courtney said no more, but his question had changed Winslow’s mood. He had offered his help on impulse, but the mention of Abigail Howland brought a scowl to his face. He threw himself into his chair, picked up his mug and drained it. “Spelling!” He raised his voice over the rabble of voices. “Blast you! Why can’t you keep this cup filled?”

Ralph Courtney knew Paul Winslow well, and he saw immediately that the volatile element in the man had surfaced.
Winslow’s a good chap,
he had confided to Mason earlier,
but he’s as changeable as the wind!