The Saintly Buccaneer (6 page)

Courtney sat down and said nothing more about the girl. He was aware of Paul’s sensitive nature, as sensitive as a man without a skin; and the loss of Abigail Howland to Nathan was something he had not forgotten. The afternoon wore on and they all drank steadily, especially Paul. There was a scowl on his face as he put down tankard after tankard of liquor,
and Courtney knew that the man was building up to one of the fits of anger that came on him like a sudden squall.

The Bright brothers left, and the two men were left alone. Paul finally broke the silence, his voice husky with drink. “He cut me out, Ralph, didn’t he? Took Abigail away from me!”

“Ancient history, Paul. Forget it.”

“Never going to—forget it!”

“You’re drunk, Paul.”

“That is correct, my friend—but I’m sober enough to handle Miss Charity Alden.”

Ralph peered at him sharply, then shook his head. “Better be careful, Paul. Girls like her have fathers and brothers who have the bad habit of calling fellows like us to account.”

“Like to see ’em try it!” Winslow lifted his head and there was a gleam in his eyes. He got up and went over to the bar, and Ralph watched as some sort of argument went on. The husky tavern keeper shook his head, but finally seemed to agree to something reluctantly, and Paul came back to the table with a smile of satisfaction on his face.

“I don’t like it, Paul.”

“You don’t have to like it. Go on home to your mother.”

It was part of Winslow’s manner to become insulting when he drank too much, and Ralph got up angrily. “All right, I will!”

He left, his back stiff with outrage, but Paul only laughed at him. He leaned back and there was a look of pleased anticipation on his face. The time ran by, and he drank little more.

Finally he looked up to see Charity enter, and he got up and went straight to her. “Well, you’re back,” he said warmly. “Did you get a doctor?”

“Yes!” There was an excitement in her green eyes, and he admired her flawless complexion as she continued. “He’s really too old to make the trip, but he’s a real Patriot! I was ready to pay him anything he asked, but when he found out it was for the son of one of General Washington’s officers, why, he jumped at the chance!”

“Splendid!” Paul said. “Now, I’ve been working on the supplies, but there are still a few problems.”

“Problems?”

“Oh, you know how difficult it is to get some things with the war and all.” He snapped his fingers and said ruefully, “I say, Miss Alden, I’m just about starved, and I’ll wager you haven’t taken time to eat a bite, have you now?”

“Well, there’s hasn’t been much time—”

“Of course not,” Paul agreed, adding quickly, “I’ve arranged to have the innkeeper bring a supper to one of the rooms upstairs. Why don’t you join me?”

Charity looked startled, and he hurried on. “There are really a couple of items about the supplies that we ought to discuss.”

“Well—I suppose it will be all right.”

“Fine! Fine! Let me show you the way.” He led her across the room, saying to Spelling as they passed by, “Oh, Innkeeper, you can bring that food along—and Miss Alden will be having a bite with me!”

As Charity walked up the stairs she felt the eyes of the men in the room follow her—and she had an impulse to turn and leave. The tavern was respectable enough, but it was the first time she had ever been in one alone. And while the supper upstairs had sounded harmless enough, as she entered the room and he closed the door, a shock of fear ran along her nerves. It was a bedroom, and though there was a table and two straight-backed chairs, there was something about the whole thing that seemed improper.

He talked easily about food supplies and drew her out on the hard conditions of the Army in camp, and soon a knock at the door came, and Spelling brought in a large tray and left it on the table.

“Well, this looks good—try some of this ale, won’t you?” he offered with a smile and picked up one of the tankards while handing her the other one.

“Oh no, really, Mr. Winslow. I don’t care for anything to drink.”

He sipped his own drink, and then said, “Well, perhaps later.”

She sat down at his urging and ate a little, but the uneasiness she felt increased. He began to drink steadily, talking all the while and refilling his tankard from a large jug.

At first the talk was about supplies, but soon the tenor of the conversation changed, and he began paying her personal compliments. He was, she realized, not entirely sober, and she got up at once, saying, “I must go.”

He looked at her, then put his tankard down and got to his feet. “But, Charity, we’ve not had time to get to know one another.” There was a light in his eyes that shot fear into her heart, and she turned to leave, only to find herself whirled around to face him.

“Let me go!” she cried out, struggling wildly, but his strength was tremendous. He held her as easily as if she were a child.

“Now, sweet, be still!” he admonished, and suddenly he pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips.

Charity’s heart raced wildly, and she struggled in vain to free herself. He was, she saw, enjoying her struggles, and she stopped at once.

“Now,
that’s
more like it!” he grinned, and his grip relaxed a fraction. It was not much, but it was, Charity thought swiftly, the best opportunity she was likely to have. If she tried to scream, he would clamp his hand over her mouth, and there was no way she could overcome his superior strength. She made herself smile and said, “Well, sir, you
are
a forceful man!”

“Ah,” he smiled, “but I am hoping force will not be necessary, Charity.”

“You startled me, Mr. Winslow!”

“Call me Paul,” he said. His eyes fell to the food and he asked, “Shall we continue our meal, Charity?”

“Well, I could eat a little, Paul.”

They sat down, and she began to eat—not much but enough to keep him from questioning her. He ate nothing, but drank steadily, going to the door once and calling down to Spelling for more ale. He began to tell her about Nathan and soon his face grew angry. The more he drank the more she encouraged him, and soon he was so intoxicated that his speech was slurred and his movements clumsy.

All at once he looked across the table at her accusingly. “You’re trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”

“No, Paul,” she returned quickly. All the while she had been talking she had thought wildly, trying to find some way to escape, but there was no way. Then her eyes fell on a long whip-like rod nearly two feet long with a cup on one end—a candle snuffer. It was leaning against the wall next to the door, and she measured the distance to it carefully.

He rose unexpectedly and started around the table, saying, “Come here, Charity!”

She had only a brief second, but she leaned over and in one motion grabbed the rod and with all the strength in her arm slashed him across the face.

The force of the blow sent him reeling to the side, and the sharp, thin rod split his cheek from his ear to his lower jaw. The pain of it sliced through him, and he threw up his hands as she slashed at him again, taking the blow on his forearm. He stumbled backward, falling to the floor over a stool, and as he fell, she cried out, “You dog! I ought to cut you to ribbons!”

But he was struggling to his feet, and though the blood was running through the fingers he had clapped to his cheek, he was strong and dangerous. She struck at him once more. Then as he reeled backward, she threw the snuffer at him and with one sure motion, opened the door and fled so quickly down the stairs and across the broad taproom that Spelling’s jaw dropped with amazement as she disappeared through the door.

He mounted the stairs swiftly and found Winslow cursing and raving. When Spelling looked at the cut, he said quietly, “You’ll have to have a doctor stitch that up, Winslow—and even then, you’re going to have a nasty scar.” He stared at the young man, distaste in his eyes, and added, “I hope it heals badly! Maybe you’ll learn to leave decent girls alone!”

CHAPTER FIVE

CHRISTMAS COMES TO VALLEY FORGE

Giant flakes of snow swirled earthward as the heavily loaded sled drawn by a matched set of roan geldings pulled over the rise. Dr. Aaron Bergen’s head jolted as Charity yanked the team to an abrupt halt, and his nearsighted eyes peered around the frozen wasteland in confusion. “What’s this?”

“Valley Forge,” Charity said stiffly through frozen lips. “We made it.” The strain of the hard journey was revealed by the lines around her eyes and mouth, and she had to force herself to keep her shoulders square. They had pulled out of Boston with the threat of a howling blizzard lurking in the lowering clouds, but by hard driving they had made the journey in record time.

As they continued down the slope, Dr. Bergen peered through the whirling flakes at the scarecrow-like men who were making some effort at marching their posts, staggering stiffly through the deep drifts. He shook his head, saying sadly, “Guess I’ve had the wrong idea about the Army, Charity.”

“I know.” She did not try to tell him that her own impressions had been the same, for the bitter cold made it necessary to limit words. Nothing had changed, she saw, as they passed along the rows of tents and shacks—except that the steadily falling snow had sculptured the rough, ill-built shacks into beautifully shaped, smooth structures. The leaning fieldstone
chimneys breathed reluctant blue-white vapors that tried to rise but were immediately swept away by the moaning wind.

“This is it.” Charity pulled the tired team to a stop in front of the Winslow hut, climbed down and stamped her feet to restore circulation. Dr. Bergen groaned slightly and staggered stiffly toward the cabin.

The door had opened as soon as the horses stopped and two men rushed out. “What’d I tell you, Father?” Nathan’s face was split in a wide grin as he came forward to steady Charity, who was stumbling in the drifts lying in high ridges around the cabin. “This is Charity Alden—and I’d lay a wager this is some doctor she forced to come at gunpoint!”

The older Winslow stepped forward, and although he was shorter and darker, Charity saw at once that this man had the same strong face and calm assurance as his son. Charity was struck by the long scar that ran along one side of his face—it reminded her, with an agonizing stab, of her experience with Paul Winslow.

But Adam Winslow’s manner soon put Charity at ease and helped her forget that frightening encounter. “My son puts a high value on you, Miss Alden,” he said with a smile. “I tried to tell him it wouldn’t be possible to get back in this weather, but he never doubted.”

“Good heavens, Charity!” Nathan had lifted the tarpaulin, and his face was filled with astonishment as he stared at her. “Looks like you brought the whole store!”

“All we could pile on,” Charity grinned. “Most of it is food, with as much warm clothing as we could carry—and Dr. Bergen brought all the medicine he could lay his hands on.” She smiled and stepped toward the doctor to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t have to threaten him at all, Nathan. He’s a true Patriot—and when he found out that one of General Washington’s officers had a need—why, he tore around like a crazy man getting supplies!”

“Never mind all that!” The doctor snorted and waved aside
the thanks that the men tried to voice. “Where’s my patient? I didn’t freeze my tail off to stand here gossiping!”

“This way, Doctor,” Nathan directed, a relieved look on his face and a grateful expression in his blue eyes that made all the effort worthwhile to Charity. “Father, you look after Charity, will you?”

“Of course.” As the two disappeared through the low doorway, Major Winslow took the harness in his hand, then turned to Charity. “Would you like to ride over to the quartermaster’s shed? We have to get these supplies under armed guard at once, you know.”

“No, thank you—I need some exercise, Major.” She fell into step with him as they moved down the winding trail and asked, “How is Julie? I’ve been uneasy.”

“Not good—but I feel much better now that you and the doctor are here. Our own doctor is pretty rough, and he’s got enough patients to keep ten doctors busy.” He paused and after a few steps he dropped his right hand on her shoulder and said, “We’re in your debt—all of us.”

“Oh, no!” Charity shook her head quickly, her cheeks rosy. “Your daughter-in-law was so good to my brother Curtis. If she hadn’t talked to him about God, Major, I ... don’t think I could’ve had a peaceful day the rest of my life.”

“I heard about it. We’re all sorry about Curtis—but if he had to go, I’m glad he was under the blood.”

Under the blood.
The phrase would have sounded pious, almost sanctimonious, in the mouths of most men—but there was the same easy acceptance of God in Major Winslow that Charity had marveled at in his son and in Julie. It made her nervous—but at the same time she was drawn to that quality in the Winslows which made God as acceptable a topic of conversation as water or earth.

She listened as Major Winslow spoke of Julie’s certain conviction that she would have a boy, and smiled with him as he shrugged and added quietly, “I’ll not argue with her,
Charity. When that girl says God has spoken, you can be absolutely sure she is right!”

“I think that’s true, Major. She is as fixed as the pole star!” She halted abruptly and gave him a guarded look, saying, “I’d better tell you, sir, I went to see your family in Boston.”

“My brother?”

“Well, no—that is, I went to see him, but he was ill. I spoke to his wife, but—”

She could not finish, and he smiled gently at her discomfort. “I would imagine you didn’t get much encouragement from Dorcas—but I thank you for trying.”

Charity bit her lip, and he saw that she was bothered, but he let the silence run on. Finally she continued. “There was a slave there at the house, named Cory. She told me to go see your nephew.”

He saw instantly that she was uneasy, and shrugged. “She’s a good girl, that Cory. Did you see Paul?”

By the time they pulled up to the quartermaster’s building, he had the whole sordid story out of her, including how she had wounded Paul, and how shocked she was to see a similar scar on Adam Winslow’s face. But there was a kindness in his dark eyes as he looked at her. “Don’t blame yourself, Charity. It wasn’t your fault.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “Paul’s got the makings of a good man—but he’s been spoiled beyond belief. He’s spent his inheritance—and more beside. His father could never say no to him, and Dorcas is even worse. Why, he’s spent enough on
boats
to start a business!”