Honor in the Dust (9 page)

The winter of 1511 brought blasts of cold air that swept across the barren landscape and closed like an iron fist on the land. Men stayed indoors close to their fire as much as possible, sitting out the cold weather and doing only work that was necessary.

Claiborn bent over to pick up a square of peat bog, and as he did, he swayed, for his leg had never recovered from the wound that he had taken in battle. He had prayed, and Grace had prayed, but Claiborn realized with bitterness that he was not the man that he had been—nor, indeed, would he ever be. He stood there for a moment looking over the gray, barren landscape, watching as the winter wind whipped across the fields and bent the dead grasses and weeds. It was about a dozen years since he had dug peat for a fire on Christmas Day and discovered Grace had come up with a baked rabbit for their Christmas dinner. That seemed long ago, but he noticed that the older he got, the quicker time seemed to pass. He stood there thinking long thoughts, his face stiff with cold and his hands raw from the work that he had tried to do.

Grace had taken care of him so well that physically he swiftly improved. She fed him good meals, saw to it that he did not do too much, and insisted that he exercised his leg regularly, keeping
it from getting too stiff. Within a couple of months he moved from a crutch to a walking stick. Now he could do without that, except when he had to stand for long periods.

Despite the bitter cold, pride warmed his heart as he stood thinking about his wife and son. Stuart had been a help to him from the beginning, just as he was for his mother, doing anything he asked of him. He and Grace had had no more children. Although they were both young enough to have a larger family, it appeared that God had given them Stuart and then said, “
No more
.” This thought troubled Claiborn for some time, but he had prayed, and God had given him great peace on the subject. It was as if God said,
“I have given you a good son who will be a blessing to you and to many others. Pour yourself into him, and hewill make the House of Winslow proud with his life.”

This thought had come often to Claiborn, and he sighed heavily as he bent over to pick up another square of sod. How was this place to bring Stuart or the House of Winslow any glory at all? He pulled at the frozen sod. It tore at his fingernails, which were already bleeding. He tried to straighten up, but the mass of muddy, frozen earth that he held tenaciously clung to its birthplace and roots brought an abrupt halt. Claiborn, caught off balance, threw his weight onto his bad leg; it gave way instantly. He fell heavily to one side, and for a moment lay there panting like a dog. He knew his lungs had weakened and that they would never be what they once were. He was aware that he could never endure the hardship of a military life, and for a while this had been a grief to him, for it had been through his earnings as a soldier that he and Grace had managed to keep the farm together.

“Well, now, this is a pretty thing.” His voice was raspy.

As he struggled to rise, he heard the sound of footsteps on the hard earth and looked around to see Stuart running across the field, concern on his youthful face. He was verging on manhood now, this son of his. Even as he lay on the ground trying to
pull himself up, the warmth of pride returned to Claiborn as he looked up at his son's face. Stuart was wearing a doublet his mother had made for him out of old material. It was too small, and his wrists were out of it; his short breeches were made of wool and were patched.
The boy's growing like a weed. He may be as tall as my father. Surely as tall as I.

“Father, are you all right?”

“Yes. I just slipped and fell, son. I'm fine.”

Stuart leaned over him. Although his face was thin and his body was lean, there was good strength in the lad. Losing the roundness of childhood, he was poised on the brink of all the things that would transform him from boy to man. “Let me help you up.”

“Thank you.” Claiborn struggled to his feet and looked down into his son's anxious face. “Don't you worry, boy, I'm fine. Just slipped a little.”

“Why don't you go into the house and get warm? I can get the rest of the peat.”

“Suppose we do it together. I won't be much help but maybe can help you a tad. While we work, you can tell me what you've been doing.”

Loading the cart, Stuart told his father of the fish he had caught in the river. “We're going to have it for supper tonight.”

“When did you go fishing?”

“Oh, early this morning. It was still dark, and you were asleep.”

“It was cold out on that river, wasn't it?”

“I pay it little heed.”

Indeed, Stuart did not seem to be troubled by the temperature. Whether the weather was hot and others were sweating or it was freezing, and others shivered, he seemed to endure it without a qualm.

“Maybe you will go with me some morning, Father.”

Claiborn knew that he would not, for the river was too far for
him to walk on his bad leg, but he smiled and said, “I hope so. If not, maybe we'll try to catch us some fine plump conies.” He smiled down benevolently. “Would you like that, Son?”

Stuart's face glowed for a moment, and then a thought passed through his mind and he dropped his head. “I did wrong, poaching on Mr. Hyde's land.”

“That you did, Son, but it turned out all right.” Claiborn reached out and clasped him by the shoulder. “Mind you, I believe it's just like stealing a man's money when you steal his game. Poaching is bad business. But we won't do any more of that, though, will we now?”

“No, indeed!”

The two continued to load the cart, with Stuart putting in two or three chunks of peat to his father's one. As they worked, Claiborn suddenly said, “You work too hard, Son.”

“No, sir, I don't mind it at all.”

“You need to have more time for the things that are fun.”

“Oh, I go fishing and hunting, and I go to the village when there's a festival.”

Claiborn was conscious of failing in some way.
He's missing his childhood. He seldom gets to have fun with the other boys his age. When I was eleven I was in every kind of game and sport there was. I must find a way to help him and Grace!

“Well, that'll do enough for now. Let's go in and see what your mother has for us to eat.”

Stuart at once took the tongue of the cart and dragged the wagon free. He was strong for his age and moved it easily over the hard ground.

Claiborn's mind was working hard, thinking of the future. The crippling blow he had taken had thrown his dreams out of order, and he could not see how they would make it. Money was scarce, and the payment on his debt would be due very soon. And Rolf Hyde was not known for his mercy.

Grace sat beside a flickering candle that threw dim yellow light over her needlework. She made a little money by sewing fine things for the wives of the wealthy men of the village. It was not much, but every little bit helped, and as she sat there stitching, she thought how different her life was now from the one she had had before marriage.

In all truth, she had led an easy life as a young girl. There were no pressures on her to do anything except learn the things a young woman ought to learn. While her father was gruff and showed little affection, her mother had been a loving woman; until her death, she and Grace were inseparable. It was her mother who had taught Grace how to sew, and she remembered their cozy parlor, a roaring fire in the hearth, candles all about the room. Here it seemed there was a chill to her home the year round, and with winter closing in, it would become even more of a battle to ward off the cold.

Now, as always, when thoughts and doubts and fears came, she called out to God in her spirit.
Jesus, forgive my dour thoughts. You are the mighty Savior! Watch over us and keep us!

It was little prayers like this that she prayed almost every hour. She could not understand those who at the end of the day when the body was tired and the mind was fatigued, could offer only a mumbled devotion, usually a memorized piece. To her, faith was a living, active, vital thing, and she had learned to send up little prayers many times a day rather than saving it all up.

Her neighbors had learned this about her. When one of them said, “Grace, I want you to pray for my son,” they perhaps expected that she would go to church to pray, but Grace never waited. She would say, “Of course I will. Let's pray right now for James.” And she would bow her head and often take the hand of the woman who had spoken to her. God did answer many of those prayers, but the act of spontaneously praying startled
those who had asked. Yet it was a blessing to them, and she encouraged others to adopt this method of prayer.

She heard the sound of voices and put the sewing down. Opening the door, she saw Stuart and Claiborn pulling the cart full of sod. The wind was blowing, and the temperature was dropping. “There'll be snow soon,” she said, and even uttering the words discouraged her. Life was hard enough without trying to survive the deep piles of snow that sometimes came and locked them in their home.

“Come on in. You're both bound to be frozen stiff.”

Claiborn hobbled in, using his cane, and dropped into a chair. Stuart was right behind him. He said, “Mother, can I stir the fire up?”

“Of course, Stuart. We need to get warm.” Grace took a pitcher out of a cupboard and poured a glassful of weak ale. She gave it to Claiborn, saying, “Drink this up. I think I'll make some hot punch out of the rest.”

“That would go down well, indeed.”

Claiborn sat while Grace fussed over him. He was exhausted from his struggle with the iron-hard earth. As he watched her busy herself, he thought that God had blessed him in a wife. He looked around and saw that the house was plain enough but Grace had made it warm and comfortable. Another thought ruined his first:
Rolf Hyde will be by soon—and he'll take this place if he can get it
.

Grace came over and sat down beside him. He said, “We must pray, Grace, that we'll have the money to make the payment on the land.”

Grace was always happy when Claiborn expressed his faith. He was a praying man now. She reached over, as was her custom, took his hand, and said, “We'll pray right now. Lord,” she began, without changing her tone, “we need your help. Actually, Lord, we need a miracle. You know all things. We're asking you to provide for us what we can't provide for ourselves.
Furnish us the money for the payment on this place. We will always remember your gracious kindness and your tender mercies in watching over us. I ask this in the name of Jesus.”

Claiborn, as usual, took great pleasure in Grace's simple faith. “Amen.” He turned and smiled. “God won't fail us. Nothing is impossible with him.”

“That's true,” Grace smiled too. “He can furnish a table in the wilderness.”

As soon as Claiborn opened the door and saw Rolf Hyde standing there, a cold hand seemed to close around his heart. It was a disagreeable thing to feel fear, and he knew from reading his Latin Bible that the spirit of fear did not come from God. In battle he had known little fear and seemed to have courage that others lacked. But now, injured, with his family's welfare in the balance and Rolf Hyde standing at his door, he knew fear at its worst.

“Will you come in, Mr. Hyde?” he managed to ask.

“No, I'll not do that. I simply came by to remind you, Mr. Winslow, that the payment on the land is due in two days.”

“I'm very much aware of that, sir.”

“I don't want to be hard, but the payment must be made. You understand?”

“More than you can imagine.” Claiborn paused and said, “I doubt you'd consider an extension, seeing that—”

“Indeed not! This is a matter of business. Nothing personal, but I must have my money or I will have to take legal action.”

“You would put us out in the middle of a bitter winter?”

Hyde did not smile. His eyes narrowed, as if he was homing in on his prey. “As I say, it's a matter of business. Nothing personal. I'll be waiting. Unless you'd care to make the payment now.”