Nell approached her husband from behind and tenderly wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Reminiscing?”
Drew nodded.
“They’re waiting for us.”
“Give me a moment.”
Drew Morgan sat at the table in the sitting room of the house he built overlooking Boston’s bay. In front of him were two books: the Bible he’d brought over with him from England and his journal.
Twenty-two years had passed since he penned the journal’s first entry:
May 16, 1632
Jenny was buried today. She’s with her father now. I pray he’ll forgive me. I failed in my promise to keep her safe. My only comfort is in knowing she’s in a place where no one can ever hurt her again.
Nell sat beside her husband and caressed his arm.
“I’m glad we didn’t go back to England. God’s been good to us here.”
Drew was flipping the pages of the journal. One place was marked with an envelope.
February 26, 1645
Word has reached us from England today. Bishop William Laud, archbishop of Canterbury, was executed on January 10 of this year. During his trial he was held in the Tower of London and was beheaded on the green.
The account of his death had two quotes in it—
Nehemiah Wallington
“His Little Grace, that great enemy of God, his head cut off.”
John Dod
“The Little Firework of Canterbury was extinguished on Tower Hill.”
I can’t help but have mixed feelings. Bishop Laud was a vindictive, hateful man. But he was always good to me.
“Did I ever tell you your father was a prophet?” Drew said.
Nell smiled. “What are you talking about?”
“When he had charge of me in Edenford, he took me bowling with David Cooper. After the game, we sat by the river, and your father told us a story about a poor man who attempted to rob a thief. The thief scolded him, telling the poor man he was going about it all wrong, and then proceeded to teach him the correct way to rob someone, whereupon the poor man robbed the thief the correct way.”
Nell laughed. “That sounds like one of my father’s stories.”
“After the story your father likened the thief to Bishop Laud, pointing out that the bishop was teaching England to hate and kill and that his teaching would be his own undoing. According to the reports I read of Laud’s trial, the prosecutor had no ears and wore brands on his cheeks, one of the bishop’s former victims.”
Nell pointed to the envelope.
“Why do you keep that?”
“I don’t know. Does it disturb you?”
“A little.”
It was a letter from Archbishop Laud, written from London’s Tower just days before his execution. Drew didn’t receive it until well after the archbishop’s death.
In the letter the archbishop wrote that no one had ever hurt him as much as Drew. He said he had no remorse for his actions. There was no mention of Eliot. At the bottom of the letter the bishop had written: (6/1/17/20–23) (40/5/14/13) (5/1/7/5–6) (22/5/4/1–2) —“God be with thee on your journey. My beloved.”
Nell reached over and closed the journal.
“I don’t want to think about Archbishop Laud today,” she said. “This is a special day, and I don’t want him ruining it.”
“Like it or not,” Drew replied, “we never would have met if it weren’t for him.”
“I still don’t want to think about him today.”
She pointed to the Bible resting next to the journal, the one Bishop Laud had given him, the translation authorized by King James.
“And I still don’t like that Bible,” she said.
She squeezed his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Come, it’s time.”
Drew and Nell Morgan walked arm-in-arm down the hill toward the old meeting tree, no longer the place for town business and worship services once the church building had been erected.
Waiting for them was their family.
Christopher, their eldest son, twenty years old.
Lucy, nineteen, standing next to her intended, William Sinclair, a schoolmaster.
And Roger, sixteen, who resembled his father at that age.
Drew stood tall before them, a proud father.
Christopher had associated himself with Reverend John Eliot, the former pastor of Roxbury, in missionary activities among the Indians. Together with his mentor, he was learning Indian dialects and assisting the missionary in founding thirteen colonies of “Praying Indians,” comprised of over 1,000 members.
Lucy was a headstrong young woman who championed the abused, neglected, and the outcasts. Her outspokenness had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion. Yet she was a woman of conviction, and although her father didn’t always agree with her, he was proud of her determined spirit.
Roger was still an unknown. He spent his days daydreaming of pioneers and tales of western adventure.
“A Morgan family tradition begins today,” Drew began.
He appraised each child separately.
Christopher had his mother’s brown eyes; Lucy, with her beautiful, long, straight hair, resembled Jenny, the aunt she never knew; Roger was fidgety, restless.
“The tradition we begin today marks the passing of our family’s spiritual heritage from one generation to the next.”
Drew held up his Bible.
“This is the symbol of our heritage, the Bible I brought with me from England. Inside—”
Drew opened the Bible and pulled out a cloth cross.
“—is a cross of lace, your mother’s contribution to our legacy.”
Lovingly, he laid the cross in the crease between two pages and closed the book.
“The person who possesses this Bible has a twofold obligation. First, it will be his responsibility to ensure that the spiritual heritage of the Morgan family is passed to his progeny. Second, it will be his responsibility to select a person worthy of this heritage to succeed him. In a family ceremony like this one, he will deliver this Bible, this cross, and an admonition to the candidate to remain faithful to God and His Word.”
Nell scowled at Roger. He was drawing something in the dirt with his shoe and not paying attention. The boy caught his mother’s glance, sighed, and looked at his father.
“In the front of the Bible,” Drew opened the cover, “there will be a list of each person who has been entrusted with the care of the Morgan spiritual heritage. The list begins with my name.
He read aloud:
Drew Morgan, 1630. Zechariah 4:6.
“Below my name, I have written:
Christopher Morgan, 1654, Matthew 28:19.
Christopher smiled. He liked his father’s choice of verse.
“The Scripture reference that accompanies my name was given to me by my spiritual father, your grandfather, Christopher Matthews. It has become my life’s verse. As Christopher’s father, I have chosen a life verse for him: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
Drew Morgan handed the Bible to his eldest son.
“As the head of the Morgan family, I entrust to your keeping the responsibility of carrying on the Morgan family faith. My prayer for you is that God will bless you with a son and that one day you will hand this Bible to him with a similar charge. I also pray that you will be as proud of him as I am of you.”
Drew hugged his son. Nell kissed Christopher on the cheek.
“Before God, I promise to do my best to make you proud of me,” Christopher said.
For the remainder of the afternoon, the Morgan family and William Sinclair sat beneath the meeting tree reminiscing about growing up in Boston Colony and telling various family tales, many of them having been stretched beyond believability. The highlight of the afternoon came when Drew Morgan related his children the narrative of the beginning of the Morgan family faith.
“The story begins at Windsor Castle,” he said, “the day I met Bishop Laud. For it was on that day my life began its downward direction.”