Free Because of You by Cathy Maxwell

lecture.
    But to Yale’s surprise, he had agreed.
    “It will make a man of you,” he’d said. He’d pulled from his pockets all of Yale’s debts. He’d bought them up and now held the chits in front of Yale.
    “Here is your inheritance,” he’d said. “Twenty-seven thousand pounds. Wasted.”
    And then he had disinherited his younger son on the spot.
    Yale turned from the window. He now knew how hard it was to earn that sum with one’s sweat. He also understood more of the world now.
    Back then, he’d been hurt when his new friends had deserted him. Doors that had been open to him had slammed shut the minute notice of his disinheritance had been posted in the Gazette.
    He’d gone off to a dockside tavern to get good and drunk. He’d succeeded. He’d also signed on as a crew member of a merchantman.
    When he’d come to his senses, the ship was well out to sea. Foolishly, he’d demanded to be released from the contract he’d signed and had been soundly beaten for his rebellion.
    It had been the making of him.
    He’d stayed with the ship because he’d had no choice—and because he’d rather cut off his own arm than beg his father for forgiveness. When the ship put into port in Naples, a more sober, and somewhat wiser, Yale had found a small church, and there he had made an oath. He vowed he would prove his father wrong. He would not crawl home a broken man like the prodigal son but as a rich man.
    In the ensuing years, there had been times he wondered if he would succeed. Life’s lessons were hard.
    He’d thought himself a swordsman until he’d found himself battling for his life against Mediterranean pirates. He quickly learned tricks not taught by any London fencing master. And no boxing school could teach him how to brawl the way he’d learned on the mean streets of Algiers and Calcutta.
    In time, he’d learned how the world truly measured the worth of a man. His rebelliousness was replaced by a very sincere desire just to stay alive. He’d learned to live in a world where aman’s word was his bond—breaking it could be a death warrant.
    The first gold coin he’d earned by his own labor, he’d put in a leather bag that he wore around his neck, lest one of his comrades should steal it. It had taken him almost another full year to earn another. He’d decided there had to be a better way to build his fortune. He’d purchased a few shares in a sailing ship. In a few years, he’d owned the ship.
    The keen intelligence that had lain dormant through all his history and Latin lessons now became a powerful weapon, especially in the hands of a man who had to educate himself. He’d asked questions and listened hard.
    He’d also learned he had a talent for making money.
    But now, it all seemed hollow—the money, the vow, the desire to show his family he was a man.
    He sat down in the chair in Miss Northrup’s small kitchen. The brick floor made his toes cold. He curled them up under the sheet and crossed his arms, waiting.
    He must have dozed in the warmth by the hearth because when next he knew, a rush of cold air jerked him to consciousness.
    It took him a moment to gather his bearings and when he did, he found himself surrounded by a group of angry men. He immediately recognized the innkeeper and the blacksmith with whom he had left his horse upon arriving in Sproule. The blacksmith was carrying the heavyhammer he used to pound metal into horseshoes. The innkeeper held a club. The other men didn’t look any friendlier. The women he’d met earlier poured in the door behind the men. By the set expressions on everyone’s faces, this was obviously not a social call.
    “Marvin Browne?” questioned an officious man in drab brown and green hunting clothes and a great wool scarf. He cradled an aged blunderbuss in his arms.
    Yale stared at him, refusing to answer.
    “Aye, Squire Biggers, that is Marvin Browne,” Mrs. Sadler answered for him. “See? He’s wearing nothing but the bed