“Truth be told, I can scarcely carry a tune. I’ve always liked that particular hymn, though. It’s rather lovely, isn’t it?”
She was right. It was lovely, and as much as he didn’t much like these meetings, he did like to hear all those voices singing together, especially when it was “The Old Hundredth,” one of his favourites.
“You should sing anyway,” he said. “The Lord doesn’t mind if it’s not in tune.”
“But the people standing next to me might. It would certainly drive all the loveliness out of the hymn.” She giggled as she said this, and he could do nothing but smile back at her.
He left her with Minta, and was immediately claimed by Mr. Varney, who wanted to rehash the incident in the Demorestville churchyard, and Mrs. Varney, who wanted to fill him in on the shortcomings of those who had stepped forward during the morning.
“That girl with the yellow hair is no better than she should be,” she said. “I sincerely hope she’s found the Lord and will mend her ways.”
“Well, be assured the Lord can work miracles,” he replied.
“I notice that Rachel Jessup was sticking pretty close to you. Is she thinking of joining the society?”
“I don’t know. She’s here with her sister-in-law and was only standing with me because Minta needed to sit down.”
“Poor Minta — married to that great hulk of a man. You can tell he’s a brute just by the look of him. I suppose she’s expecting and that’s why she looks so tired.”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he had been given that information in confidence or not and, after all, Betsy had already figured it out. He had just about decided that it didn’t matter when Mrs. Varney went on.
“You can tell, with some of them. They start looking peaky as soon as the child starts. Some women just aren’t cut out for easy childbirth. I suppose that’s why Rachel is living with them, to help out.”
“Yes, that’s my understanding.”
Mrs. Varney snorted. “I don’t know how much help she is. Every time you look around there’s a mob of boys around her. Not that I’ve ever heard anything against the girl, mind, but you have to wonder. They always say that where there’s smoke, there’s sure to be fire. You just really have to wonder.”
“Well, no, Mrs. Varney, you don’t. You don’t have to wonder at all.” He nodded his goodbyes and began to walk around the edge of the crowd, many of whom were lighting fires in preparation for the evening meal while giving half an ear to the preacher on the platform.
He stepped around old folks, mothers and babies, and small children playing at the edge of the field. As he picked his way through an entire encampment of what seemed to be one huge, extended family, he stumbled into the small weaselly boy that Rachel had commented on with disgust, who had been picking his way in the opposite direction.
“Isn’t this wonderful,” he exclaimed when he realized that he had bumped into a minister. “It’s incredible to see the spirit of the Lord at work. By the way, I saw that you were standing with Rachel Jessup. You don’t happen to know which way she went, do you?”
So, he had been right. Morgan Spicer’s mind had been on girls instead of on the Lord.
“I believe she’s sitting with her sister-in-law at the other side of the field,” he said. “What did you want her for?”
He seemed a little taken aback at the directness of the question. “Why, to let her know that I’m saved, that I have seen the glory of the Lord. Besides, I have a present for her.”
He opened his hand to show Lewis one of the little pocket-sized books that were for sale all over the campground. This one had a cheap red leather cover, the colour from which was already smudging the boy’s hands. The print inside was minute, so small that he had to squint to make any of it out. It consisted of the Book of Proverbs, an odd choice for a young man to give to a girl, he would have thought. Several sections of the Bible had been bound up separately, some in red covers, some in green, still others in brown, but all of them cheaply made and sure to fall apart with much use. He wondered why these miniature unreadable trinkets were so popular. The young man looked pleased with his purchase, though, so he kept his comments to himself. He shrugged. “Well, carry on then.”
He knew Spicer was expecting him to rejoice, to congratulate him on being saved, but the truth was that he wasn’t at all sure that there was anything to rejoice about. It had happened too easily, in too mealy-mouthed a way to sit comfortably. He’d wait and see the depth of the boy’s commitment before he offered any encouragement.
He kept an eye on the weedy little figure as he continued his journey to the other side of the field, and noted that he was probably far too late to grab much of Rachel’s attention. She was already surrounded by a group of young men and was deep in conversation with one of the Caddick brothers.
VI
Upon his return home the next day, Betsy informed Lewis that some men had come to the house, again asking why her husband had not yet reported to Kingston.
“I told them you’re a minister now and won’t fight. They said it didn’t matter, everyone was to report, and that if you didn’t, it would prove what everybody knows — that the Methodists are traitors. You won’t have to go, will you?”
“I won’t go to fight, but I will have to go to Kingston and straighten it out,” he said. He had put it off too long already. He made arrangements with the local preachers to cover his meetings for a couple of days, repacked his saddle bag, and set off.
As he picked his way along the road, he reflected that, conscience notwithstanding, he was happy of an excuse not to go to war again. He had been a young man when he fought the Americans in 1812, full of himself and ready to achieve glory. The reality of the thing had been quite different than he had imagined: smelly, noisy, chaotic, and at times terrifying. Blood, vomit, and lice had been everyday companions.
When he wasn’t terrified, he had been bored. But it was those moments of terror that stuck with him most, those moments that still caused him to wake from the nightmares in a cold sweat. He had seen legs blown off, a man with half his face shot away, dead bodies stiffening in the winter wind.
He’d got off lucky, in a way. He had fallen ill — a malady that later proved to be typhus — and he had been invalided home. After he had recovered, he’d begun to drink and had been drunk for fifty days straight, he was told, though he could scarcely remember any of it. He could only recall not wanting to remember anything about the war. After he recovered from his binge, he’d found both Betsy and the Lord in the same week. He felt sure that the juxtaposition was no accident. Without Betsy, he would never have realized the depths he’d sunk to; without the Lord, he wasn’t sure that Betsy would have given him the time of day.
He was perspiring by the time he reached the gates of the stone fort at Kingston, even though it was a brisk day and the wind was switching to the north. He asked the sentry if he could speak with the officer in charge.
“Why do you want him?” the sentry asked in that arrogant and challenging way that soldiers adopt when dealing with civilians.
“That’s my business,” Lewis replied.
“Are
