Lewis remonstrated with him.
“You preach your way, I’ll preach mine,” he said. “It’s the Word of the Lord that counts and it matters not what the vehicle is.”
Lewis felt that it mattered very much indeed. Who knew what misinterpretations Spicer was spreading, what ignorance he was perpetuating? But then, he tended to stay away from the towns, and the people he preached to were simple folk, not concerned with the details of ecclesiastical theory. They wanted only the simple words of comfort a preacher offered. Still, he knew that sooner or later he would have to ask the conference to do something about him.
He had just preached at a meeting at the far eastern edge of his circuit, and although there were many there who pressed him to stay the night, he had a sudden hankering to see the graves of Paul and Barbara Heck at the Blue Church Burying Ground. These stalwarts of Methodism had arrived with other Loyalists after the American madness and had been given land in Augusta. Here they had helped to build a small community and gather a congregation. They must have hoped that their village would grow, but nearby Prescott had quickly established itself as the preeminent town in the district. It had a reasonable harbour and attracted a great deal of forwarding traffic, for it stood above the rapids, those roils that hampered the flow of traffic along the St. Lawrence River. Prescott had the added prestige of Fort Wellington, built during the troubles of 1812. The fort had fallen into disrepair since the war, but now it was being re-fitted and expanded in light of the growing tensions across the border. The Hecks and their congregation had never even succeeded in raising a building to go with their graveyard; a subscription had been started but had not garnered the necessary funds. It was left to the Anglicans to accomplish that, but the Blue Church and its Burying Ground was revered as a Methodist shrine of sorts, as much as the Methodists were ever given to that sort of thing. It would take him out of his way, but he was really only a few miles distant and was sure there were many families nearby who would welcome him for the night. He could circle to the southeast, pay his tribute to the Hecks’ graves, then turn west again to make his way back along the shore to Brockville.
He nearly fell from his horse when he heard his name called. He had been deep in thought and had not heard the approach of the peddler’s wagon. It was Isaac Simms.
“I thought it was you,” Simms said when the wagon caught up. “There’s a certain set to the shoulders of a preacher man. You’ve strayed over the border of your circuit, haven’t you?”
“Aye, I know,” Lewis replied. “I thought I’d just visit the Blue Church for a few minutes. I’ve no commitments until tomorrow. Where are you off to?”
“Prescott. There’s a shipment of goods due and my stock is low. I’ll load up and head west.”
“You’re the only man I know who travels more than I do.” Lewis laughed. “Peddlers and preachers know the paths better than anyone.”
Simms asked about Betsy and the rest of his family and Lewis filled him in on the arrangements he had made.
“I’ll be down that way in a few weeks,” Simms said. “I’ll drop in and say hello.” And sell them as much as he can out of his pack, Lewis thought, but then realized that this was uncharitable. It was the man’s living after all.
It was twilight already, an early November nightfall, and had the small boy not been gasping for breath as he ran, they might have missed seeing him altogether. As it was, they heard him coming and reined in until he reached them. He was a lad of about twelve, sobbing and crying as he ran. When he saw the two horsemen he stopped, but had to bend double and catch his breath before he could speak.
Lewis dismounted and went to the boy. “What is it? What’s troubling you? Maybe we can help.”
The boy finally found his breath and stood up. “It’s my brother. He’s only six and he has the fever. I fear he’s dying and mother sent me for the priest, but he’s not at home.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis realized that Simms had stiffened in his seat.
He turned his attention back to the boy. “The priest? You’re Roman, then?”
The boy nodded. “Danny won’t last long, that’s what Mum said, and if I can’t find the priest he’ll never get into heaven and then I won’t ever see him again.” His voice trailed off in a long wail. Simms snorted.
“Where is your cabin, lad?”
The boy pointed toward a sideroad they had just passed. “Just down there, and you turn left where the next road crosses. It’s about a half-mile and then our farm. It’s the only one on the road.”
“And where does the priest live?”
“In Prescott.”
“You’ve run all this way? It’s no wonder you’re winded.” He thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure his ministrations would find any kind of welcome, but he had to try. “Listen, son, I’m not a priest, but I am an ordained minister. I know it’s not the same, but do you think I might bring some comfort to your brother?”
The boy was dubious. “What kind of minister?”
“Methodist. But we worship the same God. Just in a different way. I don’t know your rituals, but I could try to do what I can for him while you continue looking for the priest. What do you think of that?”
“They said he headed up toward Bellamy’s this morning, but that he should be on his way back.”
“That’s fine then. You can carry on and I’ll go and see to your brother.”
He looked up at Simms, hoping that the peddler might take pity and offer to take the boy, but Simms’s face was enough to let him know it was a forlorn hope.
“A priest!” he said. “What a lot of pagan Popish nonsense! What do you think you’re doing, Lewis?”
“I think I’m trying to offer some comfort to a dying child,” Lewis said. “It may not be good enough in his parents’ eyes, but I won’t see a young boy die with nothing.”
“You’re only encouraging their papist nonsense. Besides, they probably won’t even let you in the door. They’re all too set in their heathenish ways to have any truck with a Methodist minister.”
Simms’s face was twisted up in an expression of profound disgust. Lewis shouldn’t have been surprised. As much as the Protestant Churches of Upper Canada fought amongst themselves, there was one thing they all agreed on — the seriousness of “The Popish Threat.” The population of Lower Canada was overwhelmingly Catholic, and any addition to their numbers in the form of Catholic settlers in the upper colony was viewed with alarm. Everyone knew that Catholics would plot and scheme to turn the Canadian colony into a Roman state, and that they would then all be forced to kneel in subjugation to the Pope, and that their souls would be in mortal danger. This alarm, fuelled by ignorance and the shadowy workings of secret lodges often translated into an active discrimination against Catholics, and most specifically Catholic priests, whether they showed any evidence of plotting or not. He knew he was to get no help from Simms. He wasn’t sure himself what he was doing in offering to help, and Simms could well be right — they might turn him away at the door — but he couldn’t walk away from a dying child. He thought of Mary, his first daughter, lying in scalded agony, while he and Betsy sat helpless and he knew that had any man of God come calling he’d have been ushered to her side.
“I would
