I don’t know,” he said to the beefy red-faced farmer who had expressed this opinion. By all accounts this man kept his wife and daughters in a state of abject subservience, enforced by the strength of his fists. “I find their minds quite fine, if you give them half a chance. I’m not sure why the Lord would have made them so, if He didn’t intend them to do something with it.”
The farmer had snorted, and Lewis knew that the conversation would be repeated, and that the suitability of the new schoolmaster could well be called into question. He didn’t care. In spite of the fact that the work was so much less physically demanding and that he was enjoying the regular hours and the fact that he could spend more time with Betsy and Martha, the old hankering to ride the circuit resurfaced within a few months. He felt he was doing the Lord’s work, at least in a small degree, by shaping young minds, but it didn’t compare with the comfort he could bring to those who struggled with the task of living a moral life whilst all around them the devil’s work prospered.
Morgan Spicer came to see him from time to time. Visiting the sick was something that he considered his duty, and whenever his round brought him close to Bath he would drop by the school or the house and make polite inquiries as to how Lewis was getting on. He had not yet achieved an appointment, but was continuing to preach wherever he could find someone to listen. It wasn’t always easy for him. Now that the Episcopals had taken control of their own church again, the front was well-serviced by bona fide ministers. People in the towns viewed the brash young man with suspicion when he began to speak of the Lord, and often questioned his affiliations. Even in the backcountry, where so often any religion was welcomed, the settlers looked askance at this ugly little preacher who garbled his sentences and misquoted so many passages.
“It’s the Wesleyans that are the problem,” he said to Lewis with an air of great certainty. “They continue to spread their vile rumours about us.”
Lewis might have taken issue with Spicer’s use of the word “us,” but he didn’t. He was tired of squabbling over these matters. He had seen too much of it over the past few years and had no energy for it in his present state. He was too fragile. Physically, he was mending, although it was a long, slow process. Mentally he found it difficult to come to terms with the shift in thinking that had resulted from his encounter on the ice. His ill will toward Renwell had festered for so long that its absence created a hole where the hate had been, and he had yet to find anything to fill it. He now understood that the Lord had forced him to confront his own shortcomings and, having seen them, it was up to him to address them. He spent much time in prayer and contemplation trying to understand what it was he was supposed to do, but try as he might, plead as he might, no soul-cleansing burst of illumination came to him.
He set this aside for a time in the hope that perspective might come to him at some future date, and turned his thoughts instead to the more temporal problem of the murders themselves. If Renwell had not committed them, then who had? He remained convinced that one hand had slain them all. He decided that it had to have been someone who was a traveller like himself, someone who had licence to ride the country, who would draw no comment as they made their rounds, whose presence would never be commented on or remembered. And therein lay the problem — if no one marked the presence of a stranger, how could his wanderings be tracked? No, not a stranger, someone familiar — someone everyone was used to seeing.
There were the saddlebag preachers, who rode long distances as a matter of course and whose circuits varied from year to year. He wanted to immediately reject this notion, to protest that no man of God would commit such heinous deeds, but he knew he could not. Anyone who had opportunity must remain suspect. He thought of the many ministers he knew, both in the Methodist Episcopal faith and otherwise, but many of those had been appointed to distant circuits, well beyond reasonable riding distance to the locations of the crimes. No one really supervised where any of them were at any given moment, but he felt certain that he could eliminate the farthest-flung. Who, then, was closer, and could have ridden, killed, then returned home again? And then he realized with a start that the only preacher who had been indisputably present on or near the circuits where the murders occurred was he himself. He felt as though he had boxed himself into a corner with this logic, until he stopped to consider Morgan Spicer. He had no idea whether or not Spicer had been anywhere near when Sarah was murdered, but he had certainly been present in both Demorestville and Prescott. Two out of three. And he was such an odd, unpleasant boy that it would be easy to believe him capable of killing. He would mark Spicer as a possibility and try to keep a closer eye on him.
Soldiers often travelled through the colony, but most often with their regiments unless they were on leave. This group consisted of such a large number of people that it was impossible for Lewis to assess the possibility. Besides, there had been no soldiers in Demorestville when Rachel was murdered. Soldiers wore uniforms, even the militia regulars had insignia that marked them, plus they had all been ordered to report for duty during that time, even the old soldiers like him.
Almost any crime along this part of the front was automatically attributed to Bill Johnston in spite of the fact that the old pirate had somehow managed to obtain a pardon from the Americans. He had approached the outgoing Van Buren with a petition, but the president had replied that he’d far sooner see him shot or hanged. Johnston simply waited in Washington for ten days until President Harrison took office and tried again. Harrison obligingly signed the necessary papers and Johnston returned triumphant to the Thousand Islands. He was back to his old tricks again by June.
Just as the steamer Great Britain was preparing to leave Oswego, New York, on her journey to the Canadian shore, a man boarded with a small box — not an unusual item for a passenger to bring aboard. The box was placed with other baggage in front of the door to the ladies’ cabin. A few minutes after the boat left the wharf, the box exploded. It had contained three jars of gunpowder packed in wool, with a lighted slow match underneath. The explosion did not have the desired effect, the injury being confined to the breaking of a few windows in the ladies’ cabin and the blowing out of the skylight above. Nor did the perpetrator have the sense to leave the boat in a timely fashion; he was arrested and immediately denounced another man he claimed was the chief instigator of the diabolical attempt. As this second man, Benjamin Lett, was a well-known associate of Johnston’s, he was at once taken to the Auburn County Gaol, whereupon he promptly escaped, with or without help, it wasn’t known. It appeared that Johnston was annoyed by the Canadian steamer owners who rushed to American ports to offer pleasure excursions on the Fourth of July, taking advantage of the many celebrations offered on the republic’s Independence Day.
In a widely printed proclamation Johnston thundered his wrath:
It is well-known that the owners of this boat are violent British Tories and bitter enemies of American Democratic institutions, but in order to fleece American citizens and fill their coffers with half-dollars at their expense, they pretend to aid in the celebration of a day they abhor and detest.
The inhabitants of New York were warned not to patronize these excursions “if they value life.”
It was clear that Johnston had reassembled some of his old crew and that they were quite prepared to continue a vendetta against anything representing British authority. Lewis found it interesting that the old scoundrel had sent his underlings to carry out the deed, rather than leading the expedition himself. Maybe he was finally getting too old to do his own plundering.
He remained unconvinced that the pirate was connected with the murders in any way. Johnston preferred political targets for the most part. There was no profit in attacking lone women, and in the course of the majority of his crimes, he had always made sure that there was booty involved — a financial reward that could be split with the ruffians who followed him. No, Bill Johnston made no sense, and yet, could he be discounted entirely? He had no discernible motive as far as Lewis could see, but what did he know of pirates and their reasoning? His logic had proved faulty when it came to Francis Renwell. Could he now trust this conclusion? Perhaps the old man had a private taste
