Consisting of six adjacent towns, the Potteries employed thousands of people in the digging, mixing, molding, decorating, and firing of the wonderful Staffordshire clay. Every town had its potbank yards, the factories where the clay was fired. Massive “bottle ovens” filled these yards, some three and four stories high. They spewed clouds of black smoke into the sky. The bottle ovens got their name because they were shaped like the top half of a whiskey jug. Fat at the bottom, they tapered off into rounded cones at the top, the chimney forming the mouth of the “bottle.” Derek Ingalls had heard about the Potteries, of course. Who in England hadn’t? But he never dreamed how extensive the factories were, and even now, after being here for six weeks, he found himself staring in wonder at the great ovens.
Derek looked across the street to the shop where some of the area’s finest Wedgwood was on display. He was tempted to cross over, but pushed it away. The small vase, not much bigger than a coffee cup but so exquisitely shaped, would still be there. It had been for six weeks and he didn’t expect it to be gone now. The reason he didn’t go look at it again was that it depressed him terribly. The floral design, laid in such delicate bas-relief over the powder blue surface, was so like Rebecca’s own loveliness. But the ten-pound cost—somewhere around fifty American dollars—was so astronomically beyond his means, that it only made him feel the worse each time he looked at it. Oh, my darling Rebecca. How I would love to bring it home to you.
He walked on, not looking back, head down in dejection.
As Derek moved along, past the factories and into the residential section of Hanley, back toward the home of William and Ann Benbow, his spirits fell even further. Would they be leaving this place? Would they be saying good-bye to the members and the new converts they had made in the past month and a half?
It had been a wonderful six weeks. The people were warm and generous, even in the midst of their own poverty. England was undergoing hard times at the moment, even more than when Derek had been here, and there was widespread unemployment. The Potteries drew thousands of people looking for work. Often men, women, and children worked around the clock in the potbank yards, nearly suffocating from the heavy smoke or fainting from working too close to the great ovens. They made barely a pittance for ten- and twelve- and fourteen-hour days, and yet they gladly shared their food and their homes with the missionaries from America. Derek had grown very close to many of the families.
They had already baptized forty people, and looked forward to further success as they continued their labors. Then all of that had changed three days before when Theodore Turley returned from Birmingham. He spoke in glowing terms of the richness of the harvest there and urged Wilford to go and labor in that place. To Derek’s surprise, Wilford had been willing to entertain the idea. He would leave Derek and Turley to continue the work in the Potteries, while he went on to Birmingham by himself. Derek had been greatly relieved to hear that he could stay.
Then yesterday, during the worship services, Wilford had shocked everyone with an announcement as he got up to speak. “As we were singing the opening hymn,” he said, “the Spirit whispered to me, ‘Brother Wilford, this is the last meeting you will hold with these people for many days.’ ” That brought cries of dismay from all around. Wilford himself was saddened and shocked, but he was sure enough of the impression that he turned the sermon into his farewell address.
Last evening, as the missionaries sat around the table with William and Ann Benbow, discussing the implications of what all of this meant, there was no agreement. Turley saw the prompting as confirmation that the Apostle should go to Birmingham. The Benbows urged him to go even farther south than that. William had a brother, a well-to-do farmer in the Herefordshire area, southwest of Birmingham. John Benbow and his wife, Jane, were members of a group called the United Brethren. The people who belonged to this group were earnest seekers after the truth, and William and Ann were sure there would be a positive response from the group to the message of the restored gospel. So strongly did William feel about it that he offered to pay Wilford’s way to Herefordshire. So, in typical fashion, Wilford decided to turn it over to the Lord.
He had left early this morning, saying that he would “go in secret before the Lord” and find out what he should do. Derek was returning from an errand for the Benbows, and hoped he hadn’t missed Wilford’s return. He wanted to be there when the answer was announced.
As he rounded the corner and started down the street toward the Benbow home, he saw Theodore Turley hurrying toward him. Turley looked up, then started waving. “Derek! Oh, good. Wilford is just back. He has his answer.”
They were all a little breathless as they finally got settled in the parlor. Wilford waited until all were seated, then he rose slowly. “Brethren. Sister Benbow. As you know, I have sought to know God’s will concerning this work. And he has given me the answer and showed me what it is I must do.”
Every eye was on him now. William Benbow leaned forward, his hands clasped together. Turley was poised on the edge of his seat. Without thinking about it, Derek found himself clutching the arms of his chair.
“It is the Lord’s will that I shall go immediately to the south of England.”
Turley leaned forward eagerly. “So to Birmingham as you planned?”
Wilford shook his head slowly, then turned to William Benbow. “No, the Spirit whispers that we are to go on beyond that. On south to Herefordshire.”
Benbow leaped up. “Wonderful!” he cried. He turned and took his wife’s hands. She was nodding happily. Then he turned back to Wilford. “I shall take you there myself and give you introduction to my brother.”
“Thank you, Brother William.” He turned to Turley. “Brother Theodore, I should like you to remain in Staffordshire so that the work here does not suffer.”
“Of course,” Turley said immediately.
Derek held his breath, waiting. Finally, Wilford turned to him and smiled. “Brother Derek, the Spirit whispers that you are to accompany me.”
Derek Ingalls had basically known two areas of England. His family had always lived in the heavily industrialized area of Lancashire, which was in the west-central part of England, bordering the Irish Sea. His father was a factory worker, his mother a laundress. Times had been very difficult. Their diet was poor and their living conditions barely marginal, so when a cholera epidemic swept through western England in 1829, it hit the Ingalls family very hard. When it was over, only Derek and Peter were still alive. Over the next few years, Derek had moved from town to town in Lancashire to avoid the social welfare people who wanted to take Peter away from him. Eventually they settled in Preston, with both Peter and Derek working the textile factories.
Then six weeks ago, Derek had moved to his second area, the area of Staffordshire, with Elder Woodruff. Like Lancashire, this area was also crowded and filled with factories, only here it wasn’t textiles but pottery which drove the wheels of industry. Both enterprises left the air thickly polluted, the living conditions for the workers wretched and grossly overcrowded. In both cases the slightest downturn in the economy would throw thousands out of work and greatly add to the misery of the population.
So Herefordshire came as a wonderful surprise to Derek. As they walked along, enjoying a brief time of early spring sunshine, Derek was reminded of the beautiful farmland of Pennsylvania and upstate New York. Here the soil, where it had been recently plowed for spring planting, was rich and black. Many houses were large and well constructed, clearly testifying to the prosperity of their owners. Others, obviously the residences of the tenant farmers, were little more than one-room cottages, but they were clean and the yards well kept. Livestock dotted green sweeps of pastureland. Fields were divided off into a patchwork of squares and rectangles by rock or rail fences or thick hedgerows. A short distance to the east of them, the land rose gracefully to form the Malvern Hills. This was a small range of gentle peaks rising a few hundred feet higher than the surrounding countryside and covered here and there
with trees.
He turned to William Benbow. “I can scarce believe my eyes,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve not ever dreamed there was such a place in my native land.”
“Aye,” Benbow replied. “This is a lovely place, and the people are just as fine as the land itself. Mark my words, Brother Wilford, you have made a wise choice.”
True to his word, William Benbow had paid their passage down, bringing his eight-year-old son along for company on the return home. They had taken an omnibus—a covered coach with benches that seated up to twenty passengers—to Wolverhampton, then taken a coach to Worcester. From there they had started walking. The March air was cool, but the late-afternoon sun was out and Wilford had his coat off. Sweat beaded most of their foreheads and stained their shirts.
“How much farther, Brother William?” Wilford asked.
“Not far now at all,” Benbow’s son answered. “We just passed through the village of Castle Froome. Uncle John’s house is just down the road a bit.”
“Less than half a mile, I’d wager,” Benbow agreed.
“How far have we come from Worcester?” Wilford asked.
“Nearly fourteen miles, I’d wager,” William answered.
“It’s Woos-ter, Brother Wilford,” Derek teased, “not Wor-chest-er.”
Wilford muttered something under his breath, and Benbow laughed heartily. “You’ve got to get that American pronunciation out of your head,” he said.
“Well, why don’t they pronounce it like they spell it? What’s with you English? Don’t you know your own language?”
“It makes perfect sense,” Derek retorted. “It’s Woos-ter, not Wor-chest-er. Glahs-ter, not Glou-chest-er. Lehs-ter not Lay-chest-er. The term shire—what in America we call a county—is simply added to get the larger geographic designation. So Woostershur, Glahstershur, Lehstershur. It’s as simple as that.”
“Ha!” Wilford snorted. “Simple isn’t the word. Black treacle, you say? Why not just call it molasses? And where do you get off calling your day’s plan a shed-jule. Any one with half a brain knows it’s a sked-yool.”
Benbow put his hands over his ears, feigning pain. “Oh, please,” he cried.
“Speaking of eating black treacle,” Derek laughed, “please don’t ask for a napkin at dinner tonight.”
“Why not? Must I call it a nahp-kin?” Wilford rolled the “ah” sound with great exaggeration.
The Benbow boy squealed with delight. “A napkin, or a nappy, as we call it, is something you put on a baby’s bottom. They shall think you daft if you ask for one at dinner.”
“Ask for a serviette instead,” Derek explained. “It is much more refined.”
Wilford just shook his head, thoroughly disgusted. “And you say I’m daft. Well, here’s one for you. You never say a person is in the hospital, like a normal man would. You drop the article and say he is in hospital.” He pulled a face. “In hospital. It sounds like you’re talking baby talk.”
Derek had an answer to that one. “If someone is arrested, where do they put him?”
“In jail.”
“Not in the jail. Does that sound like baby talk to you?”
Benbow rescued Wilford at that moment. He looked up, pointing down the road a short distance. “There! There it is. The large stucco house with the two chimneys. That’s the home of my brother John. We’re here.”
“Where’s the American preacher?”
Derek turned. Just behind him, a large man was shoving his way through the crowd of people at the doorway and coming into the room. John Benbow heard him too, for he broke loose from the group and started through the crowded room toward them. Derek didn’t wait for him. “Here, sir,” he said, raising a hand.
The man looked surprised. There was no mistaking Derek’s accent. “Are you Mr. Woodruff?”
“No, I’m Derek Ingalls, most recently arrived from America.”
The man frowned, suspecting he was being tricked. He was a burly man with thick black eyebrows and a heavy scowl. “Where’s Woodruff?”
Before Derek could answer, John Benbow reached them. “Ah, Constable Pexton. Good evening to you, sir.”
Derek’s face remained expressionless, but inwardly he jumped a little. Constable? By the man’s demeanor, this did not bode well.
“Mr. Benbow, good evening.” They shook hands perfunctorily as the constable looked around the room. “Quite the crowd you have, and there’s still more queued up outside.”
“Yes, we’ve been most gratified by the response to our invitation.”
“So it is a preaching meeting that you’ve called here?”
“Aye.” Benbow smiled easily. “This room is licensed as a preaching room now, you know.”
“Aye, I knew that before I came. But it takes more than a licensed room now, doesn’t it? It takes a licensed preacher as well.” Pexton reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “I’m looking for a Mr. Wilford Woodruff from America. Is he here?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Wilford was pushing his way toward them. When he reached them, he stuck out his hand. “The name is Wilford Woodruff. And you are . . . ?”
“Constable Pexton. Richard Pexton.”
“How do you do, sir?” Wilford said warmly. Now Jane Benbow came over to join her husband. “Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Is there, Constable?” Benbow asked.
He nodded curtly, waving the paper slightly. “I should think so. I have here a warrant for the arrest of Mr. Woodruff.”
Shocked, John Benbow fell back a step. “On what charge?”
“Preaching without a license. The rector of the parish here has sworn out a complaint against you.”
So that was it, Derek thought. Now it began to make sense. The four of them—Wilford and Derek, William Benbow and his son—had arrived in Herefordshire Wednesday night, where they were warmly welcomed by John and Jane Benbow. The Benbows were members of a religious group called the United Brethren, a group of about six hundred in this and nearby counties who were earnestly seeking for a restoration of the gospel as it was taught and practiced anciently. The day following the arrival of Wilford’s party, the Benbows invited friends and neighbors into their home to hear the missionaries. A second meeting was held the next day, and John and Jane Benbow, along with four of their friends, were baptized. Sensing a rich harvest, and understanding now why the Lord had sent them here, Wilford and Derek spent most of Saturday—yesterday—clearing out a pond on the farm property. “We’ll be needing a baptismal site,” Wilford said simply.
Then today Wilford began preaching in earnest. The Benbows and their friends had lined up three different United Brethren congregations for Wilford to preach to throughout the day, the third being the one now gathered at the Benbows’ home. People flocked to hear the missionaries from America. Derek estimated there were more than a thousand between the three meetings. And that was the rub. Someone reported that the Anglican parish church had no more than fifteen or twenty people in the afternoon services. No wonder the rector was upset.
Wilford Woodruff didn’t seem at all perturbed by the news that the warrant was for him. “Well, Constable Pexton, I admire a man faithful to his duty. There is only one slight problem.”
“What is that?” the man asked, half suspiciously.
“I happen to have a license to preach, just like your rector does. I obtained one when we first arrived at Liverpool in January.”
“You did?”
“I did.” Wilford’s smile would have melted the heart of the devil himself. “I’d be happy to get it for you, but as you can see, we have a group of people here who have come to listen to my sermon. The hour has arrived and it’s time to begin. If you don’t mind waiting until I’m finished, I’ll then show you that I am in full compliance with the law.”
The law officer seemed impressed by Wilford’s open manner. “Fair enough, sir,” he said. There was a quick, self-conscious grin. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve been a little curious myse
lf after hearing everybody talking about you. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“Then find yourself a chair,” Wilford boomed, “and we’ll get the meeting started.”
This was the third sermon Wilford Woodruff had preached in the last eight hours, and Derek worried a little that his voice might give out on him. But he should have known better. They sang a hymn, and John Benbow called on his brother to give an opening prayer. Many of the people crowded into the room had been in one of the earlier worship services, so John took only a minute to introduce Wilford and Derek.
The moment the Apostle stood, it was evident that the power of God was upon him. Wilford Woodruff was thirty-two years old and the product of backcountry Connecticut. He was a miller by trade and a missionary by profession, as he liked to say. From the earliest days of his conversion to the Church, he had been an indefatigable emissary for the gospel. As they had walked the fourteen miles from Worcester to the Benbow farm, he had shared with his companions some of his missionary experiences in the southern United States. Though he had been only a priest at
the time, he had had numerous experiences with the power of God, with angels, and with God’s protective hand.
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