Providence intervened. The Aurora Academy for Young Females was full to overflowing and could admit no more pupils until fall. Besides, Squire Jerrold’s indignation had been weakening. The thought of his household, bereft of Dinty’s liveliness and laughter and love was too much for him. He put her on probation. As long as she kept out of mischief, the sentence to Aurora would be suspended. One more misstep, though, and off she should go.
It was a respite. In her soul Dinty doubted that it was anything more.
– 14 –
I hope it is not Sinful to say it, dear Diary, but Sometimes Church is as Exciting as the Play.
(DINTY’S DIARY)
With the first purpling of the spears in the great mint meadows which vied with the hemp fields as the village’s chief agricultural industry, the black mosquitoes once more assumed their gymnastic posture on the walls of the canal shacks. Fever should now appear, Horace reckoned, if Quaila Crego’s lore and the theory of the Medical Repository were well founded. As science knew nothing of the incubative period, he naturally expected to find malaria following close upon its insect cause.
He rode Fleetfoot down the valley on an inspection tour. Medically it was a disappointing trip. Not a case of the shakes did he find. Was the mosquito theory just another superstition? Dr. Murchison would have told him so, with appropriate derision. The old boy would have cited authorities to prove that fever was, itself, a disease; that all fevers, whether scarlatina, spotted, typhous, bilious, or malarial were really varieties of the same fundamental and specific ailment. Physicians of the conservative school still clung tenaciously to that belief.
Horace’s exploratory visit was not entirely profitless. Old Bill Shea welcomed him and took him to the bunkhouse where several of his workers were groaning over their distended bellies. The re-opened latrines had exuded their foul breath, the flies had gathered, and the withers of men were wrung with the inevitable dysentery. The doctor prescribed medicines for the men and demanded lime for the drains. Under the urging of Old Bill, Genter Latham grudgingly authorized the outlay and even winked at a weekly expense allowance to “that young science-monger” as he termed Horace with good-humored contempt. He offered to loan him to Squire Jerrold, but the Squire balked at the cost, slight though it was.
The Jerrold project was going badly. It was losing men and money daily. In fact, all up and down the line, except on Geneseo Martin’s short and busy stretch and where Shea’s men were driving hard toward the village bounds of Palmyra, performance was growing slacker, progress slower, and desertions more frequent. Clinton’s Ditch was getting a bad name.
The Governor’s political enemies fostered the fears. Wherever the canal went, they charged, it carried with it disease and corruption, physical and moral. Agues shook the countryside like earthquakes. Miasmas, lurking in the decayed vegetation, were stirred up, dispersing fevers among the defenseless citizenry. An intestinal epidemic in the Clyde region raged with such violence that young children were carried off in a day. Whispers of the Black Plague went abroad. It might be a judgment of God upon those who, unsatisfied with the lakes and streams constituting His natural waterways, undertook to supplant them by the puny and impious hand of man.
A proponent of this gospel, the Rev. Philo Sickel, was preaching powerfully in the non-canal towns, which were both fearful and jealous of the prosperity so lavishly promised by the Clintonians, and already proving itself where the traffic was in operation. Exhorter Sickel, the Scythe of Salvation, as he exploited himself, was now projecting a tour along the line of the work-in-hand, to deliver his already famous discourse on the Seven Plagues of Erie. These he listed as Harlotry, Blasphemy, Bastardy, Drunkenness, Rioting and (counting them as two to fill out the number) Chills and Fever. He made out a pretty good ex-parte case.
The Exhorter was a follower of the furious Finney, whose hellfire fulminations were then cowing the sinners of New England. Like his master, the disciple held a pessimistic view of humanity’s chances; his baleful prognostications of the race’s future gave pleasurable thrills to those assured of salvation and herded backsliders into the fold through the dire impulsion of terror. He was specially effective with impressionable children even to the extent of inducing mild hysteria. His personality was dankly formidable: a gaunt, lowering face, old for its thirty years, a ponderous form, always draped in black, and a voice that had been known to loosen putty on church windows.
Perspiring mildly in the early July heat, the Rev. Theron Strang sat at the editorial desk of his weekly, conducted to the greater glory of God with little reference to the news, and sighed over the Local Item which he was penning.
Our Brother in Christ, the Rev. Philo Sickel, will visit our village in the near future and conduct a series of Revival and Temperance meetings. He will also inspire a refreshment of piety among our Presbyterian young people by personal visitation and wrestlings of the Spirit. His first service will deal with the Curse of Strong Drink, in which he will be assisted by Kumoolah, the Reformed Cannibal from the Sandwich Islands.
From Parson Strang’s viewpoint, Exhorter Sickel might he a Brother in Christ, but he was also a Thorn in the Flesh. For the path of his gospel was strewn with factional dissension and the bitterness of creed against creed. In his innermost heart the old clergyman revolted from conversion by terrorization. He was a stern and rock-bound theologian, but he could not exclude mildly charitable allowances for alien sects; he had been heard to express the hope that the righteous of soul among Baptists, Methodists, Episcopalians, and Congregationalists might find salvation in the eternal mercy of God, and even that Romanists and Universalists of spotless life might escape total vengeance. Beneath his austere crust of creed and observance lay a submerged tenderness and abiding charity for all men. The Finney or hellfire presumption of damnation for all failed to enlist his approval.
By all means, let the Scythe of Salvation slash at the Demon Rum. It was a safer topic than the Seven Plagues of Erie. Indeed, he had written to the Exhorter, temperately suggesting that unless the spirit moved potently in the direction of martyrdom by egg and turnip, he would be well advised to shun the explosive topic of the canal.
The revivalist pair were housed, upon arrival, with the Levering family, much to Miss Agatha’s gratification. For the maiden was troubled in soul over her betrothed and perceived in the coming services a chance of salvation. She realized that Horace was what is known as a drinking man, though perhaps not in an immoderate degree. Exhorter Sickel’s widely praised discourse, “Hell’s Brew, or the Spawn of the Serpent within our Entrails, with Examples” had arrested hundreds on the very threshold of destruction. Might it not turn the young physician against the Temptations of the Taproom?
Horace was bidden to supper at the Leverings’, where he observed with covert disfavor the assumptions of the two proselytizers. Contrary to her usual maidenly custom of modesty and silence, Agatha perked up to the extent of relating instances within her own experience of young men for whom the first swallow had been the prelude to ruin. One was a third cousin on her mother’s side.
“Every morning of his life,” said she in hushed tones, “he drank a tot of hot buttered rum. He ended by becoming an actor on the stage and falling into the lowest associations.”
This was a double-edged thrust aimed at Horace who contented himself with saying, “Indeed!”
All that was most respectable and representative in Palmyra was present in the Presbyterian Church that Wednesday evening, augmented by a liberal representation from the town in general, for the news had passed that something unusual and entertaining was in prospect. Could Horace Amlie have foreseen how generously he was to contribute to the public’s entertainment, he would have staged away.
Early to arrive, the affianced couple found the aisles already filling up with chairs, stools and milk-benches in anticipation of an overflow. They were lucky to find two seats in a rear pew. Looking about him, a practice reprehended by Agatha as savoring of worldly preoccupations
, Horace noted some faces unfamiliar in that environment, among them Sarah Dorch and, more surprisingly, Silverhorn Ramsey, clad in mundane elegance and with the inevitable bugle bulging beneath his coatskirts. As the girl had not been a churchgoer in the days of her beauty and of the liaison with Genter Latham, Horace surmised that she was now seeking the consolations of religion to compensate for the lost satisfactions of the flesh. But Silverhorn! What brought him there? Pure, cussed curiosity, by Horace’s guess.
Further forward he descried Genter Latham’s massive back, and the nodding head of Carlisle Sneed. Near by sat that master of equine invective, Jed Parris, meek and subdued in his Sunday blacks.
The Rev. Mr. Strang rose to announce that the services would be divided into two parts: Part I, the Edifying Illustrated Temperance Discourse by Brother Philo Sickel, the Scythe of Salvation, assisted by Brother Kumoolah, the Converted Cannibal from the wild jungles of the Sandwich Islands; Part II, a soul-searching of sins with a view to the chastening and redemption of the sinners, conducted by Brother Sickel. It struck Horace that Parson Strang’s announcement had an undertone of distaste. Could it be for his Brother in the Faith?
Tom Daw’s lap-organ wheezed and whined and the congregation, rising, blended pious voices in the hymn which the sardonic Dr. Vought had once named “Old Cathartic” from the opening lines of the second stanza:
Blest be the men
Whose bowels move.
When the Exhorter’s robustious baritone rang out that beatitude, Horace Amlie giggled like an urchin. It was, perhaps, the beginning of his downfall.
The Scythe of Salvation opened by introducing his aide and disciple, Kumoolah, who rose and bowed, revealing himself as a sleek, dusky youth, thick of lip, limpid of eye, kinky of hair, and robed in apostolic white. Under the leadership of his rich basso, the gathering bade musical defiance to the Demon Rum.
Ha! See where the wild-blazing Grogshop appears,
As the red waves of wretchedness swell,
How it burns on the edge of tempestuous years,
The horrible Light-house of Hell!
Exhorter Sickel then spoke briefly for an hour and a quarter, after which he yielded place to his associate. After relating in sorrowing accents a number of titillating tales about wild and naked orgies in his far-distant home, the dark outlander unrolled a canvas brilliant with color, which he held up before the fascinated eyes of the audience.
“Stum-mack of a confirmed drunkard,” he announced.
Horace gave an outraged grunt. From that point he exhibited increasing symptoms of uneasiness and resentment. Inbred in him was the scientific devotee’s hatred of error. Ignorance and assumption were bad enough, but the deliberate lie was poison to his spirit. But for his companion’s light hand on his arm, he would have risen and marched out in disgust, thereby creating a minor scandal and saving both of them a major one.
For when the Scythe of Salvation resumed charge, it was to announce an illustration of how the deadly fire of alcohol possessed itself of the very blood of its victims. All present knew our erring brother, William Simmons, who was—he stated it with grief and pity—a confirmed slave of strong drink. (Bill Simmons blushed humbly in his seat.) In his contrition over his most recent lapse, Mr. Simmons had allowed himself to be blood-let of a pint. Would their respected fellow citizen, the eminent Dr. Gail Murchison, rise and bear witness? Dr. Murchison stood, holding up to view a vial.
“I certify that this blood was drawn by me from the veins of William Simmons at 2 P.M. today. The said Simmons was under the influence of intoxicants,” he stated.
Exhorter Sickel handed the container to his assistant.
“Brother Kumoolah will now demonstrate the awful effects.”
The outlander came forward in his flowing robes, bearing a brass bowl. Into this he poured the contents of the vial (or of a vial; Horace thought that he had discerned a lightning-swift pass of the hand toward a capacious sleeve). He poised a lighted taper above the receptacle.
“Now,” said he with a flash of white teeth, “we shall sssss-ssee.”
He lowered the taper. There was a plop! A flame sprang. It burned waveringly, throwing off a dingy smoke. A great sigh of wonder arose from the people below. The smoke drifted out across the congregation as Kumoolah hovered, spritelike, above the unholy fire.
Horace got a sniff of it. His wrath, too, burst into flame. Agatha made an unavailing clutch at his arm as he rose to his feet, his face white but resolute. He pointed toward the bowl.
“This is a fraud,” he said.
Dr. Murchison popped up, fuming. “Do you accuse me of fraud, sir?”
“No, I don’t.” Indignation had not supplanted Horace’s instinctive fairness. “I don’t doubt that you bled Bill Simmons. But not of the stuff in that bowl.”
“What, then, do you claim it is?”
“Seneca Oil.” He made a gesture of comprehensive and dramatic invitation. “Smell it!”
Noses sniffed audibly. A murmur succeeded. The odor of the illuminant was too familiar to be mistaken. Kumoolah leant to his principal’s ear and whispered rapidly. The Exhorter came forward, extending a damnatory forefinger at Horace.
“Young man, I solemnly exhort you to cease doing Satan’s hellish work and supporting the cause of strong drink,” he boomed.
“I’m not supporting the cause of strong drink,” retorted Horace in equally emphatic tones. “I’m supporting the cause of science against lies. Look at that picture of yours! It’s no more a man’s stomach than it is a pig’s ear.”
“And that ain’t Bill Simmons’s blood, neither,” shrilled the indignant voice of Bill Simmons’s wife.
Above the rising mutter of dissent and doubt, rose the dominating voice of Genter Latham.
“There’s one way to settle this. Bleed him again and let’s see.”
“Not by a damn sight!” said Bill Simmons.
Profanity in the house of worship! A scapegoat was thus opportunely provided for the swelling emotions of the people. The blasphemous alcoholic was rudely hustled out. When quiet was restored Agatha Levering was observed to be weeping privately. Beside her Horace sat bolt upright, his chin at a militant angle. Kumoolah had unostentatiously retired. The Exhorter, quick to sense the tendencies of his public, abandoned his intention of passing the plate, and launched into Part II of the evening. This, he stated, was under the auspices of the Palmyra Society for the Suppression of Vice & Immorality, which had done the spadework and dug up some lamentable instances of total depravity.
Before considering these he would (consulting a slip of paper) bespeak the prayers of the congregation for the sinful souls of Ephraim Upcraft (who bowed a meek head), Bezabeel Fornum (who bobbed a self-conscious acknowledgment), the family of Deacon Dillard (who lifted pious faces to heaven in unison), the Fairlie twins (who had played truant from Sabbath School and were in deep disgrace), Carlisle Sneed (who gave his wife a venomous glance), Jasper Ramsey (that was a facer for Silverhorn!), Araminta Jerrold (aftermath of the Frances Wright episode) and, at the end of a considerable roster of self-or-proxy-confessed malefactors, Sarah Dorch. The girl’s convulsive start apprised Horace that it came as an unwelcome surprise to her.
Passing from the particular to the general, the speaker embarked upon an indictment of Palmyra which would have been extreme as applied to Sodom or Gomorrah. Every count against the developing town was set forth and dealt with in scathing denunciation. The saloons got a five-minute blast, the taverns another five, the Settlement, twice the length with notable attention to detail. The Pinch was held up as a picture of Divine wrath. The sins of the rich and the offenses of the poor received well-apportioned attention. The godless crew of canal laborers was called to a proper accounting and the Great Ditch held chiefly responsible for the town’s parlous state. For one solid hour the golden voice proved that Palmyra was an anteroom to perdition and that its inhabitants marched with the legions of the damned.
There followed a pause for digestion of
the unpalatable outline. The orator shot his cuffs, set his broadcoat, replaced a shock of shining hair maladjusted by the fervor of his eloquence, and boomed forth his first sub-text.
“The lady goes gaily, brave in what she hath not spun, fed fat with what she hath not sown. Her feet take hold on hell and the vengeance of heaven followeth in her steps.”
He leaned out across the Bible stand. The compelling eyes beneath the shaggy brows swung hither and thither, searching, probing until they settled in a steady stare.
“Rise, Sarah Dorch!”
The unfortunate girl gave a gasp, clutched at the back of the seat, turned her head to and fro, hopelessly seeking an avenue of escape.
“Rise and stand forth!” thundered the Exhorter.
Mesmerized by the power of that inexorable summons, Sarah edged past the knees of her neighbors until she reached the exposure of the aisle. There she halted, lax, loose-chinned, terrorized beneath the fascinated regard of the congregation.
“Lift the veil from that face from which a just Judge hath stricken its carnal beauty and bear testimony to your adulterous sins.”
Bending as before an irresistible wind, the girl lowered the impugned face instead of raising it and covered it with her arms. She sobbed, a choking, retching gulp of shame and terror. Her knees gave beneath her. A childish voice pierced the rapt silence.
“I don’t care!” it pronounced passionately. “I think it’s mean.”
Dinty! The rash challenge galvanized Horace Amlie into action. He forced his way along the aisle to where Sarah Dorch’s form lay, crumpled. Another figure reached the girl at the same time. Silverhorn Ramsey and Horace together lifted her to her feet.
“Hale her forward,” said the Exhorter.
Silverhorn laughed. “What’s the Doc’s orders?” he asked Horace.
It reminded Horace of his capacity as a physician. “Got a flask?” he asked.
“Certes.” The silver gleamed in the dim light. Horace moistened the pale lips. They parted in a sigh.
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