“If I get you out, will you leave me alone? Let me go on, unmolested?” Renwell had moved a little closer, and was fingering his scarf. Was it possible that the man would act, after all? Lewis realized that it was, but that the price of his rescue would be to let his daughter’s killer walk away unchallenged.
He had never truly understood the story of Judas and the forty pieces of silver until then. It had always been presented to him as a venal act, an example of the power of money over men’s souls. But he knew now that the silver had nothing to do with the disciple’s treachery. He had agreed to the transaction in order to save himself. He had to marvel at the Lord’s ironical ways. Here he had been praying, begging Him for salvation, and his prayers had been answered, but at a terrible cost. He no longer had even his anger to sustain him. That had been purged by his plunge into the cold, sobering water. The choice was clear — justice for Sarah or life for himself. He had always thought of himself as a man of principle; strange how easy it was to stand on principle until it was tested. Then he realized that there really was no choice at all: he could agree or he could perish — Renwell would walk away no matter what he did.
“Why did you do it, Francis? Just answer me that. Whatever you decide here, just give an answer to that one question, and then you’ll have to let your conscience be your guide. Provided you still have one, of course.”
“Why did I do it? Because of the promise that things might change. We put our trust in Mackenzie; we mistook his ranting as a blueprint for action. And now we know how sadly that trust was misplaced. All of us.” Renwell stood with his head down, lost in the misery of past action.
What nonsense was this? Lewis shook his head, thinking that he had misheard. Why was this man speaking of Mackenzie and trust and things that had no bearing on the matter? Lewis began to doubt himself, to think that he was dreaming the conversation, that the cold had befuddled him into some strange hallucination, and that Renwell had not turned around and come back toward him, but had even now reached the shore and disappeared. He continued speaking anyway. Whether Renwell was actually there or not, it was his only hope. There were no other options.
“I don’t care about Mackenzie. I’m talking about Sarah — and the others. What happens when the bloodlust takes you, Francis?”
“Others? Bloodlust? What are you talking about, Thaddeus?” It was Renwell’s turn to shake his head and look confused.
“Rachel. Rachel Jessup in Demorestville. A woman in a cabin near Prescott. I know it was you. I saw you in Milford, and again when I left Fort Wellington to look for a bed.”
“Fort Wellington? Prescott? I’ve never in my life been in either place. I know you saw me in Milford, for I saw you as well. Demorestville? I’m not even sure where that is.”
Lewis went on. “You did it, didn’t you Francis? You murdered them all — Sarah, Rachel, and the other — there’ll be another and another after that, won’t there?”
A look of anguish crossed the young man’s face. “I didn’t know until days afterward that Sarah was dead. If you knew how many times I wanted to somehow go back in time and take back my actions, to stay with her. How many times I’ve wished I’d never heard the name Mackenzie. If I’d been there, she wouldn’t have died. I know that. And when I saw you that day in Milford, with your accusing looks, I was sure that you blamed me and that you’d take your revenge by turning me in, having me hunted down with the other rebels.”
“I wouldn’t turn you in as a rebel. No, I wouldn’t do that. But as a murderer, yes, I would.”
“A murderer? You think I murdered Sarah? I lost everything that meant anything to me that day. And for what? Foolish politics and a lost cause.”
“And what about the other days? What about the other women? Were they all foolish too?”
“What other women? You think I was with other women?”
“They were all the same, Francis. They all died the same way as Sarah. What else am I to think?”
With a wail of torment, Francis dropped to his knees. “Oh, Thaddeus, are things at such a pass between us that you would think that of me … that I would take pleasure in murder? Oh, my Lord, forgive us both, for we are poor wretched sinners in Your eyes. And I know not which sin is the greatest — my callous actions or your unfounded suspicions. Oh, Thaddeus. Is that what you’ve thought all these months?”
“It is.”
“You are wrong.”
Lewis started to think that he was indeed wrong, and this belief was confirmed in his mind as Renwell pulled the long green scarf from his neck and wound one end around one hand. Stretching himself out as flat as he could, he slowly slithered forward until the other end of the scarf was within Lewis’s reach.
As Lewis tried to grasp the scarf, he realized why he had not been sucked into the water by the river’s current — his woollen mitten and the right sleeve of his coat were frozen to the ice. With an effort that threatened to force his mouth under the water he heaved his left arm up and over the edge, and managed to touch the end of the scarf before he fell back again. Renwell wriggled forward another foot and threw the scarf once more. This time Lewis was able to grab it. Renwell started pulling slowly and steadily, and Lewis felt his body slide a little farther onto the ice. Winding a loop of the scarf around his arm as he inched forward, he was drawn gradually out of the water until he was close enough that Francis could reach his hand. Renwell slid backward gingerly until he was once again on solid ice. With a sharp jerk Lewis freed his frozen coat sleeve, but the mitten was left behind. He could not stand up. He had no feeling in his feet or legs and was so short of breath that attempting to inhale had become a trial. Renwell hunkered beside him, sharing body heat by wrapping his arms around him.
“You have to try to get up, Thaddeus. You can’t stay here. You’ll freeze.”
Lewis tried to get his feet under him, but his legs slid sideways and he collapsed. Then he felt himself being lifted, an arm around him, his body dragged toward the island shore. As he began to put one foot in front of the other a little feeling returned and they made better progress, but he felt a strange lethargy wash over him and he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ice and sleep for a time.
“Keep going, keep going,” Renwell said when he realized what Lewis was trying to do. “You can’t stop.
You have to keep going.”
Lewis tried to focus his numbed mind on the act of walking: One foot down. One foot down, the other foot down. One foot up, one foot down. Keep going. One foot, then the other.
They staggered toward the shore, Lewis at times nearly taking the other man down with him when his strength failed and his knees buckled. Each time he was lifted and urged forward.
When they at last reached the shore that had seemed a million miles distant, Renwell stopped.
“Look, there’s a house just here with a light in the window. They’ll let you in, I’m sure.”
“Where are you going?” He had clung to Renwell, to life, for what had felt like forever, and now he panicked at the thought that he would be alone. He wouldn’t make it to the house on his own, though it was only a few steps farther, he knew he wouldn’t.
“I’m a wanted man, Thaddeus. The reason I disappeared on the night of Sarah’s death was to join Mackenzie and his pathetic little army. She begged me not to go, but I laughed at her fears and off I went. And then, when things went so horribly wrong that night on Yonge Street, when Mackenzie’s pitchfork army was routed, I couldn’t go back. I’d been seen. I was a known rebel. And then I discovered that there was little to go back to anyway. I can’t stay in this country anymore. I’m not sure I’m welcome in any country, but if I can slip into the States I stand at least a chance of starting some kind of new life without the fear of being found out and arrested. It’s either that or Botany Bay. You won’t ever see me again, Thaddeus. I promise you that.”
“Francis …” Lewis wanted to speak so badly, to say that was precisely what he was most afraid of at that moment,
of not ever seeing him again, and that he knew now how mistaken he had been and that he was sorry for it, yet he knew he needed all of his breath for the last few feet of his journey.
Renwell grinned weakly. “It’s all right. It’s enough for me that you know you were wrong. I only hope you realize that you’ve been wrong all along — about everything.”
Lewis nodded.
His grin grew a little broader. “I forgive you, Thaddeus. That’s the Christian thing to do, isn’t it?” And then his voice grew wistful. “Give Martha a kiss for me, will you?”
Renwell led him to the doorstep of the house, gave a quick rap on the door, and disappeared into the darkness. Lewis sank to his knees and scratched at the wood. He fell into the room when the door opened, this he remembered, but then all went black.
III
There was a long period of blackness of which Lewis was aware only by virtue of the fact that when he floated near the threshold of consciousness, he could feel his body — hot, stiff, aching. After that came the dreams, the mind’s effort to assemble events and emotions into a coherent story. He dreamt not, however, of his ordeal on the ice, but of his daughters. Sarah, lying on the bed with the open book in her hands — a dream he had had many times before. But it was his other daughters, the little ones lost to fever and accident, who came to him most often now. One by one they called to him — Grace and Ruth and Anna, none of whom had reached their third birthdays; the babies, each one succumbing to death before they had tasted more than a few days of life; and Mary, most of all, poor Mary. She visited him often — his first daughter, their first child. Memories of he and Betsy happy in the cabin back in the clearing, Mary toddling around after him, curious, laughing.
It had been summer, too hot to light a fire inside, but Betsy had insisted that both her child and her clothes be scrubbed and clean. Lewis had boiled the water outside, in the big iron pot that they used for almost everything, then carefully placed it inside the cabin door. Mary was just behind him, and he thought she was still behind him, following in the hopes that she might be allowed to help him harness the big draught horse, but knowing she would be chased to the safety of her mother’s side. But she was too curious. Wondering what was in the big pot her father had carried so carefully, she peered over the side….
Lewis and Betsy heard her screams and arrived at the cabin door at the same time. Together they reached for the writhing little body, scalding their hands to pull her out. Betsy ripped the dress off the little girl and bundled her in a blanket.
“Get the grease!” Lewis ran to the dry sink and fished underneath for the jar. Together they anointed the burns that ran from just below Mary’s shoulders to her small toes, knowing as they did so that it was futile. No amount of the cold, clammy substance could undo this amount of damage.
The child was strangely quiet as they did this, her eyes wide, her breathing shallow. It was only later that her screams filled the space inside the small cabin. Together they slathered her and tried to soothe her, not daring to pick her up for fear of further damaging the scalded tissue. They sat with her as she sank into a stupor, as the wailing subsided to whimpers. At last that, too, stopped.
Lewis had buried her himself, under a white oak tree that he’d left standing for the shade.
It was then that he had decided to leave farming and ride the circuits. He would have given anything to have had a word of comfort during that time, to have had someone else there to help him endure the sound of a small child’s agony, to assure him that she had left worldly woes behind and had gone to a better place. To tell him that it had been God’s plan, and not his own carelessness, that had taken her life. He would have given up his own soul in a moment to have had her back with him, he knew he would, although that wasn’t a sentiment he shared, not even with Betsy. But it doesn’t work that way, does it? No accommodating devil ever appears when you want him the most.
His only hope was that his life would find favour in the eyes of God, so that he could be reunited with her in Heaven, to see for himself that she was well and happy and whole again. She had been baptized in the Lord, but too young for understanding. Surely she would have been admitted without question, otherwise it would mean that God was a cruel old man and that the gospel of Jesus Christ a joke, and where would that leave him? Cursing his life with no hope of ever seeing Mary again? Or the babies? Or Grace or Ruth or Anna? Or Sarah?
He had thought for a brief time out there on the ice that perhaps he had got it wrong, that perhaps you could bargain with God after all. He had been only too willing to put his own life first. It shocked him that he had been so open to this, that he had even considered it, if only momentarily. But God, in his infinite wisdom, had spared him — not to let a murderer go free, but to point out the error of his thinking. There must be a reason for this, but as much as he had been able to force his feet to keep moving out on the ice, he was unable to force his mind into the steps that would lead him to a coherent conclusion as to what that reason might be. Instead, he surrendered himself to dreams of his lost girls.
When the fog in his mind finally cleared, he became aware of Betsy bending over him.
“Finally,” she said, as she wiped his face with a wet cloth. “I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up.”
He felt very hot. He wanted to ask Betsy what had happened, why she was there, but he couldn’t get his cracked lips to move.
She realized what he wanted to know. She could, after all these years, read him better than he could himself.
“You went through the ice. Mrs. Madigan found you at her door, half frozen. She got you into the house and warmed you up. You’ve been here ever since.”
It turned out that “ever since” amounted to three weeks time. His lungs had been affected, and he had spiked a high fever for days, and a low fever ever since. A Methodist on the island had identified him, and Betsy had been sent for. Everyone had been sure that he would die.
On the third day of his return to the world, Lewis asked what had happened with his appointments.
The lay preachers had taken over the class meetings, he was told, although Betsy snorted and shook her head as she told him. “You have far greater worries than your appointments, Thaddeus. Stop fussing about it.”
Morgan Spicer had visited, apparently to offer his services, and seeing that Lewis was too insensible to give any sort of permission, had gone ahead and preached in his place a few times. Lewis still felt uneasy about Spicer, but there was nothing he could do about it. His circuit would be too much for any of the other itinerants to add to their own rounds. The arrangement would have to do.
After five days, his fever started to abate and it looked as though he would live after all. Betsy pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. She looked at him for a few moments, as if considering how best to approach this husband she had nearly lost. Finally, in a way that was so characteristic of her that Lewis almost laughed, she blurted out the question that must have been plaguing her all these weeks: “What were you doing out there? You’re a better judge of ice than that.”
Her tone would have sounded harsh to anyone listening, but Lewis knew how to take her meaning. All of her worry, the anxiety of the days when she believed that she would soon be a widow, had boiled down to the question of how he could have been so careless when he meant so much to her. He found this lack of sentimentality one of the things he prized in her most. It reaffirmed the strength of their partnership and demanded honesty in return.
“It was Renwell. I followed him.”
There was that look of impatience. He had shared his suspicions many times with her but he knew that she had never subscribed to his theory that Renwell was a killer and that she had long since ceased to blame anyone for Sarah’s death.
“I know, I know. I ran across him quite by accident in The Shambles. He ran as soon as he saw me, and I took that as an admission of guilt. I followed him across the ice, but it opened up where the current was the strongest and I w
ent through. I couldn’t get out, Betsy. It was Francis who saved me. He came back and pulled me out.”
“Of course he did. He’s not a cold-blooded murderer, Thaddeus. I never believed that of him.”
“You always said that. You must remind me from now on to listen to you more.”
She shot him a withering glance, then folded her hands in her lap, appearing to study them as she deliberated. Finally, she spoke.
“I knew he was at the taverns, for Sarah told me so, but he wasn’t there for the drink. He was there for the talk. You and I are too old to understand the lure of rebellion, Thaddeus, too old and settled to know how a call to arms can so easily stir a young man to action. There was talk of glory, talk of a new order, and all the things that rubbed and chafed for so long came bubbling up and threatened to choke them with their injustice. Francis was never meant to be a farmer. Oh, he tried. For the sake of Sarah and Martha both, he tried. But Mackenzie beckoned and he couldn’t help but answer. None of them could. In their eyes it was such a noble cause, and the fine words disguised the truth of the affair — that it was nothing more than the wish to have a little excitement in their lives.”
Lewis thought of himself as a young man in 1812, marching so readily off to the horrors of battle; of the young American boy whose hand he had held while the surgeon chopped away his future; of Matthews and Lount hanged and many more sent across an unfathomable distance to an unimaginable fate, and he knew Betsy was right. A high-flown phrase could set in motion a series of events whose disastrous culmination was impossible to see.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“At first because Sarah asked me not to. She was afraid that you would confront Francis and make it worse. Then later, when she died, I tried to talk to you about it, but you weren’t prepared to listen.” She hesitated, worrying a callus on one finger. “After a time,” she said slowly, “it came to such a pass that I was loathe to even speak the name Francis Renwell, for it would set you off again. I was sure that if you knew where he’d been that night, you would see that he was hunted down like so many of the others were, not because you have anything against the rebels particularly, but as revenge for Sarah. But she was gone, and no act of yours would ever bring her back. To my mind it was a choice between the living and the dead. I chose to tend the living as best I knew how.”
On the Head of a Pin Page 15