“We have something in common,” she said softly. “I’m an idealist too. We’re different in that you dream of the past, while I dream of the future. I dream of a place where people can speak without fear of being killed for expressing themselves. I dream of a country where honesty is the national heritage, where people spend more time amassing friends than they do amassing wealth.”
She glanced over her shoulder to gauge his reaction before continuing. Picking a leaf from the same branch she picked earlier, she folded it with tiny creases. Her voice was softer as she continued.
“I dream of a community where God is King and where all the townspeople are committed to loving and serving God and one another. There is no need for a watchman, no jail, no court. They’re not needed because everyone is just as much concerned about others as they are about themselves. And everyone lives in freedom … freedom from hate, freedom from fear, freedom to love and be loved.”
Nell dropped her folded leaf to the ground.
“Pretty idealistic, huh?”
Drew matched her soft tone.
“When you find your community, let me know. I’d like to live there too.”
As Drew Morgan and Nell Matthews left the castle remnants, late afternoon shadows stretched down the hillside toward the village, like giant arms pointing them toward home and reality. They walked side by side in silence. At times their arms or hands would brush against each other. Drew wanted to take her hand, but he didn’t.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” he said.
Nell’s reply was a smile. To Drew that was better than words. He never knew he could get such good feelings by making someone smile.
As they descended to the town, Drew caught a glimpse of Christopher Matthews emerging from the front doors of the church.
Back to reality. Why must everything be so complicated? To achieve the honor and glory he craved, Drew had to reveal the curate’s illegal practices.
However, he hadn’t counted on falling in love with the curate’s daughter.
Chapter 14
Monday morning would tell if the aura of good feeling generated by the curate on Sunday had any lasting value.
For the Matthews household the morning began like all others. Christopher Matthews was up first, praying and studying his Bible. Then, he slipped outside and prayed some more as he walked through the cornfield at the end of High Street.
Nell and Jenny awoke next. They tiptoed around the sleeping Drew on the floor of the sitting room. He awakened to the sounds of the girls in the kitchen, rose, and hurriedly dressed. The inconvenient part of staying with the Matthews family was his lack of privacy. He was tucking his shirttail in when Jenny emerged from the kitchen door with a bowl of apples in her hands.
“Oh!”
That was all she said as she quickly ducked back into the kitchen.
“It’s all right. I’m dressed,” Drew called after her.
For whatever reason, she didn’t return. As Drew rolled up his bed of blankets, the front door creaked open and the head of the household entered.
“Master Morgan!” beamed the curate. “It’s a fine morning God has given us.”
For most people saying good morning was a ritual. It could be said without effort or thought and had absolutely nothing to do with the person’s opinion of the day. Not so for the curate of Edenford. When Christopher Matthews said, “It’s a fine morning,” he meant it. The tone of his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, and his cheerful smile combined in a convincing display of sincerity.
“You’ve been much in my prayers, young man.”
The curate thumped Drew on the back. Before Drew could respond, something behind him caught the curate’s eye.
“Now there’s a vision of loveliness!” he beamed.
Jenny had emerged from the kitchen, carrying the same bowl of apples she had earlier.
“Poppa!”
She flushed with embarrassment.
Going to her, the curate gave his youngest daughter a one-armed hug.
“And where’s my other beauty?” he asked.
Nell came from the kitchen. Maybe it was the interior light or the lack of trees or ancient stone walls, but the magical radiance that surrounded her on the hillside was gone.
Maybe I’m expecting too much, Drew reasoned. After all, she’s fixing breakfast, not making a ballroom entrance.
The curate hugged his elder daughter with his remaining arm.
“Well, Master Morgan, how long are you going to keep us in suspense? Will you stay with us, or will you be leaving?”
Drew surveyed the faces of the family before him. Oddly enough, of the three, the curate’s face was most hopeful. There was a touch of pleading in Jenny’s eyes. Nell wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking at her father.
“Well, if you’ll have me, I’d like to stay.”
“God be praised!” the curate shouted, hugging his daughters even tighter. Then he bounded toward Drew to congratulate him.
Drew extended his hand. The curate shoved it aside and embraced him, adding a few breath stealing slaps on the back.
Whirling around toward the girls, he said, “Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“Yes, Poppa! Wonderful news!” Jenny’s eyes twinkled as she spoke.
“Just wonderful,” Nell said, as she placed the utensils on the table.
Her response stymied Drew. The words were there, but the emotion was flat.
“I have a confession to make,” the curate said.
All eyes turned to him.
“I already knew you would stay.”
Drew was skeptical.
“God told me,” the curate said.
It was a simple, straightforward statement. He said it in the same way someone would announce news from a neighbor.
“It was just this morning. I was walking in the cornfields, and God told me you were staying.”
The curate grabbed Drew by the shoulders and looked him square in the face.
“My boy, God has something important for you to do in Edenford.”
Drew tried to decide if he believed the curate or not. Ministers were always saying things like that. They were forever saying it was God’s will that an offering be taken, or it was God’s will that their living be increased, or some such nonsense. It was usually an attempt to invoke God’s authority to get their own way. But from what Drew had seen, Christopher Matthews was different from the other clerics he had known. This man was without guile. He was sincere and direct in everything he said and did. If Christopher Matthews said God had spoken to him, there was little reason to doubt him.
The week couldn’t have gone better for Drew. Everything went according to plan; no, everything went better than planned. It was incredible. By the end of the week, not only had he gained the confidence of the people, but he was the town hero.
Monday was a day of politics. Drew shadowed Christopher Matthews from shop to shop and house to house as the curate lobbied the townspeople to adopt an economic plan. By mid-afternoon there was a town meeting to consider the plan. The meeting was held at the town house, the site of Drew’s introduction to the men folk of Edenford. At Nell’s suggestion the women gathered at the church. While the men deliberated, the women prayed.
During the meeting the curate harvested the seeds he had sown all morning. The result was that Edenford had a working plan to cope with its economic crisis.
Simply put, Edenford temporarily became a closed economic system. A common granary and food dispensary was established to distribute fairly the town’s food supply without cost to the townspeople. In exchange, farmers received equitable compensation in services and goods from the other merchants. In all other matters, the town switched from a monetary system to a barter system. David Cooper was appointed arbiter to settle any disputes. Finally, a town bank was established, funded by the people’s money. The bank would purchase goods not produced by the town. Also it would pay the ship tax money in a lump sum, saving the high constable th
e trouble of having to go house to house to collect it. The bank would be the true test of the town’s solidarity. It was one thing for a people to agree to united action and quite another for them to hand over their money to a community chest. But that’s just what they did.
The sense of cooperation and willingness among the townspeople was impressive. The credit belonged to the curate. During the proceedings Drew remembered thinking this kind of cooperation could never be found in Winchester or London. He remembered his father’s partners moving through financial waters like grinning sharks, circling and circling until they found a weakness in someone’s position. Sometimes all that was needed was the scent of fear in one of their own. They attacked en masse and wouldn’t let up until their victim was bereft of all he possessed, stripped, and tossed aside like a carcass.
The town meeting wasn’t entirely peaceful. There was a moment of violence when Edward Hopkins expressed his opposition to the ship tax. Hopkins was the angry dark-haired man who had punched James Cooper in the kidneys during their wrestling match. He claimed to have heard reports that the cities of Witheridge, Halberton, and Crediton had been treated similarly by the king and were equally incensed. There was talk of resistance, armed resistance if necessary. Individually, Hopkins said, they were no match for the king’s forces. But if all the towns in Devonshire banded together, they could raise a militia and force the king to rescind his blasted tax.
A good number of the Edenford men, including James Cooper, supported the idea of armed action, and several volunteered for the militia. Then someone suggested they kidnap the high constable when he came to collect the tax and hold him hostage. The mounting anger eased when a wag pointed out that kidnapping the obese official would be self-defeating. He said the ship tax would cost them much less than feeding the captive constable.
However, the laughter was brief, and the support for armed resistance escalated. David Cooper stood and spoke against the use of force. That’s when Drew saw the sharks begin to circle. Mistaking his call to reason for fear, they attacked. It began with name calling and insinuations about the cobbler’s courage. Hopkins accused Cooper of being a royalist, the king’s boy sent to suckle his crying subjects. James Cooper sprang from his seat. Before anyone could stop him, he was on top of the dark-haired Hopkins. Like a spark to powder, the attack ignited a brawl. A farmer grabbed David Cooper by the shirt and cocked his fist. The cobbler was too quick for him. With a head butt to the farmer’s face, the cobbler knocked him to the ground and then fell on top of him. They rolled around the floor like a bowling ball, knocking several other fighting men to the ground.
Blam!
The sound of a musket reverberated against the barn’s splintered walls. Everyone froze, but no one released his grip. The smell of gunpowder wafted through the room as heads swiveled frantically in search of the gunman. A swirling puff of smoke rose to the ceiling directly over Edenford’s curate.
It was the only time Drew saw Christopher Matthews holding a weapon. It looked out of place in his hands, just as peculiar as Bishop Laud looked holding a crossbow. The weapon was a pistol, held high over the curate’s head, pointed at the ceiling. Drew had no idea where the weapon came from or whose it was.
Shaking the pistol, the curate said, “Will this solve our problems? Do you really believe that we can make this a better world by killing those who disagree with us?”
He had their attention, but no one backed down. They were frozen in action, like subjects in an oil painting, angry men clutching each other’s clothes, muscles straining, faces red and wet. The focal point of the scene was Christopher Matthews who stood tall over them with arms stretched overhead, his right hand still holding the smoking pistol.
Slowly the painting dissolved. Men released their grip without apologies. But not until everyone resumed his place did the curate lower his arms and drop the weapon. It hit the wooden floorboards with a hollow thud. “We have weapons more powerful than guns. We have God’s weapons: prayer and faith!”
“Prayer ain’t gonna stop the king from taxin’ us!” Hopkins yelled.
“Who do you think is stronger, the king of England or God?” Matthews shouted back. “With God’s weapons Moses defeated the powerful pharaoh of Egypt! With God’s weapons Joshua felled the walls of Jericho and entered the Promised Land! With God’s weapons the sun stood still, fire fell from heaven, and men were raised from their graves! What does the king of England have that can compare to weapons like these?”
No one answered him.
Matthews continued, “‘Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts!’ I, for one, choose to fight with the weapons of God. Who will join me?”
The curate walked to the center of the building and dropped to his knees in prayer. Without a word, one by one, the assembled men of Edenford knelt around their curate. First, David Cooper and old Cyrus Furman, followed by the bachelors Manly and Dudley, then James Cooper. Even Edward Hopkins joined them. The entire male population of Edenford followed Christopher Matthews in humbling themselves before God.
Drew alone remained standing. He was off by himself, leaning against the outer wall of the structure. He considered joining them but decided against it. It was too early.
He stared in awe at the curate. Who is this man? Never before had he seen anyone have this kind of power over other men. How does he do it? Is it the words he uses? At one point it was clear he was quoting Scripture. Do the Bible words act like an incantation? Do they have some kind of magical power?
It was while the men were praying that Drew realized the difference between Bishop Laud and Christopher Matthews. The similarities between them had always been obvious: They both worshipped the same God. They both read the Bible. They both believed strongly they were doing God’s will, although their beliefs pitted them against each other. This town meeting scene made their differences equally as obvious: The bishop wielded political power like a sword to defend God, his church position, and himself. The curate, on the other hand, believed that God could defend Himself. Instead of trying to protect God, the curate found protection in God.
When the last amen sounded, one final action was taken. Thursday was set aside as a day of prayer and fasting for all able bodied men and women. This too was the curate’s idea.
“On Thursdays our meat and bread will consist of prayer and supplications to God. We will find our strength in Him,” he said. Then, with a grin, he added, “We shouldn’t overdo it, though. We wouldn’t want to grow spiritually fat!”
Tuesday was a setback for the town.
It began well enough. The new community order was implemented as David Cooper arbitrated between the merchants and the farmers for a fair exchange of goods and services. Ambrose Dudley was elected the town’s banker. A council of five men was chosen to determine what needed to be purchased and how much money was to be spent.
Spirits were high in the face of worsening conditions. Most families would be able to eat meat only once a week, maybe twice; some not at all. Many of them would have to exist on watery vegetable soups and bread sliced so thin it looked like parchment. Mothers braced themselves for the changes that would occur among the children. Their cheeks would grow hollow, their eyes would yellow, and their skin would take on a grayish cast. Drew remembered the look. He had seen it on the faces of the street children in the alleys of London. It had never bothered him before because he only saw them briefly as he passed by on his horse or in the family carriage. Now he would be living among them. He had to remind himself it was temporary. Before long he would be back at London House, sitting at the round cook’s table.
Because of the scarcity of wood, houses would have to go unrepaired and roof leaks unpatched. A delegation led by Christopher Matthews journeyed the short distance to Lord Chesterfield’s manor to request the use of some of the trees in his forest for the more urgent repairs. Chesterfield received them kindly but refused their request. If he allowed them to take his trees, he explained, his g
ame animals would be deprived of places to live.
Drew felt the first pangs of real hunger on Tuesday. Not the it-must-be-time-to-eat-again hunger, but the kind of hunger that weakens a person, feeding on his disposition as well as his body. Drew encouraged himself by making it a test of his manhood. The Round Table knights knew hardship and hunger, he reasoned. If they could endure hardship, so can I. Besides, being one of the hungry in a town full of hungry people works well into my plan.
Tuesday’s great setback came when it was discovered that Rose Furman had died. Drew was accompanying the curate on his visitation rounds when they entered the Furman home and found old Cyrus sitting in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth, holding an emaciated Rose in his arms.
Drew had heard somewhere that old people sometimes acted infantile. He thought Cyrus was merely obliging his senile wife by rocking her to sleep. Then, as he got closer, he noticed her one eye was half-open and her limbs were stiff. She had been dead for some time.
“I should have told someone,” Cyrus cried. “But I knew if I did, you’d take her away from me.”
He brushed thin gray hairs from her eyes, wrapping them behind an ear.
“Forty-three years. We’ve been together forty-three years. When I let her go, it’s over. I just wanted it to last a little longer.”
Christopher Matthews placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder.
“You hold her as long as you want.”
It didn’t matter now. The spell was broken. Drew and Matthews had intruded on the final intimate moment between a man and his wife. It was over. Gone forever.
The news of Rose Furman’s death weighed heavily on the village. It wasn’t death itself that depressed them; to the people of Edenford death was an unwelcome but frequent guest. It was the death of Rose. Maybe it was because the Furmans were unable to have children; all they ever had was each other. True, they were an oddly amusing couple. Rose was strong-minded and determined while Cyrus was easygoing, slowwitted, and clumsy. She would yell and complain, he would grin and shrug, but they loved each other. For forty-three years they loved each other, and it was difficult for the townspeople to imagine one without the other.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 22