If it hadn’t been for the distraction of the miracle on Wednesday, the townspeople would have nursed the loss of Rose Furman for months.
Wednesday was the second full day of Drew’s tutelage at the hand of Edenford’s curate. As he did the previous day, Christopher Matthews woke Drew at four o’clock for Bible study and prayer. Since Drew’s arrival in Edenford, the curate had learned two important things about him. First, Drew wasn’t a Christian; and second, he loved adventure, especially in his reading material.
Using the latter to address the former, the curate chose the life of Paul as the subject of their Bible studies. On the first day of study the curate had Drew read from Acts 27, the account of Paul’s shipwreck in the Mediterranean Sea. Drew was fascinated with the nautical detail of the story, like passing to the lee of Cyprus and Crete due to unfavorable winds; the ill-fated gamble to reach Phoenix, a harbor that faced both southwest and northwest, in which the ship could winter; and binding the hull of the ship with ropes during a storm to hold it together. He was also intrigued by the adventurous spirit of Paul. This apostle wasn’t like the churchmen of England who hid from the world behind church walls, wearing robes and attending councils and complaining that Englishmen were no longer interested in religion. Not the apostle Paul. The idea of an adventurous preacher struck Drew as odd but intriguing.
Wednesday morning’s Bible reading came from Paul’s defense of his ministry in 2 Corinthians 11:22–33.
Are they Hebrews? so am I. Are they Israelites? so am I. Are they the seed of Abraham? so am I. Are they ministers of Christ? (I speak as a fool) I am more; in labours more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more plenteously, in deaths oft. Of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one. I was thrice beaten with rods, I was once stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I have been in the deep; In journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. Beside those things that are without, that which cometh upon me daily, the care of all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is offended, and I burn not? If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which is blessed for evermore, knoweth that I lie not. In Damascus the governor under Aretas the king kept the city of the Damascenes with a garrison, desirous to apprehend me: And through a window in a basket was I let down by the wall, and escaped his hands.
The curate and his student discussed the Bible reading as they walked the road beside the cornfield. It was getting late in the year, and the stalks were brown and sagging. There was a chill in the morning air, enough to turn their speaking into wisps of fog.
“It’s hard for me to believe he endured all those things. What kept him going? What was he looking for?” Drew asked.
“Paul kept going not because he was looking for something, but because he had found something.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. You don’t understand because you’re still looking for what Paul found.”
“What did he find?”
The curate smiled.
“Something worth living for, something worth dying for.”
“His faith in Jesus, right?”
The curate stopped and studied his student. Drew’s remark was an academic one, not a life changing one. He resumed walking.
“Paul’s faith in Jesus Christ changed him so dramatically that he spent the rest of his life traveling throughout the known world, enduring whatever trials and hardships came, to tell others about his discovery.”
“It still doesn’t make sense to me. People didn’t want to listen to him. They hated his message. What did he gain?”
“Until you experience what Paul experienced, it won’t make sense to you. Believe me, there is sufficient motivation. Someday, Drew, you’ll understand him.”
After breakfast and family devotions with Nell and Jenny, Drew assisted the curate in gathering information for his monthly report to Lord Chesterfield. To complete the report, they had to inspect each phase of the wool industry in Edenford, from the tending of the sheep to the stored serges.
The shepherds gave him a total head count, the number of sheep lost to predators (with explanation, since it was the shepherd’s duty to protect the sheep), and the number of new births.
Those suspected of having a disease were inspected. Everything was recorded by Drew precisely according to Christopher Matthews’ directions.
The spinning wheels were housed in family residences. Each house was visited and a record made of the production total for each worker. The looms were next. They were all under one roof. Again, production was checked as well as the status of the equipment. A list of needed repairs was appended to the report.
The two men had to cross the village to get from the looms to the fulling mill beside the river near the village’s south bridge. Drew had never realized the amount of work that went into making simple wool cloth. For the Morgans it had always been a matter of sending a servant to town to get the needed material. The servants then sewed their own clothes. Of course, the Morgan family’s clothing was purchased and fitted in London at the finer tailor shops.
It was at the fulling mill that Drew saw the danger of cloth making. There, the material was thickened and scoured by soaking and pounding it. After the serges were soaked, they were drawn out and pounded with notched timbers that looked like giant teeth. The mill drew the serges with such violence that if a person were standing too close, the giant teeth could grab a bit of his clothing and pull him to his death in a moment. At first it seemed that the process would injure the serges, but the finished product proved otherwise.
The scoured serges were then taken outside and placed on racks lining the banks of the river. Each piece was about twenty-six yards long. The long strips of white cloth waved gently in the breeze as they dried. From here most of the serges were taken to be hot pressed, folded, then cold pressed, and stored for shipment to Exeter. Other strips were sent to the dyeing vats before being pressed.
The vats for dyeing were located on the west side of the village in a large wooden structure next to the grazing fields that rose gently toward the mountains. Racks of dyed serges stretched across the fields, making the countryside look like a giant patchwork quilt of blue, green, yellow, black, and red.
Actually there were only four vats of colored dye, one for each primary color and one for black. The green cloth was made by dipping the serges twice, first in yellow, then in blue. The blue, yellow, and black vats were housed in one large room. The vat holding the scarlet dye had a room all to itself, since it was the most changeable dye and needed stricter control.
To dye the cloth, the serges were stretched across the vats between two horizontal poles, which were rolled by two men, one at each pole. The serge was lowered into the vat by unrolling it from one pole and pulled out of the vat by rolling it onto the other pole. When the end of the serge was reached at one pole, the process was reversed. In this way the cloth was dipped back and forth until it was the desired color. A furnace of coal under the dye vats kept the liquid hot, almost to the boiling point.
As Drew and Christopher Matthews entered the room of three vats, Drew immediately recognized one of the workers at the blue vat by his red hair. It was the fiery James Cooper standing on a platform and turning one of the dipping poles. Seated at his feet was a little boy. Drew assumed it was James’ brother, since he had seen the small boy with the Cooper family Sunday afternoon on the village green. As for the other worker, Drew couldn’t recall ever meeting him.
“Good afternoon, James, William,” the curate said. Then with a note of surprise upon seeing the little boy sitting on the platform at his brother’s feet, “And little Thomas!”
“Hi, Master Matthews!” Thomas waved enthusiastically.
“Curate,” the redheaded man acknowledged dutifully.
He didn’t look down at them. His eyes were fixed on the man across from him on the far side of the vat. It was a look of animosity, which didn’t surprise Drew. Every time he had seen James Cooper, the redheaded giant was at odds with someone.
“Good morning, curate,” William said as he steadily unrolled the serge from his pole.
The serge had to be kept moving to keep it from being unevenly dyed.
“What’s Thomas doing here?” asked the curate.
James pulled in the serge as he answered.
“Mom’s fixin’ up Mrs. Furman for her burial. Dad’s arbitratin’ between the farmers and tailors. So I got stuck with him.”
The dark blue cloth rolled out of the vat with gentle ease. Splashes of blue dye on the wooden platform indicated the process did not always go this smoothly.
“Do you think it’s wise for him to be up there on the platform with you?”
“It’s the only way I can keep an eye on him.”
The curate looked around.
“I suppose so. Just be careful. How many serges have you dyed today?”
James almost spit out the answer.
“Two.”
William kept his head lowered and continued to unroll the cloth from his pole into the vat.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all,” James answered through clenched teeth.
The curate bent over and looked under the vat.
“Here’s your problem. Fire’s almost out. The embers are barely alive.” He straightened up.
“Why is the fire almost out?”
Both workers began yelling at once, each accusing the other for being responsible for the dying fire.
The curate held up his hand for them both to stop.
“I don’t care whose fault it is. Work it out peaceably”—he emphasized the word peaceably—“between the two of you, but finish that serge and relight that fire. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” William said.
James nodded his head, still glaring at his coworker.
Matthews looked at the dyers a moment and decided the matter was settled. He indicated to Drew where to record the work output for the blue vat and turned toward the yellow vat to check the progress there.
Drew recorded the number. When he looked up, the dyers of blue cloth had reached the end of the serge.
“One more time,” William said.
James shook his head no.
“It’s finished.”
“One more time!”
“No!”
William began rolling up the serge on his pole for one more pass, but James held his pole firmly in place. As the slack in the serge was taken up, the blue cloth rose out of the dye. To force the issue, William gave his pole a jerk. Blue dye splattered on the sides of the vat; some fell to the floor.
This gave James an idea. He released his grip and the cloth inched downward. He wanted William to think he was conceding to one more pass. Just as the cloth dipped below the surface, the redheaded giant yanked back on his pole. His plan was to snap the cloth taut and spray William with blue dye, but the plan backfired. The cloth snapped taut, sending the dye flying. Liquid blue sprayed all over James and his little brother.
William laughed to the point of hysterics at his coworker’s failed attempt. Drew joined him. James and Thomas looked like they had been attacked by a band of renegade blueberries.
Thomas was crying, partly from the surprise, but also from the heat of the dye. He was trying to wipe it off his arms, which only succeeded in smearing the dye all over him.
William laughing at him and his little brother bawling made James furious. He grabbed the blue serge with his hands and yanked it with all his might. William’s pole spun wildly, knocking him off balance. He fell onto the platform and almost into the vat. Now there was fury on both sides of the vat. William struggled to his feet and grabbed his end of the serge. A tug-of-war ensued over the vat of hot blue dye.
William was no match for the red-haired giant, and Drew feared he would be pulled into the vat. Confident in his superior strength, James pulled William until his midsection was against the pole; then he pulled a little more until William would have to let go or fall in. Then James would let up. Once William regained his footing, the giant would pull him against the pole again. William knew he was overmatched, but he wouldn’t let go.
“James! William! Stop this right now!”
It was the curate. The incident at the blue vat had everyone’s attention now.
“Both of you, let go!” he yelled.
“He started it!” James yelled back.
He looked down at the curate as if to plead his case.
William saw this temporary distraction as his opportunity. He tugged sharply. It was enough to cause the red giant to lose his balance. But only for a moment. His attention drawn back to the tug-of-war, he strengthened his grip and reset his feet.
Suddenly, his right foot slipped on the wet platform, and his legs flew from under him. Releasing the serge, he tried to catch himself on the pole, but his arms slapped against the wad of blue serge wrapped around his pole. As he tried to grab it, his right hand fell on slippery, wet cloth and came up empty. His left hand slipped off the cloth too and slid down to the wooden pole where he managed to gain a hold. With only one hand secure, the momentum of his falling weight swung him sideways, knocking little Thomas into the vat of hot blue dye.
The little boy didn’t have time to scream. In an instant he disappeared beneath the surface.
“Thomas!”
James released his grip on the pole and landed on the wooden platform with a thud. Scrambling over onto his belly, he reached into the vat after his brother.
“AAHHHHHHH!”
He screamed, pulling his hand from the hot liquid. It was blue up to his wrist.
The instant Drew saw little Thomas plunge into the vat, he dropped his papers and sprinted up the steps to the platform. When James reached into the vat, he had held onto the giant’s shirt to keep him from falling in too.
James’ eyes were frantic as he nursed his hand.
“You’ve got to pull him out!” Drew yelled at him.
“It’s too hot!”
“If you don’t, he’ll die!”
James whimpered. “I can’t. He’s already dead.”
Drew searched the surface. There was no sign of Thomas.
“Get out of the way!” he yelled.
“What are you going to do?”
“Just get out of the way!”
Drew tried to pull the giant aside. He wouldn’t budge.
“James!”
It was the curate.
“Move aside!”
It took a second for the voice of authority to reach its mark. When it did, James moved to the side of the platform.
Drew fell to his stomach and plunged his arm into the dye up to his shoulder. Every nerve in his arm exploded with pain, crying to him to pull it back out. His teeth were clenched; he grimaced with agony but kept his arm in the vat, searching for little Thomas. Each swish brought greater heat and greater pain; his fingers numbed; even if he found the boy, he didn’t know if he would be able to get a grip on him. There! For an instant he thought he felt something. Drew closed his grip and pulled.
Nothing.
By now the curate was standing on William’s platform. All the other workers in the building encircled the vat. They stood at a cautious distance from the hot sides.
“Look there!” the curate pointed to the middle of the vat. The back of a small hand had floated to the surface in the middle of the vat. It was too far away.
“Is there a long pole or something?” Drew yelled.
“Over here!” a worker pointed toward the corner of the building.
Just then the small hand sank below the surface.
Drew cursed.
William gripped his pole. The curate moved into position to help him.
Turning to James, “Pull the serge tight and hold it taut!”
James just sat there, his forehead propped up by the back of his blue stained hand.
Drew knocked his arm away.
“James, help me save your brother!”
The giant looked at him dumbly. There was a large blue stain in the middle of his forehead.
“He’s dead! I killed my little brother!” James sobbed.
“He’s not dead!” Drew grabbed the giant’s shirt and tried to pull him up.
The giant was too heavy.
“He’s not dead!” Drew yelled again. “Help me save your brother!”
“Not dead?”
“Not if you help me!”
Drew’s assurance nudged the giant into action.
“Pull the serge tight! As tight as you can get it!” Drew yelled.
James pulled slowly at first, then with more determination. The serge cloth rose out of the vat and stretched tight.
Drew ducked under the pole and balanced on the edge of the platform. He inched his toes over the edge the same way he would if he were diving into a lake. He would have only one chance. He couldn’t afford to slip.
He leaped onto the serge. The sudden weight brought grunts from William and the curate as they tried to hold it tight. The serge was slippery and wobbled from side to side. Wrapping his arms and legs around it, Drew fought to keep from rolling over. The heat from the vat below rose all around him. He felt like a pig on a open spit.
“All right. Now lower me to the surface!” Drew yelled.
As the serge dipped slowly, Drew scanned the surface for Thomas in the area where he was last seen.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 23