The sun dropped behind the tree line, turning the river to molten gold, and she went back to the campsite and put the coffeepot on. By the time the coffee brewed, the darkness had closed in, and the stars reflected their glittering lights in the river. Soon she saw the dugout come up the river and pull into the bank.
“Coffee’s ready,” she called. “How about some bacon and eggs?”
“Hey, that sounds good!” Asa exclaimed, and he carried on a running conversation with Chris as she cooked the meal. When it was done, they sat around the fire, eating hungrily. “Wonder why stuff tastes better when you’re camping out?” Asa wondered aloud. Without waiting for an answer, he began urging Chris to tell a story about the mountains. Missy leaned against a tree, sipping a cup of strong black coffee and listening to him spin out a tale of an improbable bear hunt. The night’s shadows played against the light of the fire, and she noticed how full Asa’s face was, and how lean and hollow the other two seemed. Sky had the same thin nose and high-cheeked face as Chris, and as he sat back in the shadows Missy saw that he was studying his father’s face covertly. Neither did she miss the puzzled gleam in his dark eyes as if there was something he could not understand, and from time to time he would duck his head and stare into the fire.
It was only a little after eight when Asa suggested, “Let’s go run the lines.”
“Too soon,” Chris told him. “Those big fellows won’t be stirring until midnight when the water cools off. You’ll just scare them off if you go pulling the baits up.”
But Asa was impatient, and begged, “Let Sky and me go, Chris. We can re-bait the hooks—and maybe we’ll get one big enough to fry up.”
“Well—I guess it’s all right, seein’ as you can’t sit still,” Chris decided. He said something to Sky, and the boy got up at once and followed Asa to the boat. As they moved down the river to the lines, the sound of Asa’s voice came floating back on the still air, and then the silence of the night closed in again, broken only by the cry of a distant screech owl.
Missy was uncomfortable. There was nothing she could say that would not rake up old memories, so they sat there in silence, watching the glittering track of the river as the reflection of the stars was broken into flakes of light. Finally Chris spoke. “I’m glad Dove’s better. It’s been a weight on me, Missy, having to ask you and Caroline to take care of her.” He waited for an answer, but none came, and he went back to staring into the fire.
When he could stand the silence no longer, Chris got up and walked to the riverbank, making a tall shape against the sky as he stood there. Missy forced herself to turn away, not giving into the impulse to follow him, to throw herself into his arms. But... I know he loves me! her heart cried out. She sat with her back to the fire, staring into the dark shapes of trees that blotted out the sky; then, because it was so dark and because Chris could not see her, she bent her head and the hot tears ran down her cheeks. When at last she looked up, she saw that he had not moved. Taking a deep breath, she thought, Now I’ve cried for us. Lord, let me never weep again. Thy will be done!
Sky and Asa brought back a large bullhead weighing over twenty pounds. It was obvious Asa had enjoyed himself, but both Missy and Chris said little after the trip. He spent most of his time with Dove and Sky, and she found excuses to be away from the house a great deal. On Friday, Dove was strong enough to walk to the buggy, and it was a relief to see them leave.
Caroline had surprised them all by announcing that she would go help Dove for a few days. Watching the buggy disappear, Dan said to Missy, “I’m glad Caroline went to help out for a spell—and I’m glad you didn’t.” He said no more for a while, but he was concerned about his younger daughter. She had lost weight and there was a soberness in her manner that bothered him. Have to keep her busy, he thought. Then breaking the silence, he went on. “I’ve got a notion about your sister.”
“What?”
He rubbed his chin and shrugged. “Just a notion. She’s been getting Sky and Dove to teach her Sioux. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s thinking about doing mission work among the Indians sooner or later.”
Missy considered the idea. “Perhaps. Caroline did mention the American Board of Missions in Boston. She’s been getting some letters from them, and she’s written some, too.” She looked at her father and asked, “What would you say if she went?”
“I don’t know,” Dan answered thoughtfully. “She’s a strange girl, Missy. Nothing really seems to interest her ’cept church things. You know, I’ve had a thought or two myself about mission work—especially since Chris came and told me about the way things are.”
“You’d think of going to the Indians?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. It’s no life for you and Asa, though it’s a work that’ll have to be done, Missy. But God help those who go first. Not all of them will die in bed.”
She patted his arm. “You’d go to the moon to preach if there were any way to get there!” She smiled briefly. “I wonder how Chris and his family are doing—I’m worried about them. You haven’t heard how the church took to Dove and Sky, have you?”
Dan decided not to worry her further, although he had heard rumors. “They’ll come around,” he promised.
For the next month, Caroline came and went, spending more time with Dove than she did at home. She gave glowing reports of how well Dove was feeling, and was proud of the progress she herself was making in language study; but she said little about how the congregation had responded to their pastor’s family. It was obvious to both Dan and Missy that things weren’t good.
Three weeks after she went home, Dove was well enough to go to church. Dan was edgy, and surprised Missy by saying, “I asked Brother Evans to preach the sermon tomorrow morning. I’m going over to Pineville for the service. Maybe you’d like to come along.”
“No, I’ll stay here. I’ve promised my class a little tea after service. You can tell me about it when you get back.”
He left early the next morning. At church, Missy listened as Brother Mott Evans, one of the deacons, struggled through a sermon on the beast and the false prophet in Revelation. There was to be no night service, so she read some of Pilgrim’s Progress, though she practically knew it by heart. Later she went for a ride on Thunder. She had just put the stallion out to pasture and started back to the house when she saw her father coming down the road. He was driving at a fast clip, sending clouds of dust boiling over the road behind him; and when he got to the house, he slammed the brakes and called “Whoa! Blast you!” in an angry voice.
She hurried to meet him, and one look at his square face told her that he was hopping mad. “What’s the matter?” she demanded.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, his face flushed with anger, and it was obvious to Missy that he was keeping his wrath bottled up by sheer willpower. Finally through clamped teeth he said, “Bunch of hypocrites! Generation of vipers! God could do no better than to open the earth and swallow their miserable carcasses—the whole lot of ’em.”
“Stop that!” Missy cried. “Tell me what happened.”
He shook his shoulders and passed a trembling hand over his forehead. When he spoke it was with a controlled tone. “The church was full. Lots of people there that never show their faces except on Christmas and Easter. Just came to see the show, I guess!” Agitated, he clenched his hands again and continued. “It was a terrible thing. Chris came in a little late, and he had Dove and Sky with him. They were both all dressed up in new clothes—looked real nice, but Dove was scared to death. Never felt so sorry for anyone in my life.”
“Then what? Why was Dove so frightened?”
“Well, Chris asked me to preach, and I did, but nobody listened. They were all like buzzards on a roost—staring at Dove and Sky like they were some sort of animals. You could almost feel the hate, Missy! Well, when I finished, I made a little speech. Told them how God had been gracious enough to restore their pastor’s family—but they weren’t listening. After I announced that the
re’d be a little reception at the parsonage to welcome White Dove and Sky, I gave the benediction, and then it happened.”
“What?”
“Why, Missy, not ten people came by to welcome them! We sat there, waiting. Soon Martha Shipton and Dr. Miller came, and he’s not even a Christian. Some more welcomed them, but it was mighty embarrassing, sitting there with all the cake and punch—and so few came.”
“Do you think Dove understood?” Missy whispered.
“Of course she understood!” Dan bellowed. “She sat there all dressed up with Sky beside her, and she held her head high, I tell you! But she knew she was being rejected. So did the boy.”
“How dare they treat her so!” Missy cried angrily. “How... did Christmas take it?”
“How do you expect?” Dan snapped. “He looked like a volcano—looking for someone to strike out at. Instead, he just stood there with a smile on his face and an empty light in his eyes. God help us!”
“What will happen now?” Missy asked quietly.
Dan shook his head, sorrow lining his face. “God knows, Missy—but I’m writing to Bishop Asbury tomorrow. Chris is in big trouble—and sooner or later, there’ll be pressure put on the bishop to have him removed.” Still fuming, he snapped the reins and drove off to the barn, and she could hear him muttering as he went: “Generation of vipers!—Generation of vipers!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“TAKE THEM WITH THEE!”
“Peter Cartwright to see you, sir.”
Bishop Francis Asbury was a serious man, but a smile touched his thin lips as he said, “Better stay by the door, Roberts—in case Brother Cartwright gets out of order.”
The small-built secretary replied, “I’d not be surprised. Two weeks ago over in Delaplane two rowdies tried to break up the service. Cartwright jumped off the platform, laid one of them flat on his back, and offered to do the same to the other one unless he behaved.” Roberts laughed aloud, adding, “I don’t know if either of them got saved, but they got a good dose of Methodist hellfire-and-damnation preaching.”
Asbury shook his head in mock-despair, but could not hide the glint of humor in his gray eyes. “Well, well, Cartwright is what he is. Send him in.”
Cartwright entered, and Asbury motioned the preacher to a chair. He breaks every rule in the clergy code book, the bishop thought, but he preaches the gospel to the poor. Cartwright’s commitment to an anti-elitist form of ministry compelled the feisty preacher to serve—tirelessly and at any cost—the widely scattered and highly mobile population of the United States. The dynamic of the church, Asbury knew, was contained in the simple and straightforward message Cartwright proclaimed: People are free to accept or reject God’s grace. Men such as he stream-lined the gospel, avoiding theological and ecclesiastical wrangling. This message was proclaimed unstintingly—indoors and out, seven days a week, and under the most adverse conditions.
“Well, Brother Asbury, I suppose you received my letter,” Cartwright began as soon as he was seated. His chin jutted out pugnaciously, and he thumped the arm of his chair with a hard hand.
Asbury nodded and picked up the letter from among the papers on his cluttered desk, his eye falling on a paragraph he had marked:
I awfully fear for our beloved Methodism. We multiply colleges, universities, seminaries, and academics. We multiply our agencies and editorships, and fill them all with our best and most efficient preachers. And by doing that we localize the ministry—and secularize them as well. If we continue, we will bid itinerancy farewell; and when that happens, we will plunge right into congregationalism, leaving off precisely where all other denominations start. Only when all our ministers follow their appropriate calling—namely, to preach the gospel to a dying world—will we be in the will of God. Tying a minister to a college or an office is like forcing a man to ride a race with the reins of his horse’s bridle tied to a stump!
He writes much as he preaches; the style suits him, Asbury thought as he looked up. Blunt, caustic, and bold. Peter is right in many ways—and the rest of us are wrong. But he could not afford to act on this knowledge, to threaten the structure. There were not enough men like Cartwright to carry on the work. Aloud, he said, “I am praying over your proposal, Brother Cartwright—but surely you see that as much as we need men in the field, they need to be trained first!”
Cartwright’s gaze clouded over, as though he was forming his answer and was struggling with a thought. At last he spoke. “Of course, Bishop. Many of our church problems now have their roots in untrained ministers, but—”
Agitated, Cartwright jumped to his feet, strode to the window and gazed outside. When he began to speak again, it was in a subdued voice, quite unlike his own robust tones. “Remember in the early days, Bishop? When God called a man to be a Methodist preacher, instead of hunting up a college, he hunted up a hardy pony of a horse, and packed up his library: a Bible, a hymn book and the Discipline. He started out with a text that never wore out or grew stale: ‘Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world.’ Through storms of wind, hail, snow and rain; over hills and mountains, through swamps, and around swollen streams he went. He would lie out all night—wet, weary, and hungry, holding his horse by the bridle all night so it wouldn’t bolt. He had his saddle blanket for a bed, his saddlebags for a pillow, and his coat for a covering.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “We slept in dirty cabins on an earth floor, ate roasting ears of corn for bread, drank buttermilk for coffee. But the message was always the same: ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ ” Opening his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the bishop, who had stood wordlessly nearby. There were tears in the old circuit-preacher’s eyes as he whispered, “Under such circumstances, who in these days would say, ‘Here am I, Lord, send me’?”
Asbury felt his own heart cry out at the words, and he rose from his desk and went to put his arm around Cartwright’s shoulders. “We will pray. There are still men—and God is still calling them.”
They prayed and then the two spoke for an hour about plans for the future. Finally Asbury said, “I must leave for Boston on the afternoon stage. If there’s nothing else...?”
Cartwright squared his shoulders, and there was a light of battle in his eyes. “You must do something about Pineville, Bishop!”
Asbury frowned, trying to remember, and Cartwright prompted him. “You’ve had correspondence from the leaders of the church—and I wrote you a letter last month.”
“Yes, yes! I remember now. That’s the case of Brother Winslow. He married an Indian woman.”
“Yes, and now the church won’t accept her and wants to be rid of him.” Cartwright’s face was flushed, and he put up one thick hand in a squeezing motion. “I’d like to pinch their heads off!”
“We can’t do that with every congregation that disapproves of their pastor, I’m afraid.” Asbury shook his head. “He’ll have to be relocated. You know better than I the strong feelings against Indians in the West.”
“And do you think it will be better for the man and his family in the East?” Cartwright demanded angrily.
“Well, in all honesty,” Asbury spoke sadly, “I fear not. But the church will be destroyed if he stays.”
“Good riddance!”
Asbury regarded him thoughtfully. “We are all frail human beings, Peter. Perhaps the day will come when an Indian wife will be acceptable—as we grow more into the stature of the Lord Jesus. But we must deal with our people as they are—not as we would like them to be.”
Asbury bowed his head in deep thought. Cartwright stood silently until the bishop looked up and noticed a determined look on Peter’s face. “I have been much in prayer over a matter for some time—and I feel that this situation is part of an answer from the Lord. You know of the meetings at Williams College?”
Cartwright brightened. “Of course! The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions! They’re beginning to send out missionaries.”
“Send Winslow and his wife overseas?”
&
nbsp; “No—send them to her people.” The novelty of the idea excited Asbury, and he spoke rapidly. “Why, it’s ideal! The man is already accepted in one of the tribes—he speaks the language—he’s been a trapper, so he’s hardy and can take the hardships.”
Cartwright was smiling broadly. “Wesley didn’t make you bishop for nothing, sir! It’ll be a pioneer work—and it’ll open up the far west to the gospel of Jesus!”
“Sit down, Brother,” Asbury said. “We have work to do. Roberts! Roberts! Get yourself in here with plenty of paper!”
Dr. Miller did not like the looks of it at all, but he kept his fears to himself as he settled back in a chair by the bed and said, “Well, Rev. Greene, this isn’t the first bellyache you’ve had—and it won’t be the last.”
Dan’s face was pale and covered with a fine sheen of perspiration as he lay looking at the burly doctor. He had lost weight since the pain in his stomach had forced him to stay home, and it showed in his hollow cheeks and eyes that had sunken into his wide face. Ignoring the pain, he had gone to a camp meeting twenty miles away, but was forced to come back when the pain grew more severe. Caroline and Missy had put him to bed immediately and, ignoring his protests, sent for Dr. Miller.
Dan grinned with an effort and his voice was raspy as he replied, “That’s all you doctors are good for. To think you’ve come all the way over here to tell me I have a bellyache—and I already knew that!” A spasm of pain made him catch his breath and grab at his middle.
Dr. Miller’s sharp eyes watched him; then he shook his head. “I don’t know what it is, Dan. If I did, I’d tell you. We doctors don’t know much. We can set a broken leg or do some bleeding. Things like this, you just can’t always tell. Whatever it is, it’ll probably go away. Most things do.” He rose to his feet, saying, “I’ll leave some laudanum for the pain.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Dan said. “Don’t forget to go by and see Mrs. Landers, will you? And it would be nice if you could stop by the Bakers. I know there’s nothing you can do for Will, but it would make Erma feel better if you’d leave some pills or something.”
The Holy Warrior Page 19