I’d never met anybody like John Trethman. He gave himself to working for others, to encouraging and spiriting up others. He was tall and strong as any man, yet he thought more of songs and sermons than of profit from his work. He stepped forward with strength I found hard to follow. Yet I was happy to follow him.
“How many live at Crowfoot?” I said.
“Sometimes eight gather there for the service,” John said. “And in good weather sometimes ten or twelve.”
Where the road forded a creek we took off our shoes and rolled up our pants and waded across. John carried his Bible and songbook and prayer book, and I carried the lantern we’d need for the service and the walk back at night. The creek was so cold it stung the bones of my feet and shins. We sat on the other side and put our stockings and shoes on.
“We are like Paul and Silas,” John said, and laughed.
“Who was Silas?” I said.
“Silas was Paul’s friend,” John said. “They traveled together and sang together.”
We stood up and started walking again on the rocky ground. Briars picked at my pants and Spanish needles stuck to my coat. I tried to step around puddles. There were hills ahead of us and white clouds floated so bright you could hardly look at them. John looked up at the clouds and started to sing. His voice echoed off the trees on both sides of the road and I joined him.
IT WAS NEAR DARK when we got to Crowfoot. The church there was little more than a shed on the bank of the creek. It was made of rough logs with no windows. The benches were planks laid over stumps. There was no fireplace.
“Someday there will be a real church here,” John said. “But now the settlement is only scattered cabins along the branches.”
John made a fire outside the church and we baked some potatoes we’d carried in our pockets. That was our meal before the service. The hot potatoes warmed me, and I washed my hands later in the branch.
We lit the lantern and hung it in the building, and soon after the sun went down members of the congregation began to arrive. They walked out of the woods from both directions on the road. Women in bonnets and men in rough jumpers and hunting shirts came in and sat down on the benches. Some men brought their rifles and leaned them in the corner. John welcomed each one and introduced me as his helper. Folks nodded at me.
Just as John was about to begin, a short man came to the door and looked in. His face was red and his eyes wet. When he took a step inside I thought he was lame, but then I smelled his breath and saw he was drunk.
“You are welcome, Brother Albert,” John called. The short man stumbled to the back bench and sat down beside me. He smelled like rotten peaches and unwashed clothes. John announced that the first song would be “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.”
The short man beside me sang, but in broken notes and to his own tune. He sang in a loud voice, like he was deaf and couldn’t hear the others. He swayed as he sang and closed his eyes and hiccupped. John kept singing more verses, and everybody joined in as if the drunk man wasn’t there.
When the song was over John led in prayer, but as he prayed the drunk man mumbled and belched and tried to pray along with him. “Amen,” the short man said, and jerked his head. And then he said “Amen” again. Every time he said “Amen,” he jerked his whole body.
When the prayer was over John began to talk about grace in our troubled times. He talked about the joys of gathering together.
“The Lord means for his own to fellowship together,” John said. “For together we inspire and encourage each other. Together we comfort and teach each other. The Lord’s work is done through fellowship and community. Alone we are weak, but together we are strong. Together we step forward to the future.”
“Preacher,” the drunk man hollered. All turned to look at him.
“Yes, Brother Albert?” John said in a calm and kindly voice.
“Want to testify,” the short man said.
“We will have testimonials presently,” John said.
“Want to testify now,” the drunk man said, and stared hard at John.
“Then you shall testify now,” John said, and grinned. There were chuckles in the room.
The drunk man stood up, and swayed forward and back. “Seen a vision,” he said, and paused like he’d forgotten what he was going to say.
“Tell us your vision,” John said.
The drunk man raised his finger like he had just remembered. “Woke up on Dogleg Mountain and seen a light over all the valley,” he said.
He swayed like he was about to fall and then caught himself. “I seen the light shining on Crowfoot,” he said, “and the Lord said out of the sky, Albert, you go to the Crowfoot church and tell the Crowfoot pastor I have somewhat against him.” He stopped again and looked like he couldn’t recall where he was.
“And what did the Lord say?” John asked.
“Lord said tell Crowfoot congregation they ain’t treated Albert right. Ain’t treated Albert square.”
The church members looked at Albert like he was about to reveal a secret.
“How have you been wronged?” John said. “Tell us and we will pray with you.”
“Ain’t made Albert a deacon,” the short man said. “Ain’t recognized him at all.”
“And now you have told us,” John said. “Now you’ve brought the message to us.”
“Ain’t all,” the drunk man said. “Lord said take up a collection for old Albert.”
“Thank you for bringing the message to us,” John said. There were titters and snickers in the church. “We will vote on deacons next year when there are more members,” John said.
The drunk man sat back down. I figured he would keep interrupting John and disturbing the service. But he was quiet, and when I looked over at him again he was asleep, slumped in his old clothes, snoring like a bear.
FOUR
WHEN I BATHED or took care of nature’s calls, I always made sure John was out of sight. When we camped on the circuit I bathed in thickets or in the dark hours before dawn or after sunset. I slipped away into the thickets or laurels for nature’s business.
John just thought I was shy and modest. I wanted him to think that. And besides, it was true, I was shy, though maybe not for the reasons he thought. I kept my person hidden as much as possible. That was hardest when I had my monthly, for I had to wash the rags I made from an old towel and dry them in secret. I thought if he caught me I’d pretend they were pocket handkerchiefs and I’d had a nosebleed.
We traveled up and down the great river valley and into the foothills and mountains. To my relief we never crossed the river eastward because there were already many churches there and John was needed in the west, in the hinterlands, in back coves and far branches. He preached in tents and sheds, in people’s houses and log chapels. He preached in an open meadow by a creek one sunny afternoon near Gilbert Town. He performed weddings and christenings. He preached at funerals and camp meetings, and gave singing lessons and Bible lessons. He conducted morning and afternoon services. He exhorted and got people saved. He visited the sick and the crippled, and he sat with the bereaved.
And sometimes a letter came for John. He picked up the letter at the store on Solomon’s Branch. It was a letter from his boss in the north, and with the letter was a pound note. With that note John bought more salt and coffee and cornmeal and bacon at the store.
In the rolling countryside west of the river, John had seven churches scattered among the hills and valleys. They were about a day’s walk apart and roughly in a half circle beyond his cabin at Pine Knot Branch. Some like Zion Hill and Crowfoot were on hilltops, and others such as Solomon’s Branch and Beulah were down in valleys. Briar Fork was beside a swamp. Salem Ridge was on a rise of ground between two creeks. John wanted to visit each of his congregations once every two weeks. Some churches were solid log buildings with little steeples, and some were just sheds made of brush. But John also held meetings in tents and in people’s houses, and out in the open. Once he held a service
in the woods where there were just logs and stumps to sit on.
It was pretty country, with fields cleared on tops of ridges and along branches. Corn had been planted in many deadened acres where bare, girdled trees stood above the stalks. As we walked from church to church we passed men killing hogs and women boiling soap from fat. We passed a liquor still in a hollow, and mills where corn was ground into meal between grunting stones. We passed a forge where long mountain rifles were made for the militia, and a gold mine where men had dug into the hillside and muddied the creek.
Everybody we met seemed to know John and most waved to him and spoke cordially. “Would you pray for my sister?” a woman said, rushing to the trail and drawing John to her house.
More than once we met riders who were not friendly. We stood aside on the trail to let them pass. Sometimes they wore blue uniforms and sometimes red uniforms. They looked at John in his black suit and black hat with suspicion.
“What do you carry in that book?” an officer in a red coat called to John one day.
“Only the Scripture, sir,” John said.
“Are you sure they are not coded messages?” the officer said, and stopped his horse.
“My only code is the Great Commission,” John said.
“And which side gave you a commission?” the officer said. His buckles sparkled in the sun.
“A higher authority,” John said.
The officer swung his riding whip as he spurred his horse forward. The tip of the quirt touched John’s hat and knocked it into the brush. I picked the hat up for him.
It was such an odd way to live, going to a different community almost every day. I’d always lived in one place before. It was like every day of John’s life was a Sunday, a holiday. Instead of working in the field or at a trade, he walked and he sang, he prayed and he preached. It was serious, and yet it was a frolic too.
Everywhere we went I helped him. I carried water for foot-washing services, and I lit the lantern when it got dark. I carried his change of linen and his Bible. When there was a funeral I helped dig the grave. At a christening I held the dry towel.
“Joseph, you are a good lieutenant,” John said one day. “But if you will accompany me you must study the Bible also. You must know the Scripture.”
I’d read only a little of the Bible in school, and I’d heard it read at church. But mostly I was ignorant of the Bible. However I had had a wonderful teacher in school, a man named Mr. Pickett who taught a school in our district. Mama paid for me to attend, and Mr. Pickett taught us grammar and proper English. He had come from over the water, from Oxford, and he had lived with the Cherokee Indians before he became a teacher. But he made us write proper and talk proper. Mama said that even though I was a girl I must know the king’s English.
John said I must read the Bible every day. He said I should read it aloud to him. I asked if I should read it straight through from the beginning. He said no, he would tell me every day what passage to read, and each morning I would read a chapter or two to him. He didn’t start me off reading Genesis or even Matthew. He said I should read poetry, and something hard to understand at first. He said I should read Ecclesiastes which I’d never read before.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever.
John made me read it to him and I stumbled over some of the long words. I’d never read anything so hard and sad. The words didn’t offer much hope, but they were beautiful. I hesitated and tried to deepen my voice. I said some lines again to get them right. John listened while he was shaving himself or wiping his boots with a rag. He smiled while he was washing his linen. John was the cleanest man I’d ever seen and his linen was always fresh and his collar tabs white as snow. He nodded and listened to the words of the Bible the way somebody might listen to a pupil play music.
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up.
I said the verses and sometimes he made me say them again. He never got angry the way most teachers do.
“Joseph, you must make the words of the Scripture your own words,” he said.
I read from Ecclesiastes and I read from Daniel. I read from John and I read from Revelation about a new heaven and a new earth after the great battle of Armageddon. As I practiced I got better, so I could say the words with feeling, and with confidence. And reading the passages seemed to lift me up, make me feel older and wiser. When I read from the Bible the world seemed to make more sense.
To get to the church at Beulah we had to walk through a long cane-brake. The stalks of cane grew so tall over the trail that they swayed and rustled as we passed beneath, whispering in dry rasps. Sometimes they hissed like snakes. If it had been summer I would have been afraid of rattlesnakes, for rattlers big as your leg lived in swamps and canebrakes. The cane was just grass, but it was hard to believe that grass could grow that high.
The cane was full of spiders, and I was afraid a black widow would jump out onto my face. I brushed cobwebs out of my way and told myself not to worry about spiders. I would not let my mind get strange the way Mama’s had.
But I’d heard bears and panthers hid in canebrakes also. Panthers would crouch in the cane and pounce on their prey as it passed on the trail. With the breeze stirring the tall canes and making them sigh we wouldn’t be able to hear a panther until it sank its claws in our backs. When I told John I was afraid of bears and panthers he said we were more likely to be attacked by animals wearing red coats or hunting shirts.
“It’s the two-legged predators we need to look out for,” he said.
“You don’t even carry a hunting knife,” I said.
“What good would that do me?” he said.
John was so goodwilled and peaceful it surprised me to find there was another side to him. It happened on the way to Beulah after we had passed the long canebrake. I reckon I was nervous from worrying about spiders and panthers and bears in the tall whispering grass. You couldn’t see anything but the stalks in front of you when the cane was swaying and rasping.
The trail came out of the cane and crossed a swampy place and then a little hill. Beyond the hill the path reached a rushing creek. I think it was called Alphabet Creek. The water flashed and swooped through rocks and you had to be careful crossing it.
In fast water on tricky rocks you don’t step right across the stream. If you do that the current will sweep your feet right out from under you, and the rocks will act like rollers. Instead you face upstream and work your way across sideways in little steps. Alphabet Creek was so fast I had to brace myself against it.
When we stopped to take off our shoes and roll up our pants John said he would carry the lantern across, but I would carry his songbook. He suggested I tuck the book inside my shirt to be safe while I carried my coat and shoes across. For some reason I decided to just hold the hymnbook under my arm and not bother to put it inside my shirt.
“No!” John yelled when he saw me crossing with my coat in my left hand and my shoes in my right and the hymnbook under my right arm. But it was too late for I was already in the creek balancing myself against the current. I inched sideways, feeling my way with my feet among the rocks. I kept my right arm tight against the book. But when almost across I started losing my balance, and before I thought I raised my arms. The songbook fell into the plunging water and floated away.
In an instant John jumped into the creek and dashed through the rocks to save the book. He climbed dripping onto the far bank at the same time I did. He wiped the book carefully on his shirt and held it up to the light. The binding was damp but the pages seemed dry except at the edges.
As soon as he saw the book was not ruined John turned to me. I’d never seen a fury so awful. “I told you!” he shouted, and shoved me with the songbook in his hand. He didn’t hit me with the book, but he shoved so hard it felt like he hit me. “Are you entirely stupid?” he said. “I could have lost the only songbook I have.”
I thought he was going to hit me across the face as he waved the book, but he stopped his hand. His eyes were terrible, and tears blurred and messed up my own sight.
“The book is not ruined,” I said.
“No thanks to you,” John snapped. He was like a different person. Even his face looked different.
But after we sat down on the moss and dried our feet and put on our shoes John calmed down. His pants had gotten wet and his shirt and coat also. But the Bible and prayer book were dry. He brushed his clothes carefully.
“I will be dry before we get to Beulah,” he said.
I told him I was terribly sorry. I twisted my face to hold back tears.
“We are fortunate the book was saved,” John said. He took a deep breath and added, “I’m sorry for my outburst.” He put his arm around my shoulders.
I saw that he was embarrassed because I had seen a side of him he almost never revealed. He was kind and gentle and didn’t want anyone to know the fury that lurked in him ready to spring out when he was surprised. I could see that he had worked to conceal and subdue his anger.
AS WE TRAVELED to the different churches, to Crowfoot and Salem Ridge, to Beulah and Briar Fork in the hills west of the river, members gave us chickens and potatoes and loaves of bread. They gave us tenderloin after hogs were killed and honey when they found a bee tree. One woman at Beulah knitted John a scarf. The church at Briar Fork was really just a shed made of poles with brush nailed to the frame. But the folks at Beulah had built a church of logs, like the meeting house at Zion Hill. John said the churches were all about a day’s walk apart. I know it took us most of a day to walk to any of them from Pine Knot Branch. They were scattered miles beyond the west bank of the Catawba River and in the hill country beyond.
Brave Enemies - A Novel Of The American Revolution Page 9