At the last glimpse of his female passenger, Captain Swenson left the dock and returned to the ship, longing for the days to pass when the vision of his son would become reality. Even though Bronwen Morgan was not present, the certainty that Karl would run was as real as the ship on which the captain stood!
****
“Reverend Spenlow? I’m Bronwen Morgan.”
David Spenlow was in the middle of preparing his Sunday morning sermon when a knock on the front door interrupted him. His wife usually answered the calls, but she was gone for the morning.
He grunted with annoyance, and tried to ignore the caller, thinking it was a household matter, but the knocking grew more insistent, so he finally slapped his hand on the table and walked to the door.
“Why—why, Miss Morgan!” he stuttered, and hesitated, for an enormous problem had leaped into his mind. “Come in,” he said, stepping back. “My wife is gone for the morning, but I’ll have our housekeeper fix some tea.”
She smiled as she entered, asking as he led her to the parlor, “Is Owen here?”
“Ah—n-no, I’m afraid not,” Spenlow said uncertainly. He indicated a horsehair chair beside a library table. “Please have a chair while I speak to Mrs. Lewis.”
He found the housekeeper in the kitchen. “Mrs. Lewis, go at once to the church and ask my wife to come home!”
“You mean—leave the meeting?” Mrs. Lewis was a thin woman dressed in black. “She can’t do that, sir!’
“Tell her I need her immediately!”
“Well, I’ll tell her.” Mrs. Lewis’s voice was filled with doubt, but she obeyed.
Spenlow desperately wished he didn’t have to face Bronwen Morgan, but he had no choice.
“I sent Mrs. Lewis for my wife, Miss Morgan,” he informed her as he entered the parlor. “The church is just around the corner.” Giving her no opportunity for questions, he asked, “Tell me about your voyage.”
Bronwen began to sketch the details of her trip, noticing as she spoke how fidgety the minister was. The small man nervously licked his lips and blinked his weak-looking eyes, crossed and uncrossed his legs. Once she tried to interrupt her story to ask about Owen, but he insisted she continue. As she was ending the narrative, the front door opened and a short woman with brown hair and keen hazel eyes entered.
“Ah, my dear,” the minister sighed with relief, “Miss Morgan has just arrived. This is my wife, Elsie, Miss Morgan.”
“Miss Morgan.” Mrs. Spenlow took Bronwen’s hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I meet with the mission committee every Tuesday morning.”
Bronwen smiled, “Of course. I was just telling Reverend Spenlow about my trip.”
“Such a long way,” Mrs. Spenlow murmured.
“Yes, and I was so anxious to get here. Has Owen been well?”
An ominous silence fell on the room, and Bronwen saw the couple’s dismay. “What’s the matter?” she cried. “Is Owen ill?”
“Sit down, my dear,” Mrs. Spenlow said gently. “I’m—I’m afraid we have some distressing news.”
Stricken, Bronwen waited with sinking heart. She should have known. Reverend Spenlow’s nervousness, his reluctance to mention Owen—or even to let her mention him. She stared at them. “What happened?”
“You tell her, my dear,” Spenlow said, licking his lips. “I’ll be in the study.”
When they were alone, Mrs. Spenlow said quietly, “Miss Morgan—there was no way to reach you. Three months ago an epidemic of cholera swept through Portland. It was dreadful! Almost every family lost someone. In some cases, entire families died within a few days.” She paused, bit her lip, then brightened. “Mr. Griffeth was marvelous! He cared for the sick in the poor sections until he wore himself out—and then—”
“He got cholera?” Bronwen whispered.
“It happened so quickly!” Mrs. Spenlow exclaimed. “That’s the way of that dread disease! One day he came home and seemed fine, except perhaps tired, but we all were. The next day he had a slight fever, but he insisted on caring for the sick.” She paused for a moment, then said, “He came home late that evening, very ill. We got the doctor immediately—but it was hopeless. He died two days later, in this house.”
Bronwen sat motionless, numbness seeping into the marrow of her bones. The voices were far away. She rose and walked across to the window. Fall had turned the leaves on the maple red and orange, but some were already brown and crisp. They had fallen on the ground, making a carpet on the brown grass. Now and then, a curling leaf would loose its hold and flutter to the earth.
Time ran on, and Mrs. Spenlow waited, her hands clenched, her eyes wet. She had been very fond of Owen Griffeth. He had often talked about his beautiful fiancee and their hopes for the future, anxiously waiting for her arrival. Now she was here, and he in a grave—all their dreams crushed, struck by cholera.
Finally Mrs. Spenlow said, “Let me take you to your room, Bronwen. Do you mind if I call you that? And you must call me Elsie.”
“Thank you,” Bronwen said. She knew she would weep later, but she stood there, dry-eyed. “Did you talk with him much before he died?”
“Oh yes! My husband and I were with him constantly. He was very dear to us!”
“What did he say?”
“Let’s sit down, Bronwen, and I’ll tell you.”
They sat on the sofa, and for nearly an hour Elsie Spenlow spoke. Bronwen drank it in, her eyes fixed on the older woman’s face. Her own face was very pale, but her voice was steady as she interrupted from time to time.
“He loved you so much, my dear—so very much!” Mrs. Spenlow paused. “Next to the Lord, he loved you most of all. That was the last thing he said.”
“Tell me.”
“We—we thought he had slipped away. He was so still! But then as I bent over and called his name, his eyes opened, and he said, ‘Tell Bronwen I’m sorry we won’t be going to the Indians together.’ ”
Bronwen’s eyes flooded, and she bit her lower lip. “Did he say anything else?”
Mrs. Spenlow hesitated. She and her husband had decided it would be better not to pass along Griffeth’s last words. But now she knew she had no right to withhold a dying man’s last message to his beloved.
“He said one more thing before he died. ‘Tell Bron not to be afraid to go alone. The Lord has told me that He will not let her suffer any harm.’ ” Mrs. Spenlow was weeping as she relived the moment. She bent over with her face in her handkerchief, then took a deep breath. “Of course, you can’t go alone to that wild country, Bronwen.”
“Not go?” The eyes that had been damp with tears suddenly flashed with fire. She lifted her head high. “I’ll preach to the Indians though Satan himself and all his demons line up to fight me—and there it is!”
“But—my dear, you could be murdered!”
“And if I am, it doesn’t matter!” She stood to her feet and looked out the window as if seeing beyond the hills that rose in the west. She turned and said evenly, “I am Bronwen Morgan—and the Lord God has told me to preach His gospel to those who sit in darkness.”
“But—the mission committee will never sponsor you! Not a single woman going to such a dreadful place.”
“I have a committee, Elsie—a committee of three.”
“Why, I wasn’t aware of that. Is it some mission board from Wales?”
“Much larger than that! My committee,” Bronwen said, her face set like a flint, “is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRON AND BILLY
Reverend David Spenlow called the Committee on Indian Missions for a special session, and for the first time in its five-year existence every member was present. The ecumenical group was composed of clergymen from several denominations—Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Congregationalist, and one Episcopalian, the Reverend Isaiah Culpepper. The chairman of the committee was Bishop Jonathan Beecher—the largest, loudest, and most influential.
Bishop Be
echer had called the meeting to deal with the Arapaho mission in Montana, and as usual had thoroughly investigated the issue beforehand. Though he listened to David Spenlow’s report, Beecher had already made up his mind as to the proper course and had informed the committee of the decision they would be expected to render. As he rose to call the meeting to order, he was prepared to go through the formalities.
He called upon Reverend Joseph Wallace, a Baptist, to begin the meeting with prayer, and was fully satisfied with Wallace’s theological position throughout the petition. He then asked Reverend William Clark, a Congregationalist, to give the minutes of the last meeting, followed by Reverend J. A. Hightower, a Presbyterian, with the financial report. After the important elements of the committee had been permitted a voice—he did not include the Reverend Isaiah Culpepper, the Episcopalian, in this group—he said, “Thank God for those reports. In His mercy God has permitted our work to prosper. We will now take up the first matter of business, which is—ah, the work with the Arapaho in Montana. Reverend Spenlow, will you give us your report?”
Spenlow got to his feet, dwarfed by the huge form of Bishop Beecher. He traced the work in Montana, but was cut short by the bishop, who urged him to move along. “Well, as you know, we had accepted a pair of volunteers from Wales—Reverend Owen Griffeth and Miss Bronwen Morgan. Reverend Griffeth came last year, and I believe all of you have heard of his tragic death three months ago.”
“No. I hadn’t heard,” Reverend Culpepper said. He was a tall, thin man with sharp features and bright black eyes. “He was most promising.”
“Indeed, he was,” Spenlow replied. “My wife and I have been puzzled as to why the Lord would remove our young brother just when his ministry was about to begin.”
“We must not question the ways of God, Brother Spenlow,” Bishop Beecher said ponderously. “Now, I understand that the young woman—what is her name?”
“Miss Bronwen Morgan, sir—Reverend Griffeth’s fiancee,” Spenlow prompted.
“Yes, of course. She is waiting outside, I presume?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask her to step inside, if you please.” As Spenlow walked to the door, the bishop said, “Our hearts go out to the young woman, gentlemen. We must do all we can to comfort her.” He rose to his feet as Spenlow escorted Bronwen into the room, saying, “Ah, Miss Morgan—I am Bishop Beecher.” He named the other members of the committee, and invited her to be seated.
“Thank you, Bishop.” As Bronwen sat down, the members of the committee were all mindful of the bishop’s words: A fine young woman, no doubt, but far too young for such responsibility—and in any case, we cannot send a single woman to the field.
“Now, my dear Miss Morgan, let me serve as spokesman for our committee. We grieve with you over your loss—but it is not yours alone. We shall all miss our young brother.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Her brief response caught the bishop off guard, and he lowered his eyes and shuffled his papers, grasping at the proper way of disposing the young woman. Finally he lifted his head and smiled pontifically. “Miss Morgan, we on the committee are at your service. It has been a long journey, and your grief has added to the burden. Before you return to Wales, I want to offer you the hospitality—”
“Return to Wales?” Bronwen’s head shot up. “But I’m not going back home. Didn’t you tell them my plan, Reverend Spenlow?”
“Ah—as a matter of fact, Miss Morgan, I didn’t,” Spenlow replied, embarrassed.
“But I thought I made it clear that I intend to go on with the mission to the Arapaho people!”
“Spenlow, you said nothing of this!” The bishop’s stern gaze fell on the hapless minister, and Spenlow knew he was in for a difficult time.
“Sir,” he said nervously, “I have made Miss Morgan familiar with the policies of our mission—that we do not send single women—but she is determined to pursue the matter.”
Beecher settled down in his seat, the jovial expression replaced by a heavy scowl. “Why, there is no way we can violate our policy, Miss Morgan! No way at all.”
“Then I’ll go by myself,” Bronwen rejoined.
A murmur swept through the room; then Reverend High-tower rose to his feet. “My dear Miss Morgan, I don’t think you know what you are proposing. It’s difficult enough for a couple to survive. We’ve had several who couldn’t. Why, it’s unthinkable. A young woman. Alone and unprotected.”
Bronwen fixed her eyes on him for a moment. “But I’m not alone. Did Jesus not say, ‘I will never leave you nor forsake you’? I’ll not go unprotected. The Lord is my strength.”
Bishop Beecher coughed loudly. “That’s all very well, Miss Morgan, but we must be practical about this.”
“Practical? If I’d been practical about it, I’d never have left my home at all, Bishop. And if I’ve read my Bible rightly, neither the Lord Jesus nor any of His disciples were very practical.”
A flush spread across Beecher’s full face as he said with a touch of harshness, “We’ll not argue theology. I have a proposal I trust you’ll accept. The board will pay your passage and all expenses back to Wales.”
“God has called me to go to the Indians, Bishop,” Bronwen said quietly.
“You’ll get no support from this committee, young woman, and you’ll not be permitted to use the facilities on the field!”
“This committee must do as God leads,” she said.
“You refuse to accept passage back to Wales?”
“Yes, sir.”
The bishop was unaccustomed to being crossed, and though he was not mean, resistance brought out the worst. “Very well, you may consider yourself a free agent. I trust you will not be stubborn enough to pursue this plan, but we are free from responsibility.”
He half rose when Reverend Spenlow surprised him. “I do not agree with you, Bishop.”
If Spenlow had announced that the sun had ceased to shine, Bishop Beecher could not have been more stunned. David Spenlow was a mild man, and never once had he questioned the bishop, but now he sat with a pale face and a stubborn look in his eyes.
“Did I hear you correctly, sir?” Beecher asked in astonishment.
“I feel that if Miss Morgan insists on going to the field, we are bound to help her any way we can.”
“Yes! Yes!” Isaiah Culpepper slapped his leg and nodded vigorously. “If God has spoken to Miss Morgan, and we go against her decision, we are fighting against God. I move we stand behind her.”
J. A. Hightower had long felt that Bishop Beecher was too domineering, and seeing that turn of the tide, he said, “I second the motion.”
Beecher stared at him, his face growing redder by the second. “I would like to discuss the matter fully.”
“Certainly, sir,” Reverend Wallace nodded. “I will begin the discussion by stating that our Baptist people will do as much as we can to get the Word of God to the savages through Miss Morgan’s ministry.”
That left William Clark, and he was as delighted as his good friend Hightower to see the bishop thwarted. “We Congregationalists will not do less than our Presbyterian and Baptist brethren. I wish to commend you, Miss Morgan, for your dedication.”
Beecher had not become a bishop by being a fool. He looked at his cards, and realized he was facing a stacked deck. Being an able politician, he soon shifted his position so adroitly that one coming late to the meeting would have thought he had been the supporter of Bronwen Morgan’s mission endeavors, for he spoke to the other members of the committee, giving a glowing account of her journey.
But what he gave with one hand, he took away with the other. He held the purse strings, and with great regret told Bronwen that she could not expect as much support as had been planned for the man-and-wife team. “You are to use the facilities, of course,” he concluded, “and we trust the finances here will soon improve that we may do more.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bronwen said with a gleam in her eye.
On their way h
ome after the meeting, Bronwen said, “You surprised me, Reverend Spenlow. I didn’t expect you to disagree with your bishop.”
“Frankly, I surprised myself,” Spenlow admitted. “He’s not a man one desires to oppose.”
“Will he make it difficult for you?”
Spenlow smiled unexpectedly. “You know, my dear, I don’t think he will. He spoke to me just before he left, saying, ‘Spenlow, I was somewhat shocked when you disagreed with my decision—but I’m glad to see you’ve got a backbone!’ ”
“Wonderful!” Bronwen laughed. “I must be telling your wife how well you managed the whole thing!”
True to her promise, Bronwen gave a full report. “Really, you should have been there, Elsie! Your husband took on the entire committee—and the bishop was quite impressed! He said as much to him after the meeting!”
A flush of pleasure and pride rose in Elsie’s face. “It’s about time you took a firm hand, David,” she said, adding, “I’m so proud of you!”
Spenlow was pleased that the meeting had turned out so well but felt uncomfortable at the praise.
“Whatever I accomplish on the field, sir,” Bronwen told him, “will be because you made it possible.”
He shoved the adulation aside. “Oh, it wasn’t all that much!”
“Brother Spenlow, I disagree. When a man stands for God in the face of opposition, it is a wonderful thing, indeed.” She smiled. “Now, when can I leave?”
The Spenlows protested, but Bronwen had made up her mind. Truthfully, though, she was somewhat frightened of her decision. No matter how boldly she stood up to the missions committee, the thought of leaving the safety of civilization to plunge into the wilderness haunted her. She had lain awake at night, begging God to let her go home, but could not escape the sense that she had no choice but to go where He led.
“I will go as soon as possible,” she said, impulsively embracing the pair, revealing that strong emotion women of Wales have, “God be thanked for the pair of you. Look how happy I am to have you as my brother and sister!”
The Wounded Yankee Page 8