Was Mother right? Would Father side with them… or Reynolds?
Eli helped Maggie onto her horse. She wished she could ride straddle and wear pants. Then she could jump into the saddle as easily as Mr. Reynolds had.
Her father had changed so. Mother rode straddle like Father when Father first saw her. She was half Cherokee Indian—her mother’s father chief of the Cherokee of Tennessee. Maggie stared into the mists toward the Glenn. Mother had told her about those days so long ago when she and Father had carved Spirit Wind out of the wilderness and trusted God for their daily provisions.
Ben’s father ran toward the wagon and thrust a tiny leather pouch into his son’s palm. “Take this wee mustard seed I brought from Ireland. Me own dear father gave me these seeds to remind me that with God, nothing is impossible. Faith as small as a grain of mustard seed! See for yourself, we are here in this blessed land.” Ben’s father smiled through his tears. “’Tis better than kissing the blarney stone, it ’tis. God can restore you back to a full man. If He has a mind to, and if you believe He can!”
Her eyes met Ben’s momentarily, then turned to gaze at the lowlands. God please, please heal Ben. He had saved her, but could she save him? Would Ben ever walk again?
Chapter 7
B en hated being a cripple. Each morning, he would rub his legs, praying for life to return to his numb limbs. Nothing. Eli was his constant companion. He bathed him, carried him to the buckboard, and then carried him to his wee cart so he could oversee the swamp clearing.
Big Jim was his legs and ensured Ben’s orders were carried out to the fullest. But he worried about his dad; he was trying to work as hard as two men and him up in age. His dad’s color was better. The ruddiness of his cheeks also displayed his faith renewed. Now, more than ever, Ben was determined to get that piece of land. His dad and he burned with the desire to prove that the signs saying “Irish need not apply” were only hurting the Americans. Irishmen were tireless workers, smart, and not afraid to get their hands dirty.
It was hard for Ben to accept the aid of Eli, knowing that people like Eli were keeping the Irish from attaining jobs and food. And what about the Glenn? What was going on there?
Each morning before the sun rose, batches of slaves would disappear into the night, only to reappear an hour or two later, before the rooster crowed his first alarm. They’d hide the contents of their pockets and not breathe where they had been. An uprising of some sort was coming about, to be sure. Should he alert Maggie?
He heard a gentle knock on his door and then the soft voice of his nurse. “Are you up, Ben?”
“To be sure, I be, and as decent as I am able with half a body at my disposal.” Ben swept back his hair from his forehead, then nodded at Eli who kept an eagle-eyed vigil on Maggie while in Ben’s room.
The first sight of Maggie always astounded him. This morning the rays of the sun shone on her back, and she looked like an angel with a halo of sunlight floating about her hair and shoulders. Her eyes held a strange magic that mesmerized him every time he glanced within them.
Deep pools of color, those brown eyes took on a gleam of their own whenever she wore vibrant scarlet or sky blues. To be sure, she was a vision, that Maggie Gatlan. It was getting much too hard to fight the tide that welled within his heart each time she touched him, be it as she lifted his sheets to massage his legs, like she was doing now.
“I take it you’re getting even with me for that first day we met,” he said.
“I never thought about it that way.” Maggie chuckled, then continued to rub on the liniment she had brought. “Let me know if this burns.”
The smell resembled what he used on his mule whenever the animal became lame. “Could it be horse liniment you be using?”
“Do you feel anything, Ben?” Red from the liniment, Maggie dipped her hands in a pail of cool water. “I hope the liniment didn’t burn your skin.” She touched his legs. “Do your legs feel hot?”
And him wishing he could feel that gentleness… he bit his lower lip. “No, but I be smelling like a horse, to be sure.”
Maggie turned her face away from him, glanced at Eli, shook her head, then reached for a cloth. Was she trying to hide her disappointment? She dipped the cloth into the water, then covered his now reddened legs, her mouth quivering ever so slightly.
Eli cleared his throat. “I’ll fetch some fresh drinking water.”
Ben scrunched his eyes shut and lifted his arm across his face. Merciful Jesus, what have I done to deserve this?
Maggie gently shook his shoulders. She smelled of apples, flour, and horses… with a bit of the sunshine thrown in for good measure.
“Ben, there’s a preacher coming to town for a tent revival. He, he’s wonderful.” She bent closer, her soft green sprigged muslin with the puffy sleeves brushing his chest. She’d tied a white lace shawl in the front about her bodice. The song, “The Wearin’ o’ the Green” came to mind and he started to hum it.
“Ben, listen.” Her eyes were serious enough to be dressing him for his wake.
“Lighten up, lass. You’re much too young for me to be laying extra years upon your pretty face. I can take care of myself.”
“He has a reputation in the north of being a healer. I’ve seen it. Mother and I want to take you. Will you go with us, please?”
Ben rose to a sitting position. Maggie plumped the pillow behind his back. It felt good. He started to hum “The Wearin’ o’ the Green” again, watching her as she rushed to get him a cool drink of spring water from the bucket Eli had just fetched. Her long hoop skirt swayed with every motion of her hips, dress and petticoats swishing across the just-washed floor so clean he could eat on it. Her waist looked small enough for Ben to wrap his hand around. Dainty and innocent she be. Not at all knowing about the disappointments of life, atrocities of war, death, and starvation, Oh, to be innocent.
“Do you know the song, ‘The Wearin’ o’ the Green?’”
Maggie shook her head as she carried toward him a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup, a glass of milk, and a piece of bread.
“I’ll be tellin’ it to you, then.”
“Okay, but take a sip of this first.”
Ben did as she directed. He didn’t realize he was hungry. He finished the bowl of soup, then smiled up at her. “Now, where was I? Yes, ‘The Wearin’ o’ the Green’ is an Irish folksong, dating back to the Irish Rebellion of 1798 when we rose against the British.”
His fingers traced the deep green borders of her dress. “Back then wearing green clothing or the shamrocks was considered a rebellious act, punishable by death.” Ben laid his head back on his pillow. He watched Maggie’s expression as she touched the gold cross she always wore about her neck.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Just a simple trinket and a color and the English would hang men, women, and children alike if their orders were not obeyed.” Clearly, she was having a tough time digesting this. “Well, I’ll be tellin’ ya the last two verses. Though I doubt I’ll be doin’ it proper.
She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen
For they’re hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland’s heart
Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old Isle will part
I’ve heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom’s day.
Ah, Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant’s hand
Must we seek a mother’s blessing from a strange and distant land
Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen
And where, please God, we’ll live and die, still Wearing of the Green.”
Ben grimaced, directing his gaze to Eli. “Free indeed. What has freedom gotten the Irish in America, but want, hard work, and more want?” He looked around the cabin quarters, a bed with clean linens, a table, chairs, a cupboard laden with plates an
d cups and full of bread, butter, cheese, and meat. More than he and his dad ever had in Ireland, to be sure. Then on the pegs, more clothes and another set of shoes. “Who needs freedom if one is provided with the wants?”
“Ben, look at me.” She pulled his chin around. Her eyes looked deeply into his. She was a strange one.
“Ben, what you wish for will come. Don’t lose hope in America.” Then she jumped, like he’d pinched her. He wouldn’t say the thought didn’t enter his mind a half dozen times a day, but he was truly innocent of the action.
“Rich and poor stand equal in God’s eyes, Ben. Hear this preacher. What have you got to lose? It’s the American way.” Maggie shrugged her slender shoulders and laughed. “Well it’s the Christian American way.” She wagged her finger in front of his face. “Never, never, give up your faith or hope in Jesus.”
“When is this preacher man coming to town?”
“Sunday.”
“But it be Tuesday. And my dad and Big Jim’s leaving on Friday. All us Irishmen have been ordered out by Mr. Reynolds. Our job is done here.” He jingled his pocket. They had made forty gold pieces, and if not for the generosity of Mrs. Gatlan, they would have made much less. But would that buy the splendors of this cabin? Hardly. Winter was approaching. What would they do with no roof over their heads or warm coats on their backs?
“If you could see to it that we Irish could stay on longer—”
“I wish that was possible.” Maggie grabbed the sandwich she had made and the tall glass of milk and handed it to him, then sat down on her chair, glancing toward Eli. “Father said we could either sell a few of our slaves and hire you Irish, or else let you go.”
Ben nearly choked on his bite of sandwich, nodding in Eli’s direction. “And of course, all you being related, it would mean splitting up families.”
“Exactly.” Maggie glanced back at Eli, then looked down at her hands. “Mother refuses to do that. But she is very fond of every one of you—”
“And what about you?” He wanted to say Maggie dearest, but choked back the words.
“I’m praying, Ben. I told my father we could build a few more cabins and let you stay at Spirit Wind while you look for work. Once word gets around how you dredged the swamp, there will be plenty more work for you.” Maggie laid her hand down on the coverlet, then just as quickly got up and began to pace the cabin.
“Can you come, Ben, to the revival? Maybe your dad and Big Jim would come. Don’t you see, this is what our country needs right now. Southerners are talking about seceding from the Union. Oh, I can’t bear to think about that.” Maggie rushed to his bed and knelt, her eyes pleading, searching his. “Come, and keep an open mind.”
“But I’m not sure our religion permits this. Does this preacher believe that Jesus is the Son of God?” He leaned forward, their faces nearly touching. It was all Ben could do not to kiss her pleading lips.
“Yes, Ben, truly he does and he believes Jesus can heal just as He did when He was on earth, only through God’s Holy Spirit.”
Ben searched her face. “If you can get your father to allow us to stay until the following Monday, I will see if I can get my men to come to your tent revival. I know my Jesus and if He’s there… well, we’ll just see.”
Maggie caught her breath. “It would be a miracle from God if Father grants you Irish more time.”
Chapter 8
T he smells of horses, harness, and Mother’s lemon verbena sachet drifted past Maggie’s nose. She couldn’t believe all the carriages traveling the street heading toward the oval tent erected on a large hill just outside town. From here, the tent resembled a gigantic mushroom.
Dust clouds from the horses’ hooves rose to greet the walkers. Some smiled and nodded to her; others who were strangers coming into town for the revival, looked curiously up at them.
She and mother glanced at each other and laughed. The clanging of harness, conversation, and singing filled her ears. Indeed, their little assemblage must make quite a site. Adorned in their silk dresses, a combination of pink and plum, with lace parasols raised high against the bright Tennessee sunlight, she and Mother sat perched like nobility next to Eli in an old buckboard with Ben sprawled out in back. Behind their wagon were the Irishmen all decked out in their Sunday best, gray broadcloth with wide black cravat, ruffled shirts, and black derbies, compliments of Spirit Wind.
There couldn’t be a prouder bunch of Irishmen. Three abreast, shoulder to shoulder, a dozen of them marched in perfect step to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” as they sang. “I’m lonesome since I crossed the hill, And over the moorland sedgy, Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, Since parting from my Sally. I seek no more the fine and gay, For each just does remind me How sweet the hours I passed away, With the girl I left behind me.” Ben’s bass voice, strong with feeling and emotion, had her wondering if he left behind a girl in Ireland? A stab of jealousy slapped her chest unexpectedly and for a moment she was indignant. He’s most likely got a half-dozen pretty girls pining for him in Ireland!
“O ne’er shall I forget that night, The stars were bright above me, And gently lent their silvery light When first she vowed to love me.” Ben glanced her way and smiled. “But now I’m bound to America’s shores - Kind heaven then pray guide me, And send me safely back again, To the girl I left behind me.”
Eli hummed along.
“I wish I could have encouraged your father to come,” Mother whispered. She twirled her parasol, blocking any view Maggie may have glimpsed of her mother’s disappointment. “Your father used to love to go to revivals and church socials before we got so high and mighty in society. Now he just goes Sunday mornings, and I think it’s more an obligation than a chance to talk to his Lord and Savior. I just don’t know where I’ve gone wrong.”
Mother was the anchor of Maggie’s faith. It was due to her father’s loyalty to her mother that he allowed the Irish to stay on. For Mother to doubt was unusual and too human for Maggie to digest. Mother was above any Christian she knew and on equal terms with the late Reverend Anderson. Maggie patted her mother’s lace-gloved hand. “You always say that our good Lord gives each of us our own wills to choose or not to choose. I am confident Father will change his mind, especially when Jesus heals Ben.”
The tent smelled like moldy bed sheets. Ben adjusted his eyes from bright sunlight to dark shadows. Eli had plenty of arms ready to carry Ben to his spot on one log seat. Clouds of dust rose from the dirt floor, stirred up with the boots and goings on of the crowd finding their seats, making it harder to see.
“I don’t want to be here, take me home,” one little girl wailed. Carried in on a stretcher, her attendants hurried through the crowded aisle bumping into people in their urgency, taking the first seat in front of the preacher’s platform. A stout man with a stogie hanging out the corner of his mouth bumped Ben’s arm. “Sorry. Say, what are you here for, healing or salvation?”
“It’ll not hurt me to grab a little bit of both.” Ben smiled into the soft, pudgy face of his stogie-eating friend. “What be your reason for coming to this foul-smelling place?”
“Curiosity.” The man puffed harder on his cigar. “When I heard tell that this preacher was having a revival down here, thought I’d check him out. It will be interesting to see how he’ll do with this crowd. Heard tell he did real well with the abolitionists up New York and Boston way.”
“Oh, Mother, can anything good come from the North?” Maggie whispered.
“We shall soon find out. Look, just two rows from the front, isn’t that Matron Burns from the Society of Friends?”
“Why, yes, and there is Miss Peabody.”
A man walked onto the makeshift stage made of a few planks of wood hammered together. He was a thin man, and his black suit threadbare at the cuffs. In his hands he cradled a Bible as worn as his clothing.
“He doesn’t look like he was so well received in New York,” Ben heard Maggie whisper, “unless, that’s the way people dress up there.”<
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Ben chuckled. Most likely Maggie had never been up north, and he and his friends were mostly the only northern folks she’d seen. He glanced to his left at his dad, now clean shaven, with his pants creased at the knees and pressed razor sharp, and his Sunday go to meeting shirt on. Big Jim had fared as well as the other Irishmen, thanks to Mrs. Gatlan.
Ben sat up a little taller. With all the bad he and his friends had encountered in New York City, there was still good to be had, if you were willing to work for it.
The preacher opened his Bible. “My message today will be on disciplining your doubts.” The preacher flipped the pages of his Bible. “But before we begin with my sermon, God has weighed something heavily upon my shoulders for me to read. Please turn to 2 Corinthians 3:17. …‘Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.’ Is this liberty for a few or for all? We need to ask ourselves this.”
The crowd booed him. Maggie’s face turned pale white.
The preacher laughed, then lifted his hand. “Well, now that I have your attention—my dear friends, the Bible is the Bible and we need to remember that first and foremost. We must fear God and obey His Word and never, never take it out of context.
“Now understand what the Bible here is talking about. God is talking about the Lord’s glory, and we being transformed into His likeness, which can only come from accepting our Lord, our Savior, and the Holy Spirit.”
The preacher walked down the steps and took hold of the little girl’s hand. “Only Jesus can set us free. Not man’s laws.” He looked out at the crowd. His voice rose higher. “We are all slaves to Satan until we allow Jesus Christ in our hearts as our personal Savior.” He turned to the little girl. “Do you believe that?”
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