by Judith Pella
Benjamin rose to take his leave. Sometimes after the children were in bed he might tarry a few minutes to converse with Elise, usually about problems with the children or plans for the next day. But most often he left the cabin immediately after the children were down. They had little other opportunity to talk during the day, so Elise knew if she was going to talk to him about what she had read, she must grasp the moment or see it lost to another day.
“Benjamin,” she said as he reached for his coat on the hook by the door, “might you spare a moment? I . . . wanted to ask you something.”
He turned back into the room and found a seat on the bench near the rocker. “What is it?” There was some concern in his tone.
“It’s nothing ominous,” she said awkwardly. “It is only that I have been reading the New Testament again, and I have a question.”
“Elise, I don’t feel in much of a position to be giving spiritual or theo.logical guidance.” He arched an eyebrow, as if expecting an argument.
“Oh . . . well, in that case . . .” she let her words trail away, hoping she appeared sufficiently disheartened.
“If it’s a simple question,” he relented, “I suppose I could see what I can offer.”
She smiled, trying not to look too triumphant. “I’m sure it’s simple. I’m so ignorant of these things that all my questions are simple. I was wondering about the story of the woman caught in adultery.”
He nodded with a peculiar look in his eye as if to say, “Ah yes, she would pick up on that bit.”
With a shrug she continued. “I thought it odd that Jesus, an upright, law-abiding man, not to mention His being God and all, would let the woman off so easily. Hadn’t she committed a crime?”
“Christ is simply making the point that God is the judge. The book of James says, ‘There is one lawgiver, who is able to save and to destroy: who art thou that judgest another?’ ” He paused, his brow arched. “That’s what it says.” His tone was almost apologetic. “Not that we should let all criminals free. But the Scriptures further state, ‘For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God; Being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God.’ ”
Elise marveled at how the words rolled as easily from Benjamin’s lips as the water flowed down the little creek by the cabin.
Benjamin looked a bit bemused himself. Rubbing his chin, he added dryly, “I can quote more Scriptures if you like.”
“You know a great deal.”
“Yes, I do,” he answered simply, ironically.
“It still seems rather amazing to me”—Elise steered the conversation back to the Scripture—“that after the terrible thing she did, Jesus only said, ‘Neither do I condemn thee.’ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing that I have God’s forgiveness for my own mistakes. But still, it seems so easy.”
“I’ve often thought so, too.” Pausing, Benjamin stretched out his hands, studying his fingers that now bore blisters from plowing. His mouth hardened as he murmured, “ ‘The wages of sin is death.’ ”
“But we are not all dead, are we?” she asked quietly. “I think Jesus saw inside the woman’s heart, as He saw inside my heart. He sees inside your heart, too, Benjamin—” She stopped as she realized her slip and that her little deception was now revealed.
“So all you had was an innocent question, eh?” Except for a slight quirk of the corner of his mouth, she could not tell if he was amused, angry, or indifferent.
She gave a sheepish shrug.
“Is this your subtle way of trying to preach to me?” There was only a hint of reproach in his voice.
“Well, I suppose I should get at least one chance to do so.” She gave him a wily grin. “It will make us even.”
Now both corners of his lips quirked, obviously in spite of himself.
“All right. Let me have it.”
“I wouldn’t know how to preach even if I tried.” She lowered her eyes toward the baby in her arms to organize her thoughts away from the intensity of his gaze. She noted absently how this child, more than the others, resembled Benjamin even at only two months. “I have no right to preach anyway. It’s just that . . . I was so excited when I saw this story, and then I saw you so clearly in it. You know this Scripture, yet you refuse to accept Christ’s simply spoken words, ‘Neither do I condemn you.’ But if He would forgive this woman caught in the act of sin, why wouldn’t He forgive you?”
Benjamin lifted his gaze from where it had been fixed on the table. If there had been a shadow of amusement in his eyes before, it was gone now, replaced with a hot intensity. “Maybe God has looked inside my heart and found it very black.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“After what I’ve told you?” Abruptly he jumped up, strode to where he kept his books, rifled through one, and withdrew a piece of paper. “Perhaps if you heard it in Rebekah’s words.” He dropped the paper on Elise’s lap.
She picked it up. It was spread smooth now but had at one time been seriously crumpled. “I . . . don’t feel right reading this.”
“You are my wife now,” he said. “You ought to know what you might be in for.”
A thrill akin to fear sizzled through Elise, almost as if she had unknowingly unleashed a repressed demon in the man before her. He’d warned her before that he had his faults, and she’d personally seen some for herself. But lately they had seemed so distant that she had nearly forgotten about the harsh, judgmental man who had driven his wife away and to her death. She realized that except for brief glimpses, she really did not know what had gone on in the home of Rebekah Sinclair.
Now as she caught a flicker of that man still lingering within, she trembled at the power it could have. It was perhaps even more powerful and dangerous now that his faith was weakened. She forced herself to remember that whatever wars raged within Benjamin Sinclair, they were repressed by his own hand, by his own will.
“I’ll read it but only because it might help me to understand things better.” She unfolded the page. When she finished reading, she looked up, tears standing in her eyes. “She never once accused you, Benjamin.”
“She wouldn’t, would she?”
“No, I suppose not,” she answered reluctantly. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines and to put that together with the man Elise had known before coming to this cabin one rainy day. No question about it, Benjamin had been a hard man. Hard as glass. And now he was a broken man, shattered like a pane on a window. “How long will you punish yourself, Benjamin? Certainly you know God doesn’t want to punish you. He loves you.”
“It’s not that simple.” He went on, his voice as harsh as brimstone. “God is an avenging god, a god of judgment and punishment. Do you think because I feel sorry for what has happened it makes it all right?”
“Yes.”
“That is only for children and for women forced to do immoral things against their will.” He glared at her.
She realized the bitter passion she had seen in his eyes was not directed at her but rather at himself. “God is a god of love!” She reached down and grabbed the New Testament from where she had laid it on the floor next to the rocker. “It says it here.” She waved the book in his face.
He backed off, as if the book were a snake.
Her voice softened. “Benjamin, I think you’ve forgotten, if you ever really knew, just what kind of god you have served all your life. But maybe it was just easier for you to perform righteous acts in order to gain acceptance from God.”
“Even the adulterous woman had to do something,” he countered. “ ‘Go and sin no more,’ Jesus told her.”
“I don’t think so.” As she spoke, his brow arched as if daring her, a mere spiritual babe, to debate him, a biblical scholar. But she had come this far, had already risked his wrath, and he had done no more than glare at
her. She forged ahead. “I’m no scholar. I can only figure things out by what I read in God’s Book here. A lot of it is very confusing, but one thing is clear. Christ did not make people perform deeds in order to receive absolution. Christ told the woman He didn’t condemn her before He told her to go and sin no more. He forgave her before she did anything. That’s the kind of god Christ is!”
Benjamin leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “You make a good argument,” he said grudgingly. “But this never had anything to do with God’s forgiveness.”
“It has to do with your accepting His forgiveness?” Her words were part question, part statement.
“It’s not that simple!” he practically growled, then lurched to his feet.
“I think it is.”
“You know nothing about it,” he retorted, towering over her now, seeming more ominous than ever.
“Is there a different law for you, Benjamin? For the perfect, holy, exemplary preacher who makes a mistake?” She spoke levelly, trying to ignore the strength of his formidable presence.
“You know nothing of these things!” There was an edge of warning in his tone. “Stick to the gentle little faith you have found and quit tampering with that about which you are ignorant.” She could tell he was expending great effort not to shout.
“Well, it is simple. I think you have just gotten too big for your holy britches, Benjamin Sinclair!” Her voice rose, but she kept it under control when Oliver stirred.
With a loud “Harrumph!” he stalked to the door and left the cabin.
CHAPTER
43
ELISE AND BENJAMIN DID NOT speak at all the day after that, and in the days that followed, conversations were brief, to the point, and dealt only with necessities. Elise made no attempt to return to the previous conversation, nor did Benjamin give her any chance to do so.
Perhaps she meant well, but she would never understand the bitter angst in Benjamin’s heart. Benjamin himself hardly understood it, and he was growing sick with grappling with it. Not that he was ready to let it go, even if some nagging little part of him knew that’s all he had to do.
Instead, he threw himself into the field work with practically the same passion he’d once applied to the whitened fields of spiritual harvest. With the horse lame, he finished plowing without it. Even with Micah steering the plow, it was backbreaking, grueling labor. It took two more days to finish the job.
He had planned to send Micah back to the Hunters with the plow when they finished and have him stop in Cooksburg to get the lame horse shod. By leaving at first light and riding briskly, it was possible to make the round trip in a day. However, Benjamin changed his mind, deciding he needed to get away himself. He also decided he would set a more leisurely pace. Elise had agreed it was a good idea not to push himself, for he’d been working so hard. It rather surprised Benjamin that she made no protests at all to his being gone for two days. When Rebekah had been alive, he could not recall a time he left without her making many protests. He couldn’t decide if this was good or bad. Had Rebekah cared too much and Elise not enough? Certainly the way he’d been acting lately he could well fathom that Elise did not want him around.
Benjamin left after breakfast the next day. He rode the good horse and led the lame horse, after packing the plow and a few supplies on it. The day was fine despite a chill in the air and a stiff breeze out of the west. The sky was a pristine blue, and it made him think how much wider and clearer it was in Texas than it had ever been in Boston. Sometimes he felt this new land was out to crush him—perhaps it already had. He should hate it, but he could not deny that it was a good land, open and free and full of promise. Many men had come here fleeing their pasts. Perhaps he could do so, too.
Sucking in a breath of the crisp air, pungent with the scents of grass and dust and sweet flowery fragrances, he was reminded of the first time he had ridden his circuit. What an exhilarating experience that had been! Oh, the guilt he had felt enjoying it so! He’d felt made for that job, that ministry.
That initial exhilaration was now replaced with a sharp pang of regret. But it was foolish to still long for his old ministry. It was probably only a longing after adventure and excitement he was feeling. He’d never wanted to admit how much like Haden he was, but maybe it was time he did.
He reached Cooksburg just after midday. Albert Petty fixed up the horse in no time, then gave Benjamin a meal of stew and biscuits. Benjamin turned down an offer of a bed for the night, saying he wanted to get a few more hours of travel in before night. In truth, he was looking forward to camping on the trail.
Though he feared being alone with his thoughts, he was also becoming more and more shy of people. He cringed at the looks of pity and smugness and outright contempt. Some of the people held his past ministry against him. He was certain they were thinking, “Oh, how the mighty has fallen!”
Others, the more self-righteous of the lot, held his present situation against him. They were still ready to expel him from the church, even if he had married the woman they believed he had been living in sin with.
If he cared at all about pleasing these people, he would have been hard-pressed to do so. mind like the prick of a blade. Was that how they had felt when he had been their minister? The weight of the law he had placed upon them must have been staggering. He had criticized them if they had no Bible in their homes. If they did have a Bible in their homes, he judged them because they did not read it. If they read it, he exhorted them to read it more. Did they pray? If so, it wasn’t for long enough. Did they partake of ardent spirits or tobacco? How could they and call themselves Christians? Did they use profanity? Well, darn was not better than damn. Did they make mistakes? Then repent!
Benjamin snorted derisively. What a load of guilt and judgment he had heaped upon them! He had believed faith was all in performance. He had lived it, too. “Faith without works is dead” had been his watchword. But there was another side to it. One that he had ignored. “Justified by faith without the deeds of the law.” Scriptures suddenly bombarded his mind. He knew them by heart, of course. He saw now what he had never seen before. He supposed Elise was right in saying that he had needed works because they came easier for him. Now that the foundation of works had crumbled in his life, he could hardly function—not spiritually or in any other way.
The last thing he wanted now was to grapple with spiritual issues. Elise had been right about another thing—he knew far too much. He knew it all. Yet he knew nothing at all!
Forcing his mind from this direction, he made himself focus on his surroundings. He willed himself to drink in the keen, sharp relief of trees bursting with the pale green of new growth. John Hunter had once tried to educate Benjamin on the many species to be found here, but Benjamin had brushed aside the man’s attempt as frivolous. He wished he knew some of the names now, for it would provide a marvelous distraction.
The tree with the tiny greenish flower and the gray-brown trunk was surely hickory. White hickory, John had called it. He’d said the seed of the nut was edible. Made good coffee when the real thing couldn’t be found, and the wood was good for smoking hams.
That low spindly tree was mesquite. And, of course, there was oak. Benjamin saw a large one draped in a pale green veil of Spanish moss. Whether out of old habit or from some real inner sense, Benjamin felt awed by the majesty of a God who could create such wonders.
Well, he’d never denied God’s existence. . . .
There you go again, Benjamin. You can’t seem to escape it.
He rode on. A hawk soared overhead. Then his mount grew restive.
Pausing, Benjamin peered through the trees and tall grass, concerned there might be some wild animal near. Horses usually sensed such things first. But he saw nothing. The gentle waving of the grass appeared undisturbed. The trees rustled a bit in the breeze, but that was all.
He made camp shortly before sundown at the foot of a small grove of oak trees. He could hear a creek close by bubbling over rocks,
probably on its way to meet the Brazos. Though he had jerky, he decided to try to catch fresh fish for supper. But getting down to the creek proved to be tricky, having to negotiate a slippery ten-foot bank.
Even if he didn’t catch a thing, the effort was well worth it just for taking in the scenery along the creek. When was the last time he had sat on the bank of a stream and done nothing more than look? When his stomach began growling, he took the rod he had fashioned from a hickory branch, tied a line to it, baited it with worms dug from the edge of the creek, and plunged it into the water.
The sun was fully down by the time he returned to his campsite, two good-sized trout in hand. He built a fire, and lacking the proper cooking equipment, he speared the fish on sticks and roasted them over the fire. A pot of coffee and a few of Elise’s johnnycakes completed the meal. Sitting back against the trunk of an oak, he ate one fish with his fingers while it still sizzled. The other he placed between two johnny-cakes. His mouth was open, poised to take a bite when one of the horses snorted and both animals moved restlessly. Putting down his meal, he rose and ensured they were hobbled securely. Again he peered into the woods and brush but saw nothing in the dark.
Oddly, he wasn’t afraid. Perhaps his appreciation of nature had dulled his ability to fear that which was so beautiful. Of course, such thinking was foolishness in the wilderness. There were two sides to such beauty, just as with everything else. He took his musket and powder horn from the saddle and carried them back to camp.
He was settling down once again to his meal when he heard a twig snap. An instant later company appeared in the clearing of his campsite. Indians. Three of them.
Now fear gripped him. Meeting a handful of Indians protected by a crowd of fifty whites was far different than doing so alone in the wilds. He immediately recognized the tallest of the trio as the leader of the group that had come to the camp meeting. Again they were far from their usual home along the coast. No doubt they had come north in search of game after a sparse winter. Benjamin hoped that was the case and they would be satisfied with game. He couldn’t forget rumors of cannibalism. And since that earlier encounter, he’d heard of other gruesome practices of the fierce and primitive Karankawas.
