Granpap spoke about them as he and John got on the road to go back the way they had come. Years before, the first Tate that made money had driven the McFarlanes off the land. The McFarlanes had gone far up a mountain into a cove by Pinch-gut Creek. Later the same Tate had driven some of his own kin away and the McFarlanes had taken them in. Way up there on the creek they had married each other till the Lord only knew which was brother and which sister. And the result was before them. The Tate-McFarlanes had pop eyes and skin that would bleed if you took a straight look at it.
The rich Tates got richer and the poor ones had come to this. It seemed that the Lord took pleasure in shearing his poor sheep and fattening the rich ones. Maybe he did it on purpose so that in heaven the sheared ones would enjoy their riches more, and in hell the rich would burn better for their fatness.
To Preacher Warren all the people in the company were pinchfaced and uninteresting. As he tethered his horse and got his bundle of baptizing clothes from the saddle bag, he felt a load in his heart because as far as he could know he would be doing this very thing summer after summer. He longed with his whole soul to live in town, where his children might grow up in the proper manner, and he might have a congregation of live people. In the whole place only Hal Swain and his wife Sally knew how to live. Preacher Warren felt grateful to them, for if it were not for those two he would have no salary from the community. The occasional pennies and nickels dropped into a hat on Sundays hardly counted. Sometimes resentment filled his throat when he thought that at dances the collections were larger than at church. But he was ashamed of such resentment and when it occurred prayed to his Lord to cleanse his heart of the secret sin.
His early life had been pinched, and he wanted something more . . . a church with stained glass windows, a baptizing pool under the platform and a regular Bible rest where his big Bible would stay from week to week. If he had met John in the road he would have seen just another pinch-faced child with a careless walk, who would grow up to be a careless, slovenly man, living on the lusts of the flesh—his woman or his women, his drink and his food.
As the preacher left his horse some girls came out of the bushes at the side of the road. One of them had her dress still raised. And as she saw him and dropped it hurriedly the others giggled. As they ran down the road he heard them laugh. They were all like that—lewd, coarse. He wanted refinement and reserve. And he had not found it among his own people. He thought of those he was to baptize that day. Sally McClure, Minnie Hawkins, Eve McDonald and the Wesley girls, three boys beside Basil McClure. Of them all, boys and girls, Basil was the only one he felt he could count on.
Sally Swain and Hal arrived soon after the preacher. Sally took up most of the buggy. She was a long time getting out, but once on the ground her feet were light and energetic. For a time she rummaged in the back of the buggy handing out certain bundles to Hal. These they carried to a place further down the road where four trees some distance from each other made an almost perfect square.
Soon Emma, Ora, and several other women were there helping Sally put up the sheets. They were making a dressing room for the girls. In this space the girls were to put on their robes made from unbleached cloth sold at Swain’s. Sally furnished the safety pins, and along with them she gave advice. Before the girls were half dressed everyone was wishing her out of the way. But they were too shy to speak, and all of them owed money at Swain’s. They knew that Sally was really good-natured. Yet everyone felt like saying “Why are you here?”
“Pin Sally further up on that side,” Sally Swain called to Ora. “Or she’ll trip sure as gun’s iron.”
“Here, Eve,” she called to Eve McDonald, forcing her to leave her mother’s fingers. “That’ll never do. You look like you was sent for and couldn’t come.” And she took the whole robe off, leaving Eve naked except for some flimsy drawers. Eve hid her face in her hands. She might have said the coarsest words to Sally Swain if she had the courage. She knew them. And she was not afraid of being naked. Only Sally Swain’s pudgy hands tearing the robe off seemed to violate her, and she wanted to hide herself from the others.
When Emma and Ora came out to take their places on the bank everyone had settled down except a few men who were still talking in a little group on the road. As soon as they saw the preacher coming down from his dressing place in the white baptizing robe, they too walked slowly to the bank and before the preacher reached the creek had found themselves seats in the grass.
Preacher Warren walked sedately through his flock, stood a moment on the bank, then picked his way carefully over the rocky beach. He entered the water up to his knees. Everyone was still. There was not a breeze. Nothing moved except the water that flowed over the rocks and tugged at the ends of the preacher’s robe. He was forced to stand with his feet wide apart, for the current was not weak and there were slippery rocks on the bottom.
Facing the flock he gave out a hymn and the people sang after him line by line.
The beginning of the song was a signal. The girls came out from the curtained place and walked slowly in single file toward the preacher. And down the road came the boys with Basil leading. As the song ended they were standing on the beach facing the preacher. The five girls stood in their cream robes with hair combed out down their backs. The young men had new jeans and white shirts—all bought at Swain’s at a special price.
The preacher spoke some words to them. Three words, he said, they must make the ideal of their lives. These words were temperance, soberness, and chastity. The girls must be temperate in speech. They must not be coarse in language or in actions, and must not backbite their neighbors. The men must not look on wine, for “the drunken and glutton shall come to poverty: and drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags.” These words, he said, came straight from the Good Book.
Drink had ruined men, and laziness had overcome the women of that country. So that they went about in poverty and sometimes even in rags. On earth, he said, they must prepare for their heavenly home. And in the heavenly home all was pure and fair and refined. So all must become pure and fair on earth in preparation. They must work and save and live better. If they did this the Lord would bless them and welcome them into his everlasting home. Amen.
The preacher beckoned to Sally McClure who was first in the line. She went forward, feeling the way with her toes for she had walked the creek barefoot before and knew how treacherous the rocks could be. It would be a disastrous thing, remembered for years by the whole community, if she slipped and fell.
Leading Sally by the hand, the preacher backed out into the water until he was up to his waist. Sally shivered as the cold water struck her body. And she was shivering partly from excitement already, for she knew the eyes of the congregation were on her. At a certain spot, when the water was just above Sally’s waist the preacher turned her toward the congregation. He put one hand behind her head, the other on her forehead, and saying the mystic words, dipped her until she was completely covered with water. She came up coughing and he held her until she recovered and could walk to the edge of the creek. There Sally Swain met her with a blanket from the store and covered her. This covering was for warmth and also for modesty. The wet robe stuck fast to the young girl’s body.
Minnie Hawkins was next in the line of girls. She had just reached the preacher and was ready to be immersed when a low sound went up from the congregation. The sound was like a hive of bees beginning to swarm. It swelled in places and as it died down in one place grew louder in another. Minnie tried to raise her head, for she heard the commotion distinctly. The preacher paid no attention and held Minnie’s head firmly under his hand. These excitements sometimes happened and he had found it best whether in church or outside to pay no attention, but to let the excitement pass off of itself.
His back was turned and neither he nor Minnie, whose head he held fast, could see Kirk McClure sitting astride a horse on the opposite bank of the stream. Kirk had ridden up so quietly no one had seen until the horse’s forefeet were
already in the water. He must have been waiting behind a thicket for the moment when Minnie Hawkins went in.
He was riding the preacher’s horse. Everyone recognized the saddle bags. Kirk began to cross the creek. No one ever found out what he had expected to do. Perhaps his coming was simply a show for Minnie. The water came up to the horse’s belly and in places above it. The horse slipped on the stones and splashed the water over Kirk. It glittered over him in the afternoon sunshine. All this took only a moment, that moment when the preacher laid his hand on Minnie’s forehead and began saying the words over her. At that moment Kirk reached them. He had on his old felt hat, turned up in front. Leaning across the saddle he took the hat off with a flourish right under the nose of the preacher. Minnie saw him as he had meant her to. She jerked away from the horse and rider with a single startled movement. And she slipped on the rocks. As she slid into the water both her hands grasped at the preacher’s robe. His feet teetered on the round stones and in another second he was under the water with Minnie. The two scrambled and fought under the water and might have choked each other if help had not come. At first people were too shocked to move. They were shocked into a stillness like death. Even Kirk sat on the horse without moving, a dazed look on his face. But he was the first to get in the water. And it was Kirk who forced Minnie’s arms from around the preacher and set them both on their feet. Before the men could reach them, Kirk had swung the horse around and splashed out of the water. He rode through the excited crowd of people on the bank and galloped up the road.
It was some time before the baptizing could proceed. The preacher was helped on to the bank and sat there panting until his breath came regularly again. Sally Swain wrapped Minnie in the blanket and took her to the dressing place.
There was so much excitement, it was not until the next day people began to ask themselves and each other whether Minnie Hawkins had actually been baptized. The preacher had begun the words, but no one had heard him finish. And he never told anyone. Since he never again asked Minnie to join the church, many people came to the conclusion that he had finished the words and Minnie was saved. But others disagreed, and this baptism was the subject of many discussions for years afterward, especially when Minnie herself later became the chief subject of talk in the community.
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN older girls and boys were baptized they became grown and ready for courting and marriage. Though Kirk McClure had not joined the church, because of Basil’s baptism along with his brother he became a man. The two boys began to go out at night courting girls. Basil never went to dances but he visited the girls and was known to be courting Minnie Hawkins.
These days Kirk washed himself at the spring until his face shone. He and Basil did odd jobs for Swain and with some of the money they bought a razor. They had quarrels over it, for Basil accused Kirk of making the blade dull and wanted to force him to sharpen it. Neither of them took very good care of the razor and as John had used it once on a green stick without anyone’s knowing, perhaps the blame should have been put on him.
Kirk was very careless. If he made money he spent it like Granpap, only the Good Lord knew on what. Sometimes he slapped all he had made, which was never much, into the gourd for Emma and the young ones. Basil, much as Emma hated to think it, seemed always to be looking out for Number One. And when he gave money for home he always gave it into Emma’s hands with an air as if he grudged what he gave. He was a good, kind son and never said he grudged the money. It only seemed that he did—and perhaps it was the other way.
With Basil and Kirk going about their own affairs, Granpap turned more and more to John. And John was happy enough over this. The second winter after Basil was baptized Granpap got up from the supper table one night and said, “Want to go to the store, Son?” He said it to John who had asked forty times before and had always been refused. Did he want to go? It was Saturday night. Men came in and sat around the store on Saturday nights and talked. John would hear men’s talk.
The trail had never seemed so long. John ran ahead and looked down at Granpap who was taking the side of the mountain in leisurely strides. It seemed as if the old man was standing in one place, merely going through the motions of walking. John hurried about on the upper trail like a snake doctor zigzagging above a creek, trying to set Granpap an example of hurry. It was no use. The old man kept up his leisurely regular stride, even when they were going down the steep trail on the other side of Thunderhead.
In Swain’s store men sat on boxes near the stove to keep warm and to be near the sand box for spitting. Hal Swain stayed behind the counter most of the time, for people came in off and on to buy. In between selling Hal took his place on the box everybody knew as his, the box at the right of the stove pipe.
Many folks were in that night. Fraser McDonald and his son Jesse were there. Jesse was waiting for Kirk so they could go down the creek to see two girls who had come from South Fork to visit some kin over Sunday.
Jim Hawkins, who always let up on his watch of Minnie on Saturday nights, was there as usual. Some said he locked Minnie in the house, but that was nonsense. He only saw that she had gone safely to bed and shut the door behind him. There was no lock on his door. On Sundays he allowed the young men to come and see Minnie while he sat by as a proper chaperon. There was talk that Minnie was not always at home when her father thought she was there. But it was only talk, for no one had ever given proof. As Fraser McDonald said, people would get along fine if they would believe nothing of what they hear and only half of what they see. Only people don’t always act in the best way, and so the talk went around about Minnie.
Bud McEachern was in the store. He lived over South Fork, but was staying a few days with Sam McEachern whose bachelor cabin was under Barren She Mountain. Bud was there to have a talk with Granpap. They were waiting for Sam.
“Sure he’s coming?” Granpap asked Bud. “Sure he ain’t out after a gal?”
“Sure,” Bud said. “Sam aims high. Didn’t you know? Got a little miss all dressed in lace down in Leesville.”
Sam Wesley, just from the hospital in Leesville, spoke up. “He can have her,” he said and spat with a twist of his head. “He can have all the gals in Leesville for what I saw of them.”
“And what did you see?” Bud asked.
“Clean to Christmas,” Sam said, “and back again.”
“Glad to get home, eh, Sam?” Hal Swain asked. From his place behind the stove he saw a girl come in the door, and got up to find out what she wanted.
Many girls who lived near came in on Saturday nights to buy something—a spool of thread, some needles, perhaps just to look at some calico. They came in and with one eye on the counter took little sly glances toward the men. And often after the girl had left, one of the young men got up and strolled carelessly out of the back door.
“Glad to get back?” Sam Wesley repeated after Hal had taken his place again. “As soon as I left the hospital I promised my God I’d never set foot out of the mountains again.”
He had been taken to the hospital because of a hard fever. When he felt strong again and they wouldn’t let him go, it was very trying.
“I said to the nurse,” he told them, “ ‘I want some water the worst way.’ And she said, ‘You’ve had a fever so I can’t give you no water. It’s against the rules.’ I was feeling better so I said, ‘Where’s my jeans?’ And she perked up her lips and told me I couldn’t have them. It was against orders. And I said, ‘You send the doctor here.’
“And when the doctor come I said, ‘Doctor, I lied to my God when I let them bring me here. They won’t give me any water and I dream at night about a spring of real water running alongside my cabin. Doctor, I’ve got to go back to the hills.’ And he said, ‘Well, to-morrow.’
“And to-morrow the nurse brought my jeans. And she said, ‘Get up now and I’ll dress ye.’ ” Sam minced his words in a high treble like a girl. John had been staying close to Granpap’s back hanging around in the half dark looking l
ike Granpap’s aftermidday shadow. Now he edged closer to Sam in order not to miss a word of the story. “And I told her,” Sam went on, “that no woman has ever dressed Sam Wesley and no woman ever will. So she went out and I got dressed and slipped away. I found somebody to drive me part the way up the mountain. And the first spring I come to welling out of a rock I said to Jim, ‘Let me down, Jim.’ And he helped me down because I was still weak. And I laid me down flat and drank of that water till my sights was full. And under that tree with the water coming in my mouth I promised my God I’d never leave the mountains again.”
“Reminds me,” Granpap said, “of the time when I come back from Georgy. Men, the ugliest woman up here looked like a sweet angel, and the lowliest bush was a tree of heaven.”
John went back to Granpap and sat down on the floor at his side. If Granpap was preparing to tell a story about Georgy, he wanted to hear.
“This is the place for me,” Fraser McDonald said quietly. “Here I’ve lived and here I’ll lay me down and die.”
“And die poor,” Hal Swain told Fraser.
“Yes, and die poor,” Fraser said.
“You cut yourself off from outside and you cut yourself off from riches,” Hal insisted. “People are getting rich out there.”
“And there’s plenty of poor, too,” Fraser said. “I know.”
Hal Swain kept on. “You’ve just got to be a little smarter than the other fellow and you’ll get along,” he said.
Sam winked on the side at Granpap. Sure you had to be smarter than the other one. Didn’t Hal know, along with his Sally, just how to be smarter than the others?
To Make My Bread Page 7
