The Promise of Morning

by Ann Shorey

  All the frustration and anger he’d suppressed over the past months boiled to the surface. He grabbed Jason by the front of his shirt, using the coarse fabric as a handle to pull the fellow closer. “I will not have the Lord’s word mocked.” He jerked the shirt, staring directly into his tormentor’s bloodshot eyes. “Do you understand me?”

  Jason shoved Matthew’s hand away. “Get your hands off’n me.”

  Before Matthew could react, Jason swung at him and landed a wicked blow to his jaw, splitting his lip. The flat, metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. Gasping in shock, Matthew threw his arms up to protect his ribs. He wasn’t quick enough. Jason landed a solid punch to his belly, then hooked a foot behind Matthew’s knee and sent him sprawling. Matthew turned his head in time to see Jason draw his leg back and aim a kick at his face. Curling into a ball, he rolled to one side. The boot grazed his head, throwing Jason off balance.

  His assailant stumbled backward. Cursing, he came at Matthew again, right hand knotted in a fist. Voices penetrated the roaring in Matthew’s ears. “Stop! Let’s git outta here.” The other three louts seized Jason’s arms and dragged him away. Then the four of them turned and fled the meeting ground.

  Matthew heard their retreat between his gasps for breath. He lay on his side in the dirt, dust prickling his face. Blood trickled across his chin from the cut on his lip. His head pounded where Jason had kicked him.

  “Reverend.” Nathan Clyde squatted beside Matthew. “You all right? I didn’t see what they was up to until I was almost home. I come running fast as I could.” He put his arm around Matthew’s back and helped him to a sitting position.

  Humiliated, Matthew took a mental inventory of his injuries and decided his swelling lip was the worst of it. “Yes. I’m fine. Nothing feels broken.” He looked around. Most of the crowd was drifting away, some glancing over their shoulders. A few watched from a safe distance. Would they remember his message, or his beating?

  A white-bearded individual walked over to him. “Don’t know why they sent ye down here. Something bad happens every time a preacher shows up.” He worked his lips and spat a stream of tobacco juice next to his boots. “Last one got his horse stole.” The old man leaned over. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

  “Obliged.” Matthew tottered to his feet. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Nathan studied him. “Think you can make it down to my place?”

  “If you get me on my horse.”

  When he slid off Samson’s back, he hoped fervently that an invitation to spend the night would come with the promised meal. He ached everywhere.

  Nathan appeared at the open door. “Come on in, Reverend. My wife’ll get you a basin so’s you can wash that blood off.”

  Matthew followed his host inside, noting the table set with seven wooden bowls, and a tray of spoons at one end. Looking around the single room, he spotted Nathan’s sons, Boone and Lafayette, sitting on a bench in the shadows beyond the open hearth. Two little girls who both looked to be under five years old played on the floor at their feet.

  Nathan walked to his wife. She stood at least a head taller than he did and looked like a collection of long sticks wrapped in a homespun apron. “This here’s Lizzie.”

  Lizzie dipped a curtsy in Matthew’s direction, then turned to the hearth. She drew the iron crane toward her and tipped some water from a kettle into a washbasin. “You can use the bench outside the door there to clean up.”

  Matthew followed her, thanking her when she set the basin down and handed him a towel. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman as tall as Lizzie Clyde. The top of her ruffled cap rode only a few inches below the low ceiling.

  “I feel just terrible about them boys attacking you, a reverend and all.” Golden brown eyes shone out of her freckled face like two stars. “Supper’s near ready. You set and rest yourself when you’re done washing.”

  After the meal, Matthew sipped his coffee and tried to sort out his thoughts. Did Elder Meecham know the community’s reputation when he sent him here? He longed to return home, but Meecham’s parting words held him in place—Don’t shirk on the circuit too.

  He stared at the flames crackling on the hearth. In his imagination he pictured them as a thicket of fiery trees. Like a forest, the only way around his dilemma was to go straight through.

  Nathan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Got a question for you, Brother Craig.”

  Matthew nodded, glad for a diversion from his gloomy speculations. “What is it?”

  Leaning his arms on the tabletop, Nathan gazed at him over the flickering light of a candle. “Stranger rode through here the other day, said he heard talk there was going to be a play put on up north in New Camden. By someone named Shakespeare. The play’s called Macbeth, I think he said.”

  From her stool next to the fire, Lizzie bobbed her head in agreement. “That’s right. Macbeth. I remember because it reminded me of old man MacBride, down the road.”

  Nathan’s eyes searched Matthew’s face. “I was raised up not to hold with plays and suchlike, but the fellow said this one’s taught in fancy schools out east. Anyways, do you think such a thing is wrong?”

  Like dust clouds following a stampede, painful memories swirled in Matthew’s mind at the mention of the play. “Do I think it’s wrong?” He stood and took a breath. “No, I don’t. You folks want to travel to New Camden to see it, go ahead.”

  21

  Uncle Arthur tied his horse to the hitching rail in front of Molly’s house, then helped Ellie step down from the wagon. She squeezed his arm. “I’m glad I decided to come with you today. At first I thought I’d just give you my list and you could pick up our supplies.”

  “Why?”

  “It hurts to have people who used to be part of Matthew’s congregation pretend they don’t notice me in the mercantile.”

  “I think they’re ashamed of their part in what happened. I’d wager there’s more than a few of them wish they could undo it.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me. The church was full on Sunday. People seem to like Mr. Beldon.” She tugged at the tight sleeves of her best dress. “Anyway, it’s a lovely day and I’m going to enjoy it.”

  He patted her hand. “That’s my girl.”

  Molly dashed outside and embraced Ellie. Some of her dark hair had escaped from the crown of braids she wore and slipped down her neck in tendrils. “Come in. I have a wonderful surprise.” She seized Ellie’s hand and tugged her through the door. “You too,” she called over her shoulder to Uncle Arthur.

  Once inside, Ellie’s eyes widened when she saw the figure seated at the table. Lean, haggard, skin burned black from the sun, but nevertheless recognizable. “James?”

  His eyes smiled a greeting. “Aunt Ellie.”

  She rushed to his side and hugged him, shocked to feel his ribs prominent under his cotton shirt. “What happened to you? When did you get home? Did Mr. Beldon—”

  Molly stepped next to her. “James was dropped off yesterday by a peddler on his way to Iowa. He picked him up on the road outside of Mt. Jackson.” She put an arm around her son and rested her cheek on his hair. “You can see how sick he’s been. But he’s home. God answered our prayers.”

  Uncle Arthur dragged a chair next to James and sat. “Doubtless you already told your folks, but I want to know why you was able to come home, seeing as how you enlisted. Never knew the Army to be merciful.”

  James studied his scratched, bruised feet. “Didn’t enlist,” he mumbled. “Took me and Billy a couple weeks to get to Alton, then we found out we were supposed to be somewheres else. Time we got to the next place, we were too late, and had to go chasing the volunteers again.” He took a deep breath. “Eventually we came to a regular camp, down near Belleville. You can imagine, by then we were tuckered.”

  He looked up as Luellen slipped into the room. Some of the tiredness in his face disappeared. She moved past him to the range and removed several loaves of bread from the oven. Th
eir yeasty fragrance swirled through the kitchen. “We’re celebrating,” she said. “Fresh bread on a Wednesday.”

  James turned and smiled at his sister. “You don’t know how many times I dreamed about your good bread when Billy and me were on the road.”

  Luellen’s face flushed. “You don’t know how often I prayed you’d come back safe.” She touched his cheek.

  James clasped her hand and held it for a moment.

  “You were saying about Belleville . . . ,” Uncle Arthur said. “Go on.”

  “Well, me and Billy camped with the volunteers for a week or so. We thought we’d eat better than we did on the road, but we were sore disappointed. All we had was salt pork and beans, and the crick water was foul. We both come down with dysentery. Lots of fellows had died there already, someone said. Anyway, after a few days a regular Army soldier arrived and spread the word that some of us weren’t officially enlisted. Told us we needed to go to Peoria or Springfield and sign up before we could go to Mexico.”

  Ellie clasped her hands and leaned forward. “But you came home instead. Praise God. I wish Matthew could be here right now—he prayed for you nightly.”

  “We had to come home. We were sick and out of money. I walked the soles off my boots.” He lifted his feet, showing her thick yellow calluses.

  Molly stood. “He promised he wouldn’t sneak off again.”

  “Good,” Ellie said. “You’re too young for soldiering.”

  “There were plenty other volunteers in that camp my same age. I never said I wouldn’t go—just promised I wouldn’t sneak off.”

  Molly’s face tightened. She turned to Ellie. “Would you mind if I didn’t go to the mercantile with you today?”

  “Of course not.”

  Uncle Arthur stood next to the range, holding a half-eaten slice of bread. “While you’re at Wolcott’s store, I’ll ride out to the blacksmith’s to pass the time,” he said to Ellie. “I’ll stop and pick up your goods from Ben about four, then come back here to fetch you.”

  Ellie crossed Adams Street, lifting her apple green calico skirt above her boot tops to keep the hem out of the dust. An occasional breeze swirled past, creating miniature whirlwinds that twirled then settled back into the roadway. She loosened the ties on her bonnet and fanned at perspiration beading under her chin.

  As she passed Carstairs’ home on Hancock Street, she glanced into the yard and tensed. Penelope Carstairs sat on the shaded front porch. Turning her head away, Ellie picked up her pace along the wooden walkway fronting the house.

  “Mrs. Craig! Do you have a moment?”

  Ellie arranged her face in a polite expression and turned toward the woman. The two of them hadn’t spoken during the three months since Penelope implied that Julia’s death was somehow a judgment on Matthew.

  Penelope had moved to the fence, her hand on the gate. “I’d be pleased if you would stop in for a moment.”

  “Well, I don’t have much time . . .”

  “I won’t keep you long.”

  Ellie followed her up the two steps and took one of the slat-back chairs arranged next to a low table. Around the front and sides of the porch, a tumble of yellow and purple coneflowers thrust their mounded centers toward the sky. In the south corner of the yard, the heart-shaped leaves of the lilac bush drooped in the afternoon sun.

  After a few remarks about the heat, Penelope cleared her throat. “How’s the lilac start I gave you doing?”

  “Beautifully. I’m keeping it well watered, and hope next spring to see a bloom or two.”

  “I’m thankful that something from my yard is providing you comfort.”

  “It’s a fitting memorial to our little Julia.” Ellie held her breath, wondering if Penelope would repeat her remarks about the baby’s death being a judgment.

  “I’m sure you weren’t aware of it, but when we last spoke I was preparing for the arrival of a child.”

  Penelope’s statement surprised her. Without meaning to, Ellie shot a glance at the younger woman’s midsection. The pointed bodice of her purple and white striped dress fitted snugly at her trim waistline.

  Penelope caught her glance. Tears sprang to her eyes and she shook her head. “No. I lost the baby. This is the second time it’s happened.”

  Ellie drew a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.” She touched the other woman’s hand. “I know how you must be feeling.”

  “Of course you do. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. I owe you an apology.” Tears glittered on her cheeks. “I was guilty of listening to rumors, when in my heart I knew better.”

  “Rumors?”

  “About your babies. Since the Reverend’s been gone, I’ve had a chance to realize the wrong we did him. Did to both of you.” She squeezed her hands together and gazed at Ellie. “Do you think you could persuade him to return?”

  “It’s too late for that. He doesn’t believe he’s wanted here.”

  “He’ll be home for a rest after traveling, won’t he? Tell him we want him back.”

  “But you and your husband were among the first to stay away before Matthew ever left.”

  Penelope looked at her hands, which continued to writhe as though they had a life of their own. “We see what we’ve done to Reverend Craig, and to you, by spreading gossip. God didn’t judge you any more than he did me.” She kept her head bent. “I was so wrong, and I’m sorry.” Lifting her eyes, she gazed at Ellie. Tears spiked her lashes. “Mr. Beldon’s not a real preacher, leastways not the kind Reverend Craig was to us. You’ve heard him in church. He looks good, and talks good, but inside I don’t think he cares.”

  “He does the best he can. We have to give him time to get to know the town.” Ellie placed her hands over Penelope’s. “When Matthew comes back, I’ll tell him what you said. I doubt it’ll make a difference, but thank you for telling me. Your words are a comfort.”

  Once she was back on the walkway, Ellie sighed. She wished Matthew could’ve heard Penelope’s remarks. If the Carstairs had changed their minds, maybe others would too.

  The plum-colored phaeton turned the corner, its black wheels blurred with dust. When Mr. Beldon saw her, he reined his team to a stop and set the brake. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Craig.”

  “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Beldon.”

  “You’re looking well. One would never guess that you’re managing a fair-sized farm all by yourself.”

  Flattered, Ellie smiled up at him. “My sons are a big help. I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  Mr. Beldon nodded. “Fine lads indeed. But if anything comes up that they can’t handle, please feel free to send for me.”

  She looked at his hands holding the reins, and suppressed a flutter in her throat. Lately she’d been waking at night with disturbing remnants of dreams in her head. Something about those hands reminded her of a recent dream. She felt a flush cover her cheeks. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that.” He reached for the brake.

  Ellie stepped to the edge of the walk. “Wait. Have you gained any information about my brothers and sisters?”

  He removed his hat and patted his forehead with a crisp white handkerchief. “Unfortunately, no. But you must realize these things take time. The conflict brewing in Texas makes inquiries difficult.” His spicy, clovelike scent drifted toward her. “Rest assured, I’m doing all I can.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you are. I know how busy you’ve been. I just came from Spenglers’. It’s good to see James safe at home. Thank you for everything you did to bring him back.”

  Mr. Beldon looked puzzled for a moment. “Ah, yes. James. Glad I could help.” He freed the brake and urged his team forward.

  When she entered the mercantile, Ellie sensed a change in the atmosphere since her previous visit. Several women sent genuine smiles her way as she walked into the crowded store. Tentatively, she smiled back.

  The smell of oiled floors mingled with the aroma of coffee beans, molasses, and vinegar rising from barrel
s near the door. She eyed her meager list. Not knowing how long it would be before the church conference sent Matthew’s stipend, she kept to the basics.

  Mr. Wolcott leaned around the scale on the counter. “Afternoon, Mrs. Craig. Looks like you brought me a list.”

  “A short one, I’m afraid. Indian meal, salt, a sack of cranberry beans—just necessities.” She handed him her slip of paper. “Maybe a pint of that molasses, if we still have enough credit on the books.”

  “Happens I noticed your chit this morning. You’ve got more’n enough.”

  Ellie doubted it. Knowing Mr. Wolcott, he’d keep them supplied and say nothing about money owed. She felt a rush of gratitude toward their longtime friend. “Thank you. You’re a blessing to our family.”

  His cheeks flushed. “Don’t mention it.” He cleared his throat. “If you’ve got a minute, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  Mr. Wolcott’s voice lowered. “Some folks have been asking me to start Sunday preaching here at the store, and I’ve decided to do it. There’s space in the back room.”

  Stunned, Ellie stared at him. “What about the church building?”

  He looked around, checking to be sure they weren’t overheard. “If Marcus Beldon wants to preach there, we’ll let him.” He met Ellie’s gaze with his clear hazel eyes. “Quite a few people who were lured away have come to see through his deceptions.”

  Ellie recalled Penelope Carstairs’ remarks earlier that afternoon. “But . . . Mr. Beldon told us he studied for the ministry. So he’s qualified.”

  “Big difference between studying books and caring about people.” Mr. Wolcott leaned over the counter. “You’ve got to ask yourself, why hasn’t he been officially assigned to the Beldon Grove church by Elder Meecham? Far as I know, Beldon hasn’t gone to Quincy to see him. The man can’t just take over a vacant pulpit, like a varmint moving into a deserted cabin.” He spoke in a heated undertone. “It’s not my wish to stir things up with those who think Beldon’s the answer to all their prayers. But, we’ll be meeting here Sunday morning, if you wish to join us.” He straightened, suddenly businesslike, and raised his voice. “I’ll take care of your list for you. Your uncle will be picking it up, I reckon?”