The Indentured Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  Whitefield had toured both America and England so many times that he’d lost count, making both enemies and admirers in the process. His remark, “Harvard’s light has become darkness,” had closed the doors of that school as well as Yale to him. He’d also been refused the pulpits of some of the most prestigious churches in the country, having said that an unconverted ministry was ruining the land.

  Yet none of these things had succeeded in dampening the enthusiasm of the common people. No matter where the preacher went, people came by the thousands to stand in the open air to hear him proclaim the gospel of Jesus. Adam marveled at it, trying, as he studied the crowd, to account for such a thing. “I can’t understand it, Molly,” he said finally. “What has the man got to make people come out in mobs like this?”

  “Brother Edwards always said he had the anointing of God, didn’t he?”

  “I’d forgotten that,” Adam mused. “Look, I think it’s going to start.”

  A tall, thin man with a booming voice prayed a long prayer. Then a short, heavy man with full whiskers stepped forward and for nearly an hour led the crowd in singing. They sang psalm after psalm, filling the air with music from the lips of twenty thousand people singing at the top of their lungs.

  Finally the singing came to an end, and Whitefield stepped forward. He was bareheaded and wore a black robe. Whitefield knelt immediately and began to pray, looking rather ordinary as he prayed aloud, beseeching God to look down from heaven. He ended his prayer, but did not rise. For a long time he knelt there in profound silence—but it was not a dead silence, for Adam began to feel the same intensity he remembered from the last time he’d heard Whitefield speak. And now there began to be heard from various parts of the crowd, a few cries as people began to weep. A tall, broad-shouldered man just to Adam’s right bowed his knees suddenly and began to sob, and farther down a woman raised her hands and with tears running down her cheeks began to cry out, “God have mercy! God have mercy!”

  There was something electric about the way emotions were charged, even before Whitefield rose, but when he did stand and begin to speak, at once the power of God began to sweep over individuals.

  As he began his address, clouds broke and the afternoon sun streamed down. He laid a solid doctrinal foundation by reading the story of Jesus and the man called Nicodemus, but as he read from the third chapter of John, clouds broke the sun’s rays, with alternating bars of light and shade falling on the audience. Suddenly he stretched his arm out, crying in a bell-like tone that carried to the edge of the great crowd: “See that emblem of human life! It passed for a moment and concealed the brightness of heaven from our view. But it is gone! And where will you be, my hearers, when your lives are passed away like that dark cloud?”

  “Oh, my dear friends, I see thousands here with their eyes fixed on this poor unworthy preacher. In a few days we shall all meet at the judgment seat of Christ—every eye will behold the Judge! With a voice whose call you must abide and answer, He will inquire whether on earth you strove to enter in at the strait gate. Whether your hearts were absorbed in Him.”

  By now the sun had gone behind another cloud, and the sky grew dark; in the distance the rumble of thunder sounded. “My blood runs cold when I think how many of you will seek to enter in and shall not be able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge of the whole earth?”

  He began to rebuke them for sin, but soon he was on his favorite theme—the new birth. “You were born once of the flesh—but except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!” he shouted. “But I have been a good man, you say.” He lifted his voice and thundered louder than the rumbling in the distance, “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!”

  And then he began to tear down their excuses—that they had been members of the church, that they had taken communion, been baptized. That they had done no one ill, and on and on. To each of these Whitefield reiterated sternly, “Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God!”

  The storm was almost overhead. The preacher stood in the eerie light of a thundercloud about to break. “Oh, sinner! By all your hopes of happiness I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be awakened! Let not the fires of eternity be kindled against you!”

  Forked lightning scored the sky. “See there! It is a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah!” He lifted his finger, then paused. Tension hovered at the breaking point, and then came a tremendous crash as thunder pealed and reverberated. As it died away, the preacher’s deep voice came from the semidarkness. “It was the voice of the Almighty as He passed by in His anger!”

  Adam had expected to hear a powerful sermon, had been prepared to be impressed by Whitefield’s oratory. He had heard many sermons, and he had been stirred by many of them—not the least by “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” by his friend Jonathan Edwards.

  But something was happening to him that he had not counted on.

  It had begun when Whitefield had knelt and prayed. That simple act had struck some deep chord in Adam’s heart. His knees suddenly felt very weak, and a lightheadedness seized him. He had attempted to shake the feeling off, but as the sermon progressed, he was more and more aware that something akin to fear was rising up in his spirit.

  Adam Winslow was not a man who had known a great deal of fear. He had been in danger of death for several years in the Ohio River country, and that had been something he’d learned to control. But now he could not control the trembling of his hands as Whitefield continued to describe the plight of the lost, and his lips were so dry that he could not swallow.

  Once he tore his eyes away from the preacher to look at Molly, and he saw that her face was pale, that her hands were twisting her handkerchief into a knot, and that she was beginning to moan.

  We’ve got to get out of here! he thought wildly. But his feet seemed rooted to the ground, and besides that, no matter how disturbing the words of Whitefield were, he could not tear his gaze away from the man!

  The sky grew darker than ever, and then Whitefield cried out, his voice like a trumpet: “Oh, will you die? Will you perish? Will you make His blood and His cross as nothing? Why will you trample underfoot the Son of God and do despite unto holy things?”

  Then he cried out, “Come to Jesus! Let His blood wash you from your sin and guilt. Ye must be born again!”

  He began to move his arm, repeating, “Ye must be born again!”

  Adam saw the finger of Whitefield moving relentlessly across the crowd, and then it pointed to him! He felt as if all the air had been drained from his lungs, and he began to pant for breath. Then a great fear, such as he had never felt, grasped him, and the strength left him. He felt himself falling, and as he fell, he cried out, “Oh, God! Help me, for Jesus’ sake!”

  When he hit the ground there was no sensation of shock, and he felt almost as if he were out of his own body. There was no awareness of the ground, nor did he have any care for those around him. He lay there praying and calling on God for mercy, but he had no sense of time. The voice of Whitefield seemed to come from very far away. He was conscious that many were calling on God in tears and groans, but he was shut off, insulated from it all.

  Finally there came a change, and he seemed to come back to the world, as if he had been locked in a dark room and had stepped back into the world of light. He was shocked to discover that he was lying flat on his stomach, his face pressed against the grass. He got to his feet and looked around. Molly was staring at him, her cheeks stained with tears, her eyes large with fear.

  He looked at her and tried to smile, but he could not. She came close and put her hand tentatively on his arm, whispering softly, “Adam? Are you—all right?”

  He nodded, conscious that he was totally exhausted, so tired he could hardly stand. But he knew also there was something in him that had not been there earlier. He stood with his head bowed, his arms hanging limply by his side, and examined his feelings.

  The one thing he was most aware of
was that he had a sense of complete and utter restfulness, and he marveled at how he seemed to be totally at ease, almost as if his spirit were floating. He smiled at her and said quietly and with wonder in his voice, “Yes—I’m all right, Molly.”

  Then he said more strongly, “You know what? I’m more all right than I’ve ever been in all my life!”

  Molly’s eyes opened wide and she held on to his arm. She saw something in his face that moved her, and she asked quietly, “Adam, are you born again?”

  Adam Winslow looked up to where the skies were beginning to clear, then back to her. He smiled, but his voice was not completely steady as he said almost in a whisper, “I think so, Molly. For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid to think about meeting Jesus Christ.”

  Then a look of amazement touched his eyes, and he threw his head back and said in wonder as he looked up at the skies, “You know, I’m even looking forward to seeing Him! Now, isn’t that a strange thing? For a man to actually want to see God?” He looked back to her and asked suddenly, “Well, do you think I’ve lost my mind, Molly?”

  She threw her arms around him. He heard her say in a muffled voice as she buried her face against him, “No! I think you’ve just begun to find out what you are, Adam Winslow!”

  Then she leaned back, tears gleaming in her eyes. As they turned to go, she said the one thing that he wanted most to hear, “You know, your father and Aunt Rachel—they must be very proud of you!”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes! We’ll write William and Mercy, too. Think how happy they’ll be.”

  His mind reached out and images of the kind faces of those two swam before him, and he whispered, “They will, won’t they, Molly? They really will!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  DEATH AT MONONGAHELA

  Adam knew as soon as he took one look at Charles that something was wrong, but he had no time to listen to him carefully, for Braddock’s expedition against Fort Duquesne was pulling out of Will’s Creek even as his brother came riding up.

  “Adam—I’ve got to talk to you!” Charles pulled his horse to a halt, his face tense under his wide-brimmed hat. A big cannon pulled by a span of heavy draft horses lumbered forward, forcing him to pull his mount over to the side of the narrow road, and Adam followed him to where he dismounted under a spreading elm tree.

  “I can’t talk now, Charles,” Adam said impatiently. “Whatever it is will have to wait until we get back.”

  “I’ve been trying to catch up with you for a week!” Charles complained. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Trying to help Washington get this army started—and it’s a miracle that we’re on our way as it is!”

  Neither Adam nor Washington could believe the complications that had arisen to delay the expedition—but it was Braddock’s fault, for he insisted on a force that was unwieldy, massive, and awkward. He had an army consisting of 1,445 regulars fit for duty, 262 men in 3 independent colonial companies, 30 sailors to assist with block and tackle in hauling the cannon over the mountains, and 449 Virginia, North Carolina, and Maryland troops, as well as a small detachment of gunners.

  The artillery train consisted of ten 6- and 12-pounder guns, 4 big howitzers, and 14 small mortars. The heaviest piece weighed well over half a ton, not counting its carriage, a discouraging object to haul over mountains where no road existed. In addition to the guns themselves, shot and shell had to be carried, as well as powder. There was, moreover, a host of necessary artillery supplies that must be taken, about 269 separate items, many of them in several sizes, ranging from a small derrick down to candles and carpet tacks. Food had to be supplied for more than 2,000 men for at least a month and food for the horses, for there would be little or no natural feed in deep woods. No horse could maintain its strength on leaves alone, but part of the time they were to be reduced to that. All this meant many wagons, and only by the aid of Benjamin Franklin, who produced 150 heavy wagons, was the expedition made possible.

  “How we’ll ever get this train through to our objective, I can’t see!” Washington had protested, but he had thrown his energies into the project, and Adam had been hard driven to keep up with the colonel.

  Now Adam said impatiently to Charles, “I’ve been busy—say it quick, whatever it is.”

  Charles’s handsome face was thinner than usual, and he seemed nervous. Finally he said, “We’ve had some backsets in the business, Adam. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it.”

  “You and Uncle Saul will have to take care of it,” Adam said, and then he heard his name called. Looking up the road, now clogged with wagons and marching men, he saw Colonel Washington hailing him. “I’ve got to go, Charles. You’ll have to take care of the problem.” Then he paused and asked quickly, “You never wanted my advice before. What’s different about this time?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, it’s Stirling.”

  “Stirling? What about him?”

  “We’ve borrowed a lot of money from him, and—well, he’s getting anxious.”

  Adam stared at him, then said with a harsh line around his mouth, “Get free from the man, Charles! And I don’t say that because I’ve had trouble with him. He’s not good for us. How deep are we into his debt?”

  “Too far,” Charles admitted grimly. “He’s in a position to make it hard on us if he wants to force it.”

  Adam stared at him, then shook his head, and swung up into the saddle. “We’ll talk about it when I get back. We better go see Saul—find a way to get Stirling out of our hair. Stall him off until I get back.”

  “But, Adam . . .!” Charles called. But there was no time, and Adam had only a final glimpse of his brother as the young soldier caught up with Washington and the train rounded a turn in the narrow road that had been hacked through the woods by Washington’s force a year ago.

  “Winslow, ride on ahead,” Washington said urgently. “I’ve tried to get the general to put out scouts and flankers, but he laughed at me.”

  “You’re not expecting an attack this early, are you, Colonel?”

  Washington’s face was flushed; he had been fighting a fever for several days. He hated sickness, in himself most of all, and now he shook his head, impatient with his weakness. “No, but we’ll have to send a crew ahead to clear the road. It gets much narrower up ahead, you remember. Go take a look, then come back and I’ll try to get General Braddock to send the axmen ahead to do the clearing.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Adam wheeled his horse around and rode past the lumbering wagons at a fast gallop. It was hot, and he knew that by noon the soldiers in their wool uniforms designed for the cool climates of Europe would be staggering under the heat, and that the overloaded wagons would pull the strength of the horses down to a walk.

  Soon he was far in advance of the army and entering the silent thick forest. The contrast was a pleasure. He had been in the midst of noise and confusion for the past month, and the solitude of the woods had a healing effect on his spirit.

  He searched the trees constantly, his head moving from side to side, but it was with the automatic watchfulness he had learned during his years in the Ohio Valley. He noted soon that Washington had been right, for the road narrowed down to a rutted track not six feet wide—enough for troops to pass, but not nearly enough for the wagons. He kept on for the rest of the morning, then turned his mount back, his head filled with thoughts of the past few weeks.

  Since the afternoon Adam had fallen to the ground under the influence of Whitefield’s preaching, he had been strangely peaceful. The next morning after his experience, he’d gotten up half expecting that the whole thing would have faded. He’d known enough converts to shout and profess salvation, only to fall away once the excitement was over. Jonathan Edwards had been clear enough on that, for he had insisted strongly that the test of the new birth was not an emotional experience but a new walk with God. “It’s not how high a man jumps, Adam,” the preacher had said to him once. “It’s how straight
he runs after he hits the ground! The one mark of the new birth is this: A new birth will always make a man love Jesus more!”

  And that had been the essence of the days that followed. Adam had been consumed with a hunger for the Bible, and the person of the Lord Jesus Christ had been a reality in his spirit.

  Molly had noticed it instantly. “You’re different, Adam,” she had said when they got back to Virginia. “You were never a hard man, but now there’s something new in you!”

  He turned and searched her face intently. “You found Christ, too, didn’t you, Molly?”

  “Yes,” she said, and there was a fullness in her smile that reflected a joy in her spirit. “It’s so different, isn’t it, Adam—being saved? Jesus was always just someone in a story to me—but now He’s my best friend!”

  Adam had stared at her, then a smile had touched his broad lips, and his eyes warmed as he said, “We’ve got lots to talk about, haven’t we, Molly?”

  But there had been no time, for as soon as they reached home, he found an urgent message from Washington instructing him to come to Alexandria at once. He had thrown a few things together and said a quick goodbye to Molly. “You’ll be all right with James and Hope until I get back.”

  “Be careful!” she had said nervously. “If anything happened to you, I’d—”

  He had smiled at her, a thought coming to him. “You know, you’re not going to be a bound girl much longer. What is it, two more months?”

  She had stared at him, wondering what was on his mind, and then she’d shrugged, saying, “I don’t ever think about it.”

  “Well, it’s something we’ll talk about when I get back. I have a thought or two about your future.” He’d said nothing more than that, but her head had lifted, and her fine gray eyes had warmed.

  Now riding back down the road toward the army, Adam wished he’d told her what was on his mind. “Why in the name of heaven didn’t I kiss her—tell her I love her?” he said aloud in disgust. He had thought of it, but one fact had kept him from speaking: he might not get back—or it could be he’d return as a hopeless cripple. Such things happened in war, he knew, and he didn’t want her to be the victim of that.