And then I saw a lantern way off up the hill between the trees. It was a weak light, but where there was a light must be people. I had to find people. I couldn’t stay by myself out in the cold woods any longer. I started walking faster toward the light, dodging limbs and stumbling around bushes and big trees. But the light didn’t get any closer. Whoever held the light was moving too. The yellow of the light was mellow as melting butter. I followed the lantern as it swayed and bobbed along through the trees. I heard voices too but couldn’t tell what they were saying. I just followed the lantern as quietly as I could. Maybe they were outlaws, or maybe rebels like Mr. Pritchard’s gang.
Now the strangest thing was I saw this other light coming through the woods on my right. It got closer and closer, and I heard the people carrying the second light greet those with the first lantern. It was good to hear somebody speak in the dark woods.
“Are you going to the meeting, brother?” a voice said.
“Aye, sir, to the meeting at Zion Hill,” a second voice said.
I followed both lights on the trail, walking quietly, trying not to break a stick or rustle the new-fallen leaves. Were they going to a rebel meeting? Was I following outlaws starting on a raid? The country was full of robbers and deserters. And then I heard a woman’s voice too and figured they would not be outlaws. You didn’t hear of outlaws traveling with women. In the dark I got as close behind as I dared. The trail ran through some pine woods and then came out in a clearing. And way ahead I saw a lighted window.
As we got closer I saw other people around the glowing window. There were people gathered there. And when we got closer still I saw it was a little building with a steeple on it. It was a little church sitting on a hill surrounded by woods. A tide of relief washed through me. Mama and I had never gone to church that much, but I’d been baptized when I was a baby. I’d gone to church on Easter and Christmas. A church house seemed like a safe place.
I set Mr. Griffin’s hat straight on my head and marched right up to the door of the log church like that’s where I’d meant to go all along. As I came into the little building people turned to look at me and a few nodded. Some women stared and a few smiled. There were maybe ten or twelve benches in the room, and two lanterns hung up front above a table. I shivered and sat down on a bench at the back. Now that I was inside, I saw how cold I’d gotten. There was no fireplace in the building, but it was warmer inside than out.
A tall skinny man in a black coat stood up at the table in front. He didn’t look to be more than twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, years old.
“My friends, you are all welcome,” he said. A white scarf was tied around his throat, but all his other clothes were black. His voice was plain but pleasing. He said he welcomed us there to a place of worship, in these troubled and desperate times. He said he welcomed us to the fellowship with each other, with song and prayer, and to fellowship with the Lord in Heaven.
“Without are wolves and thieves and whoremongers,” he said in a quiet voice. “But in here we are gathered to praise the Lord. In here we are gathered to rejoice and praise the Maker with prayers of Thanksgiving. We are gathered to uphold the light in darkness. We are gathered to ask the Lord’s blessings on our lives in these days of great peril.”
“We will lead in song,” the preacher said. “We will raise our voices in a hymn.”
The song he started singing I’d heard before. It was “Jesus Shall Reign” I found out later. He started singing and the others joined in, and I found myself singing too.
Jesus shall reign wher-e’er the sun
Does his successive journeys run;
His kingdom spread from shore to shore,
Till moons shall wax and wane no more.
When everybody was singing these words it felt as if the church was a different place. The log church was lifted up to a new level. The lanterns got brighter and sweeter. Everybody was singing together. A few minutes before I’d been out in the dark of the creek bank, trembling with fear, and now I was with other people singing sweet music. It seemed impossible a little log church and a few words set to music would make such a difference.
When the hymn was over the preacher bowed his head and prayed. I bowed my head but didn’t close my eyes. I was still too afraid to close my eyes. The preacher prayed that the Lord would bless us and guide us. He asked the Lord to hear our voices, and to show us the way in these dark times.
When the prayer was over the young minister looked out over the gathering. There were old men and women, and people in good clothes, and there were people in rags or nearly in rags. There were big old boys that smelled like liquor, and there was a blind man holding on to a stick.
“My friends, I don’t know what burdens you carry in your hearts tonight,” the young preacher said. “I don’t know what sins of omission or commission you carry on your conscience. I don’t know what deeds of charity or deeds of selfishness are on your minds. But I know that in our hearts we are all troubled. In these perilous times we are all fearful. I know that we must comfort one another.”
After he had talked for several minutes the preacher asked if anyone had a testimony to share with the congregation.
A woman who held a baby to her breast stood up. The baby was asleep and the woman talked in such a low voice I had to lean forward to hear her. “I’m here to witness the Lord’s mercy,” she said, not in a whisper but like she was talking to just one person, the preacher. “I was a woman barren like Sarah and I prayed the Lord would give me a child. It looked like I would live to old age and have no one to care for me and comfort me.
“One night I had a dream and in the dream I seen this herb garden on the mountaintop. And a voice in the dream said if I picked the herb and drunk a tea from it I would have a child. I told nobody about the dream, but the next day I walked toward Chilton Mountain and found the herb there. It was unlike any herb I’d ever seen. My friends, the leaves was gold and shaped like guineas. I brought the leaves home and dried them and made a tea.
“Within months I was with child. And last year was born this beautiful daughter. The Lord gave me this Rebecca. I’m here tonight to thank him.”
When the woman sat down I saw the tears on her face. In the lantern light the tears shone like sparks.
“You have honored us, Sister Wensley, with your witness,” the preacher said.
The old man with the cane stood up. His eyes were cloudy and turned the wrong way. He had a week’s beard and his hair pointed every which way. He turned away from the preacher to the crowd, as if he was going to preach himself. He leaned on his stick and faced us, but you could tell he didn’t see anything.
“The Lord has sent me a vision,” he said in a trembling voice. His voice sounded like a saw scratching on a nail. “The Lord troubled me until I couldn’t sleep and I got up and walked outdoors. With my stick I climbed up on the hill behind my house and turned my face to the stars. Lord, show me your message, I said.
“The Lord opened these blind eyes and I seen the valley before me with a river running through it. I seen the houses and barns, and this church on Zion Hill. A light come down out of the sky and shone on the church, and a voice out of the sky said, ‘Go to Zion Hill and say I have somewhat to tell them.’ ‘What do you want me to say?’ I said.
“‘Say to the people if they will be true and faithful in these perilous times, if they live by faith and the Word, in this time of infidels and harlots, of wars and rumors of wars, in these last days before the judgment, then I will send my special blessing. And them of that fellowship shall not taste death, but shall be took up when I bust through the eastern sky in all my glory.’”
When the old man sat down there was nodding and the men said “Amen,” and the women said, “Thank you, brother” and “Thank you, Jesus.” While the old man talked, I had forgotten where I was. I had forgotten running through the woods from Mr. Griffin and what had happened at the hog pen. I had forgotten the awfulness of what I’d done later and the fear in my
heart.
The preacher looked right at me as if he knew what I was thinking. He looked at me like he expected me to speak next. He looked at me like he could see into my heart and see the burden there. I knew I had to stand up and say something. I stood up wearing Mr. Griffin’s coat and pants.
All the faces in the little church turned to me. All ears were listening. I’d never testified before. I looked around at the faces and my jaw trembled.
“What is on your heart, boy?” the preacher said. “Say what is on your heart.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. I looked at the preacher and I looked at the congregation.
“The Lord will put words on your tongue,” the preacher said.
I saw there was nothing to do but say what I felt. I had to tell how troubled I was.
“I have done wrong and I want you all to pray for me,” I said. The words locked in my throat and I had to swallow. “A wrong was done to me,” I said, “and I was tempted by the devil and brought low.”
When I tried to go on the words set in my throat. The preacher looked at me and everybody was looking at me. The light in the room was twisting around and swimming. The air in the church swung around and I was skidding down and there was nothing to grab on to. Everybody was looking at me.
And then the air washed back the other way, and the church was a river of air running backward. I was swirled around and away, knocked backward. I reeled with arms out to catch myself. Hands reached to help me. Arms came from all directions and caught me.
I closed my eyes because the air was churning, and I felt myself lifted up and carried forward. My knee hit the corner of a bench and I was dragged forward.
“Bring him to the altar,” the preacher said. Strong arms laid me down at the altar, and I smelled boots around me and felt the cold floor.
“We will pray with this our brother,” the preacher said.
In my mind I saw the filth behind the hogpen and felt Mr. Griffin pushing me down in the filth. And I heard the grunt of pigs. I was so tired I lay there with my head on the altar. My legs were sore and my back was sore and I still hurt between my legs. I needed to rest and I needed to put down the great burden on my back and on my mind. Two days before I had been just myself, and now my life was ruined.
“Lord, help our brother to repent and forgive,” the preacher prayed beside me. “For only when we forgive can we be forgiven. It is hardest of all to accept your love, knowing in our hearts we are unworthy, knowing we are weak and uncertain.”
As the preacher prayed I thought what a wonderful thing it was that people could gather and pray and comfort one another. I’d gone to church from time to time, but had never been at a service so friendly, where others were concerned for my feelings. I had wondered why church was so important to some people.
“Help us to accept your comfort and your promise of joy,” the preacher said.
Others prayed too, in a chain around the room. They knelt with me around the altar and every voice was different. I’d never felt such a fellowship, and such a connection. They were all strangers, and yet I felt the strength of connection. I was glad they didn’t know what I had done. When the last one had prayed, then the preacher prayed again, and he asked what my name was.
“Joseph Summers,” I said and felt tears running into my mouth.
“Let’s welcome Joseph to our fellowship,” the preacher said.
After I stood up hands reached out to me. I shook them as firm and fast as I could. I wanted to shake like a man would. My hand was rough from work, but I wished it was stronger. I had calluses from all the work I’d done. I tried to make my shoulders seem broader and my chest flatter. In the lantern light I hoped they wouldn’t notice how thin my neck was.
“Let’s give Joseph the right hand of fellowship,” the preacher said.
Those that had not come forward before came now to shake my hand. There were only a few young people, a girl my age, maybe younger, a boy wearing a hunting shirt and a big knife in his belt. Most were older people, women wearing widow’s black with shawls over their shoulders and scarves tied over their heads. Men with hands rough from holding ax handles and saws and scythes shook my hand.
What have I done to be treated so well? I thought. I’d hit Mr. Griffin over the head with the ax and dressed up like a man and run away. And I’d found this little chapel in the woods. Mr. Griffin had treated me like I was bad, and yet the preacher and the others treated me like I was worthy, like I was a man.
“We will sing ‘Am I a Soldier of the Cross?’” the preacher called out. “We will sing the song of victory. Hell is short one soul tonight. We have cheated the devil, for Satan and all his angels are not as powerful as our prayer.” The preacher hummed a note and raised his hand. As we sang I felt the firmness of the song, the strength of the music. It was a song of confidence, of victory. I didn’t feel like myself, standing there singing. I was used to being quarreled at and accused of laziness. I had stepped out of myself and put on different clothes. A few days before I’d been Josie that was fondled by Mr. Griffin and pushed to the ground in the mud. And here I was shaking hands with people and singing. And they thought I was Joseph, come in out of the night.
After the song the preacher prayed again and then everybody shook hands with me again. Men patted me on the shoulder and women hugged me. And then they took their lanterns and left one by one, disappearing into the night. Soon there was only myself and the preacher at the door of the little church.
“You are welcome to our fellowship, Joseph,” the young minister said. He took his wide-brimmed hat from a peg by the door and lifted a lantern from another peg. I didn’t know what to do. I should have slipped out into the dark before anybody else. I should not have lingered. Yet there I was. I didn’t have any place to sleep except in the woods. Maybe I could slip back and sleep in the church.
“Where do you live, Joseph?” the preacher said. He waited for me to go out and then followed, closing the door.
“I’m traveling,” I said.
“You are a traveler and a pilgrim like me,” the preacher said.
“Where do you travel?” I asked.
“I go from place to place in this valley,” the preacher said. “Some communities have churches, and some don’t. I preach in barns and tents, in brush arbors and in the open. I’ll be back here at Zion Hill in two weeks.”
As we walked into the darkness, I kept meaning to say good night and walk away into the woods. But I didn’t. I kept walking with him.
“Do you have a place to rest?” the preacher said.
“No,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth.
“You’re welcome to stay with me in my cabin on Pine Knot Branch,” the preacher said.
A chill went through my belly. I didn’t know a thing about the tall young preacher. I didn’t even know his name.
“I’m John Trethman,” the preacher said.
“I’m Joseph Summers,” I said.
We shook hands and I told John Trethman I would accept his hospitality. Scared as I was, I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I’d have to be careful. The least little thing could give me away.
“Just a moment,” the preacher said. He stopped and handed me the lantern. I wondered what he meant and then he turned aside and unbuttoned his trousers. He faced the dark and I heard water sprinkling the leaves and bushes beside the trail. He broke wind.
“A service leaves me full of gas and water,” he said.
I knew I was supposed to hand him the lantern when he finished and turn to the dark and make water myself. But that would have to wait until I was alone. That was the kind of thing I’d have to be most careful about.
When I handed him the lantern and his Bible we walked on. I wondered how far it was to Pine Knot Branch, but was afraid to ask. I was so tired I could have lain down on the trail and gone to sleep. As we came over a rise I saw a glow ahead. The sky was lit up and I could see flames beyond the trees.
“Oh not again,” John Trethman said.
The fire was red and ugly. A shudder passed through me down to my toes. I was going to ask what it was, but I already knew. It was not a barn on fire and it was not a lightning strike.
“It’s the home of a loyalist,” John said.
We hurried up the trail, but there was dread in my feet and fear in my heart. What if we were taken for loyalists too? I didn’t know what John Trethman’s sympathies were. Was he a Moravian or a Baptist? Was he a Methodist or a Regulator?
It was farther to the fire than I expected. It must have been two miles or even three. As we got closer we heard whoops and hollers. And in the light of the great blaze we saw men dressed like Indians running back and forth and shouting. They were carrying jugs and throwing flaming sticks into the barn and haystacks. They were white men.
When the men dressed as Indians saw us they hollered louder, then got on their horses and rode off into the night. By the time we reached the yard they were all gone, and the house was nearly gone too. It was all in flames and the fire was so hot and bright it burned your face just to look at it. I held my hand in front of my face.
“Lord help us in our iniquity,” John said, and I saw the horror on his face. When I looked where he was staring, I saw bodies hanging from the limb of a big oak tree beyond the corncrib. In the light from the awful fire, I saw they were hanging by the necks, a man and woman and little boy. There was blood on the woman’s dress like she’d been wounded before they hung her. And the man’s shirt had been torn off and his back was bloody.
JOHN TRETHMAN
I ALWAYS LOVED to watch clouds. Even as a boy in Virginia I could lie in the grass for hours and watch the luminous shapes of mist and vapor drifting far above. Some clouds were so thin I could look through them, and some were stacked so thick and high they appeared as alps that touched the sun, blinding as new snow and so tall they threatened to topple over.
Like all boys, I imagined forms in the clouds, sheep and puffs of cannon smoke, smoke signals from Indians, ghostly faces. I thought I saw prophets and apostles from the Bible and my ancestors beyond the blue staring at me.
Brave Enemies Page 5
