The wrought iron gate to the establishment was seven feet tall and topped with sharp spikes. Morton rang the bell pull set into the cement pillar supporting the gate. Nothing had happened after two minutes so he tried again. A thin, washed-out looking little boy emerged from a side door and wandered listlessly over to where Morton stood, holding the baby awkwardly.
‘You took your time,’ Morton observed sharply. ‘Just let me in, will you?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Gate’s locked.’ He made no effort either to leave or to make any attempt to see about having the gate unlocked.
‘Just look lively, will you, son, and fetch somebody as’ll open it up. Come on, I don’t have all day.’
The child, who looked to be about ten years of age, retreated into the house. After another long wait a stern-faced woman in her middle years appeared and asked what Morton wanted.
‘I’ve a baby here, as you can see,’ he replied. ‘It’s an orphan and this here’s an orphanage and I thought the two circumstances went together.’
The woman was wearing an iron chatelaine about her waist and she selected a key from this with which to open the gate. Having done so she stepped aside. Taking this as an invitation Morton stepped forward; the woman at once locked the gate behind him.
‘You keeping intruders out or locking the children in?’ he enquired, to which the woman made no answer.
Morton followed the silent woman along the path to the building, which put him in mind more of a penitentiary than anything else he could call to mind. There were a number of pale, listless-looking children to be seen in the corridors, all engaged in domestic tasks such as cleaning and polishing. There was something indefinably and yet undeniably unwholesome about the atmosphere of the place and for the first time in some years Morton’s conscience awoke and clamoured for attention.
He knew then that he could not possibly abandon the baby he held in arms to this grim and forbidding institution. He stopped dead in his tracks. The woman looked back at him quizzically.
‘I’m right sorry to have wasted your time, ma’am,’ he told her, ‘but I suddenly recollect that I have some business to attend to. I’ll have to trouble you to let me out again.’
‘I thought you wanted rid of that child.’
‘The truth is, I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. Just unlock the gate, will you, and I’ll be vastly obliged to you for the favour.’
For a moment or two Morton honestly thought that the woman was going to refuse his request, that he might find himself imprisoned within this ghastly building and forbidden to leave. Then, with an ill grace, the woman turned back and retraced her steps to the entrance of the grounds, with Morton trailing after her. Wordlessly she unlocked the gate and, with a feeling of enormous relief, Morton hurried out on to the sidewalk. He heard the click of the lock turning behind him; when he glanced back it was to see the fearsome woman disappearing back into the orphanage.
Chapter 4
‘You’re a damned fool, Morton,’ he muttered to himself irritably. ‘You could o’ be shot o’ this wretched child by now, had you the sense God gave a goat.’
There came a discreet cough. Morton turned to find a sober-looking individual standing behind him. The man was clad entirely in black and was perhaps forty years of age. He had about him an unworldly and pious air, which caused Morton to suspect that he might be a preacher of some kind. This proved to be the case, because the man stretched forth his hand, saying: ‘The Reverend Habakkuk Jefferson at your service, sir.’
They shook and Morton replied: ‘Glad to know you Reverend. Is there something I can do for you?’
‘To speak plainly, my son, it may be so. I am pastor at the Oneida Full Gospel Redemption Tabernacle Church. Perhaps you have heard of us?’
‘I’m afraid I’m new to these parts. Besides which, I’m not a great one for churchgoing, so one church is much the same as another to me. How can I help you?’
The Reverend Jefferson stepped a little closer to Morton and lowered his voice a fraction.
‘I could not help but observe that you are a travelling purveyor of snake oil liniment. Is that correct?’
‘Why yes. Can I sell you a bottle or two?’
The Reverend Jefferson smiled and shook his head.
‘No, we in my church put our faith in the Lord when we are afflicted with any bodily infirmities. Tell me, though, men of your profession oft times carry along of you a rattlesnake or two. By which I mean living snakes, which you exhibit to those whom you would impress with the efficacy of the medicine that you would have them purchase. Is that the case with you?’
‘You mean have I a tame rattler in back of my van? Yes, I do. What of it?’
The minister was staring at Morton; he said abruptly: ‘You look to have been in the wars, sir. I notice that you have been bleeding. Would you like to break bread with my wife and myself? We are God-fearing folk; you need have no apprehensions. Perhaps we might do each other a favour?’
Jack Morton looked down at his soiled and filthy shirt; the bullet hole was plainly visible and fringed with bloodstains. The idea of resting up somewhere and having a bite to eat was an attractive one.
‘You want to hop up here with me and direct us to your home?’ he said.
Reverend Jefferson looked shocked at the very notion.
‘That wouldn’t do at all. As the poet said: “Who shall escape calumny?” There are those who would think the worse of me if I were seen in the company of a man pursuing your occupation. Not that I share this prejudice, you understand, but a man in my position has to be extra specially careful about not giving those with evil tongues an opportunity to spread malicious gossip.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We live over on the other side of town. Here, let me write down our address. I beg you not to bring your vehicle by the house, that wouldn’t do at all. But when you’ve made provision, then you and the child can come and see us.’
It was apparent to Morton that this gentleman of the cloth was restless and did not wish to prolong the conversation in public. When Habakkuk Jefferson had gone off about his own affairs Morton wondered to himself what the blazes this could be about. What the devil could a clergyman be wanting with a tame rattlesnake? Well, doubtless he would soon learn.
It wasn’t too difficult to find a livery stable where the horse could be turned out and the van left in a barn. By a great mercy Morton had been able to save a fair amount each week and was consequently pretty flush just then. He wondered what to do about the snake, but decided that it would do no harm to leave it in the tea chest, at least until he knew what Reverend Jefferson wanted with it. He bundled young Robert’s clothes and food into a bag, which he slung across his shoulders, then made for the address that he had been given.
‘Come in my friend, come in,’ said Jefferson when he opened the door to Morton and his young charge. ‘You are both very welcome.’
There was a meal waiting on the table, for which Jack Morton was thankful. He had rather neglected his belly over the last few days, what with one thing and another. Mrs Jefferson was an agreeable woman who was happy to take hold of Robert. When she did so, her nose wrinkled.
‘Forgive my being so blunt, Mr Morton,’ she said, ‘but when was this child’s diaper last changed?’
‘I wouldn’t know ma’am. Not since I took charge of him, some hours since.’
‘I meant to ask you,’ said the Reverend Jefferson. ‘How do you come to be looking after a child of such tender years? I make no doubt that there is a curious tale behind the circumstance. You do not, if you will not take my saying so amiss, strike me as a man who has had much dealings with babies.’
‘It’s by way of being a long story. If your wife would instruct me in the art of changing a diaper it would be a kindness on her part.’
‘There’s nothing to it at all,’ said Mrs Jefferson. ‘Here, let me show you now.’
For the next half-hour, Morton was introduced to the feminine myste
ries of caring for a helpless baby; he proved a willing student. At last, with her husband growing impatient to eat, there was a break in the lesson and the three adults seated themselves at the table. After a long and flowery grace was said, they began eating.
Morton thought it time to discover what use a minister might have for a rattlesnake and he asked outright what it was all about. He was grateful for the meal and even more grateful for having had one or two matters relating to the care of babies explained to him; he thought that he owed a favour in return.
‘Do you read scripture much, Mr Morton?’ asked the Reverend Jefferson.
‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘So you might not be familiar with Mark, sixteen, verse eighteen: “hey shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”?’
A light dawned upon Morton and he saw where all this was tending.
‘You’re one o’ those snake-handling pastors I hear tell of?’
‘That is precisely right. Only, before I handle serpents I like to make sure what I’m about. Tell me, has your snake been fed lately? Not hungry and irritable, I suppose?’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Morton, ‘and I’m guessing that the next question is likely to be: when did I last I milk it?’
‘You anticipate me sir,’ said Jefferson, smiling broadly. ‘I see we understand each other very well.’
‘Milking a snake?’ asked Mrs Jefferson. ‘I never heard of such a thing. What can the two of you be talking about?’
‘It’s an expression we use ma’am,’ explained Morton. ‘I wouldn’t want to handle a rattler, even a tame one, without making sure that there’s little venom in his fangs. So every few days I hold it and annoy it ’til it’s ready to strike. Then I make sure that it sinks its teeth into a piece of parchment stretched over the mouth of a jar. The venom sprays out and it takes a while for the rattler to make a new lot.’
‘Well I declare, I never heard the like!’
‘You may not have done, ma’am, but your husband here isn’t a man who wishes to take needless chances.’
‘I trust in scripture,’ said Reverend Jefferson, ‘but the Lord wants us to take ordinary precautions as well.’
‘You’re welcome enough to use my snake in your show,’ said Morton. Then a thought struck him. ‘Say, would you like me to attend your church and offer up a testimonial or something? Strikes me that the two of us are in the same line of business in a way.’
‘You are very welcome to worship the Lord with us tonight,’ said the minister, a little stiffly. Morton had the idea that he might have been offended to be compared with a man in Morton’s business.
While they talked and ate little Robert was grizzling in the background more or less constantly. The noise grated on Jack Morton’s nerves and he asked Mrs Jefferson: ‘Say, do you know why he’s making that noise all the time? You think he’s hungry, thirsty, tired or what?’
‘Bless you, he’s teething. All babies are fussy at that time.’
As he strolled down to the livery stable to pick up his snake for Jefferson to use in what he thought of as just another show, Morton turned over in his mind what he knew of the snake handlers. There had been a congregation of such people in Tennessee a few years earlier, who had picked up during their services all manner of venomous snakes. Being faithful servants of the Lord had not prevented two or three of them dying after being bitten.
That was as nothing though, to what happened when they moved on from ‘holding serpents’ to drinking ‘any deadly thing’, which, according to the Bible, ‘would not hurt them’. The veracity of this claim had been tested to the limit when seven men, women and children had died agonizingly of strychnine poisoning. The sensible ones who wished to work that dodge now did what the Reverend Jefferson did and obtained their serpents from a reliable source.
It was awkward, carrying the tea chest across to the Jeffersons’ place, but Morton was a fellow who believed in paying his debts. It could not be denied that Mrs Jefferson had given him some right good counsel regarding the care of the baby and he’d a notion that she would be happy to pass on a few more tips before he headed north towards Claremont.
The baby was as quiet as anything, lying on his back, drowsily. The minister’s wife was sitting placidly near at hand, doing some sewing and mending.
‘Why ma’am,’ said Morton, ‘you have a way with children, I can see. That’s the most restful I’ve seen the boy. You must show me what you do.’
Reverend Jefferson interrupted at this point.
‘We can investigate the finer points of child-rearing later. Perhaps you would show me this snake of yours?’
Morton set the tea chest on the floor, prised off the lid and lifted out the rattlesnake.
‘My,’ said the minister, ‘that’s a fine specimen! You’re sure it’s had the venom drawn lately?’
‘As much as is possible. If it were to bite you, you might suffer as much as if a hornet had stung you. It won’t kill you, though, or even make you very sick.’
‘Let me hold it, so that it knows the feel of me.’
‘Mind you keep it away from the baby,’ said Mrs Jefferson in alarm. ‘I’d sooner that you took it in another room entirely.’
As the pastor of the Oneida Full Gospel Tabernacle Church let the snake coil around his wrists, Morton said: ‘What will you do, invite your congregation to come up and handle it with you as a test of faith?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Seriously, you want that I should come this evening and be the first in line? It sometimes helps to have somebody break the ice, as they say.’
‘If you’re sure that it would be no trouble for you, Mr Morton, I’d be glad to see you do so.’
‘Will you be coming to the service, ma’am?’ asked Morton.
‘No, I reckon I’ll stay at home. I suppose you want that I should take care of little Robert here?’
‘If it wouldn’t be an imposition.’
‘No, we’re becoming good friends.’
The baby still appeared drowsy and relaxed, in sharp contrast with the way that he had been in Morton’s company before they arrived here. Jack Morton supposed that women just had a natural talent for soothing babies, that it was something that men were no good at.
The Oneida Full Gospel Tabernacle Church met in a somewhat plain, one almost have said severe, building two miles from the Jeffersons’ home. There was no stained glass, lithographs of the Holy Family, carved Stations of the Cross; indeed, no decoration of any description was to be found in the church. Morton took his place in a pew at the back, ready to play the part of a shill. This was something of a novelty for him; he not having acted the part since first acquiring the outfit from Abernathy.
The service was boisterous and loud, being interspersed with cries of ‘Yea Lord!’ and ‘Preach it, brother!’ from the members of the congregation. It was Jack Morton’s fancy that these were among the poorer citizens of Oneida, for whom religion was a consolation against the deficiencies of their everyday life. There were raucous hymns, much clapping and cries of ecstasy. It put Morton in mind of a Negro church that he had once happened to attend.
Then came the great moment when the Reverend Jefferson quoted or, it might not inaptly be said, bellowed those verses from the Gospels that urge the faithful to fool about with rattlers and hand round cups of poison. He lifted up his voice to the Lord and then, with a mighty flourish, produced the largest and fattest rattlesnake that any of those present had ever seen. A murmur of amazement rippled round the church.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ said Jefferson, ‘I tell you now that you belong to a generation which is blessed in the sight of the Lord. Why are you so blessed? Because this day you are seeing prophecy fulfilled. Just as our Lord said, nearly two thousand years ago, that we should be able to handle serpents with impunity, so it has now come to pass.
‘This snake will by no means
harm me, nor will it hurt any one of you who has the faith to come up here and hold it. Is it not written in the Book of Isaiah that the suckling child shall play on the hole of the asp and that that deadly snake shall do him no harm? Who will demonstrate his his faith by coming up here now and handling this diamondback?’
There was no rush to volunteer; Morton thought that this was just exactly what it was like when he was peddling his snake oil. It needed one or two to step forth first and then others would follow.
‘I trust in the Lord!’ he cried aloud. ‘I reckon I’ll hold that rattler and not be harmed.’ He stood up and walked down the aisle to where the Reverend Jefferson was standing. He stretched out his hand and received the snake.
Just as Morton had expected, others came forward now. One by one they held his snake. Some parents even took the prophet Isaiah literally and brought their children up to stroke the rattlesnake. Morton had not expected this and hoped that no child would get bitten. The amount of venom left in the fangs after ‘milking’ would only give an adult a headache and fever, but could very well be sufficient to kill a child.
In the event nobody was bitten, but Morton was glad when the service was over and his snake had been returned to the tea chest, which was hidden out of sight up in the pulpit. Morton left with the other worshippers, then doubled back so that he and the minister could carry the tea chest together back to Jefferson’s house. As they walked along, Morton remarked: ‘I thought that went well enough. I was worried when those children came up, though. I’m not sure that a bite from this thing would agree with a youngster.’
‘Where’s your faith, man? Don’t you believe what I said from Isaiah?’
‘I reckon had you believed it fully yourself you wouldn’t have asked me if this snake of mine had been milked recently. You were careful enough of your own safety.’
Snake Oil Page 4
