Catherine couldn’t believe the change that came over Phillip as he addressed the vast audience before him. Even in the press of the crowd when she had feared for his life, she had detected no change in his face, no show of emotion. But now, his features took on a glow—an intense shine of joy that she would not have thought possible. And his voice—his tones that were always so controlled, so evenly modulated, so devoid of any betraying feeling—now rang with the passion of truth. She felt as if she could see the Saviour whom he proclaimed.
“And what is this faith through which we are saved? The Scripture speaks of it as a light, as a power of discerning. So St. Paul says, ‘God who commanded light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.’”
And as he spoke, the rain, which had been lessening for some time, stopped altogether; the clouds parted, and a shaft of sunlight fell on the fair-haired speaker standing at the market cross. His black cassock fluttered in the breeze and his white preaching bands, remarkably unmuddied from the treatment he had received, gleamed in the sun.
“Faith is a divine evidence and conviction, not only that God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, but also that the Christ loved me, and gave Himself for me. It is by this faith that we receive Christ; that we receive Him as our Prophet, Priest, and King…”
Catherine was so caught up by the preacher and his ringing words that for a moment she lost awareness of the people around her. Then she felt a sharp tug on her sleeve and turned to the woman beside her. “Sister, will ye pray with me? I ’ave need of such a faith.”
Catherine led the seeker to the side of the crowd where they both bowed their heads. Catherine prayed first, then the woman; when Catherine looked up, she saw tears running down the woman’s wrinkled, weather-beaten face. “Bless you, Sister, I’ve often ’eard these Methodists at their ’ymn-singing and wanted to join ’em, but I didn’t know how. Now I’ve got a ’ymn-sing a’goin’ in my ’eart.”
Catherine introduced the new convert to a local Society member and turned to another who appeared to be seeking. “Would you like me to pray with you?” Perhaps twenty hungry souls were seeking the Saviour around the old stone market cross.
A rough voice interrupted Catherine’s prayer. When she looked in the direction of the speaker, expecting more rabble, a surprising sight met her. A man in ragged, dirty clothes with greasy, matted hair hanging beneath a disreputable hat was holding a crisp white linen shirt aloft in one hand and two leather-bound books in the other. “I knowed it was a preacher cove I burgled in the inn last night when I seed ’is Bible an’ preacher’s garb. But I took w’at I could anyway. I was on my way to sell it for w’at I could w’en ’is words struck me to ’eart. ’ere’s yer swag, mister. I repent a’ me wicked ways.”
Phillip placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll take the books, as I doubt you have use for reading material. But you keep the shirt; you need it worse than I. Let it remind you of the new heart Christ has given you.”
A chorus of “Amens” and “Praise the Lords” rose from the believers, turning to calls of “Farewell,” and “God go wi’ thee,” as Phillip and the Perronets continued their journey.
From the carriage, Phillip looked back at the remnant of the congregation with open longing in his eyes. “It is always the same —the wrench at leaving new babes in the faith. How I long to stay among them! I believe this preaching like an apostle, without joining together those that are awakened and training them up in the ways of God, is only begetting children for the murderer. How much preaching has there been for ten years all over England! But where there is no regular preacher, no discipline, no order or connection, the consequence is that nine in ten of the once-awakened are now faster asleep than ever.”
“The Society members…” Catherine began.
"…will do what they can to encourage one another in the faith, of course. But they need a shepherd. What hope is there for such as that thief to build a new life without firm guidance?”
“The parish vicar?” Catherine tried again.
“Undoubtedly the holder of at least six livings who visits here once yearly as required by law in order to keep his income. What counsel exists is in the hands of a curate who, without the supervision of his superior, may be as lazy or drunken as suits him.”
Catherine was appalled at his words. “Surely you exaggerate. My father…”
“…is a rare example of a godly man. One whose work I would emulate if a place were open to me.”
“I understand you were formerly a curate…” Her sentence went unfinished as Old Biggin, pulling the carriage, slipped in the deep mud of the rain-soaked road. Ned drew alongside his sister. “We are nearly to the River Medway. I think I should drive across. The waters are sure to be full and swift after the downpour.”
The men changed places, and in a few minutes, they approached the raised earthen causeway of ancient Roman construction. At least, that was where the crossing should have been, but it was invisible under the rushing waters. “Can we ride the causeway?” Ned asked the ferryman.
“Yes, Sir, if you keep in the middle.”
Ahead of them, Phillip urged his mount to cross the swollen stream. Obedient to her master’s voice, Jezreel led the way into the water.
Crossing was much more difficult than they could have imagined. The water rose above the horses’ knees and came to the bottom of the carriage, pushing and sucking at the wheels to pull the vehicle sideways. Catherine gripped the seat as Ned urged Biggin forward. “Easy, old boy. One step at a time. Atta boy. Keep going.”
Just past the middle a current of water rushed over the causeway with the swiftness of a sluice. Catherine gave a cry of alarm as she saw Jezreel lose her footing. But the horse gave a spring and recovered the roadway, and with two final lunges, she accomplished the crossing and scrambled up the eastern bank.
Biggin, encumbered with the shafts of the carriage as well as being older and less agile than Phillip’s mare, was not so lucky. A few feet from shore his right forefoot slipped off the ramp. He fought to regain his footing, but couldn’t find a hold in the muddy swirl. He swam valiantly, his muscled thighs straining against the downstream rush.
The carriage, already nearly afloat in the deep water, tilted dangerously, then righted itself and rode the tide behind Old Biggin. Catherine, soaked to her knees in the icy flood, never let go of her hold on the seat, or of her composure, as Ned beside her fought to guide his horse.
Phillip shouted to a group of men on the bank waiting for the ferry. Forming two rows of human pulleys, strong hands reached out for each side of Biggin’s harness as he neared shore and pulled the heaving horse up the mirey bank.
Except for a boulder buried under the mud, the rescue operation would have been a complete success. The carriage wheel on Ned’s side, however, struck the impediment with a crunch. For a moment the vehicle balanced, suspended on one wheel, then toppled on its side, spilling passengers and luggage into the mud and water.
The rescue party unhitched Biggin, pulled Catherine and Ned to their feet, and sought to retrieve their cases from the muck.
In a few minutes, Ned, Catherine, and Phillip were sitting on tree stumps above the river, surveying the wreckage.
“Compared to the results I feared when I saw your carriage go into the water, I cannot regard the broken axel as so great a disaster,” Phillip said.
“We are indeed fortunate,” Ned agreed. “Neither of us nor Biggin hurt, and only one bag lost in the river.”
“It’s easy for you to say ‘only one,’ considering it was my case.” Catherine regarded her muddy gown and thought of her other one swirling away downriver.
“Chatham is just ahead. You can purchase some necessities there, while Phillip and I arrange to have the carriage repaired and hire a chaise for the rest of the journey.”
“Hire a chaise?” Catherine wiped a sodden curl away from h
er cheek. “What nonsensical extravagance, Brother. You would be far better served to purchase a saddle for Biggin.” Catherine forced a brave smile that showed by its very brilliance how terrified she was. The other Methodist Sisters rode pillion on circuit. She could do it too. It was high time she laid her fear to rest for once and all.
“But, Cath,” Ned placed a hand on her shoulder. “That would mean you must ride pillion. I can afford to hire—”
“No. No chaise.” The words were firm, but followed by a small gulp. “I’ll be all right. There must be an inn up the road where we can dry out and get warm.”
“Cath,” Ned tried again.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, more for her own benefit than for her companions’. To give action to her words she stood and began walking up the road. Without thinking, her right hand went to her left shoulder. The cold, wet weather had made the injury ache, as it often did, and brought the old experience vividly alive to her…. The big bay horse lowering his head and lashing out with his hind feet, then rearing in front and landing stiff-legged with a jolt that jarred her teeth. The helpless, sick feeling of slipping, at first slowly, then faster and faster, and plunging to the hard earth. The blowing snort from the horse and the cry from her baby brother. Then silence as the pain in her shoulder brought the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness. When she awoke they told her about David….
She never saw the horse again, nor her brother. She had probably ridden only ten or twelve times in her life since then, and never pillion. Could she do it now? The answer was there as soon as the question formed: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” She gave her shoulder a final rub as she pulled a foot from the sucking mud and set it on the path before her.
The inn they found was a considerable improvement on the one they had stayed in the night before. As the hour was late by the time Ned completed arrangements for the repair of the carriage, and they were wet and cold, they decided to stay the night.
Seven
THE TRAVELERS CONTINUED their journey the next day to the accompaniment of the dawn chorus. Since Old Biggin, for all his gentleness, was not really a saddle horse, they decided it would be better to tie their cases on behind Ned and for Catherine to ride pillion on Jezreel. Catherine accused her brother of caring more for his privacy than her comfort, and he replied that she had already informed him of her opinion of his companionship, thank you. In this spirit of raillery, Catherine covered her fears as Ned made a stirrup of his hands and tossed her onto the blanket behind Phillip.
Sitting sidesaddle, she smoothed her round skirt over her petticoat and placed her left arm loosely around Phillip’s waist. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Ned told me of your accident. If I can do anything to make you more comfortable—”
“I thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I assure you I am quite all right.”
“Very well. But if at any time you wish me to stop or ease the pace, please say so at once.”
Catherine appreciated his concern, but was determined to conquer her fear. Besides, with this stalwart man in the saddle, and the birds singing them on their way in the fresh spring air, her situation didn’t seem so frightful. Even so, she had an idea that it might be a good plan to occupy her mind with conversation.
So, a few minutes later as a gentle mist fell on them through the lightly-leaved trees that arched over the road to Canterbury, Catherine was reminded of a line from Chaucer, and she quoted, “‘When the sweet rains of April fall, they of England to Canterbury wend.’ If the rains in Chaucer’s time were anything like yesterday, that is surely one of the greatest examples of understatement in the language. Might as well call Noah’s forty days and nights of deluge ‘sweet rains.’”
“We are not far north of the Pilgrim’s Way. The same road Chaucer’s pilgrims took is still in use,” Phillip said.
“As well as the road the murderers from Henry’s court would have taken to commit their foul deed?”
They talked a while of the murder of Thomas a’Becket, whose martyrdom as Archbishop of Canterbury turned the cathedral into the most popular pilgrimage shrine of the Middle Ages, and of Chaucer who immortalized the journey. Then the topic seemed to pall, and Catherine sought another to occupy her mind. “Before our misadventures yesterday, I believe you were about to tell me of your curacy.”
The back before her stiffened slightly and she wondered if so simple a topic could have given offense. Then the wide shoulders squared. “I don’t know that I was about to tell you, but I shall. My brief curacy in Midhurst was a poor living, but it had for me the feeling of having come home. I thought it was the place God had prepared for me and that I would be there forever, serving Him and those people—belonging to them.
“My ‘forever’ lasted almost two years. Until the second time the Vicar, on his yearly round of visits to his several livings, was told that his curate was an enthusiast who preached a personal religion from the pulpit, read the prayers with fervor, and had the effrontery to suggest that good Englishmen ask forgiveness for their sins.
“I was given the briefest of hearings and promptly replaced with a young Oxford graduate who was well-known to the vicar at his regular card parties.”
His words were astringent, even to the point of often referring to himself in the third person; but Catherine, her sensitivities enhanced by their physical closeness and by her own recent experience of having something dearly longed for snatched from her grasp, found it easy to hear between his clipped sentences and to fill in the spaces with her knowledge of his orphanage background. She knew that for the young man who had never truly belonged anywhere, those brief months had been enough for him to know that what he wanted most in life was to belong somewhere. She knew that they had provided a sudden identification in a life of unbelonging.
She knew that in the months since leaving Sussex the time spent riding circuit, preaching with the band of Methodist ministers in fields or meetinghouses or wherever people would listen to him, had satisfied his desire to share God’s Word, but had in no way fulfilled his need to belong. Indeed, it seemed to her observance that the longing had grown stronger. As she had witnessed at Rochester and was repeated at each meeting, repeated each time he met new people, new converts came into the fold, a new Society established, and then the circuit ride would continue, requiring Phillip to ride away, leaving behind the people whose lives he longed to be a part of. He longed to be their pastor and they his people, to marry them, to christen their children, to bury their dead, to attend to all the daily needs of a flock, not just come into their lives for a day or a week and then ride out again.
He told her of the day he left Midhurst, how little Jennie Franks came early in the morning with a drooping bunch of bluebells crushed in her childish hand. Catherine could see him accepting them gravely, as the tribute they were intended to be. She could even see the corn-silk pigtails shining in the sun as he patted Jennie’s head, and the single tear that slipped from the corner of her eye just before she ran for home.
Jennie had been the first of a long string that morning, old Mrs. Machin with a loaf of fresh bread for his journey, Mrs. Patching with a crock of pickled peaches, the Timmon sisters with a hand-worked altar cloth—which he had never had a place to use…
As his account continued Catherine could have shed tears with them as she saw that string of loyal, taciturn people, each expressing their love in a tangible way, but without words. Her arm tightened ever so slightly around Phillip’s thin waist, as they rode in silence for several minutes. Then Catherine reached back and patted the shiny chestnut rump of their mount. “Jezreel’s a good horse. It won’t tire her too much carrying us both?”
Sitting behind Phillip, she heard rather than saw his rare smile. “It would take a great deal more than your feather weight at this sedate pace to tire Jezreel. She is an excellent animal. I fear you’ve uncovered my one extravagance, but I’ll admit to a great fondness for horses. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t h
oarding a small pile of farthings for ‘my horse.’ At least my curacy lasted long enough that I was able to add a few more shillings to my cache and accept farmer Brock’s generous offer of sale. I’ve no doubt the animal could have fetched twice his price at market. Even then she is an extravagance. But I salve my conscience with the argument that nothing can be more important to a circuit-riding preacher than a good mount.”
Again Catherine stroked the satiny horsehair. Somehow the information that Phillip was fond of horses increased her determination to conquer her fear, and made each mile she rode a small victory.
They reached Sittingbourne in time for a late afternoon meeting in a green, tree-encircled meadow near the town. Their timing was perfect as the meeting attracted the laborers leaving the fields for their evening meal. Soon a crowd of several hundred was gathered. The rain had ceased, a gentle, setting sun shone on the field, and Catherine hoped the service might proceed without incident.
But Phillip had no more than read his text from Micah 6:8 and begun to preach on what it meant “to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God,” when a great shout began on the far side of the field. The rabble from town had brought an ox, which they were vehemently driving among the congregation.
It was impossible for Phillip to preach in such an upheaval, so Ned jumped up beside him on the low stone wall and began a hymn-sing. The efforts of the disorderly were in vain, for the great white ox ran round and round the field, one way and the other, eluding the sticks which would drive him through the middle of the crowd. At length he broke through the midst of his drivers and loped off toward the woods, leaving the worshipers rejoicing and praising God.
Where Love Begins (Where There is Love Book 1) Page 5
