Brave Enemies (18 page)

And I thought of making a public confession and trusting my future and hers to the loyalty and kindness of my flocks. But I doubted my ministry and my churches could survive the scandal. It was unlikely I could continue there as psalmodist and minister. I thought of leaving, of taking her to the mountains farther west where no one knew us, to South Carolina or Georgia. The settlements were spreading and the wilderness giving way even as the war raged. But I would have to leave my
congregations. I could not leave the churches I had struggled three years to build. I would not leave those I was called to serve.

As I lay in pain from the burns, helpless in my misery, I worked to curb my anger, and I thought on these things. And I knew I must expiate my guilt and conquer my weakness and my failure for the work I would do.

I
T WAS SEVERAL WEEKS
after the fire, as I was beginning to heal and could limp out into the yard and stoop in the sun a few minutes, when a member of my flock from Zion Hill came to visit. It was Sister Wensley who loved to testify that her baby daughter Rebecca had been sent as a blessing in her old age. I stooped in the yard and watched her climb the hill with her daughter in one arm and a small sack in the other. It was a fine late autumn day and the bright sun picked out gold leaves floating from the hickories.

“I'm plumb out of breath,” Sister Wensley said, and handed me the sack which I saw held potatoes. “Rebecca gets heavier every day.”

“Come in and sit,” I said.

It was dark in the cabin. I asked Josie to put on some water for coffee, and I brought a chair to the fireplace for Sister Wensley, whose first name was Rachel.

“I hated to hear you was burned,” she said.

I told her my burns were better, though I still couldn't sit down.

“It's a blessing you have Joseph to help you,” Sister Wensley said.

“Couldn't manage without him.”

We drank coffee and little Rebecca played on the floor in front of the hearth. The baby found a pinecone and chewed on it, and when her mother took that away she found a spool of thread and pulled off several strands before Josie placed it on the mantel.

“There has been talk,” Sister Wensley said, and looked at me sideways, as if she was embarrassed. I thought she was embarrassed because Josie was there.

“What kind of talk?” I said. My pulse quickened and my breath got
shorter. Had somebody found out the truth about Josie and was gossiping it around?

“You know how people will talk, minister,” Sister Wensley said.

“I do indeed.”

Sister Wensley looked at Josie as if she was reluctant to continue.

“Joseph is in our confidence,” I said.

Sister Wensley looked at the door as if she expected someone to be eavesdropping. She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “The redcoats have been asking questions about you,” she said.

I asked what kind of questions. Who had they questioned, and who had told her? She expected me to be alarmed, but the truth was I was relieved that the gossip was about redcoats and not about Josie and me. But I tried not to show my relief.

“Why, numbers of people have said the redcoats come to their houses to ask about you,” Sister Wensley said. “Everybody says it.”

“What do they ask?” I said, glancing at Josie.

“Why, they want to know who your friends are, and where all do you go as you walk from church to church. They ask where you sleep, and where you get your money. I don't know what all they ask.”

“I don't have much money,” I said.

“I just thought it was best to tell you,” Sister Wensley said, “in case there was anything you could do.”

“I'm most grateful to you.”

Little Rebecca began to cry and her mother picked her up and bounced her on her lap. “There's one officer in particular that has asked about you,” she said.

“Who is that?”

“A Lieutenant Withnail people say. I think that is his name.”

“They ask questions about everybody,” I said. “It's their business to ask questions.” I didn't want her to see my relief.

“I just wanted you to know, Reverend,” Sister Wensley said. “The lieutenant asks if you get letters and send letters.”

“I send letters to my superior,” I said.

“The lieutenant asks who you send letters to,” Sister Wensley said.

“Thank you for walking all this way to tell me, and for the potatoes,” I said.

When Sister Wensley was gone I came back inside the cabin and Josie grabbed my hands. “I'm so afraid,” she said.

“It's probably nothing,” I said.

“They think you are a rebel, a secret leader or a spy,” Josie said. “They could hang you.”

“I've done nothing,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.” I looked at Josie's pale, worried face and realized how wrong I was. I had a great deal to hide, though not what the redcoats imagined. I was hiding what was most precious to me. It was all so mixed up and crazy it was ludicrous. I began to laugh and finally Josie laughed with me. And then I stopped laughing when pain shot through my lower back.

T
HE BAD BURNS ON
John's back took a long time to heal. Some were so deep I didn't think they could ever get well. You would have thought the fire had cut into him with an ax. You would have thought he had been whipped with a barbed whip.

I
HAD TO CARRY
in all the water and bring in all the wood. I had to wash everything in a tub on a bench. It was cold, getting up toward Christmastime, and I liked to stand in the sun in front of the cabin to feel its warmth on a bright day. I liked to get away from the sight of pain for a few minutes.

We soon used up the supply of wood John and I had split. There was nothing for me to do but take the ax and go out into the woods to gather limbs and dead pieces light enough to drag, which was easier than trying to chop down a big tree myself. I hacked off limbs and chopped blow-down trees in two. There had been a sleet storm the winter before that broke down trees on the hill behind the cabin. I gathered poles and long skinny logs there. A lot of the wood was white pine that burned up
fast. But pine was easy to chop and easy to find, and light enough for me to carry. My hands got thicker and rougher.

W
HEN
J
OHN'S CONGREGATIONS
heard he was sick they sent things to him. They brought a peck of potatoes, and a deacon from Zion Hill brought a sack of cornmeal. A woman from Beulah brought a crock of wild honey, and a man from Crowfoot brought half a ham.

“Your flocks are mighty faithful,” I said to John.

“They will drift away if I don't return soon,” John said. “It's the meetings that keep them together,” John said. “It's the gathering and singing together.” He said that once the habit was broken it was hard to get a church started again. It had taken him three years to build up his flocks. He said a church had to be part of people's lives, not just a revival meeting, but a steady part of the community.

I said it was hard for people to come to church in winter, but he said that was all the more reason to keep the congregations alive.

Because his back was in such shape, John stayed bent over even when he got out of bed after the first week. He couldn't stand up straight, but he could crawl a little. He crawled to the bench and got a drink of water, and he crawled to the table to eat stooped over. He even crawled outside sometimes on a warm day just to look at the sun. It made him feel better to see the outdoors and the sunshine.

But most of the time he stayed in bed. It was the only place he could rest. He could read if I put the book on a bench at the end of the bed, or if I held the book tilted. But away from the fireplace there wasn't enough light to see by. I could put a candle on the bench beside the book, but when he turned the pages he knocked the candle over.

Much of the time I read to him. I read from Ecclesiastes and I read from Psalms. I read from Matthew and the other Gospels. And I read from the book of Acts and Revelation. Revelation was my favorite to read aloud. “I am Alpha and Omega . . . I am the root and offspring of David. I am the bright and morning star.”

But the passage John wanted me to read again and again was from Luke, chapter 2. It was the story of the first Christmas. It was the story of the angels coming to the shepherds by night. And he liked best the words of Simeon when he saw the baby Jesus. He had me read them day after day.

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word:

For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,

Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people

A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.

It was a song of celebration in the dark days before Christmas. John wanted to hear it over and over. I read it so many times I learned it by heart.

John had other books too. Besides
The Pilgrim's Progress
he had a copy of the sermons of John Wesley. Sometimes he had me read from one of them. I enjoyed reading
The Pilgrim's Progress
most. It was a story I could see so clearly as I read the words, the wicket gate, the burden on Christian's back, the Slough of Despond, the sight of the Beulah land, the Shining Men, the city on the horizon.

We sang songs from the songbook too. John taught me song after song. He lay on his belly and sang and I sang with him. He was in pain but he sang.

“You'll strain yourself,” I said.

“Song will help me heal,” he said.

When we sang, the music did seem to heal the hard moments of worry and fear. The music softened time and put things in order. The music sweetened the hours. Before I met John, I'd never thought music was worth so much. But I saw that music fed us, nourished us the same as grits and bread did. Music was like a cool drink of water on a hot day. The music was warm as a fire on a cold day.

Sometimes we stayed up far into the night to read and sing. I kept the
fire going bright and made fresh coffee. We sang all the songs over again. One night John seemed better than he had before. The pain had gone from his face, and he raised himself on his elbows and looked into my eyes.

“I'm not much of a husband since our marriage,” he said. He stared at me as he hadn't in a long time. He stared at my neck and at my bosoms under the shirt. “Come closer,” he said.

Resting on his right hand, John reached out with his left and pressed my chest. He started to unbutton my shirt.

“You will hurt yourself,” I said.

He looked into my eyes and put his hand inside my shirt. He hadn't touched me that way since before the fire. I was going to say he shouldn't stretch his back and break the scabs. I was going to say he might make himself worse. But all I said was, “You be careful.”

I had worked so hard to nurse him I'd almost forgotten we were lovers too. I was taken by surprise. It was a good surprise.

I had long ago taken the strings off the bed so John could raise himself up on his elbows and knees. He raised himself like that with the blanket on his back. I stripped away my pants and slid myself under him.

Something I found out about loving that night was that you don't have to be completely free, and you don't have to be completely well. With his back only partly healed, John could move only a little bit. When I was under him and opened myself to him, he eased down on me and lay that way a long time. My heart was galloping away and my pulse was flying, but he didn't move. He was waiting till he couldn't help himself. He was waiting till the perfect moment.

I would not have thought sickness and weakness would have made loving sweeter. I would not have thought waiting and waiting would make the blood burn and the heart tremble. When John moved it was like he was singing with his body. But he was singing so low he made time stretch out. He made the seconds bigger. He made time swell up and ache as one second strained and touched into another.

“I don't care,” I said, but I could hardly get my breath.

John could barely move at all, he was so stiff from the burns; but everything he did was magnified in me. Everything he did was right. I could move farther than he could, but I followed him like a dancer dancing around her partner.

“Where are you?” I said, and slid a little sideways and aimed myself at him. I gulped air and said again, “I don't care.”

When John was leading me it was like I was skipping. You know how a child likes to skip and skip along the edge of a yard or trail? A skip is a step and a half. A skip has a slide to it. We skipped and skipped and the slides got sweeter.

But I was too easy to think. I was waiting for his next skip. I was holding my breath.

When John started again it was like he was backing away. He backed away a little at a time and I followed. He backed a little this way and he backed a little that way. And every step I followed, and followed again. Where is he taking us? I thought. Each step back got smaller. His steps got so little I could hardly feel him moving. His steps were so little they made me throb and sweat. I thought I was going to burst open. His little steps made me ache. But it was the sweetest pain somewhere down in my belly. I was waiting and I thought I couldn't wait any longer.

“Where are you going?” I said.

But John didn't answer. He was still and then he made a little move. It was just a little step forward. I waited and he made another step forward. And then he made another. There was something dry at the back of my mind, like bright velvet, like somebody was rubbing the back of my brain with velvet. The cloth was pulled right through my thoughts, and it was dry and soft. My head, the back of my head, was cradled in velvet and satin. My mind was caressed and floating.

“Where are you going now?” I whispered. It was all I could think of to whisper.

The land swooped under me and lifted me. The ground swung under me and slid me away and away.