He considers this, putting the heel of his left boot on the table. Eventually, he says, "What else am I going to do? I am not a scholar wishing only to sit in a garret to pore over the dusty pages of academe, the words of long-dead men. My time at Harvard has proven that. No. Nor do I wish to study the Law—Good God, I leave that to Ezra and his ilk. Take on the vestments of Divinity? Could you imagine the Very Reverend Randall Trevelyne? The heavens would open up, and destruction would reign upon the entire world at that outrage."
I myself have to laugh outright at that image. "Yes, floods and plagues and clouds of locusts would surely follow your ordination."
"Ummm ... right. So, being too big to be a jockey, too small for a prizefighter, and detesting farming, it is the life of a soldier for me."
"What of politics? Have you not considered that? Would it not suit your rascally nature, Randall?" I tease.
"Hmmm..." He muses on this possibility. "After I distinguish myself in the Marine Corps, it is not impossible that I could become Governor of this state. Or even President. I would not mind having a horde of sycophants licking my boots. Actually, that is quite an attractive notion. Thank you, Jacky, I had not thought of that."
Amy gags at the notion of his being the governor of anything, and I laugh and rise. "Come, Randall," I say. "Let us see how politic you can be. I want you to stand and embrace Amy and say, 'How good it is to see you, Sister.' And Amy, I want you to hug him to you and say, 'Welcome back, Brother. I am so glad you have come back to us safely.' If either of you refuse, then I shall speak to neither of you and will immediately head back to Boston and you will be denied my company, for whatever that is worth." And that is just how politic I can be.
They do it, and I think that despite all of their posturing, they are sincere in their expressions of affection, each for the other.
Chapter 3
"Come on, Amy! Let us go! The horses are saddled and ready!"
Amy Trevelyne sighs, then puts up her pen. She has been taking down yet another of my rambling accounts. This time I'm telling her about the rather riotous trip I took last summer on the Allegheny, the Ohio, and the Mississippi—rivers that course through the great American frontier wilderness—and I have become restless in the telling of it. It is too nice a day to be indoors, even if it is in Amy's pretty little room. Her scribblings are sure to end up in yet another lurid book recounting my misadventures as I stumble through this life, sometimes properly clothed and well-mannered, though mostly not. But it is all to the good, I figure, as it makes her happy. And thanks to Amy's generosity, the proceeds from sales go to help support my London Home for Little Wanderers.
It is Saturday, the second day of our stay at Dovecote, and, since we must return to Boston tomorrow to get Joannie back to the Lawson Peabody in time for Monday's classes, I intend to make the most of this fine day. I have been informed by Amy that a spot on the fallow fields of the south forty acres has been leased to a religious revival, and I insist that we go see it.
"But, why, Sister?" she asks. "That sort of thing always seems so ... primitive."
"Aw, Amy, it's just a show like any other, and maybe it'll be fun. They are sure to have some rousing hymns. And it will be good for my Immortal Soul, which certainly could use a bit of a wash."
She sighs, then says, "I am sure you are right in thinking that. Very well." Amy does a lot of that—sighing, I mean—especially when I'm around.
We do not take Joannie with us on this outing, as she has not yet had many equestrian classes and could not keep up with us. Besides, she seems quite content to gambol about the place with Daniel. Narrowing my eyes, I warn the both of them to be good, but I suspect the hayloft will get a long visit this afternoon. This being April, I am sure the river is still too cold to swim in, but I suspect the two scamps have brought their Caribbean swimming suits with them and would like nothing better than to take a dip for fun and to scandalize the other kids on the farm. So maybe they'll brave it, because it is so nice and sunny and warm.
So with good mounts under us and our riding jackets on our backs, Amy and I pound away in search of Redemption.
Randall has begged off, too, saying he'll be damned if he'll waste one moment of his remaining time ashore listening to religious claptrap. He rides with us to the gates of the farm, where he splits off, heading for a nearby tavern in hopes of finding some sport. As that inn has a bit of a notorious reputation, the rogue will probably find it.
"I will be back for dinner, ladies," he says as he prepares to ride away. "Make sure a place is laid for me. Tallyho and all that."
Before he goes, he leans over and gives my right thigh, just above the knee, a bit of a squeeze and says, "Till later, my sweet little Tartar, and we will take up where we left off."
"It is probably too much to expect to see him come back sober," growls Amy as we watch the dust settle behind him. "But let us now go see this ... er, show."
We give heels to horse, and with a whoop! from me, we are off.
Coming up over a knoll, we see the revival spread out below us. There are hundreds of people seated on makeshift benches and hundreds more standing around behind them. All are swaying to the cadence of the hymn that is being sung by all.
Bright morning stars are rising,
Bright morning stars are rising,
Bright morning stars are rising,
And day is breaking in my soul.
"Coo!" I exclaim, after I have sung along with the very familiar verse, as we on the Belle of the Golden West used to include this song as part of our Sanctified Act. "I did not think so many people lived around here."
"They do not," said Amy, by way of explanation. "You can see by the small family tents and covered wagons spread all about that they have come from all around. Their fields have been plowed, but it is still too early to plant, as there might yet be a frost and all the seed would be lost. So it is a time for socializing, and this is one of the ways they do it."
All the young folks, the boys and girls, down there sparkin', glancin' about at each other, maybe bein' so bold as to hold hands and to meet behind the tent, finally daring a kiss or two. Ah, yes, I know this scene quite well—as ancient as the world and as new as tomorrow.
Where are our dear brothers?
Oh, where are our dear sisters?
They're down here in the valley prayin',
And day is breakin in my soul.
"And then in the fall, after the harvest, we will have the big County Fair, and the same sort of thing will go on."
"Well, Amy. You've got to get the boys and girls together. Otherwise, everything grinds to a halt. Is it not so?"
"I suppose. The world must go on, in its sometimes tedious way."
"It is not all that bad, Sister Melancholy, as the world does have its charms," I say. "Come, Sister, let us get closer."
Oh, where are our dear fathers?
And where are our dear mothers?
They've gone to heaven shouting,
And day is breaking in my soul.
We ride down amidst the outlying wagons and buggies as that great old chestnut of a hymn winds down, and pull up at the fringe of the crowd. I take my long glass from my saddlebag and train it on the stage. It is about four feet high, twenty feet wide, ten deep, and has a backdrop of red curtains, which are closed. There is a short stairway up the center. Hmmm ...This is quite a production for this sort of thing, I'm thinking. These revivals can be, and usually are, as simple as a preacher standing up in the back of a buckboard, with the crowd standing about him.
The stage holds a high lectern and two preachers, each in long frock coats and high white collars, who take turns standing at the podium to thump the Bible and harangue the congregation, which seems to thrive upon the verbal abuse being thrown at it. Arms wave in the air and shouts of Hallelujah! and Praise God! are heard, and some people have fainted. We are close enough now to hear snatches of what is being bellowed out by the larger of the two men of God.
" . . and cast out Satan, yes, cast him out, oh my brethren! Listen not to his forked tongue, nor to his honeyed words, words that may sound sweet but are covered with flies and maggots, words that will condemn you to eternal damnation should you heed them!"
"He's pretty good," I observe. "Giving 'em their money's worth, that's for sure."
"Humph," says Amy.
"And speaking of money, that part should be coming soon."
Yep.
The preacher holds out both of his arms and closes his eyes, seemingly deep in silent prayer. The crowd goes quiet. Then he makes the pitch.
"My friends, our time here together is drawing to a close. It is my fondest hope that you have been spiritually nourished by this gathering of kindred spirits. As you go forth to continue to live your good, Christian lives, I will ask you to file up the center aisle and testify to your reborn faith. And if you can, offer some token of your favor, your wish that Brother Lempel and myself might continue our ministry. Any amount is welcome, and you will be blessed, oh so blessed for it!"
I notice now that a waist-high board fence cunningly encircles the main congregation, forcing all to go by the collection plate on their way out, or be seen putting a leg over the fence in order to avoid the tithing. Pretty crafty, I think as I chuckle to myself, but it turns out that there are even craftier things to follow.
"... and to receive your most welcome offerings, I give you..."
At this, the curtains open.
"... the Angel Evangeline, the very embodiment and soul of purity and of grace."
The congregation gasps and so do I. A girl, an impossibly beautiful girl, floats forward from between the red curtains. She is dressed in a long flowing white dress and has two gossamer wings attached to her back that flutter in the slight breeze. Her golden tresses pour out from under a golden starry crown to which is attached a halo that rides a few inches above her sainted head.
"Hey, what's going on here? That's from my old act with Reverend Clawson back on the Big River," I say, cutting my eyes to Amy's. Amy raises her eyebrows and nods. I had only recently told her of that part of our river journey. "But that ain't Reverend Clawson up there, and for sure that ain't me in the angel rig."
Stunned, I swing the glass around to look more closely at the two preachers. Ha! Of course, they ain't preachers at all. At least not the ordained kind. I see with a great deal of glee—Oh, Glory—that beneath some wigs and fake facial hair it is none other than my old associates of the stage, Mr. Fennel and Mr. Bean, master thespians, entrepreneurs, scam artists, and impossible ham actors. Upon my return from the Mississippi, I had renewed my acquaintance with the two, performed in several small parts in some of their Boston theatricals, and had related to them my experiences on the river over many tankards of ale at the Pig. 'Tis plain they took my account of our Sacred Hour of Prayer act very much to heart, because here it is again, with them in starring roles, but with one very big difference...
I twist the barrel of the long glass to focus it on the girl's undeniably beautiful face, beatific and radiant. Long golden curls, huge blue eyes—Oh, my God, it cannot be! I look again... But it is...