Authors: Gilbert Morris
Hannah saw the banker, Mr. Wheeler, who had been sitting in the chair on the rostrum, shake his head, displeasure written across his face.
They sang the final hymn, followed by an invitation to anyone present who wanted to come forward and accept Christ, but no one came. Crutchfield called upon a man to pronounce the concluding prayer, and then the service was
over. As they filed slowly down the aisle toward the foyer, Hannah waited for someone to greet her, but no one spoke. A few nodded slightly, but there was not a rush to greet the visitors. She was the first of her family to pass through the front doors, where Reverend Crutchfield was standing on the top step greeting his parishioners. He took Hannah’s hand and smiled. “I’m glad to see you, Miss Hannah.”
Pleased that he remembered her name, Hannah smiled. “That was a very fine sermon. Very biblical and most encouraging.”
Crutchfield blinked as if he were unused to such compliments, and then he smiled. “I hope you’ll come back often.”
Hannah nodded, then moved on. Clint was at the end of the procession, and he too noted the coolness of the church members toward the newcomers. He knew little about churches but felt this one would not be his first choice.
Clint joined the family, and they made their way to the truck as Jenny complained about the choir. “Some of the women in the choir sang horribly off key. You’d think they’d hit the right note once in a while,” she said with irritation.
“You’re accustomed to the trained choir of a large church,” Hannah responded. “In small towns like this they have to let anybody sing who wants to.”
Jenny went on to tell about the gossiping Ellen Flemming, and she related the pastor’s history. “Those two children misbehaved the whole time,” she said.
“It’s very hard on a man to raise young children alone,” Hannah murmured.
As they headed home, Lewis was silent. He had enjoyed his church back in New York, but since his misfortune, he had given little thought to God. This morning, however, Reverend Crutchfield’s sermon had spoken to him, clearly reminding him of his need for God. With the truck rattling and bouncing over the frozen ruts of the road, he thought,
If God loves me, why did He let all these terrible things happen?
Then he realized that others throughout history had asked the same
question, including the patriarch Job, whom the pastor had referred to in his sermon.
****
The next day Lewis was coming back from the barn. His old clothes were filthy from his work of patching the barn to prepare it for holding livestock. When he reached the back porch, he heard an approaching wagon and looked up. The Winslows’ home was located near a fork in the road, with one branch leading into town and the other heading north. Lewis had noted that from time to time, people would come down from the north, usually in old wagons or battered automobiles. But this wagon coming down the road was new and the team of horses healthy. He was surprised when the wagon stopped and the elderly driver climbed out, then helped the woman beside him out. Lewis looked down at himself, embarrassed by his dirty condition, but nonetheless, he moved toward the wagon and greeted the pair. “Hello,” he said. “How are you today?”
“Very well. My name’s Jesse Cannon. This here’s my wife, Dolly.”
Lewis could see bits of Jesse’s white hair sticking out from under his fedora. He seemed frail, but he had the brightest blue eyes Lewis had ever seen. His wife was a small woman, also with blue eyes and silver hair.
Lewis surmised that the two were expecting to be asked in. He could not imagine why, but he said quickly, “It’s chilly out here. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Cannon replied. For an older woman she appeared to have a great deal of energy as she made her way vigorously up the steps. Then Lewis remembered that he had seen the couple in church on Sunday and told them so.
“Yes, we seen you there too,” Cannon remarked. “Just came by to visit.”
“Well, do come in.”
Lewis moved up the steps behind them and opened the front door. When the couple entered, he was relieved to see Hannah approach. “Hannah, this is Mr. and Mrs. Cannon. My daughter, Hannah Winslow, and I’m Lewis Winslow.”
In earlier days, Hannah would have fled to her room rather than meet strangers, but things had completely changed for her. She was glad to see the older couple, for she had been wondering if they would ever meet any of their neighbors. “Won’t you come into the parlor?” she said. “We have a fire in there. It’s so cold out.”
Very soon the older couple was seated on the couch, which was rather the worse for wear, but the room was cleaned up, and Hannah gave a brief, hearty prayer of thanksgiving that they had not seen it as it was.
Cannon looked around with approval. “You shore got the place lookin’ nice. The Cundiffs kept it like a hogpen.”
“You know them, the Cundiffs?” Lewis asked.
“I know who they are,” was the noncommittal answer. He leaned forward and said, “We were glad to see you in church Sunday.”
“I enjoyed the sermon very much. The pastor’s a fine preacher.”
“I think so,” Dolly Cannon said. “Such a tragedy, his losing his wife.”
“Yes, we heard about that. It must be very hard for him.”
“The poor man. He does the best he can. Those children are so . . . so lively.”
“A pair of young devils is what they are,” Cannon said, but he was smiling. “The women of the church want them to be angels, but they ain’t that, and neither are any of the rest of the young’uns.”
Hannah excused herself and went to the kitchen, where she found Jenny working on dinner. “We have company,” she said. “An older couple from up the road. Is coffee made?”
Jenny nodded. “Yes, and there’s the last of that cake left over.”
“Well, this is a good time to use it. Come on, I want you to meet them.”
Five minutes later Lewis and his two daughters were enjoying the coffee and cake with their guests. “This all your family?” Jesse Cannon asked.
“No, I have a third daughter and a son too.”
“Was that your son with you in church, then?”
“No, that was Clint Longstreet. He’s a friend. He helped us move down here.”
“Longstreet? I wonder if he’s any kin to General Longstreet?”
“You mean the Civil War general?” Lewis asked. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“I served under General Longstreet.”
Lewis and his daughters looked at one another and then back at the old man. Here was a relic indeed! “You actually fought in the Civil War?” Jenny asked.
“Went in when I was sixteen. Stacked my musket at Appomattox.” The old man was proud of his accomplishment, and Lewis was fascinated. “I’d love to hear some of your stories.”
“Well, it won’t be hard to get that out of him,” Dolly said, laughing pleasantly. “He loves to talk about General Longstreet.”
“Best general in the whole war,” Jesse declared, nodding firmly, then asking, “How is it that you folks have the old Laurent place?”
“It was my wife’s home—Deborah Laurent—which she had kept even after we were married. She died two years ago, and then we had some misfortune last month and decided to move into it.”
“The stock market thing. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
Jesse looked at his wife, and they nodded. “I told you, Dolly.” He turned back to Lewis. “We’re shore sorry to hear of your loss. I knowed your wife.”
“You knew Deborah?”
“Shore did! As a matter of fact, I guess we’re kin.”
“You’re kin to us?” Lewis could see that his daughters were entranced as well.
“Ain’t sure of the ins and outs of it,” Jesse explained, “but it’s like this. Wendell Laurent, Deborah’s father, was my half brother. Carolyn, his wife, died when Deborah was born in 1878. Wendell, he built up the plantation real good. Died in 1925. Never did remarry.”
“Why, this is wonderful! I don’t know much about my wife’s people.”
“Well, I’ll have to say this. If you Winslows is as good o’ folks as them Laurents was, then you’ll all be in good shape come Judgment Day.”
Lewis was more excited than he had been since the tragedy had struck them. “I’d really like to hear more. And if you’re kinfolk, I guess we can use first names. I’m Lewis.”
“Fine, and you can call us Dolly and Jesse. Folks around here are a mite suspicious of strangers, but lots of folks remember your wife’s people. I will have to say, Wendell was a mite stuck up. A little snooty, if y’all knows what I mean, but I got on with him.”
“Hush up, Jesse!” Dolly scolded.
“I ain’t tellin’ nothin’ bad. Wendell was jist thataway. He was a good man, and Deborah was a good girl. I remember her at the brush arbor meetin’s when Brother Wheeler come through preachin’. Had a sweet voice, she did, and her jist a young’un too.”
Lewis dropped his head, remembering how Deborah had sung to him. “Yes, she had a sweet voice.”
Dolly put her hand on her husband’s knee. “We best be gittin’ on.”
“That’s right. We jist dropped in to say howdy, and we gots a turkey for y’all out in the wagon. Always want to bring somethin’ to newcomers. I bagged three plump ones yesterday while I was out huntin’.”
Lewis found it wonderful that a veteran of the Civil War
would have keen enough eyesight to hunt wild turkeys. “I’m so glad you came by, Jesse, and you, Miss Dolly.”
He walked with them to the wagon, took the turkey, which was already dressed, and held it by its feet while Jesse and his wife drove away. When he went back inside, he looked down at the turkey and said, “Well, there are some good people here and our kinfolk too.”
“Isn’t that wonderful, Father?” Hannah’s face was glowing. “Who would have thought such a thing?”
****
That afternoon Kat had left the house at three o’clock to go to Seven Point River, the river near their house, which had fascinated her ever since they had arrived at the homestead in Georgia. Back in New York she hadn’t been allowed to go anywhere by herself, but now that they lived on a farm, her dad gave her great freedom to explore. She had followed a deer through the woods, surprised that it did not flee at her approach. It was a female, apparently a very young one. She had followed it down a gully, then up the other side into an area of towering hardwood trees. She heard the chattering of squirrels and more than once had caught sight of them as they sailed from one high branch to another.
But now as she emerged into a clearing, she realized she had been exploring for more than an hour. Looking up at the sky, she muttered, “I’d better get back to the river. I’ve got to get home before dark.”
She turned and walked the other direction, but a few minutes later she became aware that nothing looked familiar. She could not even find the gully she had crossed, and at that instant panic seized her. She was, after all, a city girl, and now the woods appeared ominous. Clint had told her just yesterday that he had seen panther and wolf tracks in the vicinity. With that thought, she began to run, spurred on by her growing fear.
She ran until she was almost out of breath and then realized
she had no idea whether she was headed for the river or away from it. Her face and hands were scratched by the briars that grew throughout the woods, but this did not trouble her as much as the panic that rose in her. She stopped on the edge of a large grove of tall trees on her left. To her right was a group of smaller trees where the underbrush was very thick. She did not remember any of this territory.
Kat took a deep breath and tried to think which way to go. She did not know how long she stood there, but when she turned to look around her, a scream rose to her throat. Standing not ten feet away from her in the shadow of a grove of small evergreens was a boy. She guessed his age at somewhere between twelve and fifteen. He was much taller than she was, and he held a gun loosely in the crook of his arm.
Kat swallowed hard, and her breath came fast. “Hello,” she said.
The boy did not answer but continued staring at her. His floppy hat was pulled down low, almost covering his eyes, and she saw that his features were lean. He was wearing a worn coat patched in several places, and a pair of rough-looking boots poked out from under a pair of oversized pants. She had time to note that they were tied with string instead of shoelaces.
“I’m afraid I’m lost,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.
She expected him to speak, but he did not; he only turned and motioned with his free hand.
Kat did not know what to do, but actually there was no choice. “I’m looking for the river,” she said, hurrying to keep up with him. “If you can take me there, I can find my way home. My name’s Kat Winslow.”
The boy glanced at her, and she saw that his complexion was dark and he had high cheekbones. He walked with a loose, jointed grace, making his way down a path.
Kat had to hurry to keep up with him, and since he did not speak, she assumed that for some reason he could not.
She was greatly relieved when ten minutes later they
stepped into a clearing and she saw a wooden shack that was silver with age, with a chimney emitting smoke into the air. A roughly built barn sat over to one side, and in a corral, she saw two cows and a mule.
“Come on.”
Well, he
could
talk! Kat followed him toward the shack, and when he opened the door, he stepped in first, and she followed him. She found herself face-to-face with a frightening-looking woman who had the same high cheekbones as the boy and eyes that glittered like chunks of coal. She was tall and thin and wore a floor-length dress with long sleeves. It looked like the boots that were poking out from under her dress were men’s, and her black hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. “Who’s this here girl, Dallas?”
“Found her.” The entire end of the cabin was occupied by a massive fireplace built of river stone, and a fire crackled in it. Pots hung over it on large hooks.
“My name’s Kat Winslow. I live at the old Laurent place. I got lost, and this boy found me.”
“Bad to get lost,” the woman said, making an abrupt movement toward Kat. Kat involuntarily stepped back, frightened at the woman’s primitive quality.
“I’m Tennie. This here’s Dallas.”