Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (22 page)

Lavinia’s
lips parted and concern covered her face. “Oh, Rebecah. That is a knowing that
comes from deep within. I shall fear for him more than ever.”

The
coach, meant to take the ladies on a day’s outing, rolled down the gravel drive
toward the house, and upon hearing it, Rebecah rose with Lavinia and went inside.
Lady Margaret had fetched her hat and was adjusting the ribbon beneath her
chin.

Together
they boarded, with Lavinia seated beside her ladyship. Dressed in pale blue and
cream lace, Rebecah’s wide-brimmed hat shadowed her eyes. She pulled her hair over
her right shoulder and leaned back against the seat.

When
they reached their destination, she looked from the window to a field where
people gathered. The field belonged to a rich man who loved his Bible and
honored the men that preached it. He had leant it that day to John Wesley,
along with a wagon Wesley used for a platform. Having never seen so many people
gathered in one place, Rebecah watched the crowd with a sense of excitement. Most
were farmers and herdsmen, among them well-to-do ladies, shopkeepers, weavers,
and blacksmiths. Children nestled against their mothers’ arms, and there were
lame and sick folk. 

The
coachman opened the door and led Lady Margaret out, then handed Rebecah down.
She stepped onto the thick carpet of field grass and looked over the shoulders
of the people to see a man who could be heard from afar. His voice was
pastoral, robust, smooth and convincing. He held a well-worn Bible in his hands.
Its pages fluttered in the breeze. People huddled together and drew closer to
hear the words Wesley spoke.

John
Wesley wore a black coat with an upright collar and narrow white stock. His
hair was clean and cut above his shoulders. Rebecah thought his face, his eyes,
were kind.

“How
unlike others who stand in lofty pulpits, my lady,” Rebecah commented.  “And
his voice. Is it not comforting?”

“Indeed
it is, as it should be from a man of God. Let us draw closer.”

They
walked into the crowd and stopped to listen a few yards away from the wagon.
Two clergy of the established church stood nearby. One had his arms folded
across his chest, a look of irritation on his blanched face. The other stood
with his fists clenched at his sides and his head lifted high. 

Wesley
raised his hand, bidding all come near and listen. A hush fell over the crowd.
The sun stood halfway behind a cloud and beams of light filtered down through
the heavens onto the land.

“Blessed
are the poor in spirit,” Wesley said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Hear what Luke’s gospel says. But love your enemies, and do good…and lend
hoping for nothing again, and ye shall be the children of the Highest, for he
is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.”

Rebecah
fixed her eyes on Wesley while he spoke. The words pierced her like a dagger.
Tears swelled in her eyes and she felt convicted. 

“Be
ye therefore merciful, as your father also is merciful. Judge not and ye shall
not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye
shall be forgiven. Oh, people of God, you are most blessed when you forgive your
brother. If you’ve aught against any, go to him and be reconciled to your
brother. Forgive those who have trespassed against you, else ye be given to the
tormentors.”

Her
hand went to her mouth and she looked down with her vision blurred.

“All
our trespasses and sins are forgiven us if we forgive and as we forgive
others.” Wesley stretched out his hand. “This is of the utmost importance. Our
blessed Lord is so jealous lest at any time we should let it slip out of our
thoughts, that he not only inserts this in the Lord’s Prayer, but presently
after repeats it twice over. If any malice or bitterness, if any taint of
unkindness or anger remain, if we do not clearly, fully and from the heart
forgive all men their trespasses, we so far cut short the forgiveness of our
own.”

A
gray-haired man staggered forward. His brown coat was faded and torn, his shoes
worn and old, his hat full of holes. He drew it off as he looked up at Wesley,
trembled and fell to his knees.

“Help
me, Brother Wesley!” he cried. “I’ve been a wicked, unforgiving man. My wife
and child died because of my neglect. God, have mercy on me!”

He
gripped his hands together until the knuckles turned white. Then he pressed
them to his teeth and wept. The crowd was silent, motionless, waiting to see what
Wesley would do. The preacher stepped down. He laid his hands on the man’s
shoulders, brought his head closer.

Astonished,
Rebecah saw Wesley’s lips move and his eyes close tight as he prayed. Others went
on their knees. The penitent man dragged his hands over his eyes. Presently, he
rose to his feet as Wesley lifted him up to face him.

“Repent
of your sin,” Wesley told him. The man bowed his head. Others poured forward.

“Pray
for me also, sir!” they cried. “Help me, Brother Wesley. What must I do to be
forgiven?”

The
crowd pressed upon the women. Rebecah drew Lady Margaret up close beside her. For
a moment, she stood stark still. Then she rushed forward. Her limbs felt like
water as she moved through the crowd and approached Wesley.

“Please.
I’ve found it hard to forgive someone,” she said upon reaching Wesley. “Would
you help me?”

He nodded
and took her hand in his. It felt warm, his grip strong and gentle. Without
asking any questions, he prayed for her. She closed her eyes and the words
flowed into her soul. Her lips moved and she found herself praying with him.

Something
broke at that moment. Love breathed again. It was as if she had been in a dark
room. Now, the windows were thrown open and the light flooded that dark place, and
dispelled the lonely gloom.

*  *  *

That
same moment in a forest far from England, John Nash walked alongside his Indian
brother. The sun drew near to setting along the western hilltops, the lowland
still bright in the waning light. Mountaintops turned inky black against a
clear magenta sky.

Nash
paused and looked up. “There’s a color we shall soon see plenty of.” The hue
deepened, and his heart grew heavy along with his tired body.

The
Potomac scented the breeze as they hiked along the banks. Swallows darted above
rapids and dove for insects near the surface. Cascades were tinted pink from
the setting sun.

Black
Hawk bent down. Nash did the same and looked through the trees to the other
side. Elms mingled with a hedge of willows along an inlet of shallow water. The
sun poured over a pool bright green with algae. Standing on the bank stood five
whitetail deer. Wind blew from upstream, and the stag threw up his head and
sniffed the air, stomped one hoof, and sprang away. His does followed and vanished
into the sanctuary of the woods.

“What
frightened them off?” Nash whispered.

He kept
his eyes fixed on the distant shore. Behind a thick row of cattails moved warriors
painted with streaks of black, their faces and chests striped with yellow.
Eagle feathers dressed their dark hair, and their leggings were adorned with
scalplocks. Through their belts gleamed knives, and upon their backs were quivers
full of arrows and a bow. Out from the shadows and into the glare of light they
stepped over rocks that littered the river. The leader paused, glanced about,
then stooped to drink.

Nash’s
breath hurried. “Now we know.”

“They
will go.” Black Hawk waited beside him. “They have not seen us.”

They
watched the Indians slip into the forest.

Troubled
by what he had seen, Nash stood and brought his horse deeper into the woods at
the foot of a towering limestone cliff. A stream sang over the rock ledges and
he cupped his hand and drank. The cold water tasted sweet on his tongue, and
soothed his throat. Yet the bitterness of Logan’s War remained.

As
they moved on, sunlight streamed through the trees, and Nash felt it graze
across his shoulders. The old hunting trail twisted and turned, dipped and rose
as Nash rode Meteor along it, Black Hawk keeping pace. A mile down river they
splashed across Catoctin Creek. Black Hawk stopped and pointed at the sky. Nash
looked up. Vultures circled above the trees and it was an ominous site to
behold, for where vultures flew, death was certain.

Farther
along they saw smoke rising above the trees, and so Nash dug his heels into Meteor
and climbed the slopes. Black Hawk ran ahead, and soon they came into a glade
of tall grass. The smoldering remains of a cabin arrested Nash’s senses, struck
fear into his heart for the souls within it. He reined in his horse and slid
off.  He and Black Hawk drew near, saw the bodies of a man and woman lying side
by side. They’d been scalped, their limbs mutilated by tomahawks.

Black
Hawk outlined a moccasin footprint with his finger. “The prints are fresh.”

Nash
turned away, his heart lurching. Meteor whinnied, ears pricked back straight as
arrows. Nash turned.

“Black
Hawk! Hurry!”

No
sooner did he shout than the whistle of an arrow sliced through the air. His
leg surged in pain. He gripped his thigh, fell back. He clenched his teeth,
moaned in agony. Blood oozed hot between his fingers. He struggled to his knees.
A warrior rushed toward him, tomahawk raised. Nash lifted his musket to his
shoulder and shot him dead.

Black
Hawk drew his knife. An Indian threw himself forward, swung his tomahawk. Black
Hawk leapt back. Nash feared for his friend’s life, and pulled the plug from
his powder horn, making haste to reload.

Black
Hawk yelped, and then plunged his blade into the bare chest of the painted
brave.

*  *  *

With
Nash slumped over the saddle, Black Hawk led Meteor up a steep hill, over moss
and lichen, leaves and twigs, until they reached level ground. Sweat covered Nash’s
face, and his hair hung limp and wet against his neck. His hands trembled as he
gripped his leg. Dizzy with pain, he looked out at the line of trees below and
saw the river. The surface churned and foamed and swallows swooped above the
peaks.

Black
Hawk helped Nash dismount. He set him on the ground, his back against a tree. He
took out his knife and cut away Nash’s bloody legging.

“The
arrow has not gone deep, my brother, across the surface of a muscle. I will break
it and pull it out.”

“We
must hurry. They’re right at our heels.”

Black
Hawk pushed Nash back. “No, my brother, the storm has not yet come. Your God
has given us a moon to see by. We will travel by night until we reach the
valley.” 

“Pull
the arrow out.” Nash clenched his teeth.

“My
brother must not shout.” Black Hawk set a firm hand on Nash’s shoulder. “If
others are near, they will hear, as will the wolves.”

A
ravenous howl crossed the river. Soon the pack would prow and move to the other
side by the lure of blood. Black Hawk pressed his hand against Nash’s chest to
hold him down. Nash moaned and sank back. Feeling nauseous, he opened his eyes
and saw the trees sway, then his vision blurred.

Black
Hawk reached around and broke the arrowhead off the shaft. Then he put his hand
around the shaft where it met Nash’s flesh and pulled. Nash stifled a cry and
twisted against the pain as he drew the shaft free.

“My
brother’s courage is strong.” 

“Not
strong enough.” Nash groaned.

From
his medicine pouch, Black Hawk took out herbs.

“What
is that?” Nash asked.

“Bloodroot.
It will keep your wound pure and end the bleeding.” He laid the herb over the
wound and bound it with a strip of cloth torn from Nash’s shirt.

“My
brother is a great warrior.”

Nash’s
smile twitched. “Even though my heart is racing like a buck’s?”

A
smile lifted Black Hawk’s mouth, and he helped Nash up and mount his horse.
Black Hawk pulled the horse along and glanced back at his friend.

“He
makes my feet like hinds’ feet, and sets me upon my high places.” Nash’s face
grimaced and slumped forward in the saddle. “He teaches my hands to war, so
that a bow of steel is broken by my arms.”

The
cub, which had followed at a distance, stood on a limestone shelf above. Black
Hawk spoke a blessing to it in his Indian tongue. The cub narrowed its eyes,
stood and walked off into the forest.

“I
shall not see him again,” Black Hawk said.

By
moonlight, they traveled the mountain trail until coming into lower hills and
vales. Mountain springs murmured and ran clear. Lush grass and moss cushioned
the travelers.

An
hour later, they reached the top of a cliff. The moon rode high and flooded the
forest. Nash looked down upon the sleepy valley. Flickers of light beamed in
the town.

On
clear summer nights, when the sun touched its fiery rim along the horizon, the
clustered spires of Fredericktown’s churches appeared incandescent as amber
glass. In the cool and colorful autumn, the valley turned golden brown and
crimson. In winter it turned gray, the mountains stretching heavenward against
pale skies filled with clouds, the town looking like a red and white patchwork
quilt.

What
right did any man have to disrupt the peace of such a place? To Nash whatever
bloody strife boiled elsewhere between patriot and loyalist, Indian and
settler, could stay far away. But tyranny had crept into the frontier like a
slow moving sludge. Heavy burdens had been bestowed upon the people. It was not
only the shackles of stamp acts and three pence payments on tea that encumbered
the lowly folk. The iron heel of dominance struck and bruised the souls of men,
from Boston to Baltimore, down the Eastern Shore to Annapolis and up along the
Potomac into the far reaches of the frontier.

Black
Hawk paused beside him. “I will go to the town with you, then to the mountains.
There I will seek the path I must take.”