After the wedding breakfast, which was substantial and impressive, he helped Moses and Luke load Nabby’s enormous trunk into her father’s wagon, along with the bed that had been her parents’ wedding gift. The girl had seemed a little put out at how quickly the celebration ended, but she was young and, he was beginning to think, a little flighty at times. That was probably just wedding nerves, nothing else. No doubt she would settle with time and Betsy’s tutelage.
The next day he set off for Leeds not entirely convinced that his brilliant scheme was so clever after all.
III
There was a biting wind in Lewis’s face as he rode along, a promise of the winter to come, but he was feeling content nonetheless. Support for the Methodists, and in particular the Methodist Episcopals, was strong on this circuit. Everywhere he went the lay preachers were well organized, with several class meetings and Sunday schools established. It made his job easier to simply fall in with the routine that was there, presiding at meetings on a regular rotation, counting on the located and lay preachers to carry on in the meantime. He was well fed and well housed everywhere he went, and the saving on rent allowed him to accumulate the small sums of money he sometimes received at marriages, funerals, and christenings. He found the scenery pleasant as he rode, the trees still clutching the reds and yellows of their autumn crowns, the rail fences marching in tidy protective lines around the pumpkins which had appeared as if by magic with the frosting of their vines. The cold wind notwithstanding, it was his favourite time of year, the trails solid and the bugs banished, the harvest gathered and wood smoke scenting the air.
Other than a worried curiosity about Sarah and Rachel’s deaths that continued to flirt around the edges of his thoughts, his only real annoyance, and it was a minor one, was Morgan Spicer, who had refused to take the rejection of his aspirations seriously. He appeared to be travelling the length and breadth of the colony holding his own prayer meetings and preaching in dooryards and kitchens. Many people assumed that he was a bona fide minister in the Methodist Church, albeit an unorthodox one, and although their paths crossed on occasion, Spicer brushed him off when Lewis remonstrated with him.
“You preach your way, I’ll preach mine,” he said. “It’s the Word of the Lord that counts and it matters not what the vehicle is.”
Lewis felt that it mattered very much indeed. Who knew what misinterpretations Spicer was spreading, what ignorance he was perpetuating? But then, he tended to stay away from the towns, and the people he preached to were simple folk, not concerned with the details of ecclesiastical theory. They wanted only the simple words of comfort a preacher offered. Still, he knew that sooner or later he would have to ask the conference to do something about him.
He had just preached at a meeting at the far eastern edge of his circuit, and although there were many there who pressed him to stay the night, he had a sudden hankering to see the graves of Paul and Barbara Heck at the Blue Church Burying Ground. These stalwarts of Methodism had arrived with other Loyalists after the American madness and had been given land in Augusta. Here they had helped to build a small community and gather a congregation. They must have hoped that their village would grow, but nearby Prescott had quickly established itself as the preeminent town in the district. It had a reasonable harbour and attracted a great deal of forwarding traffic, for it stood above the rapids, those roils that hampered the flow of traffic along the St. Lawrence River. Prescott had the added prestige of Fort Wellington, built during the troubles of 1812. The fort had fallen into disrepair since the war, but now it was being re-fitted and expanded in light of the growing tensions across the border. The Hecks and their congregation had never even succeeded in raising a building to go with their graveyard; a subscription had been started but had not garnered the necessary funds. It was left to the Anglicans to accomplish that, but the Blue Church and its Burying Ground was revered as a Methodist shrine of sorts, as much as the Methodists were ever given to that sort of thing. It would take him out of his way, but he was really only a few miles distant and was sure there were many families nearby who would welcome him for the night. He could circle to the southeast, pay his tribute to the Hecks’ graves, then turn west again to make his way back along the shore to Brockville.
He nearly fell from his horse when he heard his name called. He had been deep in thought and had not heard the approach of the peddler’s wagon. It was Isaac Simms.
“I thought it was you,” Simms said when the wagon caught up. “There’s a certain set to the shoulders of a preacher man. You’ve strayed over the border of your circuit, haven’t you?”
“Aye, I know,” Lewis replied. “I thought I’d just visit the Blue Church for a few minutes. I’ve no commitments until tomorrow. Where are you off to?”
“Prescott. There’s a shipment of goods due and my stock is low. I’ll load up and head west.”
“You’re the only man I know who travels more than I do.” Lewis laughed. “Peddlers and preachers know the paths better than anyone.”
Simms asked about Betsy and the rest of his family and Lewis filled him in on the arrangements he had made.
“I’ll be down that way in a few weeks,” Simms said. “I’ll drop in and say hello.” And sell them as much as he can out of his pack, Lewis thought, but then realized that this was uncharitable. It was the man’s living after all.
It was twilight already, an early November nightfall, and had the small boy not been gasping for breath as he ran, they might have missed seeing him altogether. As it was, they heard him coming and reined in until he reached them. He was a lad of about twelve, sobbing and crying as he ran. When he saw the two horsemen he stopped, but had to bend double and catch his breath before he could speak.
Lewis dismounted and went to the boy. “What is it? What’s troubling you? Maybe we can help.”
The boy finally found his breath and stood up. “It’s my brother. He’s only six and he has the fever. I fear he’s dying and mother sent me for the priest, but he’s not at home.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lewis realized that Simms had stiffened in his seat.
He turned his attention back to the boy. “The priest? You’re Roman, then?”
The boy nodded. “Danny won’t last long, that’s what Mum said, and if I can’t find the priest he’ll never get into heaven and then I won’t ever see him again.” His voice trailed off in a long wail. Simms snorted.
“Where is your cabin, lad?”
The boy pointed toward a sideroad they had just passed. “Just down there, and you turn left where the next road crosses. It’s about a half-mile and then our farm. It’s the only one on the road.”
“And where does the priest live?”
“In Prescott.”
“You’ve run all this way? It’s no wonder you’re winded.” He thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure his ministrations would find any kind of welcome, but he had to try. “Listen, son, I’m not a priest, but I am an ordained minister. I know it’s not the same, but do you think I might bring some comfort to your brother?”
The boy was dubious. “What kind of minister?”
“Methodist. But we worship the same God. Just in a different way. I don’t know your rituals, but I could try to do what I can for him while you continue looking for the priest. What do you think of that?”
“They said he headed up toward Bellamy’s this morning, but that he should be on his way back.”
“That’s fine then. You can carry on and I’ll go and see to your brother.”
He looked up at Simms, hoping that the peddler might take pity and offer to take the boy, but Simms’s