The Eulogist Page 4

  It was on such a dimly lit day (no sun, no gaiety) that I heard a pounding at the door. The lesson had already been interrupted by the lunatic landlady shrieking about a roguish rooster. The whoops of Mrs. Humphries and the cackles of the indignant bird had been enough to wake the dead. From the back of the house, Mrs. Humphries was still cursing, though the rooster had grown abruptly quiet. Now with her girl busily tending to the landlady’s wounds, it was left to me to greet our caller.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a pale-lashed youth named Colin to whom I was teaching the Latin verb vincere. Snapping my primer shut, I rose. When I opened the door, my heart began to pound. “Land sakes,” I exclaimed. “The Prodigal!”

  Erasmus looked as peaked as an Ohio winter.

  “Has nothing changed in these six months?” Erasmus said, jerking his head in the direction of Humphries’s outrage.

  Then we were in each other’s arms. Through his woolly coat, I could feel his ribs. When we released each other, he coughed.

  “You are ill.”

  “Where is James?” Erasmus asked once he managed to regain his breath.

  “Where do you think?”

  I did not tell him that poor James had been pining over the soon-to-depart Julia Morrissey, having spent the last month navigating Presbyterian Cincinnati only to have the lady elude him by chasing after a wayward child or grabbing a platter to refill.

  Do I smell like a hillbilly? James had asked after his last muddled attempt at engaging Miss Morrissey.

  But Erasmus truly did smell like a hillbilly and worse—as if he had absorbed every odor of wood and swampland, highway and bog.

  “Have you been sleeping in hay?” I asked.

  “When lucky.” His eyes were moist and yellow.

  My wan little scholar was staring gape-mouthed at Erasmus from behind the settee.

  “Colin,” I said. “That is all for today. Head along home now.”

  With a hoot, he rushed out the door, but not without one backward glance at Erasmus, who, in his black coat and hat, looked like a crow.

  Erasmus slumped to a stool by the fireplace and was warming his hands from the coals. He removed his hat. Out tumbled shoulder-length, unkempt hair. His whole body seemed to thaw.

  “Almost six months, Erasmus! And not one word!”

  “Livvie,” he said, “let me catch my breath.”

  * * *

  When he left Cincinnati, Erasmus had but one sermon to his name, and this he’d perfected, ridding it of all lofty language and lowering the tone so as not to offend any howling Methodist he might meet in the thick of the forest. It was a simple sermon about Hell and Salvation, composed of words that Every Man could understand: a litany of slaughterhouse-inspired images complete with eyeballs melting, sizzling flesh, and disembowelment.

  For months, he had traveled road and path and untrammeled woods, hundreds of miles, evangelizing to as many weary, isolated souls as he could find before his overly zealous conversion of a smithy’s wife forced him to flee New Richmond.

  “‘Conversion’?” said I, my eyebrow raised.

  Finding respite across the river in Kentucky, he had come upon a village that had one modest church, a dry-goods store, and a platform from which to auction crops and flesh. Tobacco and hemp greened the fields as far as the eye could see. The people were friendly, and their accent gentle, so that when they inquired of his business, Erasmus could understand them and they him even with the remaining bit of Irish that strapped his tongue.

  Do folks here know the love of God and Jesus? Erasmus had asked of a cobbler while dipping a cloth into a bucket to wipe his neck.

  That they do, sir—only it’s most likely the ladies who are intimate with either.

  Erasmus had nodded, for it had been his experience that the women seemed happy for an excuse to stop their laundering, mending, or churning for a spell. Some of them even redid their braids as he talked to them of the Lord, their faces intent on his, their lips parted. Not often we get strangers in these parts, they’d say. That last preacher was dang near fifty.

  The village lay at the juncture of farmland and thoroughfare. Mules, crops, and slaves heading south; cotton and rice going north. Below a platform outside the cobbler’s shop, a crowd was assembled, straining their necks and talking among themselves. Not worth much, someone said. A lean crop, if you ask me. Hearing somebody cussing, saying, Here now, you stand still, Erasmus had spotted a black woman atop the platform. She wasn’t much to look at. A short leg had made her posture crooked. The auctioneer praised her docility, giving her a pinch every time she tried to move away. Her hands dangled at her side, but there were bruises on her wrists. People milled about. Some of them reached to touch her. Scrawny, one man said to another. Sickly-like.

  The bidding started, but in a desultory fashion, so that the auctioneer became impatient. A man approached from the crowd—probably the seller—and whispered something in his ear. When the auctioneer spoke again, he extolled the woman as a breeder. Look here, he said, pulling up her chemise, as full of milk as a cow in spring. There’s more to be had, and she’ll feed others till her next one comes. The auctioneer had squeezed her breast until her clothes were soaked clear through.

  Erasmus paused. “What if that had been you, Livvie?”

  I shuddered. That was not me, would never be me, but I could not rid myself of the image.

  After leaving the auction, Erasmus had ridden along hemp fields, stopping at a well pump along the edge of a field where ten or so slaves tilled the soil. The women kept their eyes averted, but a couple of the men looked up.

  Hail, brothers, said Erasmus, have you heard the Good Word?

  Hain’t heard one good word from a white man, muttered one of the younger men.

  An older woman shushed him.

  Mistuh, you got something to eat?

  In the land of milk and honey, no man will go hungry, Erasmus said.

  We’s heard all about that milk and honey, and we is wondering when we might get us some.

  Then you must follow Jesus, Erasmus said, almost convincing himself as he launched into his sermon, exhorting them to remember Sodom and Gomorrah and how the sinful cities burned. He exhorted them to remember Moses and the Ten Commandments. He exhorted them about the flood. He was right in the middle of exhorting them to drop everything like Simon Peter and walk away to follow Jesus when the overseer rode up and got wind of his exhortations. Erasmus was in full force with a story about Potiphar, who freed his slave, his Lord sayeths and Praise Jesuses coming fast and loud, and why shouldn’t they, like Potiphar’s slave Joseph, be set free? Sweat had gathered beneath the brim of his hat. He barely noticed the overseer until the man on the horse shouted, Hey there! and whipped the ground.

  “Did Sam Mutton really think I could reach these sorry souls?” Erasmus asked during a pause in the story.

  The slaves had gone back to their tilling. The man on the horse jerked his head. Ye best be going, said the overseer. Next time I see you talking to my folks here, I’ll have you arrested for inciting slaves.

  “And then what?” I asked, horrified at the picture my brother was painting.

  “More of the same.” In many fields, he could see the bent backs of men, women, and children culling and weeding as he rode through farmland, turning finally into woods. Dismounting by a stream, he had tied his boots to his saddle and led his horse to the water. Mosquitoes harassed him, his feet stank from his boots, and he was allover itchy from sleeping in a hayloft several nights before. The mud in the stream was warm and soft as a feather down mattress. Back on the shore, he picked off leeches, watching the blood trickle down through the hair on his calves.

  That night there was little moonlight, yet he could see every detail of pine needle, of bark, of scurrying night creature. The tall pines groaned, obscuring the stars. For lack of anything better to do, he knelt and prayed.

  It was during that camp he’d started shaking, gripped by freezing so profound he lay convulsing on t
he ground, wrapped in a blanket, ice flowing in his veins. When the sun was high, he began to burn up and became desperate for water.

  He was halfway into the stream when a man found him and dragged him out. With lips that were nearly purple, the man said, I thought you was a corpse.

  He nearly was, only this time there was no fever-induced vision of God in a column of smoke. So befuddled was he that at first Erasmus didn’t notice the man going through his pockets and his knapsack before tossing it down.

  You as penniless as me, said the man, disgusted.

  “I was sure he was going to kill me,” said Erasmus.

  Perhaps the man was the Devil. Black as the Devil he was. Metal bands gripped his wrists, each with a chain link dangling like a jewel. Leaden-eyed, he was unshaven and nearly as emaciated as Erasmus.

  Have you come to slay me? Erasmus said, clutching the blanket, his teeth chattering. Around the man’s matted hair, the air seemed to shimmer.

  I’s as good as dead myself, said the man, raising his banded hands above his head as if pleading for release.

  Have ye repented? Erasmus managed through shaking lips, making a silent deal with God if only he were spared.

  The man stared down, studying Erasmus like a word on a page. You that preacher that come by our field.

  Erasmus coiled himself into the blanket even tighter. He weighed his answer, feeling his life might depend on it. I am, he confessed, swearing he could hear Jesus sigh at his stupidity.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Overseer shooed you off.

  Erasmus had read some abolitionist letters and could quote a line or two. This moment seemed as good as any to preach abolition, for hadn’t Sam Mutton told him to understand the varied needs of his congregations so that he might better light the candle of Jesus in their hearts?

  Thy color is not the mark of Cain, brother, said Erasmus through his chattering teeth. Rather, it is the effect of climate.

  Getting no response, he pushed on, quoting Acts. God hath made of one blood all nations of men. Wheresoever we find a man, let us treat him as a brother without regard to his color.

  The man looked at him as if he were a simpleton. Got any whiskey? he asked.

  Alas, I am a preacher. This said piously if regretfully.

  No money. No whiskey. You a po’ excuse for a white man. Arms crossed, the runaway slave assessed Abel, who was tied to a tree. If I heft you on that sorry ol’ mule, you can show me the way north. If anyone aks, I’s yours.

  Erasmus doubted that anyone would believe a Methodist minister would actually own a slave, but he figured it could save his life if they could just get to someone’s house or farm. The manacles dug into his ribs as the slave heaved him onto Abel. It was midday, and the sun filtered through the pollen of the forest. Even in his weakened state, Erasmus could read the moss on the trees that told him which direction lay north. North would take them to the river in a day or two of walking.

  This way, brother, Erasmus said, jerking his head east.

  You sure?

  Erasmus said he’d bet his life on it.

  For half a day they walked. When they spoke, it was in curt sentences like, My wife was sick like you. Or from Erasmus, And where is your wife? To which the man responded, Back on the farm.

  Children?

  Six. One dead. Two sold. Three still living with us, thank the Lord.

  After that, they walked in silence. Erasmus could sit almost erect now, his thoughts clearing to the point where he could make a plan. And here was the plan he made: to return the slave to the farm he came from, to explain to the owner that the man should be allowed to stay with his wife, and that Erasmus, as a minister of God, wanted to make sure the union was honored. Surely the family would understand.

  You must be missing your wife. And if I say so, my guess is that she’s missing you.

  The man began to weep.

  “You did take him back?” I asked, feeling a newfound compassion.

  “I did, Livvie. I did.”

  “And then what?”

  Neither of us had noticed James standing by the parlor door. We started at his voice. “So have ye converted the masses, then?” said James.

  “Alas,” said Erasmus, rising to greet our brother, “only one.”

  Chapter 7

  1828

  Reluctantly, James rehired Erasmus, and for a while, our younger brother was diligent in his efforts. But if James hoped that Erasmus had exhausted his sprint into evangelism, he was sorely disappointed. By August, Erasmus had recovered from the ague and was once again robust. And with robustness came the spirit. Before we knew it, Erasmus had taken Sam Mutton’s place on a soapbox on Sundays.

  “Oh dear,” said Hatsepha after church. “Was that your brother I saw down at the landing shouting ‘Alleluia’ like a madman?”

  I pretended not to hear.

  “Now, your other brother,” said Hatsepha, jerking her head at James, who was shadowing poor Miss Julia Morrissey with the tenacity of an alms seeker. “I believe he has had a conversion of his own.”

  Indeed, James was hoping to impress Julia Morrissey by singing hymns in a full-throated manner that did not become him.

  “I told my father that James Givens has indeed changed his ways,” Hatsepha went on. “He sings with such gusto. I believe I even saw his lips move when we said the Creed.”

  James had, in fact, been reviewing accounts in his head. Ten crates of tapers to Mitford, five to Warren. Six dollars, twenty-four cents. But far be it from me to disabuse Miss Hatsepha Peckham.

  “But I won’t miss that Reverend Morrissey,” Hatsepha said. “Awful man.” Then slyly—“And your brother James? Shall he miss the Morrisseys?”

  I could see Julia Morrissey on the church steps kneeling down and fussing over some children. The tableau was endearing—her glorious auburn hair swept back, lace clustered about her perfect neck.

  Hatsepha and I watched as James broke away from a group of gentlemen and headed toward her. I wondered if he could feel our eyes penetrating his back as Miss Hatsepha Peckham did some calculations of her own.

  * * *

  In October, Erasmus announced that he was off again—this time to a revival in Kentucky.

  “I tell you, Erasmus,” said James, fed up with our brother’s unreliability, “I’ll not be hiring ye again.”

  “And what about me?” I said, hands on my hips. “Fine for men to go off and explore the world. Or drag their families across the sea.”

  “Souls, Livvie,” said Erasmus, “thirsting for hope.”

  “Pshaw!” I said. “Good riddance. You will not be seeing me at such a spectacle.”

  Perhaps it was because Erasmus had one too many times needled me for being solitary, but when the day came and my younger brother was saddling up his nag, Abel, I found I could not bear another evening in this parlor, starved for conversation, waiting for some maker of maps to come along and deem me worthy to bear his brood. Though I had no stomach for making goggly eyes and writhing about, I decided to cast away caution and asked to tag along.

  “But, Livvie,” said Erasmus. “Abel can barely carry me. And who will you bunk with?”

  “Mrs. Humphries has that old cart in the back of the privy. The wheels work. All it needs are reins. And aren’t these gatherings about love and generosity? And shouldn’t such generosity extend to me?”

  “James won’t hear of it.”

  “Oh, a fine specimen of hypocrisy you are. You, who has never cared a whit when it came to James’s opinion.”

  “Very well,” said Erasmus. “But do not blame me if you contract the ague.”

  “It shall be worth it. Besides,” I said, my eyebrow arched, “how are you to know if the soul that is saved might not be mine?”

  * * *

  “Don’t worry, James,” I said to my glowering older brother. “I shall watch after Erasmus and he after me.”

  James’s mouth tightened. No doubt he thought that, once we loaded cart and horse and vali
ses onto a wobbly ferry, we mightn’t return. And to compound his wretchedness, the Morrisseys had departed Cincinnati the prior week. I waved at him as our little barge pulled away from the landing.

  How the river had changed since we had traveled down its course just ten years earlier. I felt as if I was given a front-row seat. A filigreed, double-decked steamboat swanned past us, its decks glutted with gorgeously attired passengers who barely noticed a preacher and his sister with their pitiful wagon and their pitiful horse on the nondescript ark below. My neck ached from looking up. I could not wait for the day when I could take a trip on one of these majesties—maybe up to Pittsburgh.

  We disembarked at Augusta about ten miles upriver, hooked up the wagon to the nag, and started down the cobbled road. The pretty town of Augusta gave way to woodland and then to farmland worked by slaves. I tried not to stare at the dark figures, bent like commas in the field or standing by the road, leaning against stumps or fences, watching the parade of visitors.

  “They look sapped,” I said, remembering the scene that Erasmus described. “Poor things.”

  “Kentucky,” said Erasmus, “is a whole different story from Ohio.”

  I, for one, did not ken to the idea of owning and selling people like livestock. It was generally ill-regarded back in Cincinnati, though if you raised the topic, everyone became fascinated with the weather.

  Already we were falling into the company of other pilgrims: two elderly women, a hatter from Maysville.

  “Hail, brother,” said a farmer who was managing a pair of draft horses that pulled his family in a wagon. “Hail, sister.” He took in Erasmus’s coat, the wide-brimmed hat and collar. “You must be heading to the revival.”

  “Indeed,” said Erasmus. He leaned over to me and, in a low voice, said, “I know your mind, Livvie. But at least try to muster some enthusiasm.”

  “Hail,” I said flatly, thinking Erasmus’s unusually stern tone sounded remarkably like James. “Alleluia.”

  “Alleluia!” said the farmer, echoed by his three towheaded children.