The incessant activity of a traveling preacher's life did not allow
Morton much opportunity for the society of the convalescent Ann
Eliza. Fortunately. For when he was with her out of meeting he
found her rather dull. To all expression of religious sentiment and
emotion she responded sincerely and with unction; to Morton's highest
aspirations for a life of real self-sacrifice she only answered with
a look of perplexity. She could not understand him. He was "so
queer," she said.
But people whose lives are joined ought to make the best of each
other. Ann Eliza loved Morton, and because she loved him she could
endure what seemed to her an unaccountable eccentricity. If Goodwin
found himself tempted to think her lacking in some of the highest
qualities, he comforted himself with reflecting that all women were
probably deficient in these regards. For men generalize about women,
not from many but from one. And men, being egotists, suffer a
woman's love for themselves to hide a multitude of sins. And then
Morton took refuge in other people's opinions. Everybody thought
that Sister Meacham was just the wife for him. It is pleasant to
have the opinion of all the world on your side where your own heart
is doubtful.
Sometimes, alas! the ghost of an old love flitted through the mind of
Morton Goodwin and gave him a moment of fright. But Patty was one of
the things of this world which he had solemnly given up. Of her
conversion he had not heard. Mails were few and postage cost a
silver quarter on every letter; with poor people, correspondence was
an extravagance not to be thought of except on the occasion of a
death or wedding. At farthest, one letter a year was all that might
be afforded. As it was, Morton was neither very happy nor very
miserable as he rode up to the New Canaan camp-ground on a pleasant
midsummer afternoon with Ann Eliza by his side.
Sister Meacham did not lack hospitable entertainment. So earnest and
gifted a Christian as she was always welcome; and now that she held a
mortgage on the popular preacher every tent on the ground would have
been honored by her presence. Morton found a lodging in the
preacher's tent, where one bed, larger, transversely, than that of
the giant Og, was provided for the collective repose of the
preachers, of whom there were half-a-dozen present. It was always a
solemn mystery to me, by what ingenious over-lapping of sheets,
blankets and blue-coverlets the sisters who made this bed gave a
cross-wise continuity to the bed-clothing.
This meeting was held just six weeks after the quarterly meeting
spoken of in the last chapter. Goodwin's circuit lay on the west
bank of the Big Wiaki River, and this camp-meeting was held on the
east bank of that stream.
It was customary for all the neighboring preachers to leave their
circuits and lend their help in a camp-meeting. All detached parties
were drawn in to make ready for a pitched battle. Morton had, in his
ringing voice, earnest delivery, unfaltering courage and quick wit,
rare qualifications for the rude campaign, and, as the nearest
preacher, he was, of course, expected to help.
The presiding elder's order to Kike to repair to Jonesville circuit
had gone after the zealous itinerant like "an arrow after a wild
goose," and he had only received it in season to close his affairs on
Pottawottomie Creek circuit and reach this camp-meeting on his way to
his new work. His emaciated face smote Morton's heart with terror.
The old comrade thought that the death which Kike all but longed for
could not be very far away. And even now the zealous and austere
young man was so eager to reach his circuit of Peterborough that he
would only consent to tarry long enough to preach on the first
evening. His voice was weak, and his appeals were often drowned in
the uproar of a mob that had come determined to make an end of the
meeting.
So violent was the opposition of the rowdies from Jenkinsville and
Salt Fork that the brethren were demoralized. After the close of the
service they gathered in groups debating whether or not they should
give up the meeting. But two invincible men stood in the pulpit
looking out over the scene. Without a thought of surrendering,
Magruder and Morton Goodwin were consulting in regard to police
arrangements.
"Brother Goodwin," said Magruder, "we shall have the sheriff here in
the morning. I am afraid he hasn't got back-bone enough to handle
these fellows. Do you know him?"
"Burchard? Yes; I've known him two or three years."
Morton could not help liking the man who had so generously forgiven
his gambling debt, but he had reason to believe that a sheriff who
went to Brewer's Hole to get votes would find his hands tied by his
political alliances.
"Goodwin," said Magruder, "I don't know how to spare you from
preaching and exhorting, but you must take charge of the police and
keep order."
"You had better not trust me," said Goodwin.
"Why?"
"If I am in command there'll be a fight. I don't believe in letting
rowdies run over you. If you put me in authority, and give me the
law to back me, somebody'll be hurt before morning. The rowdies hate
me and I am not fond of them. I've wanted such a chance at these
Jenkinsville and Salt Fork fellows ever since I've been on the
circuit."
"I wish you _would_ clean them out," said the sturdy old elder, the
martial fire shining from under his shaggy brows.
Morton soon had the brethren organized into a police. Every man was
to carry a heavy club; some were armed with pistols to be used in an
emergency. Part of the force was mounted, part marched afoot.
Goodwin said that his father had fought King George, and he would not
be ruled by a mob. By such fannings of the embers of revolutionary
patriotism he managed to infuse into them some of his own courage.
At midnight Morton Goodwin sat in the pulpit and sent out scouts.
Platforms of poles, six feet high and covered with earth, stood on
each side of the stand or pulpit. On these were bright fires which
threw their light over the whole space within the circle of tents.
Outside the circle were a multitude of wagons covered with cotton
cloth, in which slept people from a distance who had no other
shelter. In this outer darkness Morton, as military dictator, had
ordered other platforms erected, and on these fires were now kindling.
The returning scouts reported at midnight that the ruffians, seeing
the completeness of the preparations, had left the camp-ground.
Goodwin was the only man who was indisposed to trust this treacherous
truce. He immediately posted his mounted scouts farther away than
before on every road leading to the ground, with instructions to let
him know instantly, if any body of men should be seen approaching.
From Morton's previous knowledge of the people, he was convinced that
in the mob were some men more than suspected of belonging to Micajah
Harp's gang of thieves. Others were allies of the gang--of that
class which hesitates between a lawless disposition and a wholesome
fear of the law, but whose protection and assistance is the right
foot upon which every form of brigandage stands. Besides these there
were the reckless young men who persecuted a camp-meeting from a love
of mischief for its own sake; men who were not yet thieves, but from
whose ranks the bands of thieves were recruited. With these last
Morton's history gave him a certain sympathy. As the classes
represented by the mob held the balance of power in the politics of
the county, Morton knew that he had not much to hope from a trimmer
such as Burchard.
About four o'clock in the morning one of the mounted sentinels who
had been posted far down the road came riding in at full speed, with
intelligence that the rowdies were coming in force from the direction
of Jenkinsville. Goodwin had anticipated this, and he immediately
awakened his whole reserve, concentrating the scattered squads and
setting them in ambush on either side of the wagon track that led to
the camp-ground. With a dozen mounted men well armed with clubs, he
took his own stand at a narrow place where the foliage on either side
was thickest, prepared to dispute the passage to the camp. The men
in ambush had orders to fall upon the enemy's flanks as soon as the
fight should begin in front. It was a simple piece of strategy
learned of the Indians.
The marauders rode on two by two until the leaders, coming round a
curve, caught sight of Morton and his right hand man. Then there was
a surprised reining up on the one hand, and a sudden dashing charge
on the other. At the first blow Goodwin felled his man, and the
riderless horse ran backward through the ranks. The mob was taken by
surprise, and before the ruffians could rally Morton uttered a cry to
his men in the bushes, which brought an attack upon both flanks. The
rowdies fought hard, but from the beginning the victory of the guard
was assured by the advantage of ambush and surprise. The only
question to be settled was that of capture, for Morton had ordered
the arrest of every man that the guard could bring in. But so sturdy
was the fight that only three were taken. One of the guard received
a bad flesh wound from a pistol shot. Goodwin did not give up
pursuing the retreating enemy until he saw them dash into the river
opposite Jenkinsville. He then rode back, and as it was getting
light threw himself upon one side of the great bunk in the preachers'
tent, and slept until he was awakened by the horn blown in the pulpit
for the eight o'clock preaching.
When Sheriff Burchard arrived on the ground that day he was evidently
frightened at the earnestness of Morton's defence. Burchard was one
of those politicians who would have endeavored to patch up a
compromise with a typhoon. He was in a strait between his fear of
the animosity of the mob and his anxiety to please the Methodists.
Goodwin, taking advantage of this latter feeling, got himself
appointed a deputy-sheriff, and, going before a magistrate, he
secured the issuing of writs for the arrest of those whom he knew to
be leaders. Then he summoned his guard as a posse, and, having thus
put law on his side, he announced that if the ruffians came again the
guard must follow him until they were entirely subdued.
Burchard took him aside, and warned him solemnly that such extreme
measures would cost his life. Some of these men belonged to Harp's
band, and he would not be safe anywhere if he made enemies of the
gang. "Don't throw away your life," entreated Burchard.
"That's what life is for," said Morton. "If a man's life is too good
to throw away in fighting the devil, it isn't worth having." Goodwin
said this in a way that made Burchard ashamed of his own cowardice.
But Kike, who stood by ready to depart, could not help thinking that
if Patty were in place of Ann Eliza, Morton might think life good for
something else than to be thrown away in a fight with rowdies.
As there was every sign of an approaching riot during the evening
service, and as no man could manage the tempest so well as Brother
Goodwin, he was appointed to preach. A young theologian of the
present day would have drifted helpless on the waves of such a mob.
When one has a congregation that listens because it ought to listen,
one can afford to be prosy; but an audience that will only listen
when it is compelled to listen is the best discipline in the world
for an orator. It will teach him methods of homiletic arrangement
which learned writers on Sacred Rhetoric have never dreamed of.
The disorder had already begun when Morton Goodwin's tall figure
appeared in the stand. Frontier-men are very susceptible to physical
effects, and there was a clarion-like sound to Morton's voice well
calculated to impress them. Goodwin enjoyed battle; every power of
his mind and body was at its best in the presence of a storm. He
knew better than to take a text. He must surprise the mob into
curiosity.
"There is a man standing back in the crowd there," he began, pointing
his finger in a certain direction where there was much disorder, and
pausing until everybody was still, "who reminds me of a funny story I
once heard." At this point the turbulent sons of Belial, who loved
nothing so much as a funny story, concluded to postpone their riot
until they should have their laugh. Laugh they did, first at one
funny story, and then at another--stories with no moral in
particular, except the moral there is in a laugh. Brother Mellen,
who sat behind Morton, and who had never more than half forgiven him
for not coming to a bad end as the result of disturbing a meeting,
was greatly shocked at Morton's levity in the pulpit, but Magruder,
the presiding elder, was delighted. He laughed at each story, and
laughed loud enough for Goodwin to hear and appreciate the senior's
approval of his drollery. But somehow--the crowd did not know
how,--at some time in his discourse--the Salt Fork rowdies did not
observe when,--Morton managed to cease his drollery without
detection, and to tell stories that brought tears instead of
laughter. The mob was demoralized, and, by keeping their curiosity
perpetually excited, Goodwin did not give them time to rally at all.
Whenever an interruption was attempted, the preacher would turn the
ridicule of the audience upon the interlocutor, and so gain the
sympathy of the rough crowd who were habituated to laugh on the side
of the winner in all rude tournaments of body or mind. Knowing
perfectly well that he would have to fight before the night was over,
Morton's mind was stimulated to its utmost. If only he could get the
religious interest agoing, he might save some of these men instead of
punishing them. His soul yearned over the people. His oratory at
last swept out triumphant over everything; there was weeping and
sobbing; some fell in uttering cries of anguish; others ran away in
terror. Even Burchard shivered with emotion when Morton described
how, step by step, a young man was led from bad to worse, and then
recited his own experience. At last there was the utmost excitement.
As soon as this hurricane of feeling had reached the point of
confusion, the rioters broke the spell of Morton's speech and began
their disturbance. Goodwin immediately invited the penitents into
the enclosed pen-like place called the altar, and the whole space was
filled with kneeling mourners, whose cries and groans made the woods
resound. But at the same moment the rioters increased their noisy
demonstrations, and Morton, finding Burchard inefficient to quell
them, descended from the pulpit and took command of his camp-meeting
police.
Perhaps the mob would not have secured headway enough to have
necessitated the severest measures if it had not been for Mr. Mellen.
As soon as he detected the rising storm he felt impelled to try the
effect of his stentorian voice in quelling it. He did not ask
permission of the presiding elder, as he was in duty bound to do, but
as soon as there was a pause in the singing he began to exhort. His
style was violently aggressive, and only served to provoke the mob.
He began with the true old Homeric epithets of early Methodism,
exploding them like bomb-shells. "You are hair-hung and
breeze-shaken over hell," he cried.
"You don't say!" responded one of the rioters, to the infinite
amusement of the rest.
[Illustration: "HAIR-HUNG AND BREEZE-SHAKEN."]
For five minutes Mellen proceeded to drop this kind of religious aqua
fortis upon the turbulent crowd, which grew more and more turbulent
under his inflammatory treatment. Finding himself likely to be
defeated, he turned toward Goodwin and demanded that the camp-meeting
police should enforce order. But Morton was contemplating a
master-stroke that should annihilate the disorder in one battle, and
he was not to be hurried into too precipitate an attack.
Brother Mellen resumed his exhortation, and, as small doses of
nitric-acid had not allayed the irritation, he thought it necessary
to administer stronger ones. "You'll go to hell," he cried, "and
when you get there your ribs will be nothing but a gridiron to roast
your souls in!"
"Hurrah for the gridiron!" cried the unappalled ruffians, and Brother
Mellen gave up the fight, reproaching Morton hotly for not
suppressing the mob. "I thought you was a man," he said.
"They'll get enough of it before daylight," said Goodwin, savagely.
"Do you get a club and ride by my side to-night, Brother Mellen; I am
sure you are a man."
Mellen went for his horse and club, grumbling all the while at
Morton's tardiness.
"Where's Burchard?" cried Morton.
But Burchard could not be found, and Morton felt internal
maledictions at Burchard's cowardice.
Goodwin had given orders that his scouts should report to him the
first attempt at concentration on the part of the rowdies. He had
not been deceived by their feints in different parts of the camp, but
had drawn his men together. He knew that there was some directing
head to the mob, and that the only effectual way to beat it was to
beat it in solid form.
At last a young man came running to where Goodwin stood, saying:
"They're tearing down a tent."
"The fight will be there," said Morton, mounting deliberately.
"Catch all you can, boys. Don't shoot if you can help it. Keep
close together. We have got to ride all night."
He had increased his guard by mustering in every able-bodied man,
except such as were needed to conduct the meetings. Most of these
men were Methodists, but they were all frontiermen who knew that
peace and civilization have often to be won by breaking heads. By
the time this guard started the camp was in extreme confusion; women
were running in every direction, children were crying and men were
stoutly denouncing Goodwin for his tardiness.
Dividing his mounted guard of thirty men into two parts, he sent one
half round the outside of the camp-ground in one direction, while he
rode with the other to attack the mob on the other side. The
foot-police were sent through the circle to attack them in a third
direction.
As Morton anticipated, his delay tended to throw the mob off their
guard. They had demolished one tent and, in great exultation, had
begun on another, when Morton's cavalry rode in upon them on two
sides, dealing heavy and almost deadly blows with their ironwood and
hickory clubs. Then the footmen charged them in front, and the mob
were forced to scatter and mount their horses as best they could. As
Morton had captured some of them, the rest rallied on horseback and
attempted a rescue. For two or three minutes the fight was a severe
one. The roughs made several rushes upon Morton, and nothing but the
savage blows that Mellen laid about him saved the leader from falling
into their hands. At last, however, after firing several shots, and
wounding one of the guard, they retreated, Goodwin vigorously
persuading his men to continue the charge. When the rowdies had been
driven a short distance, Morton saw by the light of a platform torch,
the same strangely dressed man who had taken the money from his hand
that day near Brewer's Hole. This man, in his disguise of long beard
and wolf-skin cap, was trying to get past Mellen and into the camp by
creeping through the bushes.
"Knock him over," shouted Goodwin to Mellen. "I know him--he's a
thief."
No sooner said than Mellen's club had felled him, and but for the
intervening brush-wood, which broke the force of the blow, it might
have killed him.
"Carry him back and lock him up," said Morton to his men; but the
other side now made a strong rush and bore off the fallen highwayman.
Then they fled, and this time, letting the less guilty rowdies
escape, Morton pursued the well-known thieves and their allies into
and through Jenkinsville, and on through the country, until the
hunted fellows abandoned their horses and fled to the woods on foot.
For two days more Morton harried them, arresting one of them now and
then until he had captured eight or ten. He chased one of these into
Brewer's Hole itself. The shoes had been torn from his feet by
briers in his rough flight, and he left tracks of blood upon the
floor. The orderly citizens of the county were so much heartened by
this boldness and severity on Morton's part that they combined
against the roughs and took the work into their own hands, driving
some of the thieves away and terrifying the rest into a sullen
submission. The camp-meeting went on in great triumph.
Burchard had disappeared--how, nobody knew. Weeks afterward a
stranger passing through Jenkinsville reported that he had seen such
a man on a keel-boat leaving Cincinnati for the lower Mississippi,
and it soon came to be accepted that Burchard had found a home in New
Orleans, that refuge of broken adventurers. Why he had fled no one
could guess.
_CHAPTER XXVIII._