He drove over the road that lay at the base of the western range away from
his dwelling and Greenstream village. The mature spring day had almost the
appearance of summer; the valley was flooded with sparkling sunlight; but
the young leaves were still red, the greenery still translucent, the trees
black with risen sap. The buggy rolled through the shallow, rocky fords,
the horse's hoofs flinging up the water in shining drops. The road rose
slightly, turning to the right, where an intermediate valley lay
diagonally through the range. Save for small, scattered farms the
bottomland was uncultivated, the tangled brush impenetrable.
Gordon passed other vehicles, bound toward the camp meeting, usually a
single seat crowded with three, or even four, adult forms. He passed flat
wagons with their bottoms filled with straw, on which women sat with
stiffly-extended legs. The young women wore gay colors, their eyes
sparkled in hardy faces, their hands, broad and red and capable, awkwardly
disposed. The older women, with shawls folded about their stooped
shoulders, were close-lipped, somber. The men were sparely built, with
high, prominent cheek bones, long, hollow cheeks and shaven mouths touched
with sardonic humor, under undented, black felt hats. There were an
appreciable number of invalids and leaden-faced idiots.
The way grew wilder, the natural forms shrunk, the valley became a small
plain of broken, rocky hillocks matted with thorny bushes, surrounded by
marshes of rank grass, flags, half-grown osiers. The vehicles, drawn into
a single way, crowded together, progressed slowly. Gordon saw in the back
of the buggy before him two whiskey jugs. Some one far ahead began to sing
a revival hymn, and it ran along the line of carriages like a trail of
ignited powder. A deep bass caught it behind Gordon Makimmon, then the
piercing soprano of a woman farther back.
The camp meeting spread over a small, irregular plateau surrounded by
swamp and sluggish streams. Gordon turned off the road, and drove over a
rough, short descent to a ledge of solid ground by a stream and fringe of
willows. The spring torrents had subsided, leaving the grass, the willows,
covered with a grey, crackling coat of mud; the air had a damp, fetid
smell; beyond, the swamp bubbled gaseously. The close line of hitched
teams disappeared about an elbow of the thicket; groups of men gathered
in the noisome shadows, bottles were passed, heads thrown back and arms
bent aloft.
Above, a great, sagging tent was staked to the obdurate ground. To the
left a wooden floor had been temporarily laid about a four-square, open
counter, now bare, with a locked shed for storage. Before Gordon was the
sleeping tent for women. The sun seemed unable to dispel the miasma of the
swamp, the surrounding aspect of mean desolation. The scene was petty,
depressing. It was surcharged by a curious air of tension, of suspense, a
brooding, treacherous hysteria, an ugly, raw, emotional menace. A service
was in progress; a sustained, convulsive murmur came from within, a
wordless, fluctuating lament. Suddenly it was pierced by a shrill, high
scream, a voice tormented out of all semblance to reason. The sound grew
deeper and louder; it swung into a rhythm which formed into words, lines,
a primitive chant that filled the plateau, swelled out over the swamp. It
continued for an incredible length of time, rising to an unbearable pitch,
then it died away in a great gasp.
A thin, sinister echo rose from among the willows--emotional, shrill
curses, a brief, raving outburst of passion, sharply punctuated with
double shots, and falling abruptly to heavy silence. Gordon saw men
obscurely running below.
The curtained entrance to the tent was pushed aside, and a woman walked
stiffly out, her hands clenched, and her glassy eyes set in a fixed stare.
Her hat was gone, and her grey hair lay upon one shoulder. She progressed,
stumbling blindly over the inequalities of the ground, until she tripped
on a stone. She lay where she had fallen, with her muscles jerking and
shuddering, until a man appeared from behind the counter, and dragged her
unceremoniously to the women's shelter.
Gordon entered the tent where the service was in progress. A subdued light
filtered through the canvas upon a horde that filled every foot of space;
they sat pressed together on long, rough boards nailed together in the
semblance of benches. On a platform at the farther side a row of men and
women sat against the canvas wall; to their left a folding organ had been
erected, and was presided over by a man with a blurred, greyish
countenance; while, standing at the forefront of the platform, a large,
heavy man in a black frock coat was addressing the assemblage. He had a
round, pallid, smooth face with long, black hair brushed back upon his
coat collar, and great, soft, white hands.
"... it's rising," he proclaimed, in a loud, sing-song voice, "the flood
is rising; now it's about your pockets--praise God! now it's above your
waists. It's rising! it's rising! Hallelujah! the sea of redemption is
rising," his voice rose with the figurative flood. "At last it's about
your hearts, your hearts are immersed in the Sacred Tide."
A man beside Gordon groaned and dropped upon his knees. A woman cried,
"God! God! God!" A spindling, overgrown boy rose fumbling at his throat.
"I can't breathe," he choked, "I can't--" His face grew purplish,
congested. The tumult swelled, directed, dominated, by the voice of the
revivalist. He dropped upon his knees, and, amid the sobbing silence, pled
with an invisible Judge hovering, apparently, over a decision to destroy
at one bloody blow the recalcitrant peoples of the earth, the peoples of
His making.
"Spare us," he implored; "spare us, the sheep of hell; lead us to Thy
shining pasture ... still water; lead us from the great fire of the
eternal pit, from the boiling bodies of the unsaved...."
Gordon Makimmon indifferently regarded the clamor. The process of "getting
religion" was familiar, commonplace. He saw Tol'able sitting on a back
bench; with a mutual gesture the two men rose and left the tent.
"I had to bring m'wife," Tol'able explained; "did you see her sitting on
the platform? She's one of the main grievers. I got some good licker in
the wagon--better have a comforter."
They walked down to a dusty, two-seated surrey, where, from under a horse
blanket, Tol'able produced a small jug. He wiped the mouth on his sleeve
and passed it to Gordon; then held the gurgling vessel to his open throat.
"There was some hell raised last night," he proceeded; "a man from up back
had his head busted with a stone, and a drunken looney shot through the
women's tent: an old girl hollered out they had Goddy right in there among
'em."
"They were shooting a while back," Gordon observed indifferently. "Have
you seen Buck Simmons here?"
"No, I hain't. He wouldn't be here noways."
Gordon preserved a discreet silence in regard to his source of assurance
of Buckley's presence at the camp meeting.
"Have another drink, Gord."
The services were temporarily suspended, and the throng emptied from the
tent. A renewed sanity clothed them--girls drew into squares of giggling
defense against the verbal sallies of robustly-witted young men. Women
collected their offspring, gathering in circles about opened boxes of
lunch: a multitude of papers and box lids littered the ground. A hot,
steaming odor, analogous to coffee, rose from the crowded counter. A
prodigious amount of raw whiskey was consumed among the vehicles by the
stream and mud-coated willows.
Gordon slowly made his way through the throng, in search of Meta Beggs;
perhaps, after all, she had decided not to come; he might easily miss her
in that mob. It was not clear in his mind what he would do if he saw her.
She would be with Buckley Simmons, and there was a well recognized course
of propriety for such occasions: he would be expected merely to greet in
passing a girl accompanying another man. Any other proceeding would be met
with instant resentment. And Buckley Simmons, Gordon knew, must still
nurse a secret antagonism toward him. However, he had disposed of Buckley
in the past ... if necessary he could do so again.
At the entrance to the service tent the organist, his countenance still
livid in the sunlight, blew a throaty summons on a cornet, and the crowd
slowly trailed back within. In the thinning groups Gordon saw the
school-teacher, clad in a bright blue skirt and a hat with a stiff, blue
feather. She was at Buckley's side, consuming a slice of cake with
delicate, precise motions of her hand, and greeting with patent
abstraction his solicitous attentions.