Читать книгу Wishful Seeing - Janet Kellough - Страница 9

The next day dawned warm and fair, a promising forecast for a full attendance at the Great Baptism Debate, as Thaddeus had come to think of it. The entire Small family, not unexpectedly, was eager to attend the meeting, even though it was a six-mile drive to the hall at Cold Springs.

“I know James is only assisting,” Mr. Small said, “but we’d all like to hear him. I’ll hitch up the wagon so we can take all of us. Do you think young Martha would like to come along as well?”

Thaddeus appreciated the offer. He knew Martha would love to “come along,” as Mr. Small put it, but better yet, the Smalls could also bring her home again, leaving Thaddeus free to travel west after the meeting.

When Mr. Small pulled the wagon up in front of the manse, Thaddeus was surprised to see that James had tethered his horse to the back of the wagon, and when he had handed Martha in, he clambered up to claim a place beside her on one of the hay bales Mr. Small had laid out for seats. Thaddeus could see that Martha was less than pleased with this arrangement. She kept inching away from Small, and initiating conversation with one or another of his brothers.

It was still very early when they left Cobourg, but the sun wasn’t far up in the sky before its effects were felt, and the women removed their shawls and wraps. As Thaddeus trotted alongside the lumbering hay wagon, he reflected that his choice of Cold Springs as the site for the debate had been a wise one. Their route was far west of the route the railway was taking and they were unlikely to experience any delays from the construction. Not that anyone would be working on a Sunday, of course, but any of the roads in the vicinity of the railway were rough and chewed up from the constant heavy traffic. They would still hit a number of bumpy sections on the way to Cold Springs, but the weather had been so hot and dry that the road had compacted into a surface as hard as granite. They should make good time.

They did, and not just because of the reasonable condition of the road. At each steep incline, the Small boys jumped out of the wagon and pushed, relieving Mr. Small’s rather sad old mare of the necessity of hauling the full load. Martha and Mrs. Small cheered them on each time, and Thaddeus had to admit that it certainly sped up the entire process, and probably kept the horse from keeling over.

Between these heroic and rather comical episodes, Thaddeus reflected on the coming debate. He needed to make a good showing in order to keep people’s enthusiasm at a high pitch, but he found that he was not particularly worried by this challenge. In fact, he felt energized by it. He had no need for special preparation. He already knew which verses he would cite to refute whatever the Baptist might say, and his logic skills were well honed after the spiralling and spirited discussions that had taken place at Dr. Christie’s dinner table over the past two years. And after the dry struggle on Yonge Street, he welcomed the opportunity to address a receptive audience. Only once or twice during the ride did he caution himself against the sin of pride. Even though the Lord had blessed him with an excellent memory and a commanding voice, and he was only using it to further His cause, he should try not to be too confident. The Baptist might have some unanticipated argument to throw in his direction, and he would need to be sharp-witted in order to recognize and counter it, lest it trip up his argument.

As they drew closer to Cold Springs, they began to encounter streams of people — some riding, some in carts, some on foot — joining the main road from the byways and side roads they passed. They stared when they saw Thaddeus and whispered to one another.

“You’re famous, Grandpa,” Martha called from her perch in the wagon.

“Go on,” he said. “They know I’m a preacher, but they’re only guessing that I’m one of the speakers today. And I expect they’re not even sure which one.”

He was pleased, though. His efforts to publicize the debate had obviously drawn good numbers. Now the rest would be up to him.

When they reached Cold Springs, Mr. Small had trouble finding a place to leave the wagon. There were carts and buggies everywhere, and a large crowd of people milling about in the yard. The hall was a small building, capable of holding perhaps forty or fifty people, if they all stood and didn’t mind a close proximity with their neighbours. It would be completely inadequate for the numbers of people who had turned up.

James Small climbed down from the wagon and looked around the yard, then pointed speculatively to a huge tree near the fence line of the property. The towering oak cast a welcome shade over a large part of the yard.

“What do you think about setting up over there?” he said. “We’ll never get everyone into the hall.”

“I think there will be a riot if we don’t,” Thaddeus replied. It was a good suggestion. The small building would be uncomfortably hot, even if they were able to cram everyone into it. “I wonder if your father could move his wagon over there? It would make a pretty good speaking platform.”

“I don’t know where else he can put it anyway,” Small replied.

Thaddeus left his assistant to organize the wagon while he moved through the crowd, letting everyone know about the change of plans. He spotted Leland Gordon helping his ancient mother down the rough path, and went over to welcome them. The old woman beamed when she saw Thaddeus.

“Looking forward to today,” she said. “There’s nothing like a good preacher fight.”

“I can only hope it remains a war of words.”

“I’ve seen the fists come out on occasion,” she said. “I seem to recall that it was most entertaining.” She toddled off, cackling a little as she went.

“We’re going to move into the yard,” he said to Gordon. “Under the tree over there. You might want to steer your mother to a good spot.”

“Thanks,” Gordon said. “She’ll never forgive me if I don’t find her a seat in the front row.”

“You’d better get moving then. She’s left you behind.”

Thaddeus joined Small and his brothers, who were chivvying people out of the way so that Mr. Small could drive the hay wagon to the edge of the yard.

“It’s a good thing we all came, then, isn’t it?” Mr. Small called. “My wagon will make you a grand platform.”

Thaddeus waved, and just as he was turning to walk down the path to the hall, he saw the Howell woman walk through the gate, a girl of twelve or so walking sullenly a few steps behind her. Again, it was the blue dress that caught his attention — that, and the fact that, although it was by now quite hot, Mrs. Howell had wrapped a shawl firmly around herself.

“Good day,” he said, walking over to her.

She smiled at him.

She had the most pleasant face, Thaddeus thought. The smile started on her lips but quickly reached her eyes. They sparkled with it, and curved upward to form nearly perfect almonds. It made him feel as though he was the one person in the entire world she had been hoping to meet at that exact moment. He felt a little weak in the dazzle of it.

He found himself utterly speechless for a moment, then managed to recover and tip his hat. “Thank you so much for coming. You may want to make your way over to the tree. We’re moving the service into the yard. There are far too many people for inside.”

She looked around. “I suspect that would be wise. You seem to have drawn quite a crowd. No one wants to miss the debate.” Her voice was deep, and she had a decidedly English accent. Thaddeus found the low timbre extremely pleasing to his ear.

“I can only hope that it reaches a satisfactory conclusion,” he said.

“For which one of you?”

Thaddeus grinned. “Why, for myself, of course!” and he was rewarded when she laughed, a sound that was every bit as charming as her voice. “I’m Thaddeus Lewis, by the way. Representing the sprinklers.”

“Yes, I know. I heard you at the camp meeting. I’m Mrs. George Howell. And this is my daughter, Miss Caroline Howell.”

“How do you do, Miss Howell?” he said.

Thaddeus could see that the girl was at that awkward age when children suddenly grow too quickly. Her wrists stuck out a little too far from her sleeves and her skirt had become too short, falling only a few inches below her knees. She ignored his greeting and slid a half-step behind her mother, so that he could no longer see her face.

Mrs. Howell appeared not to notice her daughter’s rudeness. “My husband is looking for somewhere to leave our cart. He may have had to go quite a long way down the road.”

“We have a few minutes before we’re due to start. I’m sure he’ll be here in time.” Thaddeus hesitated. He wanted to continue this conversation, but could think of no topic that would be natural. Finally he said, “We’re going to set up a pulpit of sorts under the tree. Why don’t you go and find a good place to sit? He’ll find you easily enough.”

“Most kind of you. I’ll do that.” She was about to walk away when a sudden gust of wind caught one end of her shawl and blew it aside to expose her forearm. It was a mass of deep purple bruises, ugly mottled marks a few days old and starting to yellow at the edges. She gasped and quickly pulled the shawl over her arm again, then glanced at Thaddeus to see if he had noticed.

Thaddeus looked at her questioningly.

“I’m a foolish and vain woman,” she said with a laugh. “Our old cow kicked when I was milking her yesterday. I hoped the wrap would cover it enough that no one would see.”

The bruise didn’t look anything like a hoofmark, though, and it was in an odd place to have been reached by the kick of a twitchy cow. Thaddeus was appalled. He had seen odd bruises on women too many times before. It was always a difficult issue to deal with.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, “There are things that can be done about cows that kick. If you need help with it, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you,” she said, reddening a little. “I’m sure it will be fine. Good luck in the debate.”

She moved quickly away, her daughter in tow. Thaddeus watched her as she walked toward the hay wagon, the slight hitch in her gait more noticeable on the rough ground. By this time, the crowd realized that their entertainment had been moved and everyone was jostling to find the best places to stand or sit, bunching toward the front and spilling along the fenceline. Mrs. Howell was quickly lost in the mob of people milling about.

Thaddeus resumed his course for the hall. As a matter of courtesy, he supposed he should consult with the Baptist preacher about the change in arrangements, although he had no intention of doing anything differently should the man object.

There was a crowd of people in the building, as well, jammed together onto the benches and standing up against the walls, fanning themselves furiously against the clammy heat that had built up as a result of so many bodies in such a small space. The Baptist was standing at the far end of the room, where there was a raised section of floor. He drew himself up as he saw Thaddeus coming toward him.

“Good day, sir,” he said, civilly enough. “I’m Phineas Brown, by the way.” He was sweating heavily.

“Good day. We have quite an audience,” Thaddeus replied. “More than will ever fit in here, I’m afraid. I think we should move the whole thing outside.”

He almost expected instant disagreement with this plan, but Brown nodded his head. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I’m pleased so many will hear the truth.”

Thaddeus let the statement slide by. This was not the place to make his arguments.

“I thought we’d set ourselves up under the big tree. We’ve commandeered a wagon to serve as a platform, so everyone can see. My assistant will lead the prayer and a hymn and then you can speak.”

A small frown. This man would like to have spoken last, Thaddeus knew, but after all, it was essentially a Methodist meeting and Brown was present only as an invited speaker. He could scarcely quibble about the order of service.

“If you’re in agreement, then I suggest we wait another five minutes or so before we begin. I’ll see you outside.”

Thaddeus waited by the oak tree until Brown finally joined him, then they climbed up onto the bed of the wagon where James Small was already standing. The crowd hushed and settled as soon as they saw the preachers. Thaddeus spotted Mrs. Howell off to the right of him, near the fence. She was standing with four other women who had managed to group themselves slightly apart from the rest of the assembly, as if there were an invisible line across which no one dared step. There was no sign of her husband.

Thaddeus didn’t know why he was so distracted by Mrs. Howell’s presence. He tried to shake all thoughts of her out of his mind. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

Small cleared his throat and waited for a moment until he was sure all conversation had died down. “Welcome to today’s meeting,” he began, when he had gained everyone’s attention. “It is exceedingly pleasant to see so many of you here today. Mr. Lewis and I decided that it would be appropriate to hold the service here in the yard, as otherwise not all of you could be accommodated.”

There was a murmur of approval at this, and as Thaddeus scanned the front rows he recognized several ministers who had apparently deserted their own services to attend this one. He smiled to himself a little. He stood every chance of luring away their flocks if he was on his game today.

Again, his eye caught the flash of blue to his right. He wrested his attention away, and tried to focus on Small’s opening exhortation and prayer, but as he joined in the hymn that followed, his eyes wandered back to the fence again. He could not afford this. He looked for Martha instead, and found her over at the other side of the wagon, where she was sitting with one of the Small boys and two young men whom he didn’t recognize. He would keep his eyes fixed on her until it was time for him to speak.

After the closing notes of the hymn had echoed across the yard, the crowd settled themselves with a great air of expectation. Brown stood to one side as Small outlined the parameters of the day’s discussion.

“We are afforded a great opportunity today at this gathering,” Small said. “Although this meeting was originally called by the Methodist Episcopal Church of the Province of Canada in order to bring its congregants together in worship, it has been agreed that the Reverend Phineas Brown of the Baptist Church be allowed to address you concerning a matter that weighs heavily on his mind.”

Thaddeus allowed himself a small twitch of amusement. Weighs heavily on his mind. What a clever way Small had put it. There might be hope for the young preacher yet.

“Mr. Brown has been invited today with the permission and full agreement of the Reverend Thaddeus Lewis of the Methodist Episcopals,” Small went on.

There was scattered applause from the crowd.

“The subject of today’s discussion is Baptism. This rite is a central part of both our creeds, but there is some dispute as to the form it should take.”

“Put them in the middle of the yard and let them duke it out.” The voice floated over the yard. Everyone laughed. Although it was a disruption, Thaddeus was glad to see that it was a good-natured crowd. He knew that Brown had marshalled his troops in the same way that Thaddeus had, each hoping to lure away the other’s followers. There was always a danger of fisticuffs at these things if tempers were running high.

“First,” Small said, “we’ll hear from Mr. Brown.”

Brown stepped forward to scattered applause. “The Baptist Church practises the rite of Baptism,” he began. “We do not, however, content ourselves with a half-hearted sprink­ling.” He spat out the last word, as the insult it was intended to be. “We believe that only full immersion baptism will admit you to the Kingdom of God. We believe that this is what God intends, and that it says so clearly in the Bible. The Bible, which is the Book of Books, and which I love with all my heart.” He held the book he was carrying aloft for the crowd to see. “When you open this Bible,” he said, “you will note that it says ‘The King James Version.’”

The congregation could note nothing of the sort, Thaddeus knew, since the print was far too small to make out from more than a foot or so away. It didn’t matter, he figured, since a great number of them could barely read anyway.

“Version,” Brown repeated, and then he paused to let the ramifications of the word sink in. “This means that King James gathered together a group of scholars and directed them to translate the texts from the original Latin and Greek. Unfortunately, they did not do it correctly.”

There was a murmur through the crowd.

“There are three reasons for this mistranslation.” The man waved the open Bible in the air. “First of all, King James directed the translation. He gave the outlines of translation to those to whom the work was assigned. He was the king. They would dare not go contrary to his order even if they were disposed to do so. And after all, everyone knows that King James was a sprinkler.”

A number of people swivelled around to see how Thaddeus was taking this point. He remained calm and showed no reaction. As far as he was concerned, the Baptist had already hanged himself.

“Furthermore,” Brown went on, “the translators were all sprinklers themselves. As a result, the language has been so changed by this influence that it is not to be depended upon.”

Thaddeus knew what the next gambit would be. And sure enough, the man made his pitch, repeating the argument he had put forth at their first confrontation.

“My good friend here,” Brown pointed to Thaddeus, “relies upon the King James version of this Book of Books. He does not know how to read Greek or Latin.”

Thaddeus allowed himself a small nod of the head in response to this.

“I, however, have read the original Greek and Latin texts for myself, and I can tell you that this Bible, this Protestant Bible, has been mistranslated, particularly with respect to Baptism. If you read it in Greek, or if you read it in Latin, it is clear that the Lord Jesus was in favour of full immersion.”

There was another round of clapping from the Baptists in the crowd. Brown bowed in acknowledgment, and then he nodded smugly at Thaddeus and stepped back.

Thaddeus was astonished. This was no argument at all. Brown had quoted no verses, cited no authorities, had done nothing but repeat the statements he had made at the camp meeting. This was too easy. Thaddeus felt a twinge of disappointment. He had been looking forward to a spirited debate that would test his skills as both an orator and a logician, not this pale excuse for a debate. Then he recalled his duty, and knew that this day he would bring many to the Methodist Episcopal Church.

He stepped forward, cast a long look around him, resisted the urge to look toward the fence, and then turned to Brown.

“Thank you very much for that insightful summary, Mr. Brown,” he said. A handful of people caught the sarcasm in his voice and snickered a little.

“I’m afraid, however, that you have seized the wrong end of the argument. Now, you must understand me clearly. I certainly do not mean to say, or to be understood to say, that the Reverend Mr. Brown is an infidel.”

There was a gasp. Thaddeus held his hand up in admonishment.

“No, indeed, I hold him as a Christian brother. But I do believe that he has mistaken his way on the doctrine of Baptism. And I must say that I have never in my life met an infidel who strove to invalidate and render useless the Protestant Bible so much as he does.”

He had the crowd’s full attention now. This was more like what they were expecting.

“No, I would prefer to believe that Mr. Brown just didn’t understand properly what he was saying or doing. He pressed the open Bible to his heart and declared his intense love for it.”

“Yes, he did!” someone shouted.

“He said he esteemed it above any other book. That it was the Book of Books!”

Thaddeus paused for a moment to let the tension build before he went on.

“And then he turns right around and claims that this Book of Books, this Book that he loves with all his heart, is nothing more than a mistranslated piece of nonsense!”

There was wild applause at this. Thaddeus waited until it had just started to diminish, just slightly, and then he turned to the Baptist minister. “Well, which is it, Mr. Brown?”

He thought he would be deafened by the roar that went up. He had to admit to himself that it was a lovely piece of rhet­oric, and he couldn’t believe that any minister who had achieved ordination would not have seen the contradiction in the Baptist’s argument. Brown was red in the face, his mouth opening and closing. He wanted a rebuttal, Thaddeus could see, but the crowd wasn’t going to let him have it. Neither was Thaddeus.

He held his hand up to quell the noise. He wasn’t quite finished yet.

“It is true that I read neither Latin nor Greek, as Mr. Brown claims to. Nor do many of the people here today.” He was reasonably sure that a great many of the people gathered in the yard had difficulty enough with English, and he would be astonished if there were more than one or two persons present who were conversant with the classical languages, but the implication that it was a possibility was a compliment to his audience, and they took it as such.

“Neither could the people of England when long ago King James gathered the finest scholars in the land to translate the scriptures into a language that all could understand. These scholars were the most educated minds of their time. They were chosen carefully. They had spent countless years in the study of ancient languages. And God smiled upon their efforts.”

Again, Thaddeus paused, and assumed a look of perplexity.

“Mr. Brown thanks God that he can read Greek and Latin for himself. He will not believe any man or any set of men with whom he disagrees, because he knows for himself the Protestant Bible was not translated correctly. He knows. And yet, for all his supposed learning, he has not given you one single example of this so-called mistranslation. He has not quoted a single verse to support his argument. All he has done is insist that you believe him because he is wiser than the finest minds in England.”

“Good point!” someone shouted. Thaddeus looked down at Martha, who grinned at him.

“You can claim that certain passages in the Bible were mistranslated if you like.”

“No!” someone shouted.

“But if some of them are wrong, doesn’t it stand to reason that all of them are wrong?”

“No, no!” More voices joined the protest.

“But if some of them are wrong and some of them are right, which ones are which? Mr. Brown claims to know, because he can read Latin and Greek. The question remains: How well? Better than I can, that’s true enough. Better than most of us.”

Again, the little compliment.

“But better than scholars who have spent their entire lifetimes in study? I think not. I think I know where a mistranslation is most likely to occur.”

Another small cheer.

“And yet, Mr. Brown claims to love the Bible above all things. He holds it to his heart and proclaims it the Book of Books. But only some parts of it. The parts he agrees with. Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. You cannot have it both ways.”

There was a stirring off to Thaddeus’s right. It was Brown, who had climbed down from the wagon and was striding through the crowd toward the gate.

Thaddeus called after him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. I don’t understand your argument. Because you have made none.”

There was a huge round of applause and a few cheers as Thaddeus drove his point home.

“Let us then look at what this mistranslated Book of Books actually says to us, in language we can understand, as provided by King James’s best scholars. ‘For thou shalt be his witness unto all men of what thou hast seen and heard. And now why tarriest thou? Arise, and be baptized, and wash away thy sins, calling on the name of the Lord.’”

The field was his, and now Thaddeus would give these people what they had come for. On and on he went, quoting, explaining, expostulating, until finally, after an exhausting three hours on his feet, he signalled Small to end the service with a hymn.

The crowd sang loudly and enthusiastically. As the last notes died away, many of the attendees surged forward, anxious to speak with Thaddeus, keen to abandon whatever creeds they had followed until then and join with the Methodist Episcopals. By the time he had treated with them all, Ellen Howell had once again disappeared.