34
The Son of a Preacher-man
Fraser’s Ridge
THE MEETING HOUSE, AS everyone had taken to calling the cabin that was to serve the Ridge as schoolroom, Masonic Lodge, a church for Presbyterian and Methodist services, and a place for Quaker meeting, was now finished, and in the afternoon of that day, the reluctant schoolteacher, the Worshipful Master of the Lodge, and the three competing preachers met—spouses brought along as congregation—to inspect and bless the place.
“It smells like beer,” said the nominative schoolteacher, wrinkling her nose.
It did, the smell of hops strong enough to compete with the fragrance of the raw pinewood of the walls and the new benches, so freshly cut as still to be oozing a pale golden sap in places.
“Aye,” said the Master. “Ronnie Dugan and Bob McCaskill had a difference of opinion about whether there should be something for the preachers to stand on besides the floor, and someone kicked over the keg.”
“No great loss,” replied the husband of the sole practicing Quaker on Fraser’s Ridge. “Worst beer I’ve had since wee Markie Henderson pissed in his mother’s brew tub and no one found it out before the beer was served.”
“Oh, it wasn’t quite that bad,” the Presbyterian minister said, presumably on the judge-not principle, but he was drowned out by a general buzz of agreement.
“Who made it?” asked Rachel in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder in case the miscreant brewer should be in earshot.
“I blush to admit that I supplied the keg,” Captain Cunningham said, frowning, “but I’ve no notion of its manufacture. It came up with some of my books from Cross Creek.”
There was a general murmur of understanding—punctuated by a grunt of disapproval from Mrs. Cunningham—and the topic of beer was tabled by unspoken general consensus.
“Well, now.” Jamie called the meeting to order, opening one of his spare ledgers, this now devoted to the business of the Meeting House. “Brianna says she’s willing to teach the wee bug—er, the bairns—for two hours in the morning, from nine o’clock until elevenses, so spread the word about that—she’ll be starting after the harvest. And if any of the older lads and lassies canna read or write yet, they can come to learn their letters … when, a nighean?”
“Let’s say ‘by appointment,’” Bree replied. “What about slates—do we have any?”
“No,” Jamie replied, and wrote down Slates—10 in his ledger with a pencil.
“Only ten?” I said, peering over his arm. “Surely there are more children than that to be taught.”
“They’ll come once they’re sure Brianna won’t beat them,” Roger said, grinning at his wife. “I think we can find out where to get slates from Gustav Grunewald, the Moravian schoolmaster; I know him and he’s a good sort. I’ll paint you a blackboard to use until we get them.”
“I know where there’s a decent chalk bed,” I chimed in. “I’ll bring some back when I go up there tomorrow after cranesbill.”
“Desks?” Bree asked tentatively, glancing round. The room was spacious and well lighted, with windows—so far, uncovered—in three of the four walls, but there were no furnishings beyond the benches—apparently whoever had wanted to construct a podium had lost the argument.
“As soon as someone has the time, mo chridhe. It willna hurt them to hold their slates on their knees for a bit, and ye’ll no have more than a few before the autumn. They need to be working until the crops are in, ken.” Jamie flipped over a page.
“Business of the Lodge … well, that’s for the Lodge to deal with. Now, we’ve been accustomed—last time we had a gathering place—to have the regular Lodge meeting on a Wednesday, but I understand that the captain here would like to have that night for a church service?”
“If it does not discommode you too much, sir?”
“Not at all,” Roger said, causing the captain to look sharply at him. “You’d be more than welcome to join us at Lodge, of course, Captain.”
Cunningham glanced at Jamie, who nodded, and the captain relaxed, just slightly, with an inclination of his own head.
“Then it will be regular meeting of the Lodge on Tuesday, and … we’ve been accustomed to use the cabin as a meeting place on other evenings, just socially, aye?”
“Bring your own stool and bottle,” Roger clarified. “And a stick of wood for the hearth.”
Mrs. Cunningham snorted in a ladylike fashion, indicating what she thought of free-form social gatherings of men involving bottles. I rather thought she had a point, but Jamie, Roger, and Ian had all assured me that the informal evenings were a great help in finding out what was going on around the Ridge—and just possibly doing something about it before things got out of hand.
“So, then.” Jamie flipped to a new page, this one headed Church in large black letters, underlined. “How d’ye want to manage Sundays—or is it Sunday for Friends, Rachel?”
“They call it First Day, but it’s really Sunday, aye,” Young Ian put in. Rachel looked amused, but nodded.
“So, will the three of ye hold service—or meeting,” he added, with a nod to Rachel, “every Sunday? Or d’ye want to alternate?”
Roger and the captain eyed each other, hesitant to say anything that might seem confrontational, but determined to claim time and space for their nascent congregations.
“I will be here each First Day,” Rachel said calmly. “But given the nature of Quaker meeting, I think perhaps it would be best if I were to come in the later part of the afternoon. Those who attend service earlier in the day might find it useful to sit and contemplate in the quietness of their hearts what they’ve heard, or to share it with others.”
“Mam and I will be there, too,” Ian said firmly.
The two preachers looked surprised, but then nodded.
“We’ll also hold service every Sunday,” Roger said. “The third commandment doesn’t say, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the Lord’s day twice a month,’ after all.”
“Quite true,” said the captain, but before he could speak further, Mrs. Cunningham said what everyone was thinking.
“Who goes first?”
There was an uneasy silence, which Jamie broke by digging in his sporran and pulling out a silver shilling, which he flipped into the air, caught on the back of his hand, and clapped the other hand over it.
“Heads or tails, Captain?”
“Um …” Caught by surprise, Cunningham hesitated, and I saw his mother begin to mouth “tails”—quite unconsciously, I thought. “Heads,” he said firmly. Jamie lifted his hand to peek at the coin, then showed it to the group.
“Heads it is. D’ye choose first or second, then, Captain?”
“Can ye sing, sir?” Roger asked, startling Cunningham anew.
“I—yes,” he said, taken aback. “Why?”
“I can’t,” Roger said, touching his throat in illustration. “If ye go first, ye can leave them in an uplifted frame of mind with a parting hymn. So they’ll be more receptive, maybe, to what I have to say.” He smiled, and there was a small ripple of laughter, but I didn’t think he was joking.