This historical novel (late 19th Century America) focuses on the life of Andrew Still and the establishment of osteopathic medicine. Well researched, little known acts of Still’s life and struggle are embedded in reflective romance, Civil War drama, and organizational intrigue…

Excerpt

 

Chapter 1: The Appointment

The morning sun glinted on the hand polished top of John Freeman’s cane as he gimped along the Harrison Street in Kirksville, Missouri. The town was bustling and there was considerable buggy traffic on the street this morning. The date was May 2, 1899, a Tuesday. Restless with anticipation, brushing his coat aside, he pulled a tethered watch from his trouser pocket. 9:18. The appointment ticket drawn from his shirt pocket read 10:00 AM. At the top were printed the words “A.S.O. Infirmary”. Finally he had an overdue engagement with Andrew Still at his American School of Osteopathy.

A stocky man, too proud to let go of the farm back in Kansas, Freeman relied heavily on family to feed livestock and plant corn. The work was hard on everyone; something needed to change, so he had overcome his pride and had come. His hobbling gait spoke of his back and hip pain.

Freeman’s spirit stirred with a mix of emotions as he anticipated the encounter with the Old Doctor as he had come to be called. Prophet, miracle worker, fanatical lunatic – Still had been called all those things. Preachers at home, hearing of the intended trip, tried to discourage him from coming to “parley with the devil’s servant” as they described it.

To John the situation looked hopeless. But others, tired of seeing the pain of that game leg, the despondency, the farm going down, and the years of doctoring with opium and “corn licker”, encouraged him to seek Still’s help. John had his own misgivings about the idea, but he had come. Yes, he was desperate but dare he hope? And like thousands of others, osteopathy seemed to hold out this last hope. But the leg injury of long ago carried a greater burden than the pain and limp. This deeper wound festered even after all these years. Would Still be accepting of this secret part of the “medical history”? The question, and a sense of shame, gnawed at John’s soul.

His heart full of trepidation, Freeman approached the Infirmary. It was more striking than most frontier buildings as he beheld it. And as he drew near, the surrounding macadam surface felt unusual under his feet and the smooth levelness of it made walking so much easier. Someone knew what they were doing in designing this place, he thought. At home, his world consisted of wheel ruts on a prairie pocked with gopher holes. Was he entering a new world?

Inside, the newly oiled woodwork and tall windows gave an aura of brightness and freshness. And electricity, and hot and cold water in all the rooms – it was a pinnacle of modernity. All this despite the presence of so many ill. His spirits felt a bit lifted as he walked through the lobby.

Families on benches in the waiting rooms, patients assisted to rooms, or in wheelchairs – it was apparent the purpose of their visits. It was serious business, though many like Freeman harbored doubts along with their hopes. Medicine was still at a very primitive stage. The microscope was now generally in circulation but diagnosis was made by physical signs and symptoms.

Traditionally, medicines were few, and little advanced from herbal cures. After the war between the states casualties and disabilities were many, and morphine seemed an advance over opium. But the same dependency applied, enslaving many who had fought over the slavery of their fellow man. The promises of medicine were many, the comforts few. And many died under the knife.

But here they said a different approach was taken. Folks were talking about “bloodless surgery” and “using the body’s own chemicals to heal”, surgery as a last resort to save life. These audacious claims flew in the face of mainstream medicine. But still, the Wabash Railroad brought hundred daily in hope of relief if not cure.

“John Freeman? Mr. John Freeman!?”

Freeman nodded in acknowledgement to the woman behind the registration desk.

“Yes, please come to the desk.” Sally Taylor asked in a pleasant voice.

“That will be nine dollars deposit for the first three treatments, the first week. After that, treatment is twenty-five dollars a month. If you decide to stay, the deposit will be deducted from your first month’s fee. You may stay at the Poole Hotel, as you are, or consider a boarding house, which will be quite practical should your stay go a bit longer than you expect. Ma Scott’s is as good as any, if she has room. The hotel’d cost you ten dollars a month; Someone’s spare room or a boarding house will cost you three to five dollars. So, make you choice. You’ve got time to make up your mind. But for now, let me take your information and deposit.”

After the transaction Sally continued, “Thank you, then, here is your receipt; this young lady will take you where you need to go.”

“Good morning, Mr. Freeman; please come with me. I am your nurse, Miss Shreve.”

Nurse Shreve, accustomed to the efficient bustle and daily rhythm of the place, led Freeman down the wide hallway to a consultation room. First he sat in the chair and surveyed the place. Beside the two chairs and a writing desk, the room was dominated by a large window, filling the room with air and light. Although it let in the breeze and a bit of the bustle of the town, it was high enough above the street for privacy.

The examination table seemed clear in its purpose, and the small stool, but lastly there was as strange contraption. It appeared to Freeman to be part chair and part mouse trap with some sort of adjustable pads along the back.

The nurse noted his curiosity. “Don’t worry it won’t bite and it’s not used as a form of torture. It’s a special chair devised by Dr. Still to put corrective force directly where it’s needed. If he uses it, the Doctor will explain it all to you. Now, we have some forms to fill out before the Doctor comes in.”

The nurse reviewed a form with standard questions about the complaint, other possible diseases, diet and previous medical attention, then asked in a firm voice, “Is there anything else we should know about your medical history?”

Hesitating, beginning to perspire, Freeman answered, “There is one other matter, but I will discuss that with Dr. Still.”

“Please, Sir,” cajoled the nurse, “it is helpful for the Doctor to have all your information ahead of time.”

Beginning to mutter, Freeman replied, “I think this best discussed with Dr. Still.”

“But sir…” began the nurse in rather stern tones.

Dropping his town manners, resuming his tone for overseeing farm hands, Freeman affirmatively, near aggressively, raised his voice and asserted, “I know the matter at hand, Miss, and I know my mind….I think it best discussed with Dr. Still directly!!”

With that the nurse timidly added, “Well, yes, as you wish.” She directed the patient to disrobe behind the screen and trade his street clothes for the examination gown on the hook. She then turned, rang the service bell, and scurried to the door.

Freeman, now in a sweat, sat in the nervous silence for what seemed like an hour. After several minutes, a lean, trim, nearly six foot Dr. Still, similar in age to the patient, entered.

“Good morning, Sir. Mr. Freeman, I hear.”

“Good morning Doctor. Yes, Freeman, John Freeman.”

Still took a seat at the writing desk, stroked a scraggly beard, and briefly reviewed the nurse’s notes.

“Well, let’s see here…hip and back, humm…”

The Doctor paused, and looked long at the man before him. Freeman was impressed by the strength of gaze, the power behind those piercing grey eyes.

“So, this started with a problem with leg pain from a fall some years ago, I see. But there is more on your mind, Brother; what is it that troubles you?”

After years of anticipating this moment, Freeman was at a loss as to where to begin. Yes there was the pain, the frustration with youth and manhood lost, but deeper down the wound seethed. “Doctor, I need help with my leg but there is another matter to discuss first, another wound before you can help me with the leg?”

“Yes, Brother, what is it?”

“Before you call me Brother you should know we have met, at Little Blue. I fought with Price.”

Time stopped for a moment and each man retrenched into his private thoughts. Time went back thirty years to their youth. Little Blue, a muddy stream south west of Westport, south of Kansas City on the Missouri side.

Still recalled that day. His unit, the 21^st Kansas Militia, had been called out to assist Union General Totten in making an army of 35,000 men to face Confederate General Price. Prior to this, Still’s abolitionist neighbors were organized loosely under the banner of James Lane and had mostly been engaged only in preparedness, defensive intimidation of the majority of pro-slavery neighbors, and responding to the guerrilla tactics of Quantrell’s Army, especially after the latter burned Lawrence, a nearby community which was an abolitionist stronghold.

Although the 36^th parallel, (the southern Missouri border) had been set as the northern most border of the slave south, Missouri was later admitted to the Union in 1820 as a slave state, a compromise intended to balance the admission of Maine as a free state. In 1855 the Kansas-Nebraska Act abolished the inviolability of the 36^th parallel opening the Northern Territories to slavery. In 1862, the issue remained alive.

Settlers of both persuasions, pro-slave and abolitionist, had invested their lives anticipating, hoping, that politics would fall on their side. Tensions rose. Skirmishes among neighbors along the Missouri/Kansas line were frequent and daily chores required vigilance. Still recalled uncomfortable moments coming upon Confederate units drilling in the woods.

A whirlwind of ideological, political and practical undertones was fanned to a white heat by religious fervor. Preachers like John Brown and Henry Ward Beecher stirred the abolitionist minority into a crusade. Beecher even preached to raise funds for rifles, which were called Beecher Bibles. Brown put kin and neighbors on the ground armed as fighters.

Still has received the “calling” to higher values including freedom for all God’s creatures from his father, Abram Still, a circuit riding Methodist preacher. The senior Still’s convictions made him unpopular with the majority in his Methodist charge and they had moved to Baldwin, Kansas, to a community of like minded individuals for safety. However the safety was relative. Missouri and Kansas became a chess board for national political interests.

Passions simmered on both sides as prairie colonists were men of character, stamina and vision. William Clarke Quantrell, reflecting the will of the majority in Kansas, began a campaign and in August of 1855 burned and pillaged the free-state community of Lawrence, just north and east of Baldwin. Brown organized a response from his followers and massacred pro-slavery families along Pottawatomie Creek, dragged the unarmed inhabitants into the night, and brutalized them with cavalry swords.

Such were those times. Wounds healed slowly and for years many men writhed in agony many a night, unable to express their disturbing memories to those resting beside them.

Both Still and Freeman continued to search the face of the other, recognizing the disciplined coldness of repressed memory.

Still had been commissioned as Captain and Assistant Surgeon. His unit of volunteers, more accustomed to engaging similar small units, succeeded in pressing the enemy immediately before them, but in doing so, they found themselves advanced beyond the front lines of the larger retreating Confederate army. They were cut off from the main body of the Union force.

Fighting was fierce and both Drew and his mule dodged grazing bullets. Several rounds pieced his coat, but flesh was spared. Then, through deference, chance or ineptitude, his opponent had shot his mule rather than the rider and as the animal dropped it rolled and pinned Drew beneath. As he lay in pain and the senseless stupor, he knew he was in no position to defend himself. Companions had left him for dead and to death he may be going. But to struggle during this exchange of lead would certainly draw attention of blade or bullet. In this state of shock, and desperate indecision, Drew’s mind drifted into timeless unconsciousness.

“Everything will be all right, just come home,” a soft voice whispered in the quiet of his soul.

“Mary?”

The spirit of his deceased first wife seemed to comfort him.

Drew lay still and stunned in the dark, wondered why. The crackle of gunfire and smell of burnt powder, mud, sweat and blood pervaded his senses in a swirl of hazy consciousness. The enormous weight of the mule pressed him to the ground as a hot searing feeling crept like a fire down his right leg. As the volleys became less intense and less frequent, Drew began to piece things together.

“Am I shot? Who is winning?” he asked himself. It became evident that, as he lay, there could be no sure answers.

The heavy stillness has descended on the clearing. “Drew, get up, save yourself; you have things to do yet.” Again, a familiar voice roused the weary man, but as he looked around, no one so near his ear. Was it his wife, his dear deceased; was it Mary? But she certainly was not here; was it shock and craziness? The voice sounded so clear. As Drew continued to listened, the scene around him was sobering. Only the groans, moans of the dying now replaced the whistle and crackle of gunfire. The smoke of battle has given way to the mist of twilight. Drew realizes his lapse into reverie and the coming of night. The grimness of his predicament became clear; he began to rally to survive. Now is the time to move. Drew seemed to hear the voice of his father: “You have to do for yourself, my man.” Thankfully Drew was pinned in the muddy field under the softer flank of the mule and was able with tedious effort to work first shoulders then chest, pelvis then legs, out from under the limp beast.

As he rose, his injury became apparent. Luckily he sustained bruises rather than fractures or gunshot wounds. A dull pain in his groin later proved to be a hernia. Although they prevailed in driving Price to retreat, there was a cost paid by many. Companions around him were not as lucky as Drew in receiving a grazed coat. Recognizing a few neighbors, among both the abolitionists and the confederated regulars, Drew saw none for whom his assistance could now make a difference.

Less time had lapsed than he had thought. His men awaited an order. He called for the bugler to reassemble the troops and resume closed ranks. They assembled some enemy horses. A soldier brought Still a horse and he mounted. They rode to follow the retreating army, but did not press to engage them. After camping for the night, the pursuit resumed in the morning with skirmished through the day. Point having been made, the enemy were allowed to escape.

As he sat on the infirmary exam table, Freeman also reflected on that day. He and his neighbors had sympathized with Quantrell and the Confederate cause. Most had moved to the West for freedom, the freedom promised by the country’s founders that seemed to be eroding in the East under the intrusion of State then Federal government. In part, the arguments for Negro inferiority played second fiddle to the issue of states’ rights. Stephen Douglas in Illinois cried “Let the People Rule.” Nowhere was the tension over the issue of slavery more acutely felt than in Kansas territory.

Abolitionists, or free-state men, were seen as fanatics, a threat to the way things had been, the way they needed to be. Their fire could not be quenched but by powder and lead.

John Freeman also reflected as their eyes remained locked on each other. On that day in May, Freeman and two of his brothers had joined in with a militia band loyal to Quantrell as part of the army of Generals Shelby and Price at Westport on the Missouri side. They met a formidable resistance from the Union regulars and assorted militias. Through the afternoon they dodged in and out of alder thickets engaging the enemy along a line between Westport and Little Blue Creek.

Occasionally, the enemy amounted to recognizable neighbors from the Kansas side, fighting likewise for what they believed. But fighting for their lives, in the heat of the moment, fire they did. Freeman was astonished at one point to find his sights fall on the mounted figure of Drew Still, the respected physician from Baldwin. Distracted by the dilemma, he hesitated to squeeze the trigger long enough to miss his best shot, but still he fired and saw mule and rider fall. The action progressed rapidly and in the gun smoke haze his bugler called retreat and he moved further east with General Price’s army. For months he wondered with mixed emotions over the outcome of that shot. Somehow it brought the horror of war to the forefront of his mind; and all too often to his disturbed sleep.

In the examination room, Freeman was the first to break the silence.

“Doctor, Major, Sir, I was a bad shot that day. I aimed at a man, I brought down a mule.”

“I see,” replied Still in deeply sonorous, serious tones, now looking down. The significance of the patient’s reserve came to him. After a long pause, the Doctor looked up, “Bad days they were, brother against brother and neighbor against neighbor. But for some higher reason it had to be. We each done what we thought we had to do….Well, there was a higher purpose in your missing the mark there that day, wasn’t there? Now let’s see that leg.”

Still started to observe, then poke, then feel the surface, nudging here and there about the man’s thigh and leg. He spoke as he worked: “I believe I can recall some Freemans over around Bucyrus. Is that your clan?”

“Yes, Sir, that’s us.”

“Tell me, how is your brother, Charles.”

“My two brothers were both killed in the war.”

“And your wife, how is she?”

“Died, too, of the meningitis.”

Still commiserated reflectively, “Yes, I lost my first wife two months after our last child, in ’59. The meningitis then took all our children save one. Prairie life can be hard on a man. But we must go on.”

A knowing and sympathetic silence lingered in the air.

“Now, walk around a little for me; I think I can see where to begin with you. Now you know it has been a number of years in this condition, but I see something we can work with.”

As the Doctor moved the patient’s leg and hip in various positions, he continued to talk. “Where are you staying? I generally say that it often takes a week of treatment to gain back a year of injury. In your case we might make progress quicker since you have stayed pretty active. You will be seen three times a week, either by an assistant or myself. All are graduates of my school and are excellent operators.”

“You can board through the school if you like. At the boarding houses there are baths, hot water of course, and good meals. If you want to talk terms about a package, talk to my son, Charles. The nurse who saw you in will give you a copy of the infirmary rules. Most of all, try to save your questions for the consultation room. If we come across each other in town, treat me like a polite stranger. Also, since each man is different, please do no discuss your treatment with the other patients. Each man, and woman, is on a different journey. Is that clear? Any questions?”

“No, Major, Doctor, I feel better for the ‘consultation’; the wound has started to heal.”

The two men looked eye to eye and embraced.

“Remember, John,” said Still in his low mellow serious tone, “the past is just that; in the here and now and the kingdom come, we are always brothers. Only the Almighty can make sense of the way things unfold here on this earth. I hold no resentment.”

Dr. Still walked to the door; Freeman turned to dress but looking after the Doctor noticed his cane.

The Old Doc continued to see a series of patients, selectively sent to him by his associates of the school. Eventually, duty done, Still walked out beyond the porch into the late morning sun. Retiring to a bench nearby he recalled the outcome of Little Blue, still attached to his conversation with John Freeman.

After collecting their wits Still’s reassembled company had ridden to follow the retreating army, but did not press to engage them. The following day they continued pursuit to reclaim territory and put distance between the Confederate force and Kansas settlements but then broke off the chase. Confederate stragglers were allowed to bury their dead. In the process, 140 confederates came under a flag of truce.

“How are you off for grub?” quipped Still, as the men were led to him at gunpoint.

“Almost out, Major,” replied a spokes person for the scraggly troop.

“I want you to listen,” Still said sternly from horseback, “and don’t interrupt me. War is a horrible thing. Partly we are driven by loyalties to kin and the way things have been for as long as we can remember. Partly we are driven by hunger or ambition, following the lead of those with a need to control our politics. In either case, our deepest intent is not to kill our brother, our neighbor. But blinded by these other factors, we kill. I have known you Confederates to dispatch a number of our Union brethren, regardless of their draping themselves with this white flag. What comes from such treatment; is there joy in such killing?”

“I saw you coming today, and with this in mind, had the intention to shoot you and I think I shall… shoot you with coffee and hot food to turn your grief to joy. Now get out of here; get your filthy carcasses to the commissary and fill up.” Sweating brows gave way to smiles of relief from the desperate men.

The next day the troops followed after Price and saw the trailing dust of progress eastward. They followed for some 90 miles back across the Missouri/Kansas line.

Soon, Still received orders to disband his company of volunteers for the time being and send them home for a well earned rest and to consolidate their families, however they might be. On the frontier the war was as much over conserving their lifestyle, of seeing the world as a free place, escaping the agendas of the east or south. The strain on families, even without a war, was enormous. Pushing the men onward, without respite, risked desertion, demoralization, and a violation of the core of what made these frontiersmen the rugged bunch they were. They were fighting for the Union, but they were also fighting for the way they saw the world – free.

He had received the order to disband but Drew’s humor and personal style could not immediately execute the order. He assembled the company and challenged them.

“Now I have said that I do not want any one of you to undertake the arduous march ahead of us and to engage further in this terrible conflict who is not equal to this emergency. If any are too sick, faint, or weak to accompany us, or for any cause felt you could not endure the hardship and danger, you would not be force to go. All who would volunteer to go with me through any trial or danger take six paces to the front.”

“How many of you are going to follow me forward, how many have the mettle, the determination to see this thing through?”

A hushed, reflective moment followed. Many heads bowed and searched their souls. Memory of family, wounds and fatigue, hunger – tired of killing their young neighbors – many had no heart in it.

“How many! Step forward six paces!”

Silence, hesitation, then one stepped forward, then more; in all, a third of the men stepped forward.

“Very good, boys. But we have other orders; we are to all go home.” Still cracked a big smile which rapidly spread through the troop. Guns shot cracked and hats were tossed in the air, horses wheeled.

Lieutenant Brandon at Still’s side commented, “Well handled, Major,” and rode off. Still reined in his restless mount and for a moment watched thoughtfully as the men departed. Then, with a deliberate tug, he directed his steed westward.

Such thoughts seemed to come back in a flood as Still sat in 1899, enjoying the early May sun. He recalled the voice which brought him that day back to consciousness. “Thank you, Mary, for being there for me that day. Thanks for being here for me, today.” Life is so full and so strange thought Still. After all these year, and his good remarriage to Mary Turner, his first wife Mary Vaughn seemed so very much a soul mate and daily companion. He talked with her often and it seemed quite natural.

Chapter 2: A Golden Morning

Beams of summer morning sunlight streamed through the sieve of leaves. Though familiar to young Drew Still, now seven, the path in the Virginia woods took on a surreal quality this morning. A lingering cool mist diffused the light and gave the forest air a delicate freshness. It just felt magically different. The boy stood in wonderment at the quiet beauty of it all. What a magnificent creation, the hand of an all wise and generous Creator. As he entered the path which led down the hollow to the creek flowing beneath the rock bridge, a path he had trodden with his brothers Edward and James frequently, the place took on a different feeling, a funny kind of feeling. Inside there was a fear, an apprehension, perhaps of the unknown. A real fear – there were bear and bobcat, even cougar, in these parts. But he was drawn onward.

Equally uncertain were encounters with native hunters. The Still family and their neighbors around Jonesville shared the woodland with the Cherokee. The tracks of explorers and “long hunters” such as Daniel Boone and Bigfoot Spencer had led to the creation of a wilderness road to the west in 1775. The Indian homeland was appropriated for white advantage. The community around Jonesville got most of its news from travelers along the road who stopped for a rest and supplies on their way to the Cumberland Gap. There was a tolerance by the native peoples since the wars of forty years before, but growing unrest since the passage of the Indian Removal Act in 1830. What was later to be called the Trail of Tears was immanent but still not foreseen.

But a seven year old is not deterred by such grown up considerations. A curiosity and a rapture induced by the beauty and silence around him edged him on. Usually trips to the woods were planned and he with his family. But this morning was spontaneous. He wanted to go forward and explore. His feet moved cautiously, eyes and ears tuned to all around. While walking the well trodden path, his fingers brushed against the soft leaves.

A shower of chips began steadily dropping through the leaves and hitting Drew’s shoulder giving away the presence of a grey squirrel as it nimbly bobbed at the end of a small limb, hugged the branch with its tail and browsed the ripe hickory nuts. Drew could smell the gingery aroma of the torn husks. The gentle rattle of leaves overhead betrayed the position of the furry forager. If he had been here on business, with his gun, the squirrel would be table fare. Drew shifted and dry golden hickory leaves crackled under his shoe. The squirrel startled and leapt to a higher, safer perch. Sensing intrusion, a jay called and its companions responded, distracting the boy as they cruised through the glade. Then silence.

Simple things seemed wondrous this morning. The squirrel had a tail; how useful. Drew felt jealous. Climbing trees was difficult. The squirrel definitely had the advantage. The jay had wings. Drew had plied the flesh of each of these creatures after they appeared in his gun sights. So different live, then dead. Fur and feathers – different for sure; bone, somewhat the same but adapted to the tasks at hand. Each seemed to reflect different whims of the same Creator. How wise.

Drew reached the creek but held tight to the steep bank. His goal was the secret meeting place on the ledge beneath the natural bridge. He followed the creek which murmured gently as it would through the rocks in the green tunnel of undergrowth. Ahead lay the larger pool and behind it the wonder of the natural stone bridge. Drew sat beside the stream on a mossy rock, enjoying the coolness and the echoing sound of the wood thrush in the distance. With a stick he poked through the reflective surface of the pool and overturned small stones in the creek bottom, chasing a crawfish from hideout to hideout as it propelled itself with the flick of its tail. In the profound morning stillness the valley walls echoed the rolling of the rocks and the splashes.

Finally he reached the bridge, the natural tunnel in the limestone, and sat in the shade of the craggy cave. Traces of leached groundwater left curious patterns in the rock, giving him a glance into the world underground. His brothers would tell tales of adventure, of Indian exploits, the fruits of boys’ active imaginations as they huddled above the flow of the stream. There was a mystery about the place.

This morning, in his reverie, exterior space soon became indistinguishable from interior space and the warmth of the sun blended with the warmth of reverent wonder in his chest. He began a verbal dialogue thanking the Creator for all these gifts, this world, himself, his family.

Drew arose and walked further down the path on a loop that would eventually return to the farm on the rocky ridge top. As he walked deeper into the wood he reflected on their life; the absences of his father, committed to “the Word”, contacts with the native people, the difficulty of school learning under Professor “Spankenberg”. Their life was hard; Drew had his own string of chores: the hoe, feeding the chickens, currying the horse when he was home. Pitching in like the squirrels, he knew he was preparing his family for winter.

He wondered about the adult talk by several families of moving on. He wondered how long these woods would be home for him. The spreading valley between the mountains provided the flattest land in this region, but the thin soil among the limestone outcroppings made raising good crops difficult. His own parents had talked before about going to Missouri, somewhere far west. He wondered about the country there, would there be the squirrels, the rabbits, turkey and deer? Drew had become comfortable in this world of Virginia, the world of Nature as it spoke to him of order and beauty and divine caring wisdom. It was what he knew; it gave him a sense of place, of connection. It promised more to be learned.

For now, he completed his circuit, climbing up to the ridge, left the woods and reentered the farm clearing.

“Pa!!”

To Drew’s surprise Abram Still came at a gentle gallop around the curve of the hill toward the house.

“You are a week early! Oh, Pa, I am so glad to see you.”

Ma dropped her washing in the tub on the porch and ran to meet her man. Abram dismounted and led his horse to be hitched. Handing the reins to Drew, he returned his wife’s embrace and patted the younger children on the head.

“Y’all been good, helping your mother? Mary, have they been good kitchen help? James, is the homestead in order? You and this place sure are a sight for sore eyes. The road works on a man, his mind you know, never sure about what the day and the miles will bring. Folks have been kind, however, and I fared well. Drew, what you been up to; did you save them chickens from the weasel? Have you been helping your brothers scratching the roots of that corn?”

“Looks good, Pa. Lost only one hen and that was to the bullies in the flock; pecked her, the way they do. The weasel’s gotten not a one. We’ve been having enough eggs extra to sell. We’ve made four dollars!”

“The Lord’s been good to us this year with the farm. And he has been a shield to me from heathen and weather this year on the road. Praise the Lord. Now is there some grub to be found around here for a hungry man?”

“Come in, Pa, and I’ll fix you a fine supper,” Martha offered.

“Yes, dear, I’ve got an appetite big as a bear’s.”

As twilight darkened the corners of the room and the lamps were lit, the family hovered around Pa to hear about his adventures on the road. Drew hung at his father’s elbow waiting for him to speak. He knew not to press. Besides weariness, his Pa had to sort out in his own mind what to share and how. He knew father kept secrets to spare his family worry. They all could sense it.

“This time, I must admit, I had a scare. Late one evening I coaxed the horse to cross the river so I could camp on the other side. That done, we were both wet and exhausted. I lit a fire then heard a wolf. Never is there one, you know.”

Drew’s eyes grew larger as his attention was undivided on his father’s every word. Abram continued.

“I was worried; yes, I was scared but had faith. Now wolves do not like fire. So, I lit and tended four fires to create a perimeter of protection. Additionally, I began to sing ‘On Jordon’s Bank’ as loud as I was able to maintain. Needless to say, it was a long night, waiting to see who would be more persistent, me or the beasts. They sang and I sang louder. In the end the good Lord sent the morning light before my energy waned. We rode a few hours and were able to find some sleep and shelter with a good family of long acquaintance.”

“Oh, Pa, if such things are to be endured,” cried Mother, part serious, “spare us the details!”

“Well,” continued Abram, “the boys need to learn of the reality of faith, not in books, even the Good Book alone. They need to learn that faith is something to live by. It fills you, overtakes you.”

He directed his gaze toward Andrew. “Drew, a man needs to live his convictions. There is no other way. Life is too short.” He paused as if in thought. “I know some of the other folk around here feel my preaching on the circuit amounts to abandonment. I know it puts a burden on you all, I know, but it’s something I need to do, a calling. There is a burning voice in me that will not be silenced. It says this world we see, this life of work and worry, is not all there is for us. There’s more, there’s a hope, there’s a hereafter and our Savior tells us the way. He has shown it to me as clear as day; he pushes me to share this with others. Besides, when I ride, I am able to bring some healing to the body, as to the soul, as John Wesley had proposed.”

Pa continued, “A man can ignore his inner voice, but then he is dead before his time, a walking ghost of a man. Many never hear this voice. They are yet to be born and so they live a shallow life. Drew, we do not all have the same path, but you must follow that voice within you. The truth is too precious to be ignored. This voice and the grace that comes with it, is to a man just as the rain is to the corn; it sustains us, is life itself. Danger, hardship, is nothing in the face of following that inner voice.”

Abram put his arm around his young son. Drew bowed his head sheepishly. The father continued. “I see you in the woods, and in the field. Part of your mind is always watching, wondering how and why about things. Reading Nature you are, reading Nature like a book. That will serve you well.”

“A man has to read the wisdom of the Creator in Nature, in the streams and woods and mountains and find his place. If you stay true to yourself and your inner voice, you will do well; you will amount to something and be a help to others. I know this will be true. Now, come on, let’s get up and show me that flock of yours. Ma, thank you, that dinner was fit for royalty.”

“Well, you are more than welcome; I am glad you liked it.” Martha put her arms around her husband’s neck. “You know, to me, you are my prince, but I worry about you.”

Pa pecked his wife on the cheek then took a different tack, “I meant to bring this up later but might speak to it now to get it off my chest. As you know, the church is considering opening up a school, a better more proper school, in New Market, in Tennessee. It will be called Holton Seminary. The Conference board asked if I would work on the committee to get it going. I am considering it seriously. If we do that, it means a move, but better education for the children and perhaps less time on horseback for me. I’d be home more.”

Ma listened thoughtfully, “Pa, a move? We talked about someday moving west, but that was someday, not soon.”

“I know it is not as simple as it sounds. We will talk. I’ve not given my decision; I have ’til the end of the month. Let’s pray on it. Now, Drew, show me that flock of hens.”

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Copyright © 2007 Zachary Comeaux. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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