CHAPTER I

A Journey Begins

As horses go, he might as well have been a mule. His every awkward stride threw his gentle rider from side to side like the blows of a Boston prizefighter. Even at this late hour in the darkening woods of the Western Reserve it was easy to see that this horse had only a few more trips in him. His back was deeply impressed from the weight of two decades of riders. His legs crooked and weakened from the plough. Perhaps he would make the twenty-hour ride from the settlement at Bath to Harrisville. Perhaps not.

Just last spring, after a lifetime of faithful service, he had been given over by a family in Pennsylvania to his present master, a twenty-three year-old minister from Windsor, Connecticut. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, the pastor mused as he struggled to keep his own tired head pointed forward.

Circuit riding ministers were a new and valuable commodity to the lands recently granted to Revolutionary War heroes who were slowly settling Connecticut’s Western Reserve, in what would later become northern Ohio. And Isaiah Sheldon was among the first of the religiously educated young men of Connecticut to leave the familiar surroundings of home and head west with little more than a Bible, and, to his occasional discomfort, a horse. 

It was Sunday evening, and services had ended in Bath about mid-afternoon. The Congregational church at Bath was Isaiah’s first charge in the Reserve, and today marked his first Sabbath service there.

The Bath church was new, a plain, unpainted clapboard structure with a few windows applied sparingly. The building served the community as God’s residence on earth and, when the Almighty wasn’t home, a school for the twenty or so children who had accompanied their parents onto the new frontier.

The morning was sunny and bright, yet the benches of the little Bath Church were quite empty when worship began. In fact, from the entire congregation, only three men were in attendance.

Feeling an immediate sense of abandonment or, at best, indifference to his cause from the congregants, Isaiah made what would later prove to be a very bad decision, especially for his very first Sabbath there.  A quite good sermon he had prepared on the children of Israel was forfeited and, in its place, what some might call a tirade against slothfulness and spiritual apathy was inserted. 

His acrimonious assault found its mark clear enough and, as he left the church, he felt the kind of uneasiness one feels after eating a meal he is certain will bring severe abdominal pain later.

As he rode out of town, the old Indian trail to Harrisville compelled him to pass through the several farms on the west end of town. Approaching each farm he was astonished to see his absentee male parishioners who enthusiastically greeted him, each man stopping his team, or dropping his scythe to rush roadside and bid the circuit rider a favorable Sabbath. 

He presently realized that these men had not ignored the morning’s religious duty as he had imagined, but were required to stay in their fields out of a simple need to feed their flocks and their families.  The uneasiness, which had accompanied Isaiah out of town, was gone now. A stomach full of pain and regret had completely replaced it.

Isaiah passed beyond the newly taken fields and into the woodlands outside of town. He felt remorse for his misguided anger and wept true tears of repentance for his feelings.

When he returned to Bath in two weeks, he would remember to apologize for his insensitivity and ask the congregation for forgiveness.

The preacher was only one day in the Lord’s employ, but he already knew that his service to the churches in the Reserve was going to be very different than the ministry for which he had so patiently prepared in the east.

The evening pressed in harder, and the trail to Harrisville became less favorable. Isaiah passed the time speaking aloud the names of biblical heroes, hoping that one might resonate with a sound to satisfy his search of a proper moniker for his decidedly sorrowful mount. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and on through the New Testament he journeyed. But it was in the Old Testament, the historical home of his own name, that Isaiah Sheldon found, what he believed was, the perfect name.

 “Get along Job”, he proffered tentatively. And for a moment, the old ploughman seemed to straighten his back and lengthen his step. “Then we are settled”, the preacher announced happily. And horse and rider continued westward.

At the conclusion of the morning’s service Isaiah met Talcott Warner. Warner had early settled the area and knew every trail and homesteader between Pennsylvania and Fort Detroit. He told the preacher that he might stop for the night at the Hummel place in Medina if Harrisville seemed too far a ride. But it had been nearly six hours already, and there was no lantern light to be seen for some distance.

CHAPTER 2

A Light In The Forest

On the edge of a windfall just ahead, the tiny log home of Robert Hummel and his family resonated with activity. Though the evening was yet warm, a fire was prepared in its large stone hearth in an effort to light up the otherwise dark interior.

Phyllis Hummel, herself a Connecticut born immigrant to the Reserve led the neighboring women in the preparation of a fine table of native game and harvest in anticipation of the young preacher’s arrival.

Talcott Warner’s oldest son Ephraim had passed the Hummel place near the dinner hour on his way to Sandusky bringing news of the new cleric’s imminent passing, and within the hour the news had spread throughout the settlement.

There were only eight families living at the windfall that autumn, and without a pastor their own religious activities were necessarily limited to weekly Bible reading and hymns at the Hummel home. 

Tonight, during their hastily prepared community dinner, they would entreat the circuit rider to add the windfall to his route.

 The evening stars peeked in and out of the wooded canopy over Isaiah’s head. But their observation could be completed only in short glances skyward as the wood had grown somewhat thicker and branches hanging low over the narrow path were constant obstacles.

It was the smell of a wood fire that first alerted both horse and rider to the approach of civilization. Though the Bath settlement and the windfall were only ten miles apart, a journey undertaken at night always seemed longer somehow, and that smoky aroma came as sweet fragrance indeed.

 The forest began to thin before them. The insubstantial light of a waning moon dimly lit the meadows of the windfall. At the meadow’s end, the lights of the Hummel cabin were coming into view.

The noise from the cabin overcame the sound of preacher’s arrival, and young Master Steven Hummel, the appointed watchman, had long since fallen fast asleep on the cabin porch.   Isaiah slid heavily from his saddle and walking forward scratched old Job behind the ears. The meadow grasses were tall, and the veteran trail horse needed no encouragement to drop his head into one of the healthier stands of grass and begin his dining. Isaiah let the reigns fall from his hand, and headed up the porch step past the sleeping centurion and to the wooden door.

When some think of a circuit riding preacher, they may conjure the image of a tall, slender man dressed in a black wool sack coat with a flat headpiece covering a balding scalp and marked for employment by his white collar. By these measures, Isaiah Sheldon certainly did not look part of his profession.

A bit short, and stocky, Isaiah had a full head of long wavy and blonding hair. He wore no hat, and his collar was that of a scholar only and would not have distinguished him as a man of the cloth. His handshake was strong, unlike the cold, wet hands of eastern clerics.  And his knock upon the Hummel’s door brought immediate silence from all within the cabin’s walls.

Robert Hummel pulled back on the door and the firelight spilled out onto Isaiah’s face and extended hand. Hummel took the pastor’s hand and pulled him into the house. The freshly aroused voice of the younger Hummel followed the two into the cabin, “Father, I believe the preacher is here”.

No matter the size of the flock, and these were not even yet his flock; the expectation is that the shepherd will come to know each member by name. And it took only minutes for each family to be introduced down to the smallest child and for each to sample the strong clasp of the preacher’s hand.

The Turner’s and their children; the Delahanty’s and their son; the White’s; and a man named Donovan had come to the Hummel’s cabin that evening. A man of glowing countenance by the name of Dunmore took the responsibility for the introductions, and immediately stood apart in Isaiah’s eyes as the leader of the tiny community.

Isaiah was unaware that this gathering was anything other than a pleasant recognition of his passing by and his calling. He spent much of the dinner eating little and talking much about his journey to the Reserve and of his first Sabbath at the settlement of Bath.

Playing well into the hands of the highly expectant gathering, Isaiah remarked more than once how he had been surprised that there were but two congregations assembled under the Congregational banner on the frontier.

It was late when dinner ended. The women and children retired to their homes leaving the men to continue the conversation around the embers of the failing fire in the Hummel home.

From his stool outside the circle of attentive inquisitors, the elder David Dunmore listened most keenly, and when the conversation lulled for a brief moment, posed the question to which all present had prayed for an affirmative answer. Would the young pastor take on the spiritual oversight of the settlers of the windfall?

             CHAPTER 3

Whose Church Will It Be?

The Hummel children were spending the night with the Todd family and their small loft had been prepared to accommodate the preacher. It was nearly daylight when Isaiah’s feet finally set upon its wooden ladder to climb to his resting place, and still he had given the families of the windfall no answer to their query.

As tired as the day had left him, Isaiah slept uncomfortably weighing the request of the windfall’s families over and again in his mind. It would have been easy to say yes, and in his heart that was certainly the answer that felt most right. But the men had offered a caveat to the young preacher, a stipulation of his service that made the decision more irksome and confusing.

Influenced in large part by Mr. Dunmore, the windfall settlers had been moved to attempt a stand apart, that is, apart from the church of the east, and they were looking for a leader.

Isaiah was a Congregational minister. How should he respond to their request to begin a new congregation, but place its allegiance outside of the Congregational denomination? Mr. Dunmore’s case for a “free thinking” and “universal” form of Christianity was compelling, even if his specific theology was not well schooled. But a “new” church, one without hierarchy or denominational ties?  What was a recent seminarian to make of such things? 

Isaiah was not raised to be closed-minded about religion. His family had been Quakers early on, but refused the status of a Freeman in Connecticut for his beliefs, his father eventually aligned with the Congregationalists. Isaiah had lived in both worlds, and saw little problem with either. Could there be a problem from yet another change in thinking?

Early enough, the Hummels were up and at their morning chores, and guilt alone carried Isaiah back down the ladder and toward the table where he sat sloppily on a chair at its head. Young Steven Hummel was brooming the floor around the table, but stopped for a moment and stared at the preacher who sat with his head in his hands. “Well, sir”, he said in a singsong voice. “What do you think? Are you ever

coming back?” “Perhaps my friend”, Isaiah whispered through his fingers, “Perhaps”.

Neither the Hummels nor any of the other families who came to bid farewell the interloper during the late morning hours ever attempted to compel Isaiah to make a decision. But the youth’s question had been direct enough, and Isaiah replayed his words a hundred times before he had ridden to the western end of the meadow and broken into the woods on his way to Harrisville.

A good distance along the woodland trail, Old Job’s foot fell on a branch over the roadway causing it to snap loudly and his rider to pull back on his reigns. Stopped now as they were in the forest shade, Isaiah looked up and into the great tent-like tops of the sugar maples and whitewoods.

For a moment he felt so strangely wonderful that he considered dismounting and making a seat on some fallen log to take it all in. But owing this strange feeling of peace to a lack of proper rest and fearing more of a nap than his schedule could afford, he decided to continue on.

Harrisville was still nearly nine miles down trail. If he was steadfast, he could be there before dark. As he rode along under the cover of creation, he tried to imagine what Harrisville would be like.

The larger church of his two parish diocese, Harrisville had over forty settled families, and most of all them were Connecticut Congregationalists, including his brother Samuel the lodestone that had pulled Isaiah to the Reserve in the first.

Sam Sheldon settled in Harrisville in the summer of 1812. That had been five years ago. Isaiah was now uncle of three nephews, and this would be the first he would meet them.

Isaiah began thinking about those boys, the way in which his brother’s last letter had described them, but the face he kept seeing was that of young Steven Hummel. And his single voice echoed to the uttermost parts of his soul. “Are

you ever coming back?”  A breeze of unknown origin kicked through the trees and Job put his nose square into its path and breathed heavily.

                  CHAPTER 4

Harrisville

The years would prove Harrisville to be little more than a frontier footnote in the history of the Reserve, but the little burg held the distinction of being the first organized settlement in Medina County. And on that late summer’s day as the intrepid preacher rode into the center of town he was excited to see houses, real houses with windows and chimneys, railed porches and flower beds in the full height of their seasonal glory.

The town had an unmistakable New England flavor and names on storefronts brought back memories of Isaiah’s Windsor home. Timothy Brady owned the local mercantile, and the shingle over the blacksmith’s shed read Jos. Wilcox.

They stopped for a moment at a stone trough near the smithy’s where Job was permitted to drink. Isaiah reached into his saddlebag and withdrew a letter his brother had sent east nearly a year ago. On the back of the final page, Samuel had drawn a rough map and described the route to his home on the south end of town near the river.

Doffing his hat to the handful of residents who greeted the arrival of the stranger with polite waves, he led Job down the main street and toward the Congregational Church building, where he reined back long enough to observe its fine glass windows and shutters, tall arching front doors, and steeple. It was an impressive icon, by frontier standards, at least. And though Isaiah knew that the doors would be opened, he resisted the temptation to make himself at home just then, and planting his heels into Job’s sides, continued out of town.

Isaiah’s arrival at the home of his brother Samuel could best be described as modestly euphoric. It was late afternoon and Sam was already in from his barn work.   Before Isaiah had even removed himself from his horse, Sam came bounding across the front yard and leaped the short picket fence nearly arriving horizontal after catching his breeches on a rose bush growing next to the gatepost.

“My God, Isaiah!” he bellowed, unshaken by his near catastrophic approach. “How are you?” Though quite prepared to answer, and having planned his arrival speech most carefully over the trail, Isaiah abruptly paused as Sam turned to the house and yelled excitedly for his wife to join him at the roadside. “Ellen! Ellen! Come here!” Then, turning back to his brother he continued to reiterate, “ My God, My God!” Look at you boy! You’re all grown, a man, that’s what you are. A man!”

Samuel offered his hand to his brother and resting on Sam’s strength, Isaiah lifted himself off of Old Job and slid onto the dusty street. Ellen came forward from the house with a well-wrapped babe in arms and two young boys close at her heels. “Isaiah”, puffed Samuel.

 “This is my wife. This is Ellen, and this is Abraham.” Then, pointing toward the two young boys shadowed in their mother’s skirt, he continued. “And this, the tall one, is Samuel, and this is.” “This must be Jonathan.” Isaiah interrupted, continuing Sam’s thought for him.

With a strong pull of their mother’s hand, the boys were moved to the fore, where they made themselves presentable and each took his turn accepting the greeting and handshake of his Uncle.

The early evening passed quickly at the Sheldon homestead. Isaiah sat on a bench and held his youngest nephew while recounting his journey westward while the older boys, with eyes enthusiastically open, made themselves comfortable at their father’s feet.

Samuel’s house had the feeling of a real home, unlike the Hummel’s hastily constructed log cabin, the Sheldon home seemed finished, and Isaiah felt that it might have fit nicely on any of the finer streets of Windsor.

 There were two rooms on the first floor with a large portico offering a view of each room from the other. From his seat in the parlor, Isaiah gazed steadily into the main room where Ellen stirred a large kettle over the fire. It had been five years since Isaiah and Samuel had shared a conversation, and no detail of life in Windsor or Samuel’s new life in Harrisville was left unspoken.

As the light began to dim through the parlor windows, Ellen motioned to the children that dinner was prepared, and the dining area soon came alive with the sounds of chairs being dragged across the wooden floor and the rattle of plates being passed and filled.

The remembrances continued throughout the dinner hour, and to Isaiah’s pleasure, Ellen spoke freely about her own family in Massachusetts and of their adventures as they traveled west to Harrisville, and of her first meeting of Samuel at a Sabbath service.

Isaiah had spent the last three months traveling to this place, ever anticipating that when he at last arrived, he would find his home in the wilderness. And as the table was cleared, and the men again took to their parlor chairs, Isaiah was certain that his expectations of a good life on the frontier would me met.

                      CHAPTER 5

A New Door Opens

The next morning, Isaiah rose early, feeling completely rested and still quite filled from the fine dinner of the night before. Surprised to see a preacher up and about with the sun, Samuel took full advantage of his brother’s enthusiasm and invited him to the barn to help with the morning chores.

Samuel was not a farmer exactly, in that he made his living as a wood Wright, but like most of the Reserve’s early settlers, he was compelled to be involved in the raising of a few cattle for the dairy they provided his own family.

Measuring a good two inches taller and many pounds heavier that Isaiah, Samuel cut a powerful image as he pulled hay down from the mow and set it before the cows, adding an extra fork for Old Job who stood tied to the barn’s single stall.

Samuel had always been a carpenter, and, as far as Isaiah knew, had learned everything he knew about cattle and farming since coming west. Nonetheless, Isaiah listened as though he were at the feet of a master as his brother explained the art of drawing milk from his three tan-speckled Jerseys.

“I saw the church yesterday,” Isaiah announced as he vainly squeezed at the teat in his hand. Then, in an effort to remind his brother that he was a minister, and thereby camouflage his awkwardness as a farmhand, he asked, “So, what is the church like, Samuel?”

Answering without pause of his own rhythmic milking motion, Samuel replied, “Things here are fine, Isaiah. The church has grown large enough over the past few years, and the building you passed is less than a year old. We have managed fairly well without a minister to this day, but all of us have been awaiting your arrival here with great anticipation.”

Samuel noticing the confused tilt of his brother’s head added, “What I mean is that there is a good deal of work to be done here.

Last winter we passed through a great period of sickness, and the men of the town had to take on the responsibility for visiting all of the sick, not to mention the upkeep of the building, and the preparation for the Sabbath services.”

“Who,” Isaiah asked, “Has been performing the marriage rites and burying the dead?” “A man named Capt. Mills has married most of us, including Ellen and I, and a man named Gates has been assigned the funeral detail.” replied Samuel.

 “I fear you’ll meet them both soon enough.” “Listen.” he continued as if changing the subject, “I have a fence to repair in town this afternoon. You will come with me and we’ll visit the church and meet your flock.”

After the morning meal, Sam headed to his lean-to shop on the side of his barn to finish cutting some planks, which he would need for his afternoon appointment, and Isaiah decided to walk into the woods that grew thick along the riverbank behind the house.

As he walked there, he could hear the faint strumming of Samuel’s saw from the barn, but presently that sound faded beneath the rush of the water in the pleasant brook, and the sweeter melodies of the Bob White’s who had made their nests nearby.

Near a small length of falling water, a large boulder had been comfortably placed just there on the riverbank. Isaiah stepped up onto its top and seating himself cross-legged upon it, listened to the rhapsody which nature was providing for him. At that precise moment, he was reminded of his trek across the Indian trail and of the peace that seemed to come to him only in his solitude. It was a peace that was new, and it caused his senses to rush forward and back as they had done in the woods near the windfall.

He breathed in deep, and watched the river flowing into the sunlit woods.

                  CHAPTER 6

A Warm Welcome

Ellen was clearing the lunch dishes from the table and Isaiah excused himself to the tiny upstairs room that had been aside for him. With only a single change of clothing, there was no time wasted in his selection of a uniform for the trip to town.

Ellen had pressed the road out of his trousers and coat and washed his collar with lye that stung his sun burnt neck as he tied it round. A knock on the front door went unheeded by the preacher, and the footfalls of the unexpected visitors blended with those of the family leaving Isaiah unaware that company awaited him downstairs in the parlor.

Making himself at home in a willow rocking chair, Capt. Delawn Mills propped his muddy feet atop a small stool and began picking a stone from his heavy boot bindings. “Tell me Samuel, how has your brother Isaiah arrived here? Well I trust?” “Well enough.” Replied Samuel. “And we are just now preparing to head into town and make him acquainted with the Church house and the congregation.” “Good, good,” nodded Capt. Mills. “Then I shall go with you.” The latter statement was made with such absoluteness that no response from Samuel was necessary, and any argument would have proved futile.

Mills was the oversized and revered leader of the expedition that had set out from Milford, CT to survey and settle the township of Harrisville for his good friend and land speculator Gideon Harris. Harris was namesake of the expanding oasis on the Reserve.

Mills’ frontier edicts were law, and his will the adopted will of the citizenry of the small town in every detail. This was especially true as regarded his dominion over the town’s only church.

Pastor less, since its planting, the church had succumbed to the authority of the otherwise religiously untrained Mills. In matters of polity and dogma, he was unbending and unchallenged. Mills himself had sent word east requisitioning the new pastor. 

In a small side chair covered in Mills’ shadow, Ephraim Gates sat silently watching Mills with the eyes and mannerisms of an eastern lapdog observing his master, which, excepting his new geography, he decidedly was.

Gates had been appointed by Mills to the duties of undertaking, that is he was the last person the townsfolk saw before arriving at heaven’s golden gates. The roll fit the player to a tee. A slight man, if a man at all, Gates was

monotone in speech and demeanor. Speaking only when spoken to, his unmatched eyes moved repeatedly from side to side, as if expectant of a corrective rap to his pugg-ish nose.

Presently, a buoyant Isaiah lit from the stairway and entered the room where the gentlemen were seated. “Good day gentlemen.” he announced while still adjusting his cravat.

“Good day to you, Reverend Sheldon,” responded Mills, rising to his feet only long enough to tip his head slightly forward in welcome. “Isaiah,” Samuel began, “This is Capt. Delawn Mills of Milford, and this is his....” then pausing to allow himself time to arrive at the proper title, he continued, “This is Mr. Ephraim Gates. I believe I have already mentioned him to you.

“Ah yes, the undertaker,” Isaiah reminiscently nodded in acknowledgement. “Gentlemen, it is a fine pleasure to be acquainted with you both. I look forward with the greatest anticipation of working with you.” “And,” continued Samuel, “These gentlemen have arranged to join us on our journey into town.” “Your early assistance is most keenly appreciated,” noted Isaiah. Then adding, “Are we ready to set sailing?” There was silence for a moment, and then Capt. Mills stood again, followed by Gates and Samuel in rapid succession. The men headed out the door and into the misty rain, which had only recently begun to fall.

The downpour came stronger as the quartette approached the edge of Harrisville in Mill’s brightly painted buggy. Owing to driving storm, conversation was minimal, and Isaiah sat in the rear with Gates holding his gum blanket tightly over his shoulders. 

Samuel took the front seat and exchanged but few words with Mills. The rain had postponed his fence repairs until another day, and Samuel would now be obliged to spend whatever time Mills required in his company. The uneasiness of that realization became apparent to Isaiah watching his brother’s face as he dismounted from the buggy at the front of the church.

                   CHAPTER 7

The Storm Begins

The company stood at the top of the stairway leading toward the church’s tall, arched, wooden doors and watched as Capt. Mills fumbled through his vest pockets searching for something. It was not until Mills’ hand returned from under his coat that Isaiah became acquainted with the object of his search. Mills held a large key in his right hand and as he extended it toward the door spoke in a tone unmistakably possessive. “Preacher, here is our church.”

Still somewhat set aback by the concept of a locked church door, Isaiah struggled with Mills’ words, “Our church”.

Before he had even entered the building, he was already beginning to feel a tension which would come to haunt him over the coming months, and he asked himself without expression, “Whose church?”

The Harrisville Congregational Church was as splendid within as without. Twenty twin rows of poplar wood pews emptied into a center aisle of polished walnut. Three steps leading to the chancel were painted white and were trimmed with red. On the chancel, a pulpit of unpainted walnut stood singularly magnificent to one side, and a table used for communion draped in a fine linen weave claimed the center.

Above the sanctuary hung six large wrought iron chandeliers, each boasting over twenty candles with large iron cannon-like balls on their bottoms providing the weight necessary to keep them hanging straight and true.

The large windows Isaiah had first noticed on his arrival in town stood all around the sanctuary, seeming like the great blinded eyes of a dragon, darkened by the approaching storm. They provided little light to the room, and reflected the preacher’s shape as he walked to the front of the church. Isaiah cautiously took to the steps and placing himself behind the strong embrace of the pulpit managed only, “Beautiful,” his head rotating observantly from side to side like a young owl checking a tentative perch.

 Capt. Mills took a seat in the forward most pew, and fixed his stare on the dumpy little man dwarfed behind the pulpit with hair still dripping from the afternoon rain, “Hmmm,” he exhaled.

Looking down and over the pews Isaiah got his first glimpse of the future. Samuel and Gideon Gates were still standing by the back door, looking for the entire world as if they would make a break for the street if the situation ever presented itself. And there, alone in the place of the congregation sat Capt. Delawn Mills.

 “Say something,” Mills entreated, posturing himself unreceptively.  Obligingly, and without aforethought, Isaiah began to recite The Lord’s Prayer to his tiny congregation. Each man responded in kind dipping his head and folding his hands together, until midway through the prayer when Mills piped up again, “That’s fine. I think we’ll be able to hear you just fine”.

From behind the pulpit a cold wind seemed to surge forward, overtaking Isaiah for a moment and causing him to look over his shoulder to ascertain its source. His whole body felt strangely cold.

The cedar shingled roof muffled the sound of the increasing shower that had followed the men to the church, and upon their leaving, Mills pushed open the church doors and casting a silent glance toward the sky, suggested that the company forego making their intended visitations of the houses of the faithful, and instead retire to his nearby home for some warmth and refreshment.

 Isaiah looked pleadingly at his brother. “Perhaps another time,” he thought to himself, all the while hoping his brother would be bold enough to proffer that alternative. But Samuel nodded toward Capt. Mills in reluctant agreement, and then turning to Isaiah suggested, “Capt. Mills is just on the other side of the green, and his home is lovely.” Isaiah managed only an expressionless stare toward Samuel, and then, caught in the eye of Mills, forced a dutiful smile.

The wind kicked up again, as if coming from the very bowels of the little church. Ephraim Gates was left behind to lean upon its doors finally entreating them to close. He locked them with the master’s key and hurried to join the men who were crossing the green, heads bowed to the weather.

                  CHAPTER 8

No Answers

As Isaiah and the others entered through the side garden door of the Mills home, he was at once taken with the emptiness of the place. From the outside, and even through a driving rain, the home appeared quite grand and well cared for.

Mills home was a beautiful white New England saltbox with blackened shutters and a red front door. Surrounded in its entirety with a lovely blossoming Rose of Sharon hedge, its windows were draped with boxes containing several varieties of late summer flowers. 

Inside however, the rooms appeared contradictory, dark and foreboding, devoid of furnishings and completely unlit.

With no prior accounting of the life of his host, Isaiah deduced immediately that there would be no Mrs. Mills to greet them as they dropped their coats in the mudroom and proceeded to the parlor. This was a bachelor’s home; and could not even be confused with the home of a divorcee or widower, which would, at least, contain the sketchy imprints of a woman’s touch. No woman had ever lived in these painfully empty rooms, Isaiah was certain.

Ephraim Gates, seeming a bit more at home in these stark surroundings, or at least accustomed to them, took his seat near the empty fireplace and began removing his rain soaked boots. Then placing himself in the middle of a deep green loveseat, the only comfortable looking piece of furniture in the room, Capt. Mills motioned for the brothers to find a seat beneath the mantle.

Isaiah, finding himself overwhelmed by everything he had seen and heard since first encountering the Captain, took his seat. “Tell me,” he asked. “What are the plans you have for the church Capt. Mills, and why have your people called me here?” It was a question unexpected by the host or, at best, somewhat premature, for Capt. Mills chose to avoid answering it completely, instead posing a question of his own.

“Isaiah,” he said. “I may call you Isaiah then.” “Of course,” replied the young pastor. “Isaiah, what do you know about the Reserve? I mean, have your studies told you much about the way we do things out here?”

Isaiah reached far back into his rapidly depleting well of patience and answered, “I’m afraid that my education has been mostly in the eastern church, and what I have learned about the frontier has come quite quickly and only over a few short weeks on the trail.” “I understand son,” Mills replied with a sweet-as-molasses tongue.

Had they been seated closer together, Isaiah reckoned that the Captain might have patted him on the head during his reply, but the distance between them prohibited at least that gesture. Mills continued, “Just the same, I want to help. I’ve already got things going pretty well in the right direction here. What my team needs is a good driver, that’s all. I hope you’re a good driver, son.

Of the two brothers, Samuel had always been the more vocal. As the conversation ebbed more often than it flowed, it did not escape Isaiah’s notice that around Capt. Mills at least, Samuel was uncharacteristically quiet. “Was this an overriding effect the demonstrative Captain had on all his associates, or was it limited to Gates and Samuel?” Isaiah wondered.

After an hour or so, the conversation and the rain began to subside and a small light shown through the parlor window prompting Samuel to suggest that this might be a good moment for the brothers to make a trip toward home.

Seeming otherwise indifferent, Mills offered to fetch his buggy from the church and transport the pair, an offer which Isaiah, in the most polite tone he could manage, promptly declined. And with no further need of each other’s company, the two pairs split at the door, and the Sheldon’s began the muddy walk to Samuel’s home.

The sun was now fully seated apart from the clouds and the heat of late afternoon swarmed around the two like hornets. As they re-crossed the green on their way out of town, Isaiah resisted the temptation to act as his brother’s inquisitor about Gates and Mills. Instead, he held up his end of a lighter conversation about the building of the church, and his brother’s fine carpentry work so apparent in its construction.

Isaiah knew that there would come a time when the two would speak from their hearts as they had done when they were younger, but as he stretched out his leg to avoid a mud hole on the street, he knew that this was not that time.

Chapter 9

Divine Intervention

A warm day passed and the rain subsided by the next morning. And now, with only two days until the Sabbath, Isaiah sat alone in the wood near his brother’s home arrested in thought.

As he gazed into the rolling stream beneath him, he was fixed there, transcended for a moment to his home in the east, and the banks of the Connecticut River, where he had spent many a day as a younger man watching the river flow southward and into the great Atlantic.

 His mind slid uncomfortably forward and back again filled with images of his family home in Windsor, his mother’s face, the strange and shadowed room at Capt. Mills home, the large brass key that opened the church door, and a young man with a broom in the Hummel cabin. It was as troubled as Isaiah had ever remembered feeling.

Only one day earlier, the Reserve was beginning to seem very much like home. Could one day in a place bring such a change of opinion? It was clear that the church in Harrisville was the property of one man whose agenda in no wise resembled what Isaiah believed to be God’s.

Was his decision to move west and take on this work a poor one? What possible good could come of staying where he would eventually come to be viewed, as Gates was already, an evil, rich man’s servant.

The next days Isaiah continued to take his meals at Samuel’s house, playing with the children and helping with the chores where necessary, but he spent his afternoons mostly at the river, listening to the birds and watching the frogs jump from stone to stone.

He held his sermon manuscript book on his lap balanced atop an open Bible, but the pages remained blank until what must surely have been divine intervention occurred late Saturday evening.

It was near dusk when Isaiah heard a drum-like tapping in the underbrush on the opposing riverbank. The hawthorn and berry bushes parted and presently a large doe squeezed herself free of their entanglement and stepped to the water for a drink.

Unaware that she was within but yards of the young pastor, the doe walked easily on the bank dipping her head from time to time into the cool moving water. Isaiah sat motionless, as if he were a part of the very stone beneath him. Then startled by an amazing crash of thicket and brush, both cleric and doe turned their eyes quickly up river, pausing only long enough to notice one another.

From the brush galloped a magnificent buck, snorting and splashing through the stream between them. The frightened doe spun on her two rear legs and bounded back into the thicket. The buck stopped completely and silently turned his enormous head toward Isaiah who had leapt up and onto his feet.

For a moment, Isaiah feared that the buck would charge straight at him. Instead, the monster just stood there in the water, his gaze locked on Isaiah’s. Then, as noisily as he had entered the serenity of the evening, he turned and stampeded away into the wood stripping the tiny hawthorn leaves from their branches and leaving them spinning in the breeze and falling into the river.

In one convulsive movement of head and chest, Isaiah let out a single breath as if he had been holding it for an hour, and collapsed back down on the rock.

Stretching out one still trembling hand, he retrieved his Bible from the weeds where it had been unceremoniously launched a few moments earlier. Glancing down at its open page he read the first scripture that caught his eye, John 7:37: “If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.”

The wind stirred the entire woods for a moment and Isaiah was moved by the gentle doe, the angry buck and the symbolism they brought to God’s word. The people of Harrisville wanted to drink. Isaiah was resolved that nothing would keep them from the water.

Chapter 10

The Homily

By late Saturday evening the preacher had filled a dozen pages in his manuscript book. . He wrote as he hoped to speak His strong pen strokes pushed the letters into the paper and clean through to the other side. Squeezed tightly together, his words left no room for question or response.

Finished, Isaiah placed his books into his coat pocket, and headed toward the house. Inside, he tendered his goodnights, and went straight to bed. It seemed to the Sheldon’s that Isaiah was not quite himself these last days, and it worried them both.

Samuel and Ellen were participants in the same troubled spirit that had of late fallen so hard on Isaiah. But even after the revealing trip to town and to the home of Capt. Mills, neither had spoken of their feelings with him. It had been years since anyone had openly discussed the troubles the Captain had brought to the church.

Everyone, including the Sheldon’s, had sadly resigned himself to his authority. Please God that Isaiah was not going to get into any trouble with Mills. Please God. As the older Sheldon and his wife sat across from each other, their hands met amid table, and they prayed for Isaiah and for their little church.

The Sabbath came, and the entire congregation bowed its head as its new pastor led the morning prayers. A few peeked up straining to get a longer look at his youthful face and wavy hair.

 Aside from Gates, Mills, and his own family, Isaiah Sheldon came into the pulpit his first Sunday an absolute stranger, and the congregation who had invested heavily in his arrival wanted a good look at their purchase.

At the time designated in the service, Capt. Mills introduced Sheldon outright, reciting his credentials and quoting his lineage as if he had been a close friend of the man for some time. Then, Mills took his seat in the forward pew positioning himself there with the kind of permanence that one expects from a well-trained soldier.

Isaiah stepped up to the immense pulpit at last. He felt a bit like a soldier himself, securing the protection of some impenetrable bulwark or guard tower. He looked out across the congregation and then to where his brother and his family were seated. Samuel held tight to his wife’s hand.

Then, removing his spectacles from his vest, Isaiah wiped them with his kerchief. Looking briefly to where he  had laid his manuscript, he noticed a note pinned to the vestment on top of the pulpit. Isaiah shuffled his papers in an attempt to buy a little time that he should read the brief missive. “Isaiah.” it began. “Speak the truth and you and we shall all be free indeed.”

The note was unsigned. Isaiah opened his manuscript and began to speak.

It’s hard to know just what the gentle congregation of Harrisville was expecting that late summer morning, but whatever it was, they received more. Isaiah’s speech was unfaltering and strong. His voice resounded from every individual window pain and came crashing back down again and again like truth.

Even still, so loving were his words, that even the strongest pronouncements brought no pain, only conviction and sorrow to the hearer. The Spirit of God was performing a miracle in Harrisville, and everyone there knew it; everyone, including Captain Delawn Mills, Esq. who sat steadfast, arms crossed as if guarding his very heart.

As the congregation gathered at the rear of the church building at the conclusion of worship, scarcely any was able to speak more than an exhausted welcome and thank you to Isaiah. Samuel took his place in line and when he at last reached the doorway where Isaiah was receiving the congregants, sprung forward and held his brother tightly, whispering into his ear, “We shall surely be free indeed”.

 Recognizing his brother immediately as the author of the prophetic note, Isaiah’s eyes filled with tears, which was surely the reason that he could not see what was coming next.

Chapter 11

The Last Word

The church was empty except for the ladies who remained to sweep and the men who were carefully lowering the candelabras and extinguishing the flames of a hundred candles.

From the last pew, Isaiah turned toward the sanctuary and surveyed the cleaning battalion. The shuffle of their thick leather boots on planked floors echoed against empty pews and closed doors.

In the front of the church, one lone figure sat erect in the forward pew. Mills. It had been as if the very Spirit of God had driven the infidel Mills from Isaiah’s mind for the last hour, but now, as sure as burned the fires in hell, there he sat, dead silent and, Isaiah knew, waiting for him.

The sounds of the pastor’s own footfalls struck a sharp contrast to the gentle rumblings of the other workers. As he approached the front of the church, the remnant flock scurried for the doors leaving their work unfinished and the two quite alone.

“Well, my captain.” began Isaiah, making no attempt to hide his rancor. “I see you have remained as you were seated. Have you also been moved by the Lord on this, his day?” Isaiah smiled tight lipped and lifted his brow in preparation for Mills’ response. It came after a moment, but not as the angry retort or stern warning Isaiah had expected.

Instead, Mills looked coldly past the preacher and in a voice, which had become accustomed to ordering, without regard, men into battle against the British just a few short years ago, spoke plainly. “Mr. Sheldon. I am in receipt of a letter from the Congregational Church in Bath. I visited with them just yesterday.

It appears you made as great a noise there one week ago as you attempted to make here this day and the sad result is that I found them in some great disorder; confusion for which there seemed to me to be only one solution.”

He paused for effect, then reported, “They’ve asked me to inform you that your services will no longer be required there.”

Isaiah felt an old pain return to his stomach as he recalled his unfortunate anger expressed at that poor Bath congregation.

Then, Mills continued, uncharacteristically smiling at his victim, “It seems you are mine alone now, sir.” Then forcing the termination letter into Isaiah’s vest pocket, he turned and strode ceremoniously from the church building.

Isaiah stood frozen at the front of the church, and watched as the giant doors slammed shut, punctuating Mills exit like the beating of two bass drums.

While God had been working to reveal himself to Isaiah in the woods near the stream, it appeared the Devil too was busy in the person of bother Mills. And this work, Isaiah now understood, was the Devil’s plan; that he should be trapped in Harrisville until the Captain could break his spirit and enslave his heart to his own purpose.

It was a strange revelation for the new pastor, to have felt that he himself had fired the first shot in the war against evil just moments ago from his strong tower, only to find that his ramparts had already been expertly flanked, and before he had even loaded his weapon.

Isaiah could not have known right then what the Lord had prepared for him, at least, not in its completeness. As evil had hidden its plans from him, so also God’s plan for Isaiah’s life was still lying just beyond a mist through which his faith could not, as yet, permit him to see.

The mind of God was being revealed to the one whom he had called, the day’s homily was proof of that. But the Devil had a mind of his own, and if Isaiah were to do battle with him, he would come to know him well also.

Chapter 12

Leaving

Dinner was to have been taken at the Mills residence following worship, but the host had made no mention of it as he left the building. Isaiah felt released.

There was old Job tied to the fence rail outside. His head bobbed and swayed as Isaiah approached and took his seat for the trip home. Home. Where was his home now?

The single redeeming grace in Isaiah’s new ministry had been the opportunity to leave one church for another every other weekend. He liked the idea of riding back and forth between Bath and Harrisville. Even more, he appreciated the challenge of serving two completely different congregations. 

Now that plan had been lost, and with the exodus of the Bath Church, Isaiah had lost half of his ministry. How did a man deal with such a defeat?  Lost in just a week. He slumped down in his saddle as he approached the Sheldon home.

Samuel had not expected Isaiah home for dinner. The table was one place short when Isaiah entered the house. “Isaiah. What are you doing here?” asked a perplexed Ellen. “Don’t tell me Mills let you off the hook so easy?” “Off the hook.” replied Isaiah. “Yes, off the hook is what I am.”

Sam was in the parlor and motioned for Isaiah to come in. “Which hook is it exactly your off now?” he asked. “Well,” Isaiah began, “I decided against, dinner, or the Captain decided against dinner, or I guess I just don’t know who’s deciding things anymore.” Sam was trying to follow his brother but felt completely lost. “Who’s deciding what boy?” “Things, just things.” mumbled Isaiah.

Ellen stepped quietly into the room and sat near her husband. “Isaiah. What is happening with you?”

Isaiah wanted to answer. He wanted his response to be thoughtful, comprehensive, even affirming if possible. He owed this sweet family an explanation, but where to begin?

From his coat pocket he pulled his kerchief, held it to his face and began to sob. Tears would be as good a place as any to start.

No one ate dinner that afternoon but the children. Samuel and Ellen spent the day in the parlor listening as Isaiah shared the affairs of the past week and revealed, in a most unexpected way, his searching and his pain.

His brother listened mostly, and Isaiah’s therapy came more from his confession than with anything Samuel or Ellen said.  By late afternoon, Isaiah did think he felt some better and decided that he needed to make a trip. He would ride to Bath and try to restore his relationship there. Tomorrow could not be soon enough.

CHAPTER 13

Windfall

The next morning at sunrise, Isaiah led Job from the barn and threw his bags cross saddle. Ellen and Samuel stood at the fence and watched his departure.

A kick forward and a wave behind and the determined pastor sped off down the narrow streets of Harrisville. Isaiah felt as though he were in a dream. Old Job could not move quickly enough to overcome the thickening anxiety that seemed to congeal the very air around them, holding back horse and rider.

Finally, escaping into a dense patch of wood on the east end of town, Isaiah felt the oppressive weight of the past week lift slowly from his tired shoulders. He slowed to a trot, and stroked Job’s neck appreciatively.

The shadows of the woods blanketed the light of the awakening morning. But the sun was steadily lifting itself up straight ahead and the path seemed to vanish into its rising face. Isaiah pulled the brim of his hat down across his brow to shade his eyes.

Ahead, the late summer wind had uprooted a tired elm and laid it across the rider’s path. Its brushy head was hidden from horse and rider in the morning glare, inviting Job to lead his unsuspecting companion directly into its ambush.

Abruptly, a blow like that of a giant mallet came across Isaiah’s face, followed by the clutch of a woody arm across his collar. He let out a gasp and reached for his neck, but it was too late. In one motion, the stunned rider was tossed backward, tumbling over Job’s tail and down to the forest floor.

Job had become hopelessly ensnared in the brush, his reins tethered to one of the fallen limbs. Isaiah, seeing his mount begin to rise up in an effort to free himself, rolled instinctively to the side and covered his stricken head lest he be trampled under hoof.

From his peculiar vantage point, Isaiah watched a moment as Job settled and submitted himself to his captor. Then, turning his eyes toward the treetops, he felt his head begin to cloud and his eyes to blur. That was the last Isaiah would recall of his journey for nearly a full day.

Only a few miles from Harrisville, Medina, or the new settlement at the windfall, the Lord could have sent an insensible Isaiah’s salvation riding from whichever direction he desired. He chose a rider from windfall to the west, and a familiar face, Robert Hummel.

Hummel was traveling home to the windfall from a trip to Medina when he saw Job entangled near where the old Medina trail and Isaiah’s were crossed.

On approaching the rider less horse, he became swiftly aware of young Isaiah’s predicament, and leapt from his wagon and bent over his motionless body. “Isaiah!” He shouted. “Wake up man! Isaiah!” There was no response. Hummel watched as Isaiah’s chest rose tentatively beneath his frock and then fell again. He was alive, at least barely.

Hummel hurriedly moved two sacks of flour in his wagon bed and positioned them to cushion Isaiah’s body for the ride to his home. It never crossed his mind to return his unresponsive passenger to his own family in Harrisville. Doctor White was visiting the windfall this week, and a doctor was what Isaiah needed just now. He pulled Job’s reins free of their entanglement and tied him to the back of wagon.

CHAPTER 14

Doc

Robert Hummel’s wagon cleared the covering of the forest and rolled out onto the meadow at the windfall. As he passed by the cabins nearest the wood he shouted to the men working outside to follow him.  

The wagon rolled up to the White’s cabin and Hummel took a quick look over his shoulder at Isaiah’s unresponsive body before jumping down and heading for the door.

Doc White was staying with his brother Enod, enjoying what had become a regular visit to the windfall to visit family and practice a little medicine.  Robert Hummel pushed open the cabin door and headed right to the chair where Doc was reading. “Doc. You got to come out here, and quick! The preacher from Harrisville’s in my wagon. And I tell ya, it’s not good.”

         Doc dropped his book and reading glasses and headed out of the cabin behind Hummel. Since heading west, Doc had seen cabin births, starvation deaths, and just about everything in-between.  Though he didn’t say it aloud, Isaiah, head bloodied and barely breathing, looked to him more like he was going than coming.

Doc picked up one of Isaiah’s weak hands and felt for life. “What happened?” He asked Hummel. “I’m not certain. This is just the way I found him about three miles down the trail. By the looks of things, I think a tree fell on him.” “Hmm.” Doc considered. “Well, something sure hit him hard. Let’s get him inside.”

A few of the men from the fields had made their ways to the White place by now. They gently lifted Isaiah from the wagon and bore him inside where Mrs. White directed them to a bed near the fire.

The neighbors assembled near the White’s cabin. A horse ridden by Ezra Turner raced from the corral and headed break-neck for Harrisville to fetch Isaiah’s brother.

As evening approached the windfall, it seemed as though history was repeating itself. Once again the women of the tiny settlement were together getting things ready for Isaiah while the men congregated in chairs around him.

Outside, Doc rinsed his hands in a pail on the porch rail. “What do you think Doc?” Asked Robert Hummel handing him a towel. “Hard to say.” Doc replied. “We’ll know some better in the morning. I’d say a little prayer is the best prescription right now.”

That night, not a single man returned to his own home. While Isaiah lay silently before them, they sat with folded hands and pleaded with his creator for his life.

By morning, the tiny congregation had split into two groups. They were determined that some should pray for the pastor at every hour, while others worked or slept. Isaiah remained frozen and silent, and that is how his brother Samuel found him when he arrived with Ezra Turner just before breakfast.

Through the early part of the day, Isaiah slept deeply with his brother seated on the bedstead holding his hand and occasionally wiping his wounded brow. His breathing appeared easier to Doc White as the morning progressed, and all were growing hopeful of his eventual recovery.

About noon, young Stephen Hummel carried a basin of water from the fire to the bedside. As he placed it on the table there, he noticed Isaiah’s eyes begin to flicker gently. Through half opened eyelids Isaiah caught the outline of the boy. And though Stephen never opened his mouth, Isaiah was sure that he could hear him ask, “What do ya think, are you ever comin’ back mister?”

Instantaneously, as if God himself were opening the windows of heaven, Isaiah’s eyes shot open wide and remained so, unflinching, even as the shouts of “Glory Halleluiah!” and “Praise God!” rose from the company surrounding him.

Isaiah turned his head slightly toward Stephen and looked passionately at the boy. “Yes.”

CHAPTER 15

A shout rang from the cabin door, followed by the enthusiastic footsteps of its originator, Stephen Hummel. The child sprinted from the porch and toward the other homes with the wonderful news. “The preacher is better! He’s all better!” he shouted over and over again.

Poor Isaiah lay stiffened on his little bed, unaware of the extent of his injury or the time which had passed since he had sustained it. Seeing Samuel approaching his bedside, he asked. “Am I home, brother?” “No.” Relied his brother, with great relief, “But you soon shall be.”

It would be three days before Isaiah returned to himself fully. His promising recovery offered Samuel the opportunity to ride back to Harrisville to calm his anxious wife and the several members of the church who had been coming and going at the Sheldon home since hearing the news.

The evening of his return, Samuel made his way into town with Old Job in tow. Sam returned Job to Harrisville for some doctoring and shoe mending. They were on their way to the smithy’s when their path crossed that of Capt. Mills tying off his carriage at the mercantile. “What news of your brother?” Asked Mills respectfully. “He is well, finally.” Samuel responded back over his shoulder without stopping his horse. “Good. Good” Mills followed. “Then we shall see him soon?”

Samuel refrained from further rejoinder, fearing that any words he might submit would betray the growing anger in his heart. Sam held Mills responsible for his brother’s present condition, and as he rode toward the blacksmith’s shop, he swore an oath that the Captain would pay for his treachery and his heartless behavior.

Joseph Wilcox was a fine blacksmith. His labor had hardened him like the metal with which he worked. His arms bore muscle and mark of the hammer and anvil. His hands shiny and scarred from the fire which melted skin and steel.  

Samuel liked Wilcox. In fact, Mr. Wilcox may have owed his business to the generosity of the Sheldon family through a loan received from them a few years back. The blacksmith felt a mutual admiration for the Sheldon’s, and would have done nearly anything for them. Samuel tied his own horse to the rail near the barn, and pulling the door open, led Job inside and tied him near the fire. Joseph was busy trimming a split hoof on Josh Eagen’s plough horse when the two came inside.

Autumn was running away from the Reserve with all speed, and the evening air was chilled and damp. The place near the fire seemed to please Job. The steam rising from his back rose in billows and mixed with the smoke from the hearth.

“Good day, Joseph.” Samuel spoke as he hung his coat over a ladder. “Same to you, Samuel. I see you’ve brought me your brother’s horse. He’s home then?” “No, but tomorrow for certain. He is recovering at the windfall yet. But he is much better already.”

“That’s good news Samuel. Give me a while on this old mare and we’ll take care of your fellow. By the way, Samuel, is there something going on with Mills? He and that little snipe Gates were in here Monday and I overheard them talking about your brother. Has he got something against him?”

Samuel sat down hard on a barrel and looked back at Jos. Wilcox through the stall rail. “Against him? Well there’s no doubt about that. I just can’t figure what it is.”

“Well,” Joseph continued, dropping the old plough horse’s back leg and turning to face Samuel. “I could be very wrong about this, but it seemed to me that Gates and Mills were more or less congratulating themselves about running Isaiah out of town.”

In the days passing since Sunday, Samuel had made no comment to anyone about Mills’ ambush of his brother following worship. Now, if it had been any other man, an observation like Joseph’s might have put Samuel in an awkward position. But Joseph was his good friend, and a wise and watchful one at that, so Samuel determined to share with him everything which had happened since Isaiah’s arrival in Harrisville.

Samuel recounted Isaiah’s happy coming, and the first visit from Capt. Mills to the Sheldon home. The rainy trip to Mill’s home, Isaiah’s first visit to the church, and finally, the surprise ending to last week’s service. All the while he spoke, the astonished smithy stood motionless as if he had been struck with his own hammer. It was a hard story to hear, harder still for Samuel to recount.