Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(8)
Maybe I ought to go there for a visit. Let some idiot dubbed Harry take a swing at me with an axe, if some lone maniac explains the crisis. It’s been a while since I’ve swung an axe of my own, but I think I could give him the surprise of his life all the same.
Father James Coyle, Saint Paul’s Church
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 15, 1921
Ruth has run away again, or at least I pray that’s what occurred.
She hasn’t come here yet, in any case . . . and it’s clear that she’s come to think of this church as a refuge. Maybe she’s found some different refuge, farther outside of her parents’ grasp. I’m not sure what to hope for. I’d like to know that she’s safe, but I’d also like for her to be safe. The truth is, she might be safer somewhere other than here.
We’ve had to hire guards, for the first time in our recorded history. I can scarcely imagine it; who would’ve thought we’d see such a day? But the Klansmen come to Saint Paul’s, and their brethren come, and at night they try to set little fires and throw little stones, and so we’ve gotten ourselves a tiny army to keep them at bay. This is a place of worship, for pity’s sake! We have children here, learning their letters and their catechism—we feed the poor, and shelter those who lack all shelter otherwise. Why would they harass us like this? Why would they drive us from their city, when we’ve done our best to serve it all these years?
The worst part is this: I know it’s only the beginning. The election looms, and it looks like George is on the way out. Without him, you can safely bet Police Chief Eagan will be sent packing, too . . . and then what? Then who is left to stand between us and the unruly mob?
Nathaniel Barrett’s campaign is a study in horrors. He would make us illegal, in essence—he would starve us out of town if he can’t run us out. His new laws would ban any business from employing any Catholic, a prospect enforced by a series of “vigilance committees” that would, one must assume, terrorize the locals until there’s no place left for our people to earn their daily bread.
For God’s sake, they even let the negroes work . . . and they firmly believe they’re less than human. So what on earth do they think of us?
It all ties together, somehow . . . Ruth and the strange church, Reverend Davis and his “True Americans” . . . I suppose the reverend is the lynchpin there. The bigots have financed Barrett’s campaign, and the bigots are led by the shadowy minister—who likewise lures the Stephenson family out to Chapelwood, where Ruth is subject to scrutiny, abuse, and threats presented like promises.
There’s something black about it. Something dark and nasty, I know it in my heart . . . though the heart is deceitful above all things—that’s always and overwhelmingly true. I have prayed and prayed and prayed, and listened for all I am worth; but at night, when the scurrilous men in their dumb white sheets sneak about the grounds, I look up to the heavens for some kind of answer and I see nothing, not even the stars.
? ? ?
I’ve concocted half a plan, with regards to Ruth. She must escape her father, and I must help her. I promised, and I will see it through . . . though my powers are tightly limited, given the circumstances. What can I do, other than offer her a haven that’s under assault? I can pray for her, I can teach her.
I can marry her off.
Pedro and I were talking about this, after he returned from delivering one of the messages that Ruth and I pass between us. (For the last year or so, he’s performed odd jobs for the family—as they’ve repaired and restored their house. He assisted them with some roofing work, and with some windows—I think he also paints, and probably does any number of other useful things. It rouses no suspicion for him to come and go from their home.) Pedro is old enough to be Ruth’s father, and a widower at that. His care for the girl is less that of a lover than a friend, I believe, but he too is concerned for her. He’s seen the fear in her eyes, and heard it in her voice. I’m sure he’s seen it in her handwriting, which shakes more wildly with every missive. The poor dear is falling apart at the seams.
But if she runs away to get married . . . her father has no more authority to drag her back home, or to church, or anywhere else. Pedro is willing. I am willing. I can perform the service—and it would be legal, and binding, no matter what any incoming politicians would care to think.
Now all we can do is hope that she turns up safely.
If she doesn’t, perhaps by tomorrow afternoon I’ll go over to Chapelwood myself. Into the pit of vipers, yes, but I have the cross on my side, and a promise to fulfill. The girl needs me.
God, she needs someone.
? ? ?
I’ve spent the last few weeks collecting information on this strange church in the forest, on the reverend’s old estate.
There isn’t much to collect, I’ll be honest—what I’ve found through public records amounts to a hill of beans. Chapelwood is registered with the county as a Christian congregation, under the banner “Disciples of Heaven,” which is as vague and meaningless a description as I’ve ever heard. Is it formally authorized to perform weddings and baptisms, all the ordinary things I can do here at Saint Paul’s? Yes. The property was once part of a private farm, which was sold off piecemeal after the war, and Reverend Davis’s father purchased the bulk of it.