University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CAMP MEETING.

THE incessant activity of a traveling preacher's
life did not allow Morton much opportunity for
the society of the convalescent Ann Eliza. Fortunately.
For when he was with her out of meeting he found
her rather dull. To all expression of religious sentiment
and emotion she responded sincerely and with
unction; to Morton's highest aspirations for a life of
real self-sacrifice she only answered with a look of
perplexity. She could not understand him. He was
“so queer,” she said.

But people whose lives are joined ought to make
the best of each other. Ann Eliza loved Morton, and
because she loved him she could endure what seemed
to her an unaccountable eccentricity. If Goodwin found
himself tempted to think her lacking in some of the
highest qualities, he comforted himself with reflecting
that all women were probably deficient in these regards.
For men generalize about women, not from many but
from one. And men, being egotists, suffer a woman's
love for themselves to hide a multitude of sins. And
then Morton took refuge in other people's opinions.
Everybody thought that Sister Meacham was just the
wife for him. It is pleasant to have the opinion of

all the world on your side where your own heart is
doubtful.

Sometimes, alas! the ghost of an old love flitted
through the mind of Morton Goodwin and gave him
a moment of fright. But Patty was one of the things
of this world which he had solemnly given up. Of her
conversion he had not heard. Mails were few and
postage cost a silver quarter on every letter; with
poor people, correspondence was an extravagance not
to be thought of except on the occasion of a death
or wedding. At farthest, one letter a year was all
that might be afforded. As it was, Morton was neither
very happy nor very miserable as he rode up to the
New Canaan camp-ground on a pleasant midsummer
afternoon with Ann Eliza by his side.

Sister Meacham did not lack hospitable entertainment.
So earnest and gifted a Christian as she
was always welcome; and now that she held a mortgage
on the popular preacher every tent on the ground
would have been honored by her presence. Morton
found a lodging in the preacher's tent, where one bed,
larger, transversely, than that of the giant Og, was
provided for the collective repose of the preachers, of
whom there were half-a-dozen present. It was always
a solemn mystery to me, by what ingenious over-lapping
of sheets, blankets and blue-coverlets the sisters who
made this bed gave a cross-wise continuity to the bed-clothing.

This meeting was held just six weeks after the
quarterly meeting spoken of in the last chapter. Goodwin's
circuit lay on the west bank of the Big Wiaki

River, and this camp-meeting was held on the east
bank of that stream.

It was customary for all the neighboring preachers
to leave their circuits and lend their help in a camp-meeting.
All detached parties were drawn in to make
ready for a pitched battle. Morton had, in his ringing
voice, earnest delivery, unfaltering courage and quick
wit, rare qualifications for the rude campaign, and,
as the nearest preacher, he was, of course, expected to
help.

The presiding elder's order to Kike to repair to
Jonesville circuit had gone after the zealous itinerant
like “an arrow after a wild goose,” and he had only
received it in season to close his affairs on Pottawottomie
Creek circuit and reach this camp-meeting on
his way to his new work. His emaciated face smote
Morton's heart with terror. The old comrade thought
that the death which Kike all but longed for could
not be very far away. And even now the zealous and
austere young man was so eager to reach his circuit
of Peterborough that he would only consent to tarry
long enough to preach on the first evening. His voice
was weak, and his appeals were often drowned in the
uproar of a mob that had come determined to make
an end of the meeting.

So violent was the opposition of the rowdies from
Jenkinsville and Salt Fork that the brethren were
demoralized. After the close of the service they gathered
in groups debating whether or not they should
give up the meeting. But two invincible men stood
in the pulpit looking out over the scene. Without a

thought of surrendering, Magruder and Morton Goodwin
were consulting in regard to police arrangements.

“Brother Goodwin,” said Magruder, “we shall have
the sheriff here in the morning. I am afraid he hasn't
got back-bone enough to handle these fellows. Do
you know him?”

“Burchard? Yes; I've known him two or three
years.”

Morton could not help liking the man who had so
generously forgiven his gambling debt, but he had
reason to believe that a sheriff who went to Brewer's
Hole to get votes would find his hands tied by his
political alliances.

“Goodwin,” said Magruder, “I don't know how to
spare you from preaching and exhorting, but you must
take charge of the police and keep order.”

“You had better not trust me,” said Goodwin.

“Why?”

“If I am in command there'll be a fight. I don't
believe in letting rowdies run over you. If you put
me in authority, and give me the law to back me,
somebody 'll be hurt before morning. The rowdies
hate me and I am not fond of them. I've wanted
such a chance at these Jenkinsville and Salt Fork fellows
ever since I've been on the circuit.”

“I wish you would clean them out,” said the sturdy
old elder, the martial fire shining from under his
shaggy brows.

Morton soon had the brethren organized into a
police. Every man was to carry a heavy club; some
were armed with pistols to be used in an emergency.

Part of the force was mounted, part marched afoot.
Goodwin said that his father had fought King George,
and he would not be ruled by a mob. By such fannings
of the embers of revolutionary patriotism he
managed to infuse into them some of his own courage.

At midnight Morton Goodwin sat in the pulpit and
sent out scouts. Platforms of poles, six feet high and
covered with earth, stood on each side of the stand
or pulpit. On these were bright fires which threw
their light over the whole space within the circle of
tents. Outside the circle were a multitude of wagons
covered with cotton cloth, in which slept people from a
distance who had no other shelter. In this outer
darkness Morton, as military dictator, had ordered
other platforms erected, and on these fires were now
kindling.

The returning scouts reported at midnight that the
ruffians, seeing the completeness of the preparations,
had left the camp-ground. Goodwin was the only man
who was indisposed to trust this treacherous truce. He
immediately posted his mounted scouts farther away
than before on every road leading to the ground, with
instructions to let him know instantly, if any body of
men should be seen approaching.

From Morton's previous knowledge of the people,
he was convinced that in the mob were some men
more than suspected of belonging to Micajah Harp's
gang of thieves. Others were allies of the gang—of that
class which hesitates between a lawless disposition and
a wholesome fear of the law, but whose protection and
assistance is the right foot upon which every form of

brigandage stands. Besides these there were the reckless
young men who persecuted a camp-meeting from
a love of mischief for its own sake; men who were
not yet thieves, but from whose ranks the bands of
thieves were recruited. With these last Morton's history
gave him a certain sympathy. As the classes
represented by the mob held the balance of power
in the politics of the county, Morton knew that he had
not much to hope from a trimmer such as Burchard.

About four o'clock in the morning one of the
mounted sentinels who had been posted far down the
road came riding in at full speed, with intelligence that
the rowdies were coming in force from the direction
of Jenkinsville. Goodwin had anticipated this, and he
immediately awakened his whole reserve, concentrating
the scattered squads and setting them in ambush on
either side of the wagon track that led to the campground.
With a dozen mounted men well armed with
clubs, he took his own stand at a narrow place where
the foliage on either side was thickest, prepared to
dispute the passage to the camp. The men in ambush
had orders to fall upon the enemy's flanks as
soon as the fight should begin in front. It was a
simple piece of strategy learned of the Indians.

The marauders rode on two by two until the leaders,
coming round a curve, caught sight of Morton and
his right hand man. Then there was a surprised reining
up on the one hand, and a sudden dashing charge
on the other. At the first blow Goodwin felled his
man, and the riderless horse ran backward through
the ranks. The mob was taken by surprise, and before

the ruffians could rally Morton uttered a cry to his
men in the bushes, which brought an attack upon both
flanks. The rowdies fought hard, but from the beginning
the victory of the guard was assured by the
advantage of ambush and surprise. The only question
to be settled was that of capture, for Morton had
ordered the arrest of every man that the guard could
bring in. But so sturdy was the fight that only three
were taken. One of the guard received a bad flesh
wound from a pistol shot. Goodwin did not give up
pursuing the retreating enemy until he saw them dash
into the river opposite Jenkinsville. He then rode
back, and as it was getting light threw himself upon
one side of the great bunk in the preachers' tent, and
slept until he was awakened by the horn blown in the
pulpit for the eight o'clock preaching.

When Sheriff Burchard arrived on the ground that
day he was evidently frightened at the earnestness of
Morton's defence. Burchard was one of those politicians
who would have endeavored to patch up a
compromise with a typhoon. He was in a strait
between his fear of the animosity of the mob and
his anxiety to please the Methodists. Goodwin, taking
advantage of this latter feeling, got himself appointed
a deputy-sheriff, and, going before a magistrate, he
secured the issuing of writs for the arrest of those
whom he knew to be leaders. Then he summoned
his guard as a posse, and, having thus put law on his
side, he announced that if the ruffians came again
the guard must follow him until they were entirely
subdued.

Burchard took him aside, and warned him solemnly
that such extreme measures would cost his life.
Some of these men belonged to Harp's band, and he
would not be safe anywhere if he made enemies of
the gang. “Don't throw away your life,” entreated
Burchard.

“That's what life is for,” said Morton. “If a
man's life is too good to throw away in fighting the
devil, it isn't worth having.” Goodwin said this in a
way that made Burchard ashamed of his own cowardice.
But Kike, who stood by ready to depart, could
not help thinking that if Patty were in place of Ann
Eliza, Morton might think life good for something
else than to be thrown away in a fight with rowdies.

As there was every sign of an approaching riot
during the evening service, and as no man could
manage the tempest so well as Brother Goodwin,
he was appointed to preach. A young theologian of
the present day would have drifted helpless on the
waves of such a mob. When one has a congregation
that listens because it ought to listen, one can afford
to be prosy; but an audience that will only listen
when it is compelled to listen is the best discipline in
the world for an orator. It will teach him methods of
homiletic arrangement which learned writers on Sacred
Rhetoric have never dreamed of.

The disorder had already begun when Morton Goodwin's
tall figure appeared in the stand. Frontier-men
are very susceptible to physical effects, and there was
a clarion-like sound to Morton's voice well calculated
to impress them. Goodwin enjoyed battle; every power

of his mind and body was at its best in the presence
of a storm. He knew better than to take a text. He
must surprise the mob into curiosity.

“There is a man standing back in the crowd
there,” he began, pointing his finger in a certain
direction where there was much disorder, and pausing
until everybody was still, “who reminds me of a funny
story I once heard.” At this point the turbulent sons
of Belial, who loved nothing so much as a funny
story, concluded to postpone their riot until they
should have their laugh. Laugh they did, first at one
funny story, and then at another—stories with no
moral in particular, except the moral there is in a
laugh. Brother Mellen, who sat behind Morton, and
who had never more than half forgiven him for not
coming to a bad end as the result of disturbing a
meeting, was greatly shocked at Morton's levity in the
pulpit, but Magruder, the presiding elder, was delighted.
He laughed at each story, and laughed loud
enough for Goodwin to hear and appreciate the
senior's approval of his drollery. But somehow—the
crowd did not know how,—at some time in his discourse—the
Salt Fork rowdies did not observe when,—
Morton managed to cease his drollery without detection,
and to tell stories that brought tears instead of
laughter. The mob was demoralized, and, by keeping
their curiosity perpetually excited, Goodwin did not
give them time to rally at all. Whenever an interruption
was attempted, the preacher would turn the
ridicule of the audience upon the interlocutor, and so
gain the sympathy of the rough crowd who were

habituated to laugh on the side of the winner in all
rude tournaments of body or mind. Knowing perfectly
well that he would have to fight before the
night was over, Morton's mind was stimulated to its
utmost. If only he could get the religious interest
agoing, he might save some of these men instead of
punishing them. His soul yearned over the people.
His oratory at last swept out triumphant over everything;
there was weeping and sobbing; some fell in
uttering cries of anguish; others ran away in terror.
Even Burchard shivered with emotion when Morton
described how, step by step, a young man was led
from bad to worse, and then recited his own experience.
At last there was the utmost excitement. As
soon as this hurricane of feeling had reached the
point of confusion, the rioters broke the spell of Morton's
speech and began their disturbance. Goodwin
immediately invited the penitents into the enclosed
pen-like place called the altar, and the whole space
was filled with kneeling mourners, whose cries and
groans made the woods resound. But at the same
moment the rioters increased their noisy demonstrations,
and Morton, finding Burchard inefficient to quell
them, descended from the pulpit and took command
of his camp-meeting police.

Perhaps the mob would not have secured headway
enough to have necessitated the severest measures if
it had not been for Mr. Mellen. As soon as he
detected the rising storm he felt impelled to try the
effect of his stentorian voice in quelling it. He did
not ask permission of the presiding elder, as he was in

[ILLUSTRATION]

"HAIR-HUNG AND BREEZE-SHAKEN."

[Description: 554EAF. Page 262. In-line engraving of a man standing by a table with a book on it; one hand is on the book and another is raised.] duty bound to do, but as soon as there was a pause in
the singing he began to exhort. His style was violently
aggressive, and only served to provoke the mob. He
began with the true old Homeric epithets of early
Methodism, exploding them like bomb-shells. “You
are hair-hung and breeze-shaken over hell,” he cried.

“You don't say!” responded one of the rioters, to
the infinite amusement of the rest.

For five minutes Mellen proceeded to drop this kind
of religious aqua fortis
upon the turbulent
crowd, which grew
more and more turbulent
under his inflammatory
treatment.
Finding himself likely
to be defeated, he
turned toward Goodwin
and demanded
that the camp-meeting
police should
enforce order. But
Morton was contemplating
a masterstroke
that should
annihilate the disorder in one battle, and he was not to
be hurried into too precipitate an attack.

Brother Mellen resumed his exhortation, and, as
small doses of nitric-acid had not allayed the irritation,
he thought it necessary to administer stronger
ones. “You'll go to hell,” he cried, “and when you

get there your ribs will be nothing but a gridiron to
roast your souls in!”

“Hurrah for the gridiron!” cried the unappalled
ruffians, and Brother Mellen gave up the fight, reproaching
Morton hotly for not suppressing the mob. “I
thought you was a man,” he said.

“They'll get enough of it before daylight,” said
Goodwin, savagely. “Do you get a club and ride by
my side to-night, Brother Mellen; I am sure you are a
man.”

Mellen went for his horse and club, grumbling all
the while at Morton's tardiness.

“Where's Burchard?” cried Morton.

But Burchard could not be found, and Morton felt
internal maledictions at Burchard's cowardice.

Goodwin had given orders that his scouts should
report to him the first attempt at concentration on the
part of the rowdies. He had not been deceived by
their feints in different parts of the camp, but had
drawn his men together. He knew that there was some
directing head to the mob, and that the only effectual
way to beat it was to beat it in solid form.

At last a young man came running to where Goodwin
stood, saying: “They're tearing down a tent.”

“The fight will be there,” said Morton, mounting
deliberately. “Catch all you can, boys. Don't shoot
if you can help it. Keep close together. We have
got to ride all night.”

He had increased his guard by mustering in every
able-bodied man, except such as were needed to conduct
the meetings. Most of these men were Methodists,

but they were all frontiermen who knew that peace and
civilization have often to be won by breaking heads.
By the time this guard started the camp was in extreme
confusion; women were running in every direction,
children were crying and men were stoutly denouncing
Goodwin for his tardiness.

Dividing his mounted guard of thirty men into two
parts, he sent one half round the outside of the campground
in one direction, while he rode with the other
to attack the mob on the other side. The foot-police
were sent through the circle to attack them in a third
direction.

As Morton anticipated, his delay tended to throw
the mob off their guard. They had demolished one
tent and, in great exultation, had begun on another,
when Morton's cavalry rode in upon them on two sides,
dealing heavy and almost deadly blows with their ironwood
and hickory clubs. Then the footmen charged
them in front, and the mob were forced to scatter and
mount their horses as best they could. As Morton had
captured some of them, the rest rallied on horseback
and attempted a rescue. For two or three minutes
the fight was a severe one. The roughs made several
rushes upon Morton, and nothing but the savage
blows that Mellen laid about him saved the leader
from falling into their hands. At last, however, after
firing several shots, and wounding one of the guard, they
retreated, Goodwin vigorously persuading his men to
continue the charge. When the rowdies had been driven
a short distance, Morton saw by the light of a platform
torch, the same strangely dressed man who had taken

the money from his hand that day near Brewer's Hole.
This man, in his disguise of long beard and wolf-skin
cap, was trying to get past Mellen and into the camp
by creeping through the bushes.

“Knock him over,” shouted Goodwin to Mellen.
“I know him—he's a thief.”

No sooner said than Mellen's club had felled him,
and but for the intervening brush-wood, which broke
the force of the blow, it might have killed him.

“Carry him back and lock him up,” said Morton
to his men; but the other side now made a strong
rush and bore off the fallen highwayman.

Then they fled, and this time, letting the less
guilty rowdies escape, Morton pursued the well-known
thieves and their allies into and through Jenkinsville,
and on through the country, until the hunted
fellows abandoned their horses and fled to the woods
on foot. For two days more Morton harried them,
arresting one of them now and then until he had captured
eight or ten. He chased one of these into
Brewer's Hole itself. The shoes had been torn from
his feet by briers in his rough flight, and he left
tracks of blood upon the floor. The orderly citizens
of the county were so much heartened by this boldness
and severity on Morton's part that they combined
against the roughs and took the work into their own
hands, driving some of the thieves away and terrifying
the rest into a sullen submission. The camp-meeting
went on in great triumph.

Burchard had disappeared — how, nobody knew.
Weeks afterward a stranger passing through Jenkinsville

reported that he had seen such a man on a keelboat
leaving Cincinnati for the lower Mississippi, and
it soon came to be accepted that Burchard had found
a home in New Orleans, that refuge of broken adventurers.
Why he had fled no one could guess.