World Made by Hand

Thirteen

There were five of them besides Brother Jobe, all men, wearing the somber black suits of their sect and carrying hats in their hands. They were all clean-shaven, not like most of us Union Grove men. It struck me as an odd reversal of the way things used to be long ago: the secular clean-shaven and the pious bearded. Only Brother Jobe wore a necktie, a black ribbon cravat, as though it were an emblem of rank. He was sweating impressively. The others were all younger, in their twenties and thirties, uniformly large and powerful men, a different breed almost, like draft horses are to quarter horse stock. You could see how Brother Jobe would feel confident in their company, and you wondered whether he had selected them for their heft and strength.

The whole clutch of them paused at the door while the low buzz of conversation throughout the room dropped away. I think Brother Jobe was aware that he had given himself a theatrical entrance, and he was prepared for it with a little speech.

“Evening to you all,” he said, and introduced himself and the others by their given names, Brother Joseph, Brother Elam, Brother Eli, and so on. “I suppose you know by now that we are setting up over at your old high school. We are called the New Faith Brotherhood Church of Jesus and we have come out of Virginia by way of Pennsylvania because of what has happened in our nation’s capital. We are happy and grateful to have found this situation and look forward to uniting, so to say, with your community. We come here tonight in recognition of the sadness that has touched upon you today, to pay our respects and begin introducing ourselves, because we do not want you to fear us or think us to be alien beings. We are upright Americans, like yourselves, banded together in faith, praise Jesus, to meet the unfortunate circumstances of these our times. We expect to find new friends here and work fruitfully alongside you, and I hope you will feel the same amongst us. Well, that’s all I got to say. Except,” he added with a fresh attack, “I wish to reassure you of our friendly intentions by saying we have brought a barrel of good Pennsylvania whiskey on the cart outside and we invite you to partake of it. Now that is all I got to say.”

Several of our men headed outdoors at once with their cups and glasses. I wondered as how the New Faithers were not against drink per se. Brother Jobe spotted Loren and myself in a corner along with Andrew Pendergast, Bruce Wheedon, and Dan Mullinex who built the grain mill on Bright Creek. Brother Jobe came over like a politician working a room.

“I hear this poor devil was shot dead in cold blood,” he said, “and the one that did it is still at large.”

Nobody replied to him for an awkward moment. We took refuge in our supper plates.

“That isn’t right,” he went on. “Can’t have folks shooting folks.”

“The machinery of justice isn’t working too well around here these days,” Loren finally said.

“That is exactly what I gather,” Brother Jobe said, “and that’s why I suggest someone get the ball rolling on it. I understand you do have an elected magistrate.”

“Yes, we do. His name is Stephen Bullock.”

“Is he here in this house? I’d like to talk to him.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why he’s not here,” Loren said, “except he lives several miles out of town and perhaps he hasn’t heard the news.”

“Why wouldn’t this matter come before him?”

“He didn’t run for the office, and he said if he got elected he wouldn’t serve.”

“That’s some civic spirit for you,” Brother Jobe said. “What does this Bullock fellow do as a livelihood?”

“He’s a gentleman,” Dan Mullinex said.

“Ain’t we all?” Brother Jobe said.

“He owns lands down by the Hudson River,” Loren said. “A large establishment. Two thousand acres at least.”

“You might even call it a plantation,” Bruce Wheedon said, cracking a slight sardonic smile as he speared a piece of ham on his plate.

“Oh?” Brother Jobe said. “Like Ole Massa? We know that type.

Our group fell silent again. Whatever one thought about Brother Jobe, we clearly all felt embarrassed about the slovenly state of our local affairs.

“I’d like to go see him,” Brother Jobe said. “Would one of you fellows take me to his spread and introduce us?”

Loren and I exchanged a glance.

“You know him best, Robert,” Dan said.

“Don’t he come to your church?” Brother Jobe said to Loren.

o.

“Which outfit does he attend?”

“None, as far as I know.”

“Hmph. A man who don’t have religion, won’t serve his community when called. What kind of fellow is that?”

We all swapped more glances around on that one, because we knew Stephen Bullock. He went his own way and always had. He ran a bountiful farm. He had altogether perhaps fifty people living and working for him there, and it was rumored that many of them had entered into a relationship with him of extreme dependency, people who, out of one misfortune or another, or perhaps just a desire to be led or to live a structured existence, sold their allegiance to him for security and a full stomach. He took care of them. It was an old old story, but one that hadn’t been seen in America for a long time.

“His farm has come to be a sort of world of its own,” Dan said.

“All right. Whatever it is, I’d like to go visit with him. Can we do that sometime after this poor fellow’s funeral?” Brother Jobe asked me directly.

“All right,” I said.

“I’ll send for you, and we’ll take the wagon,” he said. “People getting shot for no reason. That don’t stand with us. Come on out now, boys, and let me buy you a ding-danged dram of life’s righteous comfort, praise Jesus.”