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Rachel spooned out a helping of hominy for her father, which was all she would eat for dinner until her seafaring husband returned. The two women braced for complaints about the lack of meat, the size of the portion, and nothing but tea for a beverage. But Stanwood bowed his head over the gruel, gave thanks, and talked eagerly about their attendance at holy service come Sunday. After a short, awkward evening, Mary got into bed with Rachel, leaving Stanwood to nod off on the chair.
The following morning, he was turned out of the house so that the women could spread the sheets Rachel took in for hemming. With nothing to do, he walked the streets until he found himself near the docks and one of the rougher public houses. As he opened the door into the dim, sour room, wide smiles greeted him.
Someone said, “I’ll buy the drink if you can make me forget my troubles.” Heads turned in expectation.
When Stanwood said, “Nothing but water for me,” the room erupted in laughter and a crowd gathered around.
Delighted to have an audience at last, he started with whatever he could recall of his drinking exploits the evening before his revelation, and where memory lapsed, filled in with details from other soggy nights and days. After a well-received recital of cups and carousing, he launched into a long and colorful description of the bodily price he had paid for his fun. “Out both ends.” He winked and gestured. “First one and then the other,” inviting the crowd to laugh.
Without changing his demeanor or his tone, Stanwood continued, “And then, on my knees in the ugliest state you ever did see, God Himself sent an angel to save me from
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hell. So I’m here to show you my salvation, so you can follow my lead.”
After a moment of silence, his host slapped the table and doubled over in laughter. “You son-of-a-bitch!”
But the superior smirk on Stanwood’s lips remained fixed. “I am speaking the truth here,” he said.
There followed an uncomfortable scraping of chairs, clearing of throats, and draining of cups. “And then what?”
someone prompted. “Did she come down and do what Mrs.
Stanley does for you?”
Stanwood grabbed him by the collar and shook him.
“I am talking about an angel of God, you codpiece,” he said.
“That’s just the sort of blaspheming that’s going to send you to hell while I’m singing hymns with the saints.”
The fellow pulled free and joined the rest of the company, which had shuffled a retreat to the far corner of the room, peering at Stanwood and whispering like a bunch of schoolgirls.
On Sunday, he woke his wife and daughter early and hurried them into the church before they could finish their tea. They were the first to arrive and Mary had to pull him out of a front pew, which was reserved for wealthy parishioners. But Stanwood sat tall in his seat near the back, anxious to hear how the minister would serve up his redemption for the edification of the unfortunate sinners around him.
Reverend Hartshorn began his sermon in high
dudgeon. “The miracle of this day is that all of you have not
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been snatched into hell since you awoke. It is only God’s hand keeping you from that awful place, and even more so that you sit here in the house of God, provoking Him by your sinful and wicked manner of attending His solemn worship.”
A shudder ran through the congregation, which
recognized the tone and knew it was in for one of their pastor’s more violent perorations. “Consider the fearful dangers you face,” he warned, “the great furnace of wrath, a wide and bottomless pit full of the fire of wrath. You hang by the thinnest thread. Flames of divine wrath are flashing all around you, ready at every moment to singe that thread and burn it asunder.”