A Certain Rich Man | Page 9

of
the anguish of the famine, Watts McHurdie and his accordion and Ezra
Lane's fiddle were agitating the heels of the populace. And even those
pioneers who were moved to come into the wilderness by a great
purpose--and they were moved so--to come into the new territory and
make it free, nevertheless capered and romped through the drouth of '60
in the cast-off garments of their kinsmen and were happy; for there
were buffalo meat and beans for the needy, the aid room had flour, and
God gave them youth.
Not drouth, nor famine, nor suffering, nor zeal of a great purpose can
burn out the sparkle of youth in the heart. Only time can do that, and so
John Barclay remembered the famous drouth of '60, not by his mother's
tears, which came as she bent over his little clothes, before the aid box
came from Haverhill, not by the long days of waiting for the rain that
never came, not even by the sun that lapped up the swimming hole
before fall, and left no river to freeze for their winter's skating, not even
by his mother's anguish when she had to go to the aid store for flour
and beans, though that must have been a sorry day for a Thatcher; but
he remembers the great drouth by Ellen Culpepper's party, where they
had a frosted cake and played kissing games, and--well, fifty years is
along time for two brown eyes to shine in the heart of a boy and a man.
It is strange that they should glow there, and all memory of the
runaway slaves who were sheltered in the cave by the sycamore tree
should fade, and be only as a tale that is told. Yet, so memory served
the boy, and he knew only at second hand how his mother gave her
widow's mite to the cause for which she had crossed the prairies as of
old her "fathers crossed the sea."
Before the rain came in the spring of '61 Martin Culpepper came back
from the East an orator of established reputation. The town was proud
of him, and he addressed the multitude on various occasions and wept
many tears over the sad state of the country. For in the nation, as well
as in Sycamore Ridge, great things were stirring. Watts McHurdie

filled Freedom's Banner with incendiary verse, always giving the name
of the tune at the beginning of each contribution, by which it might be
sung, and the way he clanked Slavery's chains and made love to
Freedom was highly disconcerting; but the town liked it.
In April Philemon R. Ward came back to Sycamore Ridge, and there
was a great gathering to hear his speech. Ward's soul was aflame with
anger. There were no Greek gods and Roman deities in what Ward said,
as there were in Martin Culpepper's addresses. Ward used no figures of
speech and exercised no rhetorical charms; but he talked with passion
in his voice and the frenzy of a cause in his eyes. Martin Culpepper was
in the crowd, and as Ward lashed the South, every heart turned in
interrogation to Culpepper. They knew what his education had been.
They understood his sentiments; and yet because he was one of them,
because he had endured with them and suffered with them and
ministered to them, the town set him apart from its hatred. And Martin
Culpepper was sensitive enough to feel this. It came over him with a
wave of joy, and as Ward talked, Culpepper expanded. Ward closed in
a low tone, and his face was white with pent-up zeal as he asked some
one to pray. There was a silence, and then a woman's voice, trembling
and passionate, arose, and Sycamore Ridge knew that Mrs. Barclay, the
widow of the Westport martyr, was giving sound to a voice that had
long been still. It was a simple halting prayer, and not all those in the
room heard it clearly. The words were not always fitly chosen; but as
the prayer neared its close,--and it was a short prayer at the most,--there
came strength and courage into the voice as it asked for grace for "the
brother among us who has shared our sufferings and lightened our
burdens, and who has cleaved to us as a brother, but whose heart is
drawn away from us by ties of blood and kinship"; and then the voice
sank lower and lower as though in shame at its boldness, and hushed in
a tremulous Amen.
No one spoke for a moment, and as Sycamore Ridge looked up from
the floor, its eyes turned instinctively toward Martin Culpepper. He felt
the question that was in the hearts about him, and slowly, to the wonder
of all, he rose.