A Friendly Letter, The Blog.

Candles in the Window – Part II
Copyright (c) by Chuck Fager

Abram wouldn’t have thought of climbing Castleberg, especially in the cold, except for the candles–two in a window in every house and shop.

“What are they for, this time?” he had asked Father that morning.

“It’s a double illumination,” Father said, “for victories past and victories prayed for. George Cockburn’s troops burning Washington, DC is the victory past, and Wellington beating Napoleon before the end of 1815 is what they’re praying for.”

Napoleon and his army

“That’s a fine thing to pray for, in what’s supposed to be a Christian country” his grandmother had snorted. Laying down her rolling pin, Gran had wiped sweat from her brow. “All it means is more dead soldiers, penniless widows and hungry orphans, from Paris to New York. Love thine enemies, indeed. A terrible, sinful waste.”

Washington DC being burned by British troops, War of 1812

She sighed and picked up her rolling pin. With swift, expert strokes she flattened a thick lump of dough into delicate pie crusts.

“In Philadelphia,” she went on, hefting the rolling pin for emphasis, “there were dozens of pitiful beggars, one-legged and one-eyed, left over from their glorious revolution, twenty-five years later. Saw `em with my own eyes, y’know. No need for it, I say. War is a sin, I say. And not just I, but the blessed–“

The bell over the door had tinkled just then, and Mrs. Lamb entered, seeking some bread. Gran had stopped in mid-sentence at its jingle. This was Quaker talk, and not for customers’ ears, especially not this year.

But such talk had always interested Abram; and he never tired of hearing about Gran’s travels in the ministry to America. It seemed as if she had seen everything there, from William Penn’s great Quaker city to the terrible slavemarkets of Baltimore and Richmond. And she had gone there all alone, back in 1805.

A US slave market

To be sure, a woman traveling all that way unaccompanied had been somewhat irregular, even for Friends. But when Sarah Haygarth, who was to go with her, came down with smallpox a week before their ship sailed, Gran told the elders straight out that she still felt called to go. They had given her a traveling certificate, she insisted, and she was not going to return it until it had the signatures of Friends in America on it.

And that had been that. Gran was not someone to be trifled with. Not then, and not now.

In fact, it was Gran’s gruffness which was about to come in very handy for Abram. Hurrying around a corner of the square, he ran smack into a larger boy running the other direction, looking back as he came.

Abram, his broadbrimmed hat and his basket all went sprawling. The larger boy recoiled, then seemed to recognize Abram. “Bloody Quaker!” he shouted, and kicked Abram as he tried to regain his footing. “Cowards, all of you! Bet you’d like to see Napoleon and Andy Jackson killing British soldiers, wouldn’t ya?”

Abram dodged the next kick and managed to get up. “Who’s thee?” he asked, backing away. “What does thee want?”

“I want all traitors and Quakers out of England!” the boy cried. He threw a rock at Abram, which missed. “Go to Philadelphia, or someplace where your sort is welcome. We hate cowards and traitors, and we hate you!”

The boy raised his fists and stepped menacingly toward Abram, who was backed up against the wall of a house.

There’s no place to run, he thought, so I may as well stand my ground. “Who’s thee calling a coward?” he said, and raised his fists.

To Be Continued

This entry was posted on Friday, December 4th, 2009 at 7:17 pm and is filed under Stories-Quaker. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.