Chapter 11: Hubris
Part I of God-Haunted culminates in a tense confrontation as Mary returns home to find Jerusha flush with zeal from her first protest before tragedy strikes the Ewart property.
“You’re here, finally. Take these apples. We’re making a tart for dessert,” Jerusha smiled as she placed a bowl of Rome Beauties in Mary’s hands. Their glossy red skins resilient despite the long winter months in the root cellar.
The smile caught Mary off guard. She lingered in the kitchen doorway, shawl and hat still on, satchel forgotten as the bowl of apples weighed heavily on her palm. Mary had grown accustomed to Jerusha being enigmatic at best, scowling at worst, but this smile was completely new.
She was anxious to ask Jerusha what had happened that day, but the conventions of their home life dictated respect and subtly. She sighed, setting her hat and satchel aside as she carelessly tipped the bowl. Apples tumbled across the table in all directions.
“Mary, be careful. They cannot be bruised for this recipe,” Jerusha said as she returned to the table with a bowl of freshly scrubbed turnips.
Jerusha preparing dinner was unusual, and Mary wondered at the occasion of her presence in the kitchen. She stood at the large central table where the women gathered to help Kate prepare food, sample her cooking and discuss their days.
“Are you making scalloped turnips?” Mary asked, revealing her disdain for the labor-intensive dish.
“That’s correct.”
“And a tart?” Mary glanced at the wall clock. “Such elaborate dishes. Do we have enough time?”
She caught a smirk on Jerusha’s face, whose fingers gripped dangerously close to the knife's edge as she hurriedly guided a turnip beneath the heavy steel. The knife was sharp enough to cut through the dense root without a hint of resistance. Despite her bravado, somehow each slice was as precise as her finger placements.
“I’ll have them in the oven soon enough, thank you.”
Sweat curled on Mary’s brow, her lungs burning after the brisk walk up Putnam Street. The strange men across the street from Styler’s Drug Store left her unsettled, but the news of Jerusha’s day had crowded her thoughts as she hurried back to her father’s home.
“Afternoon, Mary. Hand me your things and I’ll put them in the front hallway,” Kate said as she waved her over. “You didn’t go home first?”
Mary smiled at Kate as she pulled off her shawl. Her eyes passed from Kate back to Jerusha as she tried to discern what was in her mind. “No, I… I came straight here…”
“Well then, I’ll send the boys over to fetch your children for dinner,” Kate replied as she shuffled through the kitchen doorway into the hall to hang up her things. “George? Frank? Come down here, please,” she called up the servant steps. “Mary’s here. Tell Gordon, Alice, and Mamie that dinner will be ready in an hour.”
Mary pulled a clean, pressed apron from the shelf and tied it around her waist.
“Jerusha?”
“Yes?”
“I have a question.”
Jerusha turned to look at her. “The apples? Cut them into thin slices so we can line the dish like so,” she replied, demonstrating the placement of apples in concentric circles. “One eighth of an inch should be thin enough.”
“I understand how to make an apple tart. That was not my question.” The heat from the warm ovens pressed down on her as she found herself reduced to a young woman taking orders all over again.
Jerusha appeared unfazed by her retort as Kate reentered the kitchen.
“The boys will fetch the children after they finish up their homework.”
“Thank you,” replied Mary. She kept an eye on Kate, waiting for her to leave the kitchen again. Although the housekeeper was aware of much of their lives, Mary didn't want to subject her to the story if untrue. She had enough to worry about taking care of the family and their home already.
Selecting a thin but sharp paring knife, Mary set up her work immediately across the table from Jerusha, where she continued to julienne the turnips. The preparation required great attention as the slices needed to be uniform for layering. The eight-inch chef’s knife flashed at a dizzying speed; each chop a dull thud against the wood table.
“Jerusha, be careful. You’ll cut your fingers.” Mary’s stomach tightened as she watched her wield the knife with unwarranted confidence.
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve been using this knife since you were a child in this house.”
Kate took a stack of dirty pans into the scullery, banging about where Mary judged her to be sufficiently out of earshot. She gathered the wayward apples and began peeling them slowly, pulling the blade downward from top to bottom, in a continuous motion. Brushing the thin peels aside to preserve for glazing syrup, she considered her abrupt tone upon entry. She took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“How was your day at church?”
Jerusha paused cutting for a moment, considering the vegetables before her. “My day… was quite productive. Providence smiled on our efforts. It could not have gone any better.”
Productive was not a word Jerusha used to describe anything they did at church where temperance was concerned. Mary sensed she was holding back. What did she do today?
“And how was your day?”
“Fine, I suppose. I spent the day drafting our latest catalogue.”
Jerusha flashed a smile and returned to preparing the dish. Of course, Mary thought. No interest in her work, as usual. Why had she expected anything different?
Mary kept her eyes down and her voice low as she began coring the apples. “I heard a curious thing from Mr. Styler when I visited his store today.”
“And what might that be?” Jerusha asked as she began slicing the onions to layer on top of the turnips.
Careful to remain out of earshot, she looked back towards the scullery to be sure Kate was still occupied.
“He mentioned that you and the other women at the church were inside Fulkerson’s demanding he cease selling liquor. He said the customers fled out the back after you left.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said, smiling towards Mary. “I guess our work was fruitful then.”
Mary focused on maintaining her composure. Jerusha’s familiar moral superiority grated on her. She began lining up the apple slices in front of her as onion fumes nipped at her eyes.
“So, Mr. Styler’s account is accurate? You were in the saloon today?”
“Yes, he tells it correctly.”
Mary stopped cutting for a moment. Her eyes burned as the smell of onions filled the kitchen. Jerusha’s eyes appeared unaffected, so Mary refused to wipe her own. Bleary-eyed, she resumed cutting.
“What happened to prayer meetings?”
Jerusha paused to consider the question.
“While ineffective, they will continue for the women who are fearful to take action.”
Mary snorted. “Direct confrontation is not something that’s been done in this town.”
“Until now.”
“And what about the moral high ground?”
“What about it? Nothing has been ceded.”
“The temperance movement is an appropriately feminine and moral cause, but I can’t imagine how you can maintain that position if you are protesting in the faces of men.
“Mary, I know what is righteous because God has guided me to this place. What you think matters little to Him. In fact, you would do well to join us.”
Mary drove the paring knife hard into an apple, sending a slice skittering across the table. Jerusha was not open to rational discussion, but there was another way.
“Interesting that father would approve of these actions,” she said dryly.
Jerusha looked up, narrowing her eyes. “He is generally supportive, of course.”
“Generally?”
“Your father won’t stand in the way of our progress, for it is the Lord’s work.”
The Lord’s work? Mary wondered. How perfectly convenient to have God on your side when breaking every rule of propriety.
“So, he doesn’t know what happened?”
“He’s not home yet, and we haven’t discussed the day’s events.”
“I suspect he would agree with me that there are appropriate, legal ways to manage this question.”
“Your father and the rest of the men in this state have spent decades pondering the question with no result. Silence in the face of sin amounts to complicity.”
“I don’t think anyone is being silent on the matter. While the Scott Act failed in Columbus—”
“The Scott Act was a spectacular failure.”
“I’m aware, Jerusha. That’s why our local option system will address the level of regulation needed.”
“And to what end? Marietta could be surrounded by wet counties, leaving us no better off than we are today. While you trust in the wisdom of our male leaders, families are being destroyed.”
While loathe to agree, Mary understood Jerusha's point. Liquor interests across the state had persuaded community leaders that economic interests were superior to moral ones. While the local option system meant Marietta could choose its own path regarding liquor, it required getting adjacent counties onboard to vote for it. So far, the men in town had not been able to do so. Arguing a legal approach with Jerusha would get her nowhere.
“And what about our family?”
“What about them?”
Mary hesitated as she looked back towards the scullery. Kate’s loud washing up seemed to halt. Their intense whispering filled the silence.
“Aren’t you concerned about what this means for our social standing?” Mary asked as she pointed her knife at herself and then Jerusha.
Pft! “Those who criticize us are more concerned with their own comfort than with the families living under this blight.”
At that moment, Mary realized they were no longer alone as Kate’s profile emerged in her periphery.
“Mrs. Ewart? Mary? Sorry to interrupt. May I enter to look after the roast?”
Kate rarely asked for permission in the kitchen. Mary held her breath for a moment, worried about how much she had overheard.
“Of course, Kate,” Jerusha said waving her over, knife still in hand.
“Apologies, Kate. We didn’t mean to keep you from your work.”
“Is everything well?”
“It is. We were just discussing our day,” Mary said.
Kate stepped to the other side of the kitchen and began removing a large roast from the oven. Mary turned her focus back to the apples as she felt Jerusha lean in towards her over the table.
“Mary, look at me. Mark my words, I care not what others think. My only concern is what God thinks.”
“Pardon me, but I doubt you’ve considered all the repercussions of this undertaking.”
“Repercussions? The only repercussion—” Jerusha stifled a yelp as she took in a deep breath. Mary watched the color run out of her face as she looked down to find an onion quickly turning crimson as its veins filled with blood welling from a cut on Jerusha’s finger.
“Blazes! Mary, hand me a towel. Quickly!”
“What happened?” Kate asked as she set a pan down on the stove.
“Kate, fill a washing bowl with hot water.”
“It looks deep. Let me take a look,” Mary said as she handed her a clean towel from the rack.
“It’s just a nick. They bleed more than they're worth. I’ll be fine.” She wrapped her finger in the towel and applied pressure. Blood quickly seeped through the absorbent cloth.
“I’ll fetch a bandage, ma’am.” Kate stepped into the pantry, where they kept the medicine cabinet.
“Bring the carbolic acid too,” Mary said.
From the front of the home, the children could be heard speaking over one another in excited voices.
“Father must be home,” Mary said as she looked towards the swinging door.
Kate hurried back with a roll of bandages and scissors.
“Kate, please help Mr. Ewart with his things. Tell him dinner will be in an hour if he wants to settle into his study until then. Mary, help me with the bandage.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kate reluctantly handed Mary the cloth as she gave her a look of empathy, which Mary imagined being more for herself than Jerusha.
Mary set to work cutting a few strips of the linen bandage while Jerusha cleansed the wound in the bowl. As the water swirled red, the unspoken repercussions of Jerusha’s actions piled up in Mary’s mind. She imagined the extreme behavior of the women could undermine the temperance movement. They may even generate sympathy for the saloon owners, which would work grievously against years of quiet, religious persuasion. And how would the saloon owners react? The menacing stares of the men on the street that day flashed into her mind. Was the timing of those looks a coincidence only?
“Here, let me apply the carbolic,” Mary said, unwrapping the soaked towel.
A calm had settled over Jerusha’s face as if she no longer felt the cut.
“Mary, I don’t want you discussing this with your father. I will speak to him after dinner on my own.”
Mary felt her cheeks burn as she wrapped the bandage tight. After all these years— college, marriage, children, widowhood—she was still being told what to do.
“Ow, that’s too tight. Give it to me,” Jerusha said as she yanked her hand away.
“Fine. I’m trying to help you,” Mary said, returning to her side of the table. She took a deep breath, pushing down the desire to holler at her. She would speak to her father as she saw fit.
The door swung open as the Ewart children swarmed into the kitchen with Kate just behind them and Thomas stopping short, holding the door open. Cries of mother rang out as Mary’s four younger, half siblings, approached the table cautiously, inspecting the wound.
“Are you hurt?” asked George. At sixteen, he was stuck somewhere between being the big brother to all the siblings, Mary’s children included, and the adults who were tugging him into adulthood.
“Yes, dear. I’m fine. It’s a minor cut. Help me secure the bandage.” Jerusha said softly as she beckoned him over.
Mary was struck by this moment of tenderness between mother and son, while she remained red in the face, still fuming over their conversation.
“Good evening. "My dear, is everything alright?” Thomas asked as the women turned to look at him.
“Mrs. Ewart nearly sliced off the end of her finger,” reported Kate.
“Goodness. What happened?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just a minor cut. Why don’t you settle down in your study while we finish dinner.”
Mary studied her father as he fidgeted with his left sleeve, shoulders slumped forward. He appeared weary, even frustrated, she would guess.
“Please join me. I would like to speak with you before dinner,” he replied.
The quiet invitation didn’t register on Jerusha’s face, nor on any of the children, but Mary wondered what he knew about the day and would only reveal behind closed doors. She was determined to be part of the conversation.
“We need to finish preparing dinner.”
“I can help Kate. You should rest,” Mary said.
“I’m fine,” Jerusha snapped, turning back to Thomas. “We can speak after dinner.”
“Very well. I’ll be in the study. Children, leave them to finish.”
“Go on, all of you. We’re nearly done,” said Kate as she corralled the children before her, ushering them through the door.
With the family absent, silence fell between the three women except for Kate’s occasional direction. Mary’s temples throbbed as she retreated to her thoughts. How would her father handle the conversation with Jerusha? What would the town have to say about these self-proclaimed moral reformers? The questions swirled, but underneath them simmered a deeper frustration, not just with today’s reckless crusade, but with years of Jerusha’s sanctimonious certainty. The woman had swept into their home after her mother’s death, reshaping their lives with her rigid piety. She dismissed Mary’s work as trivial while trumpeting her own moral superiority. Now she’s marching into saloons like some messenger of God, dragging the family name through the mud. Her father would try to reason with Jerusha tonight, but Mary knew better. You couldn’t argue with someone who claimed God as her personal advisor. By morning the whole town would be talking, and there would be consequences, ones Jerusha was too blinded to see.
Mary’s children arrived from next door as the rest of the family gathered in the dining room. The long mahogany table stretched the length of the room, with a fireplace on one side and an ornate sideboard opposite. The gas chandelier cast a warm glow over the family as they stood waiting for Thomas to arrive at their respective seats. Mary’s seat had been the same since childhood, midway along the table, between her father and Jerusha. Her two girls sat on either side of her so she could keep an eye on them while Gordon and her half-siblings filled out the other chairs. Jerusha stood behind her chair at the foot of the table. Mary watched her tap her finger on the heavy brocade fabric, lost in thought and not making eye contact.
“Apologies,” Thomas said as he entered from the front hallway. “I was distracted with work, of course. Please take your seats.” He took his place at the head of the table, his gaze directed towards Jerusha.
The chairs scuffed along the floor as the children were eager to get seated and eat. Mary watched them sit up straight, dutifully waiting for Thomas to select one of them for prayer. This nightly ritual meant that someone would be asked to say grace and, on the nights when Mary and the children joined, usually that meant one of her own.
“Gordon, nice to see you, my boy. Please say grace.”
“Of course, grandfather,” he replied, clearing his throat. He turned to Mary, directly across from him. “Please bow your heads. Most gracious God, and merciful Father, we beseech thee, sanctify these creatures to our use, make them healthful for our nourishment, and make us thankful for all thy blessings, through Christ, our Lord and only Savior. Amen.”
“Amen,” the family repeated in unison.
Kate emerged from the kitchen to help serve the younger children, who sat patiently waiting for their plates to be filled.
The Ewart dinner ritual had been scarcely altered since Mary was a child. For a few seconds she could squeeze Jerusha’s presence from her mind, recalling her mother at the foot of the table, keeping a watchful eye on them as children. She had calmly guided them in table manners as her father asked about their days. Now, his repertoire seemed unchanged as he focused on their personal development and what they learned at school. Jerusha, unsurprisingly, reinforced their religious teachings.
Mary watched as Thomas left his food untouched, looking around the table while the rest of them ate. His eyes were tired as he paused momentarily on Jerusha before settling on George, seated next to him.
“George, tell us what you read today, and what you learned from it?”
George finished swallowing his food and sat up straighter. “We discussed how some Roman republicans were so committed to ancient virtues that they couldn’t adapt to changing circumstances.”
Mary’s throat grew dry as she stopped chewing and shifted her attention to her brother. Unable to swallow, she reached for her water goblet to wash the food down.
“Ah, so you are discussing democratic institutions I assume?”
“Correct, father.”
“What knowledge did you gain?”
“Well, their steadfast beliefs led to the destruction of the very republic they sought to preserve. I learned that American democracy requires balancing moral principles with practical compromise, or rigid virtue can become destructive fanaticism.”
Mary followed Thomas’s eyes as they drifted to Jerusha, who slowly chewed her food, her gaze soft and unfocused. She was somewhere else.
“Excellent lesson, George,” replied Thomas quietly as he took a sip of water, eyes locked on Jerusha. “A man who is virtuous but lacks practical judgement may do more harm than good, despite his good intentions.”
“Indeed,” said George as he returned to his food.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Jerusha?” asked Thomas.
Jerusha broke her stare at the mention of her name. “Sorry, Thomas. Say that again?”
“Your mind is somewhere else this evening?”
“Perhaps.”
“And tell us about your day?” he asked as he cut a piece of roast. “How was the meeting at the church?”
Mary froze in her seat. Was her father about to press Jerusha with questions? Would Jerusha dare to discuss what she did in front of the family? She looked down at her plate, pretending to concentrate on her food, as if the conversation was meandering through its normal course at dinner and nothing more.
Jerusha beamed at the question as she set down her fork. “I believe the meeting at the church was successful. Our women are progressing under God’s providence.”
“Is that so?” Thomas replied.
“Yes, many women showed their interest in advancing the cause. I think our time has come to make a difference.”
“And Minister Fowler was receptive?”
“Oh, in his usual way, I suppose. He properly introduced me and our cause. I would say he did what he could to support us.”
Mary doubted that, knowing the minister.
“Interesting. I look forward to speaking with him about it.”
“Yes, I can give you the particulars after dinner.”
With that, her father looked back at his plate and resumed eating. Though she couldn't read his mind, she knew he was likely worried about bringing up the topic in front of the entire family. She needed to be part of the private discussion Jerusha had suggested, yet she doubted she’d be invited. Turning back to her stepmother, now calmly eating, Mary braced herself for gossip to spread through the town. The children would hear about the saloon scene soon enough. Maybe it was wiser to address it together, so everyone could see her father bring Jerusha to her senses.
“Yes, Mary?” Jerusha asked as she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, calmly clasping her hands at the edge of the table.
Startled from her thoughts, Mary realized she had been staring at Jerusha. Her stepmother glared back at her, as if she were challenging her to a duel. Jaw clenched; Mary snapped her shoulders back. The rest of the family fell away from the corners of her eyes as anger pulled her under.
“But that isn’t the full story, is it, Jerusha?”
“Of course not. Your father and I will discuss the rest later.”
“I think we should discuss it now. The family ought to know what happened rather than hear about it from their classmates. Who knows how the story might be embellished, if that’s even possible given the outlandish details.”
“What are you speaking about, Mary?” Thomas asked.
Mary turned to her father as the rest of the children stared silently at their plates.
“If she won’t share, then I’ll tell you what I heard today from Mr. Styler. Jerusha and the women of the church marched into Fulkerson’s demanding Mr. Fulkerson close the saloon. They demeaned the patrons by calling them godless. Isn’t that right, Jerusha?” The words spilled out of her as her pent-up anger was released.
Jerusha slammed her palm onto the table. The sound shot across the dining room as the children stared in shock and then glanced away. Her neck pulsed with anger as her pursed lips stretched into a smile.
“Is this true, Jerusha?” Thomas asked quietly. Mary remembered her childhood as he spoke; when he had asked questions he already knew the answers to.
“It is, my dear. Today was glorious and tomorrow will be even better. We have their attention, and the dealers must back down.” Her voice was resolute; her gaze unyielding.
Mary’s fingers tightened around her goblet. Of course, Jerusha would admit to it, but to say it so boldly, with her father sitting right there, was unthinkable. She could already see the raised eyebrows of the men at the chair factory or her father’s colleagues exchanging glances over their morning papers. The Ewart women were making a spectacle of themselves. How many of her father’s clients would take their business elsewhere rather than be associated with a family of temperance radicals?
“Father, I dare say this approach is highly inappropriate. I worry there may be… unintended consequences,” Mary said, aware the children were listening to every word.
“Mary, please stay out of it. If you won’t join us, then keep your opinions to yourself and continue writing catalogues.”
“What about your sacred duty to protect this family? Have you not taken us into account?”
“Children are suffering. Why should my duty stop at the front door of this home? God has always used women as His messengers when men failed to act.”
“Both of you, stop!” Thomas yelled.
Reminded of her station, Mary lowered her head. Only on the rarest occasion could she remember her father raising his voice. He always spoke in measured, academic tones that prioritized civility above all else. She pushed too hard. This was his battle to fight.
“I’m sorry, Father. It was wrong of me to press the matter.”
“We will discuss this in—”
Mary looked up at the sudden interruption. Thomas appeared stricken as he rubbed his fingers forcefully into his breastbone.
“Father? Are you well?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. I just… need a moment.” His voice was low and filled with pain.
Jerusha stood, throwing her napkin on her chair. She stepped quickly to the head of the table as Mary did the same. Jerusha kneeled beside him.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Jerusha asked, kneeling by his side.
“It’s my irritable heart,” he replied. The color in his face was gone as he held his hand to his chest. “I should lie down.”
“Let’s go up to our room so you can rest. Mary, help me stand him up.” Together they pulled him, tottering to his feet.
“Kate!” Jerusha called out.
As if she had been standing just beyond their view in the kitchen, Kate rushed into the dining room.
“Oh my, Mr. Ewart. I’ll prepare the mustard plaster.”
“Mary, stay with the children. Kate, help me take Mr. Ewart upstairs. Let’s use the main staircase so we can support him on either side.”
“Of course, Mrs. Ewart.” She stood next to Mary, gently removing her father’s arm from her grip. “Go sit down, my dear,” she whispered.
Mary watched them guide Thomas out of the dining room. Her body trembled, first with anger that soon melted away to regret. Her insistence on confronting Jerusha went too far, making her father ill. She turned to the children, who remained looking down at their plates in silence. Little Elizabeth wept to herself. She steadied her thoughts while smoothing her skirts.
“There, there, Elizabeth. Father will be fine. Come sit with me.” She sat down again as Elizabeth crawled into her lap. Mamie and Alice joined them on either side, holding their mother’s arms.
“Should we go to our rooms?” asked George. His eyes were wide with fear. “I’ve never seen Father so sick before.”
“I know, but he will be fine. He just needs rest.”
“I hope so,” George replied.
Mary took in the rest of them, their eyes wide with fear. “Children, do not leave food on your plates. We made an apple tart which you cannot have until you have finished your dinner.” With that, the boys returned their focus to their plates except for George.
“What is it, George?” asked Mary.
“It’s just that I was going to ask Father to review my essay. It’s due tomorrow. Will you review it for me?”
“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll come back over after I see the children to bed.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m too distressed to eat. May I be excused?”
“Of course.”
Kate returned to serve dessert, bringing joy into the room before the children left to prepare for bedtime. Gordon took his sisters back across the side yard to their own home with a promise from Mary that she would join them as soon as she finished helping Kate take the dishes into the kitchen. She longed to look in on her father but did not want to encounter Jerusha again that evening. Until he felt better, she resolved to avoid upsetting him further. Being responsible for his ill health was something she could not stomach. The two of them could talk about Jerusha’s crusade on their own.
At Kate's insistence, she left to put her own children to bed and returned to the Ewart house to find George in the room he shared with his brother, Frank. Frank was fast asleep as George sat at his desk; the low light of his lamp glowed on his face as he reviewed a draft of his essay.
“Can I come in?” she asked, standing in the doorway.
“Yes, please,” he said as he moved to offer her his chair.
“Oh, you sit. I’m fine standing.”
He sank back down, attempting to protest, as she waved him off.
“Did you see father yet?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly.
“I trust he’s asleep by now.”
"That is my hope. I haven’t seen him so weak before.”
“Me neither.”
To Mary, George embodied the best of her father’s qualities. Measured and calm, he lovingly watched over his siblings and Mary’s children while being the most studious of the bunch. She tussled his thick brown hair.
“Don’t worry. Tell me what you are writing about?”
He handed her his essay. “It’s about agricultural chemistry principles.”
Mary grimaced. “Science was never my best subject, but I’ll do my best.”
“Nor mine. I’m writing about soil composition and how crop rotation shows how scientific farming can improve productivity. I’m not sure—”
She paused reading; her gaze drawn to his face as flashes of red light cut through the dim room. He stared alarmingly out the window before jumping up from his seat, knocking his inkwell to the floor where the glass block bounced around, splashing black ink across the hardwood.
“What is it, George?” she cried out, startled by his frightened appearance.
He stood speechless as she followed his gaze out the window. Twenty-foot-high flames whipped in the air above the Ewart barn as an inferno burst from within the building.
“Oh no. Oh, God! George, go wake up Father. I’ll ask the neighbors to ring the bell.”
Mary watched him stand rigid with terror, unable to speak.
“George, make haste!”
His eyes flickered with awareness as he stepped backward to leave, slipping in the ink and hitting the floor with a crack.
Mary rushed to his side. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, wincing as he jumped back up, careful to step around the ink this time. “Father, Father! Wake up!”
Mary rushed out of the room behind him as Frank continued to sleep soundly. Nothing could wake that child. She raced down the narrow servant staircase, through the kitchen where Kate was reading peacefully by a lamp at the central table.
“Mary? Oh my, you startled me.”
“Kate! The barn! We must rouse the neighbors.”
Mary ran into the backyard as flames towered over her. The heat pressed intensely on her face as the livestock inside cried out in fear. Neighbors shouted from their homes as bells rang out from the Baptist Church.
“We must free the livestock,” shouted Kate as she hurried past Mary to the barn door.
“Kate, no! It’s too dangerous.”
“Pull open the doors, Kate!” roared Jerusha as she swept past Mary in her dressing gown. “I’ll free the cow and horses. You shoo the pigs.”
Stepping aside, Mary watched the two women pull back the large oak doors and cover their noses as they ran into the barn. The piercing squeals of panicked animals flooded her ears as thick, acrid smoke billowed from the entrance.
“Mary, help me with father!” George called out from the side door to the kitchen.
His thin white nightshirt clung to Thomas as he stood, arm tight around George's neck. His face was a mask of shock, eyes wide in the dim light.
“Stay there, both of you. Kate and Jerusha are freeing the livestock.”
The horses bolted from the barn, running in opposite directions, their eyes rolled back in terror. Mary ducked out of their way for fear of being stomped as they tore by her into the night. The dairy cow and pigs were right on their tails with the chickens scattering around them. Mary felt an eternity pass before Jerusha and Kate burst out as the roof cracked above them. Their faces and dressing gowns were black with soot. Kate held her arm in pain as they turned to face the barn.
Neighbors filled in around them with buckets as Mary watched a man furiously pump water from the well in the yard. They formed a line, passing the buckets from one to another and tossing the water hopelessly into the flames. The women gathered around the family to console them.
“George, did you extinguish the lantern after the evening feeding?” Jerusha questioned, turning toward the group.
“I didn’t use it today. I haven’t used the lantern for a week. The evenings are light enough now without it.”
Mary stood watching the group in silence. She concentrated on her breath to slow her mind and racing heart. Barn fires were common so the children had been raised to be cautious.
“What else could have started the fire?” Kate asked.
The crowd of neighbors parted as a tall, sallow-faced man dressed in a heavy wool coat pushed through them. Though Mary didn’t recognize him, she quickly spied a star-shaped metal pin fixed to his lapel that read Deputy Marshal Marietta.
“Make way! Stand aside, please. I need to speak with the family.”
“Over here, officer,” said Mary, stepping forward.
“Good evening. I came as quickly as I could when I spotted the flames from down the street.”
“Thank you for coming, on foot no less.”
“Do you know if anyone was on your property this evening?”
“No, nobody but the family have been here all evening,” Mary replied as she looked to Kate and Jerusha for confirmation.
Jerusha nodded. “That’s correct, officer.”
“Well, as I ran up to your home, a man fled on foot from the side yard of the house,” he said.
A shiver traced Mary’s spine as she turned to her father and Jerusha. The side yard separated her home from the Ewart’s where she had crossed just twenty minutes before on her way to help George with his essay. Nothing had seemed amiss.
“Did you get a good look at him?” asked Jerusha.
“I ordered him to stop, and that’s when he cut across the street, through the college. I gave chase but lost him about half a mile away on Butler Street. Seemed average height. He ran with what looked like a bowler hat in his hand. I did not see his face. I returned as fast as I could.”
“We thought a lantern was the culprit,” said Jerusha.
“Perhaps the man was just trespassing?” asked Thomas weakly.
“Perhaps,” the marshal replied as he looked up at sparks flying into the wind. “Are you Mr. Ewart?”
Thomas nodded.
“Who saw the fire first?”
“George did,” said Mary, pointing at her brother. “I only saw the flames and by that time it was too late. I don’t think any of us knows what happened.”
“Well, if a lantern is the culprit, please be mindful that it is put out after use.” He looked over his shoulder back towards the street. “Unfortunately, it seems the fire company will be too late to do anything. What a shame to lose such a fine barn. Did the livestock escape?”
“They did, officer,” said Jerusha.
Mary watched George put his arm around Thomas’s waist to steady his feet.
“Mr. Ewart, are you hurt?” the officer asked.
“No, I’m not feeling well this evening, is all.”
“Kate seems to have burned her arm,” said Mary, pointing at the housekeeper.
Kate pulled back her hand to reveal a charred sleeve of her dressing gown with red-hot flesh underneath. “I can manage it myself,” she said.
“You certainly did burn it. Someone rouse Dr. Andrews to attend to this woman.”
“He’s on his way, officer,” called out a neighbor from behind.
Mary watched the officer look over the group of neighbors as if he was searching for a familiar face. Perhaps the trespasser had returned? She wondered who was standing among them as she searched their faces for familiarity. While most of the neighbors still had on their nightcaps, having been awakened suddenly from bed, she recognized all of them. Slowly, however, she realized the only person she didn’t know was the officer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing more we can do. The fire will die out. You should return home and let the family get some rest,” the officer said, turning to face the crowd.
“Apologies, officer, I don’t believe I know your name,” said Jerusha.
“This is Officer Wicks,” replied Thomas. “Night patrol, as I recall. Down on the riverfront?”
“That’s correct.”
“I guess we’re fortunate you were on Putnam this evening,” said Mary. “What brought you to this part of town?”
“I walk this way from home sometimes before starting my shift,” he replied.
Mary nodded in return as she looked him over more closely. She noted his pale face, not flushed at all from giving chase. Come to think of it, he wasn’t out of breath when he arrived.
“Mr. Ewart, I should take your statement about the evening.” he replied as he pulled Thomas away from the group.
Mary watched Jerusha wipe soot from under her eyes as the family thanked the neighbors and returned to the back entrance of the home.
She turned back to the barn as the roof collapsed among the flames. Sparks flew into the clear night sky, carrying out on the wind, over the Ewart home and into the darkness. A sense of unease settled over her.
This concludes Part I of God-Haunted: The Possible Story of Thomas Ewart. Part II finds our characters six months later on another fateful day in Marietta, Ohio.