Hartshorn continued in this vein for a solid hour, painting pictures of a scalding future while the sanctuary grew steadily colder. Stanwood chewed his lip and crossed his arms and tried to follow the preacher’s thoughts, but his mind wandered and he was nearly dozing when he realized that Hartshorn was shouting, signaling the climax and conclusion of his address.
“Let every one of you who is still without Christ, you who hang over the pit of hell, whether old man or old woman, or middle-aged, or young people, or little children, listen to the loud call of God’s word. For a day of great favor to some will doubtless be a day of vengeance to others.
Man’s heart will harden, and his guilt will increase apace if he neglects his soul. Never was there so great a danger.
“The wrath of Almighty God hangs over the greater part of this congregation. Let everyone fly out of Sodom:
‘Haste and escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed.’”
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The minister closed his book with a flourish, at which point Stanwood got to his feet, climbed over Mary, and marched up the center aisle. Every hat and bonnet turned to watch him fling the door open and slam it shut. And then, one hundred pairs of damning eyes turned upon Mary and Rachel, the mother white as a sheet, the daughter glowing crimson.
Stanwood strode out of the city and back to Dogtown, grumbling all the way, and did not stop until he reached the scene of his miracle. He stared up into the once-enchanted tree, now barren and bleak against the low-hanging winter sky.
“God damn me,” he muttered, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. If the Holy Spirit had come to him here, might not the place itself be sacred? He bowed low and then scurried to his cold Dogtown bed, where he covered his throbbing head with a blanket and tried to stifle his awful thirst.
Accounts of Stanwood’s misadventures with the clergy and his behavior in church traveled the length and breadth of Cape Ann quickly, delighting everyone except Mrs. Stanley, who saw her business fall off by more than half. Sally and Molly didn’t mind the slowdown. They spent their days together under the covers, looking at old newspapers, whispering, and occasionally asking Sammy to cook another pot of cornmeal mush.
Sammy had hardly slept and bit his fingernails to a bloody quick. He was certain that Stanwood would wake
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up one morning and realize that it had been no angel up in that tree. He jumped whenever Mrs. Stanley’s door opened, and was relieved as that happened less and less.
But after four straight days without a single guest, Mrs.
Stanley told Sammy to seek out Mr. Stanwood. “Tell him I wish to see him,” she said, adding coolly, “Tell him nicely.”
Sammy went to town, but made no effort to find him.
In fact, he’d been keeping a careful watch on Stanwood, who made daily visits to the tree where he’d been tricked into salvation. He approached on tiptoe, cringing with his hat in his hand. He never got any closer than about twenty feet, where he’d bow his head for a few moments and then slink off, glancing up over his shoulder as he went.
On the day Sammy made a pretense of running Mrs.
Stanley’s errand, he went by Stanwood’s house and, hearing tapping from inside, crept around to the back window and felt his insides freeze. Stanwood was at the table, a chisel in his hand, working on a granite tablet that was precisely the size of a child’s headstone. Sammy ran all the way back home and pulled the blanket over his head, complaining of stomachache.
His fears were laid to rest the next day when he walked to Stanwood’s tree and noticed that a flat marker had been pounded nearby. Sammy smiled as he ran his finger across the inscription:
JMS
>
1819
Within a month of his angelic visitation, Stanwood had become a pariah in Gloucester. Without liquor to lubricate
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