Mrs. Cunningham snorted in a ladylike fashion, indicating what she thought of free-form social gatherings of men involving bottles. I rather thought she had a point, but Jamie, Roger, and Ian had all assured me that the informal evenings were a great help in finding out what was going on around the Ridge—and just possibly doing something about it before things got out of hand.
“So, then.” Jamie flipped to a new page, this one headed Church in large black letters, underlined. “How d’ye want to manage Sundays—or is it Sunday for Friends, Rachel?”
“They call it First Day, but it’s really Sunday, aye,” Young Ian put in. Rachel looked amused, but nodded.
“So, will the three of ye hold service—or meeting,” he added, with a nod to Rachel, “every Sunday? Or d’ye want to alternate?”
Roger and the captain eyed each other, hesitant to say anything that might seem confrontational, but determined to claim time and space for their nascent congregations.
“I will be here each First Day,” Rachel said calmly. “But given the nature of Quaker meeting, I think perhaps it would be best if I were to come in the later part of the afternoon. Those who attend service earlier in the day might find it useful to sit and contemplate in the quietness of their hearts what they’ve heard, or to share it with others.”
“Mam and I will be there, too,” Ian said firmly.
The two preachers looked surprised, but then nodded.
“We’ll also hold service every Sunday,” Roger said. “The third commandment doesn’t say, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the Lord’s day twice a month,’ after all.”
“Quite true,” said the captain, but before he could speak further, Mrs. Cunningham said what everyone was thinking.
“Who goes first?”
There was an uneasy silence, which Jamie broke by digging in his sporran and pulling out a silver shilling, which he flipped into the air, caught on the back of his hand, and clapped the other hand over it.
“Heads or tails, Captain?”
“Um …” Caught by surprise, Cunningham hesitated, and I saw his mother begin to mouth “tails”—quite unconsciously, I thought. “Heads,” he said firmly. Jamie lifted his hand to peek at the coin, then showed it to the group.
“Heads it is. D’ye choose first or second, then, Captain?”
“Can ye sing, sir?” Roger asked, startling Cunningham anew.
“I—yes,” he said, taken aback. “Why?”
“I can’t,” Roger said, touching his throat in illustration. “If ye go first, ye can leave them in an uplifted frame of mind with a parting hymn. So they’ll be more receptive, maybe, to what I have to say.” He smiled, and there was a small ripple of laughter, but I didn’t think he was joking.
Jamie nodded.
“Ye needna worry about bein’ first or last, Captain. Entertainment’s scarce.”
JOHN QUINCY MYERS had, during his short stay with us, opined that mountain-dwellers were so lacking in opportunities for entertainment that they would travel twenty miles to watch paint dry. This thought was part of his modest disclaimer to being entertaining in himself, but he wasn’t wrong.
One new preacher would have been enough to draw a crowd. Two was unheard of, and two preachers representing different faces of Christianity …！ As I stood with Jamie outside the new Meeting House, waiting for Captain Cunningham’s service to begin, I heard muttered bets behind me—first, as to whether the two preachers would fight each other, and if so, who might win.
Jamie, also hearing this, turned round to address the gaggle of half-grown boys doing it.
“A hundred to one says they willna fight each other,” he said, in a carrying voice, adding then in a lower tone, “But if they do, I’ll have ten shillings on Roger Mac, five to one.”
This caused a minor sensation among the boys—and a clucking of disapproval among the few actual Methodists and Anglicans present—which died away as the captain approached, in full naval uniform, including gold-laced hat, but with a surplice over one arm, and his mother—fine in black, with a black lace bodice—on the other. An approving murmur broke out, and Jamie and I made our way to the front of the crowd to bid them welcome.
The captain was sweating a little—it was a warm morning—but seemed both in good spirits and self-possessed.
“General Fraser,” he said, bowing to Jamie. “And Mrs. General Fraser. I hope I see you well on this blessed morning.”