The Eighth Crusade

June, but we kept the fire place piled with logs,     And every day it rained. And every morning     I heard the wind and rain among the leaves.     Try as I would my spirits grew no better.     What was it? Was I ill or sick in mind?     I spent the whole day working with my hands,     For there was brush to clear and corn to plant     Between the gusts of rain; and there at night     I sat about the room and hugged the fire.     And the rain dripped and the wind blew, we shivered     For cold and it was June. I ached all through     For my hard labor, why did muscles grow not     To hardness and cure body, if 'twere body,     Or soul if it were soul?             But there at night     As I sat aching, worn, before the hour     Of sleep, and restless in this interval     Of nothingness, the silence out-of-doors,     Timed by the dripping rain, and by the slap     Of cards upon a table by a boarder     Who passed the time in playing solitaire,     Sometimes my ancient host would fill his pipe,     And scrape away the dust of long past years     To show me what had happened in his life.     And as he smoked and talked his aged wife     Would parallel his theme, as a brooks' branches     Formed by a slender island, flow together.     Or yet again she'd intercalate a touch,     An episode or version. And sometimes     He'd make her hush; or sometimes he'd suspend     While she went on to what she wished to finish,     When he'd resume. They talked together thus.     He found the story and began to tell it,     And she hung on his story, told it too.     This night the rain came down in buckets full,     And Claude who brought the logs in showed his breath     Between the opening of the outer door     And the swift on-rush of the room's warm air.     And my host who had hoed the whole day long,     Hearty at eighty years, sat with his pipe     Reading the organ of the Adventists,     His wife beside him knitting.          On the table     Are several magazines with their monthly grist     Of stories and of pictures. O such stories!     Who writes these stories? How does it happen people     Are born into the world to read these stories?     But anyway the lamp is very bad,     And every bone in me aches - and why always     Must one be either reading, knitting, talking?     Why not sit quietly and think?         At last     Between the clicking needles and the slap     Of cards upon the table and the swish     Of rain upon the window my host speaks:     "It says here when the Germans are defeated,     And that means when the Turks are beaten too,     The Christian world will take back Palestine,     And drive the Turks out. God be praised, I hope so."     "Amen" breaks in the wife. "May we both live     To see the day. Perhaps you'll get your trunk back     From Jaffa if the Allies win."         To me     The wife turns and goes on, "He has a trunk,     At least his trunk went on to Jaffa, and     It never came back. The bishop's trunk came back,     But his trunk never came."          And then the husband:     "What are you saying, mother, you go on     As if our friend here knew the story too.     And then you talk as if our hope of the war     Was centered on recovering that trunk."          "Oh, not at all     But if the Allies win, and the trunk is there     In Jaffa you might get it back. You know     You'll never get it back while infidels     Rule Palestine."         The husband says to me:     "It looks as if she thought that trunk of mine,     Which went to Jaffa fifty years ago,     Is in existence yet, when chances are     They kept it for awhile, and sold it off,     Or threw it away."             "They never threw it away.     Why I made him a dozen shirts or more,     And knitted him a lot of lovely socks,     And made him neck-ties, and that trunk contained     Everything that a man might need in absence     A year from home. And yet they threw it away!"     "They might have done so."          "But they never did,     Perhaps they threw your cabinet tools away?"     "They were too valuable."         "Too valuable,     Fine socks and shirts are worthless are they, yes."     "Not worthless, but fine tools are valuable."     He turns to me: "I lost a box of tools     Sent on to Jaffa, too. The scheme was this:     To work at cabinet making while observing     Conditions there in Palestine, and get ready     To drive the Turks from Palestine."          What's this?     I rub my eyes and wake up to this story.     I'm here in Illinois, in a farmer's house     Who boards stray fishermen, and takes me in.     And in a moment Turks and Palestine,     And that old dream of Louis the Saint arise     And show me how the world is small, and a man     Native to Illinois may travel forth     And mix his life with ancient things afar.     To-day be raising corn here and next month     Walking the streets of Jaffa, in Mycen,     Digging for Grecian relics.             So I asked     "Were you in Palestine?" And the wife spoke quick:     "He didn't get there, that's the joke of it."     And the husband said: "It wasn't such a joke.     You see it was this way, myself and the bishop,     He lived in Springfield, I in Pleasant Plains,     Had planned to meet in Switzerland."             "Montreaux"     The wife broke in.          "Montreaux" the husband added.     "You said you two had planned it," she went on.     Now looking over specks and speaking louder:     "The bishop came to him, he planned it out.     My husband didn't plan the trip at all.     He knows the bishop planned it."         Then the husband:     "Oh for that matter he spoke of it first,     And I acceded and we worked it out.     He was to go ahead of me, I was     To come in later, soon as I could raise     What funds my congregation could afford     To spare for this adventure."             "Guess," she said,     "How much it was."         I shook my head and she     Said in a lowered and a tragic voice:     "Four hundred dollars, and you can believe     It strapped his church to raise so great a sum.     And if they hadn't thought that Christ would come     Scarcely before the plan could be put through     Of winning back the Holy Land, that sum     Had never been made up and put in gold     For him to carry in a chamois belt."     And then the husband said: "Mother, be still,     I'll tell our friend the story if you'll let me."     "I'm done," she said. "I wanted to say that.     Go on," she said.          And so he started over:     "The bishop came to me and said he thought     The Advent would be June of seventy-six.     This was the winter of eighteen seventy-one.     He said he had a dream; and in this dream     An angel stood beside him, told him so,     And told him to get me and go to Jaffa,     And live there, learn the people and the country,     We were to live disguised the better to learn     The people and the country. I was to work     At my trade as a cabinet maker, he     At carpentry, which was his trade, and so     No one would know us, or suspect our plan.     And thus we could live undisturbed and work,     And get all things in readiness, that in time     The Lord would send us power, and do all things.     We were the messengers to go ahead     And make the ways straight, so I told her of it."     "You told me, yes, but my trust was as great     As yours was in the bishop, little the good     To tell me of it."             "Well, I told you of it.     And she said, 'If the Lord commands you so     You must obey.' And so she knit the socks     And made that trunk of things, as she has said,     And in six weeks I sailed from Philadelphia."     "'Twas nearer two months," said the wife.         "Perhaps,     Somewhere between six weeks and that. The bishop     Left Springfield in a month from our first talk.     I knew, for I went over when he left.     And I remember how his poor wife cried,     And how the children cried. He had a family     Of some eight children."             "Only seven then,     The son named David died the year before."     "Mother, you're right, 'twas seven children then.     The oldest was not more than twelve, I think,     And all the children cried, and at the train     His congregation almost to a man     Was there to see him off."         "Well, one was missing.     You know, you know," the wife said pregnantly.     "I'll come to that in time, if you'll be still.     Well, so the bishop left, and in six weeks,     Or somewhere there, I started for Montreaux     To meet the bishop. Shipped ahead my trunk     To Jaffa as the bishop did. But now     I must tell you my dream. The night before     I reached Montreaux I had a wondrous dream:     I saw the bishop on the station platform     His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing     His gold head cane. And sure enough next day     As I stepped from the train I saw the bishop     His face with brandy blossoms splotched and wearing     His gold head cane. And I thought something wrong,     And still I didn't act upon the thought."     "I should say not," the wife broke in again.     "Oh, well what could I do, if I had thought     More clearly than I did that things were wrong.     You can't uproot the confidence of years     Because of dreams. And as to brandy blossoms     I knew his face was red, but didn't know,     Or think just then, that brandy made it red.     And so I went up to the house he lived in -     A mansion beautiful, and we sat down.     And he sat there bolt upright in a rocker,     Hands spread upon his knees, his black eyes bigger     Than I had ever seen them, eyeing me     Silently for a moment, when he said:     'What money did you bring?' And so I told him.     And he said quickly 'let me have it.' So     I took my belt off, counted out the gold     And gave it to him. And he took it, thrust it     With this hand in this pocket, that in that,     And sat there and said nothing more, just looked!     And then before a word was spoke again     I heard a step upon the stair, the stair     Came down into this room where we were sitting.     And I looked up, and there - I rubbed my eyes -     I looked again, rose from my chair to see,     And saw descending the most lovely woman,     Who was" -          "A lovely woman," sneered the wife     "Well, she was just affinity to the bishop,     That's what she was."             "Affinity is right -     You see she was the leader in the choir,     And she had run away with him, or rather     Had gone abroad upon another boat     And met him in Montreaux. Now from this time     For forty hours or so all is a blank.     I just remember trying to speak and choking,     And flying from the room, the bishop clutching     At my coat sleeve to hold me. After that     I can't recall a thing until I saw     A little cottage way up in the Alps.     I was knocking at the door, was faint and sick,     The door was opened and they took me in,     And warmed me with a glass of wine, and tucked me     In a good bed where I slept half a week.     It seems in my bewilderment I wandered,     Ran, stumbled, climbed for forty hours or so     By rocky chasms, up the piney slopes."     "He might have lost his life," the wife exclaimed.     "These were the kindest people in the world,     A French family. They gave me splendid food,     And when I left two francs to reach the place     Where lived the English Consul, who arranged     After some days for money for my passage     Back to America, and in six weeks     I preached a sermon here in Pleasant Plains."     "Beware of false prophets was the text!" she said.     And I who heard this story through spoke up:     "The thing about this that I fail to get     Concerns this woman, the affinity.     If, as seems evident, she and the bishop     Had planned this run-a-way and used the faith,     And you, the congregation to get money     To do it with, or used you in particular     To get the money for themselves to live on     After they had arrived there in Montreaux,     If all this be" I said, "why did this woman     Descend just at the moment when he asked you     For the money that you had. You might have seen her     Before you gave the money, if you had     You might have held it back."          "I would indeed,     You can be sure I should have held it back."     And then the old wife gasped and dropped her knitting.     "Now, James, you let me answer that, I know.     She was done with the bishop, that's the reason.     Be still and let me answer. Here's the story:     We found out later that the bishop's trunk     And kit of tools had been returned from Jaffa     There to Montreaux, were there that very day,     Which means the bishop never meant to go     To Palestine at all, but meant to meet     This woman in Montreaux and live with her.     Well, that takes money. So he used my husband     To get that money. Now you wonder I see     Why she would chance the spoiling of the scheme,     Descend into the room before my husband     Had given up this money, and this money,     You see, was treated as a common fund     Belonging to the church and to be used     To get back Palestine, and so the bishop     As head of the church, superior to my husband,     Could say 'give me the money' - that was natural,     My husband could not be surprised at that,     Or question it. Well, why did she descend     And almost lose the money? Oh, the cat!     I know what she did, as well as I had seen     Her do it. Yes, she listened at the landing.     And when she heard my husband tell the sum     Which he had brought, it wasn't enough to please her,     And Satan entered in her heart, and she     Waited until she heard the bishop's pockets     Clink with the double eagles, then descended     To expose the bishop and disgrace him there     And everywhere in all the world. Now listen:     She got that money or the most of it     In spite of what she did. For in six weeks     After my husband had returned, she walked,     The brazen thing, the public streets of Springfield     As jaunty as you please, and pretty soon     The bishop died and all the papers printed     The story of his shame."             She had scarce finished     When the man at solitaire threw down the deck     And make a whacking noise and rose and came     Around in front of us and stood and looked     The old man and old woman over, me     He studied too. Then in an organ voice:     "Is there a single verse in the New Testament     That hasn't sprouted one church anyway,     Letting alone the verses that have sprouted     Two, three or four or five? I know of one:     Where is it that it says that "Jesus wept"?     Let's found a church on that verse, "Jesus wept."     With that he went out in the rain and slammed     The door behind him.         The old clergyman     Had fallen asleep. His wife looked up and said,     "That man is crazy, ain't he? I'm afraid."