Midway through one of the minister's most passionate sermons on the evils of alcohol, an explosion rocked the walls of the village church and sent the congregation scurrying for cover. Seconds later, the shock wave set the windows to vibrating, threatening to send a shower a glass over all the faithful.
Holy Christ! the minister yelled, Cover your heads!
Repent! another voice shrieked from the choir loft, crazy as a loon Old Jack Campbell, I thought to myself.
Everybody out! Uncle Shad shouted above the noise, Everybody out now!
Stay put for now, my grandmother told me calmly, the Lord's house is made of sterner stuff than this.
There was a hum in the air but the walls and windows held and everyone filed out, orderly but watchful. In the bright Sunday sunshine, the sweet salt air was beginning to smell like smoke. The minister, having regained his composure and seriously regretting his words, slipped out of his robe and organized a small party of island men to investigate. It was then that Walt Nickerson emerged from the woods behind The Memory Garden, his clothes in tatters and his face blackened. He staggered toward the church yard and we all saw that not only had his hunting vest been blown to smithereens, his arm had gone with it.
Sorry, rev'end, he managed to mumble and then promptly collapsed in a bloody heap.
Repent! Old Jack was madly shouting and to the amazement of everyone, even my grandmother, the minister turned on a dime and with one shockingly well aimed punch, silenced the man and sent him cartwheeling backwards. A second later, Old Jack went down like a sack of potatoes. By that time, the new young doctor had arrived on the scene and was crisply issuing orders while cutting away the remnants of Walt's vest and flannel shirt. A half dozen island men carried the old bootlegger across the road and into the doctor's office while Rowena was summoned to assist - between Walt's gaping wound and Old Jack's gushing broken nose, there was considerable blood - and Jack's wetly muffled pleas for attention went unnoticed until the minister's wife finally took pity on him. Lilly led him into the parsonage and packed his nose with gauze and damp dishtowels while her husband looked on, too shamed to help and too defiant to offer an apology.
Damn fool, Walt Nickerson, Uncle Shad allowed to my grandmother, Doc's got his work cut out fer sure though I don't hardly give a plug nickel for his chances.
It was far and away the general opinion - between blood loss and shock, no one imagined that he'd last the night without the mainland hospital and there didn't appear any transportation fast enough to get him there in time.
But, as Nana liked to say, life's a funny old dog. Someone suddenly remembered that there was a funeral in Westport that very day, the mainland funeral home had sent their hearse to deliver the body and it was still waiting to make the return trip.
Be empty sure's yur born, Uncle Shad pointed out, and that coffin carrier can surely fly when she needs to.
My grandmother nodded. A sensible if slightly macabre idea, Shadrach, she said with a smile.
And so it was that Walt was packed into the hearse and whisked away to the mainland, where - against all odds - he survived the journey, the emergency surgery, and an extended recovery period. He returned to the island that winter - courtesy of the mail car - thinner, sober, redeemed and one armed with his whiskey making days put firmly behind him. He had, so it was said, woken up in the hearse at one point and been scared straight into salvation.
It took the minister, a devout pacifist and a man of God, a little longer to make peace first with himself and then with Old Jack. He was, he admitted ruefully, torn between regret at having violated a basic religious principle and pride in having a powerful and most un-christian, mean right hook.
Repent! another voice shrieked from the choir loft, crazy as a loon Old Jack Campbell, I thought to myself.
Everybody out! Uncle Shad shouted above the noise, Everybody out now!
Stay put for now, my grandmother told me calmly, the Lord's house is made of sterner stuff than this.
There was a hum in the air but the walls and windows held and everyone filed out, orderly but watchful. In the bright Sunday sunshine, the sweet salt air was beginning to smell like smoke. The minister, having regained his composure and seriously regretting his words, slipped out of his robe and organized a small party of island men to investigate. It was then that Walt Nickerson emerged from the woods behind The Memory Garden, his clothes in tatters and his face blackened. He staggered toward the church yard and we all saw that not only had his hunting vest been blown to smithereens, his arm had gone with it.
Sorry, rev'end, he managed to mumble and then promptly collapsed in a bloody heap.
Repent! Old Jack was madly shouting and to the amazement of everyone, even my grandmother, the minister turned on a dime and with one shockingly well aimed punch, silenced the man and sent him cartwheeling backwards. A second later, Old Jack went down like a sack of potatoes. By that time, the new young doctor had arrived on the scene and was crisply issuing orders while cutting away the remnants of Walt's vest and flannel shirt. A half dozen island men carried the old bootlegger across the road and into the doctor's office while Rowena was summoned to assist - between Walt's gaping wound and Old Jack's gushing broken nose, there was considerable blood - and Jack's wetly muffled pleas for attention went unnoticed until the minister's wife finally took pity on him. Lilly led him into the parsonage and packed his nose with gauze and damp dishtowels while her husband looked on, too shamed to help and too defiant to offer an apology.
Damn fool, Walt Nickerson, Uncle Shad allowed to my grandmother, Doc's got his work cut out fer sure though I don't hardly give a plug nickel for his chances.
It was far and away the general opinion - between blood loss and shock, no one imagined that he'd last the night without the mainland hospital and there didn't appear any transportation fast enough to get him there in time.
But, as Nana liked to say, life's a funny old dog. Someone suddenly remembered that there was a funeral in Westport that very day, the mainland funeral home had sent their hearse to deliver the body and it was still waiting to make the return trip.
Be empty sure's yur born, Uncle Shad pointed out, and that coffin carrier can surely fly when she needs to.
My grandmother nodded. A sensible if slightly macabre idea, Shadrach, she said with a smile.
And so it was that Walt was packed into the hearse and whisked away to the mainland, where - against all odds - he survived the journey, the emergency surgery, and an extended recovery period. He returned to the island that winter - courtesy of the mail car - thinner, sober, redeemed and one armed with his whiskey making days put firmly behind him. He had, so it was said, woken up in the hearse at one point and been scared straight into salvation.
It took the minister, a devout pacifist and a man of God, a little longer to make peace first with himself and then with Old Jack. He was, he admitted ruefully, torn between regret at having violated a basic religious principle and pride in having a powerful and most un-christian, mean right hook.
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