George changed his tactic. “There’s not enough daylight left to make it all the way home. You’ll get lost, and what good would that do you? Come on. Let’s walk into town. I’ll show you around.”
“Alright,” Dwight agreed. “But I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
Soon the two Moody brothers were staring into the shop windows. Any other time Dwight would have been fascinated by the array of knives on display at the general store, but not today. He felt far too homesick.
Suddenly George poked him in the ribs. “Dwight, here comes a man who’ll give you a cent. Look lively.”
Dwight was confused. “Why would he do that?” he asked.
“He does it for every new boy who comes to town.”
Dwight’s mood brightened. He wiped away his tears and stood right in the middle of the sidewalk so that it would be impossible for the man not to see him. Sure enough, the old man, leaning heavily on a cane, stopped in front of Dwight. “So who have we here? You are a new boy in town, aren’t you?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir, he is,” George said. “He just came today.”
“Welcome to Greenfield, son,” the old man said. “I expect you will be needing a friend. I have always found that when I am lonely, one friend sticks to me more closely than a brother. His name is Jesus Christ. Let me tell you about Him.”
As Dwight listened to the old man, he was so drawn in by his gentle voice and bright smile that he almost forgot about the cent. The man talked for about five minutes before he patted Dwight on the head and told him to remember to pray every night. Then he reached into his pocket, drew out a shiny penny, and handed it to Dwight.
Dwight closed his fingers around the coin. A cent all for himself! He could hardly believe it. Perhaps living in Greenfield wouldn’t be so bad after all. With the new penny firmly in his palm and a new lightness in his heart, Dwight returned to the old couple in time to milk the cow.
Two months later, when circumstances had improved a little for the Moody family, Dwight was able to return home to Northfield. He still carried the one-cent coin in his pocket along with the warm memory of the old man who had given it to him.
In 1848 Northfield celebrated the coming of a wondrous new invention—trains. Northfield was situated near the spot where three states converged: Vermont, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. The Central Vermont Railway had built a railway bridge across the Connecticut River at Northfield. It was now possible to take the train from Northfield up into Vermont and change to a Boston-bound train at Bellows Falls. Suddenly the rest of the country seemed closer than ever. Instead of taking a long, bumpy, horse-drawn coach trip to Boston, people could now take the train and get there much more quickly and comfortably.
Each night as he lay in bed in his second-story bedroom, Dwight would hear the wail of the whistle and the screech of iron wheels as the train sped across the new bridge. Someday, he told himself, he would be on that train heading east and away from the endless cycle of wood chopping, planting, weeding, and harvesting that absorbed most of his waking hours. He would find a way to become a gentleman—and a very wealthy one at that.
Chapter 3
“My Fortune Lies Beyond These Hills”
On February 12, 1854, a week after his seventeenth birthday, Dwight Moody could take it no longer. He was a strong, solid young man who desperately needed to find his own way in life. He threw down the saw he was cutting logs with near the house and told his brother Edwin, “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this. I’m not going to stay another day. I am off to the city!”
With that, Dwight walked back up to the house, avoiding the kitchen where his mother was busy cooking. He threw his few clothes into a carpetbag and walked out the back door. He headed down the hill toward town in the direction of Boston with no particular plan in mind. He just wanted to be as far away from his boring life in Northfield as possible before dark. He felt guilty that he had not told his mother he was leaving. He promised himself that he would write as soon as he reached Boston and send money to her when he could.
Whatever happened, Dwight knew that he could never abandon his family, especially after seeing how his mother was affected when Isaiah left. Betsy seldom talked about her eldest son, and when she did, tears ran down her cheeks. “If I could just know he was safe, that he wasn’t lost at sea or freezing to death somewhere,” she would say. She spent hours staring out the window and looking down the road. Every Thanksgiving she set a place at the table in case Isaiah showed up. He never did.
As Dwight walked on, he imagined the new life that awaited him. He looked down at his work boots, which were old and worn but soon would be replaced with shiny, new boots from his uncle’s shoe store in Boston. Suddenly it was all clear to Dwight. He would walk to Boston, where he would find the Holton Shoe Store owned by his mother’s brother, Samuel Socrates Holton, or Uncle S.S., as the family called him. Dwight was sure that his uncle would give him a job, which would put him on his way to wealth and fortune.
By the time Dwight had reached the bottom of the hill, he made another decision. He would no longer be called Dwight. He hated his name. Dwight might be fine for a young boy, but it was not the kind of name for someone of substance and prestige. His full name was Dwight Lyman Moody, and from now on he would go by his initials, D.L. He liked the ring of that name. “Mr. D. L. Moody,” Dwight repeated to himself as he walked on.
Soon he noticed a figure walking toward him from town. As the figure got closer, Dwight, or D.L., recognized his older brother George. When they were close enough, George shouted, “Where are you going?”
“Boston,” Dwight yelled back. “And no one is going to stop me!”
A few steps more and the two brothers stood facing each other. “But what about Mother?” George asked, his face flushed with anger.
“I can do much more for her in Boston than I can cutting wood here,” Dwight replied. “Sam and Edwin can cut enough wood to keep the fire going. My fortune lies beyond these hills, in the city. I’m certain of it.”
“Did you tell Mother?”
“No, I didn’t want to see her cry. But tell her where I’m going and that I’ll be back to visit as soon as I can,” Dwight said.
George took a deep breath. “So there’s nothing I could say to dissuade you?”
Dwight resisted the urge to laugh. He already felt freer than ever. “No, nothing. Not even Mr. Simpson’s crazy horse could drag me back,” he said.
Dwight’s words were followed by a long silence. Dwight had nothing more to say. He was off to make his way in the world, and George was headed up the hill back to the family house. George reached into his shirt and drew out a five-dollar bill. “I can see you’re settled in your mind. Take this, and God bless you, Dwight Moody.”
Dwight gratefully took the money from his brother. It was the largest sum he’d ever had. “You won’t be sorry you gave this to me,” he said as he thrust out his hand to shake George’s. Without another word, the two brothers shook and continued on their way.
An hour later, using some of the money he got from George, D.L. was on the train headed north to the Bellows Falls junction in Vermont, where he would catch a train to Boston. As he rode along, D.L. wondered what he would have done without the money from his brother. It would have been a very long walk to Boston.
As the train rolled across Vermont, D.L.’s sense of expectation increased. Each clack of the wheels was taking him farther from his home in the Connecticut River Valley. His mother’s family, the Holtons, had settled in Northfield in 1672, and Dwight’s grandfather, Isaiah Moody, had come to the region in 1796 to work as a brick mason. His father, Edwin, had been born in Northfield in 1800.
When the train pulled into Winchester, Vermont, D.L. stared with wide eyes at the biggest town he’d ever seen. He found it difficult to imagine anything grander, and he hadn’t even gotten to Boston or the ocean yet! The ocean was another thing D.L. had studied in school but had never seen with his own eyes.
After changing trains at Bellows Falls, D.L. was headed directly for Boston. What a scene awaited him when the train pulled into that city’s North Station. People were everywhere. Many of the women were dressed in fine clothes—flowing cotton and silk skirts and lace blouses and hats perched on their heads. The men were clad in suits and top hats. There were also those dressed more like D.L., in worn clothes and shoes. Soon D.L. noticed that many of the people milling around him had Irish accents.
Beyond the railway station, D.L. was amazed at the number of church spires that rose above the houses and buildings that seemed to stretch on forever. The harbor was abuzz with activity as small boats ferried people and goods around, and large ships with tall masts lay at anchor or were unloading their cargo at a dock.
Boston was truly a marvelous place, much bigger than D.L. could have imagined. He took careful note of the slope of the hill down toward the docks so that he would not get lost as he walked through the city. He asked for directions and found his way to the Holton & Co. Shoe Store on Court Street. Taking a deep breath, D.L. stepped inside. A bell jangled, and a middle-aged man turned to greet him. The man’s face lit with surprise. “Why, Dwight, whatever brings you to Boston?” Uncle S.S. asked. “Last Thanksgiving, back in Northfield, I thought I made it plain that Boston was no place for a country bumpkin like you.”
D.L. could think of ten things he wanted to say. But the words would not come.
“Well, lad, I hope you don’t want a job here. A man needs a certain aplomb to work in a shoe store selling to ladies and gents. Perhaps you should look for work in a stable or shoveling manure off the streets—some job you are accustomed to.”
D.L. stammered for words. “No, I wasn’t looking for work at all, Uncle,” he said. “Just the chance to see you and bring you word of your sister. You haven’t inquired about how she is.”
“Well, how is she? And your brothers and sisters? I suppose they all have that much more to do now that you have left them, Dwight,” Uncle S.S. snapped.
“Call me D.L. from now on. Dwight was good enough for the country, but I aim to be a city man.”
Uncle S.S. laughed. “It will take more than a change of name to do that. There’s no work to be had here. You’d better spend a couple of nights with your Uncle Lemuel and then head back where you belong.”
After scribbling on a piece of scrap paper, Uncle S.S. handed the paper to D.L. “Here’s your uncle’s address. He has more room than I. Now off you go. You’re disrupting the flow of customers.”
“More likely they don’t come in because of the sorry state of the window display,” D.L. said as he turned and left the shoe store.
It was nearly nightfall by the time D.L. reached his Uncle Lemuel and Aunt Typhonia’s home. Uncle Lemuel was another of his mother’s brothers and was more enthusiastic in his welcome. Yet he, too, made it clear that D.L. was probably better off turning around and heading home.
That night as he lay in bed, D.L. thought about his situation. He had expected Uncle S.S. to offer him a job and a little more encouragement, but that didn’t matter too much. As he drifted off to sleep, D.L. told himself that there must be plenty of jobs in a city this big.
The next day D.L. found out just how wrong he was. Jobs were scarce in Boston, and when he did find a help-wanted notice in a window, the conversation didn’t go well. D.L. had been to school on and off since he was four years old, but he had never graduated, and his speaking reflected this fact. Boston was a cultured city. Harvard University was located across the Charles River in Cambridge, and many young Americans his age living in the city spoke Latin and French and were readying themselves to enter university. Irish boys about D.L.’s age, refugees from the Potato Famine in Ireland, were eager to take on the backbreaking labor on the docks and to build roads, leaving little opportunity for an American country boy like D.L.
