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From the moment that Francis Asbury's foot touched ground in Philadelphia from England in 1771, the American colonies were never the same -- nor was the Englishman himself.

Sent by John Wesley, Asbury was America's first circuit-rider, covering 5,000 to 6,000 miles a year, spreading the gospel and daring death from Georgia to Quebec. Because of his incessant travels before the advent of photography, Asbury's face became the most recognized on the continent. His face was better known than the faces of such contemporaries as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin. He became so well known that he would receive mail from England addressed simply: "Bishop Asbury, America."

Chased by savage Indians, hunted by ravaging wolves, and stalked by highwaymen, on he rode. Fighting pleurisy, arthritis and other ailments that were sometimes so disabling he could neither stand to preach nor kneel to pray. On he rode, preaching against slavery 70 years before the Civil War, and against intemperance 100 years before abolition became an issue. On he rode.

Written by longtime journalist, Mark Alan Leslie, "Midnight Rider for the Morningstar" captures and describes the perils, challenges and dedication that punctuated the life of this man whose powerful preaching attracted thousands at a time, spurring an increase in Methodist Church membership from a mere 600 to 214,000 by the time of his death in 1816. He helped create five colleges and numerous schools.

Following is a sample chapter of the story of Francis Asbury ...

Chapter 1

     The air was so clear and crisp on this autumn day that it almost crackled. The aroma of salt from the nearby Atlantic Ocean mingled with the scent of the balsam fir trees all about him to create a curious combination. And the trees were so startlingly beautiful, adorned in brilliant yellows, reds and oranges, that they nearly whistled, “Look at us!” But neither the air, the odor nor the foliage attracted the attention of the man on the tall, white stallion. One hand controlling the reins, the other cradling a book, comfortably settled into his saddle, he was engrossed in the odd-looking characters that read right to left.

“Ani la dodi va dodi le,” he read aloud. “I am of my beloved and my beloved is of me.…” He thought for a moment. “Ah, ‘I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine’! Oh, I love that scripture.”

Francis Asbury turned to his companion, then remembered that Nicholas wasn’t with him at the moment but had ridden on ahead to make arrangements for the week’s meetings.

I wish I had grown up speaking Hebrew and had to learn English rather than the other way around, he thought absent mindedly with a chuckle. But he had taught himself Hebrew just as he had taught himself Greek, and he guessed he was better off for that than if he had spent four years at university learning the languages. That would have delayed his ministry and shortened his time to save men’s lives. So university may have been a sin in the end, eh? Silly thought.

Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose.

Something dark, something sinister lurked nearby. He pulled himself upright in his saddle, quietly shut his book and slowly scanned the woods around him, listening intently. Somewhere to his left squirrels began squawking loudly and agitatedly and something large, a pheasant perhaps, battered wings through the underbrush in a rush skyward.

Something menacing. He couldn’t see anything physically, but he sensed it spiritually. Something ominous nearby.

Francis tucked the Hebrew Torah into his shirt, bent down to his horse’s ear, whispered, “Come on, Spark. Cha!” and the big stallion responded with a thrust that sent his rider back into the rear of the saddle.

Suddenly a shot rang out from the woods to his left and Asbury heard a bullet hiss past. He lowered his head, bent toward the horse’s neck and kicked his heels into the stallion’s ribs, urging loud now, “Hurry, boy. Hurry! Cha!”

An excellent horseman, Asbury had ridden more than two hundred thousand miles from Georgia to Quebec, up and down the Atlantic seaboard over the previous thirty-eight years. But he would need more than skill on his horse today. Even Spark couldn’t outrun a bullet.

He lifted a prayer toward the heavens. “Lord, quicken our step.”

The path was barely two yards wide, an old Indian trail not wide enough for a carriage or wagon to pass—a shortcut he had used before. Francis turned to look behind him. Dark silhouettes on horseback rode in chase, probably a hundred yards behind him, visible only in the shafts of light flickering between the shadows of the trees. Two, maybe three that he could see. No. There was a fourth, to his left—probably the one who had fired the shot.

Francis turned to look forward. A branch! He ducked just in time, and reached to catch hold of his hat as the limb nearly snapped it off his head. Spark, sure-footed through years of riding narrow trails in the dark of night, avoiding roots that stuck out of the ground, shouldered around a turn in the path as if he knew to tighten the turns to shorten the distance to run.

Behind them, men were shouting directions to one another. Cursing. Other, muffled words he could not understand. Did these men know of a shortcut, through a field perhaps, to get in front of him?

“Lord, guide our path!” Francis called, thinking his creaking joints were too aged for a dash through the thick woods.

As he rode on, his senses heightened. He heard the sound of the leather saddle creaking beneath him, felt the lungs of his horse expand and contract, smelled the sweat that glistened on the great stallion’s neck. He looked for a landmark. He had been so absorbed in his reading that he hadn’t known precisely where he was. Somewhere approaching Scarborough—near the meeting hall at Massacre Pond, where most of the townspeople had been slaughtered by hostile Indians more than one hundred years before, back in the 1690s. The salt marshes and ocean would be somewhere, not far, eastward to his right.

Another shot rang out, and another, one bullet snapping through a branch just a yard or two to Francis’ right. A shiver of fright flew down his spine.

“Giddya!” he hollered, and Spark seemed to stretch out his stride and drop lower to the ground. Francis pulled his hat down to his ears. Yes, he knew this path! There was Dunstan’s Brook up ahead. Putting his right hand to Spark’s neck, he spoke into his ear, “Don’t slow down at the water, boy. Fire right through it!”

As if understanding every word, the horse leaped into the fifteen-yard-wide stream, causing Francis to hold on for dear life, and plowed fiercely through the quickly flowing water. Asbury prayed that they would get to the other side before the highwaymen reached it. If not, he was a dead man.

Another shot sounded and a bullet hit the water beside him with a muffled thud.

“Too many souls still to reach, Lord!” he called out. “Protect Your child!”

A verse from a Psalm flashed before him—“May the Lord fulfill your purpose”—and he called again to the heavens, “Lord, my purpose isn’t fulfilled yet!”

Suddenly, as if sprung from a jack-in-the-box, Spark and Francis bounded out of the stream. Springing to the top of the four-foot-high stream bank, Spark bent into a turn in the path, entering a thick grove of balsam fur trees. Francis knew he was only a quarter of a mile or so from the village at that point. He heard loud cursing behind him; the rogues must have reached the stream.

Then, from his right another gunshot rang out. This time the bullet crackled through branches overhead. The rifle sights must be off, Francis thought with a strained smile. He lay prostrate along Spark’s back, the saddle horn digging into his stomach, and settled his head to the left of the horse’s grand neck.

Francis refrained from digging in his heels. He and his horse were of one mind. He was sure of that. Speed to safety. Speed. Safety. His senses now fully awakened, he didn’t feel his sixty-four years of age at all. He simply felt he had to hang on now. A moment later, they dashed out of the woods and into an open field that led into the village of Scarborough some two hundred yards away.

Still surging toward the town, he leaned down to Spark’s ear and cooed, “You’re the best, Spark. I’ve loved all my horses, but you’re the brightest and the best.” Thinking of the close call he had just escaped, he laughed and added aloud, “And the fastest.”

As he approached the guardpost, he waved up to Horatio Short, who hollered down to him, “I heard gunfire, Bishop Asbury. Are you all right?”

“By the grace of God and the skin of my teeth, Horatio. Keep your eye out for trouble, though.”

“Your sidekick’s in the general store, Bishop.”

Francis nodded, slowed Spark and guided him to the right, down what had become the village main street. How these people had bravely moved here in spite of the town’s history was almost astonishing. They had courageous hearts, many of which he, Jesse Lee, or Bishop Philip Wagner had won to Christ.

Pulling Spark to a stop at the store, Francis dismounted, threw the reins over the hitching post, pulled the Hebrew Torah from inside his shirt and stuffed it into his saddlebag.

“Bishop Asbury! Bishop Asbury!” He looked up to see a small boy running toward him.

“Thomas!” he acknowledged the youth with a laugh.

The boy rushed up to him and held up his arms. Asbury bent to pick him up—a good-sized child seven years old. Raised up in the man’s grasp, Thomas hugged him as best he could with his little arms.

Francis looked lovingly at the boy. “Have you been minding your P’s and Q’s?”

Thomas nodded. “Yessir!”

“He’s been so looking forward to your visit, Bishop.” The lilting voice of Abigail Brackett reached Francis’ ears and he noticed the beautiful woman approach. Abigail was dressed in the earthy, functional dress of a pioneer woman, but it didn’t conceal that she was as stately as a lady-in-waiting in the Queen’s court.

“He wanted his face washed and trousers clean for your arrival,” she added with a smile as she continued on toward him. A basket hung in the crook of her arm. “He said he knew you’d want to cuddle him up.”

A tear trickled down Francis’ cheek at the thought of the boy’s love, and, distantly, of the children he himself had never had.

He squeezed the boy. “Well, Thomas,” he said, catching the boy’s eyes firmly in his own, “you certainly are cleaner than this dirty traveler before you!”

The boy smiled proudly, then something grabbed his attention as he looked at Francis’ hat. His brow knit into a question mark.

“You’ve got a hole in your hat,” the boy declared.

“A hole?”

Thomas raised a finger to Francis’ hat and poked it into a hole the size of a pencil. “Hey, it goes right straight through!” he squealed.

“What?” Francis set the boy on his feet and removed his hat.

Sure enough. Matching holes on either side of his hat. Francis pondered the mystery, but just for a moment.

“That last bullet,” he said quietly.

•••••

Three hours later, his belly full of lamb chops, potatoes and green beans, Francis sat contentedly in the great room of the impressive cottage of Sam and Abigail Brackett—a two-story home rare in this wilderness. Abigail had just refreshed everyone’s cup of tea, and Francis held the hot mug in his hands.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there with you this afternoon,” Nicholas Snethen said.

Francis studied his young companion. Worried about Asbury’s health after battles with an ulcerated throat and with the pleurisy and rheumatism from the repeated drenchings and cold winds that laced him in his travels, the Methodist Conference had commissioned Nicholas to be Francis’ travel companion, both as an attendant and co-ambassador to America. When, in three days, he and Nicholas rode north to the New England Conference in Monmouth, they would be joined by another companion, Henry Boehm.

Here it was, 1809, nearly four decades after he arrived in the colonies, and now they were worried about Francis’ health. Ha! They didn’t know the half of the story—the dangers he had faced, the escapes he had made.

He looked again at his companion, taking stock of whom he considered a fine young man. Francis had grown to love Nicholas as dearly as he did Jesse Lee, who had first brought Christ to this northern wilderness. And, through Francis’ tutelage, Nicholas was becoming more and more versed in the Word of God. But, honestly, if Nicholas had been with him this afternoon, it might have been disastrous. A preacher, he was. A horseman, he was not.

Francis smiled at his young friend. “Your presence, son, would have meant the necessity of calling one more angel into duty to protect us.”

Everyone laughed, including little Thomas who sat at Francis’ feet. Nicholas playfully biffed him on the head.

“Well, Francis, you’re with us tonight, and for that we’re thankful.” It was Sam Brackett, a tall, burly man in his mid-30s who owned this cabin in the Province of Maine  in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Sam and Abigail knew Francis well. He had stayed at their home on his circuit-ride to the Commonwealth every couple of years for a decade now. They were honored at his presence. The best-recognized man in America—more so than George Washington—everywhere Francis went crowds gathered to hear him preach.

And why not? Sam thought as he gazed upon his friend, whose long white locks flowed to the neck of his shirt. For all his sicknesses and ills, Francis had aged well, maintaining his ruggedly handsome features and commanding presence. His black clothes were a model of neatness and plainness that added to his air of dignity and venerable appearance. He seemed to stand much taller than his five-foot-nine height. He possessed broad shoulders, a square jaw, piercing blue eyes, a prominent nose and a large mouth, as if purposely made to preach life to the dead.

And preach, he did. Francis had grown the Methodist Episcopal Church from six hundred members to more than two hundred thousand, had ordained four thousand preachers, had presided over more than two hundred annual Conference sessions, had brought men and women to tears of repentance in thousands of sermons. In his presence, people knew they were hearing words from the throne room of God.

Sam himself had seen grown men—hunters and trappers—fall under the anointed preaching of this man…   some as if they were truly dead; others, hardened men even, weeping like schoolchildren as the hound of heaven gave their souls chase.

“Will you tell me the wolf story again, Bishop?” Thomas was absent-mindedly playing with a toy, a miniature horse and wagon fashioned out of wood and straw; but his attention was focused on this man he adored.

“Which wolf story?” Francis asked.

“The one where you were chased.”

“Well, Thomas, more than one wolf in these colonies—excuse me, these states—has lusted after my flesh,” he chuckled.

“This would be a northern wolf, sir.”

“The northern wolf story you’re looking for, is it?” He smiled at Thomas and motioned for the boy to come and sit on his lap, which Thomas scurried to do, leaving his horse and wagon on the floor for more wonderful matters.

“Better still, Bishop,” said Sam, “perhaps you could tell us your entire story.”

Murmurs of agreement came from Abigail and Nicholas.

“Entire?” Francis tousled Thomas’s curly locks. “Well, it’s not ‘entire’ yet,” he laughed, “but, yes, I can share some of my story with you.”

Francis settled back in his chair, made sure Thomas was comfortable and put a hand to his chin, reflecting on where to begin his tale. He could, of course, begin with his mother's revelation when he was a child. She had a vision that he would be a great preacher and she read Scripture to him one hour a day to prepare him for the task.

Or, he could start when he got saved as a waif of fifteen listening to the stirring preaching of Alexander Mather in Wednesbury in the Black Country of England. Oh, did Francis love the way Mather preached—so personally and confidently; the way he prayed—with feeling and without the use of a book; the way he and the other Methodists sang—with melody and fervor!

Or Francis could begin his story when he started giving Bible readings at his mother's women's meetings. Hm-m-m.

Or, perhaps he should begin with his first ten years of preaching, from the time he was sixteen, circuit-walking in England, giving up his job as a metalworker at the age of twenty-one to preach full-time.

No, they wanted to hear about his call to America. And that was a tale that began at the annual Methodist Conference in 1771.

“England!” he exclaimed, startling everyone in the room, even himself. And the memory returned to him as vividly as if it were unfolding before his eyes. He was no longer in this low-ceilinged, pioneer cabin, cozied about with friends before a fireplace. Rather, in a cavernous hall whose ceiling rose thirty, forty feet above him. Nearly elbow to elbow, men and women, dressed in their finery, sat enthralled at the preaching of John Wesley.

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