IN the village of Hambright the church was the centre of gravity of
the life of the people. There were but two churches, the Baptist and
the Methodist. The Episcopalians had a building, but it was built by the
generosity of one of their dead members. There were four Presbyterian
families in town, and they were working desperately to build a church.
The Baptists had really taken the county, and the Methodists were
their only rivals. The Baptists had fifteen flourishing churches in the
county, the Methodists six. There were no others.
The meetings at the Baptist church in the village of Hambright were the
most important gatherings in the county. On Sunday mornings everybody
who could walk, young and old, saint and sinner, went to church, and by
far the larger number to the Baptist church.
You could tell by the stroke of the bells that the two were rivals. The
sextons acquired a peculiar skill in ringing these bells with a snap and
a jerk that smashed the clapper against the side in a stroke that spoke
defiance to all rival bells, warning of everlasting fire to all sinners
that should stay away, and due notice to the saints that even an apostle
might become a castaway unless he made haste.
The men occupied one side of the house, the women the other. Only very
small boys accompanying their mothers were to be seen on the woman’s
side, together with a few young men who fearlessly escorted thither
their sweethearts.
Before the services began, between the ringing of the first and second
bells, the men gathered in groups in the church yard and discussed grave
questions of politics and weather. The services over the men lingered in
the yard to shake hands with neighbours, praise or criticise the sermon,
and once more discuss great events. The boys gathered in quiet, wistful
groups and watched the girls come slowly out of the other door, and now
and then a daring youngster summoned courage to ask to see one of them
home.
The services were of the simplest kind. The Singing of the old hymns of
Zion, the Reading of the Bible, the Prayer, the Collection, the Sermon,
the Benediction.
The Preacher never touched on politics, no matter what the event under
whose world import his people gathered. War was declared, and fought for
four terrible years. Lee surrendered, the slaves were freed, and society
was torn from the foundations of centuries, but you would never have
known it from the lips of the Rev. John Durham in his pulpit. These
things were but passing events. When he ascended the pulpit he was the
Messenger of Eternity. He spoke of God, of Truth, of Righteousness, of
Judgment, the same yesterday, to-day and forever.
Only in his prayers did he come closer to the inner thoughts and
perplexities of the daily life of the people. He was a man of remarkable
power in the pulpit. His mastery of the Bible was profound. He could
speak pages of direct discourse in its very language. To him it was
a divine alphabet, from whose letters he could compose the most
impassioned message to the individual hearer before him. Its literature,
its poetic fire, the epic sweep of the Old Testament record of life,
were inwrought into the very fibre of his soul. As a preacher he spoke
with authority. He was narrow and dogmatic in his interpretations of
the Bible, but his very narrowness and dogmatism were of his flesh and
blood, elements of his power. He never stooped to controversy. He simply
announced the Truth. The wise received it. The fools rejected it and
were damned. That was all there was to it.
But it was in his public prayers that he was at his best. Here all the
wealth of tenderness of a great soul was laid bare. In these prayers he
had the subtle genius that could find the way direct into the hearts of
the people before him, realise as his own their sins and sorrows, their
burdens and hopes and dreams and fears, and then, when he had made them
his own, he could give them the wings of deathless words and carry them
up to the heart of God. He prayed in a low soft tone of voice; it was
like an honest earnest child pleading with his father. What a hush fell
on the people when these prayers began! With what breathless suspense
every earnest soul followed him!
Before and during the war, the gallery of this church, which was built
and reserved for the negroes, was always crowded with dusky listeners
that hung spellbound on his words. Now there were only a few, perhaps a
dozen, and they were growing fewer. Some new and mysterious power was at
work among the negroes, sowing the seeds of distrust and suspicion. He
wondered what it could be. He had always loved to preach to these simple
hearted children of nature, and watch the flash of resistless emotion
sweep their dark faces. He had baptised over five hundred of them into
the fellowship of the churches in the village and the county during the
ten years of his ministry.
He determined to find out the cause of this desertion of his church by
the negroes to whom he had ministered so many years.
At the close of a Sunday morning’s service, Nelse was slowly descending
the gallery stairs leading Charlie Gaston by the hand, after the church
had been nearly emptied of the white people. The Preacher stopped him
near the door.
“How’s your Mistress, Nelse?”
“She’s gettin’ better all de time now praise de Lawd. Eve she stay
wid er dis mornin’, while I fetch dis boy ter church. He des so sot on
goin’.”
“Where are all the other folks who used to fill that gallery, Nelse?”
“You doan tell me, you aint heard about dem?” he answered with a grin.
“Well, I haven’t heard, and I want to hear.”
“De laws-a-massy, dey done got er church er dey own! Dey has meetin’ now
in de school house dat Yankee ’oman built. De teachers tell ’em ef
dey aint good ernuf ter set wid de white folks in dere chu’ch, dey got
ter hole up dey haids, and not ’low nobody ter push em up in er nigger
gallery. So dey’s got ole Uncle Josh Miller to preach fur ’em. He
’low he got er call, en he stan’ up dar en holler fur ’em bout er
hour ev’ry Sunday mawnin’ en night. En sech whoopin’, en yellin’, en
bawlin’! Yer can hear ’em er mile. Dey tries ter git me ter go. I tell
’em, Marse John Durham’s preach-in’s good ernuf fur me, gall’ry er no
gall’ry. I tell ’em dat I spec er gall’ry nigher heaven den de lower
flo’ enyhow--en fuddermo’, dat when I goes ter church, I wants ter hear
sumfin’ mo’ dan er ole fool nigger er bawlin’. I can holler myself. En
dey low I gwine back on my colour. En den I tell ’em I spec I aint so
proud dat I can’t larn fum white folks. En dey say dey gwine ter lay fur
me yit.”
“I’m sorry to hear this,” said the Preacher thoughtfully.
“Yassir, hits des lak I tell yer. I spec dey gone fur good. Niggers aint
got no sense nohow. I des wish I own ’em erbout er week! Dey gitten
madder’n madder et me all de time case I stay at de ole place en wuk fer
my po’ sick Mistus. Dey sen’ er Kermittee ter see me mos’ ev’ry day ter
’splain ter me I’se free. De las’ time dey come I lam one on de haid
wid er stick er wood erfo dey leave me lone.”
“You must be careful, Nelse.”
“Yassir, I nebber hurt ’im. Des sorter crack his skull er little ter
show ’im what I gwine do wid ’im nex’ time dey come pesterin’ me.”
“Have they been back to see you since?”
“Dat dey aint. But dey sont me word dey gwine git de Freeman’s Buro
atter me. En I sont ’em back word ter sen Mr. Buro right on en I land
’im in de middle er a spell er sickness, des es sho es de Lawd gimme
strenk.”
“You can’t resist the Freedman’s Bureau, Nelse.”
“What dat Buro got ter do wid me, Marse John?”
“They’ve got everything to do with you, my boy. They have absolute
power over all questions between the Negro and the white man. They can
prohibit you from working for a white person without their consent, and
they can fix your wages and make your contracts.”
“Well, dey better lemme erlone, or dere’ll be trouble in dis town, sho’s
my name’s Nelse.”
“Don’t you resist their officer. Come to me if you get into trouble with
them,” was the Preacher’s parting injunction.
Nelse made his way out leading Charlie by the hand, and bowing his giant
form in a quaint deferential way to the white people he knew. He seemed
proud of his association in the church with the whites, and the position
of inferiority assigned him in no sense disturbed his pride. He was
muttering to himself as he walked slowly along looking down at the
ground thoughtfully. There was infinite scorn and defiance in his voice.
“Bu-ro! Bu-ro! Des let ’em fool wid me! I’ll make ’em see de seben
stars in de middle er de day!”