descended, bag in hand, from the smoky, dingy coach, or part of a coach,
which was assigned to his people, and stepped upon the rotten planks of
the station platform. The car he had just left was not a palace, nor had
his reception by his fellow-passengers or his intercourse with them been
of such cordial nature as to endear them to him. But he watched the
choky little engine with its three black cars wind out of sight with a
look as regretful as if he were witnessing the departure of his dearest
friend. Then he turned his attention again to his surroundings, and a
sigh welled up from his heart. "And this is Mt. Hope," he repeated. A
note in his voice indicated that he fully appreciated the spirit of keen
irony in which the place had been named.
The color scheme of the picture that met his eyes was in dingy blacks
and grays. The building that held the ticket, telegraph, and train
despatchers' offices was a miserably old ramshackle affair, standing
well in the foreground of this scene of gloom and desolation. Its
windows were so coated with smoke and grime that they seemed to have
been painted over in order to secure secrecy within. Here and there a
lazy cur lay drowsily snapping at the flies, and at the end of the
station, perched on boxes or leaning against the wall, making a living
picture of equal laziness, stood a group of idle Negroes exchanging rude
badinage with their white counterparts across the street.
After a while this bantering interchange would grow more keen and
personal, a free-for-all friendly fight would follow, and the newspaper
correspondent in that section would write it up as a "race war." But
this had not happened yet that day.
"This is Mt. Hope," repeated the new-comer; "this is the field of my
labors."
Rev. Howard Dokesbury, as may already have been inferred, was a
Negro,--there could be no mistake about that. The deep dark brown of his
skin, the rich over-fullness of his lips, and the close curl of his
short black hair were evidences that admitted of no argument. He was a
finely proportioned, stalwart-looking man, with a general air of
self-possession and self-sufficiency in his manner. There was firmness
in the set of his lips. A reader of character would have said of him,
"Here is a man of solid judgement, careful in deliberation, prompt in
execution, and decisive."
It was the perception in him of these very qualities which had prompted
the authorities of the little college where he had taken his degree and
received his theological training, to urge him to go among his people at
the South, and there to exert his powers for good where the field was
broad and the laborers few.
Born of Southern parents from whom he had learned many of the
superstitions and traditions of the South, Howard Dokesbury himself had
never before been below Mason and Dixon's line. But with a confidence
born of youth and a consciousness of personal power, he had started
South with the idea that he knew the people with whom he had to deal,
and was equipped with the proper weapons to cope with their
shortcomings.
But as he looked around upon the scene which now met his eye, a doubt
arose in his mind. He picked up his bag with a sigh, and approached a
man who had been standing apart from the rest of the loungers and
regarding him with indolent intentness.
"Could you direct me to the house of Stephen Gray?" asked the minister.
The interrogated took time to change his position from left foot to
right and shift his quid, before he drawled forth, "I reckon you's de
new Mefdis preachah, huh?"
"Yes," replied Howard, in the most conciliatory tone he could command,
"and I hope I find in you one of my flock."
"No, suh, I's a Babtist myse'f. I wa'n't raised up no place erroun' Mt.
Hope; I'm nachelly f'om way up in Adams County. Dey jes' sont me down
hyeah to fin' you an' tek you up to Steve's. Steve, he's workin' to-day
an' couldn't come down."
He laid particular stress upon the "to-day," as if Steve's spell of
activity were not an every-day occurrence.
"Is it far from here?" asked Dokesbury.
"'T ain't mo' 'n a mile an' a ha'f by de shawt cut."
"Well, then, let's take the short cut, by all means," said the preacher.
They trudged along for a while in silence, and then the young man asked,
"What do you men about here do mostly for a living?"
"Oh, well, we does odd jobs, we saws an' splits wood an' totes bundles,
an' some of 'em raises gyahden, but mos' of us, we fishes. De fish bites
an' we ketches 'em. Sometimes we eats 'em an' sometimes we sells 'em; a
string o' fish'll bring a peck o' co'n any time."
"And is that all you do?"
"'Bout."
"Why, I don't see how you live that way."
"Oh, we lives all right," answered the man; "we has plenty to eat an'
drink, an' clothes to wear, an' some place to stay. I reckon folks ain't
got much use fu' nuffin' mo'."
Dokesbury sighed. Here indeed was virgin soil for his ministerial
labors. His spirits were not materially raised when, some time later, he
came in sight of the house which was to be his abode. To be sure, it was
better than most of the houses which he had seen in the Negro part of
Mt. Hope; but even at that it was far from being good or
comfortable-looking. It was small and mean in appearance. The weather
boarding was broken, and in some places entirely fallen away, showing
the great unhewn logs beneath; while off the boards that remained the
whitewash had peeled in scrofulous spots.
The minister's guide went up to the closed door, and rapped loudly with
a heavy stick.
"G' 'way f'om dah, an' quit you' foolin'," came in a large voice from
within.
The guide grinned, and rapped again. There was a sound of shuffling feet
and the pushing back of a chair, and then the same voice asking: "I bet
I'll mek you git away f'om dat do'."
"Dat's A'nt Ca'line," the guide said, and laughed.
The door was flung back as quickly as its worn hinges and sagging bottom
would allow, and a large body surmounted by a face like a big round full
moon presented itself in the opening. A broomstick showed itself
aggressively in one fat shiny hand.
"It's you, Tom Scott, is it--you trif'nin'----" and then, catching sight
of the stranger, her whole manner changed, and she dropped the
broomstick with an embarrassed "'Scuse me, suh."
Tom chuckled all over as he said, "A'nt Ca'line, dis is yo' new
preachah."
The big black face lighted up with a broad smile as the old woman
extended her hand and enveloped that of the young minister's.
"Come in," she said. "I's mighty glad to see you--that no-'count Tom
come put' nigh mekin' me 'spose myse'f." Then turning to Tom, she
exclaimed with good-natured severity, "An' you go 'long, you scoun'll
you!"
The preacher entered the cabin--it was hardly more--and seated himself
in the rush-bottomed chair which "A'nt Ca'line" had been industriously
polishing with her apron.
"An' now, Brothah----"
"Dokesbury," supplemented the young man.
"Brothah Dokesbury, I jes' want you to mek yo'se'f at home right erway.
I know you ain't use to ouah ways down hyeah; but you jes' got to set in
an' git ust to 'em. You mus'n' feel bad ef things don't go yo' way f'om
de ve'y fust. Have you got a mammy?"
The question was very abrupt, and a lump suddenly jumped up in
Dokesbury's throat and pushed the water into his eyes. He did have a
mother away back there at home. She was all alone, and he was her heart
and the hope of her life.
"Yes," he said, "I've got a little mother up there in Ohio."
"Well, I's gwine to be yo' mothah down hyeah; dat is, ef I ain't too
rough an' common fu' you."
"Hush!" exclaimed the preacher, and he got up and took the old lady's
hand in both of his own. "You shall be my mother down here; you shall
help me, as you have done to-day. I feel better already."
"I knowed you would," and the old face beamed on the young one. "An' now
jes' go out de do' dah an' wash yo' face. Dey's a pan an' soap an' watah
right dah, an' hyeah's a towel; den you kin go right into yo' room, fu'
I knows you want to be erlone fu' a while. I'll fix yo' suppah while you
rests."
He did as he was bidden. On a rough bench outside the door, he found a
basin and a bucket of water with a tin dipper in it. To one side, in a
broken saucer, lay a piece of coarse soap. The facilities for copious
ablutions were not abundant, but one thing the minister noted with
pleasure: the towel, which was rough and hurt his skin, was,
nevertheless, scrupulously clean. He went to his room feeling fresher
and better, and although he found the place little and dark and warm, it
too was clean, and a sense of its homeness began to take possession of
him.
The room was off the main living-room into which he had been first
ushered. It had one small window that opened out on a fairly neat yard.
A table with a chair before it stood beside the window, and across the
room--if the three feet of space which intervened could be called
"across"--stood the little bed with its dark calico quilt and white
pillows. There was no carpet on the floor, and the absence of a
washstand indicated very plainly that the occupant was expected to wash
outside. The young minister knelt for a few minutes beside the bed, and
then rising cast himself into the chair to rest.
It was possibly half an hour later when his partial nap was broken in
upon by the sound of a gruff voice from without saying, "He's hyeah, is
he--oomph! Well, what's he ac' lak? Want us to git down on ouah knees
an' crawl to him? If he do, I reckon he'll fin' dat Mt. Hope ain't de
place fo' him."
The minister did not hear the answer, which was in a low voice and came,
he conjectured, from Aunt "Ca'line"; but the gruff voice subsided, and
there was the sound of footsteps going out of the room. A tap came on
the preacher's door, and he opened it to the old woman. She smiled
reassuringly.
"Dat' uz my ol' man," she said. "I sont him out to git some wood, so's
I'd have time to post you. Don't you mind him; he's lots mo' ba'k dan
bite. He's one o' dese little yaller men, an' you know dey kin be
powahful contra'y when dey sets dey hai'd to it. But jes' you treat him
nice an' don't let on, an' I'll be boun' you'll bring him erroun' in
little er no time."
The Rev. Mr. Dokesbury received this advice with some misgiving. Albeit
he had assumed his pleasantest manner when, after his return to the
living-room, the little "yaller" man came through the door with his
bundle of wood.
He responded cordially to Aunt Caroline's, "Dis is my husband, Brothah
Dokesbury," and heartily shook his host's reluctant hand.
"I hope I find you well, Brother Gray," he said.
"Moder't, jes' moder't," was the answer.
"Come to suppah now, bofe o' you," said the old lady, and they all sat
down to the evening meal of crisp bacon, well-fried potatoes, egg-pone,
and coffee.
The young man did his best to be agreeable, but it was rather
discouraging to receive only gruff monosyllabic rejoinders to his most
interesting observations. But the cheery old wife came bravely to the
rescue, and the minister was continually floated into safety on the flow
of her conversation. Now and then, as he talked, he could catch a
stealthy upflashing of Stephen Gray's eye, as suddenly lowered again,
that told him that the old man was listening. But as an indication that
they would get on together, the supper, taken as a whole, was not a
success. The evening that followed proved hardly more fortunate. About
the only remarks that could be elicited from the "little yaller man"
were a reluctant "oomph" or "oomph-uh."
It was just before going to bed that, after a period of reflection, Aunt
Caroline began slowly: "We got a son"--her husband immediately bristled
up and his eyes flashed, but the old woman went on; "he named 'Lias, an'
we thinks a heap o' 'Lias, we does; but--" the old man had subsided, but
he bristled up again at the word--"he ain't jes' whut we want him to
be." Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak in defense of his son,
but was silent in satisfaction at his wife's explanation: "'Lias ain't
bad; he jes' ca'less. Sometimes he stays at home, but right sma't o' de
time he stays down at"--she looked at her husband and hesitated--"at de
colo'ed s'loon. We don't lak dat. It ain't no fitten place fu' him. But
'Lias ain't bad, he jes' ca'less, an' me an' de ol' man we 'membahs him
in ouah pra'ahs, an' I jes' t'ought I'd ax you to 'membah him too,
Brothah Dokesbury."
The minister felt the old woman's pleading look and the husband's
intense gaze upon his face, and suddenly there came to him an intimate
sympathy in their trouble and with it an unexpected strength.
"There is no better time than now," he said, "to take his case to the
Almighty Power; let us pray."
Perhaps it was the same prayer he had prayed many times before; perhaps
the words of supplication and the plea for light and guidance were the
same; but somehow to the young man kneeling there amid those humble
surroundings, with the sorrow of these poor ignorant people weighing
upon his heart, it seemed very different. It came more fervently from
his lips, and the words had a deeper meaning. When he arose, there was a
warmth at his heart just the like of which he had never before
experienced.
Aunt Caroline blundered up from her knees, saying, as she wiped her
eyes, "Blessed is dey dat mou'n, fu' dey shall be comfo'ted." The old
man, as he turned to go to bed, shook the young man's hand warmly and in
silence; but there was a moisture in the old eyes that told the minister
that his plummet of prayer had sounded the depths.
Alone in his own room Howard Dokesbury sat down to study the situation
in which he had been placed. Had his thorough college training
anticipated specifically any such circumstance as this? After all, did
he know his own people? Was it possible that they could be so different
from what he had seen and known? He had always been such a loyal Negro,
so proud of his honest brown; but had he been mistaken? Was he, after
all, different from the majority of the people with whom he was supposed
to have all thoughts, feelings, and emotions in common?
These and other questions he asked himself without being able to arrive
at any satisfactory conclusion. He did not go to sleep soon after
retiring, and the night brought many thoughts. The next day would be
Saturday. The ordeal had already begun,--now there were twenty-four
hours between him and the supreme trial. What would be its outcome?
There were moments when he felt, as every man, howsoever brave, must
feel at times, that he would like to shift all his responsibilities and
go away from the place that seemed destined to tax his powers beyond
their capability of endurance. What could he do for the inhabitants of
Mt. Hope? What was required of him to do? Ever through his mind ran that
world-old question: "Am I my brother's keeper?" He had never asked, "Are
these people my brothers?"
He was up early the next morning, and as soon as breakfast was done, he
sat down to add a few touches to the sermon he had prepared as his
introduction. It was not the first time that he had retouched it and
polished it up here and there. Indeed, he had taken some pride in it.
But as he read it over that day, it did not sound to him as it had
sounded before. It appeared flat and without substance. After a while he
laid it aside, telling himself that he was nervous and it was on this
account that he could not see matters as he did in his calmer moments.
He told himself, too, that he must not again take up the offending
discourse until time to use it, lest the discovery of more imaginary
flaws should so weaken his confidence that he would not be able to
deliver it with effect.
In order better to keep his resolve, he put on his hat and went out for
a walk through the streets of Mt. Hope. He did not find an encouraging
prospect as he went along. The Negroes whom he met viewed him with
ill-favor, and the whites who passed looked on him with unconcealed
distrust and contempt. He began to feel lost, alone, and helpless. The
squalor and shiftlessness which were plainly in evidence about the
houses which he saw filled him with disgust and a dreary hopelessness.
He passed vacant lots which lay open and inviting children to healthful
play; but instead of marbles or leap-frog or ball, he found little boys
in ragged knickerbockers huddled together on the ground, "shooting
craps" with precocious avidity and quarreling over the pennies that made
the pitiful wagers. He heard glib profanity rolling from the lips of
children who should have been stumbling through baby catechisms; and
his heart ached for them.
He would have turned and gone back to his room, but the sound of shouts,
laughter, and the tum-tum of a musical instrument drew him on down the
street. At the turn of a corner, the place from which the noise emanated
met his eyes. It was a rude frame building, low and unpainted. The panes
in its windows whose places had not been supplied by sheets of tin were
daubed a dingy red. Numerous kegs and bottles on the outside attested
the nature of the place. The front door was open, but the interior was
concealed by a gaudy curtain stretched across the entrance within. Over
the door was the inscription, in straggling characters, "Sander's
Place;" and when he saw half-a-dozen Negroes enter, the minister knew
instantly that he now beheld the colored saloon which was the
frequenting-place of his hostess's son 'Lias; and he wondered, if, as
the mother said, her boy was not bad, how anything good could be
preserved in such a place of evil.
The cries of boisterous laughter mingled with the strumming of the banjo
and the shuffling of feet told him that they were engaged in one of
their rude hoe-down dances. He had not passed a dozen paces beyond the
door when the music was suddenly stopped, the sound of a quick blow
followed, then ensued a scuffle, and a young fellow half ran, half fell
through the open door. He was closely followed by a heavily built
ruffian who was striking him as he ran. The young fellow was very much
the weaker and slighter of the two, and was suffering great punishment.
In an instant all the preacher's sense of justice was stung into sudden
life. Just as the brute was about to give his victim a blow that would
have sent him into the gutter, he felt his arm grasped in a detaining
hold and heard a commanding voice,--"Stop!"
He turned with increased fury upon this meddler, but his other wrist was
caught and held in a vise-like grip. For a moment the two men looked
into each other's eyes. Hot words rose to the young man's lips, but he
choked them back. Until this moment he had deplored the possession of a
spirit so easily fired that it had been a test of his manhood to keep
from "slugging" on the football field; now he was glad of it. He did not
attempt to strike the man, but stood holding his arms and meeting the
brute glare with manly flashing eyes. Either the natural cowardice of
the bully or something in his new opponent's face had quelled the big
fellow's spirit, and he said doggedly, "Lemme go. I wasn't a-go'n to
kill him no-how, but ef I ketch him dancin' with my gal any mo', I----"
He cast a glance full of malice at his victim, who stood on the pavement
a few feet away, as much amazed as the dumfounded crowd which thronged
the door of "Sander's Place." Loosing his hold, the preacher turned,
and, putting his hand on the young fellow's shoulder, led him away.
For a time they walked on in silence. Dokesbury had to calm the tempest
in his breast before he could trust his voice. After a while he said:
"That fellow was making it pretty hot for you, my young friend. What had
you done to him?"
"Nothin'," replied the other. "I was jes' dancin' 'long an' not thinkin'
'bout him, when all of a sudden he hollered dat I had his gal an'
commenced hittin' me."
"He's a bully and a coward, or he would not have made use of his
superior strength in that way. What's your name, friend?"
"'Lias Gray," was the answer, which startled the minister into
exclaiming,--
"What! are you Aunt Caroline's son?"
"Yes, suh, I sho is; does you know my mothah?"
"Why, I'm stopping with her, and we were talking about you last night.
My name is Dokesbury, and I am to take charge of the church here."
"I thought mebbe you was a preachah, but I couldn't scarcely believe it
after I seen de way you held Sam an' looked at him."
Dokesbury laughed, and his merriment seemed to make his companion feel
better, for the sullen, abashed look left his face, and he laughed a
little himself as he said: "I wasn't a-pesterin' Sam, but I tell you he
pestered me mighty."
Dokesbury looked into the boy's face,--he was hardly more than a
boy,--lit up as it was by a smile, and concluded that Aunt Caroline was
right. 'Lias might be "ca'less," but he wasn't a bad boy. The face was
too open and the eyes too honest for that. 'Lias wasn't bad; but
environment does so much, and he would be if something were not done for
him. Here, then, was work for a pastor's hands.
"You'll walk on home with me, 'Lias, won't you?"
"I reckon I mout ez well," replied the boy. "I don't stay erroun' home
ez much ez I oughter."
"You'll be around more, of course, now that I am there. It will be so
much less lonesome for two young people than for one. Then, you can be a
great help to me, too."
The preacher did not look down to see how wide his listener's eyes grew
as he answered: "Oh, I ain't fittin' to be no he'p to you, suh. Fust
thing, I ain't nevah got religion, an' then I ain't well larned enough."
"Oh, there are a thousand other ways in which you can help, and I feel
sure that you will."
"Of co'se, I'll do de ve'y bes' I kin."
"There is one thing I want you to do soon, as a favor to me."
"I can't go to de mou'nah's bench," cried the boy, in consternation.
"And I don't want you to," was the calm reply.
Another look of wide-eyed astonishment took in the preacher's face.
These were strange words from one of his guild. But without noticing the
surprise he had created, Dokesbury went on: "What I want is that you
will take me fishing as soon as you can. I never get tired of fishing
and I am anxious to go here. Tom Scott says you fish a great deal about
here."
"Why, we kin go dis ve'y afternoon," exclaimed 'Lias, in relief and
delight; "I's mighty fond o' fishin', myse'f."
"All right; I'm in your hands from now on."
'Lias drew his shoulders up, with an unconscious motion. The preacher
saw it, and mentally rejoiced. He felt that the first thing the boy
beside him needed was a consciousness of responsibility, and the lifted
shoulders meant progress in that direction, a sort of physical
straightening up to correspond with the moral one.
On seeing her son walk in with the minister, Aunt "Ca'line's" delight
was boundless. "La! Brothah Dokesbury," she exclaimed, "wha'd you fin'
dat scamp?"
"Oh, down the street here," the young man replied lightly. "I got hold
of his name and made myself acquainted, so he came home to go fishing
with me."
"'Lias is pow'ful fon' o' fishin', hisse'f. I 'low he kin show you some
mighty good places. Cain't you, 'Lias?"
"I reckon."
'Lias was thinking. He was distinctly grateful that the circumstances of
his meeting with the minister had been so deftly passed over. But with a
half idea of the superior moral responsibility under which a man in
Dokesbury's position labored, he wondered vaguely--to put it in his own
thought-words--"ef de preachah hadn't put' nigh lied." However, he was
willing to forgive this little lapse of veracity, if such it was, out of
consideration for the anxiety it spared his mother.
When Stephen Gray came in to dinner, he was no less pleased than his
wife to note the terms of friendship on which the minister received his
son. On his face was the first smile that Dokesbury had seen there, and
he awakened from his taciturnity and proffered much information as to
the fishing-places thereabout. The young minister accounted this a
distinct gain. Anything more than a frowning silence from the "little
yaller man" was gain.
The fishing that afternoon was particularly good. Catfish, chubs, and
suckers were landed in numbers sufficient to please the heart of any
amateur angler.
'Lias was happy, and the minister was in the best of spirits, for his
charge seemed promising. He looked on at the boy's jovial face, and
laughed within himself; for, mused he, "it is so much harder for the
devil to get into a cheerful heart than into a sullen, gloomy one." By
the time they were ready to go home Harold Dokesbury had received a
promise from 'Lias to attend service the next morning and hear the
sermon.