"Mr. Maxwell has a bit of land," she began meditatively.
"Worked out, and not worth five dollars an acre!" snapped the Colonel.
But he did not propose to hand Maxwell a thousand dollars. "Now, see
here, I'll treat you as well as anybody, and you know it."
"I believe so, sir," acknowledged Zora in a tone that brought a sudden
keen glance from Taylor; but her face was a mask. "I reckon I'll make
the bargain."
"All right. Bring the money and we'll fix the thing up."
"The money is here," said Zora, taking an envelope out of her bosom.
"Well, leave it here, and I'll see to it."
"But you see, sir, Miss Smith is so methodical; she expects some papers
or receipts."
"Well, it's too late tonight."
"Possibly you could sign a sort of receipt and later--"
Cresswell laughed. "Well, write one," he indulgently assented. And Zora
wrote.
When Zora left Colonel Cresswell's about noon that Sunday she knew her
work had just begun, and she walked swiftly along the country roads,
calling here and there. Would Uncle Isaac help her build a log home?
Would the boys help her some time to clear some swamp land? Would Rob
become a tenant when she asked? For this was the idle time of the year.
Crops were laid by and planting had not yet begun.
This too was the time of big church meetings. She knew that in her part
of the country on that day the black population, man, woman, and child,
were gathered in great groups; all day they had been gathering,
streaming in snake-like lines along the country roads, in well-brushed,
brilliant attire, half fantastic, half crude. Down where the
Toomsville-Montgomery highway dipped to the stream that fed the
Cresswell swamp squatted a square barn that slept through day and weeks
in dull indifference. But on the First Sunday it woke to sudden mighty
life. The voices of men and children mingled with the snorting of
animals and the cracking of whips. Then came the long drone and
sing-song of the preacher with its sharp wilder climaxes and the
answering "amens" and screams of the worshippers. This was the shrine of
the Baptists--shrine and oracle, centre and source of inspiration--and
hither Zora hurried.
The preacher was Jones, a big man, fat, black, and greasy, with little
eyes, unctuous voice, and three manners: his white folks manner, soft,
humble, wheedling; his black folks manner, voluble, important,
condescending; and above all, his pulpit manner, loud, wild, and strong.
He was about to don this latter cloak when Zora approached with a
request briefly to address the congregation. Remembering some former
snubs, his manner was lordly.
"I doesn't see," he returned reflectively, wiping his brows, "as how I
can rightly spare you any time; the brethren is a-gettin' mighty
onpatient to hear me." He pulled down his cuffs, regarding her
doubtfully.
"I might speak after you're through," she suggested. But he objected
that there was the regular collection and two or three other
collections, a baptism, a meeting of the trustees; there was no time, in
short; but--he eyed her again.
"Does you want--a collection?" he questioned suspiciously, for he could
imagine few other reasons for talking. Then, too, he did not want to be
too inflexible, for all of his people knew Zora and liked her.
"Oh, no, I want no collection at all. I only want a little voluntary
work on their part." He looked relieved, frowned through the door at the
audience, and looked at his bright gold watch. The whole crowd was not
there yet--perhaps--
"You kin say just a word before the sermont," he finally yielded; "but
not long--not long. They'se just a-dying to hear me."
So Zora spoke simply but clearly: of neglect and suffering, of the sins
of others that bowed young shoulders, of the great hope of the
children's future. Then she told something of what she had seen and read
of the world's newer ways of helping men and women. She talked of
cooperation and refuges and other efforts; she praised their way of
adopting children into their own homes; and then finally she told them
of the land she was buying for new tenants and the helping hands she
needed. The preacher fidgeted and coughed but dared not actually
interrupt, for the people were listening breathless to a kind of
straightforward talk which they seldom heard and for which they were
hungering.
And Zora forgot time and occasion. The moments flew; the crowd increased
until the wonderful spell of those dark and upturned faces pulsed in her
blood. She felt the wild yearning to help them beating in her ears and
blinding her eyes.
"Oh, my people!" she almost sobbed. "My own people, I am not asking you
to help others; I am pleading with you to help yourselves. Rescue your
own flesh and blood--free yourselves--free yourselves!" And from the
swaying sobbing hundreds burst a great "Amen!" The minister's dusky face
grew more and more sombre, and the angry sweat started on his brow. He
felt himself hoaxed and cheated, and he meant to have his revenge. Two
hundred men and women rose and pledged themselves to help Zora; and when
she turned with overflowing heart to thank the preacher he had left the
platform, and she found him in the yard whispering darkly with two
deacons. She realized her mistake, and promised to retrieve it during
the week; but the week was full of planning and journeying and talking.
Saturday dawned cool and clear. She had dinner prepared for cooking in
the yard: sweet potatoes, hoe-cake, and buttermilk, and a hog to be
barbecued. Everything was ready by eight o'clock in the morning. Emma
and two other girl helpers were on the tip-toe of expectancy. Nine
o'clock came and no one with it. Ten o'clock came, and eleven. High
noon found Zora peering down the highway under her shading hand, but no
soul in sight. She tried to think it out: what could have happened? Her
people were slow, tardy, but they would not thus forget her and
disappoint her without some great cause. She sent the girls home at dusk
and then seated herself miserably under the great oak; then at last one
half-grown boy hurried by.
"I wanted to come, Miss Zora, but I was afeared. Preacher Jones has been
talking everywhere against you. He says that your mother was a voodoo
woman and that you don't believe in God, and the deacons voted that the
members mustn't help you."
"And do the people believe that?" she asked in consternation.
"They just don't know what to say. They don't 'zactly believe it, but
they has to 'low that you didn't say much 'bout religion when you
talked. You ain't been near Big Meetin'--and--and--you ain't saved." He
hurried on.
Zora leaned her head back wearily, watching the laced black branches
where the star-light flickered through--as coldly still and immovable as
she had watched them from those gnarled roots all her life--and she
murmured bitterly the world-old question of despair: "What's the use?"
It seemed to her that every breeze and branch was instinct with
sympathy, and murmuring, "What's the use?" She wondered vaguely why, and
as she wondered, she knew.
For yonder where the black earth of the swamp heaved in a formless mound
she felt the black arms of Elspeth rising from the sod--gigantic,
mighty. They stole toward her with stealthy hands and claw-like talons.
They clutched at her skirts. She froze and could not move. Down, down
she slipped toward the black slime of the swamp, and the air about was
horror--down, down, till the chilly waters stung her knees; and then
with one grip she seized the oak, while the great hand of Elspeth
twisted and tore her soul. Faint, afar, nearer and nearer and ever
mightier, rose a song of mystic melody. She heard its human voice and
sought to cry aloud. She strove again and again with that gripping,
twisting pain--that awful hand--until the shriek came and she awoke.
She lay panting and sweating across the bent and broken roots of the
oak. The hand of Elspeth was gone but the song was still there. She rose
trembling and listened. It was the singing of the Big Meeting in the
church far away. She had forgotten this religious revival in her days of
hurried preparation, and the preacher had used her absence and apparent
indifference against her and her work. The hand of Elspeth was reaching
from the grave to pull her back; but she was no longer dreaming now.
Drawing her shawl about her, she hurried down the highway.
The meeting had overflowed the church and spread to the edge of the
swamp. The tops of young trees had been bent down and interlaced to form
a covering and benches twined to their trunks. Thus a low and wide
cathedral, all green and silver in the star-light, lay packed with a
living mass of black folk. Flaming pine torches burned above the
devotees; the rhythm of their stamping, the shout of their voices, and
the wild music of their singing shook the night. Four hundred people
fell upon their knees when the huge black preacher, uncoated, red-eyed,
frenzied, stretched his long arms to heaven. Zora saw the throng from
afar, and hesitated. After all, she knew little of this strange faith of
theirs--had little belief in its mummery. She herself had been brought
up almost without religion save some few mystic remnants of a
half-forgotten heathen cult. The little she had seen of religious
observance had not moved her greatly, save once yonder in Washington.
There she found God after a searching that had seared her soul; but He
had simply pointed the Way, and the way was human.
Humanity was near and real. She loved it. But if she talked again of
mere men would these devotees listen? Already the minister had spied her
tall form and feared her power. He set his powerful voice and the frenzy
of his hearers to crush her.
"Who is dis what talks of doing the Lord's work for Him? What does de
good Book say? Take no thought 'bout de morrow. Why is you trying to
make dis ole world better? I spits on the world! Come out from it. Seek
Jesus. Heaven is my home! Is it yo's?" "Yes," groaned the multitude. His
arm shot out and he pointed straight at Zora.
"Beware the ebil one!" he shouted, and the multitude moaned. "Beware of
dem dat calls ebil good. Beware of dem dat worships debbils; the debbils
dat crawl; de debbils what forgits God."
"Help him, Lord!" cried the multitude.
Zora stepped into the circle of light. A hush fell on the throng; the
preacher paused a moment, then started boldly forward with upraised
hands. Then a curious thing happened. A sharp cry arose far off down
toward the swamp and the sound of great footsteps coming, coming as from
the end of the world; there swelled a rhythmical chanting, wilder and
more primitive than song. On, on it came, until it swung into sight. An
old man led the band--tall, massive, with tufted gray hair and wrinkled
leathery skin, and his eyes were the eyes of death. He reached the
circle of light, and Zora started: once before she had seen that old
man. The singing stopped but he came straight on till he reached Zora's
side and then he whirled and spoke.
The words leaped and flew from his lips as he lashed the throng with
bitter fury. He said what Zora wanted to say with two great differences:
first, he spoke their religious language and spoke it with absolute
confidence and authority; and secondly, he seemed to know each one there
personally and intimately so that he spoke to no inchoate throng--he
spoke to them individually, and they listened awestruck and fearsome.
"God is done sent me," he declared in passionate tones, "to preach His
acceptable time. Faith without works is dead; who is you that dares to
set and wait for the Lord to do your work?" Then in sudden fury, "Ye
generation of vipers--who kin save you?" He bent forward and pointed his
long finger. "Yes," he cried, "pray, Sam Collins, you black devil; pray,
for the corn you stole Thursday." The black figure moved. "Moan, Sister
Maxwell, for the backbiting you did today. Yell, Jack Tolliver, you
sneaking scamp, t'wil the Lord tell Uncle Bill who ruined his daughter.
Weep, May Haynes, for that baby--"
But the woman's shriek drowned his words, and he whirled full on the
preacher, stamping his feet and waving his hands. His anger choked him;
the fat preacher cowered gray and trembling. The gaunt fanatic towered
over him.
"You--you--ornery hound of Hell! God never knowed you and the devil owns
your soul!" There leapt from his lips a denunciation so livid, specific,
and impassioned that the preacher squatted and bowed, then finally fell
upon his face and moaned.
The gaunt speaker turned again to the people. He talked of little
children; he pictured their sin and neglect. "God is done sent me to
offer you all salvation," he cried, while the people wept and wailed;
"not in praying, but in works. Follow me!" The hour was halfway between
midnight and dawn, but nevertheless the people leapt frenziedly to their
feet.
"Follow me!" he shouted.
And, singing and chanting, the throng poured out upon the black highway,
waving their torches. Zora knew his intention. With a half-dozen of
younger onlookers she unhitched teams and rode across the land, calling
at the cabins. Before sunrise, tools were in the swamp, axes and saws
and hammers. The noise of prayer and singing filled the Sabbath dawn.
The news of the great revival spread, and men and women came pouring in.
Then of a sudden the uproar stopped, and the ringing of axes and grating
of saws and tugging of mules was heard. The forest trembled as by some
mighty magic, swaying and falling with crash on crash. Huge bonfires
blazed and crackled, until at last a wide black scar appeared in the
thick south side of the swamp, which widened and widened to full twenty
acres.
The sun rose higher and higher till it blazed at high noon. The workers
dropped their tools. The aroma of coffee and roasting meat rose in the
dim cool shade. With ravenous appetites the dark, half-famished throng
fell upon the food, and then in utter weariness stretched themselves and
slept: lying along the earth like huge bronze earth-spirits, sitting
against trees, curled in dense bushes.
And Zora sat above them on a high rich-scented pile of logs. Her senses
slept save her sleepless eyes. Amid a silence she saw in the little
grove that still stood, the cabin of Elspeth tremble, sigh, and
disappear, and with it flew some spirit of evil.
Then she looked down to the new edge of the swamp, by the old lagoon,
and saw Bles Alwyn standing there. It seemed very natural; and closing
her eyes, she fell asleep.
_Thirty-four_