The colored people within a radius of twenty-five miles of Reding Springs
camp ground, Union county, congregate there once a year, generally in
August, after the crops are laid by, for a big religious revival. At
Reding Springs they are far removed from white people, and surrounded by
forests. They can camp out, eat, drink, preach and sing to their hearts’
content without molesting anyone. Sometimes the meetings are brought
to sudden conclusions by free-for-all fights, started by bullies, with
rocks, pistols and razors, but this is an unusual thing for the good
darkies of that section strive to keep down any unlawful disturbances.
Old Satan, shrewd and alert always, enters the home of God’s people
occasionally and makes mischief. So it is at Reding Springs now and then.
[Illustration: _Arabella the Day After._]
For almost a half century Reding Springs has been a popular camping
place for the negroes of the Sandy Ridge region. They gather there and
remain for weeks, worshiping according to their lights. Thousands of
persons camp there during the meeting. They make the neighborhood dark
with their presence and resound with their music.
The Reding Springs meetings are not for the city-bred negro, with his
lofty airs and college training, but for the country negro. There he
feels at home, where he goes once every twelve months to repent of
his sins, give in his experience and shout until weary. The religious
enthusiast can sing, preach, pray or participate in any other seemly way
in the services without restrictions. The parson reads his text, closes
the Bible, and preaches from memory. He gives out the hymns line at a
time, and leads in the singing, young and old, saint and sinner joining
to make the welkin ring, no one feeling constrained to curb his voice,
the more force applied the better, volume, not quality, being demanded.
Dear reader, if you have followed me so far, don’t turn back now, for it
is my purpose to tell you about Arabella Simpkins, the prophetess of the
Reding Springs section. She was the sage of the community. The negroes
feared her, and their fear was of the sort that made them want to get
closer to her.
Reding Springs negroes had cause to fear Arabella. The troubles that she
predicted came true. She had foretold the storm that swept the harbor
away in 1882; the earthquake that shook the tents in 1886, and the bolt
of lightning that set fire to the church in 1898. She had seen these in
visions and told of them as she shouted up and down the aisles of the
camp grounds. The people had learned from experience that the predictions
of Arabella came to pass; she had won the respect of the leaders, who
looked upon her arrival as an omen for good or bad. She had never
attended a meeting except to deliver herself of an abiding prophecy.
Therefore, if Arabella appeared on the scene everybody gave way to her
and listened with abated breath for her prediction, which she gave when
the meeting was at its best, when excitement ran highest. Before the big
negress could perform effectively, the preaching and singing had to be
of such a character that the hearers cried and wrung their hands. Then,
with the aisles and halls filled with shouting men and women and crying
children, Arabella sallied forth from her seat, humming softly, walling
her eyes and warming up as she went.
It was a hot day in 19-- that I went with a party of young people to the
Reding Springs camp meeting. We were invited by some of the older darkies
of Providence. It was said that Arabella was about due, as she had not
been out in several years, and, hence, a good time to go.
We arrived early Sunday morning, looked over the grounds and watched the
crowds gather from the surrounding country. I enjoyed the preliminaries.
I had never seen so many and such a variety of vehicles. The majority
of the darkies came in wagons, sitting flat on the bottom, using wheat
or oat straw as a cushion, while others rode in antiquated carriages,
buggies and two-wheeled carts, some of which were drawn by oxen. The
outskirts of the grounds were covered with canvas tents, where those from
a distance lived.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened until ten o’clock, when I saw
several old men and women, those high in the councils of the church,
looking and pointing down the road toward Twelve-Mile creek. Going near,
so that I could hear, I learned that an old sister had spied a covered
wagon, and, as I approached, she was saying: “Dat sho’ is Arabella
Simpkins, and her top wagin, fur I knows dat ole yaller mule.”
“Sister Blue,” said Parson Honeycutt, “I’m ’clined to b’lieve dat you
is kerrect in yo’ diagnosis uv de case, fur dat looks mighty lak Miss
Simpkins on de front seat.”
“I’s sho’ uv it now,” added Sister Blue, “fur dat’s Cæsar, her ole man,
drivin’; I knows his derby hat. Yes, sir, an’ dere somefin’ on Arry’s
mind. We sho’ is gwine to hear somefin’ drap to-day.”
And so it proved.
Arabella was on the way. She and Cæsar came driving a sorrel mule, whose
mane and tail needed trimming.
A chill passed over the crowd when it became generally known that the
notorious Arabella was arriving. There was not a negro present who would
not have given all he possessed to have been at home. But every one
was too superstitious to run away; that would have brought bad luck.
Therefore, with a kind of fear that produces confidence and brings hope
the unhappy negroes collected about Arabella and offered their services,
but with the air of a judge, who had the power to sentence to prison
or death the entire crowd, she refused all proffers of help. The mule
unhitched and tied to a dogwood sprout she went to the harbor and took a
seat half way down the middle pew. Every person craned slyly his neck to
see her. The prophetess sat, with her arms folded across her lap, silent
and dignified. Cæsar, who had escorted her in, seemed to be absorbed in
some profound thought. No one went near the pair.
The older men of the congregation retired to the amen corner and sat like
dummies waiting for the hour for the sermon to begin.
Everybody was wild with pent-up excitement. There was anxiety in every
eye. Feeling, though suppressed, ran high.
Brother Honeycutt, trembling with emotion, announced that the ten-thirty
service would begin with prayer and asked one and all to join him in a
petition to the Lord for a successful meeting. He fell upon his knees
and prayed long and earnestly, beseeching the Maker to stay the hand of
the evil one and save the Reding Springs people from any great pending
calamity. The fervent ones punctuated and punctured the prayer with
hearty amens. Hymns were sung and the sermon commenced. At first there
was nothing unusual about the services. They were like those of all negro
meetings held in rural districts, except that the congregation seemed
unusually quiet. The falling of a pin upon the floor could have been
heard across the room.
The arrival of Arabella had brought order. The bravest of the rowdies
would not have dared disturb the tranquillity of that meeting. A most
pious and respectful body of worshippers it was!
Along toward the latter part of the sermon Parson Honeycutt warmed up
to his subject and spoke with force and feeling, picturing the scenes
of judgment day, when all would be begging Peter for admittance to
the Holy Land. His story and enthusiasm were calculated to touch the
hardest-hearted sinner. As he moved on, swinging, half speaking and half
singing, the audience became more and more interested. As he swayed to
and fro behind the pulpit his hearers swung in sympathy. In conclusion he
sung:
“De ole time religion is good enough for me,
It wuz good enough for Paul and Silas,
An’ it’s good enough for me.”
The entire congregation chimed in and sang with spirit if not
understanding.
It was at this juncture that an over-wrought sister, singing and crying
at the top of her voice, “an’ it’s good enough fer me,” rushed into the
aisle, clapping her hands, and shouting.
The meeting was getting right then for Elder Brown, a man of piety and
reverence, cried out: “Dat’s it, sister, tell it to ’em!”
A half-dozen women and two men joined the first shouter.
“An’ it’s good enough fer me,” yelled the preacher, slapping his big
hands together; “come on, brethren an’ sistern, an’ jine de moaners!”
Four-fifths of the congregation kept an eye on Arabella, knowing that it
was only a question of time until she would come forward with a swing and
a whoop, and tell what she had seen.
The eager throng did not have to wait long, for Arabella was eager to get
out, and deliver her message. Laying aside her hat and veil she waltzed
out, humming softly, and sweetly, in a melodious voice, “An’ I seed er
vision, er vision, er vision!”
“I tole you so, honey, an’ she’s gwine to tell it,” shouted Uncle Jerry
Howard, one of the class leaders.
As she rose I got a good look at Arabella, and I was very much impressed
with her masculine features. She weighed about 225 pounds, was large of
bone, muscular and black. She entered the aisle reeling and rocking.
“Clar de way dere,” said Parson Honeycutt, “an’ let Miss Simpkins pass!”
“It sho’ is de same ole Arabella,” declared Class Leader Jones, “an’
she’s gut trouble on her mind des as sho’ as you’s born’d.
“Come on, Sister Simpkins, an’ don’t keep us in dis agony! Tell de truf
as you see it! Tell it an’ let us prepare fer de wust!”
“Dis mornin’,” sang Arabella, “as I wuz er comin’ er long-er de road, I
seed er vision, er vision, er vision.”
“Tell it, sister; don’t keep back nothin’. What wuz it you seed?” came
from the amen corner.
“Yes, Brer Honeycutt, des as I started, an’ as I wuz comin’ down de
road-er, I seed er vision, er vision, er vision!”
“Yes, Lawd! Tell it all, sister! What did you see?”
“An’ I looked back-er, an’ seed it ergin-er.”
“Come on wid it, sister! Tell it all!”
“An’ it had-er long tail-er. Yes, Lawd, an’ dat I did-er!”
“Come on, honey, what wuz it you seed?”
By this time everybody else had quit shouting; Arabella had the floor to
herself. Every neck was craned and every ear open to get what she said.
“An’ I look back-er, an’ I seed dat it had er head-er, er head-er, er
head-er!”
“What den, chile?”
“An’ er long body-er, body-er, body-er! An’ legs-er, fo’ long legs-er.
Yes, yes, chillun, an’ fo’ legs-er!”
While this was going on I could not keep my eyes off of Parson Honeycutt,
the large, striking-looking preacher, who was very superstitious. I
was afraid he would go into convulsions. His eyes were stretched, his
nostrils distended and his mouth in a quiver. He leaned over the pulpit
and listened intently at Arabella. He was anxious to hear her prediction.
The suspense was telling on his nerves, and his heart.
“What wuz it, sister?” he cried in his agony.
“An’ I look back-er, an’ seed dat it had a long pair years-er,” continued
Arabella.
The excitement had reached its zenith. The tension was greatest, and the
crowd could constrain itself no longer. The spell was broken when Elder
Brown shouted: “An’ thank Gawd it were a mule-er!”
“Amen!” added the parson.
“Hold me, hold me, hold me, ef you don’t I’ll fly away to glory an’ leave
you all,” bellowed Arabella.
“Brother Simpkins, hold yo’ wife,” cried a voice.
Cæsar Simpkins rose from his seat and started toward Arabella, who was
prancing up and down the center aisle, but when she saw him coming she
waved her hand at him and sung:
“G’way, Cæsar, g’way, I don’t want you to hold me,
I’s gut sugar an’ molasses in my soul,
An’ I want’s Brer Honeycutt to hold me.”
Parson Honeycutt hurried down from the rostrum, caught Arabella by the
right arm, and they went up the aisle singing “Glory hallelujah!”
Arabella went into a trance, fell in Brother Honeycutt’s arms, and was
carried out and laid upon the grass beneath a large oak tree, where she
was permitted to cool off and “come around.”
The sequel: That afternoon, while on his way home, Brother Honeycutt was
thrown from his roan mule, Napoleon Bonaparte, who became frightened at a
toad hopping across the road, and had his left forefinger broken.
“I told you so!” said one and all. “Dat nigger’s vision allers comes
true.”
[Illustration: _Jim in a Peaceful Mood._]