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!”
