AN INTERRUPTED OFFERTORY
Out at the edge of the woods that fringed a sea-island cotton field in the lower part of Colleton County, stood a little bush church—a primitive affair, constructed by setting four ten-foot stakes at the corners of a square, laying ridgepoles in their forked tops, and covering the whole with green boughs of the sweetgum. Humble as it was, this summer sanctuary of the Rev. Nepchun Kinlaw’s congregation was as dear to them as was ever minareted mosque to Moslem, or cloister to Monk. Here, during the warm weather, when the more pretentious clapboard church became unbearably hot, they assembled two or three times a week to receive the pearls of theological thought that, clothed in the Gullah dialect of the Carolina coast, fell from the thick lips of their beloved “locus pastuh.” Here, sheltered from sunshine and shower, they sat, like roosting chickens, on pine poles that, upholstered only with the bark that covered them, rested upon upright stakes sawed square at the top and driven into the ground. When these “pews” were filled to the ends, the overflow found lodgment on the stumps and logs that lay within sound of the preacher’s voice in the environing forest.
On a night in the early summer, an unusually large congregation had gathered at this trysting place of the faithful, for the news had spread that “Pa Kinlaw” was going to say something sensational on the subject of pastoral ways and means. The night was dark, the sky overcast, and now and then the low rumble of distant thunder and a fitful gust of wind from the south-east,that soughed through the tops of the pines for a moment and then died away, betokened the coming storm. Around the place of worship, two or three pine-knot fires blazed brightly, furnishing, at once, light for the comfort of the congregation, and smoke for the discomfiture of the gnats and sandflies that swarmed about the church. Around and between the fires, the negroes, men and women, moved, avoiding the smoke and sparks that the wind, from time to time, sent among them, the firelight falling on their dark faces recalling the “hot-pot” scene in Rider Haggard’s “She.” While they awaited the advent of their preacher, they discussed their daily pleasures, trials, hopes and fears—the reduced cost of bacon or calico at the country store, the demand for labor, and the increased price therefor, at the rice plantations along the river, the destruction of the early corn by the cutworms and the crows, etc.
“I yerry,” said one old woman to another, “I yerry dat Mistuh FitzSimmun done tek de sprout flow off ’e rice, en’ ’e gwine hoe’um nex’ week, T’ursday.”
“Dat so?” said her companion. “Den, I gwine dey sho’ ez Gawd lemme go. Ef my juntlemun kin git uh hawss, eeduhso uh oxin, fuh knock de middle out’n ’e crap, I will mek she go ’long too, alldo’ ’e gots de mis’ry een ’e back ’tell ’e cyan’ specify wid ’e hoe lukkuh ’e nyuse to do.”
“I ’spec’,” said old Ca’lina Manigo, “I ’spec’, I mos’ sho’, rokkoon duh walk duh paat’ dis berry night! Please Gawd, ef Him didn’ mek dat snake ’stroy’d Hol’fas’ las’ yeah, I could’uh ketch one tenight, tenight, duh de night!”
“Ef you so hongry fuh rokkoon meat, w’en de praisedone gitt’ru, we kin tek my dog Ring en’ tek a leetle dribe,” said Monday Parker, a stalwart black fellow.
“Ring!” said Ca’lina, scornfully. “Ring!Boy, ef you talk Ring’ name een de same bre’t’ wid Hol’fas’ name, you will mek me hab sin right yuh tenight! I kin tek ole Hol’fas’ jawbone out’n de du’t weh de buzzut done lef’um, en’ I kin pit dat jawbone ’puntop uh rokkoon track, en’ him will mek de rokkoon git een de tree top, befo’ Ring kin ketch a fleas out’n ’e own tail! Go’way, Paa’kuh, man, you know berry well yo’ dog cyan’ specify!”
“’Nuf t’ing, ’scusin’ dog, dey een dis wull’ w’at cyan’ specify,” said a deep voice from the darkness without, and, in a moment more, the long-looked-for pastor, mounted on a raw-boned brindled ox, rode into the broad disk of firelight that filled the glade. A grain sack stuffed with corn shucks was his saddle, and a long grapevine wound around and around the unhappy ox, together with martingales and crupper of the same, held it in place. A bridle and stirrups of frayed cotton rope completed the extraordinary equestrian equipment.
“Cow iz shishuh ’ceitful t’ing fuh ride, dat I mos’ didn’ mek me ’p’int,” said the preacher, as he dismounted and hitched his animal to a bush.
“Paul Jinkin’ got some shinny peas plant close by de road aige, en’ dis cow bin so hongry dat, w’en I git to weh de fench bruk down, ’e tek ’eself en’ me en’ all, en’ gone een de fiel’ en’ staa’t fuh nyam de peas, en’ I try fuh git’um out de fiel’, ’cause Paul ent b’long to we chu’ch, but de cow haa’d-head ez a ’ooman, en’ I couldn’ git’um fuh lef’ de fiel’, ontel we yerry Paul call to ’e lady fuh git up en’ he’p’um ketch de somebodyw’at dey een de fiel’, en’ w’en I yerrydat, I yent want’uh git de cow’ cyarrictuh spile, so I mek’um come out’n’ de fiel’—en’ dat how I git yuh late.”
Taking his stand in the tall box of rough pine boards that served for a pulpit, he looked askance at the contributions to his support that various members of his congregation brought to the altar and laid on the ground beside him. A quart of grist, a dozen eggs, a chicken, a pint of “clean” rice, a nickle—ostentatiously brought forth from a knot in the corner of an apron and placed by the proud donor “een de Reb’ren’ han’”—such were the offerings of this simple people, but, although representing more than a tithe of their possessions, they found little favor in the pastor’s eyes.
“Sistuh Wineglass,” said he, as a bustling middle-aged woman smilingly presented a chicken. “Sistuh Wineglass, chickin’ seems to sca’ceful een dis congregashun ez debble sca’ceful een heab’n! Dis mek only de t’ree chickin’ w’at bin contributesto dis chu’ch sence de las’ quawt’ly preachin’, en’ I done tell oonuh one time ’ready dat dis pulpit cyan’ filfill’ bidoutbittle. Ent de Scriptuh say een de fo’teen chaptuh een Nickuhdemus, dat de lab’ruh wut’ ’e hire? I gots to lef’ my crap kibbuh wid grass, en’ come yuh fuh ’rassle en’ agguhnize wid oonuh sinful soul en’ t’ing, en’ you gots de nomannus to come een de Lawd’ house wid t’ree aig’ en’ one leetle fo’punce chickin een yo’ han’, en’ ’spec’ fuh ketch salwashun, enty? Ef you saa’ch Nickuhdemus’ wu’d you will fin’ dat ’e say ’sponsubble dat a fo’punce chickin cyan’ specify fuh seb’npunce’ wut’ uh salwashun! You tell me week befo’ las’ dat you couldn’ git no chickin’ ’scusin’ yougit aig’, en’ you cyan’ gots no aig’ ’cep’n’ de hen lay’um, but de Lawd’ wu’d say, ef yo’ right han’, eeduhso yo’ right han’ feet, refen’ you, you mus’ cut’um off, en’ ef de hen cyan’ specify, you mus’ cut off him head same fashi’n en’”—
The pastor’s prelude was brought to a sudden close by a deafening peal of thunder that echoed and re-echoed through the forest. A gust of wind lifted the sweetgum thatch from the rafters of the little church and scattered the boughs to leeward, and, as the big raindrops began to fall upon the assembled worshipers, Pa Kinlaw gathered together his prog, mounted his ox, and trotted off in the darkness, calling to his flock as he went, “de Lawd en’ me alltwo cyan’ talk one time! De nex’ preachin’ will be to Sistuh Rab’nel’ house ’bout fus’ daa’k Chuesday night!”