THE TRIAL SERMONS ON
BULL-SKIN
The congregation on Bull-Skin Creek was without a pastor. You will probably say that this was a deficiency easily remedied among a people who possess so much theological material. But you will instantly perceive how different a matter it was, when you learn that the last shepherd who had guided the flock at Bull-skin had left that community under a cloud. There were, of course, those who held with the departed minister, as well as those who were against him; and so two parties arose in the church, each contending for supremacy. Each party refused to endorse any measure or support any candidate suggested by the other; and as neither was strong enough to run the church alone, they were in a state of inactive equipoise very gratifying to that individual who is supposed to take delight in the discomfort of the righteous.
It was in this complicated state of affairs that Brother Hezekiah Sneedon, who was the representative of one of the candidates for the vacant pastorate, conceived and proposed a way out of the difficulty. Brother Sneedon's proposition was favourably acted upon by the whole congregation, because it held out the promise of victory to each party. It was, in effect, as follows:
Each faction—it had come to be openly recognised that there were two factions—should name its candidate, and then they should be invited to preach, on successive Sundays, trial sermons before the whole congregation, the preacher making the better impression to be called as pastor.
"And," added Brother Sreedon, pacifically, "in ordah dat dis little diffunce between de membahs may be settled in ha'mony, I do hope an' pray dat de pahty dat fin's itse'f outpreached will give up to de othah in Christun submission, an' th'ow in all deir might to hol' up de han's of whatever pastor de Lawd may please to sen'."
Sister Hannah Williams, the leader of the opposing faction, expressed herself as well pleased with the plan, and counselled a like
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BROTHER HEZEKIAH SNEEDON.
"Uh huh! ol' Kiah Sneedon thinks he's mighty sma't, puttin' up dat plan. Reckon he thinks ol' Abe Ma'tin kin outpreach anything near an' fur, but ef Brothah 'Lias Smith don't fool him, I ain't talkin'."
And Brother Sneedon himself was not entirely guiltless of some selfish thought as he hobbled away from the church door.
"Ann," said he to his wife, "I wunner ef Hannah Williams ca'culates dat 'Lias Smith kin beat Brother Abe Ma'tin preachin', ki yi! but won't she be riley when she fin's out how mistaken she is? Why, dey ain't nobody 'twixt hyeah an Louisville kin beat Brothah Abe Ma'tin preachin'. I 's hyeahed dat man preach 'twell de winders rattled an it seemed lak de skies mus' come down anyhow, an' sinnahs was a-fallin' befo' de Wo'd lak leaves in a Novembah blas'; an' she 'lows to beat him, oomph!" The "oomph" meant disgust, incredulity, and, above all, resistance.
The first of the momentous Sundays had been postponed two weeks, in order, it was said, to allow the members to get the spiritual and temporal elements of the church into order that would be pleasing to the eyes of a new pastor. In reality, Brother Sneedon and Sister Williams used the interval of time to lay their plans and to marshal their forces. And during the two weeks previous to the Sunday on which, by common consent, it had been agreed to invite the Reverend Elias Smith to preach, there was an ominous quiet on the banks of Bull-Skin,—the calm that precedes a great upheaval, when clouds hang heavy with portents and forebodings, but silent withal.
But there were events taking place in which the student of diplomacy might have found food for research and reflection. Such an event was the taffy-pulling which Sister Williams' daughters, Dora and Caroline, gave to the younger members of the congregation on Thursday evening. Such were the frequent incursions of Sister Williams herself upon the domains of the neighbours, with generous offerings of "a taste o' my ketchup" or "a sample o' my jelly." She did not stop with rewarding her own allies, but went farther, gift-bearing, even into the camp of the enemy himself.
It was on Friday morning that she called on Sister Sneedon. She found the door ajar and pushed it open, saying, "You see, Sis' Sneedon, I 's jes' walkin' right in."
"Oh, it's you, Sis' Williams; dat's right, come in. I was jes' settin' hyeah sawtin' my cyahpet rags, de mof do seem to pestah 'em so. Tek dis cheer" industriously dusting one with her apron. "How you be'n sence I seen you las'?"
"Oh, jes' sawt o' so."
"How 's Do' an' Ca'line?"
"Oh, Ca'line's peart enough, but Do's feelin' kind o' peekid."
"Don't you reckon she grow too fas'?"
"'Spec' dat's about hit; dat gal do sutny seem to run up lak a weed."
"It don't nevah do 'em no good to grow so fas', hit seem to tek away all deir strengf."
"Yes, 'm, it sholy do; gals ain't whut dey used to be in yo' an' my day, nohow."
"Lawd, no; dey's ez puny ez white folks now."
"Well, dem sholy is lovely cyahpet rags put' nigh all wool, ain't dey?"
"Yes, ma'am, dey is wool, evah speck an' stitch; dey ain't a bit o' cotton among 'em. I ain't lak some folks; I don't b'lieve in mixin' my rags evah-which-way. Den when you gits 'em wove have de cyahpet wah in holes, 'cause some 'll stan' a good deal o' strain an' some won't, yes, 'm, dese is evah one wool."
"An' you sholy have be'n mighty indust'ous in gittin' 'em togethah."
"I 's wo'ked ha'd an' done my level bes', dat's sho."
"Dat's de mos' any of us kin do. But I must n't be settin' hyeah talkin' all day an' keepin' you f'om yo' wo'k. Why, la! I'd mos nigh fu'got what I come fu'—I jes brung you ovah a tas'e o' my late greens. I knows how you laks greens, so I thought mebbe you'd enjoy dese."
"Why, sho enough; now ain't dat good o' you, Sis' Williams? Dey's right wa'm, too, an' tu'nip tops bless me! Why, dese mus' be de ve'y las' greens o' de season."
"Well, I reely don't think you'll fin' none much latah. De fros' had done teched dese, but I kin' o' kivered 'em up wif leaves ontwell dey growed up wuf cuttin'."
"Well, I knows I sholy shell relish dem." Mrs. Sneedon beamed as she emptied the dish and insisted upon washing it for her visitor to take home with her. "Fu'," she said, by way of humour, "I 's a mighty po' han' to retu'n nice dishes when I gits 'em in my cu'boa'd once."
Sister Williams rose to go. "Well, you 'll be out to chu'ch Sunday to hyeah Broth' 'Lias Smith; he's a powahful man, sho."
"Dey do tell me so. I'll be thah. You kin 'pend on me to be out whenevah thah's to be any good preachin'."
"Well, we kin have dat kin' o' preachin' all de time ef we gits Broth' 'Lias Smith."
"Yes, 'm."
"Dey ain't no 'sputin' he'll be a movin' powah at Bull-Skin."
"Yes, 'm."
"We sistahs 'll have to ban' togethah an' try to do whut is bes' fu' de chu'ch."
"Yes, 'm."
"Co'se, Sistah Sneedon, ef you's pleased wif his sermon, I suppose you'll be in favoh o' callin' Broth' 'Lias Smith."
"Well, Sis' Williams, I do' know; you see Hezekier's got his hea't set on Broth' Abe Ma'tin fum Dokesville; he's mighty sot on him, an' when he's sot he's sot, an' you know how it is wif us women when de men folks says dis er dat."
Sister Williams saw that she had overshot her mark. "Oh, hit 's all right, Sis' Sneedon, hit 's all right. I jes' spoke of it a-wunnerin'. What we women folks wants to do is to ban' togethah to hol' up de han' of de pastah dat comes, whoms'ever he may be."
"Dat's hit, dat's hit," assented her companion; "an' you kin 'pend on me thah, fu' I 's a powahful han' to uphol de ministah whoms'ever he is."
"An' you right too, fu' dey's de shepuds of de flock. Well, I mus' be goin'—come ovah."
"I 's a-comin'—come ag'in yo'se'f, good-bye."
As soon as her visitor was gone, Sister Sneedon warmed over the greens and sat down to the enjoyment of them. She had just finished the last mouthful when her better half entered. He saw the empty plate and the green liquor. Evidently he was not pleased, for be it said that Brother Sneedon had himself a great tenderness for turnip greens.
"Wha'd you git dem greens?" he asked.
"Sistah Hannah Williams brung 'em ovah to me."
"Sistah Hannah— who?" ejaculated he.
"Sis' Williams, Sis' Williams, you know Hannah Williams."
"What! dat wolf in sheep's clothin' dat's a-gwine erroun' a-seekin' who she may devowah, an' you hyeah a-projickin' wif huh, eatin' de greens she gives you! How you know whut's in dem greens?"
"Oh, g'long, 'Kiah, you so funny! Sis' Williams ain't gwine conju' nobidy."
"You hyeah me, you hyeah me now. Keep on foolin' wif dat ooman, she'll have you crawlin' on yo' knees an' ba'kin, lak a dog. She kin do it, she kin do it, fu' she's long-haided, I tell you."
"Well, ef she wants to hu't me it's done, fu' I's eat de greens now."
"Yes," exclaimed Brother Sneedon, "you eat 'em up lak a hongry hog an' never saved me a smudgeon."
"Oomph! I thought you 's so afeard o' gittin' conju'ed."
"Heish up! you 's allus tryin' to raise some kin' er contentions in de fambly. I nevah seed a ooman lak you." And old Hezekiah strode out of the cabin in high dudgeon.
And so, smooth on the surface, but turbulent beneath, the stream of days flowed on until the Sunday on which Reverend Elias Smith was to preach his trial sermon. His fame as a preacher, together with the circumstances surrounding this particular sermon, had brought together such a crowd as the little church on Bull-Skin had never seen before even in the heat of the most successful revivals. Outsiders had come from as far away as Christiansburg, which was twelve, and Fox Run, which was fifteen miles distant, and the church was crowded to the doors.
Sister Williams with her daughters Dora and Caroline were early in their seats. Their ribbons were fluttering to the breeze like the banners of an aggressive host. There were smiles of anticipated triumph upon their faces. Brother and Sister Sneedon arrived a little later. They took their seat far up in the "amen corner," directly behind the Williams family. Sister Sneedon sat very erect and looked about her, but her spouse leaned his chin upon his cane and gazed at the floor, nor did he raise his head, when, preceded by a buzz of expectancy, the Reverend Elias Smith, accompanied by Brother Abner Williams, who was a local preacher, entered and ascended to the pulpit, where he knelt in silent prayer.
At the entrance of their candidate, the female portion of the Williams family became instantly alert.
They were all attention when the husband and father arose and gave out the hymn: "Am I a Soldier of the Cross?" They joined lustily in the singing, and at the lines, "Sure I must fight if I would reign," their voices rose in a victorious swell far above the voices of the rest of the congregation. Prayer followed, and then Brother Williams rose and said,—
"Brothahs an sistahs, I teks gret pleasuah in interducin' to you Eldah Smith, of Dokeville, who will preach fu' us at dis howah. I want to speak fu' him yo' pra'ful attention." Sister Williams nodded her head in approval, even this much was good; but Brother Sneedon sighed aloud.
The Reverend Elias Smith arose and glanced over the congregation. He was young, well-appearing, and looked as though he might have been unmarried. He announced his text in a clear, resonant voice: "By deir fruits shell you know dem."
The great change that gave to the blacks fairly trained ministers from the schools had not at this time succeeded their recently accomplished emancipation. And the sermon of Elder Smith was full of all the fervour, common-sense, and rude eloquence of the old plantation exhorter. He spoke to his hearers in the language that they understood, because he himself knew no other. He drew his symbols and illustrations from the things which he saw most commonly about him,—things which he and his congregation understood equally well. He spent no time in dallying about the edge of his subject, but plunged immediately into the middle of things, and soon had about him a shouting, hallooing throng of frantic people. Of course it was the Williams faction who shouted. The spiritual impulse did not seem to reach those who favoured Brother Sneedon's candidate. They sat silent and undemonstrative. That earnest disciple himself still sat with his head bent upon his cane, and still at intervals sighed audibly. He had only raised his head once, and that was when some especially powerful period in the sermon had drawn from the partner of his joys and sorrows an appreciative "Oomph!" Then the look that he shot forth from his eyes, so full of injury, reproach, and menace, repressed her noble rage and settled her back into a quietude more consonant with her husband's ideas.
Meanwhile, Sister Hannah Williams and her sylph-like daughters "Do" and "Ca'line" were in an excess of religious frenzy. Whenever any of the other women in the congregation seemed to be working their way too far forward, those enthusiastic sisters shouted their way directly across the approach to the pulpit, and held place there with such impressive and menacing demonstrativeness that all comers were warned back. There had been times when, actuated by great religious fervour, women had ascended the rostrum and embraced the minister. Rest assured, nothing of that kind happened in this case, though the preacher waxed more and more eloquent as he proceeded,—an eloquence more of tone, look, and gesture than of words. He played upon the emotions of his willing hearers, except those who had steeled themselves against his power, as a skilful musician upon the strings of his harp. At one time they were boisterously exultant, at another they were weeping and moaning, as if in the realisation of many sins. The minister himself lowered his voice to a soft rhythmical moan, almost a chant, as he said,—
"You go 'long by de road an' you see an ol' shabby tree a-standin' in de o'chud. It ain't ha'dly got a apple on it. Its leaves are put nigh all gone. You look at de branches, dey's all rough an' crookid. De tree's all full of sticks an' stones an' wiah an' ole tin cans. Hit's all bruised up an' hit's a ha'd thing to look at altogether. You look at de tree an' whut do you say in yo' hea't? You say de tree ain't no 'count, fu' 'by deir fruits shell you know dem.' But you wrong, my frien's, you wrong. Dat tree did ba' good fruit, an' by hits fruit was hit knowed. John tol' Gawge an' Gawge tol' Sam, an' evah one dat passed erlong de road had to have a shy at dat fruit. Dey be'n th'owin' at dat tree evah sence hit begun to ba' fruit, an' dey's 'bused hit so dat hit could n't grow straight to save hits life. Is dat whut 's de mattah wif you, brothah, all bent ovah yo' staff an' a-groanin' wif yo' burdens? Is dat whut's de mattah wif you, brothah, dat yo' steps are a-weary an' you 's longin' fu' yo' home? Have dey be'n th'owin' stones an' cans at you? Have dey be'n beatin' you wif sticks? Have dey tangled you up in ol' wiah twell you could n't move han' ner foot? Have de way be'n all trouble? Have de sky be'n all cloud? Have de sun refused to shine an' de day be'n all da'kness? Don't git werry, be consoled. Whut de mattah! Why, I tell you you ba'in' good fruit, an' de debbil cain't stan' it—'By deir fruits shell you know dem.'
"You go 'long de road a little furder an' you see a tree standin' right by de fence. Standin' right straight up in de air, evah limb straight out in hits place, all de leaves green an' shinin' an' lovely. Not a stick ner a stone ner a can in sight. You look 'way up in de branches, an' dey hangin' full o' fruit, big an roun' an' solid. You look at dis tree an' whut now do you say in yo' hea't? You say dis is a good tree, fu' 'by deir fruits shell you know dem.' But you wrong, you wrong ag'in, my frien's. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey 'd puckah up yo' mouf wuss'n a green pu'simmon, an' evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit knowed. Dey don't want none o' dat fruit, an' dey pass hit by an' don't bothah dey haids about it.
"Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl' sailin' on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you 's a-walkin' in de sof' pafs an' a-dressin' fine. Ain't nobidy a-troublin' you, nobidy ain't a-backbitin' you, nobidy ain't a-castin' yo' name out as evil. You all right an' movin' smoov. But I want you to stop an' 'zamine yo'se'ves. I want you to settle whut kin' o' fruit you ba'in,' whut kin' o' light you showin' fo'f to de worl. An' I want you to stop an' tu'n erroun' when you fin' out dat you ba'in' bad fruit, an' de debbil ain't bothahed erbout you 'ca'se he knows you his'n anyhow. 'By deir fruits shell you know dem.'"
The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.
"Wha'd you think o' dat sermon?" asked Sister Williams of one of her good friends; and the good friend answered,—
"Tsch, pshaw! dat man jes tuk his tex' at de fust an nevah lef it."
Brother Sneedon remarked to a friend: "Well, he did try to use a good deal o' high langgidge, but whut we want is grace an' speritual feelin'."
The Williams faction went home with colours flying. They took the preacher to dinner. They were exultant. The friends of Brother Sneedon were silent but thoughtful.
It was true, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Reverend Elias Smith had made a wonderful impression upon his hearers,—an impression that might not entirely fade away before the night on which the new pastor was to be voted for. Comments on the sermon did not end with the closing of that Sabbath day. The discussion of its excellences was prolonged into the next week, and continued with a persistency dangerous to the aspirations of any rival candidate. No one was more fully conscious of this menacing condition of affairs than Hezekiah Sneedon himself. He knew that for the minds of the people to rest long upon the exploits of Elder Smith would be fatal to the chances of his own candidate; so he set about inventing some way to turn the current of public thought into another channel. And nothing but a powerful agency could turn it. But in fertility of resources Hezekiah Sneedon was Napoleonic. Though his diplomacy was greatly taxed in this case, he came out victorious and with colours flying when he hit upon the happy idea of a "possum supper." That would give the people something else to talk about beside the Reverend Elias Smith and his wonderful sermon. But think not, O reader, that the intellect that conceived this new idea was so lacking in the essential qualities of diplomacy as to rush in his substitute, have done with it, and leave the public's attention to revert to its former object. Brother Sneedon was too wary for this. Indeed, he did send his invitations out early to the congregation; but this only aroused discussion and created anticipation which was allowed to grow and gather strength until the very Saturday evening on which the event occurred.
Sister Hannah Williams saw through the plot immediately, but she could not play counter, so she contented herself with saying: "Dat Hezikiah Sneedon is sholy de bigges' scamp dat evah trod shoe-leathah." But nevertheless, she did not refuse an invitation to be present at the supper. She would go, she said, for the purpose of seeing "how things went on." But she added, as a sort of implied apology to her conscience, "and den I 's powahful fond o' 'possum, anyhow."
In inviting Sister Williams, Brother Sneedon had taken advantage of the excellent example which that good woman had set him, and was carrying the war right into the enemy's country; but he had gone farther in one direction, and by the time the eventful evening arrived had prepared for his guests a coup d'état which was unanticipated even by his own wife.
He had been engaged in a secret correspondence, the result of which was seen when, just after the assembling of the guests in the long, low room which was parlour, sitting, and dining room in the Sneedon household, the wily host ushered in and introduced to the astonished people the Reverend Abram Martin. They were not allowed to recover from their surprise before they were seated at the table, grace said by the reverend brother, and the supper commenced. And such a supper as it was, one that could not but soften the feelings and touch the heart of any Negro. It was a supper that disarmed opposition. Sister Hannah was seated at the left of Reverend Abram Martin, who was a fluent and impressive talker; and what with his affability and the delight of the repast, she grew mollified and found herself laughing and chatting. The other members of her faction looked on, and, seeing her pleased with the minister, grew pleased themselves. The Reverend Abram Martin's magnetic influence ran round the board like an electric current.
He could tell a story with a dignified humour that was irresistible,—and your real Negro is a lover of stories and a teller of them. Soon, next to the 'possum, he was the centre of attraction around the table, and he held forth while the diners listened respectfully to his profound observations or laughed uproariously at his genial jokes. All the while Brother Sneedon sat delightedly by, watchful, but silent, save for the occasional injunction to his guests to help themselves. And they did so with a gusto that argued well for their enjoyment of the food set before them. As the name by which the supper was designated would imply, 'possum was the principal feature, but, even after including the sweet potatoes and brown gravy, that was not all. There was hog jole and cold cabbage, ham and Kentucky oysters, more widely known as chittlings. What more there was it boots not to tell. Suffice it to say that there was little enough of anything left to do credit to the people's dual powers of listening and eating, for in all this time the Reverend Abram Martin had not abated his conversational efforts nor they their unflagging attention.
Just before the supper was finished, the preacher was called upon, at the instigation of Hezekiah Sneedon, of course, to make a few remarks, which he proceeded to do in a very happy and taking vein. Then the affair broke up, and the people went home with myriad comments on their tongues. But one idea possessed the minds of all, and that was that the Reverend Abram Martin was a very able man, and charming withal.
It was at this hour, when opportunity for sober reflection returned, that Sister Williams first awakened to the fact that her own conduct had compromised her cause. She did not sleep that night—she lay awake and planned, and the result of her planning was a great fumbling the next morning in the little bag where she kept her earnings, and the despatching of her husband on an early and mysterious errand.
The day of meeting came, and the church presented a scene precisely similar to that of the previous Sunday. If there was any difference, it was only apparent in the entirely alert and cheerful attitude of Brother Sneedon and the reversed expressions of the two factions. But even the latter phase was not so marked, for the shrewd Sister Williams saw with alarm that her forces were demoralised. Some of them were sitting near the pulpit with expressions of pleasant anticipation on their faces, and as she looked at them she groaned in spirit. But her lips. were compressed in a way that to a close observer would have seemed ominous, and ever and anon she cast anxious and expectant glances toward the door. Her husband sat upon her left, an abashed, shamefaced expression dominating his features. He continually followed her glances toward the door with a furtive, half-frightened look; and when Sneedon looked his way, he avoided his eye.
That arch schemer was serene and unruffled. He had perpetrated a stroke of excellent policy by denying himself the pleasure of introducing the new minister, and had placed that matter in the hands of Isaac Jordan, a member of the opposing faction and one of Sister Williams' stanchest supporters. Brother Jordan was pleased and flattered by the distinction, and converted.
The service began. The hymn was sung, the prayer said, and the minister, having been introduced, was already leading out from his text, when, with a rattle and bang that instantly drew every eye rearward, the door opened and a man entered. Apparently oblivious to the fact that he was the centre of universal attention, he came slowly down the aisle and took a seat far to the front of the church. A gleam of satisfaction shot from the eye of Sister Williams, and with a sigh she settled herself in her seat and turned her attention to the sermon. Brother Sneedon glanced at the new-comer and grew visibly disturbed. One sister leaned over and whispered to another,—
"I wunner whut Bud Lewis is a-doin' hyeah?"
"I do' know," answered the other, "but I do hope an' pray dat he won't git into none o' his shoutin' tantrums to-day."
"Well, ef he do, I 's a-leavin' hyeah, you hyeah me," rejoined the first speaker.
The sermon had progressed about one-third its length, and the congregation bad begun to show frequent signs of awakening life, when on an instant, with startling suddenness, Bud Lewis sprang from his seat and started on a promenade down the aisle, swinging his arms in sweeping semi-circles, and uttering a sound like the incipient bellow of a steamboat. "Whough! Whough!" he puffed, swinging from side to side down the narrow passageway.
At the first demonstration from the new-comer, people began falling to right and left out of his way. The fame of Bud Lewis' "shoutin' tantrums" was widespread, and they who knew feared them. This unregenerate mulatto was without doubt the fighting man of Bull-Skin.
While, as a general thing, he shunned the church, there were times when a perverse spirit took hold of him, and he would seck the meeting-house, and promptly, noisily, and violently "get religion." At these times he made it a point to knock people helter-skelter, trample on tender toes, and do other mischief, until in many cases the meeting broke up in confusion. The saying finally grew to be proverbial among the people in the Bull-Skin district that they would rather see a thunderstorm than Bud Lewis get religion.
On this occasion he made straight for the space in front of the pulpit, where his vociferous hallelujahs entirely drowned the minister's voice; while the thud, thud, thud of his feet upon the floor, as he jumped up and down, effectually filled up any gap of stillness which his hallelujahs might have left.
Hezekiah Sneedon knew that the Reverend Mr. Martin's sermon would be ruined, and he saw all his cherished hopes destroyed in a moment. He was a man of action, and one glance at Sister Williams' complacent countenance decided him. He rose, touched Isaac Jordan, and said, "Come on, let's hold him." Jordan hesitated a minute; but his leader was going on, and there was nothing to do but to follow him. They approached Lewis, and each seized an arm. The man began to struggle. Several other men joined them and laid hold on him.
"Quiet, brother, quiet," said Hezekiah Sneedon; "dis is de house o' de Lawd."
"You lemme go," shrieked Bud Lewis. "Lemme go, I say."
"But you mus' be quiet, so de res' o' de congregation kin hyeah."
"I don't keer whethah dey hyeahs er not. I reckon I kin shout ef I want to." The minister had paused in his sermon, and the congregation was alert.
"Brother, you mus' not distu'b de meetin'. Praise de Lawd all you want to, but give somebidy else a chance too."
"I won't, I won't; lemme go. I 's paid fu' shoutin', an' I 's gwine to shout." Hezekiah Sneedon caught the words, and he followed up his advantage.
"You 's paid fu' shoutin'! Who paid you?"
"Hannah Williams, dat's who! Now you lemme go; I 's gwine to shout."
The effect of this declaration was magical. The brothers, by their combined efforts, lifted the struggling mulatto from his feet and carried him out of the chapel, while Sister Williams' face grew ashen in hue.
The congregation settled down, and the sermon was resumed. Disturbance and opposition only seemed to have heightened the minister's power, and he preached a sermon that is remembered to this day on Bull-Skin. Before it was over, Bud Lewis' guards filed back into church and listened with enjoyment to the remainder of the discourse.
The service closed, and under cover of the crowd that thronged about the altar to shake the minister's hand Hannah Williams escaped.
As the first item of business at the church meeting on the following Wednesday evening, she was formally "churched" and expelled from fellowship with the flock at Bull-Skin for planning to interrupt divine service. The next business was the unanimous choice of Reverend Abram Martin for the pastorate of the church.