Chapters
The Preacher's Marsh
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
About the Author
The Preacher's Marsh
By David Niall Wilson
Copyright 2010 by David Niall Wilson & Macabre Ink Digital
&
Macabre Ink Digital Publishing
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ONE
In 1868, Old Mill, North Carolina was no more than a smudge on the map. There were roads leading north and south, maintained for the most part to transport cotton. There was a cotton gin, a general store, a scattered spread of housing for those who worked in town.
Near the edge of town on the way up from the south road the Baptist church gleamed and glittered. Its walls were brilliant white wood, and the steeple held a shiny metal bell that was polished and cared for as if it might have been cast from the Holy Grail itself. On the north road, a smaller Methodist church sat back a ways from the road. It wasn’t as brightly painted as the Baptist building, but it had colorful stained glass windows and wood trim.
The fields surrounding the town stretched out along bumpy dirt roads toward the Great Dismal Swamp on the Virginia side and the Perquimans River on the southern boundary. Owned by a very few families, this land was planted almost exclusively with cotton. Some of it was farmed by sharecroppers, a few acres by squatters, but the majority of it was worked in much the same way it had been for the past hundred years. The local gentry had been forced to release their slaves from bondage, but other than the formal release, little had changed. The cotton still had to be picked, and the slaves who had worked the fields for so many generations had nowhere else to go. In most cases they’d stayed on, either remaining with the families who’d owned them, or putting up shacks and hovels nearby and working as freedmen for little or no wages. The south did not leap into the new America. President Lincoln’s war brought change, but it was slow, seeping change.
When Reverend Gideon Swayne walked into town in late August, the sun was just setting over the cotton fields. The streets were all but bare, only a couple of barefoot, grimy kids pushing wagons of produce and other goods back to wagons for their parents. Most shopping in town took place on Saturdays. Reverend Swayne arrived in Old Mill on a Tuesday, and any man, woman or child with two good legs and the use of their hands was picking cotton, sunup to sundown.
He was a tall man with coal black hair that was a little long for the time, swept back over his ears and his collar. He had several days' growth of beard, but it was difficult to tell if this was by choice, or just from the lack of a place to shave. The dust of the road was heavy on his pants legs; his face was drawn and thin. He couldn’t have looked less like he belonged if he’d flown in on a broom, and gossip had flown about from mouth to mouth and house to house since he first appeared on the road outside town and was spotted by a group of field hands picking cotton.
He stopped in the road in front of the Baptist church and stared up at the steeple. He put his hand over his eyes to shade them from the bright sunlight and took in the gleaming paint and the polished metal bell. He glanced in through the windows and caught sight of wood paneled walls and flashes of color behind the pulpit.
Brother Dan Cumby was pastor of the church, and he lived in a neat, well kept bungalow situated on the lot next door. His grass was cut close to the ground. The bushes that lined his porch were trimmed to geometric perfection. Not a speck of dirt besmirched the purity of his paint, nor a smudge the clarity of his glass windows. It was a comfortable home by the standards of the day. Reverend Swayne had seen dozens of homes on his way into town, and none of them approached this one for comfort.
Inside the house, someone pulled the drapes aside, just a fraction of an inch. Reverend Swayne felt the weight of eyes staring, but he did not return the gaze. He continued to study the church, as if he were considering walking up and knocking on the door, or stopping by to visit. Then, with a quick shake of his head, he leaned down, grabbed his bags, and turned back to the road, continuing into town.
When he was out of sight, the drapes fell back into place over Pastor Cumby’s window. No one came to the door, or watched Reverend Swayne’s progress. He rounded a corner and stepped up onto a boardwalk that lined the front of the town’s few offices and stores. There was an awning, and he stood for a while, relieved to be out of the sun.
As he stood, he scanned the storefronts. There was no one in sight, but he didn't seem upset, or even particularly surprised. He spotted the Walz's General Store, and shouldered his bag again. A few moments later he pushed the door opened gently and stepped inside.
Devon Walz glanced up from where he was arranging cans on a shelf. He hadn’t expected business – during the workday in the middle of the week he might as well have closed the doors and gone home. When the door opened and a tall stranger stepped through, it caught him off guard.
Gideon Swayne stood in the doorway, hands clasped before him and his bags on the floor at his feet. He was a big man, but he was quiet and made no untoward moves. Devon put the can he was holding down on the shelf, wiped his palms on his pants legs, and stepped into the main aisle of his store.
“Howdy,” he said, keeping some distance from the stranger. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Reverend Swayne said. He smiled, and the smile was contagious. His eyes were a deep, chocolate brown. His clothing was clean, but not too expensive. The coat was cut in a style Devon didn’t recognize, and there was a twang in the voice that screamed “Yankee.”
“I’ve come a long way,” he continued. “My name is Reverend Gideon Swayne. No reason you’d know it, or that it would matter, but it’s what my mother gave me, and it has served me well.”
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” Devon said. He wasn’t sure what to make of the strange greeting. A man’s name wasn’t something he’d be inclined to question, and no one in Old Mill was going to need to be told that this man had come a long way. Everyone within forty miles of town knew everyone else, and very few outsiders stayed more than a day or two. Family came in to visit, at times, but for the most part Old Mill was a world unto itself.
“We got two churches here already, Reverend,” Devon said. “Pastor Cumby preaches at the Baptist church to the south, and Reverend Winslow leads the Methodist worship to the North. Most folks here go to one, or the other. No disrespect, but if you’ve come looking for work, you hit the wrong town.”
Reverend Swayne’s smile never wavered. He stepped forward and offered Devon his hand, which the grocer shook.
“There is always work for a man of God,” Swayne said. “Times are changing. The country is changing. I have heard a particular call, and I’ve come in answer.”
“I don’t think I get your meaning, Reverend,” Walz replied, frowning.
“There are many rooms in my Father’s house,” Reverend Swayne said. “I’ve come to check on the souls of the newly free. I’ve come to make sure God is part of their lives, as He is so obviously part of the lives of those who worship here in town. Tell me, sir,” he turned to Devon and there was a light in his eyes that had been missing only moments before, “who preaches to the
freedmen? Where do they worship? Do they have a church, or do they meet in their homes.”
Devon stared. Color rose to his cheeks, and his pulse slowly rose to his throat and pounded.
“I take it,” Reverend Swayne said, studying the grocer’s face, “that they do not worship here in town.”
“They do not,” Walz growled. “Mr., you’ve come to the wrong place to be spouting that Yankee crap. You want to make nice with the niggers, you go do it, but you won’t find them here in town. Not if they know what’s good for them. They get fed, and they work, just like they always have.”
“There’s no call to get angry,” Reverend Swayne said calmly. “I don’t intend to herd them into your store like a cattleman, or to drag them into your churches. I’ve only come to do the Lord’s work in best way I know to do it. Our Lord did the same. His apostles were stoned and beaten for teaching in the streets and spreading the message of his love to the low, the criminal – the poor. How can I do less?”
Footsteps sounded outside, and both men fell silent for a moment. The door opened, and another man stepped through. Reverend Swayne stepped aside to make room.
“Howdy, Devon,” the newcomer said in a booming, forceful voice.
“Howdy sheriff,” Devon said, nodding.
Sheriff Hawkins was a tall man with broad shoulders and a belly just beginning to protrude over his wide, leather gun belt. He glanced around the store and made a half-hearted effort to pretend he was there to shop, then turned to Reverend Swayne. He swept his gaze up and down the stranger’s tall frame, and then he smiled. He held out one big, meaty paw to shake, and he met Gideon Swayne’s eyes. There was no humor behind the smile, and there was just the hint of controlled violence in the man’s grip.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. His voice had the timbre and inherent threat of a growling bear.
Reverend Swayne took the offered hand and shook it firmly. He met the sheriff’s gaze easily, and his smile was genuine.
“Reverend Gideon Swayne,” he said. “I’ve come a long way, sheriff, all the way from the great state of Illinois.”
“That is a long way,” Hawkins replied. “If you don’t mind my asking, Reverend, why? Don’t you have a church back there waiting for you to lead them to the Promised Land? You wouldn’t be running from someone, would you? Pardon my asking, and I mean no offense, but we’re a pretty tight-knit little town. It’s my business who comes, and who goes – how long the stay – you know?”
“No offense taken, sheriff,” Gideon said. “I was just telling Mr. Walz here that I’ve come on a mission. I did have a flock in Illinois, a little town called Random. We’ve done a lot of praying these past few years, a lot of soul searching. The war hasn’t been easy on anyone. I can only imagine how much worse it must have been here.
“A lot of men and women who looked to me for guidance had family who died here, or near here.”
“We all lost kin,” Walz cut in.
Reverend Swayne nodded, but went on without pausing.
“A part of what we prayed for,” he said, “involved the reasons behind the war – the people we were fighting for. A lot of our prayers involved freedom, and the release from suffering. Men died – young men, old men, fathers and brothers, and it seems to me, gentlemen, that it’s important we be certain they didn’t die in vain. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Neither the sheriff, nor the grocer trusted himself to answer. The words sounded reasonable, and the man delivering them had a wide, friendly smile, but there was something lurking behind the words that they didn’t trust.
“Thought you said you came here to preach to the niggers,” Walz said at last. The words came out too quickly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to speak or spit. Sheriff Hawkins turned to the grocer, studied his expression, then turned back to Gideon.
“That true, Reverend? You come to make sure the darkies find their way to glory?”
Gideon refused to be riled so easily. He’d been traveling for a long time, making his way across country, mostly on foot, and as he traveled he told his story. Despite having fought a war that nearly tore the country in two, setting family against family and town against town, he’d found very few sympathetic audiences. He’d expected a less-than-friendly welcome to the south, and he was prepared for it as well as a man can prepare for such a thing.
“I understand how you might disagree with my message,” he said at last. “I didn’t come to start trouble. A lot of hours of prayer are behind me. The money, love, and spirit of a small church brought me here, and my intention is to make them proud of me.”
“You got any niggers in your congregation back home, Reverend?” Walz asked. All hesitation had evaporated as his anger heated. “You even got fields to be worked back there? Crops? You ever see a field of cotton go bad because no one was there to pick it, and the weather hit?”
Gideon remained silent.
“I think maybe you’d better carry your message a little further, Reverend,” Sheriff Hawkins said slowly. “Around here, we’ve got two churches, and they’re about all I can handle. I keep the peace; we get along, white and colored, just fine.”
“Just like you have for the last hundred years, I suspect,” Gideon cut in. The words were sharper than he’d intended, and he gave himself an inward kick in the seat of his trousers for letting them get to him so quickly. He’d been on the road too long. He was far enough south, and if any place he’d come across in his travels needed his work, this appeared to be it.
“I apologize, gentlemen,” he said quickly. “I have been on the road a long time, and I’m very tired. If you’d be kind enough to point me toward a place I might spend the night – a barn, or a room I might rent, and a place where I can find a meal, I’d be much obliged to you.”
At first it appeared as if he would receive no answer at all. He stood his ground, but sweat dripped down the back of his neck and under his collar. His hand trembled, just a little. He hoped they didn’t notice, but there was nothing he could do.
“You want to keep that attitude under lock and key,” Sheriff Hawkins said at last. “We don’t take to strangers easily, and you don’t know a thing about that war. You sat back in your quiet little town, prayed on Sunday and sent your boys off to fight. We lived in the middle of it.
“This street you see outside? Every building on the other side of it burned four years ago. It’s all new, and we built it together, every man, woman, boy and girl within forty miles was here. Those who had money donated it, those who didn’t worked. They didn’t have the time to spare – the cotton needed picking. They didn’t have as many workers to do the picking because their fathers and brothers and sons were dead, or in prison, and the slaves were set free, asking for money, or running north.
“People starved here, Reverend. Good people. People died here as well, and since then we’ve been rebuilding our town, and our lives. We’ve gotten the workers back into the fields, and we’ve gotten them back under control. You aren’t waltzing in here in your funny suit with your holier-than-thou ideas and tearing it back down. Understand that I’m telling you, not asking you.
“You can stay in my barn tonight. There’s hay in there, it’s warm enough, and it's soft. Watch out for snakes. I’ll see to it that someone brings around some food, and some water. I’ll even bring enough to get you to the next town if it will get you there quicker, but don’t you think for a minute you’re staying around here.”
“I appreciate the offer of shelter,” Gideon replied, “and you are right, I don’t understand. There are a lot of people, towns, even states that don’t understand. Not the way you do. Not the way we should. I do know one thing, sheriff. If we don’t find some common ground in the middle where we can learn that truth in peace, this nation will crumble around us.”
“This ain’t your common ground, preacher,” Walz growled.
Gideon fell silent and nodded slowly. There was nothing to be gained by arguing with them, and quite a lot of potential for lo
ss. He wasn’t going to find the people he’d come in search of in Old Mill, though they undoubtedly lived on the outskirts. He didn’t need the sheriff’s permission to spread the Lord’s word, but if he angered the man now, he’d end up arrested and escorted out of town – or worse.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m very tired. If you could show me that barn, I’ll settle down and get some rest.”
Sheriff Hawkins stood very still for a few moments. Gideon wished he could hear the man’s thoughts, because the hard, lined face gave nothing away.
“Follow me,” he said. He turned and headed for the door. Gideon picked up his bags and followed.
At the door, Hawkins stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and caught Walz’s gaze.
“Tell the boys I’ll be around tonight,” he said. “Make sure they all come.”
Without waiting for a response, Sheriff Hawkins pushed out the door and into the street with Gideon at his heels. The door closed behind them, but a moment later, Devon Walz pushed it open again. He stood with the door open just a crack and watched until the other two men rounded the corner and were out of sight. A moment later, he stepped out onto the street, locked the door carefully behind him, and hurried off in the opposite direction. There weren’t many men in town, but those that were, he would find. The others he would reach by sending messages with the workers who drove in the trailers of cotton to the gin.
Word spread fast in and around Old Mill. When the cotton was in season, there wasn’t much else to talk about. When someone acted out, or some young buck was caught with another man’s daughter, it was news. This put it all to shame. The sheriff almost never called a meeting, and when he did, it meant trouble for someone. Devon thought he knew what was coming, and as he walked and spread the word, he grinned.
* * *
The barn was clean and dry, and that was better accommodations than Reverend Swayne had seen in days. He dropped his bags near a tall mound of hay and turned to the sheriff gratefully.
The Preacher's Marsh Page 1
