Aunt Dinah, the cook, had said to me,—
“You o’ter see our preacher—he’s the powerfulest preacher in dis town, he is.”
I expressed a willingness to see him, of which I suppose he was duly informed by Aunt Dinah, as he called the next day.
He was a middle-aged man of strong muscular frame; and his face, which was black, was surmounted by a wealth of white hair. I found him very intelligent, and he gave me a great deal of information about the life in Vicksburg during the siege. At last I asked him how it happened that the colored people’s church, a large brick structure, was in ruins.
“Was it destroyed by shot and shell?” I inquired.
“No, missus; no shot nor shell ever cum near dat church; but you see we colored people ust to go dare to pray, an’ we prayed mighty powerful for de Yanks an’ for freedom. Den de white people da cumed, an’ den we had secret prayer. Somebody would say, ‘We’ll have secret prayer,’ den we knode jus’ what to pray fur. But de white folks dey ’spicioned wat we wus praying fur, and dey tore dow’ de church.”
“And that stopped your praying?”
“Oh, no, missus; dat couldn’t stop our praying. We jus’ ’greed to pray when de town clock struck twelve night or day.”
“Why, our men tried to stop that clock; hundreds of guns were turned upon it during the siege, but somehow they did not happen to hit it.”
The old man’s face was radiant. The joy of his heart was shining through the black skin, as he swayed and clapped his hands. “Oh, honey, dar’s no happen about dat. De good Lor’ he jus’ put his han’ over it, and kep’ it goin’ an’ goin’ for us poor color folks to pray by.”