“Marse John Flournoy gib dis here newspaper to Isaiah Gaitskill. Brudder Isaiah gib it to Revun Vinegar Atts. I reads a piece offen dis here front page.”
As Skeeter read, the negroes joined in with a wailing lamentation, which as the fearful news sank into their consciousness became thunderous.
“‘Danger! Danger!’” Skeeter read. “‘All de niggers in Tickfall about to die!’”
(“O Lawd, hab mussy! Dig my grave wid a silber spoon!”)
“‘A mysterious disease has broken out among the negroes in Tickfall, result-in’ in a num-ber of sud-den death——’”
(“Ah-ee. O he’p us! Gwine to die!”)
“‘De dorctors of de town de-clare dar is no cure—’”
(“Jes’ plum’ ’bleeged an’ bound to die!”)
All night long the negroes remained packed in the Shoofly church, actually too scared to go home in the dark. Song after song rolled like thunder from the building, a pathetic effort to drown their fears with music. Never had Vinegar Atts been as earnest in his prayers and exhortations, nor had the people of his parish ever before shown such earnestness in their responses. Every man and woman in the church professed religion that night. Never was a reform as instantaneous and as complete.
Along toward day the negroes began to rid themselves of their weapons of sin. Figger Bush came to the front of the congregation with the “jerks” and tremblingly laid upon the top of the table a cheap pistol, a pair of brass knucks, and a deck of greasy, soiled playing cards. His example was contagious, and in a few minutes the table was loaded with cards, whisky bottles, dice, brass knucks, daggers, razors, rabbit feet, and hoodoo-charms of all sorts.