I nod. “So I heard.”
There is a loud banging. I look toward the noise to see the preacher standing at a podium that’s been set up next to the serving window. He looks out across the room, smiles his ghastly smile, and says, “Gather round, gather round, children. No need to be shy. There are some new faces in the flock today, and that is a boon. God has blessed us, because a growing flock is a lucky flock. As Summerland grows, as we welcome more souls into our humble town, so does the dream of a new Jerusalem, of our own righteous city on the hill.”
There’s some noise as chairs are moved closer to the podium. No one bothers moving where I sit. The tables full of colored folks are farthest away from the podium, and it feels intentional.
The preacher continues. “Tonight, I want to tell you the story of John, one of the first farmers to settle here in Summerland. John was a flawed man. See, when he came here to our fine town it was the beginning of the war, before the dead walked, and John had strange notions about justice and equality and God’s will. He’d come to us from South Carolina, my own home state, and he came west a man who was missing something, some vital part of the self.
“His father had been an overseer, and rather than follow in that man’s footsteps, he fled. Because John had lost his faith, you see. He couldn’t understand how God could let so many live in suffering and bondage while others profited off that misery. Like the abolitionists who unleashed this Sinner’s Plague of the Dead upon us, John doubted God’s will.”
It takes everything I have to keep my mouth shut, my thoughts to myself.
People in the crowd, mostly the white men at the tables full of roughnecks, are nodding and murmuring in assent. The Negroes just sit there. This ain’t the first time they’ve heard this sort of story.
The preacher closes his eyes and puts his hand over his heart. “And because he questioned, the Sinner’s Plague found him one day as he plowed his field. The problem with John—the problem with all nonbelievers—is they think they understand God’s plan. They think God sent His son to earth to die for our sins because, down past the roots, we are all sprung from the same seed. But that isn’t so! The Lord God Himself desires, above all things, order. An understanding of where we all fit in His church, this earth. The senseless tragedy that was the War between the States disrupted the order God had given to us, by His grace. For failing to understand this law, fundamental to His love, He has unleashed His wrath upon us. It was hubris to think we are all equal in His eyes, friends. Not in this world. But perhaps, later, in the Lord’s kingdom.” At that last bit he turns and gestures at us sitting in the back, as though the meaning in his words wasn’t clear enough. A few of the white folks, both the whores and the drovers, turn to look at us. I sink down a little lower in my chair, feeling very, very exposed.
The preacher smiles, as though he knows exactly the effect of his words, and continues. “But there is hope. You can cast off the sins of your past, and you can cleanse yourself of the Curse of Ham. You can toil and labor for the good of those God has made in His image, and thereby find peace and contentment. Because that is the dream of America, and it is God’s will; to work hard in the role God has provided for us, to be deserving of good fortune, and to prosper.”
Most of the white folks in the room are nodding and giving praise. I glance around the Negro tables and realize a few of those folks are as well. That makes me sad and scared.
The preacher clears his throat, and shakes himself a little, as though casting aside the somber feeling in the room. He smiles widely at us, his eyes shining in the low light. The penny around my neck is frigid. That man, that false prophet, might just be the most dangerous man in town.
“Now,” the preacher says, his smile unfaltering, “Let us pray.”
We’ve lost quite a few of our folks over the past few weeks, not just to shambler attacks but also to a group of men calling themselves Survivalists. They’ve been riding through the countryside stirring up no end of trouble. Too many of them are of the rough sort that used to run in the old slave patrols, riding down escapees for a few coins. If you should find yourself in the path of any of these men, run in the opposite direction. There is nothing to be gained from their acquaintance, and I fear for the Negro should these men ever come to any real power.
Chapter 22In Which I Learn a Tune I Don’t Care For
The next morning, we are woken early, shaken awake by someone’s meaty fist. “Time to go,” the big girl says before walking away.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” I mutter, climbing out of my nest of blankets. I scratch at my arm as I stand. I’m pretty sure that my makeshift bed has fleas, if the creepy-crawly sensation over my skin is any indication. Ida gets up and looks at me as I scratch my arm.
“You’re going to need to launder them blankets,” she says, pointing to my arm.
“Yeah, maybe I can get one of the Duchess’s girls to do it?” I hate doing laundry, and a few pennies seems like a fair price for dealing with flea-infested blankets.
Last night, after nearly
