The picture of Hell began with clouds of smoke coming out of a bottomless pit; smoke that was far blacker than the smoke from the river boat, and God knew that was black enough. Mary could smell it, and the stench of it was like coal-smoke mixed with burned feathers. It all but choked her. She had to cough to get her breath. Then, Satan’s black head, with two horns like a bull, and grinning tusks like a boar hog, rose up out of the smoke which gradually cleared away until the awful fire from which it came could be seen.
Hundreds of devils smaller than Satan, and all of them with horns and long forked tails, danced around in front of the fire waving their pitchforks and making horrible faces at each other. Mary was almost afraid to look at them for fear she might mark her child on them, and yet she could not pull her eyes away.
As the poor pitiful sinners were dropped down, one at a time, through the mouth of Hell, the devils took them up on their pitchforks and stuck them down in the fire and burned them until they turned to little black creatures no bigger than hop-toads. They hopped and hopped around in the fire until Mary was so sorry for them she wanted to cry. All her life she had heard that sinners had to hop in hell, but she had never understood how awful it was until now.
When the people in the church saw all those terrible things the women began screaming. Some of them fainted and some of them went off into trances. The men were kept busy holding them and trying to comfort them. Mary was scared half to death herself, and she might have fainted too, but Doll who had a seat not very far from her began carrying on so, jumping up and down and shouting for help, that Mary felt she must help Big Boy try to keep the woman from dying, for Andrew paid her no attention at all.
If the Hell part of the picture had not been cut off then, to show a picture of Jesus, only God himself knows what might have happened. As likely as not the church would have been full of corpses, but Jesus, a kind-looking white gentleman with a beard and long hair like a lady, all dressed in a long baptizing robe, looked so harmless that everybody felt better at once.
Then Reverend Duncan got up and read out of the Book how Jesus said, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart.”
Before he finished reading, the people were falling over themselves running up to the mourners’ bench, yelling and crying, calling on Jesus to have mercy on them, and forgive them their sins. Not only women and children, but big, broad-shouldered men, the toughest boldest sinners, got down on their knees and begged Jesus to save them from torment. Their words fell thick as the heavy raindrops on the church roof, but their prayers and weeping were feeble things beside the great peals of thunder that crashed down from the sky.
God was talking. Each terrible roar shook the church. The glass windows shivered and rattled, and the wind whirled and lashed the trees. Budda Ben turned and twisted and groaned, and kept looking behind him at the glass windows which let the glares of lightning shine right in on his back.
“I have hear-say glass draws lightnin, Si May-e.”
Mary shook her head. She didn’t know. She had never been around glass in her life. So much glass did look dangerous.
Then she thought of the Big House with glass windows all over it and all kinds of glass inside; looking-glasses and chandeliers hung with hundreds of pieces of glass. Lightning had never struck it, and it had stood there a hundred years. “No use to fret, Budda.”
Just as she said it a pain hit her so hard she groaned, “Do, Jedus, have mercy.” She sat still for it to pass off, but a trembling seized her. She could not keep still.
“I got to go home, Budda—” Budda did not understand her. “Home, I tell you—I got to go home.” She tried to stand up, but Budda pulled her back.
“Pray right here, Si May-e. You’ll get trompled on sho as you try to get to dat mourner’s bench. De people’s gone crazy.”
“I ain’ gwine to no mourner’s bench, Budda, I gwine home. Is you deef?”
“You can’ go home in dis storm, Si May-e. Sit down an’ try to keep still, fo Gawd’s sake.”
“Don’t talk to me bout keepin still. Oh, Lawd! Oh, Lawd! Do help me go home, Lawd! Oh, Lawd! What am I gwine do?”
Reverend Duncan was bending over the sinners urging them to pray harder, to be like Jacob and wrestle with God until He forgave them and put His sweet peace in their hearts. The whole congregation was in a stir, singing, wailing and weeping.
Mary called Big Boy to come help her get out. She yelled at the top of her voice but she could not make him hear her.
Thank God, Andrew heard. “You want to go up to de mourner’s bench, Si May-e?”
“No, Jedus! I want to go home! Fo Gawd’s sake, take me home, Andrew. Budda ain’ able to make dat slow old mule hurry. Somebody’s got to go long wid me.”
Budda held to his stick, ready to follow in the path which Andrew cleared through the jam. Budda had forgotten his hatred for Andrew, and the strong man was very gentle as he helped the crippled sinner down the aisle, then down the church steps into the black wet night.
Mary did not wait for them, but ran through the rain, to the buggy which the flashes
