Hush Harbor: Praying in Secret

Praying in Secret

Freddi Williams Evans

I llustrated by Erin Bennett Banks

“Meetin’ tonight,” Uncle Sol

whispered during the water break. He couldn’t say it right out loud, ’cause it was a secret. It was gon’ be down in the hush harbor—a hidin’ place deep in the woods where we sang and prayed. Enslaved Africans aren’t allowed to

gather together in groups. For Simmy and his loved ones, that means they must worship in secret. If they’re caught, the punishment will be terrible. Simmy’s job is to watch for danger while the others pray and sing as the Spirit moves them. Will he be able to keep the hush harbor safe? This moving story is based on a true practice of enslaved Africans in the nineteenth century—a testament to the power of faith, community, and hope.

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Praying in Secret

For my parents, the late Reverend R. L. and Mrs. Carrie Cotten Williams —F.W.E. To Mum and Pop, you raised me up —E.B.B.

Acknowledgments With thanks to my editor, Anna Marlis Burgard, for her ideas and direction.—F.W.E. These paintings have been inspired. To Uncle Brian, I admire you always for your strength, your fight, and your commitment to equality. To Mariah Hope, you are a miracle. Your lives inspire others to walk in faith and believe in freedom. —E.B.B.

Praying in Secret

Freddi Williams Evans Illustrated by

Erin Bennett Banks

t Carolrhoda Books

Minneapolis

•

New York

“Meetin’ tonight,” Uncle Sol whispered

during the water break. He couldn’t say it right out loud, ’cause it was a secret. I was happy for the cool water and being able to stand straight for a spell, but I was even happier to hear ’bout the meetin’. It was gon’ be down in the hush harbor—a hidin’ place deep in the woods where we sang and prayed. Just thinkin’ ’bout the meetin’ made me smile, and Uncle Sol smiled right back. I gulped down my water, then passed the dipper gourd to my mama and told her the good news. “Meetin’ tonight,” she whispered, passin’ it on down the line.

Just the mention of a meetin’ made my mama’s eyes glow like lightnin’ bugs. She loved singin’ and prayin’. I heard her in the fields and in our cabin at night. I heard her in the white folks’ church on Sundays too. ’Cept there, she had to praise the Lord like they did. She couldn’t call out right when the Spirit touched her. Last year, when Cap’n Bill beat Aunt Lizzie for shoutin’ in their church, we had to watch. It felt like he was beatin’ us too. Now we sit still and quiet like white folks do. But meetin’s in the hush harbor were different, ’cause the Lord heard us the way we wanted Him to. We could be ourselves there—almost freelike, singin’ all the way through, shoutin’ when the Spirit rose up in us, and prayin’ to be free.

Soon, everybody knew about the meetin’—’cept Cap’n Bill and the overseer. White folks didn’t ’low us to come together—’specially at night. They figured we planned to run or do ’em harm like some did before. So, we kept everything ’mongst ourselves and just stole away when we could.

Lookin’ forward to the evenin’ put singin’ in us when we went back to work—stuffin’ and pullin’ sacks of cotton heavier than grown men while the sun beat down, settin’ our bodies on fire. Somebody started hummin’ “Steal away. Steal away. Steal away to Je-sus.” Another joined in—then another— ’til everybody was carryin’ the tune. The song spread clear ’cross that field, and we sang like the meetin’ had already started. The sun couldn’t set soon enough. There was gon’ be a meetin’ down in the hush harbor!

Back in the quarters, Aunt Lizzie was dishin’ out supper. “Hurry to the line,” she called. “I know y’all’s hungry and ti’ed—been pickin’ ’til you can’t see.” She was too weak to work the fields, so she cooked and tended the babies and old folks, like Mama Aku. After supper, us kids listened close while Mama Aku told stories she heard back in Africa. Grown folks liked her stories too—’specially Uncle Sol, but I ’spect he liked meetin’s even more. “Simmy, you scout tonight,” Uncle Sol told me. “I been watchin’ how quick and easy you pick up on thangs. You got sharp ears like a hound and fast legs like one, too.” Sho’, he made me smile, and I was glad to scout— seein’ how much meetin’s meant to my mama. But I was still kinda scared, ’cause things could go wrong. If we got caught, Cap’n Bill would beat us and sell some of us off. The thought of bein’ taken away from my mama made my heart sink, but I knew the meetin’ would help make us strong.

But then folks started worryin’ and remindin’ Uncle Sol about what could go wrong. “Full moons make us easy to spot,” somebody said. “White men down in the woods all time of night lookin’ for runaways,” someone added, talkin’ about the paterollers. But Uncle Sol had reasons for riskin’ it. “Mama Aku is gon’ join the nananom, the ancestors, anytime now,” he said. “She’s all the mama most of us know. She asked us to pray for her journey and for freedom so nobody else will die a slave like her. Jesus will keep us,” he added. “Jesus will keep us.”

When the oil lamps went out in the big house and the overseer’s cabin, folks who had a mind to go stole away one by one, with Uncle Sol leadin’ the way. We cut through the canebrake, then stepped through a break in the fence at the back end of the cotton field, and headed into the woods. The meetin’ ground was just beyond the creek down in the thicket. Above us, the stars twinkled like sparks of fire and the moon glowed like a lantern lightin’ our way.

I climbed an oak tree on the other side of the creek to start lookin’ out. “Kum bah yah, my Lord, Kum bah yah . . . Oh Lord, Kum bah yah.” Singin’ had already started by the time I steadied myself on a limb. Some folks took to themselves and prayed. Others gathered ’round Uncle Sol to hear him. They hummed and moaned—helpin’ him along as he chanted his words. “Keep Mama Aku, Lord. Uh huh! Keep her in your care. Uh huh! Let freedom come, Lord. Uh huh! Let it come quick!” He started singin’, “Have you got good religion?” and folks answered him singin’, “Certainly, Certainly, Certainly Lord!” They all moved in a circle—dancin’ like. Then Mama raised her hands up to heaven. Seemed to me she was flyin’ away from thangs down here. I heard her singin’ above the rest and couldn’t help singin’ too.

The Spirit fell on my mama, and she danced ’round that circle steppin’ and shoutin’ with joy. Some folks dropped clear to the ground when the Spirit hit ’em, and others kept reachin’ up to Jesus. The Spirit was strong that night, with everyone prayin’ for Mama Aku. It fell on me too. Seemed like I swallowed a dipper full of happiness, and it warmed me straight through. But just then, my ears caught the far-off barkin’ of a pack of hounds comin’ our way. Paterollers were in the woods!

Quick as lightnin’, I jumped down from the tree to warn everybody. “Shh! Shh!” I whispered, wavin’ my hands, signalin’ them to hush. When they saw me, they scattered into the bush—draggin’ folks who were on the ground. Quiet covered that meetin’ like a quilt. We were still prayin’, ’cept only the Lord could hear us then. We prayed hard that He’d keep us from the paterollers. I climbed back up the tree and leaned down toward the creek. The whooo-whooo of an owl traveled through the branches, and frogs croaked their nighttime songs. The woods were as still as a frozen pond. But near the creek, there was a stirrin’ in the bushes, and the barkin’ dogs were closin’ in on us . . .

Crick, crack. Twigs snapped under feet, and whoever was makin’ noise was comin’ my way. The steps moved fast, then stopped, then started again. My heart pounded and sweat ran down my face. What was I s’posed to do now? Uncle Sol promised Jesus would keep us. All I could do was pray that He would.

Then I saw the bushes shake. There! I saw somebody! But it wasn’t Cap’n Bill or the overseer or one of the paterollers. It was a runaway, and he was hidin’ too. “Hey, you kin come out,” I said softlike, then hopped down to meet him. Uncle Sol and some other men came too.

“Git outta here!” he said gaspin’ for breath. “Paterollers with dogs and guns comin’ this way. Git out quick!” One by one, folks hurried back to the quarters. Uncle Sol told the runaway to wade in the water and hide in the tunnel near the big oak ’til the next night.

When we were all back in the cabins, Uncle Sol patted me on the back. “You scout from now on, Simmy,” he said. Mama wrapped her arms ’round me tight. “I’m sho’ ’nough proud of you,” she said. “Thank God we safe.” “Jesus kept us,” I said. “Just like Uncle Sol said He would.” Then, news came ’round that Mama Aku had passed on in her sleep. “She at peace now, chile. She free!” Mama told me. I was glad she was free, but my eyes still filled up with water. I was sho’ gon’ miss her stories.

Soon enough, the clang! clang! of the plantation bell called us back to the fields. Mama Aku’s spirit and the strength we found in the hush harbor went with us. Seemed like work was lighter and days passed faster after the meetin’. It put hope down inside us, and carried us along. So we kept stealin’ away ’til real freedom came. We kept on stealin’ away to pray, sing, and shout when the Spirit fell on us. We kept stealin’ away to the hush harbor, so we could praise the Lord the way we knew best.

Author’s Note Enslaved Africans held separate and secret religious meetings after their arrival in America. At first, they worshipped African deities and included spirit possessions, a spiritual dance called the ring shout, and other African traditions. Whites considered these practices sinful and highly discouraged or even forbade them. Hidden locations known as hush harbors (also brush arbors and hush arbors) became worship grounds for the Africans. Africans, both enslaved and free, began to practice the Christian religion in the 1700s and especially the 1800s. They kept some of their traditional practices including swaying, clapping, call and response singing, and the shout, which had solo and group forms. The group form of the shout, known as the ring shout, was common along the coast of Georgia and South Carolina. As membership in the Christian faith grew, so did familiarity with the English language. Chanted sermons and prayers along with religious songs, called spirituals, were shared in hush harbors. Some of the most popular spirituals had hidden or double meanings. “Steal Away to Jesus” described the notion of escaping to spiritual freedom or heaven. But as Africans sang the words, they also thought about escaping from slavery to physical freedom. Slave narratives from across the South indicated that Africans held meetings at night at locations far enough away from their plantation owners not to be heard. They used pots, holes in the ground, vessels of water, and other methods to drown or block their voices. Wooded areas, thickets, hollows, gullies, canebrakes, and other remote locations served as their gathering places. They came together at the risk of severe beating and being sold to another plantation away from loved ones if they were discovered. Owners took these actions because they feared that plans for revolts and escapes developed at religious meetings. This was particularly true after the 1831 revolt by Nat Turner, a preacher who formed his plan in this way.

However, Africans gathered regardless of the risk, despite their differing beliefs as Catholics, Methodists, and Baptists and in spite of the opportunity to attend Sunday services approved by their owners. Meetings in hush harbors provided for them a “Sweet Chariot” on which they could escape the cruelties of slavery for a brief time. There, with muffled voices, they prayed for freedom and relief from physical pain and ailments, found hope, and experienced a degree of comfort, solace—even joy. As African descendants established churches, they carried on traditions once practiced in hush harbors. To a degree, these practices remain at the core of most present-day African American worship services. In the South, the earliest churches for African descendants evolved from plantation congregations near cities. The First African Baptist Church of Savannah, Georgia, initiated in 1773 and founded in 1777 by Reverend George Leile, was among the first of these. —F.W.E.

Text copyright © 2008 by Freddi Williams Evans Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Erin Bennett Banks Packaged by Design Press, a division of the Savannah College of Art and Design® 22 East Lathrop Avenue, Savannah, Georgia, 31415 All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review. Carolrhoda Books A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc. 241 First Avenue North Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A. Website address: www.lernerbooks.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Evans, Freddi Williams. Hush harbor : praying in secret/by Freddi Williams Evans ; illustrated by Erin Bennett Banks. p.

cm.

Summary: While Simmy watches for danger from high in a tree, other slaves gather in a hidden spot in the woods to sing and pray together in their own way, risking their lives in pursuit of religious freedom. Includes historical facts about hush, or brush, arbors and the churches that grew from them. ISBN 978–0–8225–7965–6 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper) [1. Slavery—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. 3. Freedom of religion—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Southern States—History—1775–1865—Fiction.] I. Banks, Erin Bennett, 1978– ill. II. Title. PZ7.E8853Hus 2008 [E]—dc22 2007034777 Manufactured in the United States of America 1 2 3 4 5 6 – PA – 13 12 11 10 09 08

978-0-7613-4635-7

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Freddi Williams Evans grew up in Mississippi, in the same area in which her great-grandparents were enslaved. As a child, she frequently spent time with relatives who told stories of how their lives used to be. Her writing grew out of a desire to share those family stories as well as the untold and “under-told” stories of other African Americans. Ms. Evans is the author of A Bus of Our Own, which received a 2002 Oppenheim Toy Portfolio Book Platinum Award and a 2002 Notable Social Studies Trade Book Award, and The Battle of New Orleans: The Drummer’s Story. She lives in New Orleans, Louisiana.

Erin Bennett Banks is an illustrator whose work thrives on multicultural themes and stories about the quest for freedom. Ms. Banks previously illustrated The First Music by Dylan Pritchett and The Patchwork Path: A Quilt Map to Freedom by Bettye Stroud. Her illustrations have earned recognition including the National Parenting Publications Award, the Oppenheim Toy Portfolio Book Gold Award and the Gustavus Myers Center for the Study of Bigotry and Human Rights Outstanding Book Award. Ms. Banks lives in Atlanta, Georgia. Jacket art © 2008 by Erin Bennett Banks Jacket calligraphy by Judythe Sieck

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