Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord The History of African-American Religions Copyright 2001 by Larry E. Rivers and Canter Brown, Jr. This work is li- censed under a modified Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommer- cial-No Derivative Works 3.o Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/. You are free to electronically copy, distribute, and transmit this work if you attribute authorship. However, all printing rights are reserved by the University Press of Florida (http://www.upf.com). Please contact UPF for information about how to obtain copies of the work for print distribution. You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. Any of the above conditions can be waived if you get permis- sion from the University Press of Florida. Nothing in this license impairs or restricts the author's moral rights. Florida A&M University, Tallahassee Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton Florida Gulf Coast University, Ft. Myers Florida International University, Miami Florida State University, Tallahassee University of Central Florida, Orlando University of Florida, Gainesville University of North Florida, Jacksonville University of South Florida, Tampa University of West Florida, Pensacola  The History of African-American Religions Edited by Stephen WAngell andAnthony Pinn This series will further historical investigations into African religions in the Americas, encourage the development of new paradigms and methodologies, and explore cultural influences upon African-American religious institutions, in- cluding the roles of gender, race, leadership, regionalism, and folkways.  Vm ABORERS IN THE VINEYARD OF THE LORD The Beginnings of the AME Church in Florida, 1865-1895 Larry Eugene Rivers and Canter Brown, Jr. University Press of Florida Gainesville - Tallahassee - Tampa - Boca Raton Pensacola - Orlando - Miami - Jacksonville - Ft. Myers  Copyright 2001 by Larry E. Rivers and Canter Brown, Jr. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper All rights reserved 06 05 04 03 02 01 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Rivers, Larry E., 1950- Laborers in the vineyard of the Lord: the beginnings of the AME Church in Florida, 1865-1895 / Larry E. Rivers and Canter Brown, Jr. p. cm.-(The history of African-American religions) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8130-1890-0 (alk. paper) 1. African Methodist Episcopal Church-Florida-History-19th century. 2. Florida-Church history-19th century. I. Brown, Canter. II. Title. III. Series. BX8444.F6 R58 2001 287.8759-dc21 00-053658 The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida State University, University of Central Florida, University of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University of West Florida. University Press of Florida 15 Northwest 15th Street Gainesville, FL 32611-2079 http://www.upf.com  For Betty Jean, Larry Omar, and Linje Eugene-my lilies of the valley L.R. With much love always, to Barbara C.B.  This page intentionally left blank  CONTENTS List of Figures ix Foreword xi Abbreviations xiii Introduction xv 1. Before Freedom i 2. A Tumultuous Peace, 1865-1867 23 3. The Florida Annual Conference and Republican Rule, 1867-1869 43 4. Connections at Live Oak, 1869-1872 62 5. Acts of God and Man, 1872-1876 82 6. Redemption and the East Florida Conference, 1876-1880 101 7. Bishop Wayman's Return, 1880-1884 122 8. Bishop Payne and the Democrats in Power, 1884-1888 142 9. A Healer Creates a College, 1888-1892 16o io. Tumult and Tragedy, 1892-1895 18o Notes 199 Bibliography 217 Index 229  This page intentionally left blank  FIGURES 1. Map of Florida, showing principal towns and cities served by the AME Church in the period 1865 to 1895 5 2. Ossian Bingley Hart, governor of Florida 1873 to 1874 7 3. Pioneer Baptist minister James Page 9 4. Robert Meacham, founder of Tallahassee's Bethel AME Church 14 5. Stella Meacham, wife of the Reverend Robert Meacham 15 6. Known as "Mother Midway," the Midway AME Church located just west of Jacksonville 18 7. Bishop and Mrs. Daniel A. Payne 20 8. The Reverend William G. Stewart 25 9. The heartland of African Methodism in post-Civil War Florida 29 io. The Reverend Charles H. Pearce 31 i1. Minister and shoemaker Joseph J. Sawyer 33 12. As illustrated by this early drawing, Apalachicola's St. Paul's AME Church 38 13. Drawing of the Monticello AME Church 40 14. The Reverend John R. Scott Sr. 44 15. Jacksonville's Mount Zion AME Church 47 16. Bishop and Mrs. Alexander W. Wayman 49 17. One-time Florida slave Thomas Warren Long 53 18. Bishop and Mrs. John Mifflin Brown 6o 19. Future AME bishop Josiah Haynes Armstrong 61 20. Presiding elder Charles H. Pearce 63 21. Poet, newspaper editor, legislator, and AME layman John Willis Menard 64 22. Jacksonville's William W. Sampson 69 23. Tampa's St. Paul AME Church 73 24. Carpenter and minister Francis B. Carolina 74 25. St. Paul AME Church, LaVilla, as it appeared in 1889 78 26. Bishop and Mrs. Thomas M. D. Ward 84 27. The Florida Senate in 1875 85 28. The Reverend Singleton H. Coleman 90  x Figures 29. Wilberforce University graduate Benjamin W. Roberts 94 30. Governor Marcellus Stearns greets Uncle Toms Cabin author, Harriet Beecher Stowe 97 31. AME minister, state official, federal official, and attorney Joseph E. Lee 105 32. Bishop Daniel A. Payne 107 33. Albert Julius Kershaw ii1 34. William A. Bird 112 35. Bishop and Mrs. Jabez P. Campbell 114 36. Tallahassee's Bethel AME Church 115 37. Tallahassee drawn in 1885 124 38. Robert Burns Brookins 127 39. The Reverend Reuben B. Brooks 129 40. The Reverend Bulley William Wiley 131 41. Key West's Bethel AME Church during the 1 88os 133 42. Pensacola's tall-steepled Allen Chapel AME Church as it appeared in 1885 135 43. John R. Scott Jr. 139 44. Pensacola minister Morris Marcellus Moore 147 45. The Florida Normal and Divinity High School 151 46. Fernandina's Macedonia AME Church 153 47. Palatka's Bethel AME Church 157 48. St. Augustine's newly constructed New St. Paul AME Church 158 49. Bishop and Mrs. Benjamin W. Arnett Sr. 161 50. The Reverend S. Timothy Tice 165 51. John H. Welch 169 52. Annie L. Welch 170 53. Benjamin W. Arnett Jr. 175 54. Edward Waters College's board of trustees in 1892 176 55. Ocala's brick Mt. Zion AME Church, erected in 1891 178 56. The Reverend John Walter Dukes 183 57. Bishop and Mrs. Abram Grant 186 58. The Reverend Caesar A. A. Taylor 188 59. The Edward Waters College faculty in 1892 191 6o. Mary Alice LaRoche Certain 194 61. The Reverend W. D. Certain 195  FOREWORD The History of African-American Religions series seeks to further histori- cal investigations into the varieties of African-American religions and to encourage the development of new and expanded paradigms, methodolo- gies, and themes for the study thereof. The editors of the series see this as an opportunity to expand our knowledge of African-American religious ex- pression and institutional developments to include underappreciated re- gions and forms. The work done by Larry Eugene Rivers and Canter Brown Jr. provides an appropriate starting point. There is scarcely any period more important to African-American reli- gious history than the years examined in this book, the three decades after emancipation. One might well call it the period of Christian Reconstruc- tion; when considering African-American religion, historians do well to ex- tend the endpoint of this Reconstruction well past the premature demise of its political cousin in 1877. The AME bishops, writing in 1891 after a severe attack leveled on their southern ministers by Booker T. Washington, la- beled this a heroic period. As one reads this fine new work by Larry Eugene Rivers and Canter Brown Jr., it is easy to see why. African Americans faced enormous problems in what was often called racial uplift: setting up viable congregations and functional church government, opposing white violence and discrimination, founding educational institutions, including women in all aspects of church life, figuring out how to maximize their political influence in rapidly changing times. Any one of these tasks would have been an enormous challenge in itself, but the AME churches in Florida, as well as Rivers and Brown as their historians, were obliged to tackle all these issues. Rivers and Brown provide invaluable insight into these important dimen- sions of African-American church life in their work. All the church's experi- ences of close cooperation and inner conflict, advances and setbacks, suc- cesses and failures are candidly yet sensitively discussed within these pages. This work exemplifies a noteworthy trend in studies of American reli- gious history to place an increasingly close focus on events at the state and local level. As Rivers and Brown point out, there are some scholarly studies that have examined African-American religious development during Re-  xii Foreword construction throughout the South. But, until now, the state of Florida has escaped close scrutiny in this regard. Thus Rivers and Brown provide future historians of this period with a crucial building block. Students of this era of African-American religious history stand to gain substantially by knowing in detail what went on in states like Florida, and it is this illuminating detail that Rivers and Brown deliver. This book should help to bring Florida and African-American religious history from the margins to the center of the American consciousness. Fig- ures of national, even worldwide, renown such as AME bishops Daniel Alexander Payne and Henry McNeal Turner demonstrated Florida's great importance with their frequent visits to the Sunshine State, visits that are noted in this book. Rivers and Brown take their narrative to 1895, virtually the threshold of the twentieth century, a year that saw both the death of Frederick Douglass and the emergence of Booker T. Washington into na- tional leadership with a widely noticed speech at the Cotton States Exposi- tion in Atlanta. Thanks to the self-sacrificing work of the ministers and laity in the state, the AME Church by 1895 was securely established in Florida. Careful readers of this book will find a narrative crowded with vivid and unforgettable characters. The authors have deftly brought to life dramatic and all-but-forgotten events. With their thorough research and superb mastery of both Florida and African-American history, Rivers and Brown have created a lively work of history that persons of all ages and all walks of life will be able to read with both benefit and enjoyment. We are pleased to offer it as the first volume in this series. Stephen W. Angell and Anthony Pinn Series Editors  ABBREVIATIONS AME African Methodist Episcopal Census Manuscript returns, United States Decennial Census or Flor- ida State Census, as appropriate CH-RECs Church Records. Questionnaires of the Historical Records Survey of the Florida Writers' Program, WPA FSA Florida State Archives, Tallahassee JDFU Jacksonville Daily Florida Union JET Jacksonville Evening Telegram JFT-U Jacksonville Florida Times- Union JFU Jacksonville Florida Union JT- WFU Jacksonville Tri-Weekly Florida Union NA National Archives, Washington, D.C. NYA New York Age NYG New York Globe NYF New York Freeman PCR Philadelphia Christian Recorder PKY P. K. Yonge Library of Florida History, University of Florida, Gainesville RG Record Group SMN Savannah Morning News TFP Tampa Florida Peninsular TS Tallahassee Sentinel TWF Tallahassee Weekly Floridian WPA Work Projects Administration  This page intentionally left blank  INTRODUCTION Future realities lay far out of sight to church fathers as they prepared to dedicate Bartow's St. James AME Church on February 1-2, 1895. Led by Bishop Abram Grant, the ministers and laymen intended merely to set the new sanctuary's cornerstone and to perform associated functions. They completed most of their duties on Saturday, February 1, but not all. "On Sunday afternoon the dedication sermon was preached to a large congrega- tion by the Rt Rev. Bishop A. Grant, D. D.," notes the occasion's only sur- viving account. It adds, "Quite a number of the white friends were present at these exercises thus showing their interest in the good work of our col- ored friends."1 Hindsight reveals that those simple ceremonies in early February 1895 constituted a major turning point for Florida's AME Church, at least in a symbolic sense-and contrary to anyone's expectations at the time. Given the institution's position in the African American community, not to men- tion in the state as a whole, the date marked the end of a remarkable age and the commencement of a distinctly different era. In the thirty years leading up to 1895, the AME Church had proved itself the single most effective organizational force for Florida's black residents. Having brought comfort and inspiration to thousands of its members, the church also had demon- strated its capability to rock Florida's political balance of power. In the early years, it nearly had succeeded in seizing control of the state's government. Now, on top of influences already at play, forces of nature were about to alter arbitrarily and dramatically Florida's economy, social fabric, and AME Church. The Bartow ceremonies would come to represent the church's last official acts before calamity struck. From a late-twentieth-century perspective, the symbolism of the Bartow dedication stands out as varied and deep, offering glimpses of the church's past and future. Bishop Grant's presence, for instance, represented the AME's great success story. Emerging from slavery with little but the clothes on his back, this Floridian had determined to help make a better world. He an- swered the ministry's call, and, beginning as a rough young preacher, he  xvi Introduction matured within the church. In the late 187os Grant and various colleagues had transported Florida AME's dynamism to Texas, where his achievements earned Grant elevation to the episcopacy. Back in Florida by 1894, the bishop enjoyed a heartwarming popularity. He represented all the eager hopes so integral to the church's formative years, as well as its pioneering churchmen.2 That whites attended the St. James AME Church dedication and showed "interest in the good work" touches upon another important point. From the AME Church's earliest days in Florida, some whites had helped its reli- gious endeavors along, even as they opposed its political agenda. The color line had begun to harden in the i88os, though, as racial violence left bloody stains in many areas of the state. By the 189os, laws had both blunted black political power and begun to mandate racial discrimination. Florida had become one of the most lynch-prone states in the union, at least on a per capita basis. The year following the Bartow ceremonies, the U.S. Supreme Court would legitimize Jim Crow discrimination with its famous "separate but equal" decision in the case of Plessy v. Ferguson. Subsequently, as the church faced greater and greater problems, white friends would be hard to find.3 While the published reports of St. James's dedication do not say so, al- most certainly Baptists-that is to say, African American adherents of vari- ous Baptist churches-attended and perhaps participated in the ceremony. By 1895 the Baptist Church had gained so much strength in Florida that it could afford to extend a hand to a struggling AME church, even though the previous three decades had seen the two sects contending for power and membership. The divisions, now hazy, once had involved conflict, with the more conservative Baptists backing particular Republican factions against the AME Church's demands for a radical Reconstruction, social and politi- cal equality, and black empowerment. But times had changed.4 The dedication's site held meaning, as well. Bartow, the Polk County seat, lay at the juncture of the peninsula's central and southwestern portions. Through the region in the i88os and early 189os, railroad magnate Henry B. Plant had woven steel rails and a virtually inexhaustible supply of capital into a tightly knit fabric of easy transportation, alluring luxury resorts, and community development. Immigration, new towns, agricultural and min- ing enterprises, and chronic labor shortages then had served as magnets to attract black laborers and their families.5  Introduction xvii In turn, the AME Church had blossomed in Central and Southwest Flor- ida, its growth acknowledged in 1892-1893 by the creation of the South Florida Conference. Here lay the church's hopes for further increase and rejuvenation, aspirations justified by the progress of the Bartow church. Just as Plant's rails reached Polk County's seat, Charles Henry Macon Sr., a recent arrival from Attapulgus, Georgia, sparked the founding of a new church, St. James. Congregation members could not afford a church build- ing, so they met in private homes for four years. Little by little, they saved toward the day when good fortune would permit them to erect a small frame building as their first sanctuary. That day came in 1889. As a result of some- what better times and enlarged membership rolls, by 1894 St. James's ad- herents believed that they could make a greater statement of their commit- ment. They constructed a second and grander church. St. James now boasted a spacious rectangular building, complete with bell tower, bell, and pipe organ, a far cry from the church's humble origins.6 Hope for growth and rejuvenation through expansion in Central and Southwest Florida burned bright in church leaders' minds by 1895. That rejuvenation had become a necessity was a fact not yet well appreciated. The old AME heartland of Middle Florida-the one-time cotton plantation counties that centered on the state capital at Tallahassee-suffered from racial violence, poor economic conditions, and population stagnation or decline. The Florida Conference had been buffeted and battered as a con- sequence. The East Florida Conference fared better, but its prospects were not glowing. Jacksonville, its headquarters, had emerged as Florida's largest city, with twenty-five thousand residents. Yet nearby St. Augustine, Fer- nandina, and Palatka all lost residents from 1890 to 1895. With the century's turn, much of Jacksonville's heart, along with the church's Edward Waters College, would burn in the Great Fire of 1901.7 The church's Florida leadership itself was undergoing change. The gi- ants of its early years were slipping quickly from the scene. Charles H. Pearce, who as presiding elder had dominated AME affairs in the late 186os and 187os, had passed away in 1887. His principal lieutenants-John R. Scott Sr., William Bradwell, and George W. Witherspoon-were gone. Of the seven bishops who had overseen the state from 1865 to 1895, only three survived, including Grant. Jabez Pitt Campbell had succumbed in 1891, with John Mifflin Brown, Daniel A. Payne, and Thomas M. D. Ward fol- lowing within a few years. Alexander W. Wayman would die later in 1895.  xviii Introduction As the giants fell, the men who picked up the reins of church power were college educated and relatively affluent. They stood on the other side of a wide and hard-to-bridge chasm from the average church member. Intra- church relations increasingly fractured.8 Then nature imposed its own will on Florida and the AME Church. On February 7, 1895-five days after Bishop Grant consecrated St. James Church-a hard freeze struck Florida. Deep into the peninsula, tempera- tures plunged below freezing. The frigid conditions persisted for days. This disaster, coming on the heels of the national economic depression after the Panic of 1893, brought with it economic and personal ruin. Corn, cotton, potato, citrus, and other crops lay blackened by frost. Many farmers were wiped out. With these farms' demise, the economic underpinnings of Afri- can American life in Florida's towns and cities were shaken and rent, as were those of the AME Church.9 A myriad of reverberations ensued, as new stresses appeared within the AME Church and old ones intensified. As the church's focus for the future shifted from stricken Central and Southwest Florida to the lower Atlantic coast, financial hardship quickly emerged as a pressing and persistent con- cern for Florida's AME community. The village of Miami had survived the freeze without damage, confirming railroad builder Henry Flagler's plans to extend his lines down the shore to that remote and sparsely inhabited area. Resorts, tourists, immigrants, and workers followed. So, too, did AME cler- gymen. Thus, Miami's Greater Bethel Church traces its origins to 1896, and AME lay leaders such as Alexander C. Lightbourn Sr. can be counted among the city's founding fathers.10 The Florida church would never be the same again. Even its memory of its own past would not survive unscathed. To some extent, pre-1895 AME history came to be colored by later divisions, stresses, and other problems. Almost forgotten were the magnificent story of the building up of the church from virtually nothing amidst the ruins of slavery and the epic saga of its subsequent attempt to remake Florida. Only one work, Charles Sum- ner Long's History oftheA. M. E. Church in Florida, even attempted the task. Compiled with the best intentions, the 1939 book consisted primarily of material reprinted from Bishop Benjamin W. Arnett's Proceedings of the Quarto-Centennial Conference of theAfrican M. E. Church, of South Carolina, at Charleston, S. C., May 15, 16 and 17, 1889. A hard-to-obtain book thus suc- ceeded a very rare one.  Introduction xix Given that African American Christianity long has been at the core of the black experience in America, we offer this history of one of its movements in Florida-the AME Church from 1865 to 1895. By focusing on the early AME Church, we are able to examine the continued development of one dimension of African American culture in Florida. We intend, in so doing, to underscore and illustrate the critical role played by AME ministers and laypeople in state and local affairs, as well as dynamics within the church and society that either assisted or undermined church initiatives. Standing high among issues neglected until now are questions of minis- terial involvement in politics; the effects of the temperance movement on the church and its members; the impact of personal affinities and dislikes of church leaders; the traits and facets of episcopal leadership that aided or hindered church development; and rivalries between local church authori- ties and bishops. We also consider the formation of the AME Church as a demonstration of independence and as an expression of social and cultural solidarity that linked various segments of the black community. We further desire to encourage recent interest in the post-Civil War role and contributions of African American churches in the United States and particularly in the South. Among works that speak to these issues are Mas- ters and Slaves in the House of the Lord: Race and Religion in theAmerican South, 1740-1870, edited by John Boles; "Ain't Gonna Lay My Ligion Down":Af- rican American Religion in the South, edited by Alonzo Johnson and Paul Jersild; and William E. Montgomery's Under Their Own Vine and Fig Tree: The African American Church in the South, 1865-1900. On the AME Church itself, Clarence E. Walker's A Rock in a Weary Land: The African Methodist Episcopal Church During the Civil War and Reconstruction and Stephen Ward Angell's Bishop Henry McNeal Turner and African American Religion in the South are significant contributions. On the black church in Florida, the studies of Robert L. Hall stand out, especially his dissertation, "'Do Lord, Remember Me': Religion and Cultural Change Among Blacks in Florida, 1565-1906." We are indebted to many individuals and institutions for their assistance in compiling, and encouragement in our pursuing, this work. Our thanks go to James H. Ammons, provost and vice president for academic affairs, Aubrey M. Perry, former dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and James N. Eaton, curator of the Black Archives Research Center and Mu- seum, Florida A&M University; Bob Hall, associate professor of history and  xx Introduction director of the African American Studies Program, Northeastern Univer- sity; David M. Fahey, Miami University of Ohio; David J. Coles, formerly of the Florida Archives and now at Longwood College; Jody Norman, Florida Archives; Cynthia C. Wise, Dorothy L. Williams, and Judy Holesmier, Florida Collection, State Library of Florida; William W. Rogers, Professor Emeritus, Florida State University; Tom Muir, Historic Pensacola Preser- vation Board; Nathan Woolsey, Milton; Barbara G. Brown, Tallahassee; Robert W. Saunders Sr. and the late Rowena Ferrell Brady, Tampa; Leland M. Hawes, Tampa Tribune; Donald J. Ivey, Pinellas County Historical Mu- seum and Heritage Village, Largo; Clifton P. Lewis, Neighborhood Im- provement Corporation, Bartow; Ernest and Fredi Brown, Family Heritage House, Bradenton; Marsha Dean Phelts, Jacksonville; Willie Mae Ashley, Fernandina Beach; Willie Speed, Apalachicola; the late Joe Lang Kershaw, Miami; Ed Norwood, Tallahassee; Vernon Peeples, Punta Gorda; Joe Knetsch, Florida Department of Environmental Protection, Tallahassee; Michael Woodward, Miami; David Jackson Jr. and Daryhill D. Brown, Tal- lahassee; Charles Wessels, Savannah, Georgia; and Kenneth Harris, Chi- cago. Special words of thanks also are due to Joan Morris, Florida Photo- graphic Collection at the Florida Archives, who for years has cooperated with us in collecting rare photographs and other images of the African American presence in Florida; our series editors, Professors Stephen Ward Angell and Anthony Pinn, for their always generous encouragement and support; Peter A. Krafft, director of cartography for the Florida Resources and Environmental Analysis Center at Florida State University; and the director and staff of the University Press of Florida. Incorrect spellings and usage in direct quotations have been left as they appear in the original, and the use of [sic] has been avoided. Responsibility for the interpretation of events and for errors of fact rests with us alone.  1 BEFORE FREEDOM Oh! that every soul would love and serve their God. When the African Methodist Episcopal Church commenced its mission to Florida in 1865, black Methodists already had worshipped in the state for almost a half century. During that time Methodism had reached out first to slaves and free blacks. Then its policies and the actions of many of its min- isters turned the church in a far different direction. Desire began to grow in the hearts and minds of black Methodists for racially separate forums for worship and fellowship. As this process evolved, African Americans stamped Methodism in the South and in Florida with their special influences and traditions, some of which derived directly from African roots. Thus, when African Methodist Episcopal (AME) ministers eventually set out to win Florida for their church, they discovered the seeds of a church waiting to be nurtured. Florida Methodism's initial interest in African Americans had arisen from a curious legacy of the new territory's religious heritage. Acquired from Spain in 1821, Florida had only two towns of consequence, St. Augus- tine and Pensacola. Both communities were steeped in the Roman Catholic faith and its traditions. Accordingly, when Methodist missionary Joshua Nichols Glenn received an assignment to St. Augustine in 1823, his mind, he recorded, "recoiled at the very thoughts of it." Subsequently rebuffed by white citizens as he attempted to establish a Methodist society in the town, the pioneer preacher turned to free blacks and slaves in the area. By year's end his mission membership numbered fifty-two, forty of whom were black. Of the minister's service at hostile St. Augustine, a church historian wrote, "Glenn's only solace lay in prayer, visitation and sermons; but little ray of joy  2 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord shines forth [from his] diary except in the deep gratitude he must have felt toward the Negro members of his flock, who ministered to him when he was ill and came regularly to hear him preach." The historian added, "Their eagerness to become members of the church became characteristic of Ter- ritorial Florida."' It should be noted in passing that the Methodists' problems at St. Augus- tine and in other Catholic locales persisted, to the chagrin of white preach- ers and, later, AME clergymen. In 1845, to cite one example, Simon Peter Richardson arrived at St. Augustine to serve as its new pastor. He discovered that the Methodist Church had been closed and sold. It was being used as a workshop. "All the churches discouraged my continuance," he recorded. Only one bright spot lightened Richardson's experience. "On my arrival, no one greeted me, except one negro, named Jack," the minister recalled. Richardson continued, "He thanked the Lord that the missionary had come."2 In the years following the Reverend Glenn's 1823 sojourn at St. Augus- tine, Florida developed rapidly and somewhat at odds with previous pat- terns. Most Spanish settlement had occurred in Northeast Florida (East Florida) and around Pensacola (West Florida). By the time of the transfer of Florida to the United States from Spain in 1821, though, King Cotton had taken hold elsewhere in the lower South. Accordingly, speculators and planters prized and quickly gobbled up lands suitable for cotton culture. It turned out that much of the soil that lay between the Apalachicola and the Suwannee Rivers was ideal for the purpose. Within a few years, the broad stretch of fertile land would be divided into the counties of Gadsden, Leon, Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton, along with Jackson, which was actually west of the Apalachicola. Into this region, which came to be known as Middle Florida, poured a modest flood of immigrants intent upon making their fortunes or enhancing pre-existing ones. Many of them hailed from the most prominent planter families of the Old South. They brought with them gangs of slaves to work their new plantations or else purchased new bond servants after arriving in the territory.3 Methodism arrived for Middle Florida slaves in the very early stages of the region's organization. The legislative council by 1823 had recognized the future by creating a new town, Tallahassee, as the territorial capital. It stood at the heart of what would become the plantation belt. Within months a Methodist preacher had arrived on site, and the Methodist mission be- came the capital's first organized congregation. Already, though, Method-  Before Freedom 3 ist circuit riders had reached into the Middle Florida countryside. James Tabor and Isaac Sewell preached in 1823 at the Centerville neighborhood, located eleven miles northeast of Tallahassee. They reported organizing a church there consisting of six white and four black members.4 With the passage of years and the growth of the Middle Florida slave population, the Methodist Church extended its reach through the region. In 1829, for example, the Holmes Valley Mission came into being in Jackson County; it included congregations at Marianna, Webbville, and Campbell- ton. Marianna Station commenced services in 1834 with fifty-one white and thirteen black members. A log cabin sufficed as a church there for several years, but in 1838 members erected a suitable frame building. A side en- trance offered slaves access to a segregated seating area.5 Generally speaking, Methodist missionaries sought out slave converts throughout the antebellum period. "We are now enabled to get round in four weeks, preaching three times every Sabbath save one," reported the Reverend William Edwards of the Spring Creek Mission in 1851. "There are 18 plantations from which the blacks assemble," he continued. "We have arranged it so as to meet as many as we could at one place, although the patrons prefer to have preaching at the plantations." A few months earlier, Samuel Woodbury had conveyed word of similar efforts from the South Madison Mission. "On Madison C[ourt] H[ouse], on the 29th [of July 185o]," he observed, "we commenced a meeting which continued for twelve successive days." Woodbury added, "There were a number of conversions, 7 whites and 6 colored were added to the Church."6 Eventually, the Methodists refined their approach to slave recruitment in several ways. For one thing, they identified white ministers with special qualities that would appeal to slave listeners. In Jefferson County, for in- stance, Anderson Peeler preached often to black audiences and enjoyed considerable success. Individuals with such talents were being assigned by the 1850s to a number of "colored missions." The Aucilla Mission in Jef- ferson County constituted an important example. Alachua County and the Long Pond area of northern Marion County, toward which the Middle Florida plantation belt had stretched by the i85os, also experienced this approach.7 The church enjoyed enthusiastic support from many planters in its out- reach program for slaves. A post-Civil War visitor to the state explained the situation this way. "Before the war it was for the interest of the master that the slave should be under the control of a religious sentiment," he com-  4 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord mented. "It was one means of subjection, of obtaining obedience." Slaves understood this dynamic. "The slaves went to the 'white folks' church on Sundays," one woman recalled long after emancipation. She continued: "They were seated in the rear of the church. The white minister would arise and exhort the slaves 'to mind your masters, you owe them respect.' An old Christian slave who perceived things differently was heard to mumble, 'Yeah, wese jest as good as deys is only deys white and we's black, huh." Former slave Bolden Hall concurred. He insisted that religious teachings meant for slaves simply to "obey their master and mistress at all times."8 Such awareness of the Methodist Church's accommodation with slavery and the needs of slaveholders caused many bond servants to resist Method- ism. Pastor Edwards, in his 1851 report from Spring Creek Mission, ac- knowledged as much. "As yet there is but little interest manifest among the blacks; they are very ignorant of the principles of Christianity and seem not to understand the design we have in view," he reported. "At some places they would not come out to meeting were it not for their master's influ- ence." Indeed, slaves knew more about their masters' brand of Christianity than many whites realized, and they sought to defend themselves from its one-sided teachings.9 Yet the church's early work had held out a very different view of Meth- odism and its relationship with slavery. Out of the spirit of freedom sparked by the American Revolution, some members of the church at its 1780 con- ference had insisted that the peculiar institution of slavery was both morally wrong and contrary to religious principles. Three years later, the Methodist general conference debated whether to suspend local clergy who held slaves. In the final analysis, only preachers who owned slaves in states where it became illegal to do so were suspended from the church. A potentially more explosive question-whether to suspend the relatively large number of clergy slave masters in Virginia-would be postponed for a year.10 The issue of slave ownership among the Methodist clergy continued to pull the membership asunder. At the i784 Methodist general conference, outspoken minister Thomas Coke added fuel to the fire when he noted that slavery ran contrary to the laws of God, of men, and of nature and should be abolished. The gathering enacted rules encouraging all members of the society to emancipate their bond servants within a twelve-month period. With the large numbers of bondspeople held by the clergy in Virginia, the measure encouraged those ministers to lead by example in manumitting their enslaved blacks within two years, under the threat of expulsion from the church.11  Before Freedom : 5 || P.K.| 1. Map of Florida, showing principal towns and cities served by the AME Church in the period 1865 to 1895. Collection of the authors. In 1785, another highly regarded Methodist minister joined Coke in denouncing American slavery; John Wesley declared it "that execrable sum of all villainies." Again during that year Coke tried to bring the issue of slave ownership among Methodism's clergy and members to a head. He circu- lated emancipation petitions, but the Virginia Methodists met him head on to insist on repeal of the church's slave rules. Under extreme pressure, the slave rules concerning emancipation were suspended for six months. Some church members believed that the rules were "offensive to most of our southern friends" and "were so much opposed by many of our private mem- bers, local preachers and some of the travelling preachers" that a hands-off policy seemed best."  6 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord At the height of the slave crisis in Saint-Domingue (Haiti) in 1795, some twenty-three Methodist ministers convened in Charleston, South Carolina, to continue their fight to abolish slavery. They condemned clergymen who held bond servants "to the scandal of the ministry and the strengthening of the hands of oppression." Again, all members of the clergy were encouraged to manumit their enslaved blacks where the law permitted it. A year after- ward the Methodist general conference held firm on its antislavery position. "We declare that we are more than ever convinced of the great evil of sla- very, which still exists in these United States," its resolution read. Given that antislavery preaching did not fill the pews and disturbed the ecclesiastical tranquility of the church's members, the antislavery preachments of Coke, Wesley, and other clergymen fell largely on deaf ears during the later part of the eighteenth century.3 In 1804 a gradual trend away from the first statement of slavery's immo- rality made at the 1780 general conference continued. This fact became more evident when North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee were released from any conference slave rules that either encouraged or sought to force its slaveholding clergy and members to emancipate their bond servants. In later years, Methodism's antislavery commitment waned, although the slave rules concerning emancipation remained on the books. "The rule in our church, became a dead letter, and ceased to operate," ex- plained one Florida minister.14 With the rise of abolitionist sentiment in the North during the 183os and 1840s, tensions over the slavery issue mounted again within the church to such an extent that it broke apart. The reasons for the separation of south- ern from northern Methodists differed from the divisive stances of the 1780s and i790s. The main issue did not boil down to whether the clergy or members should possess slaves. Rather, it concerned whether a clergyman seeking the highest church position-that of bishop-should own slaves.15 According to historian C. C. Goen, southerners' insistence that Georgia slaveholder James Osgood Andrew retain his bishopric split the Methodist Church apart. Andrew had been elected in 1832 as bishop largely because he did not own slaves. Within several years of his election, the prelate's de- ceased wife's will conveyed him two bond servants. After her death, he mar- ried a woman who owned slaves, as well. This made Andrew, in appearance at least, a slaveholder two times over. The bishop had clearly articulated his position that he had become an "unwilling trustee" of several enslaved blacks and could not emancipate them because of state law. He offered to  Before Freedom 1 7 2. Ossian Bingley Hart, governor of Florida 1873 to 1874. Courtesy Pho- tographic Collection, Florida State Archives. resign his episcopal office, but "his fellow Southerners would not hear of it." Southern members, viewing this assault on Andrew as an attempt by aboli- tionists in the church to end slavery throughout the country, fought against the bishop's ouster. Although clergy and members had since the 1820s en- tertained constitutional questions that concerned slaveholding, the "slavery issue," as Donald G. Mathews has argued perceptively, became the overrid- ing issue that led to the division of Methodism.16 Many of the 500,000 southern Methodists viewed the attack on the slave issue by northerners and abolitionists as an attack from within and from without. The Methodist debates as to the morality or immorality of clergy- men and members holding slaves paralleled the national dispute over slav- ery. Many members saw the assault on Andrew as an assault on slavery throughout the South. The bishop emerged as a symbol of resistance to members who did not believe that slavery was a moral evil. Historian Goen noted that northerners' willingness to stand firm on this limited issue and southerners' steadfast insistence that Andrew be retained as a bishop brought about the ultimate confrontation and split between northern and southern Methodists. On June 7, 1844-the same day that a bill conferring statehood on Florida was reported to the U.S. House of Representatives- the Methodist general conference adopted a plan of separation. Florida  8 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord achieved statehood March 3, 1845, and the Methodist Episcopal Church South came into being at Louisville, Kentucky, two months later." The formation and significance of the southern Methodist Church could not have escaped the attention of black church members any more than it did that of whites. This particularly was the case in Florida, where many whites, some of them slaveholders, prized attachment to the United States over regional pride. One of them, future governor Ossian B. Hart, ex- pressed their reactions when writing of a young minister, Oscar A. Myers of Tallahassee. "He was one of those preachers who in 1844 encouraged the example of Secession for slavery by seceding from the church and establish- ing a sectional church with the Sectional word South engrafted into its name," Hart declared, "and who from that time used all their great influ- ence all over the South to bring about secession and dissolution of the Union."18 The new church's proslavery overtones enhanced the challenge faced by Methodist ministers in luring African Americans into the church, but those were not the only problems the clergymen encountered. Some whites grew anxious in the late 1840s and i85os at the influence preachers could exert on slaves during those increasingly tumultuous times. Simon Peter Richardson knew this situation firsthand. Assigned to Key West, which rapidly was be- coming the state's largest town, he received troubling news early on. "When I first went out on the island the brother I was boarding with told me the council and citizens generally had decided that I should not preach to the negroes, and to so inform me," he related. "They had some trouble with the negroes and abolition preachers from the North who came to the island for their health," Richardson continued. "I was indignant that they should send me such a prohibition, when I had made no arrangements to preach to the negroes at all." He concluded: "I replied that if they wanted their negroes to go to the devil it was their lookout, and if they chose to go with them it was their own concern, not mine. I was astonished, a few days after, to receive from the council and a long list of the slaveholders a request for me to take the negroes under my pastoral charge and preach to them."19 The Methodists also contended with stiff competition from the Baptists, whose church in some respects attempted to address more sensitively the needs and desires of blacks. Where the Methodists proved unwilling to li- cense African Americans as ministers in Florida and declined to permit cre- ation of all-black churches, the Baptists took steps forward. By the early 1850s, they had ordained James Page, a slave of Leon County's Parkhill  Before Freedom : 9 3. Pioneer Baptist minister James Page. Courtesy Pho- tographic Collection, Flor- r ida State Archives. family. They did so upon the recommendation of prominent whites, includ- ing governor-elect James E. Broome. They also accepted as a regular church Page's Bethlehem Baptist Church at Bel Air, six miles south of Tal- lahassee. Bethlehem Baptist is believed to be Florida's first regularly orga- nized all-black church.20 Not too much credit should be handed in this regard to the Florida Bap- tists, for they failed during the antebellum period to ordain additional Afri- can American ministers and to accept additional all-black churches. When confronted with the issue in 1854 by a request from Apalachicola, the West Florida Association temporized. "We do not regard the colored portion of the church formally a branch, but only as constituting a part of the Apalach- icola church," it responded, "yet owing to their great disproportion of members and means, and in view of the intelligence and piety they manifest, we approve of their holding separate conferences and transacting such busi- ness as belongs peculiarly to themselves, yet always under the supervision of the white brethren, one of whom should act as moderator."  10 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord The authority accorded individual Baptist churches and their associa- tions permitted a flexibility from place to place in a manner that the hierar- chical Methodist Church did not. Confusion reigned among Baptist con- gregations on occasion when it came to racial matters. Thus, in some of them, a church historian insisted, slaves were "treated just as were other members, and the quality of their contribution to the life of the church was not only recognized, but praised." Most black Baptists, though, "were gen- erally relegated to a status in the church which could not be described as equal, despite the fact that in many Florida Baptist churches Negroes were in the majority."" A historian of black Baptists illustrated the point more bluntly. "We have been reliably informed by some of the ex-slaves who had such membership that while they were received into the churches on their experience of grace, and were baptized and fellowshipped," reported George P. McKinney, "that this was about as far as their membership privileges extended." McKinney added: "As slaves, of course, they were not allowed to vote, and therefore they had no voice in the business of the churches. There were believers without real church membership."22 Resistance from within the slave community understandably greeted many Baptist and Methodist overtures. Slaves aplenty abhorred forced at- tendance at church meetings and deeply resented preachers' insistence that they obey their "earthly masters." Even James Page sometimes felt the re- sentments, suffering many rejections and failing to bring numerous slaves to "accept Christ." One-time bondsman Douglas Dorsey recalled the atti- tudes and actions of one fellow slave. "[She could] read and write a little," he told an interviewer, "[and] would tell the slaves that what the minister had just said was all lies." The more the minister bore down on obedience and the less he shared the gospels, the more the alienation. "Dey never tole us nothing 'bout Jesus," complained Margrett Nickerson.23 In the circumstances, many slaves created their own "invisible churches." They might be convened under specific trees, in slave cabins, or in any number of other places. Amanda McCray, for instance, recollected one "praying ground." There, she declared, "the grass never had a chancet ter grow fer the troubled knees that kept it crushed down." These "brush meet- ings" permitted a fellowship and an opportunity for religious expression and leadership unavailable in white-supervised churches. One prayer com- monly found voice. It was the prayer of freedom.  Before Freedom I Given the drawbacks of slave membership in the Methodist and Baptist Churches, it is not too surprising that relatively few men and women stepped forth, despite masters' attempts to commit them. In 1845, the year of Florida's admission to the Union, the state boasted a population of 66,500. Of that number, 47 percent (roughly 3 1,ooo) were black. At the same time, the Methodist conference contained 6,874 souls, of whom 2,653 (39 percent) were black. Fifteen years later, as the nation teetered on the brink of civil war, 61,745 slaves and 932 free blacks made up about 45 per- cent of the state's total of 140,424. The 186o membership numbers for black Methodists were 8,1io, which equaled 42 percent of all Florida Method- ists.5 African Americans who chose to join and maintain membership in the Methodist Church attempted to make it their own. Ira Berlin, who studied this phenomenon in the South, has recognized that its impact was so pro- found as to create a "new faith." African Americans especially introduced an even higher level of emotionalism into services. When allowed, they clapped their hands, beat drums, prayed loudly, shouted, and sang. "Their singing is peculiar & very hearty," commented future Union general Oliver 0. Howard after attending Methodist services at Tampa in 1857. "Some of them shout & some look very happy." Clapping of hands and "amens" and "hallelujahs" resounded. In these activities, an African heritage shone through, with a special debt to the traditional "ring shout." Water also held great importance in West African culture. So baptism carried tremendous significance and was celebrated elaborately.26 The exuberance of black Methodist worship practices scared some whites, but it provoked a touch of envy in others, as Simon Peter Richardson noted in his memoirs when discussing his Key West pastorate. "It was the best negro congregation I ever had," he began. "Among them there was a negro singing master, who taught the negroes to sing. He led the music." Richardson continued: "Over a hundred negroes singing with well-trained voices is something seldom heard. Many of the better classes came to the services of the negroes to hear them sing." The minister concluded: "I re- marked to Dr. M. on one occasion how well my negroes sang. He replied: 'Yes, and how well you preach when you preach to them! Why not preach that way to the whites?"27 What had typified Florida Methodism prior to the Civil War shifted dramatically after 186o as the nation, the state, and the church were torn  12 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord apart. When it came to the Methodists, actions of ministers and white lay- men fueled fires that ultimately resulted in a flood of slaves and freedmen from the halls of Methodism to their own houses of worship. Tensions that previously had simmered now burst out in the open. The church bled itself into a state of weakness from which it has yet to recover fully. As black Floridians watched the parade of events, Florida lurched toward secession in late i86o and early 1861. They could see or hear of white preachers, a good number of them slaveholders, who pleaded the cause of disunion. Oscar A. Myers was such a man. "[He was] one of the eloquent ones in 186o [who] came out of the pulpit to the political arena and made public speeches to the people in favor of secession and most bitterly de- nouncing and even ridiculing the Union," one correspondent noted of the minister in words that could have applied to many of his colleagues. Myers's contemporary John C. Ley recalled that "the church in all its operations sympathized with the excitement." When wartime arrived, not fewer than seven Methodist clergyman entered Confederate service, including Ley.28 At least early on, Methodist ministers who remained in Florida during the Civil War tended to exhibit just as much enthusiasm for the Confed- eracy as did those who departed with the troops. In early 186i, Key West's Robert J. McCook "invoked Heaven against the Federal Government." Union authorities promptly arrested him. W. L. Murphy evidenced the same intransigence from Tampa in 1862. "Every preacher has remained at his post, and God has blessed their labors to some extent, and the country with abundance of the necessaries of life," he reported. Murphy then added, "Whilst we all want peace on honorable terms, I, for one, believe if the war continues a while it will be productive of great good to the nation."29 Although the great good of emancipation came to the nation as a result of the war, the great good anticipated by the Reverend Murphy turned into disaster for his church. African Americans, already skeptical of the Method- ist Episcopal Church South, now commenced to turn away from it. As his- torian William E. Montgomery has noted, such an evolution should have been expected. A separate church, he explained, permitted slaves a genuine and obtainable expression of freedom in troubled times. The movement was apparent by 1861. The following year a trickle of departures became a steady stream. A total of 987 African Americans-more than io percent of all black members-withdrew from churches of the Florida Conference. John C. Ley called it a year of "general discouragement." Once the artery had opened, the ME Church South bled throughout the war. When peace  Before Freedom 13 finally arrived in 1865, half the church's black members were gone. The remainder were prepared to make the same journey.30 Surviving records offer only hints as to when and where the first black Methodist congregations began forming after withdrawal from the ME Church South. One Marion County church traced its origins to about the time of secession. According to an early account, local preacher D. Watson organized Mt. Moriah in a log cabin at Daisy in 186o. Jackson County, somewhat isolated from the rest of the state, also saw congregations formed. Bethlehem, situated at Cottondale (ten miles or so west of Marianna), coa- lesced in 1861. Mt. Olive followed in 1862. It lay ten miles north of Mar- ianna. Both Jackson County churches also used log cabins as "meeting houses." Under wartime regulations, they and similar groups often were restricted to meeting only when a white man could be present.31 Numerous other churches also were born during the war, although the names of only a few are known with certainty. Two miles south of Miccosu- kee in Leon County, Concord detached itself from a white-dominated church. In Madison County, Jeslam appeared in 1864 at a spot four miles northeast of Madison on the Old Valdosta Road. Hope Henry, located in Columbia County five miles southwest of Lake City, likely began holding meetings in early 1865. By then, meetings also were taking place at Quincy in Gadsden County, Tallahassee in Leon County, and Midway in Duval County.32 These and other churches usually organized thanks to the leadership of one or more individuals, all of them important to the later history of the AME Church in Florida. Jackson County was blessed with the labors of at least two such outstanding local preachers. One of these men, Henry Call, will be considered shortly. The other, Jacob Livingston, was born about 1835 in Florida. He is credited as a founder of Bethlehem and Mt. Olive Churches. Little personal information remains available concerning him, except brief comments from two of his later AME peers. A. J. Kershaw described Livingston as "meek." To J. J. Sawyer, Livingston was "ener- getic," "self-sacrificing," and "strongly attached to the Church." Livingston himself enthused after one particularly successful revival, "In the fields, in the highways, and in the valleys, shouts of the new born souls were heard in every direction." He added, "Oh! that every soul would love and serve their God in purity and in truth." He would die as presiding elder of the AME Marianna District, likely in 1877.3 Gadsden County served as home to a number of Civil War-era local  14 , Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord preachers. The foremost among them, Allen Jones Sr., hailed from Queen Anne's County, Maryland, where he was born about 1813. "Sold South long before the war," according to Bishop Alexander W. Wayman, Jones lived in or near Quincy. Lauded for his style of preaching, he would draw praise as a minister throughout his long career. "He preaches 'Christ and him cruci- fied,' as though he was upon Mount Calvary, when the spear pierced His side and the metallic spikes his hands," observed one colleague. In 1865, Jones joined with Dennis Wood to erect a brush arbor church near Quincy's Tan Yard Branch. It later would carry the name Arnett Chapel. After his death at Quincy on February 28, 1888, an admirer would describe him as "probably the greatest minister Florida ever had."3 Allen Jones's friend Dennis Wood apparently arrived in Gadsden County during the Civil War. Born in North Carolina in 1830, he ended up in 4. Robert Meacham, founder of Talla- hassee's Bethel AME Church and Recon- struction-era politi- cal power in Florida. Courtesy Photo- graphic Collection, Florida State Ar- " ::0'. _ '; " chives.  Before Freedom , 15 5. Stella Meacham, wife of the Rever- end Robert Mea- cham. Courtesy Photographic Col- lection, Florida State Archives. Florida as the slave of Henry L. Hart of Palatka. Perhaps as a result of Union incursions during the war, Hart sent Wood to Quincy. In addition to aiding the organization of Arnett Chapel, Wood operated what a fellow townsman described as "a fine blacksmith shop." The man added that Wood was con- sidered "an honest, hard-working, and reliable man." Following decades of service to the AME Church, Wood would die at Palatka on April 18, 1893.-5 At about the same time in early 1865 that Allen Jones and Dennis Wood were erecting their brush arbor church, Robert Meacham was organizing the future Bethel AME Church of Tallahassee. He too claimed roots in Quincy. The son of a slave woman and a Gadsden County physician and planter, Meacham was born in 1835. He learned at a young age to read and write. He even briefly attended the Quincy Academy. Then, in the early 185os, he was relocated to Tallahassee as a house servant. Family tradition suggests that Meacham "carried [his] education to the other slaves secretly and by night, using the dim glare of a candle for light." By the Civil War  16 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord years he also was preaching. As the war wound down, he led i16 individuals out of the Tallahassee Methodist Episcopal Church South and into a con- gregation of their own. After a stellar career in the church and in public service, Meacham would pass away at Tampa on February 27, 1902.36 One hundred fifty miles to the east of Tallahassee, a young man named John Thomas yearned for an opportunity to preach openly to his fellow bondsmen. He had been born in South Carolina in 1839 but was living in early 1865 at Midway, a village located a few miles west of Jacksonville. With a friend, G. B. Hill, he began holding services there with a few others. Within only a short time he would enter the AME clergy, where he earned an unusual nickname, as the Reverend Andrew Jackson Ferrell Sr. later ex- plained. "He was called 'Rabbit,"' Ferrell wrote, "because, during his preaching, he usually turned a 'hand spring' and jumped up like a jack rab- bit." Thomas's death at Enterprise on June 20, 1892, terminated a distin- guished career of service.37 Henry W. Call stands out from John Thomas and the other wartime preachers mentioned for one simple reason. While they apparently held services during the war within the general context of Methodist tradition, Call intended to found an AME Church. His decision came about this way. Born in Florida in 1834, Call was raised in the Jackson County neighbor- hood of Cottondale. He had preached to slaves under the auspices of the ME Church South and, in 1861, acted with Jacob Livingston to found Bethlehem Church. Thanks to his owner, Call had learned to read and write. In 1863 he was ordered to accompany the master, who had joined the Confederate army, in the capacity of body servant. Near Chattanooga, Ten- nessee, in late November, a series of events occurred that changed Call's life and the history of African Methodism in Florida.38 The Reverend Charles Sumner Long told Henry Call's story from that point with fascinating detail. First mentioning that General Braxton Bragg's Confederate forces had clashed with those of Union general William S. Rosecrans, Long explained: Under the command of General Rosecrans was a large contingent of black troops. The Battle above the clouds was fought November 23, 24, and 25, 1863. After the battle, Henry Call went among the dead in search of his master who was killed in the engagement. While search- ing among the dead men that lay like stones, Henry Call came across a dead black soldier with a paper sticking out of his pocket. He took  Before Freedom 17 the paper and saw that it was the "Herald," afterwards the Christian Recorder. President Lincoln had thousands of copies printed for the black soldiers through Rev. Elisha Weaver, Business Manager of the Book Concern of the AME Church. Young Call saw the picture of Richard Allen in the left corner and Sarah Allen in the right corner. It was the first time brother Call had ever seen the pictures of Negroes in a paper. This paper told of the movement of the AME Church in following up the Union lines in the South, planting the church and housing the people. In it [were references to] the appointment of Rev. James Lynch, and Rev. James D. S. Hall of the Baltimore Conference, as missionaries to South Carolina in 1863. This paper also stated that the AME Church had black Bishops and would cover the whole South as soon as the union armies occupied it. This was multum in parvo to the young mind of Brother Call. The Herald was a four page paper, 7 x 18. Brother Call folded it carefully, put it in his bosom and continued his search for his master. After he had found him and buried him, he was sent back to Cottondale, Florida. It took him a month to read through the Herald, this he did in the hammock in a secluded place, where on his stomach at such times as he could get away from his owners he poured over the Herald that interested him more than anything he had ever come in contact with. He couldn't keep this news, so he called three other men, among them Brother Jackson, who has since been a class leader in Bethlehem for more than fifty years, and read to them what he had found. Henry Call told them, that he was going to lead prayer meeting on Thursday night, and when they got through they were to have a general hand shaking, which meant that they had joined the AME Church. When he made the announcement, Brother Jackson was to shake his hand first, then the other two, but they were not to let any of the other slaves know about it; for if it became known they would all be hung or sold to New Orleans slave traders. This was carried out, in that, on every prayer meeting night, a patrol was present to examine all passes, for no meeting could be held among black people unless a white man was present. However, Henry Call and his three companions organized the AME Church, while the white overseer looked on unaware of anything more than a prayer meeting or a hand shaking was going on.39  6. Known as "Mother Midway," the Midway AME Church located just west of Jack- sonville traces its origins to the Civil War-era initiative of minister John Thomas. Courtesy Photographic Collection, Florida State Archives.  Before Freedom 19 Call's desire to create Florida's first AME Church fell short of accomplish- ment because he could not yet obtain official sanction from proper authori- ties, but the preacher would not give up. He would go on to an extraordinary vocation as an AME minister, presiding elder, and public official. As his son the Reverend C. E Call would recollect, "He proceeded to spread the Church all over the State." Henry Call would remain in service to the church until after 1910.40 Although the Jackson County slave preacher experienced frustration in his efforts to found an AME congregation in late 1863 and early 1864, his understanding that such a church was on the way eventually proved correct. The route had been a tortuous one, though, and had taken generations to negotiate. But Call could derive inspiration from tales of the difficulties that had beset Richard Allen and others in creating the first African Methodist Episcopal Church in America. Indeed, the creation of the first all-black Methodist church in Philadel- phia slowly had begun to take shape in 1787. During that year Richard Allen and other blacks had sought comfort and security in the Free African Soci- ety of Philadelphia. Blacks could control the religious and secular activities of this organization. The society originally did not stress any particular denomination. But by 1792 denominational strains were starting to show. The association's decision to build an Episcopalian, rather than a Method- ist, church caused Allen great difficulty. Ultimately, he parted ways with the society. Still, a small group of blacks oriented toward Quakerism who wanted neither an Episcopalian nor a Methodist church kept the Free Afri- can Society alive after blacks of the other denominations concerned with- drew their memberships.41 Prior to the schism that divided the Free African Society into various denominational factions, Allen and other blacks had joined Philadelphia's St. George Methodist Church. Somewhat similar to the decision that faced blacks regarding the Free African Society, a decision ultimately had to be made about whether to withdraw their membership or remain in the church. That saga began in 1792, when the St. George Church compelled black members to abandon seats they had taken in the sanctuary's gallery. The incident proved too much for most blacks to accept.42 With Richard Allen's leadership, most black Methodists left St. George. Allen subsequently pressed for a church that would be controlled largely by blacks, believing that it should be a Methodist one. "I was confident that  20 . Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord 7. Bishop and Mrs. Daniel A. Payne. Courtesy Photographic Collection, Florida State Archives. there was no religious sect or denomination which would suit the capacity of the colored people as well as the Methodist," he explained, "for this plain and simple gospel suits best for any people; for the unlearned can under- stand, and the learned are sure to understand; and the reason that the Meth- odists [are] so successful [in] the awakening and conversion of the colored people, [is their] plain doctrine and ... good discipline."4 Allen's dream began to come true in 1794. That year, he collected a group of fellow believers at his home in Philadelphia. The purpose, he de- clared, was "to provide for ourselves a house to meet in for religious worship agreeable to our desires, according to the light God through grace has given us-separate from our white brethren." Bethel African Methodist Episco- pal Church resulted. For more than two decades Allen and his followers struggled for independence from the white Methodist Church, achieving it only after a Pennsylvania Supreme Court decision in 1816. Meanwhile, additional all-black congregations had begun to coalesce at New York, Bal- timore, and several other places. Allen convened delegates representing all but those from New York on April 9, 1816. That "general conference" opted for unification as the African Methodist Episcopal Church. Six years later, black New Yorkers created their own "African Methodist Episcopal Church." Because its first church, dating to 1796, became known as Zion,  Before Freedom 21 that branch of African Methodism subsequently would be known as the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church.44 In its formative years the AME Church embraced a southern ministry, even though the largest part of its membership resided in the North. The border state of Maryland offered fertile grounds for church recruitment. Also, Morris Brown was leading efforts for an all-black congregation at Charleston, South Carolina, prior to the 1816 AME organizational confer- ence. The South Carolina church officially formed during 1817 and 1818 and prospered for several years. Its rolls soon carried the names of fourteen hundred individuals. With the discovery by whites of Denmark Vesey's in- cipient slave revolt in 1822, though, the growth abruptly halted. Bishop Daniel A. Payne, himself a Charleston native, explained why. "The slave- holders of South Carolina were not satisfied with punishing with death the conspiracy against slavery in that State," he wrote; "they did not stop their proceedings till our Church in that State was entirely suppressed.""4 From that point until the Civil War was under way, the church concen- trated its efforts in the North and in border states such as Maryland. Morris Brown, who had escaped Charleston thanks to the intercession of white friends, achieved episcopal status in 1828, second only to Bishop Allen. He survived for twenty-two years, nineteen of them as senior bishop after Bishop Allen's death in 1831. Edward Waters, born a slave at West River, Maryland, came third in 1836 and gained fame as Bishop Brown's closely trusted assistant. Waters died as the result of an 1847 accident. William Paul Quinn followed as fourth bishop in 1844, with Willis Nazrey obtaining the honor in 1852. The sixth and final pre-Civil War bishop was Daniel Alex- ander Payne, about whom a great deal more will be said here.46 Since most African Americans lived elsewhere than in the North and border states, membership for the AME Church grew slowly. An 1822 count showed 7,257. Seventeen years later, the figure had risen to only 9,018. The rise of antislavery sentiment in the 1840s helped push the num- ber to 17,375, organized in six conferences. It was thought that the 1848 approval of an official newspaper, the Christian Herald, would boost church outreach. The investment did not pay off as expected. African Methodism was dealt a blow in Louisiana that also affected its declining membership profoundly. The New Orleans AME congregation, founded about 1843 by John Mifflin Brown, had witnessed steadily increasing membership until city authorities forced it to close in 1858. Within only a few years of the  22 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord Civil War's onset, membership of the national AME church had stagnated at around twenty thousand.47 The direction of church affairs changed markedly in 1863. Shortly after President Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation became effective on January 1, Henry McNeal Turner issued "A Call to Action" to his fellow AME adherents. The liberation of thousands of slaves had opened up new "obligations" to which the church must respond. In April, a southerner, Daniel A. Payne, chaired the Baltimore Annual Conference. At the session, white Methodist Episcopal Church minister C. C. Leigh requested assis- tance for missionary work in the coastal areas of South Carolina. Payne grasped the chance to return the church to his home state, blessing James Lynch and J. D. S. Hall who volunteered to pioneer the way. The Twelfth General Conference, held in May 1864 at Philadelphia, ratified the move by creating a South Carolina Conference and encouraging its expansion. When Bishop Payne organized that assembly at Charleston in early May 1865 one month following Confederate general Robert E. Lee's surren- der-he quickly turned his sights to nearby fields in need of sowing. An ex- slave from Jacksonville helped him to decide that Florida was just the place he had in mind. It was at that point that Henry W. Call's hopes for an AME Church in Florida began to blossom.48  2 A TUMULTUOUS PEACE, 1865-1867 We are in the world, as well as other people. The burden of bringing African Methodism to Florida rested first on the shoulders of a humble man, a former slave himself new to the ministry. Dispatched in the spring of 1865, as the guns of the Civil War yet resounded in parts of the dying Confederacy, William G. Stewart brought to the work a dedication born of simple faith. Nine months later, a second great leader, Charles H. Pearce-this one possessing education, long experience, and church position-relieved the first and pushed his uncompleted work to- ward enduring success. Between the two men, what W. E. B. Du Bois called "the greatest social institution of American negroes" found itself planted firmly in the State of Florida. Their achievement thereafter would mature to touch the nation. As one of its children would recall of the Florida AME Church, "We grew up under it and in it." Nothing, A. Philip Randolph would add, affected him "as deeply as the church relationship."1 The events leading directly to the AME Church's advent in Florida took place in Charleston, South Carolina, beginning on May i6, 1865. Confed- erate forces in the East were surrendering following the capitulation of Generals Robert E. Lee and Joseph E. Johnston in April. Florida-born gen- eral Edmund Kirby Smith would not stand down his western army for an- other ten days. Confusion reigned amid chaos in many places, and the meaning of the peace and of emancipation remained uncertain. On the other hand, newly freed slaves gleefully embraced the Day of Jubilee. "There was joy in the South," W. E. B. Du Bois declared. "It rose like perfume-like a prayer," he continued. "Men stood quivering. Slim dark girls, wild and beautiful with wrinkled hair, wept silently; young women,  24 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord black, tawny, white and golden, lifted shivering hands; and old and broken mothers, black and gray, raised great voices and shouted to God across the fields, and up to the rocks and the mountains."2 Anxious to establish itself in the South now that slaveholder power could not keep it out, the AME Church moved quickly to set up an organizational beachhead. At the May i6 Charleston gathering, Bishop Daniel A. Payne and a handful of associates took the first step by organizing the South Caro- lina Conference. Its jurisdiction, they agreed, stretched northward to North Carolina, westward into Georgia, and southward toward Florida. "Thus organized," Payne would note, "the South Carolina Conference was like a ship sent to conquer other lands in the South-farther South."3 A stroke of luck and not much more permitted Payne to include Florida in the conference's early mission. Obviously still in its infancy in the region, the church could call upon few ministers to cover its huge potential mission- ary field. Then, as chance would have it, Payne's friend Elder James A. Handy brought to the conference a young man whom he had just met. The encounter had taken place on May 15 when Handy first attempted to hold AME services at nearby Hilton Head. "I opened the doors of the church for any one who would connect himself or herself with the African Methodist Episcopal Church," Handy recounted. "William G. Steward came forward as the first person and joined the church," he continued. "I received him that night with others." The future bishop added: "I examined him on that night and licensed him to preach. I took him to Charleston and had him ordained a deacon the next day."4 The man who appeared to Handy as a godsend had arisen from origins of the most humble sort. William G. Stewart had been born a slave in Decatur County, Georgia, on December 15, 1833. Within three years, his owner had sold him, his mother, and five brothers and sisters to a planter at Jackson- ville, Florida, in Duval County. Raised in that North Florida county, the young slave eventually married Susan E. Raney and began a family. In 1862, Civil War disruptions in Northeast Florida afforded him the chance to es- cape bondage. Apparently taking his family with him, Stewart made his way to Beaufort, South Carolina, then held by Union forces. He entered school there and was likely taught by missionaries of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Stewart studied until war's end, when he stepped forward to join the AME ministry. It was said that the one-time slave possessed "a modest lamb like nature." All agreed that he was "of unusual high moral character."5 The task that Stewart and other AME emissaries agreed to undertake in  A Tumultuous Peace , 25 8. The Reverend William G. Stewart, Florida's first or- dained AME minister. Cour- tesy Photographic Collec- tion, Florida State Archives. the wake of the May 1865 Charleston sessions stood before them as no small challenge. Bishop Payne, even more than some other AME leaders, con- ceived an aggressive, activist role for the church in the new South. "Society among the Colored people at that time needed as much reconstruction as did the Political Machinery of the whole South," explained the Reverend James H. A. Johnson. "The movement was made under the illustrious Bishop D. A. Payne ... for the purpose of carrying on this reconstruction," he wrote further. "It was designed to bring up South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and all, like phenixes from the smoldering ruins of slavery." Johnson concluded, "The founders therefore, went to work immediately after the adjournment of the first South Carolina Conference."6 In only three weeks, Payne, Handy, Johnson, and others had schooled Stewart in the ways of the AME Church and dispatched him southward. His official appointment as pastor of Florida came on May 22, 1865. The mis- sionary arrived in the state alone on June 9. Stewart recorded some of the details of his journey. "Bishop Payne and Rev. J. A. Handy got permission from General Saxton, Provost Marshal under General Gilmore at Beaufort, to send me to Beaufort on the steamer Planter, Captain Robert Small in  26 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord command," he wrote. "There I boarded a small Government boat for Jack- sonville."7 Having been absent from the state for three years, Stewart found himself in June 1865 returning to a changed Florida, one where wartime devastation could be seen at every hand. The northeast and the settled areas of the peninsula, together with West Florida, had suffered tremendously as the tides of war had swept back and forth over the landscape. Although only rarely occurring on anything but a small scale, the fighting often had re- flected the state's split loyalties and was all the more bitter for it. Refugees, black and white, struggled to survive, having lost most of their possessions to arson and flight. Those who sympathized with the Union naturally had gathered in the towns that were under U.S. control, mushrooming what had amounted before the war to little more than villages into small cities. Dis- ease and hunger stalked in desperation's wake.8 The great exception to this picture of wartime disruption and destruc- tion lay in the Middle Florida plantation belt that centered on the state capital at Tallahassee. Shielded by Confederate policy from much of the fighting, the area had survived the conflict virtually unscathed. In 186o this region-including Jackson, Gadsden, Leon, Jefferson, Madison, and Hamilton Counties-had contained 38 percent of the state's population of 140,424, while its 31,412 slaves had constituted 51 percent of all persons held in bondage in Florida. Although unrest and fears of slave rebellion had stirred Middle Florida during the conflict, most freedmen and freedwomen still lived on the plantations when William G. Stewart landed at the Jack- sonville wharf in June. Some, reportedly, had not yet been informed of their freedom.9 The picture that greeted Stewart when he stepped ashore at Jacksonville must have astounded him. "[It] presented a melancholy sight," observed one resident. "The old ruins of the burned buildings, the few rude shanties on the north side of Bay street, the neglected yards, the stumps of the once handsome shade trees, the broken fences, the dingy appearance of the former neat, painted dwellings, all were depressing to those who sought their old homes." A New York City reporter added more detail. "A few brick warehouses and stores make up the street fronting on the water, and a huge billiard saloon seems as much of an institution as the stores," he informed his readers. "Everywhere the sand was almost bottomless, and walking, for even a square or two, was exceedingly uncomfortable," the reporter contin- ued. "A negro guard paced along the wharf; negroes in uniform were scat-  A Tumultuous Peace 27 tered about the streets, interspersed with a few Rebel soldiers, and a very neatly-policed negro camp occupied one of the vacant squares."10 Jacksonville had been a sleepy village when Stewart lived there before the war; now he discovered a small but teeming city imposing itself upon its own ruins. In 186o, the town had contained a population of 2,118, of whom 898 were slaves. The total had ranked it third in Florida behind Pensacola and Key West. Now, refugees had so swelled Jacksonville's citizenry that the city had become, temporarily, the state's largest urban center. "Jacksonville has been crowded to overflowing, for months past, with refugees, both white and colored," a northern teacher explained on June 23. "Of late . . . ," she added, "both classes have been flocking in, in great numbers, the colored people, a short time since, at the rate of one hundred per day." It was said that the freedmen were living in the "most wretched manner" and that ev- erything in "the shape of a house, hut or hovel" was filled beyond capacity.11 These conditions might have seemed ideally suited for AME missionary work, but appearances in that regard deceived. For one thing, Florida's Methodist Episcopal Church South-already strong at Jacksonville-had decided in December 1864 to attempt to stem the tide of deserting black members that had been flowing since early in the war. It did so by imple- menting, within the limits of its modest resources, a program of "colored charges." Minister John C. Ley explained: The new relation to the freemen involved very delicate responsibili- ties. Previously our Church had spent large amounts for "missions to people of color." In addition to this, each minister was required to give one service each Sunday to them. We had also made special arrange- ments, for all who desired to do so, to worship with the whites in all our churches. Hence we had a large colored membership all over the South. But now with a change of circumstances there must be a change of operations. It was utterly impossible for us to keep up our missions; still we tried to render them all the service possible, and could we have served them with the whites, until they could have ministers of their own color, at least partially educated, it would have been better for them.12 The ME South initiative placed a serious stumbling block in the path of the AME church, but the northern Methodist Church imposed a far greater one. Since early in the war, its missionaries and ministers had offered assis-  28 Laborers in the Vineyard of the Lord tance and relief to black refugees inside the Union lines, including those at Jacksonville and its neighbor to the north, Fernandina. With inspiration from Timothy Willard Lewis, presiding elder of the district that encom- passed the coastal islands of South Carolina and Georgia where William G. Stewart had attended school, the Reverend John Swaim had planned for the ME North Church to seize control of Florida and remold it into a state "founded on the eternal principles of freedom and equal rights." The plan depended, in good part, on support from black church members. In return, they would benefit from church policy that avoided paternalism and ac- corded them respect. Whites would assist the freedmen, not direct them. In the circumstances, the church already had won many adherents at Jackson- ville.13 Thus, without instructions and distant from the advice of church au- thorities, William G. Stewart faced a complex problem at Jacksonville in June 1865. How and where do you begin church work when other churches already are established as competitors and you are without apparent re- sources? He chose to leave town. Instead of remaining at Jacksonville, Stewart ventured a few miles to the west to the community called Midway. This may have been the neighborhood in which Stewart grew up, or he may have received word that a young local preacher, John Thomas, had begun assembling a black Methodist congregation there. In any event, on June io Stewart gathered the small group into the arms of the AME Church. "This was the first church to be organized in the State under an authorized pas- tor," Stewart later confirmed. "Mother Midway" thus took pride of place in Florida AME history. Reverend Stewart left it in John Thomas's charge.14 Having made a concrete start by introducing the church officially into Florida, Reverend Stewart returned to Jacksonville to contemplate his next move. As he did so, word passed into the state about his arrival and soon reached, deep in Middle Florida, the eager ears of former slave Henry W. Call. Call, as discussed earlier, already had assembled an unsanctioned AME congregation at Jackson County's Cottondale. With the peace, Call seems to have relocated to the county seat and continued his religious endeavors there. For the onetime slave preacher, the news from the east came as a command from God. "As soon as William Steward landed in Jacksonville and Brother Call heard of it," Charles Sumner Long observed, "he walked from Marianna to Jacksonville to get Rev. Steward, and took him to Mari- anna where he and all the members were taken into our Church."15 The exact timing of Henry Call's appearance in Jacksonville and his sub- sequent departure with William G. 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