The Triumph of Grace (19 page)

E
ight mornings straight Grace awoke, crammed upright in her small space, to the squawk of chickens.

Eight endlessly long days she sat bound fast as John Hull's wagon clattered down cobblestone streets, or—more often— rolled along dusty country roads. Three times each day, John would stop the oxen in some isolated place and untie Grace's hands. "For your necessaries," he told her. "If you don't try to run, you can have your privacy." He offered her a meal of cheese or dried beef and a generous piece of bread. If they were beside a stream, they drank fresh water. If not, they drank weak ale from a cask. Afterward, John retied her hands and they were off again.

Eight evenings Grace watched the sun sink over rolling hills . . . or marshy lakes . . . or long stretches of cotton fields.

Eight nights she slept uneasily on the hard ground for a couple of hours. She couldn't even turn over, for one hand was always tied to a wagon wheel. Long before light, John Hull said, "It's time to go."

For eight entire days and nights, Grace's heart ached with despair.

As dawn broke on the ninth morning, Grace jerked awake from her dreams of swaying in a hammock aboard a ship sailing across the Atlantic Ocean to find that her wagon-prison was surrounded by water. It took her several minutes to realize what was happening. The oxen had pulled the wagon down into a fast-flowing river. Grace gasped and yanked at the ropes that held her. At the very same moment, the wagon lurched sharply to the left. The current grabbed hold and pushed the unwieldy wagon first one way, then tugged it around to the other.

"Put in!" John Hull called to the oxen.

As the beasts regained their footing, the wagon righted itself and the powerful oxen hauled the wagon on to the opposite shore.

On the tenth day, as the wagon lumbered down a country road no different from countless other country roads, as the sun grew warm just as it did every other day, John Hull suddenly called out, "Gee!" As one, the oxen turned to the right in their wooden yoke and headed up a narrow, rutted dirt road. The wagon pitched and jerked past neat, green fields, up to a whitewashed clapboard house.

"Whoa!" John called to the oxen. He climbed stiffly down off the wagon seat and gave his aching body a long, grateful stretch.

"I'm sorry," John said as he climbed into the back. He untied the knots at Grace's wrists one last time. "I truly am sorry."

Grace, every bit as stiff and sore as John, and bruised from the jostling ride besides, struggled to stand upright. John reached out his hand to help her down, but Grace sat on the edge and carefully let her painful body down alone.

"The house is nothing fancy, as you can see," John Hull said to his new slave. "You can cook over the fireplace. And you can wash the clothes in the washtub, of course, and do the garden work."

"You are my master," Grace answered in a voice of flat resignation."I will do as you say."

"Yes, I suppose I am," said John. "But, please, you need not call me master."

"Yes, sir," Grace said. "As you say . . . sir."

"I see," John said, although he did not see at all. "You would want for a place to put your things, I suppose."

"I have no things," Grace answered.

"Oh. Of course, that is so," John said hurriedly. "No, I can see that you do not. But a place to sleep, then. I have no slave house, you see, for I have no slaves."

"I can make myself a bed beside the fireplace in the kitchen," Grace offered.

John stretched himself again, long and hard.

"Charleston is a long way from Savannah," John said. "I do apologize for your discomfort on the trip."

Grace said nothing. How she longed to stretch out and sleep! But the sun was still high in the sky, so sleep, she knew, would be a long time coming.

"I should be about my work," John said, more to himself than to Grace, in the fashion of one who had lived too long alone. "I must need unpack the wagon and see after the oxen . . ."

"Shall I start the fire, sir? Shall I prepare your dinner?"

"Oh . . . yes, indeed!" John said. "That would be most kind of you. Please. . .let me know what you need."

Grace looked at her new owner with suspicion. She had never before seen a white man like him.

Cooking was not one of Grace's skills. In Africa, she had seldom had a reason to cook, though she had helped Mama Muco often enough. She certainly had not cooked at Missus Peete's house, nor at the Foundling Hospital. And not on the plantation, either. Which meant Grace was at a bit of a loss in John Hull's sparse kitchen.

She did find a bag of ground corn, however, so she stirred up a pot of porridge the way she had seen Mama do so many times. She went outside to the garden and picked an armload of greens to add to the porridge pot. Other interesting things grew in the garden, so she grabbed several handfuls of this and that to throw into the pot as well. A packet of salt lay on the table. Grace knew salt made everything taste good, so she added a generous amount to the pot and stirred everything together.

When Grace set the bowl of porridge and vegetables before her new master, she said apologetically, "Tomorrow I could kill a chicken and fry some bread for you, sir."

"This porridge looks mighty fine to me," John allowed.

John picked up his pewter spoon and spooned a generous bite into his mouth. A startled look crossed his face. He swallowed hard and coughed. He grabbed for his mug and drank down a long draught.

"The truth is, sir, I am not especially handy in the kitchen," Grace said. "I'm sure I can learn, but it's not something I know well."

"The porridge is fine, Grace," John said gently. "And even if it were not, I have been doing my own cooking all my life and I could keep right on doing it. I can wash my own clothes, too. And, as you can see, I do a goodly job of growing food in my garden. If you can help me out in these endeavors, I will be most grateful to you. But that's not why I purchased you."

Grace stared at him.

"Where is your bowl?" John asked. "Please, sit with me and eat."

"Oh, no, sir," Grace protested.

But John insisted. "Come, Grace. Ladle a bowl of porridge for yourself and sit down. Please."

Because John Hull was her master and he gave her an order, Grace obeyed . . . though hesitantly. She took her bowl to the far end of the table and sat down. She took a bite, and her eyes opened wide. She sputtered over the saltiness of the porridge.

"I am not a rich man," John Hull said as he continued to eat. "I am but a farmer who works alone on a small plot of land. I have chickens—you rode home with them and saw them running about in front. I have the two oxen that pulled the wagon—they also pull my plow in the fields— and I have four goats which I mainly use for milk. I grow hay and corn, and plenty of vegetables—mostly to sell. I would appreciate your work in the house. And if you choose to help me outside, I would appreciate that, too. But, as I said, that is not why I wanted you here."

"Why did you want me?" Grace asked.

"Because you can read."

"What?" Grace exclaimed. "No one wants a slave who can read!"

"I do," said John. "Because I want you to teach me."

Grace stared at him.

"But I have no book," she said. "I cannot teach you to read without a book."

John Hull pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to a rough-hewn wooden chest shoved back against the wall. He opened the top drawer and carefully took out a black leather-bound book.

"Here," he said as he carried it over to Grace. "We can use this."

"The Holy Bible!" Grace exclaimed. "Oh, yes, sir. This will do just fine."

John Hull regulated his days by the hours of daylight. He rose from his bed when the first shards of sun cracked through the darkness, and he didn't stop until it was too dark to see the plowed ground. At least, that had always been his practice.But so eager was he to get to his reading lessons that he groaned especially loudly over his painful back and made a great show of the weariness of the long trip. He allowed as it would do them both good to retire early.

Yet John did not go straight to bed after dinner as was his custom. Instead he stoked up the fire and said to Grace, "Show me the words."

In the beginning, God . . .

Those were the first four words Grace taught John Hull to identify.

In the beginning, God . . .

Grace guided him through the story of creation. Although she did most of the reading, she pointed out more words for him to identify:
the . . . and . . . was . . . Lord . . . it.
She read with him of the serpent in the garden, and the great sin of Adam and Eve. They read the stories of Cain and Abel, and Noah and the flood. With each story, Grace pointed out more words for John to identify.

When the fire burned low, John pulled out a treasured tallow candle. He stood it up in an iron candleholder and said, "More, Grace. Let us read a bit more."

They read of the tower of Babel, and of Abraham and his nephew Lot. They read of the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.

"
And the LORD said, If I find in Sodom fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare all the place for their sakes."
(John read all of these words except "righteous" and "Sodom.")

They read the stories of Isaac and of Jacob, and of all Jacob's children. And they read about Joseph—his adoring father, his wonderful coat of many colors, his brothers who hated him.

"Have we not read enough for tonight, sir?" Grace pleaded."Can we not stop and sleep?"

"Just a bit more," John said. "Just to the end of this story."

So they read on. They read of the two great injustices against Joseph—of his brothers who sold him into slavery and of Potiphar's wife whose false accusations landed him in prison. They read of Joseph's ability to interpret dreams, and of his promotion to a position of great power by Pharaoh. And they read of Joseph's starving brothers who came to beg him for food although they had absolutely no idea who he really was.

"Even so, it was not right," Grace said. "What happened to Joseph, I mean. He got a good position of power, and his brothers got the food they needed, but it was still horrible and unfair."

"Yes," said John Hull. "God did not undo the injustice done to Joseph. But God did use those wrongs to prevent something much worse from happening. Had Joseph not been in Egypt, the entire tribe of his family would have starved to death."

Grace closed her eyes and said, " 'But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.' "

"Yes, yes!" said John Hull. "That's it! Where does it say that?"

"Not until the very end of Genesis," Grace said. "Not until after Joseph's father Jacob is dead."

"Ah," said John. "It is often so, is it not? We cannot see the purpose in it all until the end."

"Joseph's brothers sold him to be a slave," Grace said softly."For almost his entire life, he had to live as a slave. Sometimes he was in prison and sometimes he lived well, but always he was still a slave."

"They meant it for evil, but God meant it for good," John said.

Grace set her jaw, and her face grew hard.

"You are thinking that it is easy for me to say such a thing because I am not the slave," John said.

Grace said nothing.

John took a faded red ribbon from inside the Bible cover.Carefully he laid it across the page to mark the place where they had stopped reading, and closed the Bible. He stood up and stretched himself, took the Bible to the wooden chest and replaced it in the drawer.

"Everyone who knows me, knows I cannot read," said John."So we must be careful to always put the Bible away. It would not do to have our project discovered."

Grace sat in silence.

John hesitated. "It doesn't mean that Joseph's slavery was just or that it was good," he said. "Only that God used it to bring about a good far larger than the wickedness thrust upon Joseph."

Still, Grace held her peace.

"God did not remove the curse from him," John said. "But he did redeem it. God did do that."

Grace stood up, her face still hard.

"Will you need me for anything else tonight, sir? If not, I ask your permission to make myself a bed beside the fireplace."

N
o longer did Monsieur Pierre Dulcet ride out to the tobacco fields to call Samson to accompany him to town.Instead, he sent word to his favorite slave the night before: Be ready at dawn, dressed in your
vêtements.
It meant that Samson was to put on his new white man's clothes—the trousers and jacket and boots Master Pierre had given him. Monsieur did not actually send for him at dawn, of course. Often, not until close to the noon hour. But Samson was to be ready at dawn, nevertheless—ready and waiting.

Sometimes Monsieur Dulcet had errands to attend to that required Samson's good shoulder and strong back. But more and more often he went straightaway to
le Coton Manoir.
Many times, as they rode up in the carriage, Monsieur Dulcet called out a happy "
Bonjour!"
to Jean-Claude, and Samson did not see his master again until late afternoon. Sometimes not even until after dark. On those days, Samson had nothing at all to do but sit and wait with the other slaves, who made themselves comfortable in the shade of the oak grove.

"I would rather work out in de field den lay in dese trees," Samson said.

"Dat be a fool thing to say," said Dutch. "Lay youself back in de cool of de trees . . . Dere, now. Dat much better den workin' de fields, ain't it?"

"It don't feel right to me," said Samson. "Feels like I's doing somethin' wrong and it's goin' to catch me."

Actually, Samson was doing something
right.
He was learning to be a savvy slave. In the shade of the oak trees, he listened as Dutch and Brister and the angry slave, whose name was Ruf, talked about slave rebellions and running away to freedom.

None of the talk seemed all that relevant to Samson until one particular day. The four slaves had all shed their white man's jackets and boots, and had stretched themselves out under the trees. Out of nowhere Brister commented, "My massa says he don't want to pay to use de cotton engine no more. He says he wants one of his own."

No one answered because none of the others knew anything about cotton engines, and none of them cared.

"We takes our cotton to Massa Waymon's plantation," Brister said. "He don't pay for his cotton engine 'cause one of his slaves made one for him."

"You know dat to be true?" Dutch asked.

"Shore enough I do," said Brister. "My massa wants me to make one for him, but I don't rightly know how."

Dutch looked at Brister's crossed eyes and laughed out loud."Did you tell him you can't even see straight?"

"If Caleb can make one . . ."

Samson didn't hear another word. He sat bolt upright.

"Caleb!" he demanded. "De slave dat done dat is named Caleb?"

"Yes," said Brister. "He be a big, black Negro. Like you."

"Is he lame?"

"Shore enough is," said Brister. "Has a bad leg."

Cabeto!
It had to be his brother, Cabeto! And Brister knew where he was.

That was the day Samson stopped thinking of himself as Samson and started to think of himself as Sunba again. From that day on, he watched for his chance, because that was the day he made up his mind to run away.

Samson was ready at dawn, dressed up in his white man's clothes and boots. He sat outside his cabin as he did every time Master Dulcet called for him, and he waited for massa to come. Samson waited throughout the morning. The sun reached its zenith, and he continued to wait.

It was well into the afternoon that Julien, Massa Pierre's white overseer, trotted toward Samson and called out, "
Viens ici!
Come at once!"

Master Dulcet had taken ill, Julien said. Master wanted Samson to walk to
le Coton Manoir
and carry a message to Jean-Claude.

"Best put this inside your shirt," Julien instructed. He gave Samson a folded-over letter, sealed with wax, and stamped with Monsieur Pierre's ring.

Julien looked up at the sun and frowned. "When the Charleston bells toll ten o'clock, all slaves must be off the streets," he said. He gave Samson another slip of paper. "Keep this in a safe place, and don't lose it. It's your written permission to be out after curfew. Master does not want you beaten and thrown into prison."

"Yes, sir," said Samson.

"If it should happen that you are detained in Charleston and it seems too late to start back, master says you are to sleep in Jean-Claude's oak grove and come back tomorrow in the daylight."

"Yes, sir," said Samson.

"Go, now! Take the message!"

"Yes, sir," said Samson. And he set off at a trot.

Samson ran with his eyes closed. To run blind and free in the fresh air—it took him back to his days in Africa, back to when he would run along the trails that crisscrossed the flat savanna. Samson continued to run until his breath came in great gasps and pants. He slowed down, but he didn't stop. It frustrated him that he could no longer do what he had done with so little effort in Africa.

The sun was low on the horizon when Samson approached the edges of Massa Jean-Claude's vast cotton fields, so he picked up his pace again.

A rush of gratitude flooded Samson when he finally saw the avenue of oaks that led to Jean-Claude's majestic brick house.Of course, he knew he was not welcome at the front, so he ran on around to the back, past the shade of oak trees where he had spent so many hours with Dutch and Brister and Ruf, waiting for his master. Samson ran straight on up to the back porch.

"
Salut!"
a young slave called out when she saw Samson.

"For your massa," Samson panted as he handed her the message Julien had given him from Monsieur Pierre.

A young slave girl brought a bowl of porridge and a large hunk of bread out to the porch for Samson. He told her he would sleep in the grove and leave early on the morrow. He hunkered down in the grove, in the spot usually reserved for Ruf, and ate the porridge. But he wrapped up the bread and tucked it into his shirt. The metal bowl he laid upside down on the ground.

Turn over a pot,
Ruf had said.
Dat sanctifies de ground and covers it with extra bravery and good fortune.

Samson ducked through the trees and sprinted back toward the road.

Massa Waymon's cotton plantation. That's where Brister said Caleb was. No, Samson would not call his brother Caleb.That's where
Cabeto
was. Samson would find him there and the two of them would run together to freedom.

"Stop right there, Negro!"

Samson froze. Two white men walked toward him, guns pointed at his head.

Beware of de slave patrols.
That's what else Ruf had said.

"What you doin' out alone in the middle of the night, darkie?" demanded a scruffy white man in dirty trousers and shirt.

Play innocent. Play dumb.
That's what Ruf said.

"Jist carryin' a important message for my massa," Samson said.

"Yeah?" said the scruffy white man. "You got a pass that says as much, does you?"

Play dumb.

"Don' know 'bout no pass, massa," said Samson. "Got's me a letter from me massa, is all."

"Gimme that letter," said the other white man, who more growled than talked. "You cain't even read!" He snatched the letter out of the scruffy one's hands and held it up close to his face.

Twenty lashes.
That's what Ruf said a slave caught without a proper pass would get. That's the first thing. After that, the slave would be dragged back to his master for still more punishment.

"Massa tell me to hurry, now," Samson said. "He be sick."

"What does the letter say?" Scruffy asked Growly.

Growly shook his head and shrugged.

"Go on," he said to Samson. "But you best get back there right quick."

"Yes, sir," said Samson. "Thank you, sir. I gits right on back to me massa now." And he took off at a run.

Because Samson wasn't expected back at the plantation until the following day, because he was so often away from the fields at his master's bidding, because Monsieur Pierre Dulcet was sick in bed with a raging fever, almost three days passed before he was discovered missing. Even then, when Julien took word of his disappearance to Master Dulcet, Pierre simply shook his head.

"Samson is worried about me, I have no doubt," Pierre said."I suspect he has slipped off into the woods, perhaps to say prayers for my recovery. He will return."

But Samson did not return. And so, although it pained him greatly to do so, Monsieur Dulcet sent for the slave hunters.They arrived on the fifth day of Samson's absence, whips and neck irons and leg irons clanking from their saddles. Their dogs howled and strained at the ropes.

Dem slave hunters. Dey de worstest of de worst.
Ruf had actually shuddered when he spoke of their hounds.

Samson traveled by the light of the moon and hid himself in the woods during the day.

The moon was high and he walked fast. He had not yet found his way to Macon Waymon's cotton plantation, but he was certain he was close. That's when he heard the first howl of the slave hunters' dogs. They were down the road behind him. Panic seized Samson. He dove off the road and into a field. The cotton plants, still small, offered him no shelter at all. He dropped to his hands and knees, but the howling came closer. So Samson jumped back up and tried to run through the soggy cotton field.

No matter how fast Samson ran, the howling grew louder . . . and closer. He could hear the clop, clop, clop of horses' hooves as they pounded on the road. His breath came in painful gasps. Then an iron hand reached out and grabbed him.

Samson lashed out with his good arm. He hit and kicked and growled in furious terror.

"Hush up and follow me!" a voice whispered in the dark."Hurry, now, or it be too late!"

It was a black man that had him by the arm. Another slave, it was. He pulled Samson toward a small cabin and shoved him inside.

"Slave catchers," Samson gasped. "Dey be . . . after me."

"I knows dat," said Juba. "You thinks I don't knows dat? Ever' slave around here be quakin' at de sound of dem howlin' dogs."

Juba slammed his cabin door closed. The lone cabin stood at the far edge of the cotton field, away from the main slave quarters.

"Quick," he said. "Git down here."