The Triumph of Grace (22 page)

No longer did Grace read to John Hull. As they progressed through the New Testament, he was able to read almost all of the text by himself. He read aloud to Grace, and she helped him when he needed her.

For by one Spirit are we all baptized into one body, whether we be Jews or Gentiles, whether we be bond or free. . . .

"Bond or free?" Grace asked. "That would mean, whether slaves or free men, would it not?"

"I suppose it would," said John.

He continued to read about the body of Christ, about the large parts and the small parts and how all are equally important.About how no part could be looked upon with less honor than any other.

Whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honored, all the members rejoice with it. Now ye are the body of Christ.

"All of us are parts of the very same body?" Grace asked."African slaves and free white men?"

"Well . . . I can't say that," John said. "I mean, this speaks about the persons that the Bible was written to . . ."

"Was it written to men in America?" Grace asked.

"Well, no . . ."

"Or in England?"

"No. But . . ."

Grace's dark eyes flashed. "My Mama Muco had a Holy Bible," she said. "Mama said it is not about the God of the white man. She said it is about the true God of all people. Just like the words you read: All together. No one greater and no one less. All equal parts of one body."

"Well, I . . ." John stammered, "Maybe it is not for us to know, you see. Maybe . . . that is, it could be that . . ."

But Grace had stopped listening. She stood up from the table. "I don't want to read any more," she said. "Whip me if you will, but I don't want to read any more."

"Grace—"

"You don't need me to teach you any longer, sir," Grace said. "You have learned well. You can read for yourself."

"Please, Grace," John said. "I still need you to help me."

"No," Grace said. "I will cook and I will clean and I will work in the garden and take care of the animals. I will do whatever you tell me to do, except this one thing. I will not read any more."

John Hull put the faded red ribbon in the page marked "First Corinthians, chapter twelve." He closed the Bible and put it away in the drawer.

"Grace," he said. "I will tell you now what I did not intend to tell you until later. When you finish teaching me, so that I can read the entire Bible for myself . . . then I will no longer keep you as my slave. I will give you your freedom."

W
hite men didn't go deep into the black swamp, where duckweed covered the murky water like a green carpet. White men didn't, and black men didn't, either. But Samson did.Samson knew that swamp.

That's not to say he had no fear of it. He most assuredly did.The fact was, he feared it all the more because he
did
know it. Snakes with poison in their mouths swam in those waters.Alligators slipped in and made themselves to look like innocent logs of wood as they waited to clamp their jaws down on something fresh and juicy.

"You be my friends," Samson said to the snakes and alligators."You be my friends because you scare de slave catchers away from me. And you scare away dem dogs dey have with dem, too."

But, as Ruf said, the slave catchers would not give up easily.Especially not after they found one of their own sprawled across the road with his neck broken. And not after Massa Pierre Dulcet raised the reward for Samson's capture to one hundred fifty dollars.

Samson did not dare allow himself to rest. He waded into the swamp water, dodged the snakes and kept his eyes open for logs with alligator eyes. Deeper and deeper into the swamp he pressed.

How long ago was it that Massa Silas had bought him and his brother Cabeto from the slave ship? How long since Massa Silas had forced him to work in that very swamp? Back then, Samson had thought he would surely die there.Certainly that's what Massa Silas intended for him. But Samson did not die. And it just might be that by sending him to work in the swamp, Massa Silas had saved his life this day. Because Samson remembered the swamp. If he went far enough . . .

From the corner of his eye, Samson caught a glimpse of a snake swimming toward him, its nose stuck up out of the water. A narrow wake trailed behind. In a flash, Samson leaped to the side. But his foot hit against a tree stump, and he tripped and fell directly into the snake's path. Samson pushed out in front of him with his lame arm, right in front of the . . . turtle? Yees! It was just a yellow-bellied turtle!

Samson laughed out loud.

That's when he saw what he had been searching for—a small rise, hidden behind a clutch of cypress trees in the water.A tiny island, barely large enough to hold a shelter. Just the right size for a hiding place.

The sun was already low in the sky. For the rest of the afternoon, Samson hauled up dead wood, remains from the swamp's cypress trees. He also grabbed a few large palmetto leaves he found floating on the water. There wasn't much, but enough to piece together a small lean-to. Enough to give him protection from the sun and rain, and also from any potential eyes that might wish to pry.

Samson stood beside his new shelter and gazed out across the swamp. In the moonlight, he could see nothing but ghostly cypress stumps jutting up out of the black water. An owl called from somewhere overhead. Samson shivered in spite of himself.

"Trees, dey be," Samson said to no one, because no one was there except him. "But for all de world dey looks to be hunched-over slave catchers."

Samson stood on the edge of his now familiar swamp home and cast his fish net out into the water. At the beginning of his stay, he had knit the net together from the fronds of a palmetto tree in the same manner as he had seen village men do in Africa. He caught fish and turtles in that net, enough to keep his belly filled. He ate tender young fern shoots, too, and now and then he discovered a duck's nest and had himself a couple of eggs.

"So much water," Samson said out loud. "Everywhere I looks, dere be water. But if it don't rain, dere be no water good enough for me to drink. I's thirsty from de top of my head to de bottom of my feet."

How long had Samson been in the swamp? Weeks? It seemed like months. But he could no longer remember. What he did know was that he was hungry for real food and thirsty for fresh water.

"And I ain't getting nowhere else when I sits here," he said.

Maybe the slave catchers had stopped their search for him. Maybe Massa Dulcet had found another slave to go along with him to Jean-Claude's
Le Coton Manoir.
Maybe someone else sat all day under the oak trees and listened to Dutch and Brister talk, and Ruf plot out a slave rebellion.

Maybe it was time for Samson to leave the swamp and find his brother.

Samson stepped his dripping wet feet out of the black water swamp and onto the dry bank. He gazed up at the pale shaft of moonlight that shone through the trees and moved on toward the road. He took care to stay back so as not to be seen by anyone who might be out at that hour. The brush was not thick there, though. He would need a safer place to hide before the break of day.

At first, Samson stayed well back from the road. But as the night wore on, he hugged it more closely, keeping his eye out for a place to take shelter come daybreak. Or maybe for another slave. Another slave might help him. Or another slave might turn him in. The truth was, he could not afford to trust anyone.

Samson spied a small farmhouse, dark and closed up for the night. What actually caught his eye was a well house over to the side of the main house. His body cried for a long drink of fresh water. Carefully, cautiously, Samson crept up to the well and drew out a full bucket of water. He drank the entire bucketful without stopping to take a breath.

His thirst quenched, Samson suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He looked about for a haystack to hide under, but found none. What he did see was a weathered wooden door, flat against the ground. He grabbed the metal hook and pulled the door open. It led to a root cellar—just a dark hole in the ground scattered with the remains of last season's sprouted potatoes and withered apples. He crept inside and hunkered down, and pulled the door shut behind him. He ate an apple, made himself as comfortable as the hole would allow, and fell asleep.

It's hard to judge the passage of time in a dark hole in the ground, but when Samson awoke, he could hear muffled voices outside. At times, men called out to one another, and at other times, the cadence of slaves sung out a work rhythm.Samson dozed, but awoke again with a start. He listened hard.But nothing seemed to be amiss, so he laid his head back and dozed some more.

Sharp sounds directly over his head reawakened Samson with a start. As the noises began to fade away, the door to his hiding place suddenly jerked open. A shaft of light flooded the cellar and blinded him. Samson leaped to his haunches, like a leopard ready to pounce. Someone gasped, and the door slammed shut.

Samson waited, his heart pounding. He stayed in his readyto-pounce position as long as he could, but finally his muscles ached so badly he had to relax.

"Who's dere?" Samson growled in the most threatening voice he could manage.

No answer.

Because he had no other choice, Samson sat back down on the dirt and waited.

After what seemed like an interminably long time, the door opened again. This time, no shaft of light came through.

"I brung you somethin' to eat."

The voice was soft. A woman's voice.

"You best leave tonight. If Massa find you, he skin you alive."

"Thank you kindly," Samson said as he reached out for the food. "Can you tell me, is Massa Waymon's plantation nearby?"

"I don't know of no Massa Waymon," the voice said. "Dis be Massa Flume's land. If'n he catches you, he'll whip the hide clean off your back!"

"Thank you for de food," Samson said again. "I's obliged to you."

But the door closed again before he finished talking.

Samson waited another hour, maybe two. He ate another withered apple. Finally he pushed the door open and cautiously climbed out. Before him lay a field almost knee-high in new growth. Samson ducked down low and loped across it toward the road.

What made it especially difficult for Samson was that he had no real plan. Suppose he did find Massa Waymon's plantation.What would he do then? He couldn't simply walk into the slave quarters and ask for his brother.

It could be that he wouldn't even make it that far, that Massa Dulcet's patrols were waiting for him on the road. But even if he did make it, and even if he found Cabeto, how would the two of them get away?

These matters certainly concerned Samson. Still, they didn't concern him as much as doing nothing at all. So, despite his fears, he continued to press on. He ran at night in the general direction Brister had indicated, and as daybreak grew near, he looked for a place to hide.

Early one morning, a sharp hay fork poked Samson out from under a haystack where he had found refuge for the night. He took one look at the astounded white man who wielded the fork and took off at a run.

"I am a Quaker!" the man called after him. "Thou art most welcome to take whatever thou findest here, and may God go with thee!"

Samson did not get far that day. The road was clogged with white men on horses. In desperation, he ran back to the Quaker's house, and for the next three days he slept under his haystack and ate his food.