9
Death and Life Are in the Hands of the Lord

Later that night, Silas sat at the table in his cabin, poring over Pearl Avery’s copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel had been released the year before, and already, Pearl told him, had sold over three hundred thousand copies. No wonder people were up in arms about slavery. Yet here he was, on a slave plantation in Mississippi, and he had never seen the extreme horrors Stowe described in her book. Colonel Warren was firm—he believed in discipline. But he always made a point of boasting about how fair he was to his nigras, how well he treated them. Maybe Stowe had exaggerated the situation to make a point; or maybe there were just a few plantations—certainly not the majority—where slaves were treated with viciousness and cruelty.

But for all his rationalization, Silas could not rid his mind of images he had seen with his own eyes. Warren’s refusal to relieve Celie from her heavy duties during the final months of her pregnancy. The festering infection in Lily’s foot, which surely would have gone untreated had it been up to Robert Warren. The sneering overseer, Otis Tilson, who rode his horse through the fields, flailing his whip at any slave who seemed to be lagging behind. And most of all, the sad, haunted look that filled Booker’s countenance in unguarded moments, an expression that, for all the man’s hope and faith, communicated the unbearable burden of perpetual enslavement.

Silas laid the book aside and rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t at all what he had expected when he responded to Robert Warren’s invitation to come and serve as a physician in Cambridge County. He had always considered himself a moderate man, a man more interested in the wellness of the individual human being than in politics or social action. He was a healer, not an activist. Moral enigmas wearied his mind and confused his heart. And he hadn’t the faintest idea how to sort all this out.

“Massah Doctor!” Booker’s voice boomed through the closed door. “Massah Doctor!”

Instantly alert, Silas slung his coat around his shoulders, grabbed his medical bag, and threw the door open. “What’s wrong, Booker?”

“Massah Robert says to bring you up to the big house right now!”

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

“Naw suh. He jus’ says come, and quick!”

By the time they reached the circular driveway in front of the plantation house, a crowd had gathered—Olivia Warren, surrounded by a bevy of weeping house servants. One of the slaves, a light-skinned girl of perhaps seventeen, ran toward the buckboard pointing and shouting.

“They’s at the barn, Massah Doctor!” she screamed. “Hurry!”

Booker jerked the horses around and careened down the dirt road that led to the barn and stables. He pulled to a stop so fast it made Silas’s neck pop.

“Come on, come on!” someone called.

Dozens of slaves stood milling around the barn door, and Silas had to shove them aside to get in. When he finally entered, the scene spread out before him revolted him, and for a moment he thought he was going to retch.

There was blood everywhere.

A black man lay sprawled on his side in the straw, a big, muscular man with skin as dark as pitch. But that was as far as the identification went. His face, what was left of it, was beaten beyond recognition. His back and shoulders had been whipped to a bloody pulp, and his right foot was—well, gone.

Beside him stood Otis Tilson, the overseer, with a whip in one hand and a bloody ax in the other. Robert Warren stood to one side, his face averted, his skin pale as paper, even in the yellow light of the two lamps hanging from opposite stalls.

Silas ran to the man and knelt beside him. Puddled blood seeped into the knees of his trousers, and he felt the warm wetness oozing onto his skin.

“What happened here?” He craned his neck and looked up at Warren.

Otis Tilson answered. “Runaway,” he spat out, raising the ax as if that was all the explanation Silas needed. “Guess he ain’t gonna run no more.”

Silas jerked a pressure bandage out of his bag and applied it to the stump. The ax had severed an artery, and blood was pumping like a fountain. “He’s not going to do anything anymore,” he muttered.

Robert Warren came to life and grabbed Silas by the shoulder. “You’ve got to save him. He’s my best horse trainer.”

“Marcus?” Silas choked out. Marcus was Lily’s man, a big bear of a fellow with a kind and gentle soul. He would never have run away and left Lily alone.

“He weren’t runnin’,” one of the bystanders muttered.

Tilson stepped forward and raised his whip. “You keep your mouth shut, Nigger,” he snarled. “’Less you want double of what that boy got.”

“But he weren’t!” the young slave protested. “I saw it all. He was just disagreein’ with you about how to break that new stallion, and you lit into him.”

Warren moved closer to Tilson and narrowed his eyes. “Is that right, Otis?”

Tilson spat at the master’s feet. “He had it comin’. That buck’s been trouble since the day you bought him.”

“Shut up, both of you!” Silas snapped. “Get me a blanket.”

Warren motioned to one of the slaves, who retrieved a horse blanket from the tack room and spread it on the bloody straw. Gently, Silas turned Marcus over onto his back. “Hold that pressure bandage in place—tight!” The slave complied, turning his eyes away from the gushing of blood.

Marcus’s eyes fluttered open. “Massah Doctor?”

Silas knelt beside Marcus and cradled the man’s head in one arm. “I’m here, Marcus. I’m going to take care of you.”

Marcus shook his head slowly from side to side. “Ain’t no use, suh.”

“Don’t talk that way, Marcus. I need you to fight.” Tears sprang up in Silas’s eyes.

“I know it’s my time. I ain’t afraid.” His breath came in ragged gasps. “Tell Lily . . . I loves her.”

Then, with one final rattle as his last breath escaped, Marcus’s big head lolled against Silas’s shoulder.

Silas looked up. “You can let go of the bandage now,” he sighed. “It’s over.”

Colonel Warren, his eyes blazing with fury, moved toward Tilson until they were nose to nose. For a minute Silas thought that the master was going to kill the overseer, or at least fire him for this unnecessary cruelty. Instead, Warren said, “I paid a hundred dollars at auction for that buck, Otis. Don’t expect any salary until I get it back.”

Tilson was about to protest when a small Negro boy ran into the barn, panting and out of breath. For a minute he just stood there, his eyes wide and white as he took in the carnage, and then he pulled frantically on Silas’s bloody sleeve. “Massah Doctor, Middie says you gotta come now! Celie’s havin’ her baby!”

With the help of three other slaves, Booker wrapped Marcus’s body in the horse blanket and hurriedly loaded it into the buckboard. “Come on!” he yelled.

Silas started for the rig, but Otis Tilson’s hand grabbed his arm. He looked down at the filthy paw, brown with Marcus’s dried blood, and then up into the sneering face.

“Just a minute,” the overseer snapped. “You ain’t done yet.”

“Thanks to you, he’s dead,” Silas shot back. “My work here is finished.”

“Naw it ain’t. Remember why you was hired, sonny boy. I got this big boil”—he pointed to his backside—“and it really bothers me when I’m in the saddle.” He gave a leering grin, showing a mouthful of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

Silas narrowed his eyes, jerked the ax from Tilson’s hand, and threw it on the ground at his feet. “Lance it yourself,” he snapped. “And swing hard.”

Silas looked at his pocket watch. It was nearly four in the morning; Celie had been in labor for more than seven hours. The coolness of the night air came in on a breeze through the open window of the cabin. Still, sweat covered the girl’s body and fear filled her eyes.

“It’s going to be all right, Celie. Just hang on.” Silas had waited as long as he could, hoping the baby would turn, but to no avail. If he didn’t do something immediately, he might lose them both.

“Pearl, get up there beside her head and hold her hand.” Pearl moved into position, and Silas squatted between Celie’s knees. “I need the lamp closer.”

Middie moved the lamp to the floor beside Silas. “Now, Celie, your baby is coming out feet first. This is going to hurt, but I’m going to try to turn it so that it can be born headfirst. When the next contraction comes, don’t push, no matter what. Take shallow breaths—pant like a dog—but don’t push. All right?”

Celie nodded and gripped Pearl’s hand.

The contraction came. “I can see a foot!” Silas shouted. He reached in and slid his hand along the leg, gently pushing on the baby’s bottom to try and turn it around. In some far distant place, he could hear Middie praying and, even farther away, the sound of mourners singing: “I want to meet my Jesus. . . .”

Dear God, he pleaded silently, we’ve had enough death tonight.

Suddenly he felt a movement, an almost imperceptible shift, and the baby turned in the womb and righted itself. “All right, now, Celie, push!”

Celie pushed. The crown of a head appeared, covered with downy black hair. One shoulder, then the next, and—

“God, no,” Silas muttered under his breath. The infant’s face had a bluish cast, and the umbilical cord twined around its neck like a serpent. “Celie, stop pushing if you can.” He reached with trembling fingers and released the cord. “Now!”

The child—a boy—slid out into the lamplight, slippery as a river rock, and just as lifeless. As soon as he was free, Silas grabbed him by the ankles and swatted his bottom. Nothing. Frantic, Silas laid him on the blanket between Celie’s feet and cleared his mouth, then began compressing his tiny chest. A motion—a heave—and, finally, a squall loud enough to be heard all the way up to the big house.

Silas picked up the infant, cut and tied the cord, and wrapped him in a small blanket. “Atta boy.” He lifted his eyes toward the soot-stained beams of the cabin. “Thank you.”

Despite her exhaustion, Celie raised her head and laughed. “He all right, Doctah Silas?”

“He’s just fine,” Silas choked out. “Got a good set of lungs, once we got them working.”

Silas laid the baby on Celie’s chest and watched as she inspected him. “He’s beautiful,” she murmured. “But ain’t he a little pale?”

“He’ll get his color soon enough,” Silas assured her. “It takes a few days.”

“Tha’s right,” Middie confirmed, coming to kneel at Celie’s side. “You done real good, chile.”

Pearl got up and went to join Silas at the rough-hewn table. “He would have died,” she whispered. “Maybe both of them, if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“Sure you could have. The point is, I couldn’t have done it at all.”

“I prayed,” Silas admitted. “For the first time in ages, I really prayed.”

Pearl ran a hand through her hair and patted his shoulder. “We all did. And, wonder of wonders, God answered.”

Torches lit the slave cemetery with a wavering, eerie light and cast dancing shadows over the rustic grave markers. A sliver of moon sat high in the sky, and a stiff breeze stirred the cedars that stood in a circle around the clearing.

Silas stood next to Pearl Avery and tried to focus. It was difficult, with her so close. The warmth of her shoulder, touching his arm, penetrated through his jacket and kept him conscious of her nearness.

Shepherd, the slave preacher, was talking about resurrection, about the freedom that could come either through liberation or through death. In his low, singsong cadence, he continued:

“The Good Book says that all who live in righteousness will stand in the presence of the Lord.”

“Yes, amen!”

“And those who put their faith in God will nevah be disappointed.”

“Say on!”

“I say, those who put their faith in God will nevah be put to shame!”

“That’s right!”

“Those who put their faith in God will RISE to eternal life!”

“Amen!”

“Those who put their faith in God will forevah be FREE!”

As if on cue, someone began singing: “Soon I will be done with the troubles of the world, the troubles of the world, the troubles of the world. Soon I will be done with the troubles of the world, goin’ home to live with God. . . .”

The unfinished pine box was lowered into the hole, and Lily, still limping gingerly on her wounded foot, moved forward to drop a handful of dirt into the grave. Tears streaked her face and shone in the torchlight, but she held her head high and nodded with dignity to those who had come to mourn with her.

At last Booker stepped forward, holding his newborn son in his arms. He stood at the foot of the grave and held the child up for all to see. “Life and death is in the hands of the Lord,” he declared sagely. “One brother was goin’ out, even as another was comin’ in.”

“Hallelujah!” someone shouted. Silas thought it was Middie.

Booker pulled back the blanket and held the naked infant in his two big hands. He extended his arms and lifted the child over his head. The baby flailed his fists in the dim light.

“His name,” Booker said in a solemn voice, “will be Enoch. The one who done walked with God.”

“Enoch,” everyone repeated.

“May he have his mama’s goodness and his daddy’s strength,” Booker went on. “And may he live to see the day when all folks will be free at last.”

“Free at last,” the crowd echoed. “Free at last.”

Silas watched, and felt tears sting his eyes. When he looked down, Pearl Avery was holding his hand.