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Mighty to Save

By Caryl McAdoo

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Chapter One



Short of the door, Evelyn paused. “Dear Lord, could she be a little bit better today? For sure and for certain, please don’t let her die.” Filling her lungs, she marched into the hospital room then stopped cold.
An elderly black woman sipped from a steaming porcelain cup. She sat next to a freshly made crisp, empty bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I must have the wrong room.”
The lady glanced over and smiled. “You Evelyn Nightingale, dear?”
How could she know her name?
“Why, yes, ma’am. I’m here to visit Miss Ann. Where is she? I hope she didn’t . . .”
“Why, Ann Lacy’s gone home, dear.”
But . . . She’d had such faith. No doubt. She’d been so certain. Her heart sank. “Home . . . as in Heaven?”
"No, no, not at all, sugar. The world wouldn't be as bright without Ann Lacy Ellison in it. I mean home to her house." Setting her cup into its saucer, the lady extended her hand. "I'm Pearl, dear. Pearl Harris.”
“Nice to meet you. What a blessing! She’s home?”
“Well, it is my pleasure to meet you, Evelyn. I've heard so much about you, honey."
The sweet, faint fragrance of rosewater wafted with the woman’s movement. She took the woman’s offering in her left hand then covered it with her right. “So what happened, Miss Pearl? Miss Ann was still so sick just yesterday.”
“A miracle, that’s what.” The elder lady laughed. “Why, that precious sister-in-the-Lord left this place healthy as a horse. Practically skipped out.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“I can’t do much these days, but I can still sit the sick of an evening. Me and Ann, we go way back. Been friends more than forty years, and she told me all about you praying for her and anointing those nasty ol’ boils with oil.”
“I couldn’t imagine having something so horrible.”
“Yes, ma’am, I hear you. Ann shared with me how you asked the Lord to heal her just like He did when Isaiah prayed for King Hezekiah.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was my honor. And He gave me faith to believe He would heal her.”
"Well, He sure did that! Dried up all those sores. All that poison—gone! Doc called it unorthodox. Far as I'm concerned, though, nothing short of a miracle."
A warmth swept over Evelyn then seeped deep into her soul. “Hallelujah! The Lord is mighty to save.” Tears welled, ushering in a sob that about choked her. She sniffed, wiping her cheeks.
“Indeed.”
“He’s so good. Mercy! Miss Ellison was so sick and . . .” Evelyn laughed. “I thought . . . why me, Lord? It’s Nathaniel—my husband’s the Reverend Nightingale, you may have heard of him—anyway, He has the gift of healing, not me.”
“Of course I’ve heard of him and all the wonderful miracles following his ministry.”
With her chin tilted up and her eyes closed, she prayed. “Keep my beloved safe.”
Miss Pearl’s stirring opened her eyes. The lady stared into the windows of her soul. “Join me, please, Evelyn. I’ve a favor to ask.”
Retrieving the room’s other straight-backed visitor’s chair, she set it across from her new friend. God was indeed good! “A favor? If I can, of course.”
“It’s my grandson, John Harris. He’s serving in Captain Carpenter’s ‘A’ Company. I’m hoping you’ll agree to write your husband and ask him to look in on my boy some. John Robert—well, his mama was a Cambleite, and we Harrises always worshiped with the Methodist, but . . . denominations aside—"
“Cambleite?”
“Church of Christ, dear. You’ve never heard it called such?”
"No, ma'am." She grinned. She'd heard of the staunch beliefs of the Church of Christ folks but never heard them called that.
“Well, you see dear, I’m not sure about the well-being of John’s soul. And with him being so far off . . . way over there in France and the war . . .”
“Consider it done, Miss Pearl. I’ll write him this evening and post it tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. That’s simply wonderful. And Ann tells me you’re May Meriwether’s granddaughter, too? She must have been such a blessing to you growing up.”
“Yes, ma’am. MayMee was a wonderful grandma; the only one I ever had, so I loved her extra special.”
“She helped you write Gray Lady Down, didn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, she wrote the first half or more, and I helped her, then it ended up that I finished it after she passed on to glory.”
“Well, I could not tell you where she stopped and you started for the life of me. Yes, ma’am. You’ve definitely got her way with words. Always thought my life would make an interesting story for folks to read . . . how a slave girl became a queen.”
Of their own, Evelyn’s writer’s juices heightened and flowed with an innate interest. She smiled. “A queen?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. My Julius was a king, all right. That made me his queen. I started life as a slave. He was my young master, except he never treated me that way. Now, his granddaddy? That mean ol’ buzzard sold me off for spite.”
“Oh my.”
“ ’Course, he loved the gold, too. But he hated Julius treating me like a friend, that’s what it was all about.”
“How awful. How old were you when you got sold?”
“Fourteen—could have been fifteen. It was right before the war.”
Intriguing. Evelyn had four works in progress but wasn't in love with any of them. Movement stopped her thoughts and pulled her attention toward the door.
A nurse stopped inside the room, grinning. “Isn’t it wonderful about Mis’ess Ellison? We were thinking maybe you might pray for some of our other patients.”
“Of course.” Evelyn stood then extended her hand. “Care to join me, Miss Pearl?”



Pearl prayed with the young lady for those who the nurse said requested a visit, but no miracles ensued, at least not any instant ones. Maybe by the next morning . . . like Ann . . . Poor Evelyn.
Apparent disappointment stole the sparkle from her eyes. Perhaps the girl’s regret even equaled her own. In the hall after the last supplicant, Pearl slipped her hand into Evelyn’s.
“Coffee? The café across the street makes a delicious buttermilk pie.”
She glanced at the big clock hanging in the hall then nodded. “Sure, I’ve still got time; and especially yes if you promise to tell me about getting sold. I can’t even begin to imagine such a horror.”
“I’d love nothing better. Truly was a horrible day.”
Took her half a piece of lemon meringue pie and two cups of black coffee to get to that heinous day, but to the dear girl’s credit, Evelyn didn’t try to rush the story, like most.
“So anyway, I’m helping boil the wash, stirring the clothes with a big paddle. That’s when old man Harris came around the big house with a rough-looking white trash of a man. Two giant slaves flanked him.”
“Oh dear.”
“My Julius was upstairs reading. I know, on account that’s what he always did until my chores were finished.”Pearl winked. “Plus he told me what happened that terrible day.”



A muffled scream wove itself into the Latin text that passed before Jules’ eyes. The Roman General, in his scarlet cloak, galloped into the breach.
A naked wail pulled him from the great man’s narrative. He rushed to the balcony’s rail, shielding his eyes from the sun’s brightness.
Two Negroes, both bigger than any his grandfather owned, dragged his Pearl toward a wagon full of manacled darkies.
He flew from his room and down the stairs. His mother stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her bosom. Her eyes, set hard as granite, stopped him cold.
“Get out of my way.”
“Go back to your room, Jules.”
Tears formed. She was worse than her father. Without another word, he pushed past her and sprinted toward the side yard.
His maternal grandfather and a man he’d never seen before stood by the wagon’s team and chatted while the larger of the Negroes lifted his love toward the waiting hands of a catcher in the wagon.
She kicked and struggled like he’d never seen her fight.
Fifteen paces from his goal, the old man turned toward him. “Jules, no.” He held up a hand as if that’d be ample to stop him. Jules swerved out of his reach and launched himself toward Pearl’s abductor.
His shoulder caught the giant in the back and knocked him against the sideboard. The man dropped her, and she scrambled under the wagon. Jules righted himself, raised both fists, then faced his grandfather.
No one moved.
The old man pulled out his pocket watch and studied it a moment. “Well, boy, you’ve got more spunk than I figured, but you’re a fool if you think you can keep me from selling that nigger.”
Maybe he was a fool, but what did it matter? He loved her, loved her with everything in him. Right or wrong, whatever anyone said, he loved her. “Then sell her to me. I’ve got money.”
A haughty chuckle boiled Jules’ blood.
“No, boy, I own you and the few dollars your worthless pappy left. Now quit your foolishness and get back to the house.”
The tears returned and trickled down his cheeks. “You best kill me then. I’ll not let her go.” He moved his fists in tight, daring circles.
His grandfather threw a nod over Jules' shoulder. Vice-like hands grabbed him from above, lifted him into the wagon, then pinned both his arms with a bear hug.
Quick as a cat, the giant dropped to one knee and pulled Pearl from under the buckboard. Amidst her wails, he yanked her around to the back of the wagon.
Jules stomped the heel of his boot onto the bare foot of the black man holding him, then wiggled a hand free. He spun around and flailed at his holder.
The field hands already in the wagon shied back.
Their chains clanged against the wooden floorboard. Ignoring what had to be broken bones in his foot, the slave trader’s man grabbed his hand mid-air then turned him toward the back of the wagon.
“She be bought and paid for. Ussins aim to take her, so best stop your fighting ’fore I’s hurts ya.”
The words—whispered into Jules’ ear—chilled him to the bone. Not because he feared the man, but because he spoke the truth.
Pearl swung her outstretched arms and legs wildly and screamed like she’d been burnt with a whiskey rod, but the giant chained each ankle as though her blows and bellowing were an everyday affair.
The man holding Jules picked him up then jumped off the wagon. He landed on his feet like he did that every day, too, and twice on Sundays.
Then without word or warning, he rolled Jules to the ground face down and held him there with his bare foot.
“Don’t you dare hurt him,” Jules’ mother yelled.
Pearl’s wails turned to resigned sobs. The old man’s leather sole replaced the barefoot and pressed hard against Jules’ back. Too soon, wood creaked and leather slapped horse hide. He raised his head as much as he could.
The wagon pulled away with Pearl flanked by field hands and house servants.
She strained against her shackles and held out her arms. “Save me, Jules!”
Oh, Pearl. His sweet Pearl. He pushed against the weight on his back.
“Hold still, boy.” The old man’s voice held no compassion.
“Let me up.” Jules struggled more and pushed harder, but the pressure only increased. Rustling petticoats grew nearer, then his mother’s small hands on his cheek drained some of his fight.
“For goodness sake, let him up, Father.”
The boot lifted. Jules struggled to his knees. She wrapped her arms around his shoulder and bent to his ear. “Don’t do anything stupid, Son. That girl is not worth it.”
He glared. “Not worth it? How can you say that? Pearl’s worth everything to me. I love her, Mother.”
She reeled back, obviously cut by his words. "Good heavens above, Son. Don't you ever say a thing like that! Why . . . Why . . . you couldn't. You can't. Even though her skin is light, she's still just a Nigra." She moved toward him, but Jules stood and stepped backward.
“Son, you’re only seventeen. I know you’ve known little Pearl long as you can remember, and it’s wholly understandable to . . . to . . . care for her. Yes, you may certainly care for the girl. There’s nothing wrong with caring. Why, for instance, take my Pal.”
“Your dog?”
“Yes. I cared so very much for that beautiful collie that when he died, I thought I would cry myself dry. But love? Son, you don’t know what that is.”
How could Jules respond? How could she compare Pearl to a dog? She was the one who didn’t know about love. Only married his father for his cattle to save the plantation and keep it in the family.
The old man, now surrounded by his overseer and a trio of Live Oaks’ field hands, shook his head. “Enough of this nonsense, boy. Get to your room ’fore we put you there.”
The wagon made the corner at the bottom of the hill where the big house sat. Jules could barely make out her ivory skin in the sea of ebony.
At least there seemed no further struggle. She must be so scared, but smart enough to have realized, there was nothing more to do. At least for the moment.
“Curse you, old man. If my father was still alive—”
The back of his grandfather’s hand smashed into Jules’ mouth. He reeled.
“Well, he ain’t, and you will do what I say. Now get to your room and stay there.”
Jules’ fists clinched, but a physical contest with the heartless brute, even if he got in the first lick, would be like a fight between a mountain lion and a house cat. He stepped away then turned and ran to his room like a whipped piccaninny.



Evelyn waited for more of the story, but the old woman looked off like she had lost herself in her past. “Miss Pearl?”
The ex-slave focused then smiled. “Where was I?”
“For sure and for certain, I want to hear the rest of this story. And I’d love to write it—if you’ll let me, that is. But I’ve got to go right now. When can we get together again?”
The lady’s lips spread wide, erasing half the wrinkles of her cream-colored skin. “Child, I’d love nothing better than to see my and Jules’ story in print. Let’s visit next when it’s best for you. Other than sitting with the sick, I’m free.”
She stood and extended her hand. “Tomorrow then. Is noon good? We can talk over dinner—my treat.”
“Yes, ma’am. Noon it is.”
Evelyn paid the check then hurried out. Bless the Lord! What a well-named gem the Lord sent her in Miss Pearl.
Could tomorrow come soon enough?

 

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