The Watchman's Grace

by Craig Johnson

  His eyes had scarcely focused on the meeting spot when he noticed two things. First, a solid moveable stage had been put in place beside a notice pole. Second, one middle aged White man stood atop this new roost. Fortune glanced at his pocket watch, noting the punctuality of these proceedings. It was ten o’clock spot on.

  It appeared this man would conduct alone. His clothing was not garish. He wore the simple white garment of one not taken to showy oration. Soft cotton material was crowned with a stiff crimson collar. His light, cream hued trousers were a weave of soft linen, billowing gently in the summer breeze. Here appeared a person taken to simple detail in his clothing, in line with the dress of a lay preacher.

  Observing further, one noted certain peculiarities in this stranger. He certainly was not handsome, but nonetheless held an undeniable magnetism in his demeanor. Confidence radiated from the round fleshy borders of his visage. Years of hard won experience nestled in crinkled lines around searching eyes. He was of average height and build, though a slight paunch indicated a penchant for good meals. At that moment he raised both arms to address his audience.

  “Greetings ladies and gentlemen,” he roared from his perch. “I’m so glad you availed of today’s opportunity. Saturday is a busy time for tending chores and family matters, so I promise your attendance will not be in waste. Without further ado I shall begin.

  “Life came to me like an angry serpent striking from a concealed vase. From the horrid circumstances of my unplanned birth to the precarious life of an itinerant existence, good luck was never a companion. On becoming a vulnerable adult, there was no security to be had.

  “You see, I too paid the price of subjugation. People despised me and my shabby appearance. I was an outcast in my own land! Eventually, demons inside my head led me to the destructive mouth of vile drink. Now I was truly oppressed.” The orator cast his forlorn face skywards as beseeching eyes sought forgiveness. Then he continued his tale.

  “Alas, one day close to my end on this earth, a kind stranger made it their mission to heal me. Through his persistent, patient help, this wreck of a man was made whole. You can imagine how I was deeply indebted! Despite my best pledge to pay back my appreciation, he would accept nothing, save two things.

  “First I was told to go forth and spread the message of the Lord. Second, I was to find those less fortunate that could benefit from the help of strangers. I was to pay my gratitude in the same way he saved me.

  “In keeping my promise, not only did I seek the message, though revealed it to others. And I’ve helped many, which is why I am here today.” He paused for effect, casting a sweeping gaze at an audience which had attracted more curious onlookers.

  “Yes, people of Color, you have been the reluctant inheritor of much vile hatred! You’re the vanquished whom have no equal rights in a land so different from where you came. I see in your daily struggle to survive a mirror image of the destitution once visited upon me.

  “But now I’ve come to continue fulfilling my promise to that savior of mine from time past. Today I am here to give people of Color salvation!” His last sentence was yelled to maximum effect from the six foot high show stand.

  “This is a man of the cloth, here to give you comfort and hope when others would give you nothing! Let your eyes follow my hand.” In a grand sweeping motion, he passed everyone’s attention to a large side table, laden with baked goods.

  “Take these few loaves of bread as a symbol of the bounty you will receive when you join with me. My congregation knows no color, just the word of the Lord.” Again a steady flourish of an open hand directed starving eyes to another table laden with perhaps ten dozen loaves of fresh baked bread. “I am a provider of nourishment when others heap your stomach with strife!”

  This man’s inner will radiated such a captivating energy that all became mesmerized in its glare. But not everyone was moved by his impassioned words. Within minutes, an angry outcry filled the silence of momentary awe.

  “Where is he!” wailed a loud, exasperated voice from the pulsing throng. “Who is this light that wants to atone for the hell in America’s plantations? I deserve to know! Can you grant salvation from my pain?”

  At that instant the irate man dropped his denim shirt, revealing a mangled mass of black, hardened scars. An awkward gasp flung forth from the gathered. If today was to be a dawn of healing, this incident appeared a nervy challenge. No bread for the stomach would suffice this man.

  The orator remained calm during this verbal onslaught. After a moment of silent contemplation, he replied against the hissing backdrop of heightened whispers.

  “Say your name, man. I repeat, what is your name? And where did you suffer such hideous crimes. Say it to me, and relieve some of that awful burden!”

  For an instant the shouter glared back at the lay preacher. Then he furnished a cautious reply.

  “They call me Solomon. The name given to me was Solomon Jones. And you asked who did this to me? That would be Roderick Jones, owner of Sweet Magnolia Plantation in Alabama. We called that devil Strap! I imagine you can see why.

  “So tell me how you’re gonna give me hope, when all the justice I’ve known from people like you came from a hard leather whip! You tell me, Mr. Preacher. Is there more to offer us than bread and words?” Solomon ended with a disgusted swipe towards the two tables.

  “Well son, I cannot offer you revenge, if that’s what you want. The gospel preaches that vengeance is reserved for the Lord, and not mere mortals. Having said that, I cannot easily accept what has been done to you and others like you.

  “Though I am here today Solomon, with all the help that I can summon from my soul. It may have been evil that brought those brutal beatings to your back, though it is fate that has made you come to me for healing. That much I know.”

  Solomon lowered his guard a little. “And what is your name, Mr. Preacher Man?”

  “I’ve been asked my name by this good man in front of me,” informed the preacher. “It is Simmons. Please call me Preacher Simmons. You can call upon me at any time, whatever the need! But today I have come to talk about something greater than giving food for your bellies. Something which is as important as can be in these times.”

  Now the preacher’s voice rose in fevered pitch. “I’ve come to offer an opportunity to those that seek a better future. People of Color with true vision can reap their just reward today! My notice said: “Your future wellbeing depends upon attending this most critical event.” And what I’m about to say will hold those words true. Do you want to hear more?”

  The crowd’s buzzing increased with these stirring words. An anonymous smoky voice bellowed back a reply to the orator’s urging words.

  “We’re all ears Preacher Man. Cut to the chase! Just what in Sam Hell do you have for us?”

  “My name is Preacher Simmons,” replied the gowned stage man as he stepped down from his makeshift pulpit. “You’ve all been hurting for far too long. I came here today to heal those hurts. Do you want to see what I carry in my gentle hands of justice? Or perhaps you feel you don’t deserve better? I am here to uplift all of you that wish to be saved from past torments. Trust me, what I’m about to offer will taste as sweet as honey, sweet enough to coat over any thoughts of vengeance.”

  Preacher Simmons allowed these impassioned words a chance to settle in the minds of his audience. Such emotional riddles were producing their desired effect. Now the gathering grew as initial skepticism gave way to beckoning promise.

  Surveying the crowd, Preacher Simmons witnessed a common theme in all those faces before him. To a person they yearned for a new beginning laced with hope. Each one harbored a deep belief in the unseen benefits of future promise.

  Yet in his pragmatic convictions, the preacher knew this passion could only take his Colored audience so far. The weather was cooler than the Deep South, and their reception less overtly hostile. Though Whites
here had the same kernel of hate seeded within. Suddenly, Preacher Simmons continued in full bravado.

  “My Colored brethren, today I say to hell with slave masters and their whole damned lot! Their corruption causes me great agony. Their unnatural separation of people destroys all the principles our Creator holds dear. They make a mockery of man, and thus a mockery of God. I will not tolerate it!

  “I will set forth a course which will lead to salvation. And today, since you all had the good chance to hear my words, let me tell you what it is.”

  After pausing to regain his velocity, Preacher Simmons resumed. “You all know nothing about me. And you would be right to doubt the words of any stranger, especially if they promised something for nothing. I know it’s impossible to right all the wrongs each of you experienced. But today it is in my hands to offer more than idle words. For today I am offering a real escape to a better life!”

  One did not have to feel the pulsing hearts of numerous men and women to notice a sudden quickening to their pace. This precious word escape conjured various meanings for this crowd. The very presence of many gathered this day resulted from taking escape at its definition to achieve liberty. For this unknown preacher to use such a charged word elicited varied responses. So after more heightened chatter, Preacher Simmons broke the air of anticipation.

  “You do not have to wait for salvation in the sky while others enjoy full rights and freedoms here on earth! Today I have been enabled to satisfy an escape to a better life by patrons here on earth. We want to atone for the sins of our fellow White brethren. It is through gracious generosity I am able to offer a real chance for anyone willing to take it!”

  Soon the sound of excitement became a steady hum. Preacher Simmons’s broad face glowed with the aura of an empowered benefactor, armed with means to cure all ills. When he prepared to deliver the key message of his meeting, an elderly lady slowly approached. This smartly dressed woman of meek build ambled towards Preacher Simmons’s pulpit in a measured gait. Drawing within a couple of feet of his platform, she stopped and prepared to speak.

  “Good day to you Preacher Simmons. Those are fine words you have spoken. Could you do me a favor preacher? Can you reach out and feel these hands?” The lady came closer, making available her right hand.

  Taken aback at first, he moved to the edge of the stage. Bending down, he reached out his left arm to touch the glowing bronze skin of this aged woman. Once he had felt her hand, she continued.

  “You just touched a hand worn by fifty-five years of bondage in the United States. I had the blessed fate of coming to this land with British subjects, who in their atonement set me free upon arrival here.

  “I witnessed plenty in my time on this wicked earth, including strange men spinning tall tales of a bright grove just beyond in a distant horizon. Oh yes, I can read and write, because my former household defied dangerous laws, allowing most of us that dearest gift.

  “My question to you Preacher Simmons is what reward you seek from our despair? Why did you really come here? It is my experience that with a quick sleight of hand the devil promises sudden profit and no issue. Yet he always exacts harsher terms when he gets his due. Do you understand me Preacher Simmons?”

  It would be an understatement to say the lay clergyman was shocked by such eloquent words from this elderly Colored woman. Her reasoning spoke volumes about the solid constitution of her character. Moreover, she looked him straight in the eye while espousing her thoughts. Everyone who lived in the heart of the oppressive American slave states knew this practice was discouraged outright. Gathering his composure, Simmons responded.

  “Madam, I am humbled by your frank words. The world needs many more people of good reasoning. Though there is no need to be in the least suspicious of my intentions.”

  He then pointed to his outfit. “I wear this armor of righteousness as one with my own flesh. I shield my truth in the dignity of my position. And if these words I speak are false, so shall my very presence on this earth vanish for all time! My apologies, but I do not know your name?”

  By now an increasing number of the assembled halted their rumblings to witness this interaction. At first people did not understand what was taking place. Gradually their interest heightened when they familiarized themselves with the context of conversation.

  “My name is Cora; you can address me as such. My concern is that your talk is like the perfume of an indiscreet lady. Both are used to cover real and unseen displeasures.

  “My conscious was formed from centuries of communal help and mutual respect across the Atlantic in West Africa. These concepts are not held dear enough in America’s States. Their actions are based on barely a couple of centuries of moral guile.

  “Did they not seek shelter from persecution in their Mother Lands? Did they not write a Constitution claiming all men are equal? Oh yes, the truth is too blinding in the reality of day. So make no mistake Preacher Simmons, this mind is sharp and willing!”

  Leaving Preacher Simmons with mouth agape, Cora mounted the pulpit. Turning to the crowd with raised voice, she began speaking to an incredulous audience.

  “Many of you gathered today have seen me in these parts for years. I place no comfort in sweet words of idle fancy. I try to judge a person by the merit of their actions, not their appearance. This stranger, I mean Preacher Simmons, wants you all to learn of his plan for uplifting hope in the downtrodden Colored.

  “Well let me tell you something. Throughout my years I’ve heard many tales of empty promises. When I read that notice a couple of weeks ago, I became interested in the nature of this event. So far, I’ve heard nothing definite. Though whatever is in the offing, I say you must weigh it in the earthy hands of your experience.

  “Just remember one thing. We all have to wake up to the consequences of our decisions in the pale light of morning. I’ve finished my piece. Carry on Preacher Simmons.”

  She descended from the pulpit, melding into a growing maze of people. Preacher Simmons then looked upon his audience in steady contemplation. He clearly noted the changed tone within this crowd.

  Cora’s wisdom sent an immediate wave of doubt throughout the assembled. In fact, some of the more cynical concluded their time was better spent elsewhere and left. Others began serious dialogue amongst themselves as to the merits of this lay clergyman’s integrity. But before a second group exited the throng, a loud voice rang above the steady hum of indecision.

  “Listen good people, take this preacher at his word!” came the sharp instruction. In a daze, the teaming multitude strained to catch a glimpse of who shouted this command. Immediately a strong current of disbelief carried over every attendee. For at that precise moment a tall, muscular bronze man strode confidently towards the podium.

  “Get out of the way you all, let Randall through!” screamed one heavy set lady while sweeping an imaginary path forward. “My goodness, I can’t believe my eyes, praise the Lord! Is that really you Randall?”

  Heads swiveled while chasing eyes glued upon the imposing figure approaching the podium. Incredulous shrieks accompanied heightened chatter in his wake. Finally, he ascended the platform, approaching Preacher Simmons with a broad smile. His outstretched hand met Simmons’s in a firm handshake. He then turned to face the astounded below.

  “Yes, oh Lord, it has been a while,” he remarked while pausing to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. “I do see those that knew me well seven years ago. But since I left the community so suddenly, many of you probably feared the worst. It must look like the dead have surely risen; I’ve been lost for so long!”

  “It’s you Randall!” shouted a coarse male voice. “Where’ve you been son?”

  “Yes, this is me, Randall. And to all that know me, here is my ring that I’ve always worn.” He held up his left arm, showing a brilliant gold ring. “I can speak more at a later time, so let me be brief.

  “I left for the
Northern states seven years ago to pursue a good opportunity working in a manufacturing business. My hope was to save enough money for returning to Nova Scotia and buying a good homestead.

  “As time went on, my situation was pleasing. Five years later, my pockets were brimming. At last, it would soon be time to return here. But as we all know, the fate of a Colored man in these times is precarious indeed.

  “One evening I was returning to my lodgings when I was kidnapped by bounty hunters. They said I was some man named Isaac that they would return to my master. Being a free man from here, I had no papers to prove otherwise. And so my wicked odyssey began.

  “These three louts began transporting me and four other unfortunates to Mississippi. With all hope lost, I grieved my situation to no end. Then one afternoon they stopped in a small Virginia town on route to our bondage. We were put in chains on their wagon while they drank in a local tavern.

  “I wept for a long time about my situation. So much so that one of the others started shouting for me to keep quiet. The resulting ruckus brought one of the bounty hunters outside. While he was yelling for calm, a man approached from a general store. As he came closer I knew this was not just an interested passerby. He approached the bounty hunter and started talking. Soon after, he began walking away.

  “Then, the bounty hunter hollered out something to this stranger. He turned and came back. Being curious, I braced myself against a wagon opening to hear what I could. At that same moment, the man looked up to me. Moving closer, his eyes kept getting wider. Immediately he returned to the bounty hunter, pointed at me, and reached in his pocket for currency. My heart sank low, for now I had been sold!

  “I was released into this stranger’s custody. He said nothing while taking me to a nearby home. Once inside, he loosened my chains. Then, to my shock, he said it was my ring which made him purchase me. This ring was given to me by a White foreman at a mill here in Nova Scotia to make up for unpaid wages.”