The Legacy of Herman Marshall

Slave to Repentance

The story that follows is my submission for challenge #1 of the

Gibberish

Writing Competition. I decided on historical fiction and did my best to build and release tension as challenged.

While

Scoot

will give his official feedback, I’d love to hear from anyone reading this. What works? What doesn’t? This is the longest piece I’ve ever written and I feel like this challenge is already helping me with setting and tools like dialogue and foreshadowing. If I’m wrong please let me know.

Word count: 1,997. That’s right, I pushed this to the very edge. Scoot, let the critique begin!

Photo by Ryan Arnst on Unsplash

“URAH!”

Herman Marshall sprang upright from his timid sleep knowing he was not alone. But in the faintest light of the waning moon he could scarcely make out his own window. 

“Again?” he thought.

He whispered into the void, “What do you want?” 

The only reply was the creaking of his old house groaning as the wind brought in rain from the west. 

He’d not been himself. For the past month he’d felt a presence at every step and carried a weight upon his shoulders. The sun seemed to oppress him by day while the moon rendered judgment by night. He did his best at every dawn to put the haunt behind him, but the gravity of observation was keen and had rooted unease in his bones. 

Putting his feet to the floor he stomped.

“Come on!”

Silence.

“Come on! Let me see ya! SHOW ME WHO YOU ARE!”

“Turn around,” a voice whispered from above. 

Terrified, Herman whirled around. He tripped over himself, almost breaking his neck, looking toward the heavens. For the first time whatever it was called back.  

Herman yelled again, “Alright, I’ve turned. Now face me!”

As he shouted that final syllable lightning scattered across the sky as thunder erupted instantly. The bolt sent him back to his bed in panic. He sought shelter beneath the covers and begged the storm to pass.

Morning came. Herman tried but could not shake the dread of the night before. With only a few hours of stolen sleep, he began his daily ride through the heart of Savannah toward his office. His place of business was just a few blocks from his home, centered on the southside of Lafayette Square. His horse, Dan, had been reluctant to make the trip. It seemed even his steed could feel the impending collapse.

As the pair laid eyes on the square Herman could see his best informant, Jud, leaning on his office door. Herman secured Dan to his post and motioned Jud to join him inside. 

“What do you know, Jud?” Herman asked, bolting the door and closing the blinds. Herman took the only seat in the two hundred square-foot space. As a king on his throne, he forced all messengers to spill their secrets standing. It was his way of reminding them who was in charge.

“Heard ‘em last night out at the rice fields. They’s a group of ‘em settin’ out tonight for New York. Gon’ be a small group. Just three.”

“I’m guessing some damn yankee is coming down here to drive?” Herman asked.

Jud replied, “They ain’t said nothin’ about no yank. One says someone taught ‘em north from south so they gon’ take a wagon and go. Says they only hope they don’t sees ‘the Marshall.’”

By 1827, after only three years as a slave catcher, “the Marshall” had become infamous across all 24 states. He’d made handsome arrangements with every plantation family north of Sapelo Island to retrieve any slave who dared come through Savannah. And the tales were brutal. So brutal that every newspaper in New England called for his imprisonment at least once a month. And while all would acknowledge that no slave had died by his hand, those who’d been captured said upon their return that he and his drivers made them long for the grave. 

“That’ll do then,” said Herman, unlocking his desk. From beneath a false bottom he gathered the equivalent of a month’s wages, thanked Jud for his find, and sent him back to the fields.

“This won’t be like last time,” he thought. 

Just a few weeks back Herman and his posse were ready to pounce at a group of seven runners when an unseen force spooked Dan and sent both slaves and catchers into madness. It was the first time any of his targets nearly escaped.

“Just three tonight. Easy pickin’s.”

At just past midnight, Herman and his team of three melded themselves into the night. Clad in black, the men and their beasts were invisible to every man, and even most spirits. He’d wondered if he should tell them, but he didn’t have the humility to let the company know he himself was being hunted.

“Not now,” he thought. “Work to be done.”

Setting aside his notions, Herman and his crew lined the only road crossing the Savannah River, joining Georgia and South Carolina. Under the hue of a new moon, an air of malevolence had emerged from the depths and the commander was certain the darkness was to his gain. At the edges of the marshland he and his posse were at the ready. Prey would come. 

The marsh was stagnant for hours until the wind brought word of change. All at once the Spanish moss began to sway and the faint churning of a wagon was made a quarter-mile due south.

“When I say,” Herman whispered.

It seemed to take ages for the coach to draw near. Its driver kept the buggy at a crawl, hoping to disappear with the haints¹, only pulling his passengers closer to evil with every pace.

And with each creep forward, the men of the company inched their spurs closer and closer to their horses’ sides, toeing the line between absolute silence and absolute chaos. The runaways had passed in front and were ten yards north when Herman readied his breath. But just before he could sound his alarm, it happened again. A creature from below rustled, spooked Dan, launching his party of thugs.

Silence torn. Shrieks rampant. The four horsemen unleashed pure terror on the band sojourners. Herman quickly realized something was off as he could only make out two bodies on the run. Without a moment to spare he shouted to his men, “Just two! Just two! Round ‘em up!”

The mayhem yielded confusion and the seekers made for the marsh. Herman had given strict orders that no men were to chase a runner into the water, but his soul was unrelenting. He would not allow tonight to be his first slip. He ordered his riders into the marsh and took command of the pursuit. 

“After them!”

As the horsemen made their mad dash through the mud an inexplicable boom descended on the land. Every horse stopped. Rooted to the spot. Refusing to carry on. The men wailed their whips and buried spurs in the horses’ flesh but the creatures would not be moved. Herman dismounted Dan, indignant, and set forth on foot. As he waded closer and closer to the desperate souls an unabated light approached as lightning from the rear. “Number three,” Herman thought. The men stood frozen, watching as the light enveloped Herman and drug him below, into the heart of the water. In an instant he was no more. Herman’s men assumed his death and sprinted back, horseless, to Savannah.

Herman was petrified. Captured by silence. Surrounded by light. A light so bright, so pure, he could scarcely tell his eyes were opened. But unlike the night before, this blindness felt not like an impending doom. This blindness was an invitation. 

A voice like thunder bemoaned, “Herman. Herman. Turn around. Why do you keep me in chains?” 

Herman quivered, “Who are you? Who do I keep in chains? I don’t own slaves. I.. I… I only catch them as the law abides.”

The voice replied, “I am Jesus, who you bind by chains. I am the Lord who you send back to death. But I too am the Lord, calling you to a new life.”

“Jesus? Jesus? Like the Son of God, Jesus?” Herman asked. 

“I am.”

Herman stuttered, “How do you know me?”

The Lord commanded, “You are my son. And though you have been far from me, you will now bring the lost to my shelter. Until today, you yourself enslaved my sheep. From this day on you will bring my children to freedom. You will be my slave and serve your father in heaven.”

“I… I can’t,” Herman muttered. “What you say is too hard. How can I lead anyone to you if I don’t know you myself? And no one will believe me! What I've done will not be forgotten.”

“Indeed,” Jesus said. “All you need to do is ask and you will be forgiven. As for what lies ahead, my helper has brought you here today and will lead you if you will go.”

All of the sudden Herman felt himself standing in front of a man seated on a throne.  The seat was made of stones he’d never seen and colors too brilliant to comprehend. As he gazed, eyes up, Herman knew he had no authority here. He bowed his head.

Herman whispered, “Will you let go of my past?”

“I am willing if you are,” Jesus said. 

Herman fell to his face. “Forgive me, Lord. I will do as you command.”

At this word Herman fell into a deep rest. Jesus, by way of the spirit, brought Herman from the depths and placed him beneath the light of his angels.

“May it be so, my son.”

Three days had passed when Herman woke upon the edge of the marshland completely drenched. He cleansed the dirt from his eyes and walked back to Savannah, finding Dan waiting to guide him at the edge of town. As he rode through town many gasped at his unkempt appearance, some telling others he’d truly dug himself out of the grave. The shock of his return was compounded by the fact that, upon his arrival, he went directly to his office and shuttered his business.

For the next few years, Herman applied everything he knew about moving in silence to the liberation of those he’d held back. By the wind of the Spirit, and with help from Dan, Herman now used the cover of darkness to run small parties of enslaved people to a safe haven north of Charleston. Unfortunately, a riding injury would eventually leave Herman with a limp and unable to be an escort. But all was not lost. Herman took up with the congregation of Wesley Chapel and eventually joined a circuit of ministers traversing the south and calling for the abolition of slavery. 

In that same time, Herman took a wife, Hildred, and the two would be blessed with three children. A firstborn son and twin girls a few years later. His son, Herman Marshall II followed in his father’s footsteps and, upon his graduation from seminary, father and son traversed the country continuing to drive the abolitionist movement. 

However divinely inspired their work, the abolitionists were not to halt the momentum of hatred that divided the nation and plunged neighbors into the War of Rebellion. With the same unrelenting character of the former slave catcher, the two refused to be seen as cohorts of their southern brothers. Instead, the duo only increased their efforts, traveling to speaking engagements across the now 33 states (through the south as best they could) only stopping to eat and pray.

Herman Marshall II had gained a reputation as the most eloquent speakers to ever emerge from the rebel states and caught the attention of the influential parties of the nation’s capital. In late 1862 Herman Marshall II was summoned by President Abaraham Lincoln to travel to Washington in order to consult with the president on the matter of drafting legislation to ensure the freeing of all those enslaved across the south.

On January 1, 1863, at the encouragement of Herman Marshall II, President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring the freedom of all slaves within the rebellious states. When reporters asked Herman Marshall I about his son’s involvement in the proclamation he said, “That my boy has the opportunity to serve God in this way is beyond comprehension. I was damned by my own hands, but by the grace of God my son will now carry our name, with honor, into the annals of history. This is the legacy of Herman Marshall. To God be the glory.”

1. Only in the past few months have I learned of the word haint. I heard it when I learned about the color family of haint blue. Haint blue is a family of sky blues or baby blues that traditionally grace the ceiling of most southern front porches. The word haint, in my understanding, has roots in the Gullah Geechee community of coastal Georgia and South Carolina who are descendants of enslaved Africans. Haint is is easily understood as a spirit or haunt. The idea behind painting your ceiling haint blue is that the spirits would mistake your ceiling for the sky and pass through, thereby avoiding your home. The word felt right at home in this tale given the setting of Savannah and South Carolina’s Lowcountry. These areas are home to the Gullah Geechee people to this day. I was fortunate enough to learn a bit about them while working and living in the Savannah area for a few years. It’s a shame I had to move hundreds of miles away before I was able to learn and appreciate the charm of this strange word.