“You will like it at Stonehouses,” Magnus said. “Of course, it is only a temporary situation for you.”
“What do you mean by temporary, Master Merian?” Sam asked, in fearful confusion.
“I mean that I intend to make you free after the season,” Magnus said, as he could not force the kind of work he needed from Sam or otherwise coerce the spirit.
“What happen to me after that?” Sam asked. “Where I’m supposed to go, Master Merian?”
Magnus had not reflected on it before, but he knew it would never do for him to set the likes of Sam Day free in Berkeley. The rest of the town, black and white, would surely turn on him. “Well, we’ll figure something out, Sam,” Magnus said, “soon as the harvest is over.”
Each man then was flax-hearted and silent, as they made their way through the country, each wondering what he had gotten into, and what would become of him.
Lord, what have I done? Magnus thought to himself, knowing he had purchased another soul and now owned him and all his burden. There was, he knew, no way to alleviate the consequences of that.
What happen next? Sam wondered as the wagon rolled through the unknown countryside, reminding him of his original trip there, the only time before he had been anywhere other than his natural home.
When they arrived back at Stonehouses, Magnus drove up next to the barn and stopped the wagon. “This is it,” he announced. “This is where you’ll be staying.” For he still could not admit to himself it was the man’s new home.
If Sam had been impressed by Magnus before he was even more so now, as he could see plainly his new master was wealthier than his old one.
“Where I’m supposed to sleep, Master Merian?” Sam asked, inspecting the barn, then looking deep into the country for the slave cabins.
“Down with the rest of the hired men,” Magnus said, calling for a boy to show Sam where that was. “I’ll send for you later,” Magnus told him, as he himself turned to go into the house.
Inside, the first person he saw was Effie, whom he hurried past, making his way upstairs. He did something then that he had not done since his very first days at Stonehouses; he went into his bedroom and drew the curtains until it was dark and fell asleep during the middle of the day.
He woke up to find Adelia sitting next to him.
“Are you all right?” she wanted to know.
“Adelia, I bought a man today,” he told her, sitting up and looking her in the eyes.
“So I hear,” she answered, stroking his forehead. “What happened?”
“It was not on purpose. I will let him loose, just as soon as I figure out how to do it.”
“You’ll figure out something,” Adelia said.
“Where is he now?” Magnus asked.
“I think Caleum put him to work already.”
Magnus was thankful at least to hear the younger man had done so sensible a thing. That evening at dinner he tried to conceal his own thoughts as he asked his nephew how the day had gone with the harvest. Caleum, sensing his uncle’s true concern, replied that no other healthy body lazed about while the sun was up, so he saw no reason why Sam Day should be allowed to either. “Slave or no slave, he has to put in an honest day’s work.”
It was impeccable logic, but Magnus knew he had done something gravely wrong, and they had not yet seen the end of suffering for that year.
“I’m going to turn that man free, just as soon as I lay a plan for what to do with him,” he said to his family. No one at the table objected to his words, though no one else thought it was quite so dire as he.
seven
When the harvest months arrived Magnus began estimating the yield from his lands, and it looked to be slightly more than the year before, which had been a good season all around, and this pleased him despite the earlier events in the summer.
Sam Day watched the harvest process with disbelief, as the men all arrived in the morning of their own accord, and only very few had disappeared from the fields by the time the sun reached midday. There was no lash and no prison for idlers either. When he asked one of the other men about it, he was told they were paid for their work according to how much they gathered, and besides this wage there was also a prize at the end of the season for the man who had pulled in the most. “It is a solid gold coin, Sam, worth I couldn’t say how much, but, if it’s yours, I doubt you would have to work the whole next year.”
Sam Day had never touched money before in his life. He was paid for his farm work not at all, and for his root work in kind — mostly favors of food and cloth so that he never went lacking for what he needed, especially as old Master Smith had been on the stingy side with both cornmeal and shoe leather. Sam, though, had managed to live like the priest of a well-devoted temple, and he carried himself in accordance with this authority of position whenever he was called on as a healer. In his other labors, by contrast, he was more humble, even to the point of being lazy, as he resented having to do anything other than his born calling.
When he heard about that gold coin for the man who was best at harvesting the fields, though, he could not help but daydream about it. He thought, if he won it, he would first get something for Effie; then, if there was any money beyond that, he imagined to himself he might use it to have a great party that would last the better part of a week. He got himself so worked up with the idea that he showed up on time next morning, without having to be sent for after the others went out into the fields.
Having never worked in earnest before, though, he was not so quick as the other men and could barely walk on his tender feet by the end of the day, as they were burned and bleeding from use against the thorny weeds and hot ground. Being so unused to physical exertion, he could not help but comment on his condition that night when the workers gathered for supper. “How much you think that gold coin could be worth to get all of us killing ourselves for it?”
“It isn’t just the money, Sam, but the sport as well,” one of them answered him.
“I see,” he replied, without being convinced of anything other than his own pain at that particular moment.
When he went to sleep that night, his joints were still aflame from the day’s work and he thought he would rather be paid in kind for divining than gold for physical labor. In his dreams that night, which were wild and deep, he was dressed all in finery, and people came from far and wide to seek him out and ask his favor. He was seated throughout on a claw-footed chair, and whenever anyone approached he would listen from a distance to what they had to say but not allow them to come any nearer to him.
“I dreamed I was a king last night,” he told any who would listen, as they ate breakfast early the next morning. “I was sitting on a throne in the middle of my country, passing out solid gold coins to all my subjects.”
They all laughed at him. “What did you call your kingdom, Sam?”
“Laugh all you want,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know fair that I had a vision about winning that coin, so the rest of y’all can stop trying for it.”
The men were still filled with mirth as they returned to the tobacco, but Sam was a proud man, and his dream had infected his imagination. Their laughter only raised his cholera and determination to win.