The Soldier's Lady (29 page)

A
NOTHER
B
APTISM

27

W
hen we all walked from the house down to the river on the following Sunday, the mood was so different than before. It was quiet and peaceful. The conversation between us was serious and subdued, though happy. There was none of the festive atmosphere the revival had had. It was quiet happy, not boisterous happy.

The entire Rosewood family walked along together—Henry and Jeremiah and Micah, Papa and Uncle Ward, Katie and me and Josepha, and of course Emma and William. Emma was dressed in one of Katie's dresses of pure white and walked in front between Ward and Templeton. Their three faces were something to see. The two men loved Emma as much as the rest of us, as was easy to see from their expressions.

We were all smiling. We couldn't help it! We were so happy for Emma. We knew that this was probably the most special day in her life.

Emma was the most radiant of all. The glow in her eyes and the look of her whole face was one I can't even begin to describe. Something had obviously begun to get inside her . . . and change her.

We reached the river—the same place where Reverend Smithers had baptized Jeremiah and me and William. We all sat down on the shore. Then Micah went and stood at the water's edge and faced us.

“When Mayme asked me if I would baptize Emma,” Micah said, smiling down first toward me and then toward Emma, “I couldn't think of any greater honor I'd ever had in my life. I've never done this before, so it will be as new to me as being baptized will be to Emma. But baptism isn't a ritual or rite that gets you into heaven and must therefore be carried out exactly the same every time. It is a symbol of something else, a symbol of something that has already taken place in a person's heart. And I think all of us here know very well just from watching her that something new has come alive in Emma's heart recently, don't we?”

We all nodded and smiled and glanced over at Emma. She looked down shyly, though she was smiling too.

“No, it's not baptism that changes anything by itself,” Micah went on, “but what happens inside us when we tell God we want to be His, that we want to begin living like He wants us to. That's what baptism symbolizes, a new way of life . . . that we have decided to follow a new master.

“That master is Jesus. He says, ‘Follow me.' He was baptized, and so we too are baptized, not as a ritual but as a symbol of a life dedicated to following Him. Jesus was not baptized by a priest but by his own cousin. There is no one that must stand between us and God. We can come directly into God's presence ourselves. Emma does not need me or anyone else—she met God herself.

“And so I stand here today, not as a middleman between Emma and God but as Emma's friend, to help her say to all the world that God's life is alive inside her.”

He paused and glanced down at Emma with a smile. “Would you come up here with me, Emma?” he said.

Emma stood up and walked to his side, the most beautiful look of quiet joy on her face.

“Do you have anything you would like to say, Emma?” asked Micah.

“Jes' dat I love you all,” she said softly. “You's all been so good ter me, an' I's more grateful den I kin say.”

I wiped at my eyes. I couldn't help it. To see Emma like this was like seeing a princess emerge out of inside her, like coming out of a cocoon—the real Emma that had always been there but that none of us had seen clearly before, not even Emma herself.

It was almost like Micah knew what I was thinking, because at that moment he glanced toward me with a knowing smile.

“As Emma and I talked at length a few days ago
about God and what life with Him means,” Micah said, Emma still at his side, “she asked me what it meant to be God's son or daughter. I told her that I thought one of the most important things it meant was learning to see ourselves in the same way God sees us—learning to recognize both the good that is in us as well as the sin that is in us that God wants us to conquer and grow out of. It doesn't seem to me that we can be fully God's children without both. Some people are so proud that they can't see their own sin. Others are so defeated and discouraged in themselves they can't see the good that God put inside them when He created them in His own image. Neither kind of person can be fully God's child because they are not seeing with God's eyes. They can't love their neighbor as themselves because they don't know themselves the way they really are.

“We have to learn to see people with God's eyes. To do that we need to learn to see ourselves with God's eyes too. And that is what Emma is now learning to do.”

Micah paused and glanced at Emma. Now they both stooped down to take off their shoes, then walked out into the river. Micah took Emma's hand to steady her until they were about halfway across and waist deep, then they turned back to face the rest of us on the bank.

Micah turned toward Emma with a smile.

“Are you ready, Emma?” he asked.

“Dat I is,” said Emma. “An' wiff Jesus' help, I's gwine do my best ter see both myself an' other folk
like He sees dem, an' den ter live like He wants me ter live.”

“It gives us all great joy to hear you say that, Emma,” said Micah.

He faced her, put one hand behind her shoulder and the other over her nose and mouth.

“Then be baptized, Emma Tolan,” said Micah, “in the name of your Father, who loves you, and His Son Jesus, who will now help you live as God's daughter.”

Slowly he lowered her down into the water, then gently lifted her up.

Emma opened her eyes, sputtered a little, wiped her face with a wet hand, and then, smiling radiantly, said so softly that we could just make out the words, “Praise Jesus.”

Then slowly they made their way out of the water as Josepha began to sing, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”

Josepha's voice was so low and rich and pure that no one thought of joining in with her. We were all content to listen as she completed the old song we knew so well.

“Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

O—o—o—oh . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble . . . tremble.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

O—o—o—oh . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble . . . tremble.

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

Were you there when He rose up from the dead?

Were you there when He rose up from the dead?

O—o—o—oh . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble . . . tremble.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”

S
HAKEDOWN

28

W
EED
J
ENKINS DID NOT GO TO HIS FATHER IMMEDIATELY
 after leaving Rosewood. All the way home on the day of his eventful visit to Rosewood he had revolved the thing over in his mind, recalling rumors he had heard over the years. The result was a visit to the McSimmons plantation several days later, but not by the elder Jenkins that William McSimmons had expected.

“I'm here to see Mister McSimmons,” said Weed when a white housemaid opened the door. The lady disappeared inside. A minute later the tall form of Charlotte Mc-Simmons appeared.

“I understand you want to speak to my husband.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What about?”

“It's personal, ma'am.”

“Then you can tell me.”

“Sorry, ma'am. I got information that's just for Mr. McSimmons.”

Muttering a few words of frustration, the lady disappeared.
When William McSimmons himself appeared, the expression on his face was neither warm nor welcoming.

“You're young Jenkins, aren't you,” he said, “Sam's boy?”

“That's right, sir.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I got some information that might be valuable to you.”

“I'll be the judge of what's valuable to me and what isn't. All right, then—out with it. What is this information?”

“I was thinking that maybe you'd make it worth my while, Mr. McSimmons.”

An expletive burst from William McSimmons' lips. “How dare you come to my house and try to blackmail me!” he shouted.

“I wasn't trying to blackmail you, sir,” said Weed nervously. “I just thought maybe if I could be a help to you with what I found out, that maybe you might find me a job on your plantation. Work's hard to find these days, sir.”

“Not as hard as decent help,” rejoined McSimmons. “You tell me what's on your mind and I'll decide what it's worth to me. It'll have to be mighty valuable information to be worth a job.”

“It's about something I learned out at that plantation of the Daniels brothers, Mr. McSimmons. My pa said you wanted to know what was going on there.”

McSimmons eyed Weed carefully. “What your father and I discussed is between us,” he said after a few seconds. “All right . . . tell me what you learned.”

“I saw who was there,” said Weed, “—there were three whites, the Clairborne girl and the two Daniels brothers, and a bunch of coloreds—a fat old lady, a man maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, and a girl, maybe twenty, scrawny but mighty pretty for a nigger girl. They called her Emma, and she had a kid she called William—”

William McSimmons' eyes shot open at the two names, but he did his best not to show it.

“How old was the boy?” he asked.

“I don't know, sir. I reckon maybe three or four . . . somewhere in there.”

“All right, Jenkins, you've given me the information.”

“What about the job, Mr. McSimmons?”

“I told you I would have to wait and see.”

Obviously disappointed, Weed Jenkins turned to go. When he was gone, Charlotte McSimmons walked into her husband's study, her face red, her nostrils flared, her eyes burning with fire.

“So the creature has turned up at last,” she seethed, angered anew at her husband. “You had
relations
with that idiot house slave and now your bastard black child has come back to haunt us.”

“Look, Charlotte,” rejoined McSimmons testily, “these things happen. Don't make more of it than it is.”

“These things don't just happen, William,” she shot back. “Babies don't just turn up accidentally. So I want to know what you're going to do about it. I will not be made to look the fool in public. If this thing is not dealt with, and I mean
permanently,
William, you can count me out of your Washington plans. I would rather not go at all than have a little black child turn up later calling you
Daddy
and
having all eyes turn to me in silent question. How do you think that would make me look! Can you imagine the humiliation? Well, I won't put up with it. You end this sordid mess once and for all, or count me out.”