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The Minister's Right HandJan 27 '07 (Updated Jan 29 '07) Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line More adventures from south of the Mason-Dixie Line.
If you linger very long around this part of Mississippi, I reckon someone will get around to telling you the story of the Rev. Franklin Miller, who was buried over fifty years ago in the churchyard where he spent so many hours. Just goes to show you that being in the presence of holiness doesn’t necessarily bestow holiness upon oneself, especially when material things speak louder to the heart than the Lord’s admonitions against wanting them. The tale I’ve to tell is equally concerned with a local planter named F. Walter Robinson, whose success attracted the envious attention of that awful clergyman. Robinson was a handsome young bachelor who owned a significant amount of land that earned him a small fortune each year through its yield of cotton and sugarcane. In addition to understanding the value of agricultural diversification, Robinson proved savvy when it came to investing money, the sum of which was a wealth that very few others in the area knew; what took most of his peers a lifetime to accomplish was brought to fruition with relative ease by this upstart less than half their age. Living with Robinson on his miniature empire was the usual army of laborers and servants, the most important being Miss Molasses or “Massus”, as Walter had called her as a child. When a cholera epidemic swept through and claimed both of his parents, Massus stepped in and raised the boy, for he had no other family members. With the revenue from the lands he inherited and the determination instilled in him by that Negro woman, Walter Robinson enlarged his estate by buying up as much adjacent property as possible, and thus became the man to be in Greenville County. Prior to Robinson’s sudden decline in health, the greatest mystery surrounding the feller was his refusal to choose a wife with whom to create an heir. With his wealth, agreeable looks, and friendly demeanor, Robinson could’ve picked out any woman he wanted to be his bride, yet he never showed the slightest interest in doing so. The local rumor mill churned out its usual diverse array of products but the truth of the matter is that we’ll never know why Robinson avoided the altar; maybe he somehow sensed that death was just around the corner and didn’t want to leave behind a widow who’d have to raise children by herself. It was on a sultry Wednesday afternoon that Robinson was first stricken by the illness that would carry him off to Heaven by the following Sunday morning. He’d been toiling in the fields, feeling a little tired but otherwise perfectly fine, when a great pain shot throughout his entire body. Falling to the ground that had served him so well, Walter began to tremble uncontrollably and broke out into a sweat so icy, you’d swear he’d just been pulled from some river in the Yukon. His servants carried him back to the house and put him into bed, where commenced the protracted and always unpleasant process of passing from this world to the next. With Massus dutifully at his side, Robinson rapidly deteriorated to the point where speech was very difficult. Doctors came and went without stating much more than the obvious, that the man who had only a week before been the envy of every landowner in Greenville County was now sliding quickly down the slope toward the inevitable. Robinson was informed of his prognosis and advised to reflect on how he would like his estate to be divided, which brought the lawyers in like vultures to huddle around the rapidly fading shell of a once-great man seemingly struck down by the cruel and mysterious hand of destiny. The resulting will was little more than the written embodiment of what Robinson had made known for years. The lands were to be auctioned off, with a portion of the proceeds set aside for the welfare of Massus and the other servants. The remaining money, of which there was a considerable amount, would go to the local church, under the wing of Reverend Miller. With his wishes drawn up in such a way so as to make them legal, Robinson spent the next several days in as contented a state as the dying can hope to be. Massus remained in his presence, quietly dealing with her grief, until Saturday evening, when she suddenly became despondent to such an extreme and noisy degree that she actually roused the dying man from slumber. The other servants attempted to remove her from his bedside, but she refused to go until permitted to make a confession to the man she had reared as her own. Robinson, with whatever strength a man possesses in the last few hours of his life, listened to an incredible admission of betrayal and murderous greed. For the past several months, Massus had been lacing her master’s food with poison, one that kills by storing up in the body with each successive dose until a lethal amount has been achieved. The one who dreamed up the plan, sold it to Massus through the art of seduction, and provided the resources was none other than the Reverend Miller, who knew he’d never live long enough to benefit from the death of the far younger Robinson unless he hastened it along. And so went into action their wicked plan, which might have succeeded undiscovered had Massus not beheld the face of Robinson and seen the glowing innocence of the child she knew, instead of merely the visage of a dying planter. Whether it was the divine interfering to set things right or the woman’s conscience imploding under the weight of her crime, the effect was still the same: everyone, including the victim himself, now knew that the Reverend was a killer. On the following morning, Franklin Miller was forced to cancel services so that he could “tend to the final needs of a friend about to take his place at Jesus’ side”. As he approached the Robinson house, he passed by two lawyers who mentioned that Walter had summoned them to make a minor yet curious amendment to his will. Concerned that his evil scheme had been unmasked, the Reverend hurried into the chamber where Robinson was about to breathe his last and approached the side of the dying man with a look that dangled somewhere between annoyance and concern. Struggling to breathe and smiling weakly, Robinson requested that Miller’s right hand be placed upon his lips, so that the holy man could catch his final breath and personally deliver it to the Lord. Working hard to suppress a scowl, Miller did as he was asked, then screamed in pain and fear as Robinson bit down on his hand and promptly expired. What then happened is hard to believe, but many reliable witnesses swore that this is what occurred. The jaws of the deceased defied all attempts to pry them apart, so it was decided that Robinson’s head would have to be separated from the body, lest Miller be forced to drag the entire corpse around. Decapitation had no noticeable effect on its powerful grip, nor did beating the head with clubs and axes, so it was set on fire, which only burned off all the hair and made it look raw and terrifying. Just as Miller was considering the removal of his hand as the only way to rid himself of that terrible souvenir, the lawyers showed back up and drew his attention to the last-minute addition to Robinson’s will, which said that Miller’s rights of inheritance were valid only so long as his right hand remains attached to the arm. Any severing of said hand, be it by accident or willfully done either by its owner or someone acting on his behalf, shall result in immediate forfeiture of his inheritance, and consequent legal actions to retrieve all monies. Miller apparently deemed his part of F. Walter Robinson’s legacy worth the grim reminder that remained clamped onto the side of his hand for the rest of his days. He kept the whole thing hidden in a burlap bag tied to his wrist by a small length of rope, claiming that the head would sometimes frighten him by blinking, watching his moves out the corners of its eyes while humming loudly, or breathing heavily across his knuckles. And while one might be tempted to regard Reverend Franklin Miller as an utterly detestable viper who pushed a hard-working man into the grave, it should at least be pointed out that he used some of the money to construct a memorial bridge at the spot where the guilt-plagued Massus jumped to her death upon the interment of Robinson’s body. Copyright 2007 Moonlight & Its Revelations http://www.epinions.com/content_4945059972 A Sympathy Most Peculiar http://www.epinions.com/content_4942831748 Changing Out The Ghosts http://www.epinions.com/content_4941586564 The Coming of Elliot Stephens http://www.epinions.com/content_4939489412 Where Everybody Looks The Same http://www.epinions.com/content_4938047620 Abner http://www.epinions.com/content_4937785476  |
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