The Resurrection Man

Grandison Harris was a Gullah Geechee slave from the area of Charleston, South Carolina. In 1852, he was purchased at auction by the then-seven-member faculty of the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta. At the age of 36, he was separated from his wife and child and brought to the medical college to serve in his official capacity as a janitor and porter. In truth, his presence served a much darker purpose. Grandison Harris was taught (illegally) to read and write by the medical doctors so that he could read the obituaries in the local papers. In the 1800s, medical schools across the country struggled to obtain legal access to an adequate flow of human bodies for dissection by medical students. The grotesque solution gave rise to a group of people at major medical institutions who would one day come to be known as Resurrectionists.

“The Resurrection Man”

Magnolia Cemetery runs between Second and Third Street, along the East Boundary of the city. Sixty acres of streets and avenues lie within its steel gates and high brick walls. Its small blocks accommodate many private, religious, military, and pauper cemeteries. Tonight's destination, the Paupers' Field, which runs along Ninth Street between Estes and East Wall Avenues, and where the Widow Alma Mapes, who passed peacefully in her sleep on Sunday, was just this morning laid to rest.

Grandison Harris drew his cart up to the entrance of Magnolia Cemetery. “Hallowed ground,” he whispered. A crescent moon stood behind him, dimly illuminating the gates and stone pavement where he stood. To the side of the gates, two stone pillars buttressed the Iron balusters and finials, as they rose to meet the arched Lychgate above bearing the cemetery’s name. Grandison bent low before the gates, holding the side of his cart until his knees touched the stone. He proffered a favorite Methodist hymn, to the tune of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”

“Sing with all the saints in glory, sing the resurrection song!

Death and sorrow, earth’s dark story. To the former days belong.”

As he sang, a breeze brushed the ground and clattered the fallen magnolia leaves across the stone pavement. They whipped themselves into a fury, first rising inches, then several feet into the air. He continued singing while they performed their choreographed dance.

“All around the clouds are breaking, soon the storms of time shall cease.

“In God’s likeness we, awaking, know the everlasting peace.”

After a moment, the breeze spun out, and the leaves fell silently to their rest along the entryway. “Good Lord,” Grandison whispered, while reaching a hand to the cart and lifting himself to his feet. He shuddered his coat around his waist, then, tightening the scarf around his neck, stuffed the ends down the front of his vest. Grandison knew the cold would not bother him once he began his work and set his mind to the task ahead.

He lay hold of the wagon tarp and swept it back. Reaching into the front corner, he pulled out a grease-soaked rag from a tin. He carried it to the stone buttress and squeezed its contents in and around the gate hinges to mute their ghastly moaning. He replaced the rag in the tin, wiped his hands, and retrieved the gate key from his breast pocket. Sliding it into the gate lock, he took a deep breath and eased the gate from its latch. “Old Widow Mapes,” he called out, “Are ye blessed and raised?” Grandison tuned his eyes to the night. The moon gave rise to no recognizable shadows, and the late hour revealed no uninvited guest. He opened the gate inward until it hung half open over the cobblestone entry, pushed his cart through, and closed the gate, watching the latch fall into place before reaching back through the balusters and locking himself in.

The cart was heavily built and required immense strength from its master to maneuver it. It's rough-hewn pine, once yellow, was now a dark ebony from the buildup of protective creosote in its pores. The seven-foot bed lay across two axles and four Shod wheels, which Grandison kept covered in grease to prevent their grinding in the wheel box. Each wheel was wound with old bits of fabric to soften its impact on the uneven brick and dirt roads. The old cart contained the necessary tools for the trade. A hand shovel and pickaxe for tough dirt, a scoop shovel for soft material, a long-handled pointed shovel, and a flat shovel for general digging. It also held two pry bars - one short and one long, a hand-made step ladder, and a tarp and rope for hauling. Each of the items was heavily wrapped to mute their presence. In addition to his tools, he kept a supply of paper and drawing pencils, which he used to sketch headstones, sections of fresh dirt, and flower arrangements. When the work was finished, Grandison would replace the dirt and plantings to their original positions. His meticulous efforts helped to allay any suspicions of grave tampering.

Grandison tightened his grip around the finely worn cart handles, which fitted his palms and fingers neatly. He leaned the cart's weight forward down Fourth Street past the private family plots of former Mayors William Holt White and George W. Evans. The cooler winds of October and the coming winter meant that the Magnolia trees had already dropped their summer leaves, which became thick and leathery in the fall and hard and brittle in the winter, snapping and cracking beneath the foot or wheel. Grandison kept to the higher center of the road, avoiding the edges where most of the leaves gathered. He crossed de L’aigle Avenue, pausing at the Children’s Orphanage cemetery, to offer a thankful prayer that he had no current obligations at the site. He turned south on Estes Avenue, singing an old spiritual as he went.

When I’m dead and gone to Heaven, he will hold me in his arms.

When I’m dead and gone to Heaven, he will sound the great alarm.

In the arms of my beloved, I’ll receive my great reward,

When I’m dead and gone to heaven, I’ll arise.

In the arms of Jesus I’ll arise, I’ll arise. In His bles-sed arms, I will arise.

Though the journey’s wrought with pain, I will bear it till the en’,

For, in the arms of Jesus, I’ll arise.

This coil will be no more, when I see His holy face.

I’ll have my great reward, when I reach those pearly gates.

There will be no tie to bind me, there will be no earthly fate,

In the arms of my belov’d, I will arise,

In the arms of Jesus, I’ll arise. I’ll arise. In His bles-sed arms, I will arise.

Though the journey’s wrought with pain, I will bear it till the en’,

For in the arms of Jesus, I’ll arise.

Grandison passed the Confederate Survivors cemetery between Eighth and Ninth Streets, turning left onto Ninth and following it halfway down before exiting the street into Pauper’s Field. He rolled his cart onto the soft, uneven dirt, winding through the rows until he reached the freshly dug grave of the Widow Mapes at the rear center of the cemetery. He rolled his cart into a stand of Crepe Myrtle next to the grave and bent his six-foot frame low over the fresh dirt. The smell of earth, worms, and flowers hovered in the stillness of the night air. He placed a single hand on the grave, tuning his senses.

Grandison's charge here was not an honorable one, and his ghastly deed would require strong protection from the Haints, evil spirits of the afterworld. The Gullah Geechee people had many protection spells to ward off the Boo hag, and Plat Eye, spirits that would menace him and keep him from fulfilling his charge. Grandison came prepared to do battle. “Old Widow Mapes,” he whispered, “can ye hear my little prayer? Are ye blessed, are ye raised, and are ye happy way up there?” The night returned the sound of his breathing and nothing more. Digging deeper, he conjured again, shuffling and stomping the edges of the grave as he moved counterclockwise around her resting place. “Old Widow Mapes,’ he raised his voice, “can ye hear my little prayer? Are ye blessed, are ye raised, and are ye happy way up there?” Again, there was silence. He turned to the November moon, and opening his arms wide, curled his lower lip, licked it, and sang, “Old Widow Mapes, can ye hear my little prayer? Are ye blessed, are ye raised, and are ye happy way up there?”

He knelt low and spat to either side of the grave. Then, rising, a cold gust of air flashed at his face, dislodging his hat. He snatched it mid-air and held it to his chest. The spirit dashed about, throwing the breeze at anything it could move. His chapped, crooked lips bent upwards as Oak, Crepe Myrtle, and Magnolia leaves leaped and clattered in a chaotic dance. He slipped a small root bag from his pocket, containing a Gullah mix of herbs, dried roots, and spices, and threw it at the grave marker. The breeze went flat, and the leaves fell to the ground at his feet.

Grandison quickly struck a match and held it low, searching along the edges of its light for the Haints. As the flame softened, he slipped a roll-up from his pocket, lit it, and drew it in. The scent of Petrichor quickly overtook him. “Breath for those who cannot breathe,” he whispered, and he released the smoke into the cool, dry air. He knelt and stuck the match into the earth, flame-side up, then, standing again, brought the roll-up to his lips and took a second drag. “Sight for those who cannot see.” The smoke spun out of him as he spoke, thickening the arrested cloud before him. Again, he searched the shadows for signs of Haints, but there were no things there. “Speech for those who cannot speak,” he said, then took one last drag before the roll-up ran dead. He exhaled into the expanding cloud around him.

The contents of the root bag would keep the Haints from entering the site from below, while the acrid cloud bathed him in a protective odor that the Haints found detestable. He stomped and shuffled the grave one last time, chanting and dragging the cloud of petrichor with him as he went. His eyes itched and his lungs burned, but he was safe to perform his charge.

The match went dead, and moonlight once again washed over the site. Grandison bent low and considered the grave in front of him, judging its height above the ground and the placement of any small rocks, sticks, and roots mixed in with the topsoil. He noted the condition of the grass, as well as the placement of flowers at the head of the grave. Then, from a torn section of coat lining, he withdrew a pencil and a small piece of paper. With these, he sketched the site from head to foot for later reference.

When he finished, he laid a tarp out next to the grave to collect the exhumed earth, along with several small rocks and sticks that lay atop. After placing his small ladder along the opposite side of the grave, he unwrapped a flat shovel and began removing dirt onto the tarp. His thoughts drifted to the doctors at the medical college who had a strong preference for the bodies of the poor. A pauper’s burial meant that the deceased had not undergone the usual procedures, which rendered them useless for dissection by the school’s young medical students. Grandison also preferred them because they were often buried in simple pine boxes, which he could easily access.

His morbid charge required an efficient process, which he had honed over many decades as a resurrectionist. Once the dirt had been removed from the lower half of the grave, he swapped out his shovel for the small prybar, cracked open the pine boards at the foot of the casket without breaking them, and removed them. Bending low, he wrapped his arms around the Widow Mapes' knees, raising them to make space at the bottom of the casket. Then, reaching deep into the chamber, he slid her slight frame down so that it became visible in the opening. Wrapping his hands behind her legs and back, he hoisted her up in one fluid motion over his shoulder. Once he secured his balance, he slid the small ladder into the hole with his free hand and climbed out.

The Widow Mapes had outlived her husband by fifteen years. She had worked menial jobs to make ends meet, and when they dried up, she lived by the grace of friends and her church. Some people seek a life of distinction, while others just try to get by. It seemed to Grandison a sad end to an empty life. She and her husband had no children, and there would likely be few if any, visitors to her grave.

Grandison gently laid her body in the cart, replaced the coffin boards, moved the dirt from the tarp back into the hole, and replaced the odd bits of stone and sticks in their rightful place. Having completed his charge, he neatly wrapped the widow and stowed her amongst his gear. He tied the tarp tightly over the cart, retrieved the root bag from the grave marker, and, retracing his steps, left the cemetery. It was well past midnight, and the trip back to the medical college would be a slow journey of shadows and alleyways, while avoiding the detection of night patrols and curious residents alike.

In the coming days, Alma Mapes would assist eager medical students in their study of the female anatomy.

By the end of the week, she would be interred with the other resurrections of Grandison's great commission in a makeshift cemetery beneath the Medical School.