A Mississippi master bought a giant gorilla — but a slave did something unexplainable in 1879
Under the cover of distant laughter and clinking glasses from the master’s house, Abbe moved like a shadow across the yard. The December cold bit through his thin shirt, but fear and determination kept his blood hot. His hidden sack of food was slung over one shoulder, the stolen knife tucked into his waistband. Every step felt heavier than the last, but he forced himself onward toward the barn.
Inside, the gorilla was awake. Abbe could hear the low, rhythmic rumble of his breathing even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He crept to Brennan’s office, where the door was cracked open. The overseer had stumbled off earlier, drunk and unaware he’d left the key behind. Abbe slipped inside, fingers trembling as he reached for the hook on the wall. Cold metal kissed his skin.
He closed his hand around the key.
The barn felt like a tomb as he returned to the cage. His heart hammered so loudly he feared it would wake the entire plantation. The gorilla moved closer, silent as night, watching him with deep, knowing eyes. Abbe’s voice was only a whisper, but it felt like thunder in the stillness.
“We leave. Tonight.”
The lock clicked.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Freedom hung in the air like a fragile bubble that one wrong breath might burst.
Then the door creaked open.
The gorilla stepped out—slowly, carefully—his immense form dominating the narrow space. For the first time since arriving in Mississippi, he stretched his arms fully, muscles rolling beneath thick fur. He inhaled deeply, as though tasting liberty itself.
Abbe motioned toward the far exit. “Come.”
They slipped out into the night.
The plantation stretched out, dark and vast. Lanterns glowed faintly near the big house. The sound of drunken shouting and music floated on the wind. Perfect distractions.
Abbe led the way toward the tree line. The gorilla padded behind him, surprisingly quiet for his size, placing his hands and feet with careful precision. Every time a dog barked in the distance, they froze. Every rustle of wind through dry cane made Abbe’s heart stall.
When they reached the forest’s edge, Abbe dared to breathe again.
But ahead, endless swampland waited—a maze of mud, water, and unseen dangers. The Mississippi lay miles beyond, wide and merciless, but it was the only path northward. From there, the long impossible journey to a port. To a ship. To Africa.
Abbe looked up at the stars—his father had once taught him how to navigate by them. “We follow the Drinking Gourd,” he whispered. The gorilla tilted his head upward, as if recognizing the night sky as an old friend.
They entered the swamp.
Hours passed. The cold mud sucked at their legs with every step. Mosquitoes whined relentlessly around them. The fog became so thick Abbe could barely see the gorilla’s outline ahead, a hulking shadow against deeper darkness.
More than once the ground gave way and Abbe nearly plunged into knee-deep water. Each time, the gorilla caught his arm, steadying him. They moved together—two stolen beings reclaiming themselves.
In the distance, a hound bayed.
Pursuit.
Abbe’s pulse surged. The dogs had found their absence. Overseers would follow soon—with horses, rifles, and rage.
They pressed on until the trees thinned and the moon revealed the glimmer of the river. Wide. Ruthless. But a road to hope.
“We need a raft,” Abbe breathed.
The gorilla grunted softly, then lumbered toward a fallen Cyprus trunk thicker than a man’s torso. With swift, powerful motions, he rolled and dragged it toward the water. Abbe gathered vines, tying them desperately, his fingers numb. Together, they nudged the log into the current.
Shouts erupted behind them.
Torches flickered through the trees.
“Go!” Abbe urged.
They plunged into the icy water, clinging to the log. The current seized them instantly, pulling them away from the shore. Musket fire cracked. Bullets punched into the river around them. The gorilla wrapped one arm around Abbe, shielding him with his immense body.
The river swallowed all sound but the roar of water and the pounding of Abbe’s heart.
By dawn, they were miles downstream. Exhaustion weighed on Abbe like chains, but he forced himself awake. They drifted into a quiet inlet along the far bank—Louisiana now, hostile but unfamiliar to their pursuers.
The gorilla nudged Abbe toward dry land. Every muscle in Abbe’s body ached. He collapsed beneath a cluster of willow trees, gasping for breath. The gorilla sat beside him, leaning his heavy shoulder gently against him. Warmth. Safety. Recognition.
“Thank you,” Abbe whispered.
The gorilla tapped his chest lightly, then touched Abbe’s chest in return.
We survive together.
Abbe knew the hardest trials lay ahead—patrollers, hunger, distance. And even if they reached a city, finding a ship to Africa would require wit and miracles both. The world did not welcome runaways. It did not welcome beasts that reminded men too clearly of themselves.
But the gorilla was no beast to Abbe.
He was family.
Night fell again, and they traveled—always northward where maps claimed flickers of freedom. They raided abandoned traps for scraps of meat, drank from muddy pools, slept in fits when exhaustion overcame them.
One evening, they heard a sound different from barking hounds or rustling brush—voices. Human voices. But not harsh overseers or gun-bearing patrollers. Soft voices. Cautious. Hopeful.
Abbe crouched behind a fallen log. Through the trees, a lantern glowed near a small cabin. The wind carried a coded tune—a melody he had heard whispers of in the quarters:
Follow the Drinking Gourd.
A station on the Underground Railroad.
Abbe turned to the gorilla, eyes full of risk and possibility. “Maybe help,” he said softly.
They approached.
A figure stepped out—a Black woman with silver hair wrapped in a scarf, her posture steady and unafraid despite the towering presence beside Abbe.
“I’ve seen many run,” she said quietly. “But never like this.”
Her gaze lingered on the gorilla’s marked palm. Something like awe softened her expression.
“You both look like you belong somewhere far from here,” she murmured. “Come inside. There’s food. Rest. And information.”
Abbe felt tears threaten again—twice in one lifetime now, both for glimpses of freedom.
Inside the tiny cabin, a fire crackled. The air smelled of cornbread and hope. The woman introduced herself as Mama Cora, a guide who had helped dozens of souls toward the North Star and beyond.
“Canada’s your best chance,” she said. “A place where no slave catcher has legal power over you.”
Abbe shook his head gently. “Further. Across ocean. Home.”
Mama Cora studied him in silence for a long moment. Then she nodded once—slow, deliberate.
“Then north is still your path. Freedom first. Home second.”
The gorilla huffed in agreement, as though he understood every word.
Abbe reached up and rested a hand against his friend’s shoulder. The gorilla pressed his marked palm to Abbe’s chest.
They had been torn from their land as children—one human, one not—but their journey now was their own to claim.
In that warm cabin deep in Louisiana, they made a silent vow:
Whatever awaited them—swamps, rivers, patrols, oceans—they would face it.
Together.
