Chapter Twenty

Beaufort, South Carolina
November 1862—January 1863

It didn’t take Grady long to adjust to the routine of army life with the First South Carolina Volunteers. After a lifetime of slavery, it felt natural to him to sleep on the ground, rise early every morning, and eat simple army rations from a tin plate—more natural than sleeping in a feather bed and dining at Massa’s polished table had. And he certainly felt more comfortable in his new woolen uniform than in Massa Fuller’s Sunday clothes.

Grady had spent hours watching the white troops drill on the Point last year, and he already knew many of the commands and maneuvers. But the happiest moment came when the ordnance department issued him a new Springfield rifle. Holding a weapon in his hands, responding to the command “Battalion! Shoulder arms!” gave him a feeling of power and control that he’d never known before. He honed his marksmanship skills as diligently and lovingly as he’d once practiced the violin. And every time he aimed at a target, every face he imagined on it was white.

More than eight hundred other Negroes had enlisted in Grady’s regiment, undergoing the transformation with him from degraded slaves to proud soldiers. Some days he felt like an item for sale in one of Beaufort’s storefront windows as he drilled, his every movement watched by military experts and newspaper reporters and countless visitors from the North, all curious to see a battalion that was made up entirely of black soldiers.

“It won’t always be easy to live under such scrutiny,” Colonel Higginson had warned the men in one of his speeches. “Your successes will be reported and applauded, of course. But if even one of you makes a mistake, it will reflect badly on the entire regiment. And a disaster like Bull Run … well, our little experiment with colored troops would quickly come to an end in that event.”

“What happened at Bull Run?” Grady asked Captain Metcalf later that day.

“Our soldiers turned tail and ran when the Rebels attacked them,” he said, wincing.

“White soldiers?” Grady asked.

The captain nodded. “For many of those men, it was their first time in battle. That’s why the colonel is afraid for all of you. None of you has seen combat before.”

“We won’t run,” Grady said. “We faced a death sentence every day of our lives when we was slaves, while you white folks was scared of getting your feet wet. Just give us a chance to fight. You’ll see.”

Grady lived and worked with his fellow Negroes day and night, just as he had when he’d been a slave. But because of the freedom each man felt and cherished, the atmosphere in camp was vastly different from what it had been on Slave Row. In the daytime the camp rang with the sound of drums and drill commands and laughter. At night the men gathered around their campfires until taps was played, telling stories and roasting peanuts and sweet potatoes as the moon shone through the silvery moss above their heads.

Grady’s only disappointment was that all of the ranks in Amos’ company had been filled, and he wasn’t able to join his friend. Instead, the army assigned him to a new company under Captain Metcalf. Grady shared a tent with a former slave named Joseph Whitney, the man who had let him drink from his canteen the day the Union soldiers had found him. He was about the same age and height as Grady, but so thin and angular that he might have been made from matchsticks. His coal-black skin was every bit as dark as Grady’s was light. Everything about Joseph irritated Grady, including his name, which was a painful reminder of his years with Massa Coop. But most grating of all was Joseph’s religious fervor. He’d even earned the nickname “Preacher” from the other men because of it.

“Do you know the Lord Jesus?” Joseph had asked Grady on their first day together as tentmates. Grady had mumbled a reply and tried to ignore him, but by evening he had already heard enough preaching.

“Listen, Joe,” he said. “No offense, but I don’t want to hear all your God-talk. I’ve had that stuff shoved at me all my life, and never once has God done me any favors.”

“He sent His Son to die for you—” “Enough!” Grady said, holding up his hands. “That’s exactly the kind of talk I mean. I don’t want to hear it. There’s plenty of other fellas around here who’re happy to listen to your preaching, but not me. Understand?”

“I’ll be praying that you—”

“No!” he said, interrupting. “I don’t want you praying for me, either. Just leave me alone, okay? If you can’t talk to me about regular things, then don’t be talking to me at all.”

Joseph wore the hurt expression of a long-suffering saint. It made Grady angrier still. But when Joe invited a friend with a fiddle over to their campfire that night, and they sat around singing and playing hymns, it was the last straw. Grady went up to the plantation house to see Captain Metcalf first thing the next morning.

The five-minute walk from the campground to the warravaged house was a picturesque one, passing down the long avenue beneath moss-draped oaks. But even the pleasant, mistshrouded scenery couldn’t soften Grady’s resolve. “You belong to God,” Delia had once told him. “And He’s gonna chase you down and hound your steps until He gets you back.” Well, if God was planning to use Joseph to torment him, then Grady intended to halt those plans right now.

“I want a different tentmate,” he told the surprised captain. “I can’t be having him preach at me all day and fiddling hymns at me all night.”

“I’m sorry,” Metcalf said, frowning. “But an army camp isn’t a hotel room that you can check in and out of every time you’re inconvenienced. We can’t have men changing tents every day or two.”

“Talk to him, then. Tell him to shut up about God.”

The captain looked taken aback by Grady’s irreverence. It was a moment before he replied. “You’ll have to work out a compromise between the two of you,” he said slowly. “Joseph has a right to freedom of speech and freedom of religion.”

Grady returned to camp determined to avoid Joseph as much as possible. It wasn’t hard to do. The men spent all day drilling and learning maneuvers, but during their free time every evening, they naturally gravitated to whichever activities interested them. Joe went to prayer meetings or sang hymns with some of the others. Grady often went to hear a Negro woman from up north teach the alphabet and read lessons from a schoolbook.

But every now and then, nearly all of the men would spontaneously gather together to hold a “shout,” sitting around a campfire singing chorus after chorus of the old slave songs they’d once sung on the plantation, accompanied by an assortment of instruments. The men would clap and dance and drum their feet in rhythm as they celebrated their newfound freedom. The songs both drew Grady and repulsed him because of the memories they stirred. He remained on the sidelines at those events, feeling the music deep in his soul, but unwilling to join his gangly tentmate and the others as they sang about the Lord Jesus and going to the Promised Land.

December brought wind and rain and swarms of sand flies. It also brought the disappointing news that General Burnside and the Union army had suffered a defeat up in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Captain Metcalf and the other officers seemed depressed by the news, and they shook their heads as they talked about the 12,600 Union casualties. But those numbers meant nothing to Grady, who had never learned to count that high. To him, the defeat meant that Richmond remained in Rebel hands, and that his 287 mother and the others were still slaves.

He hoped that he would finally get a chance to fight in the new year. He was ready. But the fact that his regiment was working hard to build a permanent camp here worried him. The tents all had wooden floors now, and each company had its own wooden cookhouse. The men had pitched in to dig a well and build a fireplace in the guardhouse to warm the soldiers on duty. An outbuilding that had once housed a cotton gin now housed a hospital. And nightly school lessons with teachers from up north would soon be offered in a big circular tent made from discarded canvas. The camp had become quite comfortable—and much too permanent for Grady’s liking. He wanted to march north and fight.

Two months after Grady enlisted, Colonel Higginson announced plans for a New Year’s celebration. On January 1, 1863, President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation would go into effect, officially setting all of the slaves in the Confederate states free. Grady had looked forward to the day ever since he heard the news. Maybe now he could stop looking over his shoulder, worrying that his freedom would come to an end, expecting at any moment to be chained and beaten and returned to slavery.

He volunteered to help dig pits in the sandy soil and cut down trees for spits to cook the oxen for the feast. The smell of roasting meat filled the camp that night as Grady and the other men took turns rotating the spits by hand and tending the smoldering fires while the meat cooked for the celebration.

“Looks like there’s gonna be plenty of meat tomorrow,” Joseph said as he sat alongside Grady near one of the pits. “Ten oxen! I ain’t ever seen that much beef before, have you?”

“No,” Grady replied. He grudgingly recalled being well fed by Massa Coop, but even Coop hadn’t offered him roast beef.

“Did your massa let his slaves have parties and such?” Joseph asked.

The slave gathering in Charleston came to Grady’s mind, celebrating Massa Fuller’s marriage. But then the more painful memory of the celebration that had followed his own wedding left him unable to reply.

“My massa always treated us on Christmas Day,” Joseph said, breaking the strained silence. “But it wasn’t nothing like this. The cook told me they was fixing a real fancy concoction for us to drink tomorrow, made with molasses and ginger and cider. Should be a real fine celebration, don’t you think?”

Grady raked the coals with a stick to stir the embers. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Real fine.” He wondered why he still felt bitter about anything the white folks gave him, even a celebration.

“Do you recollect where you was this time last year?” Joseph asked. “What you was doing?”

“I could’ve been free this time last year,” Grady said. “We had to leave Beaufort earlier that fall, and I could’ve run off then and been free. Instead, I was fool enough to stay and drive Massa’s wife to the plantation.”

“She must have been grateful to you, though, for helping her.”

Grady looked up from the coals to glare at Joseph. “Not her. She rewarded me by sending me down to Slave Row.”

“That’s where I was a year ago, too,” Joseph said. “Me and my sisters and brothers all living in a cabin with our folks. Sure is hard to believe we’re all free now, ain’t it? When we get married and have children, they’ll all be born free. Never have to know what slavery’s all about. You got a wife or a girlfriend, Grady?”

He slowly rose to his feet, weary of this painful conversation, depressed by Joseph’s unending cheerfulness. “No,” he lied. “No, I ain’t never been married.”

---

Guests began arriving about ten o’clock the next day for the celebration, most coming by land, some on steamers sent by General Saxton. Hundreds of women came, the wives and mothers of the other Negro soldiers, including Joseph’s mother and sisters. Grady thought of Anna and Delia, of how proud they would be to see him marching in his new uniform—then he quickly pushed them from his mind.

There were older men in the gathering, as well, former slaves who were too old for military duty, dressed in their Sunday best. One of them reminded him of Eli, renewing Grady’s resolve to fight for his family’s freedom. Many white visitors had come, too, the wives and families of the white officers, as well as white schoolteachers and missionaries who had come down from the North to teach the freed Sea Island slaves to read and write.

Grady and the other soldiers assembled by companies in their camps, then marched across the plantation grounds to the grove of live oaks near the river where a platform had been built for the dignitaries. White soldiers from the Eighth Maine Regimental Band played such a stirring march for them that Grady felt as if he could lick an entire regiment of Rebels all by himself.

The ceremony began at eleven-thirty with the chaplain’s prayer. Then President Lincoln’s Proclamation was read. What Grady had scarcely dared to believe would ever happen, was now officially true: on this, the first day of January, in the year of our Lord 1863, all persons once held as slaves in the Confederate states were declared “thenceforth and forever free.”

He gazed up into the sky to stop his tears from falling and saw a flock of birds swooping overhead. He was free—as free as they were. This time last year, he’d been a slave. Now, and for the rest of his life, he was a free man.

“Praise the Lord,” Joseph murmured beside him. “Praise the name of the Lord!”

Grady knew that Delia would have echoed Joseph’s words if she had been here. He wished he could say them, for her sake, but he couldn’t.

He looked over at the platform again as a chaplain from New York presented Colonel Higginson’s colored regiment with a brand-new United States flag. It had come all the way from New York, where it had been hand-sewn by donors. It unnerved Grady to realize that there were white folks up north who were on his side, folks like the Quaker couple who had helped Delia’s daughter escape to freedom. These people didn’t see Negroes as inferior, deserving of slavery, but as men and women of dignity. Some of them had worked all their lives, as Colonel Higginson had, to help set the slaves free. Grady thought that maybe he’d like to live up north after the war. He would take his mother and Eli and the others up there with him. He wouldn’t bother asking Anna. She would refuse, preferring to stay here with Missy Claire.

Colonel Higginson lifted the flag high in the air and waved it—Grady’s flag, his country’s flag. Grady added his voice to those of the other men in his regiment as they roared their approval, loud and long.

When the cheers died away into silence again, a single male voice, shaky with age, suddenly broke into spontaneous song:

My country, ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing!

A moment later, two women’s voices joined his. Grady saw white people glancing at their programs, then at each other, and he knew that the song hadn’t been planned; it had simply sprung forth.

Land where our fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims’ pride
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!

The choked voices sang on and on, verse after verse. Other slaves who knew the words joined in. Grady could no longer stop his tears from falling. He looked around and saw tears on every face. And when the song finally ended, the silence that followed it felt holy.

Later, there were speeches; Grady’s regiment sang; the band played. There was good food and laughter and joy on every face. But for Grady, that simple unplanned song, performed by unknown persons, remained the most powerful memory of that day.

His people’s souls had been unloosed—their hearts set free in song.

Great Oak Plantation
February 1863

Delia sat on the front step of the slave cabin, rocking little Rosa to sleep in her arms while three older children played near her feet. Delia had raised a lot of babies in her life, and except for her own daughter, they had all been white. But oh, how she’d grown to love these little slave babies with their dark brown eyes and smooth brown skin. It was hard work feeding and changing and chasing nearly a dozen children every day, with only Old Lucy to help her out. But sometimes in the evenings, when things quieted down, Delia had time to do what she loved best of all: tell stories to the older boys and girls. Her favorites all came from the Bible, of course, stories like Jonah and the whale or Daniel and the lions. These kids didn’t hardly know what lions were, and she was scared, at first, that she’d give them all nightmares by telling them.

“But there ain’t no lions around here,” she’d assured them.“Those lions are all living far away, in the land where us colored folk come from a long time ago.” Someday when the children were older, she would tell them about the land of the Mountain of Lions, where their ancestors came from. They needed to know.

This was a different life for Delia down here, much different from living in the Big House where it was warm and dry, with plenty to eat. Down here, she was cold and hungry much of the time, especially since she gave most of her own food away to the little ones. It broke her heart to see their little stomachs empty all the time. Yes, she knew that the Lord had sent her down here for a reason.

Little Rosa finally fell asleep in her arms. Delia slowly rose to her feet to carry her into the cabin, but when she looked up, there was Kitty walking up the path. Kitty smiled when she saw Delia and quickened her pace. How many months had it been since they’d seen each other?

“Oh, honey, I’m so glad to see you!” Delia said as she hugged Kitty with her free arm. “Let me put this baby in the house, and then you and me can talk.” She hurried through the open door and laid Rosa on the mattress beside the other sleeping babies. Old Lucy, who helped Delia with the children, sat dozing in a chair beside them.

“So what brings you way down here on this fine day?” Delia asked as she sat on the front step beside Kitty.

“Missy Claire and Missus Goodman went off visiting without me today, so I asked Bertha if I could come see how you was doing. Bertha said I should stay home and rest because I been feeling sick and kinda dragged down lately, but I said, ‘I want to go see Delia. She’ll make me feel better.’”

“I’m so glad you did, honey.”

“I been hoping all this time that they’re letting you watch the babies with Old Nellie instead of making you chop cotton and such. Nellie took care of me when I was small. Is she still here?”

“No, she went to be with Jesus before I come. I’m working with a woman named Lucy, and she’s loving these babies as much as I do.” Delia spied one of her toddlers wandering off and shouted to him. “Henry! You get on back here. Don’t you make me chase you, now.”

“I was always running off like that,” Kitty said with a smile, “making poor Nellie chase me. Here, I brought you some food. I never had enough to eat when I was living down here, and I been worrying about you getting enough.”

Delia untied the cloth bundle that Kitty handed her, and the aroma of smoked pork and hot corn bread drifted out. “Thank you, honey. I’ll save this for later. But don’t you be worrying yourself on my account. The Good Lord’s been taking care of me.”

One of the babies started fussing inside the cabin and Delia jumped up to fetch him before he woke Lucy or one of the other children. When she returned with the baby in her arms, Kitty was holding a pencil and an odd-looking piece of paper. “What you got there, honey?”

“This? It’s an old envelope I found in Missy’s trash. The outside is used, but I unfolded it so I could use the inside, see?”

“You gonna draw yourself a picture?” she asked.

“I was hoping you’d let me draw one of you.”

“Of me?” she said with a laugh. “You should be drawing something nice to look at, not my homely old wrinkled-up face.”

“I thought maybe if I had a picture of you, I wouldn’t be missing you so much. I have one of Grady, and it helps me remember …” Her voice choked and she couldn’t finish.

Delia squeezed Kitty’s hand with her free one. “You hearing anything about him and the other runaways?”

“Not a word. Missy Claire gets letters from Massa Fuller, but she never lets on what he says. Sometimes it makes me crazy not knowing what happened.” She paused again to brush away a tear.“I’m sorry, Delia. I didn’t come down here to be all sad. I brought you something else. I copied my picture of Grady for you on another old envelope.”

Delia moved the baby to her other knee and reached to take the paper from Kitty, holding it well out of the squirming boy’s reach. The drawing was such an excellent likeness of Grady that Delia caught her breath. He looked defiant, his proud chin thrust forward, his arms folded across his chest the way he always used to do, as if he were mad at the whole world. She whispered a silent prayer that wherever he was right now, that he had found peace in his heart.

“Thank you, honey,” Delia murmured. “You’re right, it surely is a comfort to see his face again, even if it’s just a picture.” She laid the drawing aside, out of the baby’s reach, and turned to Kitty, who sat with paper and pencil in hand. “What do you want me to do, honey? Do I need to sit still and pose or something?”

“No, just sit there and talk to me, Delia. I’ll draw.”

“Okay. But the first thing I’m needing to do is change this boy’s diaper. I reckon that’s why he’s kicking up a fuss. Can you fetch me a clean one from inside? And get that old quilt to lay him on. I’ll change him out here.”

Kitty found what Delia needed inside, then helped her spread the folded blanket on the ground. She picked up her pencil again and began to sketch as Delia lay the baby on his back and knelt beside him. “You say you ain’t been feeling too well, honey?” she asked as she untied the diaper. “What’s wrong?”

“It ain’t nothing serious. I’m just feeling so tired all the time, like I could just sleep and sleep. I don’t hardly feel like eating, either. Of course, Missy don’t care. She keeps me working all day long, no matter how tired I am. But sometimes I think I could just lie down in the middle of the floor and—”

She stopped so abruptly that Delia glanced up at her. Kitty was holding her hand over her mouth, trying not to retch after getting a whiff of the dirty diaper. Suddenly Delia knew what was wrong. She swayed, barely stopping herself from falling sideways. “Oh no. Oh no,” she murmured.

Kitty leaned forward to help her. “Delia? Are you okay? I’m sorry, but the smell—”

Delia gripped Kitty’s arm. “Did you sleep with Grady the night he left?” But she knew from Kitty’s expression what the answer was before the girl had a chance to reply. Her face showed a mixture of deep joy and an even deeper sorrow.

“Oh, Lord, honey! You’re gonna have his baby!”

Kitty’s eyes went wide. “H-how do you know?”

“I know. Oh, honey, I know.”

Kitty covered her face with both hands and wept.

The poor girl was pregnant. And Delia knew just as surely as the sun rose every morning that it was all her fault. She had meddled in matters that were none of her business, encouraging Grady to sleep with Kitty on that last night, promising him that she would escape with him if he did. Delia had tried to take control of things instead of trusting God, and now she’d created an awful mess. It was her fault that Kitty was gonna have a baby all alone, with no husband to help raise it. Her fault that Grady’s child would be born a slave. Delia could never forgive herself, much less ask Kitty or Grady or the Lord to forgive her. But what to do now? What to do?

Delia left the bare-bottomed baby kicking and squalling on the blanket and pulled Kitty into her arms. “It’s gonna be okay, honey,” she soothed. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m having a baby? Grady’s baby?”

“You poor thing. You don’t know whether to be happy or sad, do you? Well, it’s okay to feel a little of each. Being a mother’s the most wonderful thing in the whole world—and also the most painful. There’s no joy like a mother’s joy. And there’s no pain greater than a mother’s pain. It’s like being in love—there’s nothing more wonderful than being with the man you love. And nothing more painful than losing him.”

“But … I thought you didn’t love the father of your little girl. I thought that he, you know …”

“I didn’t love her father. But I loved my husband.”

Kitty pulled back to stare at her. “You were married? Delia, you never told me! Where is he? What happened to him? I know that your daughter died, but—”

“She didn’t die.” Delia saw Kitty’s confusion and sighed. “I guess I better tell you the whole story, from the beginning.” She patted Kitty’s shoulder, then knelt beside the baby again, sifting through her memories for a place to start while she soothed and diapered him.

“My mama was the Fullers’ cook before Faye was,” she began.“Mama’s gone now, living in heaven with Jesus. Papa is, too, God rest his soul. He worked as a carpenter for the Fullers, making wagon wheels and barrel staves—anything, you name it. I had two brothers and three sisters, all older than me. I was the youngest. They’s all gone and buried now. I been with the Fullers for so many years that I saw lots of folks come and go—Massa Roger’s grandparents, then his parents, then his first wife. I saw Massa and his sisters born into this world and those boys of his, too. So many folks come and gone … gone just like you and me someday.

“The Fullers had lots of visitors, back in the old days, and old Missus Fuller had a sister called Miss Carrie who lived down Savannah way. Miss Carrie didn’t get on too well with her husband, so she spent a lot of time visiting the Fullers. And she always came with her coachman—a fine, handsome young fella named Shep. His daddy was a Negro preacher-man so he named his son Shepherd, after the Good Shepherd. Young Shep turned out to be a mighty fine preacher himself, and he taught me that psalm by heart: ‘The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …’”

Delia finished diapering the baby, and she sat him on the blanket beside her. He chewed on his fist, cooing happily while Delia continued.

“Shep had a Bible, and he knew how to read it. He used to hold meetings at night when the white folks were partying and couldn’t hear us. He taught us all about Moses, and how the Lord heard the slaves’ cries and delivered them from bondage. Shep said the Lord Jesus was gonna be our deliverer, too, and He’d hear us and help us, if we cried out to Him.

“I wish you could’ve heard the singing and praying and rejoicing at those meetings. I reckon the white folks thought we was having a party, too, but we was praising God and storming heaven with our prayers.” She paused to look up at Kitty. “I believe He’s answering them right now. I believe that’s what this war is all about.”

Kitty looked puzzled, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Well, Shep and I fell in love and decided to jump the broom. We knew it was gonna be a hard life, because we never knew when we was gonna see each other or how long Shep would be staying when he did come. But we was happy for those hours we had. Oh yes. Shep’s faith in the Lord was as big and as wide as the whole state of South Carolina. And even though things was hard for us, we was happy.

“It was right around that time that the overseer, the first Mr. Browning, took a liking to me. He was a married man with a family of his own, but the doctor says his wife ain’t supposed to have any more babies. So he put me in a little cabin of my own, so he could come and go anytime he wants. Nothing I can do about it, either.”

“Did Shep know?” Kitty asked.

“He knew. It just about broke his heart. He cried along with me, because we knew I belonged to him, not Mr. Browning. But Shep told me not to hate him. He said I had to forgive him. And I been trying to do that. All these years, I been trying.

“Then one day Shep drove Miss Carrie home to Savannah, and they never came back. She died of a fever all of a sudden. The Fullers went to her funeral, but they left me home. And Shep couldn’t come driving all the way to Beaufort to see me no more, now that his missus was gone.”

“So you never saw him again?” Kitty asked softly. “You don’t know what happened to him?”

Delia shook her head. “I heard Old Missus Fuller saying one day, that Shep’s massa was a gambler and he was running up so many big debts that he had to sell his slaves to pay them off. But I never did learn whether or not he sold Shep. It’s been some forty years now, and I ain’t never seen my husband again.”

Delia closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture Shep in her mind. She wished she had a drawing to remember him by. She looked up to tell Kitty how blessed she was to have a drawing of Grady and saw the poor girl’s tears. Delia never should have told Kitty her story. She never should have dashed all her hopes of ever seeing Grady again—even if it turned out to be true.

“Believe me, honey,” Delia said softly, “I know how you’re feeling. My biggest sorrow was that I never had Shep’s child. At least you’ll have that. Your baby is a gift from God, a little part of Grady to remember him by.”

“I’m so sorry for you, Delia.” Kitty reached for her hand.

“No … my husband gave me something even better than a child—he taught me about the Lord. Shep’s the one who told me all about Jesus and how much He loves us. He taught me to be thankful each day—for what the Lord has given, thankful for the good and the bad. We learn a lot more from the bad than from the good, you know.”

Kitty’s hand slid from hers as she leaned back, gazing at Delia in surprise. “How can you be thankful, Delia? How can you still be praying and believing in God after everything that happened to you? Everything you lost?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it, honey. I just keep looking to the Lord, my Heavenly Massa, no matter what. His love is always there, through it all.”

Kitty was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Tell me about your daughter.”

Delia drew a deep breath. “Shep had been gone for more than a year when I found out I was gonna have a baby. I knew right away who the daddy was, but that overseer never so much as looked at his little girl. She was just another slave to him, not his baby.”

“And did she die or didn’t she?” Kitty asked.

“No, she didn’t die. I had a funeral and made a grave and everything, so that it’d look like she had. But she’s gone free. I used to go to a colored folks’ church in Pocotaligo, and that’s where I met up with a Quaker family from up north. My baby had very light skin, you know, just like Grady’s, and these white folks offered to take her up north with them where she would be free. So I let her go.”

“That must have been hard,” Kitty said in a whisper. “What was her name?”

“I named her Love. My little Love. I wanted to remind myself that it ain’t her fault what her daddy done. She would always help me remember to love my enemies.” Delia paused, biting her lip. “I know things is hard for you right now, honey, but if you let God shine His love on you, He can make something beautiful out of even the darkest hours of your life. That’s what He’ll do with your child—Grady’s child… . But Lord, Lord, how I wish you’d gone with him.”

“Me too, Delia. Me too.”