Great Oak Plantation, South
Carolina
Spring 1863
Missy Claire stood before her open wardrobe and pouted. “I’m so tired of these same old dresses. I haven’t had anything new to wear in ages.”
Kitty ran her fingers over the fine, brightly colored gowns hanging in Missy’s wardrobe, savoring the smooth rustle of silk and taffeta. Missy owned dozens of beautiful dresses. Why on earth would she need a new one? But Kitty knew better than to ask.
“I can fetch one of your mama’s seamstresses from down on the Row,” Kitty said as she reached to straighten the hatboxes on the top shelf. “She’ll be glad to sew you a new one.”
Missy turned to glare at her. “And what, may I ask, is she supposed to use for fabric? Ugly old homespun like your dress?”
Kitty quickly lowered her arms to hide the frayed side seams of her homemade dress. She’d worn it since before the war began and the rough fabric was threadbare. Now, as her figure changed with pregnancy, she’d had to alter the dress to fit, raising the waistline and re-stitching the bursting side seams. She’d sewn it at night by candlelight, after all her other work was done, and the shoddy workmanship embarrassed her.
“Can’t you send to Charleston for some new cloth, Missy? I remember all the fancy stores they have there, filled with bolts and bolts of beautiful cloth—so many that you could scarcely make up your mind which ones to buy, remember?”
“Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing in Charleston, either.”
Kitty stared at her mistress in surprise. “There ain’t?”
“Of course not. The stores have been nearly empty ever since the Yankees started this tiresome war.”
Kitty thought she remembered everyone saying that the Southern states started the war by firing on Fort Sumter—but she didn’t argue with her mistress. “You mean … all them stores in Charleston? How can they all be empty, Missy Claire?”
“Because the best fabric comes from abroad and the ships that run the Yankee blockade usually bring goods that are needed for the war. The few nice things that are available are outrageously priced.” She sank down in her chair with an angry sigh, as if it was all Kitty’s fault. “I haven’t worn a ball gown in ages. And I hate being cooped up here all winter and missing the social season. Father promised we’d go to Charleston for Easter—and I always had a new outfit for Easter. I’ll be so embarrassed with nothing new to wear.”
Kitty knew that it was her job to cheer up her mistress and help her see the brighter side of things. She thought for a long moment before saying, “Seems like if all them stores is empty then ain’t nobody else gonna be wearing a new gown for Easter, Missy Claire.”
“Well, yes … I suppose that’s true,” she said. “Mother says that a lot of women are having their dresses turned.”
“What does that mean, Missy Claire? They wearing them inside-out or something?”
Missy managed a thin smile. “No, silly. You know how the bottom hemline gets frayed and the collars and cuffs get worn? Well, their seamstresses take the dresses apart, turn the fabric around, somehow, and re-cut them so the worn parts don’t show.”
“Oh, I get it. They make a brand-new dress out of the old ones.” Kitty turned to Missy’s wardrobe again and sorted through the gowns. “You know, some of these colors go real nice together. You could cut up this skirt and use it to trim the hem of this dress where it’s frayed and it would look real pretty, see? And this dress is a little worn out but the lace is still nice. You could sew it on this bodice and make it look brand new.”
Missy sat forward, looking excited for the first time. “What about that plaid gown? Could we fix that one, too?”
“Sure thing, Missy. See how nice this green dress matches it?We could cut up the green one and make a new ruffle around the hem of the plaid one … maybe put parts of the green on the bodice, too.”
“You always did have a good eye for things like this,” Missy said grudgingly.
“Want me to go fetch the seamstress? She’ll help us figure out how to do it.”
“All right,” Missy said with a sigh. She waited until Kitty got as far as the door to add, “And don’t dawdle!”
Kitty made a face as soon as she was out of sight, chafing at Missy’s command. What difference would it make if she did dawdle? Missy had no place to go and nothing to do. It wasn’t like the wardrobe was on fire and she had to fetch water to put it out.
Kitty took her time descending the stairs, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders before heading outside. She stood in the doorway for a moment listening to the call of birds down by the river, enjoying the few moments of peace away from Missy’s whining voice. Halfway across the yard she felt her baby’s fluttering movements and halted. She’d felt this quickening for the first time only a week ago and the sensation was still wonderfully new. Life!A living child—Grady’s child—moved and grew inside her.
Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Grady. Was he alive or dead? Slave or free? What if they never found each other again and were separated forever, just like Delia and her husband, Shep? But as Kitty felt the baby move again she took comfort in the fact that a part of Grady would always remain alive in his child. At least she had that.
“I could have taken a nap in all the time you’ve been gone,” Missy complained when Kitty returned with the Negro seamstress.
“I’m sorry, Missy Claire. I was hurrying just as fast as I could.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were. Did you explain to her what I want her to do?”
“Yes, Missy Claire. I thought I’d just lay the dresses all out on the bed like this so she could see them.” Kitty began removing the gowns from the wardrobe, piling the ones they would combine on top of each other as she explained her ideas to the seamstress. Missy supervised from her chair as if all of the ideas had been hers, warning them from time to time, to be extra careful with her delicate silks.
“Such beautiful colors …” Kitty said as she ran her hand over the plaid taffeta.
“Yes, thank goodness Roger hasn’t died,” Missy said. “Where would I ever find black fabric? Besides, I hate black. I couldn’t bear it if I had to wear black for an entire year!”
Kitty hid her shock at Missy’s heartlessness. If Grady died, Kitty would mourn his loss for the rest of her life. But Missy had never been in love with Massa Roger. At least she and Grady had loved each other—and that was one thing Missy could never take away from her.
“What about a new bonnet?” Missy said suddenly. “I can’t wear my old ones. I always bought a new bonnet for Easter.”
Kitty saw the seamstress roll her eyes, but the woman had her back to Missy. Kitty would have made a face, too, but she didn’t dare. “Maybe we can fix a new hat from all the old ones,” she said. “We’ll find one that ain’t looking too bad and make a little ruffle from leftover dress fabric. If we use a bit of matching ribbon … pick the best flowers …”
Kitty reached to the top of the wardrobe to pull down Missy’s hatboxes and heard a ripping sound as the side seam of her dress gave way. “Oh!” she cried and quickly lowered her arms.
“What was that tearing sound?” Missy asked. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, Missy Claire. Just my own dress ripping a little bit.”
“Come here and let me see. Lift up your arms.”
Kitty did as she was told.
“What a mess!” Missy said when she showed her. “And you expect me to trust you with my gowns? Look at this! And why is the waistline way up above your waist? Who sewed this?”
“I did, Missy Claire. The side seam was about to split and—”
“Look at you! You’re putting on weight. Turn around.”
Kitty cringed as Missy eyed her changing figure.
“You never used to be so … so full on top.” Missy’s eyebrows raised as the truth suddenly dawned on her. “Wait a minute! Are you pregnant?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said softly. “I believe so.”
“Why, you little hussy!” Missy looked as though she might slap her. “You’re a married woman! You’re not supposed to be carrying on with other men.”
“But I ain’t been carrying on. This is my husband’s baby, ma’am. Honest!”
“How dare you lie to me! I waited for months on end for you to have a baby, and your worthless husband wasn’t able to sire one.”
“But this is his baby—”
“I don’t believe it. You told me you haven’t seen him since they took the horses away and I sent him down to Slave Row. Were you lying to me then or are you lying now?”
Kitty didn’t know what to say. If she told Missy that she had seen Grady one last time then Missy would be angry with her for disobeying—and she would know that Kitty had been aware of his escape plans. What if Grady had already been caught? Would telling the truth get him into even more trouble? When Kitty didn’t answer or try to defend herself, Missy gave a triumphant smile.
“I knew it! That couldn’t possibly be your husband’s baby. I can count off the months since I sent him down, you know. Mother was right when she said marriage means nothing to you people.”
Kitty’s entire body trembled with fury. She wanted to rage at Missy and tell her that she was wrong! Slave women loved their husbands. It was their white owners who were always breaking up marriages and separating husbands and wives. White people had separated Kitty’s parents—and Delia and Shep. Missy herself had separated the old man from his wife when he drove Missy here. And Missy had sent Grady down to Slave Row and forbidden them to live together. Kitty longed to scream at her, to make her see the truth. There was no other man in Kitty’s life except Grady. She loved him, missed him desperately. Missy was the one who had married for selfish reasons. She didn’t even care if her husband died—only that she would have to wear black.
But Kitty didn’t say any of those things. She turned away from her mistress, blinking back her tears as she lifted one of Missy’s dresses from the bed. “Guess I better be ripping out some of these seams, Missy Claire, so we can start sewing you some new dresses.” She sat down near the window with a pair of scissors and carefully picked away at the tiny stitches of a side seam. She kept her head lowered, struggling not to cry.
“What’s wrong with you?” Missy asked a few minutes later. “Are you pouting?”
Kitty forced a smile, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Oh, no, Missy. There ain’t nothing wrong with me. I’m just concentrating, that’s all. Your seamstress sewed such tiny little stitches that I can barely see to pull them out.”
“Well, my gowns are very important to me, you know. It isn’t my fault that this stupid war has forced me to trust them to the two of you. Just make sure you don’t make a mess of them. If you do, I’ll have your hide.”
St. John’s River, Florida
March 1863
Grady heard an ominous rasping sound as the ship’s hull scraped against a sandbar. The vessel slowed, then stopped with a sickening jolt as it ran aground. His heart speeded up as he scanned the wooded shoreline in the darkness, watching for the telltale flash of enemy artillery fire, aware that his stranded ship made an easy target for a Rebel attack. But only the waning moon and millions of shimmering stars lit the night sky.
The steam engines reversed, grinding loudly as they labored to free the ship. After a tense twenty minutes, the ship was underway again, steaming up the winding St. John’s River toward Jacksonville, Florida. Grady’s regiment had begun the journey upriver at two o’clock in the morning after waiting at the river’s mouth all evening for their escort of navy gunboats. He had thought of Anna as he’d watched a flock of pelicans swooping for fish above the mirror-like water, filling the enormous pouches that hung from their bills. She would have loved to sketch that beautiful scene.
Colonel Higginson had planned to arrive before dawn and take the sleeping city of Jacksonville by surprise, but the St. John’s River had proved difficult to navigate. The expedition lost valuable time as the ships took turns getting stranded, and they finally had to leave one grounded gunboat behind as the tide changed and the river began to ebb.
Grady recognized the outskirts of Jacksonville as the sky grew light, remembering the city from his travels there with Massa Coop. The wooded shoreline gave way to cultivated meadows and distant houses, then the ship rounded the last bend and the city came into view. Coop had done a fair amount of business here, selling slaves to white folks for the lumbering trade. It was a pleasant city, with neatly laid streets, serene houses, and rustling shade trees. Except for the city’s mills—charred husks of bricks and twisted metal, burned by the fleeing Rebels the last time the Union army had invaded—Jacksonville appeared peaceful and untouched by the war.
But Grady knew that the calm appearance might disguise a Rebel ambush. He held his breath, gripping his rifle as his ship’s gunners readied their weapons, bracing himself for the first volley of shots or boom of enemy artillery. But the city remained quiet as his ship reached the dock. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he prepared to disembark with the rest of the invasion force, fanning out and taking defensive positions as they’d been trained to do. An artillery unit set up their howitzers on the wharf behind him, preparing for an attack—but the attack never came. Moments after they landed, the First South Carolina Volunteers had made Jacksonville, Florida a United States military outpost without firing a single shot.
Grady’s regiment had accomplished the first stage of its objective, the capture of Jacksonville, but he was deeply disappointed that it had fallen so easily. He had been ready for a fight—jubilant, in fact—when orders had come to strike their camp outside Beaufort and prepare for permanent deployment in Florida. He and the others had worked steadily for twenty-four hours, packing up all their tents and equipment and hauling everything out to the waiting ships on flatboats. Their mission was to invade and occupy as much of Florida as they could, driving out the Rebels, freeing the slaves, and recruiting all the able-bodied men into their ranks. The regiment’s courage had been proven on the expedition up the St. Mary’s River, Colonel Higginson had told them. No one could deny the slaves’ valor in combat. Now their behavior as victors would be tested. The Northern press was watching, waiting to report how a Negro occupation force would treat their former oppressors.
Jacksonville lay spread out over a large area, with dense woods beyond the city limits. The regiment would be spread very thinly as they guarded the town. If the Rebels attacked with a force larger than their own, Grady’s regiment might be overrun. Grady and the other men spent much of the first day making their presence known, checking for ambushes, and planning the fortifications and entrenchments they would need to build in order to secure the town. Oddly, they found only a small number of slaves for a city this size.
“Our owners heard how the Yankees been freeing all the slaves,” an elderly Negro told Grady, “so the Rebels took all the strongest men away already. Moved them all inland, out of reach.” His words made Grady more determined than ever to fight his enemy.
“Don’t worry,” Captain Metcalf promised, “once we’re established here, we’ll make some forays upriver to find those slaves and free them.”
Grady’s troops spent the long day in suspense, expecting a Rebel counterattack, preparing for it. As night fell, the regiment’s scattered companies bedded down in various parts of town, with guards on the alert for a nighttime assault. Grady felt exhausted from the tense day and lost night of sleep. He slept restlessly, with his shoes on and his gun close beside him.
The hard work of fortifying Jacksonville began at dawn. Redoubts needed to be built, trees cleared to create a buffer zone, houses razed and trenches dug. The men took turns performing the heavy labor and doing picket duty to guard against enemy raids. Grady’s own encampment was in a grove of linden trees on the outer edge of town, and he spent the morning chopping down trees to barricade the main road out of Jacksonville.
As he labored to build defensive works around the camp that was to be his new home, Grady noticed a lone white man standing on the front porch of a house across the street, watching the laborers. He was one of the few whites left in this part of town, living in one of the few occupied houses on the street—in the last row of homes at the edge of Jacksonville. Something about the man reminded Grady of Massa Coop, and he felt the same prickle of fear he’d felt as a boy when Coop had scrutinized his every move, waiting for him to make a mistake, hoping for an excuse to beat him. The “watcher” haunted Grady, and even as he lay in his tent at night with Joseph snoring beside him, he imagined the man on his porch, staring at him in the darkness.
Grady soon learned that the Rebels were camped nearby. They began creeping forward at odd hours to skirmish with Union pickets on the outskirts of town or to harass the squads that were sent out to forage in the region around Jacksonville. Life in Grady’s regiment became a continuous round of hard labor, daily skirmishes, and nightlong vigils. And whenever Grady glanced at the last row of houses, he glimpsed the man watching from his porch or standing like a shadow in his front window.
Grady wondered if the man was a spy—if he was sneaking past the pickets somehow, to carry information to the Rebels. It was clear that someone was providing them with information. The Rebels had a locomotive-mounted cannon, and they traveled down the rail line to bring the weapon within range of the city, bombarding the Union camps each night before disappearing again. One night, the bombs fell much too close to the colonel’s headquarters for it to be a coincidence. Grady had been on guard duty and he’d watched in horrified fascination as the shells streaked through the night sky like falling stars and exploded in a shower of deadly fragments.
The man on the porch even stood the same way that Massa Coop used to stand, with his arms cocked stiffly on his hips and his feet widespread. He dressed as neatly as Coop, too, in a white shirt and a dark, well-tailored suit and vest. But Coop was from New Orleans, and the Yankees had captured that city a year ago. Grady had heard all about it last spring when he’d gone into Pocotaligo with the overseer for supplies. Coop wouldn’t be able to trade slaves anymore, now that Union warships were blocking all the southern ports. Grady tried to put the resemblance out of his mind.
But one day he noticed that the men on guard duty had a pair of field glasses. They were using them to watch for Rebels hiding in the woods. Grady decided to satisfy his curiosity about the “watcher” once and for all.
“Can I borrow them glasses for a little while?” he asked. He found a place where he could view the porch and still be hidden behind one of the tents. But for once the man wasn’t there, and Grady was forced to wait—an eternity, it seemed. He was about to give up and return the field glasses, when he finally spotted the “watcher” hurrying up the street toward his house, coming from the direction of town. The man kept his face lowered until he was opposite Grady’s encampment, then he quickly glanced over at it before hurrying up the porch steps.
Grady caught his breath. If that wasn’t Coop it was someone who looked exactly like him. He had the same stern, narrow face and shrewd eyes, even if his drooping mustache and fringe of receding brown hair had turned iron gray during the past six years. It had to be Coop. But it couldn’t be. Was it him—or wasn’t it?
The question haunted Grady for days. He borrowed the field glasses a second time, then a third, and each tantalizing glimpse made him more and more certain that it was his old enemy. Then, on a foraging raid upriver to bring back provisions and to free the area’s slaves, Grady learned that the squadron’s guide, Peter, was a former slave from Jacksonville.
“Can I ask you a question?” Grady said as he took Peter aside. “Are you knowing a lot of white folks in this town?”
“A fair amount. I’m living here all my life. Why?”
“If I take and show you a white man living near our camp, think you could tell me who he is?”
Peter pulled on his bottom lip and shrugged. “Maybe I can and maybe I can’t. Take me there and we’ll see.”
Grady’s heart speeded up as they neared the house. The “watcher” stood outside on his porch. Grady still felt a jolt of childlike panic each time he saw the man, and he remembered his four years of unrelenting fear.
“That’s him. That’s the man,” Grady said. But as he and Peter approached, the man quickly disappeared into the house. “You know him?” Grady asked.
“Nope. That fella ain’t from Jacksonville. If he’s who I think he is, he just come here about a year ago with a big pile of money. Paid cash for that house. I heard someone say that the Yankees chased him out of his other home. Keeps to himself, mostly.”
“Did he come here all alone?” Grady asked.
“I believe he brought his wife and a couple of slaves.”
William. If one of those slaves was William, then Grady would be certain. But nearly all of Jacksonville’s slaves had left the city on Union ships shortly after being set free. “Are any of his slaves still staying here in Jacksonville?” he asked hopefully.
Peter shrugged again. “I can ask around. What’s your interest in the man?”
“I’m trying to figure out if he’s my old massa. Looks a lot like him.”
“And if he is… ?” Peter asked.
“Then he’s a slave trader.”
Peter’s reaction was instantaneous. Grady saw his revulsion in his tightly clenched fists and angry grimace. Edward Coop was Peter’s enemy—every slave’s enemy.
“My massa made his fortune sending young gals to brothels and tearing families apart,” Grady continued. “He used to torture and beat us slaves just for the fun of it.”
“I’ll ask around,” Peter said in a husky voice. “I’ll be sure and let you know.”
Peter returned a few days later. “I found a gal who says she worked for the man’s wife until y’all got here. She says they move here from New Orleans—and her massa’s name is Coop.”
A shudder rocked through Grady. His stomach clenched with hatred—and fear.
“I take it that’s the fella,” Peter said.
Grady could barely speak. “Yeah. That’s him.”
Grady wanted to yank Coop from his porch and beat him to within an inch of his life before hanging him from the gallows in the city square. He resisted the urge to dash across the street and grab him right now, knowing he couldn’t accomplish anything alone. He spent the next few hours trying to think of a way to prove to the authorities that Coop had once been a slave trader and deserved to hang—and he finally remembered Amos. The big man was part of Grady’s regiment, but his company had been assigned to guard a different part of Jacksonville. Weeks seemed to pass in between skirmishes, nightly guard duty, and fatigue duty, until Grady finally had enough time off one Sunday afternoon to hunt for Amos.
“I found Massa Coop, the soul trader,” Grady told him without preamble. “He’s living here in town. You remember what he looks like? Think you can back me up when I turn him in to the authorities?”
“Turn him in? For what?”
“He should hang for being a slave trader. And he killed at least one slave that I know of.”
Amos gave a bitter grunt. “They won’t arrest Coop just for killing one of us. And there still ain’t no law against trading slaves. Besides, the whites would never believe our word against another white man’s. Coop probably has all them white officers fooled into thinking he’s a kindly old Southern gentleman. And if he’s got money, he’ll just buy his way out of trouble.”
Grady exhaled in frustration. “What can we do? I don’t want to see him go free.”
“Oh, he ain’t going free, boy. You and me are gonna kill him ourselves.”
A tremor of unease shivered through Grady, but he quickly brushed it aside. It would be justice to kill Coop. What about all the slaves Coop had tortured and killed, all the suffering and abuse he’d caused—separating families, sending young girls to brothels? Didn’t God demand justice for all of that? If Grady felt uneasy, it was probably just fear that he might be caught. He certainly wouldn’t feel any guilt for killing Coop.
“I know plenty of fellas who’ll be willing to help us kill a white slave trader,” Amos continued. “We just have to come up with a plan to make sure we ain’t caught.”
Grady’s mind was already scheming. “What if we waited until a night when I’m on guard duty? There’s a guard post close to Coop’s street. It should be easy to sneak on over there and break into his house, if I’m the one on watch. And if Coop is found dead in the morning, ain’t nobody gonna care.”
Another long week passed until Grady was scheduled for guard duty, the second watch of the night. He requested a pass and hurried across town to Amos’ camp to let him know.
“I’ll be there,” Amos said. And Grady saw a hint of a smile cross the big man’s face.
The night they’d chosen turned out to be perfect, with cloudy, moonless skies and a blanket of damp, gray fog. But Grady waited, interminably it seemed, for Amos to arrive. His watch was nearly over when four shadowy figures finally drifted out of the fog, startling Grady, at first. Amos and the other three men wore slaves’ rags, but Grady knew by the army-issue rifles they carried that they were soldiers just like him.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” Grady breathed.
Amos shook his head as if to dismiss his doubts and whispered, “Which house?”
Grady glanced around before leaving his post, then signaled for the others to follow him across the street and around to the backyard. The door was barred from the inside, but one of Amos’ men quickly broke a rear window, muffling the sound with his army blanket. They all climbed through it. The modest house was as dark as a cave inside. Grady stood in the inky stair hall, waiting to move until his eyes adjusted, but Amos and the others quickly spread out to search all the downstairs rooms, as silent and stealthy as cats. They found no sign of Coop.
Amos had just started to lead the way upstairs when a dark figure appeared at the top of the steps. Even in the dark, Grady knew it was Coop. He saw a glint of metal in Coop’s right hand—a pistol—and was about to shout a warning to Amos, when the huge man moved as fast as a panther, tackling Coop around his knees. Coop tumbled down the stairs, and his gun bounced to the floor before he could fire it. The knot of men quickly converged around him, raising their rifle butts to beat him, but Grady pushed them away.
“Wait a minute. I need to be sure.” He jabbed the barrel of his rifle against Coop’s chest and bent over him. Grady saw the man he hated and spit in his face.
“Remember me?” Grady asked, removing his hat. “The slave you lost in a poker game? You called me Joe, but my name is Grady.” He kicked Coop in the ribs as he said his name. “Got that? Grady!” Even now, he felt the anguish of being a helpless boy, of suffering a brutal beating simply because he’d clung to his name. Now Coop was helpless. Grady kicked him again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Coop growled. He was breathing rapidly but his expression showed anger, not fear.
“Don’t you remember beating me, like this?” He gripped his gun by the barrel and smashed the butt of it against Coop’s head until he cried out in pain. “Go ahead and yell,” Grady breathed. “Cry for mercy, just like all those slaves you bought and sold. Nobody cares, Coop. Nobody’s gonna listen to you—just like you refused to listen to all their cries.”
Grady stepped back and let the others take their turns, kicking Coop and clubbing him with their rifle butts. Grady allowed them to vent their rage for a minute, then he held up his hands to stop them. He wanted to drag out the torture, make Coop suffer in agony as he waited for the end. He wanted to hear Coop beg.
“Hold it,” Grady said. “We’ll give him a minute to pray for God’s mercy because we ain’t gonna show him any. You deserve to die, Coop. We’re gonna kill you now, in cold blood, just like you killed your first slave named Joe. Remember him? Except your death will be a lot quicker than his.”
“Go ahead and kill me now,” Coop gasped. “I don’t believe in God.”
Grady froze, shocked by his confession. “You … you what?”
“That’s right. Religion is just a bunch of myths and lies to appease simple fools like you.”
Cold dread slithered through Grady at Coop’s words. “You … you ain’t sorry for all the harm you done, all the slaves you tortured and killed?”
“I don’t have to apologize to any paltry god for my life, and I don’t intend to. Just kill me—unless you lack the guts, boy!”
Grady lifted his rifle butt and brought it down on Coop’s head. He tried to strike him a second time but Amos and the others pushed him aside to swarm all over Coop, beating him and kicking him for what seemed like hours until Coop finally lay still.
“Hold it a minute,” Amos said. The men backed away. Amos knelt to feel the vein in Coop’s neck and said, “He’s dead.”
Coop’s cold gray eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling but the rest of his face was unrecognizable. Grady couldn’t take his eyes off him. This was what he’d wanted, what he’d dreamed of doing for years. He should feel triumphant, victorious. Instead, he felt as if his limbs had turned to stone.
“Let’s get out of here,” Amos said. He gripped Grady’s arm and pulled him down the hall and through the house. The men climbed out through the window again, leaving the door barred, and disappeared into the shadows as silently as they’d come.
Grady stood in Coop’s yard for a long moment, disoriented. Then he remembered his abandoned post and broke into a run. He shivered as the damp fog enveloped him, and he realized that he was wringing wet with sweat—that he stank of it. He’d been gone less than ten minutes, and his turn at watch surely wasn’t over yet, but as he dashed across the street he saw a man standing in his place.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the figure called. Grady recognized Joseph’s voice. He remembered that his tentmate was scheduled to relieve him. Grady gave the password and Joseph lowered his rifle.
“Ain’t you coming on duty a little early?” Grady asked. He tried to act casual but his voice shook. His entire body shook.
“Where were you?” Joseph asked. He stared at Grady as if he’d never seen him before.
“I … um … I went to check something out over there.” He tilted his head in the general direction of Coop’s house. “Heard a noise. Turned out to be nothing.”
He followed Joseph’s gaze as he looked down at Grady’s hands—and he saw that he still gripped his rifle by the barrel, like a club, the way he’d gripped it as he’d smashed it against Coop’s head. Even in the dark, smears of Coop’s blood glistened on the gunstock. His hands were sticky with blood, his light skin stained dark with it. He slowly lowered the rifle, resting the butt on the ground, out of sight.
“What’s going on, Grady?” Joseph asked.
“Nothing. See you in the morning.” He walked away as casually as his trembling limbs would allow and sank down inside their tent. Joseph couldn’t leave his post to follow him.
Grady sat for a long time, waiting to regain control over his shaking hands. When he thought he could use his fingers again, he fumbled in his knapsack for a bandana and a canteen of water, using them to scrub the blood off his rifle and his hands. But now the telltale blood stained the bandana. Grady crawled out of the tent on his hands and knees and burned the evidence in one of the smoldering campfires.
Back in his tent, he still couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know why. It couldn’t be guilt—he had no reason to feel guilty. Coop deserved to die. As his racing mind replayed the night’s events, Grady decided that what he felt wasn’t guilt, but fear. Joseph had seen the blood on his hands.
Grady pretended to be asleep when Joseph came in from his watch. He waited until he heard his tentmate snoring, then got up and went outside long before reveille, feeding wood into the campfire until it blazed. At roll call, Captain Metcalf asked for volunteers to carry supplies to one of the distant picket lines, and Grady quickly offered to go. He returned to camp late in the afternoon and was dismayed to see Joseph watching for him outside their tent, waiting to speak with him.
“You missed all the ruckus across the street this morning,” Joseph said somberly.
Grady feigned surprise. “Oh, yeah? What’s going on?”
“Some white man who lived in that house over there was found dead. His wife’s claiming that a band of Negroes broke in last night and beat her husband to death. She’s hiding in the closet until morning, too scared to move.”
“White folks lie all the time,” Grady said with a shrug. “They’re blaming us for everything.”
“She says one of them had on a Yankee uniform—just like ours.”
Grady could tell by the way that Joseph’s eyes bored into his, that he knew the truth.
“The provost marshal is wanting to talk to you and me,” he continued.
Grady’s stomach made a slow, sickening turn. “What for?”
“He wants to know if we saw or heard anything last night when we was on watch.”
Grady forced himself to hold Joseph’s gaze, challenging him.“Did you see anything on your watch?”
Joe shrugged his bony shoulders.
“Me neither,” Grady said.
“Well, we’re still supposed to go see the marshal. Captain Metcalf said for us to hurry on over there as soon as you got back. Come on.”
Grady tried to act unconcerned as he walked toward headquarters, but inside he was trembling uncontrollably. If the provost marshal asked for details, Grady knew that Preacher Joe was much too religious to ever tell a lie. Grady wished he knew exactly what his tentmate had seen, but he couldn’t think of a way to ask him without admitting his guilt. Maybe he should threaten Joseph, drop a few hints that he also might die mysteriously in the night if he said too much. But before Grady could finish weighing the idea, Joseph spoke.
“Can I ask you a question, Grady?”
He nodded, his heart racing.
“Why’d you join up? Was it so you could kill a few Rebels, get revenge?”
Grady considered a moment before answering. Joseph knew how much Grady hated white men. He would see right through him if he lied. “Sure. Killing Rebels was part of the reason. But mostly it was to help set our people free.”
“Well, you got your freedom,” he said dryly. “And thanks to us, every slave in Jacksonville is free. So—has that been enough to satisfy you?”
Grady knew that the answer was no. So did Joseph. Grady hadn’t been able to hide his restless, pent-up anger from anyone, least of all his tentmate. Grady was not a happy man, and Joe knew it.
“How can I be satisfied?” Grady said angrily. “You know this is more than just a fight to win our freedom. We’re still fighting for respect and dignity.”
“And you think being mad all the time, shooting off your anger and rage at white folks, is the best way to be winning respect and dignity?”
“If we don’t fight for what we deserve, our people are never getting it.”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t agree. Dignity ain’t something we need to be fighting for or trying to earn. It’s something we had all along. We’re God’s children, made in His image.”
“Why are you preaching this stuff to me?” Grady said bitterly. “Go tell it to all the white men who hate our guts. They think we’re animals, not people. Try telling them we’re all God’s children. They’ll laugh in your skinny black face.”
“Some people were hating Jesus so much that they crucified Him. But that didn’t change who He was. I don’t need a white man’s opinion to know that I’m worthy in God’s eyes. I’m His child, and I don’t care what any man thinks about me, white or black.” He slowed to a halt and turned to Grady. “Ready?” he asked.
Grady looked around, as if emerging from a fog, and realized that they had reached the provost marshal’s house. His stomach lurched. “Sure. After you,” he said coolly, but his knees felt rubbery as he followed Joe up the steps. They told the officer’s aide why they had come, and he offered them seats while they waited.
More than fifteen minutes passed but neither of them spoke. The longer he waited, the more ill Grady felt. He was afraid he might vomit. Joe would surely tell the truth. Maybe he already had. Maybe that’s why Captain Metcalf had sent them here together.
Grady would be arrested and tried and hanged for killing a man who deserved to die. Coop was white. The provost marshal was white. The men Grady would face at his court-martial would all be white. Grady was black, and that was the end of the matter. A white man like Coop could kill a black man like Grady, but not the other way around. Grady had seen the gallows in Jacksonville where a Negro had been lynched for “insulting” a white woman. Grady’s crime had been much worse. He had killed a white man. He didn’t stand a chance of escaping the gallows.
At last the provost marshal called for them. Grady and Joseph went into the man’s office together and stood before his desk. The officer looked up briefly as he continued to shuffle papers around on his desk.
“Thank you for coming,” he said gruffly. “I assume you’ve both heard about the civilian, Edward Coop, who was found beaten to death last night?”
“Yes, sir,” they said together.
“Did either of you hear or see anything unusual while you were on watch last night?”
Grady cleared his throat and hurried to speak first. “I might have heard something, sir,” he began, but the marshal interrupted him.
“Which watch were you on?”
“The second one, sir. I even crossed the street and went over to check it out, but things was pretty quiet when I got there. I didn’t think I should be straying too far from my post, in case it was the Rebels. I was just coming back when my friend Joe came on duty.” Grady turned to face him, forcing himself to meet Joseph’s gaze. He tasted bile as he asked, “Ain’t that right, Joe?”
“Yes, sir. I saw Grady coming back.”
Grady held his breath. Joe must have seen the blood on his hands and on the butt of his rifle. Surely he’d noticed the odd way Grady had carried it.
“Then what happened?” the marshal asked Joe. “Did you see or hear anything after that? During your own watch?”
Joseph paused for a long moment. “No, sir. Everything was quiet on my watch.”
The officer exhaled. “Very well. Give my aide your names and the name of your company. And if anything else comes to mind, please let me know right away. I’d like to get this matter cleared up as quickly as possible.”
Grady walked from the room like a blind man. He staggered from the house feeling worse than when he’d gone inside, his nausea so severe that he had to stop and lean against a lamppost until it passed. Joseph stopped and waited beside him, but Grady couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t comprehend why Joe had protected him, why he hadn’t told the provost marshal everything he had seen.
Eventually Grady’s dizziness passed. The two men walked nearly all the way back to camp before Joseph finally spoke. “God knows what happened to that poor fella,” he murmured. Grady heard the irony in his voice and was more certain than ever that Joe knew the truth.
“Don’t waste your pity or your prayers on him,” Grady said quietly. “The man was a slave trader. He caused our people untold suffering and got rich destroying lives. Besides, I know for a fact that he murdered at least one of his slaves—whipped the man to death. Feel sorry for him if you want to pity someone. Edward Coop got exactly what he deserved.”
“It’s up to God to be dealing out vengeance, not us,” Joseph said.
“Yeah? Well, Coop told me that he didn’t believe in God.”
“Then he’s in hell.”
There was something about Joseph’s matter-of-fact certainty that sent a shiver through Grady. It was the same feeling of icy horror he’d felt last night when Coop had confessed that he didn’t fear God’s judgment.
“If you had any part in his death,” Joe continued, “then you’ll be living with it on your conscience for the rest of your life. But just so you know, God will forgive you if you ask Him to.”
“I don’t want to hear—” Grady began. But Joseph halted and spun to face him.
“Well, for once in your life you’re gonna hear it, Grady. If you don’t want me telling everybody that I saw you coming from that direction with blood all over your hands and on your rifle, then you’re gonna have to shut up and listen to my preaching.”
“Okay, okay … I’ll listen,” he said, holding up his hands.
“Maybe this Coop fella was a murderer, like you say. But if you’re taking justice in your own hands, then you’re a murderer, too. That guilt is gonna start eating away at you in time to come, and when it does, I want you to remember something. I want you to remember that God will forgive you for everything you done if you ask Him to.”
His speech made Grady uneasy, but he resisted the urge to interrupt, afraid of what Joe could do with the knowledge he had.
“Three of the greatest men in the Bible were all murderers,” he continued. “Before Moses led all the slaves out of Egypt, he once killed an overseer when he thought nobody was looking. And King David—the man after God’s own heart—was sleeping with another man’s wife, so he fixed things up for her husband to be killed. David ain’t pulling the trigger, but he may as well have—the man’s blood was on his hands.”
Grady saw Joseph’s gaze stray to his hands, and he had to resist the urge to hide them behind his back.
“The third man was the Apostle Paul,” Joe said. “He’s standing by and cheering the murderers on when they’re stoning an innocent man named Stephen to death.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Grady asked quietly. “Because later on, God forgave them all when they repented. Not only that, He used all three of those men to do great things for Him.” Joe started walking again, his voice thick with zeal. “There ain’t no doubt that our race has suffered. Ain’t no question that the white folks deserve to pay for all they done to us. But I believe that God can use our suffering to teach us to have faith in Him. And who knows? Maybe someday we can be showing the white people how to obey Jesus’ command to love our enemies—even when they don’t deserve it.”
Delia had preached a similar sermon to Grady. So had Eli. Grady wondered why God didn’t just give up on him and leave him alone. Then he recalled Delia’s warning that the Lord would hunt him down and hound his steps like a master chasing his escaped slave until He finally got him back. Grady already felt hounded. The seething anxiety that twisted through his gut felt nearly as painful as the lash. He steeled himself to ask Joe the question he dreaded to ask.
“So are you ever gonna tell anybody about what you saw last night?”
“No. Not this time. But I will if there’s a next time.”
Grady exhaled but he felt no relief. “I don’t get it,” he said. “You believe in all that Bible stuff—good and evil, the Ten Commandments, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’—right? So why didn’t you turn me in?”
“Because I’m a sinner, too, Grady. Jesus says anyone who sins is a slave to sin, and that’s just what I was. But now, the Bible says, we have been purchased by God. It’s just like someone put me on the auction block and sold me to a new owner. Everything in my life changed. My new massa set me free, and if the Son sets you free, you are free indeed. I don’t have to be serving that old massa no more, and neither do you. It’s time for you to get free from your sin, Grady. Jesus bought and paid for you, and He wants to set you free.”
Grady couldn’t help remembering how his life had changed when Massa Fletcher put him on the auction block and sold him to Coop. Nor could he forget the glorious sense of freedom he felt under his new owner, Massa Fuller. When Old Jesse had driven him down the shell road from Beaufort to the plantation, leaving his life with Coop behind forever, Grady had felt … born again.
“Jesus forgave me the same day I asked Him to,” Joseph said. “He gave me a second chance, and now I’m serving Him. That’s God’s grace. He keeps offering us His love, even when the only thing we deserve is death.” He gripped Grady’s shoulders, forcing him to face him. “You could hang for killing that man, Grady. But God’s giving you a second chance. Use it.”