Jacksonville, Florida
Spring 1863
Grady stood onboard the John Adams and watched the houses of Jacksonville burn, the bright flames dancing through their windows and licking their rooftops. Bitter smoke filled his nostrils and permeated his uniform. He felt ash on his tongue and in his throat. Then the ship rounded a bend in the river and the city disappeared from sight. His regiment had strict orders not to burn the city they were abandoning—and they hadn’t. It had been white soldiers who had ignited the blaze, not the colored troops. Grady watched the plume of smoke billowing into the sky above the trees and imagined all the fortifications he’d worked so hard to build being reduced to ashes. But at least the Rebels wouldn’t be able to make use of them.
In a way, Grady felt relieved to be leaving Jacksonville. He’d heard nothing more about the investigation into Edward Coop’s death, but every time he glimpsed Coop’s house across the street, his stomach had churned. Was it fear or guilt? Grady couldn’t decide. At least now he would no longer have to see the house, a daily reminder of what he had done.
But they shouldn’t be abandoning Jacksonville after occupying it for barely a month. Why were they all leaving? Even the two regiments of white soldiers that had arrived to serve as reinforcements had been ordered to leave. There was no reason for it that Grady could see. The city had been secure in Union hands. In fact, Colonel Higginson had announced plans to move his men upriver seventy-five miles to Palatka and establish a second foothold farther inland. But suddenly the order had come, recalling the entire expedition, evacuating Jacksonville. Everyone Grady talked to about it felt as bitterly disappointed as he did.
As he stood at the ship’s rail, he saw Captain Metcalf come up from belowdecks to stand alone in the stern. Grady usually avoided white men, but his need to understand why they’d left Jacksonville outweighed his natural aversion. He crossed the rolling deck to where the captain stood and saluted.
“Excuse me, Captain. I’m sorry to be bothering you, but … but I don’t understand why we’re leaving. Seems like the wrong thing to be doing.” Grady was aware that his anger was showing—in the way that he stood, in the tone of voice he used, and in his scowling features. He wished he could disguise his resentment, but he didn’t know how. Anger had ruled his life for a very long time.
“I understand your frustration,” Metcalf replied. “A lot of us are leaving Jacksonville with heavy hearts.”
“But why give up a place that we worked so hard to secure?”
“That’s the way war is,” the officer replied, spreading his hands. “Men in the lower ranks like you and me are seldom told what the orders from above are all about. We just have to trust that the people in command know what they’re doing. They can see the bigger picture. We’re part of a much larger plan than what we can see.”
Grady had the eerie feeling that the captain was delivering one of Joe’s sermons or Delia’s lectures, telling him to trust God no matter what, even when things didn’t make sense. But Grady needed to know that his life, his hard work, did somehow make sense.
“But what did it accomplish?” he persisted. “All that time we spent reinforcing the city. Was it just a waste?”
“Well, no. I can see a couple of things.” Metcalf leaned against the rail and faced Grady. He was talking to him as an equal—as if Grady were a white man. Grady still wasn’t used to that, but he shoved his astonishment aside for a moment to concentrate on what the captain was saying.
“For one thing, you may not realize it, but everything our regiment does is groundbreaking. Folks thought slaves were simple, fearful creatures who would run off in a panic when the first bomb exploded. You proved them wrong. Other people said slaves would never be able to handle military discipline—that they were flighty and lazy, quick to give up and slow to learn. But there have been fewer disciplinary actions and desertions in our regiment than in any white regiment in the Union army. People have been watching us. Our every move is reported in the Northern presses. And thanks to our success, several other all-Negro regiments have formed. There’s one up in Massachusetts that’s made up of free Negroes, not slaves. You should read some of the articles that they’re writing about us in the newspapers.”
Grady nodded, but he still couldn’t read. His lessons had ended when the regiment left for Jacksonville. He determined to return to his studies when he got back to Beaufort and learn to read those newspapers for himself.
“We broke new ground in Jacksonville, too,” Metcalf continued. “When those two white regiments arrived, it was the first time in history that white and black soldiers served together on regular duty. I witnessed a lot of mutual respect between the races back there. You proved that skin color doesn’t matter on the battlefield.”
While Captain Metcalf was speaking, Colonel Higginson himself—the regiment’s commanding officer—walked over to join them. Grady was stunned when Higginson entered the stream of conversation as if all three of them were white.
“I’ll tell you what else it accomplished,” the colonel said. “After John Brown’s slave rebellion, many Northerners believed that if we gave a slave a gun he’d exact vengeance, indiscriminately killing men, women, and children all over the South. That hasn’t happened. Except for that one civilian fatality, no whites were ever harmed in Jacksonville. And we only have the word of the man’s wife that it was Negro soldiers who killed him. Frankly, I don’t believe that it could have been anyone from my regiment. I’ve found my soldiers to be honest, honorable men.”
Grady stood very still, holding his breath. He didn’t dare speak, afraid he would betray his guilt. But when the colonel turned to him, Grady couldn’t help averting his gaze, pretending to look at the passing scenery.
“The former slaves’ exemplary behavior under arms has shamed the nation,” Higginson continued. “A lot of people up north are feeling guilty for not coming forward sooner to help free the slaves.”
“What’s your understanding of why we’re leaving?” Captain Metcalf asked the colonel. “Were the troops needed elsewhere? Were there too few to hold the post alone?”
“Maybe one of those was the case,” Higginson said with a shrug, “and maybe not. I’ll tell you what I think—but I have no proof. Our slave regiment has made history and changed a lot of prejudices. But there are still people in Congress who aren’t so eager to see slavery abolished. They’re willing to compromise with the South in order to bring this war to an end. Our regiment has freed a great many slaves … I wonder if maybe the pro-slavery people wanted the recruiting to halt.”
Anger boiled up inside Grady before he could stop it. “Anyone who’s thinking slavery is okay ought to come down here and try being a slave himself for a while! He ought to see how he likes being owned by someone. How it feels to be so powerless that even your own wife can’t be yours.”
The colonel nodded faintly and rested his hand on Grady’s shoulder. “I hope you realize, son, that the end of the war won’t bring an end to the battles your race will face. No, I’m afraid your fight is only beginning.”
Great Oak Plantation
Missy Claire’s face flushed with anger as she confronted her father at the dinner table. “You promised you’d take me back to Charleston for Easter! You can’t go back on your promise now!” Kitty had never heard Missy speak to Massa Goodman in that tone of voice before, and she shrank back into the doorway, fearing that both of their tempers would erupt. But Massa Goodman’s response was surprisingly patient.
“We can’t sail down the Edisto River anymore, Claire. Our soldiers have barricaded it near Wiltown Bluff to keep the Yankees out. Besides, we’d never get past the Union fleet that’s anchored outside Charleston harbor. It’s a dangerous trip, even for the blockade-runners—and they do it at night in ships that are much smaller and swifter than ours.”
“Can’t we go by carriage?”
He exhaled. “It’s a long, rough journey by carriage. The spring rains turn the roads into mud pits this time of year. We’d need a team of Negroes just to push us out of all the bogs. That’s why I go back and forth on horseback. Can’t you wait until summer?”
“No! I’m so bored out here! I want to visit with my friends in town and see our cousins. It’s been two years since I’ve been to Charleston. Please, Daddy. You promised.”
He kept his eyes on his plate as he cut off a piece of meat and chewed it slowly. “Don’t you think your baby is a bit young to travel so far?”
Missy frowned. “The baby isn’t going. He’s staying here with Mammy Bertha.”
Kitty looked at her mistress in surprise. She couldn’t imagine leaving her own child behind for months at a time. Babies grew so fast, changed so quickly. Kitty would miss little Richard while she was in Charleston, and he wasn’t even hers.
Richard had just celebrated his first birthday in February and was learning to toddle around the nursery on his sturdy white legs. It hardly seemed possible that a year had passed since Richard was born. That was the day Kitty’s life had changed so horribly, the day the Confederates had come for the horses and Missy had ordered Grady whipped and sent down to Slave Row.
“I wish you would change your mind about going to Charleston,” Massa Goodman said. But Kitty could have told her massa that the more he tried to discourage Missy Claire, the more determined she would be to go. Missy never gave up on anything until she got her own way.
A week later, the seamstress finished altering Missy Claire’s gowns, and Kitty packed them into steamer trunks for the trip to the city. Massa Goodman had been right—the carriage trip was a long and grueling one, through mud that was axle deep in places. And when they arrived, the Charleston that greeted them was a very different place from what it once had been.
The city had deteriorated during the war, and the bustling streets looked nearly deserted now, the stores boarded up and emptied of goods. A devastating fire had raced through the downtown area during the winter of 1861, destroying a large part of it. Massa Goodman said there was very little money or manpower to rebuild it. And with Union warships anchored off the bar, bristling with cannons, much of Charleston’s population had fled the city in fear.
The town house also seemed deserted without the large retinue of slaves that usually traveled from the plantation for the social season. Massa Goodman had ordered much of the family’s furniture and other valuables to be stored in the basement for safekeeping after the fire, and the huge rooms seemed bare. Missy insisted on having a big dinner party for all of her friends who were left, but it wasn’t the grand affair that the Goodmans’ parties used to be. Kitty not only had to help Missy get ready, but she was also needed in the kitchen to help Cook, since the town house was so understaffed. As she also helped serve the dinner that evening, Kitty heard Missy’s friends exclaiming over her clothes.
“How on earth could you afford a new gown, Claire? Roger must be filthy rich.”
“Oh, it isn’t new,” Missy replied proudly. “I had to remake my old ones, just like everyone else, in order to be fashionable.”
“Well, you’ve done a beautiful job! Look at those colors. What an eye you have! You’re ingenious.”
Missy glowed in the warmth of their compliments. “Thank you,” she purred.
Kitty knew that she deserved the praise, not Missy. But it would never cross Missy’s mind to give her slaves any credit, much less thank them. Grady would be furious if Kitty told him the story. In the past, she had never understood why he’d hated Missy Claire so much. But as she listened to her mistress accepting applause for her ideas and hard work, she felt robbed.
Kitty’s back ached from being forced to stand throughout the long meal in her pregnant condition. When Missy had been pregnant, she would complain if she had to walk more than ten feet, much less serve a meal or stand in one place for hours. Kitty tried to think of other things to take her mind off her discomfort and began paying attention to the dinner conversation.
“I heard that the Yankees now have an entire regiment made up of former slaves,” she heard one of the guests say. “They wear Yankee uniforms and carry guns and everything, just like real soldiers.” There were cries of outrage all around the table.
“That can’t be true!”
“How can anyone even think of giving weapons to such an ignorant race?”
“Not only that,” the guest continued, “but every place that regiment goes, they’re stealing our slaves and promising them freedom.”
Kitty wanted to hear more, but Missus Goodman sent her down to the warming kitchen to refill the gravy dish. By the time she returned, the guests were no longer discussing Negro troops.
“Rumors are flying all over town that the Yankees are massing a fleet of ironclad ships over in Port Royal Sound. They’re going to attack Charleston.”
“That’s not news,” Massa Goodman said. “Charleston has been a Yankee target since the very beginning of this war. They’re calling us the ‘Cradle of the Confederacy’ because we were the first state to secede from the Union.”
“And don’t forget, the first shots were fired here at Fort Sumter,” someone added.
“The Yankees know how much the rest of the South looks up to Charleston,” another guest said. “As long as we’re one of the few ports open to blockade runners, we serve as a symbol of the South’s resistance to tyranny.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid that the threat of a Union naval attack is real this time,” Massa Goodman said somberly. “In the past the Yankees have made the mistake of attacking Charleston’s batteries and forts. Now that the Yankees have a fleet of ironclads, General Beauregard is afraid they will make a mad dash past Fort Sumter to fire directly on the city and force it to surrender.”
“But we live right on the waterfront,” Missus Goodman said in alarm. “Perhaps we should go back to Great Oak and—”
Missy Claire struck the table with her fist, making the teacups rattle. “No!” she said stubbornly. “I’m tired of running away. First the Yankees chased me out of Beaufort, then they drove me from Roger’s plantation and practically made me a prisoner at Great Oak. I won’t run any more. I hate those Yankees for ruining my life this way.”
Kitty remembered her mistress’ fear on all of those occasions, and saw her bravado for what it was—an act to impress her Charleston friends. She wished she didn’t have to listen to Missy’s whining anymore. She wished she could sit down and ease her aching back and burning feet. But even when the meal finally ended, Kitty’s work wasn’t finished. As she washed dishes out in the kitchen with the other slaves, she shared what she’d heard at the dinner table.
“They’re saying the Yankees got slave soldiers in uniforms now, fighting for the Union,” she told them.
“I don’t believe it,” Alfred said. “White folks won’t never let us join their army. They think we’re no better than animals.”
Kitty knew that Missy Claire and her mother certainly believed that—and Kitty herself once believed it, too. That’s why Grady used to get so mad at her. Did she still believe that her race was inferior? She remembered standing in this very kitchen a long time ago and hearing Delia say that white people and black people were no different in Jesus’ eyes, except for the color of their skin.
“It’s true about the Negro soldiers,” Massa Goodman’s footman added. “I heard the same thing, through the grapevine. Every place those black soldiers is going, they’re setting folks free. President Lincoln made a big proclamation saying they could do it, too.”
Again Kitty thought of Grady, wondering if he was free. It was what he’d longed for more than anything else—even more than he’d longed to be with her. She wondered what he would do with his freedom once he got it.
“The Yankees might be coming here,” Kitty added. “They’re all worried over in the Big House, saying that the Yankees are getting a big fleet of ships together and coming here to bomb Charleston. Missus Fuller’s wanting to go back home.”
“Do you suppose we’ll be free if the Yankees come here?” Bessie asked.
“Yes,” Kitty replied, remembering what had happened in Beaufort. “If the Yankees come, get on over to their side just as fast as you can. Don’t believe a word the white folks is saying about the Yankees, either. They’re our friends.”
On Easter Sunday, Kitty rose early to help her mistress get ready for church. Missy Claire wanted to look extra special in front of all her friends in her “new” Easter bonnet and dress. But Kitty was curious about the church service itself. Delia had talked about Jesus as if He was her best friend, and she was always encouraging Kitty to pray and to trust in the Lord. If only Missy Claire would let her come inside the church with her, so she could see for herself what it was all about.
The April morning was warm, the sun shining brightly. When they reached the church, Kitty climbed down from the wagon instead of staying on the seat with the driver, and followed her mistress up the stone steps. Missy stood talking with a group of her friends for a while and didn’t notice Kitty at first. But when the church bells began to toll and it was time to go inside, Missy nearly stumbled over her.
“Kitty! What are you doing underfoot?”
“May I please come inside, too, Missy Claire?”
“What for? You never go to church. Why would you want to come inside? You won’t understand a thing.”
Kitty knew that Missy would never believe the truth, so she said the first thing that came into her head. “It’s hot out here, Missy Claire. I want to get out of the sun.”
Missy laughed. “I might have known there would be a stupid reason. Okay, but you’ll have to sit up in the balcony with all the other darkies. And for goodness’ sake, mind your manners. You can’t talk or make noise during the service.”
“I won’t, Missy Claire. I promise.”
Kitty climbed the steep, winding stairs with the other slaves to the balcony where they would be out of sight. She found a place to sit on a hard wooden bench and looked down where all the white people were. She gasped at the sight. The center of the long narrow church was filled with pews of white people, but along both outer walls were the most magnificent windows Kitty had ever seen. They were made up of thousands of tiny pieces of colored glass, and as the sun shone through them into the church, they lit up in a dazzling explosion of color and light. Wherever the light fell, it speckled the floor and the walls and even the people with prisms of brilliant, jewel-like color.
Kitty stared and stared, afraid to blink, afraid she was dreaming. At first she saw only the glowing rainbow of blues and reds and purples and greens. But when she had finally drunk her fill, she noticed that the windows were more than a random array of hues. They formed pictures. And the pictures told stories. She studied them as the huge pipe organ resounded and the church service started, and she quickly decided that the bearded man who appeared in many of the windows must be Jesus.
One window showed Him hanging in agony on a wooden post, and she remembered Delia telling her how they had whipped Jesus and hung him on a tree to die. On another window, several white children surrounded Him, crawling onto His lap. His hand rested tenderly on one child’s head. But the window that was closest to Kitty captivated her the longest. A woman lay slumped at Jesus’ feet. Kitty saw suffering and despair in the droop of her shoulders and in her lifeless limbs. But Jesus stretched out His strong hand to her—even though her hand looked limp and helpless as she reached for His.
Kitty finally drew her eyes away from the compelling picture, back to the dazzling church sanctuary, and realized something else: the windows didn’t look at all like this from the outside. She had waited for Missy outside of this church countless times, and the windows had always appeared gray and somber against the beige stone building. She’d had no idea what magnificent colors were hidden on the inside.
She felt a shiver of awe when she remembered what else Delia had told her: “If you let God shine His love on you, He can make something beautiful out of even the darkest hours of your life.” Is this what Delia meant? Could God shine into her life the way the sunlight came through those windows, making it alive with color and beauty?
The singing and chanting ended after a while, and Kitty began to listen as the minister spoke about the darkness they were all suffering through in this time of war. He spoke about Jesus’ suffering and His death on the cross. But then the minister’s expression turned to one of joy as he told the congregation, “Jesus Christ is alive! He is no longer in the grave, but He has risen! And Jesus is here with us today—even in Charleston, South Carolina, even in our darkest hours. He will help us, if we turn to Him. Jesus said, ‘Ask and it will be given to you… .”’
He urged the people to bow their heads in prayer, trusting Jesus to answer them—just as Delia had urged Kitty to do. She bowed her head like everyone around her and closed her eyes.
“Ask,” the minister had said. Maybe it was like making a wish. Of all the many things Kitty needed right now, there was one thing that she wished for above all the others.
“Jesus,” she prayed in her heart, “I don’t know how you can ever answer this prayer, but the one thing I want most of all is to find out about Grady. I just want to know if he’s dead or alive, if he’s still a slave, or if he’s finally free. Please, that’s all I ask. I ain’t expecting to ever see him again. I just need to know if he’s okay … and if he’s free.”
Kitty lifted her head as the minister said, “Amen.” And she looked again at the vibrant glass picture of Jesus and the begging woman. He was bending forward, moving toward her. The woman lay helpless at His feet, but Kitty knew that Jesus was going to help her. He was going to lift her up.
The Coosaw River, South Carolina
A rush of excitement pumped through Grady’s veins as he huddled with his fellow soldiers and listened to Captain Metcalf explain the mission.
“We’ll be crossing the river, heading deep into Rebel-held territory, so it will be dangerous. If we manage to make it to the railroad, our orders are to sabotage the rails and retreat. But even if we don’t get that far, it’s okay.” He paused to wave away a swarm of mosquitoes that buzzed around his face. “The Navy is planning something big. The fleet is leaving Beaufort and heading to Charleston soon. And so our secondary mission is to let the Rebels know we’re still here. We can’t let them make a bid to win back Beaufort while the fleet is away. The Coosaw River is the Union’s front line, and it’s up to our regiment to hold it.”
It was after midnight when Grady and the others paddled silently across the glassy river to the mainland. Joseph was among those who volunteered to stay behind to guard the boats and ensure a safe retreat. The rest of the men headed down a small footpath into the forest. The woods were cool and damp, the earth spongy-soft beneath Grady’s feet. He inhaled the scent of pine, heard the whine of mosquitoes, his senses humming with readiness. He had never felt more alive in his life. He hoped that they would meet up with Rebels tonight. Grady was ready for them.
They halted several times, the men crouching behind rocks or lying down beside fallen logs while scouts crept ahead to investigate any unusual noises or unfamiliar movements. When the all clear was given, the men would rise from their hiding places like specters, and once again the woods would come alive with soldiers. No one spoke, the men stepping as lightly as cats.
After nearly an hour of hiking, one of the scouts returned with news. “There’s a Rebel encampment just over yonder in a cluster of empty farm buildings. Ain’t nothing left of the farmhouse but a burnt pile of timber and stones. I seen two men keeping watch, and I don’t know how many’s asleep, but judging by the tents, I’d say we’re about evenly matched.”
Captain Metcalf thought for a long moment. “If we skirt around them and head for the railroad, they could ambush us on our way back. And if they discover our boats we’ll be stranded …”
Grady’s heart pounded as he waited for the captain to decide. He wanted to fight these Rebels. Cutting the railroad could wait.
“On the other hand,” Metcalf continued, “the element of surprise is in our favor, and—”
“And we can still cut the railroad after we’ve finished them off,” Grady interrupted.
“Yes,” Metcalf said with a wry smile. “That’s what I was about to say.”
“Let’s go after them!” Corporal Rivers said.
Captain Metcalf agreed. He divided his men, sending some of them with the corporal on an indirect route through the woods to flank the enemy. Grady went with the larger force to make a frontal attack. After checking their rifles and bayonets, they started forward through the dense woods behind the scout. The closer they got to the Rebel camp, the faster they marched, until Grady was jogging as quickly as the uneven terrain would allow. But before they were within rifle range, an alert Rebel sentry spotted their advance and sounded the alarm. Within moments, the quiet night erupted in a volley of gunfire.
Bullets struck four of the men marching in front of Grady, and they fell to the ground at his feet. He and the others continued forward, taking their places in the front ranks. As the hostile fire intensified, the captain signaled for them to take cover and fire from behind rocks and trees to give the flanking force a chance to sneak up from the side. Grady crouched behind a tree stump, well protected from the three Rebels who fired back at him from behind a tent. He loaded and fired and reloaded as rapidly as he could, unable to see their faces in the dark, but imagining them to be the same white boys who had bullied and whipped him. When his bullets hit their marks and his three enemies no longer returned fire, he longed to stand up and cheer with his fist raised in victory.
The skirmish continued at a dead heat until Corporal Rivers’ men swooped down on the surprised enemy’s flank, overwhelming them. Grady foresaw total victory—until two Rebels suddenly charged out of one of the farm buildings on horseback and raced out of the clearing, escaping into the woods. Grady swore beneath his breath. The riders would bring reinforcements—possibly a cavalry troop. Captain Metcalf would have to forget about cutting the railroad and retreat to the boats before the cavalry arrived.
But in the meantime, the Rebel fire slackened as their casualties mounted. Grady and the others began moving forward again at the captain’s signal, killing off the last pockets of resistance, forcing the surrender of those who remained. Grady didn’t want to take prisoners. If it was the other way around and the Rebels had won this clash, every last Negro prisoner would either be killed or returned to slavery. He and the other men fanned out through the encampment, rustling through the bushes and checking each building as they hunted for Rebels. Grady was determined to kill them all without mercy.
As he rounded the corner of a corncrib, he heard a low moan. He froze, his rifle raised, his finger on the trigger. Four Rebel soldiers lay in a tangled heap in the bushes. Three of them were obviously dead, and the one who was moaning was badly wounded. Grady inched forward cautiously. The injured man slowly turned his head and looked at Grady.
It was Massa Fuller.
For a long moment Grady stopped breathing. Fuller still gripped his rifle in one hand, but his other arm had been hit. Grady saw the torn sleeve and gaping wound, still oozing blood. Fuller slowly laid his rifle on the ground at Grady’s feet, unable to reload it with one hand. He had blood all over him, soaking his clothes and the grass beneath him. But there wasn’t nearly as much blood on him as there had been on Massa Coop, by the time Grady had finished with him.
Massa Fuller didn’t say a word, didn’t surrender or plead for his life. Without knowing why, Grady turned to the soldier who had jogged up alongside him and said, “Go on, I’ll deal with him.” The soldier nodded and hurried away, leaving them alone.
Now Massa Fuller would beg and plead for his life the way Grady’s mama had pleaded with Massa Fletcher. White men didn’t show mercy, and neither would he. He thought of all the slaves who had begged not to be sold, not to be separated from their families or sent to brothels. White men had been deaf to their pleas, and now it was Grady’s turn to be deaf.
A lifetime of hatred flooded through him, spilling over until he trembled with rage as he stood over his former master. He wondered if Fuller even recognized him. Grady was a man now, in a Union army uniform, not a docile slave in livery. He kicked Fuller’s rifle away from him and asked, “You remember me?”
Fuller nodded. Grady saw pain in his eyes from the wound to his arm, but not fear. “Shoot me if you must, Grady,” he said.
Grady lifted his rifle and took aim. Why didn’t Fuller beg?
Out of nowhere, the memory came to Grady of how he had fallen on his knees at Fuller’s feet after the poker game in Beaufort, begging him not to sell him back to Coop. “Your old massa offer him a lot of money,” Jesse had told Grady the next day. “Massa Fuller refuse to sell you.”
Then another memory came to him—of how angry Massa Fuller had been at the paddyrollers for whipping him. Fuller’s clothes had been stained with Grady’s blood as he’d helped him to Delia’s cabin. Massa had given Delia medicine to doctor his wounds and had come to check on him every day. Grady recalled the handful of silver that Fuller had given him to buy drawing paper for Anna. He remembered Anna’s tears of surprise and delight. And for one brief moment in time, Grady looked beyond Fuller’s white skin and saw the man beneath it—a man who had been good to Grady.
Sweat poured down Fuller’s face, plastering his sandy hair to his forehead. “I believe in God’s grace,” he said quietly. His voice was strong and steady. “I’m not afraid to die.”
If it was the other way around and the Rebels were about to kill Grady, could he say the same thing? Did he believe in the God of grace whom Joseph had preached about? Grady knew that he had been angry with God ever since he’d been snatched from his home in Richmond. Why hadn’t God helped him? But as angry as he was, Grady never stopped believing that God existed. Unlike Massa Coop, Grady did believe in Him. And Grady also knew right from wrong. Joe had spoken the truth when he’d said that Grady’s guilt would eat away at his soul. If he had died in tonight’s battle, Coop’s murder would still be on his conscience. Grady had never repented or asked God to forgive Him. The moment that his heart stopped, he would be in hell—with Coop.
Grady shook his head as if to clear these disturbing thoughts from his mind. His race had been wronged, his people oppressed. They deserved a chance to fight back and avenge the crimes against them. But in the call of a nightingale singing in the branches above his head, Grady thought that he heard Delia’s voice, warning him that he was poisoning himself with his hatred. He had escaped to freedom. He had celebrated President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation along with all the others. But Grady knew that he wasn’t free. He was still a slave to his hatred and his sin.
The soldier that Grady had sent away returned, stopping at his side. “Captain says we’re getting ready to leave. We got wounded men that are needing a doctor. You want help with this prisoner?”
Grady shook his head. “He’s dying. He asked me to shoot him and finish him off. Go on, I’ll be right there.”
Grady would add another murder to his sins. Two crimes would now eat away at his conscience—because Coop’s bloodied corpse still haunted Grady, even though he’d left Jacksonville, even though the daily reminder of his sin no longer stared at him from across the street. And as he thought about killing Fuller—thought about being killed himself—Grady realized that he wanted to be free of his guilt almost as much as he’d once longed for freedom from slavery. He wanted God’s forgiveness.
“I’m sorry,” he prayed aloud as he stared down at Fuller. “I’m so sorry… .”
Massa Fuller winced and held up his uninjured hand as if trying to ward off Grady’s bullet.
“Forgive me,” Grady whispered. “Please.”
He swung his rifle to the right, aiming into the bushes, three feet from Fuller’s head. He pulled the trigger and fired. The shot sounded deafening in the quiet night, echoing off the buildings as if he had fired several shots.
Then Grady turned away without a word and ran back with the others to the waiting boats.
Charleston, South Carolina
Two days after Easter, Kitty stood outside with Missy Claire on the piazza of the town house and watched as a fleet of nine ironclad Union warships steamed into the bay toward Charleston. Massa Goodman looked very worried as he gazed through his telescope at the unfolding drama. Missy tried to act brave in front of her sisters and cousins, but Kitty could tell by the way she twisted her handkerchief in her hands that she was terrified. She begged her father so often to tell them what was happening that he finally stopped answering her altogether.
Downstairs in the slaves’ quarters, Bessie and Alfred and the others were quietly gathering their belongings, hoping for freedom when the Yankees landed. But Kitty didn’t entertain dreams of freedom herself. If she’d been too frightened to flee with Grady, who had vowed to take care of her, she knew she would never be able to find the courage to flee on her own or with a group of slaves she barely knew. Kitty was all alone in the world except for Missy Claire. Who would take care of her if she left? How would she live? And what about her baby?
In the end, none of those questions mattered. The battle that began at two-thirty in the afternoon was all over with by fivethirty. Instead of steaming past the forts and shelling the city, as everyone feared, the ironclads attacked Fort Sumter once again. And in spite of the frightening noise and smoke and fury of battle, the fort withstood the onslaught once again. None of the ironclads made it past Charleston’s defenses. “In fact,” Massa Goodman told them as he stared out to sea, “one of the ships appears to be badly damaged. It’s being abandoned.”
It sank the following morning after the Rebels brazenly stole all of her guns.
The wild rejoicing in Charleston’s city streets lasted throughout the night and continued into the next day—longer than the actual battle had. In the slaves’ quarters, everyone mourned. To their eyes, the Rebels seemed to be winning the war. Alfred summed up everyone’s feelings when he said, “Guess we better be getting back to work. Looks like we’re gonna be slaves forever.”
Kitty was the one who answered the door the day the telegram came. She brought it into the drawing room and gave it to Missy Claire, then watched as she opened it and read it. When Missy Claire screamed, Kitty turned and raced upstairs, calling for Missy’s mother.
“Roger is wounded! He’s been wounded!” Missy repeated over and over. Missus Goodman gave her some laudanum to prevent the hysterics, but Missy couldn’t stop weeping.
Massa Goodman met every locomotive that arrived on the Savannah & Charleston rail line until he finally found Massa Roger on one of the hospital trains. The servants drove him back to the town house in Massa’s carriage and set up a bed for him in the first-floor drawing room.
For the first few weeks, Kitty wasn’t allowed into the room with Massa Roger at all. But she could tell by the worried look on everyone’s face that her massa was gravely ill. When the weather turned unseasonably hot, Missy Claire finally allowed Kitty into the room, ordering her to stand beside Massa’s bed and fan him to help cool his fever.
The first glimpse of him shocked Kitty. He was ghostly thin, his skin whiter than paper. The doctor came every day to change his bandages and to check to see if the wound on Massa’s arm was healing, but he made no comment in front of Kitty. Massa seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, moaning in pain, and Kitty waved the fan until she thought her arms would break off.
Then one afternoon while Kitty was fanning him, Massa’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. He gazed around, blinking, and his eyes no longer had the feverish glaze she had seen in them for so many weeks.
“Missy Claire!” she cried. “Missy Claire, I think he’s waking up!”
Claire dropped the book she was reading and hurried over to sit on the bed beside him. “Roger? Roger are you okay? Are you in pain?”
He licked his parched lips. “Claire… ?”
“Yes, darling. I’m right here.”
“Where … where’s our son? I want to see Richard.”
Missy looked uneasy. “He’s with his mammy at Great Oak, where it’s safe. We’ll go there when you’re well enough to travel.
You’ll see how big he’s grown.”
Massa Fuller gazed up at the ceiling, not at Missy, and Kitty was surprised to see tears shining in his eyes. “Did you know that my son Ellis was killed?” he asked.
“Yes, Roger, I’m so sorry.” She lifted his pale hand from the sheet and held it between hers. “I got the letter you wrote to me, but I guess you never received my reply.”
“They buried him where he died, up in Fredericksburg.”
Missy swallowed. “What about John? Have you heard from him?”
“The last time he wrote, he was still in one piece,” Massa said, sighing. “That’s more than I can say for myself.”
“But you’re getting better, Roger. You’re going to be okay.”
Kitty didn’t realize that she had stopped fanning until Claire made a face at her and motioned for her to continue. As the breeze from her fan ruffled Massa’s sandy hair, he turned to stare at her, his gaze intense. It was as if he was studying her, and his inspection lasted for such a long time that Kitty grew uncomfortable. Was it because she was pregnant? Kitty didn’t dare meet his gaze but even with her eyes averted, she was sure that he was studying her face, not her stomach.
“Can I get you some water, Massa Fuller?” she asked softly.
“No.” He glanced at Claire, then back at Kitty. “They’re using Negro soldiers now,” he said.
“Well, that’s what we all heard,” Missy said with a huff, “but I didn’t want to believe it. What a disgraceful thing to do—trying to turn our slaves against us. And I can’t imagine giving guns to such ignorant creatures, can you? Are you certain that it’s true?”
“I was wounded in a firefight against a band of them,” Massa said. “They were all in uniform. They had white officers, but the soldiers were Negroes. We think they came to the mainland to try to cut the railroad.”
“They’ll probably try to cut our throats if we’re not careful. Listen, darling, can I get you anything? Do you want Kitty to fetch you some broth to sip?”
Kitty looked at him and his eyes held hers for a moment before she remembered to look away.
“I recognized one of the colored soldiers,” Massa said quietly. “He was my former coachman, Grady.”
The fan slipped from Kitty’s hand as she stumbled backward. She had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over.
“You mean Kitty’s husband?” Claire asked. “Why, the ungrateful wretch! After all we’ve done for him, imagine him turning against us that way.”
Massa shook his head. “That wasn’t what happened, Claire. Grady spared my life.”
Missy stared at him as if she didn’t believe him. “What?”
“It’s true. I was lying there, wounded and defenseless. The three men alongside me were all dead. Grady could have taken me prisoner—and I probably would be dying in some squalid prison camp right now. He also could have killed me on the spot. But he didn’t. He pretended to shoot me—for the others’ sakes, I suppose. Then he simply walked away.”
Kitty felt faint. She needed to sit down. Missy didn’t seem to notice her distress, but Massa Fuller did. “Are you okay?” he asked her.
Missy Claire turned on Kitty before she could reply. “Did you know about this? Did you know that your husband is fighting against us, now?”
“N-no, ma’am.”
“You’re a liar! I don’t believe you!”
“How would she know, Claire?” Massa Fuller’s voice was gentle.
“Well, what if he’s in contact with her?”
“How?” he asked. “None of them can read or write.”
“He shot you, Roger! That ungrateful boy shot you!”
“I was wounded in battle, Claire. There’s no way to know whose bullet it was that hit me.”
“But they were Negroes! I don’t want to look at another one of them! Get out of my sight!” she screamed at Kitty.
Massa Fuller reached for Missy’s hand. “Claire … don’t take it out on her.”
But Kitty knew by the look of pure hatred on her mistress’ face that she needed to get out. Quickly. Kitty hurried from the room and ran blindly down the back stairs to the warming kitchen. She staggered into the room, barely making it to a chair before her legs gave way. A fire smoldered in the fireplace and the room was very hot. Kitty couldn’t breathe.
“You okay?” Bessie asked. “What’s wrong? You look like you seen a ghost.”
“Grady’s alive! My husband … H-he escaped, and he’s safe, and he’s a soldier in the Yankee army!”
“You dreaming, girl?”
“No. Massa Fuller just told me. He saw him. He saw Grady!”
Kitty wished that Delia were here. She needed to talk to her, needed to make sense of what she’d just heard. Grady hated white men. He longed for revenge, wanting to kill every white man that breathed. But when he’d had a chance to kill Massa Fuller, he hadn’t done it. Kitty couldn’t imagine why.
Then another thought struck her: if Grady was a soldier, then he was in terrible danger. Massa Fuller’s son had died in the war, and Massa had been badly wounded. What if something happened to Grady, too?
“Can I get you anything?” Bessie asked.
“No … I-I need air.”
She got up and stumbled outside. The sun was so bright that it hurt her eyes. As she lifted her hand to shade them, she suddenly remembered how brightly the sun had shone through the dazzling church windows on Easter Sunday.
Then Kitty remembered her prayer.
God had answered her prayer! She had asked to find out about Grady, and now, by this miracle, she had learned that Grady was alive. That he was free. She felt the sun’s rays, warm and comforting on her bare arms. And for the first time in her life Kitty felt the warmth of God’s love. It overwhelmed her! He had answered her prayer. He had listened to her, a mere slave.
“Thank you,” she sobbed as she sank to her knees on the warm paving stones. “Thank you.”