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.