A Light to My Path

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Port Royal Ferry, South Carolina

  July 1863

  Grady sat outside his tent near the picket line, bending close to the newspaper as he struggled to read it by candlelight. Across from him, Joseph also leaned close to the light, the pages of his Bible rustling softly as he turned them. The summer night was muggy and warm, the midges and mosquitoes relentless. But Grady was barely aware of them, or of the gentle night sounds all around him—the chirp of crickets, the hoot of an owl, the sweet whine of fiddle music nearby—as he read news of the war. The Rebel general, Robert E. Lee, had led his army north to invade the Union states.

  “I sure wish I was up there where all the fighting is,” Grady said with a sigh.

  Joe nodded but didn’t look up. “The Lord knows which battles He’s wanting us to fight.”

  Grady folded the newspaper to the next page and scanned the headlines, his finger moving along the typewritten words as he carefully sounded out each one. The more he practiced, the better he could read. He’d had to swallow his pride, at first, and learn like a child, starting with his ABC’s, making baby noises as he’d memorized the sound each letter made. But once he’d caught on, Grady coul
dn’t learn fast enough. Joseph had gone with him to the school tent every evening, and now they shared the same candle. But while Grady read the newspapers to learn how the war progressed, Joseph practiced his new skill by reading his Bible. A group of missionaries from up north had offered New Testaments to any former slave who wanted one. Joe had chided Grady when he had politely refused.

  “God’s word is ‘a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path,’” Joe had quoted. The verse sounded familiar to Grady, and he wondered if Eli had taught it to him. “With your whole life ahead of you,” Joe persisted, “don’t you think you might be needing to see which way to go?”

  Grady shrugged but didn’t reply. He was trying to be patient with Joe, figuring he owed him something in return for not turning him over to the authorities. Whenever Joe’s preaching got to be too much, Grady would quietly excuse himself. And Joe seemed to be learning his limits. Now he only preached to Grady a little at a time.

  “Hmm, I like that tune,” Joe said suddenly. Grady looked up, his finger still holding his place on the page.

  “What did you say?”

  “That tune that Willie’s playing on the fiddle … Hear it?”

  Grady cocked his head, listening, and recognized the slow, haunting melody of the slave trader’s song. A long time ago at Massa Fuller’s wedding, another fiddler had called it that when he’d played it for Grady. He frowned at this unwelcome reminder of Massa Coop and Massa Fuller and pointed to his newspaper to change the subject.

  “It says here that another regiment of colored troops under a white colonel named Shaw just arrived down here from Massachusetts to fight with us. They ain’t former slaves though, they’re free men. Colonel Higginson says that our regiment paved the way for them.”