A Light to My Path (42 page)
The soldiers scrambled ashore with orders to surround the town and make certain that no one crept away to alert the Rebels of their arrival. Once all the roads were secured, Grady and the others went house-to-house, rounding up all the white men to hold as temporary prisoners and urging all the slaves to board the ships to freedom. He took great pleasure in rousing these white folks from their homes and beds, savoring their fear at being held at gunpoint by former slaves. Dogs barked and babies cried and roosters crowed in the pandemonium of rushing feet and shouted orders. But the loudest protests came from the white women who were outraged at being held captive by armed Negroes as they watched all their slaves go free.
The regiment’s orders had been to show restraint, using force only when absolutely necessary, and not a shot was fired throughout the entire operation. But Grady saw the loathing and disgust for his race in every white person’s eyes, and he longed for an excuse to shoot one of them. When his work was finished, he went to Colonel Higginson with a request.
“The slaves we’re setting free ain’t got a thing in the world, Colonel,” he said. “Can’t we rummage through town and maybe take some bedding and stuff that they might be needing? Ain’t it all their hard work that earned everything their massas have?”
Colonel Higginson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Private. We have permission to forage only for things we need ourselves.”
“What about that piano we took last night?” Grady asked.
Higginson looked embarrassed. “Well … that was against regulations. I’m afraid I got a little carried away. We’re not allowed to loot from civilians or burn a town unless there’s proof of collaboration with the Rebels.”
He must have seen Grady’s anger and frustration, because a moment later he added, “Come with me, son. Corporal Sutton and I are about to pay a visit on one of the town’s leading citizens—the proprietress of the sawmills and lumber wharves. Corporal Sutton was once her slave.”
Grady followed Sutton and Colonel Higginson to the town’s largest home, upset to realize that his natural inclination was to circle around to the servants’ entrance. Instead, he followed the colonel up the steps to the front door. Higginson introduced himself to the lady of the house adding, “And I’m sure you remember Corporal Robert Sutton, ma’am?”
She gave her former slave a look of utter contempt and said, “
We
called him Bob.”
Grady imagined himself facing his former mistress, Missus Fuller, and spitting in her face. His admiration for the corporal grew when he saw how the man maintained his poise and dignity.
When the colonel finished informing her that the Union was confiscating her lumber, Sutton turned to Higginson and said, “I’ll show you her slave jail now, sir.”
They walked around back to a small building that was no larger than a corncrib. Grady saw the bolt and chain in the middle of the floor, and his fury mounted as he recalled being shackled to the floor of the slave hut for three days at Missus Fuller’s orders. This slave jail also contained three pairs of stocks, including one that was small enough to confine women and children.
“Do they … do they use this on
children
?” Higginson asked in a hushed voice.
Corporal Sutton nodded. Grady knew that when he’d been a boy, Coop would have shackled him along with all the other slaves if the bonds had fit his wrists.
“What is this?” Higginson asked as he examined an odd metal contraption with chains and spikes.
“Massa use that to torture us slaves,” Sutton said quietly. “Once he’s putting us in that thing, we can’t sit, stand or lay down without suffering. We just have to balance ourselves as best we can till it’s over, sir.”
Grady saw the colonel’s horror. For several long moments Higginson was unable to speak as powerful emotions rocked through him. He took the set of keys that hung on a nail on the wall and handed them to Sutton. “You keep these, Corporal,” he said quietly. “You’ve earned them.”
When the lumber, bricks, and newly freed slaves were all loaded onboard, Higginson ordered his soldiers to take all of the town’s white men along as hostages. They would be transported to the mouth of the river before being released, he told them, in order to discourage the usual Rebel attacks on the voyage downstream.
The ship’s gun crews stood ready near their weapons as they left the wharf. Grady chafed when he and the other soldiers were ordered to remain belowdecks where it was safe. The hot, crowded hold brought back memories of all the years he’d spent traveling with load after load of slaves, bound for the auction block, and his stomach clenched like a fist. He had to remind himself that he was free now; that these slaves were heading toward freedom, too; and that the white men huddling in the corner were his prisoners.
Suddenly a volley of explosions shook the boat. Grady ducked instinctively. A soldier near one of the portholes shouted, “The Rebels are attacking from the bluffs!”
The cannons on the deck above them roared as the ship returned fire. The boom of rifles seemed deafening in the hold as the soldiers who crowded near the portholes fired their weapons. Grady felt trapped, imprisoned in the bowels of the ship with no way to fight back.
“Let me out!” he begged the soldier guarding the hatch. “Let me fight!” But the man shook his head, and the ship steamed downriver until the noise finally died away.
Grady exhaled in frustration. He rechecked his weapon to make sure it was still ready, then inspected his ammunition pouch. He had just convinced himself that it was safe to sit down and relax when he heard a cannon explode on the top on a nearby bluff. The ominous scream of a falling artillery shell followed, growing louder, coming closer, until it crashed into the river alongside the ship with a roar. He knew by the way the vessel rocked, and by the burst of water that sprayed the deck above him, that the shell had fallen very close to them. It would only take one to sink them. And if the ship grounded again or got entangled in a snag, it would make an easy target.
A hail of bullets hammered the deck above him, and he heard the sounds of splintering wood and shattering glass. Belowdecks, chaos reigned as the women and children wept and screamed, and his fellow soldiers begged for a chance to fight. Grady ran to the hatch again with his rifle. “Let us up on deck!” he shouted. “Give us a chance to fight back!” He could barely hear the reply above the din.
“The colonel says to stay below! Your rifles ain’t any good at this distance!” Bitterly disappointed, Grady could only hunker down with the others until the ship steamed out of range.
An hour passed, and the Rebels made no more attacks. Exhausted, Grady finally managed to doze for a few minutes. The hushed murmur of excited voices awakened him. He scrambled to his feet. “What is it? What’s going on?” he asked Joseph.
“The colonel’s just sending us the news,” he said somberly.“Mr. Clifton, the ship’s captain, was hit by a Rebel bullet in the first attack.”
“Is he okay?”
Joseph shook his head. “They killed him, Grady. He died standing right there at the helm.” He paused, then added, “He’s a white man, you know. And he gave his life to help free a boatload of slaves.”
Grady returned to where he’d been dozing and sank down. Joseph had tried to tell him that not all white men hated him, that the officers in his regiment were risking their lives for the slaves’ sakes. He remembered Colonel Higginson’s emotional reaction when he saw the slave jail, but Grady still couldn’t comprehend it. He’d never experienced anything but hatred between the two races, yet on this mission, white and black had fought together against a common enemy, facing death for the same cause. Before the war he would have called any man a liar if he had tried to tell him such an alliance was possible.
Later that afternoon, when all danger was past and the men were allowed up on deck again, Grady saw Joseph and a small group of soldiers kneeling in prayer by their dead captain. The man’s body was shrouded, the color of his skin hidden from view—and Grady was able to look past it for first time in his life and see the man beneath. Captain Clifton had earned Grady’s deep respect and admiration. This white man had taken upon himself the wrath of all those who hated the Negro race—and had died for their sakes.
Grady recalled what else Joseph had told him on their voyage upriver. It was the same thing Eli had taught him long ago in Richmond, and what Delia had tried to tell him back at Massa Fuller’s plantation: God’s Son took the scorn and sin of the human race upon himself and had died for their sakes.
But the old question quickly rose to taunt Grady: Why had Jesus deserted him, then? Why had He allowed him to suffer all these years? Delia had compared Grady’s life of slavery to that of Joseph’s in the Bible; she said Joseph’s suffering had made him strong so that God could use him to save his family.
“Ever think that maybe the Lord’s preparing you to save your black brothers and sisters?”
she had asked.
It had seemed inconceivable, back then. But that was exactly what Grady was doing right now.
He quickly turned and stumbled belowdecks to escape his disturbing thoughts. Over in one corner huddled a group of white men who would gladly kill him or enslave him again, if given the chance. Grady was still not sure he was willing to trust a white man as his friend. And he was certain that he wasn’t ready to trust Jesus again, either.
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.