“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… .”