A Light to My Path

by Lynn Austin

  “Not exactly,” he replied. “But the little bit I can see of the sun tells me we’re heading in the right direction. And I tasted this water. It’s brackish, so that means we’re getting closer to the ocean.”

  Another slave joined their huddle. “Think it’s safe enough to follow the road for a while if we find one? Everybody’s feet are so 261 wet and cold they can’t hardly walk.”

  “I know—mine are, too,” Grady said. “But them Confederate soldiers is probably sticking to the roads for that very reason. We need to be staying in the woods.”

  “The Yankees came to the mainland by boat, right?” the first slave asked. “Well, this coast is a mess of rivers and salt marshes. How we ever gonna find the place where they landed without running into the Rebels?”

  It was a question that Grady had been asking himself all night. He didn’t know the answer. They might have to wander through the swamps for quite a while before they met up with the Yanks—unless the Yanks won the battle. They were expecting a fight near the town of Pocotaligo. If the Yankees won, all of this territory would fall into their hands as the Rebels retreated toward Charleston. He and the others might be safe right now and not even know it.

  Before he could think of a reply, Grady suddenly smelled smoke. He looked around in alarm and saw that a group of women had kindled a fire.

  “Hey! Put that fire out!” he said, rushing over to them. “You want to get us all caught? Someone’s bound to see the smoke.” He tried to kick dirt onto the flames to put them out, but someone shoved him aside.

  “Stop it!” the man said. “Our feet’s half frozen. Let the women and little ones warm up a bit, then we’ll douse the fire.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Grady said. “The soldiers have lookouts. They’ll spot the smoke and send armed men to check it out.”

  “Ain’t no Rebels around here. They’re all off fighting the Yankees.”

  “We don’t know that. Hey, come on!” Grady grew more and more alarmed as the fire continued to burn, but there was nothing he could do about it. Two of the fathers with small children held Grady back while their wives helped the little ones get warm near the flames. The wood and fallen leaves they were using for fuel were damp from the rain, creating even more smoke.

  “Let go of me,” Grady said as he struggled to break free. “If you won’t listen to reason, then I’m gone. I ain’t gonna stay here and get caught. Who’s coming with me?”

  Every one of the men shook his head as the slaves crowded around the fire, desperate to warm themselves. Several of the children were crying, their teeth chattering with cold. If only the rain would let up and the sun would come out, then they could dry out and get warm without a fire. Of all the rotten times to have unusually cold weather and rain! Grady wanted to rage at God for refusing to help them in even the simplest way.

  “I’m leaving y’all, then,” he said quietly. “I ain’t staying by a fire that the Rebs are sure to spot.” No one protested. They had talked last night about having Grady pose as their white master if they were discovered, since he was dressed so differently from all of them. He could make up a story about getting lost in the woods or something. But now it was almost as if his clothing and lighter skin set him apart as someone who was different from them. They chose to stick with each other rather than join him.

  “Good luck to you,” he said and strode off into the woods alone.

  By sundown Grady was exhausted. Several times during the day he had wandered close enough to a road or a house to see people and signs of activity. He had briefly considered taking the road, trusting his disguise as a white man to help bluff his way past any danger, but he had finally discarded the idea. How would he explain why he wasn’t serving in the Confederate army? They might shoot him for a deserter. And if they asked him to read something or write his name, he’d be unmasked for sure.

  Grady ate very little of his meager food supply as he walked, determined to make it last as long as possible. On the second night, the sky was just as cloudy as on the first, slowing his progress through the gloomy swamps. It was next to impossible to see where he was going as he picked his way through the dense brush. Without the moon or stars to guide him, he might be traveling in circles or back toward the plantation, for all he knew. Weary and discouraged, Grady finally decided to lie down beneath a clump of scrub oaks and sleep until daylight. He was just too tired, too lost, to go on.

  As he lay on the cold ground, waiting for sleep to come, a verse of scripture that Eli had once taught him drifted through his mind: I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, makes me dwell in safety.

  Immediately, Grady was angry with himself for remembering it. It seemed a mockery. Why was he thinking about God? During all these years, God had never once offered help to Grady when he needed it. He hadn’t helped Kitty’s parents, either, and they had called on Him, believed in Him. Exhausted and furious, Grady finally fell into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  The drive to Great Oak Plantation seemed like a very long one to Kitty. It didn’t help that the damp, foggy day was gray and cheerless, and that she was cold and miserable most of the way as she rode in the back of the farm wagon. They drove through scented pine forests, past salt marshes and swamps, following the route of the Charleston and Savannah railroad tracks much of the way. She saw several plantations along the road, and a few other wagonloads of fleeing refugees, like themselves. But over and over, her thoughts returned to Grady, worrying about him and the others, wondering where he was and if he was safe.

  Late in the morning, the old driver stopped to rest and water the mules. Kitty helped Delia climb down so they could stretch their legs while they waited. “You seem so sad today,” Kitty said to the older woman. “Are you okay?”

  Delia sighed and gazed into the distant woods. “I guess I’m already missing my boy. Grady’s been just like a son to me these past few years, and it sure was hard to say good-bye and let him go. But I know you’re feeling the same thing as me, ain’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m so worried about him, Delia. Aren’t you?”

  “No, honey, I don’t waste time worrying. I pray. That’s what I been doing all morning. Every time I think of the danger he’s in, or I start imagining all sorts of bad things happening to him, I know it’s time to get praying, instead.”

  Kitty wished that her own fears would go away that easily. She wished that prayer really worked. She knew better. “My papa prayed when we tried to escape, and it didn’t do us any good at all,” she said.

  “You don’t know that,” Delia said a little sharply. “You don’t know how God answered those prayers. Praying ain’t about getting your own way. It’s about asking God to have His way.”

  “But if God’s mind is already made up, why bother praying at all?”

  “I suppose different folks have different reasons,” she said with a sigh. “But for me, praying helps me remember that the Lord is in charge. I been picturing Grady in His hands all morning and asking the Lord to watch out for him—no matter what He sees fit to have happen.”

  Her words shocked Kitty. “Delia, no! What if God wants him to get caught?”

  “Then that’s what’s best for Grady.” She spoke the words so softly that Kitty barely heard her.

  “You don’t really mean that!”

  “Yes, I do. God let His own Son die because He had a better idea in mind. Now, I don’t know why He let your folks get caught or what’s gonna happen to Grady. But I do know that we can trust the Lord, even when we don’t understand why things happen the way they do.”

  “I’m scared, Delia. I’m scared for Grady and so scared that … that I’ll never see him again.”

  “I know,” she said, wrapping her arm around Kitty’s waist. “But you’re trying to face your fears all alone.”

  “I am alone—except for you.”

  “No, you’re not. The Lord’s been beside you all your life, watching over you just like a f
ather. I put Grady into His hands when I said good-bye to him last night, and I’ll bet your mama and papa put you in His hands, too. Jesus knows how we’re suffering. Did you know they whipped Him, too, and hung Him from a tree?”

  Kitty pictured the Great Oak Tree and shuddered. “Was he a Negro like us?”

  “He was God’s Son, and God ain’t no color at all.”

  Kitty was still thinking about Delia’s words when they finally arrived at the plantation late that evening. Two years had passed since Kitty and Missy Claire had lived here, but everything looked unchanged, the Great Oak Tree still standing sentry on the hill above the Edisto River. She felt exhausted and a little dazed as Mammy Bertha and Daisy and the other servants hurried out of the house to greet them and help unload the wagon. Bertha lifted baby Richard from Delia’s arms.

  “My, oh my! Ain’t he a little darling?” Bertha said. “We ain’t been having a baby boy in this house in a long, long time. Only girl babies. My, my what a treat.”

  As soon as Missy Claire explained the reason for their flight, Missus Goodman took charge. “You must stay here where it’s safe, Claire, until those Yankees are driven away for good. As soon as I heard that they’d landed in Beaufort, I told your father that Roger’s plantation was much too close to all the danger. I’m glad you’ve come home.”

  The word jolted Kitty. She had been born on this plantation, had lived here most of her life—but it didn’t feel like home anymore. Home had been the little cabin she’d shared for such a short time with Delia and Grady. Tears sprang unexpectedly to her eyes when she remembered their only night together.

  “Kitty! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

  She came out of her reverie to hear Missus Goodman yelling at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m listening now, ma’am.”

  “It’s about time! I ordered you to take the baby’s things upstairs to the nursery. Mammy Bertha will show you where to put them.

  I assume you’re his nurse?”

  “Um … n-no, ma’am. I …”

  “She couldn’t produce a child,” Claire told her mother. Kitty knew by Missy’s tone that she was still angry about it. “I had to use one of the field slaves. But she apparently ran off this morning with all the others.”

  Missus Goodman glared at Kitty for a long moment as if that had been her fault, too. “I’ll send Daisy down to the Row to fetch a new nurse. In the meantime, you’d better start obeying me, girl, if you know what’s good for you. Now get upstairs!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kitty grabbed a bundle of the baby’s clothes and gestured to Delia to follow her.

  “Just a minute,” Missus Goodman said, stopping Delia. “Where do you think you’re going? Who are you?”

  Delia lowered her eyes. Her voice was calm. “My name’s Delia, ma’am. And I been the mammy over at Massa Fuller’s house these many years.”

  “Well, Claire won’t be needing you anymore. Mammy Bertha will take care of the baby from now on. My overseer will find you a place down on Slave Row.”

  Her words stunned Kitty. She nearly cried out in protest but caught herself just in time.

  “You can help Kitty carry Richard’s things upstairs,” Missus Goodman told Delia, “then someone will take you down to speak to the overseer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Delia suddenly looked very old to Kitty. She remembered the cold, drafty cabins and meager food portions on Slave Row and feared that life down there would be the death of the little woman she loved.

  “She can’t do this to you,” Kitty whispered as she led Delia up the servants’ stairs. “You raised Massa Fuller and his sons since they was tiny babies. What would Massa say if he knew?”

  Delia laid down her armload of satchels on the nursery table. “It don’t matter what he’d say, because he ain’t here. Missus Goodman runs this house, and it’s up to her to decide.”

  Kitty could no longer stop her tears. She lay down her own bundles and took Delia into her arms, clinging to her. “I don’t want to lose you,” she wept. “I already lost Grady, and I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  “I know, honey. I know… .”

  “Why do things just keep getting worse and worse? Why does every bit of happiness we find always get snatched away from us again? I should have gone with Grady last night. We both should have.”

  “No, I believe this is where the Lord wants me,” Delia said quietly.

  Kitty pulled back to look into her eyes. “How can you say that? After what just happened?”

  Delia didn’t answer. “I surely will miss you, honey,” she said instead. “You come on down and visit me whenever you can, okay?” She gave Kitty one last hug before she left.

  Kitty struggled to absorb the fact that she would no longer be with Delia. She was back to where she started, living at Great Oak Plantation, working for Missus Goodman and Missy Claire, all alone in the world. For a horrible moment it seemed as though the past few years with Delia and Grady had been only a dream. Kitty quickly dug in her satchel for the picture she’d drawn of Grady, gazing at it through her tears to assure herself that he had been real, that he had loved her.

  Kitty had been a slave since the day she was born, but for the first time in her life she felt like one—a captive, forced to labor for other people against her will. She closed her eyes and prayed to Delia’s God—her papa’s God—that wherever Grady was tonight, he was safe. And that he was free.

  Chapter Nineteen

  South Carolina

  November 1862

  Grady awakened when something sharp prodded his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw the barrel of a gun. The bayonet that was attached to it poked his shoulder again. For a long moment his heart seemed to stop beating.

  “Get up!” a voice said.

  Grady’s heart started up again, pounding as if it would burst. They’d caught him. Rebel soldiers had caught him.

  “Stand up. Nice and slow,” the man with the gun said. “Hands above your head.”

  Grady obeyed, his limbs stiff and numb from sleeping on the cold ground. Massa’s suit was wrinkled and coated with dirt and leaves. When Grady could take his eyes off the bayonet, he saw that the gun was loaded and ready to fire.

  “Hey, Johnson,” the man holding it called. “Come over here and check this fellow for weapons.”

  A second soldier stepped forward and carefully rifled through Grady’s clothing. The only weapon Grady had was the tool he used to trim horses’ hooves. He’d taken it from the stable and sharpened it on a whetstone before leaving home. The man named Johnson found it and slid it into his own pocket.

  Grady squinted in the scant daylight, trying to focus on his captors’ faces. The sun hadn’t quite risen on another overcast day, and he wondered how the Rebels had ever found him. They didn’t seem to have dogs. As he shook off his sleep and battled to rein in his panic, he realized that the men wore dark blue uniforms. They didn’t look at all like the outfits that Massa Fuller and his Confederate soldiers wore.

  “Y’all are Yankees?” he breathed.

  “You bet we are.”

  Grady’s knees went weak with relief. He was wide-awake now. He looked past the loaded rifle and into the clearing where more than a dozen men searched through the bushes, alert for enemy soldiers. It startled Grady to see that some of them were Negroes. They carried rifles with bayonets attached and wore Yankee uniform jackets, just like the white soldiers. A Negro soldier carrying a gun was such an unbelievable sight that Grady wondered if he was dreaming.

  “Hey, Captain, come here!” Johnson called. “We caught a fancy Rebel gentleman trying to sneak off. Should we just go ahead and shoot him?”

  Grady panicked. “Wait! I ain’t a Rebel! I’m a slave. I ran away from Massa Fuller’s plantation two nights ago. I’m trying to escape to y’all. Let me show you.” He knew that his dark wooly hair would prove it, but when he started to remove his hat, the soldier jabbed the bayonet against his ribs.

  “Hold it! Get your hands up!
You move again, and I just might have to kill you.”

  “Listen,” Grady pleaded. “I stole my master’s clothes so I could fool the Rebels. But I’m a Negro, just like him.” He tilted his head toward a black soldier who had wandered over with the captain to stare at him.

  “You sure look white to me,” Johnson said. “What do you think?” he asked the Negro soldier.

  “He’s all dressed up just like my massa,” the Negro replied. “I say shoot him.” He turned and walked away.

  “Wait! Please!” Grady begged. “I’m light-skinned because I’m half white.”

  “Now, that’s a good one, isn’t it?” Johnson said. “What these Rebs won’t think of to save their scrawny necks.”

  “Yeah, who would ever sleep with a Negro?” The three men laughed at the idea.

  Grady felt a rivulet of sweat roll down his neck. “It’s true,” he said. “My white massa used my mother for … for his pleasure. She was his slave. I’m half white.” He hated admitting that his father was white, that his mother had been abused that way. And he hated that these men thought he was white, like they were. He wasn’t anything like them.

  “What do you think, Captain?” the gunman asked. “His story sounds made-up to me.”

  “He talks just like a Southern boy. He’s probably a spy.”

  “Shoot him. Who cares about one more dead Rebel?” Johnson said.

  “Wait! I know how I can prove it,” Grady said. He had a desperate idea, but his hands were still raised in the air and he didn’t dare lower them. “Lift up my shirt and look at the scars on my back,” he said. “Nobody ever done something like that to a white man.”

  The soldier kept the gun trained on him while Johnson walked around behind Grady. He felt his jacket being jerked up and his shirt pulled out of his trousers, then the damp morning air bathed his bare back.

  “Oh my gosh! Come here and look at this, Captain.”