by Lynn Austin
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.
Chapter Twenty-two
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.
Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Grady. Was he alive or dead? Slave or free? What if they never found each other again and were separated forever, just like Delia and her husband, Shep? But as Kitty felt the baby move again she took comfort in the fact that a part of Grady would always remain alive in his child. At least she had that.
“I could have taken a nap in all the time you’ve been gone,” Missy complained when Kitty returned with the Negro seamstress.
“I’m sorry, Missy Claire. I was hurrying just as fast as I could.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were. Did you explain to her what I want her to do?”
“Yes, Missy Claire. I thought I’d just lay the dresses all out on the bed like this so she could see them.” Kitty began removing the gowns from the wardrobe, piling the ones they would combine on top of each other as she explained her ideas to the seamstress. Missy supervised from her chair as if all of the ideas had been hers, warning them from time to time, to be extra careful with her delicate silks.
“Such beautiful colors …” Kitty said as she ran her hand over the plaid taffeta.
“Yes, thank goodness Roger hasn’t died,” Missy said. “Where would I ever find black fabric? Besides, I hate black. I couldn’t bear it if I had to wear black for an entire year!”
Kitty hid her shock at Missy’s heartlessness. If Grady died, Kitty would mourn his loss for the rest of her life. But Missy had never been in love with Massa Roger. At least she and Grady had loved each other—and that was one thing Missy could never take away from her.
“What about a new bonnet?” Missy said suddenly. “I can’t wear my old ones. I always bought a new bonnet for Easter.”
Kitty saw the seamstress roll her eyes, but the woman had her back to Missy. Kitty would have made a face, too, but she didn’t dare. “Maybe we can fix a new hat from all the old ones,” she said. “We’ll find one that ain’t looking too bad and make a little ruffle from leftover dress fabric. If we use a bit of matching ribbon … pick the best flowers …”
Kitty reached to the top of the wardrobe to pull down Missy’s hatboxes and heard a ripping sound as the side seam of her dress gave way. “Oh!” she cried and quickly lowered her arms.
“What was that tearing sound?” Missy asked. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, Missy Claire. Just my own dress ripping a little bit.”
“Come here and let me see. Lift up your arms.”
Kitty did as she was told.
“What a mess!” Missy said when she showed her. “And you expect me to trust you with my gowns? Look at this! And why is the waistline way up above your waist? Who sewed this
?”
“I did, Missy Claire. The side seam was about to split and—”
“Look at you! You’re putting on weight. Turn around.”
Kitty cringed as Missy eyed her changing figure.
“You never used to be so … so full on top.” Missy’s eyebrows raised as the truth suddenly dawned on her. “Wait a minute! Are you pregnant?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said softly. “I believe so.”
“Why, you little hussy!” Missy looked as though she might slap her. “You’re a married woman! You’re not supposed to be carrying on with other men.”
“But I ain’t been carrying on. This is my husband’s baby, ma’am. Honest!”
“How dare you lie to me! I waited for months on end for you to have a baby, and your worthless husband wasn’t able to sire one.”
“But this is his baby—”
“I don’t believe it. You told me you haven’t seen him since they took the horses away and I sent him down to Slave Row. Were you lying to me then or are you lying now?”
Kitty didn’t know what to say. If she told Missy that she had seen Grady one last time then Missy would be angry with her for disobeying—and she would know that Kitty had been aware of his escape plans. What if Grady had already been caught? Would telling the truth get him into even more trouble? When Kitty didn’t answer or try to defend herself, Missy gave a triumphant smile.
“I knew it! That couldn’t possibly be your husband’s baby. I can count off the months since I sent him down, you know. Mother was right when she said marriage means nothing to you people.”
Kitty’s entire body trembled with fury. She wanted to rage at Missy and tell her that she was wrong! Slave women loved their husbands. It was their white owners who were always breaking up marriages and separating husbands and wives. White people had separated Kitty’s parents—and Delia and Shep. Missy herself had separated the old man from his wife when he drove Missy here. And Missy had sent Grady down to Slave Row and forbidden them to live together. Kitty longed to scream at her, to make her see the truth. There was no other man in Kitty’s life except Grady. She loved him, missed him desperately. Missy was the one who had married for selfish reasons. She didn’t even care if her husband died—only that she would have to wear black.
But Kitty didn’t say any of those things. She turned away from her mistress, blinking back her tears as she lifted one of Missy’s dresses from the bed. “Guess I better be ripping out some of these seams, Missy Claire, so we can start sewing you some new dresses.” She sat down near the window with a pair of scissors and carefully picked away at the tiny stitches of a side seam. She kept her head lowered, struggling not to cry.
“What’s wrong with you?” Missy asked a few minutes later. “Are you pouting?”
Kitty forced a smile, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Oh, no, Missy. There ain’t nothing wrong with me. I’m just concentrating, that’s all. Your seamstress sewed such tiny little stitches that I can barely see to pull them out.”
“Well, my gowns are very important to me, you know. It isn’t my fault that this stupid war has forced me to trust them to the two of you. Just make sure you don’t make a mess of them. If you do, I’ll have your hide.”
* * *
St. John’s River, Florida
March 1863
Grady heard an ominous rasping sound as the ship’s hull scraped against a sandbar. The vessel slowed, then stopped with a sickening jolt as it ran aground. His heart speeded up as he scanned the wooded shoreline in the darkness, watching for the telltale flash of enemy artillery fire, aware that his stranded ship made an easy target for a Rebel attack. But only the waning moon and millions of shimmering stars lit the night sky.
The steam engines reversed, grinding loudly as they labored to free the ship. After a tense twenty minutes, the ship was underway again, steaming up the winding St. John’s River toward Jacksonville, Florida. Grady’s regiment had begun the journey upriver at two o’clock in the morning after waiting at the river’s mouth all evening for their escort of navy gunboats. He had thought of Anna as he’d watched a flock of pelicans swooping for fish above the mirror-like water, filling the enormous pouches that hung from their bills. She would have loved to sketch that beautiful scene.
Colonel Higginson had planned to arrive before dawn and take the sleeping city of Jacksonville by surprise, but the St. John’s River had proved difficult to navigate. The expedition lost valuable time as the ships took turns getting stranded, and they finally had to leave one grounded gunboat behind as the tide changed and the river began to ebb.
Grady recognized the outskirts of Jacksonville as the sky grew light, remembering the city from his travels there with Massa Coop. The wooded shoreline gave way to cultivated meadows and distant houses, then the ship rounded the last bend and the city came into view. Coop had done a fair amount of business here, selling slaves to white folks for the lumbering trade. It was a pleasant city, with neatly laid streets, serene houses, and rustling shade trees. Except for the city’s mills—charred husks of bricks and twisted metal, burned by the fleeing Rebels the last time the Union army had invaded—Jacksonville appeared peaceful and untouched by the war.
But Grady knew that the calm appearance might disguise a Rebel ambush. He held his breath, gripping his rifle as his ship’s gunners readied their weapons, bracing himself for the first volley of shots or boom of enemy artillery. But the city remained quiet as his ship reached the dock. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he prepared to disembark with the rest of the invasion force, fanning out and taking defensive positions as they’d been trained to do. An artillery unit set up their howitzers on the wharf behind him, preparing for an attack—but the attack never came. Moments after they landed, the First South Carolina Volunteers had made Jacksonville, Florida a United States military outpost without firing a single shot.
Grady’s regiment had accomplished the first stage of its objective, the capture of Jacksonville, but he was deeply disappointed that it had fallen so easily. He had been ready for a fight—jubilant, in fact—when orders had come to strike their camp outside Beaufort and prepare for permanent deployment in Florida. He and the others had worked steadily for twenty-four hours, packing up all their tents and equipment and hauling everything out to the waiting ships on flatboats. Their mission was to invade and occupy as much of Florida as they could, driving out the Rebels, freeing the slaves, and recruiting all the able-bodied men into their ranks. The regiment’s courage had been proven on the expedition up the St. Mary’s River, Colonel Higginson had told them. No one could deny the slaves’ valor in combat. Now their behavior as victors would be tested. The Northern press was watching, waiting to report how a Negro occupation force would treat their former oppressors.
Jacksonville lay spread out over a large area, with dense woods beyond the city limits. The regiment would be spread very thinly as they guarded the town. If the Rebels attacked with a force larger than their own, Grady’s regiment might be overrun. Grady and the other men spent much of the first day making their presence known, checking for ambushes, and planning the fortifications and entrenchments they would need to build in order to secure the town. Oddly, they found only a small number of slaves for a city this size.
“Our owners heard how the Yankees been freeing all the slaves,” an elderly Negro told Grady, “so the Rebels took all the strongest men away already. Moved them all inland, out of reach.” His words made Grady more determined than ever to fight his enemy.
“Don’t worry,” Captain Metcalf promised, “once we’re established here, we’ll make some forays upriver to find those slaves and free them.”
Grady’s troops spent the long day in suspense, expecting a Rebel counterattack, preparing for it. As night fell, the regiment’s scattered companies bedded down in various parts of town, with guards on the alert for a nighttime assault. Grady felt exhausted from the tense day and lost night of sleep. He slept restlessly, with his shoes on and hi
s gun close beside him.
The hard work of fortifying Jacksonville began at dawn. Redoubts needed to be built, trees cleared to create a buffer zone, houses razed and trenches dug. The men took turns performing the heavy labor and doing picket duty to guard against enemy raids. Grady’s own encampment was in a grove of linden trees on the outer edge of town, and he spent the morning chopping down trees to barricade the main road out of Jacksonville.
As he labored to build defensive works around the camp that was to be his new home, Grady noticed a lone white man standing on the front porch of a house across the street, watching the laborers. He was one of the few whites left in this part of town, living in one of the few occupied houses on the street—in the last row of homes at the edge of Jacksonville. Something about the man reminded Grady of Massa Coop, and he felt the same prickle of fear he’d felt as a boy when Coop had scrutinized his every move, waiting for him to make a mistake, hoping for an excuse to beat him. The “watcher” haunted Grady, and even as he lay in his tent at night with Joseph snoring beside him, he imagined the man on his porch, staring at him in the darkness.
Grady soon learned that the Rebels were camped nearby. They began creeping forward at odd hours to skirmish with Union pickets on the outskirts of town or to harass the squads that were sent out to forage in the region around Jacksonville. Life in Grady’s regiment became a continuous round of hard labor, daily skirmishes, and nightlong vigils. And whenever Grady glanced at the last row of houses, he glimpsed the man watching from his porch or standing like a shadow in his front window.
Grady wondered if the man was a spy—if he was sneaking past the pickets somehow, to carry information to the Rebels. It was clear that someone was providing them with information. The Rebels had a locomotive-mounted cannon, and they traveled down the rail line to bring the weapon within range of the city, bombarding the Union camps each night before disappearing again. One night, the bombs fell much too close to the colonel’s headquarters for it to be a coincidence. Grady had been on guard duty and he’d watched in horrified fascination as the shells streaked through the night sky like falling stars and exploded in a shower of deadly fragments.