by Lynn Austin
Now it was Anna’s turn to be speechless. She couldn’t possibly believe what Miss Ada was saying—someone would pay money for her pictures? And print them in a newspaper? But she also knew that Miss Ada would never tell a lie.
“W-why would he pay me to draw?” Anna asked shaking her head.
“If your other work is anything like this, you’ve offered a truer picture of what life is like down here for a freed slave than any photograph ever could. You’ve shown their poverty, the difficulties they face as they struggle for an education. Yet you’ve captured hope in these people’s faces—and beauty and joy. Anna, dear, this is a work of art.”
Anna wasn’t sure what that meant, but tears filled her eyes at the thought of earning money, of being able to help Grady and George get along. For the first time since Grady had snatched her out of the slave jail at Great Oak, Anna felt truly free. People who were free received payment for the work they did.
“Yes, Miss Ada,” she said. “I’ll be happy to sell your brother all the pictures he wants.”
* * *
Charleston, South Carolina
February 1865
“The rumors are true,” Captain Metcalf told Grady and the others. “The Confederates have abandoned Fort Sumter. The mayor of Charleston has surrendered the city.” The cheers that followed his announcement were so deafening that Grady was certain they could be heard all the way across the harbor in the city that they’d besieged all these months.
A few hours later, boats arrived to ferry the regiment ashore. Grady saw smoke billowing into the sky from fires set by the Rebels as they’d hurried north to engage Sherman’s army. It seemed unbelievable to Grady to be setting foot in Charleston after occupying the sandy, coastal islands across the harbor since last June. He had taken part in the Battle of Honey Hill and in the capture of Fort Gregg. Wounded men from his regiment had been sent back to the hospitals in Beaufort, and Grady had worried that Anna would see them, would recognize that they were his comrades, and would be overwhelmed with fear for him. He’d had a few close calls from enemy artillery shells, but thankfully, he’d remained safe.
Now Grady just wanted it all to end. He was tired of seeking revenge, tired of fighting. He wanted the war to be over so he could live out his life with Anna.
It was an odd feeling to walk the once-familiar streets of Charleston as a victor, to see white people scurry into their homes in fear and draw their curtains closed as he marched past. The last time he’d walked through Charleston, he’d been another man’s property, fit only to drive a carriage. Now he wielded the power of a conqueror over these people. But somehow the victory felt hollow as he viewed the ravaged city.
Hundreds of buildings had been destroyed, some by fire, others by Union artillery shells. Still others crumbled dangerously, about to topple. Nothing remained of the church where Massa Fuller had been married except a burned husk. Starving people—black and white—begged for food. But it was the sight of so many homeless, drifting slaves that moved Grady the most—sheep without a shepherd.
His first task was to help fight the fires that had raged for a day and a half. The blistering heat and choking smoke made that battle nearly as dangerous as warfare. When the inferno was finally under control, Grady’s regiment was assigned to picket duty around the city’s undamaged buildings to halt the looting. It seemed ironic to him that he and other former slaves now worked to save the property of a people who hated them. And his Negro troops were clearly hated. They faced jeers and brickbats and spitting wherever they went. Snipers took potshots at them from among the ruins. Grady confided his resentment and simmering hatred to Captain Metcalf one evening.
“It’s only a few misguided individuals,” the captain assured him. “Remember, Grady, not every person in Charleston hates Negroes. Don’t let the actions of a few speak for all Charlestonians.”
Grady recalled Colonel Higginson’s warning that the end of the war might not bring an end to the battles that Negroes would face. “But how do I fight those few?” he asked. “How can I be helping my people get the respect we deserve as human beings?”
Metcalf sighed. “It’s not up to you to fight every battle for your people. You weren’t at Gettysburg or FortWagner, were you? You didn’t fight at Petersburg or Shiloh—only where you were sent. Your war will be won over time, Grady, by every soldier doing his part, right where he is. We can only do what we’re asked to do today.”
The following morning thousands of Charleston’s slaves poured into the streets as Grady’s regiment marched past. Throngs of ragged, cheering children skipped alongside them. Women lifted small babies, like George, high in the air so they could see their deliverers. Grown men stretched out their hands to them, wanting to touch them, thank them. Grady saw tears on every face, arms raised to heaven in praise, and it was hard for him and the other soldiers not to be overwhelmed with emotion, hard to keep marching.
Then someone in Grady’s regiment began to sing. Grady recognized the song from his years as a slave. It was one that he and the others had sung as they’d trudged to work in the fields every day:
My army cross over; O, Pharaoh’s army drowned!
My army cross over, we cross the river Jordan …
Grady immediately joined in, and soon everyone was singing—men and women, soldiers and slaves, their voices raised in a joyful song of victory for all that they had won, for how far they had finally come:
We’ll cross the danger water, my army cross over
We’ll cross the mighty river; O, Pharaoh’s army drowned!
* * *
Beaufort, South Carolina
April 1865
It seemed to Anna that she had waited breathlessly, for days, for the latest news. First Richmond had fallen to the Yankees. Then General Grant had Lee and his men on the run outside of Petersburg. Rumors said that the Confederates were badly outnumbered, weary, starving. Thousands of Lee’s men had already deserted. At Anna’s school, at the hospital, on the town’s street corners, everyone waited for the good news of a final surrender.
And then one sunny spring morning, the church bells in Beaufort began to ring. Shouts of joy filled the streets. Jim rushed into the warming kitchen to tell Anna and Minnie that General Lee had truly surrendered. The war was over. Soon they would all live in peace. Anna hugged her two friends and wept for joy.
“Mama?” little George whimpered. He was watching her, clinging fearfully to her skirts as if unable to understand her tears or the noisy celebration in Beaufort’s streets. She lifted him into her arms and kissed him.
“It’s okay, honey. Mama’s happy, not sad. Pretty soon your daddy’s coming home.”
For Anna, her own long, dark night was finally over. Grady had survived the war. Her little family was free. A dreadful thought had long resided in the back of her mind, that if the South somehow won, or if the North grew tired of all the fighting and bloodshed and called a truce, that she and Grady and George would be returned to slavery again. But the Union was clearly victorious. No one could ever take away her freedom.
“Let’s go celebrate with Miss Ada and Miss Helen,” she told her son. The sisters had taught her that free people—even white people—served the Lord Jesus as their Massa. Anna knew that the little church would soon be ringing with songs of praise for Jesus, their true Deliverer. And she wanted to join them.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Great Oak Plantation, South Carolina
June 1865
The war was over. Delia was free. She had watched her fellow slaves walk away from Slave Row with their belongings bundled inside their tattered quilts—and nobody stopped them. Some of the slaves lugged the plantation’s dugout canoes to the river and paddled off downstream. Others followed the long, sweeping driveway past the Big House and disappeared down the road. Delia wondered what they would do with their freedom. They’d been so overjoyed when they’d heard the news, dancing and celebrating for an entire day and night. But how would they live tomorrow a
nd the next day?
Delia had watched them pack up and say good-bye, and she’d felt a mixture of sorrow and joy. “You’re welcome to come along with us,” several people had offered. “You know we’ll be taking good care of you.” But Delia was much too worn out to go anywhere. She spent the rest of that spring in the same shabby cabin where she’d lived for the past year and a half, scratching around for food in the meager gardens that the other slaves had left behind.
She knew that the war was really over when Massa Fuller arrived at Great Oak Plantation one warm June afternoon. Delia watched him trudge up the driveway, slump-shouldered and weary, the uniform he’d worn at his wedding five years ago a tattered pile of rags. She beamed with happiness when she saw him, this white man she had suckled along with her own daughter and reared into manhood. Massa Roger was safe.
“Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. “Thank you for watching over him.”
Yes, the war was over and Delia was tired—bone-weary tired. Life here in South Carolina had been very hard this past year, the white folks suffering just as much as the colored folks. There hadn’t been much food for any of them to eat, with the soldiers from both sides taking all of their chickens and pigs, and plucking the crops right out of the garden as fast as they could grow them. She’d heard stories about all the plantations that had burned, and she thanked the Good Lord that Great Oak didn’t lie in the Yankees’ path. She wondered how her home—Massa Roger’s place—had fared. Whenever she thought of “home,” Delia always pictured the Fuller Plantation.
That evening, Delia walked up to the Big House and asked to speak with Massa Roger. He came to the door in his shirtsleeves, his face gaunt and sallow, his injured arm shriveled and crippledlooking. But he smiled with surprise and pleasure when he saw her.
“Delia—you’re still here? You’re free now, you know. You don’t have to stay around here any more.”
“I know. But I want to ask you something, Massa Roger. I want to know if you’ll take me back home to your plantation, when you go. It’s where I was born and raised, and I been living there most of my life.”
“Is your family still there?”
Delia shook her head. “I don’t have no family, Massa Roger. They all dead and gone. But I’d sure like to live out my days there, if that’s okay with you. I’m willing to work for my keep.”
“Of course.” He smiled sadly and Delia wondered if the sorrow he felt was for her or for himself—or for both of them. He had once loved her freely and unashamedly as a child. She remembered the warmth of his little arms around her neck as he’d hugged her and called her Mammy Delia.
“I’m taking Claire and Richard back home at the end of the week,” he told her. “You may certainly come with us.”
By the time Delia reached home at last, the suffering and senseless destruction she’d witnessed along the way had left her deeply depressed. All those plantation houses—beautiful, graceful homes—burned to the ground. All those ruined fields and barns. Such a waste. Every tired breath she’d drawn had reeked of smoke. But what brought her the most sorrow were the people—not only the hundreds of slaves wandering hungry and homeless, but the white refugees, as well. Women and children like Missy Claire and little Richard. Confederate soldiers like Massa Roger, making their weary way back to homes that no longer existed. So much sorrow. So much hatred in this world.
But Delia thanked the Good Lord when she saw that the little cabin she’d shared with Grady and Anna was still standing. Tears filled her eyes as she walked through the empty rooms, wondering how Grady and Anna were, and what had become of them now that the war was over. She longed to see her Grady again, but she doubted that she ever would. The same was true of her daughter up north. Delia often wondered if she even remembered her real mother anymore, or if she lived such a happy life of freedom that her five years of slavery had been long forgotten.
Delia tidied up and made her bed and swept away some of the dust. Then she sat outside on the doorstep, so tuckered out that she felt winded. A verse of scripture that Shep had once taught her floated through her mind: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Yes, Delia was ready for a good, long rest.
She stared down the deserted road, remembering a time when she had been young and pretty and full of strength, a time when the road brought a steady stream of visitors to the Fuller Plantation. But whenever she’d heard the merry jingle of carriage bells, her heart had leaped and danced. It meant that Shep was here! Delia smiled, remembering how his owner, Miss Carrie, had demanded bells on her carriage so that everyone would know when she arrived from Savannah. Those bells had made such a happy, joyful sound. Delia would race to the window whenever she heard them—and there Shep would be, sitting tall and proud on the driver’s seat, his face stretched wide in a handsome grin.
Shep would have to finish all his work before he could see Delia, wiping the dust off the carriage and greasing the wheels, feeding and tending the horses. And she would have to finish her work in the Big House, as well, polishing the furniture and serving the meals. But when evening fell, Delia’s husband would come to her in their tiny cabin, and he would hold her in his arms and kiss away her tears. And all the long months that they had spent apart would seem like a fading dream.
“How long can you stay?” Delia would always ask.
Shep would smile his wide, loose grin and say, “I can stay until the Good Lord needs me someplace else.”
Now, as Delia sat on the weathered step, she realized that Shep was the real reason she had returned home to this cabin. Not only was it filled with warm memories of him and the love they’d shared, but it was also the only place in the whole world where Shep knew where to find her. If he was still alive after all these years and the upheaval of war, if he could somehow find a way to return to her, then this is where he would come.
The summer night was sultry, the midges annoying. Delia had eaten very little all day, but she was too tired to get up and fix dinner. She sat on the steps and watched the fireflies winking in the bushes, the stars pricking through the covering of night, one by one. She felt an ache in her shoulder, a weight on her chest and knew that grief and longing and sadness had caused them. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to subside.
Then Delia heard them—the jingling carriage bells—faintly at first, then growing louder, clearer.
She opened her eyes and it was morning. She was surprised at how light it was. Sunshine filled the yard, and she wondered how she could have slept on the cabin doorstep all night. The sound of jingling bells grew closer, a happy sound that lifted Delia’s heart to the skies. The approaching carriage rolled down the long driveway and drew to a halt.
Shep stepped down.
But for once he didn’t take care of Miss Carrie’s horses first. Instead, he hurried toward Delia’s cabin, smiling broadly. Delia thought it must be the tears that blurred her vision, but he didn’t look a day older to her than when he’d driven away so many years ago. She slowly rose to her feet, afraid to wipe her eyes, afraid to blink for fear he would disappear.
“Shep!” she whispered. “Oh, Shep!”
He stretched out his strong hand to her and she felt the calluses on his palm from holding the reins.
“Delia, honey, we’re free,” he said. “I’ve come to take you home.”
Beaufort, South Carolina
September 1865
“Kitty!”
Anna dropped the book she was reading and looked up. Missy Claire glared at her from the drawing room doorway, holding her son, Richard, by the hand. “What are you doing in my house?” Missy demanded.
Anna’s heart leaped to her throat. She had heard the back door open and close, heard footsteps approaching down the hall, but she had assumed it was Grady. Her first instinct was to scramble to her feet and apologize to Missy for sitting on her sofa, for reading her book, for living in her house. But George was asleep with his head on he
r lap. Besides, Anna was a free woman now. She remained seated, calmly stroking George’s wooly hair, fighting the impulse to stand.
“We been living here for a while now, Missy Claire. And we’ve been taking real good care of your house for you.”
“You have some nerve,” she said, “sitting there as if you owned the place. And that’s my dress you’re wearing!”
“Yes, ma’am. I made it over to fit me, seeing as my dress was all worn out.”
“Get out!” she yelled, pointing toward the back door.
Anna had long been afraid that this day would come. Ever since the war had ended last April, she’d wondered how much longer she and George would be allowed to live here. Grady had only returned home from the war two days ago. They’d been so overjoyed just to be together again, and so in love with each other, that they hadn’t had time to talk about what they would do next or where they would live if Massa Fuller wanted his house back.
Anna set the book on the table beside her and slowly rose to her feet. George felt heavy and warm and cuddly as she lifted him in her arms. The surprise and panic she felt had passed, and Anna faced her mistress with her chin held high. “I think you’ll see how nice Minnie and Jim and me have been keeping your house for you, Missy Claire. There ain’t nothing ruined or missing either, except some food that was in the pantry … and this dress.”
“Get out this minute!” Missy said, stepping into the room. Anna looked down at three-and-a-half year-old Richard. She had cared for him like her own child, walking the floor with him, bathing him, loving him. But he glared up at her with the same resentful stare that his mother wore. Anna rubbed George’s sweaty back, promising herself that she would never teach him to hate.
“I learned how to read and write,” Anna said without knowing why. “I’m a teacher myself, now.”