Kate was sitting so far forward on the driver’s bench she nearly toppled off.
“Which was fitting, given the church’s fierce independence from the very beginning. The first African Methodist Episcopal congregation in the South, it’s now widely referred to as Mother Emanuel. Emanuel for ‘God with us.’”
“And Mother,” Harold quipped, “for first.”
Harold’s wife rolled her eyes.
“Dan,” Kate asked—and she was willing to beg—“is there any way we could have a look inside?”
The others murmured agreement behind her.
Daniel checked his watch. “Maybe just a few minutes. It so happens Gabe and I have connections here.” He dropped to the ground, running a hand under the harness traces as the passengers stepped off the carriage.
The sanctuary’s vaulted ceiling covered a vast nave of flame-red carpet and pews polished to gleaming—so bright, in fact, the late-day sunlight streaming through the stained glass reflected off the wood in blues and greens and violets. Kate lagged behind the group and breathed in the silence, the light.
She stroked the top of a pew, the silk of its decades of varnish and human touch: the faithfulness that had come this way. And the courage.
Gabe, clearly at home here, cavorted away toward the altar.
Kate stood at the rear of the nave. A few yards away, as some of the tourist group gathered to see what was happening, a man with a TV camera on one shoulder listed sideways under its weight, and a blond reporter was thrusting a microphone into the face of a man in a dark suit, a clerical collar at his neck, with a receding hairline and glasses. Appearing startled at first by the foam globe shoved at his chin, he seemed determined now to reflect patience.
It was that studied, steady patience that Kate recognized even before the man’s features: the clergyman by the fountain.
“In the wake of the incident,” the reporter was saying, “involving the death of Walter Scott just six miles north of here—”
“Incident,” the clergyman corrected her, “is too weak a word. Far, far too weak.”
“I beg your pardon?” The reporter glanced back toward the camera, as if unsure whether to encourage him to continue.
“When we see the video, we see the truth: Mr. Scott was shot from behind. Fell to the ground. Died with his face in the dust.” His voice slowed here, enunciating each word as he faced the camera directly. “Was gunned down like game.”
“Like . . . ?” she echoed.
“Game,” he returned calmly. “An officer of the law shot an unarmed black man in the back—not once but several times—as the man ran away. Then, without checking to see if he was alive, without attempting to resuscitate him, without calling for medics, the officer handcuffed Mr. Scott.” The clergyman faced her again. “Gunned down. Like game.”
Kate cringed and had to look away from the intensity in the clergyman’s eyes.
The reporter took a moment, apparently to gather her courage. “To which you are responding how, Reverend—or should I say Senator?”
“Either is fine. I might not have believed it myself had I not been able to watch, along with the rest of the country, the online video of the shooting. Which is why I and several others are presenting a bipartisan bill to the august body of our state legislature advocating the use of body cameras for our police—a protection for our proud and great law enforcement and for citizens alike.”
“And you don’t find, Reverend,” the reporter asked, blue eyes shifting back to the camera, “your role here as shepherd of a flock in conflict with a role as lawmaker?”
“In my tradition, we have always felt the work of a congregation should never stop at its walls, but be integrated into the life of its community—a beacon. Though this church in which we stand is of historic significance, it is not a museum, but continues to be a place that works in the minds and hearts of people toward change.” He smiled down at her. “And now, if you’ll forgive me—”
“Do you see yourself, then, as a kind of cultural agitator?”
He gazed back at her a moment before answering. “Sometimes one has to make some noise.” He nodded to the front of the sanctuary. “This church was founded on struggle. We understand here that sometimes you have to be willing to die like Denmark Vesey in that struggle.”
Kate drew a sharp breath. To hear that name she’d been scanning two-hundred-year-old documents for all day suddenly mentioned here in this place made the former slave seem flesh and blood somehow—as alive as anyone here.
The pastor nodded to the reporter. “Thank you for coming. And now, as it is Wednesday evening—”
“Senator . . . Reverend, if I could just ask one more thing. There are, from time to time when these incidents happen—”
“These incidents?”
“When these . . . tragedies happen,” she revised, “there are from time to time some calls for the Confederate flag that flies on our state capitol grounds to be taken down. Would you call now for its removal?”
A long pause. “Given my other positions, I think you can surmise how beneficial I believe that would be for the good of all citizens of our excellent state—for our unity. I regret to say, however, that the issue is so entrenched here, I’ll never see it come down in my lifetime. Now, forgive me, but it is a busy time, and I have guests to welcome.” In response to the reporter’s attempt to ask one more question, he held out his hand. “Know that you are warmly welcomed here. And please do feel free to stay for the study.”
The reporter turned back to the camera. “That was Clementa Pinckney of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church characterizing the incident this past April 4 in North Charleston, as an”—she paused here and seemed almost to concede the next word—“unarmed”—and then, swallowing, rushed through the rest—“man gunned down like game. This is Brooke Butler, reporting from Calhoun Street. Back to you, Alston.”
The clergyman, walking now down the aisle toward Kate, shook hands with an even taller man who’d stood at the edge of the listening crowd. The taller man now fell into step with Clementa Pinckney.
“Welcome to Emanuel.” The clergyman extended his hand to Kate, warmth exuding from him.
“Oh. Thanks. Our driver brought us here to your . . . place. He said he knew someone here.” She flushed. “And, to be honest, I asked if we could come in.”
“Glad you did. You are welcome here. Forgive me if I step away now. It’s Wednesday night, and we hold a Bible study downstairs. I hope it goes without saying that you all are invited to join us.”
Kate hesitated.
The smile on one side of his mouth tipped his glasses slightly askew. “And also most welcome to just look around.” Nodding, he strode toward the door.
The taller man wore a dark suit, expensively cut. He was gazing past Kate to the stained glass. But as his gaze dropped to her, he reached for a pew as if to steady himself.
Kate realized with a start that she knew him—in a way: the man who’d been arguing with Botts outside Cypress & Fire. He’d charged off without taking notice of her or of anything else.
Daniel was jogging toward them from where the group had pooled near the central pulpit. “Thanks, Pastor Clem!” he called. “I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought a tour in.”
The clergyman waved from the door and disappeared.
But the other man blinked, his eyes darting to Daniel, then back to Kate. “Son,” he said, his voice gone thin, unsteady.
Daniel enveloped him in a hug. “Dad, you okay?”
His father? The man arguing with Percival Botts outside Dan’s shop was his father?
Daniel didn’t wait for a response. “Kate, that right there was the Reverend Clementa Pinckney, pastor of this historic church and senator for the great state of South Carolina, which means I got friends in high places—and, Lord knows, I’m likely to need them. And this is the Honorable Elijah Russell, family-court judge and proud father of yours truly, and prouder-still grandfather of Gabriel Ray
.”
She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Judge Russell. Wait . . . Russell.” She turned from Daniel to his father and back again. “Your last name . . . is Russell?”
They nodded together, both watching her face.
“So the name Ray . . .”
“Is Gabe’s middle name. After my daddy here, the judge Elijah Ray Russell. And also Ray Charles, but we don’t generally mention that second personage in my daddy’s presence.”
“I realize Russell’s not the most uncommon name in the world. But the connection—here in Charleston. And this church. I don’t suppose there’s any crazy chance . . .”
They both looked back at her, not helping her—waiting for her to go on.
“That your family is descended from the early nineteenth-century blacksmith Tom Russell?”
Gabe, who’d raced up the aisle and slid under his father’s arm, stood looking from one to the other of the adults, suddenly quiet. “How’d she divinate that, you reckon?”
Daniel’s lips gathered at one side. “Like to know myself. How did—?”
“How’d a white chick like me come to know about Tom Russell, weapon maker of the Denmark Vesey revolt?”
He chuckled, shrugging. “Yankee was what I was thinking, but have it your way, white chick. Seriously, is the name Russell part of your research?”
“Like, central to it. And I’ve never known anyone—outside my adviser and the handful of scholars who write on this stuff—who’s ever even heard of Tom Russell. So there is a relation for certain between him and your family?”
Daniel held up his hand. “Actually, no.”
“No?”
“That’s to say we don’t really know. Some debate in the family. Especially just lately.” He tried to exchange glances with his father, but Elijah was staring at Kate. “Lots of debate as to whether it’s a biological relation back to Tom Russell or whether it was some ancestor’s way of honoring him after Emancipation by taking the name.”
“So it’s not been traced officially?”
Daniel leaned forward. “Never mattered too much one way or the other, we figured. Until”—again, the glance toward his father—“lately.”
Kate shook her head. “This is amazing. You’ve no idea what a find this is.”
“A find?”
“To my research.”
“Look, Kate . . .”
“Sorry. Did that make it sound all about me?”
“Pretty much.”
“What I meant was, even if there’s not biological descent, the connection of oral tradition is amazing. That your family generations ago would have honored his memory.”
Daniel nodded carefully. “For some folks, the question of biological descent is the only question.” Again, his gaze shot to his father. “But that’s not been verified. Yet.”
Judge Russell had sunk slowly down into a pew. “And your name would be, young lady?”
“Oh. Sorry. Guess we didn’t finish the introductions—me and my interrupting. I’m Kate Drayton. The thing is, I’ve done some reading on the whole Vesey revolt. I’d love to ask you guys some questions. And, Judge, I think our paths crossed earlier.”
He eased against the pew’s back. “Our paths?”
“Outside your son’s shop. You were just leaving. And looking perturbed—after talking with Percival Botts, the attorney. He has that effect on people.” She held out her hand. “Good to meet you.”
The judge stared at her hand before taking it. “Yes,” he got out at last.
“Dad,” Daniel broke in, “you didn’t tell me about talking with Botts. The lawyer, right? What was that all about?” Daniel winked at Kate. “Settling old scores?”
Judge Russell pushed himself back to his feet. Just a moment ago, the pleasantness of his face had made him seem not too imposing, but now, his eyes dark and impenetrable, he looked his height, maybe four or five inches over six feet.
The judge’s gaze had drifted away. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”
“Dad.” Daniel positioned himself in front of his father’s face like he might wake him from some sort of stupor. “What’s gotten into you?”
But the judge addressed Kate. “So. You would be Heyward Drayton’s daughter?”
“Wait. You knew my father?”
A long pause. “When we were both young. We were at the College of Charleston together.”
“You and my father were friends?”
“Did I imply friendship?”
“Dad, what’s up? Why the combative tone?”
The judge’s head swung toward his son, then back to Kate. “Young lady, I regret to say that your father and I were never friends.”
“Oh. Then . . .” Something fierce in his eye made her stop.
“I have no wish to be rude, Kate. But now is not the time to say more on this subject.”
“I understand. It’s just that my father—”
“Now,” he repeated, more sternly this time, “is not the time.”
At one side of the sanctuary, the tourists from the buggy tour had congregated around a particularly striking stained glass window.
“Ready?” Daniel called to the tour group, the bulk of them now turning toward the altar with a kind of awed distance, as if trying to picture Martin Luther King Jr. there. “I got to get this buggy off the street before the tourism commission has my hide for having a horse-drawn conveyance out past time.” Turning back, he wrapped his father in a bear hug. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
The judge nodded absently, and he dipped from his considerable height to land a kiss on Gabe’s cheek. But his eyes, stormy and dark, returned to Kate.
Rattled, Kate returned his stare. But she could not read what she saw there.
“I was wondering,” she ventured, “if I could set up an appointment with you as well, Judge. I have so many questions about what you know of your family.”
She took a step back from the expression on his face, which she could not read. “Questions, I mean, in relation to Tom Russell. But I understand if you’re too busy.”
He was silent a moment. “Your questions are important ones. I’d be happy”—his face said he was anything but—“to make time.”
Why had she put the judge on the spot when he’d obviously disliked her father so much—and probably couldn’t help but distrust his daughter? She promised herself she’d hold off on calling too soon.
Daniel thumped his father on the shoulder. “Dad, you look awful. Get some rest. Big guy, you ready?” Backing away, he flung up one arm in a wave. “You reckon you better help down there with the study? What’s it on tonight? Do you know?”
Judge Russell straightened but balanced himself on the back of the pew, his voice still thin and uneven. “On the sins of the fathers,” he said.
And looked straight at Kate.
“I think I upset your father somehow,” Kate said as she and Daniel ran to catch up with the group, Gabe waving to them from the side exit. “And I was so engrossed with the inside of the church, I nearly forgot the sculpture. The black marble children.”
Dan nodded. “I hadn’t forgotten. Follow me. We’ll take the group down a floor.”
Once there, just outside the ground-floor exit, Kate studied the black marble faces, veined pink marble behind them like a Charleston sunrise over the harbor. “Innocence,” she said. “You were right. And their faces are so . . . wise. And beautiful. And so sad. Like they are watching tragedy unfold.”
Calling to his tourist group, all gathered around the Vesey memorial sculpture, Dan motioned toward the buggy. “Ask me anything you like about them once we’re on the drive back. The city makes all the carriage tours stick to a timetable, and I’m running late.”
He leapt onto the driver’s seat. “And, Kate, my dad’s thing about old scores to settle: he didn’t mean that.”
Kate scrambled up after Gabe, the others taking their seats on the benches behind. “My father’s attorney is the kind you want to settle old sc
ores with. I have some to settle myself, if I could track him down, since he went weaseling back out of town and won’t answer a call or e-mail or . . . but that’s a whole other story.”
Gathering the reins, Daniel turned to give Gabe a high five. “You ready to roll?”
Kate swung up beside the child. He tilted his head back and smiled. “Glad you came, Katie-Kate,” he whispered.
As Beecher leaned against the weight of the carriage, Harold called from the back, “I saw a plaque inside about the preacher Morris Brown—the one you mentioned before. So he knew about this revolt being planned?”
Daniel spoke over his shoulder. “Hard to say for certain. The leaders of the Vesey revolt wanted to protect him, like I said—keep him ignorant of the plans. He had a reputation for being a man of remarkable courage—one who could preach down the gates of hell.”
He gave a tug to one rein, and Beecher changed lanes. “If you’ll look to your left as we make our next turn in a minute, we’ll pass what was called Potter’s Field during Morris Brown’s time—where they buried people too poor to afford anything else. And people not counted as people. Two hundred years ago, city leaders were scared of this place. Starting to figure out that for all the death here, there was rebellion and whole heaps of trouble alive. Growing strong.”
Kate listened. Or tried. But it was hard to shake that look in Judge Russell’s eyes. Some sort of barely restrained anger—was that it? But maybe not only anger . . .
She glanced back once at the church, its bright heft rising against the dark.
Its Gothic arches were striking. Substantial. This church’s architecture, minus the pointed steeple, looked very much like what her mother had posed on in her cutoff shorts, perched there on a pediment, her legs dangling far above the ground.
Just like, in fact.
Kate scooted to the edge of her seat and waited for a break in the commentary. “Daniel,” she asked, “odd question—sorry—but was there ever a time Emanuel was without its steeple?”
A Tangled Mercy Page 18