“I guess Jesus didn’t hear him,” Kitty said, “because he never did come to help us. The white men came, instead, with dogs and guns. They hung my papa on the Great Oak Tree and sold my mama to a slave trader.”
She hadn’t meant to blurt out her story but the words had flown out of her mouth before she could stop them. The kitchen fell so utterly silent that Kitty could hear the milk hissing in the pan. She saw tears in Delia’s eyes. But when Kitty felt them welling up in her own, she forced them back, knowing she must never let Missy see her cry.
“Plenty of things I don’t understand,” Delia said. “But the moment the breath left your papa’s body, he was in paradise with Jesus, and all his suffering was over. They can kill his body, but his soul belongs to God, and no one can ever snatch it away. Devil may try and separate us from God, and when bad things happen he’s telling us God don’t love us and can’t hear our cries. But—”
“Then why didn’t Jesus help her folks get away?” Cook asked as she poured the warm milk into a cup.
Delia sighed. “We ain’t gonna know this side of heaven. But those white men will have to face God’s judgment someday and answer for what they did to her mama and papa.” She seemed about to say more, but Kitty interrupted.
“Excuse me, but Missy’s waiting for her milk. She hates it when I dawdle.”
“God loves you, honey,” Delia said softly. Kitty froze at the intensity of her stare. The little woman’s words frightened her, yet there was a power in them that Kitty couldn’t resist. “You’re His child,” Delia insisted. “You and your missy are both the same to Him.”
“That can’t be,” Kitty whispered. She wanted to believe it but couldn’t. There were no stores in Charleston that sold white people, all chained together. She carefully took the cup of milk from Cook’s hand and hurried past Delia and into the house.
Beaufort, South Carolina 1857
Grady stood beside Massa Coop’s chair, fanning him with a palmetto branch. His arms ached, and his eyes burned and watered from the strong cigars that the men were smoking. Massa had spent the past three hours in this private salon in the bay-front inn in Beaufort, drinking and gambling with a group of wealthy planters, but he showed no signs of quitting. Grady was so tired he could scarcely stand, much less wave his arms. It was past midnight and he longed for sleep, his feet burning with fatigue, but he didn’t dare complain.
“Pour me another drink, Joe,” Coop growled.
Grady quickly laid aside the fan and picked up the bottle of bourbon. He poured slowly and carefully, not daring to spill a single drop. Massa Coop took a sip then nodded to his opponents across the table.
“Want him to fill yours, Fuller?”
Grady hurried around the table with the bottle, ready to pour. But Mr. Fuller covered his empty glass with one hand. “No more for me, thanks.”
“You sure?” Coop asked. “How about you, Jackson?”
Mr. Jackson shook his head as he shuffled the cards. “I’m good.”
Grady had traveled with the slave trader for four years, growing taller and stronger each year. Like William, he’d become familiar with all of the hotels in all of the port cities that they visited regularly, from Charleston to Savannah to Jacksonville, all the way to New Orleans and back to Richmond again. And Grady’s hatred for Massa Coop—for all white men—had grown stronger each year, as well.
He’d attended enough poker games with Coop over the years to know that his master was losing badly tonight—and he hated to lose. The pile of money that Coop had started out with had grown steadily smaller, while Mr. Fuller’s pile, across the table, had grown steadily larger. Now only three men remained. The others had all gone home when their money ran out. But Coop would stay to the bitter end, trying to win at least some of his money back. And if he didn’t, he would vent his anger on one of his slaves—most likely Grady.
“I’ll see you and raise you fifty dollars,” Fuller said. He was an elegantly dressed gentleman in his mid-thirties, a wealthy planter who sometimes purchased slaves from Coop. His wavy hair and eyebrows were the color of wet sand, his bristly mustache a darker shade of brown. His heart-shaped face had a wide brow that narrowed to a pointy chin. He seemed to be a shrewd gambler, yet there was a gentleness in his features, even after a night of drinking, that Massa Coop’s face never wore even when he was sober. Fuller’s pale blue eyes, bloodshot from too much bourbon and cigar smoke, still looked kind.
Coop counted his remaining coins and cursed. “I don’t have fifty. Hey, Joe. Who’s left in the slave pen to barter with? Any females?”
“Yes, Massa Coop. There’s a few.” Grady had a sudden, desperate idea. He bent close to Coop’s ear so that the other two men couldn’t hear what he said. “But you know them gals is worth more than fifty dollars each. How about betting me? Save you the bother of going out to the pen. Looks like you got a good hand.” Grady had no idea if the cards in Coop’s hand were good ones or not. He waited, holding his breath, while his master decided.
“All right,” Coop said after a moment. “Tell you what, Fuller. I’m going to wager my boy, Joe. He’s worth at least fifty dollars. Plays the fiddle, too.”
Grady watched Fuller’s face, not daring to hope. When Fuller began shaking his head, Grady felt a stab of disappointment.
“Sorry. I don’t need any more slaves.”
“Sell him to somebody else, then,” Coop grunted. “He’ll fetch twice that, easily. Besides, you don’t have to worry about getting stuck with him because you can’t beat my hand.”
Mr. Fuller studied the cards in his own hand again then met Coop’s gaze. “All right,” he said, smiling slightly. “I’ll call.”
Coop grinned as he spread out his cards. “Full house. Queens and nines.”
Fuller paused for a long moment, then laid down his own cards. “Sorry, Coop. Royal flush.”
Massa Coop’s smile faded. He paled slightly, and when the color did return, his face turned as red as the hearts and diamonds that dotted his cards. He’d lost. Grady had encouraged his master to bet everything, and he’d lost.
Grady could scarcely breathe. His gaze darted from one man to the other, watching their expressions, afraid to hope that Mr. Fuller was going to be his new master. Fuller had said he didn’t want another slave, and Grady knew that if Fuller refused to accept him in payment, Grady would have to go home with Coop and bear the brunt of his rage.
Coop stood abruptly, upsetting his chair. Grady’s skin prickled with terror. He quickly bent to straighten the chair.
“Good night, Fuller,” Coop said coldly. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He staggered to the door and jerked it open. Grady scooped up the bourbon bottle, ready to follow him to his hotel room, but Coop whirled around and pushed Grady backward, nearly knocking him down.
“Stay here, you stupid fool! You belong to him now!” Coop stomped out of the salon.
Grady’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. He was free from Coop! But what if William was right and life with a new master turned out to be even worse? Grady had watched Coop gamble and lose; now he wondered if he had just lost the biggest gamble of his life.
Mr. Fuller broke into a smile after Coop left. “I guess this was my lucky night,” he said to Mr. Jackson. Grady watched his new master warily. Fuller’s movements were graceful and unhurried. He pulled out a drawstring bag and scooped all his money into it while the other man gathered up the cards. Fuller had none of the mean-eyed edginess of Coop, who’d always been coiled like a rattlesnake, ready to strike. “I can’t recall ever having a run of luck like this one,” Fuller said as he pulled the drawstrings closed.
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “I’ll say. Looks like you even got yourself a new slave.”
Fuller made a face. “I’d sooner have the fifty dollars. What am I supposed to do with him? You want to buy him? I’ll let you have him for thirty.”
“No thanks, I’m broke,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “But don’t worry, Coop will probably show up in the morning when he’s sober and offer to buy him back.”
Grady’s hope abruptly died. Jackson was right; Coop would never sell him.
Fuller stood, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. He was very tall and lean. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair. “I just hope Coop comes early. I’m heading back to the plantation tomorrow.”
Jackson smiled wryly. “If I were you, I’d make Coop pay you more than fifty dollars. Didn’t he say the boy was worth twice that? Give the dirty so-and-so a taste of his own medicine for once. Drive as hard of a bargain as he always does.”
“You mean out trade a slave trader? That’ll be the day!” Fuller laughed. “I’ve dealt with Coop before.”
“You beat him at poker tonight.”
Fuller smiled. “Yes, I guess I did.” He ambled over to the door where Grady stood and examined him for the first time. Grady dropped his gaze. If he’d learned anything at all in his years with Massa Coop, it was never to look a white person in the eye.
“What did Coop say your name was?” Fuller asked.
Grady wondered if his new master was trying to trick him, or if he really didn’t remember that Coop had called him Joe. He decided that even if it was a trap, even if Fuller beat Grady the way Coop had, it would be worth it for the brief moment that he’d reclaimed his dignity, his identity. They could never take away his real name.
“My name is Grady,” he said. The words came out more forcefully than he’d planned. He saw from the corner of his eye that his new master looked taken aback.
“Scrappy little beggar, aren’t you?”
Grady stared at his feet, fighting the urge to lift his chin in pride. “No, sir,” he said meekly.
“Very well. Come with me, Grady.”
He felt a sliver of hope, the first he could recall feeling in four years. He followed Mr. Fuller out of the smoky salon, out of the hotel and down the front steps to the street. As soon as he stepped outside, the hot, humid air clung to Grady’s skin like a wet cloth. The city of Beaufort seemed peaceful at this late hour, the treelined streets nearly deserted. Fuller found his coach parked outside the hotel and woke the old, gray-haired driver who sat dozing on the seat.
“You ride up there with Jesse,” Fuller told Grady. The old slave wore a question on his face as he appraised him. “I won him in a poker game,” Fuller said, smiling slightly. He seemed proud of it.
“Let’s go home.”
Grady felt as though he’d been set free as they drove through the streets of Beaufort to Fuller’s house. He inhaled the humid night air, savoring the exhilaration of riding high on the carriage seat with the warm river breeze in his face, the sense of release in being somewhere new after years of smoky hotel rooms, crowded slave pens, and the dark holds of ships. Most of all, he reveled in his freedom from Coop. He would no longer have to live in suspense every minute of his life, terrified of doing something wrong and angering a master who looked for any excuse to punish him.
They drove away from the center of town, down a tree-lined street that followed the curve of the bay. Large, stately homes loomed in the darkness, adorned with porches and pillars. When the carriage turned up a side street, away from the water, the oak trees formed a canopy overhead, with dangling, silvery moss waving gently in the moonlight. Grady wondered if the city of Beaufort had always been this pretty or if it only seemed that way now that he was free from Coop.
Much too soon, they pulled to a halt at the front steps of Fuller’s house, a large, two-story home with graceful white pillars and wrap-around piazzas. Grady looked up at the elegant façade with its wide porches and rustling, moss-draped oak trees, and his stomach tightened. His freedom from Coop would never last. Fuller didn’t want another slave. He’d already offered to sell him to Mr. Jackson for thirty dollars. Besides, Grady was worth far too much to Coop for him to let him go for a mere fifty-dollar bet. Hadn’t William always insisted that Coop would never sell either one of them?
Mr. Jackson had been right. Massa would come here tomorrow morning with cash. He would offer to buy Grady back, and of course Fuller would agree. By noon, Grady would be lying in the hold of a steamship heading to Savannah, bruised and bleeding at the very least, his punishment for encouraging Coop to place that last bet. The knowledge that Coop had beaten his last slave to death made Grady sick with fear.
As soon as the carriage halted, he scrambled down from his seat beside the driver and opened the carriage door for his new master. He watched Massa Fuller step out, tipsy with drink. He didn’t look like the kind of master who would beat a slave to death. If only Grady could stay with him.
“Better lock the boy up for the night,” Fuller told Jesse, “so he doesn’t run off.”
“I won’t run off, Massa, I swear,” Grady said.
Fuller’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”
“I won’t! Only please don’t sell me back to Massa Coop tomorrow! Please!” Grady dropped to his knees in front of Fuller, desperate enough to beg for his life. He didn’t care if this white man saw his tears. “I’ll do anything you want, Massa. But
please
don’t make me go back to him!”
Fuller frowned slightly. Then he turned away and climbed the front steps, striding across the porch, and disappeared into the house. Grady slumped to the ground, weeping with rage and humiliation. He had groveled and belittled himself for nothing. He should have known that a white man would never show pity.
“Come on, boy. It’s late.” The coachman motioned for him to climb on board for the short drive around back to the carriage house. Grady obeyed, the last of his strength and hope gone. As soon as they reached the stable, Jesse sent Grady up to the hayloft and took away the ladder.
“You’d probably break both legs if you try and jump down,” Jesse said. “Maybe break that scrawny neck of yours, too.”
Grady examined every inch of the windowless loft, searching for a way to escape, while the coachman finished bedding down the horses. He saw none. The old man must have heard him pacing around because he came to the opening with a lantern and peered up at Grady.
“Massa Fuller’s treating us okay,” he said gently. “If you mind what he say, and work hard, you ain’t got nothing to worry about.”