by Lynn Austin
Without warning, William dealt Grady a blow to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him and sent him sprawling backward. Then William crouched over him as he gasped for breath and shook him like a rag doll.
“Now, you listen here, boy! If one of them white passengers upstairs hears you carrying on this way, then both of us gonna get a whipping! You quit that hollering, you hear? If you don’t, I’ll tie you up and stick a rag in your mouth. That what you want? Huh? Is it?”
Grady managed to shake his head, battling panic at not being able to draw a full breath. The room whirled dizzily as William continued to shake him. Seconds before Grady thought he would pass out, Big Amos pried William’s hands off.
“Okay, he’s quiet now! Leave him alone!” Amos said. He’d had to drag the slave he was still shackled to across the room in order to defend Grady, and the man was not very happy about it.
“I gotta keep this boy quiet,” William told Amos. “You mind your own business.”
“If you kill him he’ll be real quiet, won’t he,” Amos said with a growl. “Then Massa have your hide, too.”
“Think you can make him mind any better?” William asked. He backed away a step, dusting off his hands.
“He won’t make any more noise,” Amos promised. He bent down to prop up Grady in a sitting position so he could breathe, then sank down beside him with a sigh, leaning his back against the hull. The slave he was shackled to had no choice but to sit down beside them.
“Leave us,” Amos told William. The servant glared at them for a long moment, then shuffled away to begin unchaining the slaves.
At first Amos sat silently beside Grady, staring blindly ahead. But as Grady’s breath returned to him and his gasps gradually gave way to quiet sobs, the big slave began to speak. His voice was so soft Grady had to strain to hear him.
“Every one of us knows exactly how you feel, boy. We’d like to start howling just like you done. But we already learned that it don’t do no good. Ain’t nobody taking pity on us, least of all them white folks upstairs. I been keeping all my anger inside for a long, long time now, storing it up for a better time. One of these days, soon as I get the chance, they gonna be real sorry they done this to me. Real sorry they sold me away from my wife and kids, because as soon as I escape, I’m gonna kill as many white men as I can get my hands on. Gonna kill their white women and children, too.”
Grady heard the deadly rage in Amos’ quiet voice and never doubted that he meant every word.
“You keep storing up that anger, boy. Let it burn inside you. Because there’s gonna be some nights that are so dark and cold, you’ll need that fire to stay alive.”
As Amos recited his plans for revenge, the helplessness Grady felt slowly began to ease. He would get even, too. Someday he would make white people suffer the way he was suffering.
Soon they heard the rumbling, hissing sound of the steam boilers firing up, then the clamor of the anchor chain being raised. Grady wouldn’t have known what those fearful sounds were if Amos hadn’t explained each one to him in the same somber voice.
“They firing the boilers now—working up steam so we can shove off soon.”
The whistle blasted and the ship began to move. Grady felt the motion like a vague dizziness until the rocking and swaying became more apparent. Water slapped against the hull behind him and vibrations from the screw propeller rumbled through the deck beneath him. He closed his eyes, fighting a new wave of panic as he pictured his mama and all the people he loved slipping farther and farther away. Amos said he would never see them again.
Who would he be without his family? How would he survive without his mama to hold him and tell him she loved him? Who would spend time with him the way Eli had, telling him stories and teaching him things, or give him special treats like Esther always did? Back home Grady had been surrounded by people who loved him, and their love told him who he was. Now they were gone. He was sailing far from home, and he felt as though he was losing himself as much as his family. But he wouldn’t cry—and he wouldn’t pray. He would let his unshed tears and his unanswered prayers turn to gall in his belly, fueling his rage.
By afternoon the sea had grown rough, the air in the hold stifling. Some of the others started to vomit. Grady might have, too, if there had been any food in his stomach to lose. Massa Coop had loaded plenty of smoked meat and cornmeal in the hold for them to eat. They would be well fed. But Grady shook his head when Amos offered him some.
“Won’t do you no good to starve yourself, boy,” he said.
Grady shrugged. “I ain’t hungry.” He swallowed painfully, his throat still sore from screaming earlier that morning. The slave who had been chained to Amos leaned toward Grady and spoke for the first time since they’d boarded.
“You’re right, boy. May as well die now than die slowly down there.”
A shiver passed through Grady. “Down where?” He hoped they weren’t going to send him deeper into the bowels of this awful ship.
“Down south. They’re taking us to the Deep South. Know what that means?”
Grady shook his head.
“Heat and fever and swamps and snakes. Hard, hard work chopping cotton, planting rice, or working in the sugar cane and hemp fields. Barely giving us enough food to stay alive. Whips flying across our backs all day long.”
Grady looked up at Amos. “That true?”
He nodded silently, his face like stone.
Grady drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Snatches of scriptures that Eli had once taught him tried to float through his mind, but Grady angrily pushed them away. None of them were true. Massa Jesus didn’t have His eye on Grady. He didn’t love him. And for sure He wasn’t here with him on this ship. Maybe Jesus wasn’t strong enough to help him, or maybe He just didn’t care. Either way, Grady was all finished with Massa Jesus. All the things Eli had taught him were a bunch of lies.
By evening the motion of the ship and the terrible smells in the airless hold had made Grady so nauseated that he began to vomit, too. There was nothing in his stomach to lose but he heaved over a bucket just the same, then lay curled up on the deck in misery between bouts of dizziness and vomiting. Amos tried to make him drink some water, but it wouldn’t stay down. Grady couldn’t remember ever feeling so sick. His head pounded and his insides ached until he felt so wretched he wanted to die.
He had no idea how many days and nights he spent that way. He was too sick to care. But eventually the ship docked in Wilmington, North Carolina, and Massa Coop came for his slaves. William, who had been locked in the hold with them all that time, fastened the shackles and chains onto everyone’s wrists and ankles again before Coop finally opened the door to the hold.
As Grady went out the door, William grabbed his arm, squeezing it until it ached. “I ain’t letting go of you,” he said. “You open that big mouth of yours and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. Understand?”
Grady nodded. He was much too sick to holler, let alone try to run away. Coop led them ashore, marched them to a slave pen similar to the one in Richmond, and locked them inside. But at least there was fresh air and sunshine in this one. At least the terrible motion sickness would end.
It took two days on dry land for Grady to feel well enough to eat. His strength slowly returned. Massa Coop had added a few more slaves to the group and had sold several others to the white men who crowded around the gate of the slave pen every day, looking them over. Then they boarded another ship. Coop repeated this routine as they traveled down the coast, stopping in port cities like Charleston and Beaufort and Savannah, spending a few days in each one. Wealthy planters who were in the market for slaves would call on Coop, and he and William would escort them to the slave pen to make their selections.
On their last day in Savannah, Massa Coop sold Big Amos. It happened so quickly that Grady didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye to his friend. One minute Amos stood near Grady in the yard, the next minute Massa Co
op handed over the big slave to a new owner. Grady felt the loss like a blow to the stomach. But he held back his tears as he remembered Amos’ words on the first day they’d met: “Don’t you let them white folks hear you cry! Don’t you ever give them that power over you.”
As he watched Amos’ new owner lead him and four other slaves away, Grady slowly became aware of Massa Coop and William eyeing him from the other side of the gate. “Come over here, boy,” Coop finally said. Grady approached warily.
“Is he still sick?” Coop asked William.
“No, Massa. He’s much better now. Back on his feed again.”
“Good. Bring him inside.”
Grady’s heart pounded wildly against his ribs as he battled a new surge of fear. The guard unlocked the gate, and as soon as Grady walked through it, William planted his hand on his shoulder. The gate banged shut behind them. Grady gritted his teeth, determined not to let anyone know how terrified he felt. William never let go of him as they followed Massa Coop down the street to his hotel. A Negro porter held the lobby door open for Coop, but William steered Grady around the building to the servants’ entrance in the rear, then up the back stairs.
Grady had no idea what was going to happen to him or why Massa Coop wanted him. Facing the unknown filled him with such dread that he could scarcely breathe. William must have noticed his distress as they labored up the steps because he stopped and turned to him when they reached the door to Coop’s hotel room.
“Ain’t nothing to be afraid of,” he said gruffly. “Long as you pay attention and do what you’re told, ain’t nothing bad gonna happen.”
“I ain’t afraid,” Grady lied.
“Good.” William knocked lightly on the door, then led the way inside. Massa Coop hadn’t arrived yet.
Grady took a few steps into the room, then halted. He had never been in a place like this before, had never seen a canopied bed or curtained windows or a red plush armchair or a beautifully patterned carpet like the one on this floor. He’d lived in the loft above the kitchen with five other slaves all his life and had never been allowed inside the Big House where Caroline and her father lived. He wondered if those rooms had been as fine as this one.
“You know how to build a fire?”
Grady jumped at the sound of William’s voice. William gestured to the fireplace where the coals smoldered.
“Well? Do you?” he asked when Grady didn’t reply.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice squeaky with fear. He used to keep the kitchen fire going while Esther cooked, and he’d tended the fire in the scrub house whenever Luella did the wash.
“Then do it,” William said.
Grady pulled two pieces of firewood from the box, then knelt by the hearth and carefully stoked the coals, blowing on them and rebuilding the fire the way Eli had taught him. By the time Massa Coop arrived, the flames blazed nicely, warming the room. William hurried to Massa’s side as soon as he walked through the door, helping him with his coat and hat. Grady watched, scarcely able to breathe as Coop sank down in the red plush armchair by the fire, his long legs outstretched.
Grady dropped his gaze as Coop stared at him with his cold, penetrating eyes. “Come over here, boy,” he finally said.
Grady edged closer on trembling legs. Coop pointed to his boots. “Pull them off for me.”
Grady bent and lifted his master’s foot. He tugged as hard as he dared, stumbling backward and nearly landing in the fire when the boot finally flew off.
“Anyone ever teach you how to polish boots?” Coop asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, recovering his balance again. Every night before he went to bed it had been his job to clean the mud and manure off Massa Fletcher’s boots, then polish them until they shone.
“You a hard worker?” Coop asked as Grady pulled off the second boot. “Know how to do what you’re told?”
“Yes, sir.”
Coop snapped his fingers and William rushed over, holding open a cigar box. Coop fished out a cigar and waited for William to light it, his hard gaze never wavering from Grady’s face. “I have it in mind to train you to help William in the slave pens,” he finally said, blowing out smoke. “You can clean out the straw, empty the slops … help keep an eye on my property for me. If you prove to be trustworthy, things will go well for you. If not … don’t expect me to give you a second chance.”
It took Grady a moment to realize what Massa was saying. He wasn’t going to be sold into a hard life on a cotton or rice plantation as he’d feared—at least for now. Instead, he would labor alongside William in slave pens and cargo holds like the ones he’d already experienced, coping as best he could with the stench and the seasickness and the despair. Grady wasn’t sure which fate would be worse.
“Y-yes, sir,” he remembered to say. “I mean, no, sir. I-I won’t.”
Coop took another pull on the cigar, then exhaled. “Good. Now get started on my boots.”
William took Grady into the tiny servants’ room and gave him boot blacking and a scrap of pigskin from Coop’s trunk. “When you’re done,” William said, “take Massa’s boots and set them alongside his bed.” He leaned close to Grady and spoke so only he could hear. “And you better shine them boots like your life depends on it, boy—’cause it does.”
William returned to their master. Grady could hear them talking softly in the next room while he polished. “Pour me a drink of whiskey, William.”
“Yes, Massa.”
Grady heard the clink of glass, the glugging sound of liquid being poured.
“Any more buyers coming tonight, Massa Coop?”
“No, we’re all through for today. Two more are coming tomorrow, though. We’ll leave for Jacksonville on Friday.” The two men talked for a while longer while Grady worked. He had just finished the second boot, buffing it until his arm ached, when he heard William say, “I’ll take your shirts and things down to the laundry now, Massa. That way they be nice and clean when you’re ready to leave on Friday.”
“You do that.”
The door to the hallway opened, then closed behind William. Grady was alone with Coop. His heart pounded as he tiptoed into the room to put the boots beside the bed. He shot a quick, sideways glance at Massa Coop and saw him slumped in the armchair, whiskey glass in hand. His face was pink from the warmth of the fire, but his stern features were cold and unsmiling.
“Joe!” he called out suddenly. “Get over here and pour me another drink.” His words sounded slurred.
Grady hesitated, looking around to see who else Coop could be talking to. They were alone in the room.
“Joe!” he shouted again. “What the devil’s the matter with you? Why don’t you come when I call you?”
Grady inched closer to the fire. “Y-you mean me, sir? My name is Grady.”
Massa Coop rose up out of his chair and smacked Grady across the face. The blow was so sudden, so forceful it sent him stumbling backward.
“Don’t you tell me what your name is!” Coop bellowed. “I’ll call you anything I want to, you hear?”
White-hot anger blazed through Grady, not only because he’d been struck but because Coop was going to take away the only thing Grady had left—the name his mama had given him. “Yes, sir. I hear,” he mumbled as he slowly backed away. “But my name is Grady.”
He thought he had spoken too softly to be heard, but Coop shot out of his chair again and knocked him to the floor. Then Coop bent over him with the fireplace poker, beating him mercilessly with it. His wasn’t a blind fury but a skillfully executed flogging, each blow planned so it wouldn’t cause permanent injury, only agonizing pain and bruising. Whenever Grady raised his arms to shield his head, Coop would hit him in the gut. When he tried to shield his body, Coop struck his head. When he rolled over onto his stomach, Coop beat him across the back. All the while, Coop wore a twisted smile on his face, the first Grady had ever seen on him.
“What did you say your name was?” Coop asked as he hit him again.
“Joe …” he moaned. He wanted the beating to stop.
Coop grinned in triumph. “What did you say?”
“My name … is … Joe.”
“That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” Coop dealt a final blow to Grady’s ribs and returned to his chair.
Grady didn’t want to weep but the pain and humiliation were more than he could bear. He didn’t know which was greater: his fear of this man or his hatred. He lay in a heap on the floor, too badly injured to move. Blood poured from his nose and from a split on his forehead. His left eye was rapidly swelling shut. Grady imagined plunging a knife into Coop’s chest while he slept. He would do it someday. He would kill Coop and as many other white men as he could, just like Amos planned to do.
He was still curled on the floor, moaning, when William returned. “What happened, Massa?” he asked.
“The boy made a mistake,” Coop said. “He misspoke. But he’s never going to do it again, are you, Joe?”
Grady could barely speak. “No, sir.”
“Want me to doctor him, Massa?” William asked. “Clean him up for you?”
“No. Pour me another drink, then take him back down to the pen. Let him lie in his own blood for a night.”
Chapter Five
Great Oak Plantation
South Carolina 1854
Kitty knelt on the floor of Missy Claire’s room, gripping a pencil. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the outline and length of a horse’s muzzle, the size and shape of its ears, then sketched what she remembered onto the paper spread out in front of her. Little Kate sat watching from her sister Claire’s bed, her fat white legs dangling over the edge, kicking the feather mattress. “I know! It’s a pony!” Kate said.
