A Light to My Path

by Lynn Austin

  The paddyrollers.

  Grady had left home in such a hurry after arguing with Delia that he’d forgotten to ask Massa Fuller for a pass. The paddyrollers would demand to see one. Before he could decide what to do, four horsemen rounded a bend in the darkened road. Two dogs trotted alongside them. Without thinking, Grady plunged into the woods to hide.

  “Hey! Stop right there!” one of the men shouted. A second one fired his shotgun over Grady’s head.

  Grady ran through the woods in a blind panic, branches whipping against his face, brush and leaves rustling beneath his crashing feet. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but there was no telling what the paddyrollers would do to a slave who couldn’t show them a pass.

  A shotgun boomed behind him again, echoing through the woods. “You want to die, boy?”

  The dogs quickly caught up to him, barking and lunging at his legs. Grady realized it was useless. He cursed himself for getting caught, for running into the woods in the first place and making the men suspicious. He might have been able to talk his way out of trouble if he’d stayed on the road. Now he looked guilty—and acted guilty, too. He stopped and turned to face them, leaning against a tree, panting.

  The four paddyrollers were young, not much older than Grady was. As they dismounted and walked toward him he could tell that they’d been drinking. Two of them grabbed his arms, pinning them to his sides. Grady let himself go limp. It would be useless to struggle.

  “Where’s your pass, boy?”

  He stared at the ground, forcing himself to act subservient. “I don’t need one, sir. Massa Fuller trusts me.”

  “You were running off, weren’t you?”

  “No, sir. Massa’s plantation is just down the road half a mile. I was heading that way.”

  “Then why’d you run from us, boy?”

  Before Grady could reply, one of the men lifted his rifle butt and punched him in the stomach with it. Grady hadn’t seen it coming and he doubled over in pain, the breath knocked out of him.

  “Guess we’d better teach this boy a lesson for trying to escape.”

  Before Grady could recover, the men spun him around and ripped his shirt down to his waist, then wrapped his arms around the tree, tying his hands. Panic filled him. They were going to whip him. He tried to fight back but there were too many of them. His hands were bound too tightly.

  “Wait! I ain’t a runaway!” he said. “Go ask Massa Fuller. He’ll tell you I have the night off. I’m his coachman. I forgot my pass. Please!”

  They paid no attention to him, laughing and hooting as they discussed whose turn it was to deliver the punishment. Rage consumed Grady as he struggled against his bonds, the same helpless rage he’d felt the day they’d carried him from his home, the same rage he’d felt every time Coop had beaten him. Crazed, helpless rage.

  “You have no right! I ain’t done nothing wrong!”

  The whip cracked through the night air and Grady felt the first stroke of pain. He made up his mind that he wouldn’t cry out, wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, just as Amos had counseled him to do that first night. But each blow of the whip brought an agony of white-hot fire that blazed through him. He grew to dread the sound of the lash as it sliced through the air, anticipating the pain, waiting that long second before it struck. He could feel the skin on his back being ripped into shreds, the lash landing on flesh, then raw muscle, then bone. Long, slow minutes passed. The torture went on and on until Grady couldn’t help crying out in agony.

  “Stop!” he begged. “I ain’t done nothing wrong!” He writhed against the tree, trying to dodge the next blow. “Stop!”

  “Hey, maybe that’s enough,” Grady heard one of them say.

  “What do you care?” There was more drunken laughter, another stroke of the whip.

  “I think he’s telling the truth about being Fuller’s coachman. I think I remember seeing him driving Mr. Fuller all around.”

  “So what? He doesn’t have a pass. He deserves a whipping for that.” The lash struck again.

  Grady’s knees buckled and he slid down the tree, scraping his chest and face on the bark. Shock and pain had made him so weak he was about to pass out. He felt his own warm blood soaking the back of his trousers.

  “Okay, but maybe that’s enough,” one of the men said. “We showed him.”

  “Yeah, better not kill him or Fuller will make us pay for him.”

  “Since when are you two Negro-lovers?”

  Grady lay slumped and quivering, waiting for the next blow, trying to brace for it. His back was a sheet of fire. But instead of the whip, he felt someone fumbling with the rope around his hands, untying him. Grady wanted to sink all the way to the ground, but two of them grabbed his arms again and pulled him to his feet, tying his hands behind his back. He could barely stand, but they mounted their horses and forced him to walk ahead of them, tethered by the rope.

  A few minutes later, they emerged from the woods and started down the road. The bully with the whip laughed as he cracked it over Grady’s head every now and then, but it didn’t make contact. As weak as Grady was with shock and loss of blood, he knew an anger that was powerful enough to commit murder. If his hands weren’t bound, if he had the weapons instead of these white boys, he would kill all four of them without an ounce of remorse. Again, he thought of Amos and his vow to get even. Grady would do the same, even if it cost him his life. He’d seen these boys’ faces. He would find out where they lived, and he would kill every last one of them along with their families. He comforted himself with these thoughts for the half-mile walk home. The prospect of revenge kept his mind off his staggering weakness and pain.

  Martin appeared at the front door of the Big House as soon as the paddyrollers’ horses tromped into the yard. The butler quickly appraised the scene and his eyes went wide. Grady was surprised when a look of pity flickered across Martin’s face, but fear swiftly replaced it.

  “This boy belong to your Master?” one of the men behind Grady asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Martin replied. He couldn’t seem to move from the doorway.

  “We were on patrol tonight, and we caught him down the road a ways, trying to run off. He didn’t have a pass, so we punished him and brought him back.”

  “Tell them I ain’t no runaway,” Grady said in a tight voice. Martin knew Massa had given him the night off. He knew Grady was seeing a girl, not escaping. Grady glared up at Martin, daring him to tell the truth. But Martin seemed too scared to defend him. The four men were white, Martin wasn’t.

  “You wanna talk to Massa Fuller?” Martin asked. But before they could reply, Fuller himself appeared in the doorway.

  “What’s going on, Martin? Who’s here?” He squinted into the darkness. “Grady, is that you?”

  “We were on patrol tonight, Mr. Fuller,” one of the men said. Grady recognized the voice of the man who’d whipped him. “We caught your boy running off. He couldn’t show us a pass.”

  “I wasn’t running.”

  “What happened to his shirt? What’d you do to him?” Fuller demanded.

  “We needed to teach him a little lesson.”

  “You had no right!” Fuller shouted.

  “Well, when we catch a runaway it’s important to set an example for the others,” one of the men said, but he sounded less sure of himself, now that he faced Fuller’s wrath.

  “Even if he had been escaping—which I doubt,” Fuller said, “it’s up to me to punish him, not you. He belongs to me, and you have no right to damage my property.”

  “We’re real sorry, sir. Guess we got a little carried away.”

  “You can’t be too careful these days, Mr. Fuller. Slaves have been getting all kinds of crazy ideas into their heads ever since John Brown tried to start that slave rebellion up at Harper’s Ferry.”

  “If he’s permanently injured, I’ll expect compensation,” Fuller said coldly. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  Grady felt the rope go slack as they dropped it, leavin
g his hands tied. Fuller waited in the doorway until the sound of hoof beats faded down the driveway. “Turn around,” he finally said. Grady obeyed. Fuller was silent for a long moment. “We’d better wake Delia up,” he told Martin. “Go fetch a bottle of brandy and some hot water. And bring that jar of salve I bought in Beaufort.”

  “Yes, Massa.”

  Fuller descended the porch steps and untied Grady’s hands himself. Grady swayed, unsure how much longer he could stand. He was surprised when Fuller gently propped one of Grady’s arms around his own shoulders to help support him. They walked down to Delia’s cabin that way—Grady stumbling, Massa Fuller halfcarrying him. By the time they reached the door, dark patches of Grady’s blood stained Massa’s trousers and white shirt. Delia’s face blanched when she saw them.

  “What happened?”

  “A gang of patrollers got carried away. It seems Grady forgot to ask me for a pass tonight.”

  “Oh, Lord … oh, Lord,” she murmured. Grady wondered if she was going to faint alongside him. He felt light-headed, the pain so agonizing that his legs collapsed beneath him as soon as Massa Fuller steered him to his bed.

  “Martin is coming with some brandy and salve,” Fuller told Delia. “If you need anything else, let me know.” Then he left.

  “Oh, Lord … What’d they do to you, honey?” Delia’s voice quavered with tears.

  Grady didn’t answer. He didn’t know which was greater, his pain or his rage. He turned away from her and lay facedown on his bed.

  “Why’d you have to fight against the Lord?” she murmured. “Don’t you know He’ll always have the last word?”

  “What are you talking about?” Grady shouted. “I didn’t do anything wrong! Why doesn’t God punish the men who did this to me?” He punched the wall beside his bed with his last reserve of strength, then struggled to breathe as anger threatened to suffocate him.

  “Someday I’ll get even! I swear, by all that I am … I’ll make them pay for this! I saw their faces! I’ll find them and pay them back in full!”

  Delia laid her hand on his head and stroked his hair. “I worry about you, honey. You’re storing up so much hatred in your heart. Don’t you know that hating somebody is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die?”

  “They’re the ones who taught me to hate. Step by step, lesson after lesson. And they’ve been excellent teachers! How can I help hating them when they don’t even think I’m human?”

  “Vengeance belongs to God. It’s up to Him to pay back the guilty ones.”

  “But He never does! I’ve been suffering all my life, and the white men who’ve caused it are all going free. Don’t be talking to me about God’s justice, Delia. Don’t be talking to me about God at all!”

  “How do you think your mama and those good folks who raised you would feel if they knew you turned your back on God?”

  “He turned His back on me! Every time I ask for help, He’s turning His back.”

  “Grady, instead of using God to get what you want, maybe God wants to use you to get what He wants. Yes, you was sold. But maybe God has a reason you don’t know about yet.”

  “What reason would He have for letting them do this to me tonight? Huh? If He’s such a powerful God, why didn’t He stop them? Why’s he letting them torture me for no reason at all?”

  Before Delia could answer, there was a knock on the door. Grady kept his face turned toward the wall as she let Martin in.

  “They done him pretty bad, didn’t they?” Martin murmured. “He gonna be okay, Delia?”

  “Lord willing. It ain’t these wounds I’m worried about, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. What’s all this? What’d you bring me?”

  “Massa sent some brandy, and there’s warm water and clean rags. Massa just bought this here salve in town. Suppose to be pretty good. I be glad to help you, Delia.”

  “I know. But I don’t think I’ll be needing any help. Thanks, Martin.”

  “I’ll come back in the morning and check on him.”

  A moment later the door closed. Grady tensed, dreading the first touch of Delia’s washcloth on his back almost as much as he had dreaded the next crack of the whip. She sat down on the edge of his bed.

  “You know the story of Joseph in the Bible?” she asked. “His brothers sell him into slavery, far from home. Then his massa’s wife accuse him of something he didn’t do and they send him to prison. He suffer a long, long time—for no reason. Joseph don’t want to be no slave. He don’t want to be laying in no jail. Years pass, and he keep asking God for help—and it never come. But God use all that Joseph’s going through to make him strong. Then one day, God raise Joseph up again, so he can save all his brothers. God give him back all he lost and more.”

  Grady knew the story. It had been one of Eli’s favorites because the hero was a slave. Eli used to tell him the same thing—that God used slavery to change Joseph into a leader. Grady had loved listening to Eli, had loved Eli like a father, but he would probably never see the old man again. Tears filled Grady’s eyes as grief piled on top of the pain and rage he already felt. He heard Delia dipping a cloth into water, wringing it out. He gritted his teeth.

  “God answers our prayers in the way that’s best for us, honey,” she said. “Having faith means trusting that whatever happens is God’s will. He’s right beside you in every trial you go through. And He was with you tonight. The Lord could have saved you, just like He could have saved Joseph. But God wanted Joseph to save all his brothers. Ever think that maybe the Lord’s preparing you to save your black brothers and sisters?”

  Grady didn’t reply. He didn’t want to listen to what Delia was saying. He didn’t want to think about Eli or Joseph or God or anyone else.

  The next moment he got his wish. As Delia laid a warm cloth on his back, his unwelcome thoughts vanished in a wave of searing pain.

  Chapter Ten

  Charleston, South Carolina July 1860

  Grady sat on the carriage seat, gazing at the enormous crowd that filled the city plaza and the side streets all around it. Red, white, and blue bunting draped a raised platform where a brass band played and a group of white men gave speeches. They were going to elect another president of the United States in the fall, and Massa Fuller was so worried about it that he’d made Grady drive him all the way to Charleston so he could hear all these speeches and meet with other worried plantation owners. Grady had overheard Massa talking about “that slave lover, Abraham Lincoln,” and how they had to stop him from becoming president.

  “We must fight to keep our way of life,” one of today’s speakers had shouted from the platform, “our right to live as we please.” Grady knew what he really meant: the right to keep slaves.

  The July day felt as hot as a blacksmith’s forge, the humid air suffocating. The side street where Grady had parked the carriage offered little shade. He climbed down from the driver’s seat and fastened the reins to the hitching rail, then glanced around for a shadier place to stand. A small group of slaves had gathered beneath a tree, nearby, laughing and visiting with each other while they waited for their masters, but Grady didn’t feel like joining them. He wanted to get as far away from the music as he possibly could, away from the bitter memories it evoked. But he didn’t dare stray too far from his horses.

  He stepped behind the carriage and stretched his arms, gently easing the soreness from his neck and shoulders. His back was still stiff and barely healed from the whipping, the new skin tight and tender to the touch, especially where his shirt rubbed against it. The lash wounds had festered in spite of Delia’s best efforts, and Grady had been feverish for several days before his back finally began to heal. Only in the last week or so had he been strong enough to drive again.

  A sudden movement caught his eye. Grady saw a slender young slave woman climb down from her carriage and cross the street behind him, heading toward the sparse shelter of a gardenia bush. He watched her, admiri
ng the sway of her hips, the tilt of her head, the way her shapely body moved when she walked. Even dressed in worn homespun, she walked as gracefully as the fancy white ladies did in their silk gowns and jewels. Something about her seemed familiar to Grady, although he was sure he’d never seen her before. He watched her and slowly realized what it was. His mother had moved that way, like water flowing between rocks or branches swaying in the breeze.

  The woman sat down on a low stone wall with her back to Grady and reached into her apron pocket to pull out something. He couldn’t see what it was. He moved closer and discovered that she was unfolding a piece of paper. She spread it out on her lap and began to write on it with a stubby pencil. The sight of a slave with paper and pencil was so unusual that he edged closer until he was practically peering over her shoulder. To his surprise, she wasn’t writing words at all, she was drawing a picture.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  The woman jumped and her pencil fell to the ground. She clutched her chest as if to keep her heart from escaping.

  “Sorry,” Grady said. He quickly stooped to retrieve the pencil. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “That’s okay.” She smiled uncertainly as he handed it back to her. She was very pretty, with wide, dark eyes and a slender, ovalshaped face. He found himself at a loss for words.

  “My massa’s over at the rally, listening to the speeches,” he finally said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “There ain’t much to do except stand around and wait, is there?”

  “I know. My missy ain’t needing me, either, so I thought I’d try and draw that church over there. It’s real pretty, ain’t it?”

  Grady shrugged. “I guess so. Mind if I watch you?”

  “I don’t care.” Her voice was as soft as cotton.

  He sat down on the wall beside her, careful to leave a space between them so he wouldn’t frighten her again. He was curious about the paper and pencil—white folks were usually too suspicious of literate slaves to allow them to have such things. He was about to ask her where she got them and if her mistress knew about them, but he decided it was none of his business. He watched in fascination as the church took shape on the page, the pillars and windows and towering steeple as perfectly proportioned as the real one in front of him.