Candle in the Darkness

by Lynn Austin

  CANDLE

  in the

  DARKNESS

  Candle in the Darkness

  Copyright © 2002

  Lynn Austin

  Plantation photo: Sylvain Grandadam, Getty

  Cover design by The DesignWorks Group

  Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW

  INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible

  Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-55661-436-1

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Austin, Lynn N.

  Candle in the darkness / by Lynn Austin.

  p. cm. — (Refiner’s fire ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 1-55661-436-5

  1. Virginia—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. 2. Antislavery movements—

  Fiction. 3. Women abolitionists—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3551.U839 C36 2002

  813'.54—dc21 2002010129

  * * *

  For Ken, always

  and for

  Joshua, Benjamin, and Maya

  Books by

  Lynn Austin

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  * * *

  All She Ever Wanted

  Eve’s Daughters

  Hidden Places

  A Proper Pursuit

  Though Waters Roar

  Until We Reach Home

  While We’re Far Apart

  Wings of Refuge

  A Woman’s Place

  REFINER’S FIRE

  Candle in the Darkness

  Fire by Night

  A Light to My Path

  CHRONICLES OF THE KINGS

  Gods and Kings

  Song of Redemption

  The Strength of His Hand

  Faith of My Fathers

  Among the Gods

  www.lynnaustin.org

  LYNN AUSTIN is the 2002 Christy Award winner for her historical novel Hidden Places. In addition to writing, Lynn is a popular speaker at conferences, retreats, and various church and school events. She and her husband have three children and make their home in Illinois.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Prologue

  Richmond, Virginia 1864

  Silvery moonlight slanted through the closed shutters, faintly illuminating Caroline Fletcher’s bedroom. A pattern formed on the hardwood floor, a pattern that reminded her of prison bars, and she shivered at the thought of what she might soon face.

  It was useless to remain in bed waiting for sleep. It refused to come. Caroline’s mind and heart were much too full. She tossed aside the tangled bedcovers and crossed the room to light a tallow candle. Downstairs, the chimes of the hall clock announced the hour. She paused, counting each stroke—ten . . . eleven . . . twelve. Midnight.

  Caroline had lain in bed for more than two hours, whispering urgent, tearful prayers for all the people she loved. But she felt no relief after bringing her concerns to the Lord. She’d pleaded especially for Charles, for Jonathan and Josiah, and for her father and Robert, begging God to keep them alive and safe throughout this long, dark night. And she’d prayed that her foolish mistakes and failures would not bring them harm. She hadn’t prayed for her own rescue. The water she was now treading was much too deep, the currents too swift for her own safe return to shore.

  If she could begin again and not become so entangled in this long, horrible war, would she watch from the sidelines as a spectator this time? Would she choose differently, take fewer risks? Caroline had asked herself these questions countless times and had reached the same conclusion each time. She would do everything the same, walk the same path. But how could she explain her reasons to the people she loved? How could she hope to make them understand?

  Her thoughts spun in useless circles as she quietly paced the room. If only she had some paper, then she could write a chronicle of her actions, explaining exactly why she had placed herself and her loved ones in such danger. But finding paper in besieged Richmond was as impossible as finding meat—and nearly as costly. Some newspaper editors had resorted to printing their latest editions on sheets of wallpaper.

  Caroline halted mid-step. The walls of her front foyer were decorated with imitation marble wallpaper. Her father had purchased it on one of his trading ventures, and although it reminded Caroline of him and of the gentle life they’d once led, perhaps it could now serve a more important function. It was paper, after all—sheets and sheets of paper. And what earthly good was wallpaper in a house that Union troops might burn to the ground any day?

  She remembered seeing a loose corner of wallpaper that had come unglued beside the library door. Caroline carried the smoky, homemade candle downstairs and set it on the floor near that spot, then knelt to gently peel the paper away from the wall. To carefully strip the entire entrance hall would require more patience than she possessed in her distressed and sleepless state, but before the clock chimed the next hour, she managed to tear away a ragged piece nearly a foot and a half long. It was enough to begin. She would make her script as small as she possibly could.

  Praying for the right words and mindful of the urgency of her task, Caroline sat down in the library behind her father’s mahogany desk and began to write.

  As I write this by candlelight, Union troops have my beloved city of Richmond under siege. The hall clock tells me that it is well past midnight, but I am unable to sleep. I no longer know what tomorrow will bring, nor do I know when my arrest will come—but I’m now quite certain that it will come. Lying awake on nights like tonight, I listen in the darkness for the knock on my door. I think about Castle Thunder and wonder if I will soon join the gloomy prisoners who peer out from behind the barred windows.

  I don’t fear for myself but rather for all the people I love. I need to explain why I’ve done what I have done, to tell my story in my own words before it’s told by those who won’t understand. They will surely call me a traitor and a murderer, and I suppose I am both of those things. I have betrayed people who trusted me. Men have died because of me. My involvement with certain events in Libby Prison has led to accusations of moral improprieties, but as God is my wit
ness, I am innocent of those charges. Even so, people will believe what they choose to believe. And when a host of vicious rumors is added to the list of my misdeeds, I’m not sure anyone will ever understand why I’ve acted the way I have. I can only pray that they will try.

  I don’t fear prison, nor do I regret a single decision I’ve made. As the Bible says, “No man, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” I only regret that I’ve hurt innocent people. I’ve tried so hard never to lie, but I realize as I’m writing this that falsehoods can consist of more than words—and I have been living a lie. For that, I beg God’s forgiveness.

  These long, sleepless nights have afforded me plenty of time to think things through. In my mind I’ve traveled all the way back to where my journey first began, to the morning I awoke to the sound of Tessie weeping for her son. I need to see if I could have done things differently, made different choices, and perhaps have ended in a different place than I am today. I’ve decided to write down my story, telling it from the very beginning. I pray that you will read all of it before deciding if what I’ve done was a sin.

  Here, then, is my tale.

  PART ONE

  “Whoever loves his brother lives in the light, and there is nothing in him to make him stumble. But whoever hates his brother is in the darkness and walks around in the darkness; he does not know where he is going, because the darkness has blinded him.”

  1 John 2:10–11 NIV

  Chapter One

  Richmond, Virginia 1853

  The first scream jolted me awake. The second one chilled my soul.

  I sat up in bed, searching for Tessie in the darkened room, but the pallet where my Negro mammy usually slept was empty.

  “Tessie?” My voice trembled with fear. “Tessie, where are you?”

  Rain drummed against the windowpane, keeping time with my heart. Beyond the shuttered windows, the day had dawned dark and dismal. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Then the heartrending cries broke the silence once again.

  “No . . . please!”

  The tumult came from outside, just below my room.

  “Please don’t take him, please don’t take my boy from me, please!”

  The voice, barely recognizable in its anguish, was Tessie’s.

  I couldn’t believe it. For all of my twelve years, as far back as I could recall, Tessie had been a happy, carefree presence in my life, always humming or singing as her elegant brown hands dressed me and brushed my hair; cheering me when I was lonely, chasing away my sadness with her laughter, her smile lighting up her dark face. Mother was the one who had “spells” that caused her to weep and pine away in her room for days on end, but I’d never once heard Tessie weep before. And these were such horrible, anguished cries.

  “Please don’t send my boy away, I beg you, Massa! Please!”

  Then Tessie’s son started screaming as well. Grady was nine— just three years younger than me—and I hadn’t heard him cry since he was a baby, sleeping in the wicker basket in the kitchen beside the fireplace. Tessie had let me play with him as if he were a living baby doll, with plump brown cheeks and a giggle that made me laugh out loud. I remember being fascinated by his little hands, with their tiny brown fingers and soft pink palms.

  Outside, the begging and weeping grew more distant. I climbed from my bed and hurried to the window that overlooked our rear garden. It took me a moment to open the shutters because I’d never done it. That was Tessie’s job every morning.

  Two strangers tramped down the brick walkway and through the wrought-iron gate, dragging Grady, screaming, out of the safety of our backyard. They were rough-looking fellows, dressed like laborers, and I watched as they lifted Grady into a wagon waiting at the curb. The wagon was packed with Negroes of all ages and sizes, some in chains and leg-irons. The men prodded the slaves with whips, shouting at them until they shifted themselves around on the wagon bed to make room for Grady.

  Daddy stood watching near the back gate, his arms folded across his chest. He was already dressed for work, and rain darkened the shoulders of his overcoat and the brim of his hat. Big Eli, our stable hand, stood in the middle of the walk, struggling to hold on to Tessie as she screamed for her son.

  “No! Don’t take my boy! He all I got! Please! No!”

  I turned away from the window and ran downstairs in my chemise, not bothering with slippers or a dressing gown. As I raced outside into the rain, Esther, our cook, spotted me from the kitchen, which was a separate outbuilding behind our house. She ran outside and grabbed me before I could reach Tessie, then pulled me into the kitchen’s smoky warmth.

  “Whoa now, Missy . . . where you going in you nightclothes?”

  “I want Tessie,” I said, squirming to free myself. I tried to dodge around Esther and make a dash for the door, but she moved surprisingly fast for a woman her size, blocking my path with her broad body.

  “No you don’t, Little Missy. You not be going outside in the rain dressed like that.”

  “But . . . but Tessie’s crying. And Grady is, too. Where are those men taking him in that wagon?”

  “Massa Fletcher not be telling me his business. Hear, now! Stop you fussing, Missy!”

  Esther held me as I struggled to break free, but she cast a worried eye on the ham she’d left frying in the pan for our breakfast. I could hear Tessie’s pitiful screams above the sound of the ham sizzling in the pan, the fire crackling in the hearth, and the rain drumming on the roof of the kitchen. Then I heard the clatter of hooves and wheels as the wagon finally drove away.

  A few minutes later, the kitchen door opened and Big Eli trudged inside, carrying Tessie in his arms like a child. She no longer fought against him but lay limp in his arms, her hands covering her face. Rain soaked both of them, streaming from their curly hair and running down their faces like tears. Tessie sobbed as if her heart would break, and I saw that it wasn’t just rain that coursed down Eli’s face. He was crying, too.

  “God knows all about it, Tessie,” he soothed as he sat her down in a chair near the fire. “God know how you suffering. They took His son away, too, remember? He know how it feel to lose His boy.”

  Esther finally released me and hurried back to her cooking. She flipped over the ham slice with a smooth flick of the frying pan, then shoved the pan back into the fireplace. I was free to run to Tessie, but I didn’t. I backed away from her instead, overwhelmed by her despair. Rarely had her attention been focused on anything or anyone but me. Even when Grady was a baby, she would leave him crying in his basket to tend to me if I demanded it. For the first time in my life, Tessie seemed completely unaware of me, as unaware as my mother was during one of her spells.

  “Shh, don’t cry,” Eli murmured. He lifted Esther’s shawl from the nail by the door and draped it around Tessie’s shoulders. “Don’t cry. . . .”

  “No sir!” Esther suddenly shouted. She slammed the frying pan down on the table with a clang that made my skin prickle. “You let that girl cry,” she told her husband. “I know how she feel and so do you. Isn’t our son sold and gone, too? That pain don’t never leave a mother. Never! I feel it to this day.”

  Tessie lifted her head to face Esther, her features twisted in anguish. “Your boy only over to Hilltop. You know where he at. My boy’s gone to auction and I ain’t never seeing him again!”

  “Only for this lifetime, Tessie,” Eli soothed. “Then you be with Grady all eternity.”

  Tessie wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and pulled the shawl tightly around her shoulders to stop her shivering. Her gaze fell on me for the first time. She looked me straight in the eye, something she’d never done in my entire life. No servant dared to look a white person in the eye. Tessie’s eyes were cold with hatred.

  “This here your mama’s doing,” she said, her voice hushed with rage. “Your mama behind this.”

  “Tessie!” Eli said in horror. “Hush your mouth!”

  I turned from them and fled, crying as
I ran across the yard, into the house, and upstairs to my room.

  I didn’t see Tessie again for the rest of the day. Luella came up with my breakfast tray a little while later and helped me get dressed and brush my hair. But Luella didn’t hum or sing like Tessie always did, and she brushed too hard, snagging my hair in the bristles and bringing tears to my eyes.

  “Where’s Tessie?” I asked her as she made my bed. “Why did those men take Grady away?”

  Luella shrugged her bony shoulders. “Don’t know, Missy. Don’t know nothing about all that.”

  I sat alone in my room all morning, gazing through the windows, watching the rain gather in puddles in the street below. Our house on Church Hill stood on the corner of Grace and Twentysixth Streets, and from my bedroom in a rear corner I could look down on our backyard and the street. The gate stood open, swinging a little in the wind. I stared at the spot where the wagon had stood, willing it to return, willing the men to bring Grady home so our lives could all return to normal. But the carriages and wagons that splashed past our house never even slowed, much less stopped. Grady didn’t come back.

  Around noon, my mother’s maidservant came to fetch me. “You mama asking for you,” Ruby said. “She’s wanting you to eat lunch with her today. In her room.”

  It was the first time I’d seen Mother since her latest crying spell had begun, several weeks ago, and I had no idea what to expect. I was very nervous as I approached her suite down the hall from my room—especially since Tessie wasn’t with me to prod me along and give me courage. As soon as I entered the room, I saw that Mother was in one of her cheerful moods. Ruby had drawn her curtains back and thrown her shutters open, and even though it was still rainy and gloomy outside, her room was not the dismal, depressing place it usually was during her sad spells.