Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [195]
Charles hated remembering that day, how the Yankees had streamed over the embankment, punching a hole through the Rebel lines, moving relentlessly forward, shouting in victory. He had lain on the bottom of the filthy trench between two dead men, unable to move, feeling the warmth of his own blood pumping from his wounds and soaking his clothes, shocked that death had come for him at last. His last thoughts were of Caroline. He’d wanted to take her picture out of his pocket, look at it one last time before he died. . . .
“I don’t want your thanks,” Josiah said. “I didn’t do it for your sake, or for Jonathan’s.”
“May I ask why, then?”
“I did it for Missy Caroline.”
Charles’ stomach clenched at her name. He bent and began picking up fallen bricks, moving them uselessly from the ruined floor and tossing them aside.
“Before we was free,” Josiah said, “when things was against Tessie and me, Missy Caroline always make sure we can be together. When my son was born, she ask her daddy to give him to her for her slave. Then she set him free . . . she give my son his freedom.”
Charles looked up at Josiah as he suddenly realized something. “You could have been free the day I was wounded. The Yankees were right there. You would have been free if you had just kept walking. But you carried me to the field hospital.”
“When I went to war with Massa Jonathan, my pa made me promise I would look out for you, make sure nothing bad happens to you, because Missy can’t live without you. That gal loves you. So I kept my promise.”
“I’m grateful.”
“Then why you breaking her heart, leaving her like you done?”
Charles felt a sudden rush of anger at this man for poking at a wound that hadn’t healed. “That’s really none of your business.”
“If I give up my freedom to save your life, it’s my business. I’ll tell you something else. I almost left you there to die, not because I want to run to the Yankees, but because there was so much hatred in my heart. I hate Missy Caroline all my life because I hate her father. George Fletcher use my Tessie. He make her pregnant with his son, Grady, then sell that boy to the auction. Sell me, too, so he could have Tessie all to himself, even though he already have a wife.”
Charles saw the fury on Josiah’s face, the clenched muscles in his arms and fists. He knew the other man’s pain was at least as deep as his own.
“My pa say I can’t punish Missy Caroline for the sins of her father,” Josiah said. “He say I have to forgive. But when I seen you laying there I knew I could get even. Let all you white folks see what it feels like to lose someone you love for once.” He paused, shaking his head. “But I can’t do it. What Missy done during the war she done for us, out of love, so we could be free. That’s why she was fighting—to help people be free. Why were you fighting?” Charles answered automatically, angrily. “I was fighting because states should have the right—” “That’s all I hear you white boys saying—‘states’ rights, states’ rights.’ But you name me one other right you wanting besides the right to keep me your slave?”
Charles couldn’t reply. The South had lost, his city was in ruins. What difference did it make, anymore, why he had fought?
“You were fighting to have your own way,” Josiah said. “To keep us your slaves. Missy did the unselfish thing, like the Bible say to do, not for herself. If anyone gonna say they sorry for what they done during the war it should be you, not Missy Caroline.”
Charles looked away, unable to face Josiah. But everywhere he looked, in every direction, he saw nothing but rubble.
“God use that war to show you white boys what it’s like to be a slave,” Josiah continued. “For four years, you sleeping on the ground instead of in your fine houses. You eating food that no one would feed a dog. You wearing rags and going barefoot and marching all day beneath