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
“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
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