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The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eleven, I realized it was time to retire despite the work I had in front of me. As I shut my books and made my way up the spiral staircase, other more heartrending emotions begin to flood my mind. Since Elizabeth’s death in September, I haven’t been able to sleep in the master bedroom or in any of the rooms near there. Instead, I confine myself to a small room in another wing of the mansion, far away from the tragedy. Mother’s passing, which occurred only a few months prior, also lingers. Yet, her passing was natural and, in many ways, expected. But Elizabeth’s death…I have yet to put that moment into real words.
Elizabeth and I were first cousins, promised to each other when we were children. She was my Aunt Rachel’s favorite child and by all accounts, the most beautiful of the three sisters. It was determined by the entire family that our marriage was to take place promptly following my formal studies at college. However, circumstances which I will explain later, delayed our union for many years. When we finally did marry, it was clear it was over before it begun despite our deep obligation to it and her mother’s manipulations.
The comfort and familiarity of our shared childhood experiences and kinship did nothing to ease the tensions between us. We were opposites in almost everything, it seemed, but having made our pact, we settled for whatever contentment we could. And because divorce would have proven difficult for me and embarrassing for Elizabeth, we continued to justify our private prisons and hold onto the demons.
As I turned the corner to my room, I caught sight of the oil painting hanging in the hall. It was a classical piece that Elizabeth had commissioned for my birthday in the first year of our marriage. The painting was by a famous European artist, a man known for his extremist political views, and whose work I had always thought gaudy and unrefined. The canvas depicted a ferocious battle scene replete with bloodied soldiers, maimed horses and vicious dogs. Elizabeth had raved about its magnificence and how it displayed “a heroic portrayal of life.” All I could do was just stand there and feign appreciation.
“Do you not like it?”
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I don’t care for it.”
Elizabeth looked shocked. “But the mansion isfilledwith paintings like this.”
“Courtesy of my father’s taste, not mine,” I reminded her.
“My goodness, you don’t have to be so rude about it.” “I’m sorry. We’ll find a place for it.”
“Good. Because I can’t return it,” she said with a pout, “not after I commissioned it.”
“Or we could give it to your father,” I suggested. “He likes these sorts of things.”
“Or…we can give it to one of the darkies,” she shot back. “We know how much you love them.”
“Elizabeth, don’t...”
“What? It’s true.”
“We were talking about the painting.”
“That was a gift!”
“Yes, darling,” I said as calmly and gently as I could, “and I appreciate the thought very much. But you did ask my opinion and I gave it to you.”
“Yes, and we both know how outspoken you are,” she said bitterly. “Except when it’s about the past.”
“I’m not going to be lured into that discussion again.”
Her stare was cold. “You’re right, what was I thinking? Nigra women aren’t important enough to talk about. Especiallyher.”
My face grew hot. “Shemustbe important,” I said sharply. “You keep wanting to talk about her.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with angry tears. “You amaze me with your insolence. Next year for your birthday, I’ll buy you a Monet, a painting with plenty offlowers. Would that suit you better?”
“Much,” I said. “I’ve always liked French things, especially their women.”
Elizabeth’s face turned bright red. She stood there for a moment, clearly crushed. She swept out of the room and didn’t speak to me or sleep in our bed for a week and I was glad for it. Now, as I stood there, staring at the painting, I knew it was time to be rid of it. I lifted the canvas from its mount and ripped the back of it to shreds which I left on the floor, not caring who found it before stumbling to my room, exhausted, wanting nothing more than sleep to drown out what must have been an act of temporary madness. But sleep did not come easily. Images of that terrible morning came to me all over again: the bloodstained gown, the sheets of poetry strewn on the floor, the stark light that flooded the room…the scene would be etched in my memory forever and threatening, at times, to drive me completely insane.
Sometime during the night, I drifted off to sleep only to awaken, hours later, to see Elizabeth’s spirit looking down at me with a serenity I had never seen in her eyes when she was alive. She was on the edge of the bed more beautiful than I had ever seen her before. There was so much I wanted to say to her but she disappeared as quickly as she came. Something in her presence told me she had let go – that she had forgiven me for Jeyne and all that came before. She would be seeing me again, sometime in a distant, uncertain future.
Chapter Five
The next day was unusually quiet and passed without major incident as I spent most of it solidifying my business affairs for a Northern departure, as well as preparing for the upcoming meeting with my fellow abolitionists. The fear of violence and Confederate watchfulness, especially in the tense months leading up to secession, forced us to change some of our escape routes. Now, with the absence of the plantation, the routes were going to have to change again. This time, quite drastically.
The secret room, or “station” where I kept runaways, was located in the basement of the wine cellar, behind a heavy door that had been built during my grandfather’s time for a use long since forgotten. The room was small but functional and no more than six feet in height. In it was kept a clean supply of fresh clothes, food, water, and anything else deemed necessary as runaways would often stay in the room for days at a time until it was safe for them to leave. Only four people, other than myself, knew the location of the room – Lizzie, Jeb, Patrick and my mother. Outside of this circle, no one knew the details of our underground activities except those we had helped escape to freedom.
Many runaway slaves came to New Orleans to blend into the free Negro population, but this didn’t stop the money-hungry slave hunters from pursuing them, slinking and waiting in shadows like lions following their prey. Traders were often spotted lurking around churches, meetings and anywhere else they suspected negroes might be. The bolder ones would even kidnap free men. Even white citizens were not exempt from the scrutiny.
In order to aid the federal government, local authorities kept a list of homes and businesses they suspected of assisting negroes on the path to freedom. Even buying a Northern newspaper such as theHarper’s Weeklywas considered dangerous as it suggested sympathy toward the Union cause.
