The Immortelles (12 page)

Jeff did not move a muscle, nor did the shock that he felt show in his face. He waited and finally, when his father seemed unable to continue, he whispered, “What did you do?”

“What could I do? She was a black woman in the eyes of the society I grew up in. I went around for weeks in agony not knowing what to do. When I found out she was carrying my child, I panicked. I . . . I sold her to a neighboring planter named Franklin Demarr.”

“You're not the first man to fall into temptation,” Jeff said quietly.

“Don't make excuses for me! I was absolutely miserable, and I took the easy way out. I buried myself in work, but I never could forget Bethany, for I knew that I had wronged her terribly. I tried to make up for what I had done by being a good man, but I could never put it away.” Suddenly, he turned and faced Jeff. “How can I face God with this on my soul, Jeff?”

Jeff swallowed hard. “You've asked God to forgive you, haven't you?”

“Yes, and God did save me. And I thank Him for it, and for the blood of Jesus. But Jeff, I owe this woman and this child something.”

“You want me to help you with this, don't you, Father?”

“Yes. I want you to find Bethany and the child, and I want you to purchase them. I want you to buy them out of slavery and bring them here so we can give them a better life. Will you do this?”

Jeff took his father's hands. He saw the tears in his father's eyes and felt some in his own. “Yes. I'll leave right away, and I will do exactly as you say. I'll find the woman and the child, and I'll do whatever I can to help them.”

Chapter eight

Jeff stepped off the train, half-choked by the cinders that poured out of the engine. His bag in hand, he immediately looked around for a carriage. Independence, Missouri, had only a small train station, and he soon spotted two carriages along the curb. He walked toward the man standing by the first one and asked, “Can you take me into town?”

“Yes, sir.” The speaker was ruddy-faced, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a flamboyant yellow shirt. He grabbed Jeff 's bag, tossed it in the back carelessly, and then hopped to the seat. “Where can I take you, sir?”

“I'm looking for a man named Franklin Demarr. I understand he lives at 611 Elm Street.”

“You just sit back, and I'll have you there in no time, sir.”

Jeff held on as the driver wheeled the horses around abruptly, throwing him to one side. Jeff was tired after his long train ride, but he had dozed a little during the night. He pulled out his watch and saw that the time was shortly after ten o'clock; today was the twentieth of April. Jeff leaned back, wondering how he would approach Franklin Demarr. It was, after all, a delicate situation. He had thought about it since he left home and concluded,
I can't tell him the whole truth. I hope he'll be understanding.

Ten minutes later, the carriage pulled up in front of a tall two-story frame house. “This the place?”

“I suppose so.” Jeff got out and asked, “Would you mind waiting for me? I'll be glad to pay you for your time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff ascended the steep steps and knocked on the door. He waited apprehensively, and when it opened, he found himself facing a middle-aged woman with kind gray eyes.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I'm Dr. Jefferson Whitman, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr. Franklin Demarr.”

“He's my father-in-law. Is he expecting you?”

“No, ma'am, but I do need to see him.”

“Come in. I'll see what he says.”

Jeff stepped inside the spacious foyer, and the woman disappeared down a hall. A few moments later, she returned and said, “He said he will see you. He's in the last room down the hall.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

When Jeff found the door and was admitted, he faced a silver-haired man, who rose from a desk, walked over, and said, “Yes? Your name is Whitman?”

“Yes. I'm sorry to intrude, sir, but—”

“I knew some Whitmans when I was younger.”

“They were my father's parents, I suppose. My father's name is Irving Whitman.”

“Why, yes, I know your family well. And I remember Irving was a doctor.”

“That's right, sir. Irving is my father.”

“Come in and sit down.” Demarr pointed to a sofa and and offered Jeff some tea. When Jeff declined, the older man leaned back and said, “Can't imagine why in the world you'd be looking for me. I haven't thought of Whitman in oh, fifteen years. Is he still alive?”

“Yes, sir, but he is very ill.”

“I'm sorry to hear this. I heard good things of him. I have a sister who lives in St. Louis. She says he's practicing there.”

“Yes, sir, and so am I.”

Jeff answered some questions about the Whitman plantation, and when the conversation began to falter, he said, “This is going to sound strange, but I'm looking for the records on a slave my father sold to you quite a few years ago.”

“A slave?”

“Yes. Her name was Bethany. I don't know any last name. I don't think there was one.”

“Why would you want to find a record on a sale that old?”

“My father asked me to do it. I can't give you his reasons.”

Franklin studied Jeff, then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I have the books right here. We sold the plantation years ago, but I kept all the records. Don't know why.” He rose and walked over to a bookcase, ran his finger over some volumes, and pulled down a ledger. He brought it back to the desk, opened it up, and began to scan its contents. “Here it is. One mulatto, Bethany, purchased from Whitman.”

“You sold your plantation. Then I suppose you sold off all your slaves. Would you have a record there of who bought this woman?”

“It's right here. Sold: one mulatto with her daughter to a plantation owner named Donald Barton.”

“Is there an address there for Mr. Barton?”

“He has an office in Memphis. I don't know where it is, but it shouldn't be hard to find.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Demarr.”

“Tell your father I remember him.”

“I'll tell him. You've been a great help, sir.”

Jeff 's trip to Memphis was hard and dull. He had to change trains twice from Independence, and by the time he reached Memphis, he was exhausted. He had no trouble, however, finding Donald Barton, who was a prominent businessman in real estate.

Jeff arrived too late that day to call on the man in his office, but first thing the next morning, he walked in the door and met a tall, distinguished-looking man who smiled winningly. “Mr. Barton?”

“Yes, sir. I am Donald Barton.”

“I'm Dr. Jefferson Whitman.”

“Sit down, Doctor. Are you a resident here?”

“No, I'm from St. Louis.”

“If you're thinking of settling, I can help you with a business address or with a residential property.”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Barton. I'm actually searching for two slaves you purchased four years ago.”

“Oh?” Barton dropped his smile. “What is your interest, sir?”

“I'm trying to trace the two at the request of my father.”

“What were their names? I sold my plantation, and I know that most of the slaves are now gone.”

Jeff told him Bethany's name, and Barton said, “Oh, yes, I remember her and her daughter, Charissa, well. Fine-looking stock. But I sold them off to Leroy Hampton.”

“Does he live in this area?”

“Oh, no, he has a large plantation outside of Baton Rouge.”

Jeff rose. “Thank you very much.”

“You sure I can't show you some property?”

Jeff smiled. “No, thank you. I'll be leaving.”

He went directly to check on a packet. He was tired of trains and was glad to find that a fast packet was leaving the next day at eleven o'clock. He reserved a stateroom, then returned to his hotel for the night.

When Jeff left the packet at Baton Rouge, he had no idea where to find Hampton, so he visited the courthouse. It took a little persuasion, but he used what charm he had and discovered from the clerk, who seemed familiar with most of the population, that Leroy Hampton had died. The clerk did manage to give Jeff some useful information: “His wife's running the place now. You'd have to see her. You can find her easily enough.”

“How do I get there?”

“If you hire a carriage, tell the driver to take you out the old Military Road for three miles. When you get there, ask anybody, and they'll tell you where the Hampton place is.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

Jeff quickly found a carriage. The driver urged the bays to a fast pace. They passed through the center of Baton Rouge and then the outskirts. Three miles later, the driver hailed a pedestrian, asking, “Can you tell me where the Hamptons live?”

“Right over there. That big white house with the blue shutters.”

The driver thanked him. When he pulled up in front of the house, Jeff got out, asking him to wait. He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. There was long pause before it opened. Then a thin, narrow-faced woman with suspicious eyes appeared and asked, “What is it?”

“My name is Dr. Jefferson Whitman. I'm looking for Mrs. Hampton.”

“That's me. What do you want?”

“I'm looking for some information, Mrs. Hampton. Could you give me a few minutes?” The woman hesitated, and it seemed as though she was going to shut the door. But then she shrugged and said, “Come in.”

Jeff stepped inside, and she led him into a drawing room. The room smelled musty, and the windows were all closed, even though the day was hot. Jeff stated his business. “I'm looking for a slave woman and her daughter. Her name is Bethany, and her daughter's name is Charissa. Donald Barton said that your husband purchased them a while back.”

The woman stared at him. “Why do you want to find out about them?”

Jeff saw the hardness of the woman's glance and said, “I had it in my mind to purchase the pair.” Since this really was his intention, he felt as if he was telling her the truth, if not the whole story.

“You're too late.”

“Too late?” Jeff said. “What do you mean?”

“The woman's dead. She died some time ago.”

Jeff felt the heavy weight of disappointment. “All this for nothing. The girl, is she here?”

“No. I sold her. It's hard times. I had to cut back.”

“Would you mind telling me whom you sold her to?”

“Yes, I would. I know men like you. She's a good-lookin' wench, and I know your purpose. You don't intend to put her pickin' cotton.”

“You're entirely mistaken, Mrs. Hampton.”

“I know you want the girl for evil purposes. I won't help you. Now, please leave!”

Jeff had no choice but to do as she said. He heard the door slam behind him as he climbed into the carriage. The driver waited for directions, and Jeff finally said, “Take me to a hotel.”

“Yes, sir. Any particular one?”

“No. Just a respectable place. A room for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff toyed with the food on his plate. He had taken the room, cleaned up, and spent the day wondering what to do next. He was sure there were ways to find the records of sale, but he was not sure how to go about it.

A voice jarred him out of his thoughts: “Do you mind if I join you? It looks like the tables are all taken.”

Jeff looked up and saw a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man. “Not at all. Have a seat.”

“My name's Vince Shoulders.”

“Dr. Jefferson Whitman.”

“A doctor, eh? I don't believe we've met. Do you practice here?”

“No, I'm just here on business.”

Shoulders sat down, and when the waiter came over, he ordered steak and potatoes. He was a talkative individual, cheerful, and apparently quite a successful man. His clothes were fancy and he wore an ornate gold ring. “You came on business, you say? Successful, I hope.”

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn't.”

“Sorry to hear that. Deals do fall through. Were you here to buy land? Maybe I can help. I'm a planter myself. I know most places around here.”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Shoulders. I came trying to trace two slaves, but I haven't been able to get any information.”

“Who'd they belong to?”

“Leroy Hampton.”

“Oh, yes, Leroy. The poor fellow had a hard time of it at the last. He had something wrong with his belly. Went down to nothing. That wife of his wasn't much help, either. She is about the gloomiest woman I ever saw.”

“You know the family?”

“Oh, yes. My place is right down the road from theirs.”

“Mrs. Hampton wasn't willing to give me any information.”

“She's batty, a crazy old woman. Don't know what's wrong with her. I don't know any of the particular slaves, but I can tell you where they are.”

Jeff straightened up, his eyes lit with eagerness. “You can?”

“Yep. She sold the whole bunch to a fellow in New Orleans who runs an auction. His name is Saul Lebeaux. I sold him two of my hands at the same time.”

“Wonder where I could find him.”

“Like I said, he runs an auction in New Orleans, but if you're thinkin' of goin' there, I wouldn't, if I were you.”

“Why not, Mr. Shoulders?”

“Yellow fever is bad there. Besides, that's a wicked town. Some of these days, God's going to send fire and brimstone on it, just like He did on Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“I'll have to take a chance.”

“Watch yourself. There are all kinds of temptations in that town.” He broke into a grin and said, “I go over myself to get tempted every once in a while.”

Jeff finished his meal and and shook hands with Shoulders. “Thank you, sir. You've been a great help to me.”