“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.”
He lay awake that night for a long time, thinking of his father, and hoping that he would find some trace of the girl called Charissa from Saul Lebeaux.
Chapter nine
The waters of the Mississippi were a rich brown, almost like chocolate, Jeff thought as he stood on the deck of the steamship Myra Belle. The paddles drove the vessel through the water at a fast clip, churning up a frothy wake. Jeff found something hypnotic about the water’s motion, and despite the noise of the turning paddles, he actually forgot his misson for a moment.
Then he turned and made his way toward the bow, where a crowd had gathered. The region they were approaching was more liquid than solid, it seemed. On both sides of the channel, bayous were filled with strange-looking trees, cypress, he supposed, that bore on their branches what looked like shredded bird’s nests. He had asked one of the crew about them and learned that the gray clumps and strands were Spanish moss.
As they passed through the channel, Jeff was fascinated by the long-legged herons that walked solemnly in the shallow water, occasionally bending to spear a fish. The noise of the ship’s passage stirred white birds that Jeff did not recognize. In their flight, they mingled with the seagulls that constantly rent the air with their raucous cries.
Restlessly, Jeff moved along the railing and thought of his father. Ever since he had learned the secret that had plagued the man he respected above all others, he felt more uneasy than he could ever remember feeling before. Until then, his life had been fairly easy, and never had he doubted the honor and the integrity of Irving Whitman. Now he felt torn in two by the quest he had undertaken. As the brown waters parted for the Myra Belle, he thought over and over about what sort of future might lie ahead, not so much for himself, but for his father. What if I find the girl and bring her back? What place would she have? I haven’t seen much of slavery, but I know it’s harsh. How will Father explain her presence to others? The thoughts troubled him, and he shook his head to clear them away.
The steamboat let out a shrill, clarion call, and the whistle startled the flight of the white birds that fluttered upward, making an irregular pattern against the sky. The sun was hot, for April along the Gulf Coast had a humidity and a power that he had not known in the milder climate of St. Louis.
He stood at the bow, and the crew began to scurry along the decks. “Is that New Orleans up ahead?” he asked one of them.
“That’s it, sir. We’ll dock within fifteen minutes.”
More vessels appeared on the river. Many of them were outgoing, and Jeff watched steamships and those equipped only with sails pass by. Some were side-wheelers that kicked up the brown waters of the Mississippi as they pushed their way steadily toward the gulf. Once he was startled to see what he thought was a log suddenly break into life. He straightened up and narrowed his eyes, then realized that it was an alligator. He watched as the beast, which was at least ten feet long, made its way under the water, with just its snout and eyes peeking above the surface. Jeff kept his eyes on the alligator until the Myra Belle passed it and wondered what such a creature’s attack would be like.
He turned his attention to the crowded harbor. The Myra Belle nosed into the dock, and the sailors let down the long loading walkway next to a stack of cotton bales. The captain and his mate bellowed orders, and Jeff returned to his cabin. He threw his belongings into the suitcase, then joined the passengers who were departing. He asked a carriage driver if he could recommend a hotel.
“I know them all, sir. How much would you like to spend?”
Jeff answered, “I want one close to wherever the slave auction is.”
“Why, that would be the St. Louis Hotel,” the driver replied. He was a swarthy, muscular individual with his shirt sleeves cut short, exposing massive corded arms. “A fine place but a mite expensive.”
“That’ll be fine. Take me there.”
Jeff drew the razor down his face, wiped the foam off on a towel, and studied himself in the mirror. I look tired
and washed out, he thought, but that’s only natural. He splashed water on his face and then picked up a comb. He was not a man who gave a great deal of thought to personal appearance, but he liked to be clean. Finished with his grooming, he went downstairs. He’d had no trouble getting a room, and now he was struck by the lack of activity in the hotel. The lobby was almost empty. He asked the desk clerk, “Can you tell me how to get to the auction?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man, who was dressed in finery. His shirt was gleaming white and his coat a rich brown fabric. “You’ll find it on Royal Street. Go down that way for three blocks,” he instructed, pointing. “It’s right next to the Creole Hotel. Anyone can point it out to you.”
Jeff hesitated a moment. “There’s not much going on in the city, is there?”
The clerk’s eyes grew hooded. He lowered his voice as if whispering a secret: “It’s because of the yellow fever epidemic. Ordinarily, this time of year the hotel would be full, but the sickness is everywhere. Bronze John is bad this year.”
“Bronze John?”
“That’s what some call yellow fever.”
“I’ve heard your people have struggled with that here, off and on.”
“It’s not as severe yet as it was four years ago. I lost my parents in that one. You’d think the doctors could do something, but they really can’t.”
“Is the city correcting the sanitary conditions?”
The clerk shrugged. “There’s not a lot they can do, I guess. You’ve never been here before?”
“Never have.”
“The city’s lower than sea level. It’s built in something like a saucer, and the rainwater collects in the gutters, and it ponds around the houses. And sometimes it gets like a swamp.”
“Isn’t there any underground drainage, sewers, things like that?”
“No. Nothing.” The clerk seemed discouraged and passed his hand across his face, as if brushing away something troublesome. “You’ll see what happens if you’re here long enough. The water stays where it falls, gets stagnant, and makes kind of a green scum. It looks like velvet, but it stinks. Of course, the city’s slops and garbage and dead animals don’t help much.”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 36
