President James Buchanan Jr.
He never entertained the thought of not complying with the request. Now standing in the foyer, the intent of the meeting was no clearer than when he first received the telegram.
“May I take your hat, sir?” Dahlia asked, jarring him from his contemplation.
“No, my dear,” he replied warmly. “I feel more comfortable keeping it close at hand.”
“Very well, sir. If you would follow me into the parlor, Mademoiselle Dupree will be with you shortly.”
Dahlia gently lifted her full bell-shaped skirt just above her ankles and led the way to the parlor. Shadows cast by quivering candles and kerosene lamps filled the grand room. The lavishly furnished home assaulted his senses.
The home was like none he’d ever seen. It was worlds away from the manure-packed tobacco and hemp fields of Kentucky and the acres and acres of billowing bales of Illinois wheat. Was it, in fact, a two-day train ride from Springfield to New Orleans, or had his mind played a trick and allowed him to be whisked across the Atlantic and deposited in a Parisian villa?
“Sir,” Dahlia interrupted his thoughts again. “Sir?”
The man looked at her, startled. “I’m sorry, my dear. Did you say something?”
“Yes, sir, I said, would you like a brandy? Miss Dupree has the finest Kentucky brandy.”
“No, thank you. I’ll just wait for your mistress.”
“Yes, sir,” Dahlia responded with a bow and turned to exit the room.
“What is your name?” he called out as she reached the door.
Dahlia knew from experience when a white man took the time to ask a Negro woman her name it could only be for one of two reasons. He either wanted to punish her for some unknown offence or take advantage of her tenderness in the most ungodly manner.
“Sir?”
“Your name, girl. What is your Christian name?” he asked gently, sensing her uneasiness.
At the young age of nineteen Dahlia had seen the cruelest side of God’s creation. The side that would whip her without mercy in the fields by day and rape her brutally in the bedroom at night. The inhumanity that would spit in her face, then require her to wash the face of their children. Her skin was dark as burnished leather and soft and luxurious to the touch as pure silk. Hours of toil in the smoldering Louisiana sun defied the norm and made her more beautiful with each passing day.
Dahlia looked him directly in the eye and summoned the courage acquired after a year of living in the mansion and responded, “Dahlia, sir. My name is Dahlia Louise Guillaume.”
Lincoln studied her closely. “That is an appropriate name for such a beautiful flower. You are the property of Mademoiselle Dupree?”
“No, sir,” she said defiantly.
“Then who? Who is your master?”
“I am une femme libre de la couleur, sir,” she replied in flawless French.
“fem libra color?” he said mangling the words with his Kentucky drawl. “What is that, pray tell me?”
Dahlia looked him directly in eye and said, “It means I have no master. I am a free woman of color.”
The man was unable to conceal his confusion. A black woman—dressed in fine clothes—looking him directly in the eye—declaring unapologetically that she had no master . . . The pieces did not fit the color paradigm of his home only 600 miles away. He looked around the room to regain his bearing. Maybe I am in Paris, he thought.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Dahlia said, interrupting his thoughts for the third time is less than five minutes.
“No, no,” he mumbled, focusing back on her. “I will wait for Miss Dupree. Thank you.”
Dahlia nodded her head in a silent acknowledgment of the powerful impact of her words and left the room.
“Squawk!”
The loud screech caused him to turn abruptly.
“Squawk!” came again.
He looked to the source of the commotion in a far corner of the room. The blue and gold Macaw paced anxiously from side to side on its perch in a cage.
“Do not be rude, Amadeus. Mr. Lincoln is our guest.”
The voice caused Abraham Lincoln to turn quickly back to the door.
Juliette Dacian Adelaide Dupree stood in the threshold. The sides of her pomegranate red silk brocade gown brushed the door frame as she entered. Embroidered gold flowers dotted the skirt and bodice while white lace cuffs spilled out of the sleeves and burst from the plunging neckline revealing her pillowy breasts and deep cleavage through the delicately woven lattice.
Lincoln froze when he saw the Creole beauty. Her honey-toned skin seemed to absorb every particle of light from the flickering candles. Her jade-green eyes bound his hands and feet and rendered him speechless. Loosely curled cascades of golden hair hinted of her African roots. He had never before seen such beauty, and the effect left him paralyzed in the center of the room.
Juliette approached with an extended hand. “Welcome to New Orleans, Mr. Lincoln. I am Juliette Dupree.”
A glittering pear-shaped diamond on her finger caught his eye as he successfully persuaded one foot to take a step forward. Lincoln wiped his hand self-consciously on his trousers for fear of contaminating the stunning creature with any remnant of Illinois dirt under his fingernails.
He removed his stovepipe hat with one hand and reached for Juliette’s hand with the other. He bowed and kissed her knuckle. When he stood erect, his eyes clearly conveyed, “Please forgive the coarseness of my lips against your delicate skin. You must be repulsed by me.”
“I trust your journey was satisfactory?”
“Yes,” he stammered. “The private rail car was very comfortable, and the meals served were by far the finest I have ever had.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” Juliette said, walking past him, causing her skirt to brush against his leg, sending a shiver up his spine.
Lincoln noticed the life-size portrait of Juliette hanging above the fireplace. The only object on the mantel was a flickering black candle cradled in the silver chalice with the inscription on the base, “Dans cette flamme brûle le destin de l’homme”. In this flame burns the destiny of man.
“I imagine you must have a million questions,” she turned and said in front of the fireplace. Lincoln suddenly remembered he had no idea why he was in New Orleans, this house, or in the presence of arguably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “Only one question,” he replied apologetically.
“And that is?”
“Why have you and the president summoned me here?”
Juliette knew the moment she laid eyes on Lincoln that he was the right man for the job.
“For one very simple reason, Mr. Lincoln,” she responded looking him directly in the eyes. “I have decided you will be the next President of the United States of America.”
The End
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The Committee Copyright © 2016 Terry E. Hill
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The Committee Page 23
