Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  Joseph clamped his eyes shut and stopped his ears with his palms. What kind of monster would— To a woman who could not even cry out for help in words anyone would understand! He had bound her hands—the only way she could beg him for mercy.

  The men in that drawing room had known: “Can you imagine a more perfect wife?” “You could do anything you liked to her.”

  His father had said it himself: he was a hypocrite. When he’d explained with his medical books how men and women joined together, hadn’t his father insisted that the woman’s happiness must be the man’s first priority?

  When his father had lied without hesitation, practically stolen another man’s property, and bellowed at Joseph in the forest, that must have been the real René Lazare, not the kind man he pretended to be when everyone was watching. His father hated nuns and flaunted a sacrilegious portrait of the Virgin. How could Joseph have deceived himself for so many years that these were aberrations? The truth had been screaming at him all along.

  He’d known it all his life. He’d been born eight months after his parents’ wedding. Eight months, not nine. How many times had his father told the story? Joseph was born early; they were worried about him because he was so small; they’d kept him close to the hearth for warmth. All that must have been an elaborate lie.

  Joseph understood now: he’d been conceived before his parents married. They had to marry, because his father had raped Mama and forced her to become his wife, when she wanted to become a nun. It was Joseph’s fault. Mama was trapped with this monster for the rest of her life because she had been expecting Joseph against her will…

  A profound, urgent clanging penetrated his thoughts then: the bells of St. Michael’s, sounding the alarm. A deeper banging noise erupted somewhere much closer. Gingerly Joseph relaxed his hands till he released their seal over his ears. Between the peals of the fire bell, his father cursed and Mama whimpered. Very slowly, Joseph opened his eyes. Mercifully, the still curtains concealed the inside of his parents’ bedchamber.

  In the hall, Henry’s voice boomed: “Master René, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s our kitchen on fire.”

  “The fire’s here?” his father answered. “Is it spreading?” Joseph heard him moving around in the bedroom, heard cloth rustling.

  “No, sir. I think we nearly got it out now.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “My ma’s arm, some. Can you come see her?”

  “Of course.” His father’s voice seemed to come from the hall now. Then Joseph heard quick, heavy steps on the staircase and soon on the lower story of the piazza.

  Joseph supposed he must reappear. He must not add to Mama’s worries. He hoped his father had had the decency not to leave her bound. Joseph glanced down at the remains of his rosary, then snuck back to his window. He crawled inside his bedchamber so he could come through its door and everyone would think he’d just woken.

  In the lantern-lit hall, his sisters were trying to pry details of the catastrophe from May. Mama stood beside them in her frilly white wrapper, her tears dried. When she saw him, she turned. ‘Joseph! Everything is all right.’

  It was not. He’d nearly convinced himself he’d imagined the hideous tableau. But when Mama signed, her sleeves fell away from her wrists. Pink still wreathed her skin in the pattern of her bonds. She realized he’d seen the marks, blushed again, and yanked down the white frills to cover her wrists. Then her attention returned to his sisters. The fear vanished from her face. Mama did not suspect that Joseph knew why her wrists were pink.

  As soon as his father returned, Joseph would confront him.

  And then? What would that accomplish? His father would only laugh, because he knew Joseph was powerless to stop him. He was nothing but a boy. If only Grandpapa were still alive! He might have been able to free Mama, but no one else could. The monster had married his victim: Mama belonged to him almost like a slave. She was his wife, so he could do anything he liked to her. The law did not protect her, and neither would the Church. She was his till one of them died.

  This mockery of a marriage must, somehow, be part of God’s plan. For enduring such suffering on Earth, Mama would be spared even an hour in Purgatory.

  When they all returned to bed, Joseph lay awake for a new reason, dreading what he might hear. He begged the Blessed Virgin and Mama’s patroness, Saint Anne, to watch over her.

  But his father was insatiable. For the first time in his life, Joseph wished he were as deaf as his mother.

  Mama was a living saint. On the stairs the next morning, she smiled at her husband and accepted his arm as if she had not cried out beneath him a few hours before.

  Though Hélène knew nothing, she was still fretful. Not only was their cook injured, they no longer had a kitchen. “Are we going to starve, Papa?”

  “Of course not, ma poulette.” He crouched down to her level as if he were a caring father. “First thing this morning, I asked Henry to take a message to your Aunt Véronique and Uncle François. They’ve already responded that we are welcome to join them for breakfast.”

  “But…what about dinner?”

  Their father only laughed.

  Uncle François was a banker, and his house showed it. Though Aunt Véronique was Mama’s sister, she’d learned only a few basic signs, so Mama could not really participate in the table conversation. At first, Joseph’s father tried to translate everything that was said, but it was hard for him to keep up, because Aunt and Uncle did not wait. They behaved as if Mama were not even there. Finally, when his father tapped her, she just shook her head and kept her eyes on her quail.

  Joseph’s cousin Frederic was nearly eighteen. When he discovered Joseph didn’t know how to ride, Frederic promised to teach him. “I bet you don’t have the right boots, though.” They determined that Joseph did not. Their family’s shoemaker didn’t even make boots. “My man can make you some, then,” Frederic offered. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Father?”

  “It’s your allowance,” Uncle François answered without interest.

  Frederic was as good as his word. They set off as soon as they’d finished breakfast. Joseph’s cousin walked with a silver-tipped cane he didn’t need, because he thought it made him look elegant. Frederic extolled the virtues of his boot-maker, and they were only half watching where they were going. They nearly collided with another pair on the sidewalk: an elderly colored man and woman who were finely dressed. Their eyes lowered immediately.

  Gripping the head of his cane, Frederic glared at them. “Well?” he prompted.

  Slowly the colored man guided the woman to the edge of the sidewalk so that Joseph and his cousin could pass.

  “And they didn’t even apologize!” Frederic muttered as they continued. “These free coloreds get so full of themselves!”

  Joseph liked the way the boot-maker’s shop smelled: sharp and rich from all the leather hanging about them. The boot-maker was a free mulatto who owned slaves. One of them took Joseph’s measurements, and his cousin helped him choose a style.

  On the way back, Frederic paused at the corner between St. Philip’s and the Huguenot Church, staring down Queen Street toward the docks. “Father said I could have a new valet for my birthday—the one I have is getting too old. You don’t mind if I take a look at the stock while we’re here, do you?”

  Joseph could only shake his head and follow his cousin. He’d never entered this part of the city, but he knew what it contained. He’d only glimpsed slave auctions from a distance while his parents or grandparents hurried him and his sisters along.

  Frederic turned onto State Street. “We’re looking for a trader called Hart. Let me know if you see his sign.”

  Some of the buildings here resembled warehouses or stables, but most looked like houses, except for the high white-washed walls surrounding their yards. Negroes stood in lines along the sidewalks, sometimes on little wooden footstools to elevate them above the milling crowd. They were all clean and neat: the men in suits and
many in top hats, the women in calico dresses and tidy head kerchiefs. Joseph tried not to stare at them—he imagined enough people did that.

  Most of the negroes kept their eyes on their shoes, but one woman seemed to be gazing vacantly across the street. Joseph tried to follow her eyes. He saw nothing unusual, only a sign on the façade of one of the buildings that said: PRICE, ARMSTRONG, & CO. Below that, still in capital letters but smaller: DEALERS IN SLAVES.

  “Here we are!” Frederic cried, almost in the same moment a white man stepped in front of them. He had bushy whiskers on his cheeks, and the band of his hat declared in bold letters: CASH FOR NEGROES! The man smiled coolly. “Out for a stroll this morning, gentlemen?” He seemed to be assessing them.

  “Not at all—I am quite in earnest.” Frederic produced a card from his pocketbook. “My father is François Traver. He’s purchased from Mr. Hart’s firm before.”

  Uncle François’s name seemed to satisfy the man, who gave a sharp bow. In fact, Joseph saw another dealer turn his head and frown in disappointment. “Are you looking to sell or to buy, Mr. Traver?” asked the man in the CASH FOR NEGROES hat.

  “Both. I need a new body servant.”

  “Of course.” The man led them to the red door of a three-story building that looked like a house. “If you’ll step into our showroom, I am sure we have just what you need.”

  The CASH FOR NEGROES man directed them down a sparse hallway to a room that resembled a large parlor without much decoration. It did contain several chairs and a sideboard topped by crystal decanters. Beside it waited a dark-skinned boy of about fifteen in livery. Other negroes stood with their backs to the long wall while white men contemplated and questioned them. At the far end of the room, an elderly man sat in a fine chair and puffed on a cigar while he eyed two mulatto girls.

  A well-dressed man shook hands with one of the other buyers in parting, then greeted Joseph and Frederic with the tip of his hat. “Simon Hart, at your service.”

  Frederic introduced himself.

  “And the young master?”

  “This is my cousin, Joseph Lazare.”

  “Will Mr. Lazare be doing business with us as well?” Hart queried in a voice like a chuckle.

  “How are your negroes treating you, Joseph?” Frederic grinned.

  At least, his cousin sounded like he was grinning. Joseph had returned his eyes to his shoes. “Fine,” he mumbled. Joseph didn’t think such a suggestion was at all amusing. Henry and May had served his family for as long as he could remember. Even thinking about trading them made him feel disloyal. He didn’t like Agathe’s food as much as he had their old cook’s—she used strange spices—but Agathe was Henry’s mother.

  “Would either of you gentlemen care for a drink?” Hart asked now. “Perhaps a lemonade for Mr. Lazare?”

  Joseph nodded weakly. His throat was certainly dry. He accepted a lemonade from the young slave. It was very sweet.

  Hart continued: “Do you prefer dark-skinned domestics, or mulattos?”

  “I’m not sure.” Frederic swirled his brandy. “I’ve a dark valet now, and he’s very faithful.” He took a sip and considered the young black boy, who was as still as a statue again. “Aren’t mulattos more trouble? My father says they inherit only the worst of white traits. He says they become sick more often than pure-blooded negroes, and because they have a little intelligence, they’re more likely to run away.”

  Hart grasped his lapels and puffed out his chest as if he had been insulted. “Not our mulattos, sir. We offer a guarantee.”

  “Do you offer them on trial as well? My mother is very particular about faces.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “I need someone young, but already trained.”

  “Of course, sir,” Hart nodded. “What else are you looking for?”

  “My family does not tolerate impudence,” Frederic emphasized his words with his glass, and the liquor sloshed in the wide bowl. “I want someone who knows his place.”

  “If you’ll wait here, I have just the man.” Hart hurried from the room.

  Joseph made himself drink a little more of the lemonade.

  Frederic peered down at him. “You’ve never visited a slave pen before?”

  Joseph shook his head. His father had purchased Agathe directly from her old master. Henry and May had been presents from Grandpapa, already installed at the house when Joseph’s parents moved back from Paris. Had Grandpapa bought Henry and May in a place like this?

  Frederic stepped to the window behind the black boy and pulled aside the white curtain. Through its panes, Joseph saw the high white-washed wall surrounding the yard. It matched the wall around the jail on Magazine Street, where Denmark Vesey and his conspirators had been kept before they were hanged. Joseph remembered that slave pens were also called “nigger jails.” What had the slaves here done to deserve such imprisonment? “Where do they come from, the negroes who are sold here?”

  “Hart sends agents out to the countryside—even to other states. They buy up negroes from masters who have too many or who need money, and the agents bring them here.” Frederic sipped his brandy as he stared into the yard. “Last year, one of Hart’s men took my father and me on a tour of the establishment. They have a tailor’s shop, a kitchen, and an infirmary. Everything is very clean and organized.”

  Joseph stepped closer to the window. Now he saw the tall iron fence dividing the yard down the middle. Men and boys waited on one side, and women and girls waited on the other. Some of the negroes were alone, others in groups, a few even playing cards; but all their shoulders drooped. They kept to the shade of the buildings and the high outer walls, except for five negroes who clustered in the full sun: a woman and two girls who clung to the fence separating them from a man and a boy. Even from this distance, Joseph could tell they were a family.

  One of the little girls started to climb the fence. A white man appeared and pried her off. The negress took the girl, who was crying now, and the man ordered them all away from the fence. He did not carry a whip, but some sort of paddle.

  Joseph lowered his eyes again. “Why do they separate the women from the men?”

  His cousin chuckled into his brandy. “You know how these negroes are: animals constantly in heat.”

  Hart returned with a tall mulatto who looked about twenty-five years old. “I think we can meet all your needs, Mr. Traver.” The dealer appeared pleased with himself and his merchandise. “And the tall ones are always impressive in livery.”

  “They’re also more expensive,” Frederic grumbled, then addressed the mulatto directly. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Fred, sir.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t do,” Frederic smirked. “We’d have to call you something else. My current valet is named Peter—that would be easy to remember.”

  What would happen to the old Peter? Joseph wondered.

  “You don’t have any family you’ll be begging me to buy as well, do you, Peter?”

  “No, sir,” the mulatto murmured. “Master wouldn’t sell them.”

  “Would you like me to be your new master? Would you like to live in one of the finest houses in Charleston?”

  The mulatto glanced up for only a moment. “Yes, sir.” His voice lacked enthusiasm.

  “You have experience as a valet, Peter?”

  “More than ten years, sir.”

  Frederic made the mulatto open his mouth and then touch his toes. “Any problems I should know about? Are you sound?”

  “Of course he is!” answered Hart in a bluster.

  Frederic shot the trader a look. “I asked Peter.”

  Hart cleared his throat and remained silent.

  “Let’s have you prove it.” With his cane, Joseph’s cousin motioned to the hall. “Could we have him run up your stairs?”

  “Naturally.”

  Hart, Frederic, and Joseph walked out to stand beneath the staircase, where they watched the mulatto run up to the third floor and down again.
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br />   Finally Joseph’s cousin allowed the mulatto to stop, satisfied that the man’s breathing was normal. Then Frederic inspected his hands. “Remember, Joseph: whether he’s to work in the fields or in the house, always examine a slave’s hands. They are the most important parts of him—dexterity is essential.”

  Frederic released the mulatto’s hands and addressed Hart again: “You have somewhere I can see, uh, all of him?”

  “Of course, sir.” The trader offered them a small room across the hall.

  Wordlessly the mulatto removed his fine clothing, neatly folding each article onto a little table. Joseph kept his eyes on the carpet. He felt his cheeks growing hot with shame, as if he were being forced to expose himself.

  “You are an innocent, aren’t you?” Frederic chuckled. “A man has to see what he’s buying.”

  Joseph glanced toward the mulatto, who had nothing left to reveal. Checking the slave’s back for scars made sense, but what did the man’s genitals have to do with his being a good valet? His skin there was darker than the rest of him, just like Joseph’s. “Why do you have to see his…?”

  “I am not a Molly, if that’s what you’re implying!”

  Joseph had no idea what that was, but he’d never heard Frederic so angry.

  “These bucks and wenches have to be kept in two separate yards because outside this pen, they’re at each other night and day! Do you know how many diseases that causes? I don’t want one who’s spotted and runny! He’d be ill constantly, and then who would dress me?” His cousin took a few breaths and calmed. He gestured to the naked, motionless mulatto. “It doesn’t embarrass them.”