by Ronald Kelly
An awkward silence hung in the room for a moment, then Taylor spoke. “You’ll be transferred to the psychiatric section of the city jail across town. A couple of officers will take you there later this morning. You’ll remain in custody until your arraignment, after which you’ll likely be sent to the state mental hospital. There you’ll be evaluated to see if you’re psychologically fit to stand trial.”
“Very well,” said Rollins passively. “But I do hope that the cell they put me in is well heated.”
“We’ll make sure that it is,” promised Lieutenant Lowery. “I’m afraid that you won’t be able to take your dog with you, though. It’s against police policy, even given your handicap. But we’ll see to it that Conrad gets sent to a good home. Maybe we can find some blind kid who needs a trained guide dog.”
“That would be nice,” said Rollins. “But couldn’t he just ride to the jail with me? That wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
“No,” allowed Lowery. “I suppose we could bend the rules just this once.”
“God bless you,” said the old man. He leaned down and hugged his dog lovingly.
After calling for an officer to watch the confessed murderer and leaving instructions for those who would transport Rollins to the main jail, Ken Lowery and Ed Taylor left the station, hoping to get a few hours sleep that morning. As they walked through the precinct parking lot, a stiff winter breeze engulfed them, ruffling their clothing and making them squint against the blast of icy air.
Before reaching their cars, each man put himself in the shoes of Dwight Rollins. They wondered how they might have reacted if the cold winds had swirled inside their own heads, and if they might not have grown just as mad as the elderly blind man under the same circumstances.
***
It is cold here in the police van. The officers who are driving me to my incarceration claim that the heater is broken and tell me to quit complaining, so I do. I sit here silently, enduring the creeping pangs of winter, hoping that I can make it to the jailhouse before a fine blanket of frost infects the convolutions of my aged brain and once again drives me toward madness.
A mile. Two miles. How far away is the comforting warmth of my designated cell? It is dark here in the back of the van. Dark and as cold as a tomb. My hands jitter, rattling the handcuffs around my wrists. I try to restrain them as they resume their wandering. Through the shadows they search for the warmth that I must have.
My friend. My dearest friend in the world…I am so very sorry. But it shall be over soon enough, I promise you that. You must remain faithful, my dear Conrad. You must serve me in death, just as you have in life.
You must help me block out the winds. Those horrible winds within.
OH, SORDID SHAME!
Some folks have a bad case of root rot in their family tree. Sometimes it is a genetic abnormality that is passed down from generation to generation. Recently, it was discovered that the McCoy family—of the infamous Hatfield and McCoy Feud—suffers from an inherited disorder that causes horrible fits of blind rage, which may partially explain the longevity of that historical conflict.
Sometimes—genetically or otherwise—there are those who simply can’t hold their temper. Long before the McCoy condition was brought to light, I wrote this story of a similar family who lived in the Old South of the mid-1800s. A family whose dark and awful shame was passed down throughout the years.
By the very nature and eloquence of this writing, few would believe that I was once a man enslaved.
That fact alone may cause some men to dismiss the validity of my story entirely, their suspicion of the Negro race conquering their potential for open-mindedness. But the tale that this testament holds is truth. I swear by God that it is. Surely it might have remained untold for all time—and perhaps best so. But a dying man must purge his troubled soul. Therefore, I take pen in hand and cleanse my own of the stain of that horrid incident some sixty years ago.
I first came to know the name of Bellamere in the mid-1800s. Since my birth, I had been bound body, mind, and soul to the possession of another man…in fact, several over a twenty-five year period. When gold had once again exchanged hands and I was bought by the family of Bellamere, I was a husband and father. Fortunately, the elder Bellamere was a man of compassion and not one to break up the family unit, putting so much faith and stock in his own. So, without ceremony, the three of us, my wife Camilla, my son Jeremiah, and I, were delivered to the Bellamere estate. We arrived with the obvious fears and expectations, figuring to be cast into yet another dismal world of cotton fields, slave shacks, and cruel overseers.
However, much to our surprise, life with the Bellamere family was nearly idyllic. Unlike our more unfortunate counterparts of dark descent, our servitude was pleasant and without conflict. There were no chains, no bullwhips, and never once did we hear the word “nigger” cross our master’s lips. Since the Bellameres’ wealth was one of inheritance rather than the livelihood produced by cotton or sugar cane, the extent of the plantation and its grounds were simply there for the family’s comfort and leisure. I was dressed in the finest of garments, taught the most impeccable of manners, and transformed from an ignorant field hand into a poised and proper butler. Camilla attended to the cooking and housework, while Jeremiah, then a small boy, took care of the stables.
Another benefit of serving the Bellameres was their uncustomary interest in our education, or rather lack of it. Sebastian Bellamere and his wife, Catherine, possessed an immense library of both ancient and current volumes. All manner of books and periodicals were made available to us. While my former masters had deliberately kept my family and I in intellectual darkness—a common practice in the South during that period, generated more out of fear than hatred—the Bellamere clan seemed to encourage our pursuit of knowledge. The Bellamere’s only daughter, Emily, had hopes of becoming a schoolteacher someday and we were her first pupils. We became well versed in the classics, reading Dickens, Shelley, and Keats, and studying the histories and philosophies of the world. I would not be penning this testament this very evening if Miss Emily’s tutorial guidance had not left such a lasting impression.
And we were offered companionship as well. Camilla shared activities with Lady Catherine and Miss Emily, while I often went quail hunting with Master Sebastian and his eldest son, Collin. And the Bellamere’s youngest child, Martin, was my son’s bosom buddy. He and Jeremiah made the whole of the Bellamere estate their private playground, climbing trees, skinny-dipping in the fish pond, and playing their favorite game, marbles, in the earthen circle drawn for that purpose beneath one of the garden’s great, spreading magnolia trees.
So what went wrong? Why were we not allowed to live out the remainder of our lives in such a paradise, void of prejudice and strife? I have asked myself that question often over the years. Perhaps if I had paid closer attention, I could have foreseen the catastrophe to come. Perhaps if I had not been so blinded by my loyalty to the Bellameres, I might have been able to do something to alter the course of events that led to the downfall of that most inoffensive and genteel of Southern families.
The history of the Bellameres was very much a mystery to me, as it was to most everyone in that part of Mississippi. From their accent and customs, it was obvious that they were originally of foreign lineage, most likely British. It was also known that the family had left their native country under the shadow of some great scandal. Sometimes, when partaking of strong drink, Sebastian would slip and mention “exile” and some terrible “shame” that had forever tarnished the family name. He never elaborated on precisely what that shame was, only that it had taken place during wartime. My suspicion was that cowardice was the black mark of which he spoke, since Sebastian and his family were of an overly reclusive and gentle nature. They had very little to do with the neighboring planters and whatever business was done in Vicksburg was performed by myself. Collin and Emily had no interest in people their own age and never attended any of the dances or social functions prevalent dur
ing those days of antebellum grace. And young Martin shunned the neighboring children, finding companionship only in the company of my own son.
The only other clue I had to the family’s mysterious background was something I discovered in the Bellamere library. It was a journal belonging to one Woodrow Bellamere, grandfather to my master Sebastian. Woodrow had been a man of medicine, a scientist in the purest sense of the word. He had been most interested in the workings of the human mind and the chemical imbalances that caused negative behavior, such as paranoia, anxiety, and, as in the case of his own heritage, fear and timidity. It was known that the doctor had developed a serum to purge future generations of such weaknesses. A few of the passages even hinted that Woodrow might have tested the concoction on himself. But from what I had witnessed of the Bellamere legacy, Woodrow’s pursuit for genetic strength and stability had proven a dismal failure.
However, I did not allow their eccentricities to affect me. I respected the privacy they demanded and attended to my appointed duties. Camilla and Jeremiah did the same. For a while, things went pleasantly. Then a couple of incidents took place that were both puzzling and frightening to someone familiar with the mild nature of such people.
The first concerned Sebastian Bellamere himself. He and his wife rarely exchanged hostile words; rather, they seemed most loving and considerate of one another. Yet, one evening, their customary civility gave way to a heated argument. It concerned Catherine’s desire to enroll Emily in a finishing school in Vicksburg and Sebastian’s absolute refusal to allow the girl to venture from the solitude of the Bellamere household. The more Catherine pressed the matter, the angrier Sebastian became. His agitation was disturbing, for it was an emotion I had never seen grip the man before. I watched from the open door of the parlor as Sebastian’s face grew deathly pale. And there was something else. His eyes—the whites of his eyes had grown blood red. Not bloodshot like those of a drunken man, but pure blood red, only the pupils showing in contrast to the surrounding crimson orbs.
Sebastian took a trembling step toward the lady, his hand aloft and balled into a fist. I am certain he would have struck her if I had not stepped into the room and drawn his attention. The man turned and regarded me with a fury that could only be described as murderous. At first, I thought he might take his anger out on me, but instead he stormed past, heading downstairs to the wine cellar. I followed at his urgent request and, soon, he and I were alone in the basement. There was an empty storage room at the rear of the dusty bottle racks, one with a sturdy oaken door and iron lock. He instructed me to lock him within the windowless cell and not come to release him until early the next morning.
My protests only seemed to feed the fuel of his madness even more, so I complied and did as I was told. The following morning I returned to find him crouched in a corner, his clothes disheveled, but his mind having regained its normal state of serenity.
The second event of this nature had to do with young Martin. He was only five years old at the time and, even then, small and frail for his age. While he and Jeremiah were out cavorting near a neighboring plantation one day, they strayed upon a broad cow pasture. Halfway across, a great black bull appeared from a wooded thicket and gave chase. Both children reached the safety of the bordering fence, but the frantic run had played havoc with poor Martin’s nerves. By the time they returned home, the boy was overcome with fear and trembling. He was put to bed immediately. He developed a high fever the following day, but it did not seem to be from any form of sickness. Rather, it appeared that Martin was in the throes of some bizarre temper tantrum, as if his initial fear had bled away into a creeping rage.
Later that night, while the household slept, young Martin left his bed. Lady Catherine discovered the absence and alerted her husband. On horseback, Sebastian, Collin, and I searched the expanse of the estate, but found nothing. Then instinct nagged at me and I suggested we ride to the pasture where the bull had chased the two boys. As the dawn came, we reached the field and found the child lying in the dewy clover, his nightshirt torn and stained with blood. As father and brother carried the sleeping boy home, I lingered, wondering what had become of the mean-spirited bull. A short time later, I found out. The bull was sprawled in the wooded hollow, cold and dead. Its belly had been torn open and its entrails scattered throughout the brambled thicket.
Nothing else of such a morbid and inexplicable nature happened again for a very long time. Life with the Bellamere family continued as smoothly as it had before, leaving only uneasy reflections of the strange incidents to linger in the dark corners of my mind.
Then came the conflict between abolitionists and slave owners. The Southern states seceded from the Union, the Confederacy was born, and the great Civil War tore the fabric of normal existence asunder.
Men of all ages and social distinction enlisted to fight the Yankee hordes that were sure to march across the Mason-Dixon line and put a halt to the ways of the Old South. The Bellamere men, however, did not. They remained neutral and refrained from the wearing of the gray. They were content to make the Bellamere estate their private haven from war, intending to spend their time as usual: reading their books, hunting quail and fox, and living quietly and inconspicuously far from the roar of the cannons and the death screams of gut-shot soldiers.
They were ridiculed for their decision at first. Men rode onto the plantation in the dead of night and goaded them with curses and stones, calling the Bellameres “yellow-bellied cowards” and “Yankee sympathizers.” During each episode of violent taunting, Sebastian and Collin were locked in the wine cellar, their eyes flaring like red-hot coals with each chiding word.
Eventually, more and more marched off to fight the war in Virginia and Tennessee, and less and less found time to torment the family who wanted no part in the conflict.
By the second year, the plantations and cotton mills around Vicksburg had grown quiet and deserted from disuse, and the Bellameres found themselves left alone, just as they wished to be.
And that was the way it remained…until a fateful night in the summer of 1863.
There had been much activity that day; the sound of marching troops and wagons on every road around the city and the roar of cannon fire from the wide channel of the Mississippi River. By nightfall, a division of Union cavalry was galloping up the road from Vicksburg to lay waste to any plantation loyal to the Stars and Bars. When the procession of flaring torches could be seen from the windows of the main house, Sebastian Bellamere gave precise instructions as to what would be done. Rather than fight for their home and honor, he and Collin would retire to the security of the cellar as usual. The rest of the Bellameres, along with my family and I, would hide in the upstairs parlor with orders to stay put no matter what transpired.
I did exactly as I was told. By the time the males had been locked in and the women and children were secure in the mansion’s upper level, I watched from the upstairs window as a group of cavalrymen invaded the Bellamere property, leaving the rest of the division to conquer other pockets of resistance.
No one will resist you here, I thought as the soldiers dismounted and marched boldly to the mansion’s front door. There is no one here but a few frightened women and children…and a couple of craven cowards hiding in the cellar.
But I was wrong about that. Very wrong.
A Union colonel kicked at the door with his dusty boot. “Open up this door, you traitorous rebels, or so help me I’ll burn this house to the ground with you in it!”
There was the sound of breaking glass, the steely rasp of drawn sabers, and the sound of wild laughter as soldiers—some drunk on confiscated spirits—began to ready themselves for the destruction of the massive structure of whitewashed wood and alabaster stone.
I looked to Lady Catherine. She looked frightened, but strangely enough, not because of the gathering of military men below. She held Emily and Martin in her arms, but the gesture did not have appearance of a mother’s loving protection. Instead, she seemed to be holding th
em in restraint.
The crackle of splintering wood echoed from somewhere downstairs. I was sure that the soldiers had breached the security of the locked and bolted front door. But, upon listening further, I discovered that the noise was too muffled to be coming from the ground floor. No, it seemed to issue from some lower level. From the shadowy depths of the wine cellar.
Then came the most horrifying wail of pure rage that I had ever heard in my life. It was fury torn between the mortal soul of man and the raw bloodlust of the most primal of beasts. It barreled up out of the pit of the mansion’s black bowels, demanding to be vented, filling all who heard it with a fear so strong that it was as paralyzing as the venom of some exotic and deadly snake.
I turned and saw Emily and Martin then. Their faces were as pale as lard, their expressions contorted into a rictus of intense mental anguish. And their eyes…their eyes were the same shade of brilliant crimson as that which their father had exhibited that night so many years ago.
“I can’t hold them any longer!” gasped Catherine, her slender arms surrendering the two struggling children. Emily and Martin ran for the door, their faces like those of demons, their hands curled into pale, fleshed claws. I moved to stop them, but the woman’s voice cried out, “Let them go! Let them go or they will tear you apart!”
I stepped aside and they hit the door with such force that the lock was torn loose from its moorings. With enraged wails that more resembled the fitful snarling of beasts than that of innocent children, they disappeared down the staircase to join in the conflict below.
And what a conflict it was. There came another crack and splinter of wood, again from the inside. There was the sound of the main door being torn from its hinges and tossed aside. And there were screams. Lord in heaven help me, I can still hear those awful screams of fear and torment shrilling through the night air, climbing higher and higher, pushing the limits of the human vocal cords, then faltering into choking silence. Only a few gunshots rang out and there was the clatter of hooves on the flagstones as a few of the horses escaped into the summer darkness. After the screams of dying men faded, all that could be heard was the maddening sound of flesh being ripped apart. That and the wailing chorus of earthbound banshees performing atrocities in the outer courtyard.