Then the stall doors swung and crashed, and one of the horses broke free. The horse circled furiously in the center of the barn.
“He is blocking the way!” Moody hollered. “I cannot—”
And again he was cut short, this time by something—impossible. The horse had let out a terrified scream and charged through one of the burning walls.
Now there was an opening in the blaze … vaguely discernible through the smoke.
The other horse, as deranged as the first, stood inexplicably still in its stall. It brayed and heaved as the smoke continued to gather, its muscles rippling beneath its sweat-soaked coat.
Joseph dropped the beam and dashed to secure the stall door.
“Take the horse,” Joseph said. “He will charge through the opening as soon as I release him.”
Moody hesitated.
“I cannot leave you.”
But there was no time.
“Go!” Joseph shouted. “I will meet you on the other side.”
Moody entered the stall and climbed upon the animal. Then Joseph yanked open the unsecured door, and the horse leapt for the gap in the fire.
Moody tugged the reins. The horse screamed and wrenched its neck.
“I will not leave you!” Moody shouted.
Joseph grabbed ahold of the saddle and lifted himself up onto the horse. The smoke had become so dense that they could barely see their escape. They hurtled through the opening—beams and boards crackling all around them—crossing over into something that washed over them like a dream. A burst of cool air … a star-studded sky. The drooping grass had collected its dew.
They had not even cleared the heat of the fire when they saw him. He was mounted atop an enormous black horse. The fire’s glow was absorbing a circle of the darkness, but he sat just beyond the edge of it, waiting. He was one with the horse, tall and unmoving—a misshapen monster, gathered up in the gloom.
The rider’s horse snorted, then began a slow trot toward them.
“Go,” Joseph whispered.
Moody gave a kick, and they galloped toward the road. The rider followed, his horse panting as it increased to a steady charge.
“Go!” Joseph repeated, louder this time.
He was holding onto Moody, but also fumbling with his sleeve.
“Who is the man?” Moody said.
But Joseph did not answer. He now held a derringer in his hand.
Behind them, the rider’s steed was heaving and blowing, its breath growing louder as it gained ground with great speed. Moody urged their horse on—it was all that he could do—as Joseph gripped the handle of his gun.
The barrel gleamed in the moonlight. Joseph turned and prepared to shoot.
And then—
Silence. A shadow. Or no shadow left at all.
Perhaps it was a trick of the nighttime … one of those late summer illusions that belonged to another realm. More distant now, the barn burned in Joseph’s vision, and the dark pursuer had gone.
“Is he gaining?” Moody asked.
Joseph looked through the gloom into the trees.
“Is he gaining?”
The meadow’s edges would not reveal the man. The trees kept secret what they had seen.
“He’s disappeared,” Joseph said. “But for the life of me—do not stop!”
Moody kicked again … and away they dashed through the endless, enveloping countryside. They spoke little as the moonlight guided their way. Moody wondered about Fanny—had the rider gone to ravage the house first? Unless … Fanny. Could she ever have betrayed him like that?
They traveled at full tilt for nearly an hour, stopping only when they had gone as far as Westborough. There, the old inn leaned—still asleep and quiet—offering its porch as a place to dismount and rest.
“It is not safe to stay here,” Joseph said. “The sun will be up soon, and we now know that we’re being hunted.”
“But how—” Moody said.
“These men, they have their ways. I know them—they hunt. That was no man of the law. It’s now clear that they are not trying to detain you. They will not stop until you—and that negative—have been destroyed.”
“Garrett—” Moody said.
“Again, as I told you … the spirit’s power over him is great. For him to go to such lengths to destroy the negative—”
“If Garrett harmed her,” Moody sputtered, “if he had anything to do with her—”
“Calm yourself, Edward,” Joseph replied. “You have no power here—and we must go. We are in danger as long as we are within Garrett’s reach.”
Moody considered Joseph. There was a strange knowingness to everything he said.
“Joseph … I am the fugitive here. You should not put your own freedom at risk.”
Joseph’s expression darkened, and he glared at Moody with an almost malevolent eye.
“I am not doing it for you,” Joseph said. “You are not the only man who loved her.”
Moody blinked, bewildered, as if everything he had ever believed in turned untrue.
“You—” he gasped. “Joseph, you—”
“Yes, Edward. I knew Isabelle … and I loved her too. And now I finally know, after many years of searching, where I can find her again.”
Newsletter of the American Institute for the Encouragement of Science and Invention
New York, New York
Wednesday, July 27, 1870
THE MEMBERS OF the Institute’s Photographic Section, Boston Branch, have sent word regarding the “spirit photographs” that have for some years been making appearances in that city. Last week, Marshall Hinckley, our esteemed colleague in Boston who is known for his photographic lectures to the New York and Washington branches, reported that the police have at last moved forward with their case against Edward Moody, the photographer whose name many will recognize as the Spiritualist behind these charades. Mr. Hinckley informed us that the police have formally charged Mr. Moody with multiple counts of fraud and larceny, crimes for which he will stand before a jury of his peers. This is a great victory for all men of science, with only one problem remaining: Moody is nowhere to be found. Moody, whose gallery resides above Mrs. Lovejoy’s Silver Emporium at 258 Washington Street, Boston, was allegedly present in the gallery when Inspector Montgomery Bolles, of the Boston Police Department, and his officers arrived to arrest him, but upon entering the rooms where this imposter makes his photographs, the police found that he had “vanished into thin air.” It has been suggested that Mr. Moody was not, in fact, on the premises when the police arrived, but already somewhere else altogether, having been forewarned by one of hundreds in the loathsome network of Spiritualists whose eyes are on constant watch. Moody is believed to have fled the city with his accomplice, a negro who goes by the name of Joseph Winter. The search for Moody continues in the environs of Boston, and the Federal authorities have also been informed, in the event that he has left the state.
BOOK II
VISION
Banner of Light
Boston, Massachusetts
Saturday, July 23, 1870
From “THE MESSAGE DEPARTMENT” Through the instrumentality of Miss Fanny Van Wyck
LITTLE VICTORIA
MA’AM, IF YOU please, I’d like to send some word to my old massa, George Burgess. He’s in Louisiana—Orville. [Can you spell the name of the place?] Ma’am, I can’t. I wants him to know that twelve of us are here in the spirit-land—twelve that once belonged to him. We are happy and free—twelve of us are here. I wants him to know, ma’am, when he comes here we’ll meet him, and old missus too. [You mean twelve of you once in bondage are now all free together?] Yes, ma’am, that’s what I mean.
Massa George’s brother Edward is in the spirit-land too, and he says tell Massa George he wants to speak; tell Massa George he was shot at Pillow and that’s why he never come back. [Fort Pillow?] Yes, ma’am, that’s what it was.
[Say all you wish to say.] I’ve got heaps to say, ma’am, but I … He knows a
bout this, ma’am. He knows. [What does he know?] Who I am and who I belong to. He knows. [What was your name?] Vic—. Little Victoria. [How old were you?] Don’t know; I reckon I was ten. He knows about this—he knows.
[Say anything you think will make him remember you.] He will remember me—he will.
XIII
“WELL, SHE’S COME back to haunt him. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Hearing this, Elizabeth blinked out of her reverie and glanced at the faces that surrounded her. She had somehow forgotten about the three other women in her drawing room—forgotten that they had all just dined together, and that she was, in that moment, their hostess. The dinner had been interminable, with a guest list larger than usual: John and Constance Merriwhether; Senators Cragin and Patterson, both of New Hampshire, with their wives; and Dovehouse—who had steadfastly remained at Garrett’s side since a day or two after the photograph.
Playing hostess at a time like this, she thought. Isabelle had come back. It was all coming back. But Garrett would not hear of canceling the engagement. And so there she found herself, a prisoner in her own house, stationed before a small tribunal of women after dinner.
But which one of them had said it? Which one of them had dared mention what had so purposefully come back?
Then her friend Constance Merriwhether continued:
“The negroes have been making all kinds of noise lately—from the other side, I mean.”
Ah, it was Constance. Of course it had been Constance, who had probably been talking about spirits for the past several minutes. Elizabeth’s mind had wandered far out of the room by then, as it had during most of their dinner.
“Oh, yes,” Constance continued, “they’ve become a great deal noisier—more vocal, you might say. And rightly so, I suppose. It’s as if their freedom has given them a new kind of voice. They’ve come back to communicate with their old masters, perhaps even to chastise them for their wrongdoings.”
“Perhaps?” Elena Cragin responded. “I think you’re being much too kind. The negro spirits—or at the very least, these mediums who claim to conduct them—seem more interested in reckoning. The messages are retributive.”
“Retributive?” Constance questioned.
“Yes, retributive,” Lucretia Patterson emphasized. For both Lucretia Patterson and Elena Cragin were married to Republicans who were every bit as radical as Garrett.
“The negro spirits are angry,” Lucretia continued. “They are angry with the way that the aftermath of the war has unfolded. They are speaking out in order to hold their old masters accountable. These ghosts—if such they be—are the ghosts of moral retribution.”
“It’s more than mere chastisement, dear Constance,” Elena added. “The spirits are exposing their old masters for the vile hypocrites they’ve always been. These southerners—their immorality has gone unpunished for nearly two centuries. There’s vengeance in the cries of these spirits—not just for themselves but for the poor souls who are still alive.”
Constance’s face revealed some discomfort. She never would have taken it that far. Even the most vociferous and admonishing of the spirits had always seemed peaceable and forgiving.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on down there?” Lucretia said.
And then, not waiting for Constance’s answer, she whispered:
“They are defiling black women throughout the South every day. Whipping and murdering their husbands. Beating their children. Chasing whole families into the woods and burning their houses to the ground.”
“The reports from Louisiana are particularly horrific,” Elena said. “I’ve seen them on Aaron’s desk. He doesn’t know I’ve seen them, but I have. The ones that they’ve decided not to make public. Surely, Elizabeth, you’ve seen some of these too.”
“No,” Elizabeth returned. “James rarely leaves his work unattended.”
“And the women,” Lucretia went on, “they can’t rightly dissuade their husbands from going to the polls and voting the Republican ticket, as they have every right to do. But they know—as do their husbands—that retaliation from the Klan is certain. Every night, mothers face the possibility of being dragged from their beds, and—”
Lucretia leaned in further toward the center of their circle.
“—violated in front of their own children.”
Constance gasped and drew herself back in her seat.
“Animals,” Elena said. “And it does not stop with wives and mothers. Some of the reports indicate that the marauders have gone after the children too.”
“This I had not heard,” Elizabeth offered.
“Yes,” Elena said bitterly. “The children.”
Constance Merriwhether, even in the luxury of her Beacon Hill home, had not remained wholly ignorant of the recent surge in Ku Klux Klan atrocities—especially throughout the parts of the South where black voters turned out in the greatest numbers. But of such horrific crimes against women and children, Constance had certainly never heard. Elizabeth watched as her friend’s cheeks flushed red. Constance had always been a bit naïve. It was difficult for even Elizabeth not to pity her.
“But Little Victoria …” Constance protested. “That sweet little spirit! She talked of being free and happy … of welcoming her old master in the spirit world.”
Unexpectedly, Elizabeth’s pity changed to anger.
“She talked of the unholy crime between her old master and her ruined mother,” she said, “of which she was the unfortunate offspring!”
Constance Merriwhether, Elena Cragin, and Lucretia Patterson, all turned toward Elizabeth. She was herself surprised that she had voiced such a thing, and with such intemperate force. She had never—at least publicly—been guilty of an outburst, and up until that moment she had barely participated in the conversation. It was Constance—stupid Constance—who had been sold on the Spiritualists from the beginning. Constance understood so little of what went on beyond the borders of New England.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth apologized. “But I find the negro messages rather distressing.”
The women looked at her.
“I mean, insofar as they are messages.”
Elizabeth paused there and retreated, for she had already said too much. These women, who all seemed to adore her on the surface, had been, in her mind, amongst her fiercest judges over the years. All of them had children, and had time and again prattled on about their little darlings while Elizabeth sat silent, as they knew she would be forced to do. No one had ever directly criticized her for her “condition,” but listening to the maternal joys of others was a kind of indictment all the same. Through time she had grown to occupy a place of self-condemnation when coming face-to-face with these women. She had even troubled herself wondering if Elena Cragin, the proud mother of four, had ever considered her unworthy of being Senator Garrett’s wife.
But what did they know—these Washington chatterboxes, with their husbands who devoted more time to their mistresses than they did to their own families. Elizabeth may have been childless, yes, but she understood the larger world, and had witnessed things that these women could never have imagined. What right, for example, had they to describe the sufferings of the negroes when their knowledge of life in the southern states extended no further than the pages of Harper’s? That very week, in the Banner of Light, she had read of another negro spirit, speaking from the beyond. “How I hated the brute that had purchased me,” the spirit said, “and how I strove to revenge myself! He inhabits a much darker sphere than I, and ages will elapse before he will see the light.” There was a darkness to what the North had fought so valiantly against during the war; but it was a darkness so evil and so omnipotent that any attempt to surmount it had proven pure folly. These women could talk, and pretend to understand federal policy all they liked, but they would never be able to perceive what they were incapable of seeing.
Elizabeth had seen.
Of all the trips, that first trip down to the Beauregard plantation, when she was seven or eigh
t years old, had left the most indelible impression upon her. Elizabeth’s father was still doing business with his southern cousins back then, and he had taken the family down to Louisiana at the start of the sugar harvest. Of course, this was many years before the political crises of the 1850s, when the Whigs began dividing along sectional lines. The radical abolitionists had only started to murmur in those days, and her parents had yet to join their ranks.
The plantation house was smaller than one might have imagined for such a vast expanse of cane fields and oak trees. It was one of the old three-room Creole houses that an elder Beauregard had raised to include a brick-walled, aboveground basement. A magnificent veranda, which ran the full length of the front of the building, overlooked an inland road that traversed the land the French used to call “Terre-aux-Boeufs.” But cane, rather than cattle, grazed freely over the land now, and from the veranda one could gaze out over the untamed marshes of St. Bernard. On this careless, open-aired porch the women fanned themselves in the shade, while the men remained out of sight, running the harvest and the business of sugar. Here, too, in the hazy gray shadows of the overhang, the women spent whole afternoons conversing in private.
One day, what looked like a little white boy ran by in front of the house, and his appearance immediately inspired an unsubtle exchange of knowing glances. His skin was fair—freckled even—and at first he seemed no different from any other boy of Elizabeth’s age and station. But the young Elizabeth Beauregard had not yet learned that particular southern art of looking deeper—the same art that revealed certain irrefutable signs once you had learned how to look. You needed to study the planes of the face mostly, the women had said … the way the skin sloped away from the cheekbones, and how the eyelids fell just so. There was also the shape and the color of the eyes themselves, the waxy pallor of the skin, and the giveaway shade of the fingernails. In the North, there was no question that this little boy would have been white. In the South he was quite something else.
That’s what these women sitting and talking on the porch knew … what they had come to pride themselves on knowing over the course of their lives. They had developed, out of a kind of social necessity, the uncanny ability to detect negro blood. That, and the ability to sniff out pregnancies before their announcements, and the exact length of gestations, which were also of great concern. Elizabeth remembered being curious as to how her mother had slipped into these discussions so effortlessly, adding to the observations of her southern cousins-in-law as if she herself were from the South. There was something mysterious she must have shared with these women, though Elizabeth did not know what it was. And so Elizabeth listened, her young ears attuned to the private rhythms of the veranda, following the lips of these genteel speakers and learning to see what they saw.
The Spirit Photographer Page 10