The Immortelles

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I guess that’s me.”

  “Go ahead and just read it.”

  Jeff continued through the first chapter to verse thirteen:

  A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of campfire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.

  Jeff looked up, a puzzled light in his brown eyes. “I must confess, Father, I don’t know what this book is doing in the Bible.”

  “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s a book about love, Jeff,” the old man said. “Everybody’s interested in love, I suppose.”

  “But this is so—strange. Listen to this: ‘He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.’” Jeff shook his head. “This is a pretty graphic love scene.”

  “Yes, it is. The whole book, on the surface, is about the love of a man and a woman. It’s taking a look at the physical side of the marriage relationship.”

  “But why is it in the Bible?”

  “I think God uses this book as He uses others: to show us His love for man. After all, Jeff, the highest form of love on earth is probably between a husband and a wife. The apostle Paul said that the two become one flesh. I don’t know of any other relationship that creates such a complete union. Yes, I think it’s a picture of Christ and His church, expressed in terms of a human marriage. You remember that Paul said that the church is the bride of Christ. And in the Old Testament, Israel was the wife of Jehovah.”

  “It’s so sensual.”

  “So is marriage, Jeff. That’s part of the love between men and women. There are other parts. When the sensual passes away, there’s still love there, but for a time, physical love is part of marriage. And God honors it. Only worldly people and those with impure minds find something shameful about the marriage bed.”

  Jeff continued reading, pausing from time to time to let his father speak of what the verses meant to him. He knew his father was a truly devout Christian, but they didn’t often read the Bible together. This night, Irving seemed unusually talkative.

  When Jeff finished the book, Irving looked tired, but a light still shone in his eyes as he looked at his son. “One day, you’ll get married, Jeff, and I hope you find the woman that God’s created just for you.”

  Jeff smiled. “You’re very romantic. You believe that marriages are made in heaven.”

  “I believe that God made Isabelle for me, and me for her.”

  “You loved her very much.”

  “Perhaps too much. Jeff, find a woman and love her as this book sets it out. Let her be the fairest thing in this world to you.”

  Jeff saw tears in his father’s eyes, and this shocked him. He sat quietly until his father said, “I think I’ll sleep now, son. Thanks for reading to me.”

  Jeff removed some of his father’s pillows, then took his hand. He held it in both of his. It felt as thin and feeble as the bones of a young bird. “I’ll remember what you said about finding the right woman. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Jeff.”

  Jeff turned the lamp down very low and left the room. In the hall, he met Olga, who asked, “Is he all right?”

  “He’s not as well as I’d like. He was in an odd mood tonight. He talked about his wife.”

  “Vat did he say?”

  “He talked about how much he loved her, and how he wants me to find a woman I can love that way.”

  “He is such a good man. I pray every night and every morning, too, und all day that Gott vill get him up from dot bed.”

  “So do I, Olga.” He put his arm around the woman, hugged her, and said, “Good night.”

  Jeff went to his own bedroom then, undressed, and got into bed. He was tired to the bone; he had started his day at five o’clock, and now it was after midnight. Yet he lay unable to sleep, thinking about the evening with his father. Finally he realized, Something is troubling him. But I don’t know what it is. As he pondered what it could be, sleep overtook him.

  For the next two days, Jeff worked hard and rode home as quickly as he could, in case his father wanted to talk some more, but Irving kept conversations short. Jeff grew more and more convinced that something was disturbing his father, but he respected the old man’s privacy and would not ask him outright.

  On Thursday night, Irving ate very little and went to sleep early in the evening. Jeff was in the library next door to his father’s bedroom, reading, when he heard Irving’s bell ring. He jumped to his feet and met the housekeeper in the hall, coming from the kitchen. “I’ll see to him, Olga.”

  He entered Irving’s room and saw that the bed was rumpled, as if his father had been thrashing around. Irving looked up at him with desperate eyes.

  “What is it, sir? Are you in pain?”

  “Not physically.”

  Jeff hesitated, then said, “You didn’t bring me up to be nosy, but I wish you’d tell me what it is.” For a moment, he thought that he had stepped over the line: His father stared at him almost harshly. He began to apologize, but Irving interrupted him.

  “Sit down, Jeff. I must talk to you.”

  Jeff pulled a chair close to his father’s bed and leaned forward, his hands clasped together.

  The words came from the older man slowly. “You’re right. I am troubled. I have tried to keep this thing to myself, but I can’t do it any longer, son.”

  Jeff had no idea what was coming. He said, “Tell me, Father. If it’s something I can fix, I’ll do it.”

  The gaslight burned steadily, throwing shadows on the face of Irving Whitman. His cheeks were thin, his lips pale. He closed his eyes for a time, and when he opened them to meet those of his son, they showed torment. “I have something to confess to you, Jeff. It may be that you will despise me after you’ve heard what I have to say.”

  “That won’t happen!”

  “Perhaps it should. I committed a terrible sin, Jeff.”

  “I can’t believe that, sir.”

  Irving began to tremble, and he lowered his head. Finally he said, “It was five years after my wife died, Jeff. God knows I loved her more than life, and after I lost her, I nearly lost my mind. I was so lonely, Jeff. I really had no one until I adopted you, and you were only a child.”

  Jeff did not move. He had never seen his father in this mood. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

  “There was a young woman, a slave on the plantation. She was a beautiful quadroon. Her name was Bethany. I . . . I don’t know how it happened. I had never had any affairs, but without going into details I had a . . . relationship with her. She had no choice, of course. I think she really cared for me.”

  Irving broke off then and found it difficult to speak. “I cared for her, too. I can’t explain how I could so turn aside from everything that I knew was right. I wasn’t a Christian at the time, but I knew what I did was wrong. Then I found out she was pregnant, and I was scared to death.”

  Jeff did not move a muscle, nor did the shock that he felt show in his face. He waited and finally, when his father seemed unable to continue, he whispered, “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? She was a black woman in the eyes of the society I grew up in. I went around for weeks in agony not knowing what to do. When I found out she was carrying my child, I panicked. I . . . I sold her to a neighboring planter named Franklin Demarr.”

  “You’re not the first man to fall into temptation,” Jeff said quietly.

  “Don’t make excuses for me! I was absolutely miserable, and I took the easy way out. I buried myself in work, but I never could forget Bethany, for I knew that I had wronged her terribly. I tried to make up
for what I had done by being a good man, but I could never put it away.” Suddenly, he turned and faced Jeff. “How can I face God with this on my soul, Jeff?”

  Jeff swallowed hard. “You’ve asked God to forgive you, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, and God did save me. And I thank Him for it, and for the blood of Jesus. But Jeff, I owe this woman and this child something.”

  “You want me to help you with this, don’t you, Father?”

  “Yes. I want you to find Bethany and the child, and I want you to purchase them. I want you to buy them out of slavery and bring them here so we can give them a better life. Will you do this?”

  Jeff took his father’s hands. He saw the tears in his father’s eyes and felt some in his own. “Yes. I’ll leave right away, and I will do exactly as you say. I’ll find the woman and the child, and I’ll do whatever I can to help them.”

  Chapter eight

  Jeff stepped off the train, half-choked by the cinders that poured out of the engine. His bag in hand, he immediately looked around for a carriage. Independence, Missouri, had only a small train station, and he soon spotted two carriages along the curb. He walked toward the man standing by the first one and asked, “Can you take me into town?”

  “Yes, sir.” The speaker was ruddy-faced, wearing a pair of brown trousers and a flamboyant yellow shirt. He grabbed Jeff ’s bag, tossed it in the back carelessly, and then hopped to the seat. “Where can I take you, sir?”

  “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.”