“Edgar Poe.”
III
Abraham Lincoln and Edgar Allan Poe were born within weeks of each other. Both lost their mothers as children. Otherwise, their upbringings couldn’t have been more different.
After his mother’s death, Poe had been taken in by a wealthy merchant, John Allan (who dealt in slaves, among other commodities). Whisked away from his native Boston, he’d been thoroughly educated in some of England’s finest schools. He’d seen the wonders of Europe that Abe could only read about in books. Around the time Abe swore his vengeance against vampires and staked Jack Barts through the heart, Edgar Allan Poe returned to America, settling with his adoptive father in Virginia and enjoying all the luxuries associated with belonging to one of its wealthiest families. Poe had everything Abe could ever want: The finest education. The finest homes. More books than he could count. A father with no want of ambition.
But he and Abe were equally miserable creatures.
As a first-year student at the University of Virginia, Poe drank and gambled away every penny his foster father sent him, until John Allan finally cut him off. Enraged and abandoned, he fled Virginia for Boston and enlisted in the army under the name Edgar A. Perry, loading artillery shells by day, and writing ever-darker stories and poems by candlelight. It was here, while stationed in the city of his birth, that Edgar Allan Poe met his first vampire.
Using his own money, Poe published a short collection of poems, identifying himself only as “A Bostonian” on its cover (for fear of being mocked by his fellow enlisted men). Of the fifty he paid to have printed, fewer than twenty sold. Notwithstanding this poor reception, one reader saw a particular genius in Poe’s collection, and bribed its printer to learn the author’s true identity. “It was shortly [after this] that I was visited upon by a Mr. Guy de Vere—a widower of considerable means. He explained how he had come to learn my name, and that he had been much affected by my work. He then demanded to know what a vampire was doing serving in the army.”
Guy de Vere was convinced that only a vampire could have written poems with such an outlook on death and grief. Poems of such darkness and beauty.
“He was surprised, then, to find a living man their creator. I was likewise surprised to find myself speaking to a man who was no longer living.”
Poe was endlessly fascinated by the stately, bloodsucking de Vere, and de Vere by the gloomy, brilliant Poe. The two struck up a tenuous friendship, much as Henry and Abe had done. But Poe wasn’t interested in learning about vampires to better hunt them—he wanted to know about the experience of living in darkness, of moving beyond death, so that he could better write about it. De Vere was all too happy to oblige (with the understanding that Poe would never reveal his identity in print). *
Several months after making de Vere’s acquaintance, Poe’s regiment was assigned to Fort Moultrie in South Carolina. With no city to satisfy his appetite for culture, and no means of satisfying his thirst for further vampire knowledge, the army suddenly seemed a prison.
Therefore he had decided to grant himself an “unofficial leave” and come to New Orleans for the stated purpose of “studying vampires”—for de Vere had insisted there was “not a better place in America to do so.” Judging by the number of times he filled and emptied his whiskey glass, he had also come to drink himself to death. We sat that evening in the saloon near Mrs. Laveau’s. Allen Gentry had gone off to “consort with ladies of a certain character,” leaving us free to talk on that subject we enjoyed most, but dared not discuss freely. We spoke well into the night, sharing everything we had read, and heard, and witnessed firsthand regarding vampires.
“How then do they learn to feed?” asked Abe as the barkeep swept the empty tavern around them. “How do they know to shy away from the su—”
“How does a calf know to stand? A honeybee to… to build a hive?”
Poe took another drink.
“It is their nature, beautiful and simple. That you would destroy such beings, Mr. Lincoln, such superior creatures, seems madness to me.”
“That you speak of them with such reverence, Mr. Poe, seems madness to me.”
“Can you imagine it? Can you imagine seeing the universe through such eyes? Laughing in the face of time and death—the world your Garden of Eden? Your library? Your harem?”
“Yes. I can also imagine a want of companionship, and a want of peace.”
“Well, I can imagine a want of nothing! Think of the fortune one could amass, the comforts one could afford, the wonders of the world one could see at his leisure!”
“And when this intoxication has worn away… when every desire is fulfilled and every language learned—when there are no more distant cities to explore; no classics to be studied; not another coin to be stuffed into one’s coffers—what then? One can have all the comforts of the world, but what use are they if there is no comfort in them?”
Abe shared a folktale, one that he had first heard from a traveler on the Old Cumberland Road.
There was once a man who yearned to live forever. Beginning in his youth, he prayed for God to grant him immortality. He was charitable and earnest, honest in his business dealings, true to his wife, and kind to his children. He humbled himself before God, and preached His laws to all who would listen. And yet, he continued to age with every passing year, until he finally died a frail old man. When he reached heaven, he asked, “Lord, why did You refuse to answer my prayer? Did I not live my life according to Your word? Did I not praise Your name to all who would listen?” To which God replied, “You did all of these things. And that is why I did not curse you by answering your prayer.”
“You speak of eternal life. You speak of indulging the mind and body,” said Abe. “But what of the soul?”
“And what use is a soul to a creature that shall never die?”
Abe couldn’t help but smile. Here was a strange little man with a strange way of seeing things. Only the second living man he’d ever met who knew the truth of vampires. He drank to excess and spoke in an irritating, high-pitched voice. It was hard not to like him.
“I begin to suspect,” said Abe, “that you would like to be one of them.”
Poe laughed at the suggestion. “Is not our existence long and miserable enough?” he asked, laughing. “Who in God’s name would seek to prolong it?”
IV
On the following afternoon, June 22nd, Abe wandered along St. Philip Street by himself. Allen Gentry hadn’t returned from whatever depravities he’d enjoyed the night before, and Poe had staggered off to his own boardinghouse at dawn. After sleeping half the day away, Abe had decided that some fresh air and a stroll were desperately needed to chase the fog from his mind and bitter taste from his mouth.
I happened upon some great commotion in the street as I neared the river—a large crowd gathered around a platform, which had been decorated in reds and whites and blues. A yellow banner flew above this makeshift stage, upon which were the words SLAVE AUCTION TODAY! ONE O’CLOCK! More than a hundred men were crowded in front of the platform. More than twice that number of Negroes milled about nearby. Pipe smoke choked the air as prospective buyers mingled—the rare laugh breaking through the din, their pencils and papers held ready as the hour neared. The auctioneer, a man every ounce as plump and pink as a hog, then stepped before them and began: “Honored gentlemen, I am pleased to present the day’s first lot.” Upon this, the first Negro, a man of perhaps five-and-thirty years, took the stage and bowed heartily, smiling and standing tall in his ill-fitting suit (which looked to have been purchased for the occasion). “A bull, name of Cuff! Still in the prime of his strength! As fine a field hand as you are ever likely to see, and sure to sire a brood of sons with backs every bit as sound!” That this “bull” seemed so fervent in his hope of being bought—standing up straight, smiling and bowing as the auctioneer described his many uses—I could not help my pity and revulsion. The rest of this man’s life… all the future generations of his progeny. All of it rested on thi
s moment. All of it in the hands of a man he had never met. A man willing to pay the highest price.
All told, there were more than two-hundred slaves scheduled to be auctioned over a two-day period. For a week leading up to the sale, they’d been held in a pair of barns, where prospective buyers had been free to come and inspect them.
This inspection involved all manner of invasion and humiliation. Men, women, and children, ages three years to five-and-seventy, were made to stand bare before strangers. Their muscles were pulled at; their mouths pried open and their teeth inspected. They were made to walk and bend and lift, lest they be concealing any lameness. They were made to list their talents. To assist in driving up their own price.
This ran counter to their own interests, for the higher the price, * the less likely they would ever be able to save enough money to buy their freedom from the kind masters who allowed them to do so.
The theater of it all! Men and women! Children and infants presented to this surly mob—this collection of so-called gentlemen! I saw a Negro girl of three or four clinging to her mother, confused as to why she was dressed in such clothes; why she had been scrubbed the night before; made to stand on this platform while men shouted numbers and waved pieces of paper in the air. Again I wondered why a Creator who had dreamt such beauty would have slandered it with such evil.
If Lincoln saw any irony in the fact that he had come downriver to sell goods to many of these same plantation owners, he never wrote of it.
“Gentlemen, I now ask your attention be turned to a fine specimen of family if ever there was! The bull by name of Israel—his teeth of the regular sort, and his build uncommonly large. You shall not find a better planter of rice in this or any parish! His wife, Beatrice—with arms and back almost as strong as that of a man’s, yet hands delicate enough to mend a lady’s dress! Their children—a boy of ten or eleven years, fated to become as strong a worker as his father, and a girl of four, her face as sweet as an angel’s. You shall never find four better specimens!”
Each slave followed his own sale with keen interest, his eyes darting around as each bid was shouted out. If he was purchased by a master with a reputation for kindness, or one who had purchased some of his near relations, he would leave the stage with something like contentment—even joy on his face. But if he was sold to a man who seemed especially cruel, or knew that he would never see his loved ones again, the quiet anguish on his face was indescribable.
One buyer in particular drew my interest—a man whose pocketbook seemed bottomless, and whose purchases seemed senseless. He arrived at the auction after it had begun (this alone was unusual) and snapped up a dozen slaves, with seemingly no regard for their sex, or health, or skills. In fact, he seemed interested only in those Negroes described as “bargains.” But his purchases were only part of the reason he drew my suspicion. He was a slender man in a fine waist-length coat—shorter than I (though still quite tall), with a graying beard meant to conceal the scar that ran the length of his face, from his left eye, across his lips, to his chin. He held a parasol to shade himself from the sun, and wore dark glasses over his eyes. If he was not a vampire, he certainly admired their fashion. What was the meaning of it? Why had he purchased two older women of similar abilities? A boy with a lame leg? Why did he need so many slaves at all?
I resolved to follow him and find the answer.
V
Twelve slaves walked barefoot, winding their way north on a muddy road that traced the Mississippi. They were male and female, ranging from fourteen to sixty-six years of age. Some had known each other their whole lives. Some had met only an hour or two before. Each of the twelve had a rope around their waist connecting them to the others. In front of this convoy, their new gray-bearded master; behind it, a white overseer, his rifle ready to cut down any slave who dared to run. Both men rode comfortably on horseback. Abe was careful to keep his distance as they wound their way through the woods.
I walked a quarter of a mile behind the group. Close enough to hear the overseer’s occasional barking, but far enough for my careful footfalls to escape the ears of a vampire.
Night had begun to fall by the time they reached a plantation eight miles north of the city, and a mile from the east bank of the river.
It looked no different than any of the plantations I had seen up and down the Mississippi. A blacksmith’s shop. A tanning yard. A grist mill. Storehouses, machinery, looms, sheds, stables, and some five-and-twenty slave quarters surrounding the planter’s house. These were one-room cabins where a dozen Negroes might live together, sleeping on dirt floors or corn husk beds, their pine torches burning so the women could tend to their quilting work long into the night. By day the dark fields around me would be filled with noise and work. Gangs of a hundred men digging trenches in long rows. Women driving plows in the searing heat. The white overseers riding among them on horseback, looking for the slightest offense to punish by flogging their naked backs. In the center of it all stood the master’s house. Those slaves “fortunate” enough to work here were spared the backbreaking toil of the fields, but by no means was theirs an easy existence, for they were just as likely to be flogged for the slightest transgression. Furthermore, female slaves of any age might well find themselves at the mercy of master’s unspeakable whims.
Abe kept his distance as the twelve slaves were led past the maison principale and into a large barn, the inside lit by torches and hanging oil lamps. Hiding behind a shed some twenty yards away, he had a clear view through the open doors.
Here they were joined by a large Negro (the master and overseer having adjourned to the house). He held a whip, which he cracked at the new arrivals while ordering them to form a line in the center of the barn. Thus arranged, they were made to sit—still joined at the waist by rope. A mulatto woman presently appeared carrying a large basket under her arm (this only serving to increase the apprehension of the newly arrived, for they had doubtless heard stories of slaves being branded by new masters). Happily, the basket was stuffed with food, to which the twelve slaves were instructed to help themselves freely. I watched their eyes shine at the sight of fried pork and corn cakes. Of cow’s milk and handfuls of sugar candies. I saw such relief on their faces, for until this moment, they had been unsure of what cruelties awaited. They could hardly fill their starving bellies fast enough.
Abe wondered if he had been too hasty in his suspicion. Henry proved that there were vampires capable of kindness. Of restraint. Had these slaves been bought for the purpose of being freed? At the very least, would they be treated with compassion?
This feast having gone on for what seemed a half hour, I watched a party of white men walk from the house to the barn. There were ten in all, including the master I had followed from New Orleans. Each varied in age and build—though all looked to be men of some means. On their reaching the barn, the large Negro again cracked his whip and ordered the slaves to their feet, and set about removing the rope from around their waists. The mulatto woman collected her basket and made off with no want of haste.
The white men having assembled near the entrance, one of them handed something to his host (certainly papers of some sort—I suspect they were banknotes) and approached the line of slaves. I watched him pace back and forth, examining each one, until at last he stopped behind an older, thickset woman and waited. One by one, each of the eight others handed his tribute to their host, examined the remaining slaves, and picked his own to wait behind, until all nine guests were in place. The Negroes dared not turn around. Their eyes remained fixed on the ground at their feet. Nine of the slaves now being spoken for, the large Negro led the other three out of the barn and into the dark. What became of these poor souls, I cannot say. I can only speak to the anxiety I felt as they disappeared—for something was about to happen. What it was, I knew not. I knew only that it would be dreadful.
He was correct. Satisfied that the other slaves were out of earshot, the gray-bearded host gave a whistle. Upon this, nine pairs of eyes tur
ned black, nine sets of fangs descended, and nine vampires tore into their helpless prey from behind.
The first vampire grabbed the sides of the thickset woman’s head and twisted it backward so that her chin and spine met—his wretched face her dying sight. Another screamed and writhed when she felt the sting of two fangs in her shoulder. But the greater her struggle, the deeper the wound became, and the more freely her precious blood poured into the creature’s mouth. I saw the head of a boy beaten until his brains poured from a hole in his skull, and another man’s head taken entirely. I could do nothing to help them. Not when there were so many. Not without a weapon. The slave master calmly pulled the barn doors closed to stifle the noises of death, and I ran into the night, my face wet with tears. Disgusted with myself for being so helpless. Sickened by what I had seen. But more than anything—sickened by the truth taking shape in my mind. A truth that I had been too blind to see before.
Abe purchased a black leather-bound journal on Dauphine Street the next day. His first entry, while a scant seventeen words, was a powerful statement of that truth, and one of the most important sentences he would ever write.
Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter Page 10