Page 13 of The Memories of Bellevue (The Bellevue Trilogy)

After all, he ate and drank and did business with these men – rich, plantation owners who looked and acted just like him. What reason had I to assume my father was going to be different and rise above the fray? In my naiveté, I had assumed too much. He had an inherited legacy to maintain. If my father could buy and sell human beings without remorse, why wouldn’t he also take a woman and make her his concubine?

Chapter Eight

Two weeks had since passed since my fight with Marcus. Our doctor, Buck Mason, had managed to pop his joint back in place with one swift move. Aside from the swelling and pain, Marcus was fine. Yet, it was obvious that he, and perhaps his father, were going back to Lutcher with a little less bravado. As promised, my father was giving me the “talk”, or rather, a grand chastisement about the whole affair. The lecture had been going on for what seemed like an hour and my mind had started to drift.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” my father demanded angrily. “I thought I taught you better.”

“You taught me what you know.”

His frown deepened. “Careful,” he warned. “The ice you’re skating on can’t get much thinner.”

“But why are you blaming me? Marcus was the one out of line.”

A look of disgust took over my father’s face. “So, you return his ignorance with a bit of your own? You punch him in the face and dislocate his arm…quite a gentlemanly act.”

“My actions were justified.”

My father stood up to pour himself a drink. “Always defending the darkies,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were my brother’s son. But mark this, we already have one abolitionist in the family, we don’t need another one.”

“So, you prefer that I stand by and let him attack Jeyne, who is, after all,yourproperty?”

“I know how much you love the nigras,” he said, his tone almost light. “You grew up with them. But they’re stillnigras. Nothing more, nothing less. The only ones you should fight for are those you stand to get money for, and even then you may have to walk away.”

“I disagree,” I said, my jaw tightening. “They’re human beings, not animals.”

After long pause he said, “I tell you what, why don’t you go out there, get one of those field nigras and give them your place at the table tonight. Allow him five-course meal. Better yet, we’ll give him your room, even some of your clothes. He can even sleep in your bed, but…you’ll have to sleep in his, mind you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I meant every word of it. But your reply – or should I say, lack thereof – suggests that your bleeding heart isn’t so generous when there are higher stakes involved.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, so you fancy yourself to be an Abolitionist like my brother?”

“There are worst things to be.”

“Yes, a poor man, for one,” he said sharply. “And that is what you’ll be if you free all the nigras.”

“I’d rather be poor than enslave another.”

“Is that right?” he asked with a sardonic smile. “So, you’re going to walk away from all these privileges -- a comfortable home, an education, fine clothes, all the food you can eat…to free anigra? I don’t think so. Now, if I were you, I’d get off that high horse of yours and start writing that letter of apology to the Rileys.”

Swallowing a quick shot of the bourbon, he sat down and began leafing through his papers. He was done talking.

As for Marcus’ revelation, it had done more than anger me. It had driven home the ugliness of plantation life and forced me to look at my father with new eyes. After all, he ate and drank and did business with these men – rich, plantation owners who looked and acted just like him. What reason had I to assume my father was going to be different and rise above the fray? In my naiveté, I had assumed too much. He had an inherited legacy to maintain. If my father could buy and sell human beings without remorse, why wouldn’t he also take a woman and make her his concubine?

From the time I was a boy, I had refused to accept the concept of “Master” and demanded all the slaves call me by my name; I was too young to be a master to anyone. I was also of the mindset that everyone was equal, no matter what our slaves insisted on calling me. This hard-lined stance of mine greatly upset my father who felt it was necessary to keeping the slaves in line and reminding them of their place.

But unlike many Southern boys my age who understood the realities of slavery, I hated it. Scarcely a day went by in which some slave was not whipped or beaten within an inch of his life on our plantation, beatings that were doled out firsthand by our overseer, violent scenes that would have made even the steeliest of men cringe. I had seen too often the mutilated bodies of slaves who had dared to escape, their flesh torn apart by the hunting dogs. And if the beatings and mutilations weren’t enough, the dramatic scenes at the auction block should have been -- scenes of hysterical Negro women grabbing and clawing at their children as they were being sold. All this should have been enough to shame every white man alive.

Because of these realities, my affection for Jeyne turned into fierce possessiveness. But I wanted to do more than just protect her, I wanted to take her away from the ravages of slavery altogether. The thought of carrying out such an endeavor initially overwhelmed me. But when the full idea finally crystallized in my mind, I had no choice but to see the plan to its end.

Chapter Nine

It was early morning and the summer humidity was already clinging to my skin as I checked the reins on Beauty, a stunning ebony mare I had helped to raise.

“When you comin’ back?”

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