Arsenic And Old Books

TWENTY-FIVE

Though Rachel Long did not use the word pregnant, I knew that was what she meant by Celeste’s condition. Franklin Singletary was the father of a slave’s child.

I wondered whether that bit of family history had been passed down to the present generation.

In the next few entries Rachel made no mention of Celeste or the Singletarys. Then came the sad news, on November 16, 1861.

Franklin Singletary came today to tell us that the three younger children died in the night. They remained feeble, their sickness unabated, since the summer. The weather of the past weeks was harmful to them, I am certain. Cold, wet, damp, it could not have helped their poor frail lungs. I take some comfort knowing that at least they had warm garments from the cloth I provided. Franklin reports that Vidalia is so weak she cannot move from her bed and his father is prostrate with grief at the loss of his children.

Franklin most humbly begged for assistance to dig the graves, for his father has no workers to aid him. Jasper Singletary was most vehement against the use of slave labor, an attitude that of course did not aid his cause among his fellow citizens. Father Long kindly offered him the use of two of the young, strong field hands, and they went with Franklin to perform the sad duty.

Even at the distance of one hundred and fifty years, I felt the grief of such a tragic loss. Poor Jasper Singletary. No wonder the man was out of his mind—or that his wife died of a broken heart. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than outliving one’s child, let alone three children.

I had to take a break from the diary. My head needed clearing after reading such a heartrending story. Diesel, bless him, sensed my distress. He chirped and leaned from the windowsill to butt his head against my shoulder. He continued to chirp and purr while I stroked him. I felt better after a couple of minutes of special Diesel therapy.

I still didn’t feel like going back to the diary. There was only so much pathos I could take in a day. As Diesel settled back on the windowsill to clean his front paws, I debated what to do. There were always books waiting to be cataloged, but there was another task I suddenly remembered needed doing.

“I’m going next door, boy,” I told the cat. “You stay here and nap.” Diesel answered me with a sleepy meow and a yawn.

With all the other things on my mind, I had forgotten about searching through the Long collection to find the copy of Angeline McCarthy Long’s memoir of Rachel Long that Miss Eulalie said she donated.

In the storage room next to my office I unlocked the door and switched on the lights. I left the door slightly ajar in case Diesel came to look for me. I remembered where the Long collection was shelved and headed to the far end of the room from the door.

I surveyed the shelves and made a mental calculation of the collection—probably around twenty linear feet, I reckoned. That was a good-sized collection. Much of it consisted of correspondence, but there were also copies of wills and deeds, along with maps of the Long family’s extensive property both around Athena and in the Mississippi Delta. I located the finding aid to the collection put together by Miss Eulalie on one of the shelves and started skimming through it.

The contents of each box was listed under the various categories. I found no mention of books in any of the boxes, but the list for the final box in the collection noted it simply as Miscellany. Accordingly I moved to the shelf that housed the box and pulled it down, noting that it was lightweight.

After slipping on a pair of cotton gloves, I opened the box on the worktable and delved through the contents. There were three books inside, but none was the memoir I sought. They appeared to be old schoolbooks from the early twentieth century. Interesting, but not pertinent to my present search. I also found three briar pipes, each in a box with a label denoting the owner, Adalbert Long. I wasn’t sure where he fit into the family tree, but I remembered that the name Adalbert cropped up frequently among the Longs. The final object was a file folder that contained several pieces of sheet music. I checked their copyright dates, and they were of 1890s vintage. Again, interesting but not pertinent.

I replaced the box on the shelf and considered whether I should go through all the boxes in the collection to search for Miss Eulalie’s copy of the memoir. I couldn’t believe the former archivist would have put the book in another box and not have noted it in the finding aid. Still, I decided, I had better check.

Fifteen minutes later, having gone through all the boxes, I came up empty-handed. Either Miss Eulalie had knowingly lied to me or someone had removed her copy of the memoir from the collection. I didn’t like to think of Miss Eulalie as a liar, but she was probably protecting someone. The question was whom.

I peeled off the gloves and discarded them before I locked the storeroom and went back to the office. I found Diesel still asleep on the windowsill. He raised his head groggily and yawned when I resumed my seat at the computer. I patted his head a couple of times, and he settled down to sleep again.

I called up the website of the Mississippi Department of Archives and History. I wanted to search their online catalog for a copy of the memoir. No luck, however. Then I searched an online database that claimed to be the world’s largest online catalog. Again, nothing.

The memoir of Rachel Long was indeed a rare item. I would have to ask the mayor whether the family had a copy. I knew there was a large library at Bellefontaine, the antebellum mansion that had been home to the Longs since the 1830s. If they didn’t have a copy, I would have to hope one of the two missing copies turned up. Otherwise I would never know what clues it might contain to the bizarre events of the past few days.

I needed to get back to the diary for now. I would deal with the memoir later. I found my place and began to read.

Two weeks after Rachel recorded the death of the three little Singletarys—how sad that she didn’t even mention their names, I thought—she noted the death of Vidalia Singletary.

As a mother myself I understand the grief of a woman who has lost all three of her children at once. I doubt that I could withstand such a horror, and it is no wonder to me that poor Vidalia did not have the will to live through this harsh winter. Far better to be reunited with her loved ones in the Kingdom of Heaven than to suffer their loss in this sad and frightening world. As the war continues I wonder how we will continue the fight and whether our cause is worth such bloodshed and loss.

I felt Rachel’s anguish, and I could have told her that no, it wasn’t worth it. The loss of all that life, those years of privation and hardship, weren’t worth it, particularly to preserve such a heinous system in which persons were property just like plows and chairs.

Rachel continued to mention the harsh winter and the difficulties caused by the weather. Her parents-in-law suffered particularly, her mother-in-law struck down by pneumonia. She died two days after Christmas. Rachel recorded the fact but did not elaborate, saying only that her own husband would be devastated when he received the news. He was last known to be in Virginia, and she had written but had no idea when, or if, the letter would reach Major Long.

The entry for January 3, 1862, contained startling news. I shared Rachel’s shock, once I read through it completely.

Franklin Singletary came to speak to Father Long today, and though I was not privy to the conversation, Mr. Long later shared with me the gist of it. Father Long is most anxious that I should agree with the scheme that Franklin has proposed, but I am reluctant. In the end, however, I fear I shall have no choice because Father Long is so insistent.

Franklin is obsessed with Celeste, it seems, and with the child she will bear him. He has proposed to Father Long that he and his father will cede one hundred and fifty acres from their farm in return for Celeste and her unborn babe. Franklin will take the necessary steps to have Celeste declared a freewoman. While I admire his determination to win freedom for Celeste—a state to which I have no objection—I am fearful of the outcome. Celeste is light in color and may almost pass for white, owing to the fact that both her father and grandfather were white men who had relations with her mother and grandmother, but by law she is black. Franklin cannot marry her, because the law forbids it. He may call her his wife, but in law she cannot be, and any child of their union will be illegitimate.

I wonder that Jasper Singletary has agreed to this, for he has for many years resisted the attempts of Father Long to buy this same land. Jasper has lost all hope, it seems, because of his tragic losses, and perhaps that is why. Father Long insists that my husband would agree that I should sell Celeste for this parcel of land. Celeste herself has begged me, and I find I cannot withstand such pleas, no matter my worries for her welfare and that of her child. They will be desperately poor, with little good farmland left, and they will face the opprobrium of the townspeople. I foresee nothing but ill fortune awaiting them.

I hadn’t yet finished reading the diary but I closed the file and turned away from the computer. I wondered how the current Jasper Singletary would feel when he read all this. It could come as a great shock to him that his great-great-grandmother was a freed slave.