Chapter 5
Five
They say that deaths come in threes. That tragedy, unlike lightning, strikes the same family over and over. The specter of mourning, once invited in, is loath to leave.
I’ve been on the streets of Charleston for less than a fortnight when I learn of Papa’s death.
The news comes to me in a shred of overheard conversation near the Exchange.
A place Papa despised yet haunted tirelessly, bearing witness to the scourge of slavery.
He’d written down the horrors he’d observed in essays and letters, all signed with his pseudonym, L.
M. Pilco, and sent them to politicians and the northern presses alike.
He insisted slavery would be our nation’s downfall—a stain we would never scrub free.
In doing so, he risked his life and made many enemies here among the wealthy planters of rice, indigo, and sea island cotton, who built their fortunes on the backs of enslaved men and women.
Gathered in the shadows, a raucous crowd stands on the north side of the imposing building, awaiting the arrival of the day’s human chattel and the indoor auction to follow.
I skim along their periphery, on the lookout for the rarefied moments of vulnerability the privileged usually enjoy without consequence.
I feel no guilt taking advantage of them.
No shame in stealing from these men I once danced and flirted with at cotillion, before Papa’s crisis of conscience drove an irrevocable wedge between our family and polite society.
One of the younger Calhoun sons, Patrick, is talking in hushed tones to a man I recognize as one of the Draytons’ overseers—a blight of a man.
While his attention is diverted, I slink forward, fingers darting into Patrick’s trouser pocket.
I retrieve three gold coins and quickly secrete them into the velvet pouch the pawnbroker gave me.
Patrick slips a silver flask from his coat, offers it to the overseer. “Did you hear the news about old Carmichael?”
I freeze in place, stock still.
“Yes.” The overseer laughs, then takes a drink. “Got his comeuppance, didn’t he?”
“Indeed. I heard when they opened the crypt to bury him, his daughter’s body was missing.”
“The pretty one?”
“No. Lillian.” Patrick chuckles. “She and her sister came all the way to Fort Hill for a ball once. Their mother kept shoving ol’ Lil my way, but it was Rebecca who captured my fancy.”
“She’d have been a fun toss, I warrant.” The overseer smacks his lips. “Grave robbers get to Lil, do you suppose?”
Patrick hums. “Probably. Let them scatter her bones to the four winds, for all anyone cares. Good riddance to them all.”
Suddenly, the air is too thin to breathe.
I stand there, swaying slightly, disgust and disbelief running through me like cold water.
As the doors to the Exchange open and the men eagerly rush forward, jockeying for position, I flee and crouch in an alleyway, back against the bricks, trying to catch my breath.
Papa can’t be dead. He can’t be. I just saw him, not even two weeks ago, safe in his study.
Once I’ve gathered my wits, I lift myself from the alley’s cobbles and start walking.
By the time I reach the Neck, and the cemetery, a cold drizzle is falling.
Our mausoleum crouches in the distance, its vaulted roof weeping with rain.
I fight back the growing thrum of panic and set myself apart from my body, my emotions, as I approach the place where I was so recently entombed.
I find the metal outer door, the portal through which I passed days ago, unlocked—an egregious oversight on the undertaker’s part.
Or is it? I remember the foul words I heard from the men outside the slave market.
Our family is hated—despised by Charleston’s elite.
No one cares whether our graves are desecrated, our bodies stolen.
I hesitate before going inside, looking over my shoulder. There’s not a soul about to witness my intrusion. I gingerly push through the mausoleum door, propping a rock in the threshold to prevent it from closing behind me. I’ve been buried alive once. Never again.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the somber light inside the tomb.
A new casket sits where mine was, this one broad and long, its rosewood panels inlaid with gilt.
Someone has cleaned the mausoleum. The remains of my broken casket are gone, the porcelain shards of Saint Peter’s statue swept from the floor.
Still, a slight stale odor lingers in the room—something animal and foul beneath the cloying sweetness of the lilies atop the new casket, reminding me that this isn’t the church it was meant to resemble, but a place of death.
I pull in a shallow, steadying breath and rest my hand on the handsome casket.
I now regret not going to Papa that night I returned home.
My resurrection would have startled him, surely, and I would have needed to swear him to silence.
But might it have saved him, if he knew that I yet lived?
Grief weakened his heart after the twins’ deaths, and Rebecca’s ordeal took an even harsher toll.
But I was his favorite. His grief over my loss may well have been the final blow to his great, loving heart.
Once again, remorse sidles close to me. If only I’d been honest about Rebecca, and what I witnessed. If I’d told the full truth, I might have saved her. Might have saved myself from rotting in a jail cell for two long years. Might have saved Papa from this.
I can feel her spirit nearby. Rebecca. Watching. I turn my head and see her faint outline, near her casket, long red-gold curls obscuring her face. Why won’t she rest?
Grief and guilt wash over me then, cresting like stormwaters over the shore.
I collapse onto the mausoleum floor, leaning my head against Papa’s casket as harsh sobs break free, racking my body.
The urge to see him one last time, to prove to myself that he’s truly gone, becomes a visceral need.
Perhaps it’s all a horrible lie. Perhaps he’s faked his own death and left Charleston to begin anew.
I could see him doing just that, going north, to Washington or Philadelphia, to better plead against slavery’s blight.
I imagine him in some vaulted chamber of government, his voice echoing over a crowd.
A slender, spare thread of hope brings me to my feet. I brace myself against the niche’s arch, gazing down at Papa’s casket. “Forgive me,” I whisper, and before I can talk myself out of my folly, I pry open the lid.
I immediately wish I hadn’t.
The smell of putrefaction assaults me. My father’s corpse is a horror—his face a blackened purple, his fingers bloated and splitting apart, a foul ooze of liquid seeping from his flesh.
The swollen bulwark of his body pushes against the edges of the coffin.
Bile rises in my throat. I turn away and vomit, my senses overcome by the cruel due course of his death.
I drop the casket lid and rush from the mausoleum, fleeing my father’s decimation.
The putrid odor lingers on my skin, in my nostrils.
I kneel on the ground, next to the grave of a child, my stomach purging itself again, until it heaves on emptiness.
I wipe my mouth with my shirtsleeve, stilling at the sound of men’s voices nearby.
I scramble to the back of our mausoleum and crouch among the yews planted there, listening as footsteps approach.
“I heard something, I know I did. Someone wailing.” The man’s voice is deep, sonorous, flavored with a thick Irish brogue.
I clench my teeth and fists. He must have heard me crying.
If he goes into the mausoleum, he’ll see evidence of my presence—my vomit on the floor, the fallen flowers from Papa’s casket, the stone propping open the door.
I should have mastered myself. Should have never opened that casket or come here at all.
The not-knowing was far better. I squeeze my eyes shut, the image of my father’s ruined body stamped forever on my mind.
“Carmichael. Isn’t this the grave that was robbed?” another voice says. It’s familiar, though I can’t quite place where I’ve heard it before.
“Yes, sir,” the Irishman says. “That’s what folks are saying.
But I watch this cemetery, day and night, and I’ve never seen any sign of grave robbers.
The anatomists go to the public cemetery for bodies.
” The mausoleum’s metal door whines. “Funny thing, though. This door was closed this morning, when I got here. Someone’s been inside. ”
“Could have been animals. We’ll have a look and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Not an animal, Officer. Look here. Someone placed a rock, to keep the inner door open.”
It dawns on me, then, where I’ve heard the officer’s voice.
He’s the same one who attended to the dead woman—Sally—on Market Street.
I recognize his clipped cadence. I will myself to remain still as they go inside.
I consider running. But with the dry grass and leaves, they’ll surely hear my footsteps.
My ears strain to make out their muffled conversation, though I can only discern a word or two.
“Vomit” is one of them. I’ve always had a bilious stomach.
A few moments later, they come out again. “Probably just a drunken vagrant,” the constable declares, sniffing. “It’s been cold the last few nights.”
“Gads, how could anyone stand the stench in there?” The Irishman coughs and spits, nearly gagging.
“Explains the vomit, sure enough. But there’s no sign of anything suspicious, Billy.”
“Maybe not now. But you should have seen that other casket, sir. Shattered, like it was hit by a mortar. I’ve never seen the like of it.”
“What are you getting at?”