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
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
“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
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 this 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.
