pain. Yes, they had robbed me of myself, and freedom would never be mine. But there was new life from me and from that, new hope.
Louis took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The shadows in the old cocktail lounge had lengthened. How long had he been reading? He put his glasses on and opened the journal again.
In the winter of 1849, John’s wife and son were sold to a tobacco farmer in Virginia. On January 3, in the dark of the moon, John slipped from his bed and began to run. Scared, starving, and crippled, he eventually crossed into Michigan, where he found shelter in stations on the Underground Railroad.
Louis began to skim the journal now, impatient to see a mention of the Brandt farm. Then, suddenly, there it was.
After dark, I emerged onto a road but I did not know which way to go. I knew only that my destination was to be a farm owned by a man named Amos Brandt. I looked in vain for the North Star but the cloud cover left nothing to light my way. Presently, I encountered a creek and had no choice but to ford its icy water. I saw in the distance a faint light, which I prayed was the safe haven I sought. I was cold and ragged, transformed into a mere ghost of a man by my long journey. And I had nothing but faith to guide me now — and the single name of my next savior, Isabel.
Louis sat back in the booth, stunned. He turned to the next page. John remained hidden in the Brandt barn for the next two days as he regained his strength for the last leg of his journey before he crossed into freedom in Canada. There were rumors of slave catchers in the area, and John knew his owner had put a bounty on his head. Isabel told John he had to leave the next night. On his last night spent in the Brandt barn, John told her about his wife and son. Isabel told him about her son, Charles, and how she worried about him growing up half black.
It is common for white men to be fathers of children by their slaves, but I had never heard a colored woman speak of a white man with love. Yet this Isabel did when she spoke of Amos Brandt. Her love, her forgiveness, this was a balm to my soul which had been so ravaged by hatred. I had no way to thank her. So I gave her the only thing of value I had — a locket that had belonged to my Fanny. It held a lock of my beloved wife’s hair and it had been warmed by its nearness to my heart.
Louis noticed that the writing in the journal had become shakier, as if the dreadfulness of what was to come next had been too much for John LePelle to record.
That last night at the Brandt farm, I awoke to a horrible noise. I heard howling dogs and horses and then the sharp voices of men. Isabel came and told me someone had betrayed her and set the slave catchers on my heels. She led me through a trapdoor and we fell down the hay chute and were quickly outside in the cold. We crept away from the barn and to the edge of the cornfields where Isabel hid me in a root cellar. There I stayed, unable to see but, God help me, I could hear. I heard a woman screaming and when I could not stand it any longer, I crept from the cellar and hid outside the barn. I saw four white men holding Isabel. Another man with eyeglasses stood apart with an expression of smothered horror and I wanted to believe this man was Amos, who could do nothing to help his beloved Isabel.
The men dragged Isabel into the barn, tied her to a hook and raised it until her bare feet just touched the dirt. I saw them whip her until her skin ran red. They wanted me and tortured her for my whereabouts. But Isabel did not betray me. I witnessed this, crouched in the weeds, my eye pressed to a gap in the boards, my body trembling with fear, my heart a dying animal in my chest.
But then I watched in dumb shock as a white woman came into the barn. As she gazed at Isabel’s hanging body I was horrified to see the barest smile tip her lips, and I realized it was she who had betrayed Isabel. The man with the eyeglasses stood at her side as if made from stone. If this was Amos, I cannot ever know. Nor can I know if his heart was as guilty as my own. But the look on that woman’s face I will carry to my grave with certainty.
What else I carry to my grave is of no concern to the readers of this journal. It is an issue between myself and the Lord. That I did nothing to help Isabel that dreadful night was to be my burden for all these years. That I turned away out of fear and ran is my shame.
Isabel died and I went on to live. I lived to become a free man in Canada. I lived to marry again, father four sons and three daughters and many grandchildren, whose abundant love has overridden my old hatreds and taught me to love in kind. I have lived sixty-eight years as a free man, except for the chains around my heart, placed there that horrible night.
The chains will be cast off only when I forgive myself. So I write this journal as the final step toward my freedom. I can only hope that the good Lord will let me make my final amends in Heaven and not in Hell.
Louis closed the journal. He peeled off the thin white cotton gloves, took off his glasses, and leaned back in the booth. The room was dark. The three students had left; their computer screens were blank. He glanced at his watch. It was almost four. His flight back to Tampa left in two hours.
He rose slowly, picking up the journal. There was one light on toward the front, and he walked toward it.
Daphne was sitting at a desk, sorting through some papers, and she looked up as he approached.
He set the journal in front of her. “There’s a long list of names in the back,” he said. “I think they might be John LePelle’s descendants.”
She picked up the journal. “Good. We’ll try to track them down. I’m sure they’d want to know where they came from.”
Louis nodded. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Thank you again for your help.”
“Any time.”
He started toward the door.
“Mr. Kincaid?”
He turned back.
“You didn’t tell me. Did you find what you’re looking for?” she asked.
Louis hesitated, then nodded.
Back outside, he paused to turn up his collar and hurried back across campus to retrieve the rental car. He drove with the window down, the brisk April air still bringing the smell of phantom lilacs. The Burton Tower bell was striking four as he pulled up to the red light on State Street.
A left turn led him south toward the airport. A right turn would take him across the river and up north.
He looked at his watch. It was late, but there was still time.
The light turned green. The car behind him honked once, twice.
Louis swung the wheel to the right and headed north. She was four hours ahead of him, but if he drove fast, he’d be there before dark.
