That last one was particularly cruel.
Different prospects was a polite way of saying a husband who can give us grandchildren.
By December 1858, my father had stopped trying.
We ate dinner together in silence most nights.
The clink of silver on china, the only sound in the massive dining room.
Sometimes he’d look at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
Disappointment certainly, but also something like desperation.
The explosion came in March 1859.
It was late evening and my father had been drinking more than usual.
I was in the library reading meditations by Marcus Aurelius when he burst in.
Thomas, we need to talk.
I sat down the book.
Yes, father.
He sat down heavily bourbon sloshing in his glass.
I’m 58 years old.
I could die tomorrow or live another 20 years, but either way, I’ll die eventually.
And when I do, what happens to all this? He gestured vaguely at the room, the house, the plantation beyond.
The estate will go to our nearest male relative, I suppose.
Cousin Robert in Alabama.
Cousin Robert, my father spat, is an incompetent drunk who’s lost two small plantations to bad debt.
He’d sell this place within a year and drink away the profits.
Everything I’ve built, everything my father built before me would be gone.
I’m sorry, father.
I know this isn’t the situation you wanted.
Sorry doesn’t solve the problem.
He stood up, began pacing for 18 months.
I’ve tried everything.
18 months of searching for a wife who’d accept you despite your condition.
No one will.
No one wants a husband who can’t produce heirs.
That’s the reality.
I know.
So, I’ve had to think creatively, very creatively about solutions that that push the boundaries of convention.
Something in his tone made me uneasy.
What do you mean? He stopped pacing, looked directly at me.
I’m giving you to Delilah.
I stared at him, certain I’d misheard.
I’m sorry.
What? Delilah the field hand.
I’m giving her to you as your companion.
Your wife in practical terms.
The words made no sense.
Father, you cannot possibly be suggesting.
I’m not suggesting.
I’m telling you what’s going to happen.
His voice was hard now.
The voice he used in court when pronouncing sentence.
No white woman will marry you.
That’s established fact.
But the Callahan line needs to continue.
The plantation needs heirs, even if those heirs are unconventional.
The full horror of what he was proposing hit me.
You want me to with a slave woman? Father, that’s even if I could, which the doctors say I can’t, that’s not how inheritance works.
A child from a slave woman wouldn’t be your heir.
They’d be property.
Unless I free them.
Unless I legally adopt them, unless I structure my will very carefully, which as a judge and lawyer, I’m uniquely qualified to do.
This is insane.
This is necessary.
He sat down again, leaning forward.
Thomas, listen to me.
I’ve thought this through from every angle.
You can’t produce children.
The doctors were unanimous about that.
But children can be produced on your behalf.
Delilah is strong, healthy, intelligent.