Melissa receives a reply from the re-enactors

My phone pings, and to my surprise I see that I have already received a message from one of the re-enactors of The Fergurson's Artillery corps. I read the email with growing excitement.

Miss Gordon,

Your email was forwarded to me by Scott Hastings our secretary at the Ferguson Co. As a private historian with a personal connection to your question, Scott knew that I was most likely to have the information you requested. I confess that I am excited by your message and am delighted that you reached out to us.

Like you, I share a deep pride in my heritage, and revere my ancestors and their accomplishments. I was most intrigued to read the few sample pages that you sent, and hope that I might prevail upon you to share more of this historic firsthand account. I am always pleased to discover new information about my beloved Havenhall.

Charles Manton

Manton Cotton & Tobacco Farms, Inc. Goshen, SC (843) 525 - 0021

A cold shudder runs up my back when I see the name at the end of the email. The shared last name could not be a coincidence. Perhaps, had I not just completed reading about how Miles had tried to **** my distant ancestor my reaction might not be so visceral. I don't know, maybe.

It is twenty minutes later when I finally work up the nerve to call the number in the signature line of the e-mail. The phone rang three times, just long enough for me to second guess my decision to dial the number when it is answered by a warm, husky male voice with a thick, honeysuckle accent. “Hello.”

“Oh good morning, Mr. Manton.” I clear my throat nervously, “I got your e-mail ...”

“Oh, Miss Gordon? My, you didn't take long to respond, did you?”

“I hope I'm not being to forward, by contacting you directly, Mr. Manton.”

“Not at all. I like a girl who's ... responsive.” It's an indication of how worked up I am that I think for a second that the man is being deliberately suggestive. I miss a word or two and have to **** myself to pay attention. “... to get good help these days. Normally, it takes a heap of training to get a girl to hop when I ring the bell.”

Charles Manton let out a hearty laugh. He seemed friendly enough, but there was a patronizing tone in his voice. Was it because I was a woman, or something more?

“Are you a descendent of Miles Manton?” I asked.

“I most certainly am,” he replies. “One of the finest gentleman Charleston has ever produced, and that's saying something. And I assume you're a descendent of the Bianca DiFlorentini, that you mentioned in your diary.”

“Well... I'm not sure, exactly.” I am more than a little thrown off by the man's description of Miles Manton as being a 'fine gentleman' and I'm not sure exactly what to say. “I was delivered her diary, by a lawyer, and I believe she is ancestor of mine, but our relationship isn't entirely clear.”

“Well, I might be able to help you with that. I still have in my possession all the old ledgers.”

“The ledgers?” I said, genuinely confused. “I don't understand.”

“The Havenhall ledgers,” he responds cheerfully. “There's an amazing amount of information that can be gleaned from those day-to-day accounts. Everything from the purchase of a bag of sugar to the sale of a pair of pretty negro sisters to an auction house in Charleston.” Mr. Manton's laughter sounds friendly enough, but it is clear now that whatever happened to Bianca, the plantation somehow ended up in the hands of the Manton family. His comment about the sale of slaves recalls to my mind the sketch of Bianca naked and on her knees in front of all those white men.

Noticing my silence, Manton's laughter ebbs.

“It can be hard sometimes, learning the unvarnished truth, but important. Am I right about that, Melissa?”

“Of course,” my voice cracking slightly. “Absolutely.”

"Good, I don't want to offend." There is a pause just long enough to start feeling awkward. What comes next makes the awkwardness of the silence feel like a day in the park.

“What's your family background, Melissa? If you don't mind me asking. Cause you sound a bit colored. Educated, and sophisticated to be sure, but still black.” To be honest, I did mind him asking, and I'm not sure I've heard the word 'colored' spoken out loud like this before. I have to hold back my anger, careful not to offend this man who might hold many of the answers I need so badly.

“I self-identity as African American,” I answer cautiously, realizing as soon as I said the words that this man was probably not used to this type of language. I was right.

“Well, la-dee-dah!” Charles Manton said, once again treating me to his booming laugh. “Ain't you all high and mighty? Of course, from what little I read about this relative of yours, she might have self-identified as Italian.” Perhaps sensing my growing irritation, the voice on the phone takes on a more conciliatory tone. “I guess when it comes right down to it, we all have some skeletons in our closets. Miles Manton may have been a respected plantation owner, but even he did some things that in this day-and-age sound pretty bad.”

If only he knew!