Mr. Hearst

“Shauna, get your room set up, I’ll have the delivery crew bring up the rest of your things,” Mama called to me from our new kitchen. The clanging of dishes as she sorted the cupboards fostered an atmosphere of excitement. We’d just moved to Memphis from Oakland, California after Daddy’s job required the family to uproot to the South. I missed the crisp Oakland air already, the salt of the freezing bay misting my nose. The Tennessee climate was hot and humid, creating a stickiness in the air that choked my breath. The second I climbed out of our Uhaul van, I immediately felt that steamy moisture coat my body. Nevertheless, I was excited for a fresh change.

I skipped the stairs of our new, century-old farmhouse, each board creaking beneath my weight. My bedroom sat on the upper floor with two windows looking out onto the front yard. It was a large room, but reeked of its age. The musty smell lingered in the walls and floorboards, so I shoved a stale window open to help combat the scent. As I dug through my boxes, I wondered of the stories the house would tell, if it could talk. It was built in the Civil War Era and somehow, still stood in its original foundation. The exterior was painted white with streaks missing from where the paint had stripped off like paper. Windows dotted the home, at least two per side, with rotted flower boxes at the base of each one. In addition, a large wrap-around porch offered much-needed curb appeal, although termite damage was prevalent. The house rested on twenty acres of farmland, accompanied by the ruins of outbuildings peeking through the grass.

The cozy interior of the home was charming, which is the biggest reason Mama chose it. “I need a home that’s unique, like no one else has,” she would always tell Daddy. The kitchen, living room, one bedroom, and the washroom were located on the main floor. Mama admired the natural arches in each doorway and the built-in shelves of the living room. Daddy enjoyed the property surrounding the house. He was desperate to escape the chaos of downtown Oakland. My room and a small library were located on the second level. As I rolled out my favorite navy blue rug, I noticed one of the floorboards at the base of the wall stuck up taller than the others, not much, but enough for my OCD to notice.

I stomped at its creases to flatten it, but instead my tennis shoe heel cracked the board into two pieces, each end now sticking up like a V. Daddy was going to kill me if he discovered I already broke something. I yanked the broken board from its wedged spot and immediately felt my hand coated in sticky spider webs. I peered into the hole I left in the floor and spotted the curled pages of a small book bound in a black, leather case. Curiosity surged through me, so I retrieved the book and found a series of journal entries inside its dusty binding.

December 28, 1865

Learning to read and write. May God aid.

March 16, 1866

Since Mr. Caulfield gave me this book, I have tried to learn literacy. It has been fifty-three years since I wanted to read. I reckon God has blessed me. I want my grandchildren to read someday. I pray their future is not as sufferable as mine.

April 2, 1866

Well I declare it’s blowin’ up a storm. Slaves like myself were freed awhile back. But this got some folks madder than a wet hen. Mr. Caulfield warned me of their tempers. Told me I could come home if I were in danger. He was always such a kind master. If I could Mr. Caulfield, I would be at your steps right now. I miss you dearly. Evelyn does too, but she’s too prideful to admit it. May you rest in peace, Mr. Caulfield.

It soon dawned on me that I was reading the journal of a former slave. As I combed through the diary’s pages, sadness overwhelmed me. My own ancestors were victims of slavery and my great grandfather worked on a sharecropping farm before moving West. This man’s journal emphasized the struggles he had endured continuously since birth. I was intrigued with its contents and gently fingered through its fragile paper.

May 3, 1866

It’s a dark day. A few days ago, a police officer arrested a black man who served in the war. Some of his brothers fought back and now all of Memphis is fightin’ like bulls. Since May 1, people been rioting, killing, and looting in Southern Memphis. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’ve heard many folks have perished. I’ve stayed in with Evelyn. We don’t want the attention. My heart aches with the news that my friends have been slaughtered. Be with God my brothers. May we fight to stand once again.

Immediately, I retrieved my Iphone and researched the events the man was describing. The Memphis Massacre took place in 1866 and forty-six African Americans were killed with hundreds injured. Southern Memphis was nearly burned to the ground in battlefield fashion. I felt a lump in my throat imagining the horrors he must’ve witnessed, the fear he must’ve endured. But my eyes read on.

September 8, 1866

Evelyn and I chose to financially aid a new elementary school being built for black students in Memphis. Since Mr. Caulfield left his inheritance to me, we want to be a part of the South’s reconstruction. The school even put up a plaque of my contribution, reading my name, Eugene Hearst. I reckon this school will help a lot of children. Evelyn is fixin’ to volunteer there too. I’ll write about their progress often.

“So that’s your name, Mr. Hearst,” I whispered to myself, admiring Eugene’s pages before me. The next several entries detailed his love for his wife, Evelyn, whom he’d met at Mr. Caulfield’s horse farm. She always grew daisies and black-eyed susans in those window flower boxes and nagged her husband about their creaking door hinges he’d promised to fix someday. Eugene then went on to describe how he’d been bought by Mr. Caulfield when he was just seven years old, taken from his parents to work on the horse farm. Fortunately, he wrote fondly of Mr. Caulfield, who owned four slaves at the time. Eugene mentioned how his master felt like a long-lost father, a mentor who taught him to ride, train, and shoe horses. Together, Eugene and Mr. Caulfield created a profitable farm before the Emancipation Proclamation occurred. As I read, I found myself becoming one with Eugene Hearst. He was authentic, passionate, and brave, and loved his wife with all his heart. His next entry however, stopped me in my tracks.

January 30, 1867

I don’t want to write today. But I must. It has taken all my courage to open this book. A week ago, my school was set on fire by the Klu Klux Klan. We’d just finished building in the beginning of January too and had nearly fifty children in class for the past four weeks. My soul heaves with every breath. Evelyn was teaching a struggling student how to read as she did every Tuesday with him. The Klan locked our students and teachers inside and poured kerosine everywhere. Then, they lit it up. Evelyn and forty-three children were killed, along with some of their folks. Sorrow fills my heart. Anger claims my body. I want death upon the KKK. An eye for an eye is an understatement in my mind. I will forever miss you Evelyn. Rest easy, my love.

My heart shattered for Eugene. At this time, I could no longer hold back my tears and let them flow freely onto his pages. I couldn’t understand how he endured so much hatred. The thought that my own ancestors faced these challenges hit me like a truck. The same hardy blood that flowed through Eugene’s veins was shared by my ancestors. I felt the pride of heritage rise within me, but anger soon followed.. It was difficult to accept how cruel some people could be. The following entries broke me even further. Eugene documented his new life without Evelyn, how it held no meaning and how everything he’d worked for had been destroyed by the Klu Klux Klan. They seemed to target him because he was a wealthy African American, a rarity at that time.

March 23, 1867

The KKK is after me. I used more of Mr. Caulfield’s inheritance to build a friend a home after the KKK burned it down. I reckon they’re fixin’ to lynch or hang me. I ain’t scared for my death, but for the moments leading to it. I reckon I will join Evelyn soon in paradise, I only pray my death be hasty. Because my time on Earth is short, I have requests for whoever finds this diary.

First, I have no living relatives. Slavery and the war has stripped them all from me. I’ve hidden the remainder of Mr. Caulfield’s inheritance on this land. There’s $20,000 left. It is yours. Use it not for your own desire, but to further the growth of kindness and equality. I’ve drawn a map at the back of this book where you’ll find the money buried.

My second request is to make Evelyn’s name known. She was such a remarkable woman, caring and kind, and prettier than a peach. She deserves a place in history. With that, I bid you. If I write again, let it be a gift I have not perished at the hands of hatred.

I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. “If that money is there, I swear to you Mr. Hearst, that I will make you and Evelyn known. I won’t let you down,” I promised to him. I flipped through the remaining blank pages, desperate to find another entry, but none were made. I felt my throat close and chest ache with heaviness. I pulled myself together for a moment and called downstairs to my parents. When they entered my room, concern flooded their eyes at my current emotional state.

“I found this in the floor. Read it.” They took the black notebook and joined me on the dirty floorboards, devouring the pages’ contents. Within a few entries, Mama’s soft sobs could be heard clearly and Daddy stopped often to process the depth of Eugene’s words. When they had finished his last entry, Daddy wiped a single tear from his deep brown eyes. He clutched the book firmly in his hands and stood to his feet abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Mama questioned.

“I’m going to find shovels,” he announced. “Eugene Hearst shouldn’t wait any longer to have his story told.”