Mary Miller
The elevation of the white race, and the happiness of the slave, vitally depend upon maintaining the ascendancy of
one and the submission of the other.
Chief Justice Watkins of the Arkansas Supreme Court, 1854
This much we know: that on a bright, spring morning in 1843, Madame Carl Rouff left her timber-framed house in
Lafayette to travel across New Orleans to visit a friend who lived in the Faubourg Marigny. It was a distance of four
miles, following the bend of the Mississippi as it turned abruptly on itself in its winding course to the Gulf. She
caught the mule-driven omnibus along Tchoupitoulas Street to the city, a journey of an hour and a quarter, swaying
gently as she watched the unloading of the keelboats, skiffs, and packets anchored alongside the levee. She had allowed
herself plenty of time, so it was without urgency that she alighted and crossed the expanse of Canal Street to enter
the Vieux Carr. She had only a vague idea of how the streets fit together in the narrow grid at the back of the Place
d’Armes, so doggedly she followed Bourbon Street, hoping eventually to run into Esplanade Avenue, which would guide her
to her destination.
She entered an area of narrow streets and alleys where a jumbled variety of wooden tenements leaned against one another
for support. For decades, poor Spanish-speaking families had lived there, but increasingly their homes were being
bought up by Amricain speculators who had converted them into flophouses, gambling dens, and bawdy houses for the
boatmen who poured in from the riverfront each evening. It was an area of New Orleans where no respectable woman should
venture, even in daylight. Set incongruously in its midst, enclosed by a high wall on three sides, was the Ursuline
Convent.
As Madame Carl crossed the street, she felt the heat of the sun reflecting off the surface of the road. She hadn’t been
feeling well for some months, so it was no surprise to her when she suddenly felt light-headed. She placed a hand on
the front rail of one of the houses and took a moment to recover her breath. In front of the nunnery was a small marble
statue of a tormented Jesus, a showy display of Catholic idolatry of which she disapproved. Running down to the levee
was a terrace of narrow buildings of weather-bleached clapboards. On the front doorstep of one, sat a woman bathed in
sunlight, her legs drawn to her chest, her head resting on her knees.
Madame Carl waited, hoping she would soon feel better. She watched a black man push a barrow of watermelon from the
waterfront; some urchins, naked to the waist, scrambled to kick a rag ball along the gutter. After a minute or two, she
felt strong enough to continue. She pushed herself off the rail. She was no more than three paces from the sidewalk on
the other side of the street when the woman sitting on the step sighed deeply and, with her eyes closed, faced into the
sun. Madame Carl stopped and took a sharp intake of air. She knew her. It was Dorothea Mller.
Madame Carl held still, fearful that if she moved, the marvel would end. The same high cheekbones, the same smooth,
olive skin, the same full mouth. Dorothea Mller. On that stinking, foul ship, tossing endlessly on the Atlantic, she
had watched Dorothea’s husband carry her body onto the deck, wrap it in a canvas sheet, and slide the bundle into the
sea.
Dorothea, whispered Madame Carl to herself. She was looking at the death mask of someone who had died over a quarter of
a century ago. Dorothea! Her dearest friend, her school companion in a village half a world away.
The woman opened her eyes and Madame Carl stared intently into her face. She was as Madame Carl remembered her, seated
just like that, on the front step of Frau Hillsler’s house.
How are you, Dorothea? asked Madame Carl, her voice quavering with emotion. The woman didn’t answer. Gently Madame Carl
repeated the question. She took a few steps closer and bent over her. Where have you been, Dorothea? It’s been so long.
The woman, discomfited by Madame Carl’ss gaze, shook her head.
But, of course, this couldn’t be Dorothea. Madame Carl recoiled at her own stupidity. Then it struck her with a clear
and abiding certainty. It was Dorothea’s lost daughter, Salom. Madame Carl stood spellbound. Salom, she whispered. Is
that you, Salom?
My name is Mary Miller, missus.
Madame Carl looked at the woman in bewilderment. You are Salom, the child who was lost.
The woman shook her head once more. Madame Carl flinched in disappointment. She didn’t know what to say. She began to
feel ill again and leaned against the wall of the building for support. She studied the figure beneath her. The woman
wore a tignon of brightly colored madras cotton and a dark kersey shawl over a long dress of coarse linen. They were
slave’s clothes. Her face was tanned and her hands were engrained with dirt. Unsettled by the attention of Madame Carl,
the woman stooped her shoulders in submission. At that gesture of huddled servility, it occurred to Madame Carl that
the woman might be a slave. It was an appalling thought that hit her in the pit of her stomach. How could this be?
Madame Carl’s thoughts tangled in confusion. Was her mind unraveling in the heat?
Please, whispered Madame Carl.
The woman looked up. I am a yellow girl. I belong to Mr. Belmonti, she said, inclining her head toward the interior of
a shop behind her.
Madame Carl straightened and took a deep breath. Could she be mistaken? The two women glanced fleetingly into each
other’s eyes, hoping to understand the other’s thoughts. Madame Carl asked her to remove her tignon. The woman on the
doorstep paused, then reached behind her head, unwrapped the cloth, and shook her head, unfurling long, dark auburn
locks. The hair was Dorothea’s, but it was the woman’s action-the toss of her head, the sensual delight in the display
that took Madame Carl’s breath away. Again Madame Carl was shaken, but she pressed on. You are not rightly a slave, she
said. You are Salom Mller.
There was a blank expression on the woman’s face, then a look of puzzlement, followed by a slow grin as she pondered a
joke she didn’t get. Then, finding no answer, she bowed her head in deference.
You are of pure German blood, urged Madame Carl, her voice rising. I knew your mother. I know you. We came together to
this country-on the same ship-twenty-five years ago. You are German.
As she waited for a response, Madame Carl’s attention was snagged by a shadow moving in a room of the house behind the
woman. Madame Carl turned and caught a glimpse of a moon-faced man with a bushy mustache who was leaning forward to
listen to their conversation. He stepped back out of view. Salom’s owner, she supposed. A Frenchman. She looked
around, noticing for the first time that she was standing outside a barroom of some sort-inside the front parlor were
tables and chairs, and a bench containing bottles of colored liqueurs and a cabinet of cigars. She turned back to the
woman on the doorstep. Please don’t be afraid. I can help you. You are German.
No, I am Mary Miller and I belong to Mr. Belmonti. You ask him. Her eyes begged to be left alone.
Please listen to me. You are not a slave. You are from the Mller family.
There was no response. It was hopeless. Madame Carl wondered if she should speak to the woman’s owner, but that would
take more strength than she felt she could muster. She could take no more. Abruptly she turned and walked away. At the
corner she stopped and looked back. The doorway was empty. It was as if the woman had never existed. In her place stood
her master, a tall, plump man smoking a cigar.
Over a century ago, two Louisiana writers, J. Hanno Deiler (a professor at Tulane University in New Orleans) and George
W. Cable, working independently of each other, told the story of the Lost German Slave Girl. Deiler’s article appeared
as a pamphlet in a German-language newspaper in New Orleans in 1888. Cable’s version appeared in The Century
Magazine of 1889 and was later included as a chapter in his Strange True Tales of Louisiana. Since neither
spoke to either Madame Carl or Mary Miller, their reports of the conversation between the two women were clearly
imaginative creations, derived from hand-me-down renditions supplied by relatives. The version presented here is
adapted from both these sources and from the notes of evidence of the trial when Salom Mller sought her freedom in
the First District Court of Louisiana in 1844.
In Cable’s version, on the very day Madame Carl discovered Mary Miller, she enticed her away for a few hours so that
she could show her to members of the German community in New Orleans. However, according to the lawyer who represented
Salom Mller in her quest for freedom, this didn’t happen until “the following day, or shortly after”. Whenever it
was, soon after the initial meeting Madame Carl managed to convince Mary Miller to accompany her across New Orleans to
the house of Francis and Eva Schuber in Lafayette. Eva Schuber was Salom Mller’s cousin and godmother, and had
accompanied the Mller family on the voyage to America. If anyone could confirm to Madame Carl that she had found the
lost girl, it would be Eva.
The journey to Eva Schuber’s house took Madame Carl and Mary Miller through the market of the Vieux Carr. Madame Carl
was surprised, then disconcerted, to see that her companion was known to many of the black labourers in the market.
Madame Carl had to wait as Mary stopped to talk to a half-naked man carrying chickens tied by the legs to a pole
balanced across his shoulders, then to some slaves loading boxes of vegetables on to a dray. A Negro butcher wearing an
apron spotted with blood called out to her. Madame Carl waited patiently while Mary chattered for a few moments, and
then together they walked to Canal Street. From there they caught the omnibus to Lafayette.
Nowadays, Lafayette is part of the urban sprawl of New Orleans, but in the 1840s the area near the river was given over
to market gardens, slaughterhouses, bone grinders, and tanners. Eva Schuber and her husband lived in a narrow timber
house of two stories on the corner of Jersey and Jackson streets.
Eva Schuber later gave evidence to the First District Court about what occurred on the day her goddaughter was returned
to her. She said she was standing on the front steps of her house when she saw Madame Carl opening the front gate. She
hadn’t seen Madame Carl for some time and it wasn’t her friend’s habit to make an unannounced visit.
What happened then? her lawyer had asked.
Eva paused, her eyes half-shut, as if visualizing the scene.
I noticed a woman standing behind her, and I said, Is that a German woman?
What did she say?
She said yes, and I said, I know her.
And then?
Madame Carl said to me, Well, if you know her, who is she?
And what did you say?
I then replied, My God, the long-lost Salom Mller!
Eva took her visitors inside- into a house so small that one of her sons slept in the parlor directly off the street.
He sat on his bed as the three women entered. Then, recognizing Madame Carl, he stood and bowed to her. He looked at
the other woman, but his mother made no introduction and instead, in an excited voice, told him to run down the street
and get Mistress Schultzeheimer and Mrs. Fleikener. He was to tell them that one of the lost daughters of Shoemaker
Mller had returned. They must come immediately and see for themselves. He must tell them to hurry. The boy put on his
boots and scrambled down the steps.
Eva pushed her son’s bed against the wall and placed three chairs in the centre of the room. She indicated to Mary
Miller that she should take a seat, and she and Madame Carl took chairs facing her. For a full minute, Eva sat opposite
Mary Miller and examined every feature of her face. It was amazing. She was the image of her mother. The same full,
rounded face with small dimples in each cheek, the deep, dark eyes, the olive complexion, and long auburn hair. Eva
took it all in, and the more she looked, the more certain she became that her goddaughter had returned. Not a day had
passed in the last twenty-five years when she hadn’t thought of her. There wasn’t a day when she hadn’t prayed for her
return. At last, at last, she was lost no more.
She is a slave, whispered Madame Carl.
Eva stared at her friend in disbelief. How could she be a slave? she asked. Madame Carl didn’t know. She explained how
she had found her outside a low-class barroom in the Spanish part of the city. The two women exchanged glances.
Does she remember her mother?
She remembers nothing.
Oh, but she must. Her beautiful mother.
Madame Carl shook her head.
Does she remember her father?
Again Madame Carl shook her head.
Eva returned her gaze to the woman who would be Salom Mller. He made shoes, Eva insisted, pointing to her own shoes.
There was an awkward silence.
What happened to your sister? asked Eva.
I remember no sister, replied Mary Miller.
Her master’s name is Louis Belmonti, said Madame Carl. A Frenchman.
Now both women avoided the eyes of the woman seated in front of them. A feeling of dread enveloped Eva. How could she
be a slave? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. For years she had rehearsed the joyful reunion in her mind-the tears
of emotion, the laughter, the rejoicing as all her German friends gathered to welcome home the Mller sisters. She
looked in sad dismay at Mary Miller. This couldn’t be Salom.
There was a clumping up the steps and Mrs. Fleikener burst into the room. Her husband, her son, her daughter, and her
daughter’s husband followed. Eva and Madame Carl rose to greet them. More people entered: Mistress Schultzeheimer,
along with Eva’s son who had been sent to collect her. They stood in a circle staring at Mary Miller, still seated in
her chair in the middle of the room. Madame Carl made the introductions. Mary Miller looked blankly into their faces.
The news spread quickly from house to house. The woman who lived next door crept into the Schubers’ front room to have
a look, followed by her five children. Outside, on the front steps, there were whispered conversations as the history
of Daniel Mller and his children was explained to neighbors. Questions were asked and the astounding news conveyed:
two of Daniel’s daughters had been lost for twenty-five years, but now one was found. Eva’s husband, Francis, returned
from work to find a crowd spilling out into the street. People rushed to tell him what had happened, and then he was
ushered into the house to stare at the woman sitting on a chair in his front parlor. Is that one of the two girls who
was lost? he asked.
Then occurred an incident that would be as hotly contested as any other during the court battles that followed.
According to the testimony of Eva and Francis Schuber, they took the slave woman into their bedroom and shut the door.
Continues…
Excerpted from The Lost German Slave Girl
by John Bailey
Copyright © 2003 by John Bailey.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Grove Atlantic, Inc.
Copyright © 2003
John Bailey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-87113-921-9
