The queue at the rental desk is long and very-very slow, but I am not complaining because at the end of this excruciating process, I am driving a Mustang with cooling seats under my backside. As I settle into driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, I am eager to leave New Orleans behind and head for the nearby River Road.
Louisiana is haunted. All of it, or so it seems. New Orleans’ French Quarter has many haunted spots; the swamps are haunted, and the plantations are filled with ghosts, both seen and felt. We will find out for ourselves whether this is true as we are staying overnight at one of the most haunted plantations in Louisiana.
It is impossible to visit a plantation without being touched by the stories of enslaved people. One of the reasons I am doing this trip and visiting the sites I have chosen to visit is, in part, to take a closer and more immersive role in learning about this period of United States’ history. I suppose I am approaching visits to the three plantations with an open mind but am taking the stance that changing documented history serves no purpose and that we need to own the horrible bits of what has happened in the past to learn from them.
The Destrehan Plantation is a mere eighteen kilometres from New Orleans airport and is relatively easy to find. Last night’s torrential rain has left large puddles in the carpark, which are now steamy under today’s blazing sun. Within an hour, we have toured the property, visited the mansion and learned much about the indigo and sugar crops, and about the succession of owners of the plantation. The house is typical of the region but is unique in that it had been designed and built by a slave, who was, ironically, given his own slaves to carry out the work. Upstairs, we find out why the floors of the now enclosed balcony slant slightly and exposed walls show that instead of nails, wooden pegs were used. Remarkably, the building is not only still intact, but is surely strong enough to endure whatever future natural calamities befall the area.
In the early 1700s, well before Oak Alley was a plantation, a French or Spanish settler planted an two rows each of fourteen live oak trees, which today, almost three hundred years later, form a mysterious green tunnel from River Road to the front door of the Oak Alley mansion. The house, built much later by Jacques Roman, was constructed with twenty-eight large columns that imitate the number of oaks in the alley from the entrance of the home. But I am perhaps a little more interested in the tales I’ve read of strange happenings and ghosts that reside in and around the property. The one that is most often seen is that of a woman, supposedly Celine Roman, dressed in mourning black and who wanders the house during the day and at night. Her husband, Jacques is sometimes seen looking in through the windows from the outside.
Arriving in mid-afternoon, we take one of the last tours of the day, perfectly timed since we are staying overnight. As I gaze at the portraits on the walls, the sad stories of Jacques Roman, who died of tuberculosis just eight years after building his mansion, and Celine, who frittered away the fortune earned from sugar cane through mismanagement of the plantation, are probably typical of the era. Here, however, the stories of the succession of owners are the subject of the tour, and little is mentioned of the life of slaves apart from a brief mention of the twenty-four slave cabins that were once on the property. Nothing is mentioned about the alleged ghosts.
I walk the full length of the path to the front gates, which is no longer used as a means of access to the property. These days carriages do not come to the front door to unload their guests, but instead, tour buses come via a carpark that is hidden from the road, disgorging the hordes of onlookers near the ‘serviceman’s entrance’ at the back. The twenty-eight oaks are planted exactly 24.3 metres (80 feet) apart and today form a mysterious tunnel. Boughs that sweep to the ground provide a home for a myriad of epiphytes, alga, and Spanish moss. I think back to the original settler who planted the trees and wonder whether they ever imagined that the trees would survive almost three centuries and that they would become one of the most iconic features of this region. I can only wonder.
We check into our accommodation; one of the original manager’s cottages, a perfectly functional home, which has had a bathroom and probably a kitchen added over the years. Staying overnight provides us the opportunity to walk through the property after hours and after dark, and perhaps to see a ghost. Will I see Jacques or Celine, or will I hear the songs of the slaves working in the fields?
We drag ourselves away to Vacherie, the nearest town to Oak Alley, to the recommended DJ’s Grille for dinner whilst it is still light. Although it looks as though it was once an auto workshop in a previous life, the restaurant is clean and modern, and we are delighted with the food; catfish and other locally caught delicacies. We also enjoy the friendly, but formal southern hospitality before returning to our little cottage at Oak Alley.
It is still hot and humid as the sun begins to sink below the horizon. We prepare ourselves with torches, mosquito repellent, and long sleeves to ward away anything that bites, before wandering through the now almost abandoned property. There are less than twelve people staying overnight at Oak Alley and our cottage looks towards a line of slave cottages that have been moved here as museum exhibits.
Lights inside the ground floor of the locked house are blazing and serves as a beacon in the darkened garden. As the sky turns from a dark indigo to almost black, I have a desire to peer through the clear glass panels next to the back door, just like Jacques Roman allegedly does. The irregularities of the old glass cast a distorted view of the foyer, lights appear to jump, and other inanimate objects seem to take on personalities of their own. Are the ghosts of past residents putting on a show for those who dare to encroach into their private space? I imagine women in corseted crinolines swishing their way down the staircase to the dining room where the Romans and their guests would gather for an evening of dining and entertainment. I take special notice of anything that may resemble Celine’s widows weeds before shaking my head and wondering whether the ghosts of bygone days want to share their private time with nosy tourists like me.
In the dark, and for the second time today, I walk the full length of the path from the front door to the gate, which nobody uses anymore. Shadows cast by the ancient oaks are creepy and sinister, the branches are hiding secrets of three hundred years and millions of biting insects that lie in wait for unsuspecting and underprepared overnight guests. A breeze whips up, cooling the perspiration that has gathered on my face, and has the effect of raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Perhaps I really do not want to see a ghost tonight.
A tiny prick of light from the house at the end of the dark living tunnel provides reassurance that I am not too far from civilisation, and besides, things are starting to bite the only bits of unexposed flesh. I’m also somewhat aware that ghosts are probably not the least of our worries as it occurs to me that I am in what is potentially alligator country.
In the friendly light of the cottage, I can safely announce I have not seen or felt anything untoward, neither ghosts nor predators and I sleep soundly, waking only when the sun shines through the window.
After a hearty breakfast, it is time to visit the Whitney Plantation, the last one on our list. Whitney Plantation was once known as the Heidel Plantation, which was purchased by German immigrants in 1752 and who established an indigo plantation before, like other plantations in the area, turning to sugar production. The plantation continued to operate until 1975, and two of the original slave cabins were still being used until that year when the plantation was sold to a chemical company and closed.
When the Whitney Plantation was closed in the 1970s, it remained abandoned; derelict as the chemical company struggled to get the relevant permits to open a rayon processing plant. They eventually sold the property with restrictions. In 1999, John Cummings purchased part of the plantation agreeing to spend at least $1m on restoring the property. Cummings did so but went a step further by setting up the plantation as a museum and tribute to the lives of the enslaved.
We arrive at Whitney ahead of our timed tour of the plantation and spend an hour visiting the extensive museum. Interestingly, there are written interviews with slaves included here, and it is thought-provoking to read about their lives as slaves from their own perspectives. When it is time to join our tour, we go outside in the heat and humidity, where our guide provides a two-hour timeline of the history of slavery on the property and in the region in general. Included on the property are tributes to atrocities carried out against slaves, some of which are far too gruesome to include in this narrative. But they are documented and for anyone interested, it is possible to read further from either the Whitney website or from other sources. Our tour ends at the house, which is similar to those others we have already visited.
Today’s tour is heavy-going, both in content and with the apparently unseasonal heat and humidity. Whitney’s Slavery Museum and tour fills a gap in the history of this region, and despite the confronting content, I feel that I have gained a balanced view its complex history. After the tour ends, I’m happy to sit into the car, turn on the air conditioning and enjoy the ride back to the outskirts of New Orleans, where we will spend the night before embarking on the next part of our two-week journey through America’s southern history.
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