In the autumn of 1844, a record appeared in the parish
ledger of St. Francisville, Louisiana, that would puzzle historians and
true crime enthusiasts for generations. A woman named Claraara Mayfield,
enslaved, twenty-five years old, and five months pregnant, was purchased by
plantation owner Henry Duval for the astonishing sum of twelve cents—a
price so low that it defied comprehension.
The transaction alone became an enduring historical
mystery, but the question that haunted observers even more was the paternity
of Claraara’s unborn child. Secrets buried in antebellum Louisiana,
whispered among slaves and overseers, were about to ignite one of the most shocking
scandals in Southern history.
The Duval Plantation: A
House of Shadows
The Duval Plantation, five miles south of St.
Francisville, was modest by Louisiana standards. Two stories high, white
columns, and fields stretching toward the Mississippi River, it had
passed from Richard Duval, the elder brother, to Henry Duval
after Richard’s sudden death that summer. While the official cause was fever,
rumors of a duel and foul play swirled among locals.
After the funeral, Henry locked Richard’s bedroom,
dismissed the overseer, and spent long nights in the library poring over
letters and papers. Among these documents were hints of a forbidden
relationship between Richard and Claraara, a woman once kept on the estate.
Within weeks, Henry purchased Claraara, who arrived at the plantation pregnant,
exhausted, and for almost nothing.
The Return of the Unspoken
Henry’s ledger claimed the purchase was for “household
organization,” yet the reality was far darker. Unlike other enslaved
individuals, Claraara was not sent to the fields. Instead, she was placed in
the library, cataloging books—a task requiring literacy, a rare skill among
slaves.
Late at night, neighbors reported the flicker of
library lights and whispered voices behind closed doors. By December, Claraara
was nearing childbirth, and Henry had converted the east wing of the house into
private quarters, with fresh plaster and locked doors.
Birth in the Storm
On January 9, 1845, an ice storm sealed the
plantation. The physician could not reach the house. Claraara gave birth to a
boy, attended only by the cook, Martha, and Henry Duval himself.
The family Bible recorded the birth in a single line:
“A male child born to Claraara Mayfield. January 9,
1845.”
No name. No father. A blank space where lineage should
have been.
Henry named the infant “the heir”, retrieving a
cradle once used by Richard, dressing the child in fine fabric from New
Orleans. By February, strange sounds echoed through the east wing—crying,
voices, footsteps. Henry’s journal reveals his obsession:
“The eyes. The same eyes. Even Martha remarked upon it
before I silenced her. He has Richard’s eyes.”
The Will That Shocked
Louisiana
In April 1845, Henry drafted a will that would have
destroyed the Duval name had it become public. He decreed that the child be freed,
educated in the North, and provided a trust, while Claraara was to be manumitted
or placed in a household promising gentle treatment and literacy.
Henry returned with a French governess, Madame
Bowmont, tasked with overseeing the child. For a brief period, calm
returned—until Margaret Duval, Richard’s widow, arrived. Henry’s journal
repeated one chilling phrase:
“She knows. Or suspects—which amounts to the same.”
That night, guards were placed at the east wing, and
Henry began planning their escape to Texas.
Fire, Ash, and a Hidden
Truth
On July 3, 1845, the east wing erupted in
flames. Henry, Claraara, and the child were presumed dead. Authorities reported
three bodies, but decades later, in 1963, a metal box hidden beneath the
floorboards revealed letters, a burned note from Claraara, and a steamboat
receipt dated the day before the fire—indicating that she and the child had
been smuggled to safety.
“May God Have Mercy on Both Our Souls,” Claraara
wrote.
According to Madame Bowmont’s journal, she and
Martha helped Claraara escape upriver before the fire. Observing from the
window, she saw Henry running toward the family cemetery, leaving the
plantation to burn.
A Life Reborn Across the Sea
Church records in Cincinnati, 1852, list a Clara
Mayfield Freeman and her son, Richard, literate and arrived from the South.
Baptism records in Liverpool (1846) corroborate a Clara Freeman with a
15-month-old son named Richard, suggesting the escape succeeded, and the
name “Freeman” symbolized liberation.
Unearthed Evidence
In 2002, archaeologists excavating the Duval site
discovered charred bricks of the east wing and a metal box containing a
child’s shoe, a pocket watch engraved “R.D.”, and a note:
“May God forgive what we have done. The truth will in
blood and fire.”
The meaning—confession, farewell, or warning—remains
uncertain.
Legacy: The Ghost in
Louisiana
The story of the twelve-cent purchase persists in
Louisiana folklore. On humid July nights, locals claim to hear a woman singing
a lullaby from the river near the plantation. In 2022, a descendant visited the
Louisiana State Archives, bringing a locket depicting a man with
initials “R.D.”, linking her family to the escape.
She reflected:
“Maybe they just wanted to make sure the truth could
never be completely buried.”
Indeed, more than 175 years later, the fire
that destroyed the Duval plantation lives on—not in the fields, but in the
shadow of history, where secrets, guilt, and courage smolder side by side.
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