She was deemed unmarriageable, so her father married her off to the strongest slave, Virginia, in 1856.
They said I would never marry. Twelve men in four years looked at the wheelchair and walked away.
My name is Elisabeth Wetmore and this is the story of my journey from rejection by society to the discovery of a passionate love that changed the course of history.
Virginia, 1856. I was twenty-two years old and considered myself disabled.
I lost the use of my legs at the age of eight after a fall from a horse that broke my spine, forcing me to use this mahogany wheelchair my father had ordered for me.
But no one understood that the wheelchair wasn’t what made me “unmarriageable,” but rather what it represented: a burden.
A woman who can’t be with her husband at parties, a woman who shouldn’t have children, who can’t run a home, and at the same time, fulfill any of the duties expected of a Southern wife.
The twelve proposals my father arranged resulted in the same number of rejections, each one more difficult than the last.
“She can’t walk down the aisle.” “My kids need a mother who will chase them.” “So what if you can’t have kids?” This latest rumor, completely false, spread like wildfire through the Virginia community.
Doctors speculated about my fertility if I even got tested. Suddenly, I was no longer just a person with a disability, but a person deficient in every way, which was important for America in 1856.
When William Foster, a fat, drunk fifteen-year-old, rejected me even though my father had offered him a third of our annual inheritance, I understood the truth: I would die alone.
But my father had other plans. Radical, shocking, and completely outside the pale of social norms, so much so that when he told me, I thought I’d misunderstood him. He said, “You will marry Josiah, the blacksmith. You will be his wife.”
I looked at my father, Colonel Richard Whittemore, owner of 5,000 acres of land and 200 slaves, and was sure he was mad.
First, let me tell you about Josiah. I called him “the monster.” He was eight feet tall and weighed 300 pounds of hard muscle, sculpted by years of hard work in the forge.
His hands could bend iron bars, and his face struck terror into the hearts of all who entered the room. People feared him, slaves and freemen alike.
The white guys on our farm would stare at him and whisper, “Did you see how big that man is?” And Timor has a monster in his forge.
But here’s what no one knew, what I was about to discover: Josiah was the kindest man I knew.
My father summoned me to his office in March 1856, a month after Foster’s rejection and a month after I had lost all hope of being alone.
He told me point blank, “A white man won’t marry you off.” It’s true. But you need protection.
When I die, the inheritance will go to your cousin Robert.
He’ll sell everything, give you pennies, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t care about you. I said, knowing it was impossible, “Then leave me an inheritance.”
“Virginia law doesn’t allow that.” Women can’t inherit on their own, especially…” She gestured to the wheelchair and couldn’t finish the sentence.
“So what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man in this heresy.” He is intelligent; yes, I know he reads secrets, so don’t be surprised. He is healthy, fit, and from what I’ve heard of him, he has a good heart, despite his size.
He won’t abandon you because he has a legal obligation to stay. He will protect you, meet your needs, and care for you.
The logic was terrifying and unyielding. I asked him, “Have you asked him?” He replied, “Not yet.” I wanted to tell you first. “What if you reject me?”
My father’s face seemed to age ten years in that moment. “I’m still trying to find you a white husband, and we both know I won’t succeed.”
And you will spend your life after my death as an adopted man, dependent on the charity of relatives who see you as a burden. He was right.
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I hated his reasoning. “Can I see him?” Talk to him, really, before we make this decision on our behalf? “Of course.” Tomorrow.
The next morning they brought Josiah home. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.
The door opened and my father walked in, and then Josiah had to bend down—literally—to squeeze under the doorframe.
God, he was huge! He was six feet tall, muscular and muscular, his arms barely touching the doorframe, and his hands bore burn marks from a forge that seemed to be crushing stone.
He had a wrinkled face, a thick beard, and his eyes looked around the room, paying no attention to me.
He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the pose of a slave in a white man’s home. The nickname “beast” was well deserved; he seemed capable of tearing a house apart with his bare hands.
Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilapar.” He looked into my eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground.
“Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep, yet calm, even gentle. “Elilapar, I explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.
“He will be responsible for your care.” My voice returned, though trembling.
“Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?” He glanced at me again quickly. “Yes, young lady.” I will be your husband. I will protect you, I will help you.
“And you agreed to this?” He seemed confused, as if the concept of consent was foreign to him. The choir boy added, “I had to, miss.” “But do you really want this?” The question sent shivers down his spine.
His eyes met mine, dark brown, surprised and gentle, and his face was helpless. “I… know what I want, Mistress.” I am a slave. I have no habits. The truth is harsh and fair.
My father closed the door and said, “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke alone. I’ll be in my study.” Then he left and closed the door, leaving me alone with the enormous seven-legged slave who was to be my husband. We didn’t speak for hours.
Finally I asked him, pointing to the chair in front of me, “Do you want to sit down?”
Josiah glanced at the delicate piece of furniture. He lifted the embroidered cushions, then looked down at his enormous frame. “I don’t think this chair will hold me, ma’am.”
“And then the sofa.” He sat down carefully on the edge. Even sitting down, he was considerably taller than me.
His hands rested on his knees, and each finger was a small, hardened, and visible nodule.
“Are you afraid of me, ma’am?” “Should I be?” “No, ma’am.” I won’t hurt you, I swear. “I’ll call you a monster.” I shuddered. “Yes, ma’am.” Because of my size and because I look terrifying.
I’ve never hurt anyone, but that’s obvious. “But you can, if you want.” “I can,” she looked at me again, “but I won’t.” Not for you. Not for someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Something in her eyes—sadness, resignation, a sweetness that didn’t match her appearance—convinced me. “Josiah, I want to be honest with you.” I don’t want this any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I’m not marriageable.
But if we’re going to do this, I need to know: Are you dangerous? “No, ma’am.” “Are you cruel?” “No, ma’am.” “Are you going to hurt me?”
“Absolutely not, ma’am.” I swear on everything I hold dear. The seriousness was undeniable; I believed what he said. Then I have another question.
“Can you read?” The question made him shiver. Fear flashed across his face; reading was forbidden to slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said calmly, “Yes, ma’am.” I said to myself, “I know it’s forbidden, but… I couldn’t help it.”
Books are gateways to places I will go.
“What are you reading?” “Anything I can find.” Old newspapers, and sometimes books I borrow. I read slowly, but I don’t study well, but I read. “Have you read Shakespeare?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am. There’s an old copy in the library that no one touches.
I read it at night, when everyone else is asleep.” “Which of his plays are they?” “Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest.” Her voice involuntarily brightened.
“The Storm is my favorite.” Prospero rules the island with magic, Ariel loves freedom, Caliba is treated like a monster, but perhaps he is more human than anyone else. He stopped suddenly. “Excuse me, madam.
I talk a lot.” “No.” I smiled, a genuine smile for the first time in this strange conversation. “Go on. Tell me about Calib.”
And then something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the giant slave known as the Beast, began discussing Shakespeare with an intelligence that would impress university professors.
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He said, “Caliba is called a beast, but Shakespeare shows us that he was a slave, that his island was stolen from him, and that he was deprived of his mother’s presence.”
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