Experts analyzed this 1862 portrait—and the enslaved woman’s hand hid a macabre secret | HO

It was one of those Southern mornings where the air itself felt alive — thick, shimmering, and oppressive.

Dr. Rebecca Harrison wiped a bead of sweat from her temple as she climbed the narrow staircase of the Bowmont estate in Natchez, Mississippi. She’d flown from Boston for this: the estate sale of one of the oldest plantation families in the Deep South.

The Bowmonts had occupied this land for over two centuries. But the last descendant, Virginia Bowmont, had died without heirs, leaving behind an eerie museum of antebellum ghosts — silver, ledgers, and portraits so old they seemed to breathe in their gilt frames.

Harrison was an expert in nineteenth-century portraiture, specializing in paintings that revealed more than they were meant to. She knew these portraits weren’t mere family heirlooms. They were instruments of propaganda — idealized visions of wealth, purity, and dominance. But every once in a while, if you looked closely enough, they told a different story.

The Portrait

In the main parlor, beneath a ceiling bloomed with water stains, she found it.

The painting was enormous — nearly six feet tall. The brass plate below read:

“Catherine Bowmont, 1862.”

Catherine sat in opulent splendor: emerald silk gown, pearls woven through her hair, diamonds at her throat. Every detail screamed privilege.

But behind her stood another figure — a young enslaved woman in a plain gray dress, her expression distant, her posture rigid, her right hand hanging unnaturally at her side while the other pressed tightly against her abdomen.

Something about that hand was wrong. It wasn’t relaxed or graceful like Catherine’s. It was clenched — as if gripping something unseen.

“You interested in that one?” the appraiser asked, appearing beside her. “Local artist. Robert Sullivan. Painted all the big families around here before the war.”

“What happened to him?” Harrison asked.

“Died of yellow fever. ’63.”

But she barely heard him. Her eyes were fixed on that hand — a detail too deliberate to be accidental.

“I want it,” she said quietly. “I’ll take this one.”

The Examination

Three weeks later, the portrait arrived at the museum’s conservation lab in Boston. Under bright LED lights, Harrison gathered her team:

Dr. James Chen, chief conservator.

Dr. Nina Okoye, African American material culture specialist.

Martin Kowalski, forensic imaging expert.

They examined the painting up close. The enslaved woman’s face was strikingly realistic — not a generic depiction, but a portrait of an individual. Sullivan had painted her with the same precision as Catherine Bowmont.

Then there was the hand.

“Let’s focus here,” Harrison said.

Martin positioned his high-resolution camera, adjusting filters and light spectra. The images projected onto the monitor revealed what the naked eye could not — the knuckles were tense, tendons raised, the fingers wrapped around something small and circular.

“There’s definitely an object,” Martin said. “But the pigment’s too dense to see what.”

Infrared reflectography came next — a technique that reveals underdrawings and hidden layers beneath paint.

When the image appeared on-screen, everyone went silent.

The enslaved woman’s hand glowed ghostly white. Between her fingers was something circular, two inches wide, with faint protrusions along one edge.

“What is that?” Nina whispered.

James frowned. “We’ll need X-ray fluorescence to identify the pigments. If Sullivan painted this object intentionally, the chemical composition might tell us why.”

The Hidden Object

Two days later, the results arrived. The pigments used for the hidden object contained lead white, bone black, and — most unusually — vermilion and red ochre, the same mix Sullivan used for human skin tones.

“It’s flesh,” James said, his voice low. “He painted it as skin.”

Martin zoomed in on the enhanced infrared image, outlining its shape. Rounded tip. Slight tapering. Even a faint ridge resembling a fingernail.

Nina gasped. “It’s a finger.”

The room fell utterly still.

Rebecca felt a cold wave wash over her. “She’s holding a severed finger,” she murmured.

But whose?

The Search for the Truth

Harrison and Okoye flew back to Mississippi, scouring the Natchez Historical Society archives. After days of combing through 1862 newspapers, Nina found a small item buried on page three of the Natchez Courier:

“Tragedy at Bowmont Estate — August 6, 1862”

Mrs. Catherine Bowmont reported that one of her servants, a woman called Dina, had attacked another servant with a kitchen knife, resulting in grave injury. The matter was later resolved privately.

“Resolved privately,” Nina said bitterly. “Meaning she punished Dina herself.”

A second article appeared a week later confirming the incident was “closed.”

Rebecca’s mind raced. The portrait was dated late August 1862 — painted just weeks later.

She turned to Catherine Bowmont’s personal correspondence, preserved in the same archive. One letter, dated August 20, 1862, froze her in place.

‘Last week, Dina committed an act of shocking violence against Samuel, our driver. She attacked him with a knife, severing his finger before being restrained. Samuel’s injury is grave. Dina has been severely punished and will serve as an example. I have insisted she be present for Mr. Sullivan’s sittings, as a reminder of her transgression and my authority.’

Rebecca’s stomach turned. “She forced Dina to stand there holding the finger — her own — during the portrait.”

Silence filled the archive room.

“She mutilated her,” Nina whispered. “Then turned her punishment into art.”

The Painter’s Secret

Who was Robert Sullivan, the man who’d captured this horror?

Further research revealed he’d been born in Pennsylvania and trained in Philadelphia — a former abolitionist. He’d even attended anti-slavery lectures in the 1830s before moving south to earn a living painting the wealthy elite.

“He must have hated what he saw,” Nina said softly. “Imagine being an abolitionist forced to flatter enslavers.”

Harrison nodded. “And when Catherine forced Dina into that portrait, Sullivan saw a chance to record the truth — to hide evidence in plain sight.”

They returned to Boston and reexamined the painting. In close-up, Dina’s gaze was no longer neutral. Her eyes weren’t fixed on Catherine — they were looking directly at the painter.

“She knew,” Martin whispered. “She knew he was documenting it.”

A silent conspiracy — between the artist and the enslaved woman — had survived on canvas for over 160 years, waiting for the right eyes and technology to uncover it.

The Woman Who Survived

Finding Dina’s fate became Harrison’s obsession.

Most plantation records after 1862 were destroyed, but Nina eventually found an entry in the Freedmen’s Bureau records from 1866:

‘Dina Freeman, age approximately 28, missing one finger on right hand.’

“She survived,” Nina said, tears in her eyes.

Census records confirmed it. By 1870, Dina was living in Natchez, married to Jacob Freeman, a carpenter, with two children. By 1880, she was a laundress — free, independent, and raising four children.

Her trail faded after 1890, but her descendants endured.

One afternoon, Nina burst into Rebecca’s office, shaking with excitement. “I found her great-great-granddaughter. She lives in Jackson. Her name’s Lorraine Freeman. She wants to meet us.”

Dina’s Voice

Lorraine Freeman, a retired teacher in her sixties, welcomed them into her home. She had her ancestor’s strong jaw and calm, steady eyes.

“My grandmother told me about Dina,” Lorraine said. “Said she never forgot what was done to her — but she made sure her children knew she survived it.”

Months later, Lorraine called with astonishing news. While cleaning her late mother’s attic, she’d found a leather notebook, its first page inscribed:

“Dina Freeman — My Life, 1866.”

Inside, Dina described her childhood, her sale to the Bowmonts, and the horrific day in August 1862:

‘Samuel was like my brother. Mrs. Catherine beat him for breaking a dish. I tried to stop her. In the struggle, he was hurt. She said I attacked him. She held me down and cut off my finger with the same knife. Then she made me stand for her picture, holding what she took from me. The painter whispered, “I will paint what she did. Someday, someone will see.” I trusted him.’

When Rebecca finished reading, the room was silent. Tears rolled down Lorraine’s cheeks. “He kept his promise,” she said.

The Exhibition

Two years later, the New England Museum of American History unveiled its landmark exhibition: Hidden Testimony: Art, Slavery, and the Power of Witness.

At the center hung the restored portrait — no longer titled Catherine Bowmont, 1862.

Its new label read:

“Dina — Documented by Robert Sullivan, 1862 (with Catherine Bowmont)”

Infrared scans, X-ray maps, and excerpts from Dina’s own writings surrounded the display. Visitors could see the hidden finger, the letters, the evidence — and the truth.

Lorraine stood before the painting with twelve family members, generations of survivors gathered around the image of their ancestor once forced to stand in silence. Cameras captured the moment. The photograph went viral.

For the first time in history, Dina’s name came before Catherine’s.

Legacy

Months later, visitors still crowded the gallery. Some wept openly. Others whispered prayers. One young Black woman stood before the portrait for a long time before turning to Rebecca.

“She looks like my grandmother,” the woman said softly. “Like she’s holding something no one else can see.”

Rebecca nodded. “Maybe she is,” she replied. “And maybe that’s why we’re still here — to finally see it.”