Well, I knew Annette was hard on the niggers, who went in terror of her, and I’d no doubt this silly slut had offended her in some way. So I gave no thought to it, but turned Hermia out, since she was of no use for anything in her present state. Next day I picked another wench to take her place, and went off to the fields in due course—and when I came home there she was, beaten black and blue, just as Hermia had been, again on Miz Annette’s orders.
Now I can take a hint as fast as the next man, but I confess I didn’t see all the way through this one, which was foolish of me. I took it that the spiteful little harridan was bent on denying me female companionship, but it never occurred to me why. Which shows what a modest chap I am, I suppose. In any event, I had to do something about it, for I was seething with anger at her malice, and since Mandeville was away in Memphis, I went straight up to the house to have it out with the mistress.
She was obviously just back from a canter round the plantation, for she was still in her grey riding suit, issuing orders to Jonah in the hall. When he had gone, I tackled her straight.
“Two of the field girls have been flogged, on your instructions,” says I. “May I be permitted to ask why?”
She didn’t even look at me. “What concern is it of yours?” says she, taking off her gloves.
“As your husband’s overseer, I’m responsible for his slaves.”
“Under his authority—and mine,” says she, and started off upstairs without another word. I wasn’t having this, so I strode after her.
“By all means,” says I, “but I find it strange that you undertake to discipline them yourself. Why not leave the matter to me—since it’s what I’m paid for?”
We were at the head of the stairs by now, but she kept right on towards her room. I kept pace with her, fuming, and suddenly she snapped at me:
“What you are paid for is to obey orders, not to question what I do. Your place is in the fields—not in this house. Be so good as to leave, at once!”
“I’m damned if I do! You’ve had the tar whaled out of two of those girls, and I want to know why.”
“Don’t be impertinent!” She wheeled on me, her face screwed up with fury. “How dare you follow me in this way? How dare you take that tone? Get out, before I call the servants to throw you into the fields! Not another word!” And she flounced into her room—but she left the door open.
“Now listen to me, you vicious brat, you!” I was in a fine fury by now. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll tell you! You had them thrashed because they were my girls, didn’t you? You thought—”
“Your girls!” She spat it at me. “Your girls! Since when could a penniless beggar like you talk of your girls! My slaves, do you hear? And if I choose to punish them, I shall do it—” she was fairly hissing the words “—as I choose, and you will keep your place, you mongrel!”
I think the only reason I didn’t strike her was that she was so tiny, snarling up at me, that I was frightened of breaking her. And even in my anger I saw a better way of hurting her—always Flashy’s forte, as Tom Hughes has testified.
“Well, now,” says I, holding myself in, “I don’t think the word ‘mongrel’ is one that comes at all well from a Creole lady.” I let it sink in and added: “I don’t have to worry about my finger-nails.”
It was quite false, of course; I don’t suppose she had a drop of black blood in her. But it struck her like a blow; she stood glaring, her face chalk-white, unable to speak, so I carried on, amiably:
“You whipped those girls because I was bedding them, and no doubt you’ll be prepared to go on whipping until you’ve half-killed every wench on the plantation. Well, see if I care—they ain’t my property. See if your husband cares, though; he mayn’t like having his investment wasted. He’ll maybe ask you why you did it. ‘Because your overseer’s covering ’em,’ you’ll say—using a lady-like term, I’m sure. ‘And why not?’ he’ll say, ‘what’s that to you?’ Why, he may even wonder—”
And there I stopped, for there, and only there, the light dawned. As I say, I’m over-modest; she had been so damned uncivil to me, you see, that it honestly hadn’t crossed my mind that she fancied me. Usually, of course, I’m ready to accept that every woman does—well, they do—but she was such a shrew-faced pip-squeak, and so unpleasant …
I stared at her now, and noted with interest that from white her witch-face had turned flushed, and her breathing was slow and thick. Well, well, thinks I, what have we here; let’s see if our manly charms have truly captivated this unlikely creature after all. And purely by way of scientific experiment I leaned forward, picked her up with my hands at her waist—it was like lifting a puppet—and kissed her.
She didn’t struggle or kick or cry out, so I kept at it, and very slowly her mouth opened, and she gave a little sob, and then she took my lip in her teeth and began to bite, harder and harder, until I pulled her free, holding her at arm’s length. Her eyes were shut, and her face tight set; then she motioned me to set her down, and she stood against me. Her head touched my top weskit button.
“Wait,” she said, in a little whisper, and quickly closing the door she vanished into her dressing-room. I could have laughed, but instead I began peeling off my coat, reflecting that the road to fornication is truly often paved with misunderstanding. I was sitting on the bed, removing my boots, when she re-entered, and she was a startling sight, for she was stark naked except for her riding boots. That took me aback, for it ain’t usual among amateurs; something to do with her French upbringing, no doubt. But it was the rest of her that took the eye; I’d known she was well-shaped, but in the buff she was an undoubted little nymph. Scientific research be damned, says I, reaching out for her, and she came with her mouth open and her eyes shut, straining at me.
“You silly little popsy,” says I. “Why didn’t you let me know before?” And so to work, which proved none too bad, bar one unexpected and painful surprise. I was settling into my stride when I discovered why she had kept her boots on, for she suddenly clapped her legs round me, and so help me, those boots were spurred. Hair brushes (that was dear Lola) I was used to, but being stabbed in the buttocks is an arse of a different colour, if you’ll forgive the pun, and it was fortunate the bed was a wide one or we’d have flown off it. There was no untangling her, for she clung like a limpet, and I could only wrestle away, yelping from time to time, until we were done. I was stuck like a Derby winner.
Then she pushed me away, slipped off the bed, and picked up a robe. She put it on, without looking at me, and then she said:
“Now get out.”
And without another word she went into her dressing-room and bolted the door.
Well, I’m not used to this kind of treatment, and in other circumstances I’d have kicked the door in and taught her manners, but in a house full of niggers you can’t conduct an affair as though you were man and wife. So I dressed, staunching my wounds and muttering curses, and presently limped away, vowing that she’d had the last of me.
But of course she hadn’t. Mandeville returned next day, and I kept well clear of the house, but come the end of the week he was off to Helena again, to meet some fellows on business. With only a week of my time left I should have gone about my business, ignoring Madame Annette, but human nature being what it is, I didn’t. No woman tells me to get out with impunity, especially a haughty dwarf who was no great shakes in bed anyway. This is illogical, of course, but those of us who study immoral philosophy are guided by some contrary rules. At all events, I came sniffing round the day after he left—well, she was white, and interesting, and apart from her face she was a well-setup piece in a miniature way.
To my surprise, she didn’t either rebuff me or welcome me with open arms. We discussed the piece of plantation business which I’d made my pretext for coming, and when I assailed her she fell to with a will—but never a word, or a smile, or anything but a fierce, cold passion that almost scared me. It was damned spooky, when I think of it now, and afterwards, when I tried
to engage her in sociable chat, she sat moody and withdrawn, hardly saying a word. And not a stitch on, mark you—not even her boots. I’d taken good care of that.
I gave up, half-puzzled and half-annoyed; I couldn’t fathom her at all, and still can’t. My experience with women has been, I dare say, considerable and varied; I’ve had them fighting to get at me and running for dear life to escape, all ages, shapes and colours, in beds, haylofts, thickets, drawing-rooms, palaces, hovels, snowdrifts (that was in Russia, in the cold spell), baths, billiard rooms, cellars, camps, covered wagons, and even in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, which is probably a record of some sort. I’ve sometimes regretted that the flying machine was invented so late in my life, but things move so fast nowadays it’s difficult to keep pace.
Anyway, my point is that only three women that I can recall out of that darling multitude have refused to be sociable afterwards, provided there was time, of course. My Afghan lotus-blossom, Narreeman, was one, but she had been constrained, as they say, and wanted to murder me anyway. Queen Ranavalona was another, but apart from being as mad as a hatter she had affairs of state to attend to, which is some excuse. Annette Mandeville was the third, and I believe she was neither mad nor murderous. But who’s to say? I doubt if she’d have been an entertaining talker anyway; she didn’t have much education, for all her careful upbringing.
She was avid enough, however, for pleasure itself, and since Mandeville seemed to be making a protracted stay in Helena I visited her on each of the next three days. This was foolishness, of course, for it increased the chance of detection, but when I voiced my doubts, remarking that I hoped none of the niggers would guess what brought me to the house, she laughed unpleasantly and said:
“Who cares if the whole plantation knows? Not one of these black animals would dare breathe a word—they know what would happen to them.”
I didn’t like to think what that would be, knowing Madame Annette, but since she seemed so unconcerned I saw no reason why I should fret, and consequently grew careless. I had been in the habit of opening one of her bedroom windows, so that we might hear if anyone approached the house from the road, but on the third day I forgot, so that we never heard the pad of hooves across the turf.
We had just finished a bout; Annette was lying face down on the bed, silent and sullen as usual, and I was trying to win some warmth out of her with my gay chat, and also by biting her on the buttocks. Suddenly she stiffened under me, and in the same instant feet were striding up the corridor towards the room. Mandeville’s voice was shouting:
“Annie! Hullo, Annie honey. I’m home! I’ve brought—” and then the door was flung open and there he stood, the big grin on his red face changing to a stare of horror. My mouth was still open as I gazed across her rump, terror-stricken.
“My God!” he cries. “Betrayed!”
Well, I’d heard the same sort of exclamation before, and I’ve heard it since, and there’s no doubt it’s unnerving. But I doubt if there’s a man living who can move faster with his pants round his ankles than I can; I was off that bed and diving for the window before the last word had left his lips, and had the sash half up before I remembered it was a cool twenty-foot drop to the ground. I turned like a cornered rat just as he came for me, swinging his horse-whip and bawling with rage; I ducked the cut and slipped past him to the door, stumbling on the threshold. I glanced back in panic, but he was heading straight on for the bed, yelling:
“Filthy strumpet!” and raising his whip again, but Annette, who had sprung up into a kneeling position, just snapped:
“Don’t you dare touch me! Drop that whip!”
And he did. He fell back before that tiny, naked figure, mouthing, and then he turned and hurled himself at me, with a face of apoplexy. I was afoot again by this time, dragging up my breeches and haring for the landing, and then a man’s figure loomed up at the head of the stair. I heard Mandeville shout: “Stop him!” and although I tried to dodge the upraised riding crop I wasn’t quick enough. Something smashed against my forehead, knocking me backwards; the white ceiling spun dizzily above me, and then I was falling into nothing.
I can’t have been unconscious more than a few minutes, but when I came to my own leather belt was round my wrists, blood was caking one of my eyelids, and there was an unholy pain in my brow. I was lying at the foot of the staircase, and a man was bestriding me, one of his booted feet planted on my ankle. There was a tremendous hubbub of voices, with Mandeville yelling blue murder and others trying to quieten him. I turned my head; two or three men were holding him back, and when he saw me conscious he waved his arms and shouted:
“You slimy bastard! You stinkin’ hound! I’ll have your heart’s blood for this! I’ll crucify you! Let me at him, boys, an’ I’ll tear his dirty innards out!”
They struggled with him, and one of them sings out:
“Get that feller outa here, Luke—quick now! afore he gits done a mischief! Damn ye, Mandeville, won’t ye hold still!”
“I’ll murder him! I’ll butcher him ’sif he was a hog! Oh, turn me loose, boys! He’s dishonoured me! He’s bin an’ tried to ravish my wife, my dear Annie, pore defenceless little critter! You got to let me at him!”
The man above me chuckled, leaned down and grabbed me by the waistband, and with surprising strength dragged me across the hall and threw me bodily through a doorway. Then he stepped into the room, shut the door, and growled:
“Now you just lie there easy, friend, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
He had a whip in one hand, and I guessed he was the fellow who had hit me. He was a tall, rangy chap, with a heavy moustache and bright grey eyes which surveyed me sardonically as he went on:
“Layin’ still oughtn’t to be no hardship fer you; I reckon you’re a right smart hand at layin’. Mandeville seems to think so, anyways.” And he nodded to the door, beyond which we could hear Mandeville still roaring.
I was getting my wits back, and they told me that this fellow wasn’t unfriendly.
“For heaven’s sake, sir!” I cried. “Cut me loose! I can explain, I promise you! Mandeville is mistaken, believe—”
“Well, now, I reckon he is. Leastways, ‘bout his little lady gittin’ ravished. I seen her, an’ a less ravished-lookin’ female I never clapped eyes on. Say, ain’t she a sight when she’s nekkid, though; mighty trim little tail.” He laughed, and Jeaned down towards me. “Tell me, friend—what she like in the hay? I often fancied—”
“Cut me free! I assure you I can explain—”
“Well, can ye now? I would doubt that, I really would.” He laughed again. “An’ if I was Mandeville, I wouldn’t listen. I’d cut your goddamned throat here an’ now, yessir. Hold on, though; sound like he’s comin’ to do it his own self.”
I struggled on to my knees as the tumult in the hall increased; it sounded as though Mandeville’s friends were still having to restrain him by main force. I knelt there, quaking, and pleading with Luke to cut me free, but he shook me off, and when I persisted he kicked me flat on my back.
“Didn’t I tell ye to lay still? Any more out o’ you an’ I’ll take this hide to ye.” He laughed again, and I suddenly realised that his good humour was not at all friendly, as I’d supposed. He was just enjoying himself.
I didn’t dare move after that, but lay shaking with dread, and then after what seemed an age the door opened and the others came in. Mandeville was in the lead, panting and dishevelled, but he seemed to have himself in hand for the moment. Not that that was any consolation; I hope I never see eyes glaring at me like that again.
“You!” says he, and it was like the growl of a beast. “I going to kill you! D’ye hear that now? Kill you for the sneakin’ scum you are. Yes sir, I goin’ to watch you die for what you done!” There was froth at the corner of his mouth; he was appalling. “But before I do, you goin’ to tell these here gennelmen somethin’—you goin’ to confess to ’em that you tried to rape my wife! That so, isn’t it! You snuck u
p there, an’ you tuk her unawares, an’ try to ravish her.” He paused, livid. “Now, then—you tell ’em it was so.”
Terrified, I stared at the man, but I couldn’t have spoken for the life of me, and suddenly he lost control and flung himself at me, kicking and clawing. The others hauled him back, and Luke says:
“It don’t signify a damn thing, John! Hold him off, you fellows! You think you’re goin’ to get the truth out of him? Anyways, we know he tried to rape your good lady—don’t we, boys? We’re all satisfied, I reckon.”
He knew it was a lie, and so did they, but they chorused assent, and eventually it pacified Mandeville, at least to the point where his only interest lay in disposing of me.
“I ought to burn you alive!” he snarled. “I ought to nail you to a tree an’ have the niggers geld you. In fact, that’s just what I’ll do! I’ll—”
“Hold on there, John,” says Luke. “This is jus’ wild talk. You can’t murder him thataway—”
“Why cain’t I? After what he done?”
“Because word’d git out—an’ it don’t do to murder a man, even if he is a rapin’, stinkin’ skunk—”
“I’m not!” I cried, “I swear I’m not!”
“You shet up,” says Luke. “Fact is, John Mandeville, while I don’t deny he’s got killin’ comin’ to him, I don’t see how you can do it lessn you fight him, on the square.”
“Fight him!” shouts Mandeville. “Damned if I do. He ain’t deservin’ any thin’ but execution!”
“Well, now, ain’t I a-tellin’ you it cain’t be done? Even ifn you hang him, or cut his throat, or shoot him—how you gonna be sure word ain’t gonna git out?”
“Who’s to tell, Luke Johnson? They’s on’y us here—”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 158
