Theirs weren’t the only manners to cause me concern, either. That first evening I went down to the main deck to see that my slaves were being properly housed and fed, as a good owner should, and to enjoy the sight of the precious Master Randolph regaling himself on pulse and pone. A slave’s life didn’t suit him one little bit; he had taken his place in the coffle that afternoon with a very ill grace, and much self-pitying nobility for Crixus’s benefit. When he and his fellows were herded off to their passage quarters he had still been damned peaked and sulky, and now he was sitting with a bowl of hash from the communal copper, sniffing at it with disgust.
“How d’ye like it, George?” says I. “You and the other niggers feeding well?”
He gave me a glance of sheer hate, and seeing there was no one else at hand, he hissed:
“This filth is inedible! Look at it—smell it, if you can bear the nauseating stuff!”
I sniffed the bowl; it would have sickened a dog. “Capital stew!” says I. “Eat it down, heartily now, or I shall begin to fear I have been spoiling you, my boy. Now, you other niggers, are you all pitching into your vittles, hey? That’s the spirit.”
The other five all cried: “Yes, massa, shore ’nuff, mighty fine, massa.” Either they had more acting gumption than Randolph or else they liked the awful muck. But he, all a-quiver with indignation, whispers fiercely:
“Capital stew, indeed! Could you bear to eat this foulness?”
“Probably not,” says I, “but I’m not a nigger, d’ye see.” And without another glance at him I strolled off to my own dinner, resolving to describe it to him later. I never believe in neglecting the education of my inferiors.
It was worth describing, too. Mississippi food, once you get outside Orleans, tends to be robust and rich, and I wolfed my stewed chicken, prime steak and creamed chocolate with all the more relish for the thought of Randolph squatting on the main deck grubbing at his gristle. I had champagne with it, too, and a very passable brandy, and finally topped the whole thing off with a buxom little cracker girl in my cabin. Her name was Penny or Jenny, I forget which; she had dyed gold hair which went vilely with her yellow satin dress, and she was one of your squealing hoydens, but she had tremendous energy and high pointed breasts of which she was immensely proud, which made up for a lot. Most of the women on the boat were noisy, by the way; the respectable ones clacked and squawked to each other interminably, and the mistresses and whores, of whom there seemed to be a great number, were brassy enough to be heard in San Francisco. Penny (or Jenny) was one of the quieter ones; she didn’t scream with laughter above once a minute.
I was lying there, drowsy and well satisfied, listening to her prattling, when a nigger waiter comes up with a message that I was wanted on the main deck—something to do with my coffle, he said. Wondering what the devil was what, I went down, and to my rage and concern discovered that it was that confounded George up to his nonsense again.
The overseer was swearing and stamping over in the corner where my slaves were, with Randolph standing in front of him looking as arrogant as Caesar.
“What’s the matter with it, damn ye?” the overseer was shouting, and then, seeing me:
“Say, look here, Mist’ Prescott—here’s this jim-dandy nigger o’ yours don’ like this yere ’commodation. No suh, ’pears like ’taint good enough for him. Now, then!”
“What’s this I hear, George?” says I, pushing forward. “What are you about, my boy? Turning up your nose at the quarters—what’s wrong with them, sir?”
He looked me straight in the eye, with as much side as old Lord Cardigan.
“We have been given no straw to make beds for ourselves. We are entitled to this; it is covered in the money you have paid for our passage.”
“Well,—me drunk, will ye hear that, now?” cries the overseer. “Entye—entitt—ent-what-the-hell-you-say! Don’ you give me none o’ your shines, ye black rascal! Beds, by thunder! You’ll lay right down where you’re told, or by cracky you’ll be knocked down! Who’re you, that you gotta have straw to keep yore tender carcase offen the floor? ’Tother hands is layin’ on it, ain’t they? Now, you git right down there, d’ye hear?”
“My master has paid for us to have straw,” says Randolph, looking at me. “The other slaves over yonder have it; only our coffle goes without.”
“Well, there ain’t no more goddamed straw, you no-good impident son-of-a-bitch!” cries the overseer. “So now! I never heerd the like—”
I could have felled that bloody ass Randolph on the spot—perhaps I should have done. Couldn’t the fool understand that he must behave as a slave, even if he didn’t feel like one? How the devil he ever existed on a plantation was beyond me—it must have taken a saint or a lunatic to put up with his insolent airs. All I could do was play the just master, kindly but firm.
“Come, come, George,” I said sternly. “Let us have no more of this. Lie down where you are told directly—what, is this how you repay my kind usage, by impertinence? Have you forgotten yourself altogether, that you speak back to a white man? Lie down at once, sir, this instant!”
He stared at me; I was urging him with my eyes, and he had just wit enough to obey, but with no great humility, plumping down on the deck and folding his arms stubbornly round his knees. The overseer growled.
“I’d take the starch outer that jackanapes right smart, if he was mine. You be ’vised, Mist’ Prescott, an’ give that uppity yaller bastard a good dressin’ down, or he’ll have the whole passel on ’em as bad as hisself. Beds, by Christ! An’ sassin’ back to me! That’s the trouble with all these fancy house-niggers, with bein’ roun’ white folks they start thinkin’ they white, too. Peacocky high-an’-mighties, every last dam’ one of them. He’ll have bin brought up ’mong white ladies, I don’t doubt; too much dam’ pettin’ when he’s young. You trim him up smart, Mist’ Prescott, like I say, or he’ll be a heap o’ trouble to ye.”
He stumped off, muttering to himself, and Randolph sneered softly to himself.
“The gentleman is not without perception,” says he. “He, at least, was not brought up among white ladies; white sows, perhaps.” He glared up at me. “We are entitled to straw to lie on—why did you not insist that he provides it? Isn’t it enough that I am chained up like a beast in this verminous place, fed on nauseating slops? Aren’t you meant to protect me—you, who neglect me to the mercies of that uncouth white scum?”
I wondered if the fellow was insane—not for the way he spoke to me, but for the purblind stupidity with which he overlooked the position he was in, the role he was meant to be playing. He was five days away from freedom, and yet the idiot insisted on drawing attention to himself and provoking trouble. Ordinarily I’d have taken my boot to him, but he so mystified me that I was alarmed. I glanced round; the overseer was out of sight.
“Come over by the rail,” says I, and when we were standing apart:
“Look—haven’t you got sense enough to keep your mouth shut and your head down? Where the hell do you think you are—the House of Lords? D’ye think it matters whether you get straw or not—or whether I’ve paid for it or not? D’ye expect me to take your side against a white man—it’d be the talk of the boat in five minutes, you fool. Just you forget your lofty opinion of yourself for once, and talk humble, and don’t be so damned particular, or you’ll never see Ohio this trip!”
“I need no advice from you!” he flashed back. “You would be better remembering the duty you have promised to do, which is to take me north in safety, than to spend your time in gorging with white-trash sluts.”
It took my breath away—not just the insolence, but the discovery of how fast news travels among niggers. And there was just a note in his indignation that made me decide to put my anger aside and be amused instead.
“What’s the matter, Sambo?” says I. “Jealous?”
If looks could kill there’d have been a corpse at his feet.
“I have no words to express my contempt of you, or of
the slatterns you … you associate with,” says he, and his voice was shaking. “But I will not have you endanger my freedom, do you hear? What kind of guardian are you? That swine of an overseer might have provoked me beyond endurance—while you were at your beastliness. It is your task to see me to Canada—that is all that matters.”
There was no piercing this one’s arrogance, I saw, not by reason or taunts. So I put my hands on my hips and stuck my face into his.
“All that matters, you black mongrel! I’ll tell you what matters—and that is that you keep your aping airs to yourself, touch your forelock, and say ‘Yes, massa’ whenever I or any white man talks to you. That way you might get to Canada—you just might.” I shook my fist at him. “If you haven’t the brain in that ape skull of yours to see that kicking up the kind of shines you’ve been at today is the surest way of setting us all adrift—if you can’t see that, I’ll teach it to you, by God! I’ll follow that overseer’s advice, Mr Randolph, and I’ll have you triced up, Mr Randolph, and they’ll take a couple of stone of meat off you with a raw-hide, Mr Randolph! Then maybe you’ll learn sense.”
If you think a quadroon can’t go red with rage, you’re wrong.
“You wouldn’t dare!” he choked furiously. “To me! Why, you … you …”
“Wouldn’t I, though? Don’t wager your big black arse on that, George, or you’ll find you’ve only half of it left. And what would you do about it, eh? Holler ‘I’m a runaway nigger, and this man is smuggling me to Canada?’ Think that over, George, and be wise.”
“You … you scoundrel!” He mouthed at me. “This shall be reported, when I reach Cincinnati—the underground railroad shall hear of it—what manner of creature they entrust with—”
“Oh, shut up, can’t you? I don’t give a fig for the railroad—and if you weren’t a born bloody fool you wouldn’t even mention their name. ‘When you reach Cincinnati,’ no less. You won’t reach Cincinnati unless I please—so if you can’t be grateful, Randolph, just be careful. Now, then, take off your airs, close your mouth, and get back there among your brothers—lively now! Cross me or that overseer again, and I’ll have the cat to you—I swear it. Jump to it, nigger!”
He stood there, sweat running down his face, his chest heaving with passion. For a moment I thought he would leap at me, but he changed his mind.
“Some day,” says he, “some day you shall repent this most bitterly. You heap indignities on me, when my hands are tied; you insult me; you mock my degradation. As God is my witness you will pay for it.”
There was no dealing with him, you see. It was on the tip of my tongue to yell for the overseer, and have him string Master George up and raw-hide the innards out of him, just for the fun of hearing him howl, but with this kind of quivering violet you couldn’t be certain what folly he mightn’t commit if he was pushed too far. There was a spite and conceit in that man that passed anything I’ve ever struck, so I lit a cigar while considering how to catch him properly on the raw.
“I doubt if I’ll pay for it,” says I. “But supposing I did—it’s something you can never hope to emulate.” I blew smoke at him. “You’ll never be able to pay for this trip, will you?”
I turned on my heel before he had a chance to reply and strode off, leaving him to digest the truth which I guess he hated more than anything else. That would boil his bile for him, but I wasn’t so certain that my threats would have the desired effect on his conduct. Well, if they didn’t, I’d carry them out, by God, and he could get to Canada with a new set of weals to show on his lectures to the Anti-Slavery Society.
What beats me, looking back, is the stupidity of his ingratitude. Here was the railroad—and for all he knew, myself—in a sweat to save his black hide for him, but would he show a spark of thanks, or abate his uppity pride one jot? Not he. He thought he had a right to be assisted and cosseted, and that we had a duty to put up with his airs and ill humour and childishness, and still help him for his own sweet sake. Well, he’d picked the wrong man in me; I was ready to drop the bastard overboard just to teach him the error of his ways—indeed, I paused on the ladder going up to reflect whether I could get away with selling him to a trader or in one of the marts on the way north. He would fetch a handy sum to help me on my way home—but I saw it wouldn’t do. He’d find a way to drag me down, and even if he didn’t, the underground railroad would hear of it, and I’d developed too healthy a respect for Mr Crixus and his legions to wish them on my tail with a vengeance. No, I’d just have to carry on with the plan, and hope to God that Randolph wouldn’t get us into some fearful fix with his wilful white-niggerishness.
It’s an interesting thought, though, that within a few short weeks I’d found myself engaged in running niggers into slavery, and running ’em out again, and all the hundreds of black animals on the Balliol College, with every reason to resist and mutiny and raise cain, hadn’t given a tenth of the trouble I was getting from this single quadroon, who should have been on his knees in gratitude to me and Crixus and the others. Of course, he was civilised, and educated, and full of his own importance. Lincoln was right; they’re a damned nuisance.
One consolation I had on that first night was that it didn’t look as though our trip would be a long one, and I could look forward to being shot of Master George Randolph within a week. We thrashed up and down the river in fine style—I say up and down because the Mississippi is the twistiest watercourse you ever saw, doubling back and forth, and half the time you are steaming south-east or south-west round a bend to go north again. It’s a huge river, too, up to a mile across in places, and unlike any other I know, in that it gets wider as you go up it. There was nothing to see as far as the banks were concerned except mud flats and undergrowth and here and there a town or a landing place, but the river itself was thick with steamboats and smaller vessels, and great lumber rafts piled high with bales and floating lazily down the muddy brown waters towards the gulf.
It’s a slow, ugly river, and the ugliness isn’t in what you can see, but what you can feel. There’s a palling closeness, and a sense of rot and corruption: it’s a cruel river, to my mind at any rate, both in itself and its people. Mind you, I may be prejudiced by what it did to me, but even years later, when I came booming down it with the Union Army—well, they boomed, and I coasted along with them—I still felt the same oppressive dread of it. I remember what Sam Grant said about it: “Too thick to drink and too thin to plough. It stinks.” Not that he’d have drunk it anyway, unless it had been pure corn liquor from Cairo down.
She’s a treacherous river, too, as I realised on the morning after we had boarded the Sultana, and she ran aground on a mud bank on the Bryaro bend, not far below Natchez. The channels and banks are always shifting, you see, and the pilots have to know every twist and stump and current; ours didn’t, we stuck fast, and a special pilot, the celebrated Bixby, had to be brought down from Natchez to get us afloat again.36 All of which consumed several hours, with the great man strutting about the pilot house and making occasional dashes out to the texas rail to peer down at the churning wheel, and scampering back to roar down his tube: “Snatch her! Hard down! Let her go, go, go!” while the Mississippi mud churned up in huge billows alongside and you could feel the boat shuddering and heaving to be off. And when she finally “snatched”, and reared off the shoal into the water, Bixby was half over the rail again, yelling to the nigger leadsman, and the scream of the whistles all but drowned their great bass voices singing out: “Eight feet—eight and a half—nine feet—quarter-less-twain!” And then as she surged out; “Mark twai-ai-ain!” and the whole ship roared and cheered and stamped and Bixby clapped his tall hat on his head and resumed his kid gloves while they pressed cigars on him and offered him drinks from their flasks. It was quite fun, really, and I’d have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been so anxious to get ahead, for I like to see a man who’s good at something, doing it, and throwing on a bit of extra side, just for show. As I’ve said, I don’t have many kindly memories of the Mis
sissippi, but the best are of the steamboats riding tall, and the swaggering pilots, and the booming voices ringing “De-eep four!” and “Quarter-twa-ain!” across the brown waters. I’ll never hear them again—but they wouldn’t sound the same today anyway.
However, after Mr Bixby’s performance we steamed on to Natchez, and there any slight enjoyment I’d been getting from our cruise came to an abrupt end. From now life on the Mississippi was to be one horror after another, and I was to regret most bitterly the day I’d clapped eyes on her dirty waters.
I had no inkling of anything wrong until we were away and steaming up river again, and I sauntered down to see my coffle getting their evening meal—and no doubt, I thought, to discuss the menu with Black Beauty himself. I was considering a few taunts to add sauce to his diet, and wondering if it was wise to stir up his hysteria again, but the sight of his face drove them clear out of my mind. He looked strained and ugly, and quite deaf to the sneering abuse that the overseer gave him as he received his hash from the copper. He shuffled off with his bowl, glancing round at me, and I followed him out of eyeshot round the bales to the rail, where we could be alone.
“What’s the matter?” says I, for I knew something had shaken him badly. He looked left and right up the rail.
“Something dreadful has happened,” says he in a low voice. “Something unforeseen—my God, it can undo us utterly. It is the most terrible chance—a chance in a thousand—but Crixus should have anticipated it!” He beat his fist on the rail. “He should have seen it, I tell you! The fool! The blind, incompetent blunderer! To send me into this peril, to—”
“What the hell is it?” I demanded, now thoroughly terrified. “Spit it out, in God’s name!”
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