They argued on, and I listened in horror as they discussed means of slaughtering me—for that was what they meant to do, not a doubt. God, the value men place on a rogered woman. I tried to intervene, pleading to be heard, but Mandeville smashed me in the face, and Luke stuck a gag in my mouth, and then they went on with their dreadful discussion. It was terrible, but all I could do was listen, until one of them motioned the others away, and they fell to talking in lowered voices, and all I could catch was snatches and words like “Alabama” and “Tombigbee river”, and “very place for him”, and “no, I reckon there ain’t no risk—who’s to know?”, and then they laughed, and presently Mandeville came over to me.
“Well, Mr Arnold,” says he, smiling like a hyena, “I got good news for you. Yes sir, mighty good. We ain’t goin’ to kill you—how you like that? No, sir, we value you a mite too high for that, I reckon. You’re a sneakin’ varmint that took advantage of a man’s hospitality to try and steal his honour—we got suthin’ better for you than jus’ killin’. You like to hear about it?”
I wanted to stop my ears, but I couldn’t. Mandeville smirked and went on.
“One of my friends here, he got a prime idea. His cousin a planter over to Alabama—quite a ways from here. Now my friend goin’ over that way, takin’ a runaway back to another place, and he ready to ’blige me by takin’ you a stage farther, to his cousin’s plantation. Nobody see you leave here, nobody see you git there. An’ when you do, you know what goin’ to happen to you?” Suddenly he spat in my face. “You goin’ to be stripped an’ put in the cane-fields, ’long with the niggers! You pretty dark now—I seen mustees as light as you—an’ by the time you laboured in the sun a spell, you brown up pretty good I reckon. An’ there you’ll be, Slave Arnold, see? You won’t be dead, but you’ll wish you were! Ain’t nobody ever goin’ to see you, on account it a lonely place, an’ no one ever go there—ifn they do, why you just a crazy mustee! Nobody know you here, nobody ever ask for you. An’ you never escape—on account no nigger ever run from that plantation—swamps an’ dogs always git ’em. So you safe there for life, see? You think you’ll enjoy that life, Slave Arnold?” He stood up and kicked me savagely. “Now, ain’t that a whole heap better’n jus’ killin’ you, quick an’ easy?”
I couldn’t believe my ears; I must be dreaming the whole ghastly thing. I writhed and tried to spit the gag out—tried to beg for mercy with my eyes, but it was useless. They laughed at my struggles, and then they tied my feet and threw me into a cupboard. Before they shut the door, Luke leaned over me with his friendly grin, and said softly:
“Reckon you’ll count it a pretty dear ride you had, friend. Was she good? I hope for your sake she was, ’cos she’s the last white woman you’ll ever see, you dirty Texian bastard!”
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard—I still find it incredible. That white men—civilised white men, could doom another white man to be dragged away to some vile plantation, herded with niggers, flogged to work like a beast—it couldn’t be true, surely? All I’d done was rattle Mandeville’s wife—well, if I ever caught a man doing the like to Elspeth, I’d want to kill him, probably, and I could understand Mandeville wanting to as well—but how could he doom me to the living hell of black slavery? It must be their ghastly idea of a joke—it couldn’t be true, it just could not be!
But it was. How long I lay in that cupboard I don’t know, but it was dark when the door opened and I was dragged out. They had brought my coat, and it was wrapped over my head, and then I felt the horror of fetters being clapped on my ankles. I tried to scream through my gag, and struggled, but they carried me away bodily, muttering and laughing, and presently I was flung on to the hard surface of a cart. I heard Luke say, “Take good care o’ that valuable merchandise, Tom Little,” and laughter, and then we were jolting away in the darkness.
I twisted in my bonds, half-crazed with the abomination of it, and then the jacket was pulled away, and in the dimness of the cart a woman’s voice said:
“Lie still. There’s no use struggling. Believe me, I tried struggling—once. It’s no good. You must wait—wait and hope.”
She pulled out the gag, but my mouth was too parched to speak. She laid her hand on my head, stroking it, and in the dark her voice kept whispering:
“Rest, don’t struggle. Wait and hope. Lie still. Wait and hope.”
Chapter 11
Her name was Cassy, and I believe that without her I must have gone mad on that first night in the slave cart. The darkness, the close animal stench of the enclosed space in which we were cooped up, and most of all the horror of what lay ahead, reduced me to a croaking wreck. And while I lay shuddering and moaning to myself, she stroked my head and talked in a soft, sibilant voice—hardly a trace of nigger, more New Orleans Frenchy, like Annette’s—telling me to be easy, and rest, and not to waste my breath on foolish raving. All very well, but foolish raving is a capital way of releasing one’s feelings. However, she talked on, and in the end it must have soothed me, because when I opened my eyes the cart was stopped, and a little sunlight was filtering through cracks in the board roof, giving a dim illumination to the interior.
The first thing I did was to crawl about the place—it wasn’t above four feet high—examining it, but it was as tight as a drum, and the doors appeared to be padlocked. I couldn’t see a hope of escape. I was chained by the legs—the woman had managed to untie the cord at my wrists—and even if I had succeeded in breaking out, what could I have done against two armed men? They would doubtless be making for Alabama by back roads and trails, far from any hope of assistance, and even if, by some miracle, I got out and gave them the slip, they would easily run me down, hobbled as I was.
The horror of it overcame me again, and I just lay there and wept. There was no hope, and the woman’s voice suddenly came to confirm my fears.
“It won’t seem so bad after a while,” she said. “Nothing ever does.”
I turned to look at her, and for a moment a crazy thought struck me—that she, too, was white, and the victim of some fearful plot like my own. For she was no more like a nigger than I was, at first glance. You have seen her head on old Egyptian carvings, both chin and forehead sloping sharply away from a thin curved nose and wide heavy lips, with great almond-shaped devil’s eyes which can look strong and terrible in that delicate face. She was unusually tall, but everything about her was fine and fragile, from the high cheekbones and thin black hair bound tight behind her head to the slender ankles locked in slave fetters; even her colour was delicate, like very pale honey, and I realised she was the lightest kind of nigger, what they call a musteefino.37 She reminded me of a Siamese cat, graceful and sinuous and probably far stronger than she looked.
Mind you, my thoughts weren’t running in their usual direction; I was too powerfully occupied with my predicament for that, and I fell to groaning and cursing again. I must have babbled something about escape, because she suddenly said:
“Why do you waste your breath? Don’t you know better by now—there’s no escape. Not now, or ever.”
“My God!” I cried. “There must be. You don’t know what they’re going to do to me. I’m to be enslaved on a plantation—for life!”
“Is that so strange?” said she, bitterly. “You’re lucky you haven’t been there before. What were you—a house slave?”
“I’m not a bloody slave!” I shouted. “I’m a white man.”
She stared at me through the dimness. “Oh, come now. We stop saying that when we’re ten years old.”
“It’s true, I tell you! I’m an Englishman! Can’t you tell?”
She moved across the cart, peering at my face, frowning. Then: “Give me your hand,” she says.
I let her look at my nails; she dropped my hand and sat back, staring at me with those great amber-flecked eyes. “Then what are you doing here, in God’s name?”
You may be sure I told her—at length, but leaving out the juicy parts: Mandeville suspected me unjustly, I
told her. She sat like a graven image until it was done, and then all she said was:
“Well, now one of you knows what it feels like.” She went back to her corner. “Now you know what a filthy race you belong to.”
“But, dear Christ!” I exclaimed. “I must get out of it, I must—”
“How?” Her lips writhed in a sneer. “Do you know how many times I’ve run? Three times! And each time they caught me, and dragged me back. Escape! Bah! You talk like a fool.”
“But … but … last night … in the dark … you said something about waiting and hoping …”
“That was to comfort you. I thought you were … one of us.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “Well, you are, now, and I tell you there isn’t any hope. Where can you run to, in this vile country? This land of freedom! With slave-catchers everywhere, and dogs, and whipping-houses, and laws that say I’m no better than a beast in a sty!” Her eyes were blazing with a hatred that was scaring. “You try and run! See what good it does you!”
“But slave-catchers can’t touch me! If only I can get out of this cursed wagon! Look,” I went on, desperately, “there must be a chance—when they open the doors, to feed us—”
“How little you know of slavery!” she mocked me. “They won’t open the doors—not till they get me to Forster’s place, and you to wherever you’re going. Feed us!—that’s how they feed us, like dogs in a kennel!” And she pointed to a hatch in the door, which I hadn’t noticed. “For the rest, you foul your sty—why shouldn’t you? You’re just a beast! Did you know that was what the Romans called us—talking beasts? Oh, yes, I learned a lot about slavery, in the fine house I was brought up in. Brought up so that I could be made the chattel of any filthy ruffian, any beggar or ignorant scum of the levees—just so he was white!” She sat glaring at me, then her shoulders drooped. “What use to talk? You don’t know what it means. But you will. You will.”
Well, you may guess how this raised my spirits. The very fierceness of the woman, her bitter certainty, knocked what little fight I had out of me. I sat dejected, and she silent, until after a while I heard Little and his companion talking outside, and presently the hatch was raised, and a tin dish was shoved in, and a bottle of water. I was at the hatch in a flash, shouting to them, pleading and offering money, which sent them into roars of laughter.
“Say, hear that now! Ain’t that bully? What about you, Cass—ain’t you got a thousand dollars to spare for ifn we let you go? No? Well, ain’t that a shame, though? No, my lord, I’m sorry, but truth is me an’ George here, we don’t need the money anyways. An’ I ain’t too sure we’d trust your note o’ hand, either. Haw-haw!”
And the cruel brute slammed down the hatch and went off, chuckling.
Through all this Cass never said a word, and when we had tried to eat the filthy muck they had given us, and rinsed our throats from the bottle, she went back to her corner and sat there, her head against the boards, staring into vacancy. Presently the cart started up, and for the rest of the day we jolted slowly over what must have been a damned bad road, while the atmosphere in the cart grew so hot and stifling that I was sure we must suffocate before long. Once or twice I bawled out to Little, pleading with him, but all I got was oaths and obscene jokes, so I gave up, and all the time Cassy sat silent, only occasionally turning to stare at me, but making no reply to my croaks and questions. I cursed her for a black slut, but she didn’t seem to hear.
Towards sunset, the cart stopped, and immediately Cassy seemed to come to life. She peered through a crack in the side of the wagon, and then crawled over at me, motioning me to talk in whispers.
“Listen,” she said. “You want to escape?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Escape? I—”
“Quiet, in heaven’s name! Now, listen. If I can show you how to escape—will you make me a promise?”
“Anything! My God, anything!”
The great almond eyes stared into mine. “Don’t protest too easily—I mean what I say. Will you swear, by all that you believe to be holy, that if I help you escape, you will never desert me—that you will help me, in my turn, to gain my freedom?”
I’d have sworn a good deal more than that. With hope surging through me, I whispered. “I swear—I promise! I’ll do anything. No, I’ll never desert you, I swear it!”
She stared at me a moment longer, and then glanced towards the door.
“Soon now they will bring our food. When they do, you will be making love to me—do you understand?”
I couldn’t follow this, but I nodded, feverish with excitement. In a whisper she went on:
“When they see us, whatever they say, defy them. Do you understand me? Taunt them, swear at them—anything! Then leave the rest to me. Whatever I do or say, do nothing further.”
“What are you going to do? What can I—”
“Quiet!” She started up. “They’re coming. I think. Now—over there, where they’ll see us.”
And as footsteps came round to the back of the cart she sprawled into the middle of the floor, dragging up her dress, and pulling me down on top of her. Trembling, and for once not for the usual reasons, I clung to the pliant body, crushing my mouth down on hers and plunging like mad—gad, as I look back, what a waste of good effort it was, in the circumstances. I heard the hatch flung open, and in that moment Cassy writhed and began to sob in simulated ecstasy, clawing at me and squealing. There was an oath and commotion at the hatch, and then a cry of:
“Tom! Tom! Come quick! That damned Texian feller, he’s screwin’ the wench!”
More commotion, and then Little’s voice:
“What you think you’re doin’, blast ye? Get off a her, this minute! Get off, d’ye hear, or I’ll fill yore ass with buckshot!”
I bawled an obscenity at him, and then there was a rattling at the lock, the door was flung wide, to the gathering dusk, and Little glared in, his piece levelled at me. I decided I had defied him sufficiently, and rolled away; Cassy scrambled up into a reclining position.
“Damn you!” bawls Little. “Don’t you never get enough?”
I stayed mum, while he cursed at me, his pal staring pop-eyed over his shoulder. And then Cass, shrugging her shoulders petulantly and moving to display her fine long legs, remarked:
“Why can’t you let us be? What’s the harm in it?”
Little’s piggy little eyes went over her; he licked his lips, still keeping his gun pointed at me.
“Harm in it?” His voice was thick. “You ol’ Forster’s wench, ain’t you? Think you can rattle with everyone you please? Not while I’m around, my gel. You dirty nigger tail, you!”
She shrugged again, pouting, and spoke in a voice very unlike her own.
“Ifn massa say. Cassy don’ mind none, anyways. This feller ain’t bait for a gel like me—I used to real men.”
Little’s eyes opened wide. “Is that a fact?” His loose bearded mouth opened in a grin. “Well, think o’ that, now. I didn’t know you was thataway inclined, Cass—fancy yellow gel like you, with all them lady airs.” He was thinking as he talked, and there was no doubting what those thoughts were. “Well, now—you just come out o’ that cart this minute, d’ye hear? You—” this was to me—“keep yourself mighty still, lessn you want a belly--full o’ lead. Come on, my gel, git your ass outa that wagon—smart!”
Cassy slid herself to the tail of the cart, while they watched her closely, and dropped lightly to the ground. I stayed where I was, my heart hammering. Little motioned with his gun, and the other fellow slammed and locked the door, leaving me in darkness. But I could hear their voices, plain enough.
“Now, then, Cass,” says Little. “You step roun’ there, lively now. So—now, you jus’ shuck down, d’ye hear?” There was a pause, and then Cassy’s new voice:
“Massa gwine ter be nice to Cassy?—Cassy a good gel, please massa ever so much.”
“By God, an’ so ye will! Look at that, George—here, you hol’ the gun! An’ make yourself scarce. By go
sh, I’m goin’ to ’tend to this li’l beauty right here an’ now! What you waitin’ for, George—you get outa here!”
“Don’ I get none o’ her, then? Don’ I even get to watch?”
“Watch? Why, how you talk! Think I’m a hog, or a nigger, that I’d do my screwin’ with you watchin’? Get outa here, quick! You’ll get your piece when I’m done. Here, gimme back that gun—reckon I’ll keep it by, case her ladyship gits up to anythin’. But you won’t, honey, will you?”
I heard George’s reluctant footsteps retreating, and then silence; I strained my ears, but could hear nothing through the wagon side. A minute passed, and then there was a sudden sharp gasp, and a thin whining sound half-way between a sigh and a wail, and the sound of it made the hairs rise on my neck. A moment later, and Cassy’s voice in sudden alarm:
“Mas’ George, Mas’ George! Come quick! Suthin’ happen to Mas’ Tom—he hurt himself! Come quick!”
“What’s that?” George’s voice sounded from a little way off, and I heard his feet running. “What you say—what happened, Tom? You all right, Tom? What—”
The gunshot crashed out with startling suddenness, near the back of the wagon; there was a scream and a choking groan, and then nothing, until I heard the padlock rattle, the door was flung back, and there was Cassy. Even in the dusk I could see she was naked; she still had the musket in her hand.
“Quickly!” she cried. “Come out! They’re both done for!”
I was out, fetters and all, in a twinkling. George lay spread-eagled at my feet, the top half of his face a bloody mash—she had given him the buckshot at point-blank range. I looked round and saw Little, crouched on his knees by the camp-fire, his head down; even as I started towards him he rolled over, with a little bubbling sob, and I saw the knife hilt sticking out of the crimson soaking mess that stained his shirt. He twitched for a moment, bubbling, and then was still.
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 159
