by Kyle Onstott
Mandingo
by Kyle Onstott
First published in 1957
This edition published by Reading Essentials
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[email protected]
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MANDINGO
Slave-farming in the Southern States of the U.S.A. before the Civil War is the subject of this powerful and vividly realistic novel. Cotton-growing being no longer profitable, old Maxwell and his son Hammond—honest and humane men according to the social code of the time—breed Negroes for sale as cattle. Hammond, though happy enough dallying with the female slaves, must take a white wife and produce a white heir. He marries his cousin Blanche, neglects her for a young Negress who loves him, and so sets in train a series of appalling events that result in one of the grimmest climaxes in fiction.
Mandingo
by Kyle Onstott
Dedicated to
VICKY AND PHILIP
of course
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In the early 1830s the economy of the Southern States of the U.S.A. was largely based on trading in human flesh. What happened there led to the struggle between North and South that broke out thirty years later.
From today’s vantage point the developing situation may be viewed objectively. Actually, the finger of blame should be pointed at no one geographical group of people. Although those who promoted the abolition of slavery were ethically in the right, Southern planters in general are shown to have been victims of circumstances rather than diabolical tyrants as they have sometimes been painted.
The land, once the most valuable asset of the plantation-owner, deteriorated through lack of knowledge of conservation methods. In turn, the potential return from the sale of agricultural products gradually lessened. In an attempt to drain the final dregs from the impoverished soil, slave labour was utilized. But, finally, the land became so nearly exhausted that the planters turned to the more lucrative enterprise of propagating slaves for marketing to land-owners in other areas. Then, as a sordid outgrowth of a last endeavour to maintain financial security, speculation in the slave market became the outstanding interest. More emphasis was placed on the propagation of slave stock than on the production of any other commodity. The excuse was used that the practice was intended to better the physical characteristics of the offspring. But physical oddities and freaks were as much in demand as were the robust.
The average plantation-owner was considerate of the welfare of his human property. But he was considerate not as one concerned with the needs of another—rather, the planter’s concern was based on maintaining and increasing the value of a marketable chattel.
K.O.
1
The old man heard the closing of the front door and the limping step in the hall. He was pleased that his son should have the good sense to send the Negroes to quarters and come into the house out of the cold, drizzling February rain.
Hammond walked across the room, picked up his father’s glass of toddy and took a swallow.
‘Take more, take more,’ urged Maxwell. ‘Do you good, son. Gittin’ too cooled off fer me anyways. Got to have me another’n, and I kin ever git that triflin’ Memnon to stir me one. Mem!’ he called. ‘Mem! Memnon!’
Hammond started toward the dining-room to get Memnon when the boy opened the door with apparent alacrity.
‘Didn’t you hear me callin’, Mem, you god-damn black varmint? Stir me a toddy, hot, mind you. Now! Not nex’ week,’ Maxwell commanded.
‘Yas, suh, Masta,’ said the slave and started to go.
‘I talk to you, I cod you, I beg, an’ I cuss you,’ the master said sternly. ‘Only I cain’t whup you—with this rheumatiz. You young masta got to do that.’
The slave was used to the threats of his old master, which, so far, had always come to nothing. None the less, Agamemnon rolled his eyes toward the younger Maxwell, with dilated pupil and a show of white.
‘Whenever you reckon, I’ll take keer of him,’ Hammond promised his father. ‘Whut you think, boy? When I whups, I whups—takes the meat right off your bones. Eh?’
‘Naw, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh,’ replied the Negro. ‘I be spry. I ain’t goin’ to sloth no mo’.’ While he reckoned the impatience of his senior master to be mere bluster, he was by no means sure that the forthright younger man did not mean business. Memnon knew that he was lax, slothful, and procrastinating, and he resolved henceforth to be more diligent—at least for a time. His duties were small enough, to mix toddies for the older man, to replenish the fire, to serve at table, remove his master’s clothes at night and help to put them on in the morning; and he was indulged, fed white man’s viands, kept in clean, whole clothes, given at least one ardent woman with whom to sleep, with a frequent alternative. He was valuable, being strong-thewed, broad-shouldered, yellow-skinned, free from scars, disfigurements, or blemishes. He knew he was not for sale, though he was past thirty and would bring a larger price now than later, but it was unthinkable that his young master would risk scarring him up with the whip and reducing his market worth, especially since he knew the pride the Maxwells took in having their stock, human and quadruped, clean-limbed and sound.
Despite the cold rain and the father’s entreaties, the son returned to his work, determined to clear more land, split the rails to fence it, chop wood for the house fires, but above all to keep the Negroes employed and exercised. Agamemnon prepared the toddy that Maxwell had ordered, saw to it that it was hot, as commanded, and when he saw that the fire was burning low in the fireplace, brought fresh chunks of water-oak and adjusted them upon the dog-irons.
Maxwell, surprised at the slave’s access of industry, could only grunt at what he assumed was a sign of reformation. His joints racked, and he lifted one hand with the other and examined the swollen knuckles. Yet, in spite of the pain and effort it cost him, he braced himself and staggered to his feet occasionally to totter to the window to scan the weather, just to prove to himself that he was able to do it and to alter the tedium of watching the fire and waiting for Hammond’s return.
On one of the excursions, near to evening, he noted that the downpour had subsided to a mere drizzle and scanned the sky for a patch of blue in the hope that the rain would cease altogether. Between the boles of the bare miscellany of trees, maples, tupelos, oaks, chestnuts, hickories, and elms, that behind a zizgag stake-and-rider fence lined the long avenue to the main road, he descried a moving object. He could hardly credit that a visitor was arriving at Falconhurst on so wretched a day and through such mire as the rains had made of the roads.
He could not be sure. ‘Mem!’ he bellowed. ‘Memnon! Memnon, you hear? Memnon, you yaller mongrel! Come here! Come here, I’m sayin’!’
Drowsing before the fireplace in the kitchen, Mem roused himself and shuffled unhurriedly across the open passageway, through the dining-room and into the living-room. ‘Yas, suh, Masta. You a-callin’?’
‘Course I’m a-callin’. Come here to this winder. Look out. Whut you reckon that be movin’ up that laneway?’
Mem looked. ‘Look like horse with gen’man a-ridin’,’ he said.
‘Course it a gen’leman and of course he ridin’ a horse,’ Maxwell said contemptuously. ‘But who it goin’ to be? Who comin’ to Falconhurst in all this weather and through all this mire?’
Memnon had no idea. His interest was no less, however, than his owner’s. ‘Now we’ll have doin’s,’ he declared optimistically. The arrival of any
white man at Falconhurst was an occasion.
The horseman emerged into the open and it could be seen that he wore a frock coat and a slouch hat, as might have been expected, that he was thin to emaciation without being very tall, that his bay mount was tired, muddy, and from his action probably a gelding, for which Maxwell felt a contempt.
Three children ran beside the horse, lifting their feet high in an effort to surmount the mud. The man monotonously cracked a whip to urge the children’s haste, but he usually and intentionally missed them. Now and again one was seen to flinch when a blow stung its legs or buttocks, and for three or four strides to hasten its pace.
‘Jest a nigger buyer,’ scoffed Maxwell more to himself than to his servant.
Despite the contempt in his voice, he hastened to the double front doors and went out on the verandah, followed closely by Agamemnon, to await his guest. The profession of dealing in Negroes was deprecated, but the scorn for it was not so intense as to warrant a denial of hospitality to its practitioners. The disdain was for the calling, not for the man. If it was an evil, it was a convenient evil. Dealers saved planters from the necessity of a trip to market with one or two slaves; they were not too particular about the viciousness of Negroes they bought for early resale and were good agencies for the riddance of ‘bad’ Negroes; and better yet, they paid cash on the barrelhead for their purchases. Moreover, they were white.
Visitors to Falconhurst were rare; they brought news. And Maxwell’s dislike for dealers was more of a convention than a conviction. He was aware that his own rung of the social hierarchy was not that of a gentleman—not a fine gentleman at least, merely a gentleman by courtesy, far, far above a dealer but not quite a full gentleman.
The stranger dismounted stiffly from his horse, briefly rubbed his lean flanks to relieve the fatigue of the saddle, doffed his hat, and said, ‘Howdy, suh. Name of Brownlee—Brownlee.’
The Negro children who accompanied him retreated to the off side of the horse, and, open-mouthed, looked warily at their master’s reception.
‘Name of Maxwell, suh, Warren Maxwell,’ the host returned the greeting and identified himself.
‘I was informed of your name, suh. It’s well and, pardon me, suh, favourably known in these parts.’
‘Ought to be, suh. We been right here at Falconhurst sence befo’ the rebellion of 1776.’ The reply was not ungenial, but it served to underline the difference between gentleman planter and slave dealer. No gesture of handshaking was made by either man. ‘Cast the bridle to the boy, suh, who will stable your horse and bed down your servants. Then, come right in. Dinner is mighty nigh ready.’
Agamemnon caught the reins, but only to turn the chore over to another black boy who had appeared, more bold than the other Negroes, from behind one corner of the house. Brownlee had an eye for a Negro and quickly noted that this slave boy had only two toes—the great and the little one—on his left foot. Every eye in the quarters appraised the visitor from cover. His arrival was reason for speculation and low-toned talk.
Maxwell was specific in his orders to the black. ‘Take the gen’leman’s horse straight to the stable. Take off his gear and wash him down good—warm water, mind you, not too hot, but warm. I ketches you washing a horse with col’ water this time of year, I’ll hide you sure.’
‘Yas, suh, Masta,’ the boy replied conventionally.
‘And take these little niggers with you and bed ’em down in another stall and give them some pone, all they’ll eat of it. Cook will issue you some black-strap to make it tasty. Tell her I said to.’
‘Cook won’t give black-strap to no nigger withouten your say,’ protested the boy.
‘Tell her I say. If she don’t heed you, have her ask Memnon.’
‘Yas, suh, Masta; have cook ast Memnon,’ the boy repeated to impress the command on his own mind.
Maxwell consulted Brownlee, ‘Reckon I better have your niggers chained up?’
‘I reckon it ain’t necessary on a cold day like this. They too tired to run. Of course you cain’t tell whut goes on in a nigger’s haid,’ he reconsidered. ‘Wouldn’t do no harm.’
Maxwell turned again to the boy. ‘And chain the niggers to the side of their stall—the wench separate from the bucks. Use them small little anklets that they cain’t slip out of and fetch the keys up and turn ’em over to Memnon.’
‘Turn keys over to Memnon,’ the black repeated.
‘When that mud on their legs dries out, crack it and rub it off, too,’ interposed Brownlee. ‘Pardon me, suh, fer giving orders to yo’ servant,’ he apologized to Maxwell.
‘My servants are yo’ servants, suh, so long as you honours me with your company at Falconhurst,’ Maxwell reassured his guest. ‘Anything else the boy kin do fer yo’ property, suh?’
‘That will accommodate me nicely, suh, nicely.’
‘Memnon, go down after dinner to the stable and see that this boy—whut’s your name, boy?’ the master broke off.
‘My name Preacha’, suh, please,’ the confused boy stuttered.
‘Whut’s that? Talk plain.’
‘Preacha’, suh. My name Preacha’.’
‘Preacha’? I don’t like it. It don’t mean nothin’. I like names out’n history or names of heathen gods.’
‘My mammy wanted that I should be a preacha’—a reverend.’
‘I’ll reverend you. We’ll change your name right now—let’s see—Barbarossa. We haven’t had a Barbarossa fer a long time. Remember that—your name is Barbarossa.’
‘Barbarossa, Barbarossa, Barbarossa,’ the baffled boy muttered in determination to remember his new designation.
Maxwell continued his orders to Memnon, ‘See that this Barber do all whut I told him. If he neglect that horse and if he don’t take good care of them niggers, he kin depen’ on a hidin’. Understand, boy?’
‘Yas, suh, Masta.’
‘That’s all,’ said the master.
The newly christened Barbarossa led the horse toward the stable, followed by the three children. ‘Barber, Barber, Barber—something or t’other. My masta done change me from Preacha’ to Barba’,’ and he snapped his fingers, ‘jest like that,’ he said to himself but aloud. Then he laughed delightedly at his own joke. ‘Barba’, Barba’, Bar——’
‘I trade in niggers,’ Brownlee announced to Maxwell.
‘So I reckoned, suh, so I reckoned,’ replied the host. ‘We got to have traders if we’re goin’ to have niggers. We cain’t eat ’em.’
‘I know some gen’lemen don’t like traders, but everybody’s got to live. Whut would you planters do withouten we traders?’
‘We’d have to plough the niggers under, I reckon. I got nothing agin’ traders. I’ve sold to lots of ’em; they’re welcome right in my house and at my table—that is, sence my wife passed away. She was a Hammond, daughter of old Mista Theophilus Hammond of the Anglebranch Plantation down near Selma. Mista Theophilus wouldn’t have no truck with traders—a fine gen’leman. He never sold a servant—not one. Bred good niggers too. I remember twenty year back when servants was cheap, Theophilus Hammond pay two thousand dollars fer a yaller quadroon stallion—a lot of money them days.’
‘Sure was. Why even today you can pick up a mighty noble hand, house-broke and everything, fer fifteen hundred or two thousand. Jest before Christmas I sold a big, sound, robust buck, six foot one and shoulders like that,’ Brownlee stretched his arms, ‘right off the block in New Orleans fer fourteen hundred—yeller, too, good enough to cover anybody’s wenches.’
Mr. Maxwell refused to relinquish his aristocratic father-in-law. ‘Of course, Mista Theophilus (being in the family I calls him by his first name), used to sell off a bad nigger, if he got one; or he’d sell to accommodate a friend with a good house-boy or a fancy, yaller sew-er; or he’d rarely, rarely, part with a young buck to get money to run Anglebranch Plantation and feed the other hands till cotton time. But he never made a practice of selling his stock at all. Didn’t trust traders and woul
dn’t sell to ’em.’
‘I come a right smart out of my way to pay my respects to yo’.’ Brownlee bowed and Maxwell returned the bow in so far as his rheumatism permitted. ‘And see didn’t yo’ all have a few servants you wanted to git shet of.’
‘No, cain’t say we have. I sent a fine coffle of prime young bucks Natchez way, right after pickin’ time. If yo’ had of come along about then we could have talked, but I ain’t got nothin’ prime to offer yo’ right now.’
‘They don’t got to be prime, suh. I’ll prime ’em when I git ’em to New Orleans,’ Brownlee urged, betraying his eagerness.
‘If yo’ come this way again in the late fall, I might have a dozen or fifteen nice, strapping boys fer yo’, or a wench or two if I kin get ’em knocked up and showing. Don’t pay to sell a wench open. Buyers like to git two fer the price of one.’
‘Don’t know if’n I could afford to relieve you of a dozen at a time. Limited capital, yo’ know, mighty limited, but I’ll be here—count on’t.’
The wind was playing through Maxwell’s shock of red hair, and he suddenly was aware of the chill in the air that would worsen his rheumatism.
‘Right like to rain some more; I kin feel it right in my jints. Wind a-comin’ up, too. One good comes out of this consarned rheumatiz—learns me to prognosticate.’ He rubbed the swollen joints of one hand over the equally swollen knuckles of the other. ‘I’ll always remember 1831 as a wet year, the year the rheumatiz got me. And now in February, it’s started out wet again and the rheumatiz mirrors the weather, seems like.’
‘Roads like thick gumbo, all the way across Alabama, ever sence I left the Georgia line. Horse mired up to his fetlocks and the young niggers muddy half up to the crotch. Had to stop oncet and take the little wench up on the crupper; and lashing the two boys slowed ’em down more than it hurried ’em up. Nigh glad I had so scant a coffle because they a-goin’ to be all skinny, even if not sick, before I kin fetch ’em to market.’ Mr. Brownlee sighed, removed his square-lensed spectacles, wiped his bloodshot, porcine blue eyes on a soiled blue bandana which he drew from the tail of his frock coat, after which he took off his black slouch hat and wiped with the bandana his bald scalp with the tufts of curly black hair above the ears. His small face had been smooth some three or four days ago, but now it was scantily peppered with black.
