by Kyle Onstott
‘Whut you wants, white man?’ Lucy greeted him, irritated at his intrusion and frightened with the knowledge of his trade.
‘I wants to see Big Pearl agin,’ Brownlee explained. ‘Shuck her down fer me to look at.’
‘Masta Hammon’ know you come?’ Lucy demanded.
‘No, but I reckon he won’t care if I looks over the wench. Come on, Pearl, shuck down,’ and the white man started toward the girl.
Lucy intercepted him, forced the baby into Big Pearl’s arms and strode through the door, around the corner of the cabin and across the clearing toward the house, bellowing at the top of her mighty voice, ‘Masta, Masta, suh, white man rapin’ Big Pearl; white man rapin’ Big Pearl. Masta, Masta, you done tell white man rape Big Pearl?’
The commotion startled Maxwell awake. He staggered helplessly to his feet, calling for Ham. His effort was wasted, since Hammond could not fail to hear Lucy’s alarm. So long and firm was Hammond’s step as he strode through the door, loosening his gun in its holster as he came, that his limp was imperceptible. At his heels came Meg, eyes bulging, arms flailing. Alph, stupefied by the toddy Maxwell had prescribed for his rheumatism, opened his eyes, made as if to rise, and fell over on the gallery floor, asleep again.
Before Hammond could cross the open space, Mr. Brownlee appeared from behind the cabins, bland of manner, assuming an unconcern he did not feel.
‘Whut the meanin’ of this? You rape my wench?’ Hammond demanded.
‘No harm done, no harm done. Jest lookin’ around your quarters a little. Never went near that nigger’s cabin—’cept jest to stick my head in the door.’ Brownlee knew he lied but he had downed three large goblets of whisky during the morning, and he tried to breeze it out.
Ham was coldly angry. ‘If you wasn’ a white man, I’d kill you. I’d shoot you right through the belly.’ Hammond fumbled at his gun but did not draw it from its holster. ‘That Lucy never lie before, an’ she not lyin’ now.’
Brownlee cleared his throat as if to speak again, but found nothing to say.
‘Git your geldin’ and your two cripped bucks and git out of here. The roads are bad, but Redfield made it from Benson and you kin make it that fur.’
Brownlee half-shrugged. It was not the first time he had been ordered away from a gentleman’s plantation and he was not sadly embarrassed, but as Hammond walked away, the trader saw him dust his hands together and heard him say something about ‘white trash’. The epithet scalded him.
The dealer turned toward the stable. He saddled his own horse and rounded up his slaves. There was no time for farewells. As he walked his horse past the gallery where the Maxwells stood silent, he called, ‘I reckon I jest ride by the Widder Johnson’s whure they murderin’ that ol’ wench. The sheriff might be in’erested in that goin’s on.’
The Negroes at a slow trot kept abreast of the horse. The shorter, black one was thoughtful and kept his eyes to the ground as if watching his foot with its two toes. The gangling yellow boy was in happier mood. ‘Goo’bye, Masta,’ he called as he passed the gallery, ‘goin’ to Kaintucky.’ He was silenced by the sting of the lash about his legs.
The sheriff would ignore charges brought by an itinerant Negro buyer against Mrs. Johnson and Doc Redfield for the killing of a slave. It was a minor crime at worst. The wench was old. Negro testimony meant nothing to the court, and Brownlee’s accusation would have no validity against the denials of guilt from substantial citizens like Doc Redfield and the Widow Johnson. None the less Hammond was relieved to see Brownlee’s horse as he reached the road turn to the left toward Benson rather than to the right toward the widow’s.
5
‘But I don’ crave to git married, Papa. Whut I craves is a fightin’ nigger,’ Hammond was saying. The elder Maxwell’s desire for a grandson, white, an heir, was persistent.
Supper was over and the two slouched over toddies before the fire. The night was balmy, but the fire was comfortable. Meg had rushed in to remove Hammond’s boots, forestalling Memnon in that duty. He knelt in front of Hammond and tugged, and when a boot suddenly slipped off it threw the boy backward. He peeled off Hammond’s socks, and, instead of drying the feet with his hands, as Mem had done the previous night, Meg leaned forward and wiped them on his kinky hair. Before he shoved the slipper upon the second foot, he embraced it and rubbed his cheek against the white flesh. He half expected disapproval, but Hammond failed to notice the gesture or the questioning, diffident smile that followed it.
‘Besides, I don’ know no young white ladies,’ Hammond went on.
‘Why, why, there’s Miz Daisy Prescott, over to Sommerset Plantation. Right good family—the Prescotts; and she’d jump to git you.’
‘Yes, I knows Miz Daisy Belle. Right respectable and all; real purty an’ you likes ’em dark. But Miz Daisy Belle older’n me; she goin’ on an ol’ maid. Must be twenty-one, twenty-two year ol’.’
‘An’ then there’s your cousin, Miz Blanche Woodford, an’ you likes ’em light and you likes ’em young. Cain’t be more ’n sixteen and has hay-colour hair, at least did have time I seen her. You remember her?’
‘Cain’t say I do,’ Hammond denied.
‘Yes you do. Went to Crowfoot Plantation with yo’ mamma to visit her Cousin Beatrix when you little. Miz Woodford your mamma’s cousin, a Hammond, too—gal of ol’ Orestes Hammond who was brother of Theophilus, your mamma’s papa.’
‘How you keep it all in your head, who kin to who?’
‘It’s ’portant. Got to know who you kin trust. Blood outs. Orestes Hammond no such man as ol’ Theophil—a drinker, kind of, drunk hisself to death. Howsumever, he a Hammond—good blood. Major Woodford, Miz Blanche’s papa, of a good family too—his mother a Sitwell. Got Crowfoot Plantation from her side; added to it and built a new big house, hisself, howsumever.’
‘Whure is Crowfoot?’
‘Over beyant Briarfield which is beyant Centerville, near as I kin tell. Everybody in them parts knows Major Woodford and Crowfoot.’
‘ ’Bout fifty mile, ain’t it?’
‘Nearer sixty, mayhap sixty-five.’
‘Not the place whure a boy had the billy-goat hitched up to a cart and let me ride?’
‘That the place. Now you remember. That boy was Richard—older than you. Then comes another boy, younger than you, name of Charles I believe. Then Miz Blanche. And there was still another’n, a baby, boy or gal I disremember, but it died. Blanche is the youngest livin’. You real taken with that billy!’
‘I don’t remember the gal.’
‘You right young then—about five. Before—before I put you on that geldin’ pony.’
‘Long piece to go to git a wife,’ sighed Hammond.
Alph came in and took his place on the floor between Maxwell’s chair and the fire. He was naked, ready for bed.
‘Boy, did you soak?’ Maxwell asked him.
‘Yassum, Masta, suh,’ replied Alph, rolling his eyes questioningly, as if he did not expect to be believed.
‘I ain’t never had no truck with a white lady. I wouldn’t know whut to do,’ Hammond confessed.
‘Why, if you sees one you wants, you asts her papa, kin you ast her. He say yes, and then you up and asts her. All there is to it.’
‘I don’t mean that. I means goin’ to bed. Goin’ to bed after you marry. How you ack?’
‘Don’t fret about that. You’ll ack all right. No trouble. The gal won’t know how to ack either, supposin’ she a nice gal.’
‘Treat ’em jest like they was a nigger wench?’
‘Jest like a wench. That is, not exactly. A nigger knows whut you goin’ to do. White lady doesn’t—not the first time. She modest. She makes out to cry. Mayhap, she scream and holler.’
‘And won’t let you?’
‘You loves her up and kisses her, and she let you all right at las’.’
‘Kisses her? I no good at kissin’.’
‘You gits so you likes to kiss ’em, kinder. I knows you doe
sn’t kiss your wenches. White ladies, you has to.’
‘I kissed my mammy when I was little.’
‘Course, of course. I means you don’ kiss your bed wenches. You jest pleasures ’em and lets ’em go. You asts a white lady; you doesn’t tell her. White ladies doesn’t like pesterin’, but they submits, they submits to their husband. It’s their duty, their married duty. Sometimes they slow, and you has to promise ’em somethin’, a new bonnet or somethin’. But they submits. Leastwise, your mamma did.’
‘An’ you cain’t have no more wenches? Whut you do when your wife git ol’, twenty-five, maybe thirty?’
‘Course have wenches, jest the same. You doesn’t talk about ’em, frontin’ your wife, but she know you have ’em. She want you should have ’em. Saves her from havin’ to submit.’
‘A white lady better’n a wench?’
‘Better? No, wouldn’t hardly say she better. But you got to have a wife in order to have children—white children.’
‘I knows. I knows that.’
‘Another thing. You cain’t shuck down afore you gits in bed with a white lady. Always keeps on your shirt and drawers. Plague a white lady mos’ to death to see a man nekid.’
‘Kindly unhandy like, ain’t it?’
‘Not as unhandy like as the riggin’ she wears to keep you from seein’ her. Wears a chimmy that button plumb up to her neck an’ comes clean to the flo’; covers her right up all over.’
‘Not in New Orleans. They white ladies there that strip all off, ever’thing. I seen ’em last trip——’
‘Whores. They’s whores. That different. Not much better than niggers. Some of ’em not even as good,’ declared Maxwell in disgust. ‘Lets you see their brestes nekid, even lets you finger ’em.’
‘They right purty—white skin and all.’
‘Don’t you let me ketch you pesterin’ around no white whores, Son. You gits crabs from ’em, and clap and everythin’.’
‘I didn’t, Papa, I didn’t, but I seen ’em.’
‘When you go to New Orleans again, come fall, you better take Dite, or some wench, along. We knows our niggers clean; won’ give you nothin’.’
‘Cain’t take Dite. She’ll be jest about foalin’ in the fall.’
‘She knocked? You has worse luck with your wenches ’n anybody. Only been pesterin’ Dite three, four months. Dite might bring a right likely sucker, though. Your other git has been right prime. You growin’ older and stronger; your git ought to be even better’n ever.’
‘Ain’t none of ’em with stiff knee. First thing I looks fer in my suckers.’
‘Ain’t likely—not in first crossin’. Liable to find some stiffness in your grandchildren, not in all of ’em, course, mayhap not any.’
‘Kindly like to keep my own, the wenches anyhow, fer breeders.’
‘Good idy. That Hammond blood had ought to give a nigger some quality. But don’t turn your son to ’em—that knee sure to show up comin’ from both sides.’
‘Ain’t got no son, yet, Papa. Not no white son.’
‘You goin’ to have. You goin’ to have,’ predicted Maxwell in confidence.
‘Mayhap, I’ll ride to Crowfoot Plantation to see Cousin Blanche Woodford next week or week after—before ploughin’ time set in. Kin you git along?’
‘Fer that, sure enough kin. Won’t have to do nothin’. Jest give the niggers a rest, kinda, before ploughin’. Anything has to be done, I’ll save it up fer your back coming.’
‘Long trip—jest to see a lady, see if I’m a-wantin’ her or not.’
‘And on your way back you kin turn off to Coign and ast old man Wilson fer the loanin’ of that old Mandingo fer Big Pearl and Lucy. Reckon they still got him at Coign.’
‘Take a day more, mayhap, two, accordin’ to if the roads is good.’
‘Take your time. I’m set—kinder like—on that Mandingo. And you might look around some fer that fightin’ nigger you a-wantin’.’
‘I had thought of that,’ said Hammond.
‘Thought of that, mayhap, more than of gittin’ you a wife.’
‘A wife is discouragin’—kinder like. But I guess that ever’ man has got to have one.’
‘A man o’ property anyhow. You a man of considerable property, will be; an’ it look like you’ll have more—unless you wastes it all on fightin’ niggers an’ sportin’ around.’
‘I doesn’t sports, an’ you knows it. This fighter I’m a-layin’ off to git ain’ no sport. It jest a way I sees to pickin’ up some good young niggers without costin’ nothin’. Course, fightin’ him means takin’ him to Benson and around to other towns Saturdays, gittin’ a chance to see folks—but that not sportin’.’
‘Ifn you buys you a fightin’ nigger, buy you a good one—one that kin win. A losin’ fighter worser than no fighter at all.’
‘That whut I means,’ explained Ham. ‘Most of these men who fights niggers ain’t got no fighters. They thinks jest any big buck outn the cotton gang good enough to fight with, an’ he big enough.’
‘An’ train him. Harden him and practise him an’ learn him how to fight.’
‘That whut I goin’ to do—if only I finds me a buck that suits me an’ kin buy him.’
‘Mayhap git one in New Orleans, like Brownlee tell about, in the fall when you go there, an’ you don’t find one sooner.’
‘No, suh, Papa. Don’t want none o’ them bad niggers, like them sports uses fer fightin’ in New Orleans. Ruin all the good niggers on the plantation.’
The clock interrupted the talk by coughing out the wrong hour. It was eight o’clock, with allowance for error a quarter after eight.
‘I don’t hold none with keepin’ late hours, like last evenin’. Better go up,’ said Maxwell, yawning. ‘Let Memnon take you first; he kin come back fer me an’ the little buck.’
‘Goin’ to drink another toddy?’
‘Reckon not. I had enough.’
Memnon was summoned. He picked up Hammond’s boots to take them upstairs. ‘Ain’t fergot about that floggin’ you promised this buck, is you? He all well again. Ain’t you, Memnon?’
Memnon did not commit himself.
‘Cain’t do it tomorrer. Tomorrer Sunday. Don’t want no floggin’ on Sunday.’
‘Don’t fergit it. I hones to hear him yelp a little,’ said the older man.
‘I’ll make him yelp. I got to have me an all-over washin’ tomorrow. Didn’t do no bathin’ the week before—begins to feel sweaty-like.’
‘All this washin’ ain’t healthy—not in winter time. You washes all the sap outn you. Swimmin’ in the river now and agin in summer time don’t do no harm agin you careful to dry good, but washin’ in hot water in winter is real dangerous.’
‘Won’t hurt me none. Never has. I be careful,’ Hammond promised.
‘Too clean. Too clean like. Got so young folks is so fine-haired they cain’t stan’ a little sweat.’
‘I’d wash more even, if it wasn’t so hard to manage this leg in that round washtub. Cain’t squat.’
‘Only thing about your leg I glad fer, Ham. Keeps you from washin’ so much. All my fault; all my fault, your mamma always said.’
Hammond kissed the tobacco-stained cheek of his father and limped away, followed by Mem carrying the boots. The older man listened to hear the uneven steps upon the stairs.
As the young man approached the head of the stairs, the candle Mem carried illuminated a small figure rising from the top step, which turned out to be Meg.
‘Whut you doin’ up this hour?’ Hammond asked.
‘I waitin’ to serve you, Masta, suh.’
‘To serve me?’
‘Yas, suh, Masta. I wants to strip your britches off and see you to bed, Masta, suh, please, suh.’
‘You too little. Git along to the pallet with your mammy.’
‘I’s strong, suh, Masta, even if I little. I your nigger, suh, Masta. Ain’t I yo’ nigger?’
‘All right. All right. Give him the
candle, Mem, and them boots.’
Mem had prepared a plea to be let off his whipping and had been waiting to get Ham alone to prey upon his sympathy. He was consequently disappointed at Meg’s interference. He was safe through tomorrow, and might be able to get in his speech while he helped Hammond with his bath in the morning. However, obsessed by the prospect of being punished he was unable to wait.
‘You not a-goin’ to whup Mem tomorrer, Masta?’ Mem spoke of himself in the third person when he sought compassion.
‘No, mornin’ is Sunday. We’ll have to put it off.’
‘Mem still sick, Masta. That nasty dose you give him make Mem real sick.’
‘That whuppin’ you in fer make you sicker.’
‘Mem good nigger, Masta. Mem try to be good nigger,’ he pleaded.
‘Mem goin’ to be a good nigger or a dead nigger, time I gits finish’ with him.’
‘Please, Masta, let Mem off. Don’ whup Mem, please, Masta Hammon’.’
‘But I promised you. An’ I promise you a fresh wench or new shoes, you expect me to keep my promise, don’ you?’
‘Yas, suh, Masta, you always does.’
‘An’ I promise you a lambastin’, an’ you goin’ to git lambasted good.’
‘Don’t hurt Mem, Masta, suh. Don’ hurt Mem. Mem loves you, Masta. Mem Masta’s little boy,’ he begged.
‘Mem’s Masta’s big triflin’ nigger. Won’t hurt much—jest a little touchin’ up here and there. Jest a few patches of hide offn your backside with that pimentade rubbed in to heal it up. You’ll be settin’ right down in a chair withoutn no cushion in a week or two.’
‘Pimentade? No pimentade, Masta. Please, suh, no pimentade. That make a nigger squeal worser than the larrupin’.’
‘Plenty o’ pimentade. That stuff cheap. Now, go down an’ take care of Papa. See to it his feet right next to that Alph’s stomick.’
