by Kyle Onstott
Pole and another slave, named Pompey, were set to delve at the base of a large hickory tree for the pot of gold. Ham gave a glance at their work from time to time and told them to hasten.
‘I knows I sunk it. Must be comin’ to it purty quick now. Mayhap ’bout a foot or foot an’ a half this way from whure they diggin’. They too close to that ol’ hickory,’ Maxwell calculated.
‘This it, Masta, suh?’ asked Pole, as from his position at the bottom of the hole he handed up to Pompey a covered iron kettle encrusted with soil. ‘It right hefty, suh. Cain’t hardly heft it.’
‘That it,’ said Hammond. ‘Brush off that dirt an’ tote it in the house. Leave that hole open to put it back.’
Half-way to the house with the heavy object, Pole’s hands slipped on the slime and he dropped the pot. It landed almost upright but its lid fell off, splashing the water that had seeped into it and scattering half a dozen yellow coins. The accident earned Pole an oath and kick from Hammond, but no harm was done. The coins were recovered and the pot was tilted to drain off the remaining water, after which Mede, who had returned from washing in the river, encircled it with his arms and carried it handily into the sitting-room and placed it, as Ham directed him, in the centre of the floor.
‘Kittle gittin’ lighter,’ remarked Maxwell, shaking his head. ‘Was about nineteen thousand, an’ I recollect aright, in this kittle. This will bring it down to,’ he hesitated, counting on his fingers, ‘to somers around twelve. We’ll fill it up to a full twenty-five thousand with a little extrie fer good measure and bury it fer good next fall when you blocks that coffle in New Orleans—jest like them other three kittles we got buried around.’
Lucretia Borgia had little concept of the value of money, and Meg and Mede none at all, but they came into the room to watch the ceremony of counting it. Maxwell sat in his chair and watched Hammond ease himself to the floor, one leg under him, the stiff one extended. He scooped the coins in his hands and let them trickle through his fingers back into the pot. Charles sat in a low chair apart and stared in wonder at the falling money, his imagination racing.
‘There you are, Mede. That’s you. That how much you cost,’ Hammond explained. ‘Reckon you worth it?’
The Mandingo replied with the anticipated embarrassed laugh. ‘No, suh, Masta, suh,’ he said. ‘Not that much.’ He had no idea how much it might be.
Ham stacked three piles of five hundred dollars each and pushed them aside. ‘That’s Ellen,’ he said.
‘Whure am me, Masta, suh?’ asked Meg, stooping to gaze into the pot.
‘You? You ain’t nowhures. Ain’t worth nothin’,’ Hammond replied with mock seriousness. ‘Folks don’t buy niggers like you. They breeds ’em.’
He reached again into the pot, scooping out coins which he added to the uncounted pile upon the floor. From the pile he drew five stacks of twenty-five coins each and set them aside. ‘That,’ he said, looking towards his father for approval, ‘is fer Major Woodford.’
‘That is Blanche,’ said the father dryly.
‘She pizen,’ commented Charles.
10
Two days later the boys rode into Benson. Ham ordered a diamond ring for Blanche, much to Charles’s disgust. Then they stopped at the tavern, where fights were held most Saturdays. The tavern-keeper’s name was Remmick, a big vehement man with a jovial aggressiveness of manner, heavy red jowls, big, blunt hands and closely cropped hair. He readily agreed to try to promote a match for Ham’s Mandingo, being delighted both by the prospect of a good fight and at the chance of being able to oblige old Maxwell’s son.
The boys were about to go when Doc Redfield sauntered in with unmistakable new aplomb. He greeted Ham cordially.
‘Ain’t seen you sence I done it. The Widder had me. Ain’t goin’ to congratulate me?’
‘ ’Course, ’course,’ said Hammond, at a loss for terms in which to congratulate a man whose marriage had been, by his own confession, made only for the purpose of acquiring the midwife’s property and slaves.
They drank a good deal of corn to mark Redfield’s married state, with the result that it was supper time when the horses turned in at Falconhurst. Meg stood on the gallery, and tried unsuccessfully to restrain himself from bounding up and down when he saw Hammond.
The boys dismounted and gave their horses to Vulcan to take to the stable.
Hammond found his father sitting before the fire, toddy in hand, bare feet resting upon the naked belly of Alph, supine in front of his chair.
‘Son, my rheumatiz jist been rackin’ me again. I thought I’d dreen some of it out,’ the father explained as the son crossed the room. ‘Whut fer you so late? Supper gittin’ col’.’
‘Had gotten to git this serpent oil,’ Ham offered as an explanation. ‘Two bottles; one seem not to hol’ much. Sure is potent dose; tell all about on the outside.’
‘It good,’ the older man admitted. ‘Nigger, git my slippers.’
‘You’ve et?’ Hammond stated rather than inquired.
‘Hell, no; an’ I’m hongry. Ain’t no comfort eatin’ afore you gits here.’
‘Reckon you too painful to muss with Big Pearl an’ Mede today?’ Hammond hazarded.
‘Not personal, no,’ replied his father. ‘But I tol’ Lucretia Borgia. Reckon she coupled ’em. She didn’t say.’
‘Want my mammy, Masta, suh? Want Lucretia Borgia?’ Meg craved more details upon the subject, and Ham gave his assent.
The cook came, self-consciously, adjusting her dress, with Meg at her heels all ears. ‘This nigger say you wants me,’ she declared and waited. She knew full well why she had been summoned.
‘How you make out coverin’ Big Pearl?’ Hammond inquired. ‘She take him?’
Lucretia Borgia grinned widely and chuckled low in her throat. ‘He got that black wench good, yas, suh, Masta, suh.’
‘No trouble, then?’
‘Naw, suh, no trouble afta’ I show that big buck how.’
‘You still feedin’ Mede up, Lucretia Borgia, ain’t you? Raw eggs, an’ all?’ Hammond asked. ‘Meat a plenty?’
‘Yas, suh, I’m feedin’ him. Don’t like eggs, but the more he don’ like ’em, the more I pours ’em down.’
‘Fattin’ up a nigger makes them lazy. Lean fighter best. Starve ’em down, an’ rub ’em with whisky outside; that’s what all the gen’lemen does around Centerville,’ declared Charles.
‘Mine goin’ to fight fat. Tha’s all. An’ serpent oil better than corn. Says right on the bottle.’
Next afternoon Hammond took down from the mantelpiece one of the bottles of Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil, shook it violently and held it to the light. He sat down and leaned over, propping his elbows on his knees, to spell out the statements on the label of the flat bottle.
‘Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil,’ he read. ‘The sovereign oleamen to promote the puissance of the musculature and the flexation of the articulative processes. Applied copiously to the masculine organs of generation, it assures supreme induration, facilitates penetration, and renders the act of kind more felicitous.
‘Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil is an elixir rendered from the oleaginous portions of various ophidian genera, supplemented by the addition of costly gums and balsams from the uttermost parts of the known universe. Compounded from a secret formula handed down to Dr. Mulbach from untold generations of his Aesculapian ancestors, it was appreciated by the victorious gymnasts of ancient Hellas and by the Roman gladiators, synthesized from the identical ingredients employed by its present manufacturers. Many kings and monarchs have been rendered potent by its use. Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil is in daily use by the Sultan of Turkey and is recommended by him to all pashas with a numerous seraglio. No modern acrobats, contortionists, or pugilists would contemplate their spectacular feats without this marvellous adjuvant.
‘To obtain the superlative result of which Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil is capable, it must be applied freely with maximum friction and manipulation of the joints. I
t should be patted into the muscles with great force and well kneaded.
‘Accept no substitute. Use only Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil.
‘Fabricated and distributed only by
‘Dr. Mulbach’s Serpent Oil Company, ‘Rampart Street, ‘New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A.’
Hammond read aloud, so far as he was able to spell out the words; he made little effort to understand their meaning. He was none the less impressed by this verbiage. ‘Reckon Redfield would know whut signify all this doctor-talk. But stuff must be good.’
‘Good? It sovereign,’ declared the father.
‘That whut the sticker say right here—sovereign o-l-e-a-m-e-n,’ confirmed Ham. ‘Boy, fetch me that stopper-twister from yo’ mammy.’
Meg brought the corkscrew and stood expectant while his master opened the magic flask. The cork came out more easily than was anticipated and a few drops of the contents splashed upon the carpet. Ham put the bottle to his nose, sniffed the contents, and wrinkled his face, after which he replaced the cork part way and held the bottle at arm’s length. ‘It powerful vig’ous,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Scare up that Mede an’ carry him out under the tupelo. Tell him I say,’ Hammond instructed Meg.
The boy started on his errand and glanced through the window. ‘He right there now under the old tupelo, sleepin’,’ Meg reported.
‘Wake him an’ tell him we comin’ an’ wantin’ him.’
The father got to his feet and summoned Memnon, who was not to be found. Maxwell reviled him and fell back upon Lucretia Borgia, always available, to adjust the blue coverlet about his shoulders and to lead him across the open space to Lucy’s cabin. Lucretia Borgia placed her muscular arm around his back, adjusted her step to his, and let him take his slow time.
Mede got to his feet and rubbed his eyes. ‘You want me, Masta, suh?’ he asked.
‘Step out’n them clo’s. Shuck down an’ leave ’em here under the tupelo. Goin’ to snake oil you down and limber you up,’ Hammond explained.
‘I rub on the stuff, after you snakes him, Masta, suh,’ said Meg, ‘like I done Mem?’
‘You git snaked an’ rubbed your own self you don’t go on back in that house and dry up. Nobody brung you,’ Hammond chided the boy who obeyed reluctantly and looked behind him as he went.
The party encountered Big Pearl as she emerged from the cabin, balancing a bucket on her head on her way to the well. ‘Put down that thing an’ come along an’ rub this buck of your’n—your’n and your mammy’s, that is,’ commanded Hammond. ‘Whure Lucy?’
They found Lucy kneeling by a tub in which stood a crying Belshazzar, in process of being bathed none too gently.
‘Here that new boy,’ said Hammond. ‘Papa say it all right fer you an’ Big Pearl to have him, but don’t wants the two of you wearin’ him down.’
‘I knowed you would, Masta, suh; I jes’ knowed it. I tol’ Big Pearl this mawnin’ suh. Thank’ee, thank’ee. Naw, suh, I won’t wear him down,’ Lucy promised, and looked at Mede.
‘Nor let Big Pearl,’ cautioned Hammond.
‘Naw, suh, Masta,’ she said.
‘He yourn,’ confirmed the old man. ‘But now you got to embrocate him, an’ ever’ day.’
‘Right here, front of ever’body? Shaz, you git yourself outn here. Which one of us?’ asked Lucy, misinterpreting the meaning.
‘Spread him out on the bed, belly up,’ Maxwell instructed. ‘You rub his torso, Big Pearl take care his legs. Masta Ham here pour on.’
Mede understood what was expected. He reclined across the bed, arms raised and legs spread. Hammond upturned his bottle and released a trickle of serpent oil over the flesh, beginning on the chest and moving the bottle downward over the belly and legs. ‘Come on, work it in,’ he directed.
The Mandingos began to smear the oil over the body. The more it spread, the greater the stench that arose from it. ‘That won’t do. Got to work it in an’ twist the jints,’ explained the old man.
The women renewed their efforts, but restrained their strength. To them Mede was, indeed, a great doll which they did not want to destroy. They did not shirk the effort, but their strokes were caresses rather than massage.
‘Stan’ back,’ said Maxwell, spitting his tobacco upon the floor. ‘You, Lucretia Borgia, show ’em how.’
Lucretia Borgia advanced. ‘Gitn away from here,’ she said, sweeping the Mandingos aside. She raised her skirt to enable her to kneel upon the bed, bent over, and rubbed her hands over the belly to absorb the oil. Not getting enough, she extended her palms to Hammond, who filled them from the bottle. She rubbed them together and went to work in earnest. She rubbed, she kneaded, she pummelled, without compunction or mercy. Mede’s features writhed with pain, but no sound came from him.
Scorning to ask him to turn, she ran her arms under the boy’s body and flopped him over as if turning a pancake, reached for the bottle, poured oil down the spine and over the buttocks, anointed her hands again, took a deep breath and fell to. Not an inch of the skin did she neglect.
‘Set on his back an’ hol’ him down,’ Lucretia Borgia commanded Big Pearl. ‘I goin’ to stretch his limbs.’
The girl uncomprehendingly did as she was told.
‘Hol’ him down now; don’ let him move,’ Lucretia Borgia warned as she raised the thigh towards the head. Mede emitted a grunt of pain. ‘Hollerin’ won’t git you nothin’,’ warned the woman; ‘jist make me bend you higher up.’ And she seized the other leg.
Meg appeared at the door and Hammond scolded him, ‘I tol’ you to go to house an’ keep outn this. Whut you want?’
‘Please, suh, Masta, Doc Redfield come. Wantin’ I should fetch him?’
‘Course, course, carry him here,’ said Hammond, going to the door and seeing Redfield, who had followed the young Negro. ‘Come in, come in,’ he welcomed the newcomer, extending his right hand.
‘Whut that stench?’ inquired the veterinary. ‘Kill a skunk?’
‘Serpent oil,’ said Maxwell. ‘Embrocatin’ Ham’s new buck. Right gratified you come.’
‘Whut I wanted to see, that fighter Remmick tellin’ about.’
‘There he lay!’ proclaimed Hammond proudly.
‘Down sick? Lucky I rid by.’
Hammond sniffed. ‘No. Jest a-oilin’ him up. ’Nough fer now, Lucretia Borgia. Let him up.’
Big Pearl dismounted from Mede’s back, and he got to his feet.
‘Best buck ever on Falconhurst,’ declared Maxwell with a show of modesty.
‘Bes’ I ever see—anywhures,’ Redfield expanded.
‘But will he fight? Gentle as any kitten,’ speculated Ham. ‘Will he fight?’
‘If you say fight, Masta, suh—’ Mede intruded, causing Hammond to scowl. He refrained from reprimand, however.
Redfield and Maxwell had gone into the house and Charles had waited for Ham at the door. ‘We fights him the Satiday comin’?’ he questioned eagerly.
‘Mayhap, an’ he ready,’ Ham evaded.
‘That Mandingo, as you calls him (I heard a heap about ’em but I ain’t never see a sure-enough one before), he had ought to fetch prime suckers,’ Redfield speculated. ‘Got me a wench, one of the widder’s, I’d like to mix up with him.’
‘Doc Redfield, you kin have the use of any buck we got, any time at all,’ Hammond emphasized his generosity. He was aware of the weight of Redfield’s professional counsel at the tavern. ‘Course, I readyin’ this Mede fer Satidays, but any time you wants him.’
‘Reckon fightin’ peter out ’cos of preachers, like Mista Remmick say?’ Charles demanded.
‘Long as them sportin’ gen’lemen in New Orleans goin’ to fight their fancy niggers, young planters around Benson goin’ to fight their field han’s. Gits so that preachers an’ them stop it in the tavern, gen’lemen carries bucks to the wood lots an’ places preachers don’ know; they still fights ’em,’ Redfield replied.
‘Let gen’lemen stop goin’ to Benson Satidays to
spen’ money, an’ the preachers change they chune,’ said Maxwell. ‘Let yo’ heart rest, Cousin Charles.’
11
Fighting of Negroes interested Hammond as much as Charles, with the difference that one rationalized it as a business and to the other it was candidly a sport. Hammond was too serious in his dealing with his slaves to be wanton, and his seriousness never relaxed. He fed them, worked them, trained them, treated them, bred them, sold them, and fought them with a sole motive of profit, as his father had inculcated. Livestock kept happy and comfortable thrives best, and Hammond sought to keep his blacks contented. He relished his vocation and took pride in the discharge of the managerial duties which his father, perforce, trusted to him. He was a sovereign in his little realm with a sovereign’s responsibilities and immunities. He felt himself obliged to be just, upon occasion to be cruel but always in the name of justice. He was even capable of tenderness, which he tried to curb.
Not that Hammond was insensible of any compassion for his Negroes, but he made no conscious efforts to be just. They were slaves, chattels, mere things, but he had a way with them that inspired their loyalty and even love, a care for their welfare begotten of a regard for their value.
Hammond initiated Mede’s conditioning with much enthusiasm. He set Mede to moving wood from one side of the house to the opposite side, not that it made any difference where the wood was stacked, but it brought into play the Mandingo’s muscles. Mede attacked this and similar tasks briskly. His muscles were already hard and his strength prodigious.
Even so, but for the urgency to send Charles back to Crowfoot with the ring for Blanche and the money for her father and the youth’s disappointment if he should fail to see the Mandingo fight at least once before his departure, Hammond would have been tempted to keep Mede at home on Saturday and to give him at least one more week of training before he should fight him. Charles was quiet and agreeable, caused no trouble to the Maxwells, but it was imperative that he be sent home.
