by Kyle Onstott
‘Now, git outn here, nigger, and wait,’ said Blanche to her maid. ‘Wait till I calls you. An’ don’t you be snoopin’ and a-listenin’. Hear?’
Tense admitted that she heard. She went out, closed the door, and sat down on the top step of the stairs, her face in her hands. Of the details of what occurred in the room, Tense was never sure, but she formulated imaginings which she assumed to be fact and which were as vivid to her as if she had been present and had seen and heard all that took place. She was terrified, for she knew that, however innocent she might be in the execution of her mistress’s commands, her master’s wrath would explode against the innocent as well as the guilty if he should ever learn or even suspect Blanche’s philandering with the Mandingo. Tense did not love Blanche and it was not Blanche’s fate that caused her to tremble, but rather her own and that of all the Negroes on the plantation. They would be the victims of the master’s terrible vengeance.
There remained the task of getting Mede silently down the stairs and back to his cabin without the cognizance of the elder Maxwell. Time passed, Tense knew not how much.
At length Blanche’s door opened and Mede emerged, walking stealthily. He passed her silently, making his way alone down the stairs without speaking. She looked at him and saw red jewels in his ears, the earrings her master had brought her mistress from Natchez. As he passed her at the head of the stairs, a drop of blood fell from his ear upon the carpet. Blanche had pierced his ears and inserted the earrings without waiting for the apertures to heal.
Might the gift of the earrings have been the purpose of the summons of the Mandingo into the house? Tense believed that it was not. How often in Blanche’s absence had she taken those earrings from the drawer in which they lay and turned them in the light to watch them glitter! How she had coveted them for herself. She believed that with them in her ears she would be as beautiful as Ellen and perhaps might become her rival for her master’s affection.
With a cloth Tense wiped the drop of blood from the carpet and, going towards Blanche’s room, she felt others under her bare feet and cleaned them up. She entered the room; it stank of the serpent oil with which Mede was anointed, but the windows stood open and Tense did not know how to cleanse the stench from the room.
Blanche appeared elated, triumphant. She ordered Tense to have Meg fetch her a toddy, and when he came with two drinks instead of one, she was, despite the warmth of the day, lacing herself into her heavy brown dress.
‘Mede done gone?’ Meg asked knowingly. ‘I stirred one fer him too.’
‘Mede? What you knowin’ ’bout Mede, nigger boy? Mede ain’t bin here. I ain’t seen him,’ Blanche protested. Suddenly in her guilt, all her old distrust and fear of Meg returned, she caught in his eye the half-sinister look that Hammond never saw. She remembered how she had accused the boy of being a conjure on that first ride to Falconhurst after her wedding.
The boy laughed aloud and, impudently lifting the second drink from the tray, sat down on the bed to drink it. ‘Whut Masta goin’ to say when he find out? Whut Masta say?’ he taunted. Blanche felt sick with apprehension.
‘Your masta ain’t needin’ to know nothin’. Ain’t his business nohow. Nigger, don’ you tell him. Don’ you tell him. Don’ you go stickin’ your nose in.’ Blanche made a show of confidence but failed to conceal her fright from the boy. ‘Nigger, I’s tellin’ you, an’ you go an’ blabber anything about me an’ Mede, I’s tellin’ you, I goin’ to have you skinned clean down with the snake.’
Meg snickered at the threat. ‘Who goin’ to skin me, Mist’ess? Who goin’ to skin me?’ he taunted. ‘I reckon you goin’ to be good to me now, so I ain’t a-goin’ to tell. You do whut I say. You gives me anythin’ I wants, Mist’ess.’
The mistress capitulated. ‘Whut you wants, chil’? Whut you wants I should do?’ Hard as she tried to appear calm, the tone of the questions betrayed Blanche’s anxiety.
The boy lay back on the bed and laughed. ‘I tellin’ you,’ he said, ‘you goin’ to do whut I says.’
‘You ain’t a-goin’ to tell?’ Blanche half stated, half questioned. She reached down and, drawing the youth to her, embraced him.
‘I ain’t an’ you does to me whut you doin’ with Mede—any time, whenever I says,’ Meg exulted. ‘Tonight, after they all in bed, I come an’ we pleasure?’
‘Tonight,’ Blanche conceded. ‘But come quiet like an’ don’ tell nobody.’
She finished dressing and went downstairs to join her father-in-law.
He roused from his nap at her entrance and thought of toddies. Meg brought them with his wonted deference but, unseen by his master, challenged his mistress with a single look directly into her eyes.
Maxwell sniffed as he accepted his goblet. ‘Whut that stink?’ he demanded. ‘You stenchy, boy?’ He grasped Meg and, pulling him towards him, smelled him over and found him clean. ‘Somethin’ stink,’ he repeated. ‘Smell like that Doctor Mulbach’s Serpent Oil. Send here your mammy, boy.’
When Lucretia Borgia entered the room panic seized Blanche, who, aware that the cook knew what had occurred, shrank back into her chair and averted her glance. Lucretia Borgia stood awaiting the question.
‘Somethin’ stinkin’,’ declared her master. ‘That Doctor Mulbach’s, smell like.’
Lucretia Borgia sniffed audibly three times. ‘I cain’t smell nothin’, suh, Masta. I reckon I stopped up or somethin’,’ she excused her failure.
‘You ain’t had that Mandingo in the house?’ Maxwell demanded sternly.
‘No, suh, Masta, suh. No, suh, I ain’t had him,’ Lucretia Borgia looked fixedly at Blanche as she shook her head.
Blanche was grateful for the generous denial from the woman, for whom she had never concealed her dislike. But it was not she whom Lucretia Borgia was shielding; rather it was Mede and all the Negroes of the plantation.
‘Sure smell like that Doctor Mulbach’s,’ reasserted Maxwell.
‘The wind, it a-comin’ from that a-way,’ Lucretia Borgia nodded toward the cabins. Despite the absence of wind from any direction, Maxwell accepted the explanation and dismissed the cook.
Blanche was reassured; she was safe. After Mede, she did not fear or dread her night with Meg, who, only two or three years younger than herself, she still considered as an infant. He was at least clean and emitted only his racial odour. She put from her mind the thought that henceforth she would be at his mercy, in constant terror of his tongue.
The allure of the white woman for Meg was that she was white and forbidden, the fascination of breaking a taboo. The plantation abounded with black and yellow girls, whose seduction would, if discovered by his master, have provoked a scolding, or even a possible switching, nothing more, and they would have assuaged his ripening lubricity. But he was his mother’s son. The passion for dominance which she assuaged by efficient service to her white masters and ruthless mastery of the other slaves he indulged by blackmail of his mistress. He knew the hazard—death.
Two days later, the day of the auction, Blanche sent again for Mede, this time with less temerity. She abominated him no less than ever, but the compulsion to embrace him stemmed in vengeance for her husband’s dalliance with Ellen. Hammond would never know, but the revenge was none the less sweet. Blanche resolved that Mede should be at her disposal, that she would enjoy him (or pretend to enjoy him) when she would. With rings in his ears, she had marked him for her own.
Mede felt no sense of triumph. He was in terror lest his master should learn of his dalliance with Blanche, which he had not solicited and did not want, but white commands he had to obey. He knew the risk as well as Meg; but his mistress’s procedure was so peremptory that there seemed less peril in complying with her desires than in denying them. Even in the most intimate of their embraces, he sensed her scorn for his blackness, her contempt for his race, her loathing for his person, but, as well, her satisfaction with his maleness.
Hammond returned from Waynesboro in a bad temper because he had not fo
und there any suitable young slaves to buy. The change in his wife’s temper did not strike him immediately upon his return from his journey, but he soon began to notice that she was more genial and generous, amiable and kind than he had come to expect of her. She was up of a morning, and complained not at all of her physical ills nor of the treatment he accorded her. Except for two or three, sometimes four, innocuous toddies a day, she had ceased her tippling and she seemed to desire no more whisky than she took. She was considerate of and gracious to the servants, who responded to her reformation with efforts and desires to please her greater than obligation had ever begotten. Even in her rare contacts with Ellen there was no show of irascibility. She called Big Pearl into the sitting-room and played with Sophy, in whom formerly she had shown no interest. Hammond was, of course, pleased, but could only speculate what had occurred to work such an alteration in the girl’s nature in his ten days’ absence. Whatever it might have been, it engendered his affection, and he found himself dividing his nights between his wife and Ellen, who, however sorrowful when her lover failed to appear, felt herself secure in his love and took no umbrage. Aware as she was of his marital obligations and his desire for a legitimate son, she adored him the more that he should do at least part of his duty to his wife.
When Hammond saw the red earrings in Mede’s ears, his first emotion was anger, which was soon replaced by amusement. He knew at once that it was Blanche’s move of retaliation for his gift to Ellen, but it was so jejune, so futile, that it caused him to smile.
‘Whure you git them bangles, boy?’ he asked, knowing the answer.
Mede was terrified to tell, but dared not refuse. ‘Mist’ess, suh, Masta, please suh,’ he mumbled, hanging his head.
‘Whut she say when she give ’em to you? Who stuck the holes in your ears? Who put ’em on you?’
‘She say wear ’em, not take ’em off, suh.’
‘Well, we goin’ to take ’em off. Whut fer, you reckon, a fightin’ nigger wear bangles in his ears? Jist somethin’ to grab aholt of an’ tear your ears off. Lean down here,’ Hammond ordered, and began to unscrew the nut that held the jewel in the left lobe. ‘Who punch that big hole, and whut he do it with? Wasn’t no call to make it so big.’
‘Mist’ess, suh. She do it with eatin’ fork,’ the Negro explained, flinching.
When the master turned to the other ear, he found it inflamed, swollen, and festered. ‘This one sore, like,’ he said. ‘Jes’ about rotted off. Whyn’t you do somethin’, take it out or somethin’?’
‘Mist’ess say wear ’em, suh, Masta, please. I asted her please take ’em out, but she wouldn’t. She say wear ’em.’
‘I hopin’ that ear ain’t a-goin’ to rot. Jes’ about spoil you. Bad enough havin’ them big holes,’ said the master, and pressed the pus from it, at which the slave grunted in his pain. ‘Don’ you ever let nobody do nothin’ like that to you agin. A fightin’ nigger!’
The jewels were now useless. Having been in a Negro’s ears, no white woman could ever be asked to wear them. Hammond looked at them as they lay in his hand, speckled with dried blood, and then he cast them into the weeds at the side of the cabin. Lucy saw where they fell, and later retrieved them. She secretly placed them among her trinkets, the silver dollars she had received at the births of her children, a crinkled small sheet of foil, and a brass breast-pin, but she never wore them.
‘Mus’ have stopped trainin’, the minute I turn my back on you,’ the master said suspiciously, feeling the slave’s thighs and abdomen. ‘All soft and out of kilter.’
‘No, suh, Masta, suh,’ Lucy defended Mede. ‘He work. He work good, all a time you gone, savin’ when that ear make him sick. I make him work.’
Lucy, Hammond knew, was truthful. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we got to do somethin’ ’bout them legs an’ that sof belly. Lift Shaz here up on your back an’ start a-runnin’ with him right now.’
Mede was relieved to get away. He knew that his master’s mere suspicion would be dire. But Hammond did not suspect. Of course, he knew, even without Mede’s confession, that the earrings had come from Blanche, a foolish, simple girl’s essay at vengeance, but that there was more to the story never entered his imagination. That his wife, a white woman, should have willing carnal commerce with a Negro, any Negro, not to consider the brutish, burly Mandingo, was literally unthinkable.
That night at supper he let her know that he was aware of her prank when he told her, ‘You most ruint my bes’ buck, punchin’ his ears. One of ’em mayhap rot off yet. It do, an’ it goin’ to lessen his price five hunderd dollars. I don’ want no one-eared nigger aroun’ to look at.’
Blanche was duly alarmed. ‘I never meant nothin’. I never thought it would rot him.’
‘I knowin’ you never,’ Hammond forgave her. ‘On’y don’ do it no more. A white lady fingerin’ a nigger buck ain’t nice.’
The injury to Mede’s ear healed, and the boy was unblemished except for the large punctures. The Mandingo’s value was not diminished; in fact it grew with the boy’s maturity, the increase of his strength, and the intensity of his training, to say nothing of the trend of slave prices in general.
24
The summer days grew hotter and the humid nights provided little respite from the torture of the days. There was scant rain that year, and the sunshine which followed an infrequent shower seemed even more intolerable than that which preceded it. The Tombigbee ran low in its channel and an odour of decay emanated from its banks. The cotton, slow in its beginning growth, was further stunted by the heat and drought, which only stimulated the purslane and other weeds which luxuriated between its rows and which the field slaves sweated to keep under control. Seldom sanguine, Hammond was now despondent as he rode between the rows of cotton to assess the prospect of their yield and to search the brazen sky for the hint of a cloud. Now and again he checked his horse to give a half-hearted admonition to some hoe-hand about the weeding, but the cotton was scarcely worth the chopping. Moreover, Hammond was concerned about the draft of slaves for market the ensuing fall. There would be three or four men ready for sale, possibly five or six, but, for the rest, they lacked maturity and it seemed desirable to hold them over for another year.
This, indeed, was the real purpose of Doctor Redfield’s visit to Falconhurst early in August, purportedly a casual call to inquire about Maxwell’s health. The veterinarian had relished so heartily his expedition to Natchez the previous fall that he wanted to make sure of his inclusion in the party for the forthcoming trip—this time probably to New Orleans, since the fears of cholera had abated. It was his plan to introduce the subject casually since he did not wish to betray his concern, he had hardly finished drinking his first toddy with his host when they were interrupted by an unwonted clatter and bustle in the driveway. Redfield hastened to the open window.
There was no such equipage anywhere in the countryside, and Redfield knew them all, as the four-in-hand coach which met his vision. It was of another era and, from the dust with which it was covered, appeared to have come from afar. Dark red in colour, ornamented in gold leaf, with silver handles on the door, it was drawn by four stout horses, three chestnuts and one grey, with a spare chestnut ridden by an outrider.
‘Who this?’ he asked his host, assuming that the visitor had been expected and fearing that his own visit might be inopportune. ‘Ain’t nobody I knows of got anythin’ like it. Must have come a ways.’
Maxwell got to his rheumatic legs as rapidly as he was able and joined Redfield at the window. ‘Mus’ be a mistake,’ he said. ‘Ain’t no fine-haired folks like that a-comin’ here,’ he said and called to Memnon.
The outrider, a stalwart yellow boy, sat his mount, uncertain whether to get down; another yellow boy crawled from the box beside the black, middle-aged driver and went toward the door. All were attired in sand-coloured liveries, faced with blue, and silver buttoned. All wore tight breeches, white silk stockings, and silver buckled shoes. Except for the grey dust on their co
cked hats and the shoulders of their coats, they were neat as they were impressive. Memnon reached the front door and held it open and Maxwell hurried into the hall in time to see the boy from the box twist the handle of the coach door and an octoroon boy emerge, smart in a suit of light grey silk, ruffled shirt, and silk stockings, who waited beside the door to hand out another person. There was a pause while the man inside the coach seemed to be putting on his coat.
First an arm and hand appeared which the Negro in grey grasped deferentially to help its owner to alight in safety. Next came a leg in light blue trousers strapped under varnished boots, and at last the whole man, clad in a long grey coat which he was at pains to adjust and from which the Negro flecked a spot of dust and smoothed a wrinkle while the white man rubbed the fatigue of sitting from his knees.
He was a little man, daintily made, whose hunched back Maxwell thought must be due to long sitting in the coach until the man began to walk and he saw that it was a permanent hump. This lack of lateral symmetry, along with a rapid mincing, gave to his gait an aspect of trying to fly with one wing broken. So, at least, it struck Maxwell. It was not as if he were unable to walk without assistance, but his Negro grasped his elbow lightly to guide his locomotion. His straight, long hair, what was left of it for he was balding, hung about his ears and over his collar. Small, sharp, black eyes flashed from his swarthy face, which was so marked with sharply defined carmine spots on the cheek bones that Maxwell suspected they were painted there.
‘I seek Mister Maxwell,’ he said precisely, accenting the last syllable and toying with a soft, small moustache with a heavily jewelled hand that was fragile in its length and slenderness. Maxwell was unsure whether the gesture was diffidence or a display of his diamonds.
‘I’m Maxwell, at your service, suh. Walk in, please, suh, and set,’ Maxwell put on his politest manner. ‘Have Meg stir us a toddy, all ’round,’ he told Memnon and led the way toward the sitting-room, followed by the stranger, who was escorted by his slave. ‘Who have I got the honour, suh?’ he asked before sitting down.
