by Kyle Onstott
‘It is that I am Mister Roche, R-O-C-H-E,’ the stranger spelled the word out. ‘Roche, the name of my mother, from New Orleans and La Allouette Plantation, below the city. Jules Adrian Marie Roche, in fact the natural son, so I am told, of the late Governor El Baron de Carondelet, who made provision for my rearing and for my fortune. I am then in part Spanish; my mother, she was French.’ He spoke slowly, separating his words and speaking them distinctly as if in fear that he would not be understood. He appeared to formulate his sentences in another language and to translate them hesitatingly into English, which was indeed the fact. His only error was in the stresses which he transferred to the final syllables of his words.
Maxwell was taken somewhat aback by the man’s candid confession of his bastardy, in which he seemed to take pride. The host took little cognizance of the name, and did not speak it when he introduced Doctor Redfield and waved the gentlemen to seats.
The grey-clad lackey took up a rigid position behind his master’s chair.
The man came directly to the point. ‘You possess twin boys, is it not so?’
It sounded like an accusation to Maxwell, who was quick to deny it. ‘I only got one son, name of Hammon’. His mother was a Hammond, gal of old Theophilus, an’ he never had no twin. You comin’ to the wrong place, wrong man.’
Roche smiled and stroked his moustache again. ‘I do not make myself understood well. My English, it is not good. I am not meaning your son, but I have been told you had twin servants, very beautiful twin boys.’
‘Oh, them. Yes, I reckon we got a span of saplin’ bucks, likely yallers, but not nothin’ beautiful, like you sayin’ about ’em. Likely an’ soun’, but not beautiful. They bucks, an’ it ain’t fitten bucks be beautiful.’
‘Then I have been misinformed. But is it perhaps that I may behold them?’ The man leaned forward in his chair as he spoke.
‘I reckon you kin,’ said the owner. ‘One a-comin’ now with toddies. Othern around somers. Jist alike. You seen one, you seen the othern.’
‘Like as buckshot,’ Redfield interposed. ‘I bin comin’ to see Mista Maxwell sence before they born, bein’ his veternary, an’ I cain’t tell ’em one from other.’
‘They ain’t fer sale though.’ Maxwell set his mouth determinedly. ‘Look at ’em all you wantin’.’
Meg served his master first, then Redfield, lastly the elegant stranger who accepted the drink and set it aside, then grasped the boy and pulled him toward him. Meg looked at his master for permission to resist.
‘Oh, but it is you who are mistaken; he is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,’ the man in his enthusiasm emphasized; and then modified his evaluation, ‘barring spots or scars on his body under his raiment.’
‘Not a pimple, not a pimple,’ Maxwell asserted pridefully. ‘Meg,’ he commanded, ‘kick off them trogs an’ let the gen’leman look at you. Course, I sayin’, they ain’t fer sale.’
‘I thought you raised for the market. I was informed,’ said the Frenchman.
‘We do. You was told correct. But not this span. They worth more later, growed. It hard a-buyin’ saplin’s to raise in this market. Niggers so high.’
The sleek adolescent stood naked for his examination, unembarrassed by his nudity, enjoying the attention he was receiving. He raised his hands over his head to permit the stranger to view his body, and capered to show his agility.
Roche was ecstatic: ‘He is perfect, perfect. I must have him. I will pay, I will pay much.’
‘No, I reckon not,’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Hammond, that my son, is right fond of this one, and anyways I wouldn’t bust up the span. I reckon we wouldn’t take five thousand fer ’em, the pair of ’em.’
‘An’ worth it, every cent and dollar of it,’ Redfield put in, sensing a sale.
‘And I pay it. I make you a tender, an offer, gold, cash—if the other is as good and beautiful like this one.’
The price was preposterous for two fourteen-year-old boys, but Maxwell assumed an air of disinterest in the belief that he could obtain a larger one, if only this fatuous Frenchman had the money which his garb, his jewels, his slaves, and horses, and coach betokened. ‘I sayin’ I wouldn’t take five thousan’, not that I would. They ain’t fer sale,’ declared the owner.
‘How much? How much do you entreat?’ insisted Roche, his hand on Meg, to whom he turned. ‘How should you love it, to be my minion?’
‘A house nigger?’ asked the boy, shrugging in an effort to disengage himself. ‘I ain’t no fiel’ nigger.’
‘Of course you are not,’ said Roche.
‘An’ you feeds your niggers good?’
‘All you want to eat.’
‘I likes to stay Masta Ham’s nigger.’
‘Nev’ mind,’ the owner curbed the slave, whose fate was not for him to choose or even to speculate.
‘Is it that I may see the other, the twin for this?’ Roche urged, undiscouraged.
‘Meg, you find Alph, whure he at, an’ you fetch him here,’ Maxwell commanded. ‘You hear me?’
Meg was glad to get away and bounded out of the room.
‘There remains the price,’ said the stranger, beckoning to his slave for help in rising to his feet and resuming his chair. ‘Six thousand, say; would that interest you?’
Maxwell shook his head, stubbornly. ‘I reckon we goin’ to keep ’em, suh,’ he said, knowing that he would accept the price, but determined to get all that the buyer would give.
‘Mista Maxwell, here, right fond of them two. Uses the othern to dreen his rheumatiz, doesn’t you, Mista Warren? Or mayhap this one. I kin never tell ’em,’ Redfield reinforced the owner.
Meg returned, dragging his brother with him. Roche knew that the unclothed twin had been the one that he had seen; otherwise they seemed alike. He summoned Alph toward him and felt in his mouth; then, without rising, he asked to have him stripped. His slave, at the master’s behest, came from behind his chair to hold the boy for his inspection. He manipulated the joints and felt the child over. At length he stood the twins together, and found no difference in them except a somewhat deeper navel on Alph and a freckle on his shoulder which Meg did not have. His examination of the second boy was more cursory than of the first, but he was satisfied.
‘I will give seven thousand, Monsieur. That is my last offer, seven thousand. It is enough—all that two such are worth,’ Roche made a show of finality.
‘They cheap at the price. I’d give it, an’ if I had it, handy, in cash that is. Mista Maxwell wantin’ cash.’ Redfield knew that Maxwell would be unable to resist such a sum of ready money.
‘I tell you whut,’ Maxwell hesitated. ‘Make it five hunderd more, seven thousan’ and five hunderd, an’ we deal. You a-cravin’ ’em so, I cain’t afford to not ‘commodate. But cash, mind. Seventy-five hunderd, an’ not a dollar less.’
‘You are mine,’ Roche turned to the young slaves. ‘Mine, mine. Seventy-five hundred, it is little enough. I knew that I should buy them, after Mista Brownlee told me about them more than a year ago. He endeavoured to purchase them for me, you remember.’
‘Brownlee, that houn’ dog. He wouldn’t offer nothin’. Had to run him off of the plantation. He a swindler and a nigger stealer. Low down, low down.’ Maxwell was not certain enough of Brownlee’s part in the hold-up to include that in his accusation.
‘They tellin’ he die, that Dealer Brownlee,’ observed Redfield.
‘I do not know about his death. I have not heard,’ Roche declared.
Hammond came. He kissed his father, greeted Redfield and surveyed the strange assemblage.
‘This my son Hammon’, suh. Gen’lman come from New Orleans,’ Maxwell made the introduction. ‘I sellin’ the twins. Reckon you not a-goin’ to care.’
‘Lucretia Borgia say?’ asked Hammond.
‘Seventy-five hunderd dollars,’ said the father. ‘She git over. We give her two dollars, one fer each one of ’em.’
‘Lucretia Borgia?’ questioned Roche.
‘That they mammy,’ Hammond explained. ‘We promised not to sell these bucks withoutn her say.’
‘Oh, then they have a mamma? I must buy her also,’ Roche said with surprise, as if he had believed the twins had arisen parthenogenetically. ‘We cannot take them away from her. They will need her. I shall buy.’
‘We cain’t sell Lucretia Borgia,’ Hammond declared. ‘She our cook; beside she nursin’ a sucker.’
‘I will buy her,’ affirmed the Frenchman. ‘I will give her to her boys, a present to them.’
‘But she our cook, an’ she runs things, jist about. We ain’t a-sellin’ Lucretia Borgia,’ repeated Hammond.
‘I will buy her,’ Roche repeated.
‘She a thirty-five hunderd dollar wench, her an’ her sucker,’ Maxwell volunteered.
‘But they are three, four, or five suckers in her yet,’ Doc Redfield softened the price.
‘No matter. I will buy her,’ said the stranger. ‘Jason, you and Albert bring in that iron strongbox. You know where it is, at my feet in the coach.’
Hammond had paid but a glance to the slave behind the chair and had failed to recognize him. At the boy’s name, he looked at him. ‘Jason!’ he cried. ‘Is that you, you varmint?’
‘Yes, suh, Masta Ham, suh. It is me. Didn’t you know?’ The boy came forward, fell at Hammond’s feet, embraced his legs, and began to cry.
‘Whut you run fer?’ asked Hammond. ‘Whure you get this buck?’ he turned to Roche.
‘You meanin’ they carved you up, made you a capon?’ Maxwell chuckled in derision. ‘Servin’ you right fer runnin’.’
‘Brownlee! He was stole, stole from right here at Falconhurst. He Papa’s nigger,’ Hammond exclaimed. ‘Whut fer you want to go off with Masta Charles?’ He turned to Jason.
‘Masta Charles told me, Masta, suh. He said I his,’ Jason explained. ‘I never knew he would, he and Mista Brownlee, treat me like they did.’ He wept and sobbed, head bowed in contrition, still clinging to Hammond’s legs.
‘You meanin’ how they carve you up, made you a capon?’ Maxwell chuckled in derision. ‘Servin’ you right fer runnin’.’
‘I never ran, please, suh, Masta. Don’t believe I ran. I never knew,’ pleaded the boy, wiping his eyes with his hand.
‘Brownlee gave me a bill of sale,’ Roche sought to vindicate himself. ‘I do not have it with me, but I will send it to you.’
‘No matter,’ declared Hammond. ‘He stolen from us and I claimin’ him back. I goin’ to keep him.’
‘Won’t have him, won’t have him back,’ said his father with resolution.
‘But Papa,’ Hammond protested. ‘Mista Wilson——’
‘I sayin’ I won’t have him, an’ I won’t. Let the gen’leman keep him. He come by him honest.’
‘But I promise Mista Wilson.’
‘Nev’ mind,’ said Maxwell, spitting toward the cold fireplace.
‘Your new masta good to you, I reckon? You seem fat,’ Hammond temporized with his promise to care for the boy.
‘Yes, suh, Masta, he is good, that is he used to be when he first bought me. Now, though, since I gettin’ big and growin’ hair, he makes me his waitin’ nigger, his body servant, and he is strict, slaps me and has me whipped whenever I get careless.’
Roche was unable to stop Jason’s outpouring. ‘That will do,’ he said sternly. ‘I told you that you and Albert should bring that strongbox. Did not you hear?’
Jason slunk from the room, aware that he had said too much.
‘That spoiled nigger lies,’ Roche protested in his own defence. ‘He is indeed my body servant. I keep him for that. Twice he cut my face while shaving me, and I had him corrected with the whip—once, only once. I shall have to do it again to stop his lying mouth.’
‘Time comes, you got to use the snake,’ agreed Maxwell.
‘Nigger ain’t no worth till he welted up some,’ Redfield opined.
‘We goin’ ridin’ in your kerriage?’ Meg asked his new owner.
‘You mine now, you understand? You are going with me,’ his new master assured him.
The two slaves brought the heavy iron chest and set it at their master’s feet. Roche drew a key from somewhere about him, inserted it into the lock, and threw back the lid. The box, Maxwell could see, held a treasure in gold coins, loose, uncounted; he was unable to estimate them. He was for an instant displeased with the bargain he had made; he might have extracted a larger price.
Roche moved his fingers and calculated under his breath. ‘Seven thousand and a half for the bucks, thirty-five for the wench; eighty-five, ninety-five, ten five, eleven. Eleven thousand. That’s right, gentlemen?’
‘That about even us,’ asserted Maxwell. ‘What we ’greed on.’
‘Then help me to count it out, please, sir,’ the buyer appealed to Hammond. ‘I make mistakes.’
Reluctant to place his hands on another man’s money, Hammond nevertheless consented. He got to the floor beside the chest, one leg straight, the other doubled under him. He knew there were fifty twenties in a thousand, and confined himself to coins of that denomination. Each thousand dollars, he placed in a pile by itself. He counted seven piles, while Roche, by no means certain of himself, counted four thousand dollars into a single lot. Redfield looked on, resentful of not being included in the invitation to count the money. Once he reached down and picked up a coin, which he bit to make sure it was gold that was being so carelessly handled.
Roche pushed the coins he had counted in Hammond’s direction. ‘Better count them,’ he said. ‘I am never sure.’ He did not recount what Hammond had counted, and did not fear being cheated.
When Hammond had certified the sum as correct, Roche toppled the stacked coins together and pushed them across the floor towards where Maxwell sat.
‘But you ain’t even looked at Lucretia Borgia,’ Hammond objected.
‘That is the wench?’ asked Roche. ‘I shall see her. She is their mamma. It does not matter.’ Before he closed the box on the remaining coins, he selected two golden eagles and pressed one into the hand of each of the twins. ‘Keep it to buy you something when we get to the city,’ he told the boys.
The gesture took Redfield aback. He believed that money was demoralizing to slaves. What could they buy with it that their masters did not provide? Food, clothes for their nakedness, primitive shelter—such were all they needed, all they knew what to do with. The slaves knew nothing of values; the coins might as well have been pennies. Alph held his gold piece in his hand and looked at it; Meg, for safe keeping, placed his in his mouth.
Roche locked the chest, and told Jason and Albert to return it to the coach. He rose and bowed from the hips towards Redfield and Maxwell. Placing his hands upon the shoulders of the naked boys, he guided them toward the hall.
‘You wantin’ papers,’ Hammond protested. ‘I make ’em and Papa, here, he sign.’
With a gesture, the buyer declined any formality. ‘I deal with gentlemen,’ he said.
Maxwell suggested dinner which would be ready soon. ‘Jist a small collation, but right stayin’ in the stomick.’
The guest’s regrets appeared real enough, but he excused himself. He was in haste; he must go. ‘But the wench, sir. Please bring the wench.’
Hammond went to the kitchen to inform Lucretia Borgia that she had been sold.
The woman opened her great legs and faced him. ‘I ain’t a-goin’,’ she said. ‘Sold! Sold! Who you reckon goin’ to cook your papa’s dinner? Who goin’ to drive them sewin’ wenches? Who goin’ to run things here? I ain’t a-goin’.’
‘You goin’. You sol’,’ Hammond affirmed. ‘Git you ready an’ your sucker. You goin’. Got a good new masta. Treat you good. Me an’ Papa, we git alon’. Don’t git to think Falconhurst blow ’way ’cause you ain’t here.’ The young man’s stern words hid his emotions of parting from the woman who he knew loved him, who had been his champion through his childhood and his adjutant in his maturity. ‘And c
ome out soon as you ready,’ he told her and retreated to avoid a show of tears.
Maxwell and Redfield had followed Roche to the gallery, and all waited for Lucretia Borgia to arrive. Albert, at attention, held open the door of the coach, and Jason stood behind his master, whose hands rested on the shoulders of the twins on either side of him.
Hammond, coming through the sitting-room, picked up the garments the twins had shed and carried them to the gallery. ‘You ain’t a-goin’ to carry them bucks without no clothes on,’ he told Roche. ‘Here they trogs be. Ain’t a-costin’ you any extry.’
‘My slaves don’t wear raiment like that,’ the buyer scoffed. ‘I shall dress them when we reach the city. It is that the day is hot and I prefer them nude.’
‘They too big to go nekid,’ Hammond argued.
‘They are more beautiful so. It will offend none to see angels without clothes.’
Lucretia Borgia came, her baby on one arm, a bundle of clothing in the other. Her eyes were red, but she had wiped away her tears. Roche, who had bought her unseen, looked at her casually and without interest, felt her biceps and ran his hands over her back and buttocks.
‘She is the mamma?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘It is strange, is it not so, that such a goose should hatch swans?’
Dropping the bundle and resting her baby on it, the woman embraced and kissed the Maxwells, first the father and then the son. ‘I ain’t goin’ to ever see you-all no more, I reckon, an’ you’ve been so good to me,’ she said.
Her new owner broke off her lamentations with, ‘Get in the coach, wench. Henceforth, you belong to these boys. Do what they tell you!’
The boys looked at each other and then at their new owner with surprised approval. With their minds upon the ride in the coach, they dispensed with farewells. They sensed indulgence from this strange little crooked man whom they were to call master.
Lucretia Borgia and her child were first stowed in the coach on the forward seat, the woman’s back towards the horses. Next, Jason handed in his master who settled himself in the middle of the rear seat and reached to receive the twins; he placed Alph on one side of him and Meg on the other. Lastly, Jason got in and sat beside Lucretia Borgia. The coach was crowded with its six passengers. Albert closed the door sharply and clambered to his place beside the driver as the horses wheeled and the outrider fell into his place with the leaders. The coach swayed as the horses broke into a gallop and the Maxwells stood on the gallery with Redfield and watched it disappear down the lane.
