Sold Down the River

by Barbara Hambly

  He shoved the paddle into Rodney’s hand and stalked from the mill, January at his heels. They pushed through the women unloading cane and rounded the downstream end of the mill where the brick walls of the jail sheltered them from view of the confusion at the mill doors. Only a few yards away, the dark cane rose in a knotty wall.

  “What is it?” Fourchet bit the end of another cigar as if it were personally responsible for all the woes that had beset Mon Triomphe. “What have you found?”

  “First, sir, that I think you’re right—I don’t think it’s a revolt being planned. They’re giving themselves away, giving too much warning.”

  “Hmph,” muttered Fourchet. “I told you as much.” But in the slight relaxation of his shoulders January saw the portrait of the dead woman, the dead child, on the parlor wall, and thought, He was afraid for her. Afraid for Marie-Noël.

  “Secondly, I don’t think Quashie was the one who damaged the knives.” And he related what Mohammed—and he himself—had already observed about the height of the voodoo marks on the walls. “It automatically rules out a number of people.”

  “It does, does it?” Anger flooded back into those bitter eyes, a rage at the world so deep it had forgotten its origins, had it ever known them. His shirt beneath his black wool coat was sweat-sodden and his grizzled hair hung in lank and dripping strings. “Then you’d better automatically rule him back in, because Robert’s man Leander saw him around the front side of Thierry’s cottage. After midnight, which is when those other niggers swear he was tucked up like an angel in his bed! So how about that?”

  January shut his teeth hard and took two deep breaths before replying. No wonder Esteban couldn’t get a sentence out of his mouth. Already after two days he’d found himself less and less willing to go anywhere near Fourchet if he didn’t have to, an attitude, he knew, that wouldn’t help his inquiries. “Did Leander see Quashie take the knives, then, sir?”

  “You think my son lets his man stand around the gallery half the night staring into nothing? The boy’s a self-conceited pup and his man is worse, but at least he knows how to keep a servant at his work.”

  “Then Quashie might have been there for another purpose? Waiting for someone, maybe?”

  Fourchet’s eyes slitted. After a long time he said in a quieter voice, “I told that bitch she was too good for him. And Thierry’s worth more to me than the brats that field hand would sire on her. He’ll sire ’em on someone else, they all do.”

  “Perhaps Quashie was waiting for someone else, then, sir.”

  Fourchet opened his mouth to snap something at him, then let his breath out, and came down off his toes exactly as a fighting cock settles back when its opponent is taken from the ring. Some of the fury receded from his face, and his mouth untwisted from a grimace to a bleak and weary line.

  He looked at the cigar in his hand, then looked around for a light. January reminded himself that Fourchet didn’t know he, January, carried lucifers in his pocket—and cursed himself for that impulse to appease the man by producing one.

  What the hell is wrong with me? But he knew the answer to that.

  “God knows I’ve done ill enough in my life,” Fourchet said. “I’ve tried to make amends where I can.” Turning abruptly, he strode back to the mill doors, as Thierry came around the other corner, whip coiled beneath his arm. Herc was behind him, his round baby face wooden, and they were clearly headed for the low brown brick box of the plantation jail; Fourchet said, “Thierry,” and they stopped. “Doesn’t look as though Quashie had anything to do with them knives.”

  The overseer stared at him, then past him at January, bleak blue eyes like glass. “You don’t mean you believe anything this—”

  “It’s none of your lookout what I believe or don’t believe, or why,” Fourchet snarled. “For now I don’t think Quashie did it, and let it go at that. So you just give him a couple of licks for wandering around outside at night, you hear? Now I’ve got to get back to the mill. God knows what that imbecile Rodney’s been dumping into the boiling while we’ve been out here wasting time in talk.”

  He shoved the unlit cigar into his mouth and stalked back into the mill, a rigid bristling figure: January could hear him shouting at Esteban for not skimming la lessive quickly enough, and did he want the sugar to sour on him?

  Thierry said, “Cunt fool,” in his soft mild voice and slapped his whip on his boot. Then he glanced up at January. “So. With me, Cotton-Patch. Let’s get that nigger triced and laced so’s the both of you can get back to your work.”

  January hesitated, helpless and angry that, accepting his story as truth, the planter had decided to have the man whipped anyway, simply to prove to everyone that he could.…

  “Step along, boy. I said give me a hand, unless you want a dose of the same.”

  Fourchet had already vanished into the darkness of the mill. In any case January knew that no white man would countermand his overseer’s orders in front of—and certainly not regarding—a slave. He said, “Yes, sir,” and followed Thierry and Herc to the jail, hating himself and Fourchet more completely at every step.

  SEVEN

  It was one of the most savage beatings January had seen administered in his life. Quashie fought like a devil, screaming curses at him, at Thierry and Hercules from the moment they entered the jailhouse, kicking, biting, ramming with his head and trying to catch and strangle one or the other of them in the short slack of his chains.

  “Hold him,” Thierry panted. “Hold him, God damn you!” and Herc stepped in to obey, so January had to follow—follow or destroy whatever chances he might have of finding the true killer before Fourchet’s inevitable murder triggered wholesale retaliation against everyone on the plantation.

  A laudable end, he reflected angrily—more praiseworthy than simply the desire to be spared whipping himself—but the result for Quashie was the same.

  He did the best he could not to think about what he was doing, while he held the young man’s arm in an iron grip. Tried not to hear the leathery thump of balled fists hammering into belly, groin, face.

  “Strip him,” said Thierry, when he finally stepped back. Sweat rolled down his jaws but he spoke as if to a baker about an order of bread. “Trice him up.”

  Quashie was still trying to fight as January and Herc manhandled him outside, though his knees were water and they had to carry him. The whipping frame stood in front of the jail, about thirty feet from the doors of the mill. The women unloading the cane carts, the men hauling wood stopped work, clustering uneasily, and a voice from within the mill shouted at them to Move on, damn it!

  With a cry, Jeanette dropped the bundle of cane she carried, ran across the open ground. Thierry caught her by the arm, slapped her face, shoved her away so hard she fell. “Get back to work.”

  Jeanette remained kneeling, trembling, staring mutely up into the face of this white man who had her every night.

  “Boy isn’t anything to you, is he?”

  Her eyes fell and she got slowly to her feet. “No, sir,” she whispered. “No. He’s nothing to me.”

  Quashie took the flogging in silence. January wasn’t sure at what point the man passed out.

  “Leave him there,” Thierry ordered when he was done. “Herc, fetch me a bucket of water to clean this.” He gestured with the gore-clotted whip. “You, Cotton-Patch, ain’t I told you an hour ago to get them knives and get back to work?”

  “Yes, sir.” January was shaking with self-loathing, with rage, with emotions he thought he’d left behind him in childhood. “Right away, sir.”

  He went around the downstream end of the mill rather than the upstream side on which the smithy lay, walked about halfway along, then staggered into the cane to vomit. There wasn’t much—it was a few hours yet short of time for the rice cart to come at noon. Then he went on to the forge and collected the knives,and returning to the mill doors found Herc with the nine first-gang men released to return to the fields.

  Across the y
ard, Quashie still hung silent from the rawhide ropes on the frame.

  Thierry was nowhere around.

  “I’ll join you in a little while,” said January to Herc.

  “If Michie Thierry asks me who cut him down I’ll have to tell him.” Hercules’s round face was grave. January remembered him from the shout, taking the sullen pretty unweeping girl away into the woods with him. Trinette, someone had called her at Ajax’s house afterward. The dead man Reuben’s wife.

  “That’s all right. You can tell him you tried to stop me, too.”

  Herc nodded. “All right.”

  January walked across the yard and with two quick strokes of the cane-knife cut the ropes, caught Quashie over his shoulder, and carried him past the downstream side of the mill and along the quarters street to the twelve-by-twelve cabin the five men shared.

  When he took the gourd from beside the door and stepped out again to fetch water from the cistern to wash the blood from the young man’s back, he was met by Jeanette, a dripping bucket in her hand.

  “Thank you.” He took it from her, and she followed him up the two plank steps and into the cabin. “The flies will have got to him. Could you run to the kitchen, ask Kiki if there’s brandy or whiskey, even rum?”

  “Kiki wouldn’t spit on a field hand’s back to wash it.” Jeanette jerked her head toward the big house. “They none of ’em would. Besides, Gilles died of drinking liquor in the big house. I be back.” She turned and he heard her dart down the steps and run, light as a deer.

  She was gone many minutes. January washed down Quashie’s lacerated back as gently as he could and laid a spare shirt over it, to keep out dust and flies. The quarters were silent. Chill sun slanted through the door onto the gray floor-boards, accentuating each shadow with crystalline brightness. The smell of cut cane, of burnt sugar and wet earth, were a universe of childhood griefs. Yet curiously, here in this cabin he felt a strange sense of deep peace.

  His own actions had shocked him, his acquiescence to Thierry’s tyranny, though he still had no idea what he could have done and yet retained his position as a slave among slaves. He felt deeply soiled and shamed, and at the same time—to his intense embarrassment—afraid of facing Thierry’s anger for cutting Quashie down.

  This is slavery, he thought, as if he were telling Ayasha about it back in Paris. He scratched in his armpit, the first louse, he realized philosophically, of what would be many, before roulaison was done and everyone had the time it took to keep clean. This is what I’d almost forgotten.

  This was the world he’d been saved from, at the age of seven, by a Frenchman’s lust for his mother. He’d been grateful for it—even at the time he’d been grateful. But for months, sitting in the classroom of the St. Louis Academy among the sons of colored women by their white protectors, or walking along the close-walled streets of the French town, or falling asleep in the narrow confines of the garçonnière of his mother’s house on Rue Burgundy, he had missed the smell of the earth, the silence broken only dimly by the singing of the men in the fields.

  “I’m sorry.” Jeanette’s shadow darkened the doorway again. “I knew where Rodney keeps his liquor, but it’s been since the dark of the moon that the onisówó”—she used the African word for a trader—been by, and I had to get this from Harry.” She held up a cheap clay bottle of something probably even Hannibal wouldn’t have touched unless he was desperate.

  Harry, reflected January as he daubed the liquor on a clean rag and gently squeezed it over the puffed and bleeding welts, was the kind who always had a cache of whatever others wanted and would trade for. He wondered what she’d paid for it, or promised to pay.

  “Did Gilles buy from the onisówó, too?”

  She nodded. He saw where Thierry’s slap had left a bruise on the side of her face, puffed up now. Saw also a half-healed split in her lip, and a small fresh scar on her chin, the kind a woman gets from her own teeth when a man belts her hard. She was still an extraordinarily pretty girl, slim-boned and strong, her close-wrapped tignon making her head seem small, like a deer’s.

  “Gilles used to trade candles from the house—not the fresh ones, but the ones that’d already been burned—and coffee grounds and tea leaves after they’d been used. Only somebody stole his stash and drank it up, way before False River Jones was due back.”

  “He ever steal from Michie Fourchet’s liquor before?”

  She nodded. “About two years ago.” She settled herself on the rough plank floor by the cot—of course there were no chairs—and very gently touched Quashie’s hand. “We thought Michie Fourchet was going to kill him. Kiki nursed him, though she was Reuben’s wife then—and Reuben, he wasn’t pleased. Gilles was laid up three days, ribs broke and everythin’. He should have known better. Should have known that liquor was like gold to Michie Fourchet. Everything he touches, everything he owns, is like gold to him, that other people can’t touch.”

  Her lips tightened. She’d been working in the fields, and her old dress was kilted up to show long, slim legs. The stink of dirt, of cane-juice and sweat on her was not unpleasant to January, only an accounting of who she was. “Gilles wasn’t like most men, though. You know how most men, they get liquor and drink it all up and get silly and get sick and then they’re fine. They wait til the next chance comes along, and if it don’t come along, they say, ‘Damn fuck I’d like a drink,’ and it’s gone from their minds the next second. But Gilles …” She shook her head.

  “He was the sweetest man in the world, Michie Ben. Kind and good and friendly. And funny—he could always make us laugh. Most of them house niggers, they don’t care whether we live or die out here. But he’d sometimes sneak food to those women that was nursin’ or about to give birth, or give the children worn-out stuff from the house, blankets and things. But if he couldn’t get liquor, liquor was all he thought about until he could.”

  January was silent, recalling some of the insanely stupid things Hannibal had done, in the course of their two years’ acquaintance, when he couldn’t get money for opium.

  “I was glad when he could finally marry Kiki,” Jeanette went on. “She may be stuck up, but nobody deserved bein’ married to Reuben.”

  And January remembered what Mohammed had said, about Reuben’s carelessness. About his wanting to win from Michie Fourchet a woman who’d been given to someone else.

  “Michie Ben, you better get on back or you’ll get a whippin’. I’ll stay take care of Quashie a little.”

  As she spoke she touched Quashie’s hand again, where it lay limp on the corn-shuck mattress. The tenderness on her face was free of any shame or fear. Confident, like a child, not in the world, but in the knowledge of love.

  Ayasha had been like that, thought January—the beautiful Berber woman who had been taken from him by the cholera. Like a summer tree, rooted in and watered by love. And Jeanette’s eyes told him all he needed to know about Quashie’s love for her.

  “You left Thierry’s house to meet him last night?”

  She nodded. “I got out the parlor window. He keeps the door keys under his pillow. He has a couple drinks, and sleeps like a dead man. Quashie waits for me in the trees by the levee.”

  To comfort you, thought January, knowing you come to him from another man’s bed. Shakespeare, and Marvell, and all the other poets had missed that one, when they’d written about the nature of love.

  “You left the window open?”

  “Yes. I had to go back to him, you see. He likes to fuck in the mornin’ as well as at night. That’s how the hoodoo got in, isn’t it?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Her eyes filled with fear and she swallowed hard. “Please don’t tell him that. Don’t tell anyone,” she added, when he shook his head. “Michie Ben, you know how these things get around. That Leander, he’s like a magpie squawking. Cornwallis, too.”

  “It won’t get past me,” promised January. “How long were you at the levee?”

  She thought about it a moment. Ja
nuary remembered his silver watch, safe in Olympe’s bureau drawer, and remembered too how long it had taken him to learn to think in terms of anything shorter than morning and afternoon. As a child, the first six months of his lessons he was always late.

  “The moon was just about straight up overhead when I got there,” she said at last. “Maybe not halfway down to the trees on the other bank, when I left.”

  About two hours, thought January. Plenty of time to load up an old blanket with as many knives as a man could carry in a single load, even if the hoodoo hadn’t been watching for the exact moment of her departure. “You didn’t see anyone as you were coming or going?”

  “If I had,” said Jeanette, with a grim twist to her mouth, “you think I’d have left or come back?”

  “And you didn’t go in that back room after you came back from the levee?”

  “No. There’s no need for me to, and it’s cold in there.” She glanced at him under her lashes, still afraid to trust even a man who’d risked Thierry’s wrath by cutting Quashie down.

  “Mohammed tells me your mother was a hoodoo. Did she teach you any, you or Parson?”

  He knew she’d deny it, and she did, shaking her head immediately and vigorously. “Oh, no. She died when we were only little, Parson and me.”

  It might even have been the truth.

  “There anyone else on the place who’d know the hoodoo marks?”

  She hesitated a long time. “I think Hope knows some, Ajax’s wife. And Emerald, and old Fayola. Auntie Zu knew, that was Lisbon’s wife. Well, everyone knows a little, you know? Enough to keep witches away from the door anyway, and make juju bags an’ that. But not the big stuff. Not like what was wrote on the wall. I saw Mama make signs like that, but she never taught me, nor anyone else as far as I know.”