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Title: Mandingo
Author: Onstott, Kyle (1887-1966)
Date of first publication: 1957
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Longmans, Green
   ["This edition first published 1959"]
Date first posted: 25 September 2019
Date last updated: 25 September 2019
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1626

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Jen Haines, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






MANDINGO

by Kyle Onstott




    Slave-farming in the Southern States of the U.S.A. before the
    Civil War is the subject of this powerful and vividly realistic
    novel. Cotton-growing being no longer profitable, old Maxwell
    and his son Hammond--honest and humane men according to the
    social code of the time--breed Negroes for sale as cattle.
    Hammond, though happy enough dallying with the female slaves,
    must take a white wife and produce a white heir. He marries his
    cousin Blanche, neglects her for a young Negress who loves him,
    and so sets in train a series of appalling events that result in
    one of the grimmest climaxes in fiction.




    _Dedicated to_
    VICKY AND PHILIP
    _of course_




AUTHOR'S NOTE


In the early 1830s the economy of the Southern States of the U.S.A. was
largely based on trading in human flesh. What happened there led to the
struggle between North and South that broke out thirty years later.

From today's vantage point the developing situation may be viewed
objectively. Actually, the finger of blame should be pointed at no one
geographical group of people. Although those who promoted the abolition
of slavery were ethically in the right, Southern planters in general are
shown to have been victims of circumstances rather than diabolical
tyrants as they have sometimes been painted.

The land, once the most valuable asset of the plantation-owner,
deteriorated through lack of knowledge of conservation methods. In turn,
the potential return from the sale of agricultural products gradually
lessened. In an attempt to drain the final dregs from the impoverished
soil, slave labour was utilized. But, finally, the land became so nearly
exhausted that the planters turned to the more lucrative enterprise of
propagating slaves for marketing to land-owners in other areas. Then, as
a sordid outgrowth of a last endeavour to maintain financial security,
speculation in the slave market became the outstanding interest. More
emphasis was placed on the propagation of slave stock than on the
production of any other commodity. The excuse was used that the practice
was intended to better the physical characteristics of the offspring.
But physical oddities and freaks were as much in demand as were the
robust.

The average plantation-owner was considerate of the welfare of his human
property. But he was considerate not as one concerned with the needs of
another--rather, the planter's concern was based on maintaining and
increasing the value of a marketable chattel.

K.O.




CHAPTER 1


The old man heard the closing of the front door and the limping step in
the hall. He was pleased that his son should have the good sense to send
the Negroes to quarters and come into the house out of the cold,
drizzling February rain.

Hammond walked across the room, picked up his father's glass of toddy
and took a swallow.

'Take more, take more,' urged Maxwell. 'Do you good, son. Gittin' too
cooled off fer me anyways. Got to have me another'n, and I kin ever git
that triflin' Memnon to stir me one. Mem!' he called. 'Mem! Memnon!'

Hammond started toward the dining-room to get Memnon when the boy opened
the door with apparent alacrity.

'Didn't you hear me callin', Mem, you god-damn black varmint? Stir me a
toddy, hot, mind you. Now! Not nex' week,' Maxwell commanded.

'Yas, suh, Masta,' said the slave and started to go.

'I talk to you, I cod you, I beg, an' I cuss you,' the master said
sternly. 'Only I cain't whup you--with this rheumatiz. You young masta
got to do that.'

The slave was used to the threats of his old master, which, so far, had
always come to nothing. None the less, Agamemnon rolled his eyes toward
the younger Maxwell, with dilated pupil and a show of white.

'Whenever you reckon, I'll take keer of him,' Hammond promised his
father. 'Whut you think, boy? When I whups, I whups--takes the meat
right off your bones. Eh?'

'Naw, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh,' replied the Negro. 'I be spry. I
ain't goin' to sloth no mo'.' While he reckoned the impatience of his
senior master to be mere bluster, he was by no means sure that the
forthright younger man did not mean business. Memnon knew that he was
lax, slothful, and procrastinating, and he resolved henceforth to be
more diligent--at least for a time. His duties were small enough, to mix
toddies for the older man, to replenish the fire, to serve at table,
remove his master's clothes at night and help to put them on in the
morning; and he was indulged, fed white man's viands, kept in clean,
whole clothes, given at least one ardent woman with whom to sleep, with
a frequent alternative. He was valuable, being strong-thewed,
broad-shouldered, yellow-skinned, free from scars, disfigurements, or
blemishes. He knew he was not for sale, though he was past thirty and
would bring a larger price now than later, but it was unthinkable that
his young master would risk scarring him up with the whip and reducing
his market worth, especially since he knew the pride the Maxwells took
in having their stock, human and quadruped, clean-limbed and sound.

Despite the cold rain and the father's entreaties, the son returned to
his work, determined to clear more land, split the rails to fence it,
chop wood for the house fires, but above all to keep the Negroes
employed and exercised. Agamemnon prepared the toddy that Maxwell had
ordered, saw to it that it was hot, as commanded, and when he saw that
the fire was burning low in the fireplace, brought fresh chunks of
water-oak and adjusted them upon the dog-irons.

Maxwell, surprised at the slave's access of industry, could only grunt
at what he assumed was a sign of reformation. His joints racked, and he
lifted one hand with the other and examined the swollen knuckles. Yet,
in spite of the pain and effort it cost him, he braced himself and
staggered to his feet occasionally to totter to the window to scan the
weather, just to prove to himself that he was able to do it and to alter
the tedium of watching the fire and waiting for Hammond's return.

On one of the excursions, near to evening, he noted that the downpour
had subsided to a mere drizzle and scanned the sky for a patch of blue
in the hope that the rain would cease altogether. Between the boles of
the bare miscellany of trees, maples, tupelos, oaks, chestnuts,
hickories, and elms, that behind a zizgag stake-and-rider fence lined
the long avenue to the main road, he descried a moving object. He could
hardly credit that a visitor was arriving at Falconhurst on so wretched
a day and through such mire as the rains had made of the roads.

He could not be sure. 'Mem!' he bellowed. 'Memnon! Memnon, you hear?
Memnon, you yaller mongrel! Come here! Come here, I'm sayin'!'

Drowsing before the fireplace in the kitchen, Mem roused himself and
shuffled unhurriedly across the open passageway, through the dining-room
and into the living-room. 'Yas, suh, Masta. You a-callin'?'

'Course I'm a-callin'. Come here to this winder. Look out. Whut you
reckon that be movin' up that laneway?'

Mem looked. 'Look like horse with gen'man a-ridin',' he said.

'Course it a gen'leman and of course he ridin' a horse,' Maxwell said
contemptuously. 'But who it goin' to be? Who comin' to Falconhurst in
all this weather and through all this mire?'

Memnon had no idea. His interest was no less, however, than his owner's.
'Now we'll have doin's,' he declared optimistically. The arrival of any
white man at Falconhurst was an occasion.

The horseman emerged into the open and it could be seen that he wore a
frock coat and a slouch hat, as might have been expected, that he was
thin to emaciation without being very tall, that his bay mount was
tired, muddy, and from his action probably a gelding, for which Maxwell
felt a contempt.

Three children ran beside the horse, lifting their feet high in an
effort to surmount the mud. The man monotonously cracked a whip to urge
the children's haste, but he usually and intentionally missed them. Now
and again one was seen to flinch when a blow stung its legs or buttocks,
and for three or four strides to hasten its pace.

'Jest a nigger buyer,' scoffed Maxwell more to himself than to his
servant.

Despite the contempt in his voice, he hastened to the double front doors
and went out on the verandah, followed closely by Agamemnon, to await
his guest. The profession of dealing in Negroes was deprecated, but the
scorn for it was not so intense as to warrant a denial of hospitality to
its practitioners. The disdain was for the calling, not for the man. If
it was an evil, it was a convenient evil. Dealers saved planters from
the necessity of a trip to market with one or two slaves; they were not
too particular about the viciousness of Negroes they bought for early
resale and were good agencies for the riddance of 'bad' Negroes; and
better yet, they paid cash on the barrelhead for their purchases.
Moreover, they were white.

Visitors to Falconhurst were rare; they brought news. And Maxwell's
dislike for dealers was more of a convention than a conviction. He was
aware that his own rung of the social hierarchy was not that of a
gentleman--not a fine gentleman at least, merely a gentleman by
courtesy, far, far above a dealer but not quite a full gentleman.

The stranger dismounted stiffly from his horse, briefly rubbed his lean
flanks to relieve the fatigue of the saddle, doffed his hat, and said,
'Howdy, suh. Name of Brownlee--Brownlee.'

The Negro children who accompanied him retreated to the off side of the
horse, and, open-mouthed, looked warily at their master's reception.

'Name of Maxwell, suh, Warren Maxwell,' the host returned the greeting
and identified himself.

'I was informed of your name, suh. It's well and, pardon me, suh,
favourably known in these parts.'

'Ought to be, suh. We been right here at Falconhurst sence befo' the
rebellion of 1776.' The reply was not ungenial, but it served to
underline the difference between gentleman planter and slave dealer. No
gesture of handshaking was made by either man. 'Cast the bridle to the
boy, suh, who will stable your horse and bed down your servants. Then,
come right in. Dinner is mighty nigh ready.'

Agamemnon caught the reins, but only to turn the chore over to another
black boy who had appeared, more bold than the other Negroes, from
behind one corner of the house. Brownlee had an eye for a Negro and
quickly noted that this slave boy had only two toes--the great and the
little one--on his left foot. Every eye in the quarters appraised the
visitor from cover. His arrival was reason for speculation and low-toned
talk.

Maxwell was specific in his orders to the black. 'Take the gen'leman's
horse straight to the stable. Take off his gear and wash him down
good--warm water, mind you, not too hot, but warm. I ketches you washing
a horse with col' water this time of year, I'll hide you sure.'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' the boy replied conventionally.

'And take these little niggers with you and bed 'em down in another
stall and give them some pone, all they'll eat of it. Cook will issue
you some black-strap to make it tasty. Tell her I said to.'

'Cook won't give black-strap to no nigger withouten your say,' protested
the boy.

'Tell her I say. If she don't heed you, have her ask Memnon.'

'Yas, suh, Masta; have cook ast Memnon,' the boy repeated to impress the
command on his own mind.

Maxwell consulted Brownlee, 'Reckon I better have your niggers chained
up?'

'I reckon it ain't necessary on a cold day like this. They too tired to
run. Of course you cain't tell whut goes on in a nigger's haid,' he
reconsidered. 'Wouldn't do no harm.'

Maxwell turned again to the boy. 'And chain the niggers to the side of
their stall--the wench separate from the bucks. Use them small little
anklets that they cain't slip out of and fetch the keys up and turn 'em
over to Memnon.'

'Turn keys over to Memnon,' the black repeated.

'When that mud on their legs dries out, crack it and rub it off, too,'
interposed Brownlee. 'Pardon me, suh, fer giving orders to yo' servant,'
he apologized to Maxwell.

'My servants are yo' servants, suh, so long as you honours me with your
company at Falconhurst,' Maxwell reassured his guest. 'Anything else the
boy kin do fer yo' property, suh?'

'That will accommodate me nicely, suh, nicely.'

'Memnon, go down after dinner to the stable and see that this
boy--whut's your name, boy?' the master broke off.

'My name Preacha', suh, please,' the confused boy stuttered.

'Whut's that? Talk plain.'

'Preacha', suh. My name Preacha'.'

'Preacha'? I don't like it. It don't mean nothin'. I like names out'n
history or names of heathen gods.'

'My mammy wanted that I should be a preacha'--a reverend.'

'I'll reverend you. We'll change your name right now--let's
see--Barbarossa. We haven't had a Barbarossa fer a long time. Remember
that--your name is Barbarossa.'

'Barbarossa, Barbarossa, Barbarossa,' the baffled boy muttered in
determination to remember his new designation.

Maxwell continued his orders to Memnon, 'See that this Barber do all
whut I told him. If he neglect that horse and if he don't take good care
of them niggers, he kin depen' on a hidin'. Understand, boy?'

'Yas, suh, Masta.'

'That's all,' said the master.

The newly christened Barbarossa led the horse toward the stable,
followed by the three children. 'Barber, Barber, Barber--something or
t'other. My masta done change me from Preacha' to Barba',' and he
snapped his fingers, 'jest like that,' he said to himself but aloud.
Then he laughed delightedly at his own joke. 'Barba', Barba', Bar----'

'I trade in niggers,' Brownlee announced to Maxwell.

'So I reckoned, suh, so I reckoned,' replied the host. 'We got to have
traders if we're goin' to have niggers. We cain't eat 'em.'

'I know some gen'lemen don't like traders, but everybody's got to live.
Whut would you planters do withouten we traders?'

'We'd have to plough the niggers under, I reckon. I got nothing agin'
traders. I've sold to lots of 'em; they're welcome right in my house and
at my table--that is, sence my wife passed away. She was a Hammond,
daughter of old Mista Theophilus Hammond of the Anglebranch Plantation
down near Selma. Mista Theophilus wouldn't have no truck with traders--a
fine gen'leman. He never sold a servant--not one. Bred good niggers too.
I remember twenty year back when servants was cheap, Theophilus Hammond
pay two thousand dollars fer a yaller quadroon stallion--a lot of money
them days.'

'Sure was. Why even today you can pick up a mighty noble hand,
house-broke and everything, fer fifteen hundred or two thousand. Jest
before Christmas I sold a big, sound, robust buck, six foot one and
shoulders like that,' Brownlee stretched his arms, 'right off the block
in New Orleans fer fourteen hundred--yeller, too, good enough to cover
anybody's wenches.'

Mr. Maxwell refused to relinquish his aristocratic father-in-law. 'Of
course, Mista Theophilus (being in the family I calls him by his first
name), used to sell off a bad nigger, if he got one; or he'd sell to
accommodate a friend with a good house-boy or a fancy, yaller sew-er; or
he'd rarely, rarely, part with a young buck to get money to run
Anglebranch Plantation and feed the other hands till cotton time. But he
never made a practice of selling his stock at all. Didn't trust traders
and wouldn't sell to 'em.'

'I come a right smart out of my way to pay my respects to yo'.' Brownlee
bowed and Maxwell returned the bow in so far as his rheumatism
permitted. 'And see didn't yo' all have a few servants you wanted to git
shet of.'

'No, cain't say we have. I sent a fine coffle of prime young bucks
Natchez way, right after pickin' time. If yo' had of come along about
then we could have talked, but I ain't got nothin' prime to offer yo'
right now.'

'They don't got to be prime, suh. I'll prime 'em when I git 'em to New
Orleans,' Brownlee urged, betraying his eagerness.

'If yo' come this way again in the late fall, I might have a dozen or
fifteen nice, strapping boys fer yo', or a wench or two if I kin get 'em
knocked up and showing. Don't pay to sell a wench open. Buyers like to
git two fer the price of one.'

'Don't know if'n I could afford to relieve you of a dozen at a time.
Limited capital, yo' know, mighty limited, but I'll be here--count
on't.'

The wind was playing through Maxwell's shock of red hair, and he
suddenly was aware of the chill in the air that would worsen his
rheumatism.

'Right like to rain some more; I kin feel it right in my jints. Wind
a-comin' up, too. One good comes out of this consarned rheumatiz--learns
me to prognosticate.' He rubbed the swollen joints of one hand over the
equally swollen knuckles of the other. 'I'll always remember 1831 as a
wet year, the year the rheumatiz got me. And now in February, it's
started out wet again and the rheumatiz mirrors the weather, seems
like.'

'Roads like thick gumbo, all the way across Alabama, ever sence I left
the Georgia line. Horse mired up to his fetlocks and the young niggers
muddy half up to the crotch. Had to stop oncet and take the little wench
up on the crupper; and lashing the two boys slowed 'em down more than it
hurried 'em up. Nigh glad I had so scant a coffle because they a-goin'
to be all skinny, even if not sick, before I kin fetch 'em to market.'
Mr. Brownlee sighed, removed his square-lensed spectacles, wiped his
bloodshot, porcine blue eyes on a soiled blue bandana which he drew from
the tail of his frock coat, after which he took off his black slouch hat
and wiped with the bandana his bald scalp with the tufts of curly black
hair above the ears. His small face had been smooth some three or four
days ago, but now it was scantily peppered with black.

'Now, howsomever, at last yo' kin rest your bones and fatten your
niggers. We hope you'll squander some time with us, leastwise till after
the spell of weather.'

'No, thankee, I reckon I better git along this same evenin', more
'specially that yo' cain't spare me no niggers. The nigger crop is real
slim ever'whure. And the prices are going up like balloons in the wind,'
complained Brownlee.

'No hurry at all,' argued Maxwell. 'Not many gen'lemen honour us at
Falconhurst.'

'Got to git along. Got to git along. I values your hospitality, suh, but
I got to git along.'

'Come morning and I might, I jest might, fix my mind on letting yo'
carry away a buck or two. We are all run over with young niggers, got to
kick 'em out of the way to walk, but they jest too young to dispose of
to advantage me.'

'I need niggers, I do indeed, suh,' emphasized Brownlee. 'If there is a
chance to dicker and yo' prices are not too powerful, I'll settle down
and discommode you all fer the night.'

'Nothin' at all, nothin' at all. Yo' cain't discommode me one bit.
Charmed to enjoy your conversation. Of course yo' remember I say I might
sell, not that I would sell. I'll have to counsel with my son. Turn the
whole plantation-shebang over to him to run, account of my rheumatiz.
But come into the house, suh, come right in and set,' urged Maxwell,
spitting into his hand and hurling to the ground a cud of tobacco he had
been harbouring in his jaw. 'Dinner will be ready soon as Ham rides up.'

Brownlee paused on the gallery which fronted the house to remove on the
foot-scraper some of the mud that was drying on his boots.

'Never mind that, never mind,' said Maxwell as he held open the door.
'We ain't got no finery, jest rag carpets all over and plenty of nigger
grease to clean things up. A little mud don't matter at all.'

'Seem to me a purty fine mansion,' Brownlee looked about him. 'Mighty
comfortable.'

'My grandpappy built a log house in the clearing right here. My pappy
built this nine-room clapboard, which was good enough, a plain and
common house in his day, purty fancy, fact is, then, fer these parts. I
was jest aiming to build a better'n--could well afford it too--somethin'
like Mista Tom Jefferson's place back in Virginia--fitten to live in
like a gen'leman--when my wife upped and passed away seven years back.
My wife was a Hammond, daughter of ol' Mista Theophilus Hammon' of
Anglebranch Plantation.'

'Fine family; fine, fine family,' interposed Brownlee.

'I aimed to build a mansion, as I'm a-telling you, when she come down,
some female trouble, a growth. And when she went to her reward, it jest
nearly tore the bowels right out'n me. I ain't got over it yet. I jist
dropped everything. This old house good enough fer the boy and me.
Course, if Hammon' marry some fine lady like his mamma (and I'm
a-countin' on it) he'll prob'bly build her a fine home over on the other
knoll and let this place go to quarters. We're cramped fer quarters
anyhow; two families with an extrie wench or two in ever' cabin, and the
extrie boys bedded down on straw in the stable. It ain't healthy. Come
an epizootic and it would ruin us.'

A genial fire in the wide fireplace warmed the sitting-room into which
Mr. Maxwell welcomed his guest, who gingerly eased his lean body into a
large rocker. The host baked himself in front of the fire, alternately
facing it and turning his back to it in an effort to relieve the
rheumatic pains that racked his joints.

'Memnon! Memnon!' he called. Before the boy arrived he questioned his
guest, 'How do you like your corn?'

'Uncontaminated, please, suh, uncontaminated.'

'A glass of unwatered whisky fer the gen'leman and a toddy fer me--hot,
mind,' the host gave his orders to the Negro.

Brownlee eyed the slave appraisingly. 'Right smart boy,' he declared.
'Ain't fer sale, I reckon.'

When Agamemnon returned with the drinks, Brownlee seemed even more
interested in the boy than in the whisky. As the Negro approached to
hand him the brimming water goblet, Brownlee reached out and grasped his
leg, felt his muscles critically. 'Kneel down,' he commanded and ran his
hands over the shoulders, opened his mouth and ran his fingers
perfunctorily along the sound teeth. ''Bout thirty, I should say.'

'Not that old,' observed the master proudly.

'Seems like about thirty, teeth and all. 'Bout a quadroon, I reckon.'

''Bout that. His dam a mulatto, his sire a white man.'

'Fully house-broke, I reckon?' the buyer persisted.

'Yes, but triflin'. Cain't git no work out'n him.'

'Sell him to me and I'll cure that quick.'

'And he back talks too. I been laying off to hang him up and have him
hided fer quite a spell, but whut with the rheumatiz and all, I put it
off and put it off.'

'No, no, Masta, suh,' the boy began a plaintive wail. 'I's spry nigger;
don't hide me; I'll be good. No, no, Masta, I'll----'

'Dry up,' the master warned. 'See whut I mean?' he addressed himself to
Brownlee. 'He's al'ays puttin' his mouth into white folk's talk. He's a
kind of pet of my son, and Ham has ruint him. My son don't mind if I
peel his rump, but he too busy to do it hisself.'

'Reckon you don't want to sell him then?' interposed the trader.

'No, I reckon not.'

An irregular step sounded on the creaking floor of the hall and Hammond
Maxwell limped in. 'Sorry, suh, about keeping dinner,' he explained to
his father. 'I rid around agin to see how the river is comin' up after
the rainin'.'

'Don't spoil your dinner with concernment.' Maxwell turned to address
his guest, 'This son of mine is much too ponderous. His only fault, only
fault, suh, is that he loves this damned leeched-out plantation and its
blacks more than he loves white ladies. Mr. Brownlee, suh, this is my
Hammond; named for his grandsire, suh, Theophilus Hammond.'

'Right charmed by the honour of your company,' responded Hammond
cordially.

'Thankee, suh. Right charmed my own self,' said Brownlee, rising and
extending his hand.

'Mr. Brownlee goin' about the country purchasin' negras fer the New
Orleans block. Cain't make a sizeable coffle and so he drop by
Falconhurst to look over our stock. Do yo' reckon we kin accommodate him
with a buck or two?'

'Don't reckon we kin deny a gen'leman in need. Might hap we kin spare
something,' Ham encouraged Brownlee, his hospitality overweighing his
contempt for the profession of his guest. 'But dinner awaits us. May I
escort you, suh, into the other room?'

'Yes, it's gitting on to one and you must be wolf-hungry, Son, after all
mornin' in the saddle,' declared the father, as he led the way into the
dining-room.

It was an immense, bare apartment, its size only modified by the height
of the ceilings. Against one wall stood a wide sideboard of the Empire
period, mahogany, over-ornate, but with some claim to distinction of
taste. Its surface, however, was so cluttered with rococo silver and
glass as to destroy what dignity it might have possessed.

The large rectangular table in the middle of the long, tall room was
covered by a cloth of heavy damask in a checker-board pattern of red and
white. In the very centre of the table stood a tall revolvable silver or
silver-plated caster with cruets of condiments and jars of various kinds
of pickles. From its upright handle were suspended two pairs of tongs
and around its perimeter dangled a fringe of silver teaspoons.

On one corner of the table stood a tall, glass pitcher of thick, yellow
milk. Places were laid for three. The pinkish willow-ware plates were
enormous, ornamented with pictures of Chinese temples and pagodas. Each
was flanked with a bone-dish of the same ware. The substantial knives
and forks were of steel, their bone handles streaked with yellow from
too long boiling in dish-water. The empty coffee cups that stood at the
right of each cover, each handle meticulously turned to the exact right
of each cup, were on the same oversized scale as the plates. Tall
goblets of heavy pressed glass, each holding upright in its bowl a red
napkin starched and ironed to display its fringed border, stood behind
the cups. Except for the pickles in the caster jars, and salt in
capacious open dishes of heavy, red glass, no food was visible.

Although there were no flies to be brushed on this chilly day, two sleek
boys stood, one on each side of the table, waving fans of frayed
peacock-tail feathers monotonously and tirelessly to and fro. The trader
began his evaluation of the boys the moment he set eyes upon them. Here
was something choice, something fancy. What a price these two would
fetch at private treaty in New Orleans! He knew exactly the men who
would be interested. The bumper of whisky he had drunk enlarged his
imagination. Perhaps these rustics had no comprehension of the value of
such a brace in the right market, of the purposes for which they could
be sold, of the uses to which they could be put. Either, alone, was a
jewel. Together, as a span, twins, they would bring four or five times
what they would bring singly.

As he glanced from one to the other, he was not able to detect a trace
of difference. The contours of closely shorn skulls were exactly alike,
the same round faces with full cheeks, the same noses only slightly flat
with nostrils somewhat large, the same neat ears, the same large full
mouths turned upward at the corners, the same large eyes with irises so
black that it was impossible to detect that they had pupils. The facial
skins were alike in colour and in texture--a light amber through which
shone a rosiness round the cheek-bones. They appeared burnished, but it
was with health and the soft soap that had been recently applied to
render them fit for service in their master's dining-room.

Down to their small, arched, bare feet they were made alike, height, arm
length, leg length, flatness of chest, roundness of buttock. It was not
by design that they were uniformly clad, because the small boys on
Falconhurst after six or eight were all dressed alike in rough shirts
and rougher pants, which were their only garments. Before six or eight,
often up to ten, boys wore nothing at all, although girls were clothed a
little earlier. The boys' clothes were uniform also, in their age and
drabness--it could not be called colour.

Brownlee's survey of the room and his evaluation of the twins were
rapid. It took no more time than for Agamemnon to withdraw the
horse-hide covered chair, and to seat his rheumatic master at the head
of the table, after which he pulled out Brownlee's chair and seated him.
Hammond dispensed with the Negro's assistance and sat down at the side
of the table opposite Brownlee, whose liquorish eye continued to steal
glances at the boys.

Agamemnon fetched from the kitchen an immense platter of stewed chicken
enveloped with dumplings, tender as tissue. This was followed by another
platter on which rested slice after centre slice of fried ham surrounded
by the red gravy in which it had been cooked. A third platter contained
eggs, more than a dozen of them, fried on one side only.

Next to be handed round was a heaped-up dish of boiled potatoes,
followed by tender spring greens on which reposed a large piece of
bacon.

Agamemnon filled the glasses with the creamy milk from the pitcher, then
filled the cups from a battered tin pot of strong, black, and hot
coffee, upon which he floated cream so thick that it oozed from the
pitcher only semi-liquid. He then passed a pitcher of light-coloured
molasses with which the coffee was to be sweetened.

'Eat hearty, suh, eat hearty,' urged the host. 'Might as well clean up
the vittles. The leavin's are jest scraped to the servants anyways.'

'Scrumptious meal, suh,' declared Brownlee after his fourth cup of
coffee.

'Nothin' extrie, nothin' extrie. Jest the general run of dinner,'
Maxwell deprecated the compliment paid to his food, and led the way back
to the sitting-room.

'Now about those servants you offerin' to sell me,' Brownlee persisted,
sinking his chair before the fireplace.

'Well, let's see,' Maxwell said. 'Whut you reckon, Ham?'

'Well, s'pose we drags out that Preacher and that lean, brown boy named
Emperor?'

'Changed Preacher's name to Barbarossa,' corrected the father. 'That's
good. They all right, an' you say.'

'They brisk and lively? How big are they?'

'One about fifteen hands, three inches, I reckon. You saw him. He barned
your horse. The other taller, mayhap close to seventeen hands--but they
got a spell of growin' in 'em yet. Yes, they right vig'ous and frisky.
They'll make good hands,' the elder Maxwell affirmed.

'They ain't unsound, but they not sound neither, not quite exactly
prime,' Hammond warned.

'I was jest calculating',' replied the trader, 'That Preacha' is kin' of
cripped, ain't he? Toes off one foot?'

'Not cripped. It don't slow him down none,' said Hammond. 'Of course, if
you don't crave him----'

'It's all right, it's all right. A nigger's a nigger--of course, at a
price.'

'Of course,' Hammond agreed.

'What ails the other'n?' inquired Brownlee.

'A burned scar; don't ruin him none, but Papa and me, we don't like to
shovel feed into a boy that don't strip down purty. Falconhurst negras
are right sound and we wants to keep 'em so. We right proudish over
havin' good stock without'n blemish or blight. Our only reason fer
cheapening these boys.'

'If'n he kin cut cane and pick cotton, I kin use him--of coursen, with
allowance fer price.'

'Memnon, gather up them two boys, Preach and Emp; shuck 'em down; and
give 'em a hunk of hard soap. Tell 'em to go down to the river and wash
all over good, and then come on back here and tarry in front of the
gallery.' Hammond gave instruction. 'And sen' fer my hoss.'

'You ain't goin' out, Son. It's rainin' right down.'

'Got to see after that passel cutting stove wood up beyond that fur
clearin'. Not a hand would cut a stick if I wasn't there to drive them.'

'Don't want you to ketch your death, Son, a-workin' in this kin' of
weather--cold and rain.'

'Don't fret yourself, Papa,' said the boy. 'I'm warm dressed and
waterproof.'

'Whut am I goin' to rate Mr. Brownlee fer them boys?' the senior asked.

'Whutever's right and fair,' the boy replied. 'You've had more truck in
that kind of messin' than ever I had.' He bent over and kissed his
father, bowed to the trader and was gone.

The father sighed, arose and trudged painfully to the cloudy window on
which he wiped a space through which to watch his son mount his horse.

Despite Brownlee's anxiety to inspect his prospective purchases, Maxwell
chose to enjoy awhile in anticipation the pleasure he knew would be his
in conducting the transaction. He surmised how ardent the trader was to
buy, and was confident to wait until his fish had fully swallowed the
hook.

'Hammond think this a cotton plantation,' he observed. 'Falconhurst
ain't a cotton plantation at all. It a nigger farm, that whut it is, a
nigger farm. It's been cropped and cropped fer cotton year after year
till there ain't no more cotton in the dirt.'

Brownlee was but little interested in Alabama cotton economy. Every
little while he arose and paced to the window and looked at the two nude
Negroes waiting patiently beneath a tupelo tree that partially shielded
them from the wind-driven rain.

'That burn on that buck is middlin' bad,' he observed.

'Jest looks that way through that wrinkled pane. That winder light is
all wavy. Ain't nothin' at all, scarcely. But Hammond jest cain't abide
a nigger on the place that ain't perfect. Funny that way. Mayhap it
reminds him of his own stiff leg which he got from that pony gelding
when he was six years old. His mamma didn't want he should have a pony
so young. She warned me, but I've got a stubborn streak too. Besides the
little feller wanted a pony, wanted it bad. I never could suffer that
child to crave nothin' and to not git it. I cain't yet. That spotted
pony seemed gentle when I traded for it, but you cain't never trust a
gelding, horse or nigger. They villainous and double-hearted. The
varmint throwed the boy off the third day he had him, bucked him right
off withouten no reason at all. I didn't think the boy was hurt none,
but I toted him into the house (didn't trust him to no nigger) and laid
him down on that very lounge there in the corner, eased his cryin',
undressed him gentle-like as I could, and rubbed him down with whisky.
Lucretia Borgia, the cook, that is, suckin' them two twins--the two you
saw in the dining-room--and her and I give the babies to Ham fer a bribe
to let her rub him with whisky ever' day. Didn't do no good, howsumever.
His knee stiffened up. Cain't scarcely bend it at all.'

Brownlee was less interested in Hammond's stiff knee than in the Negroes
in the dooryard. 'We better look after them boys out there. Standing
nekid in this drivin' rain is liable to give 'em lung fever or
somethin'.'

Maxwell led the way through the hall to the front doors, which Agamemnon
opened for him, guiding his way down the single step to the verandah.
The Negro brought rocking-chairs, but only his master sat down.
Brownlee, in his concern to get down to business, continued to stand and
Agamemnon to hover about his master for the primary purpose of
overhearing the negotiations.

'Git them boys up here onto this gallery and sop that rain offn 'em,'
Maxwell ordered Agamemnon, drawing a soiled bandana from his pocket and
heaving it toward him. 'Mr. Brownlee craves to finger 'em over.'

The two young Negroes approached the gallery with misgivings. They had
never been permitted to come so close to the house, and, now that they
were summoned, they were aware of their muddy feet. Both shivered as
much from fear as from cold. Preach's teeth chattered but the mouth of
the lanky Emperor was so much overshot that his teeth failed to meet and
the convulsions of his jaw made no sound.

Agamemnon, degraded to the place of valet to a field hand, chose the
lighter-hued Emperor as the lesser evil and dabbed at him gingerly with
the handkerchief, after which, with a glance askance in the direction of
his master, he tossed the wet handkerchief to Preach who proceeded to
wring it out and wipe the standing drops from his body. To dry himself
on the wet rag was impossible.

Brownlee took charge of Emp, made a preliminary pass of his hands over
the goose-pimpled back and skinny leg, after which he turned his
attention to the big cicatrix which was firmly healed and could not be
forced to open or bleed for all the pummelling and pinching the trader
gave it. Emperor had been inured to pain by the burn and the treatment
it had undergone, and he did not flinch.

'Purty ganglin',' deplored Brownlee. 'Narrow-shouldered and stooped
over.'

'I know he ain't ready to sell yet. Needs a year on him. Besides he
ain't been fattened and primed,' countered the owner.

'Terrible pig-jawed, too.'

'Don't want him to chew the cane down, do you?' Maxwell replied.

'Kneel down here in front of me, boy,' the dealer ordered. 'No, not that
a-way--back to me.'

Emp turned around and, despite the absence of visible wales, Brownlee
carefully explored the muscles beneath the skin for ridges that would
betray the healed-over marks of the whip.

He then pulled the boy upright onto his knees, tilted his head back and
ran his fingers along the teeth, which despite the malformed lower jaw
were as sound as if their cusps had fitted together normally. Getting
Emp to his feet, he pulled and twisted his fingers, and, finding none
broken, stiff, or badly twisted, signalled him by a grasp of the calf to
lift the feet, one at a time to the arm of the chair that he might
examine the toes.

'How much you want fer him, suh?'

'Ought to be worth six-fifty,' Maxwell ventured, tentatively.

'Too much. Cain't use him at that price. Cain't git more than seven fer
him in New Orleans.'

'Six twenty-five, then?'

'Wait; let me look at the other'n. Maybe we kin deal on the two of 'em.'

Preacher was cold and shaking, but he slouched forward for his
examination. He was no longer afraid and showed no more feeling of his
indignity than his fellow had displayed. He knew that he was mere
property which had changed ownership before.

Brownlee pursued his inspection much as he had inspected Emperor.

'An Angola,' he disparaged.

'Don't know no more about his breedin' than about the other'n. Angola or
not, he's peart and vig'rous.'

'But Angolas don't sell good. Buyers afraid they'll come down. The least
ailment carries 'em off, and a good hidin' lays 'em by fer a month.
Course, fer myself, I don't care; but buyers are slow to bid 'em in.'

'I reckon you don't want nothin' but Mandingos and Fulahs,' said Maxwell
contemptuously.

'Well, they're good niggers, 'specially Mandingos.'

Brownlee speeded up his examination of Preach, sensing Maxwell's growing
irritation, but his canvass was none the less minute.

'Whut you want fer this one?' asked Brownlee.

''Bout seven hundred, I reckon, more or less,' Maxwell had reached the
price part of the trade, which he enjoyed bickering about.

'Cain't give it and git out whole. How much fer the two of 'em?'

'How much I ask you fer the yaller one? Six hundred twenty-five, weren't
it? And seven hundred fer this one. That's, that's, let's see. I'm kind
of slow cipherin' in my head. Thirteen twenty-five, ain't it? Make it
twelve hundred and a half fer the span of 'em. Cheap enough.'

'Cain't cut 'er,' parried the trader. 'Make it, say, about----'

'Ain't no good. Twelve fifty's my best price. Take 'em or quit 'em. It's
jest accommodation. I ain't anxious to trade.'

Brownlee perceived a finality in Maxwell's statement which the latter
had not intended to put into it. Brownlee seemed about to retire.

'Oh, make it even twelve hundred,' Maxwell conceded.

'They unsound,' argued the dealer, running his hand over Emperor's scar.
'I'm sorry, but I jest cain't git out at that price.'

'Tell you whut!' proposed Maxwell, as if the concept had just occurred
to him. 'S'pose you trade in them three young 'uns of yourn out in the
stable on these two bucks.'

'Wouldn't trade 'em in. Might trade even,' parried the trader.

'Let's see 'em,' Maxwell turned to Memnon, 'You got the keys to 'em. Git
'em.'

While Agamemnon was gone on his errand, their master gave the two boys
permission to go into a cabin and get warm. 'Try Dido's cabin. She got a
good fire about this time; cookin'.'

'You cain't git shet of them little saplin's in New Orleans,' began
Maxwell. 'I reckon you know that and bought 'em up cheap. Keep 'em
three, four, five year and they'll be real sale-worthy.'

'Whure'll I keep 'em? Cain't keep 'em cheap in New Orleans. I bought 'em
to sell. Want to git my money and buy more niggers.'

'Jest whut I mean. Trade 'em to me fer them two young bucks that are
able to work and jest right fer the market. I'll grow the young 'uns
here whure feed is cheap and you kin come back and buy 'em offn me when
they're growed up and ripened. Course I aims to look 'em over before
there's a swap.'

There seemed to Brownlee to be no flaw in Maxwell's argument. Memnon
appeared from the direction of the stables, followed by the two boys. He
led the small girl by the hand. Exhausted by their morning journey, they
had been asleep and were now but half awake.

'Shuck 'em down,' ordered Maxwell.

Memnon peeled the garments from the two boys, and the girl, releasing
the single button, pulled her dress off over her head.

Maxwell made no such detailed examination as Brownlee had made of the
older boys. He delegated most of it to Memnon. The boys were of
approximately the same age, both bronze mulattoes. Obviously not twins,
they were similar in make and shape, well rounded but sturdy and hard of
muscle, considering their youth. Maxwell remarked about their
resemblance and Brownlee answered him, 'Same pappy prob'bly. I bought
'em from the same breeder--hard up but wouldn't sell his grown stock.'

Maxwell perfunctorily felt their thighs and calves, scrutinized the
navel of one that he suspected of having a hernia, commanded Memnon to
open the mouths that he might examine the teeth, and declared himself
satisfied.

The girl was not pretty but she was animated and appealing. She enjoyed
the attention given to her and responded instantly to any command.
Maxwell appraised her quickly. Yellow, approximately quadroon, she had
small bones, lightly fleshed. Her breasts were just beginning to swell
but she was far short of nubility.

'Well,' Maxwell said, 'how will we trade?'

'Even--your two fer my three.'

'No, I want a hundred dollars to boot.'

'Even.'

'Fifty.'

'Cain't do better than even. Them two bucks of yourn is unsoun'.'

'I don't run down your stock.'

'Nothin' to run down. All three sound as gold pieces.'

'I never make a trade without boot. I'll tell you whut I'll do, I'll
match you--ten dollars or five.'

'Hell, I'll give five,' conceded the trader.

'Done!' declared Maxwell, sustained in his resolution to obtain some
hard cash in each transaction.

'All's to do now is to make out bills of sale.'

'And plank down the money boot. But now she's mine, I'll tell you that
wench ain't soun'. She jest gant and peaked.'

'She's yourn to doctor up however you wantin'.'

'Memnon, you take the pore little thing over to Dido. And put some dry
rigging on them two boys of Mr. Brownlee's and take 'em back to the
stable.' Turning to the trader, Maxwell asked, 'Want them boys chained
up--afraid they'll run tonight? They're yourn now. I wash my hands of
'em.'

'Bring 'em back here afore you straw 'em down. I want to give 'em a
talkin' to. When I gits finished with 'em they won't run,' replied the
new owner.

'Bed these two little black bucks in the stall with the other saplings.
Let 'em git acquainted. Feed 'em strong and give 'em plenty of clabber.
Don't worry about them running tonight; they too petered out to run
tonight, and tomorrow they'll know Falconhurst grub so good that you
couldn't chase 'em off.'

'That all, Masta, suh?'

'That's enough. Fetch that Barbarossa and Emperor right here to their
new master. I'll go in to the fire. Gitting cold and raining yet.'
Maxwell rose and entered the house.

'I'll go with you,' Brownlee said to Memnon. 'I don't want them two
nekid bucks out in this rain.'

Agamemnon led the way to Dido's cottage, followed by the three nude
striplings, the trader bringing up the rear.

They found Preach and Emp sitting on the puncheon floor on either side
of the fireplace over which big Dido was cooking dinner in a pot, a baby
clinging to her breast. Four other children, dispersed about the small
windowless single room of the cabin, gathered with back to wall to stare
at the strange white man. The two nude boys roused to their feet and
moved away from the fire to make way for their betters. Their faces were
grim.

Brownlee addressed them: 'I'm a-dickering with Mista Maxwell to buy you
two boys.'

'Yas, suh,' they answered in unison.

'How would you like to go with me--to be my niggers?' he said with a
kindly tone.

'I likes it here. Masta's good to me,' said Emp, and Preach burst into
fresh tears.

'I'll be good to you, too.'

'You goin' to take us to New Orleans and sell us fer cane han's,'
protested Emperor.

'Nonsense, no sich thing. If I gets you, you goin' to be stock niggers.
Of course we goes by way of New Orleans, whure I got to buy me some more
hands; but I got a big plantation up in Kaintuck and I got eighteen or
twenty wenches comin' ripe that got to be serviced.'

Brownlee waited for his information to penetrate the hard skulls. He
watched their spines stiffen, their heads lift, and animation suffuse
their faces. 'Reckon you kin do that kind of work for me?'

'Sure kin,' said Emp, and Preach echoed his words before he could get
them both out of his mouth. They looked at each other, hardly able to
credit their prospective good fortune.

'I craves the both'n you,' said Brownlee, 'if I kin set the price right.
We'll know, come mornin'.'

He turned to leave the cabin. 'They won't run tonight. Don't bother to
chain 'em. Put dry clothes on 'em and bed 'em down as usual,' he
instructed Memnon.

Brownlee walked slowly from the quarters toward the house in the waning
light. He chuckled to himself about the lie he had told those boys to
fortify their willingness to go along with him. A Negro that changes
ownership against his will is likely to give trouble to his new master.
Brownlee conceived that his paltering with the boys would hasten their
steps across country quite as much as the threat of the whip around
their legs.

He entered the darkling house only to find his host huddled over the few
embers in the fireplace, in a violent temper, reviling Agamemnon for
permitting the fire to die.

Dark had well set in before Hammond came. He was tired but cheerful.

'Evening, Papa,' he said, bending to kiss the old man's cheek. 'Evenin',
Mr. Brownlee. Did Papa gold-brick you into buying them boys?'

'Mighty nigh,' answered the trader.

Maxwell sensed that his confession must be made. 'Spittin' out the right
of the matter, it wasn't a sale,' he began.

'No?' inquired Hammond.

'No, it was a sort of swop, so to speak--although I got boot,' he
hastened to add, and reiterated, 'I got boot, by golly.'

'Whut sort of swop?' asked Hammond.

'Well, Mista Brownlee had three little striplings when he rode up, a
couple of young bucks nigh on to fifteen hands high, about, and a nice
little yaller wench.'

'I seen 'em chained up down in the stables. And you, I s'pose swopped
the two big bucks fer 'em?' The tone of the question betrayed vexation.

'But I got boot, I got boot,' protested the father. Brownlee abstained
from argument.

'How much boot?'

'Only fi' dollars--but boot is boot.'

Maxwell sensed Hammond's displeasure and rubbed his arthritic knuckles
as if to invite sympathy. His face clouded as if he were about to weep.
'I thought I was makin' a good trade. Mayhap I'm losin' my grip, mayhap
even my mind.'

'No, now, Papa. You're all right.' Ham saw the distress his criticism
had caused. He rose from his chair, shuffled across the room, gently
grasped one of the distorted hands and soothed it with light friction.
'No, no; you made a good trade. It's jest that instead of gittin' money
out of two niggers, here you've gone and added another--and got no
money.'

'Fi' dollars.'

'Yes, five dollars. You jest cain't lay eyes on a likely little nigger
without havin' it. Falconhurst is crawling with young niggers--two
deep--nowheres to grow no cotton and no hands big enough to work it.'

'As I always says, Falconhurst ain't no cotton-growin' plantation. Jest
a nigger farm, a nigger nu'sery,' the elder man justified himself.

'Papa, if you want another little servant, you a-goin' to have another
little servant. Ain't nobody goin' to try to balk you, least of all me.
You all are still the master of Falconhurst, Papa, and I'll stack your
gumption in a nigger trade up against what little I've learned from you,
anytime.' Hammond patted and relinquished the hand and returned to his
chair. The older man felt good; the pain had miraculously gone.
Hammond's approval and the evidence of his affection were all the
medication he required.

'You in charge of Falconhurst now, Son. I don't want to do nothin'
without'n your nod.'

Agamemnon threw open the door to the dining-room and sounded the supper
bell. There was much sameness about the meals at Falconhurst, but there
was always plenty of plain and filling food--chicken, pork, and hot
bread.

'Pitch right in and hit that fry, suh,' Maxwell adjured his guest.
'Don't be backward. An' make a long arm and reach some of that
watermelon-rind pickles. Lucretia Borgia makes it right tasty-like.'

'Don't crowd the gen'leman, Papa. Don't crowd him. Does seem like though
that Mista Brownlee don't eat nothin' at all.'

Before he could answer, Brownlee was compelled to wash down his mouthful
of food with coffee that had hardly cooled in his saucer. 'Wonderful
meal, gen'lemen!' he gulped. 'As good vittles as ever I et.'

Lucretia Borgia insinuated herself into the room with the excuse of
bringing hot coffee to refill the emptying cups. She had wanted to get a
look at Brownlee ever since she learned of his arrival. 'That Memnon, he
don't step fas' enough,' she said by way of explanation. 'He let
ever'body run out of coffee. Triflin', that's whut.'

'Sure is triflin',' assented the master. 'Takes you jackin' him behind
and me in front to git any work out'n him.'

'Lucretia Borgia is the only nigger on the plantation worth killin','
Hammond added. 'Does more work than any three on 'em.'

The black eyes of Lucretia Borgia sparkled; her mouth grinned,
displaying an expanse of powerful teeth; and her second chin bobbled in
appreciation of the compliment. Approximately a quadroon, Lucretia
Borgia, always addressed by her full name, was buxom and broad-beamed,
rather than fat, as she appeared at a casual glance. She planted her
large, bare feet on a broad base, swaying from side to side as she
walked with a kind of majesty around the table. She was good-natured
from the good treatment she received and the good food left from her
master's table. She chuckled her way into her master's graces and had
her will of the whole plantation.

'She cook all these good vittles?' inquired Brownlee.

'She not only cook, but she boss the feedin' of the hands, overlooks the
spinnin' and the loomin' in the quarters, and up to comin' three year
ago brought a good sucker about every eighteen or twenty months. Shore a
fas' breeder. She the dam of these triflin' twins,' Maxwell piled praise
upon praise. He knew how to inspire her to even greater efforts. 'I
guess she bred out, though she ain't too old. Jest brung babies too fast
and clean bred out.'

'Naw, suh; naw, suh, Masta,' Lucretia Borgia burbled her tidings. 'I
knocked up again.'

'No? Well bless my soul,' said Maxwell, in amazement. 'Have you got a
silver dollar, Ham? Give it to Lucretia Borgia. How that come about?'

'I don't know, suh; but I is.'

'Here's your dollar,' said Ham. 'And when that baby come there'll be
another dollar, two dollars if it twins agin.' Lucretia Borgia curtsied
coyly as she took the coin from his hand and expressed elaborate thanks.

'So that Napoleon boy I give you had a nigger in him after all? A long
time comin' out,' commented Maxwell.

'I reckons I didn't git it from 'Poleon. That squirt no good. This baby
is Memnon's, I figures. Masta Ham tole me to try Memnon agin, and I been
pesterin' with him fer about a month.'

'By golly, it might be twins, if it Memnon's. He was a twin his own se'f
and he is the twin-gittin'est nigger I ever had.'

Memnon grinned to hear himself discussed so favourably. But his grin
faded as his owner continued.

'I'd send the lazy son-of-a-bitch to market if he warn't such a sure
stock boy. All he good fer is to pester the wenches. Cain't even keep a
fire goin', and his toddies is always cold agin he gits 'em to you.'

'I didn't know Memnon was running down again, Papa. Whyn't you tell me?
Jawin' him don't do no good. I reckon I'd better call him out to the
stable, when I gits time. A good patch of hide offn his rump with a good
rubbing down with _pimentade_ will spry him up,' volunteered Ham.

'_Pimentade?_' inquired Brownlee. 'Whut's _pimentade_?'

Ham explained. 'Hide tore offn a nigger, rub it over with _pimentade_
and skin will grow right back without a mark. It sovereign fer skinning.
You mix it out of salt, cayenne, and lemon juice. Course, it stings. The
niggers dread the rubbin' more than the hidin', but it sho' straighten
'em out.'

'Salt, cayenne pepper, and lemon?' Brownlee made a mental note. 'Sounds
convenient. Have to try it.'

Ham pushed back his chair and the party rose to return to the
sitting-room. Ham said, 'Mayhap, and you don't feel yourself pushed in
the mornin' to git away, I'll find the time to brush this boy down and
you kin watch his squirm and wiggle and hear him holler when the
_pimentade_ goes on him. It's sovereign. Seems peculiar you never heared
about it. The idy come from Domingo. Them Frenchies are smart, that
way.'

'Don't aim to git goin' too early. I'll kindly wait if you goin' to
correct the boy anyway; wouldn't want you to take the trouble jest fer
me to see. I sees lots of niggers larruped, but I always admires to see
it. It's kind of comical-like--that is if it has to be done anyways. One
kin always learn something.'

Maxwell took a more moderate view. 'We don't flog much on Falconhurst.
Only two cases all last year that I recollect--both fer stealin'. But
when we flogs we flogs good--we lays it on well.'

'Only way,' declared Brownlee.

'Only way, suh. Course, we don't use a snake to nip hunks out of the
meat and ruin a nigger. No, suh. I had me made a couple of paddles, a
big one and a littler one fer saplin's and wenches, made out of sole
leather with holes drilled through 'em. Hang 'em up, jest by the ankles,
never by the toes 'lessen you twist 'em, with the legs spread wide as
you kin spread 'em, and a rag stuffed in they mouth. Give that big
paddle to a strong young buck and tell him to go to work. Why, you git
the skin offn a nigger's rump in no time at all, and finish up with a
good dosin' of this here _pimentade_, as Ham was tellin' you. Then go
away and let the nigger hang and smart fer an hour or two, you got a
good servant, a good servant, suh, from then on. Yes, suh, no nigger
don't want a second dose like it.'

'I've hearn of them holed paddles. Never saw none. Yes, suh, it must be
right purty to watch.'

'No, not so purty--unless your taste run that way. Ham and me, we don't
enjoy floggin's, and don't have more than we kin help. Course, goin' to
keep niggers, you got to take the hide offn one, oncet in awhile.
Especially house niggers. You're good to 'em, feeds 'em up on the kind
of vittles you eats your own self, breeds 'em to your likeliest wenches,
and they gits slack, gits triflin'. They don't mean no harm, but they's
nothing more aggravatin' than a slack house nigger, nothin'.'

'They takes advantage,' interpolated Brownlee, who never had possessed a
servant in his own house.

'Sure do, and has to have it corrected out of 'em. Take this Memnon boy,
here, a good buck but lazy, lazy as they come. Spiled, spiled. I reckon
you right, Ham. Reckon you better pull a piece of hide offn him,
sometime when you got an extra hour or two, no hurry about it. I kin
spare him any time you likes.'

'All right, Papa; I'll take care of him, tomorrow or next day. Lucretia
Borgia kin mix toddy and fire up fer you while he's hanging up to dry,
cain't you, Lucretia Borgia?'

'Sho' kin. Sho' kin.' Lucretia Borgia enjoyed carnage.

'Maybe it might be a good idea to have Lucretia Borgia spank Mem ever'
morning when she spanks the twins, that is after I gits through with
him,' declared Ham.

'Ever' morning?' inquired Brownlee.

'Yas, suh, ever' morning I soften up they bottoms some fer the
devilishness they do yestiday. Cain't keep track of what the
devilishness is, but I know they does it. Yas, suh. That way, with a
little warmin' every day, they won't grow up and use up Masta Ham's time
a-skinnin' 'em down every month or so. I aims that Alph and Meg to be
spry niggers, fitten fer Masta to keep right in the house to wait on him
good.'

'I done told you, Lucretia Borgia, I don't know how many times, that I
won't never whup them boys without'n your leave. Un'erstan'? I promise
you,' declared Hammond.

'Whup 'em whenever you feels like, Masta Ham,' Lucretia Borgia answered.
'But jest don' sell 'em. Don't sell 'em unlessen you gits a great big
price fer 'em, please Masta.'

'No, I won't never sell 'em either. Papa and me wants 'em fer ourselves.
Don't we, Papa?'

'You done sold so many of my children right out from under me.'

'Well, they was mine, wasn't they?' Maxwell bridled.

'Yas, suh, Masta. They's yours.'

'And I got good homes for 'em, ever'one of 'em.'

'Naw, suh, Masta. I ain't moanin' 'bout whure they went. I knows they
gittin' good Christian raisin' up. But----'

'But whut? Lucretia Borgia, you outgrowin' your pants--tellin' me whut
to do with my own little niggers. Remember I bought them children from
you, paid you a silver dollar fer ever' damned one of 'em and two
dollars fer them twins, and I'll do with 'em whut I damn please.'

'Papa, Papa, don't git yourself all riled. It ain't good fer your
rheumatiz,' Hammond admonished.

Maxwell turned as quickly as his rheumatism would permit and stumped
vexedly into the sitting-room. Brownlee followed. Hammond remained in
the dining-room. He was disturbed at the turn the conversation had
taken, thought the arousal of Lucretia Borgia's apprehensions about her
beloved and badgered sons just a little gratuitous, debited his father's
unnecessary testiness if not to age at least to rheumatic pain. It was
unlike his father to bully the Negroes.

Hammond at length followed Lucretia Borgia across the open passageway
and into the cheerful hot kitchen where the twins were gourmandizing on
the left-overs from the main table and where he found Lucretia Borgia in
unwonted tears. At his show of surprised compassion, she heaved from her
bench, threw her heavy arms about his neck, and wept herself dry while
Ham supported her vast bulk of hot flesh.

It required only a little compassion with the merest trace of diplomacy,
which was all Hammond possessed, to turn Lucretia Borgia's misery to the
happiness which was her birthright. Her health, her indomitable vigour,
and her status in the plantation hierarchy, first as a cook and then as
a breeder of amber twins, conspired together to provoke such gusto. Ham,
without quite understanding his purpose, merely steadied Lucretia
Borgia's tottering pedestal. He comforted her until the fountainhead of
her tears was dry, after which he joked with her.

Ham's jokes lost nothing by their lewdness nor their lack of euphemism.
They concerned Memnon's supplanting, or rather supplementing, Napoleon,
the yellow youth whom Lucretia Borgia had chosen as her paramour, the
comparison of their anatomies, and the circumstances of the woman's
pregnancy.

The twins listened in silence, only half-comprehending at all why it
should provoke such laughter from their mother and smiles from their
master. They kept their eyes fixed on the single battered platter from
which both ate with their fingers, lifting and rolling them now and
again in the embarrassment of their failure to understand some of the
terms their elders were using. There was no shame at what they
understood, for they had listened to stark talk and overt bawdiness at
the table of their masters, who would have thought it absurd to modify
their conversations to protect so impersonal a commodity as the
innocence of a couple of young slaves.




CHAPTER 2


Hammond's motive in going to the kitchen was as much to get away from
Brownlee's conversation as to succour Lucretia Borgia. He had endured
about all of Brownlee that he was able, but he was about to return to
the sitting-room when out of the black night there emerged an even
blacker apparition in the person of Belshazzar, the son of Black Lucy.

'Miz Lucretia Borgia,' he blurted, 'my mammy say tell Masta Big Pearl
sick. She awful sick.'

Belshazzar addressed himself directly to the cook, ignoring the master.

'Whut ail Big Pearl?' Hammond demanded with an unintentional gruffness
which paralysed the child into dumbness.

Hammond grasped Belshazzar's shoulder and repeated his question, 'Whut
ail Big Pearl?'

Big Pearl was the very gem of Falconhurst. Tawny as burnished copper,
strong as a block and tackle, straight as a beam, and barely nubile, Big
Pearl was as magnificent a pure Mandingo as had ever wielded a cotton
hoe. She was elephantine equally in her proportions and in the grace
with which she progressed. She did not walk or run or amble--Big Pearl
progressed. She was the plantation show-piece, docile as a kitten,
biddable as putty. She delighted in being stripped and paraded and
handled and bargained for, confident that the tremendous offers for her
would be declined. She had never known an ill day in her life. To
Hammond the heavens seemed to have fallen.

'Whut ail Big Pearl?' he asked a third time.

Belshazzar, frightened into dumbness was re-frightened into speech. 'Me?
I don't know, 'um. Big Pearl got a misery.'

Hammond, shuffling in his carpet slippers and limping on his stiffened
knee, strode off across the blackness to Lucy's cabin. He walked so fast
that Belshazzar had to break into an occasional run to keep up with him.
The nearness of his master protected him from the dark.

Hammond heard the girl's groans, pierced at intervals by a wailing
scream. He pushed open the cabin door. All was in confusion. Children
cowered in fright against the walls in the background. Flames roared in
the fireplace. Lucy bent, solicitous but in helpless despair, above the
bed where her daughter Big Pearl threshed in her agony, making the cold
night hideous with her cries.

Hammond was moved to compassion. He approached the bed, pushed the
towering Lucy aside and, sitting down beside the girl, took her hand in
his. 'Big Pearl, whut's the matter? Whut ail you?'

'I got a misery, Master Ham, I got a misery in my belly, Masta--but it
better now.' The moaning ceased and Big Pearl lay calm. 'It better now,'
she repeated weakly.

Hammond returned to the house and, sinking into a chair, ordered Memnon
to fetch him a toddy. His apparent fatigue and anxiety caused his father
to voice his solicitude.

'I's all right,' Hammond replied, not very convincingly.

'How Big Pearl? Whut ails her?' Maxwell inquired impatiently.

'Big Pearl better now, I reckon. Guess it weren't more than the
belly-ache. Worst over, time I got there,' the youth explained. 'I
poured her out a big dose of castor oil and give her a little laudanum.
Reckoned that the bes' thing.'

'Sure is,' Maxwell affirmed.

'Then I called Lancelot and had him tote Big Pearl down to the old pest
house on his back. Big as that boy is, all he could do to tote that
young wench. Don't think it's nothin' but too much hog meat from that
fresh killin', but don't want to take a chance on no catchin' epizootic
with a plantation full of young niggers.'

'You don right, Ham. Got gumption, you has,' Maxwell said approvingly.
'I ain't heard of nothing goin' around, but the pox or the vomit would
clean us right out. You done jest right.'

'Good as I could. Had Lancelot make up a big fire in the pest house, and
left him a-settin' by it to watch her. If Big Pearl ain't better by
morning, I'll put a boy on a mule and have him ride to the veterinary in
Benson.'

''Tain't safe, 'tain't safe, I'm afeared, to leave that Lancelot boy
with that wench all night. He mighty full-blooded and vig'ous. We
doesn't want no accidents of that kind with that choice wench.'

'I warned him I'd hide him if he pestered her,' said Hammond.

'Virgin yet, ain't she?'

'I reckon so. I ain't felt to see since last pickin' time. Lucy pretty
moral and she goin' watch her.'

'I don't know whut's the matter with you, Ham, lettin' a nice smooth
wench like Big Pearl go virgin so long--goin' on fifteen years.'

'Kinda shirkin' your duty, ain't you, son?' interposed Brownlee,
leering.

'I done tol' you at least fifty times,' Hammond answered his father, 'I
cain't stan' the musk of a real nigger. The yaller onces is bad enough.'

'Course, there's one way to kill musk ever' whit,' said Brownlee, 'good
deal of trouble, but it kin be done.'

'Whut way?' inquired Hammond interestedly. 'Rub 'em with some essence?
That jest puts one stink on another and makes 'em worse.'

'No; I mean soak 'em good, about five minutes, in 'manganate of potash
water, not too strong, jest kind of red.'

'Why, that's that coarse powder-like stuff in that dusty bottle out in
the medicine shelf. Never knew whut it was fer,' said Hammond.

'That's whut it's fer,' declared Brownlee. 'Everybody in New Orleans use
it on they house niggers. A 'manganated wench will keep absolutely sweet
two whole days; a buck begins to shed his musk agin after 'bout a day. I
reckoned everybody knowed about that.'

'Shore never heared on it,' Maxwell said.

'We'll have to try it,' Hammond resolved. 'How much do you use?'

'Jest enough to make the water red--not purple, and soak the nigger in
it, head and all, all but his nose, about a good five minutes. One tub
of 'manganate is enough fer a dozen or more niggers--no call to was'e
it. But never don't let it set to use over and over. It loses its
stren'th in time.'

'Shore gotten to try it,' Maxwell said. 'I don't hold much with these
new-fangled idees. But that cain't do no harm. Think me to try it
tomorrow, Ham.'

'Papa sure don't believe in new-fangled stuff,' complained Ham. 'Papa
don't want I should even go fer that new way of ploughin' across the
gullies instead of alongside 'em, that Mista Tom Jefferson up in
Virginia wrote about. But I'm goin' to do it, come plough time, anyhow.'

'Too late, too late. Falconhurst is done fer cotton. If I had a-started
earlier, when Mista Tom first talked about it, things might have been
different. But it's a lot of trouble, and too late anyway. Falconhurst
does all right as is.'

'Don't git riled up so, Papa. It ain't good fer your rheumatiz.'

'Damn my rheumatiz! Don't do this and don't do that. It gits worser,
whatever I do or quit doin'. Toddies do more fer it than anythin', seems
like. But tonight's the worst it's ever been.'

Ham shook his head in despair. 'I only wishes you could git one of them
nekid dogs the Mexicans got. They do say that sleepin' with your feet
agin one of them dogs dreens the rheumatiz right out of a man and into
the dog.'

'I've hearn about 'em, but I never seen one. I doubt that there really
is sich a thing as a nekid dog.'

'They is. They have 'em,' Brownlee declared.

'Must be right comical,' conjectured Maxwell.

'Course, any dog shaved down so that the feet kin git right agin its
skin is jest as good--or a nigger. A nigger will dreen off the rheumatiz
through the feet jest as good as any nekid dog.'

'Do you reckon so?'

'Shore do,' Brownlee was confident. 'Why, I knew a man name of Bronson
over in Natchez that tried it. So cripped up he couldn't hardly walk. He
tried sleepin' with his feet agin the belly of a nigger and in no time
at all Bronson was a-walkin' and a-straddlin' his horse as good as ever.
The old rheumatiz jest dreened right out'n him into the nigger. Nigger
all cripped in no time, jest like Bronson was before.'

'Might be worth tryin',' said Ham.

'Might be,' repeated Maxwell hopefully. 'Get me a nigger, Hammond; I'll
begin this very night. Have him washed up good. A buck is better than a
wench--a wench is sorta disturbin' when you got the rheumatiz and cain't
do nothin'.'

'We'll use one of the twins, and I'll give Lucretia Borgia some of that
black powder to put in the wash water to kill the muskiness.'

'Sort of hate to ruin one of them twins with rheumatiz,' speculated
Maxwell.

'We kin dreen it right out of him into some other nigger if he gits too
bad. He's right here in the house and handy,' Hammond said, rising to go
to arouse Lucretia Borgia to give her instructions about the preparation
of her son for his master's use.

'Course, you got to have the nigger sort of curl up around your feet,
and you got to press hard and force the rheumatiz right out'n the
soles,' Brownlee counselled expertly.

Maxwell rubbed his knees and massaged one hand with the other. The pain
subsided from time to time, but it never entirely left his joints. He
had become so inured to its presence that when it was least he was
unaware of it, until a sudden pang shot through the various parts of his
body which forced him to restrain himself to keep from, crying out. 'The
worse of it is,' he lamented. 'Ham's young--too young to tote the whole
plantation on his shoulders. I got no mind to complain about the way he
does--does right good; but at eighteen I was out and around, sowing my
oats, and up to all kinds of devilment.'

'A smart, sturdy boy like him. It won't hurt him none to be nailed down
for awhile,' Brownlee hazarded. 'I never got out to raise no hell. It
never hurt me.'

'He never even got no schoolin' to speak of. His mamma learned him to
read a little and I tried to after she died. She could read real good,
better'n I kin. Then I sent him to the Institute over at Jackson fer a
term three or four years ago, but couldn't stand havin' him
away--wouldn't let him go back. Always afraid somethin' would happen to
him--after that gelding pony, I was fool enough to put him on when he
was little, threw him off and stiffened his knee. You cain't never trust
a gelding; give me a whole horse or none. Schoolin' is a great thing fer
a boy. He needs it--more and more as time goes on, more than in my day.'

'Don't know; don't know. Sometimes schoolin' ruints a boy--makes 'em
big-headed,' Brownlee opined. 'Jest cain't stand a big head. I didn't
never have no edication and didn't never need none. Course, I had got to
learn to cipher a little, and am right good at it now. But I never was
ruint by book learnin'.'

Maxwell was still doubtful about the havoc wrought by education. 'Guess
Ham got enough to git along with, but I wish't he had more of it. I
wish't I hadn't been so hoggish fer him, a-holdin' of him back.'

'It sense that counts--not learnin',' Brownlee consoled. 'And Hammond
got sense.'

'I helt him back that a-way, and I'm still a-holdin' him back. Besides
the plantation and two hundred niggers, he's got me and my rheumatiz on
his shoulders. Young as he is, I wonder if he wouldn't be better off if
I was dead. Of course, if my pains don't better, I won't last long, and
I'd like to see him married off before I die--course to some nice,
well-bred young lady--I want to see it. I want to see 'em breed another
boy to take over Falconhurst when Ham gits the rheumatiz or whatever and
to carry it along through the generations. Course, Falconhurst is played
out fer cotton; but who needs cotton with niggers goin' up and up?'

''Lessen them abolitionists at the North sets all the niggers free,'
Brownlee interposed, at once derisive and sceptical.

'Triflin' loafers, interferin' in other folks' business. Slavery was
ordained by God, and there ain't nothin' they kin do about it except
talk and stir up trouble between slavery territory and free territory,
between South and North. Cain't they understand that you got to have
niggers to grow cotton, and you got to grow cotton to feed them Northern
spindles? They tryin' to 'bolish they own jobs and they own profits?'
Maxwell rose to his feet in the excitement of his own eloquence.

'They dangerous, howsumever,' said Brownlee. 'Take them Quakers, and
take that Garrison and that newspaper he started to print last year,
that _Liberator_, as he calls it. Seen any o' them papers?'

'Don't want to see none. To read about 'em in _The New Orleans
Advertiser_ turns me sick. Better not nobody fetch one of them
_Liberators_ to Falconhurst.'

'Better not let the niggers see 'em, anyway. Puts idees in they heads,'
Brownlee warned.

'My niggers cain't read. Best law ever passed, that law agin learnin'
niggers to read.'

'Some does it even agin the law,' Brownlee said.

'An' they liable to have a risin' to fight, too. No nigger readin', no
nigger risin'. Why, that Garrison hadn't printed that _Liberator_ of his
six months when that nigger risin' up in Virginia happened last year.
Wonder they never could ketch that Nat Turner nigger.'

'They ketched him. Didn't you know? They ketched him and hung him along
about harvest time.'

'Hung him?' Maxwell was incredulous.

'Hung him.'

'Jest hung him? Didn't burn him or nothin' after killin' all them white
folks? Had ought to of burned him. Ought to of made a sample of him.'

'Had ought to have burned that Garrison at the same post and to stoked
the fire with _Liberators_,' Brownlee agreed. 'Garrison jest set the
nigger on. Strange you never hearn about it.'

'I missed some _New Orleans Advertisers_ around pickin' time. Ham didn't
have no time to ride to Benson and the postmaster throwed 'em out.
Reckoned we didn't want 'em.'

'All up and down the Seaboard, folks are still a-talkin' about Nat
Turner. They skeared of more risin's. All through Virginia and the
Carolinas, and 'specially Georgia.'

'They don't know nothin' about how to treat niggers. Treat 'em right,
feed 'em, don' overwork 'em, and they don't uprise. Owners too greedy to
git work out'n 'em. A nigger responds to good treatment better'n a dog.
I don' have no trouble with mine, and Ham don't.'

Hammond entered from the dining-room, guiding with hand on shoulder one
of the Borgia's twins. The boy had been roused from bed, bathed and
soaked in a potassium permanganate solution, despite which he still was
not fully awake. He was entirely naked and seemed unconcerned about the
purpose of his arousal or the fate in store for him He had confidence in
Hammond and feared no abuse.

'Here's your Mexican dog,' Ham greeted his father. 'Used that red stuff
on him and there ain't a trace of musk about him; smell like'n as if he
was white.'

'Come here, boy. Set and drink your toddy, Ham, ere it git cold.'
Maxwell sniffed at various parts of the boy and declared himself
satisfied. 'Must be strong medicine that kill nigger-stink like that.
Smell of him, Mr. Brownlee,' and he pushed the child toward the trader's
chair.

Brownlee in his turn sniffed and continued to sniff the boy all over,
handling and embracing and patting him and clinging onto him, as if he
doubted the efficacy of his own prescription. Brownlee too, at last, was
convinced, but reluctant to surrender the young Negro servant. The
Maxwells were insensible to Brownlee's dalliance with the child, until,
in the belief that the boy was lingering for attention and failing to
note that the trader was grasping him, Hammond commanded the boy to be
seated.

The chairs about the fireside were occupied and the boy retreated to one
at the rear of the room and gingerly propped himself into it, unsure of
what was expected of him.

'Meg, whure your manners? You knows better than set in a chair,' Hammond
said sternly.

The boy immediately found his feet. 'I ain't Meg; I Alph.'

'You Meg if'n I call you Meg. You knows who I means. You a nigger, and
niggers sets on the floor in white folks' houses.'

Hammond saw that the child intended no disrespect and changed his tone.
'Come over here and set whure it wa'm,' he half commanded, half invited,
'there at one side of the hearth.'

The boy complied, squatting toad-fashion between his legs, comfortable
and serene. He made an effort to listen to the conversation of the
whites but couldn't keep his eyes open. What he heard was neither
interesting nor intelligible to him. He wondered what his masters drank
that smelled so good. At length he toppled over upon his side, curled
up, and slept warmly.

'One more toddy, and we'll all retire to bed,' said Maxwell. 'I crave to
git me into bed with my feet agin his belly; crave to try it,' whereupon
he summoned Mem.

Memnon had been in and out of the sitting-room all the evening, renewing
the fire, serving drinks, replacing candles. Unobtrusive and alert, he
forgot nothing. He was bent upon proving that the whipping promised him
for tomorrow was unnecessary. His imagination already felt the smart of
his buttocks, and he pictured the contempt that the other Negroes would
feel for him. His disgrace would be as poignant as the impact of the
paddle.

'Reckon I ought to go down to the pest house to see how Big Pearl come
on afore I goes to retire?' Hammond asked his father.

'Let Big Pearl be. You weary, Ham. Night's cole outdoors. Git yourself
some sleep, and stop your frettin' about all them niggers. You ain't
they mamma. You ain't called to coddle and nurse 'em, the way you doin'.
They all right. Let 'em alone.'

'Howsumever, I 'sponsible fer 'em. I'm right fond of our niggers, and
right proud of 'em. Every one of 'em sound as a hickory. And that Big
Pearl--I'd sure grieve to lose her.'

'Course, a good nigger is a right smart loss, these times and these
prices. But why this here Pearl more than some othern?'

'Whyn't you show Big Pearl to Mista Brownlee, Papa?'

'First place, she ain't fer sale. Second place, she make other niggers
look puny. Third place, it rainin' and I didn't want to shuck her down
out in that rain and wind.'

'Youen's show nigger, eh?'

'Mandingo, pure Mandingo,' Maxwell explained. 'Don't find many Mandingos
pure no more.'

'I likes 'em black,' Brownlee declared.

'Me? I likes 'em lusty, whutever they colour. Course, it all right fer
white men to pester black wenches--a protection to white womanhood, I
always says. But everybody wantin' yaller niggers; puny, frail, weak,
white owners spends all they sap a-tryin' to git light-coloured babies,
that ain't fitten to grow into strong cotton hands. They all dreams of
gittin' fancy yaller wenches that they kin sell young fer a monst'ous
price. If they had a lookin'-glass they know they couldn't sire nothin'
but ugly, knotty runts. Course, I ain't meaning such owners as Ham,
here, sturdy, and purty an' vig'ous, but Ham ain't runnin' through the
cabins a-coverin' all the wenches a-tryin' fer yeller offspring. No,
suh.'

The personal aspect of his father's conversation Hammond found
embarrassing. He sought to turn it back into its channel. 'You sayin'
about Mandingos, Papa,' he began.

'So I was, so I was. I was talkin' about Big Pearl. I'll come back to
that,' said Maxwell, refusing the interruption. 'Ham ain't got but two
or three babies all told--but they all turned out little bucks. They
fancy, light-yallers, all right, but all bucks. His oldest one--comin'
on four, now--is as healthy and purty and straight a saplin' as ever I
see. Course, it gits extrie feed and everythin'.'

'Ham look like he be a right vigorous stud,' said Brownlee.

'Didn't look fer that first one to amount to nothin' at all with Hammond
jest fourteen years old when he got it. Dropped the day after his
fifteenth birthday. Proudest boy ever was; thought he was a man fer
shore.'

'You purty mad, I reckon, when you found out about him pesterin' your
wenches at that age,' said Brownlee. 'Course, I know they all do it, but
nothin' come of it.'

'Wasn't my wench. She was his'n. One his mamma left him. She begin
a-waitin' on him when he was about eleven or twelve--when he shed his
nurse-mammy.'

'Wonder he wasn't a-ruint.'

'Ruther have a boy a-pesterin' a smart, little clean wench than have him
a-drivin' hisself crazy a-hankerin' to. I'd been stronger--and smarter
too--if my old man had a-give me a wench of my own before I was sixteen,
a-goin' on seventeen.'

'Seventeen? I was nineteen, and even then she wasn't mine or my pappy's.
She belonged to the man my pappy was overseein' fer, a ugly sambo, I
reckon, leastwise lookin' back I think she was part Choctaw. Course, I
sneaked some before that,' conceded Brownlee. 'Out in the patches when
the hands was noonin', whenever I could shun my paw.'

Maxwell showed little interest in the trader's youth. Brownlee was a
poor recommendation for boyhood continence. 'In them days pappies didn't
know how hankerin' fer a wench could stunt a boy and drive him lunatic.'
The intimation was that Brownlee's shortcomings were chargeable to his
father's negligence. 'Pro'bly the reason young men at the North are so
sapless and witless--nothin' but white gals to pester with when they
boys.'

The trader was more interested in the goblet of corn whisky which
Agamemnon was bringing than in Maxwell's comments. Mem's gait was
unsteady, his eyes emitted a glassy glint. His hand trembled on the tray
as he handed the drinks about, although he refrained from spilling them.

'Come here, you black scoun'rel. Kneel down here and let me smell you,'
Maxwell commanded.

Memnon found refuge in tears. 'I didn't drink none. I didn't do it,
Masta, suh. I didn't do it. I on'y jest taste to see was it hot. On'y
jest taste, suh.'

Memnon knelt by Maxwell, afterwards he crawled on his knees toward
Hammond, who sniffed him but casually.

'That mean jest twenty-five more squashings with that paddle tomorrow.'
Hammond addressed his father, ignoring the Negro. 'And a big drench of
ipecac tonight last thing.'

'No, Masta, suh, no,' the darkie begged _sotto voce_, not daring to
speak out lest he aggravate the sentence, and yet unable to keep silent.
'I jest tasted.' Memnon knew that in so factual and objective a mood
Hammond was relentless; if his master had reviled and threatened him, he
might have softened him with his repentance. Hammond did not even deign
to address him. His resolution was not even tempered by his anger.

When Memnon saw that Hammond was unmoved by pity, he rose to his feet
and slunk from the room, but he was entirely sobered. The whisky he had
drunk to smother his anticipations of the morrow's chastisement had lost
its lethe. All the agility and promptitude he had displayed throughout
the evening to avert the disaster had been cancelled out. The ipecac was
a punishment that exactly fitted the crime. The very thought of it
caused him to retch in anticipation. When he returned to the house from
his excursion out into the wind-filled darkness, the yellow of Mem's
face had taken on a greenish hue. He was sick at his stomach and sick at
heart.

'As I was a-sayin' about them Mandingos,' Maxwell resumed his monologue,
oblivious of the interruption, 'they right satisfyin'--powerful,
biddable, healthy. Cain't un'erstand this Big Pearl a-fallin' sick.'

'How you know she pure Mandingo?' Brownlee inquired.

'Look at her! Look at her! Don't have more than to look at her,'
answered her owner. 'But I knows her history--all about her, too. Ol'
Colonel Wilson of Coign Plantation, up the road apiece, about fifty or
sixty miles, needed some han's and rid to Charleston to buy a passel of
bozals. Course, it was back in the time when the Colonel was young and
could ride, the days before Mista Tom Jefferson stopped 'em from
bringin' in brutes. Everything was law-abidin'.'

Hammond had heard the story before, and diverted himself by tickling
Alpha's feet and watching his reflexes. Brownlee was mildly interested
in Maxwell's tale, and even more in Hammond's play with the young boy.

'Colonel Wilson foun' 'em unloadin' a whole cargo of prime Mandingos,
two or three hunerd big, docile, upstandin' brutes, and he picked
himself out four or five good ones. Colonel Wilson know a good nigger.
They never cost much then--five, six or seven hunerd apiece. Two of 'em,
a big buck and a stout wench, was about the purtiest things I ever see.
That wench must have been nineteen hands, or near it, and the buck even
taller; and they wasn't jest tall, but they was thick, not fat but hard,
hard as mahogany.

'Course, Colonel Wilson bred the two of 'em together and got a wench
child--a big sturdy wench over sixteen pounds the day she was dropped;
but 'bout that time the vomit broke out at Coign and the old wench died
and all the other Mandingos, all except the big buck and the baby.'

'Bad luck,' said Brownlee.

'Turrible, turrible. But the baby growed; and when she big an' ready to
breed, Colonel Wilson didn't have no Mandingo 'ceptin' her pappy to
breed her to, and he was bounden to keep his Mandingo blood pure. So
what he do? He put the wench right back to her pappy.'

'Didn't he know no better than that?' Brownlee asked. 'Why, that awful;
that incest; that goin' agin the Bible. I knowed a white man up in
Tennessee oncet that pestered his own nigger daughter and had a wench
child, that was jest a little puny, that cried all the time, never did
grow none, and was weak-minded. Jest lay and slobbered. About three
years old, the old man, seein' that it wasn't never goin' be worth
nothin', took pity and knocked it in the head. Your Colonel Wilson ought
to know better'n that.'

'Well, he didn't. The wench brought him the biggest, most vigourest
young saplin' you ever see. Most grown now, but the Colonel won't market
him. Goin' to keep him fer seed.'

'I swan!' said Brownlee.

'Seein' as how it worked so good the first time, Colonel Wilson put the
young wench right back to her pappy agin, and this time got a wench
baby, Big Pearl. I bought her and Lucy--that her mammy--offen the
Colonel while Big Pearl was a-suckin' yet.

'That's how I knows she is pure Mandingo. Her and Lucy and Colonel
Wilson's two--the old buck and the young one--are the only simon
purentee Mandingos I knows about anywhures. Beautiful niggers, all on
'em.'

'Real dangerous, I call it,' said Brownlee. 'I wouldn't risk it. Whut
you goin' to do with your wench? No more Mandingos to mate her up with.'

'When Hammond gits the time, I aims to have him ride to Coign Plantation
and plead with Colonel Wilson to borrow the old bozal buck to us fer a
month or two. I aims to breed Big Pearl right back once more to her
pappy, and her grandpappy. The buck is sixty or sixty-five years, maybe
seventy, come now; but I reckon he got sap in him yet.'

'Don't risk it, Mista Maxwell, suh. Don't risk it. That awful.'

Brownlee's horror only confirmed Maxwell in his determination. 'Works
fine in horses and cows and hogs and dogs and sich. I don't see why it
won't work with niggers. Course, you got to have fine stock; no good
with puny stock.'

'You breedin' in too fur, Mr. Maxwell. Thought you knowed more'n that
about niggers.'

'Ham thinks it all right. Don't you, Ham? If he gives the nod to it, we
goin' to try it.'

Hammond had stopped playing with the sleeping child. He was tired,
resting, hardly listening. 'Papa, you been talkin' that plan fer three
years. Thought your mind was set, jest waitin' fer me to go to Coign to
fetch the buck. I'll find the time in a few days. Don't reckon there's
nothing to lose except Big Pearl's time, if the foal should turn out
puny or something.'

The Seth Thomas which ticked and ticked on the mantelpiece coughed and
clanged eight rapid strokes of its bell, as if its duty were unpleasant
and it wished to get it over with as quickly as possible.

'That danged clock,' observed Maxwell. 'Keeps right time--about; but
it's an hour slow in its chiming. Kin fix it--ever git time.'

Hammond stretched. 'Reckon it time to go up. 'Bout nine, ain't it,
Papa?'

Memnon brought the drinks for Maxwell and Brownlee as ordered.

His presence reminded Maxwell of his misdemeanour. He cautioned Hammond,
'You won't ferget that ipecac, Son?'

'No, Papa. I mix it, I git upstairs.'

Memnon paled at the thought. 'I ain't needin' no medicine now. I's puked
that corn, ever' bit of it.'

'You's goin' to puke some more. You's goin' to puke up all your innards
with that dose I'm plannin' to pour into you,' Hammond threatened. 'And
you better go to sleep with them bucks in the stable, 'stead of in the
hall by my door.'

'Cain't cure a nigger from drinkin' corn, 'lessen you locks it up away
from him,' Brownlee observed.

'I'll cure this one; last thing I do--cure him or kill him.'

Memnon was silent. There was no rebuttal to fate itself. Hammond yawned
and rose, reluctant to leave the warm fireside to go into the cold hall.
He planted a perfunctory kiss upon his father's cheek, bade Brownlee a
polite good night and pleasant dreams, and, noting the inviting target
of Alpha's protruding rump, reached down and gave it a resounding smack.
Alpha's muscles were constantly bruised from Lucretia Borgia's daily
spankings, and the blow, intended only as a caress, was painful. The
boy, only half aroused from sleep, cried out, reached around and rubbed
his buttock and slept again. 'Don't fergit your foot-warmer; it's a cold
night, Papa,' Ham joked.

'Dite gone up a'ready?' Hammond inquired of Memnon.

'Dite go up early,' Memnon replied.

'Come 'long, then,' said Hammond and limped out, followed by the
apprehensive Negro.

Maxwell listened to the uneven steps of his crippled son upon the
stairs. He censured himself again for having entrusted his heir to the
uncertain temperament of a gelding.

'Who that?' Brownlee inquired.

Maxwell's mind was upon the accident, long passed. 'Whut you mean, suh?'

'Who that? That Dite?'

'Oh, that. That Hammond's bed wench.'

'Purty, I reckon,' the trader voiced his imagination.

'Right likely. Mustee, I guess.'

'Light, eh? And young?'

'Fourteen, mayhaps fifteen now. Why?'

'I was jest a-thinkin', jest a-thinkin' whut a fine lot of niggers you
all got. Got 'em all over the place, and won't sell none.'




CHAPTER 3


When Ham entered his bedroom his concubine rose to welcome him. She had
taken off her clothes and stood covered only with a quilt wrapped around
her and hanging from her shoulders. 'You late, suh,' she said casually.

'Yes, a little. Big Pearl sick. Whyn't you lay down?'

'Waitin' to know an' if you wants me in the bed or on a pallet.'

'On the floor, I reckon. I tired tonight,' Hammond said as he sank into
a chair before the fire and surrendered to Mem's ministrations. Then he
reconsidered, 'No; git into bed and warm them sheets up until I strips
and after that you kin take to your pallet.'

Aphrodite dropped her quilt and stood naked as she turned down the
covers, adjusted the bolster and plumped herself upon the feather bed.
Mem stripped Hammond of his clothes, hoping his master had forgotten the
ipecac. As Ham stood before the fire Aphrodite lay looking at him with
servile affection.

Hammond's body, barring some areas on his back and around his belly, was
enveloped in blond hair, hardly heavier than down, but of considerable
length. Standing, the stiffness of his knee was not apparent. His
shoulders were not broad, but they were hard and strong and, clothed
with hair, seemed larger than they really were. His body was more than
normally long and his legs somewhat short. Long hours in the saddle had
developed his thighs, which bulged and rippled as he changed his
position in the firelight.

'Fetch me a big gourd, that big, yeller bottle agin the wall on the
shelf, and a jug of hot water. We goin' to have some fun.'

Mem knew that protest was futile. 'And 'stir yourself,' Ham added as Mem
started on the errand.

Mem did as he was told, and his gorge rose as he watched Ham pour the
staggering dose from the bottle into the gourd, add water, and stir the
mixture with his finger, which he wiped on the hair of his thigh. The
gourd he set upon the hearth, propping the handle against the
mantelpiece. 'We'll keep it hot,' he said, taking one final turn around
before the fire. He was reluctant to leave the heat and to get into his
bed.

At length he crossed the room, fell on one knee, stretching the stiff
leg behind him, as he bowed his head and hastily repeated his simple
prayer: 'Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If
I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.' It was a
mere meaningless formula, hastily uttered without a concept of sleeping
or dying, of keeping or taking souls. He hesitated as if taking thought
and added, 'Dear God, bless my mamma up in heaven; bless my papa and
dreen his rheumatiz into Alph; bless Thy servant Hammond; bless Big
Pearl and make her git well; bless Dite; bless Lucretia Borgia and the
twins----'

'Mem, Masta, suh, Memnon. Ask God bless Memnon. Please, Masta; please,
suh,' the Negro interrupted the orison, assuming that white petitions
received more prompt attention than black ones.

His master humoured him and interposed for him, 'Bless Memnon and learn
him not to steal and make him a good nigger after his hidin' tomorrow;
and, God, bless Falconhurst, and all the niggers on the plantation.' It
was little enough to ask. Falconhurst was a goodly place, and its
personnel a goodly company.

Dite vacated the bed and assumed her place on the pallet beside it, and
Hammond crawled upon the high bed and snuggled down between the sheets
her body had warmed.

'Leave the can'le, boy. You'll be comin' back to drink that drench,
right after you waits on Mr. Brownlee and your masta. If I a-sleepin',
wake me up.'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' said Mem; and then he ventured, 'I jest take the
gourd along and drink that stuff before I lays down.'

'You'll come back here, like I tol' you. You drink it now, you'll puke
up so you cain't wait on the gen'lemen. Wrap that twin around Papa's
feet good.'

Mem escaped without making a promise. Ham knew he would come back, and
Mem knew it.

Hammond lay and looked into the fire. His day was not finished until he
had done his duty by Memnon and he did not intend to sleep until the
Negro's return.

'Masta, suh, is you 'wake?' Dite asked tentatively, reaching up from her
pallet to place her hand on the bed.

'Whut you wantin', Dite?'

'Masta, I knocked up.' She had postponed telling him, in the knowledge
that the tenure of her position would be limited by her advancing
pregnancy. She had won her present status by another slave girl's
pregnancy and would lose it by her own. She could never be deprived of
the distinction of having shared her young master's bed, however long in
the past it might grow to be. To be the mother of a master's child would
engender envy from the other wenches, and envy made for status.

However, it was unlikely that the present relations, once interrupted,
would ever be resumed. She could pretend that she would be reinstated
after her child was weaned, but her figure would thicken, her breasts
would sag, and Dite would be old. On a plantation of the size of
Falconhurst, there was a succession of young wenches maturing at
frequent enough intervals to render at least unlikely the summons of a
once discarded wench back to her master's couch.

Hammond was dozing and was slow to reply. 'I been a-lookin' fer that.
How long ago?'

''Bout two months. I don' know 'xactly.'

'I ben kind of hopin' you wouldn't be 'til that wench of Dido's got
bigger. She right purty.'

'That Tense nigger?' Dite knew her successor now.

'Yes, that her name, somethin' like that. Hortense, I believe.'

'That triflin', skinny, brown thing? She ain't fitten fer you, Masta.'

'She light yaller; she ain't brown,' Ham defended.

'She not light like me.'

'Yes, she darker'n you. You 'mos' white. But her colour light enough.
She right nice,' he argued.

'She ain't got hardly no meat on her at all.'

'She puttin' on meat. I was lookin' at her the other day--hippin' out
good and tittie-in' up real full-like. Course her udders ain't full
growed yet. That why I wishes you wait awhile, another six months.'

'You don't reckon that Tense no virgin, does you?' Dite clinched her
disparagement.

'Why, I reckon she is. Dido right moral-like.'

'Dido moral, yes. But with that big brother of hern sleepin' right in
the cabin, Tense's maidenhead shore gone, plumb gone,' Dite declared
hopefully. 'I was a virgin, wasn't I, Masta?'

'Shore was. Shore was. You wasn't no older than Tense that time. You was
plagued and skeared of me till I had to slap your face and hold you
down. You was real comical-like. Remember?'

Dite remembered that first, terrified but treasured night with Hammond
well enough, remembered his ruthlessness and his tenderness, her own
evasion and enforced submission.

Hammond made a mental note to caution Dido again about her protection of
Tense and to send that young buck of hers to the stable to sleep. He lay
quiet awhile. Mem had had ample time to see Brownlee and Maxwell to
their beds. He wondered whether Mem's stubborn recusancy would extend so
far as to fail to return for the draught mixed for him. Ham was already
resolved to chastise the Negro as hard and as long as he dared without
destroying his value; further disobedience could not aggravate the
punishment. Ham wondered whether Mem would be astute enough to realize
this.

In fact the chores of putting the two elder men to bed had been minor
ones. Brownlee had been shown to a room without a fireplace. It was
upstairs over the ell of the house and was cold. It was habit, however,
not the cold that determined the removal only of his outer garments and
prompted him to crawl into bed wearing undershirt, drawers and socks,
none of which had been laundered or even removed since he left the
Carolinas.

Brownlee's vocation made him unduly sensitive to any treatment he could
interpret as a slight. He so interpreted the absence of heat in the room
assigned to him and especially the absence of a wench to keep him warm.

'Memnon, fetch me a wench to pleasure me tonight. Did you fergit that,
too?'

'No, suh, Masta Brownlee. My Masta never tol' me nothin' about no wench
fer you.'

'I tell you whut. Fetch me a likely, young, clean, light-skin wench, an'
I'll try to beg you off your hidin' tomorrer mornin'. I'll tell Mista
Hammond that you not no bad nigger at all. I'll tell him his pappy
cranky----'

'Naw, suh, don't tell Masta Ham that. You make him mad. He know Ol'
Masta ain't cranky. He think Ol' Masta all time right.'

'You fetch the wench, and leave the res' to me.'

'Yas, suh; yas suh, Masta Brownlee. I will, suh.' Memnon was uncertain
whether he would keep his promise, but there was no harm in giving it.
He was torn between his desire for mediation in his difference with his
masters and the fear of acting without authority. The bribe the dealer
offered was a tempting one, but he doubted Brownlee's will as well as
his ability to divert Hammond from his policy.

And what wench? If the dealer's intercession was worth bartering for,
was it not wisdom to supply him with the best in the quarters? Would his
gratitude be the greater? Should he fetch Dido's Tense, whom Memnon
surmised that Hammond had staked out for his own uses? A night spent
with this white man could do a wench no harm.

Mem was not used to making decisions; decisions were made for him. He
pondered the alternatives all the while he was putting his old master to
bed, which, except for adjusting the boy to the old man's comfort and so
draping the bed coverings that the urchin could breathe, was a mere
routine. Alph's unwaking torpor was so sound that he did not alter the
position in which he was draped rather than placed. He could have been
tied in a bow knot without knowing it.

Maxwell, sodden with his toddies, and somnolent with the unwonted
lateness of his bedtime, was well-nigh as complacent as the child. He
sprawled on the bed while Memnon removed his clothes, the silence broken
only by an oath or two when Mem had some difficulty in pulling his shirt
over his head.

The light of the fire suffused the room, and the candle was hardly to be
missed when Memnon took it with him and closed the door.

There remained for Mem only to go to Hammond's room to swallow the vile
drench which awaited him there. The very thought of it caused him to
shiver with nausea. He knew the violent sickness it would cause all
through the night.

Memnon hesitated before he entered Hammond's room, fearing the
dressing-down that was in store for him. Instead Hammond appeared to be
in the best of humours. He even chuckled as he commanded, 'Fetch me that
gourd and that bottle. Wouldn't come back to drink the dose I mixed, eh?
We'll jest mix it stronger,' and he emptied half the contents of the
bottle into the already potent mixture and handed it to Mem.

'That white gen'man say fetch him a wench. Whut wench I goin' to git fer
him? Tense? Got to fetch her right away afore white gen'leman git mad
and go to sleep,' Mem sought to divert Hammond from the project in hand.

'You let that white gen'leman alone, and you let Tense alone. Hear? That
nigger trader don't need no wench. I don' want that kind of dirty,
nigger trader blood mixed up with my niggers.'

'But he say----'

'And I say drink that gourd and git out'n here. And mind you strike the
fires early in the morning. Lots to do come tomorrow. Now drink down
that gourd.'

Memnon held the gourd by the handle and slopped the contents as he sank
on his knees by the bed to beg for mercy. 'Masta Ham ain't goin' to hide
Memnon tomorrow? Is you Masta, suh? Memnon your little boy. Memnon wait
on you and take care of you and mix toddy fer Ol' Masta. Who goin' to
serve you and mix toddy while Mem git well from the larrupin'? I be good
nigger, I be spry nigger, I won't taste the toddy. I won't do nothin'.
Please, Masta, suh, don't hide Mem!'

'You goin' to mix toddy and do jest whut you been doin'; that's who.
Needn't think that sore ass I'm goin' to give you git you out of
workin'. You'll go on and work jest the same. Now drink down that gourd
and go to the stable like I tol' you, and let me go asleep.'

Ham's calm, which Memnon took for complacence, was the calm of anger. He
was fed up with the boy's evasion and disobedience and the mention of
the wench for Brownlee did Mem some harm.

Memnon's hand trembled as he lifted the gourd to his mouth. He sipped
the nauseating mixture.

'Drink it down. Drink it down quick--ever' drop of it.'

Memnon drank. 'Please, Masta Ham, suh, that enough. Cain't drink no
more.'

'Ever' drop. And drink it fas'.'

Memnon tried again--and swallowed it all. He felt himself sicken and
rushed from the room. At the bottom of the stairs he fell prone on the
floor, broke into a cold sweat. He lay there retching, too sick to rise.

When Lucretia Borgia rose at her accustomed time, shortly before the
dawn, she came upon Memnon in the hall.

He was still too sick to explain anything to her. She lifted him to his
feet, and half guided him, half carried him into the kitchen. She called
the first boy she could find, who happened to be Napoleon, and set him
to cleaning the stairs and hall. She loaded Meg's arms with firewood and
herself carrying an even larger load strode through the hall and up the
stairs, to prepare fires before which her masters could dress in
comfort. The elder Maxwell was still asleep, snoring; but Alph's head
protruded from the covers at the foot of the bed, and he proudly
boasted, 'Mammy, I got rheumatiz. It hurts awful, jist like Masta.'

'Hush up yo' mouth and keep it hushed. You wake Masta and I goin'
rheumatiz you fer sure,' Lucretia Borgia whispered, but she rejoiced in
the improvement of Maxwell's ailment and even more that one of her sons
had absorbed his pains. She did not doubt the truth of Alph's claim.

Meg stood beside his mother while she unloaded her arms and started the
fire. Then he followed his mother into Hammond's room at the other end
of the hall.

Hammond was awake. He had told Memnon to make the fire early and the
chill of the room had deterred him from rising immediately. He was
refreshed from his fatigue of the previous night and had reached down to
rouse Dite and had given her leave to come into his bed. Lucretia
Borgia, entering the room, ignored the contortions that were taking
place beneath the covers. Meg, however, while his mother unloaded the
wood from his arms and laid the fire, could not keep his eyes from
rolling toward the bed. He was not entirely innocent; he had overheard
bawdy talk; he knew approximately what his master was doing.

As Lucretia Borgia laid the fire she noted that the ashes were cold and
she sent Meg down the hall and into Maxwell's room to fetch a brand. He
met his brother coming out, limping and rubbing with one hand the
knuckles of the other. Meg's envy of Alph's ailment made him pause,
forgetting for a moment the errand on which he was bound.

'Masta's misery dreened right through my belly,' Alph declared. 'It hurt
awful, and my han's jist killin' me.'

'You jest puttin' on, nigger. Hain't nothin' ails you, 'ceptin' you
don't crave no spankin'. You thinks Mammy ain't goin' whup you 'cause
you got rheumatiz, you a fool. Mammy all riled 's mornin'!' Meg warned
and went into Maxwell's room while Alph went slowly down the stairs
exaggerating his limp.

Maxwell ignored Meg's squatting by the fire until he had ignited a piece
of kindling and had crossed the room to leave with it, when the old man
demanded, 'Wha' Memnon?'

'Memnon, he sick,' answered the boy with diffidence and made an effort
to be gone.

'That nigger ain't sick. He jest cravin' to git offn that touchin' up he
goin' to git. He goin' to git it a'right. Nigger ain't sick,' Maxwell
said aloud but to himself.

'Yassum, Masta, suh.' Meg would have agreed with any statement the
master made. He was not exactly afraid of the stern old man, but he was
ill at ease. He had never been upstairs before and what appeared luxury
to him appalled him. White living was so complex. White men took more
trouble to be comfortable than comfort was worth.

'Take that bran' along. Then, come back here and he'p me on with ma
boots,' ordered Maxwell, and Meg was relieved to get away.

Back in Ham's room Lucretia Borgia still squatted before the fireplace.
'That nigger jest nasty hisself all over,' Meg heard his mother chuckle
to Ham, who, without waiting for the fire, was getting out of bed.

'Wha' fer you stay so long? Cain't you see you makin' your masta dress
hisself withoutn no fire?' Lucretia Borgia scolded.

'Ol' Masta say I come back and he'p with his boots.'

'Then mind; mind, you hear? An' take care you polite,' his mother
cautioned.

Meg's eyes were riveted upon Hammond. He had seen many naked Negroes,
but it had never before occurred to him that white folks removed their
clothes. He had assumed that white gentlemen were disembodied angels,
but they were flesh he saw, beautiful pink flesh covered with golden
hair. So far from disillusioning the boy, the revelation augmented his
reverence for white mastery. He obtained but a lingering glance, but it
was enough to excite a physical love. He had seen Dite in Hammond's bed,
and in his jealousy Meg hated the girl.

He returned to Maxwell's room and knelt before his seated master.
Maxwell threw his socks to the boy and stuck his feet towards him. Meg
put them on the old man, after which he struggled with the boots,
preoccupied the while with thoughts about the pleasure it would be for
him to perform the same office for his younger master. He dreamed of
becoming Hammond's body servant. His imagination ran to the removal of
Ham's clothes, to putting him to bed, and bathing him.




CHAPTER 4


Hammond's first morning chore was to go to the pest house to see Big
Pearl. As he entered the door she sat upright and reached with her arms
towards him. He sat on the side of her bed and she grasped his hands and
began to whimper.

'Whut ails you, Big Pearl? Whure you hurts?' Hammond inquired with a
kindly tone.

'Don't hurts nowhure now. Misery done left me,' Big Pearl replied,
clinging to him. 'Masta, suh! Masta, suh!' she wept.

'Don't cry, Big Pearl. You all right.'

'Yessum, suh. I knows I all right, you here--Masta, Masta.'

'Whut you cry about?'

'You goin' to leave me, and then my misery come back. Masta, Masta, stay
here, stay right here, please suh, Masta!' Pearl begged passionately.

'How was she all night, Lance?' Ham turned to the big buck who had risen
on his entrance.

'First off, when you leave, suh, Big Pearl go off to sleep right nice. I
set right here by fire all the night. Then she wake up and begin to howl
and beller, and she keep that up until you comes in that door, suh.'

Ham felt Big Pearl's forehead. It seemed cool. He noted, however, a
slight convulsive movement of her body when he laid his hands on her. He
was baffled. There were no symptoms of the vomit or of smallpox.
Possibly this was the evil effects of in-breeding.

Not because he thought it would do the girl any good, but because he did
not know what else to give her, he poured out a dose of laudanum and
held the glass for her while she drank it. She fixed her eyes on Hammond
in an expression of gratitude that was adulation.

'I tell you, Lance, you put a bridle on that grey mule and ride to
Benson and git that veterinary. You know Doc Redfield. You know the way
to Benson, don' you?'

'Yes, suh, Masta, I knows him. He the white gen'man whut cure Nimrod
las' year.'

'You'll find him around the tavern or over at the grocery store,
drinkin'. Tell him come right out to Mista Maxwell's Falconhurst
Plantation. Kin you remember that?'

'Yas, suh, Masta.' Lance was elated at being chosen to go on such an
errand. He could boast of it around the quarters and recount the sights
he should see in the town. 'I got to have pass, though, Masta. I don'
want to be ketched up fer no runnin' nigger.'

'I'll write you out a pass. Stop at the big house and git it. And be
careful of that mule. Go easy like, and don't sink in the mire.'

'Yas, suh. I be careful. I careful nigger.'

'Better take a pocketful of pone, if you should git hongry,' Ham warned,
always thoughtful of the welfare, if not of the comfort, of his hands.

The opiate began to have its effects upon his patient, and Hammond went
to the house to eat his breakfast. Meg heard him come in and limp down
the hall. Without waiting for orders, he galloped into the kitchen and
excitedly pulled at Lucretia Borgia's skirt. 'A toddy fer Masta, a toddy
fer Masta Hammond, a toddy. It fer Masta Ham,' he insisted with
impatience. His mother paused in her preparation of the breakfast to mix
the toddy.

Hammond entered the sitting-room and stopped to extend his hands to the
fire and to turn before it ere he sat down, more from habit than from
chill.

'Better drink a toddy, Ham,' his father admonished. 'Do you good.'

Hardly had Hammond sunk into his chair when Meg rushed through the door,
glass in hand. His impetuosity vanished, and he grew diffident as he
approached his young master. He bit his lip as he extended the unordered
libation to his god, uncertain as to how his ministration would be
received.

'Whut's this?' Hammond asked.

'Do you good,' repeated Maxwell.

'Whure did this come from?' Hammond said rather than questioned, nodding
toward Meg. 'This nigger better than the other one. Don't have to tell
this 'un,' Ham smiled at the boy.

Meg was abashed at the praise for which he had longed. He hung his head
and chewed his lower lip as he returned a sickly grin. Then emotion
overcame him and he began to cry.

'Whut ails you, boy? Nobody ain't goin' to hurt you. You good boy,'
Hammond consoled him.

Meg knew it was sacrilege, but he was unable to restrain himself. He
could no longer stand. His knees folded under him and he fell kneeling
with his face between Hammond's legs. 'I your nigger, Masta, I your
nigger, Masta, suh. Say I your nigger, Masta Ham; jest your little
nigger. Nobody's nigger, but jest yourn,' the boy begged between his
sobs.

'Course, you my nigger. Whose nigger you afeard you goin' to be? Course,
you my nigger and you Ol' Masta's nigger, too,' Hammond,
uncomprehending, sought to comfort the boy.

Meg looked Hammond full in the face to swear his allegiance. 'You so
good, Masta, I loves you, Masta.'

Lucretia Borgia appeared with the breakfast bell. Breakfast was late,
but Lucretia Borgia had not been idle. She saw the tears on Meg's face.
She knew that something unusual had occurred. 'That little nigger been
troublin' you gen'lemen? I'll skin him, I skin him till he cain't stan'
up.'

Hammond smiled at her and said, 'You'll mind your business, Lucretia
Borgia. That my nigger. I wants him skinned, I'll skin him. Keep your
han's offn him.' The rebuke was jocular and Lucretia Borgia knew her son
had not offended.

Alph was duly posted beside the table, wielding his peacock-feather
brushes. He managed to move enough to display his limp. Lucretia Borgia
pulled the chair to seat Maxwell, and Meg was alert and ceremonious in
his withdrawing of Hammond's chair. He hastened to pull the napkin from
its glass, to shake it open and place it in Hammond's lap.

Lucretia Borgia served the breakfast, but in all that pertained to
Hammond's needs Meg forestalled her. Ignoring Maxwell and Brownlee, he
filled Ham's glass with milk, heaped bacon and eggs upon his plate,
shifted the platter on which the cornbread was served so as to extend it
with the largest piece on the side nearest Hammond.

There was an unstated rule that Negroes should not eat from dishes
reserved for whites. Yet Meg now whispered to Ham, 'Masta, kin I eat
whut you doesn't?'

'Oh, I see; that why you help me so good. You wants my leavin' vittles?'
Hammond joked with the boy to his father's disapproval.

The accusation was unfair and the boy could only deny it with, 'Naw,
suh, Masta. I wan's you should eat all you kin, but, please suh, let me
have yo' leavin's.'

'Course you kin. You my nigger, ain't you?' Ham had intended no rebuff
to the child.

'Right offn yo' plate? Please, Masta, suh, kin I?'

'Right offn my plate.'

Maxwell kept his eye upon Alph's limp. The more Alph limped the more
Maxwell was assured of his own improvement.

Hammond had noted his father's bearing without comment until he could be
sure that he was better. His increased dexterity was apparent. He could
raise his knife to his mouth with sureness and without flinching.

'You chipper, kind of, this mornin', Papa,' Ham at length remarked.

'Better, Ham, better. I goin' to git well, now I's found the cure. See
that little buck, Alph, limp? The pizen is all dreenin' away. I goin' to
git well and take this plantation offn your back. I'll straddle a hoss
agin first thing you knows.'

'Don't you worry none 'bout me. I all right an' Falconhurst all right.'

'I knowed a nigger belly sovereign for rheumatiz. I tol' you,' Brownlee
took credit. 'That man Bronson over at Natchez----'

'Wonder how Big Pearl come on,' Maxwell declared. 'You better go down
after breakfast and see how she do, Ham.'

'Done went. She some better, but Lancelot say she carry on all night.'

'Better git Redfield,' Maxwell advised.

'Done sent Lancelot.'

'Damndest thing, Mista Brownlee, on this plantation. Cain't suggest
nothin', not a thing, but it already been 'tended to. This Hammond think
of ever'thing an' do it afore I gits around to talkin' about it. Jest
have to nurse my rheumatiz, drink my toddies and stop my mappin', I
reckon.'

'Reckon Lance git through to Benson. Mire is terrible deep and thick,'
Hammond pondered.

'Ought to of put him on a mule,' Maxwell suggested.

'I did a'ready. Ol' Grey.'

'I thinkin' about that mire,' said Brownlee. 'Purty bad comin' in
yestidy, worse this mornin'. Still, this wind and sun dries out them
roads right fast. Course I goin' to wait to see you thresh that nigger.'

'Don' reckon he fitten to thresh this mornin'. He sick,' Ham explained.

'Playin' off, more 'an likely.' The trader was disappointed.

'No, he sick. I was mad an' I poured too much ipecac into him. He awful
sick.'

'Deserved it, deserved it. Wasn't more than right,' said Maxwell.

'Wouldn't hurt to whup him, too, I reckon,' Brownlee urged. 'You
promised him, you know. Ought to always keep a promise of a larrupin' to
a nigger.'

'I'll keep my promise all right, but not while he sick. No hidin' of
sick niggers at Falconhurst. Besides, 'll do him good to relish his
whuppin' a few days afore he git it. Let him ponder how sore he goin' to
be.'

'Cain't wait, cain't wait to see it, much as I'd like it. Always admire
to see 'em squirm and hear 'em holler. Sometimes right comical.'

Meg sidled to Ham's side. 'Kin I see? I won' cry.'

'See? See whut?'

'Memnon git hided,' whispered Meg.

'Course you kin,' Hammond promised. 'Do you good. Learn you whut to
expect.'

'You spoils your niggers at Falconhurst, suh; spoils 'em till they
putrid. No Saturday workin'! No threshin' when they sick! Veternary fer
belly-ache! 'D think the niggers owned you stead of you ownin' niggers,'
Brownlee voiced his disapproval.

'That, kind of fact,' Hammond agreed. 'One way our niggers does own us,
and we owns them. They feeds us and we feeds them. Nothin' I craves more
than good niggers, fat and well and happy--and a-growin'.'

When the whites had moved into the front room Meg appeared before Ham
and asked, 'Does you want a toddy?'

'No, too soon after breakfast,' Ham replied. But it was not too soon for
Brownlee and Maxwell.

Meg retired a little crestfallen, but complacent. To serve his master
was a joy, to serve anybody else a chore. He fetched the drinks and
served them with politest unction; and when he passed his young master
on his way out of the room, Hammond caught him a playful but sharp blow
with his hand across the boy's seat. It caused Meg to drop his tray, and
tears gathered to his eyes. As he stooped to retrieve the tray, he
looked into Ham's face and blossomed into a wide and satisfied grin.

'Send that other'n here soon as he feeds,' Maxwell commanded.

Meg acknowledged the command and hastened into the dining-room lest the
table should be cleaned. He picked up Hammond's plate with the food he
had left on it, hurried into the kitchen and began to eat from it.

Lucretia Borgia saw. 'Nigger boy,' she said, akimbo, 'you knows better'n
eat offn white dish!'

'My masta said.'

'Whut your masta say?'

'He said I could--right offn his plate. I ast him an' he say yes.'

'I say no. Now scrape that feed onto that crack' platter and you two eat
like you always does.'

'My masta say,' Meg persisted.

'Nigger, I'll smash you,' and Lucretia Borgia stepped toward him with
upraised hand.

A glare of defiance shot from Meg's eyes. 'Nigger, don't tetch me. Don't
you ever tetch me. I bust this platter on your haid. My masta want me
whup, he whup me hisself. No nigger ain't goin' whup me.'

Lucretia Borgia was taken aback, halted.

'My masta say I eat offn his dish, I eats offn his dish. Ain't no nigger
goin' to stop me,' the boy declared between bites. 'My masta say you not
whup me, you not whup me, d'you hear?'

Lucretia Borgia hesitated to disobey Ham's commands, no matter how
casually given. She felt her authority vanishing.

'I Masta Ham's nigger now, jest Masta Ham's,' Meg gloated. 'Masta Ham
hang me up and skin me alive, he want to; he kill me, he want to. I
Masta Ham's nigger,' he impressed Lucretia Borgia. 'Masta Ham whup me
this mornin', whup me hard, harder than you kin,' he announced,
triumphant.

'Whut you do, nigger? Whut you do, makin' Masta trouble?'

'I not makin' my masta no trouble. I crave him to whup me and my masta
done it.' Meg had finished Ham's food and had picked up the plate to
lick it clean.

Alph had listened with trepidation to Meg's quarrel with their mother.
He sensed that his brother's victory would redouble her tyranny over
him. Meg turned to him and with contempt in his voice told him, 'Ol'
Masta say you come in to him, soon as you feed.'

'Whut he want?'

'He want you; that whut he want. Cain't you do whut your masta say
without as'in ques'ions?' Meg was truculent. 'You Ol' Masta's nigger, I
guesses. Old Masta's sleepin' nigger. But I got the bes' masta. Ol'
Masta ain't young and strong like Masta Hammond, an' purty. Now, go
along to your masta.'

Alph's limp, which he had forgotten, recurred to him. He rubbed the
joints of his hands and limped away. He crossed the dining-room to the
sitting-room. He waited, unsure of the demand for him. He had nothing
but Meg's word that he was wanted. The gentlemen were talking.

'Ain't no call fer niggers from the Texies yet; but they sure to be as
time goes,' Brownlee declared.

'I sure wish I could go there--not to stay, but jest to look around. If
Papa hadn't got the rheumatiz, I'd sure be off. There's fortunes to be
made in the Texies, I know.'

'An' surer fortune, fewer dangers, an' more comforts right here at
Falconhurst. I knows boys. When I Ham's age, I crave to wander, too,
jest like Ham. Hemmed right down here by my rheumatiz, he ain't had no
blowhole fer his spirits. Even when he take a coffle to New Orleans, has
to quicken right back home. With my rheumatiz betterin', he kin git
around some, go to N' Orleans, even to N' York, at least kin go sparkin'
some of these nice young ladies of good families, pinin' at home fer
some handsome blade to come and marry 'em.'

'Don't talk no more, Papa. I ain't goin' to the Texies, but I'd sure
like it. I goin' to stay right here; you kin lay to it. Mayhap, I'll git
around, go into town some, go to New Orleans and dress me up some. But,
an' I stay here, whut I wants is a fightin' nigger to have me some sport
with.'

'You stay home and mind Falconhurst, Son, you kin have the bes' fightin'
nigger in all Alabam. Don't pay to have a fighter,' lessen you has a
good one. You'll have a good one--the best.'

Alph waited, ignored. At length he asked, 'You send fer me, Masta, suh?
I's here.'

Maxwell resented, or at least disapproved of Hammond's trifling with
Meg, was stern in his reply to Alph. 'You knows better, boy, than to
stick your mouf into white talk. Now, keep your britches on and wait
whure you at, an' shut your mouf.'

The frightened boy rubbed a tear from his eye.

'Ain't nothin' in fightin' niggers in this part of the county. Young
fellers that fight niggers in country taverns ain't got no money to bet
on 'em. They thinks a hundred dollars is money. Ought to see a nigger
fight in N' Orleans. Bets of a thousand dollars nothin'; some of them
sports backs their bucks fer five thousand,' Brownlee expounded.

'Young gen'men who fetched their niggers to Benson to fight ain't got
much money to back they boys, you right, but they most generally brings
along a good young nigger or two to bet with. All got niggers, or they
pappy has,' protested Hammond. 'Young niggers good as money right in the
bank.'

'Gamblers in N' Orleans trains they niggers to fight, not jest strappin'
bucks out of the cotton gang. They trained how to fight. They exercised
and fed and petted up for the purpose,' Brownlee continued.

'That whut I mean,' said Hammond. 'That whut I means to do. Git a fine,
strong, young buck and learn him to fight, scientific like.'

'An' them N' Orleans niggers knows they has to fight, an' they does.
They owner tells 'em before they shove 'em in that if they loses the
fight they goin' to brand 'em good or take 'em to the doctor to be cut.
An' they niggers knows they means it. They fights an' fights an' don'
give up. They claws and they chaws and they gouges like anythin'.'

'N' Orleans a right sportin' like city, I reckon,' said Maxwell.

'I see one fight between two French gen'lemen--that is between niggers
belongin' to 'em. Big, young, yaller bucks they was, right purty, and
trained down hard as hickory. Them niggers fit and fit all over that
place for more 'n an hour and a half, first one a-whuppin' and then the
othern. Them Frenchmen right game! Wouldn't neither one on 'em give up.
Finally one nigger couldn't move no more. Everybody thought he daid;
might as well be, all chawed up. The winnin' boy not much better off.
Don't know whut them Frenchies done with them boys; wasn't much they
could do, I reckon. Blood jest a spurtin' over everything--even ruint
the fine coat of one of the Frenchies. Five thousand a side, but even
the winner never made much. His nigger 'most worth that. I made fifty
dollars that fight.'

'I'd admire to see it,' longed Ham.

'When you come N' Orleans way, let me know. If I there, I knowin' all
about the fights. They kind of secret-like, but I kin git you in.'

'Sure will, sure will.'

'Ham ought to go roun' some and see things like that. Mayhap he kin buy
a good fightin' buck in N' Orleans,' Maxwell acquiesced.

'Course, oft times they turns half a dozen niggers all together 'tilln
one comes out on top. Don't never bet on that, howsumever; cain't hardly
never predick' the winner.'

'The gent'men at Benson ain't never tried that,' Ham declared.

'Look around, look around,' suggested Maxwell. 'Git you a boy. Has we
got any fitten to train? Big Vulc?'

'He won't do. He coward.'

'Well, look aroun'.'

'Whut that boy waitin' fer? Whut fer you wantin' him, Papa?'

'I want to see how bad he cripp'ed by this rheumatiz. Want to see how
much dreened out of me. Come you here, boy.'

Alph obeyed.

'How bad you cripp'ed?' asked Maxwell. 'Whure you hurtin'?'

Alph hung his head. 'All over, Masta, suh. I got misery all over me,'
and Alph believed it.

Maxwell grasped the boy, felt his leg, twisted the knee until the child
grunted with the pain. He manipulated the elbow so hard that the boy
cried out. He pulled the fingers and bent them upward. He placed one
hand on the boy's back and with the other forced the head backward,
contorting the spine until Alph screamed with pain. Alph was limber and
flexible. He offered no resistance. He was pleased and interested in the
attention bestowed upon him and sensed no indignity. By the time Maxwell
finished his survey, the boy's pain was real, even if before it had been
only feigned or imagined.

'Don' twis' the little feller so, Papa. You hurts him. You'll ruin him,'
protested Hammond.

'You too tender with these niggers. You ruin 'em your own self,' said
the old man. 'But he got it all right! He got it! Wouldn't think so much
pizen could dreen out'n me in jest one night.' Maxwell was satisfied.
'Be gone,' he told the boy.

'Masta, suh, kin I be your nigger?'

'You is my nigger. Whose nigger you reckons you is?'

'I mean, your nigger, jest like Meg Masta Ham's nigger? Your own nigger?
Please, Masta, sir.'

'I'll do whutn I wants to you; that whut you mean?'

'I wants to bring yo' toddies and eat yo' leavin's--right offn yo'
plate--like my brother do. I wan's you should whup me too, whup me
harder'n Masta Ham whup his nigger. My brother brag over me sompin'
awful.' Alph's was no passion for service or punishment, such as Meg's.
It was a mere desire not to be overshadowed and shamed by his brother,
for which he was willing to pay a grudging price in work and pain.

'You my bed nigger. Ain't that 'nough? The other'n' (Maxwell assumed not
to be able to tell the twins apart) 'ain't Mista Ham's bed nigger.'

Alph was in a measure satisfied with this ascendancy over his brother.

'Don' fergit to have your mammy soak you in that red water before
evenin'. You gittin' musky agin,' Maxwell warned.

While Maxwell was speaking Doc Redfield rode up the lane on his
dun-coloured gelding. A hundred yards behind him came Lance, riding
barebacked the mule which had been grey when he set out two hours ago,
but which was now so mud-daubed as to appear as dun as the
veterinarian's horse.

Meg appeared out of nowhere to grab the horse's bridle when the doctor
dismounted, but at Hammond's command transferred it, as soon as he came
up, to Lancelot, who led it along with the mule to the stable to be
dried and curried. Meg did not vanish again, however, but lurked,
listening, on the gallery, removed from the group. His eyes were fixed
on Hammond. His mouth was open, and he appeared ready to spring in
response to a gesture which was never made.

'Don't know why I been sent fer,' Redfield said genially. 'Always said
Mista Warren Maxwell was the best veternary in the county. Takes better
care of niggers'n any man I know. I'd starve 'f I depend on him fer a
livin'.' He was a small man with a pointed chin, quasi-bearded, his face
spattered with a mixture of red, black, and grey whiskers, which
indicated that he had not shaved for some two weeks.

Hammond extended his hand to Redfield, who remarked, 'Don't seem no time
at all sence you was a boy, no bigger'n that thar little nigger, a
doggin' your pappy's heels ever'whure he went. Comin' to be a man, ain't
you? Spec' you thinks you is one?'

'Is a man, is a man. Ain't got time to be boy. Runs the whole plantation
with me sick. Let me knock you down to Mista Brownlee, Doc Redfield.
Mista Brownlee around buyin',' Maxwell explained.

'I've hearn of Mista Brownlee, before. Servant, suh.'

'Yo' servant.'

'Reckon you better be gittin' down to that pest house. Ham will see you
down there. I too cripped up to go. Stop by and have a drink of corn
before you depart.'

'I'll go along,' said Brownlee. 'I'd like to see that big wench of
yourn.'

Maxwell stood on the porch, reluctant to be left behind and yet without
the will to join the party. Meg followed his master without appearing to
follow.

Hammond told Redfield about Big Pearl's weird symptoms as they walked.
'Reckoned better git you first thing. Don' want no epizootic aroun' here
with all these young niggers. Might be vomit or pox.'

'Not vomit this time of year. Your pappy know better'n that. Cain't be
pox. Jest a little congestion of the guts, I reckon. We'll see.'

'I know I hadn't ought to git you out in this kind of mud, but----'

''S all right; 's all right. I got to go out to the Widder Johnson's
anyhow; Falconhurst ain't hardly none out'n my way. You know Widder
Johnson?'

'Course, of course; out on Six Mile Road.'

'Right likely plantation she got out there--small, of course, only a
hunderd and sixty--but she makes right smart of cotton, and she got a
passel of fifteen, twenty, good niggers Johnson left her.'

'Her servants kindly old like, though,' objected Hammond. 'Ain't
breedin' none hardly.'

'Some is. That whut she call on me fer, to git her shet of a triflin'
old cripped up wench, all deef and near blind. By rights ought to put an
end to her long time past, but the widder kind of tender that way.'

'Agin' the law ain't it--kind of?'

'Well, I sort of guess; but who goin' to take a hand in the pore
widder's own business? Never hearn of the law a-meddlin' with sich
things.'

'Goin' to shoot her? Kindly disturb the servants, won't it?'

'Antimony. Somethink new. Leastwise I never hearn of it till lately.
Come from a New Orleans doctor. Lets 'em down easy like. They never
knows, an' the other niggers never knows.'

'Never heared of it and I reckon Papa never heared of it.'

'Ever need none, I got plenty. Jest send a nigger with a note. You kin
give it your own self. Don' need me. Course, with a lady, like the
widder, it's different.'

'Don't never hope to need it. Our hands all purty young and sound,' said
Hammond.

'Never kin tell. Might git a-hold of a bad nigger--a trouble-stirrer.'

'Might,' Ham admitted without interest.

They had walked slowly down the hill toward the river in the sunshine
towards the cabin used as an isolation ward.

'River still a-comin' up,' commented Hammond. 'Guess it won't rampage
now, though. Rain stopped.'

'Due to be fallin' soon, with no more rain.'

'Don't hear Big Pearl carryin' on,' said Hammond, opening the door.

Big Pearl lay on the bed in the corner, her eyes fixed in space. All her
splendid energy was gone; a kind of languor enveloped her.

'How you come on, Big Pearl?' Hammond inquired.

Big Pearl raised her arm and extended it toward him. 'I all right now,
you come. Misery go right off.' She grasped Hammond's hand and held it
with her still powerful grip.

'Got the doctor to come, Big Pearl. He give you medicine to make you
well. Leave him look at you now,' explained Hammond.

'Don't need no doctor,' replied Big Pearl. 'Not no doctor's kin' of
misery I got. My Masta stay with me, I gits well. Masta leaves, I dies;
I shore dies.'

Redfield placed a hand on Big Pearl's brow. He looked at her tongue. He
took her pulse. He shook his head in quandary and puffed out his cheeks
with wisdom. He turned down the covers and lifted Big Pearl's dress,
kneaded her abdomen. She denied pain in the region.

'How old this wench?' Redfield demanded.

''Bout fourteen; most fifteen,' said Hammond.

'Shore powerful, that age. Look at them laigs--like oak trunks, but
right shapely,' commented Brownlee. 'Shore do admire to see a big, neat
wench.'

'Virgin?' asked Redfield.

'Reckon so,' said Hammond.

'Reckon so? Don't you know?' said the doctor with contempt. 'Whut you
doin'? Shirkin' your duty? Or is yo' pappy tryin' to keep you a virgin,
too?'

Hammond blushed. 'She too musky fer me.'

'But it a masta's duty to pleasure his wenches--the first time. A
strapping, good-put-together wench like this makes a man fergit the
musk. Sure, she virgin. You ought to be plagued of yourself, boy.'

'But bein' virgin didn' give Big Pearl no misery,' Hammond declared in
astonishment.

'Course it do. You know whut ails that wench? She's hipped. That's whut
she is--jest hipped,' declared Redfield positively.

'Kin you cure her?' Hammond demanded, baffled.

'I cain't, but you kin. She craves you to pleasure her.'

'That don't make her sick, don't make her beller and scream all night.'

'Yes, it do. Yes, it do. She fall off, maybe she die, an' you don't
pleasure her; take that maidenhead, anyway. Don't you see how she grabs
a-hold of you and hangs on? Ain' got no temperature, ain' got no pulse,
tongue clean. Nothink the matter with the wench 'cept she cravin' you.
Hipped, plumb hipped.'

'I is, too, sick, Masta Hammon', suh. I sick,' protested Big Pearl. 'I
isn't either cravin' you to pleasure me, Masta, suh--'lessen you cravin'
to. I knows I black, I knows I got musk, I knows I not fitten fer you,
Masta. I ain't bad, Masta, I ain't bad.' She rolled over on her belly
and face down upon the bed sobbed long sobs of shame, of yearning, of
blasted hope.

Hammond ran his arm tenderly under Big Pearl's body to turn her toward
him and spoke to her in a low, confidential voice. 'You ain't bad, Big
Pearl. Nobody say you bad. You been sick, but you well now. Come along.
Git up, and go back to Lucy. You'll be all right. We'll see, we'll see.'

Big Pearl gave a lurch and was on her feet, pulling down her dress. She
stumbled over Meg, who sat on the step outside the door, listening for
what went on. He picked himself up and scurried behind the cabin, lest
he be seen by his master. Big Pearl galloped up the hill towards the
quarters as if possessed. The three men watched her run, noted the
power, vigour, suppleness and sureness of her gait.

'I tol' you that big wench jest hipped,' said Redfield.

They wandered slowly back up the hill, the dealer and the veterinarian
impeded by shortness of breath, Hammond by the stiffness of his knee
joint. Some fifty feet behind them loitered Meg, innocent of
eavesdropping but straining an ear to hear every word.

'This Widder Johnson, say she got likely servants? Wharabouts she live?'
Brownlee speculated upon calling on her.

'Won't do you no good, goin' there. She ain't got none fer sellin'.'
Redfield was positive.

'Ain't worth your while,' Hammond added. 'Her niggers plumb played out,
all too old fer anybody to want. If it ben't fer her yarb doctorin' and
midwifin', she and her niggers would all starve to death.'

'Reckon so?' asked Redfield. 'I 'speck she kind of rich-like--well, not
rich, but tol'able, tol'able. Johnson left her right well off.'

'Mayhap, mayhap. I don't rightly know. She right savin',' Hammond
conceded.

'I ben a-thinkin' mayhap I'd pop the question today. My wife departed
this life three or four year ago now, and seems like I don't git ahead
none. The widder a-hintin' how she needs a man and all. Thought maybe it
a good idy to hitch up an' leave off vetinarin'. Kinder nice to settle
down planter and not have to do no work.'

'I reckon we cain't let a nigger git puny no more. Won't have no
veternary to call on. As soon trust a sick nigger to Lucretia Borgia to
doctor it as to git that Doc Simpson; kills more'n he cures.'

'Course I'll go on takin' care of Falconhurst hands. Cain't quit entire,
and not have no reason to go to town. Besides, don' want the ol' woman
to leave off her doctorin' and midwifin',' Doc reasoned.

'Papa will be glad.'

'Mayhap the widder won't have me, but she ben a-hintin' fer quite a
spell--leastwise I takes it as hintin'. I ain't done no sparkin',
either. To speak true, it's kinder hard to spark the widder; she so fat
and them warts all over her face and that black moustache of hern makes
lovin' her up kinder loathy like. She right good-natured, though, right
hearty.'

Brownlee thought of his sour, scrawny wife waiting for him in New
Orleans. Redfield's description of Mrs. Johnson was enticing to him,
despite warts and moustache. The pleasant plantation well stocked with
likely servants was even more enticing. If only he were single, he would
enjoy entering into competition with the veterinarian for the widow. If
only he had access to some of that poison that Redfield talked about. It
would work as well on a white woman as on a Negro. What had the doctor
called the substance? Where could he buy it?

The party had arrived at the house. Maxwell they found ensconced in a
comfortable chair in the sunshine on the long gallery. Alph sat on the
floor at the feet of his master and both were sipping at toddies so hot
that they could take only small swallows.

'Git out more cheers. Memnon, more cheers,' Maxwell greeted them
heartily. 'Come in and set and drink some corn.'

The taste of whisky was unpleasant to Alph, but to sit at his master's
feet and drink it was a triumph, notably a triumph over his brother
whose master showed him no such indulgence. As Meg approached, he rolled
his eyes in his direction, smacked his lips and devoted himself
assiduously to swallowing the hot liquid.

Memnon appeared dragging a chair awkwardly. He was haggard and fearful
of the whipping in store for him. Meg leapt with alacrity into the house
and, struggling under its weight, brought the most comfortable rocker
from the fireside and shoved it behind Hammond. Memnon returned to the
house for another chair for Brownlee, after which he went to the kitchen
for drinks all around.

Meg retreated against the house, his eyes on his brother, watching
enviously each sip from his glass. But, when Memnon appeared with the
drinks on a tray, Meg all but upset him, grabbed the lone toddy and
carried it to Hammond, knelt by his chair and gazed at his face. 'Hot
enough, Masta?' he whispered solicitously. 'Sugared enough?' He was
ignored. 'That Memnon cain't stir 'em good, Masta. Masta had ought to
let me.'

Hammond addressed his father, 'I reckon as how we'll have to break this
young buck in fer to take a-hold in place of Memnon. Mem seems
a-failin'-like. This little buck right peart.'

'Mem be all right after that hidin' you goin' to give him, Son. Matter
with him is he flinchin' that trouncin'.'

'Goin' to flog that Memnon?' Redfield was surprised. 'Thought he a pet
of yourn? Whut you ben up to, Mem?'

'A-slothin', an' a-thievin' and a-lyin'. Treated too good; my own fault.
A little touchin' up here an' there and he'll be better'n new,' Maxwell
said casually.

'Never knowed you to flog a boy before. Don't do much threshin', do
you?' Redfield asked.

'No, don't do much. Don't like it. Skears all the young niggers so, they
stops they growin' fer a day or two. An' the trouble with sendin' 'em to
you--besides you a-chargin' two bits a lash--is you welts 'em up with
the snake. Nobody wants to buy a welted nigger.'

'Everybody who sends a nigger to me fer to flog wants him checkered up a
little--that's whut they pays me fer. Send him home withoutn no marks on
him and they don't believe he trounced good. Wants 'em sent back to 'em
raw like.'

'Don't want snake-wales on backs of my niggers,' Maxwell declared.

'Wants 'em to remember good, got to gouge a little meat offn they backs.
Niggers fergits correction right quick,' opined the veterinarian.

Soon the sunshine and toddies and absence of pain made Maxwell drowsy
and he nodded off to sleep. He did not know when Redfield took his
departure.

Brownlee arose and stretched. 'Reckon I'll wander down and see about
them bucks o' mine,' he said.

'They fed and watered and looked after, Mista Brownlee, suh,' Hammond
assured him.

'Sure, sure enough, I knows; but I like to keep an eye on 'em.'

He had to have another look at Big Pearl. He was a connoisseur of fine
niggers, he believed. No really fine ones had ever passed through his
possession, a few big, sturdy bucks, but all had something the matter
with them, not truly prime. He aspired to deal in the fancy
market--housebroken young bucks, nubile yellow wenches, twins, dwarfs or
giants, oddities or monsters, hermaphrodites or freaks--but he had never
had the capital for such speculation.

He was not certain of Lucy's cabin. He thought he knew it. He had seen
Big Pearl's flight to her home. The door stood open to admit the light,
and he entered. Big Pearl sat on the side of the bed, and out of the
shadows appeared a monstrous, tall, raw-boned, lantern-jawed woman, a
large naked child astride her hips. Except for the exposed pendent
breast with which the baby toyed, Brownlee might have believed her a man
in woman's clothes.

'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.




CHAPTER 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 doesn'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.'

'Goin' to whup that Memnon hard, ain't you, Masta?' Meg would not let
the subject rest.

'I reckon he need it, hard,' said Ham, resuming his progress down the
hall.

'Kin I help, please, Masta, suh?'

'Help whut?'

'Help you in whuppin' Memnon?'

'You too little. Cain't sling that paddle. Have to have Vulcan or Pole
or one of 'em.'

Dite on her pallet beside the bed was awakened by the candlelight and
the talk. She rose upon her elbow and asked, 'Whure you want me, Masta,
suh, in the bed or on the floo'?'

'Better git in bed a little. Mayhap I wants you.'

Hammond knelt on Dite's pallet to pray and Meg knelt beside him and
listened. When Hammond arose from his knee and crawled upon the bed, Meg
was aware of the girl lying beside him. He looked with abhorrence at her
face upon the pillow, and hatred took possession of him. He desired not
merely to kill Dite but to annihilate her. He wished that she had never
been born, better yet that she had been born black and ugly, at very
least that she were out in the quarters and not beside her master in his
bed.

Meg pinched out the light of the candle and, finding no excuse to
remain, went out of the room and closed the door. He spread himself out
on the carpet in the hall as close as he could get to the door. Only
when he heard Dite getting out of the bed to sleep on the pallet was he
reconciled to sleep.

Hammond lay awake weaving fantasies about his projected journey in
search of a wife, whom he was by no means certain he wanted. The errand
would be pleasant, even if its objective was dubious. It would offer a
respite from the responsibilities and the round of daily duties. He was
in a state of somnolence between waking and sleeping when he heard a
low-voiced altercation in the hall.

'Git out o' here, nigger. Your mammy waitin' fer you. You cain't sleep
here. This my place.' It was Memnon's voice.

'No, suh, nigger; I goin' to sleep right here by my masta's doo'. Don'
talk so loud; you wake Masta Ham, he be mad,' Meg whispered. 'I Masta
Ham's nigger.'

'You isn't nobody's nigger. You ain't hardly no more'n a sucker.'

'I is too Masta's nigger.'

'Masta Ham jest a-coddin' you, lettin' you make like bein' his nigger.
Now, go down to the kitchen an' let me go asleep.'

There was a sound of scuffling and the impact of a blow on flesh. A
whining cry followed. It sounded as if it came from Memnon, but it must
have been he who had slapped the child. Hammond leapt from his bed and
made his way to the door.

'Whut you mean, you scoun'rel, woppin' my little buck?' he demanded of
the dark where he could just distinguish moving figures. 'Now git outn
here and keep quiet.'

'I never hit him. He wopped me right in my mouf, Masta, suh,' Mem
pouted.

'Never mind. Let Meg alone. Git outn here and stop your bellerin'. Meg,
you lay down and go to sleep.' Hammond closed the door and crawled back
into his bed.

Dawn had hardly broken when Hammond was awakened by a small figure in
front of the fireplace. Ham stretched and yawned.

'Wants your wench?' suggested Meg, kicking Dite with his bare foot.
'Wake up, nigger. Masta crave you in his bed. Ain't know nuffin'?'

'Min' your business, Meg. I wants Dite, I gits her. I don' feel like no
wench this morning.'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' and Meg resumed his squatting position before the
fire, coaxing it to flare. He continued so, long after the flames were
bursting brightly from the wood, adjusting the chunks across the
dog-irons and readjusting them, killing time until the room should warm
up and his master should see fit to arise. Dite got up, put on her dress
and left the room without a word.

Hammond emerged from the bed, sat on the side of it, rubbed and
scratched himself. 'Pile plenty chunks on. Keep 'is room hot. I goin' to
wash after breakfas',' he admonished.

'Yas, suh,' answered Meg, kneeling in front of his master and holding
his long drawers for him to slip his legs into. A dexterity in adjusting
his master's garments seemed to be a part of the boy's nature, since
nobody had taught him a valet's duties. He dressed his master as if he
were dressing a baby, tenderly, carefully.

Breakfast was hardly finished when Meg announced, 'Your tub ready,
Masta, suh. Water all carried.'

'Whut water?' asked Hammond.

'Water fer you to wash.'

'All right. Run along an' eat. Mem ready to wash me?'

Meg put his arm before his eyes and began to cry silently as he slowly
walked toward the door.

'Whut a matter, nigger? Whut you cry about?' Hammond was baffled.

'I wan's to wash you, Masta, suh. Memnon gits to do ever'thing. I not
your nigger at all,' Meg cried overtly.

'You too little,' declared the master.

'Kin do better'n Memnon.'

'Aw right, aw right. You kin wash me,' Hammond promised.

'You lettin' that nigger boss you. He be ownin' you, first you knows,'
objected the elder Maxwell.

'He right. He better'n Mem. He little, but let him try,' Hammond placed
his hand on the boy's shoulder, and said, 'He my nigger you know, Papa.'
Meg looked at him with the pleased solemnity of a prime minister.

When Hammond returned to his room, before the fire stood a washtub half
filled with water from which arose small wisps of steam. A metal pail of
water, with which to temper the heat of that in the tub, was on the
fire. Towels were laid out on the bed. An irregular piece of home-made
soap was on the floor. Fresh underclothing, socks and shirt were
methodically arranged upon a chair.

Meg piled another knot of wood upon the fire, lest the warm room should
cool off. He slipped his master's clothes from him as deftly as he had
put them on.

Hammond's knee precluded his squatting in the water. It was necessary
for him to sit in it, letting his legs protrude. Meg supported him with
his whole strength as Hammond eased himself into the tub. Then the boy
got down on his knees and soaped his master's body, crawling around the
tub from Hammond's shoulders to his knees and legs and feet. Meg
splashed himself and the carpet in rinsing the lather away.

He struggled to help Hammond rise, dripping, to his feet, sopped the
water from him with a towel, and led him to the bed where the master lay
and was rubbed with a dry towel warmed before the fire.

Hammond shoved his legs into his long drawers and submitted to being
dressed. He felt refreshed, renovated, clean. Meg slipped himself into
his own garments, buttoning the shirt askew in his haste to accompany
his master down the stairs. He ran to the kitchen and, without waiting
for help, mixed a toddy, which he carried to Hammond in the
sitting-room. He stoked and replenished the fire, and drew a low rocker
in front of it, brushing its upholstery in an unspoken invitation.

'Nigger tryin' to tell me whure I kin set down,' Hammond commented to
his father.

'I tol' you that you be his nigger first thing, an' you give him his
head. Plagued if I don't reckon but he got more gumption than you, a
white man washin' hisself right dab in winter.'

Hammond was restless in the afternoon. There was no work that required
doing. He thought of riding to Benson, but the roads were wretched and
there would be nobody in the tavern, unless perhaps Brownlee had been
delayed by the mire, and Ham had no desire ever to see Brownlee again.
To sit by the fire and drink toddies with his father would be to re-hash
again plans already formulated and recollections of trivialities best
forgotten.

As a relief from ennui, Hammond would with gusto have undertaken the
unrelished task of giving Memnon his whipping, but the day was Sunday.
For the Maxwells, Sunday was not a day of devotion but a day of rest, to
which the servants looked forward. A few of the older slaves, purchased
from plantations where there had been religious services, might still
recall some of the customs of their youth and say Sunday prayers in
their cabins. The Maxwells didn't know. They did not object to religion
in the quarters, but did not encourage it. They did object to their
Negroes learning to read. Besides being against the law for slaves, it
gave them ideas they were safer, and, for that matter, happier without.
At Falconhurst, no Biblical justification of the institution of slavery
was required. Nobody disputed it. No admonition of servants to obey
masters was needed. Why suggest to them that there exists an
alternative?

Maxwell, by ignoring God, avoided the necessity to dispute authority
with Him. Why introduce into plantation economy a being superior to the
white master?

Hammond ordered his horse and rode over the plantation. He found the
river falling and the dangers of overflow past. The horse picked its way
upstream to where Saint Helens Creek emptied into the Tombigbee. Ham
noted three of his young Negroes fishing with hooks and lines, reined up
his horse to talk to them. They had caught four small catfish, but the
current was too swift and the sunshine too pale for good fishing.

One of the Negroes had stepped on a moccasin with his bare foot, but the
snake had slithered into the water without trying to bite him. Hammond
warned the boy to be more careful. His father had paid six hundred
dollars for that boy four years ago, and the bite of a moccasin might
have killed him.

A deer crossed Hammond's path, a pregnant doe, and disappeared in the
brush. Later he saw a wildcat with two kittens playing on a log. He drew
his pistol and shot at the mother, but was sure he missed her. He saw
innumerable quail and some jacksnipes. The horse shied at a rattlesnake,
sufficiently disturbed to coil in alarm. Wild life was so copious on the
Maxwell property that it failed to excite Hammond's interest.

He rode back across the fields he intended for cotton, but found them
too sodden for ploughing, as he knew they would be. He was impatient to
get to that work, which could not be undertaken for another month.

He returned to the stable and gave the horse to a hand with instructions
about cleaning and currying it. Meg had seen him set out and was waiting
at the stable for his return.

'A toddy, Masta? Kin I stir you a toddy, suh?' the urchin begged,
following his master toward the house.

'I reckon so,' replied Hammond, bored and impatient for something to do.

He saw Big Pearl crossing the open space between the cabins, balancing a
bucket of water on her head. She was as lithe and graceful in her way as
the blacksnake that had scurried across his path down by the river. Big
Pearl saw Hammond too, and, embarrassed by Doc Redfield's diagnosis of
her ailment, hurried forward to avoid a direct meeting.

But he called to her and asked, 'All right agin, Big Pearl?'

She couldn't hang her head lest she spill the water, and could only
answer, 'Yas, suh, Masta, I's well. Didn't nothin' ail me, I reckon,
nothin' but jest belly-ache.'

'Lucy in the cabin?'

'Yassum, she'm to home,' Big Pearl was reluctant to have her master and
her mother discuss her illness, which she knew was his intention, but
there was no way to prevent it.

Hammond turned towards the cabin. Meg would have followed him, but the
master wouldn't permit it. He told him to go to the house and stir his
toddy. Belshazzar adjourned his hop-scotch before the door to follow his
master into the cabin, where Lucy was picking over fresh, wild greens,
the first of the season, she had gathered for supper. Meat was in a pot
on the fire.

'Evenin', Masta, suh. Come right in. Come right in. Evenin', suh. Bel,
you git your triflin' self out'n here. Cain't you see Masta come? Let me
move that kittle offn the cheer sosan you kin set down.' Lucy was
flustered at the honour of a visit from her young master. She grabbed a
broomstick and began poking nervously at the fire.

'Evenin', Lucy. Big Pearl all right agin?'

'Wasn't nuffin, wasn't nuffin at all,' Lucy disparaged. 'Jest
tomfoolery, I reckon. Wenches gits that way.'

'Big Pearl craves I should pleasure her?' Hammond asked without his
embarrassment being noticed.

'She sho' do. She sho' do. You isn't goin' to, is you?' Lucy couldn't
credit her fortune.

'And you thinks I had ought to?'

'An' you craves to, I be mighty 'bliged. Of course, Big Pearl craves her
master.'

'Well, git her ready. Wash her good--all over.'

'Sho' will scrub that wench, Masta, suh.'

'And put some red stuff in the water that you gits from Lucretia Borgia.
She tell you how.'

'Red stuff?' Lucy failed to understand.

'To kill the musk. Big Pearl powerful musky.'

'Sho' is. An' then I sends her over to you at the big house?'

'Nev' mind. I comes back here in little while.'

Hammond left the cabin with a kind of loathing. He flinched at the task
he had undertaken, doubtful of his ability to complete it? Would he
falter when the time arrived? It would be a shock to his manhood, if he
should fail. As a connoisseur of fine animals he was proud of Big Pearl,
but he had never thought of her as human. There was something bestial
about the chore. He was being used as a mere service jackass, like a
stud nigger. Yet his father expected it of him, the wench would feel
cheated of her right, Lucy would lose caste if he neglected the daughter
she had preserved so carefully for him, the other Negroes took it for
granted as a master's right, and, insofar as a master had any obligation
to a slave, a master's duty. To omit it would not impair his authority,
nor excite contempt, except his own; it would beget only wonder,
question.

Hammond was hardly out of Lucy's cabin, when the orgy of preparation for
the long-anticipated event began. A tub was brought in and Big Pearl and
Belshazzar were sent to the well for water, enough of which to bathe the
huge girl required three trips for each. There was no time to heat it,
since the master would return in 'a little while', and Lucy didn't know
whether he meant in five minutes or at his leisure, and she had feared
to ask. She ran to the kitchen of the big house for soap and the red
stuff to kill the musk, and Lucretia Borgia took her deliberate time in
getting it for her.

'Hurry up; hurry. Young Masta gwine to rape Big Pearl, an' I got to git
her scrubbed clean,' Meg heard Lucy tell his mother. 'Hurry up, please,
mam, Miz Lucretia Borgia.'

When Big Pearl got her feet into the washtub there was little room for
the rest of her. If she should sit or squat, the water would slop out.
Lucy used a dish-rag gourd as a sponge, soaping it and scouring Big
Pearl's body. Then, since Big Pearl could not be soaked in the
permanganate of potash solution, Lucy achieved the same result by
repeatedly squeezing her sponge over the girl's shoulders, keeping the
body wet.

Big Pearl was too excited to sense the coldness of the water. She
listened to Lucy's injunctions and threats without hearing them.

'You ack a lady now. Do everything like Masta Hammon' say--jest like he
say--ever'thin',' Lucy instructed her. 'Don' you dare ask Masta fer
nuffin'--nuffin' at all. Young Masta know whut he want to do to you and
know whut he goin' to give you. If you not a lady, I thresh you. An'
remember to say thankee to Masta Ham. Whether he give you nothin' or
not, say thankee.' Lucy repeated her cautions with variations over and
over.

While Big Pearl dried herself, Lucy scurried to Dido's cabin to spread
the news and to borrow a quilt. Her excitement was unconcealed. 'Dido,'
she implored, 'let me have your new quilt. Masta Ham gwine to rape Big
Pearl right away, an' my quilt dirty. I knows you choice of it, but for
Young Masta, an' I knows you let me have it.'

'Better take along this bolster, too. Yourn 'most ragged,' Dido
suggested.

Lucy hurried home with the bedclothes, and Dido lost no time in
heralding the tidings about the neighbourhood, not neglecting to boast
that her bedding was better than Lucy's.

Lucy made the bed anew, ordered Belshazzar to empty the tub and to be
gone and not to come back until Hammond should come and go. She
replenished the fire and sat down to wait. She was more nervous than Big
Pearl, and as happy.

'You cold?' she asked the naked girl.

'No'um,' Big Pearl replied. 'Reckon he come?'

'He come. Give him time,' said Lucy. 'You too hasty. White man take his
time,' said Lucy, getting up to smooth an imagined wrinkle from the
quilt. 'Right kind of Dido, borrowin' her new quilt to me.'

The mother resumed her seat upon a bench by the fire and looked at her
daughter. 'You real purty, Big Pearl,' was her verdict. 'Coarsen you
ain't yaller an' you big. Always was big, bigger'n any sucker I ever
had--'ceptin' that one buck, borned before you, that Ol' Masta Wilson
kept fer his own self when Masta Hammond's pappy bought me an' you. I
wonders did Ol' Masta Wilson sell that little buck or is he still at
Coign Plantation. Course he big now. He two or three crops older'n you.'

'Who pleasured you, Mammy; the first time, I means?' Big Pearl asked.

'My masta, course,' replied Lucy candidly. 'Ol' Masta Wilson. He gettin'
ol'. I speck he dead now, he so ol'.'

'You reckon Masta Ham let me take up--after he through with me?'

'Prob'ly, prob'ly. As is, you wastin'. Could have a nice sucker a'ready.
Prob'ly give you to Big Vulc or some of 'em fer awhile. Vulc a right
likely nigger, stylish an all. Pole better lookin' but he no good.
Lucretia Borgia ain't had no sucker fer goin' on three year now. Pole
young an' strong, but he jest ain't got no sap.'

'You don' reckon Masta Ham aim to take me into the big house fer his bed
wench, does you?' Big Pearl said hopefully.

'Whut foolishment you talk! Masta don' crave no big gyascutus like you
fer his bed. He wants 'em light and little, like Dite. Dido say he
lookin' at Tense, only she too little yet awhile.'

'You says you own self that I purty.'

'You purty, but you big and you right dark. Make a good breeder, mayhap,
fer Masta. No bed wench. Ain't you satisfy?'

'Yassum.'

When Hammond emerged from the big house, more eyes were watching him
than he suspected. Lucretia Borgia saw him through the kitchen window
and grunted with envious jealousy. Meg's jealousy was even greater. From
behind bushes and around cabin corners, black faces peered, and all knew
his errand and envied Big Pearl the honour they knew he was about to do
her.

Lucy and Big Pearl both rose when they saw the master. He entered the
cabin, removed his coat and laid it on a box which served as a table.
Unbuckling his holster, and laying his gun beside his coat, he said,
'All right, Lucy, you kin go over to Dido's or somers, but watch that
door and keep them niggers outn here.'

'Big Pearl, you ack like lady, now. Do whut Masta say or he whup you.
Dat a good strong broomstick right by fire, and you needs it, Masta.'

'Don' you fret, Lucy. Big Pearl ain't goin' to need no broomstick to
her.'

'Better not; better not need none,' threatened Lucy, closing the door
behind her.

Later, when Hammond left the cabin, he was at once exhausted and
exhilarated. The ordeal had been more difficult but more pleasant than
he had expected. He had a sense of duty performed. His back tingled with
the raking of Big Pearl's powerful fingers through his shirt and his
shoulder pained from her bite.

When Lucy returned she found Big Pearl still on the bed weeping and
laughing.

'Whut you cryin' fer, nigger? Masta Ham hurt?'

'No'um, no'um. Masta Ham awful nice. I jest loves Masta Ham.'

'He have to whup you?'

'No'um, no'um. Masta never whup me once. Masta Ham sho' is kin' white
man.'

'Masta Ham say about you takin' up?'

'Didn't say nothin'. Mayhap he goin' to crave me for his bed wench,' Big
Pearl speculated.

'Mayhap he don'. Mayhap he goin' to give you to one of the niggers and
raise him a sucker outn you.'

Hammond had no fear of his father's disapproval; rather, he feared the
chuckle of approbation. He decided to postpone the narration of his
exploit, to draw the sting from the old man's triumph by passing the
incident off as a plantation routine when the father should eventually
learn of it. But he reckoned without Negro gossip. Lucretia Borgia and
Agamemnon had both blabbed to Maxwell, who had already noticed Meg's
restless perturbation, which he attributed to a scolding or switching
which Hammond had probably given the urchin.

The father was taking the final swallows from his glass when the son
entered the room. 'Memnon,' he called. 'Better drink a toddy, Son. Do
you good.'

But without waiting for Memnon to answer, Meg slipped a hot glass into
Hammond's hand.

'Now, stir one fer your masta. Mustn't never give me nothin' 'thout
givin' some to your masta, your ol' masta,' Hammond explained.

Hammond held his drink in his hand, letting it cool, but by the time Meg
returned with Maxwell's drink, Hammond was sipping at his own. 'This too
strong, boy, too much corn,' he complained. 'Taste.'

Meg took the glass, looked at it and then at Hammond. 'Right outn yo'
glass?' he asked, incredulous.

'Taste it,' Hammond said again.

Meg raised the goblet dubiously to his lips. He never had liked the
smell of the concoction, and the flavour he relished even less. He had
been told to taste, however, and he took three small swallows before
Hammond grabbed it from his hand. 'I tol' you to taste,' the master
reprimanded. 'I never tol' you to drink it down. Now fill it up with hot
water. Yourn all right, Papa? Not too much corn?'

'Mine good. That saplin' of yourn stirs 'em better'n the big nigger,
seem like.'

The pleasure that the praise, which he overheard, gave Meg was tempered
by the fear of having his services diverted from the son to the father.
He was back with Hammond's drink and waited for approval.

'This better. This good,' said Hammond.

'Never did like much corn in yo' toddy, Son. Whisky do you good after
your tussle. Big Pearl powerful strong,' Maxwell led into the subject.

'She big, all right.'

'How you likes black meat?'

'Same as yaller meat, an' you closes your eyes. Reckon white meat ain't
no different, 'ceptin' fer musk.'

'Jest the same. Jest the same. Right pleased you found out. Tired, Ham?'

'A mite, jest a mite. I feels good.'

'Be a-pesterin' Big Pearl regular, first thing,' Maxwell predicted.

'Mayhap,' admitted Hammond. 'Worst thing is havin' to--the first time.'

'All your own doin'. Nobody didn't make you. Niggers cain't make they
owner do nothin' he don' want to.'

'They expects it, howsumever, kind of. You says so your own self. A good
masta has to pleasure 'em. If'n he kin, that is. An' I kin.'

'An' you kin, an' you wants to, it a good thing. Makes 'em feel you
takin' an in'erest in 'em. Makes 'em feel they belong to you. Even bucks
sets more store in a wench that her masta has pestered. I wisht you
enjoyed it more.'

'I doesn't disenjoy it. Oft times I likes it right well. Take this Big
Pearl now, she dark and she big, but she right hearty. Right hearty.'

Father and son exchanged a smile.




CHAPTER 6


'Go down to the river and wash yourself good all over, and come to me at
the stable,' Hammond dispassionately instructed Memnon the following
morning at breakfast.

Memnon began to whimper, 'Masta goin' to whup Memnon. Don' whup Mem,
Masta, suh, please, suh. Mem sick, Masta. Cain't whup a sick nigger,
Masta.'

'I said wash an' meet me. I never said about whuppin'.'

Ham usually omitted his toddy after breakfast, but this morning he felt
a need for one. Meg prepared the drinks, one for each of his masters,
before he sat down to his own breakfast in the kitchen with Alph. He ate
hurriedly and nervously. He feared Hammond might go to the stable
without him.

He stood outside the door with the leather paddle in his hand when
Hammond came out.

'Give it here,' commanded Ham.

'But I goin' along,' protested the boy doubtfully.

'Who said?'

'You said,' affirmed Meg. 'I'm goin' to rub the stuff--the----You said I
could.'

'The _pimentade_? Well, come along. I reckon I did say.'

The first adult buck they met was Napoleon, who had been supplanted in
Lucretia Borgia's affections by the more fertile Mem. He was a stout
yellow boy somewhat more than Hammond's own age, all of nineteen,
possibly twenty.

'Come along, Pole; I needs you,' Hammond said.

Pole saw the paddle and began to protest, 'Don' whup me, Masta. I ain't
done nothin', Masta?'

'Don't fret yourself. Ain't minded to trounce you, Pole.'

'Goin' to hide Memnon. I goin' to rub the stuff,' Meg elucidated.

'Not, an' you cain't keep your mouth shutten,' warned Hammond. He was
preoccupied, reluctant about the task in front of him. He ran his eyes
over Pole, however, in contemplation of the price he would bring the
following fall in New Orleans--fifteen to eighteen hundred dollars,
possibly two thousand if the demand for Negroes continued to grow. Pole
was lazy and not very alert, just bright enough to get out of work and
to avoid punishment. However, he was husky, upstanding, well
proportioned, with good, almost pretty features, and an active dimple.
Hammond noted that Pole was soft, his muscles flaccid; it was none too
early to begin to prime him.

The double doors of the stable stood open, and bluebottle flies buzzed
in the sunshine. A surrey and a gig stood with shafts upraised in the
shadows of the cavernous interior. The corners of the main room held
cobwebs in which pieces of hay, dust and other debris rested lightly.
Hammond noticed that some little-used harness, hanging on the wall, was
dusty and in need of oil.

The puncheons, running crosswise on the floor, were worn with the
traffic of years, and the cracks between them were filled with dirt. The
studding which supported the building was warped with the top-heavy
weight of hay in the loft and was no longer quite plumb, if it had ever
been. Scabrous patches of whitewash still adhered to the walls near the
ceiling, but they were grey from the accumulations of dust.

Hammond's stallion nickered for attention when it caught his odour, and
Hammond went back to the stall to rub the horse's nose. The mares and
mules in the box stalls behind the stallion ignored Hammond's presence,
although the sounds of their switchings and stampings and mumbling made
their presence known. The doors of the other box stalls, which served as
dormitories for young bucks, stood open.

'Drive them niggers outn this barn and tell 'em be gone clean away from
here,' Hammond instructed Pole. 'Look in the stalls, and clean 'em all
out, ever' one on 'em. Whure that Mem nigger? Reckon he don' crave no
touchin' up, here and there? Reckon he hidin' out?'

'Here come Mem now, Masta, suh. Here he come,' Meg announced from
outside the building.

Assorted in all stages of adolescence, Negro boys, black, brown, ochre,
and all but white, squat and tall, fat and lathy, scurried, sauntered or
sidled past their master in their exits from the building. One ugly,
gangling pubescent had kinky hair of a brown bordering upon rufus, grey
eyes, and a saffron face spattered with freckles. Hammond ignored their
passing, but this unpleasant combination attracted his attention and he
made a note to sell him. It didn't pay to feed and mature an animal so
hideous, even though he might be sound. Why hadn't he thought to offer
the little buck to Brownlee? What was such trash doing at Falconhurst
anyway?

Memnon moped into the doorway.

'Where you been? I tol' you to wash an' come here?' Hammond greeted him.

'Been a-washin', like you say--all over, good. Masta, I sick. I don'
crave whuppin' at all. Mem don' need whuppin', Masta, please, suh,
please suh.'

'That rope right wore out. Reckon it will hold?' Hammond addressed
himself; and then said to Napoleon, 'Put it through that off pulley.'

Pole got on a box and inserted the rope into the end pulley of a series
affixed, about a foot and a half apart, to the centre beam in the
ceiling.

'You isn't goin' to hang me up, Mista? I kneel down good, I ben' over, I
hol' still, an' you doesn't hang me. Don' please.' The now naked Negro
was terrified.

'That pulley stick. It won' turn,' said Pole.

'Not used in long time,' said Ham. 'Pick the dirt outn it and grease it.
Goin' to use the two end ones and stretch him.'

'Don' stretch me that fur, Masta. My legs won' reach that fur. Use a
middle pulley, Masta, please.'

'Mem, git out that jug of _pimentade_ and the crock and sponge. You put
it away last time it was used in that little corner room.'

'You ain't goin' to _pimentade_ me, Masta, too? That burn awful. Oh,
Masta, Masta, please, no _pimentade_.' Memnon wept, but got the
dust-encrusted jug and went back for the crock, which held the
dish-rag-gourd sponge, over which had settled dust mixed with fine webs.
He set them gingerly down on the floor beside the box on which his
master sat.

Pole had cleaned and oiled the pulley until it functioned with a whining
squeak.

Meg attacked the jug of _pimentade_, struggled with the corncob which
served as a stopper and finally extracted it with his teeth. He began
pouring the liquid over the soiled sponge in the crock until Hammond
checked him.

'Don't pour that yet. Shake the jug first. Stir up the pepper that
settles to the bottom,' he instructed Meg.

The jug was too heavy for the boy to manage and Hammond lifted it and
shook it himself. Meg, however, tipped it and gurgled its contents into
the crock, such as he didn't spill on the floor. He soaked the gourd and
wrung the liquid out of it and soaked it again. He held the saturated
sponge before him ready when it should be needed, oblivious of the
sticky mixture that dripped down the front of his clothes.

'Close them doors, Meg,' Hammond ordered. 'Don't want them bucks hangin'
around to hear this paddle slappin'. Scare 'em till they green.'

Gloom and dusk settled over the great room with the shutting out of the
sunlight that had poured through the wide doors.

'Now lay down,' Hammond commanded Mem. 'No, on your back and closer this
way.' He formed a loop in the end of the rope and drew it tight around
Mem's ankle. 'Now, Pole, you pull.'

Memnon stopped protesting. He clambered along the floor with his hands
and arms in an effort to protect his back from the roughness of the
floor as Napoleon on the other end of the rope hoisted him in the air.
His fingers could just reach the floor and relieve a small part of the
tension on his foot when Hammond called to Pole, 'That's enough. Tie
it.'

The boy hung upside-down by one foot, the other threshing the air.

Pole stood on a box and thrust another rope through the pulley farthest
from Mem. Hammond looped it around Mem's other foot and Pole pulled it
and tied it, thus spraddling Mem's legs to the greatest width it was
possible to open them.

Hammond grabbed Mem around the waist and added his weight on the ropes.
'Reckon they strong enough,' he commented.

'Oh, oh, my foot hurt. Oh, oh, Masta,' Memnon screamed, but Hammond
wadded up his bandana and, stuffing it into Mem's mouth, stifled his
noise. Memnon could have removed it, but he was glad enough of the gag.
His cries were involuntary.

'He sure look funny, a-hangin'. Wisht Miz Lucretia Borgia see him now,'
said Napoleon.

Hammond ran his hands over Mem's thighs and buttocks, and found them
soft. He had known that they would not be firm, for Mem did no hard
work. He felt the belly, which offered no resistance to his grasp.

He put the paddle in Pole's hand and instructed him, 'Now, stand off
from him, so like. An' aim fer his bottom. Gits it down on his legs, it
won't hurt none, but don't slam his back. An' stay away from the front
side. Don't hit him in the belly. Un'erstan'?'

'Yas, suh, Masta; I reckon I does.'

'I'll tell you when to start an' stop you when I ready fer you to stop.'
Hammond retired to a box against the wall. He didn't feel just well. 'Go
ahead,' he gave the word.

Pole took his stance and raised his paddle, measuring the distance from
his target. He tried to conceal his exultation, but couldn't control the
play of his dimple. He tapped Mem's rump lightly, hardly touching it.
Then three sharp spats which caused the pendent body to sway only
slightly. Mem's groans were audible, but he was unable to cry out.

The next blow set Mem swinging and begot a moan that the handkerchief in
his mouth couldn't stifle. Thereafter the paddle fell at regular
intervals, slowly but steadily, a blow followed by a wait until the
victim came to rest, and another blow. The impact of the heavy leather
upon the flaccid flesh produced a dull sound. Muffled sounds,
incomprehensible and distorted, got past the handkerchief. Mem's body
writhed and he took his fingers from the floor and flailed his arms.

Hammond's queasiness turned to nausea. He told Pole to wait. He went out
and closed the door behind him.

Mem's swinging body came to absolute rest. The swaying weight had
stretched the ropes so much that Mem could reach the floor with his
palms and relieve the tension on his ankles.

Pole guffawed, 'Nigger, 'Cretia Borgia had ought to see you now. Reckon
you not much good to Lucretia Borgia, now, never goin' be no good agin.
You sure a purty sight. Goin' to be purtier when Masta come back.'

Hammond came back into the barn, the colour gone from his face. 'Better
give him some more,' he said stoically and sat on the box.

Pole resumed his pummelling. The respite increased the pain. In the
interval the bruised flesh had begun to grow sore. Hammond wanted to
stop the blows, but couldn't. If he had not sickened he would have
commanded Napoleon to desist, but he was ashamed of his weakness. He had
to prove his own ruthlessness, which he thought of as his courage. He
had to prove to himself that he could whip a nigger. As soon as he
dared, he put a stop to the beating. Pole rested the end of the bat on
the floor; Hammond took it from his hand and hung it on a nail in the
wall.

Meg had stared at the whipping, transfixed, enraptured. He harboured no
hatred for Memnon, but this was a nigger's fate, a concept he had
acquired from Lucretia Borgia, who was sycophant enough to avoid
punishment but ready to submit to it if it should be her master's whim.
But for the grace of Hammond, it was Meg who hung there bruised and raw.
Yet it sobered him. He resolved to evade the chastisement which he had
before invited.

'All right. Go to work,' Hammond nodded towards Meg. He was serious;
except that this was duty, he was contrite. He sensed Mem's agony and
terror. He imagined the furious smarting the application of the
_pimentade_ would beget; and he would have withheld it but for his faith
in its power to heal. He was not wanton, but, having caused the injury,
he must heal it.

Meg had to reach up to apply the sponge, and when he squeezed it, as
much of its liquid ran down his arm as on Mem's injuries. Mem writhed at
the excruciating burn of the acrid mixture and tried to scream. Hammond
himself untied the ropes, lowering Mem to a position on his shoulders,
so that Meg had to stoop somewhat rather than to reach upward. Mem's
head was forward, but he changed his position so that his left cheek was
on the floor. He had chewed the handkerchief into a wet wad and spat it
out without volition. He could have removed it with his hand, but was
glad enough to have his cries silenced.

Hammond told Pole to release the ropes and let Mem down. Pole untied one
rope and released a leg, and Mem's face dragged slowly along the floor
as the weight on the other rope brought it vertical. The free leg
flailed weakly. Pole released the second rope and Mem's body fell on its
back to the floor. He was too exhausted, too weary, too relieved to turn
on his belly. He made no effort to extricate his ankles from the
slackened ropes.

Hammond opened one of the doors and Meg pushed back the other. Light
flooded the barn and the line of the sun fell diagonally across Mem's
body.

Hammond turned towards the house. Meg followed him, turning his head
backwards, reluctant to leave the carnage. They met Maxwell, who had
started on rheumatic legs towards the stable. He had paced the gallery
impatiently until he had heard Mem's scream and could restrain himself
no longer.

'How is he?' the father asked.

'He all right--goin' to be.'

'Any fuss? Everythin' all right?'

'Ever'thin' all right,' answered Hammond briefly.

'Bleed much?'

'Not much.'

'How are you, Son? Had ought to a done it myself.'

'I all right, Papa. I tired is all. I reckon I tender. I reckon I wasn't
cut out fer threshin' niggers.'

'It got to be done--sometimes.'

Hammond climbed the stairs, Meg at his heels. He sent the child away,
entered the room, threw himself upon the bed face down, and found relief
in tears.




CHAPTER 7


'Well, I swan! Warren Maxwell's boy. I'd a-knowed you anywhures. Look
jest like yo' papa,' said Major Woodford genially and shouted: 'Beatrix,
come and see Sophie Hammon's boy. She don't hear me; don't hear right
good. She'll be in later. You ain't been here in years? Guess not.
Kindly neglectful, ain't you? Whut do we owe the honour of seein' you
now to? You right welcome, mighty welcome, any time. But whut do we owe
the honour to?'

'Well, I over in these parts to borrow an old Mandingo buck offn Mista
Wilson over at Coign Plantation. Papa got two prime Mandingo wenches,
an' he want Mista Wilson's buck to mate up with 'em. Papa Mandingo
crazy, seems like. Thinks they no niggers like Mandingos.'

'They good, all right. Not many pure ones around. I guess they purty
hard to ketch in Africa. Didn't many ever come to America. Plenty in
Cuba, folks say, and Jamaica.'

'But no way to fetch 'em in.'

'Not now. Fool law. I recollect that big buck of Mista Wilson's. Must be
old though. Goin' down to Coign to borrow him, eh?'

'An' rode by Crowfoot to call--sorta. You my nighest of kin--that is,
Cousin Beatrix is.'

'That's right, I reckon. You an' your papa the only Maxwells left. Used
to be a big family of 'em; and the Hammonds have sort of petered
out--one thing and another, I reckon my wife and children are your
nearest blood. Married?'

'Not yet.' Hammond blushed.

'Ought to git married. Keep the blood from running out,' argued Major
Woodford.

'That whut Papa say. I lookin' around. Don't know many white ladies.'

'Woods full of 'em, and you kin jest about take your pick. Steady young
man, and next in line to heir a good plantation. Quite a ketch, an' I
knows anything.'

Hammond was ill at ease as he talked. The elegance of the Crowfoot
parlour, the ornate American-Empire suite of walnut, the imitation
Aubusson carpet, the great square piano with its massive legs, the
curtains of yellow damask at the long windows, although they were worn,
the muddy portraits in heavy, gilt frames, impressed the boy so much
that his diffidence increased. His host, after so many years of living
with it, still counted the cost of the house and its furnishings, which
he had acquired when cotton crops were good and when his Negroes were
young and before it was necessary to mortgage both the plantation and
its slaves. His taking Hammond into the elaborate room had been by
design and it had brought about the effect he intended.

The Major rose from the pink sofa and stuffed his thumbs into the
pockets of his vest, thus throwing open his tail-coat and revealing the
heavy, gold chain with its seals that hung across his well-rounded
stomach. 'Let's go and find Miz Woodford, your Cousin Beatrix that is.
She'll shore be right glad. Won't tell her who you air; let her reckon.'

He bustled on his short legs, with a show of haste but no speed, toward
the sitting-room, his hand on the arm of Hammond, limping beside him.
They found his wife reading a Bible in which she traced the lines with
her forefinger and moved her lips. She failed to notice their approach
until they came near to her and started when she saw the unexpected
guest. She looked Hammond up and down and then looked questioningly into
the face of the Major, closing her book and raising her ear-trumpet with
a single gesture.

'Who you reckon this is?' shouted the Major into the funnel-like
contraption.

The woman looked Hammond up and down with what to him appeared like
hostility, indifference at best. 'I don't know. Should I ought to know?
Ain't ever seen him before as I know of,' she finally said in a loud
voice without resonance.

'Sophie's boy, Hammond--Hammond Maxwell,' explained the Major.

'How? I cain't hear,' she said, searching the Major's face.

'Hammond. Hammond Maxwell. Your Cousin Sophie's boy,' the Major shouted.

A smile spread slowly over her face as she rose, dropping the book from
her lap. 'Well, I declare. Hammond, Cousin Hammond. I'm glad to see you,
right glad,' she exclaimed, throwing her heavy arms around his shoulders
and planting a kiss upon his embarrassed mouth. 'Whure did you ever come
from?'

'From home,' Hammond answered.

'I declare!' she said, standing back a step, but keeping a firm grasp on
his shoulders with her outstretched hands. 'I jest declare! Sophie's
boy. I had ought to have knowed. The very image of Uncle Theo. Ain't he
like Uncle Theophilus, Major?'

'More like his pa. Jest like Warren,' the Major said in a loud voice.

Beatrix made a face and shook her head in disagreement. 'He's a Hammond,
pure Hammond. Ain't nothing Maxwell about him as I kin see. Pull up a
seat and talk,' she gestured towards a chair and resumed her own,
kicking the Bible aside.

Hammond was disappointed in his cousin. She was a heavy-made woman of
indefinite middle age, her dull, dark chestnut hair combed severely back
from her sallow, moth-patched face and amber eyes. Her thin upper lip,
short and covered with dark down in which no stiff hairs had yet
appeared, drew back to reveal wide-spaced teeth which were also brown,
and which protruded over her lower jaw. Her brown woollen dress, well
stayed, was neat and severe.

She held her instrument in Hammond's direction, but he at first talked
around it rather than into it. She picked up only half he said, even
after he had repeated, but it made little difference, since she was bent
more upon what she herself had to say than upon what Hammond said.

'How'd you leave Cousin Warren?' she asked, and Hammond explained the
state of his father's health.

'When did you come?'

'Jest rode in. Slept last night at the tavern in Centerville.'

'Too bad. Might as well of found Richard and slept with him. He's in
Centerville a-readin' law,' she gloated. 'Goin' to be a lawyer. Whut are
you a-aimin' fer?'

'Don't know. Jest a planter, I reckon,' Hammond said.

'Ought to be a lawyer and go into politics, like Richard. Reckon he'll
be governor or somethin' someday.'

'More likely to turn out a gam'ler or a nigger stealer,' interposed
Major Woodford in a normal tone.

'Whut say?' His wife turned her horn toward her husband.

'Nothin',' the Major shook his head.

'More 'n likely somethin' about Richard. You got a grudge agin poor
Richard. Richard ain't real strong. Got to make allowance. Always did
favour Charles. Charles is my second boy,' she explained to Hammond.

'Charlie ain't a nigger thief--yet,' the Major said in a voice Beatrix
couldn't hear.

'Charles is younger 'n you. Richard older 'n you. Sophie had you jest
between 'em.'

'I know,' Hammond shouted.

'And Blanche, Blanche is younger yet. Jest sixteen. She my youngest.
Whure is Blanche? She ought to be ready fer church.'

'She about ready, I reckon. Prob'ly a-primpin' extry if she know Hammond
here,' laughed the Major.

'The kerriage ready?' asked Beatrix.

'Will be,' the Major nodded toward her.

'Charles come to go with her?' the mother inquired.

'Cain't count on him. He promised to be back in time, but you cain't
never depen' on him. Don't like goin' to church, nohow.'

'Somebody got to go with Blanche. Cain't have her go alone with jest
that nigger coachman.'

'Why not? She safe with ol' Wash.'

'Don't look right. Church would talk,' declared Beatrix. 'Don't see whut
Charles have to go to Centerville to see Richard fer ever' Sat'day, and
cain't git home to take Blanche to meetin' on Sunday. Them boys cain't
git along together at home.'

'To Centerville to see Dick?' Major Woodford scoffed. 'Charlie don't
care no more 'bout Dick in Centerville than he do at Crowfoot. He go to
Centerville to see the nigger fightin' ever' Satiday.'

'You hadn't ought to let him,' complained his wife. 'Leads to gamblin'.'

'Gamblin'. Whut he got to gam'le with? Few dollars pocket money, mayhap.
Cain't keep a boy from gam'lin' a little,' said the Major with
complacence.

'Gamblin' is a sin, jest like dancin' and playin' cards and carryin' on.
Brother Ben Jones say so the las' sermon I could hear him preach,' she
quoted her authority. 'I don't go to church no more. Ain't no use.
Cain't hear right good, so I jest sets at home and reads the Bible and
lets the chil'ren go. But gamblin's a sin. Don't say nothin' in the
Bible about nigger fightin', but the gam'lin' shore is bad. Whure they
is nigger fightin', there sure to be gam'lin', an' I don't want my boy
Charles corrupted. Charles is sich an innocent, good boy, but you'll git
him wil' like Richard an' you don' keep him home away from them fights.'

'I cain't keep him home withoutn I put him in spancels. Always cravin' I
give him a young buck to make a fighter out of. I don't do it, do I? I
don't want my hands ruint, chewed up and scarred and blinded. Give him a
nigger to fight, have to have another to bet--maybe lose. You cain't say
I aids and abets him in his lowness,' the father excused himself.

'Charles don't come, whyn't you go to meetin' with Blanche?' the wife
suggested.

'You know, well as I do, I got to go to that nigger meetin'. You know
the law that you cain't have no nigger church, 'lessen a white man there
to hear that they don't preach no risin'.'

'Mayhap, Cousin Hammond would crave to carry Blanche to church meetin'?'
Cousin Beatrix suggested.

'Hammond tired,' objected her husband. 'Ridin' all day yestiday, and up
early this morning to git here.'

'I not tired hardly. I be right charmed to go, an' I knowed how to ack,'
volunteered Hammond.

'Ack jest like in any church. We're Babtists.'

'Whut I mean, I ain't ben to church sence Mamma die,' confessed Hammond.

'Course, you got to stay and look after your nigger meetin',' Beatrix
sought an excuse for him. 'Jest as good. God sees you in nigger
meetin'.'

'We don't have nigger church at Falconhurst. Papa think it keeps the
hands all stirred up,' Hammond explained.

'He right,' agreed Woodford. 'I'd sell that preacher and stop that
foolishness if it wasn't fer her.'

'Why, you usen to hold meetin' fer your servants,' Beatrix remembered.

'Not sence Mamma die.'

'Had a good meetin' house an' everything.'

'Use it now to sleep niggers in. Got to be so many,' said Hammond.

'Whut the use of slavery an' it ain't to save pore heathen souls, to
bring the niggers to Jesus and learn 'em to lay their burdens at His
feet? Ain't right, ain't right, I say, to keep 'em from learnin' about
the Lord.'

'Warren always was a free thinker,' the Major sighed in a low voice. 'I
got to have religion, women about.'

'Whut you needin' is a good Christian wife, Cousin Hammond,' Beatrix
prescribed. 'Make you go to church. Save your soul an' bring you to
Jesus.'

'Whut the matter with that Charles? We late a'ready. He cain't ever do
nothin' he promise,' complained Blanche as she entered the room, tying
her bonnet with ribbons beneath her chin. Seeing Hammond, she stopped
short and expressed her surprise with 'Oh!'

'Come here, darlin', and kiss your Cousin Hammond, Hammond Maxwell,
Cousin Sophie Hammond's boy,' her mother bade Blanche. 'Ain't seen him
sence he was a little tad an' you was a baby. Come to visit us from
Falconhurst Plantation. Goin' to carry you to church. Come here an' kiss
him welcome.'

The girl blushed but was without reluctance. She advanced and the boy
encircled her stays and pecked an embarrassed kiss upon her small
petulant mouth. 'Never knowed I had no cousin like you,' she said.

'There's Wash with the team,' Major Woodford said, looking out the
window. 'Better git along, don't want to be late fer the meetin'. Reckon
Charlie ain't comin'. We'll talk some when you gits back.'

Blanche kissed her mother, who did not rise. The Major led the way
through the wide hall to accompany the pair as far as the front gallery,
where he stood watching Hammond awkwardly hand the girl into the wide
back seat of the surrey and get in beside her. The old chocolate-hued
coachman, in his dilapidated livery, appraised the newcomer with
approval without turning his own head or appearing to look. He noted the
affability of his master and the animation of the girl, and he surmised
in them the hope to bring the visitor into the family.

For Hammond, sitting so close to a white girl was a fresh experience. He
thought Blanche pretty, in fact beautiful. He wanted to think so. She
was indeed fresh and she was young, and her costume emphasized what
allure she had. Her flowing dress of cream-coloured woollen challis with
a painted pattern of small moss roses was held in at the tightly laced
waist by a sash of pink ribbon and enveloped her from neck to ankle. Her
stays forced her bosom upward and there was a hint of copious and
upright breasts beneath the folds of her frock. The wide brim of her
flowered hat was bent against the sides of her face by streamers that
tied beneath her chin.

What Hammond could see of Blanche herself satisfied his inexperience. He
approved the smallness of her mouth. He thought her small, pinched nose
precious, her light blue eyes divine, although their narrow spacing
annoyed him. How was Hammond to know that the curls that showed beneath
the hat were made with a curling-iron? That the alternate blanching and
blushing of her cheek was occasioned by his own presence? He failed to
note the bulbous fingers with the bitten nails that protruded from
Blanche's short, fingerless black lace mitts. He was allured by a fresh
scent, something like rose geranium, and wondered whether all white
ladies smelled so sweet.

But he would have to get used to whiteness of female flesh. Its pallor
seemed to him not quite healthy. He knew the beauty of blondeness, but
failed to appreciate it. He knew, moreover, that if he was to have a
wife he would have to tolerate that she was white.

'Folks won't believe that you-all my cousin,' observed Blanche.

'Why won't they? I am.'

'I knows you are, but I ain't never talked about you, didn't know
nothin' about you at all.'

'Thought everybody knowed we cousins. I did. Papa been talkin' 'bout you
and Cousin Beatrix ever sence I was little boy.'

'Reckon Mamma disremembered how good-lookin' you-all are, and all.'

'I jest a little puke last time she seen me. I don't remember you at
all. All I remember is your brother Richard an' his billy goat hitched
up. Let me ride in the little cart,' reminisced Hammond.

'You remembers a billy goat and disremember me. You think that nice?'
the girl pouted.

'You jest a baby, that time. How I know you goin' to grow into the
beautiful lady you are? I won't never fergit you again,' Hammond essayed
gallantry.

'You-all jest sayin' that. You doesn't really think I purty.'

'Shore do. Awful purty an' awful sweet,' Ham avowed.

'Folks at church will think we aimin' at gittin' married,' Blanche
suggested.

'Why will they think that?' Hammond asked, relieved to find Blanche was
easing his talk for him.

'Us coming to church together. Won't know we jest cousins. Young man
carry a girl to church, everybody reckons they goin' to git married.
That's the way it is.'

'Mayhap we is,' Hammond declared.

'Is whut?' pressed Blanche.

'Mayhap we is goin' to git married. How you like to?' Hammond buzzed
nearer the web.

'You got a nice plantation? Big house?'

'House ain't much. Leastwise ain't fine like Crowfoot, but we got a big
passel of niggers. Ain't nobody got finer niggers than my papa,' boasted
Hammond.

'Niggers!' Blanche scoffed.

'I kin build a house, any kind of house you craves. Jest been a-waitin'
until I marries to build a house--a fine house. House we got is good
enough fer jest Papa and me. Papa was gittin' ready to start buildin'
when my mamma up and die.'

'I ain't thought about gittin' married--much,' said Blanche, reverting.

'How'd you like to?'

'Is you-all askin' me? Is you proposin'?'

'Shore am. Don't know how else to do it. I'm bashful, kindly.'

'We ain't knowed each other long, seems like, but----'

'We're cousins, ain't we? That makes a difference.'

'I reckon it do,' she agreed. 'Did you ast Papa? He say it all right? Or
did you aim to run off?'

'Ain't asted him yet. Ain't had no chanst; but I will. Hadn't thought
about us running off--unlessen he say no.'

'Papa purty choozy. I don't know whut he say.'

'Ifn he say yes, do you say yes?'

'I reckon I do.'

Hammond made no move, and Blanche added, 'But don't kiss me yet. Ast
Papa first. Unlessen it jest a cousin kiss. Guess that all right.'

Desire in Hammond was not absent, but it was to embrace, not to kiss.
However, when he placed his arm about the girl's body she glued her lips
to his and refused to let him go. And they were locked in each other's
arms, oblivious of the swaying of the carriage over the rutted roads,
when they rounded a wooded corner and met Charles, returning, horseback,
from Centerville. They failed to see him until he was upon them.

Charles grabbed hold of the bridle of the off horse and Wash stopped the
team. 'Whut this mean--you a-huggin' o' my little sister? Right out fer
everybody to see, too.'

Blanche was flustered, caught. 'This Cousin Hammond, Charles, Cousin
Hammond Maxwell. Maxwell right, ain't it? I disremember. It all right
fer cousins to kiss some, ain't it?'

'Papa know you out alone with this man?'

'Course he know. You didn't keep your promise to come home an' carry me
to church meetin', and Cousin Hammond say he carry me.'

'Papa don' know you out kissin' him and lovin' him, I reckon,' said
Charles. 'You crawl outn that carriage and I git down offn this hoss and
thresh you.'

Hammond made as if to comply and Blanche pulled him back into the seat.
'Don't pay no 'tention to him. Who he think he goin' to whup, anyway?
Couldn't whup a pup.'

Blanche was probably right. Besides being young, Charles was frail, long
of leg and of arm, narrow of shoulder, hollow of chest, anaemic. His
eyes were crossed and it was impossible to be sure just where he was
looking. Despite his boniness and the stoop of his shoulders, he was at
home in the saddle and sat his horse well.

'I don't hanker fer no fuss, Cousin Charles,' Hammond said, 'but ifn we
fights, we fights. Your sister and me, we goin' to git married, and I
craves to be friends.'

'And if you tells Papa about us kissin', I tell whut you do to me,'
Blanche threatened.

'That two or three years back; nobody ain't goin' to do nothin' about it
now. Besides, you as much to blame as I was,' Charles replied.

'I's a-warnin' you, don't tell.' Blanche knew her blackmail would be
effective as it had been before. 'Don't you tell nothin' either, Wash.'

'Ain't nothin' to tell. I drivin' this team,' replied the coachman.
'Ain't got two sets of eyes.'

'Well, drive ahead, and trot them hosses,' ordered Blanche. 'We already
late fer that meetin'.'

The carriage moved forward and Charles wheeled his horse towards
Crowfoot.

'This road----' began Wash.

'Never mind, nev' min'. No back talk. I said trot 'em,' said Blanche
peremptorily.

Some two hours later the tired horses drew the carriage up the avenue of
elms and halted in front of the Crowfoot mansion. As Hammond and Blanche
alighted, they saw upon the gallery Major Woodford in hearty
conversation with a big, moustached man of middle age and authoritative,
ponderous manner. A Negro led a heavy saddle-horse toward the stable.

'Come in, come in,' urged the Major. 'You remember Blanche, Colonel
Butler. Her and her cousin ben to church meetin'.'

'Course, course, I remember her. How she growed up. And purty, too. An'
I was younger----' flattered the large man.

'This is my wife's cousin, Mista Hammond Maxwell, come a visitin'.
Colonel Jim Butler. Colonel Butler is speakerin' around some about
electin' Gen'al Jackson again, come next fall. Goin' to speak over
Centerville tomorrer night.'

'I hopes you goin' to vote the Gen'al in agin, Mista Maxwell, suh,' said
Colonel Butler. 'Course, there ain't no question about it.'

'I cain't vote--yet,' answered Hammond, blushing for his youth.

'Well, support Gen'al Jackson, in that case; 'lectioneer fur him. Jest
as good.' The Colonel dismissed the subject closest to his heart.
'Maxwell? Maxwell? Ain't no relation to ol' Warren Maxwell, over by
Benson, I reckon?'

'Warren's own boy,' interposed the Major. 'Wouldn't suppose Warren would
git a boy like this one, would you?'

'Kindly see a resemblance now. Well, I declare. I didn't know you two
war a-kin.'

'Run in and take off your bonnet and git ready fer dinner. Dinner nigh
ready,' the Major prompted his daughter. 'Us gents will santer about.'

'Mighty purty, mighty purty,' said the Colonel, watching Blanche depart.
'Kindly sweet on her yourself, ain't you, Mista Maxwell? Come a
visitin'? Sparkin', I'd call it.'

Hammond wished that he didn't blush so readily.

'Let's us go over to the spring house and git us a drink of corn before
we eats,' suggested the Major. 'Wife don't allow me to drink it in the
house. She's temp'ance.'

'Maybe we better not offend Miz Woodford,' Colonel Butler objected.

'No offence at all. She knows I keep it. Jest won't have it in the
house, that all. Damned preacher idy. Her jurisdiction don't go as fur
as the spring house.'

'A swallow would taste right good. Jest a swallow,' said the Colonel as
they walked along.

'Colonel Butler callin' means you got to bed with your Cousin Charles,'
the host explained to Hammond. 'Reckon you don't mind. Bed wide and
Charlie clean. Washed all over yestiday to go to Centerville.'

'Pleasures me all right, an' Charles don't gainsay,' declared Hammond.

'Kindly caught us off balance, so many visitors at oncet. Gen'ally
plenty of bedrooms, but old Mista and Miz Satherwait coming by fer the
night. They church cronies of Beatrix's, goin' to Mobile, I believe.
Mighty pious.'

'I do not wish to intrude,' said Colonel Butler. 'I kin go on toward
Centerville.'

'Won't hear on it. Won't hear on it,' said Woodford. 'Plenty of room.
Jest means them boys doublin' up, they and their wenches.'

'Don't reckon I need no wench,' said Ham.

'Course you do, course you do, after your trip. Unlessen your pappy
ain't broken you in yet,' urged the host.

''Lessen Warren Maxwell changed a lot, I reckon his boy know whut a
wench is fer,' said the Colonel, downing his second whisky.

'Don't know ifn Charles knows or not. He has hisn, but don't seem to git
her knocked. Charles kind o' puny,' the Major said. 'Backward like,' he
added. 'His grandpa died of gallopin' consumption, an' Charles is made
fer it. Coughin' around all the time.'

The whisky sharpened the appetites for dinner, which was served in a
room which impressed Hammond as much as the parlour. The dining-room was
in daily use, however, while the parlour was reserved for occasions.
Here, too, the Empire motif had degenerated in its excess of ornament.
The heavy white napery and the flowered borders on the thin china
contributed a festive note to an otherwise solemn occasion.

An immature yellow girl swung the peacock brush and kept her eyes fixed
on Charles. Colonel Butler, the oldest guest, invited to pronounce the
blessing on the food, lowered his head and mumbled something that wound
up in an 'Amen'. The servant in command in the handing about of the food
was a brown man of middle age. He was assisted by old Wash, the Negro
who had driven the young people to church.

'Whut did Brother Ben Jones talk about in his sermon this mornin'?' Mrs.
Woodford wanted to know from the end of the table and raised her horn to
her ear.

'Somethin' about gamblin' and things. Had a text about casting lots fer
a coat with no rent money in it. I don't know. Didn't make no sense,'
said Blanche in a loud voice directed towards her mother. 'And,' looking
towards Charles, 'Brother Jones say that them as keeps fightin' niggers
goes straight down to the bad place, 'cause you cain't fight niggers
unlessen you gam'les on 'em.'

'Jest whut I always sayin'--whut I said this very morning. Bless God,'
Beatrix nodded.

'I don't see how as fightin' two niggers together do no harm, so long as
you jest bettin' niggers. Don't need to bet no money,' objected Charles.

'Seem like all the young men wants fightin' niggers these times,'
interposed the Colonel. 'Reckon it only natchel to want to do whut
everybody doin'.'

'Reckon Hammond don't mess in that kind of sportin'?' Major Woodford
angled for an opinion.

'I ain't had no fighters my own self, but I been into Benson and look at
'em. Right takin'. I don't see no harm.'

'Me neither,' said Charles, looking gratefully towards Hammond.

'Course, the fightin' in Benson ain't like the trained niggers they
gotten in New Orleans,' said Hammond.

'You ever been in New Orleans?' asked Charles.

'Yes, but I never seen no fightin' there--only at Benson.'

'See, Papa. Cousin Hammond ben places, mos' ever' place. And you won't
let me go nowhures,' whined Charles.

'An' you ever had a fightin' nigger, I'd never speak to you agin,
Hammond Maxwell,' declared Blanche.

'Now, daughter,' cautioned her father.

Hammond merely lowered his head and raised his eyes in a confident smile
across the table.

'Well, I wouldn't,' pouted the girl weakly.

'We'd still be cousins, I reckon,' Hammond bantered.

The conversation shifted to the cotton market, the Negro market, General
Jackson, fried chicken, bad roads, and Texas. Beatrix wore a fixed,
uncomprehending smile and followed each speaker with her face, but she
gave up any effort to hear what was said. The other members of the
dinner party soon tired of shouting and talked in a natural tone.

Colonel Butler, when the diners had risen, walked over to his hostess
and at the third try made her understand his appreciation of an
excellent meal.

Major Woodford took Colonel Butler into the parlour, ostensibly to talk
to him, but really to exhibit the room's grandeur, which the Colonel
dismissed as 'mighty fine, mighty fine.' The Major was already converted
to Jacksonian democracy, and the Colonel, knowing no other subject,
agreed with the Major's comments until he could no longer control his
desire to sleep and dozed off, sprawled in his chair.

Major Woodford, chafed at his guest's lack of interest in his house and
conversation, wandered into the sitting-room and interrupted the
flirtation between Blanche and Hammond, who shouted intermittently at
blank-faced Beatrix.

Blanche rose and said pointedly, 'I reckon you and Papa wants to talk.'

When she was gone, Hammond cleared his throat, which was dry with doubt.
He stared at the Major and summoned at length, 'Cousin Blanche and me,
we likes each other right well.'

'Ain't gittin' ideas so fast, son, air you?' smiled the Major. 'Ain't
knowed her more than three, four hours.'

'Well, we cousins, you know,' countered Ham. 'Real sweet girl, seems
like, and real purty.'

'Raised good. One thing I say, Beatrix is good mother--strick but good.'

'To tell true, I kindly lookin' around to marry me a wife. Papa think I
ought to marry and settle down an' sire me a son.'

'Good advice to a young man. Stops 'em from runnin' wild,' agreed the
Major.

'An' I sweet on Cousin Blanche. I wants your leave to spark her a
little,' said Hammond tentatively.

The elder man had his fish on the hook and proceeded to play it. 'Reckon
you didn't spark none this mornin', goin' to church?'

'To tell true, I did say that I liked ridin' with her. Kinder ast her
ifn she liked me,' admitted Hammond, who was unsure of what Charles
might have said about encountering them on the road.

'That gal raised so innocent-like, she don't know who she like. She like
anybody young-like who wear britches.' Her father by his intonation
turned his sarcasm into a boast.

'I wants to marry her, all right. I loves her. Knowed it first thing
when I seen her in that purty dress.'

'Didn't ast her?'

'Well, kind of sort of like. She say ast you. She say she like to marry
me, but I has to ast you.'

'I hardly knows whut to answer,' meditated the father. He grew gravely
sentimental. 'I knows Blanche old enough to marry, but she sech a baby,
seem like. Innocent and pure as a baby.'

'Sure is,' agreed Hammond.

'An' I don't know nothin' about you--'ceptin' your breedin'. A good
mamma, an' a good enough papa, I reckon. Not very religious, but a good
man. I ain't got no religion either, 'cept fer the women folk. I don't
know how you treat my little gal.'

'Treat her good. Best in the world. Good as I knows how.'

'Don't know how she like livin' so fur away from her mamma and all. You
ain't got a very fine house at Falconhurst, has you?'

'Aims to build a new place, soon as I marry.'

'Kin you? Whut I mean, kin you afford it?'

'Shore kin. Papa kin. Ever'thing hisn, but I runs the place; has whut I
craves.'

'Doin' real well, eh? Makin' good crops of cotton?'

'Not cotton so much; niggers. Falconhurst dirt, like all Alabama dirt,
is purty much niggered out. Whure Papa gits his money at, his cash crop,
is in buyin' strong young niggers an' raisin' 'em fer the New Orleans
market.'

'Mor'gage on Falconhurst?'

'Oh, no 'um.'

'An' the niggers. No mor'gages on them neither?'

'Naw, suh. Don't owe a cent on any nigger we got, nor on anythin'.'
Hammond was shocked at the idea of debt. 'An' ever' nigger we got is
sound and healthy, better than two hundred of 'em.'

'Well, I have to think about it--talk to my wife some. I reckon we goin'
to give you a yes about our daughter. Serious matter, marryin'. Reckon
we might as well chance you as any of the rest.'

'I sure thank you, suh.'

'Remember, I ain't said it yet, but I reckon I will,' and the Major
paused. 'I reckon, an' I helps you out, you goin' to help me out, too.'

'Any way I kin, anythin',' Hammond pledged.

'I purty bad pressed fer money, the bank a-pressurin' me an' all--jest
until after the crop is sold. That's all. I pay you back after the
cotton crop.'

'That ain't planted yet,' said Hammond.

'But it goin' to be, and it shore to be good this year. Had three bad
years a'ready. Time I was havin' a good crop.'

Hammond was unable to follow the reasoning but was unwilling to lose the
girl. 'I understand you wants my papa to borrow you some money. I ain't
got none, my own self.'

'Well, yes. That is kindly it.'

'How much you want?'

'I needs about five thousand dollars--to pay the in'erest on whut I owes
the bank, an' to ready Blanche fer her marryin', that is.'

'A heap of money, five thousand dollars. I doubts Papa got that much in
cash to spare.'

'He kin borrow, cain't he? Credit's good. You say he don't owe nothin'.'

'Reckon could. But he won't. Afeared of owin'.'

'It jest till cotton pickin',' the Major emphasized.

'Whyn't you loan from the bank your own self?' asked Hammond. 'You got a
good plantation and a passel of niggers.'

'It plague me to tell it, but Crowfoot already blistered fer more 'n it
worth, and ever' hand I got is mor'gaged fer all they will fetch. Jest
a-holdin' on by my teeth. Bank liable to smash down on me any day. Seem
like your papa could help out an old friend and a cousin-like to boot,'
the Major whined.

If Hammond had but known it, Crowfoot hospitality, open and freely
offered as it was, always was accompanied by its owner's solicitation of
a loan. Not that Woodford wouldn't have accorded a loan to another as
freely as he asked one from a guest, if only he had been more affluent.
Frugality he did not know. Stinginess, or even caution, he was unable to
comprehend. To beg had become a habit. Every guest was evaluated as to
the size of the loan which could be extracted from him, and Hammond
Maxwell seemed like fair game for a sizeable touch. Moreover, he had
Hammond on the hip; he was in a position to refuse him the hand of his
daughter.

The Major had no intention to withhold his consent to the match, which
was just what he had been hoping for. What he misjudged was the depth of
Hammond's infatuation with Blanche, which he mistook for passion. The
boy wanted a wife, or rather his father had talked him into taking a
wife, and he was drawn to Blanche because he knew no more suitable
candidates. He had fallen in love not so much with the girl as with her
challis frock, a garish house, a glamorous life, and, above all, with
Hammond blood, which he had heard extolled the whole of his life.

Already Hammond had given a passing thought to what imperfections might
lie beneath the gay challis. The house and the life had lost some of
their allure for him in the knowledge that the house was mortgaged and
the life was steeped in debt. All this graceful living was a bubble
about to burst. And, as for Hammond blood, here sat his deaf, sallow,
brown-toned Cousin Beatrix, and he had observed the pimple-spattered,
hollow-chested, squinting Charles across the dinner table, both
Hammonds.

He had not changed his mind about marrying Blanche, but if his suit
should be rejected he would suffer no anguish. He had not contemplated a
marriage by purchase, but that is what Woodford's proposal implied,
since the debtor would have neither the desire nor ability to repay a
loan. That was clear, even to Hammond.

Five thousand dollars, the price of four or five strong bucks. He
wondered whether he wanted Blanche so badly.

Hammond temporized. 'Five thousand dollars. Couldn't you git along with
less? Pay part?'

'I figures I needs that much. Mayhap could shade it a little, but it
would pinch me,' conceded the Major.

'Papa might hap advance you half that much. I'll have to ast him. Reckon
he will. Does most whut I ast him.'

'I could give him my note of hand. That had ought to be good.'

'Had ought to be, yes; till cotton harvest,' Hammond joined in the
pretence that the negotiation was a loan.

'Then I kin reckon on it?' Woodford sought finality. 'When s'pose he
send it?'

'Soon as I gits home, an' I kin git him to do it.'

'I reckon as how you kin marry my daughter, then,' the father blatantly
reverted to the previous theme. 'Seem like a fine, gen'rous, upright
young man, that kin take good care of a gal.'

'I take care of her, you kin lay to that.'

'Blanche and Hammond goin' to marry,' the Major shouted at Beatrix, who
was lost in her own contemplation.

She cocked her trumpet and asked, 'How?'

'Blanche and Hammond goin' to git married,' her husband screamed again.
'They in love.'

'Why, Cousin Hammond on'y jest come.'

'That don't make no difference. Don't take a man long to make up his
mind fer a purty piece like that Blanche.'

Beatrix began to weep; she arose and kissed Hammond, continuing to weep
in his arms. 'You'll be good to her?' she demanded. 'I've raised her up
in the fear of the Lord, and she'll make you a good, faithful wife.
Maybe she'll bring you to Jesus.'

Hammond got loose from Beatrix as soon as he could, but was forced to
endure the shake of the Major's pudgy hand and the enthusiastic pat on
the shoulder. 'How it feel to be plighted?' Woodford tittered.

'Purty good,' Hammond shrugged from his doubt. 'Purty good,' he repeated
for emphasis.

'And Hammond goin' to borrow me twenty-five hundert dollars,' Major
Woodford added in a stentorian whisper into the horn.

Beatrix nodded that she had heard, and murmured with polite
indifference, 'That nice. That nice.' No lady was concerned with money.

That night Blanche and Hammond sat aside from the company, which now
included the superannuated and devout Satherwaits, and planned their
life together.

Blanche found it necessary to count on her fingers to set a propitious
date for the wedding and chose the eighth of May, something more than
two months hence. Hammond said nothing about a ring to bind the
betrothal and Blanche found it necessary to remind him. He was oblivious
of the engagement ring, which no woman ever forgets; but, brought to his
mind and explained, he promised to comply with custom.

Blanche was elated at her prospects. All the local swains were callow;
worse, they were poor. Her betrothal was additionally romantic, even
glamorous, because it was with a stranger, a man from strange parts, a
man of the great world who had been to New Orleans, and a man whom she
had toppled off his feet at their first meeting. All these attributes
were items to boast of in Centerville and Briarfield.

Hammond, for his part, was complacently pleased with his bargain, for a
bargain it had been. He could well put up with the petulance which
Blanche habitually displayed until she got her way, in the silent solace
of the knowledge that she was bought and would be paid for. In due
course, she would be his to dominate as he chose.

The bedroom to which Charles and Hammond eventually retired was the only
one on the ground floor, a big room furnished with pieces, largely of
walnut, that had been left over from the furniture of the old house when
the new one was built, pieces good enough for destructive boys. It was
cluttered with a broken spinning-wheel, and an extra dresser with a
cracked mirror, a heavy round table piled with dust-covered clothes that
were outworn or outmoded, two crippled chairs, as well as containing
usable if badly designed bedroom furniture, quite as good, however, as
that in Hammond's room at home. The carpet was woven of rags, but so
were all the carpets at Falconhurst. There were no curtains on the wide
bed with a frame for a canopy. Except for the junk, which the room had
ample surplus space to accommodate, the informal room was not
uncomfortable.

When Hammond entered, Charles was stripped to the waist, reclining on
the bed, his stockinged feet upon the floor, too tired or too lazy to
take off the rest of his clothes. His bearing toward Hammond had veered
completely since the morning encounter upon the road. His affability was
prompted by Hammond's statements that he had visited New Orleans and
that he did not disapprove of fighting niggers, a subject upon which
Charles desired to draw his guest out.

'Which side the bed you crave?' he asked.

'Don't make no difference,' Hammond replied.

'I always sleeps this side. Dick sleep over there when he home.'

'Your papa say Cousin Dick readin' the law in Centerville,' said
Hammond. 'Must be right smart, fixin' to make a lawyer. Takes a heap of
studyin'.'

'Dick ain't a-goin' to be no lawyer. Readin' law is jest his excuse.
Dick fixin' to be gam'ler.'

'He older than you, ain't he?'

'Yas, he older, and Mamma's favourite. Gits ever'thin'. I don't hardly
git nothin'. Even has to wear Dick's old clothes, cut down. Papa pore,
plumb pore,' Charles confessed. 'Dick better-lookin' than me, too. Makes
a difference.'

'You ain't through your growin' and makin' up,' condoned Hammond. 'You
right big, leastwise tall fer your age.'

'An' Dick looks straight. He ain't gotch-eyed like me.'

Hammond's compassion could summon no satisfactory answer, and the
subject was dropped in Charles' fit of coughing.

'You a-sparkin' Blanche?' her brother demanded abruptly. 'Aimin' to
marry her?'

'Well, yes, kinder,' acknowledged Hammond.

'I likes you, even if you are my cousin. You my frien', ain't you? Well
then, let Blanche alone.'

'Your papa say I kin. He say it all right. Why you hostile?'

'I tells you I your frien'. She pizen. Blanche is pizen.'

'She your sister. You hadn't ought to talk that a-way,' Hammond sought
to shame Charles.

'She my sister, and I knows her, knows all about her. I tell you she
won't let you have no fightin' nigger.'

'Who say I craves to have no fightin' nigger?'

'Everybody craves nigger fightin', anybody that got any sap. I
un'erstands you at dinner that it warn't no wrong.' Charles' confidence
was shaken.

'To say true, I does crave me a fighter, an' Cousin Blanche ain't goin'
to restrain me from gittin' me one. I lookin' around--kinder. I find one
someday.'

'I thought you had lots of good bucks. Folks say you rich.'

'Ourn ain't fightin' niggers though. I wants a buck that kin whup all
the rest 'n them.'

'I jest craves to see 'em fight, no matter they wins or loses,' said
Charles. 'That whut I doin' this evenin' whiles you all talkin'. Takes
me a couple of bucks up beyant the wood lot whure Papa couldn't hear
'em, and I fights 'em. Course, I wouldn't let 'em bite or gouge; jest
scuffled and pounded 'em. Didn't want Papa to find out. You won't tell?'

'Course not. Ain't none o' my put in. Ain't my niggers,' Ham washed his
hands.

'Don't want Papa should know--Blanche leasten of all. She hold somethin'
I do a long time ago over my head. She pizen, I tells you. Why you
reckon them wenches don't come?' Charles answered his own question,
'That Sukey afeared of you.'

He strode to the outside door to call the girls and found them huddled
together on the edge of the gallery, waiting to be summoned. 'Git
yourself in here, and shuck down,' he ordered them.

Hammond was embarrassed, torn between his misgivings about the propriety
of receiving a wench into his bed in this household on the one hand and
the exhibition of his lack of virility on the other. 'Reckon I don't
need none tonight. I kind of tired,' he temporized.

'It all right. Papa say it all right. Papa say give you a wench,'
Charles urged, while the two girls shed their simple clothes,
perfunctorily.

'This Sukey kind of tall and stringy like, but Dick think she right
good. She Dick's when he at home. Ain't no virgins on the place,
'ceptin' some blacks that ain't right ripe yet.'

'Sukey all right. Ain't you, Sukey?' Hammond declared, without
enthusiasm.

'Yas, suh, Masta,' Sukey admitted, diffidently.

'Coursen, she ain't so round like as yourn, ain't fleshed out,' Hammond
admitted.

'This here Katy gittin' too fat. Got to cut down on her eatin' some,'
commented Charles, running his hand over the girl's flank and pinching
her ample calf. 'An' if you ruther trade----' he suggested hospitably,
but failed to conceal his reluctance and Hammond declined.

Katy was low and wide, moon-faced, short-necked, and fat. She waddled
provocatively when she walked. She enjoyed her status as her young
master's concubine and Hammond thought her presumptuous in her display
of familiarity.

While Hammond knelt by the right-hand side of the bed to utter his
prayer, Charles and Katy climbed into the deep feather-bed on the
opposite side.

'You reckon that prayin' ever' night do you no good?' asked Charles when
Hammond had mumbled his amen.

'I don't reckon it do, but I promised my mamma, 'fore she died,' Hammond
answered. 'Don't you ever pray?'

'I gits 'nough of that trash mornin's after breakfast. Ever'body kneels
down, even the house niggers, even Papa; cain't nobody git outn it.
You'll see. You marries Blanche, you'll be kneelin' down ever' mornin','
Charles threatened and was ignored.

Sukey waited for her unhurried lover to enter the bed so that she might
pinch out the candle. He would have dismissed the wench and have gone to
sleep, but for the violation of hospitality. Charles, on the other side
of the bed, would see in such behaviour a contempt for the best
entertainment Crowfoot had to offer. Hammond performed what he looked
upon as a duty without pleasure and with little satisfaction.

Sukey sensed Hammond's apathy, but, none the less, thanked him for his
favour, as Dick had taught her to do.

'Git out now and let me turn over and git some sleep. This bed too
crowded,' whispered Hammond.

'You means you don' want me no more?' Sukey asked in surprise.

'Not tonight,' groaned Hammond.

'Whure I go? Whure I sleep?'

'Whure you wants to, on'y be gone outn here,' said Hammond with a show
of impatience. 'Go back to the quarters, an' you wants, or on the
floor.'

'I be cold. Masta Richard, he don' never throw me out of bed,' Sukey
complained.

'Well, wrap in a quilt. Think I wants to lay and smell you all night?'

To return to the quarters would be to admit to the other Negroes her
fall from the grace of her lover's bed. She couldn't bring herself to do
it. Perhaps, if she remained, the white man would avail himself of her
again. She crossed the room to get a quilt from a stack of bedclothes on
a chair, evoking Charles' impatience.

'Fer Christ sake, Suke! Whut's the matter? Lay down and behave
yourself.'

Sukey obeyed. She flung herself naked on the carpet and shivered through
the night, protected only by her dress and Katy's, which she was able to
reach and pull over her.

Hammond was disturbed through the night by the bedfellows of whom he
could not so easily rid himself as he had done of Sukey. He was aware of
the couple's nestling in each other's arms; he felt the stretching and
relaxation of the ropes that supported the mattress; he heard the little
squeals of delight; sensed the clipping and kissing that was going on.

Ham's disturbance was not physical, however, not mere noise, nor lack of
space, nor movement. It was disgust, bordering upon nausea, that a white
man should assume an amatory equality with a Negro wench. It was beneath
the dignity of his race--somehow bestial. A wench was an object for a
white man's use when he should need her, not a goal of his affections,
to be commanded and not to be wheedled. It disturbed Hammond that
Charles should kiss Katy with passion. How could white lips endure the
contact with the yellow skin? How could Charles so demean himself, aware
of another white man lying beside him?

Scarcely had the dawn broken when Hammond arose. Sukey lay on the floor,
her legs drawn up to keep warm, and Hammond spread a quilt over her. His
pants went on easily, but he had to struggle with his left boot, as was
usual when he put it on without assistance. Sukey had relaxed her
position and stretched out before Hammond left the room by the gallery
door to keep from waking the household.

The outdoor air was fresh and crisp and the morning star had paled but
was still visible. Hammond ambled about in a critical mood. He observed
gates off hinges, a field of dry thistles seeding the adjacent land,
wheelbarrows overturned in the weeds and left to the elements, a fruit
orchard blighted and unpruned, a worm fence with half the rails broken.
No wonder Woodford was in debt and needed money.

Hammond wandered back toward the house and sat down on the gallery,
waiting for the family to stir. Sukey came out the side door and greeted
him on her way to the quarters. It was not long before Katy followed,
and Charles soon appeared.

'Wants to git them wenches gone afore Mamma gits up,' he explained. 'I
reckon she know, but----'

'Course, she deaf,' said Hammond. 'Maybe----'

'That Blanche, she know and she blab. She make trouble however she kin.
You ain't goin' to marry her? I likes you and I'm a-tellin' you,'
Charles warned again.

'Yas, I'm goin' to marry your sister!' Hammond declared positively.

'You kin crawdaddle outn of it,' Charles suggested. 'Tell her you pore.
She don' want no pore man. You too good fer her, tha's all.'

'You don't know if I good or not. I reckon she right pure and good and
simple. Seem like to me.'

'You honest. She ain't. She won't let you keep your fightin' nigger, I
tell you, jest to be honery.'

'I reckon she git used to it.'

Mrs. Woodford presided at the breakfast table with her hollow voice and
her horn. Blanche appeared late in long riding-habit--the most striking
costume in her sparse wardrobe. She had timed her entrance to occur
after the rest of the party was seated when all eyes would be upon her,
although she was interested only in Hammond's appraisal.

'Plannin' to ride some this mornin', darlin'?' asked Beatrix, cocking
her horn.

Blanche nodded and shouted, 'Hammond and me goin' a-ridin' right after
breakfast.'

'You'll wait fer prayers, of course,' said her mother. 'Mista and Miz
Satherwait is here, and I'm sure Colonel Butler is a godly man. Hammond
will kneel down with us.'

'Cousin Hammond don't have to say his prayers,' Charles announced. 'He
knelt down las' night.'

Beatrix beamed on Hammond. 'I hope, Son, you kneeled with him. I knows
Cousin Hammond comin' to Jesus.'

'I'm afeared I cain't go a-ridin', Cousin Blanche, or wait fer prayer
neither,' Hammond excused himself. 'I got a long ride ahead and got to
git me started. I craves to git me to Coign Plantation afore noon or a
little after, and to git on my way to Falconhurst before nightfall.'

Blanche intended merely to pout, which she believed she did very
prettily, but found herself crying and abruptly left the table. Hammond
pushed back his chair and followed her into the sitting-room, trying to
appease her.

'You don' love me! You don' love me! I wouldn' marry you if they never
was another man!' percolated into the dining-room and appalled the
girl's father, who hastened into the sitting-room to settle the quarrel
which threatened his calculations.

Charles' satisfaction was dampened by his fear that Blanche would never
permit the boy to escape from her. Beatrix looked from one to another
for an explanation of what was going on, but amid the embarrassment of
the party nobody gave her one.

'Now, now, Blanche, darlin',' the Major consoled his daughter; 'Hammond
got to return to his plantation. He a busy man. You s'pose he propose
marriage the first day, an' he could stay an' spark?'

'But, Papa!' protested Blanche, drying her eyes. 'It ain't fair, ain't
decent. Nobody will believe me. Nobody think I got me a beau at all.'

'We'll show 'em, won't we, Hammond? The quicker Hammond git home and
talk to his papa, the quicker he git back and you gits married,' said
the Major.

'He already say he come the eighth of May,' sobbed Blanche. 'I wants he
should stay now.'

'I has got to git home and buy me that di'mon' ring,' wheedled Hammond.
'The quicker I buys it, the quicker it come.'

This argument appeased the girl. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
Hammond stooped and kissed her awkwardly and the three returned to the
dining-room.

The Major beamed. 'Jest a lovers' fuss,' he proclaimed proudly. The
tears of reconciliation still sparkled in Blanche's eyes as she again
took her seat at breakfast.

As the party rose from the table, Charles placed his arm about Ham's
shoulder and whispered a reminder, 'You goin' to ast Papa kin I come to
visit you at Falconhurst?'

Despite his distaste for the boy, Hammond's invitation was genial.
'Major Woodford,' Ham said, 'Charles here wantin' to ride Falconhurst
way. He right welcome, an' you lets him.'

'I reckon he purty young to go gallivantin',' replied the Major. 'Cain't
trus' him.'

'I ain't never been nowhures. Cain't go nowhures. I ain't no little boy
no longer,' argued the boy. 'Cousin Hammond, he ben to New Orleans an'
all over. I most as old.'

'Don't ack like,' said his father. 'Mayhap and ifn you sends that money,
I let him go.'

'Course, he come, he got to do like I say,' specified Hammond.

Hammond ordered his horse, and went into his bedroom to fetch his
saddle-bags. He stole a brief aside with Blanche in the parlour, from
which the pair emerged embarrassed, the girl's hair dishevelled and
tears in her eyes. Wash held the stallion by the bridle. The Major
repeated his directions how best to get to Coign and warned of mire in
the road through the swamp for about four miles.

Hammond dreaded Beatrix's kiss, which he knew that he couldn't avoid,
braced himself and got it over. Beatrix wiped her eyes. Hammond shook
hands all around. To Colonel Butler and the Satherwaits the farewell was
perfunctory; Charles was nervous, and Hammond wondered at the boy's
anxiety to get him gone; Major Woodford held on to Hammond's hand,
pumping it. 'Reckon I better write a letter to your papa about that
money?' he suggested aside. 'I ain't very handy writin' letters.'

'Won't do no good,' Hammond told him. 'Papa do whut I say. He send
it--sure.'

A final seemly kiss for Blanche, ardent enough to confirm his
affections, brief enough not to violate propriety, and Hammond was in
the saddle. The group stood back to be out of the way of the wheeling
horse. What was intended as a brave smile, the stuff of heroines,
appeared on Blanche's face.

Hammond walked his horse, looking back and waving, till he reached the
public road and turned south. The rest of the party could not escape
Beatrix's morning prayer meeting, and the Satherwaits had no desire to.

'A nice young gen'leman, and right well fixed, seems like,' opined Mrs.
Satherwait. 'A good wife will bring him right to Jesus.'

'I aims to,' said Blanche possessively.




CHAPTER 8


The horse under him again, the saddle between his legs, felt good to
Hammond. The horse was fresh and broke into a slow canter. Hammond was
not aimless, but he was in no haste except to escape from the cloying
affability of Crowfoot. The sunshine poured down upon him.

Well, he had accomplished his errand, had got what he had come for. He
was satisfied. Marriage was an obligation to his Hammond blood, which
should not be permitted to perish. Blanche was petulant and would need
to be humoured. But what was a white lady for but to humour? This one
was certainly pretty, at least what parts of her he could see. He
reflected on the challis dress. How small Blanche's waist! How full her
breasts, and she so young! Hammond had little misgivings about her
shape. What still bothered him was the expanse of pale flesh. But he
would no doubt get used to it.

The road was good and he let the stallion have his head for a stretch,
but the girth seemed loose and he drew up, dismounted and tightened it.
The road led through a wood and Hammond felt strangely lonely. It was a
new sensation; he had never been lonely. He had no desire to return to
Crowfoot, but rather a longing to get back to Falconhurst, to see his
Negroes and put them to work.

It was his father's errands quite as much as his own that took Hammond
from home; it was his father's desire, even more than his own, that he
be married; his father's passion for pure Mandingos was taking him to
Coign Plantation. Riding out of the woods into a clearing, Hammond saw
turkey buzzards against the blue of the sky; he watched the ease and
grace with which they soared and glided. Further on, down the wind from
a clump of trees, his nostrils caught the stench of carrion.

He had come five, possibly six, miles on his unhurried way without
meeting anybody, but was sure he was on the right way to Coign when
behind him he heard a horse at a hard gallop. He turned in the saddle
and the other horseman raised his arm and beckoned him to wait. It was
Charles.

'I'm a-goin' with you,' Charles declared, out of breath.

'No, you not. You turnin' around and a-goin' right back to Crowfoot. You
runnin' off.'

'No, I not. Papa done say I kin,' protested the boy.

'Say you kin whut?' Hammond demanded.

'Say I kin go home with you to Falconhurst. Don' you want me?'

'I wants you, all right. You welcome. But you lyin'.'

'Papa did so, he said,' Charles was vehement. 'I ast him, and he say I
should ketch up and go along with you. I swear he say it, I swear on the
Bible.'

'You hadn't ought to run your horse like that. He all over foam and he
breathin',' admonished the older boy.

'I had to ketch up, didn' I?'

'I still thinks you lyin' to me.'

Charles made an effort to focus his eyes to look Hammond in the face. 'I
swear,' he said.

Hammond still did not credit the youth's oath, but his dislike for him
had moderated, and Charles' company took the edge off his loneliness.

They reached their destination some hours later, after a leisurely
journey spent mainly in discussing the desirability of owning fighting
niggers. Coign sat on an eminence that was hardly to be called a hill.
'The Coign' in letters of Gothic, surrounded by filigree of wrought
iron, stretched about the two gates of the same material, which stood
open. The gilded knobs at the tops of the pickets which made the gates
were so tarnished that they were nearer black than golden. Beyond the
gates stretched a straight avenue of walnut trees, their branches
meeting and interlacing, between the sturdy trunks of which could be
seen the pillars of a Doric portico. Ham had not anticipated such
magnificence.

The walnut trees ended abruptly on a lawn, but the driveway continued
around the lawn in a symmetrical oval. The expanse of grass and weeds
was broad enough to permit one coming up the avenue to stop at its end
and enjoy the complete faade of the brick Georgian mansion, including
the wings which flanked it at either end.

This was a mansion indeed. Chaste, and even austere, the house was
uncluttered with ornamentation, and the eye was left free to appraise
the delicate, yet sturdy, proportions of the whole edifice. Four tall
chimneys took flight from the ends of the main part of the house, but
failed to relieve the sombre picture. The white paint scaled from the
heavy cornice and from the window frames of the wings, but under the
roof of the portico it was unmarred.

A rheumatic old mulatto, neatly dressed and shod, appeared from around
the corner of the house to take the horses. 'Good evenin', gentlemen.
Your horses are fatigued. I'll see to them,' he said, bowing but without
obsequiousness, and gesturing, palm upward, toward the door.

Hammond, followed by Charles, stepped on the porch and raised the brass
knocker. Tender spears of yellow grass grew in a crack between the
flagging of the floor. The wait was long and Ham was startled by his own
voice when he remarked, 'Nobody here, seem like, but only that ol'
buck.' He had reached toward the knocker a second time when the door
swung silently open.

'Gentlemen!' the servant who opened it greeted the youths. 'Mista Wilson
is sleeping, but is due to wake. Will you not come in?' he asked
cordially but without enthusiasm, and led the way across the wide hall
into a large drawing-room, where he invited them to wait. He adjusted
the curtains to admit more light, then withdrew.

This ancient butler had Caucasian features and was all but white. His
jowls sagged and there were heavy bags beneath his eyes, but he had been
handsome and was still distinguished in manner and courtly in bearing.
He wore a livery of dark blue satin, well rubbed but nowhere frayed,
knee breeches and powdered wool, drawn back and braided. Stockings of
white silk clothed his long legs.

The elegance of the room into which the boys were ushered left them ill
at ease. They whispered when they spoke. The walls were of walnut with
grey damask panels outlined in tarnished gold. The draperies were of
unfigured peacock blue velvet. The Kirmanshaw carpet which covered the
centre of the floor left a wide border of polished oak. The furniture,
if not Hepplewhite, showed the Hepplewhite influence, and the chairs
were covered in a damask of yellow faded to old gold.

Above the marble mantel hung a large portrait of a tall man of middle
years but with sagging jowls and baggy eyelids, like those of the
butler. His long right hand rested upon the shoulder of a young black
Negro who looked up at him with admiration, and on his left was depicted
a handsome but leggy hound with his eyes also fixed on his master. There
were no other pictures or ornaments. The portrait might have been by
Benjamin West, but was somewhat too late for his American period.

The boys did not hear the approach of Mr. Wilson when at length he came,
and their backs were toward him. He greeted them with the single word,
'Gentlemen.'

Old, feeble and palsied, Wilson still seemed a monarch. But here was
another version of the portrait and the butler.

'Gentlemen,' he repeated, 'I demand your pardon. I was sleeping and my
servant refused to wake me. Your pardon, suhs.'

'Mista Wilson, suh?' Hammond asked.

'The same, suh, at your service.'

'I Hammond Maxwell, son of Mista Warren Maxwell of Falconhurst
Plantation.'

'You?' the old man asked. 'You?' He placed his hand on the boy's
shoulder and led him toward a window, stepped back and looked him up and
down and focused on his face. He nodded his head and extended his hand.
'Well, well. I'm glad to see you, son.' He looked at Charles and asked,
'And this young man?'

'Charles Woodford, Major Woodford's son, of Crowfoot. I'm goin' to marry
me his daughter, the Major's daughter that is, and this Charles ridin'
home with me to Falconhurst.'

'I am acquainted with the Major--slightly that is; very estimable, I
believe,' the old man guarded his statement. 'I'm glad to see you, suh,'
he said to Charles; he turned to Hammond, 'Congratulations on your
approaching marriage. Warren Maxwell will be pleased. You are an only
son, I believe? Or is there another?'

'Ain't no other. Ain't nobody but Papa and me,' said Hammond.

'He is fortunate to have even one son,' sighed Wilson. 'My eldest son
was killed, shot to death in a duel. The younger boy died of the fever.
Two boys and four girls, all dead. One of the girls perished in
childbirth, the others died young. Warren Maxwell is fortunate.'

The old man felt behind him for the seat of the chair on which he was
about to drop. 'How is your papa?'

'He tol'able, except his rheumatiz purty bad. Betterin' though,'
explained Hammond. 'I reckon he right dismal with me away. He worry when
I leaves Falconhurst.'

'Well he may, well he may. All boys are damned fools, especially if they
have any spirit. No knowing what they're doing when you take your eyes
off them. You're young?'

'I'm eighteen,' Hammond remonstrated. 'Nigh on to nineteen. And Papa
don't think I a damned fool. He trust me, but he like me with him--jest
craves me.'

'Don't wonder, don't wonder at all. Must be twelve years or more since I
saw Warren. He was much younger than I, much younger, but I liked him.
Used to be crazy about black wenches, I remember, or any other colour
for the matter of that, but the blacker the better. I envied him his
youth and vigour. I was already ageing.'

'Reckon he still craves 'em, only his rheumatiz----'

'Last time I saw him, he came here and talked me out of as fine a big
Mandingo wench as I ever saw and her female child, about three years old
and big enough to be five--handsome. I didn't want to sell them, but
Warren had to have them--just crazy about Mandingos.'

'Still is. That's whut I come fer,' declared Hammond.

'Wonder whether he still has that wench and that child? The little one
must be big enough to breed, almost.'

'Still got ol' Lucy, and Big Pearl we calls the young wench. They fine.
Lucy still breedin' and the young one ready. That whut I doin' at Coign
Plantation.'

Wilson levered himself upright with his hands on the arms of his chair.
'Let us retire to the library where there is a fire, and we can talk
better there,' he suggested. 'The evenings get chilly and at my age one
likes the heat.'

He led the way and Charles put his hand on his arm to guide him.

'Never mind,' Wilson resented the aid. 'I can still walk alone, a little
feebly, but I can still walk.'

Despite his protest at Charles' assistance, the aged man submitted to
help from the butler who grasped his arm and steadied his way across the
hall. Except for the clothes, and that the butler was younger, the two
were singularly alike.

'No good from trying to fight him off,' smiled the elder appreciatively
as the younger man eased him into a chair. 'Bent upon having me
helpless. That comes of having a son for a servant; he does what he
wants to me and won't take orders. Thinks he knows more than his
master.'

'You need help, suh,' said the servant.

'I know it,' resigned the master. 'Chairs, gentlemen.'

'Do you want your paisley, suh?'

'No, no, let me alone, Ben,' replied the pampered old man. 'But you
might bring us a bottle of that Madeira, please; you know the kind, the
Malvasia. The young gentlemen might enjoy it.'

'Yes, suh; right away, suh.'

The old man nodded in the direction of the slave, and explained, 'I
wasn't older than you, Mr. Maxwell, when old Ben was born--the first
male I ever got and about the best. My get had all been girls before
that--at least I believed them mine, although my older brother often
poached on my domain and I wasn't sure. Ben's dam was a griffe wench my
father had given me for my own use; I think she was his own get. I
raised Ben and trained him and he has been faithful. One gets fond of a
slave after seventy years. I think Ben is seventy-one or seventy-two.
I'm eighty-seven. If you want a good servant, get him yourself and break
him to your ways, and you know what you have.'

'I kind of plan to sell off my bucks and keep my own wenches. Course,
they all little yet, and not many,' said Hammond.

'Hold on to a nice, likely buck, too,' the old man advised. 'It's
comforting to have your own when you're old.'

Cases of calf-bound books, a few with spines stained or cracked, lined
the room, and above the bookcases the varnish over the white panelling
had yellowed to tones of old ivory. Behind the four capacious chairs
that ranged before the fireplace stretched a substantial table with
account books, an inkwell, feather pens, a sand box, three or four of
the calf-bound books for which there were vacancies in the cases, and a
standing candelabrum at each end. This seemed to be the old man's
retreat.

'Whut I come here fer was----' Hammond began.

'To pay me a visit, I hope.' Wilson forestalled him from stating his
errand. 'This old tomb needs the sound of young voices. I could well
wish that you might stay a week, a month, a year, as long as you will
and listen to the garrulity of an old man.'

'We has to git along towards Falconhurst,' said Hammond.

'Yes, yes, tomorrow or the day after, or the day after that. Meanwhile,
to worry will do Warren good, teach him patience, give him to know what
it means to have a son, how precious a son can be,' and Wilson bent
forward at the cost of some energy and reached out to pat Hammond on his
stiffened knee.

'I don't crave that Papa should fret none about me. Papa count on me.'

Ben returned with a dust-laden bottle and three glasses on a tray which
he set carefully upon the table. He wiped the bottle on a napkin,
tenderly, inserted the corkscrew and pulled the cork, raised the bottle
gently to his nostrils to appraise the bouquet, and poured the wine into
the glasses. He passed the salver first to his master, next to Charles,
lastly to Hammond, with a manner like that of a sovereign bestowing
decorations.

His owner passed the wine back and forth under his nose, savoured a
short sip of it and nodded to the slave. He raised his glass toward
Hammond and proposed a toast, 'To Warren Maxwell and to his son who is
like him,' and then, as a polite afterthought, he added, bowing in
Charles' direction, 'And to Major Woodford and his son, suh.' He tasted
the wine again, and smacked. 'How do you like it, gentlemen?'

'It good, but I not knowin' whut is it. I never had none like this afore
now,' said Hammond candidly.

'It is Madeira--Malmsey; one learns to like the sweet stuff,' Wilson
said. 'You may have some, Ben. Get you a glass.'

'Thank you, suh.'

Hammond was anxious to transact his business. He liked his ancient host
but felt himself remiss to squander time. He failed to fathom the old
man's motive in his avoidance of the discussion of the mission, which
was in fact merely to prolong Hammond's stay. Wilson had not expected
guests, but his pleasure in entertaining them was dampened by the dread
of their early departure.

Hammond tried again. 'Whut I come here fer, Mista Wilson, suh, was you
got an ol' Mandingo buck an' Papa craves you to borrow the buck to him
to breed them two wenches.'

'The two you got from me? Warren knows that old buck was the sire of
both of them, the young one in-bred to him already.'

'Yas, suh, Mista Wilson. Papa know that, but he don't know nobody else
who gotten a Mandingo, a pure one. He craves to try it again, craves you
to borrow him the buck. Won't take long, and Papa will pay you.'

'Nonsense. Pay? Nonsense. But I haven't that buck. He's dead. A bull
gored him about three months ago and old Xerxes died.'

'Papa had laid store,' said Hammond, betraying his own disappointment.

'Warren Maxwell and his Mandingos! He is Mandingo mad!'

'Mighty sweet niggers; I likes 'em, too,' Ham defended his father.

'Of course you do; you've been taught to,' said Wilson. 'But there are
Mandingos and Mandingos. I have known Mandingos that weren't worth
killing, although they are admittedly hard to kill. They are tough. I
was fortunate with the bozals I got and in the progeny they produced.
The original pair were big handsome varmints; old Xerxes was the
original buck. They were related somehow. They tried to tell me their
kinship, but never could make it clear; possibly it wasn't clear even to
them.'

'That makes Big Pearl more bred-in even than Papa knowin'; even Lucy was
bred-in, seems like.'

'No telling how far back the incest may go. I think it's time to stop
it. Of course, I know that it results in progeny of exceptional
excellence or of more exceptional degeneration. There is no middle
ground. It produces paragons or monsters--nobody knows why,' Wilson
expounded.

'But, Big Pearl and Lucy?' Hammond refused to be diverted. 'Whut we
goin' to do?'

'I'd look about for a good Mandingo buck of another strain, one quite
unrelated,' suggested Wilson, but without conviction. 'Where? I don't
know.'

'Folks says they is plenty in Cuba,' despaired Hammond.

'In Cuba, yes. But smuggling Negroes is dangerous, unless you are in the
business as a business and bribe the authorities to let your contraband
through. It doesn't pay to smuggle a single buck; and, anyway, you
should see the buck.'

The subject bored Charles. 'Ain't you got no buck niggers at all? A
buck's a buck. Don't make no difference. Whut you craves is a sucker,
ain't it?'

'The sire makes a great deal of difference, young man,' said the old
man. 'Never breed a Mandingo to a member of another tribe. Keep the
stock pure. A hybrid cross with a Mandingo, a Mandingo mule, as I call
it, is treacherous, untrustworthy. Half the bad niggers you hear about
have Mandingo blood somewhere, and the wenches are as bad as the
bucks--worse.'

'That whut Papa say. That why he craves your old buck fer them wenches.'

'He's right. A pure Mandingo is playful as a kitten, strong as a
bull-elephant. A half Mandingo is a viper, a viper, suh. Now, I'll tell
you, I have the brother of that Pearl--do you call her?'

'Big Pearl, yas, suh.'

'I have the full brother of Big Pearl, from Lucy bred back to Xerxes. He
is about three years, nearly four, older than Pearl. Handsome an animal
as ever you saw--bigger, finer all over than Xerxes. If you want to take
him along with you and let your papa look at him and try him, you're
welcome to do so. That is, if he wants to go, and he will want to.'

'I'd have to keep him until May, when I come back to Crowfoot fer my
weddin'.'

'That's all right. Keep him as long as you like. When you are through
with him, write him a pass, give him a package of pone and turn him
loose. He'll come home. There's only one thing.'

'Yas, suh.'

'He is mortgaged, in the amount of fifteen hundred dollars, I think--it
may be only twelve hundred--and a couple of year's interest. The whole
of The Coign is mortgaged and every stick of furniture and every slave.
The mortgages are all mature and interest is delinquent, and I am just
living here on the sufferance of the Jew, who refuses to kick an old man
out and is waiting for me to die to foreclose upon his property. Jew
Wertheimer of Mobile, no matter what folks may say about Jews, is a
white man. If that Mandingo buck should die or even be crippled while he
is your possession, you'd have to pay off the mortgage on him. I
wouldn't want the Jew to stand the loss, after his leniency to me, and I
should be unable to pay him.'

'Of course, that all right. Papa do that, of course. I'll give you a
writin' about it.'

'No writing required, just a clear understanding. If Warren Maxwell's
boy isn't good for a dead nigger, my faith in human nature dies and I
might as well die with it. I haven't lived eighty-seven years without
learning to know men, especially when I know their breeding--and you
can't deny yours. Maybe you'd like to see him.'

'I'd thank you, suh. Sure would like to see that Mandingo.'

'Is he a fightin' nigger?' Charles asked.

'Cain't you never think about nothin' but fightin', Charles?' demanded
Hammond.

'Ben, oh Ben,' Wilson called, pounding on the floor with the poker to
summon the butler, who appeared immediately. 'Round up that Ganymede and
bring him in here.'

'Whut you call that boy, Mista Wilson? Ganymede; whut kind of name is
that?' Hammond asked.

'I usually call him Mede. I carry him in the books and on the mortgage
as Ganymede.'

'That whut I take you to say. Whut it mean?'

'Well, to tell it without blushing, Zeus, the sovereign god of the
Greeks, saw a boy named Ganymede and fell so in love with him that he
sent a great eagle to steal the boy and to carry him off in its talons
to Mount Olympus where the boy served Zeus as a cup-bearer, that is he
poured his wine, and for other purposes.'

'Other purposes? Whut other purposes?'

'Well, other purposes--whatever Zeus wanted.'

The door opened and Ben asked, 'Ready for Mede, suh?'

'Yes, let him come in,' replied the master.

Mede bounded in and filled the room, which was not large enough to give
him scope. His legs seemed made of springs. He moved like a stallion and
yet maintained the dignity of a potentate. Though some six feet two or
three inches, he looked taller than he was. He seemed incapable of fear,
and his subservience to his kindly master derived from devotion.

'Mede, come here,' was hardly uttered when the boy was across the floor,
standing docile but nervous in front of the old man's chair.

Hammond noticed that his skin was not dead black but a deep, warm brown,
like polished walnut, with vague hints of red in the cheeks. His eyes
were spaced wide in his broad face, but within the temples, flush with
the cheeks and without much overhang to the brow of the low forehead.
The bridge of the nose was not quite flat and the enormous round
nostrils were animated by the boy's breathing. The large, regular teeth
were yellow and bone-like behind the wide opening which formed the
thick-lipped but not protruding mouth. The lower jaw was massive and
square. A mat of kinky, coarse wool grew low and formed a straight line
across the forehead. The effect was barbaric, like some rough-hewn
sculpture, a great unfinished carving, with a head so powerful and
primitive as to inspire fear--except for the eyes, black, long-lashed,
and benevolent. The eyes rested on their master with adoration.

'Mede, step out of your clothes and show these gentlemen what you have.'
The command was modulated into a request. 'They won't mind a little
musk, if Ben didn't give you time to wash yourself.'

'Masta, are you planning to sell me?' Mede asked with interest but
without alarm.

'No such luck,' scoffed the master. 'You know damned well, Mede, that I
wouldn't sell you without asking you.'

'You need money, Masta, and I'm worth a good price. It's all right with
me if you want to sell me.' Mede was kneeling to unbuckle his shoes.

'I'll do the worrying around The Coign about getting all of us something
to eat, boy, and I won't have to sell you either. I don't eat my slaves.
The reason I'd like to sell you is to know what is going to happen to
you, to get you a good master before I die.'

'I knows that, Masta.'

'God damn it, stop that nigger talk. You grew up to speak English,' the
first harshness the master had shown.

'I know, Masta,' Mede corrected himself contritely.

'That's better.'

'Yes, suh. Let the old niggers, Ben and the others, worry about new
masters. I'll bring too much money on the block for a new masta to treat
me bad.' Mede cast aside his shirt and stepped out of his pants.

Hammond nodded his head in approval. 'A right purty boy,' he said.
'Looks like Big Pearl, too, even bigger. Right purty,' he repeated.

Soundness was not in question, but Hammond rose to run exploratory hands
over the boy's shoulders and arms, stroked his thighs and smiled his
admiration. Hammond knew a fine Negro when he looked at one.

Wilson realized the pleasure Hammond took from seeing so magnificent an
animal, and, connoisseur himself, sensed Hammond's speechless
admiration. Ham merely looked at the old man and nodded.

'Thought perhaps you'd like him. Young, not at his best even yet, but a
better buck than his sire. Think Warren would want to use him?'

'Papa sure would admire to see him. Just whut he cravin' fer Lucy and
Big Pearl. He splendiferous,' answered Hammond.

Ganymede, aware of his own magnificence, made the most of it. He flexed
his muscles, twisted his body from side to side, stooped and rose.

'Mede, squat down there and listen to me,' said the master. 'Mr.
Maxwell, here, is--or, rather, Mr. Maxwell's father is an old friend of
mine.'

'Yes, suh,' Mede said.

'He wants to keep the breed pure. Mr. Maxwell wants to borrow you for
stock, and I'd like to accommodate him. What do you say? Do you want to
go with him? Nobody is going to make you.'

'What you say, Masta. When do we start?'

'I'll tell you later. Mr. Maxwell will stay here a few days. I'll tell
you. Now, take your rags and go back to the quarters.'

Mede threw his shirt and trousers over his arm and stooped to gather his
shoes.

'Wait,' Ham interposed, at last finding words for the exciting idea that
had been growing in his mind since Mede appeared. 'Mista Wilson, would
you sell this buck?'

The old man hesitated. 'You'd want him for yourself and not to sell
again?' he asked.

Mede looked at Wilson, then at Hammond, and again at Wilson. He trusted
his master, but was no indifferent spectator of his destiny.

'Wants him to keep,' Hammond explained. 'Fact is, I wants him fer a
fighter. I ben lookin' around. Kin he fight, do you reckon?'

'Sure kin. Sure kin fight,' Charles interposed. The very word thrilled
him. 'Buy him; why don't you?'

'I don't know,' said Wilson. 'He's strong enough. When old Xerxes was
gored, the young one grabbed hold of that bull's horns and broke its
neck. Can you fight, Mede?'

'Who you want me to whip? What for?' the Negro asked, with a show of
interest, even of alacrity. 'Yes, suh, I can fight. Yes, suh.'

'I've heard something about this recent sport of fighting bucks, but I
never saw a main of it. Something we didn't do in my days,' said Wilson.
'Must be exciting as a horse race, but dangerous. I'd hate to have Mede
ruined in a fight.'

'All the young gen'lemen has their fightin' boys,' explained Hammond. 'I
ben a-cravin' one. Papa say I should buy me one, but buy a good one, one
that kin whup.'

'This here one is good. He kin win for us. Whyn't you buy him?'

'Don't know yet does Mista Wilson crave to sell him,' Hammond answered.

'Yes, I'd sell him--to you,' Wilson conceded. 'That is, provided the boy
wants to go. Think you want to, Mede? Want to be Mr. Maxwell's fighting
nigger?'

'And have those wenches all the time?' the Negro stipulated.

'Well, when we not readyin' fer a fight. Won't have you wearin' yourse'f
out a-pesterin' wenches,' Hammond made that clear.

'Wouldn't hurt him none,' Charles interposed, and was ignored.

'Mr. Maxwell will treat you well. Good food and plenty. Of course,
things will not be the same as here. You would have to find Mr.
Maxwell's ways and follow them; obey him. What do you say? I can't live
much longer, and it is better than being sold on the block to you don't
know whom.'

'It is better,' Mede agreed.

'How much you want fer him, Mr. Wilson, suh?' asked Hammond.

'I don't know. I just don't know. Mede is a sort of fancy
nigger--something special that ought to bring a good figure. As I said,
the Jew in Mobile lent me twelve or fifteen hundred on him--I don't
remember the exact amount--and you know what that means he's worth,' the
owner speculated. 'No telling what such a boy would bring in the market,
but to you, to your father, to a good home where he won't be abused and
overworked--is three thousand dollars out of the way? Is it too much?'

'I reckon he worth it. A right purty boy.' Hammond hesitated. He reached
out and pulled Mede toward him. 'Kneel down,' he commanded. He had
forgotten to examine the teeth.

'Find anything wrong with him after you get him home, or if Warren
doesn't like him, turn him loose and tell him to come back to The Coign.
There'll be no hard feeling,' Wilson specified.

'Papa will cotton on to him, all right,' said Hammond, stroking the
black shoulder.

'That's too much,' Wilson decided. 'Can't bleed the son of an old
friend. I said three thousand; make it twenty-seven hundred and fifty.
That's better. That's enough. That's all any nigger is worth.'

'I'll come back next week and git him,' Ham promised. 'I ain't got that
much--not with me. I'll come, sure. You won't sell this buck to somebody
else, Mista Wilson, suh?'

'Don't talk nonsense. Take him along. Take him with you. You can send
the money.'

Mede rose to his feet, again picked up his clothes, then sank to his
knees before the old man's chair, embracing Wilson with his arms and
burying his face against his chest. He was convulsed with sobs.

'What's the matter, Mede? I asked you first, before I sold you. There,
there. Mr. Maxwell will release us from my bargain. You won't have to
go. Get up.'

Mede clung to Wilson the tighter. 'It's best,' he said. 'I want to go. I
want a wench. I want to fight. But I love The Coign. I love you, Masta.
You're so good, Masta, suh, and so old. I love you.'

Wilson ran his fragile fingers through the wool of the great black head
and patted it gently. Then he loosened the boy's hold on him and pushed
him away. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he did not wipe them away. He
looked out of the window as Mede rose and gathered his clothes.

'That all, Masta?'

'That's all, Mede. You can go now. That is, unless your masta, your new
masta, has orders for you.'

'No, I reckon not,' said Ham. 'You kin go. Be ready in the mornin',
early like.'

The silence that ensued after the Negro had gone was broken by Charles.
'He right powerful buck. We carry him to town and fight him next
Sat'day? Eh, Cousin Hammond?'

'We trains him first. We got to learn him and toughen him.'

Ben entered with an armload of wood for the fire, and discharged it. As
he brushed the ashes that littered the hearth, nobody spoke. He rose to
go.

'I sold Mede, Ben,' his master announced.

'Sold Mede? I didn't think you'd do that, suh. Then The Coign is
breaking up. We'll all go soon.'

'Yes, we'll all go soon,' echoed the master.

'Supper will be ready right away, suh. We're having a haunch of venison,
that young doe that Old Frank shot up by the wood lot.'

'Ought not to shoot does. Let 'em live and breed. Tell Frank not to
shoot does,' said Wilson, frowning. Frank had no sense of values.

The Colonel's punctilious observance of a host's duties was further
demonstrated after the evening meal which Ben served with slow ceremony.

'We go to bed early at The Coign. Not much else to do. Reading by
candelight, hard on the eyes, although I want to go through Propertius
once more, just once more, before I die,' Wilson declared, pushing back
his chair from the supper table and draining the port from his glass.
'But you'll want wenches for the night, I suspect. I haven't forgotten
when I was young.'

'Not needful, suh. Really not needful. I plenty tired out from ridin'
all the way from Crowfoot,' Hammond made a polite protest.

'And you, suh?' The old man turned to Charles. 'You're not too young to
wrestle with a healthy wench? I have no desire to corrupt youth.'

Charles looked at his plate with embarrassment. 'I has a wench at home,
suh. My papa given her to me.'

'Well, well, I supposed so,' said Wilson. 'Ben, are those three girls
ready? Bring 'em in and let the young gentlemen take their choice.'

'That Lutitia can't come, suh. It's her time, her time of the month,
suh,' Ben explained.

'Well, bring the two,' Wilson commanded. 'I've been waiting for some
personable young white men for these girls. Except for their brother,
their half brother, I have no young buck for them and I do not feel like
putting them to a worn-out old man. They're too nice. Fact is, they're
fancies.'

Ellen and Edna had been waiting in the kitchen for this summons. They
edged their way through the door in Ben's wake and took places in the
shadows beside it. Edna smothered a giggle with her hand. Both were
enveloped in starched frocks that reached the floor.

'Come here, my dears, and let the gentlemen look at you,' commanded
Wilson, extending his hand in invitation.

They came forward with a show of reluctance and stood beside their
master's chair. Both looked steadily at the floor. Wilson grasped
Ellen's hand and patted it.

'You're virgin, aren't you, Ellen? That is, you are pure--you never had
a man. Isn't that so?' the master inquired.

Ellen nodded.

'These gentlemen, Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Woodford, want you to sleep with
them--in their beds. You know what that means, don't you?'

Ellen blushed and nodded again, and Edna suppressed another giggle.

'You want to do it? You're sure?'

'Whatever Masta says,' assented Ellen. The assent of the other was
silence.

'You gentlemen will have to decide between yourselves which is for
which. There is little to choose, I judge. Come around and let the
gentlemen look at you, Ellen.'

Hammond's indifference was real. 'Either,' he said.

'I likes the little 'un, the light 'un. I'd sooner have her,' Charles
declared without reticence.

'These two and the other one are the only young wenches I have left. I
had a young overseer at The Coign for a couple of seasons about sixteen
or seventeen years ago--a good looking, well set up youth, named Hall,
Willis Hall. White trash, I suppose, but he made good cotton crops. The
wenches on the plantation were all crazy for him, and he just as crazy
for them. I didn't have a good light stock buck at the time, and so I
let this Hall have his way. I'd have him yet, I suppose, but he got
religion, took to praying all over the plantation, finally wound up with
a craving to preach. He had visions of some kind, said he heard the Lord
calling him to gather sinners. One month he wouldn't touch a wench; the
next month he was at them worse than ever. I think the call to preach
was a mere satiety with yellow flesh and a craving for white women;
niggers no longer good enough for him. He left, and I haven't had any
luck with overseers since, nor a fair crop of cotton.'

'Willis Hall? That was the preacher at Benson last year, till he got
into some kind of a scrape,' said Hammond.

'I hear of him around, now and again. Made quite a preacher,' said
Wilson. 'Woman scrape, I guess?'

'No, somethin' about him and another feller from Natchez tryin' to steal
a nigger. We'd a hung him if we had proof. Way it come out, they jest
run him off.'

'Well, Hall was the sire of these two. I think you may like them.'
Wilson got to his feet. 'Ben will tell you where the gentlemen will
sleep, young women; be sure you're clean.'

'Your bedtime, Masta, suh,' announced Ben. 'Come along now, please, suh.
Time to go up.'

'Well, orders are orders, gentlemen,' the old man sighed resignedly.
'Ben will take care of you. I trust you enjoy those wenches, but no
obligation. Good night. Ben will show you up when you're ready.' As he
spoke, the butler's hand under his arm helped him to rise.

Hammond rose and beckoned to Charles to do likewise. Wilson extended his
hand to Charles first. As he clasped Hammond's hand, he said, 'Bless you
for coming, my boy. You're like your papa. You won't forget to give him
my compliments.'

Soon Ben came back. 'Want for anything, gentlemen?'

'Only to go to bed,' said Hammond. 'Take us up, when you are ready.'

'Then come with me, suh,' said the old butler.

At the head of the stairs he threw open a door and bowed. 'For the
younger gentleman,' he said. 'I think you will find all you need, suh;
but I shall return.' Farther down the hall, he showed Hammond into a
corner room, lighted by six candles in two candelabra.

Hammond looked around at the elegance, the didoed paper and the tester
bed curtained with silk damask, before he saw Ellen, risen from her
chair. No fire burned in the fireplace, which was small and looked as if
it had never been used.

The butler apologized for the musty smell. 'I had wished you to sleep in
another room, freshly aired, but the Master designated this larger
apartment too late, and I did not wish to admit the night air, suh,' he
said. 'Here is a fresh nightcap, if you care for one, and there are
additional covers on this chair if the weather turns cold. It feels like
rain coming on.'

Hammond sat upon the bed. 'You'll got to he'p me off with my boot,' he
said to Ellen. 'I'm cripped, you knows.'

'Yes, suh; I know, Masta,' Ellen said, advancing and kneeling before
Hammond and reaching forward for his foot.

'Don't be afeared, Ellen. I ain't a-goin' to eat you up.'

'I'm not afraid, Masta,' but Ellen was afraid. She succeeded in drawing
off his boots before she burst into tears.

'Everythin' all right, nigger. Don't cry. You not want a crip to pester
you, you don' have to. You kin go, time you gits my clothes off. I not
very horny, noways.'

'It's not that, Masta. I just don't know how. Don't know how you wants
me, suh. I want to please you, suh.'

'Of course you pleases me. You pleases me right good, firs' rate.'
Hammond rose to his stockinged feet and lifted and embraced the girl.

They were standing so when Ben returned with a pan of coals to warm the
bed. 'Wench won't strip, suh?' he asked, and before Hammond could reply
he placed the warming pan on the hearth, yanked the buttons from the
dress of the unresistant girl and her frock dropped to the floor. 'Get
them into the big house and they grow coy, act as if they thought a
gentleman never saw a naked wench.' Ben gave the girl's buttock a smart
slap with his palm. 'Fat,' he said; 'we'll have to work it off.'

Ellen shrank from the old man, as she raised her dropped eyes in a hasty
glance at Hammond's face.

'She just right. I likes 'em plump like.' Hammond came to the girl's
defence. 'Nice limbs, too, not stringy like,' he added, stooping to run
his hand in appraisal over Ellen's calf. Ben's disparagement of the
wench dissipated Hammond's indifference and aroused his interest.

'Perhaps you will find her comfortable, suh. May have to be firm. Use
her like your own, suh.' Ben had taken up the warming pan and was
passing it slowly backward and forward between the sheets. He released
the curtains and drew them along the sides of the bed, leaving a space
between them through which to enter it. 'If you need me,' he added, 'I
sleep on the floor outside the Masta's chamber, which is next to this
one.'

'I ain't a-goin' to need you. The wench is all right.'

'Shall I relieve you of your clothes?'

'Ellen will help me,' replied Hammond, irritated by the preciseness of
the slave's speech; it made him conscious of the shortcomings of his
own. He was relieved when the butler said good-night and left the room.

Hammond sat in a low chair and submitted to Ellen as she stripped his
clothes from him, careful not to touch his flesh. Her head was down and
Hammond was unaware that she was weeping until she stifled a sob.

'Whut the matter, Ellen?' he asked. 'You ac' like a white lady, cryin'
an' all. Don't you know you ain't nothin' but a nigger? You don' like
me, you doesn't have to stay.' Hammond sought awkwardly to console the
girl.

'I like you, Masta, I like you. Please let me stay, just tonight, just
one night. I know I'm not pretty enough for your bed. I'm fat and I'm
ugly, but I'll try.'

Ellen's misgivings about her beauty were not justified. Her breasts were
immature but firm. Her large brown eyes were shaded by long lashes and
stood well apart in her oval face with its low cheek-bones. There was a
shallow cleft in her chin, and only the slight fullness of her lips
hinted her Negro origin, for she was lighter than many white women,
lighter, Ham reflected with growing interest, by two shades than his
Cousin Beatrix.

Ellen was on her knees before him, and, chary as she had been of contact
with his person while she removed his clothes, she lunged impetuously
forward, embraced his body and planted her cheek firmly against his
belly.

Her gesture aroused Hammond and he lifted her into his arms and kissed
her with pity. Quickly pity turned to passion so that he was taken aback
to realize what he had done. In his code, a wench was for fornication,
not for dalliance. Only the previous night, he had been shocked at the
display of Charles' affection for Katy. Perhaps his code needed
revision. At the kiss, his blood quickened, his flesh tingled, and his
indifference vanished.

He turned down the covers. 'You crawl in,' he said, 'while I kneels
down.'

'But the candles?'

'Reckons I cain't snuff 'em?'

Next morning Hammond took his place at the table and helped himself to
ham and eggs.

'Sleep well, Mr. Maxwell? Your wench happy?' Wilson inquired
perfunctorily.

The latter question opened a subject which Hammond was reluctant to
broach. 'That wench, Mista Wilson,' he began. 'Well, would you sell
Ellen?'

'Sell Ellen?' the host chuckled. 'I suppose then you were pleased with
her. Remember, she'll never be the same again. Maidenheads don't grow
back again.'

'I never took Ellen's.'

'No? She was difficult? You were strange to her. I regret----'

'Wasn't no fault of Ellen. She begged me, but I wants her mine--all of
her--before I rapes her. Won't you sell her to me?'

'I suppose Ellen is as safe with you as with anybody, my boy, safer.
She's too pretty. It's her misfortune. She's a fancy girl, and will go
to some sporting gentleman who will use her awhile and sell her again.
I'd like you to have her. Did you consult Ellen?'

'She say she like me a kinda lot. She want to go with me. Will you sell
her to me, suh? Ellen willin'.'

'What will you give? What offer?'

'Whut you say, suh, Mista Wilson. However much you asts. But I wants to
take her right along with me, if you please. I kin leave that Mandingo
buck and come back fer him and bring you the money. But I wants to take
Ellen. How much you wants?' Hammond in his urgency left himself
vulnerable.

Ellen's owner was fortunately less interested in the price than in the
buyer. He closed his eyes and the boy thought that he had dropped off to
sleep. His lids fluttered and opened. 'Um, fifteen hundred, I suppose. I
know she would bring more after I'm gone, but fifteen hundred will do
nicely.'

'Thank you, suh. That ain't enough hardly.'

'It's enough. If Warren doesn't like her, you can pass her on at a
profit.'

'Papa, he goin' t' like her. He got to like her. He got to,' Hammond
reiterated.

'If you don't take that cherry before you get Ellen home, Warren will.
His rheumatism isn't that bad, I warrant.'

'Then Ellen mine, and I kin take her along?'

'Yes, and I want to send her brother as a present to Warren.'

'I'll buy him offen you, an' Ellen wants him,' Hammond offered.

'No, I want to give him to Warren Maxwell, want to know that he will not
be sold. Warren wouldn't sell a present.'

'Mighty kin' of you, suh. But--niggers are worth money, suh. You could
sell----'

'I know, but this young buck is different--sound and healthy, but frail,
thin-skinned. Not built right for heavy work.'

'But Papa don't----'

'I know it's an imposition, but Warren will take him to accommodate an
old friend. Broken to the house, Jason will make Warren a good servant.
No mortgage on him. The Jew wouldn't lend on him at the time. I can
dispose of him as I please.'

'Reckon it won't git you in no trouble with the Jew fer me to take along
Ellen and the big buck without payin'?'

'No trouble at all. You can send me the money--enough to discharge the
mortgages on them, that is. For the rest there's no hurry, no hurry at
all. I'll live a few months yet, and if I don't----' Wilson raised his
hands from the arms of his chair in completion of his sentence.

The entry of Charles diverted the host from his morbid speculation.

'You goin' to have to take a nigger on the crupper,' Hammond explained
to him.

'An' he cain't run, better you and me straddle your horse and let him
have mine. That buck big as you and me together.'

'Not him. Not the Mandingo. He kin keep up alongside. I--I bought me a
wench and Mista Wilson here done give me a nice saplin' buck fer Papa.'

'Cain't that saplin' run?' Charles asked. 'You'll want the wench behind
you I reckon. Whyn't the little buck ride the big one?'

'Better take along my old buckboard,' Wilson suggested. 'You can return
it at your convenience.'

'We make out all right, Mista Wilson, suh; Mede on foot, the young buck
behin' Charles, Ellen behin' me. We go fine. Ellen ride astraddle,
cain't she?'

'If you tell her to. It's the best way to ride double for a long
distance.'

Mede had the temerity to seat himself upon the portico, knowing that
amid the adieux he would not be reprimanded. He held his shoes on his
lap lest he should leave them behind, and pensively played with his bare
toes.

Ellen's brother, Jason, slight and girlish-looking, rounded the house
and joined Mede, but did not sit down. Ellen, when she came, was
red-eyed from weeping, and she twice returned to the quarters but both
times emerged again without carrying anything. She stood apart from the
others.

Some twenty hands, old and of middle age, accumulated at the side of the
mansion, but none ventured beyond its faade. Edna and Letitia ran
furtively forward to give final kisses to Ellen, who clung to them, and
to Jason, who assumed indifference. Mede watched them and knew that if
those kisses had been for him he would have wept.

The occasion was a solemn one for the three, none of whom had ever
passed the boundaries of The Coign. To go had been their own
determination. Their old master would not have disposed of them without
their assent.

The front door opened and Charles came out, followed by Wilson, guided
by Ben. Hammond came last. The host shook the hands of his two guests,
and amid expressions of mutual pleasure, Charles and Hammond mounted
their horses. Charles was restive and annoyed at Wilson's prolonged
farewell to the slaves. Hammond sat his horse patiently and waited.

Mede stood diffidently apart while the master kissed and blessed the boy
and girl, adjured them to obedience. He went bashfully with hanging head
when he was summoned, and when his master reached for his gross head a
tear stood in his eye. Mede could not remember being kissed before and
it suddenly came over him that he would never again see the man to whose
kindness he had owed ample food, shelter, protection, the absence of
positive abuse, what between master and slave is justice, mercy even.

The stallion, unused to being ridden double, shied and reared in protest
when Ellen, with a boost from the groom, sought to mount behind Hammond.
With the second try, she seated herself sidewise behind the saddle but
her long skirt impeded her from getting her leg across the horse.

'Cain't ride that a-way,' Hammond complained. 'You'll slide off an' pull
me with you. Have to straddle.'

Ellen tucked her dress upwards until it reached her knees, slid backward
over the horse's croup and manoeuvred her leg across in front of her. She
then edged herself forward into as comfortable a seat as she could
attain. She was uneasy about the display of her legs and tried to pull
down her skirt.

'Nev' mind showin' your limbs. We ain't goin' to meet no ladies on the
road nohow, day like this. Hold on to me tight till Eclipse here gits
usen to you. Don' be afeared; I ain't pizen. Put your arms around my
belly. That's right.'

Jason, with the aid of the groom, swung himself handily behind Charles
and encircled his body, the boy's legs dangling loosely over the
gelding's loins.

'Ready, Mede? Then come along,' said Hammond, putting his horse into
motion and setting the pace at a slow walk as the riders rounded the
lawn and turned into the avenue of walnuts. Mede followed the horses at
a slow jog, carrying his shoes.




CHAPTER 9


Approaching Falconhurst, Hammond's heart beat faster. He had been away
less than a week, but homing aroused in him emotions which he did not
understand. Here he belonged. From this soil he had been fashioned and
he acknowledged his kinship with it. They reached the road that turned
from the main highway toward the Widow Johnson's place, now probably Doc
Redfield's. The way was straight ahead; Charles on his slower horse,
which had gone lame a few miles back, would be unable to lose his way.
Hammond loosed his reins and Eclipse, who knew as surely as his rider
that he was nearing the end of his journey, broke first into a canter
and then into a gallop. Ellen clung firmly to Hammond's body. Mede was
unable to keep up with Eclipse, but lost ground gradually, and Charles
made no effort to press his mount.

Before he reached the lane, Eclipse began to neigh at intervals and as
he turned toward the house he nickered again and received a nicker in
reply from the stables. Half down the lane Old Beller the hound came
bounding and barking his greeting, not so much for Hammond as for
Eclipse. Hammond had reached the house before the Mandingo had turned
into the lane.

Three or four Negroes had appeared from behind the house to vie silently
for the honour of taking charge of the horse, which Hammond, after Ellen
had slid to the ground and he had dismounted, turned over to Napoleon.

'How you all are? How's everybody? Whure your masta?'

'We's well, thank'ee, suh, Masta. Right glad you back.'

'Why? Anythin' wrong?'

'No, suh, we all jest glad. That all.'

Meg was on the gallery, bouncing up and down in ecstasy, his face one
broad smile. Unable to speak, he could only gurgle. Lucretia Borgia
stormed out the door and gathered Hammond to her broad bosom.

'Whure Papa? Whure Papa?' Hammond demanded.

'He comin',' answered Lucretia Borgia.

And he came, half leaning on Mem's arm. The son kissed him, patted his
shoulder, asked about his health.

'I right well; I better, sure better. Ol' rheumatiz most dreened away,'
he assured Hammond. 'That Alph gittin' it good, dreenin' right into him,
but I'm a-doctorin' him pourin' toddy into him.'

'I stirred 'em, Masta, I stirred 'em, an' toted 'em, jest like how you
say, Masta, suh. I took keer of 'em jest like you tol' me. I your
nigger, Masta. Ain't I your nigger?' Meg pleaded for recognition.

'Sure is,' with a clap on the shoulder, was all that Hammond had time to
answer him.

'Whut this?' demanded the old man, turning to Ellen.

Before Hammond had time to answer him, the Mandingo, Jason atop his
shoulders, loped down the lane. 'A Mandingo, a young Mandingo! Whure you
git him? Ol' Mista Wilson? A purty Mandingo! Jest whut I been
a-cravin'.'

'My fightin' nigger,' Hammond explained.

'That a wench around his neck?' Maxwell indicated Jason, whose features
seemed more feminine than ever by contrast with Mede.

'Not a wench. A buck, Mista Wilson sent him to you--a present.'

'Whut Mista Wilson reckon I wants with a wench-buck like that? Is it a
cod? I reckon I got to keep it--a present you say? Cain't ever sell no
present. Git down! Put down an' let me see!'

'Charles is comin',' Hammond declared. 'His hoss is lame.'

'Who Charles?'

'Charles Woodford, Cousin Charles, Cousin Blanche's brother.'

'Cousin Blanche? Oh, yes. You sparkin' her? She purty? Whut Major
Woodford say?' Maxwell piled question upon question.

'Cousin Blanche an' me goin' to marry. That is, and you loan some money
to Major Woodford.' Ham qualified his assertion. 'I promise him
twenty-five hundred dollar.'

'You ain't never goin' to git it back. You know that. That ol' leech,
sellin' his own white daughter, an' her a Hammond.'

'Shu-shu,' Ham silenced his father. 'Here comes Charles.'

'We talk about it after.'

Charles, when he had turned into the lane, had tried to put his horse to
a gallop, which had turned into only a rapid hop. The flourish of
arrival he had planned failed to come off, but his welcome was none the
less warm. Vulcan grabbed his horse and started to lead it away.

'Hold on, leave me see that laig. Wait,' ordered the old man before he
turned to his guest and grasped his hand. 'Well, I declare, Major
Woodford's boy, I declare. Come in, come in. A Hammond, too, every foot
a Hammond, 'ceptin', of course, the eyes.'

'My eyes--my eyes ain't straight,' Charles shrugged apologetically.

'That ain't nuthin',' said Maxwell. 'Worse than the eyes, you
skinny--growed too rapid, I warrant, an' fornicated too much, knowin'
the Major. Not enough corn whisky, knowin' Cousin Beatrix.'

'Mamma temp'ance,' explained the boy.

'We fix that at Falconhurst. Lucretia Borgia's side meat an' plenty of
good corn, we send you home lookin' like they won't know you. Go in, go
in the house. I want to look at this hoss's laig.' Maxwell bent with
effort to examine the horse.

'Be all right, an' he not used fer few days. Turn him out, pasture him
day times. Hear, Vulc; bait him good an' turn him out.'

As the three white men entered the sitting-room, Meg rushed from the
dining-room with three steaming toddies on his tray.

When Mem appeared with the dinner bell, Meg sprang to the door of the
dining-room and held it open. He was there to withdraw Hammond's chair,
to open his napkin, to serve his food, to wave the peacock brush.
Whatever he did for another, it was solely to please Hammond.

'I wonder did Lucretia Borgia feed them new niggers?' Maxwell bethought
himself aloud. 'Memnon, sen' Lucretia Borgia in here.'

Meg was in the kitchen and back again, pushing his mother before him
before Mem could finish pouring the coffee, set down the pot and reach
the door.

'Here Mammy is. Here Lucretia Borgia,' announced the boy as if the
woman's huge bulk failed to dominate the room by its presence.

'Did you feed them niggers Masta Hammon' brung?' Maxwell demanded.

'They's et,' she answered, ''ceptin' I didn't give that big 'un all he
crave. Cain't fill him.'

'Give 'em all white vittles, all they kin eat. The big one, too. They's
special. All you kin shovel in 'em. Hear?'

'I's listenin'.'

'An' that Mandingo, make him swaller half a dozen raw eggs--eight or
ten; stir 'em up an' make him drink 'em down after he done et hisself
full,' Maxwell further instructed.

'I pour 'em eggs down or I choke him silly,' Lucretia Borgia promised.
'Whure them niggers come from? Whyn't they cain't talk good? Cain't know
whut they sayin'.'

'They learn. They learn,' said Maxwell. 'Treat 'em good. That Mandingo
is fer Lucy an' Big Pearl. He goin' to be Masta Ham's fighter.'

Lucretia Borgia expressed her approval. 'I bin a-lookin' at him, myself.
He sure a elegant buck.'

'You don' need him now. Maybe next time.'

Meg was back at the table, forcing food upon his master.

'Dinner bye,' observed Maxwell, 'an' I'll have to bring them niggers in
an' look at 'em.'

The new Negroes, except for their being fed, had been ignored, waiting
in the dooryard. Mede lay asleep on his hands, half in the shade of the
tupelo tree. Hammond went himself to summon the three, limped across the
yard to waken the Mandingo, rocking him back and forth with his foot.
'Better shuck down out here,' he told them. 'Don't want your dirty clo's
in the house. New ones, anyways, after you-all washed.'

Hammond led the way to the sitting-room. Maxwell's primary interest was
the Mandingo, and he called him up first, leaving Ellen and Jason
against the wall. Mede was restless with the tension of his examination,
shifting rapidly from foot to foot, flailing his arms, tensing and
relaxing his muscles, in his anxiety to display his symmetry and
strength.

'I'm right plagued to show off these niggers like this. Craves you
should see 'em rested an' well,' Hammond made excuses. He was proud of
his purchases, avid for his father's approval.

'You not showin' 'em off, Ham; you jest showin' 'em. I'm your papa,
recollect; I not cravin' to buy your niggers.' None the less, Maxwell
pulled Mede towards him, inserted his finger into the boy's mouth and
felt the teeth, after which, using both hands, he pulled the lips apart
to note the occlusion.

'Reckon he be a right good fighter. Eh, Cousin Warren?' commented
Charles.

Maxwell took a sip of toddy, smacked his lips as a preliminary to his
opinion. 'Twenty-seven hunderd, you tell me? Whut the matter with that
ol' man? That nigger, a Mandingo, is worth thirty-five hunderd, mayhap
four thousand any day in the New Orleans market. Never see a better
buck.'

Hammond sighed with relief. He knew the worth of his purchase, but had
feared his father's verdict.

'Pure Mandingo? You sure?' demanded Maxwell. 'Don't want no half.'

'I tell you he Big Pearl's brother, by ol' Xerxes out'n Lucy.'

Maxwell nodded. 'Well, call Big Pearl. Might as well try 'em together,
let 'em take up, an' git it over.'

'Papa, that buck petered out. He no good today.'

'I not tired,' protested the Mandingo. 'I am ready.'

'I say you tired, you tired. Don't dispute,' Hammond silenced Mede. He
dismissed the Mandingo, and instructed the boy to get soap from Lucretia
Borgia and go to the river to bathe.

Ellen and Jason came forward together, but Maxwell's survey of them
appeared superficial and without enthusiasm. 'Right smooth and right
purty,' he appraised the girl. 'Good milker, too, will be. Git good
wench suckers out'n one like that; no good to breed bucks though--too
thin skinned an' fine drawn, an' too much white. To bring good bucks,
use a yaller wench ever' time, not less than quadroon. How much, you
say?'

'Fifteen hunderd dollars. Don't care had she been five thousan', she
mine an' I wants her.'

'Whut you arguin' about, Son? You got her, ain't you? She's a fancy, all
right. No denyin'. Easy worth the money--especially was she a virgin
time you bought her.'

'She still a virgin,' Ham confessed, blushing.

'Whure you bin? Thought you got her fer your own self. Ain't no money in
payin' fifteen hunderd fer a wench to sell agin. Too risky, might die or
git raped takin' 'em to market.'

'I got her fer my own self an' I goin' to keep her fer my own
self--always. I tender of her. I guess, I guess I kind of loves her--as
folks calls it. On'y wench I wants; on'y wench I ever will want; ain't
you, Ellen?'

A blush suffused the girl's face. She smiled at her master. Indifferent
as she had shown herself to the examination, to the estimate of her
value, and the discussion of her virginity, her master's mention of love
touched modesty and stirred her blood.

'How your wife, how Cousin Blanche goin' to like that?' asked the
father. 'Course, she 'spects you pester around, but she not like you
lovin' one.'

'Make no diff'ance whut Blanche like. She cry an' pout, anything you do.
She pizen, I tellin' you.' Charles' denunciation was as emphatic as it
was vague.

'I cain't help. I never seen Ellen until after I'd asted Blanche,'
Hammond confessed. 'Besides, Ellen a nigger. No white lady goin' to care
about no nigger.'

'Mayhap not,' Maxwell admitted with reservation. He turned to Jason and
shook his head. 'Ol' Man Wilson jest gittin' shet of this one. Know it
ain't worth nothin'. Know I cain't sell a present.'

'Mista Wilson gittin' ol'. Fixin' to die. Right choice of this young
buck. Craves you should take keer on him.'

'Whut the matter with Jason?' Charles wanted to know. 'Whut wrong with
him?'

'Yes, whyn't you like him?' seconded Hammond. 'He sound.'

'Why, he slick an' thin-skinned as that wench. Half one thing an' half
t'other; that whut wrong. Fac' is, he look more wench than buck.'

'I couldn't refuse a present,' Hammond protested.

'You could a run him home. Come in ridin' the Mandingo's neck, tirin'
him out.'

Jason winced and hung his head at the old man's contemptuous words.

'I likes him. A good nigger,' Charles maintained.

'Keep it way from me, an' you kin have it. Reckon you kin use it as a
bed wench, too,' the owner sneered.

Charles paled at the remark but ignored the implication. Jason, feeling
himself disposed of, retired to beside Charles' chair and squatted by
it, and Charles ran his hand through the boy's hair.

Meg had loitered in the background during the latter part of this
colloquy, as if he had something to say. At length Hammond turned to
him.

'Please, suh, Masta, suh,' Meg announced. 'Tub ready when you like it.'

'Come along, Ellen,' said Hammond, and then to Meg, 'I wants you should
wash Ellen too after you washes me.' He started toward the stairs, Meg
half running in front of him and the girl following after.

The young slave undressed his master in silence, added hot water to that
in the round tub, and steadied Hammond skilfully as he sat down in it.
He lingered in his enjoyment of his washing of the master's pink flesh.
Then he aided Hammond to his feet and towelled him briskly until he was
completely dry.

Hammond was refreshed. His flesh tingled and the fresh linen felt good
against his skin. He surrendered to the boy to put the remainder of his
clothes on him, all except his coat. He seated himself on the bed beside
Ellen, who had watched his bath with silent interest. 'Now, you wash
her,' Hammond told the boy.

Meg did not relish the chore assigned him, but his master failed to see
the condescension in the glance when Meg rolled his eyes towards Ellen.

Ellen rose from the bed, and Meg pushed her none too gently into the tub
of water, spattering the carpet. To none of the three did it seem more
incongruous that the young buck should bathe his master's wench than
that he should be called upon to bathe his horse or his dog. Ellen's
status as her master's concubine would stifle any desire she might
arouse in a slave. Meg's passion, anyway, was not lust but jealousy. He
set about scouring the girl's body with a determination to get the
unpleasant job over as quickly as was compatible with getting her clean,
and she did not resent the roughness with which he handled her.

When Meg had finished drying Ellen, Hammond instructed him to go to
Lucretia Borgia and obtain a dress for her--a new dress, none of those
patched-up rags such as the other wenches wore. 'And then,' he added,
'you might as well wash yourself in that tub as is all ready, an' you
wants to.'

Meg's eyes rolled with scorn. 'I don' craves to wash in her water,
Masta, suh. I wants yourn.'

Hammond grasped Meg, clothed as he was, and plunged him into the soiled
water. 'Nev' mind the water, nor whose; when I says wash, you wash. Hear
me?'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' Meg answered sullenly. 'I never meant----'

'Nev' mind. You a triflin' nigger, jest like your pappy. Now, go git
that dress and come back here an' wash--good.'

Meg departed, dripping.

Hammond's violent action had mollified him. He ran his hand over Ellen
as she sat on the side of the bed. 'This is whure we goin' sleep--ever'
night. Come up here soon's you kin after supper. I's petered from that
ridin'. I'll need you early,' he instructed her and went downstairs.

'Whut become of that Charles?' his father inquired as Hammond entered
the room.

'Around, I reckon. Mayhap sleepin' or trainin' that buck. Glad to be
shet of him an' we kin talk.'

'His sister, Miz Blanche? You goin' to marry, are you? Dead set on it?'

'I reckon I am. You craves me, doesn' you? Cain't crawdaddle now,
'lessen you won't sen' that money to the Major.'

'I'll sen' it, an' you wants, but it looks like buyin' her. Charles kin
tote it along home with him when he go. Had ought to have knowed
Woodford would scrudge money outn you someways; like him. Cain't never
collec' it back.'

'I knows,' admitted the son.

'Miz Blanche will make a good wife. Hammond blood. She nice? And purty?'

'Blanche all right--right light-haired an' fair-complected an' all.
Course she all covered up all the time, an' right shy-like. I hadn't
seen this Ellen then, you knows.'

'Ellen only a nigger,' the elder man said casually and without contempt.
'She right nice an' shapely, but she ain't white. Couldn't marry her and
have no son--leastwise not a white son.'

'Course not. I'm goin' to marry all right. But I'm goin' to keep me
Ellen, Blanche or no Blanche,' Hammond affirmed, and the father nodded
his acquiescence.

'Whure that nigger of yourn? Minute you comes, he go off an' not stir me
no toddy.'

'He upstairs washing off. Not hot enough yet fer to wash him in Ol'
Tombigbee.'

'Call that Mem, an' you kin find him. His ain't as good, seems like, not
as strong, like the ones your buck stirs, but call him anyways.'

Hammond called Mem loudly three times and at length he came with feigned
alacrity.

'I'd keep that Meg away from the Tombigbee, an' I was you. This other'n
right here with me all the time. Better keep yourn up,' the father
counselled.

'Gaters? Early for 'em. An' no harm anyways.'

'Worse. Nigger stealers. I'm not sure but seem like. Nigger stealers
after them twins.'

Unconvinced, but wary, Hammond asked, 'Whut makin' you think?'

'Well, mayhap not, but Willis Hall--you know that Preacher Hall they run
away from Benson fer tryin' to steal niggers----'

'Never could prove nothin',' said Hammond.

'I know, I know. Well, this Hall come a-ridin' in here Satiday on a good
sorrel, after you had went on Friday, wantin' to buy niggers. Thought I
wouldn't know him, called hisself Mason, but it was Hall all right.
Wanted to buy the twins, knows all about 'em. Let it slip out that
Brownlee told him.'

'Brownlee?'

'Yes, Brownlee is in it. I wouldn't even show 'em. Told him the two on
'em was down with the epizootic, notwithstandin' that this 'un was
layin' right here drunk asleep at my feet and Hall a-lookin' right at
him.'

'Brownlee dead set on gittin' them twins, seem like.'

'Got a buyer waitin' fer 'em in New Orleans, a rich Frenchie, Hall say,'
the older man explained. 'But I don't want no truck with Brownlee, or
Hall neither.'

'Hall ain't too bad, I reckon,' Hammond defended him.

'A nigger stealer,' persisted Maxwell. 'Right well set up though, an'
handsome like. Talks good.'

'You know who Hall is?' said Hammond. 'He worked fer Ol' Mista Wilson a
long time ago--overseer at Coign Plantation until religion struck him
an' he felt the call to preach. Mista Wilson like him--good driver.'

'Ol' Wilson likes ever'body. Wonder Hall didn't steal all the Coign
niggers, 'ceptin' he hadn't started his preachin' then.'

'Fac' is, Hall is Ellen's pappy, an' that Jason's.' Hammond felt some
temerity in saying this.

'How?'

'Fact. Ol' Wilson said so.'

'I swan. Mayhap he is after stealin' them. He kin have the buck, fer all
I care.'

'You don't like Jason? He make a good little house nigger.'

'I wouldn't a laid out no money fer him.'

'I didn't.'

'He right whure he fittin', a-flunkyin' that cross-eye of Woodford's.
But we cain't keep Cross Eye ferever jest for the nigger to have
somebody to flunky. So Hall is his pappy? Reckoned they was something
wrong with that buck.'

'An' Ellen's pappy,' added Hammond jealously.

'Don't hurt her none--not fer whut you wants her.'

'I reckon, Papa, you right put out with me, spendin' so much money fer
Ellen. Seems like we didn't need her none. But I wants her, Papa, I
wants her.' Hammond began to weep in his effort to make his father
comprehend his need for the girl.

'There, there, Son. Don't you cry. The wench is all right, right fancy,
an' right cheap at the price. Make a breeder outn her, once you gits
tired of her an' 'Tense ripen up.'

'Ain't a-goin' to git tired. I don' crave 'Tense or no other wench,'
declared Ham.

'The other'n is the one you payin' too much fer.'

'The Mandingo? You said----'

'Not the Mandingo, but the other'n--the Woodford gal, Cross-Eye's
sister.'

'But, Papa. You want me to----'

'Marry a white lady. Sure do, but not buy her an' her whole family.'

'You kin jest not send the money,' Hammond suggested almost anxiously.

'We'll send the money. 'Tain't the money.'

Charles entered the room and interrupted the colloquy. He threw himself
in a chair, announcing, 'I like it. Ain't no prayin' an' don'tin'. You
an' Cousin Hammond treats me growed up. An' there ain't that Blanche
a-cryin' an' a-wantin' an' carryin' on.'

'You be goin' home agin purty soon. Don't git to likin' Falconhurst too
good,' warned Maxwell.

'I ain't never goin' home. I'm a-goin' to stay.'

'I reckon not,' Maxwell modified the finality of his statement.

'Not till I see Cousin Ham's fightin' nigger, no way.'

'Got to train him first,' said Ham. 'Mayhap take weeks.'

'Jason won't never make no fightin' nigger,' Charles hazarded, hopeful
for a contradiction. 'Cries when you hurt him.'

'No sense in hurtin' him,' said Ham.

'I means trainin' him.'

'Don' train him rough, or I'll snatch him away from you. I tol' you not
to larrup that buck.'

'Mayhap whut he needin',' said Maxwell. 'Make a buck outn him.'

'Charles an' me aims to go into Benson Satiday to watch the fightin',
see who got fighters, an' whut kind of niggers they bettin',' Hammond
told his father.

'An' carry Mede along--jest to show him,' Charles added with enthusiasm.

'Mede stay home--hid,' said Hammond.

'When you in Benson, better git a bottle of Dr. Mulbach's Serpent Oil to
rub on that Mandingo,' Maxwell suggested. 'It sovereign.'

'Mede, he ain't sick, don't need no medicament.'

'Better git it. Stink bad, but you need it a-trainin' him. Makes him
limber and flexuous, rubbed on his jints. Circus folks all use Dr.
Mulbach's.'

'Dr. Mulbach's Serpent Oil, you say,' Ham repeated to impress the name
upon his memory.

'An' now we better dig up that pot, the one under the big tree, I
reckon, and count out the money fer Wilson,' the old man decided.
'You-all kin tote it into Benson to Banker Meyer, an' git him to send
it. No use procrastinatin' it.'

'Reckon we kin trust Meyer to send it?'

'Cain't trus' no bank or banker long. But he'll send it. Meyer
honestlike, as bankers goes. Safer havin' gold buried in a pot, but how
else kin we send to Wilson?' Maxwell was not without misgivings.

'An' to Major Woodford?' Ham asked.

'Kin count that out an' keep it aside. Don't need no banker to send
that. Charles here will be goin' first thing, an' he kin tote it. Cain't
you, Charles?'

'Charmed to oblige you.' Charles assumed formality.

'Oblige me? Oblige your papa.' There was a hint of a sneer in Maxwell's
voice as he got slowly to his feet.

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.




CHAPTER 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. It 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.'




CHAPTER 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.

Would Mede fight at all? No trial had been made of his skill in combat
or of his courage. Hammond blushed as he considered the possibility that
Mede should retreat from a fight or worse still that he might accept
defeat without fighting at all. However, there was no avoiding the
issue.

On the day of the fight, the white men hitched their horses and the
Negroes their mules in front of Remmick's tavern, while Hammond looked
in the door to survey the gathering, which was already sizeable despite
the early hour. The weather was clearing but clouds still hung in the
sky and intermittently drifted across the face of the sun. To plough was
not feasible and planters were free to come into Benson to buy, to
visit, to drink, and to watch the fights.

Hammond had to go to the jeweller's to see about his ring and, afraid
that some miscreant might tamper with his fighter, took his entourage
along with him, leaving Mede and a boy named Atrides outside the shop
while he and Charles entered. The bell on the door tinkled and the
watchmaker laid aside his glass and rose from his bench.

The ring had arrived. It was a yellow, lustreless, rose-cut stone of
some two carats in a severe solitaire setting. The watchmaker extracted
it from its velvet-lined box and laid it on the top of his showcase with
an exhibition of pride that concealed his inward misgiving. Hammond
picked up the bauble, looked at it, and carried it to the glazed door
for further inspection.

'Is that all?' he asked. What he had expected, he did not himself know,
but at least something more gorgeous and spectacular than the ring
proved to be.

'Right purty,' advanced the salesman.

'Too purty fer her,' said Charles impatiently. 'Pay, an' let's go back
to Remmick's. Them fights goin' to start.'

'How much it cos'?' asked Hammond.

The jeweller replied, 'Two hundred and thirty-five dollars, an' I'm not
makin' much on it, I tells you, gittin' it here an' all.'

'A heap of money,' said Hammond, sighing and drawing forth a long
leather pouch from which he slowly counted out gold coins. 'You sure it
solid, pure di'mon'?'

'I warrant you,' affirmed the dealer.

'That whut she wantin',' said Ham with satisfaction. 'Put that little
box right in here among this money. Keep it safe.'

'Let me know how the lady like that ring,' said the jeweller as Hammond
closed the door.

'Reckon you goin' home, come next week. Got to git this ring to Cousin
Blanche an' that money to your papa,' Hammond announced as they walked
along the plank sidewalk towards Remmick's.

'Don' make me yet,' Charles pleaded. 'I likes Falconhurst better than
Crowfoot. I likes you an' Cousin Warren better than Papa and Mamma, an'
as fer Blanche----'

'Don' talk so. It ain't nice,' said Hammond.

'It a fact.'

'Hadn't ought to say it. You kin come again--later, after your papa have
that money.'

'Blanche be here then. She pizen.'

Hammond made no reply.

'I gits home, Papa goin' to whup me,' Charles thought aloud. 'Me, I too
big to whup, ain't I, Cousin Ham? Don' you think?'

'Whut fer your papa whup you?' Hammond asked absently, his mind on the
tavern.

'Runnin' away,' the boy confessed. 'He didn't give me no leave to foller
you. I asted an' he tol' me no.'

'You fib to me. I know you lie when you said it,' Hammond accused his
cousin.

'Whut fer you fetch me along, then?'

'I reckon I lonesome-like an' want ridin' company.'

'You bad as me then, carryin' me away an' knowin' Papa never said.'

'You say he said, though. You swear.'

'That the on'y way I gits to come.'

'You goin' right home, leavin' Monday. Cain't stay an' me a-knowin'.'

'I git whupped. I sure git whupped,' the youth lamented.

They reached the tavern, now full of milling men and boys, the Negroes
ranged along the wall, the adult white men at the bar, behind which
Remmick dispensed drinks expertly. Hammond stationed Mede and Atrides at
the end of the line of slaves and told them to wait.

There were already seven fighting men, including Bill Kyle's one-eyed
Sweetness, six stripling boys for betting and a single yellow girl of
eleven or twelve years, not pretty but full-faced and plump. Hammond
recognized Lew Gasaway's Cudjo, a tall, well-made, dark mulatto with the
top of one ear missing, with whom Mede was to be matched.

The other owners were negotiating their matches, examining their
opponents' slaves and binding their bargains in corn whisky. The
onlookers circulated and made small bets, the stakes for which they
entrusted to Remmick, and bought each other drinks.

Three more gentlemen had arrived with their fighters and there were to
be four bouts, leaving one owner disappointed at his failure to arrange
a match for his boy. At last the bets were all placed and the gentlemen
had drunk all the whisky they wanted. Remmick led the way to his
back-yard enclosure and called for the first fight, which was to be
between Sweetness and a large, muscular, concave-faced black called
Mose. Four or five men and two or three boys remained in the room while
the owners stripped their fighters and gave them their instructions.

Remmick cleared an open space in the rough ground of the back-yard as
the two owners leading their naked slaves came out of the door, followed
by the persons who had remained to see the boys stripped.

The impatient and anxious crowd stood two deep around the area that
served as an ill-defined ring, upon opposite sides of which the fighters
took their places, each escorted by his owner. The tavern keeper stood
in the centre of the ring, his arm raised over his head.

'Now, ev'body stan' back, please, suh, an' keep the god-damn ring open
to give the varmints room to FIGHT!' He dropped his arm dramatically at
his final emphatic word and stepped to the side-lines. The owners gave
their respective fighters a shove towards each other and retired.

The boys advanced cautiously. Each was patently afraid of the other, and
alternately pursued one another around the ring without striking a blow.
The bout promised to be tame and the crowd was displeased.

'I got a nigger kin whup 'em both together,' said one man.

'Ifn he kin ketch 'em,' added his neighbour.

'Better take 'em out an' snake the two of 'em, put some grit in 'em.'

'They ain't gittin' hurt none, is they, Papa?' a boy asked solicitously,
and everybody laughed.

The fighters continued to dance and threaten. After a while, Mose caught
Sweetness fairly on the socket of his missing eye and rocked him on his
heels. A fat-legged boy who sat tailor-fashion on the ground giggled in
fear. Mose followed his blow with a lighter one to the ribs.

Sweetness was knocked a step backwards into the spectators, one of whom,
angered by the indignity of being hit by the Negro, shoved him with
considerable force back into the open ring and against Mose, who
encircled Sweetness' neck, and the two fell together, Sweetness on his
back. But not for long. Sweetness, without striking a blow, with a
mighty lunge, exchanged positions and was on top. Here he was enabled to
raise his arms and attain leverage for a blow to Mose's skull, upon
which he unknowingly skinned his bare knuckles. Mose's arms were pinned
between the two bodies; Sweetness' arms were free and he rained
unimpeded blows on the other's jaws and face. Blood spurted from Mose's
nose and the flesh beneath his right eye began to swell.

Mose extracted his arms and the two lay still, locked in an embrace.
Mose strove to force Sweetness upon his back, or even on his side, but
could do nothing. He succeeded in entwining his legs in the legs of his
opponent.

Sweetness disengaged himself and rose to his knees, and Mose kicked him
with his heel directly in the nose, at which the blood spurted, but the
victim seemed insensitive. He was able to get to his feet and planted a
double punch in Mose's lower abdomen, before the two united in another
clinch and, after staggering to the other side of the ring, fell
together to the ground and rolled over twice. A stone, dislodged from
the ground, ripped Sweetness' thigh, which bled unheeded, the blood
mingling with the sweat that bathed him. The audience, which had been
restless, grew intense in its interest. 'Come on, Mose; kill the one-eye
baboon,' breathed Charles to himself.

'Hurry up an' burke him, Sweetness, an' you wants that corn,' yelled
Kyle, and his Negro appeared to hear, for his punches to Mose's belly
seemed more brutal than the ones before. Mose flinched. The inconclusive
combat went on with an intermittent exchange of blows of which those of
Sweetness seemed the more telling.

The exhausted fighters by mutual consent paused and parted for a deep
inhalation, and resumed their struggle. They went down and rolled over
and over, but neither had a firm grip on the other. The fight had lasted
a long thirty-five minutes, and nobody could see how nor why the
fighters had manoeuvred themselves to lie end to end. Mose had Sweetness'
big toe in his mouth and was biting it, while Sweetness tried
unsuccessfully to kick himself loose. Sweetness gritted his teeth in his
pain, but he succeeded in reaching between Mose's legs and twisted his
scrotum. Mose's mouth opened and let go of the toe as he screamed in his
agony, then fell silent. Sweetness did not relinquish his hold until the
owners entered the ring and Gore conceded the victory to Kyle.

'Black ape,' Charles muttered to Hammond. 'I could whup that one-eye
buck my own self.'

The crowd was silent for a moment and then fell into a murmur of excited
comment as all went toward the bar, where winning and losing owner each
bought a round of drinks for everybody.

Mose staggered to his feet after everybody else had gone inside, and
when he entered walking with legs spread and knees bent, his master
reminded him, 'You knows whut I goin' to do to you, losin' that Sam
saplin' on you.'

'Naw, suh, Masta, please. Don' do it, don' do that. Naw suh, Masta,
suh,' Mose begged.

'Dry up, an' begone over amongst the other niggers,' his owner dismissed
him.

The crowd returned to the back-yard for the following bout, which was a
tame but amusing event. At Remmick's behest to 'Fight', one of the
fighters, with a howl of horror, forced his way through the spectators,
pursued by the second, and scaled the six-foot fence.

The owner, in his mortification, proposed to mount his horse and
overtake the runaway, but Remmick declared it a contest and the bets
upon the renegade forfeit. The loser disputed the decision without
redress, and reluctantly bought a round of drinks and scribbled the bill
of sale for his sapling. Doc Redfield assured him of the fairness of
Remmick's verdict, and he felt better about his loss, but caught up the
clothes the Negro had shed, set out to catch him, and failed to return.

'The nex' set-to,' announced Remmick, 'goin' to be between Mista Gasaway
and Mista Hammond Maxwell. Mista Ham got a new buck which none of us
ain't see tussle, and this fight goin' to be right in'erestin'.'

For the third time the crowd began moving out into the yard, but Remmick
remained behind to pour out the cup of whisky with which owners were
wont to fortify their fighters' courage.

Cudjo, out of his clothes first, took the cup from Lewis and downed it
with two gulps, afterwards wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

'Whut species of nigger is that?' Lewis demanded. 'His musk powerful
pungent; smell like he rottin' to pieces. Whyn't you wash him?'

Hammond laughed as he reached for the cup that Lewis Gasaway had
refilled. 'That ain't the buck. That is serpent oil he rubbed with.'

Mede sipped the whisky, which caused him to cough. 'Do I have to drink
this, Masta, suh?' he asked. 'It will make me sick.'

'Give here,' said Hammond.

'Better pour it down him,' cautioned Charles. 'A nigger won't fight,
lesten he drunken.'

Hammond set the cup on the bar, but, lest the contents be wasted,
Gasaway picked it up and gave Cudjo a second drink.

More to reassure Atrides that he was not being deserted than because of
any concern for the garments, Hammond kicked Mede's discarded clothes
towards the yellow boy and cautioned him, 'Watch out fer these. Set
still an' we come back.'

Remmick leaned his elbows on the counter and surveyed Mede critically.
'That nigger bigger withouten no clothes than in 'em. He bulge out all
over.'

'Wait till Cudjo waller with him,' Lewis replied. 'Cudjo wallop them
bulges right offn him.'

Remmick moved round the circle imploring the onlookers to stand back and
make room for the fighters, which they did, then crowded forward again.
Remmick stepped to the centre, raising his arm, and proclaimed, 'We all
knows this big varmint of Mista Gasaway's, name of Cudjo. The othern,
Mista Maxwell's--whut you call him, Ham?'

'Ganymede,' replied Hammond and, when everybody laughed, added, 'Mede,
fer shortenin'.'

'The othern,' Remmick repeated, 'Mista Maxwell's Mede. Let 'em fight.'

Hammond stepped back to join Charles on the edge of the crowd. Mede
looked around as if bewildered, braced himself, but made no move. Cudjo,
encouraged by Mede's uncertainty, advanced aggressively, one hand in
front of him to protect himself, and the other drawn back with fist
clenched. Mede waited. Cudjo's first blow was at Mede's belly and Mede
accepted it; but before Cudjo could withdraw his arm, Mede had clamped
him by the wrist. He spun the other boy around and grasped the other
arm, bringing both behind Cudjo, who was impotent to strike. Cudjo
sought to trip Mede with his foot, but Mede forced the other's arms at
his back, throwing his body forward and compelling him to tiptoe to
avoid the pain. Cudjo could neither escape nor resist. Nobody held a
watch on the bout, but it seemed to the spectators that it had not
lasted twenty seconds. Except Cudjo's tentative jab at Mede's middle, no
blow had been struck and neither man was injured.

'What you want I should do with him, Masta, suh?' asked Mede, forcing
Cudjo on his toes towards Hammond.

'Hol' on to him till Mista Gasaway give up,' Hammond warily instructed
his boy; and called across the ring, 'Whut you wants, Lew?'

'On'y don't let your nigger kill him,' returned Gasaway, laughing in
embarrassment of defeat, and stepping forward to rescue his slave from
Mede's grip.

'Hell of a fight,' said one man to Charles, who slapped his leg and
doubled up with glee. The others stood silent, awed by the Mandingo's
strength.

'Ain't hardly fair, don' seem like,' said Hammond magnanimously. 'Put
'em back an' fight 'em agin, an' if you says.'

Redfield wouldn't hear of it. 'Fair fight, an' fair win,' he declared.
'Bes' buck beat.'

Remmick, although the short fight would sell little whisky, was aware of
the difficulty of settling the bets if it should be renewed to a
reversal of the outcome. 'No, no,' he said, 'Mista Maxwell won clean.'
He also foresaw the rematch of the same bucks on another Saturday.

There was some dissent among the disappointed spectators, and a few men
who had lost their bets were disgruntled, but the consensus was that
Mede's victory was clean-cut and decisive. Gasaway, in his role as a
sporting man, had no alternative but to accept it. He made a show of
good nature as he bought his round of drinks for the crowd, and even
condoned Cudjo's bad performance.

Cudjo wept as he pulled on his clothes and his master carried a cup of
whisky to him, and reassured him, 'It all right, never mind, you'll git
'nother go at him.' Cudjo wiped his tears away with the tail of his
shirt, and gradually recovered from his humiliation.

The last fight was a routine and unexciting fracas, an exchange of blows
in which one of the fighters was knocked down, followed by a scramble on
the ground. Major Watson's man bit off the lobe of his opponent's ear
and knocked loose two of his teeth and, at the cost of a broken hand,
was declared the winner after some thirteen minutes of combat.

After the fights, Hammond did not return to the bar but went to rouse
his _mnage_ for their departure.

As they rode back towards Falconhurst, Charles was jubilant in a review
of the events of the afternoon. His winnings were small, but he
congratulated himself that he had won at all. Mede's victory over Cudjo
was in truth Hammond's over Lewis Gasaway, for whom he felt a strong
rivalry.

They found the senior Maxwell nervous. He had tried to pace the floor
but the pain in his joints forbade such activity, and he had had Memnon
move his rocking-chair to the window that he might watch for his son's
return. He sought to disguise his apprehension, and watched the boys and
their Negroes dismount without moving from his chair. But when he saw
the third Negro crawl from the mule, he knew that Mede had won his
fight.

That night the two boys and Maxwell sat drinking and talking about
Mede's victory until after midnight, and so cordial was the atmosphere
that Charles began to hope he would be allowed to stay longer at
Falconhurst.

Next morning, however, his hope was disappointed.

'Time Cousin Charles was gittin' started an' he goin' today,' said
Hammond on his return from his rounds. 'His hoss waitin' an' saddled.'

He got off his horse and went into the house, and when he returned
Charles was with him.

'Has I got to go today?' Charles asked. 'Don' know kin I fin' my way.
Cain't I wait an' ride with Cousin Hammond? Ain't more than a month
off.'

'I wants your papa to git that money, an', don' let me fergit the ring
fer Cousin Blanche,' said Hammond. 'Besides, your papa don' know whure
you at. Git ready.'

Argument was useless. Charles went into the house, and up to his room,
but soon returned ready for his trip. A boy brought his horse and
Maxwell arose and hobbled over to make sure its leg was completely
healed. Charles shook the hands of his hosts in silence and, after he
had got on his horse, Hammond handed up to him a cloth bag of gold
coins.

'Take care of this,' Hammond admonished. 'It got that ring in it fer
Blanche, right on top that money.'

'I goin' to hug it right to me,' Charles promised.

He rode away reluctantly, turning now and again to look back.

At midday, when father and son had settled themselves at table, Lucretia
Borgia planted herself in the doorway to the kitchen. 'Masta, suh, I
wants to 'form you, that saplin' of Masta Charles never turn up to git
his dinner.'

'Jason?' asked Hammond.

'Yas, suh; that the one. Whut I do?'

'Don't do nuthin',' said Hammond. 'He come up fer supper.'

'Prob'ly off a-mopin' 'bout its masta,' surmised the older man.
'Loony-like about Charles, but never come to see him ride away.'

'Mayhap watched from upstairs. Upstairs now, cryin', I venture.'

'Charles treat it good, too. Like it, seem like.'

'I minded him to treat him good and not to never lambaste him.'

'He lambaste him nights,' Meg interposed.

Hammond at first looked sternly at the young slave to reprimand the
interruption; then asked, 'How you know?'

Meg was confused by the tacit injunction to silence and the spoken
question. 'Jason say,' he shrugged. 'He like it.'

'Nigger talk.'

'You reckon Charles take that buck along?' Hammond asked his father. 'He
crazy enough.'

'You see him ride off. Course not.'

'He mayhap send Jason ahead an' pick him up. He untrusty.'

'You trust him with twenty-five hunert dollars gold. Reckon you trus'
him with a little yaller buck.'

'That different. Charles crazy 'bout Jason.'

'Wouldn't care, savin' the buck was a present,' said the father. 'Never
grow into nothin' noway.'

'Charles got him, I fetch him when I go to Crowfoot nex' month. Don'
mean no harm.'

'Had ought to ast, anyways.'

'Course. Course. I'd a let him carry him along until I goes.'

'Mayhap you right. That whure he go.'

'Hope so, an' he don' come up,' Hammond dismissed the subject. He was
still too pleased by Mede's success in the fight to bother much about a
runty little nigger like Jason.

But Ham's pride took a blow from, unexpectedly, Doc Redfield when the
latter called at the big house the next evening.

'Why you so monstrous keen fer this Mandingo to fight?' queried the Doc,
interrupting Ham in yet another description of the previous Saturday's
victory.

'I craves my buck to win final--so as nobody goin' to misdoubt,' taken
aback, Hammond fumbled in search of his words.

'You-all got ever'thin' an' nothin' good enough,' Redfield observed,
accepting a toddy from Meg's tray. 'Take me; I ain't never had nothin',
an' marryin' a dozen or like ol' petered out niggers an' a quarter
section plantation make me feel a gen'leman. Take you; got this place,
always had it, an' the finest niggers around, and you frets a-cause your
buck cain't strike the other man's buck dead jest a-lookin' at him. You
real gen'lemen, gen'lemen born. Livin' up to it must be hell.'

'It that Hammond blood,' affirmed Maxwell. 'Ol' Theophilus Hammond
always had the best land, the best hosses, the best whisky, the best
niggers, and the best women, an' none of 'em good enough to ease his
mind.'

'I don't reckon Maxwell blood count none,' said Redfield, sipping at his
drink.

The old man denied the implication. 'I not prideful, never was prideful,
nor my papa before me weren't. I knows my niggers likely an' prime. The
kind I keeps because it the only kind worth pourin' vittles into, the
kind that don't have to stan' a month in New Orleans jails waitin' for a
body to buy.'

The conversation turned to other themes, but Hammond did not forget the
accusation of excessive pride. It came back to him while Meg bathed him
as he sat in the tub with his stiff leg extended. He wondered. Did a
cripple, such as he, have a claim to pride? Was he seeking a vicarious
soundness in his obsession with slaves without blemishes? As for
gentility, a white cripple could still be a gentleman if he had, or ever
had had, property. In addition, he himself had blood--three generations
of planter forebears. Gentility was his birthright, which he could no
more avoid than Redfield could acquire it. A gentleman must live up to
his heritage, accept its perquisites and immunities, but the man proud
of being a gentleman was something less than a gentleman, just as the
man who aspired to be believed a gentleman, by so much, failed of his
aspiration. Perhaps his own crippled leg, by curbing his pride, saved
his gentility. Possibly that was its purpose, to chasten him. These
unfamiliar reflections worried Ham.

Little could be expected from Ellen, but Hammond appealed to her that
night. 'Is I spreadin' my tail too much, lovie?' he asked her as she lay
in his arms.

'How you mean, Masta, suh?'

'Doc Redfield say I gittin' too proud-like, buyin' a buck like Mede that
whup all the otherns, an' a wench like you, lighter an' purtier than any
other gen'lemen got. I don't crave to be 'sumptuous an' overbearin'. You
don' reckon I overbearin', not to white men?'

'Mista Doc doesn't know what a gentleman is like. I know he is white,
but he ain't a gentleman, not like you're a gentleman, or old Masta
Wilson's a gentleman.'

'I ain't talk' 'bout Doc Redfield; I talkin' about me. Does havin'
Falconhurst, an' good hosses, an' fine niggers make me too proudful?'

'I don't know how you treats white folks.' Ellen was gradually assuming
the vernacular of the plantation; 'but you good to your niggers, sure
good to them. Me, you----'

'How I treats you don't figure. You my bed-woman, and course I treats
you choice-like.'

'All of 'em--Meg and Memnon, Lucretia Borgia, an' Mede, an' Big Pearl,
even the field niggers, all of 'em.'

'I feed 'em good an' don' work them too hard. That all. With niggers
nobody got to spread his tail; nobody. Niggers knows you better than
they is. But when you better than another white man, you hadn't ought to
let on you thinks it. He cain't he'p it 'cause he ain't got blood an'
land an' niggers an' all.'

'But you is better, Masta, suh,' the girl emphasized.

'You reckon me marryin' that purty young white lady goin' to make me
more prideful? Make me so as no white man kin talk to me?'

Tears suffused Ellen's eyes and Hammond heard her sobbing in the
darkness.

'Whut you cryin' 'bout? I didn't do nothin' to you,' he said.

'I cain't help it. I cain't help it, Masta, please, suh. You goin' to
marry an' I won't be nothing to you, nothin'.' He felt her lift her hand
and draw it across her eyes to brush away the tears.

'Doesn't you un'erstand?' Hammond demanded. 'I got to--got to do it. I
promised. Besides, it won't make no difference to you an' me. White
ladies don't like no pesterin'; they not like wenches; they detests it;
they jest submits to make a child. I still keeps you.'

'But you goin' to love her--more than you love me. Masta, suh, oh,
Masta.'

'She goin' to be my wife, don' you un'erstan'?' the boy argued. 'I got
to love her like a white lady. I still goin' love you like a wench.
Ain't nobody ever, white nor black, goin' to take your place. You always
goin' to be mine.'

'She goin' to be first.'

'Course. She got to be. She white,' he admitted. 'Mustn't git to
thinkin', 'cause I takes you into my bed, that you anythin' but a
nigger. You purty and clean and sweet-like an' I loves you, but you
ain't white, cain't have me a chil', not a white child.'

Ellen knew that what he said was true and attempted no rebuttal.

'Not like me givin' you to no buck fer a breeder an' takin' me another
wench. You my wench, rest easy; an' I don' want no other. Now, spread
out an' let's go to sleep. I got plantin', come mornin'.'

Meg's ear at the keyhole caught only random words of the conversation
and failed to understand even what he heard. When he was sure the
talking had stopped, he lay down outside his master's door and slept.




CHAPTER 12


On subsequent Saturdays, Ham was unable to get fights for Mede in
Benson, which augmented his belief that his boy was supreme, at least
for the area around Benson. But even if Mede should never fight
again--and Hammond despaired of finding an opponent for him--he would
remain, even to his decrepitude, a show-piece of whom no demonstration
was required.

However, with the approach of May, Hammond had to set out to collect his
bride, and fighting was relegated to the periphery of his interests.

His mother's room, closed since her death, was reopened and refurbished.
The feather-bed was tumbled, the former owner's apparel removed from the
clothes-press, the carpet taken up and dusted, and all made ready for
Blanche's reception.

'Reckon we give Tense to Miz Blanche to be her nigger. She big enough,
don' you reckon, an' clean an' a virgin?' Maxwell proposed. 'That
important. Don't want no impure wench a-servin' your wife.'

'Needn't fret about that. Major Woodford goin' to give Blanche a little
wench fer her weddin', I guess. Usual, ain't it?'

Maxwell snorted, 'See that old man givin' nobody nothin'. Ain't got one
to give.'

'That money, Charles took along. Like he paid off on some of 'em.
Wouldn't be genteel to not give her a wench that she used to.'

'Better figger on Tense--'less, that is, you wants that one fer
yourself. Cain't pester with your wife's wench.'

'Not an' so long as I got Ellen, I doesn't crave no other,' said the
son.

'Dotin' more on that Ellen than right decent, seem like,' cautioned the
older man. 'All well enough to pester with. Got to have you a wench,
course. Remember, she jist a wench.'

'I don' care. I don' want no other.'

'No sense in you marryin', seem like.'

'I hadn't bought Ellen when I promised Blanche. If I'd a went to
Crowfoot by way of The Coign, I 'speck I wouldn't never a done it.
Besides, you wants a gran'chile, doesn't you?'

Maxwell admitted as much.

'You mustn't neglec' to take Memnon down to the smith afore you go.
Don't want no lusty, unringed buck in the house whure there is a white
lady.'

'Been puttin' it off. Mem scared of burnin'. Las' time the smith drop
solder on him. Skeared yet.'

'Fiddlesticks, smith not goin' to burn him, not to hurt much anyway.
Don't got to punch through him this time; hole already in him.'

'I take him, come mornin',' Hammond agreed.

'Another thing,' bethought the old man. 'Ain't decent all these saplin's
runnin' around nekid--the bucks especial. They shock her an' she see
'em.'

'They in the cabins an' the barn. They don' come around the house. Whut
we goin' to do?'

'Better put shimmies on 'em. Tell Lucretia Borgia to git 'em made; she
know which wenches kin ply a needle.'

'Needn't come more than mid-leg.'

'Long enough they cain't go aroun' kickin' up an' a-showin' theyself.
An' these twins, got to learn 'em to keep buttoned up. They too little
to warrant ringin' for a year or two, but got to be decent an' talk
decent. Hear?'

Both boys assented with a 'Yas, suh, Masta, suh.'

'Mine goin' to be all right in that riggin' I buy for him. Cain't fly
open, an' I'll hang him up, I hears any dirty talk outn him. Alph too.
Have to watch out your own self, I reckon.'

'While you gittin', better git one of them brass-buttoned habits fer
mine, too. Look real nice, the two of 'em alike, an' we kin use 'em on
that Kit when the twins grows out of 'em.'

'Don't reckon I better git new fer Mem? He's a-wearin' out.'

'He do well enough. Make him brush his coat an' clean up.'

It was plain to both the men that the presence of a white woman would
necessitate some alteration in the plantation customs. Maxwell harked
back to the time Hammond's mother had been alive and to the decorum that
had reigned. In retrospect it did not seem to him onerous; Blanche could
not be more exacting.

'Better fetch up them two mares from pasture an' have 'em clipped an'
the harness greased,' remarked Hammond.

'Goin' to take the surrey? Better drive them mares a little. Liable to
be wil', grassin' all winter.'

'Thought the surrey. Cousin Blanche goin' to have a trunk, dresses an'
all to fetch along. Goin' the north way, ferryin' good over all the
branches. Won't have to swim the wagon.'

'Good thing we got it. Hain't hardly been used sence your mamma----.
Cain't abide wheels under me. Ruther straddle.'

'But a lady----. Hard to ride side that fur.'

'I knows. Ladies cain't straddle.'

Hammond felt conspicuous and uneasy driving to Benson in a surrey to
obtain the clothes he had ordered. A young man without a female
companion seemed to him out of his realm in a vehicle. The mares,
however, adjusted readily to harness; they travelled in unison and
without more skittishness than was expected from horses so long at
pasture.

And the clothes he had had made were uncomfortable but would suffice for
the purpose intended. The village cobbler had sought to make the boots
as small as Ham could cramp his feet into and, however much pain
resulted, they were neat, even dainty. His father was impressed with the
dignity with which Ham strutted across the sitting-room floor,
concealing his limp as best he could.

'Right well set up,' was Maxwell's verdict. 'Lady right lucky, I
reckon.'

'See that goods. Heavy. Wear like 'gater hide,' said Hammond
insistently, picking up the skirt of the coat and forcing it into the
gnarled hands of his father. 'Feel it.'

'Right strong broadcloth, but ain't any too fine, not a bit. No better'n
I wore the time I marry your mamma. Nothin' too stylish to marry in!'

In turn Meg was summoned to try on his new suit of which he had known
nothing. 'Better have him washed first,' suggested Maxwell.

'Jest to try fer size, he won't dirty it none,' Hammond declared. 'Shuck
down,' he ordered the delighted boy.

Not bothering with stockings, which were a part of the outfit, he had
the boy slip his naked legs into the breeches, adjusted the coat over
his shirtless shoulders, and, seated on the floor, Meg pulled the shoes
on his bare feet. They were his first shoes and he relished the enhanced
status that would come from wearing them.

'You sure 'nough house nigger now,' Hammond explained. 'Got to ack like.
No more rushin' around an' scufflin'. No more nekid skin. Got to keep
these fixin's whole.'

'I still goin' to be yo' nigger, yo' own?'

'I takin' you with me clear to Crowfoot, ain't I, whut more? Reckon you
kin behave?'

'Yas, suh, Masta, yas suh, I behave; I behave good.'

Two days later master and manikin set out on their journey. Pole had
brought the surrey early in the morning and stood patiently at their
heads holding the horses. Meg, magnificent in his brass-buttoned jacket,
stockinged and shod, sat ramrod straight in the driver's seat an hour
before Hammond was ready to depart.

There was much to be done. Putting on and adjusting the new clothes was
itself a chore. A final trip to the Mandingo's cabin took up time.

Lucretia Borgia stood on the gallery beside Ellen, who had come out for
the leave-taking. Hammond kissed them both. Tears came to Ellen's eyes
but she did not sob. He kissed his father and hugged him to his body.

'You min' yo' manners, nigger, an' do what Masta say--ever'thin' jest
like he say,' his mother cautioned Meg. 'An' take care them new
clothes.'

'I ain't takin' no blacksnake, but I kin sure tear him down with this
buggy whup,' said Hammond climbing into the surrey and shoving Meg
toward the other seat.

'That's right, Masta,' applauded Lucretia Borgia solemnly. 'I hopes you
goin' to smash him, Masta, suh. On'y way to tame a young nigger.'

The world was green with May and the sunshine warmed it well. The rutted
and washed roads slowed the surrey, which swayed on its springs, but
there was no need for haste. The wedding was set for the eighth, and
Hammond allowed four days for the journey.

Yet fine though the weather was, and despite Meg's excitement, Ham could
not help brooding on the way. He dreaded what was ahead of him--his
wedding, the prospect of which would have irked him less if the
festivities connected with it could have been avoided. Crowfoot would
overflow with guests strange to him, with whom he would be at ill ease.
It was like Major Woodford to make the most of his daughter's marriage.
The standing up to take those vows before all those people, the dinner
afterwards, and the banter he would have to endure, the effort to behave
like a gentleman when he wasn't quite sure of being one, all frightened
Hammond. Taking refuge in vicarious good manners, he instructed Meg how
to act; keep his coat straight and his pants buttoned, eat what was
offered him and don't ask for anything else, don't pick his nose, don't
break wind, and don't tell embarrassing lies.

Ham found no enjoyment in the lush green landscape, the planted acres,
the brood of young bob-whites that scurried at his approach, the meadow
lark's calls, the hawk, a speck in the turquoise dome, the snake that
slithered across the road, causing his horses to shy. However, he looked
forward to seeing Charles again, despite Charles' childish animosity for
his sister, which was perhaps only jealousy.

It was not much short of noon on the fourth day when the carriage
reached Crowfoot. 'Set up straight now, we's gittin' there. I wants you
to ac' good and right,' he admonished Meg as he turned into the lane
that led to the house.

'I is, Masta, suh,' the small boy replied with resolution.

Hammond was relieved, and also amazed, to see so little stir about the
place. Possibly, he thought, the Major had restrained himself from
making a festival of his daughter's wedding. A ragged young slave
scurried to take charge of the team, and before Hammond could reach the
front door the old house-boy appeared from a side door to receive him.

'Whure at your masta? Whure Major Woodford?' Hammond demanded.

'He gone to church, Masta, suh. White folks all gone to meetin',' the
slave replied. 'I knows you though, suh. You that white gen'leman that
come time back. I knows you. Come in, suh, if you please, suh.' He threw
open the front door.

'I'll wait here,' said Hammond, sitting down on the edge of the gallery
floor. 'I reckon they not goin' to be long, now, specially the
weddin'----'

'They all goin' to Sterlin' Plantation to eat dinner--all 'ceptin' Masta
Dick. He be comin' home, suh, this afternoon, he goin' to dip some
niggers in the crick that ain't babtize yet. He comin',' the yellow
Negro said, dragging out a large chair from inside the house.

'But the weddin'----' Hammond urged.

'Ain't knowin' nothin' about that, Masta,' the Negro kept his counsel.
'Masta never said nothin' 'bout that, suh.'

Had he mistaken the appointed date, Hammond wondered. He got up and sat
in the chair for a short while, Meg continuing to sit on the floor, but
later Hammond arose and paced the driveway impatiently, glancing toward
the entrance at every tenth step. He was aware of Negro eyes on him from
the quarters, but ignored them.

'Kin I git you sompin', sompin' to eat, or sompin', Masta, suh, whiles
you waitin'?' the house servant returned to ask.

Hammond wanted nothing except to be enlightened. 'I'll jes' wait,' he
said.

'How Masta Charles come on, suh? You're the one, suh, he go away with,
ain't you, suh?' the Negro asked.

'He back, Charles back, weeks ago,' the white man affirmed. 'Ain't he?'
he then asked as an afterthought.

'Naw, suh, Masta, suh; naw, suh. Masta Charles ain't never come back.'

So. That was the reason for the lack of preparation for the wedding! No
money, no bride! What had become of Charles? What had happened to him?
And to Jason? Charles had absconded with the Maxwell money, the Maxwell
ring, and the Maxwell slave. He was not only a thief, but worse, a
nigger-stealer. What a fool he had been to entrust Woodford's son with
so much money! In his anger he had resolved to order his horses, when a
horseman came down the lane.

Woodford dismounted and threw his bridle to the same Negro boy who had
taken Hammond's team. Dressed all in black, he was a fine figure of a
young man; save for the wild, ecstatic, irresponsible, drunken look in
his faded blue eyes, he might have been handsome. But he was not drunk
on alcohol. Hammond walked towards him.

'You! You that Maxwell!' Dick addressed Ham. 'You the one that plight to
marry my sister! Whut you do here? An' I weren't a preacher an' you a
crip, I'd gouge your eyes out, both en 'em. Whut you do at Crowfoot?'

'Whut I do at Crowfoot?' Hammond restrained himself. 'I come to marry
Miz Blanche, like I said. This the day she set.'

'After you conjure her brother away with you? An' never send no money
like you was a-goin'? You think she marry no sich son-a-bitch like you?'

'I sent that money. Sent it by that damn nigger-stealin' brother of
yourn!' Hammond's temper was rising.

'Don't cuss! Don't cuss! I'm a preacher, you know. Don't cuss,' Dick
retreated into his vocation.

'Then, don't cuss your own sel',' Hammond admonished. 'Nigger tellin' me
Charles never come, never fetched Major Woodford that money?'

'An' you trust him with money? Trus' Charlie?' Dick was incredulous.
'Cain't trus' that scoun'rel with four bits. I don't credit you send
him.'

'Five or six weeks back, he bin gone. Took one of my niggers along, my
papa's, an' twenty-five hunderd dollars, gold.'

'Gold! A nigger!' Dick sat down on the edge of the gallery and guffawed.
'You cain't trust Charlie with a nigger more than with a dollar. Charlie
out an' gone--maybe in the Texies by this time. Whurever Charlie be, the
money sure spent an' that nigger sure sol'.'

His laughter took the hysterical intensity from Dick's eyes. It was
contagious and Hammond laughed with his cousin, but with less hilarity.
It was a costly joke.

'But whut fer you take him along, first place?' asked Dick, drying his
eyes with his hand. 'It whut you gits, enticin' him along.'

'Enticin'? Charles caught me up an' say his papa given his leave; he
swear it,' and Hammond retold the story of his being overtaken and
joined by young Woodford.

'An' you believe him? Better turn it inside out, an' take it the other
way, Charlie never say true in his life.'

'At Falconhurst, he right good, right trusty.'

'Gittin' ready fer devilment. But I believes you. Reckon you say true.
'Bout you an' Blanche, got to wait till Papa come.' Dick rose to his
feet. 'Got to eat. Dinner ready. Likely ain't much an' folks away. But
come along.'

Meg was sent to the kitchen for his meal.

'Right likely little buck you got,' Dick commented upon the obediently
retreating child. 'Breed him?'

'Him an' his twin, jest alike.'

'Papa don' have no luck breedin', seems like wenches slips 'em or they
dies or sumpin'. Ain' more than about a dozen young around.'

'My papa don't have no trouble that a-way.' Hammond took no credit for
himself. 'Coursen, we mostly buys, when we kin find 'em.'

As the two went through the sitting-room and into the dining-room, Dick
clapped his guest on the shoulder. 'You all right an' right hones', seem
like. Don't care an' you are cripped. You got money an' all them
niggers. I goin' to like you, don't make no matter whut folks a-sayin'.'

'My mamma was a Hammond,' Ham explained proudly.

'So also is Charlie's mamma--and mine,' Dick countered.

After dinner, Dick excused himself. 'Papa havin' me practise preachin'
on the people,' he explained. 'Ain't never babtized heretofore, but got
to today--two or three wenches an' a buck ain't been saved. Papa puttin'
it off. Don't crave wettin' his britches. Reckon you'd rather snooze or
somethin'. I'll hurry. Won't be long.' The fanatic gleam, trade-mark of
his evangelism, reappeared in Dick's eyes as he stalked away.

To snooze was the last thing Hammond wanted to do. He paced the floor of
the house, paced the gallery, paced the driveway. He wished that he had
gone with Dick to the religious meeting for the Negroes and was moved to
follow him, but thought better of the project. He had better wait. To be
refused his bride he could endure, but he wanted to have the matter
settled.

He thought of how much Blanche had cost him, twenty-five hundred dollars
plus the ring and two journeys to Crowfoot, though of course the first
trip had included his visit to The Coign and his purchases of Mede and
Ellen, for neither of which he had any regrets. If only he had gone
there first, before he had come to Crowfoot! But dear as Ellen was to
him, she wasn't his wife. That was unthinkable. After all, he needed a
wife to give him an heir.

At length Dick returned from his baptizing. 'I ducked 'em, ducked 'em
good,' he called in triumph. 'It was easy. I kin do it. On'y that lean
wench slip away from me an' like to a-drowned, on'y she never.'

'You all soaked. Look at your britches. Better put on dry,' suggested
Hammond.

'I took 'em off an' wrang 'em out,' said Dick. 'They goin' to dry. Whut
I needs is a drink of corn. Medicine! I temp'ance of course. But
carryin' things too fur to not use it fer medicine--keep from ketchin'
somethin'. You not temp'ance, I reckon? Wantin' a drink?' He led the way
to the spring-house where the Major kept his whisky.

Hammond was indeed wanting a drink and followed his host with a feeling
that approached gratitude. One drink begot thirst for another, and the
second for the third. The afternoon was growing late when the sound of
horses' heels in the driveway broke the spell of their session. Hammond
heard the orotund voice of the Major demanding, 'Whose boy are you?' and
heard Meg answer politely, 'I's Masta Ham Maxwell's nigger, Masta,
please, suh.'

'You git out an' go up to your room, an' don' come down until I says,'
Ham heard the Major subdue his voice, which was still loud enough, and
heard him boom a whisper into his wife's ear-trumpet, 'Hammond Maxwell.'
When Beatrix failed to understand him, he repeated twice, slowly and
syllabically as if to enable her to read his lips, 'Ham-mond! Hammond
Max-well!'

The woman replied with a startled intake of breath, 'Oh!'

Dick and Hammond emerged from the spring-house in time to see Beatrix,
all in brown, sedately, without a glance to right or left, enter the
front door of the house. Blanche, in the self-same challis dress in
which Hammond had first seen her, followed her mother, but with a
high-headed assumption of dignity and a tragic tread.

The Major maintained his ground in the driveway and waited for the young
man to approach. The carriage drove away towards the stables.

'Papa, this Mista Maxwell,' Dick presented the guest as if he were
unknown to his father.

'Reckon I don' know the skunk?' the Major demanded, drawing himself to
his utmost height. 'Had ought ter. Throwin' my poor girl into a decline!
Whut he wantin' here now?'

'He sent it! He sent the money!' Dick hastened to appease his father.

'Then whyn't it come?' The Major did not credit his son's assurance.

'Sent it by Charlie! Sent it by Charlie!' Dick's feet stamped in rhythm
with his laughter at the inconceivable stupidity of entrusting anything
to his brother.

'That why he spirit Charles away, I reckon--so he kin tell he sent the
money an' it didn't come. Right clever sharper. Ain't got the money an'
never had it. Never meant to send.'

Hammond had not spoken. Now he said simply and without show of rancour,
'An' you doesn't believe me, doesn't believe I sent the money, doesn't
believe I sent Miz Blanche no ring, doesn't believe your Charles stole
no buck when he left, doesn't take my word as a gen'leman,' all I kin do
now is to ast you kindly, suh, fer my hosses. I come to wed Miz Blanche,
like she say; this the eighth of May. You could save me the journey--the
least you could do, suh, seem like. Will you be so good, suh, as to
order my hosses?' He was proud of himself for the speech he had made.

'I never said it; never said I didn't believe your word. Wait a minute.'
The Major sheathed his horns. 'Maybe we goin' to un'erstan' one another.
Maybe we goin' to fix things up. I tells you: an' you sends that money,
that is an' you promise to again, maybe you kin wed my daughter. Maybe
you did send; I ain't sayin' you never. But you got to show faith, an'
sen' agin.'

'I craves my hosses, suh, if you please, suh. I ain't a-purchasin' your
daughter--the second time. Ifn your son stolen your money an' my nigger,
we pockets our losin's; but not another dollar does I beg from my papa
fer you, not another two bits. Miz Blanche, she ain't to blame, an' I
ain't to blame. I'll marry her, but I ain't a-goin' to buy her.'

Major Woodford hesitated. Suitors for his daughter's hand were rare
enough, and no other was affluent. This man in his family should stiffen
his credit and later could hardly fail to help him out of his financial
jam. Could he afford to wreck Blanche's prospects and possibly his own
on the rock of pride? He decided that he could not. Moreover, he thought
of Charles. Maxwell could not be expected to prosecute his
brother-in-law for the theft of a Negro--the most heinous of crimes. If
Charles should be caught, the theft would be ignored or passed off as a
mere mistake. The Major would not desert his son.

All these things ran quickly through his mind.

'I willin' to make the sacrifice an' if Blanche's mamma is. She a
Hammond, you know. She proud. But, other hand, I don't crave no case of
green sickness, that it look like my daughter a-comin' to.'

'Come in, come in,' urged Dick. 'It all right. Don't fret. Mamma do like
Papa say. Always does.' He ushered Hammond into the Empire drawing-room.
Holding the door, he asked, 'Wants I should turn your nigger inside or
sen' him to quarters?'

'He house tamed,' answered Hammond, sitting gingerly upon the damask
divan.

Meg came in and at his master's behest sat on the floor at Ham's feet.

The suitor heard the girl's father discussing the marriage with her deaf
mother in the adjoining sitting-room. Dick was with them but had little
to say. The Major sought to subdue his voice, but whispers loud enough
to penetrate Beatrix's ear-trumpet were audible to Hammond in the
drawing-room. Hammond made an effort not to hear, but if he failed to
catch a sentence the first time it was spoken, he was unable to avoid it
when it was repeated, as most speeches had to be. The Major's mind was
made up, and his consultation with his wife a mere formula to enable him
to excuse himself for his failure to impose, and to extract, harder
terms, an effort in his capitulation to save honour.

He assured Beatrix that Hammond had denied abducting Charles, that
Charles had claimed parental leave to go with him. He told of Charles'
departure from Falconhurst with the Maxwell money and the ring for
Blanche.

'That a fib,' said Beatrix with indignation. 'He ain't tellin' true.
Charles would a brung it. My boy would a brung it right straight. He
never sent it. I never raised Charles to be no thief.'

'But he is one,' countered the Major, 'a nigger thief. He took away one
of Warren's bucks.' He had to repeat the statement three times before he
could make the woman hear it; her difficulty was more a reluctance to
credit the story than an inability to understand the words.

When the accusation penetrated to her consciousness, Beatrix gasped.
Then she shrieked, after which she lay back in her chair. 'He dead!
Charles is dead,' she uttered in her empty voice. 'That's it. That
nigger killed him an' stole that money. My boy! My pore boy! He's dead!'

'He ain't dead! You knows he ain't dead!' the Major laid his hands on
his wife's arm for emphasis and consolation. 'No sich thing. Charles is
off, a-spendin' that money of mine. You'll see when he come ridin' up
one of these days.' He assumed as cheerful a tone as he was able and
reinforced it with a grimace resembling a smile, although his assurance
lacked confidence. He was, in fact, indifferent to the fate of his son,
though not to the fate of the twenty-five hundred dollars.

'He dead. I say he dead. I knows it; I feels it,' protested Beatrix,
rolling her head back and forth on the back of her chair. 'My boy dead.'
She broke into weeping.

Dick brushed his father aside to reach the trumpet. 'An' he wasn't
saved!' he screamed into her ear. 'Charles never got right with Jesus! I
knew it would happen. An' he dead, he burnin' in hell fire right now,
burnin'!'

Major Woodford struggled with his son to pull him out of the range of
the woman's ear-piece. 'Don't tell her that,' he whispered. 'Don't make
her no worse.'

'It so, an' you know it so,' shouted the preacher. 'Charlie wasn't
saved, an' he a-burnin'. Mamma know he a-burnin'.' Dick seemed to gloat
over his contemplation.

'No! No! No!' cried his mother. 'I pray for him; I been a-prayin' ever'
day an' ever' night. Mayhap he saved. Mayhap, jest as that nigger come
down on his head, he seen Jesus an' embraced Him.' She toppled forward
upon her knees and bowed her head in silent prayer.

The Major picked up her trumpet which had fallen to the floor and held
it to Beatrix's ear. 'Whut about that weddin'? Whut you craves to do
about that?' he vociferated.

'Do whut you wants! Do whut you goin' to do anyways!' the bereft mother
looked up in irritation at the interruption of her prayer. 'You drive
away Charles; now you a-drivin' Blanche. Sellin' her jest like she was a
nigger. Go on an' sell her, an' that whut you bent on.'

'I ain't neither a-sellin' her. He done send the money an' Charlie
stolen it. He won't sen' no more.' Woodford held the horn to his wife's
ear and spoke loudly but not directly into the horn. He did not know and
cared little whether Beatrix heard him.

She refused to be diverted from her efforts to rescue her murdered son
from the fires of hell and shifted the responsibility to the father for
the disposal of her daughter. He laid the horn upon the chair and looked
at Dick.

Dick nodded. 'Go ahead,' he said in a voice low enough not to interrupt
the prayer further. 'Might as well. He rich. An' besides, there ain't
nobody else 'at a-wantin' her. First thing, she goin' be an' ol' maid,
an' then whut?'

Major Woodford pulled himself together, hitched his neck, adjusted his
coat, and assumed his most pompous mien. He strode into the adjoining
room where Hammond waited.

'Blanche's mamma an' me, we talked it over,' he announced. 'We talked it
all over an' we decided. We decided on lettin' love have its way. We
cain't stan' up agin it. An' you wants my daughter an' Blanche a-wantin'
you, that the way it goin' to be.'

Hammond got to his feet. He had heard every word of the conversation. 'I
knowed you an' Cousin Beatrix weren't a-goin' to let me come all this
way fer nothin',' he said, grasping the Major's extended hand.

'Better ride fer the preacher,' the Major turned to Dick. 'Ride fer
Jones, an' bring him along quick as you kin.'

'Afore supper?' Dick objected.

'Hell with supper. We got to git a preacher an' they goin' to sleep
tonight. Tell Auntie Celia to keep somethin' hot, time you git back. But
ride fer Jones. Whut's a-henderin' you?'

'Ain't no press,' Ham suggested. 'We kin wait fer mornin'.'

'Put off a weddin' after it set?' The Major was horrified. 'Bad luck;
wouldn't have no case in it. Got to be today or not never. Set down
awhile an' hold your peace, an' let me go up an' fetch her down.'

The Major went upstairs and Dick disappeared by way of the sitting-room
and kitchen. Later, Dick's horse passed the window at a trot, but its
hoofbeats turned into the rhythm of a gallop before he had reached the
road. Hammond waited. He grew ill at ease as the time elapsed and he
speculated whether the girl had grown recalcitrant. The hauteur with
which she had left the carriage and walked into the house might have
been real.

Meg rolled solemn eyes towards his owner's face. He sensed a gravity in
the situation which he did not understand. It was unthinkable to him
that anybody, of whatever complexion, should seek to thwart his master's
will, but he dared not speak or question.

The bloodlessness of Blanche's face was emphasized by a coat of rice
powder as she came down the stairs, followed by her father. It was
apparent to Hammond that she had sought to repair the ravages of tears,
but he was left to wonder whether she had wept because of first being
forbidden him or because she was now commanded to marry him. She
continued to wear the challis dress which in the eyes of her lover
enhanced such beauty as she possessed. She could not have chosen a
costume better to enchant him. Hammond did not know it was the best in
her limited wardrobe, and assumed it was the woman and not her dress
that caused him to believe her beautiful.

She was trembling and austere when he rose to meet her. She paused at
the foot of the stairs and he went to take her in his arms. She neither
resisted nor returned the kiss he gave her, but looked into his face
with a resigned, sad smile.

Conversation was strained. 'I thought you wouldn't come,' she forced
herself to say.

'You knowed I'd come. I say I would when you set the time.'

'You say you send me a ring,' she accused.

'I did. I sent it. Charles tote it.'

'Charles!' She spoke it in a tone of such contempt as to indict Hammond
of stupidity in his trust of her brother.

'Mayhap he dead. Mayhap he kilt a-comin',' Hammond sought to justify his
confidence in her brother. 'Like your mamma a-sayin'.'

'By rights ought to be, though he ain't,' said Woodford.

Blanche sat down on the divan. 'I ain't got no dress,' she apologized,
shooting a withering glance at her father. 'Papa didn't think you comin'
an' wouldn't buy me none.'

'I was waitin' fer that money to come,' harped the old man.

'I ain't a-weddin' no dress,' declared Hammond, unaware how much he had
been taken in by the challis. 'We kin buy dresses, all you craves of
'em--all you needs.' He modified his estimate.

The vision of unlimited dresses enchanted the girl. She smiled with a
faraway look and pictured herself in silks and laces and jewels in a
baronial hall surrounded by adoring gallants, who kissed her hand, no
longer red and stubby with broken and bitten nails. Always she would
remain true to her lover-husband, spurning the hearts that she would
break. All the dresses she craved!

The sound of the supper bell summoned her back to Crowfoot and reality.

Meg was sent to the kitchen for food. The Major went in search of
Beatrix, who had quietly vanished after her prayer. He returned
discomfited and made his wife's excuses. In her apprehension of Charles'
murder, she had retired with her grief and desired no supper.

The three went in. Hammond and Blanche sat on either side of the host,
the empty chair across from him an accusation. The half-needed candles
flickered in the dying daylight. There was a tentative tone to the talk,
a constraint, an avoidance of the subjects closest to the speakers'
thoughts. With pauses between subjects, which Blanche sought to hide
with shy, flirtatious looks directed towards the boy across the table
from her, the conversation ranged from the health of Hammond's father to
the price of cotton, crop prospects, the weather, past, present and to
come, the Negroes of Falconhurst and the rising market for them.

'Warren don't need no two hunderd head,' opined Woodford. 'Whyn't he
sell off about half, the price they fetchin'?'

'We sells 'em when they grows. Took a coffle to the city las' autumn
after pickin'; another ready to go, come fall. Most of ourn is saplin's,
that is, an' suckers.'

'I don' have no luck with suckers, seem like. Wenches won't bring 'em,
an' when they does they punies an' dies or somethin'.'

'Papa don' have no stew with 'em, not much. Coursen, he say, an' he
could buy 'em half-raised, the kin' he wants 'em, sound and straight
bucks, he'd sell off the wenches an' not breed no more, he say, but on'y
jest buy.'

'Warren jest talkin',' scoffed Woodford.

'Jes' talkin', I reckons,' Hammond agreed. 'He likes 'em little-like.
Likes to raise 'em. But more money in buyin' saplin's than in raisin'
suckers, an' don' take so long. But a body cain't find 'em--likely
ones.'

'Ain't hard. They plenty, plenty,' said Woodford with an expansive sweep
of his hand, 'an' you ready to pay fer 'em.'

For want of something else to do, they lingered at table after their
hunger was satisfied. The night had grown dark and the moon had not
risen. Shadows were cast against the wall by the saffron glow of the
candles.

The party returned to the drawing-room and sat, stiff and
self-conscious, awaiting Dick's return with the preacher. From time to
time, the Major, on the pretence of scanning the lane for riders, made
his way to the spring-house for a swallow of corn. On each return, he
went upstairs and the young people were able to overhear his part of an
argument with his wife, who remained adamant in her belief that Charles
was dead and in her refusal to bless her daughter's marriage. Her words
were not audible, but from her husband's loud arguments it was possible
to surmise what she was saying. She did not forbid the union, but
refused any part in it, stubbornly placing the decision and any
subsequent blame for it upon the tremulous shoulders of the Major.

The sound of the hooves of a single horse upon the drive interrupted the
stalemated argument, and by the time Dick had called a boy and
surrendered his horse, the Major was coming down the stairs.

'Whure Jones?' the Major demanded as Dick entered the door.

'Sime Maddox, he's a-dyin',' the messenger explained.

'Let him die, but whure Jones?'

'Out to Mista Maddox gittin' him ready, ready to meet his Maker,' Dick
elaborated.

'Well, I swan,' swore the Major. 'Why you calculate he wouldn't come? He
won't git a cent out of Sime, not a cent, an' Hammon' here give him two,
three, maybe five dollars. You fool, Dick, you god-damn fool. Now what
we goin' to do?' He turned and went up the stairs again to report Dick's
failure to Beatrix and to charge her with their son's stupidity.

'I ain't to blame I couldn't fetch him,' Dick sought to absolve himself,
dropping into a chair.

'Course,' Hammond acknowledged.

Blanche dissolved in tears.

'Course he kin, good as any,' the Major's voice from upstairs boomed
with a new hope. 'I fergot all about that. An' you'll come down, an' he
do? An' give 'em your blessin'? Well, that whut we goin' to do.'

Blanche wiped away her tears and raised her eyes toward her father as he
came expansively down the stairs. She saw that he had a way out of the
difficulty. Hammond was resigned to whatever might happen. Meg, once
more on the floor at his master's feet, failed to fathom the impediment
to the marriage, or to understand why his omnipotent master didn't
surmount it, whatever it might be. Perhaps that was why the beautiful
white lady in the flowered dress was weeping.

'Dick!' announced the Major, slapping his sitting son on the shoulder.
'Dick! Dick a preacher. He kin do it, do it good as any. He sanctified;
he a preacher! Whyn't we think? Why we send fer Jones?'

'Papa! No!' objected his son to his father's solution. 'No, I cain't.
I'm jest a-startin' out. I cain't wed no white folks--never did.'

'You kin, you kin!' protested his father. 'Ain't no different marryin'
white folks than niggers, on'y no broom. You kin do it! Hammon' gives
you the money, jest like he would Jones.'

'Reckon it legal?' Hammond was sceptical.

'Legal as Jones,' opined the Major. 'Dick's a preacher, ain't he? No
matter he ain't preached to white folks yet. He a-goin' to. He say the
words an' I write it in the Bible, you married, married fast.'

'I don' know the lines,' Dick protested.

'Ain't no difference whut you sayin'. Jest home folks! Besides, your
mamma wants you. An' you do it, your mamma comin' downstairs to listen.
She given in to it, an' Dick doin' it. You don't got to string it out.
All you do is jest ast 'em an' tell 'em. Good practice.'

The brown figure of Beatrix descended the stairs. All the blood was
drained from her solemn face, leaving her more sallow than before. She
approached her husband without speaking, extending towards him her
hearing device.

'Dick not a-wantin' to,' called the Major into the horn. 'Says he
cain't.'

'Course he kin. Dick jest backward,' said his mother emptily. 'Goin' to
be a preacher, got to start in bein' one. Come along, Son.'

Dick struggled bashfully to his feet.

'Stan' up, Ham; stan' up, Blanche. Stan' together here in front of this
window,' the Major arranged the party. 'You, Mamma, stan' right there by
Blanche so as you kin hear good,' he called into the horn.

Meg, ignored, arose also. He was unsure what was expected of him and
half expected to be ordered back to the floor.

'I 'on't know. I reckon we got to kneel down first off,' Dick
improvised.

When all were firmly on their knees, Dick offered his prayer. 'Dear
God,' he prayed, 'we come together here before You to join together
these white folks in wedlock, in holy matrimony,' he repeated himself,
uncertain how to proceed. 'We begs You to bless their union with long
life an' joys an' comfortin' one another in they ol' age. We prays You
goin' to 'stow on 'em Your benediction an' goin' to bring 'em childern
to raise up to praise Thee. We prays You goin' to bring 'em childern an'
that them childern goin' to be boys, O God, 'cause Hammon' here, he
wants a boy to help him manage that plantation of his paw's an' to take
it offen his hands when he goin' to die, O God.

'My sister Blanche here, she stubborn, O God. Thou knowest she stubborn,
O God. Take it out of her heart, God; take that stubborn streak she got
right outn her heart. Make her give in to her husban', God, an' do whut
he say an' obey his commands, O God, like she had ought to.

'Bless this service of marri'ge, O God, an' make it legal; make it legal
an' bindin' on 'em both. An' bless Thy servant an' his ministry an' his
preachin' and deliver me from temptations of the flesh, so as I kin
serve Thee.

'An' bless my mamma an' my papa here. Shower down your blessin' on 'em
an' on Charlie, if he alive. An' if he dead, save him from hellfire an'
'cept him into Your lovin' grace.

'An' bless this little nigger of Hammond's an' all his niggers, an' all
my papa's niggers, O God. Increase 'em an' multiply 'em, an' make 'em
obey they masters, O God, that they goin' to be released from they
bondage when they die, O God, that they goin' to be free when they die.

'I reckon that all for now, O God. I don't bethink me of nothin' else.
Jest do whut I'm askin', O God, in Jesus' name.

'Amen.'

Dick spoke intimately to God and laid down his commands to Him, although
he had no confidence tonight that they would be heeded. God seemed far
away and concerned with His own affairs.

'Amen,' Beatrix nodded her approval as she got to her feet. 'I was
knowin' you could. On'y thing, you fergot of Cousin Warren. Glad you
blessed your brother, whurever he is.'

The Major caught his wife's eye and placed his finger to his lips to
silence her.

'Well, you ready?' Dick inquired. 'Does you, Hammon', take this lady
name of Blanche to be your lawful, wedded wife, fer better or fer worse,
in sickness and health, through weal or woe, to love an' proteck till
death or distance do you part?'

'Yas, suh,' Hammond nodded in assent.

'An' you, on your part, Blanche, do you accep' this Hammon' here to be
your lawful wedded husban', fer better or fer worse, in sickness an'
health, come weal, come woe, to love an' obey without no back-talk till
death or distance goin' to part you?'

'I accep's him,' promised Blanche firmly.

'Then that is all they is to it,' affirmed Dick. 'I goin' to announce
you husban' an' his wife an' may God have mercy on your souls. Amen!'

Dick pumped the groom's arm and gingerly, reluctantly kissed the bride.
The mother wept as she embraced the embarrassed couple and the father
beamed his blessing.

'Ain't you goin' to kiss her?' Dick asked Hammond.

'He plagued, an' ever'body lookin'. Wait till they git alone,' the Major
condoned the omission. He grasped Hammond's arm with one hand and Dick's
arm with the other, leading them out-of-doors and towards the
spring-house.

Dick protested, ''Tain't right. I'm a preacher. I'm temp'ance.'

'Temp'ance this afternoon too, wasn't you?' asked the Major. 'A cup of
corn to celebrate your sister ain't a-goin' to sen' you to hell.
Besides,' he added, nudging his son-in-law in the ribs with his elbow,
'Hammond goin' to need it.'

Hammond did need it.

'Better leave 'em alone a spell together. Her mamma got to 'splain to
your wife whut marryin' goin' to mean--whut kin' of son-of-bitches men
is.' Without being subtle, neither was the prurient old man forthright
in his allusions to the consummation of the marriage. Hammond was
grateful for his father-in-law's restraint. He had feared a house full
of guests and a ragging. Candour caused him no embarrassment, but to
veiled allusions and euphemisms he found no words for reply.

Dick's libidinous imagination was swathed in a stern morality, which his
calling imposed upon him.

'No white man goin' to touch a lady, 'ceptin' he wantin' a chil',' he
declared.

'Whut he goin' to do? You an' your preachin'!' scoffed the father. 'You
reckon I a-wantin' you--or Charlie, or a gal? You talks like your
mamma.'

''Tain't right, makin' a lady submit to your lustin's. 'Twasn' whut ol'
Saint Paul meant at all. That whut niggers is fer. You kin use a wench,
cain't you?'

'Some men ain't got no wench, or they too black or somethin'. Whut do
you say to that?'

'Mos' gen'lemen got 'em--one or two anyways,' Hammond declared himself
mildly on the side of morality, which did not pertain to the
unpropertied.

'Besides, it the law. The law givin' a man rights. Ain't nothin' fer a
lady to say about,' the Major chuckled as he clenched his argument.
'They married, ain't they?'

'To increase an' multiply, they is. Yes, suh,' Dick admitted. 'But not
fo' pleasurin'. That sin!'

'My only sin now'days is corn whisky,' said the Major tossing off his
fourth cup. 'Help yourself. I reckon we better go in, afore my wife
tellin' yourn to not let you in bed.'

The men had tarried so long in the spring-house that the wives had gone
upstairs. Meg had fallen asleep on the floor and Hammond had to shake
him to wake him up. The Major escorted his new son-in-law to the door of
Blanche's bedroom and went himself into the adjoining one where Beatrix
could be heard still stirring restlessly.

Blanche was supine in her big bed, modestly swathed in a heavy
nightdress buttoned at the neck. Hammond imagined the whiteness, the
marble pinkness, of his wife's blonde body and the thought of contact
with it revolted him. He was so used to the sight of darker skins that
it made him queasy. He had married Blanche for her racial purity, of
which her blondeness was the earnest, but he was grateful for the
buttoned nightgown.

It was apparent that the girl had been weeping, which her husband
ignored. The sleep-sodden Meg removed his master's boots and socks, and
helped him off with his outer clothes. He failed to understand but did
not question why the white man retained his undergarments.

'Ain't no quilt laid out fer you. Got to sleep in your clo's; but sleep
straight an' don' muss 'em,' Hammond cautioned the boy, putting him down
outside the door. 'An' I goin' to lambaste you, I catches you at that
keyhole, goin' to hang you up.'

Meg lay down too weary, too sleepy, for curiosity. Why, anyway, should
he be curious?

Later Meg was awakened by his master's stumbling over his sleeping
figure. Hammond emerged from the room, dressed in his coat, socks and
boots in his hand, and directed the half-sleeping boy to come along with
him. They descended the stair and the master groped for a chair in which
he sat while the slave dressed his feet. The master remained sitting,
preoccupied and baffled. At last he rose, paced back and forth across
the floor of the room, wandered to the door and paced the driveway. The
young Negro, without knowing why, was as much distressed as his master,
whom he sensed to be sorely troubled.

Hammond started toward the stables, resolved to harness his own horses
without disturbing the slaves and to take his departure, when the side
door opened and Dick inquired whether it was he and what the matter
could be.

'I cain't sleep, an' I got up,' was all the explanation Hammond would
offer. 'I has a lot of trouble that a-way, not a-sleepin'.'

'It's that Blanche!' Dick divined. 'Go back an' tell her, tell her she
married, she married an' it her duty. Want I should go up with you, or
call Papa?'

'No, it not that. I jest cain't go to sleep. Cousin Blanche, she
sleepin' soun'. Go back to bed,' Hammond answered in a half voice. His
resolution to escape was broken. He wandered the agonized night alone.
Meg sat on the edge of the gallery and dozed.

Hammond was grateful to Mercury when the planet rose above the trees, an
assurance that morning was not far off. He strolled unseeingly down the
lane and into the silent road toward Briarfield. At the first light he
turned and retraced his steps toward Crowfoot. He sat on the edge of the
gallery floor beside his sleeping minion, for whom the owner felt a new
and fierce affection. Upon Meg's loyalty he could count. For all his
stupidity, ignorance, childish innocence, for all his mischievous lying
and braggadocio to others, he was, as he proclaimed, Hammond's nigger,
as steadfast as Lucretia Borgia herself.

Stirring began. Young Negroes crossed the area to the well. Blue smoke
rose from cabin chimneys. Katy came from Dick's room and ambled towards
the quarters. The plantation day had begun. Hammond dreaded the arrival
of the Woodfords, with their unasked questions and ribald curiosity. He
was grateful for Beatrix's deafness. Would Blanche demand why he had
left her bed, or would she care?

Hammond looked up and saw the Major in the doorway, beaming and
cheerful. The older man confined his comments to the fineness and
largeness of the morning and to an insinuating inquiry about Ham's
health and how he had slept. Hammond ignored the insinuation and
admitted that he had not slept well and had risen early, but did not say
how early.

'How Blanche?' hinted her father. 'She comin' down--time for breakfast?'

'I reckon,' said Hammond.

'I right plagued not to have a fancy weddin', but I wrote it in
Beatrix's Bible. It will hold.'

'I obliged you didn't go to nothin' fancy,' declared Hammond.

'Couldn't. That money didn't come. I couldn't. And I cain't make you no
present, Beatrix and me. Had ought to, I knows. Plagues Blanche's
mamma.'

''S all right. Nothin' I's a-wantin' savin' your gal, savin' Blanche.'

'Had ought to give you a wench fer her--least I could do. Looks bad.
Don't know whut Warren goin' to reckon.'

'Him an' me already got one of ourn picked out fer her. He don't 'spect
nothin'.'

'You know how it is. Hands all mortgaged. Cain't part with 'em. Course,
you wantin' to take up the mortgage an' pay it, help yourself. Take any
of 'em, any I got,' the Major made a show of generosity which he knew
would be rejected.

Whatever aspect of cheerfulness, real or assumed, the others brought to
the breakfast table, Beatrix's austerity of manner cancelled out. Her
reluctance to part with her daughter was aggravated by her conviction
that marriage at its best was for women a sorrow only less evil than
spinsterhood. Her own had been. All night she had imagined Blanche's
pure body at the mercy of male bestiality and had wept for her. Her
horror of marriage as an institution embraced a resentment of the man to
whom her daughter was married. She was at once impelled to implore him
to restrain his appetite (which being male she knew to be gross) and
restrained by a womanly decorum that forbade allusion to such a theme.
Nor could she bring herself to suggest to Blanche that she demand
forbearance from her husband.

Blanche's solemn visage was not, as her mother believed, inspired by
Hammond's ardour, but rather by his lack of it, which had moved him to
forsake her bed after scarcely an hour with her. Her dreams of married
bliss had been quite different.

The team was waiting, harnessed to the surrey, by the time breakfast was
finished, but the departure for which Hammond was impatient was delayed
by Blanche's preparation, packing her limited wardrobe into a capacious
carpet-bag. Blanche acknowledged her mother's admonitions with nods of
her head and movements of her lips, some of which Beatrix was able to
interpret. Seldom did the girl interrupt her work to go to the bed on
which the elder woman sat to shout into her trumpet. Much as the mother
regretted the parting, the daughter had no qualms at leaving home, which
meant to her a pleasant adventure with a rich husband and a promise of
luxury.

It was approaching ten o'clock before Blanche was fully ready to go. The
men spent the intervening time in gossip and visits to the spring-house,
although Dick, in an upsurge of virtue, refused to join his father and
brother-in-law in their libations.

Blanche descended the stairs, again in the same challis dress, followed
by the house-boy with the carpet-bag, which he stowed in the rear seat
of the vehicle. Beatrix, in an effort further to delay the separation,
proposed family prayers, for which Hammond declared himself to be unable
to wait and to which Blanche was as loath to be subjected as was her
husband.

'Git yourself up in that back seat an' watch that valise,' his master
admonished Meg. 'Set up and don't scrunch down, 'cause you ridin' with
your mist'ess.'

'Ain't you fergittin'?' Dick demanded with a show of diffidence. At
Hammond's questioning lift of the brows, Dick added, 'Fer pronouncin'
that weddin'. Ain't you goin' to pay? Course, you don' got to; I ain't
a-astin' nothin'.'

Hammond delved into his pocket for his poke. 'I sure like to fergotten,'
he said, fingering the coins. 'Glad you remembered me.' Unable to find a
five-dollar piece, which he deemed adequate payment for the ceremony, he
forked over a ten-dollar piece.

'Too much, too much,' protested the preacher, nevertheless quickly
pocketing the money.

'Keep it, keep it all. Reckon we kin 'ford it. All in the family,
anyways, now.'

Hammond's statement gave the Major a hope of access to the Maxwell
hoard. He contrived a beaming paternal smile.

Dick withdrew the coin from his pocket and, after polishing it on his
trousers, extended it on his upright palm toward his mother. 'The first
preacherin' money!' he said with pride. 'I goin' to keep it fer seed.'

With mutual reluctance, Beatrix and Hammond exchanged a kiss. 'God bless
you!' she said. 'Be good to her, Cousin Hammond, an' don' be too
demandin'.' She folded her daughter in her arms, kissing her again and
again, while Hammond shook the hands of the Major and the preacher. Dick
gave Blanche a dutiful peck upon the cheek and her father, after
planting a kiss upon her brow, ostentatiously withdrew a soiled
handkerchief and wiped his eyes, in which no tears were visible. There
was no pretence about the paroxysm of dry sobs which beset Beatrix as
Hammond handed his wife into the surrey. The mother entertained no
regrets for the match, but the separation from her youngest child moved
her to an emotion which was either sadness or satisfaction.

Hammond climbed into the driver's seat and unwound the reins from around
the whip. The Negro groom stepped away from the horses' heads and the
mares swung into a trot. As they traversed the lane towards the road,
Blanche did not look back.

The horses sensed that they were headed homeward and Hammond gave them
their heads. The fine weather had dried the roads and reduced the ruts
so much that the fast pace did not cause the carriage to bump and sway
unduly.

'You ain't sayin' nothin'. Ain' you glad?' asked the girl.

'Glad?' questioned the preoccupied husband.

'Glad we married, glad we goin'?' she elucidated.

Hammond made no reply. When Blanche reached over and threw her arms
about his neck, he shook her off and rolled his eyes in a glance into
the rear seat to warn her of the presence of the slave who was apt to
mark her indecorum.

'I your wife, ain't I?' Blanche defended her behaviour.

'I reckon you is,' Hammond admitted, but was reluctant to speak further.

'Whut fer you gittin' up las' night? You didn't git no sleep,' the girl
pressed the theme.

'I's like that. I cain't sleep, seem like, when I thinkin'.'

'You thinkin'? Whut you thinkin' about? You so funny.'

'I thinkin', I wonderin' whut man had you afore me. You not believin' I
doesn't know a virgin.'

'I was too a virgin,' the girl declared.

'Oncet,' said her husband succinctly. 'But not las' night.'

Blanche began to weep, but her husband was indifferent to her tears. He
turned and looked at the boy behind him, cautioning him to watch the
carpet-bag. He was less concerned about the bag, in fact, than about
Meg's comprehension of the conversation in the front seat. The boy had
strained his ears to hear, knew there was dissension, but failed to
understand what it was about. Meg sat back in the seat with an
assumption of innocence. Whatever might be the cause of the strife, he
knew that the right was on the side of his master.

'Hammon' Maxwell, you 'cusin' me of sompin' I never done. I never done
it, I never done it, I never,' reiterated Blanche.

'You ain't a-tellin' me.' Hammond doubted the girl's denial. 'You don't
reckon I ain't know a virgin when I see one--when I sleeps with one an'
pleasures?'

'No! No! No!' she cried, and broke afresh into tears.

'Ain't no good of me sayin' and you sayin' not, but I knowin'. You
cain't deny.'

Blanche heaved a long sigh.

'Might jest as well tell me, tell me who it is. Mayhap I goin' to kill
the son-a-bitch, shoot him down jest like he a skunk or somethin'. You
might as well.'

'I tellin' you there weren't nobody. I pure--till you.'

'Me? I got the leave; I married to you. On'y had I have knew las' night,
beforehan', I wouldn't of--wouldn't of married you.'

'Hammon', Hammon', how you goin' to think sich a thing? How kin you?'
She leaned toward him and embraced his neck, sought to find his mouth
with hers, but he turned his face to avoid her kiss. She knew he was not
convinced.

Once she was tempted to blurt out the truth but bit her tongue. If he
knew, perhaps he might forgive, her veniality was so little and so long
ago. That was why she hated Charles and Charles her, that was the tale
she held over her brother's head. She had been thirteen and Charles
scarcely two years older. They had been playing at keeping house, she
the mother and he the father, her doll for a child. It had seemed at the
time innocent enough although both knew that such an act was forbidden.
Charles in his play had insisted upon his rights as her husband while
she mimicked her mother's frigidity, although she could not disguise her
enjoyment of her violation. It had occurred so long ago. How could her
husband know and hold it against her? If Charles had been available, if
anybody knew where he was, she might have told Hammond what she had
withheld so long from her parents.

But she didn't tell and was adamant, categorical, well-nigh convincing
in her denial. How did Hammond know that she had not been a virgin? What
caused him to suspect? She did not consider his education with Sukey,
Aphrodite, Big Pearl, Ellen and all the other women who had shared his
bed at one time or another. She sat tremulous in the fear that her
husband would reject her, return her to Crowfoot. That Hammond did not
turn back convinced her of his doubt.

But Hammond had no doubt. He tortured his mind with his wife's
debasement. The horses guided themselves, onward, homeward. Hammond did
not turn them back toward Crowfoot. There was no turning back.

At length he spoke. 'Well, we-all married--I reckon. Ain't nothin' we
kin do--now. We married,' he repeated. 'We got to make the best of
that.'

Blanche felt the anomaly of her status, but was relieved that her
husband accepted it. She sighed.

'But we mustn't tell my papa nothin' about it. He ain't never goin' to
know you wasn' pure. Bust his heart, bus' it right open--thinkin' of
Falconhurst goin' to the son of a----,' he searched his mind for a word
but found none he could apply. 'Like you,' he concluded his sentence.

Her half-forgotten childhood defection from virtue had seemed to Blanche
a mere peccadillo, but she knew now that it was not. Her husband
accepted her, but accepted her as something used, smirched, second-hand.

She had expected no continence in the man she should marry. The concept
would have startled her. She knew her brothers' ways with the wenches
and suspected her father's. The satisfactions of their lusts was a male
prerogative to which no blame was to be attached. But why the
restriction on females?

She foresaw herself as for ever suspect, unable to offer objection to
anything her husband chose to do. She had envisaged no such dnouement
to the accident, the trivial accident, that had occurred years before,
as she had conceived of no such cause for her husband's forsaking her
bed and wandering the roads in the moonlight. But at least he had not
rejected her, had not cast her off. He was driving forward, carrying her
onward toward Falconhurst.




CHAPTER 13


Few travellers were on the roads. The team overtook occasional
pedestrians, mostly Negroes, who paused to wave and stare, and met
infrequent white horsemen, sometimes two riding together, who saluted
gravely and commented upon the weather. Once they came upon a caravan of
gypsies, encamped by the roadside, two vans, a cart, three women in
faded clothes that had once been gaudy, busily cooking over an open
fire, a half-dozen idle men, and as many naked children, waving and
shouting inarticulately and running after the surrey. Hammond whipped up
his team in passing the encampment to protect Blanche from the sight of
unashamed brats.

Hammond calculated on reaching home by nightfall on the second day and
postponed stopping to eat, but by four o'clock Blanche was insisting
that she was hungry. She objected, however, to stopping at any of the
scattered cabins they passed, and Hammond refused to stop at either of
the larger plantations where it might have been possible to obtain
meals, but whose owners he did not know. He drew up before a little hut
on the edge of a clearing, above the door of which was an askew sign
with the single word 'Grocerys' in grey, which had perhaps once been
black, upon an otherwise unpainted board.

Handing the reins to Blanche, Hammond got down from his seat and limped
toward the entrance of the hut. He lifted the latch and went into the
musty store. Boards between two hogsheads served for a counter, upon
which rested slabs of fat pork and a quarter of a cheese. On a shelf
were two bolts of calico, one blue, the other black. Barrels were
scattered at random, and in the darkness of the room Hammond was able to
see that everything was covered with a thin layer of dust.

He waited and, when nobody appeared to serve him, came out-of-doors,
walked entirely around the building, which was the only one in sight. He
hallooed to the forest, but when nobody answered he re-entered the
store. He lifted the lids of the barrels and searched about. From a
barrel partly filled with meal a mouse sprang out and startled him, and
he saw that he had disturbed her nest of half-grown young. The only
articles of food that required no cooking were the quarter cheese, and
crackers, the last ten pounds at the bottom of a barrel. No knife was in
sight, and so Hammond employed a mattock that leaned in one corner to
hack off a piece of the cheese which was dried out and crumbled on the
counter. Neither could he find bags or paper, in lieu of which he tore a
piece from the bolt of black calico, laid it on top of a barrel and
scooped the broken cheese upon it. To this he added crackers.

He estimated the value of the cheese, crackers and calico at thirty or
forty cents, but to make sure of not cheating the merchant, whoever he
might be, left a silver dollar on the board beside the cheese. He
grasped the cloth by its four corners and carried it to the carriage. He
closed the door as he went out and tried the latch to make sure it had
caught.

'This all?' asked Blanche in her contempt of the meal.

'All I could find, 'ceptin' you wantin' some sow bacon an' no fire to
cook it on. Wasn't nobody,' her husband explained. 'Keep us till'n we
git us home. Not fur, now.' He reached into the cloth spread on
Blanche's knees and grasped a handful of crackers which he turned and
extended to the boy in the rear seat.

Blanche munched at the crumbs of cheese and bit into a cracker. 'It old
and soft, webs on it,' she complained.

'Don' eat it, an' you don' want. You say you hongry,' said Hammond
reaching for a piece of the cheese. He had no feeling of hunger. He
resumed the reins and the team trotted forward. Blanche continued to
pick at the food, but ate little of it. At length she pulled the corners
of the cloth together and, sliding it into the middle of the seat,
brushed her skirt with her hands.

Hammond picked up the parcel and handed it back to Meg.

'Ain't much,' he said, 'but Lucretia Borgia goin' to fix us when we gits
there.'

As he ate the food, Meg sought to ingratiate himself with Blanche. She
turned to look at him, and flinched, uneasy though she knew not why,
under his eager gaze. He said: 'Miz Lucretia Borgia my mammy. She the
cook. She cook good. You goin' to see. Me, I Masta's, his nigger. I
house tamed. I feeds him, an' dresses him, an' stirs his toddy.'

They drove on, and only the horses' hoofs broke the monotonous silence.

Soon Hammond felt the pressure of Blanche's hand upon his thigh. He
looked up from the road on which his eyes had focused in his reverie and
heard his wife whisper, 'That 'un, the little 'un, is a conjure. I knows
it. He lookin' at me, at the back o' my neck. I feels it--like pins an'
needles a-stickin' me all over. He conjure me. I skeared.'

Hammond turned in the seat to look behind him. Meg was sprawled in the
corner, head on side, fast asleep. 'If Meg conjure you,' the husband
replied, 'he doin' it in his sleep. Look back your own self.'

'Then he playin' possum. I felt his conjure, felt it plain. He ain't
asleep.'

Hammond reached back and grasped Meg's knee, shaking him awake. 'Wake up
an' set up--straight. Don' you know you ridin' with your mist'ess?'

The urchin obeyed, mumbling 'Yas, suh; suh, Masta, suh.'

'Ain't no sich thing like conjure,' Hammond told Blanche. 'Jest nigger
carryin'-on. They believes it.'

'I believe it, too. Cain't tell me. That 'un, behind there, he a
conjure. Doin' it in his sleep even. I knowed it when first I laid eyes
on him. I wishin' you git ridden of him.'

'I will--in two, three years, when he growed enough to git me a price.'

'I reckon you don't believe ghostes neither?' When her husband failed to
reply, she added, 'Nor God, nor Jesus, or nothin'? I've seen
'em--ghostes, that is. An' Charles seen one oncet, a great big one.'

Hammond did not interrupt her, and she added details of her apparitions
and of her brother's.

The sun set clear, but there were clouds in the east that obscured the
rising moon, but four days short of full. The horses recognized that
they were approaching home and Hammond gave them their heads. It
required a firm grip to restrain them as they turned into the lane that
led to the house.

'Falconhurst,' murmured Hammond reverently, as if he approached a
shrine.

'This all?' demanded Blanche, as the surrey stopped and she looked at
the house.

'This it!' declared Hammond.

A boy appeared from the shadows and a candle was lighted in the kitchen.
A light also shone from Maxwell's bedroom.

'Git Vulcan to take care of these horses,' Hammond told the boy. 'They
hongry.'

Lucretia Borgia waddled onto the gallery. 'Oh, suh, Masta, su',' she
embraced Hammond with affection. 'An' this the new miz? Ain't she
purty?' and the other arm went about Blanche, who disengaged herself.
'Ever sence your mamma die, I been wantin' 'nother purty white mist'ess,
an' now I got me one,' continued Lucretia Borgia.

Meg scampered from the carriage and threw his arms about his mother's
wide thighs, claiming her attention.

The elder Maxwell, attended by Memnon, the blue coverlet around his
shoulders, appeared in the front door. 'Ham,' was all he said as his son
went to kiss him. He brushed a tear from his eye.

'This Miz Blanche. This your daughter now, Papa. How you goin' to like
her?' Hammond introduced his wife, a white figure in the dark.

The old man drew the girl towards him and kissed her forehead. 'I goin'
to like her an' you does, an' she like you. Welcome home, my dear, to
Falconhurst. 'Tain't much, not fine-haired like Crowfoot, but it right
comfortin'. We goin' to be content.'

'Whure at you goin' to make the new house?' asked Blanche.

'Over on the knoll, I reckon,' Hammond motioned, '--if we builds it.'

'Come in, come in, an' be at home. I'd a stayed up an' I sure you comin'
tonight,' said the old man.

'Go in with Papa,' Hammond told his wife. 'I'll wait fer Vulc to take
the mares.'

As soon as the door was closed, he turned to Lucretia Borgia. 'How
Ellen?' he asked. 'Whure she?'

'Ellen, pore thing, jest a-cryin' an' cryin', ever sence you go, suh.
She sleepin' with me in the kitchen, suh. She not wantin' to come out.'

'You don' reckon it make no difference with Ellen, me a-gettin'
married?'

'No, suh, I reckon not,' agreed Lucretia Borgia doubtfully.

'Tell Ellen not cry. She my wench, an' goin' to be--always. You tell
her. Tell her I see her, come mornin'. She knew I got to marry, Papa
wantin' a chil'.'

'I know, Masta, suh, I tell her whut you says. Won't do no good, but I
tell her.'

'Mede an' them all right? Niggers all well?' Hammond changed the
subject.

'Reckon you goin' to barn Mede now. Big Pearl don' need him no more;
Lucy neither.'

'They's knocked?' asked Ham with satisfaction.

'Lucy say,' Lucretia Borgia confirmed, but added, lest her own status be
forgotten. 'An' me, I feels like havin' me twins agin. Two of 'em. I
feels jest like the other time.'

'Cain't tell yet, I reckon,' said Hammond and went into the house.

Hammond had hardly seated himself when Meg appeared with a tray of
steaming toddies, three of them.

'Whut fer the other 'un?' the master demanded.

The boy looked up in his fear of having offended. 'It fer Mist'ess, suh.
That right?' he asked and sucked his lip.

'Ladies don' never drink corn. Don' you know that?'

'Corn? Inside the house?' demanded Blanche, amazed. 'I'm temp'ance.
Ain't goin' to be no corn whure I at.'

'Medicine,' explained the older man soothingly. 'Jest medicine. My
rheumatiz.'

'In that case----' Blanche condoned.

'An' Hammond here, he tired. An' you are. Better swallow a toddy fer
your headache, an' you got one. It vile, I knows; but it sovereign.'

'I couldn't. It ain't right. Cain't stan' jest smellin' it,' protested
Blanche.

'Medicine,' insisted Maxwell.

'My head does ache me awful, a-jouncin' in that surrey,' said Blanche,
reaching for the glass. She sniffed the drink, made a face, and tasted.

'Drink it down--hot as you kin stan',' the old man urged.

The girl took another sip. 'I reckon it do ease my head,' she conceded.
'But it taste awful.'

'Sure do,' agreed the father, drinking.

Hammond described his trip to his father, also told of Charles's failure
to return to his home, but said nothing of the Woodfords' absence on his
own arrival nor of their threats not to permit the marriage. He was
undecided whether his father should know of the unpleasantness, and
postponed the narration of it at least until Blanche was absent.

Memnon rang the supper bell and went to help his master, who rejected
his aid. Maxwell rose from his chair and, only partly in need of their
support, encircled the waists of Ham and Blanche as he propelled them
toward the dining-room. He took his place at the head of the table, but
ate nothing, having eaten his supper before he went to bed.

Meg, in clean clothes that fitted him better than those he had worn on
the journey, stood at his master's chair and heaped his plate with ham
and fried eggs, begrudging Memnon the honour of pouring the coffee into
which Meg hastened to pour molasses and cream. He concerned himself with
Hammond only. Alph, even though there were no flies, stood on the other
side of the table and waved the peacock brush.

Memnon served his mistress, who sought to impress her father-in-law with
a display of her elegance. She toyed daintily with her napkin, extended
her little finger, and was careful to rest her knife and fork, when not
in use, on the bread beside her plate. Protesting that she was not
hungry, she ate heartily.

Half-way through the meal, Hammond sent Meg to summon Lucretia Borgia,
who came and planted herself confidently just inside the door from the
kitchen passage.

'That Tense, you got her in an' ready?'

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh; Tense all washed, like you says, an' ready to
wait on Miz Blanche.'

The master suggested that the girl should come in and Lucretia Borgia
went to get her.

'This the one I tellin' you Papa an' me pick out fer yourn, to wait on
you an' do whut you wants her,' Hammond explained to Blanche. 'She goin'
to be all yourn.'

Lucretia Borgia returned, leading by her shoulder the light yellow girl,
her head hanging in her diffidence. Her plain frock, reaching to her
naked ankles, was clean and over it Lucretia Borgia had pinned a white
fichu.

Hammond extended his hand toward the girl in invitation. 'Come on over
here, Tense. Nobody not goin' to do nothin' to you.'

The girl, unafraid of the master, stepped forward.

'No, other side the table,' he said. 'This your new mist'ess, like I
tol' you about. Curtsy to her, nice-like. You goin' to be hern, and do
fer her, goin' to do whut she say, ever'thing she tell you. Un'erstan'?'

Hortense went to the other side of the table, as directed, and dropped
what was meant for a curtsy, but remained out of the range of her
mistress's reach.

Hammond raised his eyes to his wife's face to see her pleasure in the
present he had made her. 'How you like her?' he asked.

'That?' demanded Blanche. 'You 'speck me to put up with that? She your
wench, that plain.'

'Don't talk so. Not front of Papa.' Hammond's face reddened as he spoke.
'She ain't. I ain't touch her.'

'Whut fer, then, she go to your side the table then. She ain't skeared
of you, an' she is of me. Needn't tell me--I knows. A purty one like
that, an' you ain't never touch her? I tell by the way she roll her eyes
towards you.'

Lucretia Borgia was unable to leave her master in the lurch. 'No'm, Miz
Blanche, ma'am,' she protested. 'Tense pure yet.' She stooped to raise
the girl's skirt. 'You kin feel fer your own self.'

'No! No! Lucretia Borgia!' cried Hammond. 'Miz Blanche is a lady; don'
know nothin' about them kind of things.'

'Well, anyway, Tense a virgin. Masta ain't took her, ain't even look at
her, yet,' muttered the chastened Borgia. 'Dido keepin' her pure fer
him, time come he ready.'

Hammond signalled with his head for Lucretia Borgia to retire. Maxwell
cleared his throat, and rubbed one hand with the other to ease the pain,
which had suddenly grown worse. Blanche's flushed face flooded with
tears; she regretted that she had raised such a subject. Hammond folded
his arms and pushed his chair back from the table, waited for his wife's
weeping to stop.

At length her tears were exhausted and he spoke. 'You doesn't like this
one, you kin have any of 'em. Go through the cabins an' take your pick.'
(He made unspoken reservations concerning Ellen and Dite.) 'This Tense,
though, is the best we got--soun' an' spry, an' well raised an'
pure--ain't never been touched. Has she, Papa?'

'I ain't knowin',' the old man shook his head. 'Whut difference? Ladies
ain't in'erested.'

'This one good as any,' Blanche resigned herself; but could not refrain
from adding spitefully, 'I reckon you've had all of 'em.'

'One more toddy, jest one, afore we go up,' suggested Maxwell,
embarrassed by the quarrel. 'Do you both good. You petered out,
a-marryin' an' a-ridin' an' all. Let your boy stir 'em, Ham. He like to,
an' he stir better ones than Mem.'

The quarrel subsided. Blanche wondered why she had raised it. There was
only Hortense's delicacy and beauty to arouse her jealousy. She had no
evidence for the charge she had made, but knew that such a wench could
never have escaped Dick's, Charles', and probably even her father's,
favours at Crowfoot.

She drained her glass. Her headache had vanished but she felt slightly
dizzy as Hammond rose to escort her to the room that had been his
mother's. He steadied her elbow as they climbed the stairs. Lucretia
Borgia had taken Blanche's bag to her room, had lighted the candles, and
given final cautions to Tense, who waited in trepidation to serve her
new mistress.

'Git yourself ready an' in bed,' Hammond said. 'I'll come back.'

'Whure you a-goin'?' his wife asked in surprise.

'Down an' talk some more to Papa. Let you git off your clo's. I comin'
back right away. Let Tense here do fer you.'

Reaching the foot of the stairs, Hammond detoured through the kitchen,
where he knew he would find Ellen. He trembled in anticipation of seeing
her. Meg was at the table eating the food that Hammond had left on his
plate, and Ellen was drying dishes for Lucretia Borgia.

She looked up and saw her master in the doorway, spreading his arms to
her. The plate she was wiping dropped from her hands and shattered on
the brick floor as she moved ecstatically towards him. Hammond embraced
her and kissed her eager mouth.

Tears came into the girl's eyes, mingled fear and doubt and joy. She
buried her face in his coat and shook with sobs. The boy held her close,
saying nothing. At length he raised her head and kissed her tearful
lids. A long while he held her in his arms, smiling down at her.

Meg went on intently eating his food, with an occasional furtive glance
at the lovers. With this small servant or with his mother, the master
had no reticence.

For minutes he stood, holding the girl without a word from either. At
last he held her from him, looked into her eyes and said, 'Tomorrow!' He
surrendered her and was gone.

He felt himself refreshed, cleansed, triumphant as he returned to the
sitting-room, where his father was drinking a final toddy. Hammond felt
no need for one.

'That Miz Blanche, she techy like tonight. She tired. You not used to
white ladies. Pay no 'tention when she key up,' Maxwell advised his son,
seeking to minimize the significance of Blanche's outbreak. 'She a
Hammond--high-strung. She make a good wife, an' she gits used
to--things.'

'Yes. She goin' to be all right, I reckon.'

Ham rose to go to bed, and the old man signalled to Memnon to help him
to his feet. At the top of the stairs Meg waited to aid his master with
his boots. Hammond gave the father the anticipated kiss and went into
Blanche's room.

'Whut you been doin'? Whut keepin' you?' she complained.

'Jest Papa an' me a-talkin'.'

'He say about me?'

'He reckon you real nice. Papa ain't hard on nobody.'

'Then he ain't mad, whut I say at supper?'

'He say you petered out.' Meg was kneeling, removing his master's boots
and stockings. Hammond took off his coat and shirt, and sat down for Meg
to strip off his trousers. He stood up in his underwear.

'Whure this wench goin' to sleep?' Blanche demanded.

'Let her spread out on the floor,' the husband suggested; 'here at the
foot.'

'Not here. Not right in the room,' Blanche protested. 'Put her out the
door in the hall.'

'But Meg; he always sleep in the hall, out my door. Cain't have 'em
together.' Hammond hesitated; then he added, 'At the foot is good
enough. We isn't go to do nothin' this evenin'.'




CHAPTER 14


Hammond was out of his bed early. He had been five days at home. Here
was his heart--in these cabins and warehouses and barns, in the cotton
fields and wood lots and pastures. He drew back the curtain and looked
at his precious own earth before he opened the door and with his bare
foot nudged Meg awake to help him put on his clothes. In boots and
underwear, followed by his valet, he went down the hall to his own room,
where he had left the drab clothes that he wore on the plantation. He
limped down the stairs and, without waiting to eat breakfast, went out
of the door and toward the cotton field. In the distance was the gang of
his slaves slowly wielding their chopping hoes. After breakfast, on
Eclipse, he would go across to the gang to inspect its work. Early
control of the weeds forestalled the need of chopping larger ones. The
trouble was that the Negroes often chopped the cotton plants along with
the weeds, caution them as he did. He did not credit them with the
foresight that the more plants they destroyed the less cotton they would
have to pick. The plants would require to be thinned in any event, but
systematically and not by heedless chopping. He had made allowance this
year for the seed that should rot and should fail to germinate, but it
seemed all to have come up better than last year when it had been
necessary to replant at intervals. Perhaps the white seeds of Petit Gulf
variety that he had persuaded his father to substitute for the Tennessee
cotton with its black seeds, previously grown on Falconhurst, would
sprout with less loss.

Returning towards the house later, Hammond detoured among the cabins. He
saw Tiger, his yellow first-begotten son, now four years old, and
stooped down, extending his arms to the petted little slave. Tiger,
usually so eager for his sire's attention, turned and ran from him, and,
running, tripped. Only his fall enabled Hammond to overtake him and
gather him, screaming and kicking into his arms. Sukey, the child's
mother, appeared from her cabin, a younger and darker child on her hip.

'Oh, it you, suh. You got him, suh,' she faltered, seeing that the boy
was safe.

Ham snuggled his face against the not-too-clean belly and kissed it
before he placed the boy on the ground to scurry to his mother and hide
behind her skirt.

'They says you gone off an' got ma'ied, Masta, suh--to a white lady?'
Sukey phrased the statement as a question, and waited for a reply. 'Um,
um!' she mumbled. 'I wishes you joy; sure does wish you joy.' The woman
sighed. She still enjoyed the status of having once borne a child to her
young master.

Hammond thanked her and passed on to Lucy's cabin to confirm what
Lucretia Borgia had told him. Serpent oil assailed his nostrils before
he reached the door. He found Mede luxuriating, naked on the bed, under
Lucy's massage. Big Pearl stood behind her mother, holding the bottle of
oil. As their owner opened the door he had heard Mede grumble, 'Ain't
you got no stren'th, woman? Now rub my shoulder hard. Hear? Hard. Twis'
it.' The tone was at once petulant and imperious.

'Lucy know how she goin' to rub you. Leave her do it,' Hammond
reprimanded the young Mandingo. 'You ain't givin' orders. Git up.'

'That Mede!' complained Big Pearl. 'He always a-sayin'! Do this, do
that. Reckon he done it all; don' give nobody else no part.'

'No part of whut?' Hammond questioned.

'No part of makin' that sucker I got in me; Mammy say I got.'

'Big Pearl, shut your mouth. Masta wantin' to know, he ast,' scolded
Lucy, jealous that her daughter should blurt the proud tidings that it
was her own prerogative to tell. 'Big Pearl knocked, Masta, suh; she
shore knocked, an' me too.'

'You sure?'

'Shore! Cain't fool ol' Lucy.'

'That mean a new dress,' Hammond promised.

'Red?' asked Big Pearl.

'Red an' you wants it. Yourn red too, Lucy? We ain't got no red on hand,
but I'll git it in Benson next time I goes. Dido will help you sew it. I
right proud of them suckers you two got. Ol' Masta, he goin' to be proud
too. Means a dollar, a whole silver dollar, each one, an' you has 'em
alive.'

'Masta didn't say about givin' me no present,' said Mede enviously after
Hammond had left the cabin. 'Had ought to have new pants--sompin'.'

'Nev' min',' Lucy sought to soothe the boy's feelings. 'I give you half
o' my dollar, Little Boy--when I gits it.'

Hammond was late for breakfast. He found his father and his wife,
toddies in hand, waiting in the sitting-room.

'Whut this?' he asked, looking at Blanche's drink. 'I thought you
temp'ance.'

'I is; but my head ache me, and your papa reckon----'

'It all right. Right weak, an' her head hurtin'. Medicine.' Maxwell
tried to quiet his son's displeasure.

Hammond watched askance as his wife lifted the goblet to her mouth,
sipped from it tentatively and lowered it. What kind of woman had he
married?

'Ever'thin' all right, did you find it?' the father asked.

'I reckon,' said Hammond without conviction. 'The Mandingo kickin' up,
talkin' back at Lucy, an' not a-workin' hisself.'

'Hide him. Touch him up,' prescribed Maxwell.

Hammond withheld the pregnancies of the wenches as being too indelicate
for his wife.

'Son, don't be makin' too much o' that young Mandingo buck. He big an'
vig'ous, yes. But he ain't God. He yourn; you isn't hisn. He need a
little snakin', pour it on. See whut that larrupin' done to Memnon; make
him a new buck. You got to learn about niggers. They apes. On'y thing
they feared of is the snake.'

'Mede ain't a-needin' no dose of snake, Papa. Ruin his pride. Jes' about
kill Mede.'

'That buck your pet. That whut he is, your pet. Let him run over you an'
you wants,' said the old man, swallowing the last of his toddy and
peering into the bottom of the goblet to see whether a trace might
remain. He could well have drunk another, but refrained from ordering
it, lest Blanche incur her husband's anger by taking another along with
him.

'Mede!' Blanche pounded on the name, repeating it as if it would escape
from her memory. 'This here Mede, who he?'

'Why, it is Ham's fightin' buck, Mandingo,' blurted Maxwell. 'Ain't Ham
tell you? He won't talk about nothin' else; an' he tote that black boy
aroun', wrapped in waddin'.' The other man was innocently unaware of
saying aught amiss.

'Fightin' buck? I tol' you you couldn't have no fightin' buck. I tol'
you I not wed you an' you got one!' Blanche flared.

Hammond's smile was half a sneer. 'Whut you wants I should do with him?
Boil him fer soap grease?'

'You kin sell him, I reckon.'

'But I reckon I ain't a-goin'.'

'I got sompin' to say!'

''Bout Tense, you has. 'Bout the rest, you ain't. I got to run this
plantation. You'd be havin' me plantin' daisies, 'stead o' cotton.'

'Ham jest a-keepin' him fer showin' off. Don' never fight him,'
concluded Maxwell.

'I goin' to. I goin' to, an' anybody got one to fight agin.' Hammond
rejected conciliation. He intended to brook no female interference with
the plantation economy.

The girl was trapped. This serious, stern, satisfied, unromantic youth,
whom she hardly knew, was her husband. He was an escape from
spinsterhood, which even at sixteen had terrified her. The house was
plain, drab, gloomy, not even as good as Crowfoot--not what she had
pictured. No affluence was apparent to her. The older man she conceded
to be kind, but a mere echo of the boy. She resolved to salvage what she
should be able.

'Them dresses?' she proposed. 'When we goin' to git 'em?'

'We git 'em,' Hammond promised again. 'Cain't go today. Maybe tomorrer,
next day; Sat'day sure. Dressmaker in Benson, ain't they, Papa?'

'Dresses?' asked Maxwell.

'My papa never bought me none--that money not comin',' Blanche
explained.

'Mind me to git some red goods fer Big Pearl and Lucy. I tol' 'em I
would,' said Ham.

'They----?' The old man checked his question, looked at his son, who
nodded his head. 'Mandingos,' he said with satisfaction.

When they rose from the table, Maxwell stumbled and submitted to Mem's
leading him back to the sitting-room. Blanche hesitated a moment and
followed. Hammond tarried. Blanche saw him place his hand on Meg's
shoulder.

'You tell Miz Ellen,' Hammond in a low tone instructed the boy, 'to wash
good and wait upstairs. Tell her I come. Un'erstan'?'

The boy nodded gravely.

Ham spent the afternoon around the plantation, but his mind more often
than not was in an upstairs room back at the house. He returned earlier
than he had intended and guided Eclipse toward the barn. Without
unsaddling him, he turned the horse into his box stall. Then he limped
towards the house, entered the kitchen, and made his way toward the
stairs. Meg sat on the top step, elbows on his knees and cheeks in
hands, waiting. Hammond's fingers on his lips enjoined the boy to
silence.

From the sitting-room, Maxwell heard the halting step on the creaking
stairs, made a surmise, but said nothing to his daughter-in-law who sat
across the room from him. He harked in his thoughts back to the time
when his own needs had been insatiable.

When he came down some time later, Hammond stopped at the foot of the
stairs to open and slam the front door before he entered the
sitting-room. While he embraced his wife, his father disposed of his
tobacco in anticipation of the casual kiss he knew his son would give
him. Meg brought three toddies, and Blanche raised her eyes to her
spouse for his disapproval before she lifted one of them from the tray.
He offered no protest.

'They choppin' right good-like--slow, but ain't no hurry 'boutn them ol'
weeds,' Hammond told his father. 'That Petit Gulf come thick; didn't rot
none like that Tennessee.'

'Littler boles,' the old man objected.

'But more of 'em, an' they busts wider.'

'Mayhap,' nodded Maxwell who had little interest in growing cotton.

'They don' need no watchin',' Ham reverted to the choppers.

'Then we kin go to Benson tomorrow an' git my dresses?' Blanche
interposed.

'Might as well,' her husband agreed. 'Why not?' Just for a moment he was
not reluctant to please her. He gave her a brief half-smile of
contentment, the reason for which she completely misunderstood.




CHAPTER 15


But as it turned out Blanche was joyfully forced to return again and
again to Benson to buy linings and buttons, furbelows and trimmings for
the dresses and to consult Miss Forsythe, the little dressmaker, and
submit to her fittings. For Blanche it was a carnival of pleasant
anxiety and anticipations. Twice a week, Hammond was forced to adjourn
his work on the plantation and drive his wife to town, which he did
without complaint. The leisurely hoeing of weeds in the cotton went on
in his absence almost as well as when he was at home. In fact, when
Lucretia Borgia could steal the time from her other duties to go to the
field for an hour or so, the choppers worked faster for the deputy than
they ever did for the master.

On Saturday afternoons he left Blanche at Miss Forsythe's cottage while
he went to Remmick's tavern to watch the fights and meet his friends. He
had stopped taking Mede along, not because of Blanche's presence but
because no other owners would match their boys against Mede.

However, everybody talked about Mede, inquired about his health and his
training, suggested matches for him, but always with the slave of
another owner. Hammond refrained from boasting about the boy, but the
pride of ownership gave him constant pleasure.

'I'm a-breedin' him right now. Ain't fitten hardly to fight,' Hammond
would explain. 'The dreen on him pullin' him down.'

On the way home, Hammond listened inattentively to his wife's
enthusiastic account of her visit to Miss Forsythe and her
prognostications of how beautiful the frocks would be. They were her
sole interest.

For between her excursions to the dressmaker's there was nothing for
Blanche to do. Within the house, everything was done for her, and there
was nothing out-of-doors to interest her. Besides, she feared the
effects of the sun on her face, the whiteness of which she was at some
pains to conserve. Afraid at first of the elder Maxwell, she grew to
like him. He was generous, candid, and uncritical. She was a white
woman, a Hammond, his son's wife. He asked no more. Her headaches grew
more frequent and more severe. Her father-in-law was indifferent to the
number of toddies she drank, even urged them upon her. Hammond did not
disapprove the remedy, but neither did he know how much she consumed. He
was out of the house much of the time, supervising the chopping of the
cotton, seeing to the welfare of his livestock, giving orders and advice
in the cabins, training his Mandingo.

His wife and his father exchanged gossip. She described her dresses to
him again and again.

Maxwell talked of his wife, of her being a Hammond, recounted his son's
childhood and the accident that had crippled him. After the fifth
telling, Blanche ceased to attend to what he said, but for want of
company she sat with him, wafted a worn palmetto fan, and sipped her
toddy.

She had even less interest in the conversations between her husband and
his father about the crops and the weeds and swine and slaves than in
the older man's garrulity about the past. It seemed to her that Hammond
was obsessed with the plantation. Every time he entered the house, it
was to report the details of whatever project was in hand, the
carelessness of some working-man, the cold or cut hand or stubbed toe of
some slave child. These minutiae of his stewardship interested his wife
not at all, and, except as reflections of his son's activities,
interested the father little more. He expressed his approval of all
Hammond did. The concern of the older man was that his young Negroes
should feed heartily and grow apace. Cotton was only to keep them
moderately busy. He had never built a gin or a press of his own, but had
hauled his crop to Benson for processing. It seemed to him that it might
be better to devote the entire acreage to corn which the Negroes could
eat, than to cotton for sale; he preferred to sell the produce of the
plantation on the hoof. But if it amused Hammond to grow cotton, his
father had no wish to interfere with the plan.

Blanche was bored and even nauseated by her father-in-law's eternal
praise of his son, present or absent. If only Hammond would do something
amiss, if only he would err, if his father would upbraid him or express
in the son's absence some disapproval of his actions. The only fault the
older man could find was that the son worked too hard, and in his
voicing of it that fault became a virtue.

'An' you don' quit this a-strivin' and a-drivin' an' a-frettin', you
goin' to bust down with rheumatiz afore that boy is big enough to take a
hold,' he warned.

'Whut boy?' demanded Ham.

'Why, your boy--the one Blanche is goin' to have you.'

Blanche blushed.

It was a reminder to Hammond. He had neglected his marital duties, which
were not entirely pleasant, what with the pallor of the soft white
flesh, which he was not forced to see but whose colour he imagined under
the heavy nightgown.

Blanche had found out about Ellen. Hortense, with no evil motive, let
the cat out of the bag and answered her mistress's further questions
with an innocent candour that was not intended as a betrayal. Tense had
grown up to believe that the slave was at the master's disposal, and was
aware of nothing amiss in Hammond's relationship with Ellen except that
it forestalled her own elevation to his favour, to which she had been
taught to aspire. Hortense was able to tell little, from which the
mistress surmised much. Blanche quizzed the elder Maxwell as subtly as
she was able but his answers were evasive.

'Mayhap,' he admitted, 'I don' know,' and he didn't. 'Ham right
considerin' that way, aimin' to spare a white lady.'

Blanche had no desire to be spared, although she dared not say so.

'No 'um, Mist'ess, I ain't know nuffin', not nuffin'; no 'um,' was all
Blanche could draw out of Lucretia Borgia, who planted her feet wide
apart in her determination not to betray her young master.

When Blanche turned to Meg, who had overheard his mother's denial of her
knowledge, the boy only hung his head, rolled his eyes, and muttered it
was hard to tell what. A lie to a white was an offence, but, in this, he
recognized that the truth would be a greater one.

For once, Lucretia Borgia came to her son's aid, not for his sake, but
for her master's. 'He 'on't know nuffin', Mist'ess, ma'am. How you
'speck he know nuffin'? That nigger don' even know whut you astin' him;
'on't know whut you talkin' about. Ain't no good pumpin' him.'

Thus Blanche, for all her seeking, was unable to accumulate the evidence
she wanted. She was baffled. Her husband's philandering with his wenches
she would not have resented, but his dalliance with a single wench
aroused her ire. She compared Ellen's beauty with her own, to the
slave's disparagement; and what perversity of taste could prefer black
to white? Nor could she credit that it was no preference, a mere
concession to a white frigidity, which she could not admit she did not
feel. Her mother, with the modesty befitting a daughter of a Hammond,
had warned her with circumlocutions that a man's fidelity was not a
lady's lot and that she should have to submit to a husband's attentions
or neglect with such equanimity as she could muster. But that the
neglect should come so soon!

Blanche could not, for several reasons, present her grievance
forthrightly to her husband, charge him with dalliance with the wench.
She had no direct evidence; the most she knew was what Tense had said
innocently and inadvertently. He would admit a venial guilt, but pretend
it was for her own protection. And how would she find words for the
indictment, which was a subject too delicate for a lady's speech? A lady
not only possessed no passions but took no cognizance of them in men and
menials.

Moreover and worst of all, the charge would beget recriminations.
Hammond, on their marriage night, had found her not a virgin, a matter
which, although it was no longer discussed, she knew that her husband
had not forgotten. To chide him would but arouse his memory of her own
guilt.

While Hammond did not overtly flaunt his relations with Ellen, he was at
little pains to conceal them. Sooner or later Blanche would know. Didn't
every man, every planter, have a favourite wench or two?

So Blanche concentrated on the one consolation she had, her pretty
dresses. About them, Hammond kept his word. And there would be more of
them, a never-ending supply. When Hammond on a Saturday evening brought
the three frocks home, Blanche could eat no supper nor permit Tense to
eat. One after another, with Tense's help, she laced herself into them
and swept down the stairs to show them off to the Maxwell men, whose
satisfaction was not in the dresses themselves but in the pleasure the
girl took in having them. They did not know how much of a factor in that
pleasure was the allure the dresses were counted to have for the
husband. She should be irresistible. She contrasted her finery with
Ellen in her osnaburgs. She would show that black hussy who was the more
beautiful. When, on going to bed that night, Hammond sent Tense to the
kitchen to sleep that he might be alone with his wife, she knew that the
clothes had triumphed.

Thereafter, Blanche wore her new dresses constantly, changed them three
times a day merely to sit opposite her father-in-law and sip her
toddies. Her joy in them soon subsided, however, especially as she went
nowhere to show them off and nobody came to Falconhurst. Besides, they
were tight. More and more she kept to her room, where she could relax
her stays, dressing only to go downstairs to her meals.

But she missed her gossip with Maxwell, and her toddies. As the weather
got warmer, the dresses became ever more uncomfortable and Blanche had
Dido make her some Mother Hubbards of blue calico, mere envelopes for
her figure, like nightgowns. Hammond did not entirely approve of her
wearing such a garb downstairs in his father's presence, but Blanche
pointed out that she wore underclothes with these Mother Hubbards, and
shoes and stockings. She was fully clothed and yet comfortable. There
was nothing for him to cavil at. He still did not like them, didn't want
his wife dressing like a wench. Somebody might come. In such an event,
Blanche said, she would go to her room and dress before the visitors
should see her.

As the summer wore on, the girl dispensed with more and more of her
undergarments, leaving off one thing one day, another the next. Despite
the warmth of the days, she still drank her toddies hot for her
persistent headaches and relied upon the breeze of her palmetto fan to
keep her cool. One day she appeared downstairs without her shoes,
complained that the heat had caused her feet to swell. Hammond
contemplated her unshod feet, but in view of the reason for them
withheld his censure. The following day her feet were entirely bare.
They were not beautiful.

Blanche, standing barefooted in a single garment, her stringy yellow
hair uncombed, her cheeks blotched red with heat and eyes bleary from
whisky, bore little resemblance to the girl girded in the challis dress
whom Hammond had accompanied to church a few months before. But she was
white; he had married her.

More and more frequently he used the summer heat as an excuse to absent
himself from his wife's bedroom. In his own separate bed he was not
constrained to wear his underclothes, and, alone, Blanche would be free
to unbutton the neck of her nightgown.

On one such night late in June, Ellen lay in her master's bed. It was
too hot for dalliance, too hot even for sleep, and they lay apart, the
girl on her elbow waving a palmetto fan over his supine body.

'That enough,' Hammond argued. 'I right cool now. Lay out an' git some
sleep. Don' need you should fan me like I goin' to melt. I ain't grease,
or somethin'.'

The girl merely stooped to kiss his naked shoulder and continued her
fanning. 'You hot, and you know I like to.'

'Ain't no call to,' he said, stretching luxuriously and raising his arms
to cradle his head in his hands the better to take advantage of the
breeze from the fan. 'Mind me of the time I was a little saplin'; my
mamma had Lucretia Borgia settin' by my bed a-fannin' me to sleep
warmish evenin's, sometimes the whole night,' he reminisced. 'Lucretia
Borgia let me sleep nekid, like I is now, though my mamma reckon I wear
a shirt.'

'You had Lucretia Borgia a long time?'

''Fore I was borned; 'fore my papa marry my mamma. Don't know whure Papa
got her at; mayhap he bred her right here at Falconhurst. She gittin'
ol', mayhap thirty-five. Still breed good though--she knocked again.
Beginnin' to round out too, I noticin' this mornin'.'

'She says I am,' the girl announced.

'You is whut?'

'Knocked.'

Hammond sat upright. 'When? When Lucretia Borgia say?'

'Yesterday.' Ellen was casual. 'I don't know nothing about it. She says
I missed my time of month.'

'Don't mean nothin'. Nigger talk. Lay back,' Hammond ordered, and he ran
his hand appraisingly over the girl's abdomen. 'Breasts hurtin' you?
Notice anything?'

'They itch-like, an' ache a little, not much. They growin' some, I
reckon.'

'Mayhap Lucretia Borgia know. She right knowin' about such.'

'You mad?' asked Ellen contritely.

'Mad?'

'Mad at me? I couldn't help it; you did it.'

Hammond ran his arm beneath Ellen's body, drew her to him and kissed her
mouth. 'That how riled I is,' he declared. 'I a-wantin' it.'

'But you won't be a-wantin' me,' the girl began to weep. 'Be givin' me
to one of the hands--not a black one though, not to a black one!'

It was too dark in the room for Ellen to see the smile that spread over
Ham's face. 'Ellen, honey, I ain't givin' you away. You mine, mine. You
an' me, we goin' to have a lot o' suckers, a whole gang of 'em, one mos'
ever' year.'

'Sukey an' the others?'

'They different. They jest handy-like. I ain't payin' Ol' Man Wilson no
fifteen hundred dollars jest for three, four months of you. No, suh. I
wouldn't take fifteen thousand fer you.'

'You reckon I am----?'

'You missin' your time, and your breasts, Lucretia Borgia mayhap right.
Leastwise, she goin' to be, an' she ain't. Us carryin' on like we is,
not a-goin' to be long.'

'You reckon it's a little buck?'

'I reckon. I gits bucks. All of mine been bucks so fur. Not a wench so
fur, nor a crip.'

'You reckon Miz Blanche's goin' to be a buck, I mean a boy child?'

'Ifn ever she have one. I ain't been doin' right by her--too hot in all
that riggin'. I'm a-goin' to.'

'Lucretia Borgia says Miz Blanche--she pukin' up every mornin' and her
feet swellin' up; Lucretia Borgia reckons that a sign.'

'Lucretia Borgia reckons too much. She knowin' ever'thing afore it goin'
to happen.'

'I reckon you don't crave Miss Blanche have none?' Ellen's inflection
turned her speculation into a question.

Hammond was quick to deny that such was the case. 'Course I wantin' one,
an' Papa do. Course I do.' The weather had made the young man irascible.
Ellen accepted his peevish mood. She fell silent, but continued to wield
the fan above his naked body long after he had turned his back on her
and fallen asleep. There was no moon and the room was so dark that she
could distinguish only a vague outline of the man at whose body she
gazed down in adoration.

For herself, Ellen hoped that Lucretia Borgia was not mistaken, since
Hammond was not averse to her bearing a child. Would it arrive before
the child carried by her mistress? It should, she calculated; her master
had favoured her for months before he had married Miss Blanche. A surge
of jealous hatred of Hammond's wife swept over her. She knew that she
herself was the interloper. Did her master come to her from preference
or merely to relieve his wife from the obligation to submit to him? Why
should the white woman not relish the male embrace? Wherein was the
difference between white and black? She thought of herself as black, and
was glad of her skin; she would not exchange the ecstasy she obtained
from her master's caresses for the chaste frigidity of white wifehood.

It would go hard, Ellen knew, but she believed that she would be willing
to forgo Hammond's embraces if he were able to obtain as much
satisfaction in Blanche's bed. The nights Hammond spent with Blanche,
Ellen threshed in her bed and wept tears of agony, but she didn't
question the wife's right to him. Jealousy she had admitted to herself,
but never hatred. Now she hated. Now she willed Blanche injury, illness,
abortion, death. Yet to murder her would alienate her white lover and
defeat her purpose. If she could poison her secretly! There could be no
rivalry--the other was white. Murder was the only solution.

Ellen was terrified that Hammond might surmise her fantasies. How
soundly did he sleep? If he should wake now would he divine what she had
been thinking? The more she tried to stifle her evil thoughts, the more
they obtruded into her consciousness. She was unable to sleep, and when
Hammond awoke in the faint light of the false dawn, he felt the breeze
even before he turned to see the girl, still reclining on her elbow and
still patiently and monotonously swinging the fan to render his slumbers
comfortable.

In the morning Ham rose at once to go downstairs to tell his father that
both Blanche and Ellen were pregnant. He knew the delight the old man
would take in the fact that the Hammond line was now certain to be
continued. But he himself was scarcely less pleased about Ellen than
Blanche.




CHAPTER 16


The following Saturday at the tavern Hammond saw the veterinarian, who
obviously had something important to discuss. 'Ain't talked to Remmick,
have ye?' he asked, looking surreptitiously about him. He grasped Ham's
elbow and led him out to the entrance porch beneath the wooden awning.
'Don' say nothin', but Remmick got a letter. He goin' to show it you.
Sportin' gen'lemen from the City comin', bringin' with 'em they big
fightin' buck, want to pit it agin' yourn. You goin' to have a chance to
pit your boy again' a regular New Orleans fighter,' Redfield confided.

'How news about me a-havin' Mede git all the way to New Orleans?'
Hammond pondered.

'Jest wanted you to know. Don' let on you anxious when Remmick tellin'
you. Take it casual an' if you wantin' a good match.'

Remmick did indeed hurry up as soon as he saw Ham, spread open before
him without comment the letter of which Redfield had spoken. Redfield
read it over Ham's shoulder.

'Friend Mr. Remmick,' the epistle ran; 'it comes to me a rich gentleman
Mr. Maxwell has a fine fighter near to Benson. I got one to match
against him. I take my fighter to Benson in a short time to match him.
You tell the gentleman please have his Negro redy when I come. Mine is
real large and strong like a bull. I go to Natchez. Then come to Benson.
Your humble and obdt. servt. J. Neri.' The letter was from New Orleans,
undated. It was neatly written in an easily legible running hand, except
for the signature, which was so formalized and embellished that it was
impossible to be sure of more than the 'J' in it.

Hammond read the letter three times, turned it over and looked at the
blank reverse. 'Who this whutever his name be? This J. Neri?' he asked.

'Never seen the Frenchy, not as I know. Callin' me his god-damn friend.
I don't know him,' Remmick said, folding the letter and placing it in
his pocket.

'Heared of me, about my Mede,' speculated Hammond.

'From folks passin' through, likely. Lots of talk a-goin',' Remmick
guessed. 'Goin' to fight him? You bin a-cravin' a chance.'

''Pendin' on his buck and on whut he offerin' to bet,' shrugged Hammond.
'I ain't fightin' my buck fer no scrawny runt of a saplin'.'

'Course I ain't knowin', but I reckons that Frenchy cravin' to fight fer
money--not jest fer niggers. Likely, comin' all that way, ain't carryin'
along no bettin' bucks.' Remmick appeared to know more than he admitted
about the business of the unknown letter-writer.

For all Hammond's assumed indifference, his eagerness to reach home to
intensify the Mandingo's training detracted from his interest in the
afternoon's entertainment. Before the final fight he departed, first
having sought out Doc Redfield and asked him to come to Falconhurst. He
wanted the veterinarian's appraisal of Mede's fitness to fight.

So anxious was he to step up Mede's conditioning, he galloped Eclipse
all the way and went to the Mandingo cabin before reporting his arrival
to his wife and father.

'I goin' to pit you,' he told Mede excitedly. 'Gen'leman from New
Orleans bringin' one, big as a bull.'

'I ready for him. I beat him for you, Masta,' Mede declared
complacently.

'You ain't either ready. You got to git trainin' good--runnin', liftin'
that ol' log, Lucy oilin' an' workin' you.'

Lucy acquiesced with a 'Yas, suh, Masta. I rubs Mede ever' day, me an'
Big Pearl.'

'You still drinkin' down them eggs from Lucretia Borgia ever' day?' Ham
demanded.

'She makin' me. I don' like 'em, Masta, suh.'

'Nev' min'; you drink 'em down. Now git out there a-liftin' that log.
Put it up an' down over your head till you petered out. Hear? Tomorrow
we goin' to run you, young buck on your back; an' then we swims you in
ol' Tombigbee.'

Mede's training had been steady and consistent; Hammond had seen to it,
even in those weeks when it seemed to him that he should be unable to
find an opponent. Now, with the prospect of a fight impending, the owner
was appalled at the thought that in any way he might have permitted Mede
to loaf and stagnate into flabbiness. He resolved to make up in a week's
intensity of effort all that the boy had lost, or had failed to gain, in
the interval since he had fought.

Blanche, drinking a toddy, made a wry mouth of indifference to Ham's
tale of the letter. Maxwell's chuckle assuaged his son's doubt. 'You got
him to fight with, didn't you? You got to crack eggs, an' you makin' a
puddin',' he said. 'Nev' mind a bust jaw or a gouged eye. You got him to
fight, not to look at.'

That then was one comfort. If Mede should lose, Hammond would suffer no
recriminations at home.

Redfield lost no time in his visit to Falconhurst. As he approached the
plantation astride his dun horse, he encountered Hammond on Eclipse
following Mede, who trotted ploddingly, Belshazzar perched triumphantly
on his shoulders. Although it was Sunday morning when no work was
required of the Falconhurst slaves, the Mandingo had been lifting,
jumping, stretching, contorting, and now running, under his master's
relentless eye, for five hours. His scanty clothes were wet and his face
shone with sweat, but fatigue, if he felt it, was not visible. It was
Hammond's intention to tire his fighter to the point of exhaustion.

'Whut you meanin'?' asked the veterinarian jocosely. 'Stinkin' up the
country with nigger sweat?'

'I honin' him, honin' him right down.'

When the white men had dismounted, Redfield glanced towards the
Mandingo, and observed him as he came up the lane, watched him lift
Belshazzar easily down from his shoulders. With a curiosity that
appeared idle, he walked towards the big Negro, felt his biceps, his
thighs, and his shoulders through the sweat-soaked garments, raised the
boy's shirt to feel his abdominal muscles, making no comment.

'How he seem?' inquired Hammond anxiously. 'I jest beginnin' workin'
him; don' know kin I git him ready, come Sat'day. That Frenchy had ought
to given me more time.'

Redfield stooped to pick up a bit of soil with which to cleanse his
hands of the Negro sweat. 'Th' boy all right, I reckon; good. On'y I
wouldn't work him no more, was I you. He hard now as you kin make him
an' he runs limber-like. You goin' to wear him down. Let him rest till
you ready to fight him.'

'He a lazy son-of-a-bitch,' scoffed the owner, concealing his pride. 'I
'on't want him goin' off on me.'

'Might swim him some, an' keep him rubbed,' prescribed the veterinarian.
'Eats, I reckon.'

'Eats good, white vittles an' eggs raw, 'bout a dozen ever' day.'

Redfield nodded wisely in professional approval, and the gentlemen
entered the house.

A half-empty toddy glass stood on the table. Blanche, seeing the visitor
through the window, had retired to dress in more fitting garments.

'Reckon my son tellin' you whut I want--'bout that Natchez ride,'
Maxwell opened a subject he had in mind, namely that Redfield should
accompany Ham on the autumn slave-selling trip.

'Glad to, glad to 'commodate.'

'Course, nothin' to do. Hammond here, he do ever'thing. He in charge,'
the father made clear, not to deprive the young man of his sense of
responsibility.

'Better,' Redfield agreed.

'I make it right with you; Hammond will, that is.'

Redfield raised his hand in protest of payment. 'Only neighbourly,' he
said. 'Not a dollar, not a cent. You pay my keep on the road. A chancet
to git out from under the Widder fer a spell.'

'Course, course,' Hammond promised, ignoring the aspersion on Redfield's
wife. 'But----'

'How many? How big the coffle?'

'Dozen or fourteen head, bucks that is; mayhap fifteen or sixteen. Ain't
decided yet,' Maxwell explained.

'Papa aimin' to send along three or four wenches too.'

Redfield evinced surprise. 'I reckon you wouldn't sell off wenches.'

'Ol,' explained Maxwell. 'Ridden of 'em afore they stops breedin'--that
is if we kin git 'em showin' in foal in time.'

'Bring more open,' Redfield argued.

'Young yallers, mayhap, yes,' Maxwell admitted. 'These'n ol', thirty or
sich, an' mos'ly right dark.'

'Papa wantin' to,' Hammond implied his reluctance to part with the
women.

'Trouble about the Widder,' Redfield complained. 'Ain't sold off. First
thing you know, they stops breedin' on you an' ain't worth nothin'. May
take along two or three my own self, the Widder willin'.'

'You welcome, welcome!' declared Hammond. 'Gotten anyways to take the
surrey fer the wenches--'specially are they knocked. Room for two or
three more.'

'An' I a freeholder now--that farm of the Widder's. I kin sign your
'tificates you got to have in Louisianie and Mississippi that you ain't
a-bringin' in runners or bad niggers.'

'Banker Meyer always signs ourn,' Hammond asserted.

'The Banker don't know nothin' about the niggers--never seen 'em. But he
signs,' the father chuckled. 'He know Warren Maxwell ain't sluffin' off
bad stock.'

'Takes two, two property owners. "James J. Redfield" will look nice
right alongside of Banker Meyer on them papers. An' I know your hands.
My name will mean somethin'.'

Blanche had dressed carefully, Tense lacing her into her brown costume.
Mincing and demure, she sidled into the room.

'You ain't a-knowin' Miz Maxwell yet, are you?' Hammond rose from his
chair. 'This her, this my wife. Doc Redfield, you hearin' about,' he
made the introduction.

Blanche simpered and curtsied, and the Doctor made an elaborate bow.
'Hammond here, he bin a-tellin' me,' the girl said.

'An' me, he tellin' me 'bout his beautiful wife,' Redfield lied.

Blanche blushed at the flattery. 'Right warm,' she said, reaching for a
palmetto.

'I knowed your mamma, she about your age. Hankered fer her, but course I
didn't have nothin', that time. Your grandpa wouldn't hear to the likes
of me, an' I known better than ast. Miz Hammond her name was then, an'
purty as ever you see, but dark; not fair like you--dark.'

'Mamma gittin' deef now,' Blanche sighed.

'So did your grandpa, ol' Orestes. You remember Orestes, Mista Maxwell.'

'Like yest'day. Brother of Theophilus, but no sech a gen'leman.'

'My ol' man worked there--Pleasant Hill, the plantation was
called--overseer, when I was a boy. Mista Orestes was kind and generous,
sober; mean when he drunk. I mind he made my pappy lick me oncet fer
somethin' I never done, somethin' about a wench he keepin' fer one of
his boys.'

Maxwell saved his daughter-in-law's blushes. 'I wasn't a-knowin' you
worked fer the Hammonds.'

'My pappy! They had hosses, good hosses, and niggers, and pigs an'
things; that's whure I learned to doctor so good. The Hill onhealthy;
somethin' always sick. Worst was the nine-days' sickness--carried new
suckers right off, never saved a one, might as well knock 'em in the
head oncet they gits it.'

'I ain't never had it here,' Maxwell vaunted.

'You right clean. Don't never let it start. Belly button swells up an'
turns green-like, ain't nothin' to do.'

Meg appeared with four toddies on his tray, served his senior master
first, as he had been taught. Blanche lifted her hand, but just in time
caught Hammond's eye, saw the just perceptible shake of his head, and
dropped her hand to her lap.

'I temp'ance. I never drinks corn,' she denied.

''Ceptin' sometimes fer medicine, suffers awful when her head aches
her,' modified her father-in-law for the sake of truth.

'Course, course,' assented the guest.

Blanche displayed her best manners, manners which her husband knew she
possessed, having seen them at Crowfoot before he had married her. He
was none the less proud that she had not forgotten them--the crooked
small fingers, the dainty forkfuls, the abstemious appetite, which were
reserved for the presence of guests. Hammond saw Redfield watching the
girl with approval and admiration. She acquitted herself with elegance,
and her husband was proud.

After dinner and another toddy, when Redfield was about to depart,
Maxwell followed him to the sunny gallery. 'You reckon she knocked up?'
he asked the medical man, glancing behind him to indicate to whom the
question pertained. 'She puke mornin's. Lucretia Borgia reckon.'

'Bin two months, 'most three, ain't it?' Redfield calculated. 'Knowin'
Hammond, she is, or she ain't a-goin' to never be. She is like to have a
dozen, runnin', one a year. I reckon she be.'

Hammond accepted the veterinarian's counsel to ease up on the Mandingo's
training. He worked him only lightly, swam him daily in the river, saw
to it that he was oiled and massaged, questioned him about his bowels.
Mede had an easy week.

In view of Remmick's opinion that the New Orleans man might demand a
money wager, Hammond dug up the pot of gold and extracted from it
twenty-five double eagles, which was the maximum sum he was willing to
hazard. He was concerned less about winning money than about winning the
fight and proving his slave's prowess, but he felt that five hundred
dollars was all that he could afford to lose. He preferred to bet
Negroes, who, while they were saleable for money, were not gold itself.

When at last Saturday came, Maxwell's excitement over the contest was
hardly less than his son's, and he could not be restrained from making
one of his infrequent visits to Benson.

In their eagerness, father and son left Falconhurst earlier than need
be, but despite their early arrival at the tavern it was apparent that
things had already begun to stir. A half-dozen horses were at the rack,
and a murmur of talk came through the open door.

Hammond hitched his team in the shade of a large maple across the road
from the tavern, helped his father to alight, and told the slaves to
stay where they were. 'Don' git down fer nobody, 'lessen I tells
you--not even if a white man say. An' don't you eat nothin' nobody
a-goin' to give you. Hear? Somebody tryin' to pizen you afore you
fights.'

'Eh,' scoffed his father at his precautions.

The son led the father across the road, steadied him as he stepped upon
the porch, and guided him into the tavern. Talk stopped in deference to
so important a personage. Redfield was first to see and greet his
friend.

'Couldn't trus' the boy, eh? Got to come?' Redfield suggested. 'Boys,
Ham's age, reckless, I reckon, bets too heavy. Got to hol' 'em down. How
the rheumatics?'

'You know, Doc, Hammond trusty. I ain't no part of this fight. Jest felt
like comin' along to watch--plumb outsider. Hammond kin bet ever' nigger
an' every dollar on Falconhurst, he seein' that way.' Maxwell underlined
his disinterest so that his presence might not impair his son's prestige
at the tavern.

'I jest a-coddin',' Redfield repaired his error. 'Ham ain't a-needin' no
didy changer.'

When they arrived, Remmick hastened out from behind the bar to draw up a
spindle-backed wicker-seated armchair for his honoured guest, and
grasped his arm to lower him into it.

'Nev' mind, never min',' Maxwell at once repulsed and accepted the
attention, pleased with his reception. 'Corn fer everybody, mine with
hot water an' a little sweetenin'. Son, you pay.'

'Got to wait, suh, whiles I hotten some,' Remmick apologized. 'Ain't no
call fer toddies. Won't take more than a minute.'

'Don' stir yourself. I reckon I kin wait.' Maxwell blinked in his effort
to adjust his eyes to the interior darkness after the brightness of the
sun. He squinted toward a figure against the bar and asked, 'Ain't that
Mista Brownlee?'

The other, unsure of his reception, came forward and extended his hand.
'If it ain't Mista Maxwell, well! well! I'm often a-thinkin' about my
visit to your place--whut do you call it, Falconhurst?--an' your good
vittles an' fine stock, specially that twin pair o' saplin's. Sure to
buy 'em offn you. I knows jest whure I kin sell 'em, know jest the man
to want 'em--fer pets, jest pets. I pay a good sum.'

Maxwell shook his head and changed the subject. 'How you make with them
two you traded me out of?'

'Them two unsound bucks? I didn't lose nothin',' admitted Brownlee, by
which he acknowledged that he had done well.

'How's niggers in gen'al?' Maxwell queried.

'They's high, still high. Cain't buy 'em.'

'Thought maybe that new Louisianie law goin' to cheapen 'em.'

Brownlee sniffed. 'Nobody pay no attention to that fool law. Course, you
cain't sell 'em at public cry in New Orleans, unless you makes out they
bin a year in the state; but niggers ain't knowin' whure they comes from
and nobody a-carin'.'

'Mine all a-knowin' they Alabama.'

'Learn 'em to say they Louisiana. Private treaty better anyways, if you
got prime stock. They goin' to take that law back, come Assembly.
Planters needs niggers--cain't breed 'em fast as they kills 'em in the
cane.'

Remmick brought Maxwell's toddy and waited for him to taste it. 'Sweet
enough, suh?' he asked, subdued and solicitous.

'Best I ever drunk,' Maxwell savoured the drink.

The party crowded around the bar to obtain their drinks at the Maxwell
expense.

'Reckon you mayhap owns that boy we come to fight, Mista Brownlee?'
broached Hammond suspiciously.

'Wishin' I did,' said the buyer, raising his drink to his host and
downing it. 'Whupped ever'thin' around about. Worth a fortune, jest
about.'

'Where is he?' Hammond appealed to Remmick. 'Whure the owner?'

'He gittin' ready his boy, rubbin' him. He'll come.' The less the haste,
the more whisky would be consumed.

The room was filling when the side door, which led to the sleeping rooms
of the tavern, opened and a swarthy, squat, muscular man appeared.
Hammond knew who it was before Remmick announced, 'Here Mista Neri now!'

'That Mista Maxwell?' demanded the Italian.

'This him,' Remmick indicated.

Neri was direct. 'Bring your boy?' he asked Hammond. 'Want to fight
him?'

'I ain't seen yourn,' Ham refused to commit himself.

'Don't want to see yours. I'll fight him,' said Neri aggressively. 'I'll
fetch out Topaz when comes the time. He's restin'.'

'I seen him--not shucked down--but I seen him,' the tavern keeper
intruded into the negotiations, anxious that they should not fall
through.

Hammond asked, 'He big?'

'He high up. Ain't sayin' he little, but ain't no scuffler, as I kin
see. Yourn kin whup, whup easy--that is I reckon, fur as I see.'

'Gen'leman ain't seen Mede,' called Maxwell impatiently from his chair.
'You ain't a-choosin' a damn whore. Cain't tell, lookin' at him, kin he
fight. Pit 'em, an' see who whups.' The father did not want his son's
caution to deprive him of the spectacle he had come so far to see.

'I got to see his bettin' nigger, howsumever,' Hammond stipulated, and
by these words conceded his willingness to make the match without an
examination of the opposing fighter.

'Whut bettin' nigger? I don't fight my boy fer little niggers. I fight
fer spondulix, nothing short,' declared Neri with a show of scorn.

'I tellin' you, Mista Maxwell, Mista Neri not liable to match fer
niggers,' Remmick reminded Ham.

Hammond gave a sidelong glance at his father, who was unmoved, then
asked, 'How much?'

Neri drew from his pocket a sheaf of greenbacks and cast them loosely on
the counter. 'There five thousand--all I got. Any part of it. Mista
Remmick, here, let him hold the stakes an' run the fight, judge it.'

From the crowd of onlookers there was an audible stir, from one man a
whistle of amazement.

The proposal bewildered Hammond. He produced his pouch and shook its
gold upon the counter. 'That five hundert. I ain't a-riskin' no more. It
all I brung.'

Neri reached for his roll of bills, folded it with a sneer, and returned
it to his pocket. He started to walk away.

'Wait!' said Redfield, turning Neri back. 'I might go two hundred on
Ham's buck. I ain't got so much along, but Remmick here knows I good fer
it.'

Lewis Gasaway came forward and stacked fifty dollars beside Hammond's
pile of gold. 'I backin' Ham's nigger,' he declared.

'I ain't risking my Topaz fer coppers. Not afeared that he won't win,
but he may git hurt. Wouldn't have him battered fer seven-fifty.
Twenty-five hundred, anyway; that's the lowest.'

'Cover it! Cover it!' Maxwell urged Hammond.

'I never brung on'y five hunnert. I ain't a-betting more, 'ceptin' it be
a nigger,' Hammond's discretion overbore his humiliation.

'Go around to Banker Meyer. He let you have two thousand till Monday,'
urged Maxwell. 'I'll sign. Won't take more than a minute--or half hour.'

'When we got to borrow money to bet, I stops a-fightin'. We ain't debted
and ain't a-goin' to debt,' affirmed the son.

'Well!' The old man struggled to rise. 'You ain't goin' to fight him, I
reckon we take the Mandingo home an' put him over the fireplace to look
at. Ever stuff a nigger, Doc Redfield? Reckon you kin make him look
nat'chell? Hammond wantin' you to stuff his Mandingo. It hisn. I don't
say nothin'.'

'You still got them span o' twins, Mista Maxwell, suh?' asked Brownlee,
detaching himself from the crowd. 'They still sound and well, an' they
not blistered?'

'You hear my son say we ain't debted.'

'I will give Mista Neri two thousand fer the two of 'em, an' if he win
'em. Put 'em up with Hammond's five hundred against Neri's twenty-five
hunderd,' the dealer proposed. 'You knows them two squirts ain't worth
it, but I give it--two thousand. I got a fool in New Orleans a-wantin'
fancies. Pets, jest pets. Needn't fret whure they goin'. They live--best
in the lan'.'

Maxwell resumed his chair, and ordered another round of drinks.

'You know, Papa, we promise Lucretia Borgia,' Hammond interposed. 'We
cain't sell 'em withoutn her say.'

'Not sell 'em, but we kin bet 'em,' Maxwell rationalized a distinction.

'Promise to a nigger!' scoffed Brownlee. 'Nobody goin' to hold you to
it!'

The offer was enticing. A thousand dollars each for Alph and Meg. They
were more valuable as a matched brace than singly, it was true, and they
were choice boys, delicately made, alert, and responsive. On the other
hand, there was a remote chance that they would not grow up into big,
muscular men. Maxwell remembered when, before the war with Britain, the
La Fitte brothers had sold smuggled bozal Negroes in New Orleans by the
pound. There was still value in weight, and the twins would never be
big.

Maxwell sipped the toddy which Remmick had brought him. 'Ham's say, I
reckon. Them saplin's hisn, also. Be me, I'd take you up, Mista
Brownlee. But it ain't me.'

'Yourn a-goin' to win, anyways, Hammond,' argued Remmick. 'Ain't no
risk.'

'But they ain't here. I cain't bet 'em,' Hammond hesitated.

'I drop out tomorrow an' pick 'em up, if Neri wins 'em. I trust you. I
post my two thousand and your five hunderd agin' Mista Neri's
twenty-five hunderd. Ifn he win, he take all the money an' I takes the
span of twins.'

Hammond reluctantly, against his judgment and with fear in his heart,
agreed to the wager. Neri did not understand the arrangement, or
pretended not to understand. It had to be explained to him twice.

'That's all right,' he added, 'jest so I git the money. Put up the real
money with Mista Remmick. But I take no responsibility that these
Maxwells will give you the niggers if they lose. I thought they was
rich, or I wouldn't a-come. If you cain't afford it, there's still
time.'

Hammond again emptied his purse on the counter, Brownlee counted out the
dollars, and Neri matched the joint sums. Remmick raked all together,
wrapped the gold in the greenbacks and placed the whole sum in his
pocket. Neri bought a round of drinks for the house, lifted his glass to
Hammond, barely touched his lips to the whisky and pushed it from him.

'We savin' the big fight to the las',' Remmick announced. 'Ain't any you
other gen'lemen brung your varmints?'

''Ceptin' Mista Gore, over there, ain't none brung none,' Holden told
the impresario. 'Gore's nigger cain't fight hisself.'

'I reckoned with Ham's buck matchin' that other one, wouldn't be no
interest in no other fightin',' said Kyle apologetically. 'I could brung
one.'

'Me, too,' a dozen men muttered, one to another, some of whom owned no
slaves at all.

'To tell truth, my ol' man a-watchin' I don't sneak none out. I tried,'
confessed Lewis Gasaway, laughing in his embarrassment. 'Don't hold with
me a-fightin'--'lessen I wins.'

'Well, bring on you god-damn niggers,' called Remmick, 'an' let's see
'em.' He had delayed the fight as long as possible, but now the crowd
was milling with impatience and the less ardent were likely to leave. No
drinks were being sold.

Redfield followed Hammond across the road to summon Mede, while Neri
disappeared through the side door to bring his fighter. Maxwell remained
seated. Gasaway, Gore, Kyle and a few others straggled out as far as the
porch, but did not venture into the sun. The larger number remained at
the bar to see the new fighter emerge. The division of the crowd was a
rough indication of partisanship, although some men reserved their
allegiance until they saw the fighters, and others, who had no intention
of laying bets, were interested in the fight for its own sake and
indifferent which side should win.

Mede was asleep in the back of the surrey, mouth agape, and Ham had to
shake him awake.

'Come on! Git down. It goin' to start.'

'Whut, Masta, suh?'

'That fightin'. You knows I goin' to fight you this evenin'; doesn't
you?'

'Yas, suh; yas, suh,' the big Negro drawled, half awake.

'All you ponders is sleepin',' Hammond censured. 'Ain't aimin' to fight.
Ain't thinkin' nothin'! I reckon we goin' to be whup. That othern is a
gyascutus, ever'body sayin'!' As the time for the combat neared, Neri's
fighter grew more formidable in Ham's imagining.

'I still a-bettin' my two hundert on yourn, if I kin find somebody.'
Redfield's confidence or loyalty was unshaken. 'He goin' to be all
right. Don' be so shaky.'

The owner and the veterinarian flanked the big Negro to lead him across
the road. The party on the porch parted to let the trio enter the room,
and straggled after.

The crowd left an open space before Maxwell's chair, where Hammond
paused. Men crowded to look over others' shoulders at the fighter, who,
conscious of the scrutiny and now fully awake, began a nervous flexing
of his muscles and shifting of stance.

'Quiet down. You ain't no stud horse,' ordered the old man. 'Shuck off
his clo's, an' let folks see him.'

Mede looked at Hammond for confirmation of the command, and at a nod
began ripping himself out of his two garments, which he cast on the
floor at Maxwell's feet. He towered naked before the crowd, unable to
refrain from flexing his muscles.

A murmur of discussion ran through the onlookers.

Two or three adults reached out to stroke the Negro admiringly. Kyle
commented somewhat idly to Hammond, 'Gotten him a little fat, ain't you?
Seem-like, jest a shade.'

Redfield went quickly to his defence. 'They ain't no lard on him, not a
bit. He all sound meat. He jest big-made.'

The side door opened and Neri appeared, followed by his gladiator, naked
and glowering, and the crowd shifted its attention, leaving Mede alone
in front of Maxwell's chair. Even Hammond, anxious for an appraisal of
the challenger, moved with the others. Maxwell, who felt himself
deserted, extended his arm towards Mede for help in rising from the
chair, and the naked black boy sustained him as he made his way into the
crowd that gathered about Neri and his man. Mede, noting that his old
master was unable to see Topaz over the crowd in front of him, stooped
and lifted him to his shoulder. Maxwell, resentful of the implication
that he was not tall enough to see above the crowd, kicked the boy
soundly with his booted heel, and demanded to be put down.

But he had had a good look at Topaz, a lanky mulatto, possibly a
quadroon, whose height Maxwell over-estimated at twenty hands. But he
was obviously taller than Mede. Maxwell's entire impression of the Negro
was one of length and leanness. The muscles were bunched and were
individually visible as the joints articulated. The long, sloping
shoulders seemed wider than they were by contrast with the body's taper
to a small, lithe waist and rumpless hips. The rib formation was
distinct, which led Maxwell to believe, at least to hope, that the man
was underfed, despite his reasoning that no owner would risk his money
on a starved fighter.

No mere youth, Topaz was fully thirty and possibly thirty-five years
old, past his prime perhaps as a fighter, but seasoned and experienced
in all the tricks of his enforced vocation. In contrast with Mede, a
ridge of hair straggled down Topaz's sternum and spread above his
nipples; it had been shortened to mere stubble. The hair on the chest
covered but did not conceal a tattooed crucifix suspended by a tattooed
chain about the neck. Not permitted by the conventions of fighting to
wear a real crucifix or religious medal, Neri relied upon the tattoo as
a protection. Yet the protection it offered was not only divine, for no
antagonist would flout such a symbol. To strike the tattoo would court
defeat not only at the hands of Topaz but at the hands of God.

Topaz's skull was long and lean, like the other parts of him. It rose to
a pinnacle accentuated by his high, retreating forehead, a receding hair
line, a sunken-cheeked lantern-jaw, small, amber, feral eyes, red and
lashless, narrowly together under scant but meeting brows. It was easy
to see that the two incisors on the right side of his upper jaw were
broken off or missing, and his other visible teeth were pitted and
stained. His most repellent aspect, however, was the absence of ears.

Neri's abrupt manners and laconic speech discouraged questions, but
Holden ventured to ask him, 'Whut 'come of his years? Didn't he never
have none?'

Neri seemed to feel himself on the defensive and replied, 'He got one
tore in a fracas, time back; and, cuttin' it off, I thought it well to
slice off the other side. Didn't we, Topaz? Save it from tearin'.'

Topaz cocked his head in order to hear his master. 'Yes, suh; save
tearin' it off,' he concurred. 'Ain't nothin' to tear,' he added.

'Them burns, though, I didn't do them. He had 'em when I bought him,'
Neri absolved himself of wanton mutilation of his slave.

'Yes, suh,' Topaz elucidated, feeling behind him, 'Masta Henry burn my
ass when I 'fuse to fight; it long while back, 'fore I didn't have no
powder. I feared, that time. Ain't no more. Masta give me powder now.'

It was a hint, a plea, upon which Neri acted. Drawing a phial from his
pocket, he shook from it into Topaz's hand a small cone of white powder,
which the Negro raised to his nose and inhaled at a single sniff. He
wiped the residue upon his thigh, leaving a lighter spot upon the flesh.

'Whut that stuff you got smeared on it?' demanded Lewis Gasaway, noting
the immediate moisture of the powder.

'It nothin', only lard,' replied Neri, blandly. 'Don't you all smear
lard before fighting? Slicks, makes the strikes glance. Keeps the other
one from gettin' aholt.'

Hammond glanced at Mede, whose snake oil had ceased to serve such a
purpose.

'Stand 'em together,' suggested Remmick, 'so that the gent'men kin see
which one they goin' to bet.'

Hammond limped forward, grasped Mede by the arm and led him to the
centre of the crowd, that comparison might be possible. Topaz was at
some aesthetic disadvantage beside the youthful black symmetry of Mede,
although he towered above him in stature. The consensus was that the
slaves were well matched.

'Time a'-runnin', gen'lemen,' announced Remmick. 'Ain't you goin' to
bet?'

Redfield, Gasaway and a few others posted their bets upon the Mandingo,
which Neri immediately covered and looked around for more victims.

A rumble of talk, claims and counter-claims, opinions and refutations,
arguments and rebuttals, echoed about the building. Nobody attended much
to what another said. All the whites, except Neri, had been drinking;
some had drunk too much, but only one fight between spectators had
threatened and Remmick, coming from behind his counter, easily quelled
that. He maintained order in his tavern and all knew it. Moreover, none
chose to risk exclusion from the fight.

Remmick delayed as long as he was able, but at last men had arranged
their wagers; the sale of whisky had stopped; the circle around the
fighters had broken; and the groups of threes and fours that gossiped
and speculated were growing restless.

'We a-startin' up. All you-all gen'lemen repair to the back-yard. We
startin',' the tavern keeper proclaimed; and, as an afterthought,
enjoined Holden, 'Fetch along Mista Maxwell's chair, Sam, an' set him in
the shade whure he kin see good.'

The throng moved through the rear door, promptly but with order.
Everybody wanted a place of vantage. Holden chose the most level place
he could find for Maxwell's chair, with its back to the west that the
sun might not be in its occupant's eyes. Lewis Gasaway courteously
remained behind to lead and guide the invalid to the reserved seat of
honour.

Brownlee, who had stayed discreetly away from Neri, none the less
remained behind to offer him any aid he might need; and Redfield tarried
to second Hammond. Their aid was not required. Holden filled the tin cup
the bar reserved for Negroes and set it on the counter, but neither
manager chose to use it. Topaz extended his arm towards Neri, opening
and closing his fingers nervously. The owner, recognizing the meaning of
the gesture, again withdrew the phial from his pocket and poured a cone
of powder into the slave's open hand. Deftly and surely Topaz raised his
hand and the powder disappeared at a single sniff.

'More in the bottle. It half full. If we win----,' the master promised.

'I a-goin' 'a,' affirmed the Negro.

'Course you are,' said Neri, reaching to pat the yellow shoulder with
assurance and affection.

Redfield nudged Hammond. 'I knows whut he givin' him,' he confided
knowingly. 'Make him wil' while it last, but it won't las'. Countin' on
winnin' quick. Tell your buck fight slow, wear him out.'

'This nigger cain't whup, noways,' Ham conceded. 'Ain't train, cain't
make him. I bein' a fool. That Topaz buck whetted sharp.'

'We goin' to win,' Redfield affirmed with a show of confidence he didn't
feel. He turned to Holden, behind the counter. 'Give Mista Maxwell a
corn. He needin' it.'

Sam set out glasses, filled them, and touched the cup as a reminder. The
white men drank. Mede looked askance at his master, opened his mouth to
speak, but was silent; he wanted to cheer Hammond, for whose faint heart
he felt a kind of sorrow, but sensed that to voice his own confidence
would only aggravate the owner's despair. Mede harboured neither fear
nor doubt. He had a job to do, the job for which he had been purchased.
His money was not at stake and he had no interest in the twins, no
concern for his own body, for the pummelling he was about to receive,
the pain he must undergo. His body was the property of another; the
other accepted the risk. In the glory of victory, however, he should
share, as he must partake, if it should come, in the shame of defeat.
These were Mede's only stakes, victory or defeat.

Remmick appeared at the door, impatient of the delay. Neri and his
fighter, he said, were waiting at the ringside, ready.

'Come 'long,' Hammond said. He limped through the open door, followed by
the towering Mandingo, with Redfield bringing up the rear. The crowd
parted to give them a place at the ring, and Redfield continued around
the space to Maxwell's chair, squatting beside it.

Remmick made his way to the centre of the area and raised his hand
superfluously, for quiet had already settled on the sun-drenched
spectators. 'Last, we ready. We goin' to start in. I don' know the why
all this waitin'!' he deprecated the delay. 'You-all knows about this
event. You knows it between Mista Neri, come clean from New Orleans with
his nigger, an' Mista Ham Maxwell of Falconhurst with his big varmint
you-all seen fight here afore now. Mista Neri's boy name of Topaz,
somethin' like that----'

'That right--Topaz,' Neri nodded.

'An' Mista Hammond's name of Mede. They 'bout the biggest bucks, an' the
fines' ever honour this here arena. Mista Neri an' Mista Hammon' both
puttin' up big stakes--money an' niggers. Both these bucks been trainin'
an' worked down right fine, seem like. We goin' to see somethin' choice,
something like whut ain't never bin seen in Benson afore this, somethin'
like whut they does in New Orleans.' He ended, as he always did, with
'Let 'em FIGHT,' and he lowered his arm.

Neri cautioned Topaz not to forget to cross himself, and made the sign
on his own front.

The owners simultaneously clapped their respective fighters on the
shoulder and propelled them forward into the ring. Topaz danced out with
a show of footwork in demonstration of his eagerness. If Mede was
equally keen, it was not apparent. He strode stolidly to the centre of
the ring, planted his feet on a broad base, and raised his arms for
defence. But his defence was futile. Topaz danced around him, striking
him with his long arms almost at will, and forcing him to shift his
awkward stance. A dozen powerful blows found the exact marks towards
which they were directed; a score of minor ones were deflected or
glanced away. One mighty punch landed with a dull impact beneath Mede's
eye, which began to swell, another cut his thick upper lip, which bled
profusely, still another bruised the region just below the heart.

Topaz was a boxer, skilful and precise. He frisked in and away again
before Mede was aware, each time planting his knuckles just where he
chose. Mede warded the blows as best he could, but each time he
intercepted a feint of Topaz's right hand, Topaz countered with his
left, which found its mark. Mede seemed unable to counter, unable to
block, and unable to strike. He was stolid in acceptance of his
chastisement.

The spectators began to jeer. This was no fight, it was a mere flogging.

Topaz ceased to dance away. He was wasting his energy in avoidance of an
enemy who couldn't strike, wasting his skill upon an impotent adversary.
Mede, however, absorbed the blows like a bag of sand. He just stood and
took what came.

Topaz retreated for a deep breath. He was fatigued from victory. He
returned with a fresh fury to the kill. Another blow and yet another.
But he was making no impression upon this immovable object. He began to
swear at Mede, to curse him, to vilify him with every punch. The words
that squirted through Topaz's broken teeth spattered inane and
uncomprehended upon their target. So they failed to anger him.

But he had taken enough blows. He moved forward, making no effort to
ward himself. He poised himself, closed his fist and slung at his
opponent, caught him on the upper sternum. Neri gasped at Mede's
temerity; he expected the divine wrath. Topaz staggered two steps
backward. Mede sent another blow to the same spot. Topaz staggered,
slipped on a stone and went down on his back. Mede made a plunge for him
and fell on top of him, pinning his shoulders. Topaz extricated his arms
from between their bodies, circled Mede's waist and with the heavy nails
of his long fingers clawed and ripped the skin of Mede's back. Eight
streams of blood trickled through the sweat.

Mede sought to entwine his legs with those of his adversary, but Topaz
was too agile. He succeeded with short punches to Topaz's face, but his
arm lacked leverage. He made for Topaz's eye to gouge it from its
socket, but the nimble yellow man writhed on the ground, tumbled Mede's
body to one side, and sprang to his feet. His back was scraped by small
stones, and his sweat was muddied with soil. When Mede sought to rise, a
smart blow from Topaz knocked him back to a sitting position, whence by
reaching out he grasped Topaz's knee and brought him down, his head in
Mede's lap. Topaz bared his broken teeth to bite Mede, but by a turn
Mede eluded him, extricated his legs from beneath Topaz's body, and
sprang upright. The more agile Topaz was also again on his feet. He was
again sparring, boxing, whipping sharp blows to Mede's head and face.
Mede felt them, ducked to avoid them, but there was little force in
their impact. They teased him and smarted, but they did not rock or
stagger him. His face was bruised and swollen, his left eye all but
closed, his brow cut and bleeding, but the right eye smiled with
confidence and contempt. No longer did Topaz dance, the resilience had
left his legs and feet. His fists still flew, but his arms were tired.
He had lost his cockiness and his face was grim with a bloodlessness
that beneath his yellow skin seemed like a pallor. His invective too had
ceased.

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, chuckling at the spectacle. That his
Negro was being whipped did not destroy his relish of the contest. He
marvelled at Topaz's skill, the certainty and precision of his blows,
the agility with which he ducked the occasional heavy fist Mede threw in
his general direction. A country-trained Negro couldn't hope to compete
with one trained in the city--a blundering bumpkin against the schooled
expert. Maxwell admired a winner. He was not one to disparage
superiority just because he did not own it.

'My two hundert ain't gone yet,' Redfield whispered over Maxwell's
shoulder. 'I ain't a-givin' up.'

'Might as well kiss good-bye that two hunerd,' Maxwell looked up at his
friend.

Mede found an opening and planted on Topaz's long jaw a blow that
staggered him backward. Topaz's hand went to his face to feel the
injury, to feel whether the jaw was broken. There was a long sigh from
the spectators.

'He ain't done yet. I was thinkin' it about over.'

'Jesus!'

'That varmint of Hammond Maxwell's is powerful powerful, when he kin git
there.'

'Trouble is that othern won't hol' still.'

Kyle rubbed his own jaw, so vivid was the suggestion of Mede's blow.

Hammond Maxwell edged about the ring in the direction of Brownlee. He
was aghast at the thought of defeat, the loss of the twins. 'Mista
Brownlee,' he muttered, 'I'm givin' you two thousand dollars fer them
boys. They ain't worth it, but Papa, he ain't wantin' to part.'

Brownlee shook his head.

'Twenty-five hunderd. That five hunderd profit fer you.'

'They fancies. I gits me five thousand fer 'em, I gits 'em to New
Orleans. A Frenchy waitin' fer 'em.'

The fight was decided, but it continued. The spectators lost interest.
Nobody was holding a watch upon the fight, which had now lasted the
better part of an hour.

The fighters grappled, staggered, went down and wallowed in the dirt.
Mede knelt on Topaz's groin, kneading it painfully with his knees. Again
they were on their feet, Topaz sparring, Mede countering the light blows
as best he was able. Mede toppled Topaz again and fell on him, and was
flung away. Still again they rose, and clinched and swayed, Mede's
weight falling on the other's shoulders, while he pummelled his kidneys.
The effects of Topaz's powder had worn away, and it was apparent that
both were tiring. Again they were on the ground, struggled to their feet
slowly, laboriously. Both heaved for breath, panted.

Mede came clumsily to his knees, and Topaz gained his feet but only
momentarily for Mede hurtled forward and brought him down. They rolled
again on the ground in the direction of Maxwell's chair, which he pushed
back by a scant half-foot to be out of their way. Topaz was on top, Mede
supine. Too tired to struggle, they lay one on the other, Mede's arms
clasped tightly around Topaz's waist. It was nearing the end.

No use to prolong this quietude. Topaz had won. It was undeniable.
Remmick entered the ring to kick him off his opponent and award him the
victory. As he made his way across the arena, there was a gurgling cry
from one of the combatants, and a convulsion of Topaz's shoulders which
ran down his back and body. His legs twitched and writhed. With a
promise of further action, Remmick retreated from the ring and waited.
The convulsion stopped and the negroes lay still in their embrace.

Seconds, a minute, sped by and still they lay. Remmick again started
across the ring. Redfield looked at the ground and saw a pool of blood
lying on the ground at Mede's shoulder. The pool grew and spread. The
body of Topaz twitched again, his leg jerked crazily. Remmick reached
down to dislodge Topaz from on top of his victim. Topaz was limp and
inert. Remmick turned him over. Blood flowed from his neck upon his
shoulders. Topaz was dead.

Relieved of his burden, Mede moved to rise, but sank back in the dust.
He was able to draw up one knee and flex the leg. His mouth and teeth
were stained with blood. He had gnawed his way into Topaz's neck and
severed the jugular vein. He kicked Topaz aside and helped Mede to rise
to sitting, but he fell backwards upon the ground.

Hammond rushed forward, amazed at his victory. Remmick raised his hand
to announce his decision and to tell the crowd that there would be more
fights the following Saturday, but nobody listened. Some men gathered
about the corpse of Topaz. More sauntered toward the bar. The excitement
was over. Holden brought a bucket of water and dashed it over Mede.

Neri came and bent over Topaz to see what had killed him. Satisfied, he
shrugged and spurned the wretched body with his boot.

Hammond and Redfield, one on either side of Mede, helped him to rise
unsteadily to his feet. They led him into the tavern, where his clothes
were. He sank to the floor where Hammond struggled with him to get his
legs into his pantaloons, while Redfield went to the bar to requisition
a cup of whisky.

Hammond took the cup and held it to Mede's mouth. 'Drink it down,' he
commanded. 'Whure you hurtin'?' he asked.

'I tired, I jest tired,' said Mede, and tried to smile, but only
succeeded in distorting his puffed face.

'We won. We won the fight. We killed that nigger,' Hammond told him, not
sure that Mede was aware of his victory.

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh,' Mede acknowledged the information. 'Take me
home, please, suh. I wants old Luce.'

Hammond helped him again to rise and, with the aid of Redfield,
supported him slowly across the road to the surrey. The exhausted giant
fell obliquely across the cushions of the seat and closed his eyes.

Stragglers were leaving the tavern. Returning across the road, Hammond
met Alonzo Kyle and Asa Gore coming out. They stopped to slap Hammond's
shoulder in congratulation of his triumph but refused to return with him
for a drink in celebration. Gasaway had helped Maxwell back into the
tavern and Holden had carried the chair in which Maxwell again sat
downing a toddy. Remmick paid off the bets, and each of the winners
bought a round of drinks for everybody. Hammond drew down his three
thousand dollars, counted it carefully, folded the currency and stuffed
it all, paper and gold together, into his pouch. Brownlee took back the
two thousand dollars he had deposited for purchase of the twins, neither
a winner nor a loser but disconsolate about his failure to obtain the
twin mulattos. He left the room hurriedly. Neri had already gone.

The whole party escorted the Maxwells across the road. Mede lolled clear
across the rear seat of the surrey.

'Swim that big lummox tomorrer,' Redfield suggested. 'Work out that
stiffness.'

'Salt him, salt him down in hot brine. Draw the fever an' take down the
swellin',' Maxwell prescribed more drastically, climbing to his seat,
Gasaway's hand steadying his arm.

Remmick pressed forward to shake Maxwell's hand and to thank him for
coming. Maxwell was not a very old man but his infirmity and solvency
made him venerable. His presence had lent prestige to the tavern and to
the sport it offered. 'You all come back again; come often, suh.'

Hammond said little as he bade good-bye around. It seemed to him he was
as tired as Mede, as he mounted to the seat and took the reins. Even the
mares were tired of standing in the heat and switching flies, but they
turned with a will towards Falconhurst and supper.

They drove in silence most of the time, Maxwell massaging the swollen
joints of one hand with the palm of the other. He, too, was tired and
hungry and satisfied, pleased with the day.

Hammond had little to say about Mede's triumph. A queasiness caused a
growing tremulousness of his hands upon the reins. Perhaps he had drunk
too much whisky at the tavern. It would pass. He could compare his
feeling only to that after the flogging of Memnon.

But it did not pass. It grew. He felt himself fainting, but he retained
his consciousness. His hands shook.

He passed the right rein into his left hand and murmured, 'You got to
take 'em.'

'Whut?' asked Maxwell.

'These lines. I cain't drive no more.'

'Why, Son, you sick. You right white,' declared Maxwell, frightened and
horrified, as he grasped the reins, winding them for security about his
crippled hands.

'I goin' to be all right. I'll take 'em back in a minute--soon as I kin.
Don't hurt your hands. Reckon you got the stren'th?'

'They go. Don't need no drivin', jest hold the line,' the older man
assured the boy, between his gritted teeth. 'We'll git home; ain't fur.
Whut reckon ails you?'

'Don' know. Jest feel sinkin' like,' breathed the young man weakly. 'I
be all right direc'ly.' He braced his back against the back of the seat
and inhaled deeply.

'Day too much fer you. You fretted 'bout the Mandingo. Ain't maimed
much. He come all right in a day or two.'

Hammond denied his anxiety about Mede. 'I wishin' we never risked Meg
and Alph, though,' he added.

'Why? Good price fer 'em. A thousand apiece, fer jest saplin's. Ain't
worth it. An' besides, we never lost 'em.'

'But we promised Lucretia Borgia, an' then went an' chanced 'em.'

'She ain't a-goin' to know. We never lost 'em,' the father reiterated.
'It's your mamma in you--too tender-livered.' His reproof was tempered
with approbation.

''Sides I fancies 'em, them two, kind of. With them gone, it wouldn't be
the same-like.' The terror in his tone gainsaid the casualness of his
words. Hammond valued the twins more than he had been aware.

'Ain't no danger now. It all over,' Maxwell sought to soothe Hammond's
anxiety.

A shiver descended Hammond's spine, but he sat forward. 'I'll take the
hosses now,' he offered. 'I reckon I kin drive.'

'Nev' mind. I doin' all right, right well. My han's don't hurt me,'
Maxwell dissembled and fell silent. Ahead, he saw a woman in a Mother
Hubbard dress disappear in the brush beside the road. The spot was far
removed from any habitation and Maxwell wondered briefly what she might
be doing. He did not mention her to Hammond, whose eyes were closed,
although his father was sure he was not asleep.

He had forgotten the woman as he approached the spot where she had
disappeared. Abruptly a Mother Hubbard sprang from the side of the road
and grabbed the head of the horses, stopping them. The wearer was masked
by a red handkerchief tied over the lower part of his face. Another
masked man in a Mother Hubbard approached the carriage with a cocked
gun.

'Raise your hands,' commanded the second man. 'Drop the hosses an' raise
your hands. We want your money. Don't want to haf to shoot.'

The man in front of the horses did not speak.

The Maxwells were unarmed and unable to resist. Bewildered by the
suddenness of the unanticipated danger, the older man unwound the reins
from his hands and raised his arms. 'Don't fight 'em. Do like he say,'
he adjured his son. 'On'y wantin' jest money.'

There was no alternative for Hammond, with the point of the highwayman's
gun in his ribs. Half comprehending, he too slowly raised his hands.

Mede roused himself and made as if to rise at which his older master
turned his head and ordered, 'Don't do nothin'. Set you still.'

'Whure is your poke?' demanded the robber. Hammond lowered his right
hand to withdraw it, and the robber cautioned him, 'Keep 'em high. Tell
me. I'll git it.'

'In my pocket,' murmured Hammond reluctantly and weakly.

The robber felt him over, located the purse and withdrew it. Holding it
before him, he backed toward the overgrown forest at the roadside. 'Drop
the hosses and leave 'em go,' he called to his companion.

'Ought to cut his harness, loose the hosses, and let 'em walk,' replied
the other.

'Let 'em ride. One is old,' said the man with the gun. 'Come on.' He
disappeared into the brush. His partner relinquished the horses and
followed.

The robbery had been almost casual, entirely lacking in melodrama. The
highwaymen had appeared, made their demands, garnered the money, and
departed as suddenly as they had come. It would be as futile to pursue
them as to resist.

'Turn 'round. Go back. Go back fer help,' Hammond urged.

'You think they goin' to the tavern to spen' that money?' Maxwell asked
calmly. 'They half toward New Orleans already.'

'Neri?' suggested Hammond.

Maxwell nodded, as he readjusted the reins about his hands. 'An' the
other one, the other at the hosses, Brownlee, or I miss. 'Bout his size.
They in cahoots all along.' He clucked to his mares.

'They could taken the niggers an' the hosses. We couldn't a-done
nothin'.'

'Didn't want 'em on they hands. That's hangin'.' The older man paused
and then chuckled. 'Look comical in them dresses an' them kerchiefs over
they heads. Reckon they reckoned we ain't a-goin' to know 'em.'

'We don'--not fer sure.'

'We knows, but cain't swear, cain't take oath.'

'All that money,' lamented Hammond.

'Five hunert dollars, ain't it?'

'Three thousand.'

'But on'y five hunert out. The other we won from 'em. They jest a-takin'
it back. Jest one half-grown nigger worse off than when we
started--'bout that. It ain't bad.'

''Tain't fair,' said Hammond.

'Nigger fightin'. Got to expect it--anything.' Maxwell did not condemn
the sport. He merely noted its hazards. 'Don't tell nobody how we was
bilked--'ceptin', maybe, Doc Redfield. Nobody needin' to know. Neri an'
Brownlee ain't a-tellin'. We eatin', jest the same.'

'An' we got the twins,' Hammond groped for consolation. The encounter
had rallied his strength. The weakness he had forgotten now returned. A
clammy sweat drenched his body and chills followed one after another
down his backbone.

Maxwell gave the mares their heads, and they required little guidance or
urging, but the strain upon his flaccid arms was racking. He sought to
conceal his discomfort from Hammond and succeeded. They rolled through
the waning daylight in silence.

'I gotten us here,' observed Maxwell as the team turned from the road
into the lane at Falconhurst.

Napoleon ambled forth to grasp the horses. Lucretia Borgia appeared on
the gallery.

'Whure Memnon?' the owner demanded.

'He comin', Masta, suh.'

'Tell him hurry. Hammond here sick.'

Lucretia Borgia rushed impetuously forward in her solicitude. Memnon
came up to help his master down from the surrey and was cursed for his
pains. 'Git aroun' to other side. God-damn slothin' fool. Lift down your
young masta. Lift him careful. He sick.'

Before Memnon could pass around the vehicle, however, Lucretia Borgia
had grasped Hammond and had lifted him from his seat, stood him upright,
supported him with her vast arm around his waist, and was leading him
toward the house.

Memnon recircled the surrey, but again before he could reach the other
side, his master had crawled down under his own power and was stretching
his muscles and flexing his hands. He was fatigued; but the realization
that he was still good for something caused him to forget his pain.

'Git him abed,' he instructed nobody in particular. 'Heat him up a
sad-iron fer his feet. Cain't you see he sick?'

Lucretia Borgia required no instructions. She was taking Hammond into
the house as fast as he was able to walk. Again he was a frail and
petulant little boy, whom she could at once master and serve, command
while she pampered.

'Whure Meg? An' Alph?' Hammond demanded.

'They eatin', Masta, suh. Feedin' 'em 'thout waitin' fer you
all--gittin' so late.'

'Call 'em here. I craves seein' 'em, jest seein' 'em,' murmured Hammond
weakly, pausing at the edge of the gallery.

Lucretia Borgia bellowed their names. 'Come here to yo' masta,' she
roared sternly, as if to indict the twins of some negligence. 'Why you
wantin' them, Masta? They done somethin'?' she asked.

'They all right? I near to sold 'em, both of 'em,' he confessed. 'I don'
want to sell 'em. They mine.'

The twins appeared and asked in unison, 'Yas, suh, Masta?'

Hammond gestured the boys nearer. He placed his hands on their shoulders
and drew them toward him. It was enough. He had confirmed with his
senses that the slaves had not vanished.

Meg, without prompting, fell in on one side of his master to lead him.
Only after Hammond had satisfied himself of the presence of the twins
did he bethink him of Mede. He turned and called to him. 'Git down outn
that seat,' he commanded. 'Have Lucy wash you down and rub you good. You
all right, come mornin'.'

The Mandingo roused himself and tried to obey, but in dismounting from
the carriage sank to his knees between the wheels.

'Run fer Lucy,' Hammond told Alph. 'Hurry!'

'Nev' mind,' said the father. 'You go on. Git you abed. I'll see Lucy
puts him away.'

But Hammond tarried, supported by Meg and Lucretia Borgia, until Lucy
arrived, terrified and convulsed with anxiety, followed placidly by Big
Pearl.

'Ain't it a pity, ain't it a pity?' repeated Lucy over and over as she
helped Mede to rise to his feet. 'Whut they do to you? Whut happen?' she
demanded.

'We won. I kilt him,' Mede murmured the only explanation he could give.

'Wash him down good an' rub him in bed,' Hammond prescribed. 'I'll send
some sleepin' medicine fer him.'

'You looks so funny. Sho' do look funny,' commented Big Pearl as she and
her mother, one on each side, dragged the Mandingo to his feet and
supported him toward their cabin.

Hammond watched them go and reluctantly turned to be led himself into
the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. He sank back upon the bed
and submitted to being divested of his clothes. Maxwell and Memnon
followed, and Ellen came, panicking in apprehension.

Nurses more devoted could not have been found, although there was
nothing for them to do. Hammond turned and snuggled himself in his bed.
He reached his hand from beneath the covers and drew Meg to the side of
the bed, permitting his hand to rest on the boy's thigh. Sure of his
possession, he closed his eyes. Meg could not escape, might not even
fidget, lest he wake or disturb his master. He was elated at the
distinction of his master's touch, and grinned in his triumph over Ellen
in being chosen.

All night the household was astir, although, once abed and quieted with
laudanum, Hammond required no attention. With morning he opened his eyes
drowsily and tasted the soup that Lucretia Borgia had kept steaming
through the night. He felt no hunger and was unable to drink three
spoonfuls, but Lucretia Borgia was repaid for making it. His fever had
subsided but had not entirely disappeared. He thrust his legs from the
covers and sat on the side of the bed, fell backwards across it, enjoyed
the play of the air on his feverish flesh. At length he summoned the
resolution to rise and, over Ellen's demur, bade Meg to dress him.

'You ought not, Masta. You sick. I goin' to call Old Masta,' Ellen
threatened.

'Keep on your britches. Ain't any damn wench drivin' me. I got to 'tend
to that boy; like is, he hurtin'.'

'Mede? He kin come up here,' the girl argued.

'Stinkin' up! That oil an' all!' He dismissed the idea.

Still weak, once on his feet he felt better than he had anticipated. He
surmounted the dizziness that overtook him at the head of the stairs and
resolutely hitched his way down them, one step at a time, Meg on his
left side to help and balance him. At the foot of the stairs he braced
himself, opened the front door and strode into the open. As he moved
from the cool shade into the sunshine, which was already growing hot, he
shivered again.

'Go on back,' he turned sharply on the young slave at his side. 'God
damn! Has you got to try an' tail after me, ever' step I takin'? You'd
reckon I 'longed to you, ruther as you 'longin' to me. You don't leave
me be, I goin' to trounce you, trounce you good. Now, go long.' This
tirade was an effort to negate the thing that had sickened him, about
which he felt some shame. He refused to credit that his fear of losing
the Borgia's twins could have brought on his fever and laid him low.

Hammond limped across the area and entered the Mandingo's cabin. Mede
lay in the bed, Lucy feeding him his breakfast morsel by morsel with her
fingers. His eyes were mere slits between bulging blue-green lids. His
cheeks were knobs, his thick lips were everted with swelling, and his
nose spread amorphously over his face. Unable to chew without pain, he
swallowed the bites of fat pork whole as Lucy stuffed them slowly into
his mouth.

'He funny,' giggled Big Pearl. 'That nigger shore look funny.'

'Hush up, you big black mouth,' Lucy admonished her. 'You don't, I makes
you look funnier than he do. Cain't you see he painin'? Ain't got no
gumption?' In the mother's indignation she turned also on Belshazzar,
who was munching his breakfast, and ordered him, 'Take that bone you
suckin' an' git outn hyar! Cain't you see Masta come? You jist in his
way. Be polite, cain't you? Git out.'

Hammond ignored the household strife. He walked to the bed and asked,
'How is you, boy? Is you hurtin' bad?'

'Naw, suh, Masta, suh. I all right--goin' to be. I right tol'able, suh,
please suh,' the slave replied thickly and painfully, with a grimace
intended to be a smile.

'He near kilt,' Lucy put in. 'He don' got to fight no more, Masta, do
he? Mede near ruint.'

'Whut you reckon I got him fer, jest to pleasure you an' Big Pearl?
Other bucks good enough fer that. When he well agin, I'm goin' to fight
him when I tell him. Mede craves to fight, don' you?'

The slits of eyes turned upwards at the outer corners in an implied
smile, as the boy bobbed his jaw in an effort to nod his head.

'He kill that othern. He tell you?' Hammond praised Mede, who grinned
broadly despite the pain.

Lucy answered with an 'Umm! Umm!'

Hammond bent over the bed and touched the tender flesh of the eyelids
with his forefinger, pinched the bulged cheeks, felt the lips, opened
the mouth to examine the teeth. None was missing or broken.

When Hammond cast back the covers to examine Mede's body, the stench of
serpent oil suffused the room. The torso was swollen in spots, and Mede
flinched at Hammond's prodding of them. But worst of all was the knee
when Hammond tried to flex it.

'Please, suh, Masta, suh,' Mede begged while his master manipulated the
joint.

'I better sen' fer Redfield,' Hammond opined aloud. 'He goin' to fire
that knee an' make it bend.'

'No, no, please, suh, Masta, not that white man. He goin' to hurt, hurt
bad. It git well, Masta. I kin ben' it now, almos'. You do sompin',
anything, but not him.'

'Don' want a stiff knee, do you, like I got?' It was the worst fate that
Hammond could suggest. 'That red poker jist take a jiffy; Doc Redfield
kin fix it.'

Mede sat up in bed, weeping. 'Naw, naw, no,' he cried. 'Please Masta,
suh, don' let him burn me.' He grasped Hammond about the shoulders, and
buried his face in his coat, tears of terror streaming from his face.

The white youth hugged the Negro to him and let him cry. 'Doc ain't
a-goin' to hurt you none more than he got to. Won't take more than a
minute. I wish, they done it to me,' Ham tried to appease his black
child.

Mede clung but the tighter to Hammond's body, racked with convulsive
sobs. Fearful not at all of the worst such an opponent as he had fought
yesterday was able to do to him, he quailed at the concept of a hot
poker in the hands of the veterinary.




CHAPTER 17


By Wednesday the swellings on Mede's face had subsided and his features
were recognizable. He had quite recovered his spirits. Best of all, his
knee had so mended that he was able to walk without a limp, if not
without pain. Hammond instructed Lucy to continue the embrocations and
the manipulations.

Mede was too precious to risk in productive work, and, aside from the
occasional use of him as a stallion, he was wholly unprofitable. This
the Negro was not long in surmising and set himself up as a spoiled
darling. Disdainful of the lesser slaves, he was as arrogant as he was
exigent with Lucy and Big Pearl. His favours were a condescension and
the women to whom they were delegated were expected to be, and were,
grateful. He was as abject toward his white owners as he demanded his
fellow-slaves to be to him, and he submitted willingly to the most
rigorous regimen of exercise and diet that Hammond's ingenuity could
devise.

That bugbear of the cotton planter, a wet picking season, beset Alabama.
Wind and rain assailed the opening bolls, which wilted and rotted before
they could be gathered. The Maxwells threw their whole force, adults and
children, into the 'patch' on those rare days dry enough to warrant
working, but the pickers were so indiscriminate that much of the sound
fibre was mildewed by contact with the soggy bolls included in the bags.
Hammond cautioned the hands each morning not to pick wet cotton, but it
filled the picking bags as well as the dry. He had the women go through
the wagons to sort out and discard as much wet fleece as they were able
before the crop was hauled to Benson for ginning. It was futile, since
all was dank, if not before it was picked, dampened by the dragging of
the jute bags through the mud and puddles of the field.

Would the rain ever stop? The crop had grown and matured well, better
than Hammond anticipated when he had planted it, and he gave the credit
to the Petit Gulf variety which was new at Falconhurst. But for Petit
Gulf there was a long picking season; the bolls on a plant kept bursting
for weeks, a few at a time. And the afternoon downpour or the all-night
drizzle blasted them as they burst.

If Ham was disappointed in the failure of his crop, Lucretia Borgia was
desolated. She stood in the gallery, watching the rain descend and
shaking her head while she supported her distended abdomen with her
hands intertwined beneath it. For all the eupepsia with which pregnancy
endowed the woman, she could not abide with complacency misfortunes
which beset the family. Her moods mirrored those of her younger master.

The elder Maxwell, on the contrary, took a perverse satisfaction in his
son's discomfiture, the satisfaction he had taken when Ham's castle of
blocks had toppled and the boy had to learn by trial and error to build
securely. To Maxwell, the failure of a crop was but a lesson in the
futility of planting. 'He goin' to learn,' he told Blanche over their
toddies, 'whut I been tellin'. Cain't make cotton on wash-away lan'.
Jest some'in to keep the niggers from settin' an' rottin'. The harves'
is niggers--growin' niggers, regular nigger farm. Cain't learn him, seem
like, Falconhurst ain't a cotton plantation at all. Course, I know,' he
conceded, nodding, 'cotton genteel. Goin' to be a gen'leman, you got to
grow a little patch of cotton. The Hammonds all growed it--an' all
busted.' Neither rancour nor irony was in his tone.

Lucretia Borgia's child refused to wait for the end of cotton picking.
As the Maxwells sat down to breakfast one morning, Meg came galloping
impetuously from the kitchen, peacock brush in hand, and announced,
'Masta, please suh, my mammy fetch you a sucker. Come see, please suh,
come see.' He even laid his hand on his master's arm and sought to draw
back his chair.

'Nev' min',' said Hammond. 'We seein' it after we eats. She doin' all
right? Whut kin' she fetch? On'y one?'

Memnon came with a platter of ham and eggs. 'I bringin' you nice sucker,
Masta,' he claimed credit. 'Me and Lucretia Borgia.'

'How know it yourn? She pleasurin' with that Pole, wasn't she? Mayhap
hisn!' Maxwell said between bites. 'Been two of 'em, I'd reckon it
yourn.'

'It mine! You see an' it not,' Memnon was confident.

'Then you weakin' down some. Why ain't it twins?'

Memnon shrugged.

'Whut kind is it?' Hammond wanted to know.

'It little an' light, light red,' explained Meg.

'They all comes light. They blackens,' Hammond deigned to explain. 'But
whut kin'?'

'Jes' a wench, Masta, suh,' admitted Mem with reluctance.

'Well, anyways, better look at it, Ham, an' give the wench a dollar, you
gits time, after breakfas'.'

'Whyn't you? Sun's out and dry. I got to watch after them pickin'
hands.'

'You know she ruther you, Son; your dollar shines brighter. 'Sides in my
time I've looked at so many they all lookin' like squirmin' water-dogs.
See that it whole, arms an' legs an' all; an' tell Lucretia Borgia
somethin' nice. Ain't no rush 'bout her cookin', tell her. Let her lay
two, three days an' she a-wantin'.'

The weather had taken a turn. Day followed day of fine sunshine obscured
only by the blue October haze. Retarded bolls came to maturity and burst
wide on the browning plants until the field from a short distance seemed
covered with snow. Not only was the harvest copious, but it was easier
to gather since each plant carried many ripe bolls. What is more, the
cotton was dry. The crop was not a failure after all.

Hammond gave much time now to the autumn expedition to Natchez and New
Orleans, for the purpose of selling a coffle of slaves, on which it was
agreed he should be accompanied by Doc Redfield. The slaves selected for
sale were put on increased rations and strenuous labours. Hammond added
raw eggs to the boys' diets, and set bottles of serpent oil about the
dusty window ledges of the meeting house with instructions that each
should anoint another and be anointed in turn every night before they
should lie down to sleep. The stench of the nostrum was so vile that
nobody could doubt its efficacy.

The boys imagined themselves going up and down the crowded streets of
the city in search of masters that suited their taste. With no ideas of
what a city might be or what a street was like, each pictured a
concourse of men competing to buy him.

They were sobered by Napoleon's warning, 'You-all ain't a-goin' to do
nothin', savin' Masta say. He goin' to sell you to who he reckon, an'
you-all ain't goin' to have nothin' to do with it. Leastwise, me. I
doin' whut Masta tells me.'

All knew that Napoleon spoke the truth, but it did not forestall their
dreams of felicity. All looked ahead to the excursion into the greater
world. They considered themselves the aristocrats of the plantation;
they had been chosen.

Hammond looked with satisfaction upon the strong and strengthening
bodies and fed them tales of New Orleans that intensified their desires.
He half-believed his inventions. In his own interest, he imagined easy
sales at high prices, and intended to dispose of these boys to none but
gentlemen, masters who would treat them well. They were a fine
assortment, just on the brink of maximum development, the edge of youth
still on their features, the lustihood of maturity in their thews. His
father had taught him to choose the exact time when a slave was likely
to bring the largest price.

Only by comparison with Mede did the members of the sales-draft seem
jejune. Watching him exercise, bending, squatting, jumping, lifting,
Hammond felt that he was sacrificing nothing in disposing of the other
boys. The Mandingo alone could replenish the plantation.

Some two weeks after the birth of Lucretia Borgia's baby, Dite was beset
with labour. She was promptly put to bed and Ellen hovered over her. The
child was Hammond's own and no chances were to be taken with amateur
obstetrics. Vulcan, who knew the countryside, was put on a mule and sent
to fetch the Widow Johnson. (Redfield continued to refer to his wife as
'the Widder', and as the Widow Johnson she remained in the minds of the
Maxwells.)

That lady arrived driving the same big, heavy-footed grey mare hitched
to the same vehicle in which she had driven on her professional errands
since long before she was married to her former husband, a kind of
rattletrap calash with the hood thrown back (nobody had ever seen it
up), lop-sided from her heavy occupancy of the left seat. The front
wheels, with only a few scabs of paint remaining on the spokes,
converged at the tops; the rear wheels diverged. She got down with a
bustling alacrity that reflected the urgency of her task, smoothed her
voluminous bombazine skirt of the exact shade of dark bottle green as
the remaining pile on the plush of the gig's upholstery, grasped three
soiled muslin bags that contained her herbs, and went toward the house,
the warts of her face emphasizing the tic with which her features at ten
seconds intervals registered her determination and haste to respond to
the call of professional duty.

Mede, although not a stable hand, saw the rig unattended and deigned to
come for the mare and lead her to the barn. He also saw Redfield
approaching and called Big Pearl to care for the second horse.

The doctor dismounted and handed the bridle to the girl, who took it
gingerly. Mede, seeing her fear, exchanged horses with her. 'Here,' he
suggested, 'you take this 'un. He gen'ler. Won't rare up.'

Unable to refrain from professional observation, Redfield greeted the
girl approvingly. 'The way you bellyin' out at this stage, you goin' to
have a purentee gyascutus.'

Big Pearl was flattered by the compliment, showing her teeth in a
giggle.

Memnon opened the door and Redfield knew that he would find Maxwell in
the sitting-room. Blanche, barefooted, her pregnancy obvious, was with
her father-in-law, but she hastily left by way of the dining-room with
her toddy goblet in hand as the guest came down the hall.

'Whure the Widder?' Redfield asked.

'I don' know. I reckon, an' she come, she went right away up. It's Dite,
Ham's own wench; that is she was before,' Maxwell explained.

'An' he wantin' the best fer her. The Widder, she right good.'

Hammond came in and sat down, brushing Meg away with the drink he
brought for him. Plainly anxious, his ears were cocked more for sounds
from upstairs than for the conversation of the older men.

'They sayin' the vomit ragin' in New Orleans,' Redfield made talk. 'A
gen'leman at the tavern, come right from there, sayin'.'

Maxwell refused to take alarm. 'Ever' summer,' he nodded, 'Ever' summer
the same. The cause I not cravin' Hammond go there in summer--the vomit
an' waitin' until after cotton when ever'body got they money.'

'Had ought to be gittin' better this time of year,' Hammond ventured.
'Ain't no danger now, October.'

'Won't be danger, time you-all ready. Cool weather cleans it right up.'

A creaking of the stairs followed by the swish of bombazine brought Ham
to his feet. He opened the door as the midwife came down the hall
hugging in her arms a baby wrapped in a shawl.

'No trouble, no trouble at all,' she declared. 'I wasn't needed. Anybody
could do it.'

'Whut kind?' Hammond plucked at the shawl.

'I ain't rightly had no time to look. Buck; I think so, anyways,' said
the woman, opening the parcel.

'An' it yourn, it a buck,' said the proud grandfather. 'You don' fetch
nothin' else. Reckon you ain't got no wenches in you.'

The shawl laid back, Hammond was aghast. The red baby, kicking and
crying, was covered with a golden fuzz.

'Mustee,' breathed Ham.

'Mustee?' repeated his father, rising to look at the child. 'Troublous,
all on 'em. They comes white, they makes trouble. Reckon though you
cravin' to keep it.' The old man proposed no alternative.

The baby ceased to cry and directed its unfocused gaze at Redfield, who
remarked, 'Maxwell eyes, regular Warren Maxwell eyes, blue as lobelia
flowers.'

'I better claim it mine, mayhap. Save trouble around.' Warren Maxwell
all but tittered as he gestured vaguely to indicate the part of the
house where Blanche might be.

'She ain't carin', not about this one,' Hammond sighed, reluctant to be
relieved of the credit for paternity. ''Sides, it was afore she come,
afore we got marr'ed.'

'It mine,' the old man insisted. 'Remember it mine--the las', I reckon,
I ever go' to sire. An' we'll name him "Doc", after Doc Redfield here.'

He called Meg to stir fresh toddies for a christening toast to Doc, but
the Widow, avowing her temperance, rewrapped the blond baby in its shawl
and took it upstairs to its mother's breast.

But while Lucretia Borgia was up, cooking meals and bossing the
plantation, two days after the delivery of her child, Dite remained ten
days abed, cared for solicitously, even lovingly, by her successor in
her master's bed. Ellen was not unmindful of how soon she herself might
require such attention. Dite was indifferent to the baby, except that
she valued the status it gave her to bear her master's child, but Ellen
loved it for its own sake; it was a baby, a blue-eyed, white baby, and
it was Hammond's.

Some days afterwards, on a hot and still afternoon, Maxwell sat in a big
chair in the shade of the gallery, asleep, with Alph asleep in the sun
at his feet. Both had been drinking toddies from a single goblet. It
amused the white man to make the small Negro tipsy by giving him
frequent swallows from his own glass. The goblet had toppled and spilled
on the floor beside the chair and the spot was speckled with flies drawn
by the sugar. Hammond was in the field, supervising the gleaning of
cotton, perhaps the final picking. Maxwell's head tottered to his right
shoulder and fell forward, and his face contorted in his dream. Alph,
supine, snored lightly.

The clatter of a gallop was subdued by the rustle of drying leaves on
the lane. A gallop betokened haste at Falconhurst. It brought Lucretia
Borgia from the kitchen to see what could be so urgent.

'It cholrie, it cholrie,' shouted Redfield, springing from his horse.

Maxwell raised his head and opened his eyes, blinded by sunlight. Seeing
who it was, he muttered hospitably enough but without enthusiasm, 'Come
in! Come in!' And then he called, 'Mem, another chair! Meg, stir us some
toddies! Somebody take Doc Redfield's horse! Whure at are all them
niggers? Under foot when nobody wantin' 'em.'

He kicked Alph awake with his boot, and the boy took the horse. Lucretia
Borgia brought another chair.

All the while Redfield, staring with wild eyes, reiterated, 'It's
cholrie! it's cholrie, I'm a-tellin' you! Ain't the vomit, no sich
thing, it's cholrie!'

'Whut you talkin' 'bout, Doc Redfield? Who got it? I ain't hearin' of
any aroun'.' Maxwell wanted meaning from the incoherence.

'The tavern! I jest rid from the tavern, hard as ol' Skelter could fetch
me.'

'Who down with it? Remmick down?'

'No! Ain't nobody down aroun' here--yet! Cain't you un'erstand? In New
Orleans, got cholrie in New Orleans! Two men passin' through, runnin'
from it.'

'Oh, that all? Reckon that place ain't never clean shet of cholrie, or
somethin'. Drink your toddy.'

'But it ragin', sweepin' the whole place. Ever'body either dyin' or
gittin' out, goin' to their plantations or upriver or whurever. One day
you're hearty, next day you dead.'

'Ain't that a fac'? Anywhure?' Maxwell refused to show alarm. 'The
_Advertiser_ ain't said nothin'.'

'The _Advertiser_ won't, but it true. You ain't leavin' Ham go there? I
ain't a-goin', not a step. Got to leave me out.'

'Neither ain't Hammond, an' it bad as you sayin'. You know danged good
an' well, I ain't sendin' no thousand-dollars-a-head niggers, leavin'
Hammond alone, into no pest hole.'

'I reckoned,' Redfield breathed easier. 'I hatin' to quit that trip,
but----'

Hammond rounded the corner of the house, greeted the visitor, and his
father broke the doctor's news.

''Tain't nothin'. I ain't bein' balked,' he affirmed. 'Cotton all
picked, niggers primed an' ready. I goin'!'

'Not an' cholrie ragin',' his father argued in a wheedling tone as if to
a small child. 'Not a-sayin' yet awhile it be, but ifn----'

'I not a-skeared,' said Hammond unconvincingly.

'Well, I am,' Redfield confessed. 'You goin', you goin' alone.'

'You not skeared, no,' conceded Maxwell. 'But them niggers! Barracoons
ain't clean. An' besides, ever'body away, there ain't no sale fer 'em.
Won't bring nothin'.'

'Might risk Natchez,' suggested Redfield. 'It ain't got upriver.'

'Might,' Maxwell assented. 'Might, New Orleans. 'Pends on whut the
_Advertiser_ say. Natchez a good market--"Forks-of-the-Road."'

Nothing was settled. Hammond's disappointment disturbed his father.
Cholera in New Orleans was perhaps not so general as the rumour at the
tavern had led the doctor to believe.

But the next issue of the weekly _Advertiser_ confirmed the panic; the
epidemic could no longer be ignored. Persons who had a place to go were
getting out. Business was stagnant. The facts which had earlier been
concealed were now enlarged fivefold and flaunted. If the newspaper was
unable to repress a panic, it was profitable to produce a sensational
one. It proclaimed unctuously that the _Advertiser_ staff would remain
to serve, perhaps to sicken, if not to die.

That Hammond should go to New Orleans at such a time was unthinkable. It
would be not only hazardous but futile.

Redfield came again, gloating that the truth had borne out his rumour.
After a canvass of their respective advantages as a place for selling
slaves, Natchez was chosen over Mobile. Buyers from Louisiana and
emigrants to the Texas country were more likely to be found at Natchez,
where the market was always brisk, even when New Orleans flourished.
Cane was more profitable than cotton had ever been, even before the
Alabama soil was sapped. Buyers would be flusher on the river than on
the gulf. Cholera there, by some reasoning, seemed less likely. Natchez
it should be, and the start should be made a week from Monday, at
sun-up. That would be, Hammond consulted the almanac, the fifteenth of
November, mid-month, early enough before Christmas and late enough that
crops would be sold and the money yet unspent.

'I doubt me that you gits as much as you reckons, but take it. Git whut
you kin, but take whut offers, Son, an' don' repine. Don' bring none of
'em back with you. Takin' 'em along to sell, sell 'em. May have to hold
a public cry of 'em, but private treaty better. That a-way you knows who
is a-gittin' 'em, how they goin' to be dealt with,' Maxwell counselled
his son.

'Armfield and Franklin got a jail at the Forks, right neat an'
shipshape. Best place, an' you kin git 'em in; ever'body know whure it
at, an' ever'body wantin' hands goes there first or last,' he continued
his advice, Hammond giving it close heed. 'Course, ifn A. and F.
full--new-come coffle or niggers not sellin' or sumpin'--you got to look
aroun'.

'Doc, he purty guiley. You mire down, he he'p you out. On'y use your own
noggin, not hisn. Comes a wrangle between your way and hisn, do yours; I
wants you should learn. But when you dubious, ast Doc.'

Hammond drank in the instructions and resolved to remember them. They
left him a free hand.

'Not many boys, nineteen, goin' about carryin' a coffle to market.'

'An' I not take 'em, I cain't reckon how they git there,' Hammond
rebutted, stung by the emphasis upon his youth.

'You right,' acknowledged the old man, 'and I'm proud that you kin,
proud I got you. I don' know whut I'd do.'

In the days pending Hammond's departure, he had to listen over and over
again to his father's charges and advice. He did not resent the
necessity, since he had confidence in the paternal sagacity and,
besides, the instructions were so vague as to leave him free to do as he
believed best.

'You ain't carryin' me along?' Blanche attacked the subject one night
after supper when Maxwell had left the dining-room. 'You say you take me
along to New Orleans, come fall and cotton pickin' over.'

'I ain't goin' to New Orleans. Cholrie. You knows it. I ain't goin'
there. Besides, look down at yourself. You in no shape to go, no shape
at all. No white lady hanker to be seen the way you are. You got to stay
close to home until that boy come.' To mitigate the girl's
disappointment, Hammond added, 'You stay close an' ack nice, I bring you
sumpin' when I come, a fine cloak or sumpin'.'

'I don' never go nowhures. I cain't wear it,' she retorted.

'Well, sumpin', sumpin' nice, an' sumpin' fer the boy when he goin' to
come.'

'I reckon you goin' to carry along that Ellen nigger? That the cause you
ain't carryin' me.'

Hammond sniffed in feigned amusement. 'Ellen's belly stickin' out much
as yourn, almos'. Ellen knowin' she cain't go. Ain't neither one of you
no good to me, the way you are.'

'Then you fixin' to pleasure with all them white ladies ever'body sayin'
Natchez full of, them white whores. That whut you goin' fer?'

'I goin' to sell niggers, business, an' you knowin' it,' Hammond gave
way to his indignation. 'Besides, I don' crave to pleasure with no white
ladies.'

At this Blanche began to cry, for although she knew that her husband was
repelled by the whiteness of a woman's skin, he had never told her so
before. He believed it to be skin colour and the odour of white bodies
that he did not like, whereas in fact it was a need to possess, to
command his sexual object, in a manner he was unable to do with a woman
free and white. He feared a rebuff. His choice was not between white and
black (or yellow), but between free and chattel.

Compassion prompted Hammond to suggest toddies for Blanche and himself
as they entered the sitting-room, where the elder Maxwell was already
drinking. He knew that nothing was more likely to assuage his wife's
resentment of his preference for dark skins.

The same night, Meg, struggling to remove his master's boot, broached,
'Whenabouts, Masta, suh, we goin'?'

'When we goin' whure?'

'When we goin' that place, you know, suh, to sell them niggers?' Meg
shrugged in acknowledgment of his ignorance. 'I 'on' know whure.'

'You reckons you goin' along?' asked the master with a low chuckle.
'Well, you ain't.'

'I yo' nigger,' Meg pouted.

'I know you my nigger. An' I takes you along, you goin' to be somebody's
else nigger; I'll sell you along the others in Natchez.'

The boy recognized that the white man was joking, but his lacklustre
smile of response was tinged with fear. He was not for sale, he knew;
but his master's whims were unpredictable. 'Who goin' to jack yo' boots
off fer you, suh?'

'I got sixteen other niggers to jack my boots. Don' need you. You stay
home here an' stir toddies fer your ol' masta. That whut. Ever'body
wantin' to ride along.' To prove that there was no malice in his
refusal, Hammond pinched the muscle of the boy's thigh until he grunted
with pain.

The Sunday before the departure was given over to visiting and to
farewells among the slaves. These were not painful. At Falconhurst
family loyalties were not encouraged and hardly existed. Slaves born on
the plantation knew their mothers, but for the most part were separated
from them before puberty. Most of them had never known their fathers,
who, in any event, had been disposed of and forgotten before their young
were old enough to be concerned about them. Among slaves family pride,
unless they knew they were bastards of white fathers, was unknown. The
Maxwells, with awareness of these phenomena, deliberately loosened and
severed blood ties.

The sales-draft had been fed and worked and massaged and primed not only
to bring them into a physical condition to command a high price on the
market but also, however incidentally, to enable them to face their
fortunes with enthusiasm. They were leaving Falconhurst with no regrets.
It was not that they had been mistreated or even thought that they had;
they knew of no other kind of treatment than the kind that had been
meted them and had nothing with which to make a comparison. They had
been adequately fed, sheltered under a leak-proof roof, worked lightly,
and, except switchings for childish peccadilloes, never flogged. What
better could a slave ask?

To the Maxwells they were cattle, valuable cattle reared and conditioned
for sale. It was as unprofitable to abuse Negroes as hogs or horses. The
owners took pride in the husbandry, care and comfort of their servants.
It was no desire to escape from Falconhurst or their masters that
motivated the slaves' ardour for leaving; rather it was a knowledge, if
vague, that there was another world with other people, faces, scenes,
activities, away from the plantation, and with this went youth's desire
for experience, adventure.

On the day of their departure, the morning star had hardly risen, when
Hammond, hearing a clatter of horse's hoofs, sent Meg to open the door
for Redfield, to care for his horse, and to mix a toddy for him. Ellen
helped Hammond to dress in his plum coat for his journey and to pull on
his boots. Lucretia Borgia was up, preparing breakfast, and his father
met Hammond in the hall at the head of the stairs. Blanche remained abed
and her husband did not disturb her. She heard but was indifferent to
the bustle in the house.

The Negroes who were to be sold had risen and were gathering in front of
the house, along with some others who had got up to see the spectacle of
departure. The carriage pole had been removed from the surrey, and
shafts substituted, between which there was now hitched a decrepit black
mule with a white blaze down its forehead. Florida and Sheba were
already in the back seat, calling for Fanny and Twinkle to hasten, else
they would be left behind. Hammond had appointed Twinkle to drive the
mule. Lucretia Borgia had prepared large parcels of pone for the journey
and had packed them into the surrey at the feet of the women.

Hammond consumed a hearty breakfast, Redfield a lighter one, his second,
and Maxwell was unable to eat at all. He continued to spout counsel and
warnings, all of which he had spoken a dozen times before.

Vulcan had the gentlemen's horses, and the three Mandingos watched from
a corner near their cabin. Doc Redfield shook his friend's hand and
vaulted to Skelter's back.

On the gallery, Hammond kissed Lucretia Borgia, turned to kiss Ellen,
lastly embraced and kissed his father, seeing the tears in his eyes. He
mounted his horse and rode around the crowd of Negroes, giving orders
and trying to separate those who were going from those remaining behind.
He lined up the slaves in a column of twos, Pole and Vulcan at the head.
The surrey would follow the men. Pole fell out of ranks to buss Lucretia
Borgia, much to the visible displeasure of Memnon.

'You ain't a-goin' to have no more of that, boy, is you?' Doc laughed
rhetorically.

'I gits me a kin' masta whut got plenty wenches, Masta, suh,' Pole
answered, undaunted as he resumed his place.

'We goin' now,' called Hammond, and the column moved, roughly and
out-of-step down the lane, Maxwell and the house slaves waving from the
gallery, the Mandingos from their cabin, the stay-at-home slaves
chattering and cheering, Redfield cracking his whip at the heels of the
moving men.

The pace was slow, the male slaves plodding along on foot, the women
following in the surrey with the decrepit mule. Hammond permitted the
boys to stop and rest when they were tired, since he did not want them
jaded when they should reach Natchez. Redfield was impatient of such
delays. After the Widow Johnson, the white whores of Natchez seemed to
him a prospect of paradise.




CHAPTER 18


Back at Falconhurst, the owner, after his son's departure, engaged in an
hour's orgy of orders, but succumbed to his toddies soon and left the
management of the plantation to Lucretia Borgia. There was little to be
done except to see that the Negroes were fed, which was Lucretia
Borgia's task even when Hammond was at home. Cotton was picked and there
was little at the season for the slaves to do.

Blanche came downstairs and sat with her father-in-law. He did not
restrict her toddies. Besides that, she was happier with her husband
away, since she knew that he was not in dalliance with Ellen. She was
less jealous of the other slave girls and not at all of Tense now. She
resented the distortion of her figure by pregnancy, knew that Ellen was
just as big, but did not credit that pregnancy had deterred Hammond from
his attentions to the Negro woman.

There was little for Maxwell and Blanche to talk about that they had not
discussed a hundred times. Maxwell recounted again the virtues of his
dead wife and of the son she had left him, subjects unpleasant to
Blanche, since he seemed to imply her shortcomings by his praise of the
others. He had no such intentions. She liked better his dissertations
about plantation economy and slave husbandry, about which she cared
nothing but in which she recognized no criticism of herself. She could
lie back in her chair and let her thoughts rove until Maxwell had talked
himself out and fallen asleep. Meg was always at hand with another toddy
when her glass was emptied.

Tuesday Blanche woke early, and was unable to go back to sleep. She lay
thinking of Hammond's trip and of how she would have liked to be taken
with him. She arose, put on her Mother Hubbard, and joined her
father-in-law. The day was warmer than any for a long while; otherwise,
the same as yesterday, the same talk, the same toddies, the same growing
burden in her body, the same dinner, the same ennui. After dinner there
were more toddies, until Maxwell resolved to sit on the gallery with his
feet in the sunshine, leaving her in the house.

She was aware that she was a little drunk. Her feet were unsteady when
she crossed the sitting-room and went down the hall towards the stairs.
She threw herself upon her bed.

Suddenly Blanche rose, stood swaying on her feet. 'Carry here that
yaller slut, that Ellen sow,' she told Tense. 'Carry her up here. I
knows whut I goin' to do to her. Git her.'

Tense hesitated.

'You fetch her. I goin' to whup her, whup that pup of Hammond's right
out o' her. Fetch her.'

Tense had no alternative but to obey her mistress, and went down the
hall and down the stairs. Blanche rummaged in a drawer of her dresser
and brought forth a long whip, stood beside the window trying to snap
it. She was so much engrossed by her efforts to manipulate it that the
time did not seem long to her before Tense returned with Ellen,
unalarmed and curious.

'Peel down, you slut,' Blanche greeted the girl. 'Tear off her osnaburg,
Tense, all 'em. I goin' to lambaste that big belly o' yourn, goin' to
cut you up so bad with this snake that no white man ever goin' to look
at you, lettin' alone pleasure you.'

Ellen stood big-eyed and terrified before her, making no move to comply
with the command but not resisting Tense's efforts to remove her
clothes. Blanche waved the whip aloft and brought it down on Tense,
struggling with Ellen, who entirely escaped the futile blow. Ellen made
no move to escape. To resist her owner's wife did not occur to her; she
belonged to Hammond, and Blanche had the right to use her as she should
see fit.

Blanche uttered a low stream of invective as she swung the whip. She was
livid with rage. Ellen did not understand Blanche's words, but sensed
the insults to which she was unable to reply. At length she could endure
no more. She screamed, and at length sank to the floor, weeping.

Lucretia Borgia heard the screams, located them as coming from Blanche's
room, and burst through the door.

Blanche, surprised, dropped her whip and retreated to the bed, where she
lay face down and kicked her heels in the air.

Lucretia Borgia stood just inside the door, arms akimbo. She dared not
reveal the indignation she felt.

'Go an' call Ol' Masta,' she commanded Tense. 'Tell him to come. Help
him climb them stairs. Fetch him.'

'No, no, no,' Blanche called from the bed. 'Not him, not him. Cain't you
see, she nekid. Ain't nice he should come.'

Lucretia Borgia stood silent. 'Go,' she told Tense again. 'Bring him
quick as you kin.'

In the interminable time before Maxwell arrived, nobody moved, except
that Lucretia Borgia stooped and flung toward Ellen her dress.

Maxwell surveyed the room, saw the whip, cast carelessly to the floor,
the weeping girl on the floor, Blanche on the bed. 'Carry her out and
down,' he ordered Lucretia Borgia, gesturing towards Ellen.

When they were gone, he walked towards the bed and leaned over it. 'Whut
this mean?' he demanded of Blanche. When she made no answer except a
sob, he repeated his question and added reprovingly, as to a child, 'It
ain't nice, ain't ladylike. Now git you up an' we go down an' drink a
toddy.' It was the only recrimination that he could offer a white woman.
He knew that he could add nothing to the shame the girl felt.

Hiding her face in the pillow, Blanche implored, 'Go 'way, go 'way, go
'way.' She was sober now.

Maxwell knew that the incident would not be repeated. He made his way
downstairs and ordered a toddy. Rocking in his chair, he was beset by
doubts of what Hammond would say about what had occurred. Perhaps, if
Ellen could be silenced, he need never know about it.

He drank his toddy and waited for another. His back was turned to the
door of the dining-room, and when he heard it open he assumed it was
Meg. It was Lucretia Borgia.

'Masta, suh,' she said, her lips dry with terror. 'Masta, suh,' she
repeated but could not go on.

'Whut ailin', now, Lucretia Borgia?' he asked, irritably.

'She slip it, suh, Masta, suh. She slip it.'

'Who slip whut? Whure that saplin' with my toddy?'

'Ellen, suh, done slip that sucker she carry.'

'Whut you mean?' he asked, unbelieving.

Lucretia Borgia repeated the tidings, and asked, 'Whut I goin' to do?'

Maxwell got to his feet, while the impact of the information penetrated
his consciousness. 'I don' know. Put her in Ham's bed. Is she bad? The
sucker alive?' he asked; and answered his own question. 'Course not.'

Maxwell followed the cook back to her kitchen, where Ellen lay on
Lucretia Borgia's pallet, exhausted. There was nothing he could do now.
He went to the medicine shelf, poured a dose of laudanum, carried it
back to the girl, stooped and with his own hand held the glass to her
mouth. 'Tote her up to his bed,' he again admonished Lucretia Borgia.

Meg followed him back into the sitting-room with his toddy on a tray. It
would now be impossible to conceal the afternoon's occurrence from
Hammond. How to mitigate his wrath? He blamed himself for permitting
Blanche to drink so many toddies.

'Tell that Lucretia Borgia, come here,' he instructed the boy.

'She up, suh, Masta--with Miz Ellen,' answered the boy, aware that
something, he knew not what, was amiss.

'When she come down, tell her. Don' fergit.'

It was a half-hour before the woman presented herself.

'Miz Blanche,' Maxwell began directly, 'did she hurt that Ellen, cut her
with that snake?'

'No 'um, suh. Never touch her at all, hardly.' Lucretia Borgia knew the
white man wanted her denial. 'Miz Blanche ain't know how to han'le that
whup.'

'Then it wasn't no snake that move Ellen to slip that chil'?' he asked
hopefully.

Lucretia Borgia saw her cue. 'Oh, naw, suh. Naw, suh, Masta. Ellen about
to slip it anyways. Wasn't no snake.'

The man ruminated his tobacco while the woman waited. 'We ain't goin' to
tell Masta Hammond when he come home nothin' about it,' he concluded.

'No, suh, Masta,' the woman acceded. 'On'y he goin' to see first thing
that Ellen ain't totin' no chil'.'

'Course, he goin' to see that. Cain't hide that she slip it. Only ain't
sayin' why, ain't sayin' Miz Blanche----'

'Miz Blanche never do nothin', never do nothin',' Lucretia Borgia
repeated to impress the idea upon herself.

'You tell that Ellen. Tell her not to say to her masta when he goin' to
come--nothin', nothin'. I talks myself to Miz Blanche. Ellen not goin'
to say nothin' at all.'

'Yas, suh, Masta, an' if you says,' Lucretia Borgia agreed.

'I says,' the master ordained with finality.




CHAPTER 19


The coffle reached Natchez by easy stages Friday afternoon, entering by
the east road, moving through the wide, dusty streets, busy with
traffic, to the Forks-of-the-Road north of the city. Hammond was
disturbed by a sense of unhappy augury when the disappearance was
discovered one morning of Ace, a mustee slave brought from Briarfield.
But he decided to go on to Natchez rather than waste time hunting Ace
now. 'He mos' likely run back to Briarfield,' Ham told Redfield. 'I go
get him later.'

The Negroes arrived fatigued and dust-covered from their long journey,
but their interest in what appeared to them to be a great city buoyed
them. They had never seen so many people.

Hammond had his choice among the half-dozen barracoons, all of which
were well-nigh empty. Because his father had recommended it and because
it appeared cleanest and most spacious, he chose the slave jail of
Armfield and Franklin, a mere stockade, enclosing an open space
surrounded by sheds and cabins. A battered sign, 'Armfield and Franklin,
Negroes and Mules,' sagged wearily from a post before the gate.

A middle-aged Negro woman sat on a broken chair, smoking a pipe, before
one of the cabins, and two half-grown children, boy and girl, played in
the dust not far removed from her. A crippled male slave, a rail on his
shoulder, hobbled across the far end of the area.

Two mulatto men, stalwart but bored, slouched out to meet the Maxwell
coffle, and one returned to the best of the houses, immediately inside
the gate, to summon the white man in charge, who came rubbing the sleep
from his eyes, but, once fully awake, brisk and alert enough.

'Nice coffle,' he affirmed, eyeing the Negroes. 'All healthy, I reckon.
Yes, plenty of room fer 'em now, but Mista Franklin shippin' this week
or next from up Washington. These not sold, time hisn come, got to ast
you should move.'

'How is niggers?' Hammond asked.

'High, high,' the white man said. 'Cain't git 'em, an' cain't keep 'em.
That ol' wench a-settin' an' them saplin's, they an' one ol' man, him
cripp'd, all we got fer sale--an' others ain't got hardly no more.'

'These of mine had ought to sell?' Hammond said hopefully. 'I was
thinkin' mayhap that cholrie in New Orleans----'

'Helps sales,' the man completed the sentence. 'Ever'body come here
instead. Town full. Of course, I not knowin' how much you hopin' of this
coffle; but, looks of 'em, they had ought to sell right peart. Nobody
got none fer sale.'

Hammond dismounted and handed Eclipse to Phrensy.

'Got to charge you, though, charge you good. Town's full from New
Orleans. Ever'thin' up. Four bits a head ever' day, an' two bits fer the
mule.' The caretaker by his tone admitted the outrage of his tariff, but
went on. 'We got ever'thin' though, washin' places an' all, chains an'
you need 'em, a good post fer floggin', an' we feeds good, all they
wants.'

Hammond didn't haggle about the price, although it seemed to him high.
He began showing his slaves to their quarters, instructing them to wash
and rest, warning them not to venture beyond the gates of the stockade.
The brisk white man and the moping mulattoes helped him in settling the
Negroes, who were well contented with what they found.

The Natchez House and the Planters Hotel were both full. Their lobbies
were alive with people, the streets under the awnings seething with
activity. The packet from New Orleans was due with another consignment
of refugees. The desk clerk at the Planters suggested that Hammond and
Redfield might by chance find quarters at Squires and directed them
there, a block down the main street and another block to the right.
Redfield was reluctant to leave the turmoil of the larger hotels, but
there was no choice.

Squires was not a hotel at all, only a large boarding-house, functioning
as a hotel. The big-busted, florid woman who rocked on the verandah
looked the men over as they came up the wooden sidewalk, bordered by
weedy grass.

'Jist one left,' she announced, 'one room. An' it ain't big. One bed fer
two of you, and maybe a pallet on the floor fer somebody wantin' it.
Rates up, besides. A dollar and a half a day now, each one of ye. Take
it or leave it, I ain't carin'. Be somebody, an' you don' want it. We
feeds good. Ever'body satisfied.'

The men had not spoken. The woman adjusted her hair behind her ears and
resumed her rocking, her eyes focused upon a house across the street to
emphasize her indifference. There could be but one decision; there was
nowhere else to go.

'I reckon, an' you got a place fer our hosses,' Hammond ventured.

'Four bits, four bits a day extry,' the woman declared.

Hammond accepted her terms and the woman began to call loudly for Royal.
Nothing could more belie Royal's name than his looks when he arrived.
Knock-kneed and rachitic, a sunken-cheeked black man with greying hair
appeared from the interior of the house.

'Royal, you need tearin' down,' the woman began. 'Whyn't you come when I
call? Don' say you cain't hear me. You hear, you comes.'

'Yas, ma'am, suh,' said Royal unperturbed, and waited to learn what his
mistress wanted.

'I go to have Herman tear you down, you hear, you damn black nigger.
Royal, you hear me, you. Reckon I kin spare you tomorrer to Herman. He
sen' you back spry or dead, one of the two. Cost me money, havin' you
whup, cos' me money. But I'm a-goin' to, so help me.'

The Negro responded without sign of fear, 'Yes, 'um.'

'These gen'lemen goin' into number seven. You take 'em. Take 'em up an'
show 'em. Both in the bed,' she instructed. 'Dinin'-room open at five.
Better come early, wantin' the best,' she called to her guests as they
moved away following the slave.

Hammond, after inspecting the sparse comforts of the room, felt tired.
He remounted Eclipse, none the less, and rode back to make sure his
Negroes were at ease and fed.

When he arrived, he found the two mulattoes handing about among the
slaves great pans of beef stew. The women had beds to sleep on, the men
large heaps of long straw. All were comfortable.

A single horse was tied to the hitching rack, and a man was surveying
his slaves.

'That the owner. Got to talk to him,' the white caretaker explained to
the buyer. 'I ain't got nothin' to do with 'em. They hisn.'

The man, florid-faced, round-bellied, short of leg, and noticeably bald
when he removed his hat to wipe his head, came forward. 'That one, he
look right good. How much is he?' He pointed toward Phrensy.

'He fifteen hundert,' Hammond improvised a price, not knowing what he
should ask. 'A right peart one, prime an' soun'.'

The man grunted and turned to Lute, felt him through his clothes. 'An'
that varmint? How much?'

'He cheaper. He only twelve hundert. Jest as good, though not as high up
an' reachy-like.'

The man grunted again. 'Right reasonable,' he nodded knowingly. 'Sold
fer no fault?'

'They warranteed, all on 'em,' Hammond said.

'Might want one or two of 'em myself, an' I got friends cravin' some.
Any wenches?'

Hammond interrupted the women's supper to show them off.

'Breeders yet,' the buyer commented. 'Not many breeders offered. Three
on 'em knocked an' showin'.'

'They all knocked,' Hammond assured him, 'though Twinkle here ain't
showin' much yet.'

'I wants one or two, shore do wants one or two,' the man said, feeling
the women's arms and lifting their skirts to look at their legs. He
returned to the boys, felt them over and threw stones for them to
retrieve.

'Wants I should strip any of 'em down fer you to see?' Hammond inquired.

'No; reckon not. Not this evenin'. Come mornin'----,' he made tentative
plans.

He turned to Phrensy, asked the slave how he would like him for a
master. 'I treats 'em good, treats 'em all good. Good Christian home.
One of my family,' he promised.

At length, he took his departure, mounted his horse and rode away, his
gross, red face turned over his shoulder, still considering the slaves.

'That ol' Major Wilkins,' the caretaker explained after the man had
gone. 'Ain't got no hands, an' never had none; no money. A little
tetched, I reckon. Always lookin' aroun' fer niggers. Coffle comin' in,
he al'ays first to look 'em over.'

'I reckoned he goin' to buy two or three. Kind of wasted my wind on him,
seem like,' said Hammond in disappointment.

'No, Major won't buy; cain't. But he spreads things. He talks,' the
caretaker reasoned. 'Ever'body, ever'body in Natchez goin' to know you
here with servants fer sale, soun' an cheap. You ain't waste no words.
The Major good to have.'

Doc Redfield had saved a seat for Hammond next to his own at the long
supper table at Squires Boarding House. Mrs. Kennedy, the woman with
whom arrangements had been made on the porch, sat at the end of the
table nearest the kitchen, while her wizened old husband presided at its
head. The supper party was for seventeen, all men except Mrs. Kennedy.

'Just met ol' Major Wilkins, tellin' that they's a new coffle at
Armfield's at the Forks,' one small man essayed conversation with nobody
in particular in the midst of buttering a biscuit.

'Ol' Wilkins!' one laughed.

'Like, all sick. All goin' to die, come from the South. I'd be afeared
o' 'em,' a man sitting beyond Hammond expressed a guess.

'No, these from Alabamie or somewhures east, the Major said. Right
healthy an' soun',' the small man corrected.

'Any fancies? I'll have to ride out,' declared Mr. Kennedy. 'Bin
a-cravin' me another 'un.'

'No fancies! I won't have a fancy aroun', an' you knows it, Ben Kennedy.
'Nough trouble with Dipsy here,' Mrs. Kennedy pointed at the mulatto
girl circling the table with a dish, 'without no fancies. You men won't
leave be poor Dipsy, though, Law knows, she ain't no fancy.'

'Servants is up, seem like,' commented the little man, with another
biscuit.

'They ain't none offered, savin' a few, an' they triflin' an' puny.'

'Folks afeared of New Orleans. All the buyers from Louisianie comin'
here, an' nobody bringin' 'em in.'

'I'd sell Royal, here, an' anybody wantin' him,' said Mrs. Kennedy, and
then qualified her statement, '--an' if I could do withoutn him.'

A man to whom Royal was offering a biscuit pushed back his chair and
grasped the black boy's leg, felt it evaluatingly, pulled him forward
and ran his finger into his mouth. 'Won't bring much. Teeth gone, an'
legs crooked. Won't las' a month in the cane,' he expressed his opinion.

Hammond said nothing about his ownership of the coffle. The boarders at
Squires were not slave-buyers, despite their talk.

Supper over, and travel-fatigued as they were, Redfield wanted to go to
the bars and gambling houses. It was for these he had come to Natchez.
Hammond joined him, straggling after, limping. The bars were ablaze with
lights and mirrors, far different from the tavern at Benson. Nudes
adorned the walls. Drinkers were numerous, all kinds of men, men gaudily
dressed in top hats with golden seals on heavy chains across their
waistcoats, roughly dressed labourers, sportsmen and speculators, all
with a hectic, heedless desperation to escape from something that
threatened them. Many of them had recently come from New Orleans,
refugees from the city's epidemic. Another packet was expected the same
evening, and many expected friends among the passengers.

As Redfield and Hammond trudged from bar to bar, absorbing the sights
and the excitement, they saw the same faces in the mirrors behind the
counters. Redfield felt inclined to sit in a game of brag, and Hammond
looked on until his partner had lost some twenty dollars and rose to
relinquish his chair to a man waiting behind him. While twenty dollars
seemed to Redfield a considerable loss, to the milling crowd money had
no value. Tomorrow, they thought, they might die. At least they had
escaped from the City, and they were concerned with little else. What
was money for, if they had it?

A pallid tout showed Hammond and Redfield the way to Maggie's, and then
disappeared. Maggie was herself buxom and had been handsome when she was
half her present age, and the women in her brothel were comely enough.
There must have been a dozen of them, but they were too busy to waste
time talking to the clients, of which there was an increasing stream.
Men were everywhere, upon the lounges, standing in doorways, sitting on
floors. Maggie's was reputed to be the best place in the town.

The women all were white. Hammond was squeamish about white flesh, and
indifferent to the delay. The women had no allure for him. They were not
his property; rather, they belonged for some fifteen minutes to whoever
would pay for them. Hammond bought a bottle of wine, but the women were
all too busy to drink with him and he was forced to share it with
Redfield and with a strange man who stood near the table where the wine
was served by a sluttish mulatto girl.

Redfield, however, had dreamed all summer of the debauch he would have
in New Orleans. This was only Natchez, of course, but he was not to be
cheated of his orgy. At Hammond's suggestion that they wait no longer
for women, Redfield demurred.

'I been sleepin' with that warty widder. Now, I goin' to spen' my money
an' buy me a purty, smooth, young 'un, whilst I kin,' he argued.
'Course, you got you a young piece; I ain't wonderin' you don't hanker
after these.'

A chubby little blonde touched Hammond on the shoulder. 'Come on,
Honey,' she said, 'you mine. I bin a-servin' an' a-pleasurin' ol' men
all evenin'. Now, doggone, I got aroun'. I bin a watchin' your baby face
ever sence you come in, plannin' how I goin' to git to you.'

Hammond shrugged. 'I reckon not,' he declined her offer. 'I ain't
a-feelin' good.'

'You bus'? That whut the matter with you?' the girl asked
compassionately. 'Won't cos' you nothin', a purty boy like you.'

'I ain't bust,' Hammond denied, drawing out his purse. 'I jest ain't
a-feelin'.'

The woman admitted her defeat. 'Well, I cain't make you. Come back when
you feel like; ast fer Zelda. Won't cos' you nothin', un'erstan'? Who
a-waitin'?'

Redfield pressed forward. 'I goin' with you,' he volunteered.

The girl looked at the man, then looked toward Hammond and made a
sneering face. 'Well, come on,' she resigned herself.

'You goin' to wait?' Redfield asked and received an assent from his
companion. He walked rapidly away with the woman, leaving Hammond
yawning, alone.

Maggie circulated apologetically. 'I have a lady fer you right away,'
she told Hammond. 'I'll have more girls tonight on the packet, plenty of
'em comin' from New Orleans.'

'I 'on't want none,' Hammond told her. 'I jes' a-waitin'.'

'You jes' plagued,' Maggie assured him, encircling his shoulder with her
arm. 'Needn't be plagued. None of these ladies goin' to hurt you. You
ain't used to comin' to places like this; is you? You young, an' sweet.
I knows.'

Hammond blushed. He did not know how to deny the innocence with which
the woman charged him. Perhaps in part the charge was true, but he felt
no embarrassment.

He heard a familiar voice and looked up to see the protuberant figure
and florid face of Major Wilkins, who held a man's elbow in his grip. He
heard the Major say, 'These, these different. These young an' prime. An'
cheap, too. Fine lot as ever I see. I goin' to buy two or three of 'em
my own self. They ain't a-goin' to las', I tells you, when folks knows
about 'em. Better ride out first thing in the mornin', you wantin' to
pick 'em over. At the Forks-of-the-Road, Armfield's.'

Hammond failed to hear the other man's reply, but he knew that Wilkins
was talking of his slaves, a walking advertisement. He saw Redfield
approaching, walking briskly until stopped by Major Wilkins, who grabbed
him and led him aside. The Major described the slaves awaiting sale at
Armfield's and again declared his intention to purchase some of them,
this time three or four, for his own use.

'I knows,' Redfield told him. 'I'm with 'em, don't own 'em, not exactly,
but I'm along with 'em; I'm a-sellin' 'em.'

'Well, I congratulate you. A fine lot, fine as ever was. I comin' out
tomorrer to look 'em over an' buy me a few, quite a few,' the Major
declared before Redfield could escape from him.

To how many persons Wilkins had told his story Hammond didn't know, but
it would do his sale no harm.

Redfield was satisfied and ready to return to Squires, unable to
understand how Hammond could resist the allure of Maggie's wantons. 'See
that big red-headed one?' he asked enthusiastically as the two made
their way along the lightless street. 'I'm goin' to try her nex' time.'

'I won'er whut that fat Major mean, tellin' ever'body 'bout our coffle,'
Hammond changed the subject. 'Reckon, come mornin', I got to put a
notice in the paper.'

When they entered their room in the dark, Redfield stumbled over an
unoccupied pallet on the floor at the foot of their bed. 'Reckon we
goin' to have company,' he remarked.

Hammond removed his clothes in the dark, requesting Redfield to help him
off with one boot. He withdrew his poke from his pocket and placed his
money under his pillow. He went immediately to sleep, but was vaguely
disturbed later by somebody coming into the room and going to bed on the
pallet. The new guest whispered curses at a servant who was helping him
to undress and who subsequently disappeared.

Hammond heard, but didn't open his eyes. After his long ride, although
the mattress was of lumpy moss, the bed was pleasant and he slept well.
The sunshine lay in a long patch on the floor when he awoke. Whether it
was the light that roused him or the figure moving about in the room he
did not know.

It was a grotesque figure, very black and very fat, bare of leg and foot
beneath soiled, brilliant red Zouave trousers. Hammond turned on his
side to watch the fat boy, as he fumbled with the brushing of his
master's garments. His motions were slow, mere gestures towards his
task, with which he seemed little concerned. The morning was cool and
the Negro was not exerting himself, but sweat rolled from his brow down
his obese cheeks.

Hammond lay there watching and listening when, from the pallet, which
Hammond was unable to see, came the question, 'You don' let me sleep,
you know whut I goin' to do to you? Larrup you, that whut!'

'I ain't makin' no noise, suh.'

Hammond recognized the voice from the pallet and sprang from his bed.
'Charles! Charles Woodford!' he exclaimed. 'Ever'body thinkin' you
dead!'

The man on the pallet opened his eyes and fixed one of them upon the
naked man limping toward him. 'Cousin Hammon',' he said. 'How you come
here?'

'Nev' mind, nev' mind how I come. I found you now. Whure my money? Whure
my nigger you stole?'

Charles looked at him blandly. 'I never stole your nigger or your money
neither. Whut you talks about, Cousin Hammon'?'

'You know whut I talks about--that nigger, that money, that ring.'

'Not that Jason whut Cousin Warren give me? Not him, Cousin Ham?'

'Yes, him. Why you go an' stole him?'

'I never. You knowin' I never. You heard Cousin Warren tellin' me he
mine an' do with him how I wants. You right there; you hearin' Cousin
Warren, your own self.' Charles rose on his elbow.

'Papa never meant that, no sich thing, an' you knowin' he never. Whure
at your paper fer him?'

'Comin' from a gen'leman, I reckoned I didn't need no paper. Cousin
Warren never give me none.'

'You knowin' Papa mean Jason yourn while you at Falconhurst. He not
yourn to sneak away with.'

'He ought to have said. I thinkin' all time he mine--like he say. Too
late now,' shrugged Charles with the shoulder raised in the air. 'I done
sol' Jason. I never knowed he weren't mine.'

Hammond remembered his father's telling Charles that he might have
Jason, presumably for the duration of his visit. He was unable to credit
that the boy accepted the Negro as a permanent gift, and yet there was
no way to gainsay Charles's contention.

'Well, an' that money?' Hammond went on to the next subject.

'Whut money?'

'That, whut I sent with you to your papa. You never took it.'

'Oh, that. I borrowed that offn Papa. It hisn, Papa's; it not yourn. I
borrowed that. I'm goin' to pay him back one day--when I kin, handy.'

'That my money, an' I wantin' it,' declared Hammond impotently.

Charles merely laughed. 'It wasn' yourn. You givin' it to me to take to
my papa. I jest take it, a borry, offn him, not offn you, an' come to
New Orleans. Always did want to go to New Orleans. You don't reckon Papa
goin' to do anythin' about it?'

'He goin' to whup you, whup you jest like you was a nigger,' threatened
Hammond.

'Let him jes' try. I through whuppin'. Through! Hear me? Through!'
Charles rose to sitting position in his earnestness, and then reclined,
laughing. 'He got to kotch me firs', anyways.'

Whether Charles had stolen the twenty-five hundred dollars from the
Maxwells or from his father was a question open to dispute. It was more
of the nature of a breach of trust than a theft, in any event. Even if
Hammond has chosen to press the charge, Charles's explanation had taken
the wind from his sails. Whose was the money, once it was in Charles's
hands, the Maxwells' or Woodford's?

'An' that ring?' Hammond pursued. 'Whut 'came of that? I reckon I givin'
you that?'

'Hell, no! I got that, got it right here on my finger, an' if I kin git
it off. It's growed right tight.' Charles struggled with the ring,
sucked his finger and twisted the ring loose. He threw it at Hammond's
feet. 'I was goin' to give that to Blanche whenever I goin' to see her.
Reckon you goin' to see her firs'. You take it to her.'

Hammond stooped to pick up the ring, satisfied with his recovery of it.

'How she? I reckon you married with her? No way to keep you from,'
Charles went on. 'Reckon you foun' I say true when I tell you she
pizen?'

'Yes, we marry. Fergit you not a-knowin'. Blanche, she real well,
'ceptin' she knocked. She goin' to have a chil'.'

'No? Blanche? That real interes'in'!' Charles' surprise was not feigned.
'I hope it not come gotch-eyed, like me.'

Why should the boy consider such a possibility? Hammond disguised his
concern at the comment.

'How my mamma? Seein' her?' Charles inquired. 'Still a-readin' in the
Bible, I reckon.'

'She well. Leastwise she was, time of the weddin'. Ain't seen her sence
that. Dick's took up preachin', let go the law.'

'Preacherin' better fer him. Don' have to know nothin' jes' to preach.'
Charles was little concerned. 'Whut fer you come to Natchez? A new
wench?'

'I brought a coffle across, me an' Doc Redfield there in bed. They out
to the Forks.'

'Sellin' good? Niggers up.'

'Jest come yestiday. Ain't had time yet.'

'They goin' to sell, all right. Ain't no buyers goin' to New Orleans at
all. All comin' here. Your niggers ain't even been near New Orleans?
They sell. Right comic, how we met right here in the same room.'

'Whut you doin' here?'

'Refugeein' from New Orleans. Come up on the packet las' night. Ain't
hardly nobody left there, all either dead or gone away.'

Charles crawled from his bed and submitted to being dressed by the fat
Negro boy, whose name was Shote. 'Fat as I kin make him,' he said, 'an'
still he don' sell. Money in monsters, if you kin git 'em, but too many
jest fat ones. Nobody think fat ones funny no more.'

Hammond noted the change that his brother-in-law had undergone. His face
had cleared of its pimples and he had put on weight. His flesh was soft,
his contours had rounded. Except for his eyes, one would have called him
handsome.

'I bought me a little humpback with skinny legs, funny-lookin' imp,'
Charles continued. 'Didn't have to give fer him hardly nothin', hundert
an' fifty; sold him to a gam'ler very next day fer five hundert dollar.
He usin' him for luck. Then I got a zany half-wit young wench. Didn'
know nothin'. Couldn' talk none. Follow me aroun' like a puppy, but
couldn't keep no clothes on her. Tear 'em off fast as I could put 'em
on. Fellow give her to me. Hadn't had her a week when a man at the
Exchange thought she was funny an' offered me three hundert fer her.
Wanted her a pet fer his boy. I see they is money in freaks an'
monsters, if you kin git 'em. Bethought me of this Shote an' rode across
an' bought him. Had to pay too much--three and a quarter fer him. He too
old. They wants funny ones young. Oh, I kin git four fifty, five hundert
fer him any time, but I wants seven hundert. Ain't he the fattest you
ever seen? I laughs jest to look at him.' Charles patted Shote's fat
rump with pride and a trace of affection. 'Three years younger an' he'd
fetch a thousand. Somebody goin' to want him. Better to bring him along
than leave him at New Orleans to ketch it an' die.'

Hammond got into his clothes and struggled with his boot. 'Kin your
Shote help me? I gits worse ruther than better, seems like,' he said.

'Course, course. He'p Mista Hammond, boy. Do whut he tell you.' Charles
was his old accommodating self. He was glad to make his peace.

Hammond would not have chosen to encounter Charles, would have chosen to
forget him, to charge him off as a cheat and a thief. But the boy's
explanation of his behaviour was pat enough to raise doubts in Hammond's
mind--it was not exactly theft, nor theft from the Maxwells. He had
returned the ring at least, at the first opportunity.

Charles, having no purpose in Natchez except to escape from New Orleans
and its cholera, would have attached himself to Hammond and resumed
their relations as if nothing untoward had occurred between them. He
waited for Redfield to get into his clothes and accompanied him and
Hammond to the dining-room for breakfast. Hammond's treatment of the boy
was tepid, but he eventually got rid of him only because Charles had no
horse upon which to ride to the Forks-of-the-Road.

Redfield went there directly, while Hammond remained in the city to
place in the newspapers an announcement of his arrival with a
consignment of Negroes for sale and to buy new clothes for the slaves,
in which he believed they would appear better to possible buyers. He
made haste with his errands and reached Armfield's before ten o'clock.
Redfield had ascertained that the slaves had been fed to repletion. They
sat on benches before the doors of the sheds with nothing to do but wait
for somebody to come and buy them.

Hammond's arrival animated them and the distribution and fitting of
garments caused great excitement.

'Shore you clean?' Hammond demanded as he handed out trousers and shirts
and dresses. 'Don' want you should put new trogs on dirty!'

'Wash yestiday, Masta, suh,' declared Vulcan, 'soon as we come.'

The novelty of new clothes delighted the Negroes, who ran from one to
another showing them off and exchanging garments in the hope of a better
fit. Some of the boys cut capers that aroused a laugh from the others. A
few of them who had expected to be permitted to amble about the streets
in search of buyers for themselves were disappointed at their
confinement in a mere barracoon, but they were none the less comfortable
and well fed.

Curious neighbourhood youths and a few men straggled in to make casual
inspection of the merchandise, but none had money to buy.

The newspapers with Hammond's advertisements would not appear before
morning, but the owner was already disappointed that the public interest
in his slaves was not greater. It was two o'clock before a prospective
buyer came.

He was a roughly dressed, stooped young man with a black beard, riding
an unkempt, long-haired horse. 'Hearin' you got niggers?' he said to the
white caretaker as he dismounted awkwardly, although the slaves were in
his view.

'They hisn,' the caretaker replied, waving the customer in the direction
of Hammond. The slaves rose and lined up for inspection as Hammond had
taught them.

The man walked down the line, eyeing the lot individually, stopping
occasionally to feel a boy's muscles. 'Right likely,' he commented of
none in particular. 'Right likely. 'Ginia or Kaintucky?'

'Alabama,' Hammond answered him.

'Right likely,' the man repeated,'--comin' from there. Whut's that one?
How much?' He pointed toward Vulcan.

'Him?' Hammond hesitated before naming a price. 'He eighteen hundert.'

'Yes,' said Redfield coming up, 'an' worth twenty-five of anybody's
money.'

The man whistled in his alarm at the price.

'Others less. He the mos' costive. You shore kin pick a good nigger,'
said Hammond. 'First thing, fallin' on the bes'.'

The man examined the other boys and asked their prices, but returned
again and again to Vulc. Lute, the cheapest of the adult males, was only
a thousand dollars. The man asked Vulcan, Pole and two others to remove
their shirts, and Hammond told them to strip down naked. They were prime
with nothing to conceal, and he was proud of them.

'Purty bucks, an' not a mark on 'em,' said the man admiringly, running
his hand down the back of one. 'But eighteen hunert? Too much. Give you
twelve fifty. Whut say?'

Hammond shook his head dubiously and looked at Redfield for counsel.

'That a breedin' buck,' said Redfield. 'Some of them others jest as
good, you goin' to work 'em.'

'I only jest got me three wenches, an' they all got bucks. Ain't
a-needin' no breeder, but I likes the looks o' that one,' hesitated the
man, looking again at Vulcan.

'I reckon your bucks ain't as good as this one. Give your sluts to him,
an' he bring you twins--likely. He that strong,' suggested Redfield.

The man sighed, convinced but reluctant. 'Six months?' he asked.

'Cash,' clicked Hammond, positively.

'Well, I ain't got it. Jist ain't got it.'

The vendor made no reply.

'Got to go to the bank, I reckon. Bank will 'commodate me. Al'ays have.
Keep that 'un fer me; I'm comin' agin. Name of Bryce.' He walked towards
his horse, mounted it, and rode away.

Hammond was not pleased with making no other sale. Of course, he had
Bryce's word that he wanted Vulcan, but no money had changed hands and
the sale was not made. Hammond and Redfield sat around the lot for the
rest of the afternoon but there were no more serious customers. Men
came, four of them altogether, and looked at the slaves, handled them,
but only one asked their prices and he only idly.

'Wait fer them newspapers to git to workin',' urged Redfield, who was in
no hurry to have the sale over with and return to Benson. 'Nobody
a-knowin' we here yet awhile.'

'Mayhap we better arrange a public cry,' Hammond pondered. 'They got
auctioneers, good ones, in Natchez, like as not.'

'They charges,' Redfield objected.

'Either that, or take down our prices some.'

'Prices all right. Jest that nobody know,' Redfield soothed.

The slaves had their meal of the day, and the white men mounted their
horses to return to Natchez. Hammond was dejected. They were late for
supper at Squires, and men were leaving the dining-room as they entered
it. They passed Charles, who had already eaten.

After supper, Hammond, in no mood for fleshpots, went early to bed,
whereas Redfield set out again for the saloons, gambling halls and
brothels, which had been augmented by the influx of refugees from New
Orleans. Hammond felt for his purse, which he had placed beneath his
pillow, when he later heard Charles bedding himself down upon his
pallet; not that he feared that Charles might try to rob him. Charles
was mildly repugnant to him, and he would have preferred him elsewhere,
but there was no way to rid himself of the boy.

Next morning, however, Charles was gleeful and talkative. 'I bought me a
special nigger last night. Ain't never seen one like him.'

'With my own money, you bought him. With money you stole from me. Good
as,' Hammond modified his indictment.

'Hell, no! That money gone long ago! Reckon I ain't got me no money? I
been tradin' niggers an' bettin' fights, me an' Mista Brownlee, ever
sence I come to New Orleans. I right well fix'.'

'Brownlee! You mix up with that snake, Brownlee? Brownlee, the trader?'

'Mista Brownlee right nice gen'leman, you gits to know him. Right
shrewd, too. He was, that is.'

'Was?' Hammond asked for clarification.

'He dead, you knowin'. The plague got him. Come down one day, dead the
next. It like that, the cholrie.'

'Mayhap you knowin' Neri, too?'

'Neri, Brownlee's pardner? Course I know him. Gone west, Texas, I
reckon, afore Brownlee die. Some trouble or other, over stealin' a
nigger. 'Bout bust, I hearin'.'

This news, welcome as it was to Hammond, did not console him for
Charles's purchases and profits.

After breakfast, Ham and Redfield rode to the sales lot and waited. In
the late morning, men began to arrive and to look over the stock. None
found what he was looking for at a price he could afford. All conceded
that the Negroes were a prime and likely lot and that the prices were
not too high, but they were prepared to buy adult bucks at only five to
seven hundred dollars. They knew slave prices had risen, but they were
seeking for bargains and were not too particular about health and
stamina.

Hammond and Redfield had gone to Natchez for their dinners and had
returned to the Forks when, nearing two o'clock, two men, apparently
brothers and enough alike to be twins, dismounted from sleek
thoroughbreds, which they turned to a mounted yellow groom to hold for
them. About forty-five, they were expensively but conservatively dressed
in black with highly varnished boots. Well made and agile, they swung
across the yard and approached Redfield.

'The servants yours, suh?' the slightly taller demanded politely.

'To say true, they hisn. I'm with 'em though,' replied Redfield,
reluctant to deny ownership.

The man turned to Hammond and said, 'They tell me you have some right
likely boys for sale, suh, if we aren't too late.'

'I reckon they's likely, suh. I ain't seen better, suh. Like to 'spect
'em, suh?' asked Ham, inclining himself in a bow as nearly like the
man's as he could manage with his stiff leg. This was a gentleman,
Hammond could see, and he did not like to concede that he was not. He
clapped his hands and called sharply, 'Luke! Pole! Lute! Phrensy!'

These boys appeared from the cabins and joined the other slaves in the
line-up. 'Shuck down, all of ye. Give the gen'leman a look at you,'
commanded the master.

The Negroes had begun removing their clothes when the stranger
intervened with, 'Never mind stripping them, suh. I'll ask to see any
that interests me, suh.'

The master did not countermand his command and the slaves continued to
remove their clothes until all stood naked. The buyer walked down the
line, glancing at the boys, and grunted his satisfaction with them. 'A
good lot, the kind I've been looking for,' he turned to his brother, and
then he addressed the owner, 'Yes, suh; a likely lot, suh.'

Hammond was pleased with the praise. It was easy to perceive that the
man was a connoisseur. 'They right good, I reckon. Good as we could
raise 'em, my papa an' me. An' biddable. Not a whale on a back in the
lot of 'em.'

'No difference, that, suh,' said the man walking again slowly down the
line. 'They will do what they're told, never doubt, suh. And clean backs
won't last with my drivers. Cain't keep them from using the whip, suh;
sometimes too hard. Since I never sell one, a few scars don't hurt. I
grow sugar.' he explained. He stopped before Lute, reached down and felt
of his thigh, pulled him forward out of the line. 'That's one,' he said.
Next he chose Vulcan; when Hammond told him that Vulcan was spoken for,
although no deposit had been made on him, the man returned him to the
line. Hammond would have sold the boy, if the man had insisted.

'No difference, suh. One about as good as another. All sound and
likely,' said the man, choosing another. 'Two is all I aimed to buy, all
I need; but these are so good,' he mused, pulling forward two more of
the Negroes.

Having tentatively selected four, he went over them carefully looking
for possible ruptures, broken or crooked fingers and toes, missing
teeth. He could find nothing wrong. He ran the boys and told them to
jump. He was satisfied.

'Why so many?' asked the brother. 'You need only two?'

'Right now, yes!' said the buyer. 'But next year, who knows? Don't find
this kind every day. All young and sound.'

'Cane uses 'em up,' admitted the brother.

'Yes, and most growers figure seven years for a nigger. Mine last me
about eleven or twelve. I've got one that's been working fifteen year.
But he was sound and young to begin. If Papa failed to teach us aught
else, he did say, and proved, that it pays to get stout niggers and work
'em hard. Cheap niggers are cheap niggers.'

The fraternal colloquy delayed the transaction until the buyer turned to
Hammond with, 'This four, how much do you want for them?'

Hammond hesitated, adding on his fingers, 'I reckon 'em at fifty-four
fifty fer the lot,' he hazarded at last.

The buyer puffed out his cheeks dubiously. 'Niggers are up, I know, suh.
Good demand, suh. I suppose your price is all right, figured by the
head, and you can get it. But----' he hesitated. 'I considered that if I
take four they would come a little less--less by the head, that is.'
There was no disparagement of the stock.

'They worth it, ever' dollar,' Redfield interposed and would have said
more but for Hammond's interruption.

'I don' know,' pondered the owner. 'I might, jest might, make it
fifty-two fifty fer the lot.'

'How about five thousand; twelve fifty a head? I'll give that much,
suh.' He implied, but did not assert, that he would not give more.

Hammond had made no sale all day and was over-anxious. He paced the lot
slowly, head down, considering. He looked up and demanded, 'Cash?'

'On the barrel head!' said the man. 'I'll give you my cheque on the
Natchez bank and leave the bucks until you cash it. Have to ask you to
feed them a few days anyway, until I start home. I live over beyond
Baton Rouge and am staying here with my brother.'

It was agreed and the principals retired to the little office to
exchange the cheque and the bill of sale.

'Put on your trogs an' git you inside,' Hammond said sharply to the
remaining slaves. 'You,' he turned to Lute, 'you an' you otherns sol'.
Anybody come, you stay in there. Don' crave you aroun' bein' looked at,
spilin' a sale. Your new masta come fer you two, three days.'

The afternoon was waning, and Redfield was impatient to eat his supper
that he might go to the Globe and the Woodbine, later to Maggie's. No
more buyers could be expected and, having made sure that his Negroes
would be adequately fed, Hammond was ready to return to Squires
boarding-house. He and Redfield had started across the lot towards the
horse-rack, when the little bearded man arrived to complete his purchase
of Vulcan. Hammond had abandoned his belief that the boy had been sold.
It was necessary to return to the office, receive the man's money and
give him a bill of sale.

When called out for transfer, the big Negro dropped to his knees and
grasped Hammond about the legs, weeping. 'I knowin' I got to go like
Masta say,' he blubbered, 'on'y Masta so good an' Ol' Masta so good.
Won' never have good masta like that agin.'

'This gen'leman, your new masta, goin' to be good to you an' you mindin'
whut he goin' to say. You do ever'thin' jest like he tellin' you. He
feed you good, 'n ever'thin'.'

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh,' Vulcan agreed.

'Mayhap, you behave, he got a wench or two fer you to take up.' Hammond
concealed the tears in his own eyes in a show of jocularity as he
grasped Vulcan's arm, raised him to his feet and clasped his shoulder in
farewell. He watched as the Negro followed his buyer across the lot
without a backward glance. The bearded man mounted his small horse,
which walked out of the gate, Vulcan trotting easily by its side.

'Well, that all of Vulc,' Hammond sighed. 'Reckon that man treat him
good. Cain't never tell.'

'Come on, an' you ready,' Redfield suggested. 'You got yo' money, ain't
you? Whut you carin' whut he do with him?'

The sales for the day had been satisfactory. After supper Hammond went
with Redfield down town, swallowed two or three drinks in a crowded bar,
but when Redfield decided to sit down to a game of brag, the younger
man, unused to late hours, went to the boarding-house and to bed.

It was past midnight when Redfield came in, undressed quietly, and got
into bed at Hammond's side. He lay a full minute and nudged Ham into
partial consciousness. 'Whyn't we stay--jest a spell, jest a few days
longer?' he demanded plaintively, 'I jest now gittin' acquainted.'

Hammond grunted a reply.

'I had that sorrel at Maggie's tonight,' the older man continued. 'After
her, kind of hard pilin' in bed with the Widder.'

Hammond feigned sleep and did not talk to him. A little later he heard
Charles stirring for bed and getting into his pallet. He finally dropped
to sleep. Later he awakened with a pain in his abdomen, which was
intermittent, but grew worse.

It was toward morning, and light was breaking, when he could endure the
pain no longer. He nudged Redfield and told him, 'I'm sick, Doc
Redfield, suh. Cain't you do nothin'?'

'Whure you hurt?' asked the doctor.

'My belly. It achin' me turrible.'

'Cain't git no doctor, no real, human doctor this time of night, an'
stores ain't open. I didn't bring nothin', no medicine, along. Jest got
to stan' it till mornin' breaks, an' I'll git you somethin'.'

The boy resigned himself to suffer. Intense pains, each of which he
hoped would be the last, swept over his lower abdomen, and he was
alternately icy cold and burning with fever. Redfield, on his back,
snored complacently beside him. Hammond half dozed between his spasms of
pain.

Through the window, he saw Mercury rise and swing slowly upward and at
length the east grew red. He again nudged his bed-fellow and pleaded,
'Doc Redfield, suh, cain't you do nothin'?'

Redfield roused himself and placed his hand on the boy's brow, which he
found intensely hot. 'Hurtin' yet?' he asked fatuously. 'Somethin' you
et, pro'ably; that catfish, I reckon. Had ought to be good, this time of
year.'

Hammond denied having eaten his supper.

'That it; all that corn on your empty guts,' diagnosed the doctor.

'Cain't you do somethin'? You could to a nigger. I knows you could.'

The doctor piled from his bed reluctantly, and slipped into his clothes.
'That store had ought to open up purty quick. I'll git you somepin',
some laudanum, I reckon, and castor oil.'

'Hurry up, please, suh,' urged the sick boy.

Redfield walked around the bed. The light was enough for him to see the
glazed glare of the fever-burned eyes. He felt the irregularly rapid
pulse and asked Hammond to show his tongue. He threw back the covers and
pressed the boy's abdomen and got only grunts. He knew not what he was
seeking, but nodded gravely as if he had found it. 'Laudanum and castor
oil,' he muttered under his breath, and aloud sought to encourage the
youth. 'You jist stopped up. You goin' to git well,' he said. 'I fetch
some medicine, soon as I kin git in to git it.'

When he was gone, Charles, who was disturbed by the doctor's rising, got
up from his pallet and came to the bed. 'Whut wrong, Cousin Hammon'? You
ain't sick?' He had but to look at the unblinking eyes.

'Wait,' he said, 'while I puts on some clothes. It right col', nekid,
these mornin's.'

'I'm burnin',' Hammond rebutted.

'Keep them quilts up tight. Mustn't kotch col',' Charles warned.

He dressed quickly and came again to the bedside. 'You got it, you
reckon?'

'Whut? I don' know. Whut?' Hammond spoke weakly and without inflection,
without interest.

'It! The plague! Cholerie! Sure as you're born! Comes this way, jest
like you doin'. Dead afore tomorrow night. Most of 'em dies evenin's
late.'

Hammond was indifferent.

'Like me an' ol' Redfield will git it too, sleepin' right with you, same
room.'

'Doc Redfield say it jest belly ache,' breathed Hammond. 'But it bad,
sure bad.'

'He only a hog doctor an' a nigger doctor. He don' know cholerie, how it
come on, well one day, dead the nex'. You gotten it, cholerie.'

A knock at the door was Royal, the boarding-house slave, who had brought
two bottles which Redfield had entrusted to him.

'Please, suh, gen'man say tell sick gen'man to swallow these, please,
suh. Gen'man say tell he goin' to the Forks; he goin' to slop some
niggers he got there,' the Negro explained.

Charles turned to Hammond. 'See?' he declared. 'He know. Redfield know
whut ail you. He not comin' back. This medicine ain't goin' to do no
good; nothin' won't.'

'Mayhap, it ease me some,' said Hammond, extending his arm for the
bottles. 'Got to die, might as well die without this hurtin' I got.'

Charles poured out the laudanum, which the sick man swallowed, and
followed with castor oil. Charles was visibly frightened, picturing
himself ill and dying within the week. He, none the less, went to
breakfast, and Hammond felt very lonely, deserted. If only he had
brought Ellen, or even Meg! Neither would have left him to die alone.
Then he felt guilty in his need for them. Why should they die of cholera
because he had to?

Redfield's failure to bring the medicine himself betrayed his belief. He
would not come back. What, Hammond, wondered, would become of his
Negroes--and his money? Would Redfield take the money to Hammond's
father? It bothered him even more than the thought of death.

Charles, of course, would not return. One could not expect it of him,
after the quarrel they had had. He had escaped from New Orleans only to
run into the thing he had fled. Hammond was amazed that the boy had
tarried to give him the medicine. One thing about cholera; it was short.
He would die and be out of his pain tomorrow.

He burned with fever, but the pain was abating. The last two spasms had
not been so severe. The laudanum had done it. It was the precious syrup,
but it was across the room and he wanted another dose. Had he the
strength to get out of bed to get it? It would expose his fever to the
chill air. He must keep well covered.

He had resigned himself to isolation, when Charles unexpectedly
returned. He had with him a slave bearing a large japanned tray, but
would not permit the servant to come into the room. Instead, he took the
tray at the door and carried it to the bed.

'Got to scruge up, if you go to eat this. Cain't swallow it layin'
down,' Charles said cheerily.

The sick man looked at the heavy meal on the tray--fried ham, eggs,
cornbread and butter, grits, and coffee. The sight of it turned his
stomach. 'Set it down,'he said. 'Rest it. I cain't eat it now, hurtin'
too bad. But ifn you jest fetch me more of that medicine--the first
kind--mayhap I goin' to eat later on, mayhap.'

Charles poured an ample dose from the laudanum bottle and Ham drank it.
'On'y thing 'at seemin' to help,' he said. 'Leave it here by me. I goin'
to crave more of it a'ter you goes.'

'I goes? Goes whure? I ain't goin' nowhure. I goin' to set by you an'
tend after you. Nobody else ain't goin' to--seem like.'

''Tain't no use. You cain't do nothin'. I goin' to die,' breathed the
sick man resignedly.

'I 'spec' you is,' the other answered.

'Ain't no use of you a-gittin' it, you an' Redfield. Jest leave me that
laudanum here, right by the bed.'

'If I goin' to git it, I done got it. So has Mista Doc Redfield; he
sleepin' right with you. Me? I ain't goin'. I goin' to stay an' make you
easy. You my cousin, even an' you doesn't like me no more.'

Charles paused and Hammond made no comment.

'You ain't wantin' no breakfast, then turn over an' see kin you go to
sleep,' said Charles, approaching the bed and helping Hammond turn upon
his side. 'I goin' to hang up my quilt at the window an' keep the light
offn you. Don' fret. I be here, right here, an' you goin' to wake up.'

The pain had subsided and Hammond was able to fall into a fitful sleep,
in which he muttered and mumbled, wept and cried out. Charles, more than
ever, was sure that it was cholera. All the symptoms were as he had
heard they were. He speculated about how long his brother-in-law might
live and about his chances of occupying the bed when he was dead. He
doubted whether Redfield would consent to occupy it with him. Perhaps he
would have it alone for a week until he too died. He sat still by the
bedside and pulled the quilts back around the patient's neck when he
sought to throw them off. At noon he slipped quietly from the room and
went to dinner, but revealed to nobody that there was a case of cholera
in the house. Eating lightly and without appetite, he returned to his
bedside vigil. The room with its closed windows smelled of fever.

Early in the afternoon, the patient woke.

'I reckon you wantin' a reverend, ain't you? Somebody to pray with?'
Charles asked. 'Well, one of 'em wouldn't come, an' if he knew whut ail
you. I ain't much good at it--prayin'; but I try an' you wants.'

'Too late fer prayin', now,' replied the sick man, turning on his side
and drawing the quilts about his neck. 'Don' reckon I needin' it,
anyways. I ain't never done nothin' whut wasn't right, nothin' that God
kin hol' agin me.'

His denial of his own sinfulness relieved Ham. He felt himself better,
asked for a piece of meat, at which he nibbled and gnawed. His fever had
subsided. He was free from pain. He knew he was doomed to die, but he
felt better. He sprawled on his back and stretched his legs.

'I wonder is Doc Redfield takin' care o' my niggers,' he began to worry.

'That whut the nigger say whut brung your medicine,' answered Charles.
'Nev' min', they all right. An' whut difference, anyways? You never
a-goin' to know an' after you dead.'

'I ain't a-goin' to die. I feelin' me better. Not strong, but better,'
the patient announced. 'Don' they ever git up from that cholerie?'

'Not many of 'em. Few.'

'Then I ain't got it at all. Ain't never had it. I gittin' me up, come
mornin'.'

'Hopin' you right,' sighed Charles. 'You ain't got it, I ain't a-go' to
ketch it.'

After an interval of silence, Hammond said, 'Right kin', you settin' by
me an' lookin' out fer me, 'specially you thinkin' it cholerie. Right
kin', after ever'thin', an' all.'

'Nothin' else to do, with you my cousin. Couldn' leave you all alone to
die,' Charlies belittled his charity.

'Cain't blame Redfield, not comin' back, thinkin' I got it. Cain't blame
him, not bein' no a-kin.' In Hammond's very denial there was a show of
resentment, but his animosity to Charles was at an end. Charles had more
than made up for his theft--if theft it was--of Jason and of the money
entrusted to him. Perhaps, Hammond reasoned, the boy really had believed
the Negro a gift and had intended to return the money to his father.

Hammond did not feel up to supper, but Charles brought him a bowl of
soup. Redfield, Charles learned, had not returned to the boarding-house
for either of his meals. The boys settled to sleep, and when Charles got
up to serve his cousin shortly after midnight, Hammond suggested that he
join him in the bed.

'He ain't comin',' he argued, laughingly. 'Might as well. I ain't got
nothin' ketchin' an' it better'n that hard pallet.'

Charles acceded to the suggestion, not so much because the bed was
softer than the pallet but because the invitation was an earnest of
forgiveness. The previous night it would have been unthinkable.

The following morning, Hammond put on his clothes with Charles's
assistance.

Hammond had been burned out with fever and was still weak. He insisted,
however, upon mounting his horse to go to the Forks to see after his
slaves. Charles, more because he wished not to disrupt the renewed
friendship than because of Hammond's need for him, rented a horse from
the livery stable and went along.

Six of the slaves, four men and two women, were missing. Hammond could
not believe that they had run. He went to the office to consult the
caretaker.

Hopkins told him, 'He, that gen'leman, sold off some of 'em yestiday. I
ain't knowin' how many of 'em. It all right, hain't it, me lettin' 'em
go? Mista Redfield got your leave to sell 'em?'

Hammond reassured Hopkins. Confident of Redfield's honesty, at least in
his relations with him and his father, he was nevertheless relieved to
see the veterinary ride into the lot. Redfield came forward,
embarrassed, amazed to see Hammond.

'I reckoned I better take care o' the varmints,' he opined, 'seein' you
sick. I knowin' you wasn't bad.'

'Wasn' nothin',' Hammond minimized his illness. 'Cousin Charles here, he
set with me.'

Redfield detected recrimination in the statement, and turned the
subject. 'We had a good day. I ridded us of six of 'em--two of 'em
wenches.'

'I see they gone,' nodded Ham. 'I believin' nobody goin' to want them
females. Git good prices?'

'Thousan' apiece fer the wenches. I ain't changin' the prices you set.
Could o' sol' two otherns, ifn I could o' lowered 'em some.' He
deliberately saved the best to the last. 'You know that 'Poleon? I done
right well with that one. Eighteen hundert.'

'How come? On'y askin' fifteen. How come?'

'Well, this little ol' man wantin' a good breeder. Said so right
straight out. Sol' off all his common bucks; wantin' a good one.'

'Not Pole. He ain't no good. You knowin' he ain't got a sucker in him.
That the why Papa sellin' him. You know that good an' well. That ain't
hones'.'

Redfield chuckled at his deception. 'That man ain't goin' to know short
o' six months. I tol' him Pole had knock all them wenches. He believe
it.'

Hammond was vexed. 'Who is he? Whure at he live at? We find him an' take
Pole back agin. We kin tell him you didn't know Pole barren.'

'How I know whure he live? Name of Miller; that how the bill of sale
made out.'

'Miller? They is lots o' Millers.'

'You cain't fin' him. Let him go. Take you money,' Charles counselled.

'Ain't no other course,' sighed Hammond. 'Fifteen hundert of it. Pole
worth that, but not no more. Doc Redfield here got to keep the rest of
it. I ain't havin' it.' Thus he salved his conscience.

Redfield demurred, but at Ham's insistence finally accepted. He relished
that three hundred dollars, but knew it was a reprimand.

'Ain't nothin' but bad luck, this whole trip,' Hammond lamented. 'First,
that mustee runnin'. After that I taken down sick. An' now I cheatin' a
white man on a barren buck.'

'Leastwise, you ain't gotten the cholerie,' said Charles cheerfully.
'An' we cousins again,' he added.

Next morning it was raining when Hammond awoke. He lay awhile listening
to the patter on the shingles, speculated about the wisdom of setting
out in the wet day, itemized, thumb against successive finger-ends, the
details to which he must attend before the journey could get under way.

He spent four vacuous days in getting rid of the last two wenches, whom
he finally exchanged for four young boys. The delay irritated him for he
would rather have been scouring the country for that escaped mustee.
When he reached Falconhurst, it would mean that he must set out again to
search, probably in vain, for the lost boy.

But the responsibility was now at an end. He had discharged it to what
was sure to be his father's satisfaction. True, he would have to endure
his father's censure, expressed in cackling laughter, of the mishaps
like the running of the mustee, the sale of the sterile Napoleon as a
stallion. However, the old man would take no glee at his son's illness.
Possibly that might curb his amusement at the boy's blunders.

Over against the bad judgment with which Hammond charged himself, he set
the heavy bag of gold--almost twenty-three thousand dollars; he was not
sure just how much--he would lay at his father's feet. On the whole, he
had done well.

He put on his clothes, and Charles got up and helped him with his boot.

He had promised Blanche to bring her something from the city. What?
Garments she could not wear in her pregnancy. After breakfast, he set
out in the rain to buy some gimcrack--anything. He was not interested. A
ring? He had for her the ring with diamond that Charles had returned to
him.

At the most lavish jewellery shop, Wineberg's, he found pendant
earrings, round disks gaudily encrusted with garnets. That would please
a woman. He bought them, and thought how pretty they would look against
Ellen's duskiness, how barbaric. Jewels on a Negro, he knew, were
wasted, but how pleased Ellen would be! She demanded nothing, expected
nothing, but earrings would set her apart. On a whim, he bought a second
pair exactly like the first.

Not as a present, rather as a utility, he acquired for his father an
open litter, such as the one in which he had seen an invalid going about
the streets, carried on the shoulders of two Negroes. It would enable
the rheumatic to traverse the plantation and take a more active part in
its management. The stores where Hammond inquired for the article he was
unable to name understood his description well enough but had no such
thing in stock and shunted the purchaser from place to place. At length
he learned of a man, now dead, who had ridden in a litter, no longer in
use, and its owner's heir was happy to give it to anybody who could find
a use for it. Stored in a stable, the bed was faded and covered with
dust and chaff, and the frame was somewhat sprung, but the pieces fitted
together well enough and it was usable if not beautiful. Hammond would
much have preferred to pay for the contraption and was embarrassed by
the donor's generosity. The transaction ended with Hammond's fulsome
declaration of his undying gratitude and his invitation that the
generous man should come to Falconhurst and see his gift in use.

The rain had abated to a drizzle. Hammond, against Doc Redfield's
counsel and Charles's wish, decided to make for home. They ate their
final dinner at Squires, relinquished their room to Charles, and paid
their score.

Redfield proposed one more drink, which Hammond refused. 'We losin'
time,' he said.

Charles walked to the door and out on to the uneven brick sidewalk to
watch them mount. He shook Redfield's hand and held Hammond's a full
minute, patting his shoulder.

'Whyn't you carry that big buck of yourn acrost? Course, after cholerie
is out of the city. I knows four or five fightin' gen'lemen down the
river whut got niggers, good niggers. I makin' a match fer yourn any
time, any time at all.'

'You meanin' my Mandingo?' asked Hammond.

'Yeh, that Mandingo, or whut you call him,' Charles specified.

Hammond made no reply. He motioned the boys with the empty litter into
action. Redfield led the mule for a hundred yards and when he dropped
the bridle the mule trudged after him.

It was plain that the progress could be no faster than the boys could
trot with the litter on their shoulders, and Hammond resigned himself to
it, for he would not leave the hammock behind. Redfield was in no haste,
and the pace suited the old mule well. The slogging over the rough roads
and the necessity to keep in step bored the boys more than it tired them
physically. Each few miles, Hammond permitted them to sit by the
roadside and rest.

Nothing untoward occurred on the journey. Hammond had counted upon
making sixty or seventy miles a day without difficulty, whereas, with
the boys carrying the litter, thirty miles was a good day's journey,
thirty-five was the maximum, and one day they covered but little more
than twenty.

The journey, Natchez to Falconhurst, used up seven days and on the final
night there was no pause to sleep. The closer Hammond approached his
destination, the more impatient to reach it he became. Two hours before
daybreak he abandoned the party to Redfield's care, gave Eclipse his
head, and, breaking into a gallop, reached Benson before anybody was
stirring and by eight o'clock turned into the lane at Falconhurst.

Lucretia Borgia and Meg seemed to sense the arrival; on hearing the
hoofbeats they came pell-mell to the gallery, where they waited for
their master to alight. Lucretia Borgia gathered him in her arms and Meg
stroked his long coat.

'Whure Papa an' them?' the master demanded. 'Ever'thin' all right?'

The latter question Lucretia Borgia refrained from answering. 'Ol'
Masta, he good; he well, Masta, suh. I reckon he never hear,' she said.
'Git him, Meg. Tell him Masta done come.'

But it was unnecessary. The older man appeared, radiant in his delight.
He hugged and kissed his son until the youth led him into the house.

'Whure--whure Blanche an' all of 'em?'

'Blanche ain't a-feelin' real good. She ain't come down,' the father
explained.

'Drunk?'

'Well, no,' the old man hedged. 'That is, she ain't drunk much. No more
than she needin', in her shape.'

Hammond shook his head in doubt as he took a toddy from a tray with
which Meg appeared. 'An' how Ellen? Whure she? Whyn't she come?' he
asked.

'Why, Ellen, I tell you,' the old man hesitated. 'She gone an' slip that
chil' she totin'.' There was a long silence as the father noted his
son's consternation.

'Ellen right 'shamed. She a-skeared o' seein' you, Masta, suh,' Lucretia
Borgia interpolated. 'I tellin' her you not be mad.'

'Slip it? How come?'

Lucretia Borgia left the explanation to the master, and he only shrugged
his pretended ignorance.

'Whure she? I got to see her, got to know,' said the distraught youth.
'I got her somethin'. I brung her a presen'.'

'She in the kitchen, a-waitin',' Lucretia Borgia told him, and he set
down his toddy without tasting it and went to find her.

Ellen was tremulous in anticipation of seeing her lover. As he entered,
she faced him, but backed away as if to avoid his blows, which she would
have withstood better than the anger she expected. 'I never meant to.
Masta, I never meant to,' she pleaded, bursting into weeping.

Hammond encircled her in his arms. 'It all right; it all right,' he
assured her. 'You well? Ellen, Honey, you gittin' better, we make you
another one. Cain't you un'erstan', Honey, it all right. I isn't mad.'

Ellen could only bury her face in his coat, sobbing her relief that she
was not blamed.

'Look, Ellen,' said Hammond, forcing her to arm's length. 'Look. I done
fetched you somethin' from the city, somethin' goin' to make you purty.
Not that you a-needin' purtifyin'.' He drew from his pocket the small
packet and unwrapped the earrings from the tissue-paper around them.
'There. Don' that happify you?'

Ellen took them, moved. 'They fer me? They fer me? They purty enough fer
a white lady,' she beamed her thanks, and fell again to weeping.

'I fetch some jest like 'em, same thing, fer Miz Blanche,' said Hammond.

'Miz Blanche, she already got holes; she kin wear hern. I got to have my
ears punched.'

Hammond had forgotten the need to pierce the ears. 'Won't hurt much. We
tend to it first thing.'

'They purty. They awful purty, Masta, suh.' In her enthusiasm Ellen had
forgotten her miscarriage. 'You hadn't ought. They cost.'

'Nev' mind, an' they did,' Hammond scoffed.

Ellen held the jewels to her ears. 'Ain't no other nigger never had
aught so purty.'

'They markin' you mine, my own, jest like my letters burned into your
hide. You well enough fer tonight? See that you clean. Have Lucretia
Borgia wash you all over.' Hammond did not press for a cause of the
accident. He returned to give his father an account of his trip.

'Whure Doc Redfield?' the father asked on the son's return to the
sitting-room. 'He go on home? Whyn't he stop by? Better have that boy
heat up your toddy.'

'Doc Redfield, he a-comin' with the niggers. I rode ahead.'

'Oh,' the father was mollified. 'Niggers goin' down, I reckon? Ourn
didn' hardly fetch nothin', the cholerie an' all?'

'Niggers up, goin' up all the time. Natchez full of folks, runnin' from
cholerie. We done right good. Course, one run, that mustee,' Ham
admitted.

'Git him?'

'No. Still a-runnin'. I reckon he go home to Briarfiel' where we bought
him. I'm goin' there fer him tomorrer.'

The father was complacent, but chuckled his disparagement of the boy's
carelessness. 'Won't do no good,' he shook his head. 'That boy near
white. He strikin' North. I reckoned Redfield more watchful.'

'He wanted I should chain 'em,' Hammond absolved the doctor. 'Here they
are, a-comin'.'

They went together out upon the gallery to receive Redfield, herding his
charges down the lane. The doctor dismounted, exhausted, and shook the
elder man's hand.

'Whut kin' of gyascutus is that them bucks a-totin'?' the old man asked.

'It a carryin' bed fer you to ride in aroun' the plantation. You kin go
anywhures now--down by the Tombigbee, up to the buryin' grounds, out to
the cotton, anywhures you craves,' Hammond expanded with pride.

'Huh!' sniffed the rheumatic. 'You expectin' me to ride in that
contraption, you wrong. Ain't goin', not a step. I got my own legs yet.
Not strong, but I got 'em. Afore I ridin' aroun' nigger-back, I stay in
an' rest me.'

'Ever'body in Natchez usin' these carryin' beds,' Hammond exaggerated.
'Ever'body who cain't git aroun'.'

'Cain't he'p. I won'. May be all right in Natchez, an' down in Brazil,
an' in all them fine-haired cities, but me out here in the country--no.
It ain't no Alabama dingus at all. Mayhap, all right to pleasure in,
right sof', an' you ain't got no feather bed, but fer a growed up man to
go bouncin' about on niggers' shoul'ers--why, even field niggers would
lose their respeck.'

Hammond knew that the rejection was final. He had wasted at least four
days in bringing the litter, all to no purpose. Pride. He told the
bearers to cast it on the gallery floor against the wall of the house.

Instructing Lucretia Borgia to feed the four children well and
afterwards to bed them down on long straw, Hammond drew Redfield into
the house for breakfast. In the course of it, the doctor, fortified by
two preliminary toddies, recounted with embellishments their experiences
in the city. Redfield omitted to discuss the sale of the sterile Pole,
since he had himself made it; nor did he mention Hammond's illness and
the meeting with Charles. This was a convenient negligence. He had heard
Hammond's promise to Charles not to tell Blanche about seeing him and he
hoped that the secrecy from the wife would extend to the father. He had
compunctions about neglect of his companion, although Hammond had never
mentioned it.

After breakfast, the older man suggested, 'Bring your bag of gol', Ham,
an' pay off Doc Redfield. Might as well, right now. How much we owin'
you, Doc?'

'Nothin', nothin' at all. Won't take nothin', not a cent,' affirmed
Redfield.

'Why?' Maxwell demanded. 'Hammond here has had a right fruitful trip. We
countin' on payin'. Only right!'

'Beginnin' with, Hammond pay ever'thin', all I spent. Besides that, I
sell one of them bucks fer three hun'ert dollars more than he a-wantin'
an he said I should keep the money. I didn't crave----'

'That case----' Maxwell conceded. 'But we willin' to pay. I right
obliged you goin' along. If Ham got sick or a-needin' somebody----'

The allusion caused Redfield to wonder whether Hammond had told of his
illness before his arrival. Maxwell was capable of such an oblique
accusation. Redfield saw fit to take his departure. He could detect no
lack of cordiality in the leave-taking.

Hammond even accompanied the guest to his horse, after which he went to
the cabin to examine the Mandingos. He found Mede reclining on the bed,
Lucy standing above him feeding him bite by bite.

'Whut ails him? Ain't he got stren'th to eat his vittles?' Hammond
demanded with irritation.

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh. Mede strong-like,' replied Lucy. 'On'y he likes I
should feed him, layin' down. An' I likes to. He so purty.' To the
woman, Mede was like a great doll, a helpless baby to humour.

'I'll purty him,' Hammond threatened.

The boy arose to permit his master to inspect him. Hammond detected a
softening of the belly muscles that he did not like. He accused the
slave of neglecting his training. 'Cain't git no work out of you up
here. I reckon you better be barned agin. Room a plenty down there now.
This takin' up----'

'No, no, Masta, suh. He workin' all the time. All the time, Mede here
runnin', jumpin', a-liftin'. All the time. All the time.' There was
anxiety in Lucy's voice.

Mede was indifferent to the threat. He accepted whatever happened.

'Well, keep him workin' hisself. I be home to stay in three, four, five
days, an' then I takin' him in han'. I learn him whut workin' is.'

After riding all night, Hammond was fatigued, and he returned to the
house. Blanche, big-bellied and blowzy, had come downstairs.

She rocked her chair gently and greeted her husband with, 'Whut you
fetch me? You gone a long while, an' me here a-waitin' fer it!'

He drew the trinkets from his pocket and gave them to her. They pleased
her beyond his expectations. She could only gasp and gasp again in her
excitement.

'They di'mon's?' she inquired.

'Not di'monds,' Hammond opined. 'Di'monds white. These somethin' else.'

'They costs, I reckon.'

Hammond admitted that they had some value. 'Put 'em on,' he suggested.

Blanche struggled to insert the clasps into the small holes in her ears,
which had shrunk from disuse. She ignored the pain.

'Now I cain't see 'em no more. Are they purty?'

'Your hair brushed, an' they goin' to be. Cain't see 'em now, your hair
so snarly-like an' hangin'.' There was no note of censure in the
statement.

'Now, folks goin' to know who your wife, who you buyin' jewellery.'
Blanche turned her florid, bloated face from side to side the better to
display the gift. Garnets accentuated the girl's blondeness.

The indiscretion of bringing identical presents to his wife and his
concubine struck Hammond for the first time. Why had he not foreseen
Blanche's resentment, which was sure to follow? There was no occasion
for a gift to Ellen, who had expected none--except that he loved her.
The gift had been made and could not be withdrawn. He kept silent about
it.

'These ain't nothin'. They don' mark you my wife. But I got somethin'
that do. I got me that di'mond ring at las'.' He got out the soiled ring
Charles had thrown at him and placed it on her finger. 'Now, that there
is a di'mond,' he said.

Blanche examined it proudly and kissed it on her finger. 'How it
sparkle!' she wondered, holding her soiled hand in the air and twisting
her gross wrist. 'Now I kin have my chil'. I married right. Plumb
married.'

'We married all right, even before. Your papa written it right in his
Bible,' Hammond asserted without satisfaction. 'It hold. That chil' of
yourn legal.'

'I knowin', but now I got me the di'mon' ring.'

Hammond was cheered by the simple girl's pleasure with her bauble.

'She ain't got none,' Blanche gloated.

'Who ain't?'

'That Ellen.'

'Course not. She jest a nigger,' Hammond scoffed.

'She slip her chil' while you away,' Blanche introduced the subject
tentatively and cautiously. She wanted to make sure that he did not know
the cause.

'That whut Papa say. Don' know whut make her. I wantin' you should be
careful.'

'I is. I ain't slippin' nothin'. I's glad, glad she slip it. I didn't do
it, but I's glad.'

'How come? Whut fer you glad? That sucker worth a hunderd, two hunderd
dollars the day she drop it,' Hammond attributed his interest in the
accident to the monetary value of the child.

'Oh, she thinkin' she so purty an' all, rollin' her eyes. Jes' another
nigger!'

'Ellen don' mean no harm. She right nice, an' smooth,' Hammond defended
his property.

'You a-thinkin' that chil' yourn?'

'Whut chil'?'

'That Ellen's,' Blanche said spitefully.

Hammond shrugged an assumed ignorance. He had never denied to his wife
his relationship with Ellen or any other wench.

'One of the bucks, likely; liable all of 'em. She pleasurin' with 'em
all, 'specially that Mede,' the wife asserted without denial from her
spouse. 'Leastwise, it come black,' she went on, 'or real dark,
ever'body sayin'.'

'Who sayin'? Who?'

'Folks, niggers, ever'body who seen it. Real dark.'

Hammond did not dispute the assertion. If the belief gave his wife any
satisfaction, she was welcome. He was tired of the night's ride, and
tired of the conversation.

'I reckon I better lay me down awhile,' said Hammond. 'I got to go agin,
come mornin'.'

When he awoke, Blanche was with his father, and he found no opportunity
to tell of his meeting with Charles; nor could he tell of his illness
without dragging Charles into the story. But such considerations paled
before his joy at being home. Falconhurst, for Ham, was the centre of
the world.




CHAPTER 20


But there was the unfinished business of Ace's escape, and the following
day Hammond set out on his ride to Briarfield. Meg arose to dress him
and Lucretia Borgia to prepare his breakfast. He was irked by the
necessity to make the journey, irresolute in his determination to flog
the truant slave when--and if--he should find him.

He rode rapidly. His horse had not been taxed on the trip from Natchez
and had rested in his spacious stall the whole of the previous day. The
morning was crisp with just a hint of frost, and activity warmed both
horse and rider.

Riding hard, he reached Fairfax in time for supper and Briarfield the
following morning in time for dinner. But at Briarfield there was no
news of Ace. The slave had not returned to his erstwhile home.

Hammond was resigned; he had only half expected to find the boy, in any
event, and he did not know where else to seek for him. Then a signpost
reminded him how near he was to Crowfoot, and his wife's parents. He had
no will to go, but felt an obligation, since he was so near.

'The ol' Major goin' loony, folks says,' the innkeeper at Briarfield
told Hammond. 'Don't know, my own self. Ain't seed him fer a long time
back.'

'I ain't heared nothin', an' Miz Maxwell ain't,' Hammond expressed his
doubt.

'It's that boy that done it, that Charlie runnin' away. Jest drove his
pappy crazy.'

Then Hammond knew he must go and see.

When he rode into Crowfoot, he noticed that the plantation was in a
better state than when he had last seen it. Fences had been repaired,
gates were upright, weeds had been mowed, cabins whitewashed. The house
was tightly shut up, although smoke came from the chimney and he knew
somebody was at home. At length a Negro woman came from somewhere to
take his horse and it was necessary for him to knock upon the door for
admission.

The Negro man, who after a while answered the knock, said, 'Masta Dick
out, suh, Masta. I ain't know wha' at are he. Come right in an' set
down, suh. You Miz Blanche's man. I knows you.'

'But whure Major Woodford? Whure your masta?' Hammond inquired.

'Set down, Masta, suh,' suggested the servant, leading the way to the
parlour. 'I tell Mist'ess you come.'

Hammond heard him in the sitting-room, trying to make Beatrix understand
his presence, and heard her hollow 'Oh!'

When she entered to greet him, she appeared browner than ever, more
sallow and bloodless, her teeth more discoloured, in the same brown
dress. And she was older, many years older. She walked with her horn to
her ear.

'Oh, Cousin Hammond!' she greeted him, falling into his arms. 'I been
a-thinkin', thinkin' and a-prayin', wishin' you'd come. How Blanche? How
she? How my little girl?'

Hammond screamed his reassurance into the horn, but was by no means sure
she understood. 'Whure the Major, Major Woodford?' he asked. 'I reckon
he out?'

'How?' She wrinkled her face and extended the horn.

Hammond repeated his question.

'Papa?' she asked. 'He is porely. He jest set an' don' say nothin'. Come
an' see him.'

Hammond followed Beatrix into the sitting-room, where the Major sprawled
in a large rocking-chair, slowly and aimlessly moving to and fro. He
looked at Hammond without recognition.

Beatrix took him by the shoulder and shook him. 'It's Hammon', Cousin
Hammon' Maxwell, Papa. Don' you know him?'

Hammond would hardly have recognized his father-in-law, he was so
changed. He was fat, and his face was so bloated that no wrinkles
showed. It was utterly without expression. He paid no attention to
Hammond, seemed not to see him. Hammond picked up the Major's hand from
his lap, shook it, and replaced it. It returned no pressure.

'Papa, he's porely,' Beatrix explained again.

'Who runnin' Crowfoot?' Hammond asked and repeated. 'It lookin' real
nice, better, that is.'

When Beatrix finally understood the question, she answered, 'Why, Dick,
he runnin' it, best he kin. Oh, he ain't give up preacherin'. I couldn't
stan' that. He still a-servin' God, but he had to take a-holt. Wasn'
nobody else, an' Charles gone, dead I reckon. We ain't heard nothin'. I
keep a-prayin' an' a-prayin', askin' God to fin' him, us a-needin' him
like we do.'

Hammond made an effort to reply, but was unable to make himself
understood. Beatrix rambled on, and the guest merely nodded and shook
his head, grimacing to acknowledge what she said. Major Woodford spoke
not a word and appeared to hear none.

Beatrix looked out of the window and said, 'I wonder whyn't Dick come.
It time fer him. He kin talk; I cain't hardly 'cause my hearin' gittin'
bad. You notice?' Hammond nodded and the woman fell silent.

It was half an hour before Dick's footsteps were heard on the gallery,
during which time Beatrix and Hammond sat looking at each other and the
speechless Major at neither of them.

'Consarn, consarn!' Dick greeted his brother-in-law. 'Consarn! I knowed
you was come. Saw your hoss in the stable. Right glad to see you, right
glad! Ain't nobody to talk, Papa losin' his min' an' Mamma gone deef,
nobody, savin' the niggers.'

'Wasn't knowin' about your Papa. Whut ail him?' Hammond asked.

Dick shook his head. 'Ain't no knowin'. Jest sets and don' talk none.
Min' clean gone. Ain't led the right life, I reckon; drinkin' and
carryin' on. Ain't right with Jesus.'

'Blanche will be right sorry to hear,' said Hammond.

'Blanche?' Dick asked, as if he had just thought of his sister.
'Blanche? How she come on?'

'She well,' her husband assured. 'That is, as well as kin be, allowin'
the shape she in.'

'Whut shape she in?'

'Why, she knocked. She in a family way. She goin' to have a chil'.'
Hammond did not know how to put the fact with more delicacy.

'Consarn! She is? You sure? When it comin'?'

'Don' exactly know. Couple of months. She bulgin' big,' Hammond said
proudly.

'Then the marriage took that I said over you. You didn' lose no time
gittin' her knocked! Consarn!' Dick turned from Hammond to his mother
and asked, 'Hear that, Mamma, whut Ham a-sayin'?'

Beatrix adjusted her horn and Dick re-asked his question. She shook her
head and leaned forward to hear.

'Hammond say Blanche, she goin' to have a baby.' Dick repeated the
statement three times.

When she finally understood, Beatrix was shocked, alarmed. 'Oh, oh, you
horrible man, doin' that to my little girl. No! No! She too young!' the
mother cried, dropping her horn and wringing her hands.

Dick retrieved the trumpet. 'Whut you reckon? They married, isn't they?
Whut fer you reckon they git married?' he screamed at the woman, who
failed--or refused--to hear him.

Major Woodford took no cognizance of what was said, but stared vacantly
into a far corner of the room and continued to rock.

Hammond was too embarrassed to reply to his mother-in-law. He wished he
had not come.

'I'll pray, I pray. Jest somethin' else to pray about,' the woman wept.
'First, Charles, then Papa, now pore little Blanche. An' it seem like
Jesus jest don' pay no attention. He knowin' bes'. Mayhap, He goin' to
hear me now.'

'Too late,' laughed Dick, clapping Hammond warmly on the shoulder.
'Consarn, whut else they fer--women? Course they goin' to have babies.
Won't hurt her none. Blanche, she right buxom.'

Beatrix wiped the tears from her eyes, and asked, 'When it due to come?
How long?'

'Month or two, I reckon. Blanche, she right big,' Hammond faltered.

'An' I cain't go, cain't be with my pore little girl an' do fer her.'
Beatrix shook her head and burst into fresh tears. 'Papa done gone
crazy-like, an' I cain't leave him alone--jest alone with Dick. He'd do
somethin' to Dick. Oh, oh, oh! Seem like you the cause of all my
trouble. I wisht I never seen you, wisht Cousin Sophy hadn't never had
you!' She arose and fled from the room.

'Consarn! Which is the looniest, her or Papa, I ain't a-knowin'!' said
Dick, shaking his head. 'Charlie an' Blanche is lucky or smart or
somethin', gittin' away an' shet of 'em--leavin' me to fret an' manage.'

'Plantation lookin' better--right smart better,' Hammond congratulated
his cousin.

'Yas, I went an' sol' off a couple of ol' niggers. Had to; don' care an'
they was mortgage, I jest made 'em over same as they was mine. I had to
git me some money to plant with. An' I put the otherns workin'. Papa
never made 'em do nothin'. Got three or four of the wenches bringin'
suckers, an' sows all in farrow. Go to plant me a cotton crop an' a corn
crop, too. Do jest like it was mine, my own. I reckon, with Charlie
dead, I'll be heirin' it anyhow, purty soon. The ol' folks cain't live
long.'

Major Woodford stopped his rocking. 'They tryin' to kill me, Dick an'
Beatrix,' he said in a loud whisper. 'Tryin' to pizen me, all the time,
tryin' to pizen me. Cain't you do somethin' about it, Hammon'?' These
were the first words he had spoken to Hammond, the first intimation that
he had recognized his presence.

'I reckon they ain't, suh. They don' want you should die,' Hammond
sought to placate the old man.

'He always a-thinkin' that. Cain't pay no 'tention to his loony
talkin',' Dick interposed.

'They gits shet of me, an' Dick goin' to kill his mamma, an' he thinkin'
he have Crowfoot all hisself,' persisted the father. 'He fergittin'
Blanche an' you--an' Charlie, if he alive yet.'

'Blanche ain't a-needin' her part. Don't fret none about Blanche an'
me,' Hammond soothed.

'You right sure you never killed Charles? He went runnin' off with you
an' he never come back. I reckon you done kill him. Good riddance.
Wasn't no good, no way. I ain't a-blamin' you, ain't a-blamin' you at
all,' the Major condoned.

'Charles yet a-livin'. That is, I reckon,' Hammond was tempted to tell
of his seeing Charles at Natchez. He wondered whether in the
circumstances it would violate his promise, but he decided to keep
silent.

'I ain't a-blamin' you fer killin' him,' persisted the insane man. 'Whut
you do it with, shootin' or pizen? Whure you bury him?'

The accusation, even while he recognized its irresponsibility, made
Hammond uneasy.

'You got him talkin', leastwise,' said Dick. 'He ain't talked none,
ain't opened his mouth, fer a month. Papa,' he turned to his father,
'Hammon' never kilt Charlie. You makin' things up, jest like you makin'
out Mamma an' me tryin' to pizen you.'

Major Woodford put out his tongue at his son, withdrew it and set his
lips in a hard line. He resumed his rocking and said no more.

'Mustn't never min' him. He loony--kind of,' Dick said. He accepted his
father's infirmity factually, a thing to be faced and acknowledged, and
had no reticence in discussing it in his presence.

'Supper done ready, Masta Dick, suh,' old Washington, whom Hammond had
last seen as a coachman, appeared to announce. He helped Major Woodford
to his feet and shepherded him toward the dining-room. The younger men
followed.

Beatrix was already seated at the table and Wash drew the chair opposite
her for her husband. Dick and Hammond sat between them, facing each
other. Dick said a prolonged and passionate grace in a loud voice
directed into Beatrix's trumpet, but she was unable to hear the words.

Woodford ignored the prayer and as soon as he was seated began reaching
for the food, to all of which he helped himself in huge portions.

'Seem you could wait fer the blessin',' Beatrix protested, ''specially
when they's company.' To Hammond she added, 'Got to overlook Papa. Don'
know whut he doin'. Cain't git him to wait an' be nice.'

The old man ignored her, pretended not to hear. Before the prayer was
finished, he had heaped his plate with victuals, and, grasping it with
both hands, he lifted it towards Wash and said, 'Taste.'

The Negro took the plate, and, using his fingers instead of a fork,
lifted some of each of its contents to his mouth. Of the chicken, he had
no alternative but to bite it from its bone.

'Papa reckons we tryin' to pizen him an' he tryin' the vittles on the
nigger,' Beatrix explained the strange rite. 'It don' kill the nigger,
he guesses it all right fer him.'

Woodford's eyes were focused upon the features of his slave. When Wash
survived the ordeal and handed the plate back to him, he accepted it
with a show of disappointment that the Negro had not died. But Major
Woodford took this as evidence that the food was safe and began a
furious stirring and mixing together of the various articles on his
plate, after which he bolted the conglomeration like a cormorant, wiping
the plate clean with bread. He then calmly pushed back his chair, rose,
and left the room. The others had hardly begun to eat.

'Papa ain't hisself,' Beatrix sighed, 'actin' that a-way. He plague us
right smart, Dick and me.'

'He ain't bad, on'y he don' do nothin' an' don' say nothin'. He'll git
over it, I reckon, when he takes a notion,' commented Dick.

'How?' demanded his mother, leaning towards him with her trumpet. 'Whut
you say?'

The young man shook his head to indicate to her that his speech had been
unimportant. Excluded from the conversation, she abandoned the effort to
follow it and set to eating her meal. She could see the movement of the
lips of the young men, knew when one was speaking and the other
replying, and was curious about the drift of their conversation. Her
loss was not great, however, since all that Dick told Hammond she
already knew, and since Hammond's tale of his trip to Natchez was so
filled with reservations about his seeing Charles and about the money
derived from the sale of the slaves, it was deprived of all reality. He
did declare his errand to Briarfield and urged the necessity to pursue
Ace further as an excuse to escape from the stifling hospitality of
Crowfoot, with its deaf, religion-bound woman and its crazy man. Dick
alone he could have endured.

Supper over, Hammond asked for his horse. Beatrix, who had heard nothing
about the runaway slave, was shocked and injured by his show of haste.

'You doesn't like us at Crowfoot, seem like,' she complained. 'Won't
never settle down an' stay awhile.'

'Cousin Hammon' got to kotch him a runnin' nigger,' Dick bellowed into
her horn. 'Consarn, cain't you un'erstan'?'

Beatrix looked blankly from one face to the other in her failure of
comprehension. 'Seem like he could stay one night here as good as at
Briarfield. There ain't no moon an' he cain't go on no ways.'

'He after a nigger,' Dick bellowed again; and then in a normal voice
added, 'She gittin' worse, seem like. She cain't hear, 'specially when
she ain't a-wantin' to.'

'You tell Blanche that I cain't come, but I kin pray, I kin pray,' said
Beatrix, beginning to weep. 'When she git shet of this one, don' make
her have no more, Cousin Hammon'. Havin' a chil' ain't nothin' to a man,
but it a turrible trial fer a lady. I've had four of 'em, countin' the
one that died. Papa jest that heartless. Don't you be heartless. Tell
her I goin' to pray.'

Hammond made no promise. When he bade farewell to Major Woodford, the
host permitted him to shake his hand, but said not a word and did not
cease his rocking in his chair. The perfunctory kiss Hammond planted on
the cheek of his mother-in-law was an obligation.

'Consarn, but I'd like to ride with you, a-lookin' fer that buck, but I
cain't. Bound down. That whut I am, bound down,' Dick bewailed his fate.

Hammond had no intention of pursuing Ace further, since he had no clue
as to where to look. Baffled, he was bound merely for home.

So he came thankfully back again to Falconhurst. He had had some
misgivings lest the plantation should have suffered from lack of his
management during his long absence at Natchez, which his single day at
home had not resolved, and was mildly disappointed to find how little he
had been needed. Lucretia Borgia, in addition to her duties as cook, had
taken to herself the function of supervision, from which nothing and
nobody escaped. She had seen to it that the slaves were fed and cared
for, also that they were kept busy enough not to deteriorate or grow
slack and lazy. When tasks were not apparent, she made them--mending of
clothes, cleaning of cabins and barns, chopping of unneeded wood,
spading of garden patches. She even assigned chores to the children, the
pulling of weeds, the sweeping of areaways between the cabins, the
gathering of faggots. Hammond was pleased with the order that he found.

The gold he had brought from Natchez was still in the house, and he had
his boys unbury the kettle from under the tree, added the Natchez money
to the hoard, and reburied the treasure. For lack of anything to be
done, he lightened the slaves' work and allowed them more leisure and
ease. All except Mede, whom he believed to have shirked his training and
whom he put to arduous toil, chopping down trees and splitting the wood
for fences, and after a day at that, forced him to run behind Eclipse
for half an hour, to carry weights, jump for him, both high and long, to
bend and twist and turn, anything to bring the slave's muscles into
play, to flex and harden them. Mede's strength was prodigious, but he
was lazy and saw no reason to exert it, and his master never surfeited
watching his activity. Lucy, anointing and massaging his exhausted body
with serpent oil at night, harped on his lethargy and exhorted him to
greater effort to satisfy his master. The more she grumbled, the harder
she rubbed. Mede listened but little to the sermon she preached, but he
relished the friction and pummelling she gave him, and when she was
finished and drew the quilt over his nakedness, he sprawled in
relaxation and went to sleep. He accepted it as his prerogative that he
should luxuriate upon the bed alone, spreading his legs and threshing
his arms, while the women slept together and with Bel upon the
puncheoned floor, nor did they dispute it. When, from time to time, he
permitted Big Pearl to join him, for which the girl was always avid, he
ousted her after his appetite was satisfied and thrust himself out to
cover the whole mattress and to sleep alone.

Mede not only hardened but grew, increased in stature and in girth. His
legs were like hickories, his arms like pylons, his belly like an anvil.
He ate hugely and slept at every respite. His owner had no anticipation
of finding an opponent with whom to fight him, but kept him in training
as a show-piece and ready if a worthy adversary should appear.
Disregarding Wilson's warning that the Mandingo hybrids tended to
treachery, Hammond bred Mede to several of his wenches and already three
or four, in addition to Lucy and Big Pearl, were pregnant by him. Lucy
was complacent about such use of the boy, but Big Pearl was fiery though
impotent in her jealousy, placing the blame on Mede rather than upon her
master where it belonged. The youth was always acquiescent in such an
assignment but never eager, although the women considered themselves
favoured and boasted to their neighbours of the alliance. Mede knew
himself to be his master's property, to be used as the master saw fit to
use him; if as a stallion, Mede was grateful not only for the mate
allotted to him but for the short respite from training that he knew
would follow. Hammond begrudged him those intervals as much as the loss
of his strength, which he sought to restore by forcing upon the
exhausted youth an additional pitcher of milk and eggs.

Hammond had no such concern for his own virility, for every night he
shared his bed with Ellen, who treasured his caresses as if every one
might be the last. She had no awareness of his obligation to his wife,
and Hammond believed that by preferring her he was relieving Blanche of
her distasteful duty to him. To Ellen, the master was the master, whom
she would have obeyed even if she had not loved him so entirely. She
could not credit her good fortune in being chosen for his mistress and
dreaded the day, which she anticipated, of being displaced and relegated
to another.

Lucretia Borgia, as pleased as Ellen with the earrings, had pierced the
girl's lobes with a darning needle to accommodate the jewels, and when
Hammond returned from Briarfield he found Ellen with short straws
through her ears to prevent the punctured lobes from closing as they
healed. Three days later, unable to wait longer, Ellen withdrew the
straws and inserted the earrings, which enhanced her dark beauty. The
gift was an assurance of her owner's affections, and she brushed her
hair back and swung her head for all to see.

The other slaves admired Ellen's jewels without envy of them; after all,
she was the master's own wench and entitled to an ornament to mark her
status.

Blanche, one day in the kitchen, where she had gone to mix a toddy for
herself, unknown to Maxwell, glimpsed Ellen's earrings and knew they
were duplicates of her own. Her temptation was to tear them from the
girl's ears, but Hammond was at home and she knew the wrath it would
kindle. She forbore. Instead, she went upstairs and unscrewed her own
trinkets from her ears, but could not bear to throw the pretty, gleaming
things out of the window, as she had intended. She put them in a corner
of a drawer of her commode.

The light was failing when Hammond came in from work, but when he
entered the sitting-room he perceived that the earrings had disappeared
from his wife's ears. 'Drops git to painin' you?' he asked, fingering
the lobe of his own ear.

'No!' Blanche bit the word.

'Why ain't you wearin' 'em then?' he inquired navely.

'That slut, that dirty nigger slut of yourn. You brung her earrings jest
like mine. Think I'd wear 'em? No!' Blanche began to weep in her anger.

Hammond now saw how grave was the offence of making identical presents
to his wife and to his concubine.

'Now, now,' he said. 'It ain't nothin'.'

'Her time gittin' near,' consoled his father. 'She right squeamish. All
white ladies is, about this time.' He abhorred dissension and sought to
quell it.

'Might as well burn your letters right on her face--an' mine. Bran' 'em
right in, so all the world goin' to know who we-uns belongs to. Nobody
cain't touch a woman with no red earrings. She Hammon' Maxwell's woman,
white or black,' Blanche screamed. 'I ain't your whore to be marked
off.' She rose, waving her arms, and made towards the hall.

Hammond caught her by the shoulder and placed her again in her chair.
'That di'mon' ring, I goin' to take that too, an' you doesn't behave.
Then whut you goin' to do? That boy you totin' in your belly goin' to be
a bastard an' I does. Want he should be a bastard an' ever'body sayin'?'

'No! No! No!' Blanche cried.

'You know our weddin' don' hold. Dick, he ain't no reverend, ain't no
purentee reverend, jest a reverend fer niggers. Ain't got no right to
marry whites. It all I got to do,' Hammond threatened, 'jest to say we
ain't married an' sen' you home to your crazy papa and have your
bastard.'

The girl knew no better than to believe what Hammond himself half
credited. She had no answer, but shrieked hysterically.

'Now, Son, it all right,' Maxwell tried to calm the storm. 'You wedded;
you know you wedded fast to Blanche here. Hadn't ought to skear her this
time. She slip that chil', liable to, right here an' you go to skear
her.'

'I don' care. Ellen mine an' I goin' to have her, whutever you says,'
Hammond declared petulantly.

'Have her! Have the slut! I ain't carin' an' you has her, on'y don' try
to mark us off with your ol' red earrings. You cain't marry her. She
ain't white. She jest your bed slut. I your wife, I your wife,' Blanche
shrilled, rising again and making toward the door.

Hammond let her go and could hear her climbing the stairs.

The father was more distressed by the scene than the son or his wife. It
always distressed him to know Hammond in the wrong and he could not deny
now that he was behaving brutally. 'Go foller her an' love her up, Son,'
he urged. 'Tell her it ain't so. Tell her you married fast. Tell her you
sorry.'

'She kin go to hell, all I care,' sulked Hammond. 'Ellen, she mine, she
mine, an' I keepin' her. Keepin' her, do you hear, keepin' her?'

'Course. Course you keepin' Ellen. I ain't findin' no fault with Ellen,'
Maxwell pacified his child. 'Only Blanche, she white. She your wife.
Hadn' ought to rile her, 'specially now--how she is. Nobody ain't
stoppin' you keepin' your wench.'

'I reckon I hadn't ought to brung her them earrings like Blanche's, only
they so purty on her ears, an' I never thought,' Ham conceded.

Blanche did not come down for supper, and neither of the Maxwells had
any appetite for food. The elder drank toddies, hot and strong, when the
meal was over. The younger man abstained and sat in silent contemplation
in the flickering candlelight until it was time for bed.

By next morning the tempest had subsided. Blanche appeared for her
breakfast as if nothing had occurred and was as affable as usual.
Hammond offered no objection to her after-breakfast toddy, and after he
had gone she drank another and another, which Maxwell made no move to
curb. She had rather pointedly, however, failed to resume her earrings,
which Hammond noted without comment. He also noted and admired Ellen's,
gleaming in her ears.




CHAPTER 21


Christmas was not ignored on Falconhurst. The three days of idleness
granted to the slaves--except the house slaves--were reckoned as a right
and not as a mere absence of tasks. The livestock were fed and cared
for, but otherwise nobody worked--not even in the patches allotted for
gardens. Even Mede was permitted to break his training, which caused his
master some misgivings lest he grow flaccid. The house Negroes were
relieved of none of their duties, which in any event were not
onerous--except Lucretia Borgia's and she would have been desolated to
be deprived of her bossy overseeing of everything and everybody,
including her masters. Held to their usual tasks, discipline within the
house was relaxed and licence was given for acts and speech that would
not have been tolerated at other times. Maxwell shared toddies with Meg
until the boy stumbled with tipsiness.

Presents were few. Clothes and blankets, such as would otherwise have
been needed anyway, were issued to the slaves, many of them merely
mended and washed, handed down to smaller adolescents from youths who
had outgrown them. Each child was given a stick of candy. Some ate it at
once and afterwards regretted that it was gone. Others, more prudent,
sucked on it charily and required days for its final consumption. A few
put it away without tasting to cherish for its beauty. Blanche gave
Tense some crumpled ribbons to prink her hair, and Tense was delighted.

All the boys too old for candy were assembled before the house and each
was allotted a hot toddy. Maxwell went out on to the gallery to drink
with them. A few relished and savoured the potion, and the others
pretended to, for the conceit it gave them to drink with the master.

'Um, um, ain't it jest good?' one yellow boy, seeking to deny his
distaste for the concoction, asked a somewhat darker one who stood
beside him.

'That ain't nothin',' Alph, with no glass in his hand, boasted. 'I has
it anytime I wants, right out of Masta's glass, ever' day I has it,
right outn his glass.'

The half-truth begot the wonderment, if not the envy, it sought. 'Does
you now?' the yellow boy raised his eyes.

'For my rheumatiz, jes' like ol' Masta's. He dreen it into me,' the
urchin bragged.

The greeting of 'Chris'mas gif, Chris'mas gif'' was exchanged whenever
two Negroes met, all over the plantation throughout the three days. It
was all they had to exchange, and none knew quite what it meant. It
implied goodwill. Despite its meagreness, the season was jocund and
lighthearted. All were happy.

'The way it had always ought to be,' Maxwell declared. 'Them young
saplin's got more growin' into 'em in three days than they gits in three
weeks of work time. You kin jes' see 'em laugh an' grow.'

'They grows, I reckon it,' conceded Hammond. 'Only that sugar-candy rot
their teeth an' not a-workin' is makin' 'em triflin'.'

'Whut they got to work fer? Whut it bring 'em? Whut it bring you or
anybody? Let 'em grow.' The old man was no disciple of industry. Let who
would labour; the increment upon which he depended was unearned. The
hours Hammond devoted to the training of Mede his father did not
begrudge, for that was sport, but he deplored the other work, the daily
round of the plantation management to which his son devoted so much time
which, in the father's opinion, would be better devoted to sitting
swizzling toddies. His concept of Negro husbandry was to feed the stock
and to encourage it to reproduce and to grow. He loved his slaves
collectively, as if they had been puppies, and valued their homage, and
faith, and dependence. His constant anxiety was lest his vassals be
underfed or overworked.

One night late in January Big Pearl had her baby.

When Lucretia Borgia arose, she found Belshazzar at the door, sent by
Lucy with the news.

'Whut you wants me to do?' Lucretia Borgia assumed indifference. 'Is Big
Pearl bad sick, or somethin'? Sucker livin'?'

'Yas,'um. It livin'. Big Pearl done had it; she ain't sick no more,'
Shaz explained. 'Mammy Lucy say tell you to tell Masta, ma'am.'

'Whut reckon I goin' to pester Masta ev' time a wench farrow young?'
Lucretia Borgia sniffed. 'Go on along from here.'

Shaz, baffled, retreated. He had executed his errand.

While the masters were at breakfast, Lucretia Borgia, with a casual air,
her own infant in her arms, entered the dining-room, ostensibly to ask
whether the coffee was hot. 'Mem so triflin', cain't trus' him to have
it hot,' she said at first. As an afterthought she relayed Belshazzar's
tidings.

'Whyn't you say?' asked Hammond, startled in his satisfaction, pushing
back his chair. 'Whut kind?'

'I sayin', suh, right now. I never axed whether it wench or buck,'
Lucretia Borgia shrugged.

'Eat your breakfast,' said the father. 'One would think it was yourn,
your own.'

Hammond ignored the counsel, hurried from the house, and limped toward
the cabins.

'It done come. Big Pearl done had it, suh, Masta,' Lucy greeted him at
the door.

Big Pearl, still on the floor, rose to sitting, the naked baby in her
arms, tugging at her enormous breast. 'You goin' to give me somethin',
Masta, suh, ain't you, Masta, suh?' she asked.

'I reckon it worth a dollar an' a new dress an' it sound. Is it soun'?
Ain't anythin' missin' 'bout it?' Hammond had his misgivings of the
brother-and-sister relationship.

He squatted by the pallet, and took the baby in his arms. He felt it
over. There was nothing abnormal about the child except its size and
vigour. With its bowed legs it lunged and kicked as if trying to escape,
and then it broke into a lusty, raucous, tearless cry.

Hammond placed his palm on Big Pearl's forehead, but could detect no
fever. He patted her shoulder and offered praise for her and her child.

When he returned to the house for his breakfast, his father had finished
eating and was in the sitting-room. Meg had brought him a toddy.

'It fine--a buck,' he told the old man. 'Ain't no more the matter than
if Big Pearl never seen that Mede, than if they wasn't no kin at all.
Reckon you got stren'th to walk out to look it over?'

'I've seen 'em, seen hunderds,' Maxwell waved his hand in disinterest.
'Ain't no more than worms at first.'

'This 'un a baboon, big enough to be, 'most. Look jes' like Mede, jest
like him.'

'Well, whut did you reckon? Mede got him, didn't he? That Mede, about
the bes' boar nigger we ever had. Reckon we goin' to use him on all the
wenches hereinafter.'

'You knowin' whut Mr. Wilson told--not to cross up Mandingo with other
niggers. Makes 'em bad.'

'No!' said Maxwell. 'Any nigger is bad an' if he not watched. I wants
'em vig'ous. We sells 'em afore they comes scurvy an' hard to han'le.'

'Whut we goin' to call it?' asked Hammond, reverting to the child.

'Time 'nough, time 'nough,' said his father. 'How is Ol' Mista Wilson?'
he pondered.

'How he?' Hammond failed to understand. 'I reckon he dead, this time.'

'I meanin' callin' the sucker that--Ol' Mista Wilson? Good as anythin'.
That whure we got him--leastwise whure we got his pappy an' mammy. He'd
like it, even an' if he dead, Ol' Mista Wilson would.'

'I reckon it good as any, an' you thinks,' Hammond conceded. 'We ain't
a-sellin' it anyways.'

'Sellin'?' the older man bristled. 'No, suh, we ain't. It goin' to live
an' die with us right here on Falconhurst. They doesn't come like that
once in a coon's age.'

Lucy's baby followed her daughter's earlier than was anticipated. There
was some anxiety on the part of the masters lest it might be premature,
although the girl baby appeared fully developed. Indeed, except for the
comparison with Old Mister Wilson, it was tremendous, approximately
twelve pounds, sinewy and viable. Lucy had wanted her baby to be a boy,
not for her own sake, not that she would treasure a girl the less, but
that she knew a boy's greater value, especially if it were black. A
black wench was of little worth, and Lucy feared her master's censure
for having one.

Her foreboding, however, was wasted; for the young master welcomed
Lucy's daughter with admiration and praise for its mother.

'That a godsend, a windfall,' declared Maxwell when his son told him of
the child's sex. 'Hence, we don' got to fret us about our Mandingos
runnin' out. We goin' to raise this one an' put it to Big Pearl's buck,
soon as they growed enough. It will keep the breed alive.'

Hammond shook his head in misgiving of his father's long-range project.

'Heed you do it, if I ain'tn here to carry it through,' cautioned the
old man, and Hammond, who had never before considered seriously that his
father might die, promised.

Blanche, who had contemplated with an indifference that amounted to
disdain the birth of Negro infants, was terrified at the prospect of her
own confinement, which she knew was near. She knew that it was a painful
process for a white woman, and she remembered a Mrs. Jackson, a friend
of her mother's, who had died in childbirth. She wept in self-pity as
she sat opposite Maxwell with a toddy in her hand.

'Reckon mayhap I goin' to die?' she asked him. 'I not wantin' to die
yet, not yet awhile. I'm afeared.'

Maxwell reassured the girl as best he could. 'You ain't a-goin' to die,'
he said. 'Like, won't have no trouble at all. Course,' he hedged, 'some
does.'

'I dies, an' Hammon' goin' to be sorry, sorry he treat me so,' the girl
wept. 'He goin' to be sorry.'

'Hammon' right good to you. He good to ever'body,' the father defended
his son. 'Course, he right busy, out an' about, drivin' an' overseein'.'

'He find time fer that Ellen. Don' slight her none.' Blanche brushed the
tears from her red eyes with the back of her hand.

'You don' un'erstan',' argued Maxwell. 'Hammon' doesn' care nothin'
'bout Ellen. She jes' a nigger. He a-savin' you. You know that. His
mamma, Sophy, Miz Maxwell, was always right thankful when I pestered
with the wenches an' left her be.'

'Yes. Only Hammon', he don' pester none only Ellen. Ifn he pleasured
with the otherns, Lucy an' Lucretia Borgia, an' all of 'em, I wouldn't
care none.' Blanche had difficulty with the idea. 'On'y he don't. It's
Ellen, all the time Ellen, ever' night Ellen. Don' even look at the
others, no more than at me. He sweet on Ellen. That whut he is.'

'Ellen, she young an' handy, an' he know she goin' to be clean. It goin'
to be different after you have your boy.'

'I don' care an' if I dies. I don' care. It serve him right,' Blanche
pouted.

The baby clothes left over from Hammond's infancy were brought down for
the use of his child. Lucretia Borgia knew just where they had been laid
away on an upper shelf in a wardrobe in a spare room. She found
them--somewhat coarse linen, yellowed by the years, dusty, some of them
unaccountably stained. They were all together, the long dresses and
underskirts, twice the length of the child, the short ones for later
use, and even blue calicoes, picked out with white stars, that Hammond
had worn until he was four. Pinning blankets, bellybands, and soft
diapers, all that might be needed were included. Lucretia Borgia put the
women to the task of washing the baby clothes and drying them on the
weeds in the sunshine to eliminate as much of the yellowing of age as
was possible. She herself ironed the dresses that were decked out with
pleated yokes and ruffles of hand embroidery. How many times before she
had smoothed those self-same garments. She chuckled to remember that
this dress he had worn when Hammond took his first step, that one when
he had come down with a fit of coughing until they had despaired of his
living, the other when he had first garbled her name in speech. What a
tyrant he had been, but how sweet the tyranny!

When all were clean, Lucretia Borgia carried the garments into the
sitting-room and stacked them beside Blanche's chair. Blanche sorted
them out, the long from the short. They would suffice for her child,
although she had expected to have new ones.

Maxwell watched her in silence. He revered these garments for the sake
of him who had worn them. They were irreplaceable, beyond duplication.
He could but wonder that Blanche should prefer new ones. Once, while she
sorted them, he reached out and took a well-remembered little dress into
his own hands and, gazing on it, he saw again Sophia Hammond and her
infant son. Before he handed it back to his daughter-in-law, he had
spilled his toddy on it and had wiped his tear-filled eyes upon its hem.
He said nothing. Blanche would not understand. He was glad that Hammond
was not there to see his weakness.

The following Thursday Blanche had her child. She arose and came down to
breakfast, eating heartily but unaccountably failing to drink the toddy
that Meg mixed for her. To her husband's inquiry she replied that she
was tolerably well.

'Tol'able, jes' tol'able,' she said, 'mindin' how I am.' She had no
intimation that her time had come.

Hammond went out to his work as usual. He was clearing some unused acres
in preparation for planting them to corn, not because he needed the
land, but to give his Negroes a task that would keep them employed.

At ten o'clock by the erratic clock on the mantel the pains first
assailed Blanche. At first they were only a vague discomfort which
caused her to leave the sitting-room and to go to her bed. Maxwell
sipped his hot drink, undisturbed, and had Meg stir up another. The day
was cloudy, threatening rain. His first intimation that Blanche was in
labour was a cry, a loud shriek, more of terror than of pain, followed a
moment later by another louder one. He heard Lucretia running through
the hall, flat of foot, and up the stairs. He roused Alph, dozing on the
floor beside his chair, and sent him to seek his young master.

'Tell him come, come quick, drop ever'thin'. Tell him Miz Blanche is
sheddin' her chil',' he instructed the boy.

The boy left the room at a trot and Maxwell heard him slam a door as he
left the house. He also heard rapid footsteps on the floor above him,
and another shriek. He got to his feet and wandered down the hall,
uncertain whether to climb the stairs, when he met Lucretia Borgia
hastening toward the kitchen.

'She havin' it. Miz Blanche havin' it. She hurtin' powerful bad,' she
informed her master without stopping.

'I reckoned,' he said to her disappearing back. There was another scream
of anguish, more audible here than in the sitting-room.

Lucretia Borgia returned from the kitchen carrying a large bucket of
steaming water in one hand and a sheaf of clothes piled on the other
arm. 'Take here, suh,' she ordered her master. 'Stan' outn my way.' As
she hastened up the steps, she called over the banister, 'That Tense
wench, she ain't no help, no help at all.'

Maxwell realized that he could be of no help either and retraced his
steps to the sitting-room, where he did not sit down, but toddled back
and forth across the floor to relieve his anxiety. Scream followed
scream, but they seemed to grow weaker. Meg appeared with an unordered
toddy on a salver, which his master accepted. The boy was wide-eyed with
interest in the proceedings upstairs.

'Miz Blanche droppin' her sucker, suh, Masta?' he asked with
enthusiastic innocence.

Maxwell's open palm crashed against the impertinent child's cheek,
hurting the arthritic hand more than the cheek. The boy did not know for
what he was punished, since he had intended his question to be
courteous. But white men were strange. One never knew how they would
respond. He retreated to the kitchen.

Alph returned out of breath. He had hurried to find his master, as he
was instructed, and had run all the way back.

'He comin', Masta, suh. He comin'. Masta, comin' fas' as he kin,' he
reported between gasps.

'Come here an' take a swig of toddy. You petered out runnin',' said the
master, who, repenting of his temper to Meg, made amends with indulgence
to his brother.

The screams issuing from the house told Hammond why he had been sent for
even before he entered. 'How long she been carryin' on?' he asked his
father and without waiting for a reply proposed, 'I goin' to sen' fer
Murrey, put a nigger on a mule an' send.'

'Lucretia Borgia's up with her. She goin' to be all right. Hurtin'
though, seem like. Better git Murrey though, I reckon. Ain't much of a
doctor. I don' trus' him but he the bes' they is,' concurred Maxwell.

'I'll sen' Mem, I reckon. Otherns too young an' don' know the way,'
suggested Ham tentatively, and the absence of reply implied his father's
consent. He went to the kitchen to find Agamemnon and to give him his
instructions.

He returned to the sitting-room with the assurance that Mem was on his
way to summon the physician. He seated himself in a chair, but could not
stay quiet, and rose and limped back and forth across the room. He
shuddered at the screams that came from above. 'Reckon I better go up?
Reckon I kin help do somethin'?' he asked his father.

'Jest be in Lucretia Borgia's road,' replied the father. 'She on her
high hoss, mindin' me to stan' one side. She goin' to slap you down, you
git in her way. You'd think I her servant, 'stead of her mine.'

'Tense helpin' her, I reckon.'

'She sayin' Tense ain't no account,' said Maxwell.

Conversation languished. Father and son had nothing to say to each
other, and yet they were as one, listening for the cries that came from
above. Both suffered with the girl who was struggling to produce an heir
for them. The shrieks subsided into groans, which grew less frequent.
The older man believed that this betokened a growing weakness, an
exhaustion of the woman in labour, but he did not say so to his son lest
he aggravate the apprehension he knew was in the young man's heart.

The clock ticked away on the mantelpiece. Maxwell was so used to its
click-clack that he had ceased to notice it, but now it impinged on his
consciousness and he marked each passing minute. Before Memnon had had
time to reach Benson, Maxwell was rising periodically to patter to the
window to scan the driveway for his return with Doctor Murrey.

Hammond climbed the stairs. Walking down the hall, he rapped with his
knuckles on the bedroom door before he opened it. Lucretia Borgia was
bent above the bed.

'I takin' care Miz Blanche. It mos' here. It comin'. You go on
downstairs an' set down, Masta, suh, an' don' hender me,' Lucretia
Borgia looked up to command. 'Ain't goin' to be no dinner fer you an'
yo' papa, nor fer none of us, savin' whut Dite an' Ellen kin set,' she
added.

The tone of the woman's words braced Hammond's spirit.

Memnon returned. He had found the doctor, who had said that he would
come. Hammond settled down to wait for his arrival, confident that when
he came he would deliver the baby quickly. Towards two o'clock the
screams ceased; the silence was oppressive, more painful to the husband
than the wails had been. He wondered whether his wife's strength might
be completely spent, even whether she might have died.

A heavy step upon the stair! Lucretia Borgia was coming down. Hammond
was exhausted, expecting the worst. Lucretia Borgia came into the room,
cradling in her arms a swathe of white clothes. Protruding from the
clothes was the head of a child, red and amorphous. Lucretia Borgia was
all a-grin with satisfaction. She went first to her young master and
bowed to display her precious burden, and then to Maxwell.

'How Miz Blanche come on?' Hammond demanded.

'She sleepin' now, I reckon,' the woman said. 'She jest 'bout petered
a-havin' it.'

Hammond breathed easier.

'He ain't very big,' Maxwell looked at the child critically. 'Like,
he'll grow.'

Lucretia Borgia hugged the baby to her chest. 'He? It ain't no he,' she
announced.

Maxwell's heart sank. He had wanted a boy. But he made no comment.

Hammond looked again at his child's face. 'It's gotch-eyed, like
Charles,' he declared.

And it was. The eyes were distinctly crossed, not with the normal
strabismus of the newly born, but with a divergence which would prove
permanent. Charles in Natchez had expressed the hope that the child
would not be cross-eyed. Had his kinship with his sister had anything to
do with the phenomenon, Hammond asked himself.

The least he could do was to go up to see the mother, but when he came,
she was sleeping. Tense crept softly across the room to let him in, her
finger to her lips. He stood by the bedside and looked down on the
exhausted girl, sleeping on her back, her hair drawn back in a long
braid. What if the child was a girl? What if its eyes were crossed and
it was small and wanting in vigour? She had done her best, he reasoned
compassionately. Perhaps her next child would be a sturdy boy.

When he went downstairs again, Lucretia Borgia still held the baby in
her arms, jostling it up and down to quiet it and looking devotedly into
the tiny, wrinkled face.

'Who you plannin' to suck it?' queried Maxwell.

'Its mamma ifn she kin, if her milk come good,' Hammond answered
casually.

Lucretia Borgia turned away in repugnance at the proposal, but
interposed no word.

'No white lady goin' to suck her chil'. Poor trash, mayhap sometimes
when they ain't got no wench come fresh. Spoils 'em,' explained Maxwell.

'We ain't got no right fresh wench, our own self,' Hammond objected.

'Let me, Masta, suh,' proposed Lucretia Borgia. 'My sucker most weaned,
an' I got milk yet. Plenty milk.'

'Your milk too ol', an' you too ol',' Maxwell shook his head. 'You
always wantin' to git into things, always wantin' to be It.'

'Lucy the freshest we got,' suggested Hammond.

'She too ol', too,' said the older man. 'Milk from a young wench always
better, sweeter like.'

'Then Big Pearl is all we got,' sighed the boy.

'That black gyascutus in the house!' scoffed Maxwell. 'She cain't walk,
she got to gallop, knockin' things aroun'. Besides, she got Wilson. Ol'
Mista Wilson, growin' like he is, take a lot of milk.'

'See how Big Pearl treat that young 'un!' said Lucretia Borgia.
'Throwin' him aroun', jest like he a bag of oats, jest like he a iron
baby.'

'Course, Lucy kin help out with Wilson, need come, an' leave Big Pearl's
milk fer Sophy,' Maxwell reasoned.

'Sophy?'

'Sophy,' Maxwell repeated. 'Goin' to name her Sophy, I reckoned, after
her grandma.'

The son nodded his head in acquiescence. 'Lay her down,' he told
Lucretia Borgia, 'an' fetch Big Pearl.'

'You going to give suck to your new mist'ess, Miz Sophy,' Hammond said
when the black girl came in. She had never before been admitted to the
house.

Lucretia Borgia lifted the baby gently and placed her in Big Pearl's
arms. Big Pearl gave a scream of delight and smothered the child with
kisses. 'Ain't it sweet, so white an' red!' she cried.

'Ol' Mista Wilson's nose will be out of joint,' Maxwell laughed.

'I reckon she milkin' enough fer two,' commented Hammond.

For a while now, time ceased to have meaning. No longer did the ticking
of the clock impinge upon Maxwell's awareness. That Doctor Murrey did
not arrive was now of no importance. Memnon reavowed that he had seen
the doctor at his home in Benson and that he had promised to come, but
Mem was hardly to be trusted. He believed that he was telling the truth,
but there was no knowing to whom he had talked or what had been said.
Mem feared doctors, believed that they carved people alive, especially
black men, and his traffic with Murrey, if at all, had been as brief as
possible. If the birth of the child had been prolonged or if it had gone
amiss, the blame would have fallen upon Memnon, but, since all was well,
he escaped with small censure.




CHAPTER 22


Later that afternoon the weather turned warmer after it began to rain,
first in a steady drizzle, and then with pelting showers. It was a
dreary afternoon--good for toddies before a slow-burning fire. All had
gone well, except the sex of the child, but the acceptance of the name
he had so casually and cannily bestowed upon it mollified Maxwell's
displeasure. He revised his vision of a handsome, alert, and precocious
grandson, one who should be to Hammond what Hammond had been to him,
into a vision of a granddaughter as beautiful, charming, gracious, and
complacent as that Sophia who had given him Hammond. With Hammond blood
from both sides of her house, he foresaw a paragon of womanhood.

Even though the services of Doctor Murrey had not been required, Maxwell
was disappointed that he had not come. He had little confidence in the
man's skill, but, such as it was, it was not fitting that a planter's
child should be born without its benefit. Besides, Doctor Murrey enjoyed
corn whisky, and Maxwell had foreseen a pleasant interval, after the
doctor's task was accomplished, of toddies before the fire and an
interchange of gossip.

The erratic clock had just struck five when Maxwell heard in the lane
the approach of horses, which took him to the window, where he
recognized the doctor's vehicle, a kind of hooded calash, drawn by a
team of weary bays. He was glad that the doctor had come; now they could
have their seance, and it was so late that perhaps the doctor could be
persuaded to remain for supper, possibly to spend the night.

He called for Memnon to open the door, but heard the patter of Meg's
bare feet running to forestall Mem's welcome. He watched a white youth
wind the reins around the whip on the dashboard and alight from the rig
awkwardly. He was enormously tall, emaciated, cadaverous. He made his
way round the vehicle to its other side, and, reaching in, appeared to
have much difficulty in helping out of the seat a man whom Maxwell
recognized to be the doctor, dressed in a long coat and beaver hat. A
Negro boy took the horses, while the doctor clung clumsily to the youth
who tried to support him. The doctor took three steps and stopped. He
stood unsteadily, supported by the youth. The doctor was drunk, dead
drunk.

Maxwell made his way to the front door, of which Memnon had taken charge
and driven Meg away.

'Not much use us comin'. He's drunk,' called the youth. 'Got to git him
to bed, if one is ready. How the wench come along? Had it yet?'

'It ain't no wench. It Miz Maxwell,' Maxwell explained.

'A white lady? Then I cain't do nothin'. Doctor don' hold with me
doctorin' whites--jest yet awhile. I could have done it, an' if it been
a nigger,' the boy said.

'The chil' done come. It a girl chil',' Maxwell explained.

'Then we git him in bed. He be all right later on. He gits this way,'
the tall youth explained.

Hammond, hobbling down the stairs, overheard and called to Memnon, 'Git
out there an' he'p, he'p the white gen'leman, cain't you? Cain't you
see? Gittin' slothy agin? Wantin' I should touch you up?'

Memnon wanted no touching up. He rolled his eyes towards his master and
leaped forward to support the doctor on the other side from the youth.

'Carry him upstairs an' put him into bed--that room agin mine, not down
next your mist'ess. Mus'n't rile her now, the way she is,' Hammond
commanded the slave.

The pot-bellied, florid little doctor staggered unsteadily through the
door, securely embraced by Memnon. He remembered to remove his high hat
in a gentleman's home, but otherwise surrendered to the slave's
ministrations. Memnon led him gently up the stairs, the youth,
embarrassed, falling behind. Maxwell, disappointed of the chitchat he
had anticipated, retired to the sitting-room again. Hammond followed the
guests up the stairs, waited in the hall while the youth and Memnon
removed the drunken doctor's clothes and thrust him into bed, and then
escorted the young man down the stairs.

As they entered the sitting-room, Maxwell settled himself more firmly in
his chair, not after all to be bilked of his conversation. 'Readin'?' he
asked.

'Yes, suh. Much as I kin, suh, the doctor this way,' replied the tall
youth still standing, diffidently.

'Set down, set down,' invited the old man. 'Meg,' he called, 'stir us a
toddy.'

The youth chose a chair and seated himself. 'No, thanks, Mista Maxwell,
suh,' the boy slowly shook his head. 'No toddy fer me.'

Maxwell looked at him with a kind of alarm. 'You're ol' enough,' he
opined. 'Temp'ance?'

'Jest fer me,' the boy said, 'not fer you or nobody else. If I am goin'
to make a doctor, I ain't wantin' to be like him.' A feeling of
disloyalty in what he had said caused him to add, 'Doc, he's right good.
He knows, when he ain't drinkin', only he drinks and cain't stop, seems
like. Worser all the time.' His curved lips grew straight with his
determination, a serious glance fell from his blue eyes, he brushed his
bush of black hair from his forehead with long fingers, and he sought to
restrain a blush from his fuzz-covered cheek.

'In that case,' conceded the old man, unable to find an argument to
alter the boy's conviction. 'Live in Benson?' he asked, accepting a
toddy from Meg's tray.

'Yes, suh, now, that is, readin' with Doc Murrey an' stayin' with him,'
the young man made clear. 'I belong out at Bankside. You knowin' me,
Mista Maxwell, suh; leastwise I knowin' you. I'm Willis Smith, son of
Willis Smith of Bankside Plantation,' he proclaimed proudly.

'Laws! Willis Smith's boy. Course I know you, know your papa that is.
Good blood!' Maxwell nodded, impressed.

'I remember back, you come to our house, buyin' saplin's, stayed fer
dinner,' Willis recalled. 'I didn't like you that time, 'cause you
wantin' my playboy off of me, only my papa wouldn't sell him.'

'I recollec', I recollec'; you cried to keep him,' said Maxwell.
'Wouldn't eat no dinner, so afeared your papa goin' to sell him. A right
likely Jew-faced yaller boy.'

'That right. Out of Old Cinthy, she say by a Jew peddler. His name is
Job, 'cause papa say he have so much patience with whut I do to him,'
Willis explained. 'I gotten him yet.'

'In Benson?'

'No; Job at the plantation still, suh. He married up, an' I don' want he
should have to divide from his wench an' her baby. He still
body-servants me when I go to Bankside.'

'Willis Smith? Willis got plenty, used to have. Whut fer he makin' a
doctor outn you? You the oldest, ain't you?'

'Yes, suh, I Papa's oldest boy, oldest livin', that is. Papa, he ain't
rightly makin' me no doctor. I makin' me one. It my own doings. Yes,
suh.'

'Whut the world comin' to?' Maxwell speculated. 'Fathers ain't got no
say, seem like. Willis knowin' you had ought to stay on the plantation
an' make a planter. He needin' you.'

'The world needin' me. People, people needin' me,' Willis' eyes shone
with fervour. 'My little sister, you remember her, Nellie, she die.
Purtiest, little, yellow-haired chil' ever live, an' the sweetest, sweet
as clover honey. Putered sore throat, folks said; they wouldn't let I
should kiss her. I knowin' right then, when we layin' Nellie away, I
goin' to make me a doctor. Wasn't no call she should die. The doctor
drunken, Murrey drunken. I ain't a-go' to be drunken--an' I go' to study
hard an' learn. I goin' to save folks from dyin'.'

Hammond, who had taken no part in the colloquy, interposed, 'That case,
one would think Doc Murrey----'

'Ain't nobody else,' the boy interrupted him. 'Only doctor in Benson.
Besides, he good when he ain't drunken. He kin learn me, an' he got
books, doctor books, big ones, that I kin read.'

'All them big words,' Hammond shook his head in doubtful wonder.

'I cain't say 'em, cain't soun' 'em out,' Willis admitted. 'But they
ain't no call to. I kin spell 'em out, an' know whut they mean, most of
'em. An' Doc Murrey tells me, drivin' along, when he ain't drunken, an'
shows me on sick folks how to do. He knowin' he got to give up purty
quick, an' then I got to take a-holt an' do the bes' I kin.'

The youth's assurance was balanced with modesty, but sustained by a will
to learn, a curiosity, and a determination to succeed in his vocation.

The supper-bell rang. Willis felt called upon to look at Doctor Murrey
before he should eat, but suggested that the Maxwells should not delay
their meal. They waited for him. He found the doctor asleep on his back,
snoring lightly, and adjusted the quilts that had slipped from his neck.

'He goin' to be all right. No cause to fret,' the young man announced on
his return. 'But we got to stay the night out. Ain't no other way.
Reckon you kin sleep us?'

'Course, course,' Maxwell said hospitably. 'Ain't no other way. Wouldn't
hear of you goin' out in this dark, rainy night.'

'Then the doctor kin look at Miz Maxwell, come mornin',' said Willis by
way of excusing the need to remain.

'The chil' done come,' said Hammond. 'Ain't needin' him now.'

'I could of kotched the baby jest as good as Murrey; I helpin' him with
so many, I know jest how, on'y he won't have it yet awhile. Afeared, I
reckon, afeared I goin' to crowd him out.'

'I ain't a-blamin' you none,' Hammond allayed the apprentice's
uneasiness. 'Blamin' anybody, I blamin' him.'

Willis watched with anguish as Memnon helped the old man to rise from
his chair, heard him protest profanely at the move to lead him to the
supper room, glanced askance at the difficulty he had cutting his ham,
but kept silent. Lucretia Borgia, with the supper, made up for what she
deemed the scantiness of the dinner prepared by Dite and Ellen. The talk
was as usual about the price of cotton and the price of slaves.

In the return to the sitting-room, Willis was forced to curb his impulse
to offer support to Maxwell, whom he had heard upbraid the Negro for
seeking to help him on the way toward the dining-room. The old man's
frailty excited the boy's sympathy and his desire to exercise his
healing arts, but he respected the older man's reticence about his
malady.

'I knowed it was comin', this rain, knowed it in my han's an' knees,'
said Maxwell, rubbing with his right hand the knuckles of his left, as
he sank into his chair. 'Rain a-comin', my rheumatiz backs up on me,
ever' time.'

'You right bad,' said Willis.

'Yes. That the cause of me takin' all them toddies. Helps me, seem
like,' sighed Maxwell, accepting a glass which Meg had brought him.

'Corn licker for rheumatiz better outside than in,' Willis suggested.
'Better rubbed on than drunken.' Maxwell's observation had given him the
cue he had sought. He sidled his chair towards the patient, placed his
hand upon his brow, felt the pulse, asked to see his tongue, all without
concept of what he wanted to learn--mere gestures of diagnosis.

Maxwell relished rather than resented the attention. 'I'm betterin',
betterin' right along--on'y tonight, this rainin'.' He shook his head.
'I dreenin' it, dreenin' it through my feet, into this buck here.' He
reached his glass down to Alph, sprawled on the floor beside his chair
and said, 'Better take a swallow, boy; you be needin' it afore mornin'.'

Willis looked doubtful. 'It may be he goin' to git it, git it bad. Only
that ain't a-goin' to git you shet of it. It jest dreen into him, not
out of you,' he explained authoritatively. He reached down and felt the
young Negro's brow solicitously.

'You reckon he gittin' it? Feel anythin'?' Maxwell asked anxiously.

'Not yet; an' even if he had, it don' mean you sheddin' it.'

'Might as well die, I reckon,' Maxwell added.

'Now, Papa,' Hammond interposed. 'You all riled about it comin' a girl.
Whenever Papa git riled, his achin' gits worser.'

'Whut that got to do with it? My achin' is not in my head,' Maxwell
bristled. 'It in my han's, an' feet, an' all over me.'

'Rheumatism?' Willis pushed his chair back from the patient in
resignation. 'I don' know. I ain't come to that part in the books yet.
That is away over under "R". But I'll git there. Jest wait. An' when I
do----' His promise was only implied, but it gave the invalid some hope.

'You think rubbin' with corn----?' asked Maxwell tentatively.

Willis shrugged his uncertainty.

'Serpent oil? That would be better,' Hammond expressed his opinion.

'That stink so bad. I'd sooner ache,' Maxwell breathed.

'Serpent oil! Serpent oil! Doctor Mulbach's, or whoever's? That ain't
jest only goose grease--of course, flavoured up to make it smell an'
coloured green. It ain't never been near no snake. It the rubbin' whut
does it, whut make it work,' declared Willis with some indignation.

'It say on the bottle, right on the bottle----' Hammond defended the
remedy.

'Whut an' if it does say?' Willis scoffed. 'Kin make up anythin' and
print it on the bottle. Ask Doc Murrey if it ain't goose grease.'

Hammond preferred to believe the maker of the nostrum rather than this
callow tyro. All doctors, he told himself, disparaged remedies that
could be obtained without their sanction.

'I ain't usin' it, even an' if----' Maxwell affirmed with finality. 'One
more toddy an' I reckon I better go up. Jest one won't drunken you,
Doctor Willis, an' it will warm you, retirin'.'

To be called 'Doctor' flattered Willis and he was tempted to acquiesce,
but thought of Murrey and shook his head. 'Thank you, suh, I don' aim to
be like him that a-way,' he said.

'I reckon how you don' crave no wench to pleasure with, neither,' said
Hammond. 'I was jes' a-thinkin' which one.'

Willis felt his white face burn with blushes to the roots of his hair.
He had heard of the custom of many plantations of providing guests with
a woman for the night, but he had not previously encountered it. At
Bankside his mother's scruples forbade such dalliance within the house.
Of course, what occurred furtively in the cabins, she did not know about
and did not care.

'I reckoned I sleepin' with Doc Murrey,' he evaded a direct answer.
'Ain't hardly room an' he drunk an' spread out.'

'We got another bed. Ain't no call to double,' said Hammond.

'Well, in that case, an' if you got a clean young yaller,' Willis
faltered.

'I was thinkin' of Dite,' Hammond said to his father.

'An' if you not wantin' her your own self no more,' Maxwell nodded.

'I got me Ellen,' said Ham. 'Dite, she young, she light, an' she not
musky.'

'When I say "clean", I meanin' the clap. She ain't got the clap?'
specified Willis.

Hammond laughed. 'None of our niggers got it, an' none ever had it,' he
boasted.

'It goin' aroun',' asserted Willis, and his blush subsided as he saw
that it was unobserved in the candlelight.

'It always goin' aroun',' said Maxwell, rising, and rousing Alph. He
called loudly for Memnon, who came to help him to bed.

Hammond settled Willis in the bedroom at the end of the hall, next to
his own, and returned to the kitchen to summon Dite.

The girl giggled. 'You reckon he goin' to have me? Whut I goin' to do
with my sucker?'

'I keep him good,' Lucretia Borgia volunteered. 'He wantin' suck, I give
it to him. Now, go 'long, like Masta say. The young white gen'man right
nice. I noticin' him durin' supper. Course, he young.' Willis's youth
justified the falling of the mantle upon Aphrodite instead of upon
herself.

The following morning Doctor Murrey arose, fully sobered after his
debauch. He accepted heartily Maxwell's invitation to drink before
breakfast and downed his whisky undiluted. He insisted upon seeing the
child he had come to deliver and praised its beauty, although no parts
of it were visible except the tiny, wrinkled, red face and the dainty
hands. The eyes were closed in sleep and he did not see the strabismus.
The naked and sturdy Old Mister Wilson was also asleep, in Big Pearl's
other arm, and, although the Doctor did his full duty in his admiration
of the white baby, his professional interest centred in the Mandingo.

'Heft it oncet, jest heft it,' Maxwell urged.

'No good wakin' it,' said the doctor, feeling the child's thigh.

'No harm. Jest heft it,' insisted Maxwell, grasping the baby's ankle and
drawing it from the mother's arm. The doctor laughed to hear the
wrathful squall of the startled young thing and took the leg from the
owner's hand, holding the boy from him to avoid being soiled. He jostled
the baby to estimate its weight, which was greater than he had deemed
possible.

'Fifteen--sixteen pounds,' he estimated.

'More, more; bigger than that,' Maxwell urged.

'Of course, the dam here is a burly varmint,' observed the doctor,
handing the baby back to Big Pearl and stooping to raise her skirt to
admire the bulk of her leg.

'Had ought to see the stud buck. Purentee Mandingos, both on 'em,'
Maxwell boasted. 'Both.'

'I never studied up on the tribes,' shrugged the doctor, 'A nigger is a
nigger, I always reckoned.'

'All, only a Mandingo,' pursued Maxwell. 'They half rhinoceros, I guess;
they that stout. But they gentle and biddable as a goslin'. Never git
out of hand.'

As Willis entered the room he was unable to curb his blush, but his
bearing was manly to the point of truculence. He wondered whether
Maxwell had told the doctor about Dite, not that he feared his anger but
rather his raillery. The doctor was hardly in a position for
indignation.

'Did he talk your leg off?' asked the doctor, slapping the boy on the
shoulders. 'Does usually. Knows all there is to know about ever'thin',
thinks he does.'

'I kin reckon. He right in'erestin'. Knowin' a lot, so young,' Maxwell
assented.

'I goin' to learn him to doctor, if he don't try to learn me,' laughed
Murrey. 'Reads books; thinks he kin learn doctorin' out of books, tells
me whut's in 'em. Got to learn it from sick folks, I always tellin' him.
Ain't I, Willis?'

'He sayin' how he Willis Smith's boy. I know his papa,' said Maxwell.
'Looks like him too, in daylight, same lengthy build, but better
lookin', better put together.'

'Yas, he is well set up--goin' to be when he stoutens out,' the doctor
nodded approvingly. 'Mista Smith give him to me and said make him a
doctor--the boy is set that a-way. And, by God, I will, if he don' try
to go too fast.'

After breakfast, the doctor sought to justify his futile visit by
looking at the patient. Hammond led him and Willis to Blanche's room,
where he found the girl sitting up in bed with a large breakfast before
her. She shrank from the doctor, refusing to permit him to touch her,
even to feel her brow for fever; anyway, it was apparent that she had
none.

'Cain't I have a toddy, Doctor? Jest one,' she begged. 'Hammond, he
won't give me none, and won't have the niggers stir me one.'

'Best thing, best thing in the world,' said the doctor. 'All you wantin'
of 'em.'

'She havin' 'em all the time beforehan',' said her husband. 'I reckon it
time to stop. I not wantin' she should be----' Hammond checked himself
out of consideration for the doctor's weakness.

'Havin' 'em before, she got to have 'em now. Cain't quit right off. Got
to taper--taper slow. Liable to have fits otherwise. You don' want
fits.'

Hammond gravely acknowledged that he did not.

'That, toddies, hot as Miz Maxwell kin take 'em, an' her in bed, not
gittin' out too soon is all, all she need,' the doctor declared. 'Good
as new, ten days or two weeks.'

Willis stood in the background, listening, learning, saying no word.
Blanche's eyes lingered on him in admiration. She would not have shrunk
from his touch. Lucretia Borgia had already told her that Dite had been
Willis's bedmate and she was jealous of Dite's fortune.

The men went downstairs, but after a short while there was a knock on
the bedroom door. Tense opened it to Willis, a steaming goblet in his
hand. He had mixed and brought the toddy which Murrey had prescribed.
Not trusting Tense to serve it, he carried it himself to the bedside,
and with his left arm supported Blanche's waist as she drank from the
glass in his right hand. Willis was unsure whether it was admiration for
the girl's blondeness or his vocation as a healer that had prompted him
to detach himself from the gentlemen and return to the room.

Blanche drained the glass slowly to prolong the apprentice physician's
embrace of her body. Her breasts were filling up and beginning to itch.
She was tempted to tell the young doctor about them and show them to
him, but out of modesty refrained. Instead, grasping his hand in both of
hers, she raised it to her brow and let it rest there. He asked to see
her tongue, and then felt of her pulse, which beat rapidly. Later he
laid his ear against her breast to listen to her heart. He was not sure
of the symptoms he sought; he was merely playing at being a physician.

'You right good an' powerful kind,' said Blanche. 'I not afeared of you
at all. I afeared o' the othern.'

'There ain't no call to be afeared. I craves that you git well and up.
That is all,' the boy responded. 'That toddy goin' to help you right
smart.'

'You reckon? I feels better a'ready,' the girl declared. 'I goin' to
have 'em--all I craves of 'em. That whut that doctor done say. Wasn't
it?'

Willis said that it was.

'Won' have you to hol' me up while I drink 'em though,' said Blanche,
surveying the standing boy.

'I comin' back, in passin' by, to see how you comin' on,' the youth
promised.

'Come soon, come often,' Blanche urged.

Willis glanced at Tense before he stooped and kissed his patient.

As Tense showed him out the door, he seized her arm and guided her into
the hall where, through her dress, he felt her immature breasts and
patted her buttock.

'You good an' not tell nothin', whut I did, I goin' to ast your masta
kin I have you next time I come. We have good time, pesterin',' he told
the innocent girl.

Tense answered him, 'Yas, suh, Masta, suh.' There was no other reply to
a white man.

Tense was not sure what she was not to reveal. She had seen the young
man kiss her mistress, but did not know it was not a convention among
the whites, whose nature and customs were inexplicable. Nor did she
resent the young man's boldness to herself, which was a white
prerogative, and besides she found it pleasurable, though vaguely
disturbing.

In eight days Blanche was able to come down the stairs with Lucretia
Borgia's aid. In the interval, she had quieted her impatience with
toddies, which, in view of Doctor Murrey's advice, Hammond no longer
denied her. He made it a practice to go to her room mornings and
evenings, and, when he had time, at midday, but did not relish the
chore, since the girl was always tipsy or peevish or both. He was,
however, glad to find her sitting opposite his father in the
sitting-room when he returned for dinner, even if she was sipping a
toddy.

To her husband's inquiry, Blanche replied, 'I reckon I strengthin' some.
I reckon I is. I allow as these toddies, the doctor say about, helpin'
me strengthen.' The doctor's advice justified her drinking as much as
she chose to drink.

Toward her child Blanche was, and remained, as indifferent as though she
had not borne it. She ignored Big Pearl except to tell her to take one
of the babies from her presence when it cried. This was usually Sophia,
who failed to thrive. Old Mister Wilson, on the other hand, a glutton at
the breast, grew and prospered and seldom cried. Once, when the boy's
impatience for Big Pearl's breast excited him into a bit of crying,
Blanche ordered the black mother to take him to the kitchen and spank
him until he should give them some peace. Big Pearl was by no means
reluctant, but her blows only aggravated the noise which endured until
the baby fell asleep from exhaustion.

The favouritism the nurse showed for her master's child was not wholly
sycophancy, but a true preference for the small, doll-like, white Sophia
over the big, robust and self-willed, dusky Wilson. Big Pearl truckled
to Blanche and cowered before her, but she loved Blanche's baby better
than her own. She was unable to keep her thick lips from Sophia's face
and body. She lifted her tenderly and cuddled her against her sturdy
bosom to still her fretfulness, whereas to Wilson's occasional tantrums
she was indifferent, lifted him as often by a single arm or leg as by
his body, and cuffed him soundly whenever he annoyed her.

While Maxwell and Blanche sipped their toddies, Ham paid little heed to
her frequent eulogies of Willis Smith and her speculation about why the
boy had not kept his promise to come again.

'Not that I a-carin' an' if he don' never come, only he hadn't ought to
say like that,' she always wound up.

'They's lots of sickness aroun', an' with Murrey drunk, I reckon the boy
is powerful busy,' Maxwell replied. 'I'd as soon have him as Murrey
anyways, even an' if he ain't full-fledged.'

'Ruther, ruther have him,' sighed Blanche.

Blanche had been up two weeks when Lucretia Borgia one day accosted
Hammond as he passed through the kitchen.

'I reckon you had better do somethin' about Dite, suh, Masta,' she
suggested. 'She got somethin', sure has. Kotched it from that young
white boy whut come a-doctorin'.'

Hammond questioned Aphrodite. There was no doubt about her malady and
only one person from whom she could have contracted it.

'The damn son-of-a-bitch,' he ranted to his father. 'Spreadin' the clap
aroun', 'stead of curin' folks. Spreadin' it, jest a-spreadin' it. I
feel like takin' my gun to Benson an' shootin' him dead.'

'That Doctor Smith never do it. I know he never, Hammond,' Blanche
protested. 'Ain't only a nigger, no way.'

'Nigger or not a nigger, it could be all on 'em, ever' one we got,'
Hammond said, sinking to a chair, his face in his hands. 'An' we keepin'
our stock so clean. Never had nothin', nothin' before.'

'Nev' mind, Ham,' Maxwell sought to appease his son. 'Take Dite's sucker
offn her?'

'I shore did. I done that quick. I don' reckon he got it yet awhile.'

'An' we sen' fer Redfield. He do somethin', dry it up, or somethin','
the father continued. 'It ain't bad anyways. Half the niggers on half
the plantations in Alabama git it one time an' another--not to say the
white owners.'

'That the reason he, that Smith, talk so much about the clap an' how he
cure it--knowin' he got it his own self.' Hammond rose and walked the
floor to refrain from weeping.

'You'll be seein' Redfield, come Sat'day in Benson. Ast him. Tell him to
stop by, passin' along.'

'I was aimin' to put Dite and Mede together first thing, seein' the kind
of suckers he bringin',' Hammond said. 'Now we cain't.'

Redfield lost little time. He came on Sunday morning, and after a toddy
with the Maxwells, father and son, examined Dite. To the veterinarian it
was something of a joke that the Maxwell slaves should have a venereal
infection.

'Long time, long time you ain't had nothin', Mista Warren. I recollec'
me back ten or twelve year ago you had a buck----' he harked back.

'Bought him, bought him my own self, had it a'ready,' Maxwell nodded.
'But I sol' him agin, 'fore he done nothin', 'fore he spread it aroun'.
Only Ham don't crave to sell this one. Aimin' to keep her, her the
mother of his chil' an' all. Don't want he should sell his own flesh.'

'Well, it soon wear out,' Redfield predicted. 'Ain't much to do with it,
save not to spread it.' He drew a packet of cloth from his pocket and
added, 'I brung along some dried weed the Widder gathered an' say it
right good. She say it sovereign, in fac'. Me? I ain't sayin'. Might try
it. Make a tea. It bitterer than gall.'

'That Smith!' Hammond spat. 'Him goin' to make him a doctor!'

'Might be anybody,' argued Redfield. 'You never had it. I have, many's
the time; and I reckon your papa--when he was young.'

The gentlemen had returned to the sitting-room. Blanche's step was heard
on the stairs, and it was necessary to change the subject. Meg brought
more toddies, including one for Blanche, who noted a momentary silence
and wondered what the talk had been about.

Redfield did not tarry long, but at his departure Hammond insisted upon
his looking at Mede, who was in excellent fettle, and at Mede's progeny,
which won his enthusiastic approval.

Blanche did not have to wonder long what the talk had been about, since
she learned the gist of it from the servants. Even then, however, she
failed to understand the situation, since Dite was not confined to her
bed. Blanche wished that the victim had been Ellen.




CHAPTER 23


It was a wet and windy spring. Many of the cotton seeds rotted and
failed to germinate; large areas in the lowest ground had to be
replanted. The plants that broke through the soil were yellow and
unthrifty, but the weather did not deter the weeds and the ground was
too wet to hoe. Hammond was displeased with the prospects for his cotton
crop.

'Cotton? Whut's cotton?' chuckled the elder Maxwell to relieve his son's
anxiety. 'It's the nigger crop whut pays.'

On days when it was impossible to hoe the fields, the slaves were
permitted to idle, to work if they could in their own patches of garden,
or just to sit and doze or converse and laugh at each others' antics or
sallies of such wit as they had--all but Mede. When there was no work
for Mede, he was exercised. Hammond forced him to run in a large circle
with a younger slave astride his shoulders, to jump and leap, to lift
logs, to flex and twist his body, to wrestle with two less powerful
slaves at the same time. The owner found relief from anxiety about
cotton in watching the Mandingo labour and the slave never appeared to
tire. Mede, magnificent though he had been when his master acquired him,
had matured, broadened, and filled out during his year at Falconhurst,
until he was now more handsome and formidable than ever. Hammond desired
as many progeny from the boy as he could obtain, and from time to time
delegated women to be his mates. The matings were supervised like those
of other animals, as if the Mandingo had been a stallion or a bull. The
girls sometimes made a giggling or pouting remonstrance to their
master's presence, but Hammond was stern and Mede was unabashed. The
docile slave thought of this surveillance as a master's right, if not
duty, to control his every act.

Many of the cotton seeds that were believed to have perished finally
came up and the resown areas had to be thinned. The yellow leaves of the
cotton turned green under the sunshine, although the sickly plants never
turned vigorous. Hammond's discouragement abated in the belief that his
efforts had not all been wasted, that the crop would warrant chopping,
though he knew he could not ask the exhausted soil of Falconhurst for a
bountiful yield.

Hammond timed his trips to Benson to enable him to look in on the fights
at Remmick's, although his interest was desultory when he had no
participant in the contests. He drank with the sporting men and laid
small bets upon the fights without much caring whether he should win or
lose. His prime purpose in attending was to remind the others of Mede's
prowess, which he did with understatement and mild disparagement, lest
it seem that he was boasting.

Hammond's habit was to go every week to the Post Office, a cubbyhole
partitioned from the back part of the grocery store, to obtain the _New
Orleans Advertiser_, to which his father was a subscriber. There was
seldom any other mail for him. However, early in June he found a letter
addressed to himself. 'H. Maxwell eskuir.' Hastily he tore it from its
wrapper. It turned out to be a broadside, an advertisement of an
auction. 'AUCTION, AUCTION,' it read in bold type. 'NEGROES, MULES,
HORSES, PLOUGHS, WAGGONS. SATURDAY, JULY 7 AT THE COURTHOUSE BLOCK AT
WAYNESBORO.' In smaller type followed: 'Vended at public outcry to the
highest bidder, without any reserve, for cash, will be 32 NEGROES, 32,
all sound and likely, men, women, boys, girls, 11 young mules, yearlings
and older, 3 mares, all good breeders, assortment of ploughs, wagons,
buggies, etc., etc., from the estate of the late deceased EDWARD ALLEN.
The heirs must have money to settle debts, etc. This is a public
opportunity to secure prime stock at your own price. Never anything like
it. Come one, come all. (Signed) A. C. Murry, Auctioneer.'

Hammond had no idea where Waynesboro might be, but he was the only H.
Maxwell in or around Benson and he knew it was intended for him. He
folded the broadside carefully, returned it to its wrapper and placed it
in his pocket to show to his father. The receipt of mail other than the
newspaper was so uncommon that any piece of it was always considered and
digested.

Maxwell read the advertisement carefully. 'You goin'?' he asked.

'No! Away out there, Waynesboro or whurever?' scoffed Hammond.

'I don' know. I don' know,' pondered the father.

'They short of money, seem like. Sellin' off.'

'Seem like,' Maxwell agreed. 'Mebbe it useful you go see.'

So in the end it was settled that Hammond should go to Tennessee for the
Allen auction. Blanche was elated when she heard of the plan.

'I got to have me new trogs,' she announced enthusiastically. 'Miz
Forsythe kin make 'em. I got to purty me up, goin' a-visitin'.'

'I don't know. We see,' Hammond put his wife off. 'That kerriage, I don'
know will it stan' another long trip. I'll see. I kin go quicker alone,
straddlin'. Besides, this is business. You better stay home with Papa.
That better.'

Blanche wept. 'I don' never git to do nothin' or go nowhure,' she
lamented. 'You always gallivantin'. Won't never take me along.' She
rose, sobbing, from the supper table and stalked out of the room. In a
few minutes her footsteps on the stair were heard. That she should go to
bed without her after-supper toddy was unthinkable.

Father and son sat in silence a long while, then at length the older man
brought himself to speak what had been on his mind for some time.

'You ain't doin' your duty, Son.'

'Ain't? How ain't I doin' everythin'?'

'Blanche, I meanin'.'

'I ain't done nothin' wrong.'

'You ain't done nothin' right either,' accused the father. 'You wantin'
a son. How you reckon you goin' to have one. Skylarkin' and pleasurin'
with your nigger ever' night, an' lettin' your wife res' alone?'

'You say, your own se'f, a white don' relish pesterin'. Ellen jest
a-savin' Blanche. You say it all right, me a-havin' Ellen. I don' care
an' if it ain't.'

'It all right a-havin' her, yes. On'y it not all right to be loony over
her.'

They said no more, but that night Hammond was last to bed and went to
his wife's room. When he failed to come to his own bed, Ellen, feeling
herself displaced and abandoned, as she had long believed was
inevitable, cried herself to sleep.

Early next morning, however, Hammond invaded Lucretia Borgia's kitchen
and found Ellen drying dishes. He walked to the table where she stood
and encircled the girl with his arm. 'That, las' night is jest
sometimes. You mine tonight, and here-on,' he told her. 'Don' you fret,
don't you ever fret, Ellen. You mind, you mine.'

Later Blanche came down to breakfast more affably than was her wont, and
said nothing further about the projected trip. Her husband's word was
final and she knew it. She drank more toddies than usual, and Maxwell
didn't interfere. Hammond was out of the house, training Mede.

Blanche drowned her disappointment in hot toddies but kept silent about
it. Maxwell, who enjoyed the girl's tippling companionship, backed her
up. 'She delicate, kind of like. She needin' it to give her stren'th,'
he said, and the husband said no more.

Wednesday was the fourth of July, and Hammond on Eclipse set out for
Waynesboro. He carried in his saddle-bags a bag of gold coins to
purchase any slaves that should suit his fancy.

'The 'portant thing is young niggers,' his father had told him, 'We're
short on 'em, needin' 'em.'

'I ain't a-bringin' back no trash to feed. You always says your own self
you cain't make no money pourin' good vittles into puny stock.'

The older man was pleased that his tutelage had borne fruit.

That Ellen, dressed as a boy, should depart an hour before her master
and wait for him upon the highway was the father's plan. He saw no
reason why Hammond should not take his slave with him if he wished, but
he sought to protect Blanche from the rancour she would feel at the
awareness that her husband preferred Ellen's company to her own. Blanche
had not risen to see Hammond take his leave, and the ruse was wasted.
She appeared to be resigned to his absence, since it left her free to
drink as many toddies as she might want.

Just when her plan of revenge took shape she herself was never quite
sure. Perhaps it began to seethe in her befuddled mind the night Hammond
had decreed that she should remain at home and it may have been assuming
a more definite form from that time forth.

The afternoon of Ham's departure, Maxwell fell into a doze and Blanche
went to the kitchen to obtain a toddy about which he should not know.
She felt that he was more censorious of her drinking than he professed
and believed that she was justified in swigging one toddy about which he
would never know. She found the kitchen filled with negroes--Lucretia
Borgia, her brood, Memnon, Dite, Big Pearl and the babies, her own
Tense--but she missed Ellen, of whose presence or absence her jealousy
always made her aware.

'Whure at that Ellen?' the mistress demanded, addressing her question to
anyone who might answer it. Since it was directed to no particular
person, nobody replied, but rather an ominous hush fell over the
Negroes. Blanche repeated the question, 'Whure at, I say, is that
Ellen?'

Lucretia Borgia waited for another to speak, but everybody left the
answer to her. She hesitated and mumbled, 'Ummm, I don' know, Miz
Blanche, ma'am. I don' know whure she gone. She right here, time back.'
Lucretia Borgia had no will to betray her master.

Meg giggled and stifled his mixture of amusement and embarrassment with
his hand over his mouth, whereat his mother slapped both his cheeks with
the full leverage of her strong arm. The child was as loyal to Hammond
as the woman, and if she had ignored his laughter, the woman, half
drunk, would not have seen it. Even half drunk as she was, she surmised
what had occurred.

'Time back?' she asked, closing her eyes in her befuddlement. 'How much
time back? How long ago? Whure at she now? Whure she go to? Don' lie to
me.'

Memnon and Dite left the room, but Big Pearl sat stolidly, nursing her
babies. The twins could not control their curiosity.

Lucretia Borgia's lower lip dropped into a pout, as she hummed rather
than spoke the answer, 'I don' know ma'am. I don' know, I tellin' you. I
don' know.'

'Well, I knowin'. She done gone with her masta. That whure she at. I
know. You cain't tell me. I know,' Blanche screamed, swallowing her hot
toddy between breaths and pouring out another. 'Ain't nothin' 'ceptin' a
whore nigger, that whut she is, jist a whore, with her red earrings. She
don' care no more about Hammon' than about the blackes' buck on the
plantation, 'ceptin' he kin fetch her red earrings to mark her hisn.
Hisn! Now I know why he won't never take me along nowhures. You 'on't
got to tell me. I know.' Her voice rose in a maudlin crescendo until she
shouted the final sentences as she left the kitchen, supporting herself
by whatever furniture she could reach.

'Better go after her,' Lucretia Borgia said to Tense. 'Git her in bed.'

The following day Blanche kept to her room. Although there was nothing
to be said that they had not hashed over a hundred times before, Maxwell
was disappointed that the girl did not come down to sit with him and
drink her toddies. Once when he called for Meg to bring him a drink,
Memnon brought it instead with the excuse that Meg had gone to carry one
to his mistress. Maxwell surmised that Blanche's indisposition, whatever
it might be, would not deprive her of her drinks. The July day was humid
and through the distorted panes, he could see the heat waves rising from
the ground in the butter-coloured sunshine. He was half-stupefied with
whisky and he intended to remain so until his son's return; it was the
only anodyne for the emptiness of his heart, drained by Hammond's
absence.

Blanche lay on her bed. She turned on her side and said to Tense, 'Fetch
me up here the bigges', blackes' nigger buck we's got on the place. That
Mede nigger. He the one. Go, fetch him along here.'

'Whut, ma'am, you wantin' him fer?' Tense had the temerity to ask.

'Nev' mind. Nev' mind. I say fetch him. I knowin' whut I goin' to do; I
goin' to pay him back. That's whut.'

'Masta not goin' to like. He not leavin' no fiel' nigger come right in
the house,' Tense demurred.

'I say fetch him, didn' I, nigger?' the mistress demanded. 'When I says
do somethin', you do it. Hear me? You listen to me!'

'Yessum, mist'ess.' Tense started to go.

'Fetch him through the kitchen and up the steps quiet like. Quiet, you
hear? Ifn that ol' man a-snoozin' down there in that settin' room hear
you comin', I goin' to tear you down. Tear you down, you hear?'

'Yessum, mist'ess. I be still as I kin,' promised the slave girl.

'You make noise or leave that Mede make noise, I goin' to shuck you down
an' lash you within an inch of your life. You hearin'? You listenin'?
Now go and fetch him. Tell him I said.'

Tense went. She found Mede stretched naked on his bed, half asleep, with
Lucy, her baby in one arm, standing over him, fanning his hot body with
a frayed palm-leaf fan which had been discarded by the masters. Tense
delivered her summons.

'What she want of me? What mistress want?' Mede was incredulous, for he
had sensed his mistress's hatred of him. 'I'm afeared,' he admitted. 'I
ain't got no leave to go in that big house.'

'Mist'ess say. I tellin' you come along. White folks say,' said Tense
impatiently. 'Mist'ess drunken, an' I reckon she cravin' somebody to
pleasure her.'

'No!' Mede exclaimed with horror and fear. 'I ain't goin'. My masta be
mad. He shoot me dead, Masta Hammon'. An' mist'ess don' like me no how.'

'She say----' argued Tense.

'You got to do whut you told,' declared Lucy.

Mede trembled as he got to his feet and pulled on his pants and shirt.

'Masta goin' to slice me an' feed me to the buzzards,' he said, knowing
it to be literally true.

'Like, it ain't whut mist'ess wantin' at all,' Lucy opined. 'She white,
mist'ess is. She ain't a-cravin' no big, black lummox like you.'

'That whut she want an' you doesn't do it, she goin' to tell Masta you
tried to rape her. I knows,' said Tense, shaking her head. 'I knows.
Ain't nothin' mist'ess won't do. She lie about you soon as look at you.
Come along.'

'I won't do it. I ain't a-goin' to,' Mede protested as he followed Tense
between the cabins and across the entryway and into the house.

The Negroes in the kitchen were amazed to see the giant Mandingo
following the yellow girl, whom they knew to be executing her mistress's
command. Meg followed the pair and saw them ascend the stairs. Dite
looked in quandary at Lucretia Borgia, who only raised her brows. Big
Pearl laughed aloud and opened her dress for Old Mister Wilson to nurse.

On the stairs, Tense cautioned Mede to be quiet, but he was unable to
avoid the creak of the steps under his heavy tread. In the upper hall he
stepped aside for the girl to lead the way to their mistress's room.

'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
found 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.




CHAPTER 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 cocked 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.

'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 come 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.

Pleased but baffled, Maxwell breathed, 'Whut you reckon?'

'Whut I reckon? Whut I reckon is that you could a got more,' Redfield
answered his host's question literally. 'That hunch-back ninny was set,
dead set on them bucks. He had money left. Didn't you see? Could a-took
it all.'

'Mayhap could,' Maxwell conceded. 'Could a leastwise kept the wench's
sucker, only would a-begot a carryin'-on. It old enough fer weaning an'
the Frenchie never looked at it, never know whether she got it.'

'Ain't you pilfered him enough?' demanded Hammond. 'Eleven thousand
dollars fer three niggers--two on'y jist saplin's and a wench comin' to
the end of her breedin', three, that is, addin' the sucker.'

'Whut you reckon he wantin' 'em fer?' pondered Redfield. 'Whut he goin'
to do with 'em?'

'Kin grin' 'em up fer sausage, he a-wantin'. We all gotten our money,'
said Hammond with a toughness he did not feel.

The party entered the house and Memnon brought them toddies. Blanche,
sure that the stranger had gone, came down the stairs, ready for dinner.

'Glad we shet of 'em. They too smart-alecky, too big fer they britches,'
she declared of the twins.

Hammond sat on the floor and ran the gold lovingly between his fingers,
recounted it and stacked it again.




CHAPTER 25


Dite did her best in the kitchen. Lucretia Borgia had taught her to
cook, but the family food, while it was still plentiful and good, lacked
the savour that was the result of Lucretia Borgia's skill. Dite was
unable to undertake the other tasks that Lucretia Borgia had carried on
without apparent effort, and Hammond was compelled to issue rations to
the slaves and assume such other chores as the former cook had vacated.
He soon learned how valuable the woman had been, how shrewdly she ruled
her fellows, and of what a load she had relieved his busy shoulders. He
missed her not only for the work she had done but also for her wisdom
and character, her obsequious aggressiveness, her domination of her
domain. She had managed things well, and always in the Maxwell interest.

The labour performed by the twins had been much less important and their
functions were absorbed by others. Memnon was again called upon to stir
the toddies, and while Maxwell complained that the drinks were not so
good as those prepared for him by Meg, it was really the child's efforts
to put on an adult role that the master missed. Ellen served as well as
Meg had done in helping Hammond off and on with his boots, which was all
the assistance he needed with his simple toilet. Hammond had never
roused Meg in the night to call upon him for service, but he now
realized that no slave slept outside his bedroom door if one should be
wanted. He considered installing another boy, possibly Kitty, whom
Lucretia Borgia had partly broken for house service, but postponed
detailing him in the belief that no other's loyalty, amiability, and
readiness would be as great as those he was used to. Meg's going
produced a void, small and vague and undefined, in the white man's
existence.

Maxwell was less happy in Black Willie, Alph's replacement, for Black
Willie smelled. Maxwell sniffed at him every night as he went to bed
with Willie at his feet and never failed to find him musky. Dido, by
Maxwell's command, scoured Willie daily, but his master still said he
stank. Alph's musk, such as it was, the old man had not found
unpleasant. Willie was larger than Alph, even if no older, dark enough
to call black, thicker-lipped, flat-nosed, with gross, broad feet. After
Memnon had been called in the middle of successive nights to apply the
paddle to Willie, the boy learned to lie across the bed without turning
and squirming, and Maxwell thought him as absorptive of his rheumatism
as Alph had been, but Willie did not possess the imagination that had
taught Alph to ape the old man's malady and limp and complain upon
occasion.

Maxwell did not relish having Willie crawling at his feet and seldom in
the daytime spread him out and utilized him as a reservoir of his pain.
Nor did Willie drink out of his toddy goblet. Those thick, black lips
would have contaminated the glass, as Alph's lips had not done. The
employment of Willie was purely practical.

Of course, the addition of the money to the pot buried under the tree to
some degree made up for the absence of Lucretia Borgia and her brood.
Never did the Maxwells, either of them, express regret for making the
sale, but the slaves were not forgotten. The fatuity of Roche, his
moustache, his jewels, his coach, his wealth, and his motives were
topics of unfailing interest when there was nothing better to talk
about. But speculation was vain. Why he should have wanted the twins so
much, and still more, why he should have insisted upon having their
mother also, was incomprehensible.

The cotton ripened, what there was of it, and was ginned and sent to
market. The corn was laid by. Hogs were killed and the meat smoked or
salted. Two of the mature field hands were sold to a passing dealer, and
the trip to New Orleans with a small coffle of slaves was postponed,
much to Redfield's disappointment.

Blanche was again pregnant. She postponed the announcement until she was
no longer able to conceal the fact. She was not sure who might be the
father of the child she carried. She hoped, as she forced herself to
believe, that it was Hammond, though she realized that it might be Mede,
even less likely Meg. She tried to formulate excuses if the child should
be black, but they were too late. If she had accused one of the Negroes
of rape, Hammond would have killed him and the thing would be settled,
but it was now too late. Blanche reverted to drinking more and more
toddies, which her father-in-law encouraged as being good for her
condition, but they did not increase her amiability. Hammond was elated,
as was his father, at the likelihood this time of a male heir.

The arrival of Blanche's mother in November was unannounced and unlooked
for. If her visit was inconvenient, it was concealed from her. Blanche,
at least at first, was delighted to see Beatrix, who would commiserate
with her over her pregnancy.

Mrs. Woodford brought tidings of the death of her husband, the Major,
who had succumbed to starvation in the belief that his wife and son were
poisoning his food. Dick had assumed sole possession of Crowfoot and
from an easygoing, open-handed, indolent youth had turned to a cranky
niggard, intent upon squeezing from the soil, the slaves, the
draft-stock, and from himself the last iota of revenue possible. The
Negroes had been placed upon shorter rations with longer hours, and Dick
begrudged his mother and himself the food they ate. He rose at daybreak
or before and toiled till dark, driving and coercing with whip and
cudgel to glean the last boll of cotton, the last nubbin of corn. Only,
so, he had assured his mother, should he be able to free the plantation
from debt, to the glory of God and the salvation of his soul. He had
abandoned his preaching--except the exhortation of the slaves on
Sunday--but his religion had taken a turn to diligence coupled with
stinginess.

Beatrix suffered Dick's quirks as long as she was able, but at length
had packed her worn and scanty clothes, summoned Wash to hitch the
carriage and driven to Falconhurst for at least a respite from her son.
In her hollow, querulous voice, which she was unable to hear, she urged
her son-in-law to claim Blanche's half of the inheritance (Charles being
dead, as she believed) and to assume the management of Crowfoot.

'No. Let Dick have it, ma'am, you an' him,' Hammond shouted into her
ear-horn. She could not hear him, or pretended so.

'Time the debts off, ain't goin' to be nothin' left noway,' he explained
to his father, 'unlessen the man they owin' never turn up. Don' want we
should mix with Dick. He lunatic, seem like, bad as the old Major.'
Hammond needlessly lowered his voice, and Blanche evinced no concern
about her share of the legacy. She had worries more urgent.

But Beatrix continued to discourse upon the Major's death and the estate
he had left and insisted upon Hammond's claiming Blanche's share. Her
empty, unpleasant voice was loud as if she believed the others to be as
deaf as herself.

Hammond, unable to reply to her, turned to his father. 'Cousin Beatrix
tryin' to take her place back from Dick,' he said. 'She ain't carin'
nothin' about me and Blanche and our part. Crowfoot, let Dick have it.'

Beatrix continued to censure Dick without actually accusing him of any
definite offence until she saw that her breath was being wasted.
Thereafter, seeing that Hammond was indifferent to her plea, she turned
on him.

'Men! Men!' she cried. 'Men and their lusts. Ain't got no nigger
wenches, seem like. You got to keep your wives always knocked up, always
knocked, always in the family way. I tellin' you when you got married,
she young and innocent, but you got to have a baby right away, and now
another one comin'. Seem like you'd have some shame and give little
Blanche here a rest between. Ain't no end to whut men does to women.'
Beatrix stopped to sigh.

'I was cravin' me a boy,' Hammond called into the horn at her ear,
unheard.

'We got to bear. It their duty, an' their men say. Cain't git away, got
to have white babies!' Beatrix ranted. 'Glad I through with it, the
Major dead. Me, I wouldn't have the best man livin'. I wouldn't believe
his say on the Bible. All a man wants is pesterin'. Cain't tell me
nothin' about 'em. I knows. The Major!'

Hammond did not feel himself censurable, but was unable to refute the
charges because he was unable to make himself heard.

Her mother's arrival put an abrupt end to Blanche's tippling and even
Hammond confined his infrequent toddies to the kitchen where Beatrix
would not see them. Maxwell, however, was obdurate in his refusal to
give up his drinking or to go elsewhere for it. Rather, out of
perversity, he drank more than before.

'My rheumatiz,' he used as his excuse. 'Oncet I let my rheumatiz git
ahead of my drinkin', I'll never ketch up to it.'

Beatrix shook her head, whether in implication of her failure to hear
what was said or of her disapproval of Maxwell's medicament he did not
know or care. Her failure to hear was often an unwillingness to
consider, although her deafness was real enough.

To his visitor's insistence upon family prayers the morning after her
arrival, Maxwell made the concession of getting out of the room to avoid
participation. Hammond was out of the house, and Maxwell, who took no
stock in religious observance, refused to permit the summoning of the
household slaves, except Tense, who was Blanche's own to do with as she
might choose. It was Maxwell's belief and experience that religious
practices made his slaves, especially the younger ones, restive and
dissatisfied with their state.

''Lessen you comes to Jesus an' kneel down at his feet, you goin' to the
bad place, sure are a-goin' straight to the bad place, Cousin Warren,
you and Hammond along with you,' Beatrix threatened him. 'I hates to
think about settin' up there in heaven with Blanche and a-watchin' you
all burn.'

'I hope, ma'am, I hope.' Maxwell did not say for what, but it made no
difference for his guest failed to hear him.

When the prayer meeting was assembled--Beatrix, Blanche, Tense, and Old
Wash, who had been summoned for the function--Maxwell took his goblet
and went into the dining-room. He could hear Beatrix as she haltingly
read aloud from the Bible, and later after she and the two slaves had
knelt--Blanche being excused because of her pregnancy--the rise in her
voice was superfluous as she prayed for his and Hammond's salvation.
Indeed, she prayed long and passionately, with many sobs and sighs, for
Charles, and Dick, and the Major, for Blanche and her children, born and
unborn, for herself, and incidentally for the slaves. But it was on
behalf of the Maxwells, father and son, that her suit was loudest.

The prayers concluded, Maxwell returned to the sitting-room and rather
pointedly, it seemed to Beatrix, called for Memnon to bring him a toddy.
Henceforth Beatrix found other places than the sitting-room for her
meetings, and while Maxwell was always invited he was never urged to
attend them. He cared not at all how much she prayed so long as he was
not constrained to listen and so long as his slaves were not demoralized
by her proselytizing.

The primary purpose of Beatrix's visit was to enlist Hammond to claim
his wife's part in the Major's estate or at least to oust Dick from its
management. Beatrix had not been aware that her daughter was pregnant
again, but, when she found Hammond indifferent to the supposed legacy
and Blanche so close to her lying-in, she resolved to wait to see her
new grandchild. There was nothing to draw her home, and here she at
least got enough to eat without Dick's grumbling. She believed that she
was welcome at Falconhurst, as, indeed, she was; for, even if she had
not been Blanche's mother, she was born a Hammond.

Blanche, when she was questioned, had no notion of the duration of her
pregnancy or when it might be expected to terminate. She had lost track
of time, and was reluctant to talk of the event. This her mother charged
to female modesty. Beatrix had her first grandchild to admire and to
dandle while she awaited the second.

Blanche, who was no longer able to get into her challis dress, gave it
to her mother. Somewhat soiled but little worn, it heightened the
leathery sallowness of the woman's lined face, and Hammond, who had been
allured more by the dress than by the girl who wore it, speculated
whether his wife might some day come to this sour favour. The worn, dark
brown woollen in which he had always seen Beatrix was more befitting to
her ochre skin and eyes and teeth.

Beatrix had been at Falconhurst about three weeks when another visitor
arrived. The gentlemen were up early, eating their breakfasts of eggs,
ham and red gravy. The food was noticeably better than usual, the ham
more tender and better done, the gravy richer and redder.

'Dite, she learnin' how at last,' commented the older man.

'Lucretia Borgia come back, suh, Masta, suh. That whut! Lucretia Borgia
back,' grinned Memnon, pouring coffee.

'Seem like; taste like. Reckon Dite goin' to soon learn,' Maxwell
replied to the servant.

'But she back, suh. Lucretia Borgia come last night on a mule,' Memnon
reiterated.

'Got to tear this nigger down agin, I reckon. Lyin' so. Got so as he
cain't tell true,' Hammond said. 'Want I should shuck you down an' touch
you up aroun' the edges, like the other time?'

'Naw, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh; naw, suh. I good, I tell true. I be
good. I ain't lie to you, Masta, suh,' the Negro pleaded.

'You lyin', you know you lyin', boy,' Hammond said sternly. 'Whut fer
you want to lie like that?'

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh,' Memnon admitted the accusation. 'On'y she back,
she here, Lucretia Borgia.'

Hammond pushed back his chair. 'You lyin', I goin' to hang you up this
very mornin'. I goin' to take the skin off you agin,' he said as he rose
and went toward the kitchen.

Lucretia Borgia stood before the fire, giggling nervously.

'Lucretia Borgia!' Hammond exclaimed. 'Whure you come from? Your masta
knowin' you come back? He say? He lettin' you?'

'Masta Ham, suh, Masta Ham!' the woman cried, throwing her big arms
around him.

'Whut you doin' here?' the master demanded.

'Cookin' you-all's breakfast',' she answered literally.

The young man was glad to see her, to have her back, whatever might have
brought her. 'Come 'long with me. Papa is in the dinin' room. Come 'long
and see him,' Hammond pushed the woman before him.

If Lucretia Borgia had been white, Maxwell might have believed he was
seeing a ghost, but there was no doubting the evidence of his own eyes.
'Whure you come frum?' he asked. 'Lucretia Borgia, you know you sold!
Whut fer you come back?'

'I come back from New Orleans, suh, please suh, Masta, suh,' the woman
replied. 'I cou'n't stan' it.'

'You never run away?' he asked in horror.

'Yas, suh, I reckon I did, suh,' the woman said contritely. 'I reckon
that whut you goin' to call it, suh. On'y I ain't a-goin' back, I ain't.
You goin' to whup me. I know you goin' to whup me. Goin' to hang me up
an' snake me. You kin, Masta, suh, you kin tear all the skin offn me.
On'y I ain't goin' back. I ain't.'

'Oh, yes you is, Lucretia Borgia. You is too a-goin' back,' Maxwell said
quietly. 'Correctin' you, we goin' to leave that to your masta when he
come fer you, but you know whut runnin' means an' you know whut he goin'
to do to you. You goin' back all right. You sure is!'

The woman broke into tears. 'Please, Masta, suh, keep me here. This my
home. Whup me, you wantin' to, Masta. Only let me stay with you,' she
sobbed.

'Dry up! Dry up!' the master commanded. 'Cryin' ain't a-goin' to save
you. Whut fer you run? You know it ain't right. Your new masta not good
to you? He starve you or somethin'? You looks right good an' fat.'

'Masta, he right good. Feeds good. White vittles,' Lucretia Borgia
specified.

'Then whut?' asked Hammond.

'It them two varmints. That whut it is, suh, them varmints. Alph and
Meg.'

'The twins?' asked Hammond. 'How they ac'? Whut they do?'

'I theirn. My masta, he give me to 'em fer theirn. I got to wait on 'em,
an' dress 'em, an' shuck 'em, an' wash 'em, an' do fer 'em, all the
time,' she explained.

''Tain't right,' Hammond agreed, 'givin' one nigger to another. 'Tain't
right, only it the way they does in Louisianie.'

'I reckon he never give you to them twins, Lucretia Borgia,' the older
man questioned her story. 'On'y you their mammy an' he lettin' you take
care of 'em fer him. Whut he wantin' of you, whut he bought you fer?
Don' seem he bein' hard on you.'

'That ain't all,' Lucretia Borgia countered. She was at ill ease, not
knowing how her charge was to be received. 'That ain't all. I got to
call them varmints "Masta, suh." Yas, suh, Masta, suh, I got to say
"Masta, suh" to them niggers. I ain't a-sayin' "Masta, suh" to no
nigger, least not to them two that I had my own se'f, an' raised up my
own se'f, an' whupped into house niggers fer you-all.'

The old man shook his head in disapproval, and Hammond said, 'I reckon,
if your masta, your white masta, say you name them li'l bucks "Masta,
suh," they ain't no other way. They treats you good?'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' Lucretia Borgia begrudged the necessity to reply.
'They treats me good enough, I reckon. On'y they always sayin' they
goin' to tear me down an' whup me good. Always sayin', threatin' like.
They ain't done it yit, but they always sayin' an' laughin' 'bout how
funny I'd look, dancin' nekid under their snake, an' how I squeal while
they goin' to rub in the pepper.'

'Your masta wouldn't let 'em, not 'lessen you do somethin'.' Hammond
said.

'How they come on, them twins of yourn?' Maxwell asked without much
caring.

'They good, Masta, suh. On'y they mean; they awful mean, suh,' the
mother said. 'Meaner, seem like, ever' minute.'

'They new masta, he still likin' 'em?' the white man asked with greater
concern for the answer.

'Yas, suh! He sure do,' Lucretia Borgia chuckled in a kind of derision.
'That whut makin' 'em so mean. He ain't whup 'em, neither one of 'em,
not even oncet, nor even slap 'em or kick 'em. Leaves 'em carry on jest
like they wants. Sure is awful. Don't have 'em do nothin', 'ceptin',
that is, stan' by his place while he eatin' an' he feedin' 'em right
offn his own plate, an' they drinkin' wine right outn his glass. Yas,
suh. They drunken ever' night. Standin' nekid, plumb nekid, without a
stitch on 'em, right by they masta's chair, savin' on'y their earbobs
an' they finger rings with little white rocks a-twinklin', jest like
that ring of Miz Blanche.'

'Di'mon's!' Hammond guessed. 'Di'mon's wasted on niggers, nigger bucks.'

'Yas, suh, that right, Masta, suh. That whut they calls 'em. I got to
say they purty, right purty, them little bucks, standin' there, them
little rocks twinklin' in the can'lelight. Jason, he wait table on his
masta, do ever'thin' fer him, wash him, undress him, put him to bed,
take him up mornin's, put his clothes on, ever'thin'. An' masta, he not
care whut them young bucks does to Jason. No, suh, don' care at all. He
jest laugh when they pinches Jason, or slaps him, or makes him spill
things.'

'They out of han', I reckon,' Hammond said. 'Had ought to be hung up,
hung up by they heels with a little snakin'.'

'Yas, suh, Masta. Sure ought,' the woman went on. 'Course, they
different when Masta takes 'em along out with him, to drive in his
kerriage, or to show 'em to the gent'men down at Maspero's Exchange, or
to Mass----'

'A Papist. Makin' them niggers Papists,' Maxwell interrupted the tale in
an aside to his son.

'Then they wears clothes,' Lucretia Borgia said. 'Fine clothes, all
slick an' smooth an' sof, an' fine stockin's, an' shoes.'

'Silk?' Hammond suggested.

'Yas, suh, that whut they calls it, somepin' like that. But gittin' 'em
dress', gittin' they clothes on! Lord A'mighty! Me? Masta tell me wash
'em, wash 'em all over, an' dress 'em devils. They is devils, suh. They
kick like young jackass, they scratches an' bites me an' slaps me hard,
hard as they kin, won' hol' still or nothin' while I scrubbin' 'em. I
tells Masta, on'y he laugh an' don' do nothin', say I theirn to do with
how they likes. But when they dressed with clothes on, an' them earbobs
an' rings a-twinklin', they good, they so good they won' melt butter,
walks so proper that they like angels or kittens or molasses or
somethin'. On'y when they comes home, an' I shucks 'em nekid agin, they
worse than ever, jumpin', caperin', teasin', pesterin', hittin', hittin'
ever'body, that is, 'ceptin' the masta. Never do nothin' to him, 'cept
makin' him laugh or beggin' fer a bite offn his fork.'

'Whut you reckon the fool mean, carryin' on like he do, like Lucretia
Borgia say he do?' Maxwell turned to his son. 'Seventy-five hundert
dollars worth of good nigger meat, jest a-wastin'!'

'He do, he sure do, Masta. I ain't fib to you, ain't tol' you half. Why,
Masta hire a white man, white, hire him an' pay him money, jest to come
an' learn them bucks to talk that lingo like he talk. That white man
crack the head of Alph 'cause he won' learn, an' Alph tell Masta. I don'
know whut Masta say in his kin' of talk, but he mad, mad, an' white man
say he not do it agin. He skeared of Masta, that white man is, an' I
reckon that whut he say.'

'Them bucks kin talk, talk good as you or me,' Maxwell said to Hammond.
'An' that man un'erstan's American talk. Don' need no learnin'. They
niggers.'

'That right, Masta, suh. Sure kin talk. They talks too much. An' Jason
fetch 'em chocolate in bed ever' mornin' jest like they masta. Cain't
pile out, cain't set foot on floor afore they have they chocolate.'

'That enough. I don' want to hear no more, Lucretia Borgia,' Maxwell
silenced the woman.

'But you goin' back the way you come,' said Hammond. 'You hisn an'
bought an' paid for. You goin' back.'

Lucretia Borgia assumed her stubborn, wide stance and, arms akimbo,
defied her former master. 'No, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh, I ain't
a-goin'. I go to stay right here.'

'You a-goin'. You goin' to do whut you tol',' Hammond said firmly but
without anger.

'I ain't,' affirmed the woman.

'You know whut it mean an' ifn your masta got to come fer you, don' you?
Mean you a runner, a ordinary runner, an' you know whut he goin' to do
to you--hang you up upside down an' snake all the skin offn you, that
whut. Ifn you go back your own se'f, mayhap he won' do nothin',' Hammond
argued.

'I not a-goin' back an' call them niggers "Masta, suh". I ain't goin','
Lucretia Borgia maintained. 'You kin drive me off, on'y I goin' to turn
that ol' mule an' go the other way.'

'Whut ol' mule? We ain't a-goin' to give you no mule,' declared Maxwell.

'My mule,' Lucretia Borgia explained. 'My ol' cripped mule I brung from
New Orleans.'

'Whure you git any mule?' the old man demanded.

'I bought it, bought it with money I done took out of Meg's box, suh,'
Lucretia Borgia confessed candidly. 'They, both of 'em, got lots of
money they masta give 'em. An' I pay a yaller boy who kin write, a light
yaller boy who usten to be Masta's pet afore he gotten them twins, to
write me out a pass, suh, fer the patterolers.'

'A real sure enough runner,' Maxwell nodded. 'You got to write a letter
to that white son-of-a-bitch to come an' git her. I 'on't care whut he
is or whut he do, he bought her an' pay fer her. An' you cain't trust
her to go back alone by her own se'f, mule or no mule. She actin' like a
mule.'

There was no other honourable course. Lucretia Borgia was dismissed to
go back to the kitchen to resume her former duties until her owner
should come or send for her.

Breakfast over, Hammond wrote the letter. It was a task, for he was
unused to writing. The letters wouldn't come right, the ink spattered,
and Hammond sharpened and resharpened the nib of his goose-quill. An
hour's agony over the brief note and it was finished and ready for his
father's approval.

'How am I goin' to back this letter?' he asked, 'not a-knowin' his name?
He never said.'

'He said all right, time 'fore you come in, on'y I disremembers.
Somethin' like Roach. He'll git it. Roach close enough,' said his
father. 'First, ast Lucretia Borgia. She'll be knowin'.'

Memnon was sent to bring the runaway into the sitting-room.

When she came, Hammond said to her, 'Whut the name of your new masta?
Whut he call hisse'f?'

'Somethin' like Roach,' the father suggested.

'Soun' like, somethin' like that,' she agreed.

'You doesn't know how to spell it out?' Hammond asked hopefully.

'That be readin'. I don' know readin', Masta, suh. You knows that
a'ready.'

Stumped for the want of a first name for his correspondent, Hammond
addressed the letter merely to 'Mister Roach, New Orleans.' He could not
be sure it would be delivered; in fact, he would not admit to himself
the hope that it might not. He had done his best and his conscience was
salved. However, he would be reluctant to give the woman up again,
despite that he saw no reason for her coming back.

'I goin' to sen' Mem to the Post Office with it,' Hammond said to his
father.

'That nigger cain't sen' no letter,' the father replied. 'I needin' him
to stir my toddies. Wait till you goin' to Benson your own se'f. Ain't
no press.'

Hammond grasped the excuse for delay, but the following Saturday he went
himself to Benson, mailed the letter, and went to the tavern for the
fights. He could hardly expect a reply short of a week, but a week went
by, two weeks, a month, and nothing came, and his letter was not
returned to him. He assumed that it had been delivered. Lucretia Borgia
went on working, fearful when her former owner went to town that he
would get a reply to his letter. But none came. None ever came. Lucretia
Borgia was again a Maxwell slave. She could not, of course, be sold, but
the Maxwells had no desire to sell her. She was her old self, obsequious
to the whites, dictatorial to her fellow slaves, efficient, obliging,
indispensable. Hammond was glad she was back, and dreaded the day when
her owner might arrive to take her away. But he did not come.




CHAPTER 26


For Blanche, childbed impended. She grew larger and larger, and her
mother worried about the delay and about her own prolonged absence from
home. Beatrix was accepted as a part of the Maxwell family, walking as
if in a dream; unhearing, her hollow voice, if not unheard, was ignored.

In January, Blanche developed pains in her abdomen and it was believed
that her time was upon her, but she recovered and nothing happened. She
was content. Her breasts enlarged and she felt the baby, but a languor
enveloped her. She watched her father-in-law drink his toddies and knew
that, but for her mother's presence, she would drink with him.

Cotton planting time arrived and Hammond ploughed his fields and put in
his crop. The Mandingo exercised and Lucy rubbed him with serpent oil;
he ate and thrived. Hammond looked at him from time to time and
considered that it was wasteful to maintain so futile a luxury, but the
elder Maxwell insisted upon keeping him as a stallion. His progeny, as
they were born, were stalwart and healthy.

Hammond had been tacitly impatient with Blanche's prolonged pregnancy,
but his impatience ceased. The baby would come when it would come. He
was vexed with her failure to reckon the date, but vexation was vain. He
was happy with Ellen.

March, with its bluster, showers, and sunshine, with its dogwood and
wild roses, came and went. The first of April, Blanche awoke in labour.
The house was solemn. Lucretia Borgia was the only person of any use.
Tense wished to help but knew not what to do. Beatrix went around asking
questions to which she was unable to hear the answers. Maxwell swallowed
impatient toddies. Hammond sent Memnon riding to Benson to summon Doctor
Murrey, who although he would probably be drunk upon his arrival was the
only physician in the community whose experience in such matters was
great enough to enable him to deliver a child, drunk or sober.

Blanche's recurrent pains begot groans as she lay and waited for the
doctor, but there were no such screams of terror as had heralded the
birth of her former child. Her mother, who sat beside the bed and rocked
in her anxiety, was unable to hear the groans of her daughter but in her
sympathy suffered more than Blanche. Lucretia Borgia pattered back and
forth between the kitchen and the bedroom, fetching hot pepper gruels to
stimulate labour and stooping by the bedside to massage Blanche's
abdomen. Tense hung over the foot of the bed in a futile desire to help,
but was able to do nothing except to fetch such things as Lucretia
Borgia required from other parts of the house.

Memnon was gone for hours, while Maxwell drank the toddies which
Lucretia Borgia found time between her trips upstairs to prepare for
him, and Hammond limped the floor and cursed Memnon for his delay. It
was three o'clock before the clatter of mule-hoofs on the lane announced
the messenger's return. Hammond met him at the door as he crawled from
the mule's back.

'That Masta Docta, he cain't come. He down sick--got lung fever, Miz
say,' the Negro informed his master.

'Did he say? Did you talk to him? Did you tell him who a-wantin' he
should come quick an' whut fer?' Hammond demanded.

'Naw, suh, Masta. I never seen him. Miz, she wouldn't leave me inside,'
Memnon explained. 'But she done say.'

'You damned triflin', slothy nigger. I had ought to know better than
send you. Had ought to go my own se'f,' Hammond muttered and went in to
tell his father the tidings and to consult with him about what should be
done.

'Lung fever? Liable, jest drunken!' was the older man's comment. 'Well,
I reckon the yarb woman, Doc Redfield's Widder, got to get her. Reckon
she as good as any doctor anyways; has grannied enough women, white an'
black, she had ought to know how to ketch a chil'.'

Hammond sighed his acquiescence. 'On'y whut Cousin Beatrix goin' to
think? How I goin' to make her hear that there ain't no man doctor?'

'Don' try. Ain't no other way,' said the father.

Hammond went upstairs to tell Blanche that Doctor Murrey was unavailable
and that she should just have to suffer while he went himself to bring
Redfield's wife. He would make all the haste that Eclipse was capable
of, he promised her.

'Why ain't that other doctor come instead of Murrey?' Blanche asked.

'Whut othern?'

'That young doctor. Doctor Smith,' said Blanche. 'He real nice. Ruther
him than Miz Redfield.'

'That blackguard! That scoun'rel! That houn'!' ranted Hammond so loud
that Beatrix's trumpet caught the sound and she directed it toward him.
'He ain't no doctor man yet, that Willis Smith, an' ain't never goin' to
be. Goin' aroun' spreadin' the clap through clean niggers, makin' more
sickness than ever he cure up. I'd sooner have Mede, sooner have that
Mandingo ketch a chil' as that Willis Smith.'

A spasm of pain overtook Blanche and forestalled any argument. Her
husband, ignoring her suffering in his indignation, stalked out of the
room, down the stairs, and toward the stable.

Maxwell recognized the hoofbeats of Eclipse's canter as Hammond rode
down the lane and knew his son had gone for Mrs. Redfield. The house was
quiet except for the creak of the stairs as Lucretia Borgia made her
heavy way from Blanche's bed to the kitchen and back again and for the
loud ticking of the crazy clock above the cold fireplace. Two toddies
later he heard the crow-hop gait of Mrs. Redfield's tired horse and the
turning wheels of her vehicle, and he knew that the herb-woman had come.
He rose stiffly, made his way to the window, and saw her crawl down from
her lop-sided seat, gather her paper bag of herbs, and stalk with brisk
importance toward the house. Without waiting for the door to be opened
for her, she entered, and Maxwell heard the stairs under her firm tread
as she ascended. Maxwell felt easier, now that help had come.

Hammond, with Doc Redfield on his dun gelding, followed the woman down
the lane a furlong behind her buggy. Redfield, with nothing else to do,
had come along for a visit while his wife performed her professional
duties. He was elated that his wife should be summoned on so notable a
mission and sought to partake, however vicariously, of her distinction.
Maxwell was glad of somebody to talk to through the vigil.

The random conversation touched on many subjects--the Mandingo, his
condition and fitness for a fight, the size and vigour of his babies,
cotton, the current market for slaves and the prices they brought, a
suitable diet for young slaves, tribal differences, the virtues and
dangers from infusions of white blood in Negroes, anything to avoid
discussion of the weight upon all their minds. Hammond, between sips of
his toddy, limped from window to window, looked at the landscape and
assessed the weather. Not that he cared.

'Redfield! Redfield! Come up here! Hurry!' came his wife's loud voice
from the upper hall. Mrs. Redfield was a placid woman, not unused to
emergencies and taking them in her stride, but to his amazement,
Redfield detected an implication of terror in the summons.

He set down his toddy glass, rose, and went into the hall. 'You callin'
me? You wantin' me, Widder? Whut you reckon I kin do?' he asked as he
made his way up the steps.

'Come up here!' the woman repeated. 'Come quick!'

Redfield hastened as best he was able. 'It come yit?' he demanded as he
reached the head of the stairs.

'It come!' the midwife said in a loud whisper. 'It come! Only it ain't
white! It a--a nigger! Whut we goin' to do?'

The astounded man was taken aback. He did not believe her. 'A nigger!
You wrong; it ain't no nigger!' he contradicted.

'You sayin' I don' know a nigger, me who have ketched a hunerd black
suckers in my time?' the woman said with indignation.

'Whure is it?'

'On the bed. I laid it on the bed till I could call you. Whut we goin'
to do with it?'

'If it a nigger, like you sayin', we jest cut the cord short an' let it
bleed. Mista Maxwell, he don' want no nigger chil', not his own, not
from his wife, he don'.' Redfield was resolute. By destroying the baby
he calculated to save Hammond the necessity. As he followed his wife to
the bedroom, Beatrix Woodford emerged from it, weeping, but her head
high, her tread firm, and went into her own room.

Blanche lay exhausted, but calm and comfortable, relieved now of her
long burden. Her baby was not beside her where the herb-woman had left
it. Blanche opened her eyes at the turning of the door on its hinges.

'Whure is it? What you do with it, your chil'?' Mrs. Redfield demanded.

'Mamma, she mad! She done took it an' squashed it agin the commode an'
throwed it over there in the corner,' Blanche answered unmoved. 'She say
it a nigger. I 'on't know how come.'

The naked baby lay on the floor in the corner of the room under a
window, its skull crushed. Mrs. Redfield picked it up into her arms and
held the warm, dead body towards her husband.

Redfield looked at the beautifully formed little boy. 'The Mandingo,
Ham's Mandingo,' he breathed. 'Look jest like him; an' big, must be
fifteen pounds. Jest like the Mandingo.'

'An' a boy,' declared his wife. 'They a-wantin' a boy.'

'But not a nigger boy,' said Redfield. 'Ham's mother-in-law, her a-doin'
it save me from gotten to do it. Me, I'd haten to got to kill it--it so
big an' purty an' soun' like.'

'Is it a nigger, sure 'nough?' Blanche asked but was indifferent to the
reply.

Redfield sighed as he went down the stairs, trying to make up his mind
what to tell the Maxwells.

As he entered the sitting-room, Hammond looked at him, expectant, and
the older man asked, 'Well?'

'It dead. Come dead, I reckon,' said Redfield.

'Dead,' sighed Hammond. 'A boy?'

'A boy. Made purty like,' Redfield answered.

'How Blanche? Kin I go up now? All over?' Ham asked.

'She all right. That is, she goin' to be,' said Redfield. 'But no, no!
Don' go up. You don' want to see it. Purty bad messed up. You don't want
to see it. Let the niggers bury it. Whure that cook-wench, that Lucretia
Borgia? She bury it.'

'I cravin' I should see him. A boy! Dead!' declared Hammond, starting
towards the stairs.

'Not yit, not yit!' Redfield grasped his arm in an effort to detain him,
but the young man eluded him.

In the emotional turmoil, the Woodford surrey with old Wash in the front
seat and Beatrix in the rear was hardly noticed as it went past the
windows and down the lane. Beatrix had done her duty as a Hammond and
would not stay for questioning. Later, Blanche's challis dress, which
she had given her mother, was found on Beatrix's bed.

Redfield stood by the door until Hammond was half-way up the stairs,
after which he turned and walked towards the elder Maxwell. 'Nigger!' he
said in a tragic whisper. 'The chil' a nigger!'

'Whut you mean? Nigger?' Maxwell failed to comprehend.

'It a nigger, I tell you. The Mandingo, jest like him. A nigger!'

'No! No! It cain't be!'

'It is!'

'A white lady have a nigger? Blanche, she white, she Ham's wife! It his
chil'. Ifn any buck rape her, she'd say, she'd tell. No, no! You wrong!'
Maxwell set aside his toddy glass which had suddenly turned bitter. 'Not
the Mandingo?'

'You reckon I don' know a nigger?' Redfield asked rhetorically,
expecting no answer. 'I tried to keep Ham from goin' up; that why. Ain't
no use in him seein' an' knowin'.'

'An' you killed it? That whut the Widder wantin', that whut she call you
fer, to kill the nigger?' Maxwell had no doubt. 'You done right, right.'

'Miz Woodford, afore I got there, she done bashed its head. I would of,
would of cut the cord an' let it bleed. I tol' the Widder so, but I
never needed. Miz Woodford,' Redfield explained.

Hammond returned, his face bloodless, his limp hardly noticeable, his
step resolute. He sank into a chair and stared, wide-eyed, at nothing.
'Doc Redfield,' he said, 'that powder? That pizen powder? The kin' you
used on an old, blin' one of Widder Johnson's, 'fore you married? You
said if ever I needin' it. You got some left?'

'I reckon so; they's some in my saddlebag,' the doctor nodded. 'On'y it
too good fer him. You had ought to burn him.'

'Mede, you meanin'? My Mandingo?' Hammond inquired, dazed.

'It was him all right. Sure was. It look jest like him,' testified
Redfield.

'The powder not fer him. I got another I got to do fer. I goin' to take
care the Mandingo my own se'f. I take care of him. Don' you fret,'
Hammond promised.

Mrs. Redfield came heavily down the stairs and across the hall. 'I
reckon she be all right now,' she said, framed in the sitting-room door.
'That big wench, she kin do fer her good as me. She know how.'

The lack of concern with which Hammond answered 'I reckon' told Redfield
for whom the poison was intended.

'You kin go along home, Widder,' Redfield told his wife. 'I'll come,
soon as I kin git somethin' out of the saddlebag fer Hammond, here. I'll
ketch you up afore you git there.'

The woman adjusted the bonnet on her head and her husband followed to
help her into her buggy, after which he turned to his own horse, opened
the saddlebag and delved among the powders and pills and bottles. At
length he found the poison, wrapped in a soiled paper, unlabelled. He
divided the contents and placed a quantity in a scrap of paper torn from
the larger piece. After restoring the miscellaneous contents of the
saddlebag, he re-entered the house with the small packet.

The Maxwells had not moved. They had hardly spoken in his absence.

'Here it be,' the doctor said. 'It ain't got no taste to it. Jest you
stir it up in coffee or a toddy, an' have her drink it down. She won'
feel nothin' but jest go to sleep an' stiffen out. It sovereign, sure
sovereign.'

'Jest put it there on the mantel, please suh,' Hammond managed to say.
There was no resonance in his voice.

Redfield did as he was bidden and took his departure without any
farewell. Sensing the young man's agony, he knew that no civilities were
indicated.

When the doctor had gone, Hammond struggled to his feet and went into
the kitchen. He soon returned with a toddy into which he poured the
contents of the small paper on the mantel.

'Goin' to give it?' asked his father.

'I got to. There ain't no other way,' said the son, stalking down the
hall.

Maxwell heard him as he went up the stairs. Memnon brought him a toddy
which he tasted but did not drink. His knees ached and he rubbed the
joints but failed to relieve the pain.

Hammond went into the room where Blanche lay on the bed. The girl was
awake, and Tense, who sat on the foot of the bed, arose. Hammond carried
the goblet of toddy and sat in the chair beside the bed where Beatrix
had sat.

'Rouse you up an' swaller this. It a-makin' you feel better,' he said
with no evidence of rancour. 'Help her to set up, Tense.'

The odour of the potion was alluring to the girl and she reached for it.
Hammond sat and watched while she sipped it slowly as Tense supported
her.

'I didn' mean no harm, Hammond,' Blanche declared weakly. 'I didn't mean
no harm. Only you an' that Ellen--you didn' pay me no mind, no min' at
all, an' I reckoned--I never knowed the baby goin' to come a nigger.'

Hammond was silent.

'That good. It taste real good,' Blanche said between swallows of the
toddy. 'It right stren'thenin'. On'y somethin' in it, somethin' in the
bottom, white-like.'

'That medicine Doc Redfield left fer you. It make you sleep quiet,' said
her husband.

Blanche drained the goblet and Hammond took it from her hand. Tense
eased her mistress back upon her pillows. Hammond sat quietly a few
minutes, after which he got up from his chair and, taking the empty
glass with him, went downstairs and into the kitchen where he rinsed the
glass and set it aside to be washed.

He made his way, dazed but resolute, across the area to Lucy's cabin,
which he entered without knocking. 'Mede here?' he demanded.

The Mandingo rose from the bed where he lay.

'You know that big hog kettle,' the master told the slave. 'Well, you
fill it up with water, an' strike a fire under it, an' heat it up hot.
Bring fire from the kitchen to light it with. We goin' to brine you
agin, brine you good.'

Being steeped in hot brine was not a pleasant experience, Mede knew, but
there was no way to evade the master's purpose. He knew better than to
protest. Hammond appeared grim and determined, but betrayed no anger.
The slave wondered, however, at his failure to examine him and criticize
his condition, as was Ham's custom.

Mede left the cabin and went to the end of the gallery where the
vat-like kettle sat, saw that it was raised from the ground with blocks
of wood. Then he began carrying more wood from the stacked pile and
arranged the pieces around and under the kettle to heat the contents
quickly. Next, he went to the kitchen for a brand with which to ignite
the wood. He saw to it that the dry wood was burning well all around the
kettle before he went to the well for water to fill it. He attached the
bucket to the well-sweep and placed his weight against the pole,
bringing the water to the surface. He poured the water into two buckets
which he carried to the kettle. When the first of the water touched the
bottom of the kettle, it hissed into steam which soon subsided with the
addition of more water. Again and again he went to the well until the
kettle was well filled. He shivered at the thought of getting into the
hot brine and remaining there until it should toughen his skin. Why
should his master undertake this process just at nightfall? There was no
accounting for a white man's whims. Mede knew nothing of what had
occurred inside the house that day, and, if he had known, would not have
associated it with his salting.

After Mede left the cabin, Hammond turned to Lucy and told her, 'You
goin' to tote the wood to keep that fire, after Mede git in that water.'
As he went toward the house, he paused to see that Mede was preparing
his bath.

Accompanying his father to the dining-room, Hammond could eat no supper,
and the older man, sensing the anguish of his son, did not urge him to
talk nor offer him counsel. He knew that the boy had poisoned Blanche,
but could conceive no other course. He was, rather, grateful for the
young man's restraint, the absence of violence. He knew, of course, the
need to destroy the Mandingo, but left the time and manner to his son.
Hammond did not divulge his plans. Maxwell would have liked to have a
few more women pregnant to the Negro stallion before his demise, but had
misgivings about saying so. Indeed, he feared that the youth might
undertake to exterminate the babies Mede had already begotten.

Supper over, Hammond went upstairs to make sure the poison had done its
work. Blanche was not dead. She lay on the bed, her breathing shallow
with a detectable heart-beat. Her husband was impatient for the end, but
saw that the woman could not long survive.

Outside, the night was black, with only the stars for light, only the
stars and the embers that sparkled beneath the hog kettle. Mede had
gone. Hammond felt the water, which was hot but not boiling, then he
limped toward the stable where he got a rusty pitchfork. As he came
toward the house, he saw Mede replenishing the fire. The water had begun
to bubble. He entered the house and went to the sitting-room where his
father was drinking a toddy.

'Throw the blue coverlid aroun' your shoulders. The night-time is
cool-like. Don' want you should catch anythin'. But come,' said the boy.
'I cravin' you should see.'

'Whutever you goin' to do, Son, it all right,' declared the father. 'I
ain't a-needin' I should watch.'

'Come,' urged the son, adjusting the shawl to Maxwell's shoulders.

The old man rose stiffly, and Hammond took his arm to guide his steps.
He went no further than the gallery, from which he watched.

The water in the kettle was turbulent with heat. The fire around it was
brilliant in the dark, crackling and emitting sparks as the wood burned
and fell apart.

'Shuck down now,' Ham ordered the slave, who kicked himself out of his
garments and stood naked.

The coppery skin reflected the fire's glow as the Negro stood with
unconsidered dignity before his owner. Ham ran his hand over the youth's
flank, valuing the property which pride and duty prompted him to
destroy. He took a firm hold on the pitchfork.

'Git you in,' he ordered.

'It hot. It bilin',' objected Mede.

'I didn't ast you was it hot. I sayin' git in,' said Hammond.

The Negro stepped toward the kettle and tested the heat of the water
with his hand. 'I cain't,' he argued. 'Please, suh, Masta, suh, that
water burn me. I cain't.'

'Never min' burnin', I say,' Hammond commanded. The Mandingo knew that
the instruction was not to be gainsaid. He swung one leg into the
cauldron but the water was unbearably hot and he withdrew it.

'God damn, git in there,' said the master.

The Negro replaced the leg in the pot, grasped the iron edge to support
himself while he hoisted the other leg, and burned the palm of his hand.
He stood in the bubbling water deep as his knees, treading the bottom of
the hot kettle, lifting one foot and then the other to keep from burning
them.

'Stop that bouncin' an' set you down,' commanded his master. 'Set right
down, I sayin'.'

'I--I cain't,' said the Negro, beginning to weep.

Hammond stepped forward, raised the pitchfork, and drove it into the
Negro's abdomen. The water muffled the boy's screams of rage and
anguish, so long as they lasted, but at length he ceased to struggle.

Hammond stood a long while over the cauldron, the fire-shine in his
face, until he was sure the slave was dead.

The moon appeared on the horizon and illumined the black night.

Hammond called to Lucy and told her to replenish the fire and to keep it
going throughout the night.

'Masta, Masta!' the woman wept, wringing her hands. 'You done kill Mede,
done kill him. He ain't done nothin'. Whut fer you kill him, Masta, suh?
Whut fer you kill him?'

She expected no answer, but Hammond said, 'Serve him right.'

Maxwell, when it was apparent that the Mandingo was finished, turned
towards the door, but before he reached it his son joined him and
grasped his arm.

'You got to look about now, I reckon; buy you another fightin' buck,'
said the father. 'Ain't apt to find you anothern like that Mandingo.
Mighty purty boy,' he sighed as he entered the house.

'Not reckon I git me any othern. Ain't no point in fightin' 'em,' the
boy replied. 'A good one, an' you cain't fin' nobody wantin' to fight
him, an' a bad one al'ays gittin' whupped. Cain't trus' no fighter,
noways.'

Hammond lay alone that night. When Ellen came to remove his boots for
him, he sent her away. He lay alone but did not sleep. He lay and looked
through the window into the moonlight. He heard Lucy throwing fresh wood
upon the fire, and occasionally he saw the sparks that flew upward from
the embers and went out. He felt his face redden with shame, not for
what he himself had done, which was only his duty, but shame for his
wife, a white woman and a Hammond, who had brought forth a Negro child.

At the first hint of dawn he rose, got into his clothes, struggled to
put on his boots without aid, and made his way to the room in which
Blanche lay. He stepped over the body of Tense, sleeping on the floor of
the hall outside her mistress's door, but did not rouse her. The room
had been his mother's, and Hammond felt that it had been desecrated by
the birth in it of the Negro child and, perhaps, by the assignation here
at which it was begotten. He stepped to the bedside and laid his hand
upon Blanche's brow. It was cold. She was indeed dead. He made an effort
to adjust the position of an upturned arm but found it rigid. She must
have died early last night. The face was peaceful and there was no
indication that she had struggled with death.

He went out, closed the door, stepped again over the sleeping Tense, and
went down the stairs.

It was early, but the Negroes were beginning to stir. He encountered two
stout youths, Brutus, shortened to Brute, and Treasure, whom he
commanded to bring shovels and to follow him. He walked ahead while the
boys went to get their shovels, but they soon came up with their master.
He walked through the now brightening day, the two slaves at his heels,
across the rows of burgeoning cotton toward the worm-fenced, weed-grown
enclosure set aside to serve as a family burial ground. Instead of going
to the entrance gate, he climbed the fence and his slaves threw their
shovels across and followed him. He paused before the wooden slabs that
bore the half-effaced names of the members of his family buried beneath
them, and stooped to pull the tallest of the weeds and grass from his
mother's grave. The family was huddled side by side in death in the very
middle of the broad expanse, broad enough to accommodate ten numerous
generations. Traversing the burial ground was another fence, beyond
which there was a host of unmarked mounds beneath each of which rested
the body of a dead Negro. Hammond remembered some of these servants and
knew just where they lay. It was a quiet, peaceful stretch of high
ground with a group of large elms, the young leaves of which were just
turning from yellow-green to the deeper green of summer. Seldom
disturbed by humans and never shot over, the area was a refuge for
bob-whites and jays and cardinals which sensed their safety within its
confines. Garter snakes bred here unmolested, and other small things
scurried through the weeds at human approach.

Hammond surveyed the scene while the slaves waited to be told what to
do. Brute leaned on his shovel, while Treasure threw himself on a grass
clearing among the weeds. The customary course was to bury members of
the family, as they died, in a line, the last to die alongside the
last-made previous grave, but Hammond, choosing a resting-place for his
wife, felt the profanation of placing her beside his mother. That spot,
he reasoned, should be reserved for his father. He went to the division
fence and looked across into the Negro burial grounds, moved to inter
his wife there. After all, had she not had a Negro child, and was it not
to be buried with her? But he could not bring himself to do such a thing
to a white woman, however culpable.

At length he chose a spot on the white side of the fence, but hard
against it, well away from the white dead, with them but not among them.
He paced the space with his feet, length and breadth, and ordered the
Negroes to dig the grave, cautioning them to conserve the soil and to
pile it against the fence. He waited while they removed the surface with
its weeds from the plot, seeing to it that the corners were square.

'Now, dig it on down, straight and clean an' deep,' he told the boys.
'We wantin' to bury 'em nice.'

Seeing the grave well begun, Hammond left the Negroes at their task and
walked toward the house. He paused by the side of the barn and chose one
of a suitable size from the assortment of crudely carpentered coffins
stacked there weathering while they awaited tenants. The Maxwells buried
their dead slaves in coffins instead of merely wrapping them in blankets
and tumbling them into graves, and there was always an assortment of
coffins of various lengths made in anticipation of the deaths which were
happily infrequent occurrences among the plantation population. Having
made his selection of the soundest and most neatly fashioned of these
boxes, Hammond looked about him for two strong boys to carry it for him
to the house. This they did by grasping the handles of rope passed
through holes in the sides of the coffin and knotted inside it. He had
the bearers set the coffin down on the end of the gallery and then
dismissed them.

Entering the house, Hammond found his father at breakfast and joined
him, eating heartily, having foregone supper the previous night.

'Reckon it needful, you a-carryin' on,' sighed the elder man
regretfully.

'Ain't no other way. I wouldn't feel right inside without I do it,'
Hammond said. 'I not a-likin' to do it, no more than you, on'y you
knowin', your own se'f, that no gen'leman kin have a woman whut carry on
like that--you know--with no nigger buck. Ain't no other way.'

'Kind of break up our Mandingos, seem like. Coursen, we got them two
suckers, Lucy's wench an' that Ol' Masta Wilson buck outn Big Pearl.
Glad we saved somethin' from Mede, but they take a long time to grow.'
Maxwell appeared to deplore the Mandingo more than Blanche.

'Him! Whut I done is too good fer him. I not a-cravin' more Mandingos.
They treach'ous!'

'Not treach'ous an' they watched, no more treach'ous than any nigger
buck. Cain't turn your back on any of 'em, any buck, aroun' white
ladies. They all lusty-like,' opined the elder. 'Made that way. I ain't
a-blamin' 'em. Ain't no call to behave, savin' you make 'em.'

Hammond pushed back his chair and rose. He summoned Lucretia Borgia and
Tense to help him, and together they wrapped the bodies of Blanche and
her baby in a quilt, carried them through the hall, down the stairs, and
across the gallery, where they laid them in the open coffin. Only Tense
wept, not because she had loved her mistress or had been well used by
her, but out of self-pity and doubt about her own future. Hammond was
grim and determined to carry out the duty he had set for himself. He had
loved the girl, he thought, whom he had killed for her own honour and
for his, and, despite her shortcomings as his wife, had protected her
and treated her well, but he had no tears to shed for such a woman. He
knelt by the coffin and nailed the lid securely in place.

Hammond limped back up the knoll to the burial grounds to assess the
progress Treasure and Brute were making in the digging of the grave. He
had not expected them to work rapidly and was pleased that they had done
so much. The sides of the hole were not quite plumb, and he cautioned
the boys to straighten them. Then he stood by and watched them throwing
the dirt from the pit, the task progressing more rapidly under the
master's surveillance. At length, he tired of watching the slaves and
wandered over to the cotton field and finally back to the house. Except
for the boys who dug the grave and another boy assigned to keeping the
fire going around the kettle, work on the plantation was suspended, and
the slaves, all of whom knew about Mede's martyrdom but not the reason
for it, kept to their cabins, not knowing which of them might be the
next victim. Terrified as they were, none questioned their owner's
authority to do what he had done to Mede or to dispose of any of them as
he should wish. Hammond climbed the stairs and threw himself upon the
bed, but, despite his sleepless night, he was unable to sleep now. He
was obsessed. All of his imaginings turned upon visions of his white
wife in the bestial arms of the Mandingo. His vengeance had been prompt,
but it did not suffice. No vengeance would suffice. He pondered what he
might do to make it more terrible and more just.

Hours he lay there, wide-eyed and pondering. Then he arose. The grave
must now be finished. He walked mechanically down the stairs, across the
areaway, to the meeting-house barracks. He called upon two stout boys,
the first he encountered, and took them with him to the gallery, where
he told them to wait for him. He went into the house and along the hall
to the sitting-room, where his father's chair was drawn up beside the
window. The old man had drunk more than his usual number of toddies in
an effort to quell his perturbation over the anguish he knew his son to
be suffering and which he knew not how to allay.

'We're goin' now,' the young man announced. 'Crave to come along?'

'Whure to you goin'?' asked the father.

'To bury her, her an' her chil',' Hammond said, with an air of false
casualness. 'Reckon you kin come? You relished her right well; that is,
beforehan' you did.'

'You knowin' I cain't walk so fur.'

'Well, we'll rig up that hammock I brung you from Natchez. I knowed it
would come handy someday,' Hammond proposed.

'I'll not ride in that contraption,' the old man refused. 'It would seem
like you totin' me out to dump me in the grave, my own se'f.'

He got to his feet, however, and followed his son to the gallery where
he stood and watched as the two slaves, one on either side of the
coffin, lifted it by its hempen handles and started with it toward the
burial ground, followed by his son. He remembered that it had been he
who suggested Blanche Woodford as a consort for Hammond and he blamed
himself for what had occurred. If he had been more vigilant during his
son's absence, the assignation would have been impossible. He assumed
that the Mandingo had waylaid the girl and raped her, but deemed her at
least as culpable for her failure to tell of the assault as was Mede for
committing it. All knew the lust of black men for white women, which it
was the white man's duty to thwart more than to censure. Maxwell stood
and watched. He saw the slaves set the coffin on the ground and change
sides, each transferring the weight to the opposite arm. Then he saw
them lift their burden again and disappear around the corner of the
meeting-house barracks, where he lost sight of them.

Arrived at the worm-fence, Hammond called to Brutus and Treasure to take
down a panel of it that the coffin might pass. They had finished their
digging, but the bottom of the grave was not level, and Hammond ordered
the two slaves to set the coffin on the ground while the two others
scraped the grave and levelled it. When it was ready, he had Treasure
remain in the hole to receive the coffin, which the other slaves eased
down to him. In the process, the box turned on its side and fell upon
Treasure's foot, at which he cried out and complained so much that his
master ordered him to the surface and delegated Brute to descend into
the grave and right the coffin. When it was placed to the master's
satisfaction, Brutus climbed out of the hole and Hammond, grasping the
loose, dank earth, pelted the coffin with clods. He then ordered Brutus
to shovel back into the grave the dirt that lay beside it, while he,
himself, knelt on the ground to manipulate Treasure's foot to make sure
it was not broken.

He did not wait until the grave was filled, but, instructing Brutus how
he wished it to be banked, dismissed the slaves and walked slowly back
toward the house.

Supper over, Hammond sat with his father, who drank his toddy. Hammond
drank nothing. When Memnon came to refill the old man's goblet, Hammond
said to the slave, 'That Lucretia Borgia, tell her she should come
here.'

Memnon marked the stern and peremptory tone, and soon Lucretia Borgia,
smoothing her apron, stood before the master in the twilight.

'Lucretia Borgia!' Hammond began.

'Yas, Masta, suh,' she said.

'Lucretia Borgia, you knowin'--you knowin' 'bout this?' the master
charged rather than asked.

'Knowin'? Knowin' whut, suh?' the woman countered for time, aware what
he meant.

''Bout Miz Blanche an' that Mandingo. You knowin',' he said.

Lucretia Borgia hesitated, not sure whether it was more discreet to
admit or to deny the accusation, doubtful that denial would be believed.
At length, with a hint of a giggle in her voice, she acknowledged in
part that she knew. 'I knowin' Mede come in the house an' up the stairs.
Tense say Mist'ess sen' fer him,' she said. 'I not knowin' whut he do.'

'Lucretia Borgia not here that time. She in New Orleans that time,' the
father sought to defend the woman.

'That time? While I gone up in Tennessee? That afore she sold,' replied
the son.

'Yas, suh, Masta; that the time, while you gone,' admitted the cook.

'Whyn't you say? Whyn't you tell me? Whyn't you call Papa, here? You
knowin' Mede got no hold in the house, no business here,' the young man
upbraided her.

'Tense say----' Lucretia Borgia retorted.

'Nev' min' whut Tense say,' said Hammond.

'Tense say Miz Blanche, she sen', suh,' went on the woman. 'Say Miz
Blanche say tell that Mede to come here. Tense, she cry. All time cry.'

'Nev' min' Tense, I tellin' you. Whyn't you tell Papa, your own se'f?'
the boy interrogated. 'Whyn't you look after things, like you supposed?'

'It white doin's,' Lucretia Borgia shrugged. 'I not never mess in white
folk's doin's. You tol' me, you own se'f, Masta, suh, white doin's is
white doin's, an' me, I ain't no call to mess.'

'I reckon I did. But lettin' a nigger buck to a white lady. You know it
ain't safe, ain't never safe.'

'If'n white lady wantin' that ol' hog boar of yourn, I ain't a-goin' to
put in,' Lucretia Borgia shrugged again. 'White lady know whut she
crave.'

'She, Miz Blanche, never crave that black ape. You know she never. She
sen' to give him them red ear-drops, that all, an' he rape her,' Hammond
rationalized.

'Whut fer she sen' the second time and the third time then?' rebutted
the woman.

'More than once? It ain't true,' declared Hammond.

'Four days in all, while you away, suh,' Lucretia Borgia held up her
fingers. She had tolerated rather than liked Blanche and was pleased
that she was able to indict her. 'That Mede, he right temptatious to a
woman. You-all done seen him nekid.'

'To a nigger wench. Not to no white lady.'

'I not a-knowin' 'bout no white lady, suh,' sighed the Negro.

'I got me a right good notion to gather you up an' carry you back to
that white gen'leman in New Orleans whut bought you,' Hammond
threatened.

'Yas, suh, Masta, suh, I a-hearin',' the woman answered.

'As you goin' out, sen' me in Tense. Hear?' he dismissed her, baffled by
her taciturnity. He limped the floor impatiently until Hortense arrived.

When at length she came, he hardly knew what he wanted to ask of her.
'Tense,' he stated rather than questioned, 'you Miz Blanche's nigger,
takin' care an' doin' fer her?'

'Yas, suh, Masta,' Tense whispered her reply and shivered in her fear of
him.

'You a-knowin' that Mandingo rape your mist'ess?'

'Mede, suh. Yas, suh, I a-knowin' it.'

'Whyn't you say? Whyn't you tell me?' he demanded. 'You a-knowin' I kill
him.'

'Yas, suh, Masta, only Miz say I mus'n't tell. She say she mad at you,
say she goin' to pay you back. I a-tellin' her--much as I could--she
hadn't ought to; you be mad,' the girl absolved herself. 'She say fetch
him.'

'An' you do it? You fetch him? Then whut?'

'I 'on't know, suh, Masta, suh. I 'on't know. I 'on't know nothin','
Tense broke into frightened tears.

'Whut you do while--while he in there, while he in there with your
mist'ess?' the master inquired.

'I set outside on the stair steps--jest set.'

'Didn' say nothin'? Didn' tell your ol' masta?'

'Naw, suh. I jest set an' cried. I tol' Miz Lucretia
Borgia--afterwards.'

'She knowin' all the time whut a-goin' on?' Hammond sought to
incriminate somebody.

'She know. Ever'body know. All the niggers know,' she admitted. Tense
raised her skirt to dry her eyes.

'The house niggers or all of 'em?'

'Leasewise the house niggers, 'ceptin' Ellen. She away with you that
time. Nobody ever tell Miz Ellen. They afeared to.'

'How many times? How many times you fetch that ape in fer Miz Blanche?'

'You meanin' Mede?' Tense asked. She counted on her fingers and held up
her hand with the thumb concealed in the palm. 'That many,' she said,
unable to count to four. 'That many, I reckon.'

'All you niggers knowin' an' none of 'em ever sayin'--none of 'em
tellin' me?' Hammond shook his head in disbelief.

'Them twins, that you done sol', one of 'em, I 'on't know which one, I
couldn't tell 'em one from the other, one of 'em was a-goin' to tell,
said he would, 'lessen Miz Blanche--'lessen Miz Blanche----' Tense could
not bring herself to go on.

'Unlessen Miz Blanche do whut?' the master prompted.

''Lessen she pleasure him too, like she done with Mede,' she said.

Hammond, pacing the floor, turned on the standing girl, raised his arm
and brought his palm across her cheek with a slap that staggered her.
'That a lie, a damn lie! You dirty, lyin' skunk of a nigger!' he
exclaimed.

The elder Maxwell, who had so far been silent, murmured, 'Nigger talk.
You know that ain't true, Son. Them twins wasn't big enough.'

The son doubted the validity of the objection. 'They big as I was the
first time, the time you give me that li'l yaller wench.' He knew that
Tense told the truth. 'That Meg, leastwise, was.'

'Too late, too late now. You cain't do nothin', Ham, even an' if she
tellin' true,' said the elder man, draining his goblet.

Hammond shrugged. 'How many times? How many times that Meg rape your
mist'ess? How many times?'

Tense stood sullen and did not answer.

'How many times, I askin' you, nigger?' Hammond demanded.

'I 'on't know, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh,' at length she replied.
Then she added, ''Mos' ever'day, I reckon, afore you went an' sol' them
twins. Mos' ever'day, when he could sneak out an' upstairs, an'
sometimes at night when you asleep with Miz Ellen.'

'Then it was Meg, 'cause Alph always sleepin' with you, Papa,' Hammond
reasoned.

'Sometimes both of 'em, in the daytime, one after the othern,' Tense
said. 'But jest one said he'd tell.'

Hammond was revolted, desolated, impotent to revenge himself upon the
twins. 'That enough,' he said, dismissing Tense.

Mede's body was removed from the cauldron and buried with scant respect.

Days passed. The cotton grew in the mild spring weather, and the hands,
under Hammond's supervision, kept the weeds in check. A Negro boy went
down with persistent pains in his lower abdomen, but was purged and
there was no alarm. Two women bore children the same night, both without
serious difficulty. Hammond told his father briefly of the occurrences
on the plantation, but there was little discussion of them. The whole
house was quiet. The house-slaves spoke among themselves in subdued
voices. Maxwell was aware that Hammond seethed with unvoiced emotions.

Blanche had been buried nine days. Supper was finished and Maxwell
sipped his toddy. Hammond's sat on the floor at his side, untasted.

'Well,' said the younger man, 'I reckon I goin', goin' 'bout tomorrer.'

'Goin'? Goin' whure to?' asked the father placidly, with no show of the
alarm which he felt.

'Jest a-goin',' replied the son. 'First off to New Orleans. I got to
kill me them two twins.'

'You cain't; cain't do that,' objected Maxwell. 'They ain't yourn.'

'I'll pay for 'em. Won't be much, two triflin' saplin's. If need, I give
it all back, the money we sol' 'em fer. Won't need though.' Hammond's
blue eyes were focused as in a dream. 'No jedge goin' to assess me more
than they worth, leastwise, when he hear why I done it.'

'You ain't got no proof,' the older man protested.

'You hear whut Tense say? Tense ain't tellin' no lies. Whut she sayin'
'bout Blanche don' count, but a nigger kin say agin a nigger an' that
the truth,' Hammond said with finality.

'Mayhap be,' the father admitted. 'Only----'

'Shoot down that Meg and that Alph is the only way to clear out my head.
I know it is. Things jest keep goin' 'roun' an' 'roun' inside of me.
Cain't sleep, cain't eat, cain't pleasure, cain't think, cain't do
nothin' so long as they a-livin'. Gittin' shet of her an' the Mandingo
don' count none, now that Tense say 'bout them twins,' Hammond spoke
slowly with apparent deliberation. He paused only to sigh.

'They dead, you goin' to be satisfy, you reckon?' Maxwell asked
doubtfully.

'I 'on't know,' admitted Hammond. 'After that, mayhap I goin' to saunter
on west, mayhap clean to the Texies, fin' some good groun' to grow
cotton on, whure I kin look a white man in the face without he sayin' to
hisse'f, "There go Hammond Maxwell, whose white wife pleasured with
niggers."'

'Nobody don' know that,' argued Maxwell.

'Savin' I knows it, an' you knows it, an' Redfield knows it, and his
Widder. An' who know how many more?'

'Well, you growed up now, an' you knows how you feel inside. I cain't
hold you from goin',' Maxwell conceded. 'Take along the gold, whutever
you want of it, an' the niggers, many as you need. Falconhurst is here
fer you to come back to.'

'I'll come back an' git you, soon as I settle, you an' li'l Sophy. Take
care of her.'

'Lucretia Borgia an' Big Pearl, they'll min' her good until you ready
fer her. Only me, I reckon I ain't goin'. Come back an' git niggers, all
you craves of 'em. They yourn. Only let me stay, me an' Memnon an'
Lucretia Borgia, an' the Mandingos, what's lef' of 'em.'

'Papa! Papa!' Hammond threw himself at his father's feet and embraced
his legs. ''Tain't a-goin' to be right--me in the Texies an' you here.'

'Falconhurst always here fer you to come back,' the father said. He
paused before he went on. 'Me? I belong here, seem like. My bones an'
the meat on 'em are made of Falconhurst dirt. Born here, growed here,
lived here all my life a-knowin' ever'body. Reckon it's fittin' I die
here an' rot back into the groun' I come from, rest me alongside your
mamma on the hill. You gone, Son, I got to throw to one side this
rheumatiz, I reckon, an' take aholt.'






[End of Mandingo, by Kyle Onstott]
