“He appear hamstrung,” noted Benson. The other dogs burst from the woods and swarmed over the shrieking slave. The overseer asked, “Reckon we should whup them houn’s off?”
Ackerly shook his head. “They don’t care about this one. If they did, they wouldn’t have loosed the dogs.”
Ackerly’s slaves gathered in a semicircle to watch, and the three white men sat loosely in their saddles, resting their hands on the pommels. There were half a dozen dogs, big rangy creatures with large flat heads. The slaughter was finished quickly and noisily.
The hounds were still ripping the carcass when a handful of armed whites strode into view. Two of them whipped the dogs back, and a single gentleman sauntered over to Ackerly.
“Good evenin’, suh. Name of Church. James Church. I trust this affair did not impede your journey, nor excite your nigguhs overmuch. It’s a fine-lookin’ coffle.”
“Thank you, suh. Richard Ackerly. You needn’t worry, suh. You’ve caused no difficulty whatsoever.”
“Good. Good. I’m pleasured there are no ladies with you.”
Ackerly nodded agreement.
“I don’t enjoy this in particular myself,” the gentleman continued. “But what must be done, must be done. This is the third time he’s run in less than a year. Wuthless nigguh. Can’t cogitate what spoilt him.”
“It happens sometimes. Tainted blood, I imagine.”
“That’s so,” said the gentleman gravely. “That’s so. Seems to be no other reason. Why don’t you bring your bucks around and show them what happens to runners? Seems that nigguhs are growing more and more contrary every day with all the hoo-rah those fuckin’—you’ll excuse me, suh—abolitionists are raisin’.”
Ackerly ordered his blacks to view the corpse. It was lying face down and mutilated in a blood-drenched circle of dust. The gentleman tore away a patch of pants that covered the rump. The major part of a large branded R was still visible, though the letter was no longer complete, since one of the hounds had ripped a chunk of meat from the buttock.
Ackerly’s slaves whistled and rolled their eyes.
“The first time he ran, I branded him,” said the gentleman. “The second time, I snaked his back bloody, but I still gave him another chance. This time . . .”
“I have a runner,” Ackerly said, “that no hound in this country could catch. Show the gentleman your leg muscles, Abel.”
The gentleman looked, more through courtesy than interest. “You don’t keep him chained?”
“He’s not that kind of runner, are you, Abel?”
Abel laughed and slapped his leg. “No, suh, I surely ain’t.”
“And why is that?” Ackerly asked.
“Where I goan run to? Who goan take care of Abel, if’n he run away? No, suh. Abel doan put one little toe where Masta doan say he should.”
“You’re a smart nigger, Abel. Stay that way. If you ever do run, I’ll catch you and I’ll cut your legs off at the knees.”
Abel found this hilarious. He broke into peals of laughter. He clutched his sides.
“Yassum. Yes, suh. I believes you would, Masta. Pore Abel wouldn’t have nothin’ but two stumps to run on.” He moved back, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
Ackerly rested a short while longer and then started his party again. Despite their efforts, they did not reach the Bonestelle plantation until after nightfall. Ackerly was fretful and embarrassed. It was poor manners to arrive at such a late hour, unexpected.
His slaves were bedded down in the barn. He left them unchained; with the auction yesterday, any loose nigger would be picked up in a matter of hours, and there weren’t any abolitionists in these parts to help them.
The Bonestelles were hospitable and friendly, and they seemed not to resent the imposition at all. They sat with him while he ate, and later in the drawing room they questioned him with sincere interest about the members of his family, and they made him relate the story of his trip in detail and give careful descriptions of the purchases he’d made. Only Mrs. Bonestelle gave any indication that their normal schedule had been interrupted. Although she flushed and apologized, she was unable to suppress a series of cavern-mouthed yawns and finally, after much apology, she and her husband went to bed, leaving Ackerly with their son, Charles.
After another brandy Charles asked, “D’you want a wench? Got a good one. Young, a yaller. She’s almost a virgin. I topped her an’ bust her maidenhead just last week.”
“I’d be obliged.”
“Shylock. Hey, Shylock,” Charles called.
A tall black appeared. “Yes, suh.”
“You go get Tige an’ bring her to the house. Have her scrub up good an’ get all the musk off herself. She’s gonna spen’ the night with Mista Ackerly here, an’ he don’t want any smelly nigger. When she’s all ready, you sen’ her to the big room in the north wing. You unnerstan’?”
The young gentlemen drank final brandies. Charles showed Richard to his room, and bade him good night there.
Richard undressed, hung his clothes carefully in the closet that was built out from the wall, and lay down naked upon the bed without turning back the covers. The room was warm. The fire had reduced the logs in the hearth to embers, but the embers glowed fiercely and still emanated a good deal of heat. Richard closed his eyes. He felt lazy, somnolent; it was a sensual and quasi-sexual feeling. He touched the lower part of his thighs lightly with his fingertips: short soft hairs, smooth skin. He drew his fingertips up slowly, barely touching himself, and he quivered with the sensation this produced. He stroked his belly and his hips, and a sound of pleasure slipped through his lips. He touched himself until he became aroused.
He rose up on one elbow, looked at himself, and was pleased.
There was a knock upon the door. “Come in.”
The girl stepped silently into the room on bare feet, shut the door, and stood before it with her eyes cast down and her hands folded in front of her. She was barely fifteen, a quadroon of a light golden color. Her hair was dark and long and not coarse. Except for a wide mouth, her features were delicate and fine. Ackerly liked her mouth. It excited him.
“Come here,” he said. “Stand at the foot of the bed.”
She did so, without raising her eyes.
“Look at me. No, not just my face. Look at all of me. Yes, like that.”
He rose up on his knees, facing her. And he felt indomitable, a brother of the Titans.
“Now tell me I’m the biggest you’ve ever seen. Tell me you’re frightened.”
The girl’s eyebrows bunched with perplexity.
“Say it.”
“You . . . you the bigges’ I ever did see, Masta. I’s scared of you.”
“Ask me to let you go. Beg me not to hurt you.”
The girl giggled.
Richard struck her with his fist. “Beg, damn you!”
There was a thread of blood at the corner of the girl’s mouth. Her eyes were wide. “Please, Masta. Please, suh, doan hurt me. Please doan hurt Tige.”
Richard got off the bed and walked toward her. She stepped back. “Stand still,” he ordered. He walked behind her. He loosened the few hooks and eyes that held her frock closed, and then grasped her shoulders and turned her so that she faced him. He drew the frock from her shoulders. They were smooth, unblemished, honey-colored. He pressed his lips to her skin, and suddenly nipped the flesh. She stifled a little cry, but made no attempt to escape him. He lowered the frock little by little, drawing the process out, until at last the garment lay in a heap around her ankles.
Breathing heavily, he put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to her knees. He twisted one hand in her hair and yanked her head back, making her stare at his virility.
“I’m going to beat you with that. I’m going to make you cry. But I want you to love it, love it with your mouth.”
He pressed her head forward and stood with his legs set wide apart, with his own head thrown back, breathing heavily through his mouth.
> He stayed that way until the tremors in his legs became nearly uncontrollable. Then he thrust his hands beneath the girl’s armpits, lifted her roughly, and flung her back on the bed. He threw himself atop her and stuffed a corner of the sheet into her mouth. He seized her breasts, which were not yet fully developed, dug his fingers into them, and twisted them. She writhed beneath him, throwing her head from side to side. The muscles of his forearms knotted. Tears ran from the girl’s eyes. Her scream was muffled by the sheet.
When she screamed a second time, he entered her, violently.
IN THE BARN, MOST of the slaves had gone to sleep shortly after they’d eaten. One was sitting with his back to the wall, humming softly. Two others were discussing their new master in low tones.
“I saved now. I almos’ b’lieve in God,” one called Plum said. His voice was reverent, filled with awe. “My old masta, Mista Cook, he pore. He only own me an’ my little brother, Harris, ovuh by the stall there an’ one othuh nigger. He work us sunup to sundown an’ beat us like to scramble our insides. Din’ feed us hardly nothin’, an’ he keep us chain’ in the barn ever’ night. This the firs’ time since I a striplin’ that I doan have no chain to sleep with. My old mist’ess keep sayin’ I got t’ love Jesus if’n I doan wanna burn after I die. One day we makin’ soap in the yard, an’ the kettle tip an’ scald this other nigger’s leg. Me an’ Harris jus’ git a few splatters. But it scare me, an’ I pray to Jesus. An’ right after, my masta come down with lung fever. When he die, my mist’ess have to sell us. An’ now me an’ Harris git ham fo’ supper, and we doan have no chain on us. Jesus hear me, ‘cause it weren’t no other’n him. That certain.”
Plum jabbed his finger definitively into the dirt. He had removed his last doubts while telling the story.
“Maybe,” said the other one. “Jus’ maybe.”
Moonlight washed in through the open space high up at the front of the haymow. It illuminated the two speakers. On Plum’s back, Jud saw long dark wales—the ridged scars left by a bullwhip. This was the only member of the coffle who was obviously marked. He was strapping, broad-chested.
The other black began a story of his own. Jud spat out the piece of straw on which he’d been chewing. He walked down the line of stalls to the ladder that rose to the haymow, and he climbed up. The hay was thick, and his feet sank several inches as he walked across it. When he reached the opening that gave onto the pale, full-mooned night, he sat down and hung his legs over the edge.
It was quiet—as if a smothering blanket lay over the countryside. Jud liked the stillness. He looked up at the stars. They were very far away; that was all he knew about them. Or had ever wanted to know. He was aware of a huge, empty distance that lay between him and them. Very often when it was still like this and when he was looking at the stars, he felt as if his body were something like a tightly lidded kettle. There was pressure within him, just as there was the pressure of steam in such a kettle suspended over the fire. If he were somehow to be punctured at a moment like this, he thought that whatever was inside him would rush out with a loud hiss, rise toward the stars, seek the emptiness, and dissipate itself.
He did not know whether or not he liked this feeling. But he returned to it again and again.
There was a sharp whirring of wings as a bat, driving blindly toward the barn, sensed an obstacle in its course and veered straight up.
Jud worked a nail free from the weathered, semi-rotten wood. He scratched a diagonal line into a board. Then he bisected this with a second line. He became engrossed in the task, and when—quite some time later—he finished, the board was marked with an intricate and tightly circumscribed design of no particular significance.
He lay back in the hay and cupped his hands beneath his head. Though there were no impediments to escape, the thought of running did not occur to him. Why should it? And if it had, and he fled, where would he run to? What would he do when he arrived?
A horse snorted below, and loose boards clattered. A sleeping slave grunted and rolled over. The horse whinnied this time, a shrill and louder sound, and again the boards clattered.
“What goan on there?” asked a dull voice.
A few sleep-muttered imprecations arose from the stalls.
Then a clear, strong voice said, “Oh-um! Um! Look at that, hey. Hey, look. He tryin’ t’ top that ol’ mare. He think he a rutty stallion! Hey, rise up. Look here.”
Jud yawned, stretched, and closed his eyes.
“Oooh-eee, boy! Masta catch you, he cut you sure. Make a wench out’n you.”
“You think that a wench?”
A boy giggled. “Ain’t never had a wench. Weren’t none where I lived. Jus’ Masta, Masta’s son, and some bucks. Masta’s son do this all the time.”
Jud fell asleep.
THE LEAVETAKING WAS BRIEF and good. The Bonestelles were truly a refined and hospitable family, and Richard was tempted to pass another day or two with them. His father, though, would be impatient to see the new blacks. Also, there was the consideration of weather. It was holding nicely, but the early spring rains were due, in fact even late this year, and Richard wished to take advantage of each good traveling day. But paramount was the fact that he was an unexpected guest. Decorum would not allow him to stay.
They made good time, covering sixty to seventy miles each day. Once storm clouds moved in from the north in the early morning, darkened the sky, and rumbled angrily through the day, but eventually drifted south without relinquishing any of their moisture. The coffle left Alabama and moved through Georgia. The white men were pleased; they made jokes and laughed as they neared the South Carolina border. The slaves could discern nothing that differentiated one state from another, but shared the enthusiasm of their masters.
Ackerly gave Abel permission to run ahead whenever the boy desired. As often as not the coffle moved without Abel, but never was he absent for more than an hour at a time. Near the South Carolina border the blacks sensed a growing uneasiness in the white men: Abel had been gone for an hour and a half.
The white men urged their horses into a slow gallop and the tired slaves strained to maintain the pace. The running line became ragged. The overseers used their straps. At a bend on the top of a hill, bordered by dogwood trees, Ackerly pulled hard on the reins and brought his mount to an abrupt, stamping halt. An open-topped surrey stood in the center of the road. A stout man with a florid face sat in the rear seat alongside a wispy woman who was fanning herself. An elderly black in red livery held the reins of a matched pair of gray geldings.
Abel was lying at the edge of the road, blood pulsing in clots from his mouth.
The liveried black assisted his master down from the surrey. The gentleman waddled over to Ackerly as Ackerly dismounted.
“It’s nigh time you arrived, suh, nigh time. I presume this is your nigguh.” The fat man gestured vaguely in Abel’s direction.
“Yes, suh. He is.” Richard walked toward Abel.
The stranger broke into a kind of rolling trot in order to match the younger man’s long strides. “What kind of idiocy prompts you to let a nigguh run loose like that?”
Richard stopped, turned, and stared at the man. The man backed two steps away. Richard turned to Abel again.
The little man puffed out his chest. “You could of killed my wife and me. Do you know that? This crazy nigguh ran right around the bend smack into my horses. They trampled him and dragged the surrey over him. If my boy wasn’t quick, my wife and I’d be laying in the road, too.”
Richard knelt on a knee beside Abel. His overseers came to his side, and behind them—carefully, so as not to crowd too close to the whites—the slaves bunched up.
“Does your daddy know you let his nigguhs run free?”
Richard’s snapped his head up. “Does your daddy approve of your running down other people’s property?”
The Georgian’s red face deepened in hue. He harrumphed in his throat and muttered, “Impertinent striplin’.”
“Where do
es it hurt, boy?” Richard was not sure whether Abel was even conscious.
Abel’s lids opened. Pain furrowed the skin around the eyes. His jaw moved, but the only sound that escaped him. Then he was racked by blood-spraying coughs. .
“His lungs are punctured,” Richard said, drawing back some. Then he said, “Move your legs, boy. Go on, just a little bit.”
Abel gritted his teeth. The effort cabled the muscles in his neck. Then he sighed, a bubbling sound, and tears rolled from his eyes. “Ah caint,” he managed to whisper.
Richard stood. “His back is broken,” he said to the Georgian. “That’s a sixteen-hundred-dollar buck you’ve ruined. I expect full payment. I’ll make out a bill of sale for you.”
“What! You expect me to pay you sixteen hundred for a near-dead nigguh?”
“I’d be pleased to go to the local sheriff with you, if you don’t think you’re responsible.”
They moved away from Abel to settle the matter.
Abel rolled his eyes, scanning the ring of expressionless faces above him. The overseers left first. One by one the slaves followed, until only Jud was left with Abel. He squatted down. Abel’s face had a fascination for him that he did not understand. He’d seen men who were dying and who were afraid of dying. There was some of that in Abel’s face, yes, but there was something else, too. He didn’t know what it was. Abel looked at him quietly, and Jud peered back intently into his face, trying to trap the elusive thing.
They stayed that way for several minutes. Then, weary, Jud rose. Abel made a sound. Jud hesitated; then he lowered himself again. Abel’s lips moved, and Jud leaned forward. When he was very near, Abel grasped his hand. It was a feeble hold, and Jud could have freed himself easily. But he didn’t. Instead, he looked down at both their hands; then he stared at Abel’s face again. Abel lost consciousness a few moments later. Jud got up. He walked away from the boy.
Richard and the Georgian had resolved the issue. The Georgian looked angry.
“Is he still alive?” Richard asked Jud.
“I don’ know.”
“Well, go see.”
Jud felt a heartbeat when he placed his hand on Abel’s chest. He nodded to Ackerly.
Slave (The Shame & Glory Saga) Page 3