SAMUEL WAS HATLESS. A light rain fell on his unprotected head. It was stopping. It would be clear by morning. He left the gravel path and headed around the house toward the shanties. He wanted to stalk through the mud, to get his feet dirty. The major—clamoring “The South! The South!”—was an idiot. But he did have a point: if that bearded scarecrow Lincoln did get the nomination . . .
But that fop-faced, empty-headed preacher. Balls, what a moron. Of course, niggers had no souls. For that matter, Samuel wasn’t sure he had one himself. But it was all irrelevant. If God was sitting up there somewhere, no one was going to budge him one way or the other, so . . .
“God, souls, niggers, war, the Union. Ach!” Samuel spat.
He stopped, breathed deeply, and sighed. It wasn’t Hartwell, and it wasn’t Delmore. It was Amanda.
Time was when she couldn’t reach him. Time was when her sniping attacks rolled off him like rain off a mackintosh. He was growing old, he imagined, and weary. Chinks were beginning to show in his armor, and Amanda thrust her talons with unerring accuracy into each of these crevices. He had married her six weeks after he’d met her on Shrove Tuesday in Mobile. She was sharp-tongued during their courtship, but he found that appealing; it showed spirit and strength. She soured—or maybe came into her true nature—the instant she saw Olympus. She thought its munificence was being flaunted at her. She thought Samuel’s praise of her own lineage and family wealth was simply condescension. She resolved, as she stepped from the carriage, to make herself ruler of Olympus—and ruler of the man who owned it. She did not. And the fact that she did not served only to drive her to further extremes.
She took his son away, but since he had never had his son, she hadn’t really taken anything of value from him.
But Samuel was growing old. Much older, he thought, than his years. He was slowly being ground to dust.
The sky was clearing; a few stars were visible. It was a big sky, immense, awesome, overwhelming.
He strode quickly to the nearest shanty. He pounded on the door until it opened. A frightened black face peered at him through the crack between door and frame, and then swung the door open wide.
“Git up. Git up!” the slave cried to his fellows. “It Masta Samuel come to us. Git up. Strike a light there.”
There was a quick shambling. Flint and steel sparked. The oil lamp sprang to life. Four blacks huddled near the fireplace, apprehension freezing their faces.
Samuel closed the door behind him, kicked some litter from the floor, and sat down with his back to the wall.
“Niggers,” he said, “talk to me.”
A RAINBOW ARCHED ACROSS the sky at dawn, lingered an hour, then faded, leaving the heavens an unmarred, deep blue. Small, puffy white clouds edged in from the east. It was Sunday. The slaves had no chores.
Reverend Hartwell’s service began at eight forty-five. Less than half the slaves could have crammed themselves into the meeting shed, and since the day was clear, the address was given out of doors. Olympus’s black population sat in the mud. Cleaning their clothes later would consume a large part of their day. The minister stood upon a wooden platform. On his right sat Amanda and Samuel. Richard and Major Delmore were seated on his left.
The voice of God’s emissary was stentorian now that he was in his milieu. He demanded, he implored, he entreated, he exhorted. As God was the white man’s master, so was the white man the nigger’s master; and as God demanded obedience and homage from his servants, so did God expect niggers to give homage and obedience to their masters. God was this, God was that. . . . It went on for more than an hour and a half.
he blacks were happy. The preacher was an excellent performer, and they always enjoyed a good show.
When the minister spoke of God’s mercy, Plum leaped to his feet and gave testimony of his own deliverance, praising the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Reverend Hartwell was delighted.
Few of the slaves believed in God, but it made their masters happy to think they did. And the happier the master, the better off the slave. So they clapped their hands, stamped their feet, rolled their eyes, and shouted Amen—and they found that they had a good time doing it, so in the end they supposed it was a better thing to have a God than not to have one.
Amen!
And every time a preacher visited the plantation, they had bacon and salted herring with their mush and pone, and Billy Seldoms—biscuits made with shortening.
AMEN!
While the minister harangued them, Jud stared at the hair of the girl sitting in front of him. It was long and lustrous, black as ink, tightly waved rather than coiled. Individual strands caught the sun as she moved, sparkling. He thought that if he touched it, it would be as soft as the filaments in a milkweed pod.
The meeting ended with a hymn led by Reverend Hartwell, who swung his arms vigorously. The slaves made their way back to their shanties. Jud walked behind the girl. He had glimpsed her briefly when she had arrived yesterday in a buckboard. She’d been purchased in Richmond with a handful of other females. Virginia was the birthplace of American slavery, and its wenches were considered to be of the highest quality.
She walked alone, head high. Her neck was long and slim, her skin copper. She was young, barely nubile. Her body was still somewhat gangly, but had begun to fill out.
“You, girl. You, Delia.”
The girl stopped and turned.
“You wait there.” An old crone behind Jud clutched the arm of a younger slave and hobbled through the mud as best she could.
Jud stopped. He faced the girl. Her forehead was high and smooth. Her eyes were narrow and the pupils were as black as her hair. Her nose was straight and thin—the legacy of white blood. Her lips were wide. There was a small cleft in her chin.
She did not acknowledge Jud’s presence. The granny came abreast of them and clawed for a grip on Delia’s arm.
“You come wif me,” she rasped. “No sloth today. I needs wenches to make field pants, an’ you a sewer.”
Delia let herself be taken away, but even with the old woman’s fingers curled about her arm, it seemed as if the girl were doing precisely what she wanted to.
Jud and a younger buck who shared the shanty worked on the building’s roof until late in the afternoon. The rains had revealed several leaks. They ripped out weather-rotted planks and replaced them with new, rough boards, fastening them to the rafters with wooden pegs.
Richard Ackerly, checking the plantation’s activity from horseback, drew his mount up and ordered Jud down from the roof.
“My father says you’re a good nigger, one of the best wheelwrights we’ve ever had.” He studied his cuticles. “He takes a great deal of pride in you. As if he’d had his eye on you, and acquired you in a shrewd round of trading. He’s evidently chosen to forget what he said to .me the day I brought you home. What do you think of that, nigger?”
“I don’ know, Masta.”
Richard laughed. “No, of course you don’t. Incidentally, who gave you permission to use nails instead of pegs on that roof?”
Jud spoke carefully. “They all pegs, suh. I made ‘em myself at—”
Ackerly’s leg shot forward and the toe of his boot sank into the pit of Jud’s stomach. Jud grunted, dropping to his knees and one hand.
“I asked you a question, nigger.”
Jud pushed himself up.
“The next time I pass by, I don’t want to see a single nail. Just pegs, and nothing else. Is that clear?”
“Yes, suh.” Jud looked into Richard’s eyes. “I unnerstan’. I unnerstan’ perfec’ly.”
Richard smiled. “Yes. I think you do.”
He kicked his horse and rode down the avenue between two rows of shanties. Niggers scrambled out of his way.
Jud climbed back up to the roof. There was a bucket of warm pitch there, ready to be spread. He sat down and stirred the thick gum with a brush for a long, thoughtful while. Then he began to seal the seams.
TWO DAYS OF HOT sun burned the excess moi
sture from the earth, and the plowing began on Tuesday morning. Jud worked with a team of oxen in the north quadrant. Ten other team drivers worked with him in this area. They threw the dirt into six-inch beds by turning furrows both ways toward a given center. The teams and drivers in this quadrant were under the supervision of Chaskey—a bull-necked black foreman with a sprinkling of gray in his wool.
During the early part of the morning, Richard Ackerly rode into Jud’s quadrant, conferred with Chaskey, and rode away. After Richard’s visit, Chaskey became more overbearing than usual, driving the slaves hard, laying on the leather strap. One man working a team of mules lost his temper and swore at the foreman. Chaskey whipped him furiously.
Jud felt the bite of the strap several times, but said nothing. The tracings were looped about his neck. He was shirtless. Sweat ran down his back in rivulets and dampened his pants. The wooden handles of the plow sluffed skin from the large calluses on his hands.
Women and children brought them their midday meal only after the sun was well past the meridian. They had water—but not much and not too cold; sunstroke was always a danger in the fields—a few ounces of pone, and dried apricots to suck and chew.
They went back to plowing. Chaskey spent a good deal of time near Jud. He criticized frequently, using the strap to emphasize his words. The blade of the plow struck a huge stone beneath the soil. Jud jerked the tracings hard, and pushed up on the handles trying to jump the blade over the rock.
“Whoa, there. Whoa!”
But the blade caught, and the oxen lumbered dumbly ahead a few steps before they stopped. There was a wrenching sound and a long lateral split appeared in the wood where it fitted into the iron socket. Chaskey was there in an instant.
“I’m gonna have to bring ‘er in,” Jud said. “It need fittin’ with new wood.”
“Lazy goddamn nigger.” Chaskey swung the strap. “You wreck that thinkin’ you won’t haf to work no more, din’ you?”
Chaskey whipped Jud across the face. Jud stepped back and raised his hand. Chaskey pressed in, working the strap past Jud’s guard.
“Don’ do that, Chaskey. Not on my face. You tear out my eyes.”
“Whut you goan do, nigger? Show me what you goan do.” Chaskey’s attack grew more violent.
The skin of Jud’s face was hot and tight. His right eyelid was puffing out, obscuring his vision.
“Come on, nigger. Do somethin’.” The strap hissed through the air, cutting into Jud’s face.
“Chaskey—”
“Stop me, nigger. Stop me. I goan blind you sure.”
Jud reached and clamped his fingers around Chaskey’s wrist. He twisted slowly, steadily, to the side. Chaskey—without . The strap dropped to the ground, and Jud released his hold.
“Not my face,” Jud said. “You hurt me bad that way.”
Chaskey dropped into a crouch. “You know whut you jus’ done?” he rumbled.
“I bring this plow in now.”
Chaskey wrapped Jud in a bear hug, positioned his head under Jud’s chin, and began to force Jud’s head back. The bones in Jud’s spine strained.
“Don’, Chaskey. Lemme loose.”
Chaskey grunted and increased the pressure.
The other slaves ran from their teams to watch.
“Chaskey . . .”
Jud was short of breath. There were pains in his back and at the base of his neck. He pushed himself backward and pivoted to the side simultaneously. When they crashed to the earth, Jud was atop Chaskey. The impact broke the foreman’s hold. Jud pulled free, and both men gained their feet. Chaskey lunged and hammered at Jud’s midsection. Jud hit him once, hard, directly in the face. Chaskey lumbered back, blood welling from his flattened nose. He looked surprised. The blacks circled around them and shouted. Chaskey rushed, and Jud stepped into the charge. The two men pounded each other about the head and shoulders, clumsily, powerfully, using their fists like clubs. Neither one attempted to disengage. They battered each other in silence for several minutes, the rhythm of their blows slowing as they tired. Their faces were cut. Above the voices of the watching blacks, Jud heard hoofbeats. Chaskey was weakening, but would not quit. Jud relentlessly bludgeoned the overseer to his knees, and then, absorbing a few harmless blows to his stomach, beat him to the ground. The overseer collapsed and groaned.
There was a commotion on the side. Richard Ackerly pulled his foam-mouthed horse to a stop, and slaves dodged out of the way. He looked down at Chaskey, then at Jud. He smiled.
“You have just killed yourself, nigger.”
He ordered Jud brought back to the house. Held by two slaves and flanked by two more, Jud waited in front of the patio while Richard disappeared into the house. Richard returned quickly with Samuel.
Samuel peered into Jud’s bruised face. He saw nothing there. Nothing. He did not like that. There should be—well, there could be—any one of a number of things. But . . . nothing.
Richard shifted from one foot to the other and back again. His hands twitched at his sides.
“Your buck,” he said to his father. He snorted. “He attacked Chaskey for no reason, no reason at all. He would have killed him if I hadn’t arrived in time.”
Samuel gazed speculatively at his son. Richard’s eyes faltered; he looked to the ground.
Samuel’s head bobbed. “Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Yes. All right. Give him fifteen lashes. Then wash him down with brine. We’ll send him to Sheol for twelve months, then see what we have.”
BOOK II
JUD WAS CARTED TO Sheol in the back of an open buckboard. Three slaves carried him to a long shanty and dumped him in a corner. They bolted the door from the outside. Jud lay in perfect darkness; there were no windows.
He was wrapped in a cloth blanket. Beneath the blanket, a gummy bran poultice encased his thighs and back. Two days had passed since his whipping. He had been unconscious most of that time, and they hadn’t risked moving him until today. Richard had wielded the bullwhip with a frenzy. When they cut Jud down, they turned him over to an old granny, who mixed and applied the poultice, changing it every hour during the first day—the critical day. While the bran sucked the inflammation and the soaring fever from the boy’s body, the old woman bathed his face and limbs continually with cool water, and at intervals forced him up from oblivion, pried his teeth apart with an arthritic finger, and made him drink bitter draughts of tea and crushed herbs.
Sheol was one part of the five-plantation complex—of which Olympus was the nucleus—owned by the Ackerly family. Its Great House, modeled after the one at Olympus, but more modest, was occupied by Harold Goodfriend—Ackerly’s deputy—and his family. Other than the overseers’ wives or concubines there were no women in Sheol. And no children.
The male slaves, who fluctuated in number between forty and fifty, were drawn from the other four plantations, and they had all been sent to Sheol for correction. Some were balky, others surly, or recalcitrant, or clumsy, or had committed some more than minor offense. Sheol’s operating procedure was simple and efficacious: the work load was exhausting, the discipline brutal. Each slave was assigned to Sheol for a specified period of time. At the end of their terms, some were so broken in body and spirit as to be useless to Ackerly, and were sold. Others had learned their lesson and were returned to the plantations from which they’d been sent. Some were given extended terms. A few—the truly wild and incorrigible—were simply killed.
Clanking. Metal grating against metal. A low, growling kind of sound. And in his mouth, dust. He was shuddering, gasping. Cold. He hugged himself. So cold.
Jud woke up. He was lying on his stomach, one side of his face pressed against the chilly, rough wooden floor. He opened his eyes. It was dark. No, not all dark. There was a yellow glow at the end of the room. And between the light and Jud were dark shadowy figures. He heard the clanking of chains again, and the subdued, rumbling growl.
“Water,” he said hoarsely.
“Water,” someone else said. “He awake an’ he want
water.”
Other voices, distant.
“I thought he dead.”
“Pass me that water here.”
A wooden bucket was scraped along the floor. It materialized in front of him. Jud tried to reach for it but found that he was bound in a blanket. He worked his way loose and pushed himself to a half-sitting position. As he did, pointed teeth seemed to tear flesh from his back. Bursts of color exploded in his eyes. His teeth chattered. The dipper slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor. He collapsed.
“Hey, you, stop that soun’.”
“You give us all the jitteries, nigger. You soun’ like a ghost.”
For the first time, Jud heard himself moaning. He tried to stop.
A chain rattled beside him. A hand went under his head and raised it, and the wet rim of the dipper was pressed to his lips.
“Here.” The voice was gruff, but the touch was not. “Drink. You doan fret, boy. You goan be up an’ kickin’ like a frisky colt afore long. You all right now. You all right. You wan’ more? Then close yo’ eyes. You need sleep-healin’ now. Tha’s it. Close yo’ eyes.”
JUD DIDN’T KNOW HOW long he had slept—minutes, hours. He awoke in pain. A white man was kneeling over him, touching him. A candle on the floor made the white man’s face pale, spectral; a demon deciding whether or not this particular soul was worth the effort of claiming. Beyond him was another white who held a double-barreled shotgun. This man’s eyes roamed back and forth over the slaves, most of whom were snoring, some of whom were mumbling, half awakened by the visitors.
“Fever’s broke,” said the man above Jud. “I think we kin pull off this slime an’ let his back git some air. Hoi’ still there, nigger.”
Slave (The Shame & Glory Saga) Page 5