Richard’s voice was muffled by the folds of her skirt: “No . . . no . . . you don’t understand. . . . No . . .”
“Hush, now. Hush, dear. Mother knows. Mother will take care of everything.”
He soon fell asleep, an exhausted and drunken sleep, she supposed, for it was troubled, marked with tiny hoarse cries and twitches. She continued to stroke his hair and his cheek.
“There, there. It’s all over now. Sleep, my little darling. Sleep.”
She was troubled. Without Richard, nothing was of value. It was all for him. Everything. She was nearly finished. It would be different now. She glanced up at the ceiling. The King was dead, but he didn’t quite know it. He still clung tenaciously to his silly politics, but he had abdicated from all areas of real significance, and soon the realization of that would come upon him. Amanda had what she wanted, and now she could turn her attention once again to Richard. She had neglected him, she knew, and she regretted this. But she would rectify that. And perhaps a wife for the boy. Docile, not overly pretty; one who would be grateful for being allowed into the Ackerly family, who would remain in her place. Well, in a year or so she would begin looking for a suitable girl. But time enough for that later. Fortunately, Maybelle would be leaving in three weeks or so. In retrospect, Amanda was glad that Samuel had prevented her from throwing Maybelle out. The incident in town tonight would be no more than a minor scandal; after all, the girl was simply a cheap slut. But to have sent one’s own flesh and blood packing would have set tongues to wagging for months. Now all was proper. Richard’s humor, Amanda was sure, would take a marked turn for the better once Maybelle left, though why she should dislike Richard so very much Amanda did not understand. And Richard, she knew, was very sensitive to Maybelle’s barbs. Just how or why Maybelle could upset him so terribly was beyond Amanda. The important thing was that she did have the power. Well, in just a few short weeks Maybelle would be gone, and that would be the end of that.
Ah, Richard! Richard, my baby. She gazed down at him with tears in her eyes. It was the curse of every mother that no son would ever truly know the unfathomable depth of her love or how very much she had done for him.
She raised his head softly and she bent over and she kissed him on the lips.
Oh, Richard!
THE FIELDS AND SLAVE quarters were silent. Richard had supervised the work four days running, and the leather strap in his hand was frequently and savagely applied. When Samuel had made the rounds, his only interest had been the total amount of work accomplished in a given period of, say, a week. So long as that was satisfactory, he was not upset to discover a knot of blacks idly joking together in the corner of a shed, or a slave taking a little time to lounge in the sun. For nearly three months the slaves had not been supervised by anyone but the rather easygoing overseer and their own foremen. Their labors had not really diminished, but they’d begun to perform them with a certain casualness. Richard brought this to an abrupt halt.
Jud stayed out of Richard’s way as best he could. He had pushed Maybelle’s words to the bottom of his mind, but he had not forgotten them. The presence of the overseer, who was a fair man and never beat a nigger unless the nigger deserved it, made Jud uneasy. And with Richard, the feeling was greatly intensified. Richard seemed barely to recognize Jud. It was as if single blacks were only components of one big hulking creature called nigger, which Richard wanted to control. His concern was to make it perform like some monstrous and clumsy pachyderm, to make it drop to its knees and lower its great head to the dust.
It was evening, and the slaves were eating their supper. Jud was just finishing his dinner when there came a loud pounding on the door. He opened it.
“Have you seen Mrs. Farrington?” Richard snapped.
Apprehension rose in Jud, but vanished when he realized that his was one of the first shanties in the quarter and it was logical for Richard to stop here if he thought any of the slaves could tell him where Maybelle was.
“No, suh.”
Richard spat. “Goddamn it.” A boy was passing by with a bucket of water. “You there,” Richard called.
“Yes, suh?”
“Have you seen Mrs. Farrington?”
“Yes, suh, Masta. L’il while back. By the corn crib near the stable.”
Richard hurried away.
Jud closed the door and returned to the table. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully. He finished, and he went to stand by the window. He had been there only a minute or so when he saw Richard returning from the stables. He walked with long, quick strides, eyes fixed directly ahead, face ashen save for two fever-bright circles of red high on his cheeks.
Jud remained by the window. Shortly, he saw Richard coming back from the Great House with Samuel and Amanda. Their faces were grim, but Richard’s was sheened with excitement.
Jud pressed his knuckles against the unfinished wood of the window frame and ground them until they hurt. Then he went to the door, pulled it open
“Where you goan?” Delia asked.
“There goin’ to be trouble.”
“Whut kind o’ trouble? How you know?”
A few other blacks had seen the Ackerlys pass. A handful had, like Jud, emerged from their shanties and now stood looking at the receding backs of the whites.
“Maybe you best stay here,” Jud said.
He closed the door behind himself and began to walk toward the stables. Several other men followed him cautiously.
From behind the stables—where there was a large corn crib—came a shout, then a woman’s scream. These were immediately followed by a terrified shriek of undetermined gender.
The slaves huddled close together and rounded the corner that obscured their vision of the corn crib. Behind them, timorous and fearful, more slaves were approaching.
“You goddamn black bastard! You goddamn animal nigger!” Richard flung Plum, who was naked, to the ground and kicked at his head, his genitals.
Plum rolled in the dirt and tried to protect himself. “Oh, Jesus!” he shrieked. “My God an’ my Lord. Save me. Save me!”
Maybelle stood off to the side, naked, clutching her dress in front of her.
The door to the corn crib was open.
Amanda’s first reaction had been: Hide it. Let no one know. But then a moment later, as Richard pulled their nude bodies apart and hurled them through the door, where they stumbled into the light, she realized that this was impossible. There was only one way to extricate herself from this hideous and ruinous scandal—punish Maybelle as she deserved.
“Cover you’self, you slut,” she screamed. “Put your dress on!”
Richard gave the wailing Plum a final kick and shouted to two slaves: “Chain him in the stable. Quick now, you nigger bastards, or you’ll get the same.”
Maybelle pulled her dress down over her head and shoulders. Without her petticoats and hoops it sagged and hung in loose folds around her hips and legs. Her breasts, unrestrained, were full and pendulous beneath the cloth. She rose slightly on the balls of her feet and backed warily away.
Richard lunged and seized her by the wrist. She raked his face with her nails.
“You bitch. You goddamn nigger-fucking slut.”
He slapped her, rocking her head. She clawed and kicked at him. He punched her, brought his knee up sharply into her groin, causing her to gasp and bend forward. He pummeled her, slapped her, grabbed savagely at her breasts, all the while screaming in a high-pitched voice, “Bitch! Bitch!”
Samuel, looking dazed, dropped a hand heavily on his son’s shoulder. “Enough,” he said. “That’s enough.”
Richard was flushed and his long hair hung down from his forehead over his eyes. There was spittle on his lips.
Maybelle glared at him, wiped a hand across her cut and bleeding mouth. She pulled a partly torn strap of her dress back up her shoulder.
Samuel gazed at Maybelle stuporously. “Leave,” he said. “Get out.”
“Gladly. I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve changed. You
can send my things after me.”
“Get off this plantation now,” Samuel said. “Now! If you’re still here in five minutes, I’ll . . . I’ll kill you.”
Richard grabbed his father’s shirt. “No! You’re not just going to let her go. No. She’s a pig. She’s an animal! She’s lower than a nigger. She was laying with a nigger, don’t you understand? A black nigger. She was naked under that buck. She had him inside her. She’s foul! She’s got to be punished.”
“She has dis-graced the entire family,” Amanda said. “She is worse ‘n a scabrous hoor. She must suffer. She must pay!” She flew at Maybelle.
Samuel stepped between them.
Richard caught his father’s shoulder. “Whip her!” he said. “She was laying with a nigger. A nigger. She’s got to be snaked!”
“Yes,” Amanda cried. “Whip her. Whip her. Just like a nigger! It has to be done. You know that,” she insisted.
Samuel nodded dumbly.
Richard dragged Maybelle through the slave quarters, crying: “This is a white nigger. A white nigger! We’re going to snake her. We’re going to tear her hide off.” Slaves poked their heads from doors, stared incredulously, ducked back into their shanties, and emerged only after the whites had passed. They followed at a respectful distance and kept well back when they gathered behind the meeting shed.
Richard flung Maybelle up against the whipping post. She struck it and fell to her knees.
Richard pointed at one of the nearest blacks. “Run to the shed and fetch me the snake. Be spry!”
He pulled Maybelle up. She was dazed. He lashed her wrists together and to the iron ring near the top of the post, stretching her arms above her head, raising her so she could just stand on her toes, and snubbed the end of the robe around a hook.
The slave he’d sent for the whip returned and advanced fearfully, extending his arm. Richard snatched the coiled whip, and the slave scampered away.
“Look, you niggers. Look!” Amanda cried. “I want you all to see. I want you all to know that Amanda Ackerly don’ cherish any viper in her home. When they ask you, you tell ‘em whut you saw. You tell that your mist’ess spit on that she-devil, even though she was her own kin. You tell ‘em that your mist’ess di’n’ make any exception. She punished that bitch jus’ like she’d punish anyone else. You watch, an’ you tell ‘em whut you saw.”
Richard took hold of Maybelle’s dress at her shoulders. His fingers trembled.
“You never did get it, did you, Richie sweet?” Maybelle said to him.
He made a choked sound. He clutched at her garment and tore it down to her waist.
He stepped back and slashed the whip across her back.
“Slut!” Amanda shouted. “Harlot!”
“You dried-up old bitch. You don’t—”
Richard struck again.
“—hhmmeh!”
On the third lash, Maybelle screamed: “You can’t hurt me, you little bastard! You can’t hur—hhmmeh!”
Richard laid into her again. Perspiration streamed down his red cheeks. “Beg!” he yelled. “Beg me to stop!”
The next stroke split the skin across her shoulder blades, and Maybelle jerked at her tether. She gasped, sobbed, and clamped her lips with her teeth until blood appeared at the corners of her mouth. Richard shouted at her to beg, to scream. Her eyes distended each time the whip fell. When the number of crimson liquid lines across her back surpassed the unbroken welts, she began beating her forehead against the post.
“Scream, goddamn you!”
“Bastard,” she said, weakly and breathlessly.
But on the next stroke, her high keening scream split the chilly evening air, startled the mesmerized slaves, and made them leap back.
“Yes,” Richard said. “Yes.” He repeated the word each time the whip struck. Maybelle flung her head back, throwing herself from side to side.
“Stop! Stop it!” she shrieked. “I can’t stand it. Aaiiee! Stop it! Oh, God! Please, please, oh, please!”
Then her body sagged.
“All right,” Samuel said, walking up to Richard. “It’s over.”
Richard lashed Maybelle’s unconscious form again. Samuel reached for the whip. Richard pushed him away. “No!”
Samuel wrenched the whip from his hand. “She’s still white,” he said, “and you can’t kill a white person.”
“She’s just fainted,” Richard said. “She’s nowhere near killed.”
Samuel held the whip from him. “She’s not as strong as a nigger, can’t take it like a nigger can.
Richard’s lower lip was trembling. He was breathing heavily. For a moment, he looked ready to argue.
“Look at her,” Samuel said. “Look.”
Richard did. Slowly, he calmed. “All right,” he said. “I’m satisfied.”
“Have her taken into town,” Amanda said. “There’s a train goes through at ten. Give a nigger some money; have him buy her a ticket and put her on board. But see that he keeps to the back ways, hear? And get her bundled up good so no one recognizes her.”
She spun on the Negroes, and a few of them cried out.
“You see what happened to her, niggers? Did you all see it good? Well, that’s nothin’ next to what’ll happen to any one of you who breathes the slightest word about this. Understand?”
Maybelle was loosed from the whipping post and taken to a shed. A slave washed her back down with brine. Maybelle screamed, but did not come fully conscious. She lay on her stomach on a wooden bench, arms hanging down on either side.
“Bastards,” she mumbled. “Go to hell . . . go to hell, bastards.”
But then, when a girl touched her to help her dress, she winced and began to whimper, and was still whimpering as the buckboard rattled away from Olympus.
Amanda remained in the house after Maybelle was taken away. Richard insisted that what was to follow was not fit for a woman’s sensibilities. Amanda did not protest. Maybelle had been the important one anyway, and they were done with her now. For good. The story would leak out. That could not be prevented. But the whites into whose ears the garbled accounts of the blacks finally wound their way would have a hard time determining just how much of it to credit. And it was certain that they would not approach any of the Ackerlys directly. Oh, there would be gossip all right, and plenty of it, but with nothing to feed upon save the original rumors, it would die out soon enough. Amanda didn’t need anything more.
THE BLACKS WERE MASSED around the stable in which Plum was chained when Richard and Samuel returned to the slave quarters, waiting silently. Darkness was spreading. Richard ordered torches lit. He had a brazier brought to the slaughterhouse and strips of flat iron inserted in the coals; red-hot metal seared wounds closed, and Richard did not want Plum to bleed to death. He opened the door to the stable. Plum was chained by his ankle to an upright support beam. He was on his knees, eyes closed, hands clasped fervently before his face. He screamed when he saw Richard. He flung himself backward and began jabbering.
Richard freed the end of the chain and pulled it. “Come on, nigger.”
“No! No, Masta, suh. She force Plum, Masta. Plum try t’ git away. He try, suh. But she make him sin, Masta. She make him. Doan hurt Plum. Doan kill Plum!”
Richard wound the chain around his hand and dragged Plum out. Plum clutched at the ground, trying to stop himself.
“Please,” he shrieked. “Doan kill me, Masta. Jesus, my God an’ my Savior, have mercy on yo’ servant! Save me, Jesus, save me!”
They approached the slaughterhouse. The naked wailing black was dragged inside, arcing a stream of urine across the door frame. The congregated blacks pressed in toward the building.
Plum’s younger brother, Harris, fell to his knees. His eyes were wide, his jaw hung slackly, and his hands were stretched out in supplication. He moaned. Chaskey lifted the boy to his feet, pressed the child’s face into his chest and led him away to a shanty.
Plum was sobbing hysterically from behind the door.
<
br /> Richard’s words came through clearly. “Now you be quick with those irons, hear? When I cut, you seal.”
“Yes, suh,” answered a deep voice.
“You had a white woman, eh?” Richard said coolly. “You saw her naked with your eyes, you kissed her maybe, too, huh? You put your hands on her white body. And you put—this—inside her.”
“Jesus, I love you!” Plum wailed.
Then he screamed.
“There. You’re not going to love anybody or anything again. Quick, you. Get that iron down on him. Good. All right, stretch his arms out and hold his hands down here. Tight, goddamn you! Keep him from squirming. Steady now . . . steady now . . . umph!”
Plum screamed again.
“Fast with those irons. On the left wrist there. Quick, he’s still spraying blood. Shut that screaming up, nigger. Shut up, I say!”
The screaming continued.
“Put him on his back,” Richard ordered. “Pry his mouth open wide. Wider. Goddamn it, get your fingers between his teeth. That’s it. Now you, Cabe, hand me those shears. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Keep him still! There—umph! Now sear it. Inside, all the way back! Farther, else he’ll drown in his own blood. Cabe! Cabe, where are you going? Oh, goddamn it. Finish it up, Raphe.”
Cabe stumbled out through the door. The black’s thick forearms glistened with blood. He sagged against the doorjamb and vomited.
And then for a while there was only the sound of Richard’s voice and an occasional answer from Raphe. But if the slaves waiting outside strained their ears, they could hear, too, a low and constant uhhnh . . . uhhnh . . . uhhnh.
In a short time the door opened and Richard appeared in a sudden flare of torchlight along with Raphe, holding a third figure between them. Beneath his sightless eyes, Plum seemed to be grinning. But one realized an instant later that this was an illusion: that the white expanse of teeth was visible only because the lips were gone. The boy’s head rolled on his shoulders. The wound between his legs was charred, as were the stumps in which his wrists ended.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” a woman moaned, “save us all.”
The blacks shrank back. Samuel followed, looking tired and abstracted.
Slave (The Shame & Glory Saga) Page 12