by Kyle Onstott
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.