by Kyle Onstott
‘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 flo
g 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.