by Kyle Onstott
Lucy and Big Pearl both rose when they saw the master. He entered the cabin, removed his coat and laid it on a box which served as a table. Unbuckling his holster, and laying his gun beside his coat, he said, ‘All right, Lucy, you kin go over to Dido’s or somers, but watch that door and keep them niggers outn here.’
‘Big Pearl, you ack like lady, now. Do whut Masta say or he whup you. Dat a good strong broomstick right by fire, and you needs it, Masta.’
‘Don’ you fret, Lucy. Big Pearl ain’t goin’ to need no broomstick to her.’
‘Better not; better not need none,’ threatened Lucy, closing the door behind her.
Later, when Hammond left the cabin, he was at once exhausted and exhilarated. The ordeal had been more difficult but more pleasant than he had expected. He had a sense of duty performed. His back tingled with the raking of Big Pearl’s powerful fingers through his shirt and his shoulder pained from her bite.
When Lucy returned she found Big Pearl still on the bed weeping and laughing.
‘Whut you cryin’ fer, nigger? Masta Ham hurt?’
‘No’um, no’um. Masta Ham awful nice. I jest loves Masta Ham.’
‘He have to whup you?’
‘No’um, no’um. Masta never whup me once. Masta Ham sho’ is kin’ white man.’
‘Masta Ham say about you takin’ up?’
‘Didn’t say nothin’. Mayhap he goin’ to crave me for his bed wench,’ Big Pearl speculated.
‘Mayhap he don’. Mayhap he goin’ to give you to one of the niggers and raise him a sucker outn you.’
Hammond had no fear of his father’s disapproval; rather, he feared the chuckle of approbation. He decided to postpone the narration of his exploit, to draw the sting from the old man’s triumph by passing the incident off as a plantation routine when the father should eventually learn of it. But he reckoned without Negro gossip. Lucretia Borgia and Agamemnon had both blabbed to Maxwell, who had already noticed Meg’s restless perturbation, which he attributed to a scolding or switching which Hammond had probably given the urchin.
The father was taking the final swallows from his glass when the son entered the room. ‘Memnon,’ he called. ‘Better drink a toddy, Son. Do you good.’
But without waiting for Memnon to answer, Meg slipped a hot glass into Hammond’s hand.
‘Now, stir one fer your masta. Mustn’t never give me nothin’ ’thout givin’ some to your masta, your ol’ masta,’ Hammond explained.
Hammond held his drink in his hand, letting it cool, but by the time Meg returned with Maxwell’s drink, Hammond was sipping at his own. ‘This too strong, boy, too much corn,’ he complained. ‘Taste.’
Meg took the glass, looked at it and then at Hammond. ‘Right outn yo’ glass?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Taste it,’ Hammond said again.
Meg raised the goblet dubiously to his lips. He never had liked the smell of the concoction, and the flavour he relished even less. He had been told to taste, however, and he took three small swallows before Hammond grabbed it from his hand. ‘I tol’ you to taste,’ the master reprimanded. ‘I never tol’ you to drink it down. Now fill it up with hot water. Yourn all right, Papa? Not too much corn?’
‘Mine good. That saplin’ of yourn stirs ’em better’n the big nigger, seem like.’
The pleasure that the praise, which he overheard, gave Meg was tempered by the fear of having his services diverted from the son to the father. He was back with Hammond’s drink and waited for approval.
‘This better. This good,’ said Hammond.
‘Never did like much corn in yo’ toddy, Son. Whisky do you good after your tussle. Big Pearl powerful strong,’ Maxwell led into the subject.
‘She big, all right.’
‘How you likes black meat?’
‘Same as yaller meat, an’ you closes your eyes. Reckon white meat ain’t no different, ’ceptin’ fer musk.’
‘Jest the same. Jest the same. Right pleased you found out. Tired, Ham?’
‘A mite, jest a mite. I feels good.’
‘Be a-pesterin’ Big Pearl regular, first thing,’ Maxwell predicted.
‘Mayhap,’ admitted Hammond. ‘Worst thing is havin’ to—the first time.’
‘All your own doin’. Nobody didn’t make you. Niggers cain’t make they owner do nothin’ he don’ want to.’
‘They expects it, howsumever, kind of. You says so your own self. A good masta has to pleasure ’em. If’n he kin, that is. An’ I kin.’
‘An’ you kin, an’ you wants to, it a good thing. Makes ’em feel you takin’ an in’erest in ’em. Makes ’em feel they belong to you. Even bucks sets more store in a wench that her masta has pestered. I wisht you enjoyed it more.’
‘I doesn’t disenjoy it. Oft times I likes it right well. Take this Big Pearl now, she dark and she big, but she right hearty. Right hearty.’
Father and son exchanged a smile.
6
‘Go down to the river and wash yourself good all over, and come to me at the stable,’ Hammond dispassionately instructed Memnon the following morning at breakfast.
Memnon began to whimper, ‘Masta goin’ to whup Memnon. Don’ whup Mem, Masta, suh, please, suh. Mem sick, Masta. Cain’t whup a sick nigger, Masta.’
‘I said wash an’ meet me. I never said about whuppin’.’
Ham usually omitted his toddy after breakfast, but this morning he felt a need for one. Meg prepared the drinks, one for each of his masters, before he sat down to his own breakfast in the kitchen with Alph. He ate hurriedly and nervously. He feared Hammond might go to the stable without him.
He stood outside the door with the leather paddle in his hand when Hammond came out.
‘Give it here,’ commanded Ham.
‘But I goin’ along,’ protested the boy doubtfully.
‘Who said?’
‘You said,’ affirmed Meg. ‘I’m goin’ to rub the stuff—the——You said I could.’
‘The pimentade? Well, come along. I reckon I did say.’
The first adult buck they met was Napoleon, who had been supplanted in Lucretia Borgia’s affections by the more fertile Mem. He was a stout yellow boy somewhat more than Hammond’s own age, all of nineteen, possibly twenty.
‘Come along, Pole; I needs you,’ Hammond said.
Pole saw the paddle and began to protest, ‘Don’ whup me, Masta. I ain’t done nothin’, Masta?’
‘Don’t fret yourself. Ain’t minded to trounce you, Pole.’
‘Goin’ to hide Memnon. I goin’ to rub the stuff,’ Meg elucidated.
‘Not, an’ you cain’t keep your mouth shutten,’ warned Hammond. He was preoccupied, reluctant about the task in front of him. He ran his eyes over Pole, however, in contemplation of the price he would bring the following fall in New Orleans—fifteen to eighteen hundred dollars, possibly two thousand if the demand for Negroes continued to grow. Pole was lazy and not very alert, just bright enough to get out of work and to avoid punishment. However, he was husky, upstanding, well proportioned, with good, almost pretty features, and an active dimple. Hammond noted that Pole was soft, his muscles flaccid; it was none too early to begin to prime him.
The double doors of the stable stood open, and bluebottle flies buzzed in the sunshine. A surrey and a gig stood with shafts upraised in the shadows of the cavernous interior. The corners of the main room held cobwebs in which pieces of hay, dust and other debris rested lightly. Hammond noticed that some little-used harness, hanging on the wall, was dusty and in need of oil.
The puncheons, running crosswise on the floor, were worn with the traffic of years, and the cracks between them were filled with dirt. The studding which supported the building was warped with the top-heavy weight of hay in the loft and was no longer quite plumb, if it had ever been. Scabrous patches of whitewash still adhered to the walls near the ceiling, but they were grey from the accumulations of dust.
Hammond’s stallion nickered for attention when it caught his odour, a
nd Hammond went back to the stall to rub the horse’s nose. The mares and mules in the box stalls behind the stallion ignored Hammond’s presence, although the sounds of their switchings and stampings and mumbling made their presence known. The doors of the other box stalls, which served as dormitories for young bucks, stood open.
‘Drive them niggers outn this barn and tell ’em be gone clean away from here,’ Hammond instructed Pole. ‘Look in the stalls, and clean ’em all out, ever’ one on ’em. Whure that Mem nigger? Reckon he don’ crave no touchin’ up, here and there? Reckon he hidin’ out?’
‘Here come Mem now, Masta, suh. Here he come,’ Meg announced from outside the building.
Assorted in all stages of adolescence, Negro boys, black, brown, ochre, and all but white, squat and tall, fat and lathy, scurried, sauntered or sidled past their master in their exits from the building. One ugly, gangling pubescent had kinky hair of a brown bordering upon rufus, grey eyes, and a saffron face spattered with freckles. Hammond ignored their passing, but this unpleasant combination attracted his attention and he made a note to sell him. It didn’t pay to feed and mature an animal so hideous, even though he might be sound. Why hadn’t he thought to offer the little buck to Brownlee? What was such trash doing at Falconhurst anyway?
Memnon moped into the doorway.
‘Where you been? I tol’ you to wash an’ come here?’ Hammond greeted him.
‘Been a-washin’, like you say—all over, good. Masta, I sick. I don’ crave whuppin’ at all. Mem don’ need whuppin’, Masta, please, suh, please suh.’
‘That rope right wore out. Reckon it will hold?’ Hammond addressed himself; and then said to Napoleon, ‘Put it through that off pulley.’
Pole got on a box and inserted the rope into the end pulley of a series affixed, about a foot and a half apart, to the centre beam in the ceiling.
‘You isn’t goin’ to hang me up, Mista? I kneel down good, I ben’ over, I hol’ still, an’ you doesn’t hang me. Don’ please.’ The now naked Negro was terrified.
‘That pulley stick. It won’ turn,’ said Pole.
‘Not used in long time,’ said Ham. ‘Pick the dirt outn it and grease it. Goin’ to use the two end ones and stretch him.’
‘Don’ stretch me that fur, Masta. My legs won’ reach that fur. Use a middle pulley, Masta, please.’
‘Mem, git out that jug of pimentade and the crock and sponge. You put it away last time it was used in that little corner room.’
‘You ain’t goin’ to pimentade me, Masta, too? That burn awful. Oh, Masta, Masta, please, no pimentade.’ Memnon wept, but got the dust-encrusted jug and went back for the crock, which held the dish-rag-gourd sponge, over which had settled dust mixed with fine webs. He set them gingerly down on the floor beside the box on which his master sat.
Pole had cleaned and oiled the pulley until it functioned with a whining squeak.
Meg attacked the jug of pimentade, struggled with the corncob which served as a stopper and finally extracted it with his teeth. He began pouring the liquid over the soiled sponge in the crock until Hammond checked him.
‘Don’t pour that yet. Shake the jug first. Stir up the pepper that settles to the bottom,’ he instructed Meg.
The jug was too heavy for the boy to manage and Hammond lifted it and shook it himself. Meg, however, tipped it and gurgled its contents into the crock, such as he didn’t spill on the floor. He soaked the gourd and wrung the liquid out of it and soaked it again. He held the saturated sponge before him ready when it should be needed, oblivious of the sticky mixture that dripped down the front of his clothes.
‘Close them doors, Meg,’ Hammond ordered. ‘Don’t want them bucks hangin’ around to hear this paddle slappin’. Scare ’em till they green.’
Gloom and dusk settled over the great room with the shutting out of the sunlight that had poured through the wide doors.
‘Now lay down,’ Hammond commanded Mem. ‘No, on your back and closer this way.’ He formed a loop in the end of the rope and drew it tight around Mem’s ankle. ‘Now, Pole, you pull.’
Memnon stopped protesting. He clambered along the floor with his hands and arms in an effort to protect his back from the roughness of the floor as Napoleon on the other end of the rope hoisted him in the air. His fingers could just reach the floor and relieve a small part of the tension on his foot when Hammond called to Pole, ‘That’s enough. Tie it.’
The boy hung upside-down by one foot, the other threshing the air.
Pole stood on a box and thrust another rope through the pulley farthest from Mem. Hammond looped it around Mem’s other foot and Pole pulled it and tied it, thus spraddling Mem’s legs to the greatest width it was possible to open them.
Hammond grabbed Mem around the waist and added his weight on the ropes. ‘Reckon they strong enough,’ he commented.
‘Oh, oh, my foot hurt. Oh, oh, Masta,’ Memnon screamed, but Hammond wadded up his bandana and, stuffing it into Mem’s mouth, stifled his noise. Memnon could have removed it, but he was glad enough of the gag. His cries were involuntary.
‘He sure look funny, a-hangin’. Wisht Miz Lucretia Borgia see him now,’ said Napoleon.
Hammond ran his hands over Mem’s thighs and buttocks, and found them soft. He had known that they would not be firm, for Mem did no hard work. He felt the belly, which offered no resistance to his grasp.
He put the paddle in Pole’s hand and instructed him, ‘Now, stand off from him, so like. An’ aim fer his bottom. Gits it down on his legs, it won’t hurt none, but don’t slam his back. An’ stay away from the front side. Don’t hit him in the belly. Un’erstan’?’
‘Yas, suh, Masta; I reckon I does.’
‘I’ll tell you when to start an’ stop you when I ready fer you to stop.’ Hammond retired to a box against the wall. He didn’t feel just well. ‘Go ahead,’ he gave the word.
Pole took his stance and raised his paddle, measuring the distance from his target. He tried to conceal his exultation, but couldn’t control the play of his dimple. He tapped Mem’s rump lightly, hardly touching it. Then three sharp spats which caused the pendent body to sway only slightly. Mem’s groans were audible, but he was unable to cry out.
The next blow set Mem swinging and begot a moan that the handkerchief in his mouth couldn’t stifle. Thereafter the paddle fell at regular intervals, slowly but steadily, a blow followed by a wait until the victim came to rest, and another blow. The impact of the heavy leather upon the flaccid flesh produced a dull sound. Muffled sounds, incomprehensible and distorted, got past the handkerchief. Mem’s body writhed and he took his fingers from the floor and flailed his arms.
Hammond’s queasiness turned to nausea. He told Pole to wait. He went out and closed the door behind him.
Mem’s swinging body came to absolute rest. The swaying weight had stretched the ropes so much that Mem could reach the floor with his palms and relieve the tension on his ankles.
Pole guffawed, ‘Nigger, ’Cretia Borgia had ought to see you now. Reckon you not much good to Lucretia Borgia, now, never goin’ be no good agin. You sure a purty sight. Goin’ to be purtier when Masta come back.’
Hammond came back into the barn, the colour gone from his face. ‘Better give him some more,’ he said stoically and sat on the box.
Pole resumed his pummelling. The respite increased the pain. In the interval the bruised flesh had begun to grow sore. Hammond wanted to stop the blows, but couldn’t. If he had not sickened he would have commanded Napoleon to desist, but he was ashamed of his weakness. He had to prove his own ruthlessness, which he thought of as his courage. He had to prove to himself that he could whip a nigger. As soon as he dared, he put a stop to the beating. Pole rested the end of the bat on the floor; Hammond took it from his hand and hung it on a nail in the wall.
Meg had stared at the whipping, transfixed, enraptured. He harboured no hatred for Memnon, but this was a nigger’s fate, a concept he had acquired from Lucretia Borgia, who was sycophant enough
to avoid punishment but ready to submit to it if it should be her master’s whim. But for the grace of Hammond, it was Meg who hung there bruised and raw. Yet it sobered him. He resolved to evade the chastisement which he had before invited.
‘All right. Go to work,’ Hammond nodded towards Meg. He was serious; except that this was duty, he was contrite. He sensed Mem’s agony and terror. He imagined the furious smarting the application of the pimentade would beget; and he would have withheld it but for his faith in its power to heal. He was not wanton, but, having caused the injury, he must heal it.
Meg had to reach up to apply the sponge, and when he squeezed it, as much of its liquid ran down his arm as on Mem’s injuries. Mem writhed at the excruciating burn of the acrid mixture and tried to scream. Hammond himself untied the ropes, lowering Mem to a position on his shoulders, so that Meg had to stoop somewhat rather than to reach upward. Mem’s head was forward, but he changed his position so that his left cheek was on the floor. He had chewed the handkerchief into a wet wad and spat it out without volition. He could have removed it with his hand, but was glad enough to have his cries silenced.
Hammond told Pole to release the ropes and let Mem down. Pole untied one rope and released a leg, and Mem’s face dragged slowly along the floor as the weight on the other rope brought it vertical. The free leg flailed weakly. Pole released the second rope and Mem’s body fell on its back to the floor. He was too exhausted, too weary, too relieved to turn on his belly. He made no effort to extricate his ankles from the slackened ropes.
Hammond opened one of the doors and Meg pushed back the other. Light flooded the barn and the line of the sun fell diagonally across Mem’s body.
Hammond turned towards the house. Meg followed him, turning his head backwards, reluctant to leave the carnage. They met Maxwell, who had started on rheumatic legs towards the stable. He had paced the gallery impatiently until he had heard Mem’s scream and could restrain himself no longer.
‘How is he?’ the father asked.