Mandingo

by Kyle Onstott

  Would Mede fight at all? No trial had been made of his skill in combat or of his courage. Hammond blushed as he considered the possibility that Mede should retreat from a fight or worse still that he might accept defeat without fighting at all. However, there was no avoiding the issue.

  On the day of the fight, the white men hitched their horses and the Negroes their mules in front of Remmick’s tavern, while Hammond looked in the door to survey the gathering, which was already sizeable despite the early hour. The weather was clearing but clouds still hung in the sky and intermittently drifted across the face of the sun. To plough was not feasible and planters were free to come into Benson to buy, to visit, to drink, and to watch the fights.

  Hammond had to go to the jeweller’s to see about his ring and, afraid that some miscreant might tamper with his fighter, took his entourage along with him, leaving Mede and a boy named Atrides outside the shop while he and Charles entered. The bell on the door tinkled and the watchmaker laid aside his glass and rose from his bench.

  The ring had arrived. It was a yellow, lustreless, rose-cut stone of some two carats in a severe solitaire setting. The watchmaker extracted it from its velvet-lined box and laid it on the top of his showcase with an exhibition of pride that concealed his inward misgiving. Hammond picked up the bauble, looked at it, and carried it to the glazed door for further inspection.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked. What he had expected, he did not himself know, but at least something more gorgeous and spectacular than the ring proved to be.

  ‘Right purty,’ advanced the salesman.

  ‘Too purty fer her,’ said Charles impatiently. ‘Pay, an’ let’s go back to Remmick’s. Them fights goin’ to start.’

  ‘How much it cos’?’ asked Hammond.

  The jeweller replied, ‘Two hundred and thirty-five dollars, an’ I’m not makin’ much on it, I tells you, gittin’ it here an’ all.’

  ‘A heap of money,’ said Hammond, sighing and drawing forth a long leather pouch from which he slowly counted out gold coins. ‘You sure it solid, pure di’mon’?’

  ‘I warrant you,’ affirmed the dealer.

  ‘That whut she wantin’,’ said Ham with satisfaction. ‘Put that little box right in here among this money. Keep it safe.’

  ‘Let me know how the lady like that ring,’ said the jeweller as Hammond closed the door.

  ‘Reckon you goin’ home, come next week. Got to git this ring to Cousin Blanche an’ that money to your papa,’ Hammond announced as they walked along the plank sidewalk towards Remmick’s.

  ‘Don’ make me yet,’ Charles pleaded. ‘I likes Falconhurst better than Crowfoot. I likes you an’ Cousin Warren better than Papa and Mamma, an’ as fer Blanche——’

  ‘Don’ talk so. It ain’t nice,’ said Hammond.

  ‘It a fact.’

  ‘Hadn’t ought to say it. You kin come again—later, after your papa have that money.’

  ‘Blanche be here then. She pizen.’

  Hammond made no reply.

  ‘I gits home, Papa goin’ to whup me,’ Charles thought aloud. ‘Me, I too big to whup, ain’t I, Cousin Ham? Don’ you think?’

  ‘Whut fer your papa whup you?’ Hammond asked absently, his mind on the tavern.

  ‘Runnin’ away,’ the boy confessed. ‘He didn’t give me no leave to foller you. I asted an’ he tol’ me no.’

  ‘You fib to me. I know you lie when you said it,’ Hammond accused his cousin.

  ‘Whut fer you fetch me along, then?’

  ‘I reckon I lonesome-like an’ want ridin’ company.’

  ‘You bad as me then, carryin’ me away an’ knowin’ Papa never said.’

  ‘You say he said, though. You swear.’

  ‘That the on’y way I gits to come.’

  ‘You goin’ right home, leavin’ Monday. Cain’t stay an’ me a-knowin’.’

  ‘I git whupped. I sure git whupped,’ the youth lamented.

  They reached the tavern, now full of milling men and boys, the Negroes ranged along the wall, the adult white men at the bar, behind which Remmick dispensed drinks expertly. Hammond stationed Mede and Atrides at the end of the line of slaves and told them to wait.

  There were already seven fighting men, including Bill Kyle’s one-eyed Sweetness, six stripling boys for betting and a single yellow girl of eleven or twelve years, not pretty but full-faced and plump. Hammond recognized Lew Gasaway’s Cudjo, a tall, well-made, dark mulatto with the top of one ear missing, with whom Mede was to be matched.

  The other owners were negotiating their matches, examining their opponents’ slaves and binding their bargains in corn whisky. The onlookers circulated and made small bets, the stakes for which they entrusted to Remmick, and bought each other drinks.

  Three more gentlemen had arrived with their fighters and there were to be four bouts, leaving one owner disappointed at his failure to arrange a match for his boy. At last the bets were all placed and the gentlemen had drunk all the whisky they wanted. Remmick led the way to his back-yard enclosure and called for the first fight, which was to be between Sweetness and a large, muscular, concave-faced black called Mose. Four or five men and two or three boys remained in the room while the owners stripped their fighters and gave them their instructions.

  Remmick cleared an open space in the rough ground of the back-yard as the two owners leading their naked slaves came out of the door, followed by the persons who had remained to see the boys stripped.

  The impatient and anxious crowd stood two deep around the area that served as an ill-defined ring, upon opposite sides of which the fighters took their places, each escorted by his owner. The tavern keeper stood in the centre of the ring, his arm raised over his head.

  ‘Now, ev’body stan’ back, please, suh, an’ keep the god-damn ring open to give the varmints room to FIGHT!’ He dropped his arm dramatically at his final emphatic word and stepped to the side-lines. The owners gave their respective fighters a shove towards each other and retired.

  The boys advanced cautiously. Each was patently afraid of the other, and alternately pursued one another around the ring without striking a blow. The bout promised to be tame and the crowd was displeased.

  ‘I got a nigger kin whup ’em both together,’ said one man.

  ‘Ifn he kin ketch ’em,’ added his neighbour.

  ‘Better take ’em out an’ snake the two of ’em, put some grit in ’em.’

  ‘They ain’t gittin’ hurt none, is they, Papa?’ a boy asked solicitously, and everybody laughed.

  The fighters continued to dance and threaten. After a while, Mose caught Sweetness fairly on the socket of his missing eye and rocked him on his heels. A fat-legged boy who sat tailor-fashion on the ground giggled in fear. Mose followed his blow with a lighter one to the ribs.

  Sweetness was knocked a step backwards into the spectators, one of whom, angered by the indignity of being hit by the Negro, shoved him with considerable force back into the open ring and against Mose, who encircled Sweetness’ neck, and the two fell together, Sweetness on his back. But not for long. Sweetness, without striking a blow, with a mighty lunge, exchanged positions and was on top. Here he was enabled to raise his arms and attain leverage for a blow to Mose’s skull, upon which he unknowingly skinned his bare knuckles. Mose’s arms were pinned between the two bodies; Sweetness’ arms were free and he rained unimpeded blows on the other’s jaws and face. Blood spurted from Mose’s nose and the flesh beneath his right eye began to swell.

  Mose extracted his arms and the two lay still, locked in an embrace. Mose strove to force Sweetness upon his back, or even on his side, but could do nothing. He succeeded in entwining his legs in the legs of his opponent.

  Sweetness disengaged himself and rose to his knees, and Mose kicked him with his heel directly in the nose, at which the blood spurted, but the victim seemed insensitive. He was able to get to his feet and planted a double punch in Mose’s lower abdomen, before the two united in another clinch and, after stagg
ering to the other side of the ring, fell together to the ground and rolled over twice. A stone, dislodged from the ground, ripped Sweetness’ thigh, which bled unheeded, the blood mingling with the sweat that bathed him. The audience, which had been restless, grew intense in its interest. ‘Come on, Mose; kill the one-eye baboon,’ breathed Charles to himself.

  ‘Hurry up an’ burke him, Sweetness, an’ you wants that corn,’ yelled Kyle, and his Negro appeared to hear, for his punches to Mose’s belly seemed more brutal than the ones before. Mose flinched. The inconclusive combat went on with an intermittent exchange of blows of which those of Sweetness seemed the more telling.

  The exhausted fighters by mutual consent paused and parted for a deep inhalation, and resumed their struggle. They went down and rolled over and over, but neither had a firm grip on the other. The fight had lasted a long thirty-five minutes, and nobody could see how nor why the fighters had manœuvred themselves to lie end to end. Mose had Sweetness’ big toe in his mouth and was biting it, while Sweetness tried unsuccessfully to kick himself loose. Sweetness gritted his teeth in his pain, but he succeeded in reaching between Mose’s legs and twisted his scrotum. Mose’s mouth opened and let go of the toe as he screamed in his agony, then fell silent. Sweetness did not relinquish his hold until the owners entered the ring and Gore conceded the victory to Kyle.

  ‘Black ape,’ Charles muttered to Hammond. ‘I could whup that one-eye buck my own self.’

  The crowd was silent for a moment and then fell into a murmur of excited comment as all went toward the bar, where winning and losing owner each bought a round of drinks for everybody.

  Mose staggered to his feet after everybody else had gone inside, and when he entered walking with legs spread and knees bent, his master reminded him, ‘You knows whut I goin’ to do to you, losin’ that Sam saplin’ on you.’

  ‘Naw, suh, Masta, please. Don’ do it, don’ do that. Naw suh, Masta, suh,’ Mose begged.

  ‘Dry up, an’ begone over amongst the other niggers,’ his owner dismissed him.

  The crowd returned to the back-yard for the following bout, which was a tame but amusing event. At Remmick’s behest to ‘Fight’, one of the fighters, with a howl of horror, forced his way through the spectators, pursued by the second, and scaled the six-foot fence.

  The owner, in his mortification, proposed to mount his horse and overtake the runaway, but Remmick declared it a contest and the bets upon the renegade forfeit. The loser disputed the decision without redress, and reluctantly bought a round of drinks and scribbled the bill of sale for his sapling. Doc Redfield assured him of the fairness of Remmick’s verdict, and he felt better about his loss, but caught up the clothes the Negro had shed, set out to catch him, and failed to return.

  ‘The nex’ set-to,’ announced Remmick, ‘goin’ to be between Mista Gasaway and Mista Hammond Maxwell. Mista Ham got a new buck which none of us ain’t see tussle, and this fight goin’ to be right in’erestin’.’

  For the third time the crowd began moving out into the yard, but Remmick remained behind to pour out the cup of whisky with which owners were wont to fortify their fighters’ courage.

  Cudjo, out of his clothes first, took the cup from Lewis and downed it with two gulps, afterwards wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘Whut species of nigger is that?’ Lewis demanded. ‘His musk powerful pungent; smell like he rottin’ to pieces. Whyn’t you wash him?’

  Hammond laughed as he reached for the cup that Lewis Gasaway had refilled. ‘That ain’t the buck. That is serpent oil he rubbed with.’

  Mede sipped the whisky, which caused him to cough. ‘Do I have to drink this, Masta, suh?’ he asked. ‘It will make me sick.’

  ‘Give here,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Better pour it down him,’ cautioned Charles. ‘A nigger won’t fight, lesten he drunken.’

  Hammond set the cup on the bar, but, lest the contents be wasted, Gasaway picked it up and gave Cudjo a second drink.

  More to reassure Atrides that he was not being deserted than because of any concern for the garments, Hammond kicked Mede’s discarded clothes towards the yellow boy and cautioned him, ‘Watch out fer these. Set still an’ we come back.’

  Remmick leaned his elbows on the counter and surveyed Mede critically. ‘That nigger bigger withouten no clothes than in ’em. He bulge out all over.’

  ‘Wait till Cudjo waller with him,’ Lewis replied. ‘Cudjo wallop them bulges right offn him.’

  Remmick moved round the circle imploring the onlookers to stand back and make room for the fighters, which they did, then crowded forward again. Remmick stepped to the centre, raising his arm, and proclaimed, ‘We all knows this big varmint of Mista Gasaway’s, name of Cudjo. The othern, Mista Maxwell’s—whut you call him, Ham?’

  ‘Ganymede,’ replied Hammond and, when everybody laughed, added, ‘Mede, fer shortenin’.’

  ‘The othern,’ Remmick repeated, ‘Mista Maxwell’s Mede. Let ’em fight.’

  Hammond stepped back to join Charles on the edge of the crowd. Mede looked around as if bewildered, braced himself, but made no move. Cudjo, encouraged by Mede’s uncertainty, advanced aggressively, one hand in front of him to protect himself, and the other drawn back with fist clenched. Mede waited. Cudjo’s first blow was at Mede’s belly and Mede accepted it; but before Cudjo could withdraw his arm, Mede had clamped him by the wrist. He spun the other boy around and grasped the other arm, bringing both behind Cudjo, who was impotent to strike. Cudjo sought to trip Mede with his foot, but Mede forced the other’s arms at his back, throwing his body forward and compelling him to tiptoe to avoid the pain. Cudjo could neither escape nor resist. Nobody held a watch on the bout, but it seemed to the spectators that it had not lasted twenty seconds. Except Cudjo’s tentative jab at Mede’s middle, no blow had been struck and neither man was injured.

  ‘What you want I should do with him, Masta, suh?’ asked Mede, forcing Cudjo on his toes towards Hammond.

  ‘Hol’ on to him till Mista Gasaway give up,’ Hammond warily instructed his boy; and called across the ring, ‘Whut you wants, Lew?’

  ‘On’y don’t let your nigger kill him,’ returned Gasaway, laughing in embarrassment of defeat, and stepping forward to rescue his slave from Mede’s grip.

  ‘Hell of a fight,’ said one man to Charles, who slapped his leg and doubled up with glee. The others stood silent, awed by the Mandingo’s strength.

  ‘Ain’t hardly fair, don’ seem like,’ said Hammond magnanimously. ‘Put ’em back an’ fight ’em agin, an’ if you says.’

  Redfield wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Fair fight, an’ fair win,’ he declared. ‘Bes’ buck beat.’

  Remmick, although the short fight would sell little whisky, was aware of the difficulty of settling the bets if it should be renewed to a reversal of the outcome. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘Mista Maxwell won clean.’ He also foresaw the rematch of the same bucks on another Saturday.

  There was some dissent among the disappointed spectators, and a few men who had lost their bets were disgruntled, but the consensus was that Mede’s victory was clean-cut and decisive. Gasaway, in his role as a sporting man, had no alternative but to accept it. He made a show of good nature as he bought his round of drinks for the crowd, and even condoned Cudjo’s bad performance.

  Cudjo wept as he pulled on his clothes and his master carried a cup of whisky to him, and reassured him, ‘It all right, never mind, you’ll git ’nother go at him.’ Cudjo wiped his tears away with the tail of his shirt, and gradually recovered from his humiliation.

  The last fight was a routine and unexciting fracas, an exchange of blows in which one of the fighters was knocked down, followed by a scramble on the ground. Major Watson’s man bit off the lobe of his opponent’s ear and knocked loose two of his teeth and, at the cost of a broken hand, was declared the winner after some thirteen minutes of combat.

  After the fights, Hammond did not return to the bar but went to rouse his ménage for thei
r departure.

  As they rode back towards Falconhurst, Charles was jubilant in a review of the events of the afternoon. His winnings were small, but he congratulated himself that he had won at all. Mede’s victory over Cudjo was in truth Hammond’s over Lewis Gasaway, for whom he felt a strong rivalry.

  They found the senior Maxwell nervous. He had tried to pace the floor but the pain in his joints forbade such activity, and he had had Memnon move his rocking-chair to the window that he might watch for his son’s return. He sought to disguise his apprehension, and watched the boys and their Negroes dismount without moving from his chair. But when he saw the third Negro crawl from the mule, he knew that Mede had won his fight.

  That night the two boys and Maxwell sat drinking and talking about Mede’s victory until after midnight, and so cordial was the atmosphere that Charles began to hope he would be allowed to stay longer at Falconhurst.

  Next morning, however, his hope was disappointed.

  ‘Time Cousin Charles was gittin’ started an’ he goin’ today,’ said Hammond on his return from his rounds. ‘His hoss waitin’ an’ saddled.’

  He got off his horse and went into the house, and when he returned Charles was with him.

  ‘Has I got to go today?’ Charles asked. ‘Don’ know kin I fin’ my way. Cain’t I wait an’ ride with Cousin Hammond? Ain’t more than a month off.’

  ‘I wants your papa to git that money, an’, don’ let me fergit the ring fer Cousin Blanche,’ said Hammond. ‘Besides, your papa don’ know whure you at. Git ready.’

  Argument was useless. Charles went into the house, and up to his room, but soon returned ready for his trip. A boy brought his horse and Maxwell arose and hobbled over to make sure its leg was completely healed. Charles shook the hands of his hosts in silence and, after he had got on his horse, Hammond handed up to him a cloth bag of gold coins.

  ‘Take care of this,’ Hammond admonished. ‘It got that ring in it fer Blanche, right on top that money.’

  ‘I goin’ to hug it right to me,’ Charles promised.

  He rode away reluctantly, turning now and again to look back.