Mandingo

by Kyle Onstott

  Meg rolled solemn eyes towards his owner’s face. He sensed a gravity in the situation which he did not understand. It was unthinkable to him that anybody, of whatever complexion, should seek to thwart his master’s will, but he dared not speak or question.

  The bloodlessness of Blanche’s face was emphasized by a coat of rice powder as she came down the stairs, followed by her father. It was apparent to Hammond that she had sought to repair the ravages of tears, but he was left to wonder whether she had wept because of first being forbidden him or because she was now commanded to marry him. She continued to wear the challis dress which in the eyes of her lover enhanced such beauty as she possessed. She could not have chosen a costume better to enchant him. Hammond did not know it was the best in her limited wardrobe, and assumed it was the woman and not her dress that caused him to believe her beautiful.

  She was trembling and austere when he rose to meet her. She paused at the foot of the stairs and he went to take her in his arms. She neither resisted nor returned the kiss he gave her, but looked into his face with a resigned, sad smile.

  Conversation was strained. ‘I thought you wouldn’t come,’ she forced herself to say.

  ‘You knowed I’d come. I say I would when you set the time.’

  ‘You say you send me a ring,’ she accused.

  ‘I did. I sent it. Charles tote it.’

  ‘Charles!’ She spoke it in a tone of such contempt as to indict Hammond of stupidity in his trust of her brother.

  ‘Mayhap he dead. Mayhap he kilt a-comin’,’ Hammond sought to justify his confidence in her brother. ‘Like your mamma a-sayin’.’

  ‘By rights ought to be, though he ain’t,’ said Woodford.

  Blanche sat down on the divan. ‘I ain’t got no dress,’ she apologized, shooting a withering glance at her father. ‘Papa didn’t think you comin’ an’ wouldn’t buy me none.’

  ‘I was waitin’ fer that money to come,’ harped the old man.

  ‘I ain’t a-weddin’ no dress,’ declared Hammond, unaware how much he had been taken in by the challis. ‘We kin buy dresses, all you craves of ’em—all you needs.’ He modified his estimate.

  The vision of unlimited dresses enchanted the girl. She smiled with a faraway look and pictured herself in silks and laces and jewels in a baronial hall surrounded by adoring gallants, who kissed her hand, no longer red and stubby with broken and bitten nails. Always she would remain true to her lover-husband, spurning the hearts that she would break. All the dresses she craved!

  The sound of the supper bell summoned her back to Crowfoot and reality.

  Meg was sent to the kitchen for food. The Major went in search of Beatrix, who had quietly vanished after her prayer. He returned discomfited and made his wife’s excuses. In her apprehension of Charles’ murder, she had retired with her grief and desired no supper.

  The three went in. Hammond and Blanche sat on either side of the host, the empty chair across from him an accusation. The half-needed candles flickered in the dying daylight. There was a tentative tone to the talk, a constraint, an avoidance of the subjects closest to the speakers’ thoughts. With pauses between subjects, which Blanche sought to hide with shy, flirtatious looks directed towards the boy across the table from her, the conversation ranged from the health of Hammond’s father to the price of cotton, crop prospects, the weather, past, present and to come, the Negroes of Falconhurst and the rising market for them.

  ‘Warren don’t need no two hunderd head,’ opined Woodford. ‘Whyn’t he sell off about half, the price they fetchin’?’

  ‘We sells ’em when they grows. Took a coffle to the city las’ autumn after pickin’; another ready to go, come fall. Most of ourn is saplin’s, that is, an’ suckers.’

  ‘I don’ have no luck with suckers, seem like. Wenches won’t bring ’em, an’ when they does they punies an’ dies or somethin’.’

  ‘Papa don’ have no stew with ’em, not much. Coursen, he say, an’ he could buy ’em half-raised, the kin’ he wants ’em, sound and straight bucks, he’d sell off the wenches an’ not breed no more, he say, but on’y jest buy.’

  ‘Warren jest talkin’,’ scoffed Woodford.

  ‘Jes’ talkin’, I reckons,’ Hammond agreed. ‘He likes ’em little-like. Likes to raise ’em. But more money in buyin’ saplin’s than in raisin’ suckers, an’ don’ take so long. But a body cain’t find ’em—likely ones.’

  ‘Ain’t hard. They plenty, plenty,’ said Woodford with an expansive sweep of his hand, ‘an’ you ready to pay fer ’em.’

  For want of something else to do, they lingered at table after their hunger was satisfied. The night had grown dark and the moon had not risen. Shadows were cast against the wall by the saffron glow of the candles.

  The party returned to the drawing-room and sat, stiff and self-conscious, awaiting Dick’s return with the preacher. From time to time, the Major, on the pretence of scanning the lane for riders, made his way to the spring-house for a swallow of corn. On each return, he went upstairs and the young people were able to overhear his part of an argument with his wife, who remained adamant in her belief that Charles was dead and in her refusal to bless her daughter’s marriage. Her words were not audible, but from her husband’s loud arguments it was possible to surmise what she was saying. She did not forbid the union, but refused any part in it, stubbornly placing the decision and any subsequent blame for it upon the tremulous shoulders of the Major.

  The sound of the hooves of a single horse upon the drive interrupted the stalemated argument, and by the time Dick had called a boy and surrendered his horse, the Major was coming down the stairs.

  ‘Whure Jones?’ the Major demanded as Dick entered the door.

  ‘Sime Maddox, he’s a-dyin’,’ the messenger explained.

  ‘Let him die, but whure Jones?’

  ‘Out to Mista Maddox gittin’ him ready, ready to meet his Maker,’ Dick elaborated.

  ‘Well, I swan,’ swore the Major. ‘Why you calculate he wouldn’t come? He won’t git a cent out of Sime, not a cent, an’ Hammon’ here give him two, three, maybe five dollars. You fool, Dick, you god-damn fool. Now what we goin’ to do?’ He turned and went up the stairs again to report Dick’s failure to Beatrix and to charge her with their son’s stupidity.

  ‘I ain’t to blame I couldn’t fetch him,’ Dick sought to absolve himself, dropping into a chair.

  ‘Course,’ Hammond acknowledged.

  Blanche dissolved in tears.

  ‘Course he kin, good as any,’ the Major’s voice from upstairs boomed with a new hope. ‘I fergot all about that. An’ you’ll come down, an’ he do? An’ give ’em your blessin’? Well, that whut we goin’ to do.’

  Blanche wiped away her tears and raised her eyes toward her father as he came expansively down the stairs. She saw that he had a way out of the difficulty. Hammond was resigned to whatever might happen. Meg, once more on the floor at his master’s feet, failed to fathom the impediment to the marriage, or to understand why his omnipotent master didn’t surmount it, whatever it might be. Perhaps that was why the beautiful white lady in the flowered dress was weeping.

  ‘Dick!’ announced the Major, slapping his sitting son on the shoulder. ‘Dick! Dick a preacher. He kin do it, do it good as any. He sanctified; he a preacher! Whyn’t we think? Why we send fer Jones?’

  ‘Papa! No!’ objected his son to his father’s solution. ‘No, I cain’t. I’m jest a-startin’ out. I cain’t wed no white folks—never did.’

  ‘You kin, you kin!’ protested his father. ‘Ain’t no different marryin’ white folks than niggers, on’y no broom. You kin do it! Hammon’ gives you the money, jest like he would Jones.’

  ‘Reckon it legal?’ Hammond was sceptical.

  ‘Legal as Jones,’ opined the Major. ‘Dick’s a preacher, ain’t he? No matter he ain’t preached to white folks yet. He a-goin’ to. He say the words an’ I write it in the Bible, you married, married fast.’

  ‘I don’ know the
lines,’ Dick protested.

  ‘Ain’t no difference whut you sayin’. Jest home folks! Besides, your mamma wants you. An’ you do it, your mamma comin’ downstairs to listen. She given in to it, an’ Dick doin’ it. You don’t got to string it out. All you do is jest ast ’em an’ tell ’em. Good practice.’

  The brown figure of Beatrix descended the stairs. All the blood was drained from her solemn face, leaving her more sallow than before. She approached her husband without speaking, extending towards him her hearing device.

  ‘Dick not a-wantin’ to,’ called the Major into the horn. ‘Says he cain’t.’

  ‘Course he kin. Dick jest backward,’ said his mother emptily. ‘Goin’ to be a preacher, got to start in bein’ one. Come along, Son.’

  Dick struggled bashfully to his feet.

  ‘Stan’ up, Ham; stan’ up, Blanche. Stan’ together here in front of this window,’ the Major arranged the party. ‘You, Mamma, stan’ right there by Blanche so as you kin hear good,’ he called into the horn.

  Meg, ignored, arose also. He was unsure what was expected of him and half expected to be ordered back to the floor.

  ‘I ’on’t know. I reckon we got to kneel down first off,’ Dick improvised.

  When all were firmly on their knees, Dick offered his prayer. ‘Dear God,’ he prayed, ‘we come together here before You to join together these white folks in wedlock, in holy matrimony,’ he repeated himself, uncertain how to proceed. ‘We begs You to bless their union with long life an’ joys an’ comfortin’ one another in they ol’ age. We prays You goin’ to ’stow on ’em Your benediction an’ goin’ to bring ’em childern to raise up to praise Thee. We prays You goin’ to bring ’em childern an’ that them childern goin’ to be boys, O God, ’cause Hammon’ here, he wants a boy to help him manage that plantation of his paw’s an’ to take it offen his hands when he goin’ to die, O God.

  ‘My sister Blanche here, she stubborn, O God. Thou knowest she stubborn, O God. Take it out of her heart, God; take that stubborn streak she got right outn her heart. Make her give in to her husban’, God, an’ do whut he say an’ obey his commands, O God, like she had ought to.

  ‘Bless this service of marri’ge, O God, an’ make it legal; make it legal an’ bindin’ on ’em both. An’ bless Thy servant an’ his ministry an’ his preachin’ and deliver me from temptations of the flesh, so as I kin serve Thee.

  ‘An’ bless my mamma an’ my papa here. Shower down your blessin’ on ’em an’ on Charlie, if he alive. An’ if he dead, save him from hellfire an’ ’cept him into Your lovin’ grace.

  ‘An’ bless this little nigger of Hammond’s an’ all his niggers, an’ all my papa’s niggers, O God. Increase ’em an’ multiply ’em, an’ make ’em obey they masters, O God, that they goin’ to be released from they bondage when they die, O God, that they goin’ to be free when they die.

  ‘I reckon that all for now, O God. I don’t bethink me of nothin’ else. Jest do whut I’m askin’, O God, in Jesus’ name.

  ‘Amen.’

  Dick spoke intimately to God and laid down his commands to Him, although he had no confidence tonight that they would be heeded. God seemed far away and concerned with His own affairs.

  ‘Amen,’ Beatrix nodded her approval as she got to her feet. ‘I was knowin’ you could. On’y thing, you fergot of Cousin Warren. Glad you blessed your brother, whurever he is.’

  The Major caught his wife’s eye and placed his finger to his lips to silence her.

  ‘Well, you ready?’ Dick inquired. ‘Does you, Hammon’, take this lady name of Blanche to be your lawful, wedded wife, fer better or fer worse, in sickness and health, through weal or woe, to love an’ proteck till death or distance do you part?’

  ‘Yas, suh,’ Hammond nodded in assent.

  ‘An’ you, on your part, Blanche, do you accep’ this Hammon’ here to be your lawful wedded husban’, fer better or fer worse, in sickness an’ health, come weal, come woe, to love an’ obey without no back-talk till death or distance goin’ to part you?’

  ‘I accep’s him,’ promised Blanche firmly.

  ‘Then that is all they is to it,’ affirmed Dick. ‘I goin’ to announce you husban’ an’ his wife an’ may God have mercy on your souls. Amen!’

  Dick pumped the groom’s arm and gingerly, reluctantly kissed the bride. The mother wept as she embraced the embarrassed couple and the father beamed his blessing.

  ‘Ain’t you goin’ to kiss her?’ Dick asked Hammond.

  ‘He plagued, an’ ever’body lookin’. Wait till they git alone,’ the Major condoned the omission. He grasped Hammond’s arm with one hand and Dick’s arm with the other, leading them out-of-doors and towards the spring-house.

  Dick protested, ‘ ’Tain’t right. I’m a preacher. I’m temp’ance.’

  ‘Temp’ance this afternoon too, wasn’t you?’ asked the Major. ‘A cup of corn to celebrate your sister ain’t a-goin’ to sen’ you to hell. Besides,’ he added, nudging his son-in-law in the ribs with his elbow, ‘Hammond goin’ to need it.’

  Hammond did need it.

  ‘Better leave ’em alone a spell together. Her mamma got to ’splain to your wife whut marryin’ goin’ to mean—whut kin’ of son-of-bitches men is.’ Without being subtle, neither was the prurient old man forthright in his allusions to the consummation of the marriage. Hammond was grateful for his father-in-law’s restraint. He had feared a house full of guests and a ragging. Candour caused him no embarrassment, but to veiled allusions and euphemisms he found no words for reply.

  Dick’s libidinous imagination was swathed in a stern morality, which his calling imposed upon him.

  ‘No white man goin’ to touch a lady, ’ceptin’ he wantin’ a chil’,’ he declared.

  ‘Whut he goin’ to do? You an’ your preachin’!’ scoffed the father. ‘You reckon I a-wantin’ you—or Charlie, or a gal? You talks like your mamma.’

  ‘ ’Tain’t right, makin’ a lady submit to your lustin’s. ’Twasn’ whut ol’ Saint Paul meant at all. That whut niggers is fer. You kin use a wench, cain’t you?’

  ‘Some men ain’t got no wench, or they too black or somethin’. Whut do you say to that?’

  ‘Mos’ gen’lemen got ’em—one or two anyways,’ Hammond declared himself mildly on the side of morality, which did not pertain to the unpropertied.

  ‘Besides, it the law. The law givin’ a man rights. Ain’t nothin’ fer a lady to say about,’ the Major chuckled as he clenched his argument. ‘They married, ain’t they?’

  ‘To increase an’ multiply, they is. Yes, suh,’ Dick admitted. ‘But not fo’ pleasurin’. That sin!’

  ‘My only sin now’days is corn whisky,’ said the Major tossing off his fourth cup. ‘Help yourself. I reckon we better go in, afore my wife tellin’ yourn to not let you in bed.’

  The men had tarried so long in the spring-house that the wives had gone upstairs. Meg had fallen asleep on the floor and Hammond had to shake him to wake him up. The Major escorted his new son-in-law to the door of Blanche’s bedroom and went himself into the adjoining one where Beatrix could be heard still stirring restlessly.

  Blanche was supine in her big bed, modestly swathed in a heavy nightdress buttoned at the neck. Hammond imagined the whiteness, the marble pinkness, of his wife’s blonde body and the thought of contact with it revolted him. He was so used to the sight of darker skins that it made him queasy. He had married Blanche for her racial purity, of which her blondeness was the earnest, but he was grateful for the buttoned nightgown.

  It was apparent that the girl had been weeping, which her husband ignored. The sleep-sodden Meg removed his master’s boots and socks, and helped him off with his outer clothes. He failed to understand but did not question why the white man retained his undergarments.

  ‘Ain’t no quilt laid out fer you. Got to sleep in your clo’s; but sleep straight an’ don’ muss ’em,’ Hammond cautioned the boy, putting him down outside the door. ‘An’ I goin’ to lam
baste you, I catches you at that keyhole, goin’ to hang you up.’

  Meg lay down too weary, too sleepy, for curiosity. Why, anyway, should he be curious?

  Later Meg was awakened by his master’s stumbling over his sleeping figure. Hammond emerged from the room, dressed in his coat, socks and boots in his hand, and directed the half-sleeping boy to come along with him. They descended the stair and the master groped for a chair in which he sat while the slave dressed his feet. The master remained sitting, preoccupied and baffled. At last he rose, paced back and forth across the floor of the room, wandered to the door and paced the driveway. The young Negro, without knowing why, was as much distressed as his master, whom he sensed to be sorely troubled.

  Hammond started toward the stables, resolved to harness his own horses without disturbing the slaves and to take his departure, when the side door opened and Dick inquired whether it was he and what the matter could be.

  ‘I cain’t sleep, an’ I got up,’ was all the explanation Hammond would offer. ‘I has a lot of trouble that a-way, not a-sleepin’.’

  ‘It’s that Blanche!’ Dick divined. ‘Go back an’ tell her, tell her she married, she married an’ it her duty. Want I should go up with you, or call Papa?’

  ‘No, it not that. I jest cain’t go to sleep. Cousin Blanche, she sleepin’ soun’. Go back to bed,’ Hammond answered in a half voice. His resolution to escape was broken. He wandered the agonized night alone. Meg sat on the edge of the gallery and dozed.

  Hammond was grateful to Mercury when the planet rose above the trees, an assurance that morning was not far off. He strolled unseeingly down the lane and into the silent road toward Briarfield. At the first light he turned and retraced his steps toward Crowfoot. He sat on the edge of the gallery floor beside his sleeping minion, for whom the owner felt a new and fierce affection. Upon Meg’s loyalty he could count. For all his stupidity, ignorance, childish innocence, for all his mischievous lying and braggadocio to others, he was, as he proclaimed, Hammond’s nigger, as steadfast as Lucretia Borgia herself.