Mandingo

by Kyle Onstott

  ‘Now, dig it on down, straight and clean an’ deep,’ he told the boys. ‘We wantin’ to bury ’em nice.’

  Seeing the grave well begun, Hammond left the Negroes at their task and walked toward the house. He paused by the side of the barn and chose one of a suitable size from the assortment of crudely carpentered coffins stacked there weathering while they awaited tenants. The Maxwells buried their dead slaves in coffins instead of merely wrapping them in blankets and tumbling them into graves, and there was always an assortment of coffins of various lengths made in anticipation of the deaths which were happily infrequent occurrences among the plantation population. Having made his selection of the soundest and most neatly fashioned of these boxes, Hammond looked about him for two strong boys to carry it for him to the house. This they did by grasping the handles of rope passed through holes in the sides of the coffin and knotted inside it. He had the bearers set the coffin down on the end of the gallery and then dismissed them.

  Entering the house, Hammond found his father at breakfast and joined him, eating heartily, having foregone supper the previous night.

  ‘Reckon it needful, you a-carryin’ on,’ sighed the elder man regretfully.

  ‘Ain’t no other way. I wouldn’t feel right inside without I do it,’ Hammond said. ‘I not a-likin’ to do it, no more than you, on’y you knowin’, your own se’f, that no gen’leman kin have a woman whut carry on like that—you know—with no nigger buck. Ain’t no other way.’

  ‘Kind of break up our Mandingos, seem like. Coursen, we got them two suckers, Lucy’s wench an’ that Ol’ Masta Wilson buck outn Big Pearl. Glad we saved somethin’ from Mede, but they take a long time to grow.’ Maxwell appeared to deplore the Mandingo more than Blanche.

  ‘Him! Whut I done is too good fer him. I not a-cravin’ more Mandingos. They treach’ous!’

  ‘Not treach’ous an’ they watched, no more treach’ous than any nigger buck. Cain’t turn your back on any of ’em, any buck, aroun’ white ladies. They all lusty-like,’ opined the elder. ‘Made that way. I ain’t a-blamin’ ’em. Ain’t no call to behave, savin’ you make ’em.’

  Hammond pushed back his chair and rose. He summoned Lucretia Borgia and Tense to help him, and together they wrapped the bodies of Blanche and her baby in a quilt, carried them through the hall, down the stairs, and across the gallery, where they laid them in the open coffin. Only Tense wept, not because she had loved her mistress or had been well used by her, but out of self-pity and doubt about her own future. Hammond was grim and determined to carry out the duty he had set for himself. He had loved the girl, he thought, whom he had killed for her own honour and for his, and, despite her shortcomings as his wife, had protected her and treated her well, but he had no tears to shed for such a woman. He knelt by the coffin and nailed the lid securely in place.

  Hammond limped back up the knoll to the burial grounds to assess the progress Treasure and Brute were making in the digging of the grave. He had not expected them to work rapidly and was pleased that they had done so much. The sides of the hole were not quite plumb, and he cautioned the boys to straighten them. Then he stood by and watched them throwing the dirt from the pit, the task progressing more rapidly under the master’s surveillance. At length, he tired of watching the slaves and wandered over to the cotton field and finally back to the house. Except for the boys who dug the grave and another boy assigned to keeping the fire going around the kettle, work on the plantation was suspended, and the slaves, all of whom knew about Mede’s martyrdom but not the reason for it, kept to their cabins, not knowing which of them might be the next victim. Terrified as they were, none questioned their owner’s authority to do what he had done to Mede or to dispose of any of them as he should wish. Hammond climbed the stairs and threw himself upon the bed, but, despite his sleepless night, he was unable to sleep now. He was obsessed. All of his imaginings turned upon visions of his white wife in the bestial arms of the Mandingo. His vengeance had been prompt, but it did not suffice. No vengeance would suffice. He pondered what he might do to make it more terrible and more just.

  Hours he lay there, wide-eyed and pondering. Then he arose. The grave must now be finished. He walked mechanically down the stairs, across the areaway, to the meeting-house barracks. He called upon two stout boys, the first he encountered, and took them with him to the gallery, where he told them to wait for him. He went into the house and along the hall to the sitting-room, where his father’s chair was drawn up beside the window. The old man had drunk more than his usual number of toddies in an effort to quell his perturbation over the anguish he knew his son to be suffering and which he knew not how to allay.

  ‘We’re goin’ now,’ the young man announced. ‘Crave to come along?’

  ‘Whure to you goin’?’ asked the father.

  ‘To bury her, her an’ her chil’,’ Hammond said, with an air of false casualness. ‘Reckon you kin come? You relished her right well; that is, beforehan’ you did.’

  ‘You knowin’ I cain’t walk so fur.’

  ‘Well, we’ll rig up that hammock I brung you from Natchez. I knowed it would come handy someday,’ Hammond proposed.

  ‘I’ll not ride in that contraption,’ the old man refused. ‘It would seem like you totin’ me out to dump me in the grave, my own se’f.’

  He got to his feet, however, and followed his son to the gallery where he stood and watched as the two slaves, one on either side of the coffin, lifted it by its hempen handles and started with it toward the burial ground, followed by his son. He remembered that it had been he who suggested Blanche Woodford as a consort for Hammond and he blamed himself for what had occurred. If he had been more vigilant during his son’s absence, the assignation would have been impossible. He assumed that the Mandingo had waylaid the girl and raped her, but deemed her at least as culpable for her failure to tell of the assault as was Mede for committing it. All knew the lust of black men for white women, which it was the white man’s duty to thwart more than to censure. Maxwell stood and watched. He saw the slaves set the coffin on the ground and change sides, each transferring the weight to the opposite arm. Then he saw them lift their burden again and disappear around the corner of the meeting-house barracks, where he lost sight of them.

  Arrived at the worm-fence, Hammond called to Brutus and Treasure to take down a panel of it that the coffin might pass. They had finished their digging, but the bottom of the grave was not level, and Hammond ordered the two slaves to set the coffin on the ground while the two others scraped the grave and levelled it. When it was ready, he had Treasure remain in the hole to receive the coffin, which the other slaves eased down to him. In the process, the box turned on its side and fell upon Treasure’s foot, at which he cried out and complained so much that his master ordered him to the surface and delegated Brute to descend into the grave and right the coffin. When it was placed to the master’s satisfaction, Brutus climbed out of the hole and Hammond, grasping the loose, dank earth, pelted the coffin with clods. He then ordered Brutus to shovel back into the grave the dirt that lay beside it, while he, himself, knelt on the ground to manipulate Treasure’s foot to make sure it was not broken.

  He did not wait until the grave was filled, but, instructing Brutus how he wished it to be banked, dismissed the slaves and walked slowly back toward the house.

  Supper over, Hammond sat with his father, who drank his toddy. Hammond drank nothing. When Memnon came to refill the old man’s goblet, Hammond said to the slave, ‘That Lucretia Borgia, tell her she should come here.’

  Memnon marked the stern and peremptory tone, and soon Lucretia Borgia, smoothing her apron, stood before the master in the twilight.

  ‘Lucretia Borgia!’ Hammond began.

  ‘Yas, Masta, suh,’ she said.

  ‘Lucretia Borgia, you knowin’—you knowin’ ’bout this?’ the master charged rather than asked.

  ‘Knowin’? Knowin’ whut, suh?’ the woman countered for time, aware what he meant.

  ‘�
��’Bout Miz Blanche an’ that Mandingo. You knowin’,’ he said.

  Lucretia Borgia hesitated, not sure whether it was more discreet to admit or to deny the accusation, doubtful that denial would be believed. At length, with a hint of a giggle in her voice, she acknowledged in part that she knew. ‘I knowin’ Mede come in the house an’ up the stairs. Tense say Mist’ess sen’ fer him,’ she said. ‘I not knowin’ whut he do.’

  ‘Lucretia Borgia not here that time. She in New Orleans that time,’ the father sought to defend the woman.

  ‘That time? While I gone up in Tennessee? That afore she sold,’ replied the son.

  ‘Yas, suh, Masta; that the time, while you gone,’ admitted the cook.

  ‘Whyn’t you say? Whyn’t you tell me? Whyn’t you call Papa, here? You knowin’ Mede got no hold in the house, no business here,’ the young man upbraided her.

  ‘Tense say——’ Lucretia Borgia retorted.

  ‘Nev’ min’ whut Tense say,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Tense say Miz Blanche, she sen’, suh,’ went on the woman. ‘Say Miz Blanche say tell that Mede to come here. Tense, she cry. All time cry.’

  ‘Nev’ min’ Tense, I tellin’ you. Whyn’t you tell Papa, your own se’f?’ the boy interrogated. ‘Whyn’t you look after things, like you supposed?’

  ‘It white doin’s,’ Lucretia Borgia shrugged. ‘I not never mess in white folk’s doin’s. You tol’ me, you own se’f, Masta, suh, white doin’s is white doin’s, an’ me, I ain’t no call to mess.’

  ‘I reckon I did. But lettin’ a nigger buck to a white lady. You know it ain’t safe, ain’t never safe.’

  ‘If’n white lady wantin’ that ol’ hog boar of yourn, I ain’t a-goin’ to put in,’ Lucretia Borgia shrugged again. ‘White lady know whut she crave.’

  ‘She, Miz Blanche, never crave that black ape. You know she never. She sen’ to give him them red ear-drops, that all, an’ he rape her,’ Hammond rationalized.

  ‘Whut fer she sen’ the second time and the third time then?’ rebutted the woman.

  ‘More than once? It ain’t true,’ declared Hammond.

  ‘Four days in all, while you away, suh,’ Lucretia Borgia held up her fingers. She had tolerated rather than liked Blanche and was pleased that she was able to indict her. ‘That Mede, he right temptatious to a woman. You-all done seen him nekid.’

  ‘To a nigger wench. Not to no white lady.’

  ‘I not a-knowin’ ’bout no white lady, suh,’ sighed the Negro.

  ‘I got me a right good notion to gather you up an’ carry you back to that white gen’leman in New Orleans whut bought you,’ Hammond threatened.

  ‘Yas, suh, Masta, suh, I a-hearin’,’ the woman answered.

  ‘As you goin’ out, sen’ me in Tense. Hear?’ he dismissed her, baffled by her taciturnity. He limped the floor impatiently until Hortense arrived.

  When at length she came, he hardly knew what he wanted to ask of her. ‘Tense,’ he stated rather than questioned, ‘you Miz Blanche’s nigger, takin’ care an’ doin’ fer her?’

  ‘Yas, suh, Masta,’ Tense whispered her reply and shivered in her fear of him.

  ‘You a-knowin’ that Mandingo rape your mist’ess?’

  ‘Mede, suh. Yas, suh, I a-knowin’ it.’

  ‘Whyn’t you say? Whyn’t you tell me?’ he demanded. ‘You a-knowin’ I kill him.’

  ‘Yas, suh, Masta, only Miz say I mus’n’t tell. She say she mad at you, say she goin’ to pay you back. I a-tellin’ her—much as I could—she hadn’t ought to; you be mad,’ the girl absolved herself. ‘She say fetch him.’

  ‘An’ you do it? You fetch him? Then whut?’

  ‘I ’on’t know, suh, Masta, suh. I ‘on’t know. I ’on’t know nothin’,’ Tense broke into frightened tears.

  ‘Whut you do while—while he in there, while he in there with your mist’ess?’ the master inquired.

  ‘I set outside on the stair steps—jest set.’

  ‘Didn’ say nothin’? Didn’ tell your ol’ masta?’

  ‘Naw, suh. I jest set an’ cried. I tol’ Miz Lucretia Borgia—afterwards.’

  ‘She knowin’ all the time whut a-goin’ on?’ Hammond sought to incriminate somebody.

  ‘She know. Ever’body know. All the niggers know,’ she admitted. Tense raised her skirt to dry her eyes.

  ‘The house niggers or all of ’em?’

  ‘Leasewise the house niggers, ’ceptin’ Ellen. She away with you that time. Nobody ever tell Miz Ellen. They afeared to.’

  ‘How many times? How many times you fetch that ape in fer Miz Blanche?’

  ‘You meanin’ Mede?’ Tense asked. She counted on her fingers and held up her hand with the thumb concealed in the palm. ‘That many,’ she said, unable to count to four. ‘That many, I reckon.’

  ‘All you niggers knowin’ an’ none of ’em ever sayin’—none of ’em tellin’ me?’ Hammond shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Them twins, that you done sol’, one of ’em, I ’on’t know which one, I couldn’t tell ’em one from the other, one of ’em was a-goin’ to tell, said he would, ’lessen Miz Blanche—’lessen Miz Blanche——’ Tense could not bring herself to go on.

  ‘Unlessen Miz Blanche do whut?’ the master prompted.

  ‘ ’Lessen she pleasure him too, like she done with Mede,’ she said.

  Hammond, pacing the floor, turned on the standing girl, raised his arm and brought his palm across her cheek with a slap that staggered her. ‘That a lie, a damn lie! You dirty, lyin’ skunk of a nigger!’ he exclaimed.

  The elder Maxwell, who had so far been silent, murmured, ‘Nigger talk. You know that ain’t true, Son. Them twins wasn’t big enough.’

  The son doubted the validity of the objection. ‘They big as I was the first time, the time you give me that li’l yaller wench.’ He knew that Tense told the truth. ‘That Meg, leastwise, was.’

  ‘Too late, too late now. You cain’t do nothin’, Ham, even an’ if she tellin’ true,’ said the elder man, draining his goblet.

  Hammond shrugged. ‘How many times? How many times that Meg rape your mist’ess? How many times?’

  Tense stood sullen and did not answer.

  ‘How many times, I askin’ you, nigger?’ Hammond demanded.

  ‘I ’on’t know, suh, please, suh, Masta, suh,’ at length she replied. Then she added, ‘ ’Mos’ ever’day, I reckon, afore you went an’ sol’ them twins. Mos’ ever’day, when he could sneak out an’ upstairs, an’ sometimes at night when you asleep with Miz Ellen.’

  ‘Then it was Meg, ’cause Alph always sleepin’ with you, Papa,’ Hammond reasoned.

  ‘Sometimes both of ’em, in the daytime, one after the othern,’ Tense said. ‘But jest one said he’d tell.’

  Hammond was revolted, desolated, impotent to revenge himself upon the twins. ‘That enough,’ he said, dismissing Tense.

  Mede’s body was removed from the cauldron and buried with scant respect.

  Days passed. The cotton grew in the mild spring weather, and the hands, under Hammond’s supervision, kept the weeds in check. A Negro boy went down with persistent pains in his lower abdomen, but was purged and there was no alarm. Two women bore children the same night, both without serious difficulty. Hammond told his father briefly of the occurrences on the plantation, but there was little discussion of them. The whole house was quiet. The house-slaves spoke among themselves in subdued voices. Maxwell was aware that Hammond seethed with unvoiced emotions.

  Blanche had been buried nine days. Supper was finished and Maxwell sipped his toddy. Hammond’s sat on the floor at his side, untasted.

  ‘Well,’ said the younger man, ‘I reckon I goin’, goin’ ’bout tomorrer.’

  ‘Goin’? Goin’ whure to?’ asked the father placidly, with no show of the alarm which he felt.

  ‘Jest a-goin’,’ replied the son. ‘First off to New Orleans. I got to kill me them two twins.’

  ‘You cain’t; cain’t do that,’ objected M
axwell. ‘They ain’t yourn.’

  ‘I’ll pay for ’em. Won’t be much, two triflin’ saplin’s. If need, I give it all back, the money we sol’ ’em fer. Won’t need though.’ Hammond’s blue eyes were focused as in a dream. ‘No jedge goin’ to assess me more than they worth, leastwise, when he hear why I done it.’

  ‘You ain’t got no proof,’ the older man protested.

  ‘You hear whut Tense say? Tense ain’t tellin’ no lies. Whut she sayin’ ’bout Blanche don’ count, but a nigger kin say agin a nigger an’ that the truth,’ Hammond said with finality.

  ‘Mayhap be,’ the father admitted. ‘Only——’

  ‘Shoot down that Meg and that Alph is the only way to clear out my head. I know it is. Things jest keep goin’ ’roun’ an’ ’roun’ inside of me. Cain’t sleep, cain’t eat, cain’t pleasure, cain’t think, cain’t do nothin’ so long as they a-livin’. Gittin’ shet of her an’ the Mandingo don’ count none, now that Tense say ’bout them twins,’ Hammond spoke slowly with apparent deliberation. He paused only to sigh.

  ‘They dead, you goin’ to be satisfy, you reckon?’ Maxwell asked doubtfully.

  ‘I ’on’t know,’ admitted Hammond. ‘After that, mayhap I goin’ to saunter on west, mayhap clean to the Texies, fin’ some good groun’ to grow cotton on, whure I kin look a white man in the face without he sayin’ to hisse’f, “There go Hammond Maxwell, whose white wife pleasured with niggers.” ’

  ‘Nobody don’ know that,’ argued Maxwell.

  ‘Savin’ I knows it, an’ you knows it, an’ Redfield knows it, and his Widder. An’ who know how many more?’

  ‘Well, you growed up now, an’ you knows how you feel inside. I cain’t hold you from goin’,’ Maxwell conceded. ‘Take along the gold, whutever you want of it, an’ the niggers, many as you need. Falconhurst is here fer you to come back to.’

  ‘I’ll come back an’ git you, soon as I settle, you an’ li’l Sophy. Take care of her.’

  ‘Lucretia Borgia an’ Big Pearl, they’ll min’ her good until you ready fer her. Only me, I reckon I ain’t goin’. Come back an’ git niggers, all you craves of ’em. They yourn. Only let me stay, me an’ Memnon an’ Lucretia Borgia, an’ the Mandingos, what’s lef’ of ’em.’