by Day Taylor
Tom handed Sable's reins to a black boy and flipped him a large penny. The boy stuck the penny into his mouth for safekeeping. Tom mounted the steps to the broad, shady veranda.
"Tom! I was beginnin' to think you were goin' to insult me, not comin' to my pahty!" The Widow Pickett wore a low-cut dress of magenta silk that complimented her black curls and creamy skin. She put a dainty hand on Tom's arm.
Tom bowed low, kissing her hand longer than politeness demanded. His practiced gaze skimmed her small waist and bosoms, laced into complaisant prominence.
He looked deep into her eyes. "Miss Carrie, if I insulted you, may I pick the weapons?"
She laughed, a happy gushing sound. "What might youah weapons be, Tom?"
"Would you accept sweet nothings at two paces?"
She blushed clear down to the top of her gown. "Tom, youah awful! Merton better fetch you a drink, so's you'll have somethin' to hoi' besides mah hand!"
Tom squeezed her hand gently. "Miss Carrie, you're pretty as a hibiscus blossom today. I plumb lost mastery over myself."
"I've taken off my mournin' for the pahty." She cast down her eyes. "I'll always miss deah Calvin, but life goes on, doesn't it?"
"Wouldn't surprise me if you'll get a whole raft of proposals this evenin', Miss Carrie. You're enough to make a sane man wonder why he's single."
She giggled. "If I don't sound too bold, Tom, I been meanin' to ask you that myself." In her long-lashed dark eyes there was invitation.
"I don't believe I rightly know, Miss Carrie. Maybe I've had my eyes shut."
Ross's grating voice cut in. "Wish you had, Tom boy. I was jus' beginnin' to think I was the one makin' time with the lady. Miss Carrie honey, the gentlemen have been ask-in' if you'd favor us with another song."
"I certainly will if you ask me, Ross." Carrie gave him a melting look and drifted inside. Presently she was heard singing, "Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge . . ."
"Who won the purse, Tom?"
"Thought you said you were goin' to win it."
"Only thing I won was a bustin' head. You don't know, then?"
"Sure I know. I won it."
Ross's jaw dropped. "Well, I'll be damned!" He gave Tom a hard, appraising stare. "Edmund's not in the habit of losin'. He's gonna have a real blood rush."
Tom said uncomfortably, "What happened to you last night? You must have had a lot while we were at brag."
Ross shrugged. "Three, four drinks. Did you slip me a Mickey?"
"I never did before, did I?"
"You never won before."
"Jee-hoshaphat, Ross! Once in my life I do every thin' right—"
"Cheer up, ol' frien'. Here comes Edmund."
Edmund, Tom observed, looked peaked. "I see you survived," he said heartily.
Edmund's smile was bleak. "The carrion crows are welcome to my mouth. Pfaugh!" Tom and Ross laughed. "You're lookin' suspiciously well, Tom."
Tom braced himself. "That anisette must have cleared my head."
Edmund's nostrils flared. "Congratulations, Tom!"
Tom's heart raced as he accepted Edmund's handshake. "Thanks, Edmund. I'll give you a bank draft for that four thousand."
"Four thousand?" Edmund's eyebrows raised in puzzlement.
Ross said, "I don't recall you losin' money to Edmund."
Edmund had never taken his eyes off Tom. "What four thousand?!" -
"You sold me a house nigger. Sho'ly you recollect that. Ask Jarvis."
Edmund's face grew pinched and pale.
Ross laughed softly. "Son of a bitch! You're talkin' about Ullah, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Tom, smiling. He told Edmund how it had happened. "I kept my end of the bargain."
"And so shall I." Revanche's eyes glittered.
Ross said, "We got to toast ol' Tom for outfoxin' everybody."
They touched glasses just as the laughing crowd came from the parlor.
Tom took little part in the soiree. His mind was already
in the future, when the dancing would have grown wearisome. He endured the gala midnight supper and the final gallantries in honor of Carrie Pickett's departure.
It was one o'clock by the time the three men were seated in Revanche's study. Though Tom was anxious to be with UUah, he talked and joked with Ross and Edmund. "I b'lieve we all had a narrow escape. Miss Carrie looked ready to take up the first proposal."
Ross laughed. "I nearly made her one myself. And hey, Tom, did you?"
Edmund Revanche was not listening. Drink in hand, he lounged in a high-backed chair, booted legs crossed. His full-lidded brown eyes roved over the numerous rows of books, bound in finest Moroccan leather. Mentally he approved the meticulously waxed sheen of the Chippendale chairs and the parquetry floor.
He had made himself a rich man, and he would soon be richer still, with holdings far beyond the South. Already he had begun carving out a foothold in the lucrative North. Not even Tom or Ross knew the extent of his ambition. Edmund believed he saw the weaknesses of the South in a way neither of his friends would. The slave system would not go on forever. One day, Northern fanatics—helped by Southern traitors—would see to it that labor had to be hired.
He couldn't stop that, but by the time it happened, he'd be well entrenched in Northern manufacturing. It would be Abolitionist money he'd use to pay his Southern hired help. His lands would m6st likely be worked out anyway. He'd still have the best of it. Then he'd take up something else. Politics? Governor Edmund Revanche. That had an impressive ring to it . . .
Ross Bennett's raucous laughter shattered Edmund's pleasant reverie, jerking him abruptly back to his guests.
"Hey, Edmund, you heah that? Tom says he is tarred, and wants to go to bed!"
Revanche, his earlier fury well hidden, joined in the laughter. He said too solicitously, "Hope nothin's wrong, Tom. Not feelin' poorly or anythin', are you?"
Tom laughed ruefully. "I don't know how you do it, Edmund. It's been a long night—"
"Now Tom's fixin' to make it a longer night! Pour yourself another drink, Tom boy."
Grinning broadly, Tom said, "Ross, why don't you go to hell?"
Edmund's and Ross's eyes met in amusement. Edmund said, "I'll see you to the staircase."
"Sleep good!" Ross called, still smiling.
At the foot of the stairs, Tom turned. "You'll send her up, Edmund?"
The taller man clasped Tom's shoulder. "I've never left you wantin', Tom."
Half an hour later Edmund summoned Ullah. He motioned her toward the stairs and watched as she climbed slowly, gracefully, her head with its pale brown curling hair held proudly, her breasts and full buttocks moving provocatively under the cotton shift. A handsome wench, he thought. Why had he never thought so before now?
Ross was sprawled comfortably across the leather sofa. "I made myself at home in your liquor cabinet." Airily, he waved a glass of absinthe at his host. "My God, Edmund, I've heard of men being faithful to their wives— but to a quadroon slave? How long has it been this same nigra?"
Edmund shrugged. "Three years . . . maybe four."
"Why don't you give him a different one? You gettin' miserly, Edmund?" Ross grinned, holding out his empty glass to be refilled.
"Tom can have any wench he wishes. He doesn't want anyone else. What about you? Is there one you haven't tried, Ross?"
Ross's face grew still. "Just one,"
Edmund sat back in his chair.
Ross prompted him. "Aren't you goin' to ask who?"
"I already know."
Ross jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. "Tom won't share her. But damn my eyes if I wouldn't like to try that Uttle nigra."
"You'll have to ask Tom, since he's buyin' her."
Ross sighed. "Well, I guess I'll never know what Ullah's got."
Revanche smiled slowly. "Tonight she still belongs to me."
Ross sat up, excited. "What a joke on old Tom!"
His host shifted irritably in his chair, his good hum
or suddenly soured. His anger was back, anger at Tom for
making a complete fool of him. "If you want her, take her. I haven't seen Tom's money yet."
"You're gettin' het up at the wrong person, Edmund. It wasn't me that fast-talked, you into sellin' her. Besides, this is a joke . . . somethin' to laugh about in the morn-in' . . . among three old friends—"
"She's a slave! Property!" Revanche snapped. "If you want her, take her! Good night, Ross."
"Ahh, Edmund, don't be like that. I didn't mean to insult you. Have a nightcap with me. Like you said, she's of no account. Sit down, now."
In his room Tom Pierson was trembling with anticipation. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped tight, his heart pounding in joy and rehef. Edmund had given his word to sell Ullah. Tom hadn't mentioned the child. Surely Edmund would realize that if he wanted Ullah, he would want Angela, the child that was his out of her.
Abruptly his mind veered to Ullah. What words does a man use to tell his woman that she was free now—and his?
Tom shivered, glancing anxiously at the door waiting for the moment Ullah would appear there, knowing that with her securely in his arms the right words would come. Somehow then, close to her, one with her, he'd know how to tell her. To him she was a woman, neither black nor white, slave nor free, but a woman he loved with all his heart.
Lost in his dreams of her, he didn't hear her light steps across the room, didn't know she was there until she knelt before him, her eyes wide and love filled.
"Sleepy, Tom?" she teased. Her voice, like all the rest of her was soft, gentle, inviting.
Tom stood, catching her up into his arms and whirling around the room holding her, laughing until she laughed with him. 'Til never be sleepy again!" he declared, and laughed again. His breath grew short as her scent flowed into his nostrils. He buried his lips in her neck, her hair, and felt her warmth against him.
Quickly he untied the cord that bound her shift, and slipped the rough garment over her head. She stood proudly before him, knowing how he loved to gaze at her naked body. Almost reverently his hands lifted her small breasts. Hungrily he kissed each one until the dark nipples became erect.
"Shall Ah draw yo' boots off, Tom?" she asked. It was the start of their familiar love ritual.
"Please," he said, more aroused than ever before. He seated himself, and she straddled his legs, her round buttocks toward him. Eagerly he watched her in the lamplight as she bent gracefully, tugging each boot off. His hands sought and caressed her as she moved.
"Yo' coat, Tom?" Her practiced fingers undid the buttons and slid his frock coat off. Each time asking permission, she removed his waistcoat, his cravat, shirt, and breeches, lingering over each movement as he had taught her, arousing him with slow, sensuous touch, until, naked and erect, he took her in his arms. At last his lips met hers, his tongue seeking, hers replying.
Abruptly he let her go and lay down. This again was a signal. Obediently she knelt and began to stroke his temples, moving her strong fingers down to the cords at the sides of his neck. She bent her head and kissed him lightly, her tongue teasing his lips. He pulled her to him so that she was straddHng his body, leaning so that he could kiss her nipples.
Expertly the slave girl kneaded his body, finally stroking upward, inside his thighs, until he thought he would explode with desire for her. His fingers cupped her breasts. He held himself still, feeling her fragrant warmth slowly envelop him.
They lay together, shuddering in mutual delight. Now he could tell her that he had bought her freedom. He could offer her a new and more precious kind of bondage, one they could share all their lives.
But only minutes from now, he would become Ullah's slave. It would be he who awaited her signals. It would be his hands that massaged her, feeling on her lovely breasts and belly the delicate striations that told of her having carried his child. And it would be UUah who would He quietly or move under him as she wished when they joined again. Ullah, his sweet love, his wife.
Late, when Tom had fallen heavily asleep, Ullah rose and put on her shift. It would be the last time she'd ever have to leave him, God be praised. It was too much that He should have given her Tom, her freedom, and her child as well—^it was more than anyone could hope to have. Never before had she known the airy lightness in
her heart that she felt now as she crept warm and content from Tom's bed.
She padded softly down the unlighted servant's staircase. Lights still shone on the main floor, though the house was silent.
"Somebody's gonna git it." She began to extinguish the lamps to save someone from a good thrashing. She opened the study door. Ross Bennett lay on the sofa, nodding groggily, the glass held loosely in his hand tilted, spilling liqueur on the shining floor each time he exhaled.
Ullah had always been a little scared of Mastah Ross. He wanted her, wanted her bad. In his eyes the glintings of desire mixed with covetous hate. A cruel gent'man, the other women told her after he had used them. She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms.
Stealthily she took the glass from his limp fingers. With the hem of her shift she wiped the floor. Ross's hand reached out, hunting his glass, and found Ullah.
The slave girl stiffened, then she rolled out of his grasp.
"'Nigger!" His voice was harsh, drunken, but commanding.
UUah knew better than to try to run, even to Tom. She took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. "Yes-suh, Mastah Ross." God knew what he'd do to her, but he would not break her spirit. Tomorrow she would be a free woman. She'd keep thinking on that.
Ross grinned sloppily, saliva glistening on his lower lip. "Hot damn!" he grabbed for her breasts.
Ullah sidestepped his groping hands. They faced each other, Ross weaving slightly. "Nigger, you better not move away from me again, or I'll thrash your yeller ass myself."
She said with dignity, "My name is Ullah, Mastah Ross." Hatred gleamed from her large, dark eyes.
Ross's hand darted out and caught her on the cheekbone, nearly knocking her down. "Don't you put no evil eye on me, nigger, you heah?"
Ullah lowered her eyes. "Yassuh, Mastah Ross.**
He was enjoying himself hugely. "Ease my britches off, wench. An' mind you don't make any mistakes, for I got a mighty big yearnin', an' I aim to have you tend to it for me.
Silently, skillfully, she removed his breeches. Then Bennett's large hairy hands were at her neckline, ripping the flimsy shift open.
"Hot damn! So Edmund sent youl Well, come here, yel-ler gal,, and le's see what you got."
Ullah hesitated. Ross grasped her hair, jerking her head to one side. She winced. "Tom never been rough? You're gonna like it." He laughed. "They all like it that way."
He threw her to the floor, falling heavily on her, biting her fan: skin, sucking greedily and painfully at her nipples, twisting handfuls of her flesh in his uncontrolled rutting.
Ullah held herself rigid, waitmg in fear for his next move. She was always afraid of what Revanche's guests would do to her. When folks thought you hadn't the same feelings and spirit they had, there was no telling what they might do. But Ross was worse than the rest; this night was worse. Tom was upstairs sleeping, never dreaming of the dreadful thing that was happening to her. He had promised her that for the first time in her life she could count on the pleasures of love and not the devices of lust. Tom would never lie to her. It was a nameless cruelty that in this moment, only hours from freedom, with the warmth of Tom's loving still heating her own blood, this insane, drunken animal should take her.
"On your hands and knees, bitch!"
She braced herself against the sharp pain and indignity, trying not to hear his grunts as he lunged into her. When he rolled away from her, panting heavily, he said, "Don't you move, heah? There's somethin' more you're goin' to do for me! Only got one time with you . , . make the best of it." He lay back, skinning her with his eyes, laughing cruelly.
Trying not to sob, not to feel the fire that gnawed inside her, Ull
ah waited, trembling with fear. Ross Bennett got up and sat, his legs sprawled. "Crawl over heah an' put your head on my lap."
Ullah made her mind a blank. She did what he made her do, then stayed on her knees in front of him, uncertainly. He raised one foot, planted it in her face, and sent her tumbling backward.
As she scrambled for the remnants of her shift, fighting against the urge to vomit, Ross Bennett turned on his side and went smiling to sleep.
Ullah crept to her cabin, tiptoeing in so as not to wake the other occupants. She lay on her cot, her head turned away from Angela, curled up peacefully in one small corner. Ullah muffled her sobs in the shuck-filled tick. She
had never cried like this before. But never before had she thought of herself as a person like anyone else. Never before had she been Tom Pierson's promised wife.
There were two sides to this world, the clean beauty-filled place she had glimpsed with Tom and the side populated by men like Mastah Revanche and Mastah Ross. That side was dirty, the abode of devils and demons and hell's fh-e nipping up from the dark regions to sear those who tried to walk this earth decently.
Tom awakened feeling happier than any other day in his life. The sun shone brighter. In the air was a perfume of blossoms. He would start for home right away. Edmund expected him to stay several days, but he had much to do before he dared make Ullah his own.
Edmund would understand Tom's unquenchable appetite for Ullah. He would never understand marriage between them. Edmund would rigidly support the vicious Black Code that forbade miscegenation. And for his resentment and humiliation that Tom had taken his slave to wife, Edmund would make Tom pay dearly.
He glanced outside. Ullah should have been here by now. This morning of all mornings he had expected her to be early. He finished dressing. Perhaps, like him, she wanted no more of their master-slave relationship.
Then too, it would be like Edmund to keep her busy until the moment Tom had her papers in his hand. Edmund could be petty like that.
"Good mornin', Edmund." With a grandiose bow, Tom placed the four-thousand-dollar bank draft on the desk.
Subtly Edmund's expression changed. He did not move to pick it up.
Tom's heart plummeted. Wasn't the man going to keep his word? Then Edmund opened a drawer, withdrew a paper, and signed it. "I wish you the joy of your purchase, Tom. I hope you are as wise as you are enthusiastic."