But John, and all of his big words, came into my life a little later on after my early experiences in the slave quarters.
It was afternoon when Mr. Stewart tossed me into the man-slaves' cabin.
"Not one more peep outta you, Nigger Forty-seven," he said, "or I will take you back to my cabin and drive knives into your spine."
This threat cut off my crying for the few seconds that the brutal overseer stared at me. I held back until he stamped out of the room.
The slave cabins were long and narrow like the barracks for soldiers in the army. The one that was to be my new home was made all of wood with twenty-three two-tiered bunks down each side and one feather bed with a pitted brass frame up front.
There were, I knew, ninety-three slaves in the men's slave cabin at any one time. When a man-slave died or got too old to work or ran away or was sold off for one reason or another there would always be a new slave to take his place. It was the same with the women field slaves. The women had one extra rule that the men didn't have that was female slaves were not allowed to get pregnant. If one did, without Master's permission, then she was punished and sometimes killed. Master Tobias didn't want to care for a slave if she was pregnant and could not work. And he
didn't want worthless little pickaninnies running around eating and taking up the women's attention.
Sometimes Tobias would want to have his strongest male slaves reproduce and other times he might want to take some comely slave woman to his bed. But other than that there was no unauthorized congress between slaves or between the white workers and slaves. And so the women had their separate cabin and numbered eighty-nine.
The stench of the slave cabin was unbearable to my spoiled nose. There were the odors of sweat and urine and vomit and general rot. And it was hot in there too. Between the heat, the thick air, and my broken heart I felt that I might die right then and there.
"Well, well, well, what have we got here?" said Prit-chard, man-slave Number Twenty-five.
He was the only other soul in the cabin. That's because Pritchard had broken his leg three years earlier and it had healed badly. Him and the slave Holland and some others were helping Master Tobias move a big flat stone from out of the backyard so that Miss Eloise could grow a dozen rose bushes in memory of her mother, the late Una Turner.
Holland and Pritchard, with the help of six or seven other slaves and a mule, had dragged that boulder to the edge of the garden and stood it up so they could let it fall down the side of the small slope there. It was Master Tobias's opinion that when the granite stone fell on the smaller rocks down the hill that it would shatter and make for smaller pieces that would have been easier to remove.
But they used the mule Lacto with a grappling hook to stand the stone up and Lacto must have seen a snake or something down the hill and bucked and ran before Holland and Pritchard could make it clear of the falling flat boulder. Pritchard tried to run but Holland was frozen with fright. So Pritchard just got his leg busted while Holland was crushed underneath the giant rock. You couldn't even see his body the stone was so big.
Master Tobias had been wrong about the stone shattering. It stayed in one piece and so Tobias said that they'd just leave it there for Holland's gravestone.
They called the horse doctor for Pritchard. After he surveyed the damage to the screaming slave's leg the veterinarian advised Tobias to put Pritchard down.
"That nigger's never gonna walk right again, Tobias," he said. "It's no different than I would tell you about a plow animal."
But slave Number Twenty-five cried and begged the Master not to kill him. He said that he could do carpentry work around the cabins and on the house.
"Fs still useful, Mastah," I remember the miserable man crying. "Don't do me like a dawg. Fs still a useful nigger, you'll see."
Tobias told Pritchard that he would think about it on the ride to Atlanta. He said that he'd be gone for nine days and when he came back he would make the decision of whether or not to put Twenty-five to sleep.
Before Tobias left that rat-faced Mr. Stewart asked what he should do about replacing Holland.
"What was his number?" Tobias asked.
"Forty-seven, sir."
"Save that number and give it to Psalma's bastard when he's ready."
It was the custom on the Corinthian Plantation to give all field slaves numbers. If they got a name along the way that was fine but they would be known to Master and the overseer by number in all of their record-keeping books.
For the first years of my life the only name I knew was babychile because that was all Mama Flore ever called me. Her friends in the big house all called me Baby for short, and if Master Tobias referred to me all he ever said was Psalma's bastardwith acid on his tongue.
For nine days after the accident that maimed him Pritchard cried and dragged himself around the yard trying to work even though his leg must have hurt terribly. At night he would cry to himself and pray out loud to God to save him from being put down.
Master Tobias came back to find that Pritchard had made himself a rude crutch and a toolbox and he hobbled right up to Tobias's horse and said, "What you want me to fix up first, Mastuh?"
The sight of Pritchard's pain made Master laugh. I guess he thought it was funny how a pitiful slave would struggle so hard to keep his miserable life. Anyway, he let Pritchard live and in the days after that Pritchard would always say that going lame under that stone was the best thing that ever happened to him. He ate better and staggered around the yard fixing fences and doing odd jobs. And if the Master and Mr. Stewart weren't looking he'd sleep up in the trees on the south side of the plantation.
I never did understand how a man could be happy about being crippled but Mama Flore said, "A slave sometimes would rather kiss the Master's whip if that kept him from feeling its sting."
And so on my first day as a field slave this broken man, Pritchard, was there to greet me, leaning on a crutch cut from a poplar sapling and standing next to a small cast-iron stove. And even though it was a hot day, and hotter still in that close room, he had that stove going. He was holding an iron stick with a rag on one end and with the other end deep in the glowing embers.
"Well, well, well," Pritchard said again. "If it ain't Fat Flore's little puppy dog."
I didn't like him calling Big Mama fat, even though she was, and I didn't like being called her dog either. But I didn't say anything because even though Pritchard was lame he was still a man and I was only half his size and a little less.
"You know the first thing a nigger got to do when he come out chere to the slave quarters," Pritchard said in a loud voice that made me both frightened and angry. "He gots to get his name."
"I ain't s'posed to have no name!" I shouted, and this was true. Master Tobias had said, after his wife Una had died, that I wasn't to be called by any name because I was going to be a field slave and all a field slave needed was his number.
"That was before you came out to here." Pritchard smiled, showing me his brown, broken teeth. I was so scared that I was moving backwards and didn't even know it until my back touched up against the wall behind me.
"Mastuh told Mama Flore that she couldn't name me," I said, not understanding what it was that Pritchard meant.
He pulled the iron stick out of the stove and showed me the bright orange tip.
"Fat Flore ain't out here, boy," he said. "It's just me and you and I got your name right chere on this stick."
When I saw that glowing brand it dawned on me what Pritchard meant.
He was stripped to the waist because of the heat. And on his right shoulder I could see the scars from his branding. Every field slave on the plantation had their number branded on their right shoulder. This was the custom ever since Miss Una's great-grandfather had started the farm. The slaves all talked about how much that branding hurt, but because Flore had never been branded, I assumed that it wouldn't happen to me either. That's because I saw myself as different. I lived in the barn and didn't have
a place like everybody else. I saw myself as a kind of young prince in that big shed - like Master Turner's daughter, Eloise, was the princess of the big house.
But at that moment I realized that being put in the slave quarters meant that I was going to be branded just like all the other slaves there.
I shouted "No!" and tried to run away, but the wall was at my back and Pritchard was right there in front of me.
He had been a tall and hale man before his accident. But now he was bent and misshapen as if the damage done to his leg had gone all throughout his entire body. He was light-colored compared to Mud Albert or Fred Chocolate, Master Tobias's manservant. I was darker than Pritchard too.
"Don't do it!" I cried.
He dropped his crutch and reached for my arm but I ducked away and ran off into the long cabin. When I saw that I left him by the only door I realized that I was trapped.
"It's better to come and take it like a man, Forty-seven," Pritchard said in a scary voice. "Because if I have to fight with you, you gonna get all beat and bruised on top'a bein' branded. Take it like a man and it will only hurt like hell."
He picked up his crutch and grinned. I couldn't understand why he was so happy at the thought of causing me pain.
I was miserable then. The numbers on the end of that brand were smoking in the hot air. And I knew that if he marked me I would have lost any chance I ever had to be the prince of my dreams.
"Please don't do it! Please don't do it!" I shouted.
"I got to do it, boy," Pritchard said with that sickening grin on his lips. "It's my job to brand all the new niggers."
Pritchard moved with the shamble of a dead man, taking a step with his whole leg and then dragging the other. He was hunched over too. And he had a smile on his face all the time but you knew he wasn't thinking about anything funny. He moved in my direction and I inched away.
"I got to burn these numbers in your shoulder boy. Got to. That's my job. Here all this time you been layin' up in the barn, huggin' on Fat Flore an' eatin' corn cakes while us niggers be out here eatin' sour grain and strainin' in the cotton fields. Now you gonna know what it's like to sweat and strain and hurt."
"It ain't my fault that they made you work so hard out here, Pritchard," I said. "I din't want them to do that to you."
"I seen you laughin' at me, boy. While I was carryin' them bags'a cotton, while I be hobblin' around on this broke down leg."
He took a step toward me and I took a step back.
"I never laughed at you," I pleaded. "If I laughed it's just because I was playin'."
"You ain't gonna play no more, niggah," he said as he crept forward. "After I burn these here numbers inta yo' flesh you gonna know what it's like to be a nigger-slave workin' sunup to sundown until you vomit up your guts and die."
As he said these words he took a quick step and threw the crutch at me. I tried to get out of the way but that twirling stick got between my legs and I went down. Before I could get to my feet again Pritchard was on me. He got both of my wrists together in one big hand and he lifted me up off of the ground. When he pulled me up next to his face I could smell his rotten breath.
"Fma burn that numbah so far into you," he said, "that after you die they gonna find it burnt into bone."
He dragged me back across the room and no matter how hard I struggled I couldn't break his grip.
When we got back to the iron stove he dropped his crutch and pressed the iron, which had cooled, back into the red embers.
"Please don't do this to me," I begged. "Please don't. Please."
"Fma burn you good, boy," was his reply. "Fma burn you good."
I screamed and pulled and kicked and bit trying to get away from that iron. But try as I would Pritchard got me down on the floor, pulled off my burlap shirt, and held my arms down with his knees. Then he pulled that poker out of the fire and said, "Here it come," and then I felt a pain that I had never imagined a person could feel. It went all the way through me and I yelled and then I passed out for a short while.
I would have rather stayed unconscious but the pain in my shoulder was so great that I woke up crying. I wanted
to touch the wound but it was too sore. Pritchard was saying something but I couldn't make it out because the pain wouldn't let me know anything else.
But then Pritchard yanked me up off the floor and yelled, "You bit me, niggah! Bit me on my arm!"
I heard him but somehow it didn't make sense. I was the one who hurt. How could anything he felt be so bad?
"Little bastard," Pritchard said. "Just for that I'ma brand you again. See if'n you bite me this time."
He pulled the brand out of the fire again and when I saw it I screamed louder than I ever had before, or since. Pritchard threw me on the hard floor and then held me down with his knees again.
"Here it come," he said, but the brand never touched my skin.
"Get up from there, Twenty-five!" a man shouted.
It was Champ Noland.
Suddenly Pritchard was gone from on top of me. I heard the iron fall on the floor. I sat up and saw him backing away, brandishing his crutch. Then I saw Champ. He was very tall and powerful with a handsome black face except for a scar that ran over his right eye and back toward his ear.
Champ picked up the brand and put it back on the stove and then he went for Pritchard.
Pritchard was in for it because everyone on the plantation knew that you didn't mess with Champ. He was strong and fast and didn't even know what the word pain meant.
Champ moved in and Pritchard swung his crutch. It hit Champ on the shoulder but he didn't even grunt. He hit Pritchard so hard that the crippled slave fell to the floor and rolled away. Champ moved fast then and picked Pritchard up by his shirt.
"You know it's Mud Albert that s'posed to brand the new slaves," Champ said. "You know it ain't your job."
"But I was just tryin' to help out, Champ," Pritchard whined. "I didn't know I was doin' somethin' wrong."
I almost felt sorry for Pritchard in spite of the pain in my shoulder. He sounded like a lonely child wanting a playmate or a toy. In my mind I could see Champ letting the poor cripple go and walking back to see if I was hurt.
But instead Champ hit Pritchard and hit him again. He kept hitting him even though the poor man was screaming and begging for his life.
"Don't kill me, Champ!" Pritchard cried.
"Why you wanna make that little boy hurt?" Champ asked, and then he hit him.
"Don't kill me, Champ!"
"Do you like it when I beat on you like this?" Champ hit Pritchard again.
"No. No. I'm sorry. I's jes' doin' it to help out. I's jes' tryin' to help Mud Albert out."
"If you evah touch that boy again I will kill you," Champ said, and then he hauled off and delivered a terrible blow. "Kill you." And he hit him again.
Champ beat Pritchard until the lame slave wrapped
himself around the big man's ankles, dripping blood and tears on Champ's bare feet.
I wanted Champ to stop hitting Pritchard but I knew that you couldn't interfere with men when they were fighting mad.
Finally Champ stamped away, leaving Pritchard like a heap of bloody rags.
"You okay, boy?" Champ asked me.
Looking up at him I thought I knew what angels must be. Because even though I was in terrible pain I realized that Champ had saved my life. And having those feelings I began to cry. I thought that a strong man like Champ would be disgusted with a crybaby, but instead he sat down and put his big hand on my back.
"It's okay, boy," he said. "We all cry when they burn us like that. I'm just sorry you didn't have us around you to help you feel bettah about the pain."
3.
Mud Albert came back that evening with the rest of the slaves. Everyone was tired from a full day of picking cotton.
Ernestine, the cook's helper-slave, dragged a cast-iron pot out to the cabin and served us sour porridge in dirty wooden bowls. We were each given a big serving of the foul s
lop. I couldn't eat a bite of it.
"You gonna eat yo' suppa?" a small man I came to know as Julie asked.
"Naw."
"Then hand it ovah to me."
Julie took my bowl and started feeding himself with both hands. This is because they didn't give us forks or spoons to eat our mush. After all, we were slaves, not civilized human beings.
Mud Albert was the oldest man on the Corinthian or any nearby plantation. He walked with a limp and had many folds in his black face. His forehead was high and elegant. The only hair he had left was at his temples and gray. But for all his age Mud Albert was the most respected
man among us slaves. He was fair and deliberate and he never, in anyone's memory, did a wrong thing to another man or woman.
Albert had sent Champ back to the cabin to see if I was there. Champ was to bring me out to the cotton fields but instead he stayed with me after Pritchard crawled away.
Albert and the other slaves came back at sunset, after fourteen backbreaking hours of picking cotton. That's the way ninety-nine percent of the slaves worked back in 1832 from sunup to sundown, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year.
When Albert saw my branded skin he took a jar out from under his brass bed. That was his bed because Albert was the head slave in charge of all the other field slaves. It was his job to make sure that we were all chained in every night and that we worked hard and that we didn't run away. For all that responsibility Master Tobias gave him a brass bed that was too old for white people to sleep in anymore.
Albert scooped a handful of foul-smelling paste out of the jar. Then he smeared this glop on my burns. It hurt even more and I yelled out but Albert told me that the lard and herbs would help to heal my shoulder.
After that Albert assigned me to Champ's cot.
The slaves all slept two to a bunk. We didn't have the space for the luxury of our own beds.
Before Albert turned down the lantern he went around chaining each one of us by our ankles to an eyebolt in the floor. They chained us down at night because it was accepted as general knowledge that a slave was most likely to decide to run in the dark.
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