“I need no advice from you!” he flashed back. “You would be better remembering the duty you have promised to do, which is to take me north in safety, than to spend your time in gorging with white-trash sluts.”
It took my breath away—not just the insolence, but the discovery of how fast news travels among niggers. And there was just a note in his indignation that made me decide to put my anger aside and be amused instead.
“What's the matter, Sambo?” says I. “Jealous?”
If looks could kill there'd have been a corpse at his feet.
“I have no words to express my contempt of you, or of the slatterns you. . . you associate with,” says he, and his voice was shaking. “But I will not have you endanger my freedom, do you hear? What kind of guardian are you? That swine of an overseer might have provoked me beyond endurance—while you were at your beastliness. It is your task to see me to Canada—that is all that matters.”
There was no piercing this one's arrogance, I saw, not by reason or taunts. So I put my hands on my hips and stuck my face into his.
“All that matters, you black mongrel! I'll tell you what matters—and that is that you keep your aping airs to yourself, touch your forelock, and say 'Yes, massa' whenever I or any white man talks to you. That way you might get to Canada—you just might.” I shook my fist at him. “If you haven't the brain in that ape skull of yours to see that kicking up the kind of shines you've been at today is the surest way of setting us all adrift—if you can't see that, I'll teach it to you, by God! I'll follow that overseer's advice, Mr Randolph, and I'll have you triced up, Mr Randolph, and they'll take a couple of stone of meat off you with a raw-hide, Mr Randolph! Then maybe you'll learn sense.”
If you think a quadroon can't go red with rage, you're wrong.
“You wouldn't dare!” he choked furiously. “To me! Why, you. . . you. . .”
“Wouldn't I, though? Don't wager your big black arse on that, George, or you'll find you've only half of it left. And what would you do about it, eh? Holler 'I'm a runaway nigger, and this man is smuggling me to Canada?' Think that over, George, and be wise.”
“You. . . you scoundrel!” He mouthed at me. “This shall be reported, when I reach Cincinnati—the underground railroad shall hear of it—what manner of creature they entrust with—”
“Oh, shut up, can't you? I don't give a fig for the railroad—and if you weren't a born bloody fool you wouldn't even mention their name. 'When you reach Cincinnati,' no less. You won't reach Cincinnati unless I please—so if you can't be grateful, Randolph, just be careful. Now, then, take off your airs, close your mouth, and get back there among your brothers—lively now! Cross me or that overseer again, and I'll have the cat to you—I swear it. Jump to it, nigger!”
He stood there, sweat running down his face, his chest heaving with passion. For a moment I thought he would leap at me, but he changed his mind.
“Some day,” says he, “some day you shall repent this most bitterly. You heap indignities on me, when my hands are tied; you insult me; you mock my degradation. As God is my witness you will pay for it.”
There was no dealing with him, you see. It was on the tip of my tongue to yell for the overseer, and have him string Master George up and raw-hide the innards out of him, just for the fun of hearing him howl, but with this kind of quivering violet you couldn't be certain what folly he mightn't commit if he was pushed too far. There was a spite and conceit in that man that passed anything I've ever struck, so I lit a cigar while considering how to catch him properly on the raw.
“I doubt if I'll pay for it,” says I. “But supposing I did—it's something you can never hope to emulate.” I blew smoke at him. “You'll never be able to pay for this trip, will you?”
I turned on my heel before he had a chance to reply and strode off, leaving him to digest the truth which I guess he hated more than anything else. That would boil his bile for him, but I wasn't so certain that my threats would have the desired effect on his conduct Well, if they didn't, I'd carry them out, by God, and he could get to Canada with a new set of weals to show on his lectures to the Anti-Slavery Society.
What beats me, looking back, is the stupidity of his ingratitude. Here was the railroad—and for all he knew, myself—in a sweat to save his black hide for him, but would he show a spark of thanks, or abate his uppity pride one jot? Not he. He thought he had a right to be assisted and cosseted, and that we had a duty to put up with his airs and ill humour and childishness, and still help him for his own sweet sake. Well, he'd picked the wrong man in me; I was ready to drop the bastard overboard just to teach him the error of his ways—indeed, I paused on the ladder going up to reflect whether I could get away with selling him to a trader or in one of the marts on the way north. He would fetch a handy sum to help me on my way home—but I saw it wouldn't do. He'd find a way to drag me down, and even if he didn't, the underground railroad would hear of it, and I'd developed too healthy a respect for Mr Crixus and his legions to wish them on my tail with a vengeance. No, I'd just have to carry on with the plan, and hope to God that Randolph wouldn't get us into some fearful fix with his wilful white-niggerishness.
It's an interesting thought, though, that within a few short weeks I'd found myself engaged in running niggers into slavery, and running 'em out again, and all the hundreds of black animals on the Balliol College, with every reason to resist and mutiny and raise cain, hadn't given a tenth of the trouble I was getting from this single quadroon, who should have been on his knees in gratitude to me and Crixus and the others. Of course, he was civilised, and educated, and full of his own importance. Lincoln was right; they're a damned nuisance.
One consolation I had on that first night was that it didn't look as though our trip would be a long one, and I could look forward to being shot of Master George Randolph within a week. We thrashed up and down the river in fine style—I say up and down because the Mississippi is the twistiest watercourse you ever saw, doubling back and forth, and half the time you are steaming South-east or south-west round a bend to go north again. It's a huge river, too, up to a mile across in places, and unlike any other I know, in that it gets wider as you go up it. There was nothing to see as far as the banks were concerned except mud flats and undergrowth and here and there a town or a landing place, but the river itself was thick with steamboats and smaller vessels, and great lumber rafts piled high with bales and floating lazily down the muddy brown waters towards the gulf.
It's a slow, ugly river, and the ugliness isn't in what you can see, but what you can feel. There's a palling closeness, and a sense of rot and corruption; it's cruel river, to my mind at any rate, both in itself and its people. Mind you, I may be prejudiced by what it did to me, but even years later, when I came booming down it with the Union Army—well, they boomed, and I coasted along with them—I still felt the same oppressive dread of it. I remember what Sam Grant said about it: “Too thick to drink and too thin to plough. It stinks.” Not that he'd have drunk it anyway, unless it had been pure corn liquor from Cairo down.
She's a treacherous river, too, as I realised on the morning after we had boarded the Sultana, and she ran aground on a mud bank on the Bryaro bend, not far below Natchez. The channels and banks are always shifting, you see, and the pilots have to know every twist and stump and current; ours didn't, we stuck fast, and a special pilot, the celebrated Bixby, had to be brought down from Natchez to get us afloat again.[36] All of which consumed several hours, with the great man strutting about the pilot house and making occasional dashes out to the texas rail to peer down at the churning wheel, and scampering back to roar down his tube:
“Snatch her! Hard down! Let her go, go, go!” while the Mississippi mud churned up in huge billows alongside and you could feel the boat shuddering and heaving to be off. And when she finally “snatched”, and reared off the shoal into the water, Bixby was half over the rail again, yelling to the nigger leadsman, and the scream of the whistles all but drowned their great bass voices si
nging out: “Eight feet—eight and a half—nine feet—quarterless-twain!” And then as she surged out; “Mark twai-ai-ain!” and the whole ship roared and cheered and stamped and Bixby clapped his tall hat on his head and resumed his kid gloves while they pressed cigars on him and offered him drinks from their flasks. It was quite fun, really, and I'd have enjoyed it if I hadn't been so anxious to get ahead, for I like to see a man who's good at something, doing it, and throwing on a bit of extra side, just for show. As I've said, I don't have many kindly memories of the Mississippi, but the best are of the steamboats riding tall, and the swaggering pilots, and the booming voices ringing “De-eep four!” and “Quarter-twa-am” across the brown waters. I'll never hear them again—but they wouldn't sound the same today anyway.
However, after Mr Bixby's performance we steamed on to Natchez, and there any slight enjoyment I'd been getting from our cruise came to an abrupt end. From now life on the Mississippi was to be one horror after another, and I was to regret most bitterly the day I'd clapped eyes on her dirty waters.
I had no inkling of anything wrong until we were away and steaming up river again, and I sauntered down to see my coffle getting their evening meal—and no doubt, I thought, to discuss the menu with Black Beauty himself. I was considering a few taunts to add sauce to his diet, and wondering if it was wise to stir up his hysteria again, but the sight of his face drove them clear out of my mind. He looked strained and ugly, and quite deaf to the sneering abuse that the overseer gave him as he received his hash from the copper. He shuffled off with his bowl, glancing round at me, and I followed him out of eyeshot round the bales to the rail, where we could be alone.
“What's the matter?” says I, for I knew something had shaken him badly. He looked left and right up the rail.
“Something dreadful has happened,” says he in a low voice. “Something unforeseen—my God, it can undo us utterly. It is the most terrible chance—a chance in a thousand—but Crixus should have anticipated it!” He beat his fist on the rail. “He should have seen it, I tell you! The fool! The blind, incompetent blunderer! To send me into this peril, to—”
“What the hell is it?” I demanded, now thoroughly terrified. “Spit it out, in God's name!”
“A man came aboard at Natchez. I was watching, when the passengers came up the plank, and by God's grace he did not see me. He knows me! He is a trader from Georgia—the very man who sold me to my first master! The first time I escaped, he was among those who brought me back! Don't you see, imbecile—if he should catch sight of me here, we are finished! Oh, he knows all about George Randolph—he will know me on the instant. He will denounce me, I will be dragged back to—oh, my God!” And he put his head in his hands and sobbed with rage and fear.
He wasn't the only one to be emotionally disturbed, I can tell you. He would be dragged back—by George, he would have company, unless I looked alive. I stood appalled—this was what my very first instinct had told me might happen, when Crixus had proposed this folly to me. But he had been so sure it would all be plain sailing, and in my cowardice I had allowed myself to be persuaded. I could have torn my hair at my own stupidity—but it was too late now. The damage was done, and I must try to think, and see a way out, and quieten this babbling clown before panic got the better of him.
“Who could have thought that it would happen?” he was chattering. “Not a soul in Mississippi or Louisiana knows me—not a soul—and this fiend from Georgia has to cross my path! What is he doing here? Why didn't Crixus see that this could happen? Why did I let myself be driven into this calamity?” He jerked up his head, glaring through his tears. “What are you going to do?”
“Shut up!” says I. “Keep your voice down! He hasn't seen you yet, has he?” I was trying to weigh the chances, to plan ahead in case we were discovered. “Perhaps he won't—there's no reason why he should, is there? He'll be travelling on the boiler deck or the texas—there's no reason why he should come down here, unless he has niggers with him, by God! Has he?”
“No—no, there were no new coffles came aboard at Natchez. But if he should, if—”
“He won't, then. Even if he did, why should he see you, if you lie low and keep out of sight? He's not going to go peering into the face of every nigger just for fun. Look, what's his name?”
“Omohundro—Peter Omohundro of Savannah. He is a terrible creature, I tell you—”
“Look, there's nothing to do but sit tight,” says I. It was a nasty shaker, no error, but common sense told me it wasn't as bad as he made out it was. I don't need any encouragement to terror, as a rule, but I can count chances, and there wasn't a damned thing to be done except watch out and hope The odds were heavy that Omohundro wouldn't come anywhere near him, if he did, thmks I, then Master Randolph can look out for himself, but in the meantime the best thing to do is get some of his almighty cockiness back into him.
“You keep out of sight and keep quiet,” says I. “That's all we can do—”
“All! You mean you intend to do nothing! To wait until he sees me?”
“He won't—unless your vapourings attract attention!” I snapped. “I'll watch out for him, never fear. At the first hint that be may come down here, I'll be on hand. You've got the key to your irons hidden, haven't you? Well, then, you stay behind the bales and keep your eyes open. There isn't a chance in a million of his seeing you, if you are careful.”
That calmed him down a little; I believe that he had been more angry than frightened, really, which in itself was a relief to me. He blackguarded Crixus some more, and threw in a few withering remarks about my own shortcomings, and there I left him, with a promise to return later and report any developments. I won't deny I was rattled, but I've had a lot worse perils hanging over me, and when I considered the size of the boat, and the hordes of folk aboard, white and nigger, I told myself we should be all right.
The first thing was to get a sight of Omohundro, which wasn't difficult. By discreet inquiry I got him pointed out to me by a nigger waiter: a big, likely-looking bastard with a scarred face and heavy whiskers, one of your tough, wide-awake gentlemen who stared carefully at whoever was talking to him, spoke in a loud, steady way, and laughed easily. I also discovered that he was travelling only as far as Napoleon, which we ought to reach on the following evening. So that was all to the good, as I told Randolph later; he wasn't going to have much time for prying about the boat. But I didn't sleep much that night; even the Outside risk of catastrophe is enough to keep me hopping to the water closet, and reaching for the brandy bottle.
Next day passed all too slowly; we lost time at Vicksburg, and I became fretful at the realisation that we wouldn't reach Napoleon ahd get rid of Omohundro before midnight. The man hunseif did nothing to set my bowels a-gallop; he spent the morning loafing about the rail, and sat long after luncheon with a group of Arkansas planters, gossiping. But he never stirred off the boiler deck, and I became hopeful again. With evening and darkness coming, it looked as though we were past the most dangerous time.
I kept an eye on him at dinner, though, and afterwards, when he went into the saloon and settled himself with the planters to booze and smoke the evening away, I was glad of a chance offered me to stay on hand. Through Penny-Jenny I had made the acquaintance of two or three fellows on the boat, and one of them, a red-faced old Kentuckian called Colonel Potter, invited me to make up a game of poker. He was one of your noisy, boozy sports, full of heavy humour and hearty guffaws; he fumbled at Penny's thighs under table, slapped backs, twitted me about the Battle of New Orleans, and generally played Bacchus. With him there was a pot-bellied planter named Bradlee, with a great fund of filthy jokes, and a young Arkansan called Harney Shepherdson, who had a yellow whore in tow. Just the kind of company I like, and I was able to watch Omohundro at the same time.
He left his friends after a while, and during a pause in our game he approached our table. Potter welcomed him boisterously, pressed him to sit down, introduced us all round, called for another bottle, and sa
id would Omohundro take a hand.
“No, thankee, colonel,” says he. “Matter of fact, I'm taking the liberty of intrudin' on your little party in the hope I can kindly have a little word with your friend here—” he indicated Bradlee, to my relief “—on a matter of business. If the ladies will forgive, that is; I'm due off at Napoleon in an hour or two, so hopin' you won't mind.”
“Feel free, suh; help y'self,” cries Potter, and Omohundro turns to Bradlee.
“Understand you have some niggers below, sub,” says he, and my innards froze at the words. “Couple of Mande's 'mong 'em, accordin' to my friends yonder. Now, while I'm not on a buyin' trip, you understand, I never miss a Mande if I can help it. Wonder if you feel inclined to talk business, suh, an' if so, I might take a look at 'em.”
I leaned back, hoping no one would notice how the sweat was beginning to pump off me, as I waited for Bradlee's answer.
“Always talk business, anytime,” says he. “Got to warn you though, suh, my niggers don't come cheap. Could be askin' a right nice price.”
“Could be payin' one, for the right kind of cattle,” says Omohundro. “Be deeply 'bliged to you, suh, if I might take a look at 'em for myself; be much beholden to you.”
Bradlee said it was fine with him, and heaved himself up, with his apologies to the table. I was shuddering by this time; I must get down to the main deck before them, and get Randolph out of sight somehow. I was on the point of jumping to my feet and making my excuses, when Potter, the interfering oaf, sings out:
“Say, why'nt you take a look at Mr Prescott's coffle while you about it, suh? He got some right prime stock there, ain't you, though? Purtiest set o' niggers I seen in a while—it's so, suh, I assure you. Reckon Mr Prescott's got good taste in mos' things—eh, honey?” And he set Penny squealing with a pinch.
Flash For Freedom! Page 19