Knowing me, you may think that strange. But all my thoughts at this stage were on my own plight; Greystones seemed to be just the kind of out of-the-way spot I required; it was isolated in the woodland and marsh, and was seldom visited, but even so I had my heart in my mouth every time hoofbeats sounded on the drive, and I kept well out of sight when one of Mandeville's neighbours called. It didn't seem likely that if there was a search going on for me, it would reach this far from the river, and there was nothing to connect the steamboat fugitive with Mandeville's new driver, but even so I kept a sharp eye open at first for any hint of danger. As the days passed, and none appeared, I began to feel easier.
Another reason why I kept out of Annette Mandeville's way was that I disliked her, and she me, apparently. I had guessed twO things from our first brief meeting: one was that she was an unpleasant, arrogant little piece, and the other that she had her big, powerful husband on a string. He was more than twice her age, of course (she couldn't have been above two-and-twenty), and I've noticed that there are few things that a middle-aged man will go in such awe of as an imperious young wife; he'll face a wounded buffalo, or go headlong into a sabre charge, but he'll turn pale and stutter at the thought of saying, “I'd rather not, dearest.” Well, I can understand it, when the wife holds the purse, or is bigger than he, or can get the law on him. But even without these things Mandeville went in awe of her.
And she knew it, and enjoyed using her power to torment him. She wasn't just spoiled and petulant—she was cruel, in a subtle ways and I say it who am a recognised authority. I saw enough of them together to judge the pleasure she took in fretting and hurting him with her ready sneers and icy disdain; the more eager be was to please her, this man who was so coarse and masterful in other things, the more she seemed to delight in making him uneasy and bewildered.
Much of this I learned from Mandeville himself—not that he dreamed he was instructing me. But he loved to talk, and there not being another white man on the place, he took to inviting me up to the house at night, after his wife had retired, for a booze and prose; he was a decent enough fellow, I suppose, in his rough way, and greatly given to foxing himself on corn toddy, and nothing pleased him more than to yarn away about his niggers and his horses, and—when he was well maudlin—about his wife. And this most often after she had set him down, which she did most days.
“Yes, suh,” this infatuated idiot would say, smiling blearily at his glass, “I'm a lucky man, an' she a won'erful li'l lady. Yes suh, 'deed she is. Well, you kin see that, Tom; you a travelled man, I guess, you kin see she is. Course, she git a li'l short, time to time—like today, now—but it ain't nuthin' at all. My own fault, I guess. Y'see, the truth is, although this here's a pretty fair spread at Greystones, tain't altogether what she bin used to. No-suh. She come from one o' the best French families in N'Awlins—the Delaney's, likely you heard o' them, gotta tre-mendous big estate out to Lake Pontchartrain. Trouble is, ol' man Delaney, he a bit stretched, an' I helped him out over a couple o' deals. Five years ago, that was, when I married Annie. Here, Jonah, light a see-gar for Mist' Arnold; fill your glass, suh.”
By now he would be well launched, convincing himself for the thousandth time, against all reason.
“Ye-es, five years ago. Happiest day o' my life, suh. But I'll admit—you take a gel who's bin brought up a real lady, who's got real blood, bin to convent, had a half-dozen yaller maids waitin' on her, an' who's used to livin' in the top so-ciety in N'Awlins—well, I do her pretty good here, I reckon, but it ain't the same. Not much society, even in Memphis, an' the local folks ain't 'xactly the kin' o' bucks an' belles she used to meet at home. So it's natural she gits these fits an' starts now an' then. But you 'ppreciate that, Tom. An' no denyin', either, me bein' older'n she is, a little, she get kinda bored. I don't talk quite her way, you see, an' I ain't got her—tastes, so to speak. So she get a mite res'less, like I say. An' boy, don' she dress me down then!” And he would giggle drunkenly, as though at some good joke which he thoroughly enjoyed. “Say, you oughta hear her when she got a real head o' steam. My stars! Course, tain't often.”
Not more than twice a day, and three times on Sundays, I would say to myself. Serve the clown right for marrying out of his class.
“Say, but don' get me wrong! Here, have 'nuther drink. Don' get me wrong—she a real lovin' gel. Yes-suh. She the lovin'est little creatur' you ever did see. When I say she sometimes bored, don' think I mean she goin' short! Ho-ho, I guess not!” And he would nudge me, winking ponderously, with a lewd leer. “I tell you, I'm 'bout wore out pilin' inter that li'l darlin'! Fact. She cain't seem t'get enough o' me. 'Do it again, Johnny lover, do it again.' That what she say. An' don' I do it? Oh, I should say not! I should jus' 'bout reckon not. An' don' she know how to rouse a man on, hey? Why, I see some men—like Parkins, down at Helena, an' young Mackay, who got the Yellowtree place—they jus' itchin' for her, jus' at the sight of her. Why, I could see you fancy her you'self—no, don't fret you'self, don't fret. I don't mind one li'l bit. It's only natural, ain't it? I don't take no offence, cos I know she never think o' no one but me. 'Do it again, Johnny lover.' That what she say. Talk 'bout your nigger wenches—pish!”
It was from drunken meanderings such as this that I formed my conclusions about the Mandevilles—an obvious one being that they didn't bed together, and probably never had. Well, that could explain a lot about Madame Annette's behaviour, and in other circumstances I would probably have Set myself to supply her want, for she was a trim little half-pint, bar her shrew face. But she was so damned unpleasant that the thought didn't cross my mind; when we met she either looked straight through me or treated me as though I were no better than the blacks. If I hadn't needed the work I'd have taken the rough side of my tongue to her, and as it was I gave her back sneer for sneer as far as I dared, so that before long we hated each other as cordially as man and woman can. And mind you, I don't like this sort of thing; it ain't usual to find a woman who isn't prepared to be civil to me, and I'd grown my whiskers long again, and a rakish little black imperial, too.
However, I had my own affairs to attend to. I was working quietly away towards the day when I'd have enough saved to be able to move off north again. I reckoned two or three months would see me set and ready, and by that time all the haroosh caused by my flight from the Sultana would have died down, and I'd be able to take the road in safety.
So I laboured away, whopping niggers, mounting the occasional black wenth in my quarters, and counting my dollars every fortnight, and never gave a thought to Annette Mandeville. Which was foolish of me; equally foolish was the way in which I allowed a sense of security to grow on me as the weeks passed and no hue and cry came to disturb the peace of Greystones. Picking time passed and with less to do I got restless, and impatient to be up and away for England; I suppose that made me more thoughtless and short-tempered than usual, all of which was to lead to my undoing.
It was the approach of Christmas that finally broke my patience, I think. I suppose everyone's thoughts turn home then, whether they really wish they were there or not. I had only Elspeth to miss—and the baby I'd never seen. Not that I've any use for brats, mind you, but any excuse will do for a self-pitying weep when you're alone in your quarters in a foreign land, with two inches left in the bottom of the corn bottle, and the rest gurgling in your belly and making you feel sick and miserable. I imagined Elspeth, fair and radiant, bending over a crib and shaking a rattle at its Occupant, and looking adoringly across at me with that lovely pink bloom on her cheeks, and myself toasting my arse at the nursery fire with my coat tails pulled back, and a fine helping of duff and brandy inside me, quite the proud papa, while waits sang in the street outside. Instead, here I was, half-foxed and croaking to myself in a draughty shack, with no Elspeth, but a black slut snoring open-mouthed in the corner, and in place of waits the eternal caterwauling of the field hands as they sang one of their morbid chants. I sat there blubbering boozily, trying to put the home picture ou
t of my mind, and telling myself it was all a sham—that Elspeth would be back in the saddle with one of her gallants by now, and old Morrison would ruin Christmas anyway by whining about the cost of geese and holly. It was no good; I was homesick, bloody homesick, and the thought of Morrison was an added incentive. By God, I'd make the old scoundrel skip when I got back and flourished Spring's papers under his ugly nose. The thought cheered me up, and when I had finished the bottle, been sick, and thrashed the nigger girl for snoring, I felt more like myself again.
But I was still chafing to be away, and with only two weeks of my enforced sojourn to go I was in a thoroughly ill humour and ready to take my spite out on anyone—even Annette Mandeville or her soused clown of a husband. Not that I was seeing much of either of them by now, for Mandeville was absent more and more, and Annette kept to the house. But she had her eyes open too, as I was to discover to my cost.
I mentioned a black girl in my quarters; she was the least ugly and smelly of the field women whom I had taken as a carnal cook—a bedfellow-cum-housekeeper, that is. She was little use as either, but one has to make do. Anyway, it happened that one evening, after a long day down by the river where the slaves were cutting a ditch, I came home to find her whimpering and groaning on her mattress, with a couple of nigger girls tending her and looking mighty scared.
“What's this?” says I.
“Oh, massa,” says the wenches, “Hermia she pow'ful sick; she real po'ly, she is.”
And she was. Someone had flogged her until her back was a livid mess of cuts and bruises.
“Who the devil's done this?” roars i in a great rage, and it was Hermia herself who told me, between her wails.
“Oh, Massa Tom, it the Miz—Miz Annette. She done tell me I's ins'lent, en she'd trim me up good. I don' done nuthin' Massa Tom—but she git Hector to whup me, en oh I's hurtin', hurtin' suthin' awful, massa. Hector he lay on 'til I's swoondin'—en ain't done nuthin'. Oh, Massa Tom, whut ins'lent mean?” Well, I knew Annette was hard on the niggers, who went in terror of her, and I'd no doubt this sffly slut had offended her in some way. So I gave no thought to it, but turned Hermia out, since she was of no use for anything in her present state. Next day I picked another wench to take her place, and went off to the fields in due course—and when I came home there she was, beaten black and blue, just as Hermia had been, again on Miz Annette's orders.
Now I can take a hint as fast as the next man, but I confess I didn't see all the way through this one, which was foolish of me. I took it that the spiteful little harridan was bent on denying me female companionship, but it never occurred to me why. Which shows what a modest chap I am, I suppose. In any event, I had to do something about it, for I was seething with anger at her malice, and since Mandeville was away in Memphis, I went straight up to the house to have it out with the mistress.
She was obviously just back from a canter round the plantation, for she was still in her grey riding suit, issuing orders to Jonah in the hall. When he had gone, I tackled her straight.
“Two of the field girls have been flogged, on your instructions,” says I. “May I be permitted to ask why?”
She didn't even look at me. “What concern is it of yours?” says she, taking off her gloves.
“As your husband's overseer, I'm responsible for his slaves.”
“Under his authority—and mine,” says she, and started off upstairs without another word. I wasn't having this, so I strode after her.
“By all means,” says I, “but I find it strange that you undertake to discipline them yourself. Why not leave the matter to me—Since it's what I'm paid for?”
We were at the head of the stairs by now, but she kept right OR towards her room. I kept pace with her, fuming, and suddenly she snapped at me:
“What you are paid for is to obey orders, not to question what I do. Your place is in the fields—not in this house. Be so good as to leave, at once!”
“I'm damned if I do! You've had the tar whaled out of two of those girls, and I want to know why.”
“Don't be impertinent!” She wheeled on me, her face screwed up with fury. “How dare you follow me in this way? How dare you take that tone? Get out, before I call the servants to throw you into the fields! Not another word!” And she flounced into her room—but she left the door open.
“Now listen to me, you vicious brat, you!” I was in a fine fury by now. “If you won't tell me, I'll tell you! You had them thrashed because they were my girls, didn't you? You thought—”
“Your girls!” She spat it at me. “Your girls! Since when could a penniless beggar like you talk of your girls! My slaves, do you hear? And if I choose to punish them, I shall do it—” she was fairly hissing the words “—as I choose, and you will keep your place, you mongrel!”
I think the only reason I didn't strike her was that she was so tiny, snarling up at me, that I was frightened of breaking her. And even in my anger I saw a better way of hurting her—always Flashy's forte, as Tom Hughes has testified.
“Well, now,” says I, holding myself in, “I don't think the word 'mongrel' is one that comes at all well from a Creole lady.” I let it sink in and added: “I don't have to worry about my finger-nails.”
It was quite false, of course; I don't suppose she had a drop of black blood in her. But it struck her like a blow; she stood glaring, her face chalk-white, unable to speak, so I carried on, amiably:
“You whipped those girls because I was bedding them, and no doubt you'll be prepared to go on whipping until you've halfkilled every wench on the plantation. Well, see if I care—they ain't my property. See if your husband cares, though; he mayn't like having his investment wasted. He'll maybe ask you why you did it. 'Because your overseer's covering 'em,' you'll say—using a lady-like term, I'm sure. 'And why not?' he'll say, 'what's that to you?' Why, he may even wonder—”
And there I stopped, for there, and only there, the light dawned. As I say, I'm over-modest; she had been so damned uncivil to me, you see, that it honestly hadn't crossed my mind that she fancied me. Usually, of course, I'm ready to accept that every woman does—well, they do—but she was such a shrew-faced pip-squeak, and so unpleasant. . .
I stared at her now, and noted with interest that from white her witch-face had turned flushed, and her breathing was slow and thick. Well, well, thinks I, what have we here; let's see if our manly charms have truly captivated this unlikely creature after all. And purely by way of scientific experiment I leaned forward, picked her up with my hands at her waist—it was like lifting a puppet—and kissed her.
She didn't struggle or kick or cry out, so I kept at it, and very slowly her mouth opened, and she gave a little sob, and then she took my lip in her teeth and began to bite, harder and harder, until I pulled her free, holding her at arm's length. Her eyes were shut, and her face tight set; then she motioned me to set her down, and she stood against me. Her head touched my top weskit button.
“Wait,” said she, in a little whisper, and quickly closing the door she vanished into her dressing-room. I could have laughed, but instead I began peeling off my coat, reflecting that the road to fornication is truly often paved with misunderstanding. I was sitting on the bed, removing my boots, when she re-entered, and she was a startling sight, for she was stark naked except for her riding boots. That took me aback, for it ain't usual among amateurs; something to do with her French upbringing, no doubt. But it was the rest of her that took the eye; I'd known she was well-shaped, but in the buff she was an undoubted little nymph. Scientific research be damned, says I, reaching out for her, and she came with her mouth open and her eyes shut, straining at me.
“You silly little popsy,” says I. “Why didn't you let me know before?” And so to work, which proved none too bad, bar one unexpected and painful surprise. I was settling into my stride when I discovered why she had kept her boots on, for she suddenly clapped her legs round me, and so help me, those boots Were spurred. Hair brushes (that was dear Lola) I was used to, but being sta
bbed in the buttocks is an arse of a different colour, if you'll forgive the pun, and it was fortunate the bed was a wide one or we'd have flown off it. There was no untangling her, for she clung like a limpet, and I could only wrestle away, yelping from time to time, until we were done. I was stuck like a Derby winner.
Then she pushed me away, slipped off the bed, and picked up a robe. She put it on, without looking at me, and then she said:
“Now get out.”
And without another word she went into her dressing-room and bolted the door.
Well, I'm not used to this kind of treatment, and in other circumstances I'd have kicked the door in and taught her manners, but in a house full of niggers you can't conduct an affair as though you were man and wife. So I dressed, staunching my wounds and muttering curses, and presently limped away, vowing that she'd had the last of me.
But of course she hadn't. Mandeville returned next day, and I kept well clear of the house, but come the end of the week he was off to Helena again, to meet some fellows on business. With only a week of my time left I should have gone about my business, ignoring Madame Annette, but human nature being what it is, I didn't. No woman tells me to get out with impunity, especially a haughty dwarf who was no great shakes in bed anyway. This is illogical, of course, but those of us who study immoral philosophy are guided by some contrary rules. At all events, I came sniffing round the day after he left—well, she was white, and interesting, and apart from her face she was a well-set-up piece in a miniature way.
To my surprise, she didn't either rebuff me or welcome me with open arms. We discussed the piece of plantation business which I'd made my pretext for coming, and when I assailed her she fell to with a will—but never a word, or a smile, or anything but a fierce, cold passion that almost scared me. It was damned spooky, when I think of it now, and afterwards, when I tried to engage her in sociable chat, she sat moody and withdrawn, hardly saying a word. And not a stitch on, mark you—not even her boots. I'd taken good care of that.
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