Slave (The Shame & Glory Saga) Page 11

  He started when Delia touched his shoulder. She felt the tension of his muscles, and let her hand rest motionless until the tautness disappeared. Jud leaned his head on his knees. Delia’s fingers moved slowly across his back, tracing and retracing the knotted wales. His eyes began to moisten. His vision blurred. Tears spilled from his lids, ran down his cheeks, and wet his knees.

  When he turned to Delia, she pulled back at the sight of his tears. He drew her to him and pressed her head to his chest and stroked her hair. Once she tried to pull away from him, but he prevented her, and then she seemed to collapse against him. She made a choked sound against his chest, and then she held him tightly and began to cry.

  Outside, a passerby would have sworn that he heard two children weeping, but he would not have been able to tell whether it was in relief, in anger, or in terror.

  When the last bale had been carted out of Olympus, the gins were cleaned and shut down for another year. The subdued sense of urgency that had prevailed over some three months vanished, and in its wake came a vague melancholy. This lasted nearly two weeks; then it too passed and the plantation successfully readjusted itself to the off-season routine.

  The character of Olympus’s Great House, which had been statically fixed for more than twenty years, was being reshaped, and as each day passed the momentum of the change increased. Richard frequently left in the early afternoon, and when he did, he rarely returned until very late at night and occasionally not until the next day. He often stank of alcohol. There were rumors—not many, and all delicately phrased—that the company he was keeping in town was not the best and that (here the gossiper prefaced her revelation with: “Oh, Amanda, sweet, I simply can’t understand how this story was started, and I wouldn’t dare repeat it to you if I didn’t know it was bald-faced slander, but I knew you’d want to . . .”) he’d been seen in the area by the railroad sidespur. “You know, where ‘that’ house is located? The one with the red velvet drapes in its windows?” Amanda was furious. Evil-tongued vipers! She knew her Richard had not been himself of late. And she would soon—yes, poor darling! oh, very soon—give him the attention he needed, comfort him with the balm of love as only a mother can. But for the moment, ah, for the moment she must content herself by addressing loving words to him and patting his head. The rest would come later, not too much later, and her feeling of guilt was light.

  The task at hand required first attention. Samuel spent little time at the house. He usually passed his mornings wandering through the work areas. He was more silent now than ever, and was endlessly abstracted. He rarely lost his temper with the slaves, but neither did he stop to joke with them or to approve their work. The blacks missed this contact and felt deprived, and it became a kind of reprise when Samuel passed by to scratch one’s head and say, “Wonder where Masta is?” He spent long afternoons in the homes of neighboring planters, and he plunged himself into the ferment seething around the impending Presidential conventions. It was clear that Lincoln had strong support and would very possibly capture his party’s nomination. Samuel delivered fierce harangues against the man, donated money to the Southern Democrats, and was—as his interest came to the attention of politically active friends—drawn ever deeper into the cause. And as Samuel’s detachment from Olympus grew, Amanda set about entrenching herself as mistress and regent. She gained ground, fortified her position, lunged ahead again. . . .

  JUD WAS WORKING ALONE in the carriage house, stripped to the waist, running with sweat. The rear axle of a surrey rested on a sawhorse. He had removed the right wheel with its two cracked spokes and was now forcing the hub of a new one onto the axle, working with a ten-pound sledge against a backing board.

  “My, my,” said a voice from the door. “Are you strong enough to do that all by yourself, with no help at all?”

  Maybelle was standing in the door, her arms folded beneath her bosom, which forced the swollen mounds of her decolletage into greater prominence.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why, that’s just wonderful.” She crossed to him, the silk of her pale green dress rustling softly, and she stood behind him.

  Jud was conscious of the mass of the surrey before him and of Maybelle’s presence, like a weight, pressing in behind him; he felt pinned between the two.

  “What’s that door over there?” She pointed.

  “Feed-bag cabinet.” He struck hard with the sledge.

  “And that one?”

  “Harness room, ma’am.”

  “Why don’t you show me the harness room, Jud?”

  “Ma’am, I s’pose’ to get this wheel—”

  “Jud.” Snapped out. A white voice.

  Jud set down the sledge and rose to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, yes, you are a tall boy, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft again.

  Jud led her to the harness room, pushed open the door, and stepped to the side. It was a chamber of moderate size, eight feet square, and harnesses were hung on pegs around the walls in orderly rows. There was a workbench along one wall, littered with strips of leather, brass studs, and jars of grease. Maybelle stepped inside. Her lips pulled back from her teeth.

  “Come in, Jud.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Yes? Now you don’t want me to get nasty with you, do you? I’d hate that. Mistreating such a beautiful, beautiful boy?”

  Jud stepped inside.

  “Close the door,” Maybelle said, “and move that crate in front of it.” Her voice had taken on a breathy quality. He did. She said, “Come here.”

  He stood before her, looking down at her. She laughed.

  “Like a piece of stone,” she said. “Tell me, does the stone ever crack, ever crumble?” She did not wait for an answer. “I never had a chance to—kiss the groom. You know what I want, don’t you?”

  Jud said nothing.

  She turned her back to him. “Unbutton me,” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “Jud,” she said softly, without turning. “Do you want to die? You told me once you weren’t afraid of anything. Well, I believe you. But you will die, Jud, if I say so, and you know what that means? They take you away from that little girl of yours. Now, maybe she doesn’t mean anything to you either. Maybe nothing means anything to you. But if that’s true, then there isn’t a single reason why you shouldn’t unbutton me, is there? And if it’s not true, then there’s a very good reason for you to do it, because you’ll die if you don’t. I don’t care why you do it, Jud. But do it.”

  Big huge-y bear. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes she laughs. The white woman says die. Jud’s hands moved up; his fingers touched the first button, and then fell away again.

  “Jud.” Maybelle was breathing heavily. “I’ll tell them you tried to rape me, and you’ll die. You’re not the only one, Jud. Your friend Plum, and Nate—the one with the big shoulders—they’ve done it, too. Now hurry, Jud.”

  Jud did what she bade him. She slipped the dress over her head and hung it on a harness hook.

  “Spread that piece of canvas on the floor,” she ordered.

  He stared at the numerous and complex garments that still wrapped her body. She divested herself of the rest of her clothes quickly and unaided. Then she stood naked before him, her loosened hair brushing her shoulders, her hands on her hips.

  “Do you like naked white women? Do you like me naked? Take off your pants and let me see if you like it.”

  When they were on the floor, she said, “No, don’t lean your weight on your elbows. On me. On me. Crush me, you big nigger. Break my bones. Oh. Oh, you dead nigger. Harder. Harder, goddamn you!”

  She grunted; she twisted under him. And he could see her. White. White. All white. A white woman. White. They were all white. White. He ground his teeth together and the agony of his jaw muscles pounded in his brain. White. White!

  He thrust his hips forward savagely.

  “Oh!” Maybelle’s mouth gaped and her eyes widened.

  Kill the white
man! It was Shadrach’s voice, thundering in his mind.

  Maybelle clutched his buttocks. “Oh! Oh! Great black nigger. Black. Nigger. Hurt me. Hurt me. Nigger! Rip me. Hurt me!”

  “Yes!” she cried.

  White! He hammered at her body.

  “Oh, God, yes. Nigger. Nigger. You’re hurting me. Hurting me! Yes. Don’t stop. Yes! Oh, Christ, kill me!”

  JUD AVOIDED ALL WHITES. Neither Samuel nor Richard visited the slave quarters much these days, so with them it was a small problem, easily solved by stepping around a corner, or entering a shed. He had little contact in the ordinary course of things with the overseer, and this he pared down with the same simple evasive tactics. Amanda, of course, rarely came near the quarters. Although he distrusted Maybelle, he was not really afraid of her, but something had possessed him that day in the carriage shed that did frighten him, and he had not been able to shake it loose. He would smother it, kill it, and let the corpse shrivel and blow away—he had to—but it would take time, and in the interim he knew that he must keep his contact with whites to a minimum.

  Despite his efforts, Maybelle sought him out twice again. The first time, what had broken to the surface within him grew stronger. The second time, she cornered him as he was emerging from the smithy.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said. “Well, it won’t be necessary anymore . . . I’ll leave you alone. You see, it’s really a very funny situation. I want to be . . . oh, I don’t know; I want to be hurt, killed, or something equally ridiculous, I suppose. But I’m also—” She laughed. “I’m also a coward. Isn’t that hilarious? The others, they’re just right. They’re fine. But you, you’re really capable . . .” She took an unconscious step backward. “You really would kill me.”

  She turned and walked rapidly away from him.

  Jud watched her go. He shied away from what she had said, as a horse would shy away from a snake.

  Kill the white man! Shadrach screamed in his mind.

  He breathed deeply, and tried with a massive effort to strangle Shadrach’s voice. You live on top of a mountain, Delia said. Yes, he wanted to live there. With her, the two of them. All alone—surrounded by the thick green forest, and the silence of the woods that was not really silence, but a low, constant murmuring of growth and of small creatures moving quietly, moving softly . . . He worked dully through the rest of the morning. In the late afternoon, he chewed his dinner without tasting it, and as he was finishing, the tension tore through the blanket he had thrown over his mind and drove him to his feet. He walked away from the slave quarters, past -the stables, and broke into a run. He ran through the orchards and across the stubbled fields. He pushed himself harder, harder, until he was gasping and his motions were ragged and puppetlike. He stumbled the remaining distance to the edge of the woods, and there fell heavily to the ground. He lay face down until his heart had stopped thudding and his breathing had calmed. But even then it was still not over. He stood and walked a little way into the forest. He found a long, stout branch. He weighed it in his hands. He cocked it back chest-high, and swung it with all of his strength at a tree. When it struck and broke—the free end spinning off into the brush—he roared at whatever creatures were within hearing distance.

  The end slipped from his hands and fell to the earth. He looked down at it without any expression; then he left the woods and started back, walking.

  IN THE EVENING, AS Jud whittled a stool leg, Delia moved the oil lamp to the table. She took a paper from beneath a tin plate on the shelf and spread it flat on the table next to the lamp. She sat down, braced her forehead on her hands, and stared at it. She frowned, squinted her eyes, pursed and unpursed her lips, scratched her head, and made annoyed little sounds in her throat.

  “What you got there?” Jud said.

  “I doan know. A paper with writin’. I tryin’ t’ puzzle the words, but it jus’ doan look no differen’ from chicken scratches.”

  “Here, let’s see if I kin sense it out.”

  “It won’ make no more sense t’ you ‘n it do to me.”

  “Maybe.” He stood behind her and peered over her shoulder. “I kin read some.”

  “Ha! Where you learn that?”

  “When I live at Cap’n Tiligman’s.”

  “Well, if you kin, how come you never say so before? Tell me that.”

  “Ain’t no good for a nigger. Lotta white people don’ like niggers t’ git smart. I seen one get a finger lopped off for practicin’ writin’. But hush now, an’ lemme study it.”

  It was a half-sheet of paper:

  Nov 21 1859

  This is Sperry. Michael Redmans nigger. He has leave to visit hiz wife at Olympus. Sameul Ackerlys Plantation. He is tobe to be home before sunup tomorow (Nov 22 1859.

  Michael

  Redman Esq.

  “It a pass,” Jud announced after a few moments. “Where you get it?”

  “I found it on the ground this morning.”

  “That skinny nigger—the one who come from Silver Pine—lost it most likely.”

  “How you know it a pass?”

  “That what it say.”

  “Where?” Delia demanded.

  Jud pointed. “That the nigger’s name. Sperry. And that his owner’s name. Mista Redman. And this say he kin visit his wife here. But he got to be back home ‘fore the sun come up.”

  “Ha!” Delia pushed the pass away. “You makin’ it all up.”

  “No. That what it say.”

  Delia drummed her fingers on the table; then she became engrossed in cleaning grime from beneath her nails.

  “I kin teach you if’n you want,” Jud said. “It take a long time, but I kin teach you.”

  “Who wants to read? It jus’ a waste o’ time.”

  Jud went back to the stool leg.

  Delia retrieved the pass and examined it again with a frown. “All right,” she said suddenly. “If you so smart, let’s see if you kin teach me. Let’s jus’ see.”

  AMANDA WAS SHOCKED. IT was well past midnight when Ellen, her personal servant, fearfully awakened her and told her that Richard was downstairs—with the sheriff. Amanda came awake immediately.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I doan know, Mist’ess. They doan tell me. Hector jus’ say, ‘Go run wake up Mist’ess ‘Manda.’”

  The hall at the bottom of the stairs was illuminated by four tall candles. Hector had lighted them, and then had sensibly withdrawn. Ellen, too, seemed to vanish as soon as she had seen her mistress safely down the stairs.

  Richard was leaning against the wall, eyes half closed and puffy-lidded, lips swollen and parted. He was singing an obscene ditty to himself. There were four long scratches on his cheek. The sheriff, a paunchy middle-aged man, held his hat by its brim and rotated it nervously.

  “Evenin’, Miz’ Ackerly. Uh, I di’n’ think, uh, that is, I thought maybe Mista Ackerly—”

  Amanda cut him short with a wave of her hand. “Come to the point, man. What is it?”

  “Oh, it weren’t really so much, I guess. Jus’ a kind of ruckus I had to— Oh, it’s all ovuh, nothin’ serious. But Mista Richard here, I figured he was too, uh, well, he seemed a bit out of sorts, so I thought I’d best ride back with him.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “Well, I’d best be gittin’ back. Evenin’, Miz’ Ackerly.”

  “Good evening.”

  When he left, Amanda took Richard by the arm and led him into the sitting room.

  “Stop that filthy singing,” she commanded.

  She directed him to a chair and drew up another beside him.

  “Now what was this all about? The sheriff did not bring you home just to be polite.”

  “Yes, he did. Oh, yes he did, indeed. A most refined and courteous man, our sheriff. You should invite his wife to some of these afternoon tete-a-tetes and tea gatherings you’ve been having. Charming man. Charming woman.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Richard.”

  He
raised his arm. “The King is dead. Long live the Queen.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t give a goddamn who reigns.”

  “Richard, I’ve had enough of this. I want to know precisely what happened tonight. If there are going to be repercussions against this house, I want to be prepared.”

  “No repercush—repre—repercussions, Mother. But some juicy gossip, I imagine. All right, sweetie, I’ll tell you what little Richie was up to. Do you know Maggie’s? Of course you do. Everybody knows Maggie’s. Don’t look so blank. Maggie’s, Mumsy. M-a-g-g-i-e-s. The house by the railroad spur, where those lovely young women reside—all of good families, I assure you, even disenfranchised royalty, some of ‘em. Well, as I often am, I was there tonight, consuming great quantities of champagne and being ministered to by one of Maggie’s royal trollops.

  “But I had too much champagne, Mumsy, and something . . . happened. To shorten a long unpleasant tale, I wound up dragging said royal trollop by her hair through the main street of town, beating her, I am told, with truly marvelous vehemence. Well, Mother, how does that strike you?”

  Amanda sat straight-backed. “Richard, what is wrong?”

  “Wrong? Wrong?” He broke into peals of laughter. “Mother, what is right?”

  “Oh, Richard. Richard. My Richard.” She took his hand.

  He went down on his knees before her. She took his head between her hands and guided it to her lap. She laid one hand on his neck, and softly ran the fingers of her other hand through his dark hair.

  “Richard, I’m sorry. Mother is sorry. It is her fault, not yours.”

  He began to cry—short, whimpering sobs.

  “Mother has been so busy,” Amanda continued. “She was wrong. She neglected her Richard. But now she knows, and things will change. She’ll make it up to you, you will see.”