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Hammond’s first morning chore was to go to the pest house to see Big Pearl. As he entered the door she sat upright and reached with her arms towards him. He sat on the side of her bed and she grasped his hands and began to whimper.

‘Whut ails you, Big Pearl? Whure you hurts?’ Hammond inquired with a kindly tone.

‘Don’t hurts nowhure now. Misery done left me,’ Big Pearl replied, clinging to him. ‘Masta, suh! Masta, suh!’ she wept.

‘Don’t cry, Big Pearl. You all right.’

‘Yessum, suh. I knows I all right, you here—Masta, Masta.’

‘Whut you cry about?’

‘You goin’ to leave me, and then my misery come back. Masta, Masta, stay here, stay right here, please suh, Masta!’ Pearl begged passionately.

‘How was she all night, Lance?’ Ham turned to the big buck who had risen on his entrance.

‘First off, when you leave, suh, Big Pearl go off to sleep right nice. I set right here by fire all the night. Then she wake up and begin to howl and beller, and she keep that up until you comes in that door, suh.’

Ham felt Big Pearl’s forehead. It seemed cool. He noted, however, a slight convulsive movement of her body when he laid his hands on her. He was baffled. There were no symptoms of the vomit or of smallpox. Possibly this was the evil effects of in-breeding.

Not because he thought it would do the girl any good, but because he did not know what else to give her, he poured out a dose of laudanum and held the glass for her while she drank it. She fixed her eyes on Hammond in an expression of gratitude that was adulation.

‘I tell you, Lance, you put a bridle on that grey mule and ride to Benson and git that veterinary. You know Doc Redfield. You know the way to Benson, don’ you?’

‘Yes, suh, Masta, I knows him. He the white gen’man whut cure Nimrod las’ year.’

‘You’ll find him around the tavern or over at the grocery store, drinkin’. Tell him come right out to Mista Maxwell’s Falconhurst Plantation. Kin you remember that?’

‘Yas, suh, Masta.’ Lance was elated at being chosen to go on such an errand. He could boast of it around the quarters and recount the sights he should see in the town. ‘I got to have pass, though, Masta. I don’ want to be ketched up fer no runnin’ nigger.’

‘I’ll write you out a pass. Stop at the big house and git it. And be careful of that mule. Go easy like, and don’t sink in the mire.’

‘Yas, suh. I be careful. I careful nigger.’

‘Better take a pocketful of pone, if you should git hongry,’ Ham warned, always thoughtful of the welfare, if not of the comfort, of his hands.

The opiate began to have its effects upon his patient, and Hammond went to the house to eat his breakfast. Meg heard him come in and limp down the hall. Without waiting for orders, he galloped into the kitchen and excitedly pulled at Lucretia Borgia’s skirt. ‘A toddy fer Masta, a toddy fer Masta Hammond, a toddy. It fer Masta Ham,’ he insisted with impatience. His mother paused in her preparation of the breakfast to mix the toddy.

Hammond entered the sitting-room and stopped to extend his hands to the fire and to turn before it ere he sat down, more from habit than from chill.

‘Better drink a toddy, Ham,’ his father admonished. ‘Do you good.’

Hardly had Hammond sunk into his chair when Meg rushed through the door, glass in hand. His impetuosity vanished, and he grew diffident as he approached his young master. He bit his lip as he extended the unordered libation to his god, uncertain as to how his ministration would be received.

‘Whut’s this?’ Hammond asked.

‘Do you good,’ repeated Maxwell.

‘Whure did this come from?’ Hammond said rather than questioned, nodding toward Meg. ‘This nigger better than the other one. Don’t have to tell this ’un,’ Ham smiled at the boy.

Meg was abashed at the praise for which he had longed. He hung his head and chewed his lower lip as he returned a sickly grin. Then emotion overcame him and he began to cry.

‘Whut ails you, boy? Nobody ain’t goin’ to hurt you. You good boy,’ Hammond consoled him.

Meg knew it was sacrilege, but he was unable to restrain himself. He could no longer stand. His knees folded under him and he fell kneeling with his face between Hammond’s legs. ‘I your nigger, Masta, I your nigger, Masta, suh. Say I your nigger, Masta Ham; jest your little nigger. Nobody’s nigger, but jest yourn,’ the boy begged between his sobs.

‘Course, you my nigger. Whose nigger you afeard you goin’ to be? Course, you my nigger and you Ol’ Masta’s nigger, too,’ Hammond, uncomprehending, sought to comfort the boy.

Meg looked Hammond full in the face to swear his allegiance. ‘You so good, Masta, I loves you, Masta.’

Lucretia Borgia appeared with the breakfast bell. Breakfast was late, but Lucretia Borgia had not been idle. She saw the tears on Meg’s face. She knew that something unusual had occurred. ‘That little nigger been troublin’ you gen’lemen? I’ll skin him, I skin him till he cain’t stan’ up.’

Hammond smiled at her and said, ‘You’ll mind your business, Lucretia Borgia. That my nigger. I wants him skinned, I’ll skin him. Keep your han’s offn him.’ The rebuke was jocular and Lucretia Borgia knew her son had not offended.

Alph was duly posted beside the table, wielding his peacock-feather brushes. He managed to move enough to display his limp. Lucretia Borgia pulled the chair to seat Maxwell, and Meg was alert and ceremonious in his withdrawing of Hammond’s chair. He hastened to pull the napkin from its glass, to shake it open and place it in Hammond’s lap.

Lucretia Borgia served the breakfast, but in all that pertained to Hammond’s needs Meg forestalled her. Ignoring Maxwell and Brownlee, he filled Ham’s glass with milk, heaped bacon and eggs upon his plate, shifted the platter on which the cornbread was served so as to extend it with the largest piece on the side nearest Hammond.

There was an unstated rule that Negroes should not eat from dishes reserved for whites. Yet Meg now whispered to Ham, ‘Masta, kin I eat whut you doesn’t?’

‘Oh, I see; that why you help me so good. You wants my leavin’ vittles?’ Hammond joked with the boy to his father’s disapproval.

The accusation was unfair and the boy could only deny it with, ‘Naw, suh, Masta. I wan’s you should eat all you kin, but, please suh, let me have yo’ leavin’s.’

‘Course you kin. You my nigger, ain’t you?’ Ham had intended no rebuff to the child.

‘Right offn yo’ plate? Please, Masta, suh, kin I?’

‘Right offn my plate.’

Maxwell kept his eye upon Alph’s limp. The more Alph limped the more Maxwell was assured of his own improvement.

Hammond had noted his father’s bearing without comment until he could be sure that he was better. His increased dexterity was apparent. He could raise his knife to his mouth with sureness and without flinching.

‘You chipper, kind of, this mornin’, Papa,’ Ham at length remarked.

‘Better, Ham, better. I goin’ to git well, now I’s found the cure. See that little buck, Alph, limp? The pizen is all dreenin’ away. I goin’ to git well and take this plantation offn your back. I’ll straddle a hoss agin first thing you knows.’

‘Don’t you worry none ’bout me. I all right an’ Falconhurst all right.’

‘I knowed a nigger belly sovereign for rheumatiz. I tol’ you,’ Brownlee took credit. ‘That man Bronson over at Natchez——’

‘Wonder how Big Pearl come on,’ Maxwell declared. ‘You better go down after breakfast and see how she do, Ham.’

‘Done went. She some better, but Lancelot say she carry on all night.’

‘Better git Redfield,’ Maxwell advised.

‘Done sent Lancelot.’

‘Damndest thing, Mista Brownlee, on this plantation. Cain’t suggest nothin’, not a thing, but it already been ’tended to. This Hammond think of ever’thing an’ do it afore I gits around to talkin’ about it. Jest have to nurse my rheumatiz, drink my toddies and stop my mappin’, I reckon.’

‘Reckon Lance git through to Benson. Mire is terrible deep and thick,’ Hammond pondered.

‘Ought to of put him on a mule,’ Maxwell suggested.

‘I did a’ready. Ol’ Grey.’

‘I thinkin’ about that mire,’ said Brownlee. ‘Purty bad comin’ in yestidy, worse this mornin’. Still, this wind and sun dries out them roads right fast. Course I goin’ to wait to see you thresh that nigger.’

‘Don’ reckon he fitten to thresh this mornin’. He sick,’ Ham explained.

‘Playin’ off, more ’an likely.’ The trader was disappointed.

‘No, he sick. I was mad an’ I poured too much ipecac into him. He awful sick.’

‘Deserved it, deserved it. Wasn’t more than right,’ said Maxwell.

‘Wouldn’t hurt to whup him, too, I reckon,’ Brownlee urged. ‘You promised him, you know. Ought to always keep a promise of a larrupin’ to a nigger.’

‘I’ll keep my promise all right, but not while he sick. No hidin’ of sick niggers at Falconhurst. Besides, ’ll do him good to relish his whuppin’ a few days afore he git it. Let him ponder how sore he goin’ to be.’

‘Cain’t wait, cain’t wait to see it, much as I’d like it. Always admire to see ’em squirm and hear ’em holler. Sometimes right comical.’

Meg sidled to Ham’s side. ‘Kin I see? I won’ cry.’

‘See? See whut?’

‘Memnon git hided,’ whispered Meg.

‘Course you kin,’ Hammond promised. ‘Do you good. Learn you whut to expect.’

‘You spoils your niggers at Falconhurst, suh; spoils ’em till they putrid. No Saturday workin’! No threshin’ when they sick! Veternary fer belly-ache! ’D think the niggers owned you stead of you ownin’ niggers,’ Brownlee voiced his disapproval.

‘That, kind of fact,’ Hammond agreed. ‘One way our niggers does own us, and we owns them. They feeds us and we feeds them. Nothin’ I craves more than good niggers, fat and well and happy—and a-growin’.’

When the whites had moved into the front room Meg appeared before Ham and asked, ‘Does you want a toddy?’

‘No, too soon after breakfast,’ Ham replied. But it was not too soon for Brownlee and Maxwell.

Meg retired a little crestfallen, but complacent. To serve his master was a joy, to serve anybody else a chore. He fetched the drinks and served them with politest unction; and when he passed his young master on his way out of the room, Hammond caught him a playful but sharp blow with his hand across the boy’s seat. It caused Meg to drop his tray, and tears gathered to his eyes. As he stooped to retrieve the tray, he looked into Ham’s face and blossomed into a wide and satisfied grin.

‘Send that other’n here soon as he feeds,’ Maxwell commanded.

Meg acknowledged the command and hastened into the dining-room lest the table should be cleaned. He picked up Hammond’s plate with the food he had left on it, hurried into the kitchen and began to eat from it.

Lucretia Borgia saw. ‘Nigger boy,’ she said, akimbo, ‘you knows better’n eat offn white dish!’

‘My masta said.’

‘Whut your masta say?’

‘He said I could—right offn his plate. I ast him an’ he say yes.’

‘I say no. Now scrape that feed onto that crack’ platter and you two eat like you always does.’

‘My masta say,’ Meg persisted.

‘Nigger, I’ll smash you,’ and Lucretia Borgia stepped toward him with upraised hand.

A glare of defiance shot from Meg’s eyes. ‘Nigger, don’t tetch me. Don’t you ever tetch me. I bust this platter on your haid. My masta want me whup, he whup me hisself. No nigger ain’t goin’ whup me.’

Lucretia Borgia was taken aback, halted.

‘My masta say I eat offn his dish, I eats offn his dish. Ain’t no nigger goin’ to stop me,’ the boy declared between bites. ‘My masta say you not whup me, you not whup me, d’you hear?’

Lucretia Borgia hesitated to disobey Ham’s commands, no matter how casually given. She felt her authority vanishing.

‘I Masta Ham’s nigger now, jest Masta Ham’s,’ Meg gloated. ‘Masta Ham hang me up and skin me alive, he want to; he kill me, he want to. I Masta Ham’s nigger,’ he impressed Lucretia Borgia. ‘Masta Ham whup me this mornin’, whup me hard, harder than you kin,’ he announced, triumphant.

‘Whut you do, nigger? Whut you do, makin’ Masta trouble?’

‘I not makin’ my masta no trouble. I crave him to whup me and my masta done it.’ Meg had finished Ham’s food and had picked up the plate to lick it clean.

Alph had listened with trepidation to Meg’s quarrel with their mother. He sensed that his brother’s victory would redouble her tyranny over him. Meg turned to him and with contempt in his voice told him, ‘Ol’ Masta say you come in to him, soon as you feed.’

‘Whut he want?’

‘He want you; that whut he want. Cain’t you do whut your masta say without as’in ques’ions?’ Meg was truculent. ‘You Ol’ Masta’s nigger, I guesses. Old Masta’s sleepin’ nigger. But I got the bes’ masta. Ol’ Masta ain’t young and strong like Masta Hammond, an’ purty. Now, go along to your masta.’

Alph’s limp, which he had forgotten, recurred to him. He rubbed the joints of his hands and limped away. He crossed the dining-room to the sitting-room. He waited, unsure of the demand for him. He had nothing but Meg’s word that he was wanted. The gentlemen were talking.

‘Ain’t no call fer niggers from the Texies yet; but they sure to be as time goes,’ Brownlee declared.

‘I sure wish I could go there—not to stay, but jest to look around. If Papa hadn’t got the rheumatiz, I’d sure be off. There’s fortunes to be made in the Texies, I know.’

‘An’ surer fortune, fewer dangers, an’ more comforts right here at Falconhurst. I knows boys. When I Ham’s age, I crave to wander, too, jest like Ham. Hemmed right down here by my rheumatiz, he ain’t had no blowhole fer his spirits. Even when he take a coffle to New Orleans, has to quicken right back home. With my rheumatiz betterin’, he kin git around some, go to N’ Orleans, even to N’ York, at least kin go sparkin’ some of these nice young ladies of good families, pinin’ at home fer some handsome blade to come and marry ’em.’

‘Don’t talk no more, Papa. I ain’t goin’ to the Texies, but I’d sure like it. I goin’ to stay right here; you kin lay to it. Mayhap, I’ll git around, go into town some, go to New Orleans and dress me up some. But, an’ I stay here, whut I wants is a fightin’ nigger to have me some sport with.’

‘You stay home and mind Falconhurst, Son, you kin have the bes’ fightin’ nigger in all Alabam. Don’t pay to have a fighter,’ lessen you has a good one. You’ll have a good one—the best.’

Alph waited, ignored. At length he asked, ‘You send fer me, Masta, suh? I’s here.’

Maxwell resented, or at least disapproved of Hammond’s trifling with Meg, was stern in his reply to Alph. ‘You knows better, boy, than to stick your mouf into white talk. Now, keep your britches on and wait whure you at, an’ shut your mouf.’

The frightened boy rubbed a tear from his eye.

‘Ain’t nothin’ in fightin’ niggers in this part of the county. Young fellers that fight niggers in country taverns ain’t got no money to bet on ’em. They thinks a hundred dollars is money. Ought to see a nigger fight in N’ Orleans. Bets of a thousand dollars nothin’; some of them sports backs their bucks fer five thousand,’ Brownlee expounded.

‘Young gen’men who fetched their niggers to Benson to fight ain’t got much money to back they boys, you right, but they most generally brings along a good young nigger or two to bet with. All got niggers, or they pappy has,’ protested Hammond. ‘Young niggers good as money right in the bank.’

‘Gamblers in N’ Orleans trains they niggers to fight, not jest strappin’ bucks out of the cotton gang. They trained how to fight. They exercised and fed and petted up for the purpose,’ Brownlee continued.

‘That whut I mean,’ said Hammond. ‘That whut I means to do. Git a fine, strong, young buck and learn him to fight, scientific like.’

‘An’ them N’ Orleans niggers knows they has to fight, an’ they does. They owner tells ’em before they shove ’em in that if they loses the fight they goin’ to brand ’em good or take ’em to the doctor to be cut. An’ they niggers knows they means it. They fights an’ fights an’ don’ give up. They claws and they chaws and they gouges like anythin’.’

‘N’ Orleans a right sportin’ like city, I reckon,’ said Maxwell.

‘I see one fight between two French gen’lemen—that is between niggers belongin’ to ’em. Big, young, yaller bucks they was, right purty, and trained down hard as hickory. Them niggers fit and fit all over that place for more ’n an hour and a half, first one a-whuppin’ and then the othern. Them Frenchmen right game! Wouldn’t neither one on ’em give up. Finally one nigger couldn’t move no more. Everybody thought he daid; might as well be, all chawed up. The winnin’ boy not much better off. Don’t know whut them Frenchies done with them boys; wasn’t much they could do, I reckon. Blood jest a spurtin’ over everything—even ruint the fine coat of one of the Frenchies. Five thousand a side, but even the winner never made much. His nigger ’most worth that. I made fifty dollars that fight.’

‘I’d admire to see it,’ longed Ham.

‘When you come N’ Orleans way, let me know. If I there, I knowin’ all about the fights. They kind of secret-like, but I kin git you in.’

‘Sure will, sure will.’

‘Ham ought to go roun’ some and see things like that. Mayhap he kin buy a good fightin’ buck in N’ Orleans,’ Maxwell acquiesced.

‘Course, oft times they turns half a dozen niggers all together ’tilln one comes out on top. Don’t never bet on that, howsumever; cain’t hardly never predick’ the winner.’

‘The gent’men at Benson ain’t never tried that,’ Ham declared.

‘Look around, look around,’ suggested Maxwell. ‘Git you a boy. Has we got any fitten to train? Big Vulc?’

‘He won’t do. He coward.’

‘Well, look aroun’.’

‘Whut that boy waitin’ fer? Whut fer you wantin’ him, Papa?’

‘I want to see how bad he cripp’ed by this rheumatiz. Want to see how much dreened out of me. Come you here, boy.’

Alph obeyed.

‘How bad you cripp’ed?’ asked Maxwell. ‘Whure you hurtin’?’

Alph hung his head. ‘All over, Masta, suh. I got misery all over me,’ and Alph believed it.

Maxwell grasped the boy, felt his leg, twisted the knee until the child grunted with the pain. He manipulated the elbow so hard that the boy cried out. He pulled the fingers and bent them upward. He placed one hand on the boy’s back and with the other forced the head backward, contorting the spine until Alph screamed with pain. Alph was limber and flexible. He offered no resistance. He was pleased and interested in the attention bestowed upon him and sensed no indignity. By the time Maxwell finished his survey, the boy’s pain was real, even if before it had been only feigned or imagined.

‘Don’ twis’ the little feller so, Papa. You hurts him. You’ll ruin him,’ protested Hammond.

‘You too tender with these niggers. You ruin ’em your own self,’ said the old man. ‘But he got it all right! He got it! Wouldn’t think so much pizen could dreen out’n me in jest one night.’ Maxwell was satisfied. ‘Be gone,’ he told the boy.

‘Masta, suh, kin I be your nigger?’

‘You is my nigger. Whose nigger you reckons you is?’

‘I mean, your nigger, jest like Meg Masta Ham’s nigger? Your own nigger? Please, Masta, sir.’

‘I’ll do whutn I wants to you; that whut you mean?’

‘I wants to bring yo’ toddies and eat yo’ leavin’s—right offn yo’ plate—like my brother do. I wan’s you should whup me too, whup me harder’n Masta Ham whup his nigger. My brother brag over me sompin’ awful.’ Alph’s was no passion for service or punishment, such as Meg’s. It was a mere desire not to be overshadowed and shamed by his brother, for which he was willing to pay a grudging price in work and pain.

‘You my bed nigger. Ain’t that ’nough? The other’n’ (Maxwell assumed not to be able to tell the twins apart) ‘ain’t Mista Ham’s bed nigger.’

Alph was in a measure satisfied with this ascendancy over his brother.

‘Don’ fergit to have your mammy soak you in that red water before evenin’. You gittin’ musky agin,’ Maxwell warned.

While Maxwell was speaking Doc Redfield rode up the lane on his dun-coloured gelding. A hundred yards behind him came Lance, riding barebacked the mule which had been grey when he set out two hours ago, but which was now so mud-daubed as to appear as dun as the veterinarian’s horse.

Meg appeared out of nowhere to grab the horse’s bridle when the doctor dismounted, but at Hammond’s command transferred it, as soon as he came up, to Lancelot, who led it along with the mule to the stable to be dried and curried. Meg did not vanish again, however, but lurked, listening, on the gallery, removed from the group. His eyes were fixed on Hammond. His mouth was open, and he appeared ready to spring in response to a gesture which was never made.

‘Don’t know why I been sent fer,’ Redfield said genially. ‘Always said Mista Warren Maxwell was the best veternary in the county. Takes better care of niggers’n any man I know. I’d starve ’f I depend on him fer a livin’.’ He was a small man with a pointed chin, quasi-bearded, his face spattered with a mixture of red, black, and grey whiskers, which indicated that he had not shaved for some two weeks.

Hammond extended his hand to Redfield, who remarked, ‘Don’t seem no time at all sence you was a boy, no bigger’n that thar little nigger, a doggin’ your pappy’s heels ever’whure he went. Comin’ to be a man, ain’t you? Spec’ you thinks you is one?’

‘Is a man, is a man. Ain’t got time to be boy. Runs the whole plantation with me sick. Let me knock you down to Mista Brownlee, Doc Redfield. Mista Brownlee around buyin’,’ Maxwell explained.

‘I’ve hearn of Mista Brownlee, before. Servant, suh.’

‘Yo’ servant.’

‘Reckon you better be gittin’ down to that pest house. Ham will see you down there. I too cripped up to go. Stop by and have a drink of corn before you depart.’

‘I’ll go along,’ said Brownlee. ‘I’d like to see that big wench of yourn.’

Maxwell stood on the porch, reluctant to be left behind and yet without the will to join the party. Meg followed his master without appearing to follow.

Hammond told Redfield about Big Pearl’s weird symptoms as they walked. ‘Reckoned better git you first thing. Don’ want no epizootic aroun’ here with all these young niggers. Might be vomit or pox.’

‘Not vomit this time of year. Your pappy know better’n that. Cain’t be pox. Jest a little congestion of the guts, I reckon. We’ll see.’

‘I know I hadn’t ought to git you out in this kind of mud, but——’

‘ ’S all right; ’s all right. I got to go out to the Widder Johnson’s anyhow; Falconhurst ain’t hardly none out’n my way. You know Widder Johnson?’

‘Course, of course; out on Six Mile Road.’

‘Right likely plantation she got out there—small, of course, only a hunderd and sixty—but she makes right smart of cotton, and she got a passel of fifteen, twenty, good niggers Johnson left her.’

‘Her servants kindly old like, though,’ objected Hammond. ‘Ain’t breedin’ none hardly.’

‘Some is. That whut she call on me fer, to git her shet of a triflin’ old cripped up wench, all deef and near blind. By rights ought to put an end to her long time past, but the widder kind of tender that way.’

‘Agin’ the law ain’t it—kind of?’

‘Well, I sort of guess; but who goin’ to take a hand in the pore widder’s own business? Never hearn of the law a-meddlin’ with sich things.’

‘Goin’ to shoot her? Kindly disturb the servants, won’t it?’

‘Antimony. Somethink new. Leastwise I never hearn of it till lately. Come from a New Orleans doctor. Lets ’em down easy like. They never knows, an’ the other niggers never knows.’

‘Never heared of it and I reckon Papa never heared of it.’

‘Ever need none, I got plenty. Jest send a nigger with a note. You kin give it your own self. Don’ need me. Course, with a lady, like the widder, it’s different.’

‘Don’t never hope to need it. Our hands all purty young and sound,’ said Hammond.

‘Never kin tell. Might git a-hold of a bad nigger—a trouble-stirrer.’

‘Might,’ Ham admitted without interest.

They had walked slowly down the hill toward the river in the sunshine towards the cabin used as an isolation ward.

‘River still a-comin’ up,’ commented Hammond. ‘Guess it won’t rampage now, though. Rain stopped.’

‘Due to be fallin’ soon, with no more rain.’

‘Don’t hear Big Pearl carryin’ on,’ said Hammond, opening the door.

Big Pearl lay on the bed in the corner, her eyes fixed in space. All her splendid energy was gone; a kind of languor enveloped her.

‘How you come on, Big Pearl?’ Hammond inquired.

Big Pearl raised her arm and extended it toward him. ‘I all right now, you come. Misery go right off.’ She grasped Hammond’s hand and held it with her still powerful grip.

‘Got the doctor to come, Big Pearl. He give you medicine to make you well. Leave him look at you now,’ explained Hammond.

‘Don’t need no doctor,’ replied Big Pearl. ‘Not no doctor’s kin’ of misery I got. My Masta stay with me, I gits well. Masta leaves, I dies; I shore dies.’

Redfield placed a hand on Big Pearl’s brow. He looked at her tongue. He took her pulse. He shook his head in quandary and puffed out his cheeks with wisdom. He turned down the covers and lifted Big Pearl’s dress, kneaded her abdomen. She denied pain in the region.

‘How old this wench?’ Redfield demanded.

‘ ’Bout fourteen; most fifteen,’ said Hammond.

‘Shore powerful, that age. Look at them laigs—like oak trunks, but right shapely,’ commented Brownlee. ‘Shore do admire to see a big, neat wench.’

‘Virgin?’ asked Redfield.

‘Reckon so,’ said Hammond.

‘Reckon so? Don’t you know?’ said the doctor with contempt. ‘Whut you doin’? Shirkin’ your duty? Or is yo’ pappy tryin’ to keep you a virgin, too?’

Hammond blushed. ‘She too musky fer me.’

‘But it a masta’s duty to pleasure his wenches—the first time. A strapping, good-put-together wench like this makes a man fergit the musk. Sure, she virgin. You ought to be plagued of yourself, boy.’

‘But bein’ virgin didn’ give Big Pearl no misery,’ Hammond declared in astonishment.

‘Course it do. You know whut ails that wench? She’s hipped. That’s whut she is—jest hipped,’ declared Redfield positively.

‘Kin you cure her?’ Hammond demanded, baffled.

‘I cain’t, but you kin. She craves you to pleasure her.’

‘That don’t make her sick, don’t make her beller and scream all night.’

‘Yes, it do. Yes, it do. She fall off, maybe she die, an’ you don’t pleasure her; take that maidenhead, anyway. Don’t you see how she grabs a-hold of you and hangs on? Ain’ got no temperature, ain’ got no pulse, tongue clean. Nothink the matter with the wench ’cept she cravin’ you. Hipped, plumb hipped.’

‘I is, too, sick, Masta Hammon’, suh. I sick,’ protested Big Pearl. ‘I isn’t either cravin’ you to pleasure me, Masta, suh—‘lessen you cravin’ to. I knows I black, I knows I got musk, I knows I not fitten fer you, Masta. I ain’t bad, Masta, I ain’t bad.’ She rolled over on her belly and face down upon the bed sobbed long sobs of shame, of yearning, of blasted hope.

Hammond ran his arm tenderly under Big Pearl’s body to turn her toward him and spoke to her in a low, confidential voice. ‘You ain’t bad, Big Pearl. Nobody say you bad. You been sick, but you well now. Come along. Git up, and go back to Lucy. You’ll be all right. We’ll see, we’ll see.’

Big Pearl gave a lurch and was on her feet, pulling down her dress. She stumbled over Meg, who sat on the step outside the door, listening for what went on. He picked himself up and scurried behind the cabin, lest he be seen by his master. Big Pearl galloped up the hill towards the quarters as if possessed. The three men watched her run, noted the power, vigour, suppleness and sureness of her gait.

‘I tol’ you that big wench jest hipped,’ said Redfield.

They wandered slowly back up the hill, the dealer and the veterinarian impeded by shortness of breath, Hammond by the stiffness of his knee joint. Some fifty feet behind them loitered Meg, innocent of eavesdropping but straining an ear to hear every word.

‘This Widder Johnson, say she got likely servants? Wharabouts she live?’ Brownlee speculated upon calling on her.

‘Won’t do you no good, goin’ there. She ain’t got none fer sellin’.’ Redfield was positive.

‘Ain’t worth your while,’ Hammond added. ‘Her niggers plumb played out, all too old fer anybody to want. If it ben’t fer her yarb doctorin’ and midwifin’, she and her niggers would all starve to death.’

‘Reckon so?’ asked Redfield. ‘I ’speck she kind of rich-like—well, not rich, but tol’able, tol’able. Johnson left her right well off.’

‘Mayhap, mayhap. I don’t rightly know. She right savin’,’ Hammond conceded.

‘I ben a-thinkin’ mayhap I’d pop the question today. My wife departed this life three or four year ago now, and seems like I don’t git ahead none. The widder a-hintin’ how she needs a man and all. Thought maybe it a good idy to hitch up an’ leave off vetinarin’. Kinder nice to settle down planter and not have to do no work.’

‘I reckon we cain’t let a nigger git puny no more. Won’t have no veternary to call on. As soon trust a sick nigger to Lucretia Borgia to doctor it as to git that Doc Simpson; kills more’n he cures.’

‘Course I’ll go on takin’ care of Falconhurst hands. Cain’t quit entire, and not have no reason to go to town. Besides, don’ want the ol’ woman to leave off her doctorin’ and midwifin’,’ Doc reasoned.

‘Papa will be glad.’

‘Mayhap the widder won’t have me, but she ben a-hintin’ fer quite a spell—leastwise I takes it as hintin’. I ain’t done no sparkin’, either. To speak true, it’s kinder hard to spark the widder; she so fat and them warts all over her face and that black moustache of hern makes lovin’ her up kinder loathy like. She right good-natured, though, right hearty.’

Brownlee thought of his sour, scrawny wife waiting for him in New Orleans. Redfield’s description of Mrs. Johnson was enticing to him, despite warts and moustache. The pleasant plantation well stocked with likely servants was even more enticing. If only he were single, he would enjoy entering into competition with the veterinarian for the widow. If only he had access to some of that poison that Redfield talked about. It would work as well on a white woman as on a Negro. What had the doctor called the substance? Where could he buy it?

The party had arrived at the house. Maxwell they found ensconced in a comfortable chair in the sunshine on the long gallery. Alph sat on the floor at the feet of his master and both were sipping at toddies so hot that they could take only small swallows.

‘Git out more cheers. Memnon, more cheers,’ Maxwell greeted them heartily. ‘Come in and set and drink some corn.’

The taste of whisky was unpleasant to Alph, but to sit at his master’s feet and drink it was a triumph, notably a triumph over his brother whose master showed him no such indulgence. As Meg approached, he rolled his eyes in his direction, smacked his lips and devoted himself assiduously to swallowing the hot liquid.

Memnon appeared dragging a chair awkwardly. He was haggard and fearful of the whipping in store for him. Meg leapt with alacrity into the house and, struggling under its weight, brought the most comfortable rocker from the fireside and shoved it behind Hammond. Memnon returned to the house for another chair for Brownlee, after which he went to the kitchen for drinks all around.

Meg retreated against the house, his eyes on his brother, watching enviously each sip from his glass. But, when Memnon appeared with the drinks on a tray, Meg all but upset him, grabbed the lone toddy and carried it to Hammond, knelt by his chair and gazed at his face. ‘Hot enough, Masta?’ he whispered solicitously. ‘Sugared enough?’ He was ignored. ‘That Memnon cain’t stir ’em good, Masta. Masta had ought to let me.’

Hammond addressed his father, ‘I reckon as how we’ll have to break this young buck in fer to take a-hold in place of Memnon. Mem seems a-failin’-like. This little buck right peart.’

‘Mem be all right after that hidin’ you goin’ to give him, Son. Matter with him is he flinchin’ that trouncin’.’

‘Goin’ to flog that Memnon?’ Redfield was surprised. ‘Thought he a pet of yourn? Whut you ben up to, Mem?’

‘A-slothin’, an’ a-thievin’ and a-lyin’. Treated too good; my own fault. A little touchin’ up here an’ there and he’ll be better’n new,’ Maxwell said casually.

‘Never knowed you to flog a boy before. Don’t do much threshin’, do you?’ Redfield asked.

‘No, don’t do much. Don’t like it. Skears all the young niggers so, they stops they growin’ fer a day or two. An’ the trouble with sendin’ ’em to you—besides you a-chargin’ two bits a lash—is you welts ’em up with the snake. Nobody wants to buy a welted nigger.’

‘Everybody who sends a nigger to me fer to flog wants him checkered up a little—that’s whut they pays me fer. Send him home withoutn no marks on him and they don’t believe he trounced good. Wants ’em sent back to ’em raw like.’

‘Don’t want snake-wales on backs of my niggers,’ Maxwell declared.

‘Wants ’em to remember good, got to gouge a little meat offn they backs. Niggers fergits correction right quick,’ opined the veterinarian.

Soon the sunshine and toddies and absence of pain made Maxwell drowsy and he nodded off to sleep. He did not know when Redfield took his departure.

Brownlee arose and stretched. ‘Reckon I’ll wander down and see about them bucks o’ mine,’ he said.

‘They fed and watered and looked after, Mista Brownlee, suh,’ Hammond assured him.

‘Sure, sure enough, I knows; but I like to keep an eye on ’em.’

He had to have another look at Big Pearl. He was a connoisseur of fine niggers, he believed. No really fine ones had ever passed through his possession, a few big, sturdy bucks, but all had something the matter with them, not truly prime. He aspired to deal in the fancy market—housebroken young bucks, nubile yellow wenches, twins, dwarfs or giants, oddities or monsters, hermaphrodites or freaks—but he had never had the capital for such speculation.

He was not certain of Lucy’s cabin. He thought he knew it. He had seen Big Pearl’s flight to her home. The door stood open to admit the light, and he entered. Big Pearl sat on the side of the bed, and out of the shadows appeared a monstrous, tall, raw-boned, lantern-jawed woman, a large naked child astride her hips. Except for the exposed pendent breast with which the baby toyed, Brownlee might have believed her a man in woman’s clothes.

‘Whut you wants, white man?’ Lucy greeted him, irritated at his intrusion and frightened with the knowledge of his trade.

‘I wants to see Big Pearl agin,’ Brownlee explained. ‘Shuck her down fer me to look at.’

‘Masta Hammon’ know you come?’ Lucy demanded.

‘No, but I reckon he won’t care if I looks over the wench. Come on, Pearl, shuck down,’ and the white man started toward the girl.

Lucy intercepted him, forced the baby into Big Pearl’s arms and strode through the door, around the corner of the cabin and across the clearing toward the house, bellowing at the top of her mighty voice, ‘Masta, Masta, suh, white man rapin’ Big Pearl; white man rapin’ Big Pearl. Masta, Masta, you done tell white man rape Big Pearl?’

The commotion startled Maxwell awake. He staggered helplessly to his feet, calling for Ham. His effort was wasted, since Hammond could not fail to hear Lucy’s alarm. So long and firm was Hammond’s step as he strode through the door, loosening his gun in its holster as he came, that his limp was imperceptible. At his heels came Meg, eyes bulging, arms flailing. Alph, stupefied by the toddy Maxwell had prescribed for his rheumatism, opened his eyes, made as if to rise, and fell over on the gallery floor, asleep again.

Before Hammond could cross the open space, Mr. Brownlee appeared from behind the cabins, bland of manner, assuming an unconcern he did not feel.

‘Whut the meanin’ of this? You rape my wench?’ Hammond demanded.

‘No harm done, no harm done. Jest lookin’ around your quarters a little. Never went near that nigger’s cabin—’cept jest to stick my head in the door.’ Brownlee knew he lied but he had downed three large goblets of whisky during the morning, and he tried to breeze it out.

Ham was coldly angry. ‘If you wasn’ a white man, I’d kill you. I’d shoot you right through the belly.’ Hammond fumbled at his gun but did not draw it from its holster. ‘That Lucy never lie before, an’ she not lyin’ now.’

Brownlee cleared his throat as if to speak again, but found nothing to say.

‘Git your geldin’ and your two cripped bucks and git out of here. The roads are bad, but Redfield made it from Benson and you kin make it that fur.’

Brownlee half-shrugged. It was not the first time he had been ordered away from a gentleman’s plantation and he was not sadly embarrassed, but as Hammond walked away, the trader saw him dust his hands together and heard him say something about ‘white trash’. The epithet scalded him.

The dealer turned toward the stable. He saddled his own horse and rounded up his slaves. There was no time for farewells. As he walked his horse past the gallery where the Maxwells stood silent, he called, ‘I reckon I jest ride by the Widder Johnson’s whure they murderin’ that ol’ wench. The sheriff might be in’erested in that goin’s on.’

The Negroes at a slow trot kept abreast of the horse. The shorter, black one was thoughtful and kept his eyes to the ground as if watching his foot with its two toes. The gangling yellow boy was in happier mood. ‘Goo’bye, Masta,’ he called as he passed the gallery, ‘goin’ to Kaintucky.’ He was silenced by the sting of the lash about his legs.

The sheriff would ignore charges brought by an itinerant Negro buyer against Mrs. Johnson and Doc Redfield for the killing of a slave. It was a minor crime at worst. The wench was old. Negro testimony meant nothing to the court, and Brownlee’s accusation would have no validity against the denials of guilt from substantial citizens like Doc Redfield and the Widow Johnson. None the less Hammond was relieved to see Brownlee’s horse as he reached the road turn to the left toward Benson rather than to the right toward the widow’s.