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‘But I don’ crave to git married, Papa. Whut I craves is a fightin’ nigger,’ Hammond was saying. The elder Maxwell’s desire for a grandson, white, an heir, was persistent.

Supper was over and the two slouched over toddies before the fire. The night was balmy, but the fire was comfortable. Meg had rushed in to remove Hammond’s boots, forestalling Memnon in that duty. He knelt in front of Hammond and tugged, and when a boot suddenly slipped off it threw the boy backward. He peeled off Hammond’s socks, and, instead of drying the feet with his hands, as Mem had done the previous night, Meg leaned forward and wiped them on his kinky hair. Before he shoved the slipper upon the second foot, he embraced it and rubbed his cheek against the white flesh. He half expected disapproval, but Hammond failed to notice the gesture or the questioning, diffident smile that followed it.

‘Besides, I don’ know no young white ladies,’ Hammond went on.

‘Why, why, there’s Miz Daisy Prescott, over to Sommerset Plantation. Right good family—the Prescotts; and she’d jump to git you.’

‘Yes, I knows Miz Daisy Belle. Right respectable and all; real purty an’ you likes ’em dark. But Miz Daisy Belle older’n me; she goin’ on an ol’ maid. Must be twenty-one, twenty-two year ol’.’

‘An’ then there’s your cousin, Miz Blanche Woodford, an’ you likes ’em light and you likes ’em young. Cain’t be more ’n sixteen and has hay-colour hair, at least did have time I seen her. You remember her?’

‘Cain’t say I do,’ Hammond denied.

‘Yes you do. Went to Crowfoot Plantation with yo’ mamma to visit her Cousin Beatrix when you little. Miz Woodford your mamma’s cousin, a Hammond, too—gal of ol’ Orestes Hammond who was brother of Theophilus, your mamma’s papa.’

‘How you keep it all in your head, who kin to who?’

‘It’s ’portant. Got to know who you kin trust. Blood outs. Orestes Hammond no such man as ol’ Theophil—a drinker, kind of, drunk hisself to death. Howsumever, he a Hammond—good blood. Major Woodford, Miz Blanche’s papa, of a good family too—his mother a Sitwell. Got Crowfoot Plantation from her side; added to it and built a new big house, hisself, howsumever.’

‘Whure is Crowfoot?’

‘Over beyant Briarfield which is beyant Centerville, near as I kin tell. Everybody in them parts knows Major Woodford and Crowfoot.’

‘ ’Bout fifty mile, ain’t it?’

‘Nearer sixty, mayhap sixty-five.’

‘Not the place whure a boy had the billy-goat hitched up to a cart and let me ride?’

‘That the place. Now you remember. That boy was Richard—older than you. Then comes another boy, younger than you, name of Charles I believe. Then Miz Blanche. And there was still another’n, a baby, boy or gal I disremember, but it died. Blanche is the youngest livin’. You real taken with that billy!’

‘I don’t remember the gal.’

‘You right young then—about five. Before—before I put you on that geldin’ pony.’

‘Long piece to go to git a wife,’ sighed Hammond.

Alph came in and took his place on the floor between Maxwell’s chair and the fire. He was naked, ready for bed.

‘Boy, did you soak?’ Maxwell asked him.

‘Yassum, Masta, suh,’ replied Alph, rolling his eyes questioningly, as if he did not expect to be believed.

‘I ain’t never had no truck with a white lady. I wouldn’t know whut to do,’ Hammond confessed.

‘Why, if you sees one you wants, you asts her papa, kin you ast her. He say yes, and then you up and asts her. All there is to it.’

‘I don’t mean that. I means goin’ to bed. Goin’ to bed after you marry. How you ack?’

‘Don’t fret about that. You’ll ack all right. No trouble. The gal won’t know how to ack either, supposin’ she a nice gal.’

‘Treat ’em jest like they was a nigger wench?’

‘Jest like a wench. That is, not exactly. A nigger knows whut you goin’ to do. White lady doesn’t—not the first time. She modest. She makes out to cry. Mayhap, she scream and holler.’

‘And won’t let you?’

‘You loves her up and kisses her, and she let you all right at las’.’

‘Kisses her? I no good at kissin’.’

‘You gits so you likes to kiss ’em, kinder. I knows you doesn’t kiss your wenches. White ladies, you has to.’

‘I kissed my mammy when I was little.’

‘Course, of course. I means you don’ kiss your bed wenches. You jest pleasures ’em and lets ’em go. You asts a white lady; you doesn’t tell her. White ladies doesn’t like pesterin’, but they submits, they submits to their husband. It’s their duty, their married duty. Sometimes they slow, and you has to promise ’em somethin’, a new bonnet or somethin’. But they submits. Leastwise, your mamma did.’

‘An’ you cain’t have no more wenches? Whut you do when your wife git ol’, twenty-five, maybe thirty?’

‘Course have wenches, jest the same. You doesn’t talk about ’em, frontin’ your wife, but she know you have ’em. She want you should have ’em. Saves her from havin’ to submit.’

‘A white lady better’n a wench?’

‘Better? No, wouldn’t hardly say she better. But you got to have a wife in order to have children—white children.’

‘I knows. I knows that.’

‘Another thing. You cain’t shuck down afore you gits in bed with a white lady. Always keeps on your shirt and drawers. Plague a white lady mos’ to death to see a man nekid.’

‘Kindly unhandy like, ain’t it?’

‘Not as unhandy like as the riggin’ she wears to keep you from seein’ her. Wears a chimmy that button plumb up to her neck an’ comes clean to the flo’; covers her right up all over.’

‘Not in New Orleans. They white ladies there that strip all off, ever’thing. I seen ’em last trip——’

‘Whores. They’s whores. That different. Not much better than niggers. Some of ’em not even as good,’ declared Maxwell in disgust. ‘Lets you see their brestes nekid, even lets you finger ’em.’

‘They right purty—white skin and all.’

‘Don’t you let me ketch you pesterin’ around no white whores, Son. You gits crabs from ’em, and clap and everythin’.’

‘I didn’t, Papa, I didn’t, but I seen ’em.’

‘When you go to New Orleans again, come fall, you better take Dite, or some wench, along. We knows our niggers clean; won’ give you nothin’.’

‘Cain’t take Dite. She’ll be jest about foalin’ in the fall.’

‘She knocked? You has worse luck with your wenches ’n anybody. Only been pesterin’ Dite three, four months. Dite might bring a right likely sucker, though. Your other git has been right prime. You growin’ older and stronger; your git ought to be even better’n ever.’

‘Ain’t none of ’em with stiff knee. First thing I looks fer in my suckers.’

‘Ain’t likely—not in first crossin’. Liable to find some stiffness in your grandchildren, not in all of ’em, course, mayhap not any.’

‘Kindly like to keep my own, the wenches anyhow, fer breeders.’

‘Good idy. That Hammond blood had ought to give a nigger some quality. But don’t turn your son to ’em—that knee sure to show up comin’ from both sides.’

‘Ain’t got no son, yet, Papa. Not no white son.’

‘You goin’ to have. You goin’ to have,’ predicted Maxwell in confidence.

‘Mayhap, I’ll ride to Crowfoot Plantation to see Cousin Blanche Woodford next week or week after—before ploughin’ time set in. Kin you git along?’

‘Fer that, sure enough kin. Won’t have to do nothin’. Jest give the niggers a rest, kinda, before ploughin’. Anything has to be done, I’ll save it up fer your back coming.’

‘Long trip—jest to see a lady, see if I’m a-wantin’ her or not.’

‘And on your way back you kin turn off to Coign and ast old man Wilson fer the loanin’ of that old Mandingo fer Big Pearl and Lucy. Reckon they still got him at Coign.’

‘Take a day more, mayhap, two, accordin’ to if the roads is good.’

‘Take your time. I’m set—kinder like—on that Mandingo. And you might look around some fer that fightin’ nigger you a-wantin’.’

‘I had thought of that,’ said Hammond.

‘Thought of that, mayhap, more than of gittin’ you a wife.’

‘A wife is discouragin’—kinder like. But I guess that ever’ man has got to have one.’

‘A man o’ property anyhow. You a man of considerable property, will be; an’ it look like you’ll have more—unless you wastes it all on fightin’ niggers an’ sportin’ around.’

‘I doesn’t sports, an’ you knows it. This fighter I’m a-layin’ off to git ain’ no sport. It jest a way I sees to pickin’ up some good young niggers without costin’ nothin’. Course, fightin’ him means takin’ him to Benson and around to other towns Saturdays, gittin’ a chance to see folks—but that not sportin’.’

‘Ifn you buys you a fightin’ nigger, buy you a good one—one that kin win. A losin’ fighter worser than no fighter at all.’

‘That whut I means,’ explained Ham. ‘Most of these men who fights niggers ain’t got no fighters. They thinks jest any big buck outn the cotton gang good enough to fight with, an’ he big enough.’

‘An’ train him. Harden him and practise him an’ learn him how to fight.’

‘That whut I goin’ to do—if only I finds me a buck that suits me an’ kin buy him.’

‘Mayhap git one in New Orleans, like Brownlee tell about, in the fall when you go there, an’ you don’t find one sooner.’

‘No, suh, Papa. Don’t want none o’ them bad niggers, like them sports uses fer fightin’ in New Orleans. Ruin all the good niggers on the plantation.’

The clock interrupted the talk by coughing out the wrong hour. It was eight o’clock, with allowance for error a quarter after eight.

‘I don’t hold none with keepin’ late hours, like last evenin’. Better go up,’ said Maxwell, yawning. ‘Let Memnon take you first; he kin come back fer me an’ the little buck.’

‘Goin’ to drink another toddy?’

‘Reckon not. I had enough.’

Memnon was summoned. He picked up Hammond’s boots to take them upstairs. ‘Ain’t fergot about that floggin’ you promised this buck, is you? He all well again. Ain’t you, Memnon?’

Memnon did not commit himself.

‘Cain’t do it tomorrer. Tomorrer Sunday. Don’t want no floggin’ on Sunday.’

‘Don’t fergit it. I hones to hear him yelp a little,’ said the older man.

‘I’ll make him yelp. I got to have me an all-over washin’ tomorrow. Didn’t do no bathin’ the week before—begins to feel sweaty-like.’

‘All this washin’ ain’t healthy—not in winter time. You washes all the sap outn you. Swimmin’ in the river now and agin in summer time don’t do no harm agin you careful to dry good, but washin’ in hot water in winter is real dangerous.’

‘Won’t hurt me none. Never has. I be careful,’ Hammond promised.

‘Too clean. Too clean like. Got so young folks is so fine-haired they cain’t stan’ a little sweat.’

‘I’d wash more even, if it wasn’t so hard to manage this leg in that round washtub. Cain’t squat.’

‘Only thing about your leg I glad fer, Ham. Keeps you from washin’ so much. All my fault; all my fault, your mamma always said.’

Hammond kissed the tobacco-stained cheek of his father and limped away, followed by Mem carrying the boots. The older man listened to hear the uneven steps upon the stairs.

As the young man approached the head of the stairs, the candle Mem carried illuminated a small figure rising from the top step, which turned out to be Meg.

‘Whut you doin’ up this hour?’ Hammond asked.

‘I waitin’ to serve you, Masta, suh.’

‘To serve me?’

‘Yas, suh, Masta. I wants to strip your britches off and see you to bed, Masta, suh, please, suh.’

‘You too little. Git along to the pallet with your mammy.’

‘I’s strong, suh, Masta, even if I little. I your nigger, suh, Masta. Ain’t I yo’ nigger?’

‘All right. All right. Give him the candle, Mem, and them boots.’

Mem had prepared a plea to be let off his whipping and had been waiting to get Ham alone to prey upon his sympathy. He was consequently disappointed at Meg’s interference. He was safe through tomorrow, and might be able to get in his speech while he helped Hammond with his bath in the morning. However, obsessed by the prospect of being punished he was unable to wait.

‘You not a-goin’ to whup Mem tomorrer, Masta?’ Mem spoke of himself in the third person when he sought compassion.

‘No, mornin’ is Sunday. We’ll have to put it off.’

‘Mem still sick, Masta. That nasty dose you give him make Mem real sick.’

‘That whuppin’ you in fer make you sicker.’

‘Mem good nigger, Masta. Mem try to be good nigger,’ he pleaded.

‘Mem goin’ to be a good nigger or a dead nigger, time I gits finish’ with him.’

‘Please, Masta, let Mem off. Don’ whup Mem, please, Masta Hammon’.’

‘But I promised you. An’ I promise you a fresh wench or new shoes, you expect me to keep my promise, don’ you?’

‘Yas, suh, Masta, you always does.’

‘An’ I promise you a lambastin’, an’ you goin’ to git lambasted good.’

‘Don’t hurt Mem, Masta, suh. Don’ hurt Mem. Mem loves you, Masta. Mem Masta’s little boy,’ he begged.

‘Mem’s Masta’s big triflin’ nigger. Won’t hurt much—jest a little touchin’ up here and there. Jest a few patches of hide offn your backside with that pimentade rubbed in to heal it up. You’ll be settin’ right down in a chair withoutn no cushion in a week or two.’

‘Pimentade? No pimentade, Masta. Please, suh, no pimentade. That make a nigger squeal worser than the larrupin’.’

‘Plenty o’ pimentade. That stuff cheap. Now, go down an’ take care of Papa. See to it his feet right next to that Alph’s stomick.’

‘Goin’ to whup that Memnon hard, ain’t you, Masta?’ Meg would not let the subject rest.

‘I reckon he need it, hard,’ said Ham, resuming his progress down the hall.

‘Kin I help, please, Masta, suh?’

‘Help whut?’

‘Help you in whuppin’ Memnon?’

‘You too little. Cain’t sling that paddle. Have to have Vulcan or Pole or one of ’em.’

Dite on her pallet beside the bed was awakened by the candlelight and the talk. She rose upon her elbow and asked, ‘Whure you want me, Masta, suh, in the bed or on the floo’?’

‘Better git in bed a little. Mayhap I wants you.’

Hammond knelt on Dite’s pallet to pray and Meg knelt beside him and listened. When Hammond arose from his knee and crawled upon the bed, Meg was aware of the girl lying beside him. He looked with abhorrence at her face upon the pillow, and hatred took possession of him. He desired not merely to kill Dite but to annihilate her. He wished that she had never been born, better yet that she had been born black and ugly, at very least that she were out in the quarters and not beside her master in his bed.

Meg pinched out the light of the candle and, finding no excuse to remain, went out of the room and closed the door. He spread himself out on the carpet in the hall as close as he could get to the door. Only when he heard Dite getting out of the bed to sleep on the pallet was he reconciled to sleep.

Hammond lay awake weaving fantasies about his projected journey in search of a wife, whom he was by no means certain he wanted. The errand would be pleasant, even if its objective was dubious. It would offer a respite from the responsibilities and the round of daily duties. He was in a state of somnolence between waking and sleeping when he heard a low-voiced altercation in the hall.

‘Git out o’ here, nigger. Your mammy waitin’ fer you. You cain’t sleep here. This my place.’ It was Memnon’s voice.

‘No, suh, nigger; I goin’ to sleep right here by my masta’s doo’. Don’ talk so loud; you wake Masta Ham, he be mad,’ Meg whispered. ‘I Masta Ham’s nigger.’

‘You isn’t nobody’s nigger. You ain’t hardly no more’n a sucker.’

‘I is too Masta’s nigger.’

‘Masta Ham jest a-coddin’ you, lettin’ you make like bein’ his nigger. Now, go down to the kitchen an’ let me go asleep.’

There was a sound of scuffling and the impact of a blow on flesh. A whining cry followed. It sounded as if it came from Memnon, but it must have been he who had slapped the child. Hammond leapt from his bed and made his way to the door.

‘Whut you mean, you scoun’rel, woppin’ my little buck?’ he demanded of the dark where he could just distinguish moving figures. ‘Now git outn here and keep quiet.’

‘I never hit him. He wopped me right in my mouf, Masta, suh,’ Mem pouted.

‘Never mind. Let Meg alone. Git outn here and stop your bellerin’. Meg, you lay down and go to sleep.’ Hammond closed the door and crawled back into his bed.

Dawn had hardly broken when Hammond was awakened by a small figure in front of the fireplace. Ham stretched and yawned.

‘Wants your wench?’ suggested Meg, kicking Dite with his bare foot. ‘Wake up, nigger. Masta crave you in his bed. Ain’t know nuffin’?’

‘Min’ your business, Meg. I wants Dite, I gits her. I don’ feel like no wench this morning.’

‘Yas, suh, Masta,’ and Meg resumed his squatting position before the fire, coaxing it to flare. He continued so, long after the flames were bursting brightly from the wood, adjusting the chunks across the dog-irons and readjusting them, killing time until the room should warm up and his master should see fit to arise. Dite got up, put on her dress and left the room without a word.

Hammond emerged from the bed, sat on the side of it, rubbed and scratched himself. ‘Pile plenty chunks on. Keep ‘is room hot. I goin’ to wash after breakfas’,’ he admonished.

‘Yas, suh,’ answered Meg, kneeling in front of his master and holding his long drawers for him to slip his legs into. A dexterity in adjusting his master’s garments seemed to be a part of the boy’s nature, since nobody had taught him a valet’s duties. He dressed his master as if he were dressing a baby, tenderly, carefully.

Breakfast was hardly finished when Meg announced, ‘Your tub ready, Masta, suh. Water all carried.’

‘Whut water?’ asked Hammond.

‘Water fer you to wash.’

‘All right. Run along an’ eat. Mem ready to wash me?’

Meg put his arm before his eyes and began to cry silently as he slowly walked toward the door.

‘Whut a matter, nigger? Whut you cry about?’ Hammond was baffled.

‘I wan’s to wash you, Masta, suh. Memnon gits to do ever’thing. I not your nigger at all,’ Meg cried overtly.

‘You too little,’ declared the master.

‘Kin do better’n Memnon.’

‘Aw right, aw right. You kin wash me,’ Hammond promised.

‘You lettin’ that nigger boss you. He be ownin’ you, first you knows,’ objected the elder Maxwell.

‘He right. He better’n Mem. He little, but let him try,’ Hammond placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, ‘He my nigger you know, Papa.’ Meg looked at him with the pleased solemnity of a prime minister.

When Hammond returned to his room, before the fire stood a washtub half filled with water from which arose small wisps of steam. A metal pail of water, with which to temper the heat of that in the tub, was on the fire. Towels were laid out on the bed. An irregular piece of home-made soap was on the floor. Fresh underclothing, socks and shirt were methodically arranged upon a chair.

Meg piled another knot of wood upon the fire, lest the warm room should cool off. He slipped his master’s clothes from him as deftly as he had put them on.

Hammond’s knee precluded his squatting in the water. It was necessary for him to sit in it, letting his legs protrude. Meg supported him with his whole strength as Hammond eased himself into the tub. Then the boy got down on his knees and soaped his master’s body, crawling around the tub from Hammond’s shoulders to his knees and legs and feet. Meg splashed himself and the carpet in rinsing the lather away.

He struggled to help Hammond rise, dripping, to his feet, sopped the water from him with a towel, and led him to the bed where the master lay and was rubbed with a dry towel warmed before the fire.

Hammond shoved his legs into his long drawers and submitted to being dressed. He felt refreshed, renovated, clean. Meg slipped himself into his own garments, buttoning the shirt askew in his haste to accompany his master down the stairs. He ran to the kitchen and, without waiting for help, mixed a toddy, which he carried to Hammond in the sitting-room. He stoked and replenished the fire, and drew a low rocker in front of it, brushing its upholstery in an unspoken invitation.

‘Nigger tryin’ to tell me whure I kin set down,’ Hammond commented to his father.

‘I tol’ you that you be his nigger first thing, an’ you give him his head. Plagued if I don’t reckon but he got more gumption than you, a white man washin’ hisself right dab in winter.’

Hammond was restless in the afternoon. There was no work that required doing. He thought of riding to Benson, but the roads were wretched and there would be nobody in the tavern, unless perhaps Brownlee had been delayed by the mire, and Ham had no desire ever to see Brownlee again. To sit by the fire and drink toddies with his father would be to re-hash again plans already formulated and recollections of trivialities best forgotten.

As a relief from ennui, Hammond would with gusto have undertaken the unrelished task of giving Memnon his whipping, but the day was Sunday. For the Maxwells, Sunday was not a day of devotion but a day of rest, to which the servants looked forward. A few of the older slaves, purchased from plantations where there had been religious services, might still recall some of the customs of their youth and say Sunday prayers in their cabins. The Maxwells didn’t know. They did not object to religion in the quarters, but did not encourage it. They did object to their Negroes learning to read. Besides being against the law for slaves, it gave them ideas they were safer, and, for that matter, happier without. At Falconhurst, no Biblical justification of the institution of slavery was required. Nobody disputed it. No admonition of servants to obey masters was needed. Why suggest to them that there exists an alternative?

Maxwell, by ignoring God, avoided the necessity to dispute authority with Him. Why introduce into plantation economy a being superior to the white master?

Hammond ordered his horse and rode over the plantation. He found the river falling and the dangers of overflow past. The horse picked its way upstream to where Saint Helens Creek emptied into the Tombigbee. Ham noted three of his young Negroes fishing with hooks and lines, reined up his horse to talk to them. They had caught four small catfish, but the current was too swift and the sunshine too pale for good fishing.

One of the Negroes had stepped on a moccasin with his bare foot, but the snake had slithered into the water without trying to bite him. Hammond warned the boy to be more careful. His father had paid six hundred dollars for that boy four years ago, and the bite of a moccasin might have killed him.

A deer crossed Hammond’s path, a pregnant doe, and disappeared in the brush. Later he saw a wildcat with two kittens playing on a log. He drew his pistol and shot at the mother, but was sure he missed her. He saw innumerable quail and some jacksnipes. The horse shied at a rattlesnake, sufficiently disturbed to coil in alarm. Wild life was so copious on the Maxwell property that it failed to excite Hammond’s interest.

He rode back across the fields he intended for cotton, but found them too sodden for ploughing, as he knew they would be. He was impatient to get to that work, which could not be undertaken for another month.

He returned to the stable and gave the horse to a hand with instructions about cleaning and currying it. Meg had seen him set out and was waiting at the stable for his return.

‘A toddy, Masta? Kin I stir you a toddy, suh?’ the urchin begged, following his master toward the house.

‘I reckon so,’ replied Hammond, bored and impatient for something to do.

He saw Big Pearl crossing the open space between the cabins, balancing a bucket of water on her head. She was as lithe and graceful in her way as the blacksnake that had scurried across his path down by the river. Big Pearl saw Hammond too, and, embarrassed by Doc Redfield’s diagnosis of her ailment, hurried forward to avoid a direct meeting.

But he called to her and asked, ‘All right agin, Big Pearl?’

She couldn’t hang her head lest she spill the water, and could only answer, ‘Yas, suh, Masta, I’s well. Didn’t nothin’ ail me, I reckon, nothin’ but jest belly-ache.’

‘Lucy in the cabin?’

‘Yassum, she’m to home,’ Big Pearl was reluctant to have her master and her mother discuss her illness, which she knew was his intention, but there was no way to prevent it.

Hammond turned towards the cabin. Meg would have followed him, but the master wouldn’t permit it. He told him to go to the house and stir his toddy. Belshazzar adjourned his hop-scotch before the door to follow his master into the cabin, where Lucy was picking over fresh, wild greens, the first of the season, she had gathered for supper. Meat was in a pot on the fire.

‘Evenin’, Masta, suh. Come right in. Come right in. Evenin’, suh. Bel, you git your triflin’ self out’n here. Cain’t you see Masta come? Let me move that kittle offn the cheer sosan you kin set down.’ Lucy was flustered at the honour of a visit from her young master. She grabbed a broomstick and began poking nervously at the fire.

‘Evenin’, Lucy. Big Pearl all right agin?’

‘Wasn’t nuffin, wasn’t nuffin at all,’ Lucy disparaged. ‘Jest tomfoolery, I reckon. Wenches gits that way.’

‘Big Pearl craves I should pleasure her?’ Hammond asked without his embarrassment being noticed.

‘She sho’ do. She sho’ do. You isn’t goin’ to, is you?’ Lucy couldn’t credit her fortune.

‘And you thinks I had ought to?’

‘An’ you craves to, I be mighty ’bliged. Of course, Big Pearl craves her master.’

‘Well, git her ready. Wash her good—all over.’

‘Sho’ will scrub that wench, Masta, suh.’

‘And put some red stuff in the water that you gits from Lucretia Borgia. She tell you how.’

‘Red stuff?’ Lucy failed to understand.

‘To kill the musk. Big Pearl powerful musky.’

‘Sho’ is. An’ then I sends her over to you at the big house?’

‘Nev’ mind. I comes back here in little while.’

Hammond left the cabin with a kind of loathing. He flinched at the task he had undertaken, doubtful of his ability to complete it? Would he falter when the time arrived? It would be a shock to his manhood, if he should fail. As a connoisseur of fine animals he was proud of Big Pearl, but he had never thought of her as human. There was something bestial about the chore. He was being used as a mere service jackass, like a stud nigger. Yet his father expected it of him, the wench would feel cheated of her right, Lucy would lose caste if he neglected the daughter she had preserved so carefully for him, the other Negroes took it for granted as a master’s right, and, insofar as a master had any obligation to a slave, a master’s duty. To omit it would not impair his authority, nor excite contempt, except his own; it would beget only wonder, question.

Hammond was hardly out of Lucy’s cabin, when the orgy of preparation for the long-anticipated event began. A tub was brought in and Big Pearl and Belshazzar were sent to the well for water, enough of which to bathe the huge girl required three trips for each. There was no time to heat it, since the master would return in ‘a little while’, and Lucy didn’t know whether he meant in five minutes or at his leisure, and she had feared to ask. She ran to the kitchen of the big house for soap and the red stuff to kill the musk, and Lucretia Borgia took her deliberate time in getting it for her.

‘Hurry up; hurry. Young Masta gwine to rape Big Pearl, an’ I got to git her scrubbed clean,’ Meg heard Lucy tell his mother. ‘Hurry up, please, mam, Miz Lucretia Borgia.’

When Big Pearl got her feet into the washtub there was little room for the rest of her. If she should sit or squat, the water would slop out. Lucy used a dish-rag gourd as a sponge, soaping it and scouring Big Pearl’s body. Then, since Big Pearl could not be soaked in the permanganate of potash solution, Lucy achieved the same result by repeatedly squeezing her sponge over the girl’s shoulders, keeping the body wet.

Big Pearl was too excited to sense the coldness of the water. She listened to Lucy’s injunctions and threats without hearing them.

‘You ack a lady now. Do everything like Masta Hammon’ say—jest like he say—ever’thin’,’ Lucy instructed her. ‘Don’ you dare ask Masta fer nuffin’—nuffin’ at all. Young Masta know whut he want to do to you and know whut he goin’ to give you. If you not a lady, I thresh you. An’ remember to say thankee to Masta Ham. Whether he give you nothin’ or not, say thankee.’ Lucy repeated her cautions with variations over and over.

While Big Pearl dried herself, Lucy scurried to Dido’s cabin to spread the news and to borrow a quilt. Her excitement was unconcealed. ‘Dido,’ she implored, ‘let me have your new quilt. Masta Ham gwine to rape Big Pearl right away, an’ my quilt dirty. I knows you choice of it, but for Young Masta, an’ I knows you let me have it.’

‘Better take along this bolster, too. Yourn ’most ragged,’ Dido suggested.

Lucy hurried home with the bedclothes, and Dido lost no time in heralding the tidings about the neighbourhood, not neglecting to boast that her bedding was better than Lucy’s.

Lucy made the bed anew, ordered Belshazzar to empty the tub and to be gone and not to come back until Hammond should come and go. She replenished the fire and sat down to wait. She was more nervous than Big Pearl, and as happy.

‘You cold?’ she asked the naked girl.

‘No’um,’ Big Pearl replied. ‘Reckon he come?’

‘He come. Give him time,’ said Lucy. ‘You too hasty. White man take his time,’ said Lucy, getting up to smooth an imagined wrinkle from the quilt. ‘Right kind of Dido, borrowin’ her new quilt to me.’

The mother resumed her seat upon a bench by the fire and looked at her daughter. ‘You real purty, Big Pearl,’ was her verdict. ‘Coarsen you ain’t yaller an’ you big. Always was big, bigger’n any sucker I ever had—’ceptin’ that one buck, borned before you, that Ol’ Masta Wilson kept fer his own self when Masta Hammond’s pappy bought me an’ you. I wonders did Ol’ Masta Wilson sell that little buck or is he still at Coign Plantation. Course he big now. He two or three crops older’n you.’

‘Who pleasured you, Mammy; the first time, I means?’ Big Pearl asked.

‘My masta, course,’ replied Lucy candidly. ‘Ol’ Masta Wilson. He gettin’ ol’. I speck he dead now, he so ol’.’

‘You reckon Masta Ham let me take up—after he through with me?’

‘Prob’ly, prob’ly. As is, you wastin’. Could have a nice sucker a’ready. Prob’ly give you to Big Vulc or some of ’em fer awhile. Vulc a right likely nigger, stylish an all. Pole better lookin’ but he no good. Lucretia Borgia ain’t had no sucker fer goin’ on three year now. Pole young an’ strong, but he jest ain’t got no sap.’

‘You don’ reckon Masta Ham aim to take me into the big house fer his bed wench, does you?’ Big Pearl said hopefully.

‘Whut foolishment you talk! Masta don’ crave no big gyascutus like you fer his bed. He wants ’em light and little, like Dite. Dido say he lookin’ at Tense, only she too little yet awhile.’

‘You says you own self that I purty.’

‘You purty, but you big and you right dark. Make a good breeder, mayhap, fer Masta. No bed wench. Ain’t you satisfy?’

‘Yassum.’

When Hammond emerged from the big house, more eyes were watching him than he suspected. Lucretia Borgia saw him through the kitchen window and grunted with envious jealousy. Meg’s jealousy was even greater. From behind bushes and around cabin corners, black faces peered, and all knew his errand and envied Big Pearl the honour they knew he was about to do her.

Lucy and Big Pearl both rose when they saw the master. He entered the cabin, removed his coat and laid it on a box which served as a table. Unbuckling his holster, and laying his gun beside his coat, he said, ‘All right, Lucy, you kin go over to Dido’s or somers, but watch that door and keep them niggers outn here.’

‘Big Pearl, you ack like lady, now. Do whut Masta say or he whup you. Dat a good strong broomstick right by fire, and you needs it, Masta.’

‘Don’ you fret, Lucy. Big Pearl ain’t goin’ to need no broomstick to her.’

‘Better not; better not need none,’ threatened Lucy, closing the door behind her.

Later, when Hammond left the cabin, he was at once exhausted and exhilarated. The ordeal had been more difficult but more pleasant than he had expected. He had a sense of duty performed. His back tingled with the raking of Big Pearl’s powerful fingers through his shirt and his shoulder pained from her bite.

When Lucy returned she found Big Pearl still on the bed weeping and laughing.

‘Whut you cryin’ fer, nigger? Masta Ham hurt?’

‘No’um, no’um. Masta Ham awful nice. I jest loves Masta Ham.’

‘He have to whup you?’

‘No’um, no’um. Masta never whup me once. Masta Ham sho’ is kin’ white man.’

‘Masta Ham say about you takin’ up?’

‘Didn’t say nothin’. Mayhap he goin’ to crave me for his bed wench,’ Big Pearl speculated.

‘Mayhap he don’. Mayhap he goin’ to give you to one of the niggers and raise him a sucker outn you.’

Hammond had no fear of his father’s disapproval; rather, he feared the chuckle of approbation. He decided to postpone the narration of his exploit, to draw the sting from the old man’s triumph by passing the incident off as a plantation routine when the father should eventually learn of it. But he reckoned without Negro gossip. Lucretia Borgia and Agamemnon had both blabbed to Maxwell, who had already noticed Meg’s restless perturbation, which he attributed to a scolding or switching which Hammond had probably given the urchin.

The father was taking the final swallows from his glass when the son entered the room. ‘Memnon,’ he called. ‘Better drink a toddy, Son. Do you good.’

But without waiting for Memnon to answer, Meg slipped a hot glass into Hammond’s hand.

‘Now, stir one fer your masta. Mustn’t never give me nothin’ ’thout givin’ some to your masta, your ol’ masta,’ Hammond explained.

Hammond held his drink in his hand, letting it cool, but by the time Meg returned with Maxwell’s drink, Hammond was sipping at his own. ‘This too strong, boy, too much corn,’ he complained. ‘Taste.’

Meg took the glass, looked at it and then at Hammond. ‘Right outn yo’ glass?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Taste it,’ Hammond said again.

Meg raised the goblet dubiously to his lips. He never had liked the smell of the concoction, and the flavour he relished even less. He had been told to taste, however, and he took three small swallows before Hammond grabbed it from his hand. ‘I tol’ you to taste,’ the master reprimanded. ‘I never tol’ you to drink it down. Now fill it up with hot water. Yourn all right, Papa? Not too much corn?’

‘Mine good. That saplin’ of yourn stirs ’em better’n the big nigger, seem like.’

The pleasure that the praise, which he overheard, gave Meg was tempered by the fear of having his services diverted from the son to the father. He was back with Hammond’s drink and waited for approval.

‘This better. This good,’ said Hammond.

‘Never did like much corn in yo’ toddy, Son. Whisky do you good after your tussle. Big Pearl powerful strong,’ Maxwell led into the subject.

‘She big, all right.’

‘How you likes black meat?’

‘Same as yaller meat, an’ you closes your eyes. Reckon white meat ain’t no different, ’ceptin’ fer musk.’

‘Jest the same. Jest the same. Right pleased you found out. Tired, Ham?’

‘A mite, jest a mite. I feels good.’

‘Be a-pesterin’ Big Pearl regular, first thing,’ Maxwell predicted.

‘Mayhap,’ admitted Hammond. ‘Worst thing is havin’ to—the first time.’

‘All your own doin’. Nobody didn’t make you. Niggers cain’t make they owner do nothin’ he don’ want to.’

‘They expects it, howsumever, kind of. You says so your own self. A good masta has to pleasure ’em. If’n he kin, that is. An’ I kin.’

‘An’ you kin, an’ you wants to, it a good thing. Makes ’em feel you takin’ an in’erest in ’em. Makes ’em feel they belong to you. Even bucks sets more store in a wench that her masta has pestered. I wisht you enjoyed it more.’

‘I doesn’t disenjoy it. Oft times I likes it right well. Take this Big Pearl now, she dark and she big, but she right hearty. Right hearty.’

Father and son exchanged a smile.