Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 16
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ОглавлениеThe man approaching was past his prime, somewhat portly, with a heavy smooth-shaved face. He wore a long-tailed coat and high hat, walked with a cane, and with his free hand twirled incessantly a key which dangled from a heavy watch chain looped across his waistcoat. Parisot looked suspiciously at Bowie, and then called to the overseer.
“Peters!”
The man went to him, his manner typically respectful and impersonal.
“I’ve undertaken to clear the ship by morning,” said the merchant.
The overseer said, “We’re less than half finished, sir.”
“You’ll work tonight.”
“With this gang?”
“It’s all I can give you.”
The mouth behind the black beard tightened. “Very good, sir.” The overseer shook loose his whip, then coiled it again in his hand. Human endurance had limits, even to an overseer’s mind. But orders were orders. The braided lash of that whip would be wet with blood before the night’s driving was finished ...
Bowie lifted his hat. “Are you Monsieur Parisot?”
“I am.”
“Then I have a letter addressed to you from Judge Sophocles Boden, of Opelousas.”
“I have the honor of Judge Boden’s acquaintance.” Parisot took the letter and scanned it. Bowie found little in him to like. “You are Mr. Bowie?” He extended a limp hand. “From the Bayou Boeuf? I know the country in general. H’mm—Judge Boden mentions that you’re in lumber.”
“I have a matter of business concerning that——”
“Pardon. I don’t transact business on Sunday—except a necessity like this unlading of a ship which has sailing orders.”
“I have reason for wishing to discuss matters with you today.”
“It will have to be an extraordinarily good reason, sir.”
Bowie smiled. “I may be killed tomorrow.”
“Did—did I understand you correctly?” Parisot gaped.
“I’m being called out by a gentleman of this city who is, I’m informed, accomplished with his weapons.”
“Oh, a duel?” Parisot nodded as one who finds the explanation less startling than he had thought. “What’s the nature of your proposal?”
“You purchase lumber?”
“Among other things—yes.”
“I am to inquire if you will take the output of a sawmill my brothers and I own together.”
“H’mm.” A hidden gleam of alertness came into the merchant’s eyes. In a casual manner he asked some questions. Bowie named a price.
Parisot fell silent, twirling his watch key. “I must have time to consider your proposition,” he said at last. “There are a few points that need examination.”
“Haven’t I made myself clear?”
“Perhaps. But always there are factors requiring further adjustment. I must consider the risks involved. As it happens, pine lumber is a drug on the market here. Of cypress, on the other hand, I could use all you can send. You suggest mixed shipments in equal quantities. Now if you were to furnish all cypress——”
“At the price I quoted?”
“Naturally.”
“Cypress is harder to log—and to saw—as you know, sir. Our price is shaved to the last penny. For cypress only I’d have to ask a higher figure.”
Parisot poked with his cane at a knot in one of the wharf planks. “You desire to establish an outlet in New Orleans? You should be prepared to make concessions.”
“The price I quoted was fair, sir.”
The merchant studied Bowie’s face. “Fair? What is fair? You’ve had small experience with trade, young man. I buy at the lowest price I can bargain and sell at the highest. You wish to settle the business before tomorrow—under the circumstances, these are my only terms.”
Bowie looked at the dock owner with a certain longing. But you cannot throttle a man simply because he won’t bargain your way. He changed the subject.
“These are your Negroes, Monsieur Parisot?”
“They are.”
“Nice lot.”
The merchant shrugged. “As good as one can get these days. It’s hard to buy prime hands since the government stopped the bringing of slaves into the country.”
“That fellow in the shed—where did you get him?”
Parisot turned his gaze in that direction. “That’s an example of what I say, Mr. Bowie. He was a house servant. My agent bought him at an auction, because he seemed likely. But he’s spoiled and uppity—spent too much time opening doors and polishing silver and pouring wine. Peters! You’ve had trouble again with that man Sam?”
“Yes, sir,” the overseer said. “Had to give him a taste of the snake whip this morning.”
The overseer spoke with the icy detachment of his class, handlers of human flesh and blood, whose profession was to accomplish certain things with the units in their charge, using whatever methods were needful to stimulate them to the results desired.
“A bad actor,” said Parisot petulantly. “And he can ruin the others. Thinks he’s got rights—like resting on Sunday.”
“A few weeks in a breaking camp might be good for him,” said Peters. Merchant and overseer frowned over at the slave.
“He seems to work hard enough,” Bowie said.
“When he has to,” said Parisot.
“If he’s a trained house servant, why put him at common labor?”
“Because I need hands, not house servants!” The merchant turned to the overseer. “Peters, I’m out of patience. That rascal’s acted up once too often. Get hold of the factors tomorrow, and turn him over to the breaking camp. I want the fear of God put into him!”
He said it with a peculiar gloating ferocity. Work had ceased momentarily while the hoists brought up more cargo from the hold, and Bowie knew the slave had overheard him.
The implications were sufficiently shocking. Operations of the so-called “breaking camps” down in the Delta were carefully hushed up in Louisiana, but rumors concerning them had circulated for years: whispered stories of strange secret horrors, where the lash sounded day and night, and starvation, the water cure, the thumbscrew, the branding iron—all forms of torment that did not break or maim yet gave exquisite anguish—were employed to destroy any “spirit” in the unfortunates held there, particularly those newly imported from the Guinea coast or the Congo. Bowie had heard of the shocking “wastage” in the breaking process, the deaths and suicides: and how miserable victims who managed somehow to survive came out of the hell-camps little better than idiots, their minds gone, capable all their lives of but one emotion—fear.
The slave called Sam had listened with the terrible fascination of those who are certain of a ghastly doom, yet await final pronouncement of their sentences. Bowie found himself suddenly very unwilling to have this man sent to a breaking camp.
“You got him at the Carter plantation sale?” he asked Parisot.
“I believe so.”
“I was acquainted with Dr. Carter Carter prior to his death. A conspicuous gentleman in his day.”
“Yes. Most unfortunate that he died without direct heirs. An ornament to the country, Carter Hall, and it had to be broken up——”
“It happens I know this man of yours. He was Dr. Carter’s butler. I have a fancy to take him off your hands.”
The gleam of alertness flickered again in Parisot’s eye, instantly disappearing. He shook his head. “Sorry. He’s not for sale.”
“Name a price.”
“I said he was not for sale.”
“You spoke of sending him to a breaking camp.”
“I did.”
“It might kill him.”
“A risk I have to take.”
“He’d be little use to you then.” Bowie hesitated. “Would you trade him?”
“For another slave?” Parisot was crafty. “Not for a brute nigger fresh out of Africa.”
“Would you trade for two?”
Parisot grew smooth. “Age and condition?”
“Equal or better.”
“When?”
“It would take a little time.”
“Days?”
“Six months.”
Parisot thought. “If you mean it, there can be but one answer. I agree.”
“Good. I’ll take the man with me now.”
The merchant grinned humoringly. “You’re joking. Where’s the exchange?”
“My personal note of hand.”
“With all apologies, my young friend, I’m afraid a personal note from you wouldn’t be very negotiable in these times.”
“As security, my one-third of the lumbering concern on the Bayou Boeuf.”
Parisot studied him. “You seem to want this slave badly.”
“I need a valet.”
“Very well. Step to my office. We’ll draw up the papers.”
“Let me speak to the slave first.”
“Certainly.” At Parisot’s nod the overseer made a motion of his coiled whip and the Negro clanked toward them with his shackles. He was tall and strong, with a slight grizzle at his temples, and a black face which was intelligent, if at the moment bleak and sullen. Bowie could remember that face when it was lit with a smile of welcome at Dr. Carter’s hospitable door.
“Sam,” he said.
“Marse Bowie, suh.” The slave was deferential, yet dignified, in spite of his weariness and pain.
“I’m buying you from Monsieur Parisot.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to the merchant, to the overseer, then back to Bowie. “Yes, suh,” he said. Then, as if the full significance of it had just dawned, “Yes, suh, Marse Bowie!”
Bowie looked at Peters. “Have those shackles off of him.”
The overseer glanced at Parisot.
“You hear him,” the merchant said.
The man with the black beard nodded impassively. He was a slave overseer, and such men were trained to feel no more human emotion in themselves than they recognized in the slaves under them. He began to unlock the irons on Sam’s ankles.
