Drum (59 page)

were locked, caBdles extinguished and the windows closed lest a sudden shower during the night spot the damask draperies.

Hammond was still sober enough to walk to his own roomi without Drumson's assistance. When Drumson opened the door, he found Regine sitting up in Hanmiond's bed, and her eyes followed him as he went about making his mastef ready for the night. As he was drawing off the boots, h« noticed they were new and stiff, and he proceeded cautiously^ anticipating Hammond's curses.

"Goddam boots too stiff." Hammond extended his feet fa Drumson to remove the socks. "Been a-hurtin' like hell a] the time I been a-listenin' to that woman shootin' off he mouth 'bout Sophie a-goin' 'way to school. Hell, she sure i long-winded bitch. If n she go or not don' make no neveP minds and she probably needs a little polishin'. Went awaj to school myself onct. Sophie comin' up jes' like a niggei wench. Purty soon she makin' eyes at the white boys and ain' none of 'em goin' to marry her with her gooch eyes, 'specially if she acts like a varmint, less'n some no-good, goddam son of a bitch marries her fer her money." He waited for Drumson to bring the china wash bowl and thet placed his feet gratefully in the warm water, wiggling his toes in relief. "Look, boy! Scoot over to the old house anc go up in my room. Aside the chest you'll see my old boots: Fetch 'em back so's I can use 'em tomorrow. Ain' no use ii killin' myself 'nother day."

Drumson knelt before his master, holding a towel to drj his feet, but Hammond waved him away.

"Regine dries 'em fo' me when I'se finished. Goin' to set here awhile. Got to think 'bout some things. Skedaddle now and get them boots. When you comes back, leave 'em out side the do'."

"Yas suh, Masta Hammond, suh." Drumson was half ou the door. He dreaded the trip over to the old house—dowi the hill, through the thickly wooded glade at the bottom when the creek was bridged by a single plank, up the rise that le< to the old house, past the burying ground where white marbU slabs glowed ghostly in the night. But if he ran, he'd get ove: there and back in a hurry, and there was the pleasant an ticipation of Elvira's warm flesh to welcome him when he r© turned. It would be pleasanter if it were Regine's but h( realized that what belonged to his master could never be his He wondered if, in his drunken stupor, Hammond coul

fully appreciate Regine and he was certain that he couldn't. Hammond was incapable of giving her the full fire of passion that he could. No white man could! But what good did it do him to think about it?

Fortunately there was a moon which dispelled the darkness, but when he entered the thick patch of woods at the bottom of the hill, the moon's light was hidden by the leaves and the tattered hangings of moss. It was so dark he could not even see his own hand. He thought he heard something stir alongside the path and the sudden rustling in the bushes startled him so that he ran even faster. There was a pool of moonlight in the still water of the creek and he heard his feet hit the plank bridge, and the hollow sound that they made echoed back to him from the water below. Now, faced with the uphill path, he had to slow down, but when he reached the crest and saw the white gravestones, like dancing wraiths suddenly struck still, he once again hurried his steps, more confident now as he saw the sway-backed silhouette of the old house. It was dark—there were no lights in any of the windows—and he ran around to the back and entered through the kitchen door.

The remnants of a fire in the fireplace showed the lumpy outlines of Memnon and Lucretia Borgia, sleeping on a pallet on the floor. He tiptoed past them, not however without waking the woman.

"Who in hell dat?" She sat up quickly. "Memnon, wake up —dere's someone here in de kitchen."

"It's me—Drumson." He was quick to identify himself, for he did not want any poker-wielding Lucretia Borgia after him. "Masta Hammond send me over to git his boots. Wants a candle, I do. Got to go up to his room 'n fin' 'em."

Still grumbling, she heaved herself up from the floor, fumbled in the darkness for the kitchen tinderbox, struck a light and applied it to a candle stub.

"What you mean a-rampagin' through here this time o' night? Ain' you got no manners, boy? Cain't you knock on de do'? How'n you don' know ol' Memnon he ain' a-pesterin' me o' somepin? Nex' time you knocks and waits. Git up and git dem boots and git t'hell outa here."

"Yes'm, yes'm." Drumson reached for the candle but Lucretia Borgia held it away from him.

"You uppity city niggers ain' got no manners. No bringin' up! Lived in N'Orleans myself I did onct. Never did see sech goin's on as I saw there." She held the flickering candle up

close to Drumson's face. "But yo' shore a purty buck. Whyn't you take off yo' shoes and stop here a few minutes? That Memnon, he 'sleep and he don' min' even if n he wakes up. How 'bout it, purty boy?"

Her hand pulled Drumson over to her but he grabbed ths candle from her, dashed up the stairs and found the boots. Lucretia Borgia was waiting hopefully for him in the kitchen when he returned but he did not stop to speak to her. He handed her the candle and was out the door.

"You uppity li'l som-of-a-bitch," Lucretia Borgia called after him.

His running feet carried him past the burying ground and down the hill. His feet touched the plank bridge and once across it he hurried his steps through the pitch darkness. Without warning he collided with something in the path— something big and warm and immovable. There was a sudden male yelp of surprise, followed by an indrawn feminine cry. Drumson had nearly had his breath knocked out of him by the imexpected impact. He stood still, gasping, smelling the sweaty body of another man near him.

"Who t'hell is you?" a bull voice bellowed.

Drumson recognized the voice as that of Clees.

"Drumson from the new house."

"Spyin' on us, huh? You're the goddam sneakin' bahst'd whut done wen' and tol' Miz 'Gusta 'bout me. Whut you tella her? You tells her I a-lettin' that Miz Sophie diddle me in dei kitchen? You a-tellin' her dat? Dat why she tell me I cain't come no' mo'? Dat why, huh, you pipe-stem li'l city nigger, you?"

"Ain' said nothin' bout you and Miz Sophie. NothinT Drumson was getting his breath and started to move around Clees.

"Drumson ain' said nothin'." It was Clytie's voice trying to pacify Clees.

"Ain' so shore." Clees' hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed the front of Drumson's shirt. "Don't trust this li'l rat. Goin' to give um a lesson."

The fist that hit Drumson's face had risen quickly and entirely invisibly but it hit with a sledge-hajnmer force that would have knocked Drumson down had not the othei hand been holding him up by his shirt. Again it hit, numbing the side of Drumson's face and making his head reel.

"Tha's 'nough, Clees, don' hit um no mo'. Masta Ham-

mond won' like it if you messes up his pretty boy." Drumson could feel Clytie's hands pawing at Clees' arm.

It had been a long time since he had worked out regularly every morning with Uncle Blaise in Madame's courtyard, but now almost automatically he raised his right arm, swinging from the shoulder as much as he could with the grip on his chest. He felt his fist crash into the softness of Clees' belly and he heard the big fellow grunt. The boots slipped from his left hand as he raised it to crash it into the face before him. He felt the satisfaction of hearing the blow land and the yelp from Clees, then once again he felt the hammering blows on his face. They hammered him down until he was flat on the ground. Rough shoes were stomping on him until he slipped into a blacker darkness in which there was no pain, nor any thought.

How long he remained there he did not know, but eventually he felt the warm touch of soft fingers on his cheek and kept hearing his name spoken over and over again. He tried hard to answer but found it impossible until, with a final effort at concentration, he opened his eyes. The darkness had disappeared in the dim half-light of dawn which grayed the trees and silvered the festoons of hanging moss. Now he could see Elvira kneeling beside him, repeating his name over and over again.

"Wha's happened, oh wha's happened, Drum-boy?"

He tried to reply but he couldn't remember. His head ached with a relentless throbbing and his face felt as though it had been pounded into a pulp.

"Kin you git up?" Elvira was trying to raise his head.

With difficulty, Drumson made the effort, first raising himself on his elbows, then to his knees and finally to his feet. He swayed, holding onto Elvira for support and then, her arm supporting him, walked painfully to the house with her. It was fully light and the sun was shining when they finally got there. Elvira helped him into the kitchen. Clytie was up and had a fire already started in the big iron stove and was putting a pot of water on to heat. She looked up, surveyed the ravages to Drumson's face, her own livid with fear.

"Somepin' happen to he?" She helped Elvira, taking hold of one of Drumson's arms and guiding him to a chair.

"Don' know what. Kin you talk now, Drumson?" ' He looked up at Clytie.

"You knows what happened. You was there with Clees. You heard."

"Ain' been nowhere, ain' seen nuthin'." Qytie was vehement in her denials. "Ain' seen Clees since Miz 'Gusta put 'im out yestiday." She walked over to the stove, tested the temperature of the water in the pot with her finger and poured out some in a basin. "Better git some of that blood oflf'n his face 'fore Masta Hammond call him. Better git him washed up, Elviry." She rummaged in a closet under the sink and found a clean cloth. "Here, wash him up so's Masta Hammond won' known he been a-fightin'. Won' stan' for no nigger fightin', Masta Hanunond won't."

"Who been a-fightin'?" They all turned to look at th© pantry door. Hammond was standing there, dressed in his shirt and trousers but barefooted. "Where's my boots I sent you for las' night, Drumson? Ain' in front o' my do'."

Drumson struggled to rise to his feet.

"No suh, Masta Hammond, suh. Don' jes' know where them boots is at. Los' em I did, down in the woods by the creek."

Hammond walked across the kitchen floor to stand directly in front of Drumson.

"Plain to see you been a-fightin'. You sure look as though you tangled with a wU' cat. Who you fightin' wid?"

"Don' jes' rightly know, Masta Hanomond, suh. Ain' a-seen him. Was a-comin' home las' night, taking the short cut hke you tol' me and jes' after I cross the bridge, wham, somepin' hit me on the head. Knew'd it was another man but jes' ain' certain who it was."

An audible sigh escaped from Clytie who covered it up bj exaggerated display of busy motions.

"I knows who done it, Masta Hammond." Elvira was waiting patiently, cloth in hand, to wash Drumson's face. "I knov who done it. Clees."

"Shet yo' mouth 'til you asked." The toddies of the nigh' before and his annoyance at not finding the boots waiting foi him, together with the evidence of Drumson's fighting, weri all combining to rouse Hammond's anger. ]

"She don' know. She don' know nuthin'." Clytie knew shi should keep her own mouth shut but she was too anxious tc protect Clees.

"An' who tol' you to open yo' trap?" Hammond swunj around only to see Clytie's back while she spun the handle on the coffee grinder. "Goddam wrmmen talk too goddam muchi Now, what is all this? Drumson lookin' like he beei gored by a bull; Elvira shootin' her mouth off that Clees done

it; and Clytie a-puttin' her oar in that he didn't." He turned back to Drumson, leaned over and examined his face. One eye was badly puffed, the under lip was cracked open and there was a patch of skin missing from the cheek, A lump as big as a goose egg decorated Drumson's forehead and through his torn shirt, there were bruises on his chest.

"Come on now! Either we gets the truth easy-like or all of you gets whupped and I means it." Hammond was in no mood for trifling. "Drumson, who you been fightin' with?"

Drumson tried to steady himself on his feet. "Jes' like I said, Masta Hammond, suh. Ain' shore. Pretty dark in them there woods at night. But I guess Elvira's right. Thinks it was Clees."

"What you'n Clees been argifying 'bout? Ain' goin' ter have no feudin' on the place. Ain' goin' to have no j5.ghtin* neither. Fightin' marks up a slave worse'n whuppin'. Whup-pin' don' hurt they faces."

"Ain' had no trouble with Clees." Drumson was telling the truth. "Leastwise not afore now. He mad 'cause Miz 'Gusta say he cain't sit here in the kitchen no mo'. He say I tol' her he been here."

"So it was Clees?"

"Thinks so, Masta Hammond, but didn't see him. Couldn't see him in the dark."

Hammond looked down at his bare feet. "Elvira, you nms down and see if'n you kin find my boots. Clytie, you gits me some breakfast here in the kitchen. Drumson, git yo' face washed and eat somepin', Soon's we finish we's a-goin' over to the ol' house. Goin' to find that Clees. Ain' goin' to have no fightin' at Falconhurst. Goin' to make a 'zample."

"You going to whup Clees?" Qytie nearly dropped the cup of ground coffee. Her hands were trembling so she had to set it down on the table.

"Whups him if'n I wants to. Takes the skin clear off'n his back if I wants to. Whup you if n you don't go 'bout gitting my breakfast and keep yo' goddam mouth shet."

Elvira returned with the boots, and Clytie managed to get some sort of breakfast on the table while Elvira cleaned off Drumson's face as best she could. Brutus and Balsam came down the stairs; Merc and Jupe descended from the attic, carrying their shoes in their hands, followed by Jackson. Ajax entered, bringing with him the odor of fresh horse manure. All sat in silence, waiting for Hammond to finish

his breakfast. When he was through, he indicated the eggs and ham left on the platter.

"Eat it," he said to Dnimson. "You shore goin' to need it."

Afterwards Hammond and Drumson walked in silence over to the old house, past it and down the dusty road that went through the slave quarters, where cabin doors were being opened, slops being emptied, fires being started. What few slaves were out greeted Hammond, but they were aware, from the look on his face, that something of importance was about to happen. When he reached the long shed that housed the men, Hammond saw that Memnon had already imlocked the door and he entered, Drumson behind him. The slaves were just getting up, some dressed, some still sitting on their pallets on the floor, yawning, stretching and trying to force their consciousness to the recognition of a new day after a night of oblivion.