Drum (64 page)

Very slowly Hammond stood up and walked around behind her chair. He shoved Brutus away and pulled back her chair for her himself and offered her his arm.

"It is not dark outside yet, Miz 'Gusta. Supposin' we take a stroll down the road to look at the new trees which you wanted set out. An' I was a-thinkin' 'bout somethin' else, ma'am. I kin remember back to the days when my mama was a-livin' at the ol' house. Had a flower garden, she did, and right pretty it was. Guess it's time I tho't 'bout plantin' somethin' else 'sides yams and sorghum. If'n I'm a-goin to be a gentleman, a-livin' like a white man, guess a few posies would help matters out." He looked at her and smiled.

"I've always wanted a flower garden." Augusta felt more tears coming but tried to hold them back. "But perhaps more than a flower garden, I've wanted a home."

"Falconhurst's yourn, ma'am, jes' so long as you wants to stay here."

"Thank you, Mr. Maxwell." Augusta adjusted her step to his as they passed out into the hall. He held the front door open for her.

"You've made a right purty place out of it. Proud of it, I am. Proud to have my friends at dinner here when you gets ready to serve 'em. P'rhaps, Miz 'Gusta, havin' done so much with the house you might do somepin' with the master."

She had controlled the tears but still she did not dare to speak.

"Spen' most o' my life with slaves, Miz 'Gusta. Got so I talk and act like one o' them. Perhaps you kin change that."

Drumson heard the big front door close. With Brutus following him, he ran to the big windows of the parlor that looked down the lane to the road, now lined with saplings. Ihe sun had set, leaving an afterglow of pink, purple and

II

rose in the sky. He saw Hammond and Augusta walking down the lane, stopping from time to time to discuss some particular tree which had been set out and was flourishing.

Brutus stepped up beside him to peer out the window.

"Looks mighty lak you soon going to be pleasurin' that Regine wench," he said. "Don' reckon Masta Hammond goin' to be a-needin' her much longer."

chapter xii

Formal invitations to the dinner, written out in Augusta's copperplate hand in purple ink on fancy gilt-edged note-paper, were mailed. Of late years guests at the old house had been a rare occurrence. Occasionally a trader would arrive with his caffle and be invited to remain overnight, while his slaves were bedded down in the barn. Otherwise, Falcon-hurst was not known for its hospitality. This was not so when Hammond's mother was still alive. Then there had been considerable entertaining but, of course, at that time Falcon-hurst had been a cotton plantation and as such had occupied a certain respectability in the social hierarchy of the South. After old Warren Maxwell had abandoned_the raising of cotton and substituted the more profitable breeding of slaves, the Maxwells, although attaining an envious place financially, had lost the modicum of social prestige they held through his wife's family. Now Augusta's remark that there was little use in having a fine house if nobody but Hammond and herself were ever to see it had awakened his dormant desire to be accepted socially. The new intimacy he felt between himself and Augusta made him anxious to show off the house, of which he had become very proud, and also Augusta, of whom he felt even prouder. She was, he admitted, a fine-looking woman, an excellent housekeeper, a most efficient manager and, perhaps most important of all, a charming companion. Certainly she was like no other white woman he had ever met before.

And so, the invitations were sent out—to the Holcombs of The Coign, to the Gasaways of Burnt Hill and to the Redfields of Three Oaks, which was the name Doc Redfield had just given to his small plantation. With prosperity the Redfields had acquired a certain amount of respectability, and a recent extended visit to Richmond, where Red-field had gone to purchase slaves, had given them a veneer of social graces. At the last moment, Hammond decided to

ask the Rowe sisters—the Misses EUybee and Abbie Ruth— maiden ladies of eminent respectability who, although impecunious, managed to exist almost entirely on the past glories of their worn-out plantation and their aging slaves. Years ago they had snubbed the socially inferior Maxwells, but with Hammond's widower status and his return from Texas to prosperity their attitude had changed.

There was the problem of putting up the guests, for of course guests for dinner must remain overnight, even the Redfields who lived less than an hour's drive away. The new house had, in addition to Hammond's bedroom on the ground floor, only four large bedrooms on the second floor, not including the small one Regine occupied. In her perplexity as to where to put the guests, Augusta consulted Hammond. She volunteered to move up to the servant's quarters on the third floor for one night but he would not hear of it. He suggested instead that she send Regine up there and use the room herself, thus relinquishing her own room to the Misses EUybee and Abbie Ruth. Augusta agreed that it would be a good solution, secretly happy that Hammond was willing to forego Regine for at least one night and pleased that the suggestion had come from him without any prompting on her part.

Never before in its short life had the new house been so thoroughly scrubbed, waxed, polished and shined. The household staff was not large enough and some of the field hands were brought in to apply their vigorous muscles to rubbing beeswax and turpentine into the floors and polishing them with powerful arms. Furniture was rubbed with lemon oil until it shone. Carpets were spread with wet sawdust and swept; the crystals of the chandeliers were washed in ammonia water and dried with tissue paper to make them sparkle; silver was polished with whiting; linen was washed and bleached and scented with lavender. Two new girls, Cassandra and Berenice, recommended by Lucretia Borgia, were drilled to replace Balsam and Elvira, whose pregnancies were now apparent, and Lucretia Borgia herself lumbered over from the old house to superintend activities in the kitchen. Ellen, with Haramond's brood by her, was left alone in the old house with only Memnon to look after them. Ellen, who had once charmed Hammond by her fragile octoroon beauty, had ceased to be important to him any more. He suspected that Augusta knew about their relationship but he was not certain. Augusta had never visited the old place and there

was a sort of unspoken agreement between them that she would not. The new house was a new way of hfe for Hammond. He was already regretting much of the old and he did not want to mingle the two.

The day of the dinner dawned crisp and clear with a hint of autumn coolness in the air. Drumson arose early. Because of Augusta's sensitivity about the use of household servants for breeding, Hammond had not as yet assigned Cassie and Berenice to Brutus and Drumson, so Drumson crept out of a lonely bed. During the last week he had been too occupied at the new house to visit Big Pearl, and this morning, as he slipped out from the covers and stood up to put on his clothes, he was aware of the demands of his body. Over a week! Masta Hammond jes' better do somethin* 'bout it pretty soon. Whoo-ee! 'Nother night alone, 'n he wouldn't be able to get his breeches on. He'd jes' have to crawl up the back stairs and give it to that Cassie wench who was always a-switchin' her fat little rump every time she passed him. She was a-wantin' it jes' as bad as he was. He shook Brutus awake and noticed that Brutus was in the same condition. Each time Drumson thought about it during the morning, the same condition appeared, much to his embarrassment.

The guests began to arrive during the afternoon. First came the Holcombs in their shiny new coach with a liveried coachman named Caleb and a valet for Mr. Holcomb, a snobbish young mulatto named Bruno. Caleb was relegated to sharing Ajax' quarters and Bruno, Hammond said, could bed himself down with Drumson, to be on hand to serve Mr. Holcomb night and morning. The Holcombs were a fine-looking couple in their twenties and Mr. Holcomb was not only handsome but most affable. When Drumson took his hat, he laid an appraising hand on Drumson's shoulder. He squeezed his fingers over the firm muscles and remarked what a fine-looking boy he was, inquiring if Hammond had any at Falcon-hurst for sale, as handsome and as well set up as Drumson.

"Not house servants," Hammond had answered, "but I've got some pretty fine boys. Line 'em up fer you tomorrow if n you likes."

"Most certainly would. Always interested in getting good boys. Getting harder and harder to find. Like to take about three or four fine Falconhurst boys back with me."

Augusta's introduction and greetings stopped any further discussion of business between Hammond and his guest.

Soon after the Holcombs came the Redfields. Although he was still called "Doc" from his days as a veterinarian when he had treated cattle and slaves, Redfield was now, through marriage, the owner of Three Oaks and his dealings in slaves had increased the Redfield finances to an eminently respectable level. Mrs. Redfield, a gross but motherly woman who had formerly been the community's midwife, was now hardly recognizable in rustling magenta taffeta and a recently acquired Richmond accent. They were both rather awed by the invitation but quite determined to live up to it.

Almost before the Redfields were seated with the Holcombs in the ladies' drawing room, the Rowe sisters arrived in their lumbering old coach. Miss Ellybee, tall, gaunt and dressed in rusty black, was a decided contrast to Miss Abbie Ruth, her younger sister, who twittered up the steps in a froth of laces, ribbands, beads and passementerie, quite ignoring Augusta and having eyes only for Hammond. They were in the midst of their greetings when Lewis Gasaway arrived with his wife Lou-ella, a plain little woman with a tired face and her hair so tightly pulled into a shiny bun that it seemed impossible for her to smile.

It was a strangely assorted, though most convivial company that sat down to dinner in the big dining room that ' night. The old traditions of gentility of the South were passing, for the Rowe sisters were condescending to sit at the same table with a former veterinarian and his wife; and the haughty Holcombs were breaking bread with Hammond Maxwell, who, as he himself admitted, was little more than a slave trader. But the magnificent table, stretched to its full length, was gleaming with silver, and the big cut-glass epergne in the center was filled with fragrant white roses and lacy fern. The massive silver candelabra sprouted tall wax tapers and the silver champagne buckets contained precious ice which had come overland, packed in sawdust, from Natchez. Each woman's plate was marked with a nosegay of flowers, prettied up with a paper frill, and each man had a boutonniere of a white rose. It was all most elegant, most proper, and altogether in the tradition of gracious hospitality.

Drumson ladled the steaming chicken okra soup from the big silver tureen and Brutus placed the plates before the guests. Lucretia Borgia's roast turkey steamed with succulent fragrance and the roasted hams gave off the spicy aroma of cloves and caramel. There was a plethora of com

puddings and delicate souffles, of spiced pickles and jewel-like jellies and a seemingly never-ending procession of fruit cakes and pound cakes, of Lady Baltimore cakes and pecan pies, until, everyone agreed, nobody could possibly eat another morsel and the ladies arose heavily from their chairs to be shepherded across the hall into the ladies' drawing room for their thimble-sized cups of coffee. The men remained at the table for their port, although with the exception of Mr. Hol-comb, they preferred corn. As usual, Hammond was served his toddy.

With the departure of the ladies, the conversation immediately turned to the favorite male topic of conversation— slaves—and once again Holcomb eyed Drumson appraisingly. "Mighty fine boy you got there, Mista Maxwell. Well set up, handsome face and nice manners. Sure like to have him." Hammond smiled to take the edge off his refusal. "Breedin' him, I am. He's part Royal Hausa with a little human blood. Breedin' him to a pure Mandingo I got from Old Mista Wilson who used to live at yo' place onct."

"Make you a good offer on him," Holcomb persisted, while Drumson could feel the beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Might even throw in my boy Bruno to boot. Damned good-looking boy he is, too."

Hanmiond shook his head and Drumson experienced a welcome respite from fear. "Got some mighty fine boys over t' the other place to offer you, Mr. Holcomb. Line 'em up fer you tomorrow, I will, and you takes yo' pick if'n any interests you."

"Even if I can't buy him, I certainly would like to see this boy here without his clothes. Just a matter of curiosity 'cause we don't see many such fine specimens any more."

"Drumson glad to 'blige you tomorrow. He'll shuck down fur you. Huh, Drumson?"

"Yas suh, Masta Hammond, suh." Drumson resented the fact that he would have to undress before Holcomb's prying eyes.

Holcomb accepted his defeat gracefully and restated his desire to take a number of Falconhurst boys back with him. He too, he said, had become interested in breeding slaves, and so it seemed were both Lewis Gasaway and Doc Redfield. All the South had become interested in only one thing—slaves and more slaves, breeding them, raising them, selling them and buying them.

Redfield signaled to Drumson to fill his glass, and leaned across the table to Hammond.

"Knows you won't sell this boy, Ham, but likes mighty well to have the loan of him fer a few days. Got me three wenches gettin' fresh and could use him for studdin'."

"Any time. Doc, any time that Missus Devereaux can spare him." Hammond looked up and smiled indulgently at Drumson, "He purty busy jes' now coverin' my Mandingo wench but think she catches right soon. Should! He been a-workin' mighty hard on her. He already got one wench knocked up so's there's good sap in him." Hammond hesitated and regarded Redfield through narrowed eyelids. His fingers drummed on the table nervously as though he were unwilling to speak the words he was thinking. A sip of his toddy seemed to make up his mind for him.

"Say, Doc, you done any doctorin' lately?"

"Jes' my own critters. Don' do much outside any mo'."

"Used ter do some geldin' didn't you?"

Redfield looked at him in surprise but nodded his aflfir-mation.

"Still got yo' hand in? Think you could nut a boy?"

"Never fergits. Jes' grab his balls in one hand, razor in the other—one swoop and he's nutted. Bleeds a lot but cobwebs will stop it. Younger they are, the better."

"Never seen it done." Holcomb was interested.

"Nor I, but shore likes to," Gasaway added.

"Mos' house servants used ter be gelded." Redfield spoke with the authority of his profession. "Couldn't have big bucks rampaging through the house, all horny. Don't do it so much now 'cause everyone want to breed. Seems as though the whole South breedin' niggers today, so they ain' a-wastin' their bucks by geldin' 'em." He looked up quizzically at Hammond. "How come you asking. Ham? Heard you say a hundred times, ain' no buck from Falcon-hurst ever been gelded. Heard yo' papa say he no use for gelded boys nor gelded horses. Al'ays bragged 'bout it, he did."

"Never had one nutted," Hammond added. "Don' believe in it. Them boys got little 'nuff to pleasure themselves 'ceptin' they gets their fun from the wenches. No suh, never believed in it and still don' but I got me a couple of boys here— twins they are—and family up in Tuscaloosa interested in buyin' 'em for house servants. Got a lot of daughters in the family and won't consider these boys less'n they gelded.

Thinkin' I just might do it. Thinkin' you might do it fer me. Doc."

Redfield's hand shook a little as he lifted his glass.

"Twins you say? 'Members you had twins once before."

"Same ones," Hammond nodded, "older now though. Jes* bo't 'em back last time I was in New Orleans." Again his eyes narrowed as he looked at Redfield and this time Red-field gave an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.

"Meg and Alph?" he asked.

"The same," Hammond confirmed.

"Be glad to help you out. If'n you wants, I'll drive over to the house tomorrow mornin' whilst you showing yo' boys to Mr. Holcomb and get me my instruments. Needs to hone that razor of mine up sharp. These boys kinda old and 'spects they carries on a lot. Have to tie 'em up good and have a nigger set on they heads. P'rhaps Mista Gasaway and Mista Holcomb'd set some store a-seein' it. Mayhap be in-terestin' to 'em if'n they never seen it before. Kinda amusin' sometimes."

It was Drumson's hands that were shaking now. He looked across at Brutus, who had returned from serving the ladies, and their eyes met, poignant with hidden meaning. It was suddenly brought home to them that here, in the midst of all this elegance and luxury, they were still slaves, chattels, something to be used or abused, something to be petted or cuffed, something to be smiled at one minute and lashed the next, even to have their manhood stripped from them with a stroke of a sharp razor to satisfy an owner's whim.

Drumson regarded the men seated at the table. Holcomb, elegant and poised, twirled the stem of the wineglass in his long, slim fingers with their polished nails. His straw-colored hair was carefully curled and pomaded and the rouge on his cheeks was scarcely perceptible unless one leaned over his shoulder to fill his wineglass. Across the polished mahogany which mirrored the twinkling candle-flames in its red-brown depths, Lewis Gasaway clutched his glass of com with stubby, broken-naUed fingers, calloused by hard work. His big Adam's apple rose and fell in his throat as he swallowed, and the deep creases in his face from nose to mouth betokened a life, short as it had been, of self-indulgence and self-will. He was tall and thin and ugly in his sunburned whiteness. Drumson wondered how he might look, stripped of his clothes, and marveled at how Mrs. Gasaway could bear his scrawny limbs alongside her in bed.

Doc Redfield's hands were gnarled and liver-spotted with a thin line of black at the edge of his nails. Prosperity had added an expansive pot belly to his narrow-shouldered frame and now, replete from his enormous dinner, he had unfastened the top button of his breeches, so that a roll of fat protruded from under the bottom of his flowered waistcoat. His sparse red whiskers, streaked with gray, were dribbled with com from one side of his mouth and his few teeth were only blackened stubs. His breath, as Drumson leaned over to refill his glass, was foul.

Drumson regarded his own master, this all-powerful demigod who, by a word or a whim, could condemn two men to a Ufe of miserable impotency. Of all the four at the table, Hanmiond was by far the finest looking with his crisp blond hair, his clear tarmed skin and his wide shoulders, but again Drumson wondered if Regine had ever shuddered because of the malformed leg which was now hidden by his trousers.

These men! These all-powerful white-skinned men! What were they? Ugly, malformed, narrow-shouldered, big-stomached, their scrawny legs covered with long black hairs, and their bulging bellies with the imhealthy whiteness of bullfrogs—^aU of them puny in their manhood for all their boastful pretensions! Could it be that they were jealous of the strong clean limbs, the satin-smooth skins, the deep muscled chests and the abundant virility of the black men? So jealous of their robust manhood that they had reduced the black man to the status of an animal because they feared him, because they were jealous of him! Could it be that they desired to rob him of his virility because they possessed so little in comparison to his? For the first time since he had come to Falconhurst Drumson was beset by doubts. He almost hated his master—hated him for the words that condemned the luckless Meg and Alph to needless suffering.

Hate his master? Hate this man who gave him a home? And yet by a word this man could deprive him of his home and sell him tomorrow. This man had given him Elvira and Big Pearl, yet he had withheld the one person he wanted, Regine. He gave him food—the same food that he and his guests were eating—yet by a nod of his head he could con-denm him to bread and water. But, Drumson consoled himself, Hanmiond had not deprived him or sold him and there was no indication that he might. After all, why should he worry about what might happen to Meg and Alph tomorrow? It would not make him suffer. No, he couldn't hate this man

for there was a bond of loyalty between them. His fingers itched to touch him and he leaned over, prompted by an indistinct sound of knocking on the front door that was almost drowned in the conversation, letting his hand graze ever so slightly Hammond's elbow.

"Hears a knockin' on the front do', Masta Hammond, suh. You a-wishin' me to answer it?"

Hammond lifted his head and listened. He could hear the light tapping of the heavy knocker.

"Better go see."

Drumson walked through the parlor and out into the hall, hearing the hum of the ladies' conversation in the drawing room. As he neared the door, the knocking grew louder and more insistent. He opened it and peered out into the darkness. A tall man, dressed in a rusty black frock coat, soiled gray trousers strapped imder scuffed boots and a black felt slouch hat which ^aded his face, stood on the threshold.

"Evenin', suh," Drumson greeted him.

"Mista Hammond Maxwell ter home?" The voice was nasal and rasping.

"Mista Maxwell's at dinner, suh."

"Then you kindly begs Mista Maxwell's pardon and asks him if n he be will in' to spare a moment for a word with Mista 'Zekiel Montgomery, who he knows."

Drumson was undecided whether to permit the man inside or not. He peered beyond him into the darkness and saw the dim outlines of a buckboard with two horses and a group of black faces, visible more through their white teeth and the reflections of Ught in their eyes than by recognizable outlines. His moment of hesitation was brief, for this was a white man and therefore must be treated with courtesy.

"If n you please to come inside the do', I'll 'nounce you to Masta Maxwell."

The man sidled in, fumbled with his hat and removed it as Drumson closed the door behind him. A two days' growth of gray stubble cast a shadow over the lower part of the narrow, pockmarked face, and the eyes, small, narrow and deep sunk, glittered like buttons. A dirty finger straightened the soiled shirt collar and adjusted the greasy cravat. The eyes quickly surveyed Drumson.

"Mista Maxwell got himself a new boy long with his new house, huh? Ain' seen you the last time I's here. Mighty well set up. Likes to have you myse'f. Step lively and tell yo' master Mista 'Zekiel Montgomery's here."

I

"Yas suh," Drumson turned on his heel and walked back to the dining room. He defied the man's "step lively" by the slowness of his stei)s. Once back in the dining room, he hesitated to disturb Hammond. He waited for a lull in the conversation, not daring to interrupt, and when Lewis Gasaway had finished with some anecdote about his plantation— } naturally the conversation was still about slaves—^Drumson leaned over Hammond's shoulder and whispered the announcement.

"Zeke Montgomery, the slave trader?" Hammond looked to Drumson for confirimation which Drumson was unable to furnish. "Never did care for that man," he addressed the others, "but suppose he wants to bed down for the night. I'll speak to him." He excused himself from his guests and followed Drumson out into the hall where Montgomery was still standing by the door, hat in hand.

"Evenin', Mista Montgomery." Hammond did not extend his hand but attempted to inject some note of cordiality into his greeting.

"Evenin', Mista Maxwell, evenin'. Just a-passin' through and wondered if by chance you might have a couple of boys you wanted to part with. Got me a caffle of 'bout thirty boys —mos' prime stock and'd like to add a few more. Could be you'd hke to do some tradin' 'fore I takes 'em to the Forks in the Road."

The "no" which was on the tip of Hammond's tongue was never spoken. He bethought himself of Clees, whose badly scarred rump would add little luster to the Falconhurst reputation were he to be sold at the next sale in New Orleans. Selling him to Montgomery would be a good way to rid himself of the brute. But with his guests demanding his attention, and the lateness of the hour, it was scarcely the time or place to go into the complicated mechanics of selling a slave. Hammond knew that Montgomery's opening gambit of his willingness to buy was only an excuse. The man's main reason for presenting himself was to obtain accommodations for the night. The sale could be concluded in the morning before Red field retiimed from his trip to his house to get his instruments. 4

"Got a man I'm thinkin' 'bout selling, Mista Montgomery. Glad you happened 'long. You jes' might be int'rested. Tell you what. Whyn't you stay overnight and we'll talk 'bout it in the momin'? Filled up here, we are, with a houseful of

company, but they's plenty of room over to the old house. You bin there before."

Montgomery nodded.

"Then take yo' cafiBe over there for the night. Rouse Menmon and have him bed yo' boys down in the bam and he'll 'commodate you in the house. Yo' boys been fed?"

"Yas suh, Mista Maxwell. Fed 'em 'fore dark come on. Been lookin' for a place to keep 'em overnight and 'predate yo' offer mightily. Don' like leading a caflBe 'long the road at night. Got me some runners in this bunch o' thirty bucks and can't take no chances. They's all spancelled, howsomever, so's they'll be safe in yo' bam. Thanks you mightily I do and will be pleased to git me a Falconhurst nigger come momin'. Remembers yo' courtesy when I dickers with you. Offers you a good price I will."

"Askin' one. This boy Clees a powerful boy—'bout the biggest and strongest I ever had. Need to get me a good price for him, if'n you're int'rested."

"Shore am and thank you, Mista Maxwell. Ask for Memnon, you say?"

Drumson held the door open for Montgomery to leave. So Clees was to be sold! He had wondered what slave Hammond had in mind and, as always, had been a little fearful that it might be himself. Any mention of a sale was enough to send a chill of fear into a slave's heart. Masters were capricious. One never knew what they had in mind. Now he was not only relieved but happy. Although he had seen little of Clees since their flogging, he knew that the big buck was his enemy. With Clees out of the way, he would feel better at Falconhurst. That goddam Clees would get his comeuppance tomorrow.